The Storm's Own Son (Book 1) (10 page)

Beside them, Katara walked in stolid, watchful silence.

However, as they rounded a corner from a twisting alley, and looked out onto a street with one dead end, she suddenly gripped Talaos's arm.

"I feel something..." she said in
a low voice.

Talaos felt something too, something wrong in the air behind them.  He grabbed the women by their wrists and pulled them at a sprint out into the street, making for the open end.

They were too late.

Down that street came a mob of armed, tough-looking men,
thirty-five or more.  Some Talaos recognized, survivors and cast-offs of the gang wars, but others he did not, and some had foreign looks.

Out of the alley behind
Talaos came three more men. They wore all-concealing, but otherwise varied and nondescript hooded cloaks of weathered tans and browns. As they fanned out into a line side by side, Talaos noticed something about them change. Their postures straightened, their movements acquired a strange fluidity, and they began to walk in perfect step with one another.  A shadow seemed to grow around them. Behind came another six men, bronze-skinned, black-haired and bearded, with short leaf-bladed swords. Eastlanders.

They were cut off, with the dead end behind them.

Talaos threw back his cloak and drew his swords. Sorya faced the mob of men with a look of intense, cold concentration, and a dagger in each hand.

Katara raised her
long, heavy sword perfectly vertically before her, and in a low voice said, "Here I will stand, as my forefathers watch, and I will not shame them."

Talaos backed toward the wall,
preferring to face enemies on three sides rather than four, and hoping for the off chance he might notice some way up or out back there. Sorya and Katara followed. Overhead, the wind began to pick up.

The
mass of armed men advanced. The three cloaked men walked forward in lockstep with eerily smooth speed, forward in front of the others.  When they faced Talaos directly, still distant, they stopped, each at exactly the same moment, while the rest shuffled to a halt behind them. The three men pulled back their hoods and dropped their cloaks in perfect unison.

Underneath
they revealed aquiline features, bronze skin and long black beards. Their faces were of indeterminate age, their dark brows were rounded and soft over strangely gentle eyes, and their thin lips faintly smiled. They wore robes and caps of white linen trimmed in complex patterned green, and each bore a copper rod in his right hand.

The rods themselves, however, varied. The man on the left bore one capped with the face of a hunting hawk, the middle with that of a striking serpent, and that on the right with a vulture.

In unison, they raised their left hands, then motioned forward.

The three men advanced again, in slow, simultaneous steps with the mob behind them.

As the enemy approached, Talaos, Sorya, and Katara waited with drawn weapons.  Talaos watched every detail of the advancing foe intently, hoping to spot an opportunity. Then the man on the left, he of the Hawk, spoke in a soft, sonorous voice,

"We have seen the signs..."

"...they have called to us..." added the Serpent.

"...and they are upon him
," finished the Vulture.

Talaos realized with a start that the men had not moved their smiling lips
as they'd spoken. No one else seemed to react. Overhead, the rain grew stronger. A peal of distant thunder rolled through the dark sky. Talaos, in a corner of his mind, thought it odd so late in a storm, but he had greater problems at hand.

"He can hear us
..." whispered the Hawk from an unmoving mouth.

"...but does not yet comprehend
..." added the Serpent.

"...as the
Living Prophet foretold," finished the Vulture.

The thre
e smiling robed men advanced in unity. More than forty others followed in grim confidence behind. Lightning cracked in the sky around them as the wind rose and howled.

"
Spawn of sin and blasphemy..." silently said the Hawk.

"...
Something comes..." added the Serpent.

"...We must be swift
," finished the Vulture.

As one, t
he three raised their rods level with the ground and pointed at Talaos. A kind of faint mist, venomous green, formed in the gaping mouth of each copper creature.

That
, others reacted to.

Katara seemed to
force herself to take a step forward, eyes on the Vulture. Sorya reacted faster. Quick as a cat, she threw a dagger at the throat of the Hawk. She missed, and it struck high in his chest near the collar, but hilt-deep. Without a pause or a change in expression, he reached with his left hand, pulled out the dagger, and tossed it to the ground. There was a small trickle of blood, but no more. Then all three men raised their left hands again, and as one motioned forward.

Forty
armed men charged.

Talaos
roared to the two women, "Stay with me! Stay together!"

Sorya stood slightly behind to his left, short sword and dagger drawn. Katara on his right held her
heavy sword in both hands. Talaos had his long sword in his right hand and his short in his left, gleaming in the ever more frequent flashes of lightning.

Then the enemy was upon them.

Talaos cut down a man with a sweep of his long blade and ran another through with the short. He saw the three smiling men advancing on him, but laughed in wild defiance at them as he spun low and disemboweled a third enemy.

