Stormlord rising

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Scarpen Quarter Warthago Range Jasper, amazed, found himself still on the back of the myriapede when he reached the level ground. Gripping the mounting handle until his fingers ached, he'd muttered, "I will not fall, I will not fall," all the way to the bottom. The slide of scree built up as they descended, and they arrived in a welter of rock and choking dust.

Not everyone fared well. At the base, a young Gibber youth was sitting on the scree, rocking to and fro, clutching the top of his shin with both hands. A bone poked out through torn flesh. At least one white pede had lost its footing and tumbled, spilling men from its back like bread from a basket. One man had died, impaled on his own spear. The pede thrashed, scattering stones and bellowing in pain.

Jasper wrenched his gaze from those around him to the scene in front. On the flat land the first warriors down were holding their own, just. Some of the Reduner forces had taken shelter in the waterhall, others were dead or wounded. Even so, Jasper stared at the number of men attacking and was appalled. From the bottom of the scree it looked like a solid wall of steel and men was waiting for them. But no ziggers. Be grateful for that.

He needed to see better.

"I'm going to stand," he shouted in Dibble's ear.

Dibble nodded.

Jasper grabbed up the extra spear racked along the pede's side and stood. With his feet hooked under the segment handle and the spear haft slotted into the groove carved into the carapace for the purpose, he had some stability and he could see better.

There was water everywhere, most of it too muddy for him to use. He cursed his limitations and left the puddles for the rainlords. He was forced to reach further away for the clean water trickling into the cistern.

The fighting was frenzied. Ignoring it as best he could, he pitched water balls, hard, into faces. A moment's inattention, a hesitation-on a battlefield, men died for that. Dibble and other members of his personal guard knew what to expect this time around. Thrusting spears jabbed, scimitars swept the air in brutal savagery, metal clashed on metal. Pedes reared and keened. Feelers whipped through the air distributing indiscriminate carnage. Injured men screamed and moaned. Maimed men died under pede feet. Jasper didn't kill, but knew more men died on the battlefield because of him than any other single warrior could have dispatched.

The screams. Ah, sweet water, those screams. He would hear the echoes of them for the rest of his life. The blood-it was everywhere. His scimitar was clean, yet he was spattered.

A Reduner tried to climb up the pede to slice at his feet. He panicked and threw so much water at him the man had to drop off in order to breathe. A red-robed bladesman on foot leaped for Dibble's reins and yanked. The animal objected and, before Dibble had time to react, it opened up its mouthparts and squeezed the attacker's head in the vice of its feeding pincers. Jasper watched, horrified, as the Reduner's skull was crushed. And then his personal horror just became part of the swirling, chaotic hell around him. Blood, smells, screams and fear-all merged into a single, featureless coalescence of revulsion and terror. He fought on in his own way. Manipulating water. Throwing it. Saving lives sometimes, causing death often. Until he was beyond terror, beyond horror, without thought or humanity or reason. Don't think. Don't care. Don't feel. Not now.

Still later-moments? A sand-run? Two?-he looked about and saw more of his own men than Reduners. The invaders were being beaten back toward the waterhall or further down the gully. Simultaneously, the knowledge appeared to hit them like the shudder of wind through a grove, and Reduners turned and fled. Those left behind fought on for several more minutes until the whir of a bullroarer sounded. Pedes wheeled, men on the ground scrambled to pull themselves up behind the drivers, all of them racing back to regroup across the cavern front, the cliff at their backs.

"Are you all right?" he asked Dibble. "You saved my life a couple of times back there."

The man turned to grin at him. He dabbed at a cut on his hand, saying, "That's my job, my lord."

"You did it well."

He searched for the water of those who remained. Iani, Feroze, Laisa, yes-somewhere Mica was still alive, too. A moment's relief coursed through him, but hard on that joy came confusion.

He felt something wrong, botched, water falling where there should have been none. Water bizarrely deformed. Panic rose in his throat.

Not water. Ice.

In shock, he remembered the clouds he had sent so high.

Yelling for help from the rainlords, he strove to bring his powers into play. They nudged the falling ice in the right direction, so that it fell in front of the cavern and further down the gully, smashing into the bulk of Davim's forces. Rounded chunks of ice, each half the size of a man's fist, crashed down on the Reduners-and continued to do so.

