The stormcaller

CHAPTER 24

As the first cold rays of dawn reached out over the Land, a figure made his way on to a deserted stretch of battlements on the south-western corner of Nerlos Fortress. He was dressed only in a rough black shirt and billowing trousers, hardly suitable for the cool morning, but as he padded on to the corner-platform between two stretches of walkway he appeared unperturbed by either the wind or the cold stone against his bare feet.

He knelt, facing the sun as it crept up towards the cloud that covered most of the sky, then bowed and, eyes half-closed, whispered a mantra. The words drifted away on the wind as he repeated the bow and the prayer ten more times, his voice smooth, almost hypnotic.

He sat back on his heels and beamed contentedly at the sunrise for a few minutes, then closed his eyes again and stretched out his right leg, laying it flat against the stone pointing north, then extended his left leg to the south, all with apparent ease. More words slipped through his lips, less formal, perhaps, but still full of reverence, as he leaned forward and placed his hands against the stone floor, tensing slightly, and eased his weight on to his palms. His legs wavered for a moment as he found his body's centre of balance, then he drew them together, pointing straight up.

He straightened his arms and moved his weight on to one hand, twisting so he was facing down the empty walkway. In times of peace there was only a single lookout on the highest tower and no one else had risen with the dawn. He bent his body into a crescent shape, then Propelled his body around and back up to a standing position.

And what was that?' The voice made Mihn pause and he peered into the darkened doorway suspiciously until Isak stepped out into the crisp sunlight.

'I was praying.'

Isak raised an eyebrow. 'Praying? I've never seen a priest do that.'

'You don't need to be a priest to pray, my Lord. Every child should be taught the devotionals to each of the Upper Circle.'

'No doubt they should – 1 can probably even remember some of them – but what was that last bit? If everyone had to do that at temple 1 might have gone more often.' Isak's laughter died when he

saw Mihn's grave expression.

'That was a personal prayer, something we were taught in our tribe. It's different for each person, a way of giving thanks for something you enjoy, or a particular ability-'

'So I should be killing someone each morning? That's all they made me good for.' Isak immediately regretted snapping, but Mihn's calm

was not disrupted.

'Not at all. I believe you have several things to be grateful for: your strength, your health, your position. And there are your gifts-'

'Fine, I understand, just stop preaching. If you've decided to stay and piously whine at me as your life's calling, I take everything back,' Isak shifted uncomfortably. It- hadn't even occurred to him to say a prayer of thanks for his gifts. There had been little chance when Nartis was invading his dreams, and then he'd got caught up in his new life… one had to hope that the Gods weren't like people. Isak had seen family feuds grow out of those feast days where gifts were traditional. The idea of appearing ungrateful to the God of Storms was not appealing.

Mihn broke into his reverie. Then I will try not to piously whine at you every morning – but yes, I have decided to stay with you. For a man whose first recourse is violence, you can be eloquent at times. The casual listener might believe you had given the subject some thought.'

Isak grinned. 'If you've quite finished, you can go and fetch me some jugs of water.'

Mihn narrowed his eyes. For all of his power, Isak was still a young man, and one who'd rarely had a chance to enjoy himself at that. 'Some might think Carel's observation that he found it hard to wake up early these days was not intended as a hint.'

'I know, but they're the sort of people who pray every morning. I on the other hand, have no morals – by divine mandate. And who am I to defy the will of the Gods?' Mihn sighed. 'Who indeed?'

Jeil moved swiftly through the trees, his bow held ready. Over the rushing sound of the river nearby he heard a faint birdcall, the short double-trill of a goldcrest, and he stopped to crouch behind an ancient hawthorn. Borl's mimicry of birdcalls was brilliant, one of the reasons he had been picked to escort Isak to Narkang. It was the perfect way to keep his companions informed of enemy movements without giving himself away, and it meant Jeil, who was faster, could hunt them down from his calls.

This was the first person they had encountered since disembarking from the riverboat they had used to travel the border between Tor Milist and Scree towards Helrect. It was an obvious ambush point, as only coracles could traverse this section of the river, and they were no use for transporting horses.

