The stormcaller

CHAPTER 12

A light shone around his body, tracing the curve and line of his hardened figure, illuminating scars long faded and signs of injury he could not remember. He moved with dreamy lethargy to a silent song. His armour was gone, stripped away from his flesh, but Eolis remained, secured by a bond stronger than ownership. Terribly heavy and crusted with age, it looked frail and vulnerable. Despite that, he

felt sustained.

The chatter and voices that assailed his mind were muted and weak. His shell of flesh and memory was impervious to their touch, but still they gnawed, hungry for attention, or thoughts to feed off. The only one he listened to was a whisper beyond his understanding, a girl's voice that called out, searching for him in the dismal black of night. It was a language he did not recognise, words he could not fathom, but a voice he knew from deep within.

He felt the earth closing around him, as if falling into a grave, but he was not destroyed. He rose again as a shadow, unnoticed by the figures walking past him, wrapped up in their own lives. With Eolis in his hand he was suffused with calm; he patiently ignored the emptiness of death. Though broken and scarred, there was purpose in his bones, and he let them carry him forward towards the shore of a still lake and a figure, stiller than that. The breeze coming off the water brought voices with it, and the tastes of salt and cold blood. Silver shimmered in the sky and the smell of heather and wet stone was all about. He smiled as his blood ran into the earth at his feet.

'My Lord?'

General Lahk's voice jolted Isak from his doze. His eyes shot open in alarm, as vestiges of his dream made him forget momentarily where he was.

'You were sleeping in the saddle again, my Lord.' Though the words contained a reproach, the tone was bereft of emotion.

'Well? What of it?'

'Well, falling from your horse would hardly be a glorious death for me to report to Lord Bahl. If it started suddenly-'

'It won't start suddenly.' Isak reached out and patted the neck of the huge horse underneath him. 'I know perfectly well that this is the best charger in the seven shires, and I'm not going to fall.'

He rubbed his eyes, trying to keep himself awake. They had been riding for several hours that morning, but still he couldn't shake off sleep's embrace. With his blue silk mask on and his fur hood pulled up, Isak had made himself a small pocket of warmth, even while the temperature dropped further every day. The nights on the road were far from peaceful, for the bright warmth of magic of the gifts that Isak kept in reach at all times attracted lonely voices in the night. For the time being, reviving deep sleep eluded him.

He pulled his hood off to let the breeze wake him up a bit. He was always more irritable when he was sleepy, and the general's monotone brought out the worst in him. Scratching at the stubble on his head, Isak sighed and at last turned to look at the man, who sat high and proud in the saddle, his face as blank as ever. Isak had never yet seen him show emotion of any kind – what he would be like in battle was anyone's guess. It was unusual for a white-eye to go through life like that; it was inconceivable that he would be the same on the battlefield.

'So, did you wake me for a reason, or just concern for my health?' he asked, grumpily.

'I thought you would prefer to be awake as we enter the next town. It's not seemly for the Krann to be asleep when his subjects come out to cheer him. I also have word from your knights from Anvee.'

'What about them? Have I offended them by not sending them orders to accompany me?' In his other life he'd found people took offence at most things, but a court rank had apparently enlarged the range of possibilities, and the things he didn't do were causing him almost as many problems as the things he did.

'They are your subjects. You may offend if it so pleases you.'

'Enough scolding, General, I'm too tired.'

'I lack the rank to scold you…'

'Just shut up and tell me what they said.'

'They were enquiring as to whether they could present themselves to you.'

Isak turned in his saddle, shifting Eolis on his back to sit more comfortably as he waited for further explanation.

'They number five hundred – an impressive number for Anvee, which of course is the intention. They are most anxious to please their new liege. The problem is that a number of the knights and most of the cavalrymen are your bondsmen.' He waited for a response, but got none.

Isak sat with a blank expression. As a wagon-brat he'd never had any reason to leam the laws of land-locked men. His father had called it a collar that choked honest men into slaves. Carel had laughed at that and not bothered to argue, his chuckles indicating that Herman's opinion was so foolish it didn't even merit a response.

The general persisted. 'Lord Isak, Anvee has been without a suzerain for many years. It has therefore been of advantage to pledge a bond of service to the title of Suzerain Anvee itself, since the benefits of that bond come with few of the requirements one normally expects. They are therefore now a little unsettled that a suzerain has been appointed – they now have responsibilities to you, and they are trying to keep to the letter of the law until they can judge your disposition.'

'And?'

He sighed. Isak thought it was in irritation for a moment, but the reply was as bland and patient as before. 'And the law states that a bondsman must secure his liege lord's permission before he can leave the shire. Technically, this constitutes desertion. They could be hung.'

Isak's face turned from confused to incredulous.

'And they are actually worried I might do that? Execute my own soldiers? Before a battle, no less?'

'They thought it prudent for me to speak to you first. You are a white-eye.'

Isak felt the general's words sink like a stone in his stomach. It didn't matter that such a decision would be lunacy: they feared the monster inside him. Even General Lahk had not disputed the possibility that Isak might respond that way – it was as if Atro were still alive and every evil rumour about him had been true.

Isak felt too sickened to reply. He waved his hand in the direction of the general, telling him to get on with it, then nudged his horse

away, unable to bear company. General Lahk spurred his own horse into a trot and disappeared behind the banners of Suzerain Tehran's hurscals.

