Third Soul

By Joseph Van Buskirk

A world on edge. A community in the shadows. A young man, torn between communal obligation and a yearning to cut ties from his home. Yet what is freedom in a broken world, fragmented by war, poisoned by hatred?

Dorai's interactions with his reptilian neighbors have made him an outcast in the Steeps. His desire-cut ties with his

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joseph Van Buskirk
• Release date: Jul 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9780578941769

Joseph Van Buskirk

Joseph Van Buskirk makes his fictional debut. He lives in the American Midwest.

Book preview

Prologue

Year of the New Cycle: Five-Hundred and Five

The words . Once they’d come, they’d come. He pressed his foot against the sand, wanting to fall through the earth. Over a thousand of his people lined along seating area of the rock cavern. Waiting. Dorai swallowed. The words did not come.

Just say it. Just get it over with.

There were no sounds. Nothing. Like still rain on rock. Everyone was there. His people. The old, the young. The hunters, the pickers. All castes.

If only wings could sprout from his back, like the beasts who flew above the dunes beyond the mountains. If only he wasn’t anchored to this earth. If only.

His father’s voice in his ear, Dorai, what are you doing? Dorai felt his hand on his shoulder. All the clans were watching.

Dorai moved away from his father’s grasp. Nerves bubbled in his stomach. He took another step. The desert wind struck his face. He took a step up the stone ledge. Dorai now stood, truly, by himself in front of the people. Thousands of pairs of eyes stared down at him. Children, fathers, mothers. The desert people. His people in tattered cloaks. Waiting.

Again Dorai tried to will wings to burst from his back, yet his imagination was a weak force against the world. Dorai had only one choice. He had to gather the poem he’d memorized over the last five months. A hush came over the cavern. His tongue formed the sounds. His vocal cords released from constriction. He stared at the moons above the skyline. The twilight of the desert. The dust winds of red beyond.

Now, he was ready.

His cracked, thirteen-cycle voice made its way through the cavern. Out came the words of the Farthlain, from the time before. Words repeated to him time and time again.

And so it begins

And so our ties will bind

Until the Great Hand falls

As long as the Steeps rest on sand.

He remembered the exact fashion his teacher told him. In a poetic trance, his mind went blank. Seconds passed. Then words came. The poetry to remember. How many hours had he studied? He stood before them now. He breathed. He finished. He muttered the concluding words. His voice broke on the last stanza:

The wars are fought

Till the end they are

The flying ones dead

Our people liberated.

He finished. The horrible silence was over. The cauldron in Dorai’s stomach was gone.

Thus, ended Dorai’s first ranale.

His father pressed his hand against Dorai’s back. They moved along to a shaded enclave on the floor the cavern, away from the view of the people. Were those thousands of eyes of every clan with parched lips and tattered cloaks still staring at him?

Dorai swallowed. His performance was shameful to his clan. To Menchalin Steep.

He heard steps behind him. Dorai turned. A hooded ancient figure faced Dorai. Tall. Frail. Leaning on a staff. Dorai moved forward.

Teller Maz.

The old one peeled back his hood, revealing a bald skeletal face. Despite his withered look, the Teller still had the stereotypical features of a Salwynn. Delicate face, pointed ears, red skin. He walked forward.

I’m sorry, Dorai’s voice broke.

"It is your first time. It happens to all young olaam. "

Dorai wasn’t so sure. The ranale was meant to show who in the future was to lead. It was to introduce, publicly, the line of succession. It didn’t go well.

These people, the Teller waved his hand to the crowd. Will forget about what happened in seconds.

I hope so.

"I know so. His smile suddenly collapsed. The ancient Teller’s hand touched Dorai’s shoulder. I have a message. Go home after the festival."

Why?

It’s your mother.

Dorai moved to leave, but the old Teller’s grip was still strong. He didn’t expect such fragile bones and muscles could produce such power.

"After the festival, Dorai."

**

Dorai ran past the visaak, past the hordes of sweaty bodies, screaming men, babies. Laughter reigned. Hands accidently swatting his back, his chest. He put his hood over so nobody recognized him.

Finally, he saw the craggy, small multi-caved rock home. Rock-caves, where one could light fires, and the rock roofs absorbed the smoke. Gems in the desert they called them. Teller Maz’s passage even used that phrase. Walking up to the entrance of Menchalin Steep he always thought of that. Gems in the desert. Our gems of protection.

