The First Sin: Chapter 01

“Apocalypse will come to the årdrakin upon fulfillment of the signs. The first sign, and many signs thereafter, shall be sins of our own making.”

So spoke Älår in the Ancient Age, year 30915.

The first sign is coming:

They will take the flesh of another and become beholden to it.

I WOULD KILL to have my thermal armor.

The thought burst through Tårik’s mind as the rising sun beat blistering heat on him and the parched desert plain he stood on. Insects droned in the sultry morning air as waves shimmered along the ground, forming mirages of vast pools of water in every direction, particularly on the airfield’s black tarmac. He flexed his wings. Their thin, leathery membranes made light slapping sounds against his armor as he tried in vain to cool off.

The cloudless sky stretched overhead. On a day like today, he could have ridden the thermals to soar to extreme altitudes. The air would be cooler up there.

His wings twitched. Tempted.

No, not today. Today, he and squad mates had to suffer the heat of the Yau Plains in their clan’s traditional armor. The metal plates, chain mail, and leathers hung heavy on Tårik’s body, soaking up the sunlight and radiating warmth inward.

He sighed and tried to summon more comfortable attire, but nothing happened. The wetware in his brain would normally have responded immediately to the command, creating high-tech thermal armor that would be wonderfully climate controlled. Alas, using wetware today would contravene Clan Tsinna’s traditions where Sanctuary was concerned. It was forbidden to bring technology within its vicinity so the wetware in his head had been suppressed. It was strange and even a little alarming, Tårik reflected, not being able to access his comm chip, not being able to summon any weapons, not being able to change his clothes and armor at will. The wetware in his head lay dormant, as if it didn’t exist at all. How did anyone live without it for extended periods?

Traditional armor it had to be. Formal armor too, brilliantly painted in clan’s sea-themed colors, with a clan sash bearing a white silhouette of Clan Tsinna’s sweeping emblem hanging from his left hip. His chest swelled with pride. Even though it was hot, and he itched to pull the armor off, it was still an honor to wear it, an honor to have received this assignment.

As one of Tsinna’s highest-ranking clan guards, he’d been sent to Shan Yau with his squad to escort a delegation from the Great Clan Sokôn to Sanctuary. It wasn’t an ordinary task. To get there, they had to traverse the Barren Gale, a maze of slot canyons and steep cliffs, where the wind gusted at incredible velocities. It was easy to become lost and die of dehydration or slip off the trail and plummet to one’s death. He’d successfully made the journey several times before, but this time was different. This time they would have foreigners with them, foreigners who had never experienced the Barren Gale before.

But waiting for the dignitaries to arrive had become arduous. His tail thrashed. The more the sun rose, the hotter it got. Surely the Sokôn delegation was late by now.

Anxiety pinched Tårik’s stomach. Maybe they weren’t coming. The reason for the visit was serious: In the last month, Tsinna had lost its only extrasolar colony to an attack from rival clans. Some colonists had escaped before the clan’s armada could arrive to help them, and when the armada had arrived, it had been summarily defeated by the combined forces of the other clans. Now they had no choice but to turn to another clan, a Great Clan, to get military aid. But maybe Sokôn had decided it was too much hassle to bother with a clan that had also always refused to bond itself to one of the Great Clans.

If that’s true, we’ll never reclaim Chinda T-3, and the clanhold will probably fall prey to another attack in the coming months…

Tårik tugged at his neck guard as sweat settled between his shoulder blades and tried to banish his worry. Another bead trickled out of his mop of purple hair and slithered behind the frill that framed his face. He flicked the mint-colored membrane, but the perspiration clung stubbornly to his dusky green skin.

“Hot enough for you?” Jälen asked, coming up alongside him.

Tårik shoved his hand behind his back and straightened up, cursing the heat that spread through the delicate skin around his eyes. “Sir! Yes, sir, it’s certainly warmer than we’re used to.”

Jälen surveyed the landscape, one hand resting on the sword hilt at his waist. The talons on his dark brown wings were hooked into golden clasps at each shoulder, keeping the membranes folded neatly down his back. His slate grey skin remained dull in the harsh sunlight; despite the heaviness of their gear, to Tårik it seemed Jälen somehow managed to not sweat at all, though he kept his tail from touching the hot ground. Only his shock of long red hair blazed in the sunlight, looking like a manifestation of the flames Tårik was certain were licking at his feet from the hot asphalt.

