THE DIM SLITHERING of chains betrayed his awakening. They stirred when he tried to touch his chest, which throbbed as if he had been stabbed with a red-hot brand. Ulrem’s probing hand came up short. The chains gave just enough slack to flex his elbow, but not enough to touch the heavy collar fastened around his throat.

Now he came suddenly and fully awake, wide-eyed outrage crowding in. He was on his knees, back to a wall, and bound by his wrist, ankles, and neck.

The room was a depthless dark, save an iron brazier a few feet away that bore a heap of coals. They smote the room with kiln-like heat. He licked at his chapped lips and felt the air threatening to sear his lungs.

Ulrem was naked but for a loincloth and the ring on his finger. Odd, that it was still there; if he had been captured and caged like some beast, would they not have tried to pry it free? Greater was his surprise at the stitchwork on his leg where that lance had stuck him. The wound seemed to have come a long way towards healing. There was another tight spot on his back—more sewing, he guessed, but little pain.

Where was he? Deeper instincts began to surge, and unspeakable fury at being caged simmered. He probed the shadows of the room for signs of who had done this to him, fighting to master himself.

Ulrem worked his way to his feet and planted one heel against the wall. He strained, setting all his will and thew against his bonds. He felt a minute shift of the stone. Precious little, but a promise nonetheless.

An unseen door opened and closed. Ulrem growled as padded footsteps drew near.

A creature stepped into the low glow of the coals: something once a man, but now less than human. Its desiccated skin was the color of stained parchment, thin and shriveled. Lank hair hung in patches down the sides of its gaunt head. Over its eyes were two silver coins that glimmered in the ruddy light, and its mouth was shrunken tight around jagged yellow teeth.

It bore a tray heaped with fruit, cheese, and bones heavy with seared meat. The smell of it drove Ulrem half-wild.

Speaking with the grave’s voice, it said, “He wakes.”

“Forgive my precautions,” said a voice to Ulrem’s right. “When I found you, you were a vision of dancing death. Covered in blood and black earth, laughing like the damned.”

Where before there had been no one, now a tall man stood cloaked in raven robes. He threw back his hood, revealing an ancient face lined by a trim silver beard. One eye was missing, and the deep scars around the socket spoke to how the brutality of the injury. His nose was long and sharply boned, seeming more chiseled stone than flesh, and his one good eye was a pale blue that gazed on Ulrem with nothing like mercy or humanity. Stillness gathered in the air around him like a storm waiting to break.

“Who are you?” Ulrem strained against the chains, but the old man did not seem to notice. Nor did the creature standing by the coals.

“No begging, no pleading. Exactly as I expected. One does not earn the name ‘Ulrem the Lionborn’ lightly, eh?”

“You know my name?”

Another stone shifted, like a knuckle cracking in the wall behind him. Soon.

The old man took a step nearer, unconcerned. “I know many things, but your name is the least of those. You may call me Zores Stormrider.”

A Stormrider. Ulrem had heard of these old wizards, crazed hermits to some, whispered legends to others. Soothsayers of kings, breakers of dynasties. A fine jam he had landed in.

A flicker of a smile passed across Zores’ lined face and was gone. Ulrem had no patience for sorcerers, least of all those that took their amusement at his expense.

“Let’s see it then, boy.”

Ulrem roared and tore the chain around his left arm free of the wall. A hunk of stone came with it, spraying dust and shrapnel across the room as he whipped the chain across. Zores flicked a hand up at Ulrem, his eyes now shining with malice.

The chain changed in Ulrem’s hand. What had been cold, unyielding iron was suddenly slick and scaly. A snake with black diamonds patterned across its scaly back writhed in his grip, coiling painfully around his wrist where the manacle had been. The creature snapped its head up at Ulrem, venom dripping from grievous fangs that missed his face by a shallow breath.

Only the jarring alarm of the ring’s echoes had saved him. Now they brayed for blood, a wild clamor that nearly drown all thoughts from his mind.

“Gah!” he cried, and dashed the snake against the wall, trying to smite it.

Suddenly, the chain was bound around his wrist once more. Where the snake’s head had struck stone, now was a square plate fixed to the stone.

He glowered at it, and then at his captors.

The abomination standing beside the brazier had not moved, but dust and chips of stone clung to its strange, tattered uniform where Ulrem had sprayed it. Zores gave a trim bow.

“A good trick,” Ulrem spat. He did not like to be made a fool. “Are you so smug when your opponents aren’t caged?”

