The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection

by Tom Lloyd

  The word spread quickly. The Parian soldiers seemed to sag at the news, as though the rock their lives had been founded upon was now gone. Lord Bahl had led their grandfathers and their great-grandfathers into victorious battle. He was the eternal hero who arrived bearing the vengeance of the Gods. And now he was dead. The cornerstone of their nation was suddenly, unexpectedly, gone.

  Only Carel, striding amongst them, stopped men from dropping hopelessly to the floor. Whispering fiercely in the ear of one, clapping a firm hand on the shoulder of the next; one by one he roused in them the love they’d had for their Lord. In the heat of battle, their passion burned with sudden and terrible intensity. Cold fury showed in their eyes as they waited for the enemy. The battle hymn came softly from their lips. Now they were angry.

  When the enemy came, it looked a final desperate attempt. Any remaining mages of the White Circle had fled in fear of Isak, but a division of Fysthrall warriors led the attack. They didn’t look human in the firelight. Their blue-green scaled armour glowed eerily, and they seemed to jerk and shuffle as they raised the ladders.

  As Isak watched them come to an accompaniment of the whistle of arrows, the sight of them evoked an elusive memory of glinting bodies and huge bronze war-hammers shining in the light of an unnatural fire - but he couldn’t remember any more. Faces and names eluded him as the present intruded on his thoughts.

  Scores of arrows kept the defenders down as the Fysthrall swarmed up to attack. White-eyes stood on the tops of the ladders while they were being raised, ready to leap over the battlements the moment wood met stone, when they started striking out with fierce abandon, brandishing their long-handled battle-axes. The first Ghost to come within range was caught in the armpit, the bronze-inlaid blade cutting deep, but it caught on the inside of his cuirass and fell with the man. The Fysthrall abandoned his axe and pulled a pair of short swords from his belt. He started trading blows with Carel before Ghosts on either side impaled him.

  Elsewhere the white-eyes didn’t fall so easily and brutally cut the defenders down… but the battle hymn of the Ghosts was taken up by the Kingsguard now and it echoed down the wall.

  The captain of the Fysthrall white-eyes charged up and over, heading straight for Isak, screaming a challenge as he battered a path to the new Parian Lord.

  Isak waited for him, sword and shield forward to meet the enchanted axes in the captain’s hands. The Fysthrall white-eye roared at Isak and began to rain blows down on him. With bodies piling up on the ground and more men coming up the ladder there was little room to move, but Carel managed to slip around to cut at the back of the Fysthrall’s leg. The blow glanced off his armour, but it distracted the white-eye enough for Isak to start his own attack.

  Now using all his speed and power, Isak hacked away, until Eolis caught the shaft of one axe and sliced through. A burst of red appeared as the magic in the blade suddenly ran wild and, in a cloud of light, the uncontrolled energies wrapped themselves around the captain’s arm. Isak heard the sizzle of burning flesh as the man cried out in pain and lowered his guard. The next blow sheared through his throat.

  Isak carefully kicked the corpse off into the palace gardens and looked around, spotting Carel as the old man cried out. Throwing himself forward in controlled fury, Isak struck off the offender’s arm, then smashed his shield into the man’s face. The Fysthrall screamed in agony, but the cry was cut off as Eolis punctured his heart.

  The enemy held a small stretch of wall now and were trying to drive a wedge through the Farlan Ghosts. Isak ploughed in, swinging wide strokes they couldn’t avoid, so crowded together were they. A sword got through his guard, but was turned by Siulents, and in a heartbeat Isak had kicked out and heard the crouching man’s neck snap, all the while he was stabbing through another man’s breastplate into his heart.

  ‘Isak,’ King Emin called, a way behind him, ‘we’re being swamped. Pull back to the keep.’ As he spoke, another tremor ran though the wall. Isak looked around in confusion. He turned aside the last man’s sword and watched agony flower on his face as a Kingsguard stabbed him in the ribs, then stopped and opened his senses. He couldn’t feel any mages in the area, but the walls shook again and he realised they wouldn’t hold for much longer.

