Storms of Destiny

by A. C. Crispin

  Thia tried to imagine what to do next. Kiss him? She had never kissed anyone, and had little idea how it was done. As she hesitated, he abruptly sat up straight, his hand never releasing her wrist. “Come on, get up,” he said, pulling her to her feet. “We must prepare. The Moon will soon be up.”

  She tried to jerk away, poised to run, but his grip never slackened as he headed for the wagon, towing her behind him like a child. Without releasing his grip, he leaned over the wagon bed, and then she heard the muted clink as he lifted out the lantern.

  He’ll need both hands to light it, she thought, trying to remember where the boulders were that surrounded them. If she could manage to break free, run, lose herself among the rocks …

  But he pulled her over to stand before him, then pinned her body up against the side of the wagon, holding her in place with his own bulk. Thia felt the rough boards press against the small of her back. Varn fumbled with the lantern, and a scraping sound was followed by a yellow flare in the darkness. It flickered, then steadied as the wick caught. As soon as it was safely lit, his hand clamped around her wrist again and he stepped back.

  “Where did I leave that,” he muttered, bending over the wagon bed, holding the lantern high. Thia had been so long in the darkness that her eyes watered when she looked at the light. She thought about grabbing the lantern and smashing it over his head, but he was holding it up, out of her reach.

  “Ah, here.”

  Again he pinned her against the wagon bed, his body heavy and solid against her own. He reached past her, then straightened up, a coil of rope in his hand. Seeing it, Thia tried to dodge sideways, but his knee rose, prisoning her.

  “Hold still, and this will not hurt,” he murmured. Placing the lantern on the seat of the wagon, he looped the rope around her wrist.

  “Sit down,” he said, and when she remained standing, he pushed her down, as he would have pushed a disobedient hound. “Don’t make this difficult, child.”

  Thia caught a glimpse of his face, and was terrified to realize that a shadow of Otherness lay over it. The features were still recognizably Master Varn’s, but it was as though a mask had closed down over them.

  Moving quickly, efficiently, he tied her hands behind her, to opposite sides of the wagon wheel. Then he picked up the bundle of wood, moved far enough away from the wagon to prevent any danger of flying sparks, and arranged it carefully, stacking it so it would burn quick and bright. Reaching into his robes, he took out a pouch, then tossed a handful of powder over the wood.

  He came back to squat on his heels beside her. “Soon …”

  he said, his voice deep and rough, as though it, too, were no longer quite his own. “Soon the Moon will rise.”

  He edged closer to her, his eyes intent on her face, her body. Thia, wild with panic, had to force herself to stay still.

  If I scream, he’ll gag me. Besides, there’s no one to hear. If I kick him, he’ll just tie my feet, too.

  Putting out a hand, he began to stroke her hair, her face.

  “You were so different from the others,” he whispered.

  “Eyes so wide, so bright. You wanted to learn, you thirsted for it.”

  She swallowed dryness. “Master, I want to keep learning.

  Let me go. We can go back to Verang. You can be my teacher again.”

  “I cannot,” he said, his voice full of sadness. “He wants you. Even now, He bids me let Him enter, so He can have you. I must obey.”

  His hand brushed her neck, then gently, hesitantly, he trailed his fingers across her left breast. In the lamplight, she could see that the digits appeared longer, thicker … the skin coarse and very dark …

  The Change! He’s Changing!

  “It is time,” Varn said, his voice harsh with regret. “It will be moonrise in a few minutes. I am sorry, child.”

  Rising to his feet again, he walked back to the fire and began to chant, swaying back and forth, his eyes closed. Thia had heard that same chant before, from many throats, her last night in the twin ziggurats. Desperately, she twisted her wrists, finding that the rope binding her right wrist wasn’t quite as tight.

  She twisted, pulling, almost dislocating her thumb.

  The ropes held. She continued to twist, feeling the pain in her wrist, thinking that perhaps if she could start bleeding, it might help her slide the rope off.

  Master Varn was still chanting, and in between bouts of chanting, he prayed to Boq’urak. “Lord of the World, I am here for you. I am your servant, great Boq’urak. Take me, should that be your will. Take my arm, that the ritual fire may burn.”

