Roar (Stormheart #1)(61)
“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.”
*
Locke helped the others pack up for the hunt, quizzing them on tactics and backup plans as he went. A hard knot formed in his stomach as they rode off, leaving him alone with Roar. They were his team, and leading them was his responsibility. It chaffed to be left behind. Locke shut himself inside the Rock, knowing that between the pain in his shoulder and his foul mood, he would make abysmal company for Roar. But that didn’t stop her from climbing in a while later, seeking a cure for her boredom.
He’d been poring over the maps once more, looking for the impossible—a route that would keep Roar from too much danger until they knew more about her reaction to that twister, yet would allow them to stock up on magic and lead them to a place where they could sell it.
She wandered around the Rock as he worked, asking questions about the various instruments or staring over his shoulder at the different maps. Finally, he shoved a sheaf of parchment at her. They were maps from other areas of Caelira, not useful in the least for their current course, but at least they would stop her from looming over him, the scent of her hair and the sound of her breath filling up the space around him.
Eventually, he lost himself to the silence and almost forgot she was there. Almost.
She stood a while later, abandoning the maps to walk to the front of the Rock.
“Locke?”
Her unceasing questions were going to be the death of him. “What now?”
“There’s something coming.”
It took a beat too long for his mind to process her words, but then he was up, throwing aside the maps to take hold of her shoulders. He spun her, searching her face for some sign that her emotions were being taken over again. Those striking eyes were wide and surprised, and the breath fled her mouth in a hushed gasp. He’d pulled her in close, and now she swallowed, pink tongue darting out to wet her lips.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her words barely above a whisper.
His brows furrowed. “You said … I thought … You’re not feeling strange? From another storm?”
He glanced behind her at the crystal they used to detect storm magic. Atop it sat a copper bowl filled with water and the thermascope that helped them assign numerical values to the changes in the crystal’s heat. It currently measured a six. Not insignificant, but fairly normal for a period of nonactivity in this area, this close to Sorrow’s Maw.
“No, not a storm,” she said, shrugging off his grasp. “People.”
She pointed through the glass at the front of the Rock, and sure enough there were about a dozen people lumbering down Ruined Road on foot. They were moving slowly, carrying bags of belongings, and one look at their ragged appearances told him all he needed to know.
“Remnants,” he said, full of pity.
“Remnants of what?”
He peered down at her. How could she know so much—languages and constellations and the best ways to survive a storm—and yet she did not know this?