The Altar of Storms

"Must be very important."

"Seems that way." Janguld buckled on his belt and holstered a pair of pistols. "But, like you said, we should get going. I know where the Sisters were staying, hopefully we can pick up their trail there. Come on, Elys! We've got to get moving before the alarm is raised."

They dragged the unconscious guard from the front into another cell and set off. Elys trailed timidly behind while Aranthir and Janguld wound through the winding streets toward the tavern called the Huntsman, where Janguld had brawled with the Forsaken. Around the corner from the Huntsman was the second-floor flophouse where they had been bunking. Aranthir stopped in an alley across the street from it, keeping himself hidden.

"Think they'll be there?" he asked. Janguld shrugged.

"At least one of them was wounded, they can't have gone far. I had better approach them, they might think you're the constable's man."

"It's best we don't split up, come along, Elys."

The three of them made quickly across the street and up the exterior staircase to the flophouse door. Janguld knocked, and after a pause, a woman's voice answered.

"What do you want?"

"Is Gannica there?" Janguld whispered. "It's Janguld."

There was a paused, then they heard harsh, urgent whispers behind the door. "How did you escape the constable?"

"Apliss' fortune. My friend Aranthir is in town and freed me. He's come to help retrieve the book."

The door crept open a hand's breath, secured by an iron chain. A red-haired woman peered around it, her face harrowed and suspicious. "It's just the two of us," Janguld assured her, "And this poor boy we rescued from the jail."

"Well, come in then, I suppose." She unchained the door and allowed them inside. The room was small and cramped, with beds crowded together almost as one and a single lantern for light. A blonde woman lay on the bed against the far wall, her chest wrapped in bloody bandages. A third, dark-haired, woman sat by her side, wringing her hands.

All three women wore the form-fitting leather cuirass and pauldrons with knee-high boots that had come to be known as the mark of the White Sisterhood, a company of mercenaries famous throughout the realms of Colatha. They wore their hair tied up behind them in a tail, and against the wall of the room sat their implements of war; bows, quivers, an arquebus, and long, narrow, double-edged swords.

Janguld stepped into the room behind them and scowled.

"Damn it all, I knew that fight was a mistake. I should have let them go."

"Gannica was stabbed by one of the Forsaken, and they took Ramissia with them," the redheaded woman who had admitted them said, "Gannica's not likely to last the night unless we can get help, but we dare not move her. And we dare not go looking for a healer with the constable still looking for us."

"She needs a priest of Kanaron," Janguld muttered, but Aranthir shook his head.

"She needs a healer. Here, hold this." He thrust his pack into Janguld's hands and went to the woman.

Aranthir swallowed a vialful of spice from his belt and knelt beside Gannica's bed. "Gannica, my name is Aranthir of Ildranon. I am here to help. Now hold still."

He peeled away her bandages until he could see the wound. She grimaced as the cloth was pried away from her bloody flesh but did not resist. After much unwrapping, Aranthir could see where she had been stabbed. The wound was deep and likely to prove fatal in a matter of hours, but he was a skilled healer trained in the colleges of Ildranon.

Closing his eyes, he opened his mind's eye and pictured the wound. Working deftly, he conjured healing threads and wound them over the open wound, channeling raw energy of the spice into life force to replace the blood that had poured out of Gannica's body. She lifted her head slightly and her breath came more easily to her. She raised a hand toward Aranthir.

"What did you do?"

"There," he pronounced. "It will be enough to move you out of town. There's a temple of Askallon on the southern road that will do."

"We should be going east," the redhaired woman declared, "that's where the sorcerer and the book are going."

"East?" Janguld asked, "Why east?"

"He's headed for something in the mountains, I do not know. But they have Ramissia and I won't abandon her."

"I won't abandon Gannica," the other woman shot back. "We must get her to a temple and then we can go hunting Zyek and his sorcerer."

"This Zyek," Aranthir asked, "he is the baron's relative? Who stole the book?"

"He's a young dilettante who fell in with a sorcerer," Gannica gasped in pain as she sat up. "They stole the book together and the baron thinks they will use it in some ritual to make themselves gods."

"Doubtful," Aranthir replied, "The gods do not desire company. But the book could prove dangerous to us all the same. We will get you to the healer and then recover your sister."

"Let's get going then," Gannica said. She swung her legs out of bed and sat a moment, taking deep breaths.

