by Russ Linton
"Yes, it is," insisted Kaaliya. "In-laws. Sister of the farrier." A gamble, but she said it with confidence.
A sneer wormed across the plump militiaman's face. She'd lost that particular roll of the bones. His eyes took her in from hat to boots as though he peeled them away. "His sister was a whore. Funny that, huh?" He exchanged a glance with his friend.
Kaaliya didn't hesitate. "Hilarious," she replied and ran her hand down her hat's strap which hung collected between the swell of her breasts.
The other licked his lips and pushed the old woman forward. "She can go. Though we'll need to speak with you…" He twitched his head into the shadows. "Over there."
Kaaliya caught the old woman and smiled down into her fearful eyes. Both said nothing as the woman hurried away, glancing over her shoulder.
"The torch," said Kaaliya as she sauntered toward the men. "She's a shy whore."
Neither could believe their luck, and the torch was hastily extinguished. The machete clattered to the alley along with a belt. Their armor creaked releasing the smell of leather and sweat.
"What's your name?" asked one, groping for her.
She entered into the dark corners with them. "They call me Spider."
Her blade flashed.
CHAPTER XVI
Sidge ran an antenna through his fingers. At the very tip, he could almost imagine it to be a strand of hair. Beyond was the temple workroom. Chores, routine maintenance—tables and tools for any project. Somehow, he'd forgotten how happy he felt here. Or was it there? A memory or a vision, Sidge felt like both an observer and participant.
He was supposed to be meditating while Izhar made a few necessary alterations to his robes. He wasn't an acolyte, but he'd already learned most of the holy mantras by listening to the others. A stream of curses prevented any of the sacred words from lingering in his thoughts.
"Mister Izhar?"
"Yes, Sidge?" Izhar mumbled, his teeth clamped on a sewing needle.
"Who was the Attarah?"
"He is the founder of civilization."
"I know that but who was he? What was he like?"
"He was a man of great determination and strength. And probably a master tailor, the son of a bitch." The last part he muttered under his breath.
Sidge wasn't sure what the Mighty Attarah's parentage had to do with his ability to sew. He supposed it was part of who the great man was. Much like Izhar was part of him, though the thought made him uncomfortable.
"But where did he come from if he came before civilization?"
Behind him, Izhar huffed, and Sidge heard the rustling of cloth. The Cloud Born got up from his work and moved to sit in front of Sidge. Bare-chested, Izhar's hair hadn't yet grayed and sprouted in wiry clumps. Smooth strands outlined his chest and the hint of a soft paunch, the cause for his alterations, overlapped the top of his trousers. His beard was full and dark with a small cluster of silver hairs beneath his lip.
Sidge squeezed the chitin shielding his forearms. He often crossed his arms as he'd seen the other acolytes do, inside their flowing sleeves which he didn't yet have.
"Is this question part of your meditations?"
Even though he wasn't an acolyte, Izhar's playful reprimand caused him to feel anxious all the same. Sidge nodded and lowered his head.
Izhar ducked and aligned his face with Sidge's mandibles. "The mantras say he came from the Sun Palace, like all the other humans. They were held in slavery, by Kurath, never allowed to venture beyond the walls. However, this was long ago, and the past is a distant thing, like a retreating sun."
Mister Izhar often had sayings which Sidge didn't fully comprehend. They were like the majority of the Trials; mantras the acolytes rarely spoke of.
"Could he have been like me?"
Izhar tapped his chin. "I don't see why not. You're determined. Strong. I'll bet you'd not let a mean guy like Kurath tell you what to do, eh?" He reached out and ruffled Sidge's antennae. "Now back to meditating. I have to fix this robe," he said and slapped his belly. "One thing I didn't account for when becoming a Cloud Born."
A voice from the hall called, "Cloud Born Izhar, a word please."
Cloud Born Tarak. He was a kindly man, one of the few. Most of the masters were severe in their training and demanding of their pupils. Temple business was serious business, and Sidge understood their zeal perfectly. Still, he appreciated seeing a smile every so often.
