Stormwarden

by Janny Wurts

  The sorcerers settled in smug satisfaction. The Kielmark had cornered Anskiere neatly; with his powers bound and the lives of two children at risk, he could never complete such a promise. Eager as hounds on fresh scent, the sorcerers waited for Anskiere to confess his helplessness, and appeal to the Kielmark's mercy.

  But to their surprise, Anskiere executed the bow he had refused the Kielmark earlier. "Lordship, I give my word." No gap was discernible in his assurance, but his gesture carried the haunted quality of a man who has just signed a pact with death.

  Confident Anskiere's lie would ruin him, the sorcerers stepped back in anticipation of dismissal. But the Kielmark gestured and the men at arms raised weapons, stopping their hasty retreat.

  "Wait."

  Without moving from his chair, the Kielmark stretched and caught a sword from its peg on the wall behind him. The basket hilt glittered in the sunlight as he extended the weapon to Anskiere. "You may have need of this."

  A startled twitch of one sorcerer's cheek immediately justified his impulsive action. And when Anskiere reached to grasp the hilt, his sleeve fell back to expose a livid line where a fetter had recently circled his wrist.

  Shaken by such blatant evidence of abuse, the Kielmark tugged gently on the sword as Anskiere's hand closed over the grip. He spoke barely above a whisper. "Come here."

  Anskiere mounted the steps.

  The Kielmark bent close, so no other could hear. "I see I did not misjudge, old friend." He inclined his head toward the sorcerers who waited, rigid with annoyance. "Could they ruin you?"

  The Stormwarden drew a long breath. Through the weapon held commonly between them, the Kielmark noted fine tremors of tension Anskiere's robes had concealed until now. Yet the Stormwarden's eyes were untroubled when he spoke. "I think not."

  "Your difficulties are beyond me. I have no choice but to trust you." The Kielmark's huge wrist flexed, twisting the sword against Anskiere's palm. With greater clarity, he said, "Then you can rid us of this accursed heat?"

  Anskiere smiled. "That would require violent methods, Eminence."

  Below the dais, the sorcerers twitched as though vexed.

  "Koridan's Fires," swore the Kielmark, and he chuckled. "Your puppets seem displeased. Be violent, then, Cloud-shifter, with my blessing. After that we'll talk again." And he released the sword with a broad wave of dismissal.

  * * *

  Escorted only by sorcerers, Anskiere left the Kielmark's fortress without delay. Once past the gatehouse, urgency left him. He paused on the terrace at the head of the stair and began an intent inspection of the harbor. The view was creased with heatwaves. Below, the town reawakened; he could hear the crack of shutters as shopkeepers opened their stalls. The ocean lay flat as burnished metal, and the air smelled like an oven. Anskiere shifted his grip on the staff.

  The sorcerers watched his restlessness with impatience of their own. Apparently Anskiere did not find what he sought so keenly. And although the Kielmark had granted him freedom of Cliffhaven, he passed up the shade and refreshment of a tavern. He left the stair. Careless of his velvet finery, he set off into the scrub on what seemed to be a goat track.

  Like shadows, the sorcerers followed. By custom of sanctuary, they could use no force to stop him, except in defiance of the Kielmark's law. The sword added inconvenience to nuisance. Anskiere's acceptance of mortal steel reflected an independent turn of mind they dared ignore no longer.

  The hillside offered wretched footing. The taller sorcerer stumbled on a loose rock. Brush clawed his clothing. "Fires!" he swore, and grabbed his companion for balance. Awkward as the maneuver appeared, it was timed to allow Anskiere to pass beyond earshot. The sorcerer spoke softly in the ear of his comrade. "Tathagres misjudged him."

  The other sorcerer considered, a frown on his face. "Perhaps. But Anskiere seems to have chosen isolation. If so, we have him secure. The Kielmark's edict of sanctuary will be little help to him in the hills."

  "Didn't you notice?" The first sorcerer gestured angrily and strained to maintain a prudently lowered voice. "The Kielmark knew him. And asking sanctuary instead of service was a master stroke. Anskiere will have a reason." Briskly, he started forward.

