"Let's cut the head off this snake." Toth powered toward the matriarch on his great wings, and Sol followed close behind.
They made good on the promise, and moments later, a croak of a different nature echoed over Rodania.
Collectively, the harpies began to bank and fly west.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Eohne was drawn from Allan's bedside by the sound of screeches and cries in the distance. She padded through the apartment to the terrace. The sounds of battle made the place seem even more empty and lonely. Her breath caught in her throat as the smell of harpies on the wind came to her.
The skies beyond Upper Rodania to the west swarmed with dark forms. Feathered bodies hurtled through the air with croaking screams and hissing shrieks. The wind was rancid, making Eohne's eyes water. She brushed a hand across her eyes to clear her vision. Small winged figures darted between the heavy-bodied shapes of harpies—–Rodania's warriors.
Several great horned hags, two or three times the size of their opponents, floundered in the air as they were stung by steely darts and missiles.
Eohne did not at first notice the smaller male that peeled away from a cluster. Once harried by defenders, now streaking through a free patch of sky, his flight was labored, one wing stiff.
It was such a clumsy path amidst all the darting and soaring that it finally drew Eohne's attention. Clumsy, but heading straight for her.
The creature was already beginning to pull its wings in for a dive when the Elf realized she was not imagining things.
She staggered backward, crying out in disbelief. The harpy hit the balcony with a shattering crash, and Eohne heard the stonework crack. She fought to keep her panic in check as she found herself suddenly and unbelievably beneath the lethal attention of the monstrous invader.
The harpy swung its head about drunkenly. He scrabbled in the tiles he'd broken on the balcony, talons gouging, and sending them flying into oblivion. The monster leveled his hateful, bleary eyes on the Elf and loosed a hiss.
Every hair on Eohne's body stood at attention. Instinct moved her hands to the spot above her shoulders where the hilts of her curved blades should have been, but she grasped only empty air.
The bedroom. Her blades were on the floor in the room where Allan lay.
She scrambled backwards, picking up the nearest thing––a stool––and hurtling it at the advancing creature. The harpy drew back as the furniture smacked it in the face. It squawked and swung its tail. Eohne dropped to the floor and rolled as the harpy's scything tail whistled over her. Clambering across the kitchen floor, she hid behind the central island as the harpy's beak snapped forward, viper-fast. Wood paneling erupted in a spray of splinters.
Eohne flinched away as the fragments of wood flew by. The rest of her body was already in motion. She sprang to her feet, faking left and then darting right, she put the snapping and hissing raptor off-balance, drawing it to lean on its bad wing. He recoiled with a croaking exhalation of pain while Eohne darted toward the bricked-in oven. She snatched the long-handled paddle that hung beside the cast iron door, and spun to face the harpy.
The Elf bellowed, hoping she sounded fierce and unaffected. Somewhere in a distant part of her academic mind, she recalled reading that predators became addled when prey acted threatening and unafraid.
She pressed off her back foot, twisting onto her toes to scythe the wooden paddle at the harpy's face. The jagged teeth of his horny beak snapped at the wood, but Eohne's perfect aim landed the paddle with a loud crack against the beast’s skull. His head snapped hard to the side, and his feathered body gave a soggy crunch as it slammed into the kitchen island.
Some unseen projectile, a wing or a tail, took Eohne by surprise. She didn't realize she was falling until her body shuddered with the impact. For what seemed like minutes, things simply ceased to make sense. Her eyes saw, but her mind did not comprehend; her ears rang dimly.
Some far away voice screamed for her to get up. She had something long and strong in her hands: the paddle. It was as good a tool as any to get her back on her feet.
With a harsh gasp, she made to rise, leaning on the paddle. Then there was a rush of air, and what had once been one thing in her hands became many things——many sharp things that bit into her palms as she crashed back to the floor.
The sudden pain brought her back to her senses.
