Giahem's Talons

by Katharine Wibell

  Slinging Giahem’s Wings over his shoulder, Aquila said, “I am not like you, she-beast; I cannot change my skin. But I can help with those arrows.” Without another word, Aquila began to descend the wall, as he had done in Erebos. “I will be back!” he shouted, just as an Úlfhéðnar rose up in front of Lluava.

  Blue-black skin glistening with sweat. Tattered wolf-hide cloak pinned by a brooch under his Adam’s apple. Pale blond beard and hair matted with blood. Eyes glinting like flecks of obsidian in the sun.

  Lluava tilted her head to the side, considering the monstrosity before her. She calmly observed the Raider as he unsheathed his longsword. Issaura’s Claws felt cool against her palms, as if they, too, were unthreatened.

  Around her, Crocotta’s Hackles were carefully filleting the exposed chest and back of Yena’s Úlfhéðnar. Varren’s sword was swung expertly to deflect a giant axe’s blade. In the distance, a raven cawed. The bellowing roar of Theriomorphs met the furious shouts of men.

  In a world wavering blue-green, Lluava was both Theriomorph and something more extraordinary. She knew when to spring aside. The Úlfhéðnar thrust his sword at her, but she was already scaling the roof, using her Claws to pull herself upward. The giant Raider raced after her once he realized his mistake. On all fours, sword between his teeth, the savage brute was rapidly catching up.

  Reaching the peak, Lluava spun around and dropped down onto her back, her head now lower than her feet. Bending her knees, she planted both feet firmly against the slanted roof and pushed off. Allowing gravity to help accelerate her, she slid directly toward the approaching enemy. With her arms stretched over her head like an arrow, she turned her Claws so that the sickled blades faced the Úlfhéðnar. She raised them at just the right moment, and they collided with the behemoth’s sword. The impact forced the blade backward, slicing off the top of the Úlfhéðnar’s skull.

  Her body continued to slide, picking up speed. She quickly tried to catch hold of the roof with her weapons. Shingles shattered with each bite of her Claws. Suddenly, one dug in and caught; her body was wrenched to a stop at the edge of the roof, with her head dangling over the side. She looked down at the street. Aquila had apparently retrieved the quiver, but there was no sign of him.

  A mixture of sounds—clattering, thudding, scraping—assaulted her ears. Raising her head, she saw the corpse of her recent victim sliding in her direction. She scrambled to her feet and vaulted out of the way just as the Úlfhéðnar rolled over the edge.

  Lluava moved to help her comrades. Although Yena had already killed one of the creatures, others hoisted themselves onto the angled battleground. Two Úlfhéðinn readied their weapons before her. The high priestess caught Lluava’s eye and shouted, “Head to the temple!” She had only a moment to point to a rope that led to another household. The high priestess shared a final vision from Crocotta: “I was never meant to be at the fight by the temple. Only you two! Go!”

  The priestess shifted into the silver hyena with metallic hackles. Emitting a nervous laugh, the creature lunged at its first opponent. Lluava was busy assisting the young king in the midst of his own battle.

  Collecting the faulty wooden ladder, Lluava swung it at Varren’s Úlfhéðnar. The monstrosity instinctively reached out and grabbed hold of the impromptu weapon, then jerked both the ladder and Lluava toward himself. Though his reflexes were anything but normal, the creature was momentarily distracted and unable to block Varren’s sword.

  Although the weapon severed the spinal cord and the Úlfhéðnar collapsed, the brute continued to cling to the ladder while swinging his axe at Varren and Lluava. Between them, the Úlfhéðnar soon drew his last breath.

  “To the rope,” Lluava stated calmly while Varren panted. Infused with the goddess’s power, she would never be weary from battle.

  Varren glanced at their mode of escape. “What about the high priestess?”

  She did not look at the other Incarn. “Níᵭingr is getting away. Yena said to leave without her.”

  Lluava sensed the human’s uncertainty and dismay, but she responded firmly, “We need to move, Varren.”

  Reluctantly, the young king grasped the rope. He used his hands to pull while his legs, crossed over the cord, helped shimmy him forward. Once he was a good body-length out, Lluava followed.

