“You should be thanking me, as I keep your own kind from killing you.”
“I need no help from you.”
“My dear sister can only provide so much protection. When the Red Moon rises, Nature’s barrier will lift. And when it does...” A chuckle. “I shall have my new body.”
Wisdom narrowed his gaze. “You would remind me of that.”
At a blink, the irises returned to their normal color. The horn was gone. Instead, a deluded Healer was left in its place.
Although his father kept a short sword at his side, Wisdom knew the Healer’s skills were more than adequate without it. The day he had tested his father’s patience had landed him on his back staring up at a six-inch knife pointed at his face.
The prince took in a breath and let it out slow. I’m not your enemy, he thought to his father. All I ever wanted was peace between the two races.
You side with those who have mistreated you, stolen our homeland, and continue to use weaker races for servitude. Chronicles’ snide remark slammed his mind. With concentration briefly broken, he missed the slight turn of his father’s foot that moved their circle in the opposition direction.
Wisdom barely registered his father’s speed. A blur, and their faces were mere inches apart. Without magic, keeping up with the two Healers seemed impossible to follow. Yet it was magic that sped up solid counter-attacks and hand thrusts. A quick spin hid his father’s grab for the staff. In the midst of their battle dance, it was yanked from his grasp. Wisdom avoided a low swing, but at a twist of flying fingers twirling the staff produced the hidden blade that sprung from its bottom.
Pain dug into his flesh. With a loud gasp, Wisdom stumbled back and went down on one knee while holding his punctured side. A narrowed gaze continued to track his father’s movements. Thankfully, no other attack came. At the same time, there was no healing energy available, as the burnt fields offered nothing to sustain his waining strength.
Thankful, my foot! Wisdom recalled the horn’s earlier statement. He’s the one who should be thankful I know how to fight!
After returning the blade inside the wood, Chronicles planted the staff firmly on the ground to examine its sapphire tip. His gaze then flicked to his son.
“Thank you for returning this to me,” he said flatly. “However it may have served you, it will now serve my purpose.”
“Did you forget that it was a gift?” Wisdom clenched his teeth against the haze of pain flaring up his ribcage. “You may have also forgotten that we were meant to protect life, not take it!”
“We will be protectors once again, but only after humans pay for what they did to us.”
“I think you’re overlooking the obvious.”
“You may have seen to the land’s destruction,” Chronicles sniffed at the air, “but you were not alone. I smell them, and I will find them.”
Without any signals, the awaiting Healers silently approached their leader.
“I’ll deal with you later.” To the others, he simply said, “Take him.”
Wisdom watched them come. Like a wounded rabbit, he waited for his hunters, for it was wolves they had become. The different colors of their fur revealed traits from their true forms. Hair color mixed with the natural look of the animal. Even down to the eyes, though the prince could still see the brilliant colors masked beneath those yellow orbs. Eagerness caused the irises to glow in a display of silver, emerald, and gold.
Nearly upon him, a sudden blaze of fiery earth erupted between them. In panicked yelps of confusion, the wolves slammed into one another to keep from touching the flames. Teeth bared at the prince, who watched with a satisfied grin as they turned to beg advance from their leader. Yet even Chronicles was at a loss for guidance, though he concealed it by keeping himself composed.
An ear flicked to movement from behind, then something was pushed into the prince’s hand. The soft touch of leaves promised relief, and he glanced up to see who had brought them.
Donning his own vest of chain-mail suited to his height, Ashpin eyed the Healers returning to their true forms. It was their leader that captured his fancy, an outfit of iridescent scales protecting the chest and down the thighs. It was unlike the armor Wisdom’s clan had prepared, with hard-edged shoulder pieces, thick breast plates and heated shields.
“Can we hope to win if they get through?”
“It’s not about winning.” Wisdom nodded behind him. Though the field looked vacant, he knew the Simpletons were merely blanketing the rest of the group with their projective thoughts. “Get back with the rest.”
The crunch of withered leaves confirmed its life energy had passed into him, and Wisdom slowly stood. He let the dry leaves crumble from his fingers. A glance behind revealed no trace of the boy, as he had passed within the safety of the Simpletons’ projected walls.
“So you wish to play illusionary games,” his father said. “You should be mindful of our own.” He raised both hands, and when they fell it was as though a curtain had closed around the race of Lo-ans’rel.
Like the prince’s troops, they too were shrouded from view.
At his side, jewels along the sword’s hilt began to glow a brilliant blue as it detected illusionary activity. What his father emitted was strong. Calling upon the sword’s Sight ability, a blue outline revealed what others could not see.
In that moment his father’s form broke through the ring of flames. No sword counter was fast enough against the lumbering gray and black bear. Instead, the prince threw himself back, shifting in the process. When the glow of shifted forms faded, cloven hoofs pawed the air. He dropped on all fours, turned and let loose a powerful kick that cut across the bear’s shoulder.
While the leader had let illusion lapse from his own form, the rest were still concealed. Yet pain was not what Chronicles’ focus had been on. As he glanced behind to the flames still flickering across the field, then back to his son, Wisdom began to suspect what his father’s next move would be.
