The stormcaller

CHAPTER 3

The jutting barbican towers loomed large as Isak rounded the fountain in Barbican Square. He slipped on the rain-slicked cobbles, flopping down like a sodden rag. The jolt drove the wind from his lungs and pain flared in his bruised ribs. He rolled on to his back and stared up at the gloom of the night sky, blinking away the fat raindrops that fell into his eyes. A groan escaped his lips as he forced his head up, but then he saw the pack behind him, closing fast.

Get up, you fool, fight the pain and run. The thought spurred him into action, forcing him up from the ground. He had only forty yards to go, so he lowered his head and sprinted for the drawbridge. Mercifully, it was down and he muttered a quick prayer of thanks to Nartis as he flew across. The light from the arrow-slit windows illuminated the rain that prickled the surface of the black moat water. In his desperation Isak had thought only to get into the protective lee of the gate-towers; now he slammed into the iron-bound gates and rebounded, scrabbling fruitlessly for a way to get inside.

He brushed his sodden hair back from his forehead and wiped away the mixture of rain, blood and dirt to clear his eyes. As the downpour worsened, Isak looked up to the heavens, not praying to Nartis this time, just with a look of beaten accusation as his pursuers arrived.

The youth curled into a ball, bloody hands shielding his head as the men laid into him. Triumphant grunts accompanied each blow.

One kick rolled him on his back and he couldn't stop his eyes flickering open for a moment. He glimpsed the face above him, distorted and robbed of humanity and suddenly the face disappeared, thrown sidways as the beating abruptly ended. Isak twitched, tense in expectation of the next blow, but it never came. Carefully, he looked up to see

his attackers standing sullen, red-eyed with unspent anger. One was picking himself up from the floor, unhurt, but obviously bewildered.

Now Isak could see that two palace guards had taken up position either side of him, hands resting on the pommels of their long swords. Their black armour, over which was draped the stark white livery of their Lord, looked fearsome in the half-light. They were dressed for battle, with helms covering their faces. Isak looked to his left, at a door set into the wall. A shield was propped just inside the doorway, an eagle with outstretched wings, painted black on white. Lord Bahl's coat of arms.

A gust of wind rustled along the wall, spreading a shiver through the men huddled on the drawbridge. They were wavering, about to turn and run, but then Horman arrived and stiffly forced his way to the front of the group.

That bastard white-eye just killed a man,' he shouted. 'He's my son and I know the law. Step aside.'

One of the Ghosts stepped forward. He said nothing as he gestured for Horman to approach. He took his hand off his sword as he reached up to remove his helm. Isak felt a surge of panic. Before the age of eighteen summers, a child remained the property of his or her parents, unless they chose to let that child become an adult earlier. Most parents gave in to their children and declared them adult at sixteen or seventeen summers, but not Horman: he had needed to do nothing to keep Isak a slave, and in the eyes of the law he was still a child. Now Isak could be hung on his father's word for the man he'd just killed.

Unhurriedly, the guard standing with Horman bent his head to pull off his helm, so deliberately that Horman almost reached out to take the helm from his outstretched hands. A single soldier's plait unfurled. The guard looked up to meet Herman's gaze with eyes as white as Isak's. Horman still had his mouth open in surprise when the guard hit him.

The other guard stepped forward, his sword rasping from its sheath. Isak's pursuers shrank away, then scurried back across the drawbridge until only Carel remained. The guard walked up to him, sword lifted until he spotted the white collar, whereupon he nodded and stepped back. Carel returned the nod and took Horman by the shoulders to pull him to his feet. Horman was unsteady; the white-eye Ghost was Isak's height, but much bulkier, and his punch had left Horman dazed and shaking.

Touching a finger to his lip, Horman held the bloody digit up to

inspect it. He shrugged Carel off and scowled at Isak. 'Fine. Don't come back, ever. You're dead to me.'

The words hurt more than Isak could understand: he hated his father He could think of nothing to say. Horman spat on the floor and turned away, slapping down the hand Carel raised to slow him. Carel looked at Isak and shrugged.

