until he could hardly sense any part of him.
Then there was pain; a cold discomfort that grew to become a hungry licking flame. The swirls of grey began to thicken and press down on him, swamping his eyes and mouth, causing him to choke in the silence. He tried to struggle free, to fight his way clear, but the cold had sapped his strength and the pressure was all around. There was nowhere to escape to and soon he fell into helpless exhaustion, surrendering to the tug of icy depths that dragged him further down to a place of no light and no memory, only the chill cradle of the grave.
And a voice.
‘Isak. ’
‘Raise your head, Isak. ’
‘Raise your head and see me.’
He had scarcely enough strength to obey, but somehow, he did lift his head. He could see nothing, but an image of a figure was imprinted on his mind: a man, tall and powerful, terrifying, and yet almost featureless, with blank eyes, smooth, midnight-blue skin and only the impression of a mouth. The only shape that had any definition was the ornate bow that rested at the man’s side. The pitch-black frame was flecked with gold and silver, and set with spirals of jewels.
‘I am your master now. You are the blade I wield; the arrow I send high into the night. You are my Chosen, you share in my majesty and the Land will see my glory echo in your deeds.’
Isak tried to flee the voice, to hide from the words crashing through his head. He could sense others all around now, the faint touch of their movements and the melodious echoes of their voices, but the figure swept them all aside - except for one, the softest touch of them all, one that was scarcely noticeable until the others were gone and then it was a thread of pure light, distinct against the dark background and impervious to the figure’s palpable fury.
It began to move, caressing the curve of his hip and moving up over his belly towards his heart. Isak relaxed under its soothing touch, then curled tightly as the stench of burning flesh filled his nostrils. Pain blossomed on his chest, then drove so deep the light burst through his body and burned a path through the darkness. In a heartbeat it had dissipated and all that remained was a faint voice: the sound of a girl calling a name, but so distant her cry was lost on the wind.
Isak woke with a scream, feeling as if the walls lurched and shuddered around him before reality reasserted itself. He took great gulps of air and tried to open his eyes, but the light streaming through the window made him gasp. Grasping at the unfamiliar sheets Isak battled to regain his wits. A shiver ran down his spine and into his legs; it felt like his soul returning. Every part of him ached, his throat burned and his limbs throbbed, but it was the smell of burnt flesh that scared him most.
He sat up and grabbed the copper mirror from the desk to inspect his reflection, but he had to squint down to see it: a runic shape in stinging scar tissue on his sternum. It wasn’t anything he recognised - not that he’d really expected to - but it wasn’t even something from his dreams of the island palace.
In the looking-glass he could see it more clearly: a circle of scar tissue with a horizontal bar across its centre, no more than two inches across. The bar did not quite span the width of the circle, but a vertical line at either end made that connection, with one going straight down, the other up.
Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by the taste of magic emanating from the chimney at the centre of the room: Lord Bahl. He grabbed his ragged shirt and quickly pulled it on, making sure the bone thongs were fastened and the scar covered. As Lord Bahl appeared, the scar was covered, but Isak could not hide the haggard look on his face.
‘You slept badly. Dreamed badly.’
It was not a question. Isak looked up at his new master with incomprehension. As he struggled up and propped his body against the wall, he realised he was shivering uncontrollably. Bahl noticed the
Then there was pain; a cold discomfort that grew to become a hungry licking flame. The swirls of grey began to thicken and press down on him, swamping his eyes and mouth, causing him to choke in the silence. He tried to struggle free, to fight his way clear, but the cold had sapped his strength and the pressure was all around. There was nowhere to escape to and soon he fell into helpless exhaustion, surrendering to the tug of icy depths that dragged him further down to a place of no light and no memory, only the chill cradle of the grave.
And a voice.
‘Isak. ’
‘Raise your head, Isak. ’
‘Raise your head and see me.’
He had scarcely enough strength to obey, but somehow, he did lift his head. He could see nothing, but an image of a figure was imprinted on his mind: a man, tall and powerful, terrifying, and yet almost featureless, with blank eyes, smooth, midnight-blue skin and only the impression of a mouth. The only shape that had any definition was the ornate bow that rested at the man’s side. The pitch-black frame was flecked with gold and silver, and set with spirals of jewels.
‘I am your master now. You are the blade I wield; the arrow I send high into the night. You are my Chosen, you share in my majesty and the Land will see my glory echo in your deeds.’
Isak tried to flee the voice, to hide from the words crashing through his head. He could sense others all around now, the faint touch of their movements and the melodious echoes of their voices, but the figure swept them all aside - except for one, the softest touch of them all, one that was scarcely noticeable until the others were gone and then it was a thread of pure light, distinct against the dark background and impervious to the figure’s palpable fury.
It began to move, caressing the curve of his hip and moving up over his belly towards his heart. Isak relaxed under its soothing touch, then curled tightly as the stench of burning flesh filled his nostrils. Pain blossomed on his chest, then drove so deep the light burst through his body and burned a path through the darkness. In a heartbeat it had dissipated and all that remained was a faint voice: the sound of a girl calling a name, but so distant her cry was lost on the wind.
Isak woke with a scream, feeling as if the walls lurched and shuddered around him before reality reasserted itself. He took great gulps of air and tried to open his eyes, but the light streaming through the window made him gasp. Grasping at the unfamiliar sheets Isak battled to regain his wits. A shiver ran down his spine and into his legs; it felt like his soul returning. Every part of him ached, his throat burned and his limbs throbbed, but it was the smell of burnt flesh that scared him most.
He sat up and grabbed the copper mirror from the desk to inspect his reflection, but he had to squint down to see it: a runic shape in stinging scar tissue on his sternum. It wasn’t anything he recognised - not that he’d really expected to - but it wasn’t even something from his dreams of the island palace.
In the looking-glass he could see it more clearly: a circle of scar tissue with a horizontal bar across its centre, no more than two inches across. The bar did not quite span the width of the circle, but a vertical line at either end made that connection, with one going straight down, the other up.
Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by the taste of magic emanating from the chimney at the centre of the room: Lord Bahl. He grabbed his ragged shirt and quickly pulled it on, making sure the bone thongs were fastened and the scar covered. As Lord Bahl appeared, the scar was covered, but Isak could not hide the haggard look on his face.
‘You slept badly. Dreamed badly.’
It was not a question. Isak looked up at his new master with incomprehension. As he struggled up and propped his body against the wall, he realised he was shivering uncontrollably. Bahl noticed the
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