The goldcrest trilled again and Jeil tensed, ready to step out, when a second call sounded from somewhere up ahead. He swore silently: either Borl's mimicry was too good and had attracted a real bird, or their prey had caught on. Jeil hunkered down and kept completely still, listening hard. The Land was unnaturally quiet – until a piercing whistle broke the stillness, no bird sound, this, but a warning that Jeil had been seen. The ranger rose and drew his sword, stabbing it into the earth within easy reach before fully drawing his bow.

'Enough of the birdsong,' called a voice no more than thirty yards ahead. 'I know you're there, so come out.'

He heard footsteps crunching over dead branches advancing towards him and stepped around the hawthorn, still certain that no one could have seen or heard him. The silk of his bowstring caressed his cheek as he caught sight of the speaker. He wasn't much to look at: dressed in roughly patched leathers and a ragged wolf's pelt, with a longbow slung over his shoulder and a short-handled axe at his belt. 'I'm alone,' he said. 'I've been waiting for you all morning.' He looked about fifty summers, with traces of white on the week's growth of beard. An easy smile hovered on his lips, one that put Jeil on edge.

The border with Scree is a strange place to be waiting alone and on foot,' Jeil replied, keeping his bow raised. 'A boat couldn't have brought you to this stretch of the river and you don't look much like a local waterman to me.'

‘Send the other ranger back to fetch your Lord,' the man continued.

'I would speak to him.' He didn't sound like he was a native of these parts. His accent was awkward, as if his own dialect were markedly

different.

'What's your business with my Lord?'

'Someone sent me to speak to him. Look, boy, I knew you were coming, 1 could have ambushed you all if 1 wanted him dead. Just send your friend to tell them I'm here and then we can relax with a pipe

until they arrive.'

Jeil eased the tension in the bow enough to free up his right hand. Without taking his eyes off the man, he raised his arm and motioned in the air. A whistle told him that Borl understood. Still keeping his eyes on the man, Jeil backed away and retrieved his blade; the arrow

stayed nocked.

'Don't get comfortable,' he warned as the man squatted down on the roots of an oak and pulled out his tobacco pouch. 'We'll go some of the way back, this way.' He pointed back to where he'd left his

horse.

The stranger sighed theatrically and pushed himself to his feet. A mocking smile remained on his lips as he passed the ranger. Jeil couldn't help but wonder just what he had found instead of an ambush.

'So who are you?' Isak's hand rested very obviously on Eolis's emerald' studded hilt. Standing face to face he dwarfed the man, but the stranger showed no sign of discomfort. Either he was mad, or there was a lot more to him than met the eye. The man seemed vaguely interested in Isak's gifts, but no more – the white-eye's hooded face drew more attention than either Siulents or Eolis.

'Greetings, brother,' the stranger said, with a laconic bow. Isak saw his own confusion echoed on the faces of his companions. 'My name is Morghien, but that will mean little enough to you, I'm sure.'

The Krann grinned under the blue silk as he caught Mihn's eye. The small man shifted in discomfort, but did not hesitate to speak. 'You are called the man of many spirits.'

Morghien arched his eyebrows in surprise, the smile fading momentarily, much to Isak's satisfaction, but he didn't falter for long-He shrugged his shoulders, causing the moth-eaten pelt to twitch as it in the final spasms of death, then said, 'Your man knows his stories. 1 did not realise my fame had extended to the northern clans.'

It was Mihn's turn to be surprised now, but Morghien simply

chuckled and continued, 'And now the introductions are out of the way, perhaps we can get to business.'

'What business do you have with us?' demanded Carel. 'How did you know we were coming this way, and why did you call him brother?'

'Explanations can come another time, but as for how I knew you were coming, let us say the girl of his dreams told me so.'

Carel laughed, but he saw Isak tense. There was a strange assurance about Morghien that worried the veteran. The man looked younger than Carel was himself, but he had an almost otherworldly air; he suited the strange title Mihn had used: the man of many spirits.

