The stormcaller tr-1

by Tom Lloyd

  'Worried he's lying, or that what he says might be true?'

  Harsh voices from the darkness prompted the general to clamber to his feet and walk out to the front of the temple. As Chalat joined him, the shapes of three men slowly appeared from the gloom. Two were Lion Guards, from General Dev's personal legion; the third was a little taller and much more slender, even with the thick cords of rope that bound his arms to his body and hobbled his feet.

  Both guards carried crossbows, and had battle-axes slung on their backs. The larger of the two also carried an iron-shod quarterstaff, the foreigner's weapon. They threw the prisoner on to the floor and stepped over him to kneel at their Lord's feet.

  'Cut those bonds from his hands,' ordered Chalat, 'and bring him to the flame.' Their footsteps echoed strangely over the polished surface, getting quieter as they reached the centre, as if deadened by the constant whisper of the eternal flame. The prisoner had hair dark enough for a Parian, though he lacked the height or the tribe's distinctive facial features. He stumbled along after the white-eye as best he could. Though the guards kept prodding him along, he couldn't help looking up at the astonishing temple. His mouth fell open in awe as he followed the four pillars up to the apex, almost eighty yards above the altar in the centre. Nothing supported them; the thin white shaft of the eternal flame was the only thing that connected the peak and altar.

  An open walkway that ran around the pillars at the midpoint was strictly the preserve of Tsatach's priests. Anyone else who dared enter the stairs in the pillars that led to the walkway – even General Dev ~ would be executed on the spot. The walkways were supported only by air and magic: anyone other than the temple's priests might disrupt the spells that supported the thousands of tons of stone and kill the pilgrims congregating below – on a feast day, they numbered in the thousands.

  Chalat wasted no time when he reached the altar. He'd been enjoying himself with four of his favourite concubines and he fully intended to return to their delights as quickly as possible. Grabbing the foreigner by the scruff of the neck, he picked him up bodily and deposited him next to the flame.

  'Do you know what happens to liars who put their hands in the flame?' he asked cheerily.

  The man nodded, a little nervous, but remarkably calm – the general thought he looked as though he'd resigned himself to execution and had made his peace with the Gods already.

  Chalat nodded in approval and took the man's hand in his own. As the Chosen of Tsatach, the flame would never hurt him. If the foreigner lied while his hand was within the flame, his entire arm would be consumed. If he was quick, it would be just the arm.

  'What is your name?'

  'Mihn ab Netren ab Felith. I am called Mihn.'

  'Where do you come from?'

  'I was bom into the clans of the northern coast. I have wandered the Land for several years now, often in the wastes.'

  Tell me who the assassin was.' Chalat had better things to do than waste time on pointless questions.

  'He- he called himself Arlal.'

  'What sort of a name is that? Parian?'

  'No, Lord, elven.'

  Chalat gave a cough of surprise, letting go of the man's wrist for a moment in his astonishment. General Dev shrugged when Chalat looked at him. He looked at the flame; the man's hand was still there and he had not even attempted to pull away, though the flames licked and danced over his skin. Even if Mihn were a sorcerer, he'd still not have the power to stop his hand burning. He must be telling the truth.

  The man kept his hand in the centre of the flame, a defiant look on his face while he waited for the next question.

  'Arlal was an elf?'

  'A true elf, my Lord.'

  Now the white-eye gaped. 'You were in the company of a true elf called Arlal? The one storytellers call the Poisonblade?'

  Mihn paused, considering how to frame his reply so it was com- pletely true. 'It is possible. I don't know how many true elves there

  are in the Land, but it is most likely. The Poisonblade is said to be an assassin.'

  'Did he tell you who paid him?'

  'No. He said little, other than to give us orders. He had some sort of amulet around his neck, I didn't even consider disobeying him.'

  The sound of footsteps running over the plain made them all jump. The two soldiers had their crossbows raised and ready to fire when a voice hailed them from the gloom, sounding far too scared to be a threat.

  'General! He's awake!'

