by Russ Linton
The more they fought, the deeper the mire's grip clutched at Farsal's body. By painstaking degrees, Farsal's chest wrenched free, his stomach, his thighs. Sidge beat his wings as he pulled. The acolyte's knees broke the surface and finally the morass surrendered him with a hacking squelch which sent them tumbling.
Sidge lay in the mud, staring at the sky and feeling the weight of Farsal's limp body. He could see the rise and fall of his brother's chest accompanied by choking breaths. He should get up, check for wounds, but the terror he'd seen in his friend's eyes pinned him.
Izhar scrambled to the fallen acolyte's side. Curses rang out, clear and sharp. Mud-soaked fabric tore with the sound of peeling skin. The old Master's movements became a flurry focused on Farsal's legs.
"Farsal, don't worry, I'm here," Sidge said.
From his back, he could only see the top of his brother's head and Izhar's desperation. The smell of rotting flesh wafted over him, an odor he'd smelled once before in a vision with a steaming cup brimmed with gore. He pulled his antennae in tight. Like the song and the marsh itself, the smell bored down deep into his senses. Fear, rage, each vibrated in his chest, ending in an insatiable urge he couldn't or didn't want to understand.
Sidge drew Farsal's head close and stroked the acolyte's matted hair. The once easy smile of his friend had become a clench of agony.
"You'll be fine. You'll be fine," Sidge repeated, as much to himself as his fallen brother. He gingerly worked his way out from beneath Farsal to see what he could do to help.
The acolyte's arms and hands were battered and cut. Torn cloth had been cinched around his thighs, and Izhar gripped the makeshift bandages with both hands. Below this, Farsal's legs disappeared into the muck.
"We should finish freeing him," said Sidge, moving to Izhar's side.
"We need to go." Izhar's expression begged the impossible—for his former pupil to focus solely on him.
Sidge couldn't believe what he was hearing. "We can't…" he trailed off as he slid a hand under Farsal's thigh and lifted. Empty resistance. Izhar forced the bloodied stumps of Farsal's legs back down.
"Sidge," Izhar's tone became cold and emotionless. "Go to the vardo."
"Are you mad?" Sidge shouted, his voice shaking. "We will save him, acolyte."
"Go!" Izhar roared as he clambered to his feet and scanned the horizon.
Izhar spun and dug thick fingers into the front of Sidge's robes. Sidge prepared to face the firebrand's rage and struggled to hold back his own trembling emotions. However, instead of being flushed red with anger, Izhar's face was pallid and drawn.
"He's dying," Izhar whispered. "And we will too if we don't get our asses out of here."
"He can't die," stammered Sidge.
"There will be more. We must…"
A familiar buzzing rose from deeper in the marsh. A disturbance of the air he'd only heard in flight, directly over his own shoulders.
Resignation softened the tortured lines on Izhar's brow. He spun and a mantra of Fire echoed across the shrouded landscape while ribbons of lightning entwined his arms.
In the distance, two figures adorned the drab sky like sapphires. They closed on humming wings, barbed spears gripped in their four palms.
Sidge stumbled forward. The fliers slowed, and one quirked his head, mirroring Sidge's own amazement.
Every look of fear he'd met along his pilgrimage stared back at him. Every terrifying story he'd heard about Sli'mir's Brood. They were all true. And they had a face. His.
Vasheru's Kiss clamped down. Light bathed the clearing. So blinding, the grasses faded into a sea of shifting lines beneath the hole rent in the heavens.
The flash engulfed the first airborne Ek'kiru, then the other. Sidge stared as his doppelgangers became winged shadows against a blank, white wall. But the small-eyed faces of fear, Farsal's face, continued to stare back.
Thunder barreled into Sidge, and he kept his footing like a leaf quivering in the last winter wind. Behind him, the Paint screamed, and wood cracked as the hitching shafts splintered. Leather strained and snapped.
Sight returned, and the smoking corpses of the Ek'kiru fell. Their insides burst from them as they hit the marsh, collapsing into indistinct remains. Farsal had fallen limp at Izhar's feet. The Paint fled, dragging the remnants of the hitching shaft.
