It is on this planet, where only the Windmasters can summon the devastating power of rain, gale, thunder, and lightning, that the last surviving remnants of humankind have come, fleeing the destruction of their empire at the hands of the alien Csendook. And it is here the human race will be resurrected...or exterminated. The sorcerers of this barbaric, inhospitable world have vowed to cleanse Innasmorn of the uninvited "abomination." And somewhere in the swirl of the dimensions--eons distant but as near as a word of power--the relentless Csendook destroyers scent human blood on the galactic wind.
"Adrian Cole has a magic touch." -- Roger Zelazny
Don't miss the entire Star Requiem quartet: Mother of Storms, Thief of Dreams, Warlord of Heaven, Labyrinth of Worlds
It is on this planet, where only the Windmasters can summon the devastating power of rain, gale, thunder, and lightning, that the last surviving remnants of humankind have come, fleeing the destruction of their empire at the hands of the alien Csendook. And it is here the human race will be resurrected...or exterminated. The sorcerers of this barbaric, inhospitable world have vowed to cleanse Innasmorn of the uninvited "abomination." And somewhere in the swirl of the dimensions--eons distant but as near as a word of power--the relentless Csendook destroyers scent human blood on the galactic wind.
"Adrian Cole has a magic touch." -- Roger Zelazny
Don't miss the entire Star Requiem quartet: Mother of Storms, Thief of Dreams, Warlord of Heaven, Labyrinth of Worlds
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Overview
It is on this planet, where only the Windmasters can summon the devastating power of rain, gale, thunder, and lightning, that the last surviving remnants of humankind have come, fleeing the destruction of their empire at the hands of the alien Csendook. And it is here the human race will be resurrected...or exterminated. The sorcerers of this barbaric, inhospitable world have vowed to cleanse Innasmorn of the uninvited "abomination." And somewhere in the swirl of the dimensions--eons distant but as near as a word of power--the relentless Csendook destroyers scent human blood on the galactic wind.
"Adrian Cole has a magic touch." -- Roger Zelazny
Don't miss the entire Star Requiem quartet: Mother of Storms, Thief of Dreams, Warlord of Heaven, Labyrinth of Worlds
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781497621701 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2014 |
| Series: | Star Requiem , #1 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 378 |
| Sales rank: | 358,335 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Mother Of Storms
Star Requiem: Book One
By Adrian Cole
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1989 Adrian ColeAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-2170-1
CHAPTER 1
WINDMASTER
It was early morning when word came to the village. Dawn had barely broken, the air was still crisp and the faintest of breezes stirred the trees that closed around the foot of the earthwork slopes. Winter had passed, and the season of high winds and storms was over; the land dozed under a more peaceful sky. Hounds, stretched across the thresholds of their masters' homes, cocked their ears at the sound of the far wind as if hearing it speak to them of the vanished winter. A number of them growled low in their chests.
Although the village was under no threat from any of its neighbours, there were always a number of guards set about its perimeter at night, beyond the earthworks. Most of them, like the hounds, were more asleep than awake. Occasionally they met and exchanged a brief conversation.
Two of them spoke now, leaning on their wooden javelins and gazing out across an opening in the forest where a track stretched upwards through the trees to hills in the west. The men knew someone was coming, riding quickly from the foothills, for the breeze had already warned them, whispering in the dawn light like a lover.
'He comes in haste,' said Gadrune, wondering if he could also taste panic on the air.
Decran yawned. He was getting too old to stand guard any more. But his pride wouldn't let him relinquish the authority that went with the post. 'Aye. I expect the horse is as tired as I am.'
Gadrune grunted, concentrating. He moved slowly through the low trees, and although he was aware of who was coming, he still concealed himself. 'Warn the others,' he said, not taking his eyes off the track.
Decran nodded sleepily. Gadrune was being unnecessarily fussy: if this were an enemy coming, he would hardly ride so noisily and openly upon them. But he turned back to the embankment, seeking one of the rows of tiny chimes that would wake anyone not yet out of sleep. They tinkled as he touched them lightly, the notes floating over the earth and down to the lodges beyond.
