The Storm's Child

An IronAge Media submission for the literature image prompt, "The Tempest."

1

For a long while now Spring had come to the lands of  far northern Stenise. The heavy snows of winter were at last giving way to green grasses, colorful wildflowers, and the full glory of trees both coniferous and deciduous. Yet while the season had begun weeks prior this year’s winter had been a heavy one, as had the one before that, so the thaw took longer than usual. In the dense forests, much of the ground was still well covered, the shade from the trees slowing the melt. Even in the more open meadows and rolling grasslands further south patches of white still clung to the fresh and vibrant greens, reds, violets, and yellows that started to paint the hills.

But for Gaiur these recent days had been plenty warm. Sure the occasional chill breeze still nipped at her skin, but it was brisk as opposed to bitter, especially for one of her ilk. Gaiur had been a Valdunite once, hailing from the most northern of villages in this already far northern land. Her people were hardy folk, strong and rugged, and she took after them. She was fair skinned and dark haired and rather pretty, with a slightly upturned nose and well defined features. She was a bit broad of shoulder, as most women from Valdun were, yet shapely as well, though her baggy traveling clothes and heavy woolen cloak normally hid much of her figure.

This morning, on the bank of a mountain river that overlooked the hills and valleys of southern Stenise and alone save for her bestial companion, Gaiur stood more exposed. Spear in hand, she waded into the water with the legs of her trousers rolled above the knees and wore a simple binding of linen over her normally ample breasts, pressing them down so they’d interfere less with her attempts to fish. Her cloak lay on the ground in a heap with both her thick elk hide boots, woolen tunic, and her fine chainmail hauberk set atop it. Propped against a squat boulder besides these was her axe, a hefty weapon with a broad hooked head and a spike for punching through armor on the back side. Both this and the armor were left to her by her late husband, killed some years ago along with her son by a desperate and hungry greatwolf that attacked Valdun in the middle of an especially harsh winter.

It was ironic to think that she traveled with just such a beast these days. Varro was wading into the river himself, not far off. That name was another irony, for it was originally her husband’s. Varro had been with Gaiur for a little over two years now, ever since she saved him as a pup from death by starvation. She found him frightened and hungry and huddled against the cold-stiffened corpse of his mother, who’d been killed by a demon that he and Gaiur later faced and slew together. She hadn’t given him his name at that time and even now she still wasn’t exactly sure why she chose that of all names. Early on that choice brought with it uncomfortable memories, but two years was a long time to get used to such a thing.

Gaiur stopped a few feet from the riverbank. The cold, clear water was almost up to her knees here. It flowed against her legs, pressing and forming around them as it worked its way down to the valley. But what she sought would be coming up, moving against the stream.

Salmon.

It was the height of mating season, and across Stenise’s many rivers the salmon would be making their way to their spawning grounds. This river had already shown itself to be quite the bounty a couple days prior, when Gaiur spotted a trio of large brown bears patiently waiting by a small waterfall for their chance to snatch some of the leaping fish. They were well rewarded that day, and Gaiur hoped to share in some of that luck.

She got into position, her feet spread apart and stance solid. She held the spear up in both hands and watched the crystalline waters like an owl spying on an unawares rabbit. Already the salmon were making their way past, the silver-gray scales of their sleek backs shimmering in the morning sun. One brushed against her leg and she stabbed, driving the spear into the water.

Missed. She huffed in annoyance, narrowing her russet red eyes against the glare that formed in the water she disrupted. A tiny puff of mud trickled into the water as she pulled her spear back out and set to try again, while to her right Varro began to splash and yip excitedly as he tried to catch a fish of his own. Raising the spear back up with both hands, Gaiur tried again and again. Each attempt was a miss, but each miss brought her spear tip closer to the swift moving fish. Finally, after the ninth or tenth attempt, success!

“Aha!” Gaiur cried, hoisting the flailing fish out of the water on her spear. When she speared a second, she called her greatwolf.

“Varro, come! It’s time we ate!”

The large animal, nearly as tall as herself at the shoulder, perked up and hurried back to shore to join her. He lay beside her, greedily ripping chunks out of the larger of the two fish while she made a fire and cleaned her own. Before much longer, hers was skewered and roasting over the open flame.

