The stormcaller

CHAPTER 6

Gradually the darkness gave way to leaden shades of grey and a seeping chill that drained the warmth from Isak's blood. All alone in the •void, he felt his body grow numb and fade until he could hardly sense any part of him.

Then there was pain; a cold discomfort that grew to become a hungry licking flame. The swirls of grey began to thicken and press down on him, swamping his eyes and mouth, causing him to choke in the silence. He tried to struggle free, to fight his way clear, but the cold had sapped his strength and the pressure was all around. There was nowhere to escape to and soon he fell into helpless exhaustion, surrendering to the tug of icy depths that dragged him further down to a place of no light and no memory, only the chill cradle of the grave.

And a voice.

'Isak.

'Raise your head, Isak.

'Raise your head and see me.'

He had scarcely enough strength to obey, but somehow, he did lift his head. He could see nothing, but an image of a figure was imprinted on his mind: a man, tall and powerful, terrifying, and yet almost featureless, with blank eyes, smooth, midnight-blue skin and only the impression of a mouth. The only shape that had any definition was the ornate bow that rested at the man's side. The pitch-black frame was flecked with gold and silver, and set with spirals of jewels.

‘I am your master now. You are the blade I wield; the arrow I send

high into the night. You are my Chosen, you share in my majesty and

the Land will see my glory echo in your deeds.'

Isak tried to flee the voice, to hide from the words crashing through his head. He could sense others all around now, the faint touch of their rnovements and the melodious echoes of their voices, but the

figure swept them all aside – except for one, the softest touch of them all, one that was scarcely noticeable until the others were gone and then it was a thread of pure light, distinct against the dark background and impervious to the figure's palpable fury.

It began to move, caressing the curve of his hip and moving up over his belly towards his heart. Isak relaxed under its soothing touch, then curled tightly as the stench of burning flesh filled his nostrils. Pain blossomed on his chest, then drove so deep the light burst through his body and burned a path through the darkness. In a heartbeat it had dissipated and all that remained was a faint voice: the sound of a girl calling a name, but so distant her cry was lost on the wind.

Isak woke with a scream, feeling as if the walls lurched and shuddered around him before reality reasserted itself. He took great gulps of air and tried to open his eyes, but the light streaming through the window made him gasp. Grasping at the unfamiliar sheets Isak battled to regain his wits. A shiver ran down his spine and into his legs; it felt like his soul returning. Every part of him ached, his throat burned and his limbs throbbed, but it was the smell of burnt flesh that scared him most.

He sat up and grabbed the copper mirror from the desk to inspect his reflection, but he had to squint down to see it: a runic shape in stinging scar tissue on his sternum. It wasn't anything he recognised – not that he'd really expected to – but it wasn't even something from his dreams of the island palace.

In the looking-glass he could see it more clearly: a circle of scar tissue with a horizontal bar across its centre, no more than two inches across. The bar did not quite span the width of the circle, but a verti' cal line at either end made that connection, with one going straight down, the other up.

Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by the taste of magic emanating from the chimney at the centre of the room: Lord Bahl He grabbed his ragged shirt and quickly pulled it on, making sure the bone thongs were fastened and the scar covered. As Lord Bahl appeared, the scar was covered, but Isak could not hide the haggard look on his face.

'You slept badly. Dreamed badly.'

It was not a question. Isak looked up at his new master with incom- prehension. As he struggled up and propped his body against the wall,

He realised he was shivering uncontrollably. Bahl noticed the cold as well and threw several logs on to the dead fire, then made a flick-ing motion with his wrist. Flames at once sprang up in the fireplace, hungrilv devouring the dry wood. Isak stared in wonder at the fire, but Bahl just waved it off and drew up a chair for himself.

'That's nothing. I'm surprised that you can't do that already, considering how the tower responded to you. But that can wait. Right now, we should speak of what you are.'

Isak struggled to answer, his head still fogged from the dream. 'What I am?' he muttered. 'What else is there? Carel said white-eyes are born to be warriors, to fight for the tribe.' 'Carel?'

Isak opened his mouth to reply, but stopped when he realised Bahl's face was uncovered. The reclusive Lord of the Parian rarely went out in public without the blue silk hood tight around his face, and Isak had never before seen Lord Bahl's actual features. He wondered how it could have taken him this long to notice, but after a moment he shook the question from his mind – considering what had happened to him, such a small detail was easily overlooked. Now he saw a powerful man with a harsh face, solid features all sharp lines and blunt corners. His brow was thick and strong, and his nose, but his features had an abrupt look, as if a craftsman had been interrupted in his work. The shape was there, the basic lines hewn with skill, but there had been no time to smooth the edges.

That in turn reminded Isak of the palace in his dreams and its unfinished statues, but before that could distract him further he forced the memory away. This was not a face used to patience.

‘Carel is my friend, a friend of my father's. He was in the Palace Guard before he joined the wagon-train. Sergeant Betyn Carelfolden, Third Squad, Vanguard Company, Eighth Regiment. He was the only one who didn't care that I was a white-eye. He taught me to fight so I could come and take the trials for the Guard.'

‘A squad sergeant, that's good news. He'll have bawled you into the right habits then, so I won't have Kerin whining that he has to teach you the different ends of a sword. But that's not going to be enough now; if you outlive me, you'll be Lord of the Farlan one day. Before anything else, remember that nothing Sergeant Carelfolden -or anyone else – has taught you can prepare you for the life you will now lead- There are dangers that ignore all of your strength, all

of your skill. You are but a child among wolves, blessed by the Gods for the whole Land to resent and envy. You have no friends now; no one you can trust with your innermost thoughts. Over the months to come you will realise that you now stand apart from the rest of the Land, between mortals and the Gods, but kin to neither.'

