> The raven flew over the land and saw that a fence had been laid between the forest and field. Nearby, the black hound was pacing along its perimeter. The raven flew down and stood on the new fence just ahead of the hound.
>
> “What is this?” the raven demanded. “Why does man think he can draw lines upon the forest, and stop the others from moving into the field?”
>
> “This is a fence,” the hound replied. “It tells others that the field belongs to the man, so that he may use it to raise his crops.”
>
> The raven’s anger grew at the hound’s words. “How can land be claimed?” it asked. “This fence cannot bar the others forever. The boar will break it, or the tortoise will smash through. Even if it is rebuilt, the claim will not stand. It will be contested by every animal. Man will be forced to defend it each day and night. In doing this, he has declared himself in opposition to nature. Yet you stand with him? Why?”
>
> “Friend raven,” the hound said. “I am of nature, as is man. You draw your own line across nature if you seek to call him anything else.”
>
> “What he does is dangerous,” protested the raven.
>
> “Fire is dangerous,” replied the hound. “I am dangerous. The very land can take your life, if you are careless. Man knows this as well as we do. But - where man sees danger, he does not run, nor fight. He learns how to feed it.”
Pre-Gharic Ardan manuscript, vellum, c. 500 PE
[https://i.imgur.com/LmRDzCA.png]
The calm was unsettling. The storm had not departed, nor had it ebbed; it still raged close to them, its wrath missing the fragile airship by nothing more than Michael’s will. In a way, it was little different than his old trick of clearing a path through the forest, and his mind easily adopted the practiced concentration from those dark and winding runs through country.
But these were no mere trees he was coaxing from their path, and the storm constantly fought to reassert itself. Eddies slipped in between the two shielding vortices he maintained to their windward side, threatening to push them out of the safe corridor. Each jolt and drop provoked an impressive torrent of Mendiko profanity from Lekubarri, who was hunched over the pilot’s wheel with absolute concentration.
“This craft was not meant for these conditions,” Amira said quietly, her eyes closed; her fingers were resting lightly on one of the bridge’s support beams. The light touch was deceptive. Michael saw the pressure of her soul flood out through that contact, bolstering the light metal with strength beyond anything mere metal could deliver.
Even so, the airship complained loudly at the rough treatment. Metal groaned and shuddered, and more than once Michael saw small bits of cowling ripped away by the wind.
“Of course it isn’t,” Lekubarri grumbled. “It’s not meant to do anything without at least one fortimens aboard, have you ever tried designing aircraft? Everything has holes drilled in it for weight, everything is thin and made out of the wrong metal. Expensive metal.” He shot a glare back at Amira. “The fortimens is an assumed part of the design, so if we fall apart in this storm, you will have been the component that failed.”
Amira said nothing to acknowledge that she had heard him, but her lips curved into a faint smile. Lekubarri made a disgusted noise and turned back to the controls.
“I think we’re past the point where anyone will fault your committee’s approval of the design, Xabier,” Antolin said. “Making it through the storm should be validation enough. I don’t think any of our airplanes would have survived this far.” He craned his neck to peer at one of the bridge’s windows, showing rain scouring over the glass. Only inky black lay beyond it. “If you had suggested designing for this circumstance, you’d have been laughed out of the meeting.”
Lekubarri scowled at the grand marshal’s needling, but Michael’s attention was already drifting away from the bridge. Their pocket of calm and light was an anomaly in the storm. Below them, the land was bare, denuded, half-flooded with muddy water. Where land still dared show itself above the flood, the soil had been stripped to bare rock. Only a few trees still stood on sheltered slopes.
As for people - Michael knew that there was little hope for anyone who had been here when the storm swept through. He stretched Sibyl outward as far as he dared and saw no one - not even rats were left to scour through the leavings of what had stood before. The storm washed away any trace of habitation.
The airship dropped precipitously; one of the shielding vortices had begun to collapse, letting the wind flow fast and rough up to the airship’s underside. Michael staggered to the side, trying to reestablish their protection.
“Michael!” Lekubarri shouted, leaning hard on the wheel.
