Storm Rising
Authors: Mercedes Lackey
The lure of dark magic …
In a strange way, Firesong actually admired Falcons-bane—or rather, he admired the level of craftsmanship of which Falconsbane was capable in his rare moments of sanity.
And as for Ma’ar’s secret of immortality—in its way, that was the most elegant of all his magic.
He
should
be thinking—if he thought about Falcons-bane at all—about those fugitive memories of Ma’ar’s, and the “solution” that the Dark Adept had contrived to keep his own land safe from the mage-storms that were going to occur when Urtho died. That was where, if it was anywhere, the germ of their own solution would lie.
But his slippery thoughts kept coming back to that elegant little pattern of stronghold—possession—stronghold. It was just so very clever!
All his adult life he had cherished a secret longing, born when he had learned about his ancestor Vanyel and the love and lifebonding that had lasted through time and across the ages with his beloved Tylendel-Stefen. As foolishly romantic as it was,
he
had longed to find someone, a lifebonded, a soul-mate.
Lifebonds were incredibly rare. The chances of ever finding one’s lifemate were remote, no matter how much one looked.
But what if you lived for several lifetimes?
What if you had a way to return, over and over, fully as yourself?
What if you managed to find that ethical way to return the way Falconsbane had? You could search as long as you needed to in order to find your lifebonded. And then?
Then, perhaps you could find a way to stay together forever. Vanyel and Stefen had.
And wasn’t
that
a fascinating thought?
NOVELS BY MERCEDES LACKEY
available from DAW Books:
THE BOOKS OF VALDEMAR:
THE HERALDS OF VALDEMAR
ARROWS OF THE QUEEN
ARROW’S FLIGHT
ARROW’S FALL
THE LAST HERALD-MAGE
MAGIC’S PAWN
MAGIC’S PROMISE
MAGIC’S PRICE
THE MAGE WINDS
WINDS OF FATE
WINDS OF CHANGE
WINDS OF FURY
THE MAGE STORMS
STORM WARNING
STORM RISING
STORM BREAKING
VOWS AND HONOR
THE OATHBOUND
OATHBREAKERS
OATHBLOOD
THE COLLEGIUM CHRONICLES
FOUNDATION
INTRIGUES
VALDEMAR ANTHOLOGIES
SWORD OF ICE
SUN IN GLORY
CROSSROADS
MOVING TARGETS
CHANGING THE WORLD
FINDING THE WAY
*
BY THE SWORD
BRIGHTLY BURNING
TAKE A THIEF
EXILE’S HONOR
EXILE’S VALOR
Written with LARRY DIXON:
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THE BLACK GRYPHON
THE WHITE GRYPHON
THE SILVER GRYPHON
DARIAN’S TALE
OWLFLIGHT
OWLSIGHT
OWLKNIGHT
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THE BLACK SWAN
THE DRAGON JOUSTERS
JOUST
ALTA
SANCTUARY
AERIE
THE ELEMENTAL MASTERS
THE SERPENT’S SHADOW
THE GATES OF SLEEP
PHOENIX AND ASHES
THE WIZARD OF LONDON
RESERVED FOR THE CAT
And don’t miss:
THE VALDEMAR COMPANION
Edited by John Helfers and Denise Little
*
Coming soon from DAW Books
STORM
RISING
Book Two of The Mage Storms
MERCEDES LACKEY
DAW BOOKS, INC.
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_______________________________
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Copyright © by Mercedes R. Lackey.
All Rights Reserved.
Cover art by Jody Lee
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Interior Illustrations by Larry Dixon.
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Time Line by Pat Tobin.
Maps by Larry Dixon.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1000.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
First Paperback Printing, October 1996
19
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
Dedicated to Teresa and Dejah
OFFICIAL TIMELINE FOR THE
by Mercedes Lackey
HERALDS OF VALDEMAR SERIES
Sequence of events by Valdemar reckoning
Grand Duke Tremane shivered as a cold draft wisped past the shutters behind him and drifted down the back of his neck. This was a far cry from Emperor Charliss’ Crag Castle—which, though outwardly austere, was nevertheless replete with hidden comforts. Even his own ducal manor, while primitive by the standards of Crag Castle, was free of drafts in the worst of weather. Tremane closed his eyes for a moment in longing for his own home as yet another breath of ice insinuated itself past his collar. It felt less like a trickle of cold water and more like the edge of a knife blade laid along his spine.
More like at my throat.
That cold breath of air was the merest harbinger of worse, much worse, to come. That was why he had gathered every officer, every mage, and every scholar in his ranks here together, all of them crammed into the largest room his confiscated headquarters afforded.
Who did they say had built this place? A Hardornen Grand Duke at least, as I recall.
His own manor boasted many rooms grander than this, and better suited to gathering large groups of men for a serious discussion. The tall windows, though glazed, were as leaky as so many sieves, and he’d been forced to block out the thin gray light of another bleak autumn day by having the shutters fastened down across them; and although fires roared in the fireplaces at either end of the room, the heat went straight up into the rafters two stories above his head, where it was hardly doing anyone
any good. In happier times, this wood-paneled, vaulted hall with its floor of chill stone had likely played host to any number of glittering balls and entertainments. The rest of the time it had probably been shut up, given that it was a drafty old barn and impossible to keep at a reasonable temperature. Tremane glanced up at the exposed beams and rafters above him; they were lost in the shadows despite the presence of so many candles and lanterns on the tables that the air trembled and shimmered just above the flickering flames.
