Rise of the Storm

by Carrie Summers

  After a quarter of an hour, the argents had herded a small handful of fighters into the shadow of the Hall of Mages. One of the women was speaking gibberish while another tugged at his hair and pulled a hunk free from his scalp. I winced. I’d hoped the argentmaster’s warning had been exaggerated. But whether they were released now or at the end of another decade of service, their minds would not have accepted the freedom. Later today, the mages would reinstate the argent bond, giving the afflicted men and women some semblance of purpose. They would join the small force of defenders remaining in the Hold.

  For now, though, my concern was with those whose minds remained sound. Across the square, Parveld leaned against the outer wall of the palace. I cast him a quick nod and nearly staggered when the resulting sense of calm infused me. Parveld had mentioned an ability to affect general moods; I hadn’t expected his magic to be so effective.

  When I cleared my throat, an instant silence fell over the square.

  “Protectors,” I said. “I realize you may be disoriented. By my understanding, your memories of the months or years since you took your vows are fragmented and hazy. Is this true?”

  A few nods acknowledged my words.

  “I’m sorry. You have been deceived by the very throne to which you freely pledged your service.”

  A confused murmur traveled the crowd.

  “It’s been a well-kept secret, but the moment a protector takes the oath to defend the Empire, argent magic removes that soldier’s free will. You have been a slave since the ceremony.”

  At the edge of the crowd, one of the soldiers laid a hand on her dagger and stepped toward the cluster of argent mages.

  “It’s not their fault,” I called. “Though the argents worked the magic, the order came from the throne. Please direct your blame toward me. But please consider this also. I’ve freed you today because no one, man or woman, Atal or Prov, should have their freedom of choice stolen.”

  Hundreds of pairs of eyes stared up at me. I couldn’t read their faces, and my heart thudded against my ribs.

  “Never again will I force you to fight,” I said. “But I will ask you to fight today. Steelhold, Jaliss, and the Empire face a grave threat. Our enemy may have access to a poison that kills with just a scratch. Death is not immediate, but it is certain.

  “If we don’t fight now, it is not just soldiers who will risk the toxin. Your families will be attacked in the streets. Those who would use this poison don’t care if you are Atal or Prov, soldier or citizen. They only wish to stoke the fires of hatred in the mistaken hope that this chaos will topple Steelhold.

  “So right now, I’m giving you a choice. You’ve served the throne loyally, and you may return to your homes and families without shame. A clerk is waiting at the Sun Gate to take your information so that a pension can be dispensed from the treasury. However, I’m asking you to fight for me today. We must stop this threat, and I can’t do it without you.”

  Silence settled over the courtyard when I stopped speaking. At the back edge of the ranks of protectors, three soldiers sketched small bows and backed away into the shadows of the nearest alley. I kept my face even and nodded at them. If their hearts weren’t in this fight, I didn’t want them at my side.

  Before me, a man raised his hand. He looked a bit more bewildered than most of the soldiers. Gray streaked his hair; perhaps his longer tenure as a protector made it harder to shake off the effects of the oath.

  “Forgive me, sire,” he said. “But who are you?”

  Storms. I felt like the biggest fool ever to stand on Steelhold’s grounds. Did they not even know I was their Emperor without the argent binding? The argentmaster had assured me that memories would return after the disorientation passed.

  “I know who you are, your eminence,” someone at the rear of the crowd shouted. “You’re that Scion who used to patrol the walls. We must have missed your Ascension.”

  I searched for the voice and nearly winced when I realized it had been Parveld. Didn’t he know the accent he’d used was common in Anisel, not in the Atal families of Jaliss? Fortunately, no one else seemed to have noticed.

  “No, I remember it,” one of the soldiers shouted. “Tovmeil gave his throne to Emperor Kostan. We were there.”

  As the courtyard descended into shouts of realization, I caught the Prime’s eye. She cracked a short whip which I—unfortunately—remembered from the flogging I’d endured shortly before Tovmeil’s arrival. The snap silenced the courtyard.