“The wind is faster as we go in,” Michael shot back. “Not easy to counteract - hold on.” He bent his focus entirely on the streams of air, dipping once more into the strength of his low souls. He pressed them upon the world until the storm eased back and their flight stabilized.
Michael straightened back up, breathing hard; Amira’s jaw was set, beads of sweat standing out on her forehead. She had gripped the support beam hard enough to dent the metal.
“I’m not sure if I can keep it from us entirely,” Michael muttered. “It’s hard to act - how did Jeorg put it? Hard to act outside of a room you’re in, or inside one you’re not. Sibyl helps, but it doesn’t change that I’m ultimately not out in the storm.”
Lekubarri darted a look back over his shoulder. “Then you may have to descend to the viewing platform,” he said. “Yes, I think that would be easiest. Through Leire’s old quarters. She had it for much the same reason, but more so because we could never manage to design a window that would tolerate her full power without melting.”
“Are you crazy?” Sobriquet asked. “Stepping outside in this storm would be suicide, for a number of reasons. The wind, the turbulence, the deadly particulate you were so happy to tell us about before-”
“If he does his job, the first two won’t be an issue. For the third, short exposures should be fine. Perhaps wear a cloth over your face.” Lekubarri laughed mirthlessly. “Whatever you do, decide quickly. My reports indicate that the worst wind should be in the storm wall just outside the center, followed by an area of calm. If you can get us through the wall, then we’ll be fine. Probably.”
He risked another glance back at Amira; his eyes lingered on her for a long moment.
Amira blinked slowly. Michael felt something nebulous from her, but could not put his finger on what.
“Perhaps you should go with them,” Lekubarri said. “I imagine you can keep the ship safe from any vantage, but I’ll be relying on you in particular to protect these two.”
There was a pause. “Two?” Michael asked.
“Jaun Baumgart, I cannot fathom how you’ve made it this far without realizing that if you’re going down to the platform, your maitalea will inevitably follow.” He flashed a smile at Sobriquet. “Even a heartless politician can see that.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re up to something,” she said.
“Always,” Lekubarri confirmed. “But nothing nefarious. I simply believe it will be for the best if our powerful young contingent stays together, so that nothing untoward happens to any one of you.”
Sobriquet studied him for a long moment, stepping closer. “It reassures me very little that you’re so talented at avoiding any statements I might read as false in your words. That doesn’t make them true; it makes them empty.”
“My dear, I’ve already confessed to being a heartless politician,” Lekubarri grimaced, turning to strain against the wheel as the airship shuddered once more. “It’s entirely unnecessary of you to remind me. Now please, go - I don’t know how much more time we have until we reach the inner storm wall, but I’m quite sure we won’t survive it unless we’re all at our best.”
Michael looked at Lekubarri for a long moment, then at Antolin. The grand marshal gave a helpless shrug. “Our batzarkidea is many things,” he said. “Deceptive, cowardly, self-serving, maneuvering-”
Lekubarri gave Antolin a pained look. “Really, Jaun Errea-”
“-duplicitous, evasive, equivocating, and above all extremely annoying,” Antolin continued. “But he’s reliable in a crisis, which I’d say this qualifies as. I’m inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt for whatever he has planned.”
Sobriquet sighed and turned to the bridge’s exit. “Come on, then,” she said. “Michael?”
Michael frowned, then turned to Zabala. “Keep an eye on these two, will you?” he asked.
“And do what, precisely?” Nevertheless, Zabala gave a tired nod. “Go ahead. I’ll try my best to spot for Amira while she’s moving.”
Amira released her grip on the pillar, letting her soul spill outward. “That won’t be necessary,” she said. “I am the Shield. What I protect, survives.” She looked briefly down at Lekubarri, who offered her a dazzling smile; her lip curled, and she turned to follow Sobriquet.
“See you on the other side,” Michael said tiredly. He turned to make his own exit. As the heavy metal door swung shut behind him, he heard Lekubarri chuckling softly.
“Really, grand marshal,” the batzarkidea said. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said about me.”
