Between the worlds, there is blackness. Void. Nothingness. There are winds, currents – the tache used them to sail to us – but we cannot breathe them. There is no weight, no up or down. If the winds move you like they move the great ships, you don’t know it; you have no way to tell if you’re moving.

I learned to teleport in tiny steps. Inlanlu almost never have that ability, and no other tahori were friendly enough to help me learn, so I taught myself. I discovered my talent as a child, startled by my brother’s surprise pounce; I vanished and reappeared two feet over, wide-eyed and stiff-tailed. I explored it, learning to move one foot, five feet, fifteen feet. I learned how to pop back in a few inches above the ground and avoid getting my feet stuck in the dirt; I learned how to drop onto a sturdy tree branch twenty feet up, and only once did I miss it and fall all the way down. I learned how to move by inches only, enough to dodge a strike with hand or paw or stick.

In time, I learned how to go to places I couldn’t see from where I was. That was harder – I had to remember how everything looked and hold that in my head – so, instead, I started trying small distances again with my eyes closed. Once I got the hang of visual memory, I could do longer jumps easily. By then, I had met Tari, a fast-talking young man with a brilliant smile. He, too, could teleport, and if my packmates were uncertain to have me spending so much time with a non-inlanlu, they didn’t stop me from meeting with him. Together, we explored our abilities.

I was two years from adulthood when I first tried putting myself into the sky. It worked– I started falling, the ground an uneven patchwork of greens and browns below me. I didn’t have time to think: instinctively, reflexively, I teleported back to the safest place I could think off, three inches above the ground where I slept. It was still a hard landing, my momentum half-preserved. I was shaking.

Tari’s father took him to Nami Ka, enough times that he learned how to go on his own. That was exhausting, he told me, making a jump that far – but he got better, and without his father’s knowing, he took me. I met namiccians, heard their language, smelled their air, drank their water. I tried to remember what it looked like; after I went with him three times, I tried to go by myself.

I didn’t make it.

The distance was too great, and inlanlu don’t have the sheer amount of qki flowing through our bodies that Tari’s people do. I hadn’t known that I needed to develop such a flow, let alone how to do so. I hadn’t known how much was needed.

So I found myself in the void between worlds, bitterly cold, weightless, and unable to breathe. My lungs seized up, and my heart fluttered like a bird inside my ribs. I couldn’t feel my skin within moments, but my bones hurt from the deep chill. As before, I didn’t have time to think: my reflexes tried to take me back to my safe place, where I slept, where I could breathe.

But I was exhausted. Going halfway and then back again was like going all the way, and I couldn’t do it. Panic rose in me as my eyes felt like ice; I couldn’t close them, even to blink. My mouth felt fused shut. I couldn’t feel my hands, my feet, my tail, my face– and, swiftly thereafter, my arms and legs.

At some point, only a few eternal seconds past the realization that I couldn’t teleport home, I realized what I was seeing. Our sun was a tiny ball of fire, making a triangle’s third point with my home and Nami Ka; I was on the invisible line that linked Nami Ka and my world. The worlds were discs, huge in comparison to the sun, facing its warmth; behind them, I could see the cloudy underside of a third world, Ayunra Ka. The sun must swing a circle around all three, once every day. That’s why our nights are longer than our days.

My back was to the sun, and I kept my eyes away from it but for the brief glance over my shoulder; but, even so quickly, the frigid chill lessened, and I could blink again.

I’m in the middle of the universe, I thought to myself, calming. I was surrounded by all we knew, ka, the sum of everything. It was not a bad place to die, even young, even alone.

But the word die scared me again, and reflexes kicked in, trying to take me home, to a safe place–

I woke up a week later, cradled by my brother in his black-furred sanero skin. My pack had gotten so scared when they found me comatose in my sleeping spot that they actually allowed Tari’s family to come onto our territory to look at me. Tari’s father told them that I had used up more qki than my body had in it, an impossible thing, a fatal thing. Having no qki means your body shuts off: heart stops, lungs stop, head stops. You die when you do what I did.

No one was sure how I survived. But, as the years wore on and I learned more, trained more, and did more, I could do it again and again – I could use more qki than my body had and still not die.

Five years after I saw the center of ka, I was the most powerful warrior in my pack.

A soft-metal noise echoed through the quiet–pause–rang out softly again. There.

The shadow-robed figure’s keen hearing didn’t pick up on the nearly inaudible touch of unshod pawpads on the thickrubber-lined walkway between individual docks until a tall, muscular form could barely be discerned against the greyish bulk of background shapes. By then, the midnight walker was nearly upon the hidden one, and the chance was nearly lost. But not quite.

The walking creature sprang backwards in lightning-quick reflex as a piece of the night’s darkness detached from its shadowy brethren and lunged at her. Thick, guttural laughter rolled out, rough against sensitive ears, and the walker landed in a defensive crouch, a silent snarl baring long, pearly fangs.

A small light–far dimmer than even a candle’s fickle flame–burst into existence with a sharp click, casting relatively stark shadows against the docks and temporarily blinding night-accustomed eyes.

A shot rang out, and more laughter came with it.

The assassin grinned mirthlessly at seeing the beautiful white body of a feline, so delicately striped in thin charcoal streaks, sprawled bonelessly on the walkway. In a second, he imagined, a pool of fresh, crimson blood would stain that lovely pelt and begin seeping towards his booted paws. “Not much of a warrior, after all,” he hissed under his breath, eyes devouring every inch of his kill hungrily. “Just a rogue who managed to fool everyone into thinking she was some sun-blessed–”

One full-body convulsion threw the feline into the air–she twisted–landed on all fours–shot forward like a bullet from a high-powered sniper rifle, like the bullet with which he had shot her–

Only there was no blood on that perfect fur, no gaping hole in her flesh–

“Gllgrrgh!” the assassin choked, finding his prized weapon knocked from shock-loosened fingers and one strong hand gripping his throat with the strength of a steel vice. A feline face stared into his, the faint, musical ringing of silvery earrings the only sound in a suddenly-silent night. The hand-held light rolled with precise slowness down the slight slope… the same way her blood should have trickled in a lush scarlet river…

The cat said nothing, clawtips pricking her enemy’s skin just hard enough to draw four tiny beads of blood, as golden eyes stared into stormcloud-grey ones with the ferocity of every feral beast to ever prowl a primeval jungle–

“Wrong.”

The assassin wanted desperately to swallow, but found that he couldn’t.

Tide sounds wrong.

Sunlight glittering along sleek cerulean scales, rear up, flaring wings for balance. Peer out with albino-pink eyes into the bright–bright hurts–blinkblink and then blink again. Shade eyes with one wing–lose balance and flop onto flank. Titter in annoyance, voice sprightly and bird-like, then simply slither right off the ledge.

Whoosh!–wings open and catch the newborn thermals that rise from the warming sands of the beach below. Whee! More pretty shiny–sun good on skin and wings–warm.

But then, sound of disruption in the waves again. Twist mid-air–change course. Swoop as though trying to dodge the unimpeded sunlight that comes over the ocean’s great, glittering expanse–bright!–dodge–warrrm…–dive towards the beach.

Backwing very quickly, very rapidly, then pool serpentine length onto the heated grains of sand. Rustle of sand against glistening hide–dirty bad–flutterflutter. More sand kicks up because of wing-wind. Sigh. Stop fluttering.

Then, fasten pink eyes onto the hills of white-topped waves come in. Tide still wrong. A greyish-brownish lump–larger by far than the flier–floating lifelessly in. Whassat? Pause. Carcass?

Rear up again–flutterflutter–somehow springboard long body into the air and flap furiously to get high enough to zip forward on a tiny current of air. Bright bad! Zoom over the ocean, into the sun, past the floating thing–then twist and come back. Bright behind–shadow on water–can see now.

Feathered-hunter-landwalker-critter! A Tyce. Floating. Not moving. Dead critter? Pause. Why in water?

Don’t bother to hesitate–zip down and buzz just a hair’s-breadth above the water-soaked, feathered beast. Lumpy. But keen hearing picks up the faint sound of a heartbeat. Critter not dead. Twist–bad bright!!–pass and turn–shadow on water again. Ahh–relieved sigh. Dive–smack the critter’s nose (barely above water) with tailtip. Critter half-dead–annoyance.

Waves carry the Tyce to the shore, slowly pushing at its toned, ocean-cleansed body, shoving it further towards the edge between dry and wet sand.

