Storm Surge

by R. J. Blain

  “I drank water earlier,” he replied wearily.

  “Not enough. Drink more,” the witch ordered. “Otherwise, your Guardians will force you into doing so.”

  Wincing at the thought of Maiten and Varest teaming up, Kalen surrendered with a wordless grumble and a nod.

  With a wave of Crysallis’s hand and a few muttered words, the kindling smoked and caught flame. After nursing the fire, one of the larger chunks of wood caught flame. She said, “See, he can be reasonable. It’s all about making certain he knows he’ll do what you want whether or not he likes the idea.”

  “I might have something that’ll help,” Moritta said, digging through one of her saddlebags. She pulled out a small metal pot and a pouch. “Perhaps drinking something warm might make it less of an ordeal. It wouldn’t hurt any of us, for that matter. It’s a little chilly tonight.”

  “A little?” Snorting his disgust at Kelsh’s weather, Kalen sat as close to the fire as he could. Verishi climbed onto his lap and pressed her cheek to his chest, wrapping her arms around him as she snuggled closer. Once she settled, he draped his arm over her.

  In a matter of moments, she relaxed against him, her thin frame sagging as she fell asleep.

  “If that’s some sort of tea, he’s not going to share with us,” Maiten warned in an amused tone, soft enough to avoid waking the handmaiden.

  “I have more than enough for all of us,” Moritta replied.

  Kalen sat straighter and watched with interest as the woman claimed one of the water skins. “I might if you’re nice to me, Maiten.”

  Laughing softly, Maiten joined him at the fire. “As I thought, you’re shivering.”

  Before Kalen could protest, his Guardian draped a second cloak over his shoulders.

  Grimacing at having been caught despite his efforts to hide how chilly he was, Kalen nodded. At least the little girl sprawled over him warmed him some. “Thank you. I hate this kingdom. It’s too cursed cold here.”

  With a low groan, Varest flopped down beside him. “If this is what it’s like near summer, I don’t want to be here during the winter.”

  After considering which Guardian made the best headrest, Kalen leaned against Varest, careful to avoid disturbing Verishi. “I’d rather not be here at all.”

  “Same,” his foal replied before sighing. “I’m starting to think we need to keep you haltered so you stop wandering off. At least next time, wander off with one of us, please. We’d sleep better at night.”

  Instead of replying, Kalen huffed. Whether it was the fire’s warmth or the close proximity of three of his Guardians, his anxiety faded away as quickly as it formed. With his horse and so many around him, he was as safe as he could be, despite not being able to use his hand.

  ~~*~~

  The wind woke Kalen, its chill piercing through the cloaks piled on top of him. Opening his bleary eyes, he blinked at the smoldering remains of the campfire. While it was mostly dark, the faint glow of predawn penetrated the forest. He didn’t remember sprawling over Varest, but his foal was as sound asleep as Maiten, Crysallis, Verishi and Moritta.

  ~Wake,~ the First demanded, its disapproval as frigid as the gusts cutting through the forest. An old memory of snow settling over trees drove away all of his other thoughts for a long moment.

  “But it’s almost summer,” he mumbled, trying to figure out how to extricate himself from Varest and Verishi without waking them. Maiten would be impossible to escape from without waking; the older Guardian was using Kalen’s right foot as a pillow.

  The First struggled with a concept it didn’t quite understand, searching through Kalen’s memories in search of something. Its presence in Kalen’s head warmed as the creature’s frustration grew. Then, its relief was partnered with triumph. ~Storm!~ The word was once again accompanied with the memories of snow and wind as well as fear and apprehension.

  The emotions were what drove Kalen into kicking Maiten awake. The red-haired Guardian jerked, his hand reaching for his sword. “What? What is it?”

  “There’s a storm coming,” Kalen said, hoping he wasn’t making a mistake in trusting the First.

  “A what?” Maiten blinked at him before rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  ~He’s right,~ Satrin said, his voice surprised. ~I smell snow.~

  “You smell what?” Maiten asked.

  Kalen shuddered. The searing heat of the Rift didn’t allow for snow, and the white-capped peaks of the mountains skirting the Rift couldn’t be seen without traveling far from the regular trails. Neither Danarite nor Rifter had a word for snow or the biting chill required to let it fall.

