Storm Kings (Song of the Aura, Book Six)

by Downs, Gregory J.

  Gramling stumbled back. “How…?”

  “By the Power of the Aura!” Gram roared. “I cast you into the Abyss! I banish your soul! I curse…”

  Sheolus’s black fire consumed the spark, and for a second time, Gram was no more.

  “NO!” Gramling screamed. Instinctively he lashed out with both hands, summoning twin Stormsparks such as had only been done by Elia, before. The icy twin infernos rushed at Sheolus, but the Legion brushed them aside with a wave of his fiery hand, slamming Gramling into the ground with a single blow of his fist.

  “Not so fast, little fool… I carry the might of the Legion within me now!”

  Coughing blood, Gramling tried to rise… but couldn’t. Something was cracking whenever he moved. So that’s what he’s done! His heart almost stopped at the prospect. He’s somehow drawn part of the other archdemons into himself! He has their power!

  “And the might of the Aura stands with the Prophet…” said a thundering voice.

  Gramling turned his head painfully, shocked and awed. Behind him stood three glowing forms: Traveller, Wanderwillow… and Ashen.

  “Begone,” Traveller said in a low voice. Gramling felt the staff, still clutched in his hand, begin to glow again as the Aura summoned a Power deeper than time.

  “Begone,” Ashen said, more forcefully. Sheolus stumbled back as if under physical attack… and it occurred to Gramling that this, a duel between souls, where bodies were meaningless, was what a battle between the Aura looked like.

  “BEGONE!” Wanderwillow roared, and all three Aura stretched out their hands. White light streamed from their mouths and eyes- just like Gribly had done!- and burned Sheolus as it engulfed him.

  “No! NO!” The Legion screamed, and to Gramling’s ears it seemed Sheolus spoke in many voices at once. “NO! My Children! My Shadows! Wreck havoc on this cruel world! Destroy it! Succeed where I have failed! Send Vast and all its people into the Blaze! Ak Zardak Ska Rigdar Il Tornek SKA!”

  The shadows at the edges of the chamber fled, in obedience to their master or in fear of their foes. The light of the Aura began to pulsate, growing brighter and brighter, as Sheolus’s screams grew weaker and weaker. Then, as the otherworldly light grew too bright for Gramling to see through…

  …the Aura began to sing.

  Chapter Eighteen: Vasta Cataclysma

  In the records of future days, it was known as Regnastar… the King of Storms. It began deep in the Golden Nation, at a point no historian could ever mutually agree on. It was characterized from other storms by its immense size, as well as unique violet thunderheads, punctuated by crackling, uncontrollable bursts of lightning.

  The Golden Nation was ravaged in days. The storm was cataclysmic in size and scope, and distance barely seemed to deter it. Whole cities were destroyed as it wheeled around and around the lands of the Kinn, smashing and uprooting everything in its path. Within a week, it had crossed the Iceflow and entered the continent of Vast from the north. There was no effective defense.

  ~

  “Our Sky Striders haven’t even slowed it, My Lady!” Karanel Winter’s voice called to Elia from the bottom of the hill, fear masked behind a crisp, military tone.

  “They can’t,” she said, tilting her head back in the wind. Her eyes were closed, covering her blindness. “I can feel this storm, General Winter. It is not of the natural world. There are… voices inside it. It wishes only to destroy, and maim, and slay… before it vanishes into the nothingness that spawned it. We cannot flee it, and we cannot stop it.”

  “Then… what can we do? The Striders say it’ll rip the land apart… and King Lauro is at a loss.” The fact that Winter was admitting to the king being at a loss spoke for the grim gravity of the situation.

  “We can only outlast it,” Elia said, the beginnings of a plan forming in her mind. “And… fight it.”

  It had been six days since the Day of Norne. Gribly had not returned, nor had Gramling. Lauro and Avarine had consolidated their forces and hers, and were still in the process of clearing the Golden Nation out of Vast. They rarely spoke to her. No one wanted to face the truth.

  “My Lady?” Karanel Winter climbed the hill to stand beside her. “How can we possibly fight this?”

  “You will see. Summon the Striders.” Elia smiled sadly. I love you, Gribly. May we soon meet again.

  ~

  The storm to end them all… and it began with a light rain, so much like the one six days before that had signaled Vastion’s greatest victory. Lauro was in his tent, pouring over the impossible problem of escape. Tunnels had been suggested, but there were hardly any Stone Striders left living.

  The rain began to fall harder, slamming against the exterior of the command tent like an infinite number of sopping wet fists.

  “Blast it, Gribly!” Lauro snarled, punching the table in frustration. “What went wrong?!”

  Silence. When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he punched the table again. It splintered and fell apart. His hand started to bleed.

  “Lauro!” Suddenly Avarine pushed her way into the tent, scarlet hair plastered to her head from the rain. She stood there, dripping, and took in the situation with wide eyes. “What happened? I heard… Well, if you’re all right, it doesn’t matter. Come with me! Elia’s trying to stop the storm!”

  What? Lauro ignored his hurt hand, simply nodding and following his love back out into the storm.

  And the rain fell ever harder.

