Lord of Stormweather

by David Gross

  Thamalon chuckled, for he found the remark more amusing than risible. While he was known as a merchant lord, he’d amassed his fortune primarily through land speculation before diversifying the family holdings into such areas as agriculture, craft ware, and investment in a dozen lesser merchants. The Uskevren and their subject interests launched as many as fourteen trade caravans throughout Sembia and neighboring lands each year. The only legitimate venture Thamalon consistently refused to enter was shipping, for the stink of piracy still lingered on the Uskevren name.

  Before night fell, the caravan passed through the blackened ruin of a forest. Thamalon had seen such regions before, but rarely so soon after the wildfires had devoured the trees.

  “The Sorcerer pushes them back,” observed Baeron.

  “He did this on purpose?” asked Thamalon. “I assumed it was lightning from a storm.”

  Baeron said, “Oh, that it was, Far-Traveler. That it was.”

  When they broke camp the next morning, Baeron promised they would soon enter the Sorcerer’s territory. Thamalon was eager to see the lands surrounding the intriguingly named Castle Stormweather, but the sky had other plans. A steady drizzle dimmed the day, and the first sign of civilization was a muddy road.

  A few miles later, Thamalon spied the first cultivated fields. He was somewhat relieved to recognize ordinary produce, but alongside the cabbage patches and barley fields he saw rows of huge melons with translucent husks. Perhaps it was a trick of the rain, but once or twice he thought he saw something stirring inside the big fruits. Whatever moved within them didn’t alarm the workers who trudged between the furrows.

  Thamalon noticed that those workers were elves chained neck-to-neck. Big men in red armor watched over them, spears in hand and lashes at their hips. Thamalon turned to Baeron for an explanation.

  “Prisoners of war,” he said.

  “Slaves,” Thamalon suggested with a frown.

  “Best not to let the Vermilion Guard hear you say so,” cautioned Baeron. “They are proud and quick to answer an insult.”

  “Does it not seem cruel to you?”

  Baeron shrugged and said, “One does not prosper who makes war with the Sorcerer.”

  Despite the wonders he had encountered thus far, Thamalon began to think he’d seen enough of this strange land.

  With each passing league, the caravan encountered increasingly frequent farmsteads. By noon they drove through a small village, where those few inhabitants who had to leave the shelter of their buildings waved at the travelers.

  A few hours later, the villages appeared more regularly and converged so gradually that Thamalon realized they were finally within a city. This place was nothing like glorious Selgaunt, with its wide avenues and soaring temples. The place was a convocation of hovels, only rarely interrupted by a proper edifice whose barred doors were flanked by sentries in red armor. Even those buildings were bleak constructions, brick cubes and towers with little ornament. There were no horse-drawn carriages, only rickshaws drawn by pairs of elf slaves, chains jangling between their necks and wrists.

  Thamalon noticed for the first time that he had seen no horses, no cattle nor swine—not any kind of beast other than the odd reptiles who drew the dwarven wagons.

  They passed through a curtain wall under the scrutiny of more crimson-clad guards. They’d been expecting the dwarves, but they questioned their guest. Thamalon offered the same pseudonym he’d given the dwarves.

  Inside the gate, the city began to resemble a Sembian town, with wide central streets and a veritable labyrinth of back avenues and alleys. Like the sprawling habitation outside the walls, the entire place seemed devoid of cheer—except for one peculiar sound.

  Muted by the rain, a sweet melody drifted down upon the city from above. A woman’s voice, without accompaniment, it was at once alluring and sorrowful. The wordless song moved Thamalon’s heart to pity.

  “What is that song?” he asked.

  “Lady Malaika,” said Baeron. “She calls the skwalos.” “She sounds so sad.”

  “Sometimes it takes tendays, even months to lure them here. The rain is a good omen. They will come soon.”

  Thamalon imagined what a sight that must be as he gazed around at all the sullen occupants of the city, their eyes cast down upon the rain-slicked stones and rippling puddles.

