Stielbek’s talons clasped him only for a second before tossing him into the air. The momentary terror gave rise to a notion that the bird had allowed him to experience the joy of salvation only to let him fall, a cruel amusement born of his avian mind. However, a gust of wind and a brush of feathers saw him land on the black wing’s back. His legs quickly found purchase on the hard, surging muscle beneath the plumage at the nape of Stielbek’s neck. Shamil secured himself in place by clutching fistfuls of feathers for want of a harness. Stielbek angled his huge head to regard him with a gleaming yellow eye, and it was then that Shamil felt the bond for the first time.
He found the sensation to resemble the satisfaction that came from sinking an arrow into the centre of a target, or the turn of a key in a lock, but greatly magnified. It was a feeling of completion, of two matched components fitting together. Suddenly, Shamil understood the nature of the bond between sentinel and bird. It was not a sharing of minds, but a sharing of purpose. Staring into the depths of Stielbek’s eye, Shamil felt himself dwarfed by the intense commitment he saw there, the absolute conviction in the soul behind those eyes. He found himself lost in the utter blackness of the pupil, experiencing a sense of being drawn into depthless shadows where there lurked many ugly things. Bonding with this mighty and ancient soul was like being scraped by a gnarled tree, one that cared little for what such scraping might do to its rider.
Apparently satisfied, Stielbek’s eye flashed white as he blinked before turning his head towards the Maw, sail-sized wings rising and falling in mighty sweeps that took them high into the sky. The black wing levelled out at a height that put them several hundred feet above the Maw, and Shamil’s nostrils suffered a sulphurous sting as they drew ever nearer. The struggle within the vast column of smoke seemed to be continuing with unabated fury, but now he caught glimpses of the combatants.
Birds wheeled and dove, fleeting spectres against the pulsing glow of detonating crystals. Smaller shadows flickered amongst them, dark irregular shapes that swarmed and broke apart amidst blossoms of white light. As Stielbek flew closer, the glare of magical luminescence became so bright Shamil was forced to snick the lever on the side of his helm, slotting the dark glass in place. The view immediately shifted from occluded confusion to chaotic and terrible clarity, the impenetrable smoke rendered a vague greyish mist.
He saw a bird mobbed by winged creatures the size of cats, presumably flensers. The dense mass of them heaved like bees around a hive as they overwhelmed the bird, and Shamil found it impossible to discern the identity of the rider amongst the flurry of leathery wings and gnashing teeth. The greatwing thrashed and twisted, shedding feathers and slain enemies, but it was clear this contest would only end one way.
The uneven struggle continued as Stielbek swept closer. Shamil unslung his bow and reached for an arrow, but before he could take aim, the struggling bird and its assailants disappeared in a blossom of fire as the unseen rider found a way to detonate one of their crystals. The debris slipped away beneath them, Stielbek broadening his wings to glide through a dwindling cloud of feathers. A few flensers, having survived the blast, sought to bar their path, and Shamil heard their hungry, yipping shrieks even above the rushing wind.
Drawing his bow, he let fly at the lead creature, the crystal-head striking it in the chest and blowing it apart along with two of its companions. Only one remained, streaking towards them undaunted, its cries rising to deafening volume as it closed. Seeing its face clearly, Shamil found himself confronted by a ravening mask of teeth, its snapping jaws adding a ululation to its unending scream. But it was the hate in its eyes that snared Shamil’s attention, causing him to freeze in the act of reaching for another arrow. Black orbs shot through with veins of red that coalesced to form a blazing pupil, they glowed with vicious, insatiable hunger beyond even the most starved lion or desert wolf. As it loomed before him, jaws snapping so fast its teeth blurred, Shamil had no doubt this was a creature bred purely for the purpose of wreaking the ugliest death on any human unfortunate enough to encounter it.
Stielbek raised his head in an almost casual gesture, beak opening and closing with a hard snap. The flenser vanished, the only trace of its passing a vaporous spatter on Shamil’s visor. The increased sting to his nostrils and ashen catch in his throat made it clear that they were now in the heart of the smokestack, the air rent by repeated percussive blasts and screams he hoped came only from the throats of the Maw’s creations.
Stielbek turned as Shamil caught sight of another bird below, an owl, the sentinel on its back turning loose arrows at the flensers swarming in pursuit. Shamil put a pair of his own crystal-heads into their midst and was rewarded with the sight of two satisfyingly large explosions before Stielbek folded his wings, sending them into a near vertical dive straight into the heart of the swarm.