  'It's Gerrint. Put your bows down,' General Dev ordered. 'It's my adjutant, Lord Chalat. I left him in charge of the Krann.'

  The soldier pounded his way over the temple boundary, nearly tripping as he remembered how disrespectful it was. He stumbled to a halt, looked around as if expecting a furious priest to appear from the pillars, then walked as fast as he could to the altar.

  'My Lord, General Dev, the Krann has recovered!'

  'Don't be ridiculous, Gerrint; he was all but dead when I saw him.'

  'I know, sir, but he's up and walking around. But he looks different my Lord, changed. The wound is a black stain on his chest, nothing more. The medic said that the arrow crumbled to soot suddenly and stained his skin – then Lord Charr got up and threw out everyone but his personal guards. I came as quickly as I could, sir, my Lord.'

  Chalat frowned, looking deeply concerned, and drawing his sword, walked away from the altar.

  The coppery surface of Golaeth glinted in the light of the eternal flame as Chalat used it to score a circle on the floor almost two yards in diameter. A faint black trail followed the path of the sword while Chalat whispered the words of a spell under his breath. That done, he sat down, cross-legged, within the circle, looking faintly comical as he carefully tucked his thick legs under himself. He nicked his finger on Golaeth's edge and placed the sword across his knees, then caressed the ruby gem at his neck with the bloody digit.

  General Dev walked nervously around his Lord, keeping far enough away that he didn't disturb his work but, as always, fascinated by the magic. He shivered as the open space suddenly became darker and a sharp chill appeared in the air. Chalat's breathing slowed until it was almost imperceptible. The Bloodrose at his throat smouldered brighter, then blazed for a brief moment before the air around Chalat returned to normal.

  'He's at his homestead. There's a darkness surrounding him, something I don't recognise.' Chalat's voice sounded hollow and distant, as though his Lord had been somewhere else and part of him hadn't fully returned.

  'I can have the Lion Guard ready in half an hour, the Ten Thousand within the hour-' He stopped as Chalat held up a hand.

  'What's that sound?' The Lord blinked owlishly at the darkness, cocking his head to one side.

  Everyone listened hard as a sudden rushing noise came from behind, like a rogue gust of wind. The general turned as a wet gasp cut the air, instinctively diving away from the oncoming shape. In a blur of movement he felt a figure slam into him, and he saw the two guards fall dead behind it. Pain flared in his arm as a blade cut deep, then he was smashed out of the way. His head thumped against the ground and stars burst before his eyes.

  The figure, the shape of a Chetse man, but with long claws and spiky protrusions along its limbs and shoulders, crashed bodily into Chalat and knocked the white-eye over. As the Lord tried to rise again, the creature threw itself upon him, flailing madly as a ruby light enveloped the two for a moment. The general felt hands on his back, urging him down; though he tried to move, his body betrayed him and he could only submit as Mihn, now free of his bonds and armed with his staff, advanced.

  Chalat kicked his attacker away and the Bloodrose flared again as it absorbed another wound. Mihn immediately swung at the creature, but had to fling himself back when he missed, trying to avoid the raking claws. He waved his staff in a wide half-circle, not daring to risk another strike at the monster, but trying to distract it. The twisted perversion of a man had bony growths pushed through the skin; it looked daemonic, and the furious sn
arls sounded like the dying breath of a ruined throat, amplified by rage.

  With the creature's attention on the foreigner, Chalat had the time he needed. Golaeth's coppery surface blazed in the light from the eternal flame and Chalat roared as he hacked down at the creature. The blow was somehow turned by the creature's arm, but it could do nothing to stop the sword when it lanced forward into its belly. Razor-sharp claws lashed forward as it tried to shred Chalat's flesh, but

  the white-eye had already withdrawn. He struck again, and this time cut off one of the monster's arms, then as he chopped deep into its neck, it collapsed, flailing violently before falling abruptly, rigid. One last twitch came, then it was still.

  Chalat looked up at Mihn and bared his teeth in some sort of a smile.