'Remember me when you're a general, Isak,' he said, then Carel too turned and walked away. Isak opened his mouth to call after him, but the words wouldn't come. After a few heartbeats, he clamped it shut. He looked down and saw the mess of blood on his hand. He felt hands underneath his shoulders, lifting him to his feet. The white-eye guard was staring at him, but Isak was too numb to react.

'Can you walk?' asked the normal guard frowning.

Isak nodded, gingerly touching the ground with his toes before trusting his weight to them.

'Was that really your father?'

Another nod.

'Do you know why you're here?'

A shrug this time. Isak didn't look at the guard; he kept eyes on his father, swiftly disappearing into the night.

'Who told you to come?'

'No one did. They chased me from the stable, I don't know why. I thought if I could find a patrol my father wouldn't beat me to death, and here must be the best place to find a patrol.'

'Did you kill the man as he said?'

Isak held up his injured hand for the man to see. 'I did, but he was trying to cut my throat at the time.'

And you're sure no one sent you?'

Isak gave him a wary look. 'Of course. Why do you keep asking me that? Who would have sent me here?'

The man gave up. With an exasperated click of the tongue he turned back to the guardroom and motioned for Isak to follow. His comrade stayed for another moment, his expression disconcerting as

stared into Isak's eyes. When Isak straightened up and looked back at the white-eye, a spark of belligerence flared to life in his belly, trangely, it was the guard who shivered and looked away.

he normal guard, the smallest of the two by a good five inches, rnotioned again for Isak to enter the guardroom and this time the boy follwed the flicker of a fire and stepped inside towards the warmth.

He picked his way past two short-handled glaives propped against the wall and placed himself as close as he could to the flames. There was a small table in the middle of the room on which was a pile of rags and an empty plate. Isak fingered through the oily rags, looking for the cleanest, which he wrapped as tightly as he could around his injured hand.

The white-eye guard stepped inside and pulled the outer door closed. It was a thick piece of oak with a massive iron lock, but the door was dwarfed by the slab of granite on a simple iron runner – presumably to be used in times of siege. Once the room was secured, the man turned and examined Isak again. Isak couldn't work out if the expression was hostile or puzzled, but he decided he was too hungry or cold to much care anymore.

The other guard moved to the far end of the room where the outline of another stone slab was visible. He pulled a chain hanging through a hole in the ceiling and gave a short whistle. The sound was repeated somewhere above, and it heralded a widening of the dark crack down one side. Isak could feel the grinding of stone through his bare toes.

The guard plucked a burning torch from a holder on the wall and ducked through the growing gap. 'This way,' he said tersely.

Thirty yards of narrow passage took them to an iron-bound wooden door set at an awkward angle to the wall. Pushing this open, the guard stepped back to allow Isak to squeeze past. Ducking through the doorway, Isak peered into a large noisy hall, then descended the handful of worn steps. A huge blazing fire was opposite him, above which hung spitting haunches of meat attended by two young girls. The room contained a score of long tables, and some of the men – Isak guessed they were guardsmen from their austere uniforms – turned to look at the new arrivals but quickly resumed their meal. The high beams of the chamber were hung with regimental flags and drapes covered the walls, interspersed with shields, swords and broken standards, no doubt trophies from past battles. The scents of pipe-smoke, burnt fat, fresh bread and thick stew hung tantalising in the air.

Isak craned around, peering at the hall's ornaments, recognising a handful of the emblems from his travels. They'd probably been won in the battles recorded on the wall tapestries. Though the hangings were faded and soot-stained, he was still able to make out the lines of troops and enemy formations. He turned back to the guard, who pointed at one of the servants, then stepped back inside the passage

and closed the door. Isak stared after him; clearly they didn't care that he’d killed a man. It didn't make a whole lot of sense – but nothing 1 d this evening, and Isak wasn't about to cry over spilt blood.

The servant wore the traditional Parian costume of wide loose trousers bound down at the feet and a thick paral shirt, neatly arranged nd tied at the waist with a belt the thickness of a man's hand. It looked as if he were about to leave for the temple to take up some candle-lit vigil, except the man's belt was decorated with Lord Bahl's eagle rather than any divine symbol.

