The Stormcaller: Book One Of The Twilight Reign (31 page)

Isak turned and launched himself at the enemy again. The choking odour of death, sweat and excrement made his human self recoil, but there was something else to replace it. He tasted magic on the air and embraced its fury. Encased in the liquid grace of Siulents, Isak flowed over the bodies and started dealing death with an artistry that belied his brutish desire.

He hardly noticed when the enemy began to flee. The slow-moving elves died, whether they faced him or ran. Eolis sliced through swords and shields to reach the flesh. Fire and fury burst hot and savage from Isak’s fingertips as a torrent of magic lashed and swirled around him. Spectral shapes hovered at the edges of his sight as he killed again and again. The ground itself opened up to receive the dead, deep furrows in the earth groaning open like yawning funeral barrows.

Finally a burst of pain in his skull stopped Isak dead. A cold weight appeared at the back of his head, as though he’d been clubbed, and his body was shocked into numbness. As he dropped to his knees the beast inside him faded, sated by the destruction it had wrought. Isak gasped for breath he could no longer find. Dropping Eolis and throwing aside his shield, he scrabbled desperately at his helm. For a moment he couldn’t move it, through weakness or some sort of resistance, and then off it came.

Tearing off his hood, Isak sucked in great heaving gulps of air. He had been so immersed in the sea of battle that he had almost drowned in its dark depths. Now pain lanced through his body and his lungs cried out for more air while his mind howled at the slaughter around him - and the pleasure it had spawned in him. He bent over and retched, tears of pain and anguish dripping to mingle with the blood that ran from his body. With the taste of puke still in his mouth, he pitched forward and collapsed on to the ground, not even feeling himself hit as a numbing darkness washed over him.

Dragons soared overhead, emerald, diamond and sapphire scales shining in the summer sun. The monsters radiated an unearthly beauty as they gouged and tore each other apart. He laughed as he plunged his blade into beautiful men with wings for arms, their soft feathers charred and matted with blood. Insectoid figures bearing huge bronze hammers leapt eagerly to their deaths. The sun cast rainbow hues off their dark chitinous bodies. The coppery tang of magic melded the panoramic riot into an intoxicating and corrupting exhilaration. He crafted agony in his hand and cast it out among the mortals beneath him. The song of fear rang out in his mind, drowning out the wind and the clash of steel. The sun itself drew back and hid from the slaughter. And still he laughed. Still he killed.

 

Daylight slipped hesitantly through Isak’s eyelids. A dull ache pervaded his body and when he tried to raise his head, a stab of pain flared in his temples. He fought to open swollen and caked eyelids. At first, everything was a blur of fogged shapes, but eventually the fragments of light creeping through the fabric of the tent began to trace lines he could understand. Colours wormed into focus and, tentatively, he began to take stock.

Someone had stripped and washed him, dressed his wounds and left him to sleep under a heavy pile of furs. He flexed the fingers of his right hand. The numbness began to fade as he worked it into a fist, then opened and closed it a number of times. With his shoulder screaming in protest, Isak edged his arm higher and higher up his side until he could pull it out from under the furs. When one arm was free, Isak began to remove the furs and assess the damage.

His ribs were bandaged tightly, high enough to cover his scar, though Isak could feel no reason why the dressing needed to go quite that high up his chest. He guessed at two cracked ribs, painful but not dangerous, or he’d be in a much worse state by now. The scent of sweat-soaked linen rose up to meet him as the last fur slid off. While he’d been unconscious, someone had not only cleaned the filth and blood off and dressed his wounds, they’d even tended to his scrappy beard. He remembered nothing of it - not even the discomfort of being moved and manipulated had been strong enough to wake him. All Isak could recall was the sensation of a hurricane in his mind, and the rampant magic picking him up and tossing him to the four winds.

Continuing his personal investigation, Isak found his left arm below the elbow so swollen he could hardly move it: blow after blow had obviously been too much for the muscles of his shield arm. It looked like a spear had sliced into his thigh, but the wound didn’t feel too deep, and while the sheets were far from clean, there was no smell of contagion.

Every movement hurt in some way, from neck to toes. He’d been surprised by the lack of minor cuts on his body until he caught sight of several sickly yellow patches on his skin - his remarkable capacity to heal had obviously already kicked into action. It appeared Siulents must have been pierced on several occasions.

