Rise of the Storm

by Carrie Summers

  No one was paying particular attention to me. Twisting my fingers, I reached for the knots securing my wrists. I’d worked at them a few times during the long, stumbling trek out of the mountains. At this point, the knots might as well have been welded shut. But if I could rotate them… Straining, I managed to slide the loops of cord around so the knots were between my wrists and my body. Next, I felt the jumbled stone with my fingertips, searching for a sharp edge of rock similar to the point jabbing the back of my thigh. After a few seconds spent crabbing my fingers over dust-covered rocks and crumbling lichen, I found a likely crystal jutting from a rounded edge of stone and started rubbing the loops of rope back and forth across it.

  “Comfortable?” Joran asked his lackey with a sneer.

  Warrell ignored the gibe. Compared to his boss, he seemed almost even-tempered, a trait that made me wonder why he associated with the likes of Joran.

  Joran picked up a small stone and threw it into the corner where the block from the Chasm Span met the talus beneath. The rock made a sharp crack before clattering down into the jumble. As if amused with his effort, he raised the wineskin in a toast and took another deep swallow. “I believe you were getting on with your story.”

  Warrell cast him a look just short of a glare. “As I said, after I convinced the Shard to follow me in your absence, we regrouped for a few days. The riots and burning in Jaliss were quite spectacular, but we needed to do more than create chaos. Plus, the untimely Ascension forced us to rethink our strategy.”

  Joran snarled. “Stupid to change what we’d already planned. We still have access to the Hold. Easy, right?”

  It seemed that they were planning an attack on Steelhold itself. But as part of Stormshard, why would Joran strike at the Empire alone when the conclave was rallying an army? As soon as I asked myself the question, I knew the answer. Joran didn’t want Stormshard to overthrow the Atal Empire. He wanted to claim the throne himself. For decades, Stormshard had operated as isolated splinter groups, the individual Shards striking small blows against the Empire’s interests. But Joran, no doubt aided by the more clever members of his Shard, had thought he’d found a way to accomplish the penultimate goal of taking the throne. But then, my father and Sirez had crafted a conflicting plan which relied on a united renegade force.

  Joran wasn’t the sort of man to share power when he could take it for himself. When he’d been summoned, he’d likely feared that the conclave would suspect him of plotting at cross-purposes with the group, and so he’d journeyed into the mountains as if his loyalties laid with the conclave.

  Sometime in the march out of the mountains, I’d overheard Sirez and another Shard leader mentioning their surprise at how diminished Joran’s Shard had become. But the real situation was that Joran had brought only a fraction of his forces to the ancient keep.

  Warrell stared at his Shard leader in open disdain, but Joran was too busy digging through a rucksack, likely in search of more wine. The underling knew his leader was an ignorant donkey, but for some reason, he did nothing about it. Perhaps he had secret plans of his own. I kept a careful eye on the man as, behind my back, the rope continued to roll and slide over the crystal. I couldn’t tell if any strands had parted, but it had begun to feel a bit more frayed. I wanted to work faster, but I knew that swift motion would only draw attention. Gritting my teeth, I kept moving my wrists slowly up and down.

  “There were many factors in our recent decisions, few of which are relevant now,” Warrell answered. “But the largest problem was that the bungled assassination attempt put the Hold on alert. Our ordinary method of entry became unavailable.”

  Sucking his teeth, Joran indeed dragged out another wineskin and took a deep swallow. When he burped, the foul scent gusted through the cavern. He yawned and stared at the ceiling.

  Warrell continued as if his boss were listening attentively. “Under the new Emperor, the patrols have altered their routes and tactics. The Provs are less susceptible to our goading than they were under Tovmeil, and it’s taken a large effort on our part to keep their anger stoked. Not only is our access to the Hold keenly guarded—the Prime Protector now has sentinels with a vantage on every cranny—we are simply unable to rile Jaliss hard enough to provoke the direct assault we’d planned as a distraction.”

