The Last Stormlord

by Glenda Larke

  A single tear gathered in the corner of her eye, but didn’t fall. Oh Shale, she thought.

  Then, lifting her chin, I shall come back. I’ll find a way. Somehow I’ll find a way, I swear it.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Scarpen Quarter

  Breccia City

  Kaneth wasn’t happy. Right then, though, he couldn’t have said which irritation in his life worried him the most.

  It might have been the sand-ticks crawling up into his groin or the stones digging into his stomach as he lay at the top of a ridge in the foothills of the Warthago Range. It might have been the way the frost forming on the plants in front of his nose reminded him of the cold eating deep into his bones. Or perhaps the monotonous booming of that sandblighted night-parrot calling from its burrow entrance like a demented dune god. Or the fact that he believed Breccia’s attempts to train sufficient guards for its defence were too few and too late. Or the unsettled feeling he had that someone was out there in the dark in front of him, someone who had no right to be there.

  Or annoyance at his own shortcomings as a rainlord. If Jasper had been with him, he would have identified the unknowns, counted how many pedes and how many people and how far off—and all Kaneth had was a nebulous feeling.

  Or, then again, it might have been memories of saying goodbye to Ryka three days ago, soon after the Gratitudes festival. Her farewell had been formal, polite—and somehow sad.

  Ryka. He didn’t know where to start when he thought of her. It was hard to admit, but he loved her in the idiotic manner of a youth twenty years younger. And she dodged him with the skill of a desert pebblemouse. When he walked into the room, she left. She hadn’t been in his bed for so long he had almost forgotten what she looked like naked. She had even taken to wearing unattractive baggy clothing, as if she was warning him off. Strangely enough, that didn’t help, either; it just made him yearn for her all the more.

  Everything about her puzzled him lately. Several times he had felt she wanted to speak to him, tell him something that mattered, but every time she had backed off at the last moment. Once, she would have insisted on coming with him on a job like this, hunting for Reduners infiltrating the Sweepings to the south of the Warthago. Once, Ryka the scholar had also been Ryka the risk-taker, someone who liked adventure. This time, she had stayed behind to teach the water sensitives they had brought back from the Gibber, to try to turn them into skilled rainlords. Watergiver knew, they needed as many as they could train and as quickly as possible, but most of them were no longer in the city, anyway. They had been spread out over all the other Scarpen cities—except Scarcleft—because Nealrith had been loath to “put all our gems in one jewel box,” as he had put it.

  Kaneth sighed and pushed his thoughts away from Ryka to Davim. His gut feeling told him the sandmaster wanted Jasper. Kaneth just wasn’t sure whether it was to make use of Jasper’s abilities in order to appease other dune tribes—or to kill him, to ensure the return of a Time of Random Rain. One thing Kaneth knew for sure: Davim was not going to stay in Qanatend forever. Granthon might believe the sandmaster would return to the Red Quarter; Kaneth was not so optimistic.

  He felt Pikeman Elmar Waggoner coming up the slope from their camp behind him, so he slid down just below the lip of the ridge and rolled over onto his back. He could see their camp fire below and the occasional outline of one of the other ten guards as they passed in front of the flame.

  “Something to eat, m’lord,” Elmar said, settling down beside him and handing over a packet of food. “You want to get some rest? I can get a couple of the men to relieve you.”

  “No. This job is one for a rainlord. There’s something out there, I feel it. That valley running into the heart of the range is as black as a tunnel at midnight now. None of your men would see a thing.” He unwrapped the packet and peered at the contents. “I can’t even see what I am about to eat.” He took a tentative bite.

  “So what is out there?” Elmar asked, scratching idly at the large scar that marred his face, reminder of a long-ago skirmish.

  “Living water of some kind. Blighted eyes, what is this stuff?” He took another bite. It didn’t pay to be fussy out in the desert. “Something a dung beetle dragged in?”

  Elmar did not even deign to acknowledge the complaint. “Want me to send someone with a message to the city?”

  “No, not yet. It could just be a couple of Scarpen fossickers, after all, and not Reduner warriors riding to battle.”

