The stormcaller tr-1

by Tom Lloyd

  'Herald,' cried the general. Isak followed the voice to see the general, battered and bloody, with his herald cowering behind him. The general pushed up his visor and pulled the boy round to face him. 'Sound infantry advance to flank.'

  The herald coughed and scrabbled to bring his horn to his lips, but he could find no breath to produce a sound. General Lahk, losing patience, grabbed the horn from his hands and sounded the five quick notes then, thrusting it back at the herald, scowled and ran to his Lord's side. To the right, Sir Cerse raised his battle-axe, pointing off to the left of where the trolls were fleeing.

  'Ghosts, form line east on me!' The order rang out loud and clear.

  Isak joined Bahl and the general as they took in what they could of the battlefield.

  The foot are holding, the enemy is too disorganised to break the line and the cavalry have prevented a flanking attack,' Bahl said. 'Isak, you did well there, but now trust your arm only. You've drawn on so much magic that any more could overwhelm you.'

  Isak nodded, wincing slightly as he pushed against the armour over his ribs.

  'Hurt?'

  'Not badly enough to stop me.'

  'Good. Find yourself a horse. We can finish this battle now, with luck.'

  Already the Ghosts were in some sort of order. Duke Certinse was standing in his stirrups, his burning sword raised high as he called the Eastmen to him. Isak watched liveried hurscals and knights make for Suzerain Fordan as he did the same, shouting for the men of the Heartland. The regions were old forms of allegiance, a relic of the fractured realm Bahl had inherited. Isak had not realised until now that they had been preserved for the battlefield, but he recognised a quick way to regroup amid the chaos of combat.

  'General Lahk, sound the infantry advance and take the Ghosts to their brothers,' Bahl ordered.

  The general saluted crisply and turned without waiting to hear more. Before Bahl could speak again, the general was shouting for his troops to turn west. The infantry and knights of the Ghosts would carve an army in two to join their brothers. The delay while the soldiers reformed would be more than worthwhile.

  'My Lords.' Isak looked up as Count Vesna approached, leading two horses. The man looked pristine, not a dent or scratch on his armour and hardly a fleck of dirt or blood on himself or his horse. Isak could smell the mud and gore on his own armour – if he hadn't seen Vesna ride into the mass of trolls himself, he'd have thought the man had never been near the battlefield.

  Bahl nodded his thanks and took the reins from Vesna. He kept the bay in the black-and-white of the Palace Guard, his own colours, and offered the jet-black mare draped in yellow to Isak. The Krann struggled for a moment to get back into the saddle, his shield and damaged ribs hampering his efforts. He didn't bother asking after the owners of the horses.

  'Lord Isak, your cloak… are you sure you can fight?'Vesna pointed at Isak's cloak. The once-pristine white cloth was now grey with dirt and soot, and burned away to the bottom of the dragon symbol. Below it, scorch marks were visible on the surface of Siulents.

  ‘I'll be fine,' he said, sounding more blase than he felt. 'Genedel's shadow made the Chalebrat pause. It could have killed me, but it hesitated.'

  'Shadow?' interrupted Bahl. 'We came in too low to cast a shadow on you.'

  Behind them a great voice rang out from the assembled Palace Guard. 'Meh Nartis!'

  The three men turned to see the general raise a pair of battle-axes above his head as his soldiers took up their war-cry: The Hand of God, the Fire of the Storm, the Reapers of Men.

  'Enemy advancing,' warned a voice from behind them. Bahl

  snapped a look at Isak, then swung up into his saddle. 'This is not the time to discuss shadows,' Bahl said before raising his voice to a roar. 'Eastmen, Knights of the Heartland, to me!' His deep voice carried to both groups, and Certinse and Fordan immediately repeated the order. Isak was glad to see Duke Certinse had not hesitated to obey his Lord, however much of a traitor he might be.

  Bahl sat in his saddle and waited for the men to catch them up – the Palace Guard moving through and around them had caused the knights to sit and let them pass. From his vantage point he could see two units of several thousand elves advancing towards them. To the left, the spearmen of Lomin were running up to make up the distance.

  ‘They're not close enough to protect our flank,' Bahl muttered to himself. 'Let the enemy come to us.'

