Waylon Westman, Prince of the Ether Realm

Chapter 1

Waylon Westman plucked a blade of grass from by his feet, ignoring the voices of the three ethermen who shared his body. He turned the blade over in his hands, feeling the rough, grittiness of it. The ethermen’s voices broke through, disrupting his peace. He sighed and rubbed his temples with his fingers, closing his eyes against the burning light as it rolled across the fiery dunes on the outskirts of Sandrion.
He noticed a sudden silent void in the part of his mind he had been blocking and said, “Tired of trying to kill me slowly? Or have you finally decided how you want to go about robbing the Magistrate?”
Oh don’t act so fragile. We weren’t even yelling yet, his etherman Booka said inside his mind. But to the point of interest; we don’t know enough about the Magistrate to do anything fancy. Zeekoo suggested we just try walking in.
Waylon shrugged. “Sounds good to me. Do you think you can handle everyone?”
I can hardly tell you without being closer to them, but I have a hard time imagining servants and guards could present much of a problem, Booka said.
“Okay then.” Waylon left the shade of the old oak he’d been sitting under and paraded up to Magistrate Mofin's private estate wearing his brightest smile.
“Booka, if you would,” Waylon said, looking at the pair of guards on either side of the spiral designed cast-iron gate that led onto the sprawling estate.
It would be a pleasure, Waylon, Booka said inside of Waylon’s mind.
It would be a pleasure, Waylon, Zeekoo said in an overly servile tone.
Shut up, Booka said.
Woko giggled. That was pretty good, Zeekoo!
Thanks. But honestly, Booka is an east target. He’s so one dimensional.
“The task at hand…” Waylon muttered.
The guards glanced to each other, their hands going to the swords hanging at their waists. “What business do you have with the Magistrate?” said the older, grizzled guard.
Waylon widened his smile. “I’m here to alleviate the Magistrate of a few hefty sacks of gold, and horses to carry them. Then, I intend to ride out of this gate and be on my merry way. Now, Booka, if you wouldn’t mind, please wipe their memories before they run me through.”
The guards’ eyes glazed over for an instant and then they blinked in unison. “Of course, sir,” the older guard said. “Follow the path to the front of the manor then take the stairs to the walkway, one of the servants will escort you from there. And may I add sir; it’s a pleasure to be in your company. I’ve heard countless tales of your heroic efforts in battle.”
“I’m sure.” Waylon gave a brief nod of his head and held in a laugh as he strode past the guards and onto the lush grounds.
“Would you like an escort, my Lord?”
Waylon shook his head and the guards returned to their rigid forms.
Too easy, Booka said inside of Waylon's mind after they were a distance past the guards. I hope the Magistrate's mind is tougher to crack. I could have made those guards do anything I wanted the second I touched their consciousnesses.
“The guards aren't important. It's the Magistrate we need to concentrate on. Don't forget why we’re here,” Waylon said, then added, “And what did you make them think I was here for?”
I made them believe you were the High Lord of Terilon, here to negotiate the use of some of Garion’s troops for a blockade of the mountain passes north into Darilon, Booka said.
Zeekoo grumbled. I don't get to do anything! Why does Booka get to play when I have to watch? It was my idea!
“Because Booka can control people's minds and you can't,” Waylon said. “Unless you suddenly learned how to get into people’s heads and filch incriminating information about them… No? What a shame.”
“Woko, can't you think of something more appropriate? I look like a peacock; I need to look like a noble.”
But purple suits you, the etherman said.
“Calm it down for now, please.”
Waylon blinked as his loose tunic flashed from bright purple into a midnight blue suit which clung to his lanky frame and restricted his movement.
“Thanks, Woko,” he said, nearly tripping as is new clothes clung to his long legs, cutting off his loping strides with their confinement. He hated the tight fitting suits that were popular among the nobles of Garion. He preferred loose fitting robes, they were much cooler than suits, but the outfit was necessary for the moment.
I'm going to make you look like a rainbow once we finish, Woko said.
Waylon sighed and continued toward the manor. Sometimes he wished he could have the benefits that came from the ethermen without having to constantly appease them.
