The Storm's Own Son (Book 3) Read online

  Before him was death, a power preying on life and founded on the death of the self.

  His own will to life rose to challenge it.

  Lightning cracked in the sky over the plains, and thunder boomed.

  Mist rose, green and luminous, from the circle around the Hand. It rose in a column, silent and swirling. The three priests in shrouds lowered their heads in unison.

  Talaos thought he saw activity in the rest of the enemy camp. Men scrambled and no doubt boggled at the sight in their midst. He could certainly see gaping among the defenders on the walls. Kurvan was commander of the watch tonight, and he could hear the warlord bellowing at men to keep in order.

  The column of luminous green mist rose, higher and brighter from the circle of the Hand. As it rose, Talaos could see that it was forming three separate intertwined columns, each centered on one of the kneeling, prostrate priests. Thought it was hard to see at this distance, it looked as if those priests were slowly withering in their shrouds, their bodies thinning and sinking to the ground.

  He gathered his own life and power to challenge what he faced. One against three. One, himself, a single life, mind, will, and power against the collective power of his enemies. Power surged through him, radiating from within and crackling faintly along his skin. The wind grew stronger. Torches and campfires sputtered. Lightning now cracked high above over the enemy camp.

  The three columns grew and began to twist, to turn his way. They now seemed to be made of many moving shapes; hands, eyes, and mouths, forming and vanishing. They spiraled slowly around one another, roiling and changing. They snaked and twisted their way forward, nearly a hundred and fifty feet above the enemy camp, coming ever closer. They passed the camp and reached the outer defenses.

  On the walls, men watched. Some stood ready, others backed away with fear.

  Talaos had given them their orders, and they were not to hinder whatever came his way.

  Around himself, Talaos sensed something else. Something new. On the circular battlement of the main tower, he could see faint shapes, outlines of black in the blackness. They seemed to balance or float on the very battlement itself. He'd seen shapes like them before, at the circle of standing stones.

  Spirits.

  The three lines of green mist were twisting and snaking their way across the outer defenses, and nearing the walls. Men cleared away from the place where they looked likely to cross. Elsewhere, soldiers were gathering. Many must have risen from sleep. There was tremendous noise in the enemy camp, and torches were being lit.

  Talaos called to the storm.

  Lightning cracked over the city, and great peals of thunder boomed.

  Power crackled in Talaos's hands and around his head, blue-white in the darkness.

  A faint, light rain began to fall. The spirits began to move in the ring below Talaos. Shadows and outlines in black. They moved. They twisted, as if dancing, and began to circle. The shapes were varied. Some looked like men and women of ancient times, others like beasts, others yet were of beings he'd never seen, but all had clear forms, each their own.

  The snakes of mist passed over the walls, they neared the tower. They twisted and coiled. Shapes, faces, hands and arms appeared and disappeared, yet seemed to coordinate with collective purpose. Even over the wind, Talaos could still hear the songs from the camp. The movement and changes in the snakes were in time with the songs.

  Down below, at the plaza at the base of the tower, there were sounds as of struggle, of fighting. From his place high overhead, he couldn't see what was happening, nor did he have time to find out.

  The serpents, twisting around one another, reached the battlement. The spirits danced in their circle. The serpents made to pass, then suddenly recoiled. Talaos put forth his will and called to the lightning. A great bolt struck down from the sky at the serpents with a crash of thunder that shook the stones. The luminous green mist parted and swirled outward, then coalesced again

  Green faces of mist sang silently amid the serpent-like lines, in time with the voices far away. The faces were blank, identical, neither young nor old, neither male nor female. The three lines coiled back, then smote, sharp and fast as a serpent's strike, against the ring of dancing spirits. Then a spectral battle began, as mist entangled and attacked the spirits. Black shapes wielded ghostly weapons or shadowed fangs to strike at the mists. Here and there, spirits flickered away into nothingness.

  Talaos raged with fury.

  Living or ghosts, men or spirits, he would protect his own.