Isak, following this with some difficulty, broke in and asked, 'But you had someone once. Couldn't you trust her completely?'

Bahl stood silent for a few moments, then a deep breath signalled a victory for control. He answered, as if nothing had happened, 'Her I could trust, yes. She was the only person I could trust completely, and because of that she was used as a weapon against me. Don't speak of her again, unless you want bad blood to come between us.'

Bahl stopped again, but this time it was to gesture towards Isak's trembling hands. 'You're tired, I know; let me explain why. It was Nartis who spoke to you in your dream. Now that you're one of the Chosen, you are his property'- whether you want it or not. White-eyes were created to signal the end of the Age of Darkness; to show that the Gods were once again with us. We are born to rule, to lead the armies of the Seven Tribes of Man. By choosing one of us to lead, the Gods broke the dynasties and the traditions of blood-ties and birthright that had contributed to the Great War. I know the dreams are difficult to endure, but through them Nartis will give you the strength you need to survive. You'll be as big as I am, able to endure pain that would kill any normal man, and still have the strength to fight back afterwards. You'll feel the storm running through your veins-' 'What about the thread of light?' Isak interrupted again. Bahl frowned, leaning closer to Isak to stare deep into his eyes, a mesmerising, unremitting glare like a cobra staring down a rabbit. 'I don't know about a thread of light. You should have been alone with Nartis, becoming part of him.'

Isak shook his head. 'No, we weren't alone, I felt others all around us, other minds. There were whispers I couldn't make out before Naf' tis drove them away.'

'That's all they are,' Bahl said firmly. Isak blinked. 'What?'

'The whispers; that's all they are, just voices. Spirits holding on to a few memories; they're attracted by life, by strength, by magic. They’re distractions, nothing more. You'll learn to ignore them easily enough; As for the light, it's the same: another entity – stronger perhaps,

but not what you were born for. Stay true to your nature and your God.’

This time Isak nodded. Carel had spent many an evening entertaining

them all with tales of mythology: the Land's pantheon of Gods were eternally plotting and feuding. Larat, God of Magic and Manipulation, was particularly famed for stealing the followers of other Gods, and for making reviled traitors out of devoted servants. The pain Isak had felt during the dream must have been a taste of the price of betrayal, and if that was the case, he knew it was not something he ever wanted to experience in full. 'Could it have been another God like Larat? Trying to cause trouble?' he asked.

'That's possible – Larat lives for discord,' Bahl said, although he sounded uninterested in pursuing Isak's theory much further. 'But don't think too hard about it, just stay true to what you are. Only Death is stronger than our patron, Nartis. No other God can offer you more than Nartis has promised you by making you my Krann.'

Isak nodded, his eyes dropping as the sting of his chest intruded on his thoughts. His hand instinctively rose to touch the sore area before he forced it back down, unwilling to draw Bahl's attention there. He wasn't quite sure why, but he didn't want to show the scar to anyone yet.

Try not to worry about it now,' Bahl began, interpreting the movement as nervousness. 'We can talk again when you're feeling more yourself. Right now you should compose yourself and report to Sword-master Kerin; he will need an idea of your abilities before he begins your training. Once that is done, the day is yours. I don't have time for you today. I have told Kerin to give you a sword that befits your new rank, but I suggest you don't leave the palace; let Lesarl introduce you to useful men like Suzerain Tebran and the colonel of the Ghosts instead. At some point you should go to the temple and sacrifice to

Nartis, but there's no rush. We'll send some men with you to give you some space from the curious.

‘Beyond that, your first priority is your weapons-training. In a few

days Lesarl should have time to formally draw up your ownership of estates, incomes and the like; just remember he is in my service to bully the nobility, so don't let him do the same to you.’ Isak sat and and stared up at Bahl. He hardly knew what to make of the

siuation – everything was flying at him so fast. Even after Bahl's words in the hall the previous night, it didn't feel real. Estates, a suzerainty, a court rank? Yesterday Isak could have been whipped for looking a knight directly in the eye.

'What are people supposed to call me now?' he asked, a little diffidently.

Bahl gave a laugh. Considering the full import of Isak's elevation, it was an inane question, but he could see why it was important. The boy had been the lowest of the low; now he was at least determined to know what respect he could demand from others. He understood why that would be important to a wagon-brat.

'They have a few choices. "My Lord Suzerain" or "Lord Isak" is the formal way to address you, but since your court rank is technically that of a duke rather than a suzerain, "Your Grace" would also be perfectly acceptable. No doubt you'll hear it from someone wanting to flatter you. Just remember your rank is below the other dukes, so you'll still have to bow to them. Krann Isak would be a little direct, but also acceptable. Otherwise, you are Isak, Suzerain Anvee, Krann to Lord Bahl and Chosen of Nartis. Ah, but some might call that impious. It would be better to say: Chosen of Nartis and Krann to Lord Bahl.'

'So I have a family name now.'

'I suppose so, but don't grow too fond of it. As one of the Chosen, tradition says you should be addressed as Lord Isak, and you lose it when you become Lord of the Farlan anyway, though I hope that will be a long-distant day.' Bahl smiled, rather uneasily, as though the expression was unfamiliar. 'Anvee is dull and overgrown in any case. There's not much of interest there, only a handful of towns and villages populated by shepherds.'

Isak opened his mouth to ask another question, but Bahl had already turned and entered the central chimney. He shut up and watched the giant disappear, enveloped in a grey blur.

Left alone again, Isak clambered to his feet, draping a woollen blanket from the bed around his shoulders, and made for the fire. He nudged the chair Bahl had sat in out of the way and squatted on the floor to stare into the flames. The fire looked just like any other, with no sign of its unnatural birth. Isak smiled; maybe, after today, he wouldn't envy it that. After a while he realised his head was clear and the dull ache in his muscles was receding. He stood and stretched-Perhaps he could face the day after all.

