The Stormcaller: Book One Of The Twilight Reign (17 page)

‘Right, now we are ready. Sit in front of me and concentrate on the picture. This will be disconcerting, so it is better to keep your eyes open and focused on something.’

Isak sat and stared intently at the painting while High Priest Wetlen wheezed and muttered unintelligibly. The painting, a classical image of Nartis hunting, was old and ugly. Isak scowled. Whoever the artist was, he was an idiot who had no idea how living creatures moved or stood. Nartis himself was grossly parodied: shown almost naked, with deep blue skin and an excessively muscular body. The figure looked brutal, like a daemon, not a God, with no grace or subtlety about it.

Isak kept his eyes on the painting as the high priest reached out and touched his head, gently drawing magic from the air around them so Isak’s ears began to buzz and ring at the sensation of energies rushing through him. It felt like cool, ghostly fingers dipping into his mind. Then he felt the powers pause and hold, and he himself relaxed and unclenched his fists.

He smothered the alarm he felt in the back of his mind and took a deep breath, waiting for the high priest to continue. He trembled as the smooth but relentless fingers traced the shape of his soul, and closed his eyes.

 

Swordmaster Kerin watched Lord Bahl as they waited outside in silence. The white-eye had his eyes closed and his head rested heavily on one hand. It was an unnerving sight: a tired king on his throne. To the Swordmaster, Bahl had always been a man of boundless strength and energy, impervious to the burdens imposed by power.

Bahl’s eyes jerked wide open and he was already upright as a blinding crash of light and noise burst through the antechamber door. Kerin flinched away from the explosion, arms held protectively over his face as pieces of shattered door flew across the room.

In the silence that followed, they saw the broken corpse of High Priest Wetlen, and Isak, still sitting on the cushion, his face a rictus of terror as a golden nimbus glittered and surged above his shorn head.

‘Well, will it work?’

The engineer mopped his heavy brow with an oil-stained cloth and chanced a look at his lord. The huge white-eye was standing perfectly still, looking out through the cloud to the city walls beyond. Either Lord Styrax was moving swiftly, albeit with economical purpose, or he was as motionless as the many statues of Karkarn, God of War and patron of the Menin tribe, that adorned their home city; there was no middle ground, and it was disconcerting to behold. There was no wasted effort on personal quirks: it was as if the Gods had perfected their design for the white-eye, and Kastan Styrax was the fruit of their efforts. Since their first meeting two months back, the engineer had remained in utter awe, and even now, as he looked at Lord Styrax’s emotionless face, he found it hard to imagine the man was a mere mortal, made of flesh and blood.

‘I believe so, my Lord,’ he said after taking a moment to smother the nervous hiccoughs that threatened to interrupt. ‘The wood is sound and my men have done a good job; I could expect nothing better, given the circumstances. I would prefer to test-fire it first, but without that option, all I can say is that I believe it will serve as you asked. If you were using a cut stone I could estimate—’ His voice broke off as Styrax raised his hand. Apart from his head, it was the only part of the white-eye’s body not encased in forbidding black armour, but the hand, like the armour, was the result of his greatest victory. Bone-white from wrist to fingertip, it had twisting swirls of scar tissue covering the skin and deep bloody stains forever caught under the fingernails. Rumour said Kastan Styrax had allowed it to be burned to achieve this great triumph: cutting down Koezh Vukotic in battle. No lone warrior had managed such a feat since the vampire had risen from the grave for the first time; he considered the price minor.

‘The sinew is still strong?’ asked a rasping voice from behind them. The engineer turned as General Gaur advanced on them, his lord’s helm clasped reverentially in his black-furred hands. Few would interrupt Lord Styrax’s conversations, but despite his monstrous appearance and hybrid nature, General Gaur was the closest thing to a friend the white-eye had.

‘We brought two sets just in case, and one survived completely intact,’ confirmed the engineer. ‘I’ve checked the catapult and it’s still in firing order.’

‘Excellent. You have done everything I need you for.’ The engineer paled as his eyes were drawn to Lord Styrax’s huge broadsword.

‘Gaur, accompany our skilled friend to the horses and get them ready to move. And send Kohrad to me.’

