by Marc Watson
He had landed to eat and rest earlier, hoping a few moments on the ground would be enough. After taking to wing again, it was obvious that he’d need something a little more sustained to keep up at this pace. He reluctantly planned to go until his body and mind could truly go no more, then rest for as brief as he could before continuing on. He’d hoped, in his mind’s eye, that he would be close enough by sunup to be home sometime that day, but with no real references to go by, it was all just speculation. Aryu had to be prepared for the likely possibility that Stroan had misjudged, just to be on the safe side. It wouldn’t do to have him so tired that he’d have to walk days more just to get home. Better to play it safe.
It was just after he accepted his exhaustion that the sky lit up far behind him in a plume of fire and smoke.
The change in vision and scenery was very disorientating for a moment. The explosion had been large enough to light the ground far below him. He turned back, angling himself to see what the cause was; eyes straining to make sense of most of what he saw, ground and sky becoming separated once again. He was certain it was back the way he’d come, confident (or perhaps praying to the fact) he’d not wavered from his course enough to make that large a difference. It was certainly an explosion like those in the distance, tall and powerful, reaching high into the night before dying out. He could not be certain how far it was, as he was not certain how fast he’d been going. Fear gripped his heart as he realized that Johan was back in that direction somewhere, and if he wasn’t at the center of that blast, Aryu was quite confident that he would have been close.
He circled lower, mind wracked with possibilities and uninformed suggestions. Did he go back? Did he keep going? How far was it? How far were they? Damn it, if he’d only been more confident in his flying he may have been able to make a better judgment, but as it was he was too ill-prepared to make an informed decision. Yet again, the shame of the wings reared its terrible face and Aryu was just a puppet in its grip.
He began descending, hoping putting his feet on solid ground would help him focus on the tasks at hand. He had almost touched down when the shockwave rushed past him.
It had traveled much farther and lost much of its strength since it had passed over Johan. The terrible heat and storm-force winds were significantly lessened. It was still a loud, powerful, and destructive force to any and all things hovering in the air.
Aryu’s wings folded back in the force of the blast, losing all aerodynamics and converting themselves to little more than leathery pennants in the wind which carried him upwards. Aryu twisted backwards awkwardly, snapping like a rope was trying to pull him away, only to slacken and release after a moment too late. He tumbled back, trying to brace himself against the approaching ground. In the blackness, he had no idea which way was up, seeing stars no matter which way he fell. The rush of wind in his ears was a constant equal, and all he could do was close his eyes and hope he didn’t have much more to go.
He heard the ground rush to meet him before he felt it. Like closing your eyes and walking down a hallway, you know where the walls are and can sense which doors are open without seeing. That was the only warning he had, but it was enough for him to put his hands up and hit arms-first instead of with his head, which certainly would have killed him.
He hit hard enough to snap his arms against his head and neck, punching himself twice in the process. He tumbled back, feeling the strain on his back as the joints and muscles that connected his back and lower shoulders to the non-human joints and muscles of his wings heaved while they were wrenched up over his head and back down his face like a grotesque blanket.
Being so large and fragile, they never felt pain like the rest of his body. He’d strained them a lot when he was first learning to fly, landing badly or twisting the wrong way while trying to turn too hard, but this was an all-new feeling to him as he tossed like a circus tumbler, hitting rocks and ragged scrub as he went. The sand and thorns scraped at any exposed flesh like fishhooks.
When at last he came to rest, he was facedown, his appendages akimbo like a marionette that was dropped. His head hurt terribly, and that was only step one on his mental checklist. There was still a whole body to go. His arms were above his head, his left arm twisted around in a way no arm should be. He attempted to move it, realizing instantly that he was pinned down somehow. Neither arm would move. He couldn’t account for why until he felt the soft hide texture under his right hand.
His wings, after their brief foray above his head, had become wrapped around his body like a bedroll, pinning his arms into their current, extremely uncomfortable position.
“This is going to take a little finesse,” he said to himself, feeling better that neither his voice nor ears seemed to be damaged.
He moved what he could of his arms, testing each body part as he went to ensure there was no serious damage. He knew right away that his left shoulder was hurt and likely out of joint. A common ailment to a man who had wing muscles constantly pulling other upper-torso anatomy around in ways regular people aren’t accustomed to.
The next stop on his mental itinerary was the back and wings. Even growing up with them, he was never comfortable with the way his wings felt, likely a holdover from the part of his mind that was normal and human, so it was tough for him to immediately discern if something was wrong.
The muscles controlling the wings were very strong, much more so than any other in his body, having been tried and trained to lift and control a full-grown man in flight. As he twisted this way and that, he could feel the wings begin to unwind piece by piece until one (he couldn’t be sure which) slipped out from under his right hand. This allowed him to prop himself up that extra little bit, taking more weight off the wings.
After a few more tries, he could slip over to his side enough to free up his left arm, feeling it pop as it went back into place, sending a chill up his spine at the odd sensation.
