The stormcaller

CHAPTER 11

The unrelenting north wind heaved and buffeted Tirah Palace's high walls. It brought the voices of the city up to Bahl in his lonely chamber where he sat watching the tiny figures below, a brass goblet of wine cradled forgotten in his hands as he stared out of the window. The people of the city had succumbed to the glamour of Siulents and given Isak a reception Bahl could never have dreamed of. The old Lord didn't want their adulation, but still he felt an unwonted melancholy that, despite all he had given up for them, his people had never loved him. What they cheered was a faзade; a hero they could worship. Isak was the shining figurehead that Bahl had never been, but the Lord of the Farlan wondered about the uncertain youth inside that enchanted armour: was he already buckling under the weight of being Bahl's Krann? But Isak's place in the Land was not merely as Bahl's replacement. His role would be even harder to bear.

'And yet what can I teach him? What do I know of being a king?' Bahl spoke out loud to the empty room.

'More than the King of Narkang, I'll wager, and he's the only one worthy of the title these days.'

Bahl jumped at the unexpected voice from the doorway. Suzerain Tehran gave him a nod as he advanced into the room.

'Kehed, you don't go to wish your son well for his first battle?' The suzerain shrugged and eased his portly frame into the nearest chair. Few men would dare sit without permission, but Bahl would have sacrificed protocol gladly for a few more supporters as loyal.

'I spoke to the boy this morning; there's nothing more he wants to hear from me. His cousin's going to keep an eye on him. He's a sensible lad, he'll see him right. Mayhap he'll grow up in the process.' 'Things are no better?' Tehran grimaced. 'Ah, sometimes I think he can't be mine. Could

hardly have blamed his mother if he weren't, the number of bastards I've got. I've reached the end of my tether with that one. If this campaign doesn't wake him up to the Land, I'll ask Kerin to take him on. I'd hoped to give him a proper education, perhaps find him a seat on the city council for a few years to teach him some responsibility, but he's no interest in it. It'll be hard to let him go though. I hear his mother in every word he says.'

'How long has it been?' Bahl asked softly.

'Three summers now, though I'd scarce believe it myself. The boy won't listen to me. There's nothing more I can do with him. I fear I'll have an empty hall soon enough, for I don't think Fordan's intending to come back. He sees me now and has no intention of getting this way.'

The suzerain gestured down at his straining belly and stained clothes. Age and hard living was catching up with a man whose barrel shape had marked him out on the battlefield almost as much as the distinctive yellow and purple colours of Tehran. His cheeks and nose were scarred red with drink, the skin about his eyes looked heavy and tired and gout hampered every step. With the loss of his wife he'd recognised that all his friends and contemporaries were slowly fading from the Land.

He lifted a goblet and drank, wiping the wine from his chin with the grimy white stripe around his cuff that marked him as a former Ghost. Suzerain Tehran's title had never stopped him earning every shred of trust he had been given, something Bahl wished he could say about more of the nobles who owed him allegiance.

'There's always a place at my table for such a loyal friend. With your son in the Guard, I expect you'll want to keep an eye on him.'

Tehran smiled in genuine gratitude and straightened himself up a little, a flicker of pride driving away his gloom for the moment.

'The Krann seems to have potential. Will he hold up in battle?'

Bahl shrugged. 'We shall see. He's got the strength and skill; if we keep the elven mages off his back then he should be fine.'

'And Shalstik?'

Bahl hesitated. He was far from certain in his own mind. 'By the Gods, I hope not, Kehed. If the elven houses have united under the Shalstik cult, we're in for years of war.'

'How likely is that?' Tehran asked, looking worried.

'Shalstik's prophecy of the last king's return has been a threat hanging over us for more than a thousand years; if that's the case, they'll fight to the bitter end to bring it about.' He grimaced. 'Our first defence has always been their inability to fight as a united group. We are still pretty sure the elves have ten noble houses constantly at each other's throats – I doubt any force we've met in the last hundred years has comprised warriors from more than two houses. I don't know if they have called a truce, but with an army large enough to destroy Lomin's cavalry…' His voice trailed off and he looked out of the window for a few moments before continuing, 'The dragon's mood had better remain good over the next few weeks. We may need him.' Kehed Tehran was one of the few who knew of the truth about Genedel. His private hunting grounds, a forest at the foot of the mountain north of Tirah, was patrolled by rangers and kept as an exclusive preserve, well stocked with enough livestock to feed the dragon. Some believed that Genedel was real, and lived on the very peak of one of the mountains, under their Lord's enchantment; others saw the beast as the embodiment of Nartis, aiding them in times of need. Lesarl hadn't needed to start these rumours; the people had beaten him to it themselves. Bahl found that a little sad, no matter how convenient.

