Ours Is the Storm

by D. Thourson Palmer

  Satisfied that they were alone, he turned back to Revik. “That is Cheduna, the southern tongue. Most men of this land, including my guards and Cunabrel’s soldiers, do not understand your Gharven. Few of them have ever been so far north as to have heard it.” Meanwhile, the man withdrew his hand from his sleeve. He was holding a small knife, which he passed down to Revik. The hilt was decorated with an eagle, and the blade was dark. “Next time your guard comes here—you must kill him.”

  Revik dropped the weapon.

  “Cunabrel will see you as an annoyance and I will be able to take you.”

  Revik gaped. He picked up the knife and felt the weight of it in his hand as he closed his fingers around it. He looked back up at the man standing high above him.

  “It is the only way. Do you not want revenge for what has been done to you?”

  “But… I’m just…” Revik protested, but the man cut him off.

  “No. You are much, much more than you believe.”

  Revik studied the blade, imagining it stained, shining wet and red with blood. He imagined sinking it into the guard’s chest, stabbing him, killing him. He thought about how the guard had struck him. He wondered again how long he had been confined, and clenched the knife in his fist.

  “Yes,” the man said, as if seeing his thoughts. “It is your chance to show Cunabrel his error. Remember, young Revik, you will only go on if you seize all opportunity, if you seek to overcome all those who oppose you.” His form grew darker as he leaned closer to the pit. “Throw down you foe, Revik, and crush him if you are to survive. Become great. You can accomplish anything you desire—show no mercy or weakness. Take what is your due.”

  Revik knew he was right. No one would give him his freedom. He would have to take it. He looked up again at the shadowy figure above. “Who are you?”

  The man smiled again, pale eyes glittering. “You will find out soon enough. Who I am is not important now.”

  “No, it is!” Revik fought to control the volume of his voice. “You are the only friend I can remember anymore. I want to be like you. I want to go with you. Please, tell me what I should call you.”

  The man licked his lips. “I am Halkoriv. My people call me king, but you, Revik, may call me Halkoriv.”

  —

  After Halkoriv left, Revik thought only of his imminent freedom and the short, sharp blade in his hand. Doubt gnawed at him—he was young and small, emaciated and weakened by his time in the cell. He had forgotten even how many summers he had seen, but he felt it could not be more than twelve. When his fear threatened to overtake him, he tried to think of his parents as he had in the past. Like the rest of his life, however, they had faded into the shadows of the cell, apparitions cloaked in the consuming darkness of solitude and deprivation. He thought of home but saw only fire and visages of pain and cruelty. He turned his mind to Halkoriv—his friend. Halkoriv was strong, though he seemed old. King. He thought he could remember tales of a southern king, one who made war and conquered distant lands. Halkoriv seemed kindly and brave. Revik could not doubt his words, and imagined that his wars must be for good and just causes. He was comforted thinking about his friend. He waited, lying as if asleep once again.

  The quiet grate of metal on stone, slow and cautious, reached his ears. They fear me. The idea made him smile. The weak light filtered in, once more aiding his sight more than anyone could know. Once again, he clenched his hand—but this time on a real weapon, a deadly weapon. He waited until he knew the time was right, until he could hear the creak of leather and rustle of cloth nearby, as if his visitor were kneeling down.

  He rolled, bringing his arm and the blade around in a wide arc, striking with all his might and more, bolstered by echoes of Halkoriv’s urgings. He could hear them as if the king were beside him, speaking again, whispering to him. Throw down your foe. Crush him. Take what is yours. No mercy. No weakness. Crush him. Crush him. Crush him.

  Before he realized what had happened, Revik’s eyes widened and he saw the same guard that he had attacked before, his good eye staring, his mouth opening and closing like a fish’s. His other eye was hidden behind a bandage. He was on one knee, shaking. The knife protruded from the base of his throat, driven in up to the hilt. Thick, dark blood ran in a slow trickle down his chest. The keys he held clattered to the stone floor of the cell.

