Chapter Forty-Eight: The Sword and the Storm

“She always seemed a different person in the storms. Faster, stronger, more… alive. Sometimes she was unpredictable like the wind. Other times she was calm, like the eye. One thing was for certain—you did not provoke the Lady when there were stormclouds on the horizon.”

—Turnis Hibernon, The Stormdancer

The Celadons pawed at the mud, squinting into the rain. The stormclouds were coming closer, a dark grey, almost black tumult rolling across the sky. Forks of lightning licked at the mountaintops followed by distant cracks, like the cracking of whips.

Worgals hurried across the camp, taking down their tents, packing up their meat-cleavers and supplies. The children huddled inside their cages away from where the rain lashed their faces, watching. They had been held captive for days now, some of them weeks, fed nothing but water. Piles of waste and urine lay strewn across the floor of the cage, the floor that was their bed and toilet. They had long since given up hope of escape, living an endless nightmare where the wolfmen ate them one by one.

The first bolt of lightning struck a nearby tree, frightening the younger children. They began to cry as the wind picked up, buffeting the small cages that held them.

The second bolt of lightning struck soon after, but it wasn’t lightning. It was a golden sword in the storm, carving a path to freedom.

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Three Worgals. Three Worgals dead, eleven remaining. Ein left their corpses in the mud, searching for his next victims. He was the hunter. They were the prey.

Tushar and the two Darmouthers crawled out from the cage, shouting above the rain, but he ignored them. A red mist had crept into the corners of his eyes. He saw a Worgal emerge from a tent and pounced. Seven metres became one in the blink of an eye, and he thrust his sword so deep into its chest that his entire hand buried itself into soft flesh.

Four Worgals. The relict let out a death-howl, drawing attention to the rest of its pack. One of them freed the Celadons, and they began to stream towards him.

The sky flickered. When had the rain become a storm? It was almost night now, the clouds as black as ash. He cleaved a Worgal in half, listening to the splash it made as it hit the ground. It was music to his ears. He hummed an unfamiliar tune on his lips, feeling his hairs stand on end. It was like his body had been charged by the lightning. He felt incredible. Strong, fast, like a demon. Maybe he was a demon, a demon of the storm.

Five Worgals. The remaining eleven had taken up shortbows and were firing wildly into the darkness. Ein heard shouts and screams, the pattering of little footsteps splashing through the mud. They were freed. Who? He didn’t know. He just knew that the Worgals had to die. He would break them and rip them, as they’d done to the Masters and Mistresses in Felhaven. He would leave no bone unbroken.

Arrows thudded into his body, drawing blood. They were little more than pinpricks, like the thousands of raindrops that pummeled him every second. He ripped an arrow from his thigh and looked at it. It was red.

The Celadons howled as well and charged him. There were seven of them, one for each cage and another three for the supply carts. He roared and charged them in return. He rammed into one head on, shoving it out of the way. His shoulder popped, but he shrugged it back into place. In a single bound, he landed in the midst of the Worgals, teeth bared.

Six Worgals. Seven, Eight. They fell to his blade, slithering in and out of throats and chests like a golden viper. He felt his skin tear. It was irritating, like the gnats in summer. The storm roared again, and a surge of energy anew shot through his veins.

Kill them. Kill them all.

Nine Worgals. Ten Worgals. He caught one of their blades with his bare hand, feeling it bite into his flesh. Pain was good. Pain meant he was still alive. His sword flashed, seeking its next target, guided by the wind. Alend stood on one side of him, whispering teachings into his ear. Garax was on the other, telling him to remember the Way of the Wind. Be fluid and formless, evershifting, everchanging. Be invisible until the moment you draw blood. Eleven, Twelve Worgals. One Celadon. They were all the same to him, animals that needed to be slaughtered.

More arrows sprouted along his arm. The remaining two wolfmen had fallen back to the trees. They were frightened. He could see it in the way they held themselves, smell it in the air, taste it. It was a delicious scent. Celadons knocked him back. He grabbed one of them by the horns and pulled them apart, opening the beast’s head in a spray of blood. He yanked his arm from one of their jaws and sank his teeth into its throat, feeling liquid explode inside his mouth. Three Celadons.

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More arrows. More jostling, more red. There was so much red on his body. He was beginning to have trouble thinking. Why was it so quiet? The Celadons were gnashing their teeth, the Worgals snapping their jaws at each other from across the treeline, but he heard nothing. Had the children escaped? The villagers?

Ein brought his sword up to strike, but it didn’t obey. He took a step forward and fell to his knees. He suddenly felt sleepy, as if he’d eaten a large meal at Evaine’s house. He smiled. He wanted to see her again. He’d never told her how much he enjoyed her company.