Able to get up fully now, he got up on all fours and began folding his wings behind him, careful not to go too fast in fear of aggravating a wound he didn’t yet feel or ripping the skin that covered them on a nearby rock or thorn bush. They seemed alright, not sending any immediate warnings to the rest of his body. He’d have to wait until it was light to see if there were any rips or tears. He’d had some minor ones over time, but they were almost completely nerveless, and he barely felt a thing the times he had.
He brought himself up to his knees and began to stand. Each leg screamed in protest but did little else to stop him. Whatever their issues were, they weren’t bad enough to keep him from standing, and to Aryu that was good enough.
He pieced together what had hit him instantly, feeling stupid as he did so. Naturally there would be a shockwave, and he felt himself a fool for not realizing it sooner. He supposed it was because he had other things on his mind.
As to those particular “other things,” he pieced together his options to decide the best one.
He hesitated to fly again, not knowing if his wings (or the rest of him) were quite up for it yet. If he felt the way he did right now in the morning, he wasn’t sure he could continue anywhere. But, bridges to cross and all that.
It ate him up not knowing what had happened or where. He tried desperately to piece together the possibilities. Johan very likely was not in the blast itself, he’d concluded. Even with Rider Stroan’s warnings, he still was likely to have broken off the road and crossed the open land. Where he was unsure was the aftershock, and if it had been that powerful even by this point, how deadly was it when it hit Johan? If he were close to it, would he even be able to find what was left of him? He doubted it. A shiver ran up his spine at the thought, but the reality was it could be a possibility. There was far too much ground between here and there to find him even if he knew where to start. If he was far enough away, his chances were slightly better, but not by much. Besides, if Johan was far enough away and he did find him, it would just end up being a waste of time.
No. He knew the course of action
. Going back made no sense now. Even if Johan had been badly hurt, he could never find them in the dark, he could never carry him to safety, and it was still hours until morning.
He slipped back to the ground, body screaming as he did so. The only logical choice was to keep going and hope his instincts were right, that Johan had made it off the road and trekked far enough away that he survived. He had no alternative but to believe it. His mission was far too important to delay his arrival in Tan Torna Qu-ay by another day or two of searching.
Eventually he took off again, adding a few more miles behind him before he landed and slept, wrapped once more in his wings. A part of him hated them for helping him so much in the last few hours. He assumed the days ahead would be hard and time to sleep would be rare. Of course he was right, but he didn’t know that for sure. And so, he simply slept the peaceful sleep of ignorance.
Chapter 5
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The Village of Tan Torna Qu-ay
The pain had been unbearable. Never in all his considerable years and all his many lives had such a feeling overwhelmed him so completely. Not the pleasure of his first kill, or the invasiveness of his first rebirth. Indeed, not even the pain and guilt of losing Magnus those eons ago could compare.
He questioned if he was even still alive for a moment, finding it difficult to think clearly beyond the pain he felt.
Nixon of the Great Fire and Ash was a wreck. His mind jumbled and his body nearly obliterated, only particles and soot remained. Nothing in any time he could remember had ever so utterly defeated him, and that was proof enough to him something out there was very wrong.
He could still reform, but this was not an easy process. Even the ashes could still feel the pain, or at least the memory of it. The ground around where Nix had been standing was scorched; mixed about with the mess were the remnants of Nixon. He began pulling himself together, mentally drawing each bit to him. His body began to come together in a difficult jigsaw puzzle.
His mind began reconstructing the blast and the moments before it. At first it was all pain and confusion, his body reforming itself like death in reverse, creating his look and structure out of nothing. He remembered the drone, knew it now for exactly what it was. He remembered the impact as he began to recompile into something looking more and more human (or as close as he could get). How he had laughed at the idea he could be so easily dispatched. How he had laughed and laughed at the ignorance of the enemy. The rush of nothingness beyond him as the explosion drew out all the air in the area. The welcome feeling of the heat, his oldest and dearest companion.
But the heat grew too quickly, and before he could even react it had melted away his armor, a living piece of himself, followed by his hair and skin. Eventually it went down to the bone, each step deeper, creating a new and more intense level of pain. It went beyond his tolerance for heat in microseconds. A tolerance Nixon had no idea he had. He was certain he could live peacefully on the surface of the sun, but this was something else.
His reformation was nearly complete. His armor grew out of his skin, his hair returned to its long, ethereal shimmering length. His thoughts became more organized. He was born of the fire. He lived and breathed nothing but the fire his whole life. If it had done to him what it did, it could not be fire as he knew it. But what else then?
By God, Nixon needed someone with answers.
His form retaken, his body whole yet again, he began to sit up and regain his composure. A moment of pure terror hit him as he realized his back was devoid of his trusted sword, only to breathe a large sigh of relief to see it some distance away, but still whole. Not a mark or scorch on the sheath could be seen.
He walked over to it, getting more comfortable with his body. He returned as he was, large and foreboding, armor black as night and eyes the same. Each microscopic piece fell into place, but sadly the memory of the pain lingered like an old wound. Nixon doubted he’d ever forget it, thanks to a perfect memory.