Flutterflutter. These-type critters friends. Pause–flutter–shadow on wet sand as the wave rolls out again, oh-so-briefly. Friends. Dive–backwing–hover–then carefully land on the big quadruped’s heaving flank. It coughs violently–flutterflutterflutter!–and up into the air again. Yikes! Hover–sun on back–warm.

The half-drowned predator coughs, retches up saltwater, then blearily opens one amber-golden eye. The eye is glazed, but slowly rolls upwards and attempts to focus on the cerulean Budram, hovering above–damp from seaspray with curiosity shining in its serpentine face. No danger.

Friend-critter awake! Zip down, chirruping merrily, and pool length onto dry sand, just a little ways away from the greybrown beastie. Watch avidly with wide, unblinking eyes as the Tyce laboriously pulls itself upwards without fully rising, towards the little flier.

Awake! Awake!

The Tyce lets itself fall once the waves cease to pull at its hind limbs, lupine muzzle creating a little trough in the sand a mere inch from the Budram’s winged form. Not-awake. Sigh. Wait with friend-critter.

The tide begins to roll out.

Uhjayi is a conlang – a constructed language – spoken by the inlanlu tahori, a species of tribal shapeshifters on a world known as Alasa Ka. Their universe is half-science and half-fantasy: magic and natural selection shape evolution, and a person must use both logic and spirit to thrive. Uhjayi itself is designed to approximate the form of communication an alien culture might use, given that one of their skins is remarkably similar to the one we humans wear all our lives.

Uhjayi is not a simple cypher that switches one letter for another. Uhjayi actually has a root-based vocabulary, object-subject-verb structure, and syntax that, I’ve been told, resembles some Asian languages. (None of which I speak, for the record, nor am I familiar with their skeletons.) Uhjayi’s current syntax has come about from what I think makes the most sense; the script is phonetic, the pronunciation using the English alphabet is standard across all its words, and the structure is simple, yet flexible.

After working on Uhjayi for some while, the above-mentioned bloke recommended Pimsleur to me as a better language-learning method than Rosetta Stone. (In tandem with my martial arts, and mostly because of it, I wanted to learn Japanese.) Instead of computer software, it consists of thirty-minute audio lessons in three sets of thirty lessons – roughly equivalent to one lesson a day for three months. I started daydreaming about recording Uhjayi lessons.

On a lark, I wrote the tentative transcript for the first lesson, using Pimsleur’s standard conversation format, and shared it with some friends. They responded overwhelmingly favorably. I wrote more lessons, made a mini-site (well, sub-blog), compiled vocabulary, and even recorded five-minute audio lessons to showcase the correct pronunciation. Thirty-minute lessons are definitely coming, but I’m still working on learning – and finishing – my own language first.

If you’re curious, you can find everything housed in the Learn Uhjayi blogsitething: lessons one through five, a vocabulary list, and the of-questionable-quality recordings of me saying some very strange things.

So, tell me: have you ever dabbled in any kind of fictional language?

A low, hooting cry stirred Mechebe from his fretful nap, bringing his half-conscious mind to full awareness in a heartbeat. His eyes flared open as his tufted ears lifted vertical, swiveling to pinpoint the direction of the summoning warble. Sleep had given him no peace of mind, and now waking brought the pivotal announcement into unavoidable proximity. He took a deep breath, released it, and lifted his long, bearded muzzle from his crossed forepaws. His toes were tangled, claws placing sharp curve against sharp curve; the massive talons dangling from his dewtoes were the only ones exempt from his unconscious expression of anxiety.

He looked up, seeking a glimpse of the sky past the evergreen canopy. The shade of blue suggested afternoon, but the bloody tinge to the wispy clouds belied that and told him it was evening already. The sun was fleeing the sky in hopes of rest, much the same way Mechebe had fled the center of the territory in hopes of serenity. He wished the sun better luck than he had found.

“Ready?” came a sharp, light voice behind him. Mechebe didn’t look, pulling his paws apart gently before pushing himself up from his bed of mulch and moss to stand on four strong legs. His luxuriously long tar-black fur kept a few dried leaves as prisoners; he shook off when he heard the tell-tale crinkle-crackle from beneath him.

“I am restless from waiting,” he answered after another deliberate breath failed to bring calm, stretching his legs and flexing his ankles. His tail, long and thick and smooth, hung in a low curve behind his haunches, kept as still as he could manage; the barbed tip alone twitched, made of age-fused spines that grew like a lizard’s rattle-tail.

“You’re worried,” remarked the voice, accompanied by the sound of sniffing. One of Mechebe’s packmates stepped up to his flank, looking up at the larger man with a mixture of disapproval and amusement. “You think Neserre will send them away.”

“I fear he will,” Mechebe corrected. “I do not know his mind.” He touched damp noses with Zojeki, a spry man with mist-grey fur that darkened in an intricate mottled pattern on his angular face. Mechebe was easily twice the grey’s weight and width, for all that he was only two feet taller at the withers. Where Mechebe was muscular, Zojeki was lean; where Mechebe was dense, Zojeki was compact; where Mechebe was strong, Zojeki was amazingly swift.

They made a decidedly odd pair.

“Ssst.” Zojeki tossed his narrow muzzle dismissively as another series of hoots echoed through the tall-treed forest. “We are called – stop worrying and start walking.”

Mechebe flicked an ear in slight annoyance, but he began pacing away from his dozing nest, a few stubborn leaf-bits drifting down from his belly. “You think he will welcome them?” he asked his friend, ears falling to an uncertain angle.

Zojeki made a noncommittal noise, then nosed a stray twig from the black’s long beard. They walked with barely an inch between their shoulders and hips. “Don’t know. Can’t know, either. Quit trying to predict.”

Mechebe felt his head sink lower, the arch of his long neck becoming more pronounced. “Neserre is wise,” he murmured in his deep, growling voice. “If he sends them away, it is because they are dangerous. I will have been wrong about them.”

The grey snorted, keeping pace with the longer-legged man easily. “You have been bare-chested to the strangers for a score of days now. You haven’t had an escort for two scores. How dangerous can they be, if they didn’t take such an opportunity to kill you?”
Mechebe’s ears fell to his head, softer than the snow that would soon arrive. “They can be very dangerous,” he answered quietly. “They choose not to be. They can call fire–”

“Mechebe!” hailed a third voice, and both men glanced over to see another packmate winding a path between the straight, rough-barked trunks that stretched so far skyward. “Is time! Hope for good news!” The black-furred woman gave them a kind smile, fangs hidden and eyes half-lidded.

“Hoping,” Mechebe replied, voice betraying his uncertainty. He could hear other people walking now, fallen leaves breaking to tree-dust beneath so many paws; the pack congregated on Neserre’s summons to hear what the verdict on these strangers would be. Mechebe and Zojeki were silent as they entered the clearing around the shattered rocky outcropping that served as a speaking place. Around them, their packmates gathered and sat, tails curling around haunches, ears at various angles of anticipation and alertness, eyes brilliant in the fading light of late afternoon. Some fifty men, women, and children formed an attentive crescent, all facing the speaking rock, all waiting.

Neserre sat crouched upon the rock’s craggy crown, a scarred man with glossy rust-red fur and a sleek body that bore his age well. Unlike most of the pack, he was in his terokka skin, the body-shape that allowed him to walk on two legs instead of four and use his forepaws as hands; unlike none of the others, he was dressed in hardened leather armor whose decorative feathers and claws had mostly fallen off, severed tails and ears worn nearly furless from age and use. The crude stone-tipped spear in his grasp was still stained ruddy from yesterday’s kill; Neserre was no indolent king.

Once silence fell and bodies stilled, Neserre pushed himself to stand, leaning just slightly on his spear. “I have spoken to all of you,” he said slowly, voice cracking with weather and experience. “I have heard your thoughts, and weighed them with my own. I have especially listened to Mechebe, who learned the strangers’ language to understand their intents – who, among all of us, became the very closest to these creatures from the sky.” He met Mechebe’s gaze for a moment, a compassionate look in his eyes, though no smile softened his countenance.

The red-furred man continued, voice strengthening. “I have considered for hours on end what this thing might mean for our pack, and the packs and clans who are our neighbors.” He swept his eyes across his packmates, hunters of each of four ethnicities, of every age. His people. He took a breath. “And I have decided to send the strangers away.”

