Chaos Storm (The Flight of the Griffin Book 2) (34 page)

The last of the Emperor's troops were also edging back, shielding their faces from the sand as it rapidly expanded to become a spinning storm, swirling about the Emperor.

'This is it,' shouted Quint over the hissing roar, 'I wish Loras was here.'

'I certainly wish I was on the back of that elephant,' replied Pardigan, 'it seems to have the right idea, it's out of the camp and already heading for the mountains.'

Mahra pointed past the Emperor, 'Look at the desert… the sand is moving.'

The desert was indeed moving; in fact it was writhing and flowing. The dunes, both big and small now appearing more like waves in the sea, undulating, rising up and down, shaking the enemy camp to disruption with tents and the makeshift shelters collapsing as the distant battle became a confusion of disorder, the ground beneath bucking and heaving so warriors on both sides could do no more than lay flat and hope the desert wouldn't swallow them whole. And still, below the walls, the Emperor stood alone swirling his arms, driving the desert into a fury that darkened the sky and sent the hissing sands up in twisting spirals crackling with sharp bolts of red Chaos energy.

Faces began to form, looming in the sandstorm, souls of the recently gathered dead warriors driven to the surface of the crystal now forming the tortured energy of the storm front. Agonized, screaming faces, distress and anguish distorting them, loomed hundreds of spans high, towering over the city. Red shrieking bolts of lightning struck out from the centre of the storm into the desert, killing and maiming indiscriminately, driven by the fury of the storm as the Emperor, Djinn Tsai, worked his magic, his arms moving in a blur, screaming out his own euphoric cry as he continued to build his chaos storm.

* * *

For some strange and totally unfathomable reason, magic didn't have much effect on dragons. It had taken Magician Falk a number of attempts, and most of the night to come to this conclusion, but as he peddled the balloon back towards the city, puffing and wheezing with the strain, he was now totally and most utterly convinced. Forced by the incredible cold of the desert night to travel at a lower altitude, the hours of darkness had been a constant game of cat and mouse. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the great blue and yellow monster circling once again, making ready to come in for yet another attack. On a positive note, he had found it wasn't the smartest of creatures and so far brains had triumphed over the dragon's fiery heat and anger, but it surely couldn't go on for much longer.

The flames it breathed weren't so much of a problem, protecting the fragile craft from burning was done with relatively simple spells, the problem was in stopping the claws from damaging the fabric as the dragon sought to grip the balloon in its claws and then rip it to shreds. He was exhausted. The whole journey had turned, quite frankly, into a terrifying series of near death experiences, but thankfully he was close to leaving both balloon and the ghastly creature behind.

'Go away, you big… horrible… lizard.' Giving the pedals a few last pushes, he stopped, panting from the exertion, and sat up to peer over the side. 'Oh, thank the Source.' He was finally nearing the city. He had decided at some point during the night to give up on an escape to the mountains, the balloon never even managed to get close, the wind always driving him back into the desert. At some early hour, when he reflected that the Source was just playing with him, and he should have been tucked up in a warm bed fast asleep. He had come to the conclusion that reaching the mountains wasn't going to happen and decided that a return to the city was inevitable. To complicate matters, the dragon wasn't leaving him alone, despite all his attempts to dissuade it. In fact, it seemed to become more and more annoyed and even more determined to bring him down after every attempt.

Waving his hand, he conjured energy in the form of a horse and sent it galloping towards the fast approaching dragon. With an angry screeching roar the great beast veered away to rip the glowing apparition to shreds and, tightening the pack on his back to be sure his dropping bag would be ready when it was needed, the exhausted Magician went back to pedalling.

* * *

'Loras, it's all broken. Why do we have to do this? Even if we find
The Griffin
, its gone… destroyed, I'm sorry, but she's dead, isn't she? I mean, tell me if she isn't?' Tarent shaded his eyes and gazed up into the deep, intense blue of the sky for a moment. 'I would love to see
The Griffin
coming in to rescue us right now, but I don't think she will.' He returned his attention to Loras who was trying to clean his glasses through the folds of cloth that were wrapped around his head as protection from the sun. Nhasic was trying to help. The little demon was now clearly devoted to Loras after the Hawk had been defeated and had refused to be left behind in the caves. It was chattering soothingly, trying to rub the lenses clean with its little hairy hands while Loras kept pulling his head away, still trying to accomplish the task on his own. Tarent watched, still not trusting the small demon in the slightest. He also noted that Nhasic was the only one of the small group not having any problems with the heat, in fact, it seemed to be happier the hotter it got.

