Chapter 15 The Flightless #2
As he was helping Buzzard dunk his head into the shallow creek, Brune reappeared, holding two dead rabbits.
He began preparing them to roast over the fire as Buzzard rinsed out his shirt.
It was nasty, but there was no other spare clothing.
They laid it out to dry by the fire and gave Buzzard Brune’s borrowed cloak to wrap up in.
Darkness had fallen by then. Brune seemed focused on cooking the meat, so Ridan turned to Buzzard.
“You know Schok?”
Buzzard nodded. “I did.” His golden eyes were brighter by the light of the fire. “I’m guessing he didn’t give you that feather, did he?”
“Not exactly.” Ridan wasn’t sure how much he wanted to give away. Buzzard seemed like a victim, but how could he trust a creature of magic? One that wasn’t even supposed to exist. One who was found at the end of a magical feather pulled off a thrall sent to kill them?
Buzzard didn’t push, but Ridan knew he wanted to. It honestly looked like all his energy was spent just keeping himself upright.
“He was sent to kill us with his flame magic,” Ridan said.
Shaking his head so hard droplets of water flew off his feathered curls, Buzzard curled his talons around the cloak. “Schok wouldn’t—”
“He’s a thrall.”
Buzzard froze. Jaw working, Buzzard finally looked away into the night. He was silent for a long moment.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” he finally muttered. “They finally…I thought maybe he would be protected, but I should have known.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a story,” Brune commented, his eyes on the meat as fat snapped over the heat.
Buzzard didn’t look back at them. “My first memory is of bars—over windows, in cages. I don’t know where I was hatched, or who my nest is. I have no idea how I ended up here.”
His wings fluttered, a little stilted movement that made him wince.
He pulled one into his lap, stroking his fingers through the ragged feathers.
“From a merchant sailor, I was sold to a man named Cyrill. He’s a powerful magic user.
He wanted a harpy for his collection. Not only to have but to use. ”
“To use?” Brune asked, his eyebrows drawn.
“For magic,” Buzzard clarified. “Despite how it seems, humans cannot create magic. They can only use magic that already exists in the land. Only the magically borne can create new magic.”
“He used you to make new magic?”
“In a way. From what I gather, harpies are not the most potent of the magically borne.” He plucked a feather, running a finger over the mangled shaft. “At first, he kept my wings clipped to keep me from flying away. But then my wings grew too large. I couldn’t fit in the cages anymore.”
A dawning sense of horror dawned as he processed Buzzard’ss words. He didn’t know if harpies aged the same way as humans, but Buzzard was clearly an adult. Which means his entire life he’d been captive.
And his wings. He could see it now. Someone had clearly broken them. Forced them into an unnatural shape and let them heal improperly. The pain must have been excruciating. Even now, if his winces were any indication.
“He broke your wings,” Brune breathed, his eyes wide.
“Cyrill had no use for a harpy that could fly.” Buzzard’s words were so bitter Ridan could nearly taste them on his tongue.
Taking away Buzzard’s wings was like robbing a horse of their ability to run. A dog’s ability to bark. A cat to pounce. It was so cruel; it was inconceivable.
“Shortly after that is when I met Schok,” Buzzard continued, still plucking at his feathers. Almost like a nervous habit. “Cyrill had become entangled with Krait Tylock. They shared a similar goal, and between the two of them, their greed grew too big for just me. They needed more.”
Ridan put the pieces together. “Schok.”
Buzzard’s lips tightened. “Yes. The Tylock line is ancient. It runs strong and untainted. And of the Tylock children, Schok was the strongest.”
Corric said that Schok had disappeared. Stolen away when he snuck out one night. “Cyrill stole him.”
“Cyrill was given him,” Buzzard snapped, his eyes finally turning back to Ridan.
They blazed with emotion. “Krait Tylock gave Cyrill his eldest son. Put him in a cage and tortured him.” His voice cracked.
“They pushed him. Harder and harder. Even when his flames grew too hot and started burning him. When his lungs seared, and he couldn’t breathe.
When he could no longer control any of the other elements.
When he begged them to—” he stopped, trying to collect himself.
