by Russ Linton
"I thought I saw…"
"You thought you saw the valley which you described from your first vision?"
Sidge nodded. "But there is no mantra. No song."
"In the depths of the deepest sea on the peak of the highest mountain, Alshasra'a, the Formless, came to rest," Izhar repeated his earlier recitation.
Sidge regarded the Teeth. They were different than the mountains around Cerudell. Tall spires which had yet to submit to the elements, he could believe they were created long before the course of time had begun. But Pama? The being had earned a passing mention in the mantras and had been the subject of countless commoner's sayings. All that remained was a vague impression of mountains with the power of speech and thought.
In this world of trees and wells imbued with song where Vasheru graced the skies, anything might be possible. Speech could mean a mantra. The mountains could've been the source of the single, sonorous voice he'd heard in his vision. He strained to see what he'd seen before and caught movement near the edge of the empty pool.
Sidge touched Izhar's shoulder, and the old man started. "Over there, Chuman. The Attarah."
Izhar nodded vacantly and glanced again at the moon before he started into the valley.
They sank to their ankles in the scree as they walked, and their footing shifted with every step. Several times, Sidge was forced to catch Izhar. He finally took to the air and grasped the shoulders of the stumbling mentor's robe to help steady him.
Together, they made their way between and over mounds of debris, closing on the central clearing. Chuman's bulky shadow moved beside the pond, a crater of gray light.
"What do you think he is doing?"
Izhar wheezed.
"Are you going to make it?" asked Sidge, his antennae reaching out.
Izhar nodded sharply and fixed his eyes on the next hill.
"We could rest again."
"When we're finished." Izhar's reply was airy and tight. He trudged up the slope.
The man he had knelt before, walked behind, and supplicated to seemed another shadow drifting across the landscape. For all of Izhar's stubbornness—pigheadedness, as the Stormblade once said in a manner half between frivolity and seriousness—the heretic had his principles. Sidge recalled a memory of Izhar to replace the current cold light and wordless silence. An image of Izhar spewing curses and lit by flame.
At the time, Izhar had demanded Sidge would no longer help clean in the temple kitchens, a demand made in retaliation for the elders' ruling that his acolyte would eat his pungent meals outside. Sidge understood the request. He'd been embarrassed by his brother's reactions to the smell. Then there'd been his earlier instincts when he'd asked for the same food as the others. Vomiting on his dinner might've made it more palatable for him, but had initiated a sympathetic, and un-appreciated, wave of sickness.
Izhar had been incensed when he'd found Sidge in the hall outside the scullery the night after he'd made his demand. The temple had recently held a feast for returning pilgrims and several unfortunate acolytes, including Farsal, had been left to clean and scrub what amounted to a week's worth of dishes.
"If I don't mind, why would it matter, Master?" Sidge recalled asking, emboldened by the plight of his friend.
"It's the principle of the thing," argued Izhar. "And because I said so."
"I will do as you wish, Master. However, I had already promised Farsal I would help tonight so he could have more time to study. What shall I do of my promise?"
Izhar had growled and jabbed a stiff finger at Sidge, which made him curl backward. Face twisted and red, the Cloud Born stormed into the scullery.
Sidge had unwittingly unleashed his mentor's famed temper on his fellow acolytes.
A brief shout erupted, nearly incomprehensible amid the warble of a dropped pot lid. Sidge paced the hall and wrung all four palms together as he waited for the deluge of profanity to be unleashed. Then Farsal emerged as though driven by a spear tip digging into his spine.
Sidge began a greeting. His friend returned a perfunctory bow and hurried up the hallway, muttering the mantras required for his coming test.
He'd watched Farsal scamper away and heard the scullery return to the customary sounds of sloshed water and clinking metal. He twisted his mandibles and paced the hall while he debated the sinister nature of each noise. Screwing up his courage, he peeked around the corner.
Inside, a cluster of acolytes rinsed and dried plates beside a thick oaken tub while stealing glances toward the hearth. There, Izhar scrubbed the giant bronze pots amid a cloud of steam. Every so often, he'd pick away a crumb and toss it in his mouth between words both profane and ingenious in their inappropriateness.
