The Stormcaller: Book One Of The Twilight Reign (13 page)

The packed earth was cold and damp against his back and for a moment he felt like he was back in the street, surrounded by his father’s cronies. As Isak collected his wits, a cold fury gripped him. He pulled himself up and found the staff lying at his side. Without thinking, he snatched it up and swung round savagely, taking his unknown assailant off his feet. There was a sickening snap as the ash staff connected, and then Isak tackled Kerin with short, controlled blows. The Swordmaster fell back, step by step, parrying each thrust. Then a stinging blow jarred the staff from his fingers.

Knowing he was beaten, Kerin ducked his head to take the final blow on his shoulder. He fell heavily and a shout went up from the watching men. They stepped forward protectively. Isak drew his staff back and readied himself to strike the first man who stepped within range. Seeing the look of murder on Isak’s face, the men went for their swords.

‘Stop! Get back.’ Even from the ground, Kerin’s voice commanded complete obedience among his men. ‘You too, Krann, put up your weapon now.’

Isak spun around, staff raised, but faltered when he saw Kerin kneeling on the ground, a trickle of blood running from his eyebrow. The Swordmaster’s staff lay forgotten on the floor as he clutched his shoulder.

‘All of you, put up your weapons.’ Kerin dragged himself to his feet, wincing, and looked for Swordmaster Cosep and the third man, another Swordmaster, who rolled on to his side and swore though gritted teeth, hands clamped around his right leg.

‘Damn. You two - get him to the surgeons.’ The men nodded and bent down to pick up the unfortunate Swordmaster. Putting an arm around each of their necks, they gently slid their hands under the man’s back and thighs, lifting him with as much care as they could. Isak watched them go and his anger fled. He let his quarterstaff fall to the floor.

‘I should have seen that coming. Well, I think we can assume you’ve been trained in weapons. Can you use a sword?’ Kerin asked.

Isak nodded. ‘I was taught by a sergeant of the Guard, he made me learn the forms - said I’d have to one day anyway.’

‘And he was right. You were going to come and take the trials?’ He gave a grim laugh that ended in a wince. ‘Well, I think it’s clear you would have passed. Now, Lord Bahl said to give you a sword until you get your own. A man of your rank should always wear one.’ Kerin paused, as if considering something, then walked over to a bundle lying unminded on the ground. He retrieved it and unwrapped from a cloak the finest sword Isak had ever seen. It was a slender blade, an inch wide, with an ornate golden guard. The leather scabbard was a rich scarlet, bound with gold thread and lined with red-dyed raw wool.

‘Here, take this for the moment. It’s rather more fitting to your station than a cavalry blade from the armoury.’

Isak took the sword, drawing it halfway from the scabbard to inspect the blade. It looked old and worn, but it was still in fine condition. The metal was black-iron, ensorcelled steel that was both lighter and stronger that any other metal. The symbol of an eagle had been engraved near the hilt, outstretched in flight as on Bahl’s personal crest.

‘Thank—’ Isak’s reply was cut short as one of the men watching gave a strangled cry of outrage. The Krann turned to look at him, a man of about thirty summers, obviously wealthy, with a scarlet sash draped over his shoulder and across his body; Isak saw that echoed in the dress of three or four others there.

‘You have something to say, Sir Dirass?’

‘Master Kerin,’ the nobleman began angrily, ‘he’s little more than a boy. Whatever his rank, he’s certainly not worthy of carrying any Eagle-blade, let alone yours. Just because he bested you with a staff? It’s an insult to those of us who’ve dedicated our lives to earning an Eagle. If my father were to hear of this-’

‘If your father were to hear of this,’ Kerin interjected quietly, ‘he would remember the oath he swore when he received his Eagle-blade, and he would also remember that I am the one who commands the Swordmasters. Suzerain Certinse’s rank does not give him authority over me, as you well know.’

‘So because this boy can best you with a farmer’s stick he deserves one of our highest honours?’ The knight’s voice was thick with contempt as he moved forward to Kerin. Cosep stepped in between the two.

‘That’s too far, Certinse. You will apologise now and remember your place.’ Swordmaster Cosep reached out to rest a hand on Sir Dirass’s shoulder, but the man shrugged him off angrily.

‘Apologise? My family is not in the habit of apologising to inferiors. I don’t intend to set the precedent.’

