The Stormcaller: Book One Of The Twilight Reign (5 page)

‘You’ve done it now,’ Horman screamed, ‘and you’ll get what’s coming to you, white-eye bastard! Soon I’ll be rid of all your trouble at last. You’re going to the palace, and I hope you rot there!’

Before Isak had been able to say a word, a mob of drunken men had set upon him with drink-fuelled passion, and with so many of them, there had been no chance of fighting back. Instead, Isak took a deep breath and forced his way out through them, then took to his heels and ran, not caring where he was headed. The cobbles were painful against his bare feet so he turned into the nearest alley and hopped the fence at the end, picking a direction at random. His mind was racing:
what had he done now?
There had been real intent in the punches he’d received; they were going to kill him if they caught him.

Isak had to escape - or find a patrol - so he headed for where most of the towers were situated, where the rich folk must live. There’d be guards there, surely. Soon he found himself on the long avenue leading up to the palace. The moons escaped the clouds for a moment and shone down on to the smooth walls and the Tower of Semar, which loomed out from behind them. They lit a path for Isak to follow, but instead he just stood and gaped at the sight; he was still standing there when the leaders of the pack caught up.

Before Isak had fully grasped what was happening a fist flew into his stomach and drove the wind from him. As he doubled over, that blow was followed by a knee to the groin. Thin hands gripped his shoulders, and Isak saw a man’s rat-like features for a split second before they smashed into his face, then he crashed to the ground. A hot sharp burst flowered in his side as he was kicked and spun on to his back. Now the rest of the gang had caught them up, but they silently kept their distance from the fight.

As Isak blinked back the pain he saw the drizzling rain glint in the moonlight as it fell around him. With an effort, he forced himself to his knees, his eyes fixed on the hatred blazing out of the face of the man who’d hit him. The man drew a knife from his belt, ignoring a cry behind him, and as Isak struggled to stand, his attacker lunged forward, a hungry smile on his lips.

Isak heard someone - Carel, maybe? - shout out a warning, but his eyes were fixed on his attacker. He managed to bring his left hand up, grasping the hilt and stopping the dagger from sinking into his throat. Pain screamed up his arm and into his shoulder as the edge sliced his palm, but he kept his grip for long enough to be able to grab at the man’s wrist with his other hand, then pulled his stunned assailant close and buried his teeth into the man’s hand.

The assailant screamed and dropped the knife, which clattered on to the cobbles and was immediately forgotten. He swung desperately at Isak, who released his bite, gave the man a bloody grin and threw him against the wall of a house behind him. The man was reaching for another weapon, but this time it didn’t matter: Isak held back his blow until the man had just got a finger round the hilt of the second blade, and then he lashed forward with both palms to smash into the man’s throat with a sickening crunch. As the man twitched and went limp, the only sound was Isak’s breathing, ragged with pain and wrath.

The broken figure slid slowly down the wall and crumpled in a corner like a doll. Isak stared down at the man, then at his hands. The rain was running red trails down the fingers of his left hand; the other was washed clean as he watched. Then, a little belatedly, he remembered the rest of the gang behind him and took off down the street. As Isak started to run again, the pack stirred into action and followed after him, baying for blood.

Carts and stands that by day were overflowing with produce and wares of all kinds now stood empty and dripping: the Palace Walk Market was the largest in this part of the city, but tonight it was dead, offering the injured youth no hope of sanctuary. The only light came from the palace up ahead.

The richer parts of the city cowered in the shadow of the fortress walls that surrounded the peak of the hill. Guard-towers dotted the length of the massive wall, but in a city famed for its spires it was the Tower of Semar that stood out. It rose up and up, impossibly high, a myth come to life, but myth or not, that was where Isak was headed.

 

‘You’re certain?’

‘Yes, my Lord.’ The soldier remained on one knee, sounding anything but certain, as though scarcely able to believe what he was telling his lord. ‘My Lord, I’m quite sure it was Hit. I was on the wall and I saw him appear as Chief Steward Lesarl was crossing from the barbican to the hall. They spoke, and then the Chief Steward showed him to the side door that leads to the tower stair.’

‘What was he carrying?’

‘How did—?’ His voice trailed off. You didn’t question the Master. ‘He had something in a sack, something bulky, and what looked like a sword.’