  The rope was hard to negotiate with two bodies causing it to swing from side to side, but it was their only option. Even if the ladder had not cracked from the Úlfhéðnar’s abuse, the other building’s roof was too far away.

  The wind continued to be more burden than blessing. Varren almost lost his grip. Once secured, he glanced back at her. They were three-fourths of the way up, and there was no turning back.

  Suddenly, Varren warned, “Watch out!”

  An Úlfhéðnar’s sword was spinning through the air at Lluava. Drawing upon her inborn strength, she hauled herself up one length farther just as the blade severed the cord by her feet.

  Human and Theriomorph clung to the rope as it swung to the far side, where they collided with the stony wall of the other building. The jolt caused Varren to lose his grip, but he grabbed hold of a window ledge. A fall from that height would surely have killed him.

  Lluava’s body jerked and she slid down the rope. There was no time to find footholds. Her fingers slipped past the frayed end, and she was free-falling to the ground.

  Shifting, the enormous felid landed on all fours like a housecat. The impact was staggering. Her entire body was momentarily in agony, before another force took over and the pain faded away. The world was a vivid blue-green.

  Sparkling red droplets splattered on the cobblestone from a cut on her shoulder. It was ill-placed but not deep. No major veins or arteries were affected. She would be able to continue with relative ease.

  Varren had pulled himself onto the wide ledge, broken the window with the hilt of his sword, and entered the building. Lluava knew he would make his way to the street. She would have waited to take action, but action found her first.

  The tigress turned in the direction of the road’s curve, around which figures were emerging. Níᵭingr and his men had arrived.

  He caught sight of her. A low rumble escaped her lips. Her whiskers flared; her tail twitched. Her ears pulled back against her head.

  In the sunlight, Ivar’s dark auburn hair and beard were no less threatening. His eyes, like his flesh, were that blue-black hue, yet they seemed to coruscate with a piercing, almost consuming, quality. About his shoulders was a hide cloak—not the tanned pelt of a wolf but the flesh of a man, a Theriomorph. Lluava instinctively knew it was one of Derrick’s comrades. There was no mercy in Níᵭingr.

  There was no mercy in Lluava either.

  An overpowering urge to fight him consumed Lluava’s emotions. She could kill him now. Who cared what happened to her afterward? Her comrades would win this war without her if Níᵭingr were dead.

  The Úlfhéðnar, seeming to understand her desire, appeared to smile without doing so. He approached at a steady pace. His men, like hounds looking to their master for a command, followed at his heels, eyeing the white tigress viciously.

  She would kill him, Lluava decided. She spat and snarled, her gilded foreclaws grating on the cobblestone. She would know what his life tasted like.

  “Don’t do it,” said a man’s voice. It was not Varren but Apex.

  The huntsman had loped up behind her in his dual form. The massive bronze wolverine, muzzle encased in metal, stood just as tall as she. Shoulder to shoulder, the two beasts watched as the Úlfhéðinn continued their steady approach. Apex’s presence reminded Lluava of her original purpose. She would fight Níᵭingr, but not with his men, and not alone.

  “Where are the others?” Apex asked quickly, for time was running out. The wound on his back had not healed and was still raw and open.

  Lluava had no time to answer. Although she had not observed him doing so, Níᵭingr must have given a signal. Without warning, his men lunged onto all fours an
d charged. Half of them bounded along the narrow roadway; the others nimbly climbed the walls in an inhuman manner, as if gravity had no hold on them. All had but one intention, to slay the pair of Theriomorphs standing in their way.

  Chapter 39

  The Last Stand

  Half stumbling out the door behind Lluava, Varren was already preparing to fight. If he was surprised by Apex’s unexpected presence, that thought was all but forgotten by the sight of the advancing Úlfhéðinn scaling walls and sprinting down the cobblestoned road.

  “Move back!” The presence that was Lluava was surprised at how quickly Varren had recovered from the visual shock and given the order. Humans were proving to be adaptable. “To the church,” he shouted as he began to run, although his speed was the slowest of those involved in this race.

  Lluava shouted, “Climb on!”

  Without hesitating, Varren swung up behind the tigress’s withers as though mounting a horse. With Apex loping beside them, the trio desperately tried to gain ground and stay ahead of the enemy.

