“Begin what?”
But his uncle didn’t answer. He went back to the sword and waited for Brandon to head upstairs. Brandon was nearing the top of the stairs when he heard his uncle’s reply, said in a voice almost too soft to hear. “Your training.”
In his room, Brandon climbed into bed, trying to figure out what his uncle meant by ‘training’. He thought it would be impossible to go to sleep, with the jumble of thoughts and emotions tumbling through his brain, but his eyes closed almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Soon, he was in a deep sleep.
Chapter 16
In the dream, Brandon was not himself. He had no control, like he was riding piggyback inside another person’s skull. He could only watch as his body moved. He sat at the head of a great army, men on foot and on horseback, and he was a grown man. When his head dropped, he saw that he was dressed in heavy armor. Overlapping steel plates covered him from head to toe. The armor was cloudy gray and studded with heavy spikes. He rode a horse, guiding it with his knees. The horse was armored, as well. He patted its neck, reassuringly, as he surveyed the field before him.
Men filled the land, as far as his eyes could see. It was like something out of Tolkien. Across an enormous valley, the armies of the last of the Tower Knights had gathered. Nearly fifty thousand strong and still nowhere near strong enough. Brandon didn’t know how he knew these small details. It was like he was remembering things long forgotten. He didn’t need to look to know that his own army far outnumbered his enemy’s. Almost ten to one.
Beside him, riding a black warhorse, was the Lord Captain of his armies. The man’s name was Wiermon, Brandon knew without thinking. He wore armor, much like Brandon’s own, though his was heavier and more battle scarred. The helmet covering Wiermon’s head was shaped like a snarling bear, the mouth open to show his bearded face. Wiermon said, his voice rough and hardened by years of war. “Brave men, all of them. It’s a shame to kill them.”
A voice that wasn’t Brandon’s spoke, coming from the body he occupied. It was deep and full of authority. “They’ll be given quarter. If they ask for it. Same as the others.”
Weirmon snorted. “They wont ask for it. You know that as well as I do. These Northmen don’t know the meaning of surrender.”
The head that Brandon resided in nodded. It felt strange to Brandon. Like watching a movie through the eyes of another person. It was a dream, he knew without doubt, but it felt completely real. The voice that wasn’t Brandon’s spoke again. “Then they will die, old friend. Same as the rest.”
Weirmon nodded. “Same as the rest.”
The world shifted and Brandon was looking up at a cloudy sky. Storm clouds were gathering overhead, shifting and moving fast to cover the entire valley. The world shifted again and Brandon was looking down at the enemy, who had suddenly begun to move.
Weirmon gave an approving grunt. “It seems the young knight wasn’t content to wait for our pleasure, my lord.”
Brandon nodded, feeling a strange sense of approval running through him. It was as if the two men admired the man leading the army against them. Even while they planned to end his life. “Ready the army, Weirmon. I will await the knight on the field.”
Weirmon looked up at the cloudy sky. Thunder rolled in the distance. “She comes, then?”
Brandon nodded. “She comes, as she always does. When I need her.” As if bidden by the words, fat raindrops began to fall down into the valley. As the rain pelted Brandon’s face and hands, the only two parts of him not covered by armor, he felt a surge of strength in his limbs and the armor began to feel lighter.
Horns sounded in the distance and the sound of thunder quieted in the sky and came, now, from the ground. The Army of the Tower charged across the valley, the heavy horse moving before the foot, as was the Tower way, and Brandon felt a nervous flutter in the pit of his stomach, a feeling he knew came at the start of every battle. Weirmon moved down the line, shouting orders at his runners and at the commanders close enough to hear.
The archer’s moved forward, arrows knocked and ready. Brandon’s head turned and he felt a moment of unreality as he caught his first glance at his own army, stretched out on either side of him. Armored men went on for what seemed like miles in every direction. How many hundreds of thousands? He could only guess, even with the memories of the other man.
Brandon sat inside the skull of this strange leader of men, knowing that he was dreaming, but not really feeling as if he were in a dream. He felt awake. He still had no control of what the man did or said. He was a hitchhiker. Was this real?