  If the storm above could not do what he required, he would.

  For he was himself the storm.

  He gathered power in his hands, lines and arcs of brilliant light radiating far out into the darkness and flickering against the stones of the watchtower.

  Below, more spirits were rising to the battlements, as others perished in the mist.

  Talaos roared, voice louder than the thunder, and cast his right hand outward.

  Power like lightning shot in a great crackling line from his outstretched hand to the nearest of the three lines of mist. It withered. A hundred feet or more of it simply vanished. The other two recoiled as far back as it had vanished. Then, together, the three lines snaked forward again. The storm raged all around now, and the wind howled. Rain began to pour from the sky.

  Again the serpents of mist attacked. Faces upon them sang as they struck. They reached the circle of dancing spirits, and the ghostly war began anew. Faint outlines of ancient weapons, shadowy hands, and black-lit claws struggled with tendrils of mist like grasping hands.

  Then, down on the top floor of the main tower below, living men appeared with very real weapons. Thirty or more of them poured up the ramp. They did not seem to see the spirits.

  "There's the abomination!" one shouted, pointing up at Talaos.

  "Demon!" roared another.

  Talaos cast his hands forth again. Lightning hurled from both of them, arcing between himself and the serpents of mist. He poured forth his fury. One snake flickered back, far back, across the plain. Then another. Talaos did not stop, did not relent. Lightning streamed on and on.

  The men below raced to base of the watchtower and began to climb the outer stairs.

  Two lines of lightning tore into the third serpent. It vanished entirely.

  The first enemy reached the top of the tower.

  Talaos turned with rage and blasted his foe with lightning from his hand. The man screamed, briefly, as he flew backwards into the sky, then his charred corpse fell to earth.

  Below, the other foes began screaming as well.

  Talaos looked down. The spirits had paused their dancing and found the men.

  Some of the invaders fell to the floor shrieking in maddened terror. Others halted in their tracks, as if their hearts had stopped, and fell over dead. Some slew themselves. A few suddenly changed expressions, with black-misted eyes, and turned to slay their fellows.

  However, Talaos still had his own battle to fight. Far away, the singing went on. He could see the remaining mist serpents reforming and crossing the plain. He stretched hands once more, aimed at them. Lightning, his lightning, arced far across the plain. It struck them, and they vanished completely. He then tried to strike the Hand of the Prophet, but the distance was too great. He felt something as well, the cost of the power he was wielding. The first hint of weariness grew within him.

  Below him on the tower, the screaming stopped. The spirits, still growing in numbers, began to dance again, circling around the battlement.

  Talaos paused. He watched them. He listened. He heard and felt the rhythm of the dancing spirits. It was very different from that of the Prophet's singers. It was wild and only barely coordinated. Each dancer moved as they wished, in accordance with their own nature. Each was free, and each their own.

  His rage calmed, and Talaos felt instead the free, wild exultation of life. His life, the strange life of the spirits, the lives of his people in the city. Each life, mind, body an
d soul, each their own. Cooperating as they wished or needed, but ever separate. Free.

  He laughed with joy amid the thunder, rain and wind.

  Primal joy, fey and free, welled throughout him.

  Weariness vanished.

  He laughed with the very joy of creation as the spirits danced.

  But out there on the plain was death made manifest, idealized and perfected.

  Impersonal, void, collective, lifeless, tamed and joyless. Oblivion raised to an ideal.

  It sought to put an end to all argument, but he would give it one anyway.

  He laughed again, but now with another joy, the wild joy of destruction.

  From the untamed sky above, he called the lightning.

  Lightning came.

  A mighty bolt from the sky struck the great tent, the House of the Prophet. There was a green flash. Then another bolt and another answering flash. Then more. Again and again he called the lightning, hand in motion and voice roaring with life.

  Wind howled and raged against the Prophet's tents.

  The great crowd of singers outside began to falter, some fled.

  There was tumult in the enemy camp. Fires went out in the rain.