  Varn held his right arm up and out, away from his body.

  The sleeve of his robe fell back, and she saw that jagged ridges were erupting from his forearms; the back of his hand was now thick and leathery. Suddenly, talons sprouted from his fingertips. Varn cried out in mingled pain and ecstasy.

  He turned to face the pile of wood and held out his hand.

  Red fire leaped from his talons to land on the wood, and suddenly it blazed up, hot and bright. Billows of sickly sweet smoke filled the air. Thia twisted and fought the ropes, trying to hold her breath, but eventually she had to breathe, and her head swam from the sacred incense.

  The fire, Master Varn himself, the shadowy shapes of the rocks seemed to double, then triple, and she remembered Narda’s drugged ecstasy. For a moment she was tempted to stop fighting, to breathe deeply and allow the drugged smoke to carry her away.

  No! While she lived, she would fight. She began yanking and twisting at the ropes harder than ever. The pain as they cut her flesh helped her resist the fumes.

  Master Varn was chanting again, facing the east. Thia saw that the sky was lighter. Moonrise!

  Her head was swimming and it was hard to remember why she had to keep trying to get free. All she wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep …

  For a moment she must have drifted away, because she woke to feel Master Varn stroking her face. Repulsed, she jerked her head back, then saw he was using his left hand, which was still human flesh. She realized he was only partially Changed. His face was broader, his eyes bigger, and ridges sprouted from his brows. Varn’s skin was grayish and leathery looking.

  But he was still recognizable as her teacher. “Master …”

  she gasped. “Please, let me go. Please don’t kill me!”

  “Thia, my child, my love,” he was gasping, obviously in great distress. “I don’t want to harm you …”

  He slid his left hand over her shoulder, and his fingers fumbled with the laces on her bodice. “I just want to love you, my dear.”

  Can he stop the Change? she wondered. Anything would be better than Boq’urak’s touch. “Master, please, I am yours.

  Not Boq’urak’s. Yours. ”

  Carefully, tenderly, he loosened her bodice and touched her breast. Thia shuddered, half from fear, half because it felt strangely pleasurable … warm, down in her vitals. He continued to stroke her, his breathing growing quick.

  “She is mine,” he muttered hoarsely, sounding as if he were arguing with someone invisible to her. “Mine. It is forbidden, but I am still a man!”

  His hand left her bare breast to travel down her body.

  Grabbing her skirt, he yanked it up to her waist. Thia gasped, but managed to hold still, until he brought his right hand, with those hideous talons, up to tug on her petticoat.

  She whimpered and tried to twist away from the leathery touch on her belly, her thighs. Drawing her knees up, she turned partway onto her side, trying to shield herself from his gaze.

  Varn’s breathing was harsh and rapid now, and he was muttering, half to himself, half to Boq’urak. “Mine, meant to be, I always knew. Master, I am your most faithful servant! Allow me this love, this pleasure. Thia, Thia, my child, my love …”

  As he began touching her again, using his left hand, Thia whispered, “Master, I am yours. Untie me. I am yours! We can go back to Amaran. We can be together there. We can serve B
oq’urak together. Either as priest and priestess, or husband and wife.”

  She was desperate, saying anything to try and get his attention. If only he would untie her, she would run until she dropped and died. Anything would be better than being Boq’urak’s Chosen.

  “Master! Please, just untie me!”

  He shook his head and mumbled, clearly responding to a voice she hadn’t heard, “I have devoted my life … not so much to ask … there are other girls, so many … this one is special to me … Lord, hear me.”

  He used his right hand to push her onto her back, even as the fingers of his left hand forced themselves between her legs, probing. Thia cried out in pain. “Master … please!”

  “Mine!” he muttered. “Mine!” Rising to his feet, he threw off his robes. Beneath them he was clad only in a scant loincloth. Thia saw that his body was partly Changed. Pulsing bulges on his sides made her remember the god’s tentacles.

  And the loincloth moved, changed shape, as though something hideous and living was uncoiling there.

  He knelt back down, and she saw that his face had Changed yet again. The mouth was lipless, and the tongue …

  Varn leaned over to kiss her.

