The Stormcaller: Book One Of The Twilight Reign (10 page)

‘And where is this man now?’

‘He seems to have disappeared, my Lord. My agent is looking for him now. But, there remains the possibility that Duke Nemarse actually possesses a Crystal Skull. Raland would be easier to search than the White Isle, and certainly safer.’

Bahl nodded. The Palace of the White Isle was vast and otherworldly; Raland was indeed a far easier target. Duke Nemarse was a fool and a coward; every mercenary captain he’d employed had either left within the year or attempted a coup. The only thing that kept the duke in power was a series of expensive commissions to the city’s assassins.

‘Send one of your more direct agents to track this soldier down and do whatever is necessary. I want to know every detail of the duke’s activities, and stop this rumour going any further.’

‘The agent in question should be eminently suitable: she has the mouth and manners of a cavalryman, according to the temple-mistress, but her “special talents” are described as “proficient”. Her standing orders mean she should already be on her way home with the deed done.’

‘Ah, one of those.’ Bahl smiled.

 

In the city of Helrect, halfway between Tirah and Raland, Chief Steward Lesarl’s agent squinted down at the cup before her. It was a public holiday there; anyone not inebriated at this hour was either well on the way towards it or, quite possibly, dead because of it. Legana had seen examples of all of those when she had travelled through the city streets a few hours earlier, hurrying through the twilight to reach the inn before the day faded completely. Even for a woman of her skills, Helrect’s streets under cover of darkness were a dangerous place to be and the general drunkenness only exacerbated the problem.

She looked past her drinking companions to the bonfires that set the boundaries of what was visible. She didn’t have to worry about her safety, not now she was sat in the midst of a company of Chetse mercenaries whose commander was extremely fond of her, but the instinct to constantly check her surroundings was too ingrained to change. She soon regretted the move; focusing was proving rather difficult and even when she did manage to see clearly, she still saw nothing more than the dilapidated sight of Helrect.

‘Oh Gods, I hate this city,’ Legana muttered, raising her cup once more. The man beside her snorted with amusement and reached out to give her a pat on the shoulder. His palm felt like a large ham thumping down.

‘Hah, you’re drunk, woman! You always get depressed when you’re drunk.’ Destech, the commander’s lieutenant, considered Legana his friend for a reason only a Chetse soldier would ever consider. He cocked his head to one side and took a good look at her. ‘You’re not so pretty when you’re drunk either, which is odd, because I’m drunk too, and most women’ll do once I’ve got a few jars inside me.’

‘Get your bastard hand off me or I’ll break your nose back the way it was,’ Legana growled. ‘Even drunk, you still look like the arse end of a pig.’ She tossed back her copper-tinted hair to look Destech in the eye. He withdrew his hand, chuckling.

The Farlan agent’s dyed hair shone disturbingly in the firelight, a reminder that she was a devotee of the Lady. Some of the Lady’s followers were gentle people who spent their lives doing works of charity, but Fate was not a patron who attracted the rich. Her temple communities were self-supporting, rather than relying on endowments from dying aristocrats. The disciplines taught in the temples had a range of uses in the outside world and Chief Steward Lesarl was one of those men delighted to employ every one of those disciplines. Destech was a soldier, a hardened veteran, and he had sense enough to know how far to push her, and when to withdraw.

‘Ah my dear, the city’s not so bad,’ commented the man on Legana’s other side. He was middle-aged and powerfully built, even by the standards of Chetse soldiers, but he wore a sour expression that belied his words. Commander Tochet had once been first among the generals of the Chetse army; Commander of the Eastern Tunnels, the most vicious battleground of their long-running war with the Siblis. His fall from grace had carried him from minor conflict to minor conflict and now he travelled to Raland to be Duke Nemarse’s bodyguard.

Legana laughed. ‘You’re only saying that because you’re trying to get used to the idea of living in Raland; I’ve just come from there and it’s a bigger shithole than this dump.’

‘So you say,’ Tochet replied, ‘but you won’t say why you were there and that’s rather more interesting to me.’

