Stormwalkers

By Kevin Butterfield and K. Eric Mauser

In a fractured land ruled by warring clans and a mysterious order of priests known as the Elds, a storm is brewing. One which threatens to change the face of the great island nation of Kelidon forever. In the eye of this storm rests a dark omen, Clan Darmah, and the Elds with their silent gods. Powerful magic holds the land in its brutal fist, while remnants of a broken clan fight to renew their standing among the people—the outcome altogether uncertain. Once again, an ancient legend rides the wild winds of the world and its focus lies in the heart of this nation. It is known to a few as the Wild Power, The Hand of Skyfire, or Hammer of the Gree, but it is known by all as a Stormwalker. Nothing but destruction will follow in its wake and any mortal foolish enough to ally with its cause will be trapped by that destruction. Jorgan Darmah is such a mortal. Placing his hope and the future of Clan Darmah in the hands of this unwieldy being, he knowingly sets a course that may curse all of Kelidon to an abominable end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin Butterfield
• Release date: Feb 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311743367

Kevin Butterfield

Once upon a time, on a cold winter's night in 1972, there was a young lad coerced by his parents to participate in a weekly ritual known to many as grocery-shopping. This mundane act was intolerable for the boy, so on this night he wandered away and stumbled upon such a magical place that its influence would joyfully or woefully redefine his life forever.He had found a bookstore.Fantasy, Science fiction, Nature, and Science were the categories that thrilled him. Voracious was his appetite, and not having a penny to his name his hunger consumed him. Until one day he realized that a foldaway grocery bag, his bicycle and a library card would be the answer. It wasn't long before he would take a five mile bike trip to the library expending every free moment that he had. This caused quite a rift with his parents since there was a garden to be weeded, lawns to be mowed, roofs that needed shingling, and houses that needed painting, not to mention homework to be tended. Kevin would have none of this. And his parents started to worry over the boy's well being.Kevin was certain of his future. He would become a fiction book jacket artist like his many heroes, yet as a difference he would be writing the books that he jacketed. Yes, this would be his course.Forty-some odd years later, life has hewn out Kevin's fate quite differently. And yet, poor misguided Kevin would have none of it. He is still penniless. And his voracious hunger for his dream consumes him.Kevin currently lives in central New York. He is the Senior Creative Partner and co-owner of ZUZZY Miniatures. These days he can be found spending his time, working at ZUZZY, sculpting, painting, writing novels, seeking freelance illustration and graphic design work and finishing the many projects accumulated over a lifetime

Book preview

Chapter 1

"The child is born, the priest informed, straightening his cloak over his skeletal shoulders. Clan Darmah now has an heir, my Lord."

Those gathered in the room stood, their faces reflecting the orange light of the central hearth. One of them stepped closer to the priest, his eyes wide in the face, framed with long wild hair.

I have a son at last?

Indeed, you do, Lord Hurgen, the priest said. The child is quite healthy and screams with a loud voice. The gods have smiled.

The gods? Lord Hurgen laughed, raising his hands to the vaulted ceiling of the round stone chamber. He was immeasurably happy at the news. I know nothing of these sleeping gods you are so fond of praying to. He put his hands together with a loud clap, a smile spreading on his face. A son! Do you hear that, Kellish? A son at long last!

A broad shouldered man stepped forward and clasped Hurgen’s shoulders. Yes, I have heard and rejoice with you, my Lord. Clan Darmah has an heir. Shall I send messengers to the villages?

Immediately, Hurgen answered. Spread the word that a son is born to this house. His elation filled the room.

His men cheered, raising tankards and weapons in salute to Hurgen. He responded with a short bow.

The priest stepped forward into the light, revealing his darkish robes. The vestments were covered with a mosaic of metal shapes and small gems. His face was drawn and bony, looking like a shadow despite the firelight upon it. Hurgen often thought how little blood must flow in the old priest’s veins to look so wan and spent.

My Lord Hurgen, the sleeping gods still have ears, the priest said, a hint of rebuke lacing his tone.

Hurgen whirled about to face him. The priest was a statue of resolve, his expressionless face determined to undermine the joy of the moment. Hurgen decided he would not let the old man damper the mood. Then let them hear this. For generations, these gods of yours have remained silent. Clan Darmah is one of the last clans to closet your order, Eld Drangeth. This son has come from my wife’s loins, not from your ancient bowels. If the gods want it known that they have sent him, then let them speak louder, for their silence has been deafening for centuries.

Eld Drangeth openly bristled at the words and looked as though he were about to speak, but apparently decided otherwise. Hurgen could see his men were amused by the exchange. Now, if you please, tend to my son and my wife, he said, bolstered by their reaction. Send me word that they are still well. The birthing was a long one for Nadisha.

