The Storm's Own Son (Book 2) (4 page)

"They don't all derive from the same source. Powerful magi seem to sometimes impart gifts or oddities to their children, though with no control over what those might be. Families descended from heroes of old are more likely to have children with gifts.

"Significant concentrations of magic, or events involving it, can on occasion have the same effect. Others might be tied to the history of a place, or the influence of the spirits. I think many have no obvious source, but are simply manifestations, however rare, of the variety of human nature."

Talaos drank more of his wine, and took in what he'd heard. Then he spoke. "I was told I was born on a ship in a storm at sea, a ship that soon wrecked, and only I survived. I was apparently unharmed."

The general pondered that for a moment, sipped his own wine, then replied, "I've heard the old story from the north, of those born amid storms having gifts related to them, but that story comes in many versions, some contradictory to one another. By itself, I don't think such an origin would account for everything you can do."

With a sudden impulse, Talaos asked, "Are you a magus?"

The commander made a quiet laugh, "No, merely a scholar. The path of a magus is too demanding of time and risk to leave much room for a life of campaigning in the field, and I am at heart a man of war."

Then Sanctari leaned forward. "As are you Talaos. Regardless of the source of your gifts, they align with war. And I think
, war, in whatever form, is part of you."

"Yes, but for me war is an aspect of something else," replied Talaos.

"I am certain of that. Change, perhaps. In fact, our looming storm to the east reminds me of you, so perhaps there is something to the northern tales."

"Now, however," added Sanctari, "in regard to war, you have won spoils in addition to those you have divided with your comrades. Personal spoils under the old laws."

With that, Sanctari rose and walked to a chest. He pulled out the glyph sword that had been the leopard's, and the silver headband and long wand that had belonged to the magus. He returned, and put them on the floor before Talaos, then sat at his chair.

"These are now yours," said Sanctari.

Talaos stared at them, unsure what to say.

"This circlet and this wand, or rather items of this kind, are called the Crown and the Scepter of the World by magi of a certain school found here and in the other lands that were part of the old Empire. Only a magus of sufficient knowledge and experience has the right to wear them. The names signify a claim of mastery over the elements, and of creation and destruction. These belonged to a man named
Aradion, who was an unusual magus, in that he served in wars. But then, he was a dedicated patriot to his city of Kyras."

"Aren't you worried what I might do with them?" asked Talaos, though he had no intention of doing anything with them.

"No. Though potent items when wielded by the magus to whom they are bound, they have no magic of their own that can be used, or misused, by another."

Talaos picked up the glyph sword. The blade still looked keen, but the glyphs themselves were disfigured, as if melted.

"What was the name of the man who owned this?" asked Talaos.

"Akallas.
He was the champion of Kyras, and a man of gifts himself. He was Aradion's son."

Talaos thought of the meaning of that, staring at the sword.

Then he considered the sword itself.

"What happened to it, to the glyphs?" he asked.

"It was a weapon aligned with fire, and it burned away the life from those it struck. I do not think use in battle should have done this to it. Perhaps when you slew General Vissos with your throw, and it made that burst of fire visible from the pass, your own power infused it beyond what it was meant to do, and thereby destroyed it."

Talaos considered the implications of that. He had done exactly that, with intention, but without understanding what it meant.  That brought something else to mind. "How is something like this made?"

At that, Sanctari nodded with a kind of world-wise smile, then he replied. "Ah, a weapon of power, of magic. A mighty advantage for any warrior," said Sanctari, "and one you would, no doubt, like to add to your already considerable advantages."

The general took a sip of wine, and went on.

"The physical parts of them are made as any other weapon, by a smith with sufficient skill. However, the reason there are so few in the world is that the magic must come from someone who can wield magic, and that person must forever put a part of themselves, a bit of their life and power, into the object. It is a great sacrifice for a magus to give someone a thing like this."

Like the sacrifice of a father for his son, reflected Talaos.

"Now, Talaos," said Sanctari, finishing his wine, "we must return to the real danger you face."

Talaos put the sword back on the floor at his feet, and listened as Sanctari spoke.

"You are famous in this army now. The stories of what you did, against Drosta, and against the enemy force under Vissos, are being told and retold in the camp. You must have some sense of this already, and I suspect you guessed it when you made your demands.

"Despite the seeming unity and orderliness of this army, Talaos, this is Hunyos, not the Republic. Here, both are fragile and changeable. That presents both risks and opportunities. You would never, no matter how dangerous a warrior, be promoted so quickly in your country's army. Here, under the right circumstances, a man can rise as far and fast as his abilities might take him, and fall just as quickly if he fails.