How does he live like that? They must think the same about him, worse perhaps. Is there nothing he cares about? Would he disobey any order from Bahl, no matter how obscene? Would he even notice? Maybe what they say is true; maybe Nartis did burn out his soul.

The Chief Steward had told Isak the strange circumstances of the general's birth, and how Bahl had taken him to be tested in the Temple of Nartis. Lahk was far stronger than any other white-eye, but Nartis had rejected him, scarring his body with lightning instead of raising him to the ranks of the Chosen. He was left with two choices: reject Nartis and leave, or become a perfect servant of the God. He had taken the harder path, discarding those parts of his soul that would nurture the pain of his rejection. Isak almost admired him for that, however much the thought horrified him.

A few flakes of snow swirled around Isak as he stared through the banners to see where the general was going, but his idle gaze was soon lost in the flags and colours themselves. The livery of the Palace Guard was a dour black and white – no doubt it reflected Bahl's uncompromising mind, but it seemed to suit Lahk more, especially after a few weeks of wear and dirt had dulled everything. Slowly, as they had marched through the shires collecting troops, passing through Tebran to Nelbove and Danva, then following the border of Amah and Vere, flashes of colour had begun to appear in the ranks. The Chetse called the Parian cavalry 'steel peacocks' – gaudy and arrogant, but fearsome, however much silk and lace they wore.

With the army now marched a total of eight suzerains, including the Krann himself, and eleven counts, some fifty marshals and six hundred-odd knights. The hundreds of banners and badges, pennants and tunics, clashed in a melee of colour across the dull canvas of a wintry forest. Every single noble had presented himself to the Krann and had his title announced, but it was only the suzerains that Isak had remembered. The rest had been just a blur of pomp and ceremony.

That old rogue Fordan had the honour of the vanguard, ahead of higher-ranking suzerains – a decision of Isak's that had made Sir Cerse, Colonel of the Palace Guard, wince. But Fordan had proved to be both good company and a sensible advisor. Isak was less sure about Sir Cerse, the young ambitious knight from Tori who had surprised

most by earning a Swordmaster's Eagle-blade shortly after he joined the Ghosts. Fordan's Red Keep banner was too far ahead to be seen, as were the Gold and Green Hounds of rich Suzerain Nelbove and the Green Griffin of the odious Suzerain Selsetin. There was something about that man that set Isak's teeth on edge, even before Fordan had muttered something about both Nelbove and Selsetin being implicated in the Malich scandal. Without knowing quite what that meant, Isak did realise it made them far from friendly to his cause. The other nobles had nodded sagely at Fordan's words; whatever it was, the scandal was obviously common knowledge.

The swooping Golden Falcon of the newly raised Suzerain Danva fluttered just ahead. His brother was dead only two weeks and a book was already running on the life expectancy of his infant nephew, who would take the title if he reached adulthood. The suzerain's superb voice carried well over the breeze, and Isak could also hear an insistent debate between Suzerains Amah and Ked. The White Hart of Amah seemed to be faring well against the Yellow Lion, despite having to concede nearly twenty summers to his peer.

The last suzerain present was foremost in rank, being from the oldest family and one of the richest provinces, but to Isak's surprise, the dour, excessively devout Suzerain Tori had presented himself only briefly before setting off to ride with the ranging scouts. His Ice Cobra emblem was as uncommon as the strange and secretive suzerain himself. Just as rare was his decision to wear simple leathers, with the badge of his family sewn to his breast as a sworn soldier would, instead of the grand armour a knight was expected to be seen in. His plate was carefully packed away, as was that of his hurscals, the unit of knights that acted as his bodyguard.

At first, Isak thought the man was a coward, dressing as a simple cavalryman to avoid making a target of himself like his fellow noblemen, but as he found out more about the man, he was deeply relieved that for once he'd not let his tongue run away with him. General Lahk, not one to overly praise anyone, told Isak that when it came to battle, Suzerain Tori was always to be found fighting side-by-side with the white-eyes of the Guard.

A heavy covering of cloud kept Tsatach's eye well hidden, and a dry wind whistled past the armoured knights and the leather-clad troops to the pack animals trailing behind them. A vanguard flurry of snowflakes held a promise of far worse to come: when the ice on the

road became too dangerous for horsemen, the beasts of burden would have to walk the path first, enduring the worst of the slick ground.

Isak's sharp eyes picked out red-furred squirrels watching the army from a safe distance, their thick rusty coats quivering as they tapped at the oak bark in search of insects hidden underneath. It was comforting that some life continued around them, uninterested and unaffected by the army marching east. The people of the towns they had passed through had been nervous and scared, only hesitantly cheering the soldiers. The fear of the elves had a strong grip; they had seen real anxiety even before they left Danva's borders. Seeing Isak astride his huge white charger, silent apart from the faint jangling of the harness and the chimes of the silver chains, rings and bells that adorned the creature, seemed to inspire confidence – perhaps that was enough; their belief in him was more important that his own. If his soldiers had heart enough, his own fears would go unnoticed.

It didn't take General Lahk long to return. Trotting beside him was a black-garbed knight, his breastplate worn over his formal silks as was traditional. He was clearly wealthy: a gold damascene pattern overlaid the deep black of his armour, curling around the edge of the lion's head that sat large and proud in the centre of the breastplate. Even in his sleepy state, Isak felt a flicker of recognition. He blinked the blur from his eyes and looked again, this time realising who the man was: the Roaring Lion crest and extravagant black armour were a rare combination, and Isak knew there would be a golden helm shaped like a lion's head hanging from the man's saddle.

