The Last Mortal Bond

by Brian Staveley

  “What’s the play?” Talal asked quietly.

  He was half a step behind her, holding Jak around the waist. The flier didn’t seem to be injured, but he was paralyzed, lost in his own fear.

  “The livery,” she said, stabbing a finger at the low stone barn just outside the compound walls.

  The original plan had involved more waiting and sneaking, less fighting and fleeing. For all the changes, though, everything still revolved around the kettral, and to have any hope with the kettral, they needed to find the whistles.

  Every bird on the Islands was trained to respond to a particular pitch. Without that training, the entire Eyrie would have dissolved into chaos, kettral quartering the sky at random with no way to respond to their fliers. The whistles were a simple solution, louder than a human voice, more precise, small enough to carry in a pocket or on a thong around the neck, and almost indestructible. Those whistles simplified day-to-day logistics on the Islands, and in battle, their piercing shriek, higher than any human cry, could cut through the clash of swords and the roar of fire, calling the bird down at the crucial moment, saving soldiers’ lives. After nearly a year, the birds would be accustomed to Rallen’s soldiers, but they would accept new riders. All you needed was the right whistle.

  When Gwenna first arrived on the Islands as a cadet, those whistles had seemed like an oversight, a weakness. “What if a soldier’s captured?” she’d demanded. “What if an enemy gets her hands on the whistle and calls the bird?”

  The Flea had just raised his eyebrows. “And then what?”

  “Calls a bird. Climbs on the ’Kent-kissing thing. Starts killing the wrong people.”

  “Climbs on?” the older man asked, raising a bushy eyebrow. “Do you remember the first time you saw a bird? Would you have known how to climb on?”

  That was the crux of it, after all. Kettral were accustomed to fighting a foe that was not Kettral. Accustomed to dropping unseen straight out of the sky, cutting throats, and disappearing beneath the beat of massive wings. There was no point in devising tactics to fight other Kettral, no point to guard against them. Until now. There were always extra whistles in the livery, hanging up beside the harnesses and barrel straps, each labeled with the name of the bird that would respond to its call.

  That, at least, was the way it had been back on the Eyrie before the Kettral destroyed themselves. How Rallen handled things was anyone’s guess. Gwenna had hoped to have time to snoop around, to keep hunting if they came up empty-handed in the livery, but hope was a weak shield, one that had shattered the moment Rallen’s thugs started bashing the outside of her barrel.

  Maybe the whistles weren’t in the livery at all, but one thing was clear—the three of them were sanding in the open, asses in the wind. Almost no vegetation grew from Skarn’s rocky soil, certainly no trees, nothing that might provide any real cover. Whistles or no, the livery was shelter, and they were going to need shelter soon—partly from the arrows that Rallen’s thugs were sure to put in the air, but mainly, crucially, from the patrol that would be circling somewhere above.

  Gwenna glanced skyward. It took only a moment to find the bird turning in a lazy gyre around the island, a few hundred paces up and maybe half a mile to the north. Neither the bird nor the soldiers patrolling from her talons seemed to have noticed the violence breaking out below. They were searching the waves, most likely, if they were actually searching at all. A year of unopposed tyranny wasn’t likely to lend vigilance to the daily watch. Still, you didn’t need to be vigilant to notice the madness that was doubtless unfolding behind Rallen’s wall. You didn’t need to be vigilant to notice three assholes standing around looking confused.

  “The livery is close to the fort,” Talal pointed out.

  “It’s where the whistles are,” Gwenna said, breaking into a run. “And if we’re still out here when that bird spots us, we’re dead.” She turned to Jak. “Can you fly?”

  He stared at her with blank eyes. Gwenna slapped him full across the face.

  “You said you could do this, you bastard, and now I need to know: Can you still do it?”

  Even as she asked the question, she was trying to find some way to tweak the plan. There were a dozen options, all equally bleak.

  Jak stared at her. “I’m sorry. I don’t…” He shook his head.

  “Oh, fuck this,” Gwenna spat. “Just get to the livery. It’ll buy us time.”

