Ioth, City of Lights

by D P Woolliscroft

  The stone fort of Traitor’s Keep was clearly occupied. A new palisade had been constructed around it, look-out towers at each of the corners manned with pairs of guards that were going about their duty with varying degrees of pride in their job. Within the walls stood a stone keep and two other wooden buildings which, from experience, Motega surmised to be the stables and barracks. Figures who appeared as tiny ants to the falcon Motega scurried around, tending to their business, many of them building other structures.

  This was a similar story to the other, newer, fortifications they had discovered on their mission. Were these a renewal of Pyrfew border fortifications or preparations for something more substantial? An influx of new troops? He couldn’t say for certain but he knew where he would place his bets—

  —a blur of brown from below. Per’s sharp falcon eyes detected one movement, and then another. Two brown eagles had launched into the sky from the watch towers of the wall. No. Now there were three of the vicious aerial predators beating powerful wings broader than two men would be tall, to gain altitude to where he and Per soared. Per tucked his wings and dove, plummeting through the air, past the eagles who were still thrusting upwards. He fell and fell, down towards the dry dirt courtyard, waiting until he was lower than the keep to outstretch his wings and glide away over the rough timber wall. There was nothing faster than a diving peregrine, but the great wings of the eagles would be stronger in flight, so Per twisted and turned in the air to stop the eagles from having a predictable target. One of the aerial predators was gaining on them, its white plumed head focused on its prey. Probably more used to hunting pigeons and crows that would relay messages, now it had some sport.

  Per banked sharply, twisting back on himself to fly close to his pursuer at a tangent, too quickly for the larger bird to adjust. The eagle loomed large as they swept past, but where were the others?

  Animal instinct took over at exactly the right time. Per lifted his head to see the yellow talons of another eagle plummeting down toward his body and rolled away from the attack. Claws tried to grab hold of his belly as the eagle barreled by, scoring a wound across the bird’s ribs; soft downy feathers fluttered to the earth. And then the third eagle was there too, flying horizontally into Per’s path and buffeting him with its wings.

  Per fell.

  The earth sped toward Motega once again. He’d done this many times before. The joy of hitching along for the ride as the falcon would hunt, catching a rabbit or a fox. Often enough for their own pot. But now he knew fear for his friend, for the spirit animal entrusted to him by his ancestors. Motega knew he was a liability to the bird, neither of them in full control; his reflexes were too slow to evade these eagles, and he knew he hampered the natural instincts of the falcon. He left one final thought with Per before he opened his eyes. Fly back to me. I will protect you.

  Motega sat up on his knees, in the brush once again, his friends beside him staring intently at the aerial chase. Motega squinted his eyes to see but his vision was poor at long distances. For the thousandth time he cursed the wizard who had cursed him as a child. With Per he had the finest eyesight of anyone he knew. Without him, he was just a hunter who struggled to see further than the end of a tavern common room.

  “What’s going on?” he hissed.

  “Per pulled out of the dive,” said Trypp, giving the commentary. “He’s trying to head this way. Three of those big birds behind him. What are they?”

  “Eagles.”

  “Eagles work for Pyrfew? I thought they were good guys.”

  “You’ve obviously never met any eagles. What’s happening?”

  “They’re closing on him. They’re going to get him…” Trypp gripped Motega’s shoulder. “No, he turned. It’s difficult to see. They’re gaining on him again. He’s so close to the ground. He’s landing? Did they injure him?” Trypp’s voice was urgent as he spoke, his concern evident for the bird who was as much part of their small family as any of them. “What are you doing, Per? The eagles, they’re hopping around on the ground. Did they get him, Florian?”

  “I can’t tell,” said the warrior slowly. But Motega knew that tone of voice. He could detect the sadness, not wanting to be the person to steal hope from his best friend.

  Well, he had to know.

  Motega didn’t know or care what it might do to him. To die with his friend. But he needed Per to know he wasn’t alone. Motega closed his eyes, in that moment accepting that he would join with his friend one last time, be with him for the final moment as the eagles’ claws ripped through his beautiful wings, as their sharp beaks tore out his eyes and ate the warm insides of his belly. He’d seen birds of prey feed on each other and it wasn’t pretty.