Eld Drangeth stood some moments in silence, then bowed, slowly. When he raised himself straight, he turned and departed the room quickly.

Hurgen smiled, sure he had irked the old man. As Lord of Hillfort Darmah, he would not be denied this one long awaited joy. He grabbed a tankard from a near table and took a lengthy draw of its strong brew.

The ring of men around the hearth watched on in silence.

Perhaps there is some truth in the Eld’s words, my Lord, Kellish said, hiding his face behind his tankard.

Perhaps nothing, Hurgen bellowed. His eyes fixed on the tall empty archway, where Drangeth had stood. He slammed his tankard back onto the table. This infernal devotion to the Gree is maddening. It serves nothing, but another coffer to worry over.

It was the Gree who created all, my Lord. A man from the circle offered.

So we have been told by their priests, Hurgen countered, while seating himself in his large chair by the hearth. The men all followed, taking smaller chairs which ringed the flaming heart of the room. My Father bade me keep the priests’ council, and I have. But I do not listen to the Gree. They have not spoken in ages. I would not know their voices.

Now it is said that they speak through their creation, my Lord, another man said.

More dribble and dodge from the Elds. They keep the ever silent Gree alive in memory only. Beyond that, I can not believe them. Tell me, have any of you heard them? What voice of creation carries their words? If it is the wind, then all I hear is its moaning through my stone halls.

There was a time when they spoke with voices of thunder, an unfamiliar voice offered from the archway.

Hurgen rose form his chair, eyes wide with disbelief. All heads in the room turned in unison toward the voice.

Uncle! Hurgen said, surprised to his bones that Jorgan Darmah was actually standing there.

The man in the archway came slowly toward the hearth, reaching out his hands to warm them in the bright heat of the flames. He was dressed like an Eld, his great robes high in the shoulder and covered with cut metal shapes and gems. About his waist hung a belt with several pouches and a sword. The weapon was kept in a half sheath, showing its blade to be a black metal that reflected brilliantly. Like the Eld Drangeth, he was thin, but a full head taller. His dark hair was long, but combed with a braid down one side of his face, in the fashion of the clansmen.

Greetings, my Lord Nephew, his uncle said, with a slight bow. As he uprighted, Hurgen watched the man’s eyes take in the room, locking for a second on each man there. It had a commanding effect.

Kellish rose from his place and walked the few paces to stand next to Hurgen. His senior warlord a bit taken with the sudden presence of his uncle.

How come you here, Jorgan? Kellish asked curtly, resting his hand on his sheathed sword. The warlord was clearly posturing. He stood straight, his plated leather armor gleaming in the fire light. His high brown boots were worn smooth from his days on the battle field and his sheath was battered by the marks of hard use. Hurgen approved of the warlord’s brusque demeanor.

Jorgan smiled with a side glance at Kellish and crossed his arms. He looked back at the fire and spoke. I’ve come for the child.

What? Hurgen asked, shouting. He was sure he heard correctly, but was stunned at the words.

I’ve come for the child’s sake, Jorgan said. I’ve known for some time that today was the day he would be born.

How did you come to know this? Hurgen asked, suddenly more curious than alarmed.

Jorgan relaxed his grin and looked straight at Hurgen, eyes fixed on his face. The Gree are not so silent to some.

My Lord, Kellish said through clenched teeth.

Hurgen was sure of his warlord’s intent and also sure this intruder understood. Despite all the bad he had heard about his uncle, Hurgen held a place for him. He had only seen the man on a few occasions, but they were enough to garner good feelings. He was about to speak when Jorgan cut him off.

Oh come now, Kellish. I’ve not come all this way from the Stoans to cause harm. I have no interest in the matters of this House—I was never an heir to its throne. There is no need to grab your hilt at me. I came because of the child.

Is that where you’ve been hiding? Hurgen asked, genuinely interested, in the Stoan mountains?

Hiding? . . . no, no, no . . . I’ve not been hiding at all.

But no one knew where you went, Hurgen said, certainly I didn’t, and I’m not sure that Father ever knew either.

So, because no one knew where I was, that alone means I’ve been hiding? How does one hide in the Stoan mountains? They are stark and unforgiving crags of rock that grow nothing. Should any have wanted to find me, they could easily have done so. Besides, anyone in Thadd could tell you I go often to the village for my needs.

Hurgen eyed the circle of men all standing now. They were his advisors and warlords; all loyal friends. Like him, they knew why his uncle no longer lived in the lands of Clan Darmah.

