Wind Rider

by P. C. Cast

  Then Death’s oarsmen, along with the rest of the flotilla, beached their army of boats as several half-naked, tattooed men jogged down a steep path toward them. The men looked confused and surprised, but they were not armed.

  Thaddeus strode to meet them, his Warriors spreading out behind him with their canines. Farther behind, Death waited in the shadows, His massive body was swathed in a cloak, and a large hood was pulled up and draped over His antlers. Ralina and Bear, along with Renard and his Kong, were in position not far behind the God, surrounded by His elite Reapers—who also were covered in cloaks and shadows.

  “We did not expect travelers today,” said a young man, nodding a greeting to Thaddeus. “I called for our leader, who shall be here momentarily to speak with you.”

  Thaddeus nodded in return. Ralina saw him smile, and her stomach tightened. Thaddeus only smiled when something horrible was going to happen.

  They waited in silence while the Saleesh looked more and more uncomfortable. Soon a tall, thin figure hurried down the same path as the others had come by. His hair was long and dark, an unusual mixture of gray and dark blue running through it. He was wearing a long robe with large belled sleeves. Behind him Ralina counted a dozen or more men following him. They were younger and they carried lances barbed so that they looked like big fishhooks. The old priest stopped in front of Thaddeus and bowed his head slightly in greeting.

  “I am Father John, priest and leader of this Saleesh village. May peace be with you.” The priest paused, as if expecting a response from Thaddeus.

  “I am Thaddeus, and I speak for the leader of the People. We require river passage.”

  The priest frowned, and Ralina could see that he was staring at the Shepherds who stood beside their Companions. “I must ask—are you allied with a group called the Pack? Their leaders are two young females who call themselves Moon Women.”

  Thaddeus’s lip curled. “We know one Moon Woman. We are enemies of her people. Why do you ask?”

  “They passed this way more than two weeks ago. They were uncommonly rude.”

  Thaddeus’s laugh was humorless. “That bitch is always rude.”

  Father John’s eyes narrowed. “Where is your Lynx guide?”

  “We have none. We were hoping to hire one of your people to guide us the rest of the way to Lost Lake, and then across the lake to the base of the Rock Mountains.”

  Father John’s smile was patronizing. “Oh, no. My people are not guides for hire, and they never leave our river. And, I mean no disrespect, but without a guide you will never make it past the ruins between our villages. Even if by some miracle you did, it would be suicide for you to attempt a Lost Lake crossing without someone who has experience leading people through there.”

  “And yet we are going to continue our trip. So, what will it cost to hire one of your people?”

  “I am sorry, but you do not seem to understand. My people are not for hire. They do not leave their river or their homes. Ever. Now, we will grant you passage through our villages after you leave an appropriate offering—but we cannot move your boats tonight.” The priest paused to give a disdainful look at their ragtag group of patched boats and hastily constructed rafts. “It is simply too late. There is a camp within easy walking distance that should suit you for tonight. In the morning, perhaps you will decide to call a Lynx guide. If so, we will allow you to remain at the camp for the days it will take for him to answer.”

  “So, let me be sure I understand perfectly,” Thaddeus said. “You will not agree to let us hire one of your people. You will not allow us passage tonight. And you expect us to pay you something?”

  Ralina’s body went cold at the syrupy sweetness of his voice. By the priest’s lack of alarm she knew that no Lynx guide had reached the village yet to warn the Saleesh about a group traveling without a guide. She took Renard’s hand, squeezing it so that he looked at her. She mouthed: Be ready—something bad is going to happen.

  The priest chuckled. “No, you misunderstand. We never hire out our people—it simply is not done. We are not refusing to give you passage tonight. We cannot, because the sun has set and the ruins of the dam are too dangerous, even for us, to cross in the dark. And we would never ask you to pay us for passage. We do require an offering for our Goddess, the Mother. So, if you will call forth your leader and have him follow me through our village, you may place your offering on the altar at the feet of the Mother, and then I will have you guided to the campsite where you can await your boats tomorrow and, should you decide, call for a Lynx guide.”

