Fire wings, p.11
Fire Wings,
p.11
He stared hard into Shamil’s eyes, holding his gaze until the moment Stielbek opened his claws to let him fall free.
Rignar Banlufsson tumbled through the air at a steep angle, the crystal in his hands glowing so bright he resembled a falling star. He collided with the huge, narrow column of granite that formed Sharrow-Met’s legendary scimitar barely fifty feet from the point where it met the ground. Crystal and mage disappeared in an explosion powerful enough to banish the smoke for a distance of several hundred yards. Shamil struggled to keep his seat as Stielbek bucked and reared in the turbulent air. Looking down he saw the column of vehlgard closest to the scimitar’s base had been blasted into chaotic disorder. The statue, however, remained stubbornly upright.
“It didn’t work,” he groaned in despair. He scanned the scimitar, finding none of the expectant destruction that would set the great monument toppling. Instead, he saw a curiously smooth and intact surface very different from the weathered granite that had formed it only seconds before. It caught a bright gleam from the sun streaming through the partly dissolved smoke, shining bright, shining like . . . ice.
“Down!” Shamil ordered, but Stielbek was already folding his wings. A barrage of fire arrows floated up from the ranks of the vehlgard to greet them as they dove, turning to a blizzard as they plummeted lower. Shamil waited until Stielbek levelled out barely fifty feet from the ground before reaching for the sword once carried by Tolveg Clearwater of Wodewehl, a man who had travelled a great distance to place it in more worthy hands, a sword named Ice Cutter in the ancient tongue of his people. A fated blade.
A fire arrow streaked within an inch of Shamil’s visor as they swept closer to the scimitar. He hardly noticed, his entire attention focused on the glassy surface, searching. He found the crack near the scimitar’s edge, just a small fissure no bigger than a hand’s breadth, but big enough for a sword blade. Leaning out, he gripped the sword’s handle with both hands, stabbing it into the crack with every ounce of strength he could summon. The skeln-blad met scant resistance as it penetrated the ice, sinking so deep it was torn from Shamil’s hands as Stielbek beat his wings and bore them higher.
Shamil twisted to watch the scimitar shrink beneath them, his heart leaping in exultant satisfaction at the sight of a web of cracks spreading over its surface. Within seconds the interlocking matrix of fissures had spread from the scimitar’s base to its hilt, snaking over it to crumble Sharrow-Met’s huge fist.
The statue let out a strange groan as the scimitar fell apart, Sharrow-Met’s arm falling to pieces soon after. The great stone queen swayed, rearing back a little and causing Shamil to ponder the horrible irony that she might topple in the wrong direction. But then something cracked deep within her, and she swayed forward, the roar of a huge stone assemblage subsiding into chaos, swallowing the great murmur of surprise and fear rising from the vehlgard army below.
Shamil saw the ice storm fade away then; the Voice-mages rendered scurrying ants at this height as they ran back towards the Maw, but they could never have run fast enough. The statue crushed them beneath its fracturing legs as it collapsed, some of the rubble it shed descending to shatter the columns of vehlgard, but most of its bulk fell where Rignar predicted it would.
The newly wrought bridge of cooled lava disappeared beneath Sharrow-Met’s partly destroyed mass. The rubble settled onto the glowing channel in an ugly dark sprawl that soon began to fade, swallowed by the inexorable tide of molten rock.
Shamil watched the great army of vehlgard convulse as a fresh gout of smoke erupted from the Maw, accompanied by a vast shriek, full of rage and frustration. The vehlgard milled in confusion, some rolling about with their hands clamped to their ears, whilst others thrashed at each other in maddened delirium. Shamil even saw a few march into the lava flow, bursting into flames as the molten rock claimed them but still continuing to wade into the fiery current.
The Voice’s scream persisted as Stielbek flew away, the widening distance rendering it a smaller thing, vaguely reminiscent of a spoilt but forlorn child weeping over a broken toy.
11
The Black-Wing’s Quest
He found Vintress struggling back to the Eyrie on tired and faltering wings, Lyvia clinging on as the falcon bobbed in the air. Dark stripes discoloured the verdant blue of the bird’s plumage where the Voice-mage’s lightning had touched her. Still she possessed the strength to keep flying, although Shamil wasn’t sure for how much longer. Steering Stielbek alongside, he gestured to Lyvia, pointing to the black wing’s claws in an invitation to jump. Lyvia, however, replied with a stern shake of her head and stayed with her bird.
