Pridewar: Revelations

By David Buchannan

On the world of Allden, life has become cruel. From the encroaching desert swallowing whole cities, to the anarchist Cabals and the lawless bands of Broken wandering the Wastes. Nothing is sacred and no one is truly safe. For this reason, the Nomads were created. Fantastic wooden sailing ships and their crews that ply the currents above the barren lands, yet even they are powerless to stop the latest threat and its portent of doom that will shake the very foundation of the world and its people...

The sun is collapsing.

This is the story of four disparate groups as they struggle to survive the coming cataclysm. Some will band together to restore order from the shadows of corruption, to find a new home for them all among the stars, while others seek to overthrow what they believe cannot be salvaged and bring about a free reign of the people...

And one among them sees in everything only demons that must be vanquished, regardless of the outcome to all.

Time is running out. Who will survive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Buchannan
• Release date: May 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311536754

David Buchannan

David Buchannan has been writing short stories in the science fiction and fantasy genres for over thirty years. His first novel, entitled Do the Gods Weep As Well?, was published in 2000 under the name, "J. David Watson", and spent two weeks on the Forbes Book Club recommended reading list. It is available for purchase online in both trade paperback and e-book formats.His current work started quite literally from a dream that he had many years ago. In it, he was piloting what would become the sandships of the world of Allden, in which the Pridewar universe is set. His hand was resting upon the planchette, as in this book, and he guided it across a vast desert through manipulating it forward and back, and side-to-side. While not mentally connected to the vessel in the way that the Navigators are, a sudden remembrance of this dream became the catalyst that began this series.David has stated openly that it felt more as if he were "channeling" the book, rather than merely writing it. He began with absolutely no idea of plot or vision, nor character definition or even the remotest idea where he would take the story. "It just sort of evolved," he said. "It was more like I was transcribing what someone else was telling me."David's other interests and occupations include sailing (for which he is a certified instructor), children's science education (with emphasis on watershed ecology and conservation), gourmet cooking, photography, videography, digital art, drawing, and musical composition and recording.He lives now upon the waters of San Francisco Bay aboard a 32-foot sailboat called "Serenity" with his wife, Kellia, an investigative journalist and author in her own right, and one supremely hyperactive cat named Zoey.For more information, visit the official blog and Twitter accounts for Pridewar:http://www.davidbuchannan.blogspot.comhttp://www.twitter.com/Pridewar

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PRIDEWAR

Revelations

by David Buchannan

PRIDEWAR

Revelations

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 by David Buchannan

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, products, places, events, and incidents are purely the product of the author’s imagination and are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for individual enjoyment only, and may not be re-sold or re-distributed in any form. If you wish to share this ebook with others, please purchase additional copies for each recipient. If you are reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

A Word from the Author

Welcome to the Pridewar universe! It is not unlike our own universe, really, but where there are many similarities, there are, of course, many differences. After all, the universe depicted in Pridewar is one that is not human-based. Not in the slightest. In fact, these people have never before heard of humans. Nowhere, even in their meticulously-maintained archival databases have they ever encountered anything like us. Nor, for that matter, will they ever encounter any.

Because of this, as you can imagine, the evolution of their language is a bit different than what you and I may be accustomed. What this means is that there are descriptive elements that you, the reader, will no doubt find truly alien.

Now while every attempt has been made to ensure an even flow to the storyline, and to incorporate said elements into the narrative in such fashion as to make sense, it is understood that there will, undoubtedly, be times when you, the reader, may not fully comprehend just what a certain reference may actually be.

For this reason, an encyclopedic concordance is included at the end of this book – a Lexicon of Understanding, as it is so named, giving full descriptions of many of these elements…within the relative language of this world, of course, so as to avoid breaking the immersive storyline itself.

The Lexicon is a fascinating and enjoyable read, in and of itself, and is included not only for descriptive purposes, but also to help flesh out a bit of back-story as to the nature of certain things. Reading it, one may begin to truly understand the people who populate the world of Allden, fifth planet out from the orange giant star known only as Liferay.

