King of Storms

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BOOK ONE:

The Search for

Mountain Home

ONE

ZURKIN watched his little brother run off—again—to a nearby copse of trees, dropping his breeches and squatting in the shadows to relieve himself. The boy had the runs. Zurkin turned to his mother in disgust. I told him to stop eating the corn and start picking it. I oughta break some of his bones.

They were very nearly through with the corn harvest—just a couple more of the long rows—and if they pushed themselves, they might be able to finish that day. But with his brother fooling around, it would take longer and he wanted to be certain they were done before the king’s men came for the king’s share.

Ain’t no reason to get mad, his mother said as she straightened, turning to face him. The pain in her back was evident by the way her sun-wrinkled, gaunt face took on a grimace. We’s almost but done anyway.

Her voice was ancient, that of an old countrywoman.

She turned her eyes on Zurkin’s three sisters. You girls, quit yer gawking and get to work. We’s just about done. The king’s men is coming for the share and we don’t want to keep ’em waiting.

The girls, in rag dresses, their long, dark hair tied back with coarse string, each looking more like their father than their mother, giggled and went back to the endless task of filling their baskets, grabbing ears of corn off the tall stalks planted in long, symmetrical rows in the field next to their small home.

Zurkin was stripped down to a bulong—a piece of cloth tucked between the legs and secured about the waist with a wide, flat belt. It marked him as an unsophisticated farmer, he knew, but that’s what he was. His skin was golden brown from constant exposure to the sun, and his arms and legs were strong with muscle from working in the fields.

He dropped his basket on the ground, angry, and tramped off to the copse of trees after his little brother.

You leave yer brother alone, his mother called.

I’ll leave him alone, Zurkin answered. Just see if I don’t.

Don’t hurt him!

I won’t hurt him!

Zurkie, I’s warning you! You’s know about yer anger!

Ignoring her, Zurkin gave chase as Mar ran off, not offering a word of explanation. He never did, not when he was well and truly angry. Mar was three years younger and smaller and no match as Zurkin came up behind and grabbed him around the waist, dropping him to the ground then rolling him over with a painful jerk of the arm. He squatted on top, knees pressed into the boy’s thin chest.

You stop eating that damned corn or I swear by the hell-worlds I’ll break both yer arms. What do you think we’re gonna eat this winter, you idiot? What do you think’s gonna get us through the snows? You done forgot about last year, have you? You forgot about Yai? You forgot about the wolves tearing up his body? Well, here’s a reminder, you little piece of dung! Zurkin slapped him roughly across the face, intending the blow to sting, to surprise—but not to hurt.

I’m just hungry, Mar offered in his defense, an outraged boy’s tears springing to his eyes.

We’s all hungry! Zurkin exclaimed, slapping him again.

Stop it!

That’s what I’m telling you. By the time the king’s men get here and take away half our harvest, there won’t be anything left, not with you eating every last bit of it, and now you’ve done ate so much you got the runs.

Get off me!

I’m not getting off till you tell me yer gonna stop it!

Oh, yer so big! his brother said, making a face.

Zurkin slapped him again, pressing down harder with his knees while Mar struggled to free himself. The younger boy was strong and wiry, but not nearly enough.

Poop-eating dog, Mar spat out between his tears and the breath that was caught in his throat. You think yer so big, don’t you?

Their mother came up behind them, shouting, Boys! Stop this nonsense! We’s got work to do.

Zurkin got up. Just you remember what I said, the rest of us hungry and you stuffing yer trap and crapping it away. You make me sick.

What you doing now, Zurkie? his mother asked, and there was both exasperation and despair in her voice.

Just telling ’im something is all, Mama, Zurkin replied.

You’re not my father, Mar said, standing up and dusting himself off. You can go to the hell-worlds for all I care.

Don’t you talk like that! their mother snapped.

You ain’t got no father, Zurkin shouted back, and if you did, you wouldn’t be stuffing yer trap because he’d beat the demons out of you.

Mama, I’s just hungry, Mar said. Just hungry, is all.

