The Last Stormlord

by Glenda Larke

  Shale felt his guts twist. The pedeman. He sat up saying, “We didn’t hurt him!”

  Beside him, the pede woke and, still sluggish with the cold, clicked its segments apart in an unhurried stretch.

  The boys scrambled to their feet.

  “Why, it’s Galen’s two lads!” another voice exclaimed. Rishan the palmier. “Your da thinks you two snuffed it.” He turned to the Reduner in explanation. “They’re just settle lads. They won’t have harmed your pede.”

  The Reduner glared but didn’t say anything. He was running his hand over his beast, checking for broken legs, frowning over a nick he found in the edge of a segment and fingering a torn embroidered fringe.

  “He broke the tip of one of his feelers,” Shale said.

  The Reduner took a deep breath and Rishan hurriedly intervened. “Why don’t you two lads run off. Your ma and pa’ll be worrying.”

  Nodding, Mica grabbed hold of Shale and pulled him away. “Let’s go,” he muttered in his brother’s ear. As they scrambled down the earthen bank to the sodden floor of the wash, he added, “You don’t want t’come between a Reduner pedeman and his mount. They say that a caravanner w’druther lose his son than his pede. He probably thinks we wanted to steal it or somethin’.”

  “But we helped save it,” Shale protested.

  “Yeah, but he’s not goin’ t’believe that. Hey, look at all the water!” Mica looked around in amazement. A shallow stream trickled down the centre of the wash. The slots were all overflowing. Wherever there was a dip in the riverbed, water had pooled clean and clear, with the mud and sand sunk to the bottom. The crops were all gone, but most of the bab palms stood, battered but still anchored by their tortuous root systems.

  Shale’s eyes widened. “I never seen so much water lying round after a rush! And it’s all goin’ t’waste—just flowin’ away.”

  “Tell you what, I’m going t’have the best drink I’ve ever had in all m’life.”

  “Me, too,” Shale agreed reverently. He knelt at the edge of the flowing water, cupped his hands and drank deeply. When he finally looked up, chin dripping, he asked, “Do you think Pa saved enough water for the house?”

  “In what? Our hut fell into the wash, remember? We must’ve lost all our jars. I wish Pa’d fallen in, too, and got washed all the way to the Edge.” Mica smiled gleefully at the thought.

  “You reckon Ma was worryin’ herself ’bout us?”

  “Her? Don’t be daft. The bitch would be glad to get rid of us. ’Specially as she’s having another brat soon.” He wiped his face with a wet hand. “You know what I’m going t’do? Get in and wet myself all over.”

  Shale thought of the way the water had tried to swallow him up and frowned, doubtful. “Reckon we should?”

  “Why not? Isn’t no settle lower down the wash t’drink it.” Mica waded out into the deepest pool he could find and sat down in water up to his neck.

  Shale followed, but stopped when he was knee deep. This time it felt different. Not so overwhelming. Without the furious speed of the flood, the water was gentle, welcoming. The feeling of oneness was still there, but this time it didn’t threaten; it was huge and immeasurable and it felt right. He waded in further and watched water swirl around his thighs.

  “ ’S good, right?” Mica asked.

  “Cold, but wunnerful! Like… like… I don’t know what it’s like. Like being happy and full of water an’ food an’ everything good all at once.” He stripped off what was left of his smock and threw it aside. Then he flung himself face down in the pool.

  The shock of being surrounded by water, of having it come up over his head, of absorbing its oneness with him: it was too much. The pleasure of its touch—the sensuality of it—threw him. He sank into the depths of the pool and his body responded to the joy. Warmth spread through his loins, swelling his stick, but in a way he’d never felt before. He gasped at the wonder of that and choked. He spluttered, pushing the water away from his face in irritation without even being aware of the impossibility of what he did. He wanted to concentrate on feeling so… so good. On the rising pleasure, the spreading heat, the rushing of his blood, the unbearable, unbearable moment of exquisite pressure when everything stood still. Then the warmth burst inside him. He shuddered, and shuddered again.

  Just as he was beginning to revel in the mind-boggling wonder of that, he found himself grabbed and hauled upwards, to break the surface. Mica, white-faced, still dressed and dripping wet, was holding his arm, yanking him into the shallows. “You dryhead—didn’t I tell yer you can suffocate in water?”

