The expedition made a show of galloping until the traffic thinned and they lost sight of the storm ward. After that, they slowed to a steady canter and followed a road along the cliffs. Vincent watched as the waves from The Great Divide crashed into the shoreline. He thought he saw large kites in the distance. But he quickly realized the shapes belonged to Falians who were diving off the cliffs and plunging toward the rocks before pulling out in the last moment. A dangerous game perhaps, meant to see how far one could cheat death.

They followed the Great Divide “Admoran's North” for several hours before pulling “Admoran’s West”. When he asked Slade why they referred to “Admoran's North” or “Admoran's West”, she seemed perplexed by the question before elaborating. Apparently, it was common knowledge that cartographers throughout Falius' history had learned to compensate for “continental rotation”. Vincent had forgotten that they believed their planet to be a giant body of water upon which all land bodies floated. Every continent was a colossal island, coasting along in the current of Falius' waters and it was prone to drifting.

The rotation was slow, taking several generations for any meaningful changes to affect travel. However, it also made any sort of navigation that used the stars as a reference unreliable. Instead, cartographers of the past fabricated a compass of sorts, using the antennae of a migrating beast to find the “North” and “South” of their continent. It was an outdated practice and most Falians used shards of crystals called criuks to find their way. When held up to a source of light, a criuk shard embedded in a globe of foggy glass would bend the light and divide it into four beams, each of which pointed to the four quadrants of the continent.

As the sun settled, they entered a forest whose tall trees resembled coral. Their scarlet trunks divided into beefy branches whose rounded ends reached for the sky like fingers. Thousands of tiny red leaves covered their lengths. Draping from the branches were dozens of sprays like those found on a weeping willow. Their blooms yielded beautiful orange fruit that seemed to glow with a faint bioluminescence. Several gastropods with big bulbous eyes slowly slithered along the length of these exotic trees. Occasionally, one would vibrate its shell like a rattle, filling the forest with its throaty percussion.

Up ahead, Vincent saw lights. A camp had been set up in a large glade. Akhil said earlier that they would meet up with the rest of the expedition. This must have been them. After dismounting Holan and getting a good stretch, Vincent had intended to help with the rest of the setup. But one look told him he would only get in the way again. Back in Meldohv, he would gaze from Thal'rin's balcony and observe the creatures in the street go about their business. Merchants manipulated cargo with both arms and wings like bats manipulating fruit. It was fascinating to watch and at times, it even looked comical.

However, nothing compared to the coordination of the shandan. No movement was wasted, nobody shouted or argued about what went where. Wooden beams seemed to fly from soldier to soldier like javelins before finding their spot, where they were placed. Horizontal beams spanned their tops, their ends hewn into matching notches so that they locked into position.

In minutes, crude canopy frames were popping up all around the camp. Mere moments later, they were covered in large sheets embroidered in what Vincent assumed was a symbol for Meldohv's militia: two adjacent teardrops mirroring each other underneath a 180 degree arch. The black symbol superimposed itself upon a violet circle. Like most of the Falian architecture he'd seen, the canopies seemed taller than necessary until he remembered they were meant to accommodate wings.

I am out of my element, he thought as he stood there watching the creatures at work, I'm the only one not doing anything.

Even the kiolai, who were separate from the shandan, were busy pitching their own individual, isolated shelters. Not sure what he was supposed to do, he walked toward the trees that surrounded the glade. As the sky darkened, he couldn't help but become enchanted by the forest's lambent fruit, glowing as if somebody had strung the woods with lights. The gastropods crawling their trunks filled the forest with their interspersed rattling. He grabbed one of the sprays and plucked a strand off.

“The fruit is toxic. Do not eat it.” Vincent turned around to find one of the soldiers waiting.

“I had no plans to, but thanks for letting me know.” He tossed the strand into the woods. The soldier looked him up and down as if sizing him up. Then he gestured toward the camp with a wing.

“Come. The La'ark has arrived. She requires your presence.”

“The...what?”

“The La'ark,” the soldier repeated.

“Sorry, are you saying...'lark' or 'lay-ark'?”

“She is the 'lay-ark'.”

The hell is 'The La'ark'? Vincent thought as he followed the soldier toward the middle of the encampment. He felt a hundred eyes follow him, so he loosened the hoodie that he had tied around his waist and put it on. The soldier led him toward the most decorated canopy in the camp, whose entrance was flanked by two guards. The soldier spoke to one of the guards, who nodded and walked through the curtain.

“Send him in.” a curt voice called.