The white cobbled path to the Magistrate's home wound between lush grasses and under sprawling golden oaks. The ambrosial smell of sun blossoms floated on a gentle breeze, snaring Waylon's senses temporarily. The manor proper was as immaculate as the grounds on which it resided. White marble columns held up a lofty walkway over a series of sparkling blue ponds. The mansion's walls were formed of the same gleaming stone, and atop the walls were a series of domes successively reaching higher and higher, like a set of giant steps. The last dome stood nearly a hundred feet in the air, a monument to the Magistrate's wealth -wealth which Waylon was going to make his own -with a little help from his spirit friends. Booka’s to be more precise. Having a spirit that could get in people’s heads and find their dirty secrets had an endless list of uses.
Waylon strode up the steps to the elevated walkway and walked along in its shade until a servant in a long black coat came into view. He slowed down and leveled his breathing before the servant was close enough to notice anything out of the ordinary. Booka had always said playing with people’s minds was easiest when the truth was closest to what he was trying to make those he played with believe.
“May I help you, young sir?” the man said with a bow.
Another dim one, Booka complained.
Waylon couldn't see Booka work his magic -he never could- but the servant's eyes glazed over for an instant and then he turned on heel and motioned for Waylon to follow. “I am so sorry, sir. I didn’t recognize you. The Magistrate will be most pleased to see you.”
“Who did you make him think I am?” Waylon murmured.
The Magistrate's father, Booka laughed dryly.
Waylon followed the servant through sparkling corridors of marble. Colorful tapestries of every sort spotted the walls and busts of people long dead stood at random along the way. The place was bustling with servants in black livery who passed by without a glance to Waylon.
This is boring, Zeekoo said. One of the tapestries tore off the wall and stretched taunt on its side, hovering. Hop on.
In no mood to argue, Waylon stepped onto the tapestry and sat down. As soon as he was seated it floated down the walkway behind the servant.
Do you know how much work you are making for me? Booka said. Now I have to go inside every servant's head and convince them they didn't just see Waylon floating by.
Zeekoo giggled. Didn't you just complain about your part being too easy?
“Shush you two. I can't think with you jabbering in my head like that,” Waylon said.
The servant turned around. “What was that sir-” he turned back to the path and continued walking at one of Booka's mental promptings.
After some pleading, Zeekoo let the tapestry down and Waylon hopped off just before they reached a fairly plain study where the Magistrate sat behind a large oak desk.
“Excuse me, sir. I have not made accommodations for your guest, if you please, I will take my leave to do so now,” the servant said.
The Magistrate waved the servant away without looking up. “Now Nicolas...” He looked up and his brow furrowed at the sight of Waylon. “Who are you and why are you here?” he said, his voice taking an aggressive tone.
Waylon… something’s wrong. I can't sense his mind… I-I can’t do anything, Booka stammered.
A wave of fury washed across the Magistrate’s eyes and he jumped to his feet, sending the desk toppling and the papers on it scattering across the room. “You dare to enter my house with those creatures?” he roared.
Eep! He knows about us? How does he know about us? Zeekoo said.
“I...” Waylon fumbled. “Zeekoo do something!” he whispered.
I tried already. I can't do anything. Run Waylon!
“You impetuous fool. Why are you here? Speak quickly!”
Waylon tried to turn and run, but his legs suddenly felt as if they were cast of lead. A moment later he felt as if he was completely looped with rope. His lanky body snapped erect, his face straight toward the Magistrate. The invisible bonds pulled tight around him, making breathing difficult and movement impossible.
“I-” Waylon stammered as beads of sweat rolled down his face. “I thought you might be i-i-interested in m-m-my abilities as a p-p-purveyor of m-mystic amusements.”
The Magistrate strode forward. He was not a large man. Almost nothing about him was extraordinary. Short brown hair, graying near his temples, sat in a smooth line atop a smooth, yet matured face of middling years. He wore a deep crimson cloak over a white frilled shirt and black pants. But his eyes... his eyes lit up as if a fire had been stoked behind them, and Waylon thought there was, for he could actually see flames dancing.
“Do not lie to me boy. I’m not so ignorant as the mass of miscreants which wander the streets. I know what you bring into my home. Creatures of the Ether Realm! Now, why are you here?” his voice calmed to a dangerous stillness, coming out not so much as a yell, but a low, smooth command.
“N-nothing more than that my lord,” Waylon said. His eyes burned as sweat rolled into them. “I live a simple life as a traveling magician. It's true what you say; I have brought these creatures, but only for the purpose of plying my trade. I didn't know you... I… I did not mean to offend.”
Lie better you dummy! He will never believe that! Zeekoo said.
