The Stormcaller: Book One Of The Twilight Reign (69 page)

‘Can you remember your death?’ As he said that, Isak felt the grip on his throat falter and weaken. ‘Oh yes, that you can remember, that pain is still inside you. You’re dead; a memory barely beyond Death’s reach. Without name or form, what are you now?’

Isak smiled and raised his left hand, though his arm was sore, numb from the fight. Despite his feebleness, Isak took hold of Aryn Bwr’s wrist and prised the fingers from his throat. Lifting his right arm, the hand twisted and curled over the broken wrist, Isak spread his fingers as best he could in front of his enemy’s face and remembered what he’d done to Morghien. Under his touch, the weaves of magic parted like morning mist.

The last king shrieked and writhed in Isak’s grip, but the white-eye felt his strength rush back into his body. Now the elf spirit was helpless to resist. Isak forced down the snarl that built in his throat as he embraced the magic all around and gathered a storm of power in his hand, determined not to submit to the rage in his belly as he had outside Lomin.

Reaching out with his mind, Isak cast a net of magic over the dead king’s soul and savagely bound it, ripping it from the body it had tried to inhabit. Aryn Bwr howled with terror.

The elf’s soul, held tightly in Isak’s grip, was a feeble thing now. The shadows darkened as Death’s reach crept closer. Aryn Bwr renewed his screams and struggled futilely until Isak pulled the soul away from the darkness and into himself, where part of it had hidden to avoid Death’s constant watch.

Isak stood alone and breathed deeply; the air was fresher now and the weariness had left his limbs. Even the pain was gone now, for the damage was not to flesh and bone but the product of his mind. The sky was lightening, and faintly the scents of heather and wet grass came to him, smelling wonderful to him after the dead land.

In his mind Isak held the spirit of Aryn Bwr, but gently now; the time for force was over. There was no way for the elf to wield power over him any more.

What have you done?
Isak felt the elf’s voice in his mind, soft and pained, but tinged with fear.

What will you do with me?
Aryn Bwr knew he was closer than at any other time to the final retribution of Ghenna’s deepest pit.

Isak stretched and felt a cool breath of air drift past his face. He could feel himself returning to the temple inside the trees, to the life that was at long last his own.

He smiled. The Land awaited him.

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The Twilight Reign: Book 2

A lined face, pale against the deep shadow of the archway, looked out into the street. The ground before him was empty of people, but movement was everywhere as the deluge that was worsening by the minute turned the packed earth to spattering mud. The old man had a heavy woollen scarf wrapped over his head and tied tight under his chin so the now-sodden material framed his face. Anxiety filled his eyes as he saw only the plummeting rain churning the ground, running in rivers off the rooftops and overflowing the gutters in the middle of the street. The black feather tattoos that marked the right side of his face looked crumpled; over the decades the once-crisp lines had faded. The tumult of the rain slashing down filled the air as the old monk trembled in the darkness. He felt it crowding him, driving him back into the shadows.

‘Where
are
you, Mayel?’ His pleading was nothing more than a shivering whisper, yet almost as he spoke a figure turned the comer and headed towards him, his arms held uselessly over his head against the storm. Mayel made straight for the archway, though his head was hunched so low it was unlikely he could see where he was heading. He splashed into the dark recesses of the monument that sheltered the old man and shook himself violently, like a dog, scattering water like a fountain.

‘Abbot Doren,’ Mayel said urgently, ‘I found him. He’s waiting for us at an inn, just a few streets east of here.’ There was a flicker of triumph in his eyes that saddened the abbot. Mayel was young enough to think this was a grand adventure; that a murderer was pursuing them seemed not to have filtered through into the novice’s mind.

‘Take care - this is not a game,’ the old man said. ‘I have told you before, even a hint of my name could mean our deaths.’

‘But there’s no one out here!’ the youth protested, eyes wide in dismay. The old man could see Mayel had not been expecting another scolding; the youth deserved praise, he knew that, but their safety was not something they could take any chances with. Their mission was too vital for that.

‘You must always be careful; you can never be sure who is around. But you’ve done well. Now, let’s find ourselves somewhere warm and get outselves a hot meal and a bed for the night. We’ll find a more permanent place for us in the morning.’

‘I think my cousin will be able to help with that,’ Mayel said, trying to sound cheerful again, despite the storm. ‘He rents rooms to workmen, so I’m sure he’d give me a good price - and watch out for us.’ He started shivering, his saturated clothes clammy against his skin. Glancing nervously out from under the archway he saw the sky was an angry grey. It felt more like autumn than an early summer’s evening, as though their pursuer swept away the joy and warmth of the season as he closed on them.

‘We’ll need an entire house, somewhere with a cellar,’ said the abbot. ‘I have work to do; I’ll need complete privacy. It can’t wait any longer.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Mayel stared at the old man, wondering what could possibly be so important when they were fleeing for their lives.

‘If Prior Corci does find out where we are, I need to be ready for him - and I need your help, not just to help carry my books, but to protect me from the rest of this city.’

‘Do we
really
need all these books with us?’ There was understandable irritation in Mayel’s voice: he had been lugging around the six thick volumes for two weeks now.

‘You know we do, boy. Our order’s texts are sacred. That traitor may have made me flee the monastery, but he will never force me to give up the traditions that he himself has tried to destroy. The books must not leave the presence of the abbot - that is one of the very first lessons we learn.’

‘Of course I know that,’ Mayel said, ‘but are you still abbot if you flee the island?’

The old man shuddered and Mayel continued hurriedly, ‘I mean, surely the sacred texts are there for the community, to look to for guidance. Should they not stay on the island?’