Absurd thoughts joined his frayed psyche, pelting Sidge like storm rain. Each careful step for unhitching the horse came to mind. Brother Farsal had taught him these. Never again could that be done. He imagined the vardo hopelessly disordered. Jars and bells and Izhar's trinkets lay strewn across the cabin once more. He began to collect the contents in his mind and shelve them.
He would keep the order. He was not a monster. Not a barbaric beast who lived in the marsh and preyed on travelers. He couldn't be.
A stray mote of Vasheru's Fire caught his lenses. The pulsing blob crawled up the golden spire of Gohala's wrecked carriage. White hot Fire danced at the pinnacle before shooting deep into fetid waters.
The ground under the toppled carriage quivered.
On the far side of the camp, bracken erupted like a boil and a monstrosity snaked from the open wound. Mottled gray and black, the body was one thorax stacked atop another, each segment sprouting writhing legs. The abomination's gaping maw bellowed into the sky through scythe-like mandibles.
"Vasheru's wrath," Izhar cursed.
Another mantra of Fire issued from Izhar and a bolt crashed into the creature. It wailed in agony as lightning coursed through it and into the murky waters.
Once again, Sidge saw the energy coalesce and feed toward Gohala's carriage. This time, the entire collapsed roof stirred and a hand clawed out from the crushed grasses. Blocky fingers gripped the gilded edge and strained.
Sidge knew those hands and the strength behind them. Chuman.
The monstrous spawn of Sli'mir's Brood raged and charged.
Izhar raised a flickering hand, and mantras rolled unevenly off his tongue. One bolt had failed to stop the beast, and the next would be even less potent. They would both die here, like their brothers.
Sidge focused on the golden roof, grabbed his corestone, and raised his free hands.
The Stormcaller's Mantra rolled off his tongue. A Cloud Born would do this. Could do this. Maybe a single spark would be enough. He'd watched Chuman wrestle two horses and a vardo after bathing in Izhar's call of the Wisdom. Maybe the giant of a man could wrestle this abomination.
Shadow pooled around them as the segmented beast reared. Izhar dove into Sidge, and the maw ripped through the ground where they'd been. They rolled clear in a spray of bog water and tumbled over and over, the world spinning until they sank to a stop.
"Fly out of here," gasped Izhar, yanking Sidge to his feet and pushing him away.
"My duty…"
The monster shook free of the mud and roared, mouth dripping with saliva and sediment. Terrified, Sidge started the mantra of Fire again.
"Go, damn you!" Izhar snarled and shoved him. "You can't channel." He turned to face the monster, light flickering on his palm.
Sidge staggered as much from the words as Izhar's push.
He watched the beast drool and slink cautiously across the unstable ground. A predatory calculation marked its approach. It would not miss again.
"Izhar, the spire! Strike Gohala's carriage!"
Desperation filled Izhar's eyes as he saw Sidge still behind him. Shaking his head, he followed his new Master's demand. A single bolt struck the lightning-wreathed sword at the top and crackled into the marsh before Izhar dropped to his knees.
Sidge prayed to Vasheru he was right.
Behind the beast, Gohala's wrecked wagon stirred and then overturned.
Chuman crawled from the ground like a corpse denied death. Black mud streaked his tattered robes. His flat gaze met Sidge's. Vasheru's Fire trickled across his heavy brow before he disappeared behind a wall of chitin.
The beast lunged at them, mouth gaping.
&nb
sp; Then it sputtered. A golden knot of light sparkled deep in the monster's throat, and it arched into the sky. Luminance continued to erupt behind a shower of black ichor. The marsh rippled like stained silk as the beast collapsed at their feet.
Chuman stood astride its back, the last few inches of the golden spire torn from Gohala's wagon and gripped in his hands. The remainder was buried deep in the hideous beast's skull. He leapt from the carcass and strode calmly toward them.
Through shredded robes Chuman's wounds became evident. Skin on his arms and legs was torn away in ragged chunks. Raw flesh strung across exposed bones. A gaping wound pierced his chest. The fringes of every gash and cut squirmed as though alive.
Sidge could see straight into the giant man's body. Only those were not normal bones. A collection of silver straps, each lined and spaced in the suggestion of ribs radiated from a brass plate. Jagged runes decorated their surface, their grooves streaked with blood. Caged behind the ribs, toothed wheels alternated in stilted motions. A familiar light sparked in the center.
