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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 One - "Saeldrin", Chapter Ten: The Call From Beyond

©2016 Sylvan Scott

So delicate a touch. So precise a motion. So unpredictable a finite, miniscule subset of the Body. The tools: inelegant but necessary; they could not be forced. Only guidance possessed a chance of success. But it was, in the end, only a chance. And so: direction from the Outside. Use too much and they would break. Use too little and they would be pushed to wander, randomly and aimless: threatening the Body's health. Give them a glimpse of the whole and they could become akin to disease: settling into self-destructive quiescence or boiling into virulent assault on their surroundings. The choice, the necessity demanding it, was the ultimate damnation.

The outsider walked, step by step, from the outermost reaches. It had made this journey, before. It was a familiar road. But even so, its absence would not go unnoticed. Unleashed by the outsider's passing, boiling chaos spread into the space between the other Bodies. They would notice the outsider's departure soon enough. Then, matters would escalate. But the outsider was ready. Even now, the destination began to resolve into clarity. Ahead of the outsider--only touchable by the tiniest of native tools and with the most delicate of manipulative measures--lay the frozen lands of the infinitesimal.

It slowed, cautious of its pace.

Careful steps; always careful. No matter how familiar the way, the outsider had to be cautious lest it accidentally destroy what it had come to shape.

Folding in upon itself: all the disruption and entropy, distilling down and down and down and down. Too simplified to exist amongst the Bodies. Too powerful to be contained at such a scale. But it had to be done. The outsider's actions left no other choice. No servant was available nor could those already touched by its guidance be trusted. New influences, attempting change in mortal paths already in its orbit, were too swamped with variables.

Its sibling, laid low, attracted the shock and dismay of the other four Bodies. Even their children, six more Bodies - structured and orderly; they would be anxious, too. They would seek to staunch the flow of energy, away. But the outsider had ensured it would be too late.

Before folding in, before delving away and downwards from the other Bodies, the outsider had ensured its sibling was no more. There would be no flow to staunch. The ending was prepared and there was no undoing it. Thus, the outsider could only walk on: there was no way but forward.

It felt the cold membrane of the inside touch its exterior. It pressed against it, pouring all its mind and awareness into the vessel that awaited.

But, strangely, there was something else.

There was something unexpected.

At this level, there was always something unexpected. But it was always infinitely small.

This was different.

This was more.

The outsider, mid-transition, cast its mind downwards and ahead to find the disruption. It took little time to find it. It was a fragment of a Body. A body not of the outsider's siblings or children.

Unexpected.

The outsider turned in contemplation as resolution settled. The membrane coalesced into fire and air and water and earth and spirit and storm. Light exploded into perception - an inferior means of sight. Chemicals upon the wind, likewise, informed taste and smell: echoes ... tiny fractions of a greater experience, but the only truth at this inner existence. Drowning in itself, it condensed and collapsed until able to touch feel the smallest of the small.

And there it was...

The Fragment from the Outer Outside.

It wore the shape of a mortal life wrapped in tattered rags. Feathers and rot and dust swirled around it. It was lost and confused. It was both new and ancient.

It turned.

Empty eyes revealed a void the outsider knew well.

It bowed to the Fragment, as was appropriate. The Fragment, fractured and confused, merely stared back.

It was to be expected.

The outsider's chaotic hunger erupted as a black, enveloping cloud. Volcano-hot tendrils--cracking and hissing as they uncoiled and expanded--rushed forward. With razor-sharp fangs of entropy, bared, the outsider attacked.

Rith refused to stray far from Tephen. His stomach roiled at the thought of being so near but he had little other choice. He saw the looks in the eyes of the others. He heard their mutterings. Rammesin hearing was nearly as potent as that of their wolven cousins. The members of the Iron Patrol knew how to make sure Rith heard just enough without tipping off Tephen. Only Naia's presence had proven to be of any comfort since he had gone south in search of the sounds of the storm. But she was off to the west, leading the narrow cliffs descent.

In the real world, tethic are killed against their will all the time. It had been a harsh statement: delivered without any sense that its meaning was justified. To Naia, it was merely ... fact.

