“Many of my fellow conspirators met their ends with stout hearts and defiant words, but Crucio wasn’t brave. All his fine rhetoric, all his apparent wisdom became just sobs and begging as they dragged him to the noose. He was the last to die, and by the time his legs had stopped kicking, I realised I was no longer in love with him, if I ever truly had been. I knew full well the consequences of my act. I knew my own family would condemn me and so was surprised when my turn at the gallows never came. The blood that flows in my veins, Sharrow-Met’s blood, was considered too precious to spill, and so I was permitted exile and a chance at redemption.”
She turned to Shamil, leaning closer, voice earnest now. “But the notion that redemption can be won here is a lie. Haven’t you noticed how many sentinels have their discs, yet they never leave? Because they know this is the only place in all the world they can find a welcome. Because this is where they belong, where I belong. Our sins are too great, our disgrace too deep. But you, Shamil, do not belong here. Whatever you did, or think you did, it should never have brought you to the Eyrie. The great wings see it, even if you don’t.”
She put a hand on his neck, drawing him close until their foreheads touched. Shamil was seized by the urge to pull away, spit harsh words at her, but the tremble he felt as their skin met stopped him. “You can climb down from here,” she said in a choked whisper before drawing away.
Shamil watched her move stiffly towards Vintress. The bird gulped down a morsel of goat flesh, talons clutching what remained of the carcass as Lyvia climbed onto her back. She afforded Shamil a final glance, mouth opening to voice her farewell, but the words would never be heard.
A sudden thunderous roar from the east drowned all sound, Shamil’s gaze snapping to the Maw to see a massive plume of smoke erupting from its depths, driven by a gout of flame. Throughout their time at the Eyrie, the Maw would occasionally belch more smoke than usual, letting out a rumbling groan in the process, but this dwarfed all previous disturbances.
The smoke rose to mountainous heights, roiling black and grey, lightning flashing in its depths as it swirled around Sharrow-Met’s statue. Somehow the monument failed to be swallowed by the roiling clouds, rendered instead a pale silhouette. Shamil saw more flashes in the smoke, not lightning this time, brief spherical blossoms of light he was quick to recognise as exploding crystals. The flashes continued for some time until a dark speck appeared, growing into the shape of a fire wing, flying alone and driving hard towards the Eyrie.
“Ashinta and Hareld left on patrol this morning,” Lyvia said, exchanging a wide-eyed glance with Shamil.
The fire wing swept overhead as a fresh gout of smoke and flame issued from the Maw, and Shamil heard something in the accompanying roar, something that mixed animalistic rage with deep, ravening hunger. The sense of witnessing a dire awakening was inescapable, Rignar’s words sounding loud in Shamil’s mind: As long as there is malice in the world, so will the Voice contrive to persist.
“Take me with you!” he said, rushing towards Lyvia as Vintress flared her wings. Seeing the indecision on her face, he clasped Lyvia’s arm, words flowing from his mouth in a rapid torrent. “You’re wrong. I do belong here. I killed a captive. A raptorile snared during a raid into the desert and pushed into the Anverest arena to be slaughtered. It was to be my graduation from the Doctrinate, my confirmation as a warrior in the city guard. And I did it. I fought it, and I killed it. But before the final blow, I looked into its eyes and knew it to be no different from me. It felt. It feared. It thought. ”
His grip tightened on her arm, and Vintress let out a warning hiss as he pressed closer looking for understanding in Lyvia’s startled gaze. “They told us they were animals. Beasts who merely mimicked the language and custom they saw in humans. Vermin deserving of only death. It was all a lie. A putrid web of deceit spun so our people could keep raiding their lands and calling ourselves heroes as we plundered and killed. That was my disgrace, Lyvia. My weakness. I saw the lie, and still I killed for it.”
He sighed and released her arm, stepping back, forcing himself to meet her eye despite his shame. “I belong here as much as you do,” he told her, making no effort to conceal the desperate plea in his voice. “Please. Take me with you.”
The Eyrie was all bustle and preparation when Vintress landed on one of the outer rises, releasing Shamil from the ungentle cage of her talons to suffer a hard landing on the tiered steps. Lyvia climbed down from the falcon’s back, and they both went in search of Tihla, dodging around sentinels laden with bundled arrows and sundry weapons. Their questions were swallowed by the plethora of orders echoing about the place, Morgath’s voice loudest among them, itself occasionally drowned out by the squawks and screeches of the many great wings alighting on the tall perches. Despite the general din, Shamil caught a few of Morgath’s commands, “. . . form two companies . . . falcons go high, fire wings go low, owls will guard the rear and the flanks . . .”
Shamil managed to snare Ehlias’s arm as he made for the central rise with a brace of claw spears, the smith pointing him towards Rignar’s chamber in response to his shouted question.
“What’s happening?” Shamil pressed.
Ehlias spared only a grim-eyed glance and a grunted reply before hurrying on his way. “Battle, lad. What else?”
They found Tihla watching Rignar tend to a trio of deep cuts in Ashinta’s shoulder. The mage held a piece of carnelian in one hand and jasper in the other, both stones glowing bright as he held them close to the wounds. The cuts were closing, albeit slowly, the healing causing Ashinta a considerable amount of pain judging by the answers she hissed through clenched teeth in response to Tihla’s barrage of questions.
“Told you . . .” She gave a hard grunt, eyes closing tight for a moment as Rignar completed sealing one of her scars. “Never seen one like that before. Thought it might be some kind of bat at first . . .” She broke off, biting down a yell before mastering herself. “But its wings sprouted from its back. Had a body like a man, covered in fur and shorter overall but longer of limb.” She let out a grating laugh, casting a rueful glance at her partly healed shoulder. “With sharp claws, but still, mostly manlike. And its eyes . . .” She shuddered, this time not due to the pain of her injuries. “Big as apples and black like jet. Saw the hate in them plain enough, though.”
Ashinta hissed and shot Rignar a reproachful look as the second scar sealed shut before switching her gaze back to Tihla. “And they’re fast, falcon speed. They were on me and Hareld before we knew it, streaking out of the smoke from all directions. Him and his bird were already falling by the time I knew what was happening.”
“So,” Rignar said, raising his brows, though his eyes remained focused on his work. “The Maw has coughed out some new horrors, it seems.”
“It’s not just the man-bats, mage. Like I told the first wing, there were plenty of flensers and scythers about too, not to mention what was happening on the ground. Couldn’t see much with all the smoke, but there were vehlgard marching out of the Maw in columns, several thousand of the cack eaters. Looked like they were taking a westward course.”
“That would lead them straight into the lava flow,” Tihla said. Shamil saw the tension in her bearing, well controlled though it was, betrayed most clearly in the single vein pulsing in her temple.
“Just saying what I saw.” Ashinta’s face bunched, nostrils flaring and skin reddening as Rignar closed the last cut.