Let the Storm Break

by Shannon Messenger

  The greenish tinge to her skin and the tremble in her voice is enough to convince me.

  “Well, then, I guess we’ll just have to make this work,” I say quietly. “And hope Westerlies have big haboobs.”

  CHAPTER 26

  AUDRA

  The Stormers are moving closer.

  I can feel it in the force of the explosions.

  In the fear surging through our loyal Westerly shield.

  Raiden seemed shaken by Gus’s attack. Thrown by the fact that he couldn’t deter it. Furious that his army saw a hint of his weakness.

  If he catches us now, it won’t just be about learning our language. He’ll also make sure we’re punished violently and publicly so that there will be no question who reigns supreme. No doubt who holds the ultimate power.

  My hands shake as I help Vane unravel our wind spikes, and I try to draw calm and peace from the Westerlies as I coil them around my wrist.

  “What?” I ask when I catch Vane watching me.

  A shy smile peeks from the corners of his lips, which seems out of place as the explosions echo around us.

  “Sorry. It’s just . . . every time the Gales ask me to teach them Westerly, I feel sick. I can’t imagine trusting them with that responsibility. But when it’s you, I . . .”

  He doesn’t finish, but his smile tells me what he’s not saying. The same words I suddenly have to say, even though our time is running out—or maybe especially because of that. In case I never get another chance again, I have to tell him.

  “I’m glad I chose you.”

  I counted on a goofy grin or the smug smirk I remember so well. Instead, his eyes turn glassy and he looks away.

  He clears his throat. “So what’s the command for a haboob? Please tell me it involves the word ‘knockers.’ ”

  I feel my lips smile, even though I’m panicking inside.

  I saw my father make haboobs, but he never taught me what he was doing. And during my training in the Gales I was so focused on learning violent attacks that would take out the most soldiers that I never bothered learning anything else. I never knew there was power in restraint. Not until I started listening to Westerlies.

  My whole life I was taught that the west wind was weak. No one realized how much power comes from winds that are willing to work together, instead of dominating, like the Northerlies. How caution steadies the drafts against the pitfalls that a brash Easterly might dive into. How they always stay swift and active, unlike the sluggish Southerlies. They’re the most willing, compliant winds I’ve ever experienced—and whether that’s because of their easy nature or a result of suffering so much loss and loneliness, I can’t be sure. But I know I can convince them to do this. I just have to find the right words.

  “Have you ever triggered a haboob?” I ask Gus, hoping the command might be the same in any language.

  Gus shakes his head, his eyes still so blank I can’t tell if he even understands me.

  “You don’t know how to make one?” Vane asks, sounding as nervous as I feel.

  “I can figure this out,” I promise, ordering myself to believe it.

  I think back to the haboobs I’ve seen. My father always triggered a rapid downdraft that battered the ground so hard it kicked up the towering wall of dust. Most of the force came from how many winds he used, but if I can get my Westerlies to flow in a cycle—flying high and then crashing back down, over and over and over—they might be able to trigger the same effect after a few rotations.

  But that’s a complex command. A single word isn’t going to explain that many steps. For that I’ll need a chain of words, like when I call the wind.

  The Westerlies swirling around my wrist feel too distracted—too overwhelmed by all the chaos to share their secrets. So I focus on my loyal shield, hating that I have to turn to it again. The draft feels weary and faded and its voice is hushed, its words now stuttered as it sings.

  The sound breaks my heart, and I wish I could send the poor wind away, tell it to wander through the endless sky and never worry about me again. But I still need its help, so I whisper a soft apology and beg it for another favor.

  The draft’s song turns sad and sweet, whispering about carrying on when all else feels bleak. And one phrase stands out from the others.

  The force of peace.

  The harder I focus on it, the more I feel other words tingle inside my mind, swirling and building until I know what my instincts are telling me to say.

  Surge and swell and rise to increase.

  Then fall and crash with the force of peace.

  The rightness of the command makes my tongue feel heavy, desperate to whisper the words and put them to work. But not yet. Not until the Stormers are closer and I can be sure the chaos will affect them the way we need.

