Spirit of the Wind bot-1

by Chris Pierson

  Still, Kurthak hesitated as he considered the possibilities. “I hear your words, Tragor,” he declared, pursing his lips in concentration. “I think, though, that I have a better idea.”

  Kurthak the Black-Gazer scowled fiercely, his face glowing orange in the firelight. He stood upon a tall, jagged boulder, looking down at the six officers whose prisoners had escaped. All around him the ogres of his war band shifted and leaned closer, muttering to one another. The flames of great bonfires licked upward, as if seeking to ignite the starry sky.

  Though they were fewer than three leagues from the Kenderwood, the land could not have been more different. The ground was parched and rocky, unsuitable for farming-or even herding-and great shelves of rock jutted from the barren hillsides. There was not a single tree to be seen, though clumps of razorleaf bushes clung stubbornly to the loose, sandy soil. Scorpions and snakes scuttled and slithered around them.

  The officers who knelt before Kurthak were tightly bound, strong thongs of leather securing their arms and legs. Stripped of armor, helm, and shield, they kept their gaze resolutely on the ground before them. None met the warlord’s fierce, one-eyed glare, though at times they did twist and crane to look over their shoulders. Tragor paced behind them, moving from one end of the row to the other. His hands twisted eagerly about the hilt of his sword.

  “You have failed me,” Kurthak stated. “I do not brook failure.”

  “But,” protested one of the officers, a fat ogre named Prakun, “my lord-”

  “Silence!” thundered Kurthak. “There can be no excuses!”

  Tragor moved quickly. His two-handed blade flashed in the firelight, cleaving flesh and bone. The ogre to Prakun’s right fell heavily against the fat officer, dark blood welling from the stump of its neck. Its head rolled in the dust, its eyes staring sightlessly at the pale moon.

  Prakun cried out in terror, shoving the corpse away from him. A sharp stench filled the air as the ground beneath his knees grew dark and damp.

  “Lord Ruog will ask for your heads,” Kurthak continued, gesturing at the prize that lay pop-eyed before him. “I will give him what he wants.”

  Tragor’s sword whistled through the air a second time. The ogre to Prakun’s left drew a sharp breath, but before it could cry out its head came free, flying forward to crack against Kurthak’s boulder and tumble to the ground. The new corpse stayed stubbornly upright for a moment, then swayed like a drunk and sagged to the ground. Prakun’s face was livid with fear, gleaming white in the firelight. The other officers hunched their shoulders, cowering, as Tragor continued to pace behind them. Blood dripped from the champion’s sword, making black stains on the stony ground.

  “But,” Kurthak concluded, “I am not unmerciful.”

  Again the sword flashed. Sensing what was coming, Prakun threw himself forward, landing face-first in the dirt. Tragor’s swing went wide, and the champion struggled to keep the force of the unexpectedly unhindered blow from pulling him off his feet. Prakun rolled back and forth, blubbering pitifully, but could not otherwise move. Snarling, Tragor stepped forward and brought his heel down hard on the small of the weeping ogre’s back. Prakun screamed as his spine snapped, but his cries were short-lived. Tragor drove his sword downward. It took two mighty blows to cleave through Prakun’s thick neck.

  Kurthak glowered down at the three remaining officers, who trembled as they, in turn, regarded Prakun’s unmoving corpse. He smiled, his teeth gleaming sickly yellow in the shadows.

  “The rest of you can go,” he said.

  There was a moment of shocked silence as the assembled ogres looked at one another incredulously. When Tragor stepped forward and cut the remaining officers’ bonds, however, the onlookers’ disbelief quickly gave way to outrage. Fists waved in the air, and angry oaths rang out in the night. Many of the ogres had come to witness their warlord’s judgment, simply for the chance to see blood spilled; denied the slaughter they had expected, they quickly became furious.

  “Silence!” barked Tragor, brandishing his sword in the air. “Be still, or you’ll taste what you crave!”

  Reluctantly, the throng settled down. Angry eyes turned toward the boulder where the Black-Gazer stood.

  Kurthak smiled, his eyes glinting, and gestured at the stunned officers who still knelt before him. They were staring at each other in amazement and dread, not understanding what was going on.