He removed his shirt again and took another look at the scar on his chest. The rune was no more than two inches wide; a minor

for all the trepidation it had provoked in him. Despite the fact that he could only just see it, when he put the shirt back on the throb of its presence remained. The pain was nothing compared to the nag of its unknown significance.

Investigating the clothes trunk, Isak found a better pair of breeches than his own, and some sort of shapeless shirt with sleeves so short and fat it looked as if it had been made for a Chetse rather than sorneone of Isak's build. He guessed he looked a little foolish in it, but the shirt was warm so it would do for the meantime.

There were no boots in the trunk, so Isak closed the lid, looked around the room once more in case he'd missed anything, and stepped on to the murky platform. This time he savoured the taste of magic it contained, an almost metallic flavour that drove the last vestiges of sleep from his mind. He took a deep breath and focused his mind on the bird symbol down below. A momentary rush of giddiness passed away and when the lower chamber and Tila's slightly alarmed face were revealed, Isak looked calm and controlled.

'Ah, there you are.' As he stepped forward the girl curtsied.

'Oh, please don't do that every time I see you,' Isak begged. 'It makes me feel stupid.'

'I- yes, my Lord.' They stared at each other in silence until Isak gave an enquiring nod at a pair of boots Tila carried.

'Oh yes, I borrowed these from one of the guardsmen. I hope they're big enough for you. I've sent for tailors and a cobbler to attend you this afternoon – if these will suffice for the morning, that is.'

Isak took the boots from her and pulled them on. They were simple, but well made – and certainly better and newer than any he'd ever worn before. The fit was snug, and his toes were crammed together especially tightly in the left, but it was far better than bare feet on cobbled or flagged stone. He beamed at the improvement. Tila gave him a relieved smile.

Should I ask Lesarl for the money to pay the tailors then?' he asked, recalling Bahl's earlier instructions.

‘Not at all, my Lord.'

‘Why not?’ he asked, wondering if he had missed something. ‘They’ re hardly going to dress me for nothing.’ She smiled again, and this time Isak thought she was being a little condescending.

‘I think in fact they would dress you for free, my Lord,' she explained. 'You are a suzerain, and if their work pleases you, you would be expected to have much more work for them in the future. My grandfather always said that a good tailor was the first requirement of a gentleman.'

'I'm far from that.'

'On the contrary, my Lord, as Suzerain Anvee, you outrank almost every gentleman in the nation. My Lord, may I be bold and speak freely?'

Isak shrugged, lips pursed as he anticipated a comment on the shirt he'd just put on.|

'The talk of the palace is that before your elevation to Krann, you lived on a wagon-train.' She paused, wary of looking foolish or giving offence, but Isak nodded without further comment. 'If that is the case, I would venture to guess that you find yourself in a life about which you know nothing. Perhaps I might be so free as to offer what advice I can? This is the society I have grown up in. It might be asking you to trust me excessively, but I assure you that any disgrace or humiliation visited upon you would reflect upon me. I am not unattractive, I know that, but I am unmarried at seventeen because my father has no money for a dowry, despite his position. Proving myself an able counsellor to you could compensate for that – it could demonstrate my usefulness to any man beyond the first duty of bearing an heir. I have as much to lose as you do, and as much to gain.'

Isak considered her words. He wasn't quite ready to trust her, but she had acknowledged that already. At least he knew to be wary, and what more could he ask for?

'Go on then,' he said grudgingly.

'Yes, my Lord. You are now a man of court rank – how society regards you will be determined, first and foremost, by the way you present yourself.'

'I've no intention of presenting myself to anyone. If I'm Krann, then surely people should be coming to me.'

'And I'm sure they will, that's the way of politics. However, to wield power successfully, one must cultivate friendships as well as receive them. Isolation is no way to achieve victory in any arena.'

'Lord Bahl seems to manage.'

Tila paused. 'My Lord, to the other nobles you are just a youth – albeit one with potential as a soldier. The divine edicts are clear the Chosen are just that: made fit by the gifts of the Gods, but they

Must prove themselves worthy of those gifts, and they must hold on to power by themselves. Lord Bahl is one of the greatest warriors in the Land. In combat, he is matchless. Quite aside from the fact that our finest regiment is loyal to him to a man, no Farlan alive could beat him in a duel. In the political arena, he's well protected by his Chief Steward. You, on the other hand, are untested in any form of battle, and you're a stranger to the viciousness of polite society.'

'So as my advisor, what would you have me do?' Isak shifted his weight from one foot to the other. As he grew irritated, so he felt the squeeze on his toes become more noticeable.

'Show yourself to be their equal. Dress and act as befitting a man of your station and they will soon be flocking to court your attention. If you are quiet and considered, welcoming but never overly so, then you will have the time you need to learn how to deal with the men of court rank: the dukes, suzerains and counts. They are men of guile who will use the law, force, influence and rumour to gain what they want. To play their game, you must first understand its rules.'

'And then what?'

'And then men will align themselves to you. They won't all be trustworthy, of course, but that will be how you can develop your powerbase grounded in something more than military might. Lord Bahl's intentional rejection of high society has caused him more than a few problems in the past.'

'That sounds like a dangerous opinion to me.'

Tila stared at Isak in alarm before realising he had not meant it as a threat.

‘I -I don't believe so, my Lord. It is well known that Lord Bahl takes little interest in politics or the cult of Nartis, and that this has caused problems in the past.'