  Vane reaches for my hand as the ground shakes again, and I can feel the poor shield fighting to hold on, clinging to the three of us with any strength it has left.

  “I want you to promise me something,” Vane says, waiting for me to look at him. “If something goes wrong and Raiden captures me, I want you to make a run for it—no, don’t argue.” He presses my palm against his cheek, closing his eyes as the sparks dance between us. “I’m strong enough to handle whatever Raiden does to me. But I’m not strong enough to watch him hurt you.”

  “Vane—”

  “No, really, Audra. Raiden’s been messing with my head these last few weeks, giving me nightmares, making me imagine that he had you and he was . . .” He shudders. “I never want that to be real. So I need you to promise me that if you can get away, you will. Even if it means leaving me behind. And try to take Gus if you can.”

  I glance at Gus, who’s clearly in shock—not moving or blinking. I can barely tell if he’s breathing. The thought of saving him instead of Vane makes me want to scream. But I can tell Vane needs this, so I nod. “Hopefully, I won’t have to.”

  “But if you do?”

  “Then I promise.”

  He grabs me and kisses me. Still electric and hungry and addictive. But there’s a sadness this time and I realize he’s saying goodbye.

  I won’t let him give up hope like that.

  I press closer, trying to let him feel my confidence, trying to show him he can believe in me again, trying to—

  “So these are the warriors who think they can defeat me? Two lovesick teenagers and a guardian who looks ready to soil himself?”

  Vane and I break away and find a circle of Stormers surrounding us. Raiden stands in the center, so close that I can see the slate blue of his eyes. The angles of his jaw. The loose strands of hair that flop across his forehead.

  There’s something almost charming about his smile as he says, “The two of you will get to be my very special guests. Especially you.” He points to me, and I feel Vane’s grip tighten on my hand. “As for you”—he turns to Gus—“you will get the honor of replacing the Living Storm you destroyed. And I’ll make sure the process is especially painful this time.”

  The taunt snaps Gus out of his daze, and in one blur of motion he dives for Raiden and—

  Crashes into the wall of our shield and slams back to the dirt.

  “Fascinating,” Raiden says as he steps forward, running his hands along the edge of the Westerly.

  I see Vane holding his breath and realize I’m doing the same. But no matter how hard Raiden presses, his hand cannot pass through the shield’s barrier.

  “Once again, your abilities are very impressive. And yet, your carelessness betrays you.” He reaches behind him and pulls out the wind spike Gus attacked him with. “I suspect I could use this to blast right through your little shelter—much the way you used it to shred my Living Storm. But I’d hate to risk wrecking my new toy.”

  He runs his palm along the precise edge and I have to stop myself from lunging for him.

  “Come!” Vane shouts in Westerly, and the spike launches out of Raiden’s grip and slips straight through the shield.

  Before Vane e
ven catches it, the Stormers draw their windslicers and charge—but they’re knocked back by the shield, which is still miraculously holding strong.

  Raiden laughs, tossing his head back so far I can see down his throat. “Bravo. But what’s your move now? Are you going to run me through? The winds told me how well it went for you the last time you got violent. But maybe you think you’re stronger now.” He steps forward, holding out his arms and baring his chest. “Go ahead, then.”

  “Do it,” Gus begs him.

  “Don’t,” I whisper.

  There’s no way Raiden would take such a risk—even if he thinks Vane is too peaceful. He must have a defense we can’t see, and if Vane attacks, it’ll backfire against us.

  Vane looks at Gus. Then at me.

  His grip loosens on the spike.

  Gus shakes his head as Raiden laughs again. “That’s what I thought.”

  “I’m not going to kill you,” Vane says, his voice darker than I’ve ever heard it. “Because death would be too easy.”

  “Really? Is that what it was for your parents?” Raiden asks. “Easy?”

  “No. They had something to live for. But you?” He whispers the command to uncoil the wind spike and smiles when Raiden’s jaw falls. “All you have is power. And I’m going to take it away. Make you live out the rest of your days knowing you came so close and still managed to fail. And then you can die, alone and useless.”