Legana shifted in her seat. ‘One of the Chief Steward’s little projects, that’s all - nothing to concern you.’ Tochet was her friend, but she could say nothing of why she’d been there. The man she’d been sent to find had died in a bar fight, presumably arranged by Duke Nemarse, and she could guess what Lesarl’s next move would be. She didn’t want her friend protecting the duke when that happened. ‘Why don’t you come with me instead?’

Tochet broke into a smile and put his hand on hers. ‘Do you mean all these years of wooing have finally paid off?’

‘Hah, not unless there’s something you’ve been hiding from your men all these years.’ She delicately removed the Chetse’s hand from hers and gave him her best smile. Legana knew Tochet couldn’t resist that; he was a fool for any pretty face. ‘You know perfectly well that I meant to command the forces in Lomin; Scion Lomin won’t accept a Farlan’s authority and you’re the perfect alternative. He could hardly refuse a man of your experience.’

‘Well now, I’ve given my word and a mercenary has nothing if he breaks that. I have accepted the commission from Duke Nemarse and that’s where we’ll go. It will be a good rest for us after Tor Milist; I’m buggered if I’m doing that all winter again. I said as much to Duke Vrerr, so I don’t think I’m his favourite mercenary any longer.’

Destech snorted in amusement. ‘You’ll be even less popular when his wife gives birth.’

‘And without you to support the duke?’

‘With me, without me. Lords stand on their own feet or they fall on their own. Vrerr is an idiot; he turns his own people against him. No one likes the White Circle, but he’s doing grand work in bringing over the neutrals. If it wasn’t for the men from Narkang he’d have died a handful of times already.’

‘Men from Narkang?’

‘I think so. They’re not a friendly bunch, and I must have seen five different agents over my time there, but my orders were always more intelligent when one of them was around. They’re hard men. I’ve seen the type at home; good soldiers, too good to waste on the line. They’re the bloody hands that drive history.’

‘Why would the King of Narkang get involved? He knows meddling in Tor Milist might bring him in conflict with the Farlan.’

‘From what I’ve heard, that man’s not afraid of anything, but it would be an inconvenience to him if Tor Milist fell. This fair city of Helrect is run by the White Circle and rumour has it they pull the strings in Scree too. If Vrerr is overthrown, King Emin suddenly has a nation to rival his own just over the border; one full of experienced soldiers and mercenary companies. As long as King Emin’s not obvious about it, your masters will turn a blind eye because they don’t want the White Circle there either.’

Legana glowered: the White Circle was a sisterhood of noble-born women, one so close-ranked that even Lesarl hadn’t been able to penetrate far enough in to discover who was really in charge - or, more importantly, what their real ambitions were. Publicly they claimed no agenda beyond a fairer, less corrupt system of governance, but they were active recruiters and Lesarl considered altruism and power rare companions. Legana expected to be assigned to infiltrate the Circle one day soon; even she, a trained killer of both talent and experience, was willing to admit a slight unease at the prospect.

‘And is there any way I could persuade you to come north?’ Legana knew Tochet was a man of his word and would not be swayed, but as a friend she had to try again. ‘Land? A title? To go home?’

‘Farlan land? Hah! Too cold and too wet. Don’t care about titles; the only words that count are those carved above the entrance of your stonedun. Going home? That I could hope for, and nothing more than that. Lord Bahl might hold better sway with Chalat than any other man, but what I called him, no Chetse would forgive. I lost my head, I know, but there’s no taking some words back.’ He drained his cup and was about to reach for more wine when his hand sagged. Legana saw the fatigue and sadness on his face, the look of a man who was getting too old to be a mercenary.

‘But if a truce could be arranged somehow? Living your life out in Cholos or Lenei would be home enough, wouldn’t it?’

Tochet scowled. ‘If he forgot himself and did welcome me with open arms, I’d push a blade under his ribs and plant a fat kiss on his lips as the life ran out of him. He had my wife killed, my children, my cousins ...’ Tochet’s voice trailed off and men round the table fell silent. Legna saw anger on their faces, not sadness, and raw murder in their eyes. ‘There’s no taking back there. No forgiveness. And now I’m for my bed; the fun’s gone from the evening and we’re marching out tomorrow.’