Isak stayed silent while Tila's words churned through his head. Yet

more strange, more confusion in his life; more playing the games of other men, something he had yearned to be free of. Damn them, he thought all of a sudden, I am a man of power now and that means I should be able to live my life how I want. Why should I bend to another man’s will? Let the Land now bend to mine. He opened his mouth to say exactly that to Tila, then the words faltered in his throat. She was trying to help, to be a freiend. Right now she was the only one he had here; no need to reject everything she'd said.

'You might be right. I'll have to think about it all,' Isak said. 'In meantime, Lord Bahl told me to find Swordmaster Kerin.'

Tila gave a half-curtsey, bowing her head a fraction too slowly t0 avoid showing the rush of relief that flowed over her face. 'He will be on the training ground, my Lord. This way.'

She led him down the empty corridor towards the Great Hall, where the wide stone stairway brought noises from the rest of Tirah Palace. Isak resolved to investigate the place at a later time. He smiled. The high roofs and hidden eaves of this ancient place would soon welcome him and share their secrets; with no father to curse his absence, Isak had only his own fancy to obey.

Tila pushed open the door to the Great Hall, walked in and cast a pointed look at those within. Then she stepped aside and drew herself up by the door, holding it open for Isak.

'Today I will have your personal chambers prepared. Lord Bahl has given explicit instructions that you sleep in the tower for a few weeks, but chambers in the main wing above us are also to be yours.'

Isak nodded and walked past her into the hall. Only four people were inside, two servants tending to the fire, now standing to atten- tion, and a pair of guardsmen. The younger was still sitting, his bloody leg stretched out on the bench while the other, a grizzled man of a similar age to Carel, had risen to his feet. A length of bandage trailed from his hand.

Isak, not sure what to do, gestured at them to continue what they'd been doing as he strode past them and to the tall double doors that led outside. One was slightly ajar, enough to see daylight, and when he opened it fully, he found himself at the top of a wide stone stairway with no rail that led down to what was obviously a training ground. To either side was a drop of almost ten feet; unsurprisingly, the steps were badly worn in the centre. A mass of grey cloud hung in the sky, resisting the wind's listless attempts to drive it away. Isak could hardly tell where the sun was, so quickly gave up gauging the hour, but guessed he had slept far later than usual.

Off to the left stood the barbican, flanked by two sharp towers. The dark maw of the keep tunnel rose up from the ground, its length sufficient to prevent any light from the other side from showing. Isak turned and looked up at the great bulk of the main wing. The Tower of Semar rose behind it. He felt himself start to topple backwards as

he strained to see to the very top. Against the diffused morning light the huge tower that reached up into the heavens looked elusive and shadowy- Now Isak was inside the palace, he realised just how large the fortress was – and still the tower looked impossibly tall.

The high stone walls encircled a vast tract of land. They were dotted with defensive towers, and there were stables and barracks nestling close in several places. Various plots within the wall were fenced off for livestock and for huge kitchen gardens, but the majority held soldiers. A line of archery butts were taking a beating at the far end, while the wide stretch of ground in between contained drilling foot soldiers and cavalry.

The palace was not built for defence. It had grown over the years, and the ancient wall surrounding the training ground was now a patchwork, first enlarged after an original section around the tower had been destroyed by magic. These days it was so long that it would take thousands to man it. But no one had ever succeeded in laying siege to Tirah Palace because the Farlan Army was a mobile one, manoeuvrable and superbly trained. The horses were drilled as hard as the soldiers, and their rapid response, tight formations and excellent logistical management meant that few enemies ever got the choice of battleground. Organisation of supplies was so crucial for the Farlan Army that the Quartermaster-General outranked even suzerains, in peace time as well as at war.

Isak trotted down the steps and made his way to a nearby groom who was attending to a tall chestnut hunter. The magnificent animal remained patient and still as the groom inspected a foreleg hoof.

Isak took a moment to admire the warhorse, a finer creature than any he'd seen before, before asking, 'Can you tell me where I can find Swordmaster Kerin?'

‘The Swordmaster?' replied the groom without looking up. 'He's busy with the rich boys of the Guard. Wait till he's finished; some of them are knights and they don't like commoners interrupting.'

Isak smiled. Only a day back he'd have obeyed that advice. 'Tell me which on he is anyway. I tkink I outrank a knight so they won't complain for long.’ The man looked up, and dropped the hoof in shock. He quickly recovered himself and dropped to to one knee, muttering apologies. 'My Lord, forgive-‘

‘don‘t worry, just tell me which one is the Swordmaster.'

The man hopped to his feet and pointed to a group of men gathered in a circle thirty yards away. 'Of course, my Lord… He’s over there, training the high-born men. The, ah, the man in blue, with a quarter-staff.'

Isak turned to follow the man's hand. The group was assembled in a half-circle, centred on the man in blue and a mailed figure frozen in mid-lunge. The S\yordmaster was pointing with tiis staff at the position of the other man's leg. He could see why the groom had been dismissive; it Was a fencing class, teaching nobles how to fight with a rapier. The Weapons were next to useless on a battlefield, but duels were common enough among the upper classes and skill with the narrow blade bad brought many men fame.

As Isak approached, the assembled men stopped paying attention and stared instead at their new Krann. He smiled inwardly, wondering what rumours were flying around the palace. A commoner arriving in the dead of night and soaked in blood, declared as Krann to Lord Bahl and future Lord of the Parian – no doubt there were many assuming, as some part of Isak still did, that this was all a joke.

To the Swordmaster's credit, he hardly hesitated as he felt his audience's attention stray. Turning smartly, the slim-built, greying man hefted his staff, took a step towards Isak and then dropped to one knee. 'My Lord Isak, you honour us with your presence.' As he spoke, Kerin looked up, assessing Isak with an unwavering gaze that betrayed no trace of apprehension. 'You're Swordrnaster Kerin?'

