Sisters of the Storm_Triad

by Guy Estes

"Ilian, you still insist on agonizing over Aleena?"

  "That was my only child, you crone!” Ilian shouted. After birthing Aleena, Ilian had been rendered barren. “You have your two children, while I am not allowed even one! The gods let me mother one of the Chosen then took her from me! How dare you question my sorrow!"

  Then, both were silent, shocked by Ilian's outburst. Ilian was a woman of infinite affection and vast patience, enduring the wicked barbs of relatives without comment. Before she'd let it out, her yelling had felt so right. Now she wished she could suck it back in.

  "Ilian," Riona began, sounding as though she were speaking through tight lips, "I've come to help you, and I think I've done a wonderful job if I may say so. I am doing this for you and your husband, even though I don't have to. Both of you are helpless to care for yourselves and I have graciously decided to help. I think I deserve better thanks than that."

  "Yes, I know. I'm sorry, Riona. I'm so very sorry. Please forgive me."

  Riona said nothing.

  "Think nothing of it," she finally said. "I suppose I will continue to help you."

  Ilian thanked her profusely, even though some part of her felt a thrill of apprehension at Riona's promise. Riona left her then, saying something vague about tending to daily business. Ilian's sharp mind cut through her remorse long enough to again ask the question: where was Riona getting the income to buy some of the things she did? Their guild pensions would put food on the table and pay the bills, but what of all the other luxuries Riona was buying for herself? Ilian knew that her sister was not a wealthy woman. Riona would never have hidden that from them. On the contrary, she'd constantly remind them. So what was the source of her income?

  * * *

  Madigan dropped by their house near dusk. Again, he saw no evidence of his friends. Only the Stone Wasp was there. She silently regarded him, her face stone cold. “Did you tell them, Riona? Do they know their daughter is coming home?”

  Riona was silent for a moment before she responded.

  “Yes, I told them.”

  “Well?” Madigan prompted after her silence. She sighed.

  “They were overjoyed, of course,” she said, clearly exasperated at dealing with this meddling simpleton. “What did you expect?”

  “So they know? They have a ray of hope now?”

  “I just told you they did.”

  Madigan looked at her like a man speculating on a purchase.

  “Yes,” he finally said, “you did.”

  “Good evening, then,” Riona said, going back into the house and closing the door behind her. Madigan stood in the yard for another moment or two, then went home.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Mastering others is strength. Mastering yourself is true power.” – Lao Tzu

  Anlon rode across the plain as casually as the breeze. His horse's slow pace and his laconic posture in the saddle hid his inner turmoil. Prior Chosen had been free to practice their given crafts, to explore and develop them to their fullest potential. Anlon had no such luxury. He had the natural desire to put his Gift to use, but to do so would require that he commit murder. He had no thirst for blood, but he'd desperately wanted to know the full extent of his power. He had the young man's craving for adventure and conquest, but this was tempered by his own conscience. When these stirrings had first made themselves apparent, he had found relief in physical toil by practicing his techniques, chopping wood, or breaking new horses to the saddle. Such things no longer fed the urges within him. He'd wanted a real challenge, a test worthy of the Chosen - and yet he did not wish to be a murderer.

  He’d gotten his challenge when he fought those other tribesmen. The praise of his fellow tribesmen and the fact that he had been defending them erased any potential guilt he would have felt. At the crowning, though he had been slaying fellow Charidean. True, most praised him for slaying traitors, but somehow it was still different. Still, his revulsion was mixed with exultation. If killing them had been so wrong, why was the entire tribe cheering him on? Anlon desperately needed someone to talk to. Cahir tried, but he was much too busy with matters of state. He could not talk to his mother, for

  she was too busy simultaneously adoring him and ensuring he would never be good enough to be a source of any strength and wisdom.

  His horse ambled in a northwesterly direction, towards a fair-sized town. He tried to ignore the quiet, ominous swirls disturbing the dark surface of his unconscious. He denied knowing why he was heading towards that town, though a hesitant voice told him why, and he heard it, despite the cacophony his spirit raised in an effort to drown it out.

