Storms (Sharani Series Book 2) (14 page)

“Well, normally we’d have you feed them for a couple months and see you develop any sort of special bond with one of them,” Farah said. “But that won’t really do for you. For now, I think I’ll just show you how to care for them and teach you some things about the different species.”

“Which is the strongest, little lady?” a gruff voice asked.

Gavin and Farah both turned in the direction from which the voice had originated. A group of a half dozen men stood in front of one of the doors that lead into and out of the eyrie itself. None of them appeared much older than Gavin, though they all bore the lean toughness of those who had seen their fair share of fighting. All wore swords belted at waists of slung across their backs.

“Who in the sands are you?” Farah demanded. “You know you’re not allowed in here.”

One of the men, the same one who spoke before, grinned widely. There was a large gap between his two front teeth.

“Well, little lady, me and the boys here, we was thinking that these here birds would help us out quite a bit once we was back out on the sands again, didn’t we boys?” There were murmurs of assent from the other men. Gap-tooth continued, “So we decided we should take a couple with us.”

Behind Gavin, Talyshan made a strange hissing noise, the sound of water hitting flame and turning instantly to steam. Farah set her feet and threw back her head, chin raised. Gavin dropped a hand onto the hilt of his greatsword.

Farah hissed in an exact imitation of the sound Talyshan had made. “I’d like to see you try it.”

The group of men chuckled and Gap-tooth swaggered forward a few steps. He dropped a hand onto the hilt of his sword.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you going to do?” he said, eyes flicking over to Gavin for a moment before sliding back over Farah’s curvaceous form. “You don’t even have a sword. All you’ve got to help you is this cretin.” He looked her up and down pointedly and his gap-toothed grin widened.

Gavin drew his greatsword in one fluid motion. The hiss of metal against leather almost seemed to echo in the deafening silence that followed.

Gap-tooth turned a lazy gaze toward him. “Put that away, boy,” he said. “Afore you get hurt.”

Gavin raised the tip of his greatsword, holding it steady at chest height. The tip did not waver. He took two steps to the side, which placed him directly in front of Farah and Talyshan. The aevian hissed as the group of men with Gap-tooth chuckled and one of them—a short, wiry fellow—nudged Gap-tooth with his elbow. Gap-tooth shook his head and slowly turned to face Gavin directly. He raised one hand toward his shoulder and drew the long, double-edged sword slung across it.

“Well now, boy. We was thinking this would be something simple, come to the eyrie with just the girl here, take some of these here giant birds, and fly away afore anyone could think twice. Simple and easy it was. But this.” He grinned at Gavin, the expression highlighting the man’s youth. “This will be much more fun.”

“I’d like to have seen that,” Farah said with a laugh from behind Gavin. “If you think stealing aevians was going to be simple.”

Gap-tooth glanced in her direction, but returned his attention to Gavin almost immediately. Gavin, for his part, never removed his gaze from Gap-tooth’s face. Somewhere in the back of his mind he acknowledged the minute tendrils of fear working up his spine, but he suppressed them. He was more irritated than anything. He set his feet and felt his muscles relax, though only to the point of readiness, not laxness. It was the same steely determination which had allowed him to climb the Oasis walls when others had failed.

Gap-tooth frowned at him. “Not all of us was happy how you tried to take control of us earlier, boy.” He took a step to the left and allowed his companions—none of which had yet drawn their weapons—to fan out behind him. “You insulted us, tried to take our honor from us. Now we’ll see who’s really the best.”

Gavin said nothing. His grandmother had taught him sword forms, had shown him how to defend himself. Through conversations with Khari and some of the others, he’d come to suspect that what his grandmother had taught him were not the same techniques the Rahuli generally learned, but they were familiar to him and so he dropped into a ready stance, feet planted shoulder-width apart, right foot pivoted slightly to give him stability and the sword held up by his head, blade extended outward and tip toward his opponent. He felt a rush of anticipation wash through him as he waited.

“Stop this,” Farah said. “One word and I’ll have every aevian in this place down on all of you in moments. Try fighting off hundreds of talons the size of swords and see who wins.”