The servant glowered at Isak; he too said nothing, but pointed at an empty table and left, returning shortly with a bowl of steaming venison stew, a flatbread draped over the top. Isak fell upon it ravenously, eating as fast as he could in case there'd been a mistake and it was removed before he'd finished. He'd barely started to mop up the last of the gravy when the empty bowl was replaced by a second, and accompanied this time by a flagon of beer. He ate this helping more slowly, but he was a growing boy already well 'over six feet tall and it took a third large bowlful to satisfy him.

Finally he settled back, wiped a smear of juice from his lips and looked around at his surroundings. It was the first chance he'd had to properly inspect the room. The tapestries, he could now confirm, were indeed scenes from famous battles, with the names of the actions woven into each picture in a variety of ways: in one it was spelled out in the shading of the trees in the background; a second was embroidered on a general's banner. Isak remembered Carel's tales of these very engagements: most featured Lord Bahl at the forefront of the action, riding a dragon or a rearing stallion, always leaving great swathes of dead in his wake.

The tapestries were displayed around the room in chronological order, as far as Isak could see. The oldest, which happened more than two hundred summers ago, was positioned behind the top table at the right-hand end of the hall; the most recent engagement was sited by the grand main door – Isak knew Carel had taken part in that °ne shortly after joining the Ghosts. He spent an idle few minutes looking for a figure that could have been the white-haired old man in his youth, but most of the soldiers were just blank shapes rather than People. It gave him some comfort to think that some of those soldiers had been white-eyes: at this distance they all looked the same, and they had fought together, as a team.

He smiled, thinking of Carel as a young man like himself; unsure quite what he should be doing, keeping close to the veterans, trying to absorb everything he could see while also keeping himself alive. Now he had the luxury of time to think, Isak wondered again why Carel had walked away at the palace gates – how could he just assume that Isak would be accepted here? Even Isak knew this was not how men were recruited to the guard. What in the name of Death was going on? For that matter, what had sent his father into such a rage? Isak knew his father was quick to anger, but he'd never seen him like that, or his friends. They had been like feral dogs, worked up into a frenzy; something must have happened to make them like that. Isak felt a shiver run down his spine. Somehow he knew it was to do with that strange mercenary, Aracnan.

Now he looked around at the other men in the hall, searching for a friendly face. They were a motley collection; the handful of Ghosts were clean and neat in their uniforms, but most of the diners were forest rangers, dressed raggedly in dark woodland colours. Though their hands were clean for eating, mud still stained their clothing, and he could see a couple of dressings that looked hastily wrapped. One ranger had blood dried into his mess of hair and stained down his tunic. The rangers were all lean, tanned by sun and wind; they lacked the obvious bulk of the palace guards because their battles were not fought with armour and pikes, but with stealth and camouflage and swift arrows flashing out from the trees.

Those who bothered to look back at Isak spared the boy only a moment's disinterested gaze. Perhaps they knew why he was here, perhaps not: the only thing Isak knew was that he had much to prove before he would be accepted. No one appeared to care about the colour of his eyes – that made a change, for it made most people keep their distance. He wasn't totally ignored, though, for now the dogs roaming the hall came to greet him, licking at the mud and blood on his bare toes and sniffing up to the empty plate, but once satisfied there was no food left for them, they returned to loiter by the great open fire where they panted and stared longingly at the spitted joints of meat that perfumed the hall.

High above, at the very top of the Tower of Semar, Lord Bahl paced in his quarters as the gifts destined for his new Krann called out through the lonely night. Whatever they were, they gnawed at his mind, but

Bahl was a disciplined man, one who knew well the corrupting nature of magic- He had no intention of letting magic rule him as it had Atro, the previous Lord of the Parian.

Lord Atro had ruled the tribe for four hundred years before Bahl killed him. An evil man even before he came to the palace, he had delighted in his newly found power and had murdered, tortured and defiled as he pleased. Raiding tombs and desecrating temples had fed his addiction for magical artefacts, and the more he loved them, the more they called to him. By the time that Bahl fought his celebrated duel with Atro, the old Lord had been barely coherent, but even so, the battle had nearly cost Bahl his life.

