“Commander Malskein! A messenger just arrived, badly hurt by the plainsfolk—they’re trying to cut off our communications. He says reinforcements are on their way. Revik Lasivar is leading them from the South. He says the king knew what was to come and has sent his aid.”
—Six—
The night was long and tense, but the plainsfolk were neither seen nor heard. No attack came.
In the morning, messengers were sent to meet the reinforcements coming from the south. Though they waited for daylight and were given fast horses, they were not even out of sight of the makeshift barricades before they fell from their mounts, one by one. Others were about to be sent out to ascertain their fates, but Malskein intervened. He commanded that no more men be sent out until the plainsfolk were dealt with. The garrison captain was furious. He took Malskein aside and they spoke in low, heated tones. When they returned to the barricades, the captain was pale. No more messengers were sent.
The men were gathered and armed. All but a few defenders set out to confront the plainsfolk. “Do exactly as I say, when I say it. No questions,” Malskein told them. “Don’t hesitate. Don’t think. Just act. You will live through this if you can do that.”
Bor once again found himself amongst the waving blades of grass, almost as high as he was tall. Surrounded by soldiers, led by Malskein and his companions, he felt sure that they would find and kill the plainsfolk.
They marched, spread out but within sight of their fellows. A breeze blew from the south and the men could see dark clouds in the distance, though the sun was bright and hot above them. Though they tried to appear confident of success, the tension among the soldiers was palpable.
They circled the garrison, staying close together. At first they swept their weapons through the grasses or surrounded likely hiding spots, but after an hour of searching, there was no sign of their enemies. Without sight or sound of them, many of the men supposed the plainsfolk had run off. They began to joke and call out. Some mocked the plainsfolk and some mocked each other for their fear. Yet unease clung to Bor’s mind and grew stronger with each passing moment.
They were beginning their second pass around the village when a pair of spears flew out of the grass, driving into two men and knocking them from their feet. As they fell, the others cried out in sudden panic, whirling about and raising shields. “Over there!” someone shouted, pointing, as two camouflaged forms rushed away through the grass. Several of the soldiers lunged, following them into the brush. Malskein called for them to stop but his orders were drowned out by panic and shouting. Some of the pursuers heard him and returned, but three men kept running.
“Damn fools!” Malskein called after them as they rushed away. “Let’s go.” He gestured for the remaining men to follow him. “Slow! Keep your shields high and your eyes sharp.” He issued orders for some men to watch behind, others the front. They followed the three who had rushed away, with Malskein in the lead. Bor found himself behind him. They had not gone a dozen steps before they heard screams, one after the other.
Some of the men began to push ahead, but Malskein stopped them. “Keep together. They’re already dead, and you’ll join them if you break ranks.” He kept their pace slow and steady. A step at a time, the squad made their way through the waving blades of grass. Through their quiet rustling, they heard a call for help.
“They’re alive.” Bor kept his voice low as he scanned the grasses. “One is, anyway.”
“Some kind of trick,” Malskein muttered. “Go on ahead and find out if you like.” Bor held ranks.
They found the wayward soldiers. They lay on the ground, moaning or crying out. There was no blood, no open wounds. All three had broken legs, their limbs gruesomely twisted.
“Look.” Malskein pointed at the ground. There were holes all around, disguised by the grasses, just wide enough for a man’s leg to slip inside.
One of the fallen soldiers grasped at Bor’s trousers. Bor looked down, then back up at Malskein and moved his leg away, keeping his eyes to the plains. Several of the soldiers moved forward to help their fellows, but Malskein and his companions remained alert.
“Careful.” Felsen broke his usual silence. “They haven’t gone far.”
Without warning, two more spears flashed out of the grasses and tore into fresh victims. Malskein called out to the men and tried to maintain their formation, but in the brief panic another soldier slipped into one of the holes. His leg snapped above the shouting and his screams drilled into their ears. The men were thus distracted, frightened, and reacted far too slowly when a big plainsfolk leapt into their midst.