  His companion hustled to keep up. "I'd thought of that." A thorn branch snagged his sleeve. He yanked clear. Sweat trickled at his brow, and his soft boots were unsuited to hiking. Yet the Stormwarden showed no sign of slackening pace. Well ahead of his escort he began to ascend a defile. He moved easily, despite the difficult terrain.

  The sorcerers pursued, unable to guess his purpose.

  "He could be bluffing."

  "You're a fool to think so. And Tathagres is a fool to wish the wards on Elrinfaer Tower broken. I don't think the Storm-warden lied when he said the foundation of his powers lay elsewhere."

  The second sorcerer stopped midstride; disturbed pebbles clattered down the hillside, rousing thin spurts of dust. He said quickly, "What is Elrinfaer to you?"

  The first sorcerer shrugged. "A pile of granite, no more. But if the frostwargs are not released on schedule, the Free Isles will not fall." He glared at his companion, breathing hard. "Hearvin was misinformed. Never has Anskiere of Elrinfaer been known to use guile. He's not bluffing. The stormfalcon will return. Mark me. Then we'll have trouble."

  The other sorcerer pondered this, then glanced at the Storm-warden, who stood outlined in sky at the crest of the rise, staring out to sea yet again.

  The sorcerer sighed. "Very well," he said. "We'll separate. You follow Anskiere. Challenge his intentions. Then watch him carefully."

  "And you?"

  "I will proceed to the cave of the frostwargs. If Anskiere breaks our control, I can rearrange the wards which bind him. His own release shall rouse the frostwargs. They will break from sleep in a rage, and ravage Cliffhaven, with Anskiere alone to blame." A smile creased the sorcerer's face, revealing broken teeth. "After Tierl Enneth, do you suppose the Kielmark would forgive him?"

  The other sorcerer smiled also. "Anskiere is guileless. He would loose the frostwargs himself rather than ruin an ally." With the smile still on his lips, he left to follow the Storm-warden.

  * * *

  Above the fortress, the climb steepened and the goat track faded, lost among jagged outcrops of shale. Anskiere toiled upward. Weather-rotted stone crumbled loose under his boots and bounced in flat arcs down the slope.

  Chafed by sweat-drenched robes, the sorcerer tripped and stumbled on the Stormwarden's heels, pelted by pebbles from above. He cursed the land, the suffocating heat, and the wizard he guarded, but he followed with the diligence of a madman. When Anskiere at last reached the summit, he was only half a pace behind, and not much wiser than he had been earlier. Anskiere's intentions were still obscure, though the sorcerer had sifted possibilities until his head ached from thought.

  On the crest of the crag the Stormwarden paused. He leaned on his staff and bent a searching gaze toward the far horizon, his features expressionless. At his side, the sorcerer looked also, but saw nothing in the scenery to warrant such close attention. The afternoon was spent. Below, a spread of hills quivered in the heat haze. A gull flapped above a pale stretch of sand, and the beach plums and dune grasses lay still, untouched by a ripple of breeze. The bleached vault of the sky hung empty and at the edge of the sea, like massive bruises, lay the headlands of Mainstrait, key to the Kielmark's power; for every ship which passed the strait to trade with the eastern kingdoms, Cliffhaven exacted tribute. Yet no vessel moved in the dense calm.

  To the sorcerer, the earth's own vitality seemed locked behind the Stormwarden's silence. The thought was irrational. Irked at himself, the sorcerer said, "You cannot keep your promise to the Kielmark."

  Anskiere stared out over Mainstrait, utterly still.

  "Well?" The sorcerer spoke sharply. "Do you believe yourself capable of warding weather?"

  Anskiere glanced briefly at his adversary, and his reply held no rancour. "No."

  "Then what have you
gained, Cloud-shifter, except enmity in the one inhabited place left open to your presence?"

  Anskiere regarded the ocean as though searching for something lost. He did not speak. And that quiet lack of response unsettled his escort as nothing had before. The sorcerer longed to lay rough hands on his charge, and shatter the stillness which clothed him. In a tone stripped by malice he said, "What bard will sing of you, with the blood of Tierl Enneth on your hands?"

  "What bard would have liberty to sing, should the Free Isles' Alliance be broken?" Anskiere removed his attention from the sea to the sorcerer. "Hear me," he said softly. "Not once did I promise to free the frostwargs."

  Tathagres' henchman reddened beneath that steady gaze. "Beware. The little girl will be made to suffer for your treason."

  Anskiere laughed. "Treason? Against whom? Tathagres?"

  "Against the Kielmark, Cloud-shifter. And against your sovereign lord, the King of Kisburn."

  Anskiere gestured impatiently. "I am no vassal of Kisburn's, to be called to heel like a dog. His ambitions will ruin him without any help from me."

  "What of the Kielmark?" The sorcerer reached out, and delicately plucked a tern's feather from a cranny in the rocks. "If you defy my liege and the frostwargs are not freed by your hand, recovery of your powers will rouse them to riot. To alter the weather, you must bring about destruction upon Cliffhaven. Your promise is now linked to your demise."

  "So is your threat." Anskiere stood straight as an ash spear. Dying sunlight glanced through the interlaced metal which capped his staff, unaltered by any trace of resonant force. Yet his assurance seemed complete as he said, "Dare you tell your mistress?"

  "Dare I?" The black sorcerer stiffened, and the quill crumpled like a flower petal between his fingers. "Tathagres is the King of Kisburn's tool. As you are." And he released the feather, letting it drift, broken, to the ground.

  Anskiere caught it as it fell. He turned its mangled length over in his hands, then slowly smoothed it straight. Without another word, he set off down the slope toward the sea.

  The pace he set was recklessly fast. Angrily the sorcerer followed. If Anskiere would not be ruled, his will would be broken by force, however distasteful the method. The sorcerer plunged down an embankment, flailing his arms for balance as the footing crumbled under him. Over a rattle of pebbles he said, "You have until dawn. After that, I have no choice but to inform Tathagres. When the child cries out in agony perhaps you will reconsider."

  Anskiere's knuckles whitened against the wood of his staff. But that was the only sign he heard the words at all.

  III

  Tempest

  Fuzzed by heat haze, night fell over Cliffhaven, and a reddened quarter moon dangled above Mainstrait, mirrored by ocean unmarred by waves or current. At the crest of a bluff overlooking the beach, Anskiere waited on a cluster of rocks, his staff against his shoulder. He had stood watch since sunset. Close by, the black sorcerer sat among the dune grass, irritably keeping his vigil. The heat had not lifted. The surrounding land seemed poisoned, throttled by a hush which silenced summer's chorus of crickets. Even the gnats were absent.

  The sorcerer blotted his sweating face, nagged by the feeling that the simplest of motions somehow violated the unnatural quiet. He shifted uncomfortably to ease cramped limbs. Grasses pricked through his robe, making him itch, and his flesh ached for rest and for the meals he had neglected. Yet while Anskiere remained on the rocks, the sorcerer had no choice but to stay with him.

  The moon set well after midnight. Overhead, the stars wheeled with imperceptible slowness until dawn at last paled the sky above the mountains.

  The sorcerer stirred stiffly. He shook the dew from his robe as day brightened around him. "Stormwarden," he said. "Give me your decision. Will you consent to the royal command, or shall the village girl be made to suffer?"

  Anskiere raised his head and closely studied his adversary. "I chose on the night I left Imrill Kand." He smiled, and a slight cat's paw of breeze stirred his hair.

  Wind. The weather was changing. The sorcerer noticed a chill against his skin, and his stomach knotted with apprehension. A second puff stirred the cloth around his knees. Uncomfortably, he felt as though something stalked him from behind. He whirled, and that moment discovered how Anskiere had manipulated him.

  Low in the northwest, a black anvil of cloud rolled above the crags of Cliffhaven; nightlong, Anskiere had directed his attention to the east, a ruse of such simplicity it had not been challenged. The sorcerer had never thought to watch his back. Appalled by his error, he licked whitened lips and tried not to overreact.

  "Stormfalcon," he said accusingly. "This shouldn't be possible. What object could possibly key the bird's return? Your powers were bound well before her release, and Tathagres had you stripped of everything you brought from Imrill Kand, even your clothes."

  A gust slammed down from the north, flattening the dune grass. Anskiere's cloak streamed like a flag. He raised the staff, and the sorcerer understood with a jolt. The staff itself had been the object of the falcon's homing, a provision set up well in advance of Anskiere's imprisonment; and a risk no responsible adept could justify. That power of such magnitude should be linked to an object possessed by an enemy was unthinkable. Yet Anskiere had dared.

