The Stormcaller

by Tom Lloyd

  The Krann trotted forward with serene grace, towering over them all. Already I’m wondering how many stories are playing out here, and I’ve yet to meet the man at the centre.

  ‘Lord Isak, Chosen of Nartis, Heir to Lord Bahl and Suzerain of Anvee,’ called the suzerain in a clear voice. ‘On behalf of Emin Thonal, King of Narkang and the Three Cities, I bid you welcome to his realm.’

  Isak looked out of the window and down on the rows of tables set out in the square below. The old suzerain had given them his own house to use - the finest in town, from what Isak could see. A bath sat, grey and cooling, behind him as he surreptitiously observed the feast being prepared below. The servants were scurrying about, flowing neatly around the town official whose efforts at ordering them around seemed to be creating only disorder. A raised platform stood at the far end of the square, cordoned off from the rough benches where the townsfolk would congregate and toast the health of any foreigner whose arrival prompted free beer.

  The platform itself had been draped in white linen and carefully decked in flowers. There was enough room for at least eighty people to sit. Isak sighed heavily at the thought of all the preening nobles and officials lined up and oozing affected pleasure at his presence, but he knew there was nothing he could do about it. Bahl wanted him to be comfortable in court life. Perhaps he intended to reduce the distance that existed between the Lord of the Farlan and his nobles; perhaps he just didn’t want to do it himself.

  Isak watched the view while drying off, then let the towel drop to the floor as he ran his hands over his head. It was strange to have hair again. Tila had advised him not to keep shaving his head, pointing out that he looked intimidating enough without highlighting the blunt lines of his skull. Turning back to the room he eyed Siulents on the armour stand that had been provided. He took a step towards it, and then caught sight of himself in the mirror.

  The armour forgotten, he stood before the full-length mirror and angled it up to observe his naked frame. His reflection had always fascinated Isak: the image he presented to the world was so different to how he saw himself. The stranger in the mirror peered back with equal curiosity, looking for the slender child Isak still pictured himself as. Neither his increased height nor added bulk looked quite right. He didn’t particularly care to look as brutally powerful as he obviously did. He sighed. He did like the power residing in his limbs. That would have to be compensation enough.

  A knock on the door caused Isak to jump and his gaze flew immediately to Eolis, hanging from one comer of the four-poster bed.

  ‘My Lord?’ Mihn’s voice sounded from behind the door.

  Isak grabbed at the fresh underclothes that Tila had laid out on his bed, pulled them on and then called for his bondsman to enter. Now he knew Mihn’s past, Isak found himself remarkably secure in the failed Harlequin’s presence. He’d kept all other enquiring eyes from the scar on his chest - the mark of Xeliath’s affection, as he joked to himself - except for Mihn, who had seen it and said nothing. Bahl considered it Isak’s own business, and Mihn would stay silent until Isak was ready to talk about it. Isak wasn’t sure whether he should involve the others to such a degree - Carel, Vesna, Tila: they still had the option of another life.

  Vesna grew more devoted to Tila each day. Just watching them share a joke, or smile tenderly at each other, spurred a pang of guilt in Isak. He knew he might well have to ask a lot of his bondsman in the years to come: would he be able to endure Tila’s silent condemnation if he called upon the father of her children to commit murder - or worse?

  He felt a different shape of guilt at how he might use and abuse Mihn, but he understood the need, and Mihn had nothing else. The foreigner shared something with Xeliath: another broken life Isak carried as a burden, another damaged soul he’d use as a weapon when the time came.

  That thought made Isak pause. Even he was beginning to think that he had a purpose in life ... In the darkest hours of the night he lay alone and worried that the assumption the Land made, that he had a cause for which to fight, would bring destruction, that any prophecies would be self-fulfilling. Could he cope with what might be required of him?

  Mihn entered the room, took one look at Isak and slammed the door shut behind him. Isak’s eyes darted up in surprise. ‘The man Doranei has come to speak with you. He will wait.’