  They barely made it. The airborne patrol noticed them moments after they started running, banked for a closer look, then dropped into a half stoop. The arrows started raining down—from the fort and the bird both—just a few paces later. Rallen’s snipers had nothing on Annick, but the range wasn’t bad, and the shafts were landing all around, steel heads striking sparks from the rock.

  Gwenna kicked open the door to the livery, shoved Talal inside as a broadhead clattered off the stone a few feet from her head, then dove for the opening. She rolled into a crouch as Talal slammed the door shut behind her, then dropped to a knee, chest heaving as he shrugged out from beneath Jak. Gwenna seized the flier by the throat, dragged him to his feet.

  “Time to start fighting, you piece of shit. You freeze again and we’re leaving you.”

  Slowly, the flier’s eyes focused on her face. After a moment, he nodded unsteadily.

  She wanted to say more, wanted to beat the blood out of him, actually, but there was no time.

  “Let’s just find the whistles. Talal—hold the door.”

  The leach didn’t need an order. He was already dragging a crate out from the corner, a wooden box large enough to slow anyone trying to force their way in. Gwenna left him to it, turning toward the gloom. The ranks of window didn’t admit much light, but she didn’t need light.

  Dozens of flight straps and harnesses hung from the iron hooks set into the wall. Flight nets had been draped neatly over the rafters to dry. Reinforced cargo barrels lined one wall, two ranks deep. Above them were shelves packed with all the necessary apparatus of flight: training blinders and drag hooks, stitch kits and wet-weather slicks. All the necessary apparatus, that was, except the crucial whistles.

  Outside, just above the thatch roof, the kettral screamed. The bird’s cry was like a hot knife torn through the air. Something inside of Gwenna quailed at the sound, some childlike part that could never be entirely trained away.

  Jak’s head jerked around. “Shura’ka,” he said.

  Gwenna forced aside her fear. “She’s the patrol bird?”

  He nodded.

  “All right,” Gwenna said. “What does that mean for us? For the plan?”

  The flier closed his eyes, dragged in an unsteady breath. “She’s strong,” he replied finally. “Reliable.” Something about the conversation seemed to be bringing the man back to life. Or maybe it was just the fact that they were under cover finally, that for at least a few moments no one seemed likely to kill them.

  “What about the others?” Gwenna asked. “Any chance they’re here already? Roosting somewhere? Can we get to them without the whistles?”

  Jak shook his head slowly. “Probably not. This time of day, they’ll be feeding, all but Shura’ka and whatever bird’s hauling the cargo over from Hook. We weren’t supposed to be doing this until later.”

  “I fucking know that. Just in case you haven’t been paying attention, quite a few things have happened that weren’t supposed to happen.”

  The sound of shouting was louder outside, louder and more organized. Gwenna took a few steps toward the windows, risked a glance toward the fort. Rallen stood just outside his walls, furious, reeling, leaning heavily on his cane and screaming at his men. They were maybe twenty-five paces away. Gwenna didn’t bother trying to count them. Twenty? Thirty? Too many. They weren’t attacking, though. Not yet. A few were looking south instead. There was a high, clear whine, then another, and another, the whole dissonant chord pitched just at the edge of hearing.

  “They have the whistles,” Jak observed quietly, “and they j
ust put out the call.”

  The abattoir where the kettral fed was miles to the south. Gwenna couldn’t make out the low, fertile island behind the walls of Rallen’s fortress, but she could imagine the massive birds perched on the bloody soil, beaks rending the sheep to ribbons.

  “They can hear the whistles?” she asked. “Even at that distance?”

  “Of course they can.” The flier followed her gaze out the open window. “There might be—”

  Gwenna cut him off. She’d already done the quick math, not that she really needed it.

  “We failed,” she said. The words hurt, but not as much as being torn apart by what was coming. “We need to get clear now.”

  Jak shook his head. Uncertainty twisted his face. “I might—”

  “We are leaving,” Gwenna snarled.

  Talal studied her, his face grave. “How?”

  She gestured toward the door. “Make a break for it. Get to the cliff and jump.”

