The Stormcaller

by Tom Lloyd

  Styrax could imagine what was going through the young man’s head. The Menin attitude to sex was open and permissive - the male form was rightly admired in a warrior tribe - but the youth looked less than pleased at the prospect. That wouldn’t matter soon. What Styrax had in mind was something rather more unfortunate than buggery.

  He turned quickly and retrieved two small leather bags from a larger one. Drawing a rough circle in the parched earth with his foot, he emptied the smaller of the bags into it. A dozen or so white objects tumbled on to the ground. Styrax quickly checked that none touched the edge, then pulled a pinch of black withered herbs from the other bag. As the youth covered the last few yards, Styrax raised his fingers to his nose and breathed in the sour, sickening flavour of deathsbane that had been soaked in blood and left to dry. It was a truly repulsive smell, but he had to ensure the herbs retained their potency.

  The soldier reached him and dropped to one knee, but was immediately ordered up and told to put the food and wine by the fire.

  The boy kept his gaze glued to Styrax’s face. The wyvern snorted and hissed in the background, weaving its head from side to side until a second glance from the lord quietened it down. Styrax stood at one edge of the circle and beckoned the youth forward. One pace, then a second and the boy was standing inside the circle.

  With no warning, Styrax’s hand flashed forward and the soldier gave a gasp of shock, his hands flinching up to his chest as his entire body swayed with the unexpected impact. Styrax withdrew his hand and the youth wheezed in fear and pain as he saw a dagger buried to the hilt in his chest. Tiny noises escaped his throat; his knees trembled, but somehow he stayed upright. His shaking fingers reached up to touch the ornate bone handle that blossomed from his sternum.

  Styrax reached forward with the treated herbs on his upturned palm, the desiccated plants twisted and cracked with the pain of being plucked from the ground. He raised his hand to the man’s face and ignited the herbs as the soldier touched the hilt of the dagger. The agony of his mortal wound suddenly hit him and his eyes rolled as a hot lance of pain ran through his entire body. With one last gasp of horror that sucked in the dirty smoke of the burning herbs, the man crumpled down. As Styrax whipped the dagger from his chest, the soldier’s descent halted with an unnatural jolt.

  A gloom fell over the rough circle, the calm breath of the wind shivered to a halt and time itself seemed to shudder and slow. Despite himself, Styrax twitched as a chill ran down his spine. He stared at the corpse jerking uneasily back to an upright position: he could feel the void of death close by now. He sighed. Only a madman would be comfortable around this.

  The boy’s face looked hollow, drained. His lips were drawn back tightly over his teeth and his tongue lolled out, useless. The limp head angled its way up to meet Styrax’s gaze, dropped down to check the circle that contained it and then returned to the impassive white-eye.

  The dead features somehow managed to convey a hint of anger that it had to crane its head up to face the white-eye. ‘You bind me?’ The voice was grating and harsh, bubbling its way past the still-warm blood in the body’s lungs: it clearly came from the corpse, though there was a strange, distant echo.

  ‘I bind you,’ confirmed Styrax. ‘I have no interest in seeing you slaughter an elite regiment, not to mention my most valuable general.’

  ‘Your promises are empty. You offered a river of souls, yet I have had a mere handful. I think you forget with whom you have made a bargain.’

  ‘I have not forgotten. Your river of souls is gathering, and when it comes, the dead will number in their thousands.’ Styrax stared down at the corpse and felt contempt. The daemon was a prince among its kind, incredibly powerful and as old as time, but it didn’t care why he wanted its help. It was content with the deluge of death and destruction Styrax had promised. Its abilities far exceeded its desire and for that, Styrax could only despise it.

  ‘But when?’ The corpse’s slack lips quivered.

  Styrax could hear the hunger in that inhuman voice. ‘Soon. We’ve cleared a path to Destenn. Soon the destruction will begin. If we are to win a decisive battle we need to catch the Chetse army out in the open and under-strength. Your servant had better have done its job correctly, or Lord Charr will not march out as soon as he hears of our presence.’

