The Stormcaller: Book One Of The Twilight Reign (68 page)

He didn’t know how to answer these questions, but they lingered, for if forces on both sides had affected his life, there would be darkness in his soul as well as light. Deep inside, he recognised the truth in that.

Moving through the trees, touching the trailing ivy as he went, Isak felt the temple, slumbering. The ground was still consecrated, whatever had happened here: it was still special to a Goddess of the Upper Circle and there would always be an echo of her presence there.

And all around, Isak could feel the gentry stirring, leaning gently with the wind as they stood as patiently as the grass. It was only when they moved that he could feel them at all; unlike humans, there was no resonance of their presence so they just faded into the background of wood and earth, leaving a faint air of expectation, like scent on the breeze. He envied them that, the peace of being so completely a part of the Land that they could just step back into it and disappear.

‘Lord Isak,’ called someone from the heart of the temple in precise, educated Farlan. A portly older man stepped out through the inner circle to meet them, moving like a man many summers younger. As he neared, Isak could see he was a general.

‘My Lord, I am Jebel Gort,’ the man said, a dazed smile on his face. It took Isak a moment to realise that this general of sixty or more summers was slightly awestruck.

‘And them?’ Isak gestured to the three other men, who had not moved. Two, though looking well into middle age, were obviously fit and strong; they wore swords at their hips. One man was of western stock, with a wide nose and sloping forehead; Isak suspected he was from Vanach. The other was Chetse - though he looked strange with short hair and a rapier at his waist. The only Chetse Isak had met was one of the wildest of their kind; this man looked like a doll in comparison. The third man was younger, a tall, hard-faced individual who might have been from Narkang. He stood a little further back.

‘These are General Diolis, General Chotech in the middle, with Major Irien back there,’ General Gort said. ‘Major Ortof-Greyl has explained that we are not here as officials of our Order.’

‘He told me something that I didn’t believe,’ Isak said, ‘but you didn’t bring any mages with you, and I think the gentry would have dealt with any army—’

‘The gentry?’ the general cut in. ‘So that’s what’s been making such an infernal racket at night.’

‘They were probably arguing about how they wanted to kill you. In any case, I’ve been brought to a strange place that I don’t much care for; to meet people I care much less for, for a reason I don’t believe, and on my birthday. Consider me annoyed and get to the fucking point.’

The general’s face was in shadow so Isak couldn’t see his reaction, but his reply was certainly measured. ‘Very well, my Lord. Our group is small, restricted to men we can trust to pursue the true aims of the Order. The Knight-Cardinal is certainly not one of those - he doesn’t care much about the death of his nephew, but it gives him a pretext to want your head. He has aspirations to be the Saviour, and he positively drools at the thought of your weapons. The other members of the Council are growing tired of his megalomania. Two Councillors are expected to retire this year and when that happens, it is almost certain that General Diolis and General Chotech will take their places. That gives me the majority I need to have the Knight-Cardinal replaced, and when I do so we can begin the process of reminding power brokers like Telith Vener and Afasin just what our Order’s strength should be used for.’

‘So this is a coup, dressed up in doctrine.’

The man shrugged. ‘What we do today will, I am certain, demonstrate that we do not lust for the power.’ Without giving Isak time to reply the general stepped forward and knelt before Isak. The other three moved quickly to follow suit, Major Ortof-Greyl stepping swiftly past Isak to kneel behind his superiors.

Isak looked at his companions in bemusement. They said nothing. Vesna was smiling as if it was all just a joke. Carel, Mihn and Tila just looked puzzled.

‘Lord Isak. Here, in our most sacred temple, we pledge ourselves to your name and banner, to perform those tasks the Gods will require of you as their Saviour. I swear to take control of the Knights of the Temples only to serve your will, and the will of the Gods. When it is needed, I shall provide you with the army of Devoted soldiers spoken of in the prophecies. To prove our faith, we have brought you gifts to aid you in the Age to come.’