“Wretched-looking place, this desert,” Jälen said. “Flat and empty, seemingly forever. Not at all like the forests of home, is it?”

On the contrary, Tårik almost said, but swallowed the words. This is lush. Just beyond the tarmac, patches of tall, tuft-crowned golden grass swayed in the warm breeze coming down from mountains peeking just above the horizon. Between each patch the ground was bare or sported globe-shaped scrub brush with thick, stubby silvered-green leaves that hoarded water, and other low-lying plants that eked out a living in the heat. In that direction, there wasn’t a tree nor hint of shade anywhere. But then he ventured, “There will be considerably less to look at except rocks and dust once we reach the Barren Gale.”

“Yes, I remember.” Jälen smoothed the fire-red ruff of hair on his chin. It was rare to see facial hair on an årdrakin; most people could only grow hair from their scalps. Tårik was one such person, though as a hatchling he’d thought if he tried hard enough, some scruff would grow on his chin. Instead, he sported three small horns protruding from each side of his jaw at the back, and that was good enough for him.

“Weren’t you hatched in Shan Yau?” Jälen was saying.

The city’s enormous biotech tree cast a sprawling shadow through the shallow river valley behind them, dwarfing the thin forest that lined the riverbanks. The tree reached a few thousand meters into the sky and cradled kilometers-wide disc-shaped platforms amongst its colossal, bioluminescent branches. Vehicles soared between the glittering skyscrapers reaching up from those terraces. People would be flying between those buildings too, no doubt taking advantage of the hot updrafts, but they were too far away for Tårik to see.

“Yes, sir. But I enjoy living in Sha Nakai much more. The jungle has always felt like home, rather than the Yau Plains. It’s been…” He considered. “…thirty-nine years. Much too long to feel any comfort here now. My family still lives here.” He ran a hand through his hair and fanned his frill, trying unsuccessfully to catch some air beneath his thick locks to cool his scalp, and wondered if Jälen’s questions had anything to do with Tårik’s pending promotion. Tårik had been a clan guard for eighteen years and it was true that Jälen already knew a lot about him, though when he had been a lowly së’kelzal, Jälen had rarely spoken to him directly. But maybe becoming more familiar with his squad mates had something to do with potentially advancing from së’yanzal, the fourth rank, to së’laizal, the third rank.

Jälen grunted and rubbed his neck where a small welt was visible. “Too bad you won’t see them this trip.”

“It’s fine, sir. Plenty of time to visit later. Injection site bothering you?”

“A little.” Jälen gave his neck one last rub and then shook himself. The site was small, little more than a blemish. Tårik had one just like it, as did everyone in their squad, a telltale sign that their wetware had been temporarily suppressed.

Jälen sighed. “The sooner we get to Sanctuary and then back to Sha Nakai, the sooner we can get our wetware reactivated.” His amber eyes slid over Tårik. “Don’t bake in your armor before then.”

Tårik mustered a grin for his commanding officer. “I’ll try, sir.”

An unexpected growl drew their attention. Kalaanë, second in command, led a nakishnik out of a nearby stable. The animal’s glossy spotted fur and dark scales caught the morning light, as did the long, curving sabers hanging below its upper lip as it padded along behind her. It was already tacked up with saddle and armor in the clan’s colors; the woman took it by the halter and tethered it to a wide hitching post standing in the building’s shadow.

Tårik watched her as she gave the warmount a scratch behind its round ear. It angled its head appreciatively, then shook itself as she worked her way along its side, checking the tack. Elaborate braids, not entirely hidden by the frill framing her face, crowned her head to keep her neck cool. The braids’ rich berry-red color flared to magenta as she moved in and out of the bright sunlight. She kept her dusky purple wings aloft, fanning them around her armored body as the outdoor heat quickly seeped in.

“Go with Kalaanë and prepare your nakishnik,” Jälen ordered with a chuckle, and Tårik realized he’d been caught staring at her. A new flush of embarrassment rushed up around his eyes. It was bad enough that he felt compelled to keep his feelings a secret from her due to his rank and his age—never mind the fear that she and Jälen were probably together—without having his commanding officer bear witness to his attraction.

