Rise of the Storm (The Broken Lands Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Rise of the Storm

  Book Two

  The Broken Lands

  Carrie Summers

  Chapter One

  Havialo

  A high pass through the Icethorn Mountains

  SNOW AND ICE squeaked under the leather tread of Havialo’s boots. His breath rasped in his throat as he trudged ever upward, threading a course between tumbled ice blocks and bottomless blue crevasses. Around him, a frigid wind howled. Snow plumes streamed from the high ridges above.

  But the wind didn’t touch him. With each step up the precipitous icefall, a glacier riddled with yawning cracks and moaning snow bridges, Havialo gathered the force of the gale. Trickling energy from his inner font, the catalyst for his power, the geognost turned the storm on itself and cushioned each gust with his own burst of wind.

  Storm energy. Both delightful and exhilarating. The storms were the reason the Order of Geognosts had built their monastery deep within the Icethorn Mountains. Highsummer, Deepwinter, or any season in between, rivers of clouds scraped the serrated crowns of the high peaks and created a constant source of potential.

  As the glacier’s slope increased and the ice grew too steep for snow to cling, the earth mage gathered more of the wind’s energy. Pulling deeper from his power, he pressed his will against the ice, forcing it to bend and reshape as he molded a staircase from the glacier’s substance. It was risky to squander his gnosty like this—a mage ought to keep at least half his power in reserve in case of emergency. But the high col, a snowy pass between towering peaks, was so close.

  The glacier groaned as it shifted in its ponderous course down the mountain. Somewhere far below, a cliff of ice gave way and shattered on the flats beneath. Havialo pulled his cloak tighter and kept climbing. Just a few more steps to carve and climb, and he’d soon crest the pass and begin the descent to the monastery.

  The end of this journey couldn’t come soon enough. It had been weeks since he’d returned to the Atal Empire, riding a stallion formed of sand. In all that time, he’d been forced to endure the tantalizing promise straining at the bones of the earth. From the northern ice sheets to the Cosmal Peninsula in the south, faults and fractures waited in darkness, ready to unleash a cataclysm. The Breaking loomed.

  So much power waited, and Havialo felt his self-control slipping. He hungered to release just one pent-up fault, to turn the earth’s simmering need for release into a gush of strength. With just a fraction of the power welling beneath the Atal Empire, he could flatten Steelhold and send waves of destruction across the continent.

  But he wasn’t ready—not yet. Even a small portion of the Breaking’s power was too much for him. First, he must strengthen his gnosty. Plus, he worried about the foulness lurking beneath the Breaking. Already, it leaked through where rifts had split the earth’s crust. The taint clung to his perception like an aftertaste of mold, a hint of rot. The corruption felt akin to the twisted power of the Maelstrom, a sensation so wrong that it made him cautious.

  For now.

  Before marching on Steelhold, Havialo would seek instruction from the masters at the monastery. He needed to be better. Stronger. Afterward, he would gather his cabal of spiritists, the final piece in his quest for strength. Then the Empire would know pain for what it had done to him.

  For what it had done to his daughter.

  Finally, the slope eased, depositing him in the snow-covered cradle of the pass. To either side, a pair of guardian stones towered, their granite faces softened by centuries of wind-driven snow. The gale roared through the pass, forcing Havialo to draw ever deeper from his well of gnosty to part the gusts around him.

  But no matter the fierceness of the wind, the frigid cliffs rising stark to either side, Havialo could command the mountains’ wrath with a thought. Surrounded by his pillow of calm, he sneered at the storm and peered down the other side of the pass. Clouds obscured much of the scene, roiling and churning across the valley floor. Shrugging, Havialo took his first step toward the valley and his inevitable rise to power.

  A low whump shook the ground. Havialo froze, searching for the source. The howl of the wind continued unabated, driving swirls of snow with each blast, but otherwise, nothing moved. He stepped down, plunging his heel into the snow for purchase.

  With a roar, the slope collapsed.

  For a moment, Havialo stood upright on a moving slab of crusted snow. He blinked, confused, and then tumbled as the ground became liquid. Snow slammed his face, shoved into his nose and ears and closed over his head. The slope was a river in flood, chunks of ice bludgeoning his cartwheeling body, bending his limbs almost to breaking.

  Havialo threw his awareness into the avalanche, flailing with his gnosty for purchase within the slide’s chaotic tumult. The torrent threw him against a spire of rock. His arm cracked stone, a shock of pain followed by broken numbness. He opened his mouth to scream, and snow packed his throat, cutting off his breath. Again, he cast his gnosty wide, desperate to take hold of the avalanche, but the energy of the slide tore from his mental grasp, ripping power from his internal well like roots pulling from the earth.

  The surge was too rough, too sudden and chaotic for his mind to grasp. Havialo reached for the wind above, seeking steadiness. But compared to the raw force of the avalanche, the wind was a trickle. Powerless to stop the cascade.