Jasper blinked, distressed. Some of his own forces were caught up in the edges of the ice fall, too. He saw three or four Alabasters fall from their pede, their bodies blossoming blood. A handful of Gibber men, too slow to separate themselves out from the retreating Reduners, dropped to the ground. A Scarpen pede screamed as its feelers were broken.

Why had he forgotten? He'd sent the clouds as high as he could command them and waited for the ice to fall, but that had been much earlier. When nothing had happened, he'd decided the ploy had failed. He hadn't realized it would take so long.

He looked around. His army and the Reduners were now separated. Davim's men-as many of them as could fit-had crowded into the cave. Those still outside had either run down the gully or sought shelter huddled alongside the pedes or flattened themselves against the cliff. Ice still fell on that side of the cleared area, the balls sometimes bouncing harmlessly off pede carapaces, sometimes cracking segments and breaking feelers. And sometimes killing men.

Pedes. They didn't deserve this.

Scarpermen, Alabasters and Gibbermen were scattered over the southern half of the flat land and on both sides of the gully running down the middle. The whole area, including the drywash, was littered with the dead, the dying and the injured.

"'Ware ziggers!" Iani yelled, bringing him back to reality even as the ice continued to fall, smaller pieces now. "There's no reason now why those bastards in the cave don't loose the last they have in this direction." He stood up on his pede, ordering bladesmen to heap the dead, face up, as bait, hoping the beetles would not sense much difference between the recently dead and the living. Men raced to obey.

Still keeping track of the falling ice balls to make sure they fell only in front of the cavern, Jasper turned his attention to those around him. He searched out the rainlords with his water-sense, dismayed to find there were six dead, their water lifeless. One part of him thought, We can't afford to lose so many; another part simply grieved.

In front of him, Dibble twisted a torn sleeve around a bleeding wrist. Laisa sat on the back of a myriapede behind her driver, looking as if she had just stepped out of her tent. She had partially veiled herself to keep the dust out of her hair and nose; her riding clothes were immaculate still. Looking at her, Jasper was uncomfortably aware of his sweat and dirt and blood. Next to her, Feroze was standing on the back of his great white pede, directing men to carry the wounded to the back. On the ground nearby Jasper saw no less than eight white-clad bodies, and when he glanced over the battlefield he saw many more.

The worst affected, though, were the Gibbermen. Inexperienced and badly armed, they had fought with heart but little skill. The results were horrendous. Their ranks had been thinned. Pedes which once had carried a dozen riders now settled down to rest, legs tucked under their bodies, riderless. One animal was running its feelers up and down a Gibberman's body, grieving. Jasper looked away; each and every death added a scar. Each scar was a burden he would bear.

I'll make it up to them one day. Somehow. But how was it possible to compensate for even a single death?

He searched for others he knew and could not find them. There were a number of suspicious gaps in his own guard he didn't want to think about. Oddly, he found himself thinking of Ryka. He'd never believed in ghosts, but for a moment her presence was there with him, so real he relived his grief at her death. She had taught him so much.

He looked up at the sky. The dark storm clouds were localized directly above. Over to his left, the bottom rim of the sun was resting on the horizon, the light bleeding out over the land and bruising the turbulence of the black clouds with purple. Blighted eyes, the whole afternoon had gone, vanished into the hell of battle. He probed with his senses to see what ice or water remained. Entranced, he paused: the clouds were full of ice balls, rising and falling in the turmoil… but how to use them? He gave it a moment's thought, then drew the clouds downward, sucking the water in all its forms toward him.

Already, as he looked back toward the cavernous entrance to the waterhall, he could see Reduners busying themselves with zigger cages, passing them outside to the armsmen sheltering beside the pedes. They wanted to release them on the edge of their forces to diminish the chance of accidents to their own men.

Around him, Jasper felt the shiver rippling through his army. Facing a warrior was one thing, but a normal man quailed before ziggers.

"Don't run," he yelled. "Whatever you do, don't run! Trust me." He continued to drag the storm cloud toward him, pulling it as fast as it would come, hoping he would be in time. "Rainlords, spread out! Concentrate only on the ziggers flying toward your section."

