by Ashley Capes
He had enough height now that he was able to drive himself forward, making a few tentative adjustments to eventually head toward the east. Far below, the yellow and brown of field and muddy road rolled by, broken by patches of green. The few people he saw were small figures. None stopped to point, at least, none he saw.
As Never flew, he still found himself buffeted by unpredictable gusts, but each time he managed a little better. Yet it wasn’t until well after his joints had began to burn from the effort that he realised he could lock his wings and simply ride a wind-current. It was almost effortless, and the slight dives and climbs were thrilling – he laughed at himself for being so stupid. How many birds had he seen in his lifetime and still he hadn’t thought to emulate them?
The fields of Marlosa continued to flow beneath him in a dull, yellow stream marred by the road. He would beat the sunset, he knew that now, he was making incredible time. Did he fly faster than most birds? Perhaps. The sight of the charred ruin of Oroluca flashed by and even though his pulse quickened, knowing he was nearing the farmstead, there was still the not insignificant matter of landing safely.
Light still clung to the sky when the farmhouse appeared before him. Never swooped lower as he approached, taking a deep breath. Carefully, carefully. He circled several times, dipping with each arc, and once he judged he was low enough, he drew his knees up and extended them, ready to strike the ground. The shift in weight threw him off-balance and he panicked, beating hard against the earth.
Impact with the ground still sent shockwaves of pain along his legs. He stumbled forward, his momentum nearly enough to slam him headfirst into the mud but he fanned his wings and kept his feet somehow.
Gods be damned, how simple Snow made it seem. Just how long had he been flying, anyway?
Never spun to scrutinise the fields and the road. Empty. He pulled his wings close but did not retract them just yet, approaching the silent house. No movement from within, which meant nothing. Tsolde wouldn’t be strolling around before the windows in any event. He circled the place and slowed before the stable. Footprints, gouges from hooves. A good many of them, too muddled to count. Not fresh, perhaps half a day at a guess.
“Pacela!”
He ran to the door and pressed an ear against it, though he didn’t know why he bothered. He was too late. No sounds from within – Never pushed his way inside. Nothing out of place, table and chairs set comfortably. Mud tracked through the house however, leading to the room where Tsolde had kept Luis.
Only an empty cot, sheets twisted.
Never thumped the heel of his hand into the doorframe. “Fool!” His selfishness – whatever he’d told himself about following Cog for medicine had been tainted by his desire for the secrets of his ancestors. It might have cost Luis and Tsolde their lives. If he’d instead risked fighting Cog and ridden back, could he have beaten the soldiers?
Could he have defeated Cog at all?
He searched the rest of the house, calling their names, before spinning to charge into the yard. There he picked up the trail of whoever had taken them – if that was indeed what happened – and followed it to the road. Northeast along the King’s Highway – which suggested Vadiya. Who else would be so confident to use such an obvious path? Not even Sirgeto, surely?
But there was a chance they were alive, if the Vadiya had known to take Luis and Tsolde captive.
Never glanced to the sky once more. Darkness was falling, but he would have enough light to fly for a little longer at least, and the Vadiya had at least half a day’s lead; he had to make up some ground. Returning to the homestead, Never climbed the stable and spread his wings. It wasn’t as high as the tree near the river but it would have to do.
A sharp swish cut the air.
Pain tore through his wing and he wheeled with a snarl.
Vadiya scouts were rushing the stable. One man held a horse-bow, arrow cocked for another shot and the other was fumbling with his hand axe, eyes wide. Never collapsed to the roof as the second arrow flew over his head. He checked his wing with a wince; the arrow had sliced his tendon, luckily not severing it. Enough to stop him flying? Maybe not – but enough to give him second thoughts about making himself such a clear target once more.
“Around, around,” cried one of the men.
Never rolled his shoulders, retracting his wings before crawling to the far edge of the stable. He gripped the roof’s edge and swung his legs over and into a window, slipping into the stable and landing with a grunt.
