The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (40 page)

‘Then skulls will be heaped at every crossroads and your name spoken over them.’

At that the corpse gave some perverse representation of greedy
laughter. Styrax felt bile rise in his throat. He had to resist the urge to
draw Kobra and remove the creature’s head. Instead he nodded along.
He would not need to pander to this obscenity much longer. Already he had the strength to defy it; soon he would make it fear him, and beg to fulfil his every whim. Soon it would have nothing he could
need.

‘And in the north?’ Styrax pressed.

The haunted does not sleep; the cries of the lost ring out through
the night. He has sent the boy west and searches in forbidden places.
He will do as you intend.’

The boy has gone west? Do any in the mountains remain bound
to your name?’

Those who have sworn cannot escape their bonds. You would do
well to remember that. To forswear is to draw down our wrath.’

Then fill their dreams with glory and riches. If both of the Chosen
are far from home then the Farlan are ripe for revolt. Find a man who
would be king.’

‘Tear down the temple and speak my name there.’ The corpse sagged
as Styrax began to drive the daemon from its host. Styrax nodded his
agreement and caught the daemon’s final words, almost too faint to be
heard. ‘Then tonight, Lomin will dream of his crown.’

The clicks and buzzing of night’s creatures filled Styrax’s ears as the
air around him returned to normality. He felt his body tremble with
the power he’d expended. To raise a daemon was no great effort, but
they were otherworldly and aside from the march of time; to keep it long enough to hold a conversation required strength, more each
time.

He turned to the fire and sank down, his white hand almost touching the flames as he sought to absorb its warmth and purge the daemon-cold. Almost as weak as an old man, he waved in the direction
of the wyvern. With a snarl, the creature scrabbled to its feet and fell upon the dead soldier, scimitar claws making light work of the man’s
leather armour. Soon savage teeth were tearing chunks of the boy’s
flesh away.

‘I see you, shade,’ called Styrax wearily, keeping his eyes fixed on
the fire. ‘You take a great risk, spying on a prince of your kind. I wonder why.’

‘My kind?
^’
The voice was entirely unlike any daemon Styrax had
previously encountered.
‘And yet not. I hardly feel kinship to such an
introverted creature, so unable to see beyond its own needs and obsessions
it could almost be human.’

Despite himself, Styrax laughed, a cold, weary humour. This was a
daemon after his own heart. ‘Then why are you here? Do you wish to
bargain with me?’

‘I require no covenant, but perhaps you would appreciate a warning.
The Farlan whelp will not be the only one to return to a cold reception.’

Styrax considered the words, and the voice that spoke them. From the corner of his eye he could see nothing more than a shadowy out
line. The voice, though rich and cultured, sounded both ancient and
sinister.

‘And who gives me this warning?’

‘An
observer of events. An approver of ambition. He who is hidden
conceals more than you might assume.’

‘How much do you observe?’

‘Much. “In flames, destruction found.”’

Styrax stiffened. ‘That’s a line from the prophecy of Shalstik?’

Inside, he was raging. If one daemon, however unusual, could discover his secrets, then others could, others that might be bound to his enemies. Styrax was not yet strong enough to challenge the Gods, and ownership of a Crystal Skull was not encouraged, even among their greatest Chosen. There was no reply.

Doranei idly scratched at the stubble on his cheek, keeping his eyes low and disinterested as he eavesdropped on the next table. He sat alone in a dark corner of the inn, sipping weak beer and occasionally checking the scarf had not slipped from his neck. The bar was warm and the tightly wrapped scarf had attracted some attention, but Doranei didn’t have the sort of face that encouraged questions. The
next table was occupied by a group of farmers discussing the topic that
occupied everyone else in this town: word of Lord Isak’s imminent arrival had come two days ago, and he was expected this evening.
Tongues were wagging.

‘Can’t see that one sending the Krann away if they’ve fallen out.
He’s a mad bastard when he’s roused-‘

‘They all are,’ interrupted another. From Doranei’s brief observation of the trio it seemed this speaker had been born surly. Only bitter little miseries had passed his lips throughout the evening. ‘A traveller told me that the Krann was too ashamed to leave his tent for three
days after the battle of Lomin. Even for a white-eye he’d fought like a
blood-crazed daemon.’ The man was bent over his drink, staring into the near-empty pot with a resigned air.

The inn was hardly the best this small town had to offer. The wooden walls were cracked and warped; the stench of sweat and mould and old smoke and spilt beer filled the air. Doranei was well
used to sleeping under the stars or in a stable, but the ingrained grime nagged at his mind.

Face it, Doranei,
he thought with a wry smile,
the king’s made a snob of you. This is the sort of tavern you spent far too long in when you were
younger.