“You may wield that ring on your finger, but it is still your master? When I heard the ring of Imaahis had returned, I had hoped for more of an Inheritor,” Zores said cryptically. “But this does not change things. The winds drive the storm before us.”

Ulrem wanted to shout and rave but knew it would do no good. He took several breaths. “Speak plainly, or have done and kill me.”

“Very well, Ulrem the Slayer. Why is it you are here in my cellar, rather than being picked over by vultures with the rest of those savages? Because, boy, I have a job for you.”

Ulrem narrowed his eyes. “Call me boy again,” he snarled. When the old man did not respond, he said, “You’ve a fine way of asking a man for his help.”

“But you are no mere man,” Zores chuckled. “And this is no mere task. Will you hear me out?”

“Can I refuse?”

“Only if you relish those manacles. But I will reward you an equal share when the job is completed.”

Ulrem thought about this. He listened for the ghosts. They lurked at the twilight periphery of his mind like ravens, watching. He felt their judgment like a hard hand on his neck.

“Free me, sorcerer, and I will listen.”

And like that, he was free. He fell to the floor with the suddenness of it. Rubbing life back into his wrists, and then massaging his neck, Ulrem at last looked up. “Where is my sword?” He had no other possessions left in the world.

But the old man had evaporated without a sound. Only the strange servant remained, watching him with its flat silver coin eyes. After a long moment, it rasped, “Would you care to eat?”

Ulrem glared at the thing, but base hunger won out over suspicion. He had not eaten in days. Quick as a raptor, he snatched a beef bone and some cheese, stuffing the latter in his mouth forthwith. Best not to let a hand go empty, he thought, and grabbed another hunk of meat.

“Please, follow me.”

The corpse-man led Ulrem out of the dark room. Beyond stood a long, high hall with many pillars in beetling shadow. The pillars were graven with numberless symbols and delicate scrollwork, depicting something Ulrem could not fathom. Between them were long, low shelves set with honeycomb shelves of scrolls, stacks of ancient tomes, and countless strange and fragile seeming trinkets. Many of these moved of their own accord, keeping time to inscrutable beats. Lanterns hung from sconces among the pillars, casting a strange, twilight glow about the place that reminded Ulrem of an ice-locked forest he had once ridden through.

Ulrem tossed his scraps on one of the shelves and gazed wonderingly around.

The corpse-thing stopped at the center of this chamber and turned, one slippered food scraping over the stone at a time. Slowly, it faced him, its face a mask of shadow but for the two coins.

“Please,” it said, beckoning him to turn around.

Suspiciously, he complied. But only after snatching another fistful of food.

The room shifted and twisted around him. He found himself standing at the foot of a long, thin bridge. At the other end was a huge contraption of metal tubes and rods that stood near a window in the dark wall. Starlight spilled through it, glazing the strange machine with cold light. A long table bearing piles of papers and a litter of instruments stood nearby.

Zores stood hunched over one extrusion of such tubes, his good eye pressed right up against it.

“Enough games,” Ulrem said.

Zores turned to scratch symbols on a sheaf of papers.

“Did you hear me, old man? Give me back my sword. It’s mine. I won it.”

“Yes, you won it. Yet the Proud Hawks named you thief. I wonder, which of you has the truth of it?”

Anger boiled out of Ulrem. Sharply, he said, “In the lands of my father, a man who takes another’s—”

“Be silent!” Vores said. The air seemed to disappear from the room. Ulrem clutched at his throat with both hands, fighting to draw breath that would not come. He glared at the sorcerer, refusing to look away.

“Give...” he managed, sinking to one knee.

Finally, the old man cast his one good eye over at Ulrem. “Oh, very well. Your constant demands are as tedious as they are hollow. There, on the table, with some other kit, you shall need.”

And just like that, the air returned. Ulrem took a ragged breath. On the table, the broadsword he had fought so hard to win appeared amongst the papers. Beside it was a tunic and belt, a chinless helmet of hammered bronze, and simple greaves. He dressed as the sorcerer watched with something like impatience, and then took up his sword.

It was long as his arm from shoulder to fingertip, with a blade almost twice as wide as his hand at the base. The hilt itself was short, and the pommel was fashioned into a curled fist cut of jade. Braveblade, the Proud Hawks named it. A sword of champions, of chieftains. It was wrapped in a sheepskin sheath Ulrem had taken from the great chieftain’s body, and bound with simple straps. A plain iron buckle flashed dully.

“A drowning man often attacks the man who comes to save him, so desperate is he to stay afloat,” Zores Stormrider said. “Are you drowning in all that power?”

