Sisters of the Storm_Triad

by Guy Estes

  "Stop it, Brother, I implore you!"

  "Your sick envy must be destroyed," he growled as he got up. "Its very existence is a stain upon the Chosen's honor."

  "Honor? You are in the middle of trying to murder your own sister and you're going to tell me about honor?"

  "Your refusal to fight is an insult to our Chosen forebears. Why do you not use your gift, like the gods intended?"

  "Because I don't want to kill you!"

  Anlon stopped and regarded her.

  "I don't want to kill you," Aleena repeated, though more quietly. "You are my brother. And you don't want to kill me. You don't want to kill your sister."

  "You think I can't?"

  "Think about how you would feel if you did."

  More shouts could be heard from the frustrated spectators.

  "Finish her, Anlon!

  "She is unarmed and helpless!"

  "Her spine has melted, Anlon! Strike now and you will not have to share your fame!"

  Anlon turned his back on her and started looking for his sword. He found it and moved towards her.

  "It doesn't have to be like this, Anlon. It could just as easily be me they would be cheering for."

  Anlon's sweeping blade, moving too fast even for Aleena, slammed into her helmet at one of the anchor points for the chin strap. It broke free, and her helmet went sailing away as she staggered back, fighting to remain conscious and upright. Anlon was coming to split her skull. Aleena tried to get her mind to work. Once she accomplished that, she tried to get her body to follow. She expected to feel the bite of Anlon's steel upon her skull when she found herself at the very place she'd wanted to go. It was the very last place anyone expected her to go. Aleena had gotten so close to Anlon his long blade could not seek her. She grabbed his arms and slammed a knee into them, making him drop his sword again. Then her elbow rammed his face, followed by the heel of an

  open palm. As Anlon staggered under these blows, Aleena turned and went for her pole-axe. Blood and spittle flew from Anlon as he charged, his fury driving all sanity from him.

  Aleena calmly stood and watched him come. He raised his reclaimed sword, enraged that all her words of love were lies, that she meant to use her Chosen brother for her own ends. He was confident he would have her head this time. His blade was already on its way, and she would never be able to move her entire body fast enough to elude his swift blade. When he was perhaps one hand from victory, his hated nemesis did the impossible. Somehow, against all known laws of nature, she did move her entire body faster than he moved his blade, which swished down through the air her head had occupied a second before. He stopped his sword before it hit the ground just as he felt the horrible sting of steel slamming into his backside, opening a gaping wound just south of his tailbone. He straightened as abruptly as a puppet whose strings had been jerked by a sadistic puppet master, then he fell on his knees.

  He saw Aleena standing over him, her pole-axe across her shoulder and his sword in her left hand. He watched her place the sword between them. He prepared to lunge for his weapon, but while he was on his knees before his enemy, she brought her weapon down in an arc so fast it was merely a blur, and the blade clanged as it impacted with his skull. Then Anlon knew only darkness.

  Aleena straightened and caught her breath. She was pleased with herself, for she had defeated her brother while sparing his life. She had accomplished this by bashing him on the head with the flat of her blade. As she regarded her unconscious brother, an escape plan spontaneously formed in her mind. The opportunity she’d been waiting for, she realized, had just presented itself.

  She headed for the gates that were nearest the armory. The storm, she noticed, was gone. The sky was now perfectly clear and blue. The gates swung open as she approached them, and as they swung shut behind her, she was relieved to find only two guards manning the gates. No one else was in sight. Months of routine had created the desired effect – the guards’ vigilance had become dulled. When she first started this they would have loaded crossbows pointed at her, the tips of their bolts coated with smoldering poison. Over time, they stopped pointing them at her. Then they stopped poisoning the bolts for fear of accidentally puncturing themselves. Now they nodded and waved at her. She nodded back and split one's skull and lopped the other's head off. Each had a small purse of coins, which she took. Then she headed for the armory.

  Anlon awoke to the sound of hundreds of voices all babbling at once. Then he remembered everything that happened, and heat radiated from his face like a raging fever. He felt the blood, wet and sticky, running from the wound Aleena had inflicted upon him. He lay there, knowing he had to move and not wanting to. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was draw attention to himself. But it no longer mattered, for he could hear what some of the closer spectators were saying.

  "The great Anlon Buach was defeated!"

  "All her other opponents are dead."

  "And she let him live. Imagine having to live through the humiliation of having your backside sliced open!"

  "How many wagered on Anlon?"

  "I'm not sure, but I would guess over half."

  A man laughed. "I wouldn't care to keep their company this day! Their 'sure thing' was soundly beaten! Look at him! His blood runs from his backside like flux!"

  "Those few who placed their bets on Aleena are going to be the envy of everyone."