  The caravan passed the last of the buildings and entered a vast plaza bereft of fountains, trees, statues, or any other common ornament of great cities. Instead, iron towers stood in ranks upon the stones. On their crowns were curved hooks and gigantic hollow spears from which ran long canvas hoses. Rust streaked every surface. Even the ground was stained red.

  In the center of it all, looming high over the lesser towers, stood Castle Stormweather.

  Thamalon couldn’t discern its upper reaches for the rain, but the highest windows he could see were clearly higher than the tallest spire of the Hulorn’s palace in Selgaunt. Unlike that garish monument, Castle Stormweather was a dreary fortress. Its wet granite stones were almost uniform in shape, and no two were more than a few shades of gray apart.

  While another wall protected it from ground assault, its upper reaches were even more fortified. Iron shutters were closed against the rain, and around every balcony were sturdy doors with arrow slits. Most of the ballista stations were far too lofty to fire accurately upon the ground.

  This was a bastion that defended against the sky.

  The dwarves turned over custody of their beasts and wagons at the inner gate, where four of the Sorcerer’s guards awaited them.

  “My thanks for the ride,” said Thamalon. He grasped Baeron’s arm firmly. “Good luck in your bargaining.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Perhaps I can find a map seller in the market,” said Thamalon. “Or maybe a caravan master who has heard of my homeland, or at least some other region that I know.”

  “Perhaps,” said Baeron, “but first you must present yourself to the Sorcerer. That is the law here.”

  Thamalon considered the prospect of meeting this Lord of Stormweather. He was very interested in learning more about this place and the man who ruled it, but he began to fear that meeting the Sorcerer might not be the best way to speed him home. The gloom of his city felt like the binder’s glue in which careless flies were caught.

  Thamalon longed for home.

  Another city lay within the walls of Castle Stormweather. Every hall was an avenue bustling with courtiers and servants. Each antechamber through which they were escorted was larger than his own great hall.

  The lavish furnishings of the guest quarters impressed even Thamalon, who was accustomed to the finest of Selgaunt’s luxuries. Thick tapestries of exquisite design warmed the granite walls, and rich carpets softened the floors. Rather than candles or oil lamps, faintly hissing glass balls illuminated each room from brass pipes protruding from the ceilings.

  Hot baths in deep oak tubs awaited the travelers. The dwarves murmured appreciatively as lovely elf maids stripped away their road-stiffened clothes and scrubbed their hairy shoulders. Thamalon might have surrendered himself to the pleasure, but the memory of the chained war slaves disturbed his thoughts as soft hands massaged the knots in his back. His troubled conscience wouldn’t let him indulge his familiar instincts. Were these women servants or slaves?

  Thamalon nearly changed his mind when he agreed to be shaved and his servant girl joined him in the water, straddling his lap to lather his face and scrape away his three days of whiskers. It would be no effort to seduce the lass, who seemed to expect and invite his attentions. Still, when Baeron and his fellows made quiet arrangements for their elves to join them in their chambers, Thamalon politely sent his away and retired alone.

  He lay in bed restlessly, trying to ignore the sounds of carnal sport from the nearby rooms. In his younger days, his marriage vows had been no restraint to dalliance. His bastard twins were proof enough of that. Even apart from the question of the servant’s consent,
Thamalon felt a genuine desire to keep faith with his wife.

  How strange, he thought. After all the years of clandestine escape from his unhappy union, he feared he’d become a romantic at last. He desired his wife in forfeit of all other women.

  Thamalon slept, comforted by thoughts of returning to his beloved Shamur. He dreamed of her soft hair in his face, her breath upon his ear. When he awoke, it was with a cold feeling of doom and a fierce longing to see her one last time before he died.

  His washed and mended house clothes lay upon a dressing table, but beside them were a pair of dark trousers, supple boots of a leathery fabric, a deep green tunic embroidered in floral patterns on the yoke, and a half-cape cut with dashing asymmetry.

  Thamalon donned the unfamiliar costume and admired his reflection. An old man looked back at him, unsuited to the rakish attire. He smiled at himself, but the gesture seemed weary. Thamalon laughed at his own vanity, and the ghost of his youth laughed back at him. It looked something like his eldest son, and for a moment the image brought him joy before regret supplanted the feeling.

