“Outstanding...one of the most uniquely layered and complex universes since Frank Herbert's Dune.”
—Starburst Magazine
Kholster, who only recently became the god of death, must work together with other new deities to bring balance to the heavens and stop Uled. Can he prevent Uled's undead army from ravaging the world in time to save Rae'en and those he still loves in the mortal realm?
______________________________________________________________
Child tucked firmly against his chest, Striappa ran, his sharp
black talons gouging furrows in the tile floor. Chaos erupted about them in a
tortured reflection of the battles raging in the Guild Cities, outside the
walls of the Long Speaker’s tower. The manitou’s fur-covered ears rang with the
clamorous din within and without, raised voices combining to form another
voice, a meaningless babble of aggression and fear . . . the dying, the
injured, and the aggressors all becoming one cry. Music, he imagined, to the
war god’s ears.
Clutching Caius Vindalius, the winged little
son of the crystal-twisted young woman Kholster had entrusted to the Long
Speakers’ care, even more tightly to his feathered and furred chest, Striappa
shivered both at the tickling touch of the babe’s tiny hands on that warm band
of thick fur where breast feathers met belly feathers and at the recalled
sharing of his grandmatron. His surroundings, the sound of them, drew out
remembered tales of the great wars before most manitou left the lands of the
shape-locked and founded the Gathering Isles, far off to the west in the grand
expanses of the Cerrullic Ocean, away from the violence of those melded sounds.
Noona shared the vibrations of this third
voice, taught the clutches of her family and those who nested with them to
recognize it, and, when they heard it, to migrate home. “The voice of war is
one the manitou no longer wish to hear,” she’d told Striappa and his siblings
as they’d curled near the fire pit, snatching at the flames with their claws to
harden them and to learn the strength of the fire, how to resist it, how to let
it move through them, how to feel the way it changed and flowed and perhaps
apply that to their shapeshifting, if they could.
“But fighting is glorious, right, Noona?” Striappa had asked.
Noona’s face had morphed from the friendly
beaked and feathered visage that had spat scrumptiously softened foods into his
maw when he had been too young to hunt for himself to a spiny face of leathery
skin, a mouth of sharp fangs. Great curling horns had erupted from her
brow, as tusks had sprouted from her morphing muzzle. The bands of
alternating fur and feathers of her body had flattened into bony plates of
armor, jutting spikes rising up from the ones she chose. Talons had become
claws and seized him, forcing him down, head close to the flames. Solid black
eyes like those of a shark had glared at him from a face no longer warm or
comforting, making him ill inside.
“Am I glorious or terrifying?” Noona had growled, in the harsh
tones of a non-avian throat.
“Both,” he’d answered squawkily.
“Yes.” She’d smiled, still ghastly in her aspect. “Both is right,
my little one.” Releasing him with a grunt, she had turned her back to the
flames, leathery wings stretching out to take flight.
“Where are you going, Noona?” Clohi, one of
Striappa’s sisters had asked, but Striappa had known, even before Noona had
spoken the words.
“To hunt, my lovelies.” The barb at the end of her long tail
caught the light as she flew. “All change has its price, and most amount to
blood in the end. I’ll be back soon.”
*
“Run, Striappa,” a grizzled voice snapped in his ears, “or fly or
whatever it is you manitou do the quickest.”
“I am running, Master Sedric,” the manitou
squawked back at the hazy smoke-formed image of the Elder Long Speaker. Sedric
might know everything there was to know about Long Speaking—Striappa certainly
could not send his mind out across hundreds of miles as a being of smoke—but he
knew more about shapeshifting than Sedric ever would, and it was hard to move
quickly and change at the same time. Sedric was right, though; if Striappa was
going to get Caius to safety, he knew he was going to need his wing-arms free
at some point, so he was trying to create a belly pouch to hold him. “Pouches are
hard.”
“You weren’t thinking about pouches, child.”
Sedric’s smoky lips pursed. “You were brain-fogged by tales your Noona told you
as a cub.”
“Hatchling,” Striappa corrected, before he could stop himself. He
darted for the open doorway through which Sedric’s smoky sending had emerged,
but Sedric waved him off toward the far stairway.
“Too much fighting that way; you’ll need to
fly out of here.” Sedric groaned, then vanished, eyes ablaze with inner light,
a ball of burning, crackling red manifesting at the center of his brow. He
reappeared when Striappa paused halfway up the stairwell to get the pouch
right. It had to be easier for girls, or surely they would never bother.