"Can you walk, Gannica?" the dark-haired woman asked, leaning forward to help her elder companion.

"I'll manage," Gannica replied. "Really, Selvenna, I'll manage. Gather our things." Selvenna moved away toward their packs against the wall. "Thank you, master half-elf," Gannica continued quietly. "I'd be as good as dead with you, I fear. And then these two would be left with Janguld here, and how could that turn out well for anyone?"

"I can hear you, you know," Janguld said with a smile. He extended a hand and helped Gannica to her feet. "Glad to see you too."

"Aye, I'm pleased to see you're not bound for the hangman. I'm afraid I won't be much use to you two for a few days, but can I trust you to finish the job and get Ramissia back? She's been with the company barely a year, and so young... I hate to see her remain a prisoner of the Forsaken. Bastards thought it was funny, carrying her off like a pig..."

"We'll get her back," Janguld assured her. "And teach the fuckers a good lesson while we're at it."

"Good," Gannica said. She pulled her arm back from Janguld and stood on her own two feet, swaying slightly. "I'll be fine in a few days," she said, to herself as much as anyone. "Let's get moving."

The Sisters gathered their things, buckling on armor and swordbelts, slinging their bows over their shoulders, and then arming Janguld with Gannica's sword and arquebus. They wrapped themselves in their signature white cloaks and headed for the door. With the redheaded woman, Raenia, just behind him and Elys supporting Gannica, Aranthir led the group of them down the stairs from the flophouse. The streets had quieted now, and only the distant chatter of an alehouse around the corner broke the quiet hum of night.

"Do you have a horse?" Raenia asked in a whisper. Aranthir could only shake his head.

"Nay, left one in a pile with three brigands a few days ago and I've been wearing out the soles of my boots ever since."

"We'll find some," Janguld assured them. Aranthir shook his head.

"We'll buy some. We don't need the trouble that horse thievery will bring, we have enough problems already."

"They're already looking to hang us all, what does it matter if we're horse thieves, too?"

"It matters because we have enough people looking for us without being horse thieves, Janguld."

"How are we going to get out the gates?" Raenia demanded. "Surely the guards will be looking for us."

"I suppose we'll do it the usual way," Janguld mused. "Charm, bribery, threats, violence, in that order."

"Nothing ever changes," Aranthir grumbled. He stopped and passed Gannica off to Elys. The lad held her well enough, though the veteran mercenary clearly disliked needing anyone else's help to walk. But Aranthir struck out ahead of them, ranging up the street to ensure it was clear. They dodged around a street before a tavern that lay choked with rowdy drunks and the brave whores who catered to them. Instead, Aranthir's party squeezed through a narrow alley choked with filth and refuse. Aranthir emerged onto a quiet avenue beyond.

"The town gate isn't far," he assured the group behind him. "Stick close."

They crept up the street in silence, cloaks wrapped around them to shield them from the early spring chill. Little stirred above them, for only a few pairs of curious eyes watched their progress toward the town gate at this hour. His senses heightened by the residual energy of the spice he had consumed, Aranthir's eyes darted back and forth, peering into the open windows at the darkened faces that watched them.

In due time, they reached the town's gate, where a pair of bored sentries stood guard. The heavy oaken gate, banded with iron, stood shut, though a small sally port in it remained ajar, a sentry standing in the opening as he spoke to a peddler outside.

"Apliss spits in my eye," Janguld muttered. "I expected the gate to be unguarded at this hour."

"Can we slip out while they're distracted?" Elys suggested.

"Or climb over the wall," Janguld supplied, clearly remembering past times with Aranthir. The half-elf allowed himself a small smile, but it vanished when he turned toward Gannice.

"She'd never make it. We have to choose charm or violence. Which will it be?"

"I suppose I could try charm for once," Janguld muttered. "Wait here until I call for you."

He straightened his clothes and stowed his borrowed weapons, then strode confidently toward the gate. The guards noticed his approach, slammed the door in the peddler's face, and stood at attention before the gate.

"Halt," the taller of the two called, "the town gates are closed for the night."

"Indeed, and might I say that you do an admirable job keeping the riffraff out," Janguld replied cheerfully, his finger extended toward the closed sally port. "As it happens, however, I need to depart immediately."

"Gate's closed," the other man growled, his voulge clutched before him in two hands. "Turn around, stranger."

