The Altar of Storms

How low have I sunk? The sorcerer mused bitterly. Get hold of yourself, he chided. The man's a damned fool, his mind addled by drink and women. It should prove easy to trick him into giving you the book. Sennidor chewed his lip in thought. They were at least three days from the altar on the mountain summit. He had time to work his silver tongue.

"It does me little good to have the altar, but not the book," he started, but Zyek cut him off.

"You will have both, in time. Once we reach the altar, I will hand it over, and you will make me a god. Then you will have all the riches, power, and women you might desire."

"Books like this require much study," Sennidor protested, "it might take some time once we reach the altar, and we only have so many days of rations. If a storm strikes, we must be ready to exploit it."

"You're a quick study, sorcerer," Zyek replied. "I have faith that you'll make do."

Sennidor thought, not for the first time, to simply seize the book and make a run for it, but the seven seasoned mercenaries that Zyek had hired dissuaded him from such thoughts. The men rode ahead of them, each mounted on a heavyset warhorse and clad in brigandine coats with sallet helms. They carried demi-lances, sabers, and pistols hanging from their saddles. The group of them were laughing, sharing stories of past exploits.

He thought back to the brawl in the Huntsman. Four White Sisters and their male companion had battle against the burgomaster's four men and the seven Forsaken. In the end, one Sister had been stabbed, another captured, in exchange for the deaths of two of the burgomaster's lazy louts. Sennidor had marveled at their strength and ferocity in the tavern, but upon seeing the result he could not be so sure. Despite having twice their number, the Forsaken had failed to win a decisive victory. Perhaps he could escape with the book if he were clever? Yet they all knew where he was headed, and Sennidor could only sigh. His attention returned to the book hanging from Zyek's saddle.

"Tell me, sir. Where did the baron acquire this book?"

"From a passing trader, he tells me. It was before my time, and all he has done with it since is let it collect dust in the library. I am doing him a favor, I think. He would surely prefer to have a divine nephew than another ornament in his library."

"I think we would be better served by letting me have a look at the book," Sennidor broached again. Zyek simply shook his head.

"The book stays closed and in my possession. There will be no more discussion of the matter."

Sullenly, Sennidor spurred his horse ahead to ride close behind the Forsaken. The mercenaries noted his presence, but immediately returned to their chatter unconcerned. He rode behind them, listening to the banter of seasoned soldiers until they stopped for their midday break.

The horses were fed and watered in a brook, their bags and the captive girl unloaded to give them a rest. Zyek took another turn on the girl by the brook, her whimpering and pleading only serving to urge him on. Sennidor ignored them as he sat between the mercenaries having their meal. They bantered about food, women, past battles, and friends lost. Sennidor sat quietly, making note of their proudest victories and bitterest defeats. He knew some of the history of the Forsaken, especially their legendary feud with the White Sisters, but reliable information about the mercenary companies of Colatha was hard to come by in the Towers, for the sorcerers cared for loftier things than the bickering of princes.

The leader of the mercenary group was a man named Balegan, a plainly average man. He wore a thick coat of red and white stripes, and green breeches above splint mail boots. At his side was a balding, mustachioed man named Durras, the quartermaster of their little group. Durras tore a piece of hardtack in half and passed it to Balegan, who continued the story he was telling.

"Aye, we faced the Sisters as Sastem once. They felled many of our men outside the wall. I lost a few good friends that day and so, when we at last made it inside the fortress, we weren't in much of a talking mood. The captain wanted to put the whole garrison to the sword, but the Duchess of Baranica was in charge, and she spared them. She ransomed all the prisoners for a paltry ten ounces of silver per head, and denied us all a great victory."

"It was a bad day for us," Durras grumbled. "The Duchess got the fortress, the ransom, and the whole valley, and all we got was double wages for assaulting the breach."             

"Aye," Balegan nodded. "And the Sisters remembered. We fought them again across the field at Plorun, and we knew they were aching for revenge. So soon as the Count of Kayen fell, we turned and pulled the whole company out of there."

"You new lot could learn a lesson from that," Durras declared with an extended finger. "Look after yourselves, because these noblemen won't. And remember the feuds."

"Oh, I'll be remembering the feuds soon enough," one of the men replied with a smile. "Soon as the rich lad's done."

With smiles on their faces, they all turned in the direction of Zyek. The nobleman lay atop their prisoner, his pants pulled down around his ankles as his hips pulsed into hers. The girl lay still, her head turned away even as Zyek kissed her. His thrusting quickened, then stopped suddenly, and he rolled off her.

With Zyek finished, the girl lay on her side, curled up with her knees to her chest. Her hands were bound with rope, but her feet remained unencumbered. However, she did not run, and merely lay in the grass, crying softly to herself while the others ate. The dilettante stood up, his cock flopping limply between his legs, and pulled up his pants.

"That was fun," he pronounced. "Who's next?"

Sennidor frowned as the Forsaken scrambled up from their seats. Balegan turned an eye to him.

"No interest sorcerer? Perhaps one of the lads would be more your type?"

"As I told our employer," Sennidor replied, trying to temper his annoyance, "I have my mind set on the task ahead."

"A little rut in the grass ought to clear your head," Balegan replied. "But suit yourself."

The mercenaries hurried over to take their turns. Mercifully, they were quick, and soon washed the girl off in the brook, rebound her feet and threw her over the horse again.

Balegan smiled contentedly and slapped the girl's ass. She yelped and the mercenaries broke out into laughter. Sennidor felt his mouth twist in annoyance, but his mind was at work. The mercenaries were simple men with simple desires. It was a well-known fact that a mercenary's loyalty was always for sale, even when it had already been bought. Though the fop Zyek had deeper pockets, Sennidor could offer rewards money could never buy. Plots and schemes ran through his mind as they remounted their steeds and continued east toward the distant mountains.

Aranthir and his three companions left the temple at first light, leaving the young man Elys behind to begin his new life as an acolyte of Askallon. The companions made their way east, toward the rising sun that crept upwards from behind the looming Copperpeak Mountains. The surprisingly worldly acolyte had given them the lay of the land, including knowledge of a treacherous path that ran up the mountain's southern shoulder toward the summit. Impassable for horses, it suited the four of them perfectly, and would give them an opportunity to reach the Forsaken in time to halt the ritual, even with their opponents ahorse.

"Keep your eyes open," he told the others, "The path will be treacherous, and there are all many of dangerous beasts in these mountains. The winter will have left them hungry, and they won't think twice about attacking even an armed party like ours."

His companions nodded silently, checking their weapons as they walked. Aranthir took the moment to study them. Janguld was as he had always been, strolling confidently down the road with his borrowed sword belted at his side, her arquebus hanging off his thrown-back as he surveyed the idyllic fields to either side of the road. A pair of peasant lads waved at them as they passed along the edge of their field and Janguld returned the gesture with an easy smile.

Behind him strode the two White Sisters. Of them, Raenia was the taller, with her dark red hair pulled back into a short ponytail behind her head. Over her shoulder was slung a bow of horn and sinew, and she wore a slender rapier at her hip. Her chest was enclosed in a cuirass of simple beaten iron. Like her sisters, she wore tall boots and a skirt of leather bands. Her heavy soldier's pack thudded against her back as they walked, adding to her annoyance as she fiddled with the straps.

Raenia's face was pale and pretty, with delicate features like those of a doll, but her blue eyes were flecked with frustration and her red lips were set in a bitter pout. All throughout their march and the night, she had complained about their pace and direction, though finally being on the way to battle had done little to improve her mood.

Her sister Selvenna was shorter, with a long ponytail of dark hair that hung to her waist. She too carried a bow and sword, though her sword was a single-edged saber, curved toward the tip. She too wore a cuirass, though hers was made of finer steel that shone in the early morning sun and had been sculpted in the shape of a woman's chest. Aranthir wondered if the big breasts on her armor reflected what truly lay beneath them, or merely her idealized self.

Selvenna was the younger of the two, though only by a few years. Her face was equally delicate, with big brown eyes and a narrow, pointed chin. She looked about them with more wonder than worry, smiling kindly at the peasant lads who threw amorous glances in her direction.

They passed the morning in near total silence, only broken at their mid-day meal by the bare necessities of conversation. They ate, packed, and continued their march until dusk when, at last, Aranthir broke the silence.

"Tell me Janguld, how did you come to be working for the baron? Last I saw you, you were headed downriver to Faurkone."

"Well," Janguld said, settling himself onto a log. He brushed his hair back from his face and sighed. "I was down there a while, but I came to miss Irollian, and made my way back here. I met these Sisters on the road and we enjoyed each other's company enough to keep traveling together."

"It was Janguld who found the baron's man," Selvenna said. "He turned us onto this job in the first place."

"Indeed. And where down south were you working?"

"Along the coast. You know, our old stomping grounds."

"I see. I've been down there recently. I wonder why I didn't encounter you?"

"A shame, really. I could have used you."

Aranthir stared hard at his friend, who busied himself with the cook fire. Janguld was hiding something, and without his characteristic finesse.

"I've heard of you, Aranthir," Selvenna broke in, perhaps inadvertently rescuing Janguld from interrogation. "Janguld has not told us stories, of course, but the minstrels love to sing of your exploits. How many of them are true?"

"Doubtlessly only some, if any," Aranthir replied. He prodded the ashes of the campfire with a stick. "What have you heard?"

"That you set a crown upon a head, rescued a goddess, slew a demon, and saw the very roof of the world."

"All of them true enough, in a way."

"So you have faced greater enemies than we face now?"

"Aye," Aranthir replied sagely. Thoughts of them ran through his mind, many of them slain with Janguld at his side. He smiled.

"What do you think our chances are? Of killing the sorcerer and recovering the book?"

"I am not familiar with this sorcerer, though I try to keep track of the dangerous ones. Still, even a novice sorcerer is a dangerous enough opponent. Be wary and stay nimble. I will do what I can to break his spells, but I am only one man."

"Only half a man," Janguld teased with a smile.

"Aye, half a man, half an elf, though the latter works more to your advantage than anything else does."

"I've heard the rumors," Selvenna said with a sly smile. "That you are man and a half where it counts."

Aranthir smiled back at her. The White Sister was leaning forward toward the campfire, her cuirass set aside that he could see her breasts were as big as her armor advertised.

"Rumors are just rumors. There's only one way to find out for sure."

"Ramissia is being held prisoner," Raenia broke in sourly. "And you're flirting over a campfire."

Selvenna dropped her eyes to the dirt, her cheeks turning red. She turned away from the fire and lay her head on her pack. Raenia kept her eyes fixed on the blazing fire. Janguld gave Aranthir a look of amusement before turning in himself.

Aranthir and Raenia sat in silence for a while before she too lay down to sleep. He continued tending the fire as it burned low, wondering what the looming mountain to the east held in store for them. As if in answer, there came on the cold night wind a terrible howl. Aranthir instinctively clutched his weapons closer, though he could tell it was many miles off. He waited the rest of his watch in silence, listening to the wind in the trees, but it did not sound again.

Sennidor's group stopped along the road as the sun fell low in the west. They were well off the beaten tracks, and had no more inns to take advantage of. Instead, they found a small hollow within sight of the road and made their camp within. The sorcerer seated himself among the mercenaries as they ate, still quietly observing them. The men were in good spirits, cooking bacon, vegetables, and rice in their cook pot as they passed around a wheel of cheese and cut off pieces for themselves. Zyek sat across from him, sharpening his jeweled sword. Sennidor wondered if it had ever been used.

Their prisoner had been ushered off into the bushes for the men to enjoy in turns, but Zyek had been the first to take her tonight, his cock out before they had even started a cookfire. As was inevitable among mercenaries, their conversation inevitably turned to women.

"Give me a lass with tits," Balegan rumbled around a mouthful of cheese. "Something to fill my hand while we fuck and then something to lay my head on when we're done."

The men enthusiastically chorused their agreement. "Aye, tits!" shouted one man.

"I like my women small enough to throw around. Small enough to throw over my shoulder or a pack horse's rump!" Zyek roared with laughter and threw a look over his shoulder to where the girl lay underneath one of his men.

"Small enough that your cock looks big in comparison!" Durras roared back, and the men broke out in more laughter.

"What do you say, sorcerer?" Balegan asked, turning to Sennidor. "You've been quiet all day. What do you like in a lass?"

Sennidor grimaced. He hated conversing with such lowlifes, but winning their loyalty was key to his plan. He looked up from the fire, deep in thought, and thought of the young apprentices at the Sable Tower. They were often aloof, studious, and even cold, yet there had been some sluts who had responded to his attention. The ones he had most desired were of course those who had ignored him, and now he found himself thinking back on lonely nights spent playing with himself before he had learned even scrying to slip past the wards cast around the girls' bathhouse.

The memories of naked girls bathing came flooding back, and he found himself agreeing with Balegan. Images of hot, soapy water washing off buxom chests flooded his mind, and he felt his cock hardening underneath his tunic.

"Tits," he muttered, and the mercenaries cheered. He jolted as Durras slapped him on the back, hard, and nearly spilled his wineskin. Gritting his teeth, he took another swig from the wineskin, his shoulder aching already.

He looked to where the captive girl lay, her pale body just visible through the bushes, glowing in the flickering light of their cookfire. Atop her was one of Balegan's men, hungrily thrusting away into her. Through the thin brush, he could hear her whimpering amidst his grunting. Sennidor was loath to admit it, but he found her whimpers enticing, like the cries of a wounded animal to a wolf.

Zyek clearly felt the same way, for he set aside his food and stood up.

"Speaking of lasses," he said, "I will be back in a few moments." He strode off. Sennidor snorted.

"You haven't had a turn yet," Durras muttered. "But this rich fucker's off to take his third of the day."

"Rich men," Sennidor agreed. "All take and no give."

"We are getting paid," Balegan reminded them. "And a mercenary's not much good if he doesn't keep his word."

"How much are you getting paid?" Sennidor asked. "Is it good pay?"

"The usual rate," Balegan shrugged. "It's a quiet time of year. Most campaigns won't start for another few weeks, so it's good to get in some small work here and there before we join with a larger company and an army."

"The usual rate? Seems unfair given what he wants."

"What does he want?" Durras inquired. He and two other mercenaries checked over their shoulders and leaned in close. "He's been tight-lipped about all of this."

"Aye, he just said we're to climb a mountain," put in one of the other mercenaries.

"He seeks an altar," Sennidor replied. "An ancient ritual site that will let him appeal to the gods."

"For what?" asked Durras. "There are plenty of temples in and around Dalthem."

"This is no ordinary altar. With that book he stole from his uncle, it will let him ascend to the heavens as a newborn god."

"Pfft," Balegan snorted. "He's more likely to get smote by a bolt of lightning. You all had best stand far away from him when he gets up there."

"Perhaps," Sennidor replied. "But that book is no simple ledger. It is an ancient grimoire of long-lost magics, one that the sorcerers of the Sable Tower have spent centuries searching for."

"And so how does some rich fop come to have it?" Durras demanded.

"Apliss is both kind and cruel. I have spent every night since I first saw it wondering that myself. I should like to have it for my own use."

"We're paid to protect him," Balegan reminded him, his eyes suddenly dangerous.

"Aye, you are. Though I must now tell you that he will not extend that favor to you."

"What do you mean?" Durras said. The mercenary leaned closer, his hands still full of forgotten food.

"The ritual he intends to have me perform requires a sacrifice. Many sacrifices. And so he sought out men he thought disposable."

"He means to kill us?" Balegan hissed, his face darkening.

"You would be wise indeed to stand far away."

"The snake!" Durras snapped. Behind them, they heard the cracking of twigs, and the man who had been fucking their prisoner came stumbling out of the brush, his belt loose around his waist. He was muttering to himself as he pulled his clothes on and threw himself down by the fire.

"That rich prat threw me out before I had even finished!" he groused. "And what's worse, he claims credit for capturing her in the first place. Says she's his slave."

"Ungrateful bastard," spat Durras.

"Taking what's rightfully ours!"

"So we must repay him in kind," Sennidor urged. "If I had the book, I could deliver to you all great rewards. Strength, luck, long health. You name it, I will call it down from the heavens."

"He won't give up the book easily," Balegan said. "And if we were known to have turned on a patron, we'd never work in Irollian again."

"Who would know if something happened to him?" Sennidor asked quietly. "It's just us out here."

"I have found myself envious of that beautiful sword he carries," Balegan murmured.

"And what a horse!" Durras added. "Mine is getting too long in the years, but a new palfrey would be a welcome prize."