Giahem's Talons

by Katharine Wibell

  The crushing weight of the people crammed against the walls was suffocating. Desperately, Lluava tried to heave others aside to make room for defensive maneuvers. But there were too many bodies. She was at the mercy of the mob—one that had given way to fear.

  “Move back!” someone cried. “They are trying to open the gates!”

  The words went unheeded. With the Berserkers approaching, the panicked mob pushed harder toward the doors, which prevented them from being opened. If they remained closed, those outside were inviting certain slaughter.

  An internal heat flared within Lluava. Snarling, she shifted once more and charged through the confusion. Reaching the gates, she could see the gaping wounds that reached the metallic center of the doors. Rounding on the men about her, she let loose the loudest roar she could muster. Impressive though it was, the crackling explosions and cries of the warriors nearly drowned out this display.

  Still, those near her took notice. “Back!” they shouted. “Move back!”

  After several moments of confusion, the men at last cleared sufficient space for a small arc that allowed the gates to swing open. The entry was not large, but it enabled a flood of soldiers to rush through like water spouting from a cracked dam.

  Lluava was carried along in the crush of bodies. Once inside the walls, she struggled to break free of the mob. Taking note of her surroundings, she saw the throng of black Shadows encircling their mounted king.

  Many of the men had moved deeper into the city, opening up space for others to spread out a bit. This helped, and she finally reached her former partner.

  “Varren!” Lluava called as she returned once again to human form.

  The young king’s blood-splattered face alarmed her. “It is not mine,” he explained, as he wiped off what he could on his sleeve.

  Lluava released a breath and shivered. If Varren had been harmed, what would she have done? She couldn’t bear the thought. Something in her would break if he…if he…

  Regin, now on foot, asserted, “We must make for a meeting point farther in. There is too much chaos here.”

  Thinking quickly, Lluava replied, “The castle is not safe. For all we know, Yena or her followers could prevent us from entering the gate at the curtain wall. Another landmark?”

  “The Church,” decided Varren.

  Before Lluava could counter that idea, there was a loud groan as the gates began to close. Outlanders and Elysians were still pouring through, yet it was clear the doors would be sealed before everyone was safely inside.

  “It’s the enemy.” Lluava recognized the familiar female voice. Holly stepped next to her. “They are following us in.”

  “No,” corrected Varren. The elevated seat atop his mount gave him a better view. “They have already forced entry. Berserkers are inside Cronus’s walls!”

  Chapter 31

  Observation Tower

  Make for the church!” ordered Regin. “We must protect our king.”

  At their leader’s command, the Shadows began to flood the roadways like a black wave.

  “What about the Raiders?” called Lluava over the cries of the dying. The rain was finally tapering off, and she could smell wisps of tainted smoke. “They are drugged.” But how could they have lit their horns in this weather?

  “The soldiers will fight them,” Holly explained tersely. “Our mission is to keep King Varren safe. Stay here or come with us. We will be at the church.”

  Everyone scattered into the labyrinth that was Cronus. Remorsefully, Lluava looked back at the fighting. Was Apex there? Were her friends inside the walls, or were they caught up in this new battle? As much as she wanted to join them, she knew she needed to be at Varren’s side.

  Lluava watched in awe as Shadows climbed up the walls of the homes and shops lining the narrow passageway. Leaping from rooftop to rooftop, they expanded their defensive radius around their ruler.

  Moments later, a crashing sound came from inside one of the humble houses.

  Weapons were aimed toward the apparently vacant building just as a window shattered outward. Before them, an Úlfhéðnar leapt out and landed on all fours. His blue-black skin was clothed in wolf hides matted with blood. The whites of his eyes had turned completely black, and he glowered at them like a creature from the seven hells.

  “Go, Your Majesty!” Regin shouted as he prepared to combat the fiend. As one of the closest Guards to the monstrous Raider, he knew what must be done. “Flee!”