‘This current situation is more complex than that,’ snapped the old man. ‘You are a novice; don’t presume you are in possession of all the facts. Now, show me to this inn where your cousin is.’

Mayel opened his mouth to argue, then remembered who he was talking to and clamped it shut again. Pointing off down the street, he watched Abbot Doren push past and begin to splash through the puddles. The abbot hunched low over his bag, which held his few possessions - two more books and a strange, pearl-inlaid box that Mayel had never seen until the night they fled - trying to protect it from the rain.

‘You don’t fool me, old man,’ Mayel whispered. The wail of the weather drowned his words, but if the abbot had turned round, he would have seen a coldly calculating look that had no place on the face of a novice. ‘There’s something in that box that Jackdaw wants. He killed Brother Edin for more than madness. The prior wouldn’t be following us for just a few dirty old books, so why won’t you tell me what’s in that box? It’s got to be worth something if Jackdaw wants it so badly - enough to buy my way into my cousin’s gang. If we do survive this, you’ll be carrying these bloody books back to the island yourself, old man.’

He scowled at the abbot’s back, then hurried to catch him up, at the last moment swinging his own bag around to his chest to shelter it somewhat.

 

From the upper reaches of the monument where the abbot had been sheltering a soft voice spoke over the sound of the rain. ‘He has the Skull with him, I can feel it.’

‘We must sacrifice that for the greater prize. The old man is not as frail as he seems, nor as unprotected. Be content that he has done as we wanted. Now the next act of our play can begin.’

‘But I could kill him now.’ The speaker’s deeply set eyes, hooded by thick brows, glittered avariciously. He ignored the rain soaking his thick black hair and running down over the tattooed feathers on his cheek and neck as he glared down the street, but the abbot had already turned the corner.

‘His God would not let you,’ said his companion. ‘Renouncing a God - any God - as you have is not done lightly, and Vellern would stop you from harming one who is first among his worshippers. Perhaps the Lord of the Birds would take the opportunity to extract a measure of revenge too.’ The second man wore a green minstrel’s hat and tunic and hugged a flute close under his left arm. He looked only a little damp, as though the rain were reluctant to touch him. His soft brown hair was not wet enough to have darkened and his cheeks, as smooth as a young man’s, despite the air of age about him, remained dry. A slight smile, both knowing and scornful, curled the edges of his mouth.

‘We have others who could,’ growled the dark-haired man, once known as Prior Corci. Now he was Jackdaw, reviled as a traitor and murderer. His new master had called him that the first time they met, no more than six months past, in one of the monastery’s dank, unused cellars. He had thought it a joke, but steadily he’d found the name had spread, even amongst brothers who knew nothing of his intended treachery. Prior Corci was being steadily erased from history; every week that passed, another man had forgotten about him. Jackdaw knew there was no going back, no escape from the choices he’d made, and only the thought of what else Azaer’s power could achieve stopped him sinking into glum desperation at the loss of his former life.

Now Jackdaw blinked the rain from his eyes and squinted through the gloom at the disappearing abbot. ‘The old man might be strong with the Skull, but an arrow would go right through that withered neck, whether or not he was holding magic. The Hounds would be glad to tear him apart.’

‘He is more intelligent than that. He has taken precautions against assassination, and there are inherent dangers whenever a Skull is involved. They contain too much power for a novice to control. He already keeps his Aspect-Guide close at hand; it would be a simple thing for him to lose his grip on the magic and then we would be faced with a minor God of vast strength instead. Better to let someone else deal with the problem on our behalf. We will kill enough priests soon, that I promise you.’

From a pouch, the minstrel took a peach and raised it to his lips.

His companion sniffed and then looked away in disgust.‘How can you eat that? It’s rotting.’

‘Decay happens to everything,’ replied the minstrel softly, eyes on the clouds above. ‘Corruption is inevitable. I am but its servant.’ He took another bite, then tossed the half-eaten fruit into the street. ‘No one could want that Skull more than I, but our master has a greater plan.’

‘One that I am not to be party to?’

‘If you have the courage to complain, do so.’

‘I—’ Jackdaw faltered. Too late he remembered that Azaer was always close to the minstrel, lingering where the man’s shadow had once been.

Jackdaw jumped as Azaer’s voice rang suddenly inside his head. Beside him the minstrel inclined his head, as though giving a slight bow.

‘No, master,’ the former monk spluttered. He felt a hand caress his cheek, then a sharp pain caused him to yelp involuntarily. The flesh just above the jaw-line felt raw and exposed and when he touched his face, Jackdaw found blood there. Raising his hand, he saw a black feather stuck to the blood on the back of his fingers. He didn’t need a looking-glass to know that part of his tattoo had gone.

‘Hush your throat or I’ll pluck more feathers out. We have a game to play here in Scree, friends to find and friends to lose. Lure them all here and let the drama unfold as it will. We take our bows when the performance is done.’

In the half-light of the long corridor a shadow moved. Only the listless swish of the thin white drapes covering the tall arched windows at one end disturbed the quiet. A wrought-iron railing decorated with vine leaves separated the corridor from the open hallway below, but the heavy afternoon heat had stifled all activity within the palace; that too seemed shrouded in silence. Even the servants had found cooler corners, where they dozed wearily.

The guard sighed inwardly. The heat was oppressive enough even without the heavy leather and iron of his uniform. Rivulets of sweat ran down his arms and over his scalp and prickled hot in his crotch. His head sagged, eyelids drooping as the corridor before him blurred into grey emptiness.

The shadow drifted behind him, sliding smoothly over the wall but never actually touching the soldier. As it hovered against the white door next to where the guard stood, the profile of a blank face showed, imprisoned within the door’s border, then the shadow eased into the dark crack between door and jamb and gently disappeared into the cool shade of the room beyond.