"In Hunyos, this may be the largest war in our lifetimes, but we've had forty years of it in one way or another. Even when we were under the boot of Dirion, things were far from quiet. Local loyalty is far stronger than that to a league or alliance. And ambition, or fear of an upstart rival, greater than any of them."

"Why are you telling me all this?" asked Talaos, now finishing his own wine.

Outside, the wind was picking up.

"Because of the speed with which you are
rising, and the awe in which you are held by the men. Others, I have no idea yet who, will come to see you precisely as an upstart rival. You may be popular in the ranks at the moment, but you have no real power base of your own.

"We are in a war I intend to win. I like you, but much more, I need you alive as the powerful weapon you are. Your gifts make you very deadly in battle, and very difficult to kill. But could they protect you from a sudden dagger through the heart? Or poison?
Or sufficient men and chains to drag you down while they brought the headsman's axe to your neck?"

"Then it's my task," smiled Talaos, "to build a base of power."

Sanctari smiled, and the world-wise look returned. "That is the right view, though it may only multiply your enemies. I'll help you as I can, for many reasons. Now however, I'm afraid our time to talk is running short."

Deep in his heart, Talaos had only one enemy. All other threats, he thought, were only true enemies in relation to that. However, Sanctari had given him a great deal, and deserved respect and thanks for it. He gathered his captured sword, crown, and scepter,
then replied.

"Thank you, this meant a lot to me. I will make use of your advice. Do you think we could speak again about magic, and the wider world?"

Sanctari gave it a thought, "When the siege is done, and the enemy dealt with, there might be some time, and that would be a worthy use of it. Have a good evening, Talaos."

With that, the old general gripped his forearm in the military handshake, and then Talaos departed. The wind was strong outside, and now colder, with moisture in the air. He took a look at the night sky and could see the clouds were starting to move west.

~

The rider came in fast, under the blackening sky. The predawn stars were winking out one by one as the slow-moving masses of clouds blocked them from sight. The wind was rising from the east. Talaos, awake, outside, and pacing with restless energy, watched the scene unfold by torchlight. The rider greeted the outer sentries and came in at a gallop with two of them in tow. They went straight for the main command tent, where one or other of the senior commanders would be on duty.

Looks like we're out of time, thought Talaos.

With that, he went to his tent to throw on his armor and gear. Then he would get the men up and ready... and wait for the messenger to arrive from command.

3. Storm

The command tent was packed. Lamps lit the place in the twilight of early dawn under storm clouds. The tables had been moved from the center and placed  in a long single line at one end. Behind that line sat the senior commanders, with Sanctari at the center. Facing the line were rows of chairs for the field officers. Tribunes and the more powerful hill chieftains sat in the front two rows, with captains and the lesser chieftains behind.

Talaos sat in the front row, and near the center, for he had a special task.

The walls of the tent shook in the howling wind.

Sanctari was speaking, and wasting no time, for they had little. "Scouts have confirmed that the enemy main army has renewed its march toward Avrosa, and now numbers more than thirty thousand."

There were subdued whispers or groans around the room.

Sanctari raised his hand, and all quieted. He continued, "There is a second item of news. The enemy force has grown because they can spare more men.
The army of the League of Lazla, and our other allies in the farther north, lost decisively at Drenic.

"Given the enemy's two to one advantage in numbers, we would be unwise to risk a pitched battle on open ground, even if we had Avrosa subdued at our backs. As you know, the terrain here does not allow us to safely withdraw. However, the enemy's advantage will not be overwhelming if we are in a defensible position. With fourteen thousand men inside the city and the walls reasonably intact, we could hold out indefinitely. We could wear them down, or outflank them by sea.

"Provided of course, we have support from the fleet.  We may see squadrons from Drenic, Kossos, and elsewhere in the north begin to peel away to support their home cities.  We will have to hope they break through and reach us soon.  Whether they do or not, we must make good use of time."

The old general stood up, with a hand at the bronze plates of his belt, and another on the hilt of his sword.

"Men, the enemy will soon be upon us. We are outmatched in open battle. We cannot avoid them by land. Our best chance for better options is to be inside Avrosa. To do that in time, we must storm the city, and we must begin today. Prepare yourselves."

The assembled commanders rose, saluted, and set to work.

