Ours Is the Storm

by D. Thourson Palmer

  “It has already taken you! You fear it, and your fear commands you. What will you do but survive, chained, if you do not fight fear? If you do not try?”

  Azra closed his eyes, pressing back against the power straining in him. “I only want to be left alone. It is not my concern.”

  Tak’la nodded. His face became blank, impassive. “Very well,” he said. “I was happy to travel with you. I hope our paths will cross again. Goodbye, Azra.” He clasped Azra’s arm, shouldered his spear, and set off toward the village, towering over the waving stalks of wheat.

  Azra watched his friend—his only friend—grow farther and farther away until he vanished amongst the trees and houses. He was only a little surprised. He had expected Tak’la to leave someday, but he had thought it would be out of loyalty to his people or to pursue Halkoriv’s defeat. Anger lingered. It pressed him, urged him to follow the Huumphar. He wanted to show him that he was wrong and perhaps even to punish him for his foolishness. Azra took a step after Tak’la before stopping and forcing away the rage. He turned back toward the ocean, determined to follow the coast and skirt the village unseen by its inhabitants, or anyone else who might be watching.

  Tak’la could do as he wished. Azra left the rows and fields and traversed the final distance to the rocky beach. He is capable, can make his own decisions. He knew I would not go with him. Still, Azra was troubled and his anger continued to smolder below the surface of his conscious. He knocked a chunk of driftwood aside with his staff.

  He is going to get himself captured or killed. If not now, later.

  Tak’la’s question came unbidden to his thoughts, small and quiet, creeping past his anger and pride. What will I do, besides survive? Azra shook his head, pressing on over the stony shores. What else is there?

  —

  Azra sat before a small fire amongst a stand of rocks by the shore. He was sure he was too far away from the village to be seen now, but the rocks would shield the firelight from any watchers. The night was the coldest yet, and Azra had been unwilling to rest without a fire’s warmth. Usually Tak’la had made the fires, but Azra congratulated himself for thinking to learn when he had the chance. Tak’la had been a good teacher—Azra would not have any trouble getting along without him.

  The anger had waned, though it threatened to return if he dwelt on it. He allayed his own fears, telling himself once again that Tak’la’s well-being was his own affair, and no one else’s.

  Smoke and salt stung his nostrils He stared into the small flame, at times reaching out to drop twig into the glowing coals to watch the flames consume them. His mind wandered without someone with which to speak. It occurred to Azra that, only months ago, Cunabrel had said things would turn out this way.

  He had been Revik Lasivar then, warrior, leader, and heir. Not Azra. He would never have imagined that Cunabrel would be right, that Halkoriv could have lied, used him, and cast him aside. He could have imagined even less that he would be glad of it. The times since seemed as hazy now as his vague memories from before. Azra’s life was a wash of the lives of others, of a man he could not be and a child he did not remember. Only the last few weeks seemed real—traveling with Tak’la, meeting the true Revik Lasivar, and before that being a captive of the Huumphar… and her. A ghost with green, blazing eyes who had killed him, a woman that had saved him.

  Ahi’rea. Why was he thinking of her now?

  She had kept him alive when others would not, even after wishing to see him dead. She captivated him with her strength, her confidence, even as she refused to forgive him for his misdeeds.

  Azra had never admitted, even to himself, how much he desired her forgiveness, a kind look from her eyes, a gentle touch from her hand.

  Now, alone—truly alone—for the first time that he could recall since his imprisonment, Azra wept. He wanted her presence, her forgiveness, even her love—and he knew he would never have it.

  His small campfire grew weak and cold. Azra did not notice. He shook with silent sobs, his head in his hands. He realized why he was keeping as far to the north as possible—it was because she was going south. He realized why he wanted silence and solitude—because he wished to be with no one but with her. Why did she let me live?

  He raised his head from his hands, gazing into the graying embers of the fire but not seeing them. His tears slowed, then stopped. They dried on his face in the ocean’s nighttime breeze.

  Azra did not sleep, nor did he move until the sun cast its first rays into the eastern sky. The smoky columns in the south glowed against the still-dark canopy with a pale light. They were dissipating, spreading across the sky in great streaks of silver.