Their mother stood between them, motioning for Zurkin to go away. You made your point, son, she said. Ain’t no time for this nonsense.

I’m sick of it, Mama, Zurkin replied, hot, frustrated tears stabbing at his eyes. Why the king’s men gotta come and take our food and we’s ain’t got enough for ourselves as it is? Can you tell me that? I just can’t stand it. It ain’t right. We’s the ones that done the work!

Mar smirked. You just want one of the king’s men to come and see how pretty you are, don’t you, you stupid Contrary, he said viciously, making sure their mother was between them. Just wait till I tell Ulon and Chas that you’re nothing more than a stupid Contrary who likes kissing other boys. Just you wait!

Zurkin darted around their mother and pounced on Mar again, dropping him roughly to the ground. His brother grinned, knowing he’d struck a nerve. Zurkin punched him, landing a good blow to the jaw, but that smirk was not so easily wiped off. Lips bloodied, Mar said, You can kiss me, if you want, you stupid Contrary. Come on, Zurkie, kiss me! I’m gonna tell Ulon not to go swimming with you no more cause you’s gonna wanna kiss him!

Shut up! Zurkin shouted.

Make me!

Boys!

I told you to shut up!

Or yer gonna what?

Boys, damn it!

Zurkin felt the rage inside him, seeking escape. He stared defiantly at Mar, whose face went wide with terror.

Don’t! Mar whispered.

Zurkin said nothing, his anger white hot.

Mar put his hands over his ears as if trying to protect himself. Then his eyes glazed as a blinding pain erupted in his brain.

Stop it! their mother cried, dragging Zurkin off Mar. Stop it with that witch-work!

Zurkin scrambled to his feet, looked at Mar cowering on the ground. He immediately felt sorry for what he’d done, for using the witch-work to punish his brother. But when he got angry, he couldn’t help it—the witch-work was there, wanting to strike out, to punish, to bring down. Controlling it was impossible.

An enormous sort of pain swept through Zurkin’s body, not physical pain, but soul pain, as his mother would say, the pain that comes when things is outta whack. The fight went out of him as the pain engulfed him like a black wave of despair. Why had he ever told Mar that he was Contrary? Was he the only one? Why did he have to be different? When he was with Ulon and Chas, all they talked about was village girls, their hair, what they would do to them if they had the chance. How much longer could he pretend to be interested in such things when he was, in fact, far more interested in Ulon’s gray eyes and strong arms or Chas’ slender hips? At seventeen summers, it would soon be time for him to make his way in the world, to take over the family farm, to handfast, to create a family of his own. He could think of nothing he wanted less.

And the witch-work, as his mother called it—what was it, exactly? It scared his family, his friends, even himself. It made him feel nauseous to think of how he might seriously hurt someone and not be able to stop it.

Oh, the baby’s gonna cry now, is that it? His younger brother sniggered.

Shut yer trap! their mother exclaimed.

He started it, Mama!

You shut yer trap! Don’t you make me say it again, boy. You git yer butt back there and fill that basket or the butter’s going to start sliding off your biscuits and fast!

"But Mama, he is a stupid Contrary, is what he told me hisself. You ask him, Mama—ain’t my fault."

She grabbed Mar by the hair of his head and began to drag him, screaming and protesting, back to the field.

Zurkin felt humiliated, aware suddenly of the heat of the day and the sweat on his forehead. His three sisters said nothing as he returned and grabbed up his basket and went to work again. He was raging with thirst but refused to stop long enough to run down to the river to refill the water bottle. No doubt Mar would take that task upon himself and spend the best part of the afternoon accomplishing it, though it could be done in less than ten minutes.

He bit his lips in frustration.

Late in the day, with the sun setting and shadows collecting in the fields, his mother and siblings returned home. Zurkin ignored their pleas that he stop for the day and take a rest, and when they were gone, in the silence and stillness that followed, he sat down next to his basket, putting his head between his knees.

He cried.

