Wings Over Talera

by Charles Allen Gramlich

  That door seemed to...breathe. Planks strained. A square nail popped free and clattered at my feet. A second followed, leaving holes through which spilled an intense reek of salt, and fish, and rotted seaweed. I took a step back, unable to stop myself, my heart pounding. The others were around me, faces twisted, muscles bunched like wire.

  “What devils are these?” Kreeg blurted.

  “Perhaps we’d better—” Graye started.

  “We’ll stand,” I snapped, cutting him off. “Anything that can come through that door can die on the threshold.”

  I don’t know if they believed me. But they stood. I don’t know if I believed myself. But I held my sword ready.

  Something...snuffled against the door. Then a series of thumps raced along the wall, each one softer than before, each one higher along the wall than a man could reach comfortably. Kreeg growled. The mist in the room swirled and eddied, as if stirred. The skin went cold beneath the hair lifting at my neck.

  I turned. A gagging sound came from the direction of the altar. The old man was suspended over the polished wood, his face purpling, bloating. Something rope-like and liquid-looking had wrapped itself around his neck, reaching above his head into the shadows that hovered near the ceiling. I looked up, toward the skylight. And saw there the face of an angel. Or a demon.

  The door behind me split with a gunshot crack and buckled inward off its hinges. Splinters sleeted. Something dark came through.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  DEMON-HAUNTED DARK

  Kreeg bellowed—in anger. Valyan and Graye shouted, their voices surprised, any meaning lost in shock. Forgetting the angel/demon whose face loomed in the skylight, I spun about to see some massive thing thrusting through the door that had burst inward beneath its weight. Kreeg bellowed again—in pain—and went down beneath an axe-shaped head, scrabbling desperately to keep recurved fangs from tearing his face off.

  A leg as thick as an ale barrel thrust against Valyan, knocking him sideways into me. I caught him, spun him toward safety, then lunged forward, blade sizzling in the light as it went in beneath the creature’s shoulder and plunged deep.

  The thing roared, like fire exploding into a dry tree. It pulled back then, for a moment, nearly twisting the blade from my hand. I hung on, jerked the sword free in a shower of red froth. The beast was a laith, though bigger than most of its ilk. Its head arched above me, snouted and fanged like a moray eel, with eyes wide set beneath a broad forehead. Those eyes were stone white with dagger-point pupils; they looked sick and maddened. And sick or maddened the beast must have been to come up from the sea’s depths and attack on land.

  The laith snapped at me and I slashed it across the mouth to stop it, cutting through its fleshy upper lip to leave a salmon pink arc behind. The rest of it was an iridescent black, like oil on water. From the corner of my eye, I saw Graye grab at Kreeg’s arm to try and pull him to safety. The laith glimpsed him, lashed out with a foot that knocked the mercenary sprawling and then smashed down to pin Kreeg like an insect beneath it.

  An arrow hissed past my shoulder to sprout like a quill from the thing’s right leg. Valyan had unlimbered his deadly bow. A second arrow followed the first as I leaped in, sword hacking to draw a tithe of blood. The laith backed up. One step. Two. But it dragged Kreeg with it. A third arrow fleshed itself in the same leg. The creature took another step back, venting an oddly plaintive cry, as if confused by our resistance to being eaten.

  I cut at the thing’s head and it reared, showing a slender neck that slanted down to a barrel chest and heavy, lizard-like shoulders that gave rise to massive front legs. Beyond those legs the body tapered twenty-five feet to tiny hind limbs and a fluked tail like a whale’s.

  I ran to my right, shouting long and loud, trying to draw the beast’s attention and make it turn. Graye was hovering, waiting to leap in to grab for Kreeg. But my ploy failed. In horror, I saw the creature’s weight come down on my injured friend. The head dipped, mouth opening almost daintily as it bent to shred him with savage fangs.

  Valyan was shooting, shooting. The arrows flew and struck, seemingly without effect. And I jumped forward, bringing the sword up and over my head in a desperate gamble, spinning it and driving it down again behind the laith’s left shoulder to seek the heart. The creature screeched in raw pain and...shrugged. That ripple of muscle snapped my blade off in the wound and sent me jolting backward to smash hard into the side wall.

