torg 01 - Storm Knights

by Bill Slavicsek

  Kurst sniffed again. "Ravagons," he muttered. He had hoped to beat them here, but he should have realized they would arrive before he did. After all, they were already in Baruk Kaah's nearby realm, while he had to travel upbridge to Orrorsh, across a second bridge to Takta Ker, and then down a third bridge to New York before he could travel on to Philadelphia. By the look of the blood, though, the ravagons weren't that far ahead of him. But what about the stormers?

  He slid into the room, silently moving with stealthy grace. But his caution was unnecessary. The room was empty, except for the furniture that had been ripped apart. The ravagons must have arrived too late, he decided, or else they never would have slashed out with such rage.

  "Good," he said, "there's still a chance for me to reach them first."

  The hunter moved around the room, separating and cataloging each scent in turn. Dr. Hachi had been here, and the two ravagons. The next strongest scent belonged to the other woman, the one named Tolwyn. She was a fighter, he decided, and she smelled of honor and nobility. The others, while not as distinct as the women, each had their own odors that would identify them when Kurst finally reached them.

  There was a man of thought and learning, a religious man. But he was battling doubt and confusion these days. Good. That meant he wasn't focused. As his beliefs went in different directions, so too would his senses. He would not pose a problem.

  The second man was more wary, more street tough. He smelled of authority and regimentation, but there was an underlying anger that spoke of a need for revenge. This was a fighter, Kurst decided, probably a soldier or guard of some sort. He could prove dangerous.

  The third and fourth smells went together. They belonged to young men, boys perhaps. They were hardened by the streets, like the wary man, but lacked experience or the strength that would come with age. They would bear watching, but little else.

  So these were their protectors — a troubled priest, an angry guard, and two untried youths. Kurst almost laughed. Where was the challenge that this world had promised? Where was the test he so desperately sought?

  He took another breath, and this time another smell assaulted him. It was crisp, clear, powerful. It was the smell of possibilities, and he noticed that each of the people who had been in this room had it. For a moment, Kurst's confidence trembled. Never before had he encountered so many possibility-filled beings in the same location. What could it mean?

  The hunter ended his speculation. He would discover a meaning — if there was one — when he reached his prey. That was the rule he lived by, and it would serve him now. He headed off, continuing after the stormers' trail.

  Bryce briefly studied the road map and decided that the best way to make westerly progress was to stay on I-76 until they reached I-70. As he drove, Bryce gave what little driving instruction he could to Mara as she intently studied his every motion, asking why he moved his foot like that or why he changed the postion of the lever on the steering column. Rat laughed at her questions, but Coyote only stared at her. Of course, thought Bryce. The young man was beginning to take notice of the wild haired young woman. But so far, she had shown little interest in him. Ah, the idiosyncrasies of youth, he mused.

  He glanced into the rearview mirror and caught sight of Tolwyn. She was watching out the back window. Bryce could see that her shoulders were bunched tightly, and she was trembling. He adjusted the mirror so that he could see better. For a moment the view was as it had been from the start, an empty road behind them and a traffic jam of refugees moving in the opposite direction on the other side of the highway. Then a fluttering movement in the line of traffic far behind the van caught his attention.

  "They are coming, Christopher Bryce," Tolwyn said, fear filling her voice, clogging her throat. "I remember the pain they caused, the fear they inspired."

  Bryce continued to drive, unconsciously pressing the accelerator to gain speed and distance. The others tried to see what Tolwyn was talking about.

  "Who is coming, Tolwyn?"

  "Just keep the van moving, Chris," Rick Alder ordered as he pulled his revolver out. The priest shuddered.

  "They are clearing a path through the refugees," Tolwyn said. "They are on our trail, but they haven't located us just yet. But all those people are dying. By Dunad's sword! I wish I had my own blade!"

  Rat asked her what she was talking about. Tolwyn then turned to the boy.

  "There was a sword fashioned from a solid chunk of nickel-iron. The metal had been a gift from below, from the dwarves of Aysle. It was a special piece of ore, and it was believed to be part of the land itself. Battlestar was its name, and it had been beaten into being on the anvil of Tanglan, a dwarven smith who used fire and ice and endless beating of his heavy hammer to shape the magical blade. After the smith had formed the heated metal in to rods of steel and braided those rods, he hammered them flat and folded the steel back upon itself over and over. He presented the finished blade to Solgal, the founder of House Tancred. The sword itself was broad-bladed and heavy enough to be used as a hacking weapon, yet it tapered to a point that allowed it to be used for thrusting. It was light enough to be swung one-handed, but the hilt was long enough to be held in two hands when additional force was needed. The sword was cross-hilted with a heavy pommel weight that perfectly balanced the weight of the gleaming blade. The pommel weight was made of iron and shaped into a nine-pointed star heavy enough to be used in battle as a mace or morningstar — hence, the name of the sword, Battlestar."

  Tolwyn was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "I do not know why I remember that, but I do."

  "Here they come," said Coyote.

  Bryce risked another look back, and this time he saw them. They were two winged shadows streaking through the sky. If they hadn't known what they were after before, they did now. They were heading straight toward the van. The priest jammed his foot to the floor, trying to coax more speed out of the tired vehicle.

  "This van hasn't reached these speeds in years," he shouted back.

  "I'm pretty sure it can take it, Chris," Alder responded. "Just don't make any violent maneuvers."

  Alder and Mara moved to the back doors. Each had a weapon in hand, which both relieved and terrified Bryce.

  The first winged monster swooped onto the top of the van, landing with a loud thump. The second one dove straight at the rear door. Alder aimed through the window and fired two quick shots. The glass shattered and the discharges were very loud inside the vehicle. If he hit the creature, it wasn't evident. It continued its flight, smashing into the doors hard enough to buckle them inward. Bryce could see its talons sticking through the metal, allowing the monster to hang on. But he had his hands full trying to stay on the road. The monster had hit them like a truck, and the van was spinning wildly.

  "Stay with it, Father," Coyote said, "you can do it."

  The priest hoped the kid's faith was not misplaced as he straightened the vehicle.

  Then two things happened simultaneously. One of the rear doors fell in and the roof peeled back. Both events were accompanied by terrible shrieks of tearing metal, and the sudden rush of wind.

  The creature in the open doorway was too tall to stand up straight in the van. It had a small head set atop a long neck. Its powerful chest hinted at strength beyond any human's, and its wings folded about it like a living cloak. It swiped Alder with its claws, smashing him into the wall of the van. He slid down the wall, deathly still. Then the creature grabbed Mara.

  "Come, stormers," it rasped, "can't you do better than this?"

  The other winged demon reached down through the tear in the roof. It grasped Bryce by the shoulder, its sharp claws cutting into his skin and drawing blood. The priest glanced into the demon's face. All he saw was sharp teeth and humorless, dead black eyes. It would have hauled him out of the driver's seat if Tal Tu didn't strike at that moment. The edeinos slashed with his own claws, forcing the demon to let the priest go.

  Then they locked in fierce battle, one on each side of th
e torn metal.

  Bryce hit the brakes, causing the van to jerk to a sudden stop. Everyone was thrown off balance, but he hoped they could use his maneuver to good advantage.

  As the van's wheels screeched in protest, the ravagon holding Mara loosened its grip momentarily. That was all the young woman needed. She spun around, burying her laser pistol in the beast's gut. Then she fired four times, changing the angle of the barrel with each shot. The monster's black eyes rolled in its head, and it fell from the van into the road behind them.

  Tolwyn, meanwhile, had acquired a tire iron from its compartment with the other tools. She rushed forward, brandishing it as though it were the sword she had spoken of. Using all of her strength, she drove the metal tool into the creature that struggled with Tal Tu. It let go of the edeinos, a sound of pain escaping its toothed maw. It rolled off the roof and disappeared from sight.

  "My God, what were those things?" Bryce asked Tolwyn.

  "Ravagons, I think they call themselves," she said. It seemed the thrill of battle agreed with her. "I remember they were involved in the battle for Aysle, but the rest of the details are still vague, unformed."

  "Tolwyn, look out!" Rat screamed. The ravagon from the roof raised itself up behind Tolwyn, on the other side of the van's side window. Before she could spin to defend herself, it thrust its powerful claws through the glass.

  Bryce fought with the ignition, trying to start up the van. It had stalled after he made his desperate maneuver, and now it didn't want to cooperate with his new demand.

  "Let ... go!" Tolwyn shouted, smashing the tire iron over her shoulder and into the ravagon's face. It released her, and she spilled forward into Tal Tu and Rat.

  But her action gave Mara and Alder the opening they needed. Together, they pumped bullets and laser bolts into the horrible creature. It fell away from the van.

  "I've got it!" Bryce exclaimed as the engine finally turned over.

  "Then get us out of here, Father," Alder suggested, then he collapsed back into unconsciousness.

  88

  "This is ridiculous, Henri!" Claudine Guerault shouted over the noise of the crowd. Her assignments as a journalist had taken her to many strange places, but she never expected what she was witnessing in her own country.

  "I think you are right," said Henri Dupuy, her photographer. "The crowds are too thick to drive through. I suggest we walk."

  They were in southeast France, in the city of Avignon on the Rhone River. Guerault had not wanted to leave the Japanese diplomat's murder to another reporter,

  but her editor insisted she handle the story unfolding in Avignon. It appeared that the religious fervor affecting her country had reached some sort of high point in Avignon, as thousands upon thousands of faithful were gathering in the city. Now Guerault and her photographer were there as well to find out what was happening.

  "Stay close, Claudine," Dupuy warned as he led the way through the crowd.

  The people were excited, full of anticipation. Most of the noise that came from the crowd was just that, noise. But every so often Guerault picked up a phrase or two. The words intrigued her.

  "The sign," she heard most often, whispered or shouted in awe or jubilation. "The sign is coming, the sign."

  Guerault had no idea what the masses were babbling about, but the intensity in the air was palpable. "Faster, Henri," she yelled to her companion, "I want to see what's in the center of this crowd."

  Pushing, pulling, but always moving, the two finally emerged in front of the old Papal Palace, once used by the Avignon popes during the time of the Great Schism. In those long ago days during the Middle Ages, two popes actually claimed to be the spiritual leader of the Catholic Church — one in Rome and one in Avignon. Guerault wondered if the location held any significance to the sign everyone was talking about.

  She took out her notebook and began scribbling notes concerning the mob and the feeling that ran through the packed streets. The sky overhead was dark, and a storm was about to explode above them. Dupuy was beside her, snapping photo after photo of the scene. Then a monk emerged from the church and silence spread through the crowd. He was dressed in simple robes, much like the men that had been preaching through much of the country over the past few weeks. He looked out upon the multitude for many long seconds, then he spoke.

  "This world is troubled, full of sin and sinners. The heathens have had their day, but now the Time of Judgment is upon us!" The monk's words were powerful, captivating. The crowd ate it up. Even Guerault was swayed by the emotions he evoked. "We have been looking for a sign, and I tell you that the signs are rampant these days. In heathen America, in Great Britain, the sins of the people have called their own judgment upon them! But before such disaster befalls the French people, I have good news!"

  The crowd edged forward, anxiously awaiting the next words to issue forth from the monk. He let them wait for a long moment, letting their anticipation build. Guerault saw that Dupuy was still snapping away.

  The monk spoke again. "Like Lot and his family, like the Jews in Egypt, we shall be spared the terrible events of the Last Days! For someone is coming who will save us from our sins, who will lead us into the New Earth that is to rise from the ashes of the old world."

  Guerault had stopped writing. What was the monk saying? Who was he talking about? She pulled her jacket closed, trying to keep warm as the wind blew harder and the sky grew darker. The clouds were rolling, boiling, and she was suddenly very frightened.

