The Storm's Own Son (Book 3) (10 page)

His mind turned to the immense depths of blackness within him. He'd faced that darkness without fear, but with tremendous resistance. He'd fought it, clinging furiously to the light, and at the pass it had found him anyway. He focused his mind on what he must do in this war, and that he must stay alive to complete it. With that focus, he looked straight into the blackness itself, and through it.

An abyss opened before him in his soul, and he leapt.

He seemed to soar through shadowed chasms, opening into an unknown beyond. He felt time change, seeming to slow as it had when he'd been in the mightiest grips of his fighting rage. He felt almost as if he could see it. There were vastnesses of time; deep ages within him, within what he was. He followed them on through the darkened void.

He sought, and reflected.

Darkness was part of the storm, just as much as light and lightning, and as much part of him. He embraced it at last, and comprehended.

There within, in the age-old depths beneath the blackness, was the storm itself. The seed of his purpose and source of his power, roiling and raging with clouds of uttermost darkness and arcs of lightning bright as the sun. Darkness and light, destruction and creation, death and life.

All within.

A name came to him. A name a spirit had spoken to Liriel. A memory within.

The Storm Father.

Father and founder of his line. The first of the gods, and the last to die.

The last act of a dying god. The last gift of a dying father to his son. The last seed and spark of the gods was within him, passed from father to son through the long ages since.

The source. His source. It was there, within him and within reach.

Yet something was in the way, or some things. He knew them.

The nine seals. They were real and had stood for eons, scattered and hidden.

Nine Seals of the World, between him and that which was his.

He raged, hurled his fury within, but to no purpose.

Now was not the time, and he could not reach them, not undo them, not break them yet.

But he would.

He smiled. He could not yet directly touch the source, but he had found it, and could draw upon it again. And it was mighty.

As was he.

He laughed, as darkness and light, clouds and lightning, raged forth from him.

He opened his eyes.

Men, commanders and officers, wounded and well, his Madmen and his Wolves, all looked at him, transfixed with sudden awe.

Lightning arced from him, and lines of it rose far into the sky. Waves of visible blue-white power washed outward from him like a wind over the men of his army. Where that wind swept, wounded men grew stronger, and the dying held back from the brink.

Overhead, where there had been a clear sky moments before, vast black clouds formed. They spiraled outward from a point in the sky directly above him. As the clouds spread, they piled higher overhead, and thunder rolled in their depths.

In the House of the Prophet, in the grip of the Prophet’s inhuman guardians, he had once seen with an inner eye. Then, he’d had no idea how it had happened, but he now called upon that power with intention. He stretched his mind's eye around him, seeing in all directions where his body's eyes could not. He looked across the battlefield to the men standing in arms, or prisoners kneeling, all of them gaping at the sky. He looked further, to the shore, where his army had captured galleys of the enemy, and then the sea beyond, where numerous enemy ships had reformed, still powerful. He sent waves, wind, and lightning against those ships, and they foundered.

Still further out, his inner eye grew unfocused, straining as against a haze or fog, but he saw brief images of great armies mobilizing in the north, and fleets across the eastern sea.

Then, one more thing caught his gaze. A ship was coming. A ship of the Western Isles.

Coming with the storm, the storm he'd become.

He remembered one of Miriana’s prophecies, and he smiled.

7. Change

Talaos sat upon his throne of fallen foes, amid the blood and carnage of the battlefield, and held council with his commanders. Dark turbulent clouds slowly wheeled in the sky, and their brooding depths flashed with lightning. Out at sea, the wreckage of enemy ships tossed amid crashing waves. The arcs of lightning around Talaos himself had subsided, but his eyes still radiated brilliant, blue-white power.

General Aro stood by with many others. He seemed unfazed by the scene around him or the sight before him, and was making report in a measured, sharp voice. "General Ilirios fell by a javelin, and Tribune Mordvan was with the front rank of his troops when he took a spear through his throat. None of the senior enemy commanders lived through the battle."

Talaos replied, "And what of the men?"

"We lost roughly two thousand dead, all told. A third of those were here at Tescani's redoubt. The total would have been more, if not for the power you wielded today."

There were uneasy glances by some at the sky overhead.

Aro continued, "Enemy losses were far greater. Seven thousand dead from their main army, and again it would have been much higher, but your power healed their wounded as well. At least two thousand, nearly all hillmen, irregulars, and cavalry escaped to the western hills. Sixteen thousand surrendered. Of those, I think many could be convinced to switch sides."

Aro then looked to Adriko, who'd been closer at hand for the fight against the invasion force that had come by sea. Talaos nodded.

Adriko reported, "Alas, the soldiers that came by sea weren't so eager to surrender. I think they had a higher proportion of the Prophet's people among them, and that contributed to their unreasonableness. Four thousand or so of them died fighting, about fifteen hundred surrendered, and a few hundred managed to escape to the sea. Well… Went to sea to drown."

