ACoL Book 2 - Chapter 9: Sincalindre Sings

Thal’rin, Vincent thought. He was The La’ark’s brother. The revelation barely registered with him, and he was too far gone to show surprise. Everything played before his eyes as if he were an observer watching a movie. Even the aches in his body felt like somebody else’s. He was Vincent Cordell, watching himself, living vicariously through his own eyes. That's how far gone he was.

He felt himself crying. Crying? Why? He forgot. His brain was dying. At least, that’s what it felt like. A droning tinnitus rang in his ears. He was ill. The motion sickness, the game sickness...the dehydration, the hunger. Where was he?

He and his cabras were carried off, away from the moiling cauldron the area was becoming. Wind fluttered his ears and dried his snout. The Shaydos were heading somewhere new. He saw fresh, untouched mountains and tasted clean air. Wild forests were tucked in their crotches, pockets of verdancy were stowed away in passes and valleys.

Glimmer baited the zeffyr into every mountain it saw. But he no longer flew back and forth, this way and that. He was no longer trying to contain it within a particular region. No, he was leading it across the land. Madeen and Selefi flew ahead of them, leading them toward their destination. The mountains were getting smaller, turning into foothills. They were leaving the Aindo Ring. And the smaller the mountains became, the less of them there were to drag the zeffyr into.

Vincent saw a small village in the distance. Glimmer banked to avoid it. He could see groundwalkers peek out of their dwellings and look on in terror at the colossus that ravaged their land. The zeffyr plowed through small roads, which were, thankfully, free of travelers. Fields were set ablaze.

Glimmer flew low. Green grass raced only fifty or so feet below, rushing past only to be devoured by the colossus. It was gaining. So, Glimmer doubled back, pulling into a partial u-turn to throw it off and buy himself time. Then he started to climb. One hundred feet, two hundred...three hundred. Forty seconds later, the zeffyr turned. It was climbing toward them, gaining.

Glimmer brought his wings in and dived. The angry wall of fire narrowly rushed past them, followed by its gravel-covered body. The heat smacked them both like a slap to the face. But gravity was on their side. Glimmer used the momentum to pick up speed, doing what Madeen did on the first day of this hellish pursuit. Then he pulled out of the dive and soared across the land.

When the zeffyr finally course-corrected, it did not seem to be affected by gravity. And so, it lagged behind, floating down rather than falling. Glimmer repeated this maneuver. However, it strained the zerok. It could not keep it up.

Evening turned around when they entered a large, bowl-shaped expanse. Trailing across it was a dirt road, which appeared to be well-traveled. A large caravan of wagons and carriages was currently stopped on it, seemingly abandoned. A lone figure stood in the field, far from the procession. He wore simple brown garments and Vincent could see golden wings.

He recognized Thal’rin. Though Vincent was running on fumes, he felt something in his gut, something akin to longing. He didn’t know what it was. What was Thal’rin doing here?

The High Channeler was holding something in one of his hands. It looked like somebody had taken a knife and cut the air. Through the fissure, which was as tall as Thal’rin was, a white light poured through. Glimmer circled the High Channeler and dropped Vincent on the grass. The rest of the Shaydos followed, bringing Menik and the others. Thal’rin walked over, grabbed Vincent’s hand and pulled him up. Two fleshy whiskers hang below his nostrils, flanking his snout. They swayed in the wind. His golden eyes, though capable of warmth, showed hints of fury. His jaws were clenched and there were storms in his gaze.

“Get behind me Vincent,” he said. His calm voice belied the ferocity in his glare.

“Come on, Brother,” Tuls said, leading Vincent away from Thal’rin.

When they were about thirty paces back, he let go and Vincent fell to the grass, barely able to sit upright. The zeffyr was descending from the sky like a comet. It was the apocalypse, and it was coming for him. And yet Thal’rin stepped forward, his diminutive figure facing the monstrosity head-on. It crashed against the turf, sending a wave of dirt through the air. Plumes of sod shot into the sky. From the wall of brown dust and chaff emerged its maw, burning like an instant sunrise. It headed straight for them. Dirt and sediment arced away from it, as it bulldozed the land. The ground shook and the air filled with cicadas and grinding. Yet, Thal’rin kept walking toward it. His winged form became a black silhouette against its inferno.

He raised his hand, the one holding the cut in reality. He let go and it stayed in place, floating in the air. The cut began to grow, ten feet tall, twenty. In an instant, it was as tall as a skyscraper. Vincent felt something vibrating against his chest, a song without notes, a threnody of lamentations. He experienced it rather than heard it, an ethereal melody that brought him calm.