  The sound startled Revik, who had been staring in awe at what he had done. He, a starved, naked child in a pit, had killed a man.

  No. Hot blood on his hand, rage welling inside him. He isn’t dead yet. Wrath clouded his vision. He could hear nothing but his heart hammering in his chest, see nothing but the dying man in front of him. Revik grasped the bloody hilt and pulled. Weakened, surprised, and mortally wounded, the guard had no strength to resist. He dropped to both knees and Revik stood, feeling tall and powerful. His rage overflowed within him and his hands shook with righteous anger. Grasping the knife hilt, he took hold of the man’s chin and forced him to meet his eyes. Revik said nothing as he stared into the guard’s face. He reveled in the power he felt over the gasping, choking thing before him. Revik screamed, wordlessly giving voice to the cold rage inside him, the pain, the endless hours of darkness and loneliness and despair, and twisted the knife as hard as he could. Blood gushed from the wound and the guard’s mouth. He gurgled and gasped and fell back, twitching. Revik stared at the corpse, the knife still clenched in his bloody fist.

  He heard running footsteps and the clank of weapons—others had been alerted by his scream. Smiling, Revik awaited them. He watched as a lantern appeared in the dark, illuminating two men rushing toward him. Revik forced himself not to squint or blink, though the sudden light pained him. They were like their fallen compatriot, hulking and brutish, their pale skin contrasting against the dark uniforms. Shirts of leather were all they wore in the way of armor, emblazoned with a black griffon. They came to a halt in a hallway of stone, damp and in disrepair, and gaped at their dead comrade. They moved toward Revik, mouths clenching in anger. He drew himself up to as great a height as he could and they stopped when he lifted the knife. “No.” Revik bared his teeth. They did not move, and he saw doubt and fear in their eyes. He backed into the cell, holding the knife before him, and let the dark of his prison shroud and conceal him. One of the men crept forward, his hands out and empty, and pushed the door of the cell shut behind him. Revik waited.

  —Three—

  Within hours, Halkoriv returned. This time, he came to the door rather than the hatch above, flanked by muscular soldiers with gleaming, dark coats of mail and deep red tabards. Revik stepped out of his cell, clutching his knife, weak with relief and happiness. A child once again, he threw himself at the king, embracing him as he might have his father. He did not dare speak, lest his voice belie the emotion welling in him. He was soon clothed in warm robes the same color as the king’s and the group withdrew from the dungeons. Revik was overwhelmed and frightened by the onslaught on his senses—after so long with so little to smell, to see, to hear, he had forgotten how chaotic the world could be.

  The dim torch light and damp, rotten smell of the dungeon gave way to the jail. He was lead through the upper cells and into a hall where there stood several guards, better attired than their fellows below had been. Cunabrel’s men. Revik noted the different colors and heraldry. He had little time to consider them as they passed through the hall and out into the cold night air.

  They were now in a great courtyard surrounded on all sides by a high, crenellated wall. The moon shone above and snowflakes drifted down, catching its light and that of two great torches on stone plinths to either side of the jail door. The plinths were inlaid with the same griffon he had seen on the guards’ jerkins. The courtyard was abuzz with activity, and directly ahead of the jail sat a huge carriage made of dark-stained wood, hung with lanterns and decorated with gold. Six horses stood in harness—huge, powerful beasts, nothing like the clumsy animals Revik remembered from… where? He tried to recall and his mind met only
the dark.

  All around the carriage stood dozens more horses and the rest of Halkoriv’s guards and attendants. The king’s red and gold banners fluttered alongside the tall plumed helms of the soldiers. All were outfitted with long swords and spears—a grim company of deadly men. In the moonlight, Revik could see another group of soldiers to his right. They stood about a great stair before the entrance to a high and imposing castle. Looking back, he saw that the building they had left was but a small part of a complex of enormous stone structures. The tallest part of the castle swept higher and higher, disappearing in the night sky but for torchlight dancing in its windows. The heavy, imposing edifice was bedecked with gargoyles and black banners hanging from small stone windows or soaring high above even the lofty towers. Revik almost lost sight of them against the starry sky as the snowflakes floated down around them.