  'Well done.' He sounded husky with barely restrained aggression. Chalat hardly cared for the duties of state, but fighting in his tribe's need was always joyfully done.

  'See.to the general; those three are dead.' Chalat stood over the corpse for a moment, then stabbed his sword down into its chest, driving it on into the rock below.

  The foreigner jumped at the sudden sound, then crouched down over the general, peering into his eyes. He nodded to himself, and took the general's dagger from his belt. With an assured movement he cut away the sleeve of the general's shirt and tied that above the bleeding arm; the other sleeve was similarly removed and used to bandage the wound itself.

  'It's a clean cut, but deep,' he told Chalat. When he received no reply, he looked up from his charge. The Lord was squatting by the creature's head, muttering something, one hand placed flat against the ground. A tremble ran through the stone beneath their feet, rippling towards the white-eye, and then a face appeared on the temple floor. The flat stone billowed up, as though it was nothing more than a sheet of silk held up against a man's face, though the face was far from human. Though the eyes were overly large and the thick jaw extended too far back, somehow there was a beauty in the curve of the nose, cheek and forehead that redeemed its strangeness.

  'What happened to him?' Chalat muttered to the face, ignoring the foreigner's presence. 'These regimental tattoos mark him as Charr's bodyguard, but-' The white-eye's voice tailed off as he gestured over the body. 'Has the same happened to Charr?'

  The being in the ground rose up a little further so that the tops of its shoulders were now protruding from the rock. There was no seam between the being and the stone floor; they were made of the same substance. Mihn stared at the Ralebrat – the earth elementals were known to be allies of the Chetse, but he had never heard of them being seen outside of battle.

  'Your Krann is dead. Something else possesses his body now.' There was a smooth quality to the Ralebrat's voice, sand running over stone. Something underneath the corpse reached up to tap one of the horns. The nearly decapitated head twitched under the movement as the elemental cocked its head to one side.

  'I couldn't sense it as it attacked,' Chalat said. 'If more than a handful have been changed, I cannot kill them. Can your kind help?'

  'We dare not. The Gods are at play, and others. We will not be involved this time.'

  Chalat seemed to take the refusal with remarkable calm. The Ralebrat had allied themselves with Aryn Bwr during the Great War – clearly the slaughter on both sides had taught them to keep clear of anything similar.

  'You must leave.'

  'What?' Chalat was surprised.

  'You cannot fight these daemons; you must leave for the sake of your people. We have expected this Age for a thousand years – we will go deep into the earth until we are called by one who is known to us.'

  'How can I leave Charr to rule the Chetse?'

  'You cannot avoid it. The only question is whether you will be alive when the time comes to save your people.' An arm appeared from the ground, rising up as though from a perfectly still lake. It pointed at the foreigner. 'Take that one with you.'

  'Him? Why?'

  The Ralebrat emitted a sound like sand brushing over steel; it was amused. 'Fate intervened to put him in your enemy's path. He is marked, that one.'

  'Marked for what?'

  'For suffering and service. What he has lost from his soul, he must confront and surpass. If he does as he must, his name will be honoured for a thousand years.'

  'I don't understand.' Chalat now stared at the foreigner in curiosity and fascination.

  'It is not yours to understand. He belongs to another.' With that the Ralebrat slid back down into the ground, disappearing without trace.

  Chalat stared at the blank stone for a moment, then a gust of wind tugged at his hair and stirred him to movement. He stood up and cleaned his sword on the clothes of the dead bodyguard.

  'It looks like we both have some long years ahead of us. If you're not my business, I don't want to know any more. I know the Ralebrat well enough to keep my silence. How badly injured is Chate?'

  The foreigner looked down and shrugged. The man had passed out and he pushed back the man's thinning silver hair to show Chalat a ripe swelling visible on the general's hairline.

  'Right, then. I'll carry him to the Temple of Asenn; they'll be around soon for the dew rituals and it's next to the Temple of Shijhe. Then we go north.'