  “You three,” Kurthak declared, “shall receive no punishment for your failure. You shall continue to serve me, just as you did before, and none here shall be allowed to harm you. But fail me again, and I will make sure you wish you had died tonight.”

  “Y-yes, my lord,” one of the officers said in a small voice. The other two simply stared, their mouths hanging slightly open.

  Kurthak folded his arms across his broad chest. “Go, then,” he growled. “Return to your warriors at once.”

  The officers quickly scrambled to their feet, their faces deathly pale, and hurried away. The onlooking ogres tarried a moment, then began to disperse, shambling away into the gloom. They muttered to one another as they went, pondering their lord’s judgment.

  Tragor remained, wiping his sword’s blood-caked blade with a tattered skin. He did not look at Kurthak as the warlord climbed down from his boulder.

  “You have not asked me yet,” Kurthak said, “why I do this.”

  For a long moment, Tragor silently continued to clean his weapon. Then he nodded and looked at Kurthak through narrow eyes. “I know you, my lord,” he said. “You’ll tell me, if you wish me to know.” He returned to polishing the blade.

  “I will explain,” Kurthak said. He leaned back against the rock face, eyes glittering with reflected starlight. “What do you think those three will be thinking the next time we attack the kender? I have killed their comrades before their eyes, and threatened to do the same to them if they displease me. They will fight harder now that they fear my wrath.”

  Tragor considered this. “What if they don’t?” he asked. “What if this… mercy makes them soft?”

  “It will not,” Kurthak asserted. He lifted his chin confidently.

  “Maybe not,” Tragor allowed, not fully convinced. “But what if-”

  Suddenly he stopped speaking, sniffing the air. A new smell had risen amid the other stenches that hung about them. There was a strange sweetness to it, marking it as different from the sour odor of ogre sweat.

  “Kender?” Kurthak asked, scenting it too.

  Tragor sniffed again, then shook his head. “Human.”

  “Human!” Kurthak exclaimed. He glanced at the shadows, even more alert than before. “How close?”

  “Close enough,” said a voice.

  Tragor whirled, his sword coming up reflexively. Kurthak reached for his spiked club. The two of them watched the edges of the firelight, nostrils flared as they tried to pinpoint the voice’s source.

  “You will not need your weapons,” the voice continued. It was soft and sibilant, low but not deep. A woman’s voice. “I have not come to do you ill.”

  “Show yourself, then,” Tragor demanded, not lowering his sword.

  Soft, mocking laughter filled the air, making the ogres’ skin prickle. “Very well,” the voice said.

  She was closer than Kurthak and Tragor expected, stepping out of the gloom fewer than twenty paces away. She wore a deep, black cloak, its hood pulled up to obscure her face. She strode forward, opening her black-gloved hands to show that they were empty.

  “Stop,” Tragor said, brandishing his sword and moving to bar the woman’s path.

  She ignored him, continuing to walk toward the two ogres.

  “I said, stop!” Tragor repeated, his voice rising with fury. The broad, gleaming blade wavered in his hands “Come no closer, or-”

  “Call off this yapping dog, Black-Gazer,” the woman interrupted, her voice laden with frost. “I would speak with you, and will come as close as I like to do it.”

  “Impudent wretch!” Trag
or barked. He leapt forward, swinging his sword in a blow meant to split the robed woman in two, across the shoulders.

  She moved with amazing speed, diving and rolling under Tragor’s flashing blade. Before the champion could arrest the blow, she leapt at him, her fists swinging.

  The blows-first her left hand, then her right-struck Tragor square in the stomach, below his metal breastplate. The ogre doubled over, making a high-pitched, wheezing noise, and the woman’s black-booted foot came up suddenly, catching him full in the face. There was a wet crunch as the kick broke Tragor’s nose, then the champion fell back, his face blossoming with blood. Tragor staggered, trying to keep his footing, but the woman spun, her foot lashing out again and connecting solidly with his groin. He sank to his knees, sobbing, and she seized his helmet by its plume and yanked it off. Tragor tried one last time to lift his sword, but the heel of the woman’s hand cracked against his temple, and he collapsed in a senseless, flaccid heap.