He entered the inner mountain into the torch-lit passageway. The smell of sweat, incense, salted lizard meat, and akori plant filled the inner Steep.

Because of the Festival none were there. That was, with the exception of the torch-bearers. These were normally the lame who did not want to fast nor hike up the mountain pass leading to the Great Bowl. Dorai ran up to one with a stumped leg. He was replacing a torch on a wall.

His mother’s room was lit. Dorai walked in.

His mom struggled in the cot. Slowly, she stood up. Etched on each of her shoulder blades were tattoos. They were symbols of her nomadic bloodline. Two spears with a drop of blood hitting a half-moon. The sign of the Jiasson. The people of the Steeps called her sand roach. All behind their family’s back, of course. Even his own clan talked about her like that. Not in front of Dorai’s face, obviously. But they did.

She touched a piece of cloth to her lips. She held it there for some time. When she released it, it was full of blood.

Sheena, Dorai’s little sister, poured his mother a cup of tea. Dorai’s mother lifted the mug up, put it to her lips.

Did the Teller send for you? his mother asked.

Yes.

Her thin lips parted in a grin. Be careful of that one. Her eyes drifted off toward the cave wall, which was a colored mural from the ancient days. It showed figures walking in a row toward the eight mountain formations. Obviously the Steeps. They walked away from a larger mountain with green foliage around it. In ancient Salwynn these were known as trees.

You tell me you weren’t feeling well?

I didn’t want to distract you, she said. But I want to have a look at you.

The night before he heard her lungs wheeze. She brutally coughed all night. Two nights before the cloth was completely soaked in blood. Not so now.

From behind them Dorai heard the flap. It shuttered back and forth. At the moment, the tableau between mother and son ended. Dorai’s mother rolled the parchment up and placed it under her cot. She tightened her belt around her wool dress and cloak. She grabbed the bowl of tea on the stone table, and put it quickly to her lips. Her hands dexterously wrapped her silver hair back. She tied her hair back in a sai braid. Three knots. Beside the tea bowl there was a cup of water. She dabbed her fingers on the water and spread them over her face. She was once again herself.

I just wanted to see you after the ranale, she said. That’s it.

Dorai’s sister who had been standing behind their mother took a step forward. She didn’t say a word but simply motioned Dorai outside their parent’s eesk. Brother and sister crouched outside the mountain hallway, the torches flickering. The shadows of flame reflected in his young sister’s cheeks and face, transforming her childlike visage into a form of mysterious authority.

How sick is she? Dorai asked.

Better than last night.

She is getting well?

I don’t know.

She is getting well, though?

Sheena crossed her arms over her chest. They both listened if their mother was coughing in the other room. Silence. Her breathing was normal for now. They hoped.

**

Two days later. It was the Night Pick. The symbolic harvesting that all the clans took part in. Over two-thousand souls covered the desert plain looking for akori fruit. During a real pick the Salwynn moved to the farthest stretches of the desert. East and south of the Steeps. These were allotted by clan. Each had their own corridor of desert to scout.

Dorai went with his father toward the northern area of the visaak. They walked until they reached the desert reaches. Behind them were the two hundred and fourteen clan people belonging to Menchalin Steep. Each wore their lizard skin pelt on their chest. This was the symbol of their clan. Behind them lines and lines of men, women, children. First was Timorai, Dorai’s father. All the rest lined up in back of them. Dorai’s father was unusually silent. He held his cloak tight around his body. The wind whipped. It was a cold wind, which was strange for so late during the spring season. Red dust filtered upward.

Dorai hadn’t talked to his father since the ranale. They kept walking. Behind them was the ulada, the elite hunter and his children, and then the olaama-ra, the elite picker and his children. The second row were the hunters. And then behind them were the akori pickers.

Timorai said Dorai’s mother was sleeping. His father’s eyes were sunken. When he walked his lips moved. He looked to be talking to himself. When Dorai asked his father what was wrong, Timorai simply shook his head.

Finally, they entered the area of the plains. What was the point of the Night Pick during the second day of the festival? His father said it was a way to solidify the Salwynn people. All the clans, although divided, were one.