For many long minutes he sat there, hunched over, tears wracking his body, filled with confusion, anger, frustration, too many emotions to even begin to know how to confront them. And after the crying had spent itself, he sat there in silence for a long time, just listening to the breeze blowing gently through the stalks.

At length, feeling foolish and tired and in need of a bath, he got to his feet, picked up his basket and the water bottle they’d left for him, and made his way toward the house in the distance. The first moon cast light on the field, now filled with corn stalks emptied of their burdens, stalks that were drying out and preparing to die. Absently he wondered if Ulon’s father would bring his cows over to graze on the stalks and thus get rid of them.

He put his basket down with the many others already piled in the front of the house. He heard the girls singing some song or other, his mother cackling, Mar’s feet on the wooden floor, jumping about. The light from the windows looked inviting but he ignored it, turning instead to the path that led around the house and down to the river. He walked quickly, confidently, every curve of the path long ago etched into his memory. At the riverbank, he undressed, undoing the belt and laying it aside, pulling off the bulong, and wading into the chilly waters. He washed the bulong first, as best he could, rinsing it, squeezing out the excess water, rinsing it again, before finally draping the cloth material over a tree limb to let it dry in the breeze. Then he sat down in the sandy spot just to the left of the path where the water was only about knee-deep, letting it flow over his body, his shoulders, dunking his head and rinsing out his hair.

Frogs no longer croaked their way through the night for winter was coming, and the frogs and birds and many other small animals had already fled, going to wherever it was they went in the winter. Zurkin wished he could do the same.

After a few minutes, he waded out of the water and went to the riverbank, wiping the water from his skin, shivering until his body adjusted to the night air. He hunched down, staring at the river, in no hurry to leave, shaking the water out of his hair, wrapping his arms around his knees as he crouched close to the ground.

Soft footsteps came from behind him, and he turned to see Nurna approaching.

You’s gonna eat? she asked, handing him a bulong. "Thought you’s was probably waiting for yer bulong to dry and Mama said to fetch you before supper gets cold."

She went to the edge of the river, crouching down, gathering up her night dress carefully so that it wouldn’t get wet as she splashed water on her face and arms. Zurkin watched his sister for a few moments before dressing in the bulong she had brought, taking the other down from the tree limb.

You’s gonna talk to me? she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

Zurkin said nothing.

She stood up and turned to him, and in the moonlight he could see how really rather pretty she was. Though she was a farmer’s daughter, she bore herself like she was a queen, like the string holding her hair back in a ponytail was a necklace of diamonds and rubies and not the twine they used to hold together sheaves of hay.

Mar’s just a shit, she said matter-of-factly. You’s ought not to listen to him. Mama’s punished him good already.

Punished him for what?

For what he said.

But it was the truth.

Was it? she asked, and there was a hint of disbelief in her voice. And even if it is, he’s got no call to be talking the way he did.

Zurkin bowed his head. Though he’d eaten nothing since lunchtime, he was not hungry, could not explain the listlessness that had stolen over him, the feeling of helplessness and despair.

Is it true, Zurkie?

He gazed at her in the moonlight.

She came closer, standing an arm’s length away. It’s mighty strange, she said quietly, but I’ve heard tell some folks is that way. Muri’s mama says a Contrary child is a blessing from the Lord Kutra—it means yer special or something, different, not like everyone else. And if that’s how the Lord Kutra made you, well, what to do about it? I didn’t ask to be so beautiful, but there you are. I’ll just have to make do as best I can. She offered a sly smile.

I’s don’t want to be different, Zurkin said.

Well, you’s is. The witch-work, too. You’s very different. You’s gonna come eat or what?

I’s not hungry.

All that work we done today and you’s not hungry?

Nurna, I’s leaving.

Yer what?

I’s leaving.

She frowned. It was a deep, unhappy thing. Going where?

I’s don’t rightly know. But I’s has to leave. Have to find others like myself, folks as can understand me. And I’s afraid I’s going to hurt someone.

And what about Mama? What’s Mama gonna do when yer off chasing after some farm boy?