  The fight had lasted less than half a minute, from first blow to last. The woman watched Tragor for a moment, making sure he wasn’t moving, then turned to face Kurthak. When she spoke, her voice was soft and calm, displaying no sign of exertion whatsoever.

  “I have a proposal for you, Black-Gazer,” she said.

  Reflexively, Kurthak’s grip on his club tightened, but then he glanced at Tragor’s senseless form and forced himself to relax. There were few warriors in Lord Ruog’s vast horde who could match Tragor ‘s physical prowess. Yet this strange, cloaked woman had bested him without even winding herself.

  He lowered the club, his eyes fast on her. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “My name is not important.”

  Kurthak shook his shaggy head. “I must know your face-at least.”

  The woman considered this, then shrugged. “Very well,” she said lightly. “If it is so important to you.” She reached up and pulled back her hood.

  Kurthak caught his breath in horror.

  She might have been lovely once, or she might have been plain. It was impossible to tell now, for the woman no longer had anything resembling a face. Her skin was a mass of red, puckered bum scars. Her hair had been completely scorched away, leaving nothing but bare, charred scalp. Her ears, nose and lips were gone; any other features were little more than soft, indistinct lumps. Only her eyes survived, blue and glittering beneath puffy, blistered lids. They shone with cruel humor when she saw the disgust on Kurthak’s face.

  “I am called Yovanna,” she told him. Her voice had not been marred by whatever had ruined her face; the contrast only made her visage more gruesome. “I bring you a message. My mistress wishes to speak with you.”

  “And who is this mistress?” Kurthak asked.

  “Her name is Malystryx.”

  The Black-Gazer stiffened at the mention of the name. He knew stories of the great red dragon who was said to dwell to the north of the Dairly Plains, but he had never seen her. “What does she want with me?” he asked.

  “She doesn’t want you,” Yovanna replied. “She wants your people, Black-Gazer. So she sent me to summon you.”

  “And why should I go with you?” Kurthak pressed, his anger growing.

  Yovanna regarded him carefully, her blue eyes searching. “Malystryx has been watching your people for some time,” she said. “For months, you have been raiding little kender towns.”

  Kurthak thought he heard derision in her voice, but he wasn’t sure-there was no telling from her face He snorted. “For sport,” he said. “And for slaves.”

  Yovanna’s face pinched and creased in what might have been a smile, but which looked like a nightmare grimace. “My mistress would like to join forces with you,” she hissed.

  “If she is so powerful, why does she need our help?”

  “She needs allies as her power grows.”

  “What will she give me in return?” Kurthak asked. “She will give you Kendermore.”

  Chapter 6

  Swiftraven reined his dappled horse and faced west, into the storm. On the horizon, black clouds were piling into the storm-green sky. They towered high, dwarfing the distant, gray line of the Kharolis Mountains. His people had a word for such clouds. Hianawek, the Gods’ Anvils. The lorekeepers had once taught that the smith-god Reorx would pound on them in summer’s, dying days, forging the coming winter. Thunder was the clashing of his great hammer, and lightning was the sparks it threw.

  It was nonsense, of course. Children’s stories. Reorx’s hammer had fallen still two summers ago, when he and the other gods left the world, but the Hianawek continued to return, pounding the Plains with rain, hail, and worse things still.

  The wind howled in Swiftraven’s face, rippling the golden grass like waves on the sea. The cicadas, whose droning buzz was the music of the Plains, had fallen ominously silent, and the only sounds were the distant mutter of thunder and the nervous snorting of the young warrior’s horse. The scent of rain, tinged with the ozone tang of lightning, grew steadily stronger.

  The horse tossed her head, fighting the young Plainsman’s grip on her reins. He stroked her neck, then swung down from his saddle and set about hobbling her, to make sure she didn’t bolt. It was promising to be a fierce storm. The horse whickered, rolling her eyes with fear.

  “Easy,” he cooed, clucking his tongue to soothe her. “It’s all right. We’re safe here.”

  There was a haze beneath the clouds, promising rains heavy enough to flatten the grass that scratched at his bare knees. A few drops spat down, forerunners of the impending downpour. The Hianawek glowed as lightning danced from cloud to cloud. Counting the seconds between one such flash and the answering roll of thunder, Swiftraven gauged the storm’s distance and nodded. It would not be long. A thrill ran through him, for this was the first time he had faced the Hianawek alone. When he returned to his tribe after the storm, there would be no question of his bravery.