  The leach shook his head. “There are rocks at the base, Gwenna. There’s no way we’d make it.”

  “Not here,” she said. “Northeast, on the far side of the island. It’s open ocean up there, and the cliffs are lower.”

  “It’s still fifty paces down.”

  “You can work on your swan dive.”

  “No,” Jak said. His voice was quiet, but surprisingly hard.

  Gwenna rounded on him. “You’re welcome to stay here.”

  He shook his head. His brown eyes were wide in the darkness, frightened as he stared out the window, but the shock was mostly gone.

  “There’s another way,” he said.

  Gwenna glanced out the window again. Another bird was approaching from the southwest, from Hook, a huge, black shadow backlit by the afternoon sun. It bore a single flier on its back and carried a net laden with barrels in its claws.

  “Great,” Gwenna spat.

  Talal followed her gaze. “We’re not going to beat two kettral to the far side of the island.”

  “We weren’t likely to beat one,” Gwenna growled. “It’s the only play we have.”

  “No,” Jak said once more. “It’s not.”

  For a heartbeat, she considered hitting him again. Not just a hard slap this time, but a punch, a hundred punches, vicious blows to the face and stomach that would double him over and shut him up. They’d be faster without him anyway, and if it came to dying, she’d rather do it without a coward at her side. Something in his tone, however, brought her up short, some bleak determination that hadn’t been there before.

  “Talk,” she said. “Fast.”

  He opened his mouth to reply, then broke off, shaking his head. “There’s no time. It’s Allar’ra.” He ran to the door, seized the crate, and, muscles straining, hurled it aside.

  “Jak…,” Gwenna began.

  The flier ignored her, wrestling instead with the rusted latch.

  “Jak!”

  Before she could finish, he slammed the door open, and stepped outside. For a moment he stood stock-still in the sunlight and the flashing steel of the arrowheads. Then he ran west, putting the livery between himself and Rallen’s soldiers. Gwenna cursed, started to follow him, but Talal raised a hand.

  “Wait.”

  She stared at the leach. “For what?”

  “You said we should bring him.”

  “Yeah. And I was wrong.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “He’s been less use than a side of rotting beef, Talal. He hasn’t done a fucking thing since Rallen sprung his trap.”

  “He’s doing something now.”

  Gwenna stared at her companion.

  Talal met her gaze. “You said we could trust him. So trust him.”

  She hesitated, then turned back to the window. The flier stood still as a post a few dozen paces from the cliff. Shura’ka, the patrol bird, was to the east, on the wrong side of the livery to see him, at least for the moment. That would change quickly, though, and there was nowhere to hide on that bare, sun-parched rock. Over Jak’s shoulder, in the distance, she could still see the silhouette of Allar’ra. The bird was closing, closing fast, despite the huge load of cargo it carried in its claws.

  “When this goes to shit,” Gwenna said grimly. “We run.”

  Talal just nodded.

  A quarter mile out, Allar’ra dropped the net. The bird screamed, flexed his claws, and then, to Gwenna’s shock, rolled smoothly upside down. It was the same maneuver she’d seen weeks earlier when she and Quick Jak came to scout the fortress, only this time there was a flier on the creature’s back, and the sudden twist flung the man free. He tried to hang on, dangled from both arms for a heartbeat, flailing desperately, then failed, fell. The bird had just reached the island, and the flier shattered on the uneven stone. The scream and the crunch reached Gwenna just a moment later.

  “Holy Hull,” she said as Allar’ra righted himself with a flick of the wing and tail.

  Quick Jak didn’t flinch, didn’t flee. Instead, he raised a hand even as he fell into a crouch. She couldn’t see his face, but there was something in the motion, a confidence, a certainty that she’d never seen in him before, as though he were Kettral after all, had been Kettral all along, and she’d just never noticed. Then the bird was on him.

  “That’s it,” Gwenna murmured, stomach lurching inside her. “He’s dead.”