A heartbeat of surprised silence was shattered by a rush of conversation, voices speaking over each other – some in protest, some in approval, but most in confusion. Many had guessed what Neserre would choose, and almost as many had guessed wrongly. Neserre stamped the butt of his spear on the rock, and the noise quieted obligingly. “I know! I know,” he said again, more softly. “I know. I am surrendering a great opportunity.” His face hardened, ears stiffening. “But I am charged with protecting this pack as much as guiding it, and I see more danger than benefit to come from these creatures and their sky-beast. I–”

“They’re no danger to us!” a sharp voice cried, cutting him off. Zojeki sprang to his paws and slid from corata skin to terokka, four legs to two, and stood with his spine nearly vertical. His tail lashed as growls for his rudeness rumbled from his packmates. “They are harmless, Neserre. No fur, no claws, no fangs–”

“They have weapons!” shouted a far deeper voice, a brown-furred youth who stood defiantly, as tall as Zojeki and twice as broad. “They have tools, better than ours, even better than the tools of our neighbors who shape metal. We cannot cut those metal skins they wear–”

“And their bright magic– I have seen them start fires from air, without tree-flesh to burn,” added another packmate loudly, sitting up. “They could light fires to us.”

Mechebe made a low whine in his throat, ears pressed to his head in unhappiness; he stood, hesitant, and was as tall as Zojeki for all that he was in four legs and the grey on two. “They are peaceful,” he exclaimed after a split second, his voice projecting well over the rising snarl of overlapping conversation. “They heal with their magic. They–”

“ENOUGH!” roared Neserre, a screaming edge to his voice instantly silencing the pack. His tail lashed behind his knees, and he held himself rigidly tall until everyone had sat again; he stared those few who remained in terokka skin down until they slipped back into corata skin. Zojeki was the last to settle to all fours, his hackles half-bristling but his ears splayed deferentially.

Neserre looked last of all to Mechebe, face softening slightly. “I understand how this hurts you, my friend,” he said, “but you must abide by this decision. I need you to return to the strangers and tell them that we wish them no ill, that we wish them to leave, that we wish them to never return. Will you do this for us?”

The black shrank from the piercing gaze, spine curling tightly. “Yes,” he exhaled, head falling in defeat. He would not, could not, go against a direct request from Neserre. Next to him, Zojeki rasped a growl in his throat, only quieting when Mechebe nudged the grey’s ribs with the back of his forepaw.

“Thank you.” Neserre lifted his gaze to the rest of the pack and lifted his voice again. “Do not let this be a divisor among us. Go and be well today. The strangers will be gone from our lands soon.”

Had Neserre not bid them be peaceful with each other, some of the pack would have confronted Zojeki about his interruption; as it was, several sent him pale-toothed looks as the gathered men and women began dispersing into the forest again. Zojeki returned the hostile grimaces one for one, ears flared vertical again and tail writhing behind him. Mechebe put a hind paw on it so that only the tip could twitch; he didn’t move until almost everyone had gone.

Neserre gripped his spear in his long jaws and sank into his corata skin, the better to leap down from the three-man-high speaking rock; he landed with creditable grace for his age and gave Mechebe a solemn look. The black dropped his head but didn’t break his gaze, so the red huffed approvingly and padded off smoothly, muscles rippling beneath his sleek pelt.

It took more minutes before the clearing was empty but for the grey and the black. Zojeki kicked Mechebe’s calming paw from his tail, stood, and shook off, sneezing thrice. “Are you really going to tell the strangers to go away?” he asked in a hushed, scornful voice, pale eyes flicking to his friend.

Mechebe was the very picture of despondence, curled into himself with low ears and wide eyes. Zojeki nearly recoiled. “I can’t not,” the bigger man murmured, staring at a point on the still-grassy earth near his paws.

“I hate your sad eyes,” the grey snapped. He studied the motionless black for a moment, then stuffed his snout into the soft undercurve between Mechebe’s jaws and throat, breathing in all the delicate scents that comprise person and man and packmate and unhappy. He drew back with a snort. “Let’s go for a walk before I say something else you’ll regret.”

Mechebe unfurled and stood, the blossoming of an impossibly shaggy shadow, but his head and tail stayed almost painfully low. “Be at peace,” he murmured, tone belying his words. “You’ll do no good.”

Zojeki chattered his teeth together in amusement. “I never do any good,” he retorted. The stillness of the evening was invasive, reaching cool fingers into the atmosphere of disappointment and frustration that surrounded the pair. He hissed at the darkening sky, then began walking. Mechebe kept pace without thinking, taking two steps for every three of Zojeki’s.

They walked in silence, no longer separated by any space, Mechebe’s long fur brushing against Zojeki’s flank with each stride. Like all men and women who escaped the agonizing uncertainty of adolescence, they communicated by scent more than sight, and sight more than words, but by touch most of all – and the texture of hide against hide was a comfort, a balm to Zojeki’s temper and a reassurance to Mechebe’s distress.

By the time they neared the edge of the wide territory that Neserre’s people called home, Mechebe had marshalled his thoughts and logicked his emotions into neater boxes. “Where are we going?” he asked Zojeki, though he knew every step of the path they walked – he had come this way scores of times in the past eight seasons.

“We’re going to talk to your strangers,” the little grey answered, “and tell them that we need more time to convince Neserre and the pack to let them st–”

“No,” Mechebe snapped, drawing a startled look from his friend. “I will not go against Neserre in this. If the strangers stay, he may take it as a move of aggression. He may attack.”

“Neserre is not so hasty,” Zojeki said dismissively. “He would send you to them more times to see why they were slow. You could bring back messages of earnest peace, cooperation, all that.”

Mechebe bared his teeth, his muzzle loose, an expression of disapproval but not overt hostility. “No, Zojeki. I tried, and I failed. Let it go.”

“Sad eyes again. You didn’t fail! No one failed,” the grey added more softly, green eyes somber for a moment. “Neserre is doing what he thinks best. He is… a good leader. But he doesn’t understand the strangers like you do. If you can get more time, talk more–”

“Scratch it, Zo!” The brief outburst sent a handful of nearby lizards scurrying into holes in tree trunks. Mechebe stared his friend down, ears lifting briefly. “I told him everything I know, everything I think I know, everything I hope. He listened. He decided. End of hunt! Let it go.”

Zojeki placed himself in opposition to the bigger man, face to face and no longer flanking, and stared up the two-foot height difference. His thin fur rose in bristles along his sharply-defined shoulders and hips and his tail lashed behind him, the barbed tip making a practiced arc in the air behind his haunches. “Why don’t you ever fight for what matters most to you?” he demanded with a snarl.

Mechebe drew breath to respond heatedly, then deflated himself with a long sigh. “Because,” he murmured, “I wouldn’t win. Neserre is thrice my age and ten times as wise. If he says the strangers are dangerous… maybe he sees something I missed.”

Zojeki stared the black down for a long moment, then spun on a paw and lunged into a headlong sprint down the unseen trail, the fleetest man in the pack even in tangled woodlands. He vanished between the tall trees in two heartbeats, the sound of his paws on the crackling earth silence within four.

“–Zo!” Mechebe bellowed after him, the leaves trembling with his volume. When no response came and the grey did not return, the shaggy black pushed himself into a gallop, ducking low branches and leaping arching roots. He knew where Zojeki was going, and he could only hope his friend wouldn’t do something foolhardy before he, too, reached the strangers’ den.

Image Credit: The New Cafe (Racer) Society.

He wasn’t a dancer. He was not compelled to frantic, ecstatic, possessed movement by the music of the world that so few could hear. He did not work blood magic on hearts that beat as drums; no unearthly tunes whispered past his fangs. He was a Panthera Walker, a hunter clad in leathers and furs, a shadow among shadows in the woods.

He wasn’t a dancer.

The forest was made of huge old oaks and smaller, scruffier, still-green pines. The ground was covered in rotting cones, and the hulls of nuts long since devoured, and brown needles, and dead, withered brambles; the canopy above was a mesh of thick patches of green and long, greyed fingers of bare limbs. The sky was dull and lifeless with the low-hanging clouds that bore neither snow nor rain, the sun a faint glow in the corner as it sank towards a blood-red demise.

He wasn’t a dancer, but as he walked step-step-step through that early winter wood, all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart in his chest. No wind stirred the broken foliage around him or lifted his tangled mane from his eyes, but he could hear it screaming past him all the same, frigid and moist and mockingly close.

The beasts in the forest slept the long sleep. Some would not wake, and their bodies would feed those who did. Tiny bear cubs hid beneath their mothers’ rolls of fat, and squirrels clustered together in the hearts of the grey trees for warmth and safety. The birds did not sing, not even the great winter owls who swooped, silently, to prey on those few rodents that did not take the long sleep.