Gap-tooth’s companions glanced around, but didn’t move. Gap-tooth himself didn’t even move his gaze from Gavin. Gavin didn’t know if Farah was bluffing or not, but he wasn’t about to let her get into the middle of all this. He stepped forward, blade spinning back and down before spinning back up in a dizzying blur.

Gap-tooth reacted sluggishly, just barely getting his blade up in time to knock Gavin’s strike aside. Gavin allowed his blade to follow the momentum of the parry, then pivoted on one foot and swung back in with wide, sweeping motions. His blade was shorter, but far wider than Gap-tooth’s, so he stepped in closer with each swing, negating the advantage. The man, for his part, was able to parry the majority of Gavin’s blows, only allowing Gavin through his defenses once, during which Gavin scored a small hit on the man’s leg.

Talyshan hissed and made a soft screeching noise as the fight backed in his direction.

“It’s a pity you’ll have to die,” Gap-tooth said grudgingly, “but I’ll take great pleasure in taking that blade from your dead grip, boy.”

Gavin sucked in a breath and batted aside Gap-tooth’s blade, his earlier irritation bleeding into outrage. There wasn’t enough time for a follow-through stroke, so he was forced to take a step backward. His foot slipped on a patch of loose sand and Gavin found himself suddenly off balance. His foot slid backward, forcing him to swing his arms—and consequently his sword—awkwardly to keep his footing.

Gap-tooth cried something inarticulate and darted forward, sword held high as if to swing down at Gavin in a mighty overhead chop. Gavin scrambled to bring his sword back around to parry the blow, but even as he did so he knew he wouldn’t get it raised in time.

Gap-tooth’s eyes narrowed in triumph as he swung down with his blade, then his eyes went wide with fear as a massive, white
something
obscured Gavin’s view of the other man.

Gavin scrambled backward, the hand holding his blade hitting the ground and bruising his fingers as they were pressed against the rock. He hit the ground and crawled backward. The huge white aevian Gavin had studied earlier, the one that had been the old Warlord’s mount, flapped massive wings, scattering sand and dust into the air. Talons flashed in the sunlight and someone screamed, a deep, piercing sound of pure pain laced with terror. Gavin’s eyes darted back and forth in search of Farah, finally finding her standing off to one side, a pair of reddish-colored knives in her hands, though none of the assailants were near her.

Gavin leapt to his feet and dashed forward, ignoring the pain of his bruised fingers and the throbbing muscles in his right leg. He scrambled around the aevian, which had settled somewhat, though its figure was still obscured by the dust in the air. Gap-tooth lay on the ground. Blood dripped from a pair of long, deep cuts across the man’s chest. Gap-tooth’s sword lay in the sand near his limp fingers. The aevian made a hard, chirping noise and ruffled his feathers as Gavin rushed toward Gap-tooth’s prone form—the man’s companions were nowhere to be seen—but the creature did not stop Gavin from kneeling by the fallen man’s side and checking his wounds. Gap-tooth’s eyes were open, but they were staring up into the sky, seeing nothing more than the eternal fog of death. Blood dripped down the man’s side and into the sand. A slow drip, each drop taking longer to fall than the last.

Gavin used his free hand to push himself from his knees and back onto his feet. He felt numb inside, though he had encountered death before. He had courted, more than once, his own death as he would a lover, but this was different. This was a death that was completely and totally unnecessary, a pointless death. Why had the man threatened them? Why couldn’t he have simply gone along with the rest of his clan and left peacefully to make a new start out in the desert? This was what his earlier stunt had been trying to avoid—there was so much death, so much fighting already in the history of the Rahuli people, their recent history most notably. If he’d been able to unite them, if he’d been able to become their ruler, perhaps he could have prevented this.

Gavin pushed those thoughts aside. It was done. There was nothing to be done about it now. The water was spilt, the sands drinking it up before any of it could be saved. There was nothing left to do except attempt to locate more water.

He glanced up and into the eyes of the giant aevian. Black orbs, each the size of Gavin’s balled fist, regarded him without blinking. The creature’s wickedly hooked beak seemed to glisten with a deep red luster, though there was no wet blood on it. That lay drying on the aevian’s foot-long talons. Gavin stood there, gaze locked with that of the aevian, for what seemed like an eternity. Then, with a sudden shriek, the creature spread its wings and launched into the air.

