Storm's Clouds, page 37
part #2 of Stormfall Chronicles Series
* * *
The northern horsemen charged blindly into the forest, hundreds of horsemen thundering through the underbrush in pursuit of the fae cavalry. Chenghiz led the charge, his rage focused on his prey, his spear lowered. But the fae always seemed to be just out of reach, appearing out of the forest and brush to send a volley of arrows into the ranks of the northern tribesmen, then vanishing into the forest again. Then they would reappear again from a different direction.
The northern horsemen charged deeper into the Feyfell, transitioning from thick forests to an open glen. Hundreds of horsemen surged forward, intent upon their pursuit. They slowed as they entered the glen, searching for their quarry. Chenghiz glanced around. Why would the fae lead them into an open field, where the northerners would be able to take maximum advantage of a cavalry charge?
Three sharp whistles, and the horsemen, who took pride in their skill and command over their mounts, found themselves thrown. Their horses stampeded in different directions, trampling horsemen among them. Chenghiz rolled across the ground, feeling the bruises across his body. He had lost his grip on his spear. He climbed to his feet, drawing his sword. “What demonic witchcraft is this?!” The northern tribesmen glanced at each other, swords and spears at the ready.
From across the glade, they heard the throaty war cries of goblins and ogres, arrayed in battle dress, armored and charging in their direction. The dismounted tribesmen charged forward to meet their new foes, rushing to the attack. As their blades and spears swept through the goblins and ogres, their would-be opponents evaporated into the air – leaving the northern warriors looking on in confusion. A moment later, they heard the ring of metal on metal – as other northern tribesmen surged into their ranks, their swords and spears finding marks among them. Still perplexed the northern tribesmen fought back, striking down their nearest foes. Only afterwards realizing how, in the confusion, they had been turned on each other.
“Enough! Stop!” Chenghiz shouted. His sword had just cleaved through the helmet of one of his own horsemen. “It’s a fae trick! Put down your weapons!”
The shock rippled through their ranks as they looked to see their comrades, some of them friends whom they had known for years, whom they had only just now struck down.
“It’s a trick! Stop fighting each other!” Chenghiz shouted again. The tribesmen looked at each other, at their fallen comrades. A sinking feeling weighed on their stomachs.
From the edges of the glen, Captain Iolyn gave the signal, and fae archers stepped out to send a rain of arrows onto the horseless northern tribesmen. The archers stepped back, disappearing into the shadows of a camouflage spell, as another round of archers stepped forward from the opposite side of the glen. Wave after wave, sending scores of arrows from every direction, raining death onto the invading men. Chenghiz was himself pierced through his shoulder. Dropping his shield, he struggled to maintain his composure – until a second arrow found its mark. Moments later, the last of them had fallen.
* * *
General Arthus arrived by portal in front of the Fae Council chambers. It was late afternoon, the sun still bright. The sight and sounds of the wounded and dying no longer surrounded him. But they still resonated in his mind.
A groom came to take his horse. “Do you want me to brush him down and put him in the stables, sir?”
“Yes, please do.” Arthus lowered himself from his saddle, taking off his riding gloves. How could everything here be so normal, so untouched? The capital was a world away from the battlefield. But it wouldn’t take long for the news to spread. He had failed. He had no cavalry left to command. He had been relieved. As he should have been.
“Should I call for your squire?” the groom asked as he led the horse away.
“No, that’s quite alright. I’m just going for a little walk.” Arthus turned east, walking the forested paths, looking for a little seclusion: a chance to pull himself together. He found a rock, and took a seat, taking off his helmet. He held it in his hand, the colorful crest and plume reminding him of how gallant the Fae Council Garrison had been, riding into battle only moments before. So many colorful helmets, fallen. Riding to their doom. He had failed them. They had died because of him.
He had done everything asked of him by his patrons over the decades. Bowed before each lord on the Fae Council in turn. Administered his subordinates with skillful acumen. They had looked so stunning on the parade ground. He had risen through the ranks of the fae army – only to fail them when it mattered most.
