Excerpt: Shadow of a Billion Worlds

Chapter One: Beneath the Rowan Boughs

White sheets billowed against the sky, conjuring visions of tall, proud sailing ships ... or ephemeral, haunting ghosts. The wind was dry and hot but a relief as late afternoon turned to autumn evening. On the Tuskalau plains it was often the wind that made the difference. By day it would screen across the low hills, hugging the contours of badlands to the northwest, and scour the landscape of life with the ferocity of a wolf pack. The temperature would dip, then, as the winds brushed through the tall grasses and waving grains of the sparsely populated Gullivee province’s western edge. By night, the winds would rattle windows and shake walls, forcing cold wisps through the tiniest crack -the sparsest hole- to bring a shiver to the few residents who called this broad, sky-filled land, “home”.

This was the best time for the last of Dix’s chores: hanging the laundry on strong, wiry lines strung up by his Aunt Rhee. She’d been old when she’d hung them and they stood, bound between the hoary trunk of a rowan tree on one side and an iron post on the other, just as tough and resilient as the old woman. He admired that strength. Her fierceness was something he could only pray he would one day inherit.

But as he put up the worn, home-sewn sheets to take advantage of the first gusts of evening wind -hot off the grassy fields- he felt a flutter in the cavern of his chest. The whipping sound of damp, drying cloth brought memories -never far from the surface- and he wondered if there was anything prophetic about them.

Of course any strong wind reminded him of the past but something about this ... something about this evening boded ill.

“Waiting for life to happen, again?”

The suddenness of Caira’s voice didn’t startle him as much as strike Dix as continuously amazing. While much smaller than him, she still had an ability to sneak up that rivaled any cat.

The fact that she most closely resembled a three-foot-tall ferret in a roughly human shape only made it slightly less surprising.

“You don’t know me,” Dix responded. He fastened the loose end of one sheet to the clothesline and cast a gaze towards her voice. Sure enough, she’d come up Tamblin road from town and cut across the fallow eastern field of his Aunt’s farm.

“Oh, a mysterious man today, are you?” she jibed. She was still dressed in the light blue tunic of the temple; classes probably having gotten out early for the day. “Or are you merely feeling contrary?” She smiled genially with a full set of feral teeth and winked.

Dix sighed. “I didn’t tell you my problems just to have you throw them in my face every time you think you can crack me open.”

She smiled and sat down on a gnarled root of the tree, its knobs and bolls the size of a Tahvic’s head.

“You’re just embarrassed because you dared to open up, just once, and I’ve never let you forget it.”

“Can you blame me?”

She stuck out her tongue from her short, whiskered muzzle; green eyes flashing in contrast to her russet-brown fur.

Dix, by comparison, was virtually hairless: an oddity in this Tahvic land. Even his Aunt wasn’t like him; she’d taken him in when no one else would ... when he was merely a lost human child, stumbling through the low hills in search of food, water, and safety. It hadn’t been easy growing up in a community of small, fiery warriors like the ferret-like Tahvic but it had been made easier by the fact that he quickly outgrew the few boys his age and, now, stood nearly twice the height of any other adult in the land.

“I can blame you for always bringing it up,” he said, pulling up the last sheet to hang. “Versummus alone knows why I trusted you with that...”

She scowled. The statement bordered on blasphemy but she also knew that she’d said worse. “You regret it? Really?”

He shrugged, his back to her. He worked on hanging the sheet so that it wouldn’t drag in the dusty grasses below the clotheslines.

“Life doesn’t just happen,” she went on. “You may not like my father but -honestly- it wouldn’t hurt you to listen to one of his sermons one of these days. When was the last time you went to Temple?”

Again, he shrugged.

“I’ll tell you,” she went on.

“Like I could stop you,” he muttered.

“Two years ago; for Breismarch. That’s it. A lesser harvest festival over seven seasons ago!” She pouted and walked up next to him as he finished fastening the last sheet. Her small-clawed hand took his and she looked up into his face. He returned her gaze, working to remain placid and uninterested. “It doesn’t matter if you feel at home, there, you know. There are other reasons to come ... people to see...” She said this last in a quieter voice and he felt distinctly uncomfortable.

“Caira, your father doesn’t want me there any more than I do.”

She snorted, dismissively. “What can I say? He’s a racist! He may serve the Gods but nothing will change his mind that people over four feet tall aren’t to be trusted.” She smiled at that, even though they both knew her father’s all-Tahvic congregation and rather strong views against other races was of issue to her as well.

“Still, even if he didn’t have issues with me, what am I going to learn from him? When I said that I was waiting for my life, I was ... I wasn’t in my right mind...”

She nodded and put her other clawed hand over his. “That doesn’t make it any less true,” she said.

