Dave Gross - Lord of Stormweather

Baeron laughed as though Thamalon had made a great joke.

"How long have you been at war with the elves?" Thamalon asked.

"Us? We have had no war with the elves for centuries. Their foe is the Sorcerer. The elves attack only our throbe caravans, and we make an effort not to burn down their entire forest while fending them off The elves protest and send their emissaries to pull at the king's ears, but they still buy our throbe-forged steel. Even the elves have their merchants."

Thamalon chuckled, for he found the remark more amusing than risible. While he was known as a merchant lord, he'd amassed his fortune primarily through land speculation before diversifying the family holdings into such areas as agriculture, craft ware, and investment in a dozen lesser merchants. The Uskevren and their subject interests launched as many as fourteen trade caravans throughout Sembia and neighboring lands each year. The only legitimate venture Thamalon consistently refused to enter was shipping, for the stink of piracy still lingered on the Uskevren name.

Before night fell, the caravan passed through the blackened ruin of a forest. Thamalon had seen such regions before, but rarely so soon after the wildfires had devoured the trees.

"The Sorcerer pushes them back," observed Baeron.

"He did this on purpose?" asked Thamalon. "I assumed it was lightning from a storm."

Baeron said, "Oh, that it was, Far-Traveler. That it was."

When they broke camp the next morning, Baeron promised they would soon enter the Sorcerer's territory. Thamalon was eager to see the lands surrounding the intriguingly named Castle Stormweather, but the sky had other plans. A steady drizzle dimmed the day, and the first sign of civilization was a muddy road.

A few miles later, Thamalon spied the first cultivated fields. He was somewhat relieved to recognize ordinary produce, but alongside the cabbage patches and barley fields he saw rows of huge melons with translucent husks. Perhaps it was a trick of the rain, but once or twice he thought he saw something stirring inside the big fruits. Whatever moved within them didn't alarm the workers who trudged between the furrows.

Thamalon noticed that those workers were elves chained neck-to-neck. Big men in red armor watched over them, spears in hand and lashes at their hips. Thamalon turned to Baeron for an explanation.

"Prisoners of war," he said.

"Slaves," Thamalon suggested with a frown.

"Best not to let the Vermilion Guard hear you say so," cautioned Baeron. "They are proud and quick to answer an insult."

"Does it not seem cruel to you?"

Baeron shrugged and said, "One does not prosper who makes war with the Sorcerer."

Despite the wonders he had encountered thus far, Thamalon began to think he'd seen enough of this strange land.

With each passing league, the caravan encountered increasingly frequent farmsteads. By noon they drove through a small village, where those few inhabitants who had to leave the shelter of their buildings waved at the travelers.

A few hours later, the villages appeared more regularly and converged so gradually that Thamalon realized they were finally within a city. This place was nothing like glorious Selgaunt, with its wide avenues and soaring temples. The place was a convocation of hovels, only rarely interrupted by a proper edifice whose barred doors were flanked by sentries in red armor. Even those buildings were bleak constructions, brick cubes and towers with little ornament. There were no horse-drawn carriages, only rickshaws drawn by pairs of elf slaves, chains jangling between their necks and wrists.

Thamalon noticed for the first time that he had seen no horses, no cattle nor swine-not any kind of beast other than the odd reptiles who drew the dwarven wagons.

They passed through a curtain wall under the scrutiny of more crimson-clad guards. They'd been expecting the dwarves, but they questioned their guest. Thamalon offered the same pseudonym he'd given the dwarves.

Inside the gate, the city began to resemble a Sembian town, with wide central streets and a veritable labyrinth of back avenues and alleys. Like the sprawling habitation outside the walls, the entire place seemed devoid of cheer-except for one peculiar sound.

Muted by the rain, a sweet melody drifted down upon the city from above. A woman's voice, without accompaniment, it was at once alluring and sorrowful. The wordless song moved Thamalon's heart to pity.

"What is that song?" he asked.

"Lady Malaika," said Baeron. "She calls the skwalos."

"She sounds so sad."

"Sometimes it takes tendays, even months to lure them here. The rain is a good omen. They will come soon."

Thamalon imagined what a sight that must be as he gazed around at all the sullen occupants of the city, their eyes cast down upon the rain-slicked stones and rippling puddles.

The caravan passed the last of the buildings and entered a vast plaza bereft of fountains, trees, statues, or any other common ornament of great cities. Instead, iron towers stood in ranks upon the stones. On their crowns were curved hooks and gigantic hollow spears from which ran long canvas hoses. Rust streaked every surface. Even the ground was stained red.

In the center of it all, looming high over the lesser towers, stood Castle Stormweather.

Thamalon couldn't discern its upper reaches for the rain, but the highest windows he could see were clearly higher than the tallest spire of the Hulorn's palace in Selgaunt. Unlike that garish monument, Castle Stormweather was a dreary fortress. Its wet granite stones were almost uniform in shape, and no two were more than a few shades of gray apart.

While another wall protected it from ground assault, its upper reaches were even more fortified. Iron shutters were closed against the rain, and around every balcony were sturdy doors with arrow slits. Most of the ballista stations were far too lofty to fire accurately upon the ground.

This was a bastion that defended against the sky.

The dwarves turned over custody of their beasts and wagons at the inner gate, where four of the Sorcerer's guards awaited them.

"My thanks for the ride," said Thamalon. He grasped Baeron's arm firmly. "Good luck in your bargaining."

"Where are you going?"

"Perhaps I can find a map seller in the market," said Thamalon. "Or maybe a caravan master who has heard of my homeland, or at least some other region that I know."

"Perhaps," said Baeron, "but first you must present yourself to the Sorcerer. That is the law here."

Thamalon considered the prospect of meeting this Lord of Stormweather. He was very interested in learning more about this place and the man who ruled it, but he began to fear that meeting the Sorcerer might not be the best way to speed him home. The gloom of his city felt like the binder's glue in which careless flies were caught.

Thamalon longed for home.

Another city lay within the walls of Castle Stormweather. Every hall was an avenue bustling with courtiers and servants. Each antechamber through which they were escorted was larger than his own great hall.

The lavish furnishings of the guest quarters impressed even Thamalon, who was accustomed to the finest of Selgaunt's luxuries. Thick tapestries of exquisite design warmed the granite walls, and rich carpets softened the floors. Rather than candles or oil lamps, faintly hissing glass balls illuminated each room from brass pipes protruding from the ceilings.

Hot baths in deep oak tubs awaited the travelers. The dwarves murmured appreciatively as lovely elf maids stripped away their road-stiffened clothes and scrubbed their hairy shoulders. Thamalon might have surrendered himself to the pleasure, but the memory of the chained war slaves disturbed his thoughts as soft hands massaged the knots in his back. His troubled conscience wouldn't let him indulge his familiar instincts. Were these women servants or slaves?