'Fortunate we have a vampire to catch too!' Tehran's laugh was empty. 'Life gets harder for us all. Perhaps we should just get drunk and wait it out.'

Bahl smiled wearily. 'I accept. I'll tell Lesarl to find us some players, or acrobats maybe: someone to entertain us until we're too drunk to care. But first, there's something I must do while I still have my wits about me.'

As Bahl walked through the top floor of the palace, he noted the dry and lifeless atmosphere with a growing distaste. Few people came up here – the guest apartments for court-ranked nobles were on a lower floor. Neither fresh rushes on the floors nor the smell of beeswax did much to change the impression of a temple, deserted yet still full of

quiet reverence.

Bahl went first to Isak's chambers, then down to the library, where he paused at the entrance. He ran a hand lightly over the faded painting that covered the double doors: one of his more enlightened predecessors had been responsible for this picture, which still clearly showed his message to all who would follow him. It depicted a figure,

no doubt the Lord himself, sword sheathed and carrying only a handful of scrolls as he faced down an approaching army. It was a message Atro had never appreciated, for all his acquisitiveness; few white-eyes would.

As he had expected, Bahl found Tila within, a book lying forgotten in her lap as she stared out through the bay window. The library had once been a temple to the remaining Gods of the Upper Circle before a past Lord who valued learning over piety had converted it. Few recognised this room as the treasure trove it was: more than a thousand leather-bound books and dusty scrolls gathered together in a Land where fear of heresy, prophecy and magic meant academics had to work in secret and the history of the Land was hidden in legend and fable: truth buried in myth. With daemons and Aspects – local gods subordinate to a more powerful deity – part of everyday life for some men, knowledge and the written word were as powerful as they were dangerous.

A fire crackling in the wide hearth off to his left took the edge off the cool air. Even in the depths of winter, the library was a sanctuary, away from the crowded, noisy Great Hall. The Chief Steward, using a burning log from the constant fire in the Great Hall, lit the fire in the library first, as tradition dictated. The tradition predated Bahl: it was a symbolic act that Lesarl had determinedly retained.

Bahl crossed over to the fireplace and added more logs. The noise startled Tila and she jumped to her feet, sending the book clattering to the floor. She winced, knowing full well how expensive each volume was.

'My Lord-' she started, but he cut her off with a look, then dragged a heavy oak chair closer to the fire and indicated that she should do the same. He leaned in close to banish the dismal chill in his bones.

'We should talk,' he announced softly. Tila sat primly upright with her hands clamped together in her lap, waiting for him to continue, but Bahl took a minute to look her up and down first. The girl wore rather more jewellery than Lesarl usually permitted, but as most was religious, Bahl didn't comment. Unlike most Farlan, her eyes were light in colour, a soft hazel with flashes of yellow; eyes more suited to laughter than sorrow.

'You're close to my Krann.' No question, merely a statement of fact.

'Yes, my Lord. He… Lord Isak doesn't require much of me, only that I teach him all I can, of the wars of the Houses, the Age of Gods, any small story 1 might have told my niece before bed.' She wasn't sure what Lord Bahl wanted her to say. 'He leams quickly?'

'Oh yes! He is hungry to hear everything, 1 suppose because he never had a mother to-' She halted abruptly. Bahl's early life had been far harsher than Isak's; the entire palace knew that. 'He also questions the stories; he wants to know why things happen.' 'Give me an example.'

Tila thought a moment, her lips slightly pursed. 'Well, the punishments of the cursed. I'd never thought about why they were punished differently, but that interested Isak more than the punishments themselves. A couple of times last week he even corrected the priests – well, the ones who still go near him after what he did to Afger Wetlen.' She hesitated again, scared that she was saying too much, or sounding like a gossip – that could cost her Isak's friendship as well as

her position.