As the horsemen came nearer, Isak could make out the two gold earrings: the mark of a count. If his skin didn't heal too fast to make it practical, Isak would have had a similar piercing to hold the three rings of a suzerain. This was not some anonymous noble, but the renowned Count Vesna.

Vesna's reputation preceded him: every child, noble-born or wagon-brat, had grown up hearing stories of his romantic exploits: the cuckolding of an army of noblemen, the duels and rooftop pursuits… Carel always said Vesna was one of the tribe's finest soldiers, but necessity had required it. It was rumoured that Vesna had provided more than a few heirs to noble estates, children accepted because most feared to challenge one of the Land's most accomplished duellists: Vesna had fought twenty-four duels, and won them all. Some – a few – had tried to kill him surreptitiously, or have him assassinated, but Vesna had inherited a minor elven blade, and had mortgaged his entire estate to buy that suit of armour from the College of Magic.

A single ruby glinted in the eye of the Roaring Lion, catching what little light the day had to offer. His black hair was pulled back from his face and tied back, showing off the handsome features that had brought both pleasure and trouble. Though undeniably good-looking, with laughter-lines fanning out from his eyes, there was a hard set to his jaw, and a strength in his knowing face.

'Count Vesna,' called Isak as the men dismounted and approached. The herald who shadowed Isak's every movement opened his mouth, then closed it again with a hurt expression.

'Lord Isak.' Vesna's voice was like his face: a soldier's potency coupled with a rich humour. As he knelt at Isak's feet and bowed, Isak could see blue tattoos running down the side of his neck, the stained skin of a man who'd been knighted on the field for bravery in battle. The title he'd inherited; this, Vesna had earned himself.

'I was told Anvee grew cabbages and goats, not heroes.' A squad of Ghosts fell in behind Isak's stationary horse. As the rest of the army filed past, every head craned to watch the two men. Isak heard sergeants curse their men as the disciplined columns buckled and

flexed.

'You honour me, my Lord.' Isak almost laughed at Count Vesna's careful tone of voice. How often did you have your childhood hero kneeling at your feet? 'I can only hope that I show myself worthy of that by fighting at your side.'

'Enough. The first thing you can tell my bondsmen is the only men I want at my feet are the ones I've put there. And I thank you for the respect you've offered. I'm sure the men from Anvee will distinguish themselves on the field.'

The count rose with a relieved look, the sparkle of a smile in his eyes. Isak saw that and felt almost foolishly pleased that the man seemed to be so easy with him. He pointed to the count's horse.

'Come, on, we're slowing the army down. We can talk in the

saddle.'

Vesna gave a short bow, immediately all confidence now Isak's disposition was known, then gripped the horn of his saddle and pulled himself up with a practised grace. A quick touch of his heel guided the horse around and set it on its way.

'May I ask what my Lord has heard of the enemy?'

Isak nodded to the general as he drew his massive charger up alongside the count's black-draped hunter. The horse had a placid and calm air to it, not quite what Isak had expected a famed impetuous rogue to be riding. He decided it was a good sign; that underneath the stories and the image was a calculating intelligence. A fiery stallion pounding at the earth might be more impressive, but this calm mare would be easier to trust in the chaos of battle.

He turned his attention away from the horse, back to the rider. 'We're too far away for the mages to scry, but we know enough.' He gestured at the general, who was happy to fill Count Vesna in on what they knew. Isak sat aloof and let the words wash over him. General Lahk would be the one to decide strategy when the time came, and Bahl and Lesarl had agreed that Isak should appear detached, rather than try to field questions, as he would be forced to defer to Lahk anyway.

'The enemy has split into three parts, all north of Lomin,' the general said. 'One is at the gates of the city, laying siege, another is further west and the last sits halfway between Peak's Gate and Lomin. Vitil and Kohm have been burned to the ground.'

Now it was always the enemy when the soldiers spoke, not the elves: the enemy was a faceless creature, one to destroy. It needed no name.

'And the people there?'

Three hundred infantry lost at Vitil, but their deaths bought time for the rest to escape. The cavalry at Lomin we believe destroyed

'What? All?' Vesna's cool was supplanted by anger and disbelief.

'We think so. The standing guard of three thousand marched out, their annual full deployment. They did not return.'

Tthought that was to be stopped?'

'It was, but since it coincided with the last day of the hunt season, Scion Lomin decided that the last year should be a special one.'

'Fate is not without a sense of humour.' Vesna spoke in a weary monotone that made him sound suddenly like the general: the voice of an old soldier who'd seen it all before.

They rode on in a bitter silence for another mile. Isak kept himself very still, like a child trying not to be seen. The count stared off into the distance, his lips moving almost imperceptibly. Isak could just make out the movement in the corner of his eye, but what it meant was another matter entirely. Was his new bondsman some sort of

religious fanatic? Was there more than met the eye – and if so, could he ever trust any man these days? As he thought that, Isak chided himself, as he knew Carel would have.

Gods, Lesarl's infected you with his paranoia. Vesna's just praying. The man's a soldier, mourning deaths that could easily have been his own.

'I heard mention of trolls; is it true?' Isak flinched when Vesna spoke again. Perhaps it was just the loss of so many men, but the count sounded apprehensive – perhaps he had fought trolls before.

'It's true,' confirmed General Lahk. 'We should find out how many once we're able to scry the ground, but we must err on the pessimistic side and expect a hundred or so.' 'And our heavy cavalry?'