'I am, my Lord.' Kerin didn't blink or shift his attention for an instant. For a man kneeling, the Swordmaster showed no intention of being impressed yet.

'Well then, Lord Bahl told me to report to you.' Kerin rose, leaning heavily on his staff, but Isak wasn't fooled. From the rapt attention the others had been giving him, he guessed Kerin was worthy of his title.

‘That he did, my Lord, and now you're out here, you're under my command. There’s no room for titles here; no room for more than one commander. If you don't like doing what I say, tough shit. You'll do it or you'll not walk this field.'

Isak blinked in surprise; that hadn't been how he'd expected things to start out – but then he remembered Carel repeating to him, again and again, whenever the subject of joining the Guard came up: Keep

your damn temper under control and your mouth shut. Either you'll learn to take orders, or they'll chew you up and spit you out. There's nothing that the Swordmasters haven't seen before; make sure you show yourself to be more than just a white-eye.

Isak gave a small smile; if he was now the Krann, none of these men had seen one of those before, but he still had something to prove to them. Better he showed them the man he could become, rather than the animal they all expected.

'Think I'm joking, boy?' The Swordmaster broke in on his reverie. 'There's near enough a thousand men on this ground; defy me and you'll find out whether their loyalties lie with me or some wet-behind-the-ears suzerain of a place no one's ever been.'

Isak held up his hands in submission. 'I've not yet had a chance to get used to my title; I think I can put it aside for the moment.' He looked around at the men assembled. Disappointed at what he saw, Isak craned his head past them at the nearest troops. 'I thought there were other white-eyes in the Ghosts?' he asked finally.

Kerin snorted. 'That there are – seventy-six of the vicious bastards at the last count.'

'You don't like white-eyes?'

'Hah! Boy, to me you're just a soldier – and right now, you're not even that. The best way to piss me off is to be touchy about what you are. You want to know why I call them vicious bastards? It's because they are. I could count on my fingers those white-eyes in the Guard who've spoken more words to me than you just have. General Lahk is the only one that's properly civilised, saving yourself perhaps, and the general broke another white-eye's neck with his bare hands a few years back.' There was a hint of a smile of Kerin's face as he spoke, the confidence of a man in his element. Isak §uspected even the white-eyes of the Guard, bastards or not, would follow the Swordmaster's orders without question.

‘ I’m keeping the others away from you because they'll want to get into it first chance there is. Like their pecking order, do our white-yes, and none of you can control your temper. If it starts, someone will die; that's why they'll be flogged if they even walk past you. Now, enough talk. Can you fight?' Isak nodded, biting back his frustration. Kerin seemed to be suggest Isak didn't even have much in common with other white-eyes -even amongst his own, would he still be an outsider?

'Good. Give him a staff, Swordmaster Cosep,' Kerin ordered a stout officer in Bahl's livery. The eagle on his chest was gold rather than the usual white, and Isak guessed that was the mark of a Swordmaster, the most skilled of all Parian soldiers. Kerin acted as if he were the highest-ranked among them; he must be high enough that he had no need of markings or livery.

Isak had not even managed to gauge the weight of the staff when a loud crack broke the air and a burst of pain flared in the side of his head. He stumbled forward, almost dropping his staff in the process. Cosep stepped smartly back as Isak staggered and winced. His vision went black for an instant, then he saw Cosep smiling, the Swordmas-ter's eyes angled to Kerin rather than Isak. Instinctively, Isak threw himself to the right as Kerin's staff flashed towards him again – this time it would have done more damage than just a clip round the ear. 'Come on, boy, at least try to defend yourself,' the Swordmaster called, sounding bored.

Isak took a step back to collect his wits, but Kerin was on him again, swinging a sloppy stroke at Isak's head, perhaps hoping to tease a reaction out of him. Instead, he almost lost his staff as Isak lashed out angrily at the oncoming weapon and smashed it away. That gave him the moment he needed and now he was on the attack. He struck out, again and again, and as Kerin stepped smoothly over a long swipe at his shins, he grinned at Isak's unexpected speed.

Now Isak held the staff like an axe, hands apart until he slid them together for a stroke, aware that his height and reach gave him the advantage. Kerin was chancing the odd blow, but was too sensible to go toe-to-toe with a white-eye. Isak felt the man watching his every step and movement, drinking in the details while watching for a flaw

to exploit.

For a man approaching fifty summers, Kerin moved with the speed of one of his pupils, diverting one strike over his head with apparent ease, then turning in behind a straight thrust with a delicate pirouette and jabbing backwards at Isak. Years of experience meant Kerin im- mediately dived away when he felt his blow meet nothing but air, but the pleased astonishment was plain on his face as he rolled and jumped up, staff ready to defend himself.

No blow came. Isak had stayed back, his staff loose in his hands and a smirk on his lips.

'You underestimate me, old man.'

'Hah, maybe you do have a sense of humour after all,' Kerin laughed. 'Let's see, shall we?'

Kerin darted forward, launching three quick strikes before retreatinga step. Isak obliged by moving up to attack, suddenly under assault from both sides as a staff from the crowd flicked out and slammed into the back of his knee. Isak gave a yelp as his leg buckled and stabbed down with his staff to avoid falling completely. Lunging forward as if he had a spear in his hands, Kerin caught Isak hard on the shoulder and knocked him backwards on to the muddy ground. Isak collapsed flat on his back, to the sound of chortling from the onlookers. He found himself blinking up at the grey clouds above.

The packed earth was cold and damp against his back and for a moment he felt like he was back in the street, surrounded by his father's cronies. As Isak collected his wits, a cold fury gripped him. He pulled himself up and found the staff lying at his side. Without thinking, he snatched it up and swung round savagely, taking his unknown assailant off his feet. There was a sickening snap as the ash staff connected, and then Isak tackled Kerin with short, controlled blows. The Swordmaster fell back, step by step, parrying each thrust. Then a stinging blow jarred the staff from his fingers.

