Paladins of the Storm Lord

by Barbara Ann Wright

  But not everyone fared as well. Others were hurt, dying. Shiv felt the sorrow of those around them, and though she was still angry, she cried out for all the corpses. This should not be happening. Shiv knew her mother had reasons for leaving the drushka so long ago, reasons that still resonated, reasons so strong her mother could not give them up now, even to save lives. They had to be free. It was part of who they were, part of their core.

  Shiv’s eyes snapped open as she sensed an unknown branch creeping toward her mother’s body. Shiv slashed at it with her knife and felt the revulsion of its owner that anyone would dare to attack a queen.

  “I am a queen as well,” Shiv said, “with my own tree, and I am free to do as I wish!” She threw her anger at the old queens and hoped they heard her.

  The Anushi tree danced through the swamp, trying to keep away from the other queens’ branches. She was smaller than they, more nimble, and she had been navigating the swamp for a long time. The others were tired, unused to combat. They tangled in the other trees and seemed confused by the thoughts of their drushka rather than comforted by them.

  The seventh queen splashed into the water, ensnared in swamp roots. Another queen and her drushka had to quit the fight to help her. Shiv felt her mother’s laugh and joined in until the third queen stumbled forward and wrapped her branches around the Anushi. Warriors poured from her and swarmed the Anushi’s limbs.

  Shiv knocked a spear out of the air. As another drushka swung at her, she dropped and sliced at his knees. He cried out as his legs buckled, and she shoved him to topple into the swamp.

  A line of pain screamed across her back. She turned, swinging her blade in a wild arc. Her opponent stared at her green hair, hesitating as the others had not. She kicked him in the chest, and as he fell, one of the Anushi’s branches hurled him into the night.

  Shiv knelt at her mother’s side. There were too many drushka. She had been wounded; everyone had been wounded. Even her mother had a line of golden blood across her forehead.

  “One of the queens lashed me,” Shi’a’na said, eyes still unfocused. “They will not stop.”

  “We will make them pay.”

  “I cannot let them kill you, daughter, both for my sake and for our people. You must flee.”

  “I will not leave you!”

  Her mother reached forth and brought their faces close. “Bring the humans, daughter. Bring armored Sa and your lover.”

  “They will see the tree.”

  Shi’a’na pressed the sapling into Shiv’s hands. “The time for that secret is done. We will be free, daughter, or we will be nothing. Do you not feel it?”

  Shiv reached for what her mother was trying to tell her. The old queens, the Shi, they did not simply want the Anushi returned to them; they wanted her mind under theirs. As she touched them, Shiv wondered at how similar they were, how dull. Her mother’s mind was always bright and alive—even while infuriating—but these queens, they were like an image in a still pond, all copies of the Shi.

  “Take care, daughter.”

  Shiv pressed her bloody knife into her mother’s hands. “This will protect you.” The Anushi grabbed her and flung her far into the swamp. She kept hold of her sapling and grabbed leaves or small branches as she flew, slowing her fall. When she rolled to a stop along a swamp tree’s massive branch, she ran as fast as she could toward the human city.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Cordelia, Liam, and Reach had run from fight to fight, mostly boggins, but they were becoming quite good at killing progs, too. Cordelia waved her blade at a small prog, shouting until it turned. Liam emptied his clip into its side—never one for sparing bullets—and it went down. She looked over her shoulder to check on Reach. The little boy tied around her back interfered with her acrobatics, so she guarded their rear and shouted warnings when needed.

  The prog twitched, so Cordelia buried her blade in its eye, not stopping until she smacked into bone. She didn’t know when she’d started pretending that each monster she killed was the person who murdered her uncle, but the thought made her arm steadier, her aim truer.

  “Does being bloody up to your elbows help you somehow?” Liam asked.

  She shrugged. “Do you want my extra clip, since you’re burning bullets today?”

  “They’re all in the city. We can dig them out.”