  “As Emperor Kostan mentioned,” she said, throwing emphasis on my name to remind those soldiers who hadn’t yet recovered their memory, “war is on our doorstep. You can indulge your memories later, but for now, we must know. Who will fight for Atal?”

  At the rear of the crowd, a shout went up. “I!”

  I didn’t want to know whether that had been Parveld. Fortunately, the sentiment quickly caught on, and before I knew it, nearly nine hundred soldiers thumped their fists against their chests in salute.

  “Well,” the Prime said under her breath, “that went better than I hoped. Now we just have to hope they remember how to fight.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Parveld

  On the walls of Steelhold

  DAWN HAD BROKEN over the Atal Empire, gilding the vast grasslands and drawing sharp shadows on the jagged creases of the Icethorns. Standing atop Steelhold’s walls, Parveld watched Kostan’s army assemble on the western road. At this early hour, Steelhold’s spire cast a spear of shadow over the road, drenching the protectors and aurum mages in darkness. Parveld couldn’t help but think that a superstitious person would see an omen in the situation. Superstition or not, the shadow set his nerves tingling. Did that mean he hoped for a certain outcome today? No longer guided by the prophecy that had driven him forward through the centuries, Parveld held no particular allegiance to the Empire’s forces. If anything, his long-ago common birth ought to have made him favor the Provs and Stormshard in the following days. But over the last fortnight, he’d come to respect the young Emperor. Kostan had a good heart, and he was doing his best with a terrible situation.

  Laying palms on the cool stone railing, Parveld smirked. If he was honest with himself, it was something of a relief that his vision hadn’t come to pass. Devastating events still loomed, but Parveld wasn’t their prophet anymore. Now, he was just an ordinary man swept up by terrible tides. Well, mostly ordinary, anyway. He supposed his centuries of life set him apart, as did his command of a few magical techniques that had otherwise faded from the world.

  He sighed. It would be easy to shrug off responsibility, but no matter how he tried it just wasn’t in his nature. He didn’t know what role he might play in the coming events, but he’d never forgive himself if he sat back and watched a cataclysm arrive.

  For today, however, he’d promised Kostan that he’d guide the young woman, Lyrille, out of Steelhold. He was only waiting for her to awake, and then they’d go. For now, he sought the calmness of the aether. With a deep breath of the cool morning air, he closed his eyes and allowed his senses to slip away from the physical realm.

  Sparks flared in his vision, tens of thousands of lights carpeting Jaliss and the grasslands beyond. For the most part, the lifelights of the citizens twinkled with dull discontent, but here and there, he sensed passing moments of happiness. The children of Jaliss, in particular, were the most resilient. Despite the squalor of their fallen-down slums, they glistened with the joy of another day.

  As for the army, the sparks held the emotions he’d expect. Determination mixed with fear. Loyalty and a sense of righteousness. The Stormshard fighters were feeling similar things, no doubt. Parveld had witnessed many wars in his long life, and the emotions rarely changed.

  Finally, Parveld expanded his awareness further, taking in the leagues of grassland and folded terrain of the Icethorns. He nearly staggered with shock when the spark flared in his awareness.

  In the years since he’d le
ft home, only one person had blazed so brightly.

  Savra? he asked as he formed a bond with the spark. Is it really you?

  Parveld?

  She was alive! Parveld’s knees buckled, and he sank to the floor beside the low stone wall.

  Where have you been? What happened? He had so many questions, he didn’t know where to start.

  Her answer came slowly. I… I’m not sure. I was marching with Stormshard out of the Icethorns, but a man named Joran captured me. I’ve been blindfolded for two nights.

  Laying his hand over his mouth, Parveld shook his head. Focusing on her spark, he tried to place her location. Distances in the aether were less straightforward than in the physical realm. But if he wasn’t mistaken, she was moving slowly along the foothills to the west of the city.

  Are you in danger? Are you walking? Already, he was imagining how he could get Lyrille out of the Hold then hurry to Savra’s location.