Tochet rose and looked around at the tables of Chetse soldiers. His men had not risen at his departure, but they watched his every movement with sober eyes. Taking a leather purse from his belt, Tochet tossed it on to the table where it fell with a heavy clink.

‘There you go; you’ve all toasted my boys before and you’ll do it again tonight. Make sure you can walk in the morning.’ Touching Legana on the arm to say goodbye, he made for the door of the inn. After a moment, she caught him up and slipped an arm under his. She knew she couldn’t ease the pain in his eyes, but a friend had to try.

Gradually the darkness gave way to leaden shades of grey and a seeping chill that drained the warmth from Isak’s blood. All alone in the void, he felt his body grow numb and fade until he could hardly sense any part of him.

Then there was pain; a cold discomfort that grew to become a hungry licking flame. The swirls of grey began to thicken and press down on him, swamping his eyes and mouth, causing him to choke in the silence. He tried to struggle free, to fight his way clear, but the cold had sapped his strength and the pressure was all around. There was nowhere to escape to and soon he fell into helpless exhaustion, surrendering to the tug of icy depths that dragged him further down to a place of no light and no memory, only the chill cradle of the grave.

And a voice.

‘Isak.

‘Raise your head, Isak.

‘Raise your head and see me.’

He had scarcely enough strength to obey, but somehow, he did lift his head. He could see nothing, but an image of a figure was imprinted on his mind: a man, tall and powerful, terrifying, and yet almost featureless, with blank eyes, smooth, midnight-blue skin and only the impression of a mouth. The only shape that had any definition was the ornate bow that rested at the man’s side. The pitch-black frame was flecked with gold and silver, and set with spirals of jewels.

‘I am your master now. You are the blade I wield; the arrow I send high into the night. You are my Chosen, you share in my majesty and the Land will see my glory echo in your deeds.’

Isak tried to flee the voice, to hide from the words crashing through his head. He could sense others all around now, the faint touch of their movements and the melodious echoes of their voices, but the figure swept them all aside - except for one, the softest touch of them all, one that was scarcely noticeable until the others were gone and then it was a thread of pure light, distinct against the dark background and impervious to the figure’s palpable fury.

It began to move, caressing the curve of his hip and moving up over his belly towards his heart. Isak relaxed under its soothing touch, then curled tightly as the stench of burning flesh filled his nostrils. Pain blossomed on his chest, then drove so deep the light burst through his body and burned a path through the darkness. In a heartbeat it had dissipated and all that remained was a faint voice: the sound of a girl calling a name, but so distant her cry was lost on the wind.

 

Isak woke with a scream, feeling as if the walls lurched and shuddered around him before reality reasserted itself. He took great gulps of air and tried to open his eyes, but the light streaming through the window made him gasp. Grasping at the unfamiliar sheets, Isak battled to regain his wits. A shiver ran down his spine and into his legs; it felt like his soul returning. Every part of him ached, his throat burned and his limbs throbbed, but it was the smell of burnt flesh that scared him most.

He sat up and grabbed the copper mirror from the desk to inspect his reflection, but he had to squint down to see it: a runic shape in stinging scar tissue on his sternum. It wasn’t anything he recognised - not that he’d really expected to - but it wasn’t even something from his dreams of the island palace.

In the looking-glass he could see it more clearly: a circle of scar tissue with a horizontal bar across its centre, no more than two inches across. The bar did not quite span the width of the circle, but a vertical line at either end made that connection, with one going straight down, the other up.

Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by the taste of magic emanating from the chimney at the centre of the room: Lord Bahl. He grabbed his ragged shirt and quickly pulled it on, making sure the bone thongs were fastened and the scar covered. As Lord Bahl appeared, the scar was covered, but Isak could not hide the haggard look on his face.

‘You slept badly. Dreamed badly.’

It was not a question. Isak looked up at his new master with incomprehension. As he struggled up and propped his body against the wall, he realised he was shivering uncontrollably. Bahl noticed the cold as well and threw several logs on to the dead fire, then made a flicking motion with his wrist. Flames at once sprang up in the fireplace, hungrily devouring the dry wood. Isak stared in wonder at the fire, but Bahl just waved it off and drew up a chair for himself.