The Storm's Own Son (Book 3) (26 page)

Katara swung wildly about, cutting foes down with icy fury in her gray eyes. Imvan fought beside her, dealing death with a long sword. Firio appeared on Talaos's side of the enemy line, darting so fast he blurred with the motion. He put a dagger through a foe's back with a blast of lightning, then darted away as the next man glanced to see what had happened.

He could see no sign of Larogwan.

Talaos hurtled himself into battle at the enemy. His troops nearby, mostly Stormhammers and soldiers of Teroia, gathered around him. Sorya appeared. She shot him a dark smile, and then struck like a viper at an unsuspecting foe. The battle nearby turned into a slaughter. They pressed and slew the beleaguered enemy.

All nearby foes lay dead. Talaos looked about him, and saw that hard fighting still raged on the other side, near Miriana. He crossed the square toward the battle and his soldiers swarmed with him toward the enemy. As he went, he saw Megaras lying atop a pile of enemy dead. His body was pierced with many wounds, but might still be alive. He went to the young general as his men swept past to fall upon the enemy. The Avrosan’s eyes were half shut, but they opened when he saw Talaos. He made a weak smile.

"Storm Lord…" Megaras said, with soaring hope on his torn, blood-soaked face.

Grim, icy thoughts passed through Talaos's mind. Megaras trusted implicitly that he would heal him. And what power had he now?

He tried, and took Megaras' arm. Inside, he fought again with the patiently circling shades. They countered in unison, and held. He tried again with fury, and they hurled him back. He tried once more, failed, and accepted the truth. He returned his eyes to the outer world, called on what little strength he had, and gave a spark to Megaras. It was nothing like it should be, but some faint shadow of strength returned to the loyal general's face, and he smiled. Even so, it was far from clear he would live, as it was for many of his own around. Many others were already dead. And now, he was truly spent, and could heal no more.

In fury, Talaos raced to the front, leapt over his own soldiers and at the remaining living enemy. He cut them down relentlessly, savagely, whirling and scything as he went. These men had no doubt been chosen for their fanaticism, and they asked for no quarter. It was good, he thought, for he would give them none.

At last it was done. All the enemy in or near the square were dead.

As were a great many of his own.

And the battle was far from over.

15. The Price

From across the carnage-strewn square, Talaos saw Kyrax sitting propped against a barrel, covered in blood. Larogwan lay on the ground next to him.

Miriana was nearer, unharmed, and seemingly unfazed by the carnage around her. As he passed, she shouted to him, "I don't think their magus can make another portal so soon!"

"Officers, messengers, to the command square!" shouted Talaos. His voice was deep and loud, but no longer reverberated with thunder.

Men ran to him. He shouted orders, or dispatched them to get news of what was going on elsewhere in the battle. As he did so, he made his way toward his fallen friends. Kyrax lay on the ground with terrible wounds at his legs and ribs, while Larogwan had taken a crushing wound to the head. His skull was broken inward on one side.

Both men should likely have died, but the vitality Talaos had imparted to them kept them struggling on. He walked to them, and knelt at their sides. Sorya, Katara, and the rest of the Madmen gathered around. Though he knew better, he took Larogwan's arm and tried to heal him.

Nothing.

Spent, and with no way to draw more power.

Kyrax blearily looked over at him, paused, then spoke. "Talaos… lightning's gone from your eyes. Can't be fucking good…"

No, it was not, he thought. There was something more. He felt tired. Not the black weariness of drained power, but simple physical exhaustion from fighting a battle. Inwardly he cursed. He restrained himself from fighting the shades within. He'd find some way around them, he thought, but for now it was useless. He needed strength, a source of magic, of power. He searched.

Ah, but there it was before him, like tempting poison.

His armor.

The armor meant to kill its wearer. The curse he could now faintly feel. He now knew enough about magic to understand his armor drew on the raw elements, on nature around it, to deliver its deadly jolt. In an arcane way, its source was mechanical and derived from the outer world rather than from within, but it was otherwise much like his own.

If drained of power, he still retained his skills, gifts and knowledge. He felt carefully, with the shreds of inner sight he could still use, for the nexuses of power in the armor itself. He felt them, traced their lines, and found places he could intentionally touch from within.

He tried.

Agony coursed through him, radiating out from his heart.

All around him startled in surprise and shock.

But he had it. He could use it, even if only a little, a very little, at a time.

He drew on it again, and the pain hit him. He kept the pain, but gave the power, the life to Larogwan. The terrible head wound began to heal.

