Paladins of the Storm Lord

by Barbara Ann Wright

  In the before times, she’d always made her nests near her clutches, staying near the water, the source of food. She’d huddled inside holes in tree trunks or nestled inside tangles of branches that could shield her from predators. She’d never climbed high, never wanted to be far from her next meal.

  Now she swung through the branches with ease, with no fear of leaving the water behind. She reached the sinkhole her people had constructed, a deep pool guarded on all sides by branches threaded through the roots of trees. It reminded her of the place her kind had been held; it kept the occupant of the sinkhole from wandering off before they were ready to use it.

  The water creature rolled its black eyes to watch her. She saw no glimmer in it like some of the children had, like her mates had, that marked them as more knowing than before. Her children had looped vines around its limbs to keep it from thrashing and breaking free. It could do no more than stare.

  B46 touched its pebbled skin, one finger skirting the teeth along its snout. It snapped lightly, four legs pumping while the slender arms in the middle of its torso wriggled.

  B46 chittered, mocking it. It had power, but it could not use it until her say-so. It had anger, and she could focus that. She left it, climbed higher into the branches until she could see the other sinkholes her children were preparing, so many they dotted the landscape.

  *

  Usk knelt before the writhing roots of the Shi, so large they took up the entire cavern underneath her enormous trunk, a roiling mass as large as three entire tribes of drushka.

  He could not see the Shi herself, the woman who’d cast off her name when she became the eldest queen. She was lost somewhere in the mass of roots, never to see the sun again. But as he thought this, the roots coiled around his body, and he gave his mind over to his queen.

  She wanted to lead all of the drushka, but there was a hole in their midst, something the Shi before her had tolerated, but now they would be whole again.

  The roots lifted Usk, and he let his body go slack in trust. “What must I do, Queen?”

  She sent him images of the chanuka fighting the humans. That had delighted her, but when he saw the chanuka fighting the renegade drushka, her anger flashed to the fore. It deepened into rage as the Anushi tree attacked the chanuka forces. The tree was too important. Even if none of the renegades survived, the tree must.

  The Shi had hopes, vague imaginings of the renegade tree rejoining the drushkan whole, of the renegade queen kneeling at the Shi’s trunk, brought there by Usk, favorite of the Shi.

  “My queen, I do your bidding in all things.”

  He felt her love, her mind’s caress. The renegades would be one with them, and the chanuka would kill all the humans, and life would become perfection again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Horace had always liked strolling the roof of the Yafanai Temple, the second highest spot in Gale. He liked how the wind toyed with his hair and how the city spread out below him. Most of all, he’d liked how he could drop his telepathic shields because everyone else was so far below.

  Now, with his augmented abilities, the thoughts and feelings of Gale hammered through every shred of shield he could muster. The aches and pains of each citizen gnawed at him, beating behind his forehead. He sensed the movement of every drop of blood, the mix and swirl of every hormone. The pulse of the city threatened to suck him in, scatter him among them. Pain turned to panic, and it was all he could do not to tear at hearts and brain stems just to make them leave him alone.

  As he groaned, eyes rolling back, a cool hand wrapped around his arm, and an echoing coolness spread through his veins. The touch pulled him away from the city pulse and rooted him in his body. He gulped in air and sagged to his knees, opening his eyes to Simon’s kind face. When he tried to speak, he could only manage, “Mmph.”

  “Turn your power inward,” Simon said, “focus on your own body, and breathe.”

  Horace found his own pulse and followed it until it rang in his ears. “If that’s what I feel through my shields, how am I ever going to use my power?”

  “Practice. Pretend you’re an acolyte all over again.”

  “I was never this kind of acolyte. Is this what it felt like when you were learning?”

  Simon looked away. “You’ve become very powerful.”

  Horace would have loved to open up his power, see what Simon was feeling, but he didn’t dare, knowing he might lose control again.

  And he probably couldn’t get through Simon’s shields anyway.

  “Don’t get discouraged,” Simon said. “You’ll be able to help Natalya soon enough.”