  “Reckon they can’t get packpedes anywhere over the Warthago except at the Pebblebag Pass, anyway. Those hills are as cut up with gorges and gullies as your granny’s cheeks are with wrinkles.”

  “Elmar, how long has it been since Qanatend fell?”

  “Must be sixty-five, seventy days, I reckon.”

  “And we have the pass blocked up with our men and rainlords on our side, and so do they on their side. We can’t get down to Qanatend, and the Reduners can’t get through to us. So what do you reckon Davim’s been doing all that time?” He didn’t wait for an answer but gave his own. “He’s either riding around the end of the range, through Fourcross Tell—and that’s a long way to take an army without a source of water—or he’s looking for a way through that doesn’t involve Pebblebag Pass. By travelling the length of one of those wrinkles you mentioned, in fact. With access to a water supply right behind him, the Qanatend mother cistern.”

  He ate the rest of the food, without ever identifying its origins. “There’s something alive out there.”

  “A pair of randy horned cats fucking themselves silly?”

  “Elmar, I love the way you regard your rainlord’s water-powers with such respectful awe.”

  Elmar’s teeth gleamed white in his face.

  Kaneth licked his fingers and edged up to the ridge top again. And gasped as the feel of water on the move hit him with the force of a rockslide.

  “Pedeshit!”

  “What is it?” Elmar edged up beside him, peering into the darkness. “I can’t see a bleeding thing.”

  “Neither can I,” Kaneth said, but he slid back down the slope towards the camp in a hurry. “I don’t have to! Elmar, tell the men to get the camp struck and packed as fast as they know how.” He scrambled to his feet and began to run, calling over his shoulder as he went. “The Scarpen has just been invaded. There’s a couple of thousand men riding like a spindevil wind up that valley towards us.” His thought was an even more horrified: And Reduners have pedes that make our hacks look like cripples on crutches.

  When Jasper opened the door to leave Granthon’s study after cloudshifting, Senya was waiting outside. She tilted her head at him as he closed the door firmly. “Your grandfather is too tired to be disturbed,” he said.

  “He’s dying,” she said with a careless shrug, “but it doesn’t matter so much now that you’re here.”

  He stared, disliking her even while his body betrayed him and responded to her physical presence. Like her mother, she was so sunblasted beautiful. Blond curls and full lips, long lashes, nipples outlined by the thin cloth of her tunic, thighs that curved, just so—all saying things his mind didn’t want to hear even as his body did.

  Blighted eyes, how can she do that to me? he pondered. I don’t want to marry her; I’d rather marry Terelle. At least he didn’t flush around Terelle, like a settle boy caught thieving pomegranates, as he was doing right now.

  Senya tilted her head and surveyed him rather as a pede seller might regard a prospective buyer for one of his mounts. Her next words made him wonder if she was reading his thoughts. “My parents want us to marry. They think we would have a good chance of raising stormlord children. I just wanted to tell you that I can’t imagine anything worse.”

  “I probably could,” he said, face expressionless. “But only with a great deal of thought. However, it’s nice to know we do agree on something.” To his amazement, she was taken aback, as if it had never occurred to her that he might not want to marry her. “You didn’
t imagine that I would—” he began, and then stopped. “Oh, you really did, didn’t you? You thought I would want to wed you.”

  “Everyone wants to marry me,” she said.

  “Not this sand-grubber. I may be a dolt from the Gibber, but I’m not so sandcrazy that I would want to marry a bad-tempered spoiled brat, even if she is passably pretty.”

  He realised he’d gone too far when he saw the flash of fire in her eyes, pure hate. She stalked off, anger smouldering in every line of her body, leaving him regretting his words.

  As if I don’t already have enough enemies, he thought. Waterless wells, you’re a fool, Jasper.

  “You do have to marry her,” a voice behind him said.

  He spun around to come face-to-face with Laisa.

  Amused by his startled surprise, she said, “You really should practise keeping part of your senses tuned to your surroundings, you know. People should not be able to sneak up on you.”

  “You were sneaking, Laisa?” he asked, unsmiling.

  She ignored that. “You and Senya will marry. Make no mistake about that. You have no choice. And soon. We need other stormlords born, and a union of you two is our best chance.”