In a moment the rider burst out of the trees across the clearing and raced furiously over the open ground, the steed wide-eyed but eager. The young man riding the animal would have raced on past Gadrune, but the latter blocked his path well before he could be met. The rider pulled up, earth flying about his mount, his cloak whipping about him as if he had brought a minor gale with him.
'Gadrune!' shouted the youth, though his physique was that of a seasoned warrior. Gadrune gaped, recognising him at once. It was Tronmar, a son of this very village, who had been chosen to go westward to serve higher masters. But how the lad had changed! His eyes held a wildness, his whole bearing a military stiffness, and even his voice, speaking the single word, cut like a weapon. But what now shocked Gadrune more was the steed. As he studied it, he realised it was no ordinary horse, and though it stamped its feet and drew breath with a snort, it had something else about it, a darkness almost, as though the elements had shaped it and given it powers of its own. Its lower legs seemed lost in a haze for a moment as if the beast could be part phantom.
Gadrune felt himself stiffening with sudden fear. He tried to mask it quickly. 'What storm brings you here, Tronmar?' He could scent no fear in the youth, only excitement.
'Not ill news. But I must speak to the clan elders quickly. They must be prepared.'
'For what?'
'Vittargattus, clan chief of the Vaza, is sending out his shaman, to speak to all the Vaza clans. I bring you word of Kuraal, who will be here this very day.'
Gadrune raised his brows, looking across at the trees as if he would see the renowned shaman standing there already. 'Kuraal! Why should such a powerful man visit us?'
'You will hear soon enough,' said Tronmar. He dismounted, calmed his steed and spoke to it. It turned and slipped like mist into the forest. Gadrune walked beside the youth towards the embankment. 'I know very little,' Tronmar told him. 'But Vittargattus is mobilising.' He spoke softly , as though mindful of the least breeze, thinking it might steal the words.
Gadrune felt his heart pumping. Mobilising! War? Surely the ambitions of the clan chief did not stretch further than the almost limitless lands he already had.
They came down over the earthworks to the first houses, which merged in with other trees, wisps of smoke drifting up from their thatched roofs like the last of the mist. Decran had already brought a number of the elders and senior warriors together, and though they smiled at Tronmar and gave him welcome, they could not conceal their inner qualms at the change in him. The youth was a messenger of the clan chief's men. It might mean a tax levy, or worse, a call for soldiers to go west. And Tronmar's very bearing spoke of the latter.
Above the central court of the village, crouched in the thick branches of the trees like cats, silent and invisible, a trio of young men watched the arrival of Tronmar. They, too, had reached the instant conclusion that the former son of the village had come here to fetch arms rather than tax. One of the youths, Armestor, was about to speak, when the eldest of them, Ussemitus, motioned him to be still.
The voice of Tronmar drifted up clearly on the air which had become very still, the breeze dropping to nothing. 'I can tell you very little myself. The Blue Hair will do that when he arrives. Listen carefully to what he tells you.' He looked about him, ears cocked. 'I should not say it, but he is powerful, and not to be disobeyed. I have seen what the Windmasters can do.'
'What does he mean?' said Armestor nervously, unable to keep his tongue still. 'What's a Blue Hair?'
'Sorcerer,' hissed the other lad, Fomond,
'The old mothers say that to scare you,' snorted Armestor, though by his face he was not convinced.
'Shut up!' said Ussemitus.
'I must ride south and let other tribes know of Kuraal's coming,' said Tronmar, his eyes for a moment scanning the trees where Ussemitus and his companions hid. But he turned back to the elders. 'Do you know anything of the mountains in the north east? Has anything been seen there?'
'Not since the night of the Falling Sky,' one of the elders answered, and there were confirming nods.
Tronmar grunted. Then he thanked them and went back swiftly to the outer embankment. In a short while he had ridden away as quickly as he had come, leaving behind him an excited murmur in the village.
Ussemitus and his companions slipped down from the trees and found another way out of the village, going to a private place of their own about a mile from it, a rocky outcrop that overlooked the path, where they could feel reasonably safe from prying eyes. A gurgling stream nearby muffled their whispers from ears that might otherwise have strained to catch their secrets.
