Storm Lord’s Bride

by Alana Serra

  It was a difficult thing to have to aid a dear friend in passing over. Their people formed lifelong bonds with their beasts, and from the time he was old enough to toddle, Rheor remembered being raised around them. His very first Machai was Tiva’s grandsire, in fact, and he felt at least partially as wounded as Loken was at having to do this, not the least of which was felt as he regarded his own mount who remained by her side, steadfast even as his head bowed mournfully.

  “I’m sorry, old friend,” Loken said, reaching the knife below the base of her head.

  His motion was swift as he did what he had to do to prevent Tiva from suffering any longer. Rheor bowed his own head and said a prayer to Kiova to accept the Machai into her home, to allow her to serve as faithfully in death as she had in life. As he finished, a gasp sounded behind him.

  He knew it was the human, but he was still surprised to see her. Fully dressed, as well, and clutching a bow in one hand, her fingers caged tightly around the grip.

  “What happened?” she asked, looking from Tiva to him and not flinching away from either.

  That was a good thing. Impressive for a human. And while he certainly would have been well within his rights to tell her it was none of her concern, he felt Imara had earned the truth.

  “One of my men was attacked by the Svag,” his lip curled into a snarl even as he spoke their name. “They wounded him and killed his beast.”

  “I can see that,” Imara protested, her face paler than he remembered. “But why? Is this another clan you have some kind of rivalry with?”

  Rheor bristled at that. Of course she thought they were all Raknari. He supposed it was an easy mistake for a human to make, but it rankled him just the same. He moved to one of the bodies, nudged it with the toe of his boot, then bent to inspect as he spoke.

  “They are not another clan,” he said sharply. “They are not even Raknari.”

  To his surprise, Imara came closer, until she was standing beside him, looking down at the body he searched for markings, orders, or any other indication of what they were planning.

  “What are they, then? Because to me, that’s exactly what they look like,” she observed, crouching down beside him. “Just… without the runes, I guess.”

  “The runes are what make us who we are.” Rheor knew he should be patient. She wouldn’t have known any better. There was no reason for humans to know of his people, just as there was no reason for the Raknari to know of theirs. “We all possess Kiova’s blessing. It is what gives us the ability to control ice, wind, snow, and other tidings of winter. The Svag were never given this blessing. They shamed Kiova long ago, and she has turned her back on them ever since.”

  “So they’re… jealous of you?” Her face screwed up in a strange way and Rheor could have almost laughed under any other circumstances. “That’s not a reason to attack someone who’s just going about his business.”

  “It is not jealousy,” he said, his expression still dour as he moved to another body. He knew he wouldn’t find anything of use, no evidence to bring back to the other Storm Lords. “They seek our powers, because they grow weaker without access to Kiova’s blessing. Weak enough that many succumb and die.”

  “So they’re always going to be a problem, then.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her stand, her chin lifting just so, arms folding over her chest. There was something about it that struck him dumb. Something almost regal. A quiet power that hummed just beneath her eyes. He could see the resemblance in her now. He wouldn’t have believed she was in any way related to the chieftain who’d so brazenly requested an audience with Kiova’s Chosen, but this woman who looked over the bodies of the fallen with a steely resolve was certainly her father’s daughter.

  And Rheor found himself momentarily dazed. There was something incredibly alluring about this version of her. She stood taller, wore a shrewder cast to her expression, and she looked as though she might be able to face down the most fearsome opponent and come out on top. This was the kind of woman he could be proud to call his. The kind of woman who would make a very fitting Korun, a Lady of Storms. Perhaps even the kind who could accept Roinim, the binding, and would keep a piece of Kiova’s blessing inside of her always.

  Just as quickly as the thoughts came, Rheor dashed them with a violence that was likely unnecessary. A growl ripped through his throat and he hauled the Svag onto his back, ice-tipped fingers tearing clothing away to see if there was anything beneath. “It’s not your concern. I will not allow them to become a problem.”