"Down!" Feroze yelled from further along. His white robe was spattered with blood, but none of it seemed to be his. "All you men, crouch down. Put your head between your legs. Keep your nose, ears and eyes covered! Quickly now. Pack in close as you can to one another-that's it! Closer. Closer still."

"You, too, Dibble," Jasper said. "This time I can look after myself."

The man nodded and dismounted, pausing only to give the pede the signal to contract its segments to close up the gaps, and then to hunker down to protect its underside. With the pede taken care of, he joined the other armsmen. They all knew it was a temporary measure at best; few wore cloth thick enough to repel a determined and hungry zigger. Between them and certain death were the rainlords-and Jasper.

The buzzing whine, when it came, sent shivers across his skin. Not one, not ten, but fifty or so ziggers, homing in, and behind them, the Reduners in the entrance to the waterhall were already reloading their zigtubes for the next wave. Jasper redoubled his efforts to bring the storm cloud.

Iani looked at him briefly, his palsy accentuated by his fatigue. His face sagged in lopsided weakness, his left hand shook. "Pedeshit," he muttered and killed the first half a dozen ziggers heading his way, "I hope you know what you're doing, Jasper."

The sight of the water cloud tearing through the air, a compact mass of dark fury, was as unnerving as the sound of ziggers, even to Jasper. Momentarily distracted, he missed an approaching beetle and had to whirl around to pinpoint its direction as it zoomed down on the huddled men. He shot a piece of ice, and it disintegrated, shedding chitin and wing cases and soft flesh harmlessly onto someone's back. Further along, several ziggers had penetrated through the rainlord's line and men were screaming with pain as the vile things burrowed in. The rainlords scrambled to deal with the beasts before they dug into their victims too deep to be shriveled.

The second wave approached. Blighted bastards, Jasper thought, staring at the sky to concentrate on his cloud. Further along the line of rainlords, Laisa sat on her mount, no longer so cool and unruffled. "You conceited Gibber grubber!" Agitated, she waved an arm at the turbulence descending on them from the sky. "You'll kill us all with this kind of pretentious bragging!"

"I doubt it," he said calmly, even though his heart hammered at his ribs. "Your hair might be messed up a little, though. Which could be a new experience for you, I suppose."

"You could have killed us all with that ice!"

Jasper whipped the cloud closer, twisting it as it came, moulding its shape into a long tube. And he sent it straight into the opening of the waterhall, sweeping up the remaining freed ziggers and all the zigger cages on the way. He turned to Iani and Feroze. "Now's the time to move closer."

Feroze stood up again and gave the order. Others passed it along to those behind.

The Reduners in the entrance saw the cloud only at the last moment; their view had been blocked by the cliff above them. No sooner had they looked up than the cloud hit them, a whirling maelstrom of ice and mist. The wind tore their zigtubes from their hands and hurled the cages to the back of the cavern. It wrenched the wings from the bodies of ziggers, blew men to the floor and flung them against the rock walls where they were unable to rise against the gale of ice-laden air. Water drenched their robes; hail battered their bodies, bruising them under a barrage of ice. And it didn't stop. The wind Jasper created by hurling the cloud into the cavern had nowhere to go; it hit the walls and hurtled on, its turbulence whirling unabated.

The men in the cave clung to the walls and floor. The ice hit them again and again, bouncing from walls and roof or buffeted in random directions by the wind. It hurt. It blinded. It knocked men unconscious. Sometimes it killed. It brought strong dunesmen to their knees, weeping for respite. Others hauled themselves toward the entrance, terrified, wet, bleeding and confused.

And then Jasper collapsed. His power trickled away, replaced with profound exhaustion. He panted, gasping for air. Unable to stand, he collapsed to his knees. Dibble dug into the saddle bags and hauled out a handful of bab sweets for him. He hardly had the energy to chew, but he stuffed several into his mouth.

The wind abruptly died. Silence came, so precipitate they were all taken unawares. Then, almost as suddenly, noise overwhelmed. Pedes keening in pain and clicking their distress, the appalling screaming of men overwhelmed by their agony. Men moved and groaned, pedes skittered and shuddered. And the sandmaster's army, what was left of it, began to emerge from the cavern.

