by Dan Avera
“Undoubtedly it is the work of the traitors,” said Jhai to her other side. He beheaded a gibbering yaru with one swift cut, and its lifeless body crumpled, staining the ground with its foul blood as it jetted from the stump of its neck. He was dressed identically to Zizo, though like Serah he carried a curved blade. It was not a sha'shim, however, but a relic from a people that had long ago faded from the prying eyes of the world. It was plain but elegant, with only three strange characters etched along the base of the blade close to the hilt.
“Undoubtedly,” Serah agreed. “It is an unnerving thought, no?” She sheathed her sword and surveyed their handiwork: a dozen dead yaru lay sprawled in the dirt, their bodies splayed out in impossible positions. The metallic scent of blood mixed nauseatingly with the reek of hastily expunged bowels, and Serah covered her nose in disgust. Horrid creatures, she thought.
Finished with the task of extermination for the moment, Serah turned and briefly scanned the horizon before letting forth a sharp whistle that echoed away into the distance, the note traveling impossibly far. A gust of wind blew back her cloak, exposing armor much like her bodyguards', though lighter and sparser. Her long hair followed her cloak's example, streaming out behind her in a shining river of darkness. She closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure. “That feels good, no?” she murmured quietly. “Perhaps a little more...” The wind picked up, howling past her with the force of a hurricane. She remained solidly on the ground, however, and try as it might the wind was unable to move her body even a finger's breadth.
It died down a moment later, and on its heels came a great shriek, part bird and part lion's roar. Three dark shapes appeared on the horizon and glided toward the trio with frightening speed. A moment later they landed in a flurry of wings, skidding to a halt a scant few paces from Serah. They were gryphons, mighty beasts with the body of a lion and the head, wings, and forelegs of an eagle. They towered over Serah and her men, their bodies twice as massive as the largest warhorse, but she walked up to them, unafraid, and reached up to rub the nearest one's beak. It growled happily beneath her touch, nuzzling her hand like a pup.
“My children,” she cooed, and then leaped into the air. A gust of wind carried her higher than any normal human would ever have been able to reach, and then deposited her lightly on the back of the first gryphon. She craned her head around to find that her bodyguards had already followed suit and suppressed an amused grin. Always just out of sight, she thought, and turned back to the front with a loud whoop. The gryphons screamed at the evening sun and threw themselves into the air, digging deep furrows in the earth with their great claws. A cloud of dust bloomed into existence where they had been moments before, obscuring everything on the ground from view in a choking haze. The gryphons moved with surprising grace and agility for creatures so large, and they darted across the sky, nipping at each other's heels like cubs at play. They leveled off a moment later, gliding serenely through the air high above the ground where mortal eyes would be too weak to see them.
The yaru had been a simple scouting party, likely sent forth by a much greater force to look for new villages to ransack—or perhaps even the city off in the distance. Yaru were not known to be bold, but then again, they were not known to raid so far to the south; nor were they known to conduct long, drawn out campaigns, but with the number of ghost towns mounting at such an alarming rate, Serah could think of no other explanation.
Such thoughts had inevitably led her to conclude that there was something larger than simple yaru at work, and she had spent the last five days searching for the main horde to no avail. Normally it would have been an easy task; she was, after all, the goddess of the air, and where the winds blew she could see without fail. But something was blocking them from her eyes in the sky, and she had needed to resort to spotting them with her own physical sight—a method she was growing to detest more and more with each passing day. She had forgotten what it was like to see only with weak human eyes. But like it or not, she was being forced to fight what was essentially an invisible enemy with the only tools she had left. Even now, when she closed her eyes and extended her consciousness, the yaru they had just slain remained invisible to her. The implications were troubling, and she suspected that it was also connected to her main problem: finding Will.
