Pilgrim of the Storm

by Russ Linton

  "It will not be needed," Sidge huffed as he maneuvered Izhar's listless form down the stairs. "He is not well, we have medicines … in the wagon. And water. Our own water."

  "Yes. Caught inside the gilded cage. Drowning in the flesh prison," mumbled Izhar.

  Sidge listened for Janipur's steps, but stunned silence remained until they'd left through the kitchen door. They would never return here. Soon, he and Izhar may have nowhere to go. But at least Sidge would've done everything possible to make sure all of Stronghold knew he belonged under the Eternal Storm, in the clean, black halls of the Temple.

  CHAPTER XXII

  Sidge hobbled toward the vardo with Izhar. By Vasheru's grace, the Paint had stayed put. The back curtain hung open, and he tried to ignore the mess within. The stolen jug of thornsap sat in a sticky pool with the unfolded foil crumpled beneath. He was headed for the driver's bench, but he limped to the door with his awkward burden so he could snap the curtain shut.

  "Leave everything where it is," he told himself. Over and over, a new mantra, as he made his way to the front. "Climb up, Master," he said, placing Izhar's palms on the bench.

  "Up? Up! Into the Eternal Storm! Come to the firmament in a rain of fire, or dance in the sky between islands of stone."

  "Yes, whatever, just get …" Sidge knelt and grasped Izhar under his arms, "… onto the …" He stooped lower, four hands planted along his master's back and buttocks then beat his wings, "… bench!"

  A final heave, and the gray-cloaked Cloud Born thrashed onto the seat.

  Sidge breathed a sigh of relief and clambered up beside Izhar. He fought with the Cloud Born to sit him upright, and succeeded, but his master's body went limp. An outstretched arm kept Izhar from tumbling forward. The Paint pulled taut against the hitch.

  "Whoa," Sidge called, but the horse only twitched an ear and surged forward.

  The vardo rumbled onto the boulevard, bouncing over each timber in tiny hops which posed little threat except for Izhar's listless body. Wheels ground slowly at first. But the Paint, sensing the absence of his lazy companion, dug his hooves deeper with each step, eyes wild with freedom.

  Frantic, Sidge buried two hands into his master's robes and groped wildly for the reins. He found them with his feet and struggled to draw them in. Unable to slow the horse with a solid pull, he gave up holding Izhar and yanked on the cargo netting above. With his free hands, he began to knit Izhar's stole into the net.

  "Watch out!" Sidge shouted as they plowed into a market square. People scattered as the vardo lumbered into the crowd. Angry shouts followed as they cleared the far end.

  "Sorry," Sidge cried. He placed two palms together and half-bowed while his other two hands finished knotting Izhar's stole and his feet tugged awkwardly at the reins.

  Tied down, Izhar slumped against the cabin wall. Drool formed a slug-like trail in his beard. With each bump, his head sounded on the wood. Despite the jostling, the makeshift restraint appeared to be working, and Sidge scrambled to pass the reins into his lower palms. The Paint forged on.

  A man called from above, "You're going the wrong way!"

  Laughter cascaded from a second floor balcony and handfuls of silver Moonstriders dusted the street behind the wagon. "Follow the Moonstrider!" someone else called and raucous cheers rained down with more of the silver emblems.

  Sidge waved, his wings buzzing. Here, the streets were much too narrow to turn the wagon around. He flicked the reins, intent on circling back as soon as possible. The Paint eagerly interpreted this as a request for greater speed, and soon they were barreling down the street, carried along on a wave of jeers from storefronts and balconies.

  The street became a narrow alley, the Paint more reckless. Sidge tugged at the reins, but the stubborn horse barreled onward with a pent-up, wild energy he'd only seen once—on the descent into the valley. Careening around a corner, the alley broke to either side. Sidge thrashed the reins to the left and the Paint obeyed, foam flying from gritted teeth. As they skidded onto the adjacent street, he heard a crack and felt the vardo shudder.

  "Vasheru! Save us!" he screamed.

  Izhar's hand gripped his arm, and Sidge turned. He stared, astonished, into a trail of burning energy leaking from the Cloud Born's eye sockets and washing into the current of air around the speeding vardo.