The reputation of trolls was so fearsome that only heavy cavalry could engage the monsters head-on. That was the price of knighthood or nobility: in times like this, they took on the worst of the Farlan's enemies. It was said trolls felt no pain, even from a mortal wound. The most effective way to fight them was with long lances from horseback. Foot soldiers would struggle to reach the head, let alone hit with enough force to do any real damage: smashing the skull was the best way to kill a troll; anything less left the attacker horribly vulnerable. 'Eight hundred Ghosts, and another seven hundred nobles and hurscals. That's all the hunters we can put on the field. The infantry legion of the Ghosts can support them, but their losses will be

heavy.'

The conversation turned to logistics, supplies and troop movements. Isak had heard the days and half-days counted out interminably over the past few weeks: how fast they could reach Lomin, how soon the infantry would arrive from Peak's Gate and Lomin… He closed his eyes again and let the Land drift past.

The day lingered on, dully chill and boring. Pages, heralds and quartermasters were constantly hurrying over to talk to General Lahk, but nothing-they said seemed to interest or surprise him. His replies were terse, to the point. When the army first set out, the younger pages would linger for a while at the general's heel, unsure by his tone whether they had been dismissed. They would pale and scuttle off when he turned back and told them to leave.

Vesna asked endless questions, discussing the smallest details with the general, just to keep himself in Isak's presence. It didn't irritate Isak, much to his surprise: the rich, aristocratic voice was more

interesting than the slap of hooves on mud. Idly, he realised that single fact could be crucially important to Vesna's future, whether his desires were political, acquisitive or both. It was enough to make the wagon-brat in him spit with scorn. His eyes flashed open and he scowled at the dripping trees lining the road.

As midday approached, increasing numbers lined the roadside. Hungry, drawn faces stared in mute envy at the rich clothes, healthy horses and lush coloured banners. In full battle-dress, the column would be even more impressive – hurscals carrying flags on their backs and knights with silken strips affixed to shoulders, helm, elbow and back. In full charge they were billowing banners of luxury.

The competition to impress was not lost on the peasants who laboured along with battered carts containing all their worldly belongings. Isak could see resentment as clearly as relief, all overlaid by dirt and fatigue. The army quelled fears of the enemy, but also highlighted how wide the gulf was between peasant and noble. Their toil in the fields was a far cry from the glamour of knighthood. Most of the nobles rode past impassive and unseeing. 'Why are all these people here?'

'Refugees, my Lord, the peasants have abandoned the land around Lomin. They know what it means to be caught by the enemy.' The general sounded almost sympathetic towards the cowed, starving wretches forced off the road to let the horsemen pass. Almost. Like everything else, the peasantry didn't actually matter to the white-eye: they were just more background noise to his empty life.

As Isak watched, occasionally meeting eyes, he felt a change in the air as the numbers grew. Down the road ahead he saw huddled groups becoming crowds. He shifted in his saddle, sensing a mixture of condemnation that only now did he come to their rescue, along with fear, awe and relief. The Farlan were a superstitious people, and the legends of Aryn Bwr lived on in the hearts of his most fervent enemies. But time plays strange tricks, and the Gods had honoured him even as they condemned him to Ghenna, for his courage and sheer genius had earned Aryn Bwr a strange place in folklore: never quite beloved, but too wonderful to completely despise. Now people were again faced with that contradiction, and no one was entirely comfortable with it.

'What are we doing for them?' Isak muttered. He twisted to look at General Lahk.

'My Lord?'

'Supplies? Food? It's winter, Larat take you! Has nothing been done for them at all? Are they just going to die out here, waiting for us to reclaim their homes?'

'Nothing has been done as yet, my Lord.'

Again, no trace of anything. Isak would have been more comfortable with open contempt, anything, just to show the general was alive. 'Well, why not?'

'Chief Steward Lesarl was quite explicit, my Lord. We were to do nothing until they saw the order to come from you. Your people should love your rule as well as fear your strength.' Ignoring Isak's incredulous look, he called in a booming voice to the Colonel of the Palace Guard, 'Sir Cerse, my Lord wishes you to distribute our food to his subjects.'

As Isak fumed he saw the knight rip off a sharp salute and gesture to his lieutenants to set about the task. The wagons of supplies appeared miraculously quickly from the back of the train and a unit of men rode at its side, handing out all they had to every Parian who reached out eagerly.

Isak was speechless. Again he had been anticipated and manipulated. His silver-mailed fist tightened around the hilt of his blade as inside he raged at himself for being Lesarl's plaything. 'My Lord is unimpressed.'

'Fuck you, Lahk. If you or Lesarl think I'll stand to be manipulated… The only reason I don't kill you now is that I need you for the battle.'

'I understand, My Lord. Our kind does not suit such treatment-' 'And you know what it is to be me? Do you have my dreams? Or the Gods themselves playing with you as a puppet in games even Lesarl wouldn't dare to join?'

'We are all puppets, my Lord. The only difference is that they notice what happens to you. The rest of us do not matter so.'

Isak felt a stab of guilt as the scarred general instinctively ran a finger down his neck. The jagged mess of scar ran down from behind his ear to disappear under his mail shirt. Isak couldn't find the words to reply. He returned to brooding on the eternal question of exactly what plan the Gods had for him. Since becoming one of the Chosen he felt even more constrained than when his father had dictated his life. He hated feeling like a mere pawn even more than the helpless-

ness of his childhood servitude. It chafed as noticeably as- as his armour failed to.

