The Dead Wind

by Dennis Monaghan

  Two puppies tugged at the ropes, playing and growling. Other pups dashed forward and the fun began. “What’s with all these pups,” Slim asked tugging with a dog on the other end of the rope.

  “Some, maybe all, of the sheepdog and trail dog mothers have taken to bringing their litters to the Tanan Shrine.” Master Akien said. “One morning I came out to meditate, and they were all asleep around the Altar Stone. Wonderful.”

  “The blood rider seems to have gotten away,” Bill said. “Should we look for him?”

  “No,” Master Akien said. “Jana has the glob, and we will all be in the City. There is nothing to bring him back. Besides, we have these marvelous pups to guard the place.”

  The City

  Bast spied Bartok outside the Cabbage, admiring the leaded glass doors and windows. Walking up to him, Bast looked at the doors for a moment before saying, “They’re quite humorous, are they not, Captain Bartok.”

  Bartok turned and noted this man’s compelling and strange yellow eyes. This was Bast. Ronzal had mentioned those eyes. “They are indeed, Trader Bast,” Bartok responded. “I have the pleasure to know the artist, Cara Sagra.”

  “Please come in with me,” Bast said. “I understand the fireplace wall is something to see. Allow me to buy you a beer.”

  They took a table with a view of the fireplace and were served. “Prosperous men of power can afford to sponsor such wonderful art,” Bast said. “I would guess you are such a man, Bartok. Tomorrow you will be elected speaker. I admire your drive, pulling yourself up through the City Troop to speaker of the City. But such a humble beginning means you may very likely lack the ready coin that would insure later prosperity. Coin for timely investments, we can say.” Bast slid a pouch of coins across the table to Bartok.

  Bartok hefted the bag and studied Bast. He put the bag back on the table. “That is a generous amount,” he said, “but as speaker I am bound by the law. I will not do anything illegal.”

  Bast placed an elegant glass vial of dark red liquid next to the bag and held a like bottle out to Bartok. “Quite the opposite,” Bast said mildly. Bartok took the glass and held the liquid to the light. “We would like you to make this tea illegal,” Bast continued. “Made from the Crim mushroom the tea gives you the feeling of wellbeing. Two cups makes you feel invincible. The more you drink the worse the hang over. The feeling of power is addictive, however, and is then sought no matter the cost.” Bast indicated the bag of gold. “You will receive weekly contributions at least as large as this first offering.”

  Bartok fingered the bag of coins. Opening the drawstring, he looked at the gold inside. Income like this would set him up quickly, faster than a few bakeries and shops. He pulled the string closed and asked, “Why will the people want the tea banned.”

  “Some people will become destructive and harmful to others, some will become useless, and some will actually get some use from drinking the tea. But all will want more. There will be a civil cry from good citizens. You may even choose to call attention to the problem and suggest the tea be made illegal. Doing so will gain you popularity by your showing concern for the citizens and the danger of this Crim tea from Bottom.”

  Bartok could see this was a ruse worthy of the Trickster. Another proof he was the Trickster. He picked up the bag of gold and placed the pouch in his jacket. “There is no guarantee that I will be able make this tea illegal.” Bartok picked up a vial and handed the glass to Bast.

  Bast refused, “No, those are for you, Bartok. This tea is very high quality. Take a capful in a cup of tea water. You will be pleased.”

  Bartok nodded and, slipping the bottles into his pocket, he stood. Bast, standing as well, “I do travel back and forth from Bottom, so my man will deliver the coin here this day each week, during the busy lunch hour. Otherwise I will be in touch when I can. Please allow me to offer my early congratulations, Speaker Bartok.”

  Bartok watched the man go with a satisfied smile. He then left himself to prepare for the unveiling of the memorial at the City Bay Wall.

  Woodside Mill

  Rude rubbed his back up and down on a fence post to the large paddock behind the Woodside Mill stables. He scratched his chest vigorously and cried in anguish. Fiscal and Dent were inside the fence, chasing the two horses that lately pulled the fancy coach. The horses remembered the harsh treatment they’d received from these two men and stayed well out of Fiscal and Dent’s reach.