“Is that so?” the Magistrate said, his frame and appearance now bearing the perfect calm his voice had taken on.
Waylon felt as if his body were trying to shiver at the unnatural shift, but the invisible bonds stopped even that much movement. The Magistrate closed the distance between them and grabbed Waylon's chin between three fingers, turning his head back and forth in examination. “I do not believe you, but you pose no threat. Just a foolish boy who stepped where mortals should not tread.” He turned around and went to right his table and papers.
“Of course, I shall keep you locked up anyways. Your kind cause trouble when they are left alone.”
“Sir... I truly meant no offense.”
The Magistrate let out a throaty laugh, as if the depth of the frozen oceans gurgled in his belly. The air in the room grew chill and to Waylon’s eyes the Magistrate appeared to shift, if only for an instant, into a much older man with dark, malicious eyes. “I have no doubts you meant me not offense. Trust me when I say I believe that, boy. No… I believe your intentions were toward a goal of a different nature, perhaps something a little more dire than causing me a little offense, I think. But it’s of no matter now; you shall receive your reward for coming into my home without invitation or just cause, and in the presence of those who ought not to dwell in this world! I shall leave you to one of the churches to deal with. I am sure they will find a great many interesting ways to handle a possessed man.”
Not the churches! Not the churches! The priests are evil! Zeekoo said.
Oh shut up. They are harmless, Booka responded. I wouldn’t worry, Waylon. Whatever the Magistrate is doing, I don't believe it will have any effect upon us once he leaves. Of course that’s just an assumption. But I imagine it would take a great deal of strength for anyone to nullify our abilities for very long.
“But Sir-” Waylon cut off as the invisible bonds holding him up disappeared. The sudden release almost sent him to the ground, but he tensed his muscles in time to keep himself up, and in time to see the Magistrate flick a hand in his direction. A wave of exhaustion rolled over him. The world spun for a moment and then everything went black.

Chapter 2

When Waylon awoke his wrists were chained together behind his back and he was in a dank basement cell wearing a set of filthy rags. “Woko...”
The rags blinked into a bright red conical hat, a sky blue vest and baggy yellow pants.
The rags made more sense, Woko said in a small, squeaky voice.
A haze clouded Waylon's thoughts and his head pounded. He tried to grab at it, but the chains restricted his movement. “Zeekoo, can you do something about these chains?”
Nope, nope, nope. Can't break metal, can't undo locks. I can lift up some floor stones. Does that help?
You really ought to stop asking him questions. He is incapable of intelligent thought, Booka said.
Shut up! Zeekoo retorted.
Woko whimpered. Nobody cares about me. Nobody can see the beautiful clothes I've made for you!
“Will you all please be quiet? I need to think.” He swallowed against the uncomfortably dry warmth.
He examined the room around him. The floor and walls were made of brown stone. The room was four paces by three paces and had a small iron door with a small latch at the bottom for the toilet bucket. The room was dark except for a weak sliver of light coming through the slit in the door.
“None of you could do anything in the presence of the Magistrate... Can you now?”
Zeekoo snorted. Didn’t notice Woko turn you into a peacock? Not too observant Waylon.
I believe we can all function properly, Booka said.
“Interesting. Do you know how he did it?”
I don't. He wasn't bound to any of our kind. He must have some other power to pull upon, Booka said. Luckily for you I don't think he anticipated Zeekoo's talents.
Waylon nodded. “Good. Zeekoo, get started on some of those stones. You are going to dig us a tunnel out of here.”
But that will take longer! Zeekoo whined. I could pick them up and smash them against the door instead…
“We don't need any extra attention. I don't want the Magistrate coming down to check on us. I enjoy my life, such as it is.”
Why are you always like this? As my memory serves me, in those few moments before we met Waylon I don’t recall you being quite so immature, Booka said to Zeekoo.
Zeekoo did an imitation of Booka then said, Why did you become so arrogant? You weren’t so high and mighty before we bound ourselves to him.
You are both right, Woko whispered. You both changed.
“And you all saved my life. But this arguing is doing us no good. Start doing something useful or I will kick you out of my body.”
You can't kick us out of your body once you invite us to share it, Booka pointed out. Not without a fair amount of effort anyway. Perhaps if you had invited in only one of us… But I believe expelling three spirits borders on impossibility.