Bahl sighed. There could be no doubt now. Isak really had been chosen by Nartis as Krann, the God-appointed heir to Lord Bahl and future Lord of the Farlan. White-eyes could only have children with their own kind, and female white-eyes were incredibly rare, so their patron God chose a successor rather than wait for acceptable progeny. The Gods would send gifts to place their Chosen above the rest of humankind, bestowing priceless weapons or talismans, tools to keep the tribe strong and safe.

It wasn’t unheard of for Hit, the Messenger God, to bring the gifts, but it was far from common. It was a portent Bahl didn’t care for, especially when that God had gone to the steward of the palace rather than its lord. Bahl heard Aracnan’s words echo in his mind:
This boy is trouble.

They had headed towards the tower. Whatever the gifts were, it had obviously been deemed necessary to leave them in safer hands than his. The old lord sighed. He’d had enough surprises tonight, and the boy hadn’t even arrived yet.

The jutting barbican towers loomed large as Isak rounded the fountain in Barbican Square. He slipped on the rain-slicked cobbles, flopping down like a sodden rag. The jolt drove the wind from his lungs and pain flared in his bruised ribs. He rolled on to his back and stared up at the gloom of the night sky, blinking away the fat raindrops that fell into his eyes. A groan escaped his lips as he forced his head up, but then he saw the pack behind him, closing fast.

Get up, you fool, fight the pain and run.
The thought spurred him into action, forcing him up from the ground. He had only forty yards to go, so he lowered his head and sprinted for the drawbridge. Mercifully, it was down and he muttered a quick prayer of thanks to Nartis as he flew across. The light from the arrow-slit windows illuminated the rain that prickled the surface of the black moat water. In his desperation Isak had thought only to get into the protective lee of the gate-towers; now he slammed into the iron-bound gates and rebounded, scrabbling fruitlessly for a way to get inside.

He brushed his sodden hair back from his forehead and wiped away the mixture of rain, blood and dirt to clear his eyes. As the downpour worsened, Isak looked up to the heavens, not praying to Nartis this time, just with a look of beaten accusation as his pursuers arrived.

The youth curled into a ball, bloody hands shielding his head as the men laid into him. Triumphant grunts accompanied each blow. One kick rolled him on his back and he couldn’t stop his eyes flickering open for a moment. He glimpsed the face above him, distorted and robbed of humanity and suddenly the face disappeared, thrown sideways as the beating abruptly ended. Isak twitched, tense in expectation of the next blow, but it never came. Carefully, he looked up to see his attackers standing sullen, red-eyed with unspent anger. One was picking himself up from the floor, unhurt, but obviously bewildered.

Now Isak could see that two palace guards had taken up position either side of him, hands resting on the pommels of their long swords. Their black armour, over which was draped the stark white livery of their lord, looked fearsome in the half-light. They were dressed for battle, with helms covering their faces. Isak looked to his left, at a door set into the wall. A shield was propped just inside the doorway, an eagle with outstretched wings, painted black on white. Lord Bahl’s coat of arms.

A gust of wind rustled along the wall, spreading a shiver through the men huddled on the drawbridge. They were wavering, about to turn and run, but then Horman arrived and stiffly forced his way to the front of the group.

‘That bastard white-eye just killed a man,’ he shouted. ‘He’s my son and I know the law. Step aside.’

One of the Ghosts stepped forward. He said nothing as he gestured for Horman to approach. He took his hand off his sword as he reached up to remove his helm. Isak felt a surge of panic. Before the age of eighteen summers, a child remained the property of his or her parents, unless they chose to let that child become an adult earlier. Most parents gave in to their children and declared them adult at sixteen or seventeen summers, but not Horman: he had needed to do nothing to keep Isak a slave, and in the eyes of the law he was still a child. Now Isak could be hung on his father’s word for the man he’d just killed.

Unhurriedly, the guard standing with Horman bent his head to pull off his helm, so deliberately that Horman almost reached out to take the helm from his outstretched hands. A single soldier’s plait unfurled. The guard looked up to meet Horman’s gaze with eyes as white as Isak’s. Horman still had his mouth open in surprise when the guard hit him.