  His mind slipped. And all was dark.

  But Per wasn’t dead and Motega felt a rush of relief as he inhabited Per’s mind. His head turned, training his sharp eyes, searching for something. His clawed feet scrabbled on dirt, twisting his neck and peering up through a tunnel of black to a circle of light, the heads of the eagles pushing at each other to peer down what was obviously a hole and catch sight of their prey.

  Motega opened his eyes.

  “He hid! He’s in a fox hole, or a badger set, or something,” he said, getting to his feet and picking up his bow. He checked the quiver that hung at his waist and took an arrow. The burrow was probably half a mile away. He knew the general direction, and he could trust his ears to follow the horrific shrieking of the eagles. If the inhabitant of the burrow was home then Per would be done for. Caught between teeth and talon. “I’m going to get him.”

  Motega ran for all he was worth, ignoring the calls of his friends to wait.

  Motega’s heart pounded as he ran, bow in one hand, arrow in the other. He didn’t know if he could hit his targets without Per’s help, but he was going to try.

  The clearing was not as flat as Motega had thought from his previous vantage point. It dipped and rose as he ran, like he was a ship tossed on the grassy green sea, though it began to slope gently upward toward the fort. He did realize he was running out into the open in front of an enemy fortification. He also had time to realize that it was likely not the wisest course of action. This was probably what his sister meant when she said his impetuousness would get him killed one day. But he didn’t care. If today was the day, then so be it. He would die protecting a friend.

  A few minutes was all it took for him to get within a hundred yards. Close enough where he judged he could see the blurred forms of Per’s tormentors well enough. He skidded to a halt and pulled the arrow back as he heard the first call of alarm from the fort. It was about to get a lot worse. He fired and reached for another arrow before the first had reached its target. A bellowing sound of avian demise rang out across the clearing and an eagle hit the ground.

  Probably a lucky shot.

  The other two eagles leapt into the sky, circling around each other as they gained height. Motega tried to track them, to judge their flight so he could loose his arrow, but their twisting and turning made it too difficult to predict their path. He held his shot. Reaching a height, the eagles separated and dived toward him. They were are an impossibly small target. And they came at him from two different directions. But they were birds. He’d been scratched by Per’s claws more times than he could count. So they were twice as big. What harm could they really do?

  He fired his second arrow, in truth more in hope than belief. He was already dropping the bow to try and pull out his axes before the eagles were upon him. The arrow struck true, hitting the head of the bird and sending it slamming into the dirt.

  Then the sole remaining eagle crashed into Motega. And he found out that a bird the size of wolf could in fact do quite a bit of harm.

  Outstretched talons hit him in his side and chest, claws closing as soon as they struck their prey, sinking deep into his flesh. Motega cursed in agony. Massive thunderous wings buffeted his senses as he raised his arms to fend off the raptor’s ripping beak. It tore at his boiled leather b
racers, leaving gouges in armor and flesh. The right vambrace was wrenched away and the eagle’s head reared back, tossing away the obstruction and preparing to strike once more.

  A whistle of wind and the eagle’s head disappeared. Blood spurted from the neck. splashing Motega’s face. He threw off the bird’s carcass and attempted to wipe the sticky red from his eyes with the back of his arm, but his own wounds only made the situation that much worse. He was sure he looked like a demented butcher. Through the sticky gore, he could see a wide, muscled figure above him, reaching down a hand to help him up. Thank fuck for Florian. Not the first time his friend had saved him and Motega was sure it wouldn’t be the last.

  “Riders,” was all Florian said, nodding to the open gates of the fort as a detachment of mounted soldiers headed their way.

  “How many?” Motega asked, as he gave himself the once over for major injuries. The rents in his arm stung from where his raw flesh touched the air, and his side burned where the eagle’s talons had ripped through his leather ring mail armor. But he’d live. At least for a minute or two.

