The Cerulean Storm

by Denning, Troy

  Neeva yelled the order to charge, and the clamor of running feet filled Magnus’s ears. The windsinger could also hear Rikus disparaging Borys’s courage in a futile attempt to lure him back to the fight. At the same time, Sadira was shouting for the company to spread out so that the Dragon could not use a spell to make an easy counterattack.

  As Magnus joined Caelum and Rkard at the well, the boy looked up at him. “What are they doing?” Although the Dragon’s towering form had already retreated so far that it was no longer visible behind Samarah’s huts, the young mul’s eyes were still turned southward. “Jo’orsh and Sa’ram said I’m the one who’s going to kill the Dragon.”

  “Perhaps, but we should not complain if your mother and her friends succeed now,” said the windsinger.

  “Besides, I doubt that this battle will be our last one with Borys,” said Caelum. “He is a powerful enemy and will not be slain so easily.”

  A hut at the plaza’s edge suddenly collapsed, spraying stones halfway across the square. Magnus looked toward the sound and scowled. “What caused that?”

  “Whatever it was, I don’t like it.” Caelum raised his palm toward the sun.

  “I’ll go take a look,” Magnus offered.

  The windsinger gripped his mace more tightly and started toward the ruined building. He moved across the square cautiously, his dark eyes searching the narrow alleys for some man or creature that could have destroyed the hut. A cloud of silt hung in the air around the fallen shack, but the haze was thin enough that Magnus could see that there was no one lurking inside.

  Finally, when he had crossed about three-quarters of the plaza, he heard something clatter across a cobblestone ahead. Less than three paces away, a swirl of silt rose off the ground with no apparent cause. Normally, he would have attributed the disturbance to the wind. But the day was a still one. There was not even a faint breeze, and he knew that no air current had caused the sound or the puff of dust.

  Something hard and knobby struck Magnus in the chest. Though the jolt lacked the sharp impact of an attack, its force was powerful and unyielding. The windsinger’s feet left the ground, then he crashed down on his back a short distance away. The air over his face stirred faintly as something unseen passed over him. The ground trembled slightly as something heavy settled down just a short distance from his head. Then everything was once again still and quiet.

  Magnus regained his feet and rushed toward the well. “Something’s coming, Caelum!”

  The windsinger’s warning was hardly necessary. Caelum’s palm was already glowing brilliant crimson. The dwarf pushed his son behind him, then pointed his hand at the ground and traced a circle around himself and Rkard. A scarlet glow washed over the cobblestones, sending waves of heat pouring into the sky.

  Magnus was twenty paces away, and Caelum’s spell scorched his tough hide even from that distance. Tongues of orange flame began to lace the shimmering wall, though the dwarf and his son showed no sign of discomfort inside their protective fire circle. The windsinger’s mace burst into flame. He barely managed to toss it aside before it burned his hand. At the well, the bone rails surrounding the pit turned black and began to smoke, then abruptly vanished in a fiery flash.

  Unable to endure the terrible heat of the sun-cleric’s spell, Magnus stopped. The fiery curtain around Caelum and Rkard waved as though something were passing through it. Even before the windsinger saw the flames outline the shape of a gaunt figure, he knew the awful truth. The Dragon had created a double of himself to lure Rikus and Sadira away.

  Magnus burst into song, summoning a hot gale that swept across the plaza and fanned Caelum’s spell. The flames flared white. Glowing cobblestones shot from the ground like lightning bolts, trailing blue fire and filling the air with ear-piercing whistles. The rocks rattled off the Dragon’s legs and bounced away with no effect.

  Borys passed inside the circle. The only effect the flames had on him was to coat his body in soot, rendering him more or less visible. Caelum raised a glowing hand and sprayed the blackened Dragon with crimson fire. The flames bounced off the beast’s chest and curled back.

  Magnus rushed forward, ignoring the searing pain that washed over him with each stride. As he ran, he sent a wind-whisper to Sadira. “Borys has tricked us! Come to the well at once!”

