by Tom Lloyd
Reaching up, Kohrad touched the beam running across the ceiling of the corridor. That he could burn, and he used it to spread himself out around the building, cutting off the routes of escape. Once that was done, Kohrad began to consume the long drapes and polished furniture, filling rooms with magnificent sculptures of heat and light. He found a stairway and moved up floor by floor, like a wolf-pack driving its prey. He cut down some of the panicked occupants as he found them and left others cowering in corners or hiding in wardrobes. Some were on their knees, praying with shouts and fearful cries, but their frantic appeals couldn't touch him. Kohrad was born of white-eyes, untouched by the Gods and subject only to the laws of fire and light.
Reaching the top, he came to a closed hatch-door; he forced his fist up through it, but something held it closed, despite the damage. A second blow smashed the frame to pieces which fell at his feet to join the pyre. The wooden steps were burning even as he ascended into the light of day. Another Chetse struck out with his long battle-axe, before Kohrad had time to escape the confines of the hatchway, but the burning white-eye swatted the curved steel aside, jumping up on to the level floor in the next movement and hacking into the mans spine with astonishing speed.
The soldier fell screaming, but as his cries faded into the reaching
flames, Kohrad had already turned his attention to the others on the platform. No one else stepped forward to attack him, so Kohrad ignored the soldiers and focused his attention on the quivering shape of the duke.
The taste of blistered and burning fat rose up in his mind as he held out his hand to the duke. The man gibbered with terror, fingers tightening around the Skull even as his skin blistered and charred. Kohrad snapped the bones with ease, and as he prised the Skull away, he felt it cry out for his touch. With a sigh of satisfaction, Kohrad I pressed the Crystal Skull to his breast, where it fused with the armour, turning the deep colour of blood.
The flames around him danced with renewed strength as he caressed the Skull. 'So you're Destruction,' he whispered. 'I'd hoped it was you. One day you'll be mine, when we are Gods and Father has no more need for you, you'll become part of me for ever.'
He left the towering pyre without haste, leaving only the crackle of licking flames and the stench of burning flesh in his wake.
CHAPTER 1O
The knives of winter, honed on the jagged cliffs of the north, lashed at the great forest of the Spiderweb Mountains. Whispers in the night carried a restless memory of long-abandoned places, as the profane words of another Age burned once more in the hearts of the elves, the twisted descendants of those cursed by the Gods for their rebellion. Dark bargains were made, even before the seers announced a silver light shining out from the west. The first furtive figures returned to settlements that the Farlan had driven them from decades ago.
The Festival of Swords had slowly replaced the ruthless hunting parties of fifty years past as the elves retreated away from their tormentors: pageantry in place of savagery. Now the elves returned to find the Farlan watchtowers and forts in disrepair or empty, replaced by farms and villages now closer than ever to the cold depths of the forest, and exposed in the harsh autumn light.
When their first attacks met only feeble resistance, they grew bolder and more savage. The wind tore through ruined homes and carried the smoke from the pyres for miles. Even in the towns, where people hid behind the relative safety of stone walls, they could hear the drums hammering out through the night air, and guttural voices singing of pain and prophecy, of their time come again. The taste of revenge carried far on the wind.
'What do you mean by punished? General Elierl is not a child to be disciplined!' The walls shook as Bahl roared at the man sitting placidly in the centre of the room. Isak found himself leaning back from the sheer force of Bahl's anger, but the focus of that ire didn' t even twitch. Perched on a low stool, the mage mouthed the words in echo of his Lord, his hairless head dipping back and forward as though following some sort of tune in his head. The movement continued after the mage fell silent, as he cocked his head and rocked back and forth, waiting for the reply.