  Joran took another deep swallow before curling his lip in disgust. “Incompetents. I should have returned earlier.” He burped again.

  Warrell ignored the comment. “I have yet to explain the new plan. It would be useful for you to understand what will happen today.”

  “Yeah, go ahead,” Joran said, rolling his eyes.

  “Given the unsafe conditions in the capital, we established a new base of operations in a small settlement to the west. Pascar, it’s called.”

  “Congratulations. You retreated,” Joran said.

  “We chose a tactical position for our next phase,” Warrell said, finally allowing an edge into his voice. “And made a discovery which will ensure our victory. During a recent quake, a small stream which runs near Pascar shifted course. For unknown reasons, the water is now tainted.”

  “And?”

  “And the effects of this taint are both deadly and irreversible.”

  Joran didn’t seem to understand what his underling was saying. His eyelids drooped as he stared at the far wall of the cavern.

  “It’s a poison unlike any we’ve seen,” Warrell continued. “The perfect bait. We needed Emperor Kostan to understand the threat, so we coated bushels of arrows and distributed them among the Provs. You can imagine the effects.”

  Warrell was speaking faster as Joran began nodding off. I wondered why he even bothered. But even if their so-called leader wasn’t paying attention, the remaining thugs were. As was I.

  “As it stands now, we’ve attracted the Emperor’s attention by loading wagons with the tainted water—we recently let rumors about the source of the poison reach the Hold. It appears to be working. A force is gathering. We expect them to move on Pascar—once there, we’ve arranged a surprise for our young sovereign.”

  At this, the man chuckled. When Joran offered no reaction, he shrugged and continued. “Our normal means of access should once again be unguarded. While Emperor Kostan is off slaughtering Provs a couple hours march from Jaliss—with his flank exposed to Stormshard’s attack no less—we plan to get a small cask of the poison into the kitchens. I hear the chef’s new soup is a favorite among Steelhold’s inhabitants.”

  Warrell paused and waited for a response. Joran replied with a snore.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Kostan

  On the western road leaving Jaliss

  IN THE HISTORIES I’d studied, armies of fifty thousand had once marched over the grasslands. The first Emperor of Atal had left Old Atal with a sea of men and women at his back.

  Now, I advanced on Stormshard’s location with around one thousand soldiers. It was hardly the glorious legion described in the texts. Even so, the ground shook beneath my protectors’ feet as they marched west. A cloud of dust choked the air, clogging my nostrils and clinging to my face. The road was only wide enough for six soldiers to walk abreast, but I’d taken the Prime’s advice and placed three ranks to either side of the roadway, shields facing the grasslands. On the column’s flanks, the aurum mages moved like ghosts, hardly disturbing the tall grasses while flushing any would-be ambushers. The going was slower, as the army was forced to match pace with the protectors walking through thigh-high grass, but we’d be too strung out otherwise.

  We didn’t anticipate an early attack, but I felt the Prime was right to be wary. All night and into the morning, vague unease had tickled the base of my skull. I couldn’t shake the notion that I’d missed something. I’d done what I could to avoid fulfilling the Bracer’s vision—we planned to swing wide around Pascar, avoiding the town despite the added delay. But hadn’t Tovmeil done everything he could to avoid his own murder?

  I rode at t
he center of the column surrounded by men and women who had chosen to fight for me. Wearing the ordinary uniform of a protector, I would be invisible among the ranks, and the central position would give me extra protection. Every soldier in the army knew where I walked, but only a red scarf tied around my wrist made me recognizable.

  The army had been marching for an hour before we emerged from the shadow cast by the Hold’s spire. With the warm rays against my back, I breathed a sigh of relief. It had been too cold in the spire’s shade. Too dark. If I weren’t already threatened by another prophecy, I might even have thought the darkness a grim omen.

  Sunlight on the haze of dust made it harder to see from within the column. I was grateful for my height, at least, because it allowed me to look over the heads of most of the protectors. Of course, an ambusher with a crossbow might also be grateful for my extra height. I was just as thankful for the aurum mages gliding around the perimeter of our small army.