  ~Snow,~ the Yadesh dutifully repeated. ~Did the cold wake you, Kalen?~

  “What in the deeps is that?” Maiten sat up, rubbing at his arms. “I don’t know about him, but I’m miserable, and if I’m miserable, he’s feeling worse than I am.”

  “Take your cloak back,” Kalen said, nudging Varest awake with his elbow before giving the Danarite handmaiden a gentle shake. Unlike his foal, who complained in deep rumbles punctuated with curses, Verishi woke without a noise, wiggling in her effort to snuggle against him.

  She yawned, and in a quiet whine, she murmured, “Cold.”

  Shaking his head, Maiten got to his feet. After waking both Crysallis and Derac with a nudge of his toe, he went to the horses, giving them a quick brushing down before saddling them. “Keep it. The last thing I need is for you to get sick again.”

  “And the last thing I need is for you to get sick,” Kalen countered, worming his way out of the folds of his Guardian’s cloak. “Please.”

  Maiten surrendered with a sigh, retrieving the cloak after he finished saddling Ferethian. Once both Varest and Verishi were up and moving, Kalen lurched to his feet. His legs wobbled, but he remained upright, waving away the concerned looks of his Guardians.

  Succumbing to the First’s need for haste, Kalen said, “I think we better hurry.”

  “I think you’re right,” the Mithrian mercenary agreed. While she was soft spoken, there was a sharp edge to her tone. “Look there.” She pointed east.

  Kalen followed her gesture. Despite the dawn gloom and the haze over the forest, he could make out patches of the sky. The rising sun hung below a thick bank of black clouds. “Those don’t look friendly,” he muttered.

  Circling Horasian, Maiten reined in, staring at the storm. “It’s moving fast.”

  “At that rate, it’ll reach us within the next few hours, if that.” Moritta’s cheek twitched. “I don’t know how far we are from the camp, but I doubt we’ll make it before it reaches us.”

  “Maybe not on your Mithrian horses,” Kalen muttered. Straightening in the saddle, he turned to Dorit and Satrin. “Feel up for a run?”

  ~A run sounds like a good idea,~ Dorit replied, his ears turning back as he stared at the storm front sweeping towards them. ~How long can your horses last?~

  “Longer than other horses. What do you think, Maiten?”

  His Guardian frowned, making thoughtful noises. “Until we came after you, they were pretty well rested. We didn’t run them too hard yesterday. Two hours if we push hard, but I wouldn’t bet anything more than that.”

  “Two hours at what gait exactly?” Moritta also frowned, her brow furrowing.

  While he wanted to laugh at the Mithrian’s expression, Kalen forced himself to keep his expression and tone neutral. “Not at a trot, I promise you.”

  “I’m not sure it’s wise with your hand as it is, Your Majesty.” Crysallis crossed her arms over her chest, glowering at him.

  “I’d rather have a hurting hand than get caught out away from others when that storm hits. Stop whining, Crysallis. We ride. We ride as fast and as hard as the horses will carry us. You don’t have to like it, but you have to do it.” Since he couldn’t grip the reins, or anything at all, Kalen would have to rely on Ferethian to stay mounted.

  Fortunately for him, there were few horses in the Rift with as
smooth of a gallop as his stallion. Without waiting for approval, he tapped his heels to Ferethian’s sides, letting the tug on his phantom left hand guide him.

  ~~*~~

  The effort of riding without the use of his hand kept Kalen warm. He was relieved that Ferethian couldn’t run full out; Maiten’s Horasian proved to be the slowest of the horses. Had his stallion galloped at his full speed, Kalen doubted he would’ve been able to stay astride, not without being tied to the saddle. By the time he caught a glimpse of smoke coiling towards the darkening sky, all of the horses and Yadesh were lathered. He was fairly certain the lesser beasts from Kelsh or Mithrian would’ve fallen over dead from their reckless pace.

  He wasn’t in much better shape, but he was determined to keep up without betraying the exhaustion weighing him down or admitting that the cold bothered him. The throb of broken bones rattled by the beat of his horse’s hooves was second to the burning stabs of the frosty wind on his skin.