But the effect was the complete opposite. All Dorai wanted was to get away. He felt weak. He knew these clans, especially Safall (which stood almost directly in front of them) could demolish Menchalin Steep (their own). Dorai swallowed. Yes, the real point of this was to show what clan was truly in charge. The Night Pick showed who truly had power.

Dorai and his father moved silently. All the clans, initially, walked amongst their own. Ahead, they saw a Salwynn hedge, the gnarled cactus that usually contained akori fruit.

Father tapped Dorai on the shoulder. Go.

Dorai watched as their fingers clumsily attempted to peel the shell of the fruit that lay within the barbs of the desert bush. Slender hands weaving from the cacti needles to pluck the fruit.

He was on his third peel when there was a yell.

Dorai hadn’t a clue how it happened, but suddenly he saw Teller Maz. He was talking to his father.

His father was clutching on the Teller’s robes.

There was no commotion. Actually, the vast majority of the people didn’t notice them. More pained whispers came from his father. Teller Maz’s hand touched the clan leader, trying to comfort him. Dorai’s father turned toward his son. Their eyes locked. His mother was not getting better.

Another gust of wind came. More people were watching them now. Teller Maz stood on the side, shaking his head. His lips moved. He was trying to think of the words. The proper whisper. But there was nothing. Timorai looked like he was going to say sorry to his son. He stopped short. The sun was coming down from the mountains. His sister cried. His sister was soon in his arms. Her warm tears on his chest. Dorai looked up at the sky and the brutal sun. The orange sky. The twin moons above. The crowd was silent.

**

They climbed to the fifth level. They opened the flap to his mother and father’s eesk. On the cot, lay the body of Dorai’s mother. Reva daughter of Shel of the Jiassan. Your soul. Your soul. Your soul. Dorai clutched her hands. He wanted to clutch them so tight they’d bleed. Bleed something.

They carried her body through the red sand dunes. For the first time in his life, Dorai heard the songs of his mother’s people. The Jiassan song of the dead. Teller Maz, to his credit, knew the words.

**

Two hours later, Dorai sat by himself. He was on top of the Steep, looking down at the vast expanse of sand. The wind cut the moisture on his cheeks. Dorai peered forward for a long while, focusing on the areas hundreds of yards away where her body was buried. The sand was beginning to fill over it. The whole point of the burial was to leave the body in the sand and the ground, as to limit the distinctiveness of every Salwynn. But Dorai didn’t want to do this. No, no. He kept staring at the patch of dust, which lay beyond a large arrow-shaped rock. He stayed out there for a long while. Finally, in the evening his father said he had to leave. It was time for him to sleep.

Mother was gone.

Part I: Dorai Lone Bug

Exactly six cycles later

Chapter 1

The sand burned Dorai’s toes. The cry of music, low then high then silence. Walking. Always walking. Always upward toward the cavern where soon thousands would gather.

Every cycle the same tedium. Gather to the end of the pass. Walk down to the cavern. Say the ranale. Listen to the Teller’s speech. He’d learned to endure it. Somehow.

In the last five cycles his recitation of the ranale improved. Teller Maz made sure of that. But perfection in song did not create love. The opposite, in fact. The better he got at singing, the less he saw the point.

Nothing changed for him. Inside, he was still Lone Bug. Now, it was time to make a statement. Things were planned for this day.

He was at the ledge. In a few hours children and parents exhausted from the walk would come up the hill. They’d traversed the thin trail of rocks and dust. All the castes. Young and old. Ancients with staffs. Hunters with spears. Infants. Mothers. Always mothers with tired looks.

Dorai kept walking. He pulled up at the peak of the vertical slope toward the cavern’s edge. People were there. Their shoulders rubbed against his. Rugs blanketed the ledge where onlookers could sit and avoid getting scalded by sand.

Dorai continued to walk into the part of the rock auditorium. He went to the area where the two-hundred of Menchalin Steep were to sit. In hours the festival would begin.

Just talk to Sister, then leave.

A few hours ago she’d asked where he was going. Whether he was going to visit them. His creatures.

Where was she now? That little gettle beetle. He felt uncomfortable. It wasn’t the usual stomach sick feeling of saying the ranale. No. It was the reality of what he was about to do.

He thought back to the misery of the last six cycles. The duties. The speeches. The stupidity. Against his will. Against his freedom.

Perhaps he shouldn’t complain. Others had it worse. He should be happy to be born to privilege.

