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ORIGINAL DRAFT - PRE-EDITING

This story was written as part of the 2016 National Novel Writing Month. It was written without edits between 12:01am, November 1st and 11:59pm, November 30th.

This story was written by David J Rust, aka Sylvan Scott, and is in a pre-edited state. The characters, situations, and concepts herein are property of the author and may not be distributed or altered without express, written permission.

Skylands: the Scorpion Spear, Part Two - "Talvali", Chapter Eleven: Shadow Of A Billion Worlds

©2016 Sylvan Scott

Part Two

"Talvali"

Giants, in the literal sense, walked amongst them. There were many types of living things in this world. Most had been pulled along with lightland islands and, if lucky, managed to migrate to others via ship or their own power. A few possessed innate ties to the magic web that arcanists drew from: the arcana majiere. Most possessed a wide range of traits even without augmentation. Some were transformed by storm dragons upon arrival while others were not. Many theories as to the reasons had been proposed but none proven. As such, among the thousands of lightlands, cloudlands, daylands, and so on, there were millions--if not billions upon billions--of living creatures from any number of diverse biomes. Of these, caribou were a known type of animal.

There was a resemblance to the beasts of which the dagdarra seemed acutely aware.

But, like the terrmorah (who resembled aurochs or bulls), kitsune (who resembled the fox), and both pegasai and zeryn (each loosely resembling equines), the actual relationship was fairly cosmetic. Unlike calling a thaylene "mouse" or "rat", calling a dagarra, "caribou" was not considered an insult. Rather, the giants tended herds of caribou across their frozen continent and tended to them when they were sick or dying.

They even gathered shed fur of the arctic herd animals to be woven into clothes or used in bedding.

Right now, Onid packed handfuls of the coarse material against the side of Keerg's head as a makeshift bandage. His bleeding had stopped but she insisted upon cleaning the wound--and in so doing, opening it up, again--before binding it closed with fresh wrapping.

He seemed delirious, despite her ministrations. In a rasping, strained voice, he kept calling for his sister.

He was dragged on one of three stretchers. Marek had insisted they take Cyan back for proper burial and Onid said the same about the other dagdarra who had fallen against the ramessin. She aided Marek in crafting the frames from scraggly brush, what belongings they had carried, and the skyship's lifeboat.

She kept an eye on Marek, however. Although towering over him by half, her wariness of the wolfen was clear. Her brother offered to help but Onid shook her head, telling him to sit and rest and contemplate the "almara mark" on his head. He argued for only a short time before she prevailed. He returned to watch over the scrawny, bound ramessin with less fire and more dull resignation in his eyes.

The weight of the three dagdarra, added to that of a jessai'id, was considerable. Keerg made it even more onerous to drag. Even with the air crystals in the lifeboat's hull, it was an unwieldy process. Therefore, after they had crafted their makeshift stretchers, they were forced to untie Rith and insist he help drag the others. Despite having opportunity, he did not try to escape. Rather, he showed deference to the others amidst much bowing and scraping.

A skittish sort, he kept looking from the giant dagdarra to the shades-of-grey wolfen to both the gryphon and jessai'id. It was clear, though he spoke little, he was curious and invested in finding out more about his strange surroundings. As they drew nearer to the saltmarsh edge where The Seeker had crashed, all three newcomers gazed at the emerging scene in the sky. Beyond the edge of Saeldrin, drifted thin, wispy clouds against a sky that dropped away into darker hues. Several lightlands drifted in the distance, slightly higher than the chunk of dagdarra continent that had come through in the storm. Rith eyed them and kept shaking his head, muttering under his breath, nervously.

Onid's eyes kept flitting to the black patch of fur on the ramessin's forehead: identical to that Balmyrra had possessed and, apparently, passed on to Oben.

The landscape was harsh yet beautiful. The storm which had raged for a week, or more, had dropped huge piles of snow. In some places, it was six or seven feet deep. Some of the trees, those that still stood, had been coated in ice. They sparkled in the few rays of sun that broke through the still-swirling clouds, all the way to the horizon. Three of the four moons were in the sky, rising in the east as Mashurotef, westered. Their combined, purple hue was gradually growing to encompass the land. Oben and Onid looked at that horizon, saying nothing despite its alien nature.

Marek ignored the view. All he cared for was the task at hand. He strained and pulled along with the others. Eventually, Onid addressed him. He did not initially seem to hear her and had to be prompted, again.

"You, sir; you are not ... ramessin?"

"No," he replied. "I am wolfen; at least that's the word for my people in the trade tongue. Everyone calls us that." He grunted and shifted the weight of the heavy rope over one shoulder that connected to the lifeboat and jury-rigged stretchers. "Even that's not all, though. I belong to a sub-group of wolfen called the Arven. Larger. Grey-furred. More omnivorous."

She paused as if considering his answer. "So, there are no ramessin here? Nowhere beyond our land's edge?"

He shook his head. "Not that I've ever heard of. I suppose there could have been other chunks of your world pulled through in supplemental storms, but the main one was so big, I didn't see any. I'm thinking the only ramessin are those you brought with you."

