by Dave Gross
"What? You mean you had me declared dead?"
"Weren't you just proposing I do exactly that?"
"Well, yes, naturally. I just didn't expect…" The idea that Tamlin had done something before being told to do so was slow to sink in. "What I mean, son, is well done."
"Thanks," said Tamlin, sounding more perfunctory than grateful. He was grateful for the praise, and normally he would have beamed and crowed about it, but this was a time for business. "Unfortunately, I'm having a beggar of a time decoding those secret letters of yours. I understand that you have been rallying other families in a concerted action, but I can't for my life figure out whether it's to establish a new trade consortium or an attempt to marginalize our worse rivals among the Old Chauncel."
Thamalon didn't respond for so long that Tamlin began to think their line of communication had broken.
"Father? Are you all right?"
"That was some good work, Tamlin. Now, if you compare the letters more closely, you should note the progression of dessert items actually spells out…"
"I had only the one letter, Father. The others were stolen."
Again, Thamalon paused before answering, though Tamlin suspected he was less surprised at his son's competence than at the ramifications of the theft.
"That means one of our enemies got into Stormweather."
"Or else he was already here," suggested Tamlin. "I have identified a likely traitor among the staff. Unfortunately, he escaped with the remaining letter before we could question him."
Thamalon sighed and said, "Then it's good you didn't finish decoding the letter after all. Perhaps the stolen letters will tell our enemies nothing."
"He also stole your cipher sheet and my notes on decrypting it."
"Blast," said Thamalon. "That makes it much worse."
"Naturally," said Tamlin, "all this would have been much easier if you'd taken me into your confidence before they got to you."
He immediately regretted the petulant words. They were useless and childish. Before Thamalon could chide him or even apologize, though, Tamlin spared him.
"I must admit, I don't blame you for that. I have been a bit of a gadabout, I know. Once we get you safely home, I promise I'll be of more help."
"Never mind that for now," said Thamalon. "Beware the Hulorn. He must have learned at least something of our designs."
"You meant to circumvent him on some approaching issue?"
"No," said Thamalon. "We mean to remove him entirely."
Tamlin whistled and said, "That is… rather a bold endeavor, wouldn't you say? Even if the other families do not agree with him, everyone wants a figurehead through which to advance their concerns and thwart those of their rivals."
"Agreed," said Thamalon, "but removing this Hulorn is necessary."
Tamlin had never really discussed Andeth Ilchammar with Thamalon, but he knew of his father's disdain for the eccentric lord mayor of Selgaunt. Tamlin had always found the man amusing, if not truly admirable among noble society.
"For far too long," Thamalon added, "Ilchammar's caprice has been an impediment to the prosperity of Selgaunt. Most do not know it, but he still nurtures the blackguard who nearly put us to war with the Tangled Trees last year."
"That wizard who offered to buy my half-sister from you last year?"
"Drakkar," agreed Thamalon-then a beat later, he blurted, "Half-sister?"
Tamlin suppressed a chuckle. He enjoyed letting the Old Owl know he had learned a secret or two in his father's absence. In other circumstances, he might enjoy watching him wriggle a while longer before letting him off the hook, but there would be time for that later.
"Four of your correspondents have been murdered since you vanished," said Tamlin, returning to business. "Stellana Toemalar was the latest."
"All the more reason to guard yourselves," said Thamalon.
"We'll be better prepared with you returned home," said Tamlin. "This vault of yours must be similar to what we're unearthing in the cellar. They must be two sides of a magical gateway."
"But who put it there?" countered Thamalon. "If it's buried beneath the cellar, it had to have been there since before you were born. How could our enemies have possibly placed it there?"
"You built the house on the site of the original Stormweather," offered Tamlin.
"What are you getting at?"
"Since magic was obviously involved in your disappearance, I've been doing a little reading," said Tamlin. He wasn't yet ready to admit that he'd hoped to prove he himself had sorcerous powers. The thought seemed almost too fanciful to repeat. "I wonder about your father's sudden display of magical power when your foes brought down the first Stormweather. What other secrets might old Aldimar have kept from you?"