  Horseback. I’m tied to the saddle. I think he means to kill… Storms, Parveld, the collar. I’m about to lose—

  And with that she was gone again, her spark vanished.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Savra

  Unknown location, a musty gunny sack over her head.

  DIM LIGHT FILLED my surroundings when Joran pulled the scratchy sack off my head. Moments later, the smell of his wine-sodden breath followed—from what I’d been able to gather from within the confines of the sack, he’d been drinking heavily since we’d ridden away from the camp. I recoiled from the smell as, blinking in the gray dark, I strained to make out details. Beneath me, jagged rocks made a jumbled floor. Overhead, a pair of massive stone slabs leaned together at an awkward angle, cracks webbing the once-smooth faces. Around twenty paces away, the entrance to the makeshift cave was a triangle of brilliant light. Glancing over my shoulder, I spied a vertical cliff face cleaved by a dark passage my vision couldn’t penetrate.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” Joran slurred. When he grinned, his teeth glinted in the darkness. Beside him, three more hulking shadows moved about, unpacking supplies. One of the thugs had ridden with us from the mountain encampment where Joran had captured me. The other two had joined the group shortly after Joran had snapped the black-iron collar around my neck, cutting off my spiritism.

  My teeth ground together. If I hadn’t been distracted by Parveld just before the collar had touched my neck, I might have sensed the brief moments when Joran’s aura was exposed. Or maybe he’d taken the trinket from his henchman as extra protection while he made the transfer. In any case, it was too late now. I needed to think about my next steps, not my past failures.

  Unfortunately, my next steps didn’t look very promising. My father’s warning returned to me when I noticed the amount of light Joran and his men blocked. No matter my skill in combat, most men would have the advantage simply due to strength and reach. And with my hands bound behind my back, I had even less hope.

  “You’re probably wondering why I haven’t killed you yet,” Joran said, swaying as he grabbed the wineskin for another deep swallow.

  I shrugged, tongue working at the gag between my lips. For all I knew, Joran had used it to blow his nose. At the thought, bile rose. Vomiting with a gag in my mouth would not be good; I quickly focused on something else. Revenge. Somehow, I’d get out of this.

  “Truth is, I will kill you eventually,” he continued. “But why waste something I might need? That wench, Sirez, would sell her toes to keep you safe.” He shrugged, meaty shoulders blocking more light. “Maybe your precious Emperor would, too.”

  He took another swig of wine. A rock was jabbing the back of my leg. I shifted, but it didn’t help. Near the entrance to the cavern, the other men continued to organize supplies while their boss lolled about and poured more wine down his throat.

  “So as I said,” he mumbled. “I’ll keep you alive for now. Prast!”

  Across the cavern, one of the men—Prast, I assumed—turned a glower on Joran, who didn’t seem to notice the reaction.

  “Feed her,” Joran said. “No need for the gag. Anyone wandering through the chasm will run the other way if she screams.”

  With a grunt of assent, Prast clambered over the rubble and shoved a knife between my skull and the back of the gag. The dull side of the blade didn’t break my scalp, but it still hurt. I clenched my eyes shut as he sawed back and forth. When the gag finally cut, I spat it into my lap, then spat a few more times to try to get rid of the taste.

  The man shoved a waterskin between my lips. I nearly choked as the liquid poured into my mouth, but drank greedily. The water was lukewarm with a hint of soured wine. Compared to the taste of the gag, however, it was like the sweet meltwater that flowed from the glaciers in the Icethorns.

  Finally, unable to keep up with the water flooding my mouth, I did splutter. Prast laughed.

  Capping the waterskin, he picked his way across the floor to the supplies. After clanking and rummaging, he pulled out a hooded lantern and sent sparks from a flint onto the wick. A yellow glow flared, exposing details. I couldn’t help shrinking in upon myself when I looked up. The slabs leaning over us didn’t look very securely balanced.

  Joran chortled, apparently noticing my reaction despite his drunkenness. “A drop the height of a thousand men didn’t shatter them or leave them flat. Not going to crush us now.”