  He stood, ignoring his hunger and the stiffness of his cold muscles. He picked up his staff and turned east, looking toward the village. Ahi’rea saved me when she did not have to. As soon as I know Tak’la is safe, I can go on. With a deep breath, he strode across the rocky shore, heading back the way he had come.

  A single wisp of smoke rose from the village where Tak’la had left him. As he drew close Azra could make out the glow of a fire among the small, dark houses. He was still a few dozen paces away when a voice shouted out to him from a hidden vantage point. “Stop right there! Drop your weapon!”

  Azra scanned the nearest structures and cover, but could not find the source of the voice. “Show yourself,” he shouted back. He hesitated. “I, Revik Lasivar, command it.”

  There was a pause, and a Cheduna soldier with bow in hand emerged from behind one of the houses. “Lord Lasivar,” he breathed, lowering the bow. He knelt, clapping a fist to his mailed chest. He kept his eyes to the ground. “Forgive me, lord. I didn’t recognize you without your armor. And we didn’t really expect to meet you alive. They said you was killed, that an imposter was in your place.” The soldier looked up, eyes bright, a grin spread across his broad jaw. “I’m glad to see it’s not so, my lord.”

  Azra motioned for the soldier to stand. “How many are with you? And what are you doing so far to the north?” He swept his hair back as best he could, realizing how long and unruly it had grown.

  “Looking for you, my lord. We heard you died, but me and the others were sent here to find you. King Halkoriv himself sent one of his Servants to lead us—Lord Bor.”

  Azra had never heard of Bor, but said nothing as they made for the center of the village. The sentry followed him, continuing, “Good thing, too. There were twenty of us, but now there are fourteen. It would’ve been worse, but Lord Bor stopped the plainsfolk warrior that happened on us yesterday before he could kill any more.”

  “Plainsfolk?” Azra stopped and faced the sentry. His stomach twisted into a knot.

  “Yes, lord. Like a nightmare, it was. Got two of the men on watch almost before they raised the alarm, three more before the rest of us could get to them. The last, Olak, didn’t die till he bled out this morning.” The soldier’s face twisted in anger. “Bor put an end to it, though. Me and the boys wanted to pay the brute back proper, but he wouldn’t let us—made us leave him alive. He’s bound up in one of the houses. Let’s get you to camp, sir. Bor said it was urgent that we find you.” The soldier motioned for Azra to continue.

  The soldiers had just begun to rise. When they saw Azra their haggard faces displayed first confusion, then joy as they realized who the scruffy stranger was. Many were wounded and all looked travel worn, but their lord’s arrival did wonders for their spirits. They were soon clustered around, shaking Azra’s hand and telling him how glad they were to find him, that now the war could finally end, that they could get back to the main force and wipe out the plainsfolk and the imposter Lasivar. Azra shared their happiness, clapping shoulders and distributing praise. Could it really be this easy to just go back to the way things were?

  His escort was trying to guide Azra from the pack of excited soldiers when Azra spotted a man who could only be Lord Bor. He stood just outside the group, a cold smile etched across his features. He looked young and strong, with sandy lank hair and
a stubbly jaw, but something ancient hung over his countenance—something Azra recognized. There was a lurch in his mind and Azra realized that the pressure had been gone all morning—until now. He suddenly wondered if his plans had been wise after all.

  Bor, already armed and armored, stepped silently up to the group and the soldiers quieted and parted to let him pass. He approached with an unusual grace for a man of his size and stature. He was a full head taller than Azra.

  “Alright, boys,” the sentry murmured. “Let’s get back to it so we can get moving soon.” The others nodded and muttered agreement and returned to their duties, giving Bor a wide berth.

  Bor stared into Azra’s eyes, and Azra returned the gaze. Neither man spoke. Azra felt something prying, searching, digging, like cold fingertips in his mind. The power in him stirred and he knew he could force Bor out with a thought, cripple him with pain, pry into his own mind—but he resisted. Never again. He gritted his teeth and focused on keeping the darkness at bay. He knew Bor would find whatever he was looking for. It would be impossible to fend off both Bor and the Spirit. They were almost one and the same.