  CHAPTER 17

  Koezh Vukotic watched the beacons on the walls struggle against the unremitting wind. The flames sent faint shadows cavorting over the glistening cobbles of Daraban's streets, but they made little inroad into the coating of liquid darkness that had descended upon his city. Bulging clouds obscured his sight of the moons; he preferred it that way, without Alterr's watching eye.

  But the shouts and calls out there, the clank of iron and drum of hooves, they were all sounds of another life, aspects of a time when he had been truly alive. The long years of his curse were an indistinct ache, quite separate from the sharp years of mortal life; as few as they had been. Though they were mere seconds compared to the long years that followed, their light still burned fiercely.

  Out there, men preparing to die thought of their wives, their children. They smiled over those years that had been their span, hoping, praying, for a few more, however cold and harsh life might be in the Forbidden Lands.

  It sickened Vukotic that his people would die in winter. The season was long here, long and harsh and violent, and he believed this attack had come about because a Krann was desperate to prove his worth. It was fear of meeting some unfortunate accident now that Lord Styrax's own son had come of age that had driven Lord Cytt to risk marching to the Forbidden Lands in winter. He was obviously trying to emulate Lord Styrax's great victory here.

  Vukotic imagined ten thousand men, stamping their way over treacherous frozen ground, their fingers and toes black and festering, lost to frostbite and gangrene before they even reached these walls. What lurked in the shadows of these streets would only compound their misery: bright eyes and twisted smiles, and pale skin that barely noticed the bite of winter flushed in grotesque anticipation of the

  slaughter to come.

  He could feel his breed slipping through streets and alleys now, nostrils flaring, tasting the first blood on the wind. Many were close enough for him to sense individually, more lingered at the fringes of his mind, and as each recognised his presence, they begged permission to join.

  He rarely let them take part – he wanted them to have as little to do with his citizens as possible – but they would always be there on the edges. Most were worse than animals, beautiful, degenerate daemons that preyed on those they would now be protecting – for this was different. This battle had nothing to do with the people of the city, and Vukotic saw no reason why they should suffer any more than necessary.

  As he turned away from the window, echoes of lusty jubilation rang out with revolting familiarity. He steadied himself on the desk and lifted a foot to tug at the black mail covering it. It had been several years since he last wore his armour and the leather padding was chafing at skin more used to the finest silks. The curse gave him enormous stren
gth and resilience, but his senses were likewise magnified. Pain was something he had learned to endure; his many deaths had provided more than sufficient practice.

  A little more comfortable now, Vukotic eased himself into the sturdy leather chair before him and pushed aside the stack of papers on the walnut desk that were awaiting his attention. Now was not the time for civic affairs, not even the most pressing matter, a legal dispute between minor nobles – he found himself hoping one or the other died in the coming battle. It might not be a human solution, but few would ever accuse a vampire of excessive compassion.

  His eyes wandered the room, lingering on the gold threading that now lined the shelves of his bookcase. The housekeeper had a free rein when it came to decoration and each time he returned, the room was different in some way. Perhaps to ward off the harsh winter, she had chosen bright reds and oranges, as well as a liberal use of gold leaf far beyond the finances of most; the new colour scheme certainly cheered his dull spirits. If he hadn't had the rest of his armour sitting on a chair behind him, the evening might not have been too unpleasant…

  He sighed and trudged over to the pile of plate armour, picked up a piece and, grumbling to himself, began to strap it on. He winced as he pulled the cuirass over his head. His left hand gave a twinge as he raised his arm, the legacy of his recent death at the hands of Lord Styrax. For some reason, that injury had not entirely healed during his dark sojourn. His pale brow furrowed as he recalled not only being bested in single combat – extraordinarily – but the humiliation of slowly dying while his armour was roughly stripped from his body as it rotted to nothing. What he was donning now was his father's armour, but it was identical to his own bar the monogrammed initials.

  That Lord Styrax had beaten him in single combat was truly remarkable; the Menin Lord was the finest warrior Koezh Vukotic had ever faced. He sighed. He very much doubted Styrax's Krann, rumoured to be dim-witted, even for a white-eye, would be of the same calibre.