The guard reappeared and waved Vincent through. Inside, he found Oris and Akhil standing beside a crate that was being used as a table. It had a large map sprawled across it. Oris had a glint of cheer in his round face while his brother seemed to mirror the polar opposite. Standing behind the crate between them was a gaunt, dour-looking female dressed in leather-clad armor. Like the other women of her species, her snout was far more subdued than the males. However, age and strict severity limned her features. A lightning of a scar cut through the “V” of coarse peppered mane that striped the top of her snout. Scowls permanently etched the lines of her gray-green face and there was a sharpness to her yellow eyes behind which he saw a thousand thoughts racing. She was missing an ear on the left side. In its place was simply a hole.

“Welcome Vincent Cordell,” Oris said, gesturing to a chair in front of them. “Please sit with us.”

The chair was of similar design to those found in the archives: narrow backboard with a notch for the tail.

“I can stand,” Vincent said, resting his hands on the backboard. “If it's all the same to you. I have a hard time using these.”

“As you wish.”

“It was the La'ark's desire to meet with you before we departed,” Akhil said, “however, our departure was delayed, and she had matters to attend to before she caught up to us.”

Instead of introducing herself, the female scrutinized him as if probing his mind for lies. “You are him?” she demanded with a hint of skepticism, “you are the 'Paradox'?”

“It's...Vincent. Not 'Paradox',” Vincent said. He would not settle into that title if he could help it.

“Then 'Vincent' it will be,” the woman said, “I have been commanded to treat you as an outsider to our world, so I will not inundate your ears with the history behind my moniker, but I am The La'ark. That is the only name by which you will know me. Was your journey well?”

“Reasonably.”

“Good. Because from this moment onward, I will speak truth. No words of mine will be held back,” she spoke with dire imprecations,“this army is mine. They are my arms, my ears, and my wings. We are like family and those who travel with us will be treated as an extension of such. Therefore, we welcome you into our expedition and will treat you as one of our own.”

At this, Oris gave a brief nod.

“However,” she continued, “I have been briefed about you, about your history, and your actions. If the mouths that had given witness to your tale had not belonged to individuals I hold in high regard, I would have written these accounts off as having come from the mouths of ravers and would have cut out their tongues. I remain dubious about the claims others make regarding your origin. I say this so that you know the ground on which I stand. I hold back no secrets.”

Vincent glanced from her to Orth and Akhil, then he shrugged.

“Makes sense,” he said, “I would be a skeptic too.”

“Regardless, I will honor Saleed's wishes to treat you as an 'ambassador' to our world,” she said, “I was told you have no experience on the battlefield?”

“I was going to school to learn how to design, build, and repair machinery,” Vincent said, “I don't know anything about combat. So, no. I would not be very useful to you in a fight if that's what you're asking.”

The La'ark scoffed, “one look at you told me that. What I am asking is if you have ever been on or near a battlefield.”

“Other than the time that lunatic, Slade, took us both over the Devourer's thread? No.”

“And yet if we are assailed by those blighted storms, you are the one we are to drag out into the middle of it and hope its malice will be dispelled.” The La'ark looked incredulous as she shook her head. Clearly, she did not want him here.

“I guess so,” Vincent said, “I don't have a clue how it works. Whether you trust my 'power' enough to send your men in with me is up to you, really. I'm not sure what else you're expecting me to say.”

“We would only expose you to them if our hands are forced, Cordell.” It was Akhil who spoke this time. “According to the zerok, these storms...emulating sentience, appear to be 'looking' for you. Even if you...'purify' one, if you can actually do such a thing, then we must assume more will come.”

Whatever motives the storms supposedly “had” were almost irrelevant. They had his memories. He would just have to wait for events to unfold and take advantage of an opportunity to pursue them should one arise.

“Then we do what my people call 'packing up and getting the hell out of dodge',” he said, “we encounter one of them, I extinguish it, then we run like hell. Listen...you people are the professionals. You heard about my background, I'm just a guy. I’m a civilian in my world. If the point of this meeting is to figure out what I can contribute, the answer is 'probably not a lot'.”

“The purpose of this summons–” The La'ark had him locked in her gaze. “–was to meet you and get a look at you myself. I do not like charismatics.” She paused, allowing her proclamation to set in. Then she turned around and picked something up from a table behind her. “I have met enough of them to distrust any who carries the aura of one.”

“Sorry?” Vincent watched her set a familiar looking object on top of the table. “I'm not sure what you want me to do about it.”