  “She’s too young.”

  “She’s just turned sixteen. Old enough.”

  The only emotion he could feel right then was grief. He turned on his heel, and headed for his room.

  That evening he did not join the Almandine family for dinner. One part of him might have happily bedded Senya, but he found it hard to face her across the table. And the thought that he might have to do that every day of his life appalled him.

  “Wake up! Wake up, my lord!”

  Jasper stirred sleepily. Since he’d been shifting water, he slept so heavily it was hard to wake. It wasn’t until Morion grabbed him by the shoulder and roughly shook him that he roused.

  “Whaddisit?” he muttered, opening a sleepy eye.

  “We’re about to be attacked!”

  That brought him to his feet in an instant. The world beyond his open shutters was alive with noise: indistinct shouts, running footsteps, banging doors. “What’s happening?” he asked.

  “Quick, get dressed.” Morion, his eyes stark with fear, shoved some clothes into his arms. “Those sandgrubbing Reduner bastards are attacking the city. Or they will be by dawn. Lord Kaneth and Elmar rode in a while back. They’ve been riding two straight days with Reduners right on their heels sending ziggers after them.”

  “Are they all right?”

  “Heard they were the only two left. There were twelve of them when they set out.”

  Jasper winced. Ten men dead, just like that?

  He looked down at the tunic and trousers as he tried to absorb the news. “Travelling clothes?” he asked.

  “Highlord Nealrith’s orders for any emergency. Hurry, m’lord.” He flung a pack down on the bed. “This is to take with you. There’s food inside, a change of clothes, tokens, some instructions—”

  Jasper scrambled, the sense of urgency having finally penetrated his senses, even as he protested. “I’m not going anywhere, Morion. How can I leave if we are being attacked? It is my duty to help defend—”

  “That it is not,” a voice interrupted, and Jasper looked up, startled. Kaneth entered, haggard and dirty. There was dust on his clothes, and dried blood. Yet his voice was steady, his gaze cool, his words as pragmatic and as cynical as usual. “If Davim enters this city, my guess is the first person he’ll be asking after is you. And you wouldn’t enjoy the meeting. Your duty, above all else, is to get to a place of safety. If anything happens to you, none of us have a future.” Then his eyes spied the open shutters, and he momentarily lost his calm. “And what the pedepiss are you doing leaving the shutters open? There’ll be thousands of ziggers out there soon!” He dived across the room and slammed them closed.

  “I’m supposedly a stormlord—how can I run away?” Jasper asked.

  “And just how many ziggers can you kill if you can’t draw out their water?” Kaneth asked.

  Jasper flushed and fell silent as he pulled on his trousers.

  “Nealrith just asked me to make sure you know what you have to do. Laisa, Granthon, Ethelva and Senya will be going with you. You’ll head south to the coast and Portennabar. Laisa will be your protection. Her rainlord skills are not too bad. You’re to meet in Granthon’s rooms. I’ll take you there.”

  He grabbed up Jasper’s pack and sword and hustled him out of the door towards the Cloudmaster’s quarters. Jasper was still trying to tie his tunic.

  “Morion said you had a hard time getting back here. What happened?” he asked, running to catch up. Two women servants hurried past in the opposite direction, wide-eyed and worried.

  Kaneth said, “The advance guard were trying to cut us off. They didn’t want us to warn the city. Most of my men were killed. Ziggers. Damn, but I loathe those whining winged bastards!”

  “How much time do we have?”

  Kaneth gave a hollow laugh. “The first of their warriors were on our heels. Maybe half the run of a sandglass behind us. That’s all. Oh, the full army won’t be here until tomorrow, but there’ll be ziggers over the walls any time now. I doubt that everyone will hear the warning in time. I’m not sure we can even get you out before they get here.”

  They halted outside Granthon’s door. It was open and the Cloudmaster’s room was crowded with people. Servants had brought in a litter, and the Cloudmaster was sitting on the edge of it, about to lie down. He was glowering at everybody. Ethelva hovered nearby, her grey hair loose and untidily ruffled. Lord Gold was flicking water onto Granthon’s head, murmuring a prayer at the same time. A couple of armed guards and a manservant stood next to the shuttered windows, silent and watchful.

