Storm Kings (Song of the Aura, Book Six)

by Downs, Gregory J.

  “Blast,” he choked, sliding towards the edge of the thing’s body. The destruction he had wrought on the automaton caused it to list to one side, spiraling downward in a confused jumble of thrashing wings and a spasm-ridden neck. The dragon wasn’t dead… but it was hurt, dying, and very, very angry.

  Gram lashed out with his free hand, desperately trying for a purchase to stop his slide. His fingernails found a crevice in the smooth, interlocking clockwork pieces, but his nails snapped off painfully when he tried to halt his movement. With a distressed cry, he twisted over and slammed the handle of his hammer into the metal flesh of the thing.

  The interlocking parts disintegrated under his strike, the hammer haft plunging in and anchoring him firmly to the beast. Gram held onto it as the enormous bulk of the dragon crashed to earth, flinging him from side to side like a hapless leaf in a storm.

  The next second, the hammer came loose as the clockwork around it melted into oblivion. The world spun in circles as Gram tumbled away, narrowly avoiding being clipped by the creature’s enormous wing. Red haze enveloped his vision as he slammed into something, bounced, hit something else, and skidded along something smooth… a confused array of sensations attacked him as intense pain battled helplessness and self-preservation in his mind.

  Then, just like that, the fall was over. Gram crawled weakly to his knees, hand still clutched claw-like around the handle of his hammer, and looked around with shaky, star-filled vision. The clockwork dragon lay in a twisted heap behind him, smoking and slowly disintegrating in every place his hammer had touched it. Its neck was bent beneath its body, and the fire had gone out of its eyes.

  Could I have… just killed… a… dragon? And walked away from it? His head seemed all fuzzy, and in the back of his consciousness he could feel a horrible aching pain trying to crush him in two. With a titanic effort he ignored it, knowing that to give in meant death, for sure. He needed to find… needed to get…

  Gram couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. He just stood there, hammer dangling loosely in his hand, staring dumbly around him. The pain in his head was growing more intense, joined with pain in his chest… and neck, and back… and legs…

  Shadows caught his eye. He squinted, trying to see in the darkness. Had it been so dark before? The red light of the setting sun was still overhead, but it seemed… dimmer.

  Gram stumbled forward, three steps. There, across the arena, his men were being massacred. He had to reach them! Dark shapes flitted in and out of the milling ranks, cutting down rogue and nymph alike without mercy, impaling them on bloody spikes and slashing the heads from their bodies. Clockwork Demons!

  But I knew that. I knew it already. Why… what…

  Gram stepped forward again, gathering his strength and steeling his will against the pain that threatened to overwhelm him. Lights, yellow lights, flickered in the dark. There were men, chasing down the demons, trying to slay them with light and prayer and verse… would it work? Had he doomed them all? Why couldn’t he see right? The world seemed to swim, deep underwater…

  I killed a dragon. I smashed its bloody skull in. I am King Gram, Demon’s Bane. I will NOT give in!

  Three of the black shapes peeled off from the panicked mass, rushing at him from different angles. Their eyes glowed red in the lengthening shadows, and spikes protruded from their gore-soaked fingers.

  NO!

  Gram stumbled towards them, refusing his weakness, mouth open in a soundless snarl of defiance. He raised his hammer, ready to swing… he slipped, felt himself falling in a pool of someone’s blood…

  It was his. It was his blood! Gram cursed inside, pushing himself up. The first demon leaped at him, screaming inhumanly, and he hurled his hammer at it. The weapon slammed into the thing’s chest, punching through it like a stone through glass. Clockwork sprayed in all directions, disintegrating like fine mist.

  Gram’s mind turned lucid as he realized… The hammer! It’s the only thing that can kill them! He tried to rise, but couldn’t. He was too… weak…

  The remaining two demons closed in, shrieking at the loss of their comrade, and he had no defense. Stone Striding was far beyond his meager strength, but Gram reached out anyway…

  …just as Captain Bernarl’s anchorblade impaled one from behind, throwing it off course. It stumbled into its fellow and the two went down together. Berne was leaping over their prone forms the next second, roaring a war-cry with spittle-foamed lips, tearing his cutlass from a sheath at his side.

  The battered nymph man slashed at the demons as they tried to extricate themselves from the hopeless tangle of metal limbs. The first lunged at him, but he dodged, ripping the anchorblade from its back while blocking a slashing spike from the second. With a twist of the wrist Berne shoved the cutlass down the second demon’s throat, then, seizing the anchorblade’s handle in two hands, he spun, hacking the head off the first. The clockwork corpses shuddered, then went still.

  Berne stepped forward, stumbling, regained his balance, and approached Gram. “The blasted things’ll be up in a moment. I… Gram!” The Lord of Rogues had slowly, laboriously gotten to his feet, and stood there swaying, glazed eyes staring into the distance. “Gram!”

  Gram finally focused, looking at his friend with a confused expression. “Wh… what? Be… quick. It hurts. Much.”

  “Much?” Berne as at his side in a moment, voice curiously quiet. “You’ve got a two-foot steel gear lodged in your ribs.”