“I speak Truth,” The La'ark said, her eyes boring into his skull, “My spoken thoughts are not commands. They are my sentiments, hindered neither by bureaucratic politeness nor shaped by the conventions of etiquette. I tell you where I stand so that you know I will not be wiled. I will not be swayed by your charisma. The soldiers I assign to your protection will be just as immovable as myself.” Her voice dropped low before she continued. “I know of the reason behind your bounty and subsequent arrest. I know of your violence against an ambassador of Gullreach. You wield knowledge that evades understanding. You are a creature of the wilds. Though you will be welcomed at our fires, treated as one of our own, I warn you that should you decide to turn a hand against one of my soldiers or myself, my retribution will be swift. I do not quail from the spilling of necks.”

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Good God! Vincent thought.

Even though he had not expected the dire warnings from this creature, this “La'ark”, he could not help but take a strange liking to her. Oddly, she reminded him of a few teachers he...

His mind faltered. His attempt to recollect those memories came to a halt. The paths were there, but an indestructible wall lay before him and his stolen past. Whoever The La'ark reminded him of, they were lost in an impenetrable haze. It was dangerous to keep probing those voids because his mind became blank, almost like the emptiness of a burnout.

“Do you understand my words, Vincent Cordell?” The La'ark demanded.

“Yeah, sorry,” Vincent said, blinking his eyes a few times. “I'm tired. I'm not used to riding on an animal all day. But yeah, I understand. You like to speak your mind. I'm not going to go out of the way to win you or your guys over. I don't care what you think of me. If you for some reason decide I'm a threat, then so be it. Throw me in a bag and get rid of me, slit my throat, whatever.”

At this, Oris exchanged a look with his twin and allowed himself a small chuckle. The La'ark considered him with narrowed eyes, then she pushed the object on the table forward. It was a sheathed blade which Vincent recognized as a shryken.

She picked the blade up in her hand and held the handle out toward him, “This belonged to Kiolai Reashos. It is the very same one you 'changed' when you were apprehended. Use it to protect yourself.”

Vincent approached the table and placed his hand around the handle. The hierarchy within the conduit immediately bloomed before his senses, clearer than it had ever been. For the last few days, he had spent at least an hour per day basking in the flux lines of the ward on Thal'rin's balcony, allowing its dictations to course through his form, allowing strange intuitions to guide his understanding of it. Though they were different in their lore, the ward had a similar “feel” to artificial conduits. Perhaps that explained why he could sense the biddings within Slade's shryken with such acuity. He unsheathed the weapon, exposing the blade of liquid metal that waited to be set free from its stasis.

“That's it?” he asked.

“That will be all,” The La'ark said, “you will be shown to your shelter. Get sleep. We awaken early and depart before the sun rises.”

She nodded to Oris, who began to show him to the door.

“Just one more thing,” Vincent said, “my madness, the Bane? It returns every two to three days. I don't know why, but considering how rare this Triasat substance is, I don't plan on treating myself unless it is absolutely necessary. It's not fatal to me, but it can make me unpredictable. You...you do with that information what you will. I just thought you should know.”

“I am aware of your immunity to the Bane,” the La'ark said, “be assured, you will be watched.” Then she gestured him out.

Nice to meet you. Vincent thought.

Outside, they found the soldier whom they had sent earlier waiting for him. But Oris held up a hand.

“I will accompany him,” he said, “return to your rounds.”

As Vincent followed alongside the shandan, he tried to decide if The La'ark's last words were a threat or not.

“Your boss is a piece of work, I can tell,” he said.

“Aye, The La'ark is one of the most decorated and brilliant field tacticians Meldohv has ever seen, but she has no patience for subtlety...and you made an impression on her,” Oris said with a chuckle to his voice, “but whether it was one of good or ill, I cannot say.”

Vincent shrugged. “What, was there some etiquette I violated?”

“Of that, there is no doubt. But, knowing The La'ark as I do, she will have appreciated your forthright candor more than any formal decorum. No, what is asked of her and us in regard to you is a profound suspension of disbelief. We have a fable walking among us. That is a cause for suspicion.”

There was a hint of ironic understatement to Oris's words as Vincent followed. The shandan led him toward an octagonal canopy where he could hear bits of conversation coming from within. However, they both stopped several yards away from the entrance.

“You have seen the horror of the stormspawn,” Oris said, “and yet you still chose to come with us, knowing that we will certainly encounter them again. For that, I admire your guile. However, if you are to travel with us, you must entrust your life to our hands. You stand among competent warriors who have spent years honing their instincts. If I, or one of my soldiers gives you an order, you must obey it even if it seems devoid of sense.”

