by Tom Lloyd
‘I suppose—’ Isak sounded a little diffident now. ‘Well, I had wondered whether you’d be sending me on diplomatic missions.’
‘You? A diplomat? What a curious concept.’
Isak smiled at Bahl’s tone, glad for any levity between them.
‘There will certainly be lots to keep you busy here if you want it, but our relationships with other states are limited. We are too powerful for them to attack us, and trade agreements are already in place, so your principal official role if you want it would be patrolling our borders to discourage raiding.’
‘What if—’
Isak got no further as Bahl interrupted, ‘Another time. We’re here.’
Isak realised he’d forgotten to count the paces as he’d intended, but guessed they’d covered a hundred yards or more. Another twenty paces and Bahl stopped in front of the outline of a doorway hewn in the rock: sharp, irregular lines edged in the faintest of green.
As they’d been walking, Isak had been more and more aware of the presence of magic of some sort up ahead, but the scent was unlike any he recognised. As he followed Bahl inside, the smell of wet lichen, animal dung and a piercing acrid odour grew hugely, as did the magic in the air. There were powerful streams of energy present, not building up, but attracted to this place for some reason, presumably his gifts. The smell of dung bemused him, though: it was not quite like a stable, nor a slaughterhouse, but the aroma was similarly pervasive.
As Isak took in the proportions of the room, he faltered: this was a cavern stretching off into blackness, not the strong-room he’d been expecting. The faint green tint that outlined the walls and uneven floor had no apparent source, other than the magic he could sense swirling all around. The cavern was not one regular open space; the roof dipped and rose as it pleased and the floor rose up in the centre around a group of thick pillars clustered with quartz. Two large holes had been hacked into a side wall, presumably tunnels leading to more chambers. One had great chunks of rock lying broken at its entrance.
‘Where are we? What is this place?’ He found himself whispering.
‘I keep some of the artefacts Atro collected over the years here. We cannot keep them in the palace itself, nor can we destroy most of them, for fear of releasing the magic inside - for the same reason why the Elven Waste is indeed a waste: that is where the Great War was fought and vast amounts of uncontrolled magic poisoned the ground.’
‘That’s all? But this is a cavern, and I can feel something else down here. Gods, is there something alive here? What’s that I can sense?’ Isak stood still, trying to make sense of what he could smell and feel, then he gasped as he recognised the ancient air that lingered in parts of the palace, like the presence of centuries but alive and aware, and terrifyingly potent.
Bahl didn’t reply, but gestured towards the raised part of the floor, where, in the darker parts between the pillars, Isak could just make out a long lump of rock. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed a smooth arc against the irregular stone, that became a tail, huge and scaled, with a fat scimitar tip. Isak’s mouth dropped open; without warning, the tail was whipped back and into the shadows, then a cold rasping rose from the lump of rock Bahl had indicated. It slid forward, the heavy click of claw on stone and the rasp of its scaled tail dragging along the rough surface announcing its living presence.
Welcome, Lord Isak.
Inside his head the words echoed and crashed, rising in power until Isak started backwards in surprise.
Do not be alarmed. I have promised Lord Bahl I will eat none of his subjects. I am Genedel.
Now a head appeared from the shadows, dipping down the slope with a deliberate lack of speed. It was fully two yards long, with a frill of bone sweeping back from the top of its head, which in turn was flanked by two huge horns that twisted back and up, another two yards long themselves. A wide snout held rows of glittering teeth; the protrusion of nostrils broke its smooth curve, and a pair of tusk-like horns pointed forward from behind the frill of bone, almost as far as the very tip of the snout. Behind that lay two huge eyes, glimmers of deepest red in the underground night. The rest of the body was hidden, visible only in silhouette. Isak guessed at folded wings sitting high on each side and a relatively slender body supported by wide clawed legs.
‘Ah—’ replied Isak in a daze. ‘And how about burning them?’ As soon as the words came out he realised he was being flippant to a dragon, one that was no more than ten yards from his face. It could probably flame him without even moving.
I have promised nothing there.
‘Oh.’
But let no man say a dragon is without a sense of humour.
Isak kept his jaw clamped shut; terrified in case his inability to shut up might anger the beast. That was something he didn’t want to see.