“If I had known what it would be like with you three in my head I would have let myself die in the desert! Now, Zeekoo, if you wouldn't mind.” Waylon gestured to the floor.
Several large stones lifted to reveal hard packed black soil beneath. The soil sprayed out of the gap and soon a large hole was forming and a large mound of dirt was piling up in front of the door.
This will be quick! We are next to the outer wall. We will be out before Woko can whine about being ignored, Zeekoo said.
You always make fun of me. You don't care about my feelings. I wish I could make you look like a clown, Woko said.
“Be nice you two.”
Yes, Waylon, they chimed together.
The hole formed a wide tunnel in a matter of minutes. Waylon hoped in and was standing outside next to a squat brown building only a moment later.
He wasn't on the manor grounds anymore. Brown foliage cracked under his step and frail willows creaked in an acrid breeze. The immaculate gardens and the large magnificent buildings which composed the manor were no where to be seen. The sun’s heat hissed like a viper as it touched the ground, drying out the desert floor and Waylon’s skin alike.
With a sound like a slight breeze the chains holding Waylon's hands together evaporated into a rust colored mist that drifted to the ground. Waylon's jaw dropped.
“Did any of you do that?”
No, Booka said.
Cool trick! I need to learn that one. Do you think that was part of the Magistrate's power? Zeekoo said.
“If none of you did it, then it must be.” A faint line of red ringed around his arm and Waylon rubbed at his wrists where the chains had been. “Do any of you have any idea where we are? Must be near the desert...”
-I'm not sure- Booka said. -Your eyes were closed when you went unconscious, so I couldn't see where we were going. All I could sense was the presence of several minds who must have been our escort to the cell-
“Great,” Waylon said. “Well what way do you think we should go?”
Waylon's clothes flashed to match the brown of the dying vegetation around him. He patted them down then ran his hand through his messy brown hair to pull it out of his eyes.
Be sneaky. I don't like that man. Get away! Woko said like a frightened child.
“Thanks for the clothes, Woko. I am sure they will help.”
You’re welcome.
Judging by the condition of the surrounding land I'd guess we are on the outskirts of Sandron. Which means the manor is probably an hour to either the north or the west. We should head east. No need to stay here where the danger is, Booka said.
Just to be disagreeable, Zeekoo chimed in. Go south!
“No, Booka is right, east is safest. The Magistrate doesn't meddle past the desert walls.”
The sun was on a soft shimmering decent to Waylon's left. It cast a scorching heat over the land and plants sizzled in its grasp. Waylon turned his back to it and set to walking.
Daylight squeezed out the last drops of warmth before an icy darkness ushered in the new moon. Dying vegetation gave way to lakes of glassy sand, glowing blue in the night's light. Shadows flickered past the moon like the haunts of stories Waylon’s mother told him as a child. Shivers ran down his spine and he pulled a heavy cloak Woko had manifested tighter about him. A shriek pierced the night air as a desert hawk dove for its prey.
Booka's estimations of their location turned out to be misplaced. They shouldn’t have found the barren desert stretch of Deathslen so soon. They had been farther north than expected. Waylon shivered again, this time as he recalled the desert's myths. He changed his course for southwest to correct for the mistake, but he was still ill at ease. He felt as if they were being followed, though a look across the shimmering glassy sand hinted at nothing.
You know those myths are only fabrications by fools who wanted to boast of some non-existent adventure they went on, Booka said when Waylon voiced his fears.
“I can't shake the feeling that someone or something is nearby...” Waylon said. His eyes darted back over his shoulder. Wisps of sand streaming in a momentary wind made a soft, scratching hiss, but there was little else to be seen. “If I’d never met you or the Magistrate I would feel much better. But I've seen too much to discount fantastic possibilities.”
Booka didn’t respond.
The light from the moon flickered and then disappeared completely. Before Waylon realized what was happening his long legs were moving as fast as he could make them. Woko was screaming in Waylon's mind, but panic had gripped him so completely that he heard nothing. His legs moved in long blurring strides and his lungs burned as crisp icy air flowed into them. The landscape around him flickered. Blue, green, red, blue. Blue, green, red, black. Black.
Waylon tripped when his foot caught a stone protruding from the desert sands. He sprawled to the ground and tumbled over and over before coming to rest on his back staring up a perfect azure sky. The breeze was gone. The air was neither warm nor cool.
