The storm beneath the wo.., p.1
The Storm Beneath the World, page 1
THE STORM BENEATH
THE WORLD
CHILDREN OF CORRUPTION #1
Other Books by Michael R. Fletcher
Black Stone Heart (The Obsidian Path #1)
She Dreams in Blood (The Obsidian Path #2)
An End to Sorrow (The Obsidian Path #3)
Beyond Redemption (Manifest Delusions #1)
The Mirror’s Truth (Manifest Delusions #2)
A War to End All (Manifest Delusions #3 w/ Clayton W. Snyder)
Smoke and Stone (City of Sacrifice #1)
Ash and Bones (City of Sacrifice #2)
Sin and Sorrow (City of Sacrifice #3)
Swarm and Steel (Manifest Delusions Standalone)
Norylska Groans (w/ Clayton W. Snyder)
Ghosts of Tomorrow
In the Shadow of Their Dying (w/ Anna Smith Spark)
The Millennial Manifesto
A Collection of Obsessions
Coming Soon…
The River of Days (Children of Corruption #2)
Descent to Azakmar (The Driftland Dragons #1)
Dust of the Dead (A Novel of the Listening World)
This is a work of fiction. Like, duh. Names, characters, weird insect people, business, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s demented imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is mostly coincidental. Except for the bugs living on sentient floating islands in the upper atmosphere of a gas giant. That happened.
Copyright © 2024 by Michael R. Fletcher
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, eaten, smoked, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, semaphore, smoke signal, mime, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher (who is unstable at the best of times and let’s be real, these ain’t them), except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews (hopefully not too critical) and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
For Carrie Chi Lough, First Reader.
AHK TAY KYM
Blessed is she who never discovers her talent.
—The Redemption
Shadow blanketed the family estate, robbing the world of colour. Leaning back on her four hind legs, Ahk watched the majestic skerry descend, graceful despite its size. Mother said this one had several structures mounted on the arch of its back with room enough for twenty ashkaro. The silhouetted creature, all writhing tentacles from this angle, grew in detail as it reached the landing dock. A questing limb ending in a jagged maw reminiscent of those carnivorous plants in the wilder jungles, found one of the mooring pylons. Barbed spikes caught in wood and the skerry tilted as it pulled itself toward the dock. On the far side, another arm found the opposing pylon, righting the massive beast.
Ahk gasped in wonder. It’s beautiful!
Infatuated with the play of light and the infinite hues of the world, she studied the skerry’s shimmering carapace. A thousand shades of yellow and gold glowed lustrous, its underbelly darkening to something not far from the green of her own exoskeleton. Where the skerry’s translucent shell ended, the remaining tentacles swayed in the morning breeze. The balloon creature hung suspended in the air as if by magic, losing altitude with maddening patience. Out of Ahk’s sight, somewhere on its back, a crew guided the creature toward the Kym family landing pad.
It was rare to see skerry here, the platform more commonly a roost for the flitting tramea the family used to deliver messages. She loved watching the riders bring the vicious four-winged predators toward the dock in a mad, plummeting spiral as if tumbling out of control, only slowing their descent at the last possible moment. They’d dismount like heroes from the stories, dip a respectful nod to Ahk even though she was a child, and rush to report to Mother. Father said they were showing off, that such aerial acrobatics were dangerous and unnecessary. Mother said males couldn’t understand such things. Ahk suspected both were right, but it was still a beautiful sight.
More of the skerry’s tentacles reached for pylons with serpentine elegance. Finding purchase, they coiled tight like they meant to crush the towering poles or tear them from the ground. Once anchored, the massive beast pulled itself down until it hovered a few strides above the landing pad. Born in the endless skies, such creatures never truly landed. Family staff dashed forward pushing a wheeled staircase until it connected with the skerry’s side. It all looked horribly precarious, the wooden structure wavering until the crew riding in the gondola mounted on the creature’s back attached it there.