And that's all he was to her: a fact.

Not a curse.

Not someone to be avoided.

Neither friend nor enemy.

Just a fact. It was so different--so much a relief--he almost thought of their brief encounter in Tephen's tent as the start of a friendship.

But that wouldn't happen. Nor should it. The real fact was, he was damned and his damnation would rub off on everyone who dared open themselves to him. Even his father had turned his back on his son when his exile had begun. All he could do was accept it and keep moving.

And, so, he ran.

As Rith ran, he thought of Naia--of Patrol Leader Naia--and risked a glance, west. He could just make out five small, dark shapes rappelling down the rough, canyon face. It had been Lyste's suggestion. In their charge, they would be seen. Even the eastern canyon walls would be exposed if they tried to scale them to come in from the side. But to the west, the ridges curved back. From where they had seen the dagdarra in the opening flat of the widening canyon, an assault from the more difficult terrain of the western ridge could get much closer before being noticed. All that needed to be done is attract all attention to a northern assault while the best climbers and trackers came in from the side.

The dagdarra, Lyste claimed, would never see them coming.

For his part, Tephen's rival had taken charge of six Iron Patrol in fully-transformed form: running in an arc from the east to give the impression that the ramessin were, indeed, using tactics but not, perhaps, using the eastern canyon ridges to mask an overall assault.

It left Tephen leading the charge across the widening, flat span of rocky and icy land with the remaining twelve patrol members. While Lyste had the job of making a feint look legitimate, Tephen had to lead the obvious charge that, in the end, was where the bulk of their strength lay. He would, by design, arrive first.

And given Rith's outcast status, it was assured he would be required to stay at Tephen's side during every step along their road.

There were only five of them and one was old. Another, possibly the leader, had an injured feel about him.

That latter aspect was not visible nor revealed by smell. Rith could hear it in the same way his accursed senses had heard the coming of the storm. The same sense also told him that the dagdarra was strong, wise, intelligent, and protective. All those traits blurred into one which Rith heard as "leader".

He was tall and broader than a tree trunk. He strode forward and lowered his head, antlers facing the attackers. He boomed a powerful word born deep in the bellows of his chest. Sliding one leg forward and another, back, he crouched to accept the ramessin charge. The snows were halfway up his lower leg--knee-depth to members of the Iron Patrol--and they didn't seem to impair him at all.

Jutting his chin outward, exposing his lower horns, Rith knew his impression of this dagdarra was correct.

This was a leader amongst giants.

And it was this leader Tephen intended to bring down.

The other four were paired-off by sex. The old female stood next to the young one while the two males moved forward and to the other side of their leader.

It was the two females that drew his attention, most.

There was danger, there. Danger and power. An aura grew about them, both, and it crackled like the lightning in the sky. The ground seemed to creak beneath the weight of them. The elder of the two had a glare in her eyes that felt like fire. She held something, strips of cloth, in her hands. Those strips sang with even more of her energy than her eyes.

He almost thought of warning Tephen but there was little use in it. Anything he could say above the tumult of their charge could also be overheard by the dagdarra and, potentially, countered. But he had to; he owed Tephen at least that much. He had to say...

An unkindness of ravens, disturbed--no doubt--from hidden roosts along the western ridge where Naia descended, erupted with their harsh, accusing cries. They flooded the distant sky and swooped through the snowfall, over the battlefield. It was an omen; one he could feel in the pit of his stomach.

Where warning had once been on his lips, now there was only a single, hushed word.

"Ishmar..."

A crack of black powder brought his attention back to the charge. Tephen had drawn his pistol and fired at the great, looming leader. Fifty yards away, the shot went wide. For a moment, Rith thought it might strike the eldest. However, there was a momentary shimmer in the air. He he could hear it than see it, and it had the same foreboding power that he sensed from her eyes. Although these actions were happening too swiftly to observe, he felt the bullet's path bend, just enough, to miss and embed itself in an snapped-off tree's frozen trunk behind their camp.

Power, indeed.

Tephen fired again.