Gavin ducked, but was still struck by one of the wings as the aevian flew into the air. The force of the blow nearly stunned him, but he kept his feet and watched the enormous creature speed through the air and alight high along the wall in its usual spot above the other aevians.

“I did warn them it wouldn’t be as simple as they thought,” Farah said, walking up beside him.

Gavin turned to regard her. The young woman looked down at Gap-tooth’s body, expression unreadable. But there was more to reading a person’s emotions than simply an expression. Her shoulders were set, arms rigid, posture erect.

“You think he got was he deserved,” Gavin said, finally breaking the silence and sheathing his greatsword.

Farah shrugged. “Whether I do or not makes no difference, really. He’s dead now.”

Gavin disagreed. How one reacted to situations one could not change were often the defining moments of character, at least according to his grandmother, but he didn’t press the issue.

Part of him agreed with her, honestly. The man had been warned. And Gavin wasn’t about to argue with one of the few people who showed him any sort of friendship. Not when so many others were against him.

“Do you know who he is?” Gavin asked, finally pulling his gaze away from the aevian and turning back to look down at Gap-tooth’s still form.

Farah shook her head. “No, but I think it’s safe to assume he was either a Londik or a Heltorin.”

“Assuming is never safe,” Gavin said, feeling an odd weight settle onto his shoulders. “I have a feeling his death is simply going to make our lives even more difficult.”

Farah didn’t disagree.

“Thank you, by the way,” Gavin said.

Farah looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. “For?”

“For helping.”

Farah grinned.

“Though this scholar mentioned earlier that he would not venture into religious speculation when none is warranted, he would also be unduly lax in his dissertation on this subject were he not to include the fact that these two races are, by their very nature, linked by the Progressions and each successive Iteration upon that path.”

—From
Commentary on the
Schema, Volume I

Nikanor was a storms-cursed, light-blinded
idiot
, Samsin decided, despite running a good plantation. After his third time tripping over a bunch of loose rocks that morning, Samsin had just about decided to turn around and head back for the manor. Leave that idiot to freeze to death in the mountains. He’d deserve it after everything he’d put Samsin through.

Though the sun hadn’t even risen past the horizon when Samsin had left the manor that morning, Nikanor’s path had been simple enough to follow. As an Earth Ward, Nikanor kept to the areas with the most stone, and so Samsin had followed the paved roadway. By the time the sun had risen, Samsin had found the signs of Nikanor’s path and he now followed those as well as the road—if one could call it that. After centuries of infrequent use, the cobblestones had broken up or come loose, as Samsin’s throbbing ankle could testify.

Samsin scowled and stopped for a brief rest, leaning against his spear. Sweat ran down his face and his hair lay plastered against his cheek. Samsin fished out a handkerchief and mopped away the sweat. On the deck of a ship after a fight with another crew over shipping territories, when the heat of battle forced the moisture out to mingle with the salty spray—that was a deserving sweat. But this was just the opposite. Samsin sniffed and tossed the soaked cloth aside.
Fool Nikanor.

Samsin groaned and pushed himself back upright. The sun was already almost at its zenith and he was no closer to catching Nikanor. He fished some stale food out of his pack and ate while he walked. How low had he come, to actually
want
to eat and move at the same time? How barbaric. He shuddered to think what his fellow Storm Wards would say if they saw him eating tasteless dried meat and bread while
walking
through a deserted, godless place such as this. Samsin ground his teeth together against the indignity, but kept on walking.

Around noon, Samsin saw signs that Nikanor had stopped for at least an hour. The remnants of a fire rested in a shallow depression near the side of the trail, hollowed out in the stone by Nikanor’s powers. It only took Samsin a few moments to realize that Nikanor had left the remains out on purpose for Samsin to find. The Earth Ward could just have easily pulled the earth and stone back into the pit in order to cover the evidence of the fire, but he hadn’t. That meant two things. First, that Nikanor knew he was being followed. Second, that he
wanted
to be.

