The Stormcaller: Book One Of The Twilight Reign (34 page)

He rarely let them take part-he wanted them to have as little to do with his citizens as possible - but they would always be there on the edges. Most were worse than animals, beautiful, degenerate daemons that preyed on those they would now be protecting - for this was different. This battle had nothing to do with the people of the city, and Vukotic saw no reason why they should suffer any more than necessary.

As he turned away from the window, echoes of lusty jubilation rang out with revolting familiarity. He steadied himself on the desk and lifted a foot to tug at the black mail covering it. It had been several years since he last wore his armour and the leather padding was chafing at skin more used to the finest silks. The curse gave him enormous strength and resilience, but his senses were likewise magnified. Pain was something he had learned to endure; his many deaths had provided more than sufficient practice.

A little more comfortable now, Vukotic eased himself into the sturdy leather chair before him and pushed aside the stack of papers on the walnut desk that were awaiting his attention. Now was not the time for civic affairs, not even the most pressing matter, a legal dispute between minor nobles - he found himself hoping one or the other died in the coming battle. It might not be a human solution, but few would ever accuse a vampire of excessive compassion.

His eyes wandered the room, lingering on the gold threading that now lined the shelves of his bookcase. The housekeeper had a free rein when it came to decoration and each time he returned, the room was different in some way. Perhaps to ward off the harsh winter, she had chosen bright reds and oranges, as well as a liberal use of gold leaf far beyond the finances of most; the new colour scheme certainly cheered his dull spirits. If he hadn’t had the rest of his armour sitting on a chair behind him, the evening might not have been too unpleasant ...

He sighed and trudged over to the pile of plate armour, picked up a piece and, grumbling to himself, began to strap it on. He winced as he pulled the cuirass over his head. His left hand gave a twinge as he raised his arm, the legacy of his recent death at the hands of Lord Styrax. For some reason, that injury had not entirely healed during his dark sojourn. His pale brow furrowed as he recalled not only being bested in single combat - extraordinarily - but the humiliation of slowly dying while his armour was roughly stripped from his body as it rotted to nothing. What he was donning now was his father’s armour, but it was identical to his own bar the monogrammed initials.

That Lord Styrax had beaten him in single combat was truly remarkable; the Menin lord was the finest warrior Koezh Vukotic had ever faced. He sighed. He very much doubted Styrax’s Krann, rumoured to be dim-witted, even for a white-eye, would be of the same calibre.

A soft knock on the door dispelled his thoughts. Vukotic shrugged his shoulders to ensure the cuirass was straight and comfortable, then called for the servant to come in.

‘Forgive the intrusion, my Prince, but you have a visitor and your tea is ready,’ the elderly man said as he bowed as far as his load and age would permit, then shuffled forward and carefully placed a heavily laden tray on to a small table beside the fire.

‘If it is one of the scouts then send them to Duke Onteviz; he has command of the walls,’ said Vukotic before he noticed the second cup on the tray. A visitor was rare enough at any time, let alone when an army was attacking the city. It couldn’t be his brother - Vorizh wouldn’t dream of announcing himself to a servant; he preferred them to not even see him. Conceivably, his sister had returned from playing with the politicians of the western cities. She was more likely to visit than the others, perhaps the White Circle politics had bored her even quicker than she’d expected.

He paused, lost in thought. Strange he hadn’t sensed whoever it was when he spoke to the rest of his breed. Just in case, he looked at the sword belt hanging from the back of the chair to make sure it was easily accessible if some treachery were afoot.

‘I hardly think you need that,’ someone outside the room said firmly.

The voice brought a smile to Vukotic’s face and he dismissed the servant who had been waiting with hands anxiously clamped together. Aracnan leaned on the door frame. ‘It’s good to see you well again.’

Vukotic snorted. ‘You make it sound like I had a cold.’

‘Nothing you would not recover from. Complaints are not princely.’

The vampire smiled and straightened up from fitting the plates about his shin to grasp Aracnan’s huge hand and squeeze it tightly. ‘Nor is much that I do, and yet this is the company you keep. How are you, my friend?’

