by A. L. Knorr
Much more awake now, Jordan admired the primeval beauty of the chasm, no doubt a savage product of titanic violence. "Sol," she began. "Do you know when-" A rancid smell swept over her as the wind changed and her hand flew to cover her nose. Both horses tossed their heads and the gray let loose a chilling whinny. "What is that?" Jordan gagged as another gust of wind struck her full in the face with that sickly smell—a putrid combination of sour sweat and rotting meat.
Sol's eyes darted upward, across the cliff walls and then locked onto a patch of darkness as it detached itself from the underside of a crag. The shape coalesced into a vast winged form, silhouetted against the sky; it was small in the distance, but rapidly growing. Dread settled deep in the pit of Sol's stomach.
"Harpy!" Sol snapped the word out. "Jordan, to the trees. Make for the trees! And stay there. Don't you dare come out!" The words were a barked command and Jordan barely recognized Sol's voice. His deadly serious tone brought gooseflesh out on her arms. The winged shape drifted down upon them with slow, almost lazy strokes. There was only time for a fleeting impression of greasy black feathers, tattered leathery wings—with a span Jordan couldn't comprehend—and a massive head of wrinkled, scabby skin topped by great horns. It wasn't until Sol shouted her name a second time that she threw off her paralyzing fright and put her heels to her horse. The mare dug her hooves into the dirt, her haunches flexing with power as they bolted forward.
Jordan crouched like a jockey, her head low against the mare's neck. She clamped down hard with her thighs as the horse bolted for the bush. A copse of trees–slim-trunked but with many interwoven branches–drew closer with what seemed like horrifying slowness. The wind ripped at her hair as they galloped.
A dark shape streaked past. It was close enough for her to reach out and touch, but she wasn’t that stupid. Sol's horse, now riderless, surged ahead of Jordan and the mare. Clumps of dirt and sand flew into Jordan's face. She peered back over her shoulder, fear tightening her windpipe as she prepared to halt. She thought Sol had been thrown, but no, Sol stood upon the road, dust still settling around his planted boots. He held a lightweight throwing spear in his right hand and the blade from his belt in the left. He’d discarded his two satchels in some unseen place, leaving his shoulders unencumbered.
The sight of him made Jordan's blood run cold. He’s planning to fight that monstrous thing? Jordan watched in horror as Sol clanged the blade of his sword with the head of his spear, the sound of steel clashing on steel ringing through the canyon. The stench of rotting meat grew stronger. Jordan's eyes darted up to the harpy, whose trajectory seemed bound directly for her and the horses.
"Ela stohn, daemona!" Sol bellowed foreign words at the oncoming monster. "Over here, you old hag-crow!" Jordan's skin crawled. This was altogether a different Sol. There was a screeching cry from the beast, almost as though she'd understood him and she redirected; diving instead for the lone man standing in the path between the two cliff faces.
Jordan's heart swelled with a strange cocktail of outrage, fear and gratitude. Hauling back on the reins as they finally broke into the trees, she battled both her own terror and that of her horse. The gray seemed intent on carrying her straight through the close-knit trunks, all the way to the cavern wall. "It's alright." Jordan murmured sweet lies to the gray, keeping her voice calm with great effort as she slowed the animal. Jordan's heart pounded in her ears and her mouth was dry with fear. Keep it together. If she showed her terror, she would lose control of the horse completely. Jordan spied Sol's gelding just beneath the canopy; it appeared to feel safe enough within the trees, but was unwilling to go further without his companion. He tossed his head and whinnied.
They joined the dark horse and Jordan leapt from her mare's back. Grasping the reins of both, she lashed them up, out of harm’s way. Skipping around their dancing hooves, Jordan turned back to the unfolding scene on the road. Her heart leapt into her throat as the harpy swooped down on Sol with a ragged cry.
Sol took a series of rapid steps forward to meet the harpy, his arm and head canting back and he hurled the short spear. The missile flew straight and true, passing through light and shade, reflecting glints of sunlight from the metal head. The spear should have taken the harpy straight between the eyes, but with frightful intuition, the harpy bucked her head downward and the spearhead rattled, leaving a gouge upon her scalp below the right horn. The harpy's scream became a croak of pain and she fought to keep herself in the air as her head thrashed, slinging thin trails of purple-black blood.