There are simple things that we take for granted, as human beings living here on planet Earth, such as (for example) the directions of North, South, East, or West. These take on entirely new meanings upon this world. North and South, for instance, vary depending upon which hemisphere you are in. Even units of standard measurement – inches, feet, miles – these have been re-written into the language of these felinoid people.

The passage of time, as we know it, is likewise different. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, years…even the seasons themselves all have different names and meanings.

Why? Simple – this is a different world. These people don't have the same evolutionary track that has brought us the things which have shaped us. Clocks that we employ. Calendars that are based upon our own cyclic understanding, as transcribed and dictated by our scientific and religious edicts. These things are as alien to them as the Moonswing of Solitude is to us.

Still, certain aspects of understanding must be maintained, and I have done all I am able to ensure that they don't detract from the flow of the story. The last thing I would want is for someone to have to flip back and forth between the Lexicon and the chapter they're reading. That wouldn't make for a good story at all! Therefore, I provide the Lexicon for informational purposes, and as a bit of an historical archive for the people of Allden…and, maybe, to help you, the reader, understand a bit more about this world and the people who live upon it.

May Sevra be praised!

Chapter One

Master Shipman Garvin paced about the foredeck, obviously displeased with something he saw, but for some reason remaining silent – which was entirely out of character for him. Normally, if something displeased him, he would roar, grab the one responsible by the scruff of their neck, and shove their head up close and personal to the offending article. It was something that both impressed and terrified anyone assigned to deck duties, yet this first-light? Nothing. All he did was pace. His face was passive enough, but his eyes…his eyes spoke otherwise, Ewan noted. They were steely. Purposeful. In fact, they seemed to smolder.

Ewan began quickly going over the checklist in his mind, verifying each step as his eyes swept about to each station, each item, each little detail. He had always been diligent, and this cycle was no exception. If anything, knowing that there would be an inspection later, he took great care to ensure that nothing was out of place, nothing dirty, nothing spotted, nothing tangled, everything coiled properly with equal length coils to within a hair's breadth. No, he couldn't find anything that he'd left off, yet here Garvin was, pacing, glowering, and very obviously, displeased.

Unable to take the tension any longer, Ewan quietly cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak. Master, he ventured, but a sudden sharp gesture of the Shipman's massive paw seemed to strangle the words in his throat.

Garvin paced to the pulpit and gazed out at the featureless horizon beyond, his arms clasped behind his broad, sinewy back and the wind streaming through his proud, white crest. Without turning, he began speaking, his words drifting back on the wind like the wraiths of legend.

"I have been sailing sandships like this one since before you were held aloft to the Nobles in your Great's arms. A thousand lonely darkenings I have stood watch, young one. I have hauled on the lines until my pads bled, charted passages through canyons thought un-navigable, even felt the power of the planchette in my grasp as I guided our ship into battle after our Navigator had her spirit taken from her by a broadthorn barrage.

Now, as the turnings begin to exact their toll on my body, I have taken on the burden of rearing the next generation of Nomads. Some have moved on to greater ships than this. Some sail the vast oceans, others still have gone to the skies, even the stars, if the stories are to be believed. Yet in all of this, never have I found one such as you.

Ewan smiled, until he saw the sideways glance thrown by Garvin in his direction. There was no warmth, no comfort in that gaze. There was, he saw, something far more troublesome…disappointment.

Master, Ewan began, not finding his voice at first. If I may inquire…have I done something wrong? I have only tried to —

"That is your problem, cub. You try. You don't do anything except try. There is no conviction, no passion, no commitment. You do everything correctly, yes, but you seek only to please others. I see nothing else.

If you wish to sail a sandship, or any ship, you need to become a part of that ship. Your heart needs to beat with the rhythms of the gravitons, the thrumming of the planchette, the very breath of the Nine Winds in the sails, but in you I see…I feel…nothing. Your heart beats only in your chest, Neophyte. Beyond, out here, Garvin directed his paw about the entirety of the ship, you have no heart. There is no pulse. There is only your…trying. Your rote recitation, your repetitive motion. Your tedium. And that is why I have reluctantly begun the task of seeking audience with the Pride to have you reassigned to other duties more suited to your demeanor.