They stood there amongst the fluttering, damp sheets for a few minutes, the two friends taking solace -for just a moment- among the billowing fields of white contrasting against the brown farmlands all around them. The branches of the rowan creaked and groaned in the wind and Dix looked up at its waving branches. He wanted to tell her to leave it be; to forget that he’d ever said anything, but he knew it was no good. She was his closest friend and whether he wanted her to or not, she’d always try to help him. He opened his mouth to start to rebuke her, anyway, when the ship appeared, overhead in a roar and rush of arcane wind.

Overhead, previously occluded by lines of drying laundry, soared a ten-mast galleon, arcing low before an upswing on the turbulent Tuskalau winds. The bottom of the heavy, wooden hull arced a mere fifty feet above them, it’s lower hull dotted with encrusted, white crystals bathing the underside in a nigh-imperceptible halo of illumination. Ropes and sails rippled and cascaded above them, the top four centered down the hundred feet of the craft’s length while the remaining six masts angled out both above and below the horizon-line of the deck, aiding it in its navigation through the skies. Beyond it, casting its evening shadow over the Brithanial skyland upon which Dix and Caira stood agape, the underside of the floating, Cloudland island of Nahvatti cast its shadow over the scene.

Cool winds buffeted the tall, waving grasses, kicked up clouds of dust, and even made the old rowan bend with a sympathetic creaking of its own to echo that of the craft. The sound drowned out Caira’s shouted oath (a blasphemy to rival Dix’s) and her human companion shielded his eyes from the kicked-up clouds. The galleon completed the lowest part of its arc and started to tilt upwards, sails straining to catch an upward thermal.

The two stared, just barely able to hear the sounds of the hidden crew, above, as they navigated the windy plain.

Soon, the broad, white fan-shaped rudder came into view, it’s heavy canvas pulled taught and crewed by what looked like at least three Jessai’id. Their serpentine heads and strong arms were just barely visible leaning out into space, their hands pulling on the ropes to force the heavy vessel through its maneuvers.

The two watched as the sails filled out all along both the topside and underside of the skyship, catching a powerful current, and surged upwards again, increasing its speed and sailing away. They could see a small portion of the crew as it angled away from them -those who stood near the guardrails tying off ropes or manning the heavy cannons that were mounted there- and saw at least one Wolfen, a pair of humans, and what looked like three of the bullish Terrmorah in addition to the Jessai’id nagas.

“Raiders,” Caira finally said as the roaring of magically conjured winds abated. “Raiders over central Brithia!”

Dix just nodded. He’s seen such ships before and even been on a few in the days before he came to live here and the sight sent a shudder through his body. In his mind’s eye he could remember the cold, stinging winds from when he’d been just a boy of eleven; he smelled the scent of deck oil and sky pitch to protect the crew from the bitter elements at the higher elevations. He remembered the shouts, the rough treatment, and the brusque insults common among the sailors who called the skies their home. All of it had been pushed back from his daily thoughts for a long time and while never forgotten, the sight of the skyship brought it all rushing back to the foreground.

“They’re flying so low,” he muttered, still watching as the ship leveled off and continued towards the east. The plains rose into gently rounded hills, tilled by the few other farms and ranches that dotted the space in the intervening miles.

“You think they’ll make port at Avine?”

He shook his head, uncertain. “They’re moving awfully fast for that,” he said. Dix pushed his gut reaction to run and hide into the pit of his stomach. The ship was moving away; it had nothing to do with him. “I’d better tell Auntie Rhee, though; she’ll want to know if any trade ship’s come through...”

But another rush of wind and creaking of wood cut his comments, and whatever speculation he’d been about to share with his Tahvic companion, short. Cutting even lower along the contour of the ground, a smaller, fewer-masted vessel came following the first. With only one deck and fewer crystals dotting its hull, the cutter was hopelessly out of its league in terms of keeping up with the galleon and, yet, it moved with a speed that showed it desperately wanted to keep up. Catching the same current of wind, it arced skywards as Caira cursed, again, and dashed for the cover of the tree.

“What in all the damnable Underlands was that?” she shouted as it passed.

Dix didn’t have to answer.

With the suddenness of a stroke of lightning, a flash of pale blue light lit from the deck of the pursuing ship, coiling like a nest of snakes and erupting into a geyser of roiling steam towards the fleeing galleon. The conjured enchantment ripped through the air with a roar, closing the hundred yards between the two vessels in seconds and striking the tail section where the now-unseen Jessai’id had been working the rudder sail.

Magic crackled in the air like lightning as another enchantment launched a volley of small, red spheres at the larger ship. They buzzed like a swarm of hornets, closing on the fleeing vessel’s main mast. This time, however, the spell didn’t strike its intended target. A faint, blue envelope of energy sparked into being around the ship moments before the torrent struck, dissipating the attack in a fading wash of color and sound.

More than that, apparently not willing to take the attack with nothing more than flight, the larger galleon began slowly arcing towards its foe. The smaller cutter, seeing the pending maneuver, began to dive, coming even closer to the ground over the plains and turning back in the direction from which it had flown.