  Even as he committed the words to the wind, the windsinger worried about all the things that could keep the message from reaching the sorceress. If Borys’s magic had caused today’s eerie stillness, Magnus’s breath would be muffled long before it left the village. Or, if the battle had drifted too far east or west, the wind-whisper would bypass her. And if the words did reach the sorceress, it would take a little while for her to disengage from the fight with the fraudulent dragon and return to the well. By then, Rkard might well be dead.

  Inside the fire circle, a loud thud sounded as Borys kicked Caelum in the chest. The dwarf shot into the air, his limp hand still trailing flame. He crashed down on the far side of the well and did not move.

  Magnus reached the circle of fire and tried to hurl himself through. He slammed into the flames as though smashing into a stone wall, then his leading flank erupted into blistering pain. The smell of scorched hide filled his nostrils. The windsinger fell away, bellowing in agony and madly slapping at the embers flaring to life on his thighs. He slammed to the ground and rolled. Once he managed to get control of himself, he returned to his knees, already singing a lyric that would ease his pain.

  Magnus looked up in time to see Rkard diving forward. The boy’s sword flashed, hit the Dragon’s scorched leg, and snapped. The young mul cried out in disbelief, then rolled through the fire wall and came up facing Borys. He stood about a quarter of the way around the circle from Magnus, less than a dozen paces away.

  The Dragon stepped into the fire curtain and stooped down to pick up Rkard.

  Magnus pushed himself to his feet and stumbled forward, his legs protesting each step with fiery pain. “Rkard, over here!” he yelled.

  The young mul looked toward the windsinger. When Borys’s hand flicked down to cut him off, the boy dodged away and began to run, fleeing toward a hut on the opposite side of the plaza.

  The Dragon turned to chase the boy.

  Suddenly, on the other side of the fire circle from Magnus, a gnarled mass of bone stood between Borys and the boy. The lump was almost as tall as the Dragon himself, with glowing orange eyes, a long gray beard, and stiff branches of bone protruding from its shoulders. Magnus shook his head, unable to understand where the banshee had come from. The thing had appeared in a flash, standing where there had been only empty air an instant before.

  “I won’t let you slay our king again,” said Jo’orsh.

  “I have no intention of killing him,” Borys replied. “I’m taking him to Ur Draxa, where I’ll return him to you—in return for the Dark Lens. Now, stand aside.”

  With his arm of stiff bone, Jo’orsh slashed at the Dragon, opening a long gash in Borys’s snout. Boiling yellow blood spilled from the wound, hissing and popping as it splashed off the cobblestones.

  Magnus circled around Caelum’s fire curtain, ducking his face behind his shoulder to shield it from the blazing heat.

  Borys tried to sidestep his foe, and Jo’orsh moved to block his path. The Dragon struck, driving a fist through the banshee’s gnarled ribs. A deafening crack reverberated across the square, and the banshee burst apart. Shards of white bone rained down on the plaza from one end to the other.

  As soon as they hit the ground, the fragments astonished Magnus by slowly tumbling back toward the place where Jo’orsh had been standing.

  Swallowing his shock, Magnus lowered his shoulder and charged. Though he was not foolish enough to believe he could injure Borys, he hoped to slow the beast down long enough for Rkard to escape.

  Borys stepped away, forcing the windsinger to change courses and rush after him. In two paces, the Dragon crossed to the hut where Rkard had gone. He ripped the hide roof away and toss
ed it across the square. Apparently, the young mul had left through a back window, for the beast did not reach down to pluck him out of the building.

  “Where are you, little boy?” the Dragon slapped the hut in frustration.

  The building exploded into flying stones. Less than a dozen paces away, Magnus had to stop running and duck to shield his head. When the windsinger looked up again, the beast was tearing the roof off the next building. Again, the Dragon smashed the shack, then he ripped the hide off a third shack.

  This time, a red flare shot up from inside and engulfed Borys’s slender head inside a glowing likeness of the sun. Unconcerned, the Dragon reached into the hut. When he pulled his hand out, it was curled into a tight fist, with Rkard’s head showing out of the top.

  “No!” Magnus roared.

  The windsinger sprinted the last few steps to the plaza edge. He threw himself at the Dragon’s bony shin and wrapped his massive arms around it. Borys started toward the tiny silt harbor east of the village, smashing his foot through the nearest hut.