Jorgan was the second son to Hurgen’s grandfather. As the younger son, he needed a place of honor and was marked from birth to the order of the Elds. Early on he did well in the Order, more so than many would have thought possible. Jorgan was a sickly child. In contrast, Hurgen’s father, Jard the first born, was a stalwart man of physical strength, great resolve and some wisdom. The two did well in their positions. But when Jorgan took the final vows admitting him into the Order proper, he pursued studies that they had declared dead. The Elds counseled Lord Mardon, to stop his second son from trifling with the dead arts, particularly those concerning Stormwalkers. Despite his father’s stern reproaches, Jorgan still refused to stop the forbidden studies and was cast from the Order. He was then ousted from HillFort Darmah: ancient home to the ruling Clan of Darmah. Beyond this point of the tale, Hurgen knew little else, except that his uncle was removed from Lord Mardon’s sight, never to be looked upon again by the man.

How is your new son, Lord Nephew? Jorgan asked. Hurgen felt the inquiry completely genuine.

He is well, so I am told, Hurgen said. We wait further word from Eld Drangeth. Take ale with me, Uncle. Join in my celebration.

Thank you. Jorgan stepped closer to one of the tables and lifted a full tankard to his lips. The action seemed to have a calming effect on the men, and Hurgen was sure he heard a collective sigh of relief. It amused him how one man could so unnerve his battle hardened men.

brodwhole

Hurgen watched quietly as his uncle finished his drink and returned his tankard to the table for the last time. Jorgan looked around the room declaring: These old stones will never be undone.

Clan Darmah! someone said.

Clan Darmah! another repeated even louder. Hurgen raised his own tankard as every man in the great stone chamber drank to the clan.

What brings you here, Jorgan? Eld Drangeth called out from the archway as he entered.

The priest came toward the hearth, clearly disturbed by what he saw. Hurgen smiled behind his tankard. He was glad Drangeth was displeased with his uncle’s presence. Jorgan did not shy from the approaching Eld, but rather took several steps toward him and stopped.

To make sure the wishes of the Gree are seen to, of course, he said, clearly.

I have already done so, Eld Drangeth said, his eyes narrowing on the outcast Eld. You needn’t have come. We know the will of the Gree.

Then you have tested the child? Jorgan asked, smiling as he crossed his arms.

Tested the child? Hurgen asked, totally caught off guard by what was being said.

Jorgan quickly turned toward Hurgen. Yes. According to the Gree, every male child should be tested. He took several slow steps back to his seat. Of course, it has been centuries since any were found to possess the gift.

And hence, the practice has been abandoned, Drangeth declared loudly, his fists clenching at his sides. You know that.

Abandoned? I know nothing of the kind, Eld Drangeth. At what point between Lord Hurgen’s birth and now was it abandoned?

I was tested? Hurgen asked, intrigued. What is this test?

It is nothing more than legend, my Lord, Drangeth answered. A thing done in the darker times of history. It seasoned into a tradition and nothing more. Much like the making of wishes on the first day of the New Year.

Making wishes and doing as the Gree would have us do are two entirely different things, Eld Drangeth, Jorgan said, leaning back in his chair. You don’t mean to compare wishes and will, do you?

I will not follow you into a conversation already spoken and ended, Eld Drangeth said. The testing is an old tradition that serves a long expired purpose. A tradition and nothing more.

Then what harm would come if the child were tested? Jorgan asked.

It is a dead matter no longer done, Eld Drangeth countered, his voice rising with anger.

What is this test? Hurgen asked again. His own temper rising.

Jorgan stood slowly, folding his hands before him and burying them in the cuffs of his robe. "After the darker time, the testing of a child was something taken very seriously. The Gree are the five gods. Four concern themselves with the elements of fire, water, earth, and wind, and have names spoken by men. The fifth, however, withholds his true name from man. He is the wild power of the world: the rage of the storm. We know him as Hammer of the Gree, Skyfire and even a more ancient title, Lord of the Gree—"

I know this drivel. What has this to do with my son? Hurgen demanded, surprised at his own curiosity in the matter.

"The fifth Gree has always been a mystery to the Order and to men. You know these things and you also know that after the darker times, came the Stormwalkers. "

Ha! Lord Hurgen taunted, I know those stories. Told to children to frighten them into obedience. When I was a child, Drangeth himself told me that to dishonor the Gree was to call the Stormwalkers. So this is nothing more than a way to frighten the child?

Jorgan smiled and Hurgen wondered why.

