Storm Kings (Song of the Aura, Book Six)

by Downs, Gregory J.

  The demons rise from cage of dusk,

  One fated to fall, and fated to reign,

  The world a shell, a breaking husk.”

  Gramling had more or less bullied their way out, explaining to Gribly what he had said in that disturbing, glowing-eyed trance. His brother stumbled along at his side, exhausted and bleary-eyed after the initial Spirit Healing wore off. Gramling felt weak himself; it was intriguing, yet painful, to attempt Striding the opposite element. Spirit and Pit… so linked, yet so distant, and both equally possible to someone of his caliber.

  But that was not the point.

  “I don’t get it,” Gribly said quietly, as they made their cautious way to the wind-aeries constructed in the center of the Vastic camp. “I’ve never prophesied before… at least not like that. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t even remember it.”

  “You are the prophet,” Gramling said dryly, “so I don’t see why you’re asking me. I’m nobody. I don’t even like it here. But we’ve got to get back to the Gray Cathedral.”

  “Why? Because you had a vision?” Gribly sounded stronger, now. An argument seemed to strengthen him. Good, Gramling thought. He’s not the weakling I originally supposed him to be. Not quite the truth- he had battled his brother too many times- but it made him feel more confident.

  “Yes. No. Yes. It’s… complicated. But we need to get back to Lauro. Something’s happened… I can feel it.”

  Gribly didn’t look completely convinced, but he was apparently too weak to argue. Satisfied, Gramling quickened the pace. Now, to make it back before the world burns.

  ~

  Gribly and Gramling arrived at the Gray Cathedral the next morning, amid utter chaos. Freshly-dug graves decorated the camp of the Vastic Remnant in too many places. Inside, the Cathedral floor bore bloodstains Gribly knew had not been there before. An emergency conclave of the remaining leaders of the remnant was inside, and a rather battered-looking battalion of the White Wind guarded the outside.

  Gribly’s word and staff were enough to let them through. Inside, they found Lauro, Berne, Karmidigan, and Gram, representing each of the different factions in the remnant… minus the rangers. Karmidigan and Berne acknowledged them with nods, but stayed silent and grim. As he approached the wide round table frequently used at these gatherings, Gribly wondered what could possibly have happened.

  “Gribly! Gramling!” Gram nodded to them, but his voice belied his outer calm. “It’s about time you got here. Help talk sense into this young fool here!”

  Gribly raised an eyebrow, but Lauro’s greeting made him wish he hadn’t wondered.

  “I’ve failed, Gribly.” The young king looked stricken and pale, and his hand rested on the bloodless blade of the Midnight Sword, where it lay on the table between the various leaders. “Even with this gift of the Aura, I couldn’t save them. I’m unworthy of kinghood.”

  By now the brothers had reached the table. Gribly frowned, considering. “I don’t understand, Lauro. Who couldn’t you save?”

  “Arlin. Armir. Marvol. Your father’s men. Even Daslite. Daslite! The hellspawn cut her down, while her husband watched!”

  “Wh… what? Where? When?” Gribly fought the urge to scream his pain to the sky. He asked, already knowing the answer. The clues fit, now.

  “Here. In the Cathedral.” Lauro seemed on the verge of tears. “I came too late.”

  “Gribly,” Captain Berne said quietly. “He doubts, as do we all. Traveller cannot be found, and he was missing last night, when the demons attacked.”

  “Demons?”

  “One Lauro encountered here… and defeated it, though you wouldn’t know it from the way it talks.” Gramling shook his head, picking up the narrative with his usual shifty half-humor. “At least three more attacked the camp, though they fled when he killed their… leader, it was… I suppose.”

