The stormcaller tr-1

by Tom Lloyd

  Amanas wrinkled his nose, the guardsman smelled how soldiers always smelled: a damp scent of metal and ripe sweat-stained leather that the pristine white livery covering it could do nothing about-The longer the guardsman stood there, the more palpable it became – hardly his fault, of course, but still it made Amanas uncomfortable-Men of violence were unpredictable. He imagined it would be a small thing for the guardsman to draw the sword at his side and run him

  through. No doubt as a soldier he had done it many times before. Once more would probably matter little at his day of judgement. It troubled Amanas to be confronted by such a person.

  'I do keep the library, but I also produce the crests and colours for newly ennobled men, as well as personal emblems for men of good family when they come of age. No doubt you thought that was just a case of drawing a suitable creature to carry on your shield?'

  The soldier shrugged, plainly confused by the whole situation. 'I won't deny that I've dreamed of a knighthood, like every man in the Guard, but I've never really thought about that part of it, how the crest would be drawn up.'

  'Actually, it is a little more complicated than just "drawing something up". It requires a blend of magic and artistry. If you like, I could show you how. Give me your hand.'

  At the mere mention of magic the guardsman recoiled from Amanas's outstretched hand.

  'No? Oh well, perhaps it would be tempting Fate – her sense of humour is somewhat notorious, after all. In any case, my powers are very weak and specialised. When I touch a man I can visualise something of his spirit, and what he could become. The interpretation is, of course, a vastly different matter, and much depends on context. Karlat Lomin is a good example of that; you know of him, Scion Lomin?'

  The guard nodded. 'Of course, sir. Everyone's saying how his father the duke has taken a turn for the worse; that he won't last through winter. It won't be long until the scion becomes the fourth-most powerful man in the country. And last week,' he added in a concerned voice, 'the Krann killed Scion Lomin's cousin in weapons training ~ ran him right through, sir.'

  'So I heard, most unfortunate. The scion's crest is that of a snarling wolf's head. The obvious implications are borne out by his noted prowess at arms, but if you take his family crest into consideration – a castle keep – then it could just as easily refer to how men see wolves, as

  savage and violent creatures.'

  The guardsman took a step back. 'I wouldn't know about that, sir, but I'd advise you to be more careful with your opinions of the scion;

  you'd have to be mad to get on the wrong side of him.'

  'Oh, I'm not important enough to bother the great house of Lomin.

  In any case, my talents are very useful to the nobility in general. You need to have a tendency towards prophecy to do what I do and that'

  rare enough to protect me.’

  The guard took another step back, his expression showing that he really did think Amanas was mad now.

  'Oh now, don't look like that. There are clear signs of becoming a true prophet. You're quite safe from me.' Amanas chuckled. It was nice to have the man of violence worried. The poor souls who went beyond foresight and became prophets were left utterly insane by the things they saw; most had to be chained up for the safety of everyone concerned.

  'My point was that this is something I can do when I'm in the presence of the man, in contact with him,' he explained. 'But this Krann… I've never met the man, but for months I've been dreaming of a crest. I'd had it made up it into a shield even before the Krann was Chosen. He must be more than just a white-eye to have that effect'

  The guardsman didn't seem to know how to respond to that. He was disquieted by the whole conversation. After a long pause, he said gruffly, 'Well, we'd better not keep Lord Bahl waiting.'

  Amanas nodded and rose to lead his guest to the library, a dark room panelled in old oak, with scroll-holes down the left-hand side and two rows of reading shelves on the right. A number of lecterns stood in the centre. Some huge books, obviously valuable, were chained to the reading shelves, but the Ke/master ignored these and instead shuffled along to the door at the far end which opened into something that looked like a jeweller's strong-room.

  Once Amanas had unlocked it and retrieved a lamp from one of the lecterns, the guardsman could see neat piles of paper on the narrow shelves that lined the cabby – and on one shelf, something large, wrapped in some sort of dark cloth.

  Amanas moved some of tie papers out of the way and reverentially withdrew the object. He leaked over his shoulder and glared at the guardsman. 'Do you know why two of your comrades stand guard outside my office door?'

