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Authors: Russell Kirkpatrick
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him.
Time to find out.
He strode forward and stood in the path of the largest funnel.
Drawn by all three people they were hunting, the fingers of the gods came together in the open space between Suggate and the Money Exchange. Now everyone could see the storm for what it was. Noetos shouted something to his children, then waved at them, and they drew away from him. The vast hand of the gods closed around the Fisher, obscuring him from sight.
The guttural roar made by the wind thrummed through Bregor like the sound of betrayal. Here, a man made sacrifice for others. This man had led a powerful invader away from his friends, not towards them. How could Bregor not feel guilt, molten, leaden guilt, in his chest as he watched?
Despite his guilt, he hoped the storm’s wrath would end with the death of the Fisher. He even hoped, for the man’s sake, it happened quickly.
With a jerk the curtain of cloud rose up into the suddenly lightening sky. A loud rumble shook the ground. The four fingers and dark thumb twitched, elongated, and seemed to grow old and spindly before his eyes. Their attenuated shapes coalesced, then fell from the sky with a sound that was more sigh than crash.
What has Noetos done?
The dust and debris took an age to settle.
Noetos raised the huanu stone as all around him debris battered the ground. Something solid spun out of the nearest finger: a chunk of masonry coming straight towards him, nearly taking off his head. His ears buzzed and popped with the force of the wind, forcing him to swallow. Contrary winds battered at him, and he fell to one knee—his good knee—to brace himself. So a gnat would brace against the shoe about to stamp it out.
Would his heart burst from his chest before the wind took him? Would the wind kill him, or would he be pierced through with debris, or would it be the fall? Had Gawl felt such terror?
The nearest finger held back. Two fingers spun forward, flanking the first. But it was the fourth, the most slender finger, that touched him first.
The tentative blow did nothing more than knock him down, spreading him flat on the ground, which shook. He was on his back, eyes closed. He opened them, and held up the huanu stone. Funnels hovered above him, ready to claim him, plucking at him but seemingly unable to gain purchase. One twitched, as though a spear had been driven into its side. A second reached towards him, then it too began to spasm. As did the next, and the next. With an almost human howl the last whirlwind, the thumb-like wedge, drove towards him like a sword thrust. But, like the others, it broke itself against something—the power in his hand—and lifted, whirling, screaming, contracting, thrashing like a snake severed in two. Then came a sound like the angry hiss of a god’s breath, and the storm collapsed.
All was quiet for the briefest moment. Then stones, mud, timber and organic things came crashing to the ground all around him. Nothing hit him—it was as though he knelt within an invisible room—but he remained tense nonetheless.
The crashing ceased. Dust, dirt and leaves drifted to the ground, coating the borders of his invisible room with fine grit. Then the room vanished and the dust and dirt filtered down on top of him.
‘Noetos! Fisher!’
Voices calling for him, hands reaching for him, pulling him to his feet, dusting off his tunic, slapping him on the back. He blinked open mud-caked eyes.
‘Is everyone…are there survivors?’ he asked, took a deep sigh of relief, inhaled too much dust and began to cough desperately.
‘We are as you see us,’ Bregor told him, and indicated the hundred or more Racemen who had witnessed the death of the storm.
‘I thought it had me, friend.’ Noetos coughed again. ‘Whatever it was.’
‘Seems I was wrong to doubt you, Fisher. Your daughter she is, as you said, beyond a doubt; and on her heels, and the heels of your family, are the very portals of death.’
‘So it seems,’ Noetos said
Time to find out.
He strode forward and stood in the path of the largest funnel.
Drawn by all three people they were hunting, the fingers of the gods came together in the open space between Suggate and the Money Exchange. Now everyone could see the storm for what it was. Noetos shouted something to his children, then waved at them, and they drew away from him. The vast hand of the gods closed around the Fisher, obscuring him from sight.
The guttural roar made by the wind thrummed through Bregor like the sound of betrayal. Here, a man made sacrifice for others. This man had led a powerful invader away from his friends, not towards them. How could Bregor not feel guilt, molten, leaden guilt, in his chest as he watched?
Despite his guilt, he hoped the storm’s wrath would end with the death of the Fisher. He even hoped, for the man’s sake, it happened quickly.
With a jerk the curtain of cloud rose up into the suddenly lightening sky. A loud rumble shook the ground. The four fingers and dark thumb twitched, elongated, and seemed to grow old and spindly before his eyes. Their attenuated shapes coalesced, then fell from the sky with a sound that was more sigh than crash.
What has Noetos done?
The dust and debris took an age to settle.
Noetos raised the huanu stone as all around him debris battered the ground. Something solid spun out of the nearest finger: a chunk of masonry coming straight towards him, nearly taking off his head. His ears buzzed and popped with the force of the wind, forcing him to swallow. Contrary winds battered at him, and he fell to one knee—his good knee—to brace himself. So a gnat would brace against the shoe about to stamp it out.
Would his heart burst from his chest before the wind took him? Would the wind kill him, or would he be pierced through with debris, or would it be the fall? Had Gawl felt such terror?
The nearest finger held back. Two fingers spun forward, flanking the first. But it was the fourth, the most slender finger, that touched him first.
The tentative blow did nothing more than knock him down, spreading him flat on the ground, which shook. He was on his back, eyes closed. He opened them, and held up the huanu stone. Funnels hovered above him, ready to claim him, plucking at him but seemingly unable to gain purchase. One twitched, as though a spear had been driven into its side. A second reached towards him, then it too began to spasm. As did the next, and the next. With an almost human howl the last whirlwind, the thumb-like wedge, drove towards him like a sword thrust. But, like the others, it broke itself against something—the power in his hand—and lifted, whirling, screaming, contracting, thrashing like a snake severed in two. Then came a sound like the angry hiss of a god’s breath, and the storm collapsed.
All was quiet for the briefest moment. Then stones, mud, timber and organic things came crashing to the ground all around him. Nothing hit him—it was as though he knelt within an invisible room—but he remained tense nonetheless.
The crashing ceased. Dust, dirt and leaves drifted to the ground, coating the borders of his invisible room with fine grit. Then the room vanished and the dust and dirt filtered down on top of him.
‘Noetos! Fisher!’
Voices calling for him, hands reaching for him, pulling him to his feet, dusting off his tunic, slapping him on the back. He blinked open mud-caked eyes.
‘Is everyone…are there survivors?’ he asked, took a deep sigh of relief, inhaled too much dust and began to cough desperately.
‘We are as you see us,’ Bregor told him, and indicated the hundred or more Racemen who had witnessed the death of the storm.
‘I thought it had me, friend.’ Noetos coughed again. ‘Whatever it was.’
‘Seems I was wrong to doubt you, Fisher. Your daughter she is, as you said, beyond a doubt; and on her heels, and the heels of your family, are the very portals of death.’
‘So it seems,’ Noetos said
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