Ours Is the Storm

by D. Thourson Palmer

Ahi’rea said nothing, trying to calm her own emotions and regain her calm. She had to admit, she would like nothing better than to kill Lasivar herself.

  Ken’hra continued, “They say Ondoo’shaa wants to withdraw further, pull all the tribes into one and hide out in the deepest part of the plains. Not only that, they even say he wants to make a deal with Halkoriv—”

  “He wants to surrender?” Tak’la asked.

  “That’s not what he calls it, but that’s what he wants,” Ken'hra said. “Coward.”

  “Even if it were so,” Ahi’rea said, “we need to move forward. I only hope he comes back to us when we need him, or that he returns to his people safely.”

  —

  They spoke together for some time. Ruun’daruun soon joined the discussion. He seemed colder and more distant, urged them to continue with the plan. He felt that, now that they had Lasivar, his plan could still work. The Cheduna would send their forces north and a small group of Huumphar could make their way south to Halkoriv. Tak’la pointed out that those left in the plains would surely die, weakened as they were. The statement was met with a chill stare, as if Ruun’daruun had already considered that.

  Ahi’rea wanted to comfort him—the loss of her mother still seemed unreal in the urgency of their plight, and she saw that he suffered too with Ruun’gaphuu and Naph’oin dead. Their cause seemed hopeless to him. For the Huumphar warriors of this age, death in combat was the only worthy path, and many began to seek out that path when friends and family went before them. Ahi’rea feared that Ruun’daruun would welcome his end if he saw the chance.

  Ken’hra agreed with Ruun’daruun. Her eyes were alight with fire, and her loss fed rage instead of hopelessness. “We can deal with whatever force is behind us—we could kill dozens each night before they knew we were there, more in traps each day to slow them down and drain their nerves. We have their leader! They’ll already be ragged and scared.”

  Tak’la saw sense in their ideas, but still felt they should withdraw. He was younger, like many of the warriors, and knew that many of them felt the horror of Lasivar’s attack more than the battle-hardened Ruun’daruun and Ken’hra, or the seeress Ahi’rea. “They’re scared,” he said of the other younger warriors. “One man has never attacked the Huumphar like that, in our home, and lived, let alone killed a dozen of us. Their nerves are weak. Their resolve is shaken. They’re brave,” he grinned, “but you have to admit, no one has seen anything like that before. If another dies, they may crack.”

  Ken’hra and Ruun’daruun had no answer.

  Ahi’rea watched Tak’la. Although she felt no fear from him and he spoke as if referring only to the others, Ahi’rea heard in his voice that he was speaking from painful experience. “Tak’la is right,” she said. The cavern was quiet but for the soft murmurs of the other warriors and the occasional groan of pain from the wounded. She listened for a moment to the sounds of the people—her people, people she meant to protect and guide.

  By what right? Ondoo’shaa had asked. Because others cannot. By the responsibility of one who can see in the dark to direct the steps of another at night. She closed her eyes, and Saw death waiting in the caves with them. “We must regroup. We will make for the tribe. My father will know what to do with him,” she said, indicating Revik. “Ken’hra, you and your people are free to return to your tribe. They will need warning if there is a force from the South nearby. If Ondoo’shaa was right, and they have been wiping out whole tribes, we are all in greater danger than ever before.”

  “We’ll send a runner to warn them,” Ken’hra answered. “The warriors of the Whispered Thunder won’t abandon you.”

  Their course decided, they split up to get some rest. Despite their weariness, it was only early afternoon. It was cool and dark in the cavern, however, and in relative safety the Huumphar slept and waited.

  —

  Ruun’daruun sat near Revik. His turn to keep watch was done, but he was unable to sleep. Their captive’s wounds were bound and cleaned, but he was still unconscious. Ruun’daruun stared at him, the savior of their cause if you believed Ahi’rea’s father’s visions. Ruun’daruun could see no way that it could be true now.

  He did not understand the power this man and others like him wielded. Ahi’rea had said that she had severed his powers from him, but even after that, it seemed Lasivar had still been able to wound Tak’la. He wondered how. He wondered if they could hold him when he awoke.