  “Tamlin,” he said to the mirror. “There’s so much I have to tell you. I—”

  Father?

  Before he could decide whether he’d imagined hearing the word, Thamalon heard a servant scratching on the door.

  “What?” he said.

  “Sir,” repeated the servant. He was a boy, not much younger than Tamlin. “It is time.”

  The lad led Thamalon toward the center of the castle and through a grand archway bigger than Selgaunt’s Klaroun Gate.

  On the other side was Stillstone Hall, a grand circular room wider than any cathedral. Its arched walls soared so high that their upper points faded with distance. They converged on a central dome through which gray light poured down on the throng below.

  Hundreds of people filled the hall, most of them waiting their turn to appear before the lord of the castle. Their conversations were muted by the splashing of a great central fountain composed of huge, uncut slabs of colorful stones, the smallest larger than the dwarves’ throbe wagons.

  Two grand fireplaces blazed in opposite walls. Savory meats roasted on spits above the flames, and ranks of cauldrons bubbled with soups and some sweet, dark beverage. Servants tended the food and carried it among the crowd. To Thamalon, the place appeared like a cross between an Old Chauncel reception and the street outside of Talbot’s playhouse, bustling with vendors.

  At regular intervals along the walls stood the red-plumed, red-cloaked, and red-armored guards. More of them patrolled quietly among the throng, which parted respectfully—or perhaps fearfully—wherever they went.

  On the far side of the fountain, upon a high dais smothered in carpets, the Sorcerer sat on a grand throne. His body was as lean and supple as a dancer’s, and his tight-fitted breeches and jerkin showed off every sinew. Topaz and ruby glittered on the gold phylactery around his biceps, and the huge dark stones upon his bracers roiled with magic. From the sides of his crowned helm, gleaming brass bars curved over his cheeks, concealing his face from those he judged. As he pronounced his decrees, he held up a winged scepter embedded with a ruby the size of a man’s eye.

  The supplicants stood at the foot of his throne. To either side were elite members of his Vermilion Guard, their bright plumes spilling like manes upon their muscular backs.

  Thamalon observed the Sorcerer dole justice to his people.

  He resolved a matter of disputed property by dividing the territory in proportions equal to the evidence presented. Afterward, he sentenced one of his generals to public flogging for cowardice. Later, he granted a pension to a war widow and acknowledged the approving cheers of the courtiers.

  At last he received the dwarf merchants.

  After his chamberlain introduced the travelers, the Sorcerer cut straight to the matter.

  “What does King Uldrim offer for this season’s throbe?”

  “Eleven coffers of gold,” replied Baeron, “and the six finest sapphires of Glitterdelve mines.”

  He held up a platinum necklace in which the aforementioned gems shone, the smallest the size of his thumbnail.

  The Sorcerer considered the offer, then said, “The king is generous to offer such an incomparable jewel. In these times of conflict, however, I have little need for ornament or coin.”

  The response didn’t seem to surprise Baeron, who said, “Our liege commands me to say that the forges of Deepspire are at your service. Six hundred long swords, eight hundred hardened spears, forty suits of vermilion scale—”

  “Throbe steel,” insisted the Sorcerer.

  Baeron bowed and said, “In that case, our liege offers two hundred swords, two hundred sixty spea—”

  “Three hundred swords,” said the Sorcerer, “and all forty armor. As for the spears and shields, one hundred each will suffice us until winter.”

  “Such quantities require more throbe,” said Baeron. “Our yield will be diminished by at least … two wagons.”

  “Then you shall have two wagons more,” said the Sorcerer. “Yet I wish a dozen greatswords, too, in the fashion of Warlord Krandar’s famous blade.”

  “My lord …” said Baeron. Thamalon perceived that the dwarf was stalling for time, mentally calculating the cost versus gain for the additional weapons. “If your highness were to include a hundred yards of skwalos membrane.…”

  The Sorcerer rose, leaving his voluminous cloak lying in his seat. He descended the stairs and reached toward the dwarf.

  “Bargain,” he said, clasping Baeron’s forearm.

  “Bargain,” the dwarf replied.