It felt as if all of the air were suddenly sucked from Ewan's lungs. He couldn't think, couldn't speak, all he could do was just bow his head in defeat. He wanted to scream at Garvin about how wrong he was. He wanted to tell him that his heart was truly in it, that he was destined for life as a Nomad, to somehow prove that he was ready for the next step. He wanted…but something prevented him from doing any of this. Whether it was the spirit of the ship, which he'd never been able to communicate with, or the energies of the moment, he didn't know, but nothing his mind could conceive would ever raise his head and stare into the eyes of his training chieftain. Nothing would ever open his maw and rail against this sudden closure of his life. Nothing…would save him. All Ewan could do was slump his shoulders in defeat as Garvin marched away, down the stairwell of the companionway hatch and at last disappearing below decks, leaving him forever alone in the company of a harsh, stinging wind from the direction of sunwake.

The last thing he remembered was looking at the mainsail halyard and noticing that there was some chafe by the first yard. The yard itself even looked to be worn – he could see pieces of it coming off, in fact. In his mind, he thought that he should apply some gel from the cylcafiber bush and bind it with desertweave before it got any worse – a creature of habit, always trying to please even after being informed that his cycles aboard the Spiritview had come to an end.

Then, a sound in the distance. Thunder? It was early in the changing for the torrents…

A bright flash. An incredibly loud noise – an explosion?

Then…darkness.

* * *

The heat shimmer off the dunes gave the impression of water in the distance – a trick of the eye that had led many to their doom in these barren wastes, luring them farther and farther into the uncertain expanse while the sun continued to beat upon them, sapping their reserves of strength and bringing dehydration down upon them like a curse.

Still, even in the face of certain peril, outposts were built until eventually city was linked with city across those desolate tracts. Caravans moved between them, replenishing their water supplies, taking their rest at last-light, trading, purchasing, selling, then continuing along to the next waypoint.

As the generations progressed, more sophisticated means of travel were developed. Beast-drawn wagons gave way to elevated metal rails and wheeled machines, then to hard-packed routes with individual wheeled vehicles, then to airships…but the continued encroachment of the deserts upon the world saw fewer and fewer personal travels. Close-knit communities became more autonomous and self-sufficient, all but severing trade routes in favor of increased security against the harsh elements. Once welcoming, their citizens became increasingly wary of strangers visiting from the outside, and with good reason – with the expansion of these badlands and whole cities dying beneath them, resources were spread thin. Food and water became the currency of the realm, and those who had become so desperate due to thirst and starvation turned to raiding stores from others.

It was because of this that the Nomads were formed – highly-trained crews commanding incredible wooden ships that floated upon the air and traveled between the cities to deliver news, goods, and the occasional traveler, but more importantly to stand as a protective force against the raiding parties.

Other types of ships that were more for travel or exploration flew farther, higher, some even amongst the very stars themselves, it was said, but in a world that was becoming increasingly dry and barren, some measure of security was needed. Yet, the more sophisticated the sandship and her crew, always there was a raiding party that remained one step ahead. Because of this, technological resources that would otherwise benefit the world as a whole had to be diverted to combat the ever-increasing inventiveness and capabilities of those lawless few who had become the stuff of legend, the stories told to cubs to both frighten and amaze them…the Broken ones who would just as soon slit your throat and take your canteen as to open any form of trade negotiations…or even simple dialogue.

At the heart of any of these ships was her Navigator – an individual, always female, who had the uncanny ability of expanding her mind into the very planks of the ship itself, imbuing it with a life-energy until the ship became a living thing. Encapsulated in the very heart of the ship, she shared a form of symbiosis with her life-creation…she literally was the ship, seeing in any direction with a mere thought, feeling the tension and set of the rigging, the trim of the sails, the strength and speed of the wind across her decks…it was a feeling, a state of being, unlike any other.