  Memory crept up on him as Ruun’daruun recalled with a mixture of scorn and longing a tale his grandfather had been fond of telling of the elder Lasivar, the man who had led them against Halkoriv for so long.

  Ruun’daruun was a child again, sitting before the old man. Grandfather knew all the stories of Lasivar, and had even been there for some of them. He leaned in, meeting Ruun’daruun’s eyes before meeting Ruun’gaphuu’s. The boys had waited, nearly shaking. “Before the Cyclone, Lasivar had been the reason the southerners feared to leave their lands. Halkoriv’s domain didn’t even reach the plains, so beaten back had he been. When he mustered his greatest force and made to push his northern border and break the Huumphar and Gharven peoples, Lasivar had called his own army to meet them. But Halkoriv made a strange move and proposed a champion’s battle, a proxy war between two fighters. ‘Save your people,’ Halkoriv had told Lasivar. ‘Only fight with my champion in single combat. With your triumph comes my promise of freedom for the North. With mine, the end of your resistance.’

  Here, Naph’oin’s eyes had always sparkled as he spoke. “Of course, Lasivar could not refuse. He was a courageous man, and to him the choice to risk his own life to save any other was no choice at all. He resolved to meet the champion and named a meeting place at the Cliffs of Shurguun, by the western sea. He chose his witnesses and waited at the Cliffs for Halkoriv’s warrior.

  “Sparkling blue waves crashed up about them. Storm winds blew from the north and met the hot wind of the south above; lightning and thunder crashed. It was as if the elements themselves were battling. Deceitful Halkoriv, however, laid a trap. Lasivar expected no less. When his champion and witnesses came, the champion was twisted with dark magic—his hide was rough and scaly, his jaws grown huge and jagged with sharp teeth. His muscles bunched and rippled unnaturally and his weapons were dark with a poisoning shadow.

  “Lasivar met their champion. ‘I’ll eat your heart!’ the dark warrior told him. ‘I’ll send you back to your master,’ Lasivar replied. They clashed, and Lasivar’s hauberk was shattered, but he slew the beast. Turning to the witnesses, he was about to declare victory when one of Halkoriv’s legion of witnesses dropped dead. At the same moment, the dark warrior rose again, spitting black ichor and clearing his throat. He was somehow fouler than before. ‘Hunger!’ he cried, lunging once again at Lasivar. His spear pierced Lasivar’s chest, but Lasivar sundered the haft and cut the beast down again. Staggering upright, he waited as another witness fell and the warrior climbed to his feet again.

  “‘Hunger…’ the champion moaned. His voice was strange, echoing in the open air. He was more twisted and defiled each time he rose.

  “Again and again, Lasivar fought the evil champion. He grew weaker as the creature, for human it was no more, grew stronger and more vile. But a power runs in Lasivar’s line, and despite his wounds Lasivar’s will kept him standing and fighting. The Wind gusted and turned aside his enemy’s blows. The Sun blinded its many eyes. The Waves deafened it. Still, time after time it wounded Lasivar and brought him closer to death.

  “His chest was pierced, an arm broken, a leg crushed by the monster’s jaws. A dozen cuts pained him and blood obscured his sight. The roars of his foe deadened his senses and the jeers of Halkoriv’s mindless, willing sacrifices, still a legion of lives against his one, assaulted his mind.

  “There came a moment when he again felled the warrior and awaited its arising. He saw his friends, those who came as witnesses. They wished to help him but at his command stayed their blades. He felt the wind o
f the North cooling his aches and wounds, the spray of the sea, biting and healing. He remembered his home and family—friends and comrades lost to war and strife, and he knew that nothing would stop the war save perhaps his victory and his death.

  “When the dark warrior rose again, black tendrils now lashing about it, hunger on its breath and only death in its eyes, Lasivar cast down his notched sword and broken shield. He took hold of the beast, ignoring the gnashing jaws and rending talons. The Earth bolstered him and he pushed. The stone of the cliffs buckled before his will. ‘Back!’ he commanded, and the beast gave way. ‘Fall!’ he cried, and together they plunged over the edge.

