The Storm's Own Son (Book 2)

by Anthony Gillis

  "Until a land is ready. But I will not teach you, demon, and I will speak no longer."

  With that, the man remained silent. Talaos had him and his companions bound and moved to the room next to his, under guard, along with the enemy merchants from Hunyos.

  Vulkas, still with him, had a grim look. "If all of this had happened yesterday, I'd have asked you why you hate the Prophet so much, but after today..."

  Talaos clapped him on the shoulder, then stepped toward the hallway.

  "Let's see how those people we found are doing."

  The room converted to a hospital was full of beds. Those people who'd seemed blank and empty, the little girl among them, remained such. The woman of middle years, the one who'd seemed to be dreaming, was now sleeping peacefully. So was the old man, but he still whispered as he dozed. The young man, however, sat up in his bed, weak but conscious. He was speaking with Firio. The latter had already reported his name.

  "How are you, Naros?" asked Talaos.

  "I... I think I feel a little better. Thank you... for helping me," replied the young man.

  Talaos nodded, then continued, "Why did the Prophet's people have you in that cell?"

  The young man looked afraid and ashamed, but after a short while he answered, "I slept with another man's wife, while he was away on business."

  Talaos gave him a long look. "That was ill done on your part. I hope when you are healed, you have the honor to go face that man for what you did, but I don't see that those servants of the Prophet, or your council of Patricians, had business killing you for it."

  "A lot of things... seemed to be their business lately," replied the man.

  Talaos went on the other beds, one by one. At the end of the room was the woman who had been bound with copper serpents. She was still dozing, but when he approached, she jolted awake.

  For a moment, she stared blankly around. Then she seemed to react to the touch of the soft clean covers of her bed. She looked down, and ran a hand along them in quiet disbelief Then she turned his way. Her eyes became clear and focused. They were large, dark, and long-lashed. Talaos thought they had an intense look about them. Her elegant, aquiline features looked weary, with bruises from the copper bindings, shadows around her eyes, and sunken cheeks.

  "Where am I... and why?" she asked Talaos, voice quiet and hoarse.

  "The inn called The Waverider," answered Talaos, "and you are here because we rescued you from the House of the Prophet during the capture of this city."

  Her eyes narrowed, "Captured... So you're an enemy officer?"

  "Tribune Talaos, of the alliance of Teroia," he replied, "and who are you?"

  "Liriel," she said. "Why would you rescue me?"

  "Why would they hold you prisoner?"

  "They called me a witch," answered Liriel.

  "And are you?" asked Talaos.

  "I deal with the spirits, when they are willing, and I work with certain things."

  "I don't think talking to the spirits should merit burning you alive," said Talaos.

  She sighed, "Neither did anyone else I knew, until the last few years... but it seems times change."

  "They do, but they may not change in the way the Prophet intends," replied Talaos, a note of intensity rising in his voice.

  As he said that, her eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed. She sat up straight and leaned forward in her bed. Her long black hair fell in spiraling waves around her like shadows.

  "What are you?" she asked, voice low.

  "What makes you ask that?" he replied, voice cool again.

  "Something, something I could see, flashed in your eyes just then. And there is something I can feel... power all around you, emanating from you. Like lightning and wind."

  "I am a man. They call me the storm's own son, and the storm is within me. But, as to the source of that power, what I am in that sense, I don't know," he answered.

  Outside the shuttered windows, the wind and rain howled with gale force. Liriel looked that way, then back at Talaos. He thought her eyes looked guarded, masking deep wheels of thought, and with them, apprehension. She flushed and dropped her gaze.

  "Thank you for rescuing me," she said under lowered eyes. "Or am I your prisoner now?"

  "You are free to go as soon as you feel well enough."

  "And as the storm allows..." Liriel replied in a whisper.

  ~

  In his full armor and gear, Talaos made a final circuit of the inn, speaking to the Madmen, his decurions, and all his Wolves. He wanted each man to be clear on what they should do if there was trouble in his absence. He'd brought Kimon the innkeeper on part of the walk, and made sure he could recognize his men by sight.

  The man seemed if anything even more nervous after that.

  Then Talaos descended to the lobby. Larogwan was there with the squad of guards.

  "Any trouble, or news?" Talaos asked.

  "No one, ours or local, seems eager to walk about in that," answered Larogwan.

  Talaos smiled.

  "If it were anyone else," continued the old warrior, "I'd ask if you were sure you wanted to do this. But it being you, I'll say enjoy the carefree stroll."

  "Then I'll see you soon. You're in charge while I'm gone, with Vulkas as second."

  Larogwan nodded. Then, with some reluctance, four men of his men opened the doors. The wind roared in and rain whipped around into their faces.

  Talaos stepped lightly out.

  They closed the door with haste behind him.

  The sky was black as night, though it was only late afternoon. The lightning was rare now, but the rain whipped sideways in torrents. The streets were half flooded with rainwater, in some places shin or knee deep. Here and there, debris and corpses floated in the water. Not a single living person was visible outside, but him.

  Now he thought, he had some things to take care of.

  7. Aftermath

  Talaos reached the great plaza. It was empty of people and shin-deep in rainwater. Across it, at the center of the opposite side, was the Council House. To his left was the House of the Prophet, roughly centered across from the Council House. The place still stood vacant, and the doors hung wide open in the rain. In the very middle of the plaza was the pyre platform. Not far from the pyre sat an open-topped wagon, and on it were many amphorae of oil.

  He walked across amid howling, almost horizontal rain, and beneath a blackening sky. The world around him was a wild place of blues, blacks, and grays. Here and there, in the surrounding buildings, lights appeared as people prepared for evening.

  In many of those buildings, he knew local citizens of Avrosa would be hiding out, waiting for the fury of the storm to calm. No doubt, they would also be hoping to wait out the initial fury of the invading army. However, he equally knew that the invading army itself was hiding out indoors. Here, only he walked in the storm under the open sky.

  It was growing darker as night approached. Most windows were shuttered and most doors closed. There would be few close enough in the driving rain and growing darkness to see clearly what he was doing. That by itself did not matter, what was important was that, among those few, there would be even fewer, if any, who would dare the weather to interfere.

  Talaos made his way to the pyre. He passed corpses half-submerged in the rainwater. The twelve who'd lit the pyre still lay, broken and burned, on the platform or the steps. The big iron stake was there at the top. Six inches square and eight feet tall from where it was mortared into the brick. He stood next to it and took one of the great iron rings in each hand. Here he stood, at the very spot victim after victim had been chained in mindless torpor and burned alive.

  But this thing of cruel purpose was in his hands, his power. He focused his mind and his will. With intention, he called upon the storm. He summoned it up from within, called it forth to greet the storm around him. Felt their power meet and flow and infuse him. He felt his storm rage at the murder of innocents. At this thing which had been the instrument.


  No longer.

  He strained. Muscles tense, power crackling along his flesh. He lifted.

  A groan, of metal on mortar and brick. A crack. He lifted.

  For the fallen, with the strength of his avenging fury, he lifted.

  It came loose.

  He hurled it upward with a shove of both hands, out of its deep-set base, four feet down in the brick and mortar. It flew upward, then back. He caught it.

  Talaos carried the iron stake to the wagon with the amphorae of oil. He put it across the wooden driver's seat, though it stretched a few feet on either side.

  He took hold of the harness, designed for a horse, and pulled. Slowly and laboriously he hauled the wagon from the center of the plaza to the House of the Prophet. He went to the back of the wagon and looked at the amphorae. They were big, with sturdy handles on each side, and probably meant to be carried by two.

  He picked up an amphora in each hand, and carried them into the House of the Prophet. These first, he took the whole laborious way downstairs and to the end of hall of cells. He hurled them against the far wall. Then he made the trip again. This time he hurled the amphorae in the middle of the hall. Once more, and at the beginning of the hall. Next he hurled amphorae from the top of the stairs into the room of chains.

