Ours Is the Storm

by D. Thourson Palmer

  —

  “You told me he would go free!” Azra yelled. His hand reflexively grasped at his sword, but found nothing. He clenched his fist.

  “He has gone free,” Bor intoned, riding a few paces ahead. He did not look back.

  “You sent those soldiers to kill him. You said they would go home!”

  “And so they shall, as soon as they have dealt with the plainsfolk.” Bor’s voice was infuriating in its calmness.

  Azra wanted to shout, to rage. His frustration boiled, urged and pressed by the darkness in him. It would be so simple, he knew, to loose the rage he felt, to relax his hold, let free all the anger, the potential. He was not sure if he heard his own thoughts, or the Spirit’s. He could slay Bor, ride to the Monument, the Ancestor’s Stone, kill Halkoriv himself—but he knew that the Ravenous Spirit would never let him win. Whatever he might do, if he used the power in him, it would be for nothing. It would not allow its own demise, just as it had not allowed Bor to call his bluff.

  When Azra had told Bor that Tak’la must be released and the soldiers sent home, Bor had laughed—until Azra had said what he would do otherwise.

  “I will kill you, Bor. You can’t stop me, and neither can your master. He will let you die before he lets me, and I will escape. Lasivar will kill Halkoriv, and you will fail.”

  Bor had stared at him for what had seemed like hours. Azra knew that Bor could search his mind, but was not sure how well. When, at last, Bor had conceded, he knew.

  He also knew that Sitis would protect itself, at any cost. It would do all it had to in order to endure—even if it meant taking risks.

  He should have realized that it would also lie. Bor belonged to the spirit. It had him, completely.

  Azra rode in silence, regaining his composure. Bor—Sitis—wanted him to lose himself in his power. He needed to stay his own. He told himself that Tak’la was strong, courageous, and would soon be back on the plains—his home. Azra tried not to remember that Tak’la’s pursuers were among the finest soldiers in Feriven, that Tak’la was injured, that he had days of unfamiliar forest to cross, let alone the plains themselves.

  He will make it, Azra thought. He must.

  Azra and Bor rode for days without speaking. The air was cool even during daylight now. Azra estimated that they were still about a week’s travel from the Monument when they finally crossed out of the forest and into the plains. They turned east, each morning riding with the sun before them and ending the day’s travel when it set at their backs.

  They sat apart after making camp—neither made any attempt at conversation. Each intended only to keep an eye on the other. Bor was usually still, eyes hooded. Azra had yet to see him sleep. Part of him remembered that before that day on the plains, before he had ridden out to meet the Huumphar, he also had seen little purpose in sleep. Azra wondered if Bor missed it. He had not.

  He was startled one night when Bor spoke. It was not so much the breaking of their silence as it was the quality of his voice. There was a tremulous note that he had not heard before, a lack of surety. It occurred to Azra that for the first time, he was hearing Bor speak instead of Sitis.

  “Why, with all that was before you, all the power you could have had, did you give up?” Bor asked. “Why turn your back on it?”

  Azra studied Bor’s face. He saw no guile, only confusion. He was youthful, around Tak’la’s age. He almost looked like a new recruit, uncomfortable in his armor, frightened of the foreign plains. In the light of their tiny campfire, Bor’s eyes flickered with life—a dwindling life that Azra could tell was almost all gone, or perhaps already was.

  “You can see my mind,” Azra said. “It was a lie—everything I had been told, everything I believed about myself.” He was unsure why he was even answering, even entertaining Bor’s questions. He would not allow himself to hear the small voice inside which wondered if he could save Bor the way he had been saved.

  Bor shook his head. “I don’t understand. Even if it was—our lord would have kept you. You were the strongest. You could have been great. But now, you’ve ended up with this,” he said, gesturing around them. A little of the dangerous, familiar edge crept into Bor’s voice. “No allies, no hope—nothing. Our lord will still win. Your plainsfolk will be exterminated, this land will be finally tamed and united—and you’ll serve your purpose to Lord Halkoriv, dead or alive.”

  “Then what is the use of it either way, Bor?”

  “You could be with us, and alive, and regain your true potential.”

