Ours Is the Storm

by D. Thourson Palmer

  He went through some old sword drills to clear his head. Everything felt different without the force of Halkoriv’s will behind him. It was strange, he mused, that he had never realized how much Halkoriv had been helping him until he was on his own, and help far away.

  The blade was heavy and his movements were slow and clumsy. He found that if he concentrated, thinking about every step, every twist of an arm or movement of a wrist, he could still perform the maneuvers and strikes as he remembered—although he could not remember it ever requiring so much effort.

  His mind wandered. Lasivar’s words came back to him: The power he planted in you will kill you, Azra. Why had Lasivar let it go when he argued? If Lasivar were trying to trick him, use him, why had he not pursued the matter?

  The power was still there, a dull pressure in his mind, water at a floodgate.

  Breathing heavily, he thrust the sword into the earth and sat. He held a hand out, palm up, and ever so slightly relaxed his restraint. Thin dark tendrils rose from his palm, lashing, insubstantial and somehow more real than the grass around him or the hard earth beneath him.

  He felt no danger—the sensation was familiar, almost comforting. What did Lasivar know of it? He was trying to scare him away from his potential.

  Still, something in his old friend’s voice worried him. He knew of only one way to find out the truth. The prisoner had divined answers before—Revik Lasivar’s true identity, the attack on the garrison where he had been captured. Would he be able to tell if his power was a danger to him? If it really were some sort of spirit?

  The prisoner allowed himself more power, focusing on the feeling of the energy itself. He opened his mind to it, probing, sensing for an intelligence or presence.

  He felt nothing. He exhaled and shook his head. Foolish. There was nothing wrong, no spirit. Still, he was not comforted. Lasivar had seemed so earnest.

  Why would Lasivar set him free, then lie to him? He had demanded nothing—not even information. The prisoner tried again, releasing his restraint, allowing the power to wash through him. This time, he felt for the source of the energy. He felt a familiar chill core in his mind, something he had felt many times. He looked deeper, pressing through the cold and silent mass. It was like forcing his way through loose, clammy earth. The prisoner felt as if many small, damp forms were crawling up from the ground and into his skin. He winced as innumerable tiny barbs hooked into his flesh, but maintained his concentration. Halkoriv’s help or no, he had endured pain before. He focused, releasing yet more energy as he pressed closer to the source of his own power.

  He reached it—and it was like pushing against a force only to have it suddenly removed. He felt as if he stood before a vast emptiness, unknowable and dark. He was reminded of his cell, long ago in Cunabrel’s dungeon, except he could sense no walls, no boundaries—just blackness. His consciousness teetered on the edge of the chasm and Azra struggled to pull himself back lest he lose himself in the vast well of shadow. As he regained his mental balance and cast about him, he realized that this emptiness was the source, the wellspring of the dark power he commanded.

  As if in response to him, however, the void began to change, warping and coalescing, focusing itself.

  The prisoner became aware of another mind. The other was silent, a part of the void yet circling him like a predator.

  Terror rushed through him—Lasivar was right. He tried to pull away, to withdraw from himself and shut away the power, but it was as if the path behind him had vanished into the shadow. He panicked as the predatory mind inspected him. Its hunger pulled at him, slavered over him, an overwhelming voracity that eclipsed every other aspect of it. He felt himself being drawn into it, felt his own mind being stripped away and dissolved. Azra struggled, unable to free himself. His shouts were swallowed up. The more power he released in trying to force the Spirit away, the stronger its hold became. More pieces of his mind were torn from him. He was becoming as empty as the Spirit. He had nothing to cling to but the power, and it was useless. He could no longer tell where it ended and he began.

  He needed a border, something to hold onto, something to separate him from the Spirit. A name, he thought. My border. My self. The prisoner knew only one name to use. Azra, he thought. I am Azra.

  Still it assaulted him. Images and memories were pulled, squirming, to the surface of his consciousness only to be ripped away and devoured. Azra saw them torn apart—a lesson in swordsmanship, a moonlit night on the plains, the sound of wind, the scent of the kitchens in the palace in Ferihold—one after another they vanished in flashes of pain. His name was not enough. He needed something else.