  They moved off, then, and Anlon was alone with his shame. He was interrupted when two arena attendants came to carry him to the infirmary. He growled and waved them aside as he got to his feet. Blood ran down the backs of his legs, and more people laughed. He could feel the wound flapping open and closed as he walked, and he could almost hear it chanting jests to the crowd. He silently stalked away from the arena, striking all who got too close to him. By the time he reached the infirmary, seven people lay in his wake, all with broken bones. He stripped off all armor and clothing and lay on his belly. A physician immediately went to work inspecting the wound, while an apprentice looked at Anlon's face, searching for any signs of shock. All he saw was rage of such intensity that its silence unnerved him. Anlon's face was whiter than chalk,

  and his back heaved with great breaths. Out of habit, the apprentice tried to ease the patient with humor. Unfortunately, he made the jest that was most obvious.

  "Take care," he told the physician, "not to sew up what should remain open!"

  He was within Anlon's grasp, and his neck was snapped before the smile could leave his face.

  The corridors were filled with a great amorphous mass of seething, angry gamblers. Those who had placed their bets on Aleena wanted their money, since she had defeated Anlon. Those that had placed their bets on Anlon refused to pay, saying that because Anlon still lived, he was not defeated. Aleena's bettors said defeat was self-evident. Anlon's bettors said in the arena, defeat and death were synonymous. Tempers were flaring, and accusations were blossoming like rancid fungus.

  Aleena had managed to slip into the armory before the crowd had formed. There had been two guards at the armory entrance, both of whom now lay dead inside the armory’s closed door. Aleena located a southeastern broadsword, which she slung on her back. Lastly, she took a good hunting knife and a leather sheath for the blade of her pole-axe, along with some straps to make a sling for it in case she had any climbing to do. Then she set out to leave Marcus' stadium and resume her journey home.

  As she traversed the stadium corridors, she located some water skins and dried meat and fruit, adding them to her baggage. The sound of agitated voices was growing in the halls, and Aleena was forced to take several detours to avoid unnecessary confrontations. Almost all of the guards were busy trying to control the mob of quarreling gamblers, but it wouldn’t take long for someone to discover any of the four she’d slain and raise the alarm. She finally reached a point where she could see sunlight streaming through an exit. Six guards stood before the exit, one of whom was Sternius, the gladiator instru
ctor who had pressed the hot iron bar to her face. Aleena had had enough of this skulking in the shadows. She wanted to go home and, by Nevawn’s claws, she was going to go home!

  "What do you think is happening?" one guard wondered.

  "Some unsatisfied bettors, the way I hear it."

  "Spineless whelps." Sternius' voice was awash in scorn. "They want to turn a coin with gambling, but they can't cope when things don't go their way. If you’re going to stick your hand out, don't be afraid of getting it cut off, I always say!"

  The sunlight radiating from the open door they guarded created a halo in the dusty air around them. They could not see past the glare, so they were ignorant of Aleena's approach until she was among them and had decapitated one of them. Her pole arm’s haft cracked off a second man's skull and was moving to cleave a chest before they could react. Her current target twisted away, sparing him death, but he was still cut across the torso. Sternius swung his sword to take her head. Aleena ducked and slid away from him to hack one of his comrade's legs in two. She jabbed the butt of her haft into a charging guard's gut, and rose to split his skull. Another man thrust his sword at her back, but she spun and knocked the blade aside. Then she slit his throat and danced away from the resulting crimson shower. Sternius ordered the only other remaining guard to go sound the alarm while he faced Aleena.

  "Your just desserts are long overdue," he told her. Then he swung his sword at her neck. Aleena stepped into the weapon's arc so that she was too close for it to hit her. She held her pole-axe so that Sternius' swinging arm slammed into its edge. His hand went flying away, the sword still clutched in its dead grasp. Then Aleena slashed his throat and ran. She exited the stadium and found herself in a vast, open area. What she wanted was a horse. What she got was a huge, boiling crowd of angry bettors. They all looked at her. They were not amused. A small group of saddled horses stood off to Aleena's right. There was nothing between her and her goal, but the gamblers were closer to the animals than she was. Aleena sprinted for the horses.

  * * *

  The young witch came back to awareness of her surroundings. She slowly lifted her gaze from the bowl of water she’d used for scrying and looked around, processing what she’d just seen in her vision. Long had she wondered about her fellow Chosen. Was the ancient warning about multiple Chosen true or not? What sort of people were these two rarest of creatures? Watching them battle had told her everything she needed to know.

  * * *

  Anlon obsessed over his humiliating defeat. He’d awoken to rage and shame in the arena, and those feelings hadn’t dimmed in the slightest since he’d slunk out of the arena and back to his tribe. His temper surged and churned, and he strove to control it, like a small boy striving to control a runaway horse. It swirled and raged in him, an unabated wildfire.

  That arrogant, insolent, lying bitch!

  His obsession over his defeat mated with an obsession for redemption.

  She didn’t just humiliate and dishonor you, his gift reminded him. She has humiliated and dishonored the Charidian. She has spat in the eyes of your people as well as yourself.

  But how to go after her? There would be questions if he just took off on his own, turning his back on his people. None of them had known about his career as a gladiator. He’d been very careful to keep that world separate from his home life.

  That scheming, conniving, devious whore!

  It was a week after his fateful bout in the arena when Anlon was summoned before Cahir. They were alone in the chieftain’s tent.

  "Anlon, I'll not dally. I've heard some rather disturbing things in the past month."