"Good."

Both Marek and Onid looked at Rith, curiously. It was the only unprompted word he had spoken to any of them since tying him up.

"That symbol on your forehead," Marek said, "what is it? What does it mean?"

Oben turned his gaze to the ramessin. His eyes narrowed. "It is the sign of a blessed dagdarra: returned from death with knowledge and insight to lead the next generation. Only the true heroes of our people are honored by the goddess that way."

Rith looked at Oben with skepticism on his face. However, he said nothing.

"Reincarnation?" Marek asked.

Onid nodded. "For some. Only the most wise; the bravest. But the almara's is not a symbol that one acquires over time. It is always gained at birth." She looked at her brother with a brief expression of concern.

"I don't know what happened," Oben said. He rubbed a single, thick finger against his forehead as if his newly-grown symbol, itched. "But I don't feel very good. Dizzy. And, there's ... sounds."

"Sounds, everywhere," Rith said.

"A-hoy!" Bennet, from the top of the gangplank, waved across the snowy, frozen marsh.

"Is that ... a giant mouse?" Onid asked.

Marek winced. "Never call a thaylene, that. It's ... insulting."

She nodded.

They made their way to the base of the gangplank. Bennet, now joined by Reita with her wings in splints, covered his mouth in stunned shock.. Both could see the grim cargo the others had brought.

"Lady Cyan!" The thaylene bolted down to join them.

"It's too late, Bennet; I'm sorry..."

Reita ran to her brother and took Keerg's hand in hers. "What happened?"

"A god," Onid said. "A dark god and a hunt."

Both the thaylene and the gryphon responded as if seeing the dagdarra, clearly, for the first time. Reita stepped back, warily, but did not release her brother's hands. He moaned and blinked, muttering through his heavy beak.

Bennet, to the contrary, stepped forward. "And who are you?" he demanded.

"These are Onid and Oben; they are dagdarra. It was they who were being attacked by white wolfen."

The thaylene raised a brow. "A band of albinoes?" He glanced, sidelong, at Rith.

Marek shook his head. "It's a long story. Help us get Keerg aboard. He needs medicine."

"But ... but what of Cyan? And this other ... other..."

"Dagdarra," Onid finished for Reita.

"The ship is small."

"They deserve proper burial," Marek said. "We'll make due."

Bennet looked once again at Cyan's lifeless form and bowed his head. He said a quiet prayer and nodded for Marek to continue. "I'll ready what remains of our bandages and ungents." He paused halfway up the gangplank. "But you should know, I don't think The Seeker is going anywhere."

As carefully as they could, they brought Keerg into the hold where Bennet had been treating Reita. Then, the others worked together to slowly pull the three giant-sized bodies upon deck. It was grim work made all the worse by being in the company of strangers.

When they were done, all the crew went below deck. For Oben and Onid, it was a difficult squeeze, but the managed it: even with their large, expansive antlers and heavy, curved horns. Marek tied Rith, by both wrists, to the center deck support. The ramessin did not resist.

Onid offered to help Bennet with Keerg's injuries but, upon close inspection, she admitted failure.

"I've never seen a creature like this, before."

"A gryphon," Marek clarified.

"It seems both feline--like a leopard or nackt--as well as bird. Is it a curse? How ... is it possible?"

"Many things are possible in Talvali," Marek said. He paused, looking from Bennet to Keerg. "Think of it like this: there are many worlds. Each of these worlds is complete, in and of itself. And, every now and then, pieces are pulled from them into the skies over this world." He shook his head. "This is done by giant beasts called 'storm dragons'.

"Here--when those chunks of worlds arrive--some things get changed. The breath of those dragons changes things that don't seem to belong, here, into something more ... native. No one knows exactly why, but it's been this way--well--forever. Thousands of years if not billions."

Onid snorted. She looked a bit confused, although Marek had not yet deciphered her body language and facial expressions. "Why use such ridiculous terms? Things--years--do not number in such amounts."

"They do," he assured her. "At least, here." Marek shrugged. "Most of the worlds that end up in our skies have a few things in common, though. Some consider them fairly alien but, in my eyes, they're not all that different. I was once told by a raider ship's priest that most newcomers' word for their homeland is 'rock' or 'earth'. A few use other words but, in the end, one of our common things is that we name our worlds after the soil beneath our feet."

Oben looked with suspicious eyes at Marek. "How is it, then, that we speak the same tongue?"

"We don't. It was a spell--a gift--by Cyan," Marek said. A tear stung the corner of his eye. "I don't know how long it will last, but until it fades, we'll be able to communicate."

"Midnight," Reita interjected. "Her patron derros' blessings always expire at midnight."

"Then we'll have to work on a means to communicate, after that point.. Once her ritual goes silent, we'll be back to being mostly strangers."

"I may be able to help with that," Bennet said. "But I'd need to see some examples of their writing." He glanced up at the looming giants. "Can you show me some; tell me what the words mean?"