Ulrem grunted. “I manage.”

“Hardly. But still, you will suffice.”

Ulrem interrupted him. “You called me an Inheritor. How did you know what I am?”

“Fool,” said the old man sharply. “Do you think me blind? I know that ring on your finger. The ring of Imaahis, long of legend, and drinker of blood.” At that name, Imaahis, Ulrem glimpsed vast lion’s eyes, a vision beyond his own. The ring stirred, power within rumbling like distant thunder.

“What is it?” Ulrem asked, holding it up to glitter in the starlight.

“What is it?” the sorcerer echoed. “Do they not tell of Akale the Red, or Hejmdir the Watcher in your barbarian holes? What of Hyphaestun Flametongue? Have they forgotten Golden-tressed Idunnir who kisses rivers? Or Ra’aeshmon, who carries the sun?” He rattled off a slew of names, his voice growing harder as he went. “How is it you have inherited the lion-lord’s ring, but do not know his name?”

Ulrem scowled. “My folk know those names. Legends, myths. Gods.” That last word he spat. “We keep no gods. But you speak in circles. What does this ring have to do with those names?”

The sorcerer rubbed his face. “The days grow dark, and the children dim,” he said. Ulrem opened his mouth, but Zores held up a finger, staying the comment. “If you threaten me again, cub, I will give you another taste of Inraela’s fire. An inheritor you may be, but you are young yet, and I know secrets that would shatter your mind. Do not press me.”

Ulrem closed his mouth. He searched himself, and found that he did not doubt the old man’s threat. “I hear voices,” he said. The admission felt like plunging a dagger into his belly.

“Echoes and fragments. Memories of those who bore that ring. Of the one who forged it in the ancient days.”

Ulrem looked at the golden band. Designs seemed to flow deep within the material, evading his eye. It shined faintly, as if in recognition of his gaze.

“Is there another like it?”

Zores’ eyes glittered. “Once, there were twelve. My order seeks the Ring of the Storm.”

Brothers and sisters. The echo drifted out of the ring like the scent of a faint memory. He was not alone. A cold comfort. Still, the old crow knew far more than he did. His father would have named him a fool if he made an enemy of such a man. “What would you have me do, sorcerer?”

Zores met the younger man’s eyes for a long moment. Then he nodded, releasing a grim tension that had built in the air. “So you can learn. Presently, we will travel to a place of power far from here, into the forgotten depths of the earth. You will guard me as I search for a particular artifact. When we are done we shall split the reward.”

“Which is?”

“To be determined by the success of our endeavor.”

Ulrem’s gray eyes searched the old sorcerer’s face for clues, for some hint of the man’s deeper motives.

“Why me? Surely you could have hired a hundred swords to guard you. Or made thralls of corpses.”

Zores pursed his lips. “My attendant? Such constructs are far too limited. As for hiring a company…a few quiet feet can often pass unnoticed where a hundred meet a wall. You and I shall suffice.”

Ulrem weighed the words. There was much he was not being told. He sensed it, like a man feels a great fish beneath a river’s surface. He burned to be led about with half-truths and vague promises, but what was he to do? Even the ring’s echoes were quelled now. They were watching, waiting. Uncertain.

He rolled his broad shoulders and asked, “Then we are to be thieves?”

Zores gave him an evil, empty grin. “Worse, Slayer. Grave robbers.”

He moved away, down the bridge. Overhead, something began to grate and squeal. The window that looked out on the stars shrank, restoring the deeper blackness.

Ulrem’s lip pulled back to bare his teeth. He had known wise men and mystics in his homeland, far away. Men who wielded fell powers, who did not have to face down the blade or spear, all became crooked wretches, given time. They withdrew to the shadows like spiders, tying knots in the lives of other men for their own ill gain.

Was this old crow any different? Ulrem loped along behind warily. There were secrets he hoped to learn yet.

Zores pushed open a wide wide door that screeched on neglected hinges. Within was a shallow chamber that bore more resemblance to a chimney than anything else. A circle of white runes had been inscribed on the floor. Some hundred paces above hung a lopsided circle of violet sky punched through with stars.

“We will journey forth from here, ” Zores said. He turned to face Ulrem from the center of the circle.

Ulrem hefted the sword in his hand. It was the sum of all his worldly possessions now. He buckled it to his back and glanced up at the sky so far above again. He had buried his father and the last kings of the west. Had their spirits looked up at such a sky as he built their cairns?

“How?”

“Why do you think they call me Stormrider?”