  Death moved forward then. In one motion He pulled off His concealing cloak. The priest stumbled back and had to be kept upright by the younger men standing behind him.

  “There are several problems with your list of requirements.” Death spoke in a voice that filled the beach. “Foremost is the fact that my people do not make offerings to any God but me.”

  Father John’s dark eyes were huge with shock as he took in Death’s mutated form. “I–I do not understand. Who are you?”

  “I am the God of the Reapers—the God of the Tribe—I am the God of Death. I command you take me to this altar of which you speak. I would meet your Goddess.”

  “This is highly uncommon!” the priest sputtered.

  “And yet I insist. Take me to the altar.”

  The priest scrambled back. “I will do so, but only because then you will see the beauty and power of the Mother and her people.” Father John turned to one of the younger men in robes and whispered something to him. The man sprinted up the path, robes flapping ridiculously behind him. “Now, please follow me. And, as I mentioned before, bring your offering and whatever supplies you need for the night.”

  Death said nothing. He stood in magnificent silence until the priest made a motion for Him to follow. Then everyone headed back up the path.

  Death turned his massive head and nodded to the Reapers waiting beside the boats. Like a deadly swarm, they left the beached craft and followed their God.

  Ralina noted that the only supplies any of them carried were their sharp-tipped tridents.

  The beauty of the resting Saleesh village made Ralina’s heart hurt. She didn’t know what Death had planned, but whatever it was she knew it would change this peaceful, prosperous people forevermore.

  Incense drifted through the night air, along with the musical chimes of glass wind ornaments hanging from the roofs of neatly kept houses. Torches and campfires lit the village. Women, swathed in fabric from their heads to their toes, sat on porches and around the campfires, stirring big pots whose aromas mingled with the cozy sights and sounds.

  Ralina wanted to scream at them to run—hide—Do something, anything, but do not welcome Death into your village! The women did nothing. They only stared at Death as He strode after their old priest.

  Renard bumped her shoulder. When she looked at him he cut his eyes to the side. She followed his gaze to see that several dozen more young men—all in robes like the other young priests—had begun to appear. They were all armed with the fishhook lances.

  Father John had stopped before a beautiful altar. The centerpiece was a larger-than-life statue of a woman. She was covered in a white dress and over that she wore a blue wrap, which concealed her hair and some of her lovely, downturned face. All around her were candles and other offerings—food and drink, and delicate jewelry and trinkets. Her back was to the river far below.

  “Behold our Mother!” Father John announced, sweeping his arms out and bowing low to the idol.

  Death moved closer and closer to the statue, so that finally His cloven hooves ground against the stone slab on which she stood, knocking over the candles and overturning the offerings.

  “You must not—” the priest began, but Death rounded on him.

  “Silence!” The word was deafening, and spittle flew from the God’s mouth into Father John’s face.

  The priest paled and wiped his face with a trembling hand. The young men holding lances drew clo
ser.

  Death turned His back on the priest and continued to study the idol. Within a few breaths He threw back His head and laughed. Then He faced the priest.

  “This is no Goddess. She is an empty statue who serves only as an extension of your ego. She is not the Mother, the Great Earth Goddess of Life. You are a fraud, Father John, and your people are fools.”

  “Brothers! Attack!” Father John shouted.

  The dozen men who had accompanied the priest to the beach were closest to the God. They raised their lances and began moving forward, obviously attempting to herd Death and His people away from the altar.

  “Stop them,” Death commanded in a voice so calm—so quiet—that it was almost lost to the night.

  Almost.

  But Thaddeus heard. “Take them out!” he told the Warriors, and with smooth, practiced movements the Warriors drew crossbows from within their cloaks and fired—killing each of the young men.