The ship, in turn, provided her with oxygen absorbed through the material of the sails, water taken in through the pores of the planks that was drawn from the very atmosphere itself, even basic nourishment through photosynthetic means from the rows of tightly packed living leaves that formed the fibrous ridge just below the caprail. While she still needed more conventional food, the Navigator could sustain herself within the cocoon of thought-energy, amplified and focused from a series of crystalline reflectors and refractors, for an indefinite period. In fact, tales are still told of one such Navigator who has needed neither food nor water from outside means since imbuing her ship fifteen turnings past, somewhere far off in the frostward tundra. An occasional sighting of an unknown ship in those remote regions was all that anyone needed to refuel the tales, and indeed there may be some truth to them, for not a single Navigator has suffered any ill effects other than an occasional bout of mild malnutrition while thus encapsulated within her ship.

It is understood that because of these demands upon the mind and body, only a specific type of female is ever chosen. Many turnings of intense training and discipline are needed to achieve the position of Navigator, yet even with the most careful attention to psychological patterns and rigorous mental and physical testing during interviewing procedures, most of those who are ultimately selected for the program don't succeed. Many still have been driven mad, and more than a few actually had their spirits taken from them, their minds utterly shattered with the demands they were placing upon them. Still, even with these terrible possibilities looming before the prospective applicants, the acolyte ranks were never wanting. This, after all, was the highest state of being one could ever achieve – to see, to feel, to experience the very fabric of life!

If that weren't enough, it was also a position that was of the greatest respect, for a Navigator enabled deep exploration into the deserts, the remaining oceans, the skies, even into the very darkness of space beyond. They were the ones that ensured foodstuffs were brought to distant dwellings, medical supplies to a deep-range outpost, and protection to an oasis bombarded by raiding parties.

The successful Navigator, though, didn't dwell upon any of this. She was simply there to…be. She understood the tasks, she carried them out, she served and she obeyed orders given to her by those above her in the chain of command. Yet without her, there simply was no sandship. Others could place their paws upon the planchette and guide the ship, yes, but no other could actually be the ship.

Without her, the ship simply…died.

Maya, a young Navigator with a seemingly inexhaustible mental energy, was one such individual. Her ship thrummed with life as she guided it over this dune and down into that valley. She felt the wind in her sails, she knew if something wasn't set correctly and would impress upon her crewmates to have it corrected, or eschew the currents that would otherwise bring about problems, calamities, or disastrous consequences until it could be more properly addressed.

She was the ship, yes, but more importantly, the ship itself was also her.

Up. Then steady along…another dune…higher…slower now…bank to the left, gently. Glide over…down into the valley and slow…slower…Captain, please order sails to be taken in…thank you. Slower…Captain, we are ready to approach for docking at your order. Captain? Why do you not respond…

A vibration through the hull jarred Maya into a conscious state, like suddenly awakening from a terrorsleep. Captain? Something was wrong, that much she knew. Slowly she retracted the tendrils of her thoughts from the vestigial mind of the ship and blinked her eyes back into the reality of the navigation chamber, looking about the swirling energies coalesced therein…and found herself completely alone. Something was very wrong. There should be acolytes to attend to her while she was locked into the mind of the ship, the presence of an officer, the officer's attending staff…but she was completely, utterly alone now. Naked, for the most part. Vulnerable.

Abandoned.

Every docking before had been completely routine, except for that one at the Dewcor Outpost a few cycles ago, but that was entirely due to the Broken storming the area.

The Broken…

No, there had been no indication here at Corden that anything was amiss. No Broken sightings anywhere that she had heard, and no one would even think to leave their Navigator out of the loop of information…so what was going on? Where was everyone?

She dared not remove her paw from the planchette – not this close to docking. She could feel that the sails had been taken in, so she knew that at least they were on a slow approach, as she had expected and had planned for. When last she saw through the eyes of the ship, she could see that Corden was just ahead and to the right. She could feel her shipmates moving about in their well-ordered drills, making ready for docking, but then she felt…nothing.

Confused, disoriented, Maya stilled her mind and reconnected with the spirit of the ship.

There…ahead is Corden…but I feel…pain? Have we been injured? No…not pain…loss. What has happened? Open field of view…let me see…

There it was. Behind and above, using the sun to conceal their approach…another sandship! But…something was different. Something wasn't right. This other ship was…darker. Angry. Bleak. Her crew were launching grapnels…boarding…now beginning to fire broadthorns…this was a ship driven insane!

This was a ship that was…

Broken.