Stale hay and horse manure filled the dim space. He crept from the stall and across the floor to the entry. Footsteps pounded across the earth, nearing his position. Gardening tools leant against the wall nearby – he took the hoe and hefted it. Heavy. Perfect for de-shelling Steelhawks.
The Vadiya strode into the stable, short sword in hand.
Never swung the hoe. It pierced the man’s breastplate and the fellow gripped the haft, gurgling and coughing as he toppled to the ground. Never drew his knives as he leapt over the body. He was too weary to try and outrun the second man or his arrows, and the throbbing in his wing, even retracted, told him he wasn’t flying anywhere either.
He slowed before he rounded the edge of the stable. Where was the blasted Steelhawk? Never peered around the corner – empty.
A cry of rage broke the hush.
Never spun back, heading toward the front of the stable. There he found the second Steelhawk rising from where the man had crouched over the body of the first. The Vadiya bore a First Ranger’s insignia and beneath it, the Red Talon of the Isajan family. Which meant Sacha was closing in.
“Freak,” the man shouted as he raised his bow.
Never cast one of his knives, forcing the man to dodge. The Vadiya’s shot flew wide and Never charged. With his second knife he whipped an edge across hand as he closed the distance, slashing at the Steelhawk’s own exposed wrist, but the fellow leapt back. He tore an axe free and Never hesitated. There wasn’t much skin vulnerable – just the hands and face, seeing as the soldier wore no helm.
“Give up,” Never told him in Vadiyem. “Flee and you don’t have to die.”
“Shut your filthy mouth, jenaek,” the Steelhawk snapped. He raised his weapon to attack, swinging a wide arc. Never fell back. Another blow whistled through the air, this one nicking his arm. Never bit off a curse. The man’s swings were fuelled by rage but he wasn’t moving wildly. There was still control.
If Never could get inside the man’s guard...
Never twisted away from another axe-blow then stepped close, ducking low before the man could launch a backswing – only for white light to explode as the man’s knee crunched into Never’s head. Never crashed to the ground and rolled, still in a daze.
Something splattered beside him – the axe!
He rolled again, reaching his knees as the Vadiya cursed. The man ripped his weapon free from the wet earth and strode forward. Never threw another knife but the Vadiya knocked it aside with his axe and reared up, swinging down for a killing blow.
Still bleary-eyed, Never threw his hands up and caught the haft below the axe head.
The force drove him back into the muddy earth. His head struck the ground but he did not release his grip despite the pain. The Vadiya brought his body weight, enhanced by armour, to bear on the task of driving the axe head into Never’s face.
“Die,” the man growled between grunts of effort.
Never ground his teeth; he was no match for the man’s weight.
A creaking grew audible beneath the rasping of their breathing. Never frowned. Where did the sound come from? The blade took up most of his vision, along with the shape of the Steelhawk looming above him but Never’s pale, birch-coloured hand was visible too – was it possible... Never tightened his grip, twisting, and the creak grew.
He squeezed harder.
The haft snapped in a hail of splinters.
Never flinched but the axe-head merely flew off to one side, thudding into grass. The Vadi
ya now held naught but a length of wood, his eyes wide. Never shot forward and caught the man by the throat with his birch-hand. He squeezed, crushing the man’s windpipe, then shoved the scout aside.
He rose to his feet and looked down on the Steelhawk, whose struggling was already growing weaker.
“Looks like you were only half right,” he said with a sneer which was directed at himself as much as his enemy. “I’m more of a freak than I first thought.”
Chapter 8.
Never walked into the night, the cold air having long-since turned his hands, feet and face to ice. The muddy road bore no other travellers and despite the scent of wood smoke as he travelled, he saw no lights in the fields. But the moon was bright enough that he was able to follow the tracks of his quarry up until full dark.