  “They’re getting away,” Rude called, naming the obvious, “Use the lassoes! Rope them!”

  The pair tossed the loops clumsily, and the ropes fell short of the mark. “I’m from the City, Rude,” Dent yelled. “I don’t know how to rope a horse. We can’t get close enough to grab them. And they bite.”

  “And kick,” Fiscal added. “How ‘bout we try and hitch our saddle horses to the coach? At least them we don’t have to chase.”

  “Good,” Rude said, “Let’s get started. We’ve wasted too much time. If old Weirdie hasn’t killed them all, they may come looking for us.” The three headed back into the stable with Rude, moaning and scratching the poison oak rash on his legs and butt as he went.

  Back at the bunkhouse, Shell herded the wounded inside for treatment. Grandfather Lute, Bell, and the twins headed for the forge to see if the witless men had caused any damage when they had run through.

  “I don’t know how to stop Noster,” Bell said entered the forge. “That thing that exploded, the glob, released the power of the Altar Stone and Noster sucked in its energy. If we could get a glob, maybe I could use the power to stop Noster, destroy him.”

  “That’s a pretty dumb plan, Bell,” Book chided. Page asked sarcastically, “Where are we going to get a glob?”

  “And what are you going to do to Noster? He’s way in the Butte.” Book asked. Page added, “Have to be a very long staff to smack his head from here.”

  “I thought I would throw the two of you at him,” Bell said with a smile. “Noster would run at the sight of you.” She turned to Grandfather Lute, “What do you think, Grandfather, where can we get a glob?”

  “You will not be handling any globs, young lady,” Grandfather Lute said sternly. “You could have been killed like that blood rider. I don’t know where to come by a glob other than the Butte, and you are not going there either.”

  “Noster plans to send more blood riders with more globs until he has the Grotto Altar Stone as his own personal power source.” Bell paced between the workbenches. “That frightens me. We’ll always have to be on watch.”

  Grandfather hugged her and said, “We will prepare. Noster will not take our Altar Stone. We may have to tell the sisters about the Grotto and our neighbors. We may need all the help we can get.”

  A loud crash sounded. “What was that?” Book asked.

  “The stable door banging open,” Page answered.

  Bell opened to the One Wave, scanned the stable, and shouted, “Rude!” Grandfather Lute and the twins took up swords, Bell retrieved her short staff, and the four of them ran for the livery.

  Fiscal and Dent pulled the saddle horses attached to Mark and Matt’s coach through the stable doors. The horses were uncomfortable with their new duty and tried to pull apart. The coach swerved across the yard. Rude, in the driver’s box, tugged on the reins making the situation worse.

  “Halt!” Grandfather Lute called. Rude stood in the box and whipped the confused horses with the reins. Fiscal and Dent pulled their swords. The saddle horses stumbled into the fence and the collision jolted Rude off the coach and sent him crashing to the ground.

  The twins ran past the winded Rude and engaged his cohorts, who gave token resistance and then turned and ran through the front gate.

  “Check the horses, Bell,” Grandfather Lute said as he flipped Rude onto his back. He grabbed the thug’s jacket with both hands and lifted him to his feet.

  “Are you sure that’s Rude?” Page asked. “His face is so red and puffy, it’s hard to tell.”

  “H
is eyes are little slits,” Book said. “I wonder how he can see!”

  “Looks like the poison oak is progressing nicely,” Grandfather Lute said with a smile.

  “That’s got to itch,” Bell cringed with the thought. “What do we do with him this time?”

  “This time, we let him go,” Grandfather Lute said turning Rude toward the gate and giving him a shove. “Most of his men were killed when the glob exploded; the other two just ran off. He has many more days of poison oak misery. If he comes back, we will lock him away until he rots. Take him through the gate, boys, and close it behind him. I think it will be some time before we hear of Rude again.” The twins ushered him through the gate and closed it with a satisfying thud.

  The City

  The sun was drifting toward the City Hills. Soon the light would fade. Bartok stood on a small platform before the cloth-covered memorial in honor of those who had died in the Dead Wind. A large crowd had gathered to see the unveiling. Cara Sagra had sculpted the piece, which she and a group of artists installed earlier that day. Cara waved to Bartok that all was ready.

