The Surah Stormsong Trilogy

by H. D. Gordon

  She slid her sais into the back of her cloak and removed a pint-sized vial from a pocket hidden inside the velvet folds. Surah approached the bird, her boots snapping twigs and crunching pine needles like egg shells, moving slower than she would have liked but unable to help it. She knew her spell was working, but she couldn’t deny the caution that was pulsing in her body. She suddenly understood why everyone except her always tensed when Samson entered the room. The Great Beasts were just so damn big.

  Samson didn’t leave his position over the eagle, but his eyes flicked to her as she approached. His tongue snaked out and ran over the red on his face again. I told you I would take his blood for you, love. I don’t know why you even worry.

  Surah raised an eyebrow at the tiger, glad that her back was to the others, because she could feel the worry creeping onto her face, though she fought to keep expressionless.

  “Looks like he took some blood from you too, Sam,” she replied silently. “You’re hurt.”

  Samson’s eyes went down to her arms, where deep gashes had been cut by the eagle’s talons. Looks like I’m not the only one. Finish this up so that we can go home and lick your wounds.

  Surah smiled as she placed the vial underneath a deep laceration on the bird’s underbelly, pushing her hand into her his warm feathers to make the blood flow faster. The bottle would fill quickly, and that was good, but it also made her feel bad. The eagle was seriously hurt.

  “You mean lick your wounds,” she told Samson.

  He gave what could have been a toothy grin. That too.

  “Princess,” Theo said, making Surah jump a little before she could stop herself, spilling some of the blood in the nearly full vial and stopping a curse just short in her throat. The others had been so quiet she had nearly forgotten they were even there.

  Surah raised her eyebrows at Theo, asking why he was interrupting her, but he was glancing all around cautiously, his sword still held at the ready. “It’s time to go,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.

  Surah heard what was causing the urgency in Theo’s tone just as he spoke, and her head whipped to the south. What she saw there made her heart stop dead in her chest, her eyes going wide as the scene took on a sharp focus.

  A group of five Great Primates were smashing through the trees, barreling toward them like monster trucks. Their huge fists pounded the earth and shook the ground under their feet. Grunts and roars issued from their enormous mouths. Surah capped off the vial with quick hands and shoved it back into the pocket inside her cloak, unaware that her jaw was unhinged.

  “Yeah,” she said, her voice incredibly small beneath the sound of the Beasts thundering toward them. “I’d say so.”

  Noelani and Lyonell were at Surah’s sides, gripping her hands, and Samson moved next to her in the same heartbeat. Theo was tense and ready to leave as soon as she made the move, but Surah spared one more look for the eagle, whose huge golden eyes seemed to be accusing her from their halted position, where its head lay cocked toward her. Her heart hurt a little seeing the bird so badly injured, knowing she did not have time to heal it, knowing she was leaving it in a terrible position with the primates approaching.

  But the decision was clear and easy. The eagle would have to handle its own. Her father was counting on her. Hell, a whole kingdom was counting on her.

  She broke the Holding Spell, releasing the bird, and snapped her fingers, transporting her companions out of the Wildlands just seconds before the group of Beasts reached them, wishing she could have waited long enough to make sure the eagle got away, hoping it would, and thinking it was probably the least of her worries.

  It still sucked, made her feel not very good about herself, but it was the least of worries indeed.

  CHAPTER 24

  The tiger’s rough tongue ran over the cuts on Surah’s arms, making her clench her teeth to bite back a wince. Samson had been literally licking her wounds since she was a child, and though she knew other people would be nervous about having a tiger do this, she wasn’t. She knew Samson would never hurt her, not even if he did like the taste of her blood, which he must.

  She pulled her arm back and stood from her bed. Samson gave her an annoyed look. “Okay,” she said, “I’ve had my bath. Now let me heal you. I have business that needs attending.”

  Samson sat back on his haunches and slid to the floor, licking his paws. I’m perfectly fine. The bird didn’t hurt me.