  Thamalon had seen far more complicated negotiations over much simpler exchanges, but still he sensed that he’d just witnessed a significant change from previous deals. Both the Sorcerer and Baeron seemed satisfied with the result, yet neither gloated in victory. Despite the disparity in their stations, they bargained fairly, as equals.

  “Nelember Far-Traveler,” called the chamberlain, a man whose pointed beard and winged hairstyle made him easy to recognize even across the hall.

  Thamalon presented himself before the dais. The Sorcerer had returned to his throne, but he didn’t sit. Instead, he drew his cloak over his shoulders and fastened its round clasp. On its boss were the crossed thunderbolts of Talos, god of storms and destruction.

  “What mishap brings you to my demesne, old man?”

  The Sorcerer’s tone wasn’t mocking so much as casual. His voice was familiar, too. Thamalon bristled at the appellation, but he sketched a courtly bow, ignoring the pain it brought to his still-bruised hip.

  “My tale is strange even to me, so I beg your indulgence while I confess I don’t understand it all myself. In short, some unknown enemy enchanted a painting to cast me magically across the world, so far from home that I recognize nothing here. The only boon I crave is that I may speak to your caravan masters and ship captains in hopes that one of them knows something of my home or some other land I know.”

  “What is it called, this land of yours?”

  “Sembia, my lord.”

  “Sembia …” the Sorcerer said—slowly, as if savoring the word. Thamalon saw a faint twitching of the muscles in the man’s neck. There was something the Sorcerer didn’t like about its taste. “You say you are called Nelember?”

  Thamalon couldn’t think of an affirmative that wasn’t a lie, and he didn’t care to wager against the chance that the Sorcerer could detect a falsehood.

  “It is a name by which I travel,” he said.

  “Nelember … Nelember …” The Sorcerer said the name as if he was tasting it, as he had “Sembia.” At last, he said, “A wise man leaves old names behind.”

  Thamalon bowed. Was there some hint of mockery in the Sorcerer’s voice? He wasn’t sure, but he sensed the man was toying with him.

  The Sorcerer removed his helm and passed it to his chamberlain before descending the steps. Once again, Thamalon struggled to conceal his emotion. The man’s face could
n’t have amazed him more.

  The Sorcerer’s dark beard jagged across his cheeks in a savage pattern, so neatly trimmed that it looked at first like a dark tattoo. Prominent brows and a straight nose lent nobility to the natural beauty of his features. His was a face to make ladies swoon and men burn with envy. Most arresting were the man’s emerald green eyes, which Thamalon had seen only a few hours earlier—in the mirror.

  Apart from his exotic grooming, the Sorcerer looked identical in every respect to Thamalon’s eldest son.

  Tamlin.

  Still, the man’s face betrayed no sign that he recognized Thamalon as his father. He clasped Thamalon’s arm and smiled easily, exactly as Tamlin greeted visitors to the Uskevren family home.

  “Welcome,” the Sorcerer said, “to Stormweather.”

  CHAPTER 11

  BROTHERS

  Radu grunted as he pulled himself onto the roof of the tallhouse. The action had been effortless the night before. The night before that, he might have leaped from the ground to the second-story eaves.

  Chaney noticed Radu’s strength wane steadily in the days since murdering Thuribal Baerodreemer. He hadn’t been certain before, but it seemed obvious that the power killing gave Radu was fading faster with each murder. Perhaps there would come a day when Radu himself faded into a ghostly existence.

  Chaney smiled at the thought.

  While he hadn’t been the most devout of men, Chaney prayed for his soul’s release from the shackle of his killer. Even were the gods to grant him that wish, he feared his prospects for the hereafter. His mortal life wasn’t without blemish, so he shuddered to imagine just where his soul might be interred for all eternity.

  Even more than the reckoning for his own relatively petty sins, Chaney feared that the unholy power binding him to his killer might also drag him into Radu’s certain torment. Sometimes he bravely told himself that it would be worthwhile just to witness his murderer’s damnation. At other times, he thought of perdition and shuddered.

  To dispel the awful thought, Chaney focused on the object of his hatred.