  As his vision dimmed from lack of air and his body tumbled limply toward death, Havialo clutched at his last hope for survival. Draining his inner well, he clawed at the nearest fault straining the earth. He probed the weakness, felt countless stone crystals on the brink of shattering. In the center of the fault, a tiny fissure had already formed. With the last of his strength, Havialo drove a wedge of gnosty into the gap.

  The mountains shuddered in a violent quake as a deluge of power flooded the geognost’s body. At once, he was invincible, the pain in his broken arm vanished, all fatigue gone. As easy as a child molding a handful of wet sand, he spread his awareness and stilled the force of the avalanche. Tumbling ice and snow froze in glittering silence,
waves ready to break over ridges and humps on the mountainside. With ordered calm, the suspended debris raised Havialo from its depths. The snow packing his throat and ears withdrew. He hung above the scene, perched on a throne of ice.

  Closing his eyes, Havialo transformed his seat into a chariot that carried him down the slope. As he passed, spires of snow formed the pillars of a colonnade, freezing in place.

  The slope began to lessen. The glacier ended in a jumbled moraine, reminding him of a plow abandoned by a farmer. His chariot slid over stone as easily as it had snow.

  When he reached the valley floor, the geognost commanded the snow to release him. As he was lowered to the springy ground of the alpine tundra, his stolen power receded.

  When the power faded, leaving his body drained and mortal once more, he felt the corruption.

  Welling from the new rift a few valleys distant, foulness gushed forth.

  Shuddering, he cradled his broken arm against his body and fought the rise of bile in his throat. During his tumble, his rucksack had been torn from his back. The avalanche had stolen his fur mitts and a boot. As he staggered forward, away from the slide path—his sculpting would give way soon enough, releasing the avalanche upon the valley bottom—he stumbled onto the trail leading to the monastery.

  Chapter Two

  Savra

  A courtyard in the ruins of an ancient mountain fortress

  “LIKE THIS,” MY father said, holding his short sword at an angle. “Then you can backstep and sweep down to deflect their attack.”

  I clutched my sword’s hilt as another gust of wind skirled down from the high peaks ringing the vale. The frigid air cut through my lambskin gloves, setting my fingertips aching. Locked around my neck, a black-iron collar collected the chill like a necklace of ice. But my father had to be twice as cold. He’d given me his cloak before our combat practice, having already shortened it so that it wouldn’t drag on the cracked stones of the courtyard. Father wore just a padded wool vest over his linen tunic and thin leather trousers. Every time a fresh gust of wind sent grit skittering around our feet, I couldn’t help thinking how much sharper the chill had to feel for him.

  I tried to mimic my father’s posture, but the angle of my wrist felt awkward. Another blast of air howled down, crystals of frost in its breath. “Maybe we should pick up when the sun is higher,” I said.

  My father lunged forward and swung his weapon in a wide arc, connecting with my sword and sending it spinning from my cold-numbed grip. The weapon clattered across uneven flagstones until hitting a crumbling low wall at the courtyard’s edge.

  “That’s when you needed to retreat,” he said. “Try to deflect the blow, and if the motion leaves your enemy open, strike. Or better, find a way to flee. No matter your fighting skill, most men will have an advantage on you simply due to weight and reach. Get to a safe location and use your spiritism against them.”

  I sighed as I shuffled to collect my weapon. “My spiritism won’t be an option if I never get this collar off.” The black iron had been enchanted to contain my spiritist’s abilities. After I’d sabotaged Stormshard’s chance to assassinate Kostan—Emperor Kostan, I reminded myself—the Sharders were taking no chances with me.

  “You must be patient, Savra,” Father said. “Half the conclave wanted to kill you immediately, and the other pressed for your exile to Wildsends. And the lesser punishment wasn’t because they felt lenient. They offered it as a mercy to me.”

  My sword lay in a small pile of pine needles deposited by the mountain winds. As I crouched to pick it up, Father’s footsteps crunched in the gravel strewing the courtyard. Beyond the low wall surrounding our practice arena, the grounds of a ruined fortress sprawled. Heaps of rubble marked the foundations of dozens of buildings that had once sheltered behind the outer wall. In a few places, ancient chimneys and crumbling walls provided feeble shelter from the frozen breath of the Icethorn Mountains. In the center of the grounds, a massive keep stood strong in defiance of the ages. Tucked against its walls, canvas shelters were home to the ragtag collection of Stormshard fighters gathering at the ancient stronghold.

  After decades of nibbling at the Empire’s interests, a proper Stormshard army was massing. Hundreds of men and women had already gathered to sharpen their weapons and practice combat formations. Of course, the war wouldn’t be necessary if not for me. Nearly every arriving soldier had already heard of my betrayal. I’d ruined Stormshard’s chance to defeat the Empire. They’d had an opportunity to eliminate Kostan, our new Emperor, and I’d jumped in the assassin’s path.

