Chris Pierson - Spirit of the Wind

“I said, stop!” Tragor repeated, his voice rising with fury. The broad, gleaming blade wavered in his hands “Come no closer, or-”

“Call off this yapping dog, Black-Gazer,” the woman interrupted, her voice laden with frost. “I would speak with you, and will come as close as I like to do it.”

“Impudent wretch!” Tragor barked. He leapt forward, swinging his sword in a blow meant to split the robed woman in two, across the shoulders.

She moved with amazing speed, diving and rolling under Tragor’s flashing blade. Before the champion could arrest the blow, she leapt at him, her fists swinging.

The blows-first her left hand, then her right-struck Tragor square in the stomach, below his metal breastplate. The ogre doubled over, making a high-pitched, wheezing noise, and the woman’s black-booted foot came up suddenly, catching him full in the face. There was a wet crunch as the kick broke Tragor’s nose, then the champion fell back, his face blossoming with blood. Tragor staggered, trying to keep his footing, but the woman spun, her foot lashing out again and connecting solidly with his groin. He sank to his knees, sobbing, and she seized his helmet by its plume and yanked it off. Tragor tried one last time to lift his sword, but the heel of the woman’s hand cracked against his temple, and he collapsed in a senseless, flaccid heap.

The fight had lasted less than half a minute, from first blow to last. The woman watched Tragor for a moment, making sure he wasn’t moving, then turned to face Kurthak. When she spoke, her voice was soft and calm, displaying no sign of exertion whatsoever.

“I have a proposal for you, Black-Gazer,” she said.

Reflexively, Kurthak’s grip on his club tightened, but then he glanced at Tragor’s senseless form and forced himself to relax. There were few warriors in Lord Ruog’s vast horde who could match Tragor ‘s physical prowess. Yet this strange, cloaked woman had bested him without even winding herself.

He lowered the club, his eyes fast on her. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“My name is not important.”

Kurthak shook his shaggy head. “I must know your face-at least.”

The woman considered this, then shrugged. “Very well,” she said lightly. “If it is so important to you.” She reached up and pulled back her hood.

Kurthak caught his breath in horror.

She might have been lovely once, or she might have been plain. It was impossible to tell now, for the woman no longer had anything resembling a face. Her skin was a mass of red, puckered bum scars. Her hair had been completely scorched away, leaving nothing but bare, charred scalp. Her ears, nose and lips were gone; any other features were little more than soft, indistinct lumps. Only her eyes survived, blue and glittering beneath puffy, blistered lids. They shone with cruel humor when she saw the disgust on Kurthak’s face.

“I am called Yovanna,” she told him. Her voice had not been marred by whatever had ruined her face; the contrast only made her visage more gruesome. “I bring you a message. My mistress wishes to speak with you.”

“And who is this mistress?” Kurthak asked.

“Her name is Malystryx.”

The Black-Gazer stiffened at the mention of the name. He knew stories of the great red dragon who was said to dwell to the north of the Dairly Plains, but he had never seen her. “What does she want with me?” he asked.

“She doesn’t want you,” Yovanna replied. “She wants your people, Black-Gazer. So she sent me to summon you.”

“And why should I go with you?” Kurthak pressed, his anger growing.

Yovanna regarded him carefully, her blue eyes searching. “Malystryx has been watching your people for some time,” she said. “For months, you have been raiding little kender towns.”

Kurthak thought he heard derision in her voice, but he wasn’t sure-there was no telling from her face He snorted. “For sport,” he said. “And for slaves.”

Yovanna’s face pinched and creased in what might have been a smile, but which looked like a nightmare grimace. “My mistress would like to join forces with you,” she hissed.

“If she is so powerful, why does she need our help?”

“She needs allies as her power grows.”

“What will she give me in return?” Kurthak asked. “She will give you Kendermore.”

Swiftraven reined his dappled horse and faced west, into the storm. On the horizon, black clouds were piling into the storm-green sky. They towered high, dwarfing the distant, gray line of the Kharolis Mountains. His people had a word for such clouds. Hianawek, the Gods’ Anvils. The lorekeepers had once taught that the smith-god Reorx would pound on them in summer’s, dying days, forging the coming winter. Thunder was the clashing of his great hammer, and lightning was the sparks it threw.

It was nonsense, of course. Children’s stories. Reorx’s hammer had fallen still two summers ago, when he and the other gods left the world, but the Hianawek continued to return, pounding the Plains with rain, hail, and worse things still.

The wind howled in Swiftraven’s face, rippling the golden grass like waves on the sea. The cicadas, whose droning buzz was the music of the Plains, had fallen ominously silent, and the only sounds were the distant mutter of thunder and the nervous snorting of the young warrior’s horse. The scent of rain, tinged with the ozone tang of lightning, grew steadily stronger.

The horse tossed her head, fighting the young Plainsman’s grip on her reins. He stroked her neck, then swung down from his saddle and set about hobbling her, to make sure she didn’t bolt. It was promising to be a fierce storm. The horse whickered, rolling her eyes with fear.

“Easy,” he cooed, clucking his tongue to soothe her. “It’s all right. We’re safe here.”

There was a haze beneath the clouds, promising rains heavy enough to flatten the grass that scratched at his bare knees. A few drops spat down, forerunners of the impending downpour. The Hianawek glowed as lightning danced from cloud to cloud. Counting the seconds between one such flash and the answering roll of thunder, Swiftraven gauged the storm’s distance and nodded. It would not be long. A thrill ran through him, for this was the first time he had faced the Hianawek alone. When he returned to his tribe after the storm, there would be no question of his bravery.

Focused as he was on the massive, coruscating clouds, he didn’t notice the riders until they were nearly upon him.

They were five, three astride horses and two riding ponies. There was little more he could make out, with the storm’s darkness overwhelming the Plains. They did not appear to see him at all, though, so he moved quickly. With one hand he let slip the knotted rope that kept his horse from bolting, while his other pulled his bow from the saddle. With graceful ease he strung the weapon, then climbed back up on horseback. By the time he was settled in his saddle, he had a white-fletched arrow nocked on his bowstring. He used his knees to turn the horse, then stood in his stirrups, pulled back the string, and let fly.

The shaft fell just short of the riders, which was what he’d meant it to do. Swiftraven knew, as any good archer did, that a good warning shot could tell a man much about a foe. Cowards would balk or flee, cunning opponents would seek cover, and the brave or stupid would charge. As he notched a second shaft, he noticed that the riders did none of these; they reined in, stopping where he could make a clear shot. That meant something else entirely.

The tallest of the horsemen leaned forward in his saddle, peering toward where the arrow had fallen. Swiftraven saw one of the pony riders reach for something across his back, but the tall rider raised a hand, stopping him. The young Plainsman held his breath, sighting down his arrow as the wind whipped his long, brown hair behind him.