by Inez Kelley
A whimpering dragged his sight back to his pet and a stirring grew in his pants. There was one thing he loved about this new land: the golden-haired women. Those in his homeland were all dark-haired, ranging from maple to mahogany. Here the fair blond locks entranced both him and his men. His eyes raked over her to her hard belly. Maybe his son would carry her hair. That would be perfect. A golden-haired, golden-skinned king to sit on the newly claimed throne of Eldw—No, the first thing he would do is rename this bastard land. Twylone, the land of Twylea, Goddess of the Skies.
Karok strode to his pet, yanked her to her feet by those glorious long gold curls. He shoved her face-first to the altar and jerked his pants down. She didn’t even cry out as he thrust into her dry and hard. She’d give him a son or he’d feed both her and the brat to the vultures as a sacrifice.
The shorter arrows took time to learn. Bryton’s bow was designed for his long span, his greater pull, so mastering the reduced draw filled the daylight. The hiss of split wind and the thwunk of striking his target repeated with never-wavering determination. The wert berries stewed with the apothecary’s herbs until a vile stench wrinkled Salome’s nose. Bryton dipped each broadhead in the thick cooled paste, letting them dry in the sun for a full day for the poison to set. Stone ground on metal with an eerie rasp as he filed his blades to the sharpest edge.
He marked the trail leading to the Skullmen’s church with long hairs plucked from his own head and knotted tightly. Each day he went to check, to see how many were broken, guess how many had ventured through the passageway. The town below became his children and he guarded them with a father’s fierce loyalty, checking for footprints in the soft earth leading down the mountain.
He ventured below once, bringing back news that no new killings had been reported save for a goldsmith who was found carved like an overfat pheasant. The dark orange cheese he brought Salome was shared with slices of dried pear soaked in a liquid he called rum. The succulent tastes melded on her tongue. She shared this too with him, sipping at his lips and nipping his jaw.
Bryton fell into long silences but they were not the darkly tinged suffering of before. Now his aura swirled with the muted glow of recovery. His hate still burned bright indigo but a softer green grew. Healing, like springtime, did not come overnight. Katina was no longer a festering sore but a slow-healing wound that he would always carry, but without the agony.
Salome watched from the air as he twirled and swung, hefting the sword, the dagger, the labrys time and again, practicing the moves of his final battle. His shoulder pained him and he went to swim in the heated waters of the inlet, to let the warmth work the knots from his muscles. He tried to get her to swim with him but she laughed him off, preferring to peek between the branches as the water licked at his skin. They loved, rolling in the green meadow of his practice field or the dimmed light of their shared cavern.
Time had a duality. It stood still while she basked in every moment spent with him, yet it hurled by faster than the shaft of his arrow. The day approached when he would seek out his revenge, deliver his justice. It hung in the shadows of night like a wolf stalking a rabbit, waiting to lunge and unleash its harnessed threat. Fear pulsed in her blood with a rising beat. Drums echoed in her essence, the drums of battle that would soon rip him from her arms forever.
He slept, the scents of their loving thick in the cavern and his body worn from his training. Leaf curled behind his legs and raised her furry head as Salome slid from his embrace. She crept from the pallet, stroking her fingers over his lips. Even in sleep they puckered to her touch. The crisp air swirled over her skin and she drew a deep breath, held it in her human lungs. The first victims of dawn, the stars winked out one by one and she watched them, counted them as they faded to nothingness.
If she were human, she might have prayed or wished on one of those dying lights. But she wasn’t, so she held her longing close and caressed each memory. It would have to be enough. A bittersweet song trembled in her breast. It was a good thing her heart would not beat much longer. A broken instrument could never play in perfect tune again.
Dawn waited, the horizon lightening and pushing back the deep purple night but not yet spilling the glorious gold over the earth. Bryton watched Salome, let his gaze caress her face, stroke her cheeks, feel her calm. Daybreak was her time, her quiet solitude when she gathered her peace and tuned her soul to nature’s song.
“What’s it like to fly, Salome?”