"If I might prevail upon your good sense, sirs. I bear a message for the baron, and it must be delivered into his hands straight away."

"We don't work for a baron," the taller sentry replied. "We take orders and silver from the burgomaster, and he says no one passes through the gate between sunset and sunrise."

"Surely you can see that I am no scoundrel. I merely wish to serve my master the same as you."

"Orders are orders," the shorter sentry replied.

"You take orders from the burgomaster, but perhaps you might take silver from both of us?"

The sentries exchanged suspicious looks before turning their gaze back toward Janguld.

"Are you trying to bribe us?"

"No, of course not," he replied with an easy laugh. "Unless you would take a bribe?"

"How much?" the taller sentry asked, and his companion started with surprise.

"Would five silvers do it?"

"Five each?" the man pressed, and Janguld nodded. "Five each, and you be on your way. But if you tell anyone, we'll have you clapped in irons straight away."

"Of course, of course. Here," he said, holding out his hand. "Ten silvers for the pair of you."

The sentries extended their hands. Just before their hands reached the coins, Janguld added "ten silvers for my companions and I to leave through the gate."

"Companions?" the sentries started and their hands recoiled. "You didn't say you have companions."

"Oh, it must have slipped my mind. There they are, five of them." He signaled to Aranthir and they hobbled around the corner with Gannica supported on Elys' shoulder.

"Hold on, now. Those are no messengers. What are you trying to pull over our eyes?"

"I am merely trying to secure a way out of town for us. What business of yours is it what we do? Do you want the money or not?"

The sentries shifted back and forth, hands on their weapons. The taller one muttered to his companion "ten silver is ten silver..." the shorter one glowered at his companion from under his kettle helm. Aranthir stopped next to Janguld and looked the men over.

"Everything alright here, friend?" the sentries took note of his pointed ears and eyes that glittered in the starlight and each took a half step back.

"Everything is alright," the shorter sentry replied. "Hand over the money and be on your way."

"Half now, half when we are through the gate," Janguld replied. The sentries clearly disliked the new conditions on their deal, but wasted little time in opening the sally port. Aranthir and Elys helped Gannica through and Janguld handed over the money before the gate slammed shut behind them.

"Get moving now, and keep your mouths shut," one sentry snapped through a viewing slit. Aranthir smiled to himself and clapped Janguld on the shoulder.

"You've still got it."

"Never lost it. Now come on, let's get moving. How far is this temple?"

"Some miles. We'll need to move fast if we're to catch this sorcerer in the morning."

They set a hard pace through the night such that Elys struggled to keep up, unused as he was to the soldier's life. They took turns supporting Gannica until at last, after several miles of marching under a waning moon, they arrived before the temple. The squat gray hall was ringed by a low hedge pierced every ten paces by a tall cypress tree. Twin braziers burned to either side of the bronze door, the warm glow welcoming in the dead of night.

Gannica threw herself off Janguld's shoulder to hobble the last fifty paces to the temple under her own power with the rest of them in tow. A white-robed acolyte emerged from the temple to greet them, his face freshly washed and clean shaven.

"You are injured," he exclaimed, somewhat unhelpfully, Aranthir noted sourly. "Please, allow me to help you."

Gannica grimaced as her strength waned, and nearly fell into his arms. With a supportive arm, he turned and helped her inside. Aranthir and the others followed close behind.             

The interior of the temple was a clean, bare hall of plastered stone, lined with beds. Many of them were occupied by sick and injured persons in varying stages of convalescence. The acolyte found an empty bed for Gannica and laid her down before beginning to inspect her wound.

"Are these fresh?" he asked, and Gannica nodded.

"From earlier this night."

"You have already had a healer see to them, then? And a good one, I can tell."

"That would be master half-elf there," Gannica nodded in Aranthir's direction, and the acolyte looked up in appreciation.

"You have a healer's hands, sir," he said, bowing slightly.

"I had good tutors."

"Where did you study then?"

"Ildranon," was Aranthir's reply, and the acolyte nodded again, this time in awe.

"Truly Ildranon is shining beacon of knowledge. I am honored to meet one steeped in such knowledge as yourself, sir elf."

"You can take care of her from here?" Janguld asked, and the acolyte nodded.

"The priesthood of Askallon are masters of our craft. Fear not, we will restore her to health in due time."