  “Forgive me for wanting a hand in my own safety,” she muttered, losing that regal bearing the instant she opened her smart mouth.

  “I will protect you,” Rheor snapped back. “You don’t need to worry about anything else.”

  She let out an incredulous little snort that he chose to ignore. To allow her an equal say in this, to teach her how to protect herself and give her the information she needed to feel invested in Raknari society, was foolhardy. She was his to bed and nothing more. She didn’t need to know anything beyond how to adequately take his size and how not to feel ashamed or reserved when he made her scream his name in the middle of the night.

  “Dispose of the bodies,” he called to his men.

  Raknari received proper rites when they were killed in battle, or even when they died of other causes, but Svag did not deserve to be mentioned in the same breath as Rheor’s people. The rites he granted them were customary—something spoken to all living creatures under Kiova’s rule. He would have done the same for an elk he felled for its meat, or a human who wandered too close to the mountain and succumbed to the cold.

  The rest of it, though…

  Rheor watched with dark satisfaction as his men lifted the Svag and threw them unceremoniously over the side of the slope, where there was a small break in the pass. Even Imara had nothing to say to this, and he was glad for it. It gave him time to concentrate on helping Loken lift Tiva’s body onto a makeshift sled, several birch logs lashed together to form a flat surface that could be dragged behind Varuk.

  “We will walk the pass,” he said, fully expecting a whined rebuttal.

  But again Imara surprised him. Not only did she not give one, but her gaze was fixed on Varuk as he allowed himself to be harnessed. There was something heartbreaking about the way he stood, his body rigid but his head held high, as if he was prepared to undertake this last burden for his mate. He would assist in carrying her to the summit of the Frozen Peak, where she would be offered to Kiova as a faithful servant. Rheor knew Varuk understood this. He’d never doubted the intelligence of the Machai.

  Imara seemed to understand it as well, however. There was a slight divot between her brows, one Rheor found himself wanting to smooth over with his thumb. Or his lips. A ridiculous feeling he quickly banished, only to have it return moments later when she spoke.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  The words were directed to Loken and they made Rheor’s chest ache with their sincerity. Loken looked from the tiny human to Rheor, as if asking what had come over her. And indeed, Rheor had always been taught humans were callous creatures who cared little for the natural wonders around them. Especially if those wonders weren’t currently meeting their needs for survival or any other whims they might decide important.

  Rheor just nodded at his friend, and Loken dipped his head in gratitude. “She was a fine friend. She will have a place of honor, always.”

  To Rheor’s surprise, Imara did not stop there. She moved to Tiva’s side, crouched there, seeming so small next to the massive Machai. From her pouch she withdrew something Rheor could barely see. Varuk was growing agitated and he turned to face her, his large head looming over her shoulder, a snuffling sound coming from him as he tried to understand what she held.

  When her palm opened, Rheor saw it was a piece of some kind of plant. A curling strip of bark from a fir tree, perhaps, or a cedar. Something hardy enough to survive the harsh winter. Varuk moved his head ov
er it, a gust of air forced from his nose as he regarded the item. When Imara spoke, it wasn’t to Rheor or Loken, but to Varuk, a beast he knew she’d been fearful of earlier that day.

  “It’s to ensure the spirit can leave the body,” she said softly, gesturing toward Tiva’s mouth. “The bark is placed inside the mouth and it helps to draw it out and send it on its way.”

  A curious belief for a society that followed a god who was unconcerned with the old ways; the natural ways. That custom sounded more like something one of the Tempests would encourage. Rheor could hardly find fault with it, and it seemed Varuk could not, either. Though he huffed and snorted, he eventually drew back and allowed her the space to work, a low sound resonating through his throat.

  Rheor watched as the human carefully opened Tiva’s mouth, mindful of the many gleaming teeth and the long tusks. She placed the shaved bark inside, under the large tongue, and whispered what Rheor believed was another kind of prayer. When it was done, she closed Tiva’s mouth and pressed her palm flat against the beast’s muzzle before she stood once more.