  It was the thornsap. It had cooked Sidge's brain with its infernal heat. Or maybe he'd gotten puffcap on himself. He beat furiously at his robes with one hand, the others conducting the combined disaster of holding Izhar, the reins, the bench.

  His master began to chant.

  The tone was immediately recognizable. The same note infused the city and called to Sidge from deep within. Robbed him of restful nights and summoned a desire he could not fathom. He felt the song take hold and watched as his master turned his face into the wind.

  "Follow the call, Old Blood."

  Ribbons of light continued to streak from Izhar's face. Energy entwined the netting and crawled across the copper roof. Sidge felt the Kiss of Vasheru, and his antennae tingled in the thickening air. The hum became a chorus, a mantra of a thousand voices, and Sidge felt a moment of clarity he'd never before known. He understood everything, but could explain nothing. Nor could he fight the call any longer.

  This was no hallucination. This wasn't even a vision. It was more than either of those things.

  If they were to burst into the palace wreathed in this power, Izhar's place would be undeniable. Gohala's lazy claim, disputed. Sidge gripped the reins and flattened his wings, striking the Paint's rump with his foot.

  Faster they raced down the streets. At each turn, Sidge drank in the energy spilling from the well and Izhar's own mantra. The power led him on an invisible leash. He surrendered entirely; let the call be his master.

  The Paint's muscles rippled beneath thick hide. Each hoof striking the wooden causeway in one pulsing beat. Its eyes were wild and alive, relishing his chance to embrace his unbridled nature.

  Both guided and free, the vardo tore from the quiet streets and onto a main thoroughfare.

  Spectators lined this new promenade, waiting for the festivities to begin, with their eyes toward the way from the palace. Their heads whipped the other direction, and a gasp rolled through the crowd as the vardo roared by, streaming fingers of arcane power.

  "Make way!" Sidge cried. "Make way!"

  Ahead, a vibrant throng of festivalgoers celebrated in the streets. Like petals on a sudden breeze, they cleared amid Sidge's frantic screams and the thunder of hooves. At the center, a man with a lobed harp rolled to the side, cradling his instrument as the vardo narrowly missed him. His rug thrashed beneath the wheels and fluttered in the wake.

  Nearly trampling the man barely registered in Sidge's consciousness. His mind and every thought flooded with the call. The collision was both an event he knew would happen and which would never come to pass. In either case, the greater flow of the universe made the possibility inconsequential. Only the path mattered.

  "Yah!" Sidge cried, standing on the bench and whipping the reins. They barreled along the boulevard, their presence announced by the cacophonous grind of the vardo's axle and the Paint's drumming hooves.

  Far ahead, Sidge saw confused festivalgoers looking first to the sky for signs of a storm; then, feeling the street quake beneath their feet, seeking shelter against the buildings as the vardo exploded into view.

  Sidge rode triumphant atop the bench, his robes trailing behind him, white streaks of energy multiplied across the surface of his eyes. His hood tossed back, there was no hiding his Ek'kiru nature. Izhar bobbled along beside him, his burning eyes fixed straight ahead.

  Crowds parted in silent awe, the vardo too fast for them to gasp or shout. As they fanned apart, Sidge saw the street ahead ended at a railing. Empty space overlooking the canal several levels below.

  He should have been afraid, he knew, but fear could not penetrate the call.

  Splintered wood flew beneath the Paint's hooves.
The sturdy railing shattered and the vardo followed the mindless charge.

  Sidge urged the beast into the empty air. Izhar's beard flared and writhed. The air was not filled with the briny odor of drying fish, but the clean, crisp atmosphere of home.

  The vardo struck the water behind the horse and they stayed aloft, racing toward a brightly decorated barge. Shouts of surprise issued from a deck crammed with spectators, but the cries were cut short and left in the distance as the vardo wheeled aft of the slow-moving boat and plunged into the forest of pilings that held the city.

  Sidge felt Vasheru's Kiss tighten; his robes clung to his body, wet with the invisible force.

  Mighty trunks raced toward them at impossible speeds, but the wild-eyed Paint threaded between them. Arcane energy lapped at each piling they passed, and though his mind was not wholly his own, Sidge could see their stone surfaces melt into reddish browns under the eerie light. Branches sprung out, heavy with green needles, only to fade into darkness as the light died. Hooves thundered not on water but on sodden ground.