  “What potential is that?” Azra bolted to his feet. “For what? Power over others? Wealth? Prestige? I have found I can live without them.” He gestured around, mimicking Bor’s mocking wave. “This is the world. What you have is nothing. You have these things, given to you, not earned, and as easily taken away—and they mean nothing. What do you really have? What did he give you? What does your life mean?”

  Bor watched and listened in silence. Azra could not help but continue. His mind strayed to Ahi’rea, to her resolve and beauty and strength. “Only when I was beaten, did I find what I was. And only when I lost—no, not lost—only when I gave up what you have, did I begin to decide what I am. What it is to live, and what I want to be…” he trailed off. He saw in his mind how she had looked at Ruun’daruun, “…to be remembered for.”

  Azra felt cold pinpoints sting his mind. Bor was searching, prying. The flicker was gone, the life swallowed up again. The young man was gone, and the Spirit had returned.

  “The woman,” Bor murmured, drawing out each syllable. “Is she what this is about?”

  Azra looked up, eyes narrow, rage rising in his mind. He recoiled from his anger, until he realized that it was different. This time, it did not begin with the pressure, the whispers, the icy touch of the Spirit. This time it burned from his gut and spread through his arms and legs—his own rage. Still, the familiar cold of the Spirit followed it in a chill, gleeful wave, pressing him to act. He held back. That is what it wants.

  “She,” Bor hissed, “will remember you.” His teeth gleamed in the firelight, and his dead eyes glittered. “And I will see to it that she remembers much more.”

  Azra lunged. His arm moved with a speed he had forgotten as his hand caught Bor’s throat. Strength both alien and familiar pulled Bor to his feet, then off of them. Dark tendrils coalesced and lashed around them. Whispers filled Azra’s mind and cold power pressed him. All he could see was Bor’s mad smile, and all he desired was to crush the smugness out of him.

  Not yet, something said, a voice coming as if from deep inside him. The thought cut through the cold pressure, hot and powerful and just as dangerous, and Azra recognized his own fury, his own mind, as if hearing it from afar. The feeling was unfamiliar. The Spirit’s whispers were drowned by it and he wondered when the Spirit had first begun to push him, for he had never felt this before, not even all those years ago in Cunabrel’s cell.

  Not yet, he told himself again. His fury smoldered, not yet a blaze, but a threat of one instead. The blackness faded in his vision. His arm weakened under Bor’s weight. This is what it wants.

  He thought of his decision—what he had resolved to do. He held tight to it, thinking of Ahi’rea and Tak’la and the resolve they had shown. If he gave in now, they would lose and Bor—Sitis—would be right. Not yet.

  He released Bor. The larger man’s mad smile faded. “You are nothing,” he said.

  Azra forced back the cold, insidious pressure. He turned his back on Bor and sat again.

  “Perhaps you will be remembered by no one,” Bor said. “We will live forever. You may as well have never existed.”

  Azra smiled to himself. He did not answer. He did not have to.

  —Twenty-Three—

  He could hear them. Sometimes it seemed they were within moments of sighting him, and other times the sound of them faded from Tak’la’s ears. Always the hoofbeats would return, or a distant voice would ring across the plains. Tak’la ran on, sacrificing his
own silence to speed and to the pain in his leg. Sometimes the sound of hooves pounded the dirt all around him.

  The night was at its darkest. All glimmers of twilight had disappeared hours before and still there was no glimmer of the sun’s return. The smoke from the fires that had ravaged the plains had all but dissipated in the days since Tak’la had left the forest behind, and the moon hung, a dim crescent, in the autumn sky. The lands west of him were burned. He had seen them some days before. Here, frost cloaked the tall grasses in silver and steam formed and curled away with Tak’la’s every breath. He had lost track of how many days he had been running, and now knew only that he must be nearing the coast. He would find Lasivar there. He had to go on. His pursuers were shouting to each other, looking for him.

  Tak’la was numb. But for his leg, he had stopped feeling his body’s protests. The cuts, the aches, and the bruises seemed as if they had always been there. All he felt was fatigue. He had never wanted to stop and rest so badly, just as he had never known so urgently that he could not. His last true rest had been after leaving the forest. Since then, he had done all he could, used every trick, every tactic, to lose his pursuers but always they returned. The sound of their horses always came back. When he could not hear them, he stopped—but he dared not sleep. He feared he would not wake before they were upon him.

