The Path of the Storm (2 page)

With a shake of his head, he stopped. He was Sentar Scythran, the Lord of the Night. He had ruled this world, and he had survived Shar. The lines of resolve in his mouth and forehead returned. He would rule again.

Sentar scanned the street and scratched his chin in thought. A few houses along, at a dwelling larger than the others, a withered tree made of silver wire decorated a front door. Some things may have changed, but Sentar knew that symbol.

Reaching the house, he stood in front of the door. Sentar pounded at the wood. Moments later he nodded with satisfaction when a man in a grey robe opened the door.

"Who are you?" the robed man asked, his brow furrowed with suspicion. "You are not one of us. What are you doing here?"

The robed man wore his black hair close-cropped, like an animal's pelt. His face and hands were fine-boned and delicate, and his high forehead suggested intelligence. He wore a necklace of bones around his neck, and his robe bore a matching symbol to that on the door.

"Surely you know me," Sentar said. He raised a wrist and brushed the snow off a device of worked silver he wore at his cuff. The withered tree was a match to the symbol on the door. "You wear my symbol on your robe. You bear my mark on your dwelling. Let me in from this cold, and I will show you who I am."

Sentar pushed past the nonplussed man in grey robes. The warmth from the interior hit him with such force that he could have wept, and the contents of the man's house were suddenly irrelevant as Sentar was drawn to the red embers of the hearth. It wasn't until he had removed his gloves and felt the blood return tingling to his limbs that Sentar turned back to the robed man and took note of his surroundings.

The house was larger than it had appeared from the outside. The floor was made of wide planks of the same dark wood as the door, with soft animal furs covering its surface. A human skeleton stood in the corner, teeth bared in a permanent smile, and from the workbench and bookshelves Sentar could see this place was dedicated to work rather than leisure. The robed man had closed the door and was frowning at his unwelcome guest.

Walking around slowly, Sentar passed a bronze mirror, and seeing himself he grimaced. "I will admit I have recently been a victim of circumstances and do not look my best. You can be forgiven for not knowing me. This time."

Sentar pulled his hood back and unclasped the cloak, letting it fall to the floor. He brushed his elegant clothing of black velvet, ignoring the scattering of snow and ice that fell to the ground. He straightened his shirt and ran his fingers through his hair.

Finally, Sentar rested his eyes on the other man. "What is your name?"

"I am Renrik. And you are?"

"From your garb you are one of the chosen, are you not?"

"Chosen?"

"One of those chosen to receive the knowledge… I taught your kind to give life to the dead. You are a necromancer."

"I… I am," Renrik said.

"Are you in possession of essence, Necromancer Renrik?"

Renrik's eyes narrowed. "I am… A small amount."

Still wandering around the room, Sentar found a basin and ewer. He washed his face and slicked back his hair. "Bring it to me," he said.

"Stranger, I do not know who you are, but…"

"Has it been so long? Are your memories so quick to fade?"

Sentar turned and levelled the full force of his gaze on the necromancer. He could see Renrik noticing the blood-red hair with black streaks at the temples, the blue eyes, like ice. "The essence," Sentar said. "Give it to me."

Renrik disappeared into a second room. Sentar heard the necromancer mutter and then a click as a locked cupboard opened. Something clinked, and Renrik came back into the room, holding a tiny vial. Sentar opened his hand, and in that moment Renrik stumbled. Sentar knew it was pretence when he felt a prick on the skin of his right hand.

Sentar smiled without humour. Along with the vial, Renrik held a scrill. A blue mark appeared on the back of Sentar's hand where the scrill had touched essence to his skin.

Such a touch would kill any man. He would fall to the floor and scream as he died the most agonising death imaginable.

Sentar merely felt a tingling sensation in the region of the blue mark.

Renrik stared at the mark, his eyes wide with shock. He slowly looked up to meet Sentar's cold eyes.

Sentar watched and waited, as the thoughts crossed Renrik's face. Sentar's own eyes flickered to a stylised portrait on the wall. The man in the portrait had hair the colour of blood, with streaks of black at the temples.

The necromancer fell to his knees.

"Master!" Renrik cried.

