Lodestone Book One: The Sea of Storms (2 page)

Overhead, Ail-Kar, the white sun,
gleamed mischievously.

Chapter
1

“He
comes!”

A knot of a dozen or so Kelanni
villagers stood in the market courtyard, eyes raised skyward. Dark
clouds roiled overhead, and the rain was persistent, running down
their faces and into their eyes, making it difficult to see. At the
edges of the courtyard, almost melted into the shadows, were many
others, pulled by curiosity and repelled by apprehension. In the
centre, four downcast youths stood at either side of two laden
wooden carts.

As they watched, a shadow moved
across the expanse, growing silently, rapidly. It resolved into the
shape of a Kelanni, dark cloak flared outwards like a bird with a
single great wing. He dropped from the sky with a terrible grace
and landed in the space before the knot of villagers, with the cart
to his back, the cloak settling about his shoulders. He stood
erect, raindrops trickling down his dark olive cheeks like false
tears. Close cropped dark hair bristled on his scalp and down the
back of his neck. His right hand grasped a dark wooden staff,
diamond blades at each of its ends. His tail flicked from side to
side.

He walked forward and cast the
fold of his cloak to one side, lifting his left hand. The first
three fingers were raised; the other two were bent
downwards.

“Fealty and service to the
Three,” he announced. His voice was hard, confident.

“Fealty and service,” chorused
the group, raggedly.

“Which of you is
headman?”

A middle-aged villager dressed in
plain tan jerkin and breeches stepped forward. He was balding, with
a thin, lean face and a thin, lean voice. “I am called Boran. May I
know the name of Prophet’s Keltar?”

The dark man ignored him, and
turned to the carts. “Why are these not harnessed to graylesh? Were
you expecting my soldiers to drag them all the way to Chalimar? Or
perhaps you had that privilege in mind for these children of yours?
They look to me as if they could scarcely lift a plate of
food.”

The man called Boran broke in
solicitously. “Forgive me, Lord. Your presence was not expected for
another half hour. The animals are being led here as we
speak.”

There was a rhythmic tramping
from the entrance to the market place. A dozen soldiers entered in
ranked pairs, causing villagers to push against one another in
their efforts to scatter. The fact that the Keltar had been willing
to descend from the sky alone and ahead of his escort seemed only
to reinforce his contempt for the villagers.

Following them were two men, each
leading a graylesh. They proceeded to harness the animals to the
carts, while the Captain of the escort barked orders and the
soldiers took up position at the front and van. The rain began to
ease a little and with it, the drumming of raindrops against the
packed earth. As the clouds parted slightly, the dull reddish glow
of Ail-Mazzoth began to seep through like a wound.

Boran took a nervous step
forward. “May I offer my Lord some refreshment at my home? I would
be honoured indeed–”

The Keltar turned without a word
and struck Boran with the back of his left hand. The headman went
down, sprawling in the dirt. No-one moved to help him.

The Keltar turned back to the
carts. “Get these things out of here,” he bellowed.

“Hold!”
cried a voice from above.

Perched on the rooftop, a hooded
figure could be seen, limned against Ail-Mazzoth`s reddish glow.
The figure leaped from the gable, dark cloak flaring behind him,
and landed in a crouch in front of the Keltar. He straightened and
pushed back his hood. The stranger was tall, with hard-set blue
eyes and a mouth that quirked slightly, as if ready to smile at any
moment. His speckled olive face was topped by waves of sandy hair.
His right hand gripped a diamond tipped staff, like the
Keltar`s.

The soldiers went for their
weapons but were stopped in their tracks by the Keltar, who raised
his left hand without taking his eyes from the stranger. “Who are
you?” he barked. “What is your business here?”

The stranger nodded at the carts
and the dejected looking youths. “May I ask where you are taking
these?”

“I am the
Prophet’s Keltar. His word is not to be questioned by anyone. I
will know who you are and how you bear the trappings of
Keltar.
Answer me!”