  Isak looked at the old lord and realised the thinking aloud was for his benefit. If he was ever to lead the Farlan, he needed to know about distances and lines of attack, and all manner of things that were difficult to leam except on the field of battle.

  'So we need to slow them down or they'll swamp us with numbers.'

  'Exactly. Victory sometimes depends on nothing more than illusion,' Bahl replied. Sheathing White Lightning, he reached out his hands and muttered under his breath. Isak felt the words slide out through the air as they were spoken, rushing forward to the advancing elves. The magic inside him was crying out to be wielded again, but he resisted, heeding Bahl's words.

  Up ahead, a line of fire flared up from the grass in front of the nearer enemy unit. Isak could hear the screams of fear and alarm as the flames grew taller, and the whole mass of figures struggled and fought to a halt. Bahl shuddered suddenly as the enemy mages dispelled the magic and the illusion vanished from their path, then he chuckled dryly to himself. 'That was a stupid thing to do. Don't they know dragons like the taste of mages better than trolls?'

  A ripple of magic echoed out from the rocky ridge behind them. Isak turned in the saddle; he was just able to make out the scarlet robes of the Farlan battle-mages within the ranks of archers. They'd seen what Bahl had done and followed suit. The subtlety of illusion came much more easily to a mage than a white-eye, while they in turn lacked the strength to hurl real fireballs as Bahl could.

  Soon shapes started appearing in front of the hesitant troops, who crept forward slowly: a gigantic ice-cobra reared up and lunged at them. A pair of huge eagles began to circle above the further unit and that too faltered.

  'And now to actually hurt them.' Bahl began to mouth words again, but this time Isak could see the sounds escape as wisps of black smoke from the Lord's mouth. They fell to the ground and began to merge into one, growing as Bahl repeated the words again and again. A fat oily cloud was forming, turning and wriggling like some awful blind maggot, until it suddenly appeared to get the scent of the elves ahead. With a dreadful rustling slither it began to glide over the plain with deceptive speed, its thin tail propelling it onwards with each grotesque flick.

  By the time the elves noticed Bahl's magic they had no time to move. The shape surged on into their ranks and sudden shrieks of pain began to come from the enemy lines. Isak saw the elves fighting with each other to get out of the way, frantically swatting at their arms and bodies to try to remove whatever was hurting them. It looked like those whom the shape passed over had been sprayed in acid as they screamed in agony and panic.

  'What was that?'

  'Something nasty. Who's got a horn?' Suzerain Fordan, riding beside Lord Bahl, offered his. Bahl waved it away so Fordan shrugged and raised it to his own lips and looked to Bahl for his orders.

  'Sound the full charge.'

  'But we're not formed up yet,' he protested.

  'It doesn't matter. What does matter is that we hit them now, while they're wavering.'

  Fordan nodded his agreement and sounded the order, which was echoed by the infantry's drummers. Bahl looked around, then raised White Lightning and kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse. The men around him followed suit and a throaty roar spread through the mass of horsemen as they hurtled after their Lord, headlong into the enemy ranks. Paralysed by the spells cast upon them, the elves stood still and unprepared. The powerful hunters, their armour turning each one into a battering-ram, smashed through the infantry lines, kicking and stamping, while their riders split skulls and lopped off limbs with equal ease.
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  As he cut and slashed the scrawny elves, Isak could hardly feel

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  any impact in his arm. The light armour they wore had no effect on Eolis – he could have been hewing a path through a field of nettles rather than living creatures. The sensation stirred something inside him. These elves were nothing more than long grass rustling against his calves. As his armour turned aside spears and arrows and his sword cut limbs into bloody chunks, the gnawing beast of magic in his belly screamed to be released.

  A spear thrust under his horse's armour, drove deep into its lung. The animal reared up, screaming in pain, and Isak tumbled off. As he rose to his feet, unhurt, three elves lunged for him at once. He dodged the first blow, then beheaded the second enemy and turned the third elf's spear with his shield. None of them got the chance for a second strike. The elves were the size of children next to Isak; their shoulders were hunched by the curse of the Gods and their features twisted.