"How much time is due?" demanded Raenia. "We must set off at once."

"It will be a few days, at least," the acolyte replied. "Despite the healing from master elf, the wound is deep."

"Leave me then," Gannica ordered. "You have a task that needs to be done. I won't let my injuries hold you back."

"Where are they going?" Aranthir demanded. "Where do we pick up the trail?"

"The baron said his nephew had spoken of a mountain peak. There is some ancient altar atop it, a holy place to Azlit."

"I know the place," the acolyte said suddenly. "The mountaineers call it the Altar of Storms. It is a terrible place, a bare peak blasted by countless storms."

"How do we get there?"

"Head east toward the village of Mossy Bridge. After you pass through the village, follow the trails into the mountains and up the crooked peak to the top. There you will find the altar, in a bowl at the summit."

"Very well," Aranthir sighed. "We will rest here until dawn, then start on our way again."

"Press yourselves, master half-elf. Press yourselves hard." Gannica lay back in her bed and grimaced. "I never should have let them take Ramissia. Find her for me, won't you? Make sure she's safe."

"Fear not," Aranthir replied quietly. "I will."

Sennidor and his companions left the city some time after dawn. The gate guards gave them no trouble for the burgomaster had cleared their way. The men were in high spirits, buoyed by their victory in the brawl against their hated rivals, the White Sisters, as well as by their prisoner. The girl they had captured in the brawl was thrown over the back of a packhorse, stripped naked and bound tightly with ropes, she had provided them with much entertainment the night before. The sorcerer wondered how much sleep the men had gotten. He had not gotten much, listening to them all night long.

The sorcerer looked to his patron, a tall, stocky man on a fine gray horse, who rode next to Sennidor with a smile, his eyes fixed on the form of their captive underneath the cloak they had thrown over her. Her bare feet stuck out on one side, her long, loose chestnut hair hung out the other. The nobleman was looking forward to when they stopped for the night, his long tongue licking his lips as he rode. Sennidor sighed.

"No interest in our prize, sorcerer?" Zyek asked with a mocking smile. "I was glad to take your turn last night, but the men will ask questions if you don't take yours tonight. We can tell you want her, what's the use in withholding from yourself?"

"I keep my focus on the task ahead, sir. The rewards we stand to gain will outshine this little wench like the sun outshines a candle."

"The task ahead," the nobleman mused. "What more is there to be done? We have the book, we know where to go. Will it not be a simple matter?"

Sennidor refrained from rolling his eyes. The rich fop knew nothing. "The ritual to harness a storm will be difficult enough. And we would be blessed by Azlit to get a storm without a long wait."

"The early spring is wracked with storms," Zyek protested, "how long will we have to wait?"

"I am unsure. The signs were good, but the weather is always unpredictable."

"Tell me about the signs again," Zyek asked. "Do the signs include her?" he pointed to the young woman under the cloak. Sennidor shook his head.

"The signs are concerned with things of importance. They will not tell the future of some wench." Or you, Sennidor thought bitterly. They were barely a week from the wastrel's home manor, and he was already growing tired of the man. Zyek stroked his beardless chin in thought, though Sennidor doubted there was anything happening behind his eyes.

At last, the man spoke again. "Do the signs say we will be successful?"

"They do," Sennidor lied. "They speak of a new power rising soon. But they are still unclear. Perhaps, if I had the book, I could match them to something within it?"

"Oh, no," Zyek replied with a laugh. "The book is mine. I'll not hand it off to you, only to watch you disappear around the next bend. The book remains with me until we reach the altar."

Sennidor fumed. Why is this the only smart thought he has? he wondered to himself. His eyes went to the book, hanging from Zyek's saddle. It was made of well-worn parchment and bound with brass covers fronted with jet and carved in the shape of an alien face. Sennidor remembered an illustration of it from his days in the Sable Tower and had long dreamed of finding it himself, but the sight of it for real had left him shaken.

Zyek had been trusting enough to let him leaf through it back at his uncle's manor, but he had not been able to glean much from it. Yet still, few sorcerers in the world earned the chance to leaf through one of the Thirty-Seven Volumes of Vercenx, Sorcerer-King of old. Each of them contained a wealth of ancient knowledge, just waiting to be uncovered. Yet here sat Sennidor, watching the book bob up and down on the saddle of a worthless dilettante who expected his hired spellsword to make him into a god.