It was against his very nature to do these things. The things his father said he must do.

Sever it all. Leave it all behind. Yes.

The drumbeats continued to play. In two hours this area would be filled with sweating, fasting, bodies. Beyond were just red dunes. The beginning of the setting sun.

Sheena! he yelled. Sheena! Sheena!

All the way to the left side of the ledge of the cavern, she stood. She wore a formal lauriel gown (as did all unmarried Salwynn girls during the festivals). Embroidered along the sleeves were designs depicting rivers and trees and other now-forgotten foliage. The meticulously handcrafted designs were purposely constructed to elicit nostalgic visions of their ancient homeland—that land the Salwynn departed long ago.

It was Dorai’s mother’s lauriel. Since mother’s death, Sheena and Timorai had grown closer—not so with Dorai. Perhaps this was the way between daughters and fathers. Sheena and Dorai never spoke of their mother’s death. That secret burial.

Yet daughter and mother resembled each other. Especially with the lauriel gown. When light glinted on Sheena’s form she could be mistaken, briefly, for Dorai’s mother.

Sheena simply nodded to Dorai. Brother and sister walked to the ledge together. Light orange streaks painted the dunes and flowed downward into the cavern. Eight clan leaders sat on their stone thrones. Robed Tellers whispered in their ears, making sure each clan leader knew their lines, their unique responsibility in the ceremony. Rival olaam congregated in a cliquish circle talking of hunts, akori picks, political machinations, and gossip of successions.

"It’s always the same with them, isn’t it?" Dorai looked down at the congregants.

Sheena watched silently for a moment. I guess you can say that.

You guess?

Sheena’s golden eyes focused below. One of the Tellers, a young apprentice of Teller Maz, waved at Dorai. He motioned for him to walk down to the auditorium.

They want you now, Sheena said.

Rehearsals were to begin. Once again that horrible nausea.

It was time to deliver the message to his sister. It was time for a clean break. Dorai was not one of them. His heartbeat quickened. He’d rehearsed this moment—the sentence structure, his intonation, the dramatic pauses.

I’m not going to say the ranale, Sheena.

He swallowed again. What was wrong with him?

Breathe, Dorai. Breathe. Just say it.

I’m not going to say the ranale, Sheena.

What?

I want you to say the ranale for me.

His sister’s mouth hung open for a few seconds as she processed his words. She backed away from Dorai and made her way to the ledge. Turning away, she stared down at the cavern. Her eyes did not meet his. That same young Teller was still motioning for Dorai.

She crossed her arms. Dorai cleared his throat. Despite the growing noise of the crowd, he could hear that breath, that destructive tightening of her lips, that quiet explosion. Her emotions fulminated and grew as she got ready to torch Dorai in an inferno of cursing. Somehow she controlled it. Good for Sheena. Neither wanted to make a scene.

I don’t know the words, Dorai, she said between her teeth. Her eyes gave the impression she wanted to dismember Dorai right there.

Luckily, I wrote it down for you, Dorai handed her a hand-written piece scroll of the passages of the Farthlain which would need to be sung.

Sheena didn’t even take Dorai’s scroll. She crossed her arms. This is insane.

It is not.

You’re joking.

I am not.

This has never been done. You’ve rehearsed this with Teller Maz for cycles.

I know.

Why then?

I have other concerns.

And what would those be?

You will learn.

Her hands tightened around her arms. She squeezed hard. It took every ounce of her control not to scream at Dorai. Her breath grew louder. The moisture in her eyes grew. She was going to cry or yell or scream. But nothing came. I don’t know what to say.

Do it.

No. Not unless you tell me why?

Dorai knew it would come to this. Might as well tell her. He considered the words. There were two things at work here. The real reason and what he was to tell her. I have an engagement I can’t miss.

With one of your reptiles?

The proper term is Dravaal.

"Flying ones. Reptiles. Dravaal. Does it matter?

Technically, yes, if you ever met one.

You’ll humiliate Father.

Please.

And the clan …?

The stars with the clan.

And the Steeps?

The same.

All for the flying ones?

Dravaal, Sister. That’s their name, Dravaal. They are the only languaged being, the only inklin besides us in the desert—the only one above ground anyway. You should at least know their name. Don’t be so ignorant. Don’t be so dull. You will say the ranale and nobody will care. They will despise me as they always have. What of it?

More than you know.

