away. As she collapsed forward, released from the stone, he reined his steed hard aside and clattered off at a new angle to continue the fight. Kereka’s hands and shoulders hurt, prickling with agony, but she shoved up against the pain. She had to watch. Movement flashed as a spear thrust from behind a huge stone monolith standing off to her right; steel flashed in reply as Vayek parried with his sword.
Over by the fiery palisade, the witch cursed, rising with blood on her knife, the gap between Edek’s head and the scar now sealed. She raised the crossbow and released a bolt, but the missile slammed into stone to the right of the two warriors as they kept moving. She cursed again and winched in another bolt, then spun around as a bold rider tried to push through the remaining gap but was driven back by the intensity of the sorcerous flames.
Vayek fought the bearded man through the stones, using the stones and his wings to protect himself while the bearded man, with the agility of a seasoned fighter, used the stones to protect himself, trying to get close enough to hook his axe into Vayek’s armor and pull him off the horse.
But in the end, the foreign man was just that: a man. He was not a hero. He was already bleeding from several wounds. It was only a matter of time before Vayek triumphed, yet again, as victor. What glory he would gather then!
All for him, because that was how the gods had fashioned the world: hawks hunted; horses grazed; marmots burrowed; flies annoyed. A man hunted glory while a woman tended the fires.
So the elders and shamans said. Their word was truth among the clans.
What tales they told themselves! How small was their world?
Legs burning as with a hundred pricking needles, Kereka staggered to the pile of gear and grabbed the haft of the griffin’s feather Edek had found. Where her skin brushed the lower edge of a vane, blood welled at once. She grabbed the first leather riding glove that came to hand and shoved her bleeding hand into it, and even then the griffin feather bit through it; tugged on a gauntlet—Edek’s—and at last she could grasp it without more blood spilling. She sliced Belek free and hauled him up, the farmer’s head bumping against his thigh, still tied to his belt. She shoved him toward the flames consuming Edek’s corpse.
“Run! Quickly!” She pushed him before her, and after a few clumsy steps he broke away from her and, clutching his belly, limped in a staggering run as he choked down cries of pain. Kereka easily kept pace beside him, and as the witch swung around, braids flying, bringing her crossbow to bear, Kereka leaped in front into the line of fire.
“Do not kill us!” she cried,“and in exchange for my brother’s life and his debt to you, I will fetch you the griffin feathers you seek. I swear it on the bones of my father’s father! I swear it on the honor of Tarkan’s arrows.”
A sword rang, striking stone, and sparks tumbled. A male voice shouted; a thump was followed by the straining howls of men grappling.
The witch stepped aside.
With the griffin feather held before her to cut away the searing heat of the palisade, Kereka dragged Belek through the breach. The cool breeze within the stones vanished and they ran through a haze of hot smoke and blackened grass to burst coughing and heaving into clearer air beyond. The sky throbbed with such a hollow blue like the taut inside of a drum that she wondered all at once what the sky within the stone circle had looked like. Had it even been the same sky? She looked back, but smoke and the weave of fire obscured the area.
The Pechanek men closed around them, spears bristling, faces grim.
“Don’t harm us!” Belek cried.“I’m the son of the Kirshat begh !”
She gave Belek a shove that sent him sprawling in the grass. Waving the griffin’s feather, she shouted in her crow’s voice.
“The foreign witch is almost vanquished, but her magic must be smothered once and for all! I come at
Over by the fiery palisade, the witch cursed, rising with blood on her knife, the gap between Edek’s head and the scar now sealed. She raised the crossbow and released a bolt, but the missile slammed into stone to the right of the two warriors as they kept moving. She cursed again and winched in another bolt, then spun around as a bold rider tried to push through the remaining gap but was driven back by the intensity of the sorcerous flames.
Vayek fought the bearded man through the stones, using the stones and his wings to protect himself while the bearded man, with the agility of a seasoned fighter, used the stones to protect himself, trying to get close enough to hook his axe into Vayek’s armor and pull him off the horse.
But in the end, the foreign man was just that: a man. He was not a hero. He was already bleeding from several wounds. It was only a matter of time before Vayek triumphed, yet again, as victor. What glory he would gather then!
All for him, because that was how the gods had fashioned the world: hawks hunted; horses grazed; marmots burrowed; flies annoyed. A man hunted glory while a woman tended the fires.
So the elders and shamans said. Their word was truth among the clans.
What tales they told themselves! How small was their world?
Legs burning as with a hundred pricking needles, Kereka staggered to the pile of gear and grabbed the haft of the griffin’s feather Edek had found. Where her skin brushed the lower edge of a vane, blood welled at once. She grabbed the first leather riding glove that came to hand and shoved her bleeding hand into it, and even then the griffin feather bit through it; tugged on a gauntlet—Edek’s—and at last she could grasp it without more blood spilling. She sliced Belek free and hauled him up, the farmer’s head bumping against his thigh, still tied to his belt. She shoved him toward the flames consuming Edek’s corpse.
“Run! Quickly!” She pushed him before her, and after a few clumsy steps he broke away from her and, clutching his belly, limped in a staggering run as he choked down cries of pain. Kereka easily kept pace beside him, and as the witch swung around, braids flying, bringing her crossbow to bear, Kereka leaped in front into the line of fire.
“Do not kill us!” she cried,“and in exchange for my brother’s life and his debt to you, I will fetch you the griffin feathers you seek. I swear it on the bones of my father’s father! I swear it on the honor of Tarkan’s arrows.”
A sword rang, striking stone, and sparks tumbled. A male voice shouted; a thump was followed by the straining howls of men grappling.
The witch stepped aside.
With the griffin feather held before her to cut away the searing heat of the palisade, Kereka dragged Belek through the breach. The cool breeze within the stones vanished and they ran through a haze of hot smoke and blackened grass to burst coughing and heaving into clearer air beyond. The sky throbbed with such a hollow blue like the taut inside of a drum that she wondered all at once what the sky within the stone circle had looked like. Had it even been the same sky? She looked back, but smoke and the weave of fire obscured the area.
The Pechanek men closed around them, spears bristling, faces grim.
“Don’t harm us!” Belek cried.“I’m the son of the Kirshat begh !”
She gave Belek a shove that sent him sprawling in the grass. Waving the griffin’s feather, she shouted in her crow’s voice.
“The foreign witch is almost vanquished, but her magic must be smothered once and for all! I come at
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