The Stormcaller: Book One Of The Twilight Reign (50 page)

‘Duke Vrill. Everything proceeds as planned?’

‘As well as I could hope for,’ replied the duke. He cursed himself as he heard the nervousness in his voice; however slight, Lord Styrax would notice. In recent years their rare meetings had been in the comfortable surrounds of Crafanc and Anote Vrill had forgotten just how overwhelming his master could be, particularly when dressed for battle. The soul-sapping, weirdly curved armour grated on the edges of the duke’s soul as much as the vile air of malice radiating from the sword Kobra. He shivered.

Styrax said, ‘You’ve had problems with the centaurs. The Dark Knights are about to return home. Suzerain Zolin ran a sword through one of his own bondsmen, and a mage of the Order of the Five Black Stars was murdered last night.’

If any other man had said that, Vrill would have gaped in surprise. The duke prided himself on being better informed than his peers, yet his lord always managed to surprise him. It had often occurred to Vrill that, in another age, he would have been Lord of the Menin, for no one, nobleman, merchant or politician, could match him for intellect and plotting - with the exception of Lord Styrax. As it was, Duke Vrill’s lust for power had not overshadowed his intelligence and it was clear that Lord Styrax was at least equally adept at intricacy and cunning. Even the Mages of the Hidden Tower lived in fear of his skill. Only a madman would exercise the Menin right of challenge - though that most ancient of laws stated combatants should use identical weapons, it would make no difference. Styrax had won his right to rule at the age of twenty when he had killed his predecessor, who had ruled the Menin for three hundred years. The old lord had wielded Kobra. Kastan Styrax used a steel broadsword. His prowess was unsurpassed and soon the entire Land would come to recognise that.

The duke put his musings to one side and concentrated on what his lord was saying. ‘How did you know about the mage?’

‘I told Kohrad to do it. The man was a necromancer, and my son relishes any chance to practise his own arts.’ There was a hint of laughter in that statement, but Styrax was a man who laughed alone. He didn’t joke for the sake of others.

‘So that’s why he burned a unicorn. I hadn’t realised there was reason to it.’

‘That was the reason. Kohrad is not completely gone yet, but I am hoping he overextends in the battle. Pitting him against the Order of Fire might amuse him enough to draw more magic than he can control. If that happens, Gaur knows what to do. You will assist him however he wishes.’

Vrill nodded, then ventured, ‘Is Kohrad dying, then?’

The white-eye lord drew in a sharp breath at the question, but Vrill had proved many times that he knew his place; that he intended to find greatness in Styrax’s shadow. He could be trusted, as far as Kastan Styrax trusted anyone.

He answered the question. ‘Eventually it will consume him, but I have no intention of losing this battle - or any other.’

Vrill nodded and bowed low, discreetly withdrawing from Styrax’s presence. ‘I will have a man bring you food.’

Styrax nodded distantly, staring away to the fading sun. As wisps of cloud stretched away like the sun’s smoky trails, dusk wrapped the landscape in chill shadows. ‘Make sure he’s young, and of no consequence.’

Vrill hesitated, surprised by the command, then nodded curtly and marched back to his men. Styrax returned to the wyvern and unbuckled the saddle - none of his beastmasters were there to tend to the creature and a hungry wyvern wouldn’t let a common soldier see to it. Once the ornate saddle was removed, Styrax took hold of the creature’s nearside horn and roughly pulled its head towards him. The wyvern resisted for a second, then moved. Styrax peered into one massive green-veined eye and checked the shine and dilation of the pupil for a moment. He gave a grim smile, satisfied the beast remained sufficiently in his thrall.

He ran his fingers over the massive, blue-green scales that covered the wyvern’s head. His left hand, snow-white now, was bare, as always. He’d felt little sensation through the skin since the day he’d won his armour on the battlefield. He ran a red-stained fingernail down the edge of one scale, teased out a small parasite and crushed it. He tapped lightly, listening carefully, and found two more of the potentially lethal parasites. There was no time to check the wyvern’s entire body so he stopped once the head was clear. That would do for now. From his saddle he withdrew a large, tightly wrapped bundle and untied the leather straps that held it together. He shook the bundle out and laid it on the ground. The woven silk looked creased and worn in the fading light. He didn’t bother pulling out the waxed tent-cloth. There would be no rain tonight, only a biting cold that the many layers of silk would keep at bay.