  I staggered and went down to both knees, shaking my head, my vision winking and blooming with scarlet pinpoints of light. My right fist held only a foot long stub of sword now, but I clenched it tight as I tried to get my legs under me. Pain arced along overtaxed muscles but I found my feet and swayed there. At least I had the laith’s attention. It turned and humped toward me like some monstrous walrus, tail lashing against the doorway through which it had burst. Heavy logs shivered and broke away, bringing down half the wall.

  I readied myself, mouth sandy dry, heart pounding like frenetic surf. As the laith shifted its bulk to attack me, Graye got hold of Kreeg’s arms and dragged him free. I couldn’t see whether my friend lived or not, but, if dead, he might soon have me for company. Valyan had emptied his quiver and drawn his rapier. He ran toward the laith, moving to aid me now. Then he froze. I heard a strange, almost ghostly shout, but couldn’t see where it had come from or why Valyan had hesitated.

  The laith struck at me and I tried to dodge, and only the buckling of its arrow-weakened right leg saved me. The thing smashed snout first into the floor in front of my boots, and for that bare instant it was vulnerable. I took the only chance I had, half leaping, half falling across its muzzle, the stub of sword rising and dropping, burying itself deep into the juncture where soft eye met harder skull—with the brain just barely beneath. Jagged steel grated and then locked as the quillions hooked on bone and held.

  A convulsion rippled the length of the laith’s body. It started to rear, but I was up before it could crush me against the roof, my feet slipping, then catching as I lunged forward over its fleshy head and slid-rolled down its shoulder to sprawl on the stone floor. Death bit and tore at the laith’s straining muscles and I threw myself away from its shuddering agonies, then rose, drawing my dagger as I reached my feet. I saw what had pulled Valyan to a stop.

  Half a dozen bony creatures skittered through the torn wall, their claws clacking like metal rain on the floor. Mist wreathed their antlered heads. Two launched themselves at Diken Graye and the unconscious Kreeg. The other four came for us, for Valyan and me. Valyan leaped to meet them, rapier weaving. I followed, my chest shuddering for breath. Sweat coated me, slicking the dagger in my hand, and I wished desperately for something more than that slender blade to guard myself. At my back the laith writhed its last and died. There was no time to rejoice.

  Our new foes were Sporns, a race that I had not seen before but knew of from stories. One story had involved the Priest-Cult of Rampuur, the sorcerous worshippers of Vohanna who had been a faction in the invasion of Nyshphal some thirty-five years ago. According to legends, the Sporns had been no more than ignorant beasts before the Cult’s wizards raised them to intelligence and made them their servants. I did not know the truth of those tales, but the presence of the creatures here taunted me with the sound of secrets unlocking.

  The Sporns were—vaguely—insectoid, with eight limbs and eight eyes in a chitinous face that otherwise seemed full of feelers. The antlers that I had first thought to mark a helm were part of their exoskeletons, like the horns of a rhinoceros beetle on Earth.

  The creatures ran on their lower four limbs, carried weapons in their upper four. One of them reached me, and attacked. A lead-weighted mace hammered down at me; a curved sword, like a yataghan, slashed across toward my side. I ducked under and around, came up to slam my dagger in beneath my attacker’s mandible. The thing loomed over me by a foot but the power of the blow nearly tore its jaw off
.

  The being’s claws clicked at my shoulder and I slapped them aside, my other hand reaching, catching the Sporn’s bone-like wrist. I whirled, using my weight to tear the yataghan free of the dying thing’s grip, and continued the spin, sword coming around just above its thorax, slicing through the thin neck, sending the head leaping. A jet of silver blood fountained, prickling on my skin where drops struck me, the smell like a corrosive acid in my nostrils.

  All around me were clanging blades and swift movements. I knew this kind of fighting. I’d been afraid of the laith. Not now. I dropped to one knee, hacked sideways at another Sporn’s lower limbs. Two of those parted beneath the blade’s curved edge and the creature dropped with a high pitched squeal, its other limbs thrashing. I silenced it with a stroke that cut through its body and struck sparks from the floor.

