The Stormbringer

by Isabel Cooper

  “Nothing like that,” Darya said. “I’ll admit he scared the hell out of me, but just the regular way.”

  “I was completely unflappable, of course,” Emeth said. “And if I hadn’t been, I’d have been like Darya here. Kat? Don’t move your head, darlin’.”

  “No,” said Katrine. “I barely saw his face.”

  “I knew him,” said Amris, “but because we’d met before. Otherwise, no. It was that which overcame you?”

  “In a way,” Olvir said. “My memory of the event isn’t what I wish. I recall that feeling, and I had been starting, as much as the situation would let me, to try and work it out. I leaned forward to look at him more closely, and I called up Tinival’s power to see truth. I saw blackness, and not only because I was falling unconscious—shattered, shining darkness. Then I did go under.”

  “Had I struck before you did?” Katrine asked. Waiting for an answer, she sipped her tea gingerly.

  “I don’t believe so, Sentinel, no.”

  “Then I suspect it wasn’t my power Thyran sensed,” she said, “and I suspect he wasn’t fond of whatever you did. Could it all have been down to Tinival?”

  “Perhaps,” said Olvir slowly. “He was—is, I suppose—Gizath’s brother. The familiarity would make sense. Tinival’s presence has always felt very different to me. But Gizath’s power is to turn things against themselves, and maybe that would have made a difference.”

  “It might have.” Amris called up his memories of meetings in tents and on battlefields, as well as the occasional session of tactics that had managed to take place within four walls. “None of the knights I fought with mentioned any such thing, nor did their presence affect Thyran so. It may be that the years have caused him certain vulnerabilities or, given your order certain strengths, though I’ll not count on either.”

  “Looks to me,” Emeth said, “like we already know what we can count on. Us, and those things out there.”

  “Can he rebuild that walking abattoir?” Katrine asked.

  They all exchanged glances. Amris was about to hazard a guess when Gerant spoke inside his head, faint and weary. I have no certain way of knowing, he said, but if there’s any left of it, yes. And if there isn’t, I’m almost sure that he can make another.

  * * *

  “That—” Katrine’s voice caught. She cleared her throat and went on. “That stands to reason, I suppose. Gods know he has the raw material.”

  “He does that,” Amris said. He’d paraphrased Gerant with a few words. Now he paced to the doorway of the infirmary and stood looking out, leaning one shoulder against the wooden upright.

  Darya went to him. It was what she could do just then, and it wasn’t much, particularly since his armor covered his back, but she reached up a little and rubbed the back of his neck gently. The muscles were taut cords under her fingers. His skin was still hot and damp. They all needed baths, not to mention about two days of sleep. It didn’t seem like they were going to get any of that on the mortal side of a funeral pyre.

  “I’m sorry for asking, Sentinel,” Olvir said, “but how long until you can repeat what you did just now?”

  “At least a quarter of a day.”

  “And that,” Emeth said, “is if she wants to risk killing herself.”

  “It might not work even then,” said Katrine, eyes shadowed and red. “That was more power than we’ve ever handled, and it only partially destroyed that thing, and then maybe only because Thyran was distracted. He’ll be ready next time.”

  “Yes,” said Amris. “Although it, or he, will likely be weaker against a ground assault than to archers or magic. Iron helps in these matters.” But the words were laborious and he didn’t sound certain. Darya knew why; on the ground, the numbers would still be very much against them, and that didn’t include all of the twistedmen’s special tricks.

  Beyond him, Darya saw a shape approaching from the darkness. It came clearer and resolved into Tebengri, walking slowly and holding a large bowl in both hands. They paused in front of the doorway and nodded respectfully.

  “I apologize for the interruption. We’ve put together a defense against the entrancement—and perhaps against the way the crawling-faces send pain back as well. I know it seems of little account just now.”

  “No,” said Amris. “Just now we need every thread of hope that we can spin.”

