The Way of the Sky Chapter 1

Chapter I - Beneath the Wind

Ten thousand feet of empty air separated the toes of Lizbeth Valera's boots and the distant earth's surface below. She rocked back on heels supported by the smooth marble platform known as the Plunge, a platform sat atop a small, floating island that abruptly ended beneath the arches of her feet. She stood on both land and sky, poised between two worlds, a soft breeze sighing through her hair. Murderers, rapists, and the scum of the realm often found themselves standing on the same precipice, their limbs tied and secured as they were shoved from the Plunge out into the blue sky beyond. The last seconds of their lives were spent screaming as they plummeted through the air until they slammed into the earth with an atrocious force that ensured their remains were rarely recovered.

How does it feel, she wondered, for this view to be the last sight you ever glimpse?

She closed her eyes and sought to balance on the precipice's edge. A sudden gust buffeted her from behind, tipped her forward, and she fell.

A pair of feathered white wings bright as bleached bone unfurled from her back. A quick flick of her wings, each taller than she, returned her to the platform with ease. If she died today, it sure as the skies wouldn't come from slipping off a ledge.

She straightened a fistful of ruffled feathers and glanced behind her to find the other Ertai on the platform were paying her antics no mind. A quartermaster poured over a lone bag of rations, quill scratching notes into their ledger, while a pair of steady-handed soldiers sharpened and oiled a set of wicked daggers. A dozen armed guards had formed a perimeter and were scanning the skies with wary gazes. No trouble was expected--they'd chosen the Plunge as their departure point due to its position at the center of a cluster of floating islands that obscured it from view. That didn't stop the guards from clenching their sword hilts; a mistake today could breed disaster.

Five hooded figures stood at the platform's rear, heads together as they spoke in huddled whispers. Those whispers could speak new laws into existence. Those whispers controlled the fate of the sky.

"Or they did before today," Lizbeth muttered to herself.

The currents of fate had changed course.

A new set of whispers stroked against her ears like frost-encrusted fingers. They came from no living form, their unintelligible words impossible to comprehend--and yet the rage, confusion, and sorrow within their depths was clear as the midday sun. Back stiff and jaw set, she peered over the Plunge's edge at the whispers' source; a monolithic maelstrom loomed before her.

The winds of the Skywall drifted without end beneath the evening sun. Though it proved thick enough to hide the lands beneath its surface, the smoky dome appeared no denser than a cloud. The gargantuan barrier could be spied from a hundred miles distant, and to the untrained eye, swirled with the easy rhythm of slumber.

Lizbeth let out a snort.

"Sleeping my ass."

It was sleeping, all right, until you touched it.

The merest contact with the Skywall transformed the barrier into a savage tempest. To enter the Skywall was to toss yourself headfirst into a hurricane. The Skywall wouldn't kill you; Reis, the goddess of the sky, had seen to that herself when she raised it with the magic of Essence, the very force that sustained her being. It was a shield, not a death trap, an impassable partition designed to keep both humans and their descendants, the winged Ertai race, from passing through. But snap bones, rend your feathers, tear at your skin and eyes for hours until it spat you out? That fate was certain. A howling gale dwelled beneath the Skywall's harmless surface like the jaws of a shark beneath still seas.

Lizbeth's skin grew chill.

And we're the fools who are about to go swimming.

She shoved the thought from her head and ran a hand tanned by the wind and sun through her messy bronze hair, then flexed her wings. A pair of platform occupants stepped to her side, her comrades for the mission ahead.

She turned to the angular, aging woman to her left, who stared at the Skywall, distinctly unimpressed.

"Do your bounties ever try to escape through the Skywall, Vasheer?" Lizbeth asked.

Vasheer Rudamu scoffed and took a long drag on her pipe before replying in a voice that was a mix of smoke and gravel.

"Every wind-damned year. They all limp back wishing they hadn't. It chews up any fool stupid enough to test its might and spits them back out with barely the strength to fly."

