Giahem's Talons

by Katharine Wibell

  With an animal roar, Apex slashed at Varren with the Fangs. “I might be all those things, might have done those things. But who are you to judge? I have paid for my sins. The boy should not have been there that day. Killed in crossfire. I buried my sorrow, my remorse, in a blind stupor for years. I never sought redemption. It was fate that ripped me free of that life. That same fate drives me toward Lluava, yet you are too small-minded to understand that.”

  As their battle continued, Luka spoke again, and Lluava sensed his own heartbreak. “This is a bit much, I understand. But it needed to be done, finished. You killed Selene, my beautiful sister. That hurt. What also hurt was knowing that no matter how much I helped you, you would never look at me the way you look at either of those two.” From the corner of her eye, Lluava could see Luka pointing to the pair of men below. “My poor sister. She saved me.”

  Lluava could hear the curses doled out as the men fought.

  “Then again, she was a bitch. Controlling, conniving, manipulative. I guess, in a way, you set me free.”

  Varren cried out as a line of red appeared on his soiled white shirt. Nearby, Apex faltered from an injury of his own.

  “So I am, in a way, doing you a favor and freeing you from this unending drama of the age-old romantic triangle. Please try to understand. I don’t hate you.” There was another pause before he spoke in a very thoughtful tone. “Now, perhaps my sister’s soul can rest in peace.”

  As soon as Apex received a matching wound from the king, he shifted into his dual form. The beast with blood-matted fur snarled as Varren chastised him. “You’re pathetic. You cannot even fight me like a man. Your savagery comes out. How could Lluava ever love someone so dishonorable?”

  Responding to the goad, Apex retorted, “And you would not use any means possible to cut me down? You lie to yourself if you think otherwise. We are the same in this.”

  Varren stumbled away from Apex’s lunge.

  Luka continued to speak. “This is my exit. Out of respect for you, you will never see or hear from me again. Through the darkness I go, until I reach the light. In new lands will I seek my home. Long life, Theri, Goddess of War.”

  At the edge of her field of vision, Lluava watched Luka shift into a black jackal, pause to look back at her one final time, and then lope off.

  Apex’s voice boomed, “Lluava told me what happened to Thad. She killed him. In front of you. How can you openly admit to yourself that you can forgive her for that? You would harbor the seed of hatred within you. It would grow and fester until it tore you both apart. Lluava deserves someone who accepts her in all her forms, along with all the choices she makes.”

  Varren held his sword positioned between himself and the massive animal and replied, “She deserves that. I fully agree. But you misjudge me. The anger I hold is not for her.”

  “Liar!” roared Apex. He shook off a layer of tinted rainwater in all directions. Several of the muddied droplets hit Varren’s face and blurred his sight. The king desperately swiped at his eyes to clear his vision. Before the wolverine could lunge, Varren shouted, “Thad murdered his wife!”

  Apex hesitated. Varren continued, “When the Outlanders turned on the humans, Thad thought the Raiders had breached the walls. It was a grave misunderstanding. In response, Thad stabbed his wife several times and watched her bleed to death in front of him. I arrived moments later. He was hysterical. He said he had murdered her out of mercy. That death was better than being in the clutches of the enemy. I told him to never speak of it again, and I took him with me. I needed to save him, to save something, when all else seemed lost.”

  The two men circled one another suspiciously while Varren continued, “Lluava was right to kill him. He was a danger to himself and others. And to me. I knew it, but I was compelled to take that risk. I refused to lose him. I did not have the courage, even though I knew, I knew he… Lluava is stronger than I.”

  “On that, we can both agree,” Apex snarled.

  Varren lowered his sword. “Lluava is better than both of us. Just look. Look at us. What are we doing? We should be concentrating on Elysia and this godforsaken war. We have made—are still making—poor choices, selfish ones. Lluava puts others first; she desires only what is best for her comrades, our people, and the kingdom.”

  For a long moment, Apex considered Varren’s words. He was skeptical of the human’s intentions. Clearly trying to expose this as a bluff, Apex stepped closer, “What greater good?” He spat into the king’s face. “To the seven hells with your babbling! We have a fight to finish.”