For an instant the world became a fury of choked-off screams and the crack of sundered bones and skulls, and Shamil felt an increasing wetness where his skin was exposed to the air. He could only hold on as the black wing twisted and spun, thighs clamped hard to the heaving muscle and one hand gripping feathers with white knuckles as the other strove to keep hold of his bow.
Then they were through, Stielbek assuming a level course that enabled Shamil to wipe the red slick from his visor. Looking around he saw they were alone once again, surrounded only by drifting vapour through which occasional patches of clear sky gleamed harsh through his darkened lenses.
A laugh came unbidden from Shamil’s throat, driven not by joy but an uncomfortable concordance of relief and exhilaration. As Stielbek banked and took them lower, Shamil recalled his first glimpse of a greatwing during the climb to the Eyrie, his hunger to know what it might feel like to traverse the skies with such a beast. The reality, it transpired, was everything he had hoped for, despite the horrors witnessed and the certainty of more to come, and so he laughed, long and loud.
The attack came without warning, a hard stunning impact to the top of his helm that would surely have shattered his skull but for its protection. He reeled, legs slackening and losing purchase on Stielbek’s neck. He would have fallen if the black wing hadn’t abruptly angled his body, jolting Shamil back to awareness. Blinking, he shook away the haze that marred his vision, wincing at the sharp pain in his head and flexing his left hand in angry realisation that he had lost his bow.
A loud, guttural cry from behind caused Shamil to turn, seeing a broad-winged shape labouring in the disturbed air left in Stielbek’s wake. It was two-thirds the size of a blue falcon, but any similarity ended there. This bird was dark grey in colour, its featherless neck long and coiling like a snake, emitting the same throaty call all the while. It had a wickedly sharp beak shaped like a butcher’s hook, but Shamil saw more danger in its talons, far larger in proportion to the bird’s body than could be natural, each one a long black sickle.
“Scyther,” Shamil grunted. The reason for the beast’s repeated calls became clear when three more swept out of the mist to fly alongside it. He began to reach for his whip but was forced to grab a fistful of feathers when Stielbek went into a sudden dive. Shamil glimpsed the sight of another, far larger, bird just ahead. Something flicked the air just above his helm, and the now familiar blast of exploding quartz sounded to the rear.
Recognition dawned as the approaching bird swept overhead, and Shamil noted how the dark glass of his visor rendered Vintress’s feathers a verdant shade of green rather than blue. He saw Lyvia whirl her sling and cast another missile at a scyther as it banked towards her, transforming it into a ball of grey mist in a flash of combusting crystal. Stielbek shortened his wings and pivoted, raising his talons to rend the two surviving Maw beasts apart as they closed. The grisly task complete, he spread his wings into a broad arc, catching an updraft that enabled him to hover.
Vintress circled them in a tight arc, and Shamil noted the blackened and scorched feathers on the falcon’s breast, though he heaved a relieved sigh at seeing her rider uninjured. He stared hard at the blank eyes of Lyvia’s visor, hoping there was a welcoming smile behind it. She stared back for a second, then pointed, her finger stabbing downwards towards the orange-red snake of the lava flow. Black shapes flicked and spiralled across it, sentinels and swarms of Maw beasts engaged in a deadly dance. Through the chaos of battle his gaze caught something more, a flurry of pale white specks at the flow’s edge that put him in mind of a snowstorm, surely something that couldn’t be possible.
Sensing his curiosity, Stielbek drew his wings back to send them into a dive with Vintress following close on their tail. They streaked down through a dozen swirling duels, Shamil blinking his eyes against the repeated flare of discharged sorcery whilst the hellish cacophony of rage and pain penetrated his helm with irksome ease. He could feel the heat of the lava now, building in intensity as they swept lower and beading his skin with sweat. A small, somewhat bedraggled swarm of flensers tried to bar their path, many leaking blood from recent wounds, their wings pierced or torn in places, causing Shamil to wonder how they still manage managed to fly. He sensed Stielbek’s disdain as he continued to dive, not troubling himself to change course and cutting his way through the beasts with a few well-placed snaps of his beak before levelling out some three hundred feet from the surface of the molten river.