He did not have a channeler’s senses. Yet he felt power. No...it was more than that. He was in the presence of something he could not hope to understand. The zeffyr was a force of destruction. It was chaos, but its threat was immediate and obvious. It was not as subtle as the aura Vincent felt emanating from the growing fissure.

There were no runes materializing in the air. There were no floating symbols or glyphs. No particles scattering across the sky or summoned beasts dancing across the fields. There was no pretentiousness in this display of lore. It simply was. There was only light, dangerous...potent. Just. He could see waves of power rippling through the grass like a heartbeat, but that was it.

The aperture widened, filling the field with its light. The rays seemed to penetrate everything. Vincent felt them touch his flesh…they touched his soul. He was seen. Every secret he held, every lie he told, every crime he committed. Nothing was hidden. He felt exposed to the light and he quelled inwardly from its scrutiny. He wanted to flee into the darkness where he would escape its judgement. The rays flowed from the rift, arcing and bending like caustics from a lens.

Something lived on the other side of the aperture. The light had sapience. He could feel it. Its presence growed by the second until he felt crushed under its overwhelming aura. The grass on the ground, the trees in the field, the rocks that peppered the meadows...they were made sacred by its theurgy. That’s what Vincent felt. If he had not already been on the ground, perhaps he would have thrown himself prostrate. He didn’t know why. The pressure was building. Ripples of power thrummed against his chest. The soldiers stepped backward, in awe of the growing sight before them. Tuls had his eyes averted, his snout was ducked. His wings were folded in front of his chest. He was murmuring.

Thal’rin raised a hand. The rays extended from the rift, shooting forth toward the incoming inferno like searchlights. They illuminated the raging colossus and the air erupted. Bolts flashed and arced, leaping from the rift to the zeffyr. Vincent felt the power of its contact slap into him. They drilled into its maw, burrowing deep into its whirling hellscape. Magma and burning things spewed into the air like flaming viscera. Its body was filled with the rift’s light. The air clapped with the conflict as powers clashed, leaving Vincent's ears ringing. But then the light left the zeffyr. The bolts retreated. There was no prolonged confrontation. That was it.

The zeffyr began to slow, carried forward only by its momentum. Then, it came to a stop. Its smoldering fire was growing dim. The lore holding the gravel to its body failed. Boulders and crystals broke away and tumbled across the ground. It was disintegrating, dissolving until it simply collapsed in on itself. It became nothing more than an enormous mound of chaff, liacyte, and molten rock, which was quickly solidifying. It went dark. Thal’rin’s attack only lasted for a few seconds. Yet the zeffyr was now dead, reduced to little more than gravel.

Thal’rin bowed his head and simply “dismissed” the rift. Vincent felt the presence leave and he found he could breathe. Then the High Channeler turned around and headed back toward them. He met eyes with The La’ark and looked her up and down. Vincent’s head fell and he stared at the grass. The world fell with him, spinning with disorientation. Thal’rin’s words came to him like echoes.

“You will tell me what happened,” he said to his sister, “but first, get sleep. You are on the verge of death. There is a vacant carriage. All of you...find one. Get rest.”

“Water first...” The La’ark said, “and a meal.”

"I can arrange that."

Vincent heard footsteps and murmuring, but he was drifting. He did not know what was happening. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Come Vincent,” Thal’rin said, “my carriage has a vacancy. Rest there.”

Thal’rin helped him to his feet. Menik offered to take over, but the High Channeler refused.

“Let me be useful for something, shandan,” he said, “Vincent, come. But first...do you want water?”

Vincent couldn’t answer.

Thal’rin nodded to somebody. Vincent didn’t see who. But he found a canteen placed in his hands. He raised it to his snout and downed the whole thing in one go. For a moment, it didn’t seem like he would hold it down. He was still feeling sick. But the nausea stabilized.

“You are not well, are you?” Thal’rin asked.

“Game sickness, High Channeler,” Menik said, “he doesn’t want us to use the nectar.”

“Ah...” Thal’rin didn’t ask why, “well, come. You need rest.”

Then the High Channeler led him to a carriage made of some sort of chitinous material. It was like stepping into a hollowed-out crustacean shell. There was a round bed tucked into one end. There were other interesting objects and trinkets inside the carriage, but Vincent only had eyes for the bed.

