Ours Is the Storm

by D. Thourson Palmer

  The Rider removed his helmet with one hand, circling close on his steed. Ahi’rea gasped at his boyish features and his dead eyes. His voice echoed strangely. The Spirit Sitis was devouring him before her eyes. “I would be a fool to give up my advantage and face you alone. I know your people’s tactics and strengths. Burning the grasses should have been our first move against you, not one of our last. But we must end this now. We must get to rounding up the rest of your warriors before they get too far away.” He readied his shield and set his lance. “It has been an honor to face you, and you shall be among the many who know that it was the Rider that killed them.”

  He reached up to replace his helmet, and Ahi’rea saw her chance and sprang. With one hand in use, distracted, and with impaired vision, the Rider would be helpless. She willed her charge faster and moved in a blur, sprinting, leaping, one arm flung wide to bring her machete around in a powerful arc. Her eyes, blazing with green fire, fixed on the narrow, unprotected space between his helmet and shoulder. She could not miss.

  He moved. Ahi’rea felt crushing pain in her ribs. At the last moment, the Rider had turned his arm just enough to rotate the rim of his shield into her path. At the same time, he shifted his shoulders. Ahi’rea’s machete clanged harmlessly against his armor and she crashed into the shield’s rim and dropped to the ashen ground, choking, curling into a ball and clutching at her ruined ribs. The horse did not even have time to react until the assault was over, but the Rider easily reigned it in. He grunted in what sounded like disappointment and dismounted.

  Through tears of agony, Ahi’rea could see his boots directly before her, surrounded by puffs of dust and ash. She labored to breathe. Her ribs shot fire through her with each attempt. Blood welled up in her throat and she spat, which hurt as badly as breathing. She could not concentrate, could not mend her wounds. The pain was too great. She was unable to catch a breath for the blood in her throat. At least some of us escaped, she thought. She hoped she was not lying to herself.

  “Your people’s fighting style is, in fact, very predictable,” the Rider said, tossing aside his helmet. “Strong, but predictable. Training will always win out.” Ahi’rea looked up as she heard the cold, sliding ring of a sword leaving its scabbard.

  “I do not mean to sound dismissive,” the Rider continued. “You were a fine warrior—among the best of your people, no doubt.”

  Ahi’rea choked and groaned. As long as he is talking, more of us are escaping.

  “Your time has come. There is no place for you or your kind in Halkoriv’s world.”

  Ahi’rea felt a mailed fist grab her by the hair. She cried out as she was yanked to her knees. She was bent backward and through her pain she could see the Rider looking down on her. Her ribs felt as if they would tear from her body. The Rider held her by the hair so her throat was exposed. Ahi’rea was unable to summon the strength to fight.

  “I would rather die,” she choked, “than live in a world ruled by someone like you.”

  The Rider smiled. She had the impression of dripping jaws. “We will enjoy this,” his voice echoed. He lifted his sword over Ahi’rea’s throat, drawing back his arm for a killing stroke. He swung, and Ahi’rea shut her eyes.

  There was a sharp whistle, and an impact.

  Ahi’rea felt her hair released and found herself on the ground. She was not dead. Her ribs were in agony, but she forced her eyes open and her head up. The Rider lay a few paces away, gaping at his sword arm. His blade was inches from his fingers, but his hand grasped reflexively at the air. A Huumphar spear, slick with blood, had impaled his bicep.

  Ruun’daruun charged into view and seized the Rider’s sword. The surrounding cavalrymen dashed in to attack, but Ruun’daruun was faster. He roared, striking like lightning, lunging from one soldier to the next with his machete flashing in one hand and the Rider’s sword in the other. Before his ferocity, several of the horses bolted and many of the soldiers were cut down.

  Ahi’rea summoned every ounce of her concentration. She tried to block out the pain, struggled to draw breath. Her power evaded her grasp, as if she was catching at smoke. The pain overwhelmed her and unconsciousness fell around her like a shroud.