Grandmother Kym owned several skerry and a fleet of nimble tramea for flying patrols over the family’s more leeward farms, but this was the largest Ahk had ever seen. She rode in one once when Mother took her to the capital to be introduced to the extended family. As the firstborn female and heir to the Kym family holdings, it was important everyone get a chance to meet her. That was ages ago, and Ahk couldn’t remember much beyond how disappointed she’d been that they wouldn’t let her out of the gondola. She’d wanted to look over the edge of the skerry’s carapace and see the world below.
“It’ll be like seeing what the gods see,” she’d explained to Mother, only to be hushed and receive yet another confusing lesson about blasphemy.
She’d been a small child then, empty of responsibilities, with nothing more important than playing with her friends. Now, the grownups kept using words like ‘young adult’ and talking about how she needed to learn to accept responsibility without actually giving her any. Even the children of the household staff, most of them dulls or lower ranked brights, had more responsibility than Ahk. Bon, a dull boy her age, oversaw weeding her mother’s sprawling flower gardens. When Ahk complained, Mother said, ‘Ahk Tay Kym, that is dull work and beneath you.’ Ahk argued that dull work was better than no work and Mother gave her a list of chores so unimportant they weren’t even assigned to the staff.
After that, she snuck out each morning after her lessons to help Bon weed. It was nice working in the rich soil, brilliant flowers filling her thoughts with a peaceful hum of pleasure. At least until Father caught her and turned Ahk over to Mother. Annoyed, the Kym matriarch declared Ahk ready for weapons training even though she was a year shy of the standard age. Knowing it was purest bribery changed nothing. While Ahk glowed with pride at the opportunity, that feeling paled in comparison to watching the play of light change how various flowers looked.
“Ahk Tay Kym,” said Bon, approaching from behind.
His carapace a muted brown with undertones of earthy orange, he stood a full head taller than Ahk. When they were out of antennae range of others, he called her by her first name, as she instructed. Where others might overhear, he was careful to use her full name.
“Bon,” she said, tipping an antenna toward him in greeting.
His craft arms crossed over his chest, his raptorial arms hung loose, a dirt-caked shovel in one raptorial claw.
Antennae bent respectfully away, so as to display no untoward interest, Bon offered a slight bow.
As children, they’d been best friends. Now, each meeting felt more awkward than the last. Where she was being groomed for great things—serving with the Queen’s Wing and eventually taking Mother’s place as matriarch of the family—Bon would never be more than a gardener. Much as she hated to admit it, perhaps her mother was right: Brights and dulls could never be friends.
“You won’t get in trouble for leaving the field?’ Ahk asked, scanning the gathered ashkaro for Mother.
Bon’s upper wings gave a casual flick. If he got caught neglecting his duties again, there’d be trouble.
Not sure what to say, Ahk said, “Come to see us off?”
“Only you.”
Previously, she’d seen his every emotion in the twitch and wave of his antennae. She still caught hints of what was going on inside the boy, but he was becoming increasingly difficult to read. For the most part, he rarely showed anything more than polite deference.
A few months back Ahk made the mistake of trying to talk to her mother about it. Mother said Bon was ‘old family dull’ and knew his place. Frustratingly vague, as always. Of course, she would never say such a thing beyond the walls of her home. In public, everyone was equal, and, dull or bright, the colour of one’s carapace didn’t matter. She funded scholarships for gifted dulls too poor to attend the better schools. She gave speeches at the local university applauding the dull students of whom she was a patron, promising them positions within the family business should they graduate with sufficiently high grades.
In private, Mother bemoaned the inability of even the smartest dull to follow the simplest order.
“We’ll be back in two weeks,” Ahk said to fill the awkward silence.
“Then I look forward to a very quiet couple of weeks,” Bon answered, antennae showing a hint of humour. “Mot said you were going to the edge of the world.”
“Dull stupidity,” she grumbled, feeling bad when Bon looked hurt. “Sorry. Look, the Nysh Queendom isn’t the world. The islands are like that skerry,” she explained, gesturing toward the floating creature, “but so much bigger it’s impossible to imagine. We ashkaro live on their backs, forever travelling the river of days.”
