Ours Is the Storm

by D. Thourson Palmer

  “How did he die?” Ahi’rea asked.

  “He’s alive, barely,” Rahi’sta said. “He is badly wounded.”

  Ruun’daruun looked at them in turn. “You know that’s not true. His body may yet hang on, but that may not last this time.” He spoke as of one long dead—and Tak’la was, Ahi’rea reminded herself.

  “No,” Rahi’sta said. “He is alive. He came back for a reason.” She turned away, keeping pace with the litter and ignoring Ruun’daruun.

  Ruun’daruun fell back to walk beside Ahi’rea and placed a hand on her shoulder. He leaned close to whisper, “It’s for the best. Death followed him, but it met him far from others who could have been harmed.”

  They brought Tak’la to the Huumphar camp where Rahi’sta stood watch over him while the remaining elders were summoned and healers gathered. Ken’hra arrived and she and Ruun’daruun discussed what the scouts had reported when they found Tak’la.

  “They tried to leave one of his pursuers alive, but most of them fled on horseback,” she said. “The soldiers the Gharven wounded died quickly—they said it was as if they couldn’t breathe.”

  “What do you mean?” Ruun’daruun asked. “Couldn’t breathe?”

  “That is what the scouts told me. They sucked in air but died while the scouts watched. Like someone was stealing the breath from them.”

  “Halkoriv,” Ruun’daruun spat. “He is watching. He’d kill his own servants before letting us have them.”

  “If he were so concerned about Tak’la—if Halkoriv himself was watching those men—we had better hope we can find out why,” Ahi’rea interjected. She moved closer to Tak’la and knelt beside where they had laid his litter on the ground.

  A pair of healers was beside him, pouches of herbs and pots of tinctures open beside them. One waved a smoking bundle of acrid-smelling branches over Tak’la’s chest and face, fanning the smoke toward him. The other shook his head at Ahi’rea. “His spirit fades. Its grip was tenuous to begin with,” he said. “He yearns to join his tribe on the Journey.”

  “Ahi’rea.” Rahi’sta knelt beside her. “Can you help him?” She held her baby close to her. He cried, tired and upset by the noise and activity. “Please, you must help him.”

  “There is little I can do,” Ahi’rea said. The healer began a chant for those passing to the Journey and Rahi’sta wept, her hand on Tak’la’s battered cheek.

  Ahi’rea looked up at Ruun’daruun. “Get Lasivar. He can use the Storm to save him.”

  “His life hasn’t been his own for years,” Ruun’daruun said. “Even Lasivar can’t call him back from the Journey.”

  Ken’hra nodded. “If he can’t survive this himself, nothing can save him. Death has caught him.”

  “Go get him,” Ahi’rea said. “Tak’la came back to us for a reason, and Halkoriv has gone to great lengths to make sure he did not live. I will not allow him another victory.” Ruun’daruun hesitated, nodded, dashed away.

  Ahi’rea put one hand on Rahi’sta’s shaking shoulder. “He will not die in vain,” she said. “And we may save him yet.” Rahi’sta looked up, tears staining her face. She nodded her thanks.

  Ahi’rea’s eyes pulsed once, flaring green in the fire lit camp. Sweat and blood, mingled on Tak’la’s brow, reflected the light onto her as she settled her hand on his forehead. At least, she thought, we will know why you ran.

  Fear, stark and sharp. Pain. They flooded her. Tak’la’s pain flowed into her and became her own. Her leg ached, her face, her ribs. She was more exhausted than she had ever felt. Through all of it, though, was the fear. Not fear of death, or fear of hurt, but fear that she—that Tak’la—would not reach Lasivar and Ahi’rea before being killed.

  She could feel the message he carried. It was like a locked door, protected, secure. What she could not find, not feel, was any fear for himself.

  She had heard that those like Tak’la, death-touched, lost all the fear everyone else carried. Now she felt it. Now she knew. She realized how it was that one so young fought with such power, such abandon. It was not courage—courage was the facing of fear. Fear was the only thing that had died in Tak’la along with his tribe.