“Better, boy?” Gaiur said, smiling and scratching behind Varro’s ears as he crunched and gnawed at the salmon’s head. Her smile didn’t last long, though, as an old pain lanced through her right shoulder as she leaned back. She groaned, rolling and rubbing at it, feeling the roughness of the twin scars that marred it, both left by the spear of the demon. The first scar was a mostly straight line that crested over the top of her shoulder, a gash left by a throw that barely missed her head. That one was an annoyance at worst, but the jagged pucker that sat below it on her front and back was another story. Sometimes, especially when the weather got bitterly cold, the scar ached as if the demon’s spear was still lodged inside, jutting out her front and bent at the back where she fell on it.

A bitter memory, one she’d have left in the past if not for the permanent reminder the monster left her with. Though it wasn’t the only reminder she had, as she noted when she looked at the strange bladed discus that sat piled with the rest of her things nearby. It was a powerful and awful weapon, sharp enough to cleave limbs and able to fly with the speed of an arrow when thrown. A supernatural device of unholy killing potential, as she witnessed firsthand both when it was used against her companions and when she used it to turn her fortunes against the demon. But despite that power, she’d considered throwing it away more than once. She’d yet to face anything since the demon that warranted the use of something so deadly and dangerous, though that she knew that was a mere excuse. The truth was far more clear and grim - she wished to be rid of it because, in some desperate corner of her mind, she hoped it would take the memories of those the demon killed with it.

But as Gaiur pondered this truth Varro suddenly sat upright, his ears perked and snout tilted up into the air. He sniffed, turning his head this way and that. “What is it?” Gaiur asked.

Something splashed in the river and the hackles on Varro’s neck stood. He rose quickly, and the hairs down his back rose with him. Gaiur looked out into the water, her own sense of danger rising as Varro lowered his head and growled. Then, as she stood and reached for her axe, a sudden gale wind buffeted Gaiur from the back! It blew with horrendous power, screaming through the air to lift her and Varro both off their feet, sending woman and wolf alike careening into the river.

When Gaiur burst forth from the water’s surface she was panting. Bumps of gooseflesh rose across her skin as the once brisk breeze now felt properly cold. Something splashed and sloshed in the water behind her. Spinning round to face it, she saw Varro, his thick fur hanging in shaggy mats as water cascaded off him. Normally he would’ve simply shaken it off and returned to the shore, but even wetted down his hackles were still raised. He raised his head to sniff the air, his ears twitching at sounds too quiet for Gaiur to hear. Yet though she seemingly couldn’t see or hear whatever force brought that gust, she could still feel its presence as a pressure in her chest. So she looked around anyway, scanning the bank and the nearby fields that lead to the sloping bases of this mountainous river valley.

Nothing to see. Nothing to hear. Nothing to smell either, if Varro’s nervous whining and lowered head and tail were any indication. All her physical senses seemed to say that the force behind that alien wind wasn’t there. Whatever or wherever it might be she was blind to it in every way, only able to see the valley surrounding her on this still sunny morning, only able to hear the flow of the river and the roar of the waterfall, only able to feel the shiver caused by the cold breeze on her skin. And that’s when it hit her, this breeze felt like nothing of the sort. It flowed gently like a breeze and chilled her wet skin like one, too. But what sort of breeze rustled the grass one way whilst drifting over her skin in the other? Moreso, what sort of breeze changed its direction at a whim, coming from her right one moment, her front the next, and the back after that?

Gaiur felt her body tense. This was devilry, some kind of supernatural trick being played by an entity beyond her human ken. She glanced to the shore, to where her clothes and armor and axe all still lay. They weren’t far away and the water was only up to her knees. The gust hadn’t thrown her much further than the shallows where she’d been fishing. She could easily sprint that distance. Breathing deep, the muscles and sinews in her legs grew taut and she readied to make her break.

Within three steps that screaming wind returned. It blasted down, driving so far into the water that it and the mud beneath her feet sprayed out in all directions. She tried to stand, to keep running, but the slick mud offered no purchase. She slipped, fell forward, but just as she was about to hit the mud something coiled around her neck and hoisted her up! She grasped at it, fingers clawing, but there was nothing there for her to grab. Just pressure and cold and that horrible screaming!

No, not screaming. Laughter! A vicious, otherworldly cackle masked by the howling winds, full of mockery and derision! She grit her teeth, tried to suck in breath even as she felt it being choked and pulled out of her. And then she fell again, splashing right back into those chill shallows. Instinct told her to breathe again, but she resisted the urge. She had no wish to drown today. Springing to her feet, she sloshed through the water as fast as she could, fingers clawing at the mud and grass along the riverbank as the cruel cackling wind guffawed again, this time from her front.