‘Well.’ Aracnan shook off the black bearskin draped over his shoulders and sat down beside the fire with a satisfied sigh. His taut, pale skin glowed in the firelight, though his large black eyes reflected nothing. ‘But I do not expect to be popular in the west, so I thought I might call in on an old enemy and see how he’s getting over his cold.’

Vukotic sat opposite him, leaving Bariaeth in its scabbard on the other side of the room. ‘Why?’

‘Well, it appears I tried to put an influence charm on the Saviour.’

‘What?’ Vukotic nearly jumped out of his seat. ‘The Saviour? I’ve heard none of this. When? Who?’

Aracnan gave a whispery chuckle and, ignoring his friend’s sudden animation, poured two cups of the steaming tea. The cup looked tiny in his hands as he wrapped his chilled fingers about it.

He took a sip and smiled, then said, ‘Patience; and I will tell you. He is Farlan - Nartis has two Chosen again. I was given instructions to fetch him and announce it to Lord Bahl, but he would not come.’

‘Why not?’

‘I cannot say exactly, but I felt a sudden hatred for the boy as soon as I laid eyes on him and I believe he saw that, or maybe felt the same way, but why? All I remember is that he wears a halo of trouble. He’s wild, and that makes me fear for what he might do—’

‘And you still keep a trap-scroll with you for when you meet interesting strangers,’ finished Vukotic, with a smile. ‘You’ve become a creature of habit, my friend. Age has caught up with you at last. But it’s sensible enough. The influence will remain dormant and undetected by most mages.’

‘Except it was never activated. The scroll was given to Lord Bahl, who knew not to open it. I followed the boy to Tirah - I wanted to understand why I’d felt him to be different, and I wanted to deliver the message at least to Lord Bahl, even if I couldn’t deliver the boy.’

Vukotic looked at the immortal sitting opposite him. They called themselves friends, though that was not the simple truth. The story was likely to be less innocent than Aracnan was suggesting, but he had done the same many times. They both had their own agendas, their own games to play and what were a few lies between immortals? As the years swept past it was good to see a familiar face, so they both ignored much to ensure that continued.

He prompted Aracnan. ‘And?’

‘And I was attacked, again and again - attacked in my sleep by some Yeetatchen witch, of all things. Whenever I neared the boy she came after me. I’ve been warding my mind ever since, but I think she only wanted to drive me away. I was out of the city by the time I heard about the Krann’s gifts and realised what he was.’

‘What would the Gods gift their Saviour with?’ Vukotic wondered out loud. ‘He’s Farlan, so it would ultimately be Nartis’ choice ... so it would be an aggressive one, without thought to the consequences, but not whimsical. Amavoq would have given a dragon, no doubt, but not the Night Hunter.’ He sighed. ‘So. Siulents and Eolis are back in the Land.’

‘My friend, you have too much time on your hands.’ The mercenary chuckled. ‘But you are, of course, quite correct.’

As he rose, slowly unfurling his body from the chair, the vampire wondered, as always, if Aracnan was a native of
anywhere.
His almost inhuman, hairless features were starkly different to Vukotic’s own, and unchanged over the millennia. His ears, unadorned and unscarred, were prominent against the smooth lines of his skull, which added to the generally outlandish impression. He was not of any of the tribes of man, but neither was he similar to any of the warrior races created by the Gods.

Vukotic sighed to himself, remembering those poor creatures bred only for war and the part he had played in exterminating them: the feral Manee, the beautiful Angosteil whose shining faces had stirred the envy of the elves, and the bizarre, green-carapaced Voch. They had killed them all, and more besides, in ambushes, with terrible spells, unleashing unnatural plagues. The elves had been as vicious as their Gods; perhaps even more ruthless, because they understood hurt in a way immortals couldn’t.

Vukotic’s memories were interrupted by a sudden discordant clanging from the walls that got louder as more hands fell to the task of warning the city. He shrugged at Aracnan. ‘It seems I must wait for whatever other news you have of the Land. The Menin’s Lord Cytt demands my presence so he can prove his worth to the rest of his tribe.’

‘As if there is anyone else in the Menin who has not accepted Lord Styrax’s son as their future ruler,’ Aracnan scoffed.