She’d read stories of islands populated by the banished Corrupt and marauding pirates. There were savage, feral islands where ashkaro had reverted to their hive roots and the queen ruled over mindless drones, warriors, and w orkers. It was too big for even a bright to truly understand. What chance did an uneducated dull have?
“The cottage is near the edge of the island,” Ahk added. “Mother promised we’d go see it.”
Bon’s wings shivered in excitement. “You’ll get to see Kratosh, the storm beneath the world,” he said, voice soft. Darting a quick look to make sure no one had noticed them talking, he added, “Will you tell me about it when you get back?” An antenna bent toward her and then flicked guiltily back into place.
“I will.”
“You’re very good at describing things,” he said. “I like to close my eyes and lose myself in your words. The colours. Every subtle shading. It’s like I’m there. Like you somehow transport me.” One main eye glanced in her direction before again focussing on the skerry. “It’s how I’ll get to be there with you.”
“I’ll tell you every detail,” Ahk promised.
Mother won’t like that.
The older Ahk got, the more Mother disapproved of her spending time with the dull boy. Or any of the one-name dull staff, for that matter. Ahk’s little sister, Rayt, spent most of her time playing with a dull girl the same age and no one cared, but if Ahk spent more than a moment chatting with Bon, her mother appeared as if by magic and assigned them both chores. Usually on opposite sides of the estate.
Bon’s antennae twitched, suddenly betraying nervous energy.
“What?” she demanded. “Spit it out.”
Reaching into the front pocket of his earth-stained smock with a craft claw, he withdrew a wooden figurine. He kept it hidden from sight.
“What is that?” she asked. “Did you make it?”
He nodded.
“Show me.”
They might be friends, but Bon was a dull fieldclaw and Ahk was heir to the Kym family business. He couldn’t help but obey. Bon lifted his claw, opening it to display the figurine. Plucking it from his grip, she leaned forward, squinting to take in the exquisite detail. Carved and painted, it depicted a bright female. The veins in the upper wings were meticulously captured. The antennae, whisps of thin wood that looked like they’d snap if she breathed on them, expressed exuberant humour. Its carapace, painted a thousand shimmering hues of green, glowed with lustrous health. Breathtaking, it somehow captured the sleek deadliness of an ashkaro female in mid-hunt.
“It’s beautiful,” she gasped, and both sets of Bon’s wings folded tight to his back. “It’s…” Enthralled by the interplay of light and colour, she recognized that green. “It’s me?”
Except eight times more beautiful and perfect than she could ever be.
This was a totem of worship, a creation of incredible skill and dedication.
Fear thrummed through Ahk. “Where did you find it?”
“I made it.”
She’d already known that was the case yet prayed otherwise.
“Ahk Tay Kym,” her mother bellowed from the front porch of the main house. The use of her full name spelled trouble. “Get back in here and finish packing this instant!”
“Tell no one,” Ahk whispered, jamming the figurine into the front pocket of her smock. She cringed, feeling one of the delicate antennas snap off in protest at the harsh treatment, and saw Bon’s grimace of pain. “Tell no one.”
Then she fled. Mind racing, trying to fit this into her boring world where nothing ever happened, she dashed past her mother, heading for her rooms. Mother said something that she didn’t hear.
Bon is a Corrupt.
Only someone cursed could make something so perfect and beautiful.
The dull discovered his talent and, instead of reporting it to the church so he could get the help he needed, he hid it. Until now. Until Ahk was leaving. Judging from the craftsmanship, he’d been practicing for some time. Was this why he’d become so sloppy in completing his chores? How far lost was he? Without guidance from the Redemption, he’d fall to the lure of his talent, and spend more and more time practicing until the addiction took him. Unable to care for himself, he’d carve ever more detailed and exquisite works of art until he starved to death.