  “Then I’m glad to help. There’s enough here for half a dozen. Hallis sent me to find most of you, in fact, while the other mages take care of him and the soldiers at his location.”

  Nicely done, Gerant said. Ask them, though, if it will impede the spell we have.

  “Good news, and thanks,” said Darya, “but Amris and I have a spell on us already. Will that be a problem?”

  “It shouldn’t,” Tebengri replied. “As Gizath’s power is to turn parts of a whole against one another, this anchors you to who you are and what you want.” A slightly devilish smile crossed their lips. “It shouldn’t be obvious either. If you act well, you may be able to lure them in and catch them off-balance.”

  A light that Darya hadn’t seen for too long reappeared in Amris’s storm-gray eyes. He studied the mage for a second, nodding slowly. “So, indeed, we may.”

  Chapter 39

  It was far from a perfect plan, even by the imperfect standards of any plan in a time of war. To begin with, the townsfolk of Oakford were going to be extremely unhappy about the results, even if their forces won the day. Knowing they’d probably be paid for the damages, that not all of them would return in any case—one hasty evacuation was one too many for some—and that a far worse fate awaited them all in any case, Amris still felt a pang, thinking of his father and sisters and what their reaction would have been.

  That none of the Sentinels, nor Tebengri and Gerant, nor even Olvir, objected soothed him a little, but it also said that none of them had come from peasant stock. He wondered what Hallis would say, or the soldiers.

  “Well,” Emeth said, voicing a more tactical objection, “how do we know that even swords at close range will work? You said likely.”

  “We’ll try all we’ve got,” Darya responded before Amris could speak. “Swords, fire, magic… Hell, I’m willing to stand back and throw rocks at the damned thing if that’s what’s left. But we’ve got to figure the thing’s not invulnerable, or we just lie down and let it squash us.”

  “But,” said Olvir, “it might be wise to focus on the twistedmen at first, or when using weapons we know don’t work. The one blessing of that creature is that it’s slow, and it looks as though Thyran must be with it to control it. On the ground, clear of his soldiers, a few warriors could likely keep it on the run—so to speak—and survive.”

  “There’s also Thyran’s magic to consider,” said Amris, as several unpleasant scenes crossed his memory. “He may not be able to use it and control the abattoir at the same time, but I wouldn’t wager on that.”

  “Pardon,” Tebengri said, stopping in front of him. Amris knelt in front of them and lifted his head.

  The mixture in the bowl was cool and gritty, and smelled like ashes from a forge. As Tebengri traced a symbol with it on Amris’s forehead, it seemed to sink into his skin, traveling through his skull and down his spine with a weight that was unnerving but comforting. He felt himself shaped around it, all the more solid for its presence.

  “That,” he said, when Tebengri took the brush away, “is quite a spell, all the more so for its haste.”

  “Thank you, General,” they said. “This magic of Thyran’s… What is it? Can it be defended against?”

  “Yes, or dodged, but it’s difficult in both cases. He can call forth fire from his hands, and when I say ‘fire,’ that’s not quite accurate. It has the speed of flame, but it’s more vicious, and it’s…less wholesome.”

  It consumes from within, said Gerant. It turns all that’s strong and g
ood about you against itself, and you eat yourself alive. Not literally, or not with your mouth at any rate, but in essence. It’s Gizath’s power in its purest form.

  “Great news,” Darya said, and repeated the information. “But we can get out of the way?”

  As you can dodge a bolt of lightning. Magic can protect against it, and so can shields, for that matter, but those defenses will fail more quickly than they would against normal fire, say.

  Amris translated, and added, “But he can only choose one target at a time, or could in my day. That doesn’t mean he’ll be completely vulnerable at such times, mind you. He always had other protections established before he ever rode into a battle.”

  “No disrespect intended,” Olvir said, “but are you sure he’ll follow our lead?”