  Something took hold of her and she flinched. She was forced out of his mind without warning. As her eyes refocused she found she was looking into Tak’la’s face, one eye swollen shut but the other open. He was smiling. His hand held Rahi’sta’s and still she cried, but now was smiling.

  “It’s alright,” he murmured. “I’m not leaving yet.”

  —

  The healers wanted to take Tak’la away for rest, but he protested. Even barely able to speak, he insisted on seeing Lasivar. He told Ahi’rea he had an urgent message, but as he spoke his speech slurred and his eyes closed. He awoke every time they tried to move him and tried to arise from the litter. He was in no condition to relay messages, but it was only when Ruun’daruun returned with Lasivar’s promise to come soon that Tak’la allowed the healers to take him away to see to his injuries.

  Dawn came and went. Ahi’rea and Ruun’daruun waited with the others. Only around twenty Huumphar warriors remained, along with a few families. It felt strange to Ahi’rea, looking around the fire circle in the autumn morning’s light, thinking that this was possibly all that remained of her people.

  Those fortunate enough to be alive sat with their families and those of their fallen comrades. She saw many grandparents, wounded, a few children—but few of fighting age remained. Many mothers and fathers had not come back. Older siblings had been lost forever. Most of those that remained were the old, the young, and the infirm. Rahi’sta, her infant beside her, was repairing the bindings on her machete’s grip. The Huumphar spoke little, in low voices. All around them, the sounds of the war camp rose and fell, but within their small circle it was quiet and still.

  Ruun’daruun and Ken’hra whispered together of gathering a search party to seek other Huumphar. Ahi’rea half-listened. Her mind wandered as she looked about at their people, wondering if it would even matter. We must try, she reminded herself. She jumped at the sudden touch of a hand on her arm.

  Ahi’rea looked up into the concerned face of her father. “You are troubled,” he said, seating himself on the ground beside her. Even close to the fire it was cool, and he was wrapped in skins and furs.

  She hesitated, then leaned against his small frame. He put a bony arm around her shoulders. “Of course,” she answered, looking into the fire. Her father said nothing, merely holding her close. The quiet murmur of conversation drifted around them, and the sounds of the camp around that.

  “I miss your mother,” Haaph’ahin said. Ahi’rea was surprised to hear such a blunt and vulnerable statement from him. She felt tears in her eyes.

  “So do I.”

  “She was my… I trusted her more than anyone, more than myself. I loved her.” His voice had never sounded so old to Ahi’rea before. “Before the two of you left, that raid—I told her that the journey might lead to Lasivar. That it might lead to something terrible, but that we might find Lasivar’s son. The man who could kill Halkoriv. But I told her that I feared she might not return. That I feared many of you might not return.”

  Ahi’rea heard his tears in his voice. She looked at her father. “What did she say?”

  Haaph’ahin took a few deep breaths. “She asked if I were sure. I said yes. She asked if you would live, and I said you would. It was then she decided to go. She said we had to find Lasivar’s son, whatever the cost.” He closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. “I wish I had said no.”

  His body shook, but he made no sound. Ahi’rea returned his embrace.

  “What I have done,” Haaph’ahin said, “has brought about the death of our people, of my own love, instead of saving them.”

  They looked up at the sound of loud voices. They saw the two healers, imploring Tak’la to return to his rest. He had been washed of blood and grime. Cuts and bruises were clear on his face and bandages wrapped his ribs. He w
ore thick furs around his shoulders but his chest was bare. He leaned heavily on a stick as he made his way through the gathered Huumphar, breath visible in the chill, heedless of his caretakers.

  He smiled and waved to Rahi’sta but walked straight to Ahi’rea and Haaph’ahin. He paused, about to speak, but stopped and bowed with difficulty to the older Huumphar. The healers fell silent behind him, waiting for a sign from Haaph’ahin.

  The old man regarded Tak’la. “You have forgone the Journey yet again.” His tears were gone, his voice once again rough and strong. “Tak’la Death-touched. We might call you Death-dodging.”