  Gram looked down, only just able to make out the shape of hard metal sticking out from just under where he thought his lungs might be. No wonder he could barely breathe… “I…” His mouth would not work.

  So that was where all the blood had come from. He must have taken the wound during the fight with the dragon. You old fool, he realized, you’re dying. Say something! You’re out of time!

  Gram felt himself fading. The world had gone silent. Berne was supporting him, letting him slowly slip to his knees. He was dying… He was…

  “The… hammer…” Gram whispered. Berne glanced at him, eyes sharp but blurred with tears.

  “What?”

  “The hammer… it’s… the only way…” Gram expended the rest of his energy to point vaguely in the direction he had tossed the weapon. His eyes sunk closed as he managed to force out more words. “The only way. Kill… the demons. Tell my sons…”

  “Gram?” Berne’s voice was barely discernible, but it didn’t matter. Gram was beyond listening. The world was totally dark. The only feeling was the feeling of dulled pain, and the only sound was his own rasping breath.

  His sons. Spirit Striders.

  Through the veil of meaningless suffering, Gram glimpsed a shard of hope. A vision, passing like a breath of wind, shone in his mind’s eye. He saw a king of peace, enthroned at the eye of a raging storm.

  You’re out of time, the storm king whispered.

  Gram mouthed a response, not daring to speak aloud. Gramling?

  The vision vanished. His eyes shot open. For a split second, Gram saw Berne above him, muddled and indistinct, as if through a veil of darkened glass.

  “Tell my sons…” he whispered, “to look for me… in the eye of the storm.”

  Then Gram closed his eyes, and did not open them again.

  The Lord of Rogues had found his peace.

  Chapter Nine: Enclave Atrum

  Wind. White light. Sand. Storms. Thunder.

  Gribly returned to the physical world with a flash of energy and a whirling blast of sand. Gramling materialized a second later, plowing into his back with the candlestaff.

  “Watch it,” his twin grumbled. Hours of taking short portal-jumps from place to place had let them reserve more energy than usual, but it had left their nerves frayed and their moods irate. Gribly set his jaw, ready for a fight.

  “You were the one who…” his sharp response died as he took in their surroundings with an awe-struck, wide-eyed gaze. “Holy…” Morning light illuminated the space directly in front of them,
breaking though the clouds to fall upon the battlements of the strangest fortress he had ever seen.

  For one thing, it was made of what seemed to be pure, opaque black glass. For another, its skyward edge was jagged and uneven, as if it had been partially demolished in ages past. For a third… they had just portal-jumped from Goldenport, as far west as it was safe to go. The clouds should’ve blocked out all the light, yet this… place… was practically basking in the sun’s rays.

  Then it hit him. They were standing atop an enormous, hardened dune that formed the foundation of the place. The widest steps Gribly had ever seen were not twenty feet away, leading upward to the yawning mouth of the entrance.

  This was once a tower. A black glass tower… it must have stretched up, far, far into the sky, if the size of those steps is any indication of its size. Somehow, it must have collapsed… or been destroyed… and this is only its base. It’s so large, just the lowest portion looks like a rounded castle! Certainly not the place he had expected his brother to bring him to.

  “Gramling,” he said warily, glancing at him, “where are we? Why are we here?”

  Gramling gave him a rough look that seemed to say, if it isn’t obvious, you’re too stupid to be told. But he abruptly answered the question, looking up towards the hollow entrance with a less-than-confident expression.

  “This is where my friends have ensconced themselves. We’ll need to convince them to fight for us if we’re ever to have a chance of besting Sheolus on our own.”

  Gribly swallowed, wondering what kind of “friends” would want to live here… especially if they possessed such power as Gramling seemed to imply. “Just who are these people?” he asked.

  “You’ll see soon enough,” Gramling said, but there was slight insecurity in his voice. “Together, we should be able to deal with them.”

  “Deal with them?”

  “Just follow me.”

  Gramling swished past him, black coat fluttering in the hot desert breeze. Winter barely seemed to touch this place… wherever this was. Gribly followed his brother from several steps behind, keeping a ready hold on his staff in case Striding was needed in an emergency.

  The stairs were a strenuous climb, but Gribly found himself able to draw almost indefinitely upon the Power of Stone that lay dormant in the glassy material beneath his feet. He could recall only one such experience in the past, when he had snuck into the Highfast Shrine in Ymeer, and felt the submerged power of its builders.

  Past the shattered maw of the tower’s gate, there was a wide hallway that ended in a thick, metal grate that stretched from wall to wall. In the middle of the grate was a door just large enough for three men to walk abreast. Torches flickered dimly in alcoves along each wall.

  “I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Gribly muttered. “This is obviously a trap.”

  “Obviously,” Gramling said quietly, “but we have no choice.”

  Gribly was on the verge of arguing the point, when a loud crash reverberated down the hallway behind them. The prophet spun, staff raised, to find that a spiked metal portcullis had slammed into place at the entrance, sliding down from a hidden opening in the ceiling. He’d bet the king’s crown the door in the grating was locked.

  They were shut in.

  “Brilliant,” he told Gramling. His brother turned to reply… then stopped.

