The Stormcaller: Book One Of The Twilight Reign (61 page)

The soldier beside Isak started to step up to the royal box, then his downed comrade gave a cry of pain and he stopped to help the man. Isak reached down and picked up the wounded man, passed out from the pain of his shattered shoulder, and passed him up to Carel. The other Kingsguard scrambled up beside him.

Carel breathed a sigh of relief as Isak reached up to return to the royal box, but as his fingers touched the rail, the white-eye felt a sudden weight hit his shoulders. Carel’s face changed to a picture of alarm as Isak sagged, then slammed forward into the frame of the stand. He remained pinned there, with his head and shoulders over the edge at Carel’s feet, but when Carel reached down to grip Isak by the shoulder, he burned his fingertips as he touched Siulents.

Isak felt small sparks of energy flicker over his body as he tried to raise his head. A red burst of pain shot down his neck and squeezed the air from his lungs. The pressure increased, until all he could manage was a low moan. The crushing ache in his bones stifled everything else, while the cloying rush of magic raged uncontrolled over his body. Isak felt the Land groan and shudder beneath him as he fought to remain conscious.

Suddenly, without warning the pressure lessened and Isak opened his mouth to take a deep gasping breath - but he barely had time for one desperate wheeze before he was jerked up in the air like a puppet.

He caught sight of Carel’s frantic expression for the briefest of moments, then the air whistled past his head as he was pulled away across the jousting arena. He felt a pavilion loom up behind him, then a burst of pain as he hit it. Then there was only darkness.

Through the numb folds of an empty place, he felt the gentle caress of a hand on his cheek. Images appeared in his mind’s eye, people and places he didn’t recognise, though memories of them rose in his thoughts. Only the patient brush of delicate fingers kept them back. The comforting touch spread warmth down his cheek, over his neck and chest, and into his limbs. Slowly the warmth made him aware of the rest of his body, the crumpled and broken lines of his skin. The scar on his chest glowed bright white, casting threads of light out into the darkness.

The voice stirred a memory as deep as instinct, but no more. He didn’t mind. The soft syllables of her voice drove away the pain and he wanted no more than that.

The name sent a tingle down his spine. He resisted, but something deep inside stirred. The tang of blood danced about his teeth.

Unbidden, his chest rose as he took in a huge gulp of air. The musty warmth faded from his skin as daylight began to sting his eyes. He recognised his name now, as he did the pain that flooded back in. The taste of blood grew thick in his mouth.

 

‘I think the prophets were wrong.’

Isak, hanging limp in someone’s arms, winced at the sudden brightness. As his senses returned, he realised that he couldn’t recognise the accent of whoever had just spoken: her Farlan sounded almost ugly, as if she were pronouncing each syllable with contempt.

‘Why do you say that, Mistress?’ came a whining reply.

‘How could it be so easily captured if it is to be the weapon we believed? Ostia?’

‘I can tell no more than you, Mistress,’ replied a third voice. Isak forced his eyelids open. Duchess Forell stood to one side, hands clasped anxiously to her chest. The woman who had just spoken, Ostia, was beside the duchess, a little oasis of serenity and calm amidst the scattered ruin of the pavilion behind. They were inside the jousting arena, Isak thought, but all was still, even the few remaining soldiers were standing motionless as they watched the proceedings.

All three women wore plain white capes of the White Circle over sumptuous dresses of purples and blues, studded with gems and woven with silver and gold.

‘It is young, young enough for training.’

Isak focused on the speaker, blinking in surprise as he took in her remarkable size and the colour of her skin. A female white-eye. Her white hood was up, but Isak could see that her face was rust-coloured. It put him in mind a little of Xeliath’s smooth chestnut colouring, but dusted with red.

‘Let it stand by itself,’ the woman commanded. Isak felt the supports disappear from under his arms and he sagged. As his eyes drifted down the length of her body, he stiffened with shock: she was cradling a Crystal Skull, her long fingers clamped protectively about it so that both eye sockets were covered. The Skull itself was small, unassuming, its surface dull, but Isak could still feel the looming weight of the Skull pressing down on his throbbing temples.