  Tak’la addressed Ahi’rea as much as the elder, looking back and forth between them. “I have come back to speak to Lasivar. And you. Azra freed me—we were captured. He sent a message, two messages—”

  “Slow down, young one,” Haaph’ahin said. Ahi’rea marveled at him. Only she knew how pained, how guilty, he was. She wondered how he would have spoken to Tak’la a few days ago. “We will hear, but recall what Azra did, what he was. We can hardly trust one such as him.”

  “Tell us what happened,” Ahi’rea said.

  Tak’la sat, holding back grunts of pain. The act seemed to be almost more than he could bear. Several deep breaths later, he began to speak. He told them of the days he had spent with Azra—how he had cast away his sword and foresworn his powers, the fear he carried with him. He described how and why they had separated, his capture by Bor, and how Azra had come back for him and later gained his freedom.

  “But you were pursued,” Ahi’rea said. “Those soldiers would have killed you, and we believe Halkoriv himself was watching and directing them.”

  “Yes,” Ken’hra said. “You were foolish to trust him. A man like him can’t change. He was probably happy to go back to the Cheduna.”

  Tak’la pushed himself up, a protest on his lips.

  He was interrupted by Haaph’ahin’s cool and stern voice. There was a murmur of surprise from the gathered Huumphar. Haaph’ahin had been quiet all through Tak’la’s story, but now he spoke with surety. “Azra had nothing to gain by betraying Tak’la so. To release him, even injured, risked that he would reach us. If it were he that wished Tak’la dead, and it were in his power, it would be so already. No—since Tak’la was released, but pursued, we must conclude that it was Azra who was deceived. He secured your release from this other, Bor, who wished you dead.”

  Tak’la nodded with a breath of relief.

  “Then it would seem your messages were important enough to you both to risk your death,” Ahi’rea said.

  —

  A short time later, Lasivar joined them. He was accompanied, as always, by a group of Gharven and Vanadae protectors. Satisfied that his message would reach its intended recipients, Tak’la spoke.

  “Azra told me that he is being taken to something called the Ancestor’s Stone. Halkoriv will be there. He’s hoping that we will concentrate on the army long enough that he can get past without notice. Azra said,” he paused, trying to remember the exact words. “He said, ‘Halkoriv is afraid. He will go to the place his power was born to gather strength. They call it the Ancestor’s Stone.’”

  Lasivar nodded, saying nothing. His clear blue eyes searched Tak’la’s face.

  “If it is true,” Ruun’daruun said, “we should find out where that is and go immediately. We could bypass the army and ambush Halkoriv.”

  “No,” Lasivar said. “If the whole army goes, he will See it. He would escape. I can find him. I will go, but the army must remain here.”

  Ruun’daruun looked down, his jaw set. Ken’hra, however, felt no compunction to restrain her tongue. “You’d leave us here to face half the Cheduna kingdom alone while you go off to settle your family score,” she snapped. “You care as much for us as you do the dirt you stand on.”

  “He is right, Ken’hra.” Haaph’ahin stood. “There is more to this battle than Halkoriv. He and the army are linked, but not inseparable. We must stay and fight. Even without their lord, his vision will linger. His men will fight on. And if our army goes, Halkoriv will know we are ready for him.” He looked at Ahi’rea and out at the other Huumphar. “Lasivar has his part to play, and we have ours. Only our resolve will save us, even after Halkoriv is dead. We must stay, and we must hold our lands. If we do not, the Cheduna will hunt us and destroy us.”

  Ruun’daruun nodded. Ken’hra looked away, scowling. Others murmured agreement while Lasivar called Haaph’ahin and Ruun’daruun to him. Ahi’rea was about to join them when she felt a hand on hers. Tak’la looked into her eyes and glanced outside the fire circle. “He said only you would understand,” Tak’la whispered. Ahi’rea looked over at Lasivar, her father, and Ruun’daruun, and nodded at Tak’la. They walked together away from the group.

  They stopped between a pair of tents, sheltered from the cold morning wind but far from any fires. The excited buzz of planning and conversation seemed far away. Beyond the tents and smoke, Ahi’rea saw the wind-swept plains to the north, smelled the salt sea to the east. Beyond her sight was the Cheduna army; though smoke no longer darkened the western sky, she knew they were close.