The land around him felt wild and ancient. The armor that he wore wasn’t familiar to him. Not from any history book he had ever seen. The whole thing felt more like a fantasy than any reality that he knew. Brandon could feel the shifting of the horse between his legs. The air tasted of rain and ozone. It was all too real.
The archers rained arrows down into the onrushing horse, sending hundreds of armored men tumbling and crashing to the ground. The horses screamed as their riders were smashed and bloodied beneath them. Volley after volley flew, until the horse was upon the line. They crashed into the pikemen, breaking through in some places. The foot followed hard behind, slashing and stabbing even as they fell, pin-cushioned with arrows.
The army of the Tower fought like demons. Every one was worth at least 5 of Brandon’s men. But their ferocity wouldn’t hold out for long. Brandon sat his horse, unconcerned, even as the Tower men began get closer.
When the battle finally reached him, Brandon was unprepared for how fast he could move. Lightning quick, Brandon’s sword was out and he was mowing through the men like a wicked lumberjack, hewing wood. He was only half surprised to see that the blade in his hands was the Phoenix. It blazed like a living flame, burning everything it touched. Searing wounds closed, even as it split man and armor open with equal ease.
Men fell before that burning blade, most turning to flee before it could reach them, only to die by the swords of their companions. The Tower Guard did not retreat.
Never. At the far end of the valley stood the last of the Four Towers of the Winds. The Northern Tower was over ten stories tall, surrounded by a small fort city, called Carthage. Brandon rode his horse through the fighting men, looking for his enemy.
But his enemy found him first. The Tower Knight, dressed all in black armor, exploded out of a knot of Brandon’s men, blood raining down on everyone as he slashed his way through them. He was on foot. With a roar, he leapt for Brandon’s horse, slashing at its flank. The horse reared, screaming, and Brandon hit the ground rolling. Lightning shattered the sky and the rain began to fall in earnest. Footing became precarious, the ground churning into bloody mud, and Brandon brought up the Phoenix, only just in time, to block the Tower Knight’s flashing blade. Steel rang on steel and Brandon found himself falling back from the strength of the Knight’s attack. The man was damn good. He fought like a man possessed and it was all Brandon could do not to get his head removed from his shoulders. Thunder rolled in, deafening everyone, and the rain became a monsoon. With the rain, came a strength that Brandon couldn’t understand. He drove the Knight back, step by step, slowly gaining the upper hand.
All around them, men screamed and died. The rain should have been blinding, but Brandon could see just fine. The Phoenix cut across the Knight’s chest, scoring the steel, and the man stumbled in the bloody sludge underfoot. Brandon swung another blow at the Knight’s helmet, but the man’s blade flickered up to block the strike. He crashed back, his blade shivering with the impact.
“Yield.” Brandon shouted.
“Never.” The Tower Knight came on, using the last of his strength for one last strike. He danced in, his blade kissing Brandon’s armor. Brandon felt the sting of steel and fell back. The Knight’s blade had found the soft meat of Brandon’s thigh. While Brandon was coming round from the blow, the Knight struck again, his blade slipping around Brandon’s armor and piercing his side. This is re
al pain, Brandon thought. He fell, keeping a firm grip on the Phoenix, and lightning exploded around them, showering the two warriors with light. The Tower Knight tried to move in for the kill, still half blind from the lightning strike, but Brandon powered into him, driving him over into the mud. The wound in his side was itching madly as it healed. The rain was protecting him, as she always had. He drove a gauntleted fist into the closed faceplate of the knight’s helm.
The knight rolled his body, tossing Brandon to the side, and wrenched the helmet off. He tossed it aside, his back to Brandon, and lightning flashed overhead, painting the world white. When the knight turned, hefting his blade, Brandon felt a cold shock of dread blossom inside his stomach.