  'No, sir, only that Chief Steward Lesarl ordered it.'

  'Ah yes, the Chief Steward; a man of remarkable insight. This library is more precious thar most people realise. It was all I could do to keep it from being moved to the palace or Cold Halls once Lesarl realised that. Our nobility is a faithless breed that sires bastards as though they were in competition. My records are meticulous – they must be so – and my skills allow me to see through the lies. I suspect only the Chief Steward, one of his agents and I know the full extent f a certain count's escapades, but since some of those sired are at marrying age now, a watchful eye must be kept on negotiations.

  'Even the Dukes of Perlir and Merlat travel to Tirah to present their heirs to me; they all understand the need for such a tradition, and it has become a rite of passage nowadays. I suspect white-eyes have less of a care for such things though, hence my summons.'

  Gathering up the corners of the material, Amanas balanced it precariously in the crook of his arm while he wrestled with the lock. When the guardsman offered to help he gave the man a grim look in reply and struggled on by himself, careful not to expose any part of the object to the man's view.

  He hugged it protectively to himself as they walked down the street side by side. The Heraldic Library was in the oldest district of the city, surrounded by the tall, ancient buildings where the oldest families lived and the richer dukes and suzerains had their – now much-neglected – court residences.

  Cutting through the merchants' quarter took the pair on to Hunter's Ride, the road that ran from the river to intersect Palace Walk where it began its gentle climb towards Tirah Palace. The day was wet and dull; a scattering of early snow had briefly clothed the city in white, but it was too warm for the flakes to settle. Many of the innumerable statues that lined the city streets were crying tears of melted snow, which struck the Keymaster as a poor omen.

  It was market day in Irienn Square up ahead so the guard nudged Amanas right, down Hunter's Ride, and the noise and bustle of the docks fell away behind them. Folk kept a respectful distance, standing aside to let them past, and one woman with a basketful of eels afforded Amanas a sympathetic look, assuming the worst.

  Everyone was out today, going about the ten thousand different tasks that keep any city running smoothly. A portly man stamped heavily down the other side of the street from them; the thick gold chain around the man's neck and clerks scuttling in his wake marked him as a successful merchant.

  Then Amanas caught sight of a gutter-runner moving along the edge of the tiled roof high above the merchant's head. Like all those who lived above ground, he was dressed only in rags and had little meat on his bones. They were scavengers who used the network of

  rooftops to travel quickly across the city. People often used them as the quickest way to get important information to its destination. The gutter-runners had a fierce code of honesty that ensured they were tolerated – even somewhat fondly – by Tirah's citizens. It was perfectly possible that the merchant was the child's employer that

  morning.

  Amanas and his escort were waved through the barbican gate by the pikemen flanking it. When they emerged back into the daylight, Amanas hissed in irritation at the mud caking his boots. He insisted on stopping to scrape off the worst of it before he was ready to labour his way up the open stairs to the Great Hall.

>   Finally he stepped over the threshold, squinting, and for a brief moment he felt like a fish out of water; foolish and delicate in a world that was not his own. He could hear the laughter of men ringing in his ears. He had dreamed of this scene several weeks past, and though dreams themselves usually meant nothing, dreams of the Chosen before they come to power were different: they spoke of the Gods. He remembered her emerald gaze – eyes that could pierce the darkest recesses of the soul. He knew of only one Goddess whose eyes were green, and Fate was not a patient mistress.

  The Keymaster tightened his grip and entered the hall. It was years since Amanas had last come here, and in the intervening period it had hardly changed: it was still a dark and smelly army mess, lacking even the meagre dignity one might hope for in an elite legion. Groups of men were clumped around the two rows of tables that led up to the high table at the far end. Even that was hardly grander than the others, just a little longer and set on a raised platform.

  Amanas moved into the centre of the room and paused briefly to look around at the fading heraldry and flags that hung from the root beams. Then he advanced a little further until Lord Bahl looked up-He stopped and waited to be addressed, but the old white-eye did nothing more than tap the young man beside him and return to his conversation with Chief Steward Lesarl.