A dark, fast-moving cloud soon appeared above them, which had Shamil reaching for his bow and quiver when he realised it was in fact a dense swarm of flensers and scythers with a few larger silhouettes that told of man-bats amongst the ugly throng. He put an arrow to the string of his bow and guided Stielbek higher to place them between the swarm and Vintress. However, the expected attack never came; the Maw beasts streamed overhead without altering course. Like the vehlgard, they appeared greatly distressed, voicing a cacophony of discordant screams and lashing out at their fellow beasts as they beat their wings towards the Maw. The swarm soon disappeared into the smoke, which now covered the far bank of the lava flow in a thick blanket of soot and ash. The Voice continued to howl its anguish, but the sound had diminished to a plaintive echo by the time Shamil and Lyvia reached the Eyrie.
The sentinels awaited them on the eastward cliff edge, Morgath enclosing Shamil in a tight embrace as soon as he climbed down from Stielbek. He was aware of cheers filling the air and many hands jostling him in appreciation as Morgath guided him through the throng, but it all seemed far away. Exhaustion had risen in him with irresistible force as soon as his boots touched the ground, only fading when he found himself face-to-face with Lyvia.
“Rignar?” she asked, water welling in her eyes when he shook his head.
“He knew,” Shamil said, pulling her close to let her sob against him, slender form heaving with a mingling of grief, guilt, and fatigue that mirrored his own. “From the moment we met him, he knew his fate . . .” He let his voice fade rather than complete the thought aloud, knowing this was not the right time. As I now know mine.
“You would think,” Lyvia said, turning the brass disc over to let the moonlight play over the details embossed into its surface, “Ehlias would fashion something more . . . fine.”
“You disapprove?” Shamil asked. The disc he held was mostly identical to hers, though he noted the smith had taken the time to engrave it with the same runes that had adorned his lost sword.
“No.” Lyvia shrugged. “It’s just that an object of such importance could benefit from a little more . . . artistry.”
“Weapons are his art. And I don’t think he makes too many of these, especially all at once.”
They sat together on the walkway outside the nest. Vintress had secluded herself inside its gloomy confines to nurse her wounds, and Lyvia didn’t want to stray too far from her side. Below, the sentinels’ celebration continued despite the lateness of the hour. Wine was usually forbidden in the Eyrie, but Morgath had made an exception this night, ordering barrels of impressive vintage be unearthed from the stores and the contents distributed without ration. Raucous hours of merriment followed, interspersed with a surprising amount of brawling as spirits lubricated tongues sufficiently to voice long-nursed grievances. These scuffles were brief if bruising affairs, quickly quelled and soon transformed into weeping expressions of mutual regard. Tihla had taken on the role of policing the gathering, moving amongst the crowd to calm tempers or commiserate over lost comrades. Morgath, by contrast, sat above it all on the highest rise, cup in hand and a bottle at his side. His once ever-cheerful countenance was now a shadowed, brooding mask concealing thoughts Shamil knew must be grim indeed.
“He asked me to return to Mira-Vielle,” Lyvia said, noting how Shamil’s gaze lingered on the First Wing. “To speak to the council on behalf of the Eyrie, beg for more recruits and a new mage. And to warn them that the Voice has returned. We may have contained it, for now, but only a fool would think it won’t try to free itself again.”
Hearing the sour weariness in her tone, Shamil said, “You don’t want to go.”
“Indeed I don’t.” She brightened a little, twirling the disc in her hand. “And now I have this, I can go where I choose. The north perhaps? See the river of emerald light in the sky Tolveg was always talking about. Or to the south, where a friend of mine tells me the raptorile still roam. Perhaps he would care to guide me?”
Shamil turned away, lowering his head, and the humour had faded from Lyvia’s voice when she spoke on. “Except he won’t, for I sense he has determined upon another course. No matter.” She gave a soft sigh, consigning the disc to her pocket. “I’ll do as the First Wing has requested, for I am a sentinel, and when I’m done suffering the company of my noble peers, I shall return here, for this is my home.” She glanced back at the opening to the nest. “Besides, Vintress would never leave, and I find I can’t be parted from her. As you can’t be parted from him.”
Shamil saw Stielbek shift a little on his perch at the end of the walkway as if hearing the discomfort in Lyvia’s tone. As before, he still kept vigil on the Maw but with a restless, constant fidgeting that bespoke a desire to be about more pressing business. His impatience was continually emphasised in the baleful glares he shot Shamil’s way throughout the night.