Small clues, ignored for not being part of something she recognized, suddenly painted a terrible picture. Lately, he’d been dirtier than she remembered. As a fieldclaw, he’d always worked in the soil and so she hadn’t paid attention. In the past months, his already dull carapace had gone from a clean matte brown to stained and scuffed. She’d teased him about it but assumed he was dirtier because he now worked more difficult jobs.
Ducking into the safety of her room, Ahk closed the door behind her. She stood dazed, antennae twitching in panicked confusion.
What should I do?
She knew what she was supposed to do: report Bon to Pol Mek Nan, the family’s Redemption priest.
She’ll take care of him. She’ll... Ahk cursed silently.
The Redemption would take him away. His talent wasn’t dangerous, so they wouldn’t banish him to a Corrupt island, but he would be sent to the leeward desert. He’d spend the rest of his life living among the Corrupt, never to return. She’d never see him again.
The polite knock of house staff sounded on her bedroom door.
“Enter.”
The door swung open revealing Vaz Wen’s pale red carapace. No matter how she might buff it, it would never shine.
The head of the maids bowed. “Ahk Tay Kym, your mother sent me. The family is boarding now.”
“I have to finish packing,” Ahk said, realizing the clothes she’d previously laid out were gone. She’d been too distracted to notice.
“It’s all taken care of,” said Vaz, antennae dipping in apologetic correction.
Of course, it had. Mother only called her in to get her away from Bon without having to be rude to the boy.
Numbly thanking Vaz, Ahk headed to the waiting skerry.
The household staff and groundskeepers gathered to see the family off. Scanning the crowd, Ahk saw no sign of Bon. Had he left to work on the next figurine?
Why carve me?
She worried she knew the answer.
JOH
The Sisters of the Storm are the military wing of Queen Yil’s Church of the Storm. Trained in every form of stealth, combat, and infiltration, they are spies and assassins. It has been theorized that in the Nysh Queendom one in eight families has been infected by the Mad Queen’s rhetoric and now harbours dissenters. More troubling are the rumours that the Sisters of the Storm have begun training the Corrupt instead of banishing them.
—A History of the Mad Queen, by Chuo Sdai Rhaj Een
Hanging in the frayed webbing of his hammock, Joh woke to the dim light before the morning’s truth. The night’s chill still claimed the air, tightening the joints and spiracles through which he breathed. Pale sand dusted his dull carapace, sticking in every groove and joint. Even here, somewhere between the leeward desert and the lush forests of the windward side of the island, coarse grit got in everything. Every root and grub tasted like sand; every sip of water left his mouth coated with dust.
With a groan, Joh straightened all eight limbs. Shaking them, he shed sand onto the floor. “Dad?”
No one answered.
Pushing himself upright, he saw his father’s empty hammock. Either he’d risen early to make the trek from farm-to-farm begging for work, or more likely, he found work yesterday and spent the evening drinking his earnings at the Dripping Trough. If he wasn’t in too rough shape, he might leave to seek employment from wherever he slept rather than returning home. Unless he had money left and felt guilty, in which case he might return with a treat for Joh. Maybe even sugar water. More likely, he’d return angry and hollowed out by whatever poisons he ingested in search of an escape and smack his son around before collapsing into his hammock.
Stretching again and shaking out the last of the sand, Joh left the shared bedroom. The shack’s main room was as he’d left it the night before. He saw no sign of his father’s typical clumsy stumbling. Constructed of branches, leaves, and thick mud, the hut was intended more as somewhere to hide from the dry daytime heat than protection from the night’s chill. Gaps in the leeward wall showed a smear of golden light as the gods made ready to rise as they did each morning.
Padding into the kitchen area on four stiff legs, wings still twitching and fluttering from the cold, he hunted through the food baskets for something to eat. Dried puffer flies, little better than husks. They weren’t too bad if you soaked them in water. He’d saved these in hopes they might distract his father’s anger. Searching the makeshift counter, an unsteady affair of crates propping up a warped slab of wood, he spotted the water bucket. Glancing within, he saw half a claw’s depth of stale, brackish water.
