You have grown, little one.
We have.
The sky darkened suddenly, so severe that the only thing he could see was two red eyes burning into him and the dots of her tails. A ring of fire formed when she spun them in a circle, hypnotising to watch.
What is happening?
The other kind of death is not death as you know it. Even in this realm, without real speech spoken between them, her voice caressed him like a delicate breeze in the desert. You would still be aware of yourself, in a sense. But you would not be you.
Ziko thought of the Shiki, shuddering as he remembered when its consciousness had brushed his. I would be all things at once.
Yes.
He stepped towards the lights dancing in front of him. She was still formless but it did not matter. Ziko knew how she was supposed to look, and as long as he held onto that image, it remained a truth. For here truth was what he deemed it to be.
I have been that before. What his father wanted. What the army wanted. What society and the church and the entire world wanted. I will not lose that again.
How could he, when he had found her again?
The ground rumbled beneath his feet, beginning as a weak tremor that built and built into a crashing crescendo. Ziko scrambled to find purchase, his feet slipping and sliding against a surface no longer obeying the laws of the natural world. No matter how much he pictured a solid earth and a straight line of horizon it would not right itself, dancing across a floor he could neither see nor feel. Then he was falling, hurtling towards an unknown end. All was still pitch black, his vision gone. All of his senses were muted, the smells and sensations of this strange realm severed at once.
Niks! Niks, where are you?
Keep your head. You will need it if you wish to leave here.
Ziko tumbled and tumbled, sick and dizzy with the speed at which he fell. Without any real sensation he could not orient himself and that made everything worse. He longed for something – anything – to give himself a sense of place. To remind him that he was human and not just a bundle of thoughts crashing for an eternity. Time did not exist in this realm as he understood it. He could fall and fall and fall and never reach the bottom of the abyss into which he had stumbled.
Rift-breaker. In the beginning – in his beginning – he had earned the name Rift-breaker. It was a name born on the storm, for he was Ziko Rift-breaker, the last of the Storm Lords of times long past, and he knew how to fight back. So pictured it; the heady warmth that built and built until the sweltering heat became too much. He pictured the roiling sky and the ensuing eruption. The knife slice of the lightning parting the sky and the defiant roar of the thunder cracking across the horizon. Concentrating on the electricity searing through his veins, he remembered what it felt like to summon it to his fingers. The scent of it filled his lungs.
If he had possessed hands in this realm he would have slammed them together. With a cry, he called the storm down to his leash. A white light carved up the darkness, blinding him; revealing what had once been obscured. The raw power struck him all at once, filling him with so much crackling energy he thought he might explode. It spilled from him in wisps of pure white, drifting out across a landscape barren and strange.
He only knew one thing. I must get out of here. The Freelands they may have been known as, but they would only bind him down if he stayed.
At first he did not know what he was looking for, spinning around to look for the source of that dark, toxic current of energy hitting against him like the waves of blood that had crashed over him and Niks before. Then he turned and a thousand eyes blinked back at him from the strange, undulating levels of smoke in shades of every colour, so faded they all blended into one. It could have been one solitary creature. It could have been a thousand. All Ziko knew was that it wanted him to take him apart and rebuild the pieces of him into itself, until he was no longer himself but just another pair of eyes in the sky. Its oppressive aura pressed down upon him from all sides, so potent the lightning in his veins flickered, threatening to escape.
For Ziko it was the beast standing between him and his way out of the otherworld, back to the realm of men. In order to return home he had to be like Herdan and slay the beast. That meant swallowing the fear that sank into him, as natural as breathing in this realm. In the Freelands, existence was fear.
Fight me at your peril! Ziko would bow no more. Come on, then!