  Lightning, again and again. The Hand glanced briefly at the House of the Prophet. There were answering, chanted voices within, and the singing changed. The green light around the House grew stronger, far stronger. As the Hand turned back, he uncrossed his right arm, aimed it toward Talaos, and a brilliant emerald flame burst around his outstretched, white-gloved hand.

  Talaos laughed, a roaring, echoing laugh like thunder in a whirlwind, and far louder than the storm. Across the city, people stopped at the sound.

  A great bolt, his bolt, brighter than any he'd ever seen, illuminated the sky and struck the Hand of the Prophet. The earth shook. The green light of the circle went out. Smoke rose from a blackened pit where the Hand and the withered priests had been.

  The singing stopped. Wailing screams rose from the House of the Prophet, screams in perfect unison that faded away into eerily harmonious lamentation.

  The spirits danced on.

  Talaos laughed and shouted with the joy of them, on and on, then at last he calmed.

  He stood tall atop the watchtower with his cloak blowing in the wind, raised his open right hand to the spirits in solemn greeting, then brought it to his heart. The spirits seemed to slow in their dance, and bowed, but they did not stop. They circled wider, spiraling outward, slowing further, and then faded into the night.

  The storm began to calm. The lightning ceased and the wind slowed. Only the rain, steady rather than driving, remained.

  Out in the enemy camp, however, noise and tumult continued

  On the walls and in the city, his men looked up at him, or out at the destruction among the Prophet's tents. They had the look of men who'd just won a battle, yet mingled with awe or fear. Talaos could hear other noises, the shouting of his Madmen, coming up the stairs below.

  Then exhaustion caught him at last, and he slumped against the parapet of the watchtower. He grinned a weary but happy grin, and waited in the rain and dark.

  2. Choices

  "Talaos, you all right?" shouted Vulkas from the base of the watchtower.

  In answer, Talaos leapt over the parapet and landed lightly on the floor twenty feet below. The Madmen reacted by first moving to defensive positions, then grinned as he landed.

  Larogwan stepped forward, clapped him on the shoulder, and laughed, "So, do you think you might be done arguing against being called the Storm Lord?"

  Talaos nodded and grinned, then replied, "Thirty men got up here to kill me, and it sounded like there was commotion below. What happened?"

  "It seems that a hundred or so followers of the Prophet decided not to leave after all," answered Larogwan, "about sixty of them were from our army. Those thirty were the ones that got through."

  "Well and madly done," said Talaos.

  The Madmen grinned, save for Epos hidden in his helm. Kyrax made his way in the dark toward the battlement.

  Vulkas looked around at the bodies. "I saw that one you sent flying off the tower, but this lot died in all sorts of ways, and none of them look like lightning."

  Talaos took on a more solemn expression. "Spirits were here. They circled the battlement and helped me fight those snakes of mist. When these men arrived, the spirits weren't pleased."

  Vulkas nodded. Imvan grew pale. Firio looked around nervously. Epos made no sign of his thoughts.

  "Well then, glad they could make themselves useful after all," said Larogwan.

  Halmir, however, took on an expression of solemn wonder, and turned in a circle surveying around him. He raised his axe, brought it to his chest, and then spoke, "Honor upon them, and gratitude to them." With that, he began to speak quiet words in his own language.

  From the battlement, Kyrax shouted, "By all the bloody hells! Come look at this!"

  They went to join him. Talaos could see soldiers out on the darkened plain, leaving the enemy camp and making their way by torchlight toward Avrosa. Some were in straggling lines, others in ordered companies. Among them were many makeshift tokens of truce. At the camp itself, there were signs and sounds of fighting.

  Talaos looked for Kurvan, and saw him atop the keep with Aro, Megaras, and Adriko nearby. They looked to be in close discussion. Aro motioned to a messenger, who sped away. Talaos could guess where the messenger was bound.

  He leaned over the battlement and shouted in a thundering voice, "Form up troops in the plaza, then open the gates! Admit any who will swear oath to fight against the Prophet!"