He’d always wondered. Once as a young boy, Taric had talked him into jumping from the barn roof using a bedsheet for wings. Bryton had spent six long weeks in a splint. Taric had to stand through two suppers, his paddled rump too sore for even the most cushioned seat.
Salome’s smile transformed her face from serene to secretive. Rounded cheeks rose high and mischievous lights danced in her eyes. “Would you like to fly with me?”
A naughty grin heated his face. “I think we did that, several times.”
Her laugh, trilling like a meadowlark’s song, wrapped around him. “I meant with wings.”
“How?” He chuckled. “I think I’m a bit big even for your eagle, sweetling. Besides, those talons are sharp.”
Salome leaned forward, her eyes searching his. A supernatural stillness fell around her. The lilting cadence of her voice called to him. “You have magic. I can use that, if you trust me.”
“I trust you.”
Her face moved closer. The sweet honey of her skin teased his nose. He didn’t blink when silver flashed in her eyes. A faraway dulcimer blended with a lute. Her hand landed above his heart, one fingertip brushing his dagger mark. Whispered enchantment vibrated on a breeze. “Open your heart, Bryton. Let me in and fly with me.”
The rolling beat beneath her palm intensified. Magic tremored through him, and his vision blazed to white. No gifted sight came, just the gentle caress of her hand. It reached into his skin, past his ribs, delved deeper than his muscles. It stroked some warm, soft force inside him. He willed that spot to accept her and painless fire bolted through him, a lightning crack of intense sensation.
Music embraced light and became a solid thing. It tugged at him and he stood, letting it guide his blind path. There was no rock beneath his feet, no sense of falling or floating. His entire being was weightless and airy but power pulsed under his skin. Wind kissed his face, streamed through his hair, flowed like water over his shoulders, his chest and back. Salome’s breath warmed his ear.
“Magic to magic and heart to heart,
Free to fly and earth depart,
Wings of mine I grant to thee,
Open thy eyes, behold what I see.”
A bright blue roared to life in his eyes and his breath caught. Endless sky stretched before him. A line of sizzling fire crackled along the edge, the sun breaching the mountaintops. He turned his head. Salome, falcon-formed and beautiful, flew beside him. Flew? Beside him? A dark brown wing caught the corner of his vision and he moved his shoulder. The wing flapped, pushing against air. He laughed and a caw pealed loud. Salome smiled at him. How he knew she smiled with no lips he couldn’t say, but there was a smile on her feathered cheeks.
Below, the churning tides lapped at a white shore and the dark blue ocean melted into a palette of hues. He could barely tell where the water ended and the air began. The heavens were his playing field. The wind was his guide. The wings were his strength. Salome stretched her neck and shot forward. Bryton lunged and rolled his arms. He caught, equaled, passed by her. Freedom roiled through him and he surrendered to it.
Salome flew below him, steady and straight, while he dipped, dove and climbed all for the sheer joy of it. With just a slight angle, he coasted down, gliding beside her.
“Is it always like this?”
“Yes. On wind and air, I live. In your arms, I love. Fly with me, my charge. Fly with me and greet the dawn.”
The sun burst from behind the mountain rim. Crystals of gold sparkled on her wings, gilded her to a polished gleam. Beaut
y so vibrant he ached with it filled the sky. Every color known and some he couldn’t name bent and warped through the sunrise. Harmony lured him with a morning lullaby. Salome flew closer. Her wingtip brushed his and he quivered with emotion.
He didn’t tire and time slipped by. The clouds became white, and peach slipped away into blue. Salome circled and he followed, curving his flight to rise under her breast. Tiny feet tucked back, reached down and tickled him. He chuckled with a melody, rolling to the side. Together they aimed toward the rising cliffside.
A swallow stuck in his throat. He was still there, Salome kneeling before his body, their eyes closed, her palm pressed tight to his chest. Wind trickled through the feathers along his brow, and then there was nothing but white. He opened his eyes and Salome sat back, a wide smile on her face.
The ground was hard, harder than before, and colder. His body felt heavy, too solid and foreign, as if water weighted his moves. Morning was full high and the sky shone clear and dazzling. Stiff legs flexed as he sat upright. “Did I imagine that?”
“No. I have no power to change your human form so I simply granted your essence wings to fly with me. For a brief time, your spirit was a bird, Bryton. Your humanity held your body here. The purity of Myla’s gifted magic provided our connection and—” her chin ducked and a pink blush shaded her face, “—your affection toward me accepted it.”
“Affection?”
A twitch irked her lip. “Should I call it by another name?”
Love, his heart screamed but his mouth stayed silent. He cupped her cheek, the stubborn curl flicking at his wrist. Twilight, her eyes were twilight, silver-gray with touches of dusky violet that urged him to rest his head in her lap and do nothing but soak in her sweetness.
“I have to go. It’s time.”
Her eyelids slammed shut and she nodded. “Leaf? What shall I do about her?”
He’d forgotten all about the kitten. It was too young to fend for itself and too spoiled to forage. She would become prey if not cared for. “There are farms not far from here. She’d grow fat chasing mice and begging for scraps.”
A liquidy inhale opened her eyes and she swallowed. “Then I shall take her to one after you…before I leave this world.”
“Jester, too. Take him. He’ll be some farmer’s prize.” Her head bobbed quickly. “What will happen to you, Salome, if I die today?”
“I shall be with you until your spirit flies. Your peace will come with death and I will return to where I came.”
The shielded pain on her face, the stiffened lips, the quivering chin, the tears she refused to let fall, stabbed at him. A fragile hope flickered to life in his chest. “What if I don’t die? What if…what if I survive and win?”
A tear slipped over her lashes and burned his hand. “Then I shall rejoice with you. Your peace will have been found and I will return to where I came.”
The hope flickered out, like a candle blown by the wind. Heavy weight lodged in his stomach. She was never his to hold. She was a gift, her love a blessing in his darkest hour, her presence a comfort at his final moment. Thanks were inadequate. Some gifts have no measure. But he had to try. He owed her that much.
Fiery, passionate words itched on his tongue. He swallowed them and let more humble terms loose. “Thank you. No matter what happens, you did your duty. You gave me…comfort…joy…tenderness…love.”
Her stifled sob pressed into his palm. Silken lips parted under his and he lost track of the kisses. Pulling from her embrace forced him to dig deep for strength.
She stayed on the ledge, watching the sun as he dressed. The soft gray tunic offered far less protection than chain mail or armor but made fast, silent movements possible. His fingers strayed to his dagger mark, then he firmed his jaw and gathered his weapons. Poison-tipped arrows filled his quiver along with a small glass vial of whiskey wrapped in soft cotton. Three steel cutting stars dipped in the toxic paste lined his pouch next to a bit of flint. His dagger strapped to his belt, his sword sheathed at his hip, the labrys hung crosswise on his back. He added two knives to his boots.
The cavern walls drew his gaze and he looked around, seeing Salome in every crevice. The ledge where she lined their supplies, the stone ring she sang beside, the bed where they loved. His sight landed on the spoon she had an odd affection for lying forlornly on the rock. Without thinking, he picked it up and tucked it in his pouch. It had been held by her, touched her lips. Sucking in a bracing breath, he exited the cave.
If she touched him, he’d be lost. He’d drag her inside and take her over and over, pushing back the mission he had hungered for so long. Her daybreak silk shimmered in the sunlight and her too-wide smile pressed into his mind. She stood, clasping her hands in front of her, golden-brown curls waving in the breeze.
Love blazed with the power of a sun flare in her moonlit eyes. Her gaze caressed him with an almost physical touch, from the scuffed toes of his boots to the top of his head. Lilac smoke swirled around her feet. The last glimpse he had was the love on her face, unmasked and unhidden, beaming only for him. Then she was gone.
Honey-scented air wrapped around him and trickled through his hair, over his arms, circled his waist. He ached to touch her, to hold her one last moment.
“Be at peace, my charge. From this moment, my wind will be with you. Until the end, I will not leave you. Until it stops, my heart will love you. Even then, my spirit will remember and call you beloved.”