Knowing he was beaten, Kerin ducked his head to take the final blow on his shoulder. He fell heavily and a shout went up from the watching men. They stepped forward protectively. Isak drew his staff back and readied himself to strike the first man who stepped within range. Seeing the look of murder on Isak's face, the men went for their swords.

'Stop! Get back.' Even from the ground, Kerin's voice commanded complete obedience among his men. 'You too, Krann, put up your weapon now.'

Isak spun around, staff raised, but faltered when he saw Kerin Kneeling on the ground, a trickle of blood running from his eyebrow.

The Swordmaster's staff lay forgotten on the floor as he clutched his shoulder.

‘All of you, put up your weapons.' Kerin dragged himself to his feet, wincing, and looked for Swordmaster Cosep and the third man,

another Swordmaster, who rolled on to his side and swore though gritted teeth, hands clamped around his right leg.

‘Damn. You two – get him to the surgeons.' The men nodded and bent

down to pick up the unfortunate Swordmaster. Putting an arm

around each of their necks, they gently slid their hands under the man's back and thighs, lifting him with as much care as they could. Isak watched them go and his anger fled. He let his quarterstaff fall

to the floor.

'I should have seen that coming. Well, I think we can assume you've been trained in weapons. Can you use a sword?' Kerin asked.

Isak nodded. 'I was taught by a sergeant of the Guard, he made me learn the forms – said I'd have to one day anyway.'

'And he was right. You were going to come and take the trials?' He gave a grim laugh that ended in a wince. 'Well, I think it's clear you would have passed. Now, Lord Bahl said to give you a sword until you get your own. A man of your rank should always wear one.' Kerin paused, as if considering something, then walked over to a bundle lying unminded on the ground. He retrieved it and unwrapped from a cloak the finest sword Isak had ever seen. It was a slender blade, an inch wide, with an ornate golden guard. The leather scabbard was a rich scarlet, bound with gold thread and lined with red-dyed raw

wool.

'Here, take this for the moment. It's rather more fitting to your

station than a cavalry blade from the armoury.'

Isak took the sword, drawing it halfway from the scabbard to inspect the blade. It looked old and worn, but it was still in fine condition. The metal was black-iron, ensorcelled steel that was both lighter and stronger that any other metal. The symbol of an eagle had been engraved near the hilt, outstretched in flight as on Bahl's personal

crest.

'Thank-' Isak's reply was cut short as one of the men watching gave a strangled cry of outrage. The Krann turned to look at him, a man of about thirty summers, obviously wealthy, with a scarlet sash draped over his shoulder and across his body; Isak saw that echoed in the dress of three or four others there. 'You have something to say, Sir Dirass?'

'Master Kerin,' the nobleman began angrily, 'he's little more than a boy. Whatever his rank, he's certainly not worthy of carrying any Eagle-blade, let alone yours. Just because he bested you with a staff-It's an insult to those of us who've dedicated our lives to earning an Eagle. If my father were to hear of this-'

'If your father were to hear of this,' Kerin interjected quietly, ‘he would remember the oath he swore when he received his Eagle-blade,

and he would also remember that I am the one who commands the Swordmasters. Suzerain Certinse's rank does not give him authority over me, as you well know.'

'So because this boy can best you with a farmer's stick he deserves ne of our highest honours?' The knight's voice was thick with contempt as he moved forward to Kerin. Cosep stepped in between the two.

'That's too far, Certinse. You will apologise now and remember your place.' Swordmaster Cosep reached out to rest a hand on Sir Dirass's shoulder, but the man shrugged him off angrily.

'Apologise? My family is not in the habit of apologising to inferiors. I don't intend to set the precedent.'

'Your family,' retorted Kerin, 'seems to be more in the habit of running away with tails between legs, if recent history is anything to go on.'

Sir Dirass made a grab for his sword, but Cosep saw it coming and slammed his fist into the knight's shoulder. Dirass stumbled back with the point of Cosep's blade at his throat.

'Do you think you're ready for an Eagle then?' Kerin asked the enraged nobleman.

Sir Dirass blinked at the question. With a slow, wary movement, he nodded.

'Do you think the Krann to be unworthy of one?'

Another nod.

Well then; if you can take it off him, the sword is yours. I don't deserve it myself if my judgement is so wrong.'

‘Kerin,' roared Cosep before Sir Dirass could accept the challenge, 'this goes too far!'

Keep out of this. This is my blade, and my decision.' Kerin rounded on his colleague, pointing a warning finger at the Swordmaster who, after staring at Kerin for a moment, threw his hands up in disgust and withdrew.

‘Sir Dirass Certinse,' the Swordmaster said formally, 'if you accept this tesst and fail, you will never receive an Eagle. If you accept, you must

disarm the Krann to take your prize. Make no mistake, this is

a duel; we've had enough blood spilled already today. If you agree, fetch a shield and make ready.'

Kerin took a teardrop-shaped shield from one of the onlookers and walked over to Isak, who was not quite sure what was happening – other than what Kerin had said about the knight's family had upset him enough to make him draw on his unarmed superior. Kerin held out the shield.

'You want me to fight a duel for you?' Isak asked.

'It's not a duel; I think you're fast enough to avoid getting anything more than a nick if you pay attention.'

'With the mood he's in? And anyway, I've not been taught to use a sword like this – this is a nobleman's blade.'

'Dirass knows the rules well enough, he's sparred like this a hundred times. If he goes too far, I'll stop the fight and have him thrown in a cell, no matter who his father is.'

'And who is his father?'

'Suzerain Certinse of Tildek, but technically you outrank the man

now.'