Samsin almost turned around right then. But then if he’d wanted to turn back, he never should have left in the first place. As much as Nikanor irritated him, as much as the Earth Ward represented everything which Samsin didn’t, Samsin had grown to like the man, even if he did want to strangle him sometimes.

He growled, pushing the emotionally charged thoughts aside. He was going to bring Nikanor back, that was it, nothing more. It was the right thing to do. It was the pragmatic thing to do.

That was all.

Night began to fall with terrifying swiftness. Samsin felt the heat sapped from the air along with the light. He felt a brief moment of panic before pride shoved it down and strangled it into submission. He’d fully expected to have found Nikanor by now and be halfway back to the plantation, but the man had remained elusive.

Samsin groaned and stepped to the side of the path into a thick stand of trees, their waxy, broad leaves forming some measure of protection against the elements. There was a storm coming, only a few hours away. Samsin had contemplated simply dismissing the storm, but decided against it. The weather systems were interconnected, each storm in this part of the world having an effect on every other part as well. That was why he’d taken several weeks to coax together the storm he’d called down to water the plantation earlier.

He sighed and unshouldered his pack, grateful to have the weight off his shoulders, not that it was especially heavy. It was the indignity of the thing. Slaves wore packs and bore burdens, slaves and other beast of burden. Samsin was a Storm Ward, for wind’s sake, an Orinai.

He sniffed and fished in his pack for a striker. Indignities piled on top of indignities.

“Usually,” said a voice from the darkness, “one gathers wood before trying to start a fire.”

Samsin reached for his spear before his mind caught up with his actions and he realized who was speaking. Nikanor stepped out of the shadows between the trees. Samsin scowled, but Nikanor had the indecency to look pleased with himself.
Pleased.

“What in the seven hells are you doing?” Samsin hissed.

Nikanor removed his pack—it was even larger than Samsin’s—and took a seat in the dirt. “Sitting.” he said.

“You storms-cursed son of a—” Samsin began, but the curse degenerated into simple splutters and inarticulate sounds.

Nikanor chuckled softly. “I’ll go get some firewood.”

“You’ll stay right there!” Samsin thundered. “I’ve spent an entire day chasing you down, you idiot! I walked all the way here. I’ve got blisters on my feet and I’m wearing ripped clothing. I carried my own pack, for storm’s sake!”

Nikanor’s expression didn’t change, which infuriated Samsin even more.

“What are you trying to prove, Nikanor? Why didn’t you just send the message?”

Samsin seethed, feeling a storm raging within himself. The wind picked up around him, tossing leaves and debris into the air.

Nikanor raised an eyebrow, which only served to irritate Samsin even further.

“Don’t sit there with your judgmental looks saying nothing, Nikanor. Speak!”

“Peace, Samsin,” Nikanor said. “All will be explained in due time.”

“No, not in due time. Now.” Samsin wrapped his will around the storm within, containing it to manageable levels, which stilled the external winds.

Nikanor didn’t answer immediately. Darkness fell over them like a thick blanket, bringing with it a symphony of sound. Night insects buzzed, clicked and chirped. Night birds hooted or screamed their victory to the air as they captured prey or made some other conquest. Samsin shivered as a chill settled over him.

Finally, Nikanor spoke. “I will answer your questions, Samsin. It is far too dark now to do any traveling. Let me gather some wood and start a fire, then we will talk.”

Samsin grunted, his frustration and anger spent. If he had to wait a little bit for answers, at least he’d be warm when they came.

Nikanor got to his feet while Samsin dug in his pack for the thick cloak he knew would be in there. He found it and donned the heavy garment as Nikanor vanished into the darkness. The cloth itched, but it immediately warmed him.

Nikanor returned a few minutes later with an armload of branches. Within a few minutes he had a fire going, using his power to create a shallow depression in the earth for the flames. Samsin held out his hands to the fire, more grateful than he’d care to admit.

“Alright then, Nikanor,” Samsin said. “Speak.”

“What is it you want to know?”

“Why are you doing this?”

Nikanor shrugged. “I have to know.”

“Come on, Nikanor. There’s more to it than that. I’ve seen you take a month to decide where to plant vegetables. You decided to do this in less than a day. You’ve only been waiting on the preparations to be done.”

Nikanor shrugged. “I have to know. You know the stories of the Sharani Arena, Samsin. We all heard them as children. We see remnants of the society from that time in all the big cities, the monoliths to the Orinai magic users and the murals of the great wars. Slaves drove out the greatest warriors of an age, Samsin.
Slaves.
Slaves and prisoners, the dregs of the Orinai society, drove out the
best
of us. You can’t tell me you don’t want to know if those stories are true.”

Samsin snorted. “They’re just stories, Nikanor. You’d have me believe one of the Seven Sisters turned on the other six? You’d have me believe that two of the greatest magic users ever decided to kill one of the remaining Sisters in support of the slaves and outcasts?”

Nikanor shrugged.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Storms above, the stories say they created
monsters
out of their own children to drive us out. My mother used to threaten to turn me into a monster when I refused to go to bed at night. They’re just stories.”

“Are they?” Nikanor asked.

Samsin opened his mouth and then closed it again. Two little words, completely insignificant on their own, but they created doubt. No, they augmented the doubt Samsin was surprised to recognize was already there.

“By the seven hells,” Samsin swore. “Curse you and your fool ideas. I’m not one of you. Even if the stories
are
true, what will it prove? As soon as the Sisters find out that they’re still alive up here, they’ll send the entire army to destroy them. Storms above, man, they’ll probably come up here themselves and obliterate the entire place. You realize Sellia was supposedly
there
when it happened.”

Nikanor blinked, obviously startled. “You use the Sister’s name and you warn me about idiocy?”

Samsin shifted uncomfortably, but didn’t answer Nikanor’s implied question. Samsin’s family worked directly with the Seven Sisters in some areas of political overlap. He had grown used to referring to many of them by their names rather than their title. For someone on the fringes of the political spectrum, that familiarity was borderline treasonous. For Samsin, it was a testament to political clout, even if it only worked some of the time.

“Have you ever seen them, Nikanor? The Sisters, I mean?” Samsin asked.

Nikanor shook his head.

Samsin shuddered. “They call it a second tier Iteration, but it is so much more than that. When they consume the blood of another magic user they gain their powers for a time, they gain life and strength, and power. All the powers are interconnected within their own element, but the blood mages have access to all three. You should thank the storms there’s only seven of them.”

“I know,” Nikanor said softly. “But I’m going anyway. I have to know for myself, Samsin. I—” He trailed off.

Samsin ran a hand through his hair and sighed. The fire crackled and popped, dying down as it consumed its fuel.

“I want no part of this insanity, Nikanor,” Samsin finally hissed. “You don’t even know where it is. The location has been lost to time. All we know is that it was beyond the Hemlin pass up in the mountains.”

Nikanor shrugged. “I’m still going anyway. I’ll find it.”

Samsin frowned at the tone. “You know where it is, don’t you?”

Nikanor looked away. “And if I do?”

“Where?”

Nikanor shook his head. “If you want to know, you’ll have to accompany me. You wouldn’t want your missives to the Sisters to leave out that important detail, would you?”

For a moment, Samsin felt a spike of alarm. How did Nikanor know he’d written those letters to the Sisters? Then he got ahold of his emotions.

“So you do intend to tell them then?” Samsin asked.

“Of course. But only
after
I’ve seen it for myself. You may have the political clout to send them speculation as fact, but I do not. If I can go there and bring back proof, there will be no risk to me or mine. I—” Nikanor hesitated. “I know you don’t care about me or mine, but you’ve lived here among us for three years. This is my home—these lands, my lands. They’re a part of me, as the storms are a part of you. If I can protect my lands, my possessions, I will.”

The plantation Nikanor owned was pithy by Samsin’s standard, barely adequate to be called a hovel, even with the lovely bath he’d had built, but it was Nikanor’s home. It was all he had, passed down from generation to generation, Earth Ward to Earth Ward. Nikanor wasn’t being foolish—well, not entirely foolish—he was being
protective.