“You do what you have to do,” Vincent said, recalling that Thal'rin said the same thing.

Oris considered him for a moment, then led him into the canopy where he would stay for the night. Inside, a trio of nytic lanterns illuminated the shelter. Circular cots lined the edges of the canopy like nests. Vincent recognized the bag that contained his belongings lying next to one of them. There were six occupants inside the shelter, the rest of his so-called “cabras”. Five of them stopped chatting and snapped to attention. He recognized Madrian, but the others were new to him. One of them had the most jarring appearance of any Falian he had encountered so far.

His first impression was that of a rodent whose fur had been burned from its body, leaving behind tan-colored flesh that shined with scars of excoriation. One corner of his mouth tugged the lips into a permanent partial rictus, and he stared at Vincent with orbs so dark, they may as well have been black. As he breathed, there was a soft, subtle “hiss” coming from the opening at the corner of his mouth. The last occupant in the shelter, Tuls, seemed to have his head bowed in meditation. For a moment, Vincent expected Oris to catch the relos' attention. Instead, he addressed the others.

“Shikas” the shandan said. At this, they relaxed themselves. “There is no need for you flappers to be so stiff.”

“Oris...is that him?” asked a tall white Falian whose face was covered in green tattoos. Vincent wondered how many more times he would hear variations of that question. “He seems to be a bit...small.”

“And yet he has displayed talents that surpass the knowledge of Meldohv's smartest,” Oris said before addressing Vincent. “Welcome to our cabras, Vincent Cordell. The one who just spoke is Menik. The others are Jeris, Madrian, whom you have met this morning. The dark one with bright eyes is Mkari.”

Mkari sat at the edge of the cot, with dark gray skin and eyes reflecting silver light.

“I believe you have already met the relos.” Tuls' ears twitched, but he did not look up.

Vincent looked around, “Slade isn't staying with us?”

“She is a kiolai,” Oris said, “She, along with the other contractors we have hired, will act as scouts to aid the zerok. They prefer to work and sleep alone. She will no longer be your escort.”

“I see.” That was a relief.

“The last one I wish to introduce is–” Oris continued, but the tan one cut him off.

“I can introduce myself Oris,” the creature growled.

His voice matched the body from which it came. Though he spoke with a poised cadence, the words were wet with grotesqueness, like a rasp being dragged through the mud. “I am this expedition's tuhli, the scholar who will be immortalizing your exploits for all of history to bicker over. The name is Sperloc. Tell me...is it true...that you hail from another world? That though you look like one of us, you are alien? That through your eyes, we are all beasts?”

“That's one way to look at it.” Vincent said.

Sperloc's blinkless stare unsettled him. The only light in the creature's eyes came from the reflected glare cast by the lanterns. It was as if a food rat for a python, fresh from being flayed, had come back to life and was now staring him down.

“Sperloc...” Oris warned.

“Then perhaps you can be forgiven for staring at me!” Sperloc spat, “clearly, you cannot tell our females apart from our males! But when you gawk at a woman such as myself, I am reminded of my own ghastly features. I am reminded that no man...will ever take me as his wife...”

“I'm sorry, I...uh...” Vincent stuttered as his mind floundered, “I uh...didn't know you were–”

“–Yes!” Sperloc continued, “little did you know that our females can resemble the discarded corpses of lekins one finds rotting in alleys of Shigorath! Not all women are birthed with beauty. There are those, such as I, who are only beautiful on the inside while on the outside, we resemble the damned. So at least, if you are going to stare at me, lie to me and tell me that I am beautiful.”

There was a silence in which Vincent stood frozen to the spot, absolutely dumbfounded. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words refused to come to him. So, he was left gaping like a fish. But then a noise broke through the quiet, a sound like weeping. It was the sound of the one called Jeris struggling to contain his laughter. A tear began to streak down his cheek.

“Your wife would be dismayed to hear your revelation Sperloc,” Oris said.

Howls erupted. Sperloc sold his performance so well that Vincent still couldn’t be sure whether it was a joke. The creature even continued to scowl as the others doubled over, leaning on each other for support.

“My wife is a grinning bag whose flesh has aged so much, her wings have embroidery instead of membranes,” Sperloc shot back, “and you think she is capable of feeling 'dismay'?”

This comment caused a renewed wave of hysterics. Even Tuls, who was clearly trying to concentrate on whatever meditation he was committed to, could not keep his shoulders from trembling. A lamb-like chuckle escaped from his lips.

