rosiphelee (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rosiphelee) wrote2005-07-04 08:49 pm
rosiphelee) wrote2005-07-04 08:49 pm
Entry tags:
Nimbus and Aylili
The first half of a little story for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
saiena. A sequel to Dandelion and Thistledown because you went and said you'd missed Nimbus and inspiration bit. Hard.
(Warning to any folks who haven't read Dandelion and Thistledown - read it first - there are MASSIVE spoilers in here and you won't understand half of it if you haven't met these two before. You have been warned.)
I don't have a title yet so here it is:
Aylili flew.
The day was fading into grey dusk. The air was thick with feathery ash and the smoke from the fires below and her creamy wings were smeared as grey as the sky. Her back ached. She had been in the air since dawn, mapping the movements of the Dark, and now every tiny adjustment of her wings sent ripples of fire down the line of her spine.
She would not turn back to the refuge of the city behind her. She would not give up, though she could barely see the ground through the gloaming. Isola was safe. Isola was warm. Isola meant nothing unless she found him.
Steadily, doggedly, she scanned the ground below, soaring silently through the smutty air. How would see ever be able to see black wings against burnt ground in the dark? How soon would the night and her own pale wings betray her to the watchers below? She could see their fires and the torches of their patrols and she crossed over every one, despite the risk that they would look up. She wondered if they whispered around their fires of the death that fell from the sky, the last wings over Isola.
The wind gusted below her, rattling the banners of the Dark on their bone-white spars and moaning around the rubble. The sound hid the hiss of the arrows until she felt the first one pass through the tip of her left wing. She slammed her shoulders back, shoving herself up through the air, but one startled glance told her it was too late. The rest of the volley were too close, little black circles in the smoke, and in that long, bright moment she knew she was finished. This was the end and she too would fall. Finally, after eight years, the Saisorhi of Isola would become only a memory.
Then, though it was impossible, the arrows fell out of the sky. She felt the air move as they plummeted past her face, dropping like a stone tossed from the roof into the street below.
Then the wind came roaring up behind her, lifting her through the air with such force that it was all she could do to spread her wings wide and ride it, torn away from her search and the city she guarded.
When the wind began to slow, Isola was only a faint glow on the horizon. Even the fires of the Dark were mere pinpricks. The very ground had risen up towards her and she could just make out the craggy shapes of rocks beneath her.
Aylili found she was crying and the quivering of her wings told her she needed to get out of the air. She didn’t know if it was exhaustion or the shock of non-death but she was shaking.
She could see the shadowy outline of a building below her and began to circle, hunting for some sign that it was abandoned and not a haunt of the Dark. She could hear pigeons cooing and that gave her the courage to drop closer. Then a thready, churring call sounded and she relaxed. It was a bird but she did not recognise its song. She knew all the city birds which meant this was a wilderness creature, wary of humans. She would take the risk before she fell out of the sky herself.
She stumbled as she landed, grazing her knees. She crawled a few steps, the tips of her wings dragging in the dirt, before she found a wooden post and dragged herself back to her feet. Looking up, she saw a broken sign creaking above her and realised this must have been an inn once.
She went towards the main building at a shaky run, hoping that he might be here, sprawled out comfortably with a bottle in each hand. Right now, she would have been glad to see him drunk.
It was very dark inside, even though she could see the first stars showing through the broken roof. Refusing to give up hope, she wet her lips and whispered, “Nimbus?”
There was no reply and she felt her shoulders slump. She managed a few more steps and then sank down against the wall, wrapping her hands around her knees to try to stop them from shaking. After a moment, she forced herself to be sensible and unhooked the water bottle from her belt. She took a mouthful of the warm, leathery water, holding in her mouth to stop herself from gulping half the bottle down.
After a sensible amount she screwed the lid back on, only succeeding after several attempts and hooked it back onto her belt. Only then did she let herself sink back. There was nothing more she could do until moonrise.
For a while, she half-dozed but her mind was clogged with nightmares. At last she shook herself awake, ruffling her feathers against the chill of the night. To calm herself she tried to visualise Liaven’s maps of the country around Isola. She was in hills, due north of the city. She had seen no sign of a village so the inn must serve a road. This must be the Tarrass road, then, leading up to Rassat Pass. She could remember seeing the inn marked on the map and focussed on recalling the name.
The Jar and Nightingale.
She hoped it was a good omen and wondered if the strange bird she had heard was a nightingale. She had never believed they existed outside the stories her nurse had told her, when she was a child in fair Isola.
Now she was calm enough to think about the arrows and the wind that followed them. That was magic and it had not been her doing. Perhaps it had been him.
Immediately, she dismissed the idea. He might have burnt them all from the sky or transformed them into something extravagent. That silent, uncanny collapse was not like him. Someone else had intervened and had saved her life.
She wasn’t comfortable with the thought or the debt it invoked. Could it have been one of the city mages? She doubted it – their scryings were bound close to the city by the shadows of the Dark. That was why they needed her and Nimbus in the air, to be their eyes where they could not see. She had been too far out of Isola for it to have been one of them.
Could whoever it was still be watching? Unnerved, she chewed on her lip, but then began to reach outwards, opening her mind to the magics that flowed through the world as she would open her wings to the sky. There was nothing but the distant shadows of the Dark and she was about to withdraw when she caught a trace of something faint and steady. No shadows hung around it but it was strangely blurred, as if it was not qute fixed in this world. She reached out, warily, with her mind, and probed it and it faded swiftly to nothing.
Dissatisfied, she withdrew to the safety of her own mind.