  He suspected that the horses knew. The few times Kalen had attempted to slow Ferethian, the stallion refused to listen. If anything, his cues spurred the stallion into urging the other horses to run faster with snaps of his teeth.

  By the time Kalen could make out the mercenary’s tents situated in a meadow, a thick haze of wood smoke hung in the air, born from bonfires skirting the edge of the camp. At Moritta’s lead, they thundered towards one of the fires as gusts of wind cut across the open grounds. White flakes whipped against Kalen’s face as they skidded to a halt on the fringe of the camp. Startled mercenaries gawked at them.

  As the heat of the bonfire thawed him, his fingers and toes tingled before burning pain stabbed through him. Spitting curses under his breath vehemently enough that Ferethian turned his ears back, Kalen kicked his feet from the stirrups and rotated his ankles and stretched his aching knees until he was certain he could stand unaided. While he could have asked Ferethian to kneel, he managed to slide from the saddle, hissing as his weight hit his toes.

  Before he could try to figure out how to loosen the cinch band of Ferethian’s saddle, Varest unsaddled the stallion, sparing Kalen from sacrificing what remained of his dignity to ask for help. “Cool off, Ferethian,” he said, unable to mask the relief in his voice.

  Ferethian grabbed hold of one of Kalen’s braids and gave it a tug before joining the Yadesh and Rift horses in walking circles around the bonfire. At Moritta’s curt order, several mercenaries came to claim the saddles and bridles from the Guardians.

  “What is this?” Maiten asked, staring at the thick white flakes falling from the sky.

  While the wind hissed outside of the camp, it didn’t reach the bonfire. Kalen cocked his head to the side, trying to figure out why the gusts didn’t reach them.

  “It’s snow, Guardian Maiten,” Moritta said with laughter in her voice. “There’ll be time enough to play in it later. For now, let’s get you all to the healers, especially you, Captain.”

  Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Kalen got as close to the bonfire as he could without lighting himself on fire. “When I’m warm, I’ll move. Why isn’t the wind reaching us?”

  Without the wind, the fire’s warmth washed over him, thawing his fingers and toes and easing the sting in his cheeks. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. The smoky air bit at his lungs, but he resisted the urge to cough. After inhaling the biting cold of the storm, the smoke was a small price to pay.

  “Mages. Captain Silvereye came up with the idea a few years back. It’s really helped, and lets us use bonfires to keep warm. It lowers the risk of storms like this. It’s not perfect, but nothing is. Let’s get you to the healers, sir.”

  “Good idea. Time to get your hand healed properly, Kalen,” Maiten said in a firm tone.

  Kalen glared at his Guardian for ordering him around, but he nodded. If the healers could free him of the splint, he’d be more than willing to go along quietly. “We need to take care of the horses first.”

  “You, you, and you,” Moritta barked, making vague gestures at the watching mercenaries. More than a few Mithrians answered her call, stepping forward. “See to the horses and Yadesh. One of you go tell Captain Silvereye we’ve returned.”

  The men snapped a salute and went to work. One spun on a heel and ran into the camp. Only when Ferethian decided to follow the lead of one of the mercenaries did Kalen relent and let Moritta guide him from the warmth of the bonfire. He muttered curses the entire way. The First echoed his displeasure with wordless grumblings in Kalen’s head.

  In truth, he was too tired to do more than grumble, and unlike during their ride, the others had to slow down to his pace. The healers’ tents were located in the heart of the camp. Moritta held the central tent’s flap open for him, and Kalen ducked within.

  The warmth inside surprised him. He made space to let the others in. Unlike the common tents, the healers’ space was more of a canvas-covered pavilion to allow room for the injured. Two healers, dressed in green coats with thick fur cloaks on top, sat on a cot, their heads ducked together as they talked. Both looked up as Kalen entered.

  With wide eyes, both men jumped up and snapped a salute.

  Kalen wished he could pinch the bridge of his nose. “If I hear a single Captain, sir, or Your Majesty, someone is getting beaten to death with this splint.”

  Someone behind him choked on a laugh.

  “Do not hurt yourself,” Crysallis said. The witch pressed her hand to his back, propelling him forward. “The mage’s working wore off, healers.”