With the other acolytes' attention on the misplaced Master, and Izhar's back to the door, Sidge had retreated quietly to his room. He'd never volunteered for kitchen duties again.
It was an odd memory to have in this desolate place—Izhar's face flushed with blood, dark cheeks burning a hellish crimson in the firelight of the kitchens. Odd, but a stark contrast to his ghostly pallor and beard made white by the moonlight. Or was it the moonlight?
As they plowed to the top of another mound, Izhar slumped forward, hands on his knees. Even doubled over, Sidge could see his mentor was intent on continuing, crawling over the next rise.
"Acolyte, you must rest," said Sidge. Izhar opened his mouth to speak, but Sidge cut him off. "Because I said so."
Air rushed out of Izhar's mouth, and he dropped the ground, stones crunching like dry bones.
"There will be no more rest for me, Sidge." Izhar waited for a time, staring into the valley. Sidge lowered onto the debris beside him.
Since they'd entered, Sidge hadn't been able to catch another glimpse of the fertile valley he'd first seen. Loose shards of stone piled everywhere, swept into neat mounds. For the first time, he also spotted the square edges of buildings high up on the cliffs, their empty windows peering down onto the lake bed.
"What do you think happened here?" asked Sidge.
"Truth happened here," said Izhar.
Sidge reached down and picked a flake of stone from the scree to work between his fingers. He examined the dark pits of the buildings. "You once said the Jadugar lived on the Pamanites, yet the mantras say only the Attarah passed these peaks while being pursued by the Children of Kurath. Yet again truth seems to favor your teachings."
"Remember," muttered Izhar, watching Sidge with determined, sunken eyes. "Be prepared for whatever it may be. Whatever may happen."
"Yes," said Sidge, standing and offering a hand. Knowledge would energize his mentor again as it had in the valley. It would continue to heal his faith. They were so close to fixing all that the marsh had unraveled. "Let us come to know Vasheru's glory and the Attarah's will."
CHAPTER XXXI
They reached the empty pond and found Chuman on his hands and knees. The giant's arms trembled, and his stomach heaved. He hadn't shown any awareness of their approach, even when Izhar slid down a mound of shale a few spans away.
"I'm sorry," Sidge said, as he steadied Izhar.
"See to our Attarah," Izhar said flatly. "Don't mind me."
Sidge kept Izhar in his lenses and walked toward where Chuman crouched at the bank of the pond. Strangled gags arrested wetly in the giant's throat and sent convulsions through his body. Sidge knelt beside him and placed a hand on his back.
The dry flesh felt hot and feverish. One eye opened and regarded him through a cage of hair before clenching closed as another wave of retching struck. Sidge leaned closer and a powerful arm pushed him away.
"If you are truly the Attarah," said Sidge, "I would help you."
His jaw rippled, and his head shook, hair whipping, corners of his mouth twitching. Another convulsion and Chuman brought his hand to his throat. Veins bulged, and he arched, the sudden movement pulling his mouth open violently. Sidge stumbled backward.
Vulnerable and writhing, the Jadugar-forged looked more human than ever before
. Genuine pain distorted his features. He covered his mouth, and a lump formed in his throat.
Light leaked between blocky fingers. Another spasm and Chuman dropped his hand releasing a glowing cloud from within his mouth. Threads of phlegm trickled down his chin followed by a thick cord. The chain for Izhar's corestone.
Chuman grasped the solid silver chain. A savage jerk and the pendant tore free. He thrust it toward Sidge.
Sidge found he'd slid further away on his knees, well out of reach. The Jadugar-forged shook his fist and stiffened his neck in a silent plea. Sidge scooted toward him and took the pendant.
"You will need it when you return."
Izhar shuffled toward the pool, exhaustion plaguing his every move. An expected condition given their journey, but this strain had left permanent scars. Deep wrinkles lined his cheeks, and while his sunken eyes burned with their normal fire, it was instead drawn inward. No longer seeking to light a greater path, he appeared focused on feeding a lifetime of questions as the embers cooled.
By Vasheru's light! His beard! It glowed under the moon from cheek to cheek, the chestnut turned to ash by his smoldering fire. Wisps of hair trailed from his scalp in place of the ringed pate.