The other guard stepped forward, his sword rasping from its sheath. Isak’s pursuers shrank away, then scurried back across the drawbridge until only Carel remained. The guard walked up to him, sword lifted until he spotted the white collar, whereupon he nodded and stepped back. Carel returned the nod and took Horman by the shoulders to pull him to his feet. Horman was unsteady; the white-eye Ghost was Isak’s height, but much bulkier, and his punch had left Horman dazed and shaking.

Touching a finger to his lip, Horman held the bloody digit up to inspect it. He shrugged Carel off and scowled at Isak. ‘Fine. Don’t come back, ever. You’re dead to me.’

The words hurt more than Isak could understand: he hated his father. He could think of nothing to say. Horman spat on the floor and turned away, slapping down the hand Carel raised to slow him. Carel looked at Isak and shrugged.

‘Remember me when you’re a general, Isak,’ he said, then Carel too turned and walked away. Isak opened his mouth to call after him, but the words wouldn’t come. After a few heartbeats, he clamped it shut. He looked down and saw the mess of blood on his hand. He felt hands underneath his shoulders, lifting him to his feet. The white-eye guard was staring at him, but Isak was too numb to react.

‘Can you walk?’ asked the normal guard frowning.

Isak nodded, gingerly touching the ground with his toes before trusting his weight to them.

‘Was that really your father?’

Another nod.

‘Do you know why you’re here?’

A shrug this time. Isak didn’t look at the guard; he kept eyes on his father, swiftly disappearing into the night.

‘Who told you to come?’

‘No one did. They chased me from the stable, I don’t know why. I thought if I could find a patrol my father wouldn’t beat me to death, and here must be the best place to find a patrol.’

‘Did you kill the man as he said?’

Isak held up his injured hand for the man to see. ‘I did, but he was trying to cut my throat at the time.’

‘And you’re sure no one sent you?’

Isak gave him a wary look. ‘Of course. Why do you keep asking me that? Who would have sent me here?’

The man gave up. With an exasperated click of the tongue he turned back to the guardroom and motioned for Isak to follow. His comrade stayed for another moment, his expression disconcerting as he stared into Isak’s eyes. When Isak straightened up and looked back at the white-eye, a spark of belligerence flared to life in his belly. Strangely, it was the guard who shivered and looked away.

The normal guard, the smallest of the two by a good five inches, motioned again for Isak to enter the guardroom and this time the boy followed the flicker of a fire and stepped inside towards the warmth. He picked his way past two short-handled glaives propped against the wall and placed himself as close as he could to the flames. There was a small table in the middle of the room on which was a pile of rags and an empty plate. Isak fingered through the oily rags, looking for the cleanest, which he wrapped as tightly as he could around his injured hand.

The white-eye guard stepped inside and pulled the outer door closed. It was a thick piece of oak with a massive iron lock, but the door was dwarfed by the slab of granite on a simple iron runner - presumably to be used in times of siege. Once the room was secured, the man turned and examined Isak again. Isak couldn’t work out if the expression was hostile or puzzled, but he decided he was too hungry or cold to much care anymore.

The other guard moved to the far end of the room where the outline of another stone slab was visible. He pulled a chain hanging through a hole in the ceiling and gave a short whistle. The sound was repeated somewhere above, and it heralded a widening of the dark crack down one side. Isak could feel the grinding of stone through his bare toes.

The guard plucked a burning torch from a holder on the wall and ducked through the growing gap. ‘This way,’ he said tersely.

Thirty yards of narrow passage took them to an iron-bound wooden door set at an awkward angle to the wall. Pushing this open, the guard stepped back to allow Isak to squeeze past. Ducking through the doorway, Isak peered into a large noisy hall, then descended the handful of worn steps. A huge blazing fire was opposite him, above which hung spitting haunches of meat attended by two young girls. The room contained a score of long tables, and some of the men - Isak guessed they were guardsmen from their austere uniforms - turned to look at the new arrivals but quickly resumed their meal. The high beams of the chamber were hung with regimental flags and drapes covered the walls, interspersed with shields, swords and broken standards, no doubt trophies from past battles. The scents of pipe-smoke, burnt fat, fresh bread and thick stew hung tantalising in the air.