by Russ Linton
When Sidge reached the Four Corners, the mantra which had marked the start of their pilgrimage, an unsettling feeling struck him as he recited the events of the past with the heavens locked in place.
Fire in the clouds
Knowledge in the Earth
Life in the waters
Shelter in the stone
Mighty Dragon, Child, Father and Mother
Blessed are the four corners
Farthest reaches of all creation
Freed are we from stone upon stone
Go forth
Seek the corners
Where the Worldblood pooled
In timeless dream
Timeless dream? They were lost there at this very moment. If he could hold each phrase in his mind at once and behold their beauty, more answers might be revealed. Salvation at hand. Izhar twitched restlessly.
Where he'd imagined he could see the Storm, the sky darkened. A boiling mass pushed toward the valley. Lightning arced and clouds glowed gray and clean like pristine robes. Shadow blotted out where silver and red met.
Then it struck.
Energy surged against Sidge's chest. An invisible force enveloped the corestone, and he held motionless, entranced by the coming storm. Wisdom boiled in its smoky grasp, he could feel it, and he wanted it to pour down and fill his soul. He wanted it more than anything. More than he wished to right the temple. More than he desired to find her, among the reeds, her soft lips waiting. More than he'd wanted to save his Master's life.
With a renewed sense of purpose, he dove into the mantras and began the four thousand and sixty-fifth of the Rebellion, the Black Wind Pursues. His throat felt dry and coarse, but he maintained the intonation flawlessly.
Death and ash rise on desert heat
The Khasmin darken the sky and scour the flesh
Kurath will show no mercy!
Kurath, the First Named. Kurath the Slaver. He would return. Lost to the ages, no one truly believed. Yet as Sidge sunk further into mystery, he felt the danger lurking just beyond his sight. Yes, as foretold, Kurath would ride from his Sun Palace to wreak havoc on the world. He would not suffer defeat at the hands of his insolent slaves. The Temple needed to be strong. Prepared for his return.
After the last mantra of the Rebellion came the Forge and the founding of the Stormblade Temple. An order headed by the most faithful, by those who knew Vasheru's will. They could not afford to leave the sanctum empty as the Stormblade warned. Nor could they fill it with politics and faithless lies.
Izhar had been drawn astray by Lord Chakor and his games, beaten down by Gohala's venom. Sidge had been left alone to restore the foundations. If this were the will of Vasheru, then so be it.
Four pillars I shall make of the teachings
To hold aloft the heavens and cradle Vasheru's power
To begin before time and end with my Rule
Shadow swept across the valley. Izhar stirred. A single light pulsed inside Chuman's body, tinted the hue of a blooming rose as it burned underneath flesh.
Around his neck, Sidge felt a weight as though a millstone hung there. Instead of dragging him forward it pressed him into the earth, and he imagined he could be a pillar, a great pillar that withstood the weight of the heavens on cabled tendons and metal rods.
The corestone leapt upward and hovered parallel to his chin, taut against his neck. Izhar's face appeared in the blinding glow. The former Cloud Born's lips moved. Sidge heard his name, yet his mentor's eyes were locked on the stone which radiated an all-consuming light. Struggling to hold onto the emptiness he'd found so easily, Sidge reached the final mantras of the Rule, the last of the twelve thousand.
Stronghold stands
Upon foundations of blood and sacrifice
Ruled by Wisdom, protected by Fire
Until the final mantra is spoken
From the highest heights and the deepest depths
Stronghold stands
The mantras all meant something. He would know their truth.
Energy sheathed him. The glow of the corestone was the weight which pinned him, a luminance denser than the rocky earth. Like the beginnings of Vasheru's Kiss, except instead of a prickly embrace it was the weight of an ocean. Mantras raced inside his head. He spread his arms beneath the blackened sky to receive what this could only be: Vasheru's Wisdom.
He'd called it. Channeled it. He was ready for answers. Proof that he, the lowly bugman, hadn't ever needed protection, hadn't ever been at jeopardy of losing his way. That his "kind" could be trusted with Vasheru's power and that the Mighty Dragon had indeed chosen him.