  Understanding arrived in a flash. The flat expanses of stone had recently been part of the Chasm Span. When Joran had mentioned a chasm, he meant the chasm, the deep crevice separating Steelhold’s spire from the Icethorn Mountains. That meant the vertical wall at our back was either the first line of cliffs guarding the mountains or the spire itself.

  I felt a flush of accomplishment for having figured it out, but the sensation quickly faded. What good would knowing my location do now?

  With the lantern lit, the thug rooted through rucksacks until he finally pulled out a packet made from oiled leather. Unfolding the flaps, he sniffed the contents, dipped a grimy finger into some sort of paste, and sucked it clean with a smack.

  “Hmm. Haven’t gone off yet, at least,” he said before moving back toward me.

  With the same saliva-coated finger, he scooped up a pile of what I finally recognized as the mashed turnips the Stormsharder cooks had served the evening I’d been taken. Holding the finger beneath my nose, he grinned.

  I curled my lip, fighting another surge of nausea. I might have managed to suck the food off his finger if I’d been starving, but maybe not. When I turned my head away, the man laughed.

  “Guess she’s not hungry, boss.”

  Joran’s head rolled on his shoulders as he slumped back against a boulder. “Can’t have her starve before we kill her.”

  “Good point. Open up, buttercup,” Prast said, pressing the cold wad of turnips against my mouth. I clamped my lips shut.

  Finally, he just sighed and smeared them on my face. “For when you get hungry later,” he said with a laugh.

  Disgusted, I spat them away, but I couldn’t get the paste off my cheeks. When I craned my neck to try to clean them off on my shoulder, I only toppled to the side. The men seemed to enjoy the show and laughed heartily.

  A sudden darkness at the cavern’s entrance silenced them.

  “Who’s there,” Joran said, hand slapping for the hatchet holstered at his belt.

  “Just me, boss,” a thin voice said.

  “Dumb fool. Announce yourself next time, Warrell,” Joran mumbled as the newcomer scrambled over the jagged rocks to join the group.

  “Sorry, boss,” Warrell said, nodding a greeting to the three thugs. In contrast to the other henchmen, he was slight of build with wiry muscles that spoke of quick reflexes. A brimmed leather cap was pulled low over his brow. In the sunlight, it would have shaded his eyes and provided a small measure of anonymity. But with the lamplight shining from ground level, hard eyes peered out with the intensity of a raptor. Complementing his agile form, a soft leat
her tunic and trousers moved easily with him.

  “Well, how soon until we move?” Joran asked.

  Warrell’s eyes darted to me, but Joran dismissed his concern with a wave of his hand and gust of wine-scented breath. “She won’t be telling anyone, not to worry.”

  With a shrug, the small man continued. “You were gone longer than we expected. There’s much to go over. As you know, the initial ploy worked. Emperor Tovmeil made it easy to rile the Provs when he locked the Hold up tight. We just reminded them how it was the throne’s fault they were homeless and starving. Plus we started a few fires in the parts of Lowtown where they’d spread most easily.”

  I sat up straight. Joran’s allies had started the Lowtown fires that had ravaged the town on the night of Kostan’s Ascension?

  Joran rolled his eyes and waved his hand through the air. “Get to the part I don’t know. After Evrain thought he had the right to summon me.” He glared at me when he spoke the final words.

  “Well, after you left for the Icethorns, I had minor difficulties assuring the Shard they should treat my commands as if they were yours.”

  Joran’s chest puffed. “Can’t suppose I blame them.”

  “Perhaps not. But if we encounter the situation in the future, I need you to formalize my authority.”

  With a clumsy swipe, Joran grabbed a bedroll and shoved it behind his head as a pillow. “Yeah, fine. I’ll tell them.” He snorted. “Maybe I’ll name you as my first minister.”

  Warrell didn’t answer, but rather searched the cavern for something to sit on. After discarding a deflated rucksack, he finally grabbed a cookpot, overturned it, and planted himself upon it. Meanwhile, one of the thugs clambered toward the entrance. Moments later, I heard the unmistakable splattering of a stream of urine against stone. The other two henchmen had taken seats and now watched Warrell and Joran.