The moon was rising, tracing the edges of the ruins silver. It was full and bright and already her wings glowed in its light, dirtied as they were. She could see the remains of the taproom now, the ashes drifting against the walls, the burnt hulk of the bar, the gleam of broken tankards against the back wall. A few outbuildings were still standing and she walked over to check them, rolling her shoulders to work the stiffness out of her back. One was empty, the other held only rats and bones. A stairway still led up from the taproom to the higher parts of the inn and she was tempted to dimiss it. Nimbus had too much respect for his wings to hide in a building that might collapse. The Warrior’s Code, however, said to check everything and she would not let weeks of tedious lessons go to waste.
He wasn’t up there but when she turned to look out of the window she found she could not see the city from down here. Rolling hills blocked her view. The nightbird was singing again and that, and the uneasy thoughts of flight and magic roiling in her mind, gave her an idea. It wouldn’t work here – she would have to go closer to the city, where he had been patrolling. She pattered back downstairs and scooped up a handful of ash. With a grimace of distaste she poured it back and forth between her hands. She had a fair idea how long it would take to get this out again. Then, sighing, she began to brush the ashes across her wings. Survival was more important than vanity, in the end. It took a lot of ash to completely darken her wings and by then her pale grey clothes were streaked with it as well. She scooped her a few more handfuls and set to work on the soft leather. She was not prepared for night flying. Lastly, she undid the tie that held her hair in a tight plait and began to rub the ashes into her scalp. She had no mirror to tell her when every pale strand was hidden so she kept working at it until ashes spilled down her cheeks. Then she plaited it tightly again so it would not blind her as she flew.
She made her way out of the inn, feeling the sigh of the wind and looking for a suitable place to launch from. The ground rose before her, towards a rocky outcrop to her right where the wind would be towards her. She could feel ash trickling down her spine and ignored it. No one would notice a few more ashes in the air.
She flung her shoulders back and began to run, rolling her shoulders with every step so her wings lifted, beating the air. With every step her feet left the ground a little longer, the oncoming wind surging beneath the span of her wings. Then she was on the rocks and she hurled herself forward.
Here, away from the battlelines, she could shriek out the glee she always felt when she took to the air. Whooping, she rose on the breath of the wind, soaring until she could see the lights of Isola again. From here she could see the moonlight gleaming on the sea and the bright flare of the Westerley Beacon, proclaiming to the conquered world that Isola, though beseiged, still held for the Light. Then her mood sobered and she began to power back towards the city.
He should have returned to report to Liaven at noon. At first they had thought he had found something and would merely be late but he had not returned. He had promised her he would always come back, if there was life still in him, and so she had swept out to search for him, despite Liaven’s protests.
She found a large encampment and landed not far away, crouching close to the ground. She needed to cover the noise she would make in doing this and the soldiers fifty cubits away were singing. She could tell they were drunk by the way they slurred the words and she sniffed in disapproval. At least Nimbus could carry a tune after a few bottles.
Crouched in the dark, she drew the pipe from her belt and began to play, soft and breathy, calling across the battlefield. One by one, the carrion birds rose, wings whirring through the night as they swirled around her. She kept playing, letting the music and the glint of black eyes and the swirl of dark wings circling lull her, lifting her away from the world. As she slipped away from what was real the world shifted around her and she was within the minds of the birds.
Their thoughts were not merely wordless, which she could understand, but timeless. They lived in an eternal moment, with no concept of the past that made them what they were or the future that would bring them into death. That was how she knew she was not a bird, despite the wings that bore her.
Relaxing further into their thoughts, into the rush of the wind and the call of the bats and the glimmer of the moon, she began to lace images of her own into the mix, hoping that the short term memories which kept them out of danger would recognise something.
Black wings gleaming, vaster than any of them; brown limbs, like the fearsome ones who walked on the ground, borne aloft; the rush of air displaced by those wings.
For a while there was nothing but then images rushed back at her, nets in the air, the whoosh of arrows, dark wings convulsing and falling.
She thought to them of the shape of the wind, of the way the folds of the land changed the heat and heft of the air and cried, in the images of the birds, Where?
They lifted into the air, flocking back towards the mountains and she shoved the pipe back into her belt and went after them. They led her to where the road out of the city split, winding its separate ways through wide gulleys. One branch she recognised as the road up to Rassat Pass and the inn she had sheltered in. The other led northwest and a squadron was marching along it, away from the city. In their midst, two horses drew a wagon. Bolted to the top of the wagon was a cage.
It looked empty and for a moment she thought the birds had led her wrong. Then something dark stirred on its floor and she realised he was slumped there.
He had to be hurt. If he could have stood he would have been on his feet, roaring imprecations at his captors. Unlocking the cage would not be enough – she would have to help him to safety as well. She landed on the top of the escarpment and began to trace her way along, easily keeping pace with their slow march. As she followed she counted their heads. Thirty of them. For a moment, she panicked. She was just a roofling child. How could she take on thirty of the Dark?
Nimbus would probably have charged them by now.
The thought made her grin savagely and she began to think. She was a shaman of the Saisorhi. She had a sword, though she rarely needed to use it, she had a pipe, she had wings. And she had her mind.
So, she couldn’t take them all on at once. One by one, though…
How could she separate them? Ideas were rolling in now and she grinned and ran backwards, away from the gully, so she could take to the air.
~*~
Captain Eniste Hoirak-Mettra of the Sixty-First Army of the Eternal Dark was finding it more and more difficult to hold back his laughter. The further they rode away from cursed Isola the more confident he was that they had escaped pursuit. Only this black-winged bastard’s little apprentice could follow them and she had not found them yet. The pointless maneouvres the fifth battalion had been enacting all morning had obviously distracted her long enough for them to get off the plain. She would never be able to work out their trail, not before they were safe in Varulqa and he had handed his prize to his masters.