Machete flashing, he cut down two soldiers and vanished, ripping a spear from a corpse as he went. “Stand down!” Malskein shouted as a few of the soldiers moved to give chase. “Shields!”
They saw no enemies. They hesitated. A spear shot back along the path of the fleeing plainsfolk, stopping halfway through the chest of one of the soldiers.
Malskein’s orders rang out one after the other. “Don’t think, move!” They formed up defensively, shields making a wall. No more enemies appeared. Malskein made a quick count and found that nearly half of the force was dead or wounded. He ordered them to return to the village, dragging the wounded but leaving the dead against the protests of the other soldiers.
—
That night, the Huumphar sat some distance from the village, not far from the road, watchful for riders to or from the south.
Ruun’gaphuu’s wound was worse, and while he agreed to sleep instead of take a watch he refused the others’ insistence that he start back to the tribe. “The ones who killed our grandfather still live. I’m staying.” Ahi’rea knew it did not matter. The wound was too grave and Ruun’gaphuu had gone too long without rest or proper treatment. The future is not set, she told herself. Still, she knew he was going to die. There was nothing she could do but hope that, when the time came, he would have the chance to make his ancestors proud. She rested, sleeping while she could.
Ahi’rea awoke, her head on Ruun’daruun’s chest. She knew by the moon that it was almost time for her watch. She gently moved Ruun’daruun’s arm and stood, feeling the growing south wind on her skin. The clouds had almost caught the moon. By Ruun’daruun’s watch, it would be hidden and the plains would be at their darkest.
Ahi’rea approached Haruu’na, sitting with her cloak wrapped around her. Haruu’na looked up at Ahi’rea’s quiet steps behind her and smiled. Although the night was pleasant and cool to Ahi’rea, her mother looked as if she was cold.
Ahi’rea sat beside her, laying her spear to the side, close at hand. They were quiet for a while until she spoke.
“What is wrong, Mother?”
Haruu’na smiled. “It’s impossible, even for me, to hide anything from you.” She paused. “Nothing’s wrong, exactly.” She leaned into her daughter.
Ahi’rea was struck once again by how much her mother had shrunk in her age. She was still larger than Ahi’rea, but not as much as she remembered.
“I’m just thinking a lot these past days, Rea.” Haruu’na fell quiet again.
Ahi’rea said nothing, but felt her breathing change and wondered if Haruu’na had noticed.
“This is a dangerous time. Things will change soon, and I’m not sure how.” Haruu’na changed the subject. “The rest of the warband will be here soon. I hope it’s before the southmen can send reinforcements.”
“Please—do not leave me,” Ahi’rea whispered.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Haruu’na lay where she was and slept. Ahi’rea wondered if she had only pretended to misunderstand.
Ahi’rea’s watch passed. Before she knew it, the moon had nearly crossed the night sky, vanishing behind the heavy clouds being borne along by the southern wind.
A voice, quiet and close, startled her. “Strange for the wind to blow so steadily from day to night.” Ruun’daruun sat beside her—she had not noticed his approach. She would be angry with herself, but he was the stealthiest a
nd fasted in the tribe. His hand felt good as it rested on hers. “It looks like a storm coming up from the south. I hope the Cheduna are dead by the time it arrives.”
“The wind is unusual,” Ahi’rea answered. “I would even say unnatural. I think Halkoriv is watching us, but I do not know why.”
“Perhaps he’s tired of us slaying his men each time they set foot in our home. When the warband comes and we wipe out this outpost and move on to the others, maybe he’ll finally come here and face us. I’ve told your father and the other elders that this isn’t enough. We can’t just defend our own land, they’ll keep sending more—”
“I know,” Ahi’rea said. “And I, and they, have told you that’s all we can do. We cannot leave our lands. We are too few as it is.”
“They’ll keep whittling us down.” Ruun’daruun stared at his lap. “They lose a dozen or so to each of us, but Halkoriv doesn’t care. We are too few, but we’re going to die here unless we do something big. Taking these outposts… it’s not enough.”