Bahl drew his cloak tighter around himself and gazed away at the shelves behind Tila's head. 'Yes, that was unexpected,' he murmured, almost to himself, before turning his attention back to the maid. 'No matter, it brings me to what I wish to say. Isak is special, and not just as my Krann. The Age of Fulfilment is a bad time to be special.'

Tila nodded, her head turning fractionally towards the bay window she'd been watching Isak from.

'A Lord is blessed beyond any other mortal, but the Gods are not nursemaids. They expect and demand unwavering loyalty. A Lord should love only his patron, because to love another is to have a point of weakness.' Bahl was speaking as much to the past, and giving the warning Ineh had never had. 'No matter what he whispers in the night, he cannot always protect you-'

'My Lord!' she protested, a scarlet flush in her cheeks. 'He's not-we've not…' She couldn't bring herself to finish that sentence before the Chosen of the Gods. Bahl was surprised, but she was telling the truth. No one could lie to him, not even hardened criminals or

politicians.

'So you're not that close yet – but is it just a matter of time! Tell

me, girl, and truthfully.'

'I-' Tila lowered her eyes to escape her Master's scrutiny. 'You have feelings for him? Foolish, very foolish.'

That sparked defiance in Tila. 'Lord Isak and I have much in common; we enjoy each other's company,' she said, a trace of bitterness in her voice. 'What does it matter whether I do or not? Why else was I sent to here in the first place?'

Bahl raised an eyebrow. 'Your parents will want you to secure a post in Isak's retinue and gain influence enough to be a useful bride. Lord Isak is a white-eye, not some major promoted from the ranks that you can housetrain into polite society. You could not have a family with him, could not grow old with him. Those gifts he now carries would make you the most valuable hostage in the entire Land.'

Tila nodded. 'I know that, my Lord. I have not even thought of discussing the future with Lord Isak. At the moment I just care that he comes back alive.'

'You doubt his skills? However much he grins and acts the jester, a white-eye is born to fight and to survive; Isak's no exception there.'

'I understand, my Lord,' she said. 'I just can't help thinking that an army in winter must want more than just slaves, and those gifts fit the puzzle. Isak is inexperienced enough without a whole army intent on killing him specifically.' She released her hands for a moment to tease a thin citrine ring into a more comfortable position, then her fingers tightened around each other again.

'I am pleased that you understand,' Bahl said. 'Isak will need staff who can anticipate as well as organise. Too many of my nobles still say this attack is nothing more than evidence of elven insanity. Those who do recall the name Shalstik dismiss it.'

Tila frowned for a moment, then understanding dawned. 'Shalstik; I remember that. My mother couldn't stop boasting when a Harlequin stayed as her sister's house-guest for a week over the summer. This one apparently told the Prophecy of Shalstik every night for a week. My bother said the prophecy concerned the rebirth of the last king; but surely they cannot think Lord Isak is really Aryn Bwr reborn?'

Dahl snorted. 'No, I seriously doubt even they do, but those weap-

ons enough by themselves to start a holy war with the elves. If they have decided their time has come, I don't know what it will take to stop them. I hope I never find out. Until then, think on what we said. There is no room in Isak's life for romantic fancies.' He stood and looked into the crackling fire. A gust of wind ran down the chimney, sending a puff of smoke out into the room. Before the curls of grey could reach Tila they stopped, hanging listlessly for a moment before fading to nothing.

Tila shifted in her seat, tucking her legs underneath her and tugging her cloak over them like a blanket. Then a thought struck her and she twisted herself around to look at the books lining the walls. 'Isak knows so little of our myths and ancient history. Perhaps I could be of some use to him while he is away. If he has prophecies to contend with, the knowledge in this room could prove vital.' She looked up at Lord Bahl, a note of pleading in her voice.

Bahl gave a curt nod. 'I think you are a very sensible young woman; one he will benefit from listening to.' He had said enough; now he left the room without another word.

Two weeks later, Bahl was preparing to start his journey east. News from Lomin was confusing, but better than he had expected. The linked mages had again allowed Bahl to speak to the scion, this time to follow the enemy's movements. Vitil had fallen and had been razed to the ground, with the loss of more than three hundred men, but more than half of the population had been saved by a heroic effort on the part of the garrison. Their sacrifice had drawn in the enemy attack and allowed nearby Kohm to safely evacuate along with Vitil's civilians. Kohm's garrison saw all the refugees to the greater safety of Peak's Gate.

