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3 - Thunder

They cut through the edge of the dust plume into utter destruction. The crumbled remains of the wall guard living quarters greeted them. Normally clinging to the inside of the wall like an insect hive, they had become a rockfall. Warun’s home, though small, hung high above the tallest buildings and offered an enviable view of the city—at least it used to. The thought that his home and his few belongings were crushed in this pile retched his hollow gut.

The screams and cries of Taekans echoed off the rubble. The streets had widened, though they were tougher to navigate with magic sputtering out of broken blocks and sheared metalworking. A shattered lantern combusted into a disk of bright blue flame. It danced, innocently at first. Then, like a masterful swordsman, it sliced at unpredictable angles into whatever buildings remained standing. It weakened quickly, fizzling to a puff of smoke, but not before converting five stone houses to rubble.

Warun had understood the city to be stronger than this. Its homes, taverns, forges, and the like were all fortified with magic. It must have been a more foul magic that invaded these streets.

“We have to do something,” Dolo said.

“Maybe we can head them off. Redirect them.”

“You think something this powerful can be controlled?”

“Not controlled,” Warun said. “Steered. Most of the group will be blind. They follow the tail of what’s ahead of them. That is their only guidance.”

Dolo nodded. “Follow me.”

“To where?”

“The tunnels.”

Warun did not know which tunnels Dolo referred to, but he did know time was every bit their enemy as the storm that ravaged the city. He nudged Dolo who returned a quick nod and bolted over a metal beam humming with adolescent lightning.

There were tunnels and trick-rooms and secret chambers all over Taeko. It was part of the magical charm. As a child, Warun once stumbled upon a room behind a compost pile out the back of a tavern. It led to an indoor garden, light streaming in through cracks in the stone flooring above. An array of mirrors funneled the light to a magic marble that then diffracted it throughout the room. The walls glittered like the water at the wharf on a sunny day. He tasted the berries growing in half-barrel planters scattered throughout the space. One made his skin wrinkle and face itch under a scraggly new beard. Another offered him such lightness that he could jump and touch the high ceiling. The last filled him with such unfounded dread, he scrambled out of that place and never returned.

Dolo led them north, away from the path of destruction. Though worried they were headed away from their destination, Warrun trusted Dolo. He had not trusted him like this before. The actions outside the tower wall changed that. Usually, Dolo was a foolish, lumbering guard. He whistled and joked in their passings on the wall, and Warun regarded him as more a curiosity of West Taeko than a proper colleague. Here, though, he trusted the brute to lead them forward.

Dolo cut right. The wall was only a few moments’ pace away. They were past the influence of the wind creature’s demolition, so the wall stood strong here. Dolo halted before a gallery of thick, flowering vines crawling up the wall. He slipped between them, disappearing behind the green blanket. Warun followed, and, after struggling against the tight, creeping weave, came to face a metal grate in the stone. Dolo pushed against the grate, and it swung inward. He stepped inside, immediately vanishing into pitch darkness.

Warun took a deep breath and thrust through the round opening. Two steps into the lightless hole, he dropped. His mind ripped back to his fall from the top of the tower. The terror of certain impalement on the icy black waves compounded with the uncertainty of anything around him. It was only black. He assumed he was falling, but the sensation wrestled with his perception. Wind pressed from every direction. A westerly howl hung like a sphere all around him.

Then it all stopped, and Warun opened his eyes, which he had not realized were shut. He felt as light as he had after eating that berry in the secret basement garden. Flat on his back, a sudden urge to sleep overcame him.

Dolo swarmed Warun’s vision with knotty hands. Warun recognized the cinder burns, the sooted fingertips, and the hammer’s grip around his shoulders. These were the hands of a fellow smith. Dolo lifted Warun to his feet and nodded to follow.

They ran through a tunnel, lit by magic lanterns and slicked with an oil that seeped in from above. It dripped on their heads. Warun felt it lather in his bristly hair. It ran smooth in Dolo’s ragged wolf hide.

Warun followed Dolo left at an intersection, struggling to maintain footing on the slick floor. He noticed the difference in his stiff, sleek-soled boots from the pliant, felt-bottomed shoes of his guide. Westerners clothing was made for this oily mess.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

The patter of thunder, distant and dampened, rolled into their ears. Their testament was ahead. Warun felt a sudden urge to slip away, find a tea shop, and drink a stark brew by the hearth. He was not meant for this. He had joined his post on the wall to get away from the roughness in his family’s forge. He was not a smith, and he was not a guard. He was the impression of both, but at heart he only wanted comfort. Intuition pushed him ahead. The alternative was defeat.

They turned right. The lights dimmed, and shadows crept over Warun’s skin like tar. The dripping oil had formed a layer of ick, and Warun feared a single spark could ignite him.

