Blackness grew within.
The song and the pain reached him in perfect unison and perfect rhythm.
But now he understood.
By pure will, he rose. They struck him again. Agony.
Darkness in the depths, rising.
He turned. Another strike of three. Pain.
He leapt, twisting in the air, flying over and past the circling men. He ran. Full on, sprinting, swift as the wind, swift as a thunderbolt, he ran toward the kneeling, singing people before the House of the Prophet.
The people who had sung so joyously as others burned on the pyre.
Behind him came the three men with staffs.
He raced on. He reached them, the kneeling singers. Their eyes stared at nothing as they sang. Their kneeling bodies swayed in perfect unison with each other, flowing with the rhythm of their song, and they never even looked at him as he cut them down.
Power rose again within him, strong and vital, and arced in his hands and blades.
The three men with staffs reached him, and their staffs still flickered with green light, but their movements seemed less sure, less perfectly timed. He spun low, long blade scything, and the rightmost of the men blocked with his staff. There was a flash, and again the sword glanced. Talaos continued his spin. He brought the short blade past the man's guard and into his vitals. The leftmost man staggered, still smiling, as blood poured from his wound.
The center man, spinning fast, brought his staff down on Talaos's helm. The green light flashed, and the pain struck, but he could feel it was less. The rightmost man flipped backwards, landed directly in front of Talaos, and brought his staff forward and down as a spear directly at Talaos's face. Talaos hurled himself backwards, turned in mid air, and flipped to his feet. Then he leapt forward at the center man with blades high, arcing blue-white. The center man raised his staff above him and across to block.
Talaos dropped upon the center man and brought both his blades down at once into the staff. Light flashed, pain coursed up his arms, and the staff cracked. His blades continued down into the man's shoulders at inward angles, cleaving a part of the man's chest, and his head, from his body as if snipped with pincers.
The rightmost man spun, and his staff cracked Talaos across his outstretched right arm. Talaos felt the bone fracture, and the agony that followed. He turned, whirling upward into a leap, and with his left arm ran his short blade through the throat of the rightmost man. Then he turned to see the first foe, the leftmost man, mastering himself, gathering strength and raising his staff. Talaos lunged forward and swept his sword upward into the man's already opened vitals, and through his chest. Blood sprayed and the man fell at last with lifeless eyes.
Talaos stood still in the howling wind and rain. He sheathed his short blade, and used his left hand to take the long blade from his limp and useless right. He watched as his men, Madmen and Wolves, fought their way through the enemy troops, reached the patricians as they tried to turn and flee, and cut them pitilessly down.
Farther away, he could see glimpses of battle in the streets, while farther still, on the walls, were men surrendering as the banners and standards of Avrosa were lowered from towers.
There was no time to waste.
"Madmen, to me!" he shouted, "Wolves, secure the square and keep watch!"
He turned, and walked toward the House of the Prophet.
5. The House of the Prophet
The House of the Prophet was before him. No enemies still stood around it. Its huge double doors were open.
He stepped inside.
There was a vast open room, like the much smaller House at Ipesca. People sat on the clean wooden floor inside, a great many people, staring at him with terrified eyes. There was a large raised platform at the end, and several more people sat there cross-legged on mats, watching him with peaceful expressions. To the right of them were large shelves full of books.
However, unlike at Ipesca, there was a door to the left of the platform, and it was closed.
He stalked forward across the floor. Some people shifted aside, others rose and stepped back in fear. Still others leapt to their feet and fled the place. The people at the far end, eight of them, sat placidly, cross-legged on their mats.
Talaos continued on. He glanced at the books. The door, and whatever it hid, seemed the right way. As he drew close, the eight men and women on the mats rose, first one, then two, then the rest. Peacefully, in no particular order, they stepped off the platform and in front of the door. They were unarmed.
Talaos stopped, his long blade in his left hand. He faced them.
One of them, a tall, thin man of middle years with gray amid the light brown of his beard, looked at Talaos with gentle eyes. He spoke, "This is a sacred place. Stop now."
Talaos replied, in a deep and dangerous voice, "Get out of my way."
The man replied softly, "We will not."
He stood there, regarding them. Only a little earlier, when the wrath and the storm were coursing through him, he would have cut them down without further thought. Now... here they were unarmed and seemingly unthreatening before him.
Behind him, he heard voices and activity.
"Talaos, what are your orders?" It was Larogwan, somewhere back near the entrance.
"Madmen, come here," replied Talaos, without turning around.
There were steps, the familiar steps and sound of movement of Larogwan, Vulkas, Halmir, Kyrax, Epos, Imvan and Firio.
They were all still alive, thought Talaos, that was good. His eyes, however, never left the people standing peacefully before him. He looked at the man who'd spoken for them.
"Why were those people being burned on the pyre?" he asked.
The man answered with a gentle, understanding expression."Their souls were being freed so that they could find redemption for their sins, in the next life."
"Why did they look so peaceful about it, until the flames began?"
"Their minds had already been cleansed of conscious knowledge of their evils, cleansed blank and pure so that they could face their redemption with unsullied innocence."