  As the cloying darkness began to block out sight and sound, she thought of Ruun’daruun. She forced her eyes open to see him fending off half a dozen Cheduna horsemen. The darkness fell away and Ahi’rea drew breath despite the pain. If I die, so will he. He will die fighting for me, as I would have for him. She exhaled and her eyes blazed as she channeled her Self. The Rider was close, struggling to his feet. His sword arm dangled, useless, dragged down by the spear. Ahi’rea breathed again and felt her bones shifting, her wounds knitting shut. The Rider drew a dagger from his boot and lurched toward her, eyes empty, mouth twisted in a snarl.

  Ahi’rea lunged forward and to her feet. One arm shot out and she caught the Rider by the throat, and with the other she snatched the dagger from his startled grasp. In one motion, she rammed the dagger into his neck.

  The Rider sucked at the air like a fish out of water, producing only a wet gurgle. He reached for the blade, but Ahi’rea held him steady. She drew close to him so that he could hear her over the sound of men shouting and dying. “I was wrong,” she said. “It’s your blade your men will be pulling from your throat.” She twisted the hilt, then let him fall and snatched up her machete. She pulled Ruun’daruun’s heavy spear from her fallen foe’s arm and sprang to join her rescuer.

  Five lay dead around Ruun’daruun, whose breath came in hard bursts of steam. He held his machete and the unfamiliar Cheduna sword at the ready as more of the cavalrymen circled just out of reach. Ahi’rea stopped beside Ruun’daruun and noted the cut on his forehead and the blood running from his nose and mouth. A deeper wound in the middle of his back flowed with blood. “Can you run?” The horsemen gaped at the bruise receding from her ribs and the disappearing wound on her calf. The bleeding slowed and stopped, but the green fire in her eyes did not wane.

  “I can,” Ruun’daruun said. “But I would rather stay and kill every one of them.” His voice was a tortured rasp.

  “Another time,” Ahi’rea said. “Our people will need you more than ever after this.” More soldiers ran toward them from the Cheduna camp. She faced away from the camp and advanced on the nearest horseman, forcing him to give ground or fight her. The soldier, quaking under her gaze, backed away. “Quickly, before more of them come.”

  Ruun’daruun followed, turning to keep himself between them and Ahi’rea. Meanwhile, she maneuvered to gain a clear path of flight through the surrounding cavalrymen, and found it. “Now!” Ruun’daruun ran alongside her as she bolted past the startled horsemen.

  Their pursuit was disorganized and in the dark, smoky landscape Ahi’rea and Ruun’daruun soon lost sight of their pursuers.

  She did not know how long they ran. They had to escape, no matter how long it took. Once her Sight quieted and she felt they were alone, Ahi’rea slowed to a walk. Exhaustion soon caught up with her as the adrenaline faded. She staggered and dropped to her knees in the ash and dust. Her ribs ached and her leg still burned, though the cut was gone. She struggled to keep her eyes open, let alone summon the power to finish healing.

  Ruun’daruun stopped behind her and placed a hand on the back of her neck. He swayed, fighting to remain upright. Ahi’rea heard dripping. She looked behind her and saw heavy drops of blood collecting in a pool on the ground, mixing with the ash and dirt, as they fell from Ruun’daruun’s back. “We have to keep going,” he murmured. “We won’t stand a chance if they find us again in the open.”

  Ahi’rea forced herself to her feet. She tried to get beneath Ruun’daruun’s arm to support him but he took her hand instead. Side by side they made their way through the dark plains, speaking little. They stopped only when they sighted bodies sprawled across the ashen ground. Most were Huumphar, not Cheduna, and each was marred by many lance wounds. Their killers were nowhere to be seen. Ahi’rea hoped they had gone bac
k to rejoin the main force.

  After they passed the eighteenth body, Ahi’rea asked, “How many were killed when they attacked?”

  Ruun’daruun set his jaw. “Perhaps forty were with me when we started,” he said after a few more steps. “Of those, half were cut down when the Cheduna riders first hit us. They rest scattered.”

  “Then the other groups probably fared just as poorly.” Ahi’rea felt tears build in her eyes. In the hazy moonlight, she saw that Ruun’daruun’s eyes were wet as well.

