Windwalker_Forbidden Flight

by H. J. Bellus

  Copyright ©2018 H.G. Chambers

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  First Printing, 2018

  Editing: Jane Tucker

  Cover Design: Alexander Nanitchkov

  https://hgchambers.com

  Books by H.G. Chambers

  The Aeternum Chronicles

  Windwalker: Forbidden Flight (Book 0.5)

  Recreance (Book 1)

  The Gathering Mask (Book 1.5)

  Vigilance (Book 2)

  For you, Mom.

  Contents

  Keep Dreaming

  The Proving Ceremony

  Trials

  Windfaith

  Out and Up

  Jonah

  Rüh

  First Flight

  The Harab Maneuver

  Skyhunter

  Mehalia

  The Bonding

  The Trial

  Temperance

  Exile

  The Storm

  Protection

  Exultation

  To Endure

  Meet the Author

  Introducing Recreance

  Acknowledgments

  Newsletter

  Surrounded by towering walls of flat-topped mesas, an enduring civilization of desert people known as the Sahra’ make their homes amid the sand and stone of the Miralaja desert.

  1

  Keep Dreaming

  Kivanya Fariq clung to the sheer rock face of the towering desert butte. The sun beat down relentlessly, drawing beads of moisture from her forehead. No encumbering ropes or harnesses tethered her to the craggy surface—she held on by the strength of her practiced fingers, and her will to live. There was no time to worry about the cracked, sandy hardpan hundreds of feet below. She was focused on one thing: reaching the top as quickly as possible.

  Kivanya—or Kiva, as she would have it—wedged the fingers of her left hand into a vertical crack. Her feet were crowded onto a narrow ledge, and her right hand was open, poised to grasp a handhold three paces overhead.

  She vaulted up toward her target, but as she did the stone beneath her feet crumbled. Kiva’s heart dropped as her fingertips grazed the handhold, failing to gain purchase. She swung out, hanging by four of the five fingers on her left hand. Below, the loose stone tumbled away, a large chunk of which careened along the rocky face of the butte, eventually smashing into a thousand pieces on the desert floor.

  Kiva grit her teeth and shifted her weight. She used her legs to swing sideways, reaching for a suitable crag with her right hand. She caught and wedged her fingers into the small space. With both hands secured and her feet resting against the stone, Kiva scanned for the competition.

  “Al’ama,” she cursed. Kiva had been in the lead, but her brother Amir was now several paces higher. Oh no you don’t, she thought, continuing her climb upon the face of the dusty, reddish-brown rock.

  He paused, grinning down at her. “Watch your grip, tifl!”

  At seventeen years old, Amir was just one year older than she was, and in no position to be calling her child.

  “I’ll show you who’s the tifl,” she muttered, digging her toes into a crevice and vaulting upward. Her hands found the inside of a long diagonal crack, and she began inching her way up it.

  Amir, realizing his lead was in jeopardy, quickly resumed his climb.

  The sun was well on its westward journey, yet still strong enough to warm the breeze. Kiva used her shoulder to wipe the sweat from her brow, then pulled herself up into a large rock cleft with vertical parallel sides. The cleft was wide enough for her to fit inside, but narrow enough that she could use her back and feet to apply opposite pressure on the walls. She quickly progressed up the cleft, then pulled herself onto a small, flat shelf at its top.

  Kiva again looked for her brother, and this time smiled when she found him. Amir was directly across from her, struggling to find his next handhold on the sheer rock face.

  Looking up, she could see a clear path to the butte’s surface. This race belonged to her.

  Ever since the beginning of the last windy season, Kiva had begun to win these competitions against her brother. Still, Amir beat her as often as she won. This will not be one of those times, she told herself.

  She continued scaling the varied stone, making her way toward the flat surface above. There was a scrabbling of rocks to her right, and her eyes widened in shock. Amir was scrambling up a narrow vertical crack, right past her.

  “Hey!” she cried, doubling her efforts to stay ahead of him.

  Side by side, they wrenched, leapt, and pulled their bodies over the stone surface.

  Almost there!

  Kiva reached up for the next handhold—the last one before the top—when she heard the slap of a hand on flat stone. “I win!” Amir shouted.

  Kiva ignored him and continued climbing, pulling herself up onto the surface of the tabletop butte. Once clear of the edge, she lay on her back, panting.

  Amir feigned a yawn, and Kiva sat up to glare at him. He sat on the edge, leaning back on his hands with his feet dangling over the drop.

  Amir stood and walked over to where Kiva now sat, and pushed back the white shemagh cloth that had been covering his head. His dark hair was pulled back, tied loosely at the nape of his neck. He grinned broadly. Kiva would have smacked the grin off his face, had she not been so exhausted from the climb.

  “I hope you don’t mind, Kivanya, I’ve been saving my washing for weeks in preparation for just such a day as this one. I am sure that the extra scrubbing will help improve your hand strength,” he taunted.

  “It’s Kiva,” she growled, baring her teeth. She hated being called by her full name, and he knew it.

  “Not so fast,” their older brother spoke from behind.