So
that
was how he’d been overcome earlier: the Skull was powerful beyond anything he could ever have imagined - and even now it was holding him captive with terrifying ease.

Isak tried to look around the arena surreptitiously. He could see no sign of his companions, just a scattering of bodies that looked dead. He could hear the distant clash of weapons.

‘They abandoned you.’ The strange white-eye sneered at Isak. ‘They broke and ran, but they will not get far. Shall we see which ones still live?’

She looked at the woman Isak thought was Ostia, who nodded. He could sense it as she began to draw magic, looking out towards the city with an enquiring expression, until a frown crossed her face.

‘What is—?’ Suddenly she yelped and clutched at her head. ‘By the pit of Ghenna, what was that?’ she shouted.

‘Well? What happened?’ the white-eye demanded angrily. Clearly her own skills were limited, however much strength the Crystal Skull could lend her. Isak concentrated on Ostia: to be able to spy on the city gates was an amazing feat; to get close enough to be hurt by the daemon was astounding. Isak wondered if Bahl would be able to do that.

‘Clever bastard,’ mused Ostia. She ignored the white-eye’s vocal impatience, but a few moments later, said, ‘I doubt anyone will have managed to close the gate on the king - a daemon has just incarnated in the gate-house.’

Isak chuckled. ‘Not as clever as you thought? What a pity.’

A quick spasm of pain ran through his body as punishment. The white-eye hissed with anger, ‘You will not think so when you have been bonded to me. Then you’ll be as eager as a dog to deal with the problem of the king.’

As she spoke, Isak blanched and his eyes went distant and fearful. He felt as if he were watching an arrow speed towards him. Suddenly he convulsed violently and the two guards gripped his arms again to stop him falling flat. The strange white-eye looked to Ostia for explanation.

‘I don’t know, but I suggest you stop whatever it is you are doing to him.’

‘I’m doing nothing,’ she said angrily and took a step back as Isak fell to his knees and began to shake.

The world swam beneath his feet. Without warning he retched, splattering the contents of his stomach all over the churned ground. The white-eye twitched her dress in distaste as vomit stained the hem, but she didn’t retreat. She stroked the Crystal Skull musingly: this was no trick, that much she could tell.

Isak, can you feel it? Oh Gods, can you feel it?
Xeliath’s voice echoed loud in Isak’s mind.

‘What is it?’

A storm rushing over the Land. Nartis himself, coming to lay his blessing upon you.
Panic rang out in her voice, panic and euphoric delight.
Lord Bahl has gone to the Palace on the White Isle, gone to embrace his doom.

Isak felt the Land tremble through his palms. He felt hot sunlight on his skin, and the chill of stone corridors on his fingertips. As the cold bit into his toes, he recognised the place all too well.

 

The stone wall was freezing as he put a hand against it to steady himself. He looked out on to the unnaturally empty beach and recognised where he was. A single sun-bleached rock sat on the smooth, flat sand, far from the listless encroachment of the tide. He turned from the window and let the faint breeze in the corridor carry him away like a dandelion seed. His thoughts were on the man he knew was about to die, a man he called friend. The man he had feared to tell his dreams to.

He was awake this time, and he knew not to fight the tide of where he was going. His bare feet whispered warnings on the smooth floor, but he ignored them and pushed on to an arched doorway ahead. As he entered the domed chamber his strength almost failed as the immense weight of age inside encircled him.

He dragged his shivering limbs to the statue ahead and one final effort brought his head up to rest on the pedestal. He froze at what he saw before him.

Lord Bahl stood in the centre, as he always had in the dreams, even when he had been just a nameless face. He looked imperious, potent, as magic and anger coursed through his body. He danced and spun with deadly breathless grace when the dark knight attacked, but each strike was met and countered. A deep laughter rumbled through the chamber and Bahl’s blows grew faster and more desperate.

Then an opening came and the unknown knight lashed out, faster than Isak could follow. The legendary hooded face dropped and rolled away in a burst of crimson. Isak moaned out loud, as he had every one of the dozen times he’d dreamed of this death. Only this time it was true. Despite everything, it had come true - and he had never warned his lord ...