The trek through the waking woods forced him to focus his mind, to hone his senses to the land. The gentle breeze that stroked his cheeks did not stir the leaves. A soft whispered song in wordless pitch told him Salome was with him. He climbed the crag, fit the spyglass to his eye and waited. The girl’s body was gone. He hoped they’d buried it but more likely some animal had dragged the remains off in the night. The dark stain remained on the broken stone slab.
The first Skullman exited the temple gloom. He stretched painted arms over his head, scratched his balls and yawned. A few paces away, he jerked his pants down and pissed near a clump of grass. Bryton pulled an arrow from his quiver and the cotton-wrapped vial. A silk cord secured it to the shaft. Readying his bow, he never took his gaze off the Skullman. Flint struck and sparks leaped to the cotton. When a small flame began to spread, he aimed and let the arrow fly.
The dark missile arced high over the cleared space. Far too high for notice, the fire engulfed the vial’s casing and burned through the silk cord. A flame fell from the sky and exploded into a small blaze near the Skullman. The licking tongues grew and he yelled, stomping at the grasses. More men ran out of the stone temple and began kicking dirt, cursing and talking loudly.
Bryton quietly scoffed. “Oldest trick in the book, assholes. If you were my men, I’d have your asses on latrine duty for a month. But since you’re not—” he lined his sights and drew back, “—sucks to be you.”
In one minute, three Skullmen laid dead, arrows piercing their throats or chests. Around him, the wind slowed, slipping down his back in a gentle stroke. He waited, tensed and guarded, but no movement came and no others exited the structure. The bow slid over his shoulder.
The climb down left his back exposed so he made it quickly, with a final leap that crouched him low to the ground. He kept his hand on his sword hilt, one hand free. His boots made no sound creeping across the hard-packed dirt. He leaned close, checking for pulses in each man. Two sets of dull topaz eyes stared at the wide blue sky. The last man sprawled with his face rammed into the earth while a slow pool dripped around him. Bryton toed him to his back just to be sure he was dead. A grim sneer twisted his lip. Nature would take care of his cleanup.
“You boys are going to give some poor animal a serious case of the runny shits, know that?”
The darkened interior called and he stepped toward it, a singing breeze soothing his racing pulse. Inside, he pressed flat to a wall, listening for movement while his eyes adjusted to the near-pitch blackness. The doorway did not lead into a cave or
a worship hall but into a narrow hallway. He cursed.
Before him lay three tunnels, each as empty and black as the next. Channels like this could only mean the ancients who built this were Astucan. He banged his head on the rock. Damn people had loved mazes. He could get lost and waste hours before finding his prey, could never find them. Frustration boiled and he bit back a string of profanity. If there had been one Astucan left alive, he’d wring their fool neck. What did those people have against a straight damned line?
A speck of light drew his eye to the left. With no other options, he kicked off the stone and silently made his way. The narrow walls were damp. Slimy puddles splashed under his steps and he slowed, inching his feet to avoid the sound. The confined space prevented pulling his sword but he palmed his dagger and a boot knife, wiping the clammy sweat from his brow. Salome’s breeze circled tighter, cooling his skin. Even now, she sought his comfort. Her care strengthened his resolve.
Taric would have panicked by now, he mused. The king hated small spaces. Bryton felt a trickle of the same nausea and pushed it below his determination. He’d puke later. The flickering light darted to the right and he followed, praying it would lead to the nest of his enemies. Ahead, the soft golden glow grew. Bryton slowed, straining his ears to listen. Whispered words in female voices accelerated his heart.
Oh, shit.
He peeked around a corner and the sinking feeling in his gut became a rock. Four women, all fair-haired and ragged, crouched around a small fire, eating from a communal pot. Fear and despair subdued them and his soul screamed. He’d never imagined that the Skullmen kept captives alive. His fight took on larger, deadlier repercussions. He inched back a few feet.
“Salome,” he called, barely able to hear his own words.
“I am here.”
“I need to get them out of here. Can you help me?”
“What aid can I give, my charge?”