  ~

  Elia stood on the highest hill in the Vastic camp. Around her, in a circle, were all the remaining Sky Striders in the army. Around them, in a thinner circle, were the Sea Striders. And circling them all… the Stone Striders. All three elements. She could not see the approaching danger, not in the sense the others did… but Elia was far from helpless. Here, at the edge of time, on the fringe of the Great Storm… she finally felt at peace.

  She raised her arms. The others did as well. Three hundred, all told. Mostly her own nymphs. The rain beat on her face, and body, and arms. The wind rushed around her. The earth rumbled beneath her feet. But she was at peace.

  Elia made fists with her hands. And ringing the entire force of the free armies, a wall began to rise. It was twisting wind and churning earth; it was sparkling light and clinging ice; it was every element… every strength.

  Drawing on the power of those around her, Elia formed a shell. A shield. An orb of many facets, blocking out the wrath of the Great Storm, and protecting those beneath. Foot by foot, yard by yard, mile by mile, she raised it.

  She protected her people. At the cost of her own strength, Elia saved them. She felt her life drain away as the shield rose to its pinnacle, and a voice thundered in her head.

  Curse you, Halanyad! Curse you! You have taken revenge from me… my last vengeance! May you sleep, and never wake again… until I do.

  Until I do.

  Elia felt herself grow drowsy. Ice began to crawl up her ankles… her legs… her waist… her chest… her head… her arms…

  She slept. But she saved her people first.

  ~

  Lauro stumbled onto the scene in disbelief. Within seconds, the storm had stopped. Or rather; it had been cut off, by the enormous dome of frozen ice and solid stone summoned by Elia and the other Striders. Lightning occasionally flickered up the sides, and whenever a hole opened in the dome, a rushing whirlwind would repair the damage almost immediately.

  It was dark inside, like a vast cavern in the heart of the world. The sounds of the Great Storm boomed through the dome, as it raged pointlessly outside. It was as if the tempest had a mind of its own, unintelligent, but feral and vicious. It attacked them on every side, wearing itself away until it would no longer have the strength to continue. It would fall apart, disintegrating, and be no more.

  Or so Lauro hoped. Elia had saved them, with this incredible bit of Striding… but at what cost?

  “Avarine,” he shouted over the general chaos in the shadowy dome, “get us a light!”
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  In answer, she took his arm with one hand. Her other suddenly lifted aloft a brilliant orb of yellow light, such as he had once seen created by the Wind Clerics.

  “Thank you,” he said, starting forward. She opened her mouth to answer… and stopped. Lauro looked where she pointed… and his jaw dropped. They were near the center of the dome. Soldiers and clerics, men and women rushed around in pandemonium behind them.

  In front of them, line upon line of Striders lay gasping in the muddy grass, completely drained by the sheer energy of the universal Stride they had just enacted. And in the center of them all…

  “No,” Avarine whispered. “No, no… it can’t be…”

  Lauro held onto her numbly as they picked their way through the exhausted, pale-faced Striders. They made their way up the slippery hill, Avarine lighting the way. Lauro felt hot tears spilling down his cheeks, despite all efforts at composure.

  Elia stood upright, as she probably had to direct the other Striders. Her arms were raised to the Heavens, and her eyes stared blankly skyward, unseeing behind a smooth curtain of shimmering ice. It coated her whole body, glimmering and throwing off infinite rays of color wherever Avarine’s ghost-light shone on it.

  The ice twisted around her, rising up in a hauntingly beautiful pillar, rising up to the very center of the dome. It was as if the Creator Himself had reached down to immortalize her sacrifice, embalming her within a statuesque monument to her own bravery and selflessness.

  It was the saddest thing Lauro had ever seen.

  Avarine tapped his shoulder, and all at once he came to himself. He was bent forward, hands pressed against the thick layer of ice, crying. So close to his dear friend… yet so far. Around them, the chaos of the camp fell silent. All around, clerics began summoning ghost-lights like Avarine’s, the power of the moment filling them, and calling people to silence.

  Avarine drew Lauro close, laying her head on his shoulder and joining in his sorrow. “It is no shame for a king to show his people he cares,” she whispered into his ear.

  “But… she’s gone. She’s gone,” Lauro lamented, trying desperately- and failing- to stop the feelings of uselessness and frustration that assaulted him.

  “No. She’s not.”

  He looked up, surprised. “What?”

  “She’s not gone. I can feel her… pulsing like a star. Like a beacon of hope.” Avarine drew away from him, tapping the ice where Elia’s face was preserved… ensconced. “This ice… it’s not natural. She’s sleeping… but she’s not gone. And it won’t melt. I can feel that already, even if I’m not a Sea Strider. You see?”

  Lauro tapped the ice, wonder growing in his face. “It’s… it’s like she’s frozen in time.”

  An endless crowd of Striders, soldiers, and clerics was forming around them. While his army looked on, Lauro turned to address them.

  “You see what she has given, my people.” His voice was not enhanced with Sky Striding, but still it carried out over the roughly assembled ranks, clear and strong. For once, he felt in control again. “You see what I have given. But that is nothing, compared to what I have seen of you, soldiers of Vastion, and you, nymphs of the Inkwell, and you, M’tant of the Blackwood. You have carried the weight of nations on your shoulders.