Your gifts, young Krann; that is why you are here, is it not?
‘I ... yes, it is. We ride for Lomin within the hour.’
Your first battle. It will show your true nature to your men; it is how they will remember you, yet I doubt any could forget you. Take the eastern tunnel and you will find what cries for a master.
Isak looked at the inscrutable features of the dragon, then at the two tunnel entrances. Eastern, not left or right. For a second he started trying to picture east in the palace, and then work out which way they had turned to get down here. Then he remembered where he was, and what he was looking for. Starting out towards the tunnels, he felt the keen of his gifts more strongly than ever before. The crunch of broken stone and dirt underfoot danced around the walls, sounding ever louder as his heart hammered inside his chest.
Reaching the tunnel, Isak glanced back for a moment. The weight of Genedel’s presence behind him was a burn on the back of his neck he couldn’t ignore. Bahl had stepped closer to the beast, only a few yards from one tusk, watching him. With a flick of its head, the dragon - Genedel - could impale Lord Bahl; it seemed impossible that even the famous hero white-eye, the Lord of the Farlan, could succeed in killing such a creature, however many tales there were of lesser men performing such a deed.
Isak tore his attention away from his master and concentrated on the smell of magic. He took the left-hand tunnel, and found himself having to duck down five yards in as the roof dipped sharply. The stone walls slewed right and spread out wide into a bowl-shaped room. There was a flat ledge against the back wall, almost waist height. Isak shuddered to a halt at the entrance, entranced by the objects before him. He didn’t need to be told what they were; there was no mistaking objects constantly mentioned in myth that radiated such power he almost sank to his knees as he laid eyes on them. Only an echo of that same power from his shield kept him standing.
The dark lines of the room melted away. All he saw were the silver curves of Siulents, beautiful as a dream, even laid out in pieces. Each delicate plate and link was a craftsman’s joy. The lines of each piece followed the muscular shape of a warrior’s body, but with a sinuous grace that was almost inhuman. The helm was a single piece; its near-blank features showed a weirdly distorted reflection of Isak’s face as he held it up to inspect. It looked like a mirror version of Bahl’s mask, but not one that would mould to the wearer’s face. It had two ridges, running back over the head and cold empty eye sockets, that reminded Isak of the dragon in the chamber behind him, or perhaps the rattlesnake he’d once killed: reptilian; sleek and graceful, with lethal intent.
Pushing the image from his mind, Isak moved to the sword and closed his fingers around the double-handed grip of Eolis, tightly wrapped in pure white silk and bound with an emerald filigree that emanated from the massive emerald set into the hilt. Six silver claws shaped like talons gripped the emerald securely. The guard was a circular piece of ivory that looked to be fused into the blade itself.
As Isak marvelled at the blade, he realised that the poor working sword Kerin had claimed was nothing more than the echo of this sword reaching up into Isak’s mind. Without knowing it, some part of his soul had recognised Eolis. The sm
ith had given the sword honest praise, but Isak knew now how far short of the mark it had fallen. The weight of the blade was almost imperceptible, yet as he moved Eolis through some basic forms, listening to the soft zip as it neatly cut the air, he felt a surge of strength in his arm. Isak realised that this blade would cut through even the pieces of rock littering the floor in Genedel’s chamber.
There was a rough leather sheath beside it, Farlan-designed, of plain black leather, which presumably Lord Bahl or Lesarl had left for him. Pulling off his boots and shirt, Isak quickly dressed in the under-suit Bahl had given him. He hesitated before touching Siulents again, but as he started fitting the armour on to his body, he felt a note of exhilaration trembling; building up as each piece clipped into place. The silver took on a seductive, liquid quality as he flexed his limbs to test the freedom of movement, and even more remarkably he could not see the seams between plates, only an unbroken curve.
A smile broke over his face. This wasn’t what he had expected; instead, his body felt cocooned in a second skin, only slightly constrained, and coupled with an intoxicating sense of invulnerability. Isak hesitated when only the helm remained. It was tradition that helms were only for battle; ancient belief held that a hidden face displayed hidden intentions. Wealthy knights would often have their visors made into savage and grotesque faces to further the distinction between a man of war and a person of civilisation.