Talaos drew yet again. This time, ready for it, he gave no outward sign of his agony. Pain from his heart. Pain for him. Life for his friend.

Gradually Larogwan healed. Flesh knit and crushed bone returned to place. He opened his eyes, looked up at Talaos, and made a faint, weary smile. "Ah… I guess it's my turn as the one who ought to be dead. Eh? Your eyes…"

"Don't worry about that, just sit still."

Larogwan made another faint smile, and Talaos went through the process of healing once more. When he thought it good, he turned to Kyrax.

The latter glared at Talaos, "Eh? I'm all right, you crazy bastard… I'm fine."

"Kyrax," said Talaos wearily, "shut up."

At a loss for words, Kyrax did so.

Pain and healing. Again, and then again.

With black humor, he mused that at least this didn't drain him with dark weariness, the way healing had before he found his source. However slow it was, he could keep this up as long as he could take the pain. He could take it a long time, he thought.

Satisfied that they would live, he then made his way around the battlefield, giving orders and healing every gravely wounded soldier nearby who still lived, starting with Megaras. The Madmen, Sorya, and Katara followed him, as did an ever-changing group of officers and messengers. Kurvan sprang into action at his command, organizing troops nearby.

Miriana walked his way with Auretius, Hadrastus, and the surviving Stormguard. She looked into his eyes, and tears formed in hers. The woman who'd been unfazed by fire, slaughter, and a drake coming her way to kill her, cried at the sight of his eyes.

"Miriana?" Talaos said, quizzically.

"Oh Talaos…" she sobbed, "They're within your soul now, aren't they?"

"Yes."

There were curious looks from others, at that. Talaos had thought, and now was sure, that no others had really understood what had followed the suicides of the Hands.

None but Miriana.

Miriana walked forward and wrapped her slender arms around his waist. She looked up at him, mastered her tears, and spoke, "I don't know how I can help, but I'll try, my love."

He kissed her forehead and held her for a brief moment.

Then he turned to Hadrastus. "Gather the Stormhammers and any else ready to follow immediately. Go in haste to help Tescani and Adriko deal with the sortie!”

The giant saluted and left at once, gathering soldiers about him.

Talaos continued on, corresponding as he went. Messengers began to return with news, and he quickly dispatched them again. It seemed the traitors in the camp were fanatics who'd been willing to taint their souls with oathbreaking for the sake of the Prophet. They hadn't been many, but they'd been ready to die in order to create as much chaos as possible throughout the camp in time with the other attacks.

Sounds of destruction were coming from Idrona, and even from where Talaos stood, he could see many new lines of smoke rising from the city.

Miriana spoke again, "The Prophet's fog is lifting over Idrona, and I can see a little. The drake is burning and destroying everything and everyone bearing signs of the Prophet. It has been struck with the Prophet's green fire and with many arrows, but keeps on. It seems almost mad with vengeance."

"Does it understand? The tales always describe drakes as cunning beasts," replied Talaos.

"I think drakes, and some other creatures of the world, have their own kinds of intelligence," replied Miriana. "Of a very different kind than ours, but no less for it. Drakes in particular are creatures of great gifts and perception."

Talaos nodded, "I suspect it can sense the signs of the Prophet, as spirits can. I'd rather not let that creature die fighting alone."  He turned to the others around him. "Follow me. I'm going to get the army in order, and then we're going to take that city."

~

The scene ahead was one of violence on a colossal scale. The army that had come forth from Idrona was in chaos. The drake had wrought tremendous destruction. Long lines of scorched earth and incinerated men crossed the battlefield, yet the disorder it had induced had proven far more damaging to the enemy than the fire itself. The hammer of Adriko's light cavalry and the anvil of Tescani's heavy troops slowly smashed the disorganized enemy to pieces between them.

Overhead, the low, dark clouds still brooded, but made no sign of rain.

On the walls of Idrona, the drake's fires burned in many places where artillery had been. Catapults stood abandoned as the crews ran for their lives. The dragon wheeled, dived, struck, and rose to strike again. It swept over the plaza, the citadel, and the walls. Most of the remaining operational ballistae had been turned inward or upward, and were even now firing at the drake, as were great clouds of arrows. Some of the shots struck true.

Fires spread in the city, and great columns of smoke now overwhelmed those of the pyres. Talaos reflected that if only he could summon a storm and call lightning on the defenders, victory might be at hand, much destruction might be avoided, and many, including the drake, might yet live. As it was, the creature was wounded in many places, yet in its fury, it attacked again and again. Talaos wondered how long it would keep on, but was sure that if it did, it would die.