  Sidge felt the vardo slow and his focus return. Sides heaving, the Paint had dropped into a labored trot. Unable to see the city above, broad trees surrounded them and disappeared into the blackness of a solid canopy. Sidge marveled at the trees, the damp bed of needles which the vardo glided through, and the absolute silence. He took in everything, with no way to tell if what he was seeing was even real.

  "Master?"

  Izhar's hood had fallen across his face. The Cloud Born tried to sit forward but the entangled stole pulled him into the wall of the vardo. A growl issued from within his master's hood and hammered Sidge's antennae like the crash of an endless sea.

  He knew the suffocating presence beside him from the day in the vardo, when he'd tried to stop Izhar's channeling. He slid to the far end of the bench and planted his face against the wood. He attempted to toss his hood over his eyes, but the grasp of energy kept it plastered to his back.

  Remembered sensations of the blood of the cup filled his mouth. Warm, with a consistency of phlegm, he'd drunk at the Dragon's silent command. It sickened him that the sweet taste had been agreeable.

  He'd drink again if he were asked.

  He believed. In the Temple. The mantras. Vasheru.

  Mouth dry, he stammered, "What is your wish, oh Glorious Dragon, Cleanser of the Blasted Lands, Crafter of—"

  Another low growl. Izhar turned and the draconic visage of Vasheru stared back. He indicated the netting which Sidge had used to hold Izhar in place. Hurriedly, Sidge unbound the Dragon. Or the Dragon that was Izhar.

  When the webbing was cast aside, Vasheru closed his eyes and inhaled deeply of air damp with dirt and fallen needles. Sidge watched Izhar's chest expand, and nostrils, those of Vasheru, flare. He sat down cautiously, first finding the bench with his hands.

  "An apology for every day of the Timeless Age, Mighty Dragon." Sidge whispered. "You, Master Izhar rather, needed to be restrained."

  Vasheru laughed, low and deadly.

  Sidge sensed the Presence beside him. It dwarfed the vardo, even as it inhabited Izhar's stout form. He could feel the space where the massive body rose into a deep shadow under the twilight of the canopy. Vasheru raised a taloned finger and pointed deeper into the woods.

  Sidge clasped and unclasped his hands in supplication and fished the reins from beneath the bench. A gentle flick and the Paint lumbered forward.

  Light from the vardo bathed the area in an irregular circle. The enormous tree trunks were black and empty against a graying darkness.

  Sidge barely watched the path ahead, letting the Paint wind its way among trees many lengths wider than the vardo. He felt alive, awake. So real and lifelike, he began to doubt any hallucination could bring these sensations about. He'd heard of visions and even dreams as well from acolytes and Cloud Born, but they always sounded so insubstantial, like smoke from a bundle of incense—full of rich fragrance but easy to disperse.

  Here was different. Sidge was sure if he stuck out a hand, he'd feel the trees or if he jumped off the bench, be able to burrow his feet in the carpet of needles. Smells and sounds were distinct.

  Izhar's hood had slithered back and there was the Cloud Born's face, his beard now strangely overtaken by the silver streak. His master had again fallen into a trance, no sign of the deity inside. Any trace of Vasheru's Kiss had left them. The forest remained dark. But ahead, Sidge could see a cold light seeping around the black trunks of the trees.

  "Master?"

  Izhar's eyes maintained their distant look.

  Sidge strained to see the source of the light. He stopped the exhausted Paint and with a final look at Izhar, he took to the air.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  Sidge flew toward the light in the forest. Bright and silver, the glow provided a perfect beacon under a canopy through which neither sun nor star could navigate. As he grew closer, he could see an area lit around the base of a tree. The hue cast was lifeless, like the colors had been painted long ago and left to gradually fade. Sidge flattened his wings and glided to a branch overlooking the tree.

  A man's form marred the cold brightness. He held the source of the light in front of him, creating a pillar of shadow which fanned out into the darkness. With the light so close, the man's body was almost featureless, yet Sidge recognized the overly broad form as Chuman.

  Chuman was clad only in a bundle of red cloth bound around his hips. Ash or white paint coated his skin, reflecting the eerie light. He held what appeared to be an empty vial in his hands, and though no light issued from within the vial, Sidge was certain it was the source of the illumination.

