Table of Contents
Chapter One: Mirrorwave
Chapter Two: The Demon Sea
Chapter Three: Elia
Chapter Four: Wavechase
Chapter Five: What Bernarl Saw
Chapter Six: Fire, Ice, and Wind
Chapter Seven: Speech of Mastery
Chapter Eight: Steamclaw
Chapter Nine: Menace from Afar
Chapter Ten: Demon Talk
Chapter Eleven: Footprints of Doom
Chapter Twelve: Winter's Warriors
Chapter Thirteen: Hellthunder
Chapter Fourteen: Wind Tunnel
Chapter Fifteen: Storm and Glory
Chapter Sixteen: Battleheart
Chapter Seventeen: Stormheart
Chapter Eighteen: Names in the Nothing
Chapter Nineteen: We Are Not Easily Destroyed
Chapter Twenty: We Will Rejoice…
Chapter Twenty-One: ...No Matter What
Epilogue: Spared for Torment
Winter Warrior
Song of the Aura
Book Two
A Novel by Gregory J. Downs
Copyright 2011
This book is dedicated to
The memory of:
J.R.R. Tolkien
C.S. Lewis
Brian Jacques
Robert Jordan
Four men who had the spirit of fantasy,
Knew it,
And used it.
Chapter One: Mirrorwave
Time was short. Too short.
The two Striders and the three guards buried their fellows under the four great arches leading towards the Inkwell. Each grave was marked by that man’s sword stabbed into the turf at its head. The draik was left to rot and rust- none of them would touch it.
Gathering what they could from the piddling amount of rations and water left untouched by the draik’s attack, they sorted the remnant into five packs, one apiece for the survivors. Then they set off into the morning mist for the Zain encampment they hoped to find on the shore of the Endless Ocean, led on only by Byorne’s memory and the occasional sight of glittering water miles ahead of them.
By mid-morning the fog had cleared and the sun shone brightly on the travelers down between the mountains. The ominous depression Gribly had felt since Lauro’s unexpected announcement the night before lifted enough for him to question the prince about it.
“What do you think, Lauro?”
“About what?”
The thief snorted. “You know what.”
The prince was silent for a few moments as they hiked up a particularly rough patch in the old road. Once at the top, the five survivors could see that they were no more than three miles from the edge of the Inkwell. In the distance rose a number of indistinct dark shapes that could have been anything. “Zain,” he heard Lauro whisper hopefully.
“That doesn’t answer my question, princey. You saw the Pit Strider, so you tell me- why did it have my face?”
Lauro turned slowly, shielding his eyes with one hand as he scanned the horizon. Finally he lowered it and stared at Gribly for a while. “I don’t know,” he said at last, “I just don’t know.”
“Whaddya mean, you ‘don’t know’? You saw it- or him- or me, whichever it was!”
The prince shrugged uncomfortably. “It seems fanciful, now. I don’t know why I thought it, it’s just that… well… He didn’t just look like you, he fought like you.”
“Correction: He fought much better than me.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I hope you’re not just saying this so you have a reason to get rid of me when we reach the water-nymphs.”
“No! Of course not!” the Wind Strider seemed horrified at any such question against his honor.
“Then what are you saying??”
“I’m saying…” the prince paused in the middle of his sentence, narrowed his eyes at Gribly, then started up a new one. “Say, Grib… do you have any family?” This earned another snort from the thief.
“I’ve already told you the answer about five times since we’ve met: No. A gypsy raised me and I’ve never met my… oh.” The thought suddenly struck him as particularly appropriate. He hadn’t ever met his parents- or any brothers, uncles, cousins, whatever- that he might have.
“Go on ahead,” Lauro told the three silverguard. “We’ll catch up after we discuss this new development further.” His crisp, military tone elicited a quick bow-and-salute from each of the guards, who headed off as one down the hill, hoisting their shields across their backs and trudging forward with nary a complaint. The two friends followed some distance back, out of earshot.
“So you think I may have a brother or relative who pit strides and attacks innocent travelers in his spare time, eh?” Gribly smiled ruefully. “That’s justice for you- a brother thief and a brother sorcerer. Just who you wanted to know before you got crowned king, I wager.”
Lauro didn’t change his expression at all, besides frowning a little deeper. “I don’t exactly know if it’s true, but yes- it would make a certain sense, would it not?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?”
“…I mean,” the prince continued, ignoring him, “That I wouldn’t be surprised if you were stolen as a child instead of abandoned. That somewhere you have a family… people who can Stride just as well as you.”
For some reason that made Gribly sullen and quiet. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he snapped. “And besides, I stride sand, not fire, or ash, and I can’t make little flame demons out of coal.”
“But you might be able to if you knew how,” protested the prince.
“I don’t want to talk about it. Ask Wanderwillow when we meet him, if we meet him, if it’s so important to you.” His tone was blank and low, but it stopped Lauro from inquiring further. Quickening their pace, the two young Striders soon caught up with the rest of the party.