Then you also must surely remember that Stormwalkers were men, Jorgan said. "Men chosen and changed, given the wild power of the world to call the storms. These men were great warriors and became powerful lords of Kelidon. However, they were all destroyed when the Elds appealed to the Gree. But before they were destroyed, such men had sons who had sons. To kill the line of Stormwalker blood, it was determined by the Order that upon the birth of any male child, the child was tested. It is a simple thing with his hand placed over water. Should a mist appear above the water, the child is a Stormwalker and killed or sent to the desert. Should no mist appear, the child lives out his life in his place."

What foolish men they were to think such stuff. Hurgen chided, openly amused. To think of such tests being administered.

Foolish or no, it was a practice observed even upon you, Lord Hurgen of Darmah, Jorgan said.

Hurgen caught the gist of his uncle’s words and now understood he was seriously determined to see to it that this test be carried out.

It was foolish, he was sure, but he also had to consider his men. Despite his own reservations about the Gree, belief in them still ran deep in the clans of Kelidon, Clan Darmah not among the least of them.

And for this, you left your mountain places, to see my son have such rites done over him?

Yes, Jorgan answered flatly. That is the very reason I have come.

I forbid this nonsense. Eld Drangeth sputtered, stammering over the words as he wrenched his hands. Hurgen could see the Eld was now openly disturbed at the idea of the test and the presence of his uncle. He was also angered that the Eld should be so bold about what would and would not happen concerning his newborn son.

You forbid it? Jorgan asked, sternly.

Yes. This is nonsense indeed, and I forbid it.

The force of the words were clear and Hurgen had endured enough of the old priest’s presumption of control over the situation.

I am Lord of this Hillfort, Eld Drangeth, and it is I who bid what is and is not done. You overstep your bounds in forbidding anything. How dare you decide in my presence what I may deem as good for my own son.

Eld Drangeth quickly stepped closer. You do not mean to allow this foolishness, do you? Hurgen could see the Eld realized his mistake and relished the moment.

Then you suggest my own father was foolish to allow me to be tested when I was born? Do you tell me that I was not tested?

No, my Lord, but Jorgan is a dark hand. Surely, you can see no good can come from his dealings in such things, especially in the matter of your son.

My son and your future Lord, Eld Drangeth. If my uncle be dark or no, I shall allow this thing. I do not pretend to believe in the Gree. I have seen or heard nothing to make me believe in your Silent Ones. And what is it that I hear now? That some things are permissible to the Gree and others are not? What has changed between the time of my birth and today?

My Lord, perhaps Eld Drangeth is right in this matter, Kellish suggested.

Hurgen could see his warlord was uneasy at hearing his words. If he is and the test is no more than a tradition, then there is no harm in performing it. If it truly is a thing not done anymore and of no consequence, then let it be done to my son as it was done to me. When no mist forms, tradition is served and the Gree appeased. That is, they shall be appeased should they so desire to actually exist.

My Lord, Eld Drangeth urged, openly mortified by such blasphemy.

Hurgen stiffened his resolve.

Speak no more, Eld. We will do this very thing, and you will test this child of mine. Come, friends and believers. We test my son to see if he is a Stormwalker indeed!

Hurgen made his way straight for the archway, Kellish beside him. The rest followed behind as the Lord of Hillfort Darmah made his way up flights of stairs through the stone edifice. The halls were torchlit and busy with attendants and warriors, all clearing the way for Hurgen’s hurried and purposed steps. Dogs barked from open courts as the assembly made their way through the hillfort. It was some minutes before they arrived at the chambers where mother and newborn were being cared for. As he approached the wooden door, Hurgen could hear the crying voice of his newborn son and thrilled at hearing it. He opened the door and entered without pause.

Nadisha. A son! Hurgen declared, as he approached a large bed centered against the far wall of the chamber. The room was spacious, its walls covered in weapons and quilts of grand design and brilliant color. The bed was large, hewn of wood and laid out with heavy quilts and blankets. In it, the Lady Nadisha lay smiling at her approaching husband, the small child in her arms. Hurgen felt suddenly filled with his love for the beautiful woman that was his wife. She was a rare attraction in these northern lands, a fair haired, hazel-eyed woman of light frame and stern constitution. She was an able companion in the warring world about them.

A son, Hurgen, Nadisha said, as she gently lifted the child toward him.

He took the newborn into his arms and smiled with a beaming pride that could no longer be contained. He is healthy and whole? Hurgen asked.

I’m told that he is and I think they are right, Nadisha said.

The child cried out with a shriek, his small hands flailing out from under the swaddling. Hurgen chortled, thinking for a moment on how those arms would one day wield a sword for the Clan as its lord and master.

He seems to have a voice greater than my own. Hurgen declared, laughing. I heard him outside the doors. And he surely has a warrior’s arms.

Nadisha shared the jest for a moment then stopped short, placing her hand on Hurgen’s arm. Is something wrong? Are you leaving for war?