He knows it’s not real!
*****
Shy pressed on through the trees, following the road that would lead them past the ruins of Lexington. Just a few miles east of Central Valley Clan, and already they began to pick up sounds of fighting. He wished his kind had not settled for Chronicles’ way of thinking. It was all about destruction. Shy could not even remember the last time his father spoke of preservation or the values of healing.
The death of Glory’s father was also upsetting. It was hard to tune out constant sobbing coming from within the traveling crystal. For now, it contained Glory and her stepmother, accompanied by Katherine. There was a deep sorrow in the pit of Shy’s stomach as he somewhat listened to her pleas. Pleas to go back. Pleas to heal a body beyond repair. He wished he could, but Lo-ans’rel were not known for bringing back the dead.
That, to his knowledge, was something only a unicorn could grant.
A change of scent drew his attention south. The Lo-ans’rel had moved on to claim other territories. He could make out his father’s distinct smell, glad not to have encountered him in his travels coming...or going.
So who’s fighting in Lexington? ‘Keyarx against humans still? It would have been a cruel way to leave, but these days Shy did not put anything past his father. Rather, he’d let the birds have their last peck!
Shy, the thoughts of Katherine came to him, is there nothing we can do to help those still in the city? Glory wants to know—
I know what she wants, Shy said. But we’ve already spent too much time here. Chronicles has moved the clan toward Trully. We don’t even know if my brother is even prepared for an attack!
But he knew this was coming. You gave him that advantage, at least.
Shy stopped in the middle of the dirt road to eye some hoof prints. He inhaled deeply. The prints came from Roland’s army, sent out earlier before he had reached the clan. Perhaps they still lived, whereas their leader did not. Perhaps...there was still a chance to save them instead.
I can’t hel
p everyone! his thoughts shouted back. If we go to Lexington, then my brother stands alone. If we return to Trully, we don’t help those still in the city. Not to mention, at some point I need to get all of you to a relatively safe spot. I’d rather not go to war carrying you all with me. Something happens, and you’d be transported in the middle of battle!
I can handle myself! Katherine sent a defensive wave of bitter thoughts, causing Shy to stagger and hold his head in discomfort. We’d be fine! Remember, Wisdom did send Chanté for support.
Without absolute proof he’s even found that support, Shy thought, what would you have me do?
There was a moment of silence before a sniffling, older woman’s voice entered the conversation.
“For my husband...please. Help those in the city.”
Even before Shy reached the edge of the forest, he was confused by the sounds coming from around the city. These were not the shouts of fleeing people. As he swept aside some low hanging branches to peer through, he saw exactly what two parties were fighting.
War cries carried across the field. Yet those creating those cries were not from humans. A tubby body charged an oncoming harpy. As Shy watched the two clash, there was one feature that seemed to catch his attention. With narrowed gaze, the Healer focused on that one part, a semi-pointed ear that he guessed was incapable of moving like the rest of his kind – like a purebred.
So my brother sent for rift-wizards? He was slightly dumbfounded. They were the rift-raft of the race, the half-breeds – part human, part Lo-ans’rel. Some of them, he had heard, could not even shift. Yet here they were, fighting against a legion of White Wings to protect what remained of human civilization. Even more baffling were men clad in armor from Central Valley Clan fighting alongside.
But how do I introduce myself into their battle? No sooner had the thought been processed when a dagger slipped under his throat. Instinctively, Shy tensed, but could do little more than tilt his head back into the grip of another.
“Consider yourself introduced,” the one holding him breathed in his ear. “Now a question for you. Considering your current position, and heir to your father’s clan, where do your loyalties lie now, hmm?”
There was no mistaking who held him, even without visually making eye contact. This was no half-breed, but a skilled Healer in perfect position to kill. One slice was all it would take, and Shy knew it. Just as he had nearly done with Jangus, Shy knew the blood would spill far too fast to heal.
“With—” a quick intake of breath against cool metal to the soft flesh of his throat. “Wisdom.”
Slowly, he could feel the blade being removed. Yet it was made very clear who was in control as the point trailed over his skin before he was released. The uncomfortable sensation heightened the need to rub his throat before turning to his assailant. Chestnut hair. Gold eyes. His father’s description of their past leader caused for caution.
“Master...Windchester?”
A single nod. “No doubt, Chronicles would have scarred our people’s memories with false interpretation. No matter.” He pointed the tip of dagger at the young Healer. “You’re not alone.”
Shy just stared. “There’s no—”
“The necklace! I recognize a traveling stone when I see one. So who’s inside?”
Slightly taken back, Shy wrapped his fingers protectively around it. “My brother’s fiancée...and two others. I’m keeping them safe.”
“Ha! Not out there, you won’t! You want to help? You get them to safety first.”
“And yet there’s fighting every place I look! I can’t just trust a place to just set this down.”
“Then mask it,” Windchester said. “It’s in plain view, or I wouldn’t haven’t noticed it. Do it quickly!”
Shy brushed a hand over the charm before tucking it as best he could beneath his shirt collar. In his haste to help with the battle, he had not even bothered to check whether anyone else could see it or not. Now, with the illusion that he wore nothing, he was reassured no one would bother it.