Like the yaru, he had suddenly and inexplicably vanished. Her windsight had shown him and nine other men swinging weapons at what appeared to be empty air—and then, when his body had begun to leak blood and flip through the air obviously not of its own accord, he had disappeared as well. For that reason, she believed he was still alive. What purpose, after all, was there in the enemy hiding a dead body? She had gone to Prado first, asking his comrades and the villagers of his whereabouts.
“He's dead. Didn't you hear?” The overwhelming majority of their responses had been something like that. Some had told her in no uncertain terms how welcome an Eastlander was in the Southlands. Others still had simply stared at her with vacant, bovine expressions. All were reactions she had come to expect from humans, but they irked her nonetheless. So instead she had followed his trail to the slaughtered village, and then into the birch forest. She had been surprised, to say the least, at finding only the bones of nine humans. Further tedious investigation had taken her into the surrounding foothills, where she had found several small packs of yaru. She was able to dispatch them easily each time, but fear gnawed at her with each encounter. She could remember only one other period in her life when the dark creatures of the world had organized with such efficiency. It was not a time she wished to repeat.
Now she flew over the sparse terrain of the Pradian foothills, the sun setting at her back. The suspicion that the yaru were, in fact, headed for Prado itself had been steadily gaining a foothold in her mind, and that worried her. Not only were the people of the city in danger, but she would lose valuable time in her search for Will if she had to defend them. Curse being a Titan, she thought. So much responsibility, and I need to look for Will.
Will...she shook her head in an attempt to clear her thoughts. Not knowing where he was, and knowing every moment she drew breath that he could be in grave danger with her powerless to stop it, was making her sick with worry. It felt like a betrayal. He protected me, she thought furiously, and I cannot even return the favor.
A memory leaped into her thoughts then, a painful one that she had long pushed from the forefront of her mind.
She is crying, lost in the trackless dunes of her homeland, running from the shapeless terror that has stalked her tribe for a week, taking the forms of its victims as it slowly devoured each one until she was all that remained. She stumbles and falls to her knees as her foot catches in the sand, pulling her down as though nature itself wishes for her demise. The tiny granules seep through her ragged clothing, grinding themselves into her skin, but she barely notices. Behind her a bloodcurdling, inhuman scream rings through the night—it sounds closer now, much closer than it did only a few moments ago.
“Titans protect me,” she whispers over and over under her breath, squeezing her eyes shut as hot tears of terror draw lines through the dirt and filth on her cheeks. “Titans protect me. Titans protect me. Titans protect me.”
“You called?”
Her eyes fly open and she looks up to see a beautiful man in blood-red plate; there is an ebony dragon etched into the center of his breastplate, and though deep in her mind she knows the symbol, she is unable to remember its significance. The man's long blonde hair blows slightly in the desert breeze, the motion oddly serene in the face of the danger that stalks her. The moonlight reflects out of his eyes as he gazes down on her with a smile that speaks of a kind heart, and he offers her his hand. As though in a dream, she takes it, and he lifts her to her feet.
“There, see?” he says soothingly, his gloved fingers surprisingly gentle. He has a strong accent that she does not recognize. “It is not so bad.”
In the next instant she has her arms wrapped around him and her face pressed ti
ghtly against his metal chest plate. She sobs as he strokes her hair and pats her back. “It is alright, child,” he says in a soft undertone. “Shhh...”
And then she hears the scream again. She lets out a small cry and reflexively shrinks against the man, who...chuckles. She looks up at him with wide, terrified eyes. He gently detaches himself from her clinging arms and sets her on the ground.
“Do not worry,” he calls over his shoulder as he walks toward the origin of the scream, “I will return shortly.”
He disappears over the crest of a dune, and a moment later there is a blinding flash of light and a bestial roar of agony. She curls into a ball, waiting for her imminent end, knowing without a doubt that the handsome stranger is dead. The scent of charred flesh reaches her nostrils, and she sobs.