He frowned, unsure why she would say such a thing. Her eyes were fixed beyond him toward the door, toward the men all waiting outside, nervous and talking in low voices. How like worried women they sounded.

Ah . . . my men at arms. No, Nadisha . . . we have come to test the child and nothing more.

Test the child? She asked, reaching for her son. Hurgen let her take the newborn, then waved for his entourage to enter.

The warlords and advisors filed in slowly, taking positions near the walls. Hurgen smiled as they all tried to avoid looking directly at his wife in the bed. It was not normal to have men such as these in the Lady Nadisha’s private chambers. He looked for the old priest and caught sight of him, still standing outside, with hands clasped in a tight knot before him.

Come, Eld Drangeth. Test my son and appease your silent gods.

Hurgen, what test is this? What do you mean to do? Nadisha pleaded.

I mean to test this child as I was tested on the day I was born. It is nothing more than a folk tale, Nadisha. I am told it is an old tradition of no purpose, but one in which my son will take his first steps in following me. As it was for me, so shall it be for him. The child’s hand will be placed over water and nothing will happen.

How absurd, Hurgen, Nadisha said. He is being tested to see if he is a Stormwalker? That is not done anymore. You’ve been drinking too much with your men. Her lilting laugh was laced with nervousness.

Not a drop, Hurgen said, smiling, though I would have if this matter had not come up.

Then go and drink and let us rest, Nadisha suggested, coldly, covering the child and reclining back on her pillows.

We shall, Nadisha, as soon as tradition is served. He will be tested as I was. Hurgen turned toward Eld Drangeth and waved him forward. Come. Take my son and test him.

My Lord, this is not needed, Eld Drangeth said, pleadingly, as he stepped closer to the foot of the bed.

Hurgen stiffened, narrowing his eyes, ensuring that his anger be noticed. He looked at his wife. Give me the boy, Nadisha.

Nadisha complied, her face drawn with worry. Hurgen looked at the child and removed some of the swaddling as he walked to the foot of the bed. He paused only a moment and thrust the newborn out with both arms to the Eld.

Test him.

Eld Drangeth looked as though he were going to protest again.

Before the old priest could muster words, Hurgen stepped closer to him.

"Test him, now," He commanded.

Eld Drangeth took the child. He gazed a moment at the small face. The baby’s arms flailed, again roused from his warm repose.

The Eld took him to a table where food had been laid out for those attending the Lady. Hurgen and all those in the room watched as the Eld, with one arm, cleared away a portion of the table, sending plates and cups clattering to the floor. He rested the child on its back, while he took up a nearby gold pitcher. With a deep breath he began.

As has been since the darker times and the times of the Stormwalkers, so shall it be here with this male child; that in seeking to honor the Gree, we seek out their blood in the veins of men.

The Eld poured water into a shallow bowl as Hurgen and his men slowly approached him. They circled him as he raised the bowl above his head.

Acoor is thanked for the water of the world, that with it, we may find the blood of the Gree among men.

He placed the bowl next to the child and turned to Hurgen and then to the others.

Come and serve as witness. Hear me well as I instruct you. Should a mist appear above the water in the bowl, the child is Stormwalker and must be destroyed or sent to the desert to be taken by the Gree in their own manner. Should no mist appear, then the child is without the blood of the Gree and may live as he will and may. Do you agree to this, Lord Hurgen of Darmah?

I do.

The Eld looked to those standing around Hurgen.

Do you hear and understand as well, you who serve as witnesses?

All of Hurgen’s men nodded and voiced their affirmation.

Then you have heard and will follow the will of the Gree.

Eld Drangeth’s face sank as he turned to face the child. He then gripped the child’s small right hand and drew it over the bowl. In the next instant, the bowl exploded into hissing steam, and Eld Drangeth flew wildly backward into the waiting men.

Hurgen backed away for a second and then lunged forward through the mist fearing for his child. His son was still there, completely untouched by the heated water. Hurgen turned to the Eld and his men. The Eld was being lifted to his unsteady feet, his eyes half closed from the sudden shock. His men’s eyes were wide with disbelief and fear.

How can this be? Hurgen cried out, his voice desperate. He heard his wife scream and saw that his men had backed away to the door. Kellish had drawn his sword and stood ready at the foot of the bed. Eld Drangeth began moaning as the men tried to keep him on his feet. Jorgan was standing in the doorway.

What madness is this, Uncle? Hurgen bellowed.

You can see for yourself what this means, my Lord Nephew. Jorgan pointed back to the table. The mist was clearing upward. The bowl rested on the table glowing red with heat.