'General Elierl has been removed from command of Lomin's forces,' intoned the mage again after a long pause. His voice was distant, an echo from afar. Isak sat forward to take a closer look at the man, watching his movements in fascination, trying to fathom their part in the ritual. The mage continued, oblivious to the people around him. Lesarl, when pushed for information, had told Isak the movement helped the twin mages to keep in touch with each other, but the Chief Steward had given up when his explanation provoked even more questions than it had answered. Isak had never even heard of anything like this, let alone seen it in action, and it made him wonder just what else lay within the forbidding walls of the College of Magic, hidden from the eyes of all but a few and hired out to only those who could afford such wonders.
'He has been punished for his failings,' came Scion Lomin's distant reply. Every sentence was stilted, broken into pieces as one mage whispered the words to his sibling. Isak could imagine a face just like this one, pale and hairless, sitting in a high tower in Lomin, silently forming the words as he heard them. Perhaps they were even dressed in exactly the same way: an open-necked tunic showing a hairless chest, and the red and gold sash of the College of Magic around his waist.
’You had one of the tribe's oldest and most respected generals executed?'
The delay in the reply only infuriated Bahl longer. It was scarcely believable the young man in Lomin – not yet duke, however ill his father might be – would have dared do what he had just implied. Bahl began to pace around the oblivious mage until Lesarl reached out a hand to interrupt him.
My Lord, the link will not last much longer; we need information now. Whatever the boy has done can wait until you are there.' '
I did no such thing,' interrupted the mage in his slow monotone.
‘The general was removed from his position and committed suicide in his chambers that evening. We mourn his loss as you do.'
Bahl opened his mouth to bellow a reply, but stopped when Lesarl caught his arm. He turned to the mage's escort, a richly dressed man, who, though of middle age, looked older in certain ways, like most mages. Isak noted his sunken face, perhaps the first step towards becoming a withered wreck like High Priest Wetlen had been. The mage nodded his agreement with Lesarl, looking anxious for his charge as he anticipated the failure of the link.
'Scion Lomin, what forces do you have left?'
'Four spear legions and one of archers with Lomin. Divisions of each are apparently under siege in Kohm, Castle Shaidec, Vitil and Peak's Gate. We have not had news from Peak's Gate in three weeks now.'
'Where are the enemy?'
'The majority remain here, from what we can tell. They cannot have had time to crush those garrisons yet, not the way they have been moving. Peasants arriving to seek sanctuary have reported a battle at Broken River a week ago, our cavalry must have been ambushed there. We have heard nothing from them.'
Bahl gave a sombre shake of the head; a Farlan army without cavalry was lacking its greatest weapon. If the elves had destroyed Lomin's horsemen, they wouldn't worry too much about leaving smaller garrisons of infantry behind their lines.
'Can you hold the walls?'
'I supervise the defence personally.'
'That is not what I asked.'
The pause was longer this time.
'Yes, I can. They are preparing siege weapons, but at this time they are keeping the trolls well away. Our battle mages say they have the measure of the enemy and can keep the walls standing.'
'Good. The army rides under Suzerain Anvee's command in two days. Do not do anything else foolish until they arrive.'
As the mage mouthed those words, his eyes suddenly flew open and he gasped, then wilted backwards into the waiting arms of his escort. Two guards came in with a litter and carried the mage away, closely followed by his colleague. It looked to Isak like the dead faint was something expec
ted. A strange life's calling, this: to fall into a trance until you faint – yet invaluable for a dispersed people.
Only when the door had closed behind them did Bahl sit and look at the other men in the room.
The Suzerains Tehran and Fordan had been summoned to attend this meeting. Kehed Tehran was a regular guest at the palace, for his domain surrounded Tirah's lands. He divided his time between his
family residence and apartments kept for him at the palace; the best doctors were to be found in the city, and Lord Bahl had made it quite clear that one of his most loyal supporters could always rely on his hospitality-
Beside Tehran was his closest friend, Fordan, a belligerent old soldier who sat bolt upright in his chair, bristling with restrained fury. In a corner, perched uncomfortably on hard chairs, were his eldest son and Suzerain Volah's heir, both seventeen summers, who were watching the proceedings with keen interest.