Striappa kept losing the opening or making something more mouth-like, into
which one would not want to place any infant one wanted to keep.
“Oh for Torgrimm’s sake, Streep. Why are you
stopping now?”
Streep. Striappa’s hackles rose at the barb. Even a single-shaped
human as enlightened as Master Sedric thought it was okay to drop in a
nickname, despite how insulting that was to—
“I know exactly how insulting it is,” Sedric said with a sigh.
“You keep stopping, and I can’t guide you much longer. The fighting at
Castle-guard is getting worse, and Cassandra and I—”
“Then shut your changeless maw, ’dric, and
let me finish!” Striappa growled, beak giving way to fang-filled muzzle. The
anger, the desire to prove Sedric wrong, gave Striappa the extra bit of inner
energy needed to complete the change, and he slid the quiet, almost
contemplative, baby into his belly pouch. The weight took a brief adjustment to
muscles and bones, so he wouldn’t be off balance when he flew or, Gromma and
Xal-istan both forbid, if he needed to fight. He let the start of a barbed tail
begin to sprout . . . just in case.
“Master Sedric,” Striappa began.
“Yes, yes.” Sedric waved away his comments with hands of wispy
smoke. “We’re both sorry for insulting each other. Well, you regret insulting
me in any case. Now move!”
At the top of the stair, the manitou looked
out into the hallway. Near the top of the spire now, close to the Apex Chamber,
there were supposed to be guards: at least one Far Flame and a Long Fist, plus
a Master Long Speaker. Striappa was none of those things, just a Long Speaker,
and a weak one by human standards, though quite strong when compared to the
scant gifts most manitou Long Speakers possessed.
Two screams rang out, preceding a female Long
Speaker in master’s robes, who poked her head down into the stairwell that
opened up in the center of the chamber above.
“Striappa?” She ran down to meet him. Her
face was wide and strong and well-fed. “I’m Arin. Master
Sedric said I was to allow you access to the Overview.”
She held her hand out, calloused palm up so
he could scent her if he wanted. Or was he meant to take it? He did, impressed
by the strength of the muscles coiled beneath her skin. Exceptional for a
human.
“What happened to the other guards?”
Striappa asked, as he followed Arin up the stair and out into the Overview.
From inside the walls of the vaulted chamber a thinly applied layer of
mirror-smooth Aldite crystal allowed initiates of the Guild a panoramic view of
the city below and granted them the option, if necessary, to focus and amplify
their abilities . . . a secret the leaders of the surrounding cities had, in
the opinion of the Long Speaker’s Guild Leadership, no need to know . . . and
exactly the reason why no Long Speaker (or Far Flame, in particular) was
allowed unaccompanied access to the Apex.
On a normal day, the top of the spire served
as the point from which the strongest Long Speakers relayed messages from other
Long Speaker schools and outposts, acting as hubs of information, collecting,
recording, and relaying data as needed. A single door broke the seamless
expanse, allowing access to a circular balcony where two more guards should
have stood.
Striappa spotted the interior Far Flame and
Long Fist guards, his neck feathers ruffling at the sight. They lay dead at the
exterior doorway, each with a knitting needle poking out of their skulls. One
still twitched, prompting Arin to kneel next to him with a gentle clucking of
her tongue as she adjusted the angle of her knitting needle and stilled him
forever.
“Poor things,” Arin explained, when she noticed his gaze lingering
on the bodies. “I hope whomever is the god of death today is kind to them. They
were loyal to the city rather than the Guild . . . and Master Sedric insisted
there wasn’t time to argue the point with them.”
Striappa eyed her, still studying her scent,
tail barb twitching. “Come. Come.” She straightened with a limberness better
suited to a manitou her size than a human and gestured
at the open exterior door. “Hurry along now.” Arin shooed him. “I can’t take my
full attention
from the transmission flow, or I’ll miss something and
risk a resend.” “Don’t resends happen all the time?” Striappa asked.
“Not when I’m on duty.” Arin’s eyes sparkled
with pride and, perhaps, a trace of gentle madness. Or was that loyalty? It could
be hard to tell with humans. “I have a perfect transmission record.”
“Ah.” A movement at Striappa’s belly drew his attention. Baby
Caius peered over the pouch edge, looking at the dead men with inhuman
blood-red eyes.
