A Respite From Storms

by Robert J. Crane

“You believe the ancestors led us out of Terreas, to get to the Emerald Fields … but what if they led us out so that I would live on to fight Baraghosa?”

  “Jasen—”

  “No, just listen. It’s just as likely that our ancestors guided us here so that I might defeat Baraghosa.”

  “And what purpose am I here?”

  Jasen shrugged. “I don’t know. This was your idea.”

  “But why would they want—?”

  “Revenge.”

  Alixa paused. “Revenge.” She repeated it, both a question and not one.

  “Baraghosa killed them,” said Jasen, “or at least some of them. Why would they not want revenge?”

  “But … in the Emerald Fields … we would be safe …”

  “Do you think the dead do not hold grudges?” Jasen asked.

  Alixa fell into silence. Her expression was troubled. Uncurling her fingers from Jasen’s wrists, she slumped back against the wooden wall of the rear deck, her lips coming together in a tight pout. Scourgey moved to place her head upon Alixa’s lap, pausing to look up at her expectantly for five or six seconds. She garnered no response though, and lay down again.

  The docks were noisy still. Growing louder, by the sound of it. Strange, that the city was so active for so long … but then, he supposed, the Aiger Cliffs were a port, and boats did not only arrive during the daylight. They could come at all hours—and the city would accommodate them, the most dedicated vendors still manning food stalls. Jasen smelled one now, though only at a distance. Game of some sort was turned on a spit above a coalfire.

  If he had not had all his interest in the world beaten out of him, the scent of it might have enticed him.

  He closed his eyes, listening to the conversation. A lot of voices out there—they drowned out the discussion between Huanatha and Burund. Jasen would have liked to hear their conversation, but in any event, they’d switched into their native language some time ago. Last Jasen had heard, Burund remained immovable. Huanatha might talk at him for a thousand years, and his view on the matter would still not change.

  The door from the deck swung open.

  Jasen opened his eyes.

  Kuura stepped out. A knapsack made of brownish-green canvas hung off one shoulder. He had removed the improvised bandage about his head now, revealing a great gash almost six inches long, running from the middle of his forehead and down to the outer corner of his left eye. The one on his arm remained.

  He glanced backward, catching Jasen’s eye.

  Jasen tensed, expecting an outburst—it was he who was responsible, after all—instead, Kuura smiled. It was not one of his wide grins, with all his teeth on display for the whole world to see. This was tinged with sadness and a hurt that filled his eyes.

  Jasen opened his mouth—

  At the same moment, Huanatha cried out, “Kuura of Nunahk!” She strode toward him immediately, peeling off from Shipmaster Burund. Looking harried, he followed quickly, opening his mouth too, to say—what, Jasen did not know. A protest, probably.

  Whatever it was ended up lost to a hubbub on the dock beside the Lady Vizola.

  It drew all their attention.

  “Samwen?” said Burund.

  Jasen thrust himself up at the name, all his pain forgotten. He went to the edge of the Lady Vizola—at a lurch, for his body still remembered his injuries even if his mind did not—and saw there, a crowd parting around him: a warrior in dark blue armor, a great lance raised overhead.

  Jasen’s eyes blazed.

  Longwell had returned.

  24

  Once Longwell had clambered aboard, he made clear he wished to speak—with all of them. He’d not say a word more of what the matter might be concerning, so Shipmaster Burund ushered them all into his office—Jasen, Alixa, Huanatha, Longwell, himself … and, begrudgingly, when Longwell demanded it, Kuura.

  The space was very cramped. Kuura was sizable in a stocky kind of way; Burund was imposing not just in height but in the way he carried himself. Huanatha must surely be the tallest woman Jasen had ever laid eyes on. And Longwell, in his suit of armor, and carrying around that enormous lance, which he refused to be parted from and instead had to awkwardly maneuver through the door and into the cabin—between them all, the room looked very small indeed.

  That Scourgey had crept in after Longwell, and now watched him intently crouched at Alixa’s ankles, did not help matters.

  Burund had not taken up his seat behind his desk. This, he offered to Huanatha. She scowled back at him, leery-eyed, but did not respond. The chair was unfilled.

