Wings of Wrath (2 page)

Little wonder none of the villagers ever stayed behind to see if the sacrifice was accepted, the boy thought. The illusion of sanctity might not survive such close inspection.

Suddenly the clouds overhead seemed to stir. The boy drew his breath in quickly, which made the sulfurous smoke burn his nostrils and set him coughing. He shut his eyes tightly as his chest spasmed, tears streaming down his soot-blackened cheeks as he struggled to keep silent, lest the gods who were surely approaching turn their attention to him before he was ready. And perhaps mistake him for a sacrifice.

Then the fit passed, and the last cough was swallowed, and he opened his eyes again.

And
they
were there.

They clean were—so clean!—cool, clear colors against a blazing sky, ice against fire. Their wings were like the finely veined wings of insects, but broad beyond measure, and so strong that every stroke raised whirlwinds of dust and ash from the ground beneath. Their bodies glistened like the ocean at moonrise, with sparks of blue and purple and colors that the boy did not even know the names of playing across their skin. Their wings were sheets of blue sea ice that cooled the smoky wind with every stroke, and they slid through the filthy sulfurous air like seals through water, poisonous clouds frothing in their wake.

The priests taught that any man who looked upon the gods directly would perish. The boy stared at them despite that warning, naked in his hunger to witness the magnitude of their power, to understand it, to possess it.

One by one the vast creatures dropped out of the clouds, banking low beneath the hot smoke as they glided over the caldera. The girls had stopped screaming now. They still trembled in fear, and one moaned softly in pain as the broad wings beat the smoky air into whirls and eddies all about her, but otherwise they were eerily still, transfixed by the sight of their winged bridegrooms. Even from where the boy crouched he could feel the sheer power of the gods' presence, and it made his blood run cold with fear . . . yet at the same time it stirred his flesh—strangely, uncomfortably—as if he were watching those same girls bathe naked in a hot spring. Unable to move, he watched in silence as the creatures swooped low over the girls, one after the other. The young brides appeared to have forgotten their pain now, and lay back to the last one upon the hot earth, arms reaching out to welcome the creatures as one might welcome a lover. It was a grotesque scene to be sure, but also fascinating, and he could not look away from it.

None of the gods had noticed him yet, or if they had, they did not deem him worthy of their attention. Had any of the boy's people ever seen the gods like this, ever been this close to them without being offered as sacrifice? For the first time since leaving home, he began to think he might really live long enough see his plan through to the end.

And if it worked . . . if it worked . . .

He didn't even dare think about that.

One of the girls was dead now, it seemed, but he could not tell what had killed her. A great god with wings of cobalt and amethyst had swooped down low, as if it intended to strike her, but then pulled up suddenly to join its fellows in the sky, letting out a cry as it did so that filled the caldera. There had been no physical contact; he was sure of it. Yet the girl was strangely still now, motionless in the way that only dead things are motionless, as if all the living strength had been sucked from her limbs. So silent had her death been that the other girls did not even realize she was gone. Or perhaps, in their efforts to offer themselves up to their bridegrooms, they simply did not care.

And then the boy saw what he had been waiting for.

It sat astride the back of one of the gods, a rider more insectlike than human at first glance. Its limbs were sheathed in a blue-black substance not unlike the skin of the great beast itself, making it hard to distinguish where one creature began and the other ended. Lesser wings from the god's upper body were wrapped backward around its rider, creating the illusion of a glistening chrysalis. Even as he watched, the surface of that cocoon slowly parted, its occupant revealed like a locust in season.

The boy's heart skipped a beat. For a single moment the world seemed frozen in time.

The creature seated on the back of the god was a man. Not one of the boy's own people, no, but similar enough that he could not mistake it for anything but a human being. The rider's skin was pale, unlike his own, a strange and unwholesome hue that reminded him of clotted milk. His hair was long and matted with dirt and oil, and his close-fitting armor appeared to be slick with oil as well, so that every beam of light that fell upon him caused dark rainbows to dance across its surface. It was a chilling image to be sure, but it was also undeniably a human one. And that was what mattered most.

Girding his courage, the boy drew in a deep breath.
Now,
he thought.
Now is the time
.

He stood.