Crawling, clawing, dragging herself on hands and knees through the mud, she pushed through the oncoming gale and felt it shift. It moved up again, preparing to batter her from above and likely to coil about her throat once more, but it would miss its chance. Amidst the commotion, Gaiur hadn’t seen that Varro had already made his way back to the shore. Only when he sank his teeth into the rolled leg of her trouser did she notice him, and once he had her, he pulled her free of the buffeting column of supernatural wind.

Gaiur wasted no time. She scuttered to where her weapons lie, first on all fours while she rose up and then sprinting with everything she had! But the wind howled right after her, its cruel laughter replaced with a sound like petulant yowling. She snatched her axe from where it lay against the squat boulder, then gripped it in both hands as she spun on her heels and swung! It cut through the air, sinking into nothing of substance! She tried to brace, sure that the raging gale would slam her into the rock at her back, but while it buffeted past it lacked the force which took her off her feet and threatened to choke her life away.

Instead the wind wheeled about. Cutting low against the ground, it peeled away layers of melting snow in its wake. Those icy particles glistened in the morning sun, and at last the entity within the wind was given form! It had the shape of a man, albeit vague and indistinct, with long and gangly legs that stretched and bent in unnatural ways as they swirled and skated across the ground. As they moved, they cut narrow furrows into the grass and snow and mud, pulling them up into the icy glitter that already swirled about them. Spindly arms, equally formless if not for the snowy shimmer that now illuminated them, crossed back and forth over each other as they reached once more for her throat.

She swung at them again, but this time those whirling limbs halted her axe! Coiled around the head and haft, they twisted and pulled and wrenched the weapon free! But even as it twisted and spun, the creature seemingly intent on turning it against her, Varro’s paws beat against the wet ground and he lunged! His teeth snapped shut not on the formless creature, for even the fangs of a fearsome greatwolf could find no purchase on the wind, but on the haft of the axe. The creature howled in fury as it wrestled with the wolf, and Gaiur was sure she saw a face form amongst the whirling snow and grass. Youthful. Beautiful. Petulant like an angry child. It wailed and cried from a strange and vague mouth that, like its limbs, seemed to be formed of whirling wind. But the more it wrestled with the snarling wolf for control of her axe, the more solid the entity seemed to appear.

While it struggled and wailed, it lashed with ever more barbarity. Varro started to lose footing. His paws and claws slipped in mud and hard packed snow and wet sleet. Soon the thing would claim the axe from him, and once that happened, it was over for them. Gaiur could only think of one option at that moment. Tossing her boots and chain hauberk off her pile of clothes and gear, she grabbed the one tool she had that might stand a chance against this elemental foe - the demon’s bladed discus.

With a furious cry to match the creature’s heinous howling. Gaiur threw the heavy bladed weapon with every ounce of strength she could muster! Then, just as it always had, the unstable wobble grew unnaturally steady and the spinning circular blade cut through the air with the speed of a loosed arrow. The creature turned to consider the shining, swirling metal thing that came for it with a half-formed expression that almost looked like curiosity. Then the discus passed through its neck, pulling wisps of twinkling frost in its wake as it passed over the river and disappeared beyond the crest of the waterfall.

As it vanished the elemental thing’s gangly arms came away from Gaiur’s axe to raise up high into the sky, carrying with it an anguished scream as its head, now solidly formed of pale and lumpy ice, fell from its shoulders to land with a wet thunk in the mud. And then the wind faded, and the creature’s body with it, carried away with the snow and grass it uprooted on the morning breeze.

2

Down in the southern hills the weather started to turn. After a brief rest following her encounter with the malicious wind spirit Gaiur checked herself and Varro for any serious injuries. Her throat and lungs were sore, there were scrapes from small rocks buried in the river’s mud, and she already started to develop bruises on her forearms and shins from when the monster dropped her. Considering how close that monster had come to killing her, these small nicks were a blessing. Happily, Varro was none the worse for wear, either, other than the encounter leaving him on edge. That was fair. It’d left her feeling similarly. How couldn’t it? It wasn’t every day she found herself assaulted by a bloodthirsty elemental. But now that she made her way down the switchback that led into the hills and low mountains of southern Stenise, the towering masses of thick gray clouds were more than a little unsettling. They’d have to pick up their pace, lest they get caught in that coming storm.

“Come, Varro,” she said, snapping twice to get the wolf’s attention. He was a little further up the trail, standing at one of the bends on the switchback and staring out at the building storm with wide and nervous eyes. A distant rumble of thunder rolled through the air and he barked in kind, the tone low and tense.

“Varro!” Gaiur repeated, snapping again, but the greatwolf wouldn’t move.