  “I have accommodated your request,” said Burund to Longwell. “What is it that you wish to discuss?”

  “First,” said Longwell, “I must apologize.”

  Burund hesitated. “I do not believe there is anything for which you owe me an apology, Samwen.”

  “The apology I must make is to these youths,” said Longwell. He turned to Jasen and Alixa—Jasen in particular. Stooping in that suit of armor, so bulky and seemingly inflexible, unlike Huanatha’s, he bowed low to Jasen, dropping to a knee.

  “I am most sorry,” he said. His head, too, he sunk, so that although his eyes were closed, he was looking through the floor.

  Jasen could only imagine how odd it must look: this hulking man, holding a weapon that could run through an entire army, bent in complete supplication to a bloodied, bruised teenager.

  Longwell continued, “We discussed Baraghosa—our mutual desire for revenge in battle. I saw hope burn in your eyes, and I knew that you wished to take arms up with me, to slay him. I knew that. Yet the moment we touched down at the dock, I left you.”

  Jasen peered at him sadly. Hours ago, clutching Scourgey and making their way down the cliffside in the wake of defeat at Baraghosa’s hands, he had been certain that he hated this man. Yet now, faced with him … Jasen felt no hate at all. Perhaps he had lost the energy to feel anything but failure and shame.

  Still, it was true: Longwell had left them.

  So Jasen asked, “Why?”

  “I heard tell that Baraghosa had made his way to a city a quarter-day’s journey from here.” Bitterly, he added, “The rumor was incorrect.”

  “He was here,” said Jasen.

  Longwell’s head snapped up. He stared at Jasen, wide-eyed. “Here? In the city?”

  “On the cliffs,” said Jasen, “this evening. We fought him.”

  Longwell’s eyes grew wider still. “You?” At Jasen’s nod, he glanced to Alixa. “And you with him?”

  Alixa cast her glance down. “I tried.”

  “Yes,” said Longwell, quietly. “I see now.” He turned upon his heel. Gaze raking over Kuura and Huanatha, he took in their wounds. The glance he gave Burund was brief: though Huanatha’s injuries were minor, she still bore signs of the clash with Baraghosa. Burund was in as good condition as he had been this morning—Longwell clearly concluded he had not ventured to the clifftops with them.

  Scourgey made a whimpering sort of noise, edged forward.

  Longwell looked down at her.

  Scourgey lifted a paw.

  She was cut too.

  Longwell stared at it. “Even your scourge—?”

  Alixa nodded. “We all tried.”

  “And did you defeat him?” Longwell demanded.

  “No,” said Alixa. “We lost.”

  Jasen nodded. His head hung too, now. “Badly,” he whispered.

  Longwell turned inward. “I would not have thought … that the two of you would have the courage … the others, yes, but …”

  Children? Jasen almost put in.

  “They should not have gone to face him,” said Burund.

  Huanatha bared her teeth the way a wolf did. “You have no sense, Captain.”

  “The children—”

  “Did a great thing,” Huanatha cut across.

  Burund’s lips thinned. “They are only children.”

  “And yet the strength in their hearts that carried them to that p
eak—”

  “They are not children,” said Longwell suddenly. And he rose, turning a steely gaze upon Shipmaster Burund and Huanatha. “These two—these brave two—they are Luukessians. They have a will forged from the finest steels—yes, they do, of course they do,” he said, glancing to them yet speaking to himself. “And it is that will that drives them, to do the brave things they have done.

  “Like me.”

  Alixa stared. “What do you mean …?”

  Longwell nodded. “I am the same as you. I, too, am of Luukessia.”

  Alixa practically exploded. She whirled, gripping Jasen tight by the shoulders. Dragging him in—he bit off a yelp as she pulled him, and he almost toppled, but her grip was firm and she held him aloft even as his legs threatened to fail—she cried, “We are not the last Luukessians! Not even on this BOAT!”

  Something else had rattled Jasen, something other than Alixa’s shaking, which made his bones feel as though they were on the verge of falling apart. Disentangling himself from her grip, he twisted back to Longwell and said, “Did you say we’re—the same as you?”

