The stormcaller tr-1

by Tom Lloyd

The combination of age and dirt obscured whatever picture adorned the sign that moved stiffly in the night air, but if Bahl's memory served correctly, this was The Hood and Cape. At least it was not one of the many taverns in Tirah that liked to have his head swinging in the breeze. The tavern was dingy, but light shone merrily enough through the window, an invitation to passers-by to leave the chill open air. Bahl didn't think the welcome would extend to him, but he thumbed the latch and pulled open the door anyway.

  Pipe smoke tickled at his eyes as he ducked through the doorway into a large room illuminated by two fires and several oil lamps. Rough tables stood in no real order and the ground was sticky with spilt beer and mud. A short bar opposite the door was manned by a drowsy man who had a paunch fitting to a barkeep and a scowl for the new arrival.

  A man of about fifty summers sitting by the fire was apparently the centre of attention in the room. Rather dirty, with unkempt hair and his right leg resting on a stool, he was obviously in the middle of regaling his audience with a story, something about an encounter on the road to the Circle City. The tall white-eye kept his head bowed as he crossed over to the bar. He picked up the tankard of beer that was placed wordlessly before him and dropped a silver coin in return. The barkeep frowned at the coin for a moment, then swept it up and went in search of change.

  Bahl hunched down over the bar, leaning heavily on his elbows to make his great height less obvious and facing away from the focus of the room. When the barkeep returned with his change, a motley collection of copper pieces, Bahl gave the man a nod and found a bench on the furthest side of the room from the storyteller. There he could sit and listen in peace.

  Bahl almost laughed at himself. Here he was, sitting and sipping at his beer – surprisingly good for such an establishment – but what was he doing? Sitting alone in a tavern in one of the city's less salubrious districts, scarcely half an hour's walk from his palace – perhaps he'd finally gone mad? Then he heard his own name mentioned by the storyteller, and Aracnan's, and every nerve in his body came alive. He'd not been paying the man much attention, so all he caught was that Aracnan had demanded to speak to the teller's son. Now why would that be?

  He sipped the beer, no longer tasting it. There was something in the air that disquieted him: first the seeker, following his death to Tirah, then the casual mention of Aracnan. Bahl could almost see a thread weaving its way through the streets, snagging on his shoulder and drawing him into its web. It was a string of unlikely or inexplicable events… some agency was at work here.

  The man holding court claimed that he had seen the mercenary slipping into the palace when he had been a member of the cavalry there. Then, with a self-important ring to his voice, he added that he had been told to forget the whole incident by the Chief Steward himself when he raised the matter with him.

  Bahl wrinkled his nose, unconvinced. He doubted even the most alert guard could notice Aracnan's passage if Aracnan didn't wish to be seen, and his Chief Steward tended to threaten his subordinates in a more direct fashion. It was strange to hear the storyteller use Aracnan's name, though: Bahl had been acquainted with Aracnan for more than a hundred years, yet he knew almost nothing about the man. Even the rumour that Aracnan had been the one to teach Kasi Farlan, the first white-eye and last of King Veriole's line, how to use a sword was unconfirmed. That was before the Great War, seven

  thousand years ago. Bahl could believe it. Immortals kept their secrets close, and no mortal had eyes like Aracnan's.

  The little Bahl had picked up about this current story was enough for him to want to meet the boy Aracnan had apparently wanted to talk to. Aracnan had his own agenda, but sometimes he was commanded by the Gods themselves; whatever his purpose, it was always worth investigating his actions.

  An old man sitting by the fireside coughed obviously. Bahl guessed he was the usual storyteller in this tavern, and had not taken kindly to some dirty wagoner taking centre stage. A love of stories and mysteries was at the heart of Farlan culture: a Farlan liked nothing so much as to tell all manner of grand tales, washed down with a drink or four. It was a poor tavern indeed that couldn't afford a resident storyteller to entertain the customers.

  The elderly man smoothed his beard and shuffled in his seat as he played his audience. Bahl smiled inwardly; Aracnan's greatest feats were known to only a handful of people, and there might well be even greater exploits that had gone completely unnoticed by history.

  'Aracnan is as mysterious as the Gods themselves,' the old man began, his voice pitched low to make his audience listen the more closely. 'Some say he fought at the Last Battle. Perhaps he is one of the cursed Vukotic family.'

  He paused, allowing a mutter to pass around the room as men frowned and gestured and murmured incantations under their breath, invoking protections against the cursed. Superstitious fools, Bahl thought to himself, only daemons are attracted by speaking their name.

  The old man cleared his throat again, regaining his audience's attention. 'Maybe he's a daemon that wanders the Land. Nothing is known for sure, except that he appears without warning, often just before a battle. He commands his own fee and takes no argument. Do you remember the late Duke Helrect?'

  I he one who killed his wife and became a monk?' asked one of the more vocal listeners.

  I he storyteller nodded gravely. 'He did become a monk, but I heard rom the Captain of the Guard there a darker tale. It was rumoured

  at his wife was a sorceress who consorted with daemons and wanted

  enslave the city. The duke's mage tried to denounce her, but she struck him down before he could reach the palace.'

  Bahl grimaced at that. The woman had been ambitious, true enough, but hardly a creature of evil. The mage had been more than a match for her mean abilities, just not impervious to arrows. He said nothing. Stories had a life of their own. Sometimes in a land of magic there were forces that changed even truth. He turned his attention back to the old man, who was imbuing the story with high emotion now.

  'Then she barricaded herself in her tower, and any man who neared it fell dead. The captain told me that he was taking counsel with the duke when, despite the locked doors, a daemon appeared in the chamber – to kill them all, or so they thought. The daemon named himself Aracnan, and said he had been sent to their aid. He told the duke to enter the tower at first light – and then he was gone. The duke broke down the tower doors at dawn and found his wife, torn into a thousand pieces, and all of those pieces scattered over the room.'

  The storyteller paused with a theatrical shudder. The duke went to offer thanks at the Temple of Death and was told by the priests that the price of their master's aid was that he must renounce his title and become a monk.'

  He turned back to the wagoner and addressed him directly: 'You're wrong. Aracnan doesn't work as an agent of Bahl; he is older and more powerful than even our Lord. It's said that he is a messenger of the Gods. You should have sent the boy with him, rather than cross him.'

  The wagoner belched his opinion of the storyteller. 'Perhaps, but I don't believe that my son has any destiny except to cause me trouble and carry cloth for the rest of his life. He's no good for anything else, that's for sure – can't take orders that don't come with a whip, so not even the Swordmasters will want him. At least the scroll your daemon wanted to give the boy will fetch a few coins, though less than he has cost me over the years, more's the pity.'

  'I still say he wanted nothing good with that boy,' a voice broke in. Bahl turned to look towards the new speaker, but kept from meeting his gaze. The man wore white on his collar and Bahl had no wish to be recognised yet.

  'Carel, Nyphal is not watching over the boy, so keep your fool mouth shut,' replied the wagoner. Bahl assumed they were good friends for no one spoke to a former guardsman like that, no matter how silver his hair might be, unless they were close.

  'What did the scroll say?' someone called out.

  'Can't open the damn thing. Carel here reckons it's magical, that

&nbs
p; only the boy can read it, but the lanky bastard won't touch it. There are some symbols on the outside, but what they mean, Death only knows.' He belched again and sat back as he felt the beer rising in his throat, then wiped his cracked lips while looking expectantly at the

  crowd.

  After a few moments Bahl signalled the bartender to give him another. 'And what price for the scroll?' he enquired. This way was worth trying first.

  'To you? More than you could afford. I have enough trouble with my son; the thought of having to deal with another white-eye makes me more than thirsty.' The man glanced over to his friend, the former Ghost, and Bahl saw he was flanked by four armed men, no doubt wagon-train guards.

  A bulky mercenary sitting off to the left chuckled, and eyed Bahl's fine armour with the smile of a thief. With a nod to his companions he stood. His thick jaw marked him a half-breed: Farlan mixed with one of the nomadic peoples, maybe. The Farlan were an elitist people, but even those regarded as inferior stock could look down on a white-eye.