Sentar crouched and put his fingers under the necromancer's chin, tilting the man's head and looking into his eyes. The devotion was genuine.

"Let that be the last time you distrust me, Necromancer Renrik," Sentar said. "I am Sentar Scythran, the Lord of the Night, and I have returned."

"Forgive me, Master."

"As one of the chosen, you may serve me, and you may live," said Sentar. "Those of your order will be the only kind to survive when my brothers return. Serve me well, and you may have a special place in the new Merralya, and be raised above, to rule the others of your kind."

Renrik kept his head down but Sentar saw him take a tremulous breath. "Master, I will serve," the necromancer finally said.

"Stand," Sentar said. "I need to ask you some questions."

Renrik stood, but kept his eyes lowered. "Ask," he said.

"Your people, the Akari, will they serve me?"

Renrik was silent for a while before speaking. "I… I am afraid there are many who will not. The Dain, Barden Mensk, has poisoned our people against you, saying you ruled as a wolf rules the sheep. There are some, in my order, who still believe, but they don't dare speak out against the Dain."

Sentar was pensive for a moment. "Even my own people," he muttered. "Perhaps a new people…"

Renrik kept his head bowed while the Lord of the Night made his plans.

"How much essence can you gather?" Sentar asked.

"I cannot get to the stockpiles without the Dain's permission."

Sentar's mind worked. With essence he could destroy the Dain and many of the Dain's followers. But how many would he face? And what purpose would it serve? The amount of essence he needed…

Sentar spoke. "I need to build an army, and to conquer this Tingaran Empire so that the blood of the dead will enable my brothers to return to a defeated world. I thought your people might be the followers I need, but it seems I was wrong."

Sentar made a decision.

"I know where there are those who will be easy to dominate. We need weak humans, multitudes of them, ready to subdue. Necromancer Renrik, can you take me to a ship, an ocean-going vessel?"

"We have only a few, but yes. The
Icebreaker
is big enough…"

"I need you to gather those of your order who will follow," Sentar interrupted, "and get together as much essence as you can, enough to build the vats anew."

Sentar took the vial of essence and scrill from Renrik's hands. He began to draw on his skin, the movements deft and precise. As the Akari necromancer looked on in wonder, Sentar spoke an activation sequence, and moments later the symbols lit up; Sentar felt his skin tingle with suppressed power.

"Then show me to this ship," the Lord of the Night said. "Time is our enemy."

Sentar may not have found the beginnings of an army, but he now had allies, and he had essence.

The rest would be easy.

1

M
IRO
was terrified. His hands shook and his heart beat so loudly in his ears that he wondered that Amber couldn't hear it. His palms were sweaty even though the air was cool, and his lips seemed to dry no matter how many times he moistened them.

"You're not afraid of heights, are you?" Amber said with a grin. "You look anxious." She gazed out over the expanse below. "Lord of the Sky, I can see why you brought me here. It's beautiful."

Miro had never been to this place but Ella had given him directions. She'd told him words couldn't describe the valley's beauty, and as soon as Miro saw it he knew she was right.

The view was incredible. Below them a turbulent river twisted and turned its way through rocky chasms and glades of emerald trees. Its source was a majestic waterfall, sprouting from the cliff face and pouring out into the open air before disappearing in a cloud of spray. In the distance, three other waterfalls cascaded down the smooth shining rock, and the roar of the water combined with the sound of insects to form a soothing hum. Miro could see butterflies the size of a man's hand, fluttering around the lush trees like brilliant jewels.

As preoccupied as he was, Miro's thoughts were on anything but the rainbows dancing on the spray. His thoughts were on the carefully rehearsed words, and the great flurry of activity his actions would precipitate. Most of all, his thoughts were on the woman by his side.

"I can't believe how warm it is here," Amber said. "Back in Sarostar there's still ice on the Sarsen."

Miro silently thanked Ella again. He'd feared rain and icy cold, yet here in this valley they could feel the sun against their skin.

It had taken Miro and Amber most of the day to find a path down from the heights, and they were now on their descent into the valley. "Look," Amber said. "There, can you see it? There's a thin line, hanging down from the top of the cliff."