The wyvern stamped one clawed foot and dragged a furrow through the ground, then shook its large homed head at Styrax, stretching out its wings to their full extent. He silenced it with a short gesture, but it was clear from the glare it gave him as it hunkered down that the wyvern was not wholly cowed. A minute or two of foraging found an armful of sticks, not enough to keep him warm throughout the night, but sufficient for his needs. Once the wyvern settled down for the night, it would willingly allow him to curl up against its belly.

Styrax divided the sticks into two piles and waved a hand over one of them. It burst into flame. He smiled, wondering idly when he had last lit a fire by natural means, until a snort from the wyvern made him look up towards the buildings in the distance. A figure trudged slowly towards him, a bulky soldier carrying a bag in one hand and a skin of wine in the other. He was tall and well-built but as he drew closer, his youth became apparent, as did his fear.

Styrax could imagine what was going through the young man’s head. The Menin attitude to sex was open and permissive - the male form was rightly admired in a warrior tribe - but the youth looked less than pleased at the prospect. That wouldn’t matter soon. What Styrax had in mind was something rather more unfortunate than buggery.

He turned quickly and retrieved two small leather bags from a larger one. Drawing a rough circle in the parched earth with his foot, he emptied the smaller of the bags into it. A dozen or so white objects tumbled on to the ground. Styrax quickly checked that none touched the edge, then pulled a pinch of black withered herbs from the other bag. As the youth covered the last few yards, Styrax raised his fingers to his nose and breathed in the sour, sickening flavour of deathsbane that had been soaked in blood and left to dry. It was a truly repulsive smell, but he had to ensure the herbs retained their potency.

The soldier reached him and dropped to one knee, but was immediately ordered up and told to put the food and wine by the fire.

The boy kept his gaze glued to Styrax’s face. The wyvern snorted and hissed in the background, weaving its head from side to side until a second glance from the lord quietened it down. Styrax stood at one edge of the circle and beckoned the youth forward. One pace, then a second and the boy was standing inside the circle.

With no warning, Styrax’s hand flashed forward and the soldier gave a gasp of shock, his hands flinching up to his chest as his entire body swayed with the unexpected impact. Styrax withdrew his hand and the youth wheezed in fear and pain as he saw a dagger buried to the hilt in his chest. Tiny noises escaped his throat; his knees trembled, but somehow he stayed upright. His shaking fingers reached up to touch the ornate bone handle that blossomed from his sternum.

Styrax reached forward with the treated herbs on his upturned palm, the desiccated plants twisted and cracked with the pain of being plucked from the ground. He raised his hand to the man’s face and ignited the herbs as the soldier touched the hilt of the dagger. The agony of his mortal wound suddenly hit him and his eyes rolled as a hot lance of pain ran through his entire body. With one last gasp of horror that sucked in the dirty smoke of the burning herbs, the man crumpled down. As Styrax whipped the dagger from his chest, the soldier’s descent halted with an unnatural jolt.

A gloom fell over the rough circle, the calm breath of the wind shivered to a halt and time itself seemed to shudder and slow. Despite himself, Styrax twitched as a chill ran down his spine. He stared at the corpse jerking uneasily back to an upright position: he could feel the void of death close by now. He sighed. Only a madman would be comfortable around this.

The boy’s face looked hollow, drained. His lips were drawn back tightly over his teeth and his tongue lolled out, useless. The limp head angled its way up to meet Styrax’s gaze, dropped down to check the circle that contained it and then returned to the impassive white-eye.

The dead features somehow managed to convey a hint of anger that it had to crane its head up to face the white-eye. ‘You bind me?’ The voice was grating and harsh, bubbling its way past the still-warm blood in the body’s lungs: it clearly came from the corpse, though there was a strange, distant echo.

‘I bind you,’ confirmed Styrax. ‘I have no interest in seeing you slaughter an elite regiment, not to mention my most valuable general.’

‘Your promises are empty. You offered a river of souls, yet I have had a mere handful. I think you forget with whom you have made a bargain.’