“We’ll be riding with the animals armored today,” Jälen added. The chuckle gave way to a no-nonsense tone of command, and Tårik was thankful that Jälen didn’t seem interested in commenting on anything. “Ensure the others are ready, too. The Sokôn flyer should be here shortly, and I want to depart as soon as possible after they disembark.”

Tårik ducked his head. “Yes, Së’nåzal.”

Despite himself, as he approached Kalaanë, Tårik surreptitiously straightened his armor and ensured his clan sash hung properly from his belt. His hand went to his hair again, running through it. It was damp with sweat. He hoped it looked good anyway.

“Åldråmí, Tårik.”

He nearly missed Kalaanë’s greeting when she turned her dark azure eyes on him, making his breath catch. They were like two pools of glittering ocean peering at him from the dark; her skin was black as night. The large silver scales on her nasal ridge seemed to glow in comparison.

Tårik cleared his throat as the anxiety in his stomach shifted into a flutter. He hoped the embarrassed flush had receded from his eyepads. “Åldråmí, Së’shåzal,” he said formally.

The nakishnik pinned him with large pale eyes. Ears swiveled, seeking cues from Kalaanë. She patted his heavy shoulder and murmured, “Peace, Hakir. It’s only Tårik.”

Hakir’s nostrils flared as he stretched his thick neck forward. Tårik held out his hand, being careful to greet the enormous, full-grown male with slow, calm movements. Even after eighteen years of working with Kalaanë, Tårik knew he couldn’t take anything for granted where her warmount was concerned.

The cold nose pressed into his palm and after a thorough snuffling, the warmount licked it with a wide, rough tongue before turning back to the hitching post. Tårik relaxed. He wasn’t being tasted as a potential meal; the nakishnik had accepted his presence and wouldn’t be bothered by his proximity.

The grey stripes on Kalaanë’s face crinkled up as she smiled, amused. “Don’t worry. He hasn’t eaten anyone in a while.” She tugged on a strap to adjust the saddle bag. “It’s going to be a boring couple of weeks, Tårik. Once we get to Sanctuary, there won’t be much for us to do. I give you leave to use my name rather than my rank while we’re on this excursion, except, of course, when Së’nåzal Jälen or the adya is within earshot.”

His frill fanned forward, buzzing slightly as he sensed her sincerity. Her amused smile had turned a bit shy, he thought. The flutter in his stomach rose to his chest.

“Of course. Thank you.”

“The other nakishnikë need readying. The pack scôrrosë should be about done. Come.” She led the way into the stable.

Tårik sighed with relief when they entered. Compared to outside, the interior was cooler, still warm but not stifling, and filled with the scent of clean, well-kept animals. His sweat dried. A modest, modern building built adjacent to the airfield’s terminal, it was used to temporarily house warmounts and other large animals brought by, or waiting for, transports. Their mewls, growls, and other calls nearly drowned out the shuffling of feet and flapping of wings from the stable hands’ activity within.

“They’ve cleared air traffic for the delegation’s arrival,” Kalaanë said as they reached the stalls their nakishnikë had been assigned to.

“Still amazes me that Lady Vindelí managed to entice them into coming to us.”

Kalaanë scoffed. “Don’t be too amazed. I met her once, when I was stationed out at Chinda T-3. She’s incredibly persuasive. Must be why she got to be the colony overseer, and why Adya Tårann agreed to hold this conference.”

“She has the clan’s public opinion on her side, and much of the rest of the empire’s, based on the news. I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

Kalaanë clicked her tongue at a large male that approached the bars of his stall and pressed his nose against the gap. Holding her hand up for him to sniff, she said, “Hello Vaehak. Jälen is waiting for you. Ready to go for a ride?” The warmount’s tongue snaked out to lick her palm. She lifted the door latch.

“Nenaen,” Tårik called to his warmount as he entered her stall. Her head lifted and her ears pricked up. She rose from the floor and stretched luxuriously, then came forward to try rubbing her enormous head under his chin.