After robbing the Vadiya and restoring a fraction of his supplies, he had set off in the direction of whoever had taken Tsolde and Luis. If they lived – and they had to. He couldn’t be responsible for their deaths. Not after Zia – he’d sworn it all those years ago. No friend would ever die because of his curse. And while learning he had wings was a wondrous secret indeed, it was hardly worth the lives of his friends. Nor was he flying just yet. His wing had already healed – typical of his body – but he wasn’t going to fly at night.
Sometime after midnight, Never found an abandoned barn and slept, shivering within the remnants of hay.
At dawn, he rose to orange light glinting on a frost that climbed the walls.
Luis’ fourth day, was he still alive? Tsolde too?
If the Vadiya who’d captured them had done so upon Snow’s command, they would have attempted to heal Luis, surely. Of course, there was every chance the messenger Never had intercepted had been carrying the only message with such orders. Yet there were the other men at the farm. Never sighed. There was no way to know. He had to follow the trail and hope.
And somehow, catch up too, which meant flying sooner or later. And flying might be too risky; he’d lose the trail if he flew too high. Too low and he’d be easily visible, another target for stray Steelhawks. “Nothing like being tested by the Gods,” he muttered as he slipped from the barn.
Time to decide.
Fly or walk.
The trail was easy to mark, the road had been churned and it looked as though a large force had passed along it. He’d probably see it from a fair distance up. For now, the Vadiya were travelling west, toward Ficcepa. Or perhaps they planned to change course where the Northern Highway reached down to intersect the Eastern Highway, and turn toward the ancient city of Olecsa? There was a substantial inn at the crossroads, the Golden Plains Inn, or the ‘Wheat-Bag’ as it was affectionately called by most travellers. An important staging point for any force, and no doubt it would have been in Vadiya hands for some time already.
Were they heading there? Impossible to say.
“Follow the trail.”
He strode along the highway then broke into a jog. He had to make up the distance somehow, but one leg at a time. His boots thudded along the empty road, earth stretching before him and mud-splattered wheat stalks beside him. More than once he was tempted to try flying again but instead he ran on, ignoring the gnawing pain within his stomach. His pack, along with the supplies, were long gone, either with Luis and Tsolde or taken by Vadiya. If only he still had his mare, though she was probably safer wherever she was.
Another concern had crept to the forefront of his mind, something that had been swept away with the shock of gaining wings, and the fear that replaced shock when he found the empty farm. Cog had claimed that only the blood of an Ascended Amouni could awaken the wings of another – if that were true, who had given Snow his wings?
The thought left Never shivering.
Was there another Amouni out there, and was Snow a pawn? It hardly seemed his style. More likely Snow had an ally. Or someone he’d duped.
Or perhaps Cog had fed Never misinformation and another Amouni’s blood was not in fact required for the ceremony. Perhaps that was simply a ploy to allow some of Snow’s blood into Never’s veins. But to what end? Control? So far, Never felt no different, felt no unwelcome presence within him.
The possibilities swirled within his mind as he ran along the cold road.
Rain swept in by noon. He came to a halt, tilted his head back and opened his mouth to drink. And then he was running again, more of a stumble really. Only once did he see another person – ahead, a man with a long staff approached, only to turn down a narrow trail running between the fields.
Up until spotting Never, he’d been heading in a straight line.
When the rain finally cleared, late in the afternoon, Never caught the scent of smoke and slowed. Meat... and garlic, something else too. Not, thankfully, human flesh but nothing he could recognise either.
He approached the direction of the smoke; a trail twisting between the giant stalks, many drooping, near rotting in the field. Slippery, dead stalks and husks squelched beneath his boots. Dew from the rain dripped around him, not loud enough to mask his approach so he slowed yet further and listened.
Very faint.
Steel on steel. Voices, hushed. Vadiya? A scouting party?
Never drew a blade and then another, crouching. The smoke had already faded, caught in a changing wind perhaps, and the sounds from what was doubtless a camp had faded. The sharp whisper of steel too, had ceased.
