As a “cheat item,” the conch ought to have made life easy. However, its random nature made for anything but ease in the hands of someone as driven and dogged (a word I do not use lightly, as you can imagine) as Commander Zideo. His trial and error nature, his rigorous perfectionism, showed itself plainly in the dark patches beneath his increasingly tired eyes. It was more than tiring to be carried to one place in the world, undertake some small task, and surrender oneself to the winds once more—and this, over and over and over. Man was not made to travel in this way, and that is to say nothing of dog.

The rewards were tangible, but few, relative to the amount of work we were putting in. We had neither rested nor eaten since being hosted by Sir Guenevere in the tent from which she coordinated her own rebellion, for which Zideo had unwittingly supplied the troops. This had also yielded the Green Radian, hoarded but poorly protected in the tower in Rolling Green.

I had lost count of our “stops,” as I came to think of them. A ravine where we bounced on large mushrooms that sent us flying upward upon contact. A sprint down a mountain, pursued by rolling boulders. A pretty but empty meadow in the amber backwoods of Golden Plains, where hanging logs were lined with golden coins, rotating as silently as the distant Screenwilds, visible through the haze of day, although a shadow lay across its own fields and forests. It was here that Zideo, finding no expected reward at the end of the obstacle course, received what I hoped was not was concussion as he jumped into a floating block made visible by his impact. It produced some kind of winged orb, which did its very best to escape him, and he was made to chase it down into the woods. From it, he gained a capability that delighted him to no end, something that allowed him to jump a second time at the height of leaping into the air, bracing against nothing. “So this is where they were hiding it!” he said, and I recalled him mentioning a “double-jump” in his prison cell in Pengoon Peaks.

* * * * *

How much time we lost to his experimentation then and there, I cannot say. His mind was impervious to the pressure of time, the queasy mystery of what might happen to our friends, for the hour after acquiring a new ability. He combined it with the other things he could do, talking to himself or to me (what was the difference?) as he tried different orders. “If I jump, dash, wall jump, does it reset?” he said, measuring distances and using nearby trees and logs as his sandbox.

Eventually he tore himself away before he was satisfied with the outcomes. I knew the nigh mythic mental strength it must have taken to abandon an open question for someone like Zideo. When it came to leaving tasks unfinished, my human was a veritable Hercules.

Winds, gusts, gales. A small island where we dispatched dog-sized hermit crabs brandishing claws half the size of their bodies. We hopped on their shells from above, causing that familiar ba-doop! upon which the crab inside vanished, leaving its sturdy shell behind. Zideo recognized this, and found that the shells were quite aerodynamic despite their jagged and irregular shapes, and could be slid like projectiles to incapacitate other assailants.

We were visitors, Shard-hopping tourists. During these excursions he never let go of the conch, always ready to blow into it in case the danger was too great, too immediate, or even if he was just spooked by something. Nearly being eaten by a giant spider had, no doubt, engendered a measure of caution in him, though that was quite against his character. But that’s my human for you: always willing to learn and grow.

Winds, gusts. A sea of Street Toughs marched on the Red Hot Caliente Zone. They cheered to see Zideo, although our winds scooped dozens of them and sent them spinning into the crowd. Crossing the border from Rolling Green into the zone governed by Xue-Fang and traced with patches of lava and smoke, we hit the same invisible restriction. While the Street Toughs were able to pass through it, we were rolled to the back of the mob. Zideo blew it again and were were carried off before we hit the ground, to the chagrin of many airborne hooligans.

Winds. The freezing far side of the Shard, with a view of Fort Weepus, still reorganizing after the chaos we had stirred up there. No overseer walked the ballista tower, and I envied the warmth of those arguing at the gates.

Winds.

* * * * *

A house of brick, but far too big on the inside to be a house in truth. Its interior defied use, and it gave the impression of being built to obstruct rather than accommodate. Walls blocked passage through the hallways but for a low passage we would have had to crawl beneath or climb over. I have heard Lisa speak on the phone of “split level” homes, but the arrangement here defied my most liberal understanding of such architecture. Seedy characters patrolled small territories, roofs beneath the roof, antipathic pig-men and indescribable urchins whose eyes peered out from beneath construction helmets. There was no use attempting to make sense of it. Temptation played across Zideo’s face as he eyed the coins protected by the patrolling creatures, but he thought better of it with a long look at me. He blew the conch.

A huge tentacled sea-creature squeezed itself out of a manhole cover, stirring up a tide of black ink that reached past my ankles and stained Zideo’s Jordan-shoes. “Nope!” he shouted, and raised the conch. A massive tentacle splashed down and nearly caught us. I rolled to one side, he to another. “Nuh-uh! Hell naw.” He blew the conch.

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I was afraid that this was our life now. Seconds or minutes of adjustment to a place we had never seen, or had seen, or had seen from a distance, often running for our lives, and fleeing thanks to the magic instrument that permitted him to break the rules of this Shard’s reality, but which afforded him no control. If I knew Zideo, and I like to think I did, he was leaning into the advantage we had in our favor and willing the pay the cost of arrival in as many unexplored lands as were necessary. Where he was hoping to “land” was not certain, surely somewhere closer to where he believed the rest of the Game Fellows might be held. How many of these tiring warps would be enough? Day and night held little meaning now, and my growling belly could not remember its last meal. His shoulders slumped when he raised the instrument, and he began to sigh heavily before blowing it, when our safety permitted.

