Roar (Stormheart #1)(84)

But the one thing that could always lure them out into the open was gossip, and he brought plenty of that. Still dressed in the dead Locke soldier’s uniform, he had stumbled into the town this morning, gasping and crying out for help. The people were wary at first—so superstitious the wildlanders were. But when they saw his uniform, they surged forward to help. After all, their town sat only a few days’ ride from Pavan, and everyone knew that the Locke prince had soldiers scouring the countryside searching for his bride.

With his voice shaking and blood smeared on his clothes, he told everyone who would listen of the fearsome Stormlord who was picking off companies of Locke soldiers one by one. He sowed tales of the Stormlord’s ability to call a storm from the sky with whim alone. He spoke the storms’ language; they followed his command. He even bore the image of one upon his chest, as if his very heart were a storm and it beat only for destruction, for carnage, for death.

No one is safe, he told them, feeding little morsels of gossip to different groups here and there. You must tell everyone to beware. Beware the Stormlord. The rumors say he was sent by the gods to cull the prideful plague of Stormlings. And he can do it. After all, he had already laid waste to Locke.

He had feigned distress. Oh no. I’m not supposed to say that. No one was supposed to know. You cannot tell.

Each time he accidentally let the truth spill to a new group, the villagers clamored for more, squealing like pigs before the slaughter. But he told them no more.

The King of Locke himself swore me to secrecy. I cannot. But … beware. He’s coming this way, demolishing every town he lays his eyes upon. He will not rest until he destroys Pavan, destroys the Lockes, and every Stormling thereafter.

He created the spark, and then sat back and watched the flames rise. He had done this in every town he passed since he walked from the wreckage of Locke, and every time it played out the same. The people were not stupid. They put together quickly enough why one of the Locke heirs wanted to wed into the royal family of Pavan, and the king had forbidden soldiers to talk of the destruction of Locke. Then, oh then, the fury came. These poor people, forsaken by the Stormlings, barred from their cities and protections, pushed to the very fringes of civilization and then forgotten—they were already disillusioned. The perfect kindling for his blaze.

He slipped into the shadows, content to watch the havoc he had created. The stories were told and retold with more anger and fear each time. And when the whole village was aflame with the news, he left, the soldier’s uniform tucked beneath his arm.

Then he called down a friend to play, a firestorm that seethed with hatred and hungered for slaughter. “Punish,” he whispered to the storm. “We’ll punish them all.”

And he let the town burn in truth.

Not all of it at first. He kept leashed his friend’s thirst for blood until a few dozen insects had escaped. Then he rained down fire and fury until nothing was left but a smoldering pile of ash and the remnants who would walk the wilds before him, carrying on his words.

*

Roar woke to a pounding on her door, and she jerked upright, her heart flying into her throat. She looked around, disoriented, trying to piece together why her body felt like she had taken a beating and her eyes were swollen. Even more confusing … the bed was on the opposite side of the room from what she remembered.

She spotted a cup of tea and toast on the table, both long cold, and then the night before came back to her. Locke had gone to get her something to eat, and she had stayed back to change. He had brought her to his room, and she had been working up the nerve to ask him to stay with her, really stay. She wanted to sink into his arms and let him hold her together through the night. But apparently she had fallen asleep before he returned. If she was in here, where had he slept?

The insistent knock came again, and she bolted out of bed, both afraid and eager to see him on the other side. She wore her second pair of trousers, the ones that fit a little too snugly across her hips. But her favored pair had been burned in the firestorm and now sat wet and wrinkled in a heap on the floor. Her hair was a wavy, wild mess upon her head, but there was nothing to be done about it now. She calmed it as best she could with her fingers. What did it matter what she looked like anyway? Locke had seen her look far worse. With a deep breath, she pulled open the door and narrowly missed getting knocked in the face by the fist of an impatient Jinx. Laughing, the witch said, “Sorry about that. We’re having a meeting over breakfast. Locke said to let you sleep, but I figured you wouldn’t want to miss out.”

Even through the chaos of her other emotions, she snagged on to the familiar feel of annoyance. He was always trying to leave her out, but maybe this morning it had more to do with not wanting to see her at all.

“Let me clean up, and I’ll be right down,” Roar said.

Jinx nodded, but made no move to leave. In fact, the girl looked her up and down and said, “We really do need to get you some new clothes while we’re in civilization.” Then Jinx pushed inside, plopping down on the unmade bed. “I hear we were both the victim of one of Bait’s abysmal pranks.”

Roar vaguely remembered something about there being sand in her bed.

“I like the kid, but sometimes I want to bury him alive. I could do it too. He could not let us have one night’s sleep in a real bed before he tried to ruin it? I threatened to start an earthquake beneath his bed if he didn’t switch rooms with me. I didn’t even have to use my scary witch expression.”