He wasn’t a dancer, but as he forged past the thorns and the brush, all he could smell was the steam that rose off his own body, the musk of his fur, the metal of his blood. It was cold, even to one of the hardier Walkers like himself, and he wore little clothing to shield himself from the elements. The sheer heat radiating from his own self kept him warm. And the smell of blood was all around, dancing in intangible currents of barely-seen crimson. An aura of scarlet in a grey wood.

The streams were many and fast in the forest, cold and clean and rocky as they plunged down short hills and babbled across uneven beds to some unknown destination. Tiny, hard-scaled silver fish raced the water currents and feasted upon their kindred when the cold bested one and not the rest. They were vicious little things, difficult to entice to bite a hook and more difficult to spear. But the river hawks hunted them as the winter owls hunted the mice and rats that were still awake and about.

He wasn’t a dancer, but as he crossed one such stream, the silverfish were not fish at all but bright white points of light, zipping past in a haze of silver water that glowed with health. His eyes were glazed, he knew–he could feel how unfocused his gaze was and could not, at all, hone in on anything. Drifts of color and light passed him as though he waded through intangible fog, his own body still giving off the wisps of crimson bloodheat. The riverhawks were golden arrows as they dove for the water’s surface, heedless of his presence; the winter owls were black shadows that swept across open glades to seek their prey.

Duskbringer paused in his fog of scarlet and did not need to turn his head to see the fine lace of greens and greys around him–the scarves of living color permeated the very air around him that he breathed, soaked into the back of his skull. “I am not a dancer,” he said to the world, and he could feel the world laugh in its immeasurable silence.Deep beneath the beat of his heart, the drums of the earth and the sky began to play, and the Walker knelt and clutched his chest as the music took him.

Image Credit: Crestock Creative Photos.

The demons were crying in the twilight, shrieks and howls that sent small children sobbing to their mothers and made grown men shudder and clutch the hilts of their swords. As the sun sank bloodily behind the distant rolling mountains in the west, a lone rider thundered down the forest road, cloak

can you hear them?

whipping in the speed-wind. Its steed beat a brisk, frantic rhythm on the packed dirt of the narrow pathway with oddly-shaped hooves – the cloak obscured the beast’s

they’re getting closer

pelt. No one was along the little-used road to be passed, and so none saw the mount’s fur – a beautiful, swirled mottling of silver, black, and midnight blue. The demon-horse carried its rider swiftly towards

run run run faster

the setting sun. The forest was breached and gave way to gentle plains, and herds of wild horses jerked and scattered defiantly as the rider raced past. The demon-horse never tired, arched neck drenched in sweat, sculpted equine head leveled into the wind of its own passage. What looked like a long, thick plume arched backwards from the back of its skull and coiled

they’re going to catch us if you don’t

like a peacock’s feather, lax. The rider turned a hooded, veiled face to look over its shoulder at the swiftly-receding forest and hissed. “Faster,” it urged in a guttural growl of a voice and

hurry, you know, you’re our last chance to

faced front again. The smoke of a village could be seen now, staining the darkening horizon. The demon-horse ignored the cries of its kindred that erupted, snarling and screaming, from the tall grasses of the plains. It knew

make it back in time

that the jaws snapping at its ankles and fleet hooves would not touch the dark pelt. It knew, watching the world through wild jewel-like eyes, that no mortal creature could catch

hurry please hurry

a demon of such clean limb and enduring speed. With a thunder of long, sharp hooves, the beast lunged over a shadow that growled and aimed white fangs for a blued silver throat. The shadow

almost there

hissed and retreated when it missed and was rewarded with a stabbing kick as the demon-horse fled. The village was within sight now, a few inhabitants visible – tall, grey-furred beasts of men, clutching spears that

almost…

more resembled fallen logs with sharp tips than anything meant to be thrown. The rider unwound one four-fingered hand from the base of the steed’s black mane and drew a curving horn from its belt, then pressed the small end to its muzzle. The sound

too close, they’re right behind us and

echoed brassily across the plains, and within seconds, other horns were being blown from within the village. The smoke guttered and the half-beasts they could see disappeared from sight. The rider inhaled and began to

i can smell them, too close–

call again, but an arrow plunging into its shoulder knocked the wind from its lungs. The horn fell to the grasses as the demon-horse crossed an invisible line that defined the edge of the little village. Blood streamed down the rider’s torn cloak and stained its steed’s haunch, but it wheeled the beast about and

…this is the end

watched with hooded eyes as its fellows rose up from the tall grasses and sprang from the sturdy huts. The battle closed as pale, slender figures on white stags flickered into view like a mist – but only the half-beasts and the demons bled red blood. The ghosts they fought never fell.

I let the door close behind me. “Mother Repetition?”

He shot me an impatient look as he handed me a hide-bound scroll. “Repetition is the mother of learning,” he said. “Surely you’ve heard that before.”

“That’s a human saying,” I gently pointed out, stepping over a spilled pile of small books to take the scroll.

“Yes, well, what are you doing interacting with humans at all if you haven’t studied us enough?” His brows lowered and he looked almost hurt.

“Have you studied my people before interacting with me?” I asked mildly, rerolling the scroll and securing its cord to my shoulder strap.

He flung up a loose-fingered hand, the other reaching for a sheet of paper yellowed with age. “Of course not. I don’t have time for such things. What does that have to do with anything?”

I just looked at him.

Author's Note: This is a longer short story, set in Gurhai, and one of few such things that I've actually finished. I'm notoriously bad about capturing an entire story arc in less than ten thousand words, but this one is only 6600-some. I wrote it in four parts, hence the sectioning-off. Also, the title is ... unofficial, but true to the story contents. . Enjoy!

“Captain Exemplar!”

Arista Reenla opened her eyes and stared into the shadowed rafters, which were untouched by the light thrown from the open doorway. “Report,” she growled, propping herself up on one elbow and squinting as she tried to peer past the torch to identify the man who’d woken her.

“Milady,” the man said, his very tone begging for forgiveness for his intrusion, “we have sighted an unknown ship off the port bow. The ship’s captain requests an audience with you immediately.”

She tried not to sigh as she recognized the face of one of her newest men, a knight named Padryk Vessus. “Where is Captain Keng?”

“He’s– well, right now he’s up in the observation nest, but he said he’d meet you on first deck, milady.” Padryk hovered nervously in the doorway. “Shall I tell him…?”

“Yes, yes,” Arista muttered. “I’ll be up momentarily. Leave me be to dress.”

“Milady!” the knight acknowledged sharply, drawing his shoulders square in a bodily salute before stepping backwards and shutting the door, leaving her in welcome darkness.

Arista tossed the heavy blanket away, letting her eyes adjust to the returned blackness as she strapped her feet into leather boots by feel alone. By the time she’d managed that, she could see faint outlines of the furniture in her quarters, and she avoided colliding with the dresser near her bed as she swept up her jerkin and cinched it closed with a belt around her waist. Actual armor would have to wait, but she buckled her broadsword to her hip before finding the doorknob and stepping into the torchlit hall.

There was an air of tension among the crew that she passed as she made her way up to first deck, the floor just below zero deck – the outside deck, which remained off-limits while the ship was sealed to traverse the void between suns. Captain Keng, a small and brown-skinned man with a wiry build and thick mustache, was waiting near a porthole for her. His uniform was crisp and clean, but he displayed no scorn for her own sleep-softened appearance as he turned to her. “Milady,” he greeted, bowing from the waist.

“Milord,” she returned, saluting with as much energy as she could muster. “What goes?”

“Pirates, I suspect,” Keng said as he gestured towards the round, sealed window. “It’s not a boat fit for cultists of any worth, unless they’re trying for stealth by underestimation.”

“Are they approaching us?” Arista asked, looking through the porthole. Faint in the distance was the bulk of another ship, partially outlined by a nearby sun system. No lights were visible from its windows, and its identification light was unlit.

“Can’t tell yet,” Keng replied quietly. “I have my scanner working to get a solid assessment on just what’s on that boat. We’re not close enough to be sure of their trajectory. We’re steering to keep them backlit against that system.”

“What sun is that?”

“Carennh. A three-world system. We don’t have any outposts there, but it’s not a haven for criminals, either. Humans have little footing.”

“There are non-human criminals, Captain,” Arista muttered under her breath, recalling a certain baghan with a mixture of resentment and amusement. “Carennh… Creen, Yucca, and Mbaun, am I correct?”

“Aye, Captain Exemplar,” Keng answered. “There are docks on Creen that welcome travelers, but they do little in the way of intersun trading. Yucca has one emergency dock, but the fauna is more dangerous than most criminals we’d encounter, and Mbaun forbids humans. Whatever that boat is, it’s unlikely to be local.”