“Silly girl,” says a deep voice, and she looks up to see the man smiling down at her. In that instant, he seems a god. He extends his hand again, drawing her once more to her feet, and brushes away her tears with gentle fingers. “I am Davin,” he says, and the name jolts her memory—she knows who this man is. He does not seem a god—he is a god. He is Davin Tyrhanann, the Dragon King. “I am going to take care of you from now on. You do not have to cry anymore. What are you called, child?”
“I...my name is Serah.”
Serah blinked away the beginnings of tears. “You do not have to cry anymore,” she murmured. A moment later her eyes were dry. She set her jaw resolutely; she would find Will, and she would make sure he survived. Davin had given her a life, and now she would return the favor. But first...
Off in the distance the shining city of Prado appeared as an orange glare in the setting sun. For an instant she was torn, but then she made up her mind. The lives of those in the city were of tantamount importance. Raising her arm into the air, she whistled once and pointed at Prado, and a moment later the gryphons began to make their descent. The humans needed her help, and she was going to give it to them. It was time for the Titans to return to Pallamar.
~
“Great Black this feels good,” Will said for the hundredth time, running his hand along his freshly-shaved jaw. “I'm never sporting the beard look again. Not even when I'm old.”
“You've mentioned that,” said Clare from her position on the bed. She sat cross-legged, gazing fondly at him. “You look handsome like this, by the way.” Very handsome, she thought. He wore the appearance of a veritable god now, and despite the fading scars across his face he looked positively beautiful in a masculine sort of way.
“What?” Will asked with a smile when he caught her staring. She looked away, abashed.
“Nothing,” she blurted, nervously running a hand through her hair. “Sorry, just daydreaming.”
Will laughed softly. “Well,” he said after a moment, “I guess...good night, then.”
“It'll be odd, not having any company,” Clare said softly. Grim whined from his resting place on the floor. “Oh, hush. I meant human company.” The dog wagged his tail.
“Well, I could always stay the night,” Will said with a laugh and a wink.
Clare laughed too, but it was forced. I like him, she realized. A lot. I've only known him for two weeks—no, not even that! She furrowed her brow.
“Are you well?” Will asked.
“Yes, sorry.” She forced another laugh. “Just this damned heat, you know?”
“Right. Well, anyway, good night.”
“...Good night.”
He was gone a moment later, the door closing with a quiet click behind him. Clare fell back onto the bed with a groan. What in the name of the Void was going on? From the first moment she'd laid eyes on Will, even in his battered and bleeding state, she had felt something for him. Had she just been out of contact with humanity for too long? Perhaps her hunt for vengeance had made her crave interaction with other people without her realizing it. But...there was that sensation that she got whenever she saw him...like she had seen him before. Like she had known him all her life.
“What do you think, boy?” she called, laying her arm across her eyes. Grim whined in answer, and she heard heavy footfalls as he got to his feet and padded over to her. He snuffled in her ear, and she turned to look at him. “Am I just lonely?” Grim woofed and cocked his head. “Well, what, then? I've only known him for...five days, really, since he was unconscious for most of it. It doesn't feel that way, though.” Grim stared blankly at her. “So...what? Do you think this is real?” He licked her face and wagged his tale, and she laughed and roughed up the fur around his head.
She lay on her back for some time, staring at the ceiling and idly scratching Grim behind the ears. The light from the setting sun became gradually darker, until the room was so dim that she could barely see. Will's smiling face danced before her, and no matter which way she turned she couldn't get him out of her mind. She thought back to their short journey together, reminiscing with a faint smile on her lips.
“I'm glad I met you.”
“I'm going with Clare.”
Her heart jumped in her chest. What is this? When she finally fell asleep, it was to the memory of Will's hands reaching out to catch her as he fell. His hands are gentle, she thought. So rough, but so gentle.