  “That’s an interesting splint, Witch,” the older of the two healers replied, a gray-haired man with dark eyes and wrinkled, leathered skin from long exposure to the sun. Kalen recognized the man’s voice. Parice sounded much younger than he looked.

  “I managed a mild pain block, but it’s not as good as yours. It shouldn’t interfere with your ability to work your magic on him. I’m hesitant to remove it until you’ve finished. He’s pained enough as it is.”

  “Then this should be simple, assuming you haven’t done any more harm to yourself.” Parice sighed, closing the distance between them. Kalen stiffened, watching the Mithrian. He walked in the graceful way of a dancer—or a swordsman accustomed to wasting no energy with unnecessary movement. “Your sight has improved.”

  Kalen nodded. “Blurry, but I can live with that.”

  “Sit and let’s get a look at you. Nirlin, take a look over the others, would you?” Parice gestured to a cot, and with a grumble, Kalen sank down on it, holding out his arm.

  The fluttering feeling of panic built in his chest as Parice took hold of his elbow. With a swallow, Kalen forced himself to draw a deep breath. There was no reason to be anxious. Parice was going to remove the splint. Even knowing that, he struggled with the urge to flinch away and pull his arm out of the man’s grip.

  Parice’s eyes narrowed, but the man said nothing, directing his gaze to Kalen’s hand and wrist. “You were correct; there’s nothing left of the mage’s work beyond some residual magic. An annoyance, but it won’t impact my ability to heal this. It doesn’t look like there’s any new damage at least. This was really well done, Witch—and likely saved him from another few weeks in a cast.”

  While he didn’t like being talked about like he wasn’t there, Kalen was relieved he wasn’t expected to say a word. The thought of another cast left his stomach churning.

  “You’re lucky you still have a hand, Ca—”

  Kalen twisted around to glare at the healer. Parice closed his mouth with a clack of his teeth. “Ahem. You’re fortunate you still have a hand at all. These are the same black marks one of your scouts came back with from Morinvale. What are they?”

  “Taint,” Crysallis answered, sitting on the cot next to Kalen. “He was splashed by the swarm when it passed.”

  “I don’t know if it’s your magic helping, Witch, but I’m actually able to get a feel for what it’s doing to him, unlike with the others. It’s attacking his nerves, so far as I can tell. Do you kno
w if this can this be healed?”

  “You told me it felt numb,” the witch said accusingly.

  “It does. I was being honest.” Anything other than the stabbing throb of the broken bones in his hand would be reason to rejoice. It took Crysallis’s whispered reminder to breathe for him to gather enough strength of will, partially fueled by his embarrassment, to regain some semblance of control over his reactions.

  “Well, that’s something I can easily solve without much effort at all. It shouldn’t even hurt. All I need to do is fuse the bones. The hard work has already been done. More accurately, it hasn’t been undone. An hour’s sleep will do you a lot of good, too, I think.”

  Before Kalen could protest, Parice stole away his pain, and true to the healer’s implied threat, his exhausted body succumbed to its need for rest.

  ~~*~~

  An hour’s worth of sleep wasn’t enough to dispel Kalen’s fatigue, but he didn’t complain, not even when Parice poked and prodded at the stains on his hand. True to the healer’s word, he was freed of the splint. He flexed his fingers to prove he could, earning a grumble from the Mithrian inspecting the black splotches.

  Maiten and Derac had abandoned him to the healer’s mercies, although Moritta hovered nearby. While he still wasn’t certain what he thought of a Mithrian Guardian, he kept his doubts to himself. He’d have to deal with both Breton and Maiten soon enough for their audacity—and hunt down the third new Guardian so his phantom left hand would cease aching.

  “If you keep fidgeting, we’re never going to finish this,” the healer muttered.

  “I thought you didn’t know how to heal it,” Kalen countered, forcing himself to sit still.

  “I don’t right now, but perhaps I can figure out how if you cooperate, sir.”

  Kalen feigned wide-eyed innocence. “But I am cooperating. I’m sitting here very patiently while you poke at me.”

  The corners of the man’s mouth twitched upward. “Do you do anything like a normal person, sir? What I don’t understand is why you aren’t screaming each and every time I touch you. So far as I can tell, these black marks are attacking your nerves. I can’t sense any pain blocks being used.”