  Looking back to the entryway, Revik saw a man standing among the soldiers. His arms were crossed before him and his deep gaze caught Revik’s attention. The man’s blue eyes were set and hard, and his dark hair hung about his shoulders. A thick beard, black as his hair, was on his jaw. He looked similar to Halkoriv but for the unveiled malice in his eyes as he looked at Revik. Revik realized the man must be Cunabrel, his captor and tormentor. He returned the glare and felt cold hatred rising in him even as gloved hands took hold of him and lifted him into the carriage. Halkoriv spoke to his guards in Cheduna and entered the carriage as well. In seconds, they started moving and Revik was borne away.

  Sitting in the warm, plush interior of the carriage, he was silent, trying to understand all that had happened. Halkoriv sat across from him, seemingly content to wait for Revik to speak. The carriage was lit by a small oil lamp encased in yellowed glass. It swung back and forth from the ceiling, casting warm, welcome light about the otherwise dim interior. Cushions sat upon ornate carved benches of dark wood, one facing forward and the other back. A thick woolen rug covered the floor and embroidered padding made up the walls, depicting battles long passed. Revik saw a man sitting astride a great horse in the embroidery. Light seemed to emanate from him. He was in the midst of thrusting a great spear through the chest of a huge creature, like a man but with a vile, brutish look. Curiosity overcame Revik’s silence and he pointed. “What is that? An ogre?”

  Glancing over his shoulder at the image, Halkoriv chuckled. “It may as well be. It is a plainsfolk warrior. They are a savage people who roam Feriven, threatening simple folk. I personally fought them for many years, and now I fight them still, but only through Feriven’s valiant armies. Beasts like the plainsfolk and worse still threaten my people. I think, with your arrival, that we may finally have found a way to bring peace. You have much to learn, young Revik, if you will one day fight those creatures as I did.”

  “I just want to go home!” Revik surprised himself with his outburst. A knot rose in his throat and he choked. He tried to force down the feelings threatening to overwhelm him. “I want to go back to…” He searched his mind, looking for something to return to, but he found only the darkness of his cell. Revik nearly wept again, grinding his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut against the tears.

  Halkoriv sighed. “Revik, you must understand—you cannot go back. There is nothing now in the forests of The Gharv, not for you. Cunabrel hunted your family. You were taken.” Revik looked up to find the king watching him. “And your parents were killed.”

  Dumbstruck, Revik stared in silence. He had known. In his heart, he had known that they were gone, in life as they were from his memory. But he had hoped, all that time in the dark, that he was wrong. He thought he would surely cry now, but no tears came. He could not cry for something that he could not remember. His feelings of loss were for his memories themselves.

  Halkoriv spoke slowly, his voice earnest, sympathetic. “Within your village dwelt two men, each great in his way. One was great and wicked, a saboteur and a traitor. He lived there secretly, often traveling south to these lands to sew dissension amongst my people. This man believed that I command armies and war because I am cruel and vicious. Revik, do you feel that he was right?”

  Revik shook his head. “You freed me from that place. You gave me food and your cloak.”

  Halkoriv smiled. “I did. And that is what I seek to do for all in my kingdom. I wish them to be safe and fed and warm and happy. Your father knew that, Revik. He was the second great man I spoke of. His name was Koren Lasivar. He told us where to find the wicked man. His dream was for Feriven to be united and safe.

  “I sent my most powerful vassal, Lord Cunabrel, to capture the traitor, who sought to discredit me and bring chaos and war to all lands, South and North. Cunabrel, however, appears to have his own designs. Instead of capturing the traitor, he ordered him slain along with all they found with him.” Halkoriv’s voice grew sorrowful. “Even your poor, honorable father.”