The major jumped up and ran to a flat altar-stone in the centre of the temple. Isak had hardly noticed the brass-bound box. It was no more than a foot across, but the major picked it up reverentially. He returned with the box held out before him, his arms tense, as if the weight of the box was nearly too great for him. The general remained on one knee as he accepted it and turned it towards Isak. There was a thin film of sweat on his brow, but anticipation shone in his eyes as he lifted the lid and held it out for Isak to see.

The other Farlan gasped as the contents shone as bright as Siulents in the moonlight.

Isak was speechless, trembling all over. At first he was too afraid to believe what he was seeing, then a primal hunger flared inside him, sparked by the eerie glow coming from the box. He felt the damp touch of pain as his hand clenched so hard he drew blood.

The rest of the Land faded away and he lost himself in the smooth lines of the two Crystal Skulls. For a moment he could do nothing, hear nothing, as he stared dumbfounded at what was being offered to him. He knew their names at once. Unbidden, the memories rose in his head: Hunting and Protection, the Skulls Aryn Bwr had forged for himself that together made him stronger than any mortal - the weapons that had killed Gods.

With the heady beat of blood pounding in his ears, Isak slowly fought for control of his senses and at last reached out a shaky hand. The world grew heavy and textured as his fingers neared the box. He spread his hand to touch both at once. He expected them to be cold, until he felt the power they contained. They were warmer than his fingers - he could see a little wisp of steam curl away from the surface of one. Then they were hotter still, then suddenly scorching. A wrench of burning pain gripped his arm, growing fiercer with each passing instant. Then the world went black.

Isak awoke to a place of dark twilight, lit by faint stars that faded away when he looked directly at them but glittered fiercely at the edges of his sight. The air was thin and dry against the back of his throat; it tasted of long memories, bitter and empty. He could see neither trees nor standing stones now, only undulating rocky ground in all directions, underneath a dawn sky of unbroken slate-coloured cloud. Kneeling, Isak removed his gauntlet and touched the desiccated grey dust underfoot. It felt dead to his fingers, not like the sand of a desert, but like a wasteland that had been drained of all life. It gave him a hollow feeling inside, as though a part of him was now missing.

Pulling his silver gauntlet back on, Isak noticed it had lost its lustre. The silver had faded with the light and now it looked plain and dull, like weathered iron. It was still his armour, yet somehow diminished; when he checked, Eolis was the same. He pulled off his helm and the blue silk hood and drew in deep gulps of thin air. His muscles were weak and stiff, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to shake off the fatigue.

‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

Isak whirled around, hand on sword, to see an armoured figure standing ten yards away. The knight had a blank helm hiding his face and the teardrop shield on his arm was turned away so Isak could not see the design on its surface. His sword was drawn, but held behind his back; the pose reminded Isak of some of the formal duelling positions he’d seen Vesna practise.

Isak could see from the knight’s stance that a challenge was being offered. The air of menace was all too apparent. He drew his own weapon and planted his feet securely, a shoulder-width apart and with one slightly ahead of the other, just as Carel had taught him so many years ago.

‘Where am I? Who are you?’

‘You are nowhere, caught in a moment between your past and the future.’ The voice was male, rich and subtle, like King Emin’s, but with an accent he couldn’t place. Everything about the knight was threatening, even his words; your past, but only the future, as if there was no place for Isak in that future. The thought chilled him, this wasn’t the black-armoured knight of his dreams - the one Isak knew would one day kill him - but it reminded him of Morghien’s warning: that Isak would have to face a death of the mind. A sudden sadness crept over him. To die in this empty, dead place was somehow worse than any other fate he could imagine.

‘What do you want from me?’

The knight hadn’t appeared to expect that question, but for reply, he raised his shield and brought his sword around to point it directly at Isak. Realisation came with a jolt; the knight was wearing Siulents, and carrying the same blade Isak had in his hand, not copies, but as real as those Isak himself carried, similarly dimmed yet unmistakable.

‘What do I want from you, boy? Everything, all that you are. Part of me has been with you all your life to make of you the tool I need for the years to come.’

‘All my life?’

‘Certainly. Events needed to be guided, my investment protected. That priest of Larat for example - he could not be allowed to rummage around in your head.’

‘So what happened when I touched the Skulls?’