  The Sharders’ cold stares followed me around the grounds. I could almost smell the hatred rising from their pores. If not for my father’s reputation and the leaders’ agreement to consider my fate with care, someone would have opened my throat by now.

  Father’s hand fell on my shoulder. “You’re right about the cold. There’s no sense learning the sword when your hands are too stiff to keep a grip. We’ll begin again closer to midday.”

  Across the low wall, a Sharder with a purple scar slashing his cheek fixed me with a glare. He curled his lip as he plunged an awl through a piece of leather armor. I raised my chin as I handed my practice sword to my father, but I didn’t return the glare. Stormshard needed to see that I wasn’t a threat. Father was teaching me self-defense, nothing more.

  Dropping an arm over my shoulders, Father steered me toward the keep’s yawning entrance. The imposing building, three stories tall, was built from massive gray granite blocks. Like the outermost walls, these were finely hewn and mortared with precision. No one knew who had built the fortress. A single statue stood beside the gate in the outer wall. The carving depicted a warrior with strange armor and a sharply curved blade. His stone face inspected all newcomers to the keep, gazing down with a noble expression. No other traces of the builders remained.

  As we approached the keep, the structure blocked the hiss of the wind, allowing sounds from the tents to swell in its place. Fires crackled and Sharders laughed as they prepared for another day. Father gestured toward a low bench where the thin mountain sun struck the wall of the keep. “Want to sit for a moment?”

  I glanced up at him. “Aren’t you cold?”

  Wrinkles formed at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. “It’s better here out of the wind, and I thought you might appreciate a bit more time outside. The catacombs are stuffy.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to argue. I dreaded going back into those restrictive passages.

  We sat in silence, watching the renegades go about their mornings. My father and I weren’t the only pair who’d decided to practice swordplay. Across the fortress grounds, Sharders faced off in pairs or small groups, striking at each other with blades and clubs. Near the outer wall, a few targets had been set up for archers. As my father ran his eyes over the men and women he helped lead, I wondered how well I really knew him. We’d been separated for seven years. I wasn’t a child anymore, and he wasn’t the gentle man who’d played hide and seek with me around our simple home in Numintown. Somehow, though, I felt like I did know him. Our bond hadn’t changed even if we had.

  “The camp’s so crowded now,” I said. Because most of my days were spent in confinement—imprisonment if I were honest with myself—I rarely saw new bands of Sharders arrive. The army seemed to have doubled in size each time my father fetched me for sword practice.

  Father narrowed his eyes, considering. “I suppose. But compared to what we face, we’re so few.”

  “You might not have to face anyone if you give Kostan a chance,” I suggested, voice quiet.

  My father clasped his hands between his knees, his knuckles blanching as he squeezed. I took a deep breath, expecting an argument; we’d been through the debate about Kostan’s character countless times since we’d been reunited. But after a moment, his hands relaxed.

  “The remaining members of the conclave may arrive today,” he said casually.

  My hea
rt sped. If that were true, my fate would soon be decided. Until now, my father had managed to delay the vote until the full conclave could weigh in on the judgment. But once the final Shard leaders reached the keep, there would be no more excuses.

  “Will the meeting happen right away?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, face grim. “But I do know that you won’t win votes by continuing to defend the Emperor of Atal.”

  I sighed. “Don’t worry, Papa. I’ll keep quiet.” No matter how desperately I wanted to stop this army from attacking, arguing Kostan’s case during my trial would just doom my chances.

  Even so, every soldier who arrived at the stronghold deepened my despair. The coming war was unnecessary. There was a path to peace, yet no one could put aside their anger long enough to consider it.

  My father’s face softened. “If you can find it in your heart to admit your mistake, it would help your case. You were fooled, but then so was I. There’s no shame in it.”

  I pressed my lips together. After weeks with my father, nothing I’d said had convinced him to reconsider his opinion of Kostan. I didn’t think it would work now.

  “What will the conclave decide? Do you have a guess?”

  The muscles of Father’s jaw worked. His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath before speaking. “Your case is difficult. You did ruin our best chance to defeat the Empire after a century of trying. I hope to convince the leaders how desperately our fight needs your spiritist abilities, but I’m prepared to plead for exile rather than execution if they aren’t inclined to pardon you. Stormshard isn’t in the business of killing young women. I imagine the request will be granted.”

  Already, I heard the defeat in his voice. Storms. Well, even if he’d lost hope for my forgiveness, I wouldn’t give up yet. I straightened my spine as my father suppressed a shiver.

  “Come on, Papa. Let’s get inside,” I said. “You need some time by a warm fire.”

  He smirked as he stood. “I guess I’m getting soft as the years go by.”