  As his father elaborated, Gribly found himself strangely relieved. It had been some time since the last serious attack by the Golden Nation, and he had been more or less expecting such a calamity. Such was war. Unsurprisingly, Gramling seemed even less affected. If this was all they had to face…

  …but it wasn’t. He knew that. And it was only a matter of time before the Last War concluded. The Day of Norne was within the month, and yet Traveller had said almost nothing regarding what was to be done. That was what frightened Gribly. Not knowing the full extent of the danger. Not knowing what he would face, in that final battle… or even when he would face it.

  At the end of Gram’s explanation, Gribly spoke up.

  “Well… it seems we are more or less back where we started. A few friends less…” his voice caught, but he continued on, “…and a few enemies less, too. At least now with a large garrison in the Blackwood, we aren’t cut off from the M’tant… who turned out to be our allies after all. You did well on that one, Lauro… King Lauro, I mean.”

  He meant it to be joking, but Lauro’s returning smile was half-hearted at best. Why couldn’t the uptight boy just see that he had done as best he could?

  “We’re stagnating here,” Karmidigan broke in. “It’s not your fault, Lauro, but Vastion is seeing most of the action in these skirmishes the past few weeks. The few nymphs I’ve pulled together into a band, along with King Gram and Captain Berne’s forces… we’ve been sitting on our hands, waiting for the final hammer-stroke to fall and crush us all.”

  Lauro lifted his head. “Too true… but I’m not sure what you want me to do about it. We’re already spread too thin, what with protecting Avar… the M’tant, and all. We’ll need you in the coming days.”

  “This I know,” Karmidigan said, for a moment slipping back into the accent he had held so thickly when he first joined the Remnant. “Yet, I cannot help but think we are inviting Death, just to wait here. Give me control over a small but elite portion of the rogue forces… or better yet, give control to Berne, for he has the experience. Let us lead them on a strike into the Southlands.”

  Silence fell. It was a bold move the Reethe warrior was suggesting, and Gribly felt himself hoping it would be agreed upon. Lifting the siege at Mortenhine had left him with a desire for action, now. He simply could not sit around and wait to die.

  “Me neither,” Gramling whispered beside him. Gribly started; had Gramling read his expression, or his mind?

  “What did you say?” Gram said from across the table.

  Gramling looked at Gribly. Gribly nodded slightly.

  “We agree,” Gramling said. “That’s four in favor of a strike.”

  “Three, actually,” Berne said, glaring. “You are under our watch, Gramling, son of Gram, and not officially part of this council.” Gribly winced, remembering the pains they all- but especially Berne- had suffered from Gramling in the past.

  “Listen,” he said, “whatever we decide, it can’t be done with arguing. Look at us: here we are, in-fighting like half-starved alley cats, while the Golden Nation closes in around us and Sheolus plots to wake the Legion. We know almost nothing of our enemies’ movements… and we’re going to have to attack sooner or later, if we are to have any hope of winning. Why not now?”

  “Agreed,” said a voice, but it did not come from the council table.

  The Gray Aura came from nowhere. Most likely he had been lounging in the shadows to one side of the chamber. Or perhaps he had simply been invisible… or doing whatever he wanted while miraculously listening in. Whatever the case, only now did he come out into the light, surprising them all.

  Gribly turned slowly, head bowed slightly in reverence. “Traveller,” he spoke quietly.

  “Time grows ever shorter, and though my brother, The Ninth One, and I strive nightly against Sheolus, it does not go well with our cause, now that the Red Aura has betrayed us. Therefore, you must accelerate your gambles if you are to have any hope at victory in this game.”

  Traveller crossed the space in seconds, all eyes riveted to him. Gribly shuddered; he had known, more or less, that the Otherworld was in consta
nt conflict between Aura and Legion… but this was stating outright what Traveller was doing for the free peoples. Not what I would have done… but perhaps that’s just selfishness talking. I need to trust.

  “What shall we do? Our part is not clear in this,” Gribly responded. “No one’s part, I should say. I haven’t been feeling very prophetical lately, you know…”

  The attempt at humor fell flat. Gramling gave him a quick eye roll, as if to say You know you’re lying, Brother, but Traveller smiled briefly. He almost always had a roguish grin or two… seeing him beaten and weary like this gave Gribly chills.