“Rignar said she wasn’t dead,” he told Lyvia. “Sharrow-Met went to find the Voice’s birthplace, presumably to discover a means of destroying it for good. Which begs the question of why she never returned.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s your responsibility to find her.”
“No, it’s his.” He nodded at Stielbek. “That’s what he was waiting for all these years, for the Voice to reemerge. He must be far older than anyone here suspected, for this was a task he was set long ago, I suspect by the Wraith Queen herself. The legends say black wings once carried her into battle. It seems she left one behind when she embarked upon her quest.”
Stielbek turned a glaring eye upon him then, beak parting to emit a low but commanding hiss. “It appears,” Shamil said, stooping to gather up his pack before hefting his bow, “it’s time we were on our way.”
Lyvia followed him and watched as he climbed onto Stielbek’s back, arms crossed as she hugged herself tight. “Where will you look?” she asked.
“Rignar’s visions ended when she reached the limit of the eastern desert. As good a place as any to start.” Shamil settled his bow on his back before fishing inside his shirt to extract the emerald pendant. It was no bigger than a teardrop and weighed almost nothing, but still he found it sat heavy around his neck. “And I have means of finding more clues if any are needed.”
“You will come back.” She spoke in soft but emphatic tones that held a demand but no question.
“I will,” he promised, putting the pendant away. “And when I do, I expect I’ll find you’ve risen at least to Second Wing.”
“That may require me to kill Tihla, and I find I’ve grown quite fond of her.” The laugh rose and died on her lips before she lowered her gaze. “If you do find the Wraith Queen,” she said. “Tell her she set an impossible example for her descendants to follow.”
“I’ll tell her.” Shamil glanced at the Eyrie below. The celebration had begun to ebb now, the sentinels staggering off to their chambers, whilst a few lingered to stare in morose contemplation of their fires, some huddling together in shared grief.
“Tell the people of your city the truth,” he told Lyvia, turning to the distant glow of the Maw. The Voice’s anguished cries had finally subsided along with much of the hateful smoke, only a faint, angry groan issuing from within its depths. Despite this, the absence of Sharrow-Met’s statue made the sight of it more foreboding than ever, a signal that their defences had been sorely tested and forever changed.
“Make them hear you.” He turned back to Lyvia, staring into her eyes with hard insistence. “You may see the face you wear as a curse, but it needn’t be. Bring the Wraith Queen’s crusade back to life, for I’ve a sense it’ll be needed again soon.”
He may have said more, and so might she, but Stielbek launched himself into the air before any other word could be spoken. He kept his wings folded at first, plummeting down to below the edge of the eastward cliff so no eyes except Lyvia’s witnessed their departure. Blinking in the rushing air as Stielbek arced out of the dive, Shamil quickly buckled on his helm. The great bird swept his wings with a slow, regular cadence, flying steadily towards the east. Shamil fought down the urge to look back at the Eyrie in the hope of glimpsing Lyvia’s slender form one last time. Instead, he set his gaze on the distant horizon and wondered what he would see when the sun rose to reveal a new landscape come the dawn.
* * *
The End
About the Author
Anthony Ryan was born in Scotland in 1970. After a long Career in the UK Civil Service he took up writing full time after the success of his first novel Blood Song. His books have been published by Ace/Roc, Orbit, and Subterranean Press. Anthony’s work has also been published internationally, being translated into sixteen languages.
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For more information on Anthony’s books visit his website at: anthonyryan.net.
Follow Anthony on:
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Also by Anthony Ryan
THE COVENANT OF STEEL
The Pariah
The Martyr
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THE DRACONIS MEMORIA
The Waking Fire
The Legion of Flame
The Empire of Ashes
Sandrunners - A Draconis Memoria Short Story
* * *
RAVEN’S SHADOW
Blood Song
Tower Lord
Queen of Fire
Songs of the Dark - Short Fiction from the World of Raven’s Shadow
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THE RAVEN’S BLADE
The Wolf ’s Call
The Black Song
* * *
THE SEVEN SWORDS
A Pilgrimage of Swords
The Kraken’s Tooth
City of Songs
To Blackfyre Keep
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SLAB CITY BLUES
Slab City Blues: The Collected Stories
Anthony Ryan, Fire Wings