  Before she could retort, Reach said, “Perhaps we should head toward the fire.”

  Cordelia shook her head. “We can’t do shit about a fire. We can kill every boggin bastard in the city.” Someone cried out a few streets over, and they headed in that direction.

  “If the boggins are bastards, what should we call the progs?” Liam asked. “Should we stick to alliteration, or—”

  “I’m not in the mood for jokes, Liam.”

  He stuttered a laugh. “The world must be burning down, then.”

  Cordelia could tell he didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to comfort her. She wished he’d just give up trying.

  Around a corner, a pack of boggins were chewing through a group of townspeople who wielded tools and makeshift clubs. The boggins leapt in and out of reach, luring the humans out of formation and killing them one at a time.

  Cordelia shoved her spare clip at Liam and rushed the boggins, howling to draw their attention. A few humans glanced at her as well, and the boggins picked them off. With a swear, Cordelia dove into the boggins’ midst, hacking and slashing. Liam’s pistol cracked, and two more of them fell.

  With the boggins distracted, the townspeople took their revenge, and the pack was dead within moments. Reach pointed the people back to their homes, telling them to remain hidden.

  “We heard screaming,” one said.

  “Barricade yourselves inside,” Reach said.

  “Is there a fire?” another asked.

  “Stay and fight boggins or go fight the fire,” Cordelia said. “Do what you want.” She started away, listening for screams.

  “Aren’t you staying?” one of the people called.

  She didn’t answer, barely heard Liam reassuring them. Reach caught up and looked at her again as if wondering about strange human emotions.

  “What?” Cordelia said. “Don’t tell me you’re already over your anger.”

  “I am angry about the murder of Paul. It does not stop me caring for others.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Perhaps I shall go back to calling you Paul’s metal-skinned niece.”

  Cordelia pulled up short. “What the hell was that about anyway? What changed?”

  Reach matched her look for look. “I have never liked you metal-skins. Some act as if nothing can hurt them. But when I saw you grieving at the house, you became Sa.”

  “Sorry, I’m done crying. This is what my hurting face looks like now.”

  “You should unleash your anger where it belongs.”

  Cordelia started walking again. “And you can take your drushkan wisdom and blow it out your ass.”

  “And now you will feign anger with me.”

  “Nothing feigning about it.”

  Liam jogged to catch up with them. “What are we arguing about this time?”

  She almost snapped at him, too, but she didn’t want to fight them, just wanted to tear more boggins apart if Paul’s killer wasn’t going to appear before her. “Look, Reach, if you don’t want to join the fight, why don’t you hide with the townsfolk?”

  “My place is by your side.”

  Cordelia barked a laugh. “Since when?”

  “You are the family of my mate, the last of his line. You are in my hands now, as much as he was, whether that appeals to you or not.”

  “You’re going to protect me?”

  “However I can.”

  It made her angrier. “No one asked you.”

  “That matters as much as a stray leaf on the wind.” She held out a hand, and Cordelia flinched away, but Reach only held her palm up. “The sky calls your name.”

  Cordelia looke
d up to water pattering all around them. It was probably the Storm Lord fighting the fire, but it made Cordelia think of Nettle. She would give quite a lot to travel back to their night together, much as it had alarmed her when she’d been there, as afraid as she was of feeling anything deeper than lust. But if wishing was enough to make things happen, Paul would be alive.

  Who would kill him? After all the arguments he’d had with merchants guilds, with the drovers’ council, with Carmichael herself, it had never come to blows. He’d had his assistant and housekeeper for years, no problems there. And a thief wouldn’t have left the valuables behind. Who would dislike her uncle enough to march into his office and stab him so hard it left a dent in the wall?

  An armored swing could easily do such a thing. But Carmichael hadn’t been wearing armor, and why would some random paladin kill the mayor? Unless they were asked to, ordered to. By Carmichael? She’d screwed up with the whole boggin thing, but murder by proxy wasn’t her style. When she’d slapped Liam, she hadn’t ordered someone else to do it.