  "He shall banish the darkness!" the monk exclaimed. "He shall dispose of the evils of this world, the technology that is the devil's work, and he shall restore the simpler times that have been forgotten. And lo, this shall be the sign of his coming!"

  With that, the clouds parted and an arch of golden light fell from the sky. It struck the church, bathing it in an otherworldly glow. A wave of energy rolled off the arch and rippled through the crowd. Streetlights went off in its wake. Even Henri Dupuy's camera stopped working. The crowd fell to its knees before the golden arch. It took every ounce of willpower that Guerault possessed for her not to follow their example.

  "Look upon the sign of our shepherd, my brethren!" the monk called out. "Prepare yourselves, for soon our Holy Father shall come!"

  Guerault worked her way over to the photographer. "Come on, Henri," she said. "We have to get out of here. Don't you feel it? This crowd will do anything the monk says."

  "Isn't it wonderful, Claudine?" Dupuy asked. He dropped his camera, letting it smash upon the concrete sidewalk. "He is coming!"

  "No, not you too, Henri?" Guerault pushed the photographer away and rushed through the crowd. She didn't understand what was happening, but she knew she had to get away while there was still time. She had to tell someone about the miracle she witnessed — and she had to decide if it was heavenly in origin, or something worse.

  89

  Kurst, after examining the map he had acquired, decided his best option was to travel through the Living Land. He could borrow a flying lizard to use as a mount, then catch the stormers somewhere around the city named Columbus, where the road they were traveling through Core Earth met with the road he would take through the realm. His station demanded respect in Baruk Kaah's realm, and his claws were proof of his identity. He only needed to shred two of the edeinos to obtain the lakten. Now he was atop the winged lizard, following the road marked as "80" on the map.

  The remaining edeinos had been helpful enough to provide him with a benthe as well. The small, globular being rested on the lakten's neck, commanding it by manipulating its body chemistry. That left Kurst free to examine the countryside they were flying over.

  This world was more advanced than his own, Kurst noted, more technologically dependent. It was true that Orrorsh had a level of industry and mechanical aptitude, but that was a relatively new development in his society. The great cities below him gave way to fields and forests that stretched across the great continent. Everything was so much bigger, more spread out, than
he was used to.

  But the Living Land was already making its presence felt. The fields and forests were wilder, more primitive looking than Kurst imagined they normally were. And new lifeforms, larger than what the land normally supported, were moving everywhere. In fact, the movement of two particular groups of creatures caught the hunter's interest.

  "Circle here, then land in front of those creatures," Kurst ordered the benthe. It extended a pseudopod to acknowledge the command, then relayed directions to the lakten.

  The winged lizard made a wide sweep, giving Kurst plenty of opportunity to examine the two converging groups. The first group consisted of Living Land natives. A half-dozen edeinos warriors, accompanied by a huge tresir, waited to ambush the second group. The second group appeared to be Core Earthers, wearing military garb, and walking along the road in the same direction as Kurst was flying. Their walk, however, would take them right into the ambush.

  "This could be interesting," Kurst noted, as the lakten came to a landing near the group of edeinos.

  The hunter dismounted and strode into the group of lizard men. They eyed him curiously, unsure of what to make of the inconsistencies of his appearance. It was definite that he was not of the Living Land, but he rode a lakten. The younger hunters were already twitching nervously, but their leader — an edeinos of many years — stepped in front of the small, soft-skinned one. He jabbed his hrockt shoot spear into Kurst's chest, just touching the hunter's skin with the sharp point. Then he spoke the language of the Land.

  "Who are you, dead one, and what gives you the right to command a lakten?" the old warrior demanded harshly.

  Kurst smiled, and answered back in the lizard man's own language. "I am Kurst, hunter for the Gaunt Man, and Baruk Kaah himself gives me passage through this realm."

  The younger warriors shuddered at the mention of the Gaunt Man, and their eyes widened to hear this soft-skin speak of their Saar in such a familiar manner.

  "He lies," spat the young edeinos standing beside the tresir. The great beast roared to emphasize the young warrior's statement.