Read The Storm's Own Son (Book 3) Online
Authors: Anthony Gillis
The Storm's Own Son (Book 3)
The commanders ahead had believed his words and trusted his honor. In doing so, they had taken a terrible risk. The men who followed them now put their lives on the line. They had chosen to stand for what was theirs, and they had aligned themselves with him. They stood and died to help their own escape to his side.
Now they were his own, and he would not let them stand alone.
The Storm's Own Son
Book Three
By Anthony Gillis
First Edition 2014
Published by Sol Invictus Publishing Inc
Cover design and interior artwork by Anthony Gillis
Copyright © 2014 Anthony Gillis
ISBN 9781310857386
License Notes
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Preface
This work is dedicated to all who live by their own free minds, hearts, and conscience.
Writing it was an intensely personal creative process, with a great many of my ideas, feelings and reflections on life woven into it, underneath the surface of the story. That said, it is not an allegory or a commentary on modern politics, religion, or events. I've tried to create a world with its own history, cultures, beliefs and ideas. I hope it is one you enjoy exploring.
It is also a story written by and for adults with an adult view of life. It contains explicit violence and sex. If these are not to your taste, feel free to pass it by. The Storm's Own Son is the first volume in the Storm and Fire trilogy, which itself is written as a single whole. For that reason, though this volume tells a complete story arc, it does not tell the complete story.
The best to you,
Anthony Gillis
June 9, 2014
The complete Storm and Fire series comprises the following:
Volume I
The Storm's Own Son - Book One
The Storm's Own Son - Book Two
The Storm's Own Son - Book Three
Volume II
Mercy of the Prophet - Book One
Mercy of the Prophet - Book Two
Mercy of the Prophet - Book Three
Volume III
Lord of Worlds - Book One
Lord of Worlds - Book Two
Lord of Worlds - Book Three
Other Books by Anthony Gillis
THE STORM'S OWN SON
BOOK THREE
Talaos knew what sat before him on the vacant-eyed horse. They had been mentioned many times in the books of the Prophet. He looked upon one of the Twelve Hands, the personal messengers of the Living Prophet himself. They were said to have given up almost all individuality, and to be in direct communion with their master.
They had great power, but were still mortal men. When each died, he was replaced, so that there were always twelve.
The Hand continued to ride forward, past the no-man's land in front of the enemy army, through the ranks of the enemy delegation, and straight toward Talaos.
Talaos watched his true enemy approach. He restrained the impulse to leap to the attack.
Without pause or attention to those around him, the Hand reached Maxano's position in front of Talaos, and the general was forced to step his horse to the side. The Hand then stopped and surveyed Talaos from behind his eyeless mask.
For his part, Talaos ignored the Hand, and shouted to the enemy commanders before him.
"Generals and warlords, this thing in the golden mask is your enemy! Here in Hunyos we are playing at war for land, treaties and concessions. The Prophet plays both sides, and for far larger goals! Wars like ours were once fought in the Eastlands. Now, all the opposing sides are gone, and the Prophet rules everywhere. And now he is here!”
Some at least listened, thought Talaos; others cowered or held aloof, and many looked at him with hatred.
The Hand spoke, and again the eloquent voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once. "Ask this one, then--where are the Prophet's armies? All mankind, regardless where they dwell, are of the same people. Believers in the faith serve those of their homes, and they honor their oaths. Even desiring peace, they serve. They were found even in the army that this one claims as his, until he betrayed them. What does he serve, but himself?"
Talaos answered, "The Prophet needs no armies when he raises them here! In Avrosa, believers in his faith betrayed their city and their own people. They violated the ancient laws! They burned innocent people alive on pyres! They handed control of their army and their city over to the rule of the Prophet. What do I serve? At risk of my own life, I put a stop to it all!"
The Hand of the Prophet made no reply. Instead, he rode slowly and silently closer.
"Men of Hunyos," roared Talaos, "the sides in this war are not what you have thought! They are us, all of us on the one, and on the other, the Living Prophet."
Hostile words came his way from several of the commanders and others in the delegation. Gavro, however, gave him a long and appraising look. Maxano glanced around him with a hint of dismay, as the discipline of his officers unraveled before his eyes.
Meanwhile, the Hand stopped and surveyed Talaos in silence. At last he spoke. His voice became closer, focused in tones of command, and clearly directed at Talaos. Power shimmered in the air with the words, "You are both man and spirit. It is a very great curse upon your soul. Lay down your arms, dismount your horse, and step forward to seek forgiveness."