  Still the pressure, the yearning to fight back built in him. Azra’s hands balled into fists as he gave all he had to restrain the rage in him that was not his own. Bor’s search went deeper. Azra’s eyes lost focus, but not before he saw Bor’s cruel smile widen. His mind began to slip. He felt creeping cold in his shoulders, on the back of his skull. The power was forcing its way to the surface—Azra was going to tire and lose, and the Spirit in him would rip its way out and consume him.

  That is what they want, Azra realized. Halkoriv. Sitis. They are the same, and Halkoriv will not live forever. Sitis needs me, and it needs me alive so that it can live on. Bor and those like him are only Servants—I was something else.

  Azra’s leg buckled and he stumbled, falling to his knees. He felt mud under his fingertips as he pitched forward. He cast about for strength and found nothing in him to hold to, no support, no hope. It occurred to him that even if he did not die, was not lost to Sitis right now, he still had nothing. Even if he rescued Tak’la, which was all he had set out to do, he was still going to be alone—and his death would mean nothing. Halkoriv would send others to fetch him or Sitis would consume him eventually, and he would become again what others had set out to make him.

  I hope I made the right choice, he thought. The words were an echo—someone had said it before. Who?

  Ahi’rea. She had been speaking of her decision to spare him. If I do nothing after she saved me, how could her choice have been right? If the Spirit takes me now, how could mine?

  Suddenly, Azra knew what he had to do. He knew why he had to live, and what her choice would mean. He knew what he would do, besides survive. But he would not be able to do it alone, and would not be able to do it now. He had to hide the thought. He could not let Bor find it. Could not let Sitis find it. Azra fought them away. He held the thought like a lifeline and the cold pressing him receded as if from a fire. The power remained at the fore of his mind, but he resisted it, anchoring himself to his decision. The prying stopped. His vision returned and Azra was once again before Bor in the midst of the camp in the center of the abandoned village.

  Bor was still smiling, but his smile held a trace of true amusement, as of one staring at a strange but harmless-looking insect. He folded his arms, looking down at Azra while he regained his feet and caught his breath.

  “Come speak with me… Lord Lasivar.” Bor turned toward the south side of the camp and strolled away. Azra followed.

  Out of earshot of the soldiers, Azra spoke. “I am here for the Huumphar you captured.”

  Bor nodded, the dark cloak across his shoulders rippling with the movement. “Yes, I know,” he said. “I know everything.”

  Do you? “Let him go, and I will come with you.”

  Bor chuckled. “You will, but we will not be releasing your friend. You will both accompany us to the Ancestor’s Stone.”

  The Ancestor’s Stone. The name was one Azra had never heard, but he knew it. He remembered what he had felt, what he had seen at the Monument with the Huumphar. In his mind, he had seen two men and a woman on the Monument, felt his skin and bones burn away. The memories had not been his—they had been far too old.

  Sitis. Sitis, the Ancestor of Halkoriv, the spirit that lived in him. Azra grabbed Bor’s shoulder to turn him, to meet his eyes, and cold, freezing pain shot up his arm. The larger man caught Azra’s wrist, easily forcing his grasp away. Azra almost cried out with the agony. Bor half-turned to Azra, looking down at him with the same detached amusement he had shown before. “You hold no power now,” he intoned. “I have your friend, and now I have you. And I am every bit as powerful as you used to be. I am Halkoriv’s chosen now, not you. I will do as he pleases, and he orders you to the Ancestor’s Stone. You may have turned your back on our cause, but you still have some uses.” Bor released Azra’s wrist. It felt as if all the heat had been drained from it. Azra clutched his arm, trying to warm away the numbness.

  “And what use is that?” Azra asked through gritted teeth. “I will not fight for him again.”

  “How could you? You have made yourself weak, sworn off the abilities you had mastered. You willfully chose weakness. You could have been great. The others still think you are, as I once did.”

  How much did he see? Does he know what I must do? The idea was developing, taking form. The Ancestor’s Stone. He released his wrist, which had regained a modicum of feeling. “As if I care what they or you believe. What does Halkoriv want from me?” How much do you know? Are you really like me, or are you just another slave?