He watched as the two disappeared into the hall. Izhar had left the workroom in nothing but his trousers. Sidge's wings buzzed, a habit he'd been unable to quiet much like his mentor's infamous cursing. Both seemed to illicit reactions of shock in the quiet temple. Rising, he headed to the table where Izhar's robes were strewn.
While Mister Izhar knew many things, sewing was not one of them. Examining the work done so far, the fix seemed simple enough. Already Izhar had left a jagged mess where he'd torn the seam apart. Nothing Sidge didn't feel was fixable. He could finish releasing the seam and resew it before Izhar returned. He lifted the robes to begin his work.
More material lay underneath - an entire robes' worth. He didn't think his Master had put on quite so much weight. Using his lower hands, he removed it from the pile. If necessary, he could use it to bridge the seam, but it wasn't spare cloth at all. It was another robe.
He let it unfurl and tried to shake out an awkward fold where the arms overlapped, but it stubbornly refused to change. He peeled the sleeves back, first one, then another, then two more. Two robes bundled together? No, one with four sleeves.
"I thought you might like your own," Izhar said.
Those had been his words on that day, and they had left Sidge elated beyond his wildest imaginings. This time, the words had come out of nowhere.
Sidge could see the workroom, a cavernous space of shadow usually lit by the flicker of the Storm. Spindles of wool littered tables and a loom creaked nearby. The hallway was empty and Izhar, nowhere to be seen. Yet a presence darkened the room.
Blood dripped on the robes like beads of sap.
###
The Cloud Born had assembled on either side of the Temple steps. Sidge had just walked between them, bathed in their mantras which called above the howling wind. He'd witnessed the induction ceremony many times before, and this time, he would be the one bestowed the glorious honor of being chosen to serve Vasheru.
Usually, several new acolytes would participate at once. A row across the wide steps or maybe two, all ascending to be greeted by their Masters. These new acolytes would come from the lands outside the temple both far and near and were sent by their families already knowing they were to be accepted.
Sidge's case had been different. He'd been here since birth. Because of this, or such as the excuse was given, he climbed the steps alone.
Already, he could feel the tension with the Cloud Born, a pressure he'd chosen to remain blissfully unaware of in his youth and let the glory of the ceremony replace. The small eyes, which he could view on all sides, eyes of elders he'd grown up around, all appeared foreign and strange. Hard, confining, they held him trapped in their gaze.
He climbed another step. Izhar waited at the top, smiling. The Stormblade stood next to him, his face a mask of reverence as he intoned a mantra from the Forge.
We are all brothers
Beneath the Undying Storm.
Unyielding before the terrible might of Kurath.
Kurath whom the Attarah had fled and then made his pilgrimage to the Four Corners where he sought the power to defeat their former slaver. Kurath whom the Attarah drove away in the valley between the Teeth of the World where he'd been led by Moonstriders and his mysterious Jadugar.
Sidge summited the temple steps, and the assembled host raised their arms to the sky. He dropped to his knees, and Izhar approached, the newly stitched robe draped across his arms. Then Sidge did as he'd seen so many other acolytes do and pressed his face to the top of the temple steps, mandibles clicking against the smooth obsidian.
He
sat up, joined the chant one last time, and offered his upper arms to the heavens.
We are all brothers
Beneath the Undying Storm.
Unyielding before the terrible might of Kurath.
Concern marred Izhar's joy and poisoned the elation Sidge felt inside. Izhar's reaction had briefly confused him when he'd first seen it and this time it startled him. His new master lowered the robes. Sidge's upper arms slipped into the sleeves, lower arms clasped tight in front of him. Sidge longed for the vestments to change him. He left the lower sleeves empty.
Robes settled, Sidge again bowed to the temple steps where the lower half of his new garments pooled around him. For that brief moment, extra arms hidden, wings covered, eyes tunneled into a single focal point by a drawn hood, he felt like he belonged.
He knew now he could never feel that way again. An illusion. Everything an illusion.
When he tried to pull away from the step, it was though he prized himself from a gray sludge. Robes clung to him like mud. They engulfed his mouth, and he choked, unable to breathe. Desperate, he wrenched his head free.