  Father John screamed and tried to run, but the long arm of Death caught him by his cloak and yanked him off his feet so that the priest crumbled to the ground.

  “Behold what a real God can do!”

  Death faced the river and threw his arms wide. In a voice impossibly loud He called out into the darkness of the listening night.

  “Spirits of the dead, hear the call of your God! Come forth and do my bidding!” Then Death whirled around and pointed at the still bleeding bodies of the fallen Saleesh. From behind Him there was a great keening sound. Then up from the river poured a freezing mist. Within that mist Ralina could see shapes of all kinds of men—young, old, short, tall—all of them wearing odd clothing that hung from their bodies like they were living skeletons. The first of the specters rushed to the bodies, hurling themselves into the mouths of the newly dead.

  Absolutely frozen with dread, Ralina watched those bodies twitch, moan, and then stagger to their feet, their open eyes milky orbs focused on the God of Death and the spirits that surrounded Him.

  The other men in robes were frozen in fear. They halted just feet away from Thaddeus and the Warriors, staring at the reanimated men in dread.

  Death smiled down on Father John and then lifted the huge statue and threw her down to break on the rocky shore so many feet below. “Do you see the power of a real God?”

  “What are you doing? Why are you here?”

  “When will you learn Gods do not suffer being questioned by mortals?” And then the God reached for Father John—lifted the shrieking, kicking man over His head—and threw him to his death beside his shattered idol.

  Then the God turned his attention to the frozen Saleesh men.

  “I will ask this once. Which of you would like to guide us up the river and across Lost Lake?” Death inquired in a pleasant voice.

  One young man stumbled forward. “I-I can guide you.”

  Thaddeus grabbed him by the collar of his robe and pushed him to his knees before Death.

  “A volunteer. How fortunate for you. What is your name, young man?”

  “B-B-Brother Joseph,” he stuttered. His body was trembling so hard that Ralina was surprised he was able to speak at all.

  “Ah, Brother Joseph. You are an expert on the river?”

  “I-I am. B-before I chose to enter the priesthood I was a River Driver.”

  “And you also know how to cross Lost Lake?”

  “I have n-not c-crossed it, though I d-do k-know its d-dangers and how long it w-will t-take to cross. B-but n-none of our people have traveled over Lost Lake. W-we do not leave our river.”

  “Then what good is he?” Thaddeus sneered, kicking Brother Joseph in the side.

  Death raised His hand. “Do not abuse my new guide! Can you guide us past all of the ruins between here and Lost Lake? Can you tell us intimate details about each of the Saleesh villages we will be conquering on our way there?”

  Thaddeus blew out a long breath. “No, my Lord.”

  “Well, then, Brother Joseph shall join us. Now, please stand over there, beside my Storyteller, where you will be safe.”

  Brother Joseph tried to stand, but his legs didn’t seem to work, so he crawled between the bodies of the reanimated dead—who were still staring with milky eyes at their God—to come to a whimpering halt at Ralina’s feet. There he curled within himself, clutching his knees to his chest.

  “Very good. Now that our guide problem is settled, let us make short work of the rest of this so that we may rest and relax.” Death raised His voice, looking out at the silent, stunned village. “All of you who wish to join me, put down your weapons and go to your knees.”

  The God waited. A few of the men closest to their reanimated brothers dropped their lances and went to their knees, but the others were being joined by men running from all over the village—some robed, some bare-chested River Drivers. They held lances. They formed a half circle around the altar and began closing in, weapons held at the ready.

  Death smiled his terrible smile. “I am so glad to see that you aren’t all eunuchs like your priest. Warriors, Reapers—kill them all!”

  Ralina swallowed her fear. “My Lord, what of the women and children?”

  Death’s head swiveled so that he could meet her gaze. “Thank you for reminding me, Storyteller.”

  “The women and children are spoils of war. Use them as you would, my People!” Death shouted. “But have care with the food cooking over the campfires. Battle makes me ravenous.”