  “You just heard that!” Alixa cried. Genuine glee lifted her voice, for the first time in long days—as if, after a long, long night, she was finally seeing the sun again.

  Longwell nodded. “Yes, I did say that,” he said. “I come from the Kingdom of Galbadien, the fallen land south of your Syloreas. I have seen the mountains of your country with my own eyes, fought alternatively against and at the side of your last, great king, Briyce Unger. We bled together, he and I—and I have been shoulder to shoulder with many of your kith and kin.

  “You are Luukessian, like I.” Longwell’s eyes burned with intensity. “I see in you the courage I have come to expect of every Sylorean, every Luukessian. So too are you brave and courageous.”

  “Like you,” said Jasen.

  A slight smile lifted Longwell’s features, one side of his mouth only. “Well … it is an arrogant thing to say, but …”

  “These two…their bravery knows no bounds,” said Huanatha. Despite saying it to Longwell, she shot a pointed look at Burund. “They ought to be applauded—they, and any who chose to fight with them.”

  “I applaud your bravery too,” said Longwell.

  Huanatha swore, made a cutting motion with her hand. “I am not looking for praise. I speak of him.” She gestured at Kuura, who for this whole time had stood in silence, his head hung in disgrace.

  “Yes …” said Longwell, taking him in. “In fighting with you all, Kuura has shown himself to be cut from the finest cloth—the same cloth as our Luukessians—and,” he added, at the first sign of Huanatha’s lips parting, “the same as your Muratam—Queen Huanatha.”

  She scowled. “Do not call me that. I am queen no longer—and it is Baraghosa’s doing.”

  “Hmm. So he despoiled your lands too.” For half a second, Longwell considered. Then, he said with finality, as though the matter was settled and he was simply summing it up: “Baraghosa must be stopped—and he must certainly be stopped now, or as soon as we can manage it.”

  “Yes,” said Huanatha.

  “The question now is this,” said Longwell—and he turned back to Jasen and Alixa. “Will you fight again—with me?”

  Jasen stared. For long moments, he could not speak. He, who had come so close to the edge of utterly breaking in his battle with Baraghosa? He, who could not hold onto a sword, and had barely the strength, let alone training, to wield it in any fashion?

  How could he possibly fight alongside a man—a warrior—like Longwell?

  Longwell sensed his trepidation. He stooped again. Resting a hand upon Jasen’s shoulder, he looked him in the eye and said very earnestly, “You have shown great courage, of a sort that puts you among the greatest of Luukessians. You may have lost this day—yet you have earned a place alongside me, to battle again—and this time to see victory.”

  Jasen’s breath caught in his chest. Could it really be true?

  “So,” said Longwell. “What say the two of you?”

  Jasen hesitated. His answer should be his alone. Yet he had come all this way with Alixa, dragged her into something she didn’t want to do but which she had done anyway. She had taken her own beating at Baraghosa’s hands tonight. Jasen owed it to her to ask, this one last time, if she would be willing to take the battle to Baraghosa once more.

  He glanced at her, fully expecting a “no.”

  “We will fight,” she said.

  Jasen stared. “We will?”

  Alixa nodded. Resolutely, she said, “Baraghosa must be stopped, by any means necessary.”

  “Alixa,” Jasen said. “Are you sure? I thought you said—”

  “I know what I said,” she snapped. “A person may change his or her mind.” To Longwell: “We are with you.” Then, to Jasen, quickly: “At least—you are with us, are you not?”

  Another hesitation. Could he engage with Baraghosa again, after having failed so miserably here? Could he face the man who had destroyed his village, murdered the last remnants of his family, except for this girl beside him, knowing all the while that even if he harbored all the hate in the world in his heart, it would not do a lick of good in stopping the sorcerer?

  Could he fight on?

  Scourgey put her head under his hand. She lifted it up—forward.

  “She stands alongside you still,” said Huanatha, “as she said she would.”

  Jasen stared into her black eyes. After a long moment, he croaked, “Why?”