  Inside another house, a low howl erupted. The Úlfhéðinn did not know the complex layout of the city, yet that did not matter. Boring holes and tunnels like maleficent moles, the creatures were devising their own routes—right through the buildings.

  A small band of elite Shadows broke away and ushered Varren onward. Lluava followed horse and rider, positioning herself by the king’s side. Meanwhile, a storm of black-garbed Guards descended upon the Úlfhéðnar as Lluava and Varren rushed toward their final destination.

  The city seemed to be falling around them. The combined weight and aggressive moves of several clansmen battling a huge monstrosity on the second floor of a storefront caused the weight-bearing beams to collapse. Lluava sensed that Varren wanted to stop and help.

  She dissuaded him. “Your life’s more valuable. Don’t risk it.”

  Varren’s jaw twitched, and he pointed at several of the Guard. “You, there! Give them aid.” The Shadows obeyed unquestioningly.

  The king turned onto another narrow road. Weaving through the city was far from easy. When more Úlfhéðinn emerged, a detachment of Shadows attacked the adversaries. Their party was shrinking. None of the Shadows seemed to rejoin them.

  “Do you sense someone following us?” Lluava asked after a hesitant pause.

  Holly’s emerald eyes darted about, but before she could respond, howls echoed ahead of them. She looked at Lluava, her green irises aflame. The Guard was clearly torn, and Lluava knew why. If the female Shadow left the king to attack an enemy well out of striking range, the young ruler would be vulnerable to an attack. On the other hand, staying by Varren’s side might risk a close-up mishap if confronted by an Úlfhéðnar.

  Holly made her choice. “Protect King Varren. Get him to safety. It’s up to you now.” With that, she left the pair and led the rest of the Shadows to the top of a nearby building in hope of hindering the progress of the approaching enemy.

  Lluava felt the hairs on her neck stand on end. She realized this must be what a leveret tracked by hounds feels like. Varren also appeared worried. There was no need for words; both immediately understood. They must keep moving, for standing still was the equivalent of giving up.

  Moments later, as they approached another crossing, Varren pulled on the reins to halt his horse. He seemed to be listening for something, although this part of the street was quiet. Despite Lluava’s heightened senses, she could not discern any problem.

  “What’s wrong?” she finally asked.

  “Look there.”

  She followed his pointing finger. Many of the structures looked like they had barely made it through an earthquake. Windows were shattered, walls cracked; most ominously, they seemed vacant. Not one person, friend or foe, could be seen.

  How had the Raiders come so far so quickly? Had they moved on? Slowly, the pair trekked ahead, eyeing the molested structures as they moved past.

  Varren stopped again. Breathing heavily, he asked, “What’s that noise?”

  Listening, Lluava heard the long, low moan. A support beam of the building next to them gave way. A memory of the collapsing tunnel that had engulfed her and Varren caused Lluava to act. She slapped his mount, and it leaped ahead as the front section of the structure began to fall.

  With the king out of range, she dodged splintering wood and disintegrating stone. The entire façade fell, and Lluava was forced back. The rest of the building groaned from the gaping wound. It could not remain standing, and she would not be able to cross over the debris before the structure gave way
.

  Varren had regained control of his horse and now turned toward Lluava. “The church!” he cried out, realizing her dilemma. “Head to the church!”

  The building shuddered and collapsed, taking down a secondary structure with it.

  Once the stone and rubble settled, Varren shouted over the impromptu divider, “Lluava!”

  “I’m fine! I’ll meet you at the church!”

  She had to get to Varren quickly. Though he was a more than capable fighter, he would have only a slim chance of survival if he went head to head with an Úlfhéðnar. It was her duty to defend him if he was discovered by those brutes. She might not be his military partner, but it was her responsibility as an Elysian. Moreover, Holly had left the young king in her care. Lluava would do whatever she could to protect him and, if need be, die for him.

  Using the gap left by the fallen buildings, she clambered over to a secondary street. Where did this one lead? Cronus was a maze; there was no straight path to her goal. She picked her way forward with extreme caution. Who knew where other Úlfhéðinn might lie in wait? The vacant structures loomed threateningly. From their height, she knew she was halfway to the center of the city, because the larger homes of the nobility were closer to the castle, as was Varren’s church—the former Theriomorph temple and their meeting spot.

