Chaos Storm (The Flight of the Griffin Book 2)

by C. M. Gray

  Awareness had first settled upon the Djinn in the first violent dawn of creation, a time when the rocks were still cooling, the time when the planet was just starting to form its hard outer shell.

  For thousands of years, it had dwelt in contentment deep in the womb of the earth, growing and forming, approaching the moment when its spirit would first walk free and conceive the thought, 'I am.'

  In those early days, as the planet had shifted and shrugged, slowly settling into a more stable, if not yet hospitable environment, the black crystal that housed the flicker of consciousness that was the Djinn, worked its way to the outer surface and was eventually found by one of the first humans, who immediately set great store in its beauty.

  Wrapping it carefully in a layer of animal skins, the man took it to his cave where he and the others worshipped the crystal through countless generations. It was during this worship that the Djinn discovered an energy source that apparently was abundant in these creatures that bowed down to it. It was a source of energy they called their souls.

  As it was worshipped, the crystal slowly drew upon this energy and grew in power. However, it was only when the village elders decided to make a sacrifice to it that it began to understand the full potential that a promised soul represented. When, one bright morning as the first blush of dawn broke on the horizon, the shaman sacrificed a small screaming child before it, the Djinn felt a rush of energy the like of which it had never experienced before, it was a pivotal event in the Djinn's existence. What was more, the soul of the child continued to live on, talking, calling… pleading, instantly becoming the most intimate of companions. The Djinn knew it needed to be free to explore this new source of power, to gather more souls, more companions.

  Sending out its essence, the energy that was the Djinn took the body of a young man who had come alone one day to pray for healing from a minor wound. The Djinn had healed the young man but then consumed his soul before taking over his body. The man's name had been Tsai. Now, with a physical form outside of the crystal, the Djinn was able to turn upon the rest of the village, drawing in the essence of their being, their souls, revelling in the orgy of energy it felt flood within it as it chased down every last man woman and child and broke their fragile bodies to release and capture the souls within. The Djinn reflected that it was like the village woman he had seen cracking eggs to gather the yokes, it killed and smiled and felt pleasure for the first time.

  Now, so many lifetimes and lives later, all of this was but a distant memory. The Djinn still used the form of the villager, seeing little reason to change outwardly after all these years, and sat upon the elephant throne for the one thing that gave its existence meaning, the continued gathering of souls.

  The throne room was in darkness, all except for the area around the throne and crystal, which was lit by a single candle for the Emperor's private meditation.

  'I hear you calling me,' the Djinn whispered, tapping the side of the black crystal. Flickers of energy leapt across its surface. 'Don't be so angry,' he soothed. 'Soon there will be more of you, soon we shall grow even more powerful.' The smooth face with its simple smile, pressed against the side of the crystal and his arms raised taking the crystal in an embrace - energy leapt and danced in an angry buzz across the crystal's surface, the Djinn continued to smile.

  All was silent until the sound of footsteps echoed from the shadows and the Emperor, Djinn Tsai, turned to see who had interrupted his most holy communion. The fingers of energy that still danced across the crystal mirrored across his black pupils, yet remained unseen by the now prostrate courtier.

  'My Lord, the wraiths are ready to move… they beg your leave to advance upon the Desert City of Dhurban.' The courtier remained motionless, his face pressed to the cool stone of the floor as he awaited his Emperor's reply.

  'Now it begins,' murmured the Djinn. He turned back to the crystal and an image of the desert and waiting wraiths appeared upon the surface. They swarmed around the great elephants. Hunched forms under black cloaks, agitated, anxious for the moment of release so the hunt could begin. A path had been cleared for them through the marching army, and it was here at the opening that the wraiths swarmed the thickest.

  The camels that had been walking in front of the wraiths for days were now harder to control as they sensed the pent-up energy of the wraiths behind them. Eyes wide and filled with fear, the beasts were calling out in alarm as they bucked and kicked back their legs, passing their panic on to other animals in the herd. Their riders, seeking to maintain control, were resorting to the lash, striking at their crazed mounts as they tried desperately to spin about in a bid to see the danger they sensed to their rear. In the confusion, clouds of sand were being kicked up which was only adding to the commotion, it was clearly time for the wraiths to leave.

