The Stormcaller: Book One Of The Twilight Reign (28 page)

A name had saved him. A single word that hung thick in the air and ate into the stiffening wounds on his body. The sweet stench of corruption and loss lingered still, long after it had twisted his attackers into grotesque ruin. He felt himself contaminated, infected with something there could be no cure for. Desperately he searched about for some means of escape, some possibility of redemption. Running down corpse-strewn corridors he came to a decaying garden - so recently his refuge from the horror of life. Now it was dead, along with the creatures that had once been his beloved pets. Some no doubt had fled, but most lay in stinking heaps, their bones breaking with tiny snaps under his heel as he walked to a clear, serene pool. Looking in, he caught his own reflection - and felt the grip of damnation as he saw a face that was not his own. The face screamed and he heard himself echo that scream as the colour faded to black.

 

In a tangle of sodden blankets, Isak awoke with a gasp. The clammy touch of early dawn whispered over his skin and a shiver ran down his back while the memory of his wounds from the dream burned hot on his body. It was dark inside the tent, and distances were treacherous in the weak light, shapes shifting subtly in the corner of his eye. He closed his hand around Eolis - the blade always found its way to his side as he slept - and raised it to see his reflection. The silver gave him a slightly distorted picture, but he’d settle for anything resembling his own face after that dream.

His hand trembled with the effort and when a figure at the entrance twitched at his movement he almost dropped Eolis in surprise. The hairs on Isak’s neck prickled with panic and the long blade was drawing back, ready to strike, even as he recognised General Lahk. The white-eye’s hands were demurely clasped together, a strange pose for a knight in full armour.

‘What’re you doing, General?’ Isak thought his voice sounded drunk and uncertain, but the general gave no sign that he had noticed.

‘It is time. We must ride before dawn.’ He was staring intently at Isak, as though he was trying to see what had set them apart - what qualities Lahk was lacking to set this boy above him. ‘Do you want me to fetch a page to help you with your armour?’

Isak frowned for a moment, then remembered why he had refused a page in the first place. Grabbing at the blanket, he pulled it high up to his neck, re-covering the scar on his chest. ‘No, I’ll be fine. How soon do we ride?’

‘When you are ready, my Lord. I have told the infantry to be prepared within the half-hour. I received a rider in the night from Suzerain Torl; he engaged the enemy twice yesterday and forced them to change direction both times.’

‘We’re still going to be badly outnumbered, though.’

‘Not greatly. You have not seen disciplined troops standing against a rabble. I would happily form the foot legion of the Ghosts into a square and let five times our number of untrained men attack all sides. The enemy are cowardly and weak. If there are members of different houses, then it is even possible some troops will never engage but abandon the field, take their booty and return to usurp those they abandon.’

‘And the trolls?’

The general paused at that. He opened his mouth a fraction, then paused again, before saying, ‘They are animals, not soldiers. They were one of the warrior-races created by the Gods during the Great War - they were not intended for sophistication, nor intelligence, only to be driven towards the enemy. They like to destroy; they like to fight. They won’t run like the others.’

It looked like he wanted to say more, but nothing came. Isak waited a few heartbeats, then realised they were wasting time. ‘Go and see to the men, I’ll get ready.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’ A short bow and Lahk was gone. Isak could hear voices calling for the general’s attention, but they didn’t intrude on his space and he was glad for it. He relieved himself into the brass pot by his bed, then jammed a dry crust of bread into his mouth and began to fit his body into the under-suit laid out next to Siulents. As Bahl had predicted, the larger one was now a better fit. Once that was on and the toggles fastened, he swallowed the last few pieces of bread and clipped on the mail skirt and codpiece that would lie underneath the main plates of armour.

Carel had said that a cut to the groin was one of the fastest ways to bleed to death. Now that Isak was dwelling on that image, he could feel the hot pulse beating under the leather. Next came the cuirass. He opened the hinge to fit the two plates around his torso. As it snapped shut, a close fit moulded to the curve of his muscles, the seam and hinge melted from view. The fact that he’d grown in size didn’t seem to bother Siulents one bit. Isak couldn’t resist running a finger down that line one more time, feeling edges that his eyes couldn’t detect.