Whispers from a thousand directions flooded his ears, rubbing against his body and caressing him. One of the whispers grew louder than the rest -a woman's voice, soft with a hint of refinement and an air of command. Her words flowed like clear pools of crystal water from the head of the Manritrea springs high in the Dishollan Mountains.
A figure materialized in front of Waylon so slowly he thought it must be a trick of the light, and fancies running wild as horror stories ran rampant across his thoughts. The figure had the presence of a woman, though Waylon could see little more than a shimmering mist with a vaguely human shape.
“You are not dreaming Waylon Westman, nor are have your wits left you. You are in the Harsharad.”
All three of Waylon's ethermen gasped.
“We... We are home?” Woko said timidly. A tickle at Waylon's mind made him realize that while the voice came from inside his mind, that something felt distinctly different.
Waylon looked to his left and right in shock. On his sides floated three ethereal beings formed of fading light and shifting shadows. Woko was the smallest, almost indistinguishable against the clear azure sky. Booka floated as mist, though even in such form Waylon could sense his intelligence. And Zeekoo stood a giant among the others, less image and more substance than they. To Waylon's eyes he appeared a beast of eight feet, glowing in cloaked light like the others.
“How can this be? The rift closed behind us; there was no other,” Booka said.
“Why am I here?” Waylon asked.
“It is not for you that the passage has been made. The birth of Woko's spirit has been a century in passing. Those who brought him into existence have called him back. His birthright is to be given. Your presence here is no more than a consequence of the binding of Woko's spirit with your mortal flesh.”
“Eep!” Woko said. “My birthright! I won't have it!” The smallest form turned to Waylon. “I don't want it! My brother should have taken it! Please, take me back! Take me back!”
“Your brother? What about-” Waylon’s words tumbled in the rush of questions. “Why Woko? What’s wrong?”
Woko's mist shook. “Bad. Very bad. Please, take me back!”
The feminine figure spoke. “There is no avoiding the throne Woko. The legions of Xean have been slaughtered to offer you passage home. Your creator would have been here with a royal procession if we had known you would stumble through the rift the moment it opened.”
“I don't understand...” Waylon said. He looked back and forth between the ethereal beings. “What’s going on?”
A deep rumbling laugh emanated from Zeekoo's form. The sound bore no resemblance to the squeaky, playful voice Waylon usually heard in his head. “Woko is to be crowned the prince. His brother who was to have taken the position offered himself to the Holy Light twenty-seven years ago. Since that time Woko has been destined to take his creators place and rule in the Hasharad. His creator, Wakoro, granted unto me the power needed to protect Woko until his name day should come and he could assume his brother's position and become the striking hand of the empire. The Mantle of Delthusa is his to claim or his existence is forfeit.”
“I knew there was something peculiar about your behavior, nobody could be so completely asinine without it being an act of some form,” Booka said.
Zeekoo let out a roar of a laugh. “Not an act. Not an act. Binding with Waylon's mortal flesh freed me of my duty. Yet now we are home and duty is upon me once more.”
“Woko is a prince?” Waylon asked. “The same quiet timid Woko who has been living in my head for the past twenty-two years? Woko, why wouldn't you want to be prince? You would finally get all the attention you wanted. And I imagine a lot of power... Why won't you stay?”
“My creators’ designs will cause pain for your kind, Waylon. I don’t like pain! I just want to be free! I must be free!”
The female figure spoke. “Woko, you were created in the confinement of responsiblity. No other can take up the Mantle. You must come with me. It is your purpose.”
“Don't... Don't... Don't want to go, Waylon.” Woko was trembling. “Don't let her make me. I like being with you. I don't want command. I don't like my world. It has changed… Evil plans have crept into the minds of many ethermen. Let me go back with you!”
“Woko, I don't think I am in a position to take you back with me, even if I knew how,” Waylon said. “I don't know where we are or how we got here.”
A wisp separated from the female's form and pointed behind Waylon. “You may leave if you desire, son of the flesh. The rift will remain open one second for each of the spirits who were sacrificed to bring it into existence –some weeks yet. The others must stay. The mortal realm is only for those who have given themselves to the Holy Light.”
Woko's ethereal form had been quivering and bouncing around at great speeds and suddenly released the tension building inside of him and shot toward the rift.
“Woko, you must stay! Please!” the female called. She sounded desperate.
Woko's fidgeting mist never slowed or hesitated. Zeekoo let out a deep growl and a curse, “I'd forgotten the trouble this boy could be!” And he was off chasing after Woko. Booka shrugged and flew behind them, leaving Waylon with little choice. He dashed after the floating mists and towards the rift.
