The Storm's Own Son (Book 1)

by Anthony Gillis

  "It burns..." said the Hawk, but the others did not have time to continue.

  Talaos moved swifter than he'd ever imagined he could. He whirled and cut the head of the Hawk from his shoulders like a scythe on wheat, then leapt, sword high, dropping to cleave the skull of the Serpent in half, and finally twisted low to run the Vulture clean through the heart. The bodies twitched and burned with electricity all around them.

  Of the other men, many turned and fled. Some stood by in shock, staring at Talaos. The six men with black beards and leaf-bladed swords snarled words in their eastern tongue, and advanced. A few others mustered their courage and followed.

  Talaos charged them, whirling, slashing, and stabbing. He felt furiously, gloriously alive, and laughed with the joy of it. Power was in his hand and in his eye. The world was a beautiful thing around him, and he a thing of might within. The enemies before him were slow, weak, feeble players at a game of life and death. Life for him, death for them. Swift as the wind, heedless as the storm, he dealt that death.

  Then it was over. A dozen men lay dead before him, besides the others already slain.

  The rest had fled.

  Talaos laughed, shouting his joy at the storm-tossed sky.

  Katara was covered in cuts and blood, but stood tall with sword in hand. She stared at him silently and wide-eyed as her golden braids, splashed with red, blew in the wind.

  Sorya, still crumpled on the ground, held her shoulder. Her voice cracked with fear as she spoke. "Tal... How?... What did you... Your eyes... they are..."

  At the sound of her voice, Talaos returned to more practical thoughts. He looked down at her, and remembered how hurt she must be. He moved to help while considered her words.

  "What were you saying?"

  In a quiet, terrified voice, she answered, "Your eyes... I could see it from here... They flashed with something that looked like lightning... from inside."

  6. Endings and Beginnings

  The dawn rose faint and gray. Talaos stood, sword drawn, in the shadows of a dark, derelict warehouse. Sorya and Katara huddled together sleeping in the corner behind him. He'd barred the weathered but sturdy door with scrap wood, and piled old boxes to block it.

  The strange thrill of power had diminished, but not vanished. He thought back on their headlong flight from the battle scene, carrying Sorya over his shoulder, and the hasty choice to find a hidden hole for them to rest rather than chance an exhausted journey cross country.

  He realized he was nothing like as tired as he ought to be.

  Sorya's strange words ran through his mind. Lightning in his eyes? Still, there was no denying how he had felt, and what had happened. He'd overcome the magic of those three sorcerers, and then slain them and a dozen others with almost inhuman speed and strength. The power that had driven away their mists had come with that feeling, and from him. He smiled at the thought of having some magic of his own, whatever it might be. He'd need it.

  The power of those sorcerers had been something strange, something he found instinctively repulsive. Not like magi, he thought, but still very real. With it, they'd seen and tried to stop something they believed was within him. Something that had brought them all the way from the lands of the Prophet. And more, they'd mentioned the Living Prophet himself.

  Talaos thought of Palaeon's musing about something deeper going on. The gang lord had shown an uncanny perceptiveness over the years, but this time he'd been more right than anyone could have reasonably imagined.

  The Living Prophet, ruler of a continent, had had sent men specifically to kill him, by magic, with cryptic talk of signs and prophecy, and for some supposed stain on his soul.

  The Living Prophet himself wanted him dead.

  That was very deep indeed.

  Now though, he had to get Sorya to a physician and then send them both far away from him. It seemed likely that with the three sorcerers dead, the greatest immediate danger was past, for now. However, it was unlikely to be long before something more came his way. In the daylight, with the gates open, departure would be easier. On the other hand, so would following them. It occurred to him that with ships ready to sail rather than docked overnight, escape by sea might be a good idea after all... for the other two.

  He now knew his path was elsewhere.

  Katara stirred. She looked around sleepily, then started awake as she saw Talaos.