~
About midday the ragged band tramped out of the mountain eaves and onto a wide band of pebbly sand that ran to the edge of the water. The blotches of color they’d seen from the Arches of Linolen were indeed the dwellings of the Zain; apparently the survivors had been spotted by the nymphs, who sent a greeting party of equal number out to meet them in the middle of the beach.
“Greetings, travelers of Beyond,” called the tallest nymph as the two groups approached each other. His hair was light brown and wavy, flowing back from his head like the sail of a ship, bound by a silver circlet with a white diadem on his brow. His gaze was steady and his speech kingly, if a bit odd. A blue tunic and bound sandals gave him the appearance of a simple peasant, but Lauro knew better. His circlet identified him as a cleric, as did the slim gray staff with an unlit candle affixed to the top.
“Greetings, holy one,” the prince returned, placing a hand on his heart and bowing low. His companions repeated the gesture behind him, carefully imitating his composure.
“There is One who is Holy, and He is not I,” replied the nymph cleric, frowning. His companions, shorter but dressed in serviceable leather armor and carrying javelins, hung about uneasily.
“My apologies. I meant no disrespect,” Lauro assured him. Gesturing to Gribly and the three silverguard, he explained their plight. “My men and I hail from the lands south of here. We journey with all haste to Grymclaw, bearing news of trouble and a plea for advice to the Aura rumored to make his abode there. Our party is much diminished after an attack last night, and we would seek aid from your people if you can spare it.”
“We have not had news or sight of our allies from Beyond for some time. The mountains have been barred to travelers for many c
ycles of the planets. Have you proof of friendship with the Zain?”
Lauro was at a loss until Gribly piped up impertinently from the side. “We were guided by Byorne the half-nymph.” The cleric turned his head slowly to gaze at the thief.
“Know you Byornleo Hallifar, the Longstrider?”
“If it is the same man as brought us this far, then yes,” the prince told him.
“Then where walk he now?”
“Nowhere.” It was Gribly again, fumbling in his pack for something. “He died in the attack on our camp, only last night. He gave me this, with a message to deliver it to Wanderwillow when we met him.” Out from his satchel he brought the wood and metal contraption Byorne had passed on to him. Gingerly holding it in his hands, he stepped forward to allow the Zain cleric a closer look. One of the nymph soldiers moved to intercept him, but the cleric stopped him and took the device carefully from Gribly.
“This comes from the Longstrider.” He said at last, “But it tells me not how it came to you. If Byornleo is truly dead, then tribulation will not far off be… Tell me, how did such a mighty ranger such as he perish whilst you, young one, did not?”
“He was attacked while still sleeping,” Gribly explained, attempting to hide his sorrow behind a stony face. From Lauro’s perspective, it didn’t look like he was succeeding. All the better- they needed emotion to convince this nymph they were truthful. “Even with his death-wound, he managed to save my life. He was a hero,” the boy concluded.
Sensing the reality of the words, the cleric handed back the weapon and allowed Gribly to replace it before spreading his hand wide in a gesture of welcome. “Then you are friends and allies of the Zain, as you were of the Longstrider.”
Bravo, Grib! Thought Lauro, though he would never say it to the lad’s face.
“Tell me,” inquired the cleric, “What manner of enemy assailed you?” At that Gribly frowned and let the prince answer in his place.
“A draik,” announced Lauro grimly, his hand absently rubbing his sword-pommel at the ugly memory. “And a man who called himself a Pit Strider. He had powers to match a sorcerer’s, and it was he who dealt the death-blow to Byorne… Byornleo.”
“Xibalba Cameetza!” swore the cleric, suddenly and harshly. “If such a man there be, then not even the Zain may hide you…”
“But we beat him!” Gribly butted in. “You can’t refuse us just because he picked us to attack!”
“Did you?” the nymph looked suddenly thoughtful, rolling the staff in his hand absently. “Well…” he thought some more. At one point his eyes closed and Lauro believed he saw the cleric’s lips move in silent prayer. At last he spoke again. “I said we would not hide you, but we will aid you in whatever you need. I believe I now see why it is you have come, Lauro Vale.”
~
“Is it just me,” whispered Gribly to the prince during the short walk to the Zain camp, “or does every cleric I meet know more about us than we do?”
Lauro didn’t respond. It was too true, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.
~
He wouldn’t have believed it from what he’d heard, but Gribly soon found that the Zain had their own shrine; carved (or as the Strider suspected, Stride-shaped) out of a dark brown wood and similar in appearance to the Highfast Shrine in Ymeer. The quick walk through the sea nymph world had been eye-opening in itself.
After formally introducing himself as Cleric Amarand, the tall nymph had obtained a light luncheon for the group and sent the tired silverguard to rest in a guesthouse long kept by the tribe for just such a purpose but rarely used. Telling the prince and the thief that they had no time to loose, he had accompanied them around the right half of the Tribe Circle to the shrine where a meeting would soon be held amongst the tribe leaders.