“Schok saved me,” Buzzard finally said, his voice strained.
“He pretended to fall forward, knocking the latch on my cage open. Told me to leave. Told me to—” he shook his head, deciding their last words would be kept between them.
“I left him a feather so that he could always find me again. Guess he did, in a way.”
No one knew what to say. So engrossed in what Buzzard was saying, Brune had forgotten the meat.
“I made my escape. But a flightless harpy isn’t exactly…I didn’t know where to go. Or how to survive somewhere without bars. I thought if I followed the magic, I could maybe find home. Instead, I found a couple of Gollums who kept me around to draw in magic.”
The food over the fire burnt before anyone moved again.
Brune finally shook himself and collected the meat, handing a whole skewer to Buzzard.
The harpy stared down at it, his talons pinched delicately around the stick as he let the food cool.
Brune took the other, peeling off hunks of meat and blowing on it before handing it to Ridan.
It was fine. The meat was a little overcooked, and they had no spices for flavor, but Ridan didn’t think it would matter even if they did. After what Buzzard just told them, he wouldn’t have been able to enjoy even a platter of Momma Sehleh’s cooking.
Buzzard dove into the food, eating far too quickly. Ridan had to chastise him, tell him to slow down. His stomach wouldn’t accept it. That often happened when hunters came back from a long hunt. They were so used to small rations and infrequent meals that they would get sick from overeating.
“I don’t understand,” Brune finally said as he chewed the meat, licking fat off his lips. “What could be so important that Krait would sacrifice his own son?”
“What do all men want?” Buzzard asked with a scoff. “Power. The magic in Kaldonea is gone. They’re existing on remnants and soon that will run dry. When the people find out, they will overthrow Krait. He will lose everything.”
“Right.” Brune handed a piece of cooled meat to Ridan. “That’s why he tried to steal Stone Blade lands.”
Buzzard’s eye ridge rose as he watched the two of them. “You think a man like Krait wants farmland?” it sounded like a rhetorical question. “He’s after the one thing that could give him his power back.”
They’d assumed Krait attacked them for land, to feed his starving people. But if that wasn’t the case, then why the Stone Blade? Why not any of the other clans?
Because the Stone Blade had something the other clans didn’t.
“Sinestrus,” Ridan breathed.
Buzzard looked over their heads towards Artrax’s mountain. “He used my magic, and Schok’s ability to manipulate it, to contact Sinestrus.”
“No,” Ridan denied, shaking his head. “Sinestrus is dead. He’s been trapped in the mountain for millennia.”
“He may be trapped, but he is far from dead. He may not be able to free himself, but he knows how. And he told Krait.”
Ridan reeled. How could this be possible?
Krait didn’t attack to steal their lands or to get Corric back, he sent the attack to test them.
To see how strong they were. Which means his suspicions were confirmed.
Another attack wasn’t a question of if, but when.
And this time he would go after something so precious failure was not, could not, be an option.
His gut twinged, and he felt sweat beading on the back of his neck. Crossing his arms, he held himself as he tried to keep his sense.
Sinestrus had been safely contained since Artrax locked him there. No chief had ever had to defend the mountain before. The idea that Sinestrus could be freed was inconceivable. He had never been prepared for this.
Ridan’s breath quickened. Panic began bubbling in his stomach. How could he possibly stand against the might of a man who would torture his own son?
A warm hand slid over his back, rubbing softly. Brune was looking at him, the flames lighting up, eyes filled with surety. With confidence. Like Brune knew exactly what he was thinking, but instead of questions, he had faith. In Ridan. In his clan.
In them.
Buzzard had nothing else to say, the day wearing him out. He curled up in the fur cloak, rolling away from the fire and falling asleep as he stared up at the sky. Though the night was temperate, Brune and Ridan shared his cloak.
Despite a third person, the journey home seemed to go by faster.
Buzzard was so light it wasn’t a hardship for the horses to carry him in addition.
They kept the pace slow, despite Ridan’s desire to get back and begin planning.
The weather seemed warmer too, and Ridan often found himself red faced and sweating.
Occasionally, his stomach twinged, but he ