The land was rising away from the sea, and waves crashed on bare rock to the east. Far ahead, in the darkening sky, she could just make out the Calshae Mountains, the border of Halkoriv’s realm. More importantly, however, was that Ahi’rea knew that between here and the mountains lay the Kan Manif Bur, the Canyon of Red Water. The canyon was impassable for miles inland. Lasivar’s army was trapped, boxed in between the ocean, the canyon, and the Cheduna army.
Why Lasivar would lead them here she could not fathom. As they pressed onward, she reminded herself that he was not infallible; everyone merely thought he was. She still could not See their victory, nor anything of their end. By what visions Lasivar guided his actions, he had not said.
Perhaps he had reason to come here—and perhaps, she thought, he had simply made a mistake. With so many of the Huumphar gone on their raid, he might not have had the guidance to avoid the area. A more costly mistake, she could not imagine. That his raid had nearly sent the Huumphar to their doom was not comforting, but she had not spoken of that concern with Ruun’daruun. She would not, until she had spoken of it with Lasivar.
They passed another rise, leaving the Cheduna scouts behind them and now well out of sight. No sooner had they descended the hill but Ahi’rea spotted something hidden in the grass and darkness ahead of them. She was about to warn Ruun’daruun when the figure moved and she saw its rust-colored cloak. “Gharven,” she whispered, pointing. Ruun’daruun nodded and they stood, making no secret of their presence. They approached the scout, who gave no indication of having seen them. As they neared her, she made eye contact and crossed a hand over her lips in a gesture of silence. The Huumphar nodded, and came close enough to whisper.
“Southern scouts,” the scout muttered. Her heavy hood obscured most of her face in the twilight. Ahi’rea could just make out the curve of her jaw. “Good to see some of you coming back.”
Ruun’daruun’s voice was flat. “We are the first?” The northerner nodded, and Ruun’daruun clenched his teeth.
“More will come,” Ahi’rea said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Where is the camp?” The sentry gestured. Ahi’rea followed her gaze to another rise in the plains, beyond which she knew the earth dropped toward the canyon. So close? Ahi’rea wondered.
As if she had heard her thoughts, the sentry spoke. “Lasivar. He—I don’t know. He’s done something. The sound doesn’t carry. It just—stops.” Her voice held an edge of awed fear.
Ruun’daruun seemed about to speak, but Ahi’rea took his hand and made for the camp, nodding her thanks to the sentry. “He can do that?” Ruun’daruun asked. “Such power.”
Ahi’rea said nothing. Storm was a mystery to her, but what she had seen of it thus far inspired other feelings in her than Ruun’daruun’s admiration.
They crested the hill and she could not restrain a gasp. There they were—hundreds of people, tents, and fires, but no sound, no smoke. She heard the grasses whisper in the breeze, the far off waves of the sea—but no speech, no movement—nothing from the army encamped before them.
They descended, gaping. Ahead of them, a horse reared and stomped; a group of men shook with laughter, slapping each other’s shoulders while one tossed scraps of wood on a fire; a cart bounced over a rut in the camp as it moved between tents, delivering food and fuel; all without a sound.
The sunlight was gone and fires illuminated the camp. Their light seemed to stop at the camp border—even it could not escape Lasivar’s power. Overhead the sky was clear, and beyond the encampment the mountains blotted out the starlight, visible only by the silhouette they cast. To the west, Ahi’rea could see the glow of the Cheduna camp.
She and Ruun’daruun started when they were but a few yards from the outermost tents—the sound of a far-off crowd slashed through the silence as they crossed some invisible border. With each step the sounds rose in volume until they passed into the camp and it reached its peak.
It was almost deafening after the quiet of the plains, and it took them some time to become accustomed to the noise as they wound through the camp. Ahi’rea could not believe her ears. Ruun’daruun wore a broad smile. He caught her gaze and put an arm around her waist. He leaned toward her. “After the last few days, I was losing hope. But now—he is so powerful. Lasivar will lead us to victory.” Ahi’rea only smiled, putting her hand on his. She did not wish to dampen his mood.