  Looking over the battlements he saw the reason for the wall’s shaking: a battering ram was being backed away from the wall for another run. Its brass head glowed with magic. It appeared the enemy did not trust any of the king’s gates now: they would come in through the walls where no daemons were lurking, waiting to cause even more death and destruction.

  Isak smiled grimly, they were probably right not to trust the gates. He cut away all the ladders he could reach again, then shouted back, ‘We’re going.’ He turned to Carel, worried by the way the old man’s face was contorted in pain and fatigue.

  A horn was sounded and immediately all King Emin’s men and Isak’s own party turned and ran for the nearest stair. Isak gave Carel a shove, but he stumbled and was caught by one of the Ghosts, who grabbed his arm and helped him on. Mihn didn’t move, waiting for Isak.

  ‘Go, I’ll follow once everyone is off,’ he said, waving Mihn away, but the small man didn’t move. ‘Do what I tell you!’ Isak shouted, wanting him clear. ‘Get down that stair now!’

  Mihn frowned at Isak for a moment, trying to work out what he was going to do, then bobbed his head. I’ll wait for you by the gate, but I’ll not go in until you do.’

  As Mihn left, Isak saw men of the Brotherhood run down the walkway towards the advancing troops. Each one carried bottles with burning rags in the neck. They threw them down the walkway and as the bottles smashed, the stone caught aflame, creating a barrier to protect the fleeing soldiers. That done, the King’s Men ran, collecting up the few stragglers yet to leave, cutting down the last few enemies, until they were on their way to safety.

  Isak watched them join the crowd clustered around the keep’s gate. The wall shook again; it was about to crumble. The pop and grind of splitting stone screamed in the air. He ran to the head of the stair; they were running out of time. The wall would give in the next few blows and Emin’s troops would be caught in the open and slaughtered as they gathered at the small gate of the keep, waiting for space to move to safety. Behind him the wall groaned and lurched. Two huge blocks of stone fell inwards and crashed down. Isak grabbed at the battlements as the walkway shuddered underneath him. He looked around: the flames were still too ferocious to cross. There might still be time.

  Carel was halfway across the palace gardens when he heard stones falling and he turned back to see Isak balanced precariously, ten yards from the breach - and then only five as another piece collapsed. Through the gap he could see pike-heads, black against the firelight behind. Any more and the mercenaries would walk straight in. He looked around and saw how many were fighting to get into the keep - and here came Count Vesna’s companies sprinting towards them from the rear of the palace, desperate to reach the gate in time.

  Carel turned back to look at Isak, then drew Arugin again as four men ran towards them from the nearest tower, outstripped by the solders who’d been there. They stopped dead as he stepped forward. Unarmed and dressed in bright colour, they had to be the king’s mages.

  ‘You four, do something to help him.’

  One looked over at the silver figure on the walls. Isak was kneeling down on the wall with his shield raised above his head. The stair was within reach, but he wasn’t looking at it.

  ‘Help him?’ another replied incredulously. He was young, little older than Isak himself. His orange and blue robes were expensive; they’d have looked impressive this morning, no doubt. Now they were stained and scorched. ‘We’ve got to get away,’ he explained.

  ‘What?’ Carel asked. ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s calling down the storm, using his magic to bring it to him. The lightning will follow anything drawing magic. Please, let us pass!’ He sounded desperate, as if he were pleading with every remaining ounce of his strengt
h.

  Before Carel could reply, Commander Brandt appeared. ‘What’s he doing up there?’ he asked. The watchman seemed furious more than anything else. His battered armour was covered in blood, but if it was his own the man didn’t seem to have noticed.

  ‘Buying us some time. If they breach it now we’ll be slaughtered.’

  Brandt looked back at the men fighting to get into the keep, then at Isak.

  ‘He’s not going to manage it alone. Look.’ Brandt pointed to the intact side of the wall where the mercenaries were slowly making their way forward, throwing corpses on to the roaring flames to smother them.

  ‘You.’ Brandt grabbed the oldest of the mages. ‘The enemy were throwing men up on to the walls by magic - can you do that?’

