Tom Lloyd - The stormcaller

'Isak,' bellowed Carel from behind him, 'we're leaving! Get back up here!'

The soldier beside Isak started to step up to the royal box, then his downed comrade gave a cry of pain and he stopped to help the man. Isak reached down and picked up the wounded man, passed out from the pain of his shattered shoulder, and passed him up to Carel. The other Kingsguard scrambled up beside him.

Carel breathed a sigh of relief as Isak reached up to return to the royal box, but as his fingers touched the rail, the white-eye felt a sudden weight hit his shoulders. Carel's face changed to a picture of alarm as Isak sagged, then slammed forward into the frame of the stand. He remained pinned there, with his head and shoulders over the edge at Carel's feet, but when Carel reached down to grip Isak by the shoulder, he burned his fingertips as he touched Siulents.

Isak felt small sparks of energy flicker over his body as he tried to raise his head. A red burst of pain shot down his neck and squeezed the air from his lungs. The pressure increased, until all he could manage was a low moan. The crushing ache in his bones stifled everything else, while the cloying rush of magic raged uncontrolled over his body. Isak felt the Land groan and shudder beneath him as he fought to remain conscious.

Suddenly, without warning the pressure lessened and Isak opened his mouth to take a deep gasping breath – but he barely had time for one desperate wheeze before he was jerked up in the air like a puppet.

He caught sight of Carel's frantic expression for the briefest of moments, then the air whistled past his head as he was pulled away across the jousting arena. He felt a pavilion loom up behind him, then a burst of pain as he hit it. Then there was only darkness.

Through the numb folds of an empty place, he felt the gentle caress of a hand on his cheek. Images appeared in his mind's eye, people and places he didn't recognise, though memories of them rose in his thoughts. Only the patient brush of delicate fingers kept them back. The comforting touch spread warmth down his cheek, over his neck and chest, and into his limbs. Slowly the warmth made him aware of the rest of his body, the crumpled and broken lines of his skin. The scar on his chest glowed bright white, casting threads of light out into the darkness.

'Isak, you must wake.'

The voice stirred a memory as deep as instinct, but no more. He didn't mind. The soft syllables of her voice drove away the pain and he wanted no more than that.

'Isak, you must fight.'

The name sent a tingle down his spine. He resisted, but something deep inside stirred. The tang of blood danced about his teeth.

'Isak, wake now. Help is coming.'

Unbidden, his chest rose as he took in a huge gulp of air. The musty warmth faded from his skin as daylight began to sting his eyes. He recognised his name now, as he did the pain that flooded back in. The taste of blood grew thick in his mouth.

'I think the prophets were wrong.'

Isak, hanging limp in someone's arms, winced at the sudden brightness. As his senses returned, he realised that he couldn't recognise the accent of whoever had just spoken: her Farlan sounded almost ugly, as if she were pronouncing each syllable with contempt.

'Why do you say that, Mistress?' came a whining reply.

'How could it be so easily captured if it is to be the weapon we believed? Ostia?'

'I can tell no more than you, Mistress,' replied a third voice. Isak forced his eyelids open. Duchess Forell stood to one side, hands clasped anxiously to her chest. The woman who had just spoken, Ostia, was beside the duchess, a little oasis of serenity and calm amidst the scattered ruin of the pavilion behind. They were inside the jousting arena, Isak thought, but all was still, even the few remaining soldiers were standing motionless as they watched the proceedings.

All three women wore plain white capes of the White Circle over sumptuous dresses of purples and blues, studded with gems and woven with silver and gold.

'It is young, young enough for training.'

Isak focused on the speaker, blinking in surprise as he took in her remarkable size and the colour of her skin. A female white-eye. Her white hood was up, but Isak could see that her face was rust-coloured. It put him in mind a little of Xeliath's smooth chestnut colouring, but dusted with red.

'Let it stand by itself,' the woman commanded. Isak felt the supports disappear from under his arms and he sagged. As his eyes drifted down the length of her body, he stiffened with shock: she was cradling a Crystal Skull, her long fingers clamped protectively about it so that both eye sockets were covered. The Skull itself was small, unassuming, its surface dull, but Isak could still feel the looming weight of the Skull pressing down on his throbbing temples.

So that was how he'd been overcome earlier: the Skull was powerful beyond anything he could ever have imagined – and even now it was holding him captive with terrifying ease.

Isak tried to look around the arena surreptitiously. He could see no sign of his companions, just a scattering of bodies that looked dead. He could hear the distant clash of weapons.

They abandoned you.' The strange white-eye sneered at Isak. They broke and ran, but they will not get far. Shall we see which ones still live?'

She looked at the woman Isak thought was Ostia, who nodded. He could sense it as she began to draw magic, looking out towards the city with an enquiring expression, until a frown crossed her face.

'What is-?' Suddenly she yelped and clutched at her head. 'By the pit of Ghenna, what was that?' she shouted.

'Well? What happened?' the white-eye demanded angrily. Clearly her own skills were limited, however much strength the Crystal Skull could lend her. Isak concentrated on Ostia: to be able to spy on the city gates was an amazing feat; to get close enough to be hurt by the daemon was astounding. Isak wondered if Bahl would be able to do that.

'Clever bastard,' mused Ostia. She ignored the white-eye's vocal impatience, but a few moments later, said, 'I doubt anyone will have managed to close the gate on the king – a daemon has just incarnated in the gate-house.'

Isak chuckled. 'Not as clever as you thought? What a pity.'

A quick spasm of pain ran through his body as punishment. The white-eye hissed with anger, 'You will not think so when you have been bonded to me. Then you'll be as eager as a dog to deal with the problem of the king.'

As she spoke, Isak blanched and his eyes went distant and fearful. He felt as if he were watching an arrow speed towards him. Suddenly he convulsed violently and the two guards gripped his arms again to stop him falling flat. The strange white-eye looked to Ostia for explanation.

'I don't know, but I suggest you stop whatever it is you are doing to him.'

'I'm doing nothing,' she said angrily and took a step back as Isak fell to his knees and began to shake.

Isak.

The world swam beneath his feet. Without warning he retched, splattering the contents of his stomach all over the churned ground. The white-eye twitched her dress in distaste as vomit stained the hem, but she didn't retreat. She stroked the Crystal Skull musingly: this was no trick, that much she could tell.

Isak, can you feel it? Oh Gods, can you feel it? Xeliath's voice echoed loud in Isak's mind.

'What is it?'

A storm rushing over the Land. Nartis himself, coming to lay his blessing upon you. Panic rang out in her voice, panic and euphoric delight. Lord Bahl has gone to the Palace on the White Isle, gone to embrace his doom.

Isak felt the Land tremble through his palms. He felt hot sunlight on his skin, and the chill of stone corridors on his fingertips. As the cold bit into his toes, he recognised the place all too well.