His pistol was one of the new type, Rith had rarely seen. Each bullet contained its own powder and the gun held eight bullets. While most pistols still required manual stuffing of wadding and packing of explosive, officers could fire more shots, more swiftly, than any others.

This shot also missed the leader but continued to be lost in the snowstorm, beyond.

He was about to shout a warning, again, but his hearing now caught something new. There was something ahead, beyond the dagdarra, growing in strength and power. It was alien and strange; it sounded like wind and fire, combined. His eyes strained and, for a moment, he thought he saw the impossible. In a blink, he thought he spied a sailing ship falling from the sky to be lost amongst the nearest hillocks and broken trees.

Thirty yards...

Howls erupted from Lyste's band as they abruptly broke away as if to abandon Tephen's main thrust. But this was part of the plan. As they broke off, the taller of the two non-leader males, threw a spear at the turning wolves, trying to catch one in the flank. The spear launched strong and clear but fell short as Lyste's distraction danced back just beyond range.

It was then that Naia's group charged into view from the other side.

Twenty yards out and Tephen fired his third shot, giving the signal for his band to split: half to the left where Lyste's group had been and the rest to charge forward and fire their single-shot firearms. Lyste's group, as well, changed course again, and charged forward with all due speed to begin an encircling pattern around their prey. Staying beyond the distance the one dagdarra could throw, their plan was to come at them from behind.

Blood came on the wind.

Rith smelled it as well as heard the booming defiance from the leader. A wound had appeared in his side from Tephen's last shot. The big dagdarra held his hand over it, trying to hold his vitality, in.

"Rith! Go for the women; now!"

Tephen's command was sharp and unexpected. Rith stumbled in his run and half turned towards the pillar of power he had detected, before. Both women were to the injured side of the leader; towards the side that Naia's forces were coming from. The unkindness of ravens flew over them, traversing the soon-to-be-penned dagdarra, below.

And Rith couldn't do it.

"Go!" Tephen shouted, again. "Obey: now!"

He probably thought he was giving him the easiest targets: the old woman and the young. Those least able to be defended by their bleeding leader.

But although Rith heard the urgent command in Tephen's voice he also heard the song of power, growing from the pair of women.

Fear filled his mind and he peeled away from them, breaking from the pack.

His feet slipped on ice and he stumbled. He rolled in the snow, reflexively changing into full-wolven form, as cold rocks and brittle winter grass, tore at his hide. His head hit a rock and he saw stars explode across his vision. Then he stopped rolling and looked up.

The dagdarra were there.

The spear-thrower (not the other male--the one with a dagdarra, thin-club--but the one who had seemingly thrown his last spear at Lyste's band) was before him. The weapon he held was another spear but jagged and black.

The dagdarra thrust it at Rith and it was all he could do to roll aside, transforming as he did so, to spring to his feet and face his foe.

Another thrust and Rith dodged aside, again.

His feet left deep furrows in the snow and he nearly tripped with each movement.

While they were beyond the widening of the canyon walls and into the flat scraggly plain between them and the saltmarsh, the winds had not blown enough of the mounting snow away. It was too deep for a fight.

He dodged another thrust but did not see the dagdarra lunge forward in time to avoid his fist.

Dagdarra had hoof-like material along the backs of their hands' two fingers and two thumbs. When it hit, it felt like a club.

Rith went down with the blow. It was a learned reaction, honed by years of being beaten and driven off from towns and villages, and it possibly saved his life. He continued forward, between the dagdarra's legs, before springing up on the far side. Behind a dagdarra, the lower set of sharp horns could not tag him.

Rith spun about faster than his foe and kicked, with all his force, at the back of the dagdarra's knee. The giant's support went out from under him and he toppled to the right.

Gun shots erupted and echoed in the frozen air. Blood soon joined them. The half-downed dagdarra grunted and dropped his spear. Two shots, from either Lyste's patrol or from Tephen's, had struck the dagdarra in the abdomen and the right arm.

He knew what Tephen needed him to do. He could feel the eyes of the lieutenant upon him.

Fighting back fear, he dove upon the wounded dagdarra. His weight, sleight though it was, caused his prey to pitch forward into the snow. Rith, driven by Tephen's command, lunged and bit down. Blood washed past his teeth and over his tongue. The giant bucked, one arm reaching back to try and grab and fling Rith away. But he was small and fast. He dove back taking a chunk of flesh and hide with him.

