Paladins of the Storm Lord

by Barbara Ann Wright

  Or maybe not. Nettle hit the ground and whirled, trying to keep them both in sight, but burning pain rolled up her back as the young female buried the half-moon blade between her shoulders.

  Nettle dropped to her knees, and the blade slipped loose with a ripping sound. She swept her leg behind her, knocking the young one prone. She brought her daggers up, trying to ignore the agony across her shoulders, the river of wetness down her back. She caught the male’s spear thrust and heaved him away.

  She rolled backward, crying out as her wound stretched and as she flattened the young one to the ground. Nettle looked deep into the young female’s shocked face before she crossed her daggers over the small neck. With one smooth thrust, Nettle slit her throat, turning it into a golden ruin, and she knew the sight would stay with her for the rest of her days.

  She looked for the male and caught him running toward Pool. “No!”

  He jabbed with his spear, but one of the Anushi’s branches whipped down and caught it. He abandoned it and leapt for Pool with his bare hands. Her unfocused eyes fixed on him, and she snarled as she rammed Shiv’s small knife into his stomach. She towered over him and shouted in his ear, “This is what I think of your right as Shi!”

  Nettle pulled the body away and tossed it into the swamp. The Shi’s scream faded from her mind. She fell to one knee and tried to touch the wound in her back, but she could not reach it. Instead, she looked into the swamp, the chaos of the battle that stuttered under the Shi’s echoing rage. Pool was still alive, but for how long? How long did any of them have?

  A pounding whine carried above the cries of the drushka and the cracking sounds of the moving trees. Nettle looked to the sky. A storm? A flock of birds?

  She felt Pool’s horror and saw through her senses again as drushka fell and fell, the old dropping and dying as if a plague of murderous insects had come among them. Relief mixed with horror as more of them died than were able to flee. The queens’ bark shredded as they fled before the terror wielded by three silver figures and one drushkan one.

  “Sa.” But the blood continued to pour down her back, and Nettle’s sadness and hope gave way to a wall of blackness.

  *

  “Pool?” Cordelia called as she climbed. She still couldn’t believe the tree could move on its own, but she supposed those moving roots had to be good for something. “Pool?”

  “Here.”

  Cordelia climbed toward the exhausted voice. She lifted her visor, scanning the branches and saw Pool and another drushka kneeling over a red-haired body.

  “Nettle.” She meant it to be a cry, but it came out a sob. This was too much. There were too many dead, and just like with Liam, she couldn’t take another one. “Too late. We were too late.”

  “Be at ease, Sa,” Pool said as she rose. “The shawness will save Ashki. Wait.” She caught Cordelia’s shoulders and shook her. “Wait.”

  Cordelia couldn’t stop staring. Reach had already gone to help her people, and Brown and Lea were out in the trees. Cordelia didn’t have anyone else to focus on but that too-still body. She wasn’t even close enough to see if Nettle still breathed.

  Pool slid one hand along the railgun’s shiny surface. “A new gift from your god?”

  “What?” She tore her gaze away from Nettle and looked at the carnage around them, the many who wouldn’t rise again. “I’m sorry about your people.”

  Pool inclined her bloody head. “Thank you for coming to my call.”

  Cordelia felt tears gathering as the rest of her adrenaline left her. She had a brief thought about how she’d get home, but as the shawness helped Nettle up, the thought blew away.

  “Sa.” Her smile was weary, but she was alive.

  Cordelia couldn’t crush her in a hug, not with her armor still powered, but they managed as best they could.

  As they parted, Nettle kissed her deeply. “My ever-loyal Sa.”

  “I couldn’t let you die.”

  When she looked out upon the bodies, Nettle sagged again, and Cordelia kept her upright.

  “I’m sorry,” Cordelia said again. “We didn’t enjoy this.”

  Nettle squeezed her arm, claws grating on the metal. “Queen, it is too much.”

  “Have your comrades climb into the tree,” Pool said. “We must move away from this place.” She bent close to Cordelia’s ear. “Do not feel so sad, Sa. Even the tree that began the world had to fall. We must spread our seeds elsewhere.”