Talaos laughed.
The wind picked up, and overhead, the clouds grew darker.
The Hand, who thus far in his physical motions had hardly seemed to acknowledge the world around him, tilted his masked face slightly up at the sky. Then he turned again to Talaos, unseen eyes aimed directly at his own.
Talaos felt a malevolent will, something like what he'd felt from the copper eyes in the House of the Prophet. Not so completely inhuman, but far more powerful. For a moment, he thought of twelve sets of eyes upon him rather than one. Twelve sets of eyes, twelve minds, as one, hostile. Then, he thought he felt something new from those twelve minds. Comprehension.
The Hand suddenly wheeled his horse and rode hard back to the enemy camp.
Talaos felt the urge to chase after, to leap at the enemy with blades flashing. He wanted to strike down the Hand with lightning. Wished that like his ancestor the Storm Lord, he could wield it directly with his own hands.
A peal of thunder rolled in the darkening sky.
He felt the power rising in him, and the fury.
There was the enemy before him, riding away, escaping.
But, he had come under a token of truce. He had given his word and pledged his honor.
Maxano, and the commanders around him, looked at him with startled expressions.
"Your eyes…" said the senior enemy commander, voice trailing off.
Those he thought to be supporters of the Prophet stood back, some calm, some putting hands to weapons, others cowering, with mingled fear and hate in their eyes. The other emissary of the Prophet still stood quietly by, placid in his robes and bare feet.
Talaos spoke again, and his voice rose loud as thunder, "Men of Hunyos! Before you is a choice! Stand for your homes, your kin, your honor, and all else that is yours, or throw them all away and become slaves to things that no longer even have souls to call their own!
"I, Talaos, have made my choice! All who reject the Prophet are my friends, and welcome in Avrosa. Together we can end this false war and drive out the true enemy!"
With that, Talaos wheeled his own horse and rode back for Avrosa.
As he went, he could see the refugees in their thousands, walking with burdens of goods and songs of the faith of the Prophet, on their way to the enemy camp. Among them there were the captured Easterners and a few former soldiers of the allied army. Most ignored him, wrapped in their songs, but some made signs as if to ward off evil, or glared his way.
It was done, Talaos thought as he rode. Just as the Prophet had thrown events into motion, so had he. Now to see the consequences. As he approached his delegation, he could see their expressions, varyingly curious or apprehensive. Another thought came to him. If the Hand of the Prophet were going to strike at him, it would likely come today or tonight.
It was his task, thought Talaos, to ensure others were safely out of the way when it came.
~
Darkness was falling, and the fires of the enemy army formed a great half circle around Avrosa. The sky brooded black with looming clouds. At the rampart of the keep, Talaos considered the events before him. The enemy had spent the day assembling siege equipment, building mantlets and digging trenches of their own, outside those that now formed outer defenses for Avrosa. They had not attempted to come within artillery range.
In the early afternoon, a body of about three hundred troops had made its way down from the hills to the west and joined the invaders. Talaos thought it likely they were from Ipesca.
He'd had time to observe the enemy camp, and saw there a distinct area that looked to be under the control of emissaries of the Prophet. It had a very large, tan and white tent which might be a House of the Prophet, a green one of nearly equal size with stretchers and other things connected with healing around it, and a smaller, white, circular tent. The smaller tent sat at the center of three symmetrically overlapping circles inscribed in the ground like sparring rings, but much deeper cut. Surrounding and joining them all was a larger circle.
Talaos thought it likely that the tent was for the use of the Hand, though his readings had suggested they did not actually sleep. Even so, he'd seen no direct sign of the Hand since he'd returned to Avrosa. He suspected he might see such now.
Vulkas, standing nearby with his war mattock resting at his side, spoke in skeptical tones, "You sure you want to do this? Eight is better than one."
"You'll keep your distance. Whatever comes will be coming for me. The fewer people around to get hurt along the way, the better. I've already made a risky gamble that they'd wait until night."
"You know we'll be around where we can see things," replied Vulkas.
"I know. You can decide for yourselves once we see, if we see, what it actually is. Men or monsters you can fight. If it is magic or something else, I don't want anyone else in the way."
Vulkas nodded. The other Madmen gathered round, and Talaos gripped their forearms in the military handshake. Then he made his way to the old tower. It was the one place, he thought, where he might be remote enough from others to for them to be safe, yet able to see what was coming. He'd given orders for all others to stay clear of it.