'My Lord, please calm yourself. The boy is down below, but he can wait. I need you to relax, or we will lose our new Krann in a matter of minutes.' Lesarl, Bahl's Chief Steward, stood at a table to one side of the room. Bahl was not one for fine surroundings: the chamber, the smallest and loneliest room at the very top of the tower, was unimpressive by anyone's standards. Bahl was content with simple but sturdy furniture – a small oak table, a pair of overfilled bookshelves and an oversized bed that took up much of the remaining room. It was a retreat from life as much as from the opulence in the palace's public rooms below. Apart from that, all that could be said for it was that it commanded the best view of the mountains – on those days when mist didn't obscure the city.

'Why today?' He looked at his Steward.

'I have no idea. A test for you?'

This elicited only a grunt, but Lesarl hadn't expected much more. He poured a glass of wine from the jug on the table and held it out to his lord until Bahl sighed and took it. With Lord Bahl in this mood he was capable of anything. Getting a jug of wine down his throat might actually help matters.

'I was wondering whether you would return tonight. You've never spent so long in the forest before today.'

'I always return.'

'Is it worse?'

Always worse.'

Lesarl warmed his hands in front of the fire and looked up at the only painting in the room. What was most remarkable about the Painting was not the artistic detail, nor the undeniable beauty of the woman who lay beside a stream, but the contented smile on her lips, for these were the lips of a white-eye. Lesarl had never – he thanked the Gods – actually met a female white-eye, but they were known to be as selfish and aggressive as their male counterparts. All white-eyes were born with violence in their blood, and no matter how lovely, how serene she looked in this picture, this woman would have been a real danger when roused.

'Lesarl, stop staring. Your place is not to remind me of the past,' Bahl growled, his hand reaching for the ring hanging from a delicate chain around his neck. Inch, the girl in the painting, was pictured wearing that very ring. The painting and the ring were the only things Bahl had kept.

Tm sorry, my Lord,' the Chief Steward said, turning back to face Bahl. 'Her face always distracts me. I swear those eyes follow me down every corridor like a nursemaid.'

'A nursemaid? She should have been mother to her own children.' For a moment Bahl forgot the boy and the God's gifts below and was drawn into a happier time, but the call of the present – or maybe the future – brought his attention back to Lesarl. 'So, are you going to tell me what you took down there with Lord Hit? I can feel something unusual, nothing I am familiar with. There is…" His words tailed off.

'Are you sure?' began Lesarl.

'Yes damn you,' roared Bahl, 'I think I know my own weaknesses well enough! Your place is not to lecture me.'

Lesarl shrugged, hands held out in a conciliatory gesture. He could not argue with that: it was Lord Bahl's ability to turn those very weaknesses into strengths that had rebuilt the Parian nation. 'It's a suit of armour and a blade.'

'And?' demanded the white-eye. 'I can tell there's something more – I feel it grating at my bones.'

'My knowledge is limited, my Lord, but I don't believe there can be any mistaking them. Siulents and Eolis, the weapons of Aryn Bwr, are back.'

Bahl inadvertently spat out his mouthful of wine and crushed the glass to powdered crystal. Aryn Bwr: the last king. His crimes had caused his true name to be expunged from history. Aryn Bwr, first among mortals, had united the entire elven people after centuries of conflict, and the Gods had showered him with gifts – but peace was not the elven king's true motive. Aryn Bwr had forged weapons

powerful beyond imagination, powerful enough to slay even Gods of the Upper Circle, and he had led his people against their makers. The Great War lasted only seven years, but the taint of the horrors committed by both sides lingered, millennia on.

'Gods, no wonder Hit didn't come to me…' His voice tailed off.

'I couldn't believe it, holding Eolis in my hands…' Lesarl's voice

was shaking too.

'Is our new Krann fortunate or cursed?' Bahl wondered.

'Who knows? The most perfect armour ever made, a blade that killed Gods -1 don't think I would want them at any price. But blessed or cursed, what does it mean?'

They will make him the focus of every power broker and madman in the entire Land. That is something I would curse few with.' Bahl frowned, brushing fragments of glass into the fire.

'How many prophecies mention them?'

'Neglecting your studies, Lesarl?'

He laughed. 'I cannot deny it – but in my defence I have been running the nation, so the omission is hopefully forgivable. The whole subject is beyond me, in any case. I can work with the stupidity of people, but prophecies, no, my Lord.'