  The man looked blank for a moment, lost in panic, then his face cleared. ‘I think so, Commander, it’s a simple spell. With four of us together, yes.’

  ‘Good.’ Brandt drew his sword, causing the mage to shrink back in fear. ‘Then get me up there now, or we’re all dead.’

  ‘We’ll need time-‘

  ‘You don’t have it. I know about magic: draw as much as you can and get it done. If I’m still here in half a minute I swear you’ll be the first to die.’

  The mage opened his mouth to object, then looked again at the bloody sword and slammed it shut. He walked around Brandt until he could see Isak over the commander’s shoulder. Taking hold of an object at his belt he took a deep breath while the other mages stepped forward to place their hands on his shoulders and lend their strength. He closed his eyes, almost giddy with the rampant magic in the air. The mage’s eyelids shuddered with panic as he felt the power flowing in from the other mages. It felt like an age as he lifted his trembling hand; the energy inside was scorching his fingers as it waited to be released - and then, suddenly, the magic took over and his palm slammed against Brandt’s cuirass. He felt the raw power blossom all around and the commander falling away before unconsciousness enveloped him.

  ‘By the eyes of Fate, who’s that?’ The Kingsguard pointed over the battlements as they watched a figure land heavily a few yards from Lord Isak.

  ‘Gods, that’s Brandt,’ muttered the king as the figure clambered to his feet. A line of mercenaries were inching towards him. ‘Don’t just gape, you fools, help him!’

  Those soldiers with bows began to fire down on the figures edging cautiously towards the commander. Flames dripped from the walkway as Brandt started slashing wildly at the lead soldier, who was nearly upon him. The man slipped on the bloody stone and landed on a burning patch, setting his own clothes alight.

  As Brandt jumped back, the man pulled himself up and fled back towards his own troops, who shrank away from the burning soldier. The commander found his footing on the now-sloping walkway and backed away from the flames to where Isak knelt, motionless. The burning man was flailing madly at his comrades, then he tripped on the corpses at his feet and set them alight too.

  ‘What’s happening?’ demanded Carel as he appeared in the narrow doorway and barged out to where King Emin stood. Sheer exhaustion made him put pride to one side and reach for Doranei’s shoulder to steady himself; instinct was all that was keeping the veteran Ghost going now, for his arm was bleeding badly and he was ready to retch from fatigue. But Carel was a professional, and his boy was still out there. Somehow he found the strength to continue.

  ‘Lord Isak seems to be casting some sort of spell.’ The king pointed upwards. ‘Look at the sky - that’s not natural.’ They all looked at the angry clouds roiling in the air above Isak. Even the gigantic silver-clad white-eye seemed insignificant against that brooding mass of violence.

  ‘The mage said he was calling down the storm.’

  ‘Well, it looks like it’s about to hit.’

  The wall shook again, a deep rumble that rose to a tortuous cracking as a ten-yard stretch ripped away and collapsed inwards. Isak hadn’t moved, but everyone could feel the pressure in the air mounting. They knew something had to give soon. Near to him, Brandt attacked the advancing troops with reckless abandon, putting everything he had into a furious volley of blows.

  ‘He’s trying to take on an entire army,’ cried one young Kingsguard soldier, ‘but he’s just a watchman.’

  ‘Just a watchman, boy?’ roared the king, anger flaring from nothing to a holy terror. ‘He might be saving your life!’

  Brandt took another blow on the shield and lunged up at his attacker’s throat. The man fell, but another stepped forward and caught Brandt on the shoulder. He reeled, crying out in pain, but the sound was lost as a bolt of lightning crashed down on to the tower where the mages had stood. For a moment the men on the wall were frozen in time, as were the figures scrambling through the breach and spilling out into the scarred gardens. Then the tower was struck again, then the wall, then the ground, again and again. The storm was upon them, called by the Lord of Storms himself.

  ‘As the shadows rose and the enemy appeared on all sides, Nartis spoke to the heavens. The storm obeyed his call and unleashed its legions - and he rained terrible fire down upon that place of death,’ intoned Carel. There were tears in his eyes as he spoke. A few Kingsguard men turned with questioning faces as the air was split with fire and the voice of the storm raged unchecked, lashing down one bolt after another.