The eyes stopped blinking. Everywhere he turned they stared at him from every angle; huge, red, and bulging. A noise stirred somewhere in the distance, the soft sigh of sand dancing in the wind, growing louder and louder until it was all he could hear. The world around him shifted, turning, and he realised with a dawning horror that he wasn’t facing the creature. He was standing upon it. For everything was it – from the sky to the ground to the spiny, leafless trees sprouting from the floor like skeletal hands. Like they wanted to pull him to the Netherworld.
The ground split open and he became a victim to gravity once more, tumbling down a sheer drop towards the swirling volcano of the creature’s gaping mouth. Ziko pawed at the floor but he had no hands to grip with. Unable to slow his descent, he hurtled towards it faster and faster, as if his panicking mind was the one controlling the pace. The quicker he fell, the more his thoughts spooled out in front of him, flapping around uselessly. Niks! Yelling desperately, he crashed into the hole.
All went black once more. Ziko drifted through a substance much like the blood water, viscous and gloopy, carrying him on a gentle tide. The shock of it made it hard to think, as if his thoughts had to slog through the same gloop as he in order to reach him. So he drifted through a sea of memories. They were not his memories, or rather, not entirely his. For between the glimpses of his father, worn face distorted into something alien and unreal, and the weight of the first gun he had ever held in his hand, shaking and damp and unable to pull the trigger, there were flashes of pure unbridled terror. Of being caught by something bigger, stronger. Of being snapped up and swallowed whole. Of fading slowly. Unravelling like one solitary thread picked loose, until he couldn’t remember his name.
Was he not the great lord of this realm, growing stronger with every enemy he destroyed? Soon he would no longer need to feel disintegration. Soon he would be so strong that all would quiver in his wake. Soon he would devour them all and make himself a king.
Rift-breaker.
The word meant something but he struggled to reach the conclusion through the swamp into which he sank. Remember. It was important he remember. Not his father. Not the shock that came with seeing that familiar face loom larger than life before him, his grimace spinning into a vortex that sucked him towards it. Ziko buried his hands in the sand. Sand he knew. Sand he understood. Something made up of a collection of other things. Mutable. Fluid. It matched the constant stream of time; a reminder that every single thing in his world must eventually come to an end. Even suffering, even for a Seeker, there was an end. Here and now.
The lightning was still burning inside of him. It crackled and hummed, brought to life by the sheer force of his thoughts alone. He thought it might consume him entirely, so easy was it to let the feeling wash over him, fiery and frenetic, bouncing around inside him like it wanted to break free. But in this realm, between the dream and the nightmare, Ziko was not constrained by the prison of his flesh.
Rift-breaker!
The voice belonged to Niks.
Devour, devour, devour.
The creature’s consciousness was powerful. Overwhelming. Impossible to escape.
Only the concept of impossibility did not exist in a world where the only limitation was his imagination. With all the intent a lost soul once found could muster, Ziko cast out the storm inside. It burst open, energy ripping from him in a blast so powerful it knocked him over with excruciating pain. Writhing, Ziko slipped in and out of conscious, his self shattering into pieces with the agony. Still the storm siphoned through him. It seared his insides, turning him into n
othing but raw, scalded feeling.
Rift-breaker.
I am Ziko-Breaker, the last Storm Lord. I am Ziko-Breaker, the last Storm Lord. I am Ziko-Breaker, the last Storm Lord. I am Ziko-Breaker, the last Storm Lord. I am Ziko-Breaker, the last Storm Lord. I am Ziko-Breaker, the last Storm Lord.
I AM ZIKO RIFT-BREAKER, THE LAST STORM LORD!
Screaming out, the lighting sparked into blinding light so bright he lost vision once more. The smell of burning permeated the air, smoke rising. Ziko held fast onto his mantra, chanting it over and over and over until it was the only thing he knew. That, and the pure white all around him.
It started with the first breath of wind against his face, refreshing. Hands reached for his face and touched the soft skin beneath the pads of his fingertips, tracing over curves of cheekbones, the hollows of eye sockets, and the squishy flesh of a nose. The charred smell still followed, stronger now that it was carrying on the breeze. He could hear it rustle the trees, the same song as sang by the waves of the ocean, and the dunes of the desert. Niks’ song. His song.
