Thunderlord

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “I’d better have a word with them.” It was too cold to use the formal presence chamber, and the family parlor, which was where he preferred to meet with guests, was out of the question. One did not discuss war—actual or threatened or even imaginary—in such an intimate environment.

  “My lord, if I may,” Roderic said with a touch of diffidence. “I took the liberty of placing the strangers in the ward room.” This was the snug where the castle guards took their meals and sat at ease. It was warm, being adjacent to the kitchen, and on those occasions Edric met with members of the cadre and the weather was too harsh for the training yard, he preferred to use the ward room. Edric followed Roderic there.

  One of Roderic’s men opened the door, and as Edric passed the threshold, a woman in a gray wool cloak sprang to her feet and threw herself into his arms.

  “Sir—” Roderic protested, even as his two men moved too late to intercept her.

  “Edric! It’s so good to see you,” she cried. Her face was pressed against his shoulder. Droplets of melted snow sprinkled the top of her cloak. She was shaking.

  “It’s all right, I know her.” Edric gently disentangled himself from Alayna’s embrace, holding her at arm’s length to get a better look at her. She was as pretty as ever, although her cheeks were wind-roughened and her yellow hair had come loose from its braid. A pallor around her chapped lips suggested the edge of exhaustion.

  “Why did you not say who you were at once?” he asked. “Had I known, I would never have kept you waiting.”

  “Vai dom, the fault is entirely mine,” the other arrival said.

  “Captain Francisco. Well met, man. I did not think to see you again.”

  “Nor I you, sir.”

  “This is all very well and nice,” Alayna broke in. “We can sort out the pleasantries later. Francisco isn’t here of his own volition. I practically coerced him into bringing me. And this isn’t a social call, Edric. Any moment now, the entire Scathfell army—and it’s a very considerable one—is going to descend on you. They were to set out within the tenday when I left, so they can’t be far behind. Gwynn is out for blood. He’s convinced himself that your babes are going to grow up to be storm wizards or lightning sorcerers or something, and burn Scathfell to the ground. He won’t stop until everyone here is dead or run off.” She paused, breathing hard. “I don’t know how much time you’ll have, but even a little defense preparation will be better than being caught completely unawares. So here I am, warning you.”

  Edric wondered for an instant if the privations of mountain travel had unhinged her mind, but he sensed no unbalance in her. After their sojourn in the Overworld, he knew her mind; there could be no deceit between them, especially about a matter as grave as this. “You came to warn me? That my kinsman, your husband, is about to attack Aldaran?”

  “Did I not say so?” She looked as if she wanted to shake him. “He’s so eaten up with bitterness, not to mention an immoderate amount of wine, that he’s not entirely sane. If there were any other way, if I could have made him listen to me—but Kyria is here and you and my nephews, and I couldn’t let him—not without trying.” Stammering to a halt, she sank onto the nearest bench and burst into tears.

  Edric sent one of the men off to fetch his mother and Kyria as soon as possible.

  “I know nothing of this for myself,” Francisco said, “but I have no reason to doubt Lady Alayna. I should not have been in the village at all, except that my grandmother had been ailing, and so I risked seeing her, for fear that this might be her last winter.”

  “I hope she will live to see many a season yet.”

  Edric did not know Alayna well, not the way he knew Kyria, but it was plain she believed what she said about her husband mounting a military assault on Aldaran. She was overwrought, certainly, but that did not in itself mean she was mistaken. As for Francisco, he was neither inexperienced nor a fool. He was a man of sound judgment, as evidenced by his competence on the trail, and he truly believed Lord Scathfell capable of such a mad venture.

  Edric knew all too well the flimsiness of Aldaran’s defenses. With the defeat of Old Lord Scathfell a generation ago, there had been no need for any substantial body of fighting men. Even then, it had not been force of ordinary arms, but the unbridled power of the storm laran wielded by Dorilys that had turned the battle. Now Aldaran had but a few men, high stone walls, a difficult approach, and years of tranquility.