Not more than two strides from her was the harpy, one clawed wing lodged in the open cabinetry beneath the kitchen island, his other, injured limb raking feebly at the splintering wood. That explained why, despite her incapacitation, she was still alive. The creature seemed torn between snapping his beak at her and ripping away the cabinetry in an attempt to free himself.
This was the moment Eohne needed.
Scrambling on all fours, she made a lunging slide over the counter, past the trapped beast. She spilled over the bar and scrambled toward the bedroom. She nearly lost her footing as she careened off the fallen stool. There was the sound of splintering wood from the kitchen; it drove her forward like a snapping whip.
Gripping the doorframe to control her skid, Eohne took in the room and the recumbent form of Allan at a glance. On the floor on the far side of his bed was the harness containing her sheathed blades.
There was a triumphant shriek, and a sound like the entire kitchen coming apart. Not daring to look back, she dashed across the room and snatched the weapons up. The hilts felt so welcome against her palms, their weight a comfort. She turned back toward the bedroom door with a deadly internal calm. She was armed, and she was a lethal Elf of Charra-Rae.
The harpy's savage glare met her at the doorway.
Though a smaller male among its kind, the creature filled the doorway with its hunched form. It spared a baleful glance for Allan’s form before it leveled its cruel eyes at the Elf.
First you, then him, he seemed to promise.
"You will not touch him." Eohne's voice was as cold and sharp as the steel in her hands.
The harpy lunged, and Eohne sprang, planting one foot on the springy bed just below Allan's feet.
In a masterful move, the Elf razored the harpy's neck in that single, fluid motion the Elves of Charra-Rae were known for. The monster’s head fell to the bedroom floor.
***
The harpy's chest bristled with no less than three of Jordan's knives, and still it danced with her in the air over an unconscious Arpak's body.
Even after that ear-shaking croak, when all the other harpies had begun to pull away, her opponent had remained doggedly on the attack. Jordan then realized that there would be no reprieve, no quarter, no ‘okay call it a game’ when everybody goes home. At the end of this, one of them would win and the other would die.
Her efforts to put a knife in the harpy's heart had so far failed. Jordan was tiring, and her aim was suffering. She sank another badly-aimed blade just to buy herself more time. She needed this fight to be over. She took a breath as she wheeled in a wide loop. The harpy banked after her, oblivious to the blades in the thick feathers of her chest. What is beneath those feathers? Dragon scales?
Jordan heard Toth's voice in her mind. Stop trying for the killshot. Cripple her.
Genius and desperation working in concert. Jordan spun to face the harpy. Feeling the cast of the knife flow down her shoulder, through her arm, and off her fingertips, she sent the little wasp of steel zipping into the nook where the harpy's shoulder became its wing. Inaudibly, it stuck fast in the joint. The harpy's wing seized, and she dipped inexorably toward the ground. The beast raged and hissed, but she could not will her wing to beat around the metal lodged in her shoulder.
Jordan followed the harpy down, sinking another knife into the base of the creature's neck, hindering her ability to move that lethal head, like a wedge in a door. The harpy hit the ground with a hopping skid that morphed into a face-first plop. Feathers went flying.
Jordan would have whooped with relief had she not spied how close they had landed to the wounded Arpak, wh
o was on the ground in an unconscious heap. He seemed dead, until Jordan got close enough to see his wings quiver.
The harpy, as spiteful as any member of her species, spied her original victim as well. In a clumsy, clawing rake of talons and stiff joints, she dragged herself toward the injured Arpak. Her movements were piteous, stupid.
"You've got to be kidding me," Jordan cried. "You're like a horror movie monster! Worse! Die already!"
Tucking her wings, Jordan plummeted on an interception course. The dirks that lived on her back came into each hand. Wind whistled through her hair as she sliced open a single, wide wound across the harpy's withers. Another poorly aimed strike. Exhaustion was stealing all of her hard-earned technique. She heard the harpy’s beak snap shut as she landed between it and the wounded warrior.
Jordan took a fighting stance and met the harpy's baleful glare. Surely she’s nearly finished? Pained and enraged, the harpy came on in a staggering charge, telegraphing her confusion in a crooked path.