  They knew you were Chosen when they challenged you. The whole tribe knows of your martial skill. As far as I am concerned, Jase and his friends committed suicide.

  That is the excuse his baser desires coughed up, and he drew sustenance from it in the manner that a child draws sustenance from his mother’s breast. The setting sun cast his black shadow long and leering in a windblown veldt seared red. He topped a gentle rise and saw the town before him, less than a mile distant.

  What luck, his shadow whispered to him. Surely that town must have a tavern or two, and the dust of my ride cloys my throat so. I'll wander in for a drink before I return home. All I want is a drink.

  The sun was beneath the horizon when Anlon rode into town, but it still inspired the sky to blush. Anlon nodded to a pair of roving watchmen.

  "And what might a young lad like yourself be doing riding alone in the evening?" one of them inquired.

  "Thirst," Anlon replied. "I've been riding with my clan's herd all day, and my throat needs rinsing."

  "Aye, I should think so."

  The watchmen nodded to him and wandered off. Anlon studied the first tavern he came to.

  No, his shadow said, even though it had disappeared in the gathering darkness. I do not like that one. I am in the mood for something a bit more humble.

  He found that which he sought in the third and last tavern. A battered sign composed of mismatched boards and faded paint dubbed it the Dusty Boar. Anlon tied his horse and hitched his sword, sighing. The ruddy light from the tavern's oil lamps cast a flickering orange band across his eyes, bringing an amber glitter to them. He stood there, telling himself that this was not right and that he should mount up and ride away as fast as he could and what would his friends think if he went through with this and what would Mother say -

  You could rape Lenore right before Mother’s eyes and she would tell you you should have raped Bahna herself instead of a mere queen. Why do you doubt yourself? If what you did was so wrong, then why did your fellow tribesmen cheer for you? And you knew Jase well enough to know what his friends will do. They will want revenge but they will not dare face you. They will just stab you in the back when you least expect it, and they will probably slaughter Cahir, Lenore, and Mother, as well. You must do this. It is your duty as Cahir's friend and loyal subject, and as a Charidian man defending Charidian women, to make absolutely certain the threat is vanquished.

  The rage churned in Anlon's heart, and that stirred up the desires that always lay in wait. He wanted to prove himself.

  To whom?

  To himself. The only way to do that, as far as he was concerned, was in combat. It was what the gods had fashioned him for.

  Anlon hitched his baldric again and went in. The interior of the Dusty Boar was exactly as he imagined it would be. The amber glow of the oil lamps sputtered and danced, the smoke from their own flames muting their light. The tables and chairs were all made of rough, unfinished wood. The men talked in low voices, as though each little group had its own grand conspiracy and dared not let anyone else know. The battered and cracked tankards were raised and lowered by arms that did not wish to put forth even that much effort, and ale dribbled and spilled from a multitude of chips, cracks and beards. The wenches showed off bosoms smudged by their previous customers, and they grinned with crooked or missing teeth, their heads haloed by hair tha
t appeared to have been styled by lightening.

  They all looked at him when he came in, then went back to creating the illusion that their lives actually amounted to something. Anlon went to the bar and ordered a tankard of ale. It was warm and watery, but Anlon needed something to do while he thought of a means of stirring things up, so he sipped at it while studying the others. He felt the same fluttering anxiety as he had the first time he'd been with a girl. Now, like then, he was pursuing something forbidden that he desperately desired. He half suspected that the fact that his desire was forbidden was largely why he wanted it.

  Anlon's gaze rippled over all of them. The farmers and merchants were obvious, but it was that one knot of men in the back corner that caught his attention. They were Jase's surviving friends, the ones who hadn't possessed sufficient nerve to back him at his final play. Anlon sipped his drink as he pondered how he was going to set things in motion, all the while unconsciously but openly studying them, his gaze meeting theirs from the sharp sides of his aquiline nose.

  After a minute or two, a stout man seated near him asked, "What do you find so bloody interesting in us, boy?"

  "Nothing whatsoever," Anlon answered with a loose shrug. His casual boredom was difficult to maintain, for he had butterflies the size of barns fluttering in him.

  "Oh, so you're saying we're not worth being graced with your lordship’s attentions. Is that it? You think a pretty lad such as yourself doesn't have to concern himself with we riff raff?"

  The whores had all gravitated to Anlon by now, and despite his revulsion for them, he enjoyed possessing their exclusive attention. He enjoyed the fact that, by merely walking into the place, he could deprive the salt of the earth of its own women, even if he did not particularly want them. One put her hand on his chest.

  "You're a handsome one, aren't you?" she said in a voice that was like iron hinges on a shipwreck.

  "He's a bloody murderer is what he is," one of Jase's friends grumbled as he rose from his seat. His two friends rose with him and they sauntered towards Anlon, who leaned with both elbows on the bar. Anlon’s stomach hurt.

  "Did you think we'd let you killing Jase just slide into the past?" the leader asked him as they continued forward. He was tall and thin with bad teeth and hair that looked like the thatch roof of a hut. "Did you think that we wouldn't demand justice?"

  "Justice? It was Jase who dishonored his chieftain by making his accusation. He knew the consequences of challenging royal authority."

  "Ha! Cahir acquired his authority by foul means! He should have thought of that before he usurped the high seat."

  "Cahir usurped nothing! Auron died, and Cahir was next in line. There were no foul means."

  "We have only your word for it, and the word of a murderer is worthless."

  "I slew those who would slay my chieftain and my friend. I had to. No one else had the stomach for it. And if you believed so strongly in Jase's cause, why were you not with him at his moment of truth? What kind of friends are you, to leave your champion to be slain alone?"

  The more they exchanged words, the better Anlon felt. He knew what was coming. They were about to be led into his world, where he was the undisputed master. What he was having trouble with was justifying his coming here. Was he doing this to nip a threat in the bud, or did he, on some deep level, enjoy killing Jase, and now he wanted more and Jase's friends were a convenient target?

  They drew their swords and came. The other patrons cleared a spot as three men attacked one. Anlon experienced a momentary flash of worry. Some part of him still questioned his motives.

  Of course, if you hadn't "wandered" in here in the first place, you wouldn't be in this fix.

  His anger at these traitors dishonoring himself and his friend combined with his irritation at his conscience pestering him when he needed his full concentration, but as his three opponents came after him, something in him changed. Anlon grinned at them as an unearthly calm steadied his nerves and the ache in his belly disappeared.

  "Shall we dance?"

  The man on Anlon's left swung at his neck. Anlon ducked and slid off to the side and swung, splitting the man’s skull with frightful efficiency. The remaining two came in again, the leader going off to Anlon's right in an attempt to distract him while the other one attacked. Anlon was focused on the leader when the other one rushed at his back, his sword raised high. Anlon slipped to one side and whirled, slamming his blade in the backstabber's raised arms. He dropped his sword and backed away. Anlon hacked his skull open. The last man thrust at Anlon’s chest. Anlon, bringing his sword across from right to left, smacked the enemy blade aside and smashed a fist off the man’s nose.

  He could have finished the man then, but Anlon backed off and let him get to his feet. This battle had been far too easy. He wanted a challenge. The surviving nemesis brought his sword down to split Anlon's skull. Anlon shoved the descending blade aside with his own and again snapped a fist off of the man's nose, causing him to stumble back a few steps. Anlon swung his sword in a downward diagonal cut, shearing through his enemy’s head, swept the blade back up through the man’s neck to remove what was left of his head, then down again to slice off the upper right quadrant of his torso. Anlon finished with a strong, low backhand cut that took off the man’s legs. Only then did the man fall. Anlon’s inhuman speed enabled him to make sure his enemy hit the floor in six separate pieces: the head in two pieces, the torso in two pieces, and two severed legs.