Then, he decided he’d had enough. The sky was dark, almost as dark as night. Good boys should be sleeping at night. He was a good boy so he closed his eyes, welcoming the darkness...

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“With me! We have to hurry!”

Aeos bolted after the Guidelight, scrabbling across the wet rock. Rhinne and Garax followed him, startled by his urgency.

“What are you doing?” the girl cried, struggling to be heard above the wind. “We shouldn’t rush into this! There are relicts up ahead, at least a dozen of them!”

“No,” Aeos called in return. “You don’t understand. It’s Ein! He needs our help!”

He’d felt it a few minutes ago, a sudden drain on his Spirit as if the strength were being sucked from his limbs. He’d felt it before when the Kingsblades back home had fought, striking each other hard enough to crack metal, bounding across the courtyards in a single step. Ein was fighting, and he was fighting hard—and the tether was growing weaker.

Blasted kid, he thought. What the blazes was he doing to use up so much of his Spirit?

He stopped on a rocky outcrop to catch his breath. Rhinne landed lightly beside him, looking around.

“You’re right,” she said, panting. “The relict camp isn’t far from here. But I can smell people, too.”

“The children of Darmouth,” Garax said, wiping the rain from his eyes.

Rhinne’s face clouded over. “I smell blood. Human blood.” And she suddenly sprinted off, casting her hesitation behind.

They hurried through the trees, racing up and down the slopes. Aeos heard barks and growls in the distance, whimpers, and the shrill cries of children. Rain sprayed into his eyes, blinding him. His clothes had long since soaked, his feet once again sodden in his boots.

“There he is!” Rhinne cried from up ahead. She stopped short beside the tree, ducking as Worgal swung a shortbow at her from nowhere. She drew her knife and stabbed it in one swift motion, burning a hole in its chest with her breath. A second Worgal fired at them and missed. Garax was on it in an instant, Darksteel glinting, taking off its head.

They gathered at the edge of the trees, looking down at what remained of the camp. The cages had been busted open and three men were leading the children away, wading through the sea of corpses. In the centre was Ein, blood streaming from his wounds, surrounded by piles of relicts. Four Celadons circled him, edging back and forth, jaws snapping. He thrust and slashed at them but they stayed just out of reach.

“Ein!” Rhinne screamed.

He didn’t hear her, staggering like a drunk. There was a glazed look in his eyes, the eyes of a person who saw only red. The Celadons spaced themselves until they were surrounding him, preparing to attack.

Rhinne tried to race down to the clearing, but Aeos stopped her.

“What are you doing?” she cried, shaking him off.

The sky suddenly flickered, blindingly white like the sun. Black spots danced around his vision. He felt the Spirit leave him, turning his arms and legs to lead, his stomach lurching violently. He fell to all fours, suddenly short of breath. Garax moved to help him up.

“Rhinne,” he managed. “Get… down…”

At the campsite below them, the Celadons pounced. Ein raised his sword to the sky and howled.

It was terrifying, a bolt of pure light racing down to the ground, cracking it like a hammer. The sound echoed inside his ears, tearing his eardrums, reverberating inside his skull. He became blind and deaf for a moment, numb to the rain and wind. All he smelled was smoke and fire.

Slowly, his senses returned. There was dirt in his mouth, slick and bitter against his tongue. Head spinning, he saw Rhinne and Garax on the mud beside him, twitching and groaning like insects slapped out of the sky.

A massive crater surrounded Ein, sizzling with flames that were already beginning to die. A cloud of thick, dusky smoke bled into the air, drawing tears from his eyes. The relicts were dead, scorched to black crisps around him.

“Ein!” Rhinne croaked, coughing into the crook of her arm. “The Fire burn me, what the hell was that?”

She stumbled to her feet but fell back down again. More sounds came back to Aeos; the patter of rain and the howl of the wind. Figures emerged from the trees—the three dark-skinned natives talking to each other in awe, the children watching, some of the younger ones crying.

Garax was the first to his feet, hobbling down to Ein, using his sword as a crutch. He helped the boy up, draped an arm across his shoulder. Ein blinked hazily, his head hung low, his body dyed red. They were chanting, the villagers. They chanted as Garax, and then Aeos and Rhinne went down to help carry Ein, bringing him step by step out of the crater. Then, the children let out an ecstatic cheer.

“Talam,” they cried. “Talam!”

And as they chanted, the rain became a drizzle and then a fine mist, and the sky lightened. The storm passed over their heads, finally coming to an end.