Tom Lloyd - The stormcaller

'By the eyes of Fate, who's that?' The Kingsguard pointed over the battlements as they watched a figure land heavily a few yards from Lord Isak.

'Gods, that's Brandt,' muttered the king as the figure clambered to his feet. A line of mercenaries were inching towards him. 'Don't just gape, you fools, help him!'

Those soldiers with bows began to fire down on the figures edging cautiously towards the commander. Flames dripped from the walkway as Brandt started slashing wildly at the lead soldier, who was nearly upon him. The man slipped on the bloody stone and landed on a burning patch, setting his own clothes alight.

As Brandt jumped back, the man pulled himself up and fled back towards his own troops, who shrank away from the burning soldier. The commander found his footing on the now-sloping walkway and backed away from the flames to where Isak knelt, motionless. The burning man was flailing madly at his comrades, then he tripped on the corpses at his feet and set them alight too.

'What's happening?' demanded Carel as he appeared in the narrow doorway and barged out to where King Emin stood. Sheer exhaustion made him put pride to one side and reach for Doranei's shoulder to steady himself; instinct was all that was keeping the veteran Ghost going now, for his arm was bleeding badly and he was ready to retch from fatigue. But Carel was a professional, and his boy was still out there. Somehow he found the strength to continue.

'Lord Isak seems to be casting some sort of spell.' The king pointed upwards. 'Look at the sky – that's not natural.' They all looked at the angry clouds roiling in the air above Isak. Even the gigantic silver-clad white-eye seemed insignificant against that brooding mass of violence.

'The mage said he was calling down the storm.'

'Well, it looks like it's about to hit.'

The wall shook again, a deep rumble that rose to a tortuous cracking as a ten-yard stretch ripped away and collapsed inwards. Isak hadn't moved, but everyone could feel the pressure in the air mounting. They knew something had to give soon. Near to him, Brandt attacked the advancing troops with reckless abandon, putting everything he had into a furious volley of blows.

'He's trying to take on an entire army,' cried one young Kingsguard soldier, 'but he's just a watchman.'

'Just a watchman, boy?' roared the king, anger flaring from nothing to a holy terror. 'He might be saving your life!'

Brandt took another blow on the shield and lunged up at his attacker's throat. The man fell, but another stepped forward and caught Brandt on the shoulder. He reeled, crying out in pain, but the sound was lost as a bolt of lightning crashed down on to the tower where the mages had stood. For a moment the men on the wall were frozen in time, as were the figures scrambling through the breach and spilling out into the scarred gardens. Then the tower was struck again, then the wall, then the ground, again and again. The storm was upon them, called by the Lord of Storms himself.

'As the shadows rose and the enemy appeared on all sides, Nartis spoke to the heavens. The storm obeyed his call and unleashed its legions – and he rained terrible fire down upon that place of death,' intoned Carel. There were tears in his eyes as he spoke. A few Kingsguard men turned with questioning faces as the air was split with fire and the voice of the storm raged unchecked, lashing down one bolt after another.

It was a quotation every Farlan knew, and it came from the legends before the Great War. King Emin saw the Ghost beside him mouth the words of a prayer, then he turned to gain a last glimpse of Commander Brandt, struggling hopelessly against two attackers. Then the burning white light was all he could see, pierced only by the screams of the dying and the very earth itself trembling.

'And so it begins.' His thoughts stirred lazily, as if moving against the heavy current of a river.

'What do you mean?'

The banished have returned. Soon you will command an army of the Devoted. Prophecies are stirring and you're at their heart.'

‘I’ve never wanted this.'

'What do you want? Can you fight what must come to pass?'

'1 don't know, but 1 don't want a war that could tear the Land apart. If the prophecies of this Age are colliding, who knows what destruction could result?'

'Sometimes peace can only come about through war. You cannot sit and do nothing when others strive to conquer and destroy.'

‘That's not the same as being the Saviour people expect.'

The life I am trapped in is one of premonitions and possibilities. I can sense some of your future because it's a future 1 will share. Dark clouds are gathering, forces you cannot control. I've seen you dead while a horror takes your place and leaves you mindless; living like an animal; cast into the Dark Place while the Land goes to ruin.'

'So what can I do? Let the Devoted pledge themselves to me when I meet them in Llehden?'

'Llehden? Who suggested meeting there? It's a place of great power; I can't imagine the Devoted being welcome there. They must be des-perate to keep the meeting secret. When you go there, you will meet the witch of Llehden. She may be able to help you.'

'What help could some village crone give me?'

The Land is slipping out of balance, driven by power used without thought given to the consequences. The witch draws her power from the Land itself, where there must be balance in all things. I believe she will not stand aside and allow that to be destroyed, and that she

will recognise your own need for balance. I sense she will show you a path through darkness.'

The darkness brightened. Isak felt his limbs, tired and aching, and his eyes caked with tears. Wakefulness insinuated itself, sharp and insistent, though he longed to sink back into the sanctuary of sleep. He felt a bed beneath him, damp and clammy after the cool cradle of empty air. The buzz of conversation stung at his ears before calming into words, and voices he recognised. Slowly, he returned to the Land and its cares.

'We should let him sleep.'

'He needs to be up, so people can see him.'

'How did he survive?'

'How do you think? His first hours as Lord of the Parian – Nartis could hardly fail to watch over him, especially during a storm. What I want to know is how he did what he did. It wasn't just using his magic to create lightning, he actually called the storm on to him. It scared the shit out of the king's mages, and then-'

'But what about his arm?'

That I can't explain. Reckon we'll need a mage or maybe a priest to explain that.'

Isak suddenly gasped for air, as though surfacing from water. The people around his bed jumped back in surprise – he'd been as still as a corpse. Now his heaving gulps of breath sounded like a return to life. Looking up, Isak focused on the roof above. He was in the palace, some corner of a lavishly decorated hall. With an effort he brought his mind into focus: was this the Queen's Hall? It wasn't the main audience chamber; it was a smaller and more elegant room.

'How do you feel?'

Isak had to suppress a laugh at Tila's question. He had not taken stock of his injuries yet, but he did know every bone and muscle in his body hurt. Lifting his head from whatever was supporting it caused a sharp spasm of pain to drive deep behind his eyes and his vision wavered and blurred.

When he opened his eyes again, Tila and Mihn were kneeling at his side, hands on his chest and forehead to keep him still.

'Careful,' Tila warned him softly. The wall collapsed under you; you fell quite a way.'

'What happened?' Isak croaked.

'What happened?' Carel repeated behind her. Isak forced his eyes to focus on his old friend. He saw a battered and weary face, bruised and still bleeding a little down the left-hand side. His arm was in a sling, wrapped in grubby bandages. 'Don't you remember bringing down the wrath of the Gods on those soldiers?'