He pressed his lips together to stop himself from humming. Most of his men were too young to understand the satisfaction of bringing this one down. They had celebrated the fall of a notorious enemy and the last anointed agent of the Light in Isola. They didn’t remember the last war. They didn’t remember the desperation, the humilation and the horror of the Ninth Legion’s ride on Darkholm. Eniste Hoirak-Mettra had been born in the service of the Dark, the sixth of eight brothers. His parents had dedicated their life to Darkness, like their parents before them. His lovers, his friends, his battle-brothers – all had been filled with the power of the Dark.
The Ninth had killed them all and Nimbus cor Evasta had been there, flying over the battlefield, his wings bright with the fury of the Light.
It had been a small comfort to know the survivors of the Ninth were held in scorn. To bring one down was sweeter still. He understood what these children around him did not – revenge was one of the sweetest fuels to feed the Dark. His masters knew it too and he did not doubt that they would enact a proper vengeance before they broke the secrets of Isola out of the feathered fool.
There was a faint clatter to his left as a few small stones fell down the cliff edge.
“Archers!” he roared and a volley of arrrows arched towards the western cliff face. There was a squeak which could have been a bird or a mouse or a human girl and a scrabbling sound. The next volley were burning arrows, catching in the dry scrub along the top of the bluff. Vast shadows of soaring wings flashed across the sky, fleeing away from the road. So the chit had found them.
“Jior-Takra! After her! Take a unit! Take the nets!”
Ten men swarmed up the cliffside, breaking into a steady run as they followed the sweeping shadow of wings.
“You will never catch her, creature of the shadow. You are doomed to fail. Doomed. Worthless pustule that you are. Coward soul, scum of a rotten land, you will die.” A wheezing breath and then the prisoner continued, his voice rising steadily from a whisper, “You will die screaming and dirty, your guts spilled upon the ground, your sins carved into your skin, a knife in your back because you turned and fled as your followers died around you. You are nothing and less than…”
“Be silent,” Hoirak-Mettra said casually and put power behind the words. The prisoner’s mouth continued to move, his eyes glinting with rage and fever, but no sound emerged from his lips.
“March on!” the captain cried and they continued down the road to Varulqa.
~*~
On the top of the eastern cliff, Aylili hugged herself. Summoning a little light was one of the first spells Nimbus and Liaven had taught her. Fixing it to the right place on the bird’s neck to create only the shadows of wings had been harder but it had worked. Even the nets had gone.
Twenty left. She followed them, pressing carefully into the shadows. Should she wait for dawn? They were the Dark after all, and they must, in some way, fear the light. By then, though, her hoax would have been uncovered and they would be at full strength again and doubly wary.
The road was rising toward her and she looked forward. There was a place soon where the road was almost level with the bluff. Then the slope steepened again and the road sank back down, cut into the rock in a more gentle slope. It would be an ideal place to get Nimbus off the road.
What other weapons could she use? She was a shaman. Nimbus kept telling her so and she had shrugged and not argued. But what did it mean and how could it help?
There are three paths, Nimbus had said, and you must know something of them all before you devote yourself to one alone. The path of the warrior is the path of the body, of knowing when to strike and how to hold an enemy at bay with the strength of your arm and the speed of your wings. The path of the scholar is the path of the mind, of knowing how to plan and attack and of how to seek out knowledge and then use what knowledge you possess to the wisest ends. The path of the shaman is that of the heart, of becoming one with the greater world, not to analyse it or act upon it but to understand it and to move within it, in harmony. Too mystical for a simple soldier like myself, of course, but it’s your path, featherling, no doubt.
“A simple soldier?” Liaven had echoed sceptically. “Surely not?”
Nimbus had grinned at her and purred, “At last, dear lady, you admit you are not impervious to my charms,” and she had snorted as Aylili pinched his arm to bring him back to the subject.
She didn’t really see how becoming one with the greater world could help. As she was pondering it, she stretched out a tiny thread to shift the pebbles in the gulley. The foremost soldier went crashing down, his ankle twisting under him. The soldier behind him could not stop in time to keep from falling over him. One of the horses reared and Aylili ran, taking advantage of the confusion to overtake them. Well beyond the flat, out of their sight, she unhooked the twist of cloth she had returned to The Jar and Nightingale for and shook out the contents. Shards of broken glass glittered in the moonlight as they fell and she followed them with another bagful, this time of ash, which covered most of the pieces of broken tankard.
Then she waited, leaning over the edge of the bluff to await their coming. As she waited, she pondered his words about moving within the world. A idea came to her and she unhooked her water bottle. Unscrewing the lid, she began to roll the bottle between her palms, listening to the water slop against the sides and breathing in its stale scent. The pipe was her best tool but, in theory, she could distance herself from the world without it.
As the troop came into sight she heard the clop of the horses’ hooves as they drew the wagon and was almost broken out of her trance. The horses had done nothing.
The captain was cursing and two of his men were limping. She could hear every sound, clear and distinct, although they did not quite seem to fit into a whole. She could hear Nimbus breathing, raggedly, and knew he was awake.
In that strange, detached state everything fell into place and she reached into her belt pouch with one hand, continuing to rock the bottle with the other.
As they approached her, the horses labouring as they dragged the wagon up the slope, she hurled the two balls she held into the gully, covering her eyes as she did so. Even so, she saw the flash of light as they hit the ground. As it faded she looked again and found the gully full of smoke and the soldiers reeling, half-blinded. Screaming, she drew her sword and launched herself off the cliff.
She skimmed over their heads, reaching down to slash through the reins of the rearing horses, barely dodging their lashing hooves. Then she was on the ground and the captain was coming at her, his sword bright in his hard. She parried wildly and grabbed for the bars of the cage, slamming her wings down to bounce herself into the air, dragging herself onto the top of the cage as his sword slashed against the bars, sparks hissing. Balanced above him she swung the hand holding the waterbottle round, hurling herself back into the full trance as the water arched out over the stumbling soldiers. Like called to like and all that was was one.