  It was a quotation every Farlan knew, and it came from the legends before the Great War. King Emin saw the Ghost beside him mouth the words of a prayer, then he turned to gain a last glimpse of Commander Brandt, struggling hopelessly against two attackers. Then the burning white light was all he could see, pierced only by the screams of the dying and the very earth itself trembling.

  CHAPTER 36

  ‘And so it begins.’ His thoughts stirred lazily, as if moving against the heavy current of a river.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The banished have returned. Soon you will command an army of the Devoted. Prophecies are stirring and you’re at their heart.’

  ‘I’ve never wanted this.’

  ‘What do you want? Can you fight what must come to pass?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I don’t want a war that could tear the Land apart. If the prophecies of this Age are colliding, who knows what destruction could result?’

  ‘Sometimes peace can only come about through war. You cannot sit and do nothing when others strive to conquer and destroy.’

  ‘That’s not the same as being the Saviour people expect.’

  The life I am trapped in is one of premonitions and possibilities. I can sense some of your future because it’s a future I will share. Dark clouds are gathering, forces you cannot control. I’ve seen you dead while a horror takes your place and leaves you mindless; living like an animal; cast into the Dark Place while the Land goes to ruin.’

  ‘So what can I do? Let the Devoted pledge themselves to me when I meet them in Llehden?’

  ‘Llehden? Who suggested meeting there? It’s a place of great power; I can’t imagine the Devoted being welcome there. They must be desperate to keep the meeting secret. When you go there, you will meet the witch of Llehden. She may be able to help you.’

  ‘What help could some village crone give me?’

  The Land is slipping out of balance, driven by power used without thought given to the consequences. The witch draws her power from the Land itself, where there must be balance in all things. I believe she will not stand aside and allow that to be destroyed, and that she will recognise your own need for balance. I sense she will show you a path through darkness.’

  The darkness brightened. Isak felt his limbs, tired and aching, and his eyes caked with tears. Wakefulness insinuated itself, sharp and insistent, though he longed to sink back into the sanctuary of sleep. He felt a bed beneath him, damp and clammy after the cool cradle of empty air. The buzz of conversation stung at his ears before calming into words, and voices he recognised. Slowly, he returned to the Land and its cares.

  ‘We should let him sleep.’


  ‘He needs to be up, so people can see him.’

  ‘How did he survive?’

  ‘How do you think? His first hours as Lord of the Parian - Nartis could hardly fail to watch over him, especially during a storm. What I want to know is how he did what he did. It wasn’t just using his magic to create lightning, he actually called the storm on to him. It scared the shit out of the king’s mages, and then-‘

  ‘But what about his arm?’

  That I can’t explain. Reckon we’ll need a mage or maybe a priest to explain that.’

  Isak suddenly gasped for air, as though surfacing from water. The people around his bed jumped back in surprise - he’d been as still as a corpse. Now his heaving gulps of breath sounded like a return to life. Looking up, Isak focused on the roof above. He was in the palace, some corner of a lavishly decorated hall. With an effort he brought his mind into focus: was this the Queen’s Hall? It wasn’t the main audience chamber; it was a smaller and more elegant room.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  Isak had to suppress a laugh at Tila’s question. He had not taken stock of his injuries yet, but he did know every bone and muscle in his body hurt. Lifting his head from whatever was supporting it caused a sharp spasm of pain to drive deep behind his eyes and his vision wavered and blurred.

  When he opened his eyes again, Tila and Mihn were kneeling at his side, hands on his chest and forehead to keep him still.

  ‘Careful,’ Tila warned him softly. The wall collapsed under you; you fell quite a way.’

  ‘What happened?’ Isak croaked.

  ‘What happened?’ Carel repeated behind her. Isak forced his eyes to focus on his old friend. He saw a battered and weary face, bruised and still bleeding a little down the left-hand side. His arm was in a sling, wrapped in grubby bandages. ‘Don’t you remember bringing down the wrath of the Gods on those soldiers?’