The temple had been replaced. The railing of the grand stair no longer supported the undulating spine of the Dragon. Solid sheets of dark red roots ran beside him. Shoulder-high roots melded into a single, massive trunk driving upward. Storm winds lashed empty branches. Two spans from the ground, smooth bark pulsed and writhed over a hidden corruption.
Where Izhar had once been stood Chuman, bare skin painted marble white and a red dhoti wrapping his waist. The giant faced the trunk and placed a palm on the bark. The form beneath contorted and wriggled away.
Sidge continued to choke, phlegmy clumps spraying from his mouth. Unsure how much longer he could last, he reached out, but Chuman appeared not to see.
Blind to Sidge's plight, the Jadugar-forged held up a crystal vial glowing with light as though the brightest star had been kidnapped from the sky and held prisoner in Chuman's blocky grip. A mantra flowed from the man's lips, and the ground shuddered. He positioned the vial above the corruption and pressed into its softness. Chuman withdrew his hands, and the vial and the bulge quivered, locked in place.
Hands pointed like spear tips, Chuman held his arms at shoulder width and thrust. His fingertips bored into the bark, and he yanked them free. Rotating his arms perpendicular to the first incision, he repeated the motion. This time, he dug in and with a thick squelch, tore a slab of bark and heart free, casting it to the ground.
Dark sap coated the underside of the slab and the fresh wound on the tree wept. A grub boiled out, pale like death and soft like rot. Sidge scrambled away, still choking.
Two Ek'kiru approached and gathered the squirming grub. Male and female, both the color of a clear, burnished sky, their inexpressive faces were passive. Even as he choked, Sidge could feel their fear. He could taste it like the pervasive atmosphere of the marsh.
The female Ek'kiru, the one without the grub, stepped forward and spoke to Chuman in halting clicks, her head bowed submissively.
"Forget this day, for it passes outside of time," rumbled Chuman. "The Sleeping One's dreams of knowing the world Alshasra'a has wrought are no more. Alshasra'a is no more. This age is to be the dominion of man."
More clicking and the female fell to her knees, every sweep of her hands, every rapid chitter filled with desperation.
"The Attarah has mercy. You may take the avatar, but you will live to serve humanity. Those who refuse," he gestured to the marsh, shrouded in darkness, "they will not forget. They will remain trapped, in the shadow of what was." Chuman's gaze wandered to the top of the tree. "No longer will they kneel at the feet of their sleeping god."
Clutching the grub, the Ek'kiru backed away. Sidge crawled after them, gasping. Chuman began a mantra, and the tree moaned, a forlorn cry which became a song, the same melody which he and Chuman pursued. Pursued…in the marsh, where he'd buried Farsal. Where Izhar had fallen.
Blackness fringed his vision and spoke to him.
"Decide where you belong, Old Blood."
###
He was being held down by a great force, face first in mud. His lenses had no focus. His thoughts drifted to the vardo and an earthen jug filled with thornsap. Somehow he'd found the darkness again and wanted nothing more than to cocoon himself inside it.
"Sidge," Izhar called from faraway. "Are you with me?"
With him? With the human who'd been his surrogate father, a man he'd just murdered? No, he was a monster like so many thought him to be.
On the top steps of the temple, face pressed to the glassy obsidian and Izhar proudly above him, he'd forgotten what it was to be different. Actually, he'd been different until then. Then he'd become an acolyte.
He'd wanted nothing more.
Sidge opened his eyes.
Izhar knelt over him. "By the gods, I'm glad you're alright," He pulled Sidge off the ground and held him close. "That damn ox held you down then had one of his infernal seizures. All I could do was call on Vasheru to get him to move."
Once Izhar said the words, Sidge felt the lingering Kiss, a blessing he would forever be denied. Chuman towered over them. Half-sealed wounds squirmed on his forearms closing like a hundred tiny mouths. That was where the blood had come from, not Izhar.
"Please forgive me," said Sidge. "Vasheru, forgive me."