The massed candles must be putting out almost as much heat as the fireplaces; too bad none of that heat was reaching him.
Dozens of anxious faces peered up at him. He was seated on a massive chair behind a ridiculously tiny secretary’s desk up on the platform where musicians had probably performed. It was uncomfortably like a dais, and he was well aware that such a comparison would not be lost on the Imperial spies in his ranks. Right now, though, that was the least of his concerns. The primary issue here was a simpler one: survival.
He stood up, and the murmur of incidental conversation below him died into silence without the need to clear his throat.
“Forgive me, gentlemen, if I bore you by stating the obvious,” he began, concealing his discomfort at addressing so many people at once. He had never been particularly adept at public speaking; it was the one lack he suffered as a commander. No stirring battlefield speeches out of him—he was more apt to clear his throat uneasily, then bark something trite about honor and loyalty, and retire in confusion. “Some of you have been involved in other projects at my request, and I want you all to know our current situation as clearly as possible, so that nothing has to be explained twice.”
He winced inwardly at the awkwardness of his own words, but there were some nods out in his audience, and no one looked bored yet, so he carried on. Officers formed the bulk of his audience, massed at three long tables in front of him, dark and foreboding in their field uniforms of a dark reddish brown—the color of
dried blood. Some wag had once made the claim that the reason the field uniforms were that color was to avoid the expense of removing stains after a battle. As a sample of wit, it had fallen rather flat; taken at face value, it might just have been the truth.
To his right and left, respectively, were his tame scholars and the Imperial mages; the latter in a variation on the field uniforms, looser and more comfortable for middle-aged and spreading bodies. The former, as civilians, wore whatever they wished to, and were the sole spots of brightness here. He addressed his first summation to mages and scholars both, rather than to the officers. “Although the Imperial forces have not met with any active opposition since we pulled in our line and took a fortified position here, we are still in hostile territory. Everything to the west of us was completely unsecured when we broke off all engagements, and I would not vouch for Hardornen land to the south and north of our original wedge. Hostilities could break out at any moment, and we must keep that in mind when making plans.”
Grimaces from the scholars and mages, grim agreement from his officers. The Imperial wedge meant to divide the country of Hardorn into two roughly equal parts, to be divided still further and conquered, was now an Imperial arrowhead, broken off from the shaft and lodged somewhere in the middle of Hardorn. And at the moment, he only hoped it was lodged in such a way that it could be ignored by the populace at large.
“We have been cut off completely from Imperial contact ever since the mage-storms worsened,” he continued, giving them the most unpleasant news first. “We have not been able to reestablish that contact. I must reluctantly conclude that we are on our own.”
There were not many in his ranks who knew that particular fact, and widened eyes and shocked glances told where and how the news hit home. They took it rather well, though; he was proud of them. They were all good men—even the Imperial spies among them.
Are any of
them
still in contact with their overseers in the Empire? I’d give a great deal for the answer to
that
little question.
There was no way of knowing, of course, since anyone who was an agent for Emperor Charliss would be a better mage than he himself was. Charliss was too canny an old wolf not to cover that contingency.
Another draft of cold licked at his neck, and he turned the fur-lined collar of his wool half-cape up in a futile attempt to keep more such drafts away. It was the same dulled red as the uniforms of his men; he wore what they wore. He had a distaste for making a show of himself. Besides, a man in a dress uniform covered with decorations made far too prime a target.
“The mage-corps,” he continued, turning to nod at the variously-garbed men seated at the table nearest him, “tell me there is no doubt but that the magestorms are worsening rather than weakening. As you have probably noticed, they are having an effect on the weather itself, and they will continue to do so. That means more
physical
storms, and worse ones—” He turned a questioning glance at his mages.
Their spokesman stood up. This was not their chief, Gordun, a thickset and homely man who remained in his seat with his hands locked firmly together on the table in front of him, but rather a withered old specimen who had been Tremane’s own mentor, the oldest mage—perhaps the oldest man—in the entire entourage. Sejanes was nobody’s fool, and perhaps the mages all felt Tremane would be less likely to vent his wrath upon someone he had studied under. In this, his mages were incorrect. He would never vent his wrath on anyone telling him a harsh truth—only on someone caught in a lie.
Sejanes knew that, and looked up at his former pupil with serenity intact. “You may have noticed what seems to us of the Empire to be
unseasonable
cold, and wondered if we are simply seeing weather that is normal to this clime,” the old man said, his reedy voice carrying quite well over the assemblage. “I assure you all, it is not. I have spoken with the local farmers and studied what records are available, and this is possibly the worst season this part of the country has ever encountered.