“Oh.” Arin beamed, eyes alight with delighted appraisal. “What I
wouldn’t give to have an apprentice come to me with a look like that in his
eyes.”
“You could take him,” Striappa offered. “You have a Matron Guard’s
scent about you. You could—”
“He has no outward reach,” Arin told him. “He has gifts, but he’s
thrifty with them, keeps them all directed inward. His body will be his weapon
and his mind its architect. Reach out to him. Can you feel his thoughts?”
“No,” Striappa answered. “I thought it was because he was so soon
out of the egg and my abilities are not very—”
“I can feel them.” The large woman reached out to the child and
cooed at him, but the child’s eyes followed hers, ignoring the hand as if it
were of no import. “But give him a few years and a little practice and to those
of us with the Long Ways, it will be as if he doesn’t exist.” Her smile did not
falter when she added, “We should kill him.”
“But Master Sedric told me—” Striappa bared
his claws.
Caius laughed.
“Put your claws away, little manitou.” Arin
laughed, too. “I’ll abide by Sedric’s will because I am so sworn. But you mind
what I said. That one should have never been brought here. He’s a little sponge
and they took him to the center of the Guild Cities where all manner of
knowledge could slip into his mind and stick there. What seeds have been
planted in that fertile brain amid all of this bloodshed, I shudder to think.”
At a loss for words, Striappa squawked a
challenge at her, but Arin made no move to impede him. Fluffing up his
feathers, the manitou walked out onto the scant balcony. The cities of Loom and
Lumber were burning. Rioters streamed through Commerce, the central city. The
standing guard of Warfare could be seen deploying throughout the conjoined
Guild Cities, working in tandem with various members of the Long Speaker’s
Guild. Bridgeward, the great Southern Gate stood closed,
its walls manned by Dwarves and the Aernese Token Hundred. Even if
the Guild Cities fell, the Bridge would stand fast.
Mason, to the southwest, seemed quietest of the embattled
metropoles, so Striappa flew in that direction. Once he was clear of the city,
he could find a tree or a cave and sleep until dusk. He preferred traveling at
night, particularly at the rising and setting of the suns, when he was more
comfortable and his sight was better. He wasn’t alone in the sky. Bat-like
Cavair swooped from place to place in the city, some assisting the guard,
others taking part in the looting. Ignoring them as best he could, Striappa
flapped toward the strong stone walls of Mason. As he drew closer, he could see
the massive ever-open gates had been secured. Archers manned the arrow-slitted
walls, taking shots at any who drew too near.
Turning circles in the sky, Striappa
surveyed the flow. He didn’t like the look of those bowmen, and flying too high
might endanger the baby. Humans did not do so well at high altitudes. Still . .
. A few more revolutions took him higher and higher until he felt certain he
was out of bowshot. It would have been stupid to die in the open having already
escaped the Long Speaker’s tower and the violent divide that had, in the Guild
Cities at least, spread even to those of the Long Talents. Initiate versus
initiate in the absence of Master Sedric. How
fared Sedric? he wondered. If Master
Sedric and Mistress Cassandra fall at Castleguard, what will become of the—?
Bands of multicolored light filled the air,
blinding him mere heartbeats ahead of the explosion. The mind lash
accompanying it nearly took the thought out of him. Protected by his weakness
in Long Speaking, Striappa felt the gift burn out (not for good, he hoped) and
fade, rather than experiencing more drastic results. Striappa dropped a double
handful of wing-lengths in the air, but flapped, beak bloody, back to a safer
altitude soon thereafter, concentrating on the feel of the infant breathing in
his pouch to ensure they did not travel high enough to cause him harm.
Striappa looked back long enough to watch the spire fall in a
flicker of slow motion, fading in and out of sight as if—
No. There was no time to speculate.
Master Sedric had given him a mission: get
the child out of the city. Get the child to safety. Await further instructions
once the child was safe. And so he flew and tried not to think of the body he’d
seen in the after-image, arms wide, amid the wreckage and the falling chaos, eyes
closed in concentration as she kept the transmission river flowing on the swift
trip down.