Another roll of thunder, followed by another timorous growl from her companion, and Gaiur swiftly found herself overwhelmed with the urge to look, too. The storm reached far into the sky, enough that the billowing tops were cut flat. Gaiur didn’t know what did that to the clouds. She’d always assumed that it was Luthmor’s doing, that the Father of Seas and Storms would lop the tops off any tempest that grew too wild to remind them that he was still their master. Sometimes the storms would get angry about this and launch lightning upwards into the sky. This storm didn’t do that, but the bolts it hurled to the ground were becoming more numerous. What’s more, she could swear it had grown bigger in these last few moments, as if in those seconds it had already drawn noticeably closer.

Varro grumbled again and this time Gaiur didn’t bother trying to get his attention with a snap. Walking the few paces it took to get back up to the bend, she started to stroke and scratch at Varro’s coarse fur. “Come on, boy. Sooner we get down this cliff the sooner we can find someplace to shelter.”

For a blessing, the greatwolf relented and started to follow her again, but not before Gaiur paused to look at that storm once more. There was no denying it now, it had gotten closer. The storm was moving fast, carried by powerful winds. If it kept that pace it would reach them within just a couple hours. They needed to hurry, but after rounding the bend of one more switch Gaiur found herself compelled to stop again. She felt something against her left thigh, some kind of rustling or vibration, she wasn’t really sure. Could it be the…?

When she’d donned her clothes, hauberk, and cloak after the encounter with the elemental, she’d gone to inspect the thing’s head. Just as she’d thought once she severed it, the head was indeed made of lumpy ice not unlike a massive hailstone, but with the vague and uncanny shape of a face caught in mid scream. Equally strange, the ice didn’t seem to melt at all in her hands. No matter how long she held it, that thin sheen of surface water never dampened her palms. She even tried grabbing a bit of nearby snow just to make sure her hands weren’t unnaturally chilled by the encounter. It melted in her grasp just like normal. Curiosity struck her then, so she decided to take the head with her, wrapping it in a small leather sack and tying it to her belt. Now it bounced against her left thigh as she walked, but when she reached down to see if she could feel it rustle or vibrate as she could’ve sworn it did against her leg, nothing. It was perfectly still, a lifeless hunk of ice.

“Ridiculous,” she quietly chided, setting her mind to getting off the cliffside.

The creature was dead. Fanciful notions of its head still moving were nothing more than a trick of the mind, a distraction born of base fear. It had tried to kill her, after all; by drowning, by suffocation, and even by her own axe. Supernatural malice of that sort would leave even the most stalwart of warriors a little shaken, though she had to admit the sight of that oncoming storm didn’t help settle her frayed nerves. All the more reason to get off this trail quickly, before the lightning and rain came.

Try as she did to remain firm and focused on this simple task, it proved far more difficult than it had any rational reason to. The storm was still many dozens of miles off. Dark gray clouds and the sheets of rain which poured from them marked a shadowy border on the land where the now midday sun was blocked by the swift rolling thunderhead. Lightning cut the sky frequently, both between the clouds themselves and down to the rolling green hills below. Hills painted with splashes of purple, yellow, red, and blue, all of them fields of wildflowers. Hills dotted with birch and maple groves and whose vibrant colors were interrupted by the occasional rocky outcropping. Hills which she needed to reach, which she’d need to scour in hopes of finding some shelter from what was to come.

But she was captivated by that storm. Constantly she had to fight the urge to stop and stare, to marvel in terrible awe at this spectacle which drew ever closer. Sometimes she’d stop without realizing, staring out into those southern lands for what felt only like a few seconds, but which instinct told her was minutes at a time. What devilry was this that made the storm so enthralling? She’d seen her share of major storms in her life, knew well how mesmerizing they could be, but this was different than the simple base desire to behold the Father of Sea and Storm’s power. This felt like compulsion, an irresistible need which wormed its way inside of her and continually tugged at the back of her mind. Even Varro seemed susceptible, as he often stopped and stared alongside her.

It took them nearly three hours to get down this trail. That weighed heavily on Gaiur’s mind. On a relatively warm and sunny day like today a trek down that switchback should’ve only taken one hour at most. Now that they’d made it into the hills, though, Gaiur could see just how close the storm had come and how massive it really was. Standing at the crest of one of the taller hills, she had to tilt her head all the way back to see the flattened tops of the rolling thunderheads. A silversheen line along the storm’s border split the gray clouds from the blue sky, an effect of the early afternoon sun that they already blocked from sight. Looking to her left and right, she saw they spanned a distance as far as she could see in both directions. The hilly valley was flanked by low mountains leagues away in either direction. Each of these ranges blocked the horizon line, but Gaiur believed the storm was big enough to reach far further than even her sharp eyes could hope to see.