Caira grabbed Dix’s hand and with strength that would surprise anyone who didn’t know the Tahvic, pulled him towards the meager shelter under the branches of the rowan. “It’s a war!” she shouted. She shouted another invective that would have earned her priestly father’s condemnation, adding, “We have to get to shelter!”

“It’s a feud, not a war,” Dix responded. Still, he stumbled after her until both peered up through the sparse leaves and wind-gnarled branches of the tall, thick-trunked tree.

Just then the lead ship’s cannons came to bear upon their fierce pursuer. While nearly two hundred yards separated the two, now, the there was no mistaking the force that boomed like thunder and sent a half dozen cannonballs erupting across the intervening space. The sound, alone, shook the onlooker’s bones as they huddled beneath their solitary shelter.

More magic was clearly involved as three of the cannonballs’ trajectories were disrupted in short, quick arcs that made them miss the cutter. The other three came much closer -one even clipping the prow of the slender vessel in a shower of wood and metal fastenings- but the damage had been mitigated by a similar, protective enchantment.

The heavy cannonballs hit the ground with ferocious force, erupting in craters and sending earth, rocks, and debris flying for dozens of yards around each impact. The clothing line was severed with sheets and clothing rent and tattered. Stones and dirt pelted the two in their hiding place but, for the most part, they were spared injury.

“Feud or war, those two ships are going to kill us!” Caira exclaimed. “If they head to town, it could be disastrous; we’ve got to warn people and get to the Hole!” The “Hole”, the colloquialism for the shallow caves dug under Avine was where the town would go, en-masse during the most violent of storms that scoured the Tuskalau plains each autumn.

“I’ve got to get to Auntie Rhee,” Dix shouted over the creaking of the ship, overhead.

It had now arced so low that if they had climbed to the top of the tree, a good jump might enable them to touch its crystal-encrusted hull. But its downward motion halted at that point as it leveled out and caught a low gust, propelling itself rapidly long the plains. To Dix’s eyes, it looked as if it was trying to get beneath the galleon. It was probably the only hope the smaller ship had against the larger ship’s cannons.

The galleon, as if sensing the tactic, sharpened its turn and began to dive lower to cut off the accelerating cutter. The long, slender ship increased its speed, accordingly and banked starboard towards the south. Then, with an onslaught of heavy, white feathers, the equine form of a Pegasai launched himself from the cutter’s deck into the sky. Wearing a worn, bronze breastplate, bearing a small round shield on his left arm, and wielding a long, wicked spear in his right hand, he beat his wings and soared towards the turning ship.

Dix felt his heart race. The other ship was also sending out its winged crew, but they were not members of any of the Twenty Peoples. Rather, they were mongrels ... Whimsies; customized, patchwork creations. While all were different, each of these bore wings along with fangs and claws: sculpted by some wizard for the purpose of aerial combat. Feud or war, the smaller ship was going to lose.

The groups engaged mid-air, with the humanoid, winged horse using his spear and shield to keep the small, bat-winged whimsies from getting close enough to use their swords or vicious teeth. Another spell flared from the deck of the cutter, erupting with a new geyser of steam at its target: the galleon. They may lose, but they were going to make a good showing in the process.

Caira looked conflicted for a moment and cast a glance between her human friend and the fight going on in the sky, overhead. Dashing a look of regret, she grabbed Dix’s arm and shouted over the noise of battle. “Go! Now! Get your Aunt, saddle a horse, and get to town!”

“What about you?”

“I’m a fast runner, remember?” she asked with a grin. That said, she took off, her small body daring between the tall grasses towards the road.

Dix just nodded and turned towards the small farmhouse that was his home.

A hundred fifty yards distant, the single-level dwelling had a bowed front and square back, like most Tahvic homes. The windows were small and narrow beneath peaked frames that jutted out to keep the sparse rains from getting in around the edges. Thatch was woven into dried clay to make up the sides and rare, valuable wooden shingles roses gently to a semi-rounded peak at the center. Only nearby were the two, squat, square buildings that housed the working farm’s equipment and livestock.

Dix ran swiftly, booms of the galleon’s cannons shaking the air and sending rumbles through the ground where they struck. As he reached the natural branch gate to the fence surrounding the house, Aunt Rhee came out of the farmhouse.

Dressed in tough, rawhide pants and a voluminous, heavy blouse, she was the picture of a hardy, plains farmer. She scowled as her small, bright eyes scanned the sky; she shook her head as Dix came running up.

“What, by all the storms, is that?” she demanded. She pointed at the sky; her faded, graying fur blew wildly in the wind. A cannonball struck in the fields not fifty yards away, sending a shockwave that deafened Dix’s reply.

“Just get inside!” he shouted.

Two more detonations erupted nearby as cannonballs either missing the cutter or tearing clean through it, hit the ground producing craters with high-velocity eruptions of rock, plants, and sandy soil. Dix half-leapt and was half-thrown forward by the explosion. Pain seared his shoulders and back as hundreds of small rocks were propelled through his red, cotton jerkin. He didn’t stop to assess the damage; he merely scrambled forward to put the door-side rain barrel between him and the distant combatants.

