She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, a habit Locke had noticed far too much. She turned back to Bait and asked, “How did you come to be a hunter?”
“Two Rage seasons past there was a thunderstorm that steered perfectly between the protection zones of Finlagh and Falmast, as if it knew the borders and snuck between them. Once it reached the forests, it seemed to stall right over us. It rained for days. Until the earth turned to muddy soup, and I forgot what it was to be dry. The mountain became a riverbed, water rushing down the land in never-ending streams. And then it was more than water coming down the slopes … it was mud and rocks and uprooted trees. The mountain itself came down on us.”
Roar’s hands were curled into fists atop her knees, food forgotten. “I heard about that. The mudslides took out the northernmost section of Finlagh.”
With a light shrug that belied the heavy expression on his face, Bait replied, “That it did. After it took my home first.” Locke had not even heard the entirety of this story; usually Bait stuck to the wild and outlandish tales of what came after the loss of his home. Roar, it seemed, had a way of pulling emotions out of more than just him. Bait continued: “I waited outside Finlagh for days, covered in muck and soaked through to my bones. I’d been separated from my parents when the mountain came down, and I just kept waiting for them to climb from the muck as I had. They never did. I met a group of pickpockets, and they snuck me into Finlagh, taught me the trade. One day, I was working with a partner. I’d distract, while he made the grab. Only I tried to distract the wrong girl.”
Jinx snorted. “Yes, you did.”
“Jinx caught my partner before he ever even got close, and he took off. I tried to do the same, but somehow tree roots had grown up from nowhere over my feet, trapping me in place.”
Slowly Roar’s sad expression transformed to one of delight and she finished for him, “That’s why they call you Bait.”
The novie grinned. “I still cover the distractions, but it’s much more fun to steal magic than coins.”
All of Roar’s earlier reticence had disappeared, and this time she turned to Jinx. “And you?”
Before the witch could answer, Duke cut in, “Another time.”
Duke gestured toward the sky to the southwest. Locke turned, and in the distance, he saw dark clouds building. If he were a more superstitious man, he might have thought Bait’s story conjured the thunderstorm.
Duke said, “While we’re here, we might as well do some hunting.”
Locke stood to go pack up his tent, but Duke raised a hand. “Not you, Locke. You need to heal.”
“It’s a thunderstorm,” he countered. “A little torrential rain won’t hurt me.”
Duke’s bushy gray eyebrows drew down into a flat line. And the old man continued: “We’ll take the horses. You and Roar stay with the Rock. If a storm strikes in our absence, you batten down the Rock and ride it out.”
Both Roar and Locke began to argue at the same time, but stopped when Duke growled, “Enough.” Duke fixed his eyes on Locke and said, “Don’t be reckless. She’s learning not just from what you say but what you do. If you want her to make safe decisions, you must make them too.”
Locke’s mouth snapped shut, teeth clacking together. Scorch it all. He hated when Duke was right.
*
The stench of death blanketed the craggy mountainside. Blood flowed down the slope like a river from the mass of bodies that had fallen under his attack. The stench of burning flesh stung his nostrils as he studied the bodies that had been scorched by his skyfire.
He heard a rattling breath, a low moan, and charged down the rocky land and found one body set apart from the rest. A soldier was sprawled facedown, short and slim, probably little better than a boy knowing the Lockes’ coldhearted ways, but he saw the sharp rise of the body as the soldier struggled to breathe. With his foot, he kicked the boy over onto his back. Blood speckled his mouth as he gasped for breath. There was a scorch mark at his shoulder, and he guessed the boy had not taken a direct hit. At least not there. A festering, charred wound marred the boy’s belly, and bloodied hands clutched at the seeping sore.
“St-St—” the boy stuttered, unable to get out the name.
“Yes. You are correct, boy. It is the Stormlord you face now.”
The soldier began to shake, his body seizing either from fear or the approaching hand of death. The Stormlord slid his foot forward until it rested against the boy’s side. Then he pushed down, and the boy screamed.
“Tell me. Why have there been so many Locke soldiers roaming the wilds? Are the Lockes foolish enough to search for me?”
The soldier choked, useless sounds bubbling from his mouth. Pressing down again with his foot, the Stormlord said, “Tell me.”
“N-not you. B-bride kid-n-napped.”
A slow smile unfurled over the Stormlord’s mouth. “The prince’s Pavanian bride? Could it be?”
The soldier nodded, coughing up more blood in the process. The Stormlord cackled with glee, throwing himself down to sit beside the dying soldier. Leaning back on his hands, he crossed his legs at the ankles and rested his boots against the boy’s bleeding stomach.
“This is more proof that the gods are on my side, boy. They were too impatient to even wait for me to bring punishment. They had to inflict some of their own. Cassius’s perfect chance to seize a new throne—foiled before it even began. Of course, it’s not enough.” He smiled down at the boy as if talking to an old friend. He leaned in close, his heels digging into the boy’s wound, and whispered conspiratorially, “The gods will not be satisfied until I’ve burned them from this earth and smeared their ashes upon my skin.”
He flopped back, his head coming to rest on what he guessed was another body. He stared at the clear sky that only moments ago had been filled with skyfire on his command. “But still … it is interesting. He cares enough to send you all out here to die. Perhaps I should search for this girl myself.”
He looked back to the boy, annoyed with his lack of reply, only to find glassy eyes and a gaping mouth. Dead. But at least he’d provided some service before he went. The Stormlord removed his boots from the boy’s body and studied him. He would remember his face, remember this sign sent by the gods to affirm his calling.
Moving to his knees, he jerked the body up and began peeling away the scorched and bloody jacket of the soldier’s uniform. When he tugged it free, the body fell away, twisted obscenely on the ground.
The Stormlord donned the coat, running his fingers over the familiar crest on his chest.
He smiled and murmured, “Time to send a message for the Lockes.”