Wings on my Back

by Alex Sapegin

  “I, Mywa…,” here she faltered, glanced gloomily at Andy and, not saying the last name or tribe, went on: “Fow what I did, beawing hawm to the honow and dignity of the clan of… of my clan, with the pew-mission of the chief, Hag Tuw Seaman, have chosen a punishment fow myself. No mow buying sweets ow sweet watew until Hag decides it’s enough and I can go on. I have spoken!”

  Andy secretly regretted it. Darn. Only a member of the gentry could have used her ritual “I have spoken.” That meant my preliminary conclusions were right, or at least not too far off. Please Targ let them be not too far off. He didn’t want to have to fly out of there at full speed, in a blur of wings and scales. A traveling sea-king doesn’t go about Tantre without his hird, which meant that three or four dozen warriors with swords were hanging around in the near vicinity. He felt the pressure of his situation: his hass was at the stable of the inn outside of town, his sword, knives, and bow were in the chest of the room he had rented. A non-human? An armed non-human? Coming into the city? Over our dead bodies! What a shame… and all while just waiting to enter the city. He looked up at the sky, deep and blue like his eyes. It called to him and beaconed upward…. And he had to settle the situation somehow.

  “My dear esteemed teg, Hag Tur Seaman! All the same, you haven’t translated my… name correctly. Kerro means gold, and Vitarr is shining. The Golden shining Dragon.”

  “Enough with the politesse, young man. It’s not worth getting bogged down in the complications of various translations. I’ll suggest one last possibility. I think it’s correct.” Hag paused for a few seconds and as he was leaving tossed back: “Vitarr in the Younger Edda of dragons means crystal, and Kerr is mountain. Nice to meet you, Crystal Dragon.”

  Wow. A northern barbarian, a savage in the eyes of the enlightened south, nonchalantly tossing around names from the Dragon’s Younger Edda, a language

  * Grig — finely ground meat, minced meat

  * Hevd — squad or military detachment of northern gray orcs, their version of a hird. The name was taken from human vikings.

  * Teg — a formal way to address a nobleman.

  long forgotten by both humans and other races alike. Only a few sad nests of dragons continue to speak it reminiscing about the winged tribe’s former glory. Now it wouldn’t have surprised Andy if the northerner suddenly began speaking in Poetic Edda composing rhymed pentameter. And how in the world, tell me please, was he supposed to maintain incognito when connoisseurs of forgotten languages appeared out of nowhere in the backwoods? Anyway, this meeting was already seeming like much more than a coincidence. He had the irrational feeling the barbarians were being led by the local gods’ fortune telling game. Apparently, the deities had decided to play without showing their hands, and, dealt the cards, to see which suits would fall to whom and whether there would be a wild card in this heavenly gamble. Andy mentally flipped them off. Don’t hold your breath—I won’t give you the satisfaction!

  At that moment, with his sixth sense, or his gut feeling, call it what you like, he sensed some movement behind him at the tethering post. Looking sideways at the shiny round object hanging from the northerner’s neck, he could see it reflecting the rampart and the trading quarter outside the city walls. Andy saw that his retreat path was cut off by five strong brutes, with another four standing guard to the right and left.

  Oh heavens! Why me? Non-humans, if you weren’t a student of the school or registered with a magicians’ guild, were not allowed to practice magic, with a few exceptions of course—elves stood apart here, too. A royal edict declared beheading the punishment, without trial or evidence. A bump of the ax, and your head’ll go for a walk all by itself, which was why Andy hadn’t placed defensive spiderwebs at the city walls (punishing mages could detect them in a heartbeat), which in turn was why he had missed the hirdmen’s silent entrance.

  Subtly gathering energy on the tips of his fingers, Andy prepared to zap the circle with lightning, striking at the frozen warriors in expectation of Hag’s order: their defense amulets wouldn’t help them against a surprise like that. There is no defense against lightning, end of story. Then he would run for it, run like hell. Only it was such a shame that he would have to forget about starting class at the Orten General School of Higher Magic (capitalize every word). The offender’s appearance was painfully telling. If he could only make it to Snowflake… it would be a shame to abandon his hass… they had gotten quite attached to one another.