The ensuing silence was filled
only by the light drumming of raindrops, and the impatient snorting
of the graylesh. The townspeople stood like statues in the deep
crimson and black shadows of the courtyard. Puddles were forming
surreptitiously in small depressions in the earth.

“Who I am is…unimportant. I would
ask that you release these young people.” The stranger’s tone was
firm and even.

“Impossible! This is the
Prophet’s tribute.” The Keltar pointed his staff at the stranger.
You will surrender that cloak immediately, and accompany us to the
keep at Chalimar for questioning.” The Keltar had moved his hands
either side of the balancing point of his weapon.

“I regret that I must decline the
Prophet’s kind invitation.” The stranger gave a slight bow, giving
his reply a mocking edge. “I must also insist that the young people
remain here. I am sure the Prophet will not miss them.”

“You will come
with us.
Now,
”
the Keltar bellowed, propelling himself forward and swinging his
staff at the other’s head. The stranger took a step back and
brought up his staff with both hands to parry the force of the
blow. The two staffs collided with a crack and they stood, locked
together in a strained tableau, as if preparing to decide the fate
of their world.

~

Filthy
barrog-swine!
Shann`s pale olive cheeks
flushed, and her intense hazel eyes blazed like twin suns. She
stood beneath the overhang of a fruit vendor’s, dressed in her
slate grey kitchen hand’s garb. Small, even for her age, she had a
delicate chin and a delicate mouth that would have seemed pretty if
she smiled, which she seldom did.

She watched as the Keltar fell
from the sky and began shouting demands. She saw the cloaked figure
knock Boltan to the ground and felt the force of the blow. Her hand
moved involuntarily to her face, as she recalled the day the
Prophet’s soldiers had come for her parents.

She was no more than eight turns
of the season. A small round face, eyes streaked with tears, she
had clung desperately to her mother’s tresses, howling in
confusion, until a soldier lost patience and pried her loose,
knocking her to the ground with the back of his leather gauntlet.
She never saw her parents again.

Not long after that, her life at
the Inn began. Poltann and Gallar, who were distantly related to
her, had decided to take her in, for which she was expected to
work. The kitchens were hot and stifling and the work was hard, but
she had not been treated unkindly. She had asked about her parents,
of course, but had never received a direct answer. It bothered her
that she could not recall their faces clearly. Some nights she lay
in her cot desperately trying to remember, as if the mental effort
would somehow bring them back, and they would stand before her and
take her home and all would be as it was. She rubbed her
cheek.

She heard a cry from a rooftop
east of the courtyard. Her eyes followed the other bystanders, as
another Keltar descended through the falling rain and alighted in
front of the first. She strained to listen to the interchange, but
the newcomer was more softly spoken and hard to make out above the
drumming of the rain. She thought she heard him demanding that the
tributes be set free. Suddenly the first Keltar leaped towards the
second, their staffs clashing furiously. Her eyes widened in
disbelief, transfixed by the scene, as the two men strained
together.

Suddenly, the tall stranger
shoved with all his strength, causing the other to stumble
backwards, and then flared his cloak, leaping into the air. The
other Keltar recovered his balance and followed suit. They met in
mid-air and the courtyard rang with blow and counterblow, as their
staffs repeatedly made contact.

By now, the crowd in the
courtyard had woken as if from a dream. There were screams. Most
were backing away, or trying to escape through the nearest street
or alleyway. The graylesh were shifting nervously. The soldiers’
hands were at the hilts of their weapons, but they seemed unsure
whether they should disobey their previous instructions and try to
intervene somehow. Shann stood her ground, following every motion,
as if her life were wagered on the outcome.