  ‘Lord Charr weeps in the dark place; he cares not for his tribe. What inhabits his body loves battle. It will need no encouragement.’

  ‘Then skulls will be heaped at every crossroads and your name spoken over them.’

  At that the corpse gave some perverse representation of greedy laughter. Styrax felt bile rise in his throat. He had to resist the urge to draw Kobra and remove the creature’s head. Instead he nodded along. He would not need to pander to this obscenity much longer. Already he had the strength to defy it; soon he would make it fear him, and beg to fulfil his every whim. Soon it would have nothing he could need.

  ‘And in the north?’ Styrax pressed.

  ‘The haunted does not sleep; the cries of the lost ring out through the night. He has sent the boy west and searches in forbidden places. He will do as you intend.’

  ‘The boy has gone west? Do any in the mountains remain bound to your name?’

  ‘Those who have sworn cannot escape their bonds. You would do well to remember that. To forswear is to draw down our wrath.’

  ‘Then fill their dreams with glory and riches. If both of the Chosen are far from home then the Farlan are ripe for revolt. Find a man who would be king.’

  ‘Tear down the temple and speak my name there.’ The corpse sagged as Styrax began to drive the daemon from its host. Styrax nodded his agreement and caught the daemon’s final words, almost too faint to be heard. ‘Then tonight, Lomin will dream of his crown.’

  The clicks and buzzing of night’s creatures filled Styrax’s ears as the air around him returned to normality. He felt his body tremble with the power he’d expended. To raise a daemon was no great effort, but they were otherworldly and aside from the march of time; to keep it long enough to hold a conversation required strength, more each time.

  He turned to the fire and sank down, his white hand almost touching the flames as he sought to absorb its warmth and purge the daemon-cold. Almost as weak as an old man, he waved in the direction of the wyvern. With a snarl, the creature scrabbled to its feet and fell upon the dead soldier, scimitar claws making light work of the man’s leather armour. Soon savage teeth were tearing chunks of the boy’s flesh away.

  ‘I see you, shade,’ called Styrax wearily, keeping his eyes fixed on the fire. ‘You take a great risk, spying on a prince of your kind. I wonder why.’

  ‘My kind?’ The voice was entirely unlike any daemon Styrax had previously encountered. ‘And yet not. I hardly feel kinship to such an introverted creature, so unable to see beyond its own needs and obsessions it could almost be human.’

  Despite himself, Styrax laughed, a cold, weary humour. This was a daemon after his own heart. ‘Then why are you here? Do you wish to bargain with me?’

  ‘I require no covenant, but perhaps you would appreciate a warning. The Farlan whelp will not be the only one to return to a cold reception.’

  Styrax considered the words, and the voice that spoke them. From the corner of his eye he could see nothing more than a shadowy outline. The voice, though rich and cultured, sounded both ancient and sinister.

  ‘And who gives me this warning?’

  ‘An observer of events. An approver of ambition. He who is hidden conceals more than you might assume.’

  ‘How much do you observe?’

  ‘Much. “In flames, destruction found. ”’

  Styrax stiffened. ‘That’s a line from the prophecy of Shalstik?’ Inside, he was raging. If one daemon, however unusual, could discover his secrets, then others could, others that might be bound to his enemies. Styrax was not yet strong enough to challenge the Gods, and ownership of a Crystal Skull was not encouraged, even among their greatest Chose
n.

  There was no reply.

  CHAPTER 28

  Doranei idly scratched at the stubble on his cheek, keeping his eyes low and disinterested as he eavesdropped on the next table. He sat alone in a dark corner of the inn, sipping weak beer and occasionally checking the scarf had not slipped from his neck. The bar was warm and the tightly wrapped scarf had attracted some attention, but Doranei didn’t have the sort of face that encouraged questions. The next table was occupied by a group of farmers discussing the topic that occupied everyone else in this town: word of Lord Isak’s imminent arrival had come two days ago, and he was expected this evening. Tongues were wagging.