  “You count me as a hero… I see it in your eyes, and I hear it in your whispers. I cannot say if you are right or wrong…” his voice almost faltered, turning bitter… “but I know what I have done. And I say that I am not the hero you need.”

  He turned, pointing to Elia, angelically shimmering in her icy memorial. “She is.”

  A legion of blank, weary faces stared back at him. Avarine leaned close.

  “They need you, Lauro Vale,” she whispered. “Don’t let your people down… or mine.”

  He paused. The only thing to break the sullen silence was the pounding of the storm outside the dome.

  Don’t let them down. The voice of his father.

  Don’t let them down. The voice of Gribly.

  Don’t let ME down. Elia.

  Lauro looked at her face, separated from him by the feet of solid ice. Like a void. Unreachable. But she looked… peaceful. Happy, even. He turned back to face the gathering.

  “I am not the hero you need,” he said again, stronger and clearer this time. “But I am all you have. We will not survive this storm… we will not survive this aftermath… unless we work, and fight, and live as one. I cannot even Stride… But will you take me, flawed as I am?”

  The last sentence came out as a shout, which echoed off the silent walls of the dome, reverberating in all directions before slowly dying off into silence. No one spoke. Lauro’s arms were raised, gesturing out to the crowd. He held them there until they felt too sore to hold… and then he let them drop to his sides again.

  He had failed.

  “I will take you,” Avarine said forcefully, drawing her arms around him. Lauro smiled wanly… at least he had that.

  There was movement in the masses. Several people were forcing their way to the front of the crowd. The next moment Lauro recognized Captain Bernarl, Raitharch Varstis, and Karanel Winter.

  “I will,” Berne said, crossing his arms. The deep, hollow sadness Lauro had seen all too often in his face, as of late, was gone… replaced by a steely glint. Berne was ready to survive again.

  “As will I,” Varstis said, nodding, “and all my people with me.”

  “The Rogues stand with you, Lauro Vale,” Berne added.

  “As does Vastion, and its rangers,” Karanel said solemnly, “…as you well know.”

  “My people stand with you as well!” shouted a voice. One of the Stone Striders who had helped Elia now came forward… and Lauro was shocked to recognize his old ally, Dunelord Argoz Greenwood. Beside him stood a silken black shadow… Shele, the Pit Fighter.

  “The underworld is at your command, my lord,” she said, bowing. “For the first time in history, thief and soldier will unite.”

  It was the pebble that started a landslide. In seconds, a quiet rumble began in the crowd. It grew, and grew stronger, until the air was flooded with a thunderous shout, a cheer that went on forever. Faces from Lauro’s past paraded by him as his friends and allies came forward one at a time to swear their allegiance.

  Lithric, the cleric of Mythigrad, Lucen, his bodyguard, Karmidigan, now a nymph general, Kalzikir, the crazed M’tant cleric, whom Avarine had saved after all, and many, many more. Rogues like Marlo the Fool, rangers like Raenin and her brothers, Roko Smallword, his old cook, and even names he had not heard of, except from Gribly, like Calloway, a young but powerful Stone Strider who looked on Elia’s frozen image with an even greater sorrow than Lauro’s.

  “She was a girl to remember,” Cal said, when he spoke to Lauro. “She was the best hero of ‘em all… dontcha think?” There were tears in the lad’s eyes.

  Lauro bent down, patting him on the shoulder and looking him straight in the eye.

  “Indeed. The very best of us all.”

  Epilogue, Part One: Fatalus Vanum

  Time did not pass as it should, when the world fell apart. Gramling knew that… but still, it surprised him, to emerge from the wreck of the Golden Mountain, and find the sun shining again. How long had it been, since the Day of Norne? How long, since everything fell apart? The sky was clear, and the sun shone down on a ruined wasteland. The Golden Nation had been torn apart, its vast sands ripped into countless canyons and cliffs, its cities leveled, and its Doomshrines pulverized and left in piles of ash.

  Gramling pulled himself from a hole between two boulders, using his staff as leverage. How easily he had fallen into calling it his staff. But in any case, he was too sore and weary to Stride his way out of the mountain’s carcass. The memories, too… they were just too painful.

  The three Aura, united, had made an end of Sheolus. But the storm the Golden Legion had summoned, drawing on what small part of the Legion’s essence had escaped… it had destroyed what was left of the black tower,
and the twisted mountain. To his reckoning, he had only taken a day in finding his way out, but the skies were so clear, he thought it must have been a week or more in reality.

  Strange, the tricks Fate played. He hoped the heroes of Vast had been capable of protecting themselves. Very likely, they had. He wasn’t sure he had the heart to go to them, and see what damage there was.

  Walking slowly amid piles of rubble and ruined rock, Gramling let his mind drift. To escape the sorrow of what had occurred, he focused his entire attention on the last command Traveller had given him.

  Go to the heart of the Enemy’s realm. We will meet you once more, for the last time, at the place once known as the Golden Sepulcher. It has been destroyed by the rebels, and the remnant of the Faithful. You will find it rebuilt by the time you arrive… and you will find us waiting.