The whirlwind picks up speed, whipping into a frenzy as a single word rings out over all the others.
“Everyone else is hearing ‘simoom,’ right?” I ask. “That’s an actual thing?”
“It is,” Audra tells me.
“And I doubt they’ll be prepared for that,” Aston murmurs.
“Why, what’s a simoom?” I ask.
Audra tightens her hold on my hand. “It means ‘poison wind.’ ”
CHAPTER 44
AUDRA
I’ve never seen a simoom before.
They’re rare in this part of the world.
And Windwalkers tend not to use them.
Partially because they can be erratic and untamable. But mostly because they’re terrifying.
To let the earth choke out all the air . . .
My shudder makes me realize what I’m forgetting.
“I need you to warn the Gales,” I tell my mother, hating that we have to rely on her after all. “Tell them to hold their breath and cover their hands and faces—without tipping off the Stormers.”
I wish I could order a retreat, but that could ruin everything. And I doubt the Gales would be able to get past the Living Storms anyway.
“I’ll use the birds,” my mother tells me, marking the feathers on her crow’s wing. She whispers directions for it to follow and sends it soaring into the stormy sky.
“Okay, what the heck is this thing we’re about to make?” Vane asks as my mother calls more birds to warn the other Gales.
There aren’t many willing to brave this weather, but a handful of sparrows responds as I tell Vane, “It’s a heat-driven dust storm.”
“How is that different than a haboob?” he asks. “Besides the way less awesome name, of course.”
He winks and I can’t help smiling.
Now is definitely not the time for another round of his infamous boob jokes.
But I love that he always manages to ease the tension.
“Haboobs are formed by sudden downdrafts. Simooms are cyclonic,” I explain. “And they carry heat along with the dust, and sweep through an area so fast they choke everything in their path and scorch it.”
“I’ve heard stories of whole pastures of dead animals after a Simoom passes,” Solana adds. “And men with blistered skin.”
“That definitely doesn’t sound like anything I want to be signed up for,” Vane says. “Are we sure the Gales can survive it?”
“We’re not sure of anything,” I hate to admit. “Except that our winds are telling us the command, and they haven’t failed us yet.”
“If it helps,” Aston adds, “the Gales are as good as dead in this battle anyway. At least this gives them a chance.”
No. That doesn’t help.
But I can hear Gus’s voice whispering through my memories.
Trust the wind.
Keep fighting.
“So how do we actually do this?” Vane asks. “Do we stay up here and watch, or . . .”
I wish.
“I think we’ll have to follow through on foot, don’t you?” I ask Aston.
He nods. “I doubt the simoom will have much affect on the Living Storms. They don’t breathe or have skin to burn.”
“Wait a second,” Vane says. “Are you telling me that once we use up half of our winds to make this simoom thing, we’re still going to have to fight”—he turns to the battle and counts—“thirty-six Storms?”
“You’re the one who thought we should listen to the wind,” Aston tells him. “If you don’t like their plan, take it up with them.”
Vane checks the drafts’ songs again, and I find myself doing the same. They’re still focused on the simoom, and they’ve added another lyric about hoping in the unknown.
“Well then,” Vane says. “Anyone got any plans for fighting the Living Storms? Last time it didn’t go very awesome.”
He rubs his injured elbow, and I try not to remember how many Gales died in that battle—or the fact that we were only facing twenty-nine Storms at the time.
“I have a few ideas,” Aston murmurs. “But most of them require wind, so we’ll have to hope the simoom wipes out whatever the Stormers are doing to keep the sky empty. And another involves breaking the rest of the drafts in this wind spike. Or breaking the ones I’m capable of shattering, at least.”
“Why would that matter?” Vane asks.
“Simple math,” Aston tells him. “If shattering one draft boosts its strength, breaking the others should triple the effect.”
Vane doesn’t look thrilled with his reasoning.
But he nods.
“Try to focus on the Gales you’re hoping to save—not on saving yourself,” Solana advises, before Aston can give the command. “Keep saying it over and over in your mind and make yourself believe it. Then say whatever words the need tells you.”
Aston sighs. “You’re really killing all the fun of this.”
“It’s not supposed to be fun,” I snap. “Those winds are being sacrificed to save us—at least give them some small choice in the matter.”
Aston sighs again, but closes his eyes and lets several seconds slip by before he hisses a string of commands.
The wind spike crackles and shifts to a shade of yellow so bright it practically glows.
I can feel the power radiating from it, sick and scratchy but so intense it gives me hope. Until Vane tries to command it to “come” and the spike refuses to respond.
“Maybe it needs you to say the command in the power of pain?” Vane suggests.
Aston and Solana both try, to no avail.
“At least that makes it harder to steal,” Aston says, slashing it a few times.
“It also means you’ll probably only get one shot,” Vane reminds him.
“Then I’ll make it count,” Aston says, slashing the spike several times. “And hopefully build more when I have access to wind.”
Vane turns to the battlefield, probably taking another count of the Storms. “I’m not sure I want to know the answer to this,” he says quietly, “but . . . do we know who these Storms are—or were—or whatever the right phrase is?”