Isak stepped back and frowned. This wasn't his battle, but the faces around him made it clear he had no choice. 'Fine, give me the shield,'

he said.

He took the curved wooden shield Kerin handed him and watched as his opponent slid his on so the point was up by his shoulder. He did the same, gripping the leather handle at the wide end tightly, and twisted his arm back and forward to get the feel of it. Reaching his left arm out as far as he could, he looked over his shoulder to check that the tip could not catch him, no matter how far he stretched out. The edge of the shield was bound in steel, roughly hammered into shape with the tip bent outward so it would be a danger only to his

opponent.

Now Isak tugged Kerin's beautiful blade clear of the sheath. It was perfectly balanced, that much he recognised, but he knew nothing oi duelling. He needed to see how this man moved. The knight had light and quick step that belied his bulky frame. He didn't enjoy height or reach, but he did have years of experience instead.

Something deep inside Isak wanted to charge the knight immedi- ately, but Carel had sliced and battered the young man often enough to curb that instinct. Not all of the scars on Isak's body were punishment from his father; some were down to Carel's incessant drilling-

Isak walked briskly up to Sir Dirass, wasting no time, and swung a clumsy overhand swipe at the knight. It was parried easily, but the knight wasn't going to be fooled into thinking Isak was a complete novice, no matter what he claimed. The Krann's second strike was

a thrust at the nobleman's leg; Sir Dirass struck back with two neat blows, which Isak just stepped back from.

Now the knight moved into his stride, giving Isak no time to get a

feel for the delicate weapon. Sir Dirass cut right and left, fast and

accurate, and turned aside every one of Isak's blows with practiced ease,stepping with the grace of a dancer. He used his shield as skilfully

as his sword. Now he almost clubbed the sword from Isak's hand with his shield, now he delicately flicked his own blade out to catch Isak off-guard, the in-drawn breaths of the onlookers testament to his skill. His eyes were red, blood-shot with rage, but his experience meant his anger added purpose to his movements rather than recklessness.

The knight stabbed forward, the edge of his sword running along the rim of Isak's shield, then stepped to one side and slashed at Isak's hamstring. His shield, held high, caught the downstroke of Isak's weapon as his own failed to reach.

Isak pulled his weapon back, then thrust fiercely, uncontrollably, and to everyone's surprise caught the knight's sword, twisting so for a moment the blades locked. Sir Dirass disengaged with a savage flick, then smashed his shield into Isak's shoulder. Falling backwards, Isak slammed his heels into the dirt and brought his own shield down as fast as he could. It wasn't fast enough to stop the sword flashing up past his groin, but the stroke missed.

A bellow from Kerin prevented a second: 'Certinse! I said disarm, not mortally wound him!'

Isak crouched on the ground, the knuckles of his right hand ground into the packed earth and his shield covering his body. He had managed to get his foot underneath his body in time to stop him falling flat on his back. Now he forced himself upright again.

Sir Dirass looked unashamed. He kept his sword low. His eyes never left Isak's.

‘That was a coward's chance,' growled Isak. 'Does that run in the family too?' A snort from the assembled men and Sir Dirass's furious glare told him the jibe had hit home. His opponent had a weakness. ‘Watch your mouth, white-eye.'

‘Or what? You'll run away? Hide behind your bitch-mother's skirt?' ‘Enough! This is over!' But Kerin's shout went ignored this time. Isak grinned as he felt a familiar growl of anger stir in his belly. The animal inside him was just warming up. This man needed a lesson.

'Come on then. If you want it, come and get it. Or are you just another example of your worthless family?'

With a howl, the knight threw himself forward, hacking savagely with his slender blade, any pretence of form now gone. The white-eye again suppressed the almost overwhelming urge to charge, instead contenting himself with warding off the blows while waiting for the opening he knew would come. The crowd moved to keep up with Isak's steady retreat.

The knight was beginning to tire now, and finally Isak launched his own attack. He might not have been trained to the rapier, but Isak was young, and immensely strong, and extremely fast. Now he used all that roaring power to direct a flurry of blows at Sir Dirass that stopped the knight in his tracks. His thrusts were clumsy, but they were fierce. Carel had been trained on the battlefield, and that was the way he'd taught Isak: momentum was crucial: the advancing infantry, the charging cavalry – theirs was the victory to take.

For the first time, the knight looked a little uneasy, but then Isak moved forward and suddenly realised he was closer than he had intended. He jumped back quickly, but Sir Dirass had seen it too and lunged as hard as he could. Isak just escaped, arms splayed out wide as he fought for balance, then swung out hard at the knight's neck. Sir Dirass had almost lost his footing in the lunge but he got his shield up in time. Both stepped back unscathed.

There was a smile on Isak's face now. He had the measure of his enemy; now to irritate the knight into foolishness. His darting steps became more pronounced; his shield dropped a little lower and his grin broadened. Sir Dirass's face tightened. A pace forward closed the ground between them. The knight's sword was ready as he waited for Isak to retreat to where a second step would bring the knight close enough to run Isak through. That second step never came.

With an astonished gasp, Sir Dirass looked deep into the cold eyes of his killer as Isak stepped into the feint. No emotion showed on Isak's face as his sword-tip slid between the knight's ribs.

Sir Dirass shuddered and went completely still, his fury turned to disbelief. He took an involuntary breath, and the onlookers gasped with him. Isak's movement had been so smooth that it took them a moment to realise he'd run Sir Dirass through. The knight's arras wavered, then dropped. He fell to his knees. With a quick jerk, Isak

. withdrew the blade. A spurt of blood followed it, splashing on to his borrowed boots. The corpse sagged and crumpled to the ground.