Ussemitus was the strongest and fittest of the trio, being unusually muscular for one of his race, for the villagers of these forest clans were generally thin and wiry. Ussemitus also had a keen mind, which his friends were quick to respond to, not least because he questioned things about the world that they preferred not to, something which had brought him under the watchful eye of the elders from an early age. If there were rebels in the camp, they invariably found their way to Ussemitus. Even so, he was by no means a villain and not considered one, for he put the safety of the village before anything else, something which the elders respected in him.
He leaned back among the rocks, warmed now by the rising sun. 'Kuraal,' he murmured. 'The Blue Hair.'
Armestor had only recently attached himself to Ussemitus and his companions, and was a year or two younger. He was even thinner than most of his fellows, something which helped account for his almost perpetual nervousness. He had a pinched face and eyes that were never still, alert as a cat's. 'Is he a sorcerer?'
Ussemitus shrugged. 'He's a shaman. Vittargattus has many, and they are ruled by an inner ring, the Windmasters. They're supposed to be able to control the storms and converse with the wind elementals.'
Fomond grinned. He enjoyed such tales, though he had always been more sceptical than wary, unlike Armestor, who was a devout believer. Fomond stroked the wooden knife that he always carried. 'They say that, no doubt, so that they can keep a grip on poor simpletons like us.'
'You ought to be more careful,' admonished Armestor. 'The wind hears everything.'
Fomond's grin widened. 'I bless the wind,' he bowed. 'But no one rules it.'
'I don't think we should dismiss the shamen too lightly,' said Ussemitus. 'I've heard some strange tales about them. Especially the Blue Hairs, though they're supposed to be a secretive lot. Kuraal is from the inner ring, and will have the ear of Vittargattus himself.'
'So he's a Windmaster?' said Armestor, impressed.
'Yes. And as such would not normally have anything to do with such a remote village as ours.'
Armestor's eyes bulged. 'Why do you think he's coming?'
Ussemitus looked across at Fomond, who nodded. 'Interesting that Tronmar asked about the north eastern mountains.'
Armestor was about to speak, but something out in the trees alerted him and he ducked down. Instantly Ussemitus and Fomond were on their bellies, listening for movement. In a while they heard soft calls and rose up, relieved. Two more of their companions were coming, Arbos and Gudrond. Arbos was a tall fellow, his face seemingly a permanent frown, though he was good-natured enough in his way, and Gudrond was shorter, as nervous at times as Armestor.
'Heard the news?' Gudrond said.
Ussemitus nodded patiently, sensing Fomond's annoyance. Fomond had no time for Gudrond and found him garrulous and crude. Ussemitus, however, guessed that Gudrond's bluster was meant to impress and was essentially harmless. 'Yes. We're to be honoured by a visit from a Blue Hair. We were just saying that we thought it might have something to do with the Falling Sky.'
'That was ages ago,' said Armestor. 'Just about forgotten.'
'Not by Vittargattus, nor his spies,' said Ussemitus.
'Maybe the Windmasters caused it,' said Fomond, though it was clear from his expression that he was being facetious.
'You think so?' said Gudrond, taken in.
Fomond snorted. 'No, you fool. They fear the mountains.'
'I think you're probably right,' said Ussemitus. 'But we'll know when Kuraal gets here.'
'When will that be?' said Armestor.
'Half a day,' said Fomond, as though he had already seen the clan chief's shaman far away.
'Well,' said Gudrond. 'I've business in the village. There's a certain wench expecting me –'
Ussemitus saw the look of derision cross Fomond's face, but said nothing. Gudrond would learn to curb his boasting in time. It may yet be a painful lesson.
Towards the middle of the afternoon the wind began to rise in pitch, tugging at the branches, spinning dust in the village. The sun slipped under a cover of racing cloud, huge grey shapes that sped like harbingers from the west. Everyone in the village had been told; they had been preparing busily since Tronmar's visit, as though Vittargattus himself was coming. Ussemitus and his companions had dutifully helped with the preparations, though they found it irksome. It seemed there was to be a feast tonight: nothing was too good for Kuraal and his party. Word had come that it was fifty strong, a guard of picked Vaza warriors. The young girls giggled and ran about excitedly; the elders shook their heads in anticipation of this visit, knowing that the clan chief must be preparing for conflict and probably on a large scale. But who was the enemy? What had the north-east to do with it?