Sitting there, only a few dozen yards from the Fae Council chambers, dejected and alone. Nothing mattered. His turbulent thoughts drowning out any sounds of approaching soldiers or scouts. He heard nothing. Not until a harsh voice, spoken in the common tongue, brought him abruptly out of his reverie.
“Don’t make a move, fae.”
He looked up, to see a human soldier, dressed in the green uniform of a woodland scout, his weapon drawn. A human? What was a human soldier doing here? In Glysing?
“You are a prisoner of Lotaria.”
* * *
An ethereal horse materialized out of the darkness, glimmering white, kicking its heels at the cave wyrm. The beast lunged, its jaws snapping across the neck of the horse – which evaporated into a spray of glowing butterflies.
Lynette saw Sharik struggling to gather enough energy for another illusion, too tired to conjure anything as large and tactile as the snake had been. The cave wyrm saw him too and began to charge in his direction. Sharik brought his hands up, focusing his remaining energies into one last, desperate charm. His hands moving like a conductor commanding an orchestra.
A spray of sparks, lights and ethereal flames danced across the face and muzzle of the wyrm, glowing bright, weaving and bobbing around its head, blinding the beast. The cave wyrm thrashed about, trying pointlessly to clamp its jaws onto the animated lights. It tried to claw at them, shielding its eyes.
Lynette had stumbled to her knees. She was too exhausted to participate. Her legs and arms were trembling. She sensed the horror overtaking her. Watching. Helplessly. There was nothing more she could do. It was only a matter of time before Sharik ran out of the energy to put on such a display. He would not survive the cave wyrm’s fiery breath.
She saw movement at the edge of her vision. It was Baxter! He had retrieved the spear. He was running at full pace towards the wyrm. He scrambled up its wounded hind leg, up onto its shoulders. His arm drawn back. He lunged forward, putting all the strength he had behind the tip of that spear.
The spear, for its part, responded to Baxter’s dire need and force of will. It guided his hand, seeking out the beast’s heart.
The cave wyrm cried out in agony, the sharp tip of the fae spear slashing through its hide and rib cage. It rolled onto its side, sending Baxter sliding across the brush and limbs. But the spear had found its mark and been driven home. With a final spray of phantasmic fire and lights streaking across its face, courtesy of Sharik’s last spell, the cave wyrm fell dead – sliding to a rest at the old mage’s feet.
* * *
Qadan nearly pulled the message runner off his feet. “What do you mean there’s no contact? Where are my horsemen? Why is the Royal Guard here?! I was guaranteed they’d be out of the picture!”
The unfortunate messenger struggled to wriggle free from Qadan’s grasp. “I don’t know. We lost contact when our cavalry chased after the Royal Guard.”
Qadan gazed down across the mercenaries and foot soldiers who had crossed the ford. Fae archers were appearing seemingly from nowhere, sending volley after volley of arrows into their ranks, then disappearing again like a mirage. His army was being systematically cut down. None of this was supposed to happen. The Royal Guard wasn’t supposed to be here. And where was the invasion army he had been promised? Why hadn’t they arrived from Ikzhan?
From the northeast, he heard a horse running at full gallop. He looked, to see a messenger, hurrying to reach them. “Send the messenger to me,” Qadan commanded.
The messenger arrived, slowed, and was pointed in Qadan’s direction. His horse was drenched in sweat from the run.
“What news from Ikzhan?” Qadan demanded. “Where is the rest of the army? We need them now! How soon will they arrive?!”
“Ikzhan is gone,” the messenger responded, balancing himself on his mount, tired from the long journey.
“What do you mean gone?”
“The city! Ikzhan! It was destroyed! There’s nothing left! No army. Nothing.”
Qadan stood, hearing but not believing. “Gone?”
He did not see the fae swordsmen who stepped out from the cover of a camouflage charm mere feet away from where he stood. Nor did he see the blade or the sword stroke which deftly sliced across his throat. His entire command camp was eliminated in a matter of seconds. Mere seconds, before the soldiers of the Royal Guard vanished again behind the deceptive charm which had allowed them to penetrate their enemy’s lines.
* * *
The double doors to the great hall parted, to allow a small, wizened old man to enter. He leaned upon his cane, walking slowly and deliberately down the center of the hall. Where were the guards of the gate, who should have questioned the old man or challenged his passage? Beggars were not tolerated within Ikzhan’s walls. No one could say how it had happened. But they were strangely absent from the doorway that night.
The hall of the Great Batukhan was filled with feasting and camaraderie. For many, this was their final send-off, their last meal before setting out on the great conquest of the Feyfell. Lights had been strung from the soaring rafters above, and the rows of tables on either side of the great hall were filled with generals and their leading officers. They smiled and enjoyed the feast, each simultaneously plotting how they could gain favor and rise in rank. Trays with meat piled high were carried from table to table, and ale was poured in plenty from great barrels. It was no surprise that in their revelry, the small figure of an old man making his way down the center of the hall went unnoticed.
At the far end of the hall, on a raised platform was seated the Great Batukhan himself. He watched his generals celebrate. Another raid or another village conquered. There was always something to celebrate as the riches flowed into his halls from afar. Soon, his fame and power would be unmatched. Soon, even the Feyfell, and immortality, would be his.
With such grand schemes to concern himself with, Batukhan could perhaps be forgiven for failing to notice the frail old man approaching his throne. Not until the beggar was two thirds of the distance across the throne room did the emperor belatedly take notice. “Who allowed this beggar before my throne?” Batukhan bellowed. His voice echoed through the hall. Every general and every minister became silent, hoping whatever had aroused the emperor’s wrath would not implicate them.
The old man stopped, leaning on his walking stick, regarding the emperor whose unlooked-for guest he now was. He smiled grimly. “Why, I thought you had sent for me. I am Gyaltso, the medicine man of Horru.”
“The medicine man of Horru? Yes, now I remember,” the emperor responded. “The one who they say has mastered immortality.” Batukhan smiled menacingly. “Welcome to my hall. This must be a great honor for you.”
Gyaltso glanced around, gauging the size of the hall, the great wooden pillars on which it was built. “So this is why you sent for me. Invaded my lands, harmed the citizens of my village. To find the keys to immortality?”
“It would go better for you if you revealed your secrets willingly, old man,” the emperor taunted.
“And if I do not?” Gyaltso regarded the emperor coldly.
“Do you not see? The riches flowing into my city? The great hall I have built? The empire I have conquered? Tributes sent from afar. Tributes, such as the deathless Ker-slave.” Batukhan gestured toward the motionless figure behind him, in the corner of his hall. The armored figure stood, a spear fatally impaled through its chest cavity, its eyes glowing dully in the night.
“So that’s the stench I smelled when I entered.”
“Ker-slave,” Batukhan commanded. “Go bring the old man to me.”
The wraith stepped forward, walking towards the center of the hall. Officials and servants hurriedly made way, as it stepped down the three steps to the lower, common floor.
Gyaltso smiled, reaching forth his hand. A gust of wind swept across the room, swirling throughout the chamber. It tipped wine glasses and billowed the tapestries adorning the walls. But the wind was focused on the kehereth. The wraith was lifted off its feet, propelled forcefully through the air. It crashed noisily into a wooden pillar, shaking the rafters of the building. The spear which had been impaled through its chest, as a demonstration of its deathless existence, became embedded into the column. Suspended above the floor, it struggled and twisted, stuck against the column like an insect pinned to the wall.
Generals and officials across the room gripped their weapons as the windstorm continued to sweep across the room. The doors to the hall slammed shut, as the force of the wind sucked the air up, and through the vents high above. Batukhan’s bodyguards had drawn their swords and stepped forward, standing between the old man and the emperor they had sworn to protect. Gyaltso watched, a sly smile across his face. It had begun. He need only await the outcome.
“Worried over a little wind?” Gyaltso asked.
“Who would dare defy my authority?” Batukhan bellowed, standing with his hand gripping his sword. “I have laid kingdoms and tribes to waste.”