"Do you see it! Do you see it!" Sidge whispered, stepping behind Izhar.
Drained by the powerful channeling, Izhar struggled to catch his breath and stared as the hole in Chuman's chest squirmed closed. Torn away skin and flesh knitted together over the exposed brass.
The metal-boned man advanced and Izhar tried to ward him away. Chuman ignored the feeble gesture and slung the exhausted old mentor over his shoulder before kneeling in front of Sidge.
"You feel it," Chuman said. "Like hunger. Like thirst." Though the timbre remained Chuman's, the inflection and rhythm matched Sidge's words which he'd spoken when they first heard Stronghold's call so many days ago.
Sidge nodded.
"We must follow it." Chuman stood and began to leave.
Scores of wings serrated the misty air, farther away but closing fast. A ferocious buzz accompanied the more familiar beats, and Sidge could almost envision the wings that made the new sound—sharp and wicked like scimitars.
"What about him?" Sidge demanded. He dropped beside Farsal and heaved the acolyte out of the mud. He tried to brush the clumped hair from his brother's face and succeeded in smearing mud along his brow.
"Izhar was right. We cannot save him," said Chuman, sadness creeping into once lifeless eyes.
"Izhar isn't in charge here, I am!"
Without another word, the giant slung Sidge's fallen brother over the shoulder opposite Izhar and they fled into the marsh.
CHAPTER X
White mist rose behind them, boiling from the heat of Izhar's channeling. Sidge kept a close watch on the dark shapes darting in and out of the fog. Parallel to their own escape route, he caught sight of the Paint plowing through the marsh and disappearing between a tangle of trees. Indiscernible horrors followed the panicked animal. After all the trouble the horse had caused him, he prayed its wild spirit would save it.
Ahead, his mentor and his brother dangled over Chuman's broad shoulders. The giant slogged through the marsh at first but soon shattered the grip of the mud. Powerful lunges became great loping strides, and Sidge struggled to keep up in the wake of water and song.
He sloshed to one side to avoid being swallowed in the submerged trench left by his guide. Jostling across Chuman's back, it wasn't clear if Farsal was still breathing.
Over and over Sidge recalled images of the acolyte being dragged from the hollow tube. The terror on his brother's face as he spotted Sidge, indistinguishable from the winged monsters. The smell emanating from the severed legs. That smell.
Sidge's stomach gurgled. His mouth moistened. A hellish nightmare fought to enter his brain.
"No," he hissed.
Onward they pushed. Darkness fell, and the lesser insects and beasts sang songs to drown out the distant, mystical beacon. At one time Sidge thought their conversations joyful. Now he knew them to be chirps and gurgles of mute, brutish observers to an unfeeling world. Their calls simply reinforced the fact they had survived another day to pursue the eternal cycle.
A blind pursuit like their own headlong rush into the marsh. Futile. Pointless. Sidge slowed.
The marsh grass thinned and the sludge thickened. Clouds gone, the brackish water reflected the night sky like a black mirror splintered by crooked tree branches. Sidge dipped a hand in the tepid mixture and silt ran thick between his fingers.
Perhaps he deserved to die here.
Die in this place, home to his true nature, where creatures like him waited to devour his friends, his family. Die as a monster, a beast, no more elevated than the chorus surrounding him. What did it matter if he were to surrender?
Chuman's gait slowed, and he cast a piercing stare over his shoulder. Waning moonlight caught in the giant's eye, one spot of brilliance among the shadows. His momentum lost, Sidge felt himself sinking, unable to move.
Izhar groaned. The former master's unkempt hair dangled like tree moss into the murk lapping at his forehead.
"You are going to drown him!" Sidge churned toward Chuman.
The giant heaved his shoulders and his passengers shifted higher, out of danger. Another groan issued from Izhar but Farsal stayed quiet. Sidge reached out to part a lock of grimy hair and see his brother's face.
No, nobody deserved to die here. Especially his mentor and his true brother. And he himself was an Ek'kiru. He only happened to look like the marauders. It was all a terrible twist of fate. If he could get them out of here, he could prove it.
"Will you need to rest?" asked Sidge, fighting to maintain his composure.
"I will tire," replied Chuman.
