Vulture (4 page)

4 - Dawn

There were so many things he didn’t want her to see. Cyclones of Vultures swooping down, devouring souls. Familiar pin pricks of frostbite gnawed the edges of his fingers as he dropped his gaze to the battlefield. A sharp gleam of a breast plate temporarily blinded him. He wordlessly quickened his steps, keeping his head to the ground, avoiding the pull in his heart, the instinctual longing to envelope Kaliel in his arms. He didn’t want to let her go. His stomach clenched at the distance, it was too much.

He reached the body and knelt, his hand swiping across the brow. These warriors were trained. Once upon a time he was meant to join them. That was when the Brotherhood of Amersil thought he was a one of them. He slid his hand into theirs and looked for signs of life. The breast plate rose and fell once, the warrior stilled, slipping away.

Krishani whispered the blessing and watched the white smoke rise out of him.

He moved to the next, buried between bodies of black creatures with no souls. He pushed one of the creatures out of the way. It rolled onto its back; its lips twisted in a gruesome stare like it had died that way. He knelt beside the warrior, his breast plate covered in blood that wasn’t his. Krishani felt his neck for a pulse, lifted his hand. He whispered the incantation. Whether or not he was alive it was better than leaving him. He let the hand fall and glanced around. So many more needed help, it seemed overwhelming. He caught sight of the centaurs pulling wounded off the field, slinging feorns and elvens over their backs and trotting through the grass towards the village.

He glanced at the unwavering Vulture-filled sky, and took a deep breath. He couldn’t let Kaliel see him, broken and black. It wasn’t something she had known, the ways of the Ferryman, the disease caused by the Vultures. More than anything he wanted to recapture the boy he had been when he met her.

So much of that boy was gone.

He caught sight of a Vulture descending from the sky. It created a streak through the air like a tornado. He raced towards it, hoping to break it away from the body. He skipped over corpses, almost lost his balance, hands trailing over weapons and armor, all of it dangerously close to slicing him. He probably looked like an idiot flailing his arms and racing towards someone near dead. He tripped over something and rolled in the grass his body landing near something hard.

“Who’s there?” a raspy voice asked.

Krishani pushed himself up. They were alive enough to speak. He glanced at the centaurs and wondered if he should call them. The Vulture dipped, circling, and Krishani narrowed his eyes. Whoever it was, he wasn’t going to live. He glanced at the face and recoiled, vomit rising in his throat. He swallowed it down forcefully and averted his gaze. He never asked why Handele wore a full golden mask and gloves. He thought it was a symbol of his leadership. The golden face mask was pushed over his forehead, the gloves attached to his hands. Skin blistered and slid around on his face, his nose slumped to one side like it had been bent in half. His eye sockets were droopy, showing the bulb of his eyeball. His mouth twisted into a smile.

“What happened to you?” Krishani asked. His heartbeat hitched as the Vultures stung in his insides with frostbite. He tried to ignore the physical symptoms and stared into Handele’s blue eyes.

“My daughter,” he began, faltering. “Tell her it wasn’t the leprosy that killed me.”

Krishani gulped and nodded, gripping the golden glove. He remembered Melianna, her long brown hair, her bouncy smile. She served Lady Atara at the Elmare Castle in Avristar. He wasn’t going to tell Handele he was never going back there, that someone else would have to deliver the message because he was exiled. It didn’t seem right to burden a man with the truth while he was on his death bed.

“I’ll tell them you fought hard,” Krishani said, trying to sound compassionate. He was dizzy with the will to live, resentment against the Vultures building to a steady crescendo. The pulse of the Vultures dug into Krishani’s spine and he winced at the pressure. “Ready?”

Handele nodded. “Don’t forget, it wasn’t the leprosy.”

Krishani sucked in a sharp breath. Kaliel mentioned it once, and a tea that would cure it. No matter what he put himself through or how far from himself he became, the memories of her were always crisp and clear. He stifled the urge to simper at the pain spreading through his chest. This time the Vultures weren’t numbing him, his insides fought back, pushing away wisps of blackness threatening to sink into his bones.

“Amenally nawva callen armalta,” he whispered.

Handele gasped and his hand fell limp, his head lolling back. His body shook with tremors for a moment, then smoke rose out of his mouth.