  Cordelia nodded and signaled Brown and Lea, but she had to wonder why Pool didn’t seem as upset as her people. Maybe she thought death the price of freedom, anything to keep her people away from the old drushka. Maybe she didn’t have the luxury of sadness. “We need to get back to Gale. Our fight isn’t finished.”

  She told her story as the tree walked away from the carnage and destruction, leaving the dead to the swamp.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  When Dillon first returned to his rooms in the temple, the bed beckoned. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been up for over twenty-four hours, which meant it had to be a really long time ago. Sometimes on the Atlas, there had been nothing to do but sleep.

  But the last time he’d gone to bed filthy was also beyond memory, and he couldn’t relax past the smell of soot and sweat. There were enough people awake to fetch hot water, who seemed happy to do it no matter how tired they were. That was fucking respect right there. That was how you treated a god.

  It wasn’t until after he dunked his head, scrubbing the grime from his hair, that he saw the bloody poleaxe in the corner. He froze, expecting to see Lessan’s cold, dead fingers wrap around it any moment now.

  But it just sat there, even gorier than before, and he wondered if it had followed him from Paul Ross’s house, if it had continued killing people until returning to him. Who knew how many it had slaughtered in the night?

  Dillon rubbed his eyes, but it stayed put. He muttered, “Dumbass.” Of course it stayed there. Someone had used it as a convenient weapon; that was all. That was probably boggin blood. But how it had gotten to his rooms was a mystery.

  He finished washing, dressed, and then made some inquiries. A troop of paladins had dropped it off, saying it belonged to him, and that they were returning it on Carmichael’s order and that she’d meet him at the market square. Dillon’s chest burned. Someone had intruded on his thoughts before, and he’d thought it was Christian and Marlowe, but maybe it had been some lapdog of Carmichael’s. Unless Carmichael was as tight with the Sun-Moon worshipers as Paul Ross had been.

  He rubbed his forehead as the headache that had followed him all night bloomed again. Where in the holy fuck was Lazlo? It was a mystery he still hadn’t solved, and now he had this to deal with. Carmichael either knew what had happened to Paul Ross, or she suspected and was trying to draw him out. Maybe she was hoping he’d confess because he could discredit her telepathic spy.

  His mind was whirling when he opened his door again, but everything aligned when he saw Lazlo sitting on his bed like a filthy angel come from heaven.

  “Laz, I’m glad you’re alive, buddy. Where the hell have you been?”

  Lazlo closed his eyes and swallowed.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I was hiding from you.”

  Dillon sat beside him and gripped his shoulder. “I’m not angry with you, Laz. You don’t have to worry about that.”

  Lazlo chuckled and rubbed his face where his glasses had once sat. “No, I’m the one that’s angry.”

  Great. “Listen, I’ve got a situation. Can this wait?”

  He didn’t even look annoyed or pissy. Just tired. “I know about Paul Ross.”

  God, who didn’t? Still, should he try for the lie?

  Lazlo gave him a look. “Why did you come back for the poleaxe?”

  “I didn’t. Carmichael sent it to me. She knows, too, or at least she thinks she does.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Dillon.”

  “I know.”

  “At
least tell me it was an accident.”

  “Kind of.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  Dillon smiled. “You don’t usually swear this much.”

  “Don’t play with me!” Lazlo roared as he rushed to his feet. “I’ve had enough!”

  Dillon’s mouth was open, but he couldn’t close it. This wasn’t annoyed Lazlo. This wasn’t even the angry Lazlo from the kidnapping. Dillon didn’t know this enraged man, didn’t quite know how to deal with him. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Laz. It’s done. And I have to do it again, at least once more, or I risk losing my hold here, and without it, we’re fucked.”

  “There are other humans on this world, places we could have gone where we’d just be two more faces in the crowd.”

  “Oh, that’s your plan, is it? Go live the life of a fucking beggar under some other fucking god? What’s next, give up immortality, stop using our powers, as if we could ever go back to just being regular people?” He stood and stepped close, watching Lazlo’s eyes widen, glad he could still provoke some emotion other than anger. Of course, now his own temper was burning bright. “Live together as an old married couple? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “I—”

  Now he was trembling, and Dillon knew that with one final push, he’d ooze forgiveness for any slipup with the mayor and help kill anyone who needed it.

