The stormcaller

CHAPTER 17

Koezh Vukotic watched the beacons on the walls struggle against the unremitting wind. The flames sent faint shadows cavorting over the glistening cobbles of Daraban's streets, but they made little inroad into the coating of liquid darkness that had descended upon his city. Bulging clouds obscured his sight of the moons; he preferred it that way, without Alterr's watching eye.

But the shouts and calls out there, the clank of iron and drum of hooves, they were all sounds of another life, aspects of a time when he had been truly alive. The long years of his curse were an indistinct ache, quite separate from the sharp years of mortal life; as few as they had been. Though they were mere seconds compared to the long years that followed, their light still burned fiercely.

Out there, men preparing to die thought of their wives, their children. They smiled over those years that had been their span, hoping, praying, for a few more, however cold and harsh life might be in the Forbidden Lands.

It sickened Vukotic that his people would die in winter. The season was long here, long and harsh and violent, and he believed this attack had come about because a Krann was desperate to prove his worth. It was fear of meeting some unfortunate accident now that Lord Styrax's own son had come of age that had driven Lord Cytt to risk marching to the Forbidden Lands in winter. He was obviously trying to emulate Lord Styrax's great victory here.

Vukotic imagined ten thousand men, stamping their way over treacherous frozen ground, their fingers and toes black and festering, lost to frostbite and gangrene before they even reached these walls. What lurked in the shadows of these streets would only compound their misery: bright eyes and twisted smiles, and pale skin that barely noticed the bite of winter flushed in grotesque anticipation of the

slaughter to come.

He could feel his breed slipping through streets and alleys now, nostrils flaring, tasting the first blood on the wind. Many were close enough for him to sense individually, more lingered at the fringes of his mind, and as each recognised his presence, they begged permission to join.

He rarely let them take part – he wanted them to have as little to do with his citizens as possible – but they would always be there on the edges. Most were worse than animals, beautiful, degenerate daemons that preyed on those they would now be protecting – for this was different. This battle had nothing to do with the people of the city, and Vukotic saw no reason why they should suffer any more than necessary.

As he turned away from the window, echoes of lusty jubilation rang out with revolting familiarity. He steadied himself on the desk and lifted a foot to tug at the black mail covering it. It had been several years since he last wore his armour and the leather padding was chafing at skin more used to the finest silks. The curse gave him enormous strength and resilience, but his senses were likewise magnified. Pain was something he had learned to endure; his many deaths had provided more than sufficient practice.

A little more comfortable now, Vukotic eased himself into the sturdy leather chair before him and pushed aside the stack of papers on the walnut desk that were awaiting his attention. Now was not the time for civic affairs, not even the most pressing matter, a legal dispute between minor nobles – he found himself hoping one or the other died in the coming battle. It might not be a human solution, but few would ever accuse a vampire of excessive compassion.

His eyes wandered the room, lingering on the gold threading that now lined the shelves of his bookcase. The housekeeper had a free rein when it came to decoration and each time he returned, the room was different in some way. Perhaps to ward off the harsh winter, she had chosen bright reds and oranges, as well as a liberal use of gold leaf far beyond the finances of most; the new colour scheme certainly cheered his dull spirits. If he hadn't had the rest of his armour sitting on a chair behind him, the evening might not have been too unpleasant…

He sighed and trudged over to the pile of plate armour, picked up a piece and, grumbling to himself, began to strap it on. He winced as he pulled the cuirass over his head. His left hand gave a twinge as he raised his arm, the legacy of his recent death at the hands of Lord Styrax. For some reason, that injury had not entirely healed during his dark sojourn. His pale brow furrowed as he recalled not only being bested in single combat – extraordinarily – but the humiliation of slowly dying while his armour was roughly stripped from his body as it rotted to nothing. What he was donning now was his father's armour, but it was identical to his own bar the monogrammed initials.

That Lord Styrax had beaten him in single combat was truly remarkable; the Menin Lord was the finest warrior Koezh Vukotic had ever faced. He sighed. He very much doubted Styrax's Krann, rumoured to be dim-witted, even for a white-eye, would be of the same calibre.

A soft knock on the door dispelled his thoughts. Vukotic shrugged his shoulders to ensure the cuirass was straight and comfortable, then called for the servant to come in.

'Forgive the intrusion, my Prince, but you have a visitor and your tea is ready,' the elderly man said as he bowed as far as his load and age would permit, then shuffled forward and carefully placed a heavily laden tray on to a small table beside the fire.

'If it is one of the scouts then send them to Duke Onteviz; he has command of the walls,' said Vukotic before he noticed the second cup on the tray. A visitor was rare enough at any time, let alone when an army was attacking the city. It couldn't be his brother – Vorizh wouldn't dream of announcing himself to a servant; he preferred them to not even see him. Conceivably, his sister had returned from playing with the politicians of the western cities. She was more likely to visit than the others, perhaps the White Circle politics had bored her even quicker than she'd expected.

He paused, lost in thought. Strange he hadn't sensed whoever it was when he spoke to the rest of his breed. Just in case, he looked at the sword belt hanging from the back of the chair to make sure it was easily accessible if some treachery were afoot.

'I hardly think you need that,' someone outside the room said firmly.

The voice brought a smile to Vukotic's face and he dismissed the servant who had been waiting with hands anxiously clamped together. Aracnan leaned on the door frame. 'It's good to see you well again.'

Vukotic snorted. 'You make it sound like I had a cold.'

'Nothing you would not recover from. Complaints are not

princely.'

The vampire smiled and straightened up from fitting the plates about his shin to grasp Aracnan's huge hand and squeeze it tightly. 'Nor is much that I do, and yet this is the company you keep. How are you, my friend?'

'Well.' Aracnan shook off the black bearskin draped over his shoulders and sat down beside the fire with a satisfied sigh. His taut, pale skin plowed in the firelight, though his large black eyes reflected nothing.