‘So why’s he coming, then?’ urged the youngest of the three. The dirt wasn’t yet ingrained into his skin like the others. A spark of
interest in the Land remained yet.

Doranei knew the answer. Underneath his scarf he was concealing
the bee emblem. He was dressed in studded leather and mail, but that
was common enough here; no one would take much note of a soldier.
The bee device would mark him out as a King’s Man. Dark things
were whispered about the King’s Men, rumours that they were above
the law, which was actually one of the few truths told about them.
With the bee in full sight, honest men would go silent in his presence
and wonder what indiscretions they might be accused of. No magistrate would dare touch Doranei, no matter what the crime, in case it
bore the royal sanction. It would be futile to explain to people that
the king demanded absolute selflessness of service from his men. He
punished corruption savagely - and had an uncanny knack of rooting
it out.

The Krann’s probably here to sign some treaty,’ declared the first
farmer after a thoughtful pause. ‘Everyone knows the Farlan have
claims on Tor Milist, probably they don’t want a war with us, so King
Emin and that Krann, what’s his name again-?’

‘Isak, they say. His father named him out of spite - typical bloody
Farlan. Probably regretting that now his son’s Krann!’ The surly individual laughed at his own words as his companion nodded.

‘Isak, that’s the one. Bet he’s here to draw a line down Tor Milist
and offer the king half. Bastard’ll probably take it too, another few
towns to hang his colours in.’

Doranei’s fist closed instinctively. The three farmers chuckled on,
unaware of how close they were to a beating, when a trumpet rang
out through the night. This was a border town, with lookouts on constant watch. The men looked at each other, the smiles falling away:
riders approaching. It was a fair guess that one of them would be the
Krann.

Talk in the tavern quietened, then stopped completely as folk looked
at each other to see who was going to move first. They all wanted to see the white-eye in his fancy elven armour, but no one wanted to be the first to rush off and stare at a foreigner. Farlan arrogance
wasn’t appreciated here, not now that Narkang’s strength neared that
of Farlan and Chetse.

Doranei stood slowly, the scrape of his chair drawing all eyes. He
unwound his scarf with deliberate care, drawing great satisfaction as
the three farmers started shaking at the sight of the golden bee on
his collar. He pulled on a worn pair of gloves, retrieved his cape from
the spare chair at his table and then made his way out. In his wake Doranei felt people stir, but he had reached the stables before he heard eager footsteps run for the walls. He ran an affectionate hand down his horse’s grey neck, she turned to nuzzle at him, then nosed
his hand, questing for food.

He draped an arm over the horse’s neck and, looking straight into her hazel eye, said, ‘Well, my friend, shall we go and see this Krann
who’s got everyone so excited?’

The mare snorted and shook her head. Doranei chuckled and patted the creature. ‘Ah, you could be right there. However, it will be as
the king commanded. The Krann might be bringing dark times, but that’s been our life for a spell anyway.’ He swung himself easily up into the saddle, then the tall grey started out at a brisk trot towards
the gate tower.

‘Hey, where do you think you’re going?’ demanded the watchman
belligerently. Behind him, Doranei could see a collection of men eyeing him nervously. One was riding a handsome hunter, probably the
local suzerain. He was old, but he could obviously still wield the blade
at his hip. The others were town councillors, nervous and sweating under the ceremonial finery of their offices. Doranei suppressed a smile - their opinion of all Parian as peacocks would hardly extend
to a white-eye.

‘I’ve been sent to greet the Lord Isak and put myself at his disposal.’

The watchman advanced with a curse on his lips before noticing
the emblem on Doranei’s collar. He reined in sharply, eyes narrowing in the dim light. ‘You’re a King’s Man?’

‘No, I just wear his badge because I hear he’s a good man to irritate,’
Doranei snapped. Without waiting for a reply he directed his horse around the man and advanced on the others. To one side a mounted
figure stirred, only to be stopped by a raised hand from the suzerain.

As Doranei reached them he saw the figure in the shadows was wearing fine clothes, but his gauntlets betrayed mail underneath. Doranei guessed it was the nobleman’s son. That was all he needed now, a provincial hothead who was yet to learn he couldn’t be rude to everyone he met. The old soldier who’d sired him obviously had
wits enough to be cautious. The king was very specific about his men
getting the right amount of respect due their position. If that meant fighting duels with incautious noblemen, he was happy to pay the
price.

‘My Lord Suzerain,’ Doranei called, inclining his head respectfully
to the man. He made a point of ignoring the others, turning his back on the councillors as he rode past them.

‘I’m Suzerain Coadech,’ confirmed the older man. ‘And you’re no royal herald. Why would the king send a soldier to greet the Farlan
Krann?’

Doranei kept his face impassive. Though he would prefer to be
friendly with the suzerain - and he had heard good things of Coadech - his job meant he stayed apart. King’s Men were an unknown quan
tity to all but the king himself.