“Clearly she is not,” Oris admitted, “how else would she end up with you? Now, I wish I could partake in this banter, but my brother and I still have things to discuss with The La'ark. So I leave Vincent Cordell in your care.”

Oris gave Vincent a brief nod and then he departed. The soldiers quickly recovered themselves and then waited expectantly. A silence followed in which it was clear that he was expected to either say something or introduce himself.

“'Hi' I guess?” he shrugged, “I'm not sure what you're expecting me to say.”

“A bit more than that, one would think!” Sperloc huffed as Vincent walked over to the cot that had his belongings on it. “We meet a myth and that is his 'grand address'?”

“I'm a damn 'contradiction', aren't I?”

Vincent struggled with the process of removing the hoodie from his figure. To his left and right, the soldiers relaxed and began to prep for the night. Jeris sat at the edge of his cot and began to tinker with an enormous crossbow he had laid out on the floor. Its limbs spanned an arm's width at least. Using a block of waxy resin, he lubricated its parts.

“You should be grateful to chronicle this moment, Sper,” Menik said, “your name will be renowned throughout history.”

“Oh, grateful I am!” Sperloc rasped as he produced an inkstone and grabbed a crude, leather-bound book in which he began to write. “I am ecstatic...there is a tingling in my bosom that I have not felt since that time I contracted the crawls. Even now...I can smell the sweet odor of hygiene's demise, that 'miasma' of scents that defines all soldiery. Just wait until we are led into the throes of some acrid swamp and we wade through waters that eat at our flesh! How I long to linger in such a cursed place, pissing and shitting in my own armor because I would rather do that than to tempt the tail ticklers.”

“Oy! Weaverfire! You have seen those then?” Tuls asked over the din of the soldiers losing it for the third time. Apparently, he had finished his meditation. “'Tail ticklers', you have actually encountered them? I thought they were a myth!”

What the hell is a “tail tickler? Vincent thought as he tucked his jacket under the cot.

The timing and cadence of Sperloc's gravelly, inappropriate candor seemed out-of-place in this expedition. It seemed to be at odds with the tuhli he had previously met back in Meldohv Syredel. He could not see such a creature working alongside the masters of the archives, who had an air of scholarly prudishness.

“Yes, they exist! And yes, I’ve seen them,” Sperloc said. Then he turned to Menik. “Let me speak to you of 'gratitude'. Gratitude is seeing a grown man make the mistake of squatting in a swamp, then proceed to dance around like a little girl with one of those things latched onto his ass, screaming as it injects thousands of tiny wriggling larvae into his intestines. Gratitude is the sentiment you feel knowing that at least you were not this hapless fool, that you will not be the one spending your last days shitting blood while those things eat you alive from within. The parasites are like bureaucrats.”

He did not elaborate on what he meant by that last statement. Instead, he continued to document in silence. Somebody lost their shit a few seconds later.

“Good God...” Vincent whispered, “what the hell did I get myself into?”

“A wise question, Saedharu.” Irony laced Sperloc's words. “You show wisdom for your youth. Perhaps it is the first step in preparing for the horrors whose asses we intend to harry.”

“Vincent Cordell, look at me,” Menik said.

“What?”

Menik now sat across the shelter from him, rolling a large lance back and forth across his lap. “Hmm...he is no 'youth',” he said to Sperloc, “his eyes are glass.”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes are glass, friend,” he repeated.

“Aye,his eyes are glass. Noticed it this morning,” Madrian added, “he needs no trial nor preparation. He needs meat to cover those bones. I do not know the laws your realm runs by Vincent Cordell, but you are in mortal flesh. Your body will wither if you let it. But yes...you have glass in your eyes.”

“Yeah, I know...they glow,” Vincent said, “I don't need the reminder.”

“They are not referring to the channeler's glow,” Sperloc said, “'Glass eyes' is a phrase uttered by the Meldohn soldiery. They are the eyes of one who has become acquainted with terror.”

Vincent went to bed without saying another word. Though he had been tired when he finally laid down for the night, his sleep was troubled. His dreams were filled with shambling aberrations that raked him with a thousand claws. Several times he jolted awake thinking he had heard the braying of the stormspawn, only to realize it was the rattling of a gastropod that had found its way into the shelter. After peeling it off a post, he lifted a seam along the wall and tossed it out.

He didn’t know why those nightmares bothered him now. His own mind had shown him far worse horrors than the warped creations that assailed them on the Devourer's thread. But it was only with the help of lyanth resin and the song of the gastropods that he was able to fall back to sleep.