  With five more trips, he had exhausted the supply of amphorae, and spread oil as widely as he could. He took the two lamps from the sleeping room, and four more that he found in the hallway of supplies. He lit them all. He hurled three down the stairs, then threw three more as he left the building. By the time he reached the exit, he could already see light and smoke pouring up the stairs.

  The House of the Prophet had outer walls of white brick, but the interior walls, the floors, the beams, the sleeping platforms, and the doors were all varnished wood. Talaos walked out of the double doors, walked a short distance away, and turned around to watch. There was a flicker of green light inside, briefly seeming to contain the flames. Then it went out, and an inferno rose inside the House of the Prophet.

  Talaos smiled a dark smile. He picked up the iron stake and tossed it to the pavement in front of the burning House, with plans for it later. He took the harness of the wagon once more and hauled it across the plaza and beyond, to where he'd seen Avrosa's house of healing.

  The street flowed in shin-deep water like a river. Two floors up and on his right was a window with only the remnants of a shutter. The glass panes were broken. Light shone out from inside, and a civilian man appeared at the window with a bucket, he tossed rainwater out his window. Then the man saw Talaos, armored, cloaked, and hauling the wagon down the street. The man gaped in disbelief. Talaos gave him a friendly wave. He darted back out of sight.

  After another block, he reached it. There, on a large gilded circular plaque above the entrance, was the familiar symbol of a raised hand, with fingers closed and palm out, surrounded by nine stylized rays of light. It dated to the old Empire, and perhaps before, as a representation of the healing touch of physicians, though all those Talaos had ever known used surgery, oils, herbs and potions rather than anything he would call magic.

  He hauled his wagon to the base of the central steps. On either side of the stairs were long ramps for supply carts or for any who couldn't manage steps, but they were too small for the wagon. He ascended the nine steps and pushed open the heavy bronze doors.

  On the other side was a busy room full of active soldiers from the invading army, mostly from Teroia, injured soldiers that included a few of the defenders, and a variety of civilians. Physicians, both allied and Avrosan, were readily apparent by the short mantles they wore, each with the golden radiant hand embroidered in front and back.

  Upon Talaos's arrival, many people stopped and looked at him in surprise. Wind and rain howled in behind him. He closed the doors. Looking around, he saw an officer in the colors of Teroia coming his way. He recognized the man as a captain named Perio.

  "Captain Perio!" Talaos hailed.

  "Talaos!" answered the other, "I mean Tribune... It is very good to see you, sir!"

  The captain saluted him, and he returned it.

  "Captain, I have need of a physician for my men."

  "Of course. Getting them to go out in that might be tricky. I'll see who I can find."

  "Let's go together, and see if we can find one crazy enough to come with me."

  The captain smiled.

  Together they made a circuit of the place. Talaos didn't bother asking old or frail physicians, but even among the younger and more hale, there was little enthusiasm. After some time, they talked to a younger Avrosan physician with short black hair, the trim athleticism of a soldier, and an energetic manner.

  "Physician," said Talaos, "I am Tribune Talaos, of the allied army."

  The other nodded, "I am Demistas, five years a healer. How may I help you, Tribune?"

  "I need a physician for my men, quartered at the inn called the Waverider."

  "Over by the harbor? You must have ridden some waves to get here," said Demistas.

  "That I did. I and my wagon," answered Talaos.

  "How did you get a wagon here?"

  "By clever tricks and lucky chances. It does give us a way to get you back with enough gear to set up a proper infirmary."

  The other's eyes lit up, "What makes you think I want to go outside in that gale?"

  "Because that way you can tell your grandchildren you did."

  "Grandch..." boggled Demistas, then he laughed, "All right. Why not?"

  Demistas gathered up a fairly large collection of medical supplies and tools in several bags, with help from Talaos and soldiers detailed by Perio.

  As they started toward the doors, another thought occurred to Talaos.