Then she was forced to defend herself, slashing down as the captain pulled himself up onto the edge of the wagon, slashing up at her. She danced backwards, swiping at his fingers, and Nimbus pulled himself across the floor of the cage to drag at the man’s knees, trying to unbalance him.
Some of the soldiers were beginning to regain their sight. An archer, stumbling clear of the smoke, had drawn his bow and was moving to set his sights on her. She dropped flat against the bars of the cage, wings spread, and shrieked, “Nimbus! Light!”
He understood and raised his hands in summoning. The bars were thrumming between her fingers and she could hear a distant rumbling. What she had done had worked, to some degree.
Then there was Light, searing bright, clarifying and fierce. It burnt through all the shadowed places in her soul and threw her back to the hyperawareness of the shaman trance. The Dark, who could not bear its touch, were flinching away, some screaming, though their captain still clung to the cage.
“Hah!” Nimbus shouted, his wings illuminated with white light as he knelt in the cage. “Fall down before a greater power, foul ones! Grovel, you weak, monstrous fools! The Light is all and you are nothing! You think you can silence Nimbus cor Evasta! You think your puny spells will stand against the might of the Light! Fools! You are all – featherling, what’s that noise?”
And the water burst down the canyon, wall of black water like the night itself breaking over them. It smashed into the ranks of the Dark and broke against the wagon, drenching Nimbus and the captain. The wagon the cage stood shifted on its wheels and then began rolling back downhill, pulled by the force of the water.
The soldiers of the Dark went whirling past, some limp and lost, others fighting against the water with bared teeth. Aylili glimpsed a horse’s body whirling past and hoped the other had escaped. Then a slash of pain on her leg reminded her that the captain was still scrambling up towards her, though the cage was rocking and tilting as the wagon was swept away.
She danced backwards, beating at him with her wings in an attempt to dislodge him. As she dodged she saw a light glow on his belt, bright and clear in the spray-filled shadows. It was none of her summoning and too bright to be the moon but by its light she saw what hung from his belt.
“Nimbus! Belt! Grab!”
“Save him?” Nimbus roared. “Never!”
“Belt!” she shrieked again, dodging again as she brought her own sword round, its bright, barely used length gleaming sharply.
Nimbus grabbed at the captain, wrapping his hand around the man’s belt.
The captain laughed and lunged for Aylili, free to pull himself closer without risking slipping into the water. She leapt over his swinging blade and ran forward along the bars towards him. He sneered and she smiled, wrapping the long toes of her right foot around the bars for balance.
Then she drew her other foot back and kicked him in the face.
The metal noseguard of his helmet bruised her bare sole but she felt the bones splinter beneath his cheek as she ground her heel in.
He screamed, a high-pitched squeal that she could hear even over the roar of the water and brought his hands up to his face. For a moment only Nimbus’ grip on his belt held him in place.
Aylili lunged, bringing her sword round and down to slash through his belt, not caring that she was slicing through the flesh behind. He went crashing away as his belt slipped free, arching back through the air until his head hit the side of the gulley and he went crashing into the water. Nimbus was left clutching his belt, from which hung a ring of metal keys.
Aylili saw his mouth move but for once he seemed genuinely speechless.
Then she looked ahead and saw how the canyon narrowed and spread her wings. As the canyon sloped downwards, the wind caught her and she hurled herself into the air, beating with all the strength she could to get clear of the cage.
“Aylili!”
She circled in time to see the wagon hit the narrows, sideways on. The wood crumpled and shattered, spitting splinters into the water and then the remnants of the wagon crashed onwards, breaking apart in the water. The metal cage continued to move, the metal squealing against the rock walls, striking flaring sparks into the air and water.
As she had hoped, though, it was made of stronger stuff than the wagon and eventually it stopped, wedged between the rocks, its floor tilted and its bars bent.
She hovered until all the water had run below it. Then she landed lightly in front of it and tapped on the bars.
Nimbus lifted a drenched wing to glare at her.
“Keys?” she said.
He handed her the belt and she unlocked the door, which was now facing the canyon floor, its bars skewed. The lock had bent a little and it took all of her weight to turn the key.
As soon as it was open, Nimbus flopped out. He crawled out from under the cage and then used it to drag himself upright, breathing hard. He stared at her, then at the cage and then at the keys in the lock.
“How much of that,” he asked, his voice pleasantly level, “did you plan?”
Aylili raised her hands in a shrug. “Some.”
“We will-“ he began and then swayed. “We will discuss tactics at – at…”
She caught him as he swayed and shoved him upright against the cage. He clutched at his shoulder, where the sinews of his wing merged with his back. When he brought his hand away it looked black in the moonlight.
“Blood,” he said weakly and gestured at her. “Bandage?”
The question snapped her back to the moment and she dug into her pouch to find a roll of cotton bandages. She wrapped them around his shoulder, covering as much as she could of the long cut without hindering the movement of his wing. Even as she wrapped, the blood began to soak through the cloth.
She went to his other side and half-pushed him down to the flat place and then out of the gulley onto the scrubby heath. Some miles to the east lay the dubious sanctuary of The Jar and Nightingale. All she had to do was get him there.
“Can you fly?” she said to him, expecting a torrent of scorn.
Instead, he turned to look at her, his eyes too bright behind the elflocks of his hair, and said, “No.” Then he slumped to his knees, almost dragging her down with him.
To be continued...
saiena. A sequel to Dandelion and Thistledown because you went and said you'd missed Nimbus and inspiration bit. Hard.(Warning to any folks who haven't read Dandelion and Thistledown - read it first - there are MASSIVE spoilers in here and you won't understand half of it if you haven't met these two before. You have been warned.)