"We'll ask them to surrender," Jasper said to Iani as the rainlord rode up with Feroze not far behind him.

"Iani can ask," Laisa said. "You stay here, Jasper. I don't want you going anywhere near those bastards."

"She's right," Iani said, even as Feroze grunted in agreement. "All it would take would be one aggrieved redman to take it into his head to throw a spear…"

Jasper nodded, understanding the reasoning, yet irritated, and a moment later Iani rode forward alone with his scimitar wrapped in cloth and held high in his good hand. Jasper guessed that was the accepted way of asking for a parley.

A moment later a man rode out from the Reduners with his scimitar similarly wrapped. Jasper recognized the pede immediately: Burnish, the sandmaster's beast, and Davim was riding it. While he and Iani spoke, Jasper scanned the lines of waiting Reduners, trying to figure out which one was Mica, but in the crowd it was impossible to pinpoint one person's water from another's.

I can feel him, though. He is safe. The joy he felt sifted through him. Soon we'll meet again, and everything will be all right…

Iani returned almost immediately. He was glowering.

"He said no, I assume," Jasper remarked.

"Actually he said he doesn't care if they lose, as long as you die in the battle. He also said that if you personally surrender now, he will allow Mica to go and he will take all his men back to the Red Quarter. Including those in Qanatend." He gave Jasper a hard look. "He'd kill you, you know."

Jasper sighed and looked once more at the Reduners. They were battered, but there were still enough of them to be a formidable force. They stood silent, armed and ready.

Blighted eyes, he thought. We have to fight again. All because I have to live.

"Are you all right, my lord?" Iani asked.

"Exhausted," he said. "I've eaten something, but at the moment I have no powers to offer."

"What answer shall we give them?"

Forgive me, Mica. "We fight."

"Then stay back," Iani said. "That's an order, my lord. We don't want to have to worry about you when we should be fighting."

He nodded, knowing that made sense, and yet felt the heat of a blush in his cheeks. Shame. Shame at his relief. Silly, he knew, but felt it anyway.

Iani turned to Dibble and said, "You and your men stay with the stormlord. He is your responsibility. You, too, Laisa." He then turned to Feroze and smiled. "Shall we advance on these drowned rats and put an end to this?"

Ryka had no idea how many ziggers she disposed of before the first of the battles began, but it was certainly in the hundreds-enough for several of the Reduners collecting the cages to comment on the number of dried-up beetle husks in worried tones.

"It's those devils of rainlords," another man said. "They're killing them, those skyless dwellers. Damn them to the dune god's hell!"

Not one of them bothered to look at the slave woman huddled against the wall of the cavern with a dirty rag over her head. And then they stopped fetching the ziggers, the stones and pede segments stopped falling from the skies and the battle on the flat clearing in front of the cistern started in earnest. It was horrible to watch, yet there was a sick fascination about it, too.

Too tired to continue killing ziggers, Ryka checked on Anina and Khedrim and raided the food for a meal. Then she crept back to the broken grille at the entrance. She recognized Davim and guessed at the identity of Medrim, the Warrior Son, standing on the backs of their pedes, stabbing with spears, swinging scimitars, leaving a swathe of destruction behind them. Ravard fought the same way, except he didn't use a driver. He'd taught his mount to respond to spoken commands; she knew that much from riding mounted behind him. His pede was ferocious. It augmented his forays with weapons of its own-cutting down anyone who did not wear red with the whip of its feelers or the crunch of its mouthparts. Together man and mount were formidable.

As she watched, she tried to come to terms with the relief she felt that he still survived, then gave up. He's Jasper's brother; that's good enough reason. I personally don't care if he breaks his neck. And yet she remembered the last conversation they'd had, when she'd found out who he was and been touched by grief at his tragedy. It didn't change anything; he was still the enemy. He and Davim and the Warrior Son-the three of them seemed invincible, damn them.

She scoured the battle for any sign of Kaneth but couldn't see him. Or Elmar, either, blast it. But then, with her poor eyesight, what could she expect? She thought she glimpsed Iani once, using his sword with a killing passion, but she couldn't be sure.