[https://i.imgur.com/5j2fVVL.png]
Michael stumbled through the close hallways of the airship, barely seeing what was in front of him; he trusted Sobriquet to lead him to the platform while he kept his focus outside, trying his utmost to maintain the swirling shield that kept the worst of the storm at bay. It was increasingly challenging to do. This close to the storm’s center, the winds were powerful and chaotic. Crosswinds lanced into his carefully-maintained vortices like knives, spilling bloody air out and sending the whole structure precariously spiraling out until Michael exerted himself to contain it once more.
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He nearly fell out the door to the platform, and again when the wind slapped against his face with stinging force. His potens soul was little comfort against the titanic forces raging around them, midnight-black tides of air and water striking them in surges. Only Amira’s enveloping presence kept them safe. It was iron around them, making Michael feel as though his feet were an extension of the decking. Nevertheless, he gripped the rail, hard, and turned to the storm.
Standing outside made his task immeasurably easier. The winds quieted before he had the chance to straighten up, mellowing to a mere stiff breeze as his refined control of the vortices grew. The rain fell on them in gentle waves, though still enough to drench them. Sobriquet sputtered and glared up towards the bridge.
“Damn Lekubarri,” she spat. “I could have been here just as easily from inside - gah!” She staggered left as the wind surged back.
Michael tightened his grip on the rail, working hard to tuck away all the stray winds that threatened to intrude on his sanctuary. “He wasn’t lying. It gets worse from here, much worse. Amira-”
“I know my part,” Amira replied. Her eyes were open, ignoring the rain that pelted against them. Her hands were balled into fists, her breath coming hard and fast. “I am the Shield.”
“You’ve mentioned,” Sobriquet muttered. Whatever else she might have said was lost in a roar of wind. The wall was close, its perimeter marked by snaking lightning writhing against the rain. Michael could see the invisible currents, could mark where the air sprang into furious motion.
“Hold on!” he yelled. The vortices spun, spun, and he ploughed everything he could into them-
The first blast of the storm wall ripped them away like gauze. The airship gave a deep groan that reverberated into the soles of his feet; Michael scarcely felt it as the storm pressed itself down upon them. Rain shot into his eyes, his ears, up his nose. His clothes flapped with enough force to draw welts from a normal man.
He could afford only a moment of shock; gritting his teeth against the deluge, he worked to reestablish his protection. It was an entirely different problem than before. There was no constant in the deep storm, no predominant flow. There was only chaos, and darkness. Amira screamed into the wind, throwing her head back.
“I am the Shield!” she cried. “THE SHIELD! I STAND!”
Yet the storm peeled back the cover of her soul, tore into the airship’s fragile skin; Michael could see ribbons of metal ripped away, could feel the bending ache of its struts. He spared a moment for his artifex soul and bade the decking wrap each of their feet in metal, securing them fast - then threw himself outward with renewed fury.
Against the chaos of the storm, his low souls raged as one. To their light, he added everyone else aboard the airship. Sobriquet’s quiet determination, Lekubarri’s tenacity, Antolin’s confident grasp, and Zabala’s surprising faith in all of them to pull it off, even as the ship bucked around them wildly.
And then, at last, when he felt as solidly powerful as he dared dream, he reached out to touch what Amira had unveiled. She had always been a void to him, an abyss empty of all but the barest glimmer of emotion - but here, in the teeth of the storm, she was seen. She was tested. In this crucible, the ember at the bottom of her vast and empty self flared brighter than any other, and she fought against the storm’s ravages with every mote of her being.
It was electric, uncontainable; she was pressing the raw essence of herself against the world, and though it threatened to tear her apart - Sibyl rang with every moment of it, a wordless voice screaming TRUTH.
Michael drew that truth out, shaping it into a solidity for his own use, weaving it in among the others. Stanza’s lattice drew taut under the weight, but its movements would no longer be denied. He beat the storm back one gust at a time, denying its chaos, enforcing the truth of those near and within him.
The wind fell away in fragments, still gusting hard but lacking the bite of its initial salvo. Its own turbulent nature worked against it; Michael’s will lent form to the sheltering windward gyre, and the formless could not contest his works. Amira’s solidity flooded outward as the ravaging pressure failed.
She laughed wildly, punching her hand into the air. “I am tested!” she crowed. “I am tested and I stand!”
“Join the club, you crazy bitch!” Sobriquet whooped back, swooping in to envelop Michael in a hug - then drawing up short, frowning at the metal encasing her feet. “Michael.”