  “No. That is where you are wrong.” Varren sheathed his sword. “Not everything should be resolved through bloodshed. We cannot duel over Lluava as if she were an object. She is not a prize to be won. She has the right to choose between us, if either one is what she truly desires. I will let her have that choice.” The young king turned away.

  Apex’s pain intensified his rage, and Lluava could sense his fury from her prostrate position.

  “Don’t turn your back on me, coward!” Shifting to human form, Apex jeered, “Fight me like a man! If that’s what you want, I will show you that I am the only one worthy of her! Right here, right now. Fight me!”

  Speaking over his shoulder, Varren responded calmly, “No. I have a war to fight, to win.”

  The roar of frustration following Varren’s departure echoed down the street. Before Lluava could observe which way Apex was heading, she felt huge, leathery hands grab hold of her. She had been discovered! But by whom?

  Chapter 32

  Entering Nott’s Embrace

  Lluava’s limp body was lifted up by the strong form. She was carried away from the balcony, down flights of stairs, and into the streets of Cronus. Friend or foe? She yearned to turn her head and see who held her.

  Instead, her head bobbed up and down with each long stride. Once again, Lluava was trapped—this time, inside her own body. Her heart raced with the awareness of her lack of control. She could not lash out, scream, or utter a single sound. Her body was a cage, and she was locked within.

  If this man was a Raider, why hadn’t she been killed on the spot? Yet if he was a friend, what then? What would he do if the Raiders charged them? Would she be discarded like a decoy to die at the hands of the enemy? How could this man defend them both, when carrying her prevented his use of any weapon?

  She could see the overturned carts of street merchants that had displayed brightly dyed fabrics and large spools of yarn. Smeared with dirt and rubbish, the wares were scattered over the cobblestones. An alley cat slapped at an abandoned birdcage. The colorfully plumed creature inside it cried out and beat its wings at the far side of its prison. The powerless woman identified with the poor avian’s feelings. She could almost taste the fear, so like her own, emanating from the feathered animal.

  Lluava felt herself slip. Rough hands gripped and shifted her dead weight to a different position. Now her head tilted at a new angle, rolling to the other side. She could finally see her abductor.

  Ammit’s expression was determined. His wide mouth curled in something akin to a grimace. His vigilant dark eyes darted in all directions. Lluava knew the Theriomorph’s small ears were alert to every sound.

  Unable to ask him where they were going, she tried to soothe her thrumming heart and reassure herself that she was in the arms of a mighty warrior. The Outlander was as fierce as any drugged Berserker. Lluava had dealt with him firsthand not that long ago, in an arena where she expected him to kill her. How far they had come since then!

  She was certain of one thing: wherever Ammit was taking her, Yena was sure to be waiting. He was her servant, her strong man, her unofficial champion. The Outlander was following the high priestess’s command. Lluava was thankful that she would at least be carried to safety.

  That safety soon loomed over them. Ammit’s stride changed as he climbed the temple’s steep stairs. Lluava looked over his shoulder as they crossed the columned porch and entered the temple. As they appro
ached the sanctuary, a new concern assaulted her. Apparently, neither Varren nor Apex had arrived. Although Ammit’s echoing footsteps made it sound as if they were not alone, the whole building appeared empty. What had happened to everyone else? Others should have been here by now.

  Lluava’s sight began to blur. Tears bubbled up, distorting her vision, but she could not wipe them away. A few rolled down her face; others obscured her chance of glimpsing the king’s arrival.

  She realized they were descending into old Rhadamanthus, but she was unable to orient herself during the journey into the depths of the ancient city. Finally, she was lowered onto something cold and hard—a stone block or perhaps the floor. Ammit gently wiped her eyes. Although Lluava still could not control her neck, she began to feel a tingling at the very tips of her toes and fingers.

  Time dragged on as, one by one, her muscles slowly regained feeling. Finally able to prop herself up, she recognized the underground chamber that contained the black water pool.

  Someone was approaching.

  “My child, how are you feeling?” Yena’s husky voice asked kindly. “When Ammit informed me that you were still paralyzed, I was worried that you would not recover. I am glad your enemies had not the chance to inflict any more damage.”