  Kiva turned to face him. Mica sat cross-legged, chewing on dunegrass as if he just happened to be there. The truth was, Mica was a better climber than either of them, and had reached the top well before. His long black hair was shaved on the sides, tied with a cord at the back. It was the traditional style of those affirmed in the sect of zilsiad—the shadestalkers.

  “What do you mean, ‘not so fast’?” Amir asked, crossing his arms.

  “First to arrive atop the butte—this was the wager?” Mica asked casually.

  “It was, and I arrived before Kiva,” Amir insisted.

  “Mhmm,” Mica said, thoughtfully.

  “What? We all saw that I was the first, clear as day.”

  “I saw that nearly thirty percent of you still dangled over the edge, at the time Kiva cleared it.”

  “But I was—”

  “Technically, you hadn’t arrived at the top. At least not all of you.” Mica spoke it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  Kiva smiled. She knew Amir would not go against his older brother, even if he didn’t think it was fair. As the eldest of the three, Mica had the final say. Kiva didn’t care that it was a technicality. She’d take the win any way she could.

  “This is ridiculous. Clearly I was the first one to reach the top. Why must you always take her side?” Amir griped.

  Mica was two years his senior, and three to Kiva. Being the firstborn meant he got to do everything first. It also meant that he was faster, stronger, and more experienced at it. Granted, the same held true when comparing him to his peers. K
iva loved both her brothers, but she was especially fond of Mica.

  She stood and patted Amir on the back. “Don’t worry brother. I’ve only been saving my washing for two weeks. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble getting the mud stains out with those big, strong hands of yours.” She grinned mercilessly. Amir glowered at her, his pale blue eyes narrowing to slits.

  “We should get back,” Mica said. “Mother will be—”

  He was cut off by a screech from overhead. All three of them looked up. A dark shape soared high above, in stark contrast with the expansive pale blue sky. It glided on the wind with its long neck outstretched. Its great wings and feathered hind legs were spread wide, providing a broad surface to catch the rising air. Trailing behind was a long black tail fanned out at the tip. On this wondrous predator’s back, lying nearly prone, was a windwalker.

  The three of them stood in silence for a moment, watching as its shadow sped over the surface of the butte, then raced out across the desert hardpan.

  After a moment, Mica turned to Amir and spoke, “When will you make your challenge, brother?”

  “Soon,” he answered. “Maybe this year.”

  “Perhaps I will as well,” said Kiva. She was still looking out toward the kiraeen and its rider. What must it be like to soar on the wind? She yearned in her heart of hearts to fly, though she feared it could never be, given who and what she was.

  “Keep dreaming, Kiva,” said Amir. “They’d never allow a girl windwalker, and even if by some miracle they did, any kiraeen you tried to bond would tear out your throat before you could blink.”

  Kiva ignored him. Her attention was on the windwalker and its kiraeen far above. She watched as they became nothing more than a small speck on the horizon.

  “You’d be better off waiting a year or two,” Mica advised her. “Believe me, once the mentors get a hold of you, they tend to not let go. Enjoy your youth while you still can.”

  Kiva sighed and said nothing. They were nearing the end of the withering season, which meant the proving ceremony was right around the corner. It had been two years since Mica issued his own challenge to the shadestalker sect, and won.

  “Let’s go,” Mica said, turning to face Amir. “You’ll want to get a good night’s sleep, should you decide to challenge at the ceremony tomorrow.”

  They slid down the far side of the butte—which was sloped far more gradually than the side they climbed—and jogged toward the village. Along the way, something caught Kiva’s eye, and she called for a stop. She scanned, looking for a pattern; something that didn’t quite fit with the landscape.

  “Will you come on? There’s nothing there,” Amir insisted.

  “Shh!” Kiva hissed, furrowing her brow for one last look.

  There!

  She’d spotted it. A pattern of gray-blue scales that blended almost perfectly with the faded scrag of a bush several feet away. She crept toward it slowly, her bare feet stepping silently across the thin layer of sand covering rocky ground. At twelve paces away she could see it clearly—a thick blue lizard the length of her arm-span, cooling itself under the wiry shrub.

  Kiva made a clicking sound with her tongue, and snapped her fingers twice, placing them low to the ground. The lizard’s head twitched, as it turned one of its eyes toward her.

  She slowly placed her palm to the sand, and began rubbing it in a circular motion. The rhythmic sound it created was almost musical. She clicked her tongue again, and snapped with her free hand. The lizard slithered out toward her, stopping half way.

  “Taealaa li, hubun,” she coaxed, continuing to rub her hand in circles. The lizard raised its belly up, extending its short legs, and began moving toward her, its steps matching the rhythm of her hand on the sand.

  Almost.

  It drew closer, broad head weaving back and forth. Kiva reached back with her free hand, ever so slowly. Her fingers came upon the khanjar dagger sheathed at her silk belt, and she gently drew it out. The lizard was now an arm’s length away. It paused, as if some ancient instinct were trying to warn it—death awaits down this path. But soon the rhythm of Kiva’s hand in the sand erased its apprehension, and it again continued forward.

  It took one more step, and with lightning speed, Kiva brought her blade down through the center of its head.

  She grinned, holding up the dead lizard by the hilt of her dagger.