  Surah coughed into her hand. “Bullshit.”

  He raised his head. You really shouldn’t mumble and curse, dear. It doesn’t become you.

  Surah rolled her eyes. “You sound like the etiquette teachers of my youth. Now, stop your nonsense and hold still.”

  She wrapped her hand around the Stone at her throat and ran her free hand over Samson’s wounds, saying the Healing Spell over and over until the torn skin repaired itself, weaving together slowly like stitch work. The tiger narrowed his eyes to slits and let out low growls as the pain slowly left him.

  When it was done, he rubbed his big soft head against Surah’s side, knocking her over a bit with his weight. Thank you, he said.

  Surah ran her fingers through his fur, performing a spell to clean away some of the blood clumped there. Samson caught her hand in between his massive jaws, but gently, the tips of his long teeth just barely pressing into her skin. She raised an eyebrow at him, and he opened his mouth to release her.

  You have work to do. That’s more than enough fussing over me.

  Surah said nothing for a moment, thinking of the bird she had left so wounded in the jungle, wondering if it had been able to fly away before the gorillas reached it. Samson nudged her with his nose, as if to knock the thoughts away.

  No time for that, he said softly.

  “Do you think it got away?” she asked, cringing at the hope in her voice, as if Samson held the definite answer to this.

  He licked at some leftover blood on his blue and black paw. It put up a hell of a fight.

  Surah released a big breath, nodded. “I suppose it did,” she said, and then she spoke to him silently, her next words too revealing to be spoken aloud.

  “I don’t know what to do, Sam. I’m scared. Not even sure if I should be, but I am. I can’t seem to organize my mind. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing. Things are moving too fast.”

  Samson rose to his feet, his amber eyes watching Surah closely. He leaned in and ran his warm, sandpaper tongue slowly up her cheek. Surah wrapped her arms around his neck and held him tight, burying her face in his warm fur. She was beyond grateful to the universe for allowing her to keep such a great friend. At least it had left her that.

  You know what to do, love. Just one step at a time. Step one, find the Black Stone. Two, save your father. Three, see that whoever is responsible for the murders meets justice. Easy as one-two-three.

  Surah pulled back from him and gave a dry little laugh. She ran a hand though her hair and smoothed out her cloak. “That easy, huh?” she said. “What would I do without your wise guidance?”

  Samson’s lips pulled up in what Surah knew to be his version of a smile. Oh, I don’t know. Maybe get fed to baby eagles at the top of a tree in the jungle. That sounds about right.

  Surah laughed in earnest now. “I love you, Sam,” she said.

  And I you, my love. Now summon the Shaman and let’s take that first step.

  Surah nodded, but had a strong feeling that the first steps had already been taken, and that it was all downhill from here.

  CHAPTER 25

  It took Surah and Bassil three hours to prepare everything. By that time the sun was finally setting on what seemed to her to have been an incredibly long day. She stared out the window in her chambers, beneath which Samson had recalled his position. The lights of the city were just beginning to flicker on out there, the people of her father’s kingdom leaving work and heading home for dinner with their families. Down on Side Street the bands would be striking up and beer would be flowi
ng in the taverns. On the east side of town mothers would be walking their children home from school. Fathers would be kicking off work boots. At times like this Surah couldn’t help but envy these common people, though she understood well that the grass was always greener.

  Bassil eyed her from across the small table where the ingredients to the Tracking Spell were spread out. He tilted his head as he looked at her. Surah’s face was as emotionless as ever. “Ready, Princess?” he asked.

  Surah snapped out of her thoughts and rolled her shoulders, nodding. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head. Even if her face gave nothing away, her heart was thumping. Black Magic was something she didn’t have much familiarity with. Her teachers over the years, which included her brother, had all been unmovable in their positions regarding the Dark Arts. This was the common feeling among most of the people—or at least she so assumed—something that was regarded as taboo, not to mention illegal.

