The Stormcaller: Book One Of The Twilight Reign (26 page)

As Isak watched, occasionally meeting eyes, he felt a change in the air as the numbers grew. Down the road ahead he saw huddled groups becoming crowds. He shifted in his saddle, sensing a mixture of condemnation that only now did he come to their rescue, along with fear, awe and relief. The Farlan were a superstitious people, and the legends of Aryn Bwr lived on in the hearts of his most fervent enemies. But time plays strange tricks, and the Gods had honoured him even as they condemned him to Ghenna, for his courage and sheer genius had earned Aryn Bwr a strange place in folklore: never quite beloved, but too wonderful to completely despise. Now people were again faced with that contradiction, and no one was entirely comfortable with it.

‘What are we doing for them?’ Isak muttered. He twisted to look at General Lahk.

‘My Lord?’

‘Supplies? Food? It’s winter, Larat take you! Has nothing been done for them at all? Are they just going to die out here, waiting for us to reclaim their homes?’

‘Nothing has been done as yet, my Lord.’

Again, no trace of anything. Isak would have been more comfortable with open contempt, anything, just to show the general was alive.

‘Well, why not?’

‘Chief Steward Lesarl was quite explicit, my Lord. We were to do nothing until they saw the order to come from you. Your people should love your rule as well as fear your strength.’ Ignoring Isak’s incredulous look, he called in a booming voice to the Colonel of the Palace Guard, ‘Sir Cerse, my Lord wishes you to distribute our food to his subjects.’

As Isak fumed he saw the knight rip off a sharp salute and gesture to his lieutenants to set about the task. The wagons of supplies appeared miraculously quickly from the back of the train and a unit of men rode at its side, handing out all they had to every Farlan who reached out eagerly.

Isak was speechless. Again he had been anticipated and manipulated. His silver-mailed fist tightened around the hilt of his blade as inside he raged at himself for being Lesarl’s plaything.

‘My Lord is unimpressed.’

‘Fuck you, Lahk. If you or Lesarl think I’ll stand to be manipulated ... The only reason I don’t kill you now is that I need you for the battle.’

‘I understand, my Lord. Our kind does not suit such treatment—’

‘And you know what it is to be me? Do you have my dreams? Or the Gods themselves playing with you as a puppet in games even Lesarl wouldn’t dare to join?’

‘We are all puppets, my Lord. The only difference is that they notice what happens to you. The rest of us do not matter so.’

Isak felt a stab of guilt as the scarred general instinctively ran a finger down his neck. The jagged mess of scar ran down from behind his ear to disappear under his mail shirt. Isak couldn’t find the words to reply. He returned to brooding on the eternal question of exactly what plan the Gods had for him. Since becoming one of the Chosen he felt even more constrained than when his father had dictated his life. He hated feeling like a mere pawn even more than the helplessness of his childhood servitude. It chafed as noticeably as—as his armour failed to.

Isak’s mind wandered off the subject as he stroked the breastplate and wondered again about Siulents. It was faultless in design, and unmatched throughout the Land. Running a finger down its perfectly smooth surface, Isak could sense an echo of the runes that Aryn Bwr had engraved into the silver, each rune anchoring a spell of some kind. He guessed there were more than a hundred - and yet no more than a dozen suits in existence bore more than twenty runes. Lesarl had said he could snap his fingers and produce a score of men willing to spend the rest of their lives studying Siulents, and that it might take as many again twice as long.

The tales made the last king out to be noble and just, however dreadful his rebellion had been. The Gods had loved him above all others, while he was their servant. The greatest mystery in history was why Aryn Bwr had turned against his Gods.

Isak was beginning to see a different side to the man, for walking in his actual shoes told a tale that the Harlequins never had: Siulents was suited to a killer, inhuman and utterly lethal. It felt like something made by a white-eye, not the elf whose poetry had caused Leitah, Goddess of Wisdom and Learning, to cherish him above all but her brother Larat. And then Leitah had been cut down in battle, killed by a Crystal Skull that Aryn Bwr had forged.

What unnerved Isak most was the piece he had not yet worn, the helm: tradition was that it was donned only for battle - and it was one tradition with which he was completely comfortable. Those horny ridges and blank face held a promise of something he was in no rush to sample.