Nadisha screamed again and Hurgen staggered back from the child.

The child lay quietly on its soft wraps unaware of the commotion.

Hurgen slowly turned to the doorway where his uncle waited.

A Stormwalker is born, Jorgan said.

Chapter 2

Jorgan waited alone for his nephew in the great stone chamber.

Looking about the circular place brought recollections of what it was like to have favor here, bittersweet memories for certain. He walked slowly around the hearth thinking on how as a young boy, his brother Jard and he had come to the door to listen to Lord Mardon plan his battles. The chieftain had been a heavy-armed man of decisive mind and powerful means. His warlords were, every one of them, legends in Kelidon. At least in this, he could respect the man no longer referred to as Father. He openly shuddered, admitting grudgingly, that Hurgen displayed the same traits as the deceased legend.

Above, under a domed ceiling, the iron chandeliers, lit with torches, crackled and spit oily fuel at the char-laden stonework. The place had seemed so much larger when he was a boy. It still filled him with wonder though, no matter what the perspective. The walls were the same gray slabstone found throughout all of Kelidon, windowless and stark. A haven of sorts, set in the center of the complex.

Hillfort Darmah was old and legends found a way of making its walls all the more mysterious. There was a story told that its foundations were cut from an ancient mountain where the Gree lived before the darker times. Stories and myth always intrigued Jorgan, he smiled at the thought. He had been told Hillfort Darmah’s history hundreds of times or more, he was sure. The keep itself was centered on a high hill looking over the north lands of Kelidon. It was no great mystery as to why it was built here, surrounded by ramp and ditch with a clear view in all directions. Jorgan caught himself missing the place and decided it time to think on current matters.

The news that Hurgen’s newborn was a son had already spread throughout the hillfort like wild fire. Nothing could be done about that, it was an unavoidable consequence. Hurgen and Eld Drangeth both had the presence of mind to swear the spectators to silence. Jorgan chuckled over Drangeth’s mortified and speechless state after the test. Dragged from the bed chamber like an old sack of turnips so he could recover, the moment must have been a humbling one for the priest. He deserved no less. Now the Eld was doing what he did best, spreading misinformation through the complex, under Hurgen’s order: the baby is ill and his expected recovery suspect. It would do much to explain Nadisha’s behavior, and cover Hurgen’s, if he decided to end the child’s life.

When Jorgan left the bed chamber, Nadisha had still been screaming for the child’s return. It was best that the child was removed immediately. It would do Nadisha no good to become anymore attached than she already was. Despite the reasonable course of action, he felt for her. She was everything a lord’s lady should be and more. It was a terrible thing these parents must do, but Jorgan was sure, in the end, they would make the correct choice. He would see to it.

"To what aim, this madness bent?" he whispered. His words filled the silence, thrilling him with fear and excitement.

The fire was all but dead in the hearth. Jorgan threw some fresh wood on the dying red embers. In minutes, flames lapped at the fresh fuel, brightening the room. As he was about to sit, fast steps approached from the outside. It was a reasonable guess as to who it might be. Now came the time to accomplish his goal, quickly.

Hurgen entered abruptly, still badly shaken. It was to be expected. Jorgan guessed at what thoughts turned in his nephew’s head, quickly setting his snare.

Uncle, what does this mean? Hurgen asked, flopping into a chair next to the fire. The man’s hands went to his face and for a moment he looked as if he would weep.

Understandable, Jorgan thought. It means the child is a Stormwalker, nothing more, he answered, flatly.

I know that, Uncle, Hurgen yelled.

Then you also know what must be done, Jorgan said, calmly.

No, Hurgen returned, lowering his voice. I only know the options you have proposed.

Jorgan relaxed his face hoping not to reveal his disappointment. Perhaps he couldn’t lead his nephew along a direct path. Again he saw too much of Lord Mardon in that tired face. It is the law.

The law? Hurgen asked, sharply. And who makes the laws, Uncle? The Gree? The Elds? You? I am the Lord of Hillfort Darmah.

Jorgan slowly stood, warming his hands by the fire. If he could not dominate by words, he would do so by presence. I understand your pain Hurgen, he said. You are not the only one to face great loss. His heart raced while Hurgen’s face turned to a sympathetic cast. Truly, Jorgan had not expected to use his own misfortune as a lever, but in this case nothing could be held sacred. "Tell me what you would propose. I have nothing, but time."

The aggression left Hurgen’s eyes. There has been little time for thought, Hurgen said. I need an heir, otherwise the line ends here. Three daughters will not secure our future. Surely you understand this.

Very clever, Jorgan absently nodded. Yes, Hurgen, I am still family, no matter what the journals will say.