  Horace almost laughed. Simon always seemed to misread people, even with his great power. Samira said he kept asking what she wanted from him when all she wanted was to help him. But Samira loved bringing shy people out of their shells and nursing “wounded birds,” as she called them. Horace had once asked if she’d ever let someone take care of her, but she’d laughed.

  And Simon was her latest bird. She’d done a bit of spying, had told Horace she thought Simon might have feelings for the Storm Lord, based on how he was always staring. Horace had said, “Who doesn’t love the Storm Lord?” and she gave him one of those you-know-what-I’m-talking-about looks.

  Horace didn’t know if any of that was true. The way the Storm Lord behaved toward many of the female yafanai and none of the males had revealed where his interests lay. Poor Simon, if he was stuck there. He was appealing, and not just in a wounded way. The way he bumbled about with emotions was endearing, and though he was smaller than the men Horace usually went for, he had a nice face: sharp features, those kind eyes, and a mop of tousled blond hair.

  “You’ve never discouraged me.” Horace reached for Simon’s hand, but he backed away. “What’s wrong?”

  He laughed softly, as if afraid someone was going to shush him. “What happened to you and Natalya is my fault, and I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve said that.”

  “Not enough. I can never say it enough.”

  “Simon.” Horace took his hand this time, gripping it so Simon couldn’t pull away. “Look at me. Natalya volunteered. You didn’t know what was going to happen. I stuck my nose in where it didn’t belong. We were working without a map; you told us that. Things went wrong. It happens. And you let me cry in your lap for almost a whole day. I think we’re even.” He tried for a joking smile that went half returned.

  After a sigh, they shared a long glance. Simon looked away, flushed. “I’m supposed to be making you feel better, not the other way around.”

  “You have, and you are. Now, no more blame. I have to practice.” He held himself straighter and strengthened his defenses. “Drop your shield, please.”

  *

  Lazlo did as he was asked, letting his power slough away from Horace a little at a time, letting Horace test his own shields.

  He remembered this feeling when he’d learned to control his power, but he hadn’t been so brave, hadn’t had this many people to keep out. Horace marched steadily forward and took the time to make sure Lazlo didn’t feel guilty.

  And that look they’d shared! Lazlo had felt it through all their shields. There was a blip of attraction on Horace’s part, and Lazlo didn’t know whether to feel joy or horror. Nice to be noticed, he supposed, but what if Horace wanted something from him? Could he have a lover on this planet? Would it be like Kenneth, the man who’d sometimes shared his bed on the Atlas, a casual thing he didn’t talk about, or would Horace want something more? Could Lazlo give him something more? What would Dillon think?

  Lazlo clenched a fist. Why should he care what Dillon thought? Dillon had no right to an opinion where Lazlo’s love life was concerned. But Dillon was Dillon, and anything that distracted Lazlo from working on Dillon’s projects wouldn’t be tolerated; Lazlo was certain of it.

  Horace’s grunt brought Lazlo out of his reverie, and he realized the sensations of Gale were slipping past Horace’s shields. Quintuple dam
n. He should have been paying attention!

  He wrapped his shields around Horace. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I was preoccupied.”

  Horace gasped, but he didn’t fall to his knees again. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and grinned. “What did I tell you about apologizing?”

  “Sorry.” When Horace raised an eyebrow, Lazlo had to laugh. “Force of habit.”

  “We’ll have to think up a punishment, some kind of tax every time you say you’re sorry.”

  “Put a coin in a jar, that sort of thing?”

  “Something like that.” He winked, and Lazlo felt that tendril of attraction again. His body responded, and Horace’s eyes widened. It had just slipped through, and now they both felt what the other was feeling. Horace took a step forward, staring at Lazlo’s lips.

  Lazlo stepped back so quickly, it was a wonder he didn’t trip. “I’m over two hundred years old,” he blurted.

  Horace blinked and then shook his head. “You don’t look it, and I don’t care.”