Above, a face became the heavens, peeling back the surging clouds. Cavernous eyes burned in flared, platinum cheeks. Lip curled, fangs bared, Vasheru's cry blasted them as if the firmament would be torn asunder.
Acolyte and master both flattened to the ground. It tore through Sidge's insides. The resonance needed no translation.
Insolence.
Hubris.
They were inconsequential motes on His divine wind.
No visions or riddles or flashes of enlightenment accompanied the presence, nothing but a stark realization. He'd been wrong to ever believe he could call Him. An ant guiding a horse. A thread lifting a mountain. Righteous fury sounded in the Dragon's terrible cry.
In this space between worlds, Vasheru had come and come of His own free will.
The pendant strained against his neck then the chain snapped. It hurtled toward Chuman. For a moment, the world darkened, and the glowing pendant tumbled through it.
A bolt of light ripped the black silk of the sky. At the center was Chuman, perched on the boulder's lip immersed in a column of snaking energy. The hurtling corestone flared and struck the giant, burning a gaping hole through his muscled flesh.
Then blackness returned. The weight released Sidge. His vision blinked in, one lens at a time, as if he floated up out of the abyss.
Even blind, he could feel the presence of the Storm Dragon withdraw.
Across from him, Izhar marveled, dark skin blanched and the white of his beard glowing bright and swollen in the afterimage of the strike. He stared in awe at the retreating storm.
"It was Him," croaked the heretic. Eyes wide, jaw heavy, he focused on Sidge. "You did it."
Insides drained and hollow, Sidge couldn't reply.
Pushing off the ground one palm at a time as though unfamiliar with an upright stance, he navigated to his two feet. On the rise, Chuman began his descent and Sidge took a tentative step to follow.
Stunned, Izhar called out to him again, but his antennae relayed dull mutterings. He knew he'd said the words and felt the Kiss. Even so, Vasheru had spared no Wisdom for the bugman. Instead, a being with metal bones had been granted whatever power or insight the Dragon intended. Sidge's every sense focused on their divinely chosen leader, the one who would take them to the truth.
CHAPTER XXV
They reached the tree line long after Chuman had disappeared into it. Feathery leaves held both the hue of an early morning sky and the muted color of life on the verge of shadow. Seasons meant nothing in this place. Calls of animals, insects and birds filled the air, but all at a great distance. They hadn't actually seen another creature since the herd of moonstriders left them behind. Life was an echo here. Truth, the province of a false man.
Sidge's insides still resonated with the force of Vasheru's will. It had taken a long time before he could speak to the flabbergasted Izhar. His old mentor had been asking the same question. Over and over.
"Are you sure you had no visions this time?" Izhar panted, catching up to him.
"Yes," Sidge growled. "For the hundredth time, I saw nothing. Nothing but Chuman drawing in Vasheru's Wisdom."
"Wisdom which you called," insisted Izhar. "Or had you summoned the Fire?"
Sidge stopped to square his mandibles. As unnecessary as they both knew the gesture to be, he hoped it would somehow make his message plainer. "I did not channel." He spun and continued, c
utting off a response.
He wouldn't let Izhar falsely convince him a second time. Even though he'd recited the entirety of the temple's teachings, he was certain he had not been the one to call forth the Dragon. No one could summon that power, he was certain, no one but the thing they followed.
"No inspiration? No sudden epiphany?" Izhar wheezed as Sidge rushed to try and keep Chuman in his sights. "I've heard the Wisdom described as all of these."
He wanted to demand his acolyte stop the questions. However, he could clearly see that Izhar was too stubborn to let this go. And isn't that what he'd wanted in the first place? To restore his mentor's faith? Though Izhar looked more worn than ever, the excitement had energized him.
"I did have a few thoughts as I recited the Mantras," Sidge offered, a thing a Cloud Born might say.
Izhar completely ignored the rock-strewn trail and his gaze bored uncomfortably into Sidge. "And?"