*
Burned out and abandoned, the farm looked
safe enough to the young manitou. The dead—and there had been dead—lay cold in
the ground, yet no rebuilding had begun, and the barn seemed vacant enough
despite the smells clinging to it. Best of all, it was out of the rain. Water
falling from the sky did not bother Striappa. A manitou of his clutch could easily
shift from feathers to leather wings if flying lightly-boned, but the lightning
disconcerted him. When his Long Skills were functioning he would have risked
it, but the infant didn’t like flying through it all, and though the child did
not cry, Striappa was mildly concerned about keeping the boy warm and dry.
So, once the water had risen too much for him to shelter under the
small, well-built bridge he’d found (and he didn’t much like sheltering that
low to the ground in any case), he’d circled back to perch in the loft of the
barn.
Striappa had not meant to doze, but he had
been tired and not entirely certain the bloody beak and the fading of his
powers was not a sign of a head injury. He was surprised to hear little Caius’s
burbling coo.
Pain came next, sharp and sudden, burning him through the back and
lungs.
He slashed back reflexively, talons catching
a dirty ragged shirt instead of finding purchase in the meat of Striappa’s
killer. Shifting into a more land-friendly form hurt, but he had to defend
Caius against—
“Name’s Hap,” spat the hard-looking human
with murder in his eye. He wore a coat of plates, with a layer of rags sewn
over the top to make it look less like armor. Angry hanging-scars at his throat
burned red from recent exertion. Little Caius hung in a sling looped under the
coat, but over Hap’s shoulders. In either hand, Hap held cruel-looking daggers.
Both bore blood. “My boy’s name is Caius. Where’s his mother?”
“Hap?” Striappa squawked numbly.
“Happrenzaltik Konstantine Vindalius.” The
man gave a slight nod.
“I have been your murderer this evening. Now
where is Cadie? Slight little thing, three-colored hair. A crystal twist.
Burned down that house fighting whoever killed my crew. She wouldn’t have left
the child behind, and you’re here with the child. It doesn’t take a scholar to
know one sun rises right after the other.”
“Murderer?” Shifting came too hard. Things which should have
melded together ripped and tore.
“Shifting won’t do you any good now, you
dumb squawker,” Hap snarled. “I cut you nice and proper cross your core
muscles. What you’re doing will only make the wounds hurt worse and you die
faster.”
“Why?” Striappa managed, as the world began to blink in and out of
focus, field of vision narrowing.
“I was hoping you could tell me where the boy’s mother is. Cadence
Vindalius.” Everything went dark, and Striappa felt himself drop to the dirty
straw. “And barring that, a man has to eat.”
*
Striappa gasped as the pain vanished and he
found himself back in the family nest he had missed since the great storm had
wiped it away when he was little and they’d had to rebuild. When he’d been a
hatchling, there had been no warsuit-clad Aern standing in it. Removing a helm
that bore the likeness of a horned lion’s skull, the Aern looked down on him
with a stern face, made less frightening by eyes with black sclera and
jade-rimmed amber-colored pupils, which, though unusual, possessed and conveyed
a sad understanding.
“You’re an idiot, but you’re a well-meaning
one, and you died in the keeping of an oath, so I have no particular disdain
for you.” Kholster, the new god of death, ran a hand over his red hair, his
forearm bending his wolf-like ears down each time he did so. “Do you want to go
back and try things again, or do you want to be judged by the Bone Queen?”
“I’m dead,” Striappa said, more awe in his
voice than fear.
“Yes.” Kholster bared his teeth, showing off his upper and lower
doubled canines in a sarcastic grin. “And you aren’t the only one who will be
dying tonight. If it helps at all, you seem a nice enough soul to me. Minapsis
will not likely find you wanting.”
“What will happen to the baby?” Striappa asked.
“I don’t know, and you never will.” Kholster’s tone sang to Striappa
of barely constrained impatience.
“Is something wrong, sir?” Striappa asked.
“You seem to have greens down your gob about something, if I’m using that
phrase correctly.”
“Yes.” Kholster held out his hand. “There are a great number of
things going wrong right now. Come along. I fear one of me will be required in
some tunnels very soon now, and if I’m needed I would like to go myself.”
“You were mortal until recently, weren’t you?” Striappa obediently
took the god’s hand. It felt like he had taken the hand of a statue that had
decided not to crush all of the bones, but only just.
“I was.”
“The people who might need you, in the tunnels, were they friends
of yours?”
“One was,” Kholster said, as the world went all to stars and Striappa
felt himself begin to flow from one place to another. “The others are friends
of my daughter.”
______________________________________________________________
Worldshaker will be available in stores on February 21.