‘I have not forgotten. Your river of souls is gathering, and when it comes, the dead will number in their thousands.’ Styrax stared down at the corpse and felt contempt. The daemon was a prince among its kind, incredibly powerful and as old as time, but it didn’t care why he wanted its help. It was content with the deluge of death and destruction Styrax had promised. Its abilities far exceeded its desire and for that, Styrax could only despise it.

‘But when?’ The corpse’s slack lips quivered.

Styrax could hear the hunger in that inhuman voice. ‘Soon. We’ve cleared a path to Destenn. Soon the destruction will begin. If we are to win a decisive battle we need to catch the Chetse army out in the open and under-strength. Your servant had better have done its job correctly, or Lord Charr will not march out as soon as he hears of our presence.’

‘Lord Charr weeps in the dark place; he cares not for his tribe. What inhabits his body loves battle. It will need no encouragement.’

‘Then skulls will be heaped at every crossroads and your name spoken over them.’

At that the corpse gave some perverse representation of greedy laughter. Styrax felt bile rise in his throat. He had to resist the urge to draw Kobra and remove the creature’s head. Instead he nodded along. He would not need to pander to this obscenity much longer. Already he had the strength to defy it; soon he would make it fear him, and beg to fulfil his every whim. Soon it would have nothing he could need.

‘And in the north?’ Styrax pressed.

‘The haunted does not sleep; the cries of the lost ring out through the night. He has sent the boy west and searches in forbidden places. He will do as you intend.’

‘The boy has gone west? Do any in the mountains remain bound to your name?’

‘Those who have sworn cannot escape their bonds. You would do well to remember that. To forswear is to draw down our wrath.’

‘Then fill their dreams with glory and riches. If both of the Chosen are far from home then the Farlan are ripe for revolt. Find a man who would be king.’

‘Tear down the temple and speak my name there.’ The corpse sagged as Styrax began to drive the daemon from its host. Styrax nodded his agreement and caught the daemon’s final words, almost too faint to be heard. ‘Then tonight, Lomin will dream of his crown.’

The clicks and buzzing of night’s creatures filled Styrax’s ears as the air around him returned to normality. He felt his body tremble with the power he’d expended. To raise a daemon was no great effort, but they were otherworldly and aside from the march of time; to keep it long enough to hold a conversation required strength, more each time.

He turned to the fire and sank down, his white hand almost touching the flames as he sought to absorb its warmth and purge the daemon-cold. Almost as weak as an old man, he waved in the direction of the wyvern. With a snarl, the creature scrabbled to its feet and fell upon the dead soldier, scimitar claws making light work of the man’s leather armour. Soon savage teeth were tearing chunks of the boy’s flesh away.

‘I see you, shade,’ called Styrax wearily, keeping his eyes fixed on the fire. ‘You take a great risk, spying on a prince of your kind. I wonder why.’

‘My kind?’
The voice was entirely unlike any daemon Styrax had previously encountered.
‘And yet not. I hardly feel kinship to such an introverted creature, so unable to see beyond its own needs and obsessions it could almost be human.’

Despite himself, Styrax laughed, a cold, weary humour. This was a daemon after his own heart. ‘Then why are you here? Do you wish to bargain with me?’

Styrax considered the words, and the voice that spoke them. From the corner of his eye he could see nothing more than a shadowy outline. The voice, though rich and cultured, sounded both ancient and sinister.

‘And who gives me this warning?’

‘How much do you observe?’

Styrax stiffened. ‘That’s a line from the prophecy of Shalstik?’ Inside, he was raging. If one daemon, however unusual, could discover his secrets, then others could, others that might be bound to his enemies. Styrax was not yet strong enough to challenge the Gods, and ownership of a Crystal Skull was not encouraged, even among their greatest Chosen.

There was no reply.

Doranei idly scratched at the stubble on his cheek, keeping his eyes low and disinterested as he eavesdropped on the next table. He sat alone in a dark corner of the inn, sipping weak beer and occasionally checking the scarf had not slipped from his neck. The bar was warm and the tightly wrapped scarf had attracted some attention, but Doranei didn’t have the sort of face that encouraged questions. The next table was occupied by a group of farmers discussing the topic that occupied everyone else in this town: word of Lord Isak’s imminent arrival had come two days ago, and he was expected this evening. Tongues were wagging.