  The Djinn's hand stroked the surface of the crystal and angry flickers of energy tore the image apart. The smiling face turned back to the prostrate man. 'Tell the wraiths to leave – to run with the blessing of Chaos.'

  * * *

  'Here?… Here!' Bartholomew, with snow dusting his hair and rapidly growing beard, gestured wildly at the towering sides of the bolt. 'Why, by the nostril hairs of the great demon himself, did we have to march all this way, when this bit of the mountain is exactly the same as every other bit we've passed?' His angry voice, directed at Loras, echoed along the Bolt causing small piles of snow to fall from the high ledges of the cliff face. Everyone looked up and took a conscious step away from the cliff lest another large rock had been disturbed. Bartholomew's anger had erupted because after making their way up the narrow pass that was the Bolt for most of the day, Loras had finally decided they were in the right place to perform his magic.

  The group that stood in the windswept canyon, doing their best to ignore the irate merchant was a pitiful bunch. The travelling had been hard and was getting steadily harder with every step. The wind that howled down the Bolt had continually driven falls of sleet and snow directly into their faces, its icy fingers picking away at their cloaks, finding its way in past their defences by robbing them of any heat and freezing them to the saddles of their horses. To make matters worse, the icy surface of the Bolt was becoming even more treacherous having already claimed its first victim when one of the horses had stumbled badly and gone so lame that even with magic there was no way it could be ridden until properly rested.

  'Are you sure this is the place?' shouted Tarent over the gusting of the wind. 'I mean, Old Bartholomew has got a point, there isn't much difference between here and where we were this morning, or at least I can't see any.' Loras looked up from where he had been studying the rocky ground. His cloak wrapped tightly around him, the hood pulled so securely shut that only the faint cloud of his breathing pluming out into the cold air showed that he was actually inside. Loras turned from Tarent to the high rock-face around them and raised an arm.

  'High straight sides, no ledges or outcrops of rock,' his voice was muffled from the folds of cloak it travelled through. He kicked a rock and waved a hand at the wet canyon floor. 'Some loose stones, but the base rock is solid and relatively flat.' He loosened his hood a little and his face became more visible. 'We're going to build a wall, Tarent. Not a wall of bricks that you can see and touch, but a wall of magic, and yes, this is definitely the place to build it.'

  'Will it take long? Should we make camp?' Tarent's questions went unanswered by Loras, who was back to studying the rock-face again, but Magician Falk nodded his head.

  'Yes, let's make camp and warm up.' He rubbed at his hands and pulled his hood closed again from where the wind had tugged it out of place. 'The wall will take only a short time to construct, but the preparation may take longer and, when we're finished, we'll have to make the return trip back out of the Bolt to the ship. We need to warm, rest and build up our energies again.'

  While the Magicians prepared, the remainder of the group huddled around the wagon and built a small fire, ready to cook a meal and some warming brew. Barth
olomew's guards drew straws and the two unlucky recipients of the shortest were sent back down the Bolt to make sure they weren't being followed. As Tarent sat by the fire, trying to ignore Bartholomew's incessant moaning, Magician Falk and Loras crouched down next to him. Loras was moulding a piece of blue clay about the same size as his fist and the older Magician was watching him with a puzzled expression. He gratefully accepted a mug of brew from the cook and took one for Loras who had ignored the offered mug.

  'What's he doing, that lad?' asked Bartholomew, eyeing Loras suspiciously. 'Didn't come all this way so he could start making clay pots, did we?'

  'Magic, Mr Bask,' hissed Magician Falk. 'My young colleague is building a spell the like of which I have never seen before, and I seriously doubt you could even begin to comprehend.' He turned to Tarent when he saw that Bartholomew wasn't really interested. He sighed. 'I don't know how he's doing it. It's all beyond me, but he claims to be building a wall in that lump of clay and I can do no less than believe him.' They both watched as Loras worked the ball of clay, mumbling to himself, off in his own little world and apparently oblivious to everything around him. Sounds of movement came from down the Bolt, and everyone round the fire looked up as the guards that had been sent to keep watch came hurrying towards them, urging their horses on as they slipped and clattered over the rocky ground.

