Hanama rises smoothly to her feet. She’s a small woman, several inches shorter than me, and about one quarter as wide.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because anyone working close to Lisutaris needs to be checked out. She might be a security risk.”
“She isn’t.”
“That’s for me to decide.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Yes it is, Captain Hanama. Kindly provide me with full details so I can do my job.”
“Her name is Megleth and she’s an Elf,” says Hanama. “That’s all I can tell you.”
We stare at each other.
“I demand to know more.”
“That’s all I’m saying.”
“I outrank you.”
“No you don’t, we’re both Captains.”
“I outrank you in this. I’m Captain in charge of security.”
“You don’t outrank me in anything,” says Hanama, coldly. “Commander Lisutaris is already aware of Megleth.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I have no interest in what you believe.”
As always, when faced with Hanama, I feel a mixture of annoyance and distaste. I loathe assassins.
“So where is this mysterious Elf?”
“With Commander Lisutaris.”
“She’s with Lisutaris?” I turn to Makri. “Why have you left Lisutaris alone? Hanama’s Elf is probably assassinating her at this moment.”
“Lisutaris told me to leave. She had private sorcerers' business to discuss.” Makri wrinkles her brow. “I don’t like when she does that.”
“Neither do I. We should check she’s safe.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” says Hanama. “There is no danger.”
At that moment the sky goes dark, there’s a flash of lightening and an enormous peal of thunder. Rain begins to pour down in torrents from a sky which was clear only seconds before. A gale-force wind blows through the camp, driving the rain before it, picking up debris from the ground and tossing it around. So unexpected is the storm, and so violent, that for a second or two I’m disorientated, not sure what to do. I snap out of it quickly as another deafening clap of thunder explodes overhead.
“Makri!” I scream to make myself heard. “This storm isn’t natural! We need to get to Lisutaris.”
This storm can only have been conjured up by a hostile sorcerer. It came out of nowhere, and it’s the wrong season for bad weather in Samsarina. Makri and I hurry towards the command tent. Though it’s been raining for only a few minutes the ground is already treacherous. So heavy is the rain that the earth turns to mud beneath our feet, and water laps up over our ankles. With the wind howling in our faces, progress is slow. By the time we’re close to Lisutaris’s tent we’re wading through several inches of mud. My face is sore from the pounding rain, some of which is now turning to hailstones.
All around us, tent pegs are torn out of the ground by the wind. Soldiers struggle to hold on to their tents which threaten to fly away in the gale. Items of clothing, food, even weapons, are picked up by the storm and whirl around our heads. It’s a chaotic scene. A horse gallops past, panicked by the ferocity of the storm, knocking down a centurion who ends up in a pool of muddy water. His soldiers drag him out of the pool and look for cover, but there’s no cover to be had. We’re stuck on an open plain in the middle of a storm as bad as any I’ve ever encountered.
Outside Lisutaris’s tent, the sentries are still at their posts though they’re struggling to stay on their feet. One soldier’s helmets blows off and he falls over in the mud trying to catch it. I’m finding it difficult to advance. My weight - which I refuse to admit is a handicap in most circumstances -does make it difficult to pass quickly over the cloying mud. Makri sprints ahead of me, reaching Lisutaris' tent just in time to see it collapse. The large, square edifice tumbles in on itself, engulfing its contents and anyone who was inside. As I reach the tent Makri is attempting to lift it, a hopeless endeavour given the size of the canvas, which is now water-logged and extremely heavy. With the wind and hailstones battering us we make no progress at all. While we’re still puzzling about how to proceed, the tent begins to rise in the air. Not flapping furiously, like all the other tents currently careering all over the place, but serenely. I take a step back. The tent continues to rise, coming to a halt about ten feet in the air. Standing beneath it is Lisutaris. She moves one of her fingers slightly, causing the tent to descend gently and land behind her.
“What is happening?” she asks.
“Sudden severe storm probably of sorcerous origin,” I reply.
The Head of the Sorcerers Guild scowls. She looks up. Lightning flashes in the sky, producing more deafening thunder. “This is irritating,” she says. “So much for my afternoon nap.”
The driving rain has already reduced Lisutaris’s nicely-coiffured hair to a stringy mass dripping over her shoulders. Her sodden cloak flaps around her ankles. Becoming annoyed with this, she snaps her fingers. A faint purple light appears above her head, acting as an umbrella, diverting the rainwater to each side of her. That’s a useful spell. Makri and I both step into the dry patch.
“Can you stop the storm? I yell. “It’s going to wash the army way at this rate.”
“I have sorcerers to prevent this sort of thing happening,” declares Lisutaris. “Where are they?”
A bedraggled sorcerer hoves into view, struggling against the elements, mud and water splashing round his feet as he approaches. He stumbles up to Lisutaris and makes an attempt to salute.
“Habintenat Cloud-Controller, Senior Storm Class Sorcerer, Weather Unit, Sorcerer’s regiment, Samsarinan Division,” he says. Which, in the circumstances, is quite a lengthy introduction.
“Well, Habintenat Cloud-Controller, what happened? You’re supposed to look after the weather.”
“We were overwhelmed by a sudden hostile spell, Commander. It’s like nothing we’ve encountered before. We couldn’t fight it. The rest of the Weather Unit is still trying.”
Lisutaris seems very displeased by the news. “You should be ready for anything. You’re meant to save me from wasting power on this sort of thing.”
“Sorry Commander. The spell is extremely potent.”
The unfortunate Habintenat, completely drenched and looking very sorry for himself, isn’t exaggerating. Whatever spell has caused this storm is certainly potent. A sudden gust of wind sends Makri careering into me, and she looks embarrassed to have lost her footing. She draws her sword and tries to pretend it didn’t happen.
“Take a few steps back,” says Lisutaris. We step back into the driving rain. I drag my sodden cloak over my head to protect myself from a barrage of hailstones. Lisutaris holds one hand in the air, but pauses, frowning. She hesitates for a few seconds, as if judging the correct response. She’s still frowning slightly as she holds up her other arm. Her eyes turn purple and purple light begins to flicker around her hands, both signs that she’s using a major piece of sorcery. She chants something in one of the arcane languages beloved by the Sorcerers Guild. The chant goes on for around ten seconds, which is longer than most of the spells I’ve heard Lisutaris use. As she finishes chanting, the rain begins to ease off. I risk emerging from beneath my cloak. The hailstones have stopped, and the wind is dropping. There are no more flashes of lightning. The rain drops to a light drizzle, then halts completely.
Our War Leader is looking thoughtful. “That was indeed a potent storm spell. Sorcerer Habintenat, return to your unit and assist with drying operations. When you’ve done that bring your unit back here so I can teach them how to look after the weather properly.”