Katara fought with such sudden ferocity that some of the
foes around her startled in shock. She roared in her northern tongue, sent one man flying with a kick, tripped and impaled another, and nearly beheaded a third with an overhead two-handed blow of her sword. Then, the greater numbers of the enemy began to tell, and she was forced back step by fighting step away from the others.

On the left, Sorya ducked and twisted, bringing her short sword up into the groin of a charging thug. He toppled past her and she aimed a slash for the tendons of another. However, a third man brought
a club down on her shoulder and she crumpled back towards the wall with a scream.

The smiling men reached Talaos.
Their own followers now held back, fear in their eyes. Green mist curled forth from the faces on the copper rods. It surrounded Talaos and he felt an icy cold gather round him, in body and spirit. His shoulders drooped. He felt transfixed, weakening...

"Let your soul be cleansed
of its curse..." gently whispered the Hawk, this time directly to Talaos.

"
...Surrender your life for the good of this world..." added the Serpent.

"...
and be forgiven in the next," finished the Vulture.

No
, thought Talaos, slowly mastering himself.

He
rose to full height. A proud smile curled on his lips, implacable will rose in his mind, and furious passion flashed in his spirit.

His life was his.

A massive bolt of lightning struck in the air directly overhead, the thunderclap drowning out all other sound. Everyone in the street stood in momentary, dumbfounded shock. Everyone except Talaos and the three smiling men. Talaos felt a thrill of power run through his body, felt it arc and crack along his arms and into his hands, his weapons. Felt it radiate from his soul.

The mist dissipated around hi
m, as if blown away in the wind, and a faint aura of electricity washed over the three smiling men.

"It burn
s..." said the Hawk, but the others did not have time to continue.

Talaos moved swifter than he'd ever imagined he could. He whirled and cut the head of the Hawk from his shoulders like a scythe on wheat, then leapt
, sword high, dropping to cleave the skull of the Serpent in half, and finally twisted low to run the Vulture clean through the heart.  The bodies twitched and burned with electricity all around them.

Of the other men, many turned and fled.
Some stood by in shock, staring at Talaos. The six men with black beards and leaf-bladed swords snarled words in their eastern tongue, and advanced.  A few others mustered their courage and followed.

Talaos charged them, whirling
, slashing, and stabbing. He felt furiously, gloriously alive, and laughed with the joy of it. Power was in his hand and in his eye. The world was a beautiful thing around him, and he a thing of might within. The enemies before him were slow, weak, feeble players at a game of life and death. Life for him, death for them. Swift as the wind, heedless as the storm, he dealt that death.

Then it was over. A dozen men
lay dead before him, besides the others already slain.

The rest had fled.

Talaos laughed, shouting his joy at the storm-tossed sky.

Katara
was covered in cuts and blood, but stood tall with sword in hand.  She stared at him silently and wide-eyed as her golden braids, splashed with red, blew in the wind.

Sorya, still crumpled on the ground, held her shoulder. Her voice cracked with fear as she spoke
. "Tal... How?... What did you... Your eyes... they are..."

At the sound of her voice, Talaos returned
to more practical thoughts. He looked down at her, and remembered how hurt she must be. He moved to help while considered her words.

"What were you saying?"

In a quiet, terrified voice, she answered, "Your eyes... I could see it from here... They flashed with something that looked like lightning... from inside."

6
. Endings and Beginnings

The dawn rose faint and gray. Talaos stood, sword drawn, in the shadows of a dark, derelict warehouse. Sorya and Katara huddled together sleeping in the corner behind him. He'd barred the weathered but sturdy door with scrap wood, and piled old boxes to block it.

The strange thrill of power had
diminished, but not vanished. He thought back on their headlong flight from the battle scene, carrying Sorya over his shoulder, and the hasty choice to find a hidden hole for them to rest rather than chance an exhausted journey cross country.

He realized he was nothing like as tired as he ought to be.

Sorya's strange words ran through his mind. Lightning in his eyes? Still, there was no denying how he had felt, and what had happened. He'd overcome the magic of those three sorcerers, and then slain them and a dozen others with almost inhuman speed and strength. The power that had driven away their mists had come with that feeling, and from him. He smiled at the thought of having some magic of his own, whatever it might be. He'd need it.

The power of those sorcerers had been
something strange, something he found instinctively repulsive. Not like magi, he thought, but still very real. With it, they'd seen and tried to stop something they believed was within him. Something that had brought them all the way from the lands of the Prophet. And more, they'd mentioned the Living Prophet himself.

Talaos thought of Palaeon's
musing about something deeper going on. The gang lord had shown an uncanny perceptiveness over the years, but this time he'd been more right than anyone could have reasonably imagined.