Vasheer turned to the massive, mohawked man floating beside her.

"Kon, you're a fool. Ever been dumb enough to try?"

Kon Golont chuckled and crossed a pair of golden arms thicker than Lizbeth's thighs. His wings, well-groomed and kept free of dirt, dwarfed her own. Though Lizbeth wasn't short by female standards, next to Kon she resembled a child. The imposing enforcer wore his lazy smile like another would a favorite shirt.

"A young, handsome man like me?" he quipped in a baritone voice. "I've pints to drink and women to tickle. Such acts are for the bored and old, Vasheer, those with little to live for and less to lose. Turns out that places you first in line. Go on now, we'll only miss you a bit."

The older woman puffed on her pipe, sending a plume of smoke the same hue as her hair billowing into the air.

"By the winds, you're an ass."

"True," he shrugged. "But most girls don't mind."

Lizbeth barked a laugh and rolled her eyes.

"Just most? Meaning the ones you have to pay?"

Vasheer guffawed as Kon turned to Lizbeth, indignant.

"Come on now, runt," he slapped her arm, "don't tell me you're taking her side."

"You've a poster up in the Rose Quarter, man. They give you a discounted rate. They likely know your trouser size, they've peeled them off so often."

"Hardly proof--"

"Just shut up and check your weapons, you whore."

Grumbling, Kon complied.

"And put out the pipe, Vasheer," she continued. "In fact, pass it to a guard. Tabac isn't native to the lands inside the Skywall. Your pipe will get us arrested."

Vasheer's eyes narrowed. Lizbeth refused to blink.

Vasheer had started serving the Magisters who ruled the Skybound Tribe, and by extension the skies, when Lizbeth barely reached the woman's knees. Twenty years on the job, compared to Lizbeth's paltry five, and yet Lizbeth was the one giving orders. Had Vasheer not spent her youth making coin as a smuggler and serving time in a cell for her trouble, their roles would undoubtedly be reversed. Vasheer damn well knew it, and the knowledge strengthened her will to resist Lizbeth's commands.

Lizbeth's eyes started to hurt.

Come on now, woman.

Vasheer relented with a grumble and passed the pipe to a guard.

"Isn't native?" she asked, sour.

"Page twelve in my notes," Lizbeth replied. "Did you read them?"

Vasheer averted her gaze.

"The optional notes? I read 'em, all right. Well, most. About half. Must've dropped page twelve in the bath."

Lizbeth barely suppressed a snort.

Another reason I'm in charge.

Lizbeth turned to Kon. Of the thirty pages of notes she'd gathered that described the lands, laws, and traditions waiting within the confines of the Skywall, she would be pleased if Kon had managed to read a paragraph.

"Reis knows I shouldn't bother to ask," she started, "but did you read--"

He raised his eyebrows and gave her a flat look.

"I read the mission briefing. I'm certain we'll be fine."

"Best hope we don't end up in shackles," she muttered, "or I'll make you read every sunshied word."

She blinked, then bit her tongue.

Sunshied isn't a word used beneath the Skywall. Page seventeen, remember? Gods, I won't even be able to swear in peace.

She glanced at Kon's hands and saw they both remained bare.

"Stop stalling, Kon, strap on your graf."

Kon sighed and pulled on what appeared to be an unremarkable fingerless glove--unremarkable until one spied the translucent chunk of pitch embedded in the fabric. When the glove was worn properly, the pitch rested on the back of one's hand. Kon strapped the graf onto his skillet-sized hand with a grunt, closed his eyes, and raised his arm. The ashen chunk of earth in the graf's center flared to life; through it, Kon seized the Essence. Burnt orange lines formed a mace in the air, its handle clutched in Kon's grasp. Had Lizbeth possessed the ability to wield the Shade of Grom, one of the four unique flows of the Essence that allowed the wielder to consolidate the air into corporeal form, she would have seen the Shade's orange aura surround Kon with a glow. It was typical for an Ertai to identify themselves by the color of their Shade, thus Kon often referred to himself as an 'Orange'--an unfortunately comical slang term for a man with the strength to casually kick a door from its hinges.