  "Demistas, what would you say if you had news the House of the Prophet had been burned during the storming of the city?"

  "First, I'd question the news, given the weather, but second, if true, I'd be overjoyed."

  "Then I think we'll get along well," replied Talaos.

  Talaos and Demistas carried the bags of medical supplies out the front doors. Then Demistas stopped in some surprise as he pulled his hooded cloak around him.

  "I see the wagon, but where are the horses?" he said, shouting over the howling wind.

  "Don't worry, just follow me," said Talaos, whose voice carried over it easily.

  The other boggled, but complied. Demistas had a hard time keeping his footing in the water and the gale, but did his best to help They loaded the wagon and secured everything.

  Then Talaos grabbed the harness and started pulling the wagon with sure, easy steps, as if it were a child's toy on a sunny day. Demistas stared, taking in what he saw. Then, he set himself to help. He struggled, slipped and would have fallen, but Talaos grabbed his wrist and righted him. After that, with shaking head, the physician simply trudged alongside.

  After a while, they reached and crossed the great plaza, now nearly knee deep in water. The House of the Prophet was there, a smoldering shell of brick.

  As they neared, Talaos stopped the wagon without explanation and walked to where he'd left the iron stake. He paused for a moment, and drew on his storm, this storm, one more time. He reached into the water and picked up the twelve feet of the iron stake like a colossal staff over his arm. He circled the House of the Prophet, stalking, looking for weakness, for his opportunity.

  There it was, he thought, the spot that might count. He hurled the stake with both hands, launching like some massive ballista bolt. It flew with the wind, alongside the driven rain, and went crashing into the wall. Bricks, massive heavy bricks, went hurtling forward with it into the bricks on the far side. Others above toppled down, knocking each other out of place in their collapse. The wind and rain flew into weak places, and eased it all.

  In moments, where the shell of a building had been, there was now a ruin of fallen brick, ragged remnants of walls, surrounding a great hole in the ground. Talaos sighed, weary, but satisfied with his work. He returned
to the wagon, and to an expression of shocked wonder on the face of Demistas. Then he took the harness and hauled the wagon and the medical supplies back to his waiting men.

  ~

  It had been a busy night, but now the wind slowed and the rain reduced to a monotonous drizzle under a pale gray mid morning sky. Men moved about the great plaza, soldiers mostly, but here and there the braver of the citizens of Avrosa. Sanctari's firm discipline held, thought Talaos, and the conquerors let the conquered go about the business of keeping a city running. Water was still ankle deep on the paving stones. As the other figures around him crossed the plaza, nearly all of them turned to look at the ruins of the House of the Prophet.

  Not Talaos. He paid it no further mind. Ahead of him loomed the far vaster structure of the Council Hall, with its gilt-work dome and its many steps. The corpses of slain councilors and fallen soldiers were gone. A great many living soldiers of the allied army milled about at the top, under the sheltering colonnade, on various tasks of their own.

  He was in his full gear and armor, cleaned as best as could be overnight, with his cloak thrown back over his shoulders, more a decorative part of his uniform than useful in its sodden state. Up the steps he went, and as he passed, soldiers stopped with varying expressions of fear, awe, wonder, or worship. All of them, however, saluted.

  The mighty twin doors were before him, rich with gilt decoration. Gateway to the seat of power of a fallen city, he thought. Soldiers opened the doors for him. Inside was a large entrance chamber, and beyond the far greater chamber of the dome. Avrosa was not Carai, and there was more plain stone than marble, and less inlay than paint, but it was still grand.

  Around the chamber of the dome ran two galleries, and halls and stairs in all directions. The greatest stairs were straight ahead, to the chambers of the council. There, the commanders and many others would be waiting for him. Quite a few would not be pleased. There were many more soldiers, and many more salutes. He walked up the stairs and down a richly decorated marbled hall. Ahead were a pair of lavishly inlaid wooden doors. Soldiers flanked them, and opened them.