  Should she have risked making her way over the debris to reach Varren? If the stone or mortar had shifted, she might have been seriously hurt or killed. That would have been equivalent to handing over her life to the enemy. Yet now he was on his own. The thought caused Lluava’s heart to flutter with an excruciating terror.

  Treading as fast as she dared on the cobblestone road, Lluava was thankful her Endun shoes had soft soles and muffled her footsteps. She advanced on one street and doubled back on the next as she tried to find her way among the convoluted roadways.

  Something flew overhead.

  Ducking, Lluava sprang next to a wall to protect her back.

  The small pebble bounced off a cobblestone before skittering down the road.

  “Psst. Over here!” hissed a roguish voice.

  In an alley on the far side of the street, Lluava recognized the massive silhouette of a Berserker, his horned helmet distorted by the flickering light from a wind-rocked lantern. Lluava’s insides knotted and she stepped back.

  The speaker swore. “Wait!” he called, as loudly as he dared. The voice changed pitch, lower to higher. “Just a moment.” Soon, Luka’s lanky silhouette replaced that of the brute. Her fellow Incarn waved his hand for her to approach. As she did, she saw Luka tuck his slingshot into his belt.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  Luka peered about warily as he answered, “I don’t want to be here in this mess. Where’s Apex?”

  “I don’t know. I last saw him at the gates. I was heading to the temple.”

  “Right...” Luka poked his head around the corner.

  “That trick,” Lluava remarked, still astonished at the capabilities of her fellow Incarn. “That was amazing. I really thought you were one of them.”

  Distractedly, he waved to her to follow. “This way, then.”

  Lluava trailed her friend as he led her in several winding loops. Finally, she was able to see the castle towers rising above the destroyed buildings that had hindered her ability to recognize where she was.

  “Luka, about Selene.” Lluava understood this was not the time or place to offer her explanation of his sister’s murder, yet she might not get another chance. But what should she say? He knew they hated each other. He knew of Lluava’s impulsive decisions. Nevertheless, he had to have known that she had never desired Selene’s death. “Things should have ended differently.”

  The youth hesitated briefly. “That they should.” He gestured for her to continue as he pushed open a door leading into one of the larger houses.

  Luka moved purposefully. Like his shadow, Lluava crept up the first two flights of stairs.

  “Why are we inside?” she asked as they progressed through the abandoned building. “And how did you know this door was unlocked?”

  Luka put his hand on her arm as if to lead her. Feeling a small sting, Lluava stepped back. “What —” she began, and then she felt her whole body go numb. Luka caught her as she fell. She would have cried out, but her tongue was immobilized as well.

  “I forgot how quickly that one worked,” he said aloud. Looking at Lluava’s wide, rolling eyes, he added, “Don’t worry. The effects are only temporary.” He began to drag her across the room. “You will be back to your old self,” he said with a heave, “soon.”

  Able to move only her eyes, Lluava was prevented by her angle of vision from seeing where Luka was taking her. She heard him kick open a door as he struggled to pull her outside. They were on a balcony. A light but steady rain splattered her face.

  “You have to understand,” he began, almost slipping in a puddle as he lowered her to the ground, “I never wanted to do any of this. I would have liked things to be different, too.”

  Luka left her for a short time before returning with pillows in hand. “You have family, a brother, a sister, a mother. You understand. You might not be related by blood, but your feelings, your connection—that is real.” He propped pillows under her head. “Selene was my sister. Self-centered, I know. But she was my family, and that was real.”

  Throwing a blanket over the immobilized woman, he carefully tucked her in, leaving her head exposed. “I don’t want you getting sick out here. The rain is merciless.” Beads of water dripped off his white-spotted hair. One landed on her cheek, and he wiped it off immediately. “Okay.” He looked her over. “I’ll be back.”