  The northerner, meanwhile, was enjoying the situation. Jerk. Why did I have to go and call myself a Dragon?! They’ve got me by the balls! Now this Sea-manatee won’t let me go alive. The dragon clan is quite picky about the use of its name. Even that little brat Myra didn’t mention her clan while choosing a punishment for herself. She realized he wasn’t one of their own (he didn’t look like them, they probably all recognize each other’s faces anyway). And he had, as it turns out, openly declared himself one of the hirdmen’s relatives. They don’t let that go unpunished.

  Sending the girl off behind the warriors, Hag pulled a curved knife out of his boot-top, dug under his left thumb nail a bit with the tip (this looked just like city riff-raff bullying a poor schmuck), looked at the blade and asked in an icy tone:

  “So, is my translation correct? You’re a self-declared Dragon! A pretender,” the hirdman grinned. “Why then did you shake my hand?”

  Andy seriously didn’t have the slightest desire to use the magic he was forbidden to, and he so wanted to get into the school. His intuition told him not to run. He wouldn’t make it back. He couldn’t show doubt or fear; barbarians could sense fear in an enemy and detested cowards, but respected bravery. The second you turn your back, you’re their prey. You’ll be hunted down like a wolf. Although Andy wasn’t a wolf, but rather something a little different, he still mustn’t, not here and now—he MUST NOT!

  After a short moment of weakness and internal doubt, Andy regained his composure. A strange force came up from inside him, and he became confident, just like when he was about to break out from that slave’s cage….

  It was as if his wings and tail had suddenly grown out. Just when you regret not having a tail. His mouth filled with sharp teeth all on its own.

  Apparently, something had changed in his posture and on his face. The hirdmen tensed up and half extracted their swords from the sheaths. And Andy took it to the limit, Targ take them:

  “Correct, teg Hag Tur Seaman of the clan of the Dragons. It’s not every day you meet someone who knows Younger Edda, especially from such far-away villages. But do take your words back; for calling me a pretender, I might just rip your head off.” Andy smiled in a predatory manner baring his sharp teeth and the fangs that stood out. His red tongue ran across the white picket fence like a snake’s. The northerners drew their weapons completely and stepped closer. A couple of the warriors who were standing by the wagons raised their bows with arrows setting on the strings. “A word’s not a sparrow—once it flies away, you can’t catch it back again! And where’d you get the idea that you’re the only ones in the world? Huh? The history of my tribe (I almost said nest) goes back ten thousand years. Did Karegar take me in? Oh yes, he did! Did I call him father? Oh yes, I did! We share the same blood—so, I was tasked with looking after the honor of our race! It’s quite simple. I’m not claiming you barbarians usurped my tribe’s name. It’s not worth jumping on the word ‘dragon’ like a hurf* on a hare. I’m a Dragon, and I like the idea that in the north there are others too—warriors, sailors, revering the honor and dignity of their name, gaining glory by their deeds and the use of their weapons. It would be unpleasant to have to kill them here because their traveling sea-king suffers from excessive suspicion.”

  “Shut your yap, non-human. Aren’t you taking on more than you can handle?” one of the hirdmen asked from behind Andy. He’d gotten nervous and chimed in in the place of the sea-king.

  His eyes began to twitch and his vision spectrum changed again, coloring the world around him with
new colors. His ears picked up the heartbeats of those around him. He could sense vibrations of fear in the air. The northerners didn’t feel confident in their abilities when it came to this strange, non-human who didn’t fear

  *Hurf — a predatory beast that calls to mind a wolverine in its behavior and appearance, but twice as large in size.

  them at all. Andy went on, his voice becoming uncharacteristically deep and his words falling like thunder from the sky. Rumbles, louder, quieter, and more rumbles. He remembered Karegar’s favorite technique for scaring people:

  “Two blows to the heart, two blows. To each of you. And then only ash. Teg Hag knows languages well. That’s another way to translate my name.”

  A previously unknown一no, forgotten strength,一forgotten since the Incarnation, rushed in filling him with its power. Andy covered this strength with will-shields. The contained force bubbled inside him, and he somehow knew: if he let it go, everything would burn for ten miles around, burn to a crisp. Everyone would die, not even having time to realize that death had come to them.