Early rain splashed against her skin and clothes. Directly overhead the sky was still clear, but that didn’t deter the storm from flinging fat, cold drops at her on the building wind. Deeper into the valley, surrounding the thick sheets of rain being vomited into the hills, lightning continued to dance between the darkened heavens and the soaking green earth below, briefly driving away the storm’s shadows with brilliant bolts of blue. Some of these bolts forked and flickered in wide reaching arcs. They splayed out like the bare branches of skinny dead trees, existing only for brief seconds before disappearing forever. Others were far more intense, creating singular jagged columns like luminous cracks in the sky. These produced the mightiest thunder, sound so sharp that it reminded Gaiur of the splitting of stone more than the rolling rumbles of those flickering arcs.

Dread twisted her stomach as she watched this display of still distant elemental fury. Soon the wind, lightning, and rain would be on them, beating on their heads much like the wind spirit tried to with those downdrafts. However, this wasn’t all she felt at that moment. Even with the storm bearing down on her, even knowing that the strange compulsion might be driving her to do so again, Gaiur chose to take a couple minutes to watch. Because yes, that storm was terrifying, and if she and Varro were caught in it while in the open they’d be in serious danger, but it was also beautiful, powerful, and majestic. Perhaps it would prove a mistake, but in the moment, appreciating the natural forces on display before her eyes seemed the right thing to do. But she wouldn’t linger long, and soon she tore her eyes away from the rain and the lightning to search the hills for any reasonable sign of shelter. 

There wasn’t much. While the valley was dotted with meadows and groves of sturdy trees, any potential shelter was either already beneath the storm’s torrential curtain or well within reach of its lightning. All she could see that seemed like it might have viability was a rocky outcropping just a few hills over to her left. A pair of tall conifers jutted out between a cluster of mossy boulders near the very top of that outcropping. A few paces away from those, layered sheets of shale poked out from the greenery on the hill. Maybe it could offer them the shelter they sought, though Gaiur couldn’t be sure until she went and looked for herself. Taking one last look around just to be sure and squinting her eyes against the large raindrops that battered her face with steadily increasing intensity, her decision was made. With no other visible options nearby, she called for Varro to follow and made for the rocks.

3

The storm had arrived. Overhead, lightning flared in continuous flashes that briefly illuminated the fields and the eerie clouds above. Huddled up with Varro against a wall of hard packed dirt and rock, Gaiur was quietly thankful that those shale sheets which sprouted out from the hill did, in fact, create an overhang. Whether it was natural or manmade she wasn’t entirely sure, nor did she really care. If she were forced to guess she would assume it was a mixture of the two. At the very least, people had made camp in this spot some time ago. The remains of an old fire pit, marked out by a ring of rocks ranging from the size of her fist to that of her head, was immediately noticeable a few paces beneath the overhang and would quickly be put to good use. To the left of that, when looking in, she saw a dry rotted wooden barrel and a pair of splintering crates, as well as the remains of an old lockbox. These were obscured from the outside by the mosses that hung from the rocks.

She wondered if they were perhaps left behind by traders who were crossing the valley in years past, but she soon disabused herself of the idea. Even if they got caught out in a storm like this she couldn’t see any good reason why they’d abandon what surely would’ve held their goods, short of the utmost desperation. No, the more likely culprit would be brigands, particularly if the smashed lockbox was any indicator. This overhang went deep enough under the shale that it could easily hide half a dozen men and their supplies from the main trail. Posted here under the guidance of a shrewd leader, a small band like that could easily use the surrounding hills for cover to ambush straggling traders traveling up or down the switchbacks.

Whether or not this was true, it must’ve been at least a couple years since this hiding spot last saw any major use. Time enough for the wood on the crates to desiccate and splinter and for the barrel’s iron bindings to rust through. But that proved to be advantageous for Gaiur since that dry old wood was perfect for burning. A few solid swings with her axe hacked the smaller of the crates into a serviceable pile of tinder, while the splinters that came off it worked well for kindling when gathered up and piled in the middle of the fire pit.

A colossal thunderbolt crashed into a skinny birch tree growing on the neighboring hill, splitting it in twain. Its boom was deafening and made Varro yip in pain, his sensitive ears folding back against his head. He was laying low to the ground, his tail tucked up underneath himself. Whining, he glanced back and forth between Gaiur and the raging storm before resting his head in her lap. Poor thing was trembling, he was so scared.