They reached the center of the camp and saw the tents of the few Huumphar who had remained behind. Ruun’daruun withdrew his arm, reluctantly, letting his fingers trace across Ahi’rea’s lower back. She took his hand for only a second and wished she could hold tight to it. The elder Huumphar looked up from their seats around the fire, eyes widening in excitement. They began to call to each other that the warriors had finally returned.
Haaph’ahin was sitting amongst the others. He stood and rushed toward them, eyes locked on Ruun’daruun.
“Massacred! You led our people to their deaths!” He stopped just short of Ruun’daruun, stretching to his full height and seething. “They may as well have died by your hand!”
Ruun’daruun was about to respond, but something stopped him. Ahi’rea opened her mouth to speak, to defend him, but realized why he had stopped when she saw tears rolling down her father’s cheeks.
“I Saw! I Saw what happened,” he cried, voice rising in pitch. “You have doomed our people. I should never have given such responsibility to you!”
Ruun’daruun could restrain himself no longer. Towering over Haaph’ahin, he thundered down at the older man. “Our people fought with honor and courage. We were ambushed. And you, who claim to have such vision, would cheapen their sacrifice to some error or madness, when you yourself sent us all to die once before!” He shook with rage. The other elders jumped to their feet, shocked at Ruun’daruun’s disrespect. Haaph’ahin’s eyes lit and blazed green.
“How dare you speak so to me?” he replied. “You have—”
“No, Father,” Ahi’rea broke in. Haaph’ahin turned his flaring eyes on his daughter. “Ruun’daruun is right, and if you had truly Seen what happened, you would know that! Your vision is clouded, and you put such stock in what you See that you ignore what you experience yourself, what others see and feel and do. You trust an invisible power more than your own eyes. Does Ruun’daruun look well? Do I? Do you think we do not grieve, do not feel every one lost, ever friend slain?”
Haaph’ahin diminished, the light in his eyes fading. He let her speak. Firelight reflections glimmered on his wet cheeks.
“You are a good man, Father,” Ahi’rea said, lowering her voice. “You have led our people well and taught all of us much. But of late, your fear has made you blind.” She stepped forward and put her arms around him. Haaph’ahin did not move. “I love you,” Ahi’rea said. “It is urgent that we speak with Lasivar. We will return later, and speak together.” She felt her father bow his head. She stepped away, looking at him and at the others gathered around them. She took Ruun’daruun’s hand in hers. If they reacted, they did not show it.
“What is happening affects more than just our people,” Ahi’rea said. “Things are changing. We must speak to Lasivar, then we will return to discuss the Huumphar’s part in it.”
One by one, the elders met her eyes. One by one, they returned to their tents and fires. Haaph’ahin was still, his eyes downcast. Hand in hand, Ahi’rea and Ruun’daruun turned and went in search of Lasivar.
—Twenty-One—
“He was supposed to save us.”
The tone of Ruun’daruun’s voice made Ahi’rea’s heart ache, but could not quiet the anger she felt. She stood, despite her exhaustion, while he sat nearby. They were both inside Ruun’daruun’s tent—neither cared anymore what was being said about that. It seemed that the chiding words of elders and gossips soon would no longer matter.
He was right. Azra’s warning ran through Ahi’rea’s mind. He has been using us to get to Halkoriv—nothing more. He had no interest in liberating us. She held her t
ongue, rather than speak such thoughts aloud. Ruun’daruun was already crushed.
She knelt behind him, wrapping her arms around him. He touched her arm and leaned his forehead against hers as she leaned over his shoulder.
“We will just have to save ourselves,” she said. Ruun’daruun smiled but said nothing.
—
When they had reached Lasivar’s encampment and been stopped by his bodyguards, they had been turned away at first. The bodyguards insisted that Ahi’rea and Ruun’daruun leave, but Ahi’rea had managed enough Gharven to convince them of the visit’s importance. The guards had acquiesced and they had entered Lasivar’s tent. It had been dark and it had taken their eyes a moment to adjust.
Lasivar had been sitting on the hides and blankets strewn over the ground. His eyes had been closed, and he had said nothing when they entered. Ahi’rea had noticed beads of sweat rolling down his face.