Oben shook his head.

"My brother cannot read," Onid said. "But I have full mastery of the ancient runes. Will that suffice?"

"I think so, yes." Bennet nodded. "As soon as you can, then. Although, we may have more immediate concerns." He patted the hull with one, small hand.

Marek turned to Reita. "Bennet's right. The Seeker's nowhere near sky-worthy. It'll never take off, let alone pierce this island's Slip. Is it repairable?"

She shook her head. Her eyes never left her brother as she answered. "Not without Lady Cyan, no. She had ... great powers. I know how to swing a hammer and make basic repairs. But going through the dragon storm: it did more damage than I can repair."

"Plus," Bennet added, "you will not be swinging any hammers or doing any heavy lifting until your wings and shoulders have mended." He peered closely at Keerg's wounds and finished stitching the last of them, closed. "There are rites of healing--I've seen my share--but to rush it with arcane power is to risk causing even greater injury. Bodies heal as bodies heal. It is best to treat injury quickly but, then, back away to let nature take its course."

"We don't have time for that," Onid said.

"What do you mean?" Marek asked.

"That darkness; the thing that claimed the name 'B?nor'. It was a false god but still a powerful being, nonetheless. I could feel it. It meant us nothing but malice." She indicated her brother with one of her curious, two-fingered and two-thumbed hands. "The darkness addressed us as its chosen champions, as if the dagdarra's worship of B?nor would transfer to any creature speaking her name."

"What are you talking about," Reita asked.

"Nephillus," Marek said, spitting on the floor. "I know it sounds mad but that's what it felt like; that's what it was."

"That's insane."

"Maybe. Probably. But even if I'm wrong, whatever it was, it said that it had been responsible for bringing the dagdarra, here ... not the storm dragons." Marek looked at Onid and Oben for help. "It said something about worshippers of death."

"All dagdarra lives come and go by the will of B?nor," Oben said. "The goddess, the one and true goddess, leads us. We are born, we are hunted, and we die. All enter her embrace at the end. It's the nature of life." He scowled. "The ramessin believe in false gods but, no matter what they say, we all follow B?nor's will."

"B?nor began as architect, building the underpinnings of creation," Onid explained. "Then, when the ground and sky were done, she gave birth to all life as the mother of everything. Today, those great cycles are behind her. As all things progress and move on their own, she has donned her final face and become the ending. As everything began in darkness, so shall it end. She leads each of us to our ends. Finally, time will run out and creation shall return it to nothingness. And in that void, all shall sleep and dream, eternally: at peace."

Marek suppressed a shudder.

It was as dark a theology as any he had ever heard. Part of him wondered if this was how they justified life as a prey species. A much larger part wondered how much of dagdarra theology was real and what role B?nor had played in their world's coming here. He had seen far too much of magic not to believe the dagdarra tale, but he knew enough to take it with more than just a grain of salt.

He cleared his throat. "But the white wolfen ... the ramessin; they bargained with it."

"They did?" Reita asked.

Bennet looked up, as well. "What did they say?"

"That they would serve if the dagdarra wouldn't," Marek said, simply. "And, honestly, I don't know what gave me more shivers: that they would offer themselves to a column of living darkness or that it would have a use for them."

"We could not accept," Oben said. "That thing was not B?nor."

"I'm not saying what you did was wrong," Marek said. "But in a flash, he took them; all of them." He turned to face Rith. "All but one."

"I'm not involved." Rith slowly raised his head. "I want nothing of this."

"I'm afraid that's irellevant," Bennet said. "You clearly are the one curious piece left out of this puzzle. How do you fit in, I wonder?"

The ramessin squirmed and looked away. "I don't know. Tephen; I don't know him half as well as I thought." He sighed. "I don't know myself half as well as I thought."

"I don't think knowing yourself is the issue, here," Marek said. "That thing, whatever it was, took all the ramessin but left you behind. Why?"

Rith looked up. He shivered as he glanced from one set of accusing eyes to another. He shook his head. "I don't know... I ... I heard it; I could tell it was there, waiting behind the storm. But ... I had no idea what it was going to do..."

Marek exchanged a glance with Reita and Bennet. He intended his look to convey a dawning thought that the ramessin might be insane. But, as he thought about it, each of the people in The Seeker's hold had experienced something that those not in their company could call "mad". Perhaps Rith had been pushed a bit farther than the rest, but he also might not be crazy.

"It's okay," Marek eventually said with a sigh. "You don't have to have all the answers; right now, we need to figure out--"

"He didn't speak for me."

Marek looked surprised at the quiet interruption. He cocked his head at Rith. "Come again?"

The small wolf looked up. "Tephen: he didn't speak for me." He looked around as if to see if any of the others understood what he meant. After a moment, he looked down at his feet and continued. "Tephen was the leader of the Iron Patrols. It was his place to make deals. But I wasn't part of the patrols. At best, I was their ... captive."

Bennet nodded. "There are tales of devils and other infernal beings who have no power over one with a soul unless that soul grants them explicit access to them."