Isak's mind wandered off the subject as he stroked the breastplate and wondered again about Siulents. It was faultless in design, and unmatched throughout the Land. Running a finger down its perfectly smooth surface, Isak could sense an echo of the runes that Aryn Bwr had engraved into the silver, each rune anchoring a spell of some kind. He guessed there were more than a hundred – and yet no more than a dozen suits in existence bore more than twenty runes. Lesarl had said he could snap his fingers and produce a score of men willing to spend the rest of their lives studying Siulents, and that it might take as many again twice as long.

The tales made the last king out to be noble and just, however dreadful his rebellion had been. The Gods had loved him above all others, while he was their servant. The greatest mystery in history was why Aryn Bwr had turned against his Gods.

Isak was beginning to see a different side to the man, for walking in his actual shoes told a tale that the Harlequins never had: Siulents was suited to a killer, inhuman and utterly lethal. It felt like something made by a white-eye, not the elf whose poetry had caused Leitah, Goddess of Wisdom and Learning, to cherish him above all but her brother Larat. And then Leitah had been cut down in battle, killed by a Crystal Skull that Aryn Bwr had forged.

What unnerved Isak most was the piece he had not yet worn, the helm: tradition was that it was donned only for battle – and it was one tradition with which he was completely comfortable. Those horny ridges and blank face held a promise of something he was in no rush to sample.

The strange dreams, the extraordinary gifts, the 'heart' rune, the voice of a young girl calling his name through the blackness – there was a tapestry of sorts coming together, and at every turn another thread appeared to bind him further. To the peasants watching Isak as they crammed bread into their growling stomachs, he looked calm, and without a care. His horse moved with brisk arrogance, its hooves pricking up high, the silver rings and bells catching each other and singing out in a dreary day.

Vesna, watching Isak's expression growing increasingly perturbed, cleared his throat to attract his new lord's attention.

Isak scowled at his bondsman, but the count ignored it and nudged

his horse closer. Now a little curious, Isak leaned down to hear what

the man had to say.

'My Lord, I am your bondsman to command, and required by law and oath to protect your interests. I know these political games well, and can play them better, if that would be of use to you.'

'And why would you do that?' Isak muttered, ungraciously. 'Why should I trust a man of your reputation, someone I hardly know?'

The count looked startled at that. 'My reputation, my Lord Suzerain, has never been one for oath-breaking.' There was a cold tone to his voice that made Isak think he had taken real offence. If that was the case, Isak wasn't about to apologise. A bondsman, even a count, was not someone he had to care about unsettling.

'I am your bondsman. My fortunes follow yours, so your success is certainly of importance to me – and my reputation is all I have. To foster treachery would take that from me.'

Isak sat back, impressed by the passion in Vesna's voice. 'So, what

is your advice then?'

'The general is not your enemy. To consider him so is a mistake.'

'He's hardly friendly.'

Vesna shrugged. 'General Lahk is a devoted servant of his tribe. He respects the authority of Lord Bahl and his most trusted servants. He trusts that their orders are in the best interests of the tribe. Treat him as a dependable servant and he will act so.'

'And Lesarl?'

'The Chief Steward is a sadist who loves his power, but he is a devoted vassal of Lord Bahl who knows that he can find his pleasures pursuing the interests of the tribe. Spies and assassins are his toys; his loyalty is assured because it affords him what he loves most. Even Le-sarl's enemies would acknowledge that he is a genius of a governor. I believe he will honour you when you are his lord. Until then, perhaps he thinks you have to learn to be a lord worthy of honour?'

Isak looked again at General Lahk, considering Vesna's words. There was logic there, and though that didn't mean it was necessarily true, he would lose nothing by playing along. 'So who are my enemies then?' he asked mildly.

'Right now, your enemies are camped outside Lomin. To forget that

could be fatal.'

The days passed quickly. Isak remembered little of his dreams except

for the clamour of battles he hadn't fought, and that same searching voice; of the days, almost as little. He felt exhausted from lack of sleep, and was lulled into a constant doze by the uniform grey sky and the sway of his horse. Bahl had told him that he would need to draw in on himself and prepare for the battle, but Isak couldn't have done much else anyway.

The nag of the enemy somewhere ahead remained a faint prickle at the base of his skull as he ran through control exercises in his mind. He couldn't release magic yet, but drilling the theory of defending himself from it might just save his life. Half a dozen times, General Lahk flinched in his saddle as he felt a burst of energy pulse out from the Krann as he practised.

A week later there was a distraction from the normal tedium of the march, as scouts reported the enemy had been sighted moving away from Lomin to open ground. Isak didn't understand, until Vesna explained that by withdrawing early, the elves were in effect picking the battleground, to ensure they had room for their superior numbers instead of letting isolated groups be picked off one at a time by the Farlan cavalry.

Karlat Lomin rode into camp with his hurscals ahead of his foot soldiers, who were hurrying to join up with the cavalry, to offer grudging obeisance. Vesna found Isak pawing listlessly at a bowl of fatty broth and fussed over his appearance until Isak was smart enough – and alert enough – to meet Scion Lomin. Hauling Isak to his feet and buttoning his tunic had had very little effect; it was only when Vesna fractionally touched the scabbard holding Eolis that he was rewarded by a glare that showed Isak was at last fully awake.

