by Tom Lloyd
‘My Lord, please calm yourself. The boy is down below, but he can wait. I need you to relax, or we will lose our new Krann in a matter of minutes.’ Lesarl, Bahl’s Chief Steward, stood at a table to one side of the room. Bahl was not one for fine surroundings: the chamber, the smallest and loneliest room at the very top of the tower, was unimpressive by anyone’s standards. Bahl was content with simple but sturdy furniture - a small oak table, a pair of overfilled bookshelves and an oversized bed that took up much of the remaining room. It was a retreat from life as much as from the opulence in the palace’s public rooms below. Apart from that, all that could be said for it was that it commanded the best view of the mountains - on those days when mist didn’t obscure the city.
‘Why today?’ He looked at his Steward.
‘I have no idea. A test for you?’
This elicited only a grunt, but Lesarl hadn’t expected much more. He poured a glass of wine from the jug on the table and held it out to his lord until Bahl sighed and took it. With Lord Bahl in this mood he was capable of anything. Getting a jug of wine down his throat might actually help matters.
‘I was wondering whether you would return tonight. You’ve never spent so long in the forest before today.’
‘I always return.’
‘Is it worse?’
‘Always worse.’
Lesarl warmed his hands in front of the fire and looked up at the only painting in the room. What was most remarkable about the Painting was not the artistic detail, nor the undeniable beauty of the woman who lay beside a stream, but the contented smile on her lips, for these were the lips of a white-eye. Lesarl had never - he thanked the Gods - actually met a female white-eye, but they were known to be as selfish and aggressive as their male counterparts. All white-eyes were born with violence in their blood, and no matter how lovely, how serene she looked in this picture, this woman would have been a real danger when roused.
‘Lesarl, stop staring. Your place is not to remind me of the past,’ Bahl growled, his hand reaching for the ring hanging from a delicate chain around his neck. Inch, the girl in the painting, was pictured wearing that very ring. The painting and the ring were the only things Bahl had kept.
I’m sorry, my Lord,’ the Chief Steward said, turning back to face Bahl. ‘Her face always distracts me. I swear those eyes follow me down every corridor like a nursemaid.’
‘A nursemaid? She should have been mother to her own children.’ For a moment Bahl forgot the boy and the God’s gifts below and was drawn into a happier time, but the call of the present - or maybe the future - brought his attention back to Lesarl. ‘So, are you going to tell me what you took down there with Lord Hit? I can feel something unusual, nothing I am familiar with. There is …” His words tailed off.
‘Are you sure?’ began Lesarl.
‘Yes damn you,’ roared Bahl, ‘I think I know my own weaknesses well enough! Your place is not to lecture me.’
Lesarl shrugged, hands held out in a conciliatory gesture. He could not argue with that: it was Lord Bahl’s ability to turn those very weaknesses into strengths that had rebuilt the Parian nation. ‘It’s a suit of armour and a blade.’
‘And?’ demanded the white-eye. ‘I can tell there’s something more - I feel it grating at my bones.’
‘My knowledge is limited, my Lord, but I don’t believe there can be any mistaking them. Siulents and Eolis, the weapons of Aryn Bwr, are back.’
Bahl inadvertently spat out his mouthful of wine and crushed the glass to powdered crystal. Aryn Bwr: the last king. His crimes had caused his true name to be expunged from history. Aryn Bwr, first among mortals, had united the entire elven people after centuries of conflict, and the Gods had showered him with gifts - but peace was not the elven king’s true motive. Aryn Bwr had forged weapons powerful beyond imagination, powerful enough to slay even Gods of the Upper Circle, and he had led his people against their makers. The Great War lasted only seven years, but the taint of the horrors committed by both sides lingered, millennia on.
‘Gods, no wonder Hit didn’t come to me …’ His voice tailed off.
‘I couldn’t believe it, holding Eolis in my hands …’ Lesarl’s voice was shaking too.
‘Is our new Krann fortunate or cursed?’ Bahl wondered.
‘Who knows? The most perfect armour ever made, a blade that killed Gods -1 don’t think I would want them at any price. But blessed or cursed, what does it mean?’
