Chương 17: The Storm of Morth

The peak of the Veil had arrived, and Arien had already run out of ways to complain about it. His energy was not merely depleted. It felt completely gone. Naturally, everyone else seemed delighted. The harvest had gone well. The adults had energy. His siblings had energy. Even the cows had enough energy to wander off whenever he looked away for more than a dozen breaths. Arien did not. Worse, the house still had not recovered from the argument over Uther.

Sari still worked, still answered when spoken to, still sat at the table. Mari still sent her for water, firewood, or whatever else needed doing, as if chores could smooth over everything. Terry left early for the fields and came home late enough that no one expected stories. Arien hated that he had nothing useful to do with his anger, so he did what he could. He took the cows to pasture and reached for mana. Mana, at least, was still there.

It drifted through the pasture, through the grass, and through the slow, chewing bodies of the cows. During the Veil, however, it moved sluggishly, as if the air itself had grown tired. Practicing magic felt like trying to push a cart through mud. Still, he had made progress. Somehow. He had reached level six, Mana Sense had risen to fourteen, and Mana Manipulation to seven. The System offered him Domestic Animal Husbandry. Arien refused to take that personally.

He had also confirmed one important fact about Attributes through fragments of family conversations and carefully aimed questions at Wod, who liked to boast about his Status. Attributes improved what was already there; they did not perform miracles. To Arien's disappointment, high Strength would not instantly turn him into Superman. It only enhanced the strength his body already possessed. The same principle applied to the other Attributes.

Intellect additionally increased the amount of mana he could store, while Vitality affected the natural regeneration of both body and mana. More importantly, reaching level five had granted him another assigned Skill slot. Wod was supposedly level seventeen and had eight assigned Skills, which suggested another free slot every five levels. Five slots had once seemed painfully restrictive. Now Arien knew the limit would grow with him, even if every assignment still deserved careful thought.

That was enough reassurance for Arien to take a risk. He had poured all of his Free Points into Intellect, gambling on magic now and worrying about the consequences later. He was still wondering whether his brilliant plan would get him killed by a stiff breeze when the first cow raised its head. Then another. Then all of them. Arien stopped moving mana through his fingers. Earlier, there hadn't been a single cloud in the sky. Sitting beneath the old willow had felt like a summer picnic.

Now dark clouds boiled overhead, and a wind from the north bent the branches. Arien's stomach tightened. He hated storms. What surprised him most, however, was the mana. During the Veil it was usually sluggish and slow; now it swirled in a chaotic dance. Part of him wanted to stay and watch. Even by Erador's standards, the sudden change was extraordinary. Then he remembered what his last experiment with foreign mana had cost him and got to his feet. The frightened cows obeyed him better than ever.

Normally, he would return them to their owners one by one, a route that could take hours because the farms lay so far apart. With the first drops already falling, he decided they would all have to squeeze into his family's barn. By the time he reached the main road, the wind had strengthened enough that some gusts stopped him in his tracks. Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance. Birds streamed south across the sky, and Arien watched one suddenly get torn from the air and hurled onto the road a few meters ahead.

Worse was the mana. Its chaotic dance had transformed into towering columns that twisted like tornadoes, constantly growing as they dragged in more distant particles. Arien had no idea what it meant, but it could not be anything good. He was almost at the farm when he saw a broken carriage in the middle of the road. The cows pressed in around him, frightened and restless. If they panicked now, he would be under their hooves before he could move. A man lay beside the carriage, half in the mud.

Blood ran from his thigh and disappeared into the muddy road. Then the man turned his head. Sir Samwell. For several seconds, Arien could not decide what to do. Every instinct told him to run home and get out of the storm. He was soaked, freezing, and terrified. What could a child of four possibly do for a grown man bleeding in the road? A cow bellowed behind him, loud even through the thunder. Samwell raised a hand and tried to wave him closer. Arien owed him nothing.

He took three steps toward home before something beside the carriage caught his eye. Half buried beneath a cushion and a broken plank lay what he had taken for a bundle of discarded clothes. Then he saw the blond hair. A child lay in the mud, small and unnaturally still. Damn it. He could walk away from a lord. He could not walk away from a child. He ran toward the child, ignoring the knight who was trying to say something, but the raging storm carried his words away.

Will, if Arien remembered correctly, was the knight's younger son. He lay face down, blood mixed with mud seeped through his blond curls. Only a short while ago, he had seen him in front of the temple, practicing overhead strikes with a wooden sword, not paying any attention to the glances thrown at him by the villagers. The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. He knelt, touching the boy's neck. His skin was cold even to Arien's numb fingers.

"Boy!" The knight's voice finally reached him.

"Boy, come here, I must tell you something." He turned. Sir Samwell's steel-grey eyes were fixed on him. The knight was still trying to speak, but most of his words vanished beneath the storm. Keeping two fingers against Will's neck, he searched for a heartbeat through the cold rain. There. A pulse. Barely detectable, but the boy was alive. Relief came first, which surprised him. He barely knew the boy, but apparently he cared anyway.

Arien could think about why later, assuming he survived long enough to get somewhere with a roof. The violent storm reminded him too strongly of his first death, and that one was nothing compared to the raging elements around him. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. This was not the time for panic. He crawled through the mud toward the knight, who was still speaking, though barely audible.