  The gale rattled through the beach plums, wrenching off dead leaves. With only seconds to act, the sorcerer sprang at the Stormwarden. Anskiere gave ground. Steel chimed from his scabbard, and he blocked his attacker's rush with the Kielmark's weapon.

  The sorcerer checked, and escaped with a torn sleeve. His wrist trickled blood, penalty of an instinctive reflex to ward off the blade which thrust at his heart.

  "Fires consume you!" he shouted. "Do you think steel can save you?" And quivering with outrage at the insult, for his prowess went well beyond mortal weapons, he raised both arms and began to shape a spell which would bring Anskiere to his knees.

  Light arched between his fingers as the binding took form. But sword in hand, Anskiere paid the spell little heed. His face stayed set like a rock beneath tumbled hair. Suddenly he whistled and lifted the staff.

  The sorcerer tensed with the spell only half complete, and at the edge of vision glimpsed a black and yellow shape which knifed the air like a scimitar, haloed in blue-violet light. He spun around, saw the stormfalcon rise, feathers parted by wind, her target Anskiere's staff. The sorcerer altered tactics to suit. He snatched up his knife, and with a word redirected his spell. The light he had conjured arced with a snap and joined with the blade in his hand. He then flung the knife at the falcon.

  Anskiere shouted. His sword fell, ringing onto stone, as the knife flashed toward the bird's soft breast. She cried shrilly. The sorcerer laughed in triumph. Desperately the stormfalcon banked, talons upraised. And the halo of force around her suddenly split into the brilliant triple aura of a defense ward.

  The knife struck a starred pulse of light. Energy whined on the wind. The sorcerer's laughter changed pitch, transformed to a scream of terror. Unbelievably, the falcon carried all the safeguards of the power Anskiere had once invested in his staff. It was reckless folly, all the more unbelievable after what had gone before, that an adept should ever bind such force into a form a stranger could trigger. Incredibly, Anskiere had done so.

  Trapped by miscalculation, the sorcerer saw his enchanted knife tumble, charred, to the ground. Before he could invoke a countermeasure, the terrible power his attack had released ripped across the spell which linked him with his weapon, and tossed him limp to the ground.

  * * *

  Anskiere steadied the staff as the falcon alighted. Her aura transferred with a crackle of sound, restored to its rightful center amid the interlaced metal. He could not damp the force, which was wasteful. Although shielded by the resonance of his own conjuring, the Stormwarden could direct none of the energy. One enemy now lay dead, but the sorcerer who remained still held sway over his powers.

  Anskiere coaxed the falcon to his wrist. He had to
recover his weather sense and quickly, for linked inextricably to the falcon's presence was the fiercest tempest ever to rage across the northeast latitudes. Already the sky churned, blackened by clouds. The ocean tossed, ripped into spume, and waves crashed against the shore, hurling fountainheads of spray. Storm and tide would shortly break with unmanageable violence over Cliffhaven. Gripping his staff for balance, Anskiere hoped the Kielmark had heeded the warning he had tried to deliver; any ship caught beyond sheltered waters would be pounded by nature's most merciless fury. Until Tathagres' remaining sorcerer could be found and dispatched, Anskiere was helpless to save them; and the sorcerer certainly would be found in the worst possible location. Anskiere jabbed his staff into the earth, and bent his steps toward the cave of the frostwargs.

  * * *

  The storm struck with the violence of a crazed man's nightmare. Daylight lay smothered under sooty combers of cloud. Rain mixed with hail battered Cliffhaven with a rattle like enemy bowfire. In the town the street lanterns were quenched by the torrent, and folk huddled around darkened dripping chimneys and shivered as the wind tore the slate from their roofs.

  The gale raged across the headland, screaming through the rocks above the cave which imprisoned the frostwargs. Although the entrance was narrow, the tunnel plunged steeply downward, doubling back upon itself; the walls carved the gusts into a hollow dirgelike wail. Far down, beneath the level of the seabed, the passage opened into a stone cavern. Even there, the storm caused drafts which rippled the robe of Tathagres' remaining sorcerer and teased his upraised torch until it guttered and hissed in complaint.