Kon gave the mace a swing, then eyed the glowing chunk of earth in his graf with disgust. He spat its name like a curse.

"Nethum. Where did the bastards inside the Skywall dig this up from, the unholy depths themselves? It's like I'm pulling the Essence through a thin, filthy pipe. Why the hells are we using these grafs, again?"

"The moment we enter the Skywall, our direct connection to the Essence will be severed, meaning we can't call the wind at will," Lizbeth replied. "We'll need a conduit to seize our Shades once inside, and nethum is the best conduit we can find, however shit an option it might be."

Kon grunted in reluctant understanding. The mace in his hand grew in size as he drew deeper on the Essence, making the nethum in his graf glow brighter.

"Careful," Lizbeth warned. "Pull too much and the nethum will explode."

"How can I tell?"

"The nethum's light will be blinding and it'll burn like the hells through the graf."

"And if it explodes?"

"It'll knock you on your ass and you'll go blind for a bit."

Kon shrugged, looking thoughtful.

"Fair enough."

The mace disappeared.

Lizbeth eyed her own graf with healthy disgust.

She'd sized the Essence through it a dozen times over, and each time shivers coursed down her spine. Essence tasted all wrong when channeled through nethum. Rather than dance about her fingers like a warm, soothing wind, it ran through her grasp like silk covered in mud. Few Skybound knew much about nethum, save that it was mined from deep within the earth. As nethum allowed them to seize the Essence beneath the Skywall, the muddled discomfort it caused was a shallow price to pay--on paper at least. Lizbeth couldn't put her finger on it, but at the nethum's core, she sensed something was...wrong.

The Essence of Reis was never meant to be used like this. The gift of the Goddess deserves better.

The trio's conversation lulled as the sun continued to fall. Inevitably, their gazes turned to the Skywall. The whispers of its winds found their ears.

"They say you listen too long," Vasheer murmured, tone muted, "the Skywall's whispers will drive you insane."

"I don't plan for us to dwell near the damn thing long enough to find out," Lizbeth replied.

Easy for her to say, but what of the Windbound Tribe trapped beneath the Skywall's surface? Did their sanity hold strong?

She felt a tinge of pity at the thought.

The Windbound are children of Reis, same as us. They are Ertai, just as we are, whether we like it or not. Ertai forbidden from flying through the true, blue sky or grasping the Essence unaided. Ertai cursed to live beneath wan light filtered through eternal clouds.

A harsh voice spoke up in her mind.

The bastards tried to blast our floating islands from the sky. They slaughtered us in the thousands.

Whatever ounce of pity she held for the Windbound evaporated on the breeze.

She appraised their ranks a final time to ensure their appearance wouldn't rouse undue suspicion. The loose, brown breeches and short-sleeved, forest-colored tunics that cascaded to their knees were drab and unworthy of remark. Eyebrows might be raised at their sturdy, battle-ready boots, but Lizbeth felt they were worth the risk. A fight would likely come their way whether they willed it or no, and they couldn't brawl in slippers now could they? Each of them wore a leather cuirass beneath their garments, while their belts were adorned with hidden blades. The only pack they carried, aside from the inventoried bag of rations now slung over Kon's shoulder, was a fist-sized pouch tightly secured to Lizbeth's hip. If Lizbeth closed her eyes, she could feel the quiet hum of the crystalline caestall emanating through the pouch's leather. The tiny, floating crystal was their only defense against the Skywall's imminent wrath.

Kon glanced at the pouch, then her.

"You sure the caestall is strong enough to get us through?" he asked. "The Skywall may not kill us, but I'd rather not test it."