  Thia’s control broke; she snapped at him like a cornered mongrel, then screamed, shrill and loud and long. “No!” she shrieked. “Get away from me! No!”

  Master Varn stretched out his arms, and she saw that they were longer and thicker, rippling with muscle and gleaming with scales. Thia screamed again, screamed until she gasped for breath. Master Varn ignored her. Thia wrenched at her bonds, struggling, whimpering—only to break off in amazement as she heard the drum of racing hoofbeats.

  For a moment she thought she had inhaled the smoke and was hallucinating, or lying in a stupor, dreaming. Then she realized that Varn heard them, too. He got to his feet, head turned to the east.

  Thia gulped air. “Help me! Please!” she shouted. Her throat was so raw, it was hard to make her voice carry.

  Suddenly the firelight was filled with four plunging horses and riders carrying flashing steel. Recognizing Falar, Thia felt a sudden rush of pride as she realized that her friends had come for her. She struggled to raise herself, to cry out and warn them.

  “Jezzil! Don’t give him time to Change!” she shouted.

  “He’s becoming Incarnate! Don’t let him finish!”

  “Over here! Clo, Talis! There she is!” It was Jezzil’s voice, and she saw him, armed for battle, urge Falar forward.

  Varn roared defiance and leaped at them. Jezzil met his rush.

  It was hard to see; the fire’s light wavered and flickered.

  The circle seemed filled with horses and weapons. Varn’s body appeared even larger, and a dull purplish glow emanated from him, unevenly, in patches that seemed to flash, then fade, only to strengthen again. Jezzil swung a terrible blow at Varn’s head, but the blade slid away from the eerie light, leaving the priest unharmed.

  Varn was still Changing. Thia saw the tentacles begin to sprout from his sides. His right arm slammed into Falar’s neck and the mare fell. Quick as a cat, Jezzil was up, and this time his sword slashed at one of the clear patches of skin. The blade connected, and Varn screamed, a shrill, human cry.

  “Clo!” Jezzil shouted. “Avoid that light! Aim for his flesh!”

  Clo steadied her pistol. A loose horse darted between Thia

  and the combatants just as the mercenary fired, so she did not see whether the shot struck home. But Varn staggered and turned away from Jezzil. He headed for the older woman, who, true to her training, had dropped her empty pistol and was reaching for her second one.

  Clo almost made it. Varn reached her just as she raised the pistol, then his taloned hand slammed into her midsection.

  Clo screamed and the gun went off again, the shot going wild. One of the horses shrieked. Clo was lifted and flung, as easily as a child would toss a doll.

  Talis and Jezzil moved in again, their movements smooth and controlled, their blades flashing as they searched for those elusive vulnerable spots.

  As Thia strained to see, her view of the fight was blotted out. Eregard stooped over her. Deliberately looking away from her, he reached out and yanked down her skirt, then pulled her bodice together. Only then did his eyes meet hers.

  “Thia, thank the Goddess you’re not hurt! What is that thing?” Without waiting for her answer, he began sawing at the ropes binding her to the wagon wheel.

  As soon as Thia’s hands were free, she jumped to her feet, yanking on her bodice-lacings. “I’m all right,” she insisted, giving Eregard a push. “Help them!”

  Eregard drew his short sword, then hesitated. Talis and Jezzil were fighting hard, but Varn’s strength was terrifying.

  He was fast, too—as quickly as they could strike at an unshielded area, he would twist to avoid the blow. Half a dozen shallow cuts bled from various parts of his body, but so far they hadn’t even slowed him down.

  Suddenly Jezzil took a step back, then sprang forward, twisting his body in a way that seemed impossible. His feet struck the priest’s midsection, sending the half-Changed creature reeling back. Jezzil dropped lightly to the ground, then sprang again, turning completely over in midair. This time one foot connected with the creature’s head. Varn snarled, lunging at the Chonao. Jezzil danced back, sword flicking out, slashing Varn’s shoulder. He gathered himself to spring again and—disappeared!

  Thia gasped in shock and disbelief. Something struck Varn, sending him staggering back. One huge, taloned hand swept out, raking the air blindly—and suddenly Jezzil was there in his arms, and Varn’s talons buried themselves in his midsection.