Sidge felt Izhar's hand come to rest on his shoulder, and it trembled there as the elderly Master bent.
"You…" Izhar strained to speak. "You are the Attarah? The first Attarah?"
Eyes closed, head hanging, Chuman nodded.
"Tell me, Mighty Attarah, blessed be your Word…is Vasheru angry for what we've done?"
"The Dragon is beyond anger or joy," Chuman replied, harsh and raw. "Block a river. It will one day overflow the banks."
A sigh escaped Izhar's lips. Sidge took in the moon trickling across his mentor's cheeks and shadows pooling in the gaunt hollows. How had he been so blind to the depths of this change before?
"How can the Temple be repaired?" asked Izhar, shaking Sidge's shoulder. His cloudy eyes flicked to the side. "Can he become the Stormblade and pacify Vasheru?"
"We can," Chuman struggled to answer. The giant's eyes fixed on Izhar, mirroring the turmoil Sidge felt. "But we will destroy it first."
Sidge couldn't listen. Izhar had understood much more than he'd let on. Again, the firebrand had been closer to the truth all along. Too close.
He stumbled to his feet and took hold of Izhar, finding little resistance. "You summoned the Wisdom! You control the Fire like a true master! Acolyte, Cloud Born, what does any of this matter? You can be the Stormblade! I'll be your pupil. We'll return to the Sheath…"
Pain knotted Izhar's brow, and he started to speak. Sidge thrust the corestone at him, unable, unwilling to hear what he would say. "Take it! It's yours!"
Izhar pushed the pendant away and turned his face from Sidge's searching lenses. "You must do this yourself. You can do this."
Chuman tore away a gaze stricken with grief and planted his palms against the edge. His back arched. A violent spasm ran from his hands to his knees, twisting his body until he collapsed to his elbows and stone cracked under him like struck glass. A sound between a roar and a gurgle escaped his throat and increased in volume as he shuddered.
Izhar staggered, and Sidge caught him. With drunken steps, he maneuvered toward the pile of scree. Carefully, he lowered his mentor, his father, into the shifting pile.
"Master, please, no."
Izhar lay panting, sweat beaded on his forehead, the silver disk of the sky turning his eyes empty.
"This is yours," Sidge cried, patting the corestone roughly into Izhar's chest and feeling his own chest squeeze tighter and tighter. "Call the Wisdom! Dammit! Call…call the Fire! Give us both to Vasheru's will!"
Half-aware, Sidge saw Chuman's body contort and shiver. Izhar sank deeper into the scree and Sidge clutched him close. The soft form beneath his robes had wasted away into harsh angles.
"You were right to do this." Izhar fought to speak. "Never doubt yourself."
"This is not right," moaned Sidge. "We should have turned back as you insisted! We must go back!" He dug his hands under Izhar's body and drew him tight, reaching out with his antennae to absorb every scent, every sound. Sobs bubbled up from his throat, and he burrowed his face into the silver beard, remembering a time when he'd nested there, when he'd ridden in Mister Izhar's hood and drifted to sleep, fingers toying with the wiry hair.
Izhar raised a trembling hand and stroked the top of Sidge's head. "I chose to follow. My choice, not yours. I knew it would come to this. I was afraid for you. Of the truth."
"There had to be a different way," Sidge choked. "The Stormblade's prophecy…"
"Prophecies are bullshit." Izhar sputtered forcefully and Sidge raised up, ready to do what he could to help, but Izhar shook his head. "Sometimes a man knows when the world is done with him. I just hope…"
The tired Master's eyelids fluttered independently, as though they'd fallen out of sync. Only the whites of his eyes peered through the gap.
"You hope? Hope what?" The answer meant nothing to Sidge, he only needed the sound of Izhar's voice. He shook him. "Answer me, please."
Izhar's eyelids pried apart, his head tilted to the cratered sky. A smile found a corner of his open mouth. "Eat the moon. So hungry…" The faint bit of joy disappeared and his eyes locked on Sidge. "Leave the pieces, Sidge. Too many to mend. Must be made anew and I believe…believe in you."
Sightless eyes remained on him and Sidge stared back, waiting.
