The Stormcaller: Book One Of The Twilight Reign (41 page)

‘Ah. Like “tact” and “manners”, is it?’

Isak beamed. ‘Exactly. Now, how long is it going to take us to get to Narkang?’

Vesna sat down a few steps up from his lord so they could speak on the same level. Mihn came and stood at the foot of the stair, his body angled slightly towards the training ground, close enough to be part of the conversation while still on silent guard. Mihn was obviously not simple-minded, but he was certainly monosyllabic.

‘With luck, less than a month. There are several stages we’re planning to do by river - one will take us to Nerlos Fortress, on the border, another should cover much of the Tor Milist territory we’ll have to pass through, and I believe a third could take us much of the last stretch to Narkang itself - but only a few vessels are large enough to carry so many horses, so we’ll have to throw money at the captains.’

‘Less than a month?’ Isak was pleased. ‘Hardly any time at all - by wagon it would take the best part of half a year, I guess. I’ve never met anyone who’s done that route, but that’s one of the reasons we’re going, I suppose. Lesarl is going to brief us on everything tonight, including the disputed lands we’ll have to travel through, but Bahl thinks that my gifts will dissuade attack rather than encourage it.’

‘The lord’s right. I doubt any of them have the numbers to trouble us. The Ghosts have a fearsome reputation, and there’ll be little more than brigands where we’re going. Alone, we’d see off double our number of horsemen, more of foot soldiers; with your growing skills and magic, I can’t see anyone putting enough men together to get anywhere.’

They were interrupted by the door behind them slamming open and the three men turned to see Carel making his way down the worn steps. ‘Isak, there’s a seamstress looking for you,’ he called.

It looked like Carel had just come from seeing a tailor himself. He wore a long elegant coat the colour of fresh grass, trimmed in sable, with gold-chased ivory buttons. Only the white clay pipe in his hands harked back to former days, but even that was new.

‘What’s this?’ cried Vesna. ‘Don’t tell me we might get our master to look rather more like a nobleman of some substance?’ It was a source of constant amusement to the count that Isak had chosen to dress like the hermit lord they served.

Isak made an obscene gesture as he replied, ‘I didn’t summon one, what does she want?’

‘I believe she was summoned for you - by Tila, I assume.’ He pointed with his pipe to the soldiers Isak had been training with. ‘She had some maids with her, all carrying bundles; I think they’re uniforms for your guards.’

‘Uniforms?’

‘Of course. We can’t have them in their usual colours when you meet King Emin.’ As Carel spoke the door opened again and a flurry of white linen burst through, talking rapidly before the door had even fully opened. The men backed off in the face of such bright and busy determination.

‘My Lord Isak, at last I’ve found you. Now, these are not entirely completed and we have the riding garments coming later, but I have the armour drapes for your men. If you could ask them to form up here I’ll start my measurements.’

Isak stood there bemused for a moment, staring down at the ruddy face wrapped in a spotless white headscarf. The seamstress might have been dressed like a servant, but she had the poise of a duchess. Despite Isak’s huge height, he found himself wilting under the sheer force of that impatient stare. Behind her stood five maids, each with a wicker basket clasped tightly to their chest and eyes fixed firmly on the woman at their head.

‘Who are you?’ he wondered aloud in amazement. Vesna had an equally bewildered expression on his face, while Carel smiled approvingly at the lack of fawning usually so prevalent among the servants. Only Mihn matched her gaze with an impassive stare, his eyes running coolly over the woman and her attendants.

‘I, my Lord? I’m the head seamstress. I was instructed that your men would require a uniform to match your crest and colours. We’ve done most of the work, but we now need to take measurements. If it would be convenient, my Lord.’ Her tone indicated that if it were not convenient, she would want to know why.

Isak asked Vesna, suppressing a laugh as he saw the count’s expression, ‘Well, Count, if it would not inconvenience you too greatly?’ As he spoke, he saw the soldiers had formed up in two ranks - as always, it looked like the entire palace knew about his plans before he did. Kerin had drifted away, presumably to fetch the others, while those who had been giving Isak a beating began to strip off their armour.