Arista looked through the porthole again. “You were in the observation nest?”

“Aye. Even with my glass, I can’t identify the ship’s make or approximate size. It seems to be of a shape that suggests the presence of gravitic ore, so it’s unlikely to be buthine, and it has a mast, so it’s unlikely to be qkaulom.”

Arista raised a brow as she glanced back at the smaller Lightworker. “You worry about qkaulom, Captain?”

He smiled tightly. “They are a valid worry, I assure you. This isn’t their typical quadrant of space, however…” Keng paused as a noise caught his attention; he waited until fast-paced footfalls rounded the corner, carrying with them a robed man with a troubled expression. “Ah, here. Captain Exemplar, this is my scanner, Archmage Exemplar Drumne. What goes, Drumne?”

The archmage bowed quickly to Arista, then turned his focus to his captain. “Milord, whatever’s in that boat, it’s shielded and well so. Insofar as I can glean, it is not a black-magic shield, which would suggest pirates instead of cultists.”

Captain Keng nodded once, face inscrutable. “What of the distance?”

“It’s not far, sir. If we stop moving, it’ll reach us in three hours, going at its current speed. Right now, it’s sailing a little faster than we are, and it seems to be trying for an intercept course. If we go dark and keep from being backlit, we can probably track and avoid it without any confrontation.” Drumne twitched his lips in the faintest of smiles at the suggestion, as though acknowledging the unlikelihood of Lightworkers turning down a chance to apprehend criminals. “It seems to be about our size, milord. It’s probably a human ship, though I can’t be certain.”

Arista frowned. “Archmage Exemplar, can you keep track of its location, if we choose to dodge it?”

Drumne looked slightly startled, but he met her gaze and gave a crisp nod. “Aye, milady, I can. I’d need to stay in a half-trance to do so, but it’s far from impossible.”

“…Captain Exemplar?…” Keng said questioningly, a brow arching as he glanced to her.

She gave him a mirthless smile, blue eyes hard. “What concerns me, Captain, is that mages capable of shielding a ship so well could track us as easily as we can track them. Does your ship have external armaments?”

“No, milady, it does not. We are a transporter, not a warship.” Keng’s bushy eyebrow stayed high. “Our atmospheric density is standard, as well; the magic we hold would be spent relatively quickly. This is not a boat meant for a battle in the void. I am loathe to engage a ship that is potentially better-equipped than my own without a very good reason.”

Arista glanced to the scanner. “Brother, you said the unknown ship was plotting an intercept course with us?”

“…aye, milady,” Drumne acknowledged. His eyes flickered to his captain.

“Captain Keng,” Arista said mildly, “the best defense is a good offense. And, should these strangers prove non-hostile, they certainly wanted to make contact with us anyway, judging from their course.”

“Captain Exemplar Reenla,” Keng returned in a cold voice, “how often have you and yours participated in ship-versus-ship battles in the black of the void?”

“One of my men has, as have I, once each. The rest of my men can be briefed very quickly. They are not slow learners, milord.”

“I have been captain for eleven years, milady.” Keng gave her a hard look. “In those years, I have never lost a ship, nor suffered any casualties on my ship. I did not do that by being superior in combat; I have done that by avoiding unnecessary conflict.”

“Captain–”

“Milady, if you would please not interrupt. That is not a cultist ship out there. We have no moral imperative to go after them. My orders are to transport you and yours to Os. And,” he added before she could speak again, “we are not currently in a combat situation.”

“I am aware that you have final say outside of combat, Captain Keng,” Arista snapped. “Very well. If you think that a ship so well-shielded, that is running dark on an intercept with us, will not be able to track us as easily as we can them and will, in fact, choose to let us pass by peaceably… Then, by all means, let us avoid them and continue on our way. I leave our navigation and safety in the capable hands of you and your crew.” She spun on a heel and strode away, ignoring the quick salute given to her by the archmage as she passed him.

Keng watched her walk away, then turned to Drumne. “Keep a fast messenger running between you and navigation. I don’t want them closer than an hour’s sailing to us at any point. Understood?”

“Aye, Captain,” the archmage affirmed, saluting again before making a quick exit towards the observation nest.

Quietly, Keng turned back to the porthole, watching the faint silhouette of the ship against the distant sun.

“…Captain Exemplar!”

“Somebody in command really doesn’t like you,” Arista groaned without opening her eyes, “if you got sent to wake me a second time in the same sleep cycle.”

“Iamsosorry, milady,” Padryk said in one breath. “Captain Keng has issued a state of alert and requested that–”

“What? Why?”

“–ah. The other ship, milady. Its speed doubled and it turned straight for us.”

“…what.”

“…um. It’s now less than thirty minutes away. Captain Ke–”

Arista sat up, not caring that her new knight could see more of his commander than he should as her blanket spilled to her lap. Like most Lightworkers, she wore her leggings and nothing else to sleep. “Can we outrun it?”

He moved the torch in front of his face, averting his eyes to the wooden floorboards. “No, milady.” Padryk’s voice was softer now, a little more human. “Captain Keng wants to see you in the observation nest immediately. He acknowledges the beginning of a combat scenario and yields top command to you.”

“Between you and me, Brother Vessus, I may need to punch our good captain when I see him.” Arista swung her feet to the floor, tossing the blanket away in the same fluid motion. “Step in and close the door. I’ll need the light.”

Padryk hesitated. “You don’t want me to return a message to Captain Keng?…”

“Not really,” Arista muttered, pulling open a drawer and tossing pieces of soft leather clothing onto the bed. “Now shut the bleeding door and mind your eyes.”

“Captain Exemplar,” the knight saluted, closing the door behind him and turning his back on the half-naked woman.

Arista dressed in her leathers quickly, then moved to the stand at the foot of her bed that held her platemail and began strapping each piece on. It took her less than ten minutes to be fully armored in the gold-edged steel of the paladin. A nice trick, she thought dryly, when I’m not a paladin at all. She finished buckling her broadsword to her hip, its weight comfortingly familiar. “You can turn around now.”

“What would you have of me, milady?” the knight asked, naught but respect in his eyes.

She gripped his shoulder with a gauntleted hand. “Get my men moving, Brother Vessus. Armor and weapons all, and meet in the training den on first deck. Tell Paladin Exemplar Heran that he’s to brief everyone on the finer points of intersun battle as soon as they’re all gathered. I’ll join you after I speak with Captain Keng.”

The young knight saluted sharply. “Captain Exemplar!” He opened the door for her, waited until she stepped past him, then set out at a jog towards the rest of the passenger quarters.

Arista made her way up two levels to first deck and found the door that led to the observation nest, a tiny room nestled inside the mainmast; a ladder led up the hollowed mast itself, kept dark and torchless. With the weight of her armor impressing upon her the severity of the situation, she began climbing the ladder, letting the door drift shut behind her. By the time she reached the top of the ladder and emerged in the nest, which was barely twice the width of the rest of the mast, her eyes had adjusted to the dark again. The little room was filled with instruments meant to make the dim and the distant brighter and closer, its walls lined with wide windows in every direction.

Keng and Drumne were alone in the nest; she joined them and tried to ignore the thin air and lack of elbow room. “Captain, Archmage Exemplar,” she greeted.

Keng gave her a dark-eyed look, but his face stayed too shadowed to read. There were no torches in the nest, and with the door at the base of the mast closed, little light filtered through. “Captain Exemplar,” he replied. “You have my apologies, and command of this ship. They will be here shortly.”

“How shortly?” she asked, glancing pointedly at the scanner, seated cross-legged with his back to the curving wall.

“Eighteen minutes if their speed stays constant, milady,” Drumne answered, his voice soft and distant.

“Are your people prepared for battle and evasive maneuvers, Captain?” Arista asked next, her focus returning to the slender man next to her.

Keng nodded. “Aye, milady. By the time they’re within range of magic, mine will be ready for them. Yours?”

“Eighteen minutes is pushing it,” she said, “but they will be gathered and at least partially briefed by then. Are we still uncertain as to the potential power of that ship and its crew?”

“Aye, Captain Exemplar,” Drumne answered. “Their cloak is very fine. It is purely arcane in nature, though.”

“I’ve gotten a better look at them as we tried to circle them,” Keng murmured, a spyglass still in one hand. “I am not able to positively identify them, but I suspect the craft is indeed a human ship, no larger than we are and seemingly lacking in external armaments. It resembles a merchanter. If they hadn’t been running dark, I would not have suspected them of hostility.”