The strange dreams, the extraordinary gifts, the ‘heart’ rune, the voice of a young girl calling his name through the blackness - there was a tapestry of sorts coming together, and at every turn another thread appeared to bind him further. To the peasants watching Isak as they crammed bread into their growling stomachs, he looked calm, and without a care. His horse moved with brisk arrogance, its hooves picking up high, the silver rings and bells catching each other and singing out in a dreary day.

Vesna, watching Isak’s expression growing increasingly perturbed, cleared his throat to attract his new lord’s attention.

Isak scowled at his bondsman, but the count ignored it and nudged his horse closer. Now a little curious, Isak leaned down to hear what the man had to say.

‘My Lord, I am your bondsman to command, and required by law and oath to protect your interests. I know these political games well, and can play them better, if that would be of use to you.’

‘And why would you do that?’ Isak muttered, ungraciously. ‘Why should I trust a man of your reputation, someone I hardly know?’

The count looked startled at that. ‘My reputation, my Lord Suzerain, has never been one for oath-breaking.’ There was a cold tone to his voice that made Isak think he had taken real offence. If that was the case, Isak wasn’t about to apologise. A bondsman, even a count, was not someone he had to care about unsettling.

‘I am your bondsman. My fortunes follow yours, so your success is certainly of importance to me - and my reputation is all I have. To foster treachery would take that from me.’

Isak sat back, impressed by the passion in Vesna’s voice. ‘So, what is your advice then?’

‘The general is not your enemy. To consider him so is a mistake.’

‘He’s hardly friendly.’

Vesna shrugged. ‘General Lahk is a devoted servant of his tribe. He respects the authority of Lord Bahl and his most trusted servants. He trusts that their orders are in the best interests of the tribe. Treat him as a dependable servant and he will act so.’

‘And Lesarl?’

‘The Chief Steward is a sadist who loves his power, but he is a devoted vassal of Lord Bahl who knows that he can find his pleasures pursuing the interests of the tribe. Spies and assassins are his toys; his loyalty is assured because it affords him what he loves most. Even Lesarl’s enemies would acknowledge that he is a genius of a governor. I believe he will honour you when you are his lord. Until then, perhaps he thinks you have to learn to be a lord worthy of honour?’

Isak looked again at General Lahk, considering Vesna’s words. There was logic there, and though that didn’t mean it was necessarily true, he would lose nothing by playing along. ‘So who
are
my enemies then?’ he asked mildly.

‘Right now, your enemies are camped outside Lomin. To forget that could be fatal.’

 

The days passed quickly. Isak remembered little of his dreams except for the clamour of battles he hadn’t fought, and that same searching voice; of the days, almost as little. He felt exhausted from lack of sleep, and was lulled into a constant doze by the uniform grey sky and the sway of his horse. Bahl had told him that he would need to draw in on himself and prepare for the battle, but Isak couldn’t have done much else anyway.

The nag of the enemy somewhere ahead remained a faint prickle at the base of his skull as he ran through control exercises in his mind. He couldn’t release magic yet, but drilling the theory of defending himself from it might just save his life. Half a dozen times, General Lahk flinched in his saddle as he felt a burst of energy pulse out from the Krann as he practised.

A week later there was a distraction from the normal tedium of the march, as scouts reported the enemy had been sighted moving away from Lomin to open ground. Isak didn’t understand, until Vesna explained that by withdrawing early, the elves were in effect picking the battleground, to ensure they had room for their superior numbers instead of letting isolated groups be picked off one at a time by the Farlan cavalry.

Karlat Lomin rode into camp with his hurscals ahead of his foot soldiers, who were hurrying to join up with the cavalry, to offer grudging obeisance. Vesna found Isak pawing listlessly at a bowl of fatty broth and fussed over his appearance until Isak was smart enough - and alert enough - to meet Scion Lomin. Hauling Isak to his feet and buttoning his tunic had had very little effect; it was only when Vesna fractionally touched the scabbard holding Eolis that he was rewarded by a glare that showed Isak was at last fully awake.

The young wolf cut an impressive figure in the bronze and red of his family. His scarlet-stained helm, shaped like a wolf’s head, glowed eerily in the firelight as he reined in by Isak’s tent. He wore only half armour, cuirass and mail atop expensive leathers worked with gold and bronze thread. The wolf’s head hung from his saddle like the bloody trophies Isak had once seen hanging from the walls of a Chetse town.

