The Stormcaller: Book One Of The Twilight Reign (62 page)

He turned to see Ostia dive gracefully past, gathering up the Crystal Skull as the white-eye fell, then rolling back on to her feet like a street acrobat. Duchess Forell grabbed at the artefact as she straightened up, but Ostia easily slipped the Skull through the duchess’s grip, then lashed out with her foot.

Isak thought he heard a bone break. The duchess collapsed, screaming in pain.

In his peripheral vision, Isak caught sight of a man - a mercenary? - darting forward and he turned and lunged, using his unnatural strength to drive through the man’s shield and into his belly. He wrenched the blade violently out, snapping it clean in half, and threw what remained at the nearest soldier to give himself enough time to gather up the mercenary’s sword.

Now the other mercenaries hesitated. Isak glanced at Mihn and saw two corpses lying at his feet. Tears streamed from his eyes as blood dripped from a weapon he’d vowed never to use again.

Then Isak felt a pulse of magic ripple out from the Crystal Skull as Ostia snarled something. He hurried to find some defence against the spell, whatever it was, before he realised it wasn’t directed at him. Tendrils of energy rushed in all directions as crimson claws appeared in the air around the remaining mercenaries. They died without a sound, leaving only three figures standing amongst a heap of twitching corpses.

Isak could feel Eolis, his shield and helm off to one side, drawing him to them. He kept a wary distance from Ostia. ‘Who in the name of the Gods are you?’ he asked.

‘Not in the name of the Gods.’ She smiled hungrily, looking around at the corpses, and Isak saw elongated teeth behind quivering lips. She tugged her shawl over her head with a gloved hand. ‘Do you not recognise me?’ There was a tenderness in her voice that gave him pause; it reminded him of Xeliath.

‘Should I know you?’ he asked again, but as he said it, Isak felt a quiver of recognition. Not who, but what. She was fair-skinned, with dark hair, but with her wide face and small features she was clearly not Farlan.

The teeth, and the dark patch of skin that had blossomed on her cheek, burnt by the touch of sunlight, he realised. Finally, a name came.

‘Ah, I see it in your face,’ she said. ‘My name is Zhia Vukotic - but you do not know my face. I had wondered, but no matter.’

‘Why did you kill your men?’

‘If you can guess what I am, then you surely know I need no reason to kill, even by your standards.’ She gave a mocking laugh. ‘Yes, boy, I know that’s not what you meant. I killed them because they would have proved an inconvenience; they were loyal to the Circle.’

‘And you’re not? I don’t understand.’

‘Evidently. Can you guess who they are? Or are you really so dim-witted? Then I should put you out of your misery now.’

‘They—I’ve never seen anyone like them before.’

‘Then I will explain. Your man has just killed the Queen of the Fysthrall. This is the Age of Fulfilment and the banished have returned. They have changed so much. Once they were so wonderful ...’ Her voice trailed off, then she shrugged. ‘Now is not the time. The White Circle is their cause, not mine.’

‘So why are you involved? Because they were once your allies?’

‘Nostalgia? Hah.’ Her laughter echoed with the weight of years. The memory of the island palace stirred in Isak’s mind. Zhia had the same weary, timeless quality about her. He forced down the memory of Bahl’s death. That was for later; he could not let himself grieve yet.

‘I leave the obsession with the past to my brother. In any case, they are far from what we once knew. They had no idea who I was, other than that I possessed more skill and knowledge than any other of the Circle. The temptation of a Skull was easily enough for me to play the part of a quiet and faithful servant. I didn’t expect taking it to be quite so easy.’

‘That was the only reason you were with them?’

‘You’re showing your innocence now. With an eternity ahead of me, playing at politics keeps me busy even if it comes to nothing.’ Zhia shrugged again, taking care not to dislodge her shawl and expose herself to the sun’s touch. ‘If it serves a future purpose, all the better.’

‘Future purpose?’

Her garrulousness was making Isak suspicious. They were the very definition of foes: Isak was blessed even beyond most Chosen; Zhia with her brothers and sister, was cursed above all others.

‘Time is of the essence for Narkang’s king. I suggest you find a way to join him.’ She blinked, then curled her lip with impatience as Isak still didn’t appear to understand. ‘Look, boy: the Fysthrall are far more your enemies than I. They have one ambition, to take revenge on the Gods who banished them. Understandably, thanks to the Saviour prophecies, they see you as a threat to these plans - and it appears you feature in their own prophecies. You are - or have - the key to ending their exile.’