  “It’s because of you that any of us survived,” he said. “There were at least thirty Cheduna horsemen around you, thirty who could not stop you. Your distraction saved many. They escaped, I’m sure. We will find them and we will see Halkoriv’s end yet.”

  —Nineteen—

  Azra and Tak’la traveled west, staying near the cliffs. Tak’la had seldom gone as far as the coast, and Azra could barely remember seeing it before. Both were entranced by the crashing waves and the reflections of the sun and stars. At Tak’la’s insistence, Azra armed himself with a piece of driftwood that he fashioned into a staff, but he intended to use it for nothing more than walking.

  “How else will you defend yourself in danger?” Tak’la asked. “You fear to fight.” They were picking their way over a rockslide which blocked their path. Small plants had begun to grow amongst the rubble, woody stems with small leaves and tiny yellow blossoms.

  Azra scowled. “I do not.” The familiar pressure was building in his mind, goading him. He forced it away. “Yes,” he admitted. “You are right, I do.” The anger receded further with the realization. Azra continued clambering over the rocks and did not look back at his companion.

  Tak’la paused atop a boulder and regarded Azra. “Is it because of your magic? Because of the spirit that rides you?” Azra stopped. The pressure came back in a rush and he heard a buzzing, droning sound. Again he forced the feeling away. He started again without a word, making his way over the last few rocks before hopping down onto the grassy cliff. Ahead of them the path descended, leading to a wide gravel beach. “This spirit. What is it like?” Tak’la asked, following.

  Azra turned and waited, fighting back the darkness that pressed him with Tak’la’s every mention of it. He thought about telling his friend to leave the subject, that he would not discuss it. But despite the pressure, the struggle, Azra felt better for fighting it.

  “At first,” he said, “I thought I commanded it. Now I know it is there, always pushing me.” He considered how to describe it. He had never tried before. “I want to be rid of sound and light. Movement. People. Everything angers me. It is like never sleeping.” He paused. “At the same time, it is a stone on my back. I know that if I release it, I will be strong and fast, that I can do almost anything—except put it away. Pick up the stone again.” Tak’la reached the edge of the rockslide and hopped down. “If I fight, if I release control—” Azra hesitated.

  “You will lose yourself,” Tak’la said.

  Azra nodded.

  Tak’la looked west and pointed. “Village.” Azra could see thin wisps of smoke rising at the horizon. They started walking. “A stone is heavy,” Tak’la said. “But if you carry it far, you will grow strong.”

  Azra thought of how Tak’la must miss his people, how Ahi’rea had to lead them against a foe of superior numbers and strength, how Lasivar must bear his father’s legacy, the legacy Azra had thought was his, had thought he knew. “I hope you are right.”

  —

  They passed through the village, stopping only for a few hours. Azra wanted to get farther away from the half-remembered place of his childhood so they moved on after Tak’la traded for some supplies.

  They spent the next several days along the rocky beach, heading following the coast as it continued west and veered southward. Tak’la would hunt and fish as needed, sharing his food with Azra without comment or reservation. Azra felt useless and asked if Tak’la could teach him, to which the Huumphar agreed.

  Early in the mornings they would fish in the ocean, situating themselves on bluffs or rocks over the deep pools. Looking out over the endless water, Azra felt at peace with only the cresting waves and sky before him. More than once, he would turn to address his teacher and catch Tak’la staring at the black columns of smoke in the south, dyed orange and fiery crimson with the rising sun. Tak’la is with me of his own volition, Azra told himself. The Huumphar used him for his strength and skill in battle, but they did not respect him. He wondered at the younger man’s desire to rejoin them.

  Over the following days the weather alternated between summer’s heat and the chill of autumn. As they moved south along the water, the smoke in the plains seemed to move east. It began to dissipate, turning from smoke to a thick, dirty haze. Tak’la did not mention it and Azra ignored it. Those concerns were no longer his. When his mind wandered, though, he thought that the Cheduna army must be on the move and he wondered if they and Ahi’rea’s force would soon meet. During the day he shrugged off such thoughts, only to dream of her at night and awaken in fear that she would die and he would never know. He did not mention his thoughts or dreams to Tak’la, but instead spoke only of his desire to leave behind the war and everything else from his past.

