Ours Is the Storm

by D. Thourson Palmer

  “You—I saw you—the man from the raid.” Rain ran down Ahi'rea's face and soaked her hair. “You killed Naph’oin—”

  “I’ve killed lots,” Malskein said. “I don’t remember each of you I’ve killed any more than the bugs I’ve stepped on.”

  “Ahi’rea,” Azra said, but she stepped away, raising her blade. Malskein circled her. “Ahi’rea, wait!”

  The Cheduna soldier rushed forward and as his blade met Ahi’rea’s, Azra’s words were lost in the thunder and the clash of steel on bronze.

  Malskein rained down blows on Ahi’rea, hammering at her blade with his sword and his shield. She spun and parried, dodging or deflecting each strike. Her eyes were aglow but Azra could see that she was struggling to match Malskein’s ferocity. He kept her on the defensive; she could not risk an attack without leaving herself open. Atop the platform, so close to her foe, and with no cover, she fought on Malskein’s terms and he battered her toward the edge of the Monument.

  Azra felt his shackles move and turned in shock to see the pained, rain-soaked face of Tak’la at his side. His eye was swollen shut and fresh bruises shone on his face and ribs. The Huumphar spoke, but his voice was drowned in lightning and thunder.

  “You’re hurt,” Azra shouted. “You should not be here.”

  Tak’la smiled and motioned for Azra to lower the chains and hold them taut against the stone platform. “Your message seemed very important to Ahi’rea.”

  “You were not supposed to understand it.” Azra complied, stretching the chain over the stone.

  “I followed her. You came back for me,” Tak’la said. “And I wanted to know what you planned.” He hefted a rock, grunting under its weight. Azra pulled the chains tight and Tak’la hammered at them with the stone.

  Behind them, Malskein looked up at the sound. “Stop them!” he shouted.

  Lasivar and Halkoriv struggled alone, almost all their followers slain. Halkoriv’s Servants stood motionless amongst the bodies of the dead soldiers, swords in hand, decked in shadow. They looked up at Malskein’s cry and surged toward Tak’la and Azra.

  Tak’la hammered at the chain once more, but still it held. With a snarl, he turned and hurled the rock, striking one of the creatures in the face and crushing its skull in a spray of blood. As it fell, the others reached them but Tak’la was already diving, rolling beneath their blades. He snatched the sword from the fallen Servant and was stumbling to his feet again by the time they spun to face him. His face betrayed his pain, but he raised the blade and roared.

  The creatures attacked him together, their strikes in perfect unison. Tak’la fought them off as best he could but fell back beneath their combined attacks. Azra struggled with the shackles, aware that, even were he free, he would be worthless against them. Halkoriv will know if I die, he thought, and he will either kill Lasivar himself, or flee if he cannot win. And all this will be for nothing.

  Cold pressure grew in Azra’s mind. The knowledge that he could snap the chains and kill the Servants in seconds tormented him.

  The Servants assaulted Tak’la, blades flashing white in the lightning. Tak’la cried out as one of the weapons met his flesh and stained red. He stumbled to his knees, holding out his sword to ward away the Servants’ attacks. Ahi’rea leapt in front of Tak’la, and the two Servants and Malskein closed in on them. Azra fought the desire to release the power in him. Halkoriv was still alive, Sitis too strong. The Spirit screamed to be released, that he could save them if he would only give in. He doubled over, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his teeth with the effort of resisting.

  Ahi’rea cried out in pain. Azra battled the Spirit while he futilely pulled at his chains. I cannot give in. The whispers and pressure grew louder and stronger. He struggled and felt rage—his rage—filling him, hot and dangerous. He let it come, let the feeling surge through him. He took hold of it, and with it he forced down the pressure. He hauled on the chains and roared. His cry drowned the whispers. He strained against the iron holding him with all his might. Behind him he heard Tak’la and Ahi’rea shout in terror and agony. Azra looked over his shoulder in time to see Halkoriv’s Servant lunge; in time to see Tak’la, exhausted and bloodied and beaten, parry too slowly; in time to see the Servant drive its sword into Tak’la’s gut up to the hilt.

  Azra screamed. Inside him, something snapped. He threw his head back and pulled. His arms felt as if they would rip from their sockets. The chain rasped and shrieked. The pressure in his mind fell away before the fire that coursed through him.