  Ahi’rea—the time she had called him back when Haaph’ahin had goaded him into searching out Lasivar. He remembered opening his eyes to see her face, tired and fearful, beautiful and full of anger. The memory was tearing, splitting apart as it was pulled away.

  Azra rebelled—he would not lose it. If she had ever cared for him, it had been then. With every ounce of will he possessed, he resisted. He needed that memory. That is mine. He realized what it was he wanted, how he hoped she might, somehow, come to feel about him—and that she never would.

  He found himself staring into the beast, the Ravenous Spirit that now dwelt inside him, perhaps always had. He held tight to the memory of Ahi’rea and unflinchingly forced the Spirit away—and found himself back on the clifftop under the sun.

  He concentrated on regaining his breath for a long time. Hours may have passed—Azra was unsure of how long he had sat, unmoving, and how long he had fought before that. He could feel the strange gaps in himself, memories like dreams he remembered having but could not recall. He remembered Ahi’rea, and her face as she had pulled him away from the Spirit once before. Through his fear, he smiled. He had beaten it. The Spirit had tried to take him, as Lasivar had warned, but he had fought it off.

  His pride was short-lived. He realized that, if Lasivar was right, he had merely escaped for a time. Every time he used his powers he gave the Spirit a new hold. Azra stood and picked up his sword, wiping the tip against his pants to remove the bits of soil clinging to it. He replaced the sword in its scabbard at his side, recalling the hatred he had felt for Cunabrel when he had taken it from him years ago.

  Azra resolved to use his powers no more. I have been handed back the life that was taken from me. I will not lose it again.

  Ahi’rea’s voice called his name close by. He started, hand dropping to his sword as he turned. She stood only a few strides away, pale hair flowing like gilded waves over her shoulders. A spear was in her hand and her eyes smoldered with sudden light at the sight of Azra gripping his sword.

  “I only came to talk,” she said. A light breeze picked up behind her, blowing past them both and out over the cliffs.

  Azra felt his power strain against his control. Desire to loose it was strong upon him, but he knew it was not his. He shut it out and released the sword, nodding. Ahi’rea lowered the spear. The breeze died away and the air was still once again.

  Ahi’rea took a few steps forward and Azra turned away to avoid staring at her. His hair had grown unkempt during his captivity, and he pushed it out of his face. “What do you want to talk about?” The weight of her stare bored into his back.

  “I do not understand you.”

  Azra looked at her over his shoulder. “Nor do I. I am afraid I will be no help with that.” He tried to smile at her, but his smile was not returned.

  “You came here to kill us all,” she said. “You help us find the man who will end your empire, and you heal our wounded, and you ask for forgiveness and leave.” She shook her head. “Who are you?”

  Azra closed his eyes, then looked up at the sky. “I suppose I am no one,” he said. “The man I thought I was—that was a lie, a mistake. Without that… I am just Azra.” The words comforted him even as they left his lips. He smiled, genuinely, for the first time in what seemed like his whole life.

  Ahi’rea shook her head again. “You cannot
strip away your past. You may feel like a new person, but to me you are… you are like the same path from the opposite direction. At first it looks different, but if you look closely you see that you have gone this way before.”

  “I am not Halkoriv’s pet anymore,” Azra snapped. Ahi’rea raised an eyebrow. “And I am not Revik Lasivar, he is,” he said, gesturing at the camp. He turned his back again, squeezing his eyes shut. “If you have already decided who I am, why are you asking?” She gave no answer. “Perhaps you did come up here to kill me, but you were hoping that I would attack you first.”

  “I think,” she finally said, “it is you who wishes that I came here to kill you.” He did not respond. “I came here to say you were right before.” Azra turned to look at her. The sun was beginning to set and he saw goosebumps on her skin as cool air rushed in from the ocean. “I did choose to spare you before,” she said softly. “I do not know why, but I hope I made the right choice.” Her eyes met his before she cast them to the ground.