With two full legions of troops there, and the townsfolk bolstering their number, the elves would not attempt to take the fortress-town of Peak's Gate. It would take months of siege to break that ancient stronghold, so the elves would be content to maintain a stand-off at

the gates.

When the effort had again become too much for the twinned mage, Bahl had sat in silence until everyone else had shuffled from the room-He felt a nagging guilt about sending the army off under Isak's command. General Lahk was more than competent; he would not allow the Krann to make any fatal mistake, and yet…

And yet Bahl knew he should be out there, leading his army himself, not walking down to the Great Hall to grab a last meal before he left Tirah. If he took the high mountain paths shunned by most Farlan, he would be able to travel undisturbed to his friend's deathbed. He had failed to find any trace of the vampire they suspected was in the city; this distraction at least he would see through.

It was evening, and muffled sounds of revelry came from behind the aged oak doors, garbled and distant, but nonetheless welcome after the empty apartments and corridors of the upper levels. He looked at the flags adorning the Great Hall: they were of similar age to his dying friend in the forest, and they looked as worn as the Abbot had been when Bahl had last seen him. Soon Bahl would have to choose replacements for both as he endured yet another lifetime.

On a rare impulse he sat at the foot of the great stairway and pressed his temple against the cold stone of the wall. As he did so, he imagined a tremble of age pass to him from the stone, but he knew it was nothing. He ran a hand over the worn steps and looked up at the flags, wondering when his own time would come. White-eyes could live past five hundred summers; however much Bahl felt like an old man, he had several lifetimes ahead of him. It was hard to welcome them.

In the Great Hall, the cooking fire spat and roared as a deer roasted slowly above its flames, the scent of it thick in the air. As Bahl entered, the noise waned briefly, but he ignored the faces turned in his direction and made for the fire. A maid pulled a bowl-shaped flatbread from the cauldron behind her and heaped dripping hunks of venison and vegetables into it for him.

'You're leaving now.7' Bahl turned to see Lesarl behind him and nodded as he slipped a chunk of meat into his mouth. 'So is Tiniq,' Lesarl continued. 'He's just had a message from the Chief of Rangers; he's setting out immediately, on foot again, as always. He claims he doesn't like riding.'

'At this hour? I take it the message was delayed in getting to him.' 'I might have kept the ranger waiting in my office a little longer

than necessary.' Lesarl smiled. He knew Tiniq had piqued his Lord's

interest.

Thank you. Where is he?'

'Pack hidden under the table, trying to be unobtrusive, behind you, door-side.'

Bahl nodded his thanks and gestured for Lesarl to return to his own meal, then turned to spot Tiniq, who was sitting with shoulders hunched, staring down at an empty cup. The ranger rarely came to the palace; he was here even less these days as the advancing years failed to mark his face. Tiniq Lahk defied all conventions: he was General Lahk's younger twin, a normal man, not a white-eye, and one

who should have died in the womb as twins of white-eyes always did.

Just as a white-eye's size would kill the mother in childbirth, so the

life of any twin would be squeezed out in the weeks beforehand. But

somehow Tiniq had clung grimly to life, and though a sickly child,

he had grown into a strong youth. He had had a lonely childhood,

fostered to a forester, and grew up suspicious of strangers. He appeared

to have taken on many white-eye attributes, and no doubt he was

touched by magic, a little, but just how much, he kept to himself. This

was a mystery Bahl was still waiting to resolve.

Bahl's cogitation was interrupted as Tiniq noticed him. 'My Lord?' he said as he rose from his seat and gave Bahl a short bow.

'I'm leaving for the Ked road now. I take it you won't be going too far off track if you accompany me part of the way.'

The tone of Bahl's voice left no room for argument, but still Tiniq tried. 'Actually, my Lord, I am bound for Siul.'

'A few hours will not make much difference, I think. Fetch your

pack.'

Tiniq suppressed a sigh and reached under the bench to pull out a shapeless canvas pack and an oilskin weapons-pouch, then followed

Bahl outside.

He kept his eyes low until Bahl stopped unexpectedly and spoke again. 'There are tales of the Saljin Man in the deep forest. Have you

seen it?'

The ranger frowned. 'Just peasants being foolish. We've got enough in our forests without borrowing the curses of other tribes.'