  “For the same reason as we do,” said Huanatha. “For your courage—your bravery—your desire to deliver justice even when doing so seems impossibly hard, or dangerous.”

  “You are with me too?” asked Longwell.

  “Yes,” Huanatha confirmed. She might have unsheathed Tanukke to brandish the blade high, but with all their bodies pressed so close in this tight space, she would have risked cutting Burund in two. “I will fight Baraghosa by your side, Samwen of Luukessia.”

  “I appreciate your company in this battle, Huanatha.” To Jasen, Longwell said, “Well?”

  He thought, his mind racing over the options. There were two: he could face Baraghosa a second time, or turn his back on this fight, as Alixa had been trying to convince him all this time, and venture out, alone, cast out as Shilara had been.

  Where would he go?

  Not to the Emerald Fields. He could not face his ancestors after backing down from such a fight; he surely could not slip in among other Luukessians, keeping the secret of his failure from them. No, Jasen would need to travel elsewhere, find another land where he could make his home, make his bed, and then lie in it, alone at night with his shame.

  Two possibilities.

  But looking them over now he was presented both, he realized there was only one option, at least for him.

  “I will fight with you,” he said. “Whatever comes of it.”

  Longwell grinned. He squeezed Jasen’s shoulder. It shot him through with pain—but he grinned back, hope flaring in his chest once more, overriding the aches that had settled deep into his bones.

  “And you,” said Longwell, rising now and addressing Kuura. “Baraghosa has marked you most greatly of all, at least on the outside. Will you overcome that pain to battle alongside us?”

  Kuura kept his eyes downturned. He bit his lip—glanced to Jasen, and then Shipmaster Burund.

  “Why do you look away from me?” asked Longwell.

  “His captain has banished him,” Huanatha growled.

  “Banished?” Longwell’s face evinced confusion. “Whyever for?”

  “Kuura of Nunahk—” Huanatha began.

  “—led children into danger,” Burund cut in, finally making his mind known.

  “Baraghosa is a menace,” said Huanatha hotly.

  “Jasen and Alixa were Kuura’s quarry,” Burund countered. “He was tasked with protecting them, as his honor required. He failed in that task.”

  “Failed?” said Longwel
l, his frown deepening. “These children are alive. They are bloodied and bruised—as is the way of a battle. Yet they live on. So too does their spirit—you see it before you now, Shipmaster. They wish to fight another day. Do you truly believe Kuura did not do his best to protect them?”

  “Kuura of Nunahk threw himself into battle like few men I have seen,” said Huanatha. “He is a protector, and a warrior of his own right. That he should be banished for this …” She cursed, throwing up a hand in a gesture Jasen did not understand, other than it must surely be offensive in Coricuanthi culture.

  “Kuura had one task,” said Burund.

  “And he still may act upon it,” said Longwell. “Reconsider this matter, Shipmaster. He is a good man. And we need all hands we can get in our battle with Baraghosa.”

  Burund pursed his lips. He fell into a silence that stretched out interminably.

  “You saw the storm,” said Alixa softly. “You know what Baraghosa is capable of.”

  “We saw the volcano too,” said Kuura. His eyes were lifted now. He looked at Burund, met his eye imploringly. “We have heard many tales of him, of the power he wields. And now he has more of it.”

  “More?” asked Longwell, head snapping around.

  Kuura nodded. “The council granted him permission to drain the conduction rods after the storm tonight. He has made off with a flask of it.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Misdeeds,” said Huanatha. “The sins of a wretch born of shadows.”

  “The storm tonight was a terrifying sight,” Burund murmured. He looked out of the window, a troubled expression crossing his face, eyes far away. Jasen followed his gaze—but he was looking back in time too, surely, as full dark had fallen outside now, the rock spires invisible against the night sky.

  “Think of what he might do with that power,” Huanatha pushed.

  Burund considered. Again, the seconds dragged. The waiting was awful: now that Jasen had set his mind upon catching up with the sorcerer again, every moment they were not moving was a moment wasted. The greater time and distance separating them, the nearer Baraghosa came to unleashing the power he had stolen tonight for whatever dark purpose he had collected it.