“Lay down, Vincent Cordell,” Thal'rin said, “I will send a healer. Then you should get some sleep. We will talk when you wake. But for now, sleep. You are safe.”

Vincent nodded. He had no words. When Thal’rin left, he laid down. After weeks of laying on a hard cot, the softness was like being welcomed into a mother’s embrace. He curled his dragonoid body into it until he was properly swaddled. He was in pain, panting, his stomach was aching. He closed his eyes and flinched, expecting another explosion, expecting The La’ark to wake him up. He expected one of the Puppeteer’s grinning faces to greet him.

“You are safe.”

***

The next morning, he stirred, still swaddled in the soft bed and enveloped in his own wings. The smell of roasted meat and spices floated to his nostrils. He opened his eyes and looked around Thal’rin’s carriage, taking in its details for the first time. The High Channeler did not travel in luxury. Though the carapace was exotic to Vincent’s eyes, and it was roomy, it had very few frills. It was, of course, taller than he expected it to be. It had to accommodate wings.

There were some cabinets, and a cubby with scrolls tucked into it. And there was a table that appeared to fold in and out. Vincent reluctantly pushed himself out of the bed, even though he would be perfectly content to keep laying in it. The carriage wobbled and squeaked as he approached the door and opened it.

It was near noon, judging from the sun’s position. The caravan had not moved from its spot. However, the owners of the other carriages had returned. Guards patrolling area kept them at a distance. The sky was filled with zerok flyers. They were orbiting the remains of the zeffyr, which was little more than a large mound of sediment. Behind it was a trail of destruction. Dark clouds polluted the sky in the distance. Vincent swayed where he stood, in awe of its devastating power.

“Oy, you’re awake?” Menik said. He was sitting in front of a large fire with a massive pot resting over its flames. “Come get something to eat.”

Vincent didn’t need to be persuaded. He had spent days without an actual meal, so he made a beeline for the pot. The others were also gathered around. Tuls put a bowl into his hands. Vincent thanked him and filled it using a ladle that hang from the pot. It was some sort of stew. He had no idea what was in it, or who cooked it, only that the smell was making him ravenous. There were no forks or spoons, but the bowl had a tapered spout on one side. He lifted it to his snout and poured the contents into his mouth.

Oh my God, he thought.

“Been a while since we had actual food, hasn’t it?” Madrian asked.

“I seriously think I’m about to cry,” Vincent said.

It wasn’t a complete exaggeration. It had been so long since he’d eaten, much less had a home-cooked meal. It was a dense stew, filled with meat and herbs. A tentacle slithered through his teeth, and he tried not to imagine what kind of creature he was eating. He was just glad it was hearty.

“Here, saved you a leg,” Menik picked a bundled-up cloth on the ground and unraveled a limb that resembled an oversized turkey leg. Seasoning blackened its charred flesh. Vincent was rabid with hunger. He didn’t say anything to anybody, he just ate. When he finished the soup, he tore into the leg. He didn’t even bother with his usual ritual of tearing the food into bite-sized chunks. He simply devoured.

Vincent clamped his snout around the leg and wriggled it back and forth. The flavor made him giddy with delight. The spices were fragrant and wholesome, and the meat, though slightly gamier than turkey, was similar to it. He stripped every bit of meat from the leg until he was left with the bone, which he could not stop gnawing. It was...an unusual urge and at first, he didn’t realize he was doing it. The pressure felt good against his teeth. It felt right. The scraping of his teeth against the bone awakened some alien instinct inherent to the groundwalker form.

“Telo’s wing, you were famished,” Madrian said.

“I heard you got game sickness,” Tuls said, “how are you feeling?”

“Game sickness?” Vincent repeated. He vaguely remembered somebody saying something about it.

“You ate raw meat. Your constitution was not used to it.”

“Oh...I’m feeling better.” It was true. Other than being famished, the sickness was completely gone. He wondered if somebody used the Triasat...no. His schizophrenia was still present. It was asymptomatic at the moment, but he could still feel it. There was a slight haze. “What happened? Where’s Thal’rin? And The La’ark?”

“He’s nearby,” Menik said, “talking to the diplomats who were traveling with him. As for The La’ark? She’s still resting. Healers are attending her.” He stared at the massive mound of sediment in the distance. “A zeffyr...a damn zeffyr...” Vincent heard the unspoken question: Why would they send a zeffyr after you? Sperloc seemed to hear the same inquiry, because he chuffed in response.

“Did you see how furious the High Channeler was?” Jeris asked.