The maids fanned out among them, ignoring the comments they got from the soldiers as they helped them undress. From the baskets the girls produced cream leather tunics and breeches, decorated with green braiding. Isak’s dragon, outlined in green and flecked with gold, was emblazoned across the chest and shoulders. The dragon itself was an altogether more impressive sight than the austere black and white of the Ghosts. Isak couldn’t imagine the full two legions of the Palace Guard wearing this, but it still affected him to see his personal guards so richly dressed.

The others trotted along now, faces Isak recognised for the main part as the men who’d been attending his rooms or eating with Carel. Clearly the veteran and Kerin had handpicked the thirty who were now his guard, split evenly between hardened veterans and the best of the younger Ghosts. The unit looked tight and confident, apparently delighted at their appointment as they joked with each other and held up their new uniforms to show other Ghosts who’d begun to drift over. Isak felt unaccountably awkward as he saw men discard Bahl’s livery.

He rose and pulled off the sweat-soaked tunic he’d been wearing underneath his armour. His bruised body complained at the movement and the chill air rushed over his skin, prickling up the fine hairs and dancing down his spine. A thick woollen shirt sat rolled up at the foot of the steps. Hurriedly he slipped the dark blue material over his head, tugging it down as fast as he could. The cold didn’t upset him, but showing his torso just highlighted how different Isak was to the other soldiers there. Isak’s muscles were so sculpted it was obvious that the Chosen were not just human. He was careful to hide the scar on his chest, but still there were a few stares. People who’d grown used to his size were still taken aback by the sharp lines of his body.

Isak was now the best part of a foot taller than most of his guards, and more than double their weight. He could only guess at the difference in strength, but even thinking about it worried him. He was used to being different, but living with such strength in his body unsettled him as much as it elated him. It was so easy to forget how much more powerful he was - he had once, and he still didn’t trust himself not to do so again.

He straightened the shirt and took Eolis from Mihn, running a loving finger over the claws that imprisoned the emerald. Drawing the blade a few inches, he stared down at the surface, just able to make out the runes, faint and shifting, even under their master’s gaze.

Snapping out of the trance, Isak looked over at the assembled guard, most now dressed in the new tunics and parading for admiring eyes while the maids tried to check the fit. It was a slight shock to see Carel among them, but the veteran’s look of defiance told Isak that his opinion was not invited. Isak scowled at the Land in general and stalked over to the palace smithy, Mihn at his heel. He could hear muted voices from inside, but they broke off when he gripped the door handle and opened it up.

He ducked through the doorway and stood inside, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Three faces looked up at him, but with no words spoken, two rose and left. The third was the head smith, a taciturn man who tolerated the presence of few outsiders in his domain. The first time Isak had gone in, he’d received a glare that made nothing of his rank of suzerain, let alone Krann. After a minute of matching Isak’s stare, the man had shrugged and gone about his work. Isak had watched, fascinated by how a hammer could be used in such a controlled way. On his third visit the Krann had taken up a hammer of his own and mirrored the strokes on the second anvil.

Now he crossed the forge and removed a block of black-iron from the rack on the far wall. The smith watched him select one by stroking the small rectangular pieces until suddenly his hand paused over one. Those blocks were made of the finest steel, re-forged by the College of Magic in some jealously guarded process. Each blank was waiting to be turned into a sword of black-iron, so expensive to produce they were rarely done.

‘Goin’ to teach me somethen’ new?’

As the confusion of his new life crowded in on Isak’s mind, the simple, solid forge had increasingly become a sanctuary. There was no idle chatter, no swirl of politics here. The smith respected ability with a hammer and didn’t give a damn about much else. He was happy to tolerate Isak’s presence, though the young lord had yet to say a word to him. There’d not been any need - and the smith was a man of few words himself.

Isak didn’t reply. His eyes were already lost in the black-iron and the smith immediately gave up his place at the fire. There was purpose in those eyes. The smith recognised it and knew not to disturb Isak. He secretly hoped that Isak would forge with magic one day, something he’d dreamed about but never yet been permitted to witness.