His Aunt shouted his name but wasn’t paralyzed. She dashed forward to him, her small body making itself busy as she examined the wounds on her adoptive nephew’s body.

“Auntie, don’t; just get...”

“Hush; you’re hurt,” she snapped. She had been only a few yards further away from the blast point, herself, but luck had spared her anything but dust and dirt. That, alone, would earn the Raiders in their galleon her wrath for forcing her to do extra laundry let alone the huge holes being bombed into her property. Rhee pulled off his shirt and examined the two-dozen small cuts and holes in his skin. With her small claw tips, she removed most of the debris and pronounced him well enough to stand.

“Auntie, just get inside,” he repeated. Her preening in such a dangerous situation flustered him. Another cannonball struck their eastern fields as the two ships tangled some more. It wasn’t close enough to hurt anything but produced another massive crater in the farm property.

“May all the Devils and Demons of the Underlands take them,” she swore, and allowed herself to be taken inside.

“They’re moving away, but not fast enough,” he said, mostly to himself. “Look, you should get down into the cellar. Once they’ve moved off, we should head for town.”

“Hmph,” she proclaimed, leading him into the center of their tiny, old home. “My husband, rest him, and I have never had to use The Hole in all our years, out here, and I don’t see any reason to start, now!”

“Auntie, please, just ... trust me.” He ushered her towards the low door at the side of the kitchen. It was heavy and wax-sealed, requiring a goodly amount of his greater, human strength to open it. Behind the ceiling dropped away precipitously into the root cellar.

Having been dug by her late husband, a solid, hard-working farmer as everyone described him to Dix, it was strictly engineered for the height of the home’s intended dwellers. Unless he went down on all fours, Dix couldn’t easily fit in the three-foot-high space.

“Just stay down there,” he said. In the distance, he could hear more booms, reassuringly moving farther away. “I’ll keep an eye on them from the main room.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” she said with finality.

Grabbing him by the arm, she ignored his protests and pulled him down the earthen ramp into the cellar. He crawled after her, glad -for once- that he had no trace of claustrophobia. The sounds of aerial battle became even more muffled and distant. The smells of warm earth, clay jars of pickled tallust-grains, and smoked rheime wrapped themselves around the two. Even as the sounds faded, outside, however, they waited. Dix moved carefully and managed to sit up in a corner near the ramp’s base. Even sitting, his head pushed against the ceiling.

Rhee lit a candle from her pocket with one of the expensive, sulfur-tipped matches she had bought at the faire last autumn.

“Now,” she said, setting the lit candle on a low shelf, “we wait.”

Dix smiled, despite himself. His memories of his birth mother were fairly clear, but he found it hard to imagine her risking life and limb for him. She’d been a mellower sort; fond of poems and song ... not at all like the small, old Tahvic woman who’d taken him in. She’d loved him, that was for sure, but Auntie Rhee treated him as if he was her own.

She snorted, looking at him in the dim, flickering light. “Hmph. You used to fit down here,” she said, brusquely.

“I’ve been growing,” he said, simply. He had to suppress a smile. Rhee was tall for a Tahvic, just a hair over three feet tall; slender, and wiry, she wore her age well.

“Well, you should have had the good sense to stop when you first came here,” she huffed. She walked over to a shelf and examined a jar that had been shaken by the recent fighting. She scowled at the broken, wax seal. “Here,” she said, handing it to Dix, “we’ll have to eat these, soon.”

Dix nodded and pried the remainder of the wax off the lid. “We should check the rest of them, too,” he added. He fished one of the large, plump, bristly grains out of the jar and inhaled the pungent aroma of vinegar, salt, and sugar used to cure it. Tallust could be made into fine breads, but he always liked the local custom of pickling the less-smooth grains and eating them whole during winter and spring.

“How I keep you fed is beyond me,” she muttered. She checked each urn in turn, making sure none of the others had been damaged. She also made certain that the hanging meats were still affixed properly to the low rafters.

Meanwhile, Dix just listened and kept one hand flat against the earthen wall, feeling each distant impact grow weaker and weaker.

Eventually, Rhee came over and sait down beside him, putting one small paw on his knee. “Andi would have loved you,” she said of her husband. “You’re strong, tough, and brave ... for a human.”

He smiled at the compliment. “And you’re loving ... for a Tahvic.”

“Pfsh,” she breathed, waving a hand dismissively. “Youngsters need a firm hand to grow up tough. It’s a harsh world out there, boy; don’t you forget it!”

“I won’t, Auntie,” he promised.