The Vulture pressed close to Krishani’s ears and hissed something incomprehensible. It slipped away, its tendrils twisting into the starless sky. Krishani turned and fell on his hands. The left one was pale white, completely bereft of the inky marks that used to trail along it before the battle. He glanced at his right hand and grimaced at the stain of night still swathed along it. He grunted and hitched up the tunic and chainmail enough to glance briefly at his lower torso. It was a pale white flash in the otherwise blind night.

He pushed to his feet and looked around. The rain let up, clouds drifted away showing light gray tinges of dawn peeking over the horizon. The battlefield appeared under the light, golden armor, green grass, and gray boulders intermingled with the black skinned foes. He moved to the next body and knelt over it, whispering the incantation. It was a monotonous gesture. He wasn’t sure how many the Vultures had taken during the battle, but they weren’t going to get more. He glanced again at the sky. They circled, arms breaking off of edges, reaching into the atmosphere. They hovered, tempting Krishani, waiting for him to give up and give in.

He planted his feet in the ground and stared at them. He didn’t care who was watching. Someone moaned nearby. He swayed on his heels, glaring at the Vultures, ignoring the bodies writhing on the ground.

“I won’t belong to you!” he shouted. A pinched feeling hit him as more numbness drained away. The dam broke, emotions flooding forward. Krishani backed up and fell into a crouch, letting the pain swarm over him for a long while before clearing his vision. There was no reason to feel this way anymore, she was waiting for him inside. He knelt beside another warrior and lifted his hand. His eyes opened. “Where are you wounded?” he asked, but the man couldn’t speak.

Krishani gritted his teeth and checked over the body in the gaining dawn light. Loud flapping wings broke over the sky. Gargoyles covered the Vultures, their skin like mineral rock, dark gray speckled with deep black and sedimentary white. He was distracted for a moment as the gargoyles retreated from the sun. He smiled slightly. They brought the boats to and from the island of Avristar. During the day they were nothing but stone statues, and at night they broke into their leathery forms, thick small wings at their back, grotesque mushy faces. They blotted out the sky for a moment before scattering, a single flock moving towards the night to find safety and solitude. Krishani knew what they wanted. Without the light they never lost their forms. Unless they wanted to turn to stone right there, they would find somewhere underground and hide.

He glanced at the body at his feet, sickness sweeping into him. Across from him the form of a Vulture hovered. It stood there in the shape of a man, a foot off the ground, his form leaving only a torso, face and arms. His expression turned lethal. “No,” he barked, hoping it would go away.

There was a hiss that sounded like laughter as the Vulture fled into the air leaving nothing of itself behind. Krishani whispered the blessing and wiped the sweat off his brow as smoke penetrated the circle of Vultures. They didn’t touch it, they didn’t even try.

Krishani remembered what Ambrose said about Vultures not staying where they couldn’t be fed. He wanted to tell them he wouldn’t let them take anymore souls, but it was futile. He raced across the field, alerting the centaurs of the ones that could be healed, and blessing the ones too far into death to be saved. The more he did it the warmer he felt, like fire in his bones. Fire and a stinging ecstasy that made his heart thump. There were other things he would have to face at some point, but he couldn’t think of those things. They were so far away. Morgana was only a dream, the Horsemen only flashes in the darkness. He didn’t know if they were pillaging and ravaging villages, or if Morgana was bringing the others back from Avrigost.

He was too lightheaded to think about the pending war with the Valtanyana.

Krishani found the last of the warriors. He knelt beside it and whispered the blessing, noting the thick wound leaking from the warrior’s leg. They lost a few hundred at most, many were recouping. Krishani went to his feet and beamed. A dull lull of pain in his extremities faded.

The sun delayed, lingering like it wasn’t sure it wanted to come up. This time between night and day was weird on Terra, lasting longer than it usually did on Avristar. There, day came in the blink of an eye, the sun shooting out of the horizon like a symphony.

Krishani grimaced as he passed the stone Crestaos had thrown him against and remembered the violent blows to his head. He touched his temple and noticed a dark spot of red on his scalp. With all the commotion he barely noticed he was injured. All he cared about was that Tiki defeated Crestaos and because of it, the Great Hall returned Kaliel to him.