Chuman looked left, then right, and left again before finally deciding on a direction. After a shuffling turn, he plowed onward. Sidge remained close, his hands ready to support Izhar or Farsal should they slip again.
The ground rose as they angled for a muddy spit packed around a cluster of stunted trees. Dark roots veined the mud like a brood of serpents. Only a few lonely trees sprouted there but their many limbed canopies provided shelter and concealment.
Sidge gestured to a clear spot and Chuman placed his burden gently on the ground.
While his antennae tickled with Izhar's ragged breaths, the air around Farsal was stagnant. Caked in grime, tormented limbs tight and stiff, the acolyte could've been another exposed root. Sidge leaned close and dared to run his antennae across purpled lips, searching for the faintest sign.
Nothing.
Farsal's mouth hung partly open, teeth hidden behind a frozen grimace. A smile, once so effortless, gone.
"My brother!"
Sidge collapsed, four hands kneading at Farsal's robes. He ached in a spot deep inside which threatened to cinch tighter and tighter until his insides snapped. It overpowered the desolation of the marsh and pulled that emptiness inside him.
Less than a turn of the moon ago, they'd been in the Temple courtyard preparing for the pilgrimage. Farsal had taught him everything about driving the wagons. While they'd worked, he'd told stories of traveling to Stronghold with his well-funded Master. The other acolytes would boast of the many pilgrimages they'd undertaken, yet Farsal spoke with an eagerness to share, not flaunt.
A life spent among the cloistered walls of the Stormblade Temple and Sidge knew he'd been a fool. A fool not to recognize the others' disapproval and understand the true value of the man laying before him. Nobody had ever seen their trained bugman as a true brother.
"Nobody except you," whispered Sidge. He choked back his sobbing and sat up. Robes hung in fibrous patches along the acolyte's shattered body. "You, of all of them, believed I'd become a Cloud Born."
Sidge shuddered and rose. He looked at his own robes, stained but whole. The white stole hung heavy from his shoulders.
He picked his vestments up hem-first to roll them toward his thorax until he could slip his wings from the hand-stitched loops. The process was difficult, wings glued down by water, slime, and patches of ichor and blood. When he finally shivered free, he took the robes to the w
ater's edge.
Clouds of mud bloomed into the already dark water. Sidge knelt and worked his hands through the fabric, scrubbing out dirt, blood. He wrung them dry as Chuman watched. Again, he thought he saw sadness creep across the giant's wooden features.
His hands found the wing loops, and he ran a finger down the neatly stitched lines. He thought of Kaaliya's smile. How happy she'd been to see his wings. Of Farsal, when he asked if the modifications had been made to impress her.
"Foolish, but they were, brother. I forgot my way. I'm sorry they are not whole."
Hands shaking and throat cinching, he knelt at Farsal's side and carefully pulled the robes over the body. Next, he draped the stole across his brother's shoulders.
"You are the true Master here." Izhar's restless form loomed large in his lenses.
Sidge turned and began to dig.
He swallowed tortured cries as he scooped out the earth in a gap between the roots. His antennae drooped into his eyes, the effort to hold them straight too much to bear. Before long, the ground became more rootlets than mud, and he pulled and snapped with all four hands, digging more and more furiously. The pain in his thorax began to escape in cracked sobs.
Chuman clambered into the shallow hole. Wordless, he began to rake his powerful hands through the earth. They'd soon cleared a space deep enough it began to fill with water, but Chuman continued to bring up oozing fistfuls of mud.
Drained, Sidge stumbled out of the hole, taking one final look at his true friend. The man who'd made him feel…human.
"I'm sorry. By Vasheru's name, I'm so sorry."
This paragon among acolytes, a master in every way but name, should be laid to rest in the Sheath where a Master could call down the Fire to sweep away his remains, forever one with the Storm. But they were so far away from home. The thought of watching Farsal's lifeless form jostling with each step, cold and slowly rotting, the fermenting death taunting his antennae the entire way—no, it had to be here.
It was the best he could do.
With Chuman's help, he lowered Farsal's body into the grave. Chuman reached down to slowly press the remains beneath the water, into the mud, and Sidge had a sudden urge to tell him to stop, to check and make sure no breath remained. Then he recalled the eyes, wracked with terror and pain, and his mouth, gaping, darker than night. He couldn't see that again.