Lizbeth reflexively grasped the pouch, checking that its straps were in place for the seventeenth time that day.

"I'm not certain, no," she admitted. "A test would have drained some of its power. But Icarse was certain, and that's good enough for me. It should activate as soon as we enter the Skywall."

Kon paused a hair too long before he nodded and turned away. Lizbeth swallowed the lump in her throat. Skies alive, if only Icarse was there to assure them himself...

For the love of Reis, where are you, brother?

Icarse had sailed into the Skywall's depths two years prior for a routine visit to the lands confined within the churning dome--and hadn't been heard from since.

He's fine, she'd told herself endlessly, he's just treating with the wingless humans trapped on the earth's surface beneath the Skywall. Ic has traveled inside the Skywall before, he's survived the floating islands of the Windbound there, he well knows what waits ahead. Perhaps he's rallying allies to our cause. He's fine, of course he's blasted fine.

Her constant self-assurance had quickly waned once the explosions had started. First came reports of streaks of light glimpsed through the Skywall's base, where it burrowed into the earth miles below. The streaks, each brighter than the last, had lasted a fortnight. Strange, for certain, but no reason to worry. Reis had raised the Skywall after the Ertai civil war using magics no mortal could match. The traitorous Windbound would spend eternity trapped within the Skywall for their war crimes.

Surely they lacked the means to breach the work of a god?

Yet breach it they did.

It was only for a second, little more than a breath, but it was real as a dying man's dread. A beam of opaque light pierced the Skywall from within, then vanished. The Skywall's wound closed, and all was still. The thought made Lizbeth shudder. After three hundred years, the impossible had come to pass; the Windbound were slowly breaking free.

"I'll die before I let that happen," she swore under her breath.

She glanced above her head at the stretches of floating land known as the Ertan Islands, the colossal bergs of stone and soil set against the backdrop of the vast, eternal sky. Sat atop the largest island of them all floated Telaria, affectionately dubbed by its inhabitants the Rainbow City. Telaria had served as the bastion of Ertai civilization from the moment Reis had gifted Lizbeth's human ancestors wings and blessed them with the Essence, thus creating the Ertai race. To the histories, Telaria was a city of legend--to Lizbeth and the Skybound, it was home. She watched the sun dance off its multicolored walls, watched its crystalline towers shine. If the Windbound escaped their prison and returned war to the skies, those crystalline towers and multicolored walls would find themselves under siege.

Kon bobbed up beside her and followed her gaze.

"She's a sight in the evenings, is she not?"

Lizbeth nodded with a last, long look.

"And may she be for eons to come."

Dusk set in and the city faded. A guard bobbed forward, a palm-sized box of gears and iron known as a 'clock' in hand. Lizbeth stared at the thing with a sense of muted awe; Vasheer eyed it with clear distrust. Exports from the underground, artificer city of Goug were rare sights indeed. The artificers were happy to sell their wares, but only to those who did business within Goug's tunnels, a city that was an ocean away. Lizbeth longed to pop the clock open and see how the blasted thing worked. Only the knowledge that it cost six months of her pay stayed her unskilled hands from prying it open.

"Eighth hour past noon," the clock-toting guard remarked.

The Plunge fell still. The five hooded figures at the platform's rear fixed their gazes upon Lizbeth. Any Skybound citizen old enough to fly would recognize the faces that now peered at her--she was staring at the Magisters. It was the first time in a century all five elected rulers of the Skybound had been absent from Telaria at once.

At the center of their ranks stood Markus Valera, the chosen Speaker of their number, and her uncle. He peered at her with hazel eyes that resembled her own, eyes calm as untroubled skies. His clenched jaw and balled fists betrayed him. He'd already lost a nephew to the Skywall's depths; he feared he would soon lose his niece.

Despite the worry that plagued him, his voice was resolute as he stepped forward and spoke.