'Scion Tebran, did you meet Karlat Lomin last year at the Festival of Swords?' Lesarl's voice broke the heavy silence and made the young man flinch in surprise. He'd been invited to sit in, and it was a carefully calculated honour. It had been made clear enough by his father that he and Scion Volah, his best friend, were to sit quietly and say nothing.
'I ah, I did briefly, sir,' he said, trying to speak succinctly and fluently. 'He spoke to Sohn- ah, Scion Volah, I mean – for longer; he was too suspicious of me, of course.' The young man tried not to squirm under Bahl's relentless gaze. He looked relieved when it switched to his friend.
'Scion Volah?'
'1 went to his celebration feast, yes, Chief Steward. He threw a ball when his father officially handed over Lomin's Torch to him.'
'A good party?' Isak knew Lesarl well enough now to recognise the edge to that innocent question. He leaned forward and continued to glare at the Scion to distract him further. The Krann and Chief Steward might have been far from friends, but neither had any time for the foppish young aristocrats of high society.
'It was excellent, yes; the best of the festival.'
'I'm glad you enjoyed Duke Lomin's acknowledgement of his terminal illness; I am quite sure he does not. Tell me, at the festival, did you actually do anything other than drink and whore?'
I…we joined in the hunt, sir, like everyone else.'
'So you sat on a horse talking to pretty young girls and drinking brandy. Did you even enter the forest?'
‘Lesarl, now is not the time,' Bahl broke in. He could see Lesarl's questions running for ages, to no useful end. Isak didn't miss the look of relief on Scion Volah's face. 'I'm rather more interested in the death of General Elierl.'
'That witch of a duchess must be behind it!' spluttered Suzerain Fordan. 'I've known Elierl for thirty years; he wouldn't have killed himself. That little bastard probably had him murdered so he could-'
'Enough, Fordan. I don't think the scion would be stupid enough to have him killed, but you are right: driving the general to suicide would take the duchess's hand. However, we are not going to do anything about it.'
'What?'
'There are other matters to consider. Please trust me. Scion Volah, if you find an opportunity to reacquaint yourself with Scion Lomin, you will do so. No doubt he will be keen to host another party once the army arrives – after all, it is not often so many nobles go that far east.
'Isak, you will keep your distance from Lomin. I don't want a duel between the two of you, and frankly, I don't know which of you has the hotter temper.'
It was meant, in part, as a joke, but Isak just scowled and stared at the floor. Since he'd accidentally killed the High Priest a few weeks back, life had been very different. People now stepped around him even more warily, wondering – as Isak himself did – just how danger-ous he really was. What had actually happened remained a mystery to all of them, not least Isak himself, who had no memory of the incident. He recalled the presence of the old man, a dry, calm voice in his head, and then nothing but pain and light, and in the blur that followed, the High Priest had died.
For now, there was no sign that the question would be resolved, but the city was buzzing with rumours of the strange and terrible powers their Krann wielded. The original goal, to gain some measure of control over his magic, had failed completely, and now his frustration and anger had another point of focus. Secretive research in the palace library had revealed that the figure on his chest was an elven rune. Elvish, though the basis and common root of all languages in the Land, was unintelligible to anyone other than scholars. Elvish was built around one hundred and twenty-one core runes, each with a variety of meanings, depending on context. By themselves they were simple angular shapes, set in a circle, if they were single words. The scroll Isak had understood the most said they provided a general concept or idea, in the case of his rune, 'heart' – although Isak had glumly
realised that meanings could range from the stone in a peach to the crux of an argument, or the spirit of a nation.
Nowhere did he find a reason why the rune had been burnt into his chest, and until he could work that out, Isak had no intention of sharing the matter with anyone else. Instead, he'd taken himself off to the palace forge, where the master smith had been delighted to teach the Krann how to forge a sword, one in the elven style, which was far too complex and time-consuming to equip an army, but ideal to keep the Krann busy and out of the way of nervous soldiers and palace staff. The result was a long single-edged blade, balanced in a very different way to a rapier. Kerin had claimed it immediately and set about mastering the weapon: he was like a child with a new toy.