I don't have a title yet so here it is:
Aylili flew.
The day was fading into grey dusk. The air was thick with feathery ash and the smoke from the fires below and her creamy wings were smeared as grey as the sky. Her back ached. She had been in the air since dawn, mapping the movements of the Dark, and now every tiny adjustment of her wings sent ripples of fire down the line of her spine.
She would not turn back to the refuge of the city behind her. She would not give up, though she could barely see the ground through the gloaming. Isola was safe. Isola was warm. Isola meant nothing unless she found him.
Steadily, doggedly, she scanned the ground below, soaring silently through the smutty air. How would see ever be able to see black wings against burnt ground in the dark? How soon would the night and her own pale wings betray her to the watchers below? She could see their fires and the torches of their patrols and she crossed over every one, despite the risk that they would look up. She wondered if they whispered around their fires of the death that fell from the sky, the last wings over Isola.
The wind gusted below her, rattling the banners of the Dark on their bone-white spars and moaning around the rubble. The sound hid the hiss of the arrows until she felt the first one pass through the tip of her left wing. She slammed her shoulders back, shoving herself up through the air, but one startled glance told her it was too late. The rest of the volley were too close, little black circles in the smoke, and in that long, bright moment she knew she was finished. This was the end and she too would fall. Finally, after eight years, the Saisorhi of Isola would become only a memory.
Then, though it was impossible, the arrows fell out of the sky. She felt the air move as they plummeted past her face, dropping like a stone tossed from the roof into the street below.
Then the wind came roaring up behind her, lifting her through the air with such force that it was all she could do to spread her wings wide and ride it, torn away from her search and the city she guarded.
When the wind began to slow, Isola was only a faint glow on the horizon. Even the fires of the Dark were mere pinpricks. The very ground had risen up towards her and she could just make out the craggy shapes of rocks beneath her.
Aylili found she was crying and the quivering of her wings told her she needed to get out of the air. She didn’t know if it was exhaustion or the shock of non-death but she was shaking.
She could see the shadowy outline of a building below her and began to circle, hunting for some sign that it was abandoned and not a haunt of the Dark. She could hear pigeons cooing and that gave her the courage to drop closer. Then a thready, churring call sounded and she relaxed. It was a bird but she did not recognise its song. She knew all the city birds which meant this was a wilderness creature, wary of humans. She would take the risk before she fell out of the sky herself.
She stumbled as she landed, grazing her knees. She crawled a few steps, the tips of her wings dragging in the dirt, before she found a wooden post and dragged herself back to her feet. Looking up, she saw a broken sign creaking above her and realised this must have been an inn once.
She went towards the main building at a shaky run, hoping that he might be here, sprawled out comfortably with a bottle in each hand. Right now, she would have been glad to see him drunk.
It was very dark inside, even though she could see the first stars showing through the broken roof. Refusing to give up hope, she wet her lips and whispered, “Nimbus?”
There was no reply and she felt her shoulders slump. She managed a few more steps and then sank down against the wall, wrapping her hands around her knees to try to stop them from shaking. After a moment, she forced herself to be sensible and unhooked the water bottle from her belt. She took a mouthful of the warm, leathery water, holding in her mouth to stop herself from gulping half the bottle down.
After a sensible amount she screwed the lid back on, only succeeding after several attempts and hooked it back onto her belt. Only then did she let herself sink back. There was nothing more she could do until moonrise.
For a while, she half-dozed but her mind was clogged with nightmares. At last she shook herself awake, ruffling her feathers against the chill of the night. To calm herself she tried to visualise Liaven’s maps of the country around Isola. She was in hills, due north of the city. She had seen no sign of a village so the inn must serve a road. This must be the Tarrass road, then, leading up to Rassat Pass. She could remember seeing the inn marked on the map and focussed on recalling the name.
The Jar and Nightingale.
She hoped it was a good omen and wondered if the strange bird she had heard was a nightingale. She had never believed they existed outside the stories her nurse had told her, when she was a child in fair Isola.
Now she was calm enough to think about the arrows and the wind that followed them. That was magic and it had not been her doing. Perhaps it had been him.
Immediately, she dismissed the idea. He might have burnt them all from the sky or transformed them into something extravagent. That silent, uncanny collapse was not like him. Someone else had intervened and had saved her life.
She wasn’t comfortable with the thought or the debt it invoked. Could it have been one of the city mages? She doubted it – their scryings were bound close to the city by the shadows of the Dark. That was why they needed her and Nimbus in the air, to be their eyes where they could not see. She had been too far out of Isola for it to have been one of them.
Could whoever it was still be watching? Unnerved, she chewed on her lip, but then began to reach outwards, opening her mind to the magics that flowed through the world as she would open her wings to the sky. There was nothing but the distant shadows of the Dark and she was about to withdraw when she caught a trace of something faint and steady. No shadows hung around it but it was strangely blurred, as if it was not qute fixed in this world. She reached out, warily, with her mind, and probed it and it faded swiftly to nothing.
Dissatisfied, she withdrew to the safety of her own mind.
The moon was rising, tracing the edges of the ruins silver. It was full and bright and already her wings glowed in its light, dirtied as they were. She could see the remains of the taproom now, the ashes drifting against the walls, the burnt hulk of the bar, the gleam of broken tankards against the back wall. A few outbuildings were still standing and she walked over to check them, rolling her shoulders to work the stiffness out of her back. One was empty, the other held only rats and bones. A stairway still led up from the taproom to the higher parts of the inn and she was tempted to dimiss it. Nimbus had too much respect for his wings to hide in a building that might collapse. The Warrior’s Code, however, said to check everything and she would not let weeks of tedious lessons go to waste.