  “Lying dog. Bald shushug*.”

  He wanted to change his form and kill them all reveling in the blood, but Andy with difficulty controlled himself. He had to talk, talk, talk, confuse the enemy, strike while the iron was hot. Hag looks not as sure as he was before. He was trying to pick out what was true and what was false. Well, well. True, it was all true, didn’t matter at all that he was serving it to them with sauce and trimmings and a few truths left unsaid. You were a bit hasty, brother, to call me a pretender. Your decision to have some fun with a rare, defiant non-human already seeming like a bad idea? Your self-confidence melting away? By the way… there were circles in his eyes; his internal fire was burning at his soul. “Go away, step back. I don’t want to burn you!” Andy thought and hoped, answering the viking:

  “Watch out, if you go out to sheer the sheep—don’t come back sheered yourself!”

  He must not back down. His alter ego was designed to crave quick, desirable blood. His alter ego, the human, was holding back his rage with all his might. For his own sake, he must not kill them. The vikings felt the cold breath of the goddess of death as well. Their faces were pale and they had a doomed look in their eyes. It was inevitable. Death was all around them. It seemed to Andy that the faint smoky lines of their fates were attached to his palm. Should he tug at them, the smoke would clear and they would perish. What did it all mean? Fear, feeling like a monster. Kill them! No! Yes! His very soul was lost in the snares of the inner struggle to control his own power. It seemed marred by the torture he had endured at the whips of the palace sycophants of Hudd, king of Rimm, and by the excruciating pain of the Incarnation. He didn’t want to become an absolute soulless murderer. No!

  He liked these courageous men, who didn’t even put their weapons down in the face of his pressing power. With friends like these, he could do anything, even go to the ends of the earth! Well, the planet. Guys like these wouldn’t betray him! They would stick by him through and through. Guys like these….

  “Don’t kill my uncle! Kerr! Don’t do it!” Myra stole past the frozen warriors and threw herself at his feet. Her eyes showed fear for Hag, for the clan warriors, and for him! For him? Surprisingly, the little tyke had sensed what the experienced

  *Shushug — a mountain rat, a scavenger.

  warriors couldn’t perceive. Traces of tears ran down her cheeks and her hands were balled into fists. “I know—you’re good!!!”

  The smoky lines disappeared. The simmering kettle of strength in his chest stopped boiling and faded away along with the furious twinkle in his eyes. Kerr got down on his knees in front of the girl and took a handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket. He wiped her tear tracks away. Dropping their weapons nearby, the weakened warriors let their guards down as well, happy to have avoided death.

  “Thank you. Thank you, uncle Kerr!”

  “Thank you, Myra. I noticed you’re pronouncing your ‘r’s correctly now,” Kerr squeezed the girl’s little fists in his hands and kissed the slender fingers.

  “Really? Thank you for what?” Myra answered, taken aback by the news.

  “For helping me remain human!”

  “I said you don’t look like an orc or an elf,” Hag whispered nearby, sounding like a rusty well wench.

  Orten. Near the western gates. A little earlier…

  A friendly slap on the shoulder snapped Hag out of his consternation. Gilwi’s satisfied mug was right there, chewing something as he walked along, as always. How much could he consume, and more importantly, where would that all go? The squad’s medicine man had even given him some sort of potion to cure worms. Was it a tapeworm? The hirdmen had suggested it. It didn’t help. He started eating even more. Like now for instance, Gilwi took a chicken leg out of his saddle bag that he had prepared earlier at a roadside yard.

  “You’re going to pop, you eat so much. Maybe someone put a curse on you. Huh? To make you eat and eat? And you don’t even get constipated!” Hag jokingly teased the fat man.