  “If I don’t kill him first,” Gus growls.

  Raiden leans down to Vane’s eye level. “I know what you have to live for too”—he glances at me—“and I’m looking forward to making you watch as I break her apart piece by piece.”

  Vane’s shaking as he reaches for my other hand. I start to twine our fingers together, but he resists, coiling the Westerly he unraveled from the wind spike around my wrist.

  Our eyes meet and I feel a shiver in my core when I realize what he’s telling me.

  It’s time.

  I soak up one last rush of warmth from Vane’s touch to steel my courage as I concentrate on the four Westerlies we now have. I’m tempted to keep our shield and use only the three from the wind spikes—but the drafts are so timid and weary, I know they won’t be enough.

  Even with the shield working with them, they still might not be enough.

  But we have to risk it.

  One deep breath calms my racing heart. Then I shout the Westerly command and the shield unravels, tangling with the other winds as they streak into the sky.

  The Stormers raise their windslicers and jump back, bracing for the winds to attack. But when the drafts crash to the ground, they don’t even kick up enough dust to make a cloud.

  Raiden laughs so hard it echoes around the canyon. “And thus ends the final stand of the last living Westerlies.”

  The Stormers drag us to our feet as the winds return. But when they crash again they barely stir up more dust than the first time.

  Raiden laughs harder, shouting a word that makes his draining gray winds tangle around Vane and Gus as he grabs my wrist with one hand and unsheathes his windslicer with his other. The blade is a dull black color, and when he presses the needled edge into my side, the hundreds of razor-sharp points burn and sting with an energy I’ve never felt before. I’m sure being struck by lightning is less painful.

  Vane thrashes to get to me—but the Stormer holds him too tightly. And when the Westerlies touch down again, their crash is almost weaker this time, only scattering a few pebbles.

  “Now who’s the powerful one?” Raiden asks as he presses the blade deeper into my side.

  This time I bite back my scream, but I feel blood running down my skin and I can see Vane watching it. He wrenches himself free from the Stormer, but with his arms and legs still bound by the draining winds, he crumples to the dry, cracked ground in a heap.

  Raiden kicks him in the shoulder so hard it leaves a welt immediately. “I could split her in half right now and there’s nothing you could do to stop me. Though it does seem like such a waste.”

  He runs his fingers over my wounded hip, making my skin burn with the salt of his sweaty touch.

  Tears stream down Vane’s face as he struggles forward, but Raiden kicks him again, this time in his side. I hear the crunch of bone as Vane collapses and doesn’t move. The sickly winds binding him have turned him pale—and when I turn back to Gus I see he’s already passed out.

  “Please,” I beg the Westerlies when I feel them crash down again. “Please fight harder. Please help us.”

  Three of the winds don’t respond. But my loyal shield sweeps to my side, coiling around me, easing the pain of my wound with its cool breeze. I close my eyes, and as I sink into the calm, I feel two words burn my tongue.

  Get help.

  I shout them and the draft races away, gathering with the others before they whip into the sky.

  “Looks like your winds have abandoned you,” Raiden whispers in my ear. “Such is the folly of giving them a choice.”

  He pulls his windslicer away—cutting me one more time in the process—and tangles me in his wicked winds. The sharp, draining drafts drag across my skin and I feel my energy fade. My ears start to ring and my vision turns dim and I’m about to surrender to the darkness when a clap louder than thunder erupts all around, rocking the ground so hard, Raiden loses his grip on me.

  I collapse to my knees, coughing from the cloud of dust that burns my eyes as I fight to breathe. The thick brown air blurs everything, but I can make out a dark splotch on the ground nearby and scramble toward it, feeling my first real hope when I see that it’s Raiden’s windslicer.

  The earth shakes again and I realize it’s the Westerlies. Dozens of them—maybe even hundreds—crashing in unison and kicking up so much sand the sky turns black. I hear coughing and screaming as Raiden and the Stormers command their broken winds, but the ruined drafts only swirl the dust and debris more.