As the pieces came together, a warmth settled into his skin, driving away the morning chill and bringing the hint of a smile to his face. For the moment, trepidation was a distant memory. Shrugging his shoulders inside the plate, Isak felt hardly any restriction or weight. The illusion of a seamless liquid-metal casing over his body increased his confidence in his own strength and speed. Passing Eolis through a few strokes, Isak felt his already supernatural skills enhanced even further. The weapon in movement felt like it was fused to his arm.

Even sheathed, Eolis felt alive and hungry for action. Isak strode out with a cold grin on his face. His blue mask was slipped over the padded hood of his under-suit. His armour shimmered in the grim grey light while the dragon symbol on his long cloak danced and raged in the breeze. Though the Ghosts had seen him in Siulents before, the effect on the men he passed was electrifying. He stopped and met their amazed faces, then snapped an order to get back to work and smiled as they jumped like startled rabbits.

He looked around. Neat lines of mounted men waited on all sides while more readied their horses and checked weapons. Pages and servants ran in and out of the forest of tents that covered the ground. Most of the mounted men were Ghosts. Many of the things Lahk had drilled them in were basics, but details like that could mean the difference between victory and defeat, and a general who didn’t get bored was ideal to drill men until they were perfect.

Count Vesna, fully accoutred, hurried over to Isak as he watched the troops moving with purpose and grim efficiency. Here and there a voice was raised in laughter, but most men were lost in cold deliberation. The fleeing commoners and the assault on Lomin had provoked a deep anger within the troops.

‘My Lord, your charger is ready.’ Vesna moved with the uncomfortable swing of a man in plate armour, but quickly enough for it to be obvious that the black-painted metal was enchanted. His hair, plaited, was wrapped around his neck, covering up the tattoos.

Isak’s view of his horse was obscured by a knight draped in yellow and white who was gesticulating wildly at his page. Isak glanced at him as he stalked past and the man froze in mid-sentence.

White drapes hung down over the horse’s armour, with Isak’s dragon emblazoned on its flanks. A steel spike rose out through the cloth on its forehead. As Isak approached, the horse twitched a step towards him, pulling taut the reins held by the figure beside it. The horse tossed its head nervously.

A sudden sense of danger screamed in Isak’s head, and a memory flashed up: his page was smaller. The figure holding the reins threw back its cloak and leapt forward, unfolding long limbs from a slender body. Isak blinked - and the figure had covered the ground between them, stabbing forwards as it moved. Unbidden, Eolis darted up to meet it as the figure hit Isak full in the chest and threw him off his feet. As his shoulders slammed into the ground, he kicked off, desperately feeling for solid ground underfoot. Distantly he felt blows slam into his stomach as his left hand grabbed a thin arm that squirmed with amazing strength.

Then the attacker broke away. Isak rolled on to his knees and threw himself left, sheer instinct, as two thin white spears stabbed into the ground where he’d been a heartbeat before. He hacked through one before hurling himself away again. An inhuman screech tore through the air and Isak felt a weight slam on to his back. Scarcely thinking, he flung his left arm up to protect his face and felt something score his vambrace instead of his throat.

He stabbed Eolis up over his shoulder and felt it grate on bone, then the weight was gone. He jumped to his feet and spun around, cutting up as he did so, but now his assailant kept just out of reach. For a moment he locked eyes with the creature. Mandible jaws on either side of its mouth twitched as it peered back at its intended prey. It stood on three legs; the fourth was shorn off and dripping black blood. More blood ran down from its right shoulder, but the arm ending in a bony blade was still ready to strike.

Before any of the watching knights could move to attack it, the creature leaped again, every limb swept back and ready. Isak slid away to his right, leaving Eolis in his wake to slash up as his attacker passed. He felt chitin split and the sword cut deep before his movement brought it out. He gave the creature no time to recover from the second cut, dropping down to kick away its legs. The savagery of the blow snapped something and brought Isak right around, Eolis already hacking at the figure on the floor before he had even focused on it. A second blow sheared through one of the bladed arms and a third stabbed straight down to impale the creature on the ground.

