Ipid looked out from the bow of a monstrous galley. Water surrounded him in every direction as far as he could see, extending to the horizon as flat and barren as the bleakest desert, until it met an equally somber steel-grey sky that perfectly masked the sun. Waves lapped at the sides of the motionless ship in a monotonous chorus of solitude. There was nothing but his ship to disturb those shadowy green ripples, and they came in a steady pulse that scarcely moved the mammoth vessel.
Turning from the wasteland surrounding him, Ipid scanned the ship that held him above it. It was one of the largest and most beautiful he had ever seen, but it was motionless and empty, a ghost ship long abandoned. He called to the crew. The slap of waves answered him. He peeked into the cabin then searched the interior with a ravenous need, but there was no indication that the ship had ever been occupied – an ornate prison built for him alone. Pewter plates sat on tables with no sign of food and nary a scratch from fork or knife. Ornate furniture still smelled of oil and dye. Closets full of rich clothing crackled with starch. The inside of the ship was every bit as opulent as the exterior and every bit as lifeless.
He ran from the cabin in search of a reason for this ship and his purpose upon it, but when he reached the deck, the ship trembled and began to shrink. He stared in disbelief as the ship transformed from a mighty galley into a tiny rowboat that rocked ominously under his weight. Worrying that the precarious craft would grow smaller still, he again searched the horizon – this time for some sign of land or location. Nothing had changed. The horizon showed only green waves and grey sky. For some reason, Ipid’s desperate loneliness waned, but his worry grew – the pathetic craft did not even have oars.
As if propelled by his thoughts, the diminutive craft lurched forward, nearly sending him over the side. The boat moved slowly at first in the direction it was already pointed, but its speed increased until he was forced to sit. He looked around for the source of its acceleration but was left wanting – no wind was blowing, no current pulled the water, and no other means of propulsion were apparent. Still, the boat accelerated, careening toward what appeared to be only more green waves and grey sky. With no other options available, Ipid accepted the ride, which settled into a heady clip that generated enough breeze to ruffle his hair and bring tears to his eyes.
After what seemed a long time of watching the same lifeless horizon, he finally saw something. He peered through the cool breeze generated by the boat’s propulsion toward the specks of brown with hope that they were ships. The specks grew but not into ships, at least not any longer.
The water everywhere was soon littered with the remnants of a decimated vessel, a profusion of debris. And people. People clung to the shattered planks. They yelled to Ipid by name, pleaded for him, but despite all his efforts, his boat would not slow, he could not steer it, and the victims were not nearly close enough for him to reach, so he careened past the wreckage with his hand stretched in futility toward the victims and words of salvation frozen on his lips. Their cries echoed after him until the breeze claimed them, and they were lost to all but his memory.
Shaken by the shipwreck and his inability to assist its victims, Ipid barely noticed the wind that was building beyond that created by the motion of his craft. It increased in bursts, seeming to blow from every direction at once, but remained inconsequential compared to the boats appearing around him.
Many of those ships had been destroyed like the one he had seen earlier. Survivors struggled and called to him from the wreckage. Other ships still held their passengers, but none of those was larger than his, and their passengers were all crazed. They screamed invectives, tore at their hair, and ripped off their clothes before they dove into the water to be greeted by the dark shapes that circled beneath the surface.
The black shapes, Ipid realized, like the wind, were new. They appeared to be very deep, but they were multiplying, like schools of sharks waiting for the first drop of bloods that would start their frenzy. He looked around his boat and saw the same dark forms waiting for him in the murky depths. Purest black, the things moved and shifted like vats of jelly, distorted and indefinite with no consistent features save one: row after row of sparkling razors stood out against the background of black wherever he looked, spinning around the churning shapes to always face the surface.
The wind built to a howling gale. The black forms multiplied until the water was composed entirely of churning black disturbed only by sterling white. Ipid scanned the horizon again and was horrified to find his destination. A black cloud stood on the surface of the water, dominating the horizon with an enormous funnel churning below it. The great tornado propelled the wind to crushing extremes and pulled his boat toward it with such speed that Ipid had to brace himself against the sides, frozen with fear.
The terrible storm soon comprised the entire sky, but as it grew, he realized that it was not a storm at all. It was the bodies of a million creatures writhing together. Shapeless like their brethren in the water below, the forms bubbled from the water into the maelstrom, raced through the cloud, and plummeted toward him with snapping teeth and clasping talons.
The creatures did not get close enough to do any harm, but it did not matter. The funnel was all that Ipid could see. It was composed entirely of the creatures, swirling gleefully in a vortex of devastation. Their dance did not appear to have any pattern, but as the tornado grew closer, Ipid saw an image outlined by the flow of indefinite bodies. The shadowy face of a sinister man with white teeth curved in a menacing smile looked out at him from the center of the storm.
The boat shattered. Ipid was lifted from the craft and carried into the very center of the tornado, into the gaping maw of the devil. He hit the funnel and was engulfed by the creatures. Their tendrils tore him apart, smashed the air from his lungs, and snapped his bones. Teeth found his arms, legs, and neck. Talons shredded his skin and tore at his organs. As the life left his body, he looked out across the storm one last time and was left with the perfect image of chaos dancing before his darkening eyes.
From Across the Clouded Range Page 35