She had realized that he was projecting the power to mask the camp’s sound and light—hiding them from the enemy. She could not fathom the concentration such a feat would take. Ruun’daruun had been unsure of what to do, so Ahi’rea had taken the initiative and spoken.
Lasivar’s clear blue eyes had opened, but it took a long time for him to focus on them. When he did, he had spoken little.
“I cannot devote much time to you. I am sorry. The raid?”
Ahi’rea had yelled. She did not remember everything she had said—only that tears had streamed from her as freely as her curses. She had asked if he had known what would happen.
“You have the Sight,” Lasivar had said. “Did you know what would happen?”
She had asked what his plan was to deal with the approaching Cheduna army. He had said he did not know. Ruun’daruun had not believed him. Ahi’rea had asked, “Did you come here to lead us all to our deaths?”
“I came to destroy Halkoriv,” he had answered. Then he told them he needed to concentrate and that they had to leave. He had closed his eyes and spoken no more, and to their surprise, Ruun’daruun and Ahi’rea had turned and left. They did not make the decision themselves, nor could they bring themselves to reenter the tent.
—
“You’re right,” Ruun’daruun’s voice cut through the fog in Ahi’rea’s mind. “We can’t give up like him—we can’t let go of the others, let go of our goal, just so the hero can achieve his.” He turned his body to face her. His eyes were dry and sharp, his jaw set.
Ahi’rea nodded. A smile grew across her face. He understands.
“I’m finished with these visions of his, of your father’s,” he said. “Ken’hra was right…”
—
“Enough of this vision pit-waste!” Ahi’rea and Ruun’daruun had just returned from their meeting with Lasivar when Ken’hra had arrived, hurt, furious, and cursing, at the Huumphar encampment. Her arrival, with two other Huumphar, had cheered Ahi’rea and Ruun’daruun and the others, but her news did not. She had seen no more Huumphar, and her raiding party and fared even worse than Ruun’daruun’s.
“I don’t care what you see—I’m not going to roll over,” Ken’hra had said. Haaph’ahin, who had begun to speak of a vision, lapsed into silence. To the surprise of the other Huumphar, he did so without protest.
Ken’hra had stormed off to a healer. Ahi’rea and Ruun’daruun told the others more of what had happened—that the Cheduna had anticipated the attack, that they were aware of the army’s position, and they told them of the horror and lives lost during the raid. Ahi’rea shuddered to recall the Rider and the evil leaching through him. Haaph’ahin had not spoken and the others seemed lost without his voice. Some thought the Huumphar should withdraw, while others said there was no escape—that the Huumphar were finished. They made no decisions that night—no voice united them, no leader stepped forward. Ahi’rea and Ruun’daruun had been as unsure of how to proceed as the rest. Soon the group broke up and they all returned to their tents.
—
Ruun’daruun’s arms were tight around Ahi’rea and he looked into her eyes. It was not over. It was never over.
“We may not be heroes and we may not be destined, or powerful, or prophesied—but we will not give up,” he said.
In their tent, holding to one another, Ahi’rea and Ruun’daruun felt not despair, nor hope—but resolve.
—Twenty-Two—
Tak’la stumbled over a root, caught hold of a tree trunk to break his fall, and kept running. His breath was ragged, such was his haste, even though he had only covered a few miles. It turned to steam, visible in the shafts of moonlight slipping through the boughs overhead, before dissipating around him.
Still he heard nothing behind him. His heart pounded, his blood rushed, the night sounds in the forest surrounded him—but he heard no hoofbeats, no shouts. Perhaps they had told Azra the truth. Perhaps he would not be pursued. Tak’la took no chances, changing direction yet again. He heard water running—another stream to cross, another chance to throw off trackers.
His leg ached and his ribs were still bruised and dark. His capture had not been gentle and even though over a week had passed, his captors had ensured that his wounds persisted. He had been fed little and kept on the move—the road was no place to recover.