"He was using wands," said Thamalon. "He never showed any other ability to hurl spells."
"Still, to employ such things well requires some knowledge or inherent power. Where did Aldimar get his?"
"Hmm," considered Thamalon. "Perhaps the gold I spent on your tutors was not entirely wasted."
"Not all of it," agreed Tamlin. "Once we've finished unearthing this gate, I will have Magdon figure out how to activate the thing."
"In the meantime," said Thamalon, "I must find your mother and Cale."
"No," said Tamlin, "first we'll get you back here, then we'll look for them together."
"You might be the temporary head of the household, but I am still your father, and I say…" Thamalon's voice was building to the familiar crescendo of irrefutable orders before it trailed off uncharacteristically. "Well, dark and damnation. I say you are right."
"What?" said Tamlin.
"I said, 'You are right.'"
"Careful," said Tamlin, "if we keep agreeing people will think we're both imposters."
"By the same coin, you must promise me that you will place the safety of the household above my rescue."
"Very well, but-"
"Including your brother's."
"Now you're just trying to vex me…" said Tamlin, "but I agree. I shall see to Stormweather first. It's settled then. Can you stay safely where you are?"
"Not for long, I fear," said Thamalon, "but perhaps I can return. My host should be back from his hunt soon. I expect hell go out again in the morning."
"Judging from what you've told me, you've been away for only eight days?"
Thamalon agreed it was so.
"Fourteen have passed here since you vanished."
It was Thamalon's turn to whistle appreciatively.
"Why could you never pay such careful attention during our trade conferences?" he asked.
"Such dull stuff, don't you know," said Tamlin. "Actually," he continued in a more serious tone, "I suspect I have a knack for this magic business after all."
"As well you might," said a third voice-a voice that sounded very much like Tamlin's, "but I am not prepared to relinquish my legacy just yet."
The passage shook, and Tamlin almost fell to the floor. He held onto the wall for support as thunder rolled through the secret passage. A flash of white light blinded him for an instant, and he heard his father shout a curse that disintegrated into a scream of agony.
"Father! What's happening there? I just saw-"
"You were such a timid boy," boomed the other Tamlin's voice. "From your brother I might have expected such willful abuse of my hospitality, but from you, Thamalon, you bookworm, you coin counter-" the man's laughter was full of mock admiration- "I expected much less."
For a moment, Tamlin thought the patronizing voice was addressing him, then Thamalon spoke again.
"Father! How did you…?" the Old Owl managed to say before his voice failed.
Tamlin had only seen the flashing light, but he feared his father had felt its full power.
"Whoever you are, release my father at once!" demanded Tamlin. He gripped his sword, wishing he could thrust its point through the worlds and into the heart of the villain who tormented his sire. "Return him now, or suffer the wr
ath of the Uskevren."
"Brave boy!" the man's laughter boomed even louder. "I am the wrath of the Uskevren."
Then, with a shock of thunder and another blinding flash, the stranger severed whatever tenuous link had held the two houses together.
CHAPTER 22
THE VERMILION GUARD
"Here they come!" shouted Muenda.
Cale watched the southern horizon. A dark wedge of clouds swept toward them like a vanguard. Lightning flashed deep within its roiling mass.
He looked to either side, where the other skwalos soared beside their own. Their line stretched from east to west in a graceful arc, each within range of the next one's archers for mutual defense.
In the days since they'd joined the elves, more of the gargantuan creatures had joined their southward trek. Cale noticed the first at dawn after their first night upon the skwalos. Throughout that morning, one or two more appeared each hour. By noon, they began combining with larger groups until they formed an armada over one hundred strong.
