A Picture of the Heart

Nameless left the underground cavern exhilarated. Again, Leadbelly had sent him on what he’d certainly thought was another run-of-the-mill meeting with the Master underneath White Oak; however, if he knew the truth, he’d be sick with envy. To think, Nameless, the so-called least of all the Wiggletwigs, entrusted by the Master with the order for the Weurgen to start the battle. He’d effectively gone from someone who the Master hadn’t even know their name, to the most important Wiggletwig in an instant. Oh, how the tides have turned. He could hardly wait to see those filthy mutts’ faces when he delivered the Master’s order. You’re taking orders from me this time!

Once over the camp, he dove toward the command tent. Twenty feet above the ground, he flared his wings and touched down on the muddy ground ten feet in front of the Weurgen guards. Puffing out his chest, he approached much closer than usual. Typically, he would exercise a little caution, but with the authority of the Master, even these beasts had to respect him.

“Move aside,” Nameless demanded.

Instead of moving, the beast lashed out with lightning speed, catching him squarely in the chest with a kick that sent him tumbling across the muddy ground.

“You may have killed it this time,” one of the Weurgen said as matter-of-factly as one might talk about the weather.

Nameless rolled onto his stomach, his beak inches from the mud. His talons sunk as he pushed up onto his knees. He lifted his head slowly, sending daggers into the guards with his eyes. His anger rose sharply. He could feel the seething red overtake his yellow eyes; feeling the rage flowing freely through his mind felt good. Everything inside of him wanted to lose control, to let the madness overtake him, but with a supreme effort, he managed to grab a thread of control. Not because he wanted to or even due to his fear of Weurgen. No, something worse than a quick death by the claws of those filthy beasts awaited should he fail to deliver the Master’s message. BUT THEY WOULD PAY! He’d make sure of that. Forcing himself to calm down, he gained his feet and wobbled unsteadily toward the guards.

“I have a direct order for your commanders from the Master.”

The guards snarled. Weurgen despised weaker creatures. To them, they were little more than sport. Taking an order from the perceived weakest of all the Wiggletwigs was no better than a literal slap in the face. He felt their terrible gaze boring into his head as he passed uncomfortably close.

Inside the tent, he’d expected to find two more beasts. Instead, two slender men busied themselves with a hand-drawn map of White Oak. Speaking to those two would require a lot more tact. Ordering a Weurgen guard to stand aside was risky, and he’d already paid for that; however, making demands to the commanders equaled an immediate death sentence, regardless of who’d sent the order.

“I have orders directly from the Master,” Nameless said.

“What does the Master desire us to know?” the guards said in unison without turning.

“The battle is to begin.”

Without a word, they removed their shirts, revealing scarred torsos. The one on the right grabbed a sword and shield. The other took a twisted piece of dark wood that resembled a ram’s horn. Nameless scurried aside as they strode toward him. These two exuded power. If you were unfamiliar with Weurgen, you’d never know that behind those stoic faces, rage was, at any moment, a torrent, ready to be released upon anything that stood in their way.

Brushing aside the flap, they stepped out, leaving Nameless alone. Four crisp horn blasts sounded into the night, followed by guttural shouts echoing through the camp. The battle had begun.

Nameless waited impatiently. Although it’d been several minutes since they’d blown the trumpet, and it was probably safe to assume the tent guards were no longer in place, he had to be sure. If they were outside, waiting for him...he shuddered. After the stunt he’d pulled earlier, they’d be ready to tear him limb from limb. He’d have to play it safe. Moving to the tent entrance, he listened intently. Nothing. Grasping the canvas, he pulled it aside and peeked. Nothing. Breathing a sigh of relief, he decided it was safe and was about to leave when he caught a flicker from the corner of his eye.

At the back of the tent, in the shadows, was a steel cage hanging by a chain. Nameless could hardly contain himself as he rushed past the gnarled black chair where the Master had sat and drew close to the cage. Leaning in, he examined the prize and smiled wickedly at his green-eyed reflection. How did you end up in the hands of these unappreciative dogs? Suddenly, his pointy ears perked at the sound of a faint whistle. The bird leaped to life and burst from the cage. Nameless swatted wildly at the treasure as it retreated to the highest point. Turning to face him, his prize flapped its wings, sending a blast of heat at Nameless, who fled to the far side of the tent, but it wasn’t far enough.

“Awe!” Nameless shrieked as something that felt more like fire than air washed across his back and wings. When the burning feeling ceased, he turned back, but there was no sign of the bird; however, it’d left its mark. Nameless grinned at the new hole in the tent’s roof, which burned at the fringes. Serves these filthy mutts right. Still, he’d been the last one in the tent, and the Weurgen knew it. It was time to get out.