“I’d wager they’re the Stormers who failed to capture us on the mountain,” Aston tells him. “And the ones who allowed you to escape from Brezengarde. Raiden wouldn’t let such failure go unpunished.”
I know I shouldn’t feel sympathy for the Stormer who tore my dress and tried to assault me. Or Nalani, who was happy to let Gus die in that cell.
But it’s all such an incredible waste.
So many lives stolen.
So much pain and ruin.
And for what?
For one sylph’s greed for ultimate power—a sylph who couldn’t even bother showing up to fight his own battle.
Please, I beg the winds, give us the strength to end this.
“Os got the warning,” my mother announces, stroking her newly returned crow. “And the other birds are finishing up their rounds.”
“I guess that means it’s time to do this, right?” Vane asks, tightening his grip on my hand. “You sure you’re up for it?”
“I have to be. We need an Easterly.”
He leans closer, whispering only for me to hear. “But I need you more. We could use your mother—”
I shake my head. “I don’t trust her. Besides, I’m staying with you.”
“Will you two please remember that there are people with eyes here, having to watch this sugary mushiness?” Aston interrupts.
Vane shoots him a glare—but Aston’s right.
Still, I feel myself twining my fingers tighter with Vane’s. “Okay, we’ll give the command on three. And then—depending on what happens—we’ll charge into battle. Ready?”
I wait for each of them to nod.
Vane agrees first.
Then Solana.
“Oh, why not?” Aston tells me.
“One,” I count. “Two.”
I steal an extra breath before I call, “Three!?
??
In perfect harmony, we all shout, “Scorch!” in our native languages.
The winds double their span, blasting the four of us backward. We skid across the ground as the winds swirl so fast they tear off chunks of rock and pulverize them.
The battle goes quiet as the Stormers halt to stare.
“Is that how this is supposed to work?” Vane asks as the funnel stretches higher and higher. “I thought it was going to, y’know, move.”
“It’s heating up,” Aston says. “Ever rub a stick between your palms and watch the friction spark?”
The air does seem to be getting hotter.
And hotter.
And hotter.
“Maybe we should back up,” Vane says.
But there isn’t far to go. The hill slopes down on one side, and butts us up against the spire of rock on the other.
“EVERYONE COVER YOUR MOUTHS!” Aston shouts, and I bury my face in my hands as the storm blasts into a cyclone and swirls toward the battlefield.
The simoom stretches wider with every second, gouging the earth as it moves, smashing it into silt and fanning it through the sky until the air is so thick I can barely see my hands. The grit burns my eyes and throat, and I wish we’d been smart enough to tear strips of fabric from our jackets and make face masks.
Someone grabs my hand and I scream—then choke on the dust.
“It’s okay,” Vane shouts, pulling me to my feet.
We stumble toward the others, all of us coughing so hard it nearly knocks us over.
“This storm will burn out in a few minutes,” Aston rasps. “So we should start making our way down. We’ll want to hit them when they’re scrambling to regroup.”
The air feels too heavy to move—or that might be my head. Between the searing heat and the shallow breaths and the scratchy eyes, it’s hard to concentrate. Still, we manage to lock arms and form a chain, and Aston takes the lead, sending us charging down the rock face as fast as our shaky legs will carry us.
Maybe the winds fuel our sprint.
Maybe I’m just dreading the fight ahead.
But it feels like only seconds before we reach the battle.
The smell is indescribable.
Filth and waste and roasted flesh all mix with the dry scent of parched earth. I’m gagging with every breath, and then choking on the dust.
Everywhere I look, gray figures writhe on the ground, some still, others wailing and clutching their faces with blistered hands. I notice a few Gales collapsed among them and try to convince myself they’d already fallen in the battle. It helps to see so many guardians still standing.
They move as weak and wobbly as we do, but they’re ready for a fight, weapons raised as they fan the dust away from their eyes.
The Living Storms have broken their ranks and scattered—their roars mixed with the hiss of the unraveling simoom—but through the haze of grit I can see them tearing our way.
“We’d better head over there,” Vane shouts, pointing to where two Storms are closing in on an injured Gale.
“We’ll never get there in time,” Astons says, letting go of me to aim his wind spike. “I’d rather hoped to hang on to this longer, but . . .”
He lets the spike fly.
His aim is flawless—hitting one of the Storms through the shoulder before exploding the other’s head in a burst of yellow steam.
“Two down,” Vane calls. “Thirty-four to go. And that was our only weapon. Just, y’know, in case anyone’s keeping track of these things.”
“Actually,” Aston says, squinting through the murk. “I think the spike survived. I’m going after it.”
He takes off toward the carnage, and we start to follow, until a roar to the east stops us cold.
I turn and find Os and another Gale battling five Storms between them.
“They need our help!” Solana shouts.
“Okay, but how?” Vane asks. “I’m still not feeling any winds down here, are you? And there’s also that.” He points to three Storms tearing toward us from the other direction.
“We need a distraction,” Solana says, closing her eyes as she snarls a scratchy command.
A ruined draft and a Southerly seep from her skin and coil around her.
“This looks like a terrible plan!” Vane shouts as the drafts launch her toward the Storms. “What are you going to do up there without any weapons?”