“Come on, girl, you don’t fit under there anymore,” he chuckled, scratching his hand along her thickly furred jaw and throat. Nenaen stretched her head up and purred, giving him the opportunity to bend down to examine the heavy overlapping scales covering her chest. He touched one gently. It was smaller than the rest, and the surrounding flesh looked tender. “Almost grown back in,” he said. “Good. Let’s get you tacked up.” She stood patiently while he brushed her down and fetched his saddle and other equipment.

In the stall beside him, Kalaanë called out, “Bags!” Moments later, stable hands flapped down from a level above with saddlebags already prepared with their belongings and other supplies they would need on their journey.

“How many will be in the delegation?” Tårik asked.

“A khašë’yanzal and two ambassadors. They’ll each have a guard.”

“That’s all?”

“I was expecting more of them, too. Maybe they have little confidence that things will go well. We might not be worth the trouble to them.”

Tårik tightened his saddle’s girth strap, feeling worry creep back into his gut as Kalaanë echoed his earlier thoughts. “This is only the first meeting between Tsinna and Sokôn. Perhaps they just don’t want to get too invested this early on.”

“Perhaps.”

“You don’t sound confident.”

“Neither do you.”

Kalaanë fell silent and moved around in Vaehak’s stall. Tårik ran his hands down Nenaen’s well-muscled legs, encouraging her to lift her paws so he could check the condition of the pads and her claws.

Sharp. Good.

“I think the clan is trying to take the easy way out. Surely, Sokôn sees it like that, too.” Kalaanë’s voice dropped. “Tårann failed to provide Chinda T-3 with adequate protection, forcing Vindelí to abandon it during the attack. Now he looks bad, and Tsinna is weakened and embarrassed in front of the entire empire. But their best idea is to run to a Great Clan for help?”

Tårik heard the slap of a leather strap being pulled tight and Vaehak’s sharply growled rebuke.

“Adya Tårann clearly agreed that this was the superior choice.”

The së’shåzal sighed. “I’d just prefer that we deal with this problem ourselves. And I don’t think he agreed to anything. Vindelí got her way because Tårann knows she’ll destroy him in the clan’s eyes otherwise.”

Maybe she should. Tårik bit his tongue to stop himself from saying the words out loud. They would only get him in trouble, and he had his promotion to think about. Instead, he concentrated on tacking up his mount, and, once finished, led Nenaen out of the stall and tied her to a post.

The trio of junior officers Jälen had selected to accompany them stood clustered around three scôrrosë laden with supplies for the journey to Sanctuary. The scôrrosë were docile animals, standing patiently and making no sound as more supplies were hoisted onto their broad backs. A trio of fully tacked warmounts idled next to them.

“Finish up,” Tårik ordered, gesturing to a few items still sitting on the floor. “Së’nåzal Jälen wishes to leave promptly.”

“We’ll just be a moment more, Së’yanzal,” one of the trio answered.

Vaehak’s stall opened behind them. Kalaanë stepped out, leading Jälen’s warmount. The male nakishnik was large: Kalaanë was tall, and the saddle was just higher than her head. But Hakir was larger, Tårik thought.

“Ready to go?” Her eyes were now hidden behind dark lenses, but she smiled lightly, and the dusky purple spines of her frill had come up, framing her dark face. Whatever frustration she’d felt earlier had vanished, or, at least, was carefully hidden away.

He fished a set of his own shades from a saddlebag and clipped the frame to the scale that spanned the space between his eyes. “Yes, Së’shå—” He caught himself. “Kalaanë.”

Her smile widened. The sight of it did things in his chest he tried to ignore. If she was just being friendly, if she was actually involved with Jälen… He swallowed. It probably didn’t mean anything.

Over her shoulder, she said to the three së’seizalë, “Follow us out,” and then led them into the sunshine, tossing a farewell to the stable master as she went.

The tarmac remained empty, and Tårik’s heart sank a bit more. Jälen came forward to greet Vaehak, who rumbled throatily at this sight of his rider and pulled forward on his lead.

“Thank you, Kalaanë. Fine work. No problems?”

“None, sir. Vaehak is well-tempered, as always.”

“Very good.” Tether him there while we wait for the flyer.”

They hitched the warmounts along with the pack animals, which seemed only mildly skittish, standing so close to the large predators. Jälen inspected them all, surveying the work his people had accomplished.

Not long after, the hum of engines reached them. Tårik’s pulse ticked upward with anticipation.

Sokôn was coming after all.