Tom Lloyd: The stormcaller

|I hardly feel like I'm blessed.'

Ah boy, the Land is harsh. It's a cruel place and it needs white-eyes 0 tame it. The Gods knew that when they made the first of you to be orn. The last of the Farlan line was their model, and scripture tells he was no court jester.' Carel clapped a hand on Isak's shoulder and tugged him round to look him in the eye. There was an almost wistful tone to his voice when he spoke again. 'Our Gods might be great and powerful, but they've never needed to be subtle.'

Isak recognised the words: an old soldier's favourite mantra.

The veteran smiled. 'Come on now, get that scowl off your face. The lecture's over.' He put his feet up and leaned against the wooden frame of the caravan, content in the sunshine that they wouldn't see for months once they arrived home.

Isak shifted in his seat and settled down for a long and uncomfortable day. As his mind wandered, he tried to count the months until he reached adulthood. Whether he was good enough to join the Ghosts or not, next year he would be able to do as he pleased; not to be dragged back like a rogue mule when he left. His father had made the most of the law regarding childhood, but he couldn't hold on to Isak forever.

Becoming a Ghost was still a dream to Isak, but one thing was sure: he could better Carel with a sword. He had nothing more to learn. If the Swordmasters were like the wagoners, he would go elsewhere – perhaps become a mercenary like Carel was now and travel to distant cities. Many of his kind did that, and some never found employment to be proud of, but white-eyes didn't become hermits and live in quiet humility. Their nature was not so peaceful.

Isak was still lost in daydreams of military glory when a sound up ahead broke through his reverie. Heads appeared from almost every caravan and wagon in the train, anticipating something to break the monotony of the journey. The spiced breeze was still detectable, but it did nothing to cool faces red under the onslaught of the sun. Most people wore wide-brimmed hats of some kind, but Isak rarely bothered. His skin was as fair as anyone's, but it never peeled or burned, just as any injuries healed quickly. In those ways he knew he was blessed. It was the rest of it that made people nervous.

Off to the left Isak saw a pair of wood pigeons perched on a branch, eyeing the wagon-train with lazy interest. He started to reach for the crossbow slung behind him, but stopped when the sound came again. It was a voice calling. He pulled himself to his feet on the wooden seat for a better look.

From his vantage point Isak could see a horseman approaching, plaits swinging in the air and a spear held aloft. The signal asked for

Carel had spotted the rider too and had already slipped on to the h ck of his own steed, which trotted patiently alongside the wagon. The stock pony was nothing like as impressive as the horses he had ridden in the Ghosts, and it bore little decoration bar the tattoos of breed and a charm to Nyphal, the Goddess of travellers, but it had served well over the years. With one hand on the pommel of his sword, Carel indicated for Isak to rein in before urging his stock pony

forward.

The wagon-train ground to an eventual halt behind them as an uneasy silence descended. This was untamed land for the greater part, and people mixed curiosity with caution. As Carel reached the horseman, figures appeared from behind the bend in the road. Six men were coming towards them, five of them the train's guards, mounted on stock ponies like Carel's own, and one man, a stranger, on foot. The five on horseback towered above the newcomer, but they looked curiously cowed in his presence.

Carel stopped and dismounted once he was past the lead wagon. While he waited for the man to reach him he looked around, scanning the terrain. He didn't see anyone else, but he kept his hand on his hilt as the man approached – he appeared calm, but a stranger alone and on foot was more than unusual out here.

Isak found himself digging his nails into his palm in apprehension. The stranger was taller even than Isak, who himself looked down on the rest of the wagon-train occupants. He was clad in black from head to toe, and the hardened leather and heavy, scaled armour he wore showed that he was not a native of these warm parts, where the guards wore little or no protection. Despite his height, the man was clearly not Parian, nor from any other tribe Isak had seen on their travels.

Worryingly, the man had his sword drawn, yet Carel paid it no attention. He left his own weapon sheathed as he moved in close to speak to the man.

Isak realised suddenly that his attention had been caught by the blade itself, not the man who held it, which went against everything Carel had taught him. The sword tells you nothing about what your enemy is going to do; keep your eyes on it and you'll watch it all the way

Into your belly. Even knowing this, he couldn't tear his eyes away from weapon: its shape and colour were unlike any he had seen before.

Faint bursts of light pricked the black surface so gently that he almost dismissed them as fancy. Just the sight of that blade made Isak shiver, as if some primal fear stirred inside.

The stranger said something, too quietly for Isak to hear.

'We're just traders returning to Tirah. We don't want trouble, but we are prepared for it.' Carel replied in a loud voice, so that those wagoners with weapons would reach for them. Isak could see that Carel looked puzzled, and a little apprehensive: this situation didn't make much sense – who travelled alone and on foot out here? Was this an ambush of some kind? He glanced back inside Carel's caravan to make sure that the mercenary's spear was within reach.

The stranger was hairless, and terribly lean, but there was no sign of illness; rather, he had about him an unnatural vitality. Pale parchment skin looked stretched to fit the skull underneath, and his eyes were completely black. For the first time Isak saw why people feared the differences in his own face.

'There is one here who is not like you, one who should come with me.' The man spoke clearly this time.

'We have a white-eye with us; what of him? He's young. What use would you have of him?' Carel sounded dismissive.

'He should come with me to seek his future.'

Carel stepped back, away from the stranger. 'You think I'm just going to hand him over to you? You look like a sorcerer to me.' He took hold of the charm around his neck, carved with the rune of Nyphal, protector of travellers, and muttered a short mantra under his breath.

'Get back into the wagon, Isak. Keep out of sight,' hissed Horman, a concerned look on his face. He had approached Carel's caravan out of sight of the stranger; now he motioned his son off the driver's seat. Isak climbed down quietly and slid back into the dark interior without a word while his father cocked his crossbow.

'What does he want with me?' he whispered.

'I don't know, but whatever it is, I'll give you to him if you don't shut up.' Horman scowled at his son and turned his attention back to Carel.

Isak did as he was told, fearing the stranger and his father's anger equally. Horman had never been a patient man; he blamed much of his misfortune on his supernatural son, from the inevitable death of his wife giving birth to Isak to his exit from the cavalry following an accident. Horman had no tales of heroic battle and near-fatal injuries

ercome with which to enthral his grandchildren by the fireside. Instead he had lost his livelihood thanks to a simple drill manoeuvre e wrong the day he learned of his wife's death. Now even ants crawling on the supplies were Isak's fault.

The stranger looked over at the wagons, his eyes moving down the line until Isak felt his gaze lock on to him. Suddenly a cold presence was all around, as if bitter winter had just invaded, and Isak fell back in surprise and alarm. He felt a surge of panic at the alien mind filling his thoughts and, inexplicably, hatred beyond anything he'd ever known before. In the next instant, the contact was broken off, so abruptly that Isak flinched in surprise.