Ours Is the Storm

by D. Thourson Palmer

  She felt his heart in his chest, beating faster. Her own seemed ready to break free from her. She fought for air and for a while, they forgot where they were, what was soon to happen; they forgot fear and pain and knew only one another’s touch.

  —

  As the feeling ebbed, Ahi’rea pulled Ruun’daruun’s lips to hers once again. They lay together, still holding tight. She almost feared to let him go.

  Ruun’daruun rolled onto his back and Ahi’rea clung to him, rolling over with him to lay her head on his chest. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled his discarded cloak over them. The world came back to her—but something was different, a hope she had not felt before, like the glimmer of a lone star in a storm-ridden sky.

  “I love you.” She felt Ruun’daruun shift to look at her and she raised her eyes to his. “Whatever happens, remember that.”

  A shadow crossed his features. Does he know? she wondered. Does he know what I’m going to do?

  “I could never forget,” he answered. He held her tight and kissed her again. Warm in his arms, Ahi’rea slept.

  —

  Ruun’daruun awakened alone. The first light of a cold dawn peered past the tent flap. He knew he would not find her in the camp. His eyes clenched shut against the tears and thought of her last words to him.

  As he sat up, something fell from his chest to his lap. He looked down at a lock of sun-bleached hair, gleaming in the dark of the tent, bound with a bit of cord. Placing the cord around his neck, Ruun'daruun closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, they were dry.

  I will see her again. It is not over.

  —Twenty-Four—

  Azra turned his face and pulled his collar across his cheek in an attempt to gain some respite from the biting wind. It had grown cold and hard and blew unceasingly, changing only in its direction. It had begun from the south, and now came from the east, ahead of them—the direction of the Monument, the Ancestor’s Stone.

  Bor rode ahead, heedless of the cold and wind. The flesh on his face was red and raw. He had quickened their pace in the last two days. They were close.

  Sundown came, and still the wind blew. As the sun sank in the west, stretching their shadows before them, Azra glimpsed a sudden glow, a mirror of the sun, a blaze of burning orange, towering on the horizon before them. The sun’s last rays lit upon the looming rock of the Monument, illuminating it where before it had been invisible in the gathering twilight. The black marble ruins glimmered and shone like fire.

  “We will ride until we arrive.” Bor did not look back. “Our master has waited for us long enough.” Azra did not see the point in arguing. He only hoped Tak’la had made it in time.

  The Monument faded to deep red and grew dark again as the sun completed its descent. Azra thought he lost sight of it amongst the stars, but they moved and shifted. The ruin was decked in torches, flickering in the dark. As they drew nearer he saw many Cheduna soldiers standing guard. They called out, reporting the arrival of the two travelers, and Bor and Azra were greeted at the base of the towering rock by a trio of figures in dark cloaks.

  “We knew of your coming,” one whispered. Its voice was emotionless, flat, cold. Azra saw their glazed, dead eyes beneath their hoods—Halkoriv’s Servants. Their skin was white and their faces blank. There was even less of them left than there was of Bor. Something more bothered Azra though, something worse still, for even before the creature had spoken, he had felt its words forming in his own mind. He felt Bor beside him, felt Halkoriv above on the Monument—and something else, something older and stronger and fouler. Something that dwelt in the stone and in all of them. Something that hungered.

  Bor dismounted, gesturing for Azra to do the same. A pair of soldiers took charge of their tired horses while Azra, Bor, and the three Servants headed for the great sloping path toward the peak of the ruin.

  Azra felt Halkoriv in his mind. He made no effort to resist—opening his mind to his power so close to Halkoriv, at this place, frightened him more than he could fathom. He knew that Halkoriv was hoping he would try. He had foresworn its use, and knew that to break that vow would bring only his doom. Bor had almost got the better of him at their camp. Azra would not be goaded again.

  They reached the peak, where a group of soldiers stood at the head of the path. Azra recognized one of them—a man with small crooked teeth and a wicked smile. He had been one of Draden’s commanders. Azra wondered if his old friend were here, but saw no sign of Draden. He was glad, for he did not know what he would do if he had to face him.