The engineer sagged with relief as General Gaur began to walk away, pausing for a moment to allow him to pick up his tools and catch up. Clearly they weren’t going to kill him now his task was over, as he had begun to fear. As the tension flooded away, he began to hiccough again, trying desperately to smother them with his hands, but the general prodded his shoulder with one taloned finger and beckoned him on.

Lord Styrax hadn’t moved an inch, despite the odd noises, and the trails of unnatural cloud made him appear almost ethereal in the morning light. The engineer shivered at the sight and scuttled away, hiccoughing madly, as fast as he could. He was careful not to look back again.

 

Styrax tasted the air. The bittersweet flavour of magic hung thick around him. The fog that surrounded his small army made it difficult to see anything more of the city than an outline of stone against the morning sky. Out of the comer of his eye, he could see Larim, one of Larat’s Chosen, currently engaged in making them invisible from the city walls. The strain was only just beginning to show on the young white-eye’s face.

‘Father, Larim seems to be a match for the test you set him. I think that old crow Lord Salen will have to be more careful of his position in future. There’s quite a gleam of ambition in Larim’s eye.’

‘I think you’re right, Kohrad,’ Styrax replied, not taking his eyes off the wall. He raised his arm straight out for his son to duck underneath; steel clanked against steel. ‘Don’t underestimate the cunning of crows though. Lord Salen has been busy himself recently, I think the contest will be most entertaining to watch.’ Styrax paused. ‘Kohrad, my arm feels unseasonably warm.’

‘That’s because it’s on fire, Father.’

‘Stop it then.’

‘Yes, Father - I was just frightening away Gaur’s fleas.’

‘Don’t. You shouldn’t make fun of him when there are nobles around. General Gaur has no allies among them, only enemies, and he’s as devoted to you as he is to me.’

‘I hardly think that’s possible.’

Kohrad looked around for his father’s friend. The bulky general was on his way over, his massive jaw working away as it always did when he was thinking. His fangs moved up and down through the rough bristles of his face.

‘And still it is true, whether you let yourself see it or not.’ Styrax turned to face his son, letting none of his sadness at Kohrad’s glazed expression show on his face. Small flames still ghosted over the red-stained steel of his son’s armour. Kohrad enjoyed wielding flame and destruction rather more than his father was comfortable with; Styrax thought it was beginning to cloud the young man’s mind. However he’d found that armour, the only secret he kept from his father, it hadn’t been the blessing Kohrad considered it.

‘Despite his looks, I still don’t think Gaur really suits being a soldier,’ Kohrad said, in a rare moment of reflection. ‘He’s too serene, too at peace with the Land. He never lost his temper with me when I was growing up. Now I realise that must have been hard.’ Styrax gave a snort of amusement but didn’t interrupt. ‘I suppose that makes him the best man to trust your army to, but it still seems perverse.’

‘As is much in life,’ the white-eye lord agreed. ‘Battle is all he’s ever known, and you would wound him gravely if you suggested he gave up furthering my cause.’

Kohrad gestured towards the walls of Raland up ahead. ‘Speaking of your cause and the perversity of life; all those years of research to find the damn thing and this fat fool digs it up just a few months before we arrive ...’

‘I know,’ Styrax said with an ironic smile, ‘but I cannot decide whether it is merely a lesson in the unpredictability of life, or a dire portent for this Age. However, whatever the reason, I think it is time we showed these people how easily we can take what is theirs. Are you ready?’

‘Of course - but I’m curious to know why you are certain there will be a soft landing waiting for me.’

‘The first rule of warfare.’ He waited for his son to fill in the words.

‘Know your enemy,’ Kohrad confirmed, ‘although some might say that knowing yourself is the first rule.’

‘That is necessary long before a man leads an army to battle.’ Styrax could sense his son’s reluctance to cede the point, but the boy was a white-eye too, and filial loyalty could only go so far, after all.

‘I still think that having a vastly larger army would be a better rule to start with.’

Styrax gave his son an affectionate thump on the shoulder. ‘Perhaps, but it lacks elegance, and there is not much to take from that into the rest of life. If there is a lesson to be learned, no man should ignore the opportunity. If there isn’t, open a jar of wine and find wisdom there.’