  Sleep. Tak’la tried not to think about sleep. You can’t stop, he thought. Azra stayed behind so I could run. He kept moving, though exhaustion hounded him. Thoughts came to his mind unbidden, fleeting, flashing in of their own accord each time his concentration waned, each time his bodiless, tireless foe sought to fell him. They will catch me. I’ll never find the Huumphar. There’s no stopping Halkoriv. I can’t go on. What I’m doing doesn’t matter. I’ll fail. I can’t go on. Each time, he despaired. The hoofbeats seemed louder, the shouts closer. Each time, he felt like giving in.

  Each time, Tak’la asked himself aloud, “Why do I live, if not to run?”

  He ran on.

  A new sound came to him, invading his thoughts; waves crashing. In the next moment, the sound was gone—along with the sound of his pursuers. Tak’la wondered if exhaustion was playing tricks on him again, or if he had been running the wrong way all this time. Only the sound of the wind remained, growing stronger, gusting about him from the south. He could not think. It could not be the coast, not yet. He imagined standing in the shallows despite the cool air, feeling the waves rush about his feet. He imagined the icy water, the stinging salt. He stopped, forcing himself to think, to remain standing.

  Waves. The coast. Not real, he decided. The faint, part sweet, part acrid smell of smoke reached him on the southern wind. Campfires. As he took in the smell, looking toward the south for telltale firelight, the sound of waves returned. He was close! Tak’la felt as if he might collapse as relief washed over him. He expected the smell to vanish, a phantom on the breeze, and put his hands to his face, pressing his eyes. He wavered, holding his breath. The smell did not vanish. He fought away the exhaustion, the relief, and spoke aloud. “I’m not there yet.” The disappearance of his pursuers worried him. That he had evaded them, or that they had given up, was too much to hope for.

  He started off again, retrieving his stick from the ground. His muscles cried out and his cracked skin burned. Tak’la focused on the pain, using it to keep himself alert while he walked. Ahead of him, the land rose to a crest. He knew that on the plains, even this small hill was a landmark, something he should remember, but he could not. Halfway to the top of it, he paused, against his better judgment, and stared.

  He forgot how long he stood there. It did not seem to matter. He would soon rejoin his people and deliver Azra’s message, or die. For a moment, however, he wanted to remember why he lived.

  The moonlight was enough to see by. Ice crystals from the dew sparkled all around him on the grasses and again he heard the far-off rush of waves. In the south, he could see the shadows of the mountains. His breath slowed, given fleeting form in a burst of curling steam. Silver light seemed to emanate from the earth itself. Tak’la could not imagine a finer sight.

  He blinked, breaking his reverie. He would rejoin the Huumphar before dawn, or not at all. He leaned on the stick and climbed to the top of the crest before him.

  The grass grew shorter as he advanced until it only reached his waist. He heard the trickle of water close by—a stream. When he reached the top, he saw it: the hill upon which he stood swept down a dozen paces toward a creek bed. The water glittered beneath the moon and Tak’la could make out the distant ocean in the east. The grasses obscured much of the creek—but it did not obscure the mounted soldiers awaiting him.

  He had seen three of them earlier in their pursuit. Three more were with them. They were spread out along the creek, swords in hand, eyes fixed on him.

  Tak’la could not run. They were too close, too many, and on horseback. They would ride him down. Not far beyond them, he suspected, he would find the Huumphar camp and Lasivar’s army.

  The soldiers waited, watching. They did not speak or move.

  Tak’la’s leg throbbed. His lungs burned. He was exhausted, starving. He looked past them again, at the moon-bathed plains and the dark mountains beyond. He thought he could make out a glimmer of what might be firelight. But still in his way were the soldiers, intent on ensuring he never took another step.

  One of them shouted, breaking the silence in the southern tongue. “Surrender,” he cried again, this time in Gharven. “We will spare you if you surrender.”

  Tak’la stood still, looking down on them, contemplating the soldier’s words. He could not beat them. Not in his state.

