First Rider's Call

Hunger roiled in the avian’s belly, and its gaze settled on the back of one who walked away from the wall.

The guardians chose that moment to become alert to the sentience’s wakefulness. Alarm buzzed through the wall and beneath the avian’s talons. Startled, the avian flapped its wings and launched into the air.

Come back to us, ancient one, the voices called.

Overcome, the sentience lost control of the avian. The creature angled its wings for maximum speed and soared toward the man’s back, talons extended.

Men pointed and shouted. The man turned, eyes wide as it took in the avian arrowing in on him. He dropped on the ground just in time to evade talons.

The guardians screamed at the sentience, or maybe it was the wind screaming past the ears of the avian. The sentience could make no sense of it. The billowing structures—tents—were but blurs below. Men scattered in all directions, yelling and running in confusion.

Fear radiating from so much available prey aroused the avian’s predatory hunger to a new height. It turned on a wingtip, screaming for blood, bearing down again on the man, but this time he held a shiny object.

Sword.

The sentience wanted to avert the avian’s mad flight, but the guardians distracted it with their songs of peace and contentment, and promises of tranquil slumbering. All it had to do was return; return to the other side of the wall and end the struggle. Just rest. Rest and sleep . . .

The avian circled above the man, flicking its forked tongue, before stooping into a dive.

The man did not cower but slashed with his blade, cutting the avian above its talon.

PAIN! RAGE! REVENGE!

Maddened, the creature surged upward with great wing-strokes to gain altitude for another diving attack. A projectile whizzed by its head.

Stupid creature, the sentience thought, fighting the grogginess brought on by the guardians. With a mighty effort, it again exerted its will into the avian’s mind.

Survival, it urged the avian, fearing for its own survival should the avian be killed. Seek safety.

The avian tossed its head and screeched in angry resistance, and pursued prey.

This time it hunted for one without defense. Men scattered as it skimmed above their heads, and it lunged upon one who could not run fast enough. The man—no, woman—loosed a bloodcurdling scream as talons sank into her shoulders.

HUNGER!

The avian attempted to carry the woman away, but its wings had not the strength. It dropped her, and landed atop her back, spreading its wings over her to protect its prey from interlopers, screeching threats at the men who rushed toward it with shining, sharp weapons.

Survival! the sentience screamed in the avian’s mind, but the scent of warm blood overcame all else. It reared its head back, ready to lunge its raptor’s beak into the whimpering prey beneath it for the kill.

Fly! Survival! Panic allowed the sentience to exert the whole of its will upon the avian.

SURVIVAL—FOOD!

The men had projectile weapons among them, but the sentience comprehended their fear of using them lest they inadvertently kill the woman. They feared the avian, too. The sentience encouraged the avian in a fierce display to keep the men off.

The man the avian had attacked initially advanced with grim resolve. He wore green, and this sparked some memory of hatred.

The avian recognized him, too, saw its own black blood on his blade, and remembered pain. It launched from the woman.

Yes, survival, the sentience crooned. Safety.

The avian started winging toward the gap in the wall.

And now the guardians welcomed the sentience’s return in song, Come back to us, ancient one, come sleep in peace. . .

A volley of arrows hissed past the avian, arcing over the wall. The avian swung its head around to screech at the men below.

Safety, the sentience urged. Seek safety.

Just as the avian glided through the gap in the wall, there came another flight of arrows. A barbed head drove into the avian’s side, tearing muscle and tendon, crushing bone, piercing lung.

The avian careened into the mist of the forest and plummeted, trees coming at it in a mad rush. It crashed through branches. Wing bones snapped. It hit one bough, and tumbled to another, until finally it fell into a heap on the ground.

There it lay with neck limp, and wings splayed and rumpled. Nictitating eyelids peeled back, and the avian drew one last rattling breath.

The sentience flowed from the avian in its blood, soaking into the moss beneath. Exhausted by its striv ings with both the avian and the guardians, it let itself be drawn into sleep with one final lingering thought: What am I?

Journal of Hadriax el Fex

The clans have proven more difficult to subdue than we originally perceived. They will hear nothing of joining the Empire, and refuse conversion to the one God. They have even sneaked into our camps and stolen supplies, thinking it great fun to accomplish this beneath the noses of a superior race of people.

Alessandros’ answer to their treachery was to lead a raid into one of the nearby villages to make an example. Their heathen altar was destroyed and the moon priest burned to death. We then set about torching their longhouses, where families remained huddled inside in fear. It was nasty work, but needful.

The village warriors were fierce, but we made quick work of them with our concussives. Alessandros is pleased with the day’s events. Now, he believes, the other villages and clan chiefs will see their folly in opposing the Empire.

I, for one, am relieved our stockade is nearly completed.

SWORDPLAY

Captain Mapstone dipped her pen into the inkwell, but paused before signing off on the sheaf of papers before her. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">