They were both quiet for a few minutes until Ruun’daruun looked back to her. “Lasivar is coming this time, isn’t he?” Ahi’rea nodded. “What could have happened to him? His family was fighting the southerners—and winning. My grandfather, your father and mother, they once fought under Lasivar’s parents’ banner. And now, Lasivar fights for Halkoriv. Ever since he came, it’s been worse. Tribes have been driven out, whole swaths of the western plains burned, and more still aflame. Before him, Halkoriv was stalled at the borders. I heard that a whole tribe was wiped out in the west.”
“That’s impossible.” Tribes had died out before, but from disease or famine. Ahi’rea could not think of any time that southerners had killed a whole tribe since the great wars of the past.
“Still, it’s what I’ve heard. And I heard that Lasivar was behind it.”
“It feels wrong, every time I See him,” Ahi’rea said. “Twisted somehow, by Halkoriv’s sorcery maybe. There is a… a dark presence with him, as if it is not really him at all. Like it is only some evil riding him.” And it is coming here.
“Maybe if we kill him, Halkoriv will finally come himself.” Ruun’daruun sounded hopeful.
Ahi’rea nodded, thinking about the old stories of Lasivar’s ancestors, the heroes who once fought alongside the Huumphar and the Gharven to the north. She thought of the warnings she had heard from those few who had survived the new Lasivar’s fires, and the stories they had heard of his ancestors. If the powers his family commands have not been exaggerated, it is we who will be dead by the time that storm arrives.
—
They came before dawn: three dozen warriors from their tribe as well as two others, like ghosts over the whispering grasses. Ruun’daruun, his watch about halfway over, spotted them in the moonlight as they approached without word or sound.
Those of their own tribe were horrified to learn of Naph’oin’s death. The others gave wishes for his spirit and their swift vengeance. In the early dawn hours they whispered and planned. It was assumed that those inside the garrison would not venture out again until reinforcements came, so the Huumphar decided to enter soon, without warning, before the southmen learned of their bolstered numbers.
Rain began to fall—the morning was dark with clouds and the south wind grew heavy, buffeting the Huumphar. With rainwater chilling her skin and running into her eyes, Ahi’rea checked her weapons as the Huumphar spread out into small groups, heading back toward the garrison. She ran beside Ruun’daruun, who spared her a grim smile and a squeeze of her hand before focusing once more on the coming fight. Haruu’na was behind them—she had said little since their conversation during the night. Ruun’gaphuu had been quiet as well—he avoided Ahi’rea, as if even the sight of her made him nervous.
The rain grew from a steady fall to a torrent. Dashing through the grass and rain, Ahi’rea and Ruun’daruun were joined by Khan’an, a warrior of their tribe. He was known for his sharp eyes and swift feet, even though he was nearly ten years Ruun’daruun’s senior. There was a time when he had resented Ruun’daruun, as many had, but he had come to respect his skill in battle and tactics.
“Rider.” Khan’an fell into step with them. “Alone, to the south. Be here in minutes.”
“Just an advance scout. The rest must be on their way. Take him down,” Ruun’daruun said.
Khan’an nodded once and disappeared back into the rain.
—
Bor stood, miserable, on the narrow walkway near the top of the garrison’s sturdy wall. It had seemed safe and secure when he had first entered, but now even he could tell it was meant to deter attacks, no stop them. The rain pelted his helmet and the thin leather cape draped over his armor. The layers were stifling even in the chill wind. Rain dripped down his face and worked its way under his armor, mixing with the sweat on his neck and arms.
Crossbow in hand, he faced the south end of the village. One of the local garrison soldiers was standing a dozen feet away, equally weary and wretched. As Bor looked at him, a strange sense of foreboding overtook him. The rain made it nearly impossible to see the spears that, moments later, hurtled up through the downpour. Ripping into their target, they lifted the soldier off his feet before Bor’s eyes. The spears drove him back off of the earthen embankment and sent him rolling and sliding through the mud and scree. Bor turned back to the wall and raised his crossbow. He saw a dark form rushing along the ground below. He fired but the figure was already moving in anticipation, twisting to one side even as a spear left its hand. Bor saw flashing green eyes, a demon’s eyes, through the rain. The last thing he remembered was opening his mouth to cry for help.