Arista nodded, her left hand curled around the hilt of her broadsword. “Do we have anyone capable of broadcasting a transmission to them, once they’re in range?”

Keng lifted a brow in the darkness. “No. There aren’t any telepaths on my ship. Why?”

“I was hoping to give them a chance to surrender before we destroy them,” Arista sighed. She ignored her fellow captain’s skeptical look. “What about defensive magic? Do we have anyone who can shield our own ship?”

“Of course. Two of my men – other than Drumne here – are archmages. They’ve cloaked and warded us to the best of their combined abilities. They aren’t exemplars, but they are quite skilled in working together.” The ghost of a smile flitted across Keng’s face.

Arista nodded. “Very well. Captain, I am trusting you to manage your own men and maneuver your own ship. I and mine will be focused on offensive combat.”

“Milady,” Keng acknowledged.

“I’ll be on first deck if you need me,” Arista said, lowering herself to the second rung of the ladder. “They’re coming in to starboard?”

“Aye. Towards the bow.”

“Then I’ll be near those windows. They’re fools to push a fight on us,” she said tersely, stepping onto the ladder. “Light be with you, gentlemen.” As Keng and Drumne returned the blessing, she descended, shutting the door to the hollow mast behind her when she reached the bottom and stepped out onto first deck.

Paladin Exemplar Heran was in the middle of his briefing as she arrived in the training den; in unison, twelve men and women turned to her and saluted sharply. “My brothers and sisters,” she said, no smile softening her sober tone. “In the coming battle, may the Light be with us and boil the blood of those who would harm us.” She met each Lightworker’s gaze in turn, past helmets and chainmail coifs and a few priestly cowls. “Priests, you stay in reserve unless one of us gets hurt. Paladins, I want your focus to be on holy fire along the windows of the other ship, as soon as their arcane shields go down.” She looked to her knight and her lone archmage. “Brother Vessus and Sister Yepu, you’re both with me. Brother Heran is in command of the rest of you.”

Amidst murmurs of acknowledgements, Heran approached her and leaned in close. “Milady,” he said, dark eyes worried. “I’m not sure they’re taking my words to heart.”

“Nor am I, brother, but we must trust them. We don’t have time for anything but.” She gripped his shoulder, her gauntlet clicking against his pauldron. “Lead by example. Finish your talk if you have the time.”

“Good luck with the kids,” he returned, a slight grin twisting his lips.

She mirrored the grin. “Vessus, Yepu, let’s move!” she snapped as Heran turned back to the rest of the Lightworkers. The young knight and the robed archmage hastily followed her as she left the training den and took up a position along the starboard wall, near the forward bow of the ship. “Listen to me very closely, the both of you. Our focus is not on the Light, but on arcane magic.”

“…milady?” Gaila Yepu’s eyes were wide. For a Lightworker to request her subordinates to ignore the very force that united them…

Arista smiled tightly. “We’re going to rip apart their shields. Once we do, the paladins will be able to burn holes in the ship and let their air out. It will be a quick battle, so long as we do our job well. Understand?”

“…permission to ask a personal question, milady?” Padryk asked, eyes on her boots.

“Granted, so long as you ask it quickly and quit staring at my feet.”

He met her gaze. “…I thought you were a paladin?”

Arista permitted herself a small chuckle. “Knight, actually. It’s belied by the armor, I realize.” She gestured with her right hand, an unspoken comparison between her heavy platemail and his lighter, more mobile chainmail and leathers. “If you follow my lead in unraveling the shields, we should have them in tatters before they realize we’re doing anything at all. I am skeptical about pirates having exceptionally sensitive mages or anyone who would suspect Lightworkers of dismantling an arcane spell.”

“Captain Exemplar,” Gaila murmured in acknowledgement, echoed by the young knight.

Arista looked out the window; even in the blackness of the void, the other ship was close enough to be visible in some detail. “Three minutes,” she estimated, leaning forward and tapping her gloved fingertip against the thick pane of glass. “Prepare yourselves in whatever ways necessary, my friends.”

Unsurprisingly, Padryk resorted to an under-his-breath prayer and Gaila fell into a meditative trance to gather her focus.

As they did, Arista smiled to herself as she drew arcane power to hover like lightning at her fingertips.

“Two minutes,” Arista murmured, watching as the incoming ship began to roll. “I assume Heran said this first, but in case he didn’t have time: we’re going to go belly-up to them, and they to us, in order to avoid crashing into each other from the pull of each ship’s gravitic ore. We’ll be perpendicular to them, so we’ll still be able to see either their bow or stern.” She shot her knight and archmage each a hard look. “Wait until they’ve engaged us before you even think about attacking. That ship is faster than this one; if our magic is detected before they’ve committed to the battle, they could pull out and run for it. Understood?”

“Milady,” Padryk acknowledged, echoed by Gaila. “Will our own shield hold up under their attacks?”

Arista gave him a somber look. “I don’t know. That’s up to Captain Keng’s archmages. Either way, we need to work quickly. This isn’t a warship, so there’s no archmage specially trained in air magic, as far as I know. If they breach our shield and put a hole in the hull, we’re going to have unpleasant but relatively quick deaths by suffocation. And all this is assuming they don’t have illegal cannons along the underside of their ship. I don’t need to remind you that arcane shields don’t affect physical weapons.”

“How… likely are they to try to board?” Gaila asked, her eyes uncertain, flicking between her captain’s face and the porthole.

The captain exemplar shrugged impassively. “Unless they have a vested interest in taking hostages, not very likely. Didn’t Heran cover that? The easiest way to loot a ship is after everyone’s dead, and the easiest way to kill everyone is by letting the air out, rather than trying to come over here and fight us in person. Less potential casualties for them. Besides,” she added, watching with a frown as the other ship disappeared from view below them, “we aren’t a warship, and any ship without an air mage is an easy target.”

“Will we be able to see them again?” Padryk asked nervously, trying to look straight down from the porthole and failing.

“They’re paralleling us,” Arista sighed. “A bastardly trick. We can’t see them, but they can’t see us. They wouldn’t pull it if they weren’t sure of their own firepower. Our bellies should be facing by now, though… Keep your senses on our shield. As soon as we’re attacked, we retaliate– and you both will follow my lead. We need to focus on the same part of their shield if we hope to take them down in time to– Light, there it is. Feel that?”

The arcane shield invisibly woven around the ship began shredding, a weakness along the starboard side forming within heartbeats. The archmages maintaining the shield began repairing it, but the damage was accelerating more quickly than the mending. Arista fell quiet, seeking out the part of the enemy’s shield that had naturally thinned to allow their magic to reach out and attack– there. “Follow me,” she whispered, body heavy and immobile in a trance as she began systematically destroying the other shield.

Within seconds, Padryk’s and Gaila’s own magic joined her efforts. Like their own shield, the enemy shield was being repaired as it was being dismantled, but not quickly enough. It would be a close race. “Do not hold back,” Arista said, steel in her voice as she absorbed more magic from the ship’s air and funneled it through her body. It was like drinking lightning and fire. Crackles of yellow-white energy danced along the unseen ship’s flank.

Both ships’ shields fell nearly simultaneously. “Light bless our paladins,” Arista breathed, relinquishing her grasp on the nearly exhausted supply of magic left in the ship. “Vessus, Yepu, stand down. It’s their turn. Good job, both of you.” She could feel her skin buzzing; her breath felt electrified, nerves in her lungs igniting with tiny jabs of pain. Too much purely arcane magic, too quickly – she was out of practice with it.

In the split second after the shields failed, the ship rolled just enough to put the other boat into view at the very bottom of the portholes. It wasn’t a dangerously steep angle – the stronger polar side of the layers of gravitic ore in each ship were still facing away from each other – but it did put the enemy into sight again. On the pirate ship, white fire licked alongside the row of windows near second deck, focused in two spots alone. “They’re working together…” Arista smiled. “Heran is getting a commendation for that.”

“Milady, I see somethi– is– is that a jumper?” Padryk pressed his face to the glass, chainmail coif clinking against the sturdy pane.

A small, dark mass crawled from the port hull of the other ship to the belly, detached itself from ship’s underside, and soared gracefully across the intervening space towards them.

Arista stared. “They’d have to be idiots,” she muttered. “Or after someone in particular.” She paused. “Or out of magic.”

“Whatever that is, milady, it is bigger than we are. Could it force its way into the airlock?”