  “What’s the plan?” Apex grunted. Lluava realized that he had not been present for the decision-making. She wondered how he had known where to find them in the labyrinth of roadways.

  Varren responded, “We must lead the Úlfhéðinn toward the last rigged trap before springing the device. This final blockade could help separate Níᵭingr from the rest of those monstrosities.”

  Lluava added, “We must be far enough beyond the trap so that when the debris falls, we are on the temple side along with Ivar—assuming he is not killed by the debris itself. All other routes into the temple grounds have been sealed. He will be forced to fight us and die.”

  Apex glanced back, then said, “Níᵭingr is not among the forerunners, though he is following.”

  “Let us hope that changes,” stated Varren grimly. He clutched Lluava’s fur tightly enough to hold on but not enough to hurt her. At the moment, she would not have cared either way.

  The last trap came into sight. Beyond it stood the temple in all its glory.

  “Damn!” Varren exclaimed.

  The human’s anger caused Lluava to scan the area. It was impossible for her to have missed something or someone. The only thing of note that she could see was the ever-nearing trap and the white marble of the columned temple.

  “What?”

  “Everyone left their posts, remember?” Varren said, his voice strained with worry.

  “So…” Apex began, then griped, “there is no one to set off the trap. We have led the band of Úlfhéðinn into a dead end.”

  They would need a new plan. Lluava knew that the road wrapping around the temple was one of the widest in the city. It afforded greater maneuverability, which was good for battle. She quickly calculated how she could combat multiple Úlfhéðinn. With the goddess in her, she could accomplish what others believed impossible.

  Feeling Varren tighten his grip, she wondered what good the human would be. And what of Apex? The Incarn had a god of his own, but he had yet to fully connect with Ullr. Lacking that bond, he was far weaker than she, and there were too many Úlfhéðinn.

  “Thank you.”

  Who was Varren talking to? From the corner of her eye, Lluava saw the wolverine veer away. He was going to charge the pack of Úlfhéðinn! The probability that Apex would survive was nil. He must realize this was suicide. Another Incarn would fall. So be it.

  A cold resolve swept over Lluava. She would neither turn around nor go after him. Not this time. The temple was their goal, and that was where she headed. The sound of mythic beast battling mutant monstrosities caused Lluava’s ears to flick back, but her eyes remained focused straight ahead. Why look upon the devastation behind her? What would be the point? If Apex chose to sacrifice himself, the very least she could do would be to keep her own mind collected and clear for the fight still to come.

  Counting the strides left before they passed the overloaded trap, Lluava eyed the bulging net that would never release its burden. High up, where the rooftop met the cloud-studded sky, there was movement. A figure appeared.

  Squinting to recognize the person against the harsh sunlight, Lluava recognized Yamir. He was preoccupied with severing the taut rope with a knife. The entire load jolted, as if it were about to drop too early.

  Was Ivar behind them? How many Úlfhéðinn were on her heels? Would the trap hold long enough?

  Picking up speed, the tigress leaped into the clearing in front of the temple. She sensed a slight vibration, which quickly grew from a low rumble to a thunderous explosion of sound. As she skirted the clearing to face the collapsing pile of rubble, she felt Varren jump from her back. Stone and mortar, timber and iron—all crashed onto the cobblestones, sending a cloud of dust into the air. Glimpsing the top of the pile through the settling debris, Lluava realized that the barricade was only three stories tall. Any Úlfhéðinn remaining on the far side could easily climb over.

  All at once, more clansmen appeared. They began to hurl javelins and spears at the enemy. With that worry abated, Lluava waited to see whether Ivar had been crushed or had made it past the barricade.

  The dusty cloud began to dissipate, exposing the giant silhouette of an Úlfhéðnar. The man stepped forth defiantly. It was Níᵭingr. Unfortunately, he was not alone; two Úlfhéðinn had crossed with him. The helmet of one had been knocked off by the debris, and a deep gash in his head bled heavily. Lluava was able to calculate the moment he would die from loss of blood, and so disregarded him as a threat. The other seemed unharmed.

  Without hesitation, Níᵭingr moved forward. His minions waited as a sign of respect. Lluava knew it would take both Varren and herself to kill Ivar. With one brute certain to die on his own, the other monstrosity remained to foil their hope of slaying the Raiders’ commander.