"That's as good an explanation as any," Marek said.

"The question is, how do we find them?" Onid asked.

The others all looked at her.

"What do you mean," Marek asked. "Why would we want to find them? They made their bargain: let them deal with it."

The dagdarra frowned. "That the darkness took the ramessin instead of us is less important than the fact we are here in the first place." She set her jaw and grimaced. "If it, indeed, brought us here, it was for a reason. This 'scorpion spear' it mentioned. What is it?"

Marek looked to Bennet who shrugged.

"What I mean is, would any of us trust that being with success in its plans?"

Reita nodded, slowly. Marek saw it and shook his head.

"No; no, we can't. We're not priests; not mercenaries or heroes. We'd be killed!"

"And you think that, should the ramessin and their shadow, succeed, that we'll fare much better?" Oben asked.

"We're not having this discussion," Marek said. "Not here; not now."

"When, then?" Onid asked.

"I don't know," he replied, "but preferably after we've figured out how we're not going to die of exposure and, maybe, get off this frozen rock!" He ended with more of a shout than he had intended but it drove his point home.

The others, one by one, nodded.

"He's right," Bennet said. "Our first priority is survival." He glanced down at Keerg. Unconscious, the gryphon twitched every few moments, as if still in pain. "We need a bone-cutter; a healer, at the very least. And fast."

But there was none. Marek knew first aid. It was a skill he used every other day when on the trails or in the wilderness. Here, however, they were out of luck.

Onid set her jaw. "I know some rites; rituals of cleansing and mending. I do not know if they would work on a non-dagdarra, but I could try."

Bennet looked dubious but Reita stood, emphatically. "Then do it. Take any risk you think you need to take to save my brother."

"I ... I still don't know if I should," Onid said. "My trainer, my tutor, was always saying I was being too forceful with the ways of--"

"I wouldn't spare two shits for the opinion of someone not here, not alive, and not related to Keerg," Reita snapped. "The question is, can you do it?"

Onid frowned, deeply. She half rose, but her antlers threatened to strike the ceiling of the hold, so she settled for a half-crouch. "I can try," she said. "But what I want to know is if I should." She was not looking at Reita as she spoke. Rather, she was looking at her brother.

Oben looked confused. "Why're you looking at me? I'm not a priest."

"You bear the mark of the almara," she said. Something in her tone sounded sour; resentful. "You may be the younger of us but something happened back there. Something gave you that mark."

He frowned and, again, rubbed the black patch on his forehead. "I don't feel any different," he said.

Onid shook her head, antlers scraping wood. "Maybe I should just try, then," she said with a sigh.

Marek walked over to where Keerg lay. He had seen many injuries while out in the wilds. Head trauma, though, was the least easy to predict. Medicine in Talvali was fairly primitive unless you went to an arcanist or spiritualist who crafted rituals and spells for those with the right amount of coin. He looked close at Bennet's work. The little book-binder and scrivener had done a fine job with the stitches. The question was would Keerg last long enough for Onid to overcome her crisis of faith?

There was really no other choice.

"Do it," Marek said. "I don't know what the risks are but I do know that he'll die without help. And right now, you're the only one able to do so."

Onid nodded, resolve settling into her features. "Allow me to prepare."

Reita shot a questioning look to Marek

He nodded in return. "I think he has that much time, at least." He addressed the dagdarra. "How long will it take?"

"An hour; maybe a bit more," Onid promised.

"An hour," Marek agreed. "If things start to go bad before then, we'll call you to try it early."

"If things start to go bad before then," Onid said, making her way to the ramp leading up to the deck, "it will be too late." Slowly, she made her way out of the hold, her brother following after a moment.

The rest stayed inside. Bennet, still exhausted from his sigil-craft piercing the stormwall, did his best to heat several fire stones for warmth. Marek wished he had a watch but, after a while, realized that would be an even worse case. Time always moved slower when he was aware of it. Having a timepiece wouldn't help. All he could do was wait.

And that was something he wasn't sure they should do.

Abrupt warmth and smothering humidity bled from the walls. The air felt as they were trapped within some great, dying beast. Sputtering lamps hung from chains and in sconces along the walls. Their guttering light was red and dull orange. It lit the grey, rough stone walls as if on the shore of a river of lava. Arches--set with sealed, iron gates--barely revealed dark halls and stairways, beyond.

In the echoing distance, Tephen could hear chanting.

The sound held a heat that rivaled that of the air. It was cloying and oppressive. While he did not know the words, he felt he understood their intent. Nothing that followed the light would ever utter sounds such as these.

"Where are we?"

The whisper gave him the excuse to feel something other than trepidation and fear.

He looked at Lyste with a cold, hatred. "Do I look like I know?" he snapped.

"You're the one who made a deal with ... with..." His rival and second-in-command gestured in frustration.

Tephen knew what he meant.

He didn't know, though, how Lyste could be so dense. It was clear whose help they had accepted.

"You've never heard of Ishmar, consort of Malrune and mistress of the eight shadows? Just what temple taught you about the gods?"