But that was the part of the problem. While there were a few humans living in Brithia, the majority of its inhabitants were Tahvic. He knew their way of life better than almost any other. In fact it was, by their culture, his sixteenth birthday that made him an adult, now. It was at that time he was supposed to decide what to do with himself. But no matter what it was, it would require change and, frankly, he didn’t know what direction he wanted to risk. He certainly didn’t want to leave Rhee no matter how much of an outcast he was, here. And, certainly, he didn’t really have any great ambition to go out into the world, either. He could stay, remaining a farmer, but that felt more like taking the easiest path that had been presented to him in the various twists and turns his life had taken to bring him this far.

No, Dix didn’t like change and he felt it would be considerably more difficult than his Tahvic contemporaries to make choices about his future.

The booms had almost completely died away.

“I’m going to take a look,” he said, simply.

Rhee set her jaw and scowled at him.

“Look, Auntie, there’s no need for both of us to go upstairs. Besides, I’ll be back down in a minute.”

She looked him in the eyes and nodded. “Well, if you insist.” She leaned forward and planted a small kiss on his cheek. “You’re a good man, Dix; a good, brave man...”

He smiled and nodded back before turning onto his hands and knees and crawling up the dirt incline to the cellar door.

The kitchen was a bit askew with several pots knocked off their shelves and one chair on its side. Righting it, he walked to the front door and opened it to look out. The two ships were still visible, nearly a mile away, with flashes of light and distant booms of thunder echoing between them. Small figures swooped and soared above the cutter; there was no sign of the winged horse.

Turning to call to his Aunt, a sudden wail came across the plains. He glanced up, sharply.

The relatively clear skies were starting to become heavy with clouds and the wind began to grow fiercer. Above the galleon, he saw the cause. A column of black smoke rose from the deck, expanding as if from a massive bonfire, but collecting in a broad, flat cloud deck. Flashes lit it from within, as lightning roiled and thunder rumbled. He could smell the dark weather from here and realized with a sinking in his stomach that some Wizard spell had been unleashed upon the cutter.

He ran out to the nearby fence and stared, watching the storm clouds grow and the smaller ship bank and try to escape. Bolts of lightning welled up from within the clouds and began striking at the craft like the fists of an angry God. The winds, he could tell, were incredible; the surprised, pursuing ship’s sails were being rent asunder and its long bulk was listing towards the ground.

With the galleon rising on the updrafts of the conjured storm, the cutter was halted, blown back, and -with the splintering of thick, wooden beams- began to go down just over a mile away on the Tamblin road. Although the dark silhouettes on the sky that represented the whimsies were clearly on the side of the galleon, not all of them made it back to the deck before being caught up in the arcane storm and dashed to the ground as distant, black specks. It was like watching a whirling flock of crows caught in a windstorm, unable to flee - unable to fly, and desperately looking to the spiraling heavens as if to ask why the Gods would turn on them, so.

The cutter glowed with magical light from deep within its hull, outstripping the air crystals set into its hull, whether trying to repair itself or keep from striking the earth, Dix couldn’t tell. He felt his heart racing, realizing that Caira had run in exactly that direction.

The shadow of the ship grew wider as it neared the ground. The Tamblin road was just wide enough for two loaded carts to pass each other; somewhere along that road, if she hadn’t reached Avine yet, was his long-time friend. He’d been in the basement for at least fifteen minutes; perhaps longer. Avine Town was seven miles distant.

“Damnation,” he muttered, “Caira, please be well...”

He started jogging eastwards, unsure of what he would do if he reached the area and found the Tahvic injured ... or worse. It was the crash of the distant ship, reflected in his grey eyes, that shook him out of his impetuous charge. A wind-dashed cloud of dust and smoke erupted amongst the thunderous cracking of wood and sail, some two miles away. He realized he had been running and now stood near the edge of his Aunt’s property.

Gusting powerfully, a secondary eruption of sound and fury shook his bones and nearly knocked him to the ground. A slice of lightning rent the sky as heavy, hot drops of rain began to fall. He looked up, eyes wide, as he saw the conjured storm rolling west and growing in strength. The few stands of trees planted along the road by the long fence that marked the edge of the farm bent low. With a groan and eruption of splinters, one of the trees snapped and was blown directly towards him.

Throwing himself to the ground, he felt the rough branches of the windblown birch strike his back and legs. He was rolled over and over, the wind catching his clothing and dust clogging both his vision and lungs.

Straining, he dug with his hands against the ground, trying to steady himself. Eventually, amongst the buffeting winds and pouring rain, he managed it. Streams of water down his face washed the dust and dirt from beneath his eyes in streams of brown tears. Looking up, though, his heart nearly stopped.

The clouds had begun to swirl.

Out here on the plains, hills were slight and trees, rare. The few that were here had been planted by Tahvic farmers of generations past and didn’t serve as impediments to the stronger storms. And, here, driven by this magically called collusion of wind, water, and thunder, it was building into a nightmare.

Columns began to form, reaching out of the now-dark sky like deathly fingers straining to rip into the earth. He could no longer see the floating Nahvatti Cloudland nor the distant range of hills beyond the now-lost lines of laundry. What he could see, however, was what was in the path of the storm.