The Living Prophet, ruler of a continent, had had sent men specifically to kill him, by magic, with
cryptic talk of signs and prophecy, and for some supposed stain on his soul.

The Living Prophet himself wanted him dead.

That was very deep indeed.

Now though, h
e had to get Sorya to a physician and then send them both far away from him. It seemed likely that with the three sorcerers dead, the greatest immediate danger was past, for now. However, it was unlikely to be long before something more came his way. In the daylight, with the gates open, departure would be easier.  On the other hand, so would following them. It occurred to him that with ships ready to sail rather than docked overnight, escape by sea might be a good idea after all... for the other two.

He
now knew his path was elsewhere.

Katara stirred. She looked around sleepily, then started awake as she saw Talaos.

"The storm's own son, and the storm is at your call..." she whispered, with awe in her voice. They were the first words she'd said since the battle.

Talaos watched her
curiously.

The
Northwoman rose, unsteady at first. Her clothes were disheveled and torn. Rain had washed away most of most of the blood, but her skin was bruised and cut. She dropped her cloak. Her tattered braids fell across her chest and down almost to her waist. She lowered her eyes, drew her sword and rested it bare across her upturned hands.  Her steps became more sure.

As Talaos looked on, she dropped gracefully to her knees before him and place
d the sword at his feet. She kneeled forward, head down, then spoke in a quiet, yet intense, voice.

"
The storm is at your call, in the air around you, in your hands, and in... your eyes. The storm walks with you, and it may take those around you. It may take me, but I will still follow... I will do as you command. By the honor of my soul, Talaos, I take you as my lord."

"Katara, enough of that
!" he said, surprised. "Why did you swear that in the old way?"

"It is the right way." she answered
. Then she added, "Please do not be upset with me..."

Talaos looked at her, long and earnestly.
Oaths in the ancient form, calling on the honor of one's soul, were not given lightly. Not even in Carai. Not when oaths were thought to follow beyond death. He considered what to say, as she looked at him imploringly.

"I accept your oath and will honor
my part of it," he replied.

He accepted the offered sword, and set it carefully aside.

She peered up at him, smiling. He put a hand to her chin and tilted her head up to look at him. There were tears welling in her eyes, the first tears he'd ever seen from her.

"Tal,
I have never loved any man," she said, "but I love you."

Talaos was shocked at the statement. He
brushed her cheek with his fingers. She looked at him with what he thought to be kind of hopeless longing, as if this day might be their last. In truth, it might. She kneeled there, patiently, but he could almost feel her tension.

"Katara, rise," he said.

She did. Standing there before him, she looked up into his eyes, uncertain, almost afraid. She'd given him a startling form of submission by her act of fealty, and complete admission of her feelings. Coming from this warrior daughter of kings, those were great and terrible acts.

And now she stood vulnerable before him.
His own.

"I
give you my protection, Katara, and my love."

She smiled. Then a sudden intensity flared in her eyes and on her face. She
ran her right hand along his shoulder and chest, and her left along his hip. Talaos paused. There they were, battered and covered in the marks of battle. But then again, life was short and the future uncertain, and he might never see either her or Sorya again.

L
ife and lust surged through him, vital and strong and good. He looked down at her eyes, gray as a stormy sky, and his hunger for her swept away all other concerns. He pulled her tight to him, and kissed her lips and neck. She made a quiet moan and gripped him with her hands.

"Undress," he told her.

She nodded her head, and began. As she did so, he removed his baldrics, tunic, and shirt, though he kept the weapons nearby. He threw his cloak to the floor as a kind of makeshift bed. He took her by her braids. She smiled, and he lowered her atop the cloak.

Talaos
ran his hands along her thighs, hips, waist and chest, and watched with intense satisfaction as she writhed and thrilled to the sensation. He cupped and caressed her breasts, then brought his fingers to her bare pink nipples. With a hint of playful cruelty in his smile, he teased them, fingers in circles, then squeezed, pinched, and kneaded hard. She gasped, smiled, gripped him hard with her hands, then ran them over his bare shoulders.

So much
fully realized so late. And now so little time.

At least, he thought, they'd found it while still together.

With intensity of feeling, of life and longing for her, he gripped her in his arms and entered her, thrusting hard, wildly, furiously. She moaned and wrapped her legs around him.

In the corner, Sorya awakened, and watched them with
turbulent emotions struggling for mastery on her face. At last however, something won out. Acceptance. She sighed, and smiled her wicked smile.