  The officers below looked up at him in momentary confusion.

  "I command it!" he boomed, carrying over the wind.

  They saluted and sprang into action. Faintly under the wind, he could hear their shouts, "We obey!"

  Then he turned to the Madmen, "Follow me to the gates. There will be much to do."

  Together they descended the many flights of steps. At the ground level, several down from the wall causeway, was a high-ceilinged chamber with pillars, banners, and old trophies of war on pedestals. There were stairs down as well, separate from the main stairwell. Though Talaos had heard there were little-used storerooms below, he'd never been there. However, he now had a strange feeling. Something was amiss. He could feel presences. Spirits. Though they had returned to their usual invisibility, he could feel them, and something else. He turned and made for the stairs down.

  "Talaos?" said Larogwan.

  "Follow me," he replied.

  They descended the granite steps in the open stairwell. The stairs spiraled around and down through a tunnel of huge blocks cut from the same stone as the scene of the Storm Lord. Further down, it opened again to a lofty, dome-vaulted chamber full of dusty trophy armor, old statuary, and the tattered, bloodstained banners of enemy cities.

  Still, the strange feeling drove him on.

  The stairs followed the curve of the wall around to a landing made of a single large block of stone. The rest of the floor was of old mosaics. The lower half of the walls were cut from solid bedrock. A torch in a sconce next to the base of the stairs illuminated the place, and another burned at exactly the opposite point. There was a wooden trap door below, closed.

  Talaos went straight for the trap door. Firio skittered past to take a look. He knelt down and examined it with an expert eye.

  "This was locked," Firio said, "but not now. Someone used something to burn through the bolt instead of picking it. Want me to open it?"

  "No," replied Talaos, who then walked forward, knelt down, and pulled the inset bronze handle. It opened with some slight resistance from rarely-used hinges.

  Faint light shone below, a mingled light as from many sources. Talaos descended steps cut from the bedrock. He passed another short tunnel, after which the steps opened to a circular room with walls carved in scenes of ancient Avrosa. Against the walls sat numerous dusty chests piled among other odds and ends, and
six iron doors recessed in niches.

  Shadows, faint and flickering, circled along the walls.

  In the middle of the bare stone floor, however, an elaborate circle of glyphs and runes looked fresh-drawn in chalk, and at the intersection of each set of lines within the circle burned a candle. In the very center of the circle, Liriel lay slumped over with folded legs, as if she had been sitting cross-legged, but then fell into sleep. Beside her sat a full chalice and a bloody dagger. She was very pale.

  Talaos leapt from the side of the stairs and raced across the floor toward the center. As he did so, the shadows fled before him. He crossed the circle, and instead of his feet merely smearing chalk, waves like wind radiated from him. They blew out nearby candles and entirely cleared the floor in his path.

  The shadows vanished.

  He reached the center and took Liriel in his arms. She felt cool to the touch. He could see that she had a sharp cut along her forearm, covered with dried blood. The chalice smelled of blood as well. He held her close and tilted her head back, then felt her neck and chest. She breathed. He kissed her, and her eyes opened.

  "Talaos…" she whispered.

  "I'm here."

  "Is it done?" she asked, voice faint.

  "I have destroyed what was sent, and the sender," he replied, "though I might well have died, if not for help from your spirits."

  "Not my spirits…" she answered weakly. "They had to choose for themselves… I just….. made a beacon for them to see."

  "Thank you. How I thank you. But don't ever do something like this again."

  "Is that a command?" she whispered, smiling.

  "Yes."

  "I obey," she said with quiet earnestness.

  Talaos then added, "We're going to the physician Demistas."

  "Demistas?" Liriel whispered, falling asleep again. "Yes, that ought to do…"

  Talaos held her close, kissed her, and then lifted her up as if weightless.

  There was no time whatsoever to deal with it now, but he made note in his mind to talk to the Avrosans about inventorying the many things down here.

  "Meet me at the plaza by the gates," he said to the Madmen.