"I wondered," Sidge said, "if we are not in this timeless dream spoken of in the Four Corners. Perhaps it is not a lost age but an actual place. In the visions, this timelessness was mentioned before. And as I said the other day, the Corners, the Pillars, may not just be stops on the Pilgrimage. Chuman has been at each and each has been associated with beings of power. Vasheru, Alshasra'a and his Urujaav children, Sli'mir…"
Izhar lost a step, and his intense stare slipped to the empty space before him. Sidge waited for him to catch up. His tone rushed and unmeasured, Izhar recited from the Trials as he hobbled.
With every leap, every slither, every step
Alshasra'a's passing scars the firmament
Emptiness becomes shape, Truth becomes life
And in the depths of the deepest sea
On the peak of the highest mountain
The Formless came to rest.
She sang of each blade of grass and tumbled stone
She sang of each swollen river and frozen plain
When she had sung for a timeless age, she did beseech Pama,
Is this not good?
"The question," said Izhar excitedly. "In your first vision, you said you'd been asked, Is it good?"
He had. Sidge recalled every detail of that first vision in the vardo, and he knew the recited mantra as perfectly as the other twelve thousand. They'd started their journey with Izhar reminding him all things had been touched by the divine: Alshasra'a, the Formless, and his passing. He cursed himself for failing to make the connection. Perhaps this was the reason a puppet of a man had been gifted with Vasheru's Wisdom.
Sidge ground his mandibles.
"Is something wrong?" Izhar asked.
They'd reached a ledge which extended the length of the gully like a step carved for giants. Sidge let the obstacle appear to distract him, but his mind remained restless. He envisioned Chuman scrambling up in one long stride, leading them, guiding them.
Sidge practically accosted Izhar to assist him in an attempt to avoid resuming their conversation. After several swatting hands, Izhar relented to being helped to the top.
Once situated, his mentor brushed his knees, righted himself slowly, and thrust his fists into his hips determined not to move. "Well?"
Sidge took up the trail again, forcing his acolyte to stumble after him. "Well, what?"
"Is something wrong?"
"I don't know," shouted Sidge, throwing his arms in the air. "I don't know anything!"
I am a bugman. A barbarian. An eater of human flesh, spurned by Vasheru.
Sidge stopped and pulled his arms. Tensing, it took great effort to keep his wings and mandibles still.
"Ahh," said Izhar and he continued past. "You're doing an excellent job as a Cloud Born then."
Even with his best efforts, his mandibles rattled, and he strode after his suddenly chipper companion. While he'd been awaiting the return of the old master's bluntness, he wasn't sure this is what he'd expected or wanted.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means admitting ignorance is often the first step to enlightenment."
Sidge stalked past Izhar, suddenly annoyed at his pace and platitudes. "I'm not in the mood for troll-speak, acolyte."
He knew he was being unfair. There did seem to be wisdom in what Izhar said but the last thing he wanted at this moment were lessons.
"The trolls helped on this journey as much as any other," mused Izhar.
"They did nothing of the sort," snapped Sidge. He swatted a low-hanging branch with his hand. "They added chaos to confusion." His wings angrily escaped his control and gave a burst. He halted on the trail and let his annoyance spin him to face Izhar. "I called on Him. I asked for guidance. And who does he gift?"
Izhar raised an eyebrow. "A lowly acolyte."
"That's right," agreed Sidge before he'd fully understood Izhar's meaning. "No! This isn't like… This is different." Izhar gave a noncommittal shrug and passed him again. Vasheru's light, the man was enjoying his return to his old rhetoric. "Vasheru spoke to a false man. A trinket of the Jadugar wound up and clicking on its way!"
"I've told you my suspicions, though I don't know how Chuman fits into this picture. Best you find out what was told to him."
"I…well…" Sidge could hardly speak over the rattling of his wings. "I suppose I will," he chittered and took off down the trail.