Guilt seeped into him like poison, and his tears fell like acid on his cheeks.

The knight turned at the moan, his fanged blade rising to meet another challenge. The black armour was of ancient design, and fantastically ornate, with beaded ridges and swirls of silver. The knight’s hand was naked, fully exposed to the air, and as pale as a corpse’s. The monogram at his throat - the entwined letters K and V - made it clear whose armour this had once been, and which legendary warrior had slain Lord Bahl.

Isak stood, and this time he found Eolis in his hand, but when he looked down at it, he saw the blade was as thin and unsubstantial as morning mist. He struggled to raise the weapon, but despite his fury he could manage to advance only one step. He sank to his knees, exhausted, shaking with grief. Looking at his hands, Isak saw that they were hardly visible in the reflected light, like the sword in his hand, and they were growing fainter with each passing moment.

Kastan Styrax chuckled malevolently and dropped his guard. A trail of blood - Bahl’s blood, Isak thought with a near-sob - spattered on the stone. He gave Isak a mock salute and turned, his broadsword resting on his shoulder as he walked away.

He called out to Isak across the hall, ‘Another day, boy.’

 

‘Mistress, the ceremony will not work if he’s unconscious.’

‘Then I will wake it up. Ah, it is already.’

Isak opened his eyes to find the white-eye staring down at him. The duchess stood hunched at her side; Ostia was marking out a circle on the ground with her toe.

‘Ceremony?’ he muttered through his daze.

‘Yes, dog, ceremony. Dangerous animals must be tamed if they are to be of any use.’

New strength surged into Isak’s limbs. The air tasted sweeter as he took a deep strong breath. He felt the dizzying miles of air above him and the heavy security of earth and rock beneath his feet. A smile crept on to his lips, despite the death of his friend and master. His veins sparkled with life as clouds rushed overhead to celebrate his ascension. The day had been clear and fresh, but as Isak sucked in each joyful lungful of air, he drew the storm closer.

Isak could feel Nartis now, not as the terrorising deity of his dream, but as a brother, a father. The air shuddered as the God’s divine gaze broke through the clouds and settled like a crown on Isak’s head. The God’s strength was there to draw on; his anger loaned fire to Isak’s drained limbs.

‘My people have a saying,’ Isak began.

The women stopped what they were doing and narrowed their eyes at him. Isak looked from one to the other, lingering on Ostia for the longest. Suddenly she recognised some change in the air. Concern blossomed on her face as she felt Nartis. Isak could feel his own strength growing, and he saw in Ostia’s eyes that she could see it too, but she ignored it, as though it was unimportant to her cause.

It confirmed Isak’s thought that Ostia was not the enemy - or maybe it was just that she had no intention of making an enemy of Nartis. Either way, it was one less problem, and now Isak saw how to deal with the others. He grinned at the white-eye above him.

‘They say that only a fool tries to cage a wolf.’

The white-eye stared back at him, then snorted in derision, quickly echoed by the duchess.

‘Stupid creature,’ the white-eye said. ‘You call yourself a wolf? Ha! You are a beast, yes, but no one is strong enough to resist this ceremony, whatever grand statements you might make about your spirit.’

Isak continued to grin as his strength grew with every second. He could feel Nartis touch every inch of his skin as the power of divine blessing filled his soul. This was what it truly meant to be a white-eye, to have every fibre humming with rapturous energy. Ostia took a careful step back.

‘I’m peasant stock,’ he said. ‘We don’t make grand statements.’

‘So?’ She tried to affect boredom, but for the first time he could hear slight uncertainty in her voice.

‘Wolves never travel alone.’

She didn’t even have time to take in his words. Her eyes widened as a jolt of pain hit and her body went rigid. Her mouth fell half-open in a scream that never came. Without breaking stride, Mihn danced past her falling body, smoothly tearing Arugin from her back and bringing it up to meet the guard on Isak’s right. Isak spun to his left and slammed his palm into the other soldier’s throat. He felt a snap as something gave way under the blow, then reached down to grab the man’s sword from its scabbard. The man’s skin was also rusty-coloured; Isak briefly registered that his armour was unusually shaped and coloured.