Another warp. We clung to airborne blocks in the sky, blown by winds which did not die down after the melody of the conch. Solid surfaces peaked through thick, pillowy clouds spaced wide apart. I suspected this was the cloudy region where Addrion found the Blue Radian, or some similar course.

Another. A tight hallway of treadmills like the one in Lisa’s exercise room, which she used on mornings after she had imbibed too many of the White Claw. Even standing still sent us backward, although some sections of the floor moved forward, doubling our forward speed when we walked.

Another. A dark chamber, another cave that was not meant to be seen. A mountain of rags hunched over a tiny vanity in the dark. It halted midway through applying lipstick, and turned, the veil parting just long enough for us to see the gruesome maw of Sourgorge, Scourging Bane of the Corpse Garden. The conch did not leave Zideo’s lips, and he blew again instantly before the monstrosity could rouse itself. Its many hanging strips of cloth snapped blew back, but fortunately the winds obscured the sight of whatever was beneath.

Sky, plains, plains, cave, occupied fortress, plains, snow, abandoned fortress, cave, different sky, tunnel, lava-filled nightmare, forest. And always the melody, always the blowing wind. I felt my soul blowing away with it.

* * * * *

The winds died down in a jail cell. The walls were a texture that made little sense to me–gears, sliding metal catches, tread belts, always in some kind of motion or another. Their hue was brassy, a reddish metal none the warmer for its hue. Helmgarth and Addrion lie on the floor, pushing themselves back onto their feet. They were wide-eyed, as stunned by our appearance as by the gale-force winds.

Helmgarth did not have his backpack with him. Addrion's helmet was unsealed, her green hair trailing resting over one shoulder when the breeze settled.

“I don’t believe what I’m looking at,” said Addrion. “And I don’t want to.”

Helmgarth threw his arms around Zideo. He backed away and held him by the shoulders. “But what’s this, love?”

“It’s our ticket out of here,” said Zideo. “Check it out! It’s my conch.” He held it up.

The others blinked at one another. “I just blow my conch, and then we get blown away. It’s that simple. You’ll have to be close to me though, or you won’t come with me. Then we can get off! The Shard, I mean.”

Helmgarth stifled a laugh, and Addrion looked increasingly troubled, but whatever frivolous human subtext was at play, it was quite beyond me.

“I’m not doing that,” said Addrion. “Not if you say it like that.”

“Say it like what?” asked Zideo. “Stop wasting time and get closer to my… ooohhhhh.” His chin rose in sudden understanding. “Okay, yeah I get that. Completely inappropriate.”

Helmgarth went to the iron bars of the prison cell and did his best to survey both angles of the hallway. The cells across the hallway were empty, as were all others as far as I could tell. Zideo did his best to catch them up on what had happened, explaining what the instrument did if not exactly how it worked, which none of us were equipped to explain. He told them of DuChamp’s heroic but secret martyrdom in New Rampage City, the rallying of the Street Toughs and their concerning multiplication, of Sir Guenevere, and the Green Radian. That reminded him to ask where Nereus was, and Helmgarth shook his head and would not answer. “MIA,” said Addrion, which I expected was human code to gently break the news of his capture. “They want the Purple Radian.”

“So they’ve got two, and we’ve got three,” said Zideo. “But they’ve also got the Compendium. Have you seen it? Do you think they can get into it?”

“They’ve got one,” said Addrion, reproachfully. “He’s not giving that up. Nereus knows the stakes better than any of us.”

“You don’t think…” said Zideo, hesitant to continue, “they’d hurt him to get it? Is torture even like… mechanically possible?”

Helmgarth looked away. Addrion said nothing.

“Hang on,” said Zideo, and he walked up close, looking directly into her eyes. She towered over him.

“What?”

“Your eyes are looking real real green today,” he said, and pretended to turn away. He spun and threw a punch at her with the hand not holding the conch. “...Xue-Fang!” His fist bounced off her chin. She blinked, but did not wince.

She frowned. “My eyes are green, you froofy dipshit.” She was too embarrassed for him to retaliate.

Helmgarth began waving rapidly back at them, and I heard the far-off clank of boots against metal floor. “Put it away,” he whispered, urgently. “Get behind one of us. Someone’s coming.”

“Okay, but see,” said Zideo, making no move to hide. “You’re still doing the thing. We gotta change the subject or someth-”

The Sorrow Guards were speechless to find two new prisoners.

“Put it away,” hissed Addrion. Zideo blinked, and shook then great shell, then shook it again. He must have expected it to disappear like collected coins, but it won’t not go. He put it behind his back. “It won’t go,” he whispered back to her. “Inventory must be full!”

They glared from behind their frowning tragedy masks, and slowly looked to one another. One of the two sighed heavily, or perhaps both simultaneously. “Call it in,” said the one of their muffled voices.