  "The storm's own son, and the storm is at your call..." she whispered, with awe in her voice. They were the first words she'd said since the battle.

  Talaos watched her curiously.

  The Northwoman rose, unsteady at first. Her clothes were disheveled and torn. Rain had washed away most of most of the blood, but her skin was bruised and cut. She dropped her cloak. Her tattered braids fell across her chest and down almost to her waist. She lowered her eyes, drew her sword and rested it bare across her upturned hands. Her steps became more sure.

  As Talaos looked on, she dropped gracefully to her knees before him and placed the sword at his feet. She kneeled forward, head down, then spoke in a quiet, yet intense, voice.

  "The storm is at your call, in the air around you, in your hands, and in... your eyes. The storm walks with you, and it may take those around you. It may take me, but I will still follow... I will do as you command. By the honor of my soul, Talaos, I take you as my lord."

  "Katara, enough of that!" he said, surprised. "Why did you swear that in the old way?"

  "It is the right way." she answered. Then she added, "Please do not be upset with me..."

  Talaos looked at her, long and earnestly. Oaths in the ancient form, calling on the honor of one's soul, were not given lightly. Not even in Carai. Not when oaths were thought to follow beyond death. He considered what to say, as she looked at him imploringly.

  "I accept your oath and will honor my part of it," he replied.

  He accepted the offered sword, and set it carefully aside.

  She peered up at him, smiling. He put a hand to her chin and tilted her head up to look at him. There were tears welling in her eyes, the first tears he'd ever seen from her.

  "Tal, I have never loved any man," she said, "but I love you."

  Talaos was shocked at the statement. He brushed her cheek with his fingers. She looked at him with what he thought to be kind of hopeless longing, as if this day might be their last. In truth, it might. She kneeled there, patiently, but he could almost feel her tension.

  "Katara, rise," he said.

  She did. Standing there before him, she looked up into his eyes, uncertain, almost afraid. She'd given him a startling form of submission by her act of fealty, and complete admission of her feelings. Coming from this warrior daughter of kings, those were great and terrible acts.

  And now she stood vulnerable before him. His own.

  "I give you my protection, Katara, and my love."

  She smiled. Then a sudden intensity flared in her eyes and on her face. She ran her right hand along his shoulder and chest, and her left along his hip. Talaos paused. There they were, battered and covered in the marks of battle. But then again, life was short and the future uncertain, and he might never see either her or Sorya again.

  Life and lust surged through him, vital and strong and good. He looked down at her eyes, gray as a stormy sky, and his hunger for her swept away all other concerns. He pulled her tight to him, and kissed her lips and neck. She made a quiet moan and gripped him with her hands.

  "Undress," he told her.

  She nodded her head, and began. As she did so, he removed his baldrics, tunic, and shirt, though he kept the weapons nearby. He threw his cloak to the floor as a kind of makeshift bed. He took her by her braids. She smiled, and he lowered her atop the cloak.

  Talaos ran his hands along her thighs, hips, waist and chest, and watched with intense satisfaction as she writhed and thrilled to the sensation. He cupped and caressed her breasts, then brought his fingers to her bare pink nipples. With a hint of playful cruelty in his smile, he teased them,
fingers in circles, then squeezed, pinched, and kneaded hard. She gasped, smiled, gripped him hard with her hands, then ran them over his bare shoulders.

  So much fully realized so late. And now so little time.

  At least, he thought, they'd found it while still together.

  With intensity of feeling, of life and longing for her, he gripped her in his arms and entered her, thrusting hard, wildly, furiously. She moaned and wrapped her legs around him.

  In the corner, Sorya awakened, and watched them with turbulent emotions struggling for mastery on her face. At last however, something won out. Acceptance. She sighed, and smiled her wicked smile.