  The commencement of battle had sent power surging through Anlon's being, his spirit racing faster and faster as the hostilities progressed, culminating with a climatic release when his blade impacted with his enemy's body. He stood over the defeated wreckage of the ones who opposed him, tall and triumphant, his teeth bared as he caught his breath and felt the rush roll away. Then he ripped a piece of one's clothing off and used it to clean his blade, taking his time in his obsessive care for his weapon. Only then did he sheathe it. He calmly walked out of the Dusty Boar, mounted up, and rode away. When he was safely out of town, he threw up.

  * * *

  "Are you feeling well, my friend?" Cahir inquired as he sat with Anlon in the latter's tent later that night.

  "A bit of undercooked meat, perhaps," Anlon replied, his hand on his stomach. It was not difficult for him to fake sickness. Seeing just how effective a sword can be is a truly ghastly sight. Knowing that the damage was inflicted by his hand made his gorge rise.

  But they picked the fight, his little voice would say, not you.

  But I ignored the other taverns so that I could go in that particular one. I set it up.

  Nonsense! You were in the mood for a place that was a bit more humble than is your usual taste. No one put a blade to their throats. He walked up to you, knowing who you were, and deliberately provoked you. They set themselves up. They challenged you. You certainly couldn't have walked away from that. To do so would permanently soil the honor of your clan as well as the Chosen. You have defended your honor, proven yourself and preserved your life, all in one fell swoop. You have done well!

  Anlon felt better when he told himself this, but he had to say it often and frequently.

  The next morning, Anlon took his leave of Cahir to help with rounding up the tribe's horses. The sun was riding low in the western sky when Cahir galloped up to him.

  "Cahir, what brings the chieftain out here?"

  "I managed to finish my political duties early and decided to ride out here and help you. Asura knows you need it!"

  "Yes," Anlon replied with a laugh, "you're just in time to help us herd the last forty animals. We've already gathered the other four hundred! Political duties indeed! No doubt extending your royal influence into several sensitive areas!"

  "Ah, so you've noticed how fewer and fewer of our girls are true maidens!"

  Their banter was cut short when they noticed five riders moving into their herd, scattering the animals in all directions. The riders were not Chari
dian.

  "Who in the seven hells are they?" Anlon wondered while shading his eyes.

  "I don't know," Cahir replied. The other Charidian gathered around their chieftain. The five interlopers continued to plow through the herd of horses until they were before Anlon and Cahir.

  "You wish to speak with the Charidian?" Cahir inquired.

  "We seek retribution against a murderer in your ranks," was the gruff reply.

  "Would it be asking too much for you conduct yourselves a bit more politely?" Cahir asked, his cordial request laced with anger.

  "To the seven hells with politeness! One of your people slaughtered some friends of ours and we demand justice!"

  "Hold your tone," one of the Charidian snapped. ""You're addressing the High Chieftain."

  "If he's so bloody high then why can't he control even one of his subjects? We all know how you came to hold the seat, Cahir. Your father falling ill just as you come of age. An astonishing coincidence. One can only wonder -"

  His sentence was interrupted by a Charidian war cry, followed by a sword blade shearing his head off. Anlon held his reins in one hand and a bloody broadsword in the other.

  "I'll not stand idly by while you cattle-herding saddle sores dishonor my Chieftain," he snarled. One of the intruders charged at him. Anlon blocked his sword and slashed the man's horse across the rump, not seriously injuring it but making the animal difficult to control. Two of the others had their composite bows out, and before Anlon could do anything, his horse's flank was feathered by two shafts, a third quickly piercing its neck. At such close range, the arrow passed completely through the animal's neck and pierced their comrade who had just charged Anlon. Anlon's horse fell, and he leaped clear to avoid being crushed. One of the three remaining men charged as he got to his feet. The other Charidian were too entranced by the scene before them to do anything. Anlon stood calmly as his enemy bore down upon him, his long spear resting in its saddle brace.