  “It seems,” Alayna said, sniffing and wiping away her tears with grubby hands, “that I—”

  Whatever she was about to say drowned in the flood of exclamations and wordless cries of delight as Kyria and then Renata swept into the room. Alayna leaped up and the two sisters rushed together, their skirts flying, their arms wound tightly around one another. Edric, in light rapport with his wife, reeled under a surge of unbounded joy. Renata laughed and clapped her hands together like a child. Roderic, who like many of the folk of the castle had a trace of empathic laran, looked as if he would like to join in.

  Because of the delight of the sisters—hugging and kissing one another, then drawing apart, then embracing again—and the effect on their audience, it took some little while for the uproar to die down. Renata took matters in hand and, with her usual tact, got the two sisters, Francisco, Roderic, and Edric himself upstairs to the office. Edric asked Bennio, who acted as his secretary and librarian, to bring whatever maps could be found of the territory between Scathfell and Aldaran.

  Bread, last summer’s brambleberry jam, and a pot of calming herbal tea appeared just as they were all getting comfortable. Kyria and Alayna sat as close together as the furniture would allow, and every few moments one or the other would reach out to clasp hands.

  Edric made Alayna go over her story again, the message at Midwinter Festival, and Lord Scathfell’s reaction, and finally her discovery of the military encampment. Francisco added helpful details to Alayna’s descriptions. Scathfell had never entirely dispersed its army after its defeat a generation ago, despite the cost of maintaining men, horses, and equipment. With his ties to the village and his knowledge of the lands surrounding the castle, Francisco had a thorough understanding of the logistics involved. With Alayna’s description of the size of the encampment and the former captain’s knowledge, they were able to make rough calculations of the size of the army.

  The resulting estimate could easily set siege to the castle. With luck and the element of surprise, they stood a good chance of overwhelming Aldaran’s defenses. Despite the elimination of Scathfell’s surprise, the castle was not prepared for a blockade. An enemy could batter them with catapults and assail their walls with scaling ladders. The springs that supplied water to the castle were well hidden, but should they be discovered and poisoned, it might mean a swift and painful end to the conflict.

  At least, Edric thought, they did not have a cadre of leroni, such as had served Damon-Rafael Hastur, Old Lord Scathfell’s ally. Their spells had crushed the minds of the defenders even more brutally than the ordinary soldiers had stormed the physical defenses; illusions of blood and terror, and unbearable grief, had immobilized the castle folk. But Dorilys had broken the siege. And somewhere beyond the heights, a new storm waited.

  The maps, unrolled on the desk, drew Edric’s attention back to the present. Bennio noted distances, Francisco calculated the speed of the army, and they each made a guess regarding when Scathfell had departed, taking into account the time Alayna herself had needed to reach Aldaran.

  Now that her first flush of happiness at their reunion faded, Alayna swayed in her chair. The rigors of her journey had clearly drained her; she’d held herself together just long enough to deliver her message. With a quick glance at Edric, one that told him they were very much in accord, Kyria put an arm around her sister. “Come away, dearest. You have yet to greet your nephews, and we have much to say to one another. You have done an amazing feat in bringing us this news,
but surely you can take a little time for yourself now.”

  Alayna nodded and got to her feet, leaning heavily on Kyria. Renata rose also, saying, “I must see about a bedchamber for you.”

  Meanwhile, there was much to be done. Edric had never mounted a defense against invaders, but here before him was a man with military experience. “Francisco, you owe me no allegiance. If anything, I am in your debt for having protected Domna Alayna on her journey here. You are welcome to remain at Aldaran or go your way with whatever reward you desire. Yet if you would stay, I would value your counsel. I know you to be a capable commander. You know how to fight and how to lead men. Aldaran’s prospects would be strengthened by your expertise.”

  “Vai dom, I have no love for Scathfell. He was a fair-handed master, except for impoverishing his own people—my kin—to support his army. I cannot ease their plight, no matter which way this war goes. But I will do what I may to ensure your folk do not share in that suffering. I failed Lady Kyria once. I will do my utmost to not do so again.”