  “Anger was ever his undoing, and we’ve thwarted his purposes a few times now,” said Amris. “He’ll have been vexed that we were prepared at all, and his wrath tonight will be great. Few have ever thwarted him when he brought that much might to bear.”

  “You have,” said Katrine, “or so all the histories say.”

  “In different forms. I wouldn’t take all the glory of it, but I suppose—” He stopped. Gods knew how many of the histories Thyran had heard, but Amris had been the last face he’d seen before they’d been trapped, and Amris the one to trigger the spell. Before that, Amris’s army had evacuated most of the targets Thyran had wanted in Klaishil, had taken back other cities, and had held Thyran and his forces off the longest of any general.

  Whether Amris deserved the credit or not, Thyran had likely given him the blame.

  “I have faith in Thyran’s anger overwhelming his judgment,” he said to his waiting companions. “But a wise woman once told me that it’s a shame to waste a big shiny target.”

  * * *

  “You’ve got to be joking,” Darya said, almost immediately.

  “Why?” Amris wasn’t testing her, and he wasn’t being smart. His face showed only worry that he’d missed a detail. There was nothing about him just then that showed they even knew each other, other than as two people on the same line in the battle.

  That was the way it should be. Darya tried to respond in kind. “What if he kills you”—she thought she did a decent job of sounding neutral there, though she didn’t look at either him or Emeth before she went on—“and you don’t take him out? You’re the only one who’s fought him before.”

  “So I was. After this, any of you knows as much as I do of meeting him or his forces in battle—particularly now, when we’ve seen the twistedmen in their current forms. I’ve told Hallis and a few others all I remembered of the war, and though, yes, it’s possible that I forgot to mention a detail, I don’t believe there’s enough risk there to balance what I might achieve by focusing Thyran’s attention on me now.”

  None of the others spoke to support or challenge him. Tebengri carried on painting a sigil on Emeth’s forehead. Olvir stood with his hands clasped behind him, waiting to hear more, and Katrine watched Darya with a sympathetic twist of her mouth.

  “I know myself to be an excellent warrior and commander,” Amris went on, “but not magically so, or blessed by the gods. Even if I were, none of us is irreplaceable, not now. Each of you would have told me that yourself, in my place.”

  He’s right, said Gerant, sounding more tired than he had when he’d said Thyran would likely be able to bring the abattoir back. I hate it, but I can’t deny it.

  “Neither can I,” said Darya. “All right.”

  Tebengri moved on to Katrine, and Emeth stood. “You don’t survive this and we get our hands on Thyran, the bastard’s dying by inches,” she said. “But in all honesty, I’d want to see that regardless.”

  “I’d advise otherwise, Sentinel, tempting as it is. Better to make his death quick and certain.” They faced each other in the dim room, two people who’d met only days before, two people of the four who understood love and valor best among all Darya knew. Amris heard the real sentiment behind Emeth’s flippant, angry speech, and nobody could have doubted his sincerity when he added, “But I thank you.”

  None of the others spoke. The room was full of breathing: the snores of those wounded lightly enough to sleep normally, the shallow breaths of those hanging on by will and Letar’s grace. Darya stared into the darkness, blinking hard.

  Amris stepped in front of her and took both of her hands in his. “Darya. Sentinel.”

  For a second, Darya was conscious of the others around them, but then decided that if Amris didn’t give a damn, neither did she. She looked up into his face, as she’d done before she’d said his name back in Klaishil, and tried to smile. “Not like any of us couldn’t have died an hour ago,” she said.

  “Or at many other points in our lives,” he replied quietly.

  “I wish you hadn’t woken up just to get thrown back into it, is all.”

  “The world is as it is.” Amris’s breath stirred her hair. “You told me that. I could wish to have more time in it—with both of you—even in war, but here and now is more than fate affords to many, in the end.”

  “Yeah,” said Darya, and cleared her throat. “There’s that.”

  I saw you again. That has to be worth something. We did the best we could in the time that we had, and I’m glad that it was the three of us, in the end.