“Of course he’s furious!” Sperloc scoffed, looking up from the ohnite he had been writing on. It was blackened with his dense writing. “This is an act of war! Jalhara better have answers!”

"I agree," Menik said, staring at Vincent. His expression was unreadable, but Vincent saw inquiries in Menik's gaze.

“Thal'rin's power is terrifying,” Tuls said, “I never thought I would see the High Channeler wield his conduit. Did anybody else feel like dropping to the ground? I could not speak.”

Vincent then noticed how hushed the camp was despite all the activity. These people were in shock. Tense whispers passed from soldier to soldier, from groundwalker to groundwalker. He remembered back to his childhood, when the airplanes hit the World Trade Center on 9/11. Everybody went quiet when they watched the footage. The vibe was similar here, even though there had only been one fatality as far as he knew.

"They tried to kill you, Cordell," Menik said. His voice was lowered. "I don't know what you are…but they must answer for that. We know you had something to do with the Puppeteer's demise."

It was the first time any of them acknowledged this directly. A few others grunted. Vincent avoided their gaze. He wasn't supposed to talk about it. But it would be silly to deny it. He was wrapped in too much secrecy.

"You do not have to confirm it," Menik said, "but everybody knows."

“Raise your snouts, Shandan,” a deep, unfamiliar voice called out. Menik perked up.

“You brought more food?”he asked, “Good man, Ezrai.”

Vincent looked up to see a hulking groundwalker walking toward them, carrying in his arms a large basket with steaming loaves. His snout was shaped like a spade. Ebony scales covered his entire body, save for his eyes, which were outlined with white circles. His horns were longer than most, and they dipped upwards like an antelope’s. The horn guard that covered their tips had an open space between them. A small curious snout poked through. A winged toddler clung to Ezrai’s back. Running next to Ezrai was an energetic young boy with a similar coloring and he shared the same, shovel-like shape in his snout.

“Fresh out of the oven,” Ezrai said, “Caln leaves, pelkin meat, herbs of the violet tear. All fresh.”

“You spoil us,” Jeris said.

“The champions of Admoran deserve a champion’s meal,” Ezrai said. He noticed Vincent. “And who is this?”

“Vincent Cordell,” Menik said, “He is the one who was sleeping in the High Channeler’s carriage.”

Ezrai stopped and stared at Vincent. He moved his snout from side to side, his brows furrowed. “I have not seen eyes like yours, Vincent Cordell. They change color.” He turned to the soldiers. “Have you seen this thing?”

“Aye, we have,” Madrian said, “but we are too polite to say anything.”

“Ha!” Ezrai chuffed. The little dragonoid on his back squirmed, so he knelt to his knees and let the young one climb down. She flopped unceremoniously onto the grass and tried to stand up, using her father’s leg for support.

Two bumps where her horns would soon be dotted the top of her head, and her tiny wings felt the air. Ezrai’s son, who was running around the encampment, lowered his snout and charged toward Menik. The shandan warrior caught him by the horns at the last moment.

“Oy now, what are you doing, Caleet? Do you remember what happened this morning?” he said as he contained the giggling child, who was still trying his best to ram him.

“Caleet!” Ezrai barked.

“I am fine,” Menik assured, “I got him handled. I know how to deal with little shin busters like him.”

Caleet, still giggling, swung his snout left and right, trying to break free from Menik’s grip. His feet clawed into the ground as he tried to push the shandan warrior over. Menik made a show of struggling, acting like he was going about to surrender, but then he turned the boy’s snout and forced him onto the ground. The maneuver looked rough to Vincent’s eyes. However, Caleet was still laughing

Ezrai uncovered the basket, grabbed one of the smaller loaves and handed it to his daughter. She grabbed onto it and flopped onto her side in the grass. It was far too big for her to eat, being nearly half her height. Yet she curled around it and embraced it with both her legs and arms like a feline holding a toy. She gnawed on the crust, her tiny teeth scraping against the surface. Occasionally, she’d kick at the loaf while she held it. It was an instinct that human toddlers did not have and reminded Vincent of a feline.

“Let me up!” Caleet said, still struggling against Menik’s hold.

“No, I do not think I will. You are a coiled spring with legs. I got you where you belong.”

“Met this morning and they’re already friends,” Sperloc grumbled as he grabbed a loaf from Ezrai.

“You said these came out of an oven?” Jeris asked, “you brought an oven with you?”