He knew the Knight of the Fourth Wind. Brandon knew him, without the strange memories, filtering through his brain. He stared at the face of a boy, who, many years and many wars later, would grow into the man he called uncle. Gerrick stared at Brandon with eyes that weren’t filled with hate or fear. They were filled with quiet calm and a confidence that was frightening. He smiled a grim warrior’s smile and said. “So it ends, Storm King. As it began. On the field of battle.” His voice was the same, hard and full of cunning knowledge, though his face was that of a boy. How old was he? 15? 16? Not much older than Brandon; the real Brandon, not the body he now inhabited. There was something in the young Gerrick’s voice? Pride, maybe? “You end me, as you ended my father and my brothers. In the rain, amid the screams of the dying and those that did the killing.” He took a slow step forward, his sword rising to his chest. A salute from the dying.
When he rushed in, he did so silently, bringing the blade up in a blinding flash. Quicker than any man had a right to move. But Brandon was quicker. The Phoenix flickered, like a striking snake, and the gleaming length of Gerrick’s blade shattered, steel shards raining onto the muddy sludge underfoot.
Thunder exploded across the field of battle, silencing the screams of the dying and the howls of the victorious, making the ground shake. Both armies froze, all eyes transfixed on the two men at the summit of the ridge. Neither had realized where their battle had taken them; near the northern edge of the battle, not far from Carthage and the Tower, itself.
Gerrick hit his knees, the mud sucking, hungrily, at his armor and met the eyes of his destroyer.
Brandon’s eyes.
He met them without flinching; even knowing they were the eyes of his doom. He waited for the killing stroke to fall. Almost hungering for it.
But it did not fall.
Brandon, whoever he was, stood over Gerrick and did not strike. When Brandon’s voice came it was full of respect. And an unexpected sadness. “Your father and brothers died following a madman and a fool. They died opposing their lawful king and ruler. A ruler they had all sworn fealty to. Whom you swore fealty to.” He laid the Phoenix against the taunt muscles of Gerrick’s throat, where his pulse beat its strongest, and spoke, his voice now icy. “You are an honorable man, Gerrick Talemane. You followed the oaths that bound you; oaths to your family and blood, even though you knew the course was not honorable. You followed and lay down the lives of all who followed you. I now offer you a chance. A slim chance at redemption for your family.”
The young knight said nothing, but something flickered in the depths of his eyes. Was it hope? Not for life, but for the redemption that Brandon spoke of. Brandon lowered the Phoenix, letting the long heat of it rest against his leg, and met the eyes of his uncle. “Rise and follow your true king, Gerrick Talemane, last Knight of the Tower, and you will find your honor again.” Gerrick met the eyes of his king for a long time, not saying anything, and knew that everything hung in the balance. Not just his life. But the lives of all of his men. The lives of all those that honored him and his family.
It wasn’t just his honor that he needed to reclaim.
It was the honor of the Four Towers. That was what really mattered, in the end. Slowly, carefully, Gerrick reached out and grasped the blade of the Phoenix. He pulled it to his lips and, although it was painful to do so, kissed the tip of the sword. He bowed his head and all around the two rulers men went to their knees. Not 10,000 men left of the Tower’s army, but Brandon knew they would all fight for him until the end. Brandon knew this as well as the man whose eyes he was seeing through.
Who was he? Who was the Storm King? He met the eyes of Gerrick Talemane, his uncle, and thought he might know. Lightning flashed and the rain began to lighten, then stopped altogether. The battle was over.
And so was the dream.
Chapter 17
Brandon awoke from the dream and climbed out of sleep like a man drowning in memories. Part of him still felt the calm assurance and confidence of the Storm King.
That’s who I was, Brandon thought, as he climbed out of bed. The glowing numerals of his bedside clock told him that exactly two hours had passed since he lay down. He was the Storm King. That’s what the dream was telling him. At least that was what he thought it meant.
While Brandon slept, Gerrick had slipped inside his room and left a folded set of clothes on his dresser. A pair of loose cotton slacks and a matching shirt with short sleeves. There was also a pair of soft, lace up boots. The soles were padded and felt like sand paper. No note. No instructions.
Brandon put on the outfit, taking a moment to check himself in the mirror that hung on the inside of his closet door, before heading downstairs. The clothes made him think of a martial arts training outfit, but without the belt. He took the stairs two at a time, the boots making hardly any noise at all when he walked. The entire outfit was made for ease of movement and comfort.