  “All three of us,” said Darya, through the thickness in her throat.

  On the cots some distance away, the wounded breathed steadily. A few stirred in their sleep, or moaned with nightmares, and the young woman on duty did what she could. Perspective, Darya told herself, was good.

  I’ll recast the spell on you both now, said Gerant, pulling himself together. That should strengthen it, and combined with the sigils, it may keep the worst of Thyran’s attacks from you. Your resignation does you credit, but there is, after all, a chance you might both survive.

  * * *

  As before, Amris knelt before Darya, one hand in hers and one on the hilt of the sword where Gerant dwelled. Her hand had fit well within his even then, little as he’d known her, and it had been easy to look into her eyes. Now, as the world narrowed to her face and the slim fingers wrapped around his, he went eagerly into that temporary refuge—one familiar not just from lust but from stolen sleep between battles, from trust within them, from the comfort of her quick speech and quicker grasp of circumstances.

  He’d known the weight of a sword forever, but the soul-blade felt better balanced, even upright and in one hand, than any weapon he’d wielded. The emerald was cool beneath his fingers, a balm to the abraded skin there.

  The others gathered around them. It had started with Emeth going to stand by the doorway “because one of us needs to be ready with an explanation,” she’d said. That had put her in the south, with Katrine sitting in the north. Olvir shifting east and Tebengri west had seemed only natural. None of them had spoken of it, but Amris, for years the lover of a mage, had smiled. They had a magic circle this time, one made of their friends. That was no promise of victory, but there was nobility in the moment, and that would suffice.

  Magic grew in the air, humming faint and low. Amris breathed in slowly, watching Darya as she did the same: the depth and brightness of her eyes, the fine, stubborn lines of her face and the rainbow play of light across her scales. He felt the ache in her sword arm, like his own pains but different as her body was different. He caught a glimpse of vision through her reforged eyes, as shapes in the darkness became clearer and took on color.

  Going deeper than before, he felt her anger and her grief, the desire for—and the revelation in—vengeance, far deeper than his own. Amris had learned battle and been glad of his skill, but Darya had been made to take joy in it. Feeling the shadow of that in his heart and gut, he embraced it. She was herself. No other, perhaps, would have been able to free him, nor to make a place for him in the world as it was
.

  Amris squeezed her hand gently and she returned the pressure. Tears sparkled on her eyelashes, mirroring the ones in his own eyes. It was a shame to die, as he thought they still likely would, and give this up, but they’d known it for a few minutes. That would have to be enough.

  Beyond Darya, Katrine was watching them, her face solemn. Amris met her gaze—the spell expanded. It brushed her only lightly, far more so even than it had touched him and Darya the first time, but briefly he knew her flesh working over the last few years, changing her body into what she needed it to be beyond being the gods’ weapon, and her lingering headache in that moment. From her it spread eastward to the keen young strength of Olvir, then south, as Emeth turned.

  Her brow was furrowed and remained so for a second, and the quiet sound halted. Then she gave a very small nod, and the magic flowed over her and on to Tebengri, adding their quiet patience to the mixture. There it slowly faded, becoming an echo in Amris’s ears and a faint perfume, or whatever form the others sensed.

  It’s complete, said Gerant. Utterly unexpected, but complete.

  Nobody but him and Darya seemed to have heard, regardless of the spell. “Thank you,” Amris said, not letting go of Darya’s hands.

  “I’m glad to have helped,” said Emeth, “but what the hell did I just do?”

  “We all agreed to be part of the spell,” Tebengri said, “or at least I had the sensation that my will was necessary. But what that means for it, or us…” They shrugged.

  I wish I had a more definite answer too. This didn’t work when I tried it before—granted, the circumstances were different, but many of the participants were the same. Perhaps I need both of you as an anchor, or perhaps the sigil helped, or… I’ll have to think about it. I perceived many things just then, and I’ll need time to sort them all out.