He shook his head, aware that something was wrong but not sure what it was. Looking back at the others, he saw them all staring in the same direction he had been, as if something to the west of the camp had drawn their attention. But even though he looked back and squinted into the distance, he couldn’t make out what it was. He thought of asking Gwynofar what she thought, then realized that her input was not important. He needed to stay focused on things that really mattered.
But she had been standing with the others a minute ago.
It took all of his effort to make himself turn around. His mind might have decided that he needed to look for Gwynofar, but his body clearly didn’t agree. He was aware enough of the disparity that it lent new strength to his efforts, even as a new kind of fear took root in his soul.
She had left the base camp and was standing out on the empty plain, alone. She had picked up a spear along the way—no one was allowed to take a step outside the sheltered area without a weapon in hand—but it hung limp in her grasp, the shaft horizontal. Useless. She seemed to be staring at something in the sky. No. She was staring at nothing in the sky. Her eyes were turned upward, but he sensed that they were seeing nothing.
He followed her gaze. A dark shape seemed to come into focus that had not been there a moment before, and an odor filled the air that was cloyingly sweet, insufferably foul. Even before he could make out details of the creature, he knew what it was. What it must be.
A Souleater.
It was plummeting down at her from a bright, clear sky, its long talons extended, like a hawk about to snatch up a field mouse. Though Gwynofar’s face was turned up toward it, he knew with sickening certainty that she did not see it at all—at least not in any conscious sense—and that she could not act to save herself.
He yelled at her as he sprinted across the sand, a sound that might have been meant to be her name but that came out of his mouth as an inarticulate cry of despair. He grabbed up a spear as he ran, knowing even as he did so that he was going to be too late. The thing was too close—it was coming down too fast—and she was too far away. For the first time in his life he wished that he were a witch, so that he might sacrifice his life’s own essence to increase his speed. But all he had was prayer, so he offered it.
Let this be my sacrifice, not hers!
Great jeweled wings filled the sky overhead as he dove the last couple of feet, transforming sky and sand into a mad cacophony of color. He reached Gwynofar even as the talons were about to close on her head and tackled her down to the ground, desperately trying to brace his spear in some kind of defensive position. She was as limp as a rag doll and offered no resistance. It seemed that he could feel a breeze upon his back as the great talons snapped shut just inches from his skin, and the ikati screamed in rage so loudly that it made his ears ring. Could the others hear it too? Or were they still entranced by the creature’ s power as he had been, and blind to it presence?
Rolling over on his back, he thrust the spear upward with both hands, not even caring where his target was at that moment, just trying to win himself some room to maneuver. The mass of the great body overhead seemed to blot out the sun, and its musky-sweet scent filled his lungs like noxious smoke. He had to fight the urge to gag as he struggled to get to his feet, while staying near enough to his fallen mother to protect her.
Where were the others? Were they going to help? Even if they couldn’t see the creature he was fighting, surely they could see that he was engaged in combat with something, and maybe fire their weapons into the space it so clearly occupied. But even as he gripped his spear in both hands and braced himself to strike at the creature the moment it came within range, he knew with a sense of utter despair that the queen’s power didn’t work that way. The others wouldn’t be able to help him because their attention was fixed on other things. Tribesmen attacking. Souleaters returning. Maybe even a sandstorm moving in. Each of her mesmerized victims would come up with his own reason for not looking in this direction, without ever realizing he was not doing so.
Salvator was on his own.
The Souleater’s great wings beat the air mere yards overhead, whipping the sand about him into a frenzy. His hair blew wildly across his face as he feinted with the long spear to keep her at a distance, trying desperately to remember the key facts of Souleater anatomy, to figure out where to strike. The body of this one was longer and thinner than the ones in the diagrams Favias had shown him, and a few of the landmarks he’d been told to look for, to locate major organs, were absent. But he knew he might only get one good shot at her, so he had to make it count.
Suddenly she lunged down at him with her great triangular head, teeth bared. He thrust the spear forward aggressively, so that she would have to impale herself on its point in order to reach him. She pulled back, frustrated, and great jaws snapped shut several feet short of his head. She was so close now that he could taste her breath on his tongue, sickening sweetness with an aftertaste of decay. The great black eyes reflected his own sweat-streaked face back at him in its thousand uniform facets, and he realized suddenly that if he moved quickly enough, he might be able to blind her before she withdrew. With a muttered prayer on his breath he angled his spear—
—And pain exploded in his side without warning. He felt himself flying through the air, and he hit the ground with such force that it drove the breath from his body. For a moment the entire world went red; sand mixed with blood in his throat, and he tried to cough it all up, but the motion sent a sharp pain lancing through his chest. Favias’ voice seemed to ring in his head, admonishing him for his carelessness. They fight with their tails. Don’t underestimate their reach.
Blinking against the pain, he struggled to get an elbow under him, to lever his way back onto his feet. He could feel a dent in the side of his armor where the sheer force of the Souleater’s blow had caved in the steel; if they’d been fighting on anything other than sand, he would probably be dead now. Every breath he drew was accompanied by a stabbing pain, and he was sure that one or more of his ribs had been broken. But he couldn’t let it end like this. Not after all they had gone through to get this far. He could not let this creature win.