'I'm sorry Loras, but I just don't understand why we're out here.' Reaching down, he helped his small friend up from where he had crumpled down into the hot sand. Loras didn't reply, he just passed Nhasic the glasses and watched as the little demon licked them, its thin blue tongue flicking all over the glass and metal frames before rubbing them furiously on his hairy belly, all the time chattering happily. Tarent sighed and glanced back, squinting his eyes against the sun's glare and saw that the Princess was still on her feet, still trudging along. She was making her way up the high sand dune some distance below them, following in the footsteps the boys had left behind.

She was slow and had been moaning constantly ever since leaving the caves sometime in the early morning. They hadn't really meant to leave her behind, just put some distance between themselves and her shrill unhappy complaints - her feet hurt, she was tired, she had a blister, it was cold, it was hot, she was thirsty… on and on and on, until the two boys found themselves drawing further and further ahead of her just to escape the sound of her voice. They had now been walking for about four turns of the glass, and while it had been cold in the early morning darkness when they first set out, sunrise had rapidly warmed things up so that it was now blisteringly hot and required exhausting effort just to put one foot in front of the other. What had seemed like a good plan back in the cave; to find the remains of
The Griffin
, now looked like a stupid idea to Tarent.

'The wreckage is here… close.' Loras took his glasses back from Nhasic and studied them before putting them back on. He patted the demon on top of its head in thanks as it scampered up and sat on his shoulder rearranging the folds of Loras's head cloth. 'We have to find her, maybe I can put her together again.' He swayed unsteadily on his feet, shading his eyes to scan the horizon. 'We're close, I can feel her, and if I can feel her then some part of her magic still exists. I'm sure that when we get to her I can do something… possibly. The only alternative we have is to keep walking, were going in the right direction, I think…' He stopped and pointed, 'Look, rope!' He ran the last few steps down the face of the dune, fell flat on his face and then rolled over grinning happily with a length of rope clutched in his hand.

They had to struggle up and over the next massive dune before they found the actual crash site. The desert had already claimed a lot of the wreckage, swallowed down by the constantly shifting dunes. What remained were just a few bits of timber reaching up out of the sand, some rope and a scrap of canvas that would have been flapping in the breeze if there had been a breeze, but there wasn't. It was all just baking, bleaching in the hot, pounding desert sun. Another few days and the desert would have taken it all. Loras began scraping the sand away from the base of the largest beam already muttering an incantation.

Tarent watched his friend, saw Nhasic jump down to pull on the canvas and then looked back up the dune. The Princess had just reached the top and was standing, shading her eyes gazing off into the distant shimmering horizon.

'We found
The Griffin
,' shouted Tarent. 'It's down here, under the sand.' The Princess seemed to be ignoring him, maybe she's upset that we left her behind, he thought, and then shrugged, there wasn't much he could do about it, and he was so hot, tired and uncomfortable that he really didn't care how upset she might be.

'I can see a sandstorm,' shouted the Princess after a few moments, she glanced down at him then pointed off into the distance. 'Over this way, there is a huge cloud of dust and sand rising high into the air, maybe it is coming this way, I can't tell. We get sandstorms here in the desert and believe me boys, we do not want to be caught out in one.'

Tarent glanced up into the deep blue sky and wondered what she was talking about. There wasn't a cloud to be seen, certainly not a storm cloud.

'Princess says there's a storm coming, Loras.' He knelt down and rearranged his head cloth so it blocked out as much light from the glaring sand as possible, and then rummaged in his pack for his water bottle; there was still about half left. He took a mouthful then replaced it in his pack.

'The storm is getting bigger. It is most certainly coming this way and… and, I think the sand is moving. I've never seen that happen before, oh my…' The Princess sounded worried.

Tarent glanced up at her. She was still gazing off into the distance. Her headscarf flapping a little as if there was a breeze, it did it again… there was a breeze.