  "Such as?"

  Cahir sighed, then looked him in the eye. "Such as you engaging in sanctioned murder in the gladiator's arena. Tell me it is not true, Anlon. I will believe you."

  When several moments passed burdened with Anlon's silence, Cahir's face crumpled.

  "Why, Anlon? Why would you do such a thing? You, who has always been so concerned with honor. How can you lower yourself to the level of a gladiator?"

  "It was all your fault, Cahir," Anlon snapped. Cahir’s tone further inflamed his temper. "I was being attacked left and right, and all you could worry about was the clan. You hadn't the slightest care if I was going to get sliced to ribbons. All you could do was reprimand me for being the target of assassins and tell me to cope with it, without involving the clan, of course. And it all started with me defending you."

  "And do not think I haven't given that much thought, Anlon. The accusations Jase leveled were serious and dishonorable to the clan as well as to me. But I cannot help thinking that your response was a bit too rash."

  Anlon felt as if his heart would explode.

  "How can you say that? I did it for you and Lenore!"

  "And every time I try to talk to you about it you retreat behind righteous indignation. Now, for once, would you just talk to me about it, instead of saddling me with guilt?"

  They fell silent, then, neither of them knowing what to say. Anlon turned away, his eyes clenched shut and his lips pressed together to keep his rage under control.

  This is all that treacherous harlot’s fault!

  Finally, he broke the silence.

  "Cahir, we have been lifelong friends. You know my temper. When I heard that weasel talking about you like that, I simply could not stand there and let him. I had to do something, and my temper was in the saddle."

  "I have never doubted that for a moment, Anlon. I know you are loyal to me. But you and Jase had been rivals for as long as I can remember. Is it not possible that you also saw the chance to rid yourself of that yapping dog? I know what you did was on my behalf, but could not some of it been for you, as well?"

  Anlon looked off into the distance, his vision trembling with his rage. The tent's flaps were open. A distant storm roll across the grasslands, grumbling at the night. It sent a cool breeze that ruffled the tent. Anlon said nothing. The runaway horse of his anger was gaining speed and his grip on the reins reduced to his slippery fingertips. He merely glared out of the tent, taking deep breaths.

  That godsdamned bitch!

  "You know I am glad to have your friendship, Anlon, but why could you not have foreseen the consequences? Someone was bound to feel compelled to avenge Jase, and then someone else would feel compelled to avenge the avenger when he failed, and a never-ending cycle ensues, one that cannot be good for the clan. The world will come to see us as violent savages. Innocent clanspeople would eventually be placed in harm's way, as an assassin would use them to get to you. How could you not have seen that coming?"

  Great gods, are they all against me?

  "The clan!” Anlon snapped. “The bloody clan! Is that all you can think about?"

  "At least one of us is."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "We are the two most powerful men in the Charidian. It is our responsibility to look out for our people's best interests. I am the Chieftain. It is my duty to look after these people. But you, it would seem, have the luxury of choice. Apparently you have the option of turning your back on the people that bred you to fornicate in butchery. Is that why the gods gave you this gift? Is that what it means to be Chosen?"

  Anlon’s fury erupted up his throat and into his mind, choking, blinding fury. Its reins were jerked out of his grasp. Cahir barely had time to register the fact that Anlon had drawn his sword before the blade crashed through his skull, a mere three heartbeats after he’d spoken his last words.

  Anlon looked down at his dead friend, aghast. Surely he hadn’t done that! Someone had rushed in and –

  No, that wasn’t possible. No one could’ve –

  But how did I –

  Anlon shoved the troublesome thoughts away and surrendered to his core impulses. He snatched up the crown with a growl and rushed out of the tent, bloody sword in one hand and crown in the other.

  “Hear me, Charidian!” he yelled. “I claim the crown by righ
t of sword and might! Cahir challenged me, so he is your chieftain no more! Let any who dispute my claim come forth and challenge me now!”

  They all looked at him in incomprehension. Lenore regarded him with horror. Brona watched him with a dour face. Lenore rushed past him and into the tent. A moment of dense silence was followed by her scream.

  “Who dares challenge me?” Anlon raged.

  Lenore continued to scream a wordless shriek of horror and grief. Anlon turned and faced her through the tent.

  “Shut up, you bawling calf!” he roared. She continued to wail.

  “Asura damn your soul,” he growled as he lunged forward and grabbed her, “shut up!”

  His fist slammed into the side of her head and sent her to the ground, unconscious. Then he turned back to the crowd.

  “No more am I an object of your scorn! Now I am your chieftain! All will bow before me! All will kneel before the Chosen!”

  Brona came to stand next to him as the others backed away from his crazed fury.

  “Now, Mother,” he said with a satisfied sigh, “The Charidean are mine.”

  “Now that you have them, what are you going to do with them?”

  “Bring them to greatness,” he replied, his eyes burning with intensity.

  “We shall see,” she said, doubt narrowing her eyes and pressing her lips together. “We shall see.”

  PART III

  POLISHING

  “To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.”

  ― Ralph Waldo Emerson

  “Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.”