  A yafanai could hurl a person into the wall hard enough to dent it. That still left why. And there was Blake, who couldn’t remember anything. That smelled of yafanai, too. If it had been a paladin or yafanai, who could have given the order to kill? Someone that wouldn’t be questioned or ignored.

  Cordelia’s belly went cold, and it felt as if the street dropped away from her feet. When she stumbled, she didn’t shake off Liam’s or Reach’s steadying hands. Paul had warned her that the Storm Lord’s arrival meant trouble. If God had come to see him, he wouldn’t have held his opinions in check, even for a deity.

  “Sa?” Reach asked.

  “Delia, what is it?” Liam said.

  “I just…nothing. I don’t have any proof.”

  They exchanged a glance. “You know who Paul’s killer is?” Reach asked. “You must tell me.”

  “We have to wait. Let’s finish the fight.” She started away before they could ask more questions, her mind whirling. She fought to get her anger back and looked hard for something to kill.

  *

  Samira lifted a boggin, but it held tight to its spear, dragging the sharp end from a woman’s stomach. Lazlo pounced with his power, sealing the wound so quickly, the woman’s grunt of pain and sigh of relief were almost instantaneous.

  Samira threw the boggin into a whole pack of them, knocking them flat while Lazlo shepherded Gale’s citizens down the road. The one he’d healed mixed with another group, and the tide of them carried her away.

  The pack of boggins clambered to their feet just as Samira chucked a fruit stand at them. Several didn’t rise again, and those that did were pelted with debris as they fled. Samira breathed hard, sweat beading her forehead. Lazlo eased her fatigue with a passing thought.

  She threw her head back and laughed. “With you around, Simon, I could do this all day!”

  Dillon had said something similar once, but Lazlo knew Samira didn’t mean it the same way. His powers sometimes made people feel giddy. Maybe Dillon was just addicted to it.

  No, Lazlo wouldn’t blame himself for Dillon’s manipulations, his superiority complex, not anymore. Lazlo hadn’t made him kill the mayor.

  Several citizens waved from a nearby building, shouting for people to take cover in there, but Lazlo shook his head and waved them on. “Barricade the door behind you!”

  He couldn’t shut himself away. There was too much good he and Samira could do out in the streets, but he dreaded running into Dillon. He had no idea what he would say, so he decided to stay away from him. He rolled his eyes as they ran. Yes, that had worked out so well last time.

  “Do you know where the Storm Lord went?” Samira asked.

  “Are you sure you’re not a telepath?”

  “Isn’t it him you’re trying to catch up to? Or did you have somewhere else in mind?”

  He waved at the destruction around them, the bodies. “I just want to be where I’m needed.”

  “He’s probably putting together a plan—”

  “You don’t know what he’s doing. You don’t know what he’s capable of. You shouldn’t be so trusting!”

  Her eyes widened. “Of the Storm Lord? Why not? What’s he done?”

  Anger burned through his temples. Why was it always him that had to defend everything?

  “Look, Simon, I know you have feelings for him—”

  “Maybe you should mind your own business.” He marched ahead, not looking back. Maybe she’d turn down another street, wash her hands of him.

  “Oh no, no.” She caught up to him quickly. “No way, Simon. If you want to be angry, be angry. If you want to rant, fine. If you’d rather bottle everything up and not talk about it, I will try to respect your wishes and ultimately needle you until you tell me. But I will not be your emotional punching bag.” She managed to cross her arms while stalking forward, a pose that would have made him laugh if not for her serious expression. “If I hurt your feelings, I’m sorry, but I know I’m not the reason you’re so angry, so it must be him. What did he do?”

  “This isn’t the time.” He nodded toward where a lone boggin was sneaking through the night.

  Samira smacked it into a wall, and it dropped motionless to the street. “You were saying?”

  He chuckled. “I’m sorry I tried to drive you away.”

  “You’re forgiven.”