Dix pulled himself to his feet. He strained against the wind and shouted his Aunt’s name. He could feel the sound leave his lips but the roar of the winds drowned it out. He began to run, thinking that if he could get to her in time, he could get her out and, maybe, to the east; out of the storm’s path. Normally, they would seek refuge in the cellar if a truly bad storm arose but it was hardly ideal, now, and three -no, four- tornadoes were descending upon it.

Legs burning and skin stinging from where debris struck him, Dix pushed himself harder than he had in years. A hundred yards away ... then eighty. Sixty...

The first of the slender tornadoes struck the small, ramshackle farmhouse. Dix screamed in frustration and fear, still running.

At forty yards, the building fell in and was struck, again, by another of the whirlwinds. Rain was turning the dry fields to mud and he slipped, falling into the much and harsh, blowing grasses. His eyes, though, wouldn’t leave the scene before him. He couldn’t tear them away. His stomach felt cold and empty; his body shivered as he watched the elements decimate his home.

He walked the last thirty yards as the winds died down just enough to let him move without fighting; the bulk of the storm continued westward. There were other farms that way, neighbors and community members, but they were far from his thoughts.

“Auntie...” He slowly began to sift through the debris, fearing the worst.

Within the hour, it was confirmed.

All he could do was stare. He didn’t even fall to his knees or let out a wail. He just stared, feeling his heart beating in what felt like a hollow, cold chest. Salty water stung his eyes as the final rumblings of thunder roiled in the distant, western clouds.

The normal winds returned to the plains: blustery and warm. His clothing began to dry in the gusts and his brown hair whipped around his temples. Slowly, he turned towards the Tamblin road. His eyes fixed on the spot where he’d seen the cutter go down. He set his jaw and began to take long, steady strides. His speed increased as the emotion from deep within him boiled through his veins and forced his legs to move faster. Soon, he was running through the mud-soaked fields, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes.

How long it took him to run the distance, he had no idea. Devastated farms were on both sides of the road but at least each of the homes was still standing. One Tahvic family was out herding their sheep in to what remained of their barn and another was looking towards town. Dix didn’t care. Soon, he saw more of the humanoid ferrets and, beyond them, the crashed hulk of the cutter.

A tall, human woman was hard at work amongst the wreckage assisted by one of the leonine Auranath. The crowd of Tahvic around them was talking and muttering, angrily surveying the pair and their downed craft. In a region where Dix was the only human, it was easy to spot the outsiders.

The muscle-bound lion gripped a heavy woodaxe and was using it to pry the fist-sized, quart-like air crystals from the hull while the human woman, clad in heavy aerial leathers, was sorting through wreckage and adding to a large pile. No one was approaching them and, for their part, they seemed to be ignoring the gathered rural folk over whose farms they had fought.

“More are still comin’,” the lion rumbled. He didn’t look up, but it was clear he was speaking to the woman.

“Let ‘em; let’s finish what we can before a magistrate or judge arrives.”

They were speaking Low Trade, one of the three languages Dix knew; the common-most of the Raiders. In some parts of the world Raiders were highly respected as adventurers or mercenaries; in others they were seen as little more than thieves or slavers. He’d had enough experience with them to cast them in the latter category.

“Aye, captain,” the lion responded. He moved on to another crystal but that was all Dix needed to hear.

With a shout of pure rage, he broke from the crowd of watching Tahvic and dove at the woman.

She was fast; faster than Dix, and she came around from her crouch and nearly had her sword out of its sheath before he was on her. But more than her weapon, she had experience as a fighter and brought her knee up, squarely into Dix’s groin. The crack of her leather-clad fist took him in the jaw and sent him falling back into the muddy roadside.

“Murderers!” he shouted. Picking up a large rock, he brandished it as the Auranath drew his sword to match that of his captain.

The woman looked unimpressed but, nonetheless, wary. The crowd behind Dix hadn’t attacked them, yet, but it was looking increasingly ugly.

“Look, I don’t know what we did, but our fight is not with...”

“You killed Rhee, you bastards!” He hurled the rock; the captain easily side-stepped it, her face darkening. “You killed my Aunt!”

“And we lost Davan; my closest friend,” snarled the lion, striding forward with purpose. “You want I should take it out on you, little man?” His teeth were bared as he hefted his sword.

He was nearly six and a half feet tall but this didn’t stop the surrounding Tahvic from falling in close, behind Dix. He’d never been popular in the insular community of diminutive warriors but when faced with strangers, they nonetheless saw him as one of their own. Faces darkened and slender muzzles snarled as the assembled farmers brandished rocks, tools, and other implements.

Dix didn’t notice.

“You think I care?” he demanded. “You ... you brought this fight, here! Why? Gods, why?!” He threw another stone, this time at the Auranath.

The hulking man sidestepped it but got grazed in the leg. “Damn this...” he swore. He advanced, brandishing his sword.