'Loras, if you're going to do something really impressive, then now would be a really good time to do it, because this storm thing might actually be coming. Loras… can you hear me… hey, Loras?' As Tarent rose and took a few flowing steps down the dune, everything changed from one moment to the next and his senses started screaming that the world wasn't right, the sand beneath him was moving, churning as if the whole desert had just turned to liquid, and the dunes around him were undulating like waves in a sea. Quite suddenly he was falling on top of Loras, mixed up with his friend in a tangle of heaving sand, wood and ropes and he was sinking down, struggling to keep his head above the surface. He noticed the little demon screeching, desperately hugging the big beam, the Princess was also screaming, tumbling towards them and then it struck him that they were all going to die, it was going to end here, and there was nothing he could do about it.

* * *

Quint stared up at the huge wall of sand that towered over the city. The hissing storm was hypnotising, almost beyond comprehension, swirling in an angry flickering tempest that he knew was held at bay by magic alone. He choked the feelings of dread and awe back as they threatened to overwhelm him and forced himself to look on. Monstrously huge, tortured faces of captured souls were swelling and writhing, mouths agape in silent screams pushing out, fighting against the surface of the storm high above him, straining for their moment of release, the time when they could fall upon the defenders in the tiny city.

'We need Loras,' shouted Mahra above the noise. She clutched at Quint's arm. 'Do you think the shield will hold if all that sand comes down?'

Quint didn't answer. What could he say? He didn't know where Loras was or how long the shield would hold when, not if, half the desert dropped onto it. He glanced about and noticed that the Sultan's Magicians had stopped their work and were also gawking, transfixed by the horrific sight. He realised that this was way beyond anything the Dhurbars could deal with. Where was Loras? He might be their only hope, but even
The Griffin
couldn't fly through a storm like this, whatever they were going to do, it would have to be done without Loras.

Drawing back on his bow, trembling with tension, Quint sighted down the wooden shaft of an arrow and aimed at the small figure of the Emperor, still standing in front of the city walls driving more and more power from the crystal out into the storm. Targeting his shot slightly higher and to the right to compensate for the wind, Quint loosed his arrow, praying to the Source that his aim was true and that the Emperor would fall, that through some trick of the Source, he might be vulnerable while he wove his spell and that this whole nightmare would be extinguished as the Emperor died. He could picture it all in his mind willing the arrow on, but then watched in despair as the arrow was plucked from its flight to disappear, twisting and turning up into the crackling red centre. There really was nothing they could do, the storm continued to grow.

At mid-day, as the sun rose to its zenith, the storm also reached its height and the Emperor, Djinn Tsai, dropped his magical hold. Released at last, the souls flew out from the storm cloud and over the city, drawing with them their heavy cloak of sand. Within a heartbeat, the screaming, hissing howl that had filled the air all day suddenly stopped and with little warning day became night as the sand enveloped the shield. The incredible silence that followed was broken, scant moments later as first one and then the sound of thousands of the cities occupants wailing in fear filled the air. For just a few instants, high above the city, the shield held, groaning and flickering with blue streaks of order energy. Quint reached out in the darkness and found what he thought must be Mahra. 'Light one of those glow globe things… quickly.' He heard her murmur the spell and a globe appeared, but it was for nothing as the shield suddenly collapsed and a good part of the desert fell almost silently down upon the city, the mass landing with a heavy '
whoomp
.' The screaming abruptly ceased, and then moments later returned with renewed passion.

Quint struggled to bend his legs, he didn't know how much sand was on top of him, but he had been knocked down and buried alive, and he couldn't breathe. Managing to turn a little, he got a slightly better position and made a gap between his body and the ground, found he had a little movement and tried to heave himself up, but then a small cascade of sand filled the gap and he was back where he started - he felt the rise of panic welling up inside him. With a huge effort and no little desperation, he gathered his will, swallowed down the horror of his situation and tried to draw his legs up under him, it happened very slowly… too slowly. Lack of air was already taking its toll on him. Flashes of light filled his eyes, sounds of crunching, shifting sand filled his senses and he felt his throat contract and heave as it sought to draw in air. Unbidden his mouth opened and sand ran in to fill it, panic consumed him, but this time it gave him the burst of raw energy he needed, and he heaved, pushing his legs down in a one-time only, no second chances effort to get up and out… and moved. As he felt the sand shift a hand grabbed the shoulder of his jerkin and pulled and then the bright desert sun filled his senses, and he was gasping, sucking in air and then coughing, spitting sand and retching as someone pounded his back.