  The youth was clearly the new suzerain, a white-eye who towered over Amanas when he stood, but still conceded both height and weight to the Duke of Tirah. The Krann stared at the Keymaster tor a few moments, then stabbed his eating dagger into the table top and walked around the table to reach the man, licking his fingers as he did. Amanas gave a short bow, cut short as his eyes reached the sword

  at Isak's hip. Wnen he saiw that he gave a slight sqawk, prompting a smile to-appear on the Krrann's face.

  'Something wrong?'

  'Certainly, my Lord Suzerain; that sword that you are wearing is not your sword.'

  'So?'

  'So it belong to the Klnight-Defender of Tirah and should only be worn by him.'

  The Krann looked back towards the high table in confusion. 'I thought it beloiged to Kerin? He's the one who lent it to me'

  Amanas winced at the informality. 'Swordmaster Kerin is the Knight-Defender of Tirahi – that is the full title of the man who commands the Swordmasters…'

  'I still don't understand.'

  The question in Lord Isak's voice attracted Lesarl’s attention.The Chief Steward spoke up before Amanas could reply. ‘He means, my Lord, that it's a gross breach of protocol to wear a ceremonial weapon belonging to arother man.'

  'Kerin didn't seem to mind,' Isak countered sharply.

  'Unlike some present,' replied the Chief Steward, gesturing to the newcomer.

  'Enough. Argue when you're elsewhere.' Bahl didn’t look up, but gestured for Lesarl to continue their conversation.

  'Well,' continued Isak after a careful pause, 'if you have nothing more to criticise about my attire, Lord Bahl said you needed to speak to me about my crest.'

  'Normally, yes my Lord Suzerain. In this case, however, it will not be necessary.' With a flourish, Amanas slipped the covering from the shield and held it up to the light.

  A gasp ran sound the; room as the Keymaster held up a polished silver teardrop shield and turned almost a full circle to show everyone present Isak's crest embossed in gold.

  Isak gaped at the shield. It was the work of a jeweler rather than a blacksrnith. Even in the faint light, the glitter of the gold momentarily dazzled him. It took him a while to properly take in the image on the shield itself, the crest that he would wear on his clothes for the rest of his life and would fly from his banners when he rode to war.

  Rearing high on its hind legs, claws ready to tear and rend, was a dragon of purest gold. Isak could see the fangs curving down from its mouth and a set of horns curling back past its head. He could feel the anger in the set of its shoulders, the sweep of its wings, something he recognised only too well. This was the taste of his own familiar rage

  given form.

  Then his hand started to tremble as something else drew his eye. He reached out to take the shield from Amanas. A crown hovered above the dragon's head and as he saw that, foreboding sank into Isak's stomach, as heavy as gold.

  'Careful, my Lord, the silver is still quite delicate,' Amanas

  warned.

  That's solid silver? Then why-?'

  The Keymaster held up a hand to suppress the question, then bent down and placed the green velvet in which the shield had been wrapped on the floor. He placed the shield face-up on the material, then stepped back.

  Isak opened his mouth to speak, but before he could think of anything to say he felt a pulse of warmth come from the pile: magic… He turned to Bahl. The old Lord had also noticed; he fixed his stern

  gaze on the shield.

  Without warning, the cloth underneath burst into flames. Isak flinched back in surprise, then stepped forward again as he felt no heat coming from the fire. The orange flames turned to green, all the while lasciviously caressing the lines of the shield. A furious cloud of magic grew up around the shield, swirling tighter and tighter as the green flames burned the velvet away to nothing. Isak suddenly realised that the magic was being drawn into the silver of the shield while a finger of energy wormed through the cracks in the flagstones and disappeared into the floor. And then it was over. Amanas was gone, the fire spent; only the shield, astonished faces and confusion

  remained.

  Tick it up,' Bahl commanded in a distant voice.

  'What? But-'

  'Do it.'