Now his vision was becoming clear enough that he could see his spear lying on the ground to one side of him; he reached out to grab it. But razor-sharp talons suddenly closed about him from behind, locking him in an inexorable vice as they jerked him upward. The pain was so intense that for a moment it blinded him; by the time he could see again, the ground was far beneath them, and his dazed vision could not make out any sign of either city or camp nearby.
The Souleater’s talons were like bars of iron around his chest; surely, if Salvator had not been wearing a solid steel cuirass, he would have been crushed to death. As it was, he could hear the ominous creak of steel as the powerful talons tightened, struggling to finish the job. And to his horror he could feel the cuirass begin to give way, surrendering at last to the crushing grip. Bones snapped along one side of his ribcage, sending spears of pain lancing through his side and very nearly driving him into unconsciousness.
I will not die like this! he raged, struggling for every breath. Shadows were closing in about his field of vision. Black spots danced before him as blood seeped steadily into his lungs. Every indrawn breath was agony. I will not die like prey!
The only weapon he had on him was a short sword edged with Souleater blades, and he knew that even if he could get it out of its sheath, he could not reach far enough to strike at any vital target. But his hand closed about its grip nonetheless, nails biting into the leather binding as spasms of pain wracked his flesh. He would not pass out, he told himself. He would not give up. He would not stop fighting until the moment that God himself collected his soul from his body, so that all the Souleater carried away was empty flesh . . . .
Delirium was closing in on him now, disjointed visions flashing in and out of existence all around him. He saw figures from one of Favias’ anatomical charts flying past him, with So
uleater vulnerabilities marked in red ink and meticulously labeled. Look. Favias’ voice was a whisper in his ear. The artery inside the leg. It is vulnerable at the joint. Slice it open and the result will be as deadly to a Souleater as a cut to the femoral artery would be to a man.
He tried to twist about in the ikati’s grip so he could locate the spot, but just then the talons tightened about his chest, driving out the last of his air and causing fresh pain to explode in his chest. His heart labored as it struggled to push enough blood through his constricted veins to keep him alive. Blessed Destroyer, he prayed desperately, give me strength to finish this one task before I die, I beg You. Let me be the vehicle by which You banish this plague from the earth.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he somehow managed to twist his head around just enough to see the joint Favias had described. He could see where the hide was thin where the creature’s leg was joined to its body, and he imagined he could hear the pulse of blood coursing beneath its skin, so close to the surface. Fixing his vision upon that one point, he tried to shut out all the rest. Fear was temporary. Bodily pain was meaningless. Soon he would be in the presence of the Creator, and nothing else mattered.
There was a strange kind of peace in such total surrender. The pain in his body seemed to become a distant thing; it did not hurt any less, but it was as if the pain now belonged to someone else. He could feel knife-edged bone shards stabbing into his internal organs as he unsheathed his sword, gripping the handle tightly so that the wind would not tear it from his grasp. The world all about him had faded to blackness, and only a single central point of light remained, focused upon the vulnerable joint overhead. Somewhere a stranger screamed in pain as he raised his sword as high as he could, struggling to reach the vulnerable spot. Somewhere a man was coughing up blood, in spasms so agonizing no human soul could bear it.
Guide me, my Creator, for the sake of mankind, whom You love.
Drawing in as deep a breath as he could, he thrust upward with all his strength. The ikati jerked its leg back in surprise; the sudden motion caused Salvator to black out for a moment.. When he came to and found his hand empty, he thought for one terrible moment that he had dropped the sword. Despair rushed over him with numbing force. Then he saw it embedded in the creature’s leg, the grip hanging down toward him. Despite the depth of the wound, only a trickle of blood was leaking out. He had missed the vital artery.
Unable to draw in a full breath any longer, he hung limp in the creature’s grip, praying for one last moment of strength to do what he had to do. Then, gritting his teeth against the pain, he lurched up and grabbed the leather-bound grip of the sword. The cobalt blade sliced through the Souleater’s flesh, and more blood flowed out of its leg, but it was still not enough. The ikati howled in pain and tried to shake him loose, but he manage to twist the sword hard to the left before he lost his grip—and a river of hot blood answered his efforts, as the wall of the artery was finally breached.
And then the ikati queen released him.
And he fell.
Wind rushed by his head, but he could not take any of it in; the crushed steel cuirass held him too tightly in its embrace to allow for breathing. But that was all right. His time on earth was over now. There was no longer need to breathe.
Thank you, my Creator, for accepting my sacrifice in the place of my mother’s. May my death serve as penance for any and all sins this company has performed in its mission.
Clearly the Creator was pleased by his prayer, for in His infinite mercy he allowed the High King’s consciousness to slip away from him gently, just before the ground rushed up to meet him.
The queen was watching.
Colivar could see her in the distance, so far away that at times she seemed little more than a dot on the horizon. At first he thought she was just a vulture in search of carrion, and he paid little attention to her. But something caused him to look more closely, and he realized then that her silhouette was not that of a bird, and she hovered in the air in a way that no vulture could manage. A thrill ran up his spine then as he suddenly realized what she was . . . and who she must be.