“No idea!” she calls over her shoulder. “But I begged the winds for something to make them lose interest in you guys, and I guess this is the answer.”
She waves her arms and hollers insults until the Storms turn to chase her, and she flies toward where Os is fighting.
“You realize she’s basically bringing them three more enemies to fight, right?” Vane asks. “I’m not sure the wind thought this one all the way through.”
I’m not certain either.
But we don’t have time to worry about it.
Four more Storms shift paths and head our way.
We race the opposite direction, but they gain with every step. Aston tries to fight his way back to us, but he’s tackling three of his own. And all the other Gales are fighting battles. Which leaves me with one final, desperate idea.
I’m certain Vane is going to hate it, so I turn my face away from him as I focus on my Westerly shield.
We need help, I tell the loyal wind. I need you to do what you did in Death Valley. If we don’t get more winds, everyone is going to die.
My shield tightens its hold, not wanting to abandon me.
Please, I beg. We need wind more than anything.
The draft sings of impossible choices as it untangles itself.
“Thank you,” I whisper in Westerly. “And hurry!”
“Please tell me you didn’t just do what I think you did,” Vane says.
“It’s our only option.”
“No, there’s still this.” He asks his shield to wrap around me, and the wind blankets my skin. I try to send the shield back, but Vane covers my mouth with his dusty palm. “Please, just let me do this. It’s the only way I’ll be able to concentrate.”
I want to argue—or pull him even closer—but the four Storms chasing us have drawn so near that I can feel their pull dragging us toward their funnels.
My feet float off the ground, and Vane jumps on top of me, rolling us away as soon as we crash. I lose track of which way is up. Everything is tumbling tumbling tumbling—until we crash into a pile of bodies.
A couple of them are still alive, clawing and flailing with their blistered hands.
“Yeah, no thanks,” Vane says, kicking a Stormer away and grabbing another’s black windslicer.
I do the same, and we both point them at the injured Stormers.
“What do we do?” Vane asks. “Kill them so they can’t come after us—and maybe put them out of their misery? Or leave them and not get our hands bloody?”
“I can’t tell,” I admit. “My instincts are all over the place.”
“Mine too.”
Another second passes before he grabs my arms and pulls me east. “I feel like if killing’s the right choice, we’ll know.”
I squeeze his hand harder, taking a second to marvel at how steady he’s become. Despite the horrors raging around us, he makes me feel safe, even when two more Storms angle their paths to head us off.
We screech to a halt, and I feel the draw of two other Storms behind us.
“They’re boxing us in,” Vane shouts as we try to pivot east, only to spot another Storm blocking our way.
“DON’T MOVE!” Aston calls from somewhere to the west.
“EASIER SAID THAN DONE!” Vane shouts back.
We both grapple for a hold to keep us tethered to the ground.
I’m about to lose my grip when yellow flashes through the nearest Storm, and the mangled funnels explode into bellowing mist.
“GRAB THE SPIKE AND TAKE OUT THE OTHER!” Aston orders.
I pull a muscle in my shoulder as I
stretch to reach for the spike, but it’s worth the pain when I close my hand around it.
I only have time to check my aim once before I let the weapon fly.
The explosion buries us in rock and rubble, and Vane drags me out of the debris and gets us moving again.
“Where are the other Storms?” he asks, trying to see through the fog of sand.
I tighten my grip on his hand. “I can’t tell, but they sound close.”
“GET DOWN!” Aston shouts. “INCOMING ON YOUR LEFT!”
I dive to the dirt, covering my head.
Five seconds pass.
Then ten.
“ANY TIME NOW!” Vane calls, lifting his head to scan the field.
The wind spike blows past him, striking the rocky ground in a shower of dust.
“DID YOU SERIOUSLY JUST MISS?” Vane asks.
“I TOLD YOU TO GET DOWN!” Aston shouts. “YOU’RE LUCKY I DIDN’T HIT YOUR GIANT SQUARE HEAD!”
“I have a square head?” Vane asks.
I have to laugh, even surrounded by so much misery.
I’m still smiling as I fight my way to the wind spike and let it fly toward the Storm’s main funnel.
It hits dead on the mark, and Aston launches it back through the final Storm near us, dissolving it into a puff of sickly smoke.
“How many have we taken out?” Vane asks as we grab the spike and run.
“My best count says we’re down to twenty-four,” Aston says as he falls into step beside us. “But it might be twenty-five—which is better than I’d expected, honestly. I don’t see how we’re going to hold out. This wind spike is getting weaker with every toss. I’m betting it has about three good hits left before it unravels. Also, I’m getting rather tired. This body isn’t exactly built for running.”
“Can’t you draw strength from all this pain?” Vane asks.
“Not without wind. And even then . . . this is a far darker kind of suffering.”
My stomach turns as I survey the battlefield, and the rot and ruin heaped everywhere.
This is the great legacy Raiden has brought to our world.
But I can’t worry about the dead.
Our guardians are still outnumbered three to one, and without weapons, their fights have been relegated to running and dodging. And Solana’s veering erratically through the sky with at least a dozen Storms chasing after her.