"The temple of not believing in fucking children's stories," Lyste snapped.

Tephen's red blade was out of its sheath in a flash but Naia stepped between them.

"Please! Bickering is not going to help any of us!" She frowned and looked around. "Has anyone seen where Rith is hiding?"

Lyste looked confused as Tephen, abruptly alert, cast about for his charge. The chamber was, apart from the Iron Patrol members, empty.

"He's gone," Tephen said. "Has anyone seen Rith?"

"Who?"

Naia sighed. "The tethic," she said.

"Who cares?" Lyste demanded. Annoyance laced his words like sickly venom. "I think we have more important problems than--"

He was cut off, abruptly, by Tephen's attack.

"No one cares what you think!"

The lieutenant lunged but swung his blade, wide, at the last instant. Instead of with the razor-sharp edge, Tephen struck Lyste in the stomach with his sword's blunt pommel. Gasping for air, Lyste collapsed to the dank, stone floor. The men and women of the patrol, as one, quickly drew weapons. More than half aligned themselves with Tephen while the rest looked to Naia for direction. The lieutenant ignored the smaller amount. He glared down at his rival.

"If you speak unkindly about Rith again, Lyste..."

He let his words trail into the territory of threat.

"You'll be the death of us, sir," Lyste murmured.

Tephen ignored his sarcastic emphasis on the word "sir". He walked to a nearby gate and inspected the lock. The whole thing was pitted, black iron; old but still strong. He sniffed it and came away, confused. The scents on it were wrong. They belonged to strange animals. He recognized some of their traces but the vast majority were alien.

His ears pricked up.

In the distance, the chanting changed. It began getting louder ... closer. Quickly, he walked around the chamber and listened at the other gates. The sound was definitely approaching from beyond the first.

"Back away," he hissed.

The other ramessin, most still with weapons drawn, did as he commanded.

Tephen stood before them, facing the gate.

A breeze proceeded the beings coming down the hallway beyond the gate. It smelled just as alien but was tinged with burning pitch and wood. Torches. Soon, his sharp eyes caught the distant reflected flicker of firelight on the walls. Moments later, a procession appeared.

Hooded and robed like priests in dark vestments, the strangers came at a slow pace. They chanted as they walked, every third member of their procession carrying a torch. They came two-wide--twenty, in all--with a twenty-first leading them. Oddest of all, though, were the shapes.

None were the same.

Some were almost as large as a dagdarra while others were hip- or knee-high. Some bore antlers or horns. A few smelled like ramessin ... but different.

Tephen had to suppress feelings of disgust as they came to the other side of the gate.

The robed figure in front had broad, white feathered wings. Its robes accommodated them. A gnarled and polished black staff in its gloved, right hand, had been carved to hold a quartz-like crystal. With a soft, feminine word, the staff's crystal abruptly flared to emit a cool, white light. Tephen winced.

"Who are you? Identify yourselves!"

The winged figure beyond the gate lifted its head just slightly. It was pale and had no fur on its flat, non-muzzle.

"I believe," she said, "that is our question for you."

Tephen hated being at a disadvantage. Standing here, locked in a large cell behind multiple gates in a strange land talking to strange beings only exasperated the feeling. But he was experienced in taking charge. He set his jaw, slowly bared his teeth, and raised his still-bloody, crimson blade.

"I am Lieutenant Tephen Alberson. I am leader of this Iron Patrol assigned to the tundra of Saeldrin. I am sworn agent of the Great Shadow, Malrune, sent here at his command. So, think carefully, before you demand anything else of me, woman! You shall release us, immediately, and explain what this place is!"

His golden eyes never wavered. The dark-robed figure did not flinch but stepped back from the gate, a tiny bit. His nose told him, among all the alien scents, that there was something akin to nervousness coming from her. Beneath the echo of his voice and crackle of flames, he could hear the woman's heartbeat increase, just slightly.

A moment later, she bowed.

"Apologies," she said. As she rose, she swept her hood free of her face. "We have been expecting ... someone else."

The female was hideous.

All hair had been removed from her flat face. Her nostrils were mounted atop a bridge of flesh and were barely slits. Her mouth had accentuated redness and betrayed an herbivore's front teeth. If she had ears, none were visible. She had short, blond hair on the very top of her head that extended down the sides of her bare neck to her shoulders. Her eyes were a solid, sky blue.

"You expected the dagdarra," he snarled with contempt.

The woman bowed her head in what looked like assent. She stepped forward, producing a key from beneath her robes. In the light of her staff, she and the others were now revealed to be wearing deep purple embroidered with golden and crimson thread around the edges in strange sigils and runes. Her waist was cinched with a white cord from which hung several closed pouches and a sheathed knife.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

She finished unlocking the gate and pushed it open, into the room. She did not, however, enter.

"I am High Priestess Lyarra Rain of Tanthus," she said. "And these are my fellow servants of Nephillus' Temple in Carad Moor." The assembly behind her, bowed, as one. "We represent the ensouled peoples of Talvali and welcome you in this world's name."