  And then Death spread His arms wide again, touching the spirits that hovered around Him like wisps of noxious smoke.

  “Spirits of the dead—you may claim any body you wish and be free to join my army!”

  With the battle roar of a stag in rut, Death strode forward, lifting men and snapping their spines. The moment they slumped lifeless to the ground, spirits claimed them, reanimating the bodies with otherworldly moans—and then they joined their God as Death consumed the village.

  * * *

  Thus began a chapter in Ralina’s life so horrible that at times she believed she would lose her mind. Had it not been for the stabilizing influence of Bear, Renard, Kong, and Daniel, she would have given up and quietly slid over the side of her boat one night and let herself drown.

  But she couldn’t do that—wouldn’t do that to Bear.

  She could have escaped—though it would’ve been without any supplies—but she knew Death would come after her immediately, recapture her, and then she would lose the small amount of status and freedom the God currently allowed her. Renard and Daniel would be infected and made to join the Warriors, and who knew what terrible things He might do to her Bear should He become angry with her.

  So Ralina kept moving forward—taking one day at a time. She was grateful that the Saleesh villages were several days apart—one slaughter right after another would have been too much for her. When they arrived at the second village Ralina asked the God to allow her to remain with the boats, guarded by Renard and Daniel. Thankfully, Death agreed, saying that as she had already witnessed the most dramatic of His Saleesh victories she should have enough material for this part of His tale.

  But remaining with the boats did not shield Ralina from the screams of the dying men or the terrified, gut-wrenching wails of women being raped and mothers trying to save their children. When she walked through the second decimated village, she asked Bear to lead her, intending to keep her eyes focused on her canine, but then Ralina remembered herself and found her courage. She lifted her head, blinked her eyes clear of tears, looked, and remembered. Just as she’d forced herself to watch the burning of her Tribe, she would not turn away from the atrocities Death and His army of mutants and reanimated corpses committed.

  Ralina would tell this story, and the world would never forget.

  It took almost three weeks to make their way from the first Saleesh village to Day Dam and the mouth of Lost Lake. In those weeks Death’s army grew from one hundred men to more that five hundred. Long gone were the ragtag boats and rafts they’d begun in.
They were replaced with slick, easily maneuvered canoes and larger, luxurious boats the priests used to travel from village to village. And the newly acquired watercraft were loaded with supplies stolen from the Saleesh—blankets, robes, wraps, iron pots, pieces of glass, and so much food that they had to leave some behind to rot with the bodies of the women and children. It was macabre to see Death’s minions swathing themselves in the delicately wrought jewelry the talented Saleesh had been so good at creating. The entire army took on a blue tint so that at first glance one might think beauty, and not death approached—but a closer look at the reanimated corpses that made up the bulk of the army and any thoughts of beauty or goodness quickly dissipated.

  Ralina named the living corpses Milks, after the color of their eyes. They were like nothing she could have imagined possible. Their bodies had died. Ralina had witnessed the deaths of many of them. But at the first Saleesh village Death had summoned spirits—ghosts—and they had truly reanimated those dead bodies. Moving forward from that first village, the ghosts followed the army, hovering around Death’s opulent boat like mist swirling from the ancient pines on a winter night—waiting for the next Saleesh village to be taken so that they could enter the newly dead and walk again.

  The Milks were strange things. They were no longer dead, which was obvious because their reanimated bodies did not decay. They ate. They slept. They even talked, though they used odd words Ralina didn’t understand, but when she came close, listening, to a group of them they quit speaking, so she couldn’t figure out what they were saying. They also seemed confused about the state of the world around them. One night when they camped beside the river between Saleesh villages Ralina had asked Death what they were, and His answer chilled her to the bone.

  “They are the specters who have haunted the Umbria gorge for hundreds of years—since the destruction of the ancient world.”

  “You mean they’re the ghosts of the people who built the cities and the bridges?” she’d asked.