~
Clare awoke to the sound of Grim pawing at the door. She got silently to her feet and crept over to him, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “What is it?” she whispered, stifling a yawn. He whined and pawed the door again, scraping his nails noisily across the wood. Clare shushed him and listened intently; she had learned never to take Grim's antics lightly, as they had saved her life on more than one occasion. After a moment she heard low voices conversing down in the tavern, and her curiosity was piqued.
Moving as silently as she could, she eased the door open and crept out with Grim at her heels. He moved like a ghost, making barely a sound as he slunk through the darkness.
“...you need to rouse the guards,” a woman's voice was saying. She had a thick desert accent, and her voice sounded like the wind on a summer day—light and warm, but confident and strong at the same time. “The yaru will be here soon, I am sure of it. We killed twelve only this evening, and they were headed toward the city.”
At the mention of the yaru, Clare became instantly awake. They're coming here? Oh spirits above, the Pradians...
“I see.” That was Castor's voice. “Do you know how many there are?”
“I do not. It could be fifty, or it could be several hundred. I am thinking it is closer to the latter, though, which is why you must prepare for an assault, yes?”
By that point Clare had reached the bottom of the stairs, and she could see the speakers clearly. She crouched behind the railing in an attempt to make herself smaller while Grim crept away into the shadows, awaiting her command.
Castor stood across a table from three desert nomads, so very out of place in their strange Eastlander garb. There was a woman, and two men who stood behind her with their arms folded menacingly. All three wore armor and weapons, and carried themselves in a way that left no doubt about their ability to handle themselves. The woman was obviously the one in charge, evidenced in part by her beautiful bronze and steel armor. It was decorated with a menagerie of whorls and swirls that evoked thoughts of the wind.
Castor rubbed his eyes with one hand. “This is bad,” he murmured. “I've only got five hundred of my men, and another four hundred city guards that we're still training.”
“That is all?” the woman asked, a thoughtful look on her face. She seemed untroubled by the shortage.
“Yes.”
“Why so few?”
“Because we killed the rest of the guards while completing the job you gave us!” Castor exploded, throwing his hands in the air. The two bodyguards reached none-too-subtly for their swords.
“Was that absolutely necessary?” the woman asked.
“There were a thousand of them,” Castor said, “and only five hundred of us. And tell your men to quit acting tough, or I'll run them through.”
Clare noticed that, though still in his nightclothes, he had taken the time to strap his side-sword on before meeting the woman.
The two men did not relax, but the woman held up a hand. “Please, I do not wish to fight.”
Castor harrumphed. “How do three people go about killing a dozen yaru, anyway?” He eyed them as though seeing them for the first time. “You look like you can handle yourselves, but still. Do you have a larger force? More troops that can help us?”
“Unfortunately, no,” she sighed. “But we are sufficient.”
Castor burst out laughing. “Three people is 'sufficient'.” He threw his hands up in mock supplication. “Thank the bloody Old God! Help has arrived!”
“The Old God,” the woman said in a dead voice, and oddly, the room seemed to darken—lantern flames guttered as though in a strong wind, and the fire pit at the center of the tavern shrank back from some unseen force. “How amusing. You humans have forgotten the old ways. Perhaps it is time you started to believe once more.”
“Believe? Believe in what—”
A bolt of electricity lashed out from the woman's body, burning a black, smoldering line across the wall to her left. Castor stumbled back, nearly tripping over a chair. Clare stifled a gasp.
“The yaru are on the move,” the woman continued. “This has not happened for five hundred years—not since the Great Fall. Right now we are your only hope for salvation. I would not mock us so lightly, were I you.”
Castor gaped. “Wait, what are you...?”
Clare started as she felt a hand settle lightly on her shoulder, and she twisted around to see Will kneeling behind her. “What's going on?” he whispered. “I heard the most tremendous noise and—”
He stopped, staring straight ahead at the desert woman. His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Serah?” he called, loudly enough for her to hear, and both Castor and the bodyguards froze.
The woman jerked as though shot with an arrow and spun around, her eyes wide. “You,” she whispered.