"They will be here soon," said Chuman, impassive, smoke rising from his body.
Izhar's hug became an insistent pull. "We need to go."
The words reached Sidge, but he couldn't hear them. He could only burrow into Izhar's robes and listen to his breathing. He hadn't murdered the man who'd raised him. Izhar. Izhar was alive.
The sound of other wings reached his antennae. Yes, Izhar had survived, but for how long?
The marsh would devour them, strip Izhar's bones and his own humanity unless he did something. A Cloud Born would have a plan. Farsal would've had a plan.
"I'm going to check on our pursuers. Follow Chuman and stay close to him."
Sidge flew into the misty sky before Izhar had a chance to argue.
CHAPTER XVII
The rising morning fog would be what saved them. It formed a gauzy layer like wet wool not far from the ground. As soon as Sidge broke through, he could see the difficulty it posed to the other fliers.
And those fliers were there. Dozens. Maybe hundreds.
They dipped into the banks, their rhythmic movements a choreographed dance. Dew-studded carapaces sparkled. From this distance, they could be noble creatures holding court in the mid-morning sky, yet theirs was a deadly grace.
They were hunting.
The barbaric Ek'kiru pierced the fog like osprey on a lake and emerged at steep angles. Their efforts centered on the depression where Izhar's call of the Fire had burned away the clouds and sent steam boiling into the breach. As they worked, the beasts fanned out west along Chuman's trail.
They sought to brutalize him and his companions like they had Gohala's caravan. Sport? Food? Angry at having been tamed by the Attarah? He didn't know what drove them, maybe nothing at all. That's what scared him most. They could be those mindless insects, calling for eternity, feasting on the blood of the living without remorse.
He would never forget what they'd done. What he'd almost done.
Sidge dipped into the clouds and shot upward again, mimicking their behavior. His antennae could feel the individual stratum of the air which had so fully infected him. Once the dam had burst inside, he became aware of the influence those layers held over him. All the chaos and turmoil of the marsh felt lighter above the clouds.
Another dip and he checked on Izhar and Chuman's progress. Water and sparse trees had been replaced by a sea of reeds, growing above even the giant's head. Sidge wanted to think the wall of grass would help conceal them, but Chuman's advance formed a relentless spearhead into the emerald flank. Flattened stalks bobbed on the path. Worse than rippling water, they left a permanent scar.
Mid-morning and alr
eady the clouds had begun to separate. A flat sky the color of polished bronze shone through frayed rips. Soon, the whole of the saturated landscape would be visible.
A new layer of the strata wrestled with his control. This one embraced his antennae like damp pollen and the speed which it fired into his brain alarmed him. Raw, eager, the burst nearly took hold of his body.
He flew upward to escape. As always, the song called, and he let it focus his attention. Far away to the north, a patch of grass, like Izhar's bald pate, bubbled out of the fog. In the center towered the same tree from his visions both recently and his very first one. Tall, bare, it skewered the sky and ran red with its blood. Any branches were barely visible stubs. Chuman's path headed directly toward it.
The new sensation continued to fight the song and pulled him away from the tree. As much as he despised it, he couldn't ignore the fact he was like Sli'mir's Brood. Perhaps he had a plan after all.
Sidge dove and flew low over his companions. Izhar looked up, his beard matted and crusted with mud. Sidge settled into the water and let his wings fall limp. "They're getting too close, you'll never outrun them. I'm going to see if I can draw them away."
"To hell you are," blurted Izhar.
"To hell you are, Master," corrected Sidge. He'd failed any test, and he had no right to demand the title, but they'd both failed. If he could reclaim his place, save Izhar from this hell, then maybe, just maybe, he'd die more human than beast.
Izhar's jaw tightened. "I don't think that's a wise idea." There was a pause as the stubborn acolyte collected himself. "Master."
"Agreed, but I do not have any others."
"We shouldn't be separated."
"We won't." Sidge turned his mandibles to indicate Chuman. "The song is where he goes. I will know precisely where to find you."
"You don't need to prove anything to me," Izhar said, his anger quickly forgotten.