I'm watching the leaves swirl outside my window. Hopefully, nothing horrible will happen.
To keep you all entertained, I have a short piece from the first chapter of a longer book I'm working on. It will be called The Storm Lords. This first chapter may change from the time you see it here until its eventually published, so keep that in mind!
_____________________
The heat hung over the village like a smothering blanket.
Rowen
watched his neighbors carry buckets of water out of their hut, the image
dancing in the heat waves that wavered off of the baked clay. The entire
village was preparing for the daily gathering, always necessary during a heat
spell. The gathering was a time for people to spread out precious goods like
water and pit seeds, which would cool down the body and prevent heat death.
In normal
times, goods were traded as per their worth. During a heat spell, however,
nothing could match the worth of a simple bucket of water or a single pit seed.
As a result, all shared, carrying the village through the spells that sucked
the life out of the area.
Rowen had
nothing to share. He only benefited, and he knew others resented him for it. He
walked to the gathering with a heavy heart, his scalp burning from the sun as
though his red hair were aflame.
The others
who passed him glared, their eyes full of suspicion. None offered help when he
stumbled in the heat. His store of food, the food he hunted for himself, had
grown small, and the water bucket in his home was mostly dry.
He would never steal water, but
no one would believe him. Not after what happened.
Alain, the
village elder, called the meeting to order, his powerful voice carrying over
the throng. There were fewer people here
today than the day before-a bad sign.
“Report any
losses.” This was how the meetings always began. Heat spells killed the young
and the old first, and in the first week of this one there had been dozens of
deaths. This heat spell was in its third week, the longest Rowen had ever
experienced.
Hands went
up, and Rowen looked down at the shady ground. “Talia.” An eight year old girl
who had loved to play outside in the rain during winter. “Fredericks.” An older
man who dyed fabrics. “Abigail.” The seamstress.
Had they
died during a normal time, they would be cremated. Fires were too dangerous
during a heat spell, so they would be buried on the edge of town instead.
“This is
day 22 of the current heat spell, the second of the warm season,” Alain
intoned. “We have suffered greatly so far.”
“Too much!” a man cried out. Rowen looked up. He had lost his infant daughter in the first
few days.
“Something
must be done!” a woman cried.
“There is
nothing that can be done.” Questions like these always arose. People yearned
for the old times, when belief in mythical rituals that could bring the
breaking storms was rampant. The old beliefs had fallen out of favor, people
realizing that the advent of the storms was unpredictable, but the longer the
heat spells stretched on the more desperate people became.
“Erik has
measured the temperature currently at 134 degrees, dropping to 100 at night,”
Alain continued. “This is unusual, but it should only mean that the storm will
come soon.”
“The heat
spells are longer and hotter. We should go back to the old ways!” A man on
Rowen's left stood up, redfaced in anger. Andrew, the blacksmith, who's shop
had lain abandoned for the last three weeks. “This would never have happened
when I was a child!”
“There is
no point in wasting energy on a ritual that won't work.” Alain didn't bother
raising his voice. “The best thing to do is to wait and keep calm. Exertion
will bring death.”
“We must do
something!” The same woman who had been ignored before yelled again, louder
this time, and people responded, turning to her and some agreeing, whispering
under their breath.
Rowen's
heart picked up speed. The mood of the crowd was turning, from a tired group of
people willing to help each other to get through hard times to something else.
Something dangerous.
“What would
you have us do? The dances will only cause heat death faster.” Alain rose his voice slightly.
“There is
no need for dances.” A man spoke up from the back of the throng, an accent
shading his words. Rowen didn't recognize him until he turned to look.
The speaker
was a man with pale hair and eyes, a traveler who had settled here from the
north only a year ago. The heat had been unkind to him, his skin burned red
from the sun. He always told tales of his travels, and people naturally paid
close attention to him when he spoke.
“Where I
come from, heat spells never last this long.” He spoke slowly, calmly, with a
soft commanding voice that bade you listen. Rowen immediately didn't trust him.
“How?”
Andrew asked, some of his belligerence gone.
The man
chose his words carefully. “Where I live, heat spells are...harsher. Everyone
fends for themselves. We are not as quick to share.”
A few
people seemed concerned, and the man quickly picked up his tale. “But we have
found a way to deal with that. Some people are not worth sharing with, after
all.”
Someone
glanced at Rowen. He swallowed nervously, looking away.
“Surely
this is not necessary,” Alain spoke up. He sounded nervous. “We will begin
the dispersal of water and seeds-”
“Where I
come from, we give up the people who do not deserve resources,” the man
continued, ignoring Alain, and the crowd hung on his words. “Sacrificing them
to the Storm Gods brings the storms faster, and makes those who survive more
comfortable.”
Rowen took
a step back. People were nodding, smiling. Someone behind him grabbed Rowen by
the arm.
“This one
killed his parents by stealing their water!” Andrew yelled. Rowen opened his
mouth to deny it, but of course no sound came out. He had never been able to
speak, not since it had happened.
“Criminals
make perfect sacrifices,” the man said, looking at Rowen but not meeting his
eyes. “The Storm Gods are vindictive.”
“He will
suffer the way his parents did,” the woman said, and people around her agreed.
His neighbors, the ones he had watched bring their water to the gathering,
scowled at him and turned away.
Rowen
didn't try to fight. There was no point. There were too many, and running
during a heat spell would only bring on his death faster.