The young wolf cut an impressive figure in the bronze and red of his family. His scarlet-stained helm, shaped like a wolf's head, glowed eerily in the firelight as he reined in by Isak's tent. He wore only half armour, cuirass and mail atop expensive leathers worked with gold and bronze thread. The wolf's head hung from his saddle like the bloody trophies Isak had once seen hanging from the walls of a Chetse town.

As Lomin slid nimbly from his saddle, Vesna moved ahead of his lord to greet the man. One of the hurscals took half a pace forward and a thin smile crept on to Isak's face as he saw the intent to stir up trouble, but Lomin raised a finger to stop the man. Clearly these two had met before.

'Good evening, Scion Lomin,' called the count in a cheery tone, his palms upturned in traditional welcome. He took great care over the younger man's title, one that was inferior to his own.

The scion took his time acknowledging Vesna's greeting. Hand-ing his reins to a page, he carefully shook out his long straight black hair and fiddled with the gold clasps on each shoulder that held his cloak. Isak could see that these too were wolf heads – interesting; they should have been the Keep device of the Lomin family. Once the clasps were arranged to his satisfaction, Lomin looked at the count, his lips thinned into a line of distaste. That one look was enough to convince Isak that Vesna would be loyal to him: it was pure hatred. 'The evening is not good, Count Vesna, and neither am I Scion.' Vesna forced himself down on to one knee as Lomin strode imperiously up to him. 'Then you have my apologies, Duke Lomin,' he said, reaching out to touch the ducal seal.

The duke raised a finger to cut Vesna off. 'Duke Certinse, Vesna. I have decided to take my mother's family name.'

Isak saw Count Vesna's shoulders tense. That Karlat Lomin – now Certinse, he must remember that – had eschewed both his own family name and that of his city, favouring his mother's powerful family, was a studied insult to Lord Bahl's position.

Somehow, Vesna managed to maintain the level of respect required of him, unclipping his sheathed sword and holding it out hilt-first to his enemy in a gesture of deference, muttering, 'Duke Certinse, I apologise, and I grieve for your father. We had not heard his illness

had won out.'

'It didn't. Weak as he was, my father was not one to be beaten by an ill humour. A team of assassins breached the walls two nights past. They murdered him in his bed before firing the keep. Only my mother and I survived. Ten elven assassins managed to murder my entire family, fifty guards and burn my home. The wall guards tell me some even made it back to their lines.'

All around, protocol was forgotten in the horror of the news and a hundred voices murmured rage and disbelief, common soldiers and nobility alike cursing in the same breath. Only General Lahk's voice interrupted as he called for the watches to be doubled and the fires banked high. That assassins could penetrate one of the most secure of the Farlan keeps was a horrifying thought. Isak heard a knight mutter 'sorcery', as he thought the same thing.

Before him, Duke Certinse stood appreciating the effect he'd had. One gloved hand rested lovingly on the hilt of his sword. At his father's death he had inherited Bloodlight and Lomin's Torch, weapons that only those of the Chosen could surpass. It was rumoured that the young man, still only twenty summers, had never had any love for his popular father, or any of his siblings. The young wolf held only his mother in his heart. He was her very image, made masculine.

Despite the shock, Isak couldn't help but wonder why only those two had managed to avoid the tragedy. 'I'm sorry to hear that,' he rumbled gravely. 'Everyone spoke well of Duke Lomin, your father. I had hoped to meet him one day.'

Silence returned to the scene and faces turned to watch the two men. Duke Certinse took in Isak, bigger even than when he'd left Tirah, and nodded curtly. He was obviously unhappy about being in the presence of someone whose image overshadowed his own. He walked over to Isak, and, as Vesna had done to him, he held out the hilt of Lomin's Torch to Isak and grudgingly touched the dragon-ring on Isak's hand. Certinse might be a duke now, and thus outrank Isak, but the Krann had been given specific command of the army and so carried BahPs authority in lieu.

Behind Certinse, a page had the hem of his cloak bunched in his hand. The boy's pudgy face was frozen in fear and Isak's sharpened senses caught the faint stink of urine. He couldn't blame the boy, having to come to within a few feet of such a monstrous figure, but he doubted the duke would be so forgiving.

Isak reached out and touched the pommel of the weapon. Certinse flinched in surprise as Isak probed its potency, one finger resting on the figure of a wolf sleeping with nose tucked under its bushy tail. The runes he felt were strong and simple, except for one that gave Isak a sense of bloodlust, a hunger to burn and ruin the flesh of the twisted creatures now advancing.

The rune felt as if it had recoiled at his touch and he withdrew his hand hurriedly. He didn't want to know why it had done that. He might not know much about magic yet, but he was positive some forbidden process had made this. At its very core, the sword knew the taste of elves – it had been quenched in the blood of one.

'Rise; we can play formalities some other time.'

'As you say.' Certinse's voice was cool as he stood. 'You received my man with news of their forces?'

'We did,' broke in General Lahk, stepping forward to take control of the discussion. Vesna had already told Isak that Certinse would try to lead the battle if given the slightest opportunity. 'Suzerain Tori has command of four legions of cavalry – he went ahead two days ago to harry their movements. How many men have you managed to bring

from Lomin?'

'All the infantry I could muster: four legions of spear and one of archers. None of the town garrisons have had a chance to get here, but with luck the rangers might be able to find a secure path for some to reach the battle in time.'

