Chapter 4
The Flight of the Aeriatheas
“Yet Dakor and his armies did not go unchallenged. There were those who did not fear him and barred his way to the Passage Light. The legenders gathered and did battle with him.”
King Mercius, the king of Tierrion, spoke to an audience of thousands that had gathered in the city’s amphitheater. Like his ancestors before him, Mercius read the legend of the Merhala War to initiate the festival. He stood tall imposing before the crowd and carried a pensive look on his face as he read. The gray that flecked his mane and beard showed that he was in the middle of his years. The garland of golden leaves that adorned his head and his golden robe, with patterns of vines and branches weaved into the fabric, gave him the look of a tree changing color and making ready for the winter. It was late summer all around the king, but his autumnal appearance gave him further distinction as a man who pondered long on ancient and forgotten things.
He read to the multitude before him, telling of how the legenders confronted the dremorn horde, how the legenders fought using great beasts formed out of the elements—heavy footed land beasts formed from stone; great birds of prey formed from wind; dagger fanged predators formed from fire; and massive, coiling serpents formed from water. In a mighty collision of fire and rock, water and blood, the legenders routed the dremorns and drove them back. But Dakor reformed his armies and commanded them to attack again and again, marching ever toward Tierrion and the Passage Light that once glowed atop the Avahorn.
It was not a single battle but a long war that spread over many lands, for Dakor grew to lust after the world on which he fought. He built fearsome strongholds on the land he took and raised grisly monuments to himself whenever he had a victory. For forty years the legenders tore down the strongholds and kept back the advancing hordes. The legenders were mighty and powerful, but their numbers were few and could not be replenished. The dremorns, however, only grew in number, spawning from the dungeons that Dakor had carved out of the depths using his great sword, the Erthedge of Dusk. It was this sword that proved the greatest bane to the legenders, for when they sent forth their elemental beasts, Dakor would fell the shapes with a stroke of his blade. Rock crumbled and fire fell to ash. Therefore the legenders were pushed back, footstep by scraping footstep, all the way to Tierrion where they made their final stand.
The world was devastated, and humankind had fled to the caves in the mountains. They had seen the fear that Dakor had brought with him, and so they hid in the dark and waited for the war to pass. Yet as the smoke began rising up around the walls of Tierrion, young Merhala dared to go outside and gaze long in the direction of the city. When he grew sufficiently restless, he returned to the caves and hammered out for himself a large bell. He then carried the bell up to a lofty crag and rang it loud. At its sound, his people came out from hiding and Merhala cried down to them:
The fate of the world will not be decided by the battle of good against evil but by the choice to do good or do nothing. Therefore I will not hide in the dark and watch our world end. Today I march to where I see the smoke rising, where the legenders are fighting, and I pray you come with me so that we can join them in their final stand. Do not be afraid! The enemy carries fear, but we carry an edge that is sharper and more enduring. Do you not love your women? Do you not care for your sons and daughters? Even the smallest creature will make its stand between its young and the harguar’s jaws. To some creatures Ahatho gave horn and antler; to others he gave a sturdy leg and a kicking hoof. To man he gave wit and heart, and he will deliver our enemies into our hand. Therefore march with me, and see if Ahatho does not bring the dremorn armies low and feed the soil with their dead.
And so the men rallied to young Merhala and marched with him to Tierrion. Yet as they marched, the legenders had come into despair. Most of their number had been slain, and the hordes of dremorns stood vast before their gates. Many believed that one final responsibility remained: to set the Passage free so that Dakor would not have entry into Ayveria.
The legender Osyra did not agree. She urged the other legenders to believe that Ahatho would not yet abandon them, that there was a better end in store. The others, however, did not share her hope and therefore opened the columns atop the Avahorn and let the Passage Light go free. And as the light rose and disappeared into the heavens, there came the tolling of a bell. With it came the charge of mortal men, for Merhala came down from the hills and into the battle, changing the balance of the war in an instant. Osyra’s hope came to be the truth after all.
“And that is why we are here today,” said Mercius. “We are here to remember that hope and those who fought for our salvation. For Ahatho blesses those who remember and curses those who forget.”