"What sort of creature are you?" he asked. It was hard to look at her without staring at the alien ugliness of her features. The others were equally strange although at least many of them were not bare to the skin. But their features and forms were like looking into distorted mirrors. Even the dagdarra were more comely.

The winged woman's red lips pulled back to reveal threatening teeth. "I am netharen; one of two unaging peoples, here. I am to guide you in your tasks for our mutual Lord."

Tephen furrowed his brow and looked directly into her eyes.

"What do you mean by 'peoples'? There are..." He tallied their numbers, quickly. "Twenty-one different races, here?"

"Commonly, people refer to twenty, but the clergy recognize all who have souls--regardless of from whence they came--to be a distinct people."

With these words, a figure advanced from the middle of their ranks. Cloaked like the rest, it nonetheless possessed a long and slender muzzle covered with ash-grey fur and a pink nose. It withdrew its cowl with mismatched hands: one, the right, like a black hunting bird's talon and the other made up of long, delicate fingers bare of fur but possessing blunted, ineffectual claws. The creature bore a demarcation in its fur along the sides of its neck and possessed a plume of colorful feathers in a mohawk-like mane that ran from the middle of its forehead down the back of its head. Even its eyes were unusual: the right being red while the left being solid silver.

"I am Holiman Rede," the creature said. "I am to be your tutor in our land's differences from your own. I also represent the whimsies." Its voice was strangely genderless but had a bass quality to it. Holiman bowed before Tephen. "Each of us will be preparing you in some way for our Lord's journey."

Each of the remaining figures removed their hoods.

He didn't know what to say. The menagerie before him ran the gamut from beings that looked like enormous mice to towering monstrosities with horns. One was particularly disturbing. Clearly of ramessin origins, she was black of fur and towered half a foot taller than any woman he knew back home.

"I ... see," he managed, despite not truly understanding. He turned back to the woman with the pale, skin-covered, muzzleless face. "You are all priests?"

She nodded. "In service to Nephillus: god of destruction and endings."

He sneered at the faint elements of reverence in her voice. The clergy, it seemed, had that much in common between worlds. They held themselves in a reverence above and apart from that of the laity. It was obvious despite her alien appearance and ways that she felt herself above him.

That would not do.

He lunged forward with swift accord and before the woman could even flinch, wrapped his left hand around her skinny neck. His claws pressed threateningly against her bare throat. He snarled, revealing teeth, and locked eyes with her, hackles rising along the back of his neck.

"You think highly of yourself," he said in a low tone.

The other priests had drawn back. Several drew small knives from somewhere within their robes. The weapons looked ceremonial with dull edges and embedded, sparkling stones.

Tephen raised his hand against them as his patrol members fell into a crescent at his back, weapons drawn. "Put those down," he said. He didn't finish his threat, verbally. Instead, he drew his fingers tighter, eliciting beads of coppery red to appear beneath his claw tips.

The clergy looked to their leader, whose eyes had remained locked on Tephen's.

She waved to them with an idle flick of her wrist and the knives vanished. Frustratingly, as she did this, her eyes never wavered. They remained locked with Tephen's.

"This is not the time for displays of power," she admonished him. Her tone was as even as it had been, before. More frustratingly, that superiority his ears had detected was still there. "We are as one; on the same side in service to the same--"

He tightened his grip. "I serve Malrune's consort: goddess of death, Ishmar." His eyes narrowed and he leaned close. His wet breath washed over her features and, finally, he saw her wince. "You may call yourselves servants of this 'Nephillus' but you would do well to remember who was chosen and who merely serves."

Her eyes narrowed. "Nephi-- Ishmar calls all of us in different ways," she said. Her voice remained even. "My way, our way, is to prepare you to retrieve a relic that can finally bring balance to the world."

"Whose world?" he asked. "Mine or yours?"

"Ours."

There was a finality in her tone that made Tephen uneasy. "Explain."

The woman's wings ruffled and expanded, slightly. Still, her gaze never wavered. "There is no way back to your home land. What was brought into the skies of Talvali is all that remains. This world is ours and shall evermore be your home."

Her continued rise to the challenge of his gaze unsettled him. Blood ran in tiny, slow rivulets from where his claw tips punctured her flesh. If she was concerned about this, she didn't show it. He felt the eyes of his patrol upon him. He was losing face with every moment.

He cursed and pushed her back, releasing her.

"My patrol is tired and hungry," he spat. "Find them quarters and food. We shall talk about our tasks later. Until then, you and yours will remove us from this dungeon."

A few of the purple-clad clergy bowed at his statement. More did not.

"As you wish," she said. Turning to the patchwork man next to her, she said "Brother Holiman: prepare a late meal for our guests in the prayer hall. Then, answer their questions." She turned to the rest, still not raising a hand to wipe the blood from her neck. "Our initial plans will have to wait. Gather your guiding papers and materials. We shall instruct them as swiftly as we can."

Tephen snorted. "We do not take orders."