  ‘Can’t see that one sending the Krann away if they’ve fallen out. He’s a mad bastard when he’s roused—’

  ‘They all are,’ interrupted another. From Doranei’s brief observation of the trio it seemed this speaker had been born surly. Only bitter little miseries had passed his lips throughout the evening. ‘A traveller told me that the Krann was too ashamed to leave his tent for three days after the battle of Lomin. Even for a white-eye he’d fought like a blood-crazed daemon.’ The man was bent over his drink, staring into the near-empty pot with a resigned air.

  The inn was hardly the best this small town had to offer. The wooden walls were cracked and warped; the stench of sweat and mould and old smoke and spilt beer filled the air. Doranei was well used to sleeping under the stars or in a stable, but the ingrained grime nagged at his mind.

  Face it, Doranei, he thought with a wry smile, the king’s made a snob of you. This is the sort of tavern you spent far too long in when you were younger.

  ‘So why’s he coming, then?’ urged the youngest of the three. The dirt wasn’t yet ingrained into his skin like the others. A spark of interest in the Land remained yet.

  Doranei knew the answer. Underneath his scarf he was concealing the bee emblem. He was dressed in studded leather and mail, but that was common enough here; no one would take much note of a soldier. The bee device would mark him out as a King’s Man. Dark things were whispered about the King’s Men, rumours that they were above the law, which was actually one of the few truths told about them. With the bee in full sight, honest men would go silent in his presence and wonder what indiscretions they might be accused of. No magistrate would dare touch Doranei, no matter what the crime, in case it bore the royal sanction. It would be futile to explain to people that the king demanded absolute selflessness of service from his men. He punished corruption savagely - and had an uncanny knack of rooting it out.

  ‘The Krann’s probably here to sign some treaty,’ declared the first farmer after a thoughtful pause. ‘Everyone knows the Farlan have claims on Tor Milist, probably they don’t want a war with us, so King Emin and that Krann, what’s his name again—?’

  ‘Isak, they say. His father named him out of spite - typical bloody Farlan. Probably regretting that now his son’s Krann!’ The surly individual laughed at his own words as his companion nodded.

  ‘Isak, that’s the one. Bet he’s here to draw a line down Tor Milist and offer the king half. Bastard’ll probably take it too, another few towns to hang his colours in.’

  Doranei’s fist closed instinctively. The three farmers chuckled on, unaware of how close they were to a beating, when a trumpet rang out through the night. This was a border town, with lookouts on constant watch. The men looked at each other, the smiles falling away: riders approaching. It was a fair guess that one of them would be the Krann.

  Talk in the tavern quietened, then stopped completely as folk looked at each other to see who was going to move first. They all wanted to see the white-eye in his fancy elven armour, but no one wanted to be the first to rush off and stare at a foreigner. Farlan arrogance wasn’t appreciated here, not now that Narkang’s strength neared that of Farlan and Chetse.

  Doranei stood slowly, the scrape of his chair drawing all eyes. He unwound his scarf with deliberate care, drawing great satisfaction as the three farmers started shaking at the sight of the golden bee on his collar. He pulled on a worn pair of gloves, retrieved his cape from the spare chair at his table and then made his way out. In his wake Doranei felt people stir, but he had reached the stables before he heard eager footsteps run for the walls. He ran an affectionate hand down his horse’s grey neck, she turned to nuzzle at him, then nosed his hand, questing for food.

  He draped an arm over the horse’s neck and, looking straight into her hazel eye, said, ‘Well, my friend, shall we go and see this Krann who’s got everyone so excited?’

  The mare snorted and shook her head. Doranei chuckled and patted the creature. ‘Ah, you could be right there. However, it will be as the king commanded. The Krann might be bringing dark times, but that’s been our life for a spell anyway.’ He swung himself easily up into the saddle, then the tall grey started out at a brisk trot towards the gate tower.

  ‘Hey, where do you think you’re going?’ demanded the watchman belligerently. Behind him, Doranei could see a collection of men eyeing him nervously. One was riding a handsome hunter, probably the local suzerain. He was old, but he could obviously still wield the blade at his hip. The others were town councillors, nervous and sweating under the ceremonial finery of their offices. Doranei suppressed a smile - their opinion of all Farlan as peacocks would hardly extend to a white-eye.