~

The gulls cried under a morning sun in a sky clearing of clouds.  A wind blew, and waves lapped the docks.  The stone and whitewashed buildings of the west harbor of Carai ranged around the curved shoreline to the north, their tiled roofs gleamed in shades of red, brown, or green. A graceful, brightly painted ship from the Western Isles rolled gently at the end of a long stone quay, far from any other vessel. Sailors loaded a last few barrels and chests up a ramp to the ship.  They had long chestnut hair bound by cloth headbands, and long tabards of blue, gray or green, embroidered with leaves and vines, over pants and low boots. The watchful captain gauged the wind and tide, his gray-streaked hair and blue cloak blowing westward.

On the quay stood Talaos,
clean and dressed for travel, facing the two women he least wanted to see go, and most needed to. Out here away from prying eyes, other than those of the crew they had already risked trusting, the three of them dropped the hoods of their cloaks.

He
pulled Katara to him and gripped her by her braids as he kissed her deeply. Then he let her go. She bowed her head to him and took a watchful, warlike stance.

Sorya stood weeping, her shoulder bandaged and her arm in a sling.
Her long hair blew loose in the wind. Talaos leaned down. He touched her back gently with one arm, and held her waist tightly with the other. He pressed his lips to hers and she gripped his hip fiercely with her good arm.  Her tongue wrestled wildly with his. Some of the sailors stopped to boggle, until Katara glared at them.

When he
released the kiss, she brought her lips to his ear and hissed, "You bastard... don't you die on me."

"
Generally, I try not to," he replied.

"You terrify me... whatever has happened to you, but..."

He stood up straight, and put his hand to her cheek and chin.

She cried again, and went on,
"I... I'm sorry..."

He touched his finger to her lips, and she quieted.

"We'll see each other again," he said.

She smiled.

The wind picked up, cool, fresh and clear.

Aboard the ship, the captain
breathed in the new air and smiled. He looked down to the figures on the quay, and called in a cheerful rolling accent.

"Now is the time
, lasses."

~

Talaos walked from the great north gates, across the open paved plaza before them, and onto one of the many roads. His cloak wrapped around him and his hood was pulled low, but he went with sure steps and a rising wind in his heart.

The
lofty walls and mighty squared towers of the city loomed behind him, the coastal hills in the east to his right. Merchants, farmers, and travelers of all sorts went to and fro on business of their own. Peddlers sold food and trinkets from carts on the side of the road. A troop of soldiers marched by in their black tunics, crested helmets, segmented breastplates, and greaves. The golden wreaths and eagles of the Republic gleamed on their oval shields.

Ahead of him were
the crossroads. He walked on. The great east-west road opened before him, its paving stones gleaming almost white in the midday sun. It ran from the capital, far in the northwest, to the border fortress at the feet of the eastern mountains.

It was there, and beyond, he
would go.

He considered it again, turned his reasoning over in his mind once more.

The Living Prophet himself had sent three sorcerers to kill him.

Wh
y?

What
was he, Talaos, to the Prophet?

What was he to a man
centuries old, and who ruled a third of the known world?

What was the
supposed stain on his soul?

If there were answers, he wouldn't find them in the
Republic, the sleepy west, or the wild realms of the distant north. The Eastlands might have them, but going there would be folly. However, followers of the Prophet were at work in Hunyos, among the warlords and the free cities. He would find them, learn what he could, and how it could be used.

War was growing beyond those mountains as well, the very war he'd planned to avoid
. War was growing like a storm. And now he was going to walk straight into that storm and see where it took him.

He laughed.

Like finds like, he thought, smiling.

He reached the crossroads, and turned right.
There were fewer people out here. As he pressed on, the city receded behind him. Ahead were small towns, the great trade town of Piros, and beyond them all, the mountain pass to Hunyos. He pulled the hood of his cloak back to feel the wind caressing his face and the sun shining warm overhead.

~

The east wind blew his brown traveling cloak behind him, and caressed his face with the promise of new things. Ahead of Talaos, just over the horizon, was Piros. Days of walking had hardened his body and strengthened his endurance after years of city living, and he also seemed to have new reserves of energy he couldn't easily account for. Fresh wind and wide horizons made the world seem a happy place, a place where one could hardly imagine things like his night facing the three servants of the Prophet.

But such things had happened.

He was on his way, in part, to find out why.

There was supposed to be a library at
Piros. Talaos knew no one personally who lived there, no one who he thought would recognize him by sight. He was eager to reach Hunyos, but perhaps there might also be some answers closer at hand.

As the road went on,
the towers of the town came into view, then the taller buildings, and then the walls. Piros was the central point for the wide farming and ranching region all around, and from it went roads west to Carai, north to the more densely populated wine-producing region near the hilly border, and east to the mountains.