  He sighed. “I’m coming down,” he shouted. Even his throat hurt. He raised his hands, holding his staff aloft, and limped down the slope, approaching the speaker. The others remained vigilant, drawing closer along with him. Tak’la stepped into the cold water of the stream and shivered.

  He reached the horseman’s side, looking into the man’s face. He had been Tak’la’s guard, as they all had, on a few occasions. The soldier grinned as he reached out to take Tak’la’s walking stick.

  Tak’la struck with a roar, his cry echoing through the night. He snatched the soldier’s extended arm, pulling him down as he drove the sharpened stick into his neck. The soldier’s sword fell from his hands as he tried to defend himself. His companions cried out in alarm and moved in to attack, but Tak’la grabbed the sword and dived into the tall grass before they could reach him. Amongst the swaying blades and darkness, he all but disappeared.

  The soldiers did not hesitate, urging their mounts into a circle around where Tak’la had vanished. His leg trembled and burned even from the few sudden movements he had made. Five left.

  The horsemen shouted to one another, searching the grasses. They held their swords at the ready. One step at a time, they tightened their circle, swiping their blades through the grass.

  When a rider was almost upon him, Tak’la lunged again. He shouted and the soldier parried his sudden thrust, crying out as well. Tak’la struck again and as the soldier again parried, Tak’la snatched his wrist and pulled him headfirst from his mount. He heard the others closing in and spun, battering aside another soldier’s attack. A third swung, and again Tak’la avoided the blow.

  The sword was heavy in his hand. His head swam, and his leg felt ready to fail him. Still he fought, barreling into the unhorsed soldier in hopes that the others would hold their attacks. The soldier was strong and better rested than Tak’la, however, and the Huumphar found his wrists caught and held in his foe’s iron grip. He felt his good leg kicked from under him. The other leg gave, and Tak’la’s breath was knocked from him as he fell hard on his back with the soldier on top of him.

  His wrist was still in the soldier’s grip. The soldier slammed it against the ground again and again, knocking the sword away. A fist smashed into Tak’la’s face and his vision blurred and fluttered with dark blotches. He tasted blood. He could not breathe. Tak
’la was struck again. Cold steel pressed against his throat. Through the haze of his vision, he could just make out the soldier’s face looking down on him.

  “You should have given up,” the soldier said in accented Gharven. He pressed the blade harder against Tak’la’s neck. “Anything to say before I take your head?”

  Tak’la turned his head, spitting blood onto the ground. He looked back up at his captor, and opened his mouth in a hoarse roar. “Aim here!”

  There was an answering cry from the south. The soldier looked up as an arrow whistled into his body, catching him with such force that he was rolled off of Tak’la’s chest.

  More arrows followed, accompanied by the shouts of the approaching scouts. Tak’la lifted himself on his forearm, wincing, and watched as rust-cloaked northerners dashed past him and scattered the Cheduna soldiers. Through his pain and exhaustion, Tak’la was impressed—they fought like Huumphar. He was unsure how many of his pursuers were killed, but within moments they had all fled or fallen. As he lay back, unable to hold himself up any longer, the bearded face of one of the northerners leaned over him.

  “Hold on, boy,” the northerner said. “You did well. Hold on. You’re almost there.”

  —

  Ahi’rea pressed through the camp alongside Ruun’daruun. The word that the Gharven scouts had rescued a plainsfolk from a Cheduna squad had been welcome, but the Huumphar’s description, who it might be, filled her with a strange dread.

  They wound between the tents and fire circles, pushing through crowds of Lasivar’s foreign troops and Gharven warriors. As they neared the edge of the camp they could hear a growing commotion. They saw other Huumphar, following a pair of rust-cloaked scouts dragging a litter. Ruun’daruun broke into a sprint to catch up to them, with Ahi’rea on his heels.

  When they reached the group, Rahi’sta was already there, walking beside the litter with her child in one arm. Tears were on her face. It was difficult to tell who it was, so beaten and bloodied the body on the litter was. Rahi’sta looked up as they arrived. “Tak’la,” she said. Ruun’daruun nodded, falling into step with her. The small group of Huumphar following did not wail or cry; Tak’la’s time had been long ago. Ahi’rea knew she should not be surprised—but the dread she felt did not dissipate. Had Azra turned on him? Or had he been killed as well?