  Isak hardly needed his sword. His huge arms were saturated with lethal strength and raw magic. He forgot the steps and strokes Carel had drummed into him since he was a child; the press of bodies meant all he could do was to strike out at everything within reach. Nearby he heard Suzerain Fordan's throaty laughter. He had lost his helm somewhere, and his horse: the barrel-chested man was on foot, swinging a huge war-hammer so powerfully that it was taking elven heads clean off.

  As Isak watched, the man's broad smile faltered as a spear spitted him, piercing the join between his breastplate and backplate. The suzerain staggered and tried to lift his hammer again, but the elf twisted his spear in the wound and a paroxysm of agony flashed over Fordan's face. He fell to his knees and another elf stepped up and stabbed down with a short but lethal stroke. Before Isak could move, Duke Certinse's burning sword flashed into view, cutting through both elves, before he was off and moving deeper into their ranks. Behind him followed three of his hurscals; there were mounted knights behind them.

  Isak turned and launched himself at the enemy again. The choking odour of death, sweat and excrement made his human self recoil, but there was something else to replace it. He tasted magic on the air and embraced its fury. Encased in the liquid grace of Siulents, Isak flowed over the bodies and started dealing death with an artistry that belied his brutish desire.

  He hardly noticed when the enemy began to flee. The slow-moving elves died, whether they faced him or ran. Eolis sliced through swords and shields to reach the flesh. Fire and fury burst hot and savage from Isak's fingertips as a torrent of magic lashed and swirled around him. Spectral shapes hovered at the edges of his sight as he killed again and again. The ground itself opened up to receive the dead, deep furrows in the earth groaning open like yawning funeral barrows.

  Finally a burst of pain in his skull stopped Isak dead. A cold weight appeared at the back of his head, as though he'd been clubbed, and his body was shocked into numbness. As he dropped to his knees the beast inside him faded, sated by the destruction it had wrought. Isak gasped for breath he could no longer find. Dropping Eolis and throwing aside his shield, he scrabbled desperately at his helm. For a moment he couldn't move it, through weakness or some sort of resistance, and then off it came.

  Tearing off his hood, Isak sucked in great heaving gulps of air. He had been so immersed in the sea of battle that he had almost drowned in its dark depths. Now pain lanced through his body and his lungs cried out for more air while his mind howled at the slaughter around him – and the pleasure it had spawned in him. He bent over and retched, tears of pain and anguish dripping to mingle with the blood that ran from his body. With the taste of puke still in his mouth, he pitched forward and collapsed on to the ground, not even feeling himself hit as a numbing darkness washed over him.

  CHAPTER 15

  Dragons soared overhead, emerald, diamond and sapphire scales shining in the summer sun. The monsters radiated an unearthly beauty as they gouged and tore each other apart. He laughed as he plunged his blade into beautiful men with wings for arms, their soft feathers charred and matted with blood. Insectoid figures bearing huge bronze hammers leapt eagerly to their deaths. The sun cast rainbow hues off their dark chitinous bodies. The coppery tang of magic melded the panoramic riot into an intoxicating and corrupting exhilaration. He crafted agony in his hand and cast it out among the mortals beneath him. The song of fear rang out in his mind, drowning out the wind and the clash of steel. The sun itself drew back and hid from the slaughter. And still he laughed. Still he killed.

  Daylight slipped hesitantly through Isak's eyelids. A dull ache pervaded his body and when he tried to raise his head, a stab of pain flared in his temples. He fought to open swollen and caked eyelids. At first, everything was a blur of fogged shapes, but eventually the fragments of light creeping through the fabric of the tent began to trace lines he could understand. Colours wormed into focus and, tentatively, he began to take stock.

  Someone had stripped and washed him, dressed his wounds and left him to sleep under a heavy pile of furs. He flexed the fingers of his right hand. The numbness began to fade as he worked it into a fist, then opened and closed it a number of times. With his shoulder screaming in protest, Isak edged his arm higher and higher up his side until he could pull it out from under the furs. When one arm was free, Isak began to remove the furs and assess the damage.