They will make him the focus of every power broker and madman in the entire Land. That is something I would curse few with.’ Bahl frowned, brushing fragments of glass into the fire.
‘How many prophecies mention them?’
‘Neglecting your studies, Lesarl?’
He laughed. ‘I cannot deny it - but in my defence I have been running the nation, so the omission is hopefully forgivable. The whole subject is beyond me, in any case. I can work with the stupidity of people, but prophecies, no, my Lord.’
‘It is the most complicated of sciences; it can take a lifetime to understand the rambling mess they come out with.’
‘So what are we to believe?’
‘Nothing.’ Bahl laughed humourlessly. ‘Live your life according to prophecy? That’s only for the ignorant and the desperate. All you need to know is what others believe: the cult of Shalstik, the prophecy of the Devoted, of the Flower in the Waste, of the Saviour, of the Forsaken … Know your enemy and anticipate his attack. With the unexpected arrival of this new Krann, the eyes of the whole Land will be upon us. The longer we can keep his gifts a secret, the better.’
‘Will that be possible?’ Lesarl looked dubious. ‘When the Krann is seen without gifts, half the wizards in the city will become curious. I don’t know what their daemon guides will be able to tell them, but power attracts attention. Someone will work it out, surely. The Siblis - they could sense them from who knows how far away?’
‘The Siblis used magic so powerful it was killing them, I doubt anyone else will be making so great an effort. But yes, you’re right: at some point someone will work it out, but any delay helps us. If the mages get there first, at least they will probably come to you for confirmation. Flatter their intelligence and wisdom, then make it clear that people will die if it becomes common knowledge that Siulents and Eolis are back in play. We’ll decide how to deal with anything the priests might say some other time. For now, let’s go and see whether the boy is worth all the trouble he brings.’
Isak dozed at the table, his head resting on his arms, despite the constant rumble of conversation that filled the room. The bitter scent of fat drifted over from the fire and in his soporific state he licked his lips, tasting again the venison stew with which he’d filled his belly. Meat was a rare pleasure in Isak’s life, for hunting rights were exclusive to those folk who paid for permission. Nomads, travellers, the poor - they could only supplement their usually meagre diet with birds shot on the wing, and that was difficult enough without the clatter of a wagon-train to scare them away. It was one of the few times that Isak’s natural skill and keen eye served his people well: bringing down a goose or wild duck for the communal cooking pot was one of the rare times his father ever came close to praising him.
Slowly, through his reverie, he became aware of a change in the hall. The voices had stopped. The hairs on his neck rose and a tingle of anticipation ran down his spine. He looked up to see every man in the room standing. One ranger at the next table glared at him and after a moment of panic, Isak jumped up - and found himself face to face with a thin man several inches shorter than he was, and behind him, a giant, close to a foot taller than Isak, wearing a blank blue mask.
‘So, you’re the new arrival,’ said the smaller of the two. The man’s smile widened as he looked Isak up and down. Isak, feeling like a cow in a cattle market, fought to keep his calm.
‘Welcome to Tirah Palace. Does my Lord have a name?’
‘Ah, my name is Isak. Sir.’ Isak’s eyes darted from one face to the other. The ma
sked giant hadn’t moved even a fraction. It was as if he were a statue, thought Isak. A memory stirred in the depths of his mind, a shape just below the surface. Oh Gods, this is Lord Bahl. Still the man didn’t move or speak, but his eyes stared deep into Isak’s own, and Isak felt as if the man gazed on his soul itself, inspecting and assessing with cold dispassion.
Isak could feel all eyes on the old white-eye; Lord Bahl possessed an aura of command that demanded the attention of everyone. It was like a blazing fire in the centre of the room; even with his back turned Isak would have felt the heat prickle on his skin. Abruptly, the man held out his hand. Isak stared at the huge fingers before him, blinking as if he’d never seen a hand before, then, shakily, he took Bahl’s wrist and felt the massive hand close about his own.
‘Isak. Not a name I’d have given a son of mine, but a man must make his own name in the end. I imagine the Gods will not hold your father’s crude humour against you. Welcome, Isak.’