  She couldn’t see exactly what had happened, but dead was the only real possibility. When it came to smash-and-grab maneuvers, fliers weren’t very good to begin with. They were generally on the bird’s back, after all—it was the other members of the Wing who had to be able to catch the straps in a hurry, and that was when there were straps to catch. Allar’ra was fitted out for cargo carry, not for human transport. The bird had come in far faster than Gwenna had ever seen, his claws at all the wrong angles—canted forward for attack, rather than backward, as they should have been for any sane mount. She couldn’t see past all the kicked-up dust and shadow, but one fact was clear—Jak had botched the grab, and badly.

  “It was too fast,” she growled. “Too fucking fast.”

  Even the Flea couldn’t make a grab at that speed, at half that speed. A human arm and hand and shoulder could only take so much. Gwenna couldn’t see more than the narrow patch of land outside the window, the stone and the sea beyond, but Jak was gone. She processed the fact, then set it aside.

  “Let’s go,” she said, waving to Talal. “He gave us a distraction.”

  The leach joined her at the open door.

  “We run straight north,” Gwenna went on, “use the shed and the warehouse for cover from the kettral if we have to.…”

  Talal, however, didn’t seem to be listening. He was looking toward the eastern sky instead, shading his eyes with a cupped hand.

  “Holy Hull,” he breathed after a moment.

  Gwenna followed his eyes, half expecting to find Shura’ka circling back, low enough this time for the soldiers shooting arrows or hurling starshatters, or Allar’ra, those vicious claws outstretched. She found the huge golden bird all right, but it wasn’t stooping for the kill. It was climbing, climbing hard, wings hammering the air. And there, clutched in one claw—Quick Jak.

  “Holy Hull,” Gwenna agreed, wondering if she was really seeing what she thought she was seeing.

  Kettral snatched up sheep and cows in their claws all the time, of course. That was how they hunted. Gwenna had seen the birds sink talons into a full-grown heifer and haul it screaming into the air as easily as their diminutive cousins might take a hare or a mouse. Allar’ra had snatched up Quick Jak in almost the same way, but unlike those bleeding, bleating beasts, the flier didn’t seem hurt. In fact, it looked like he was … climbing, climbing free of the great bird’s grip, moving nimbly, fluidly between the talons, then over them as his kettral soared higher.

  “Have you ever…,” Talal began.

  “No,” she said. Then, because it seemed worth saying again, “No.”

  It was the kind of sto
ry you wouldn’t believe if you heard it straight out of the Flea’s mouth. Laith had always said that Quick Jak was the only flier on the Islands better than he was, but he’d never mentioned this. Gwenna had never even considered the possibility of letting a bird seize a soldier in its claws. No one had. The first shot at that would be the last; a human would be sliced into ribbons of meat—the end of a bold, stupid experiment.

  Jak wasn’t meat, though. He was alive, had even managed to climb out of the cage of claw. As Gwenna stared, he was holding on with one hand, leaning back and out, like a sailor hiking over the rail. Instead of waves beneath him, though, there was only empty air, fathoms of it, and hard stone at the bottom. Then he jumped.

  For just a moment the flier seemed to hang, arms spread, caught between the speed of the bird’s climb and his own inescapable weight. In that moment, Allar’ra screamed, twisted, tucked his wings and fell sideways, rolling into the empty air. Jak reached out, easily as if he were floating at the top of an ocean swell, and caught the harness that had held the other hapless flier. The movement was casual, almost lazy. Jak pulled himself in close, pressing his body against the bird’s back, and then, as the Dawn King rolled upright once again, settled into his seat, tucking his legs behind the straps of the harness. The whole thing took less than five heartbeats. Gwenna had been raised on the Islands, trained among men and women who made a daily habit of the impossible, and it was the most astounding thing she’d ever seen.

  “All right,” she said, still staring. “I’m glad we brought him.”

  “Down!” Talal shouted, slamming into her from the side.

  A few feet above, right where Gwenna’s head had been, an arrow shivered in the wooden doorframe. I guess Rallen’s done waiting, she thought, half crawling, half rolling through the open door, back into the dubious safety of the livery. Talal dove over her as a handful of arrows and crossbow bolts clattered against the stone to either side of the door. The archers had flanked them, venturing around the east and west sides of the livery to find an angle of attack.