  His ribs were bandaged tightly, high enough to cover his scar, though Isak could feel no reason why the dressing needed to go quite that high up his chest. He guessed at two cracked ribs, painful but not dangerous, or he'd be in a much worse state by now. The scent of sweat-soaked linen rose up to meet him as the last fur slid off. While he'd been unconscious, someone had not only cleaned the filth and blood off and dressed his wounds, they'd even tended to his scrappy beard. He remembered nothing of it – not even the discomfort of being moved and manipulated had been strong enough to wake him. All Isak could recall was the sensation of a hurricane in his mind, and the rampant magic picking him up and tossing him to the four winds.

  Continuing his personal investigation, Isak found his left arm below the elbow so swollen he could hardly move it: blow after blow had obviously been too much for the muscles of his shield arm. It looked like a spear had sliced into his thigh, but the wound didn't feel too deep, and while the sheets were far from clean, there was no smell of contagion.

  Every movement hurt in some way, from neck to toes. He'd been surprised by the lack of minor cuts on his body until he caught sight of several sickly yellow patches on his skin – his remarkable capacity to heal had obviously already kicked into action. It appeared Siulents must have been pierced on several occasions.

  'So much for the fabled armour,' he croaked with a wry smile. His voice was barely a whisper; anything more felt beyond his strength. 'Now, how long have I been here?'

  As if summoned to answer his question, the shadow of hands appeared on the canvas at the tent's entrance. They fumbled for a while, then a page in Vesna's livery ducked through the gap, a large wooden bowl in his hands. He stopped so hard when he saw Isak awake that the contents slopped up on to his tunic. Before the Krann could muster any words the boy had dropped the bowl on the floor and rushed out. Distantly, Isak heard the page shouting, but the actual words eluded him.

  As the voice faded into the background noise of the camp, Isak tried to work out how to ease himself into a more upright position. His left arm couldn't take any weight, so he had to use his right hand to pull some of the furs up behind him and create some sort of pile to lean on. By the time Vesna poked his bruised face through the opening, Isak lay panting, his head and shoulders elevated so he could at least see who came in.

  'My Lord,' Count Vesna greeted him, 'dare I ask how you feel?' He took a step towards Isak's bed, followed by Suzerain Tori, the scowling features of Duke Certinse close behind. Isak looked up at Tori, his light cavalryman uniform apparently untouched by the battle. The grim lines of his face hadn't changed; the dour, pious air he wore was impervious to such things.r />
  'Awful. How long have I slept?'

  Three nights, my Lord,' answered Vesna. 'Lord Bahl assured us you just needed the rest, that there was no fatal wound, but we had begun to fear-'

  'Well, I'm awake now,' Isak broke in. 'Is Lord Bahl here?'

  'He commands the sweeping for elves,' Certinse growled. 'We have all been leading hunting parties to pursue those who fled the field.'

  'Except me? Because I've been lazing around on my backside for the last few days? If you have a problem with me, Duke Certinse, just say so.' The sour emptiness in his stomach and throbbing behind his eyes told Isak he'd done more than he should have, but though he felt too drained to argue or fight, a drop of venom remained.

  'Your Grace,' interrupted Suzerain Tori before Certinse could rise to the bait, 'I should be riding out in a few minutes, but Lord Bahl requested I take the Krann to him as soon as possible. Would you do me the honour of leading the party in my place?'

  Certinse looked surprised for a moment, perhaps at the unexpectedly gracious tone, then grunted agreement. Shooting one last malevolent glare at Isak, he turned and swept out, leaving the wolf's head on his cloak to snarl at those remaining.

  Tori watched him go, then turned back to the Krann with a sad shake of the head. 'I hardly think you are in any condition to pick a fight with Duke Certinse,' he told Isak. 'You might be Krann of the Farlan, but that doesn't mean civility to your peers is impossible.'

  'Fuck Duke Certinse, and fuck the rest of you too. Now you're my peers, when it gives you a reason to complain. The rest of the time, I'm just some damn white-eye.'

  'Only if you behave like one. My son was a white-eye, and he still managed to hold a conversation without throwing insults every few minutes.'

  Isak slumped back down on to his bed. 'By the Gods, I'm too tired for this. I'm not going to waste the energy explaining myself to you.'