Rolling, he transformed himself back into quadrupedal form. He stood in the flattened snow that he and his quarry had stomped down. Looking up, he saw the wide eyes of the dagdarra holding the side of its neck. Blood welled around its thick fingers.

For a moment, his face was Tephen's.

For a moment, there was a raven.

Then, the giant pitched forward with a life-releasing moan.

Behind the felled dagdarra, loomed their enraged leader.

"Oben! Fall back! Protect the almara!" Ered's shouted commands boomed across the snows as he ran to Tel's aide. The ramessin that had rolled beneath Tel's legs and, then, leaped up on his back was smaller than any he had seen, before. A mere runt, it was tiny and scrawny. But it didn't need size to bite and tear at Tel's jugular.

As fast as he was in the snow, Ered heard his ice band members last gasp and pained cry as the ramessin tore out a chunk of his throat.

He threw a punch as the small wolf spun about to face him. It yelped and moved to Ered's left where his injuries were. He missed.

Keeping his footing, he turned to track the agile wolf's movements. As another crack of ramessin-made thunder erupted from their leader's weapon, Ered saw him change course to run in his direction. The small ramessin ran towards him and the larger one--their leader--fired another shot. Like the previous, this one missed. But Ered was now getting surrounded.

The pack that had originally come from the eastern canyon walls had pulled back and looped around behind him.

"Ered! More are coming!"

Onid's shout was alarming. The cries of ravens overhead had distracted him from a third group of ramessin charging from the western cliffs. They were getting closer by the moment.

Oben, running towards Balmyrra and Onid, had paused. The bulk of the ramessin that had initiated the attack were now surrounding him. Two had fallen to Oben's batonekt with caved-in skulls. He had overcome three before Tel had fallen, but there were still more.

There were too many.

Ered crouched, backing up but swinging his heavy antlers in arcs as enemies attempted to approach. Out of the corner of one eye, he saw their leader--the one who'd punctured his abdomen from afar--run towards the scrawny ramessin who had taken down Tel. But in that brief glance, one of the surrounding wolves gained courage and dove for his legs.

Faster than he thought he was able, he twisted right and down, his antlers connecting with the crack of his enemy's collar bone. The ramessin, despite his powerful armor, slammed into the reddening snow: motionless.

From behind, he heard movement in the snow.

Spinning in his rightward arc, still favoring the left side of his body, he saw a shadow and lunged to meet it. Lifting his head, he felt the impact on his neck and lower jaw. His tusk-like horn had found its horn. With a lift and twist, he sent the punctured ramessin flying. Like its predecessor, when it hit the ground: it no longer moved.

The wolves backed away.

They must have spent their ranged weapons in the initial assault. They circled and snarled and each carried a cold weapon.

Ered's vision twisted and shuddered, blurring. He snorted and roared his booming voice, trying to clear his head. He would not go down; not this close to their destination.

But what hope did he have?

Even if they survived this assault, the almara still needed to be escorted back to Granite Hearth. The way would be longer than long. As his injuries mounted, he found himself doubting he could make even a tenth of the distance, back. But she was of his pack; his bond was to see this through. And he would find a way.

Another lunge; another wolf meeting an end by his strength. He pulled back his fist and saw ramessin blood on his fur.

He kept turning and the wolves circled him. The knot closed in.

Oben was watching.

Outside of the circle, Oben had stopped and was looking between Onid and Balmyrra. The old woman had apparently taken a shot, risen, and started to limp south towards the marsh's edge. But Oben was torn.

"Forget me! Help Almara Balm--"

A wolf slashed inwards, surprising him. He felt the cut of the blade against the left side of his muzzle. Reflexively, he kicked with his close leg.

Pain erupted from his side.

He slipped.

He fell.

The predators around him surged inwards.

From afar, he heard the words shouted from Onid's mouth. Through a red blur, he spied the surprise attack getting closer and closer to her and Oben and Balmyrra. Her words were horrifying and boomed with a tone of deathly finality. Even Almara Balmyrra stopped in her staggered flight to look back, aghast.