  'Perhaps you should buy us all drinks, white-eye. Or donate those fine gold rings at your waist. Very exclusive tavern this is; not just anyone drinks here – not unless they're stupid, or willing to pay for us all.'

  Bahl looked down and realised his cloak was open enough to show the dragon-belt at his waist. Four thick gold rings hung from it, worth far more than their weight. The man couldn't take his eyes off them; his stubby fingers stroked the hilt of his dagger. Before anyone could blink, Bahl had drawn his broadsword and levelled it at the man's throat. Crackling threads of light danced up and down the five-foot-long blade before fading to nothing around Bahl's glove.

  The mercenary looked deep into Bahl's colourless eyes and utter panic showed on his face. A bolt of lightning leapt from the blade and the mercenary spun in the air as it threw him backwards. He hit the edge of a table and crashed down on the floor. Sparks and tongues of flame danced around the room so ferociously that even the fires and lamps shrank back in fear.

  No one else moved. They all averted their eyes, desperate not to be next to attract Bahl’s attention. Bahl's free hand bunched into a fist, and he sought to compose himself. Tonight more than ever, his rage was close to the surface; it felt like a red mist of violence lurking at the edges of his vision. He drove it back down, and as he calmed himself he noticed how the new odours of burnt flesh and urine cut through the air.

  'I will take the scroll now.'

  The cowering wagoner scrabbled it out of his bag, dropped it, picked it up again and gave it to Bahl, retreating hurriedly back to his seat. The giant looked at the scroll in silence, a puzzled expression on his face, and then passed his hand over it, muttering wordlessly.

  'Lord Bahl,' said a voice. Bahl turned to see the Ghost – Carel? – down on one knee, eyes on the ground.

  'My Lord, I would swear on the name of the Palace Guard that Aracnan meant to kill the youth. It was the sight of Nyphal that held him back.'

  Bahl nodded, to himself more than anyone else. It was true only the youth would have been able to open the scroll, and probably fortunate that his instincts had stopped him, though it wasn't intended to kill. He tucked it into his belt. The College of Magic would no doubt enjoy prising its secrets apart.

  'Bring the boy to the palace. I will take him off your hands.' The offer surprised him as much as the wagoner. What do 1 do with him? he wondered in the privacy of his own mind. Was Aracnan pursuing a mission of the Gods here, or some private enterprise of his own? Either was possible.

  Abruptly Bahl froze, like a dog catching a scent on the wind. The tavern and its occupants faded from his awareness and instead he felt the city around him, stone houses and damp streets and gutters clogged with rubbish, and a mind like his own. Aracnan.

  He sheathed his broadsword and made for the door. As he pulled it open, the sensation grew stronger. Aracnan was on a rooftop ahead, masked by shadows. Somehow he'd been able to conceal himself from Bahl until now, perhaps just to prove he was more skilled in magic than Bahl would ever be.

  The Duke of Tirah stepped out and pulled the door closed behind him. He took a moment to check for curious faces, then, when he was certain he was alone, he walked left to an alley until he was out of sight of the tavern. Then he waited.

  'Surprised, my Lord?'

  Bahl hadn't even seen the mercenary cross the rooftops to reach him

  It was disconcerting that Aracnan could get around him so easily.

  'Impressed. But also curious. You've never needed to hide yourself

  in Tirah before.'

  'Times, it seems, are changing. Someone doesn't want me in this 'tv so I shall be brief. It was hard enough to find you without inviting another attack.'

  'Attack?'

  That is my problem. Your beloved city is safe. What I came to tell you is that the boy is to be your Krann. I was told to bring him to the palace, but he would not come.'

  'My Krann… So that's what the Siblis had sensed; they were following the call of his gifts. And the tavern, did you encourage me to go there?'

  'I did, but only gently. You'd have noticed if I'd had any ill intent

  towards you.'

  Bahl paused, about to speak, then shrugged and returned to more important matters. The boy refused? How is that possible?'

  'With this one there'll be no simple answers. The boy's trouble, but now he is your trouble. Take care, my Lord. The Land has not been so dangerous a place since the Great War.'

  Isak stumbled on down the street, stubbing his toe on the cobbles, but there was no chance of a rest. He'd been drifting off to sleep in the warmth of the stables, soothed by the comfortable sighing of horses, when the door had burst open and his father appeared, his face contorted into a mask of terror and rage.

