Apparently satisfied, Stielbek’s eye flashed white as he blinked before turning his head towards the Maw, sail-sized wings rising and falling in mighty sweeps that took them high into the sky. The black wing levelled out at a height that put them several hundred feet above the Maw, and Shamil’s nostrils suffered a sulphurous sting as they drew ever nearer. The struggle within the vast column of smoke seemed to be continuing with unabated fury, but now he caught glimpses of the combatants.
Birds wheeled and dove, fleeting spectres against the pulsing glow of detonating crystals. Smaller shadows flickered amongst them, dark irregular shapes that swarmed and broke apart amidst blossoms of white light. As Stielbek flew closer, the glare of magical luminescence became so bright Shamil was forced to snick the lever on the side of his helm, slotting the dark glass in place. The view immediately shifted from occluded confusion to chaotic and terrible clarity, the impenetrable smoke rendered a vague greyish mist.
He saw a bird mobbed by winged creatures the size of cats, presumably the flensers that featured in so many of the sentinels’ lurid tales. The dense mass of them heaved like bees around a hive as they overwhelmed the bird, and Shamil found it impossible to discern the identity of the rider amongst the flurry of leathery wings and gnashing teeth. The great wing thrashed and twisted, shedding feathers and slain enemies, but it was clear this contest would only end one way.
The uneven struggle continued as Stielbek swept closer. Shamil unslung his bow and reached for an arrow, but before he could take aim, the struggling bird and its assailants disappeared in a blossom of fire as the unseen rider found a way to detonate one of their crystals. The debris slipped away beneath them, Stielbek broadening his wings to glide through a dwindling cloud of feathers. A few flensers, having survived the blast, sought to bar their path, and Shamil heard their hungry, yipping shrieks even above the rushing wind.
Drawing his bow, he let fly at the lead creature, the crystal-head striking it in the chest and blowing it apart along with two of its companions. Only one remained, streaking towards them undaunted, its cries rising to deafening volume as it closed. Seeing its face clearly, Shamil found himself confronted by a ravening mask of teeth, its snapping jaws adding a ululation to its unending scream. But it was the hate in its eyes that snared Shamil’s attention, causing him to freeze in the act of reaching for another arrow. Black orbs shot through with veins of red that coalesced to form a blazing pupil, they glowed with vicious, insatiable hunger beyond even the most starved lion or desert wolf. As it loomed before him, jaws snapping so fast its teeth blurred, Shamil had no doubt this was a creature bred purely for the purpose of wreaking the ugliest death on any human unfortunate enough to encounter it.
Stielbek raised his head in an almost casual gesture, beak opening and closing with a hard snap. The flenser vanished, the only trace of its passing a vaporous spatter on Shamil’s visor. The increased sting to his nostrils and ashen catch in his throat made it clear that they were now in the heart of the smokestack, the air rent by repeated percussive blasts and screams he hoped came only from the throats of the Maw’s creations.
Stielbek turned as Shamil caught sight of another bird below, an owl, the sentinel on its back turning loose arrows at the flensers swarming in pursuit. Shamil put a pair of his own crystal-heads into their midst and was rewarded with the sight of two satisfyingly large explosions before Stielbek folded his wings, sending them into a near vertical dive straight into the heart of the swarm.
For an instant the world became a fury of choked-off screams and the crack of sundered bones and skulls, and Shamil felt an increasing wetness where his skin was exposed to the air. He could only hold on as the black wing twisted and spun, thighs clamped hard to the heaving muscle and one hand gripping feathers with white knuckles as the other strove to keep hold of his bow.
Then they were through, Stielbek assuming a level course that enabled Shamil to wipe the red slick from his visor. Looking around he saw they were alone once again, surrounded only by drifting vapour through which occasional patches of clear sky gleamed harsh through his darkened lenses.
A laugh came unbidden from Shamil’s throat, driven not by joy but an uncomfortable concordance of relief and exhilaration. As Stielbek banked and took them lower, Shamil recalled his first glimpse of a great wing during the climb to the Eyrie, his hunger to know what it might feel like to traverse the skies with such a beast. The reality, it transpired, was everything he had hoped for, despite the horrors witnessed and the certainty of more to come, and so he laughed, long and loud.
The attack came without warning, a hard stunning impact to the top of his helm that would surely have shattered his skull but for its protection. He reeled, legs slackening and losing purchase on Stielbek’s neck. He would have fallen if the black wing hadn’t abruptly angled his body, jolting Shamil back to awareness. Blinking, he shook away the haze that marred his vision, wincing at the sharp pain in his head and flexing his left hand in angry realisation that he had lost his bow.
A loud, guttural cry from behind caused Shamil to turn, seeing a broad-winged shape labouring in the disturbed air left in Stielbek’s wake. It was two-thirds the size of a blue falcon, but any similarity ended there. This bird was dark grey in colour, its featherless neck long and coiling like a snake, emitting the same throaty call all the while. It had a wickedly sharp beak shaped like a butcher’s hook, but Shamil saw more danger in its talons, far larger in proportion to the bird’s body than could be natural, each one a long black sickle.
“Scyther,” Shamil grunted. The reason for the beast’s repeated calls became clear when three more swept out of the mist to fly alongside it. He began to reach for his whip but was forced to grab a fistful of feathers when Stielbek went into a sudden dive, and Shamil glimpsed the sight of another, far larger, bird just ahead. Something flicked the air just above his helm, and the now familiar blast of exploding quartz sounded to the rear.
Recognition dawned as the approaching bird swept overhead, and Shamil noted how the dark glass of his visor rendered Vintress’s feathers a verdant shade of green rather than blue. He saw Lyvia whirl her sling and cast another missile at a scyther as it banked towards her, transforming it into a ball of grey mist in a flash of combusting crystal. Stielbek shortened his wings and pivoted, raising his talons to rend the two surviving Maw beasts apart as they closed. The grisly task complete, he spread his wings into a broad arc, catching an updraft that enabled him to hover.
Vintress circled them in a tight arc, and Shamil noted the blackened and scorched feathers on the falcon’s breast, though he heaved a relieved sigh at seeing her rider uninjured. He stared hard at the blank eyes of Lyvia’s visor, hoping there was a welcoming smile behind it. She stared back for a second, then pointed, her finger stabbing downwards towards the orange-red snake of the lava flow. Black shapes flicked and spiralled across it, sentinels and swarms of Maw beasts engaged in a deadly dance. Through the chaos of battle his gaze caught something more, a flurry of pale white specks at the flow’s edge that put him in mind of a snowstorm, surely something that couldn’t be possible.