The sounds of conflict faded as they glided across the steaming, bubbling surface, and Shamil’s nose and mouth flooded in response to the foul gasses. He could see the far bank of the flow through the shimmering curtain of heated air. Blinking tears to clear his vision, Shamil was shocked to find himself confronted by an army, tall spears rising like a vast forest from dark ranks. The distance was still too great to make out their features, but he knew these must be the dreaded vehlgard, the two-legged fodder of the Voice’s malign horde said to be the obscene result of some unnatural fusion of man and beast. They were arrayed in neat, unmoving columns from the lip of the Maw to the edge of the glowing river, a thick black line thousands strong broken in the centre by the blaze of white Shamil had seen from above.
As Stielbek took him closer, he saw to his amazement that his first thought had been correct; this was a snowstorm. Or rather, he realised as the near overpowering heat gave way to a sudden chill and a lacelike veil began to cover his visor, an ice storm. As frost clustered on his brow, Stielbek let out a brief, throaty cry of protest and beat his wings to take them higher. Shamil leaned forward to stare down into the heart of the raging storm below, seeing great plumes of rising steam as lava met ice and turned instantly to rock. Upon nearing the slope leading to the lip of the Maw, the wall of white suddenly diminished, revealing the eastern bank in full.
Although the air remained thick with mingled steam and smoke, Shamil managed to make out a dozen dark figures below. They stood in a line close to the storm, each one holding aloft a staff, tips blazing with the unmistakable glow unique to crystalmancy. Streams of pale blue energy emerged continually from the twelve staffs, curving in chaotic spirals before merging with the raging chaos of the ice storm.
“Mages,” Shamil realised in a whisper. “The Voice has mages of its own.”
As if hearing his words, all dozen figures instantly turned their eyes skyward. Their faces were indistinct, but he saw that they were all clad in mismatched clothing, long trailing silks contrasting with archaic armour or cloaks of fur. However, their disparity in appearance was dispelled by the uniform glow of the eyes they focused on Shamil, as fiery red and full of hateful hunger as the flenser Stielbek had dispatched only moments before.
It was then that Stielbek gave full vent to his cry. Shamil had heard little of his voice so far and found the volume of it enough to shake his very bones. It bore little relation to the high-pitched screech of a fire wing or falcon, pitched lower even than an owl’s hoots. It was more of a roar, full of rage and a depth of enmity Shamil could feel through the bond along with a deeper understanding; Stielbek knew these mages of old and wanted very badly to kill them.
The mages lowered their staffs as Stielbek’s cry faded, the arcing streams of energy blinking out as they raised their red eyes to regard the black wing. It may have been something conjured by his overburdened mind, but Shamil was sure their eyes all blazed brighter in that moment, though he saw no change in their stance or expression. However, the sense of hatred being returned in full measure was palpable.
One of the mages in particular caught his eye, a tall, bare-chested man of impressive stature. Shamil quickly flipped the lever on his helm, switching to the magnifying lenses to gain a better view, finding himself confronted with an angular, hollow-cheeked face, the man’s well-muscled frame and bald head covered all over in a dense matrix of tattoos. Shamil once again wondered if his sight were playing him true, for the tattoos seemed to be moving, coiling and overlapping like snakes trapped within his skin. As if in response to the scrutiny, the tattooed man blinked his red eyes and angled his head. Shamil caught the unmistakable curve of a smile to his lips before Stielbek abruptly turned away and the view was lost.
Facing to the front, Shamil switched his visor back to the standard lenses in time to see an inverted rain of fire filling the sky directly ahead. Stielbek swept his wings in rapid beats, sending them higher. Shamil ducked as something fast and flaming streaked within a foot of his helm, half-a-dozen more trailing smoke as they whooshed past. Glancing up at the sound of a pealing cry, he saw Vintress rapidly disappearing into the pall above, rider and bird swallowed by the smoke before any fire arrows could claim them.
Hearing a loud hiss of annoyance, Shamil looked down to find an arrow had left a patch of burning embers on Stielbek’s wingtip. He watched with relief as it dwindled to a blackened stain before it could birth a blaze. The origin of this fiery barrage became obvious when Stielbek went into a steep bank. Fire arrows blazed along the leading edges of the vehlgard columns as archers raised their bows and loosed concentrated volleys. Luckily, they were now too high for the arrows to reach them, though Shamil saw one sentinel who wasn’t so lucky.
The fire wing swerved through the air in an effort to dodge the blizzard of fiery shafts, but the smoke trailing from twin blazes in each wing told of a grim and inevitable fate. In addition to the countless arrows seeking to bring it down, it was being pursued by three Maw beasts Shamil hadn’t yet encountered but was quick to identify.