  A shadow passed over me; a sudden breeze stirred my hair. I sensed it and then it was pushed out of my mind as Diken Graye yelled in pain and I jumped to my feet. A Sporn swung at me with its mace and the weapon grazed my thigh even as I tried to dodge, the glancing blow still enough to numb flesh and bone.

  The pain enraged me. My hand shot out, locked around the creature’s throat. The Sporn’s feelers lashed and tore at my wrist, but with a snarl I dashed its domed skull open with repeated blows of the sword hilt. I hurled its corpse away and heard the clatter of it falling. Gore dripped from my fist and sword, and ran on my face. I could taste it, like burnt milk.

  My eyes sought Diken Graye then. Found him. He was wounded, bleeding streams at shoulder and leg. But he stood over the sprawled form of Kreeg, fighting off two Sporns to save my friend’s life—if there were any life left to save. In that moment I forgave the mercenary for anything I’d once held against him, and I started forward, limping. But Valyan was there before me, taking out both foes from behind with quick movements of a sword that already streamed silver blood.

  My gaze dropped to Kreeg. He wasn’t moving.

  Then, in the streets beyond the temple, through the half fallen wall, I glimpsed torches blooming as the villagers were aroused and began to gather. We had to get Kreeg out of here. Ourselves as well. But then that breeze from above caressed me again. And with it came a grating noise from the direction of the altar. I turned. The old caretaker’s body was gone, but other items of interest had appeared.

  Though the villagers would surely be angered at what we had done, it was clear now that the greatest threat to us lay within the temple. For the altar had shifted to reveal the flickering mouth of a tunnel. And a demon squatted at that mouth, lesser devils wheeling above it on membranous wings.

  Worst of all, the demon had a rider, masked and gloved and clad all in yellow silk—with eyes that seemed to bleed.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE RIDER

  The winged devils had the faces of angels with horns. They had the wattled necks of vultures and thin wings in which blue veins pulsed. They had tails as long as those of kites. It was one such hybrid that I had glimpsed at the skylight when it was strangling the caretaker with its tail. Just before the laith’s attack.

  The greater demon squatted on all fours, with charcoal skin that had erupted with blisters. Tusks thrust up from the low slung muzzle, their lengths stained with crimson. Above that muzzle the face was bestial, savage, frighteningly intelligent. The eyes were stone black, without pupils.

  Yet, I noted the monstrous chimeras only in passing. My gaze was locked to the being who sat so casually upon the squatting demon’s back: the rider in yellow silk...except for black boots. He—it?—seemed...familiar, though I could not make out any features. The shape was human; the gloved right hand held an exquisite rapier. And as the being leaned forward I glimpsed again the glow of its incarnadine eyes behind the mask.

  I was reminded of how Diken Graye had described my brother Bryce’s eyes—as bloody pearls. Frowning with a quick thought, I spared a glance toward the winged fiends. They had the same eyes, and I recalled, also, the odd scarlet tinge to the blue orbs of the Nokarran assassin I had killed in Trazull. Only the squatting demon had eyes of a different hue, of dead black, and a tiny spurt of excitement ripped through me to mingle with fear. I sensed mysteries unraveling.

  Then I jolted as a wild hope suddenly burst in me that the rider was Bryce. An instant later that hope was dashed. This man was shorter than my brother. Even if Bryce had changed his eyes and hair, he could not have changed his height.

  I snarled and started forward then. Behind me I smelled the smoke of torches as the villagers arrived at the temple. I heard their muttered anger die away to awed murmurs as they saw the tableau spread before them. But I did not care that the odds were overwhelming against us now, and that surely we would die here. Someone would tell me of my brother.

  The squatting demon spoke. Everything stilled.

  “Kill him,” it said. I did not realize who it was talking to or who it meant to die until the rider in yellow dismounted and strode toward me.

  Valyan took a step forward and I held out a hand to stop him.

  “Mine,” I said. “See to Kreeg. Carry him if you have to.”

  The green Llurn glanced at me, his eyes hot. Then he nodded and stepped aside. But his offer of sacrifice cooled my own rage for the moment. It was all right to risk myself but I had no right to risk my friends if there were any hope of escape.

  I raised my curved blade, readied myself. The yellow-clad swordsman kept coming. No one else moved, and even the winged devils settled to watch. If they awaited the outcome of this fight I might have long moments to think and plan an escape. Then the swordsman lunged and I found I had no time to think at all.