I’s don’t know.

You’s better think about it.

Been thinking and thinking and you’s know, and I’s know, ain’t enough food for the winter, and can’t all of us sit in that house and wait for someone to die so we can eat his share of the food.

"Why his?"

You’s know what I mean.

It’s not gonna be like last year, Zurkie. It’s not gonna be like Yai.

Silence fell. Zurkin knew it was going to be exactly like last year, exactly like Yai, if not worse, thanks to the king’s share.

So you’s just gonna go, just like that? Nurna asked in a hurt voice. You’s gonna leave us to take care of ourselves? Mar’s not the only piece of dung, is he?

She pushed past him and walked away into the darkness.

TWO

THE next afternoon there was dust in the distance over the gently rolling hills, hovering over the old dirt road, signaling the approach of the king’s men with their carts. A bell rang now and again as the carts stopped at each farm. The air was tense with anticipation.

Zurkin stood in the midst of the harvest, almost thirty baskets of corn, stacked two high, arranged in neat rows. In the old days they would have preserved the lot of it, storing it away, taking the excess to the village to trade for other goods like tomatoes or potatoes or dried strips of beef or a block of salt. But when the young king took the throne upon the death of his father—Zurkin was about eight when that happened, and his own father was still alive—things had quickly changed. The tax had steadily gone up, from five percent of the harvest, to half. And who knew? This year it could be worse. By the time the king’s share was paid, there would be precious little left.

Mar’s words from the day before rang in his ears, taunting him: You’s can kiss me, if you want.

He stared at the dust hanging in the hot air, waiting, thinking about the dream he’d been having for many nights now. A corn field, a man, and he, Zurkin, lying on his belly….

Sometimes he thought the man in his dreams was actually his father, that it was his longing for his father that caused such dreams. And he did long for his father, but with every passing year, the chance of his father returning grew slimmer. He was twelve years old when the king’s men took his father away for hiding part of the harvest. He’d squirreled away several baskets of corn by digging a deep trench and covering it with a pile of corn husks, hoping it wouldn’t be noticed. But it had been. And his father had been chained to the cart and dragged away, with other men, and they’d never seen him again. None of the men taken away were ever seen again. Some said they were put in prison, others that they were sent into the army to fight the Grimmords.

A clutch of chickens strayed too close to the baskets yet again, desperately intent on pecking whatever corn they could either from the baskets or the ground. Zurkin pounded his foot in the midst of them, shooing them away. If the chickens made it through the winter, there would be eggs. That was something, at least. He didn’t like the thought of keeping the chickens inside the house when it got really cold—couldn’t stand the smell of them—but if that’s what they had to do, that’s what they would do. Their two milk cows would provide milk and butter. The pig would be slaughtered before the first snowfall, its meat dried and preserved in strips. After that, it would be trips to the woods for nuts, berries, whatever could be found before winter set in, fishing in the nearby river and hunting trips with the first snowfalls, and collecting enough firewood to see them through the worst of the winter months. What good was food if you froze to death in the cold winds that blew in from the distant mountains in the north?

Would the preparations be enough? With Zurkin, his mother, his brother, his three sisters… well, who could tell? And that was not accounting for the Winter Festival either, during which children received gifts and it was customary to leave new candles burning in every window. They’d have to trade some food for candles, and he didn’t like the thought of that. Yet Mar and his sisters would be keenly disappointed if they didn’t celebrate the Winter Festival properly. It was the one time of year they enjoyed the most.

He wanted to explain all these things to Nurna, but she was angry with him and wouldn’t speak to him.

His mother came to stand beside him, looking over the baskets, the expression on her face determined. Don’t say nothing when they get here, she said.

It ain’t right, Zurkin said softly. I’s heard tell that they’ve taken away more than fifty carts already, just from around here in our village. What’s they gonna do with all that food, Mama?