  Isak pulled on a linen shirt and cream trousers similar to those worn by his guards. ‘Send him in,’ he ordered. Picking up the tall cavalry boots sitting at the foot of his bed Isak sat and began to fit his feet into them. Doranei sauntered through the door and past Mihn, checking the room for whatever he’d been excluded from seeing before his eyes settled on the Krann. Mihn cut across his path, forcing the King’s Man to stop dead, and knelt at Isak’s feet to help him with his boots.

  Isak gestured to a chair and Doranei drew it up, carefully placing it to one side of Mihn before sitting.

  Isak left the boots to Mihn and inspected his visitor. ‘That’s an interesting tattoo on your ear.’

  Doranei stiffened slightly and turned his head slightly away. Isak couldn’t see the actual shape, but he didn’t want to make it appear that he was too interested. He’d have bet the entirety of Anvee that he had something to match it.

  ‘Merely the product of a wayward youth, my Lord. I trust everything has been to your satisfaction thus far?’

  ‘It has, but I don’t think you’re here to see I have enough blankets. So would you like to tell me what a member of the Brotherhood is doing here?’

  Doranei didn’t blink. ‘I, that is, the king, merely wishes to ensure your passage to Narkang is as unimpeded as possible.’ Doranei’s Farlan was fluent, with barely a trace of an accent. Lesarl had told them that Farlan was fast becoming the country’s second language. Most traders in the north-west spoke Farlan, and the keen merchants of Narkang took even greater pride in their linguistic proficiency. It showed how cosmopolitan Narkang was.

  ‘And I had been advised that these lands were remarkably lawful. Or does the king expect any trouble in particular?’ Isak asked.

  ‘Of course not, my Lord. However, I wear the king’s device and that gives me the right to commandeer supplies or lodgings on his behalf for your party. Some might also say that our laws are rather more permissive than those of the Farlan. There are several, sometimes competing, parties who call these lands home.’ He paused. ‘The Knights of the Temples, for example.’

  ‘Well then, I trust there will be no unpleasantness on their part,’ Isak growled.

  ‘I am sure that will be the case. The Knight-Cardinal has submitted a request via the king for an informal meeting, but as such it can be refused with little offence given. In part, my visible presence will ensure that those you meet will not have another guise unknown to you.’

  ‘The king’s spies are that efficient?’

  ‘They are more than competent. Our enemies cannot be certain of what we do or do not know - that limits them in itself.’

  Isak rose and took the dragon-embossed tunic from Mihn. As he pulled it on and fastened the toggles he retained eye contact with the King’s Man.

  ‘You have an unusual manservant, my Lord.’

  A flicker of discomfort passed over Mihn’s face.

  ‘Really.’

  ‘And Count Vesna rides with you too. I’m sure he will be as popular with the husbands of this town as that attractive young lady will be with the wives.’

  Isak made no reply as he fixed his long white cloak about his shoulders with a dragon clasp. The evening was going to be quite long enough without having to banter words now. He turned to the mirror to see how the Land would view him now. There was no hiding the bulging muscles and massive frame, but the reflection was as civilised as Isak had ever looked. A smile appeared on his lips.

  Apart from his first fitting of this suit, back at Tirah Palace, this was the first time he had worn his crest like this. He spent a wordless minute following each and every line of that dragon image, the golden curls of
its claws and proud rampant stance.

  ‘So tell me about Morghien. I hear he is more than he appears.’

  Doranei chuckled at that, scratching at his freshly shaved face as he smiled. ‘To tell you about Morghien, that is where I would start. Unfortunately, it also explains how I would end. Did the Seer tell you about him?’

  ‘No, he was waiting for me on the road.’ Isak caught Doranei’s reflection in the mirror, but saw nothing more than vague surprise on the man’s face.

  ‘I learned a little about Morghien - and you - from the Seer, but not enough, I suspect. What did interest me was that Morghien gave me a letter for your king.’

  ‘And you read it?’

  ‘I could hardly believe that was not the intention. It’s there, in that pack by Siulents.’

  Isak pointed to the one he meant and Mihn retrieved the scroll. Doranei opened it and scanned the first few lines. ‘Velere’s Fell,’ he muttered to himself.

  ‘A year ago I would have thought that to be a ghost story, but not since I heard about the Malich affair, about the Azaer cult—’ Isak saw the hardened soldier flinch at his words and knew he’d scored some sort of hit.