  “You should. I’m old and jaded. You should enjoy your youth. No arthritis or anything.” He knew he wasn’t making sense, just throwing words between them as obstacles.

  Horace stepped forward as if the words weren’t even there. “You don’t have arthritis. I would have felt it.”

  There came that attraction again, and Lazlo knew Horace was putting it out there intentionally, making the promise that if they were together, each would feel what the other was feeling, passion squared.

  Lazlo didn’t retreat as Horace took another step. Their hands found each other. Horace moved forward slowly, his gaze holding a question, asking permission. With a sigh, Lazlo tilted his head.

  The kiss came quickly, the world contracting into a tiny bubble with just the two of them. Horace’s free hand cupped Lazlo’s cheek, and he couldn’t help leaning into that caress. It was tender, and Lazlo should have enjoyed it with every fiber, but when he opened his eyes, Horace’s face wasn’t the one he most hoped to see.

  He stepped back. “You’re going to be mad, but I have to say sorry again.”

  “Look,” Horace said with a sigh, “if you don’t want—”

  Lazlo barked a laugh. “Oh, there’s want, believe me. It’s just, well, you don’t deserve this, Horace. You don’t deserve all my baggage and bullshit.”

  “I think you’re worth a little angst, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I don’t know if I even know how to be close to someone anymore.” Oh, the drama. He was back on the Atlas, unable to stand his own company.

  But Horace laid a hand on Lazlo’s shoulder that promised companionship at least, with the offer of something more. “What did you tell me? Practice. Pretend you’re an acolyte again.”

  Lazlo laughed, starting softly and building until the sound rang around them. It felt good, really good, and overdue. Horace was smiling, waiting, and damned or not, Lazlo kissed him, reveling in the heat between them but breaking away before he could get lost again, before he had a chance to picture Dillon’s face.

  “Now.” Lazlo gestured toward Gale. “More practice.”

  Horace gave him a knowing look. “I thought that’s what we were doing.”

  “Practice that will help Natalya, please.”

  That got Horace to focus, and they practiced for the next few hours until Horace was too tired to continue. Lazlo sent him off with orders to rest; he wouldn’t hear any other suggestions. Still, he nursed a happy glow that grew when he met Samira in the halls of the temple below.

  “Samira, where are you off to?” he asked.

  “To get something to eat. You’re not going back to your room, are you?”

  “Why? Should I?”

  “No reason!” She radiated false cheerfulness. “Come with me.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Why should anything be wrong?”

  He gave her a look that he hoped said it all.

  “Please, Simon. Come have lunch with me. There’s cobbler.”

  “Did someone rob me? Is someone waiting to kill me?” He pushed past her. “What could be so bad—”

  He felt it then: Dillon’s presence, which he was always aware of, and someone else, enveloped in feelings that could only be sexual. And Lazlo had trouble even kissing someone without wondering how Dillon would feel about it.

  He plastered on a smile. “That’s fine. It’s fine. We’re not a couple or anything, so it’s fine. Really, really fine.”

  She frowned. “I saw the way you looked at him. I’m so sorry, Simon.” She smiled and projected so much pity it was a wonder he couldn’t see it.

  “He can do as he likes. He has before.”

  She nodded. “Well, there’s still cobbler, and the kitchen is all the way over on the other side of the temple.”

  Where he might not feel them. “Sounds delicious.”

  She threaded her arm through his and led him away, asking about Horace. Lazlo tried to wrap himself in the remembrance of Horace’s lips, though the whole experience felt tainted now.

  *

  Caroline was a ball of energy and a flexible one at that. Dillon thought she would have happily shared his bed until the proverbial cows came home, but he knew he should get up before his stamina flagged. He supposed he could have gone to Lazlo for a shot of adrenaline, but Lazlo wouldn’t have appreciated that one bit.

  As Caroline nuzzled his neck, Dillon asked, “Want to show me around the city?”

  “If that’s what you like, I’m game.” Her smile backed up her words, and he gave her another kiss, a promise for later. He would have made her breakfast if he had any idea how such things were done down here.