Ziko blinked awake to a blue, blue sky, feeling pain spread all through his limbs, joints clicking in protest as he jerked out of instinct. His hands flopped out to steady himself, fingers burying into the springy grass and damp soil beneath. A rumble started up from inside him, the same deep growl as the thunder announcing a tempest. He was hungry. Starving. His belly barked in protest of his neglect. For only the Pillars knew how long he had traversed the strange nightmarish realm of the otherworld, trapped by the spirits that wished to devour him whole, leaving behind his physical body to perish.
Ziko sat up, swaying with the rush of blood to the head. Gazing upon the swirling lights that marked the rift, he realised he had won. The smile spread across his face like rays of the sun breaking over the arch of the rift gate, warm against his face. Perched atop it, silhouetted against the light, was the familiar figure of Niks Kataema, her front paws hanging over the stone as her tails swished. He could feel her presence singing in the back of his mind, feel the air current twist when he twitched his finger, a small gust stirring up his hair and clothes. Ziko shivered, breathing his first breaths of fresh air into brand new lungs.
“We did it.”
Niks leapt down and landed on the grass, padding towards him. “We are united once more, Rift-breaker.”
Ziko stumbled on legs he could barely remember how to use, wobbling like a newly born fawn. For that was what he was; reborn, rebirthed into a world anew. The Pillars had tested him and they had found him worthy. They had granted him a second chance at life.
And this time Ziko would live.
*
“The storms won’t stop coming, it seems.”
Kilai looked to the dark clouds tumbling across the sky and then back to Captain Kallan. “Yes, it would seem so.”
“It’s quite unusual for them to come on so suddenly. Normally there is some warning.”
“Yes,” Kilai echoed, as she had throughout their conversation since returning to the ship. She had been able to switch out her sodden clothes for dry ones, at the very least. But she grew impatient, watching the storm roll in from the distance, black waves already churning down below. The rock and sway was becoming something of a companion, her footing steadier than it had been the first time the storm had hit them, not long after departing from Tsellyr’s harbour.
“It is a sign of these times. We must brace ourselves if we are to survive.”
“Yes.”
Kallan glanced at her out the corner of her eye, the lantern light outlining her profile in amber. “You have questions, I can tell.”
“Are you surprised?”
“No. I would be surprised if you didn’t.”
The wind picked up, rattling the sails overhead. Orders were shouted from crewmember to crewmember, preparing for the black horizon looming over them. A sharp gust whipped her red hair into a frenzy and she wrestled it back into some kind of order, scraping it up atop her head in a knot. Considering what a bad storm could mean for the ship, Kallan was unnaturally calm, poised atop the quarterdeck with her hands crossed behind her back like they were riding into a pleasant high season breeze and not an ominous knot of black clouds that threatened to burst at any moment.
“What is happening? What are you involved in, Kallan-all?”
“You must have some inkling. I could see you following our conversations.”
“The shipments were weapons, weren’t they?” It would explain the weight. The secrecy. The furtive glances around the soldiers in Tsellyr and the willingness to take on extra hands.
“Indeed.”
“You are arming towns along the coastline of this island because you hope to – well, I’m not quite sure what it is you attempt but I sense it is not something any of us should be involved in.”
Kallan’s lips twitched. “You are right on one account, Kilai-wei. But we are not only arming the communities along the coast. There are networks within that ensure the weapons we ship are transported inland to reach other groups within our ranks.” She turned, tilting her head as her eyes swept up and down Kilai’s form. “For I do believe it is something we should all be very much involved in.”
“And the vial? What is the nature of that substance?”
“I cannot say for certain. My intention is to take it for testing.”