  They passed the unmoving boggin, and Lazlo looked to the blood smear on the wall above it. She hadn’t hit it hard enough to make a dent, not like in the mayor’s house. “He’s killed someone.”

  She sucked in a breath. “The Storm Lord? Who?”

  He tried to form the words and couldn’t, didn’t know if he’d just been hiding Dillon’s secrets for too long or if he feared shaking Samira’s faith or what. She waited, silent, until they turned a corner and saw the street ahead blocked by a large shadow.

  He stopped, hauling on Samira’s hand, fearing a prog, but his senses told them it was humans gathered ahead even as one called, “Hold your fire!”

  *

  B46 lingered on the walls of the tall one’s nest, drinking in the destruction, the carnage and screams. She’d taken the last of the sticky grit and could almost feel it swirling inside her mind. If she closed her eyes, she could feel the children as they clawed and bit, could sense the water creatures as they snapped and dashed. She could taste human blood on her tongue, feel their dying breaths rattle through her.

  She sank down in her perch, head resting against her chest as she felt the children fight. She could feel these children as she could no others. They’d grown so fast that they’d howled with the pain of it. She felt the youngest and smallest fighting, clumsy, unproven, but with her presence joining their minds, they fought like leaping waterspouts. She instructed groups on how to fight together, tasted the kill with others, and warned still others when to hide, when to strike. She was everywhere, everyone, all the children connected through her.

  Blinding pain roared through her temples, and she sucked in a breath, back in her own body. She thought it might be the smoke wafting over her, prickling her lungs, but no, this was something greater. When she tried to reconnect to the children, the pain came again, and she stopped as her limbs shook, warmth and cold passing over her skin as if the seasons passed in a single instant.

  She licked her teeth, her mouth dry. She sometimes felt this way if she hadn’t eaten the sticky grit in days, but it hadn’t been that long. Or perhaps she’d been eating more and more and hadn’t noticed. She longed for the bitter taste, the feel of her mind expanding.

  But there was no more. She lifted her nose and inhaled deeply. The tall creatures had first given her the sticky grit. They had to have more. All she had to do was find it. Her stomach rumbled at the thought. She leapt from her perch and wound through the streets, smelling bodies, following her nose, sending out tendrils of her mind so she could check the noses of all the children and search among them past the pain in her mind.

 
As she got close to one group, her mind reached for them, but the pain became too much, and they staggered along with her. She pulled away, running her claws along their hides as she passed, wishing them a world of killing.

  *

  Lydia paused behind the rickshaw’s bar, blocking out the sounds of Freddie’s pain-filled moans and letting time play out in front of her. She saw a boggin trot down the street, looking for prey but passing her by where she hid in the shadows. She let time rewind and watched it go before heading off again.

  For once, her power seemed useful even as it slowed her down. If she hadn’t known what was coming, she would have been attacked several times. And once she’d avoided a wide-eyed man who fled down the street carrying an armload of fabric. She hadn’t known what he was about, but when he tripped and impaled himself on a piece of debris, it didn’t seem to matter.

  Lydia pulled the rickshaw forward again, trying to avoid anything jarring that would make Freddie cry out. She kept looking over her shoulder, tried to murmur comforting things, but she’d run out of sweet phrases and now just mumbled, “It’s all right,” over and over.

  Pain had built through her back and shoulders; fear made her clamp her teeth so hard they ached. The streets of Gale stretched on forever, and she wondered if she’d fallen into some parallel world of never-ending nightmare.

  When she saw the gates of the temple, she sobbed. “Almost there.” Part of her didn’t believe it; she thought the gates would go leaping out of reach, but they stayed put. They were shut, but they would be. The people inside would be afraid of boggins getting in, but the healers were surely just behind, and they would help her. She came out from behind the pole, her fingers cramping from having gripped it so hard, and knocked with the sides of her hands.

  No one answered. Well, they were busy tending the wounded. She knocked again. “Hello?”