  The man’s rapier made a blazing streak of light coming in and I parried desperately. Still I took a wound, a shallow cut across the left thigh that stung like scorpion venom. The man gave me no time to riposte. He whipped his blade up, toward my face. I blocked in a shower of sparks, and he spun, coming fully around, blade level. I threw myself aside, hammering the curved length of my yataghan down. Half an inch from my rib cage, the two sword edges caught and shrieked together.

  I lashed out, clumsy against the swordsman’s swift grace. He ducked under that stroke, smooth as a cobra coiling, then lunged as if pointing a finger, his rapier stabbing at my throat. I leaped backward. His stroke missed. The rider straightened, held his position for a moment, the tip of his blade quivering as if in eagerness.

  I took the chance to whip off my rawhide coat and whirl it about my left arm as a makeshift guard, then crouched, my own blade weaving. The swordsman’s rapier was of the double-edged type, for cutting and thrusting both. It was several inches longer than my own blade, and just as strong without being as thick or heavy. I had to make adjustments; I thought I knew how.

  “Come on,” I growled at him.

  The silken mask covering the rider’s face seemed to quiver at the sound of my words. He took a step toward me, then paused, as if confused. I shifted my stance, brought the tip of my sword up a bit. Both moves would allow me to respond a sliver faster to an attack.

  “Kill him,” the demon-thing growled from behind the man. Its voice was like echoes.

  The swordsman jerked as if struck, then came for me, drawing a short, sparring dagger into his left hand. His blade lashed back and forth, darted in the next instant toward my face. I tapped his weapon aside with mine, launched a riposte. He met it smoothly. For a moment we fenced wildly, face to face, so close I could smell his sweat. Our steel blurred, clicking and chiming, locking and coming free. He stabbed at me with his dagger and I blocked with my arm, hearing the sound of the rawhide coat tearing as it saved my flesh.

  I stepped into the man then, pushing him back. He gave only a few paces of ground before launching a blazing counterattack. This time I matched his speed, and the tip of my yataghan cut a slice through the silk at his shoulder. Human skin peeked through, pale but scrawled with tattooe
d lines. The swordsman leaped away. Both of us were breathing hard.

  I gestured at him with my sword. “Last round,” I said.

  Again my voice seemed to abrade him. He paused. His whole body shook, though I did not think it from fear.

  Behind him the demon shrieked. “Kill...him!”

  The swordsman gave a tortured half moan, the first sound I’d heard him make. Then he came, rapier driving at my chest. I blocked with an upstroke, knocking his sword out of attack line, then spun off my right heel, left foot curving around, snapping straight into his belly. He grunted and folded over. I planted my boot, hammered back with an elbow that exploded in his face.

  The man’s whole body went loose, arms flying outward. I twisted into him, dropping the coat from around my left arm as that hand dove down to catch his wrist and my other hand rose over his shoulder, the yataghan spinning up in my fist.

  “The tunnel!” I shouted at Valyan, as the masked swordsman faltered into a slow collapse and I took his rapier away with one clean jerk. My right arm straightened and I hurled my own sword in a flashing bolt toward the demon that crouched before the altar.

  My move was completely unexpected. The sword flew true. It took the demon right between the ebon glitter of its eyes. And the effect was just as unexpected to me. The skull of the beast split open; the whole body cracked wide. I heard an incandescent scream. Something chatoyant came out of the hollow shell of the demon, something not quite human-sized, but winged and glistening and wet. It hovered above us.

  I gaped. My skin crawled with a sudden sick dread of the supernatural. I had not for a moment believed we faced a real demon. I still didn’t. But….

  The newborn being found me with a sharp and bitter gaze. Its liquid eyes were black upon black upon black. The head was heart shaped with a woman’s face sculpted upon it, a face that was lovely and evil above a body that seemed a hybrid of human and praying mantis. The four wings were multicolored, fibrous but flexible, and translucent enough to show a webbing of strange textures inside. They didn’t look real. The creature raised a human-type arm, pointed at me with an elongated finger, but its gaze swept over my shoulder now, to the awed and hushed villagers who watched at the torn open wall of the temple.