The Zain lived in circles- as did the other two sea nymph tribes, according to Amarand. The Tribe Circle was an enormous, thick-rimmed wooden dock set out on the edge of the Inkwell, named for its shape. Its middle was open to the sea, but catwalks and ramps led up to a central structure where the Zain chief- called a Sainarch- lived. The large roundhouse sat a good three or four yards higher than the rest of the village and was supported by thick hardwood pillars.
None of it was anything like Ymeer, which was the only habitation of any significance Gribly had seen, minus the old ruins. It was a good deal smaller, true, but after weeks in the desert it seemed large enough to be a legitimate city. The Sainarch’s roundhouse was identical to the three hundred or so buildings (huts, really, Gribly realized) that filled the Tribe Circle, but it was all so unfamiliar that the youth found himself gaping at every structure he passed.
And the people! Nymphs were not so different from humans in their physical appearance, it was apparent, and Zain were certainly the most human-like of the three tribes… but there was no hint of the oligarchy and suppression that had plagued Ymeer. Gribly had spent his life among peasants and his career as a thief among pompous nobles, but the Zain seemed to defy the characteristics of each. There seemed to be no visible leader or servant among them, even though each obviously carried out a different task and filled a different position.
They were, in short, happy. Some were more or less content than others, but it simply stunned the boy how they all seemed to get along (in general) as if it were perfectly normal. By the time Cleric Amarand had brought the two strangers to the shrine they had drawn a few glances, but far less than Gribly had expected.
The shrine was not the titanic monument that Ymeer’s Highfast Shrine was, but it certainly fit the area. It was a smaller, darker copy of the older structure, but taller in proportion to its width. It looked less solid; more refined, with curling shapes and elegant designs shaped directly in the wood. The three walked promptly up the smooth front stairs to where a paneled double-door led inside, where they paused.
“Cleric Amarand?” Gribly addressed the nymph. “Was this shrine built by Striders?”
Amarand nodded without looking at him. “Long ago, when the nymph tribes of Vast were not so estranged, wood-elves would do trade with us. Some still do, though not many, but in ages past they would also help us to build. M’tant Eave Striders did this, if know you must. They have not done anything like it for many a cycle.” With that he tapped his staff twice against the wood of the door and it opened inward into the shrine’s brightly lit interior.
“Show-off,” muttered Gribly to Lauro as they followed Amarand inside.
~
The Sainarch and his four advisers were remarkably willing to cooperate, and it was quickly decided. With little explanation but much courtesy, Amarand arranged for the companions to set sail the very next day in one of the tribe’s fastest vessels: a trireme manned by an assortment of nymphs and molded by Eave Striders in a style similar to the Zain shrine. It had one large sail and a triangular ram on the bow that could split an iceberg- or so its captain claimed.
The captain of the trireme was a slightly rotund man, medium-sized and hairier than any nymph Gribly had seen. His sideburns and conveniently short hair were white and given to curling, his jaw was large and given to laughing, while his arms constantly windmilled in the many and sundry gestures he used to communicate his orders and jokes to the crew. He wore a long coat of faded blue fabric, high brown boots, strange woven trousers and an open, billowing blue shirt. A long sickle strapped to his back and a curved dagger on his belt were the only items of his dress that belied his amiable appearance. His ship’s name was the Mirrorwave.
The trireme was docked on the Inkwell-facing side of the Tribe Circle, bobbing up and down in the mild current as if it knew how grand it looked next to the other, shabbier ships moored near it, and wanted to show its pride. The captain led the prince, the thief, and the silverguard up the gangplank and onto the spotless deck. His name was Bernarl, but his men called him Berne and he made it clear he expected his new passengers to do the same. “Crisp formality’s what’s expected,” he told them seriously, then grinned. “…By everyone but
m’self, of course. Welcome aboard!” and with that he was off up on the rigging faster and nimbler than should have been possible, leaving his wiry, straight-faced first-mate to lead the newcomers to their rooms.
“Your names, gentleman?” the stately nymph asked them. Lauro replied for himself and for Gribly, faltering when he came to the three warriors beside them. He doesn’t know their names, the Sand Strider realized. He probably barely thinks of them as men, even now. I’d like to blame him, but how could I? I’m not much better. He did know their names, though, and as the men didn’t seem incredibly inclined to volunteer them he spoke up- out of turn again.
“This one is Avtar, this one Marmat, and this one Kell,” he said. The silverguard glanced at him with surprise, and he saw the flicker of a smile on Kell’s face. He’d been listening to them all across Blast, and had even tried to talk to them several times; enough to be annoying, for sure. It looked like they’d forgotten.
“Pleased to acquaint you all, I’m certain,” said the mate. Without offering his own name he turned and led them to their rooms below deck.
Winter Warrior (Song of the Aura, Book Two) Page 1