'I wonder. It's a strange thing to invent when we all know the Vukotic are as rooted to their lands as to their curses. I've heard this before, when a vampire was in the city almost a century back. Now we suspect another is here, do we call that coincidence?'

The ranger looked startled at the prospect, attempting to cover his discomfort by adjusting the baldric on his shoulder. 'I understand. I'll

pay attention.'

'Good. Now we should leave. You must have run with your brother, I expect you to keep up.' Without waiting for a reply, Bahl strode off through the moonlight to the stone fist of the barbican. The bridge was usually kept raised in times of war, but the guards had seen him standing outside the Great Hall and it was down by the time Bahl passed through the tunnel.

The wide main streets and narrow alleys of the city were almost

empty. Away to the left, Bahl could hear the stamp of hobnailed boots – Ghosts on patrol. Even the gutter runners would be holed up somewhere warm; the sparkle of frost on the gargoyles and overhangs showed how dangerous the roofs were this time of year. Despite that, the ancient city of covered streets, archways and statues was at its most entrancing when glittering in the moonlight.

Bahl walked easily down these cobbled roads. The many towers and complex architecture made Tirah a remarkable city to behold. In the moonlight, even the most fanciful stories set here became believable. Black shadows lurked in the covered streets, under arches and around the lights of taverns. Bahl knew that not all of the eyes above were empty stone, but there was a natural order and the predators that hunted the streets at night were wary of him. They would watch him for as long as they could, like deer following a wolf pack to avoid the chance of ambush.

Up above the city, the two greater moons emerged fully from behind feathered clouds. Kasi – the lesser of the two, the hunter's moon – was halfway to the horizon. At this time of year, that meant there was less than an hour left until midnight. Off to the south, Alterr overshadowed Kasi's red tint with her own yellow eye. As followers of Nartis, both men saluted the lesser moon, kissing the backs of their bow fingers and touching them to their foreheads in a gesture whose meaning was lost, as so much else, in the mists of time.

'Strange to think that there was a time when the Land could see such great events – stranger even that we might soon return to such a time.'

Tiniq looked puzzled at Bahl's announcement, following his gaze up to Kasi. The lesser moon, which appeared in the years before the Great War, was named for that most devoted of mortals, Kasi Farlan. Legend had it that Larat, the God of Magic and Manipulation, had seduced Alterr, the Moon Goddess, and persuaded her to hide her light from the sky as a party of Parian hunters returned home. While the others found their way back, Kasi Farlan was lost in the deep forest, blinded by the darkness and hunted by Larat's assassins. When the hunters returned without her husband, the Princess of the Farlan begged the Queen of the Gods for aid. When Alterr refused to show her light again, the queen took the diamond necklace from her own neck and rolled it around the princess's ruby ring, making a single stone which she threw high into the sky to light Kasi's way home and

save him from attack.

The ruby at the moon's heart was bound to Alterr's own life's blood. She was ordered to throw the gem up every night as penance, and if she failed to catch it, the stone would break on the ground, and so too would her own blood run out to the earth. To prevent that from happening, Larat took the stone from Alterr's hands the next night and threw it so hard he sent it orbiting the Land, fulfilling the bond set by the Queen of the Gods.

Now his lover need only to watch its path, and wonder whether it would ever fall.

'Would that be something to look forward to?' The ranger sounded nervous rather than enthusiastic. 'The Great War poisoned the Land with its magic. If life is less dramatic, is that so bad?'

'Not at all, but it was the energies spent in anger that caused the waste to be poisoned, rather than the Ages before the Great War. That much destruction must be avoided at all costs, but sometimes I think grand deeds like the hunter's moon might again have a place in life.' He changed the subject. 'You prefer to walk to Siul? It's a long way. Even for a white-eye, it would be far.'

Tiniq cleared his throat noisily. 'I dislike riding, and horses themselves, for that matter. It's a dislike they share, it seems – I was thrown twice as a boy in the training paddock and I've never trusted them since. I know you're wondering about my birth; that's why you wanted me to accompany you, isn't it?'

Bahl inclined his head. The two men were walking down the centre of a wide avenue through the temple district.

'Well, I'm not my brother; that's for certain, but we have some things in common. It might take me longer to get to Lomin, but the path is more direct on foot and I can outrun any normal.'

'You don't consider yourself a normal?'

'Would you?'