“Enough! Rand; I said stop!” the captain shouted. She never took her eyes off Dix or the small crowd of Tahvic, crowding close behind him.

“Mebbe ya’ll should back away,” farmer Oahm muttered, brandishing a flensing knife. He owned a local pig farm and was one of the largest Tahvic.

“Unless you want to be pulling sharp teeth from your hides,” added his wife, picking up a large stone.

The Auranath looked like he was ready to explode. His slitted, green eyes narrowed and he took another step forward, his sword tip lowered menacingly to the height of the assembled farmers. This time, however, the captain shouted her command and stepped forward to drive it home. “Rand! I said, ‘stop’!”

“I’m not afraid of these ... peasants!” he roared back. He half-turned to face her. “I’ve fought worse monsters and darker magics than any of these things can even imagine! And yet this little kid gets pissed at us? We didn’t cause this!”

“Yes, we did!” she said, icily. Her gaze narrowed.

“And I’m not ‘a kid’,” Dix said, stepping forward. “You ... you just had to bring your war to our homes, didn’t you? You didn’t care who got caught in the crossfire, did you? And when your storm went rogue and called down those twisters...!”

“That wasn’t us,” the Auranath roared back. His mane whipped around his shoulders like a halo of fire as he fixed Dix with an unwavering stare. “And you’re not the only one who lost someone!”

“Rand; that’s enough! Get below deck; now!”

“What deck?” The lion half-laughed as he responded by waving a shaggy arm at the mostly demolished air ship. “We’ve lost, Leine; we’ve lost it all...!”

“That’s ‘Captain Caul’ to you, Rand,” she snapped. “Now get inside before you force me to do something I’d regret!”

“No!” Dix shouted. “You’re all guilty! You were chasin’ that other ship; I saw! This is your fault!”

Captain Caul turned her stare fixedly upon Dix. “You trying to get yourself killed, kid?” she asked. “Now simmer down while we try to talk this out.”

“Murderers!”

He picked up and threw another stone but, this time, it bounced off of the air a full three feet in front of the captain. There was no sign of light or wind, just a space in front of her beyond which the stone refused to pass. As if striking an unseen wall, it bounced back and hit the ground at Dix’s feet. From the wrecked craft, a single figure emerged, draped in a heavy, midnight blue cloak. The stranger wore similarly dark gloves and boots, the leggings of a brown pair of trousers visible beneath the hem of an embroidered kilt. His face was mostly obscured but -eerily- Dix could just make out a pale, blue glow from his eyes.

“I think,” he said with a heavy accent, “you should take Captain Caul’s attempt at diplomacy. If we wished you harm, you would not be able to question it.”

The sight of the man made the Tahvic and even Dix, pause. It was an Orthock and clearly one who had some mastery of Wizard spellcraft. Living shadows, some called them, but it was their corrupting touch and menacing demeanor that was feared far and wide. Most of them could not stand even dim, evening light -like now- and lived only in the lower Shadowlands, far, far below. Certainly few, if any, of the locals had ever seen one, let alone been spoken to by such a being.

But even that didn’t seem to dissuade the assembled Tahvic. Another rock flew and the murmurings of the assembled farmers grew uglier.

“Enough!” This shout, unlike that of the Captain, got the attention of the farmers. They looked up and immediately backed away in deference. Only Dix stood his ground.

Elder Saryn, a Tahvic of some prestige from the temple of Versummus, had ridden up the Tamblin road from Avine on a small horse. His deep red robes fluttered in the blustery plains wind and his brown fur had been dyed with whorls of white and yellow as befitting his station as spiritual leader of the community. He fixed Dix with his gaze and his fierce, yellow eyes narrowed. “Dix! Stand back, now!”

“They killed Auntie Rhee!” he pleaded. Even on the best of days, he didn’t like Elder Saryn and knew that the feeling was mutual. “Elder, please; they must pay!”

The small Tahvic looked at the Captain who was sizing him up, cautiously. “Is this true?” he asked.

“Half true, sir,” she said diplomatically. She bowed as she spoke and averted her eyes for a moment to show deference. “We were engaged in an attempt to retrieve a member of my crew who had been kidnapped -taken by slavers- when the boy’s Aunt was killed. It was regrettable, but not our direct fault.”

“No? And all this damage?” He swept his arms wide to indicate the rural countryside, tattered and overturned by the side effects of the battle. “None of this is your fault either?”

Although the Priest scowled, Dix saw in his eyes a glimmer of pleasure at the Captain’s deference to his position. The reputation of the larger races amongst the Tahvic was that they didn’t respect the smaller folk despite their warrior culture and prowess. It had to make him feel good to look down at the human woman from horseback and have her show respect to him. To the other Tahvic, he could tell they were also impressed by their Elder’s stature in this dispute.

“The others, the slavers,” the Orthock interrupted, “unleashed a powerful magic that summoned a demon storm, sir. We had no idea they had such dark powers at their disposal. It was all I could do to defend our vessel against their onslaught.”

