The Stormcaller: Book One Of The Twilight Reign (18 page)

‘Think the mage has done a runner, General - which isn’t a good sign if you ask me - but this scrawny little bugger was sat in a comer with a jar of wine.’

‘Ah, thank you, Destech. Now, Lieutenant, why have you not yet fired, as you were ordered?’

‘Fire at what?’ Even as he struggled up from a heap on the floor, the man managed to maintain the haughty arrogance that everyone in this city of goldsmiths appeared to possess.

‘Destech, take him and hang him over the battlements.’

A gasp ran around the other soldiers on the platform and the duke stepped forward, but Tochet silenced them all with a glance as Destech took the red-liveried solider by the throat and dragged him over to the edge.

He followed his commander’s orders, throwing the man over the edge of the battlemented wall, and held him firmly by the ankle as Tochet leaned out to speak to him. The commander’s words were drowned out as the soldier shrieked like a seabird and Destech had to give the man a violent shake before he finally fell silent.

Tochet resumed his speech. ‘Now, do you see the difference? I give an order; it is obeyed. This is a vital requirement of leadership. In this case, I don’t care whether you have a target or not; those ballistae should be firing on that cloud. Disobey an order again and I’ll throw you off the wall myself.’

‘You don’t want me to—?’ There was a look of surprise on Destech’s face. Back home Tochet would certainly have ordered him to drop the man; a disobeyed order was not something any new commander could allow unpunished.

Tochet shook his head. ‘Not this time, no - that would mean you’d have to go back down and get those weapons firing one by one. Bring him up.’

Destech gave the dangling figure one last shake, then hauled him back up over the side. The mercenary wrinkled his nose as he realised the sobbing wretch had soiled himself. He spoke in Chetse to his commander, though his scornful tone made the words clear enough. ‘A legion army; that’s all I ask: we’d take this city in a day.’

Tochet grinned and bent down to the trembling soldier’s ear. ‘Now, go and follow my orders.’

The soldier stayed frozen until Tochet stood up straight again, then ran for the open hole in the floor. His frantic voice sounded from down below, relaying the order to fire. One velvet glove remained on the floor at Tochet’s feet. He kicked it into a puddle and turned back to the cloud.

‘Catapult!’ bellowed Destech suddenly, and Tochet angled his head up to see a flaming object high in the air, already falling towards them. The mercenaries dived for the small cover of the battlements, hands over their eyes in anticipation of the fireball. When it hit a few heartbeats later, Tochet was surprised not to feel the impact reverberate through the stone under his feet. Instead, all he heard was the crash of wood and glass.

Both Chetse jumped up and leaned out over the wall. A finger of flame spat out from the ruin of the massive window below and a rush of warm air rose up to meet them.

‘Get down there, put those fires out,’ roared Tochet. Destech was already moving, pushing past the duke, who was still summoning up the courage to look out himself.

‘What was that?’

‘That was a missile, you damn fool. A missile that scored a perfect hit on your bedchamber. That cloud’s covering a battery of catapults.’

‘But only one’s fired.’

Tochet looked up. The air was indeed empty: there were no more missiles in the sky, no sound of firing, or even reloading of the one that had fired. The cloud had closed up and sat there placidly again.

‘Why would you use only one catapult to attack a city?’ the mercenary muttered to himself. It sounded like a bad joke.

‘What?’ the duke asked him. Tochet ignored the man and answered his own question.

‘When one’s enough. Oh Gods.’ He looked out over the edge and was rewarded with another blast of hot air. It was enough to make him draw back hurriedly, though not before he saw the flickering fires already spreading.

‘Tsatach protect us. Duke Nemarse, it’s time we made for safer ground. I think that fire’s going to spread faster than you’d believe possible.’

The air had been driven from the room and the only sound was the slow tinkle of broken glass falling on cold stone. Enveloped in the warm caress of a ruined mattress, Kohrad held his breath and waited, savouring the eager desire of the flame that was held in check, aching for the precious kiss of air. Then he let it go, and a deep crimson light swept around the walls of the chamber and yellow garlands danced up the shattered bedposts.

He rose from the wreckage of the huge bed, the remains already black and charred. The early morning sunlight coming through the window was a weak and feeble thing in comparison, wavering from the tendrils of heat snaking through the room. His mailed hands stroked a delicately painted frieze above the fireplace; under his touch, the colours blistered and writhed to nothing. Fiery fingers dribbled across the stone floor, sucking life from the rushes before pouncing on the drapes and furniture. In seconds, the entire room was clothed in flame.

He heard the door crash open and drew his sword as he turned. For a moment, he saw only more wood to feed to his voracious flames, then movement caught his eye as someone fell back from the heat, his arms over his head, protecting his face. Kohrad strode out and hacked off the soldier’s head with one two-handed stroke. Out of the comer of his eye, he caught the glint of a pike-head. He spun round and used his sword to turn it aside, then, grasping the shaft, he pulled hard and brought the pikeman close enough to smash his armoured elbow into the man’s face.

Lunging forward, he stopped the next man in his tracks with his sword, swatted aside an axe and, with a burst of fire, he drove his enemy back. The man, a Chetse, he suddenly realised, was brave: ignoring the overwhelming heat, he charged forward to drive his shoulder into Kohrad’s chest. The impact knocked the white-eye back a little, but the victory was short-lived as Kohrad smashed his fist down on to the Chetse’s helm and hacked at the man’s ribs. The man collapsed, flames already licking at his axe-shaft and clothes. The room was his.

Kohrad started off down the corridor, then came to an abrupt halt as he felt a cold mind cut through the heat to touch his own. His father felt as if he were impervious to the power of the flames he wielded, and that reminded him of his mission. The object was somewhere above, nagging at his mind.

