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She could hear a sound, a high-pitched, keeningsound, and even at this distance, she had to cover herears against it. It was like the cries of birds—
hundreds of angry birds.
 
and she found she was beginningto fear sleep. She would have given anything for a dreamless night of rest. But it wasn't to be.

Someone called to her, and she remembered shewasn't alone. Eight others had fled Urkish with her—
eight others had escaped from . . . from what? she wondered. A girl no older than she was,wrapped in a
tattered cloak and hood, motioned frantically for herto follow. There was fear in her eyes,fear in all their  eyes. What are they afraid of? What has driven us from the city? She wanted to know—
she needed to know.

"Quickly," said the girl in a language the dreamer had never heard—
yet could comprehend. "We must lose ourselves in the desert," the girl said
as she turned back to the others, her ragged cloakblowing in the desert breeze. "It is our only chance."
 
They started to run, fleeing across the dunes
—
but
from what? the dreamer wondered again.

She turned her attention back toward the city.Was the answer there? The fires burned higher, and anysemblance that a civilization had once thrivedthere was lost—
consumed in the rising conflagration.

The others called to her, their voices smaller in the distance, carried on the wind. They pleaded for her tofollow, but she did not move, her eyes fixed upon the city in flames.

Sadness enveloped her as she watched the city burn—
as if Urkish was somehow important to her.
 
Was it more than just a place she dreamed about? Didit actually have some kind of a special meaning forher?

She stamped her foot in the sand, frustration exploding within her. "I want to wake up," sheshouted tothe desert. "1 want to wake up now." Sheclosed her eyes, willing herself to the surface of consciousness,hut the world of dream held her in its  grasp.

The horrible cries again rang in her ears, and sheopened her eyes. She saw them flying up from fires ofthe city, their wings fanning the billowing blacksmoke as they rose. There were hundreds of them, andeven from this distance she could see that they were clad in an armor of gold.

She knew what they were. Ever since she was a child, they had filled her with wonder and contentment.

She had fancied them her guardians, andbelieved they would never let any harm befall her.

Breathlessly she watched them fly now, dippingand weaving above the burning ruins of the city. Sheknew she'd been in this dream before, but for the lifeof her, could not remember why the heavenly beingshad come to Urkish.

"They've come to kill you," said a whisper fromthe desert, and she knew the voice was right.

They were flying beyond the city now, out overthe desert waste—
searching. Searching for her.

She started to run, but the sand hindered herprogress. Her heart hammered with exertion as sheattempted to catch up with the others. She remembered now. She remembered how the creatures haddropped from the sky, fire in their hands—
and the killing. She remembered the killing. Her thoughts

raced with images of violence as she struggled toclimb a dune, the sand giving way beneath her frantic

attempts.

They were closer now—so
very close. The air was
filled with the sounds of pounding wings, and thecries of angry birds.

No, not birds at all.

She reached the crest of the dune. She could justabout make out the others. She cried out to them, butthe sound of her voice was drowned by the beating wings. She turned to look at them—
to see howclose
they were.

And they were there, descending from the sky,descending from Heaven—
screeching for her blood.

Angels.

How could she have ever loved creatures so heartless and cruel?

Vilma awoke from the nightmare, a scream upon her lips. She could still feel the wind on her face as theycarried her up into the night sky, the swords of fire as they pierced her flesh.

She began to sob, burying her face in the pillow so her aunt and uncle would not hear her. They hadalready caught her crying twice this week and were beginning to worry. She couldn't blame them.

Getting a hold of her emotions, Vilma lifted her face from the pillow and caught something from thecorner of her eye. Outside her bedroom window was a tree, and for the briefest momentthere wassomething in that tree, something disturbingly familiar, and it had been watching her.

It was then that Vilma was convinced her aunt and uncle were right: She
did
 
have some kind of mentalproblem, and should probably seek help. Why else would she be having such horrible dreams—

And see angels outside her window.

His body covered in armor the color of blood, Malak the hunter crept through the beast's lair, searchingfor the scent of his prey. He removed the gauntlet of red from his hand and knelt before the ashenremains of the sea monster. Malak plunged his bare hand into the remnants of the beast, and just asquickly removed it. The hunter sniffed at the residue clinging to his fingers—his olfactory senses searchingfor a trace of the one his master sought. He hunted a special quarry, one that had meant somethingimportant to him long ago, in another life— before he was Malak.

There was a hint of the hunted upon his hand—but not quite enough.

He sensed that there were magicks in the air—spells to mask his enemy's comings and goings, but notenough to hide him from one as gifted as he was. His master Verchiel had blessed him with the ability totrack any prey—and the myriad skills to vanquish them all. He was the hunter, and nothing would keephim from hisquarry.

Malak stood and walked around the cave. He tilted his head back, letting the fetid air of the chamber fillhis nostrils. His powerful sense of smell sorted the different scents, until he found the one he sought.

The hunter moved across the cavern, zeroing in on the source of the prized spore. He found it upon the

wall of the cave, the tiniest trace of blood. He leaned into the wall, sniffing, but the blood had dried, which had taken away some of its pungent aroma. Malak leaned closer, his tongue snaking out from within the crimson facemask, to lick at the stain—his saliva reviving the blood's sharp, metallic stench.

The smell flooded his preternatural senses, and the hunter smiled. He now had the scent.

It was only a matter of time.