Before long, Cale realized that the skwalos they'd "boarded"-he couldn't avoid sailing terms when describing the creatures-was a small specimen. Whole villages, and even thorny fortifications hung from the trees, sprawled on the backs of the greater skwalos. From aeries in the immense dorsal ridges of the largest skwalos flew elves on the backs of fantastic creatures that might have seemed gigantic if seen apart from their enormous hosts. Some were winged reptiles with great horns upon their skulls. Others looked more like bats the size of a mainsail, except for their many eyes and their three beaked mouths. One that glided down to perch upon a distant skwalos could only be a blue dragon.
"Do you see anything?" asked Shamur.
The willowy Lady Uskevren had tied her ash-blond hair in a tail that whipped behind her head like a war banner. The shreds of her skirts flew back as well, revealing strong legs that would have made a woman half her age envious. She gripped an elven bow with an arrow already nocked, and she wore a quiver of long arrows on her hip.
The elves had trusted them with weapons in return for their oath that they would defend the skwalos so long as they remained aboard. Cale had accepted a bow and arrows as well as a long, sharp spear. He would have preferred a sword, in case the attackers managed to board the skwalos.
"There," said Cale, pointing to a spot above the storm front. A line of nine flyers in wedge formation emerged from the obscuring clouds. Aquiline heads, talons, and wings merged with muscular leonine bodies: griffons. Had they not been arrayed in an attacking force, Cale might have been glad to see a creature more familiar to the lands he knew.
The griffons were uniformly huge, even larger than the pair Cale had glimpsed at the Talendar stables a year before. Each bore two riders clad in bright armor and scarlet cloaks. One of each pair held the reins in one hand and a long needle of a lance under the other arm. The second perched atop a higher seat in the saddle and wielded a recurved bow.
The elves sang to each other from the backs of their skwalos. Their ululating calls passed from east to west, then back again. Cale translated the salient portions for Shamur.
"The Vermilion Guard," he said. "Elite soldiers."
Even as he spoke, four more groups emerged from the nearby clouds. Shamur's gaze never left the approaching griffons.
"I have an idea," she said.
When she relayed it to Cale, he could only groan.
"Even if we can gull them," he said, "what makes you think we could control one?"
"Trust me," she said.
"My Lady…"
"Call me Shamur," she said, turning a confident grin on him. It didn't assuage his concern, but its determined beauty had a stifling charm on his protest. "At least until we return to Stormweather."
Cale sighed and said, "Yes, my lady Shamur."
"Come on," she said. "We might not have chosen this adventure, but we can at least enjoy it."
"We should wait to see what the elders do," said Cale.
He strongly suspected that Rukiya, Kamaria, and Akil were powerful wizards. The old elves had spent the morning preparing harnesses of mystic tokens and materials for their spells. A few of the younger elves had done the same, but they'd intoned songs of flight and flown to the other skwalos hours earlier, leaving the defense of their home to Muenda and the other scouts.
Cale realized that Shamur might not be the only one who intended to lure the Vermilion Guard into assaulting their skwalos. The gambit was already working, for the first squad began diving toward them.
A flight of arrows heralded their arrival. None of the missiles found an elf target, and if they pricked the skwalos to irritation, the great beast displayed no ire. As the bowmen reached for their second volley, the griffons swooped low across the surface of the skwalos. The lancers raked the elders' tent, which immediately blossomed into a fountain of flame.
The lead rider and his first two wingmen escaped the explosion, and the two in the rear veered away in time, but the four griffons between them screamed as they emerged from the sudden fire. Their wings trailed smoke as they bore their scorched riders up and away from the skwalos.
Cale noted with a little disappointment that none of the men had fallen from their mounts. Either they were bound to their saddles, or they were very elite indeed.
The leader and his first two wingmen kept low, the bowmen picking out targets of opportunity while the lancers sought out elf archers. Arrows struck at them from every shelter among the brush, and a pair sprouted from the flank of one of the griffons, one to either side of the lancer's thigh. The creature screamed its anger, but it remained in formation.