“I won’t apologize,” he said, tapping his hand against the rail; the metal fell away and she leaned into him, pressing sodden and warm into his side. “We’re not through yet-”
The storm heaved against them one last time, bucking the airship upward with enough force to clack Michael’s teeth together - but then the wind failed abruptly, sending them careening into clear air. Twilit clouds stretched all around them, with clear and purpling sky visible overhead. A rank humidity assaulted them, heat that had no business in the dead of winter.
Beneath them was a flat, alien plain, any trace of Gharic topography and flora stripped by the wind. Michael didn’t know where on the peninsula they had emerged, or how far the storm had spun them around, but he doubted that any map could recognize a landmark here. The country had been erased, and in its place was a dead land with barely a few scattered rocks to disrupt the muddy lakes and basins of its surface.
That was not what drew his attention, though. Near the center of the clear space, in a broad crater that sloped gently upward at its edges, there was a faint mote of light that flickered and shone, as if one of the stars overhead had fallen. Michael’s sight fixed upon it, though he was strangely reticent to shift his viewpoint closer, to see in truth what lay at the core of that distant light.
“Anytime now, my dear.” Lekubarri’s voice came over the airship’s intercom, shockingly loud in the sudden lull. Michael turned to wonder at it, pulling his sight back - just in time to see Amira hurtle towards him, catching him across the chest with her maimed arm even as the other stretched out to grab Sobriquet.
They were over the railing before Michael had registered what was happening. His hand shot out to grab the collar of Amira’s shirt, drawing her and a wide-eyed Sobriquet close; she wore a self-satisfied expression.
“What the fuck, Amira!” Michael shouted, his heart thundering as they fell. The wind stole his voice away. She heard, though, and grinned in his face.
“This was always the plan,” she shouted back. “Or didn’t you hear Lekubarri? My task is to protect you.”
“By throwing us off the ship?” Michael shot back, flinging his free arm up at the airship; it was rapidly shrinking into the sky above them. “What about them?”
“Their task is to deliver the bomb,” she replied. “To prepare the way-” She paused, stretching her soul out as they neared the ground. They impacted with a spray of water and mud, landing inelegantly but without injury. Sobriquet spat out a mouthful of filth and sprang to her feet, glaring at Amira.
“You couldn’t have given us some warning?” she demanded.
Horrible realization settled into Michael’s gut as he rose to his own feet, looking up at the distant airship; it droned onwards, still pressing towards the center. “Lekubarri didn’t want me to know his plan,” Michael said quietly. “He knew I’d never let him do it.”
Sobriquet’s eyes snapped wide. “No,” she breathed. “No, Zabala and Antolin are there-”
Michael shifted his view upwards and was back on the airship once more, watching Antolin round on Lekubarri. “-said we would throw it out the back!” the grand marshal growled.
Lekubarri laughed. “I believe you will find that you said that,” he replied. “I merely stated that Amira would ensure that everything essential made it off the ship. Which it has.” He clucked his tongue at Antolin. “Really, I did try to discourage you from coming along. If you must leave, you may try your luck with the fortimens. Or a parachute. I will be staying here, though.”
The anger faded from Antolin’s face. “How did you not have a better plan than this?” he muttered. “You always have a plan; you always have two of them. How can this be what you chose?”
“Jaun Errea, I’m usually plotting against incompetents and the cognitively impaired; the Batzar leaves me ample room to maneuver. This is not Mendoza and his ilk, though, nor is it the squabbling southern countries. This is the end of the world.” He turned to look back at Antolin. There was no smile on his face.
“We don’t have Leire. The enemy is far beyond us. We only have the wit and mettle of Mendian to draw upon. Its blood, failing that, and mine runs as red as any of her sons.” He turned back to the front, looking out the window. His hand pushed on a lever to his right, and the airship began to slowly tilt downward, its tortured framework screaming under the stress.
Zabala grunted and adjusted his stance, his eyes closed in concentration. A trickle of blood snaked down from his nose, painting his chin. Antolin looked at him, then turned to follow Lekubarri’s gaze as the clouds were slowly replaced by a view of water upon the ground.