And there would be no storm.

He had officers, messengers, and musicians around him, ready to convey orders and announce signals. He shouted commands. "Move the artillery forward into firing positions!" As he worked, he reflected on what had happened, and who had been lost. Aro, Gavro, and many others. Friends, allies, and brothers-in-arms. Now ready only for their funeral pyres.

In the chaos unleashed by the surprise attacks, his army’s his army had taken terrible losses. Every soldier who died was a man who would never see his own again; a son, husband, father, kinsman, or friend lost to someone. More than two thousand men were lost today. Yet, those that remained burned for revenge, and with numbers bolstered by others pouring in from the countryside, nearly fifty thousand marched to exact it.

"Archers and heavy foot! Advance!" Talaos roared.

The orders went out. In great ordered masses, the men moved forward. The enemy force in the field, the force sent to break his disordered army, were now themselves retreating back to Idrona in disorder. A chaotic press of enemy soldiers gathered at the gates.

Unfortunately for them, Talaos had already sent word to Adriko to risk the enemy's artillery to cut them off with cavalry. The enemy would then be trapped outside, and in his power.

He turned to Kurvan at his side. "Now is the time. Hillmen and irregulars from all sides, close off any gaps around the sortie column. Then help Adriko close the jaws completely."

Kurvan saluted, made a fearsome growl with vengeance in his eyes, and rode off to lead his troops. Talaos watched him go. These enemy soldiers, like those who'd attacked through the portal, were exiles and volunteers from all over Hunyos, self-selected for loyalty to the Prophet, and he was beyond mercy for them.

The Prophet had thrown everything on hand in Idrona in support of what had clearly been a well-planned effort. That plan had almost succeeded. Almost, but not.

The Prophet had taken his power, but he lived.

And now, it was his turn to act.

Still, his means of action had grown more limited. It would sooner or later be noticed that he could no longer call the storm. Without sheer personal power and the awe that went with it, he would need other means to convince those not persuaded by logic or loyalty. He would need firm temporal power. His time to consolidate that power was short, and dependent on overwhelming, total victory. He intended to now have that victory, and with it, make a lesson and warning for the Prophet.

He watched matters unfold, received messages, and gave orders. Officers and companions sat on horses nearby, including the wives of his heart. They had been quiet for some time. Sorya looked as if she once more felt out of place, among commanders as vast formations moved into battle, but still she watched with interest. Miriana's eyes were distant, and Talaos knew she sought knowledge through her visions. Katara looked fiercely eager, yet constrained, like a chained she-wolf.

Talaos turned to her, and spoke. "Katara, would you like to go with Kurvan's forces?"

She turned his way, eyes intense and bright, "If my lord allows it," she answered.

"Yes," he replied, "go to battle."

She bowed to him, spurred her horse, and rode fast to catch up with the hillman warlord.

Then he turned to Sorya with a wry smile.

"Oh no, not me!" she replied, "Too large scale. I'll watch from here."

He grinned his own wolfish grin.

Miriana at last spoke, and her voice was clear and strong. "There is trouble in Idrona between those who follow the Prophet and those who do not. The others are blaming the Prophet's followers for the devastation by the fire drake."

"They're right," replied Talaos.

Several thoughts occurred to him. In Idrona, the Prophet's followers were supposed to have been a minority, but a dominant minority, of the total population before the war. With all the exiles and refugees, they were probably now an outright majority in the city. With everything he'd seen so far, he had no doubt those guests, along with the native followers of the Prophet, were now acting like masters. Such a situation could easily become explosive.

He'd planned for a brutal assault on the city, but infighting in Idrona itself might quicken things, and save a lot of lives. Lives of those opposed to the Prophet, at least. But, in his current state, how to accomplish it?

The tiny amount of power he could take from his murderous armor was enough to heal a fair number of people, though at great cost to his body. It was also enough, at the price of constant pain, to keep lightning in his eyes, for those who needed to see it.

It was not, however, remotely sufficient to call wind or lightning, let alone a storm. Not even with clouds already in the sky. He'd tried uselessly to fight his way past the three shades, but perhaps there was some other, more clever way. Whatever that might be, he’d have to discover soon.

For this was the time.

Far ahead, toward the city, the artillery had reached their positions. He motioned a group of messengers to him, then gave further commands, "Give the word. The artillery are to use fire. Target the walls away from the gate."