  Before he could think too hard about it, Dillon kissed Lazlo deeply, hoping all his anger translated into passion. He kept his eyes open, waiting to see Lazlo turn into a wet rag, but when Lazlo’s arms came up, they pushed, forcing Dillon to step away.

  Lazlo looked a little breathless. Maybe he was so used to denying himself that he got off on it. He wiped his lips. “That tasted a lot more like desperation than I thought it would.”

  Dillon rocked back on his heels.

  “You’re not going to change except to get worse, are you?”

  Well, shit. “What can I say, Laz?”

  Tears gathered in Lazlo’s eyes as if his fucking sockets were melting, but they didn’t spill over. “You can’t say anything, Dillon. I’m not going to watch you destroy yourself or this town. I’m going to help all the people I can, and then I’m leaving.”

  Life waned. Every second they’d spent together over the last two hundred and fifty years flitted through Dillon’s mind. He’d sooner lose a kidney. “No, Laz. Look, I can fix this. Maybe Carmichael doesn’t have to die.”

  “I’m done.”

  “You can’t be.”

  “I love you,” Lazlo said.

  “I need you!”

  “I know, and that’s not enough anymore.”

  Dillon curled his hands into fists and felt his power gathering inside him.

  Lazlo breathed deep. “Even though I love you, I will shut you down if I have to.” His voice trembled a little, but those tears had vanished. And Dillon was exhausted where Lazlo’s power rejuvenated him constantly. Still, they might be evenly matched.

  Dillon pictured Lazlo dead on the floor and knew he couldn’t do it. “You are my friend, Laz, and I know it’s never been the way you wanted it to be, but—”

  “I accepted that a long time ago, even though I had the occasional fantasy. I would have been happy to be your friend forever if we could have found common ground, but we just can’t.”

  Dillon opened his mouth to repeat that he could change, but he still wanted Carmichael dead. If Lazlo agreed to stay on the condition that she remain alive, Dillon would always be looking for a way around that. It was on the tip of his tongue to order Lazlo out, to say that if he wanted to leave, there was no reason to wait, but he couldn’t do that either. It was all shit.

  “You’ll stay for a bit?” Dillon asked.

  Lazlo sagged. “To help people; then I’m gone. Don’t get your hopes up.”

  But they were already edging up. All he needed was time. Still, he couldn’t push it, not yet. “Get cleaned up. I’ll talk with some people, find out where you can do the most good.”

  Lazlo gave him a suspicious look before he left. That was fine. He could read some of Dillon’s emotions, but not his thoughts. Dillon could set up something with Carmichael and blame it on the boggins. Or he could tell Lazlo she attacked him, maybe cry a bit in Laz’s lap about how hard it was being God. If he had to be a baby for Lazlo to stay, he could play that.

  First things first, he had to figure out just what she was planning. He strode into the hall, half expecting everyone in the temple to be trying to catch some sleep, but quite a few people were buzzing around, maybe from too much adrenaline, maybe trying to find out what had happened to their friends and family.

  When he saw several people streaming toward the exit, he sought out Caroline and found her changing into clean clothes.

  “Where’s everyone going?”

  “Whenever anything big happens in the town, we gather in the market square,” she said. “The mayor will make a speech.”

  Not likely, but now the townsfolk would discover that the mayor was dead. But Carmichael and her poleaxe made sense. She’d meet him in the square with everyone gathering, present her telepathic spy, and tell the Galeans all that she knew.

  He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. He had a telepath standing in front of him who could dispute what she said and claim her pet telepath didn’t know squat. After all, Caroline was the one who’d committed a crime on his order. She wouldn’t want that to get out. But there might be some telepaths who weren’t as loyal, who might corroborate Carmichael’s story.