  She reached out and began pouring the various liquids on the small round table into a clay bowl at the center, forcing the thoughts of her brother away gently. Wondering what Syris would think of her actions were he still alive would do her no good right now. Something needed to be done, and she was doing it. There would be plenty of time for contemplations later, like when her father wasn’t slowly dying of demon poisoning and a murderer wasn’t on the loose.

  The mixture in the bowl let off a pungent scent, filling the room with the smells of burned things and wet dogs and spoiled sugar, almost to a choking capacity. Surah breathed shortly through her mouth and held her hands out to Bassil over the table after adding the last ingredient, the stolen eagle’s blood. The Shaman placed his hand in hers and began the spell, chanting low in the tongue of the ancients, his deep voice a rumble in his chest. Surah looked down at the paper beside her and read along with the words, echoing Bassil in her sweet, soft voice, creating a juxtaposition that sounded eerie to her own ears.

  Samson watched from beneath the window, his ears perked and muscles tense.

  Their chanting seemed to carry on into oblivion, and after a while Surah was at the point where she felt like giving up. Nothing but that terrible smell had been produced by the spell thus far, and she was beginning to think she just couldn’t do it. But she carried on a little longer. If this failed, it was back to the drawing board, and she didn’t have time for that. Her father didn’t have time for that.

  In a matter of forty-eight hours the demon poison could be fatal. And that was a highball.

  She shoved the doubt away, as she seemed to have been doing with a whole range of emotions lately, trying her hardest to concentrate on the spell and the words, trying hard to settle the roiling in her soul. Salty sweat rolled down her back, the weight of the cloak somehow heavy there. She ran her tongue out over her lips, feeling sudden tears of frustration threaten. She swallowed them away.

  Then at last, when she was just thinking she couldn’t do this any longer, it happened. Bassil felt it at the same time she did, his large hands tightening around hers to an almost crushing proportion. Surah’s heart went from sinking to galloping like a racehorse out of the gate. She stared into the smoke drifting up from the clay bowl, unaware that she was biting down on her lip hard enough to draw blood. The room was darkly silent now, both of them having stopped the chanting on the same syllable.

  An image began to form in the smoke, the scene moving like an eagle’s eye over the land. Surah swallowed back more tears as the thought reminded her of the bird she had all but left to die. She stared into the smoke and got the feeling of vertigo as the lens passed over the city, where people were walking the streets and store windows were going dark and the neon lights of the taverns were blinking to life. It soared over the buildings, over the alleys and backyards of private homes. Then out further still, over the grassland and forests and small towns and further still and still.

  The Black Stone was in the jungles of the Southlands then, because nothing else was out this far. Surah’s throat went tight as the smoke scene proved her right, and now she felt the perspiration roll down the side of her face as well. The jungles of the Southlands were even more dangerous than the ones to the north where she had obtained the eagle blood. The things that lived there were more monsters than beasts.

  The scene halted over its destination, still high above the green canopy, where only the shadows penetrated. She could only imagine what could be waiting, hiding there. Then the picture vanished and was replaced by numbers, which Surah knew were longitude and latitude. She committed them to memory instantly, letting out a long breath and finally releasing Bassil’s hands. He looked as peaked as she probably did, his dark skin having taken on an ashy tone. Surah could tell by the expression on his face that his stomach was as queasy as hers. Black Magic had a way of doing that to the user.

  But she had what she needed. She knew where she had to go. And time was ticking.

  She stood from her chair and ignored the lightheadedness that rushed over her in a wave, blinking back a few spots that appeared before her eyes. She ran her hands down her cloak, composing herself, clenching her teeth against the complaining of her stomach.

  “Where are you going?” Bassil asked, wiping some sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and settling back in his chair.

  Surah raised an eyebrow at the stupid question.

  Bassil chuckled. “You are not going into the Southland jungle at eleven o’clock at night, especially not if you’re feeling as nauseated as I am.”