Stalks rustled.
The furry shape of a grain-hog bounded across the path.
Never rolled into the wheat. Something thudded into the wet earth where he’d stood. He twisted around to run along a row, glancing between the stalks. Two soldiers appeared on the trail, one pulled an arrow from the ground with a curse. When the man spun to give chase with his fellow, Never stumbled.
Fool, watch where you’re going.
Both men wore leather jackets studded with glass buttons, arranged like constellations. They carried bone-handled weapons; their dark hair was cut close, as were thin beards.
Quisoa.
Never came to a halt. “Huna oc bolate.” I am a friend.
The two warriors stopped but did not lower their weapons. Had the words registered? Both men bore bows, each with a nocked arrow. Heavy throwing knives hung from their belts and they were breathing a little hard. Adrenaline was no doubt pumping through their veins – as it was for Never.
He spoke Quisoan again. “I am from the village of Pirchys; I know you, you are men who follow the Evache constellation. When I was young you visited the plains above us each summer and we would travel up to trade batena plants for horses... until a great fire came and swept the plains clean, burning everything to the ground. The next summer you didn’t come.”
Now the men lowered their bows. The older one stepped forward. “You sound as though you’ve been away from home a long time.”
Never rejoined the path, replacing his knives as he did. Hearing the language of his youth seemed to cut the chill in the air. “It has been. But I can remember most of the words, it seems. I am Never; we followed the Twin Blade constellation.” No more, he had not been to his village for many years now.
“An unusual name,” the older man said. “I am Bihola and this is Chadya, of the Evache Constellation, as you know. Have you come from the south?”
“Hanik – my companions and I recently escaped the Vadiya. They follow, a significant force, but slowly no doubt.”
“They are already everywhere,” Bihola nodded.
“I’m searching for my friends now, I fear they’ve been taken. A young lady, Hanik and a tall spearman, Marlosi. He’d have been running a serious fever.”
Bihola shook his head. “We have seen none who match your description, either alone or with the Vadiya. Come, we can speak more in the camp.” Bihola glanced to Chadya and the younger man nodded, taking a position back within the stalks.
Bihola led Never deeper into the field, his bow still held ready. Carvings of the same constellation that he bore on his chest ran along
the arms of the weapon.
“Have they driven into Quisoa?” Never asked.
“Not truly. Some of the northern villages – perhaps yours even, are occupied but we spend most of our time leading them a merry chase. The tribes gathered when first we learned of the invasion and decided many small groups were harder to subdue than a single force. They tire easily to be honest, in their foolish armour, and more often than not give up the chase and instead try setting ambushes. Most seem concentrated north or around Isacina. Have you been away long?”
“Yes. And news has been scarce.”
“Then let us talk as we eat – our camp is not far,” the older man said.
“I have little to share, since hospitality has been lacking of late.”
Bihola chuckled. “Not to worry, Never. We have set aside the proper customs for now.”
“I hope there will be a time when they return.”
“As do I,” he said, though his voice seemed to hold little confidence.
Chapter 9.
Bihola’s camp was sparse. Within a hollow shrouded by dense wheat stalks, half a dozen Quisoa sat around a single fire, which burned clean. A pot simmered over the flames, perhaps the scent of meat he’d caught on the breeze. A risk, truly, but the sentries seemed vigilant enough if Bihola was any indicator. Horses were picketed nearby, chewing on grass growing between the untended grains.
When Bihola entered, half the figures stood, hands on throwing knives. One woman’s face remained cold until Bihola introduced Never. After another glance, she sat back down and returned her attention to creating a new hole in the belt she worked on – times were clearly lean. Had she been wary of him being introduced as Quisoa due to his Marlosi heritage? Never noted the constellation on her tunic was different to Bihola’s; seemed she was from the south of Quisoa by the vague horse-shoe shape to the buttons. Lenali?