Soldiers crowded the walls. He greeted them on his way, and gave orders to officers as needed. Ahead was the causeway from the wall to the old tower. Nearer was Liriel in a dark, wine-colored dress, looking out over a parapet. She had silver rings in her ears and on her wrists, her eyes had heavy rims of kohl, and her lips were painted a somber black. She turned as if expecting him, and walked his way.
"Talaos," she said, "I do know some things about magic and its uses. I could help…"
He smiled, and ran his hand through her long spiraling hair. He felt its soft touch, like caressing shadows around his hand. She drew close.
"That may be," he answered, "but you will not be atop that tower with me."
"As you wish," she replied. Then she looked up at him with tears forming quietly in the corners of her dark eyes.
He pulled her close, tight in his arms, and kissed her. She calmed. He put a hand under her chin and smiled. She attempted a smile of her own. Then he let her go and went on.
Talaos reached the causeway. As per his orders, there were no guards at the door of the tower itself. If something or someone came for him, he would welcome and face them. He entered the tower and climbed the steps, passing levels empty of soldiers. He reached the room of observatory equipment, cleaned up by his orders, though still not in use. He took a look at the carving of the Storm Lord, who he now accepted as his forefather, and his thoughts reached across two thousand years with a sense of common purpose. Then he ascended to the top, and from there to the small watchtower.
At the very top, he could see before him a panorama of red and black. Thousands of enemy camp fires burned amid the darkened plains. Torches lit the city wall, and stars the black sky. Behind him, the lights of the city twinkled in white and yellow, and then uttermost blackness of sea and sky beyond. All around, the wind, which had quieted during midday, rose again.
He threw back his cloak. His city and his own: he stood ready to defend them with his life.
By his power and fury, he would defend them.
Both rose in him now, slowly, like thunder rolling across a vast empty landscape.
Distant thunder rolled over the unseen mountains.
Time passed, and the night grew darker. Down in the vast enemy camp, campfires burned low. He watched the area where the Prophet's believers were centered. He was not surprised that the refugees had gathered there. The large tents were brightly lit. A vast crowd surrounded the one he thought to be the House of the Prophet, and many people were coming and going.
A song rose from the Prophet's camp. He listened. It had two interwoven themes, each sung by separate choruses. One, in Imperial, was being sung by a great mass of people outside the House of the Prophet, and it had words of justice for evildoers.
The other, smaller and more coordinated, came from inside the House itself. It was in the Eastern speech used by the Prophet's followers. He could understand a little now— there had been copies of the history and the book of laws in the Prophet's speech written apparently for instruction, in both the original and transliterated Imperial script.
Talaos looked to the smaller tent where he thought the Hand might be. There was a faint greenish light within. Then, in the overlapping circles around the tent, another verdant light appeared. It seemed to well up from the bottom of the deep-carved trenches, growing fainter near the surface.
The round tent suddenly unfolded from inside, in three neat pieces. Each was held via a long staff by a priest in robes and a white cap. They wrapped themselves in the sections of the tent like cloaks, or even more so, like shrouds, and then kneeled facing inward. They placed their staffs on the ground before them, touching to form a triangle. In the center stood the Hand of the Prophet with arms crossed at his chest, hands open and palms facing in. He directly faced Talaos, and from head to foot radiated flickering green fire.
Talaos readied himself.
Thunder rolled more closely now, booming over the hills, and lightning played on the peaks.
Time passed, brooding and unsettled.
Lights grew fewer and dimmer in the enemy camp, and the soldiers dwindled on the walls of Avrosa. However, around the House of the Prophet, the crowd had grown vast.
The songs grew stronger, more coordinated. The singers of the second theme were now in perfect unison, as if singing with a single voice, slow and rhythmic. It was almost soothing, calming in its methodical, powerful cadence. The light in the depths of the circles of power around the Hand grew brighter. Talaos thought, though it was hard to tell at such distance, that wisps of green-lit mist curled up from it.
He would see what they had for him, and they would see what he had in return.
He'd pieced more together from his readings, more about the power of the Prophet and its sources. It drew on, fed on, and consumed life, whether willingly through collective effort and sacrifice, or unwillingly through life-draining sorcery and the burnings on the pyres. Green was considered the color of life in the Prophet's belief system, but not necessarily life given.