  He blinked, clearing his vision, and wondered what Mica meant. Suffocate? He hadn’t been suffocating, or choking. He’d been breathing, just as usual. He’d pushed the water away from his face. He flushed, remembering the rest, enjoying the memory, the glow left behind, the way it made him feel. So that was what it was like. Embarrassed, he avoided meeting Mica’s gaze.

  Rivulets of water trickled down his body, and idly he rubbed at his forearm. Dirt dissolved, leaving his skin lighter.

  Mica remarked uneasily, “Folk say washin’ a lot makes you sick.”

  “I don’t feel sick.” He felt wonderful. He rubbed some more of the dirt away. “Makes me look more like ord’nary folk. Didn’t know I got that colour underneath.”

  Mica grabbed a handful of wet sand and scrubbed his own arm. His skin lightened as well and he started to laugh. “Let’s get back in and wash all the dirt away,” he said.

  “Nah. Better get back and see if Ma and Pa’s all right.”

  “Y’know what? I don’t care. Neither of them cares as much as—as a grain of sand for us. And Pa will be in a real rotten temper. Come on, Shale. We’ll prob’ly never see water like this, never again.”

  He waded back into the pool. Shale wavered and then followed. They played, washing away the accumulated dirt of a lifetime, laughing and giggling at the strangeness of their appearance, at the feel of it.

  Only later, when his skin was soft and shiny and golden brown, did Shale suddenly sober up. “But we’re not like ord’nary folk, are we? Not you ’n’ me. Ord’nary folk live in real houses and have water allotments and don’t get beat up by their pa.” He looked up at his brother. “An’ ord’nary folk don’t know when the rush’s comin’ down. I felt it, Mica. A feeling inside my guts. Pa’s goin’ kill me.”

  Mica didn’t reply.

  “You reckon he’ll make me go with a Reduner if one of them wants it?”

  His brother wrung the water out of his clothing and wouldn’t look at him. “He’s never made me do it.”

  But Shale knew that didn’t mean a thing. He pulled on the remains of his smock. “I won’t do it,” he said as they headed across the groves to where their house had once stood on the opposite bank. “Least of all for ’im.”

  “The bastard’ll clobber you proper.”

  “Not this time. Not no more. ’Cause I’ll clobber him right back. I’m done with his wallopings.”

  Mica stared at him, eyes wide.

  Not all the shanty houses had been demolished by the force of the water. Further away from the bank, several huts belonging to other waterless families still stood, and they found Galen leaning against one of them, talking to Ore the stonebreaker and Parman the legless. He scowled at them as they approached.

  “Where the waterless hell have you whelps been?” he yelled at them. “You know your mother’s birthin’ that new brat of hers and you two off enjoyin’ yourselves somewheres, without a thought to what trouble we’re in. We got no house, and no jars neither, just when there’s water out there for the having!” He jerked a finger at Mica. “You, get back down into the wash. Pick up anything you can find that’s of any use. There’s wood there, Mica, washed down from the hills, I wouldn’t wonder. You know how valuable wood is? Get back down there!”

  Mica gave a despairing look at Shale but didn’t dare say anything. He slunk away towards the wash.

  Shale stood his ground, waiting fo
r his father to speak to him. It weren’t m’fault, he thought. None of this was my fault. The bastard’s got no right t’be angry. I was the one what warned him.

  Ore laid a hand on Galen’s arm. “Go easy on the lads. They could’ve been dead y’know.”

  “Mind your own damn business, Ore. Them’s my get, and I’ll deal with them my way.” He grabbed Shale by the arm and pulled him around to the back of the shanty house where they couldn’t be seen. He shoved Shale up against the stones of the wall, bruising his back with his roughness.

  “Now you listen to me, Shale, and you listen good.” He lowered his voice and hissed in the boy’s ear. “That talk of knowin’ ’bout the water comin’ down aforehand? I don’t want t’hear it. Not a word. That’s shaman stuff, and nobody wants no shaman stuff. You talk ’bout that, and I’ll beat you as you’ve never been beat before, till your tongue comes out your arse. You understand me?” He fitted his hand across Shale’s cheeks, and pinched them inwards towards his nose. It hurt.