  “Ahi’rea,” he said, “you… you should come with me.” The words surprised even him, but he continued. “I am leaving, leaving this war. You will die if you stay and fight. Lasivar cannot beat Halkoriv.” His heart ached. “Come with me,” he pleaded.

  Ahi’rea looked up, eyes wide. Realization crept over her and her confusion turned to revulsion. She tried to mask it and immediately wondered why she bothered to try to hide it. “No,” she said. “I would never do that. It… I have said what I came to say. It is getting dark.” She turned to walk back toward the camp.

  Azra cursed himself and felt tears well in his eyes. He could not stop himself. “Will you at least forgive me?” he called desperately.

  Ahi’rea stopped and looked back. “No,” she said. “I will not.”

  She turned and continued away. Azra sat, his head in his hands, as she walked off the rise and vanished in the failing light.

  —

  A red glow interrupted Azra’s dreamless sleep and he opened his eyes. The morning was cold, but the sun breaking over the eastern ridge promised a clear and warm day. He stretched his limbs, stiff from the cold night, and stood. He watched the sun rise for a few moments, watched the camp below him begin to awaken and move. The foreigners, Gharven, and Huumphar were packing their tents and goods, making ready to march.

  He was about to turn away when he saw a form, tall and broad, break from the camp below and lope swiftly up the hill. He realized it was Tak’la, wearing loose Gharven-style pants and his grass cape, carrying a spear and a sack made of animal hide, sprinting up to meet him.

  The Huumphar stopped before Azra, hoisting the sack over his shoulder.

  “Tak’la? What are you doing?”

  The big Huumphar looked back at the camp, then at Azra. “I will go with you.”

  —

  Ahi’rea stood beside Ruun’daruun, leaning against his solid frame as they watched Tak’la and Azra begin to descend the hill, headed south toward the forest.

  “Why is he going? Did he say?” asked Ruun’daruun.

  “When I asked him, he told me that since death followed him, he felt he should lead it away from the rest of us.”

  Ruun’daruun nodded. “A noble act. He will lead death away from us and our allies. It has stalked him for so long—he was surely a danger to all of us here.”

  “He was a strong warrior, and brave to the point of recklessness,” Ahi’rea said. “We could have used his help in the times to come. I feel we may all be death-touched.”

  Ruun’daruun shook his head. “We will win, now. The son of Lasivar leads us to Halkoriv. Tak’la the Death-touched leads death away from us.” He looked down as Ahi’rea tightened her grip on his arm. Her eyes were unfocused, flickering, seeing something else. “What do you See?”

  “I See two beasts.” Ahi’rea’s voice came distant and halting. She struggled to describe the vision, the words writhing and changing on her tongue, becoming more obtuse and disconnected than she meant them to be. “They clash in stone and flame, and a darkness swallows the dead.” She persevered, sweating despite the morning chill, her voice weak. “The hand presses into barbs; they grow as thorns. Thorns grow deep-strong. They spear through the red beast, and let loose the darkness’ captive. Hunted pursues hunter; thorns burn to ash; all burns in fire.”

  She gasped as the vision fled, her eyes returning to their natural hue. Ruun’daruun studied her. “What does it mean?” he asked when she finally looked up at him.

  She shook her head. “Time will tell. I feel we can do little to change the outcome of this fight. It may depend on Lasivar’s son… but I do not think that it does.” She found herself straining for a final glimpse of Azra, but he had passed into the trees and was lost to sight.

  —Sixteen—

  They left within hours. Lasivar’s people were prepared ahead of time and the Huumphar were always ready and able to pack up and leave within a moment’s notice.

  Ahi’rea bounded through the myriad assortment of assembled warriors. Her own people milled and paced, a few wearing light armor of hide and bone, with spears and machetes their only weapons. The foreign soldiers were imposing in their shells of shining metal, but Ahi’rea estimated there were no more than two hundred of them. The few hundred Gharven people who had managed to gather with them were by far the most numerous and the most eclectic. Occasional raids by Cheduna forces from the local garrisons made it difficult for them to keep armor and weapons. Despite this, they had learned from long years of rebellion, and blades and bows that had lain hidden beneath floorboards or in remote caves saw the light of day for the first time in years. They wore dull rust-colored cloaks and no armor. The elder Lasivar had taught them a quiet but deadly warfare. When the host entered the forest heading south, the Gharven nearly disappeared amongst the ruddy tree trunks, silently taking positions around the louder, more visible foreign troops. The Huumphar, out of their element but determined, warily led the way through the woods.