Talaos felt revulsion and anger rising in him.
The Madmen arrived, and took places all around him, facing the others.
Talaos replied to the spokesman, anger roiling, growing stronger, "So they were to die in agony, without even remembering or understanding why?"
"In accordance with mercy and forgiveness for them," answered the man placidly, though his hands began to make subtle motions.
"Then go find it yourself!" roared Talaos in sudden fury, and he cut the man down.
A fraction of a moment later, his Madmen, his beasts and ravens, did the same to the other smiling, gently murderous lambs before them. There were screams behind, and most of the ordinary worshippers who had not yet fled did so now.
"Collect those books from the shelves," said Talaos as he walked to the door, sheathing his sword.
"Secrets to be uncovered," said Halmir thoughtfully, as he moved to gather them.
Firio, who had a small pack on his back, opened it, "Just so happens I have some sacks..." he said, pulling out canvas and burlap bags, and tossing them to the others.
Halmir, Imvan, Firio and Epos went quietly to work. Larogwan watched the main door behind them, while Vulkas and Kyrax stood with Talaos, weapons ready.
The door had no lock. Talaos touched it with his left hand. Green light flickered, wrapped around his fingers, and coursed up his forearm with cold, soft, caressing agony. He roared in fury, roared through the pain, and with his left hand, wrenched the door backward off his hinges. He hurled it aside. Before him was a short hallway, lined with little shelves full of mundane objects including dishes, lamps, and oil.
He stalked through it. After a few moments, the Madmen followed.
As he walked, he thought his right arm, the fractured arm, was already beginning to feel more alive. Beyond the hallway was a smaller room with a circle of mats in the center, and two levels of ope
n loft platforms on either side. He moved toward the center. The floor on the sides of the room, and those of the lofts, had rows of narrow bedding on reed sleeping mats. On the left of the entrance was a table with an unlit lamp. On the right was a small shelf, with books of smaller numbers but greater variety than those in the main room.
Without a word, Firio gathered them and distributed them among those with sacks.
Behind them, flanking the hallway past the table and the shelf, stairs ran in alternating flights to the lofts.
Ahead, however, at the opposite end of the room along the back wall, another flight of stairs ran down to the right. Without hesitation, he walked to them and descended. At the base of the stairs was a little landing, with a wall before him and final step down to the right and into a basement. He turned the corner.
Before him was an open room, smaller than the one above. The ceiling of this lower room was of sturdy wood, light-colored and varnished, supported by thick beams of the same. The walls on either side were stone, while the one at the opposite end looked to be made of thick square pillars of the same light wood, but reinforced with iron cross-pieces. At that end was another closed door, framed in bronze and flanked by stone structural columns.
On the floor to the right was a low platform with a few reed sitting mats, and next to it, a lit lamp on a small table. On the left was a solid stone floor with sturdy embedded iron rings, and thick chains attached to the rings. Chains with shackles.
Behind the area of rings, the left wall was lined with three big, built-in shelves. On those shelves were plain copper rods, and strange bronze sculptures in the form of bearded human heads, with beatific expressions and mouths slightly open, as if speaking. Between the lips, the sculptures looked hollow inside.
Kyrax stared at them, muttering a low indecipherable curse under his breath.
"I can't say I like the looks of those..." said Larogwan.
Talaos, however, ignored the objects and advanced to the door.
"Wait!" shouted Vulkas. He hefted his war mattock as Talaos stepped aside. Vulkas twisted back with the muscles on his massive arms and shoulders corded tense. He swung the mattock sideways and the door shattered, flying backward in large fragments. The bronze handle went clanging to the stone floor beyond. A faint flicker of green light showed for a moment, then faded away. Vulkas winced, then shrugged it off.
There was a long hallway beyond, with thick, iron-reinforced wooden walls. On each side were twelve doors, braced with bronze, and with bronze handles much like the others, save that these had locks. Every three doors down were more stone structural pillars. With those behind them, there were eight pillars in total. Vulkas made toward the first door on the right.
Firio darted in front of him, "Hold on, Vulkas. We might not want to squash whoever is on the other side."
"Well, all right."
Talaos advanced, and Firio raised a hand to ward him off. "Please, Talaos, I've got a little experience in this sort of thing. I thought you did too, well, before..."
At that, Talaos stopped, and smiled a wry smile, "Not like you, but I did once, and I'd be laughing at my own stupidity for grabbing doors that had already proved to be trapped."
Firio smiled, "Well... I heard of doors with surprises like this. They say there's a trick to it. Somebody grab one of those copper rods, and I'll try something."
Imvan went. He hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath, then picked up one of the rods in his gloved hand. When nothing happened, he visibly relaxed and returned. He handed it to Firio, who took it with a gloved hand wrapped in bundled cloth, then set it on the ground.
"Now, if one of you guys has an axe you could spare."
There were odd looks, but Halmir handed him a long axe. Firio took the copper rod and tied it with some cord from his little pack, then bundled the other end of the axe with cloth. It was a strange and ungainly looking contraption. Firio looked it over, then nodded.