Talaos took in the knowledge. Two thousand men of his army lay dead, and eleven thousand of the other. They were grim numbers. Yet for a battle they'd begun outnumbered on an open plain, with odds worsened further by a powerful enemy relief force, it was well done.

The true outcome of the battle was even more one-sided. A mere few days earlier, the other side had sent more than thirty thousand by land and six thousand by sea, against his sixteen. Five thousand had defected to his side before the battle, and more than seventeen thousand had surrendered during it. Of the thirty-six thousand the other side had begun with, there remained perhaps two thousand in arms, fleeing without order.

Yet even that was not the full tale. A messenger arrived from Avrosa with news of the fleet. The man saluted Talaos, and gave report. "Storm Lord, ten of the enemy’s ships escaped north, but the rest foundered in your waves or burned in your lightning. Of our sixteen ships, eight were lost early in the fighting, but the rest are safe in the harbor."

Some of the commanders around seemed surprised at the use of the deferential title given Talaos by the Avrosans. A few others, glancing at the circling clouds overhead, looked as if they were mastering concerns of their own.

What the messenger reported matched exactly what he'd seen reaching out with his mind. The enemy had lost ninety ships or more, either captured or sunk. If reports on overall enemy strength were still accurate, that would be the greater part of their fleet.

He turned to other messengers and officers with reports. It went on for a long time. Then, Firio returned from a special mission of his own.

"Did you find anything, Firio?" asked Talaos.

"I found the bodies. The general that came by sea had the same amulet. Just like on that general in the main army, and on the priest," said Firio.

He showed Talaos three identical, circular golden amulets. Each was inscribed in fine detail with complex geometric lines and glyphs centered on a small white crystal. Talaos could sense power on them. He'd suspected the enemy had some means by which they'd coordinated so well, a means that had bypassed Maxano. Perhaps these were that means.

"He had this too…" added Firio. With that he handed Talaos a small, golden scroll case of complex design.

Talaos trusted Firio to have handled any surprises it might have. He opened it, and read the scroll within. Then he raised his right hand once more. "Generals Maxano, Hadrastus, and Gavro, come forward," he said.

The three did. They saluted, and Talaos returned the gesture.

"Take a look at these orders, and this list of names," he said to them."This was carried by the general commanding the army that arrived by sea."

Maxano took the scroll, and together they read. Hadrastus, towering in his blood-caked bronze armor, seemed calm, but Gavro scowled and Maxano looked almost wounded.

The former senior commander of the enemy army spoke, in a pained voice, "These are secret orders from a closed council of representatives from several of the factions in our old alliance, including my own city of Kyras. They are orders for the removal from command of a number of officers in our army, including myself, Gavro, Ilirios, and Hadrastus. Trials were to follow. The orders predate our defection by more than a week."

"It seems," said Talaos, "you were being watched, and judged. And that judgment was based on something other than your loyalty to your cities and towns."

"Indeed…" said Maxano resignedly.

"Commanders," said Talaos, "we have much more to do, and discuss. When the dead are all gathered, they will be honored and buried, with funeral pyres for those accorded them under the old laws. Then you will assemble the prisoners, healthy or wounded. Every one of them that is conscious will be offered the same oath we have all taken.

"Those who swear to fight the Prophet will be enlisted in our army. Any who swear instead for the Prophet, or try to fight, will be killed. The rest will be demobilized and barred from military service for the duration of the war, or until such time as they change their minds. Once that is done, we'll need to plan for the coming campaign. Officers, we have much to do, but tonight, the men may rest."

With that, Talaos rose from the throne of corpses. Hundreds of soldiers nearby saluted him. He felt the strength in his body and spirit, the imperishable storm within. He calmed the winds in the black-shrouded sky, but the lightning remained in his eyes.

Many of the Avrosans nearby now bowed low to him. Beneath military restraint, the others had varied reactions to that act, but some looked shocked.

Shouts of "Storm Lord!" rose from some among the crowds of soldiers.

He mounted his horse and rode toward Avrosa. His Madmen, his Wolves, and many officers and messengers formed up and followed behind. Out on the open battlefield, soldiers, Avrosan militia and prisoners in thousands worked to gather bodies, weapons, armor, gear, and the immense amounts of baggage from the enemy army.

As he passed, they stopped, some in awe, others fear, many more both. The men of the army saluted. Many of the Avrosans bowed, and a few kneeled. Prisoners watched him in disbelief. He continued on. Before the gates of the city, vast crowds of Avrosan civilians gathered, and many more waited inside. They watched him worshipfully, and many kneeled as he passed.

Talaos stopped and addressed them in a deep, resonant voice. "People of Avrosa, stand. You will not trade one master for another."

Then he rode on. The people rose, but the worship did not leave their eyes. He continued through the city to the old tower, ascended the many flights of steps to the top. There, he watched the work proceeding out on the battlefield. Messengers and officers came and went, and he attended to business as they did, but still he watched.