  Ahi’rea spotted Ruun’daruun, Ken’hra, and Lasivar walking together, speaking quietly at the head of a column of armored foreigners. As she approached the group, Ruun’daruun was briefing Lasivar. “Our scouts haven’t returned yet with their numbers, but the refugees we’ve met report that there are several thousand Cheduna soldiers. Our warriors fight well and have driven them from the plains before, but that’s because they can’t catch us when we break away. With a force like this they’ll have a target, and we’re outnumbered. We’ll lose too many if we meet them head on.”

  “I have Seen them, and there are over ten thousand of them,” Lasivar said. “And Halkoriv’s will is driving them from afar. No, I do not plan to engage them head-on. Even if more Gharven and Huumphar join us, our few hundred could not withstand something so direct.” Lasivar gestured. “We will go around, toward Ferihold.”

  Ken’hra spoke, her brow furrowed. “If we lay siege to Ferihold, they will surround us—it won’t be head-on, it’ll be on all sides. We’re too few to attack the city. We fight best in the plains and the Gharven are woodsmen and hunters. We’ll be crushed if we don’t address the army.”

  “I hope not to engage in a siege,” Lasivar said. “You must trust me. My plans depend on speed and flexibility.”

  “Speed and flexibility we have,” Ken’hra snorted. “But them…” she glanced at the heavily-armored soldiers behind them.

  “Do not worry about them,” Lasivar said. “The Vanadae can move quickly when they must.”

  “Will you drive them to greater speed yourself?” Ahi’rea asked, joining the group. Could you?

  Lasivar raised an eyebrow. “For now we must move as fast as is possible.”

  “Where are they from? The Vanadae?” Ahi’rea asked.

  “A beautiful place.” Lasivar smiled and seemed to look beyond the trees around them. “It is called Vanador, and it is where I was taken to train and learn. It is a warm land of rolling golden hills. Their city shines in the sunlight, and the grand sea beneath it glitt
ers and dances in the warm winds.”

  “You sound as if you miss your home.” Ahi’rea studied his face, watching his reaction.

  “This is my home.” Lasivar turned his smile on her and caught her gaze. “But yes, I miss that place.”

  They walked on in silence for a few moments. “Why did they come with you?” Ruun’daruun asked. “This isn’t their fight.”

  Lasivar’s eyes were steady on the path ahead. “They come because I ask it.” His voice took on a faraway quality, as if he were now looking on something distasteful and almost forgotten. “Their home is beautiful, but not always peaceful.” Ahi’rea thought she saw, just for a moment, that he was troubled. The look vanished as soon as she noticed it. “I have much to do,” Lasivar said. “We will talk more in time. Alert me when your scouts return.”

  —

  Deep in his sanctum, Halkoriv sat unmoving on his dais, eyes unblinking and dark as he stared into the black marble basin beside him. The sound of the water trickling from the basin was interrupted as soft footsteps began to echo through the chamber. Halkoriv did not notice. The footsteps stopped as a pair of robed figures stepped into the dim circle of light around the dais. They waited in silence.

  Minutes passed. Halkoriv’s eyes flickered, then closed and he turned away from the basin. The water’s trickling slowed.

  The figures made no sound or movement as Halkoriv sat with his eyes shut, utterly still. When he opened his eyes again, they were dull and sunken even as they darted about his dark hall. They settled on the two figures.

  “We have Seen… he… for us…,” Halkoriv muttered, stopped. He began again and his tone grew controlled, calm. “I… have Seen him… our enemy has come. The true son of our enemy. My enemy. How were we so blind? Why did we not See?” He looked at his hands, turning them over, inspecting them as if he had never seen their like. He directed his attention back to the waiting figures. “He is here. They landed on the north coast, in The Gharv. He is leading many to the plains.”