  Suddenly, there were five ear-piercing whistle blasts.

  Varren and the Úlfhéðinn were not affected, but the clansmen began to abandon their positions. Lluava wondered who had given the signal to retreat, and why. This situation worsened their likelihood of success. At any moment, more Úlfhéðinn would climb over the barricade.

  Without warning, the temple grounds shook with another explosion, closely followed by a third. The two accompanying Úlfhéðinn were flung into the air, while Níᵭingr was thrown to the ground. Behind them, the pair of buildings that bordered the makeshift barrier collapsed, creating an enormous barricade that would be virtually impossible to cross.

  Giahem’s Talons had saved them again. But where was the shooter stationed? Lluava turned to the issue at hand. The remains of the pair of Úlfhéðinn were scattered about. Níᵭingr had righted himself. He almost looked impressed, if such an evaluation could make its way through his drug-infused mind. Ivar’s jet-black eyes cast their menacing gaze on Lluava and the human standing beside her.

  “You and me,” Varren said. His voice was calm, though he emanated nervous energy.

  “You and me,” Lluava heard herself say. Herself. Not the goddess. She was back in control for the moment.

  Níᵭingr dropped to all fours and charged, the cape of tanned hide rippling behind him. Roaring, Lluava readied herself to strike out at the oncomer. Varren held his sword before him. Several yards out, the giant Raider sprang to his feet and pulled his weapon from his sheath. The longsword was serrated on both sides like the teeth of an alligator ready to snap at its prey.

  Lluava’s dual form presented too large a target. The tigress leaped aside while shifting back to human form. Somersaulting onto the ground, she saw Varren’s sword hook Níᵭingr’s. The serrated edges caused the king’s weapon to dislodge at an odd angle. Untrained against such a weapon, Varren slowly edged backward toward the temple.

  Lluava’s mind was calmed by her blue-green state. As if by instinct, she understood the maneuvers she would need to take. Nevertheless, both Varren and Lluava found it surprisingly hard to stay ahead of this brute’s strikes. Like all Úlfhéðinn, this man was a void, thus unpredictable an
d extremely dangerous.

  Time slowed, enabling Lluava to envision the angles and trajectory of Níᵭingr’s weapon. His sword was ribboned with red, a color that stood out brightly in her altered vision. This red was not the blood of prior victims, but more like veins under flesh. It was as if the sword had a life of its own.

  Unwilling to feed the weapon’s clear hunger, Varren and Lluava were forced back against the temple’s unusually large steps. They could not turn to run inside, for exposing their backs would mean certain death. Where else could they go?

  A bird cawed fretfully above them. Onyx? Or a repugnant scavenger waiting for its next meal?

  Clearing her thoughts, Lluava identified a moment to strike out. Her Claw carved divots in the back of Níᵭingr’s dominant hand, which gave Varren an opportunity to scramble up the stairs to the temple’s large, open doors.

  Leaping after Varren, Lluava barely missed a strike. A loud crack resounded as Níᵭingr’s sword cut deep into the marble step. After a small tug to remove his weapon, he was after them again.

  There was no time to use the higher angle to her advantage once Lluava reached the top, for the massive Raider was only a step behind. Leaping to Varren’s side, she brandished Issaura’s Claws.

  Everything was happening so fast, even for Lluava’s hyperacute senses. One moment they were battling in the doorway; the next they were backing up into an interior room of the temple. Lluava received a superficial cut to her thigh, but Varren delivered a matching mark to Níᵭingr—the first real hit on the brutal opponent. Once again, she shifted, and the white tigress gave a mighty roar.

  “What do you think will happen if you kill me?”

  Níᵭingr had spoken. Slowly and clearly, making sure that every word and syllable was identifiable.

  How could that be? None of the Úlfhéðinn had been able to formulate rational thought while in their drugged state, much less communicate it. If Níᵭingr was able to do this, he was far more powerful and dangerous than Lluava had imagined.

  Varren also looked stunned. This was not good. Níᵭingr took advantage of their momentary confusion to swing his serrated sword at the young king, who was slow to register the Raider’s intent.