'Should we talk alone?' asked Morghien softly. Isak nodded and waved the others back, never taking his eyes off the man. Carel recognised Isak's mood and moved off without a word; Vesna and the soldiers followed his lead, but Mihn didn't move. He tightened his grip on the steel-shod staff in his hand.

Morghien turned a sympathetic eye on him. 'It's all right, lad. If you know about me, then you'll know I wouldn't stand a chance against

him.'

Mihn kept very still for a moment and then bowed his head in acknowledgement. He joined Carel, but kept his eyes on Morghien. When the older man reached out to touch his arm, Mihn jumped in surprise.

'What was that about?'

When he answered, Mihn's voice was distant. 'Have you heard of the Finntrail?'

'No, who are they? Another northern tribe?'

Mihn shook his head slowly. 'No. I will explain later. Though I don't think he poses a threat to Lord Isak, that man is dangerous.'

Now we're alone, tell me exactly what you mean.' Any mention of Isak's dreams put the white-eye on edge. How a stranger could know about the girl's voice in them was something Isak couldn't fathom.

' I'm not sure entirely,' Morghien began, but the words died in his throat as a silver gleam appeared at his throat.

‘No riddles, old man,' warned the Krann in a low tone.

Morghien swallowed and nodded as best he could. 'I am afraid I may not have as many answers as you would hope. Four times now I have had dreams that are more than dreams.'

‘You said the girl of my dreams,' Isak said impatiently. 'Explain that.'

'My dreams have been of a girl, talking to me. She told me about you and asked me to come here to meet you. I assumed you must have dreamed of her too, for her to know who you are and where to find

you.'

'Who is she? How does she know me?'

'Her name is Xeliath. She tells me she has been looking for you for over a year now, hardly knowing for whom she was searching, until you put on Siulents.' 'She can sense Siulents?'

Morghien ignored Isak's scepticism. 'She is, I think, scared to tell me how. She said that Siulents is like a giant beacon, shining out through the Land when she sleeps, but that your dreams are guarded too well to let her enter them. She hopes that by telling you this, you would perhaps open yourself up to her.'

Til need more reason than that. Continue.'

'She's Yeetatchen, I think, though I have never been there: her skin is as brown as a hazelnut. Xeliath is young, perhaps as little as fifteen

winters.'

'What does she want with me?'

'I believe she wants only to help you. She persuaded me that 1

should too.'

'How? What help do you think I need?' Finally Isak lowered his sword, satisfied that the man neither could nor would do anything to harm him. Isak looked a little deeper into Morghien, feeling an unusual mix of power within the man. His strength was curious, unlike anything Isak had seen before, but it was not great enough to concern

him.

'Preparation for troubles ahead, Xeliath said.' At Isak's expression Morghien raised a hand and continued hurriedly, 'She has not told me everything, and though 1 think I understand what she meant, telling you might make matters worse.'

'Worse? I've still half a mind to kill you so what will be worse than

that?'

'You having less than half a mind,' replied Morghien simply.

Isak opened his mouth to respond and then saw the stranger s ex- pression. He was being deadly serious, even if he was as insane as he sounded. The white-eye looked back to the rest of his party, then walked over to the moss-draped form of a fallen tree, indicating that Morghien should follow. He straddled the trunk and sat down, facing

his companions so Morghien had to sit with his back to them. He pulled off the silken hood and ran a gauntleted hand over his cropped

scalp. The cool whisper of silver on skin sounded like the breathing of wind through the trees.

'You want to help me, and you want me to trust you, without knowing what's going on?'

'It is a matter of destiny, and a man learns his fate at his own risk.' Morghien shrugged.

'Damn my fate,' Isak snapped back, 'I don't believe the future is

fixed-'

'And it is not,' interrupted Morghien firmly. 'Which is why you cannot know what I mean. Xeliath is some sort of prophet or oracle, but it doesn't take a prophet to know that a white-eye isn't going to follow his fate willingly. Whether knowingly or not, you'll fight against any outside forces in your life; it is what you are. But you can perhaps be prepared for what is to come.'