Just don’t say nothing, his mother repeated. It’s the king’s share, goes to feed the soldiers, and the soldiers protect us from the Grimmords and all them other godless creatures—Feyborn, Yags, who knows what else roaming around out there in the world. They’s just doing their job. Let them take their stuff and go, Zurkin. I’s don’t want no trouble here, not again, and you’s know what I mean.

But it ain’t right, Zurkin said again. It’s our food, Mama. We’s harvested it. We’s done the work, not them.

I’s warning you, his mother said. You’s think about yer father, what they did to him. Ain’t no telling what they’s gonna do to you if you mouth off, probably kill you and not think a thing about it. Is that what you’s think yer mother needs, another dead son to bury?

There’d be one less mouth to feed.

His mother didn’t reply to this. There was, of course, a certain bit of truth to it.

The girls had cleaned up out back, as had Mar, and they all came to gather around. Zurkin, still in his bulong—he could care less what the king’s men thought of him—sat down cross-legged on the ground and put his face in his hands and began to cry. He didn’t want to cry, but there were so many emotions going through his body—anger, frustration, grief over his father, confusion over his being Contrary, and the loneliness of being surrounded by people who did not understand—that he couldn’t contain them. It was one thing when problems had solutions, when action could be taken. But what action could he take concerning the king’s men and the King’s Share? What could he do about his father? What he could do about himself and the growing awareness of his Contrariness?

He cried a lot lately.

Dammit, now, stop it, his mother said, agitated. Don’t you’s give them any reason to cause trouble here. You’s hear me, son? Don’t you’s give them any reason. Yer damn tears ain’t gonna help nothing. You’s just gonna make them mad. You’s a man, Zurkin, and you’s gotta act like a man, and not sit there crying like a baby whining for his mama’s tits. You’s gotta be strong, boy. You’s listening to me?

He remembered how, last year, he had woken one morning to find his oldest brother Yai dead in the bed beside him. He’d starved himself, allowing the others to eat his share of their meager rations. Zurkin, completely unaware of the consequences, had only too gladly gobbled up Yai’s food, not understanding his brother’s sacrifice.

If he’d known… if only he’d known.

He remembered how he and Nurna had carried the body outside and left it there because the ground was too cold to dig a grave, how the body had been ravaged by wolves during the night, how they had discovered this the following morning and stood there in the cold, hugging each other and crying and not knowing how they would tell their mother.

Hoofbeats rang in the distance.

Stop it now, his mother said, offering her hand to Zurkin. Just bite it down, boy, and do it quick.

Zurkin took her hand, allowing himself to be helped to his feet, wiping at his eyes. Mar came to stand next to him, taking his arm and holding onto it, putting another hand around Zurkin’s waist, staring off into the distance. Their quarrel was already forgotten. Zurkin saw the boy’s busted lip and felt a twinge of shame.

The king’s men neared in a cloud of dust and noise, and within minutes the small farm was full of their presence, the loud clopping of horse hooves, the creak of the carts, the laughing of the well-fed soldiers in their splendid uniforms, each wearing a sword on his hip and the green and gold colors of the royal household. Chained to the carts was a line of ragged men, farmers all, from the look of them, in dirty bulongs and bare feet, about twenty in number. Each was bound with his arms behind his back. Around their necks had been secured a heavy metal shackle with a ring for the chain to pass through. Some bore signs of the whip, with the dried blood still on their backs.

At the very end of the line was Murga, a giant of a man and their neighbor to the west, about twenty minutes on foot. Murga had a wife and seven children. Zurkin and Mar often went swimming and hunting with their boys, Ulon and Chas among them. Zurkin stared at the man as if he were seeing an apparition. That’s Murga, he whispered to his mother, nodding his head toward the men. That’s Ulon’s pa!

Don’t you’s say nothing, boy, she shot back, pulling on his arm and turning him away.

The king’s share! one of soldiers called, ringing a bell, as was the custom, Coming for the king’s share!

The procession stopped near the baskets, officious, pompous. The soldiers fanned out, two of them looking over the baskets, picking through them, checking to make sure they were each full, that nothing was being hidden. The one in charge, Lord Rav, fumbled with a handful of papers, barking orders. Check the house. Make sure there’s nothing being hid. These ones have a history of lying to his majesty.