  'You've done it now,' Herman screamed, 'and you'll get what's coming to you, white-eye bastard! Soon I'll be rid of all your trouble at last. You're going to the palace, and I hope you rot there!'

  Before Isak had been able to say a word, a mob of drunken men had set upon him with drink-fuelled passion, and with so many of them, there had been no chance of fighting back. Instead, Isak took a deep breath and forced his way out through them, then took to his heels

  and ran, not caring where he was headed. The cobbles were painful against his bare feet so he turned into the nearest alley and hopped the fence at the end, picking a direction at random. His mind was racing: what had he done now? There had been real intent in the punches

  he’d received; they were going to kill him if they caught him. Isak had to escape – or find a patrol – so he headed for where most of the towers were situated, where the rich folk must live. There'd be guards there, surely. Soon he found himself on the long avenue leading up to the palace. The moons escaped the clouds for a moment and shone down on to the smooth walls and the Tower of Semar, which loomed out from behind them. They lit a path for Isak to follow, but instead he just stood and gaped at the sight; he was still standing there when the leaders of the pack caught up.

  Before Isak had fully grasped what was happening a fist flew into his stomach and drove the wind from him. As he doubled over, that blow was followed by a knee to the groin. Thin hands gripped his shoulders, and Isak saw a man's rat-like features for a split second before they smashed into his face, then he crashed to the ground. A hot sharp burst flowered in his side as he was kicked and spun on to his back. Now the rest of the gang had caught them up, but they silently kept their distance from the fight.

  As Isak blinked back the pain he saw the drizzling rain glint in the moonlight as it fell around him. With an effort, he forced himself to his knees, his eyes fixed on the hatred blazing out of the face of the man who'd hit him. The man drew a knife from his belt, ignoring a cry behind him, and as Isak struggled to stand, his attacker lunged forward, a hungry smile on his lips.

  Isak heard someone – Carel, maybe? – shout out a warning, but his eyes were fixed on his attacker. He managed to bring his left hand up, grasping the h
ilt and stopping the dagger from sinking into his throat. Pain screamed up his arm and into his shoulder as the edge sliced his palm, but he kept his grip for long enough to be able to grab at the man's wrist with his other hand, then pulled his stunned assailant close and buried his teeth into the man's hand.

  The assailant screamed and dropped the knife, which clattered on to the cobbles and was immediately forgotten. He swung desperately at Isak, who released his bite, gave the man a bloody grin and threw him against the wall of a house behind him. The man was reaching for another weapon, but this time it didn't matter: Isak held back his blow until the man had just got a finger round the hilt of the second blade, and then he lashed forward with both palms to smash into the man's throat with a sickening crunch. As the man twitched and went limp, the only sound was Isak's breathing, ragged with pain and wrath.

  The broken figure slid slowly down the wall and crumpled in a corner like a doll. Isak stared down at the man, then at his hands. The rain was running red trails down the fingers of his left hand; the other was washed clean as he watched. Then, a little belatedly, he remembered the rest of the gang behind him and took off down the street. As Isak started to run again, the pack stirred into action and followed after him, baying for blood.

  Carts and stands that by day were overflowing with produce and wares of all kinds now stood empty and dripping: the Palace Walk Market was the largest in this part of the city, but tonight it was dead, offering the injured youth no hope of sanctuary. The only light came from the palace up ahead.

  The richer parts of the city cowered in the shadow of the fortress walls that surrounded the peak of the hill. Guard-towers dotted the length of the massive wall, but in a city famed for its spires it was the Tower of Semar that stood out. It rose up and up, impossibly high, a myth come to life, but myth or not, that was where Isak was headed.

  'You're certain?'

  'Yes, my Lord.' The soldier remained on one knee, sounding anything but certain, as though scarcely able to believe what he was telling his lord. 'My Lord, I'm quite sure it was Hit. I was on the wall and I saw him appear as Chief Steward Lesarl was crossing from the barbican to the hall. They spoke, and then the Chief Steward showed him to the side door that leads to the tower stair.'