  The discussion went on, with Edric asking questions, Francisco offering suggestions, and Roderic supplying knowledge about the castle’s physical and human resources. Bennio continued in his usual quietly competent way to write down everything of importance. After a time, it became clear that the next step was for Francisco to inspect the defenses. Edric dismissed his secretary and he, along with Roderic and Francisco, began a tour of the castle walls, approach, and towers.

  Edric listened to Francisco’s shrewd assessments and Roderic’s equally astute opinions, wishing he could contribute more. The defense of this castle and the protection of its people were his responsibility. But what could he offer, really, having spent the better part of his adulthood cloistered away in a Tower, mastering not spears and swords but his own laran? Finally he left them, saying he would expect a full report by the end of the day.

  His feet took him tower-ward, as if they knew what he needed. The tower room was not shielded, but it was remote enough to blunt the incessant psychic chatter of ordinary minds. Light sifted in through the slit windows, casting the interior into muted shadows. The air smelled dusty, which was only to be expected. He had not felt the need for isolation since Kyria had come into his life and his heart. Even here, he could lower his psychic barriers and feel her loving presence.

  Lower the barriers . . . As he thought it, they thinned and fell away. Closing his eyes, he opened his mind further. He stood not in a tower but on a pinnacle that pierced the clouds. Around him, air currents surged, growing ever more turbulent. Electrical tension shimmered as it built. Clouds, dark-bellied with rain, piled and shredded and piled even higher.

  The storm he’d felt earlier had gained strength. It was aware of him, of the place in his mind that was like a mirror to its untrammeled strength.

  Here, I am here, we are one, it whispered. Use me. Release me.

  Edric struggled to hold fast, to feel the stone beneath his feet, inert and dense. The storm was still far off and not yet ready to break. It had no power over him. But the winds were rising on the far-off heights and in his mind. He would not yield to the seduction of the storm, but the wind he could use to advantage.

  37

  The glider soared on the wind, wood and leather flexing under the force of the currents. The parapet from which Edric had launched dwindled below him. Ever since he had taken his first flight as a boy, there had been nothing to compare with the exhilaration of being airborne. He had loved it from the time he was old enough to master his starstone, and it still evoked an era of limitless possibilities. Of a time before his storm Gift woke in full, a time when Aldaran with its fortress walls and vast holdings seemed the safest place in the world.

  He knew the dangers of flight, for Renata had drilled him mercilessly in all the ways he could lose control and be smashed on some rocky slope or crag, or be incinerated by lightning, or perish in a dozen other ways.

  Today was no pleasure jaunt, gliding through the air currents; he would need to keep his wits about him. And it was cold and would be even colder as he gained in altitude.

  A rising current caught one wing tip. Edric felt the subtle change even before the glider tilted. He tightened his grip on the hand holds and righted himself, using the strength of his torso muscles and a touch of laran amplified through his starstone. The glider was responsive, the sky an intricate web of fields and streams. He could feel the storm: the hint of ozone, the thickness of the rain-heavy air, the massing clouds. It was still a distance off, up there beyond the heights. Waiting, gathering itself.

  Edric turned his back on the storm and let the winds lift him. Below, Aldaran Castle perched on the heights like a gigantic bird of prey. The road leading from the fortress narrowed to a path, growing ever more steep. Approached from this direction, the castle looked formidable indeed. In the days of his ancestors, ordinary men and means had defended it. Since then, however, steps had been carved into the rock on the far side, leaving it vulnerable to attack. Defending the castle on two fronts would stretch their limited resources.

  The environs of the castle fell away behind him. There lay Dead Man’s Peak, still showing the scars of fire from years ago. And there, wooded slopes, some of them very steep and cut by ravines. Rows of trees marked nut farms. Here and there, pastures had been cleared, and herds browsed on the spring grass. As he flew on, wild, broken hillsides were more prevalent. A raptor, too large to be a hawk, hovered in the distance. An eagle, then: a good omen.