Everyone there, including Talaos, knew their part. They had prepared, they had made their plans, and now they would begin. He thrilled at the possibilities unfolding before him, including those related to his own, very personal plans. It would be a good day.

~

The bombardment had begun. Catapults and ballistae fired at targets on the walls, with particular concentration on the fortress at the main gate. Each of the four towers there had a large ballista, and the roof of the keep in between was packed with at least two hundred archers and heavy footmen.

The lower towers along the walls each mounted a catapult or ballista. These were firing at the artillery of the besiegers and the
mantlets and screening troops around them. The wind was making artillery fire difficult, particularly for the ballistae.

Behind the siege engines, the allied army was forming up.  Ordered companies of footmen and archers stood facing the walls. Interspersed with them, about a quarter of the waiting forces, were mercenary irregulars or milling bands of
hillmen. Orderly or not, every unit had a squad of men with long scaling ladders.

At the center, facing the main
gate, was a large body of hillmen under Warlord Kurvan. Behind him were Generals Sanctari, Nissas, and Pelias, with companies of heavy spearmen and swordsmen from Teroia, Aledri, and Megasi. In front of even Kurvan, however, were Talaos and his company of volunteers.

Talaos himself, in his new armor, was watching a strange machine rolling up the corridor between Kurvan's forces and the next body of troops to the left. It looked to have been built on the huge, multi-wheeled base of a siege tower. However, instead of a tower, it had a single forward facing wooden wall, a giant
mantlet plated in iron sheets and about fifteen feet high.

Mounted behind the
mantlet was something stranger, a colossal siege ladder more than fifty feet high, as tall as the battlements of the keep at the great gate, and twice the height of the walls or the ordinary siege ladders. At the base of the ladder was a mechanical device that had clearly been improvised from a catapult. Talaos guessed it adjusted the angle of the ladder.

Underneath the base platform and between the giant wheels was a space with rows of attached crossbeams and handles, and behind it were long beams with more handles.  However, for the time being, the entirety was being pulled along by mule teams hitched to the front.

Standing around Talaos were the Madmen, and it was not long before they noticed the object of his interest.

"What in the
goatsucking hells is that?" asked Kyrax, black brows pressed together.

"It looks like our scaling ladder," answered Talaos, lightly.

"Or a fine place to collect arrows," added Larogwan.

As the machine rolled closer, they could see that the top of the ladder had huge iron hooks raised high, a bit like the fangs of some beast ready to strike, and attached by long chains on a system of pulleys to the device at the base.

Theron was walking alongside the thing, with a crew of his engineers at his side, and a black smile on his face. After a short while, the machine was in its place in front of Talaos's men. The mule teams were unhitched and led away. Theron and his gallows grin reached Talaos.

"Like it?" he growled.

"Does that catapult at the bottom snap it into place, with those iron fangs gripping the wall?" replied Talaos.

"That's right, locked on with a jolt fast as a catapult, and a thousand times harder to tip over than a scaling ladder. Just as exposed though. A bunch of troops from the irregulars will be pushing it along."

"Will you be operating the mechanism from onboard?"

"Yep.
My engineers and I."

"Then I like it."

"We'll be behind the mantlet," added Theron, as if looking for a reaction.

He got none.

Talaos looked around at his seven companions, eyeing them each in turn. Kyrax looked as if he wanted to say something. Vulkas had a huge grin on his face. Firio boggled. The others were mostly tense, with minds perhaps on the battle ahead.

Talaos laughed,
then spoke, "Today we'll show them why we're called the Madmen."

"The
Madmen, and The Storms Own Son!" roared Vulkas as the others broke into laughs.

His
company of volunteers were watching the scene with interest. He shouted to them cheerfully in his clear deep voice, "Sometimes men, the first day on the job is a little rough!"

He'd handpicked them for being rough men, and the reply was a chorus of harsh laughs and a gallery of grim looks.
Just as he'd hoped.

Up on the walls and towers of Avrosa, the defenders seemed to have noticed the strange device before them, for catapult shots began to land in the general area ahead. They were short and wide of the mark, but the intention was clear.

The wind was now blowing with enough force that the ballistae on either side were no longer effective at the ranges they were firing. Bolts went wide, sometimes turning and then tumbling end over end, off uselessly to the side.

Closer to the front, Talaos heard Warlord Tescani roaring to the ballista crews to hold fire, and the catapult crews nearby to reposition to target the keep in advance of Talaos. Further away were
Generals Dromno on the left, and Aro on the right. They were directing the troops, in their thousands, waiting with drawn weapons and ready scaling ladders.