'Come on Quint, get yourself together, we need you, they're attacking!' It was Pardigan. Quint rubbed at his eyes and glanced around. Mahra lay unconscious next to him while Pardigan was leaning over the wall, firing his bow at someone the other side. Quint shook his head and pulled his feet the final way out of the sand and looked over the wall. The sight that greeted him didn't make him wish he was still buried, but it almost did.

The city wall now had sand banked against it, almost reaching to the top, allowing much easier access for the invaders. He gazed out over the desert and saw thousands, a great tide of invaders running in. The first to arrive were already below, pulling themselves up the steep slope, digging their hands into the loose sand to find purchase and heave themselves higher while behind them, swarmed the wraiths, fading slowly from sight as they became invisible.

The shield obviously wasn't in place, rocks and arrows were landing all around, and the screaming of battle was once again deafening. Quint glanced over to where the Emperor had been spinning his magic and saw him being helped away, a sad little man obviously exhausted. It looked like he could hardly stand, and then, for Quint, there was no more time. A bearded face peered up over the wall, hands reached up, and the warrior dragged himself over.

The Soul Eater warrior was huge. His skin hot and glistening with sweat from the heat of the day and the exertion of clambering up the bank of sand. He was at least twice the size of Quint, heavily muscled and ready to fight. Eyes blazing hatred, the warrior lifted a huge double-headed axe and bellowed into Quint's face as he brought it down,
'Yaaaahhh!'
The stink of his breath was the first thing to hit Quint and then came the axe, hissing through the air.

Not quite the easy victim the warrior had expected, Quint allowed his talent to guide him, drew his blade, stepped into the swing and then moved to the side before stabbing out, all in one fluid movement. He watched as if far removed as his sword disappeared through the warriors beard and then felt it reach the stubborn resistance of his neck, the muscles contracting and the cartilage and sinews reluctantly parting with each and every vibration of the contact registering through the blade and up along his arm. Shock registered on the man's face as he dropped his axe and wrapped his hands about the blade. He sank to his knees and lay gurgling at Quint's feet, twitching as his lifeblood pumped onto the sand of the city wall. Quint had no time to dwell upon what he had done because two more warriors had just clambered over the top of the wall. They glanced around and then advanced on what they thought to be just a young unprepared boy, failing to notice the significance of their fallen comrade at this boy's feet. These two carried short stabbing spears that they twisted and spun the moment they stepped down onto the walkway.

Quint glanced about to gauge his situation. Ten paces to his left; Pardigan was also locked in battle with a sword in his right hand and a knife in his left. Pardigan could see the wraiths, and he had several dead around him, Quint could also hear him shouting burn, burn as he sent out bolts of charged energy, directing it through the knife while the sword danced, stabbing and slashing, forcing both visible and invisible attackers back.

Waiting for the right moment, Quint saw the stabbing spear of the warrior on his right change from its spinning motion into a thrusting jab, and he caught it, pulled the man towards him to spoil his centre of balance and bring him into the path of the other, and then watched as their carefully orchestrated attack fell apart. Releasing the spear, he lashed out with his foot in a sweeping roundhouse kick and felt it connect with a satisfying thump into the unbalanced warrior's head. Regaining his stance, he slashed his sword across the others exposed neck, and both fell to the sand where a Dhurbar fighter leapt upon them, killing them both swiftly with a long curved blade. More Dhurbars were arriving having freed themselves from the sand, and the battle became bloody and brutal as the attackers were forced back over the wall and down the sandbank. From behind them, the city echoed with the sounds of cries and shrieks as the wraiths attacked the civilian population once more, bringing a fear for their families to those on the wall, many turned and ran back into the city to protect their loved ones.

Quint crossed to Pardigan and shouted over the sounds of screaming and clashing steel.

'Where's Mahra?'

Pardigan was pulling his knife free from a corpse at his feet but glanced to his side. 'She went after two that got past us into the city; she'll be back. Oh Source, here they come again.' As he stood up at the wall, an arrow hit him in the shoulder spinning him round before falling to the floor. The mail shirt he was wearing beneath his jerkin had stopped the arrow, but he was hurt. '
Auugh!
Source… that burns, he exclaimed, flexing his arm and wincing as the bruising made it stiffen, and then the grimace turned to a smile as Mahra loped up onto the walkway again, her tongue lolling from the side of her mouth. She transformed from panther into girl and Quint couldn't help but look to see if her tongue would still be hanging out, it wasn't. Seeing that Pardigan was hurt she ran over and started to heal him, laying her hands on his shoulder and ignoring another group of warriors that were coming over the wall behind her. Quint leapt forward to protect his friends and the battle continued amid the dust and heat of the fierce desert sun.