Bahl considered that. Tiniq might look like an ordinary man, but it was unlikely he could hide his differences for long. 'Perhaps not, but it would be a nice choice to have. How about children?'

'Have I any? No. I've had my share of women though, so that might be one more thing in common with your kind.'

'Magic?'

'I…' Now discomfort was evident in Tiniq's voice. Bahl kept silent and let the man take his time. There was nowhere to run from

the question. 'I have some sensitivity; that is the only way I can explain it. Although my brother's magic is weak, he can perform spells. In me it's different: I can hunt and fight better than I should; my awareness is heightened, my eyes are stronger than normal men's.'

'And what is the price?'

'My Lord?' Bahl couldn't tell whether that was genuine or not.

'The price, Tiniq, of these gifts. Nothing is for free. The scales must always be balanced.'

'I don't know.' The sentence was almost a whisper. 'I think I have yet to pay it. I'll have fifty summers in the new year and I don't look older than thirty – and I'm getting stronger.'

'Stronger?'

'My brother has noticed it too. When I saw him a few days ago, it was for the first time in two years. As I embraced him, he felt the difference.'

'Curious.' They reached the Wood Gate that led east out of the city. The frost in the air had suspended the gentle sway of the leaves; everything was still and silent. Bahl turned to the smaller man. 'We'll run until the hunter's moon goes down. I expect you to keep up.' Without waiting for a reply he broke into a jog, slowly building the pace to keep the ranger pushing himself to catch up. The darkness of night closed around them with a soft sigh. Under the cover of reaching branches they ran with hardly a sound, the moonlit mountains flashing in and out of sight between the trees.

After he parted company with Tiniq, Bahl met no one as he took forgotten paths through the high ground. The foothills of the mountains were the preserve of herdsmen and rangers; superstition and a lack of arable ground kept the rest away. The early winter had already sapped all the strength from the trees, leaving tired, heavy branches hanging low on the ground. Withered leaves crackled underfoot. Crabbed oaks jostled in the breeze with alders and skeletal silver birch, all hunkered down under the determined beat of rain and light snow. It wouldn't be long until the winter storms that would suspend normal life for a time.

His destination was a small monastery in the suzerainty of Ked. It Was a harsh place to live: though hidden within dense woodland, it was high up, and plagued by the wind coming down off the mountain. It Was a far cry from those monasteries in towns, where monks and nuns figured in all parts of the common folks' lives. This was both a retreat and a training ground, providing spiritual direction for a large number of novices as they worked on whichever path they had chosen.

Bahl was familiar with the Chaplains, the zealot warrior-monks attached to each regiment, but his contact with the other sects was limited. Lesarl dealt with the Cardinals who ran the cult of Nartis and Bahl had little time for the priests who performed pastoral work.

It was evening when he finally caught sight of the stockade wall of

the monastery. He'd spent the morning recovering from spells he'd

cast the previous night: he had been unable to bear being in complete

ignorance of what was happening further east. The elven army had felt

like a putrid sore on his skin when he let his senses spread over the

forests. The army was keeping to the darkest corners. Split into three

parts, it had a network of scouts spreading out from each section, and

trails of magic reaching even further. Each one was a thread waiting

to be triggered when their prey stumbled within reach. Bahl hoped he

had managed to confuse them enough over the course of the night.

A stone gate was the only entrance, above which shivered the light of a fire from a small watch-room. There was a roof to keep off the snow, but the wind came in through the narrow slit that ran around the chamber. Bahl could see the huddled shape of a novice – even with the fire, it would be bitterly cold inside. After a few hours of this cold, the novice would hardly be able to raise the alarm at any-thing he saw… but a monastery was not supposed to be a place of

comforts.

Bahl broke into a run, silently gliding over the grassy clearing that surrounded the square compound. The novice's head was turned away, staring at the empty trees. In one leap, Bahl cleared the spiked wall and landed on the walkway that led to the gate tower.

The guard heard the noise and fumbled with his bow as he turned, only to let it drop in amazement as he saw Bahl standing there, bow in hand and mask on. For a few seconds the novice just stared in amazement, then he gave a yelp as Bahl strode down the walkway towards him. His bow abandoned, the youth scrabbled first with the drape covering the door, then the latch, but when at last he did open it, Bahl was almost upon him. Terrified, he fell to his knees in the doorway, mittened hands clumping together beneath his chin.