  “The first thing that must be done is to strengthen the Spirit defenses of this place. Automo has made the first move by sending his newest, strongest minions into the heart of your fastness. Bernarl of the Zain, Karmidigan of the Reethe, and Gram of the Rogues… it shall be your task to respond, just as you desired.”

  “Well that’s something,” Gram commented, wheezing slightly. Gribly noticed absently that his estranged father seemed to be losing the weight he had gained over the years as Rogue Lord… he was leaner, though still heavy, and his face didn’t look quite so bloated. War was some good, then.

  Traveller grew more animated as he continued. “You, Gram, shall gather those of the Rogue Remnant worthy to stand the greatest trials. But instead of striking south, as you had intended, you shall make for the East, on the sea, as commander of a raiding fleet. The Grymclaw is now almost entirely held by your allies; contact them, establishing a link, and you will have reinforcements enough to complete your quest.”

  “And just what is that quest, exactly?” Berne asked, looking a little less beaten. The old roguish glint shone in his eyes again, if dimly.

  Traveller actually leaned forward, open eagerness on his face. “To find and retrieve the surviving clerics of Vastion. They were thought dead, but I have perceived in my dream-sojourns that this is merely what Sheolus desired you… us… to think. You must find the clerics. In them lies your only hope of combating this new devilry of Automo’s mechanicals.”

  ~

  From there, with the Aura’s help, the preparations for the coming events went as well as could be hoped, under the conditions. Gram, Berne, and Karmidigan left to gather troops for their cause, in addition to searching for some means of water-borne transportation. It wouldn’t be easy, but with enough Striders and Vastic engineers, it wouldn’t be impossible. Messages were sent to the garrison in the Blackwood, in an attempt to help create a unified Northern line, from coast to coast, once the rogue crews made contact with the Grymclaw.

  Soon Lauro was out and about, helping to keep the order in the camp in the wake of the Clockwork Demon attacks. It seemed he was never given a free moment, now that he was king, and Gribly knew it weighed on his friend deeply. But what could be done? The army needed him, now… and there were women and children to think about, as well.

  In the beginning of the rebellion, there had been few families with the soldiers: most lived in the Golden Nation-assimilated cities in the South, in who-knew-what conditions. But now there was an almost constant inflow of refugees. It seemed the battles the Remnant had fought were finally beginning to tell on the general governmental structure of captured Vast.

  In any case, Gribly soon found himself alone in the Gray Cathedral, with Traveller as his only companion. Gramling, as usual, had disappeared. He was viewed as an enemy by most of the soldiers who knew of him, still, and Gribly could hardly blame them. He was still unsure of how he felt, himself. The only person who seemed to trust him with any substance… was Elia. Bloody bodies! Gribly realized, I all but forgot her!

  As if in answer to his distress, guards opened the Cathedral door from the outside, admitting Elia herself into the patchwork morning light that weakly illuminated the chamber.

  “I came as soon as I could,” she said, sounding hoarse. “I’ve been with the healers all night since the attacks.” As she drew near, he saw just how tired and downtrodden she looked, even worse than he did. And her eyes… weeks later, it still disturbed him to know that she was blind. That she could never really see him, even with her uncanny ability to sense people and surroundings with Sea Striding.

  “I’m glad to see you,” he said as she drew near. It sounded dry, but it was the simple truth, and he was too tired for more. They stood near each other, almost but not quite embracing… just looking. “I missed you,” he added. I’m sounding brilliant. Just brilliant.

  “I missed you,” she said, looking sad. “And Gramling, and Lauro…” He wished she hadn’t said that. “But I missed you most,” she finished, smiling with a little of the old fire back in her expression. She took his hand.

  “There just isn’t enough time in the day,” Gribly sighed, but it was a tired sigh.