  “A dozen,” said Trypp, approaching from behind, resignation in his words. Motega knew he’d gotten them into another situation. Maybe they all only had a few minutes left.

  “Shit.” Motega picked up his bow; time to get back to work.

  The riders were doing a nice job of staying in tight formation; he could easily make out where they were and then hope that luck was on his side and he would actually hit one. Per had not emerged from the hole yet and so he still had to rely on his own eyes. He pulled back the string of the bone bow—by the Mother Tree, this was a good bow—and released. He reached for another arrow and loosed again.

  A rider fell.

  “Nice shot,” conceded Florian, swords at the ready, clenched tightly in each fist. He bounced on the balls of his feet; a boxer ready for a fight.

  A horse screamed and plowed into the ground. Motega loosed again. The riders were getting close now.

  “In the eye, ouch,” said Trypp, wincing, as he pulled a pair of long knives from their scabbards. Another target taken for three arrows. Motega knew he was good, especially with Per’s help, but the gods, his ancestors and every rabbit’s foot in Edland must be on his side right now for those kinds of odds.

  “Time to separate,” said Florian calmly. Motega and Trypp knew what that meant, and though Trypp was the man in charge when it came to business dealings, for the business of dealing out some killing they listened to the big man without question. Motega moved left, firing another arrow as he half ran, half side-stepped, to a clear patch of ground thirty yards away. He clocked Trypp glide away from Florian to the other side, his knives held low and ready, his complaints of the morning left far behind. Another horse was hit in the hindleg, the poor beast’s run destroyed mid motion and it came crashing to the ground in a plume of dust, the rider thrown off in a heap. Eight soldiers left, and they lined up roughly shoulder to shoulder for the charge. Who knew what they were thinking; Motega hoped that four of their fellows already down would have their arses squeaking in their saddles.

  Then they were upon them.

  Florian showed no fear. He’d stopped bouncing, swords raised in readiness to face the tons of horse flesh barreling down at him. Motega had time enough for one more arrow and the rider at the end of the line closest to him fell. The poor sod knew what was coming. He’d released his reins and instinctively raised his arms to shield his face, but the arrow had gone straight through his palm before embedding in his skull in a strange mockery of a salute. The soldier tumbled from the horse.

  The riderless horse thudded past Motega with no interest in a fight of its own, but the next rider along snarled and raised his sword. The soldier chopped down as his mount steered away from Motega at the last second. He threw himself to the earth and tried his best to roll away without with losing his bow, but it snagged on the long grass and lay there, a few feet away from his outstretched hand. They should really have ridden him down; inexperienced horse or rider, it didn’t matter too much—he was grateful for either.

  As Motega scrambled to his feet he saw glimpses of Florian in action. The riders’ line must have become ragged as they hadn’t hit him in pairs. Already one soldier was at Florian’s feet, writhing on the floor and clutching an arm severed at the elbow. The second rider was on him, armed with a spear braced against his hip. Florian knocked the spear aside with one sword and thrust upward into the soldier’s gut with the other.

  Two more riders, spears leveled, closed on Florian, finally getting their timing right to strike at the same time. Florian disappeared from Motega’s view as the nearer horse rode past but the two riders slumped off their saddles and fell to the ground. Florian stood with bloody swords held high, a grin on his face.

  Motega grabbed his bow and drew an arrow. He looked for the rider who had ridden past him, but he was gone. And where was Trypp? The first rider had picked up a friend and they were both taking a wide circle around him. Maybe to charge again, but he’d bet his last coin he knew where they were going—to get help. Another rider trotted toward Florian, who had not moved in the few seconds it took for Motega to assess the situation. The soldier tumbled forward, falling to the earth in a crumbling heap, head first. Trypp sat in the saddle behind him, bloody dagger in hand.

  “Mot!” called Trypp, concern about something in his voice. “Come quick!” What was troubling him? They’d won, hadn’t they? Another scrape negotiated.