He drew the sword from its sheath with a reassuring whisper. No nick or mark could be seen. Nixon had a good reason to be afraid. This sword was not a Divine creation like him. If by some insane miracle something could destroy it, it would be gone and it would not come back. Still, even at the center of this blast, its breaking point was a long way off yet. God be praised.
Now Nixon had a larger problem than he’d originally planned. He knew he had to make it to the village, still some days southeast of here, but now it seemed that there was a rising issue in the same direction that had some form of weapon that could not only harm him but decimate him, rendering him useless and leaving the valued blade he carried unguarded for who knew how long.
It made him pause a moment as he considered his options. He wasn’t useless without this sword, but it was still his bread-and-butter weapon of choice. He’d never thought he’d be without it, and he foolishly believed it would never be without him. Although it had never been proven to be true, Nixon knew that this weapon could do some very serious and perhaps lasting damage to him. He wasn’t sure it could destroy him outright, but he couldn’t say it couldn’t either. Then where would the world be? One person would go too far down the dark path with the Power once again, and no one would be around to stop them. The world and all within its borders would be at their mercy.
One little sword. Well, one very large sword, but small in the grand scheme of things. Even Magnus hadn’t considered the possibility of Nixon losing it somehow, but Magnus had never lived long enough to see what man hath wrought.
The sword slept silently, the power within it resting until Nix had need of it. “Lord, let this chase be a short one,” he whispered to himself. “Per’aps my return t’ rest would see me awaken in a better place.”
He surveyed his surroundings. Black, hot, and steaming. Any mortal man would be killed instantly to stand where Nixon was now, the residual heat enough to melt steel and burn rock. For Nixon, though, it was a welcome feeling in what was quickly becoming an unwelcome world. He certainly would have to keep his eyes and ears open for another of those damn black orbs, but for now, there seemed to be none around.
After only a few minutes of walking on the glazed surface which had once been a dry, scrub desert, he came to a decision that he knew was wrong but seemed to him to be his best option. He would fly the rest of the way to the village. He hated to fly being so close. Previous times he’d done so, to save time or make it somewhere faster than his legs could carry him, he’d often overshot his target; his ethereal Power alerting any with the senses to detect him, telling them of his presence and intentions. Those who carried the blade and embraced the Power knew to beware of Nixon of the Great Fire and Ash, even if it was just subconsciously, and he’d been led on chases lasting years just to catch someone who had been alerted to him too soon.
His options seemed more limited this time. He risked further discovery by the scouts if he walked, and he could not guarantee he would always know they were there. Some aerial targeting laser could light him up before he even knew he’d been found. Not a welcoming possibility. Still, flying and using his gift from God could alert the prey to his presence, leading to an extended hunt in this mysterious and obviously dangerous time. Equally unappealing.
In the end, as was often the case in many situations, Nixon decided better the Devil he knew than risk further exposure to an enemy that could strike without being seen. He knew that somewhere there was someone who could help him. Even if his legions of followers and helpers had finally faded away, some things were constant. He could think of one or two people, defiers of time and Embracers of the Power, who may still be his friends. He hoped nothing had happened to them. One person in particular was almost certainly still around, regardless of Ryu’s actions in the Third Fall of Man.
Love was one thing that could stand against even madness, be it centuries old or not.
He would set off for Tan Torna Qu-ay, see what he could see, and either be done with this whole damn thing (P
lease God, let it be so!) or see if the chase was on yet again, at which point he’d attempt to track her down.
He braced himself, focused his mind, and allowed the power and the fire to emerge from within. The heat built up as he focused deeper and deeper. At last, flames surrounded him, first wild and uncontrolled but eventually gathering form and substance around him. The flames settled behind him as giant wings. Fierce and beautiful in their perfection, they glowed hot and ready like the master they served.
Nixon knew this form well, and it only required one mighty push from the wings for him to take off like a shot, sparks trailing behind him as he went, glowing embers adrift in the fading night. Nothing but scorched earth and desolation remained as the sun began to rise in the east, signaling the beginning of a new day.
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Aryu awoke with a sick feeling as the sun began to rise. An unfortunate side effect of his repeated blows to the head the night before, he wagered.
He was impressed by how well his wings had kept him comfortable. He’d not felt a nip of cold that he could recall.
He unrolled himself slowly, knowing he was likely still wounded from the fall. He found his shoulder was still tender, and his cuts and scrapes still stung, but his legs and arms seemed no worse for wear and that was as good a result as any.
He slung his treasured find to his back, spreading his wings wide and inspecting them. “Not a scratch,” he said aloud, grinning like a fool as he spoke. All that tossing through rock and thorn and not a rip or wound could be found. He gave them a few powerful test flaps to make sure all the mechanics were in working order. The motion upset his stomach more, and it did no favors for his questionable left shoulder, but otherwise, he seemed fine.