• • •

Krishani trudged across the green field and stepped onto the dirt road. He passed the gates as the last few stragglers were brought in. Krishani watched the spectacle idly. Centaurs took shifts piling bodies of black skinned creatures, readying a pyre. Feorns and elvens scoured the lands, picking up used weapons, ready to use them again for the next battle. The whole village was a buzz of activity. As he passed the gates shouts and cheers surrounded him, everyone celebrating. Loud conversations, grandiose speeches of tall tales spouted from the feorns. Krishani didn’t pay attention to them, what they told the humans was their business. The villagers seemed fascinated by their way of life, their training, the things they faced on Arathia.

Krishani didn’t want to talk about the things he had done. His stories weren’t filled with triumph. He passed the torch lamps, smithy, barn, and stables, finding the steps to the main hall. Music filled him. People were dancing a jig, drinking that disgusting mead stuff and eating. Even the guards engaged in the merriment. Krishani pulled his hood over his face, his cloak concealing his features. This was how he liked it, even when he lived on Avristar he shied away from the festivities. The idea of dancing, singing and sparring was wasted on him. The only time he ever danced was with Kaliel, and that was the only time it felt right.

It smelled like warm honey, burnt potatoes and roasted chicken. Fetid warriors conglomerated in the center of the hall, dirtying the whorl of red carpet stretching from the door to the throne. He paused, scouring the room for her. It was hard not to look for the white hair and green eyes. Krishani glanced briefly at the graying wooden throne, Elwen wasn’t there. His eyes moved to the long table on the left and beside it a short girl slumped against the wall. A feorn curled into a ball, his head resting against her lap. His eyes narrowed. She looked so much like Aulises, the traitorous thief girl from Amaltheia. That girl had sobbed most of the time and tried to be invisible the rest of the time. He quickened his pace across the floor, keeping his hood around his face to avoid the others. He didn’t want congratulations or glory or anything that resembled a thank you. He caused the fray, winning was a miracle.

Tiki was so certain he would lose.

Kaliel glanced at him, her eyes forest green ringed with the Flame’s amethyst fire. He reached her and crouched. Her legs splayed out in front of her, the black dress falling to her ankles, feet clad in black slippers. Damp black hair framed her oval shaped face, throwing curls in every direction. “You came back.” She said it like she was surprised.

Krishani grimaced, trying to force himself to smile. He glanced at the feorn. “Are you okay? Is he okay?” There wasn’t much sincerity behind his question about Pux.

She gently lifted the feorn’s head off her lap and he stirred as she gingerly settled him beside her. “He fell asleep, but we talked for a long time.” She put her hands in her lap and met his eyes.

Krishani glanced at Pux, then back at her. He wanted to take her away and have her to himself, but he wasn’t sure what her eyes were trying to tell him. She used to be so easy to read, but now, in a body that wasn’t hers, he found it impossible.

“Are you okay?” Her cracked lips pressed together in a line.

He shook his head, an automatic gesture, and took her hand in his, pulling her to her feet. He didn’t care that Pux was lying on the ground, or that Kaliel glanced at him with an expression of guilt before he led her through the wings. He wended down the stony claustrophobic corridors with their low ceilings and thick stone walls. He reached a dead end and turned right, then left and continued down another corridor, opening a short wooden door. Kaliel fit, shorter than the door. Krishani had to duck as he followed her inside. He forgot how small it was, the room bereft of a window. He fumbled around the cot, finding the saucer and candle on the end table. This wasn’t as graceful as it used to be. Light flickered into the room a second later as he lit it with abilities he almost forgot he possessed.

Kaliel stood beside the cot her hands pressed into her thighs, her forest green eyes emitting worry. He shrugged off the cloak, and she moved towards him and helped him pull off the armor. Her hands on him made his heart convulse. She pushed the chainmail over his head and left the gray tunic underneath. He didn’t care, he pulled her to him and she let out a breath, pressing her lips against his, her hands on his tunic, grasping at the hem, pushing it up. He was so dizzy with the pressure of her lips on his, his hands curling into her hair that he almost forgot about the disease twined around his arm and sunk into his shoulder. He pulled away, gasping. Glancing at his arm he tucked it behind his back as he bent over, blowing out the candle.