  ‘Please, my Lord, now is not the time. As it is, I am not the man you should speak to about this...’ His voice trailed off as Isak held up a hand.

  There was an angry glare in his eyes. ‘Let me guess, the king is the one I should speak to. I’ve heard that before and it grows old.’ The white-eye took a step forward, but Doranei managed not to shrink away from the looming figure.

  ‘Then I can only apologise. I am a servant of the king and I know only what I need to know to perform whatever function is required of me. As you can tell, King Emin is a man who keeps much to himself - but from this letter, from my presence, I can only assume he intends to provide you with answers. I understand your frustration, but please, be patient and enjoy our hospitality until we reach Narkang.’

  Isak grimaced, but made no further comment. He swept the sheathed Eolis off the bedpost and fastened the sword-belt about his waist. With one hand resting on the emerald hilt, he cocked his head at Doranei and forced a smile on to his lips. ‘Well then, lead on to this hospitality.’

  CHAPTER 29

  The journey to Narkang was swift and pleasant. The Farlan party was carried by luxurious barge down the Morwhent River, accompanied by a merry procession of boats of all shapes and sizes. To Isak’s immense surprise, he found the noblemen who welcomed him into their manors each evening to be likeable and open people; King Emin’s rule was now twenty years established, but the titles were still held by those who had supported his conquest. In the place of the old nobility the king had installed merchants, ambitious minor nobles and more than a few pirates and smugglers who’d joined the war effort. It was said that Emin Thonal couldn’t resist the friendship of an arrogant rogue, though a number of those had found to their cost that the king was not a man whose trust could be abused.

  The Farlan saw a vibrant nation, proud of their successes and unashamed that they had no particular one of the seven tribes to call ancestor. It was a long way from how the Farlan liked to think of the ‘lesser peoples’, but that it worked was undeniable. When they exercised their horses each morning and evening it was with an escort of elite Kingsguard who clearly held the Ghosts up as their benchmark and were keen to prove themselves their equal in horsemanship and sparring. The competitions were good-natured and cheered on by the local people whose adulation of the Kingsguard was marvelled at by the Ghosts. Leaning over the barge’s rail, watching the fields sliding past, Carel pointed out that it wasn’t only Isak who had something to learn from this nation.

  Isak cantered gently up the slope, studying the King’s Man waiting for them at the top of the ridge. They were approaching Narkang, so they’d spent the whole morning in the saddle: tradition dictated that Farlan always ride into a foreign city and Isak wasn’t about to break with custom just yet. Doranei had taken himself off that morning, riding ahead of the party to ensure its path was unhindered.

  Despite Isak’s initial suspicions, Doranei had proved good company as they travelled through the country he loved. The man knew when to talk and when to keep a comfortable silence. The Krann suspected he had a few secrets of his own - perhaps all of the Brotherhood did - and they had taught him the value of silence.

  There was a sparkle of spring in the air. A brisk breeze ran over the fields and whistled over the road before shivering through the branches of a bank of ash trees on the other side. Through the trees Isak could see neat rows of crops and a manor house in the distance. Boys lazed on a paddock fence, coaxing horses over to them, while the cattle they were tending drifted aimlessly in the meadow. As Isak and his companions neared the peak of the rise, the wind changed direction and brought the taste of salt from the ocean.

  They reached Doranei, who stretched an arm out to present his city.

  ‘Behold, my Lord: Narkang, First City of the West.’

  Beside Isak, Tila gasped. A wide, open plain stretched out before them, painted the vibrant green of spring and dotted with dark copses of copper beech and elm. In from the east came the Morwhent, the river that had carried them most of the way to the city, now running wide and slow. A pair of high arches spanned the river to a small island in the centre, which allowed the sandstone city wall to run unbroken even by the river’s passage.

  From the banks of the river the wall followed the curve of the ground up and around in a gentle undulation to encircle wide regular streets of purple-slate rooftops.