‘So much for the fabled armour,’ he croaked with a wry smile. His voice was barely a whisper; anything more felt beyond his strength. ‘Now, how long have I been here?’

As if summoned to answer his question, the shadow of hands appeared on the canvas at the tent’s entrance. They fumbled for a while, then a page in Vesna’s livery ducked through the gap, a large wooden bowl in his hands. He stopped so hard when he saw Isak awake that the contents slopped up on to his tunic. Before the Krann could muster any words the boy had dropped the bowl on the floor and rushed out. Distantly, Isak heard the page shouting, but the actual words eluded him.

As the voice faded into the background noise of the camp, Isak tried to work out how to ease himself into a more upright position. His left arm couldn’t take any weight, so he had to use his right hand to pull some of the furs up behind him and create some sort of pile to lean on. By the time Vesna poked his bruised face through the opening, Isak lay panting, his head and shoulders elevated so he could at least see who came in.

‘My Lord,’ Count Vesna greeted him, ‘dare I ask how you feel?’ He took a step towards Isak’s bed, followed by Suzerain Torl, the scowling features of Duke Certinse close behind. Isak looked up at Torl, his light cavalryman uniform apparently untouched by the battle. The grim lines of his face hadn’t changed; the dour, pious air he wore was impervious to such things.

‘Awful. How long have I slept?’

‘Three nights, my Lord,’ answered Vesna.‘Lord Bahl assured us you just needed the rest, that there was no fatal wound, but we had begun to fear—’

‘Well, I’m awake now,’ Isak broke in. ‘Is Lord Bahl here?’

‘He commands the sweeping for elves,’ Certinse growled. ‘We have all been leading hunting parties to pursue those who fled the field.’

‘Except me? Because I’ve been lazing around on my backside for the last few days? If you have a problem with me, Duke Certinse, just say so.’ The sour emptiness in his stomach and throbbing behind his eyes told Isak he’d done more than he should have, but though he felt too drained to argue or fight, a drop of venom remained.

‘Your Grace,’ interrupted Suzerain Torl before Certinse could rise to the bait, ‘I should be riding out in a few minutes, but Lord Bahl requested I take the Krann to him as soon as possible. Would you do me the honour of leading the party in my place?’

Certinse looked surprised for a moment, perhaps at the unexpectedly gracious tone, then grunted agreement. Shooting one last malevolent glare at Isak, he turned and swept out, leaving the wolf’s head on his cloak to snarl at those remaining.

Torl watched him go, then turned back to the Krann with a sad shake of the head. ‘I hardly think you are in any condition to pick a fight with Duke Certinse,’ he told Isak. ‘You might be Krann of the Farlan, but that doesn’t mean civility to your peers is impossible.’

‘Fuck Duke Certinse, and fuck the rest of you too. Now you’re my peers, when it gives you a reason to complain. The rest of the time, I’m just some damn white-eye.’

‘Only if you behave like one. My son was a white-eye, and he still managed to hold a conversation without throwing insults every few minutes.’

Isak slumped back down on to his bed. ‘By the Gods, I’m too tired for this. I’m not going to waste the energy explaining myself to you.’

‘Well then, conserve your energy and get dressed. You will have to explain yourself to your lord. Being just a white-eye, you seem to have forgotten that our nation is only recently rebuilt. Reopening old wounds for no reason hurts us all.’

‘Actually, I do remember,’ Isak said crossly. ‘I just don’t intend to deal with it through a veil of pomp and breeding. I was told that in war you play to your strengths - well, politics isn’t one of mine. Strength is, and now, authority. If I have enemies within the tribe, that’s what I’ll use to deal with them.’ As he spoke, Isak levered himself up into a sitting position and pointed to his clothes.

Before he could ask, Vesna passed them over and helped Isak to dress. In the thick woollens, he looked more like a monk than a suzerain, but he didn’t relish the idea of the tightly buttoned tunic around his ribs. He pulled on a pair of winter fleece boots, then belted on Eolis. He stopped before he reached the tent flap when he saw his white cloak hanging up. It had been cleaned of the mud and gore, but no one had been able to repair the burned material. As he rubbed the charred edges with his fingers, a piece came off in his hand, leaving a swirl of soot. He traced a shape too faint for the others to make out, looked at it intently for a few seconds and then rubbed it away on his shirt.