A wind rushed outward from Onid, brushing snow up into rippling orbs of water. They steamed and boiled, pushing past each of the surviving dagdarra. There were ten of them: each, perhaps, half the size of a single ramessin. But each, when striking one of the wolven attackers, consumed them and began to boil them, alive.

Several that were closing in on Ered were knocked aside by the watery attack.

This made the others refocus their attention.

Even the incoming attackers from the west slowed as two of them were consumed and slowly drowned and boiled.

He saw Onid drop to her knees. Oben also saw this.

Ered didn't have the strength to call out to him.

Oben ran away from both he and the almara towards his sister and grabbed her up in his arms.

He tried to rise, but couldn't.

The ramessin were re-grouping and he spied their leader, the scrawny wolf behind him, draw his damnable gun. He raised it and took aim at Onid.

With what energy he had left, Ered charged.

He charged through two ramessin; felt their blades cut deep. He ignored the pain and pushed on. Their leader saw him coming.

The ramessin pivoted and changed targets.

Pain erupted for a miniscule instant in the center of Ered's forehead before, bringing in its wake, B?nor's eternal darkness.

His body--bloody, beaten, and broken--collapsed to the snow in the middle of the swirling storm's frigid embrace.

They watched the battle play out on the snows, before them. The white wolfen came at the caribou-like giants from first two and, then, three sides. The enemies used feints and division tactics on each other but it was hard to tell who was winning. When the first of the giants went down, Marek was unsettled.

"They're not like any wolfen I've met before," he muttered.

Keerg shrugged. "They look like wolfen to me."

Marek shook his head. "We're basically divided along fur color with some minor differences in height and build. The real divisions are cultural. But those down there: they aren't Breiden, Arven, or Mayrene. And their tactics..."

"They know ...they understand... each other," the gryphon said.

"Exactly."

Cyan frowned.

With Bennet back on the ship tending to Reita's wings, the rest had come as swiftly as they could on the ship's life boat to take stock of the situation. The stormwalls still surged and spun; no one else had followed them through. It was a miracle they, themselves, had survived.

"This was meant for us to see," Cyan mused.

Their hiding space was less than a hundred yards from the conflict. The jessai'id had managed to call up drifting clouds of snow to cover their approach. This time, she hadn't said "Urdon provides." She was weak--they all were--and moving had been last on their minds. But the battle had drawn them. They had to know more.

"Urdon wants us to intervene?"

She shook her head in answer to Marek's question. "I don't ... know." She looked at him. Her expression was concerned. "He's been remarkably quiet since we pierced the wall."

Marek didn't know what to make of that, so he turned his attention back to the fight. When they'd landing, the white wolfen had been closing ground. But by the time they had boarded their lifeboat and come this far, it looked almost over. But those giant deer-like creatures were putting up a solid fight. A few more gunshots rang out and Marek pulled back behind the outcropping of boulders behind which they had landed their aerial lifeboat.

"I think this island came from a world inhabited by wolfen; just of a different color," Marek mused.

"And those giants? Soulless monsters?" Keerg asked.

Cyan closed her eyes rather than answering, directly. When she opened them, again, she looked unfocused; distracted.

"I think..." Abruptly, she snapped out of her reverie. "No... No, they're not soulless... They're ... mortal."

The other two looked back, surprised.

"A new race; a new type of people?"

Cyan nodded to Keerg. "Without storm dragons to change them, I suppose ... yes."

Marek set his jaw. The intricate nature of "souls" and how it impacted so much in Talvali was something he didn't like very much. It smacked too much of predestination and astrology for his liking. But, at the same time, Talvali had many different rules and he had had to learn them. Creatures without souls were slaves to their fundamental essence. They were, at best, animals. At worst, they were demons, devils, or monsters.

He, he had been told, had a soul when he arrived on the world. That was why the storm dragons converted him. It was why he was now one of the arven wolfen. The few who hadn't shunned him as a newcomer had said no one knew how or why the storm dragons chose to bring the worlds they brought into the skies over Talvali. No one knew why they transformed certain people into one race or another. Marek had been human and there certainly were plenty of humans on Talvali. Maybe, some said, his outlook was more wolfen than human but that was something he couldn't say with sureness.