‘Your family,’ retorted Kerin, ‘seems to be more in the habit of running away with tails between legs, if recent history is anything to go on.’

Sir Dirass made a grab for his sword, but Cosep saw it coming and slammed his fist into the knight’s shoulder. Dirass stumbled back with the point of Cosep’s blade at his throat.

‘Do you think you’re ready for an Eagle then?’ Kerin asked the enraged nobleman.

Sir Dirass blinked at the question. With a slow, wary movement, he nodded.

‘Do you think the Krann to be unworthy of one?’

Another nod.

‘Well then; if you can take it off him, the sword is yours. I don’t deserve it myself if my judgement is so wrong.’

‘Kerin,’ roared Cosep before Sir Dirass could accept the challenge, ‘this goes too far!’

‘Keep out of this. This is my blade, and my decision.’ Kerin rounded on his colleague, pointing a warning finger at the Swordmaster who, after staring at Kerin for a moment, threw his hands up in disgust and withdrew.

‘Sir Dirass Certinse,’ the Swordmaster said formally, ‘if you accept this test and fail, you will never receive an Eagle. If you accept, you must disarm the Krann to take your prize. Make no mistake, this is not a duel; we’ve had enough blood spilled already today. If you agree, fetch a shield and make ready.’

Kerin took a teardrop-shaped shield from one of the onlookers and walked over to Isak, who was not quite sure what was happening - other than what Kerin had said about the knight’s family had upset him enough to make him draw on his unarmed superior. Kerin held out the shield.

‘You want me to fight a duel for you?’ Isak asked.

‘It’s not a duel; I think you’re fast enough to avoid getting anything more than a nick if you pay attention.’

‘With the mood he’s in? And anyway, I’ve not been taught to use a sword like this - this is a nobleman’s blade.’

‘Dirass knows the rules well enough, he’s sparred like this a hundred times. If he goes too far, I’ll stop the fight and have him thrown in a cell, no matter who his father is.’

‘And who is his father?’

‘Suzerain Certinse of Tildek, but technically you outrank the man now.’

Isak stepped back and frowned. This wasn’t his battle, but the faces around him made it clear he had no choice. ‘Fine, give me the shield,’ he said.

He took the curved wooden shield Kerin handed him and watched as his opponent slid his on so the point was up by his shoulder. He did the same, gripping the leather handle at the wide end tightly, and twisted his arm back and forward to get the feel of it. Reaching his left arm out as far as he could, he looked over his shoulder to check that the tip could not catch him, no matter how far he stretched out. The edge of the shield was bound in steel, roughly hammered into shape with the tip bent outward so it would be a danger only to his opponent.

Now Isak tugged Kerin’s beautiful blade clear of the sheath. It was perfectly balanced, that much he recognised, but he knew nothing of duelling. He needed to see how this man moved. The knight had a light and quick step that belied his bulky frame. He didn’t enjoy Isak’s height or reach, but he did have years of experience instead.

Something deep inside Isak wanted to charge the knight immediately, but Carel had sliced and battered the young man often enough to curb that instinct. Not all of the scars on Isak’s body were punishment from his father; some were down to Carel’s incessant drilling.

Isak walked briskly up to Sir Dirass, wasting no time, and swung a clumsy overhand swipe at the knight. It was parried easily, but the knight wasn’t going to be fooled into thinking Isak was a complete novice, no matter what he claimed. The Krann’s second strike was a thrust at the nobleman’s leg; Sir Dirass struck back with two neat blows, which Isak just stepped back from.

Now the knight moved into his stride, giving Isak no time to get a feel for the delicate weapon. Sir Dirass cut right and left, fast and accurate, and turned aside every one of Isak’s blows with practised ease, stepping with the grace of a dancer. He used his shield as skilfully as his sword. Now he almost clubbed the sword from Isak’s hand with his shield, now he delicately flicked his own blade out to catch Isak off-guard, the in-drawn breaths of the onlookers testament to his skill. His eyes were red, blood-shot with rage, but his experience meant his anger added purpose to his movements rather than recklessness.

The knight stabbed forward, the edge of his sword running along the rim of Isak’s shield, then stepped to one side and slashed at Isak’s hamstring. His shield, held high, caught the downstroke of Isak’s weapon as his own failed to reach.