  A plume of dust rose from the road ahead. At the front of the column, soldiers stiffened, slowing their pace while awaiting orders.

  “Halt!” the Prime called to our soldiers as the rider drew near.

  The man was one of ours. When he neared the column, he slowed his mount. The animal’s sides heaved, and froth dripped from the corners of his mouth.

  “Come ahead,” the Prime called. The ranks of soldiers parted to allow him through. Well trained, the man’s horse tossed his head but plodded forward through the crowd.

  “Good news, Prime,” the man said when he drew near.

  At his words, the tension in my chest eased a notch. I didn’t recognize the man, but the Prime apparently did.

  “The wagons?” the Prime asked.

  The man nodded. “We intercepted both loads. The drivers claimed to know nothing about their contents—or rather, they believed they were ferrying casks of ale. We’ve left the wagons under guard and plan to put the drivers to an argent inspection to verify the truth of their words.”

  I dropped my head back and stared at the blue dome overhead. Thank the clear skies. We still had a difficult fight ahead, but at least we wouldn’t face the insurmountable odds I’d feared.

  Ever steely, the Prime simply nodded. But I glimpsed her reaction in her gloved fingers uncurling from their fists. “That is good news indeed,” she said. “Ride on to Jaliss. I’ve left word with the guard detail instructing them to seize any wagon attempting to enter the city. We’ll keep the cautionary measure for now, but they should know the immediate threat is eliminated.”

  “As you say, Prime.” the man said as he nudged his mount forward. The column parted around him and closed ranks once he had passed. Soon enough, the dust plume rose on the road to Jaliss.

  “Onward!” the Prime called.

  The column began to move, returning to march pace much like a heavy wagon lurching to motion under the determined pull of a team of draft horses. I tried to take heart in our early victory, but as we neared the town of Pascar, my stomach once again tightened around the unease that lodged within.

  “Prime,” I said. “We turn aside now.” We’d originally planned to divert from a closer point, but I couldn’t shake my sense of foreboding at seeing the motley collection of buildings. The rise in the center of town was unmistakably the hill from my vision.

  Without questioning my directive, the Prime Protector gave the order, which was shouted up the column. At the head of our force, ten mounted soldiers rode abreast. Tugging the reins, they nudged their horses into the grass and began cutting a path around Pascar.

  When my feet left the road, my nerves began to settle. The smell of crushed grass rose to my nostrils, and the direction of our march allowed the sun to hit one of my cheeks. Already, the day felt brighter.

  We continued for perhaps half an hour until we reached the widest point of our arc, a position directly between Pascar and the Icethorns. There, the Prime Protector called a brief halt. After advancing through the column, she spoke with a scout who quickly mounted up and rode at a gallop for the break in the foothills where Westpass Cut emptied onto the plateau. Good. The scout would be back with information on Stormshard’s position well before we arrived. I nodded in approval. We needed to be as informed as possible before this battle began. The soldiers around me had come by choice. I valued their lives and wished to do everything I could to protect them.

  At the rear of our forces, a few adolescents in training to take their protectors’ oaths pulled waterskins from the supply packs slung over our mules. Winding their way through the forces, they offered drinks to the soldiers. Today’s march was only a few hours, but I needed the soldiers fresh when we arrived. As fresh as they could be, anyway.

  Soon enough, everyone had been given a chance to drink, and those who wished had received a few bites of flatbread—the Prime had counseled against overfull stomachs. Combined with pre-battle nerves, we might otherwise find ourselves waiting while protectors emptied their stomachs into the grass.

  With a shout, the vanguard mounted up again and set a course to intersect the road a short distance beyond Pascar. Around me, protectors muttered small charms, superstitions designed to bring luck in battle. With our destination now in sight, the column simmered with excitement.

