Breath and Lightning

The air was dry, heavy with the dust of the Dogbone hills, when Sorane slipped out of the brush with the grace of a shadow. The Yinkini's news was bad, as it so often was these days: an Imperial patrol, Tarshites with a hound, was heading straight toward the cave where an old Kolati shaman was preparing to call the spirits.

I did not hesitate. I ran away from the trail, raising my thunderstone. As long as there is air to breathe, there is hope. I struck the stone. Hedkoranth's lightning answered with blinding fury, blasting a dead oak apart in a deafening crash. The patrol turned around, and Sorane's alynxes finished throwing their ranks into confusion. I vanished into thorn and limestone. The shaman was safe.

But my magic had left a trace. As I caught my breath, a dark-feathered raven settled above me. I greeted him, messenger of the Gods. He dropped a small pierced fang tied to a braid of horsehair, then flew toward Torkan Valley and the stagnant waters of Still Lake. I picked up the fetish, clenched it in my fist, and ran into the falling night.

On the muddy shore, Shepelkirt's red moon pierced the mist. I heard a hiss of pain. A huge wounded alynx stood guard over a young man collapsed in the mud. I recognized the Mudhen insignia on his tunic. Out on the black water, a light flashed impatiently.

The alynx let me approach. The boy's wound gaped open and the cold threatened to take him. I plunged my hands into the frozen clay. Earth and water, keep the breath of life within him. But darkness and cold fought me. My crude poultice was not enough. I was pinned to the shore, my hands pressed to his wound, feeling the boy's life slipping away as the light on the lake faded.

I refused to yield. I begged Orlanth to make me his instrument. In one last surge of will, a dull warmth passed through my palms. The clay trembled. The blood stopped flowing and the boy's breath returned. My desperate magic had raised a bluish crackle of static electricity.

The sparks were seen. A boat cut through the mist, carrying three warriors with spears in hand. Faced with their ritual challenge, I stood, skin blue with woad and chest offered to the wind, displaying the Runes of my God.

“I am Edkored. Orlanth guided me here.”

Gringolf, the boat's leader, lowered his weapon and offered me hospitality. As I took my place aboard to reach their hidden refuge, I remained silent. The patrol was still somewhere behind me. The Empire weighed on Sartar. Damn Empire. Would we ever get the upper hand?

But as I watched the boy breathe, I remembered our Heortling ancestors, survivors of the Great Darkness. As long as the wind blows, we will endure.