“I don’t think you can spare your fortimens,” Antolin said quietly. “And I doubt I would fare well with a parachute, considering how close we are to our destination.” He laid his hand on Lekubarri’s shoulder. “Let me. My soul will guide my hands.”
Lekubarri stood, gesturing to the seat; Antolin quickly slid into it and grabbed the wheel. “That does make things easier,” Lekubarri admitted, withdrawing a slim black box from his vest pocket. He slid back its cover to reveal a large switch, as well as a keyhole. From another pocket he withdrew a silver key, which he turned in the device. The button lit.
He leaned on the back of Antolin’s chair as the grand marshal finished pitching down the airship; he worked another lever and a shuddering hiss came from the gas envelope above. The airship’s altitude began to noticeably drop.
Lekubarri’s thumb slid over the button, depressing it with a solid click. It remained firmly clamped there, just as his eyes stayed locked on the shining crater drawing ever-closer.
“I must say, it’s been a pleasure working with you,” Lekubarri said.
Antolin snorted. “Would that I could say the same.”
“Just kiss already,” Zabala muttered, opening his eyes to take in the view. His lips drew back from his teeth, showing a bloody rictus of effort; a vein on his forehead stood out.
Lekubarri raised an eyebrow at him. “If you’d like to get off-”
“We need to be as close as possible, and this thing will fall apart the moment I loosen my grip, if not before,” Zabala rasped. “I’m staying. Someone has to remind the world what Mendian means. I’ve been waiting for my chance ever since I started following Michael. We keep our promises. Gu gara argia.”
The crater filled the whole window, its reflective expanse shining with reflections from the light at its center. Antolin’s hands moved with small motions, precise and controlled, until that light was shining directly ahead of them. “We are the light,” the grand marshal murmured. “Well said. For Mendian, then.”
“Mendian,” Lekubarri agreed, straightening up; he raised the device in his hand.
“Mendian,” Zabala gasped, blood dripping from his face. “My soul to-”
Lekubarri let the device fall from his hand, and Michael’s vision went white.
He reeled backward in a flood of light and warmth; Sobriquet cried out beside him. Hot air raked the ground, and water sprayed up in foul-smelling steam, reeking of rotting matter and churned dirt, of ozone and ashes.
The light faded quickly, replaced by a slowly-rising cloud from the crater. It grew up as a twin of the tree that had sprouted in Gharon, albeit smaller and slower, even as the clouds at its periphery shuddered and began to shred apart.
Michael stood, turning his back on it to help Sobriquet up from the mud. His chest ached with borrowed light. Three fires burned there to join the multitudes, each scorching their own brief mark into him before fading seamlessly into the whole. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Fine,” she said dully, rising to her feet. Tears streaked through the mud on her face as she turned toward the cloud. “We still have work to do.”
He wavered for a moment, on the brink of saying more, but Michael felt the resolute beat of her heart and turned towards the slowly-rising cloud. “Amira?” he asked.
“Of course.” Her soul was already stretched around them, sheltering them from the bomb’s aftereffects. The wind quieted, though, leaving the water still and steaming. “Time to run,” she said.
Michael nodded and broke into a sprint. The three of them raced across the puddles and low mud ridges, their feet slamming down with enough force to raise a trail of spray. His own soul went ahead of them to firm their path, stealing the heat away until the mud firmed and the water froze.
Nothing barred their path. There was nothing left. Fires burned where bits of wood had been left sticking up from the mud, and a low haze of steam obscured their view, but nothing impeded Michael’s view. Their path was inexorable, like falling. He could move nowhere but to the center, towards the pull of what lay there.
And something did remain, at the center of it all. They reached the rim of the crater just as sullen dawn was fighting its way through the clouds. At its center, with water still rushing back in to fill what had been blasted away, there was a horrible mass of pain and wailing, of gnashing teeth and grasping hands-
But there was only a single man, his flesh scarred and twisted. Michael’s vision swam with two truths, both screaming outward from the middle of that ruined pit. He slid to a halt in the mud, forcing himself to look down at it, to settle the reality of it in his mind.
Sobriquet halted beside him, and Amira some distance behind.
Michael took one steadying breath, then walked towards the dawn.