* * *

Magician Falk was exhausted. The thought of propelling the balloon any more, pushing the peddles around and around was, quite frankly, distressing. He wasn't really sure how he had managed to push them around for this many turns of the glass. It had been an awfully long night of battling changing winds and defending again and again against the dragon. A colossal sandstorm had sprung up sometime after daybreak, coming from nowhere, and had sent him back some distance, spinning and jolting his fragile craft, forcing him off course once again, further away into the desert - the dragon had followed.

He was rather proud of his latest incantation of defence. Created out of desperation, necessity and pure magical genius, he concluded, this one was a blue glowing energy form, the same as various others he had created, but shaped as a mirror image of the dragon. As the real dragon had returned, beating its huge wings to gain altitude, it was angry, bellowing out fire and roaring in a most terrifying manner. He had cast the magic but slipped at the last moment as the balloon was buffeted by the wind and rather than sending the illusion close to the dragon as he had previously done, he had sent it way off target. Luckily, the dragon had been incensed that there was another of its kind close to its intended meal and had turned to pursue it as the rival disappeared towards the distant mountains. The ruse had allowed him time to recuperate a little and take a more methodical approach in reaching the beleaguered city. For almost three turns of the glass, he had peddled steadily, his leg muscles burning while he listened to the
thrum, thrum, thrum
of the huge propeller turning behind him. He had been taking a little rest, nibbling on dry crackers and the last of the cheese, when he noticed that, unfortunately, the dragon was back.

Quickly moving to the side of the balloon, he gazed down at the city far below him. He hadn't realised how high the balloon had risen, it must have been silently drifting up on the warm air currents of the early day. It was impossible to see what was happening down there, he was far too high to make out any detail. But the sky was clear, no sign of any sandstorms, and there didn't appear to be any crosswinds. He pondered the situation for a moment. The dropping bag could be steered and as long as he landed within the walls of the city he should be safe enough. With one last glance across to where the dragon was circling, Magician Falk clambered up to take a precarious perch on the side of the basket. It creaked and swayed as he stepped up and positioned himself gripping tightly to the corner rope, wobbling precariously before finding the right balance. Glancing down between his knees, he took a deep breath and regarded the target far below. He silently reassured himself that the dropping bag was completely safe because that annoying little spy person had confirmed that. With a last silent prayer to the Source, he slowly pitched forward… and fell.

The rush of air was immediate and alarming, his brain screaming at him that this wasn't a normal sensible thing to do, and now he was falling, very, very fast. It was only once he was falling that he realised that he hadn't tied the rope onto the side of the basket so that the dropping bag could be pulled free.

'
Aaaaaaahhhhhhh.
' Plummeting towards the desert and quickly blinded by tears from the rush of air, Magician Falk frantically grabbed at the empty air behind his pack in search of the rope. Firstly with his left hand and then with his right but there was nothing to grab. If he could get the rope he could pull it, and the bag would emerge, but he couldn't find it.
'Aaaaaaaaahhhhhh.'
Screaming didn't do any good of course but it did make him feel better. Of course, he realised as he was falling then the rope must surely be trailing behind, which would be up. He reached up and twisted which made him spin alarmingly, but the rope wrapped around him and he fumbled his fingers along it until it tightened on the back of the pack. Now holding the rope, he had to steady the rate he was spinning before he could pull it. He flung out his arms feeling the air pushing against his body, which helped him slow then correct the awful spin. He'd done this more upon some instinct rather than any knowledge that this might be the right thing to do, but quite quickly he stopped turning altogether and was able to tug on the rope. The first sign of success was the sound of flapping material and then the sudden jolt of the bag filling with air and the abrupt reduction in the rate of his descent to a gentle floating. His heart beating loudly in his ears, he glanced up to see the bag, flapping at its edges but open with the ropes all holding him in place, taught and creaking, but strong - he smiled.