‘I doubt you would understand even if I told you,’ the knight sneered.

‘So the prophecies of the last king are really true? You denied Death’s judgement?’ Some part of Isak demanded proof, despite the growing dreadful certainty in his gut.

The knight eased the helm from his head and let it drop to the ground. He shook his silvery, almost insubstantial hair loose. It accentuated his thin jaw and sharp cheekbones. Aryn Bwr’s strange beauty made him look delicate, but far from weak; Isak suspected he had a whipcord strength that could strike like lightning.

‘All this for revenge?’

‘Don’t think to pity me,’ the elf lord spat. ‘You know nothing of my cause, nothing of the war I fought. My time has come again, and this time I will not fail.’

In a heartbeat he leapt forward and slashed up underneath Isak’s shield. The white-eye hardly saw the blow coming; he barely caught it in time. A second overhand cut flashed past his head as Isak twisted sideways and slashed wildly to deflect a cut to his exposed legs. Somehow he battered Aryn Bwr’s blade away.

Isak scrambled backwards to give himself some space, but the elf pursued and struck again and again. Even Isak’s unnatural speed was barely keeping up with Aryn Bwr.

The elf stopped suddenly and gave Isak a cold smile. ‘Strange, when I was looking out through your eyes you seemed faster than this.’ He attacked again, not looking for a killing blow, but content to drive Isak back, confusing and unbalancing the young white-eye, always stepping back at the last moment when Isak could almost feel the bite of Eolis at his neck. He took the moments of respite gladly, then lunged at the elf with every ounce of strength in his massive body.

Aryn Bwr rode Isak’s clumsy attack like a willow branch flexing in the wind, then thrust hard. Isak caught the blow on his shield, and as the blade cut down it forced the shield into his shoulder with jarring force.

Isak tried to retaliate, but again the elf stepped around Isak’s thrust. This time he smashed his shield down on to Isak’s wrist and pain burst through his hand as something snapped under the blow. Worse, Eolis was knocked from his grip. Isak gasped and reeled; he didn’t even see the elf punch forward with Eolis’s hilt. The blow connected and stars flared before his eyes.

He fell, sprawled at the last king’s feet. Aryn Bwr stared down at him with contempt. ‘Is that all you have? So it is true, they made you weak; weak enough to be one they could control.’

Isak struggled up on to his elbows. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You do not know?’ Aryn Bwr laughed. ‘Boy, you are not even the first Saviour this Age has seen, and you are his inferior in every way. Dare you deny it? You see him in your dreams; you’ve known him your whole life.’

‘The Saviour? Then—’ Isak could not begin to find the words for the questions he wanted to ask.

‘Then what happened? Azaer happened. Azaer encouraged their vanity, urged the Gods to be their own undoing, to be divided and distrustful of each other, while I returned to power. The Gods made their Saviour the greatest of men, perhaps even greater than me, but before long the Saviour began to question why he needed to serve any master.’

Isak lay on the floor, overwhelmed by what he was hearing, but not so dazed that he did not desperately search for a way to escape. He knew it was futile: Aryn Bwr had been the supreme warrior; he had killed Gods. He had fallen only to Karkarn, the God of War himself.

The elf sheathed his weapon and reached down to haul Isak up. Bringing him close, the last king stared deep into Isak’s eyes.

Isak returned the look, staring into pale, gold-flecked eyes as though the answer would be there. He felt a fog about his mind, enveloping his thoughts and slowing draining the strength from his body. The heavy sleep of the grave called to him, drawing him in to its embrace, but as his strength faded and his mind weakened, understanding suddenly unfurled in his mind like a bud bursting into flower.

‘Now I know,’ Isak said calmly.

Aryn Bwr hesitated, eyes narrowing as he tightened his grip on Isak. He had felt the change in Isak’s mind and a flicker of uncertainty crept on to his face.

‘Tell me, elf, can you remember your own name?’

The last king said nothing.

‘Your name. Can you remember it?’

‘I—’ Uncertainly blossomed into loss, then fear. Aryn Bwr’s true name had been struck from history, and like the Finntrail in Morghien’s mind, that loss weakened his spirit.