“Tie him
up!”
Rowen heard
Alain protesting, and then he was silenced. Those tying him worked quickly and
quietly, stripping his clothes off and binding his ankles with cord, his wrists
behind his back. For a sacrifice, it was all very civilized. Everyone knew not
to waste energy in this heat.
“Leave him
in the sun,” The man spoke. “One less to take your water, and one more death to
bring the storms faster.”
Hot tears
formed in Rowen's eyes, but he was too old to let himself cry. He hadn't wanted
their water anyway.
They
dragged him into the sun, and the ground underneath him burned. He shut his
eyes tightly, and the sun baked him. Nobody watched.
***
Rowen knew
that death would come quickly.
The
sweating had already begun, and his head swam in the heat. He didn't dare open
his eyes to the merciless sun beating down on him. His skin was pale, and
if he lasted long enough he would be covered in blisters.
He tried to
think of his parents. He had been close with them, as an only child. His father
had introduced him to village girls, and had not shown disappointment when
Rowen had confessed to feeling nothing for any of them.
He thought
of Lucas. Lucas, blacksmith's apprentice, a boy his age with blond hair and an
eager smile, full lips and bright blue eyes. Rowen had never told him how Lucas
had made him feel, quickening his blood and stirring him in his dreams.
Lucas had
died in the same heat spell that had killed his parents. Since then Rowen had
felt nothing. Too much loss, all at once. He groaned on the heated ground, but
it was useless.
He had
survived the heat spell. It should have killed him, like it killed his parents,
but he had lived, eating pit seeds that silenced him forever and leaving him
mute to defend himself to the villagers when they claimed he stole his parents
water.
A wave of
nausea surged through him. Heat sickness was setting in. He rolled over to
vomit, nothing but whitish bile. Rolling made him dizzy, and that made the
sickness worse.
Soon,
nothing came up. Heat surged through him, but he could no longer sweat. The
ground spun.
This was
fitting. He couldn’t survive again.
He opened
his eyes, and was greeted with darkness.
Night had
not come. He rolled, impossibly slow, to look up. The sun had been covered, a
thick, dark cloud blanketing the village.
Rowen
almost smiled. He had been sacrificed,
and the storm had come.
Rain began
to pelt the ground, the drops hitting as hard as thrown stones. Rowen opened
his mouth, instinctively hoping to ease some of his dehydration, before thunder
boomed, a fork of lightning splitting the sky and unleashing torrents.
More died
during the heat spells preceding the storms, but the storms themselves were
deadly too if caught outside. Wind lashed rain into his face, hard enough that
if he were not already prone he would have been knocked over. He could no
longer look up; opening his eyes only invited the rain, the cold drops making
his dry eyes burn.
Rowen lay
on his side like sodden rags, listening to the power of the storm. He had not
expected to die this way. Water began to pool around him, the flood coming fast
despite the dry ground underneath absorbing it. Eventually it would absorb it
all, filling the underground wells, but for now the water would run into
Rowen's nose and mouth, drowning him because he was too weak to move. He tried
to drink; it tasted like dust.
Gusts of
wind blew over him, whistling in his ears and hair, and he began to shiver with
cold despite being overheated just a short time ago. The thunder deafened him,
the flashes of lightning only visible as a red sheen behind his eyelids. If one
struck him, at least it would be over quickly.
Suddenly,
everything calmed. The darkness was accompanied by silence, the pelting rain
gone, and for a moment Rowen knew he was dead.
“You.” A
voice called, one that he did not recognize. He opened his eyes, watching the
water flow by him.
“You. Look
at me.” The voice called him again. Without the rain hammering him down, Rowen
managed to roll over. If he was dead, why was the weakness, the pain, not gone?
A man stood
over him. No, hovered over him, his feet not touching the ground. He was clad
in dark green, a rare color here in this desert village. His short dark brown
hair was plastered to his head, dripping onto his nose and chin, and he wore a
necklace with a grayish stone around his neck. Rowen focused on the deep blue
eyes, like a clear summer sky, so different from the hazy blue that had
accompanied the heat spell. They promised something.
“Would you
like to come with me?” the man asked. His voice was deep, reverberant in
Rowen's chest. Around them, the storm raged, thatch blowing off of soaking
roofs and water pouring from eaves and out of overfull water jars.
Rowen
opened his mouth, but of course he could not speak. He shut it, blinking
slowly. Was this death?
“Will you
come?” The man moved farther away, hovering, and looked up. “If you don't, the
storm will probably kill you.”
Rowen could
not speak. But he reached out, and the man smiled.
“Come
then.” He knelt down, grabbing Rowen and hoisting him like a child. Pain from
the sunburns screamed across his body, but he could not cry out. If this was
death, it was not what he had expected.
He didn't
have the strength to hold on, but the man gripped him as they hovered higher
into the air, then flew, up above the village and into the storm. Rowen did not
look down, staring at the man's neck, secure in his muscular arms. The sky
around them was gray-black with clouds, but here he felt none of the violence
of the storm that was being wreaked below. Spots flecked through his vision,
but he no longer felt like giving up.
“I'm going
to take you somewhere safe.” The man's voice rumbled. “Don't worry. I will
explain everything to you.”
He talked
as though Rowen cared. His village had sacrificed him to die. He was not dead
now, though was flying above the village he had grown up in...The world spun around
him, and for a moment he thought he was falling, or flying faster. Then he
passed out.