Though he wanted badly to try it on, the sound of voices in the main chamber broke the spell and, gathering up his clothes, Isak bundled them together and laid them inside the shield, cushioning his helm.
As Isak entered the dragon’s lair, Bahl broke off his conversation and stared, almost wavering with shock. ‘Gods, Aryn Bwr was well named; quicksilver indeed,’ he exclaimed. A rumble from deep inside Genedel’s throat echoed agreement.
Isak just stood, unable to put what he felt into words. He held up Eolis, drawing it from the sheath to show Bahl the glitter of white light that shone out, even in the dark, green-tinted depths of Genedel’s cavern. His expression was one of bemused helplessness.
‘These really are the last king’s weapons, aren’t they?’
Now you know why the elves have come. The Land has envious eyes for such beauty.
‘We cannot be sure of that,’ interrupted Bahl.
You are, as I am. The night of Isak’s Choosing was one of unrest in distant parts as much as here. The creatures of the night felt it; the denizens of Ghenna knew his name atthat moment. Mages and prophets have also sensed the disturbance, whether they recognise it or not. The elves have been waiting for three thousand years. They know.
Bahl didn’t respond. His huge frame suddenly seemed small, deflated, even. His eyes ran down the gleaming blade, over the smooth curves of Siulents - and he gave a small nod. Stepping forward, the Lord of the Farlan reached into his belt. Isak tightened his grip on Eolis, feeling a spasm of shame as Bahl produced a piece of blue cloth.
‘I have no such gifts to offer you, but I feel there is something—’ He didn’t finish the sentence, but held out a hood identical to his own. ‘May it keep you safe in other ways.’
Isak nodded his thanks and placed the shield and Eolis carefully down on the ground. He slipped the hood over his cropped scalp. The silk hung loose briefly before tightening around his head, covering his nose and mouth but somehow not impairing his breath. There was an enchantment on it so subtly woven he’d not noticed it until then.
‘Give me your hand.’ Isak cocked his head at the strange instruction, but held out his right hand, changing it to the left at the old lord’s request. Bahl pulled off his gauntlet - the silver parted without resistance - and then the glove underneath.
He held Isak’s hand palm up, inspecting it for a moment, before suddenly whipping a dagger from his belt and slashing down. Isak cried out in surprise and pain, but Bahl kept a tight grip on his wrist and pulled his Krann closer.
‘This is my gift to you.’ His voice was deep and old, full of sorrow and pain. ‘This is the legacy that you will inherit from me; your blood, your pain, shed for people and Gods who neither know of it nor care. You will be hated and feared by those your duty leads you to protect, who will show resentment, not gratitude, no matter what you do for them. Do not expect your people to love you, trust you, or remain loyal to you. You will become the man your duty to the tribe permits, the man it forges. If you try to fight that, you will break under the weight of it.’
After a respectful bow to the dragon, they returned to the main wing of the palace in silence. Isak had too much swirling in his head to speak; Bahl had no more to say and instead let his own thoughts fester. The Chief Steward met them on the stair and bowed low to both, then offered Isak a white cape, reaching up as far as he could to set it about the Krann’s shoulders. As it unfurled behind his back, Isak caught sight of an emerald dragon detailed in gold. Isak secured it himself, fastening the cloak with his brooch from the bundle of clothes. With his shield retrieved and set securely on his arm, Isak looked at the two men, waiting for their nods of approval before he set off to face his army.
A reverential whisper greeted Isak in the Great Hall. It grew and spread like a tidal wave. Bahl saw men stop dead and stare; men who had felt a change in the air and turned to watch Isak emerge into the training ground where his horse was waiting. More joined the congregation of hushed voices; the awed sound waxed with every heartbeat, echoed back by the encircling wall, then swelled to a roar into the gusting wind and growling clouds. A single fork of lightning split the sky and the men cheered, with all their hearts and souls; they raised a clamour that woke the whole of the city and sent a howl of defiance rolling east over the trees.