  Laisa and Senya had just entered, clutching water skins, packs and a lantern. Laisa regarded the scene calmly, her travelling clothes neat and practical, yet flattering; Senya was wide-eyed with a mixture of fright and excitement and looked as if she had dressed in a hurry. She was, as usual, wearing a calf-length skirt and frilly over-blouse. Jasper had never seen her dressed any other way.

  “I’m off to my post on the walls,” Kaneth said quietly to Jasper. “Zigger-killing. You take care, Jasper.” He hesitated, as if he didn’t quite know what to say. Finally, he settled for, “You deserve better than this, but it’s all you’ve got. I’m sorry.”

  The lump in Jasper’s throat was painful. “I know,” he said. “Don’t worry, I know.”

  Kaneth nodded, and then he was gone. Jasper entered the room, just in time to hear Granthon mutter, “A stormlord shouldn’t have to leave his city.”

  “I know, dear,” Ethelva said. “But you have to live for us all to survive. Now lie down, and these good men will carry you down to the pede.”

  “I don’t feel well,” he said.

  “Then lie down,” she repeated.

  Instead, he doubled over. His hands clutched at his upper body and his face contorted. Then, silently, he toppled from the litter onto the floor. Ethelva tried to catch him but wasn’t strong enough to break his fall. She ended up on her knees beside him.

  Jasper stared. Granthon’s eyes were wide open in a sightless gaze.

  Oh waterless damn, he thought, aghast. That can’t have just happened.

  Before anyone reacted, there was a high-pitched whine outside the window. Lord Gold glanced that way, then knelt at the Cloudmaster’s side.

  “Is Grandpa dead?” Senya asked, her eyes large and round.

  “I rather think so,” Laisa said, sounding more exasperated than upset. “And those are ziggers whining at the shutters.”

  “Lady Ethelva, his spirit has left him,” Gold confirmed.

  Ethelva looked at him blankly.

  Jasper remained stunned with horror. The Cloudmaster of the Quartern is dead. Which meant he, Jasper, was now the only stormlord the land had. He pushed away the terror of that. His heart thudded in his chest.

  Later, I’ll think about
it later.

  Laisa moved to touch Ethelva on the shoulder. “We should go,” she said.

  Ethelva looked up at her, not understanding. “Go? And leave him? I cannot do that.”

  “There is nothing you can do here.” Laisa pointed out with calm logic. “He is dead. And he would want you safe in Portennabar.”

  Ethelva, leaning heavily on Lord Gold’s arm, stood up. She said, with heartbreaking dignity, “My husband has just died. I will do my best for his city, and I will attend to the proper disposal of his water. That is my duty. It is yours to protect the next generation, Laisa.” She beckoned to Senya and dropped a kiss on her cheek. “Be the best rainlord you know how to be, my dear.” Then she turned back to Lord Gold. “Can you protect us from the ziggers while we accompany the body downlevel to the House of the Dead? I wish the ceremonies to take place there, as is customary.”

  Laisa shrugged and turned to Jasper. “You ready?”

  He returned her look numbly. “The ziggers?”

  Senya gave him a scornful look. “We don’t have to go out into the street. Don’t you know anything?”

  “Nealrith had all contingencies covered,” Laisa said. “Follow me.”

  “My father has had this planned for ages,” Senya told him smugly as they hurried along the passage. “An escape route we can use if there are ziggers in the city. The waterhall first, then down through a tunnel to the thirtieth level. There’s a secret room there where we can hide until the fighting is over and we’ve won.”

  He blinked, wondering if she could believe that. Won? Could a handful of rainlords and a few hundred guards win against hordes of Reduners with ziggers? And didn’t she even care her grandfather had just died?

  In the waterhall, lit by an extravagance of oil lamps, workmen were constructing a stone wall to block most of the tunnel leading to the mother cistern in the Warthago Range. A hole at the bottom of the barrier allowed water to pour through. The waterhall’s two reeves watched the workers in a worried fashion. Ryka Feldspar was leaning against a wall with her eyes closed. A number of guards lounged about, fidgeting in edgy boredom.