  The high priestess raised her gaze to the third person in the room. “Here….”

  Lluava felt Ammit lift her once again but this time only to her feet.

  Yena studied her fellow Incarn with a quizzical expression. “I sent Ammit to find you. I have received visions.” The priestess glanced at the pool. “They all seem to be connected to you. I know you are weak and exhausted, but Crocotta herself desires your presence.”

  The high priestess’s assumption was correct; Lluava was struggling to find strength, and she was hungry and tired. Though part of her exhaustion could be attributed to Luka’s treachery, most was simply due to lack of rest over the past few days. As her tongue still felt like lead in her mouth, she nodded in acknowledgment.

  “Will you help me interpret Crocotta’s message?”

  Again, Lluava nodded, and Ammit assisted her to the edge of the pool.

  “I am always humbled when I scry for the goddess,” Yena continued. “Crocotta has the power of prophecy, yet I, her mortal instrument, can only do so with her blessing and the black water. The irony is that this liquid is found only in the eleven centers of Nott’s worship.”

  The high priestess studied Lluava’s confused expression. “After Nott’s affair with Giahem, she was banished and sent to rule over the underworld. Although a goddess, she was never permitted a patron city. Yet death is everywhere, and the goddess of death needed to be worshiped.

  “Every Theriomorph province has a coliseum associated with the goddess where those of might or ill will, in competition or in punishment, depart the world of the living. The eleven great cities also created underground realms that mirrored the upper world. These were cities for the dead, and specific chambers were dedicated to Nott.

  “Offerings for the goddess are left in the black water. Our people believe that when an offering is dropped into the liquid, the blackness absorbs it completely and sends it to the seven hells. The pools of black water are thought of as gateways to the other side.”

  Yena’s hands hovered over the pool. “I have always found it strange that I, Crocotta’s Incarn, receive her visions by means of the black water inside places of worship dedicated to Nott—the goddess whom Crocotta despises. Yet, who am I to question such things?”

  She gave Ammit a signal and he left the room. Lluava gripped the lip of the pool for support while considering the new knowledge. The high priestess began her preliminary ritual. This time, Lluava was by her side.

  Multiple images manifested in no discernable order: First, a pair of hands groped at a gaping wound in a torso. Spurting blood, the wound meant certain death to whomever suffered it. This boded ill for Lluava. Was the tragic vision a signal that the war would be lost? Soon, the image changed. Varren’s face appeared and turned a hideous shade of blue, his eyes bulging as the light in them began to fade. Was he the one injured? No; he looked as if he were struggling for breath.

  The image grew faint, then reformed into that of Head Councilman Themis holding the pale hand of Odel as he led the boy away from the Verta Mountains and Erebos. In the distance, the setting sun seem to set the mountain range ablaze. What had happened to Themis since he had departed southward? Lluava had not seen him among the soldiers. Had he returned to the City of Shadows? Stayed at Amargo? Or was he here at Cronus?

  The water rippled as a panorama of blood and decay filled the entire pool. Skeletal wolves rose from red puddles to slaughter the few poor unfortunates that still drew breath. This was a little more obvious to Lluava: the wolves were the Úlfhéðinn. They were killing everyone, with no end in sight.

  The scene was slit into thirds as if one of Issaura’s Claws had sliced through the image. Once the panorama faded into darkness, an image manifested against the black backdrop: the golden weapons dripping red pearls, a limp snake lying skewered on its tips. Lluava’s stomach twisted. Did Yena understand what this meant? Before she could wonder further, the vision reformed a final time to show an aerial shot of silver and white forms in combat. They spun and spiraled around a black pond.

  She barely had time to look around when the crack and snap of Crocotta’s Hackles broke the heavy silence in the room. Yena’s eyes burned as her silver whip flicked in the air. Leaning against the ledge, Lluava struggled to lift Issaura’s Claws in defense.

  She knew. Yena had understood it all. The priestess had brought Lluava here not for assistance but to charge her with the crimes she had already committed. Unfortunately, the younger Incarn was in no shape to defend herself.

  The high priestess’s voice rose, its cadence transformed into something unearthly. “And the twelve Incarn of the gods are to unite, righting the past wrongs.” Yena cracked the Hackles again, and the tip of her weapon unwrapped to reveal nine barbed ends lapping at the air.