She wanted to fight, damn it, but the thought of Khedrim, her own fatigue and the way in which her eyesight limited her in a large area like this battleground kept her where she was.

Then, when a ball of water came flying past her out of the cistern, she changed her mind. She watched as it smashed into a Reduner face. The man jerked his head in shock, and in the aftermath, as he sat half stunned and half blinded on his pede, a Gibberman stabbed him with a spear.

She grinned and decided even her meager skills could do that much; it was easier than drying out ziggers or drawing water from men. She sent ball after ball of water into the battle area. Withering hells, she thought, why didn't we think of this during the battle for the Breccian waterhall? She knew the answer, even as she asked the question. After a lifetime of always saving water and never, ever wasting it, the idea of flinging it at someone was almost blasphemous. It had simply never occurred to them to do it, let alone that such a harmless tactic could be so effective.

Still, even throwing water around was tiring to her in her present state, especially as she had never been a particularly strong rainlord anyway. Fatigue soaked her, dragging at her limbs, miring her thoughts until they were almost incoherent. She slipped back into the smaller cave to check on Khedrim again. Her gaze softened as she cuddled him; it happened every time. Sunlord damn, what was happening to her? So absurd-she'd become as soft as a bowl of bab mash. Here she was, in the middle of a battle, wanting to smile at a baby or feel the tight grip he gave when she put her finger into his palm.

He was restless, so she fed him briefly and he soon dozed off once more. She forced herself to eat some more, pilfering bab fruit and dried apricots from the jars stored in the cave.

When she returned to the main cavern, she had an even better idea. Now that no one was looking, she grabbed up as many of the zigger cages as she could carry and held them one by one under the water of the cistern until the beetles inside had drowned. Then she returned them to where they had been stacked. Each cage had ten ziggers, so she'd disposed of several hundred beetles before she had to stop-or be caught doing it.

The battle had changed. The bullroarer was sounding and the Reduners were retreating in an orderly fashion toward the waterhall.

"Pedeshit," she muttered. "Now what?"

She hunkered down against the wall once more, still with her head and face wrapped in the cloth from the zigger cage. She could hear the sandmaster shouting, ordering the men to regroup in front of the cistern. And then Ravard's voice, yelling for the last of the unfed ziggers to be brought out. Hastily, she retreated to the store cave, but continued to peer around the corner. Anina was hiding behind the jars, begging her to do likewise.

Something crashed down on the ground, shearing the nose from a Reduner warrior on the way down. It was white and hard, but that was all Ryka could see. A heartbeat later, more white rock-like objects followed. Some shattered harmlessly on the ground, others felled men, even killing them. Pedes bolted for the waterhall, fighting men in their frantic fear to get under cover.

Blast, the place was going to get crowded. She dived for her hiding place behind the oil jars.

It was cramped sharing the space with Anina, and stuffy under the coverlet. And nerve-racking. They could not risk talking and had to sit still and in silence. There were soon men inside the alcove, helping themselves to water and food or resting while they spoke of the battle and how this one had died or that one had killed a rainlord. And all the time Ryka watched Khedrim for any sign he was going to choose to cry. He snuffled once or twice, a small sound drawing no attention, and slept on.

When you are older, I shall laugh about this with you, she thought, and tell you what a brave boy you were. She touched his cheek with her fingertip and added a moment later, Please let that be true.

They had no way to tell how much time had passed, but suddenly there was the sound of hurried movement, shouted orders from outside, followed by silence. She waited a while longer, then peeked over the top of the jars. The small cave was empty, and although she couldn't see anyone in the waterhall, she felt sure there were people there, crowding at the entrance. She could no longer feel the presence of the pedes, so she guessed they had pushed the beasts outside the better to accommodate themselves.

"I'm going out to see what's happening," she whispered to Anina.

The woman nodded, but her face was a portrait of a fear so deep-rooted, Ryka wondered if she could even speak. She patted her arm and left.

The waterhall was still crammed with warriors, but now they were only at the front, standing in rows, facing away from her. Preparing to advance, she assumed, as soon as they were given the order.