The beast closed in, making to snap at Jordan, but the metal thorn in her neck made her recoil in sudden pain. Springing upward, her wings snapping out, Jordan brought the two dirks around in scything arcs. At last, the reeking female flopped forward at her feet, eyes dull. Jordan flapped there, panting for a moment, before drifting earthward, relieved.
It was over at last.
She stared at the beast she had killed all by herself, the earth darkening around the carcass as her blood leaked out. She shuddered.
"Eurgh. So gross."
She wiped her blades on the grass, breathing through her mouth. It didn't help. A wave of nausea grabbed her by the guts, sudden and fierce. She fell to her knees and lost whatever had been left in her stomach, which wasn't much.
When she was done, she looked up, her eyes raking the sky for harpies. They were all toward the west and growing smaller by the second. Smaller winged shapes—–her fellow combatants—–gave chase, but were losing ground.
Jordan made her way over to see what could be done for her fallen companion.
•••
Eohne had just sent the harpy carcass and head over the edge of the terrace, when a sound made her freeze: a croaked murmur of incomprehensible words.
She whirled at the sound, eyes wide, heart going off like a gong. She dashed back to the bedroom, where there was still harpy blood on the floor. Ignoring this, her eyes locked on Allan. He looked the same as always. Still. Pale. Eyes closed. Steady breathing.
Was I hearing things? She cocked her head with a sharp bird-like movement.
There was another murmur. Allan's lips hardly moved, but there was no mistaking where the voice was coming from. The sound was cracked and broken, barely human and difficult to understand.
Eohne dropped to his side. "Allan?" Her heart felt lodged in her throat, and her breathing became shallow. Again, louder this time, "Allan?"
His lips moved, and this time the croaked words came out near enough to her ear that she could understand them.
"U.S. military Woodsman's Pal Machete Knife."
Eohne stared at the man in shock. She put a hand on his shoulder and jiggled him gently. "What? Allan, are you awake? Can you hear me?"
"Italian M31 Experimental Helmet." He took a shallow breath. "B three-forty-eight R US Army Air Corps Receiver."
Eohne slowly straightened. Horror crept up her back at the monotone sound of his voice. She shivered.
"Allan?"
"German K ninety-eight bayonet."
She stared at the human, utterly confused.
"Italian fascist insignia RSI Brigate Nere skull with Gladio nineteen-forty-four black brigades." Allan took a slow breath, his lips warmer and moving more easily now. His eyes were still closed, his cheeks the color of pastry. "World-War two U.S. army signal corps TE-five equipment case with original contents." His voice broke on the last word, and it spurred Eohne into action.
She scrambled for her jar of messenger bugs and took them into the kitchen, where she hurriedly prepared them to send a message to Jordan. The sounds of the harpy battle outside were growing distant, but she couldn't tell if it was because the fight was moving away from the apartment, or the harpies were being defeated.
Allan's voice droned on from the other room, filling the Elf with bewilderment.
"Fifteen by eighty World War Two Takatiho Japanese big eye."
Eohne's hands shook as she injected the bugs and swallowed the donisi pill.
Is this some kind of strange brain damage? What if the rest of Allan's living days are just a long stream of strange words, all seeming to be war related?
Eohne uttered her brief message asking Jordan to come as soon as she could, and gave the command to the bugs. They zoomed off and disappeared.
"World War I and Two military philatelic covers field post, Red Cross, Prisoner of War…"
On and on, the strange words came, making no sense and sending judders of horror up Eohne's spine.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The injured Arpak opened his eyes, and Jordan breathed a sigh of relief. "Don't worry," she told him. "You'll be okay. Help is coming."
Jordan realized with no small amount of surprise that her harpy fight had been conducted in the open square not far from Juer's library. She hadn't registered her surroundings before, but now she recognized the street.