“It’s more likely to try to break a window,” Arista muttered, spinning. “Yepu, stay. Vessus, with me, now.” She sprang into a full sprint, boots thumping loudly along the wooden floorboards until she stopped in front of the airlock – the only way to access zero deck. “My brother, pray that you and I can kill it in under two minutes.” She jerked open the inner door of the airlock.

“–what?!” Padryk yelped, staring at her in shock as she pulled him into the landing at the base of the stairwell and shut the door behind him, making sure it was completely sealed.

“You have a sword for a reason, knight,” Arista snapped tersely, tossing a rope harness over his shoulders and knotting it around his torso. “Make sure this is secured to the rails before you go over the side, or our gravity will see that you fall down and right towards the other ship.” She handed him the metal grapple attached to the other end of the long rope. “Keep your left hand on that rope at all times.”

“If it cuts the rope–”

“Then stab your bloody sword into the hull to avoid a very long fall. Trust me, you won’t breach it like that.” Arista tied a second harness around herself, grabbed her grapple, and inhaled deeply. “Breathe your last for a moment, my brother, and good luck.”

“Light help us–” Padryk started to say, but sucked in a hasty breath as Arista unlocked and opened the heavy door onto zero deck. The air in the small room thinned and dissipated immediately, and the captain exemplar led her knight up the stairs and onto the outer deck. Together, they shut the outer door, then drew their swords and moved towards the starboard railing and secured their grapples. Their movements were solid and muffled – whatever strange, air-like substance that made the winds on which intersun ships sailed still conveyed some slight noise, however unbreathable those winds were to living creatures.

Below them, clinging precariously to the side of the ship, a larger-than-human creature was tearing at the seal of one of the portholes.

Arista gave a final tug to her safety rope; when the grappling hook didn’t budge, she vaulted over the railing and slid along the hull on her boot heels, her left hand closed around the rope to slow her descent and her right hand drawing her broadsword from its sheath. It was inkily dark, but the light spilling from the portholes was enough to illuminate the creature below as a halasshi – one of the most common people of the universe, but an uncommon pirate. A featherless, four-legged avian, its withers were higher than the top of her helmet and its talons bore four-inch hooking claws on each digit.

And this one, she realized as she stopped herself just above it, was armored in dark chainmail and sturdy leathers. The Lightworker smiled mirthlessly as the halasshi looked up and met her gaze; surprise flickered across its wrinkled, vulture-like face, and it reached up a clawed hand–

Padryk slid to her left and didn’t stop quite so high as she had; his boots landed against the halasshi’s flank with a solid, silent thump and sent the pirate sliding below the window. Its beak gaped in a silent, breathless curse as its talons slashed across his rope harness. He still held the safety line in his left hand, though, and did not fall as he tried to brace himself against the curving hull to bring his sword to bear–

Arista lowered herself more carefully, swinging to the right with the drop so that she stopped to the halasshi’s other side. It had been less than a minute since she’d taken a breath, and already her lungs were beginning to burn. She bent her left leg and pressed her hip to the hull, turned her right leg to plant her foot firmly next to her other ankle, and stabilized her position enough to arc her broadsword in a strike without sending herself swinging.

The halasshi dodged it with another gape-beaked expression, which widened as Padryk’s longsword bit into its flank beneath the hem of its chest armor. It twisted, talons scrabbling desperately against the hull, and attached its full weight to the young knight. Its beak closed on his neck, unable to pierce flesh past the chainmail coif, but still able to apply crushing pressure. Its haunches tensed, then it fired itself and its captive in a leap toward the pirate ship’s belly below–

–just as holy fire incinerated a blackened hole in the enemy hull.

Instinctively, Arista tried to shout and expelled the last of the air in her lungs in the futile attempt. Releasing her grip on her safety line, she twisted and kicked off from the hull, gravity and her own force propelling her after the halasshi and her captured knight. She made herself an arrow, led by her sword’s tip– and as soon as it plunged into the halasshi’s hip, she jerked it upwards with the flat of the blade facing her.

It wasn’t enough. It gouged a bloody hole in the pirate’s flesh, but the halasshi and Padryk continued falling and now spinning, and Arista jerked to a painful halt as her rope ran out. There was no air left in her lungs, and she was becoming dizzy from the lack. She could see the lights in the pirate ship flicker and extinguish, one by one, as their torches suffocated without air– just as the people inside would be doing. Just as Padryk would be doing, if the halasshi hadn’t broken his neck yet.

Arista hung limp, dangling from her safety line, until she thumped against the hull of the ship. She was nearly below the bottom deck, but not so far that the polar side of the gravitic ore couldn’t still pull her inwards, towards the ship. She had to get back inside before consciousness fled her; in the void, there was no magic to use, and no way to rescue young Padryk.

Her stomach twisting, the captain exemplar sheathed her bloodied broadsword and curled both cold-numbed hands around the rope. Methodically, she pulled herself upwards, hand over hand, heavy boots scraping against the smooth wooden hull and finding little purchase except for the tiny ridges between well-fitted planks. She didn’t let herself look down; the halasshi and Padryk would have reached the other ship by now and found no air to relieve them.

Her vision was blurring and her arm-strength failing. She was not a large woman, but her platemail was a considerable weight in trying to reach zero deck while painfully oxygen-deprived. She passed second deck and climbed doggedly towards first as her fingers stiffened. She paused for a moment, hanging still, then found herself rising jerkily upwards.

Arista looked up. A man she couldn’t identify in the darkness was crouched over the railing, reeling her in with great scoops of his arms. He paused just long enough to exaggerate a pointing gesture downwards, then repeated it when she shook her head.

When she glanced down, she saw a handful of dark shapes leaping from the belly of the pirate ship towards her ship. Among them, she thought, was the halasshi pirate and its captured Lightworker.

Alternately swearing and praying, Arista could do little more than accept the man’s hand when he was in reach; he threw her arm over his shoulders and nearly carried her back to the airlock, the eerie quiet of the void punctuating their muted footsteps. They thudded down the short stairs – he’d left the outer door open – and he dropped her on the landing to shut the door and seal the ship.

Within seconds, the inner door had been unlatched and flung open, and air flooded them.

Arista nearly passed out as her lungs reinflated; she sputtered, suffering a hot flash as her body struggled to reacclimate to temperatures above frozen, and caught her breath over the span of several heartbeats. He’ll be unconscious, she thought as she found her feet, ignoring the Lightworkers – some of Keng’s men – around her. But maybe not dead.

“–milady, you can’t go back out there,” her rescuer protested, once he saw her picking up her grapple and settling her other hand to her sword hilt.

“I have a man out there,” she snapped, eyes flashing. “And if he isn’t alive, the criminal who killed him will die.”

The sailor looked at her for a long moment, then laid hand to the cutlass at his hip. “I’ll come with you.”

“…you don’t have armor. Light, you’re not even wearing a shirt. Didn’t you notice how blasted cold it is out there?” She gestured with the grapple; all he wore were thick cloth leggings and a belt for his blade. She paused, then, scanning the other three men who formed a half-circle around her; none of them had armor, though two had leather jerkins, but all of them had their hands on their hilts. “Very well,” she said, glancing back to her rescuer. He was a tall, long-limbed, dark-skinned man; he reminded her of a man she’d known, but for his angular features and long braids. “Your name?”

“Paladin Arshie Xen, milady.” He squared his shoulders in a bodily salute.

“Xen, you’re with me. You three follow after we’re out – don’t forget your bloody safety lines. And for love of Light, someone let the priests know we’re going out to fight so they can keep us from bleeding out.”

“Aye!” chorused the sailors. Arista tried not to think about the piss-poor odds facing them as she shut the inner door in the determined faces of three men. A glance showed her that Arshie had been wearing a safety line already; she gave him a silent nod as they both inhaled for the last time.

Absorbing as much magical energy from the thin atmosphere of the airlock as she could, Arista kicked open the outer door and returned to zero deck, the unarmored paladin at her heels. After he sealed the door behind them, they both paused just long enough to affix their safety line grapples to a sturdy rail next to the hatch.

The pirates were already clambering over the starboard rail; she identified two Lo’hês, a human or something close to it, the halasshi, a buthine, and what was probably an anean. Terrible odds against two humans unable to use their trademark magic, especially with one unprotected against claws and teeth and pincers and blades.

Arista pointed an arm at the halasshi, then made a beckoning motion. It was too dark to make out more than the faintest of silhouettes against the inky blackness; she couldn’t tell if Padryk was draped lifelessly over the pirate’s back or if he was clinging of his own volition.