  The shadows along each wall shifted, shimmered, and melted into the forms of eight gray-wrapped Coalskin doomclerics, each with a curving whitewood crook in their hand, and an enveloping hood draped over their head. Gribly stiffened in reaction, mentally counting up the factors and odds with a speed he never would have been able to in his street days.

  Eight opponents. Staffs, wrappings, appearance… Powerful Pit Striders. But… the garb is wrong. And the eyes. They don’t look evil, just sad. Rogues? Rebels? No. Spirit Striders. Potential allies. But not happy with our intrusion. One’s approaching… looks like the leader.

  A white sash. Definitely the leader. He looks like he wants to hurt us. No… not US. Gramling. He’s practically ignoring me. That means prior involvement. They know each other, and didn’t part on good terms. I suppose that confirms Elia’s story about Gramling and the Kinn rebellion… not that I didn’t believe her anyway. These could be those still left of the interlopers.

  Odds are weighty. Eight of them, two of us. We’re young, but tired. They’re old, but rested. We’re prodigiously powerful… but they evaded our notice, so they’re not amateurs. We have staffs… so do they. Stone is present. We can Stride that, and Spirit, too. They may or may not know that. They’re restricted to Spirit, unless some of them are Transytes. It’s unlikely, but we can’t know for sure.

  Prediction: slightly in our favor. The factor of outnumbering makes it too close. We need to bargain.

  All this, in a matter of moments. Gribly smiled. He was getting better at planning his battles. Aura provide it proved enough, when the time came…

  “Agrivor,” the Kinn doomcleric said, addressing Gramling with a curt, displeased nod. Gribly knew the Coalskin word for assassin… the formal use of Gramling’s former title couldn’t bode well.

  “Lordyte Gorgoris,” Gramling replied, bowing slightly. “I am… surprised to see you alive. I had not expected it.” Gribly wondered at that- it certainly had no effect on the doomcleric’s hostile bearing.

  “You have no place here. Not after what you did to us.” The Kinn’s commontongue was flawless, to Gribly’s surprise, and his speech sounded refined, even when angry… which he obviously was. “I know not how you found this place, but I order you to leave, now, or be subject to our judgment.”

  “Things are not as they appear,” Gramling said quickly, gesturing to Gribly. Gribly stepped into the torchlight, letting it illuminate his face, and gave the doomcleric what he hoped was a confident look.

  “Mother of Arrows,” swore the aged Coalskin, clutching his crook tighter. “It… you… you were telling the truth?”

  What’s he talking about? What’s going on? How do you know these men? Gribly wanted to shout at them both, asking a million different questions… but he knew he had to stay silent. It’s a game. A puzzle. I can’t take part without chancing serious harm to Gramling’s cause. I have to trust he’ll say the right thing, since I don’t know the rules of this encounter. Stay calm… But it was extremely difficult.

  “I told you I would return,” Gramling said, tapping his candlestaff on the ground. Its flame flared bright white, illuminating the entire hallway. “You see I bear the stave of the Spirit Striders. You see I have brought you the Prophet. And yet still you doubt? What I did, in the Sepulcher… I did for our own good. Those in Vast now have their fighting chance… I’m here to give you yours.”

  What’re you playing at, Gramling? Gribly wondered. You told me your secret. You told me you have the visions of the Prophet as well. Why not mention it?

  The doomcleric took a long look at Gribly. “Like you, yet not of the Dark,” he murmured. “The One who shall guide the Faithful… to the Last War…”

  Gribly tensed. Now. “Who are you, exactly?” he asked the doomcleric, low and commanding. “A rebel?”

  “A shaman of the Faithful,” the Coalskin answered, peering deep into Gribly’s eyes. The prophet felt that gaze might pierce his soul, but he would not look away. “Yes,” decided the shaman, “You are he. Gramling lied not.”

  The gray hood swiveled as his gaze shifted. Gribly noticed the shaman glance at the door in the metal grate… and it swung open as if on its own accord. Without another word, the wrinkled Kinn shuffled down the remainder of the hallway, his seven fellows following close behind. Gramling gave Gribly a significant look, and the pair followed their new guides through the door into the complex maze of the tower-castle’s interior.

  What- exactly- just happened? Gribly could only speculate. But at least they had not been attacked.

  ~

  During the tedious, shadowy walk through the broken tower, Grib
ly found his mind strangely at rest. Whatever challenges presented themselves, they could hardly be worse than what had already come. He was the Prophet, for Allfar’s sake… and even if Gramling unaccountably had powers the mirror of his own, was that so strange? Elia had them, too, if not with equal strength. He would have to learn to work with his brother, that was all. They might even gain powerful allies from this arrangement… whatever it might turn out to be.

  Presently, the solemn group made their way up a curving flight of stairs, down a second, smaller torch-lit hallway, and through a low-hanging arch. Past it, Gribly found that they had entered a vaulted circular chamber, lit from above by a circle of glittering chandeliers. Like every chamber in the building, every surface was carved… or shaped from the fabricated black glass. Rows of ebony pews spread outward from the center of the room, like the sun’s rays, and in the center was a raised white altar.