  He raised his hand, drawing the crowd’s attention. “People of the City, we close the Festival for the Living and the Dead with a tribute to those who were lost in the Dead Wind. This monument will keep them in our hearts. In their memory, with union and leadership, we will strive and prosper!” He raised his hands to the crowd, and everyone cheered. He signaled for the monument to be unveiled, and the cloth came down.

  Grey mountain stone rose, sculpted into the shape of four tall flames. Long shards of blue and red and clear glass laced the rock like tongues of fire. The setting sun flickered in the glass and gave the rock movement. It seemed that caught in the stone were vague indications of bodies, but Bartok could not be sure of this. The work had a simple elegance. The crowd took in the statue in silence. Finally, a murmur began and swelled in appreciation, expressed with clapping and shouted thanks to Cara Sagra. The artist stood at the base of the monument and waved. People then began a slow procession around the memorial, viewing it from all sides, some leaving flowers and other offerings.

  Bartok watched the procession for a while then went to join Cara at the base. Tears flowed down Cara's cheeks, yet she was smiling.

  “Are you all right?” Bartok asked.

  “Oh yes,” she said. “I am just overwhelmed with gratitude. The people have turned my work into a focus for their ritual. They are using my art as an altar for their offerings. There is no greater praise.”

  “I would be honored if you walked around the memorial with me.” Bartok said, offering his arm.

  “Yes, thank you.” Cara smiled and took his arm.

  Eighteen

  The City

  The glass and stone of the memorial sculpture split the first clear ray of the sun into a rainbow of color.

  Ronzal admired the prism light playing on the stone plaza at the City Bay Wall. “Your work is beautiful, Cara,” he said, “as always.” He added, “What have you heard from Bartok about your hand in rebuilding the City? I know you would like to bridge the new chasm across the Bay Wall Road.” The road was a passage the people of the City used as the link to Fisher Wharf.

  “Last night he assured me that I would likely be the designer, but he would have to see the government requirements as to the actual building crew. With that stipulation, he didn’t give me much confidence. I’d like to use my crew of artists, but I suppose any good building crew would do. I’m beginning to wonder about Bartok. He spent a good deal of the evening rambling on about how he was Anaso the Trickster. And when we were finally alone, any chance of romance was dashed when that obnoxious Nance barged in and insisted on a meeting. They tried to be quiet but I heard your name in relation to barges; something about the City budget not being able to pay you?” Cara looked at Ronzal with a raised eyebrow.

  “Yes,” Ronzal said with a smile. “Bartok offered me money that wasn’t his. At the time I though his plan was to skim off some of the monies that would come to me. Sounds as if the new plan is to stiff me. The payments are nothing to me, just a way to test Bartok. I was building the barges one way or the other.” Ronzal walked around the sculpture enjoying each angle. “How do you feel about being elected to the Glass Hill District Council? It doesn’t sound like you had much choice.”

  Cara laughed. “That’s true. They put me in the running over my protest. Today they will elect me.” She paused. “I’ll do the best I can. The district election committee is giving me a staff to do the bulk of the work. I don’t know how much patience I’ll have with blow-hard politics.”

  “At least you will be able to keep an eye on Bartok at the Council meetings,” Ronzal teased.

  “By Yil, what fun.” Cara grimaced and turned to go. “Well, I’m off to study the step and make some sketches.”

  The Butte

  Brimming with power, Noster extruded four globs from the red slime in the same length of time it had taken him to fashion the first two. It took energy, though. Spent, Noster devoured the life energy of five prisoners from Bottom.

  Of the new blood riders, the four best had just completed their training and were waiting to depart. Noster gave each a glob and imprinted their instructions. He was confident of success and pleased at the thought that there was still one glob out there, somewhere, destined to find an Altar Stone.

  Woodside Mill

  Grandfather Lute folded the invitation and handed it to Mark. “Ride up to the Roadhouse Inn and give this to the sisters. We’re asking them and all their young farmers to gather here at noon.” Then he turned to the others. “Let’s prepare a light meal for our guests: bread, cheese and the like.”