  Fury bubbled up. Shale slammed his forearm against his father’s. He was nowhere near as strong, but Galen was taken by surprise and his hold was broken. “You should of listened t’me,” Shale said defiantly. “I tole you what was goin’ t’happen, but you wouldn’t listen! Weren’t my fault the jars ’n’ stuff was lost.”

  He raised his chin and met his father’s gaze. His heart pounded as he waited for the inevitable blow.

  It didn’t come. Galen dropped his gaze and wiped his hands on his smock, as if he wanted to rid himself of taint. “You’ve even been in that water, haven’t you? You sandcrazy?” He stepped back, his voice soaked with loathing.

  There was panic there, too, and the shock of understanding left Shale shaken. Pa was afraid, deathly afraid, and his fear quivered his voice as he spat his words out.

  “Shaman-taint! I wish you’d never seen the light of day, and that’s the truth. Now get back down into the wash and help your brother. We got t’find some of our stuff. Or other folks’ stuff. Unnerstand? We got no dayjars now!”

  Shale ducked past his father and walked away, only too glad to have escaped so lightly, but the words echoed on in his head: I wish you’d never seen the light of day.

  Rage welled up in his throat. I didn’t ask t’be his get, he thought. Weren’t my fault I am. And side by side with his anger, there was triumph. The beatings might continue, but even if they did, he knew he would never truly be afraid of his father again, not now that he had seen fear in his eyes.

  That night he crept into the makeshift shelter they had built of stones and palm fronds, where Ma now lay with her new baby sleeping in the crook of her arm. The child, named Citrine, was tiny and perfect, and Shale thought her as beautiful as the gem she was named for. He tucked a finger into one tiny hand, and the babe tightened her grip around it. The flood of love he felt for something so small and fragile staggered him. Fiercely, he thought he would do anything to protect her. If ever Pa raised a hand to her, he would kill him. If anyone ever raised a hand against her he would kill them. She was his, his charge in this world that held so much pain and uncertainty. She, he decided, would never know what it was like to go thirsty or be hungry or be beaten. Never.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Red Quarter

  Dune Watergatherer

  Sandmaster Davim sat on his pede at the top of the dune they called the Watergatherer. To the east and west, the red line of the dune humped away as far as he could see. To the north, it fell sharply to the plains. This, the front edge of the Watergatherer, was a wall of fine red dust unsullied by any plants or growth, a slope steep enough to make walking difficult. Its top edge, towering five hundred paces up, was as sharp as a sword cut. An occasional playful gust of wind tore grains away from the cut in flurries.

  The back side of the dune was different. There were gullies and dips and hollows and valleys carved into the long, more gentle descent of several miles to the distant plain. The red sand of this sculpted slope was dotted with vegetation: a prickly bush here, a sand-creeper there; a clump of smoke-bush behind that. Bare surface showed through, but the plants maintained a precarious existence, oblivious to the slow inching of the dune that carried them forward.

  The red dunes of the quarter were waves swallowing up the land in front only to discard it behind two or three decades later as lifeless as the skeletal remains of a masticated meal. The Red Quarter had sixteen such dunes, spaced equidistant from one another, all on their inexorable slither northwards to extinction, a long slow demise as they eased themselves into the expanse of the Burning Sand-Sea, a desert so hot and vast that not even a pede ventured there.

  The dunes were birthed in the south, perhaps by the eroded red rock of the Warthago Range or the red earth of The Spindlings. The plain they traversed was also red, although the earth was coarser and its vegetation sealed it tight against the depredations of the wind. It was covered with low bushes, rocks, the odd waterhole that was sometimes no more than a bowl of dust—until the next parallel dune ten or fifteen miles away.

  Davim scanned the country carefully from his vantage point, watching for the man he expected. His fellow conspirator, he supposed, but he preferred to think of the man as the Traitor, for such he was to his own kind. Once Davim had respected him, though not now. Conspirators they might be, but Davim despised the treachery, useful as it was, that was bringing the Scarperman to him again.

  As yet, there was no sign of him. The only people he saw were his own followers, camped in one of the dune hollows on the gentler slope, together with the meddle of pedes that were the pride of his clan. He looked for a distant telltale plume of smoke or the glint of sunshine on metal—anything that would tell him there were other people out there somewhere—but he saw nothing. No man alone, no band on the move. Nothing.