CHAPTER 11
The unrelenting north wind heaved and buffeted Tirah Palace’s high walls. It brought the voices of the city up to Bahl in his lonely chamber where he sat watching the tiny figures below, a brass goblet of wine cradled forgotten in his hands as he stared out of the window. The people of the city had succumbed to the glamour of Siulents and given Isak a reception Bahl could never have dreamed of. The old lord didn’t want their adulation, but still he felt an unwonted melancholy that, despite all he had given up for them, his people had never loved him. What they cheered was a façade; a hero they could worship. Isak was the shining figurehead that Bahl had never been, but the Lord of the Farlan wondered about the uncertain youth inside that enchanted armour: was he already buckling under the weight of being Bahl’s Krann? But Isak’s place in the Land was not merely as Bahl’s replacement. His role would be even harder to bear.
‘And yet what can I teach him? What do I know of being a king?’ Bahl spoke out loud to the empty room.
‘More than the King of Narkang, I’ll wager, and he’s the only one worthy of the title these days.’
Bahl jumped at the unexpected voice from the doorway. Suzerain Tebran gave him a nod as he advanced into the room.
‘Kehed, you don’t go to wish your son well for his first battle?’
The suzerain shrugged and eased his portly frame into the nearest chair. Few men would dare sit without permission, but Bahl would have sacrificed protocol gladly for a few more supporters as loyal.
‘I spoke to the boy this morning; there’s nothing more he wants to hear from me. His cousin’s going to keep an eye on him. He’s a sensible lad, he’ll see him right. Mayhap he’ll grow up in the process.’
‘Things are no better?’
Tebran grimaced. ‘Ah, sometimes I think he can’t be mine. Could hardly have blamed his mother if he weren’t, the number of bastards I’ve got. I’ve reached the end of my tether with that one. If this campaign doesn’t wake him up to the Land, I’ll ask Kerin to take him on. I’d hoped to give him a proper education, perhaps find him a seat on the city council for a few years to teach him some responsibility, but he’s no interest in it. It’ll be hard to let him go though. I hear his mother in every word he says.’
‘How long has it been?’ Bahl asked softly
.
‘Three summers now, though I’d scarce believe it myself. The boy won’t listen to me. There’s nothing more I can do with him. I fear I’ll have an empty hall soon enough, for I don’t think Fordan’s intending to come back. He sees me now and has no intention of getting this way.’
The suzerain gestured down at his straining belly and stained clothes. Age and hard living was catching up with a man whose barrel shape had marked him out on the battlefield almost as much as the distinctive yellow and purple colours of Tebran. His cheeks and nose were scarred red with drink, the skin about his eyes looked heavy and tired and gout hampered every step. With the loss of his wife he’d recognised that all his friends and contemporaries were slowly fading from the Land.
He lifted a goblet and drank, wiping the wine from his chin with the grimy white stripe around his cuff that marked him as a former Ghost. Suzerain Tebran’s title had never stopped him earning every shred of trust he had been given, something Bahl wished he could say about more of the nobles who owed him allegiance.
‘There’s always a place at my table for such a loyal friend. With your son in the Guard, I expect you’ll want to keep an eye on him.’
Tebran smiled in genuine gratitude and straightened himself up a little, a flicker of pride driving away his gloom for the moment.
‘The Krann seems to have potential. Will he hold up in battle?’
Bahl shrugged. ‘We shall see. He’s got the strength and skill; if we keep the elven mages off his back then he should be fine.’
‘And Shalstik?’
Bahl hesitated. He was far from certain in his own mind. ‘By the Gods, I hope not, Kehed. If the elven houses have united under the Shalstik cult, we’re in for years of war.’
‘How likely is that?’ Tebran asked, looking worried.
‘Shalstik’s prophecy of the last king’s return has been a threat hanging over us for more than a thousand years; if that’s the case, they’ll fight to the bitter end to bring it about.’ He grimaced. ‘Our first defence has always been their inability to fight as a united group. We are still pretty sure the elves have ten noble houses constantly at each other’s throats - I doubt any force we’ve met in the last hundred years has comprised warriors from more than two houses. I don’t know if they have called a truce, but with an army large enough to destroy Lomin’s cavalry ...’ His voice trailed off and he looked out of the window for a few moments before continuing, ‘The dragon’s mood had better remain good over the next few weeks. We may need him.’