  Azra and Tak’la met few travelers save the occasional hunter or fisherman. Small villages were not uncommon on the coast of The Gharv, but most seemed at least half vacant. While Azra avoided conversation with the few other people they saw, Tak’la was eager to exercise the Gharven he had learned or converse with anyone who understood Huumphar. He would enter villages with fish or game to trade and emerge with news or descriptions of the surrounding countryside.

  On one such occasion, Azra waited by the water, letting the lapping of the waves drown out the ever-present pressure in his mind. He heard Tak’la’s approach and turned to face his friend. “We may as well camp here. The sun will be down soon.”

  Tak’la stopped and leaned on his spear. “They say some of their people have vanished. Never returned from a hunt.”

  Azra looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

  “We should find them.” Tak’la kept his eyes on the waves.

  Azra shook his head. “I think we should camp here and keep moving in the morning.”

  Tak’la met Azra’s gaze. “Where? You have a place to go, or will you just wander further?”

  Azra felt a snarl twist his face but he forced himself to take a breath before answering. “I do not think we should get involved. If you want to go, then go.” Tak’la paused and then started setting up camp, but did not answer. Azra joined him.

  They left the village behind the following morning. Azra’s mood brightened as the village passed from sight, but he could tell Tak’la was still troubled. He told his friend yet again that no bond held him there, but Tak’la expressed no desire to go back.

  They kept going and the smoke in the southeast soon vanished from sight. Tak’la’s energetic and optimistic spirit soon returned and he did not speak again of the war or even the missing villagers, much to Azra’s approval. Azra reveled in the pleasant early autumn weather and the gentle, ever-present roll of the waves. They conversed only seldom, Azra desiring quiet and Tak’la complying. The Huumphar noticed that Azra became less irritable and touchy the less they spoke. When a rare autumn storm blew in from the sea, Azra insisted on standing on a bluff in the rain while Tak’la took shelter beneath a rocky outcropping. Tak’la did not ask why.

  After another week, they spotted another village situated along the coast. The weather had cooled and rain was rare. It was the height of harvest season. Images insinuated themselves in Azra’s mind, but they were unfamiliar: men with sickles reaping the fields, apples plucked from high branches, the smell of hay drying in the sun. They were memories that he couldn’t believe were his own, but lived in him nonetheless, buried and lost.

  As he and Tak’la passed near an outer field, Azra saw tools but no workers. Half-cut rows and partially-filled baskets had been
abandoned and forgotten.

  “No farmers.” Tak’la scanned the field and outlying buildings. “Why would they leave their work?”

  They would not, Azra thought, looking up at the clear sky. The sun was hot and bright and a cool breeze blew. “Perhaps they saw us coming and thought we were Cheduna scouts.” Tak’la grunted, as confident in the guess as Azra.

  They entered the field and paused in the middle of a half-harvested row. The sea could still be seen some distance to their right. More fields were to their left, and the forest was beyond those. Ahead they could just make out the outline of the village, built amongst the trees. Azra knew that it would be the work of a moment to allow his eyes to see farther, to let his ears catch any sound from the village. The urge to do so was weaker than it had ever been, but still it pressed him—as it always did. He knew that as soon as he was away from the village the encouraging whispers, the pressure, would lessen—a little.

  “You wish to move on.” Tak’la’s gaze, when Azra looked at him, was accusing and resigned.

  “We should not—”

  “Get involved,” Tak’la interrupted. “No, you are wrong. We should see. Maybe we can help.”

  “We do not know what is there. They may have left in hopes of avoiding us, or there may be a hundred Cheduna soldiers waiting. Either way, I think it is better to mind our own business.”

  “But why are we here, to do nothing? No one else will help them, if that is what they need—and if they are hiding, we will see no one and move on. I know you fear to fight, but even without the Spirit you are a warrior. You have grown strong, carrying your stone!”

  “It will lead Halkoriv straight to me,” Azra snapped. “It will give the Spirit control. It will take me!” He felt the whispers grow agitated, excited. His anger was bolstered even as he fought to suppress it.