But, do you seek our best future? Hurgen asked.

If you could only see what I have seen of your future, Jorgan mused. Of course, he answered. Nadisha is young, perhaps she will give you more sons. The words felt hollow. He had seen too much.

And perhaps not, Hurgen countered. Although we are the strongest hand in Kelidon, Clan Lorimon has a house full of male heirs.

All the more reason to follow the law.

You make no sense.

If they were to discover that your son was a Stormwalker, Jorgan said, hoping to make a swift change, it would only take a fortnight for Lorimon to gather the other clans and move against you. Do you think the Elds would stay with you? What do you think Drangeth is prepared to propose?

The same as you, now that he has no choice, but to admit the truth.

And it is the truth that you must admit to, also.

This is madness, Uncle. Madness!

Madness it may be, but this is the way things are and you need to face the truth.

Suddenly, Hurgen was on his feet. The Lord’s eyes were fixed wide on the fire. Again Jorgan shifted his attack, sitting down.

I know what this is, Hurgen said, breaking Jorgan’s next move. "This is the wrath of the Gree. This is the Hammer of the Gree."

Jorgan could not hide his surprise. You believe this? he asked. A few hours ago you were certain they didn’t even exist. Now this?

A few hours ago I didn’t believe in Stormwalkers. What else could it be?

Suddenly you think you see the truth, after a lifetime of denial? Jorgan teased, amused. I’ve spent a lifetime following their voices. I think it’s a little more complicated than your conclusion. Even you are not that important.

Hurgen’s face seemed to sag with the pronouncement. Then what truth do I seek? Yours or the Elds? You both claim to follow the voice of the Gree. He paused. I suppose your solutions are the same.

Perhaps not, Jorgan said, his heart skipping a beat. A hasty tongue would foul his plan. He needed time to formulate his next attack. Although, I am still an Eld, first and foremost. That should do it, he thought.

Are you? Hurgen asked, lifting an eyebrow. Not according to the Order, or this hillfort.

Jorgan released his breath and smiled. I am Jorgan Darmah, Eld in the eyes of the Gree, if not from the Order which I sprang. Despite what you’ve heard, I still hold honor to the name of Darmah and this ancient place you call home. Like you, I was born and raised here. I was brother to Jard Darmah, your father. I was here in this very room when you were born and set apart for the throne you now occupy. I was here despite the voices of protest ringing in your father’s ears. He loved me because I was blood and I returned that love. I seek only the good of this Clan, Hurgen. Jorgan believed the words he spoke, or at least most of them, despite his plan.

So you are family, and according to you, sanctioned by the Gree.

Yes, he lied, knowing full well that four of the five Gree did not sanction him. And I believe I have a certain insight that the other Elds do not.

It is a mystery how you just happened to know the day my son would be born, or that he would be a son at all.

Most importantly, Jorgan added, biting back any misgivings. That he would be a Stormwalker.

So you knew?

Before his birth. Do you think I would travel all the way from the Stoans for any birth?

But you traveled for mine.

Yes I did, didn’t I? Jorgan said, smiling.

Hurgen’s eyes brightened. You came to test me as a child? You thought I was a Stormwalker?

Well, I was younger then, and my sight a little less clear. Again he lied. He had truly hoped that Jard would forgive him Lord Mardon’s judgment on the day of his son’s birth. Hurgen didn’t need to know this now, and the conversation did seem to be moving in his favor.

A flash of anger took Hurgen’s face. Then it’s true what you said earlier. You came for my son, knowing full well what he was. Your intent here all along has been an ill one. Like some black curse, you’ve come from the Stoans as a judgment on this house.

No! Jorgan said, scrambling for words. You misunderstand. Has anything I said to you made an impact? He stood once again, almost unaware of the action. "I am here to forestall a disaster. I am here to offer an alternative within the law. And most of all, I am here to save your son."

Hurgen’s eyes narrowed to slits, reflecting back the firelight with menace. It was an all too familiar face. Jorgan fought back the urge to cringe. What are you proposing then, Uncle? The law is simple. Either I end my son’s life or send him to the desert alone to face the fate of the Gree. Both are death sentences. What miracle beyond my refusal to choose are you proposing?

Let me have the child. The words sounded more like a plea than a command. This defiantly was not the quick efficient method he intended.

No, Hurgen growled. I think you are the dark hand the Elds warned me of. I was wrong about the Gree, I may have been wrong about the Elds too.

Jorgan took a deep breath and sighed. I believe your head and heart have been guided by half-truths. It isn’t your fault.

And you have the answers?