  Focused as he was on the massive, coruscating clouds, he didn’t notice the riders until they were nearly upon him.

  They were five, three astride horses and two riding ponies. There was little more he could make out, with the storm’s darkness overwhelming the Plains. They did not appear to see him at all, though, so he moved quickly. With one hand he let slip the knotted rope that kept his horse from bolting, while his other pulled his bow from the saddle. With graceful ease he strung the weapon, then climbed back up on horseback. By the time he was settled in his saddle, he had a white-fletched arrow nocked on his bowstring. He used his knees to turn the horse, then stood in his stirrups, pulled back the string, and let fly.

  The shaft fell just short of the riders, which was what he’d meant it to do. Swiftraven knew, as any good archer did, that a good warning shot could tell a man much about a foe. Cowards would balk or flee, cunning opponents would seek cover, and the brave or stupid would charge. As he notched a second shaft, he noticed that the riders did none of these; they reined in, stopping where he could make a clear shot. That meant something else entirely.

  The tallest of the horsemen leaned forward in his saddle, peering toward where the arrow had fallen. Swiftraven saw one of the pony riders reach for something across his back, but the tall rider raised a hand, stopping him. The young Plainsman held his breath, sighting down his arrow as the wind whipped his long, brown hair behind him.

  A sound rose then, above the clamor of the storm. A whistle, loud and piercing, rose and fell in a regular pattern. It was a language, though few, even among the Plainsfolk, knew how to speak it. Swiftraven, who had trained as a scout, was versed in whistlespeak, as were others who sometimes needed to signal long distances across the grasslands, such as hunters and shepherds.

  Put down your bow, the whistler spoke. Would you feather your chieftain?

  Starting, Swiftraven lowered his bow so swiftly he nearly dropped it. Without pause he wheeled his horse about and dug his heels into her flanks. He galloped east toward Que-Shu, riding before the storm to herald the return of Riverwind and his d
aughters.

  The drizzle — was just turning into rain when Swiftraven drew up to the gates. The guards, who held their spears ready until they saw who the rider was, exchanged a few quick words with him, then parted to let him pass.

  “What’s the name of this place again?” asked Kronn, looking up at the village walls as they drew near. They were whitewashed and painted with abstract patterns of red and blue, but they were also stout and sturdy, their tops lined with wicked iron spikes.

  Riverwind glanced over his shoulder. “Que-Shu.”

  “Bless you!” Kronn exclaimed, giggling.

  “Kronn!” Catt said.

  The Plainsman shook his head. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’ve heard that joke many times before. You’re not the first kender to visit the Plains.”

  The guards at the gate lowered their spears, kneeling, as the-party drew near. Seeing this, Riverwind quickly crossed his arms in salute. “Get up,” he told them kindly. “Your wives have enough to do, I’m sure, without having to wash the mud from your trousers.”

  Rising, the sentries returned his salute, then stood aside. They eyed the kender warily. Lightning raged in the inky sky as Riverwind came home for the last time.

  Word of the chieftain’s return had spread swiftly after Swiftraven’s arrival. The thunder of drums called the villagers out of their homes, into the worsening rain. They lined the road, shouting and waving their hands as Riverwind’s party rode past the rows of painted skin tents and mud-brick huts, toward the arena at the center of town. In spite of Riverwind’s protestations, men knelt to him and women threw autumn flowers in his path. Children laughed and ran about, jumping in puddles with shrieks of delight.

  “Quite the welcome,” Catt noted, impressed.

  “It’s better when the weather’s nice,” Brightdawn remarked. “There are pipers and dancers, and everyone sings the Chant of the Ancestors.”

  They reached the arena, where a row of grim-faced men, resplendent in beaded jackets and feathered headdresses, stood in their way. As one, the men held up their hands, and the riders reined in. Riverwind climbed down from his horse and handed the reins to a young boy; his daughters and the kender followed suit. As the boy led the animals away, Riverwind bowed to the row of men and crossed his arms again. The men returned the gesture as one.