The path was well worn, and the lower tree branches curled away, keeping it clear, but the constant rise into the mountains would make hiking arduous. Izhar would likely refuse to stop so soon. He was both the Nag and the Paint. With Chuman's pace, however, Sidge knew he'd have plenty of time to demand answers before Izhar caught up to them.
This close to the mountain range, they'd lost sight of the peaks and instead faced an impressive wall of granite. Somewhere above them, as the mantras told, a contingent of the Khasmin, Kurath's warriors sent to return humanity to slavery, had been defeated. And these Teeth of the World were also subject of more commoner's tales. As the saying goes, the deepest seas and the highest peaks all lead to Pama.
For a pilgrimage, this had turned into the journey of a thousand lifetimes. Yet what exactly anything meant was still so unclear. A truth was surely forming. Though did he need to be wary of it as Izhar had suggested?
The giant came into view, powering up the steep trail. With ease, Sidge slipped past and hovered in front of him. "Stop," he ordered.
A moment passed where the giant considered the command. Chuman thundered onward.
Sidge zipped in front of the lumbering form again and raised a palm. "Stop, acolyte!"
A foot crashed to the earth. Chuman gazed at him. More demands came slowly in the dead stare, and Sidge realized he had no way to force the man to speak. He might as well be interrogating the stones under their feet about the Attarah's passing.
"I demand to know what Vasheru told you. What Wisdom did he share?"
"Wisdom?"
"Visions. Like those I…we have had throughout this pilgrimage. Are we headed to another Pillar?"
"We?" Chuman struggled with the word. "Yes, we. We know the waking world and the soothing blackness." The dead stare lost focus and gazed up at where the peaks knifed into the sky. Fear settled onto the wooden features like a shadow. "I hear their song and I obey."
"Who?" asked Sidge, edging uncomfortably close. "Vasheru? Alshasra'a?" When an answer didn't come, he whispered, "Sli'mir?"
"Those, and the cry of the earth." Chuman's chest heaved rapidly, and his eyes became reflective pools. "And Pama, mother and father both, to them all."
"What do they tell you?"
"That it is not good."
Chuman's muddy eyes snapped to the trail again. Momentum returned to his bulk, driving him uphill as though he instead tumbled downward. Sidge flitted to the side to avoid being barreled into. Whirring clicks rippled on the air as Chuman passed.
"If you won't tell me what you are then who are you?" Sidge called after him, all sense of command lost and little hope of an answer.
"I am the Attarah," came the r
eply, hollow and without exultation. "Or I was." He stopped and fixed one eye on Sidge. "I am so many. Too many voices demand answers. The dam inside bursts but we have made our choice," he pierced Sidge with a knowing glare, "and we know where we belong."
Sidge stared after the Jadugar-forged until the giant disappeared. Instead of following, he rose up through the feathered leaves and above the scraggly treetops. The trail wound toward a split in the wall of granite. He examined the cleft to try and determine how far the path might extend into the mountains. The moon was visible in the sky above the gorge, eyeing the ground, wary and cold. At the mouth, he saw a twinkle of light.
A moonstrider bent low at the base of the cliff.
Sidge's heart leapt. The distance was vast, but he felt he hovered on the edge of sending the animal into flight. No sooner had the thought entered his mind that the moonstrider swiveled its graceful neck. He froze and prayed silently, but the beast slipped into the crevice, Chuman close behind. Further out, Izhar struggled up the slope.
The Attarah. Chuman had said he was the Attarah.
He didn't know why, but he believed him. And he was anxious to hear what sort of interpretation Izhar would bring to this new claim. An Attarah of flesh and metal built by the Jadugar.
The black storm receded to the north, the obsidian walls of his temple home far, far away. Far, but closer than the buzzing of the godless marsh. He had been within reach of the Mighty Dragon, blessed be his Fire. How foolish it had been to begrudge Chuman for gathering the storm and using it to feed his divine path.
Yes, they'd both chosen. Both chosen the will of Vasheru and the Temple. Both allowed it to heal their broken forms. Soon, Izhar would be restored as well, and they would find a way to guide their brothers back to the path of the righteous.
CHAPTER XXVI