  The Krann shrugged and touched his finger to the silver. An expres' sion of wonder ran over his face as he stroked the mirror surface wit" the palm of his hand, then picked up the shield to show the room-

  'It's cool, perfectly cool,' he marvelled. Turning the shield over in his hands, Isak suddenly stopped and rapped his knuckles against the

  surface. 'This can't be silver, it's too strong.' He took each side of the shield in his hands and pushed together, gently at first, but then with all the enormous strength he could muster.

  'It's far too strong to be silver,' he repeated.

  'It's silver.' Bahl's confirmation brought a frown from Isak. 'Silver absorbs magic better than any other substance. That's a gift from the Gods for you, and emerald is the colour of the Lady, Fate herself.'

  Amanas had slipped out of the room long before anyone remembered to look for him. He was pleased, and returned to his wife with a satisfied smile on his face and a refusal to discuss what had happened earlier that evening. It was only when the Duke of Tirah paid them a visit the next day that she discovered why.

  CHAPTER 8

  'I can't do it. I can feel it there, but nothing's happening.'

  'Nothing?'

  'Nothing. Can't you tell?' Isak struggled to control his boredom. Running through the drills Kerin had devised for the last fortnight was dull enough; standing and staring at a wooden post for a whole hour was infinitely worse.

  'To me, it feels like you simply won't relax and let go.' Bahl's voice was irritatingly calm and steady, as if the man was used to spending his days like this. They were out on the training ground. Nearby, a cavalry squadron was perfecting a variety of complicated formations. This one involved a wedge of soldiers of the Palace Guard who stood in the centre, flanked on either side by wheeling lines of light cavalry. The cavalry might not have been professional soldiers like the Ghosts but they were made to work hard for their annual stipend.

  'Why would I not let go? This isn't exactly entertaining.'

  Bahl's eyes flashed. 'Watch your tone, boy. Even if you did manage to use the magic inside you, I could still cut you down like a child. Do you think I'm trying to teach you conjuring tricks? Magic can turn the tide of the battle; you must be able to command it at will, or you'll be as dead as your men on the field.'

  Isak looked up at Bahl's tone of voice and saw his hand tighten slightly. This was the first time it had cont
ained even a trace of anger. He turned and bowed his head. 'I'm sorry, my Lord, I didn't mean to be rude. It's just that I don't understand what I'm not doing.'

  Bahl didn't reply immediately and an awkward silence descended-When Bahl spoke again, his irritation was entirely absent. Isak knew he was in sore need of learning that particular skill.

  'Then we will have to get around the problem. I will ask the High

  Priest of Larat to come and see whether he can shed any light on the matter.'

  'Larat? No, not a chance-'

  'There will be no arguments about this,' said Bahl firmly.

  'But what about the light in my dream?'

  'I said no arguments. The High Priest is a good man and understands the nature of magic as well as any. If I ask the College of Magic, they will try to turn it to their advantage; the Temple of Larat is poor, so they will be glad to receive our favour.'

  'But-'

  'Enough. It's lucky for you I am not Atro. He was not so forgiving when questioned.'

  'Luck? I don't know whether I believe in that any more.' Isak looked up and stretched his shoulders, flexing muscles that were aching from uncomfortable nights and daily weapons practise. He caught Tila's eye and smiled. She was sitting off to one side, so bundled up against the chill of the wind that only her eyes were visible.

  The girl had been reserved around him for the first week, jumping at any sudden movement, but the familiarity of Isak's company soon began to wear away at her resolve not to forget the death of Sir Dirass. Isak had even made her laugh – the first time it had happened he was not sure who had been more surprised, but it was not the only time he had brought a smile to her lips. 'How did you manage?' 'Hmm?'

  'With Atro – how did you manage to live around such a bastard?' I kept quiet and ignored what he did. I wasn't like you when I came to the palace; I had joined the Guard as a child, as soon as my family could get rid of me. I was twenty-four when the Tyrant of Mustet appeared at the barbican gate and announced I was Chosen Nartis. While I had no interest in being Atro's tool, I didn't care that he was destroying our tribe either. I was more like General Lahk than you.'