‘For someone with such insight, you’re still taking a gamble, however educated your guess might be. You can’t know everything about a man’s character. For instance, this duke could enjoy waking up to the dawn just as I do now - remember our hunting trips? Since then I’ve always preferred a west-facing window. The duke might also, despite the impressive view from this window.’

‘True enough,’ Styrax agreed, ‘but do not overestimate men either: most remain slaves to their weaknesses, and our friend the duke is one. He is so weak he’ll need to feel his power the moment he wakes. However, another rule of life is not to gamble with what you hold most dear, and I never do. Our agent in the city made sure.’

‘Your men would have accepted your guesswork without a word. Gaur would have.’

‘That’s because I have the best army in the Land, and to be victorious, an army needs faith in its leader. You questioned me because you were not born to follow orders.’

‘You’re very sure of that. Gaur himself is evidence that breeding counts for nothing.’

‘The chances were always good,’ Styrax said quietly. ‘For a good litter, you make sure you have the finest bitch. I abide the company of few enough to risk keeping a fool of a son around to disappoint me. You have two positions to inherit in your life, General Gaur’s and my own, and I am certain you will prove worthy of both. Enough of doubts - you have a task I can entrust to no other, so get yourself ready.’

Kohrad stared back at his father, a mix of gratitude and suspicion on his face. There was no need to add that Styrax could do it himself. What they intended would be an outrageous gesture, one to make the whole of the West take notice. It was also a test for Kohrad. He would not return if he failed.

 

‘Why aren’t you doing something about it?’

Tochet opened his mouth to reply to Duke Nemarse’s demand, then bit his tongue against saying something he would regret. The duke had been pacing around for half an hour now, all the while tapping his fingers against a small velvet purse that hung from his belt. These mannerisms annoyed Tochet, and the effect was exacerbated by the duke’s high girlish voice.

‘What would you like me to do? That noise is driving the horses mad, and I’m not sending my infantry out there.’

‘Well, do something; I’m not paying you to stand up here and gawp over the walls.’

Tochet sighed. He’d tried to send some cavalry out, but they had gone only a few dozen yards before guttural animal calls had sent them into a panic. Whatever creatures were out there, they liked the smell of horsemeat.

‘Destech,’ the mercenary commander called, and his lieutenant stepped closer, baring his filed teeth at the duke to make him back out of earshot. It was quite unnecessary; the duke couldn’t understand a word of Chetse, but they had found little else in the way of entertainment in Raland.

‘General?’ Tochet no longer held that rank, but his men could think of him no other way. They would always respect him above all others.

‘What do you think?’

‘Same as you, sir.’ Destech had been with his commander for twenty years, and in that time they had fought many creatures from the waste. They knew well not to underestimate the unknown.

‘Damn. I don’t know whether it’s trolls or minotaurs, or something even worse, but I’m buggered if I’m leading the men out to find out what. The sentries said they heard something dragging, and something heavy falling, but maybe it wasn’t a battering ram after all. What I don’t understand is why the catapults and ballistae are still not firing, and where in the name of the Dark Place that mage is.’

‘I’ll go and hurt someone.’

‘Thank you.’

Destech turned and dropped down through the hatch in the centre of the tower-platform at the highest point on the wall. Tochet looked down from the duke’s Gate Palace towards the vastness of the Elven Waste. It was well fortified, but it was home to the duke’s family too; when the tip of his long-axe had punched a hole in a tall vase, it sent the duchess into an apoplectic fit.

Tochet continued his vigil, looking out at the strange cloud that ignored the northerly breeze and instead sat in front of him. It looked even less natural now that dawn had fully broken. The men on watch had woken him just before dawn, when they’d first noticed something strange. Making his way up here, still shrouded in sleep, he’d been struck by the desolate splendour of the miles of silent, empty land he could see. Destech was back within a few minutes, grimly ignoring the kicking man he had by the scruff of his neck. The lieutenant was even bigger than his commander and had no difficulty pulling the soldier up through the hatch with one hand and depositing him at Tochet’s feet.