“It’s alright, Varro,” Gaiur said. Scratching at his shoulders and the space behind his ears, she gently shushed his whining and tried to comfort him with the sound of her voice. “We’re safe under here, gods be praised. Not sure what we’d have done if we hadn’t found this place. Probably been struck down like that tree, yeah?”

Varro grumbled in his throat and shifted a little in her lap, letting his chin rest against her thighs. He was still whining and would continue doing so for a while yet, so Gaiur would continue speaking to him to help keep him calm. She didn’t speak about anything of particular import. Carrying conversation with colossal wolves, or any wolves for that matter, wasn’t her wont. Even after two years of traveling with Varro as her sole companion she still didn’t speak to him beyond commands and the occasional affirmation. She’d been largely alone for quite some time before leaving Valdun. Lack of conversation was already the norm for her and she saw no reason to break that norm by speaking to an animal that couldn’t answer her back. But in this case she’d make an exception. Beast though he may be, Varro was a loyal companion. Dare she say, a beloved one, too. Strange as talking to him felt, it also felt like the right thing to do.

Very soon after the tree was hit, the rain began in earnest. Howling winds swiftly followed. It made the moss that hung over the shale whip and snap and pushed the rain into the shelter. Gaiur cursed under her breath. Fortunately it didn’t quite reach far enough to touch the fire, but it was beginning to wet the remaining crate.

“Stay here,” she told Varro as she stood. Then she crossed to that far side of the shelter and dragged the old crate to the back wall. With the wood as dry as it was it would quickly soak even a little bit of water, making it harder to burn. She left it a few paces from where she was sitting and returned to Varro.

“Fierce storm, isn’t it boy?” she asked. “Not like any I’ve seen before.”

Varro just whimpered, settling his head back in her lap when she sat down again. Absently she scratched at his ears again and stared outside. It looked like night out there, though it couldn’t have been later than midafternoon. The dark sky seemed to stretch on forever and the areas where the clouds were just a little bit thinner had a dark and eerie green-gray color to them. The rain fell in torrential sheets that already soaked the ground outside into mud. When lightning flashed she could see the silhouettes of thin birch trees bow in the wind, while the leafy branches of the sturdier maples and oaks were pulled in the same direction, almost like fistfuls of hair being yanked.

A shiver rolled up her leg and into her spine. Gaiur’s reddish russet eyes glanced down to the little sack that still hung off her belt. The wind spirit’s head, that lumpy chunk of hale-like ice, was still wrapped inside it and once again it felt like it was vibrating. But that couldn’t be, because it was dead. The head was taken from the body, cut away by the demon’s discus, and then the body faded. She watched as it happened, watched it die right in front of her. Another thunderbolt cracked closeby. Again Varro yelped in pain and fright and this time she flinched, too. That one was close, possibly striking one of the trees that grew on the hill above them. She looked outside again, trying to see if it was actually one of the trees they could see on the neighboring hill when that shiver rolled up her leg once more.

“Confounded thing,” Gaiur spat.

Trick of the mind or not, she wasn’t about to let herself be spooked by a kill trophy. Swiftly she unwound the leather thong that tied the sack to her belt and kicked the thing away. It thudded softly against the hard packed dirt until it clattered against the rock ring of the firepit. Sighing, she grabbed a couple more pieces of broken wood to toss on the fire, then huddled back up against Varro and wrapped her cloak around herself. The wind was getting stronger now, bringing chills and howling moans and the creaking of trees along its current. Soon the fire began to whip and snap as the winds cut through the more exposed fore of the shale overhang. If this kept up, she might need to use the second crate as a barrier to help protect the fire. After a couple moments Gaiur decided to do just that. However, as she started to slide the crate in place, she heard something else over the din of the storm.

Her stomach knotted and she felt a chill far more biting than that of the wind sink into her flesh. The sound was infrequent, coming at random intervals from the firepit every few seconds. Gaiur initially tried to explain it away as the fire itself. It was the pop of splitting wood, that was all. But she knew that wasn’t true. This neither sounded as hollow nor as loud as splitting coals. What’s more, she’d already heard the sound a couple minutes ago; the dull clack of the spirit’s head against the rocks.

Sure enough, she could see the leather bag moving when she turned. It vibrated and shifted, tilting first away from the fire pit, then swinging back to strike the rocks. Despite seeing it, she could hardly believe it. She’d watched the thing die, hadn’t she? Watched its body lift up into the air and disperse as its head fell into the mud. It was dead. Dead! It had to be! And if it wasn’t, then she wasn’t about to keep it around.