'L-l-lord Nartis,' he whispered with reverence. Bahl stopped with grunt of surprise.

'Don't be stupid, boy,' he snapped, moving past to the ramp that led down to the stone courtyard. He stopped to get his bearings, looking around at the interior of the monastery. Five columns of smoke rose from other parts of the building, reminding him which parts were sleeping quarters. Behind him was the gate tower, flanked by wooden stables for the livestock. On either side were the dormitories, one for novices, the other for the monks. Straight ahead was the chapel, and the flicker of candles through its rose window showed that he had arrived in time: the light that still burned for the abbot would only be extinguished when the man had passed through Death's gates.

The courtyard was only thirty paces across. A stack of cut wood was piled against the dormitory walls, as if for insulation. Cracks were visible in the stonework of the buildings; the skeleton of a creeper hung down, waiting for spring. Bahl walked to a smaller door to the right of the chapel entrance which led to the abbot's rooms. The prior had adjacent chambers running down a common wall so the large fireplaces could be shared. Privacy was not something Nartis appeared to approve of here, though certain cardinals he knew had palaces to call their own.

A rolled carpet had been placed behind the door to ward off draughts. Bahl heard the soft whisper as it ran across the floor, catching straw as it went. It opened on to a dark reception room, a traditional canvas-roll painting of Nartis the only ornamentation. It was empty and cold, normally used only for monks to sit and wait to be summoned. Three pairs of heavy fur boots were on the floor, two dropped carelessly, one carefully set perpendicular to the wall.

Bahl placed his hand on the door latch, hesitated when he heard a voice on the other side, a droning murmur of prayer, then walked in. The abbot's study showed the desk and shelves in the unused order of a dying man. On one wall were two columns of intricate pictures: twelve icons that showed the Gods of the Upper Circle. Bahl smiled at the sight of them; they were the abbot's pride and joy, exquisite images collected over a lifetime.

In the next room, the abbot's bedchamber, he found the prior standing at the end of the bed, his tall slim figure and shaven head

giving him the appearance of a vulture glaring down at its dinner. He

rounded on the door with a look of outrage when he heard it open smoothly changed that into a bow when he recognised Lord Bahl.

The monk sitting at the Abbot's side, clearly the monastery's healer, was less composed and gaped for a moment before following suit.

'Get out,' Bahl ordered quietly but firmly. The prior inclined his head and ushered the healer out with a sharp gesture. Bahl heard their footsteps go out of the study, then moved to one side of the bed. He glanced down its length to the fireplace. Through the flames he could see the prior, kneeling on the stone floor before a bow device hanging from the far wall, an imitation of prayer that would allow him to hear

any conversation.

The Lord of the Farlan's face softened as he turned to his old friend, bundled up in a nest of blankets that smelt of lavender, sickness and age. The table beside the bed that in past years had been stacked with scrolls and books now held bowls of medicine and a lukewarm broth. A strained cough from the bed summoned him; Bahl crouched down to listen. As he did so, a faltering smile broke over the abbot's face. Bahl forced a smile in reply, hiding his shock at the near-translucent

skin that looked so tired.

'Forgive me, my Lord,' repeated the breathless whisper.

'For what?'

'For my frailties; they shame me.'

Bahl sighed. The abbot had been tall and powerfully built in his youth. To see him like this, small and withered, made Bahl feel the press of centuries on his own shoulders. 'Nothing shames you. Time

catches us all.'

'1 know.' The abbot paused for breath, trying to push the blankets away but lacking the strength even for that. '1 had not planned to die

this way.'

'Most men dream of it: to die old, surrounded by family and

friends.'

'One friend, not much.' Bahl couldn't tell whether there was real feeling in that; the abbot was struggling to even make a sound for his

friend to hear.

'It was your own choice to come here; I know you don't really regret it. The good you've done is worth that, I think, and I swore you'd not

pass through alone.'

'Cerrat.' The word was gasped, any more swallowed by a spasm of pain that tightened every muscle in the abbot's body. His lips drew back to show his teeth as he grimaced and fought it. Many years ago, in this very monastery, he'd been taught the mantras to overcome

suffering. The Chaplains were the Farlan paradigms of bravery and resilience. Their lives were to serve as examples to the regiment they fought with. Only the strongest survived. Bahl could see the slight twitches on the abbot's face as he ran those devotional words through his mind again.