I know of much.

People talk.

Let them talk.

Resting on a pillar, she stared out onto the stone thrones below. All the clan leaders, including their father, Timorai, periodically glanced at his daughter and son. They were expecting Dorai. Their father had no clue his daughter and son were discussing his son’s abnegation.

Sheena was silent as she clutched the rock ledge hard, her fingers going white. Why did such loyalty reside in her? Why did she have such love for her clan, Menchalin Steep? What was missing in Dorai? What was wrong with him that she should have this heart and not him?

Watching Sheena, he pictured the women of his family in cycles past. Summers gone by. The females of Menchalin Steep—Grandmother, Mother, now Sheena. The great line of female succession. The voices in Dorai’s head urging him, loving him. Pulling him in directions. For some reason he thought of his grandmother. How long had it been since he considered her? She’d reigned over the eesk with a cruel grace. His grandmother was a quiet figure of slit-eyed gazes that sparked horror in children, men, everyone. But the majority of her venom was always directed at Dorai’s mother. She never said more than a sentence a cycle to her. And hated Timorai afterwards. Nothing would have made Dorai’s grandmother happier than to outlive the Jiasson scum. Thankfully, his grandmother was dead now. Unfortunately, the Great Hand took his mother. The stars had a sense of irony.

I want to know why.

Why what?

What do you hate your people so much? Your clan?

You wouldn’t understand.

Is it, Mother?

I have my reasons.

I lost her too, Dorai. She stared at the patchwork scroll Dorai held in front of her. I don’t understand you.

Dorai’s voice broke, despite himself. Still, he held the piece of paper forcefully in front of her. Do it. For me.

Finally her hand grasped the scroll. Tight. She moved toward her body. I have no idea what to do.

Read it. You will do fine.

I don’t understand.

A few seconds passed. Sheena’s eyes breezed down at the writing. Her lips moved. Her mind was somewhere else. Too much was happening. They yelled for Dorai again. Sister and brother stood still.

Finally, she spoke. I could call Father now. I could call them all now and they will prevent you from visiting your flying ones. Do you really think you can show your face again after this?

No, I will not show my face after this. That is the point. I am escaping, Sheena. But that is for me to know. And not you. Not yet anyway.

She glared at her brother. How truly wicked was her brother? Not only would this act make the Steeps hate him, but also her. Dorai was about to whisper another word, but he couldn’t.

Hold, Dorai. Hold. This is all for the best.

No, she said. I won’t do it.

Then I’ll see the Dravaal anyway. You don’t have a choice.

You’re disgusting.

Those words. All Dorai could say was, My friend is waiting for me.

Silak?

That is his name, yes.

They stood there on the edge of the plateau, listening to more music from the sules. More drums. The blood-sun was coming down, painting the Great Bowl in light.

Sheena glared at Dorai. You are a selfish one, Dorai Lone Bug. We tire of carrying your weight.

Yet we are both of the same blood.

Of the same blood. Sure.

You’ll do it?

Sheena’s eyes shifted down, and she shook her head and bit her lip. Finally, she spat on Dorai’s feet then stomped away from the ledge.

Dorai watched her walk downstairs where the other clan leaders awaited. No doubt, in seconds they would look for Dorai. Especially father. There was no time to lose.

The first step in Dorai’s escape was completed. It was now time for the second.

As Dorai ran down the staircase that’d led out of the Great Bowl, he tried to not think of his little sister’s words, the spitting on Dorai’s feet.

Move forward, he told himself. Move forward.

Chapter 2

Someday she’d understand him. Someday. That’s what kept him from turning back. He had to move fast, otherwise Father would send out hunters to catch him. The next hour was critical. He had to run to the rendezvous with Silak. The trap had been sprung. The plan set. Behind him, Dorai knew chaos occurred. His father most likely was yelling right now, screaming at Sheena for going along with the plan. In the end this was for the best.

But what if that wasn’t true? No, no. This was the only honest way to live. What was the point of being someone he didn’t want to be?

He should’ve left all that behind. The guilt residing in the bones and the blood, pulling him back. It was only a feeling. A small streak. A grain of sand. A drop of water. Something that dissipated and died, like all things. What mattered in the end? One thing and one thing only: to move, to move forward, to move honestly.

He walked along the desert trail leading to the hill in the outskirts, the meeting place, the place he always met the flying ones.