'We're short on archers then, with so many light cavalry away, but it will have to do. From what we've scried of the enemy, they have far greater numbers, although most are on foot. The group trying to outflank us is entirely horse; that means they won't want to move the main bulk very far.'

They'll take the northern end of the Chir Plain then.' 'You know it?' Lahk waved a hand behind him and immediately one of his staff thrust a map-scroll into it. Another man brought a table and the map was unrolled on it.

'Here's the plain,' said Certinse, his finger stabbing down at the map. Isak moved forward to look over Lahk's shoulder. With a grunt the general slid around the table to afford Isak a better view. The curves and lines meant little to the Krann but he kept quiet. A wagoner knew the lie of the Land from his own travels and the accounts of others, not paper, but he had to learn.

'There's a rise that runs much of that side, we can ride hidden behind it, but if they try to go over they'll be in trouble. It's too rocky to get down that slope. They will have to wait until they reach the cleft where a small river cuts the ridge. It's wide and brings you right round the other side of the plain.' 'What else is there?'

'The river. That cuts through the ridge like this and runs that way – it's not deep, though. There's a steep, flat-topped rise here.' Certinse moved his finger north-east of the river. Nothing was indicated on the map, but neither duke nor general looked surprised. There are some old fortifications on top, nothing significant, but it's a safe place to have a good view of the field. Other than that, there's a slight up-slope running east and a nice big space to pick them off in.'

'What will the river be like at this time of year?' interrupted Isak.

He'd dragged enough horses through enough rivers swollen by autumn rain as a child to know how difficult it would be for an army.

Certinse glanced up, a flash of irritation on his face, but replied, 'Not too bad; even with the rain we've had it'll still be possible to cross.'

'Good,' declared General Lahk in a decisive voice. That's where we'll attack. We can take the heavy cavalry through the ridge there and hit the enemy in the side.' 'Alone?'

'Not quite. Your legion of archers will be on that rocky slope, protected by one of the Lomin spear legions. We have one legion of light cavalry with our group, and a division will skirmish ahead to draw the trolls off that rise-'

'How do you know they will be there?' the duke interrupted. 'It's protected from cavalry, therefore that is where the trolls will go, ready to attack our heavy cavalry once we commit it. The division will be doused in every bottle of perfume and scent our fair knights have brought with them. My Ghosts have already searched the baggage of every man with us. Your hurscals will submit to the same, Duke Certinse.'

The young man went red with anger at being ordered about by a white-eye, but Isak's question came out first. 'Perfume? Have you gone mad?'

'Firstly, the scent of trolls on the wind will alarm the horses,' the general explained calmly. 'Hopefully, this will help mask their stench, which in turn will help us to keep our order tight. Secondly, a troll relies on scent and hearing – they can only see very short distances. The archers will also be burning all the incense our priests have. I am assured that the direction of the wind will be favourable. By moving quickly enough, and with any help the mages can provide, we can at least anger the trolls. They will follow the unfamiliar smell as much as the movement of the cavalry, and when our horse break south, out of the way, I believe they will falter in confusion.' That's lunacy!' cried Certinse.

The general straightened up to face the duke, but still no trace of annoyance showed on his face, let alone anger at the insult. 'Well then, it is unfortunate for all of us that Lord Isak has approved of the plan, and it is he who was specifically appointed commander of our army,' he said quietly.

'Lord Bahl did not know a duke would be present!' snapped Certinse in return. 'If my father had been alive he would have been granted command as soon as he rode in. I demand the same right, as is the privilege of my rank.'

Isak raised an eyebrow at Vesna, but the count was not paying attention. His hand was creeping closer to his sword as the Lomin hurscals edged closer to the group.

It was up to Isak. 'Demand whatever in the name of the dark place you like,' he bellowed. The venom in his voice froze every man to the spot and rippled out through the air to reach the Ghosts camped all around Isak's tent. Hands reached instinctively for weapons as they caught sight of Certinse's hurscals and they immediately closed the respectful gap between men and generals. General Lahk was an emotionless bastard who'd sacrifice a division if he had to, but he'd kept them all alive time and time again for that precise reason. They trusted him as much as Lord Bahl and had no affection for the arrogance of household knights.

'The first man who draws a sword here, I'll call mutiny and run him through. That also goes for the first who tries to take my command, whatever his rank is,' Isak continued. Til answer to Lord Bahl for my actions, but no one else commands me.' He glared around at every man there. 'Now, does anyone wish to take issue with the plan?'

A moment of silence followed before Certinse opened his mouth again and blurted out, 'The enemy's numbers are too great. We'd have to cut our way through several legions to reach the trolls.'

'General Lahk, would you care to explain further?' Isak's voice was quiet and controlled; something Bahl had said to Isak had emerged from his memory: the eye of the storm is when men have time to fear the other side. Show your anger, and then don't use it further. They will expect it to return, and hesitate. One pause is all a soldier needs.

'Of course, my Lord. To the south will be the rest of the foot, the Palace Guard infantry at their fore and the rest of the light cavalry. The Ghosts and cavalry will advance, then falter at the sight of the enemy before retreating in a chaotic fashion. I would prefer to keep the Ghosts up with our group, but they are the only ones trained for this manoeuvre.'

'What manoeuvre?'

'Flee under orders. Our enemy likes nothing more than a running foe; their commanders will not be able to prevent a pursuit. There can

be no doubt of that. The fleeing men return to our line and reform – please trust me, Duke Certinse, I have seen to it personally that this will be done – and wait for the attack. The ground will become open enough for us to take the trolls without becoming surrounded.'