  Cold rage built in Revik's chest. His tears dried as Halkoriv went on. “But even Cunabrel could not kill a child, so you were taken, imprisoned, to be forgotten. He hoped I would not find you in that pit. Revik, I know of the valor of your father. That is why I came for you. You have been wronged, child, along with many others. Cunabrel stole something very precious from all of us—the peace your father sought. Someday, I believe you will see it: the North joined with the South in peace and unity.”

  Revik heard Halkoriv as if from afar. He was beginning to understand. He remembered flashes of fire and blood. His imprisonment was evidence of Cunabrel’s wrongdoing. Cunabrel must have known that Revik’s father was the better man, a man in Halkoriv’s favor, and killed him out of jealousy, or to protect his wealth and power.

  “Yes.” It was as if Halkoriv heard Revik’s thoughts. “Cunabrel is to blame. I wish you could return to your home, Revik, but it is gone. If you wish, I can see to it that you go north once again and are well cared for. You could go back, and I will see that your life is as comfortable, as much like your old one, as possible.” His voice grew in depth, and took on the quality it had shown when he had first spoken to Revik in the cell. “I will do whatever you wish to make things right.”

  The words bored into Revik’s mind. Whatever you wish. Revik realized what he wanted even as the words reached his ears. He answered, the words flowing unbidden, with more grace and weight than any he had ever uttered. His voice came out low and steady, no longer the voice of a child. “I wish to stay with you. I wish to see my father’s hope for a united Feriven made true. I also wish…” He paused, summoning up the thought and relishing it. Blood had run over his hand. He had felt powerful as he watched life end in the guard’s eye.

  He yearned to feel that power again.

  “I wish to bring justice to Cunabrel, to kill him, for my father and mother, for my village, and for myself.”

  “So be it.” Halkoriv’s eyes glittered in the lamplight. “He took much from you and betrayed me. I will give you the power to see justice done: to destroy Cunabrel and bring peace to this land; our land.” In the dim carriage, the king smiled at Revik.

  —

  Revik embraced his new life with Halkoriv, one of privilege, luxury, and learning. Revik soon found that no expense was spared on his account and that there was little that would not be provided for him.

  He was taken to Halkoriv’s palace in the great capital of Ferihold. The city was perched at the zenith of the highlands which arose from the center of Feriven. A verdant forest lay to its west and in the summer, vast emerald fields spread below it. Five rivers, wide and deep, provided swift alternatives to the well-kept roads for travel and trade. Boats bearing passengers, crops, and other goods trawled the waters and trading caravans kicked up the road dust from sunup until sundown each day. Troupes of soldiers came and went from the capital at all hours, led by majestic armored knights.

  Even near the end of winter when Revik arrived, Ferihold and the land around it was beautiful. Perhaps it was only due to his newly-gained freedom, but he reveled in the open spaces and the clean, glaring light of
the sun on the snow. His new studies, however, kept him from spending too much time outside the city.

  The walled capital itself was also a place of wonder to him. Revik had never imagined such structures or such a press of people. Moreover, his status as the king’s charge gave him unparalleled access to the city. Not a day went by that he was not carried by coach or horse through Ferihold’s gardens and avenues.

  The buildings reared up like cliffs capped with shining steel-gray tiles, disappearing amidst the plumes of gray smoke from fires heating homes and shops below. The winding streets were canyons, twisting among the pale stone of the structures while banners of maroon and gold hung across them from the upper balconies. Laid with great stone blocks, the streets played host to markets, festivals, parades, and the daily bustle of the capital. Surrounding the hill was a high wall interspersed with towers and turrets. Twelve feet thick, the wall had been completed in Halkoriv’s youth as the greatest protection the city could offer its citizens. Fierce guards patrolled it at all times, armed with long spears and strong bows. The gates, facing north, east, south, and west, were closed from dusk till dawn to all except those traveling on the king’s business. During the day, however, they flowed with carts and drivers, oxen and horses, tradesmen and farmers. Some brought grain, fruit, and livestock, while others’ carts were laden with cloth and spices, coal and iron, wood for building and clay for tiles. Outside the wall were the poorer homes and neighborhoods, and outside those great farmlands spread across the fields.