  Azra gave the shackles one more jerk, and they gave way.

  He fell to the ground, but felt flame burn through him as he got to his feet and turned. This power was not Sitis—not fully. It was something else, something with the Spirit but not of it, a feeling older and stronger. The rain vanished in puffs of steam as it reached Azra’s skin.

  His arms were still chained together, but he was free. Azra saw Ahi’rea standing over Tak’la’s fallen form, her broken machete in one hand. Malskein and one of Halkoriv’s Servants still stood before her. Blood-reddened rain dripped from Ahi’rea’s face. Over her foes’ shoulders, her blazing eyes met Azra’s, and he charged.

  He saw them turn, heard Malskein’s warning shout. He saw their blades arc around to him and with his hands outstretched, Azra felt the new fury in him surge. He felt his eyes flare, felt fire beneath his skin, and saw his enemies’ blades turn to ash. The chains on his arms burned away.

  From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Halkoriv and Lasivar. Their strikes shook the Ancestor’s Stone. Lasivar’s eyes lit the corpses strewn over the hilltop, and Halkoriv’s shadows drew away their last sparks of life. Lasivar pummeled Halkoriv with a sword-blow that knocked the king’s blade from his hands. Azra felt Sitis’ glee and Halkoriv’s sudden terror.

  Halkoriv’s Servant leapt at Azra, but he caught the cloaked horror by the throat and held it aloft as if it were weightless. He felt life, or something like life, leave it, flowing back to the Spirit. Sitis struggled against him now, and seemed to grow stronger.

  Malskein tried to grab Ahi’rea but she dodged his grip and swung, slashing the broken machete across his throat. Malskein’s hand went to his neck as he fell to his knees, his eyes wide in shock. Blood spurted and ran through his fingers in a torrent.

  Azra looked back at Lasivar, who held his sword high as Halkoriv knelt before him. “Revik, stop!” Azra shouted. Lasivar did not seem to hear him.

  “Here your line is ended, Halkoriv. My family is avenged, and Feriven is free.” Lasivar brought the sword down with all his might, his eyes twin silver suns. All but lost in lashing shadows, Halkoriv’s visage twisted into a smile as the blade sank into him.

  A blast of black shadow threw Lasivar against the ruin wall. Halkoriv fell, and Azra fell with him, wracked in agony, and felt all that Sitis was, hunger and pain and despair and greed, rush into him like a dagger’s blade. He could not think. Hunger. He felt himself diminish, crushed beneath Sitis’ ancient weight. He could not breathe. His limbs were not his. They clenched and shook with spasms and grew numb. The torment closed him in, blocking out all else.

  He felt himself drawn to his feet and a roar took his mind. He could not see, could barely hear. He had never felt so strong and so helpless. He felt hunger. The Spirit froze him and tore at him. Hunger was everything, cold and vast and endless. He was taken.

  But somehow, some part of Azra persisted, hidden and protected. He had not recognized it until that moment, but now he felt the wall Sitis had spoken of. Somehow, he was still aware, even though his body was no longer his own and Sitis was in control. As the Spirit looked around, seeking Lasivar, Azra saw nothing but red and shadow until two points of green fire, blazing in the dark, came into view.

  “Azra,” Ahi’rea’s voice echoed. “What is happening?”

  The gaze focused on her. He felt Sitis’ cold hunger, and Azra fought and raged and felt hot anger boil in him, burning the cold away. He felt himself
draw nearer to her and heard his voice, reassuring her that it was over, that they had won, that Halkoriv was no more.

  No—you will not take her!

  Azra’s vision returned. The world flooded back to him and he backed away from her. “No!” he shouted. “Ahi’rea—it has me. Sitis is in me, it will live on in me. You must cut it off from this world. You can’t let it—” his eyes grew wide as he realized that these might be his last words to her. “I am sorry for what I have done.”

  He saw her step away and felt his voice leave his control. As his limbs grew numb he saw his hand rise toward her and felt the cold, gathering shadows come through him and stretch out to her. Ahi’rea did not run—in fact, she stepped forward, her hand raised to him. He saw his hand grip her throat. He felt her life leaving her. In desperation, he fought to force the shadows away.