  I couldn’t feel the same anticipation. If anything, this battle was a eulogy for my early hopes—and, I supposed, for Savra. But I was determined nonetheless. Pascar would soon be behind us. With good fortune, today would begin my path to rebuild the throne and strengthen the Empire for the challenges to come.

  At the edges of the column, grass swished as the aurums wove back and forth, continuing their search for hidden assailants. Soon enough, the hooves of the leading horses clopped onto the hard-packed dirt and embedded stones of the road. I paused, shaded my eyes, and scanned the cleft where Westpass exited the Icethorns. A risk of our strategy was that Stormshard might arrive at the battlefield first, earning the most advantageous positions. Without the advantage of terrain, we would have a much more difficult fight. But even if forced to meet the enemy at such a disadvantage, I believed the aurums would turn the battle to our favor.

  As I climbed this shallow embankment leading to the road, a shout rose from the rear of the column. Beside me, the Prime whirled, hand slapping her dagger.

  More shouts rose, and from the trailing ranks, supply mules squealed. One reared up, hooves flashing.

  “What’s going on?” I yelled.

  Despite my height, raised shields and drawn swords blocked my view of the rear ranks. My sword hissed as I drew it from the scabbard. Had Stormshard somehow slipped out of the mountains? Had they joined the group inside Pascar?

  “Prime!” someone yelled, shoving through the ranks. “Attackers! It’s—something’s wrong.”

  “Slow down, protector,” the Prime command. “Who is attacking?”

  “It’s the townspeople. They’ve gone mad.”

  The soldier’s words landed like blows to my sternum. It had to be the poison, but how? The people living in Pascar knew that the stream water was tainted, didn’t they? How could they have succumbed?

  “Subdue them,” I called. “Do as little harm as possible.”

  The protector turned frightened eyes to me. “I don’t know how we will manage that, your eminence. They outnumber us three to one or worse. And… there’s no uncertainty in their condition.”

  I could see the unspoken words in his eyes. He feared their weapons were poisoned as well. These men and women knew what they risked when they’d agreed to fight for me, but at the thought of suffering the same fate as the townspeople, they balked.

  “Your eminence,” the Prime said. “It is much more difficult to take a prisoner then create a corpse. If these people are afflicted, you know as well as I that their lives are already forfeit.”

  My head swam yet again. Storms curse the Bracer and its visions. I did not want to fight at Pascar. I did not want to watch Steelhold topple onto the city.
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  “Is there no other choice? No way to contain them?”

  “You are an honorable man,” the Prime Protector said. “I respect that. And if there were any alternative, I would gladly offer it. But if we don’t fight back, our soldiers will die unnecessarily.”

  I gritted my teeth. It was the first time she’d spoken of personal feelings regarding my character. I knew she was loyal, but that allegiance was to the throne, not to the man or woman who sat upon it. Her compliment meant a lot, because it wasn’t directed at her Emperor, but rather at the man behind the title.

  “Do it,” I said. “Make their deaths quick, and be sure to strike only those who are already lost to the corruption.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Savra

  A chamber formed by a collapsed bridge

  I SAT WITH a rigid back, still working the rope binding my wrists against the sharp crystal. Near the front of the cavern, Warrell conferred in low tones with the thugs from Joran’s Shard.

  Stormshard needed to know what Warrell had done to bait Kostan. A distant part of me still hoped the Emperor was innocent of the crimes I’d recently seen—Warrell’s words had even bolstered that faint hope. But I needed to be realistic. Kostan was unlikely to show restraint against the threat, especially with the surprise Warrell had mentioned. The town of Pascar was probably doomed.

  And if those problems weren’t enough, everyone in Steelhold would soon be poisoned.

  I pressed harder on the crystal, tearing at the loops of rope. I didn’t know how I’d proceed if I freed my hands, but I wouldn’t just lie here while people died.

  Joran’s snores echoed off the walls when Warrell ducked out the cavern’s low entrance, motioning the thug, Prast, to follow. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll gather a progress report and return with enough fighters to take the Hold.”