  To his surprise—as well as Imara’s—Varuk nuzzled her, the flat of his head pressing against her shoulder.

  “It’s all I can do, but I hope it helps,” she said with a small smile, reaching out a tentative hand. When Varuk headbutted it, she stroked behind his ears.

  Again Rheor felt those same sensations steal over him. She was kind. Compassionate. Far more than he expected any human to be. She could be more, if only…

  But no. He steeled his expression, barking an order to the rest of the men. She was just a warm body to languish in his bed from time to time. He couldn’t see her as anything more, nor could the other Raknari.

  It was too dangerous. And too painful.

  Chapter 8

  Walking the steep path to the Spine was more than Imara had prepared herself for.

  She felt like some pampered princess as her thighs and calves began to burn, her core protesting soon after as she used it to steady herself when her legs threatened to give out. She’d expected to ride, but only because the precedent had been set early on. It wasn’t like she was unused to walking for hours a day. She’d done it plenty of times when out hunting. But the last time she’d come this close to the Spine she’d been at the foot of it, not strong or confident enough to try and scrabble her way any further up.

  Imara didn’t have a choice now. Her new home was at the top of the mountain and she wasn’t going to be one of those women who whimpered and wailed about the hardships of travel. That was for the ladies in the stories who wore fine silks and had never dirtied their hands. Imara’s mother often said she’d been born with her bare feet touching the forest floor and her tiny fingers wrapped around a bow. She came from tough stock, she and Elora both, and she refused to let a difficult walk get the best of her.

  But there was a big difference between trailing game across the gently sloping hills and effectively climbing the side of the tallest mountain she’d ever seen. The incline grew ever steeper, the air thinner, and the higher they climbed, the more Imara lagged behind. Several hours into it, she was near the back of the group, with the Storm Lord—Rheor, as he’d told her the night previous—walking beside her.

  She’d expected to get an earful about how weak humans were, but outside of snapping at her initially when he thought she was just being childish, Rheor had said nothing of her limitations. When she fell back, he slowed and fell back with her. It was irritating in a way Imara couldn’t place. Probably because it was also somewhat sweet and endearing, two descriptors that definitely didn’t match what she knew of Rheor.

  When she stumbled around mid-afternoon, her legs not wanting to work anymore, he finally did something that justified her irritation. Stopping alongside her—and holding up a hand for his men to stop—he confronted her about her slowness, a smirk on his lips.

  “Shall I carry you? I know your legs are unaccustomed to this journey.”

  “It’s good to know you’re predictable,” she gritted out, practically panting as she doubled over. “I’ll be fine. I don’t need you or anyone else carrying me.”

  “We’ll stop here for a few minutes,” he called to the others. “Rest your mounts.”

  Imara slumped against a snow-covered stone, barely noticing as it bit into her backside, wet and cold. She wasn’t sweating. It was almost impossible to sweat up here. But she felt as though she should be. She also felt as though her lungs were on fire, the too-thin air doing nothing to soothe them as she gulped in breath after breath, hands planted on her knees, head down.

  Rheor didn’t linger, and she was grateful for it. She thought she’d seen something like grudging respect from him early in the day, but he was back to judgment as she knew he would be. She didn’t need it. Imara already felt responsible for the death of an obviously beloved cat, even if rationally she knew it had nothing to do with her. The fact that the Raknari could have made it back to their home already, would never have been here if not for the agreement her father made, was not lost on her, though, and it broke her heart to see the beast who’d obviously cared for the fallen one pulling her heavy, lifeless body without complaint.

  If he could manage that, then Imara could suffer through her own aches and pains, all of which were physical rather than emotional. Never mind the fact that her body seemed primed to give out at any moment. She’d rather push herself beyond those limits than allow the Storm Lord to carry her.