  —

  Ruun’daruun kept low and sprinted toward another target. He was invisible in the pouring rain and his spear felled the Cheduna soldier while his back was turned. He dashed back into the grasses.

  The battle was heavy with losses, and they would be worse still. For every southerner he killed, a dozen rushed onto the battlefield. Screams and shouts rose and fell between blasts of thunder. Steel clashed on steel. The stink of blood hung in the air even through the downpour.

  The Huumphar had struck, and had killed many. After that they had been routed, as planned, when the Cheduna counter-attacked, and had fled back toward the sea. When the Cheduna followed, they were ambushed by the waiting Vanadae, flanked by the hidden Gharven.

  The battle had begun as Ruun’daruun and Lasivar had hoped, but now the numbers of the Cheduna had come into play. They poured from the west like a flood, and slowly, they were washing the army to the sea and cliffs.

  The Huumphar attacked from hiding and vanished into the lashing rain and darkness. The Gharven and Vanadae fought the bulk of the southern army, but already too many of them had fallen, and too many Huumphar had been caught and struck down.

  Ruun’daruun found Ken’hra and Rahi’sta, crouching in the darkness, catching their breath. “It’s no use,” Ken’hra said. “They are too many.” Blood soaked her side.

  Rahi’sta looked down at Ruun’daruun as she stood and hefted her machete. “We can’t stop. There is nowhere to run.”

  Ruun’daruun nodded. “We have to trust that Lasivar and Ahi’rea will do their parts.” The storm in the north, over the Monument, had grown only more violent.

  Rahi’sta smiled and reached down to pull Ken’hra to her feet. “Why did Ahi’rea go? What is she doing?”

  Ruun’daruun looked out at the field. There were so many enemies, and they fought without regard for their own lives, as if something was driving them. They would fight forever—unless Lasivar beat Halkoriv. And even then, they might fight on.

  He looked back at Rahi’sta and Ken’hra and smiled. “Lasivar may be the one to kill Halkoriv, but Ahi’rea will be the one to end this.”

  —

  The Cheduna pressed them back. They were simply too many. Ruun’daruun’s wounds were mere days old, and he felt as if he had been fighting forever. The wind and rain only compounded his exhaustion, and his hands were slick with other men’s blood. Still the Cheduna came in waves, and Ruun’daruun found himself alone, with only the cliffs of the Kan Manif Bur behind him. He could see none of his allies, only the faces of his enemies all around. He swung his spear and they dodged back, only to press in closer. He had nowhere to go. He waited for them to come for him, but they shouted and called to each other and held their ground, as if waiting for something.

  They parted ranks, and a tall man in fine silver armor strode out of the mass of soldiers. He removed his helmet, revealing sable hair, and Ruun’daruun saw blood on his face.

  “I’ve been ordered to kill all of you.” The man’s Huumphar was slow and careful, but he spoke without hesitation. “Every last one of your people. I have almost succeeded. But if you stop now, and lay down your weapons, you will live.”

  Ruun’daruun stood tall and looked at the canyon cliffs behind him. The water below echoed up, audible even over the storm. He felt the mud and stone of the cliff beneath him. Rainwater rushed past, swirling around his feet, digging ruts and gouges in the cliff top in its race to the edge. “Who are you?” he asked. He heard the men fighting and dying around them.

  “I am called Draden, Count of the Northmarch,” the soldier answered. “I lead this army. If I say you will live, you will.”

  Ruun’daruun nodded. He took another step back toward the edge, careful not to disturb the mud and loose stone. He searched Draden’s eyes. “Were our places reversed—would you stop?”

  Draden stared back at Ruun’daruun. He sighed, and motioned his men forward.

  They closed in around him, a legion of lives against his one, and Ruun’daruun heard his grandfather’s voice: The stone of the cliffs buckled beneath his will.

  They came closer. Ruun’daruun lunged, slamming his feet in the mud. He parried one attack, another. “Fall!” he shouted.

  Too late, Draden called for them to get back.

  Under the combined weight of armored soldiers, the rain-soaked mud of the cliffs gave way.

  Ruun’daruun was ready, but there was little he could do. He slid and tumbled and tasted mud. He crashed against rocks and the cliff side and lost hold of his spear. The world spun and shook and weightlessness met hard stone. Water swallowed him, enveloped him with its roar, and he struggled to breathe.