Hours passed, and as the light faded in the western sky, the work was done. Fallen soldiers of his army were gathered in cairns at the edge of the hills, and those of the enemy in great pits. Those accorded the honor of funeral pyres were sheltered in the city. Great tent camps spread outside the gate as shelter during the long hours in which oaths would be administered and men sorted. Much blood and carnage remained on the battlefield, and on dusty, bloodstained men of war. From his gathered clouds, he called a gentle rain to wash both land and men.

~

Talaos stood with Demistas the physician in a room at the house of healing. Before them both, in clean white beds, were the remaining lost ones. They were those Talaos had rescued from the House of the Prophet and from the iron stake. There were eight who'd resisted all cures, including the little girl and the convicted murderer. With them also was a ninth, Milo the musician, who was lucid at times and babbled his tuneless songs at others.

He'd found the families of those who'd had such. Two had none that had survived the Prophet's mercy. He'd discovered that the little girl's mother had died of illness, and her father, who'd had some spark of magical gift for befriending animals, had already been consigned to the flames. The little girl's crime was to have been his daughter, with hints of the same gift. Her name was Droniel, and she had an aunt still living in Avrosa.

Demistas looked at Talaos, and his eyes, with wonder. They shone from corner to corner with blue-white lightning at all times now, though the intensity varied with his mood. They were blazing bright at this moment.

He walked to the closest of the lost ones, a middle-aged man. There was no more physical healing to be done, so the kind of gift of power he’d used on the battlefield would be of no help. Unsure what he might do, he tried to reach to the man’s mind as he had within himself. He found nothing. Perhaps, he thought, what he sought was buried more deeply. He focused his mind, searching. After a few moments, he understood. The difficulty was not the man's mind, but his own. He simply lacked a gift of the right kind. He might heal, but the minds of others were not his to explore.

Perhaps there was another path. Perhaps he could leave a lamp to light the way, and let them choose to follow or not. He put a hand to the man's brow, and imparted a spark of his power within. Rather than let it infuse and spread, he left it to shine, ready for the taking. He stood there, and time passed.

At last, the man's eyes flickered with some hint of awareness. He stared about him, recoiled at the brilliant glow of Talaos's eyes, but then fell into a natural sleep.

Talaos went to the next, and did the same. This time there was no reaction even after a long while. He could do no more, at least for now, and moved on.  He went to each in turn, with varying results. One awakened, two slept, and another did not respond at all. Next he reached Milo, who at the moment was babbling. He gave a spark to the musician and the babbling stopped. The man looked at him with sudden intelligence. He smiled, but then sat quietly, deep in melancholy reflection. Talaos put a hand on his shoulder, and then continued his work.

Next was Savro, the man who'd raped and murdered his maid. Talaos put his hand to the man's head and imparted the spark. Savro's vacant eyes came almost immediately into focus. He looked at Talaos with a sudden startled expression, then his eyes narrowed.

"Where am I?" Savro asked.

"The House of Healing," replied Talaos, voice cold.

"What happened to the Prophet's people?" the other said, suspiciously.

"They're all dead."

"Wha… Who're you? What's wrong with your eyes?"

"I am Talaos, Dictator of Avrosa. There's nothing wrong with my eyes."

"Dictator! I… Can you give me a pardon?" replied Savro with sudden hope.

"Very much the opposite. I helped you reawaken so you could face your fate with full awareness of what was happening, and why," answered Talaos.

Savro panicked. "Uh… it wasn't my fault! I mean, uh, it was somebody else! Please believe me!"

Talaos ignored him and summoned the vigiles he'd had waiting by the door. They dragged Savro away as he blubbered for mercy. He watched the man go, thinking of the relentless internal logic of the Prophet's laws, under which punishment was meted on the innocent, and what amounted to mercy was given to the guilty.

Talaos shook his thoughts free of it, for now he had a more hopeful task.

He went to the seven year old girl, little Droniel, put his hand to her forehead, and gave her the spark. A long time passed. At last, her eyes opened.  She looked up at Talaos and his radiant eyes with wonder.

He called Droniel 's aunt into the room. The woman sobbed and hugged the girl, and then little Droniel hugged Talaos. He couldn't recall when in his life, even as a small boy, that a child had ever hugged him. He smiled and patted her head. To his dismay, Droniel 's aunt bowed low before him, then took and kissed his hand. With that, they departed, as Droniel waved him a goodbye.

~

Talaos held Liriel in his arms. They lay on her new bed, in her regained and restored townhouse. It was a tall, narrow place of three stories in a poorer part of the city. She'd been able to recover many, but not all of her old things. Those related to the practice of her craft had largely been destroyed or burned by the followers of the Prophet. She'd gradually acquired replacements, and a certain comfort had returned to her home. In that comfort, they had something almost like a private moment between two lovers. Almost, except for his soldiers stationed outside on the street.