Still, she could see well enough when a Lo’hêsalo reared up on its haunches and stretched its long jaws towards the knight on the halasshi’s back.

Arshie ran past her, his bare feet light on the wooden deck, his short blade outstretched before him. Arista stayed motionless, focusing on the Lo’hêsalo until a faint aura of magical light collected around it. It has been four minutes, she thought to herself, and he is probably dead. With that admission, she allowed her rage to ignite, and the magic she’d projected towards the Lo’hêsalo ripped its body apart with uncontrolled force. Pieces of flesh and splinters of bone spattered the pirates around it as a heap of tattered organs slumped steaming to the deck.

The halasshi galloped forward, limping heavily from the stab to its lower ribs and the chunk of flesh missing from its haunch; Arista waited until it passed Arshie and closed on her, then drew her sword and lunged forward in the same spring-loaded motion. Her blade cut into its neck, just above the hem of its chainmail, and it hit the deck and rolled. Footing was suddenly uncertain as blood spurted across the wooden planks.

Behind her, the outermost door of the airlock opened, and three sailors charged up the short flight of stairs to zero deck with a vengeance. One stopped, sheathed his sword, and hauled Padryk’s shadow-dark body back inside the airlock; the other two rushed to join Arshie in fighting the pirates.

There was already a faint glow of Light around the shirtless paladin’s body, healing the gashes he’d earned so far. Arista silently thanked the priests and moved forward at a slow walk, her muscles still shaky from being oxygen-deprived for too long mere minutes ago. The human pirate had already been cut down, as had the other Lo’hêsalo; the buthine and the anean were proving to be more difficult foes. None of the men had weapons heavy enough to break through the buthine’s exoskeleton – it was too dark to accurately aim for its few vulnerable spots – and its pincers and venomous tail were difficult to dodge.

Arista stopped, still a dozen feet from the skirmish, feeling her lungs resume their insistent burning. She spat out the rest of the magic she’d stored in her body, feeling painfully empty as soon as she did so, and wrapped it around the buthine. She couldn’t focus enough to transform raw arcane magic into any particular element, even the holy fire that was the trademark of Lightworkers, so she simply pushed it into the buthine’s six eyes with as much force as she could muster.

After a moment of convulsing, the buthine lay still on the deck. The four Lightworkers, still receiving distant healing from the priests on first deck, surrounded and cut down the remaining anean pirate. Arista had already descended the stairs into the airlock by the time they turned and jogged towards the hatch. One of the men paused to release all five safety lines and carry everyone’s grapples inside. Her body feeling sluggish and heavy, Arista leaned against the inner door as Arshie and another man pulled the heavy outer door shut and securely latched it. Once the hatch was sealed, she pulled the inner door open and and squinted against the torchlight, her mind groggily blank.

The air inside the ship was too hot and too magic-dry for her tastes, but it was a relief to breathe again.

The faces around her were unrecognizable blurs, and the burble of voices was hard to distinguish. She lifted an unsteady hand for silence, then spoke, her voice broken and dry. “Knight Vessus?”

Someone stepped forward from the crowd, and she focused enough to identify Captain Keng. “The priests are tending him now, milady,” he said, his voice seemingly fuzzy. “He’s badly hurt, and his mind may not recover fully from suffocating for so long, but he’s alive.”

A second voice spoke up, and she recognized Drumne after a split second. “There are no survivors from the pirate ship, Captain Exemplar.”

Keng gave him a quick hand gesture, then glanced back to Arista. “Our hull was breached in two places. Archmage Exemplar Drumne kept our air inside for long enough for us to reseal safely. We are now completely out of any danger.”

Her tongue felt thick. “You’re an air-magic specialist, Drumne?” She looked hard at the robed archmage, who smiled faintly and nodded. “Fine job, then.” She glanced to the four men who had accompanied her to zero deck; one’s skin had greened with buthinian venom, but a priest was already draining the wound and murmuring a prayer to the Light. Arshie and the other two were bleeding, and one was cradling an arm to his chest tenderly, but they were all standing under their own power.

“Our men and women will be fine,” Captain Keng said, answering her unspoken question. “There’s enough magic left on-board for the priests to heal the wounded; good sleep will do the rest.”

Arista finally allowed herself to relax, shoulders slumping beneath the weight of her pauldrons. “Thank the Light,” she breathed.

The rest of the trip to the sun system of Os was noticeably less exciting.

The grey-furred Nila looked up, no expression crossing his flattened face. Yellow eyes sought the origin of the inquisitive voice, but the forest greenery was thick and concealing. He drew his brows low to express disapproval. “It is a drum,” he answered flatly, four-fingered hands stilled on the wooden carving. He had been binding the head of the drum, made of Leasheas hide, to the mouth.

“What’s a … drum?” the voice asked, carefully pronouncing the new word. “What’s it do?”

The Nila identified the general direction of the speaker and shifted his position to face it, black claws carefully resuming the tedious stitch-and-wrap. “A drum is this,” he answered impassively. “It makes noise.”

“Wood and skin and–” There was a pause, then the faint sound of sniffing, “–gut-rope? How does that make noise?”

The Nila sighed. He really had no need to humor his invisible watcher, so he stayed silent and completed the very last bindings. Tufts of silver and violet fur still ringed the edge of the drumhead, and the wood had been carefully carved to preserve the grain-patterns. Even the gut-rope had been skillfully braided. He allowed himself the smallest of smiles as he drew a dyed leather strip from the pouch at his hip and wound it about the waist of the small drum.

“What’s that for?” the voice pestered.

“Do you not have anything better to do?” the Nila countered peevishly, removing a few strings of braided cords from the same pouch. These were decorated with teeth, claws, and feathers, and twined in the weave were long hairs from the same Leasheas that gave its skin for the drum’s head. The wood’s rich red-brown color was well-complimented by the silver, violet, and deep blue of the decorations.

“Not really,” the voice responded. It sounded cheerful, and a few leaves whispered a warning of movement. The Nila looked up as the speaker poked its dark face through the canopy, a fanged grin stretching open a long, sleek muzzle. “I noticed the reek of Leasheas blood. Tell me, did you actually eat it?”

“It was a sacrifice,” the Nila replied, frowning up at the black Korat. “We do not eat sacrifices. Its flesh was burned.”

“Food is scarce on the best of days, and you don’t eat what you kill?” The Korat snorted, nostrils flaring wide. It descended to a lower bough, the sturdy branch five feet thick, then sprawled languorously. “Even if Leasheas are sentient, no sense in wasting meat. You could have at least left it for the Chitters or something.”

The Nila huffed, then lifted the drum reverently to study it from all angles. It was a good work of craftsmanship, and he was proud of it. Far better than his first two.

“Why do you even need a noise-maker like that?” the Korat asked conversationally. Its blue eyes remained trained on the Nila below.

The Nila didn’t reply, shifting his weight on the log that had served as his workbench. He had to lean forward, his ankles pressed against the rotting bark and his knees jutting out, and his tail got in the way and bent awkwardly upwards–but he managed to settle the drum between his knees and hold it there with his legs alone. It was a good fit, a good solid feeling – not too heavy, not light enough to be fragile.

“That looks uncomfortable,” the Korat commented from thirty feet above. “I didn’t know your tail could twist like that. Your tail is short and fat – I don’t think you’re supposed to–”

The Nila slapped the head of the drum with one flattened hand, and the resulting bark of noise silenced the Korat. The forest was too dense to allow an echo, but the sound was satisfyingly loud nonetheless. The Nila allowed himself one more tiny smile, then lifted his yellow gaze to the lounging Korat.

The Korat blinked down at him. “Uh,” it mumbled, looking uncertain.

The Nila flattened his other hand in the same way, careful to keep his claws from piercing the head, and slapped the drum three times. Left-right-left. The last note was the deepest, and it rang a shade longer than the other two. He curled one hand and extended his long thumb, then slapped the drum with the side of his thumb. It produced a deeper, shorter note when he struck the center of the head, and a lighter one when he struck near the rim.

“Hey,” the Korat said, drawing its limbs beneath its body into a crouch, “do that again.”

Feeling pleased enough with his work to oblige, the Nila repeated the notes. Short-short-long, deep-light. He kept his right hand flat and alternated the slap with the thumb-strike from his left hand. Short-deep-short-light-long.

The black Korat stood on its branch and swayed, as though it were going to topple. The Nila eyed it, then repeated the rhythm. The Korat seemed to be moving in time to the beat. “That’s catchy,” the Korat said, its muzzle creasing in a grin. “Keep it up.”

The Nila continued to drum as the Korat began to dance.