His legs were shaking, more than they should have been even from his strenuous climb. For a moment he thought he would not manage to stand at all and the landscape swirled dizzily about him; then, by sheer force of will, he made the world stand still and forced his shaking legs to bear his weight. What other choice was there? The gods were watching now, and if he showed any sign of weakness in front of them he might as well just cast himself into the caldera along with the other sacrifices and let them devour him.

When he thought that he had his legs securely under him he drew in as deep a breath as his constricted lungs could manage, shut his eyes for a moment to focus his spirit, and then let out a cry no living creature could miss. Wordless, it echoed across the caldera, and into the fuming clouds beyond it.

The gods did not stop their circling, but he knew that they had heard him.

Opening his eyes once more, he looked for the one that had a man astride its back. That one alone had not come low to feed, but was circling high above the others. Had it seen him? If he cried out to it, would it hear his words? The volcano beneath him rumbled and the fragments of pumice beneath his feet seemed to shift slightly in response. Did the gods speak in sounds, like animals and men, or did they use volcanoes as their mouthpieces? So little was known about them!

Then the rider's eyes fixed on him—undeniably human, maddeningly scornful—and he knew that he must seize this moment or lose it forever.

“Take me with you!” he demanded. “I would serve the gods!”

For a moment it did not seem that either the human or his mount had heard him. So he yelled the words again, even louder.

The mountain rumbled again beneath his feet. A whiff of hot sulfurous smoke stung his nostrils.

“I'm strong!” he cried out. “I have survived the cold of the ice and the heat of the testing stones! I've hunted the sea lion and faced down the snow bear! I am brave enough to face the anger of the earth—”

To come here,
he wanted to say.
Brave enough to climb the Mountain of Sacrifice and stand here before you with no weapons, no armor, nothing at all to protect me from the gods' wrath save my own stubborn belief that I can be of value to them
.

The man's eyes were cold, unblinking. Like a lizard's.

Then he turned away.

The boy howled in rage. It was an animal sound that welled up from the primitive part of his soul without human urging or sanction. One of the girls looked up to see what the source of the noise was, then quickly turned her attention back to the winged bridegrooms. Did she recognize him as a boy she had run with, played with, shared secrets with? Or did she see only a soot-blackened animal howling hoarsely at the sky, as a seal might howl while some predatory beast crushed the life out of it?

Then the talons of one of the gods closed around her and she was jerked off the ground, her neck snapping backward with an audible crack. Apparently the gods did want fresh meat after all.

Not one of them acknowledged the boy's presence.

Not one.

“Take me with you!” he screamed, his voice hoarse with frustration. “I belong with you!”

The gods were rising now, heading back toward the clouds. Several held small girls clasped in their talons, dangling like broken dolls. The sacrifice had been accepted.

The single rider glanced back at the boy, then turned away. His mount circled higher and higher as the glassy wings folded back around him once more.

“TAKE ME WITH YOU!!!”

Then the breath was knocked from the boy's body as something hit him hard from behind. He would have plummeted down into the caldera had not sharp claws grabbed hold of him; with a suddenness that left him reeling, he was jerked off his feet and into the air. Fragmented images from the world below swam in his field of vision, disconnected, unreal. Whirlpools of poisonous smoke. Blue-black wings that beat the air above his head, driving the ground down and away, stroke by stroke. In the distance, beyond the Land of the Sun, he could now see a vast field of white stretching from horizon to horizon. It had no end. It knew no mercy.

I will serve you,
he promised the gods.
Better than any other. You will see.

The gods did not answer.

 

 

 

 

 

I
T HAD been cool that afternoon in the pine-clad mountains, and no sorcery was needed to forecast that the coming night would be a chilly one. In the open plains to the west the summer heat was relentless and clouds of dust could be seen rising up from acres of dying crops, staining the sunset russet. But the mountains were another world entirely. In the cool, pine-scented shade it was a rare nightfall that did not bring a cooling breeze in its wake, even in the worst of the summer season, and this evening was no exception.

Both moons could be seen overhead now, a slender crescent to the west and a nearly perfect orb just above the eastern horizon; their light filtered down through the thickly layered branches, mottling the ground with shadows. Peaceful. Timeless. Ethanus paused for a few minutes to watch the shadows creep slowly eastward, then turned back to his work, the collecting of canthus leaves. With night falling it was getting harder to see, and for a moment he was tempted to conjure light to aid him in his work. Then the moment passed. Such things were no longer reflexive for him, as they had once been. Lighting a lamp took far less effort and no one need die for it.