Forward. Sand between toes, feet forward. Blue moonlight reflecting on the path ahead of him. Dusk.

Dorai stepped forward on the last rock pathway leading to the plateau. He reached the top of the cliff where he walked toward a boulder lodged right into the earth. Silak’s favorite place to land. He waited.

Leaning against the rock, he stared at his home, the Steeps—those eight mountain formations illuminated by fire, festival, and smoke. Music emanated from them, but Dorai breathed easily. His heart didn’t long for that. Maybe Sheena was right. Maybe he had no heart. He left his sister to recite the ranale for him, to pick up the pieces.

Stop it, Dorai. Stop it. Soon this will all be memory. Dust.

Dorai closed his eyes. He wished for some yarburan wine. Anything to calm his mind. He wished his childhood friends Simi and Shara were here. They were gone. Nothing turned out the way he thought. Simi at the end of the desert, half-mad. That genius, now a recluse. And Shara. That was too painful to even think about. For all practical purposes, departed. He was now at the age where it was like that. Everyone had to become something they shouldn’t be.

It was wickedly unavoidable. Roads, twisted paths—some paved, some not. Decisions, decisions. In the stars with decisions. It was better to drink and talk with friends than make decisions. Burn them out. Throw them away. He wanted to make his own, something not already cut out and planned for him. That was the point, was it not?

Dorai opened his eyes wider and he saw it. In the moonlight-ridden night, he saw it.

Those wings. The way they flapped. Those lines of green attached to the top of the figure’s back, moving back and forth.

The flying one.

The Dravaal.

In ancient times, seeing a Dravaal this close would’ve meant death (most likely in this case for Dorai). During the initial Salwynn settlement of the desert lands, the flying ones murdered the Salwynn by the thousands. But not today. That was the past, the leftover stories spun by the Tellers. The great recitations of the Farthlain. Stories of death, mayhem, Salwynn heroism, Dravaal perfidy, treacherous bloodlust. History, yes, but not the forgotten kind.

How different this was when he first saw the flying ones so long ago. Back then, he saw them hundreds of yards away, they were in flocks passing through the moonlit nights. Since then he’d made contact. It was little at first, but then slowly, one of them spoke to him. Silak. And that was how his first relationship with the Dravaal began. A real relationship. One-on-one. Not just staring from the background. Never in his wildest dreams he did think that would be possible. Yet it was. It was the one major accomplishment that was purely Dorai’s. There was no blood inheritance.

Odd that Dorai was the one to do this? Perhaps fear was the reason that Salwynn and Dravaal rarely spoke.

It truly was amazing. Here was an inklin, a languaged being who could fly, who’d seen things beyond what any Salwynn could fathom. Dorai’s heart raced. What feeling besides awe? Those wings were not just wings. No, no. They traversed the night wind. They moved forward. They frayed the nerves. It was life and death flying at him. He felt as a child once more, the boy stealing glances at flying ones from top of caverns.

And there he was. Silak. It was still odd to put a name to it. To Salwynn, it was known only as a legend. One contained within passages of historical text and the songs of Tellers, populating the dark imaginings of children. Stories woven line by line. Silak. Who knew what his real name was. Most Dravaal names were unpronounceable. No doubt the name designation Silak was meant Dorai’s consumption.

Though it was still just a dot in the distance, he could see the outlines of the wings flapping. He imagined what it was like cycles ago when hundreds flew at once, blades on wings, ready to swoop down and kill their victims. The merchant race. The flying race. Dravaal. Those who used to murder Salwynn in cycles past.

Through the skies they fly

Daggers on wings

They cut through the red dawn

At us.

Silak flew closer until finally its legs stretched downward, the clawed nails grasping toward the boulder. When he was younger he only could see their forms from far-off. More abstractions that real. He knew they had a head, waist, chest, legs, arms, scales, eyes of green, and a reptilian snout. But up close. That was something different. The fantasy became real. The smell. They were truly living beings like them. With hearts, organs. Thoughts.

Silak landed on the giant boulder, arching his wings far apart before closing them. Kalim-il-sort-aar. The Dravaal climbed down the boulder, his claws scraping against the rock until he reached the desert floor with a decided thump and a burst of dust. The flying one crouched for a few seconds before standing up only inches from Dorai. The Dravaal’s great chest heaved up