Brandon didn’t need to be told where to go. The house was dark as he went through the living room and kitchen, slipping through the glass doors, onto the deck. The circle of stones was lit, the candles all different lengths and colors. The circle was tight, about 5 paces across, and Gerrick stood on the far side. The light from the candles played across his stony features, making his expression impossible to read. At once amused and disapproving, he was the specter of the boy from Brandon’s dream; his face, hardened and lined from the years. He wore an outfit identical to Brandon’s. The only difference being the crimson wrappings that were wound around his wrists and forearms. As Brandon approached, his uncle spoke. “The circle is one of the oldest methods for learning the arts that I know.” He held his hands out to his sides, the palms showing in the candlelight. “Teacher and student enter the circle. If, at any point, the student wishes to forego the training, all he, or she, needs to do is step clear of the circle.”
“What am I expected to learn, Gerrick? How to fight? How to defend myself?”
“How to survive.” Gerrick said, simply. “This is what I brought you to Highgarden for. This is a small part of your destiny.” He waited for Brandon to enter the circle before continuing. “You move well. That can serve you better than any weapon.” He gave Brandon a nod. “We’ll begin with offense, Bran. Attack me. Don’t hold back.”
Brandon took a deep breath, ignoring the pain from his ribs, and approached his uncle, slowly. The big man didn’t move; only waited, silently, as the boy moved in. Brandon didn’t know what to do. He brought his hands up in a boxer’s stance, making Gerrick smile, and jabbed a right at his uncle’s face.
Gerrick hardly seemed to move. He turned his head, ever so slightly, and Brandon’s fist slipped by, missing by only a fraction of an inch. Gerrick’s hand snapped onto Brandon’s wrist, a grip like a steel manacle, and twisted. Brandon’s shoulder screamed and he was lifted off his feet, spinning painfully to the ground, the wind knocked out of him.
Gerrick stood over him, face impassive. “Always remember not to overextend. It leaves you open for grabs and throws.” He stepped away and waited. Brandon climbed to his feet, his whole body one big ache, and squared himself to try again. Gerrick smiled. “Your goal is simple enough, Bran.” His smile widened. “Hit me.”
“All I have to do is hit you?” Brandon said, dubiously.
/> “That’s right. All you have to do is hit me.” How long did it go on? Two hours? Three? After the first couple of ginger tries and having his ass tossed both times, Brandon went at it more carefully. He kept his arms closer to his body, afraid of letting Gerrick get a hold, and started moving around the outer edge of the circle. He feinted right, tried to jab with his left hand, and Gerrick batted the hand away. “The head isn’t a good target. It’s small and it’s always moving. Unless you are faster than your target, always aim for where you know you can hit. Center mass is what you aim at when using a gun, use the same principal with your fists, as well.”
So Brandon tried for body blows, having about as much luck. Gerrick seemed to slip around every blow without ever moving. Gerrick stopped tossing Brandon every time the boy missed a strike and was now tapping whatever part of his body he left exposed. As he dodged Brandon’s attacks, Gerrick also spoke. “Though center mass is the easiest target, it can sometimes be the worst. Good armor can give an opponent a distinctive advantage.”
They kept at it for hours, Brandon attacking and Gerrick defending. “The throat is one of the more vulnerable points of the anatomy. All it takes is one good blow to crush your windpipe and then you’re dead.”
Brandon was sweating like it was midday, though it was after ten, and breathing like somebody three times his size and age. He’d never felt so out of shape. He overextended, trying to hit Gerrick in the side, and Gerrick used his momentum to drive him into the ground. Brandon lay there for a minute, catching his breath. Gerrick said. “Never press a useless attack, unless it’s to deliver a killing stroke. When you leave yourself open, you’re telling your opponent that you don’t care about defending yourself.”
Brandon slowly pushed himself back up and stood, waveringly. He was breathing like a marathon runner and Gerrick didn’t even look like he’d broken a sweat. Gerrick smiled at him and said. “My turn.”
Rain Of Stone (The Merryweather Chronicles Book 1) Page 9