Glenda Larke - Stormlord rising

"So we meet again, Gibber boy," Davim said, and his voice was almost a snarl. "Leave him be, Ravard. This one's mine."

"If my sword falls away from his throat, he'll act," Ravard warned, and his eyes never shifted from Jasper's.

"He's mine!" Davim cried, and brought his pede closer to face Jasper's, on the other side from Mica.

Jasper flicked his gaze from Mica to Davim. The brightness of the glitter in the sandmaster's eyes was fuelled by contempt and hate.

Because I'm a stormlord. He needs no other reason.

Mica shrugged and gave a slight quirk of his lips as if to say: What does it matter? He dropped his sword and moved out of the way. Jasper exploded the wall of water into Davim's face.

And Iani, appearing out of nowhere, flung his dagger straight and true into the sandmaster's back. "No," the rainlord said as the blade thunked home, "you are mine, Davim. For Qanatend and Moiqa."

For a moment, nothing changed. Then Davim's scimitar dropped from his hand and he fell forward, toppling toward Jasper. Instinctively, Jasper raised his spear. Unseated and spewing blood, the sandmaster fell against the point, impaling himself. Soaked in blood and shuddering, Jasper pushed him away. Davim slipped from the steel of the spearhead and, his eyes wide in shock, crashed to the ground. He lay there on his back, looking up at Jasper with an expression of disbelief on his face as his life dribbled away.

"Look, Lyneth! He's dead. I told you, m'dear. I told you I'd do it." Iani lifted his head and tried to grin in Jasper's direction, but his twisted mouth drooped on one side, producing an ugly scowl instead.

"For Citrine," Jasper said.

Davim heard the words, but they made no sense to him at all. By the time Jasper thought to look around, he was surrounded by Alabasters and Scarpermen. Mica had gone, melted away into the fight in front of the cavern. A bullroarer sounded a moment later, and the sound was taken up in ululations uttered by the Reduner warriors.

The scene was confused. Reduner bladesmen on foot were sprinting away. The fight was abruptly broken off all over the clearing. The Reduners were retreating on the run, their pedes with them. And everywhere Jasper's men, exhausted and wounded as they were, let them go.

Feroze rode up, holding a piece of cloth ripped from his robe to the side of his head. His ear had been half torn off. He looked down at Davim. "Isn't that the sandmaster?" he asked.

"Yes," Iani said. He jabbed the body over with his foot. "He's dead." He looked up at Jasper. "I think we should go after them. We need to free Qanatend, and if they are allowed to reinforce the men they already have in the city-"

"Iani, they still number more than we do. We won because we had a stormlord and rainlords. And we are all exhausted. Look at you-you couldn't raise a drop of water from a cup in your hand. If our men go after the Reduners with us in this state, more of them will die."

"More of us will die when we free Qanatend if we wait," he returned.

Feroze shook his head. "If we follow them now, there's not much we can do. They can block the whole wash with a few men while the main force gets clean away. We should follow with the main force tomorrow once we have recovered our water-powers."

"Feroze is right," Jasper agreed.

"Who was that ye were chatting to in the middle of the battle just then?" Feroze asked, wincing as he pressed the cloth to his ear.

"The new sandmaster of the Watergatherer," Jasper replied. "He was the Master Son until a moment ago."

"And is he likely to be a thorn in the foot in the future?"

When the long silence threatened to become embarrassing, Jasper forced the words out, trying to conceal the anguish behind them. "Yes. I rather think so. He also believes in a return to a Time of Random Rain. I'd like to say I could persuade him otherwise, if we were to meet again-but I suspect I would be lying."

Oh, Mica. It should never have been like this.

Feroze heaved a sigh, then grimaced at the pain in his wounded ear.

The sun had set, but there was still enough light in the sky to see by, now that the storm cloud was gone. Some of the more resourceful men were already pillaging the cavern for torches and lanterns.

Jasper, so fatigued his hands shook and he had to clench them into fists, took a moment to look around, but his head was having trouble understanding what he was seeing. The ground was littered with bodies of the wounded and the dead, their allegiance now irrelevant. Lord Gold was directing men to carry the injured into the cavern. One of the waterpriest rainlords from Pediment was methodically checking each body to see if they really were lifeless. Her clothes were torn and the whole side of her face was bruised. Several Gibbermen were walking behind her, collecting all the weapons. Off to one side, Messenjer held the corpse of Cullet, his eldest son-the one Terelle had never liked.

She'll be glad it isn't Sardi, Jasper thought.

Dibble was anxiously hovering at his elbow, inquiring periodically if he was injured. He shook his head. "Not as badly as you are," he replied, taking in Dibble's bleeding shoulder, cut wrist and bruised face. "Waterless skies, man, get a physician or a waterpriest to look at that shoulder. That's an order. And get someone to do a count of all my guard. I want to know how many are still fit, and how many dead."

As Dibble left, Jasper turned to Iani and Feroze. "I'd like figures from everyone."

Iani nodded. He spared another glance for Davim's body as he turned to go. "So much damage and sorrow," he said sadly. "And for what? Moiqa is still dead." He looked back up at Jasper. "And I don't know why I'm still alive. I never wanted to be. So many good men dead, and this stupid husk of a man with his dribble and his limp lives on. I've lost the only woman I ever cared for, and the only child I ever had. Why would I want to go on living?"

"I need you," Jasper said simply. "Maybe that's why."

Iani grunted. "Maybe. Maybe. Lyneth, oh, my little Lyneth. Four years in the hands of that monster…" His mumbling faded as he walked away with Feroze.

Jasper headed toward the waterhall, knowing he had to see what was left of his pitiful army who had fought so well. Knowing he had to see who was dead and who was alive.

The first person he came across inside the cavern was Laisa. Her clothes were torn, her chin was badly grazed from her fall, and she had a scimitar slash across the back of her arm. A physician had sewn it up for her, and now Terelle was bandaging it with a piece of cloth torn from a dead Reduner's sleeve. They were arguing as she worked, Laisa snarling and cursing Terelle between gasps of pain, Terelle growling back, telling her to keep still. It was plain they loathed each other; it was equally plain, at least to Jasper, that each had developed a wary respect for the other that had nothing to do with esteem.

As Jasper stood and watched, his need of Terelle swamped him. How could he ever do without her? And yet he must. If the Quartern was to have stormlords, she would have to bring them. If she was ever to be free of her waterpainted future, she had to live that future.

As she tied off the bandage and leaned back away from Laisa, he heard her say, "Just keep your brat of a daughter out of my way. Or I might be tempted to paint her, and believe me, she wouldn't like the result." Then she looked up and saw him. She came across, both hands held out to take his. They stood like that for a long moment of silence and need.

"What are you doing down here?" he asked. "You should have waited up at the camp."

"I stayed there until I saw the Reduners leave. I worried," she said. "I lost sight of you in the battle. And Senya was worried about her mother. For once we found we had something in common, so we came down the slope to find you both."