And then the picture splintered as though they had all entered the heart of the spindevil wind. A huge rope of water, twirling and howling, touched down in front of the cave to scatter men and zigger cages and pedes, shooting out slivers of white as it passed. One of these shot into the cavern and came to rest near Ryka's feet. She bent to touch it. It was ice. For a moment she crouched, unmoving, staggered by the thought anyone could do this. Outside, the sun, now low in the sky, was still hot; the land still burned with the heat of the day. How could it happen? She'd seen ice before; in the deep of the desert at night sometimes the dew froze, or the stopper in a dayjar iced up. But never in the heat of the day.

There was no time for thought. The wind and water entered the hall, blowing men before it like grass seeds in a gale. She turned and plunged back into their hiding place, drawing Anina and Khedrim into her arms, wrapping them all in the cloth and the coverlet. Khedrim started to wail in earnest, but that was the least of their worries. No one was in any condition to hear him or, if they did, to care.

Men crowded into the store cave again, screaming in terror and pain. Ice hit the walls over Ryka's head, shattering and sprinkling them with shards. The wind rocked the row of jars, and several of the empty ones smashed. Fortunately half of one of these broken vessels came flying through the air, only to wedge firmly between a full oil jar and the wall, forming a shelter protecting them from the worst of the other flying debris. Ryka dragged up some dregs of power and used it to ward off flying ice and water.

Anina sobbed endlessly, and Ryka could hardly blame her.

Jasper, she thought, if I ever get out of this alive, I will wring your neck for scaring me to death.

Just when she thought they might live through the stormlord's version of a spindevil wind, a ferocious gust made a man stagger into one of the oil jars, sending it reeling into another to create a chain reaction. Several jars smashed and suddenly there was bab oil everywhere.

Ryka leaped up, Khedrim clutched to her chest, to save him from being drenched in oil. She slipped almost immediately and sprawled, flinging herself onto her side to avoid crushing Khedrim. He woke in terror and immediately started bawling with surprising volume. And at that precise moment, the wind stopped. It didn't die away, it simply vanished. People began to pick themselves up off the floor. Into the sudden silence, Khedrim cried, the insistent squalling of an outraged newborn. Heads swung her way, disbelieving stares sought her out.

She scrambled up, horrified. The more she tried to quiet Khedrim, the louder he yelled. Someone came pushing through the crowd of armsmen, and Ryka found herself looking up at Ravard.

For a long moment he was speechless, with rage or surprise she couldn't tell. She stood, joggling Khedrim to quiet him, but he would not oblige. He was dripping with oil, and so was she.

"What the sandblasted withering shit are you doing here?" Ravard asked at last.

"Running away from the Red Quarter?" she suggested. "And having a baby."

He opened his mouth to say something else, but no words came out.

Outside, people were calling for him.

Finally he said through gritted teeth, "Stay here. I'll deal with you later." He turned and was gone.

Ryka loosened her clothing and gave Khedrim the breast to quiet him, even as she looked for Anina. To her shock, the woman was lying as still as death in the oil. A pointed shard of pottery jutted from her breast. Her eyes stared sightlessly upward, an expression of surprise on her face.

Ryka cursed, long and hard. The woman could have been safe, hiding with the other slaves, but she had come back to help.

Oblivious, Khedrim sucked hungrily until, sated, he fell asleep again. There was nothing she could do for Anina, so she walked away with him in her arms into the main cavern. The Reduners-at least those who were alive and relatively unhurt-were all gone. Injured warriors were sprawled on the floor, some unconscious, some with broken limbs, along with many bodies. There was nothing left of the zigger cages, or the ziggers.

Outside, after some sort of lull, the battle had been rejoined. Keeping close to the cavern wall, she peered out. A glance told her it would not be easy to sneak away. The fighting surged immediately outside the cavern, with the Scarpen forces pressing the Reduners closely. If she did venture out, she would be in danger of being trampled by a pede or cut by a stray antenna, not to mention killed by someone from the Scarpen forces. Her oil-saturated clothing was a traveling tunic of Laisa's, but it had long since been stained red by the sands of the quarter. Her skin and her blond hair were red. The middle of a battle was not the place to start arguing your allegiance.