  Surah tilted her head, her lips quirked in a small half-smile. She leaned forward, gripping the chair in front of her more for support than effect. Not that she would admit it. “You’re giving me orders now, Shaman?”

  Bassil gave her a droll look. “Oh, no, dear Princess,” he said. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He spread his hands. “Go on and get yourself killed if you like. I’ll do my best to help your father in your stead.”

  Surah got the urge to stomp her foot like a toddler and ignored it. She spoke through her teeth, not really angry with Bassil so much as frustrated and tired and nauseated. “You know I don’t have much time. The Black Stone could be moved and then we would be back at square one. This is imminent.”

  Bassil nodded. “And so is being able to get out of the jungle alive. You really want to walk into that place in the middle of night? Like I said, be my guest. Ignore my council. Gods know you’ve never had trouble doing that.”

  Surah knew he was probably right, that she would need to prepare for this mission, and yes, she needed to rest and probably eat, since she couldn’t remember the last time she’d done so, but that didn’t stop a little impatient anger from spiraling in her belly. You wouldn’t know it from her face, though.

  “Well,” she said, taking a seat on her bed. Samson jumped down from the window sill and hopped on the bed beside her, making her dip to the side. “You don’t have to be such a dick about it.”

  This made them both laugh, relieving some of the tension that seemed to have been brewing in the air for the last couple days. Bassil stood and bowed to her before taking his leave. “Sleep, Princess,” he said, “I will let the Head Hunter know you want to leave at first light.” He checked the pocket watch that hung from a chain inside his cloak. “That’ll give you a little over six hours to rest. I think you should sleep longer, but I know you won’t.”

  Surah looked at him, letting her mask slip for just a moment because she couldn’t help it. “I don’t think I can sleep at all, Bassil,” she said, and hated that her voice sounded small.

  The Shaman gave her a gentle smile and opened the door to leave. “Try, Princess. Just try,” he said. Then the door clicked shut behind him.

  After he left, Surah kicked off her boots and slung her cloak over the chair by the window, crawling into her big bed beside Samson, who took up most of it, and snuggled into his warm fur. She felt very alone right then, as she had for a good portion of her long life, very alone and very tired, but she was right about
not being able to sleep despite her exhaustion. How could she? Things seemed to be getting worse and worse with every passing moment, drifting further up the creek and losing paddles.

  She clenched her jaw and closed her eyes, trying not to think about all the people she had lost over the years, her brother, her sister, her mother. Trying not to think about the possibility of losing her father as well. Trying—and this was somehow the most disturbing of all—not to think about the boy she had given Syra’s Stone to beside the lake that day so long ago, the one that had turned into the mysterious country man, with his stilted words and controlling eyes. Trying not to think about the man named Charlie Redmine. The man with the criminal brother who seemed hell-bent on causing trouble.

  No, she should not be thinking about those things at all.

  CHAPTER 26

  At some point after mid-night sleep finally found her, and she dreamed about that day beside the lake. It was such a vivid dream, so much so that all five senses were immersed, not just sight or sound. She could feel the warm sunshine on her skin, could smell the earth and wildflowers covering the land. The lake shimmered in front of her, where Pixies skimmed over the surface trailing light behind their wings and shooting ripples across the glimmering water. A soft breeze lifted her hair from her face, which was wet and warm with ceaseless tears. The pain she felt was also present in full force, her gut wrenched and her soul aching in sharp agony. Fresh agony.

  It seemed endless. It had to be.

  She was only thirteen years old, and her mother and her sister were dead, and no matter how long Surah lived, they would never be coming back. The thought was too much to bear, one that stabbed a corkscrew in her chest and twisted and twisted. Her hands, covered in gloves of purple velvet, came up and shielded her face, and she pulled her knees up to her chest—her terribly, awfully twisting chest—and she rested her head on them and cried and cried and thought she would never be able to stop, that even if she lived to be ten-thousand, the tears would never stop.