‘He would not; he sent me instead. However, I’m sure he would prefer you, his most venerable subject, to ride out and greet the Krann.’

The son made an indignant noise, but the suzerain merely smiled.
He’d seen enough of life not to react to a small jibe, given in a friendly
way. King’s Men held no titles, but their power rivalled any subject
of the king’s.

‘Then I would be pleased to. I hope the king would not find me
impertinent if I don’t offer your
services
to his honoured guest, other
than as a guide - it might appear strange to put
all
of your skills at the
disposal of a foreign power.’

Doranei’s eyes narrowed. He was very aware that many believed the
wearers of the bee to be little more than royal assassins - but there was a crinkle of humour around the suzerain’s mouth. He returned the smile and gestured for the elderly man to take the lead. A whistle from above set the men opening the great ceremonial gates. The
suzerain trotted forward, followed closely by his scowling son so there
would be no room for Doranei. The King’s Man ignored the youth and turned to the councillors.

‘Wait here. If the Krann has had a long journey, he might not want
to meet a whole line of officials before he’s even got off his horse.’

They looked dismayed at his words, but found no courage to protest
as he tapped the hilt of his sword impatiently.

Doranei followed the suzerain out and allowed his eager grey to catch up to the horsemen fading into the twilight. Up ahead he could see a neat troop of soldiers, bright against the shadows in their white tunics. At their heart, riding the biggest charger Doranei had ever
seen, was the Krann, gleaming in what light remained of the evening.
Even Doranei caught his breath at the sight. The Krann was masked to resemble the blue face of Nartis, but it was the liquid silver that encased his body that made him appear like a God looming in the
dark.

The soldiers around him were in full battle-dress, yet their drapes were not the austere colours of the Palace Guard but a dragon design
Doranei recognised only from the reports they had received. With the
eyes of the forewarned, he picked out the black and gold of Count
Vesna riding just behind the Krann, and a startlingly beautiful woman,
obviously noble, close to the hero. Behind them rode a thin woman of middle-age and proud bearing, a chaperone, presumably, given Count
Vesna’s reputation. Who the man riding alongside her was, Doranei could not imagine. He wore the dark, functional clothes of a scout
instead of armour, but two rangers already flanked the soldiers.

Well, this is a curious collection we have here,
the King’s Man thought
as he watched the formalities unfold. Suzerain Coadech reined in and
the Krann’s guards split neatly to allow their Lord to pass through
them to the front. The drill had obviously been well practised, Doranei noted with a soldier’s eye: there was not a horse’s hair moving out
of step.

The Krann trotted forward with serene grace, towering over them
all.
Already
I’m
wondering how many stories are playing out here, and I’ve
yet to meet the man at the centre.

‘Lord Isak, Chosen of Nartis, Heir to Lord Bahl and Suzerain of Anvee,’ called the suzerain in a clear voice. ‘On behalf of Emin Thonal, King of Narkang and the Three Cities, I bid you welcome to his
realm.’

Isak looked out of the window and down on the rows of tables set out in the square below. The old suzerain had given them his own house to use - the finest in town, from what Isak could see. A bath sat, grey and cooling, behind him as he surreptitiously observed the
feast being prepared below. The servants were scurrying about, flow
ing neatly around the town official whose efforts at ordering them
around seemed to be creating only disorder. A raised platform stood at
the far end of the square, cordoned off from the rough benches where the townsfolk would congregate and toast the health of any foreigner
whose arrival prompted free beer.

The platform itself had been draped in white linen and carefully decked in flowers. There was enough room for at least eighty people to sit. Isak sighed heavily at the thought of all the preening nobles
and officials lined up and oozing affected pleasure at his presence, but
he knew there was nothing he could do about it. Bahl wanted him to be comfortable in court life. Perhaps he intended to reduce the distance that existed between the Lord of the Farlan and his nobles; perhaps he just didn’t want to do it himself.

Isak watched the view while drying off, then let the towel drop to the floor as he ran his hands over his head. It was strange to have
hair again. Tila had advised him not to keep shaving his head, point
ing out that he looked intimidating enough without highlighting the
blunt lines of his skull. Turning back to the room he eyed Siulents on
the armour stand that had been provided. He took a step towards it, and then caught sight of himself in the mirror.

The armour forgotten, he stood before the full-length mirror and angled it up to observe his naked frame. His reflection had always fascinated Isak: the image he presented to the world was so different to how he saw himself. The stranger in the mirror peered back with
equal curiosity, looking for the slender child Isak still pictured himself
as. Neither his increased height nor added bulk looked quite right. He didn’t particularly care to look as brutally powerful as he obviously did. He sighed. He
did
like the power residing in his limbs. That would have to be compensation enough.