  “Excellent catch, Kiva!” Mica nodded respectfully.

  “I will never get used to how you do that,” Amir said, shaking his head. Kiva glimpsed a ghost of a smile on his face.

  She’d given them all good reason to be happy. Samin lizards were extremely rare, and exceptionally delicious…especially after nearly an entire season of boiled roots.

  They continued their trek home, and after an hour at a quick pace, arrived at the walls of a massive, red stone mesa. To anyone who wasn’t Sahra’, the rock formations would appear as nothing more than enormous, barren obstacles to travel around. But inside they held a great secret.

  Kiva, Amir, and Mica leapt from rock to rock, ascending to a hidden, shadowy vertical crack in the striated stone. They entered it single file, and continued along the narrow, winding path. Occasional shafts of sunlight broke through gaps in the stone above, until they traveled deeper in, and the walls on either side became cool to the touch. Kiva took a deep breath, enjoying the feeling of sweat cooling on her forehead.

  They reached the end of the passage, and stepped out into the wide open bustling marketplace of Madina Basin. Kiva took in the sight of the hidden Sahra’ city, gazing up at the towering walls of natural stone. These geological defenses surrounded the entire basin, providing it both concealment and physical protection from the outside world. High above, embedded into the upper portion of the walls were enormous sheets of rusted steel. They were hundreds of feet tall, curving slightly inward toward the top, and ending just before the walls did. Sandsheilds, Kiva recalled.

  They were relics from a time long past, when sandstorms grew so large that the walls alone were not enough to keep them out. Without the sandshields as evidence, Kiva wouldn’t have believed such storms possible. Afternoon sunlight glinted off a great iron bell in a recessed niche beneath the sandshields—another relic of the past. The warning bell hadn’t been rung in Kiva’s lifetime, or her parents’.

  There were no buildings in Madina Basin that hadn’t been carved directly from the surrounding stone. Sahra’ homes were dug out from great stepped layers of rock, stacked on top of each other and climbing upwards, like stairs fit for a giant. Hundreds of openings stared out from each step, each marking the entrance to a family abode. Madina Basin sheltered thousands of Sahra’, and had done so for over one thousand years.

  The great basin was bustling, filled with people out performing evening chores, bartering at the markets, and heading home from their sect halls. Over the din of the crowds, Kiva could hear the calls of the merchants, shouting the quality of their wares. Things here were the same as they’d been for hundreds of years, and all of it happening within the protective walls of the basin.

  “Girl!” A gnarled old man was eying the dead lizard draped over her shoulders. “I’ll give you two clay shakh pots for that mangy samin.”

  “Mangy?” she asked, incredulous.

  “Yes! Mangy! If a twiggy girl like you can shoulder the scrawny thing, it must weigh next to nothing. Two pots!”

  She took a step toward him, scowling. “Listen to me you bedraggled qadim—”

  “Thank you,” Mica interrupted with a smile, “but the samin is not for sale.” He gently directed Kiva away.

  “Your loss!” the man called out, before melting back into the crowd.

  Mica gave her a look, and Kiva shrugged. “What?” she asked innocently. “He called me twiggy!”

  “Come on!” Amir called. “I want a rematch. Last one home does the dishes!” He bolted off
before either of them could stop him.

  “Hey!” Kiva called, chasing after him. “Not fair! I’ve got an—oof!”

  “Ya wati! Watch where you’re going!” a woman’s voice called from behind.

  “Sorry!” she called back, running as quickly as she could given the thirty-five pound lizard on her shoulders.

  By the time she reached her family’s abode, she was drenched in a fresh layer of sweat, and her left shoulder was stained with dried lizard blood. The woven carpets that had been hanging outside were no longer there, which meant only one thing. Her mother was home.

  “Al’ama.” Kiva cursed. She crept inside her family’s dimly lit home, its high ceilings decorated with water inspired patterns of opal and glass shards. Despite the modest opening leading inside, the abode itself was rather spacious and cozy.

  “Kivanya Raisel Fariq!”

  Kiva ducked her head as her mother’s voice stopped her in her tracks.

  “If you get one drop of blood on my freshly cleaned rugs, you will be the one re-cleaning them…all of them.”

  “Yes mama,” she said quietly, turning toward the kitchen.

  “Not so fast. Where were you this afternoon? You knew we were to visit the weavers hall today. I specifically told Lalla Netaniah that you would be present. How do you think that makes me look, when you run off like that!”

  “Sorry mama, I—”

  “Is that a rip in your tunic? Have you been climbing with your brothers again?”

  “I—”

  “Enough! I don’t want to hear it. Take that mess of a samin to the cold room and dress it. I expect to see you at dinner, without the blood and dust.”

  Kiva pursed her lips. She knew if she tried to speak again her mother would cut her off, but she could not go until dismissed.

  “Snake bite your tongue, girl? Go!” she yelled, pointing toward the kitchen.

  Kiva could hear her mother mumbling under her breath as she fled into the kitchen.

  Once there, Kiva set down the samin lizard and lit a small oil lamp, then lifted the handle on the wooden trap-door in the floor. She threw the lizard over her shoulder and climbed down into the cold room.