Isak pulled his weapon back, then thrust fiercely, uncontrollably, and to everyone’s surprise caught the knight’s sword, twisting so for a moment the blades locked. Sir Dirass disengaged with a savage flick, then smashed his shield into Isak’s shoulder. Falling backwards, Isak slammed his heels into the dirt and brought his own shield down as fast as he could. It wasn’t fast enough to stop the sword flashing up past his groin, but the stroke missed.

A bellow from Kerin prevented a second: ‘Certinse! I said disarm, not mortally wound him!’

Isak crouched on the ground, the knuckles of his right hand ground into the packed earth and his shield covering his body. He had managed to get his foot underneath his body in time to stop him falling flat on his back. Now he forced himself upright again.

Sir Dirass looked unashamed. He kept his sword low. His eyes never left Isak’s.

‘That was a coward’s chance,’ growled Isak. ‘Does that run in the family too?’ A snort from the assembled men and Sir Dirass’s furious glare told him the jibe had hit home. His opponent had a weakness.

‘Watch your mouth, white-eye.’

‘Or what? You’ll run away? Hide behind your bitch-mother’s skirt?’

‘Enough! This is over!’ But Kerin’s shout went ignored this time. Isak grinned as he felt a familiar growl of anger stir in his belly. The animal inside him was just warming up. This man needed a lesson.

‘Come on then. If you want it, come and get it. Or are you just another example of your worthless family?’

With a howl, the knight threw himself forward, hacking savagely with his slender blade, any pretence of form now gone. The white-eye again suppressed the almost overwhelming urge to charge, instead contenting himself with warding off the blows while waiting for the opening he knew would come. The crowd moved to keep up with Isak’s steady retreat.

The knight was beginning to tire now, and finally Isak launched his own attack. He might not have been trained to the rapier, but Isak was young, and immensely strong, and extremely fast. Now he used all that roaring power to direct a flurry of blows at Sir Dirass that stopped the knight in his tracks. His thrusts were clumsy, but they were fierce. Carel had been trained on the battlefield, and that was the way he’d taught Isak: momentum was crucial: the advancing infantry, the charging cavalry - theirs was the victory to take.

For the first time, the knight looked a little uneasy, but then Isak moved forward and suddenly realised he was closer than he had intended. He jumped back quickly, but Sir Dirass had seen it too and lunged as hard as he could. Isak just escaped, arms splayed out wide as he fought for balance, then swung out hard at the knight’s neck. Sir Dirass had almost lost his footing in the lunge but he got his shield up in time. Both stepped back unscathed.

There was a smile on Isak’s face now. He had the measure of his enemy; now to irritate the knight into foolishness. His darting steps became more pronounced; his shield dropped a little lower and his grin broadened. Sir Dirass’s face tightened. A pace forward closed the ground between them. The knight’s sword was ready as he waited for Isak to retreat to where a second step would bring the knight close enough to run Isak through. That second step never came.

With an astonished gasp, Sir Dirass looked deep into the cold eyes of his killer as Isak stepped into the feint. No emotion showed on Isak’s face as his sword-tip slid between the knight’s ribs.

Sir Dirass shuddered and went completely still, his fury turned to disbelief. He took an involuntary breath, and the onlookers gasped with him. Isak’s movement had been so smooth that it took them a moment to realise he’d run Sir Dirass through. The knight’s arms wavered, then dropped. He fell to his knees. With a quick jerk, Isak withdrew the blade. A spurt of blood followed it, splashing on to his borrowed boots. The corpse sagged and crumpled to the ground.

No one spoke. Isak stared down at the body with the rest of them. Now his stomach felt empty. The addictive rush of violence had been replaced by a palpable absence, a cold ball aching inside. He couldn’t regret what he’d done; the man had meant to kill him - even an inexperienced swordsman like Isak recognised that. The breeze brought a taste of bread on the wind, a tantalising smell. He was starving. He wiped the blade clean on his shirt, turned, without a word, and headed back to the Great Hall.

 

Tila watched him go, sickness and fear welling inside. The bitter taste of bile sat at the back of her throat.

What sort of a man are you?
She wanted to scream out the words.
How can you be so meek and unsure one moment, then so brutal the next? Are you no different to the rest of your kind after all?