  Mark left to deliver the letter, leaving Harp, Shell, and Matt to make preparations for the upcoming meal. Bell and the twins were enlisted to scrub and chop. Grandfather Lute went to the forge; the sword he had thought to be for Bell was taking on someone else’s vibration. Marvelous as he found this, he wondered if he had any influence at all.

  The City

  Big Red and Olive spent the night with Jana at the Glassworks. After a lively breakfast discussion of the fun they’d had at the festival, the three voted in the City election and then rode to the Scout Lodge to meet Master Akien and set up the new Scout School training program.

  While the three tended their horses, Master Akien arrived with two men and three women.

  “I have brought instructors,” Master Akien said. He made introductions, and, giving Olive a small bow, he said, “Also, including Olive, we have over fifty recruits.” He then sent Olive to the children’s safe warehouse, where the other recruits were staying, so she could meet her future classmates.

  Master Akien handed Jana two glass vials of Crim tea and said, “This tea is beginning to cause trouble. Users can be violent and a danger to themselves and others. The appeal of this tea is that it gives you a feeling of invincibility and, for a short time, physical strength. But you’re then useless the following day, and maybe for many days if you’ve used quite a bit. I’d like these samples to get to Lute Miller along with this letter with my observations and thoughts.”

  Jana sniffed the thick liquid. “We don’t want this to turn into an epidemic, especially with the threat of Noster,” she said. “I’ll deliver the tea and the letter.”

  Tanan Shrine

  The glob was gone, not to be found. Scary crept up the stone steps and slipped through the open panels of the Tanan Shrine. The blood rider then edged his way to the Altar Stone. No one was about, only sheepdog puppies, and they stayed away. He knelt in front of the Altar Stone, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the cool stone. The image of the shining woman, his Shining One, was restored and he fell into a stupor of longing. He would find her, somehow. If he could not offer her the glob, he would offer himself.

  Woodside Mill

  Rude, naked and caked in mud, trudged up Ridge Road past the Roadhouse Inn. He was lived. He would kill Fiscal and Dent. This was the second time
those rats had run out on him. Once Rude had been thrown out of Woodside Mill, the agony of the poison oak had driven him to the Mill Creek. He had thrown off his clothes and submerged himself in the water to stop the itching. He spent the night in the creek, and at sunrise he’d covered himself in mud. This didn’t stop the itching, but it helped some. He was going to kill those no good cowards. He was going to kill them.

  The City

  Olive drew back the string of her bow and let the arrow fly. The shaft struck near the center of the makeshift target Clay had fastened to the support post in Hoodeye’s safe warehouse.

  “Not bad,” Rose said, “but not good enough.” Rose drew her bow and released. The arrow struck close to Olive’s, just off the center.

  “No better,” Olive stated flatly. She wasn’t too sure how much she could take of Miss Know-It-All Rose. “Take a shot, Clay.”

  “I don’t have a bow,” Clay said, “I haven’t used one all that much.”

  Rose handed her bow and an arrow to Clay, “I can show you. Hold the bow this way and put the arrow here on the string between your fingers.” She adjusted Clay’s stance and posture. Clay glanced at Olive and raised his eyebrows.

  Olive smiled and said, “With such fine instruction as this, you can’t go wrong.”

  Rose shot Olive a sharp look, but she turned back to Clay. “Be sure to breathe out before you shoot.”

  Clay let loose the arrow, which flew high and wide of the target, imbedding itself in a wall several paces beyond.

  “By Tok, not bad for my first time!” Clay exclaimed.

  “Your first time?” Olive asked, “This is the first time you have shot a bow? In that case, I agree, not bad.”

  “That was terrible,” Rose said. “You didn’t do anything I said. Try again.”

  Clay notched the arrow and raised the bow. “Put your foot here,” Rose kicked his front foot into position. “Turn your shoulders like this,” she pushed his lead shoulder toward the target. “Bow arm firmly extended, not locked,” she grabbed his elbow and shook. “Now shoot.”