For each branch he ducked, a bramble tore at Tak’la’s legs. For each root he avoided, another seemed to spring from the earth. He would never struggle so on the plains. He knew that somewhere to the south he would find Lasivar’s army, so on he went, hour after hour, despite pain and hunger and exhaustion.
He thought of nothing but reaching the plains—though the forest hid him, in the grasses he would vanish. His lungs burned, but it was his wounded leg which gave out first. He tripped, stumbled, and finally fell to the ground, unable to catch himself.
Tak’la sat and dragged himself to a tree. He leaned against it, gasping and closing his eyes. He told himself to keep them open, to remain watchful, but felt as if it was all he could do to keep breathing. After he had caught his breath, he forced his eyes open and inspected his surroundings.
The Gharven forest was thick with stout trees and dense undergrowth. The trunk against which he leaned would have taken three people, arms outstretched, to encircle. The ground was soft, at least, padded by fallen leaves. In the moonlight, Tak’la could not make out their colors.
He heard yet another of the tiny streams that crisscrossed the forest. Thankful that he had not fallen in it, he braced himself against the tree and stood, pushing with his left leg and holding the right still. A grunt of pain came to his throat. Once he was upright he extended the injured limb and found that it would bear weight, if only just.
He listened, keeping still. No hoofbeats. No shouts. Tak’la crept from his tree toward the sound of the water.
The stream was a short distance away, running along a shallow depression. The water shimmered in the moonlight as it rolled over mossy stones and around black, fallen branches. Tak’la crouched beside it, lifting the cold, clear water to his mouth with his hands.
His thirst sated, he rose again and sought about for a fallen branch. He had been given none of his supplies when he left.
While he searched, he considered his release. Whatever Azra had told Bor, it had worked. The guard had approached him, cut his bonds, and gestured with his dagger. The message had been clear—go.
He had made for the edge of camp without wasting time trying to speak to the guard, and had just passed out of sight of the camp when he noticed Azra, waiting amongst the trees. He had rushed up to him and Azra spoke in Gharven, almost too fast for Tak’la to understand.
“I convinced Bor to let you go,” he had said. “You must reach Lasivar and the others. He must know what Halkoriv is planning.” He told Tak’la what he had learned—what Halkoriv was doing, and why. He had given a message for Ahi’rea, but it had made little sense to Tak’la. “You must remember to tell her,” Azra pleaded. “I have to go—Bor will be suspicious.”
Tak’la had nodded and embraced Azra
. “You have been a good friend.”
Azra at first had recoiled, but had returned the embrace. “I have been no such thing—but I hope to change that.”
Tak’la had stepped back, but kept a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You will,” he had said. “You have changed much. You are a new person—choose well how to live the next moment.” He laughed. “I’m sorry. I speak to you as an elder would to a child.”
“You have taught me more than anyone else,” Azra said with the beginnings of a grin. “But you are right. I am your elder, so do as I say, young one.” Azra pointed south. “Run.”
So he had. Tak’la had run for hours, hearing no pursuit, with only a glimpse of the stars and Azra’s last farewell to guide him.
Tak’la soon found a branch, as tall as he, for a makeshift staff. He broke one end, leaving it a jagged point. He planted the end in the ground and found it was much easier to walk with even the small amount of support the staff provided.
His breath was steady again, his heartbeat slower. He started walking, hoping to take it easy, recover his strength. He worried that if he overexerted his leg he would lose the use of it.
He hobbled on for perhaps an hour, watching the moon drop lower when he caught sight of it through the branches overhead. The forest felt alien—close and heavy, claustrophobic. He wondered how far it was to the edge.
Tak’la reached a clearing and paused at the center of it. Moonlight bathed the small meadow and he stood still, eyes closed, and imagined he was on the plains after a long, difficult hunt. The sound of the wind in the trees was not unlike when it was in the grasses. The rustling rose and fell in time with his breathing. The cold air soothed his aches, filled his lungs. The earth under his feet felt like home.
A sound reached his ears, out of the rhythm of his breath and the air. Hoofbeats. Shouting. Azra’s voice echoed in Tak’la’s mind. Run. So he did.
Ours Is the Storm Page 24