That simple but intelligent, evasive move on the harpy’s part struck a cold hard fear into Jordan's heart, as sharp as an arrow. This was no mindless predator. The beast was canny. This harpy is female. I don’t know how I know, but I do. Jordan could feel, without a doubt, that the monster Sol was facing was a terrifying old matriarch. Perhaps it was the puffy breast jutting proudly outward, or the elegant curve of her horns. The scars criss-crossing her skull and wattle told of many battles-battles she hadn't lost.
The monster's talons sailed harmlessly over Sol's head. Sol stood his ground as he watched her swoop upward and take a banking turn. His sword was now in his right hand, his left having drawn a leaf-bladed throwing knife.
Back the demon came, her talons reaching out, bloody horns pinned back against her neck. Sol's throwing knife flashed and was buried to the hilt somewhere in her torso–but with no discernible effect. It was a hornet's sting against a creature more than twice Sol's height. Soundlessly, the beast was on him.
Jordan screamed as the harpy’s talons flashed downward and the wattled head shook with effort, but Sol darted nimbly to the side. Light as a dancer, he leapt to thrust his sword at her lowered head and gaping maw. Silver steel tore through a flap of hanging flesh under her chin, spilling more rank blood. The pierced flesh, flaccid and dragging, tore the sword from Sol's grip as she barrelled past overhead and Sol's shoulders and back flexed in an odd manner just before the harpy's sweeping wing knocked him to the ground, hard. The harpy landed in the dirt on strong, splayed talons and turned her monstrous form. Jordan got the impression of a heavy warship making a turn in the sea—swinging deadly guns to face its target.
"Sol!" Jordan screamed. She pulled the knife from the belt at her hips, looking down at what now seemed a puny and useless defense. Sol's words rang in her memory. ‘Don't you dare come out!’ She looked up, eyes wide as she watched Sol do battle. From her vantage point, he looked like a small man under a monster made of nightmares.
Sol rolled about on the road, kicking up dust as the harpy snapped down at him with its short, dragon-like jaws, a deadly hooked beak at the tip. She waddled and bounced about, far clumsier on the ground than in the air. Her feathers produced a fetid wind. Each time Sol seemed to make it clear enough to stand, she would hop into the air with a flap and come crashing down with scoring talons. Sol rolled aside and the deadly game would repeat itself.
A thick, warbling sound bubbled out of the fiend's fleshy throat. The harpy sounds like she is enjoying herself, Jordan thought. Like a cat toying with a mouse. The harpy knew her prey would tire soon; then it would be so easy to drive one of those twelve-inch talons home, or rip at him with her beak.
With monumental effort, Sol finally sprang clear. He landed in a crouch with twin daggers in his fists, the weapons straight and needle-sharp. As the monster came down, Sol jumped straight up. The harpy's talons snapped together in the air just under him. He slammed both daggers into the feathers above her scaly legs.
The harpy screeched and Sol felt the hot blood gout over his hands and forearms. Like a mountain climber driving spikes into rock, Sol began to climb the harpy's body using his daggers. Jordan could only imagine the agony his injured shoulder would be in, but he climbed like he didn't feel any pain. The harpy writhed and flailed, her wings beating the air frantically as the metal spikes dug into her flesh.
With blood coating his arms up to his shoulders, Sol's hands slipped from his knives and he crashed back
to the earth, landing hard on his back. With a wild leap, the harpy twisted and hooked a stabbing talon into Sol's shoulder, piercing the leather of his vest. She gave a powerful flap, lifting him into the air, and with a hateful flick, she threw Sol back to the ground. This time he landed on his stomach–all the air knocked out of him in an audible whoosh. The harpy did not give him a chance to recover. The talons scythed out again, this time finding the openings where his wings should have been. Sol spasmed soundlessly on the ground.
A scream tore from Jordan's throat. The harpy loosed her own pained wail as she floundered backward, her beak snapping down at her belly. The hilts of Sol's daggers still glittered in the creature's feathered flesh.