When he finished reading, he delicately and reverently closed the Osaegis before him, for it was ancient and its pages were as brittle as dried leaves. It had supposedly been written by Lyron’s own hand, and that made it more valuable to Mercius than any other treasure in his vault.
He slowly crossed the amphitheater’s stage and looked up to the balconies where the kings and queens of the other nations sat. Towering over the audience were three giant statues depicting celestial women—female Everyn—each holding a balcony in the palm of her hand, one for each of the nation’s leaders. Maris sat on the balcony farthest east with Haeron and her guard to accompany her. Roosts had been built on the statues’ wrists especially for the festival, and, when the aeriatheas perched on them, it looked as if the statues wore living bracelets.
“Queen Maris Elemor,” King Mercius called out, “Daughter of King Maofin.” No matter how crowded the amphitheater may have been, the acoustics made his voice fill the space between the flat circle stage and the balcony where she sat. “The poet Naleus once said, ‘Whether under the flashing azure or haunting gray sky, the sea and its ways always hold men’s eyes.’ You come to us from the far northern shore, and as you entered I saw your beauty hold the eyes of many men.”
His words were meant to complement her, but he delivered them with such seriousness that they held little charm. Maris bowed her head respectfully.
“You have taken your father’s place,” continued Mercius. “Know that Tierrion mourned him.”
Though she was reminded of her father’s passing, she remained expressionless. His death had not brought her sorrow.
Mercius went on to greet the leaders of every nation. He also administered judgments as he went.
“King Kayor Morcast of Dariseum and King Grexus Teralorn of Patarah. The rivalry between your two nations is no secret. It is an old thing, older than the borders of your lands, but it is foolish as it is old. My ancestors dealt with the same dilemma between your kingdoms, and still there is no peace.”
It seemed that there were land disputes between the lords that lived on the borders of Dariseum and Patarah, disputes ripe enough to turn into violence if not resolved. King Mercius ordered the Offspring Bond, which meant that each of the Darisan lords would send their eldest son to live with one of the Pataran lords for one year, and the Pataran lords would do the same with their eldest sons. These adopted sons were to be given the same treatment as the blood children of the lords’ houses, and the adopted sons were to respect their surrogate fathers. After the year was over and the Offspring Bond finished, the lords were to hold an outdoor feast between their lands where sons would return to their own fathers. At this feast the lines between their lands would be discussed and redrawn.
Once Mercius gave his order, there was no doubt the kings would see them through. Mercius’ domain may have been smaller than theirs, only the city and its surrounding land, but the king of Tierrion had the most powerful voice of all. If another king mishandled his allegiance with Tierrion, there would be dire political effects, and the ramifications could even mean justice from the heavens. A disobedient king risked bringing drought or famine upon his land, while an obedient king surely brought the blessing of abundant harvests.
But the minds of the audience were far from politics and the future of their lands. They were anxious for what was to come that day, and restlessness spread throughout their numbers contagiously. The aeriatheas caught the worst of it. Their tails twitched back and forth impatiently, and they anxiously flapped their wings from time to time, sending powerful gusts into the crowd. Once Mercius finished speaking with the kings and queens, he finally announced what everyone had been waiting for.
“Bring out the Bell!”
The crowd roared their approval and the aeriatheas flapped their wings even stronger than before, barely able to keep their toes on their perches. Two men carried a large bell out onto the stage and set it next to the king. It was Merhala’s Bell, the one he had used to rally his men, a bell roughly smithed in a time when humankind was exiled to the wilds, and so it was devoid of symmetry and the sides were pocked and bumpy. The aeriatheas, however, stared at the bell as if it were made entirely out of precious stone.
A robust man—the medallion hanging from his neck marked him as the head official of the Flight—followed the bell onto the stage and called the competitors to their places. Maris smiled at Haloreth and patted his paw; he nuzzled her shoulder before he left. With a leap off their perches and a short glide over the audience, the aeriatheas landed on the stage. It was just large enough to hold all of them. Side by side they faced east and formed a starting line. The official announced the names of each of the competitors, their breed, and the nation for whom they flew:
Talagos, the crimsonari from Tersia. Aysu, the dusky gray from Omberia. Wayrasi, the ash coat from Dariseum. Quenyal, the snowtail from Anshaw. Solanan, the amberan from Patarah. Haloreth, the sea stripe from Havamir.