  When he pulled himself from the river, he saw the red stone of the canyon walls around him. The sound of the battle was far away. He saw some Cheduna soldiers lying nearby, others being carried away in the waters. Others still lay buried beneath the crush of mud and rock.

  Sputtering and coughing, Ruun’daruun struggled to his feet but crashed back to the ground as pain blossomed between his shoulders. He rolled and looked up at the armored form of Draden. Red water streamed from him as he loomed over Ruun’daruun, drawing his sword.

  Ruun’daruun rolled as the sword came down. He lashed out with a kick. His bare shin struck Draden’s armored wrist, but through the pain he saw the sword fly from the soldier’s grasp. Draden snarled and caught hold of him, landing blow after blow with a mailed fist. Ruun’daruun felt sharp pain in his nose, his jaw, but he caught Draden’s fist and held him, battering him with kicks. The knight stumbled back into the river, and Ruun’daruun regained his feet.

  The two men crouched, blinking against the downpour, wiping mud and water and blood from their eyes. They circled, looking for openings and weaknesses, charged. Draden was fast, but weighed down by his armor and waterlogged clothes. Ruun’daruun dodged his bearlike swipes and fell to one side, then the other, but the knight’s armor kept him from striking. Draden swung again. Ruun’daruun dodged and leapt on his back, snaking an arm around his neck.

  —

  Draden knew before he fell that it was over. His vision grew narrow and clouded with dark flashes. The water’s roar became a muffled whisper.

  Before unconsciousness drew over him, he thought he felt the downpour stop. The drive to fight dissolved and suddenly seemed unnatural and false. The clouds overhead rolled away far too quickly and he saw the stars wink down on him.

  He wondered if he could stop now and go home. He wondered if the plainsfolk warrior crushing his neck would drown him in the red waters. He wondered if Kara would ever know what happened to him.

  —Twenty-Six—

  When Lasivar’s sword struck, the rain ceased. The wind fell, and overhead the stars began to creep from behind the clouds. No more torches lit the hilltop—only starlight illuminated the bodies and blood. Lasivar lay still where he had been thrown. Halkoriv was dead. Tak’la’s body was where he had fallen. The roar of the rain was replaced by screams of pain.

  Ahi’rea watched as Azra collapsed, crying out, and as he rose and spoke to her. She knew something was not right, but then his voice changed, and his eyes grew wide.
“I am sorry for what I have done.” Then the void took his eyes and he raised his hand.

  She was finally sure why he had come back, why he had called her here. When he meets Sitis, he hopes you will be there… As Azra’s body raised its arm toward her, her eyes blazed and she let her Sight flow.

  A pale glimmer, light and dark entwined, surrounded him, bound him, held him. She caught hold of it, held the sight with her mind. It was larger and greater than Azra, and her eyes watered to try to focus on it. She had the impression of gnashing teeth, of hunger. The power pulsing around him was ancient and foul and wrong, and it had taken him. His eyes, empty and void of all but the hunger, met hers. He approached, hand outstretched, but Ahi’rea did not move.

  The glimmering shades flashed in her Sight. She saw all its lines and connections, the facets and seams. She saw the Spirit binding Azra, consuming him. She tensed her body, waiting as he drew within reach. When he was only paces away, Ahi’rea stepped forward and extended her arm and found the point she sought, the same as the one she had found before, weeks ago, in the plains. It was stronger this time, reinforced, a leyline to the void. This time, it was a part of him.

  She put her hand on Azra’s chest and focused her power as his hand closed around her throat.

  “Hunger!” Sitis roared.

  The grip was death, colder and crueler than the lashing rain. Her concentration faltered, her strength waned. Her heart grew slow and the air was sucked from her breast. Shadow invaded her Sight. She was about to die.

  Without warning, it stopped. The feeling vanished, and her will returned. She did not question the Spirit’s hesitation. All she was, every ounce of her power and hope and desperation flowed through her and she gathered it all into her palm.

  “Ahi’rea.” Azra’s voice was once again his own.

  She opened her eyes, and saw that he was holding a small knife. The hilt was decorated with a symbol of an eagle and the blade was dark. He held the knife out to her with a white-knuckled hand. It was a blade that might have been made for a child. She wondered why he had it.