‘Th.. thank you my Lord,’ was all Isak could manage. He was used to his name; he scarcely even remembered these days that Horman had named him Isak - Kasi backwards - to mock the Gods who had taken his beloved wife from him. Now, as Bahl gripped his forearm, Isak felt a sudden pressure behind his eyes. He could feel the immense presence of the Land beneath his feet, and the thump of his heart booming through his head. Then the memory of his dreams flooded back, coursing in a torrent through the contact. Isak’s knees buckled under the weight, stars bursting in his vision before everything faded to black.
CHAPTER 4
He remembered the island, the feel of the scorching sun and chill marble… and the numbing terror. He remembered the chamber, the ranks of pillars supporting a bloated dome set with sparkling clusters of stars, and the sound of ringing steel and death; the shocking scarlet of blood. He remembered the dead man whose face now rose out of the shadows.
When Isak opened his eyes that same face was staring down at him, blank but unmistakable. The rest of the room was a buzzing distraction, nothing more. Obeying the burn in his throat, Isak gasped for air.
‘Wha-‘
‘Be still,’ said a calm voice beside him. Isak turned his head slightly to see a middle-aged man kneeling beside him. A green patchwork cloak and battered mail marked him as a ranger. Isak tried to raise his hand, but it felt like he was moving another person’s limbs rather than his own. The ranger reached out to stay him a little longer, but Isak shrugged his hand off. With an effort, he forced himself to sit upright; he still felt undignified with his legs splayed out wide, but it was better than remaining flat on the floor like a fainting maid.
‘You can stand?’
Isak nodded. He refused the offer of a hand from the ranger, pulling himself carefully upright. He was still shaking a little and tried to hide it by brushing the mud from his shirt. The man with Lord Bahl had a curl of a smile on his lips. Once he judged that Isak had regained his equilibrium he stepped forward, hands held out with palms up in greeting. ‘I am Lesarl. I place myself at your service.’
Isak hardly heard the words; he was taking a better look at Lord Bahl, the man in his dreams. Under a snowy cape the gigantic white-eye wore a misty-grey suit of armour and a broadsword strapped to his back. It was all Isak could do not to faint away again: his dreams, had always been vague, obscure - perhaps for his own sanity - but he, with terrible certainty knew that this was the face he’d always seen blank and inhuman: now he knew why. Bahl’s hood echoed the smooth expressionless features of statues of Nartis.
Shaking the feeling of strangeness from his head, he turned his attention to Lesarl. ‘Are you useful for anything?’
Despite the snorts of laughter that crept from the corners of the room, Lesarl showed not a flicker of reaction. He had dealt with wits sharper than a white-eye’s before. ‘Your master finds tasks for me to perform from time to time. I am the Chief Steward.’
His words had the desired effect. Even as cut-off as the wagoners were, they all knew perfectly well that the Chief Steward ruled the Parian nation; if Isak had not been so dazed, he might have recognised Lesarl’s name in time. The Chief Steward wielded complete authority, as he saw fit, in Lord Bahl’s name, but this was balanced against an untidy death if Lord Bahl ever became displeased with his conduct. He was not a man to casually insult.
Isak nodded dumbly, not knowing how to apologise for his rudeness, but Lord Bahl passed over it. ‘We can deal with who’s who tomorrow. For now, you need sleep. You will have a room in the tower. Come.’ The Lord of Storms didn’t wait for a response, but turned to lead the way.
Isak tried to collect his wits. The aura that surrounded the huge man was almost tangible and his physical presence was breathtaking. Isak felt as if Bahl’s powers, both temporal and physical, were radiating out, enveloping all those around him. Bahl stood over seven feet tall and was bulky for a Parian, but every step was graceful; he moved with purpose and efficiency. As Isak’s head cleared, he remembered that Bahl’s armour was magical - though he couldn’t see any runes inscribed on its surface, he knew they would be there somewhere.
Merely focusing on the misty surface of Bahl’s cuirass seemed to thicken the air in his throat. Something deep inside Isak recognised that metallic taste and craved more. Then his mind snapped back to what Lord Bahl had said. ‘A room in the tower? I don’t understand, my Lord.’