Fall struck hard and early, the autumn storms have been more frequent and harsher, and the frosts deeper. We have made measurements, and we can only conclude that the situation is going to worsen. This is the effect of the mage-storms upon an area that was already unstable, thanks to the depredations of that fool, Ancar. The mage-storms themselves are growing worse as well. Put those things together—and I’d just as soon not have to think about what this winter is going to be like.”
Sejanes sat down again, and Gordun stood up; about them, looks of shock were modulating into other emotions. There was remarkably little panic, but also no sign whatsoever of optimism. That, in Tremane’s opinion, was just as well. The worse they thought the situation was, the better they would plan.
“We’ve flat given up on restoring mage-link communications with the Empire,” he said bluntly. “There isn’t a prayer of matching with them when both of us are drifting—it would be like trying to join the ends of two ribbons in a gale without being able to tie a knot in them.” His face was set in an expression of resignation. “Sirs, the honest truth is that your mages are the most useless part of your army right now. We can’t do
anything
that will hold through a storm.”
“Just what does that mean, exactly?” someone asked from the back of the room.
Sejanes shrugged. “From now on, you might as well act as if we don’t exist. You won’t have mage-fires for heat or light now or in the dead of winter, we can’t transport so much as a bag of grain nor build a Portal that’ll stay up through a single storm. In short, sirs, whatever depends on magic is undependable, and we can’t see a time coming when you’ll be able to depend on it again.”
He sat down abruptly, and before the others could erupt with questions, Tremane took control of the situation again.
“The latest mage-storm passed three days ago,” he said. “I have been taking reports since then.” He leafed through the papers he had read so often that the words
danced before his mind’s eye.
Give them some good news.
“The last of the stragglers from that engagement outside Spangera trickled in right before it passed. Every man’s been accounted for, one way or another. The preliminary palisades were finished just as the storm hit, so we are now all behind
some
kind of wall or other.” He let them digest that bit of good news for a moment, as a palliative to all the unpleasant information they’d had until now. The shutters behind him rattled in a sudden gust of wind, and the candles flickered as another draft swept the room. This time it was a puff of warm air that touched him, scented with wax and lamp oil.
Shonar Manor, the locals called this place; he’d chosen well when he’d chosen to make it the place where the Imperial Army would dig in and settle down. This fortified manor he had taken as his own had no one to claim it, or so he had been told; Ancar had seen to that. Whether he’d slaughtered the family, root and branch, or simply seen to it that they were all sent into the front lines of his war with Valdemar, Tremane did not know. Nor did it matter, in truth, except that there would be no inconvenient claimants with backers from the town to show up and cause him trouble. The walled city of Shonar itself could hardly hold a fraction of his men, of course, even if he’d displaced the citizens, which he had no intention of doing. They were much more useful right where they were, forming a fine lot of hostages against the good behavior of their fellows—and in the meantime, providing his men with the amenities of any good-sized town. In fact, they were being treated precisely as if they were Imperial citizens themselves, so long as they made no trouble. For their part, after their first alarms settled, they seemed satisfied enough with their lot. Imperial silver and copper spent as well as any other.
From the reports Tremane had gotten since the last mage-storm cleared, it was a good thing for everyone that he
did
get all his men together before it broke.
“The scouts are reporting a fair amount of damage in the countryside this time,” he said, turning over another
page without really reading what was written there. “This time it’s not just the circles of strange land appearing everywhere. Though we’ve a fair number of those, and they’re bigger, there
are
fewer of them emerging—but we have something entirely new on our hands.” He regarded them all with a grave expression; they looked up at him expectantly. “I’m certain that at one time or another each of you has seen mage-made creatures; perhaps some of the attempts to recreate the war-beasts of the past like gryphons or makaar. It appears that the mage-storms are having a similar
changing
effect on animals and plants, but with none of the control that there would be with a guiding mind behind the magic.”
“
Monsters
,” he heard someone murmur, and he nodded to confirm that unpleasant speculation.
“Monstrous creatures indeed,” he acknowledged. “Some of them quite horrifying.
So far
none of them have posed any sort of threat that a well-trained and well-armed squad could not handle, but let me remind you that this last storm hit us by day. What is relatively simple for men to deal with by day may become a much more serious threat in the dark of night.”
What if the animal trapped had been something larger than a bull, or smarter than a sheep? What if it had been an entire
herd
of something?
He sighed, and ran his hand through his thinning hair. “This,” he pointed out fairly, “is going to do nothing for morale which, as most of you have reported to me, is at the lowest point any of you have ever seen in an Imperial Army.”
He turned over another page. “According to
your
reports, gentlemen,” he continued, nodding in the direction of his officers, “this is also to be laid at the feet of the mage-storms. I have had reports of men being treated by the Healers for nothing more nor less than fear, so terrified that they cannot move or speak—and not all of them are green recruits either.” As the officers stirred, perhaps thinking of an attempt to protest or defend themselves, he gazed upon them with what he hoped was a mixture of candor and earnest
reassurance. “There is no blame to be placed here, gentlemen. Your men are trained to deal with combat magic, but not with something like this—certainly not with something which is so random in the way it strikes and what it does. There is nothing
predictable
about these storms; we do not even know when they will wash over us. That is quite enough to make even the most hardened veteran ill-at-ease.”