'It is the most complicated of sciences; it can take a lifetime to understand the rambling mess they come out with.'

'So what are we to believe?'

'Nothing.' Bahl laughed humourlessly. 'Live your life according to prophecy? That's only for the ignorant and the desperate. All you need to know is what others believe: the cult of Shalstik, the prophecy of the Devoted, of the Flower in the Waste, of the Saviour, of the Forsaken… Know your enemy and anticipate his attack. With the unexpected arrival of this new Krann, the eyes of the whole Land will be upon us. The longer we can keep his gifts a secret, the better.'

'Will that be possible?' Lesarl looked dubious. 'When the Krann is seen without gifts, half the wizards in the city will become curious. I don’t know what their daemon guides will be able to tell them, but power attracts attention. Someone will work it out, surely. The Siblis ~ they could sense them from who knows how far away?'

‘The Siblis used magic so powerful it was killing them, I doubt anyone else will be making so great an effort. But yes, you're right: at some point someone will work it out, but any delay helps us. If the mages get there first, at least they will probably come to you for confirmation. Flatter their intelligence and wisdom, then make it clear that people will die if it becomes common knowledge that Siulents and Eolis are back in play. We'll decide how to deal with anything the priests might say some other time. For now, let's go and see whether the boy is worth all the trouble he brings.'

Isak dozed at the table, his head resting on his arms, despite the constant rumble of conversation that filled the room. The bitter scent of fat drifted over from the fire and in his soporific state he licked his lips, tasting again the venison stew with which he'd filled his belly. Meat was a rare pleasure in Isak's life, for hunting rights were exclusive to those folk who paid for permission. Nomads, travellers, the poor – they could only supplement their usually meagre diet with birds shot on the wing, and that was difficult enough without the clatter of a wagon-train to scare them away. It was one of the few times that Isak's natural skill and keen eye served his people well: bringing down a goose or wild duck for the communal cooking pot was one of the rare times his father ever came close to praising him.

Slowly, through his reverie, he became aware of a change in the hall. The voices had stopped. The hairs on his neck rose and a tingle of anticipation ran down his spine. He looked up to see every man in the room standing. One ranger at the next table glared at him and after a moment of panic, Isak jumped up – and found himself face to face with a thin man several inches shorter than he was, and behind him, a giant, close to a foot taller than Isak, wearing a blank blue mask.

'So, you're the new arrival,' said the smaller of the two. The man's smile widened as he looked Isak up and down. Isak, feeling like a cow in a cattle market, fought to keep his calm.

'Welcome to Tirah Palace. Does my Lord have a name?'

'Ah, my name is Isak. Sir.' Isak's eyes darted from one face to the other. The masked giant hadn't moved even a fraction. It was as if he were a statue, thought Isak. A memory stirred in the depths of his mind, a shape just below the surface. Oh Gods, this is Lord Bahl. Still the man didn't move or speak, but his eyes stared deep into Isak's own, and Isak felt as if the man gazed on his soul itself, inspecting and assessing with cold dispassion.

Isak could feel all eyes on the old white-eye; Lord Bahl possessed an aura of command that demanded the attention of everyone. It was

1ike a blazing fire in the centre of the room; even with his back turned Isak would have felt the heat prickle on his skin. Abruptly, the man held out his hand. Isak stared at the huge fingers before him, blinking

if he'd never seen a hand before, then, shakily, he took Bahl's wrist and felt the massive hand close about his own.

'Isak. Not a name I'd have given a son of mine, but a man must make his own name in the end. I imagine the Gods will not hold your father's crude humour against you. Welcome, Isak.'

‘Th_ thank you my Lord,' was all Isak could manage. He was used to his name; he scarcely even remembered these days that Horman had named him Isak – Kasi backwards – to mock the Gods who had taken his beloved wife from him. Now, as Bahl gripped his forearm, Isak felt a sudden pressure behind his eyes. He could feel the immense presence of the Land beneath his feet, and the thump of his heart booming through his head. Then the memory of his dreams flooded back, coursing in a torrent through the contact. Isak's knees buckled under the weight, stars bursting in his vision before everything faded to black.