"Well, I wish I had a spear or a long pole, but this'll do," he said.
As Talaos stood close by, and the others ready behind. Firio gingerly touched the copper rod to the bronze handle. Green light flashed and raced back up toward Firio, enveloping his hand and arm. He screamed, dropped the device, and fell backwards. Talaos rushed to him.
After a moment, Firio sat up, coughing and shaking his head, "That's got a sting," he said.
Talaos smiled sympathetically, and answered, "Maybe I'd better do this part, and you handle the locks."
Firio nodded.
Talaos touched the second door on the right using Firio's device, and triggered the same flash of green. He felt a little pain, but nothing like what he'd experienced with his bare hand. Turning to his right, back to Firio, he hoped the roguish man had judged correctly.
Firio pulled out a very fine looking set of lock picks, and set to work on the first door. There was no flash of light. He smiled, and after a moment, there was a click.
"Should be okay," said Firio.
"Let's find the hell out," said Kyrax, stepping forward and opening the door.
Behind it was a bare stone cell. Chained to the back wall was a man with blank eyes and a deathly pallor in his skin. In the center of the floor was one of the sculpted bronze heads. A faint white mist emanated from its parted lips and snaked its way through the air into the nostrils of the chained man.
Vulkas stepped past Kyrax and brought his war mattock down like a hammer on the sculpted head. It squashed almost flat, proving to in fact be hollow. The mist stopped.
"Free that man," said Talaos.
Firio set to work, and soon had the manacles off. The man, however, still sat there inert and helpless. Vulkas picked him up, carried him to the reed mats on the platform in the room behind, and set him gently down.
"Now," said Talaos, "we continue."
One by one they opened more doors. Talaos triggered the foul magic and took the pain. Firio opened the locks. First the second on the right, then two on the left. After that, they alternated their way down.
Some cells were empty. Others had the same scene they'd encountered in the first cell. When they'd free four more seemingly mindless, void, helpless prisoners, they came to a cell where something was different. A younger, strong looking man made quiet, gasping cries as they opened the door. Firio freed him, then Talaos approached.
"Can you understand me?" asked Talaos.
"I... please, no more questions," the man begged piteously.
"We're not here to ask questions, we're here to free you," replied Talaos.
A bit of life showed in the man's distant eyes, and he smiled.
"Talaos, I'll sit with him, if it's all right," said Larogwan.
Talaos nodded, and they went on. There were several more empty cells, then a prisoner, a woman of middle years, who seemed lost in dreams rather than void and blank. In the next cell, with empty eyes, was a little girl of perhaps seven years of age.
"Those bloody fuckers!" growled Kyrax, his eyes death.
As Firio freed her, Imvan stepped forward. He carried her away in his arms, and there were tears in his eyes.
They went on through another stretch of empty cells. In the next to last door on the left was a thin old man who, if his hair and grooming were anything to go by, might have once been a man of status and dignity. Barely audible, he made whispering mutters. Talaos thought they had a melodic pattern to them, but the words formed no coherent sentences.
The last pair of doors were different. They were set on the left and right of the very end of the hall, and the gap between them and the previous doors was wider than the rest. They had stronger bronze reinforcements and had copper discs, about a foot in diameter, at their exact centers. The discs were carved in low relief with raised hands, fingers outstretched and palms facing out. In the center of each hand was a carven eye.
Firio looked at them doubtfully, then at Talaos, he spoke, "You might want to..."
There was what sounded like a muffled scream from the door to
the right.
Talaos, in sudden motion, touched the copper rod to the bronze handle of the door.
The flash of green light came as expected, arcing back to him with the same jolt of pain
Then, the copper eyes, one on each door, swirled with flowing white light like mist, and turned to look at him. He felt a will fixed on him. Not like a conscious, living mind and will, in the way that the three sorcerers in Carai had spoken to him, but something else, inhuman and impersonal. It felt at once peaceful, orderly, and infinitely malevolent. He stood transfixed.
"Enough of that!" roared Vulkas. He raised his war mattock and stepped forward, but as soon as he reached as far ahead as Talaos, he came to a stop. His eyes narrowed, then became unfocused.
Talaos raged in inward defiance.
These things, whatever they were, would not master him. He focused his mind, will, and intention on the storm outside, trying to draw on it, to reconnect with his power. Instead, he found something strange happen. He began to sense the storm, as if there. He sensed that it was still hurling its own fury at the city, and, as he stretched his thought, the coast all around.
As he did so, he felt the inhuman will try to stop him, but he pushed past.
In his mind, he pushed past, though his body remained fixed.
More felt than seen, images began to form in his mind. He thought of wild wind and rain, the buildings it washed, people taking shelter, the city walls, and the plains beyond. He stretched his thought further, and had a fleeting image of a great army huddling for shelter against the storm, men crouching low, horses fleeing in panic and carts overturning. Against his storm. The storm he had wanted. Then the scene blurred.
The image faded.
He had a sense that his power to draw on this storm might not be endless. He had already done much. His wandering mind mused whether he drew on the storm, or it on him.
The Storm's Own Son (Book 2) Page 6