  “As soon as our Gilwi heads fer the bushes like he’s gotta go, all of a sudden he’s hungry again! Gilwi, perhaps, you could have something to eat while squatting?” Torir said, who had come up behind Hag. He was a jolly klutz with the eyes of a full-blown killer. Many of Torir’s former enemies had been confused by his simple appearance with his short buzz-cut stock of reddish hair and big lumpy nose in the middle of the whole composition. It was a bad mistake to let down your guard with Torir. With his sharp movements, which to many seemed impossible for a husky, seven-foot-tall fellow, and with his virtuoso command of a broadsword, he was a formidable opponent. The heavy sword, flitting like a butterfly in the hirdman’s hands, usually let down the curtain on his opponents’ lives before they even had time to realize their mistake. Hag himself had more than once seen Torir easily split an entire suit of gnomish armor and its wearer into two even or not-so-even halves, depending on where the strong blow fell… for which he was often judged by the warriors of the hird. Tell me, why the hell did Torir put a crystal enhancer on the handle of his sword? To flaunt his prowess in front of the others? Even without an amplifier, he can twist a bull’s head off with one arm. Who needs one half of a suit of armor? What a joke—that’s not a trophy. And for that matter, hero, who needs half a suit of armor, huh? That’s for laughs, but it’ll make no spoils. Not a single merchant reseller would buy such a piece of junk now. But, you have to admit, as a living battering ram, clad in steel armor, he was simply irreplaceable. As soon as Torir lunged into an enemy formation or jumped on board a commandeered vessel, the enemy would go flying in all directions, chopped up like straw scarecrows. Such a tactic had brought Hag’s hird victory on more than one occasion, on both land and sea. Their adversaries lost the desire to resist, once they laid eyes on the instant and shameful death this steel machine brought down on people. And sometimes, the merchant warriors threw down their weapons. So, Hag didn’t regret one bit about taking Torir south with him. Perhaps, it was Norn’s will that he would be useful in some skirmish….

  “Well now, there’s a thought! Thanks for the idea, Torir,” Gilwi chuckled, not in the least offended by the hefty man’s humor. The warriors laughed out loud, verbally supporting Gilwi as they rode alongside the carts, meanwhile tenaciously inspecting the roadside bushes and woods. Even though it was just two leagues to Orten, as the saying goes, the gods will help those who help themselves.

  “Hag, why’ve you knitted yer brows, all thoughtful? Yer not payin’ attention ta anything about ya! Yer like this chicken,” Gilwi raised the bare bone, “you can be taken still warm!”

  “Hm…. it’s nothing. I’m not keen on these mysterious tasks of the leaders of the Thing. What’s it all for? Don’t you know? I don’t know either. Don’t go to a fortune teller. The whole deal smells of a ferret to me.”

  Around the bend, a pavement of hewn stone began on the road. In just a few minutes, the white towers of Orten could be seen beyond t
he hills. The wide ribbon of the river Ort sparkled in the sun.

  “We’re almost there! From the fork, we’ll head to the western gates! Take off your armor!” Hag commanded and, spurring his horse, rode up to the carts. He had to give orders to the driver.

  There was a crowd and all sorts of pandemonium at the western gates. A few convenient highways came together here. The peasants were going to the marketplace. A multitude of representatives of various races awaited the opening of the city gates.

  Today, the General School of Magic was accepting new students. Applicants of this, one of the leading schools, were drawn here from all corners of Tantre and the adjoining states. There were many non-humans among the candidates: orcs, dwarfs, mountain vampires standing out by their jet black hair, and here and there a few mixed-race individuals. There were peasants, noblemen, and members of all classes. The school didn’t distinguish between humans and non-humans and didn’t give anyone special preference. What mattered was only your magical gift and its strength. If it were more than the mere spark of a rural witch doctor, but the real roaring flame of a mage, the school’s doors would open wide before you. If you were a non-human, like an orc, vampire or a mix, once you donned the student badge, you could already stop worrying about having to watch your back. The School and the Free Mages’ Guild guaranteed protection. The citizens of Orten had no problem with members of other races on the city streets. Only the elves preferred to study magic in their own clans and schools, periodically sending their offspring on internships in one of the best educational institutions on the continent.

  Hag decided not to try to make his way into the crowd and to wait out the clog to the side of the road. He sent his detachment off to the side of the gates. A hundred yards to the left of the gates there was a public tethering post with some mangers and troughs for cattle and riding animals. There was enough room. Most of the people were pressing to enter through the opening gates, hurrying to enter the city as soon as possible. But the hird had plenty of time, no rush; they could rest from their travels, give their animals a drink, change out of their traveling clothes and head towards the city later on.