  Sidge swooped toward him. "What are you doing here?"

  Muddy eyes, pits in the light, watched him. "I have seen you before."

  "Of course you have. We traveled together for several days, and you left us for Gohala." Sidge couldn't hide his displeasure.

  "You are one of Sli'mir's brood. Why are you here?"

  While the giant's eyes were as dead as always, his voice was not. For the first time, Sidge felt he was speaking to a man and not a particularly verbose rock. It was unfortunate he'd immediately steered toward insults.

  "Sli'mir's brood? I am not a barbarian. In fact, we were the ones who gave you our robes after we found you wandering, naked in the wild. I am civilized, even more than most Ek'kiru."

  Chuman considered this and shook his head. "Whatever you are, you should go. The ritual is about to begin."

  "What ritual?"

  "The one I start now."

  When Chuman opened his mouth next the sounds were an unintelligible chant. These were not the droning incantations of the Wisdom. These were the low, unceasing calls of that which lay deep below the surface of all things. Sounds which had slurred thick on Izhar's lips. The powerful mantra filled the forest and Sidge heard it taken up beyond the trees.

  He launched into the canopy. As he wove higher into the branches, the mantra did not fade. Up he flew, until the pale light of the ritual became needled darkness and the chant persisted.

  Twilight smoldered in the sky above the canopy. Stars appeared along the undulating ridge of the valley, trapped close to the ground in a semi-circle.

  The ridge was where the continued mantra rose from. Others were gathered there, surrounding the valley, calling out in the mantras of a deep, forgotten time. The broken line to the east of the half-circle of lights marked the ocean. There lay nothing but a dark line where the moon rested on the waters, made whole by its reflection.

  A faded roar rose from the ocean. For a moment, the sounds melded together as one note, but the rushing sound overtook the chant. A gust of salted breeze tickled Sidge's antennae. The ocean horizon rose, higher than the ridge of the valley, and the roar became an earthshaking concussion which bowed the ancient trees.

  The ocean had come alive and the entire valley would soon be consumed.

  A shout died on Sidge's mouth. He darted into the trees, plummeting toward the fore
st floor. The vardo, Master Izhar, he had to find him.

  Branches groaned and snapped around him. Several times, the stubby limbs threatened to lace him in, but he skirted between them, snagging and ripping his robe.

  "Master!" Sidge cried as he neared the ground. In the distance, the angry whinny of the Paint rose above the roar. Trees bent, their tortured cries filling the air with splinters and the perfumed musk of their sap. He skimmed past where Chuman remained, lost in his mantra. A swirling, golden fog drew into the container held in his hands.

  The trees continued to bend at impossible angles. They bowed to the earth like supplicants, all twisted toward the tree bound in light, which remained tall and rigid. Needles on the ground danced and then scattered as Sidge skimmed by.

  He heard the Paint snort wildly. "I'm coming, damn you! Don't you dare bolt! Don't you bolt!" Sidge yelled.

  He skidded around a tree, the vardo in sight, as the ground buckled upward to meet him. Exposed roots hooked his robes and he tumbled across the forest floor. Covered in damp dirt and needles, he tried to roll to his feet, and his eyes caught the edge of a horse's flailing hoof. He threw himself to the side and the Paint's hoof swatted his antennae as its forelegs came crashing to the ground.

  "Whoa! By Vasheru's Light, whoa!"

  The Paint reared against the hitching shaft again, and the vardo tilted. Sidge saw Izhar flailing in the driver's bench where he'd become further entangled in the netting, his robes pulled above his head.

  "Sidge? Is that you? My bed! It tries to devour me! Sidge!"

  "Master, hold on!" Launching to the bench, he groped for the reins and planted himself in the only place he could—on top of Izhar.

  Laughter clinging to the edge of sanity came from within Izhar's robes. "Is this my fate? Eaten by sleep? Sleeping in the maw of a transmogrified beast?"

  Ignoring the drugged cries, Sidge pressed down, pinning Izhar amid more protests. "A thousand apologies, Master!"

  Again, the Paint reared and he slapped the reins with a shout. They surged forward and, throwing his body into the turn, Sidge steered the terrified beast in the opposite direction.