As Lomin slid nimbly from his saddle, Vesna moved ahead of his lord to greet the man. One of the hurscals took half a pace forward and a thin smile crept on to Isak’s face as he saw the intent to stir up trouble, but Lomin raised a finger to stop the man. Clearly these two had met before.

‘Good evening, Scion Lomin,’ called the count in a cheery tone, his palms upturned in traditional welcome. He took great care over the younger man’s title, one that was inferior to his own.

The scion took his time acknowledging Vesna’s greeting. Handing his reins to a page, he carefully shook out his long straight black hair and fiddled with the gold clasps on each shoulder that held his cloak. Isak could see that these too were wolf heads - interesting; they should have been the Keep device of the Lomin family. Once the clasps were arranged to his satisfaction, Lomin looked at the count, his lips thinned into a line of distaste. That one look was enough to convince Isak that Vesna would be loyal to him: it was pure hatred.

‘The evening is not good, Count Vesna, and neither am I scion.’

Vesna forced himself down on to one knee as Lomin strode imperiously up to him. ‘Then you have my apologies, Duke Lomin,’ he said, reaching out to touch the ducal seal.

The duke raised a finger to cut Vesna off. ‘Duke Certinse, Vesna. I have decided to take my mother’s family name.’

Isak saw Count Vesna’s shoulders tense. That Karlat Lomin - now Certinse, he must remember that - had eschewed both his own family name and that of his city, favouring his mother’s powerful family, was a studied insult to Lord Bahl’s position.

Somehow, Vesna managed to maintain the level of respect required of him, unclipping his sheathed sword and holding it out hilt-first to his enemy in a gesture of deference, muttering, ‘Duke Certinse, I apologise, and I grieve for your father. We had not heard his illness had won out.’

‘It didn’t. Weak as he was, my father was not one to be beaten by an ill humour. A team of assassins breached the walls two nights past. They murdered him in his bed before firing the keep. Only my mother and I survived. Ten elven assassins managed to murder my entire family, fifty guards and burn my home. The wall guards tell me some even made it back to their lines.’

All around, protocol was forgotten in the horror of the news and a hundred voices murmured rage and disbelief, common soldiers and nobility alike cursing in the same breath. Only General Lahk’s voice interrupted as he called for the watches to be doubled and the fires banked high. That assassins could penetrate one of the most secure of the Farlan keeps was a horrifying thought. Isak heard a knight mutter ‘sorcery’, as he thought the same thing.

Before him, Duke Certinse stood appreciating the effect he’d had. One gloved hand rested lovingly on the hilt of his sword. At his father’s death he had inherited Bloodlight and Lomin’s Torch, weapons that only those of the Chosen could surpass. It was rumoured that the young man, still only twenty summers, had never had any love for his popular father, or any of his siblings. The young wolf held only his mother in his heart. He was her very image, made masculine.

Despite the shock, Isak couldn’t help but wonder why only those two had managed to avoid the tragedy. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he rumbled gravely. ‘Everyone spoke well of Duke Lomin, your father. I had hoped to meet him one day.’

Silence returned to the scene and faces turned to watch the two men. Duke Certinse took in Isak, bigger even than when he’d left Tirah, and nodded curtly. He was obviously unhappy about being in the presence of someone whose image overshadowed his own. He walked over to Isak, and, as Vesna had done to him, he held out the hilt of Lomin’s Torch to Isak and grudgingly touched the dragon-ring on Isak’s hand. Certinse might be a duke now, and thus outrank Isak, but the Krann had been given specific command of the army and so carried Bahl’s authority in lieu.

Behind Certinse, a page had the hem of his cloak bunched in his hand. The boy’s pudgy face was frozen in fear and Isak’s sharpened senses caught the faint stink of urine. He couldn’t blame the boy, having to come to within a few feet of such a monstrous figure, but he doubted the duke would be so forgiving.

Isak reached out and touched the pommel of the weapon. Certinse flinched in surprise as Isak probed its potency, one finger resting on the figure of a wolf sleeping with nose tucked under its bushy tail. The runes he felt were strong and simple, except for one that gave Isak a sense of bloodlust, a hunger to burn and ruin the flesh of the twisted creatures now advancing.