He wasn’t up there but when she turned to look out of the window she found she could not see the city from down here. Rolling hills blocked her view. The nightbird was singing again and that, and the uneasy thoughts of flight and magic roiling in her mind, gave her an idea. It wouldn’t work here – she would have to go closer to the city, where he had been patrolling. She pattered back downstairs and scooped up a handful of ash. With a grimace of distaste she poured it back and forth between her hands. She had a fair idea how long it would take to get this out again. Then, sighing, she began to brush the ashes across her wings. Survival was more important than vanity, in the end. It took a lot of ash to completely darken her wings and by then her pale grey clothes were streaked with it as well. She scooped her a few more handfuls and set to work on the soft leather. She was not prepared for night flying. Lastly, she undid the tie that held her hair in a tight plait and began to rub the ashes into her scalp. She had no mirror to tell her when every pale strand was hidden so she kept working at it until ashes spilled down her cheeks. Then she plaited it tightly again so it would not blind her as she flew.
She made her way out of the inn, feeling the sigh of the wind and looking for a suitable place to launch from. The ground rose before her, towards a rocky outcrop to her right where the wind would be towards her. She could feel ash trickling down her spine and ignored it. No one would notice a few more ashes in the air.
She flung her shoulders back and began to run, rolling her shoulders with every step so her wings lifted, beating the air. With every step her feet left the ground a little longer, the oncoming wind surging beneath the span of her wings. Then she was on the rocks and she hurled herself forward.
Here, away from the battlelines, she could shriek out the glee she always felt when she took to the air. Whooping, she rose on the breath of the wind, soaring until she could see the lights of Isola again. From here she could see the moonlight gleaming on the sea and the bright flare of the Westerley Beacon, proclaiming to the conquered world that Isola, though beseiged, still held for the Light. Then her mood sobered and she began to power back towards the city.
He should have returned to report to Liaven at noon. At first they had thought he had found something and would merely be late but he had not returned. He had promised her he would always come back, if there was life still in him, and so she had swept out to search for him, despite Liaven’s protests.
She found a large encampment and landed not far away, crouching close to the ground. She needed to cover the noise she would make in doing this and the soldiers fifty cubits away were singing. She could tell they were drunk by the way they slurred the words and she sniffed in disapproval. At least Nimbus could carry a tune after a few bottles.
Crouched in the dark, she drew the pipe from her belt and began to play, soft and breathy, calling across the battlefield. One by one, the carrion birds rose, wings whirring through the night as they swirled around her. She kept playing, letting the music and the glint of black eyes and the swirl of dark wings circling lull her, lifting her away from the world. As she slipped away from what was real the world shifted around her and she was within the minds of the birds.
Their thoughts were not merely wordless, which she could understand, but timeless. They lived in an eternal moment, with no concept of the past that made them what they were or the future that would bring them into death. That was how she knew she was not a bird, despite the wings that bore her.
Relaxing further into their thoughts, into the rush of the wind and the call of the bats and the glimmer of the moon, she began to lace images of her own into the mix, hoping that the short term memories which kept them out of danger would recognise something.
Black wings gleaming, vaster than any of them; brown limbs, like the fearsome ones who walked on the ground, borne aloft; the rush of air displaced by those wings.
For a while there was nothing but then images rushed back at her, nets in the air, the whoosh of arrows, dark wings convulsing and falling.
She thought to them of the shape of the wind, of the way the folds of the land changed the heat and heft of the air and cried, in the images of the birds, Where?
They lifted into the air, flocking back towards the mountains and she shoved the pipe back into her belt and went after them. They led her to where the road out of the city split, winding its separate ways through wide gulleys. One branch she recognised as the road up to Rassat Pass and the inn she had sheltered in. The other led northwest and a squadron was marching along it, away from the city. In their midst, two horses drew a wagon. Bolted to the top of the wagon was a cage.
It looked empty and for a moment she thought the birds had led her wrong. Then something dark stirred on its floor and she realised he was slumped there.
He had to be hurt. If he could have stood he would have been on his feet, roaring imprecations at his captors. Unlocking the cage would not be enough – she would have to help him to safety as well. She landed on the top of the escarpment and began to trace her way along, easily keeping pace with their slow march. As she followed she counted their heads. Thirty of them. For a moment, she panicked. She was just a roofling child. How could she take on thirty of the Dark?
Nimbus would probably have charged them by now.
The thought made her grin savagely and she began to think. She was a shaman of the Saisorhi. She had a sword, though she rarely needed to use it, she had a pipe, she had wings. And she had her mind.
So, she couldn’t take them all on at once. One by one, though…
How could she separate them? Ideas were rolling in now and she grinned and ran backwards, away from the gully, so she could take to the air.
Captain Eniste Hoirak-Mettra of the Sixty-First Army of the Eternal Dark was finding it more and more difficult to hold back his laughter. The further they rode away from cursed Isola the more confident he was that they had escaped pursuit. Only this black-winged bastard’s little apprentice could follow them and she had not found them yet. The pointless maneouvres the fifth battalion had been enacting all morning had obviously distracted her long enough for them to get off the plain. She would never be able to work out their trail, not before they were safe in Varulqa and he had handed his prize to his masters.
He pressed his lips together to stop himself from humming. Most of his men were too young to understand the satisfaction of bringing this one down. They had celebrated the fall of a notorious enemy and the last anointed agent of the Light in Isola. They didn’t remember the last war. They didn’t remember the desperation, the humilation and the horror of the Ninth Legion’s ride on Darkholm. Eniste Hoirak-Mettra had been born in the service of the Dark, the sixth of eight brothers. His parents had dedicated their life to Darkness, like their parents before them. His lovers, his friends, his battle-brothers – all had been filled with the power of the Dark.