  Some things he did not expect. There were no buildings in the Red Quarter. No cities. It was pointless to build any, because sooner or later the next dune would come to devour them. Reduners were proudly nomadic, living in tribal camps on the dunes, near waterholes but never right next to them, for fear the pedes would pollute the water. Each dune had several tribes and when the situation demanded it, a tribe moved their camp from one water hole to another. They hunted game across their dune and the adjoining plains, and gathered roots, leaves, berries and seed pods for food. They sold pedes for tokens to buy other necessities. They ran caravans for trade. Together, the tribes of each dune made a clan and each clan paid homage to a single sandmaster. And, of course, to the god of the dune, who lived beneath the sands and moved the dune towards its eventual death.

  Idly the Sandmaster of Dune Watergatherer wondered if the Scarpen fool had mistaken the dune. One dune was much like another to an outsider. Perhaps the fellow had gone to the Hungry One, the next dune to the north, or to the Sloweater, to the south. Or perhaps he had simply become lost along the Watergatherer itself. It extended from one side of the Red Quarter to the other, after all.

  Davim waited patiently while the sun sank to the horizon and the sky reddened. His pede did not move and neither did he. He sat cross-legged on the saddle, at ease, and used the time to scheme. He knew he would appear at his best like this: a silhouette against a red sky, a man of destiny mounted on Burnish, a pede that some called the most magnificent beast ever captured from the wild herds of the Red Quarter. Its segment plates had since been intricately carved and inlaid with mica so that the sagas they told shone with a pearly glow. Each segment edge had been embroidered by Davim’s wife and daughters and trimmed with blood-red lace along the outside rim. There was no other pede as beautiful as this one.

  Davim knew he was deemed a handsome man. Like all Reduners, his hair and skin were permanently stained red by the dust of the quadrant. He was not particularly tall or even broad, but he was muscular; he took pride in participating in the games that occupied the leisure time of his dune tribes. And he was fastidious in his personal appearance. The neat plaits, twenty of them, the ends of which poked out from und
er the Reduner version of the palmubra, were rewoven with a new set of gemstone beads twice every star cycle. In the light of the setting sun, the red robes he wore were black in the folds, and the chrysoprase beads that decorated the collar glittered. Behind him in their cage, his ziggers rattled their wing cases and hummed. He knew he must appear to be what he was: a man of power. A leader who would one day take the Quartern by storm.

  There will come a day when even the rainlords will sink to their knees before me.

  In the slanting rays of the sun, he saw a speck on the plain. As it approached, it became two dots, then a rider on a myriapede, packpede trailing behind; and they were on the steep side of the Watergatherer. Davim gave a smile. To arrive from that direction the Traitor must have indeed been lost and now, coming at the dune head on, he was denying himself a dignified entry.

  He underestimated the man. The Traitor dropped the reins of the packpede at the base of the dune, but his own mount did not slow; in fact, he jabbed the animal with his riding prod to hasten it. The beast leaped at the slope and bounded upwards. Dust billowed and shifted beneath its feet, but before the fine-grained sand could slip, the animal had been prodded into yet another leap, and then another. It plunged up the slope, and the Scarperman rode out each bound with one arm held high in balance.

  Davim had to admire the rider’s skill. As a rider of renown himself, given to similarly flamboyant gestures, he knew exactly what was involved. The reins had to be separately controlled to tell the animal how to move, doubly hard if you did it all with one hand. One tug at the wrong rein and the pede would react wrongly; one wrong reaction and you’d be tumbling to the bottom of the slope. Behind him, the packpede started to plod slowly upwards with stoic indifference.

  And so Davim watched and secretly admired, but never by as much as the twitch of a muscle indicated that he cared one way or the other. And then, deep inside the sands somewhere below his mount, the dune god started to sing a low soughing melody that slid from note to note as if in acknowledgement of the newcomer’s arrival. Davim scowled. He did not know the language of the god; only the Watergatherer’s shaman could interpret the message. He resented that ignorance, but there was nothing he could do about it. He would have to wait until he spoke to the holy man. For the moment, he dismissed the question from his mind, even as the song of the dune continued with melancholy sweetness.