Isak staggered backwards, crashing into Vesna as he did so. He turned, raising his empty sword-arm for a moment before his senses returned. Behind him the figure thrashed and spasmed, but they were the movements of a dead thing.

‘My Lord, are you hurt?’ Vesna dropped his sword and grabbed at the huge white-eye as Isak lurched again. Finding his feet, Isak gripped his bondsman’s shoulder and steadied himself. The surge of adrenalin blurred his sight for a moment, then his vision snapped back into focus. Isak found himself staring at the tattoo on the count’s neck. Taut muscles distorted it into a bizarre shape.

Isak sucked in a huge gulp of air and felt his hand tremble as he replied, ‘I—I think so.’ Looking down at where the creature had been hitting him in the stomach, Isak could see only one tiny break in the armour, and that sealed up as he watched. ‘Am I bleeding?’

‘You—’ Vesna stopped and looked Isak over. The attack had been so fast Vesna had hardly seen the blows, but apart from a deep groove on Isak’s arm-guard where the creature had tried to cut his throat, there were no signs of damage. ‘No, it doesn’t seem to have pierced the armour anywhere.’

‘What was it?’

Both men turned to look at the corpse. As they did so, a Ghost ran his lance down into its throat to make sure it was dead. When there was no further movement, the soldier pulled Eolis from the body and offered it over his arm to Isak. The Krann stared at it for a moment, surprised at the formality, but judging by the faces of every man there, they had been impressed with the fight.

‘That, my Lord,’ supplied General Lahk from behind Isak, ‘is an Estashanti warrior. It’s one of the hybrid races bred by the Gods for the Great War, then discarded when their talents were surplus to requirements.’ In the shock of the aftermath, Isak thought he detected an air of bitterness about the general’s voice.

‘It explains how the enemy managed to kill Duke Lomin. Buggers use them as assassins,’ muttered Suzerain Fordan. As he gave the corpse a kick, a golden gorget fell away. The chain had been neatly severed. Isak felt a surge of magic leave the ruined object: that was how it had managed to get past all the guards.

‘Gods, if it had got here yesterday ... Without Siulents I’d have been gutted in that first attack. If we were not riding to battle this morning—’

‘You’d be dead, my Lord. But before you offer thanks to the Gods, we do have another battle to fight. It can only harm our cause to let this delay us further.’ General Lahk didn’t wait for a reply as he turned to a herald at his side. The herald was several summers younger than Isak and the only one there in light armour. He had a large round shield on his back and a hunting horn in his hands. His job was to stay alive to sound orders for the troops. Isak could see puke on his clothes already - perhaps he’d been thinking about meeting a troll.

‘Sound the order to move out,’ Isak said, and mounted his horse, which was calm now the Estashanti was dead. Vesna handed him the cold, blank helm that Isak had dropped in the attack. A smear of mud marked the crest.

‘My Lord?’

Isak turned to see the general raise his helm slightly. Looking around, he realised they were all watching him. He was leading this army, so tradition dictated the order come from him. Every boy of the tribe shouted the words out as they played; even those without friends felt the words in their heart.

Isak wheeled his horse around, held up his helm for all to see and called out as loud as he could, ‘My Lords, we go to war - your helms!’

Amid a great cheer Isak slid his own helm over his head and felt the lip of the collar meet his cuirass. At his side Vesna rammed home the golden wolf’s head and slid the faceplate up to look at his liege lord. The count muttered a few words of shock that were lost in the cheers from all about. Isak didn’t wait to hear any more. He spurred his charger ahead, through the rows of mounted guardsmen, with war cries ringing all about.

As the knights followed the path of the shallow river and reached the ridge, Isak noticed a scent on the wind he couldn’t place. Winter had muted every flavour that reached him, and it came only when the breeze momentarily cleared the heavy musk of horse. Whether it was just too faint to recognise, or something new to him, Isak couldn’t be sure. These parts were too remote to have been of any interest to a wagon-train. This area looked unspectacular, but still Isak wondered what he would miss as he passed through, how much he would never see of lands that would one day belong to him. Anvee itself was nothing more than a name at the moment, and that was just one suzerainty - what about when he became Lord of the Farlan?