Isak hardly noticed that he had bitten his lip. 'What do you propose?'

'Xeliath thinks herself your guardian spirit. She told me, "His armour may keep his body alive, but I must watch over his soul." It is clear that the threats to you are greater than you know.'

'I have enough enemies, I think,' said Isak bitterly.

Morghien ignored him and continued, 'Xeliath has seen your death in the future and hopes to avoid it. To that end, she has asked me to help.'

'What can you teach me?' Isak snorted at the idea. 'You don't look much of a swordsman to me.'

Indeed I am not. But your death is one of the mind, not the body. If you are to be attacked in the mind, then perhaps I can be of use.'

'Why you?'

Because, as your man back there will tell you, I am possessed.'

A cough of laughter escaped Isak's lips, but it died soon as he saw nothing but the truth in the man's face. 'You're serious?'

‘Completely serious. I'm not inhabited by a daemon, and the pos-ssion was voluntary, but yes. Remember what your man called me?'

‘The man of spirits? Something like that?' Isak fought the urge to stand up and step back from this madman. His hand tightened for a moment around the hilt of his sheathed sword.

Morghien caught the movement and a smile of understanding crossed his lips. 'The man of many spirits. Perhaps now is not the time, for my story is a long one, but the short answer is that I took pity on a local Aspect of Vasle. Her stream was going to be dammed, and when the water stopped flowing she would have faded to just a voice on the wind. 1 offered what I had out of compassion. When the last of the water stopped flowing, she entered my soul. The others – well, they were similar stories. I have a generous heart.' 'Mihn looked like he thought you were dangerous.' 'Me? No, not I, but one of those within is a Finntrail, that's true enough.'

'And that is?'

Morghien smiled uncertainly. Obviously his choices in life had made him an outcast. Trusting his secrets to strangers was not a comfortable thing to do. Isak could sympathise there.

'I- Ah, well, the Finntrail are a sort of ghost, 1 suppose. Not the ghost of a human, but something older. I don't know exactly what they are, for they cannot remember. What could have happened to Seliasei did, I suspect, happen to the Finntrail. They are only shadows of whatever they used to be, but to retain even that much means they must have been very powerful.'

'And they are dangerous?'

Morghien looked thoughtful for a moment, searching for the right word. 'They are angry, perhaps that's the best description. As long as they are capable of anger they exist as more than just a faint echo; it sustains them, whatever else it does. But, they are all subservient to me; even the Finntrail has accepted my dominance. The sensation of being alive again more than makes up for that.'

'So what do you propose? I'm not sure I want to know how you can help me with some vicious little shade running around in your head.’

'Call it a new experience. Trust me, it will hurt me more than you – there's no doubt of that. I don't pretend to be able to read those runes on your armour, but Seliasei fears them. All I ask of you is that you hold back as much as you can – and perhaps put your sword out of immediate reach.'

Isak stared at him for a moment, suspicious again, but then he closed his eyes and opened his senses to the world. An awareness of the Land about him began to filter slowly into his mind and a spreading numbness flooded through his body, a cool breath of fresh damp leaves and moist earth. In only a few seconds he began to feel the gentle shape of

the ground about him, the faint pinpricks of life from his companions, the curious medley of souls about Morghien that justified the strange name Mihn called him.

Isak smiled to himself as he experienced the peace of opening himself to the Land. From the comforting immovability of the earth beneath his feet to the vibrant swirl of air high above; all this took him away from the pulse of anger buried under his skin, however briefly.

'I'll trust you.' He forced his eyelids open to disperse the dreamy contentment in his head. Drawing Eolis, he threw the weapon overarm and embedded it in a nearby elm. The silver blade drove a foot deep into the trunk and sat quivering, emitting a low hum. Even in the dull light of a cloudy morning, Eolis sparkled as if dusted in morning frost.

Satisfied that the blade was out of reach, Morghien took a moment to calm himself. Isak felt a pulse of something, maybe the Aspect's concern at what was to come. Even a weak spirit would be aware of what it could lose.