  “I don't question our Lord.” Bor looked away to the south, past the abandoned homes of the village and through the deep green forest, the tips of its leaves tinged with red and gold. “For my part, I don't understand why he does not give the power of sorcery to other loyal followers, like me—but it is not my place to know his mind. He wants you alive, and so he shall have you.”

  —

  Within the hour the Cheduna soldiers had packed their gear. Azra rode in front with Bor. Only the two of them knew that he was as much a captive as Tak’la, who was lead bound and gagged behind them, guarded by four of the soldiers at a time.

  They traveled light and fast, heading southeast through the forest and toward the plains. Without his powers, Azra would be little match for even the soldiers, let alone Bor. The creeping cold presence was still there, a constant reminder that he could fight them, destroy them—but that in so doing he would seal his own fate, lose himself to the Ravenous Spirit, lose his identity again and toss away many lives for nothing. And so, he waited.

  —Twenty—

  The hours after the ill-fated assault on the Cheduna passed Ahi’rea in a featureless blur. After they evaded the remaining riders she and Ruun’daruun had somehow found a place to rest. She awoke, bruised, stiff, and still exhausted, amongst a stand of tall yellow stones. Beside her, Ruun’daruun was sprawled on the ground with a crude, blood-soaked grass poultice bound to his back. He breathed in shallow, but steady, bursts.

  She was hesitant to leave him, but Ahi’rea forced herself to her feet. She was able to summon enough concentration to channel a weak effort to heal herself and felt some of her soreness and pain subside. After surveying their surroundings from the cover of the stones, she set out to gather some food from the flame-scoured landscape. It was not pleasant fare—insects, a few dry roots, one or two hardy edible plants—but it would provide a bit of much-needed nourishment.

  She returned and woke Ruun’daruun with some effort. He was weak from fighting, running, and blood loss, but between her coaxing and his own will he rose and rested up against a rock. She presented the meager rations she had gathered, and as they ate she felt more energy return to her. Ruun’daruun seemed to regain some strength as well. As she watched, he crunched and swallowed the food and muttered. “It is good you have the Sight. You would never survive if you had to
rely on your cooking.”

  Ahi’rea looked up in surprise to see him wink at her. Smiling back, she tossed another insect at him in mock anger. “Stop whining and eat your beetles.”

  They drank most of what remained of their water. Ahi’rea advised that they save more, but Ruun’daruun disagreed. “We’ll get nowhere if we don’t drink,” he said. “Our minds will wander and our steps will be unsteady. For today, let’s drink now and find more as we go, while our lives are still in our own hands.”

  Ahi’rea nodded. Despite the solitude, the loss of their fellow warriors, the failure of their goal—despite all of these, she and Ruun’daruun were still the masters of their own path. “It is midday already,” Ahi’rea said. “If we hurry, we may still outpace the Cheduna in time to warn Lasivar. If he has not Seen them still coming, they will be cut off.”

  In the daylight the two Huumphar were in renewed danger—unless they could reach the cover of the unburned grasses. There, they could relax a little and Ahi’rea could expend the time and energy needed to See any of their remaining companions and Lasivar’s army. Both would have preferred to wait for cover of night, but both knew that they could not afford the time to wait.

  They scanned the horizon from dawn to dusk, on the lookout for enemy scouts and soldiers. Ahi’rea and Ruun’daruun were not sure where the nearest cover was, but the Cheduna army had been moving southeast at speed. Traveling southeast would lead them into the Cheduna forces. That left only east, toward the coast. They were only a few days’ travel from the ocean, and Halkoriv’s fires had not yet burned that far. Fearful of being sighted, they ran as fast as they could over the flame-swept plains. By sundown that day, Ahi’rea spotted the inviting shelter and concealment of the tall grasses and she and Ruun’daruun were among them by the time the moon rose.

  Though they were back in their element, Ahi’rea and Ruun’daruun kept their guards up. They were able to find better food and fresh water, and soon were looking for a place to bed down for the night.