—
Ahi’rea estimated that there were less than twenty soldiers remaining. The battle was short, quiet, and bloody. Seventeen southerners were accounted for in short order. When Ruun’gaphuu pointed out that two of those they had been hunting were not among the dead and wounded, the Huumphar left the silent garrison.
“There, on the road!” someone shouted. Two figures could be seen making haste to the south, discernable only to the keenest-eyed among the Huumphar. The southern sky was dark, but the first glimmers of sun shone in the east, glittering red through the heavy black raindrops driven on the wind.
Ruun’daruun, Ahi’rea, Ruun’gaphuu, and a dozen others ran after them, determined that the two soldiers not escape again. Despite his injury, Ruun’gaphuu stayed on the road and outdistanced those who chose the cover of the grass to either side. Ahi’rea hung back, a warning growing in her mind, but she stayed within sight of the others.
She saw Ruun’gaphuu raise his spear and hurl it, taking one of the fleeing men low in the leg. He had not even stopped rolling before Ruun’gaphuu’s machete chopped into him as he raced past. Dark blood mixed with rain beside the still-shuddering body as Ahi’rea passed it a second later. She paused only to glance at its face, looking for that crooked-toothed grimace, but the dead man was not the commander.
Still pressing ahead, Ruun’gaphuu screamed a challenge in Cheduna, the southern tongue, but the fleeing man did not answer it nor slow his pace.
What Ahi’rea saw next, however, sent a chill straight through her. Far down the road, the single horseman Khan’an had seen and gone to dispatch came into view through the roiling clouds. It was no scout. He rode straight and tall in the saddle, unperturbed by the lashing rain and the wind blowing behind him. No—not unperturbed, Ahi’rea realized, but untouched. At first he was barely a shade through the gray torrent, but his form was growing and darkening. Shadow clung to him, surrounded him, soon picking him out in stark relief, a towering lightless form against the dawn-lit rain. Tendrils of shadow lashed violently from him, reaching up and out, spreading all around him. The fleeing soldier ran on but Ruun’gaphuu slowed, gaping. Lasivar, Ahi’rea thought.
Ruun’daruun left the grasses by the roadside, followed by Haruu’na and the others. The soldier, now passed by the horseman, was lost to view. Lasivar drew his sword, enveloped in shi
fting blackness, and made straight for the gathered Huumphar.
“He’s attacking,” Ruun’daruun breathed. “Alone.”
Ahi’rea reached the others, spear and machete in hand. “Scatter!” She startled them from their awed inaction. “You, left,” she gestured to some of the warriors. “And you, right. Spears first, then surround him! Wait for my signal.”
Half of the Huumphar vanished into the grasses. Ruun’daruun readied his spear along with Haruu’na and the others, squinting through the rain driving into his face. Lasivar was mere seconds away. Ahi’rea could see his shining black and gold armor, the silver blade with the garnet pommel held over his head. She could see his pale face, filled with bloodlust. His eyes met hers and he raised the sword higher as he crossed the remaining distance.
Revulsion welled up in her as he drew closer. The lashing darkness around him sickened her—his very existence seemed wrong. “Now!” she cried, raising her spear.
Spears flew from all sides. Ruun’gaphuu sprang forward and Haruu’na drew her machete.
Ahi’rea watched as Revik Lasivar, alone against a force that would terrify an entire legion of Cheduna soldiers, rode into the midst of the Huumphar and smiled.
The spears splintered in mid-flight, crumbling like rotten timber. Revik dived from his saddle with unnatural speed as Ruun’gaphuu’s machete passed through the space where he had sat. Whirling about, Ruun’gaphuu lunged to strike again. Revik’s arm shot out and his hand clenched into a fist; though he was untouched, Ruun’gaphuu stumbled as blood erupted from his injured leg and from his face and throat. He took two more steps and collapsed in the mud. Revik laughed as he turned to face the other Huumphar.
Ours Is the Storm Page 8