Now, watching two bands of beings battling it out--with Cyan's statement that the giants had souls; souls like whatever had been sensed in him--he felt a surge of pain, within.

"We gotta stop this," he muttered.

"What?"

Marek shot Keerg a tired glance. "I guess we don't get to rest and recuperate."

With that, and before either Keerg or Cyan could act, he rose, vaulted over their snow-covered cover, and drew his pistol. Both shouted after him, but neither moved fast enough to pull him back. He ran towards the battle and fired a shot into the air.

It didn't surprise him than none seemed to notice.

Marek had lost one life only to gain another. Many had been with him in the cities during the days leading up to the Twin Ruins entering the skies over Talvali. They didn't even have each other when they had arrived. Their world crumbled as it was converted. Even their island started falling apart. It still existed, high in the lightlands, but it was a desolate remnant of two cities meeting at a dried-up, frozen-over riverbed.

The wolfen he saw before him could shift and change. That made them different from any breed on Talvali. The giant caribou-like beings were taller than even the bull-like terrmorah or the reclusive, giant trolls. But both these groups, whatever their background, didn't know what they had lost.

They didn't know that their world was gone.

And here they were: trying to kill one another.

He felt tears freeze in the fur beneath his eyes at the bridge of his muzzle. He didn't wipe them away even as they blurred his vision. Instead, he fired again: this time, at the ground by where a dozen-or-so white wolfen were breaking away from a fallen caribou to go after the remaining three.

His shot got their attention.

"That's it! Fuck off! Yeah: you heard me!"

Marek doubted they knew his tongue. The language he had spoken back home had been replaced--meaning by meaning and syllable by syllable--to the widely-spoken tongue of the gryphons. It was colloquially known as the trade tongue. But, again: no dragons meant no translation.

The wolfen, before him, seemed to take notice and pause in awe as he ran across the snow and ice. Even the shaggy, brown, antlered giants looked at him with numb expressions on their faces.

Keerg's shadow briefly occluded the lighter grey of the skies. He felt the rush of wind as the gryphon banked up and over him. Then, came the roar: a cross of that of a lion and a giant, predatory bird. Gryphons could be terrifying when they wanted to be ... and, often, they wanted to be.

"Hold back!" he cried. "I'll put the fear of Nephillus into them and you can run back to Lady Cyan!"

"I don't need saving!" But, already, Keerg was out of range.

The gryphon had a wingspan that, at its most broad, was some twenty feet from feather-tip to feather-tip. They attached to the upper back in a knot of muscle, ligament, flesh, blood, and bone that made them amongst the strongest beings in the world. When he dove at the wolfen and caribou, shrieking as he did, the smaller beings scattered.

The male caribou, positioning himself between Keerg and the female he was with, hurtled a chunk of ice that struck Keerg in the side of the head.

The gryphon dropped like a stone.

"Marek! Get back here!"

He looked back at Cyan. Clothed in furs, enchanted to help her reptilian body withstand the cold, she looked suddenly vulnerable: all alone and without her bodyguards. But of the two, she was the strongest. She had the voice of a godly servant in her head. Marek just had himself.

"I'm sorry," he shouted. "I have to help!"

Turning, he saw the wolfen had split in two groups: the nearest eight, now all bipedal and stalking towards him with drawn swords.

Marek stopped and gestured with his gun. Slowly, he aimed it skyward. He fired and saw several start at the report. Then, he took deliberate aim at the one in the lead.

"Don't ... move."

Both groups of wolfen looked in his direction. He had their attention.

Then one, holding an old-fashioned pistol, hefted the unconscious form of Keerg up from the snow. Blood ran into his feathers and froze along the side of his beak. The wolfen holding him, put the gun to his temple and shouted a series of words Marek couldn't understand.

But their meaning was clear.

"Marek!"

He kept the gun pointed into the now cautiously-advancing wolfen while shouting back to Cyan, "Get back to the ship; I'll hold them off."