"No?" she asked, turning to face him. "Orders are what led you here, did they not? And what does it say about your honor that you would defy those who serve our mutual Lord?" She unfurled her white wings, reflecting the bright light of her staff in the darkness. "You are, indeed, in charge of the events ahead. You will go where no clergy can. But rest assured: we are not your servants."

With a flash of swiftness Tephen did not see or hear coming, she flexed one of her wings in a strike, forward, over her shoulder. It struck solidly and with far more force than Tephen anticipated. She knocked him back while crouching against the force of her strike. He didn't fall but his bones practically reverberated with the force of the blow. He snarled but did not immediately return the assault.

"As you wish, priest," he said. "Teach us. But do not think this is over between us."

"My name," she said, "is Lyarra. You may call me that, since you clearly have no respect for my title." With that, she turned and waved the double column of robed clergy to fall back. Only Holiman stayed where he was. "You will rest and be fed," she continued. "After that, we can discuss our mutual goals ... for both Nephillus and your Ishmar."

With that, she walked to the back of the group who, row by row, fell in behind her to return through the tunnels.

Holiman bowed to Tephen, eyes on the floor. "If you would be so kind," he said, "you and yours should accompany me to your rooms and, then, to a late meal. Later, we can talk all about our Lord's charge."

Tephen nodded, feeling a bit better that, finally, one of them showed him respect.

"Lyste ... Naia: take the rear guard point. The rest of you, keep alert and weapons: drawn."

The Iron Patrol voiced unanimous assent and entered into a similar formation as that of the priests. Then, with the patchwork Brother Holiman leading them, they left the dungeon chamber and wove their way through the corridors towards their future.

As Tephen expected, they had been underground. They passed no windows but quite a few shallow stairwells to sunken corridors lined with cells. It was like a prison although each of the cell gates stood open. He managed a glance into several as they went. Each was more like a small bedchamber with a wall-mounted cot, simple pillow and blankets, a water basin, a writing desk, and a water closet. The only difference between the cells and side-corridors were their relative sizes: some clearly for the mouse-sized natives and others that could accommodate the towering beings of this world. By the time they reached a broad, circular stone stair leading upwards, he realized they were private cells for clergy. He had seen similar accommodation in the hermitages of Alsport, back home.

The way up was long and winding. He counted over a hundred steps before they came to a landing. There, the procession split with most of the clergy going through a red door to the left while the winged priestess continued up. Brother Holiman, instead, opened a second door from the landing and led them all, right.

Whether or not they were above ground was still uncertain. The ceilings were higher, though, and had thick cloth tapestries hanging on the walls. Smokeless lanterns hung from brocades down the center of the hallway flanking the entry to the stairwell.

Holiman led them down one hall and then another. Soon, he came to a third that was set with five doors on either side.

"These," he said, "are sleeping quarters for our guests. Should you wish, you will find clothing of various sizes and shapes to suit your needs."

"You're not leaving my sight," Tephen said.

"Of course not," Holiman agreed. "I am going to show you and your lieutenants to private rooms around the corner." He pointed back the way they had come.

"No," Tephen said. "My patrol leaders will bunk with their men." He glanced at Lyste and Naia. The latter nodded, curtly, and joined the throng as they split up into the ten rooms. Lyste did not acknowledge him but followed Naia. "Now," Tephen said, "lead me to my room."

Holiman bowed, again, and retraced his steps to the corridor's end. There, he turned right, and led Tephen to a set of double, midnight blue doors. In its surface were carved white runes and recessed images depicting armored soldiers arrayed on bended knee before a column of flame. It, in many ways, resembled the pillar of darkness he had seen on the Saeldrin saltmarsh.

His guide opened the doors to expose a sleeping chamber with an enormous bed, two chests of drawers, a wash basin large enough for a dagdarra, and two glass windows looking out upon absolute darkness. The latter was particularly disturbing because, at first, each had looked like there might be something beyond. But that, Tephen realized, was due to the light that Holiman carried reflecting through the warped, thick glass. Beyond the windows seemed to be ... nothing.

As soon as he stepped in, Tephen whirled on Holiman and drew his blade. The patchwork man blanched, a long slender tongue nervously flicking from the end of his muzzle.

"Now," he said, "you will tell me everything."

Holiman swallowed, visibly, and nodded. "That ... that is my purpose," he said. Delicately, he placed his fingertips upon Tephen's blade and guided it, down. "But for that, you need not threaten me," he said. "I am more than comfortable giving you the answer to any question you would ask."

Finally away from the rest of the patrol, Tephen felt anxieties he had not realized had been there, start to lift. Before the strange, alien beings in the dungeons, he had needed to show confidence ... leadership. He could brook no weakness in the wake of his decision to accept Ishmar's command. Now, at last, he did not feel quite so impelled to correctness.

He did not re-sheathe his sword. Instead, he walked over to a small hand-washing basin above the body-sized tub and noted there was already water in it. Taking a coarse towel from the pile next to it, he began washing his blade: cleaning the day's blood from it.