  “In the deadly, crashing waves and rocks they fought, Lasivar’s resolve and the Storm in his blood sustaining him. Lasivar gained the upper hand as the creature floundered, the pure sea rejecting its vileness. He drowned the beast and held it below the waves. Upon the cliff Halkoriv’s witnesses fell dead, one after the other. When the last one fell, the witnesses waited for Lasivar to climb the cliff, but he did not emerge from the sea.

  “Of course, with his champion and all witnesses dead, Halkoriv could not dispute Lasivar’s victory. His undisguised delight, however, when he heard the northern hero had also perished, pained Lasivar’s witnesses. Their proposal of a truce was accepted and it seemed peace would finally be known.”

  Naph’oin had always paused here. The boys had struggled to keep still.

  “Of course, the war went on again after a time. Halkoriv had no intention of giving up. But, unknown to him, Lasivar had lived—the woman who became his wife, one of his most powerful friends and allies, had dragged him from the sea and hidden him in the North. She was called Hera, and was a sorceress as well. Huumphar blood ran in her veins. Together they called the Cyclone that aided us when the Cheduna again invaded. Lasivar and Hera remained hidden, and elder Haaph’ahin’s visions say they will bear a son. The great bloodlines of the Plains and the North will be combined. When Hera and Lasivar’s son returns, we will finally defeat Halkoriv and we shall have peace.”

  Ruun’daruun stared at the young man, filthy with mud, bloodied, clad in the trappings of their enemy. He realized he was fingering the blade of his knife. He put the weapon away, and forced himself to try to sleep.

  —Eight—

  The next morning, scouts were sent out to ascertain the dangers of moving on. Several large groups of Cheduna soldiers were indeed searching the plains, looking for evidence of their captured leader or those who had taken him. Still in their element and now well-rested, the Huumphar split up and evaded the soldiers, regrouping several miles away along the crest of the Kan Manif Bur canyons. Revik still would not awaken, so he was carried.

  Ahi’rea knew that the rest of the tribe was close by, but they were most likely on the move. She was sure they too had caught wind of the southern soldiers. The warriors resolved to travel through the day and into the night, hoping to reunite with the tribe while they made camp. Ahi’rea took comfort in Ruun’daruun’s presence, though he was even more quiet than usual. When she looked at him, she Saw a darkness around him, like shadows of circling vultures.

  Tak’la was more reassuring, and seemed unperturbed by his injury. He would dash ahead and return to the group to report anything he had seen before sprinting away to the front once again.

  The weather had turned and the clouds and rain had passed by in the night, but still a gloom hung over the Huumphar as they traveled. It was after dark when a distant, warm glow on the horizon, at first indistinguishable from the moonlight, alerted the weary travelers to the camp’s location. Before Ahi’rea could suggest otherwise, Tak’la ran ahead to conduct the customary announcements as they approached. On the plains, especially at night, Huumphar sentries were always on the lookout for stalking animals, strangers, and spirits on the wind. The custom of greeting a tribe at night ensured that the warriors were not enemies or ghosts. Only when attacking did the Huumphar approach a camp silently.

  Ahead in the dark, the travelers heard Tak’la’s chant and they slowed to give him time to announce them. The words were ancient—older than the Old Speech that only learned elders and the wisest travelers spoke. Their syllables were long and tonal, rising and falling with the wind. They were words passed down, used among the Huumphar since the gods’ times, known only for their purpose, not their meaning. They heard the response from a night sentry, familiar, like a verse of song, and there was silence for a time. When Tak’la returned, the company proceeded.

  They passed a pair of guards and quietly entered the camp. Many were asleep, the flaps of their small, round tents pulled shut. About a dozen Huumphar had awakened to greet them—concerned husbands, wives, parents, and children. There was no cheering. The worried silence was broken by whispers, gasps of relief, or sobs of anguish.

  Ken’hra and the other Whispered Thunder Huumphar moved a polite distance from camp and began building their own tiny fires. They clustered around the flames to block the light and make the most of the heat. At Ahi’rea’s direction, several warriors took them the few spare tents the nomads could afford to carry—mostly those whose owners no longer needed them. Their guests provided for, Ahi’rea gently pushed past the quiet reunions to the small, frail figure of her father.