"No," she replied. Her voice was stronger and he could hear the snow crunching under her body's weight. "All the devil's damn you, Marek, but no. I'll not let this be." She finished by slithering up next to him and drawing her upper third higher than normal.

The look on the white wolfen's faces almost made Marek laugh. He kept his gun trained on them as the band coming from the left surrounded the last three caribou: one, lying and panting in the snow, and the other two, standing back-to-back.

"What now?" he asked.

Cyan actually laughed. It was a cold and surprised laugh, but it was honest. "Oh? You're only now thinking of that?" She shook her head, incredulously. "You're lucky I didn't try to retreat."

"Sorry; it was the heat of the moment that got me."

"Heat of the what?" she asked. "Never mind. You newcomers and your strange sayings."

"What can we do? They don't understand us."

"I'll see what I can achieve. Language, after all, is the essence of negotiation and balance."

The white wolfen with the gun shouted, again, jutting his gun into the side of Keerg's face. He nodded to the others, who seemed to take orders from him, and they began walking towards them, fanning out. Marek snarled and fired another round. This one went into the snow just ahead of the nearest white wolfen.

It made him pause, but he resumed his march following another command from his leader.

Cyan began to pray.

"What are you doing?" The others were now looking at her, hearing the rising pitch of Cyan's voice, and starting to look concerned. "You're scaring them."

But Cyan didn't stop. She raised her arms to the skies and called out Urdon's name...

And a gunshot went through her chest.

"Damn it!" Marek fired his last three shots into the advancing wolves and dove to help the jessai'id.

Blood poured from a viscous wound in her furs. But it was only on the front; the bullet had been slowed by her scaled hide and not come out her back. She was gasping in pain, panting, and hissing through her sharp teeth.

"I ... am ... sorry..." she hissed.

"Advance! Lyste, you coward: get them! I'm out of bullets!"

The savage voices sank in.

Marek could understand them. As the white wolfen ran up to him, he looked from Cyan to the band surrounding them. She had done it; done ... something. They could understand one another.

The first among them, the one their leader had identified as "Lyste", trudged through the snow at great speed and levelled his blade at Marek's throat.

"Don't move, monster," he snarled.

"I'm not a monster," Marek replied, slowly and with annunciation.

Lyste looked surprised to hear the speech.

"He speaks the ramessin tongue!" he shouted back.

"I don't care of he speaks dagdarra," the leader returned. "Take him into custody!" He looked to the other part of his wolfen and addressed a female who had led the pincer movement from the far side. "Naia: take those hoof-meat down. Now!"

"At once, lieutenant!" the wolfen replied.

She and her group closed around the last three, raising their blades to the stormy sky.

...And the world, froze...

Between them all, standing in the snow, was a black column of fire, wreathed with feathers and sounding like a perpetual flock of birds taking flight. From within it roared a voice echoing with silent murmurs.

All shall be still! The voice, unheard save by the heart and mind, was commanding and final.

The emotion, the force of impetus, that it carried made Marek's heart skip a beat. He gasped at the cold sensation in his chest and watched as the other wolfen did the same.

I have brought you here for a purpose, the column roared. And I shall brook no interference with my chosen.

The column collapsed into itself and spread outwards over the ice and snow. In moments it re-coalesced by the two, still-standing caribou.

A new world awaits you, my children.

I am destruction and the end; the dissolution of all things which must come before rebirth. The voice was not so much heard as felt. And each saw something different, looking upon it. The shapes in the column of shadow were many things, all at once.

Rith gasped and fell to his knees. "Ishmar's Hand..."

Onid cast her gaze at the ground. "B?nor."

Marek heard Cyan gasp as she bled into the snow, "Nephillus..."

The column was hard to look at. It was so many things at once, they fought for space within the mind. It made eyes water and hearts race. It hurt the head and made the throat go dry.

The last war of gods has commenced. My brother lies dead and there shall be no spring unless you, my champions, can do what gods cannot.

Marek tried to help staunch the flow of blood from Cyan's wound while Rith pleaded with Tephen to run; that the Hand of Ishmar was here for him. Oben, failing to urge his sister to stand, looked from where Balmyrra lay in the snow to the black column.