  At the thought of breakfast he realized he had no idea what time it was, but luckily, the sun was bright when they left the temple. Without escorts, fewer people noticed him, and the way he and Caroline strolled through the city didn’t catch many people in their wake. He shook hands or patted shoulders as he wanted. A farming couple begged for rain, and he guided a little drizzle their way. He relaxed, having a fine time, Caroline on his arm, her blue eyes twinkling at him as they talked of this and that. This was what he’d been missing for years, just a normal life.

  They wandered to the east side of town, toward the warehouses and hoshpi pens. He gawked at the strange, almost spherical creatures that Gale managed to squeeze so many resources out of. Someone had told him that the leather armor junior paladins wore was made from hoshpi carapaces. He wondered if that still technically qualified as leather but decided it didn’t matter. Someone else had said the local mead was made from liquid that the insects secreted, and he hoped he’d managed not to look too horrified. After all, they ate the meat from the things, too. Still, he’d pledged to never drink a glass of the stuff if he could get out of doing it.

  The hoshpis bumbled along behind wooden railings, their dome-shaped bodies knocking into one another. They keened and shuddered as they tried to flap insect-like wings held tight with straps. One of them waddled near them on its six legs and appraised Dillon with one large, watery brown eye.

  “Hello, ugly,” he said.

  Caroline snickered. The hoshpi snorted and wandered away.

  “Did I offend?” Dillon shared a chuckle with Caroline until he saw two robed figures talking to one of the hoshpi drovers. A man and a woman with symbols embroidered on the back of their robes, a sun and moon, and he knew who they must be.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said.

  Caroline followed his gaze. “Sun-Moon worshipers,” she said with a sigh. “As if the sun and moon are anything more than astrological bodies.”

  “Uh-huh.” He watched the pair as they dickered with the drover and counted their money. “What are they doing here?”

  “Trading. The mayor set it up. Some of the paladins have been saying what a good idea it is.”

  “Paladins.” Dillon thought for a moment. “The mayor’s niece is a paladin.” And then there was the man assigned to her squad, Carmichael’s son. If t
he younger generation was friends, did that mean the mayor and the captain were close, too? He thought back to the meeting. The mayor had seemed surprised by Carmichael’s confession about the boggins. She hadn’t told him the truth, then, unless the surprise was an act. The mayor had also seemed intimately close with the drushkan ambassador. There might be quite a conspiracy going on, especially if he added the so-called Sun-Moon into the mix.

  The robed pair handed over coins and shook hands with the drover. As they moved away from the pens, heads together, they glanced around, gazes passing over him. They paused, staring. Dillon held his breath as their expressions blanked before they smiled, and he knew who he was looking at.

  His mouth went dry, and he resisted the urge to just leave, not knowing if they might follow.

  “Colonel,” they said together as they approached. Caroline opened her mouth, but Dillon laid a hand on her arm.

  “Christian, Marlowe. I knew you could talk to your people, but through them? Well done. Guess we were all good at keeping secrets.”

  “And it seems we have an inroad into your city, and yet you have none in ours.” The accents of the two vessels were heavy, their mouths unused to speaking the language of the Atlas.

  Dillon shrugged. “I have something a lot more valuable than trading inroads.”

  They glared now, and he knew they were more than a little panicky at losing Lazlo. Caroline gasped and clutched his arm as Dillon felt the merest tingle over his scalp. It faded quickly, and he knew Caroline was shielding him.

  “Trying to work through your vessels to attack my mind? Nice try.” He frowned mockingly. “Oh, but it looks as if you’re too far away to do any real damage. A yafanai was strong enough to block you.”

  “No matter,” they said. “There is more than one way to fight.” They walked away, jingling their purse.

  Dillon looked to the drover counting his money. He could have the Sun-Moons arrested, he supposed, but how would that look? Christian and Marlowe would abandon their minds, leave them without a clue. He needed a way to jettison all the spies from his city.