The Ninth had killed them all and Nimbus cor Evasta had been there, flying over the battlefield, his wings bright with the fury of the Light.
It had been a small comfort to know the survivors of the Ninth were held in scorn. To bring one down was sweeter still. He understood what these children around him did not – revenge was one of the sweetest fuels to feed the Dark. His masters knew it too and he did not doubt that they would enact a proper vengeance before they broke the secrets of Isola out of the feathered fool.
There was a faint clatter to his left as a few small stones fell down the cliff edge.
“Archers!” he roared and a volley of arrrows arched towards the western cliff face. There was a squeak which could have been a bird or a mouse or a human girl and a scrabbling sound. The next volley were burning arrows, catching in the dry scrub along the top of the bluff. Vast shadows of soaring wings flashed across the sky, fleeing away from the road. So the chit had found them.
“Jior-Takra! After her! Take a unit! Take the nets!”
Ten men swarmed up the cliffside, breaking into a steady run as they followed the sweeping shadow of wings.
“You will never catch her, creature of the shadow. You are doomed to fail. Doomed. Worthless pustule that you are. Coward soul, scum of a rotten land, you will die.” A wheezing breath and then the prisoner continued, his voice rising steadily from a whisper, “You will die screaming and dirty, your guts spilled upon the ground, your sins carved into your skin, a knife in your back because you turned and fled as your followers died around you. You are nothing and less than…”
“Be silent,” Hoirak-Mettra said casually and put power behind the words. The prisoner’s mouth continued to move, his eyes glinting with rage and fever, but no sound emerged from his lips.
“March on!” the captain cried and they continued down the road to Varulqa.
On the top of the eastern cliff, Aylili hugged herself. Summoning a little light was one of the first spells Nimbus and Liaven had taught her. Fixing it to the right place on the bird’s neck to create only the shadows of wings had been harder but it had worked. Even the nets had gone.
Twenty left. She followed them, pressing carefully into the shadows. Should she wait for dawn? They were the Dark after all, and they must, in some way, fear the light. By then, though, her hoax would have been uncovered and they would be at full strength again and doubly wary.
The road was rising toward her and she looked forward. There was a place soon where the road was almost level with the bluff. Then the slope steepened again and the road sank back down, cut into the rock in a more gentle slope. It would be an ideal place to get Nimbus off the road.
What other weapons could she use? She was a shaman. Nimbus kept telling her so and she had shrugged and not argued. But what did it mean and how could it help?
There are three paths, Nimbus had said, and you must know something of them all before you devote yourself to one alone. The path of the warrior is the path of the body, of knowing when to strike and how to hold an enemy at bay with the strength of your arm and the speed of your wings. The path of the scholar is the path of the mind, of knowing how to plan and attack and of how to seek out knowledge and then use what knowledge you possess to the wisest ends. The path of the shaman is that of the heart, of becoming one with the greater world, not to analyse it or act upon it but to understand it and to move within it, in harmony. Too mystical for a simple soldier like myself, of course, but it’s your path, featherling, no doubt.
“A simple soldier?” Liaven had echoed sceptically. “Surely not?”
Nimbus had grinned at her and purred, “At last, dear lady, you admit you are not impervious to my charms,” and she had snorted as Aylili pinched his arm to bring him back to the subject.
She didn’t really see how becoming one with the greater world could help. As she was pondering it, she stretched out a tiny thread to shift the pebbles in the gulley. The foremost soldier went crashing down, his ankle twisting under him. The soldier behind him could not stop in time to keep from falling over him. One of the horses reared and Aylili ran, taking advantage of the confusion to overtake them. Well beyond the flat, out of their sight, she unhooked the twist of cloth she had returned to The Jar and Nightingale for and shook out the contents. Shards of broken glass glittered in the moonlight as they fell and she followed them with another bagful, this time of ash, which covered most of the pieces of broken tankard.
Then she waited, leaning over the edge of the bluff to await their coming. As she waited, she pondered his words about moving within the world. A idea came to her and she unhooked her water bottle. Unscrewing the lid, she began to roll the bottle between her palms, listening to the water slop against the sides and breathing in its stale scent. The pipe was her best tool but, in theory, she could distance herself from the world without it.
As the troop came into sight she heard the clop of the horses’ hooves as they drew the wagon and was almost broken out of her trance. The horses had done nothing.
The captain was cursing and two of his men were limping. She could hear every sound, clear and distinct, although they did not quite seem to fit into a whole. She could hear Nimbus breathing, raggedly, and knew he was awake.
In that strange, detached state everything fell into place and she reached into her belt pouch with one hand, continuing to rock the bottle with the other.
As they approached her, the horses labouring as they dragged the wagon up the slope, she hurled the two balls she held into the gully, covering her eyes as she did so. Even so, she saw the flash of light as they hit the ground. As it faded she looked again and found the gully full of smoke and the soldiers reeling, half-blinded. Screaming, she drew her sword and launched herself off the cliff.
She skimmed over their heads, reaching down to slash through the reins of the rearing horses, barely dodging their lashing hooves. Then she was on the ground and the captain was coming at her, his sword bright in his hard. She parried wildly and grabbed for the bars of the cage, slamming her wings down to bounce herself into the air, dragging herself onto the top of the cage as his sword slashed against the bars, sparks hissing. Balanced above him she swung the hand holding the waterbottle round, hurling herself back into the full trance as the water arched out over the stumbling soldiers. Like called to like and all that was was one.
Then she was forced to defend herself, slashing down as the captain pulled himself up onto the edge of the wagon, slashing up at her. She danced backwards, swiping at his fingers, and Nimbus pulled himself across the floor of the cage to drag at the man’s knees, trying to unbalance him.