'I'm no scholar,' Morghien began, 'and I don't pretend to understand much of spirits or daemons, for all that a friend in Narkang has tried to explain matters to me, but I can feel from the spirit's point of view. The first thing you must learn, Lord Isak, is that they are not as powerful as people believe them to be.'

Isak's focus returned somewhat at Morghien's respectful use of his title. The man had felt just how strong he was; the mocking smile was gone and Morghien now looked like Kerin did on the training field. Isak reminded himself what that meant: just because he could kill Morghien with little effort said nothing about what he could learn from the man.

Morghien, unaware of Isak's mental discussion, carried on, 'Part of a spirit's power derives from how it is perceived. The myths you learn, the fear and awe you experience when you encounter them – magic is a force in itself, and though different in every way to nature, it can still create a form of life… perhaps existence is a better word.

‘So in the fashion that you and I are created from the same matter

as the earth and trees, so Gods and daemons have a common source in magic.'

‘How is this helping?' The mages from the College of Magic, in their attempts to educate the Krann, had not found fertile ground. They had made the mistake of telling him that theoretical understanding of magic would be of small use to a white-eye. Isak had taken that as a reason to pay no further attention.

Morghien's look of irritation faded quickly as he remembered his ultimate goal. His brow furrowed as he sought a more appropriate explanation. 'When you fight, there is more to know than stabbing a

man, no?'

Isak shrugged and Morghien continued, 'Of course there is – not only must you know your strokes, your stances and your weapons, you must also know your enemy and the land around you. Now think of

magic as this battle.

'Your weapons and strokes might be spells or curses. They must be practised and refined so your crude swipes become deft cuts and concealed moves. Knowing your enemy – how his armour slows him or how great his reach is – is as important as knowing how the mud underfoot will slow you, whether you will slip on a particular stone, or can kick him off balance after he has struck.

'You are aware of the slope of the Land, the rain coming down, his relative size and strength. These things you understand as naturally as you know how to chew and swallow, and as you must with magic. Magic has rules that follow their own sense – those that might ignore the warmth of the sun, but could be affected by moonlight-'

Isak held up a hand. 'I've had these lessons already, I remember enough on the nature of magic. You're starting to sound like those

excitable lecturers.'

Morghien stared at him curiously. 'You don't find the nature of

magic interesting at all?'

Isak shrugged again. Magic was intoxicating, exhilarating, to such a degree the rest of the Land faded away. Talking about it was less so. It was like discussing sex. Some people got excited enough about it to talk for hours on the subject. Isak could find no enthusiasm for just

talking.

'Well, I shall say no more then, other than you must remember they grow strong from illogical sources, that their image is often greater than their strength. There are some that are very powerful, but that is the same with men. You would not notice a man if he were not remarkable in size or strength or skill. But if that same man went berserk, he could cause a shocking amount of damage, and if he attacked a race that had never seen a man, he would terrify them.'

'I think I understand what you mean. When I feel the presence

of Nartis I'm paralysed…' Isak trailed off, unable to describe the

sensation.

'And that gives him strength over you. It is intentional – the Gods reject a shining image because it inspires wonder. And the more you are awed, the more powerful they grow; not only over you, but part of what sustains them is belief and praise. Gods are made stronger by belief: that you see them as greater, and worship them accordingly, that is one of the things that separates Gods from daemons.'

'One of the things?'

‘That is not an encouraged topic of conversation. The state of my eternal soul is debatable in any case when much of my time is spent hunting down followers of Azaer; I have no desire to be actively impious on top of anything else. King Emin will know men who will be happy to have those discussions. For now, you should accept that a daemon or ghost will try to terrify you, because then you open yourself to it and lend it strength.'

He raised his hands to his face and rubbed his palms over his cheeks, the rough skin rasping against his stubbled face. 'I think it's time for a practical demonstration.'