Locked up tight during the battle, the houses and shops around Jordan began to open. Rodania's citizens emerged, mumbling to each other in shock. The harpy carcass soon had a crowd ringing it. People held their noses at the smell and dared not go too near the body. A young female Arpak claiming to be a nurse appeared at Jordan's side and took over care of the injured male combatant.
Strix milled about the scene, shopkeepers cursing as they picked up fallen and broken merchandise. People talked in small crowds with raised and fearful voices.
"Jordan!" Sol skidded to a halt and swept her up in a fierce hug. "Have I ever told you how much I love your garish, fluorescent yellow feathers?" He said into her hair. "You're like a lighthouse in a dark and stormy sea."
"That was poetic." Jordan hugged him back. They were talking over one another, checking each other for damage, when a cry interrupted them.
"Hey!" barked an indignant voice, loud and bold. Faces turned and searched, necks craned. The crowd parted to reveal a young Nycht solder, his face upturned and contorted with anger. The crowd followed his blazing gaze, and a collective gasp swept the street.
A tall Arpak with broad but stooped shoulders was visible on Juer's tower balcony. He was gazing down into the crowd below, his face impassive. His eyes were pupil-less, a blank white glow. His face was lined and drawn, pale and miserable. A white beard lay on his chest, stark against the black velvet of his vest. Tight black sleeves of some shiny fabric encased long arms, which rested at his sides, his fingers just visible over the stone railing of the balcony. The Arpak's wings were tall and the color of the sky over Virginia on a very smoggy day, a sort of dim ochre. The long bones of the wings drooped sideways, like they were simply too heavy to keep upright, and had long since given up trying. The Arpak's head was topped by a plain black skullcap, almost like a burglar's knit hat. The whole effect—–the hat, the illuminated eyes, the Arpak's height, and drooping wings—–was disconcerting. He gave the impression of great power having been brought low by tragedy.
Jordan's skin rose with gooseflesh as she stared at this vision staring down at them, expressionless. It was difficult to say where he was looking, given that he had no pupils, but the angry Nycht soldier on the street was a likely bet.
"Who is that?" Jordan asked softly.
Before Sol could answer, the angry Nycht barked again.
"You could have prevented this," he yelled, baring his teeth. "What have you done?" The Nycht raised his sword in the air and pointed it at the Arpak on the balcony. "What have you done?" he screamed again. "Nothing! Do you care that your people are dying? Do you care that your city crumbles before your eyes, and th
e air is thick with the stench of harpy?"
The aging Arpak just looked down passively. His face did not move; he may as well have been a statue in a wax museum.
"It's King Konig," Sol murmured in her ear.
Jordan had put that together from the latest accusations hurled by the Nycht soldier. Her jaw went soft as she stared up at the Rodanian King. A whispered question from a nearby Arpak made its way to the couple’s ears.
"What's he doing down here on Middle Rodania?"
Someone answered, "That's Juer's balcony. The doctor."
"You are a failure." The Nycht mercenary was not finished. "You are an embarrassment to the monarchs before you and to your people. A Nycht King would never abandon his people the way you have." The Nycht lowered his sword and spat on the cobblestones. "A Nycht King would have fought by our side, Arpak and Nycht alike; he would have trained with us and bled with us."
Juer appeared beside the King, alarm etched into his features. The much smaller Arpak, bent and wizened, put an arm around King Konig. The king started at the touch, blinked, and looked down at the elderly doctor, his white eyes blank and staring. Juer led King Konig away from the balcony's edge. As the two Arpaks passed out of view, the crowd booed, hissed, and grumbled.
When Juer reappeared a moment later without King Konig at his side, the crowd took a collective breath.
"Your king is a very sick man," Juer announced, his own voice dry and grating. "I suppose it is of no use to hide the facts any longer. King Konig is unwell, and I am doing all in my power to heal him. Speak to your representatives in the Council, make your grievances known there; for, here, I am sorry to say, your breath will be wasted." Juer disappeared, and there was the sound of doors being pulled shut and locked.
Combatant: The Revelations of Oriceran (The Kacy Chronicles Book 3) Page 14