“I feed diplomats,” Ezrai said. His deep voice was filled with ebullience. “It is what I do. It is my path. For this, reason I have two wagons. One is to sleep in. One is an oven on wheels. Here...eat. Eat. And eat!” He passed out the loafs to each soldier. “As the zerok say, ‘we are one feather’. You took care of the storms, and so I return the favor.”

Vincent accepted a loaf of bread from Ezrai and thanked him. It was more akin to meatloaf under the crust than traditional bread. There were chunks of meat throughout and yet it was loaded with herbs. It was just as exquisite as the stew and the leg. And yet, it could not get rid of the ice in his gut.

“So, what was it?” Ezrai asked.

“What was what?” Sperloc responded.

“What was sending the storms and how did you defeat it?”

“I am afraid we cannot tell you. Not with your children around. It would give them nightmares.”

Vincent watched as Madrian and Jeris got up and joined Menik. They played some sort of game with Caleet, where they formed a circle around him, and he had to try to break out. The youth ran with his snout lowered.

Ezrai bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Interesting times we live in,” he said, “dark times. There are entire villages worth of people, wandering, displaced by the ‘stormspawn’. Too afraid to return to their homes. You have seen these things?”

“We have.” Sperloc said.

Vincent, not wanting to hear Sperloc talk about the stormspawn, he got up and walked around. Guards wearing the Meldohn colors, shades of black and purple, continued to patrol. Eyes followed him, as did curious whispers. He watched Caleet try to break through the shandan’s barrier. It appeared to be a game Falians played. The soldiers were trying to keep him in the circle. He was trying to break out. Or rather, that was how the game was supposed to be played. But Caleet seemed to be more interested in charging at Menik, Jeris, and Madrian rather than escaping. Vincent, when he stopped to watch. Apparently, he got too close. Caleet saw him. And, like an animal that attacks anything that moves, he lowered his head and charged.

“Oy, watch out!” Menik warned.

Somehow, Vincent caught him. But it was a little like catching an angry goat. Except goats didn’t giggle when you grabbed their horns.

“Whoa! Calm down, dude!” Vincent said, as he attempted to wrangle the dragon child in his hands. In the ensuing struggle, he accidentally pulled the horn guard off. It must have been loose. Suddenly, Vincent was in danger of being jabbed. Or worse, impaled by the uncovered rack.

“Hold on, buddy! Stop! I have to get this back on you!”

Caleet was not paying attention. He was too rambunctious. He swung his rack around, its tips glinting, and continued to push. Vincent had to dodge to avoid being stabbed. Menik ran over and pulled Caleet back, but his energy was uncontainable. He attacked anybody who touched him, and he was deaf to his own name. Within seconds, Ezrai was there. He took the horn guard from Vincent, grabbed his son by the rack, and dragged him aside.

Caleet tried to headbutt his father, but then he realized who it was he was headbutting. Vincent saw him die inside. Ezrai didn’t say anything. He simply knelt down, held the horn guard up for Caleet to see, and scowled. The boy’s ears laid back flat against his head and he looked at the ground. Ezrai raised his hand and brought it down hard, striking the bridge of Caleet’s snout with the backside. It made an audible “thonk!”.

Jeez! Vincent thought as Caleet collapsed to the ground, holding his snout. He began to cry.

“I apologize, Vincent Cordell,” Ezrai said as he put the horn guard back on his wailing son and picked him up.

“It...it was my fault! I accidentally pulled it off,” Vincent said. He felt terrible.

“He charged you. He did not respond to his name when the guard came off.”

“But–“

Menik put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him aside. “What are you doing? Leave it.”

“He just walloped the shit out of his kid for something I did!” Vincent whispered.

Menik seemed genuinely confused. “His rack was uncovered. We are taught from a young age to keep the guards on. Ezrai did what any parent would do. It does not matter whose fault it was.”

Vincent had to remember that he never grew up with horns protruding from his head. These people did. Any human insight he had was irrelevant. So, he remained silent. Still, he felt awful.

Thal’rin returned later. When he did, the shandan stood erect and held their wings in front of their chest as a sign of respect.

“Shikas,” Thal’rin said.

Vincent’s ears twitched. He had heard that word before. Oris said it to the soldiers when he had introduced Vincent to them. They relaxed and dropped their wings. Thal’rin walked around, speaking to the shandan, answered a few questions, made a few jokes. Then he turned to Vincent.

“Walk with me, Vincent,” he said.

--

(This may be the last chapter for a bit. I'm still writing the next one. There's also a possibility I may rearrange some scenes.)