Snatching the bag up by its drawstrings, Gaiur pulled her arm back and pitched it out the front of the shelter! It splashed as it landed in the mud outside, barely audible over the wind and thunder and rain. Growling out a huff, she pushed the crate into place to help block the wind from her bonfire. But as she pushed, she both felt and heard something strike the old, dry wood with a hollow thunk.

Her eyes went wide and her heart began to pound inside her chest. The bag she’d just thrown away now bumped repeatedly against the old crate, rolling back and forth about half a step to knock against it over and over. Again she snatched the muddy bag by its drawstrings, this time twirling it underhanded as if it were a sling. When she let it go it went careening back out into the rain, far enough that it disappeared from sight, likely landing somewhere amongst the grasses of the neighboring hill. This time Gaiur didn’t sit back down, instead waiting to see if the thing would come back even in spite of Varro’s whining.

When his whining ceased and then turned to a low growl, she knew all she needed to know. Crossing to the back of the shelter she grabbed up her axe and waited. As expected, she soon saw the bag with the spirit’s head rolling back into the light of her fire. She grit her teeth, hissing an angry growl between them. With determined steps she marched into the rain that buffeted into her shelter and hoisted her axe high, ready to bring it down on this cursed thing and shatter it to pieces. But before she swung the little sack picked up speed and bounced up off a small rock in the mud. It arced low to the ground, coming straight for Gaiur. On instinct she took a step back, but the bag and the severed head inside struck the toe of her boot. Then, suddenly, a tremendous blast deafened her and her vision went stark white!

She came to a moment later, ears ringing and vision blurred. Trying to blink the bleariness away and looking around in an effort to get her bearings, Gaiur realized that she’d been thrown into the back of the hideout. Varro was beside her again. He was growling, though she could barely hear it above the piercing ring in her ears. She reached out for him, her hand brushing against his tail. That’s when she realized he wasn’t beside her, but in front of her. He’d put himself between her and whatever it was that threw her back. Wiping her eyes, she blinked hard once more and looked out of the entrance. There was a noise out there, something loud and constant that she couldn’t quite place yet. Only when another flash of white illuminated the area around her did she finally understand what happened.

The shale overhang had been split. A jagged crack spread out a broad V shape, narrow above her head and wide at the entrance. Chunks and chips of the layered rock had fallen to the ground, and in the firelight she could see they were scuffed with black char marks. It was lightning. At the exact moment the elemental’s bagged head struck her, an immensely powerful bolt of lightning smashed through the shale ceiling and into the ground directly in front of her. It threw her off her feet and she smashed back first against the rear wall of the hideout. Now those bolts came in a torrent outside, some visible just beyond the wide open entrance, others through that broad split in the ceiling. They crashed into the ground, into the shale, each one erupting with cacophonous booms that rattled her bones and deafened her ears.

Varro bayed and barked, his fear turning to desperate animal fury. Every boom made him flinch and wail. The titanic sound was agonizing enough on Gaiur’s ears. She could only imagine how much worse it was on the sharper senses of her companion. Pulling herself to her knees, she draped an arm over his ears to try and help muffle the sound, then did the same by pressing one side of her head against his body while she pressed her free hand over her uncovered ear.

All around them the shale fell in chips and small sheets, blasted loose by crashing thunderbolts. The larger pieces beat against their bodies and Gaiur shifted to protect both her head and Varro’s. Her eyes darted, trying to find some escape, some safe haven. But as she looked, she realized with grim irony that this had been the only one. Now it’d become a death sentence, like a spring loaded trap clamped around her leg. That idea would soon become more true than she realized in that moment.

From above, a burst almost as eruptive as the one which sent her flying filled the air. Chancing a look up, Gaiur saw a chunk of shale almost as big as herself split and dislodge from the ceiling above. Scrambling onto her feet she shoved Varro aside and sent the surprised wolf stumbling out of the way. She wasn’t quite fast enough to avoid it herself, however. While she did pull her leg out of the way enough to avoid it being crushed the sharpened edges of the shale slab ripped deep into her calf.

Gaiur cried out through clenched teeth. Even in the now dimming light of the fire, swiftly being snuffed by the rain pouring through the broken shale, she could see the gruesome results of that bloody laceration. Her skin was ripped and tattered, leaving behind a gash in her muscle half as wide as her palm. She wouldn’t be able to stand on it, not that it would’ve helped her much anyway. Through the dimming light she could see the still bagged head of that malicious wind spirit rolling towards her again, slowly turning end over end in its own equivalent to a creeping crawl.