A roar issued from the Jadugar-forged. Chuman snapped up, his head whipped back, and he continued a cry of anguish which seemed to shake the valley before seizing into a gurgle. A torrent of water exploded from his mouth. Pulse after pulse, liquid splattered in the empty pool. Turbulence replaced the reflected silver of the moon with a lifeless gray.
The vomit ceased and Chuman collapsed. Bank to bank, the pool continued to fill, much larger than what had been expelled.
Sidge's lenses bore witness to the entire spectacle, turning to Chuman, to the relentless sky, to the remorseless mountain faces, attempting to shatter his attention as he lowered Izhar's limp body to the bed of shale.
Hadn't he just done this? Placed one of his family into the ground? Felt the rough texture of burlap against his fingers, thankful for once for his armored shell so he didn't feel the cold, dead skin on his arms. Had he escaped the marsh for this?
All he'd been trying to do was make Izhar proud. Become the leader his mentor so desperately wanted him to be. He'd led them into the marsh and away from the safety of the Pilgrim's Road.
Then realization struck: he'd never really led, he'd only followed.
Lenses found their new focus, sharp and clean. The Jadugar-forged sprawled beside the pool, panting. Wailing. Giant as he was, he'd curled into a fetal position and stared toward them both with the eyes of a lost child.
Weak. Helpless. This was his fault.
Sidge let his hands unwind from Izhar's robes and the tangled beard. He rose into the air and heard the sound of death buzzing just off his shoulder. The relic, the freak, he'd done this. He was no Attarah, the Attarah had been a man. A man who led humanity out of slavery, not a walking statue, its small eyes piteous and full of weakness.
That metal monstrosity would meet a barbarian today. Old Blood. Devourer of flesh.
Whether the distance melted too quickly for the giant to react, or whether the Fire which animated the metal frame had been exhausted, Chuman's eyes never left the disturbed pile of shale behind Sidge. He didn't move as Sidge's mandibles serrated his flesh. Blood coursed down his skin in curtains, splashing across Sidge's eyes, flecking his lenses with red smears.
With a roll, Sidge shifted to the giant's back, his hands clawing into thick muscles. He felt himself lifted as he clamped his mandibles around the stump-like neck. Metal stopped his bite, but he persisted, grinding and searching for joints, vulnerabilities.
Chuman roared and threw himself backward.
In the impact, everything left Sidge's body. Air,
spit, mucous—the sheen of Chuman's blood sprayed from his chitin. Along his back, he heard a sickening crunch.
He wheezed. Sprawled out and limbs flung asunder, above burned a white sky of craters and shadow. Chuman eclipsed his view.
"You killed him," Sidge wheezed.
"We told you to leave him," hissed Chuman. Slabs of flesh hung loose while his body struggled to seal itself around a glimmering core. "Mortals do not tread here!" His eyes dropped to his chest, and he dug his fingers into the torn gaps. "They hide under my flesh, oozing, crawling. Speaking in a thousand voices…" He fixed his eyes on Sidge. "You had no right to do this!"
"We followed the Pilgrim's path. Your path!"
Rage boiled in Chuman's eyes and Sidge knew he would die under the heel of the colossus. Every bit of energy he'd had was used in his pointless attack. Wings smashed underneath him, and his own anger spent, he had no choice but to watch.
A shape rose in the pond like an uncoiled spring. Transparent, it smoothed and stretched the harsh imperfections of the moon, those subtle changes the one indication anything was even there. Rage became fear and Chuman spun toward the column. He fell to a knee and hung his head.
"I kneel before you, Alshasra'a, the Formless. I give praise at your empty altar."
Water crept around Sidge, and he felt it seep into the crevices of his shell. Streaks of blood mingled and dispersed in clouds.
The column withdrew, and Sidge couldn't see what had become of it. The reply to Chuman's pledge came as an echo in the hollow of his chitin. It didn't speak so much as intone, a deep mantra pulled from within or through him from the earth.
Pama has spoken! What began has ended. What has ended has begun. It returns from across the endless sea to herald the Timeless Age.
A portly figure in a Cloud Born's robe approached. A wrinkle of flesh showed near the collar under the drawn hood. The robes were tattered and worn complete with a lightning bolt stole.