We’s ain’t hiding nothing, Zurkin exclaimed, angry.

Then there’s nothing to worry about, is there? the man asked by way of response. He thumbed through his papers, not even bothering to give Zurkin a once-over with his eyes.

One of the soldiers entered their home, pushing the door open roughly, tromping around on the wood floor, making a terrible racket. Another soldier went around out back where the animals were kept. Another took baskets of corn and dumped them on the ground, pawing through them.

Don’t dump ’em! Zurkin cried, walking to where the man was. They’s get all dirty.

Is that so? the man said, looking up to him.

Yeah, that’s so, Zurkin said. We’s ain’t hiding nothing.

That’s what they all say, the soldier replied. You peasant scum are always hiding something from his majesty, aren’t you, thinking King Jorn’s too stupid to know better.

He stood, a full head taller than Zurkin, grinning. He put a gloved hand on the hilt of his sword, as if he meant to withdraw it from its scabbard should Zurkin wish to continue the conversation.

The soldier who had gone out back returned. Two cows, a pig, a dozen chickens, Lord Rav, he said. He had a long scar across his jaw.

Rav scribbled down something on the papers.

Last year there were five cows, weren’t there? he asked, looking up from his papers and for the first time giving them his eyes. Where’re the other three? There’s a king’s share due on animals sold, you know.

We’s didn’t sell them, lord, Zurkin’s mother said, stepping forward, bowing her head respectfully. They was butchered over the winter. Well, one was, and we’s traded two of them for some goods, to get by. ’Twas a hard winter, it was, lord. She said this quietly and then bowed her head again.

Zurkin was ashamed to see her cowering before these men.

King’s share is due all the same, the man said. And that’s done in coin.

In coin? his mother repeated.

Twelve kuras, four kura each for each head.

But I’s got no money, she replied, her eyes going wide.

Everyone’s got to pay the king’s share, the man said, eying her evenly. Ignorance of the law is no excuse.

But there ain’t no money, she said. We’s got nothing.

Not my problem, Rav replied.

But she’s telling you we’s don’t have any money, Zurkin said forcefully, striding up to the man. We’s don’t know nothing about this king’s share on cattle. Never heard that before. How can we’s pay something when we’s don’t know about it?

The man folded his arms across his chest and regarded Zurkin in roughly the same fashion he would an interesting insect. Rules are rules, he said. We’ll take the king’s share of your crop, and twelve kuras, and we’ll take it now, if you please. We’ve got more farms to visit before the sun sets. I suggest you hurry. If you don’t have any money, the boy will do, and he motioned in the direction of Mar.

But my mama told you’s we’s ain’t got it, Zurkin said, frustrated. We’s can’t pay for something if we’s ain’t got any money.

Search the house. See if there’s any money.

We’s not lying!

You better back down, boy, the man said in warning, turning his head to give Zurkin his attention.

One of the soldiers went into the house. They could hear furniture being overturned, their possessions pawed through.

Zurkin, distressed, turned to look at his mother. Mar came and took his arm, trying to pull him back to stand with them, to not cause a scene. But Zurkin couldn’t help himself. He’d never been able to control his temper and wasn’t about to do so now. He felt the power of the witch-work inside him. If only he could control it!

This ain’t fair, he exclaimed hotly. First you’s want half our crops and now you’s want money we ain’t got!

I said we’ll take the boy, if you don’t have money.

You’s can’t take Mar!

We’ll take what we please.

But this ain’t right!

We come by order of the king!

Who cares about yer fat king!

Zurkin! his mother exclaimed.

You’d better care, Rav said, advancing on him, if you don’t want a whipping to remind you.

I’s like to see you try! Zurkin said angrily, pushing his way into the man’s face. "You’s think yer so big, don’t you, ringing yer damn bell and taking our food, and we’s starving and not got enough for the winter. I’s show you a