"May the winds guide you to triumph, then may they guide you safely home. Fly with Reis, Teran Ro. We are with you."

Lizbeth nodded, lump forming in her throat, then tore her gaze away. All that needed to be said between family had been spoken hours before they stepped foot onto the Plunge. The time for tearful farewells was over.

"Teran Ro," she announced, "form up."

Kon and Vasheer floated to her side. Half the soldiers guarding the platform's perimeter formed an escort around Lizbeth's trio, and together they leapt from the Plunge. Wings spread wide, their ranks glided toward the Skywall, the maelstrom slowly looming larger.

"Teran Ro?" Vasheer whispered once they had left the Plunge behind. "As in 'those bound for the earth?' Stupid name, you ask me."

Lizbeth raised her eyebrows. She'd chosen the name.

"Have you come up with something better?"

"Well, no."

"Right then, Teran Ro it is."

Lizbeth ignored Vasheer's stare and continued.

"Here's the plan, one last time--"

Vasheer and Kon groaned.

"-- whether you like it or not," she snapped. "Our target is Gargealean, the Windbound capital. It sits on the largest floating island beneath the Skywall, smack in the center of the realm. Our contact is a man named Windsom. We'll meet him in the Markets district atop the Trinity Towers at the stroke of midnight. If he's--"

"-- not there, we'll continue on toward the Surface," Vasheer finished for her.

"Remember," Lizbeth continued, "tonight is the Hammersfall festival. It's the ten-year anniversary of Orn the Betrayer's defeat at the hands of some blasted Windbound hero known as the Slayer. The district will be swarming with drunken guards all night. For the love of lightning, don't get in a fight."

"'The Slayer,'" Kon mused. "You best be one hell of a warrior to earn that title."

"Let's not meet him and find out."

They nodded.

Lizbeth's thoughts raced to find some missed, critical instruction, but nothing came to mind. She willed her nerves to calm as their flight drew to a halt. The Skywall towered before them.

"Link up," she ordered. "And hold on for dear life. If you release me, the Skywall will take you."

Kon tied one of Lizbeth and Vasheer's hands together using a leather cord. He then floated low between them and wrapped his arms around each of their inside legs. Were they to fly in horizontal formation, Kon's wings would batter their own.

As she ordered them forward, their escort parted and snapped to attention. Their captain saluted as they passed.

"Good luck, Teran Ro," he said, voice strained. "May Reis guide you safely home."

"Thank you," Lizbeth nodded. "She will."

The other guards looked as if they were attending a funeral; two of them were praying loud enough for Lizbeth to hear. As the three companions left the guards behind, Lizbeth spoke softly.

"A drunken enforcer. A bounty hunter with a criminal past. A girl living off her family name. I've heard it all, and so have you. Our own ranks think we'll fail."

Kon and Vasheer tensed. The Skywall loomed just ahead.

"Well they're wrong, damn wrong. It's time we prove it."

Kon popped his neck.

"Blasted right, runt."

Vasheer nodded.

"We're with you, girl."

"Heads up and wings ready," Lizbeth commanded. "Teran Ro, move in!"

They plunged into the Skywall. The lazy winds transformed into chaos.

The Skywall thundered against them like an avalanche, the world a churning sea of violent gray. Claws of wind tore at her eyes, her clothes, her arms, shrieking as she fought against the storm. Inch by inch she felt the others slip away. The wind was tearing their ranks apart.

"Hold!" she roared. "Hold! Don't let go!"

Her caestall awoke with a thrum.

A presence as cool as morning mist washed over them, the screaming winds falling away. The tempest retreated like shadows before a flame, and all around them the Skywall grew calm.

Vasheer stared, mouth agape.

"It--it actually worked!"

Kon whooped and punched the air.

"Godsdamn, it's good to be alive!"

Lizbeth let out a shout, then forged ahead.

"Now the real work begins."
It was time to foil the Windbound's plans. It was time to save her brother.