The thousands of whispers that had greeted them upon arriving in the ether realm grew in strength and power. Waylon chanced a look back over his shoulder to see a mass of glowing entities chasing after him, and the form of the female at the rear with that wisp still pointing towards the rift. Waylon turned back and kept running. He tried pushing the thought of the flickering forms chasing him from his mind. They were not far from where they had crossed over, if he could just keep pushing himself for a moment longer...
The rift flickered up ahead in the distance in a shapeless form. The more Waylon stared at it the more he became convinced that if he thought about it too long or looked too closely, he would suddenly wink out of existence. For every moment the rift changed the world beyond bore a different landscape; some the desert Waylon had left, others lush gardens or oceans.
With an extra burst of speed Waylon pushed forward, catching his three ethermen as they crossed the threshold back into the mortal realm. A strange lightness permeated his body. For one instant he felt completely weightless. But as quickly as the sensation came, it was replaced by its exact opposite. One by one his ethermen sucked back into his body, collapsing into him as if he’d suddenly been handed a leaden weight. He fell to the ground from the force of the jolt, his limbs too heavy to bear their own mass.
He shivered and rubbed at his head; it had struck... ice? The ground was cold, the air even colder. Water froze in each of his breathes, scrapping his throat and lungs. He blinked, but the world spun. He shook his head and his eyes came into focus.
The brightness of a full moon shed an eerie pale blue across jagged, ice capped mountains which formed a line into the distance until blending with the darkness of the night. Opposite the mountains the white glistening plains washed tirelessly until they reached a horizon that melded with the sky into an indistinguishable blur.
Waylon shivered and forced his way to his feet.
“W-Woko,” his voice trembled with the cold. “Helppp.”
Waylon's bright clothes flashed and shimmered as they gained mass and turned into a giant white fur cloak and breeches nearly half a foot thick.
Now you blend in, Waylon. But you must run! They are too close! Too close! Woko said. Waylon heeded Woko's command and his legs soon burned anew, with both the fire from within and the icy bite of the air from without. Behind him odd noises emanated from the direction of the rift and all three spirits brooded.
We will be destroyed! They are sending the guard after us! Zeekoo squealed. The deep roar of a voice he had in the ether realm was gone.
“I thought your kind can't do anything in our world unless they are bound to someone else.”
They can't! But they could bind with you. You can't resist so many! Run! Zeekoo said.
It's too late; we’ve brought war to this realm, Booka said. Lord Wakoro will not be content until he recovers an heir to take the mantle. He will blame you, Waylon, and he will strike with all his might to get what he desires.
He will! He will! Woko agreed. You must go back to the Magistrate. He knows something! He knows! He can help. He can stop them!
Waylon continued to run over the frozen plain. The moon was falling low in the sky and the first vestiges of dawn showed in a faint lighting on the horizon. The perfect level of the plain turned into a slope and Waylon was struggling to push his legs up the hill. His feet felt as if they were cast of lead.
“How fast can your kind move in our world when they are not bound?”
Not as fast as mortals. Matter abounds here; it chokes us and gets in our way. You will be safe for a time, Booka said.
Yes, Woko said. Safe for now. But they still come! We need to reach the Magistrate! He will know what to do. He can stop them. You need his help, Waylon. We need him!
“I am too tired... I need to rest...” He collapsed and rolled against one of many ice mounds which rose from the plains near the base of the mountain range.
Can you hold onto something? Zeekoo asked.
Waylon looked to his side. A body-length cylinder of ice, much like an icicle though there seemed to be no where for one to have formed, lay feet from his face. He reached out. The piece was nearly as thick as his arm. His fingers seemed to absorb the cold, giving up the remnants of their warmth, the moment he made contact with the ice. He hugged the piece close, his lungs slowing the fight they’d been raging with the icy sting of the night air. His heart made audible thumps, echoing off the icy floor he rested on.
If you can hold on, I will take care of the rest, Zeekoo said.
“They will see me.”
That’s not important anymore. Zeekoo can move you faster than they can travel, Booka said.
Waylon struggled to pull his body over the icicle. He wedged it between his legs and wrapped his arms and body around it as tightly as he could, then the frozen beam of ice rose into the air and zoomed up the slope and into the heart of a great white mountain.