  “The golden era of the Theriomorph race will begin.”

  The whip snapped; its hooked ends shot forward. Lluava had no time to react as one barb stopped just short of her left eye.

  “Leading them into this light is the one birthed from the life blood of Issaura.”

  Yena allowed the Hackles to settle. “I am only the mortal instrument, flawed as all mortals are. I was wrong.” The priestess trailed one ebony hand down the whip’s handle. “You are not Issaura’s Incarn. You were not made by the gods. I wanted you to be. I believed you to be. I needed you to be. You were supposed to be the sign we were all waiting for.” Taking a shaky breath, she continued, “I was wrong. When I saw that first vision of Apex and you, I thought it was you—but it was Apex, the whole time it was Apex. I placed upon you a burden that you did not deserve, and for that I repent.” A single tear slid down her cheek.

  Lluava awkwardly clutched the ledge of the pool as she tried to keep her knees from buckling. She focused on the sensations rising through her body.

  Yena sighed. “In a way, I am partially at fault for this, our race’s undoing. All the Incarn were supposed to unite. All of us. Now, one is gone. You killed the Incarn of Suada. You destroyed the chance for our golden future. No Incarn was ever to raise arms against another. Now, as punishment, I, Incarn of Crocotta, sentence you to death.”

  “You don’t understand.” Lluava’s voice sounded thick and muffled. Her tongue seemed to roll around on its own accord. “Selene was the villain, not me. She was going to poison my friends. I was only trying to get the cure from her, and if it hadn’t been for my bird—”

  Yena shook her head dismissively, then looked up quickly. “Bird?”

  Lluava realized that the high priestess had no knowledge of her pet—but how could she not have known? Yet Onyx had never been in Leucrocotta. What about afterward? They must have crossed paths in Cronus.

  “Yes. Onyx, my raven.”

 
Gazing at the black water, Yena muttered to herself, “Strange. Another sign that you are Issaura’s Incarn, but—”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Lluava. She didn’t care about the signs, but she had to stall Yena. Too weak for combat, she needed time to run through possible escape strategies.

  The priestess was clearly struggling; something was bothering her. “Your bird…the dual form of Theri’s mother, Nott, is a raven. Yet you cannot be Incarn. You are an impostor.” The priestess flicked Crocotta’s Hackles again. “You are false! You must be killed for your sins!”

  The whip’s ends ripped through Lluava’s soiled shirt and bit into flesh, tearing out chunks on its recoil. The Hackles never tangled, and each time they lashed out at her, she retreated lest she be pierced by more barbs.

  Although Lluava swiped at the Hackles with Issaura’s Claws, another section of her flesh was peeled from a knuckle. Would Yena skin her alive, or bleed her to death? Stumbling on wobbly legs, Lluava’s tactics changed abruptly when the Hackles ensnared one of the Claws. Glowing runes appeared on both weapons.

  Yena attempted to wrench the Claw from Lluava’s weakening grip. Instead, the barbs reacted to the jerking motion, untangled themselves, and recoiled. Lluava’s body moved sluggishly, but she made her way around the perimeter of the room.

  A gale of laughter erupted behind her. Turning, she saw the priestess expertly sling the Hackles over her shoulder, allowing the long cords to wrap around her own torso several times before the barbed ends hooked into the flesh of her back. Yet she did not flinch, and the laughter of a hyena burst forth once more.

  Then Yena shifted. As the silver-furred creature snarled, a line of metal-coated hair stood erect down its back.

  “I will fulfill the will of the gods. You will never leave this place, dear one. Relinquish Issaura’s Claws, and I will end this quickly.”

  “I am Theri’s Incarn,” Lluava responded. Her voice slowly regained its normal tone. “Issaura’s Claws are mine.”

  Yena charged, hysterical laughter trailing behind her. Lluava barely shifted in time. When the tigress collided with the hyena, the gilded claws nearly knocked the smaller animal off course. However, Yena’s metal-infused fur pierced the tiger’s hide like needles. The tigress slashed at the hyena. Both animals attacked in full ferocity.