"Brave boy," the knight said hoarsely.

"I don't know your name, but I have one request. Tell my wife that I am sorry... sorry for being so stubborn, for Sylviane... and for Will—" His voice held, but his eyes shifted toward the motionless boy.

"Will you remember that? You will be rewarded. Now run home. The Storm of Morth is not something you survive outside." Arien looked from the carriage to Will, to the piece of metal sticking from Sir Samwell's thigh, which must have broken off and pierced the knight's leg. Blood streamed onto the ground, mixing with mud. The carriage could not have crashed more than a few minutes ago; otherwise, the knight would already be dead.

"Go, boy, just remember what to tell my wife. She will surely reward you. Go and live." That decided it.

"My name is Arien. I will help." With those words, he leaned down and began unfastening the large belt around the knight's waist. The knight stared at him in bewilderment.

"My belt is not worth the reward my wife will surely give you." But Arien ignored him, struggling with the belt, which was much harder to remove than he expected. Thunder roared above them, cows bellowed in a huddled group protecting their young, and cold rain lashed the ground mercilessly. At last, the belt came free. Arien smiled. Then time seemed to slow. For a heartbeat, every detail sharpened. The storm fell silent. A plank torn loose by the wind spun toward him. He threw up a hand and squeezed his eyes shut.

BANG! Wood struck flesh. Something hot splashed across his face. Arien forced his eyes open. The world was moving again, and somehow he was still alive. He touched his face in panic and looked at his hand, where crimson droplets shimmered before the rain washed them away.

"Save yourself, boy," the knight said hoarsely, his broken arm hanging uselessly. The knight could barely stay conscious, yet he had still managed to intercept the plank. Arien sat down in the mud. For a single second, he had felt it again. That particular quality of darkness. The Void, close enough to touch. He slapped himself and got back up. Not today. He had the belt. He had to act. He tightened it around the knight's thigh, just above the protruding metal rod. Sir Samwell groaned.

"What are you doing?" he rasped.

"Stopping the blood." The knight stared at him through the rain. For a heartbeat, something like understanding crossed his face. Then he looked toward Will.

"No. Leave me."

"Will is alive. The belt will slow the bleeding, my lord. My house is nearby."

"Will is alive?" the knight asked with faint hope.

"How do you know? He hasn't moved since we fell from the carriage. I see blood on his head."

"Uh… I touched him. His blood goes 'thump, thump.'"" Arien, drag Will to your house. The road is slippery, but he is small, so you should manage. That is an order!" At the word order, something seized him. His spine straightened, and his feet turned toward Will. Arien took one step. Then another. He had not chosen either of them. Cold fear cut through the storm. Sir Samwell himself was not the frightening part. It was the empty place where Arien's choice should have been. No.

He understood what the knight was trying to do. That almost made it worse. The command did not care whether the order was good. It did not ask. It simply took. He remembered the Void. The endless dark. The one thing it had never taken from him was the choice to say no. Anger came then, sharp and clean. Something inside him locked into place. He stopped. Suddenly, he felt overwhelming exhaustion. He turned toward the knight, who was looking at him in disbelief.

"I would ask you, my lord, not to do that again. It is very tiring," he managed through clenched teeth.

"How? Never mind. You must save my son, I beg you."

"We save Will. And you." Arien pointed at the large plank half-buried in the mud.

"You on that. Will on you. The horse pulls both. My house is close." Arien glanced from the broken shaft to the tangled harness.

"I don't know how to free it." Sir Samwell studied the wreckage for a moment, then turned his attention to the horse. Arien swayed in the mud, strength draining with every gust of freezing wind. If he died again during the storm, it would mean the world truly hated him.

"Good, it might work. But if anything goes wrong, you take Will, understand?" For a moment his voice failed entirely when he looked at his son.

"Yes, my lord."

"Back," Sir Samwell rasped. Arien stumbled aside. The knight lifted a trembling hand toward the shaft.

"Zekh!" The air shimmered, and the shaft exploded into pieces, instantly swept away by the wind. One horse panicked and fled. The other collapsed, then struggled back to its feet and approached the knight, nudging him. One word. That was all it had taken. He stared at the man in disbelief. How had he done that?

"Good, Zadra, good," the knight murmured, his face almost grey.

"Remember your promise." It took him longer than he wanted to admit to work out the arrangement. The plank beneath Sir Samwell was tied to Zadra's harness with a leather strap taken from the wreckage, while Will lay across his father's chest, secured with another. Arien looped Fatty's lead rope around his wrist while the rest of the herd followed close behind. The arrangement was crude, but it might get them home.

When they finally set off, Arien stumbled alongside the horse as it dragged the makeshift sled through the mud. Something whistled past him, followed by a dull impact. He turned to see one of the calves crushed beneath a large boulder, motionless in the mud. That was too much for the cows. Panicked, they scattered in all directions. Arien barely managed to free himself from the rope and avoid being trampled. But his body had reached its limit. He collapsed into the mud.

Maybe putting almost all his Free Points into Intellect had not been the best idea after all. The last thing he saw was a rider on the horizon, surrounded by a glowing aura, untouched by the raging storm.