  The windsinger grimaced from the impact but held on easily. His thick hide was as tough as a lirr’s, and it shielded him from all but the most serious blows. He began to sing in his loudest voice, calling up a gale from the Sea of Silt. Borys dragged him through another hut, then another and another. Magnus continued to sing, and soon the sky above was filled with gray clouds of dust. Yellow bolts of lightning crackled out of the gathering storm, each striking the Dragon’s head. The windsinger was not foolish enough to think his windstorm could harm the beast, but he hoped it would draw his friends’ attention to Rkard’s danger.

  Borys chuckled then slammed his foot through the village wall and stepped into the harbor. Magnus sank beneath the silt. He closed his eyes and mouth, trying to breathe through his nose. The membranes protecting his nasal passages were clogged by dust, but at least the filters kept him from swallowing the powdery loess and choking. He would not suffocate for a few more moments.

  Holding his breath, Magnus pulled himself up Borys’s knee. The storm would continue for a few moments without his ballad, but if he wanted to keep it going, he would soon have to raise his voice again. The windsinger reached up, searching for a handhold on the Dragon’s thigh.

  Magnus felt a hand slip around his torso. The claw pulled him free and lifted him out of the silt. The windsinger saw that the Dragon had already carried him and Rkard out of the harbor. They were heading toward the heart of the Sea of Silt.

  Above Magnus, Rkard had managed to work an arm free of the Dragon’s grip and was trying to bend a clawed finger back to free himself. The windsinger knew he would not succeed. Even a mul child could not be that strong.

  Magnus snorted, clearing his nostrils, and raised his voice in song. A peal of thunder cracked over the Dragon, and a dozen forks of sizzling energy stabbed at his head. Borys’s eyes flashed even brighter than the lightning.

  “Your noise makes my head throb,” the Dragon hissed.

  Three sharp claws pierced the windsinger’s hide, cracking his massive ribs like a storm snapping faro branches. His ballad changed to a howl. He felt the Dragon’s arm whip outward, then Magnus found himself soaring over the pearly sea. His black eyes clouded over, and he began to arc downward, the wind singing in his ears.

  Neeva found her unconscious husband next to the well, one armed draped over the side. The flesh had been scraped off one side of his skull, and a dark streak on the cobblestones marked where he had been dragged across the plaza to the pit. Strangely enough, the wound itself looked clean, as though someone had taken the trouble to bathe it before abandoning him.

  “Caelum! Wake up!” She kneeled at his side and shook his shoulder. When his eyes failed to open, she slapped his cheek—not lightly. “Tell me what happened to Rkard!”

  The dwarf’s eyes did not even flutter.

  Behind her, Jo’orsh’s bones continued to clatter as they tumbled toward each other. Neeva looked toward the noise and shuddered. The banshee had reconstructed only about half of his gnarled body, most of the torso and one leg, and somehow he looked even more hideous than before.

  Rikus and Sadira appeared at the edge of the plaza, leading the five haggard survivors from the Bronze Company toward the well. The rest of the command, nearly thirty warriors, had perished in the battle with the counterfeit Borys. At the time, with its claws ripping through steel breastplates and its heels smashing thick dwarven skulls, the beast had seemed real enough. It was not until the fight had ended and the Dragon had shrunk into a frightened, battered gorak that they had discovered the creature’s true nature.

  It was then that they had noticed the dust storm drifting out to sea. For a moment, it had seemed to Neeva that she saw a red light in the heart of the tempest, but the others had not been able to find it when she tried to point it out to them. Finally, even she could not see the glow, and the squall had moved out of sight. They had rushed back to the village, finding it as quiet as when they had first arrived.

  “How is he?” called Sadira.

  Neeva shook her head. “Alive, but that’s about all,” she reported. “Any sign of Magnus or Rkard?”

  The sorceress shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

  Neeva cursed. “I want to know where my son is,” she said. “Why doesn’t Magnus send a wind-whisper to tell us where they are?”

  “He may have,” Sadira replied. “But if he did it after the battle began to drift eastward, we wouldn’t have been there to hear it.”

  “Or maybe he didn’t have time,” Rikus suggested. “If it came down to a choice of protecting Rkard or warning us, I’ve no doubts that he’d defend the boy.”