None of the other ikati seemed to be aware of her. Was that by her choice? How adept had Kamala become at manipulating the queen’s special gift? Colivar remembered past mating flights that he had viewed through the eyes of his own ikati—remembered them beating their shared wings in wild fury when a queen suddenly disappeared, all rational thought driven out of their joint consciousness by a tide of pure animal frustration. Little wonder the males turned on one another! Such energy must have an outlet or it would consume its source.
If she was allowing him to see her, and only him, was that not an invitation? The mere thought of it sent blood rushing to his wings with such force that it was hard to focus on anything else; the jeweled panels twitched in anticipation, hungering to consume the distance between them. When he began to fly in her direction, several of the males tried to get in his way, but he dodged them rather than confronting them, not wanting to take his eyes off that distant winged figure for a moment. Afraid she would vanish like smoke if he did. A few other Souleaters followed his gaze westward, curious to see what it was that he was flying toward with such determination, but apparently they saw nothing of interest there. Only empty sky, a blazing sun, and sand so hot that the air above it rippled like a sorcerous portal.
She was there only for him.
The sensation of flight was so intense that it was hard for him to focus on anything else now. He was acutely aware of each muscle in his body, and the pulse of contraction and release that accompanied each wingstroke sent ripples of pleasure through his flesh. The air surrounding him seemed to shimmer with colors, and the sunlight on his back sent waves of pleasure coursing down his hide like a physical caress. Nothing his ikati had shared with him had ever been like this! Were such sensations normal for this species, and the bond between ikati and human was simply not strong enough to convey them? Or was this something that only a hybrid creature like himself might experience? If so, was Kamala feeling the same things right now? Was the very air alive with energy for her as well, so that every movement, no matter how small, heated her blood beyond bearing?
He was coming close enough to her now that he could see her clearly. Sunlight rippled along her scales as she hovered in midair, her long, serpentine tail coiling and uncoiling suggestively. Just a bit farther and he would be able to twine his tail about hers, feeling that sleek surface sliding against his own rough hide, using it to bring their bodies into perfect alignment. The promise of it was maddening. He could feel his wings falling into a new pattern as he approached her, echoing her own, and he knew that at the moment of pleasure they would share the same rhythm, stacked wings beating in perfect unison. It was an ecstasy beyond human comprehension.
But just as he was nearly within reach of her, she wheeled about in the air and began to fly away from him.
He was startled for a moment, then quickly followed. She was fast, very fast, but his altered body was equally capable of speed, and the stream of turbulence that roiled in her wake only stoked the fire in his blood to greater heights. Yet every time he was just about to take hold of her, she managed to dart away again, leaving him trembling with frustration. Once he was so close that he could have nipped her tail with his teeth—but then she surged forward suddenly into the wind, putting so much distance between them that he was afraid he might lose her.
Miles of sand gave way to stone beneath them, a rocky black plain crisscrossed by sand-bottomed faults. She turned in her flight to head directly over it, then dropped down so low that her talons nearly brushed the ground as she flew. Uncertain of her intent, he followed. She began to fly along one particular fault—and then dropped down into it suddenly, and out of sight.
Startled, he overshot the spot and had to circle about to come back to it. The fault looked much too narrow for a Souleater to fly into; Colivar’s own wings would be crushed by the rock walls on either side the
moment he tried. So how had she entered it? And why? Hovering over the center of the fault, he could see no Souleater inside.
Only a woman.
She had reclaimed her human form and stood there looking up at him. For a moment he could not absorb what had happened; then the terrible truth of it hit home.
The Souleater queen was gone!
Maddened by frustration, he bellowed his rage to the heavens. His wings beat at the rock on either side of the narrow pass with audible force; one of his smallest wing struts snapped, but he didn’t even feel the pain. Gone! She was gone! The hunger for her was an unquenchable fire in his belly, but the creature he lusted for no longer shared his form. There were no wings to beat against his own, no tail to coil against his belly.
“Colivar!”
The sound she made was strange. It took him a moment to realize what it was. Human language. A name.
His.
Hovering above the rock, his wounded wing throbbing, he looked down at her again.
Her body was naked, he saw, and covered with a thin sheen of sweat. Her high, full breasts were flushed with the heat of human arousal, and the perfume that arose from her skin awakened a faint memory within him, of a kind of desire that had nothing to do with either frenzy or bloodshed. Trapped between the hunger of two species, he suddenly found himself frozen, unable to respond in any meaningful way. In some distant part of his mind he knew that his body was wrong for this moment and that he had to change it, but he no longer remembered how.
She began to walk along the sandy floor of the fault, moving slowly toward him. His wings thrummed helplessly against the rock, but they were unable to bring him any closer to her. “Be human again, Colivar.” The scent of her filled his nostrils, awakening fragments of human memory. Morati lovers. Languid pleasures. The taste of a woman’s sweat-slicked skin, warmed by the tropical sun.
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