‘So they are who the Saviour’s supposed to fight?’ Isak wasn’t sure he wanted a true answer to that. Like most, he had assumed that there was some cataclysm to come, so the creeping worry of disaster would be lurking on the horizon until it actually happened.

‘They believe so, but they are intellectually insular. I suggest you would be better off having a care of your own shadow more than you do the Fysthrall. Your friend the king is the man to ask about the Saviour - he has written some excellent essays on the subject. The man is obsessed with history - and making his own mark upon it. Now, return to your friends.’

Isak sensed her disappointment with him, but he couldn’t work out whether it was because he wasn’t all that she’d expected, or because Siulents had brought back old and unhappy memories.

‘So what’s your part in this now?’ he asked offhandedly.

‘Don’t banter with me, boy, it’s beyond you.’

‘You said their cause was not yours,’ he explained hurriedly. He was more than aware of the angry prickle of magic surrounding her. ‘What do
you
want - it’s obviously not my death.’

‘Nothing
you
can give me, but it should be easy enough to guess, if you have
any
imagination. Enough of this. Go.’

He didn’t wait to be told again. His friends needed him. Isak saw the main arena gate lying flat as Emin had promised, and bodies - Kingsguard, mercenaries, ordinary people, both noble and peasant - lying everywhere. He couldn’t see Vesna’s distinctive armour anywhere among the fallen, so presumably he had made it through.

A group of horses stood tethered to a rail at the back of the public stand, nominally guarded by a mercenary who’d walked out to a rise in the ground to see what he could of the fighting. The unnatural vigour of his ascension was still running through Isak’s limbs, and his aim was true as he threw Eolis thirty yards to impale the man. Like a hunting dog, Mihn padded away to retrieve the sword. As he returned, Isak saw the streaking of tears on his face.

‘Thank you,’ he said as Mihn handed him Eolis. He caught Mihn by the shoulder and held him there, forcing Mihn to look him straight in the eye, though the man could hardly bear to lift his head.

‘I am your bondsman,’ he said quietly. ‘It was my duty.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Isak said. ‘I know you don’t fear death, as a sensible man should - and dying bravely would have been easy there, even though I saw how fast you were: you’re as good a swordsman as I’ve ever seen. That must make it hurt all the more.’

‘I needed Arugin. Dying bravely wouldn’t erase my shame. Your cause is my life as much as my penitence.’

It was hard to argue with him, but there were things to be done. Isak made a mental promise that he would continue this later and then turned his horse towards the city. ‘Come on, we need to get to the baths. The man who builds one tunnel builds many. I can’t see Emin’s reinforcements, so this could get desperate, and I don’t intend to watch from the sidelines.’

‘Look alive, they’re coming again.’

Tired eyes and bloody faces lifted automatically at Vesna’s voice. The black knight’s reassuring presence meant they nodded grimly and tightened their grip on their weapons. The walls were manned by Kingsguard, bolstered by watchmen and palace servants, but without a real-life hero in their midst they might well have been broken by the hardened troops attacking. They murmured encouragement to each other and straightened their backs.

‘Have you left some for me then?’ bellowed Isak with forced humour. Vesna whirled around, relief washing over his features as he hurried down from the battlements. He sheathed his sword and took Isak’s arm.

‘Gods, you’re alive,’ he said, thankfully. ‘When they said you’d been dragged from the royal box I thought you didn’t stand a chance. I was going to go back, but Tila - and Mihn - said—’

Isak held up a hand to stop him. ‘Enough, Mihn was right. He’d not have got past the guards with company. How are we doing here?’ Isak waved to the walls as shouts came from the other side.

‘There’s more than we expected, some regiments of mercenaries I’ve never seen before. Yeetatchen, or something - wherever they’re from, they fight like daemons. The king’s at the main gate - the lowest part of the wall is to the northern side of the gate.’

‘Where’s Carel?’

‘He’s fine, he’s with the king. I’m commanding the running repairs, but the bulk of the attack so far has been up by the gate. We’ve been able to contain those few trying to sneak their way in, but it’s pretty tight.’ He stopped as he suddenly realised what was strange. He looked around. ‘How in the names of the Upper Circle did you get into the castle?’