  ~

  The gulls cried under a morning sun in a sky clearing of clouds. A wind blew, and waves lapped the docks. The stone and whitewashed buildings of the west harbor of Carai ranged around the curved shoreline to the north, their tiled roofs gleamed in shades of red, brown, or green. A graceful, brightly painted ship from the Western Isles rolled gently at the end of a long stone quay, far from any other vessel. Sailors loaded a last few barrels and chests up a ramp to the ship. They had long chestnut hair bound by cloth headbands, and long tabards of blue, gray or green, embroidered with leaves and vines, over pants and low boots. The watchful captain gauged the wind and tide, his gray-streaked hair and blue cloak blowing westward.

  On the quay stood Talaos, clean and dressed for travel, facing the two women he least wanted to see go, and most needed to. Out here away from prying eyes, other than those of the crew they had already risked trusting, the three of them dropped the hoods of their cloaks.

  He pulled Katara to him and gripped her by her braids as he kissed her deeply. Then he let her go. She bowed her head to him and took a watchful, warlike stance.

  Sorya stood weeping, her shoulder bandaged and her arm in a sling. Her long hair blew loose in the wind. Talaos leaned down. He touched her back gently with one arm, and held her waist tightly with the other. He pressed his lips to hers and she gripped his hip fiercely with her good arm. Her tongue wrestled wildly with his. Some of the sailors stopped to boggle, until Katara glared at them.

  When he released the kiss, she brought her lips to his ear and hissed, "You bastard... don't you die on me."

  "Generally, I try not to," he replied.

  "You terrify me... whatever has happened to you, but..."

  He stood up straight, and put his hand to her cheek and chin.

  She cried again, and went on, "I... I'm sorry..."

  He touched his finger to her lips, and she quieted.

  "We'll see each other again," he said.

  She smiled.

  The wind picked up, cool, fresh and clear.

  Aboard the ship, the captain breathed in the new air and smiled. He looked down to the figures on the quay, and called in a cheerful rolling accent.

  "Now is the time, lasses."

  ~

  Talaos walked from the great north gates, across the open paved plaza before them, and onto one of the many roads. His cloak wrapped around him and his hood was pulled low, but he went with sure steps and a rising wind in his heart.

  The lofty walls and mighty squared towers of the city loomed behind him, the coastal hills in the east to his right. Merchants, farmers, and travelers of all sorts went to and fro on business of their own. Peddlers sold food and trinkets from carts on the side of the road. A troop of soldiers marched by in their black tunics, crested helmets, segmented breastplates, and greaves. The golden wreaths and eagles of the Republic gleamed on their oval shields.

  Ahead of him were the crossroads. He walked on. The great east-west road opened before him, its paving stones gleaming almost white in the midday sun. It ran from the capital, far in the northwest, to the border fortress at the feet of the eastern mountains.

  It was there, and beyond, he would go.

  He considered it again, turned his reasoning over in his mind once more.

  The Living Prophet himself had sent three sorcerers to kill him.

  Why?

  What was he, Talaos, to the Prophet?

  What was he to a man centuries old, and who ruled a third of the known world?

  What was the supposed stain on his soul?

  If there were answers, he wouldn't find them in the Republic, the sleepy west, or the wild realms of the distant north. The Eastlands might have them, but going there would be folly. However, followers of the Prophet were at work in Hunyos, among the warlords and the free cities. He would find them, learn what he could, and how it could be used.

  War was growing beyond those mountains as well, the very war he'd planned to avoid. War was growing like a storm. And now he was going to walk straight into that storm and see where it took him.

  He laughed.

  Like finds like, he thought, smiling.

  He reached the crossroads, and turned right. There were fewer people out here. As he pressed on, the city receded behind him. Ahead were small towns, the great trade town of Piros, and beyond them all, the mountain pass to Hunyos. He pulled the hood of his cloak back to feel the wind caressing his face and the sun shining warm overhead.