  “As long as he was able—which may not have been that long,” Neeva said. She picked her husband up and carried him a safe distance away from the well. “But what happened isn’t as important as how we’re going to find my son again.”

  “Maybe Jo’orsh will be able to tell us something,” Sadira suggested. She glanced toward the banshee, who had reassembled his complete torso, both legs, and an arm. “He must have seen what happened.”

  Rikus nodded. “Until then, maybe this can tell us something.” The mul kneeled at the side of the well. He pointed at the dark streak marking the path along which Caelum had been pulled. “Could Rkard have been the one who dragged his father over here?”

  Neeva shook her head. “He’d just carry Caelum,” she said. “You know how strong he is.”

  “Unless he was hurt and looking for a place to hide,” Rikus said. He grabbed the well rope and handed the end to Neeva. “I’ll go see.”

  Neeva barely had time to loop the line around her back and sit before the mul stepped into the dark pit. The rope bit into her waist, and she waited in tense silence while the mul descended. The warrior did not know what she wanted him to find. If Rkard had been injured and had dropped into the well, he might well have drowned. On the other hand, she could not bear the alternative—that Borys had taken him and disappeared. She found herself placing all her hope in Magnus, praying that the windsinger had taken her son and had hidden where neither Sadira nor the Dragon could find them.

  The rope slackened as Rikus took his weight off it. The mul groaned in disgust, then cried, “You!”

  A muffled thump echoed up from the well, then a bloated head came flying out of the pit. He had coarse hair pulled into a tight topknot, with puffy cheeks, eyes swollen to narrow dark slits, and a mouthful of broken teeth. His leathery lips were caked with fresh blood—no doubt licked from Caelum’s head wound.

  “Sacha!” Sadira cried.

  The head regained his equilibrium and hovered in the air, regarding them with a malevolent sneer. “It’s high time you arrived,” he said. “Your king has nearly starved to death!”

  Neeva ignored the head and leaned over the pit. “What’d you find down there, Rikus?”

  “Our scouts—dead,” came the reply. Neeva heard the mul grunt, then there were several splashes as he pushed their bodies asi
de. “And Tithian—at least I think it’s him—with something that could be the Dark Lens.”

  Although this news should have delighted her, Neeva could not rejoice yet. “Anyone else?”

  “Rkard’s not down here,” answered the mul.

  “Of course not,” Sacha sneered, drifting over in front of Neeva. “If you want to see Rkard again, you’d better hurry and get Tithian out of that hole.”

  Neeva lashed out, catching the head by his topknot.

  “Why?”

  The head slowly spun around, facing the Sea of Silt. “Because the Dragon is taking Rkard to Ur Draxa, and I don’t think Jo’orsh is going to wait very long for you to follow.”

  Neeva followed his gaze. Having returned his gnarled head to his lumpy shoulders, Jo’orsh was moving toward Samarah’s harbor in long, silent strides.

  ELEVEN

  THE DHOW

  AS THE DHOW LEFT SAMARAH’S HARBOR, A GUST OF wind skipped across the swells ahead. Silvery columns of dust swirled skyward, forming a chain of featherlike silhouettes against the yellow horizon. For a moment, they hung like clouds above the pearly sea, then the bluster died. The plumes slowly melted back toward the surface, forming a low-hanging dust curtain that shrouded Jo’orsh’s distant figure in a mantle of gray.

  Tithian braced his arm on the tiller and pulled himself upright, sitting squarely on the floater’s dome. He peered out toward the open sea and cursed his lack of a king’s eye. With Jo’orsh wading through chest-deep silt, it had been difficult enough to see him before the gust came up. Now, keeping the banshee’s lumpy head in sight would be impossible.

  The effort of sitting upright was almost too much for the king. His time in the well had reduced him to something of a skeleton. The pallid skin dangled from his sticklike arms in loose folds, and each time he exhaled, his breath filled the air with the stench of starvation. He had little desire for solid food, and the few morsels his former slaves had forced him to eat sat in his distended stomach like rocks. The king thought that Sacha’s approach to helping him recover, trickling warm blood down his throat, had been much more sensible.