The head official then went on to give the rules for the Flight. The aeriatheas were not to use violence or aggression, and they had to stay within the boundaries marked out by the red banners. Breaking any of the rules would result in immediate disqualification. The first competitor to pass in front of the stage after ten laps around the city would win their land Merhala’s Bell. The nation with the Bell would take the seats of honor throughout the festival, but more importantly they would have five years of justified boasting.
“On the third toll you may begin,” the head official announced.
The honors of beginning the race belonged to the king of Tierrion, so Mercius took the mallet and struck the bell once. The aeriatheas creased their eyes in concentration. The bell tolled a second time and the crowds held their breath. The aeriatheas crouched with every muscle taut, as though they prepared to make the eastern sky their prey. A final swing of the king’s mallet and the bell made its third toll.
The aeriatheas launched off the ground in a rush of beating wings, pushing themselves into the air with hurricane strength and thunderous snorts that blasted from their nostrils as they heaved themselves forward to gain good position. The crowds leapt to their feet to see the aeriatheas pass the first tower with a red banner waving on top. The thousands and thousands of voices roared and resounded as people cried out the names of their aeriatheas. The amphitheater pulsed with life and color as a myriad of national banners waved throughout the multitudes. Maris longed to join the sound and movement of the crowds below, but her position as queen would not permit it. She had to remain composed. Tapping her hand anxiously against the parapet, she looked to the other queens on their balconies and saw that they were as rigid as the statues that held them. Maris could only whisper her cheers, but they were just as impassioned as the shouts of those below.
The aeriatheas weaved their way in and out of towers at a breakneck speed. Haloreth flew in third behind Solanan in second and Wayrasi in the lead. Wayrasi swerved back and forth, preventing both Solanan and Haloreth from pulling in front of him. Wayrasi cut in for a close turn on one of the course banners while Solanan tried to pass him on the outside. Solanan’s pull to the outside gave Haloreth an opportunity to get directly behind Wayrasi, but Wayrasi’s tail came in too close to the spire and clipped the red banner from its place. Haloreth caught the banner on his face so that it covered his eyes. Blinded, Haloreth pulled up above the race so he would not crash into any of the towers. He hovered there for just the moment he needed to tear the banner from over his eyes, and once he could see again he shot down from the sky and continued the race. His mischance put him in last place, so he gritted his teeth and mercilessly pushed his muscles onward, beating his wings fiercely. Gleaming with sweat, he regained his speed and passed Quenyal like a tempest.
In the turret, Arkos observed the races with mild interest. The other half of his attention he gave to preparing bones. Most had already been cleaned. He would then study them to figure out what he would make of them. Before every carving, Arkos would begin with a rough idea of what he wanted, yet while he carved he bargained with spontaneity and let the result of each cut help determine the outcome of the finished piece. After he finished carving and smoothing, he would then set to polishing with the oils on his fingers until his creations gleamed.
While he was cleaning the bones he noticed a creever web hanging in the corner of one of the windows. The creever, a creature no bigger than one of Arkos’ buttons, swung from thread to thread with spindly limbs and shook the dew from the web as it went. Occasionally the creever would strip the dew off the gossamers with its tail and then bring it to his pincers for a drink. Arkos paused from his craft and studied the delicate intricacies of the web—one craftsman admiring the work of another.
There was also a dinny-pike hive on the turret’s ceiling, and a red dinny-pike, its body a thumb’s length, crawled out of the hive and buzzed its wings madly. It flew a few mad circles around the turret and then went right into the web as if to break through, but one of its wings got tangled in the strands. No matter how much it thrashed about, it could not free itself, and it tangled the web into ugly knots. The creever scrambled to the edges of what remained of its web and tried to find a way to pull in the dinny-pike, but the little creever could never capture such a large insect.