The smith picked up the bellows and began to stoke the flames. Isak sat before the fire and waited, lost in the dancing surge of heat. The image of Carel beaming down at the dragon on his tunic loomed large. Isak knew that Carel still kept a Palace Guard tunic among his effects for the day he died. He couldn’t imagine the man wearing any other. The arrogant dragon symbol had been fine until Carel put it on, but then it looked a sick joke, one that would come back to haunt him. Isak had been tempted to go and ask the Keymaster what he’d seen in his future, but something told him it would be futile.

A slight cough from the smith brought him back to reality. Taking the long steel tongs, Isak withdrew the glowing brick and held it before him. Looking deep into that bright burst of colour, his eyes began to water from the heat. As the image blurred he saw the shape this weapon should take: a slender, curved sabre with symbols he didn’t recognise etched and inlaid with gold. The rounded pommel was to be carved with a hawk’s head. The dusky steel would contrast with Carel’s cream glove.

With a sigh, Isak nodded to himself and laid the metal down on the battered anvil. The first few strokes were hesitant, but he soon found his rhythm. The smith stood and watched the sparks fly, mesmerised by the sweet ring of the hammer. It was only when Isak stopped to return the metal to the fire that the smith realised his eyes had been closed after that rhythm had been reached. Though his bladder was pressing, the smith couldn’t drag himself away. It was pitch-black outside by the time he did leave, drained by the effort of watching. Isak didn’t notice him go.

 

After the evening meal, Carel found himself a stool in the forge and puffed away on his pipe while Isak worked. The seamstress had been dealt with earlier, storming off in a huff when Isak refused to stop to be measured for his own uniform. Carel didn’t disturb the boy, but Isak did acknowledge his presence. It was almost unbearably hot that close to the forge; Carel could see Isak’s chapped lips underneath the glisten of sweat, but knew he’d not accept any water. Once the sword had gone back into the fire, Carel offered his pipe to Isak, who smiled to himself and accepted. He drew on it a few times, then pulled the sword out again and started hammering. As he did so, he puffed out the smoke from the pipe over the glowing surface and then struck it again, repeating the process until the tobacco was finished.

Carel had half risen from his seat to reclaim the pipe when Isak slipped it under the cooling metal and smashed the hammer down again, shattering the fired clay and sending pieces clattering out around the room. Carel opened his mouth to protest and then closed it again. Isak had clearly done that for a reason, just as there had to be sense in the way the boy had repeatedly gestured towards Carel as though he was wafting the scent of the sword towards him.

Abandoning the Krann to his labours, Carel went into the frosty night air, a heavy fur draped over his shoulders, and sat himself down on a rough wooden bench against the wall. It gave him a good view of the deserted training field, which glistened frostily in the moonlight.

Mihn’s eyes swept over the veteran, then he returned to his own distant thoughts. The foreigner had left the door of the forge only to fetch a fur for himself once the cold night air started to bite. As a cloud covered the gibbous face of Alterr above, Carel fumbled through his pockets for his tobacco pouch, which also contained the scratched wooden pipe that had accompanied him on every campaign of his life. He filled and lit it before offering the pouch to Mihn.

‘Come and sit down, man,’ he said, patting the bench. ‘Isak doesn’t need a guard at this time of night.’

Mihn stared suspiciously at both Carel and his offering, shaking his head to the pouch, but he did leave his post to cross the few yards to the bench. He made no noise as he walked, even across the iced grass. Carel was a Ghost; he had worked with the biggest and best of the Farlan, men who combined skill and grace with more deadly skills. Mihn was shorter than every soldier there, and slender too, but he stood out to the trained eye. The man reminded Carel of the black leopard he’d seen once in Duke Vrerr’s menagerie in Tor Milist. The animal had hypnotised Carel: it moved with an almost supernatural elegance. A drunken soldier had got too close to the enclosure and in the blink of an eye the leopard’s pose had changed from lethargy to lethal purpose.

‘Have you been watching him?’ asked Mihn suddenly, bringing Carel back to the present with a jerk.

‘I—ah, yes. I don’t know what he’s doing now, but that’ll be one fine weapon when he’s finally satisfied. The shape’s there already, but he keeps beating at it.’