  There they were, a mass of men and horses and wagons, marked by bright flashes of sun on spear points. Until that moment, he had hoped against hope that Alayna had exaggerated, that Francisco, who had not seen this force for himself, had been misled. The oncoming army did not march in formation, it surged along the floor of the valley. Despite his height, he could not see the end of it, a vast, many-legged creature that crept slowly, inexorably, toward his home. Such a force could encircle the castle and storm it from several directions at once.

  In the few moments he’d gazed down at the invaders, the air currents had carried him closer. Faces, pale ovals, lifted toward him, and the next instant, arrows raced in his direction. He wheeled away, though it cost him height. The arrows spent their momentum and dropped away, falling short, like bits of straw.

  He dipped one wing, swinging wide to catch a rising current. A sudden downdraft seized the glider, sending it plummeting. Earth and sky rushed past. Without the constant pressure of wind, the leather wings fluttered. Edric fought down panic. If he lost too much altitude, the next flight of arrows might well find its mark.

  Focus, a woman’s voice echoed in his mind, sweet and sure, but whether it was his mother’s or that of one of his teachers back at Tramontana—or Kyria’s—he could not tell.

  The contact brought him back to the disciplined calm of his Tower training. His starstone shimmered in his mind, cool unyielding blue. Time took on the same curiously elongated quality as when working in a matrix circle. Time, he had time.

  Look there.

  Edric searched ahead for the patterns of heat and cold, the movement of the air. Feeling the faintest pressure, he fed energy into it with his laran. It quickly strengthened into an updraft. The wings caught it, leather and wood creaking under the lift. He wavered, momentarily unbalanced, before habit took over. His hand shifted on the controls and his muscles flexed, bringing his body into perfect balance with the glider. Like the eagle he had seen earlier, he soared on the wind.

  Land fell away, the slopes, the rocky heights. The army disappeared behind a jagged crestline. Edric spiraled down, searching for a landing place that was high enough to permit an easy take off. He wasn’t ready to return to the castle, not yet. Not until he’d had time to think through what he’d just seen. He spotted a promontory, steep as a cliff on one side, with a wide flat ledge bounded on the far side by a jagged outcropping of rock to serve as a wind break. He set down ther
e.

  Aldaran wasn’t ready to fend off an army of that size, no matter how thick its walls. Time. We need time. Time to arm, time to gather together materials to rain down on the besiegers. Even a few days might give his people an advantage. If there were a way to delay Scathfell’s forces . . .

  The storm rumbled promises through the marrow of his bones. Closing his eyes, he gripped the front of his jacket where it overlay his starstone.

  A shift in the wind—

  In his mind, he saw the directions the gathering storm could go and which were the most likely. It did not surprise him that the easiest led toward the oncoming army, for the storm seemed to have a will of its own. It wanted to be directed toward his enemies, even as the lightning had wanted to be hurled at the Sain Erach pursuers. Another thought came to him: that each time he used his storm Gift, it acquired a measure of control over him in return. That was nonsense, of course, born of his fears about this form of laran.

  Even as he thought it, the mass of clouds moved into his field of vision. Winds propelled them, piling them gray and thick, heavy with moisture. Gusts laden with rain and electrical tension battered his face.

  No, no lightning. Not this time.

  Thunder muttered in the distance, or perhaps it was only in his mind. The storm was moving even more rapidly now, gaining in speed. He positioned the glider, slipped his fingers around the hand holds, crossed the width of the rocky ledge, and hurled himself into the air. A current sent him spiraling upward as he caught the faster-moving winds. He seemed to be racing the wind, rising higher than he’d intended. A sense of danger flashed through him, a sudden realization that he was not riding the air currents, they had seized control of his glider and were taking him where they willed.

  Edric tried to tilt one wing downward and turn away, seeking to escape the grip of the air currents. The glider fought his control, threatening to buck like an unbroken horse. The flying apparatus jerked this way and that. One of the handholds almost wrenched free. Air slammed into him, expelling his breath in a rush.