Arkos’ carving knife flew across the turret room and pinned the dinny-pike to the wall. Stuck, the dinny-pike angrily chewed on the blade with its pincers and stabbed wildly with the spike on its head, the weak venom leaking out of its tip. Arkos retrieved his knife letting the dinny-pike fall to the ground where he crushed it with his foot. He looked for the creever, but it had fled into a crack somewhere in the wall. As the aeriatheas made another pass around the turret, the ruined web shivered in the wind.
Then Arkos heard a dire urgency come with the wind’s passing. The air howled. It was calling him, for something was very wrong. An evil thing had come into the city.
The crowd below Maris was just as tumultuous as it had been when the race began. She gripped the balcony’s parapet with all of her might and leaned out from her seat as much as propriety would allow. Wayrasi still held the lead, but he was growing tired and the distance between him and the others was shrinking. Solanan remained in second, and Haloreth had fought his way back to his former position in third place. He had the speed to be in second, but Solanan kept flailing his tail back and forth so that Haloreth could not pass. Haloreth gained some daring as they passed the amphitheater and tried to slip though Solanan’s right, but Solanan’s tail cracked him hard across the jaw. The force of the blow would have knocked a weaker creature out of the sky, but Haloreth shook his head and continued onward. The Havamirians roared in anger and howled out their rulings to the head official, but he acted as if he saw nothing and ignored the crowd. It took all of Maris’ strength not to yell out and curse the official.
On the other side of the city, the cloaked figure climbed staircase after staircase in the empty observatory tower, his footsteps and slender staff clicking echoes as he went. When he reached the final stair of his climb, he leaned against the wall wheezing and grunting in unnatural sounds. Once he caught his breath and found his bearings, he went straight to th
e doorway of the top floor. The door was heavy and sturdily built yet had a lock that was easy to pick.
The observatory was a large circular room with a hole in the dome ceiling that opened up to the sky. The wall was covered in a mosaic that charted out important constellations, and the sky-glass and other golden instruments for viewing the stars sat out on the white stone table in the center of the room. All of the instruments could have made the cloaked figure a small fortune, but he was there for a purpose other than theft. He went to one of the windows and stepped outside onto an ice-glazed ledge barely wide enough to hold his rag-covered foot. Very slowly, he shuffled along the footholds of the ledge until he reached the corner of the tower where a massive gargoyle leaned out over the city. Suddenly, a powerful gust of wind threatened to knock him off his perch, but the cloaked figure fell to his knees and gripped the gargoyle’s back. The aeriatheas raced past less than a stone’s throw away.
Once the violent winds of their passing had died down, the cloaked figure quickly went to work. Out from under his cloak he pulled a black cord and strung it to the ends of his slender staff so that it became a bow. Then he produced an arrow and a vial from secret pouches in his coverings. He uncorked the vial and smelled it. Even with the mask and all the wrappings over his face, the vapor still stung his nostrils and caused him to jerk his head back in revulsion. He dipped the arrowhead into the vial, and something like dark tree sap stuck to the point. He then placed his arrow on the string. It did not take very long for the aeriatheas to make their next pass.
Wayrasi remained in the lead with Solanan and Haloreth following close behind. With only one lap left, Haloreth made the push to get past his two remaining opponents, but whenever Haloreth tried to slip through an open pocket, Solanan’s tail would be there to bat him away. Up ahead of them lay a bridge between two towers. Underneath was a small arch, barely wide enough to fit an aeriathea. Wayrasi and Solanan went above the bridge but Haloreth took the risk, closed his wings and dove under it. His feathers grazed the walls on either side, but he made it through, and not only did he overtake Solanan but he also moved up right next to Wayrasi.
As the aeriatheas turned the last curve, the amphitheater came into sight. Seeing that the end of the race drew near, the creatures called upon whatever reserves of strength that still remained. Both Wayrasi and Haloreth huffed and puffed for air. The price of being in the lead had taken its toll on Wayrasi since he had acted as a shield for the others to draft behind. Haloreth was in a similar state having spent most of his energy making up for the position he lost in the beginning. His body cried out for rest, but when he glanced at the balcony ahead where Maris sat, the moment halted still and he could see the pride she had for him glowing on her face. Time burst into motion once again. Suddenly he no longer felt the pains of his exertion, and with easy breaths he pulled into the lead.
But it was in that moment an arrow laced with poison hurtled through the sky.