Some of the soldiers were beginning to regain their sight. An archer, stumbling clear of the smoke, had drawn his bow and was moving to set his sights on her. She dropped flat against the bars of the cage, wings spread, and shrieked, “Nimbus! Light!”
He understood and raised his hands in summoning. The bars were thrumming between her fingers and she could hear a distant rumbling. What she had done had worked, to some degree.
Then there was Light, searing bright, clarifying and fierce. It burnt through all the shadowed places in her soul and threw her back to the hyperawareness of the shaman trance. The Dark, who could not bear its touch, were flinching away, some screaming, though their captain still clung to the cage.
“Hah!” Nimbus shouted, his wings illuminated with white light as he knelt in the cage. “Fall down before a greater power, foul ones! Grovel, you weak, monstrous fools! The Light is all and you are nothing! You think you can silence Nimbus cor Evasta! You think your puny spells will stand against the might of the Light! Fools! You are all – featherling, what’s that noise?”
And the water burst down the canyon, wall of black water like the night itself breaking over them. It smashed into the ranks of the Dark and broke against the wagon, drenching Nimbus and the captain. The wagon the cage stood shifted on its wheels and then began rolling back downhill, pulled by the force of the water.
The soldiers of the Dark went whirling past, some limp and lost, others fighting against the water with bared teeth. Aylili glimpsed a horse’s body whirling past and hoped the other had escaped. Then a slash of pain on her leg reminded her that the captain was still scrambling up towards her, though the cage was rocking and tilting as the wagon was swept away.
She danced backwards, beating at him with her wings in an attempt to dislodge him. As she dodged she saw a light glow on his belt, bright and clear in the spray-filled shadows. It was none of her summoning and too bright to be the moon but by its light she saw what hung from his belt.
“Nimbus! Belt! Grab!”
“Save him?” Nimbus roared. “Never!”
“Belt!” she shrieked again, dodging again as she brought her own sword round, its bright, barely used length gleaming sharply.
Nimbus grabbed at the captain, wrapping his hand around the man’s belt.
The captain laughed and lunged for Aylili, free to pull himself closer without risking slipping into the water. She leapt over his swinging blade and ran forward along the bars towards him. He sneered and she smiled, wrapping the long toes of her right foot around the bars for balance.
Then she drew her other foot back and kicked him in the face.
The metal noseguard of his helmet bruised her bare sole but she felt the bones splinter beneath his cheek as she ground her heel in.
He screamed, a high-pitched squeal that she could hear even over the roar of the water and brought his hands up to his face. For a moment only Nimbus’ grip on his belt held him in place.
Aylili lunged, bringing her sword round and down to slash through his belt, not caring that she was slicing through the flesh behind. He went crashing away as his belt slipped free, arching back through the air until his head hit the side of the gulley and he went crashing into the water. Nimbus was left clutching his belt, from which hung a ring of metal keys.
Aylili saw his mouth move but for once he seemed genuinely speechless.
Then she looked ahead and saw how the canyon narrowed and spread her wings. As the canyon sloped downwards, the wind caught her and she hurled herself into the air, beating with all the strength she could to get clear of the cage.
“Aylili!”
She circled in time to see the wagon hit the narrows, sideways on. The wood crumpled and shattered, spitting splinters into the water and then the remnants of the wagon crashed onwards, breaking apart in the water. The metal cage continued to move, the metal squealing against the rock walls, striking flaring sparks into the air and water.
As she had hoped, though, it was made of stronger stuff than the wagon and eventually it stopped, wedged between the rocks, its floor tilted and its bars bent.
She hovered until all the water had run below it. Then she landed lightly in front of it and tapped on the bars.
Nimbus lifted a drenched wing to glare at her.
“Keys?” she said.
He handed her the belt and she unlocked the door, which was now facing the canyon floor, its bars skewed. The lock had bent a little and it took all of her weight to turn the key.
As soon as it was open, Nimbus flopped out. He crawled out from under the cage and then used it to drag himself upright, breathing hard. He stared at her, then at the cage and then at the keys in the lock.
“How much of that,” he asked, his voice pleasantly level, “did you plan?”
Aylili raised her hands in a shrug. “Some.”
“We will-“ he began and then swayed. “We will discuss tactics at – at…”
She caught him as he swayed and shoved him upright against the cage. He clutched at his shoulder, where the sinews of his wing merged with his back. When he brought his hand away it looked black in the moonlight.
“Blood,” he said weakly and gestured at her. “Bandage?”
The question snapped her back to the moment and she dug into her pouch to find a roll of cotton bandages. She wrapped them around his shoulder, covering as much as she could of the long cut without hindering the movement of his wing. Even as she wrapped, the blood began to soak through the cloth.
She went to his other side and half-pushed him down to the flat place and then out of the gulley onto the scrubby heath. Some miles to the east lay the dubious sanctuary of The Jar and Nightingale. All she had to do was get him there.
“Can you fly?” she said to him, expecting a torrent of scorn.
Instead, he turned to look at her, his eyes too bright behind the elflocks of his hair, and said, “No.” Then he slumped to his knees, almost dragging her down with him.
To be continued...
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I have A LOT of back reading on your lj to do.. Will comment later.
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LiveJournal makes it so easy to post fresh stuff. Which reminds me - I loved the start of your Little Mermaid retelling. I'll come and comment properly later.
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*chuckles*
Lovely to see this pair back in action. *grins* So lovely. ^_^
OoooOo. And that "can you fly?" bit. ^_^ "No!"
*huggles Nimbus*
Must have more saisorhi!
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And it really is action this time O_o I don't do action Dunno what happened here.
Poor Nimbus. :(
Thanks for the comment.