  One figure, lit only by moonlight, stood at the center of the ruin, ringed by the crumbling columns and stony ridges. The figure turned and moved among the ancient stones until it reached the edge nearest Azra and Bor. Halkoriv’s face, now bathed in torchlight, looked down on them. His eyes were pits, featureless and void, reflecting nothing. No, Azra thought. It’s not Halkoriv, not anymore. The Spirit has taken him. They are the same, now. Lasivar was right. He’s dead.

  Halkoriv turned toward Bor. “You have failed us.” The voice came from Halkoriv’s lips, but it was not his. “Lasivar is coming. The plainsfolk you released was not slain.”

  So he did live, Azra thought. He shuddered at the voice, but could not disguise his joy at the news of Tak’la.

  “Impossible,” Bor stuttered. His smug smile had vanished. Looking at him, Azra again saw the man, not the slave. “He could not have escaped—our finest soldiers—”

  “You gambled on ordinary men, weak creatures without purpose. You have failed us,” Halkoriv said again. “We have little time, and we have need of every modicum of our power.” He raised a hand, palm toward Bor. “Would that there were time enough for a fitting punishment.”

  He turned to face Azra, seeming to forget about Bor. Shadow gathered around them and Bor’s form receded, growing dark and small. He began to scream.

  “Go to the center of the platform, boy. You shall still serve us, vow or not. Your wall is nothing to us—whatever thoughts that you guard shall be known to us soon enough.”

  Bor’s screams almost drowned out the voice, but Azra still heard Halkoriv in his mind. Flickers of emptiness ripped through Bor, through the shadow he had become. Dark tendrils lashed and whipped between Halkoriv’s form and Bor’s, as if dragging something toward the king. Bor’s voice became detached, as if it no longer came from his body. Azra covered his ears and saw that the nearby soldiers did the same. The screams went on, growing shriller, animal-like. With a final choking cry, it was over. The shadow vanished, leaving only a crumpled, bloody heap where Bor had stood. Azra almost vomited, catching himself against one of the stone ridges. It was warm and he would have sworn that he felt it pulse under his hands.

  “Go to the center, now,” Halkoriv said. Azra felt his limbs move and realized he could not fight the king’s command. The cold pit within him, the feeling of his power in his mind, was what was driving him. Puppet-like, he stumbled past the ridges toward the center of the platform, unable to resist it to buy time. He had failed. He had not even gotten the chance to make things right. He focused on Ahi’rea as he had before, but it was futile. He gritted his teeth and felt tears in his eyes. Inexorably, his body approached the hub of the Ancestor’s Stone.

  Something Halkoriv—Sitis—had said came to him. “What wall?” he shouted, trying to turn his head. He could just see Halkoriv’s form, following behind him. “What do you mean?”

  “The wall in your mind, and in your heart,” said Sitis’s voice. “The secret you guard. How you are managing to protect it is a mystery to us, but one we will solve when you are part of us. Perhaps your method will even be of use.” Halkoriv stepped before him, his empty eyes peering into Azra’s. They had stopped at the center of the platform. “If you think Lasivar will come for you, he cannot save you,” the voice of Sitis said. “In fact, we should thank you. When he comes, we will wear him down, fight him, and weaken him. We shall let him strike, and when this body falls you will join w
ith us. Your body will become ours. Yours shall be a new line, and the gateway to others. We will be free. We shall consume all. We shall let Lasivar taste victory, and he will think us dead. Then, when he is spent and thinks himself safe, your hand will be that which ends him, and thus his defeat will be sweeter when we rip his life away.”

  A cruel, mad smile twisted Halkoriv’s face as he licked his lips. “We had planned to face him later, the last son of our enemies. That you have brought Lasivar here, while unexpected, will play into our plans. Whatever secret you think to keep from us is of far less consequence than the manner in which you have hidden it. We will know both soon enough. When you are part of us.” Halkoriv turned and called to some of the soldiers. “We must be undistracted. Chain him here.” He indicated the center of the platform. “Here is where we were born. Here is where we must be born again. The rest of you, prepare. The Son of Lasivar approaches. He comes on the storm.”