“I would dare,” Gyaltso answered. His eyes were beginning to glow faintly, from within. “I have been called Gyaltso, Gwythyr, Garth, and countless other names. I have walked this earth for many lifetimes of men. Yet I have rarely seen an arrogance as conceited as yours.”
Batukhan drew his sword, his feet spread apart, weight balanced forward. He was still solidly built. The shoulder pads of his armor flared out, accentuating his menace. “Whatever you are, you are in my palace now. I have thousands at my command. Your fae magic will not protect you here.”
“Fae magic?” Gyaltso spoke with a snarl on his lips, the light within his eyes growing steadily brighter. “This is no fae spell. It is a secret the mountain giants unearthed millennia ago. A conjuration made possible only by your own wickedness. For the blood of your victims cries out from the earth, reaching to the heavens above.”
“Guards, seize the mage.”
Batukhan’s two bodyguards raced forward, and a lightning bolt forked from Gyaltso’s outstretched hand. Both guards fell, each a smoldering corpse.
The sound of the lightning stroke reverberated through the confines of the room. The wind howled across its walls. Most of Batukhan’s generals stood, rooted to where they were, clenching their weapons. A few collapsed onto their knees and prayed to whatever deity they still believed in. Pinned against the wooden pillar, the kehereth continued to struggle to pry itself free.
Gyaltso smiled grimly. He could sense the storm building. “Great hall? This city of yours shall become a byword in the days to come. A symbol of arrogance unchecked. The name of this city will forever be blotted out, forgotten. It will be remembered as Ikzhan – arrogance, across all the lands and for all time. Great hall?” Gyaltso gestured towards the pillars and rafters of the room. A green glow welled up from the rocks beneath his feet. “I see only sticks and twigs, blown in the wind.”
It was only then that Batukhan and his entourage noticed the sound from outside. It had begun like a wind across a bare hilltop, whistling – but continued to build in intensity until it was a roaring howl. The ground beneath them began to tremble, and the lamps swayed from the rafters, until the sound from outside became a deafening roar, like a hurricane coming ashore.
* * *
There were none from among Batukhan’s generals, officers or war masters, present in the hall that night, who would live to tell of what happened. The tens of thousands of horsemen, the mercenaries and their retainers preparing for the next day’s march, likewise would never live to tell their tale. The poor, common folk of Ikzhan, who lived outside of the city’s gates and supplied it with food-stocks, farriers and everyday services, were all enjoying themselves at a celebration that same night – sponsored by some nameless merchant who was rumored to have made a fortune supplying Batukhan’s armies. They also did not see what transpired.
But away to the east, among the slopes of the Apyahu Mountains, a certain giant named Broccin had gone outside to observe the impending storm. Broccin was tall, even as giants go, with long, golden hair which fell across his shoulders, and a full, golden beard. He had sensed the storm building all day, an unnatural phenomenon no mountain giant could have ignored. He could sense something brewing to the west – but couldn’t be sure what it was.
This evening, he remained outside, gazing west from the terrace of his mountain home. The skies had been cloudless all day. But as evening set in, he observed lights flickering in the distance – a string of green-colored dots that seemed to encircle the distant, dark blot on the plains which was the city of Ikzhan. Overhead, he witnessed a bank of clouds materialize, as if drawn from the smoking forges of an angry, other-worldly smith. Broccin gripped the edge of the railing as he watched.
The cloud’s surface churned with circular winds, while lightning lit the cloud banks and thunder rolled across the plains. The circular motion intensified as the cloud formation moved east, the lightning strokes becoming more frequent, until a great funnel cloud descended upon the earth. Lit in an unearthly, green light, it descended, touched down, and obliterated the dark smudge which had once been the city of Ikzhan.
Broccin stood upon the terrace of his mountain home, overlooking the plains to the west – fixated by what he saw. Even for a mountain giant, to command such a destructive force was perilous at best. Few could even have attempted it, and fewer still could have maintained control once such a storm was summoned. Every giant knew. A storm summoned by grief seeds was as likely to kill its conjuring summoner as its intended subjects.