No, not all of them. This issue is a complicated one because each of us carries only a piece of the truth—the Elds, you, and myself. I suppose no one can carry all the blame. It was an artificial statement for sure. Jorgan was certain where the blame lay, but in truth, Hurgen was not important enough to know. In fact the knowledge would probably damn him and all of his house. His intent all along was to play his nephew’s innocence, and now, no matter how he felt, he would not break from that course. What is important, is that we obey the will of the Gree and the Elds, while still saving your house.

Agreed, Hurgen said. But, I would rather the Gree take me than follow their judgments, Uncle. So swear, I do.

A good father’s voice I hear, Jorgan said, kindly, but it is not the voice of good reason. It isn’t you that the Gree judge, but that which springs from you. Let me take the child.

And do what with him? Hurgen asked. You have just said he must face their judgments. What will you do, offer him up in the desert? I will just end him here then. A cold glaze took Hurgen’s eyes. If any should find favor with the Gree in doing so, it should be me.

No. Take him to the Dries where I will raise him for you.

Raise him? Hurgen’s eyes widened. Raise him? To what would you raise him? If your plan all along was to just take the child and make him what you want, I forbid it. I will raise him here and face the wrath of the Gree myself.

No, you misunderstand, Jorgan said. I will not be under their wrath. Hear me out. You will take him to the Dries beyond the Stoan Mountains, as the law demands. Leave him, where I will find him. I will become the child’s fate. In time he can return. Stormwalkers were sent to the Dries in times past because there is no great supply of water there. It is also far from the sea. Their deaths were due to their exposure. I will protect him. Hurgen’s expression did not change. What you may not know is that a Stormwalker near the sea can create a more destructive storm than anyone could imagine. I suspect it is because of the salt. That is all the more reason why you must let this child go, Hurgen. Clan Lorimon has Elds too, and I’m sure they know this. A Stormwalker near their shore could be very dangerous. That is why Stormwalkers were sent away or destroyed. Kelidon is a great island in a great sea. As Lord of Darmah, you must protect the land as well as your house. As sure as I sit here, I can declare this as the judgment; if you refuse my offer and raise the child, within a fortnight—

I know what you said before. Hurgen’s voice had turned to gravel. It was another trait of his grandfather’s that Jorgan had never appreciated. I have decided. In the morning it will be announced that my son created a mist. Following that, I will have the child executed.

Jorgan felt his back stiffen. You don’t mean that.

Of course I do, Hurgen said.

What would it profit?

According to the law, everything. If the child is publicly executed, I will have redeemed myself in the eyes of the Gree, found favor with the Elds, and protected the land. Any reasonable man could see the right of it.

Jorgan’s stomach fell with his nephew’s words. I offer a better way. He had counted on Hurgen’s love for the boy. Had he been too hasty?

What better way is that, Uncle? Take my son away for your own ends? Then teach him—the gods only know what—for your purposes? He’s better off dead. Hurgen turned his back and walked toward the entrance, stopping just short of the hall I’ve made my decision.

Jorgan’s mind raced, trying to find some hold. Could he have miscalculated so gravely? Truly he did not know this flesh before him, not as he probably should have. Something was wrong here. Why did Hurgen wait? Jorgan took a breath and gave a silent prayer to the nameless one. What is your price?

Hurgen whirled about, there was a feral look in his eyes, although he was smiling broadly. You do want this badly, don’t you.

Yes.

Let us examine together how much you are willing to pay. I assure you the price is a high one, and I will not waiver in my demands. Jorgan’s confusion ran to fear. He had truly miscalculated. It was obvious the man wanted something, but what? Would he actually sell his son like a goat at market? Jorgan waited while the lord made his way back to the fire. Uncle, I do not wish to kill my son, not for fear of man or gods. Since you are the only one in this house other than Nadisha who wishes to see the child live, I will do this thing. I don’t know why you wish to do this, but there is no one else I could favor for the job. Hurgen took to his chair. Please, seat yourself. You will be less likely to faint, if relaxed.

Jorgan reluctantly took his chair and again quietly waited.

Good, Hurgen said, continuing like a market vendor. I realize that the curse the boy has entirely captivates you. Any fool knows your story. Any fool also knows the stories about Stormwalkers. Your desire to raise the boy surely makes you the biggest fool of all. So a fool’s price is what I demand. It comes in two parts. The first is a simple one: a vow. The second a painful one: what you will vow upon and leave behind. I will not accept one without the other.

The conversation had come full circle and Jorgan now felt he had taken the part of the innocent. He did not want to hear Hurgen’s next words, he did not want to pay this price. But even as the words left his nephew’s lips he knew he would.

"You will vow to bring my son back to Darmah when it is time for Darmah to have a new lord. You will raise him in the way