The men of the village were inspected repeatedly, all of them decked for battle, their spears sharpened and dressed with fine plumes. They lined up to be studied until they thought the elders would never be satisfied.
A sudden gust of air heralded more cloud and shadow, until dust swirled in from the west, sent, it was said, by the shaman. When figures and horses materialised at last, they found the village ready for them, the narrow street lined with silent, reverent villagers. Among them Ussemitus and his companions waited, eyes fixed ahead of them, though Fomond glanced once at Ussemitus and upwards in mock exasperation. Armestor and Gudrond were rigid, like hares caught in the shadow of a diving hawk.
Kuraal rode at the head of his party, his horse moving at a gentle trot, its gaze haughty, so that all those who followed behind seemed to do so at its express command. Ussemitus could not keep from looking at the magnificent grey. His companions, however, were far more interested in the shaman.
He was very tall, his face unusually dark, framed in long wisps of hair that reached his waist. It was light blue in colour, carefully dyed, and looked to be the texture of silk, something which had the women gasping in amazement. Kuraal had a sharply pointed nose and eyes that were cold, lidded as though protected from a climate of sandstorms. He did not come from the northern forests, though no one doubted his loyalty to the renowned clan chief.
The Blue Hair dismounted before the village elders, his warriors following suit. A place had been prepared for the horses in one of the stockades and they were led away without fuss. Kuraal nodded silently to the elders, and after a few hushed words which no one else heard, he was escorted into the central long hut where the day's preparations had been centred.
'Now we wait, I suppose,' grunted Armestor. Only the elders and selected warriors of the village were to go in to the banquet and to hear the words of Kuraal.
'Never mind. We'll hear the rest tomorrow,' said Fomond.
'Shall we go and talk to some of the soldiers?' suggested Ussemitus. 'They must know something about the clan chief's intentions.'
The others agreed at once, and they did join other villagers in going to Kuraal's guards, most of whom had not gone in to the hall and were to be housed in another long hut. After a moment, Ussemitus slipped away from the growing chatter. It was easily achieved, for his fellows were eager to hear what news they could and no one noticed Ussemitus go to the rear of the long banqueting hut. Fomond was already there, grinning at him. He pointed upward.
'You first. I'll keep watch,' he said.
Since they had been children, they had been using this secret way in to the hall, where they had heard many an intriguing bit of news about the village and the clans of the forest lands. It was a secret they shared with no others, another link in the particular bond that had always kept them as close as brothers.
Ussemitus shinned up the wall easily, squeezing himself in through a gap he had made in the thatch earlier that afternoon. Moments after he was inside, Fomond was beside him. They pulled the thatch back into place, listening to the sounds below them. They were straddling the thick beams of the long hut, coated with dust and shadow. Slowly they edged along them, moving out to a point where they could see what transpired below clearly, and hear every word. But they were high enough up in the darkness not to be seen.
There was little conversation: the shaman had brought with him an atmosphere, as though he was not quite human. He sat at the head of the long table, guards at either side of him, and ate sparingly of the cooked meat put before him, though he seemed satisfied with it. He should, mused Ussemitus, it was the best venison, freshly killed. Kuraal's guards were less mannerly, eating with the appetites of men long on the road, though they were careful not to drink too much of the rough mead, which was notorious throughout the lands of the Vaza.
The moment came at last for Kuraal to begin speaking. Silence was instant, and Ussemitus felt it outside the thatch as well as within, a great pall of it, as if the whole of the north paused to hear this message.
Kuraal did not stand. He merely sat back, wiped his thin lips and gestured for his plates to be removed. He sipped at the mead and then looked at the anxious faces. 'Some time ago,' he began in a harsh voice, 'there was a storm, if storm it was.' Everyone knew what he was referring to. 'In the north-east. In the mountains. My brothers and I have been observing those mountains very carefully. We have spoken to the storms about them.'
No one whispered, nor moved. Fomond nudged Ussemitus, but the latter ignored him.
'Has anyone in your forest lands learned anything about the night of the Falling Sky?'
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Mother Of Storms by Adrian Cole. Copyright © 1989 Adrian Cole. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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