Isak shook himself out of his reverie and started paying attention again as Bahl said, 'Lesarl, make sure the army is ready to march in two days; everything we can put together in that time, and send riders out to every suzerain able to catch up.'
'You're not riding with us?' asked Suzerain Fordan. He was a grandfather, and well past the age that any would expect him to fight a battle, let alone join a forced march in winter, but there was no man in Tirah who would dare to suggest he didn't come.
There is a vampire in the city. I don't intend this one to be given the chance to fly before we catch it.'
The news startled both Isak and the young scions, but the older men had seen it all before. Their expressions turned to sharp interest; they knew well the cat-and-mouse games it would take to catch a vampire.
As unofficial Commander of the Guard, Kerin stood to brief them all. The Swordmaster coughed to clear his throat and tugged the sword at his hip into a more comfortable position. 'We've had killings °n and off for several years,' he began, 'but there is no real pattern or regularity, which is why it went unnoticed for so long. The Guard isn't set up for efficient policing of the entire city.' He paused for a fraction, giving Lesarl a look that was totally ignored before continuing, 'It isn't the same creature we had last time, the one that, unfortunately, escaped us.'
Tebran nodded. 'Ah well, what can I say? The man was a drunken fool he muttered, raising his mug in toast to his father, the man who let the news slip in a tavern one night and caused the beast to flee.
The Swordmaster smiled and continued, 'Most assuredly, but the vampire this time is cunning. That is why you were not told of it earlier, Lord Isak. The last one would have been a good challenge for your growing skills, but we fear this one is greater. Lord Bahl is the only mage we have capable of hunting one down alone.'
Isak nodded, grateful that Kerin had passed over Isak's own inadequacies in front of men he would be leading into battle.
'1 will stay for as long as needed, then catch you up,' Bahl declared then, looking pointedly at Isak, 'Do not get it into your head to look for the creature; you've danger enough waiting for you outside Lomin. In the meantime, you're not to leave the palace without a detachment of Ghosts. I don't want you involved.'
Two days later, Bahl sat in his personal chambers, trying to force the muzzy confusion of sleep from his mind. The effort of eating a bowl of honeyed oats defeated him and he sank back into h
is chair, looking down at the bustle below. The wind rushing in through the wide-open windows helped somewhat, but his fatigue was unnatural in origin: he had spent much of the previous night letting his soul soar high in the heavens. A storm had raged over Lomin, and Bahl had gone with it, directing as much of its strength as he could against the besiegers. The old Lord shivered at the memory of the intoxicating blend of pleasure and fear he felt as his own considerable magic entwined with that vast elemental power.
The effort required to master the storm was massive, and he couldn't even tell whether it had worked – the distance and the strength of the storm were too great to gain much more than an impression of what was happening – but it was a useful ability. Bahl suspected that Isak would be even better at it than he was; there was a savagery about the youth that would suit riding with the storm.
Bahl had played with this storm out of a sense of guilt: the real reason he was not marching with the army had less to do with the suspected vampire – although that was true – and more to do with the death of a friend, as Lesarl's knowing eyes had recognised. A white-eye's longevity meant that generally they had few friends, but those he had, Bahl treasured. He had been absent at the death of the one he loved most, so he had resolved to never let those who meant most to him die alone. The Abbot of a nearby monastery was one.
'And yet it interferes with my duty to my people,' Bahl murmured
118
to himself. 'Times are still so precarious; what will they think if I’m not there for the battle?' As if in answer to his question, the writings of a warrior-monk centuries dead surfaced in his mind: Doubts cloud purpose, in battle as in life. No swordsman is complete without resolve and purpose of movement. Bahl nodded wearily; his mind would not be swayed on the point, so he must cast off the guilt. It would do him no good to doubt his own actions, there were plenty of others to do