As the harpy fell away, ripping at her own feathers to tear loose the metal spines, Jordan snatched her cloak from the mare’s back and made a run for Sol. Sliding in the dirt, Jordan saw close up what she couldn’t see from afar. Blood welled from the slashes in Sol’s leather, his torn flesh wet and red underneath. He was unconscious but breathing. She struggled to keep her gorge down. So much blood. Her hands worked to tear a strip from her cloak. "Hold on, Sol. We'll get you to the trees," she panted. How she was going to execute this directive evaded her. There’s no way I can carry him.
A dark shadow fell across them, followed by the sound of metal pinging off stone as Sol's knives landed in the dirt nearby. Jordan looked up. The corners of the harpy's mouth seemed to twist in a grin as she cocked her head to one side. The intelligence Jordan saw in her crimson eyes turned her blood to ice. This is it. We’re toast. Death by harpy. Jordan's heart gave a painful squeeze for her father. He'll never know what became of me. Jordan refused to look away as the harpy opened her beak and drew her head back to strike. Jordan grasped the hilt of her knife, her knuckles white, preparing to slash out.
A strange whirring missile buzzed through the air and with a sharp crack, one of the harpy's horns fell to the ground—alongside an axe with a broad blade and a short, curved handle. Croaking in dismayed rage, the harpy craned her neck, casting about for her new enemy.
Jordan worked frantically in the extra moments she was given, putting pressure on Sol's wound and wrapping strips of fabric over his shoulder and under his arm. She looked up in short bursts to see another winged form descending, hugging the cliff walls as it came. Immense bat-like wings spread from the broad, muscled back of a man bedecked in dark leather. Her eyes widened. Is this what Sol looks like when he has his wings?
Jordan pressed down on Sol’s wounds and he gave a piteous groan. His face was as pale as paraffin. Leaving one hand on the bandages, Jordan used her free hand and her teeth to tear more strips of cloth from her cloak to pack the wound. She wanted to believe that the bleeding had slowed down, but the way the fabric was turning dark wasn't a good sign.
Kicking up more nauseous wind, the harpy took to the air, rising to meet the new figure as he skimmed along the canyon wall, his booted feet running sideways along the stone. The bat-winged man pushed off into a dive. With frantic wing strokes, the harpy made to match his speed and meet him in the air. The collision of the two flyers was imminent and it seemed the harpy would crush the man into the canyon wall.
Jordan held her breath, expecting to see the stranger swiftly destroyed. At the last second, though, he barrel rolled and then flared his wings, banking hard away from the cliff. Unable to turn so quickly, the harpy smashed into the canyon wall with an impact that made Jordan's teeth rattle. Dazed, the beast plummeted to the canyon floor in a jumble of wings and feathers.
The man climbed higher, catching updrafts and vaulting nimbly upward. The harpy raised her head, glaring with concussion-bleared eyes as the warrior drew two wide-bladed knives from the harness around his torso. Steel glittered in his hands–a cold promise reflecting in the patchwork light. The harpy gave a hoarse screech as it swung about looking for its attacker. She gathered herself for a leap, but the warrior hurled his knives with a flick of the wrist, one following the other in quick succession. The blades spun and patches of feathers fell from her; her black body was slick and wet with blood. The creature's enraged cry filled the air and she spread her wings and began to climb. Both creatures worked to gain altitude. The harpy's wings flapped laboriously in comparison to the man's easy, powerful strokes.
Enraged, the harpy tried to use its bulk to crush the man sideways into the jagged cliffside. The warrior tucked his wings tight to his body and took hold of a rock spur jutting from the canyon face. Spinning around the spike of stone, he launched himself up and to the side so he landed upon the cliff face, clinging there like a spider. The hooks at the tops of his wings latched onto the rock, stretching his wings wide; from the back, he really did look like an overgrown bat. The harpy had to wheel away from the wall and swing around in a wide circle to avoid crashing into the wall herself.
The warrior did not stay in his position long, but launched himself higher and the harpy followed in hot pursuit. Soon they were in the much more open upper levels of The Conca, seeming almost to touch the sun-punctured clouds.
Down on the canyon floor, Jordan squinted up at the battle that held their lives in the balance.
With a surge of effort, the man put more distance between himself and the pursuing monster. At the height of his climb, he drew a short spear from the sleeve between his wings and threw it straight up into the air, beating his wings furiously to follow it.
"She's below you," murmured Jordan in dismay. "Wrong way, genius."