But as it crept and as the fire continued to dim, Gaiur realized the lightning had finally stopped. No more blinding flashes and the cacophonous booms were replaced with a low, steady roar of immense volume. That roar, she realized, was the very same sound she failed to recognize after she was thrown. Wind! It was the din of an immensely powerful wind, and it grew louder by the second! Helpless, heart pounding in her chest, Gaiur stared out into the rain and the bluster which slanted it. Then, as if driven by some otherworldly intent, one last lightning bolt flared in the cloud darkened sky, and then she saw it.

From out of a colossal wedge of cloud and rain and debris, twin cyclones skated across the ground. They bent and bowed like ribbons, moving one over the other as if on an implacable march that sought specifically for her. A memory came to her then, a grim legend told by her late husband. He’d learned it from a tribal people in a land far to the south and west, a nomadic culture which lived among colossal plains that seemed to stretch on for eternity. These plains, he said, often saw some of the mightiest of storms, and these storms would birth terrible cyclonic tempests. Of these, one was said to be worse than all others, an ill omen that meant one was marked for death - the walking dead man.

Gaiur understood this was precisely what stood before her now. And with each step the walking dead man took, the wind grew stronger and its din grew louder. Then lightning began to fall again, and though she knew it was pointless she huddled up with her wolf against the back of the hideout. She wanted to close her eyes, to accept what was bound to be her inevitable demise, but she found that she couldn’t look away. Just like when she was on the switchbacks, that feeling of compulsion came over her. It overcame even her terror, silently commanding her to watch as the giant wedge cyclone parted to reveal a colossal giant within. Shaped like a man, albeit vague and indistinct, its long and gangly body stretched from the earth to the clouds and its ribbon-like legs ripped birch trees off their roots and scoured the bark and smaller branches from the more stout maples and oaks. Two serpentine arms stretched from its vague form, one curling and twisting as it reached out further and further. Reached out for her. Terror gripped Gaiur right down to the depths of her soul. Instinct told her to flee or hide, but there was no place where she could do either. Frozen by fear and compulsion, all she could do was wait for the inevitable to come.

Yet something tugged at her attention. Movement in the lower edges of her vision. It was accompanied with sound, a muffled clack and what sounded like a wisp of laughter. They were barely audible above the baying of the tempest giant, but she recognized them for what they were - the head of the spirit. Looking down, she could just see the bag trying to roll over one of the rocks that ringed the fire pit, but it just couldn’t make it over. The stone was too large, and the disembodied head had no means of gaining purchase. And as she watched this otherworldly thing that should’ve been dead yet still lived try and fail at its simple task, realization came and with it, understanding.

Throwing herself to the ground, Gaiur crawled on her belly over to the bag. She winced as she dragged her damaged leg over some of the shale shards that littered the ground, but she pushed through that lancing pain to take this one chance! She snatched the bag by its drawstrings, dragged it into her lap as she pushed herself onto her knees. The burning pain in her leg was almost unbearable, and it was only made worse by the way the bag suddenly began to thrash in her hands! But she forced the pain aside, pressing the severed head down with one hand while she untied the drawstrings with the other.

The wind grew stronger by the second. What had been buffeting waves had grown into a terrible gale that threatened to rip her up into the sky! Already she could feel herself starting to slip, her cloak and hair being pulled by this horrible wind! Behind her Varro bayed and whined as that snaking cyclone arm drew ever closer, its end splitting into something resembling a three fingered hand!

The bag loosened! With a harsh tug the drawstring came free and the thin, supple leather of that well worn sack was ripped away on the wind! But its contents remained with Gaiur. Clutched against her chest, it rattled and vibrated and gave off the most bitter cold. Then, looking out at the still approaching giant and its outstretched arm, she took the head in both hands, squeezed her eyes shut, and held it up high above her head.

“Take it!” Gaiur cried out! “It’s yours! The child is yours!”

Her hands were empty then, the weight of that visage of ice removed from them by the gentlest of breezes. Suddenly, even through her tight squeezed eyes, she could see light again. Slowly she opened them, looking out onto the rain soaked plains. They sparkled in scintillant colors, a show granted by a late afternoon sun that cut brilliant shafts into the swiftly dissipating clouds. And as she looked out she saw the giant and the spirit from that morning, near mirrors of each other save that one was tall, and the other rather small by comparison. The storm’s child had been returned and, at least for today, its mother’s fury was placated.