Isak smiled and waved the question away. ‘King Emin is a man who likes to have secrets. If you need me, send someone and I’ll come with the storm on my heels.’

‘And in your hands too, I hope!’ he laughed. A shout from the wall attracted his attention and he ran back up the stairs, calling over his shoulder, ‘Be safe, my Lord.’

Isak and Mihn ran to the main gate, stopping briefly as a servant appeared with the rest of Siulents. Mihn helped Isak to strap it on as screams and the clash of steel rang out from the left of the main gate. He could see soldiers clustered on the wall, the longest stretch between towers, with a rise of ground outside. As Isak approached, he noticed the changes that Vesna had predicted upon their arrival. The count had got it absolutely right: this was no longer an indefensible pleasure palace, but a place of war.

The air above the walls shuddered as a blazing light burst into life, blinding the defenders momentarily until it snapped out as suddenly as it had appeared. From the nearest tower, fire stabbed out in reply and crashed down on the other side of the wall. Isak heard the thump as it hit and distant screams.

The wall shook once, twice, and Isak felt magic beat against the stone. They were trying to punch a hole in the wall so they could pour men into the palace. The white-eye leapt up the steps, sliding on his helm and shield as he ran. One of the Kingsguard on the wall turned at the sound of metal on stone.

Delight flowered on his face when he saw the silver giant and he called out, ‘Lord Isak!’

More faces turned and saw and took up the call. Isak waved acknowledgement, but headed directly for the group of dark figures with King Emin at the centre. The curved edge of Darklight glowed at Emin’s back, illuminating his golden armour. Even in the middle of battle, the man looked composed and at ease. His palace had shaken off its delicate image; the king had no need. It made Isak wonder exactly what would ever cause that to happen.

‘This is a fine toy you’ve brought me, Lord Isak,’ Emin called, raising the axe in salute. ‘Doranei found you, then?’

Isak nodded his thanks - he had been quite right in thinking Emin would have a number of tunnels for his private use. The path to the public baths had been clear and when they’d arrived, Doranei had stepped out of the shadows, armoured and sword drawn. Some furtive sneaking through deserted streets and a second tunnel brought them inside the palace and once past the welcoming sword-tips of the Kingsguard, a huge stone block had been moved over the trapdoor, just in case Isak wasn’t the only one to work out the king’s predilection for secret tunnels.

Carel hugged Isak briefly, then turned to Mihn and clapped him on the shoulder. A warning shout erased any thought of conversation as Mihn wordlessly handed Arugin back to the veteran Ghost. There was a clatter of ladders, and through the crenellations Isak could see untidy clumps of soldiers waiting to scale the walls and attack.

One of Emin’s men leaned out to aim a crossbow down at them, flinching as an arrow hit the stone beside him then skewed wildly upwards. Isak nudged the man aside, a young watchman wearing ill-fitting armour and an apprehensive expression, and leaned out over the wall.

Holding his shield against arrows and the dying sun, Isak squinted down the ladder. The first man was only a few yards off. Isak took in the scene, then a flurry of arrows prompted him to haste. With a muttered apology to the sword, he used Eolis to cut away one side of the ladder. The enchanted edge sliced through the iron rods bound roughly to the top like a hot knife through butter and the ladder lurched and fell.

A howling war cry pierced the air as Isak pulled himself back to relative safety. Two figures, flailing madly, flew through the air towards the wall and landed safely on the walkway: Isak recognised the distinctive shapes of Fysthrall as the warriors began to strike out with furious purpose.

The king raised Darklight, but before he could move, Coran had rushed from his master’s lee. Bellowing like an enraged bull, he swung a huge mace above his head, slamming it square on to the shield of the first man. Sheer animal strength smashed the man off the walkway on to the gravel path below. The second Fysthrall half-turned at the sound of the impact, and his error cost him his life as one of the Farlan guardsmen brutally decapitated him.

A Kingsguard stepped into the space they left, ready to hack away at the ladder, when an arrow flew almost clean through his throat. The impact sent him collapsing backwards, pawing weakly at his neck. Coran ignored the dying man’s feeble wails and stepped over to crash his mace down on the head of a mercenary emerging over the wall. A second mercenary right behind was ready; he pushed his colleague’s corpse out of the way and stabbed wildly with his spear, trying to drive the white-eye back.