  Again, so what? Would it be so bad that they knew he wouldn’t be fucked with, that he’d back up his threats with good old-fashioned violence? Maybe a little fear was just what these people needed to keep them in line. He hadn’t wanted it that way, but they were forcing his hand.

  He couldn’t help thinking on Paul Ross’s words, though, about how the whispers would start, the idea that maybe God wasn’t stable, that maybe he shouldn’t be listened to now that he was among them. And if some underground movement started, it would be strengthened by the fact that he would have to make Carmichael answer for such blasphemy when doing so might turn her into a martyr.

  She’d taken the boggin project onto her own shoulders before. What if she told the town that it had been his idea? A telepath could confirm that, too, with a little digging. There were so many dead. The people would be looking for someone to blame.

  Dillon clenched a fist and tried not to punch the wall. He felt his power building and wished he had Carmichael in front of him just as he’d had Paul Ross.

  His thoughts wandered to the poleaxe again. Why let him know any of her plan? Why bait him? He looked to his curled fist. She’d known it would make him angry. They didn’t know each other well, but he’d been picking at her for years. She had to have figured out some of his triggers. She’d just tried to stay away from them in the past. Now she wanted him to come after her in public. She either wanted to make herself into a martyr, or she wanted to see if she could turn the crowd against him fast enough that they’d fight him. Maybe she thought she could whip them into a frenzy with the aid of her telepathic friend who just might be an agent of Christian and Marlowe. And if Lazlo wasn’t beside him calming the crowd, they just might be able to do it.

  Dillon headed for the temple doors, leading Caroline and whispering to her as they went.

  *

  Carmichael hurried through the streets, anxious to begin Plan A. She rehearsed her speech in her mind. She’d tell everyone of Paul’s death and then produce Horace to back up her story. Liam and Shiv already had him there. She’d told them she’d join them soon, but it was best that they weren’t all together just in case something unforeseen happened. That was why she was taking a roundabout, back route to the square. No one would expect it.

  Liam had asked what she was planning, but she’d just told him and his girlfriend to get Horace to the market and mingle with the crowd. They had agreed, still carrying
the little boy, and now Shiv had added a slender sapling to their party. Carmichael had asked where it had come from, and Shiv had said she’d hidden it beyond the palisade, though why she would hide a young tree, Carmichael had no idea. It was a drushkan thing, she supposed. Maybe they randomly carried trees around. Only the ambassador could say for certain, and she was still off gallivanting through the swamp with Ross, Brown, and Lea.

  Carmichael had ordered other paladins to scatter through the crowd. When the Storm Lord came, she wanted backup, even if that backup would be confused when the shit went down. If she couldn’t convince the crowd fast enough, she supposed the Storm Lord might be able to kill her. She’d asked Horace to send her a telepathic message if he sensed the Storm Lord about to use his power, and Horace had agreed. She hoped she’d be fast enough to leap for cover. If not, the armor was insulated, and she hoped it would protect her from a lightning strike, provided it was a glancing blow, though the energy might overload it. In which case, she’d jettison the heavy battery and resort to Plan B. She was a good shot, a quick one.

  The hearing in her left ear went out, replaced by a dull ring. Her blood pressure must be tanking. How long had it been since she’d eaten? As the ringing grew, she thought she should have made time to force something down.

  She slowed, stumbling to a halt, and leaned against a partially collapsed wall. What had the place been before last night? A store, a home? It was impossible to tell anymore. As the ringing continued to build, she looked around, thought to ask someone for help, but the street was deserted. Had it been empty before? Was she late?

  For what? She’d been going…somewhere.

  “How fucking stupid do you think I am?”

  Carmichael turned and saw him. She scratched around in her brain for his name. The Storm Lord. She had to do something about him, but what?

  The woman standing beside him was staring at Carmichael intently. She looked a little worried, but her furrowed brow said she was concentrating, and she wore yafanai robes.

  “Get.” Carmichael licked her lips and straightened. “Get out of…mind.”

  “You’re not the only one who knows a telepath. Made you dead easy to find.” The Storm Lord sauntered closer with his shit-eating grin, and Carmichael felt a spike of something that cut through the bullshit in her head. She could stand a little straighter.