Seeing the humanoid, robed shadow for the first time, the scowl on Elder Saryn’s muzzle deepened. “You travel with this ... creature?” he asked the Captain in a low voice.

She nodded. “His employ is disturbing,” she admitted, as if confessing a dark secret, “but necessary in some parts of the world where we trade.” She looked to the crowd and raised her voice. “There is no power of mine, however, to reverse the clock or un-do the damage that was wrought! However, allow me and my crew to make reparations! We are not poor and, indeed, we had some goods onboard our ship when this unfortunate situation erupted. We will pledge them to the restoration of your community!”

“Captain!” The Auranath looked aghast at what his superior officer was promising.

“It’s only fair,” she said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “We have rare cloths and spices from the Duskland Barony of Carthardin; they and a handful of elemental crystals should be sufficient to pay our debt to these people...” She avoided looking at Dix, however, and he felt his blood boil.

“Your presents won’t bring back my Aunt! They won’t re-build my home!”

“Dix! Enough!” shouted the Elder.

“No! I won’t stay quiet,” he shouted. Sobs crept into his voice. “Auntie Rhee took me in when no one else would; she ... she was all I had in this world and they took her from me! Surely, you can see...”

The Tahvic Priest closed his eyes and intoned a blessing. He reached out with his fingers and traced the symbol of the God of Truth, Versummus, in the air before him. The air crackled with the divine sigil and, abruptly, Dix found his voice silenced. He clutched at his throat, staggered, and stared wide-eyed at the Elder.

The Tahvic, however, merely returned his gaze to Captain Caul. “I apologize,” he said. “He is scarcely an adult and has yet to master his temper.”

Caul cast a glance at Rand. “I know the feeling.”

“You and your crew are not welcome here,” he said, at last, “But it is clear you cannot take your ship with you.”

Dix could only stare. He felt like he was living in a madhouse; everything was turned on its head! Tears stung his eyes as he could only silently protest.

“You shall have two days,” the Priest continued to the Captain. “You can gather what you can carry. The rest will be claimed as salvage to pay for the damages you have done to our town and community. Once you have gone, you shall never return; is that understood?”

Captain Caul looked dubious. “Sir, we’d be on foot and the nearest town...”

“Is two and a half weeks away by road,” the Priest finished for her. “But surely with some coin, you could purchase livestock to bear you faster.” He looked at her as she opened her mouth to argue or offer a counter offer, but the Tahvic raised his hands and addressed the crowd. “I also place upon these people a Time of Grace for this time! Between now and then no one shall harm them or risk the wrath of the Gods, themselves! They shall have time to gather what they need and then depart. Is that understood?”

A murmur went through the assembly in general affirmation.

Still silenced by the Elder’s divine blessing, Dix could not remain still.

In a flash, he took the knife from farmer Oahm’s hands and dove at Captain Caul. She was easily his height, a tough woman of the skies in her forties, and clearly had experience in hand-to-hand fights. Although in front of the assembled Tahvic and their Elder Priest, she moved deftly, bringing her sword up to block the enraged teen’s blade, adroitly. She stayed calm as Dix fell back and tried to dodge around to the side that didn’t hold the blade. She was light on her feet, and followed.

Although Saryn shouted and insisted Dix should stop, he didn’t. His field of vision had narrowed to a tunnel of grey at the end of which stood the woman who was about to get away with murder.

He stabbed forward, his inexperience leaving himself open to any number of fatal blows. The Raider Captain, however, swung her blade down and across the back of his hand, cutting deep into his wrist and forcing him to drop the blade. Before he could react further, she stepped into his path, continuing to move her blade in an upward stroke and -using the pommel- bring it down on the top of his head.

A ringing pain erupted behind his eyes as his vision swam and Dix crumpled to the ground. He couldn’t hear anything past the rushing of blood in his ears; only watch as Elder Saryn -scowling down at him- directed twelve of the town’s stoutest fellows to stand guard on the ship while its crew scavenged what they could carry.

As Dix caught his breath and tried to clear his vision, the crowed reluctantly dispersed.

The sun was setting, lighting the sky ablaze with reds and oranges. Stars were beginning to appear in the distance to the east and the first of the moons was rising. He sobbed silently and stood on shaking feet. Captain Caul stared at him, dispassionately, her sword now at her side. Even had she desired to speak, there was nothing to say. Dix knew that.

From behind Saryn approached Caira, looking at him with sorrow and pain in her eyes. Her father, the Elder, put his hand up to prevent her from going to him.

Dix understood: this was the price for openly defying the Elder in front of a goodly amount of the community’s rural folk. Nodding, he turned and began the slow walk back to the farm.

The winds, that night, were colder than normal and heavy with damp. As the grasses waved, weaving near silently, he worked slowly yet steadily. As the first rays of dawn touched the sky and the last of the four moons sank in the west, he finished.

Kneeling at the newly raised mound beneath the rowan tree, Dix wept.