Isak stared in fascination, reaching out with his senses to feel the shape of what was happening to Morghien. The man started to hold up a hand to halt the Krann's efforts, but it was not necessary: one look at Morghien's features had been enough for Isak to draw back hurriedly and grasp the ghost of Eolis at his hilt.

The man had changed. Subtle weaves of magic had smoothed out the lines of his face, softening the ruddy colour of his cheeks and reducing the size of his nose. It was still Morghien, but Isak could see the features were now almost those of a woman's.

His voice had altered too. 'Keep your defences strong, don't leave yourself open,' Morghien said, but a musical note had entered his previously rough voice.

Isak felt his mouth dry as he tried to respond, but then he remembered Morghien's words. With an effort he could see past the glamour to the man's true features: and he was right, nothing had changed except for Isak's perception. With a smile he dismissed the weaves of the projected image.

Morghien shrieked in pain. His hands flew to his face as though Isak had just slashed him with a knife. He threw himself off the log and crashed face-down on to the ground. Isak jumped to his feet in alarm and Mihn rushed over with Vesna and Carel close behind. He held up a hand to them.

'No, get back – keep away from him. He didn't attack me.'

They did not look impressed with the order, but they complied sullenly. Morghien remained on the ground as they moved away.

A tense silence fell. Isak could hear the keening of a hawk in the distance, and the skitter of dead leaves as a gust swept them up and settled a few on Morghien's back, like the first effort to bury a man who was lying as still as a corpse.

At last he breathed out, sending a single leaf tumbling end over end. He took his hands away from his face with careful, deliberate movements and pushed himself up from the ground. His face was disturbingly pale and calm, all trace of the Aspect gone, though his cheek and eyebrow seemed to be trembling very slightly. Then he breathed again and the calm was abruptly broken as he gulped down air, his shoulders shaking with the effort.

'I'm sorry,' Isak began, 'truly. What did I do?'

Morghien felt his way back to the fallen log again and pulled himself on to it. After half a minute, some colour returned to his face and he began to explain. 'The fault was mine. I should have explained more of the nature of glamour. But there is no serious damage done.'

'Are you sure?'

'I am. Seliasei was hurt rather, but I think it's shock more than any-thing else. The glamour is part of what she is; a local Aspect is still a God. It is not vanity, but part of her very essence. When you cut through those weaves it was like slapping my face to distort my fea-tures – except I have a shape to revert to. Seliasei has only the image of herself to define her. Without the strength to extend it to a physical form, any distortion of that image makes her forget who she is.'

Isak looked stricken. 'I think I understand. I'm- Er, could you apologise to her for me?' He would have felt stupid saying that, but for the glimpse of fear and pain on Morghien's face. One thing he did remember was that death for a God was the loss of identity. A divine force could not be truly killed, but as Aryn Bwr had shown with the Crystal Skulls, it could be reduced to a voice on the wind, weakened to the point of non-existence and capable only of remembering that once it had been so much more. Isak had shivered at the prospect of eternity like that: a sense of loss the only sliver of self left.

'She will recover, but she will not come out in your presence again.

Even before that she was terrified of you. She's a local God, an Aspect, sharing some memories with Vasle and his view of history. They see the present in a completely different way to mortals. To her, you are partly to blame for the death of Vasle's brother, for it was partly you who proved Gods could be effectively destroyed.'

'Ah. And then I did something akin to just that. I'm sorry.'

'There's more of a problem than that. She had agreed to touch vour mind, to help you understand how Xeliath thinks you will be attacked. Now…' Morghien's voice trailed off. His eyes lost their focus as if he were listening to a faint voice behind him. Isak watched silently.

'We can but try,' he said aloud finally. Isak was burning to ask what had been decided, but he'd caused enough trouble – and besides, he was too impatient to listen to more explanations.

'Please, sit again.' Morghien motioned Isak to the fallen tree. Once they were facing each other again, Morghien closed his eyes and started breathing deeply. When he looked up to Isak again, he appeared calmer, still himself, but ready for whatever lay ahead.