But the spear slowed, paused and then turned, gravity drawing the heavy iron head downward. The winged man gave an elegant, almost lazy spiral, meeting the spear shaft in the air with his hand and sending it straight down at the enemy with terrifying speed and precision.
"Oh," Jordan whispered, understanding. Her forearms prickled at the power of the throw and the practiced skill that had launched it.
The harpy gave a shrill cry of fear and tried to change directions. All her struggling managed to accomplish was opening her chest wide to the driving spear tip. The head drove clean through the harpy's muscular breast, piercing her laboring heart.
Jordan stopped breathing as the two creatures seemed to hang still in the sky. The moment of death and defeat for the harpy and magnificent victory for the winged warrior, would be forever seared across her memory. She'd never forget the visual of that breadth of time. She also understood in one swift moment why artists painted and poets wrote of battle.
Then the harpy's great heavy carcass fell from the sky as though she had turned to stone. The man descended casually after his foe's corpse, drifting like a feather.
Jordan felt, as much as saw, the harpy crash to the ground; the impact resulting in a cringe-inducing crunch. For several heartbeats, she stared at the monster's corpse, certain that, even after all the fighting and all her wounds, the horrid creature might still rise up. Then the winged man landed upon her broken body and pulled his spear free with a sharp yank. Jordan breathed a sigh of relief and turned her attention back to Sol.
A gust of air blew strands of Jordan's sweat-soaked hair from her face as booted feet landed in the dirt a short distance away. Hands keeping pressure on Sol's wounds, Jordan looked up into the face of their rescuer.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
He was tall and long-legged, long-armed and long-fingered. He stood with a tense energy, seeming ready to explode into action at any second. His pale face was lined with brutal experience and seamed with old scars, but his gray eyes were keen and cool. His beard and hair were silver, trimmed short and neat. Dark leather armor, not unlike Sol's, encased his chest; the only exposed flesh was on his pale, sinew-knotted arms. Leather bracers protected his forearms from wrist to elbow and were dyed the same striking indigo as Jordan's vest. The winged man spoke to her in a foreign tongue and Jordan recognized the words as sounding similar to the dialect she'd heard from the people in Nishpat.
"Do you speak English?" she asked, her voice hoarse. She coughed to clear it. Her pulse was still thrumm
ing like mad. Jordan released one hand from Sol's back to wipe her hair from her eyes and the sweat from her brow. Sol lay with a terrifying stillness beneath her pressing hand.
The man looked surprised. "Since when do girls from The Conca prefer to speak English?" His accent was strange but not unpleasant. His voice was deep and seemed to rumble from his chest like a rolling boulder. He rolled his 'r's, which made Jordan think of a Scottish brogue.
"I'm not from The Conca," Jordan answered. She covered her nose as the stench of the dead harpy drifted toward her on the breeze. Her eyes watered.
The man wiped the harpy blood from his blades on tufts of grass, then produced a rag from his pocket and cleaned off the rest. "No? You're wearing the color."
"Sol bought me some clothes in Nishpat." Jordan looked down at Sol and the bandages around his torso dark with blood. "This is Sol." Jordan swallowed hard at the ashen color of her companion’s face.
"And you?" The stranger replied. "What name are you?"
"Jordan." Her body trembled and her muscles felt fatigued from being shot through with adrenalin. She held out a hand to the their rescuer. "Where I'm from, we shake hands when we make a new friend." She only realized afterward that her hand was bloody, but it was too late to withdraw it.
The man looked down like he needed a second to remember what to do with it. His expression cleared and he stepped forward and took it, seeming not to mind the blood. The skin of his palm was thick and calloused. They shook.
"Toth," he offered in return.
"Sorry about the blood," she said.
"Blood is a consequence of my job." He dismissed her apology, wiping his hand on the rag he still held. His eyes were a light gray, but bright enough to be startling. Black kohl had been applied on his bottom lid with a much more practiced hand than Jordan's. With his enormous leathery wings folded up behind him and the long black claws at the tops of his wings curving inward to make a sinister frame for his face, their defender cut a terrifying figure. With the multitude of throwing and fighting weapons strapped to his body, he gave new meaning to the phrase 'armed to the teeth'. But in his face was an intelligence and an unexpected kindness that put Jordan at ease.