Miro searched for a moment. "A rope?"

"That's how Ella said she climbed down the cliff. I can't believe she did it. She must have nerves of steel."

Miro smiled. "Sounds like Ella."

"And to think, she never would have found this place if the Lexicon hadn't been stolen."

"Good things can always be found out of the bad," Miro said. "Should we keep going?"

"Lead the way."

The path they'd found was meandering but not treacherous, but still Miro was nearly bowled over when a small form swept past him, squealing with delight.

"Tomas!" Amber called. "Slow down!"

The child grinned back at them, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Papa!" he cried. "Race me!"

Running in chase, Miro felt a root grab hold of his foot, and before he knew it he'd landed face first on the dirt. Tomas paused in his game, the toddler stopping in astonishment.

"Are you all right?" Amber said, and then laughed when she saw Miro's expression. "You're never normally this clumsy." She started to help him up.

Crestfallen and evidently believing he was the cause of Miro's fall, Tomas came over and tugged on Miro's clothing. "Up!" he said.

"How can a two year old be so quick?" Miro muttered, dusting himself off.

"Two and a half," Amber said. "You don't have to tell me, though. I can hardly keep up with him anymore."

"Two and a half years. I can't believe it's been so long," Miro said. He looked down at the boy who was now his son, and was currently absorbed with pulling lichen from a tree.

"We've been busy."

"I know, but it doesn't mean we shouldn't find time for each other. I… I'm sorry Amber, if I haven't always been there for you."

"Miro," Amber sighed. "What are you talking about?"

"Every time I go to Halaran, or Tingara, when I return I feel like Tomas has grown so much, and I know I've missed it. Every time I sleep in a strange bed I wonder why you're not there beside me."

Amber smiled and squeezed his arm. "We've got today. Come on."

Amber led the way along the narrow path down to the valley floor, and following her Miro cursed his tongue. Why could he never find the right words? Amber and Tomas had made him happy, happier than he had ever thought he could be. Yet there were always more demands on his time.

In the years since the Primate's death the Empire had settled, but it was an uneasy peace. The world economy was in ruins, with the price of essence so high trade between the houses had completely dried up. Countless people were unemployed and underfed, from Altura to Aynar, and Miro was constantly fire-fighting, dashing from one explosive situation to the next. Tingaran soldiers now worked alongside Alturans, but there were many who spoke of the despotic rule of the Emperor with nostalgia. At least then there was food on the table, they said.

Miro's message was simple. He felt that he was repeating himself again and again, yet if he kept trying the words would get through. The situation they were all in was the inevitable result of the war. What had been done was in the past. The oppressed people of Aynar and Tingara deserved as much of a chance as the war-torn multitudes of Halaran and Petrya. The machines would be rebuilt, and when essence again flowed through the Empire, prosperity would return.

Amber said she understood Miro's pressures, but Miro wanted to give her more. As he watched her she laughed at something Tomas said, the sound girlish and free. But she was no longer a girl; Amber was a woman, and she'd been through more than any person should go through. Miro was constantly amazed at her resilience; even now when people met her they saw her beauty and warmth without realising the trials she'd been through, the strength she carried within.

"You really are somewhere else today, aren't you?" Amber said. She took his hand. "Are you coming?"

Miro realised they had made it down to the river. Tomas chased butterflies, his fluffy brown hair, only a little darker than Amber's auburn, catching leaves and twigs. "Sorry." Miro grinned shakily. "Let's head down to the water, shall we?"

"Sounds good to me," Amber said.

Amber kept hold of Miro's hand while they walked, but he could see her expression was a little puzzled. Miro's other hand felt down to the back pocket of his trousers, patting the little bulge there comfortingly.

The pair reached the water, where grassy banks led down to the plunging peaks and troughs of a turbulent river.

"Ella said she tried to swim across," Amber said. She shuddered. "She could have been killed."

Miro took a deep breath. There was a sudden roaring in his ears, his heart beating so hard he thought it would burst out of his chest. The feeling was completely foreign to him; this wasn't the fear of the battlefield, with instant decisions leading to life or death; this was something altogether different. He clutched at the ring in his pocket.