The first Keltar grasped one end
of his staff and viciously thrust the diamond pointed tip towards
the stranger. The stranger avoided the thrust, tumbling through the
air as he did so. He landed awkwardly, falling to his side on the
rain soaked ground. Shann heard herself gasp as the first Keltar
descended rapidly. As he did so, he reached into a hidden recess
and drew out a small silver coloured globe, hurling it to the
ground. The silver ball bounced once and rolled to a halt in front
of the stranger. It was emitting a whine, which steadily rose in
pitch. It exploded in a blinding white flash. The stranger raised
his left arm against the blast. He shook his head, scrambled to get
his legs under him and rapidly backed away to Shann`s right. She
could see that the side of his face was smeared with mud. He
pressed his eyes shut and shook his head once again. The first
Keltar landed gracefully and began whirling his staff hand over
hand in front of him, like a spinning shield. “Surrender now, or
die!” Shann heard him cry. He brought the spinning staff to a halt,
grasping it with both hands in front of him, and then rushed at the
stranger again.

The stranger had planted his legs
and held out his staff, so as to meet the blow head on. However,
the first Keltar reversed one hand on the staff, and met the
stranger’s weapon with an upward, twisting motion, which tore it
out of his grasp. Shann watched as the staff sailed through the air
and landed with a splat a few steps from where she was standing.
Without thinking, she ran forward, bent down and grabbed the
staff.

The stranger was stumbling
towards her; behind him the first Keltar was advancing in their
direction in an unhurried fashion. Shann sprinted towards the
stranger, holding out the staff and as he took it, their eyes met.
His were blue and sharp as sapphires. One side of his face was
smeared with dirt and the other cheek was scratched. His sandy hair
was plastered to his head by the rain. He smiled at her in a
quizzical fashion; then spun round to face his opponent once more.
Shann backed away. The combatants briefly circled one another in
silence as the rain gently fell.

The first Keltar launched another
frontal assault, but this time the stranger was ready. He feinted
to the man’s left. The first Keltar brought his staff down on empty
space, whilst the stranger ducked low to the man’s right and behind
him, slashing with his staff. The diamond blade connected with the
upper part of his cloak, raking across it and tearing it to
ribbons. The first Keltar howled with rage and spun on his
attacker. The stranger sprang away but was a fraction of a second
too late. The first Keltar swung his weapon from one end, gaining
maximum reach, the blade slicing through the stranger’s side as he
turned. The side of his mouth twisted in triumph.

Clutching his
side, the stranger, ran toward Shann. He reached inside a pocket
and grabbed Shann`s wrist, pressing something into the palm of her
hand. The object was cold and sticky. As she closed her fingers
around it, he breathed one word into her ear.
“Run!”

The stranger took a step back and
jumped, pressing something at his left shoulder. His cloak flared
outwards and he rose up, landing on a rooftop behind her. He leaped
once more and was gone. The first Keltar jumped and touched his
shoulder, but his ruined cloak stayed flat. He fell to the ground,
stumbling forward and uttering a curse.

The Keltar turned his face to the
rooftop where the stranger had disappeared, and then towards Shann.
There was a flash of lightning, followed by a clap of thunder,
which seemed to rouse Shann from her stupor. She turned on her
heel, and bolted down the nearest alley.

The Keltar
pointed his staff and yelled at the soldiers.
“After her!”

~

Shann pelted down the narrow
alleyway, her heart pounding like a smith’s hammer. She could hear
the cries and curses of the pursuing soldiers, but resisted the
urge to turn and look. She concentrated instead on avoiding the
boxes, barrels, bits of wood and other detritus that littered the
passageway. There was a crash and a splintering sound behind her,
followed by more cursing.

Shann’s mind began to race. Corte
was her town, the town she had been born in, lost her parents in,
made friends in, lived and worked in. She knew every building,
every street, every stone in the place, or so it seemed. Her
internal map kicked in. Two thirds of the way down the alley, the
way was transected by another passage, which ran along the rear of
the properties facing Arian Street. Narrow twisting routes were
likely to give her an advantage. Fortunately, Corte had more than
its fair share of those.