  Occupying the higher ground deeper inside was what could only have been the White Palace, its twin silver-capped towers glittering in the sunlight. The lower ground of the western side, where the river entered the city, was hidden by the walls, but a great copper dome shone in the sunlight. Past that, faint in the distance, Isak could see a soaring slender tower that would have been remarkable even in Tirah.

  And somewhere even further beyond, vague and grey in the distance, lay the ocean. Isak could feel the immense weight of water lurking at the back of his mind, an old and powerful presence, but comforting nonetheless. The magnificence of the ocean, stretching out to the distant horizon, beyond which lived the Gods, overshadowed even the glory that was Narkang.

  A thousand flags fluttered and whipped from the walls of the city, a disordered mix of colours and shapes, and a huge banner hung above the Southern Gate. The banner was almost as large as the massive copper-plated gate itself, and even at this distance, the visitors could easily make out the golden bee with its wings outstretched over the green background.

  ‘It’s a fine sight, is it not, my Lord?’ continued Doranei as the remaining Farlan soldiers vied for position to take in the view. ‘Visiting foreign climes is an easier thing to do when you’ve Narkang’s smile to return to.’

  ‘A fine sight indeed.’ Vesna and Carel nodded their agreement. The city was confirmation that Narkang’s power equalled that of Tirah, and they all knew it.

  As if Narkang was not enough, the low plain in front of the city was a hive of activity. At least ten great pavilions and stands were being erected, while long swathes of tent cloth lay out on the ground, ready to be raised. Hundreds of cut posts lay in stacked piles; cables and ropes snaked all over the ground and a veritable army of people scurried in all directions with wagons and livestock. Flocks of sheep were being herded to the joyful yaps and barks of the hounds protecting them, drowning the calls of the shepherds and those in their path.

  ‘The Spring Fair, my Lady,’ supplied Doranei as Tila cast him a questioning look. ‘It’s due to begin in two days, the day before the Equinox. It will be the biggest yet. I believe the entire city will rejoice at your visit, Lord Isak.’

  ‘I see a scarlet banner over there. It’s hard to make out, but I’m guessing it’s the Runesword of the Devoted?’

  ‘It is, my Lord.’

  ‘And you still think I’ll be welcomed by all?’

  ‘I doubt the Knight-C
ardinal wishes to make an enemy of you, my Lord.’

  ‘After what I did to his nephew, I hear he wants to make a corpse of me.’ Isak laughed grimly.

  ‘His personal feelings are still secondary to the requirements of his office, my Lord,’ Doranei said sternly. ‘First, there is the fact that you might be the Saviour his Order has been waiting for; second, the Devoted are not so powerful as to openly defy King Emin.’

  ‘Surely the existence of Piety Keep is a fairly obvious point of defiance,’ interjected Vesna. The Fortress of the Devoted was jokingly referred to as Piety Keep, a nickname the Order despised. Lesarl had warned them all that using it in Narkang could easily result in big trouble.

  Doranei scowled. Isak guessed that he didn’t mind about the name, just that politics intruded on the pleasure of returning home. ‘The matter is not quite so simple, but I’m sure the king would prefer to debate it himself.’ He broke off as the two rangers trotted up with a third man, dressed like Doranei, right down to the bee at his throat.

  Doranei smiled, and said, ‘My brother, Veil, has taken word to the king that you have arrived. Royal processions take a little time to get moving. I’m sure you understand.’

  Veil didn’t dismount, but touched his fingers to lips and forehead in salute to the followers of Nartis, struck his fist against Doranei’s and then whipped his horse around to return. Despite the similarity in dress, the man looked nothing like Doranei. Isak thought it a fair assumption that under Veil’s long dark hair was another tattooed ear.

  Carel ordered the guards to dismount, brush down their horses to remove the morning’s dirt and tend to their uniforms - just one morning back in the saddle had taken its toll on the cream cloth. Isak found a handful of oatcakes in his saddlebag and a hard hunk of cheese to chew on as he swapped his saddle from Megenn to the more impressive Toramin. The gelding was a fine horse and superbly trained, but the fiery stallion was Isak’s favourite. Toramin’s dark flanks were draped in a pure white cloth so that only his head, neck and hocks were exposed. Isak’s helm dangled from his saddle, within easy reach.