  I wriggle in my bonds, twisting until I free my right hand. I can barely bend the wrist, but I manage to grab the hilt of the windslicer and tilt the blade up enough that when I lean against it, the winds binding me unravel in a puff of smoke. Then I grab the windslicer and stumble to my feet, groping through the blinding dust, unable to tell if I’m moving toward Vane or away.

  My progress is slow, and twice I bump into Stormers and barely duck the sweep of their blade. I shout for my loyal shield and the draft rushes to my side.

  When it drapes itself around me, I can finally breathe and see again, and I take off running, searching for Vane and Gus—hoping the Stormers haven’t dragged them away. I find Gus first—cast aside like a pile of trash. His head falls limply as I move him, but when I sever his bonds, his eyes flutter open—and then immediately close from the dust.

  I call another Westerly and beg it to shield him. The draft doesn’t want to obey, but it finally agrees to coil around Gus’s face, clearing the air enough for him to breathe.

  “Where’s Vane?” he asks when he’s done coughing and hacking.

  “I don’t know.” I pull Gus to his feet and he reaches for Raiden’s windslicer. My training screams for me to resist, but I remind myself of what happened when I attacked Aston. Better to have the weapon in the hands of someone capable of killing.

  “Please,” I whisper to my Westerly shield. “If you know where Vane is, help me find him.”

  The draft doesn’t respond, leaving Gus and me on our own.

  Gus grabs my hand so we can’t get separated and we wade into the thickest part of the storm.

  “You and Vane are bonded, right?” he shouts as we run. “I didn’t imagine that part?”

  My face burns as I nod, but I hear no judgment in his tone when he says, “Then can’t you feel where he is?”

  He slashes at a Stormer who crosses our path, and I close my eyes, trying not to think about the spray of red. “The pull of our bond weakens when we’re this close to each other, but I’ll see if I can feel it.”

  I ask my Westerly to leave me
for a minute so I can search for Vane’s trace.

  The dust is so thick it coats my tongue, but I force myself to concentrate, searching for a hint of warmth or some sign of contact in the other winds. I feel like I’ve swallowed half the desert before I finally feel the electric tingle I need.

  I tighten my grip on Gus’s hand and we take off running, him slashing anything in our path and me following the heat in the air until I crash into a bare chest.

  “Thank God you’re okay,” Vane says as I wrap my shield back around me and call one for him.

  I wait for the Westerlies to blanket us like second skins. Then I fall into Vane’s arms and cling to him as tightly as I can.

  Vane squeezes me back, but his arm bumps the gash in my side, and I hate myself for wincing.

  He pulls away, staring at the blood on his hand. “I’ll kill Raiden.”

  “No—he’s mine,” Gus insists.

  “Actually—you’re both wrong,” Raiden calls, parting the dust enough to show where he’s been hiding. He’s coated in sickly gray winds and he looks pale and green from their effects. But they seem to let him breathe in the storm. “Once again, you’ve managed to impress me with your powers. But it’s time to stop these foolish games. Call off this ridiculous haboob and I promise I’ll let you all live.”

  “Or we kill you now,” Gus says, holding up Raiden’s windslicer.

  “Try it, see what happens.”

  I put my hand on Gus’s shoulder to stop him. I’m sure Raiden isn’t bluffing.

  The Westerlies crash again, but Raiden doesn’t even flinch.

  We won’t be able to get away from him—not unless we do something new. And that’s when I realize that my Westerly has changed its song again.

  Every verse now ends with the same word—like it’s begging me to listen to the clue. The command doesn’t make sense, but this draft hasn’t failed me so far.

  I tighten my grip on Gus and Vane and shout, “Fuse!”

  The Westerlies shift direction, collecting together, swelling thicker and stronger. I’d thought the storm was chaos before, but now it’s an impenetrable wall of choking dust that traps all the Stormers—even Raiden—in the heavy air that Gus, Vane, and I are allowed to move through with ease. Our Westerly shields must be telling the other winds to let us pass.