'Cerrat, is that someone you want to be brought?' Bahl leaned away from the abbot as he raised his voice. 'Prior, don't pretend you can't hear me. If I have to leave this bed to fetch you, I swear you'll die before the abbot does.'

That got the desired result. The man scrabbled to his feet and peered over the fire's flames. His calm manner was gone; the politics of a monastery rarely included direct threats of violence.

'Cerrat, my Lord? He's a novice here, training to be a Chaplain. The abbot's always been fond of the boy; he's an excellent student although rather boisterous-'

'Fetch him now,' Bahl ordered. He didn't need to hear any more. The face behind the flames disappeared and Bahl turned back to his friend. 'Cerrat's coming.' As he said it, Bahl wondered how he could help with the pain. A white-eye's magic could soothe a little.

By the time a tap came on the bedroom door, the moment had passed and the abbot was breathing again. A youth of some sixteen summers put his head around the door as Bahl called for him to enter. His alarm at seeing Bahl gave way to distress as he looked at the abbot.

'Come in, sit by the bed,' Bahl told the nervous boy. 'He asked for you.'

'Cerrat. My bow.' The novice swallowed hard and fetched the wide, flat bow from the corner. From the way he held it, he'd done this before; he'd read the inscribed passage of Nartis's words in praise of his tribe's warriors. The bow was unstrung, so Bahl dug out one of his own spare strings and handed it to Cerrat. Even after so many years, the bow he'd presented to the abbot was oiled and still strong. The abbot reached out a withered finger and brushed the curve of the bow.

'Lord Bahl gave this to me; now I give it to you.' The youth's eyes widened, but he could find no words to protest. 'You show great promise; as much as Cardinal Disten did when I taught him. Bahl, when he is ready, give him the position I once refused.'

The Lord nodded, looking over at the young man who was overwhelmed at the gift of a bow. He had a child's face, but already the build of a man, with broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms. The abbot was a reticent man; he wouldn't have told Cerrat about the heroics that had earned that bow – any more than he would have spoken of the day he refused the highest honour a Chaplain could hold, and one rarely bestowed – that of Legion Chaplain to the Palace

Guard.

Another rush of pain coursed through the abbot's body and it was a while before he could speak again. Bahl cradled the man's hand and

waited.

'It's passed. How fares the Land, my friend?'

'Winter is coming. I hope you've trained your chaplains well, I'm going to need-' He broke off as the abbot cried out in pain.

'Oh merciful Gods!' The words that followed were lost, but Bahl was sure he heard 'the Master calls' through the man's torment.

'Is there anything I can do?' Bahl asked, hating the feeling of impotence.

'An orb,' panted the abbot. The pain was consuming him now, but this was a man who'd rallied a broken legion and led their charge with an arrow in his neck, trusting to Nartis that it would not tear the vein. He knew pain well enough; he had never submitted to it. 'I want to feel power in my hands once more before I lose this battle.' The effort of speaking was almost too much for him and he slumped back in his bed, a trickle of blood on his chin where he'd bitten his lip.

Bahl lost no time, for he could feel the shadows grow longer as the presence of Death encroached. Sitting the abbot up, cradling the man in his arms, Bahl began to draw his magic, letting the energies flow through the abbot's body. The old man had been a fair battle-mage in his time, as unsophisticated as a white-eye, but fuelled by his burning faith. An orb was a basic tool of training: it drew energy and spun it into a ball, an excellent way to practise control.

Bahl felt the abbot's body relax as the sudden torrent of magic coursed through his body; that much would kill him in a matter of seconds, but for those moments it overshadowed the pain, and that was enough. With one frail hand in each palm, Bahl trapped the magic between them. The room shimmered with greenish-blue light while the shadows grew darker and colder. Bahl allowed the energies to swirl and dance, touching on the edge of his control before crushing them into an orb smaller than the abbot would have ever managed. This he split into three, letting them orbit each other with ferocious speed

as the unnatural light flew in all directions, lapping around the edges of the abbot's magical books and lovingly stroking the hilt of White Lightning, the broadsword strapped to Bahl's back.

And then the shadows grew and the magic fled. Bahl felt a tremble in his stomach as the Chief of the Gods reached out to gather in the abbot's soul and free him from pain. His friend wore a smile as he died; remembering happier times and honoured by a single tear from the white eye of his lord.