Bahl stopped in his tracks. He turned back, shoulder shifting up: an instinctive movement. Thanks to Carel’s training, Isak recognised that Bahl was ready to draw and strike if need be. Isak could almost see the massive broadsword appear in front of him and for a moment he wondered if he really had, but then the image faded.
‘You don’t know?’
‘No, my Lord. My father said nothing. I thought I was going to be hanged.’
‘Well then, allow me to explain,’ Lesarl said with sardonic smile. ‘We have a tradition here not to hang the new Krann when he joins the Chosen.’
Isak couldn’t help himself as a string of expletives poured from his mouth, provoking peals of laughter from the Ghosts and breaking the tension in the room. Bahl narrowed his eyes and Isak hurriedly composed himself, though his head was spinning in confusion. This all felt more like a practical joke than divine edict. He was cold, tired, hurting, and more than a little aware that he was making a fool of himself. He had no idea what would happen next.
‘Are you an adult?’ Lord Bahl asked him suddenly.
Isak shook his head mutely, suddenly afraid that whatever was going on, his father could still ruin it. Herman could have declared his son an adult at fourteen and thrown him out, but instead he had insisted Isak was still a child and condemned him to another four years of near-slavery.
‘Very well. Lesarl will have your father persuaded to make you my ward. That life is behind you now. Now you are Krann of the Farlan and Suzerain Anvee. There is little to come with that title other than Anvee itself and the estate of Malaoristen, but you do hold court rank. The rest can wait. I’m sure Lesarl will have papers for you to sign, but none of that matters for now.’
Isak stayed quiet, concentrating on not gawping like a dying fish as he worked the words through his head. Krann? Suzerain? That was only one step below a duke. Now he was too scared to comment, and torn between laughing at the absurdity and sinking back to the floor until life made sense again.
Everyone knew there had not been a Krann of the Farlan for two hundred years, not since Bahl himself was named heir to Lord Atro. It was something other tribes did; the Farlan had no need. His limbs trembled, as though the ground beneath him was shaking with indignation, or perhaps trepidation. Was there now a need? He’d never doubted that there was more to life than bales of cloth, but a suzerainty? A court title? And money? Dukes and suzerains were men of wealth and ancient family, people who held glittering balls for the equally wealthy and splendid - though it was true that Bahl, a white-eye and as remote as the Gods, was Duke of Tirah and foremost in all of the Parian lands.
Now th
e eyes of the Ghosts grew sharper. Isak saw men who’d bled for their tribe, who’d stepped over the corpses of their friends to fight on with no time to stop and mourn: men who must now answer to an untested youth. They could hardly be impressed with their new Krann thus far. He shuddered: he, who had never even been in a real fight, might soon be called upon to lead these battle-hardened men to war.
Bahl led Isak back down the hall to a doorway which opened into a dim corridor. It was silent apart from a brief scuffle of feet somewhere off in the distance. As the door shut behind them, the welcoming aromas of the Great Hall - food, burning logs - were replaced by scents of dust and age. Brands ran down either side of the corridor, and the flames made strange dancing shadows oh the walls. Flags and drapes covered the walls, the colours muted in the flickering light.
Isak hesitated: he could almost feel the millennia radiating from the stone underneath. The place was more like a tomb than a palace. Lord Bahl moved on, ghosting along without sound, followed by his Chief Steward, who stepped carefully and quietly. Isak, watching them, thought irreverently that serving Lord Bahl so long had caused the Chief Steward to adopt some of his Lord’s ways.
A stairway carved with images of the Upper Circle led up off to the left; the stretch of right-hand wall was broken by four plain doors, but Isak’s eyes were drawn to a pair of ornate double doors at the far end of the corridor and he began to feel a pull, both foreboding and enticing at the same time. As he drew closer he could see the double doors were framed by a dragon made of wrought iron. Ribbed wings swept down each side almost to the floor, while its glaring beak jutted out from the wall, glaring at anyone approaching. Bahl went straight up to the door and opened it. The click of the latch broke the silence and stirred Isak into movement.
Beyond was a large circular room, a dozen yards in diameter and high enough to accommodate even the largest of white-eyes. On the walls were faintly scrawled geometric chalk markings, but a taste of magic in the air made it clear they were not simply idle scribbling.