The ship lurched, Kilai overbalancing and crashing into Kallan who remained as steadfast as a statue planted into the wood. Flushing, she apologised as she righted herself once more, bouncing with the churning waves crashing against the ship. Shifting her weight from foot to foot to accommodate the rise and fall, she wiped at the sea spray drying sticky on her skin and stared at the captain.
“But you must have some idea, surely?”
Kallan huffed, taking a step back just as a colossal wave crashed against the bow, water spilling out across the deck. Kilai grimaced as she picked her wet boots out of the puddle and shook them out. She had only just managed to dry herself out but it appeared the storm would not be letting up for her this night.
“You are certainly picking an opportune moment for this conversation.”
“I cannot help it,” she said. “I never seem to get any answers.”
“Stick with us and then you will see.”
Kallan turned and bellowed out commands to the crew, men running around to get the storm sails unfurled in time. From what had been a blank sky a mere hour before, it now looked as if ink had been spilled across it, dripping down into the black sea. The tempest had crept upon them so swiftly that none of them had been prepared, now crashing into one another to ensure the ship’s survival.
Just as the first drop of rain splattered against her forehead, Kilai gazed up into a turgid sky and bit her lip. From one drop came a thousand more, pouring down in a torrent of icy needles against her clammy skin. Soon she was soaked through and shivering, splashing through the streaming deck to help the crew as best as she could. Jorkell was so much stronger, and she gritted her teeth as she used all of her meagre power to pull on the rope with her, her hands burning when it scraped against the skin of her palms.
“Kilai!” she heard over the roar of the wind. “Help me with this!”
Wiping away the hair clinging to her face, she peered through the rain to see Yejah waving her towards the door downwards. Relishing a chance to get out of the rain, Kilai raced after her, picking up the other side of the crate so they could lull it downstairs like a pair of drunkards. The insides rattled and clanged as they carried it down to the storage room beneath and deposited it with a hefty sigh. Rubbing at her arms, Kilai made to slump against it when the whole ship jerked and caused her to fall over the side, pain cracking up her elbow when she landed on it and rolled, smacking her shoulder against something behind her.
“Are you all right?” Yejah peered down at her, her long hair two wet curtains framing worried eyes.
Kilai took the proffered hand, wincing in pain. “I think so.” She
would surely bruise tomorrow. If she saw tomorrow at all. “This is even worse than last time.”
Yejah grasped her as the floor slid out from beneath them again, the pair of them stumbling and collapsing in a heap. Water sloshed through the gaps in the slats above them, dribbling down upon her head with fat drops so cold against her skin she froze for several moments, unable to think. As she massaged feeling back into her temples, the fear began to set in. With the ship rocking so severely she couldn’t even get to her feet, she was questioning why she had thought this some big grand adventure at all. This was the truth of chasing the unseen, it seemed. Sometimes the unseen sneaked up on you and hit you hard when you weren’t looking.
Suddenly there was a sharper jerk, Kilai flopping out on the ground with a grunt. A crunching noise followed, her vision lurching to one side as crates and barrels tumbled with the shift in gravity. Rolling out of the way as quickly as she could, she was not fast enough to avoid a barrel catching on her ankle and she cried out in pain, wrenching it free of the offending item to crawl to safety behind a more stable stack of crates that had been tied down properly. Another cry pierced through the clattering and crash of the ship and she peeked out to see Yejah knocked over by a bouncing barrel, the wood splintering in a cloud of dust and fragments.
“Yejah!” Wriggling out of her hiding spot, she grabbed the woman beneath the armpits and hauled her to safety behind the stack, panting heavily. “Are you okay?”
Yejah blinked up at her, eyes swivelling a few rotations before they found her again. “I think I’m all right.” She struggled to sit up, face contorting. “Oh, that hurts.”
Shouts sounded from above, loud enough to be heard over the howling wind. She glanced up, footsteps thudding against the wood. Another crash had her catching herself on the stack of crates, fingers slipping on the wet surface
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