Reaching up, Kohrad touched the beam running across the ceiling of the corridor. That he could burn, and he used it to spread himself out around the building, cutting off the routes of escape. Once that was done, Kohrad began to consume the long drapes and polished furniture, filling rooms with magnificent sculptures of heat and light. He found a stairway and moved up floor by floor, like a wolf-pack driving its prey. He cut down some of the panicked occupants as he found them and left others cowering in corners or hiding in wardrobes. Some were on their knees, praying with shouts and fearful cries, but their frantic appeals couldn’t touch him. Kohrad was born of white-eyes, untouched by the Gods and subject only to the laws of fire and light.

Reaching the top, he came to a closed hatch-door; he forced his fist up through it, but something held it closed, despite the damage. A second blow smashed the frame to pieces which fell at his feet to join the pyre. The wooden steps were burning even as he ascended into the light of day. Another Chetse struck out with his long battle-axe, before Kohrad had time to escape the confines of the hatchway, but the burning white-eye swatted the curved steel aside, jumping up on to the level floor in the next movement and hacking into the man’s spine with astonishing speed.

The soldier fell screaming, but as his cries faded into the reaching flames, Kohrad had already turned his attention to the others on the platform. No one else stepped forward to attack him, so Kohrad ignored the soldiers and focused his attention on the quivering shape of the duke.

The taste of blistered and burning fat rose up in his mind as he held out his hand to the duke. The man gibbered with terror, fingers tightening around the Skull even as his skin blistered and charred. Kohrad snapped the bones with ease, and as he prised the Skull away, he felt it cry out for his touch. With a sigh of satisfaction, Kohrad pressed the Crystal Skull to his breast, where it fused with the armour, turning the deep colour of blood.

The flames around him danced with renewed strength as he caressed the Skull. ‘So you’re Destruction,’ he whispered. ‘I’d hoped it was you. One day you’ll be mine, when we are Gods and Father has no more need for you, you’ll become part of me for ever.’

He left the towering pyre without haste, leaving only the crackle of licking flames and the stench of burning flesh in his wake.

The knives of winter, honed on the jagged cliffs of the north, lashed at the great forest of the Spiderweb Mountains. Whispers in the night carried a restless memory of long-abandoned places, as the profane words of another Age burned once more in the hearts of the elves, the twisted descendants of those cursed by the Gods for their rebellion. Dark bargains were made, even before the seers announced a silver light shining out from the west. The first furtive figures returned to settlements that the Farlan had driven them from decades ago.

The Festival of Swords had slowly replaced the ruthless hunting parties of fifty years past as the elves retreated away from their tormentors: pageantry in place of savagery. Now the elves returned to find the Farlan watchtowers and forts in disrepair or empty, replaced by farms and villages now closer than ever to the cold depths of the forest, and exposed in the harsh autumn light.

When their first attacks met only feeble resistance, they grew bolder and more savage. The wind tore through ruined homes and carried the smoke from the pyres for miles. Even in the towns, where people hid behind the relative safety of stone walls, they could hear the drums hammering out through the night air, and guttural voices singing of pain and prophecy, of their time come again. The taste of revenge carried far on the wind.

 

‘What do you mean by punished? General Elierl is not a child to be disciplined!’ The walls shook as Bahl roared at the man sitting placidly in the centre of the room. Isak found himself leaning back from the sheer force of Bahl’s anger, but the focus of that ire didn’t even twitch. Perched on a low stool, the mage mouthed the words in echo of his lord, his hairless head dipping back and forward as though following some sort of tune in his head. The movement continued after the mage fell silent, as he cocked his head and rocked back and forth, waiting for the reply.

‘General Elierl has been removed from command of Lomin’s forces,’ intoned the mage again after a long pause. His voice was distant, an echo from afar. Isak sat forward to take a closer look at the man, watching his movements in fascination, trying to fathom their part in the ritual. The mage continued, oblivious to the people around him.

Lesarl, when pushed for information, had told Isak the movement helped the twin mages to keep in touch with each other, but the Chief Steward had given up when his explanation provoked even more questions than it had answered. Isak had never even heard of anything like this, let alone seen it in action, and it made him wonder just what else lay within the forbidding walls of the College of Magic, hidden from the eyes of all but a few and hired out to only those who could afford such wonders.

‘He has been punished for his failings,’ came Scion Lomin’s distant reply. Every sentence was stilted, broken into pieces as one mage whispered the words to his sibling. Isak could imagine a face just like this one, pale and hairless, sitting in a high tower in Lomin, silently forming the words as he heard them. Perhaps they were even dressed in exactly the same way: an open-necked tunic showing a hairless chest, and the red and gold sash of the College of Magic around his waist.

‘You had one of the tribe’s oldest and most respected generals executed?’

The delay in the reply only infuriated Bahl longer. It was scarcely believable the young man in Lomin - not yet duke, however ill his father might be - would have dared do what he had just implied. Bahl began to pace around the oblivious mage until Lesarl reached out a hand to interrupt him.

‘My Lord, the link will not last much longer; we need information now. Whatever the boy has done can wait until you are there.’

‘I did no such thing,’ interrupted the mage in his slow monotone. ‘The general was removed from his position and committed suicide in his chambers that evening. We mourn his loss as you do.’

Bahl opened his mouth to bellow a reply, but stopped when Lesarl caught his arm. He turned to the mage’s escort, a richly dressed man who, though of middle age, looked older in certain ways, like most mages. Isak noted his sunken face, perhaps the first step towards becoming a withered wreck like High Priest Wetlen had been. The mage nodded his agreement with Lesarl, looking anxious for his charge as he anticipated the failure of the link.