No! No, I mustn't let them take us! Find our mates…where are they? Some here…some harmed…some…some have had their spirit taken. Captain? Captain…he is there…bleeding…no, we must leave now! Captain…Captain, hear me!

I hear you, Navigator…but I…I am fallen…

No! You must stand! You must fight! We are lost without you to guide us!

You guide us, Navigator. You…always have. I am…I have been…but the instrument of your…of your order. I tell the others…what must be done…

Then listen to my orders now! Tell the others! We need full sails! Higher…higher…faster…I need full sails! Speed…we need speed! Hoist the royals…please, hear me!

Forgive me…I…am lost, Navigator. My lifeblood drains upon the deck…I am…

No! No, listen! Relay the order if you can't do it yourself! Get everyone to stations!

I…cannot…I am…

Captain? Captain! No! No, please! Ship…must contact…everyone! Everyone listen! Open your minds to me …hear me…please…

* * *

Neerva paced anxiously about the warmstone floor lining the Summoned cell of the Pride cloister in Telresor Province. He was nervous, but more than that, he hated the entire concept of trying to explain empirical findings to a bunch of bureaucrats. Ultimately, if it wasn't in their best interests (or, more specifically, of the greatest advantage to those whom they worked with behind the scenes), then it was dismissed forthwith. This time, however, they couldn't ignore the findings. They were too great, too significant, too…dire.

Of course, that alone might be reason to shut him up forever.

Yes, Neerva had heard the stories, of individuals simply vanishing who would otherwise alarm the populace with tales of woe. These tales, though, weren't merely stories meant to frighten cubs. These findings, backed with toramits of data carefully encoded in cylcacrystal tubes (and several backup copies in the care of information orators in three separate citadels – he wasn't a complete idiot, after all), pointed to something that was of grave consequence both to behold…and to ignore; hence, his nervousness at being here, summoned as he was, now awaiting an escort to the chambers to stand before the Pride to present his findings.

But they weren't simply his findings. He was but one of many who had discovered what should be plain knowledge, yet had somehow had its teeth removed so that your average citizen could more easily be mollified. His, however, had been the catalyst that had brought everything to a startling, horrifying truth: the world was in peril, and there wasn't anything they could do to stop it.

Neerva considered that this information had already filtered out in some way, which is why, in just his generation alone, the world had gone from the heavily advanced skyships to now even having launched extra-planetary starward ships. Initially, he had accepted the possibility that this was simple coincidence given the advances in inter-spiritual communication, except that he had then learned that the starward ships weren't themselves alive, at least not in the same way as with the skyships or sandships, so with what were the Navigators communicating? It was then that he suspected that some measure of what he as about to present may well already be known, and that this was but one response to it. How much was known, he didn't know, nor how well the Pride would take his presentation, or what would befall him thereafter. He would either become the example, the exception, or the forgotten. None really suited him in the slightest.

Specifically, what he worried about now was whether the Pride would consider his findings to be harmful for the rest of the world to hear. This, more than anything else, is why he entrusted his backup copies to the information orators. He only hoped no harm would befall them while he awaited summons to the chambers of the Pride…and so he continued to pace about the warmstone, forming in his mind what he would say, how he would say it, and hoping beyond hope that this group of bureaucrats would actually listen to reason and, for once in all his many turnings of working within the political spectrum and seeing what truly transpired behind the scenes, actually do something that would benefit the whole of the populace instead of furthering the agendas of whatever group was seeking power at the time.

Stopping in his pacing, he glanced at the looking glass on the wall and saw that his face was ashen, the sheen of his fur was dull, he was panting and his nose was quite dry and pink. This didn't bode well.

* * *

The past few turnings' harvests had been good. The mekla had really taken root and produced more than Toval had ever expected in the dry, grainy soil that had been slowly overtaking her denkeep's holdings since her Great had been her age. This past turning, though, the mekla seemed sparse, sickly, stunted, and Toval couldn't figure out why.

She had expanded the irrigation channels and installed dew collectors along the entire perimeter, ensured that the manure heaps gathered from the four tawnor bulls she raised were turned regularly to ensure proper composting prior to being spread across the new seedlings, and she even brought in the hive-keepers