“Your life protects it now, Shy.” Windchester pushed past the trees and out onto open field. Shy followed close behind. “I’ll help you guard it, for your brother’s sake.”
The young Healer sighed as he watched the mayhem before them. “You don’t trust me, in other words.”
“Here’s your chance to prove yourself.”
Shy needed no other prompt but to shift alongside the rift-wizards’ leader. The two charged headlong into the sweep of harpies, but not before the scent of a particular White Wing drew Shy’s attention toward the city.
Was that Chanté?
*****
The fog lifted momentarily, allowing a glimpse outside the city walls. There, Chanté could see his kin diving at their foe. It was not a shock to find more joining the skies as they abandoned the ravaged buildings for still-scrambling humans – perfect timing for thieves. At Chanté’s beckoning, Blackavar started bringing out those still trapped in the guild.
An emergency exit, the Master Thief called it, fed right into the back alleys along the city wall, though now that wall was little more than crushed stone. As the thieves climbed over its remains to flee the underground passage, Chanté kept checking the sky as best he could through the shifting fog to make sure no other was around. Using collapsed exteriors as lookout points, the young ‘Keyarx hopped from one to the other.
He cocked his head to listen. Shrieks of anger echoed across the field.
“What..?” Chanté picked up on high-pitched chirps, too high for mere mortal ears to detect. This was not typical bird chatter, but a series of selective war cries addressing a single individual’s defeat. “Father?”
With each passing moment, hatred deepened toward humans. And it was quickly spreading to the half-breeds for protecting them. Without a leader’s guidance, they were sure to seek a new one, and there was only one it would fall to – his son.
Chanté felt his throat swelling in worry. He could not let them discover his involvement with humans. Checking the position of thieves still clamoring around the debris, he caught sight of Blackavar leading out a limping individual. With haste, the harpy immediately glided down to the group.
“I need to leave!” Chanté sputtered in between throaty chirps. “Something’s happened, and I can’t be seen!”
The Master Thief made sure the one he was helping was in good hands before turning to the harpy.
“Did yer kind find ye with us?”
Chanté shook his head, his facial feathers puffing out in urgency. “Not yet,” he croaked. “But they will.”
“Travel safe, then. I’ll set up some lookouts ‘til yer return. Er...if ye return.”
Chanté merely nodded as he took to the sky. He pumped his wings furiously to reach the high currents, using the fog to block his flight from those on the other side.
This can’t be! His mind fought to determine a better reason for the Wings’ reaction. Father’s always been strong! He’s never failed us!
He headed southwest. Judging from his people’s chatter, they had last seen their leader follow the winding road toward a single clan several miles down.
Last seen, Chanté thought in confusion. So whose word were they taking that confirmed any sort of death?
He pressed on, pulling his wings close as he dived through the trees. If he had to, he would scout the entire forest for signs of his father. He would find something, if only to prove them wrong.
It was dangerous maneuvering in flight. Trees in these parts grew one on top of the other, and with the speed Chanté was traveling it would not take but one miscalculated turn of wing to break it against the hardy trunks. Instead, he dew his knees up, back arched in landing position to grasp the next tree he came to. Wings angled his descent to slow his speed until he could conform to tree hopping.
A white feather flitted off a branch. Quickly, the young ‘Keyarx snatched it up to sniff. A faint scent of blood coated the tip. That pang of worry grew stronger in his
gullet. He spotted more clumped together down the side of a tree. Ahead, he could just make out part of a road in between the leaves. Chanté began descending the trunk, following a trail of shredded feathers.
There came a gurgling cough.
“Father?” Chanté chirped. He jumped the rest of the way down, landing hard enough to throw up bits of dry leaves and dirt.
The wheezing turned to raspy gasps of breath as the harpy followed them through a thick layer of underbrush. Part of a twisted wing could be seen sticking out from under some leafy branches. There were drag marks mixed with white plumage leading up to his spot, a dead giveaway for anyone to follow.
“Father?” Chanté crouched low and tried to press himself into the thicket. There was no avoiding the thin covering of branches scratching at his face and arms, so he puffed out his feathers to keep it from damaging his skin. Folding his wings into a fade allowed more flexibility to crawl close.
Dim lighting flecked across his leader’s pain-filled face. With closed eyes, Rusha could do little more than suck in a few breaths.
Chanté’s heart sank. “I’m here.” He touched his father’s bloodied hand. With hanging head, he regretted that his kind had been correct but on one account. The calls had confirmed a death, yet here his feather still breathed. “If I could just get a Healer to you.”
Movement beneath his taloned fingers drew his attention. At first, he suspected his father just wanted assurance someone was there, but after a moment he began to realize his father was signing to him.
Traitor, it signed. Healer.
“What?” Confused, Chanté watched his father’s talons form the next few words. It was sluggish, but he was able to make out: Corrigan. Brother.
“Are you saying...?” Beneath his own, Rusha’s hand quivered as if to sign something else, then went limp. Chanté watched his father’s chest fall into stillness.
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