‘Will you join me? Together we could deal with the man before he wastes his soldiers on the walls. I’m sure your reputation would be furthered by the death of Lord Cytt surrounded by his entire army.’

Aracnan laughed out loud and nodded his agreement. ‘We both have reputations to further, do we not - in dark times, who knows what use they might be? After, we must make plans to leave in search of summer.’

‘Leave the Forbidden Lands? Events have progressed that far?’

‘They have gone far enough that we must deal ourselves into the game, or be left behind.’

 

After they had left, the shadows slowly lengthened as the lamps died down. When a servant came to clear the cups and tend the fire, he was struck, suddenly, by the feeling that he was not alone. The room grew cold for a moment and he shivered as he looked around, but there was no one there and, feeling foolish, he dismissed it as an old man’s fears.

Outside, on the blanketed plain beyond the city, two shapes moved silently over the snow.

Isak paused outside Lord Bahl’s tent and looked up at the eagle standard that battered at the wind as though trying to escape its bonds. Bright slashes of orange on the horizon cut through the clouds, while higher up, the sky was stained pink and purple, with twists of gilt-edged cloud overlaying the colours. It was an arresting sight, belying the drab day and biting cold.

He pushed back the hood of his heavy cape and felt the rushing breeze over his newly shorn scalp. He’d spent the whole day hiding from the chill; it seemed only fair that he embrace it for a moment before night asserted itself. Twilight was always Isak’s favourite time: it wasn’t to be trusted, it played tricks on the mind, and yet he loved it.

General Lahk had informed Isak that he would be taking his evening meal with Lord Bahl - that meant something was going on, for he ate with his lord more often than not, and neither required a summons to the other’s company.

‘Lord Isak,’ called a voice behind him. Isak turned to see Sir Cerse approaching. ‘Am I to have the pleasure of your company at supper too?’

It looked like Isak was right about the young colonel of the Palace Guard: he knew the man to be ambitious and politically minded, but he believed Sir Cerse could most likely be trusted. He was of minor gentry stock from Amah, as loyal a region as any. The significance of the dinner invitation had obviously not been lost on him: power lay within the Lord of the Farlan’s inner circle, and he was being given the opportunity to show himself worthy.

‘Among others, I suspect.’ As he spoke, Suzerain Ked and Count Vesna appeared from different directions in the growing gloom, both wrapped against the cold in heavy, plain cloaks. They were alone, and trying to draw as little attention as possible. Isak nodded to both, then entered the tent ahead of the other three men.

Inside Bahl and Suzerain Torl were already seated, while General Lahk stood over a steaming pot, ladling what smelled like venison stew into bowls. Isak stopped suddenly when he caught sight of a copper-haired woman standing to one side - the last thing he’d expected to see out here in the middle of nowhere was a strange and very beautiful woman. He ignored Sir Cerse’s polite cough behind him and caught Bahl’s eye, hoping the woman’s presence would be explained.

Bahl couldn’t fail to notice his Krann’s interest. ‘One of my Chief Steward’s agents,’ he said dismissively, ‘bringing me information that does not concern you.’

Isak remembered Bahl’s warning after the battle that there were some secrets he was not privy to. He nodded in acceptance and moved further in, allowing the others to enter.

‘My Lords, gentlemen,’ Bahl greeted them once all four were inside and the hide flap fastened against the wind.

Isak caught the scuff of boots on grass outside: Ghosts, he guessed, loitering outside to prevent eavesdroppers.

‘Please, make yourselves comfortable, for we have matters to discuss.’

There were stools enough for all while Bahl sat back in a campaign armchair, one that was easily folded for transport but strong enough to support his massive weight.

Isak took an overfilled bowl of stew and picked out a hard lump of bread, then sat himself on Bahl’s left. The general paused, then found himself another stool, his face impassive, as usual. Isak hoped the others hadn’t seen it as a deliberate slight - Bahl never gave anything away, so he’d wanted to be able to watch every other face there. He hadn’t intended to be deliberately rude to the general. Vesna secured the place on Isak’s other side.

‘Sir Cerse, you may speak as a peer here,’ Bahl said quietly, and the colonel gave a nod of appreciation at the courtesy - as the only man there without court rank, he would otherwise have had to stay quiet unless directly addressed.