More questions than he had acknowledged, before, flitted through his mind.

After cleaning and drying his blade, he retrieved a small amount of blade oil from his pack and began applying it to the weapon.

"Tell me," he said to Holiman as he gathered his thoughts, "what is a 'whimsey'?"

The priest bowed. "I, sir, am a whimsey. You do not have them, where you are from?"

Tephen snorted. "If we did, would I have asked?"

"True, true," Holiman replied. Taking a deep breath, he strode to the window and looked into the darkness while answering the Iron Patrol's lieutenant. "A whimsey, sir, is a person made by arcane magic. Often stitched together from specially harvested and prepared parts to serve a specific need. Then, in the final stages of construction, the arcanist who is creating the whimsey takes a special blade, slices off a sliver of their own soul, and invests it within us to give us animation, free will, and life."

"You are ... artificial?"

Holiman turned. If he was offended, he didn't show it. "I am a living being with a soul," he replied. "My creator was Alma Bournagiea: an arcanist of the High Court of..." He paused as a thin smile crossed his long, narrow muzzle. "I apologize. The titles and names would mean nothing to you," he said. "Suffice to say, I was given birth to by a powerful arcanist for a singular purpose. My brain was grown but placed within the specially prepared head of a vermiling; an animal you may or may not have on your world.

"I was given great sense of smell this way as I was created to be a tester and laboratory assistant to my creator. My constitution is very great and can withstand all manner of toxins and venoms, should a mistake happen with my assessment of alchemical creations. I head swiftly, thanks to the dragon's blood that flows in my veins, and I served my mistress faithfully for many years until her death."

"You killed her?" Tephen asked, pointedly watching for the patchwork man's reaction.

"Of course," he said, nodding. "But only after I had fulfilled her requirements of me. She was not unkind and I owed her, much, for my birth. But, in the end, I sought my freedom. Some countries do not allow slavery, even for whimsies, but Meiteiriosis is not one of them."

"And whimsies are considered ... equal to other races? Your soul was not originally your own."

"But it was," Holiman continued. "The fact that I gained it through arcane ritual rather than intercourse is irrelevant. But, in truth, many do not see it that way. Most clergy accept whimsies as ensouled races but few others, do."

It was a strange world, no doubt, Tephen thought. A patchwork world complete with patchwork men. He finished oiling his sword, wiped the residue clean with his sword cloth, and resheathed it. He did not, however, remove it from his belt. Nor did he snap it fastened.

Taking up his pistol, he began inspecting and cleaning it.

"And the god you serve: a god of destruction?"

"No different than yours, by sound of it," Holiman answered.

Tephen sneered. "The ramessin serve eight gods," he said. "Only one of them is of death and she is merely consort to the god of life, challenges, and combat: Malrune."

"Talvali has twelve gods," Holiman said. "Six of the Prime Ordination, entrusted with the six forces of creation, and six of the Hexagon, providing the six elements of civilization and society. They are served by six hundred derros representing nuances of creation. And although they are not true gods, there exist the Henges: the six divine beings who serve as guardians: the sun, the moons, and the Mistress of Storms."

"Sounds complicated," Tephen said with derision.

"Not really."

His pistol checked out. He still had a box of self-contained powder ammunition, but he wanted to spare them. He didn't know how advanced the firearms were in this place but he didn't want to waste a scarce resource. He holstered the gun and hung it from his hip opposite his sword.

"And you think your Nephillus is alike to our Ishmar?"

"Destruction is destruction," Holiman said, spreading his hands. "I joined the clergy because of that observation. Destruction is not inherently negative but never is it welcomed. It is a necessity: like much of what a whimsey is created to do. All of life is necessity. I wished to serve in that capacity. Your Ishmar, consort or not, at her core is no different from our Nephillus."

It was heresy, but Tephen was finally calming down and didn't want to pursue it.

"Why did Nephillus bring us, here?"

At this, Holiman shook his head. "I do not know," he admitted. "But he has sent us visions of a great battle waged against the stasis of the world. This battle, this war, is all around us. He has instructed us that others who share our views from beyond Talvali's stars, were coming to aide us in this fight."

"Us."

"The dagdarra," Holiman said, making Tephen's hackles rise, again.

He spat on the floor. "Savages," he said. "They know nothing."

"And, yet, they were first-chosen."

Tephen glared at the patchwork priest. He was starting to regret letting himself become calm. He was, after all, in a strange and dangerous land. Anything, here, could be a threat. He didn't know enough to let his guard down. And, now, this arrogant creature was insulting him and the ramessin people.

"They worship a pagan goddess, but they are a weak prey-species. Their goddess is, likewise, weak."

Brother Holiman bowed, respectfully. "As you say."

Tephen still bristled but didn't continue the argument.

"Now, then," Holiman continued, "I believe you would like some food. Then, before you and your followers, we shall detail what we know of Nephillus' plan."

"I'm sure," Tephen snarled, "that Ishmar will approve."

Again, the priest nodded in assent.