  Overhead, a roll of thunder rang out over the plains and a great wind gusted from the south, clashing with the wind pouring out from around the Monument. “He is near!” Sitis’s voice declared. Clouds rushed from the south, crashing into those above the Monument, churning and roiling. Light flickered deep inside the thunderheads and another rumbling growl echoed over the grasses. Azra could feel Lasivar growing close. The Spirit was like an animal in a cage, pacing back and forth in Halkoriv’s body. Its hunger was palpable.

  Two burly soldiers approached and took hold of Azra. He struggled but they held him in mailed grips. Panic crept up on him—what if Ahi’rea could not find him here? Would she make it in time? Would she even come? He felt the cold pit in his mind, pressing for release. Even in its plan, Sitis was fractured, ravenous in its lust to dominate, to consume. Azra knew he could not unleash it, not now, not after what he had sworn. He would be lost, would become Sitis’s Servant, a part of it, a willing sacrifice to it. His hopes would amount to nothing and Sitis would win even as Halkoriv died. As he fought the Spirit in him he wrestled against the two soldiers, but their hold was like the iron shackles in which he soon found himself. There might still be time, he told himself. She will come. He pulled at his chains, now linked to a rusted iron ring set in the stones of the Monument. She must come.

  The soldiers left without laughing or jeering. They seemed not to even notice him. They were focused on Halkoriv and on the hero of prophecy who approached. Azra remembered a time when he could have corroded and ruined the iron with a thought—but knew that now he must wait if he was to have any chance. Sitis needled and whispered in his mind, ever pressing and goading even as it demanded his stillness and subservience. He fought the ceaseless whispers, the driving presence, and once again felt the hot edge of his own fury burn at the cold pressure of his unwanted power. The pressure dissipated as he felt the first cold drops of rain strike his face. Lightning cracked and Azra, looking south, saw a dozen figures on horseback racing toward the Monument. Revik Lasivar had come.

  —

  When the sun set, they started walking. Ruun’daruun led them through the gathering dark, a mere handful of Huumphar warriors. Ken’hra was with him, and Rahi’sta, and Nuun’ran, and all the rest that could fight. Behind them the fires and lights of the camp winked out, extinguished by the Vanadae and Gharven soldiers and woodsmen. Before them, Ruun’daruun could see the fires of the Cheduna camp come into view. The sun, low in the sky, was hidden by roiling black clouds. It sank while they walked, making the darkness complete. They would not be seen.

  He felt rain on his skin and saw lightning to the north. Peels of thunder rolled out from the direction of the Monument. Ruun’daruun did not know what was happening there, and knew that he could not think about it. His fight was here, and the Huumphar’s cause in his hands.

  Haaph’ahin had come to him before they left, while the sun was setting. “May the wind guide you tonight, Ruun’daruun.” He had looked east, his eyes glowing and pulsing. “War was never my domain. I suppose, because of that, I have never truly understood it. But I think that you do.” Ruun’daruun had said nothing. “I had never thought to dream your destiny before now.”

  Ruun’daruun had waited, but Haaph’ahin had seemed deep in thought. “And what did you dream?” He had feared to ask more than he feared the coming fight.

  Haaph’ahin had turned back to him. “Would it change your course if I told you? Would you go to hide in the plains, or wait here for death?” He smiled and looked back to the east, toward the Cheduna. “I think you would still go to them, no matter what I said.”

  Ruun’daruun had nodded. “I would.”

  “And that is why I will not say. Though the dark of night comes, and we are closed in by enemies, and the storm bears down on us, you would go on. Come hell to you, you would meet it. So I will not say.”

  Ruun’daruun now stood in the dark and rain, waiting on a ridge overlooking the Cheduna camp. He saw the lights of their fires, guttering in the storm, and heard only the wind and rain. Even so close, he knew the Huumphar would not be seen; the storm was on them, the sun’s light lost. He wondered if he would live until the dawn.

  He felt the warriors around him, arrayed along the ridge. He felt their fear, but even more strongly, he felt their resolve. Ruun’daruun stepped forward and turned to face them. They stood, dark shades looking over the camp. They were so few.