The sky outside was overcast. Isak blinked as he took in the state of the camp. Long lines of tents were now missing, and the forest of colourful banners much reduced.

‘Vesna, isn’t that Fordan’s banner?’ he asked. ‘I saw him die, I’m sure of it.’

‘He did, my Lord,’ the count said sadly, ‘but his son was among his hurscals and survived, so the banner remains. As for the others, well, Danva took a spear in the thigh and bled to death on the field, and Amah had his skull crushed by a troll.’

‘How many did we lose?’ A breath of air on his neck made Isak shiver suddenly. The wind was cold but listless; it felt to Isak as though men had been carried away by the breeze, along with their tents and flags.

‘In total? Roughly three thousand. One hundred and fifty of your own men, three hundred Ghosts, counts from Torl, Ked, Tebran and Vere. We’ve lost another three hundred chasing the survivors down.’

‘Did any good come from this?’

‘For those who died?’ asked Torl icily.

Isak looked over to the suzerain, but Torl obviously had nothing more to add.

‘I meant for anyone,’ Isak said. He shrugged. ‘I’m famished: I need to eat before I see Lord Bahl.’

He followed a column of smoke around a tent to where a huge pot bubbled over a fire, but when he tried to lean down he winced, clutching his ribs tenderly. ‘Can you give me some of that?’ he asked the man attending it. The man bobbed his head, eyes wide with fear as he slopped some broth into a sturdy wooden bowl.

Isak accepted the bowl with a broad smile. ‘Bread?’ The man reached in to the bag hanging from a post and handed him half a loaf. As soon as the man saw Isak’s attention return to Suzerain Torl, he began to back away and after a few steps he turned and hurried off, getting out of sight as soon as he could.

Isak frowned and sniffed at the bread suspiciously. ‘What was that about?’

Vesna kept silent, eyes on the ground, while Torl stared past Isak’s shoulder. ‘Ah, Lord Bahl, good morning,’ he said smoothly.

‘Torl,’ acknowledged Bahl, then turned to Isak. ‘What that was, my Lord, was your legacy from the battle.’

The old lord had shrugged off the air of weariness that normally surrounded him. He looked alert, rejuvenated, even in full armour. The crested helm, an ancient-looking bowl-shaped piece of grey metal with a Y slit at the front for eyes and mouth, was tucked under his arm.

Bahl walked up to Isak and placed a hand on his shoulder, a public gesture of comradeship. ‘How are you feeling? You’ve been recovering a long time. We were starting to worry.’

‘I feel exhausted. Drained.’ He gestured to the bowl. ‘And famished.’

‘Drained is a better word than you might realise. The more you draw on the magic, the harder it is to resist the flow and stop. If you’re not careful, part of you will be swept away with it.’

Isak didn’t reply, but nodded as he crammed a soaked comer of bread into his mouth. A murmur of pleasure was the only sound Bahl heard, but he took it as a cue to continue; the boy didn’t seem to understand quite how it had looked on the battlefield. ‘You forgot yourself out there. The men were expecting to see a white-eye in battle, but they saw worse than that. You fought like a daemon, and more than once you almost killed one of your own men through sheer bloodlust. If you hadn’t collapsed, I don’t know how we’d have stopped you.’

Bahl kept his voice low but there was no mistaking the anger there. Isak stopped chewing and looked into the lord’s eyes. They said clearly enough:
there was one way to stop you, and I was tempted. You didn’t just shame yourself there.

‘I ... I don’t know what to say.’ Isak dropped his gaze. ‘It felt like my dreams, like I wasn’t quite myself.’

‘What do you dream of?’

The question took Isak by surprise. He didn’t think the question was as idle as it sounded.

‘Sometimes just that I’m somewhere else, looking through another man’s eyes. It’s as though I’m remembering things I’ve not done.’

‘Hmm. What about your magic? Has it been released or was it just the battle?’

‘I don’t know, I hadn’t thought of trying it again yet.’

‘Well, do so now. Nothing grand, just draw energy into your hand and imagine it as fire.’

Isak did as Bahl ordered. For a moment he felt nothing. Suddenly, energy rushed to his hand, coursing like a stream of water over every inch of skin and into his hand. The air shimmered and swirled, yellow threads building and spinning together until a flame shot up from Isak’s hand.