  What was happening? Lluava wondered in sheer fear. Unable to move or cry out, she was at Luka’s mercy. He did not seem to wish her harm, but why place her in this position? The Raiders would be different. If a Berserker found her, she was as good as dead.

  ***

  Although the rain had lessened by the time Luka returned, Lluava’s blanket was soaked through. After replacing the sopping cloth with a dry one, he anxiously peered over the balcony and sighed.

  “It shouldn’t have ended this way. Yet family ties are so strange. Here we go…”

  Squatting down by Lluava’s head, Luka tucked more pillows behind her until she was propped up on her side. Now she could look through the decorative gaps in the balcony’s balustrade. What was all this for? She could see the roofs and walls of the neighboring homes; curtains were drawn at most windows. As she looked, one distant building crumbled and collapsed.

  The sound of shouts and the clatter of weapons could be heard from multiple sectors around the city, yet the loudest seem to come from directly under them. Luka muttered, “Oh, wait.” With one more adjustment, Lluava’s face was pressed close to the gap at a new angle.

  In the street below, illuminated by torchlight, she could see two figures in combat. Varren was fighting for his life. His opponent threatened him with every move. What was happening?

  Varren’s enemy couldn’t be real. This must be one of Luka’s tricks. Apex was attacking the king without mercy. The fury of Varren’s sword fended off the threatening twin blades of Ullr’s Fangs. They were both out for blood! This was no game but a fight to the death—and only one man would come out alive. But why?

  Luka appeared to read her thoughts. “This is what becomes of men when they are stripped down to their base natures. No inhibitions. Pure emotion.” He moved to the other side of Lluava and stared at the men below. “Those large Raiders, the Berserkers, are just the same. It sickens me, but that’s the way it seems.”

  Lluava wanted to speak but was unable to. She could only watch as each man attempted to release the other’s soul in death. This was not possible. Why this fight? Was Apex siding with the Outlanders? Or had Varren assumed he was?

  Once again, Luka seemed to understand the utter confusion written on the young woman’s features. “They are fighting over you. Base instinc
ts. Testosterone everywhere. Stags in rut. Both desire you; both loathe the fact that your affections have wavered between them. Whom will Lluava choose? The king—the epitome of sophistication, honorable, overly righteous? Or the huntsman—crude, rough, far too physical for my taste, but an Incarn like yourself? Which one? Which one?

  “I only had to, well, act as a sort of catalyst to help enhance their anger, their lust, each one’s desire to make you his own. Strange what a simple trick of the mind can do.” He paused, listening to the clamor of weapons. “They are on their own now. You have a front-row seat to watch this final climax. I know I’m forcing a resolution on this matter, but you were never really going to decide. So much drama. Too much, really. Especially when there are far more important issues at hand.”

  Stop this nonsense! Lluava wanted to scream. Yet her tongue remained limp in her mouth. Her body was useless. Neither Apex nor Varren had any idea that she was observing this wretched show of brute strength, this fabricated duel for the right to her heart.

  There was no satisfaction in Luka’s hushed voice. “Do not worry. I have ensured that neither Varren nor Apex will be disturbed. Even the Obsidian Guard will be of no consequence. Their pathetic minds will not tell the king apart from a certain common foot soldier.” He waved his hands in front of her face, and for a moment, Lluava could have sworn Varren was stooped over her. “I bet that poor bastard is wondering why he deserves their royal protection. Ha!”

  From below, Apex yelled, “You don’t deserve her! You couldn’t even resist Selene’s charms. You are weak in both mind and body. Lluava deserves someone strong. Someone who is her equal match.”

  Varren countered Apex’s attack with respectable ease and responded between thrusts and parries, “I have loved her since the beginning. I have never, could never, conceive of hurting her. But you,” Varren said, striking at the huntsman, “you tried to rape her. You who preferred to swim at the bottom of a bottle or sleep with any whore you could afford. You even admitted to killing a child, taking an innocent life. You are vile. Loathsome. Grotesque.”