  She pulled her deerskins tighter across her shoulders and faced Tak’la. He stood tall, stone-faced, heedless of the cold and his wounds. She had to remind herself how close to death he had come not hours before.

  Tak’la’s face broke into a smile. “He said you would not want to hear his message,” he laughed. “I told him you would listen.”

  Ahi’rea smiled back. “He was right—but still, I do not think he would have sent you without good reason.” She reached up and placed a hand on Tak’la’s shoulder. “You faced much danger to come to us. It would be wrong to ignore the sacrifices you have made.” Tak’la nodded his thanks, regaining his serious demeanor. “When this is over, I mean to see you are made one of us—and are called death-touched no longer.”

  Tak’la nodded again. When he looked up, she saw his eyes were wet. “It has been long since anyone was as kind to me as you are—you, and Rahi’sta, and Azra. Thank you.”

  Ahi’rea nodded, but could not help but scowl at the name. “What does he want? He said he would not help us before.”

  “Truly, I didn’t understand his message.” Tak’la breathed deep, as if summoning up the words. “Azra said to tell you that you made the right decision—and that when he meets Sitis, he hopes you will be there to accept his apology.” Tak’la’s curiosity was palpable. “What does he mean? What decision? What does he mean to do? And where is the Ancestor’s Stone?”

  Ahi’rea stared, then took hold of Tak’la’s arm, her eyes widening. “Thank you Tak’la. You must promise to say nothing of this to anyone—even Lasivar, and especially Ruun’daruun.”

  —

  Ahi’rea found Ruun’daruun speaking to the remaining warriors while Haaph’ahin looked on, making no move to interrupt. She watched Ruun’daruun for a moment and felt her sense of urgency overcome as her heart swelled with pride. He was confident. He spoke without arrogance or distortion. Watching him, she knew he would one day make a fine elder. Her heart sank, however, as he detailed Lasivar’s plans.

  When he was done and the warriors began to disperse, she approached him. “Does he really mean for us to lead an attack against the Cheduna?”

  Ruun’daruun nodded. “Tomorrow at sundown. But not just him. We decided together. We will surprise them, fight as we know best. The Gharven and Vanadae will follow us—and if we are to have any chance, together we must shake their army to its core. We must take the initiative, or they will crush us here between the canyon and the sea.”

  Ahi’rea put her hands on his arms and looked Ruun’daruun in the eye. “We cannot survive—there are so many of them—”

  “It’s what we must do.” Ruun’daruun pulled her into an embrace and put his chin on the top of her head. “Lasivar has already left to meet Halkoriv, and we must take back our lands. We have to show his men that our resolve will never fail. If we wait
, and fight on their terms, we have no chance.” He held her close and she could feel him trying to keep his breath steady. “Tomorrow is the beginning. Our home will be ours again.”

  She wanted to tell him that she could not be there—that she had to leave, had to follow Lasivar to the Monument. She remembered her vision, the one she had the night of the Sendings. She knew that if she told Ruun’daruun, he would follow her—and that he was needed here.

  Ahi’rea took his hand. She led Ruun’daruun back amongst the tents, past the campfires and people and carts. They reached his tent and, once inside, she turned and pressed herself against him. She sought his lips in the dark as if she were drowning and sought air. She felt his hands on her arms, her waist. He returned the kiss, drinking her in. He pulled the deerskin from her shoulders while she loosened his cloak.

  She guided Ruun’daruun down with her to their bedrolls. Ruun’daruun kissed her again as she felt his hands caress her. The chill air raised goosebumps on her naked breasts and she pulled him close to her for warmth.

  “Rea,” he whispered, a reluctant protest.

  “I know,” she said. “I do not care.”

  “Neither do I.” He brushed her hair from her face, trailing his hand down her face, her neck. “I’m only glad we’ll be together to face—”

  She kissed him, not wanting to hear the rest of it. She only wanted to feel him close. Tears welled in her eyes and she clutched him tight. He held her, running his hands across her skin as they removed each other’s remaining clothes. His touch was like fire in the cold night air. She wrapped her legs around him, wanting to feel that touch everywhere.