PROLOGUE

The stench of split flesh from the carcasses of the Children of Light wafted out to mock his hunger. The wolves had come, and then left without feeding. Ravens circled overhead, yet none descended. These details remained with the rider as he drew rein at the very spot where his foes had made their last stand. With his dagger he flicked the strands of his long hair, clumped with dried blood, away from his eyes. As he took in the sights of the carnage that had taken place mere hours ago, he absent-mindedly rubbed a luminescent powder onto his blade.

For a Hero of Light, he reckoned he cast a rather grim shadow. Hero. The word slithered nastily in his mind. An honour bestowed upon you when you had killed all those who would have called you a mass murderer.

‘Shall we, Muchuk?’ Asha walked her horse amidst the sprawled bodies to where he sat astride his stallion. ‘Time to deliver the good news.’

Ah yes. Trisiras is dead. He nudged his mount onto the slope of the hill, urging it into a collected canter as his sister followed suit. They made their way up the tortuous track towards the mountain fortress of Svarg – a great hulking fastness that loomed like a crystal-white orb against the dark, poisoned heavens. A faint pillar of light that rose from somewhere within the fortress, served as their lodestar. The beacon of tyranny, Muchuk mused.

‘You seem awfully quiet for someone who has won a war.’ Two sharp eyes stared out from Asha’s beaky, grimy face packed in a half-helm. Under her armour, her hunched muscular shoulders looked all the more ungainly without a bosom to balance her form. It was a miracle she did not slide off her horse.

Muchuk shrugged, turning to stare up at the sky. By now, the third moon was a jade monstrosity. Green light leaked out from it to the west, staining the heavens with stolen emerald hues. Won a war... he sighed, as if it were a great revelation. As if he had not spent years of his life severing, slashing and slitting the Danavas, the Children of Darkness.

But Asha was right. He should have felt victorious, elated even. And yet, despite his valiant efforts, he felt like a man who had finally opened the box of glory to find that it did not contain what was etched on the lid.

They rode past their Men who were busy cutting the heads off dead Daevas, the Children of Light – the few righteous ones who had aligned with the Danavas. Their luminescent white heads made for macabre lamps, if you were into that sort of a thing. It would have been beautiful had it not been for the stench. Perhaps this is why he preferred slaying the Children of Darkness. They immaterialized into the air in a puff of odourless smoke when they fell. No stink. No bodies to toss. Clean, gutter-friendly kills.