"You are not B?nor," he said. "You look nothing like our goddess."

And yet, I am she.

"No! That's Nephillus: god of destruction," Marek shouted.

Oben looked to Marek and then back at the black column of fire and feathers. "You say you brought us, here. Where is 'here' and what do you want?"

I want you to liberate the tool by which I will save all. An ancient weapon, a blessed relic, trapped within mortal trappings and without a soul: barred from divine hands. You shall gather it for me.

"Why? Why us?" Onid had spoken up, now, and stood beside her brother.

Because, in all the Outer Outside, you worship me to exclusion. I would have you, here.

"Marek..." Cyan coughed blood but pulled herself closer to her guide. "Marek, this is a heresy; a blasphemy."

"I can see that. But I don't know what--"

"Kill me."

"What?"

"Kill ... me. I'm dying, but not ... fast enough." She leaned in and hissed into his ear. "Release ... Urdon..."

The dagdarra siblings, led by Onid, strode forward through the snows. "I do not recognize you," Oben said. "Neither does my sister."

"You are not B?nor," Onid added. "You are a demon; a trickster, but not our goddess."

You have no choice! The voice that boomed through their minds send darkness before their vision and coal dust before their senses of smell. If you do not, these curs will devour you all. Say you shall serve me and I shall send them away.

Rith pulled at Tephen's shoulder. "We need to run. Please; if you ever loved me--"

Tephen snarled and slapped Rith across the muzzle with the back of his gauntleted hand. "Silence!"

Marek bent low over Cyan and shook his head. "I can't. You can't be serious, I..." But she had fallen into unconsciousness.

"B?nor's tales are full of stories of spirits that trick and confound," Onid said. "You can't turn us!"

"But maybe he doesn't have to," Tephen said. The ramessin stepped forward and the column's internal shapes focussed upon him. "I can't say I know this form but you are clearly an aspect of Ishmar: goddess of death. But you speak with a man's voice."

I speak with the voice that is recognized.

"As you say," Tephen replied. "But the dagdarra: they do not worship you in all your greatness. They are primitive; simple and backwards. They have no strength and have been banished to the cold north as they deserve. The ramessin, however--"

The ramessin are impure; they do not know my completeness.

"Tephen, please..."

He ignored Rith and strode forward. "But we have the power to do your bidding. If you can release us from this storm, we can take the dagdarra's place as your ... favored." He spat the last word out as if it tasted bad.

The column contracted, just a little.

Marek felt the world churning around him. Everything seemed to be spinning out of control. He could feel the darkness as a tangible thing ... as if it were spreading through the snow, ice, and people, to corrupt and break it. This white wolfen, this ramessin, was clearly mad.

He looked down at Cyan and felt a horrible responsibility come over him.

Agreed.

"No! You have no power here," Onid shouted. "Leave this place, lest I--"

Her voice choked off and she pitched forward, gasping from black wounds spreading across her neck and face. Oben caught her but cried out as similar wounds erupted upon his body, too.

You shall retrieve the scorpion spear, the black column intoned. You shall do what a god's hands cannot and bring it back, here, for me to use. This is your charge.

"No!" Marek was not sure if his denial was shouted at the darkness, the situation, or the inescapable task before him. He drew the short hunting dagger from his belt and plunged it into Cyan's forehead.

In that moment, there was a burst of sound. It toned like a bell and the note hung in the air, inundating everything. The column of darkness began to shudder and break. Then, it burst: a wave of shadow washing over the landscape. And in its wake, each ramessin vanished: one after the other. Only Rith, cowering in the snow, remained of them.

And as the tone faded, a shimmering in the air settled over Balmyrra, where she lay.

The mark on her forehead, rose, like a bird taking wing. It soared aloft, circled them once, and then dove to the two remaining dagdarra.

Oben shouted in pain as it struck his forehead.

It sank within.

And the mark of the almara reappeared.

The last vestiges of the chime and darkness vanished from the plains.

And, in the distance, the stormwalls finally collapsed into nothing more than gusting winds.

End Of Part One