A messenger arrived, riding hard. He shouted to Talaos, "Orders from command! Begin the assault!" He then rode immediately to his next task.

The wind roared.

The first drop of rain fell.

The first bolt of lightning struck in the sky overhead.

Talaos felt the thrill of it run through him.

Joyously, he felt the life, danger, and power of it.

In a voice so loud, deep, and clear, it rose above the thunder, he shouted to his men.

"Now men! I will climb to the top, and ride this beast to the enemy!  When it has its fangs in that keep, I'll clear the way. Follow me and rip their throats out!"

Talaos's men, Madmen and the new volunteers roared with weapons in the air or clashing against shields. The ordinary irregulars assigned to push the machine looked on with wary expressions, but they set to work.

As the gigantic ladder rolled forward, locked back and nearly vertical, Talaos climbed to the top. Up here, he felt the wind even more keenly, cold and pitiless, wild and free. Light rain, growing slowly heavier, splashed around him. Thunder boomed and lighting strikes raked the sky. He looked around him, and for a moment took in the panorama of the battlefield.

Fourteen thousand men were either working siege weapons, marching forward toward death, or working with straining backs in support of those who were.
Spears in ranks and files, like fields of some deadly crop, and tall scaling ladders like hedge rows. Bands of hillmen howled war cries as they swarmed forward.

On the left and right soldiers advanced. They reached the line of siege engines and
mantlets, and pushed the latter forward.  From the allied catapults went a volley of well coordinated stones the size of barrels. Some went crashing into the ground, others against the formidable walls of the keep. One smashed into the top of the left front tower, destroying the ballista and wreaking slaughter on the men around it. Another swept into the crowded men atop the keep, leaving a wake of blood and mangled bodies, and rolled onward over the back parapet.

From the walls, catapults fired at the advancing men. One crashed into a
mantlet, shattering it and sending splintered wood flying backward into the bodies of the men behind. Another went rolling along like a gigantic child's ball as hillmen dodged aside. Some weren't fast enough, and their corpses smeared the trampled grass.

Stones fired toward Talaos, and the mighty mechanical beast he rode. One flew past his head, no more than five feet
away, and continued far behind to smite ruin among Kurvan's men. Even over the wind, Talaos heard Kurvan's roaring, growling curses.

The great machine rolled forward. The walls were getting closer.

Below and all around, men marched forward into the east wind and the flying stones.

Joy and fury rose within his spirit at the sight.

With them rose power.

The lightning was striking more frequently now. All around him, lighting up the sky and illuminating the carnage below. His spirit rose and the wind howled. Talaos howled to it in greeting. His voice echoed, roaring with the gale.

Talaos braced himself atop the next to topmost rung of the ladder. He drew his swords and raised them to the sky. He could feel it now; the power within him making itself manifest. Electricity coursed through his body, crackled on his skin, ran through his blades. He could see it, arcing blue-white along the steel. He heard shouts of surprise, faint in the wind, down below.

He laughed like the thunder, as loud and as deep.

He felt the light in his eyes, the power in him and around him. It radiated in crackling blue-white lines from his hands and his brow.

He reveled in the storm.

He called to the lightning, and it obeyed.

There was a brilliant blue-white flash, and the boom of thunder.

The strike touched the long sword in his outstretched right hand.

Across the battlefield, not so far now, on the walls of the keep and the towers around, men in armor and dark gray tunics waited. Some carried large round shields, painted dark gray with white clouds and thunderbolts. All looked at him wide eyed with fear.

Thunder in the sky, thunder on the enemy shields, and merciless thunder in his spirit.

Death and battle were all around him.

Death awaited those before him.

It was close now.

Every moment seemed slower than the last.

Men, wind and rain all seemed to slow down.
Everything but him. Or perhaps he sped up.

The ballista on the right front tower fired a bolt. It moved slowly, ridiculously, his way. He watched it hurtle toward the center of his chest. Easily he turned aside, and with his down swept blade, cut it in half as it passed.

Eons seemed to follow as the sluggish men ahead watched him with gaping mouths and weapons held unsteadily in feeble hands. The rain dropped slowly around them.

It was taking too long.

He climbed to the top rung of the ladder, balancing on the wind, swords high and arcing bright with his power.

They weren't far away now. Not far at all. No farther than a javelin could fly.

He leapt.

Across the sheltering sky he leapt at them, and laughed as he flew.