  “No,” she agreed. “But that’s not why I came. I wish it was, but… well… I believe I’m meant to go with your father and Captain Berne.”

  Gribly sighed- he did that too often, now- and pulled an errant braid back behind her ear from where it had escaped to hang across her face.

  “I thought this was coming soon. You don’t have to ask my permission, you know. It’s your path, just as… being the prophet is mine.”

  “I wasn’t,” she said, milky eyes twitching down. “But I thought you should know. And I came to say goodbye… because…” she looked up, and he tried to ignore the disturbing quality of her blindness. For a moment they both were silent, neither able to say what hung between them, painfully obvious. Because we may never see each other again. “Oh Gribly,” she moaned suddenly, burying herself in his somewhat shaky arms. “I can’t keep this up. It’s nothing I haven’t faced before… but I’m so tired. So, so tired…”

  “You can do it,” he assured her, stroking her hair as he embraced her, hoping Traveller had the sense not to speak. “We can do it.”

  She stayed limp against him for a moment more, then nodded quietly. “I should probably get back to the camp. You… you have preparations, training…”

  Gribly tried to respond, but could only manage a weak nod. She kissed his cheek, and turned away silently to leave. His heart whirled with emotions, but none of them seemed right. We’re growing apart, he realized. But what to do? He watched unhappily as she left. None of this seemed right… and he was running out of time to fix it.

  “I’m losing her,” he whispered.

  “Not necessarily,” Traveller said, coming up behind him. “This time will try us all… even me. It…” he seemed unsure of what to say next. Gribly almost smiled. A hesitant Aura, especially Traveller… that was not a common image for him. “It has not been easy to continue this fight,” the Gray Aura said, taking off his gray cap and twisting it around one hand. “Of the three who came here, of my kind… only two of us have weathered the strain. Automo cracked. Will I be next? Sometimes I cannot help but wonder.”

  Gribly said nothing, but sat on the altar steps dejectedly. If Traveller was discouraged, what hope was there?

  “There is always hope, Gribly,” Traveller said. He lifted the young prophet’s chin, staring hard at him and speaking in a reassuring tone. “Never forget that. Ever.”

  “I won’t,” Gribly said… but he was not sure he believed it.

  Chapter Four: Achillais Victori

  It was a quiet night on the sea. Berne couldn’t remember the last time he had been able to stand on the deck of a ship, in Ghost Form, letting the warm night air seep into him, showing him the ebb and flow of the waters no other mortal could see. Perhaps those few months ago, racing time with Gribly and Gram at his back… but the air had not been like this. He had not felt air and sea spray become so lively since… since…

  Why was the air warm? It was winter, and this far north there shouldn’t be a warm anything. Berne let his thought unravel, tracing his troubles to their natural conclusion. A wonderful way to meditate, and think.

  Two possibilities presented themselves. One, it could be a sign of the Last War. The world itself
could be breaking apart, leaking unnatural weather and happenings. That was a bit superstitious, true… but many nymphs, especially seafaring ones, considered superstition absolutely true. And Berne knew from experience they weren’t far wrong. Perhaps the power of chaos was so great the world was cracking under the strain.

  Somehow, though, he doubted it. He had sailed the seas, and knew the vastness of the universe. Vast was only a small part. The Golden Nation, though larger, was still only a portion. No, the world was not breaking yet.

  That left the second possibility. The world wasn’t cracking, breaking, or falling apart. It was waking up. It knew the coming conflict would shape it, though to what extent Berne knew he could never be sure. Somehow, though, he thought this possibility more than likely. Demons are wakin’… and the world doesn’t like ‘em. It’s growing warmer, more excited… ready to fight. Maybe not with us… but not against us, ‘neither.

  Of course, that all sounded like rubbish, too. But somehow Berne knew it was not. He knew somehow that his connection to the sea and earth was real. He knew that he was right.