  ~

  The east wind blew his brown traveling cloak behind him, and caressed his face with the promise of new things. Ahead of Talaos, just over the horizon, was Piros. Days of walking had hardened his body and strengthened his endurance after years of city living, and he also seemed to have new reserves of energy he couldn't easily account for. Fresh wind and wide horizons made the world seem a happy place, a place where one could hardly imagine things like his night facing the three servants of the Prophet.

  But such things had happened.

  He was on his way, in part, to find out why.

  There was supposed to be a library at Piros. Talaos knew no one personally who lived there, no one who he thought would recognize him by sight. He was eager to reach Hunyos, but perhaps there might also be some answers closer at hand.

  As the road went on, the towers of the town came into view, then the taller buildings, and then the walls. Piros was the central point for the wide farming and ranching region all around, and from it went roads west to Carai, north to the more densely populated wine-producing region near the hilly border, and east to the mountains.

  The stone-paved road was perfectly flat and straight here on the plain. He passed slow moving carts full of produce, and was passed by riders, coaches and an occasional chariot. A troop of cavalry rode out from Piros on patrol, sunlight gleaming on their crested helmets and the points of their spears. This far from any border, Talaos thought it more likely they'd end up helping some farmer pull a wagon out of a ditch than find trouble to fight.

  The town wasn't far now, and he could see that while the road and the buildings appeared perfectly maintained, the walls were not. They looked like they hadn't had major repairs in decades. In places, ivy climbed the stones.

  He reached the decorative stone plaza before the gates, with its carts and vendors selling wares, passed, and entered the town. Inside were clean streets with well-laid paving stones, bright plastered and whitewashed walls, and tile roofs gleaming in the sun.

  Ahead was a small civic complex with a colonnaded council hall and a domed library a fraction of the size of the great library in Carai. However, this one had something very interesting, a tall tower attached to the main building by a little gallery.

  Talaos ascended the steps and met a stout old woman serving as door warden. He produced his silver token as a Patronus of the library in Carai.

  "Good morning," he said, "I was wondering if reading was allowed in that tower?"

  She smiled and replied, "Well, it is an observatory, and not open to the public or intended as a reading area. But as a Patronus you have the right. What brings you to Piros?"

  "Thank you, and I'm just traveling through," he said, and he passed he dropped a few silver coins in the donation box next to her. She smiled again and nodded.

  Then with another thought, he stopped and asked her a
question. "Where would the history books be? I'm looking for something on the Living Prophet."

  "The Living Prophet?" she replied, a bit surprised. "Well now... I don't think we have a history specifically about him, but there are a couple of general histories on the Eastlands, in the north wing on the way to the observatory."

  He thanked her and went on. Inside, he found a main level and a small upper gallery around the dome that held books of special age or significance. He turned left to the north wing, and after a bit of searching, found the histories he wanted. He presented his token to the curator, a thin old man, and was let through the locked door to the observatory.

  The interior of the tower was filled with a broad, winding staircase that reached the level before the top. The room there held a variety of astronomical equipment in storage, clean and tidy. There was a ramp up to the open observation deck at the top. The room had several windows, all shuttered. Talaos opened one, found a chair, and set to reading.

  One of the books had been written about two centuries earlier, and was more travelogue than history, with descriptions of the cities, nations, and rulers of the time. Talaos was struck by the variety of peoples in the Eastlands, at least as diverse as in the Westlands, and by the lack of references to the Prophet until quite far in.

  When he did finally come upon such, it became apparent that in those days, the Prophet's dominion was confined to the southeastern regions of the Eastlands. The writer considered the Prophet to be a faraway, quaint and eccentric figure.

  The other book was a copy of a much older text dating to Imperial times. It in turn was a history of events for several centuries prior. There was no mention of the Living Prophet at all.

  After a while, he grew restless and decided to see the view from the top of the tower.

  Below, around him, were the red and brown tile roofs of Piros. Beyond that, the sunny plains with their farms and ranches. Gleaming to the east was the road he would take. To the north, he could see the road that headed toward the wine country, and old Dirion.