No one spoke. Isak stared down at the body with the rest of them. fjow his stomach felt empty. The addictive rush of violence had been replaced by a palpable absence, a cold ball aching inside. He couldn't regret what he'd done; the man had meant to kill him – even an inexperienced swordsman like Isak recognised that. The breeze brought a taste of bread on the wind, a tantalising smell. He was starving. He wiped the blade clean on his shirt, turned, without a word, and headed back to the Great Hall.

Tila watched him go, sickness and fear welling inside. The bitter taste of bile sat at the back of her throat.

What sort of a man are you? She wanted to scream out the words. How can you be so meek and unsure one moment, then so brutal the next! Are. you no different to the rest of your kind after all?

She had once watched her uncle killed in a duel, but that fight had been wild and ragged. Here, Isak had moved like a Harlequin dancing the steps to an epic poem, but he had been so dismissive when he ran the man through. For certain Sir Dirass had tried to kill Isak, but the vacant expression on Isak's face chilled her. Tila stood and stared with the soldiers until Isak had disappeared through the tall doors of the Great Hall, then the spell was broken and Swordmaster Kerin barked an order – angry sounds that Tila could not form into words. She drifted forward, hardly noticing that she had picked up the scabbard, and went after Isak. She was terrified to face him, but still she followed.

‘Well, Kerin, please explain yourself.' Lesarl's voice sounded cold, but his eyes laughed and danced. 'Our new Krann was in mortal danger, he not?'

‘Yes, Chief Steward.' Eyes downcast, Kerin felt the weight of the day’s events grow darker and heavier with every passing moment. 'I did not foresee Sir Dirass acting that way – we were far from friendly, but I didn't think he would disobey a direct order. Sir Dirass went for a cut to the groin, then Lord Isak began to bait him, insulting his family to get him angry. I think the Krann decided to kill him after that.’

‘And you're surprised?' Bahl's voice was quiet, restrained. Kerin had expected fury, but this disturbed him even more. 'The knight went for a killing blow; Lord Isak's a white-eye, you do remember that? What were you thinking to put him in a duel? You'd not have done that with any of the other white-eyes under your command.'

'I-' Kerin looked helpless, hardly able to explain a decision he himself didn't understand. His memory was dream-like, as though he was not completely sure he had even given the order. 'I thought Isak would keep his temper, I thought Sir Dirass would obey my orders-'

'I think the Swordmaster is showing his age,' Lesarl interrupted. 'Perhaps it is time I organised a quiet pension somewhere; some rich widow out in the country, maybe?'

'My mind is as sound as ever,' snapped Kerin. 'Dirass Certinse was always an impetuous man. Yes, he was desperate for his Eagle, but killing the Krann? He has – had – more sense than that.'

'Then why, my Swordmaster, is that exactly what he tried to do?' Still Bahl was not angry.

'I cannot say. He looked like a man possessed, but-'

'That,' said Lesarl firmly, 'is a theory you will refrain from advancing in any other company, unless you want to find yourself closeted away in a monastery for the rest of your life.'

Kerin was taken aback at the strength of Lesarl's reaction. 'I didn't

mean-'

'I don't care what you meant, or what you think. If I hear the slightest mention of malign influences affecting the decisions made out there today, I will hold you responsible for them.'

'Yes,' rumbled Bahl in a thoughtful way. 'That idea is a disturbing notion. It will be dissuaded. Let them dwell instead on the fact that he is a natural soldier. By the time he leads troops into battle, he will be able to match more than just one potential Swordmaster.' The old lord gestured towards the door. 'Thank you, Swordmaster. That is all.'

Unable to voice any of his many questions, Kerin bowed his head in acknowledgement, still a little stunned that the matter had been dealt with so swiftly. By the time he collected himself and made for the door, Bahl had already turned his attention back to the papers on his desk.

Bahl waited until he heard the door close behind Kerin, then pushed the papers away and looked over to his Chief Steward's expectant face-

'I will speak to the boy, remind him of the importance of retaining his composure, and not destroying valuable soldiers.'

'And what of Certinse's parents? When they hear of it, the suzerain will lodge a suit against Isak and the Swordmaster. Damn the boy, why couldn't he have killed someone rather less important? If he's desperate for blood there are plenty of criminals in the gaol.'

'Enough, Lesarl; his blood was up and the man tried to kill him. You can't expect less from a white-eye; I would have done the same. I'm more interested in why this happened at all. Kerin's too sensible to start this duel, and Sir Dirass was a grown man. Quite aside from the fact that he's fought with white-eyes before and must know their temper, the political problems it would bring alone would have stopped his hand.'

Bahl stared over his desk at the blank wall, deep in thought. Then he looked at Lesarl. 'Aracnan said there had been something wrong when he met the boy; you say the father demanded Isak be hanged last night, and now a intelligent man takes it upon himself to defy orders and attempt to kill him,' he said softly.

Aracnan's words the previous night came back to him. The boy's trouble, but now he is your trouble. He expected those words to come up rather often now.

'Well, speaking of problems,' Lesarl broke in, 'Cardinal Certinse has demanded an explanation. The arrogant bastard's already acting as though he were High Cardinal of Nartis. He informs me that he has written to both of his brothers to let them know about "this latest outrage". I don't know whether the man still thinks he can intimidate me, but I had hoped to put this problem with the Knights of the Temples behind us. Knight-Cardinal Certinse might use this as an excuse to come home, and perhaps bring a few of his men along for Protection. If that looks likely, I'd sooner have him killed before he crosses our border.'

‘I think you're getting ahead of yourself there.'

‘Well, you must admit it is a possibility. The Cardinal and Suzerain

Certinse I can probably shut up; the Knight-Cardinal is a different matter. What would you have me do there?'

Bahl sighed. 'Let's deal with Isak first. The Devoted are a problem for another day.'