  'Riders! There are riders coming.' Upon reaching the group they swung down from their horses and crouched by the fire to warm their hands. 'It's a bigger band than the last group, and they're not far behind us.' All eyes swung towards Tarent who reluctantly pushed himself up from the fire.

  'Loras, how long until you're ready?'

  'I'm ready now,' said Loras glancing up. 'This is going to be really interesting, I hope it works.'

  'Hope it works!' exclaimed Bartholomew, 'It'd better work, my lad, we need a nice wall to hide behind and quickly by the sound of it. Get yerself going, go on… off with yer!'

  Loras stood with the help of Tarent and moved away, followed by Magician Falk, leaving a worried looking Bartholomew casting about for the best place to hide. Deciding on the wagon, he waddled off and, with no little huffing puffing and cursing, clambered in over the back.

  'Fan out!' called Tarent. 'But keep close to the Magicians. We'll leave the wagon if we have to.'

  'Leave the wagon!' came the panicked voice of Bartholomew. There was a scuffling sound as the merchant hurried to get out again and join his men. 'Guards to me!'

  'No, guards to me!' called Tarent, smiling at Bartholomew's distress. 'We have a fight on our hands, and we need everyone to work together. Defend the Magicians as they prepare.'

  Tarent glanced over at Loras and Magician Falk. They were in deep discussion, and Magician Falk was shaking his head. I hope Loras has this worked out, he thought to himself. Right now, this doesn't look good. He glanced back down the Bolt. The sleet had turned back to large fluffy lumps of snow that was fast becoming a blizzard. A growing breeze was driving it in swirling clouds to float up against the rocks where it was settling in growing piles, it was also getting darker, and the temperature seemed to be falling even further. There may be a storm coming, thought Tarent. Squinting his eyes, he gazed as far down the Bolt as he could see, but nothing was coming into view. He glanced down to make sure his staff was still lying on the floor in front of him and fingered the quiver of arrows on his belt, well, he was as ready as he could be. He glanced to either side at the anxious faces of the guardsmen, all much bigger and taller than him. The men stood, cold and silent, some mumbling as they made their peace with the Source before once again risking life and limb against a Barbarian blade. They were a tough bunch; had to be to earn a living as a sailor and guard to Bartholomew. Turning back, Tarent saw Bartholomew hurrying as far back up the Bolt as he was able. The merchant kept glancing back to see how far he had come, then hurrying on still further. Tarent felt a tug on his sleeve.

  'Ermm, did I mention that we have to leave the weapons behind.'

  'Sorry?' Tarent turned from Loras and glanced up the Bolt - still nothing coming - then back to Loras who was studying him intently.

  'We have to pile up the weapons and move back up the Bolt.'

  Tarent watched the intense expression on his friend's face for a moment before answering. 'There's a band of Barbarian warriors coming from up there that will happily kill us all… and you want us to pile up our weapons, and run away? I'm sorry, Loras but…'

  'No, not run away, just stand a bit further down the Bolt, back close to where Bartholomew is hiding, behind that big rock over there.' He pointed back to where the big merchant was trying unsuccessfully to blend with the rocky ground. He saw them talking about him and gestured frantically for them to look away.

  'All right, Loras, if you say so.' Tarent was just about to explain to the guards that they had to give up their weapons, when two huge black dogs appeared, tearing over the small incline towards them. They were panting hard, obviously having run some distance, but then gained a new turn of speed when they saw the group in the middle of the Bolt and came on barking furiously. Tarent raised his bow and fired at the lead dog - the arrow missed. Dropping the bow, he flipped his staff into the air with his foot - drew the blades and stepped to the side just in time to slide a blade into the snarling animal, killing it in mid leap. It let out a high-pitched yelp then dropped to the ground dead. A crossbow bolt, fired by one of the guards, brought down the second dog, and the excitement was abruptly brought to an end. The sounds of shouting and more barking came from over the rise, the Barbarians, having heard the dogs attack were now coming fast.