  ‘I’ve been sent to greet the Lord Isak and put myself at his disposal.’

  The watchman advanced with a curse on his lips before noticing the emblem on Doranei’s collar. He reined in sharply, eyes narrowing in the dim light. ‘You’re a King’s Man?’

  ‘No, I just wear his badge because I hear he’s a good man to irritate,’ Doranei snapped. Without waiting for a reply he directed his horse around the man and advanced on the others. To one side a mounted figure stirred, only to be stopped by a raised hand from the suzerain.

  As Doranei reached them he saw the figure in the shadows was wearing fine clothes, but his gauntlets betrayed mail underneath. Doranei guessed it was the nobleman’s son. That was all he needed now, a provincial hothead who was yet to learn he couldn’t be rude to everyone he met. The old soldier who’d sired him obviously had wits enough to be cautious. The king was very specific about his men getting the right amount of respect due their position. If that meant fighting duels with incautious noblemen, he was happy to pay the price.

  ‘My Lord Suzerain,’ Doranei called, inclining his head respectfully to the man. He made a point of ignoring the others, turning his back on the councillors as he rode past them.

  ‘I’m Suzerain Coadech,’ confirmed the older man. ‘And you’re no royal herald. Why would the king send a soldier to greet the Farlan Krann?’

  Doranei kept his face impassive. Though he would prefer to be friendly with the suzerain - and he had heard good things of Coadech - his job meant he stayed apart. King’s Men were an unknown quantity to all but the king himself.

  ‘He would not; he sent me instead. However, I’m sure he would prefer you, his most venerable subject, to ride out and greet the Krann.’

  The son made an indignant noise, but the suzerain merely smiled. He’d seen enough of life not to react to a small jibe, given in a friendly way. King’s Men held no titles, but their power rivalled any subject of the king’s.

  ‘Then I would be pleased to. I hope the king would not find me impertinent if I don’t offer your services to his honoured guest, other than as a guide - it might appear strange to put all of your skills at the disposal of a foreign power.’

  Doranei’s eyes narrowed. He was very aware that many believed the wearers of the bee to be little more than royal assassins - but there was a crinkle of humour around the suzerain’s mouth. He returned the smile and gestured for the elderly man to take the lead. A whistle from above set the men opening the great ceremonial gates. The suzerain trotted forward, followed closely by his scowling son so there would be no room for Doranei. The King’s Man ignored the youth and turned to the councillors.

 
‘Wait here. If the Krann has had a long journey, he might not want to meet a whole line of officials before he’s even got off his horse.’

  They looked dismayed at his words, but found no courage to protest as he tapped the hilt of his sword impatiently.

  Doranei followed the suzerain out and allowed his eager grey to catch up to the horsemen fading into the twilight. Up ahead he could see a neat troop of soldiers, bright against the shadows in their white tunics. At their heart, riding the biggest charger Doranei had ever seen, was the Krann, gleaming in what light remained of the evening. Even Doranei caught his breath at the sight. The Krann was masked to resemble the blue face of Nartis, but it was the liquid silver that encased his body that made him appear like a God looming in the dark.

  The soldiers around him were in full battle-dress, yet their drapes were not the austere colours of the Palace Guard but a dragon design Doranei recognised only from the reports they had received. With the eyes of the forewarned, he picked out the black and gold of Count Vesna riding just behind the Krann, and a startlingly beautiful woman, obviously noble, close to the hero. Behind them rode a thin woman of middle-age and proud bearing, a chaperone, presumably, given Count Vesna’s reputation. Who the man riding alongside her was, Doranei could not imagine. He wore the dark, functional clothes of a scout instead of armour, but two rangers already flanked the soldiers.

  Well, this is a curious collection we have here, the King’s Man thought as he watched the formalities unfold. Suzerain Coadech reined in and the Krann’s guards split neatly to allow their lord to pass through them to the front. The drill had obviously been well practised, Doranei noted with a soldier’s eye: there was not a horse’s hair moving out of step.