  “The Cheduna king sent his armies to enslave us. We have resisted them for all our lives, and the lives of our mothers and fathers, and theirs before them.”

  “This time they came with a demon. They came with fire. They have come with hell to our home, but we have met it. They could not destroy us.”

  “Though the dark of night comes, and we are closed in by enemies, and the storm bears down on us, we will go on. Come hell to us, we will meet it.

  “Theirs was the demon and the fire—but ours is the storm, and even its fury cannot match ours! We will drive the Cheduna from our lands! And they will ride back through hell sooner than face us again!”

  Ruun’daruun shook his spear at the sky. The Huumphar roared, and the storm bore away their cries. Ruun’daruun turned back toward the camp and charged.

  —Twenty-Five—

  Halkoriv grew still and his soldiers and Servants gathered on the southern slope of the Monument. Lasivar and his riders disappeared from view, blocked by the crest of the platform, but Azra could hear their hoofbeats grow near and come to a stop. Between thunderclaps, flashes of lightning lit the hilltop and over the driving rain he heard Halkoriv call out to Lasivar.

  “You have traveled far to die, last son of Lasivar. You should have stayed in Vanador and left Feriven to its master.”

  “Would you have stopped there, Halkoriv? Would you truly have stayed here in this land, or would you have come for the others next?” Lasivar asked.

  “No,” Halkoriv chuckled, “but you might have lived longer. Now you will be destroyed here, and still we will rule Feriven and other shores as well.” His voice was almost his own—but Azra still heard Sitis behind it.

  “This is my home,” Lasivar said. Azra could picture him, flanked by silver-armored warriors, dismounting and slowly climbing the path. “And I would never leave it and its people to be conquered and enslaved by you.” Their banners would wave and snap in the wind as they strode forward, heedless of the rain and wind. Halkoriv and his men stood like statues, armor dark and glistening in the rain.

  “I will destroy you this night, Halkoriv,” Lasivar finished. He came into view, flanked by his men, sword in hand. His eyes shone with silver light, too bright to look upon. “For my home, for my mother and father, and for Feriven!”

  Halkoriv drew his sword, the harsh scrape of steel cutting through the night. Shadows rose about him, a towering column of lashing, writhing darkness. “The line of Lasivar will end here, at the place of our birth,” Halkoriv gloated. His voice changed and echoed despite the storm, a dead voice in the wind. It came not from Halkoriv, but the shadows around him. It became a roar. �
�We have hungered for this day!”

  Their swords clashed. Steel rang on armor and shield and the shouts of men and gods drowned out the roaring wind.

  —

  Azra could only watch as they fought. He called out to Lasivar’s men but they could not hear him. He shouted, trying to warn Lasivar, but knew his voice would not carry over the sound of the gale and the battle. When Lasivar struck, Azra would become part of Sitis. Lasivar would win the fight, but in doing so he would doom Feriven to yet more war and death.

  Lightning cracked and, in the sudden light, Azra saw a figure rise, pulling itself atop the hill from the sheer rock face of the Monument. It went unnoticed by Sitis or the Cheduna. Its eyes blazed even brighter than the lightning as it caught sight of Azra and rushed toward him.

  “Ahi’rea,” Azra breathed. “You came!”

  She reached Azra and took hold of his shackles. “We have to help Lasivar,” she said. “This has to end here, or Halkoriv will hunt down what is left of my people and yours. They have little chance as it is.” She pulled at the shackles, eyes ablaze.

  “Halkoriv—Sitis—is going to trick him,” Azra shouted over the wind and sound of battle. “It’s me—Sitis is going to use me to-“

  Ahi’rea stopped, looking past Azra. She dropped the chain and drew her machete, and Azra turned his head. Behind him stood Draden’s commander, Malskein. His rotten teeth gleamed like bloody fangs in the lightning.

  “Thought someone might come for him. Some thing, anyway,” he said in crude Huumphar. He spat, drawing his blade. “Never thought I’d be so lucky as for it to be you, plains-witch. I’ve heard of you.”