“Man-bats!” he hissed, matching Ashinta’s description to the human-sized creatures with huge black eyes and leathery wings that sprouted from their backs. Two were armed with what appeared to be ten-foot-long tridents, but the one in the lead carried some form of overlarge crossbow.
Shamil watched in growing dismay as the man-bat raised the weapon and triggered the lock. The melon-sized projectile ignited soon after being launched, bursting into a sparking ball of blazing light. It described an elegant arc through the air to impact on the fire wing’s tail, bursting apart with a flurry of shimmering particles that Shamil might have found pretty at another time. His dismay turned to outright horror as the fire wing transformed into an ugly ball of broken wings and trailing feathers, and the identity of its rider became clear.
Morgath Durnholm held on to his bird’s harness for only a few seconds before his muscular form was cast away, bird and rider tumbling towards the army below with the man-bats screaming triumph and diving in pursuit. Shamil’s alarm was enough to send Stielbek into a steep descent, the black wing beating his wings to produce a daunting turn of speed. One man-bat noticed their approach and immediately abandoned its dive to place itself in their path, swinging its long trident around in a slash at Stielbek’s head as they closed. Shamil flicked his wrist, and the raptorile-tail whip uncoiled with blurring speed, the topaz tip entwining the three spikes of the man-bat’s trident before discharging its sorcerous energy. Lightning danced along the spear’s length then up the arms of its wielder, transforming both into a blackened and twisted mess that tumbled away as Shamil jerked the whip free.
Stielbek streaked between the two remaining man-bats, killing one with his beak and the other, his claws. Spreading his wings wide and rearing back, the black wing extended his talons to enfold the tumbling form of Morgath Durnholm. They were barely fifty feet from the ground now, the air a maelstrom of fire arrows that would surely see them ablaze within seconds.
A chorus of bird cries drew Shamil’s gaze upwards in time to see what appeared to be the entire Sentinel host streaking out of the sky. Tihla flew at their head with Lyvia close behind, sling whirling. Crystal-headed arrows fell in a thick hail, the neat ranks of the vehlgard column below blasted apart by a welter of explosions.
Stielbek was forced to swoop low before soaring high, and Shamil found himself staring down into the face of a vehlgard barely a spear’s length beneath. Having expected to be confronted with some form of bestial, snarling mask, he was surprised to see a face that was recognisably human in both expression and form. The features were certainly broader than could be called natural, with a blocklike jaw and wide lips, the pale, hairless skin scarred in many places and rich in tattoos of garish design. But still he saw humanity in the way he glared at Shamil, lips drawn back from wedge-like teeth in a snarl of anger. This was not the unreasoning, animalistic hunger of the Maw beasts. These were the eyes of a thinking being like the raptorile he had murdered. But unlike the raptorile, the soul behind these eyes badly wanted him dead.
The vehlgard lunged at him just as Stielbek beat his wings to begin his ascent, and Shamil heard a shout of frustrated rage as the long spear flailed at the black wing’s tail feathers. A deep, growling voice chased them with curses in a grating language alien to Shamil’s ear, fading quickly.
The sentinels closed in around Stielbek as he climbed into the upper reaches of the still roiling smokestack, soaring clear of arrow range but soon finding themselves attacked by a fresh swarm of flensers. Tihla was quick to hurl her fire wing into the heart of the swarm, the crystals set into her claw spear shining bright as she whirled it. Sparks erupted whenever it met the flesh of a Maw beast, sending a dozen blackened corpses towards the ground. Shamil lashed his whip constantly as Stielbek took them through the fray, the swarm soon blasted apart as the sentinels exhausted their remaining crystals, and they finally flew clear of the smoke.
Tihla’s bird laboured to the front of the formation, the Second Wing waving her spear in a slow circle before pointing it at the Eyrie. They were being ordered home. Surveying the surviving host, Shamil saw the reason in stark clarity. Less than half were left, and many of those were either injured or close to exhaustion. Riders sagged on the backs of their birds, several clutching wounds. Many of the greatwings were also in poor shape, leaving a trail of dark specks in their wake as they shed feathers, some bearing blackened patches on their plumage, others leaking crimson droplets as they struggled towards the Eyrie on tired wings. The Sentinels had suffered a defeat this day, and the unmoving form of the man lying limp in Stielbek’s claws made it clear they might be about to suffer their most grievous loss yet.