He reached out and touched his fingertips to Isak's forehead. The white-eye recoiled slightly, then leaned forward so Morghien wouldn't have to stretch quite so far. As he did so, Isak realised that the muscles of his shoulders were rigid with anticipation, ready to strike out. He made himself relax and opened his thoughts again.

A chill breeze touched his cheek, like the caress of winter fingers. He closed his eyes to focus on the smooth sensation as it trembled over his skin. A tingling began on his forehead where Morghien was touching him, trickling down through his right eyebrow and into the cheekbone. The delicate sensation grew in strength and Isak felt the warmth of his body begin to seep from his skin. This time he was careful not to disturb the shade that was greedily leeching off him. Whatever it was, it lacked the strength to cause him any hurt, whether it was intended to or not.

In his mind, Isak was aware of an ancient odour – not actually unpleasant, but not enjoyable: the dry scent of a tomb, the smell of undisturbed years rather than a corpse, but still a dead place. The prickle of ice increased, sliding its way down to his jugular.

Now Isak stopped it gently, reaching around the helpless spirit to bind it and keep it still so he could see what he was dealing with. It still terribly weak, but it had drawn enough strength for the image

of a man's face to appear in Isak's mind. He could perceive features etched in a white mist – a thin jaw, deep-set eyes, hair receding from a smooth forehead: the first things the shade could remember of itself. As with Seliasei, identity was the first concern. Once they had a face, a name, a memory, it helped bring the Land back into focus for them. Until a sense of self could be produced, desires and emotions couldn't matter because there was no reference for them. As the shade struggled in vain, Isak felt a moment of pity. There was no malice in its desire for the warmth and strength of his body, only a desperation that Isak found achingly sad. Once he had cradled it for a while, Isak realised he understood enough and ushered the spirit back to Mor-ghien. As he did so he sent a thought to it, almost an apology, as it fought his grip. Let go. Life is for the living.

As the misty shape faded away, a blackness leapt up from nowhere and enveloped Isak's mind. A stab of pain flashed through his head as the invading spirit took him in its numbing grip and fed savagely at his throat. This was no half'forgotten Aspect: Isak felt as if he had fallen into an icy stream. Each time he moved he felt his strength being sucked out of him. The cold kept flowing over his skin, drawing

out heat, drawing out life.

Isak began to panic as each breath grew harder, as his body faded away into a deadened memory. Images of hungry eyes and long thin fangs flashed before his eyes. He felt the Finntrail's desire, its anger and loss fuelling the enveloping strength. He was afraid of becoming

that hollow.

Then Morghien's words came back to him: such creatures were hoi-low; their strength was partly what you gave them. This suppressed the alarm clouding his mind. He looked again at the feeding spirit and saw it was insubstantial. He saw the mist of its form and how easily he

could push through.

The numbing ceased as Isak reached out with his mind, ignoring the desperate, but now feather-light, retaliation. He reached out all around him and gathered the inky strands in tight. The Finntrau struggled and raged, but it was powerless. With a furious scream the shadow was expelled back to Morghien and the wanderer withdrew his hand and smiled weakly.

The Krann didn't meet Morghien's eye. Looking round to his corn' panions he saw Mihn, Carel and Tila watching as before. Nothing ap- peared to have changed, but Isak shivered slightly. The air felt cooler

than before, as if the night's frost had returned. He rose and began to walk the ten yards to retrieve Eolis before stopping short suddenly. He whirled around, but he could see nothing different – but it felt as if they had been joined by another. Beyond the road the trees were empty and quiet. The sky above held only a few birds, too distant to recognise, but still Isak felt uneasy. He wrenched the blade from its resting place but didn't sheathe it. The others gave him uncomfortable looks, but Isak ignored them, glad of the security Eolis lent.

An unheard chuckle crept out from the overhanging branches of a yew. The birds nearby were startled into flight as they sensed malevolence all around. Only the wind heard and it swept away after the birds, dead leaves and damp crumbs of earth skittering away in its wake.

'Life is for the living? Sometimes 1 think you say these things solely for my pleasure. Will you remember those words, I wonder?'