'But it means we are dividing our forces against superior numbers,' the duke said. 'That goes against one of the most basic principles of warfare.'

'And thus demonstrates Eraliave's assertion that all tenets of war are fluid and a good general must be able to adapt to the current situation,' finished Vesna. The duke glared at him, but obviously accepted that this was not the time for further argument.

'Indeed, Count Vesna,' the general said. 'Now, with your permis-sion, my Lord, I will give orders to the legion colonels.'

Isak gestured for Lahk to leave, even giving the general a nod of respect. It was hard for him not to smirk as the other men there did the same. Certinse had no choice but to follow suit, bound by the rules, laws and traditions of his class.

Suzerain Fordan then cleared his throat, his face a picture of innocent helpfulness. A pitcher of wine had not dimmed his intelligence: he could see that Certinse was about to leave and impose his own will on the execution of the plan. General Lahk was known for his utter obedience to authority; the last thing they needed now was for him to have to face down a superior.

'Duke Certinse, Lord Bahl wrote to me recently expressing a concern that soon the dukedom of Lomin might be without an heir, knowing how ill your beloved father was. Since this unhappy situation has now arisen, and we have so many of your peers at hand, this would seem the perfect opportunity to discuss a betrothal.'

The duke squirmed for a moment and then shrugged. He had the sense to know when he was out-manoeuvred and forced a smile at the craggy old man, who beamed in return. It was over an hour before the matter was settled: a magnificent dowry would accompany his marriage to Suzerain Nelbove's daughter. Nelbove was close to Tirah, and the suzerain knew he was suspected of treachery so he'd not risk angering Lord Bahl further.

With the evening's work done, the nobles retired to await the morning. 'Now then, my lady, don't you think you've spent long enough in here for one week?'

Tila flinched in her chair, hands reaching for the armrest to push herself up until she realised it was only Swordmaster Kerin standing before her. He grinned and eased himself down into the seat opposite, sighing with pleasure as he turned his attention to the fire. Tila had kept it banked up throughout the day; by Kerin's reaction she guessed it was bitterly cold outside now night had fallen. The Swordmaster was dressed in his formal uniform – as he had been every day since Lord Bahl's departure – and it didn't look nearly as warm as the leather and woollens he normally wore.

'I've spent quite a lot of time in here,' Tila admitted, rubbing the tiredness from her eyes as she inspected the Swordmaster, 'but I don't have any real duties until Lord Isak returns – and as you can see, I've quite a way to go yet.' She gestured at the books and scrolls on the walls with a weary smile.

'You intend to read them all?'

'I intend to read anything I think might be useful to Lord Isak.' She raised the book resting in her lap so Kerin could read the curling writing on its cover. 'A collection of prophecies about the Saviour.' She grimaced.

'Do you think-' Kerin began.

Tila cut him off. 'No, but there's been talk of all kinds since Lord Isak received his gifts. You must have heard the preachers out on the Palace Walk.'

'I've heard about them,' Kerin said, 'but I've got better things to do than listen to a bunch of unkempt madmen. Anyway, as Knight-Defender, I can't leave the palace until either Lord Bahl or a general relieves me of my duty; otherwise it's desertion of duty and that means a trip to the nearest tree and a quick drop.' They both smiled: the thought of Swordmaster Kerin even considering dereliction of duty was laughable.

'My men have been bringing back reports of all kinds of preachers throughout the city, and talking about the Saviour isn't their only favourite subject. There's been no trouble though; they're not rabble-rousers, just barking mad.'

Tila sniffed. 'You might find one of them to be a real holy man, then you'll be in trouble for dismissing them all as insane.'

'Oh Gods, they'd be worse!' Kerin exclaimed, leaning forward in

his seat to emphasise his point. 'As any man involved with keeping the peace will agree: merciful Gods, save us from the religious.' 'And what do you mean by that?'

'I mean I've seen how some who claim to be truly religious behave, and I tell you, Lady Tila, no creature of the Dark Place would ever turn on its own kind for such small reasons as these will. Religious foIk'11 burn or hang a man for smiling wrong.' Kerin wasn't smiling now. He sat gripping the armrests of his chair and glaring fiercely.

Tila thought better of trying to explain the difference between fanatics and the devout: some people had no interest in seeing one. 'Well then, if people are going to act that way it would be sensible to be prepared for it,' she said calmly. 'We should be able to recognise whatever dogma they're obeying.' She tapped the open page of the book. 'Have a read of this one and tell me what you think.'

She handed the book to Kerin who frowned as he scanned the lines of text. The prophecy she meant had come down on a stable-boy in Embere two hundred years ago; apparently no one, not even the scholar who had written this book, knew quite what to make of it. The Swordmaster's lips moved as he read – Tila recognised that amongst the palace's soldiers who'd come late to education – and his expression became graver at every sentence.

'Well I don't understand half of it, but this is no Saviour I'd like to meet,' he growled. 'A shadow rising from the faithful of the West; his twilight reign to begin amid the slain.'

'Comforting, isn't it?' Tila took the book back, placed it on the table beside her and stood up. Automatically, Kerin rose as well. 'But it is better to know what madness our enemies might follow than to wallow in our ignorance.' She presented her arm and nodded towards the door. 'Come on then. If you think I've been locked away in here too long, let's go and find some form of entertainment.'