  Motega ran to his friends and as he did, he realized that Florian hadn’t been grinning from the glow of victory. His teeth were bared, but not in triumph—instead from the spear in his side. It had pierced Florian, front to back, just below the rib cage. The heel of the spear was wedged against the ground where it had been released and either Florian dare not move, or it was holding him up.

  “Fuck!” shouted Motega as he arrived. “Are you alright?”

  Florian tried to smile, but the pain was visible on his face. “I’ve been better, Mot. Any chance you could get this bloody thing out of me?”

  Trypp had a leather roll of tools on the ground that he’d pulled from a pouch somewhere. A few seconds of rummaging and he stood with a small metal saw blade in hand. Motega steadied his wounded friend and held tight on to the head of the spear as Trypp sawed rapidly at the wooden shaft that was braced against the ground, glancing back in the direction of the fort every few seconds to see how short lived this reprieve would be. Motega saw a bird take to the air and fly in their direction. Per! He was alright at least.

  The length of wood fell to the ground and Trypp took the turn of steadying Florian as Motega grabbed the glistening metal head and pulled, the remains of the wooden haft sliding through the wound. Dark burgundy blood leaked out behind it. Motega retrieved some wadding from a pouch at his belt—he was no healer but he’d long ago figured out the value in being prepared—and pushed it into the wound, front and back, jamming it in with his fingers. He took Florian’s cloak and wrapped it tight around his chest, hoping that it would keep the wound contained. Florian grunted through gritted teeth, swaying even as Trypp held him upright, somehow still able to hold his swords out of the way.

  “We’ve got to go,” said Trypp. “Quick. Get him up on the horse.”

  Trypp mounted the horse he had taken and with some considerable effort Motega lifted Florian onto the horse. Finally, he tucked Florian’s prize possessions under the leather straps, tight against the horse’s side.

  “Go!” said Motega, slapping the beast’s rump. Trypp, with Florian lying before him, raced away. Motega grabbed his bow from the ground, took one look back at the fort to see more riders emerging, and took off after his friends. A riderless horse contentedly grazed ahead, apparently not particularly sad about the loss of his rider or his stablemates. With the grace of a Dancer of the Wolfclaw tribe, Motega vaulted on to his back from behind, dug his heels into his ribs and chased after the horse in front.

  It had been touch-
and-go for a while. Their pursuers, a larger band of riders from Traitor’s Keep, had chased Motega and Trypp until just before dark. They had ridden their stolen horses hard. Florian, unconscious for most of the flight, draped across Trypp’s saddle until that mount had begun to tire and they had quickly moved Florian over to Motega’s marginally-fresher horse. They kept to the open, across meadow and around fields freshly plowed after harvest, both of them concerned about the effects of the ride on their friend but they weighed the dual needs of escape and finding help to be paramount. Motega had expected their pursuers to close the gap, but by the time they reached the dirt road that led to Redpool, they were gone. It was a dangerous proposition for Pyrfew troops this far into Edland.

  As night fell, they stumbled, man and beast exhausted, into a hamlet. A few wooden buildings huddled around a smith’s workshop as if for warmth. But there was no inn or tavern, or other traveler’s retreat, and they needed to tend to Florian’s wounds.

  The first door they knocked on was opened by a girl, barely more than a teenager, and Motega was gladdened that she did not appear too surprised or wary of the strangers at her doorstep in the gloaming. Motega had his hood raised, so maybe she couldn’t see his skin dappled with strange markings, but he had clearly been in a fight. Blood oozed from wounds that were only just starting to think about scabbing, and he was dirty all over from a couple of weeks crawling through forest. Oh, and he had a great big bloody falcon sitting on his shoulder. Since Per’s ordeal earlier that day he hadn’t wanted to be apart.

  Trypp was menacing in a different way, like an assassin come to call politely at your threshold. It must have been difficult to see much of him other than a tall vague shadow, his dark skin and dark clothes—which he wore no matter the mission—blending into the night. And then, when your eyes spent more time regarding Trypp, Motega knew the view got more menacing as you inevitably noticed the bandolier of knives draped across his chest.