  'I need you all to do as I say and not question me,' said Tarent addressing the guards. He walked to the side of the Bolt where Loras was standing and, placing his staff and bow against the cliff-face, threw a last questioning look at Loras, and then dropped his two knives and the quiver of arrows on top of the pile. Unarmed, he turned back to the guards. 'Leave your weapons here, go back to where Merchant Bask is, and trust the Magicians.'

  'You're bloomin crazy!' The closest guard fingered his weapon nervously and cast a look of appeal to his comrades.' We can't listen to him; he's just a kid! We'll need our weapons when those savages get here.' However, two had already run over to the pile and dropped their swords. They turned and were making off up the Bolt, the other three looked ready to join them.

  'Help bring the wagon,' called Loras to the two retreating guards. 'We can't leave it where it is.' With a look in the direction of where the Barbarians would be approaching, the two guards ran back and began throwing all the gear up onto the wagon as fast as they possibly could.

  Another guard ran over and threw down his crossbow and sword, then ran over to help with the wagon.

  'That leaves two of you,' said Tarent. 'Just two of you against the Barbarians and it won't matter if you've got swords or not.' With a look of despair, they both threw down their weapons and ran to the wagon to help persuade the horse to move on past where Loras was standing.

  For a short while, everyone worked in a frenzy packing up and moving back as fast as was humanly possible. Gusts of thick snow continued to hamper their efforts and thunder rumbled in the distance. Throughout it all, Bartholomew's voice still shrieked in complaint. And then the silence of the Bolt was broken as the Barbarian warriors came into sight and with a great roar began to run towards them, the terrifying noise of their coming driving all thoughts of cold or discomfort from the minds of the defenders.

  'Get back behind me… hurry,' called Loras. He walked away from the cliff a short distance and waited anxiously for the last of the guards to pass. There were still two, desperately coaxing the wagon over the bumpy ground. It was slipping on the wet stones, and the horse was snorting and puffing at the effort, its eyes rolling in distress, its ears twitching at the sounds coming from behind it.

  'Come on, hurry!' urged Loras.

  The Barbarian group was made up of about forty big dark warriors screaming towards them, maybe more, it
was hard to tell in the heavy falling snow. All were wearing the Barbarian's typical odd assortment of armour and black leather and were waving and swinging an intimidating variety of swords and axes. A huge female warrior led the charge, her hair flying about her in two long black plaits as her muscular legs drove her on across the rocky ground. As she ran, she swung a sword in slicing arcs whilst screaming a high pitched battle cry. The warriors behind echoed her enthusiasm, baying for blood like the Barbarians they were.

  Tarent glanced at Loras and then the pile of weapons, which had disappeared. He wasn't sure if he was happy about that or not, but as they were leaving them behind he supposed it was a good thing. 'Come on Loras!' He ran forward and helped the two guards drag the poor horse the last few steps.

  As the Barbarian warriors got close enough, the other guards started throwing rocks, and Bartholomew began to scream, but the Barbarians came on and for one horrible moment it seemed like it was all going to end there, but then Loras threw his ball of clay.

  The blue ball flew, spinning through the snow, hit the side of the cliff and exploded into a cloud of blue dust that floated in the gusting air, mixing with the snow before disappearing - had it failed? Tarent glanced from the dissipating blue cloud to the closest Barbarian warrior, the big female that had led them in their charge up the Bolt. There was a look of triumph on her face as she swung the sword up ready to strike and cut him in two. There was nothing he could do about it yet self-preservation forced him to try and he stepped to the side and crouched expecting her to come flying past, but she didn't. He saw her triumph turn to confusion… and then she hit the wall.

  The first few Barbarians struck the wall as if it were made of the same rock as the Bolt to either side and were thrown back heavily, knocked unconscious from the impact. Those behind ran in tripping and stumbling over the fallen warriors at the front to curse and roar in frustration, staring blindly up the Bolt as if not seeing the tiny band that they had expected to slaughter.