  “No!” Thia shouted, trying to grab the sword out of Eregard’s hand. The slave cursed under his breath, shoved her aside and leapt at the priest’s back. Talis was already attacking from the creature’s front, slashing at the arm that held Jezzil.

  Still weak from her ordeal, Thia stumbled back and sat down so hard she saw stars. When her vision cleared, Eregard was in the midst of the fray, his sword biting deep into the priest’s unshielded thigh. Varn roared with pain, then flung Jezzil away. The Chonao crashed against a boulder, then slid down it, to lie unmoving. The priest turned to attack the slave.

  Thia staggered to her feet, looking around her for a weapon. Something! Anything! Her gaze fastened on the lantern, and she seized it. Darting forward, she flung it with all her strength at Varn’s head. It struck one of the purplish patches of light, only to shatter and bounce off, but then flaming oil engulfed his shoulder. Howling, he spun around, beating at the flames running down his arm. For just a moment his eyes met Thia’s, and they were still her Master’s eyes, human, accusing.

  “Now!” yelled Talis, and she and Eregard leaped forward, their swords aiming for the unprotected spots. Varn swung a massive arm at them, then turned and ran. Nobody tried to stop him.

  Thia watched him vanish into the darkness, realizing that the purple patches had faded and that he seemed smaller. He has to concentrate to invoke the Change, she thought. When he was attacked on all sides, he couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t complete the Incarnation. She felt strange— dissociated, as though she were watching it all from someplace outside her own body.

  “Jezzil?” Talis was bent over, gasping for breath. “Clo?”

  Thia shook her head, and the world came rushing back—

  the firelight, the smell of incense and blood. “Jezzil’s here,”

  she called out, stumbling over to the Chonao on legs that shook. She was trembling all over, afraid of what she would find.

  Jezzil lay sprawled beside the boulder he’d struck. He was unconscious, but when Thia cautiously touched his face, she could feel his breath on her fingers. She heard a step behind her, turned to see Talis. “He’s alive,” she said.

  “Clo isn’t,” Talis said heavily, sounding choked with shock and grief. “She’s dead. Dear Goddess, what was that thing?”

  Thia didn’t answer, only watched as
Talis knelt beside Jezzil in the fireshot darkness. “We’re going to have to move him. Get him back to Q’Kal,” she said, running her hands down his arms, then running her fingers through his hair.

  “His leg’s broken,” she said a moment later. “We’ll need to splint it.”

  “Eregard!” she shouted. “Light Clo’s lantern and bring it here! I can’t see!”

  “I’ll see if there’s some wood for splints left in the wagon bed,” Thia said. She went over to the wagon, felt around inside for any sticks that remained. She found several, and brought them back to Talis. “Do you know how to do this?”

  “I’ve never done it,” Talis said grimly, “but I’ve seen it done. If you’re wearing a petticoat, rip it up into strips.” As Eregard approached with the lantern, she held up her hand, and Thia saw that it was dripping scarlet. “But first we’ve got to try and stop this bleeding. There’s a wound in his gut.”

  Thia took the knife Eregard gave her and proceeded to rip up her petticoat. She also cut off the bottom section of her skirt, shortening it until it was barely more than knee-length.

  Her hands grew raw from tearing the tough homespun into strips.

  With Eregard holding the lantern, Talis bound the jagged gash over Jezzil’s abdomen, tying her extra shirt down tightly as a pad, trying to stanch the blood flow. “This is bad,” she said tightly. “If he regains consciousness, he’s going to be hurting. Gut wounds hurt a lot, the soldiers say.”

  Jezzil moaned as she worked, but did not rouse. Thia acted as Talis’s assistant, biting her bottom lip and ordering herself fiercely not to panic. There was so much blood …

  “Now for the leg, while he’s still unconscious,” Talis said, wiping her bloody hands on a piece of cloth. “Hold him, both of you. I don’t want him waking up and thrashing around.”

  They held Jezzil’s shoulders while Talis stood up, braced herself, and gave one steady, strong pull. Jezzil jerked and grunted with pain, and suddenly his leg was straight again.

  Quickly, the Katan woman rigged a splint, then she and Thia bound the leg to it. “We’ll put him in the wagon,” Talis said.