Shamur shot at the lead lancer, a captain judging by the long orange plume on his helmet. The arrow missed him by feet, but his bowman spotted the attack and pointed to Shamur. The captain shouted a command and steered his griffon toward the strange humans among their elf foes. His wingmen followed in tight formation.
"Ready," called Shamur.
Cale disliked her plan, but to abandon it would only endanger her further. He raised his long spear as if to throw it, while she crouched beside him and aimed another arrow at the rider to the captain's left.
The lance came speeding toward Cale's heart. Just before it reached him, he thrust the butt of the spear against the "deck" and braced it with his foot. The griffon-rider pulled back on the reins but kept the point of his lance steady. Cale deflected it to the left and ducked low to avoid the griffon's talons. At his right, Shamur dropped her bow and leaped at the griffon. She grabbed its harness and clung tight to the creature's feline body as the attackers swept past.
"Shamur!" cried Cale.
This was not the plan she had described.
Cale raised his spear to hurl it at the back of one of the other riders, but before he could throw it a powerful blow sent him tumbling to the deck. A griffon screamed triumphantly as its shadow passed over him, and a bright ringing filled his head as he turned the fall into a roll.
Back on his feet, Cale cupped the back of his head to feel the deep talon wound. His hand came back smothered in blood. A wave of vertigo rose in his skull, and he fended it off by sheer force of will.
He crouched and looked high for the griffon on which Shamur had pounced. The attackers' once-regular chevron formation had scattered in disarray, but it still wasn't hard to spot the flyer with Shamur attached. That one tumbled in its own exceptional sphere of chaos.
The bowman had already fallen from his high saddle. Tymora smiled on him, for he landed upon the surface of the skwalos and rose stunned but alive. Beshaba took her turn with him next, though, and a cloud of elven arrows descended on the dazed man. He fell again, and this time he did not rise.
Up on the griffon, Shamur and the captain struggled for control of the reins. The man was almost twice Shamur's size, but she had thrust his helmet forward and held it there with her left hand, covering his eyes as she unbuckled his sword belt and slung it over her shoulder in a motion worthy of a prestidigitator. Rather t
han draw the blade, however, she unfastened leather straps that secured him to the saddle. She released her grip on the captain's helm and grabbed the reins in both hands as she rose up to stand on the griffon's back. The man pushed back his helmet just in time to see her leap up and kick him with both feet. Shamur fell to the side, holding desperately to the reins as her weight pulled the griffon's head down. The captain plummeted from his seat.
He did not land on the skwalos.
Cale ran back to his bow and nocked an arrow, looking for any target that threatened Shamur as she struggled to regain the saddle. He wasn't well practiced with the weapon, but he could at least serve as a distraction. If he could get his hands on a blade, and the attackers landed on the skwalos…
Cale sprinted to where the bowman had fallen, for the man had been wearing a short sword at his hip. Cale's vision faltered, and his legs wobbled beneath him. He'd lost more blood than he'd realized, and he knew he must tend the wound on his scalp. He found shelter beside a thicket. Kneeling there, he glanced up to see whether or not he had attracted the attention of the remaining griffon-riders.
The surviving bowmen concentrated their fire on the elf archers aboard the skwalos, while their lieutenant rallied them back into formation. Before they'd regrouped, two of the burned griffons had already turned back, and a third fell to elf fire.
A flash of blue light overcame even the bright sunlight. Cale blinked away the temporary blindness and saw Akil levitating above the smoldering ruins of his tent. The old elf cackled with glee as he flicked his fingers for a second time and sang out a staccato phrase, scoring a black line across one of the attackers and sending his helmet flying. The man lolled insensate in his saddle as his bowman reached forward in a panic, trying to catch the reins.
"Stop wasting your strength, old fool," called Rukiya. Cale could hear her with perfect clarity, even though she hadn't raised her voice. "You tell them too much! This is only a probe of our defenses."
"She is right, my husband," called Kamaria, Her voice was similarly enchanted. "Save your strength for the Sorcerer. Look, the enemy is repelled."