Damn, she thought. Wearily she slid down the wall into a sitting position. She ached everywhere, uncomfortably aware she was still bleeding from the birth and that her exhaustion was worse after using her water-powers.

Jasper, you had better win this battle because I don't want Ravard to come for me…

And where the blighted hells was Kaneth? Please let him be all right. It was every man for himself. Ordinarily the Reduners would have made short work of an army of shopkeepers, bab pickers and resin collectors, but Davim's men were no longer the proud, undefeated marauders they had been a day or two before. The Scarpermen and their allies smelled victory and fought with a tenacious spirit. Jasper, far from being safe at the far side of the flat ground, found himself imperilled by the ferocity of the fighting around him.

Sandblast them, he thought, they are out to kill the stormlord. He had taken advantage of the lull during the parley to eat as much as he could force down his throat. He could manipulate water again, but he suspected his renewed power would not last long.

He stood up on the back of his pede and tried to keep himself above the worst of the fighting. He plucked water from the cistern and threw it at those who came at him, leaving their destruction to the guards around him. Laisa, next to him and still giving the appearance of being coolly unruffled, blinded Reduners by sucking the water from their eyes.

Aghast, he saw Dibble fall, and then another of his personal guard, and another. His pede, driverless, reared in anger when a Reduner thrust a spear between its segments. Jasper tumbled and sat down hard on the saddle. He saved himself from a further fall to the ground by grabbing for the mounting handle. Someone cut the man down from behind, and the spear was dislodged.

A Reduner driver on pedeback, tall and well-muscled and young, fought his way toward him. The man wielded both spear and scimitar and wreaked havoc among the bladesmen and pedemen tasked with keeping Jasper safe. The ordeal inside the cavern had not cowed this warrior. His robe was wet. His face was bruised and bleeding. His nose was broken. Yet he manipulated his steed with a finesse not many could achieve in normal circumstances. He alternated between scimitar and spear, slashing and stabbing with grim intent. When he wasn't using the scimitar, he held it in his mouth, blunt side inward. When he wasn't jabbing with the spear, he used it as a stave to ward off attack. Both weapons were red with blood; men died under the feet of his mount. He was terrifying.

They had not crossed weapons, though Jasper had first glimpsed him earlier through the shambles of battle. Now he was close.

Jasper threw water at him. The warrior appeared to sense it coming. He ducked and the water splashed harmless across his shoulder. When Laisa turned her attention to him, he spoke to his pede and a feeler whipped through the air in her direction. She saw it coming and threw herself sideways. The serrated edges of the feeler tore through her clothing and she fell to the ground.

The Reduner reared his pede, throwing himself forward until his face was cheek down on the beast's head. He yanked hard on one of the reins and yelled something to his mount. The animal pivoted on its back feet, and as it turned, its feelers swung out in a wide slashing arc, ripping at everything within range. Men fell, Scarpermen, Gibbermen and Reduner alike; pedes scattered.

Jasper and the man were left alone in the center of a cleared space.

I'm going to die, Jasper thought. Unless I think of something quick. He raised his scimitar into a defensive position and drew as much water as he could from the cistern with what remained of his power. I'll throw the lot at him, knock him from his pede…

The response was sluggish. He felt as if he was hauling a recalcitrant pede, not water. He panicked. He was tired, so tired. No, this is more than that. What the salted wells is he doing? And then realization: He's a reeve. He's fighting me with water skills. The man couldn't move water, but he could resist it.

When the pede whipped its feeler around at Jasper, fear clogged his thoughts. He jerked back, thinking he was going to be sliced open, but the animal stopped short of hitting him, and gently touched his face with the tip. Only then did Jasper notice the feeler on the other side was broken. He looked into the animal's myopic eyes. It was stroking him, a pedeic sign of welcome to a friend.

Jasper jerked his head up to look at the rider and was overwhelmed with a sense of recognition. It wasn't Mica's face he recognized, but his water. The features were those of a hardened Reduner marauder: sharpchiseled, calculating, stained red-that man he did not know. But the inner self? That was Mica; that hadn't changed.

And he was swinging his scimitar in a sideways slash that was about to remove Jasper's head from his shoulders.

Worst of all was the recognition in those cold, dark eyes. Mica Flint knew exactly who he was going to kill.