  He stood wrapped in a heavy buckskin cape, leaning heavily on his walking stick. No words were exchanged. He already knew, of course, what had happened. At the sight of his tears, Ahi’rea wept as well, rushing forward to feel her father’s arms enclose her. Visions of Haruu’na passed between them, a loving mother and wife lost to them both.

  After a long embrace, Ahi’rea pulled away and dried her eyes. She was always a little surprised to see her father in person after being away for a time. His presence was overwhelming in the Dreaming, but in the flesh he had always been such a contrast to Haruu’na. He was prematurely shrunken and weak for his age. He had never been a great warrior. It was his presence that mattered, and when he spoke he could command the attention of all who heard him. His foresight was legendary amongst the Huumphar. Others came to consult with him from far away tribes and even from the North, and he had the Sight to thank for his survival on many occasions.

  Now, however, he looked like nothing more than a grief-stricken old man who had seen too much loss. But there was something else, something in his eyes that she had only seen a few times before. Looking at his eyes, realization swept over Ahi’rea like a wind over the grasses.

  “Why?” Her voice was strained. She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears. Her words came out in a whisper. “Why did you not tell us?”

  He did not speak. He put his hand on her shoulder but she pulled away, opening her eyes again to search his. Even without the Sight, she could tell. He had known.

  “Rea… you know as well as I do—”

  “What is the use, Father? Why See as we do if you refuse to change anything?” Her tears dried in sudden anger. Her father tried to speak but she cut him off. “You could have stopped it! And you—”

  Behind him, she noticed Revik being carried into a tent, still bound and unconscious. Her eyes widened and her stomach leapt to her throat. “Him? This was about capturing him?”

  Her father bowed his head.

  “You knew. You—you sacrificed them.” Ahi’rea felt sick. She wanted to scream, to shout at him, but shock overwhelmed her. Instead she turned, her steps unsteady, and staggered away. She could not bear to face him. She heard her father speaking to her, but she could not bring herself to concentrate on the words. The camp was a fog around her. She forced herself to stay upright as she stumbled, seeing nothing.

  A hand met her arm. She started and looked up into Ruun’daruun’s face and discovered she had wandered out of the fire circle. Behind her, the group of warriors and their families was dwindling. The camp center was emptying as those who had returned and their families went off to their tents.

  Ruun’daruun’s head hung and his wounds looked as if they still pained him. His weary eyes sou
ght hers. Her heart ached for him—he too had lost his family, and it could have been otherwise. She put her arms around him and leaned into him, holding him as tightly as she could.

  “He knew,” she whispered. “He did not tell us, but he knew. If only my Sight were clearer—I could have stopped this.”

  “Don’t, Rea.” Ruun’daruun returned her embrace. The night was cool, and overhead the moon shone bright on the plains and the grasses rippled about them in the breeze. Ahi’rea felt his jaw rest against her head. “What’s past is past. You can’t feel like you could have stopped this. Everyone knows the danger—we don’t fight so we can die of old age in peace.”

  You are wrong, she thought. That is exactly why we fight.

  —

  The nomads slept through the night and kept to their camp the next day to give the warriors time to rest. Wounds were bound and periods of mourning begun. Those who had lost family or loved ones began their fasting after a meager breakfast without meat. They made plans to perform the Sendings the following day, once the tribe could reach an appropriate location.

  Loneliness and despair led Ahi’rea and Ruun’daruun to share a tent despite the implications. They were too distraught for some rumor mongering and disapproving glances to keep them apart. Both needed the other’s closeness in the face of so much loss. Revik’s capture, important as some believed him to be, was little solace to those who had seen the destruction he had wrought.

  —

  Revik woke panicked and weak, his head pounding, as someone dumped him on the ground. His arms were bound. He couldn't see. He didn't manage to summon the strength to sit before someone forced his mouth open and his head back with rough fingers and poured a bitter infusion of some kind down his throat. They cursed in a language he didn't understand and left without a word while he coughed and sputtered.