  Even if he wasn’t being the brute she’d assumed him to be. Oh, he was still obnoxious. He still had an arrogance about him, a smug smile on his lips as he handed her a waterskin he’d filled himself from the nearby mountain stream. And she glared daggers at his amused expression when she drank greedily, a moan of pleasure rising within her at the cold, crisp taste of the water. But he wasn’t actively antagonizing her. There was something more subdued about him since the attack that morning. Perhaps even since last night.

  When she’d slept against him, flesh to flesh, able to feel every inch of his body against hers.

  She shivered to think of it now and very nearly rolled her eyes at herself, taking another long drink from the skin. There were far more important things to worry about, like just how she was going to make it to the summit. A few moments to catch her breath certainly helped, but when she looked past the Raknari toward the steep path that lay ahead, a feeling of dread washed over her.

  “Eat this.” In the corner of her vision, she saw Rheor hold something out to her. When she didn’t immediately take it, his hand shook insistently. “Eat. It will help with the mountain sickness.”

  Was that what this feeling was? She’d just assumed the slight queasiness and the inability to breathe were a part of the experience. Tentatively she reached out and took the offering. It looked like some kind of dried root, the skin of it flaking off against her fingers. Bringing it to her nose, she inhaled. It had a strange scent, somewhere between cinnamon and ginger, mixed with another smell she couldn’t identify. It wasn’t unpleasant, it just wasn’t something she’d ever smelled before.

  “What is it?”

  “Just eat it,” Rheor said, an agitated growl to his voice. “I haven’t given you poison.”

  The fact that he felt the need to say that made her suspicious, but her instincts weren’t telling her this was poisonous or even inedible. She put the edge of it into her mouth, some of the flakes scraped off by her teeth. They dissolved almost instantly on her tongue, leaving behind a sharp, tangy taste she wasn’t expecting. Something bitter lingered in her mouth and she decided it was best to just chew and swallow without giving it much thought.

  The root settled heavily in her stomach, so much so that she wondered if it was something humans should be eating, despite her body not warning her against it. Slowly though she began to feel a bit more at ease. The roiling ceased, she breathed a bit easier, and the world was no longer spinning. All told, it was a success.

  She lifted her head to thank Rheor, but he’
d already moved away and was brushing debris out of his mount’s fur, the cat staring into the distance, present in body but not in mind and certainly not in spirit. Again Imara felt that ache of guilt, and when Rheor announced it was time to move again, she was almost grateful for it.

  Until her legs began to fail her again.

  It took an hour into their continued journey, with her truly at the back of the group now and continuing to lag behind. Still Rheor said nothing. He walked beside her, occasionally regarded her with his steely gaze. She could feel his judgment, but she also thought she felt something else from him. Some other emotion that had him stopping when she faltered. Likely just a result of his leadership. It was dangerous for her to fall so far behind. It left everyone open to attack.

  That thought alone made Imara push herself even harder. The path up the mountain was narrow, snow flurries blowing in her face, buffeted about by the biting wind. The tips of her fingers were numb inside her gloves, and she wasn’t sure she even had toes anymore. But she was determined, so she kept her head down and pushed ever onward.

  “You’re going to exhaust yourself,” she heard Rheor say, his voice strangely soft.

  “I’m fine. I can rest when we get there.”

  “At this pace, it will be hours before we even reach the next rest site.”

  Imara’s resolve shattered into a thousand tiny pieces, all of the shards crashing to the ground and scattering about her feet. She looked up, toward what she thought was the summit. But that wasn’t right. There was another peak beyond, shrouded in the clouds. That was the true summit, and it would take at least another day of travel to reach it.

  If she could even make it that far.

  Emotion welled within her. Frustration, anger, hopelessness. Things she had no right feelings. Things she’d pushed down since leaving the village. It all came rushing in and Imara swiped at her eyes in frustration. The last thing she wanted was to give the Storm Lord any more reason to think her weak. She ventured a glance at him. He was watching her carefully, but without the immediate judgment she expected.