Then the tunnel fell quiet, and Warun was alone. He latched onto a sconce to stop his forward slide on the oily floor. The thunder pounded heavy above. Where, though, had Dolo gone?

Then, again gripped by the shoulders, he flew up and into a pleasant, well-lit home. Wooden floorboards and magicworked furniture brought the tea shop comfort Warun longed for.

Dolo interrupted with a slap to Warun’s face. “Wake up!”

Warun jolted up. It wasn’t a tea shop, but they were out of the tunnel. And the stampede was louder than ever.

“How do we divert them?” Dolo asked.

Dazed, Warun said, “I’m not sure. I hadn’t thought about how.”

The wall next to them erupted. Stone and mortar splayed over them. The grunts and squeals of rabid animals drowned the air. Something slammed Warun at the knees, sending him wheeling through the alley. He heard Dolo’s calls, but the perpetual pounding muddled his bearings. Dolo could have been carried away to the wharf or leaning against his back, and Warun would not know the difference.

Standing, Warun rubbed the fresh dusting off his goggles. He looked left and found a broken metal beam like those his family made. It shimmered against the drab dustiness of the air. This was what Taeko held against the world surrounding it. Nowhere he knew of leveraged magic the way they did.

Warun knew the magic imbued into this beam. It drained water was collected from the humidity or during rain then redirected to a basin and used for whatever purpose the building required. It was common, likely one of thousands battered in the streets. Warun ran to it. He felt its cold, damp surface. It was saturated with water. He recalled his father’s training and of the capabilities of this magic metalwork. He needed a hammer.

Another stampeding crash into a neighboring building forced Warun under cover. Once the air cleared, he looked up toward the mid-day sun. The surrounding buildings, twice impacted by strays from the stampede, were on the verge of collapse. A glint through the settling dust caught Warun’s eye—a cooking pan. It was not a hammer, but it would work.

He slid toward it, spraying rocks and shattered tiles. Under threat of the building’s collapse, he worked fast. He returned to the water beam in an instant. He took in a long breath and coughed out dust and hesitation. He held the pan to the beam. Striking it in just the right way, causing a very particular resonance in the beam, he could, by his father’s teachings, conjure a storm. It would be small, but combining its strength with other storms summoned at other beams, it could work to drive down the dust. And if he could find a grounding beam, he could control lightning strikes. It was risky—and stupid, but the alternative was the continued destruction of the city.

He wound his arm back and focused on the words his father taught him. Swing hard and fast. Pull back before even making contact. Strike the beam for only a blink and follow through.

With an outward breath, he swung. The pan arced like a bird snatching its prey and retreating toward the sun. The air danced. A single note, deep as the horn and piercing as the bell, cascaded from the beam. A moment later, thunder cracked—real thunder.

Warun was in disbelief. He stared at the humming pan, ratcheting it down before the static from the storm could coalesce into it. The storm was small and would diminish soon without added momentum.

“Warun!”

Warun turned to find Dolo cowering beneath a tent of broken walls. He stepped out into the drizzle and gripped Warun around the back.

“Did you do this?” he asked. “You’re a damn Ezard!”

“No,” Warun assured. “Just a well-trained smith.”

“Huh, they don’t teach us stuff like that on the west side.”

“We need to find more water beams,” Warun said.

“On it.” Dolo dashed off.

The stampede quieted. It had progressed deeper in the city. With the air clear of dust, Warun recognized the local architecture. They were still in what was considered East Taeko, but the density of ground drainages suggested they were closer to the coast.

“Found one!” Dolo yelled.

The two of them darted between rubble piles, ringing in the storm with each resonant strike. Though unsure where the stampede had progressed, they could at least calm the dust clouds and fire smoke. People emerged from their broken homes. Children danced in the rain. It brought a smile to Warun’s face, though he knew chaos continued deeper in the city.

“This is fun,” Dolo said. “Much more exciting than guarding the wall.”

Warun paused for breath but offered Dolo a smile. “I hope the Ezard can—”

A bullet of wind cut between Warun and Dolo. It knocked them to their knees and forced a gasp for air, much of which had been carried away. Citizens murmured and retreated back into their crumbling homes or the safety of neighbors’ basements.

“Was that the thing that took down the wall?” Dolo asked.

Warun nodded. “It’s headed to the wharf.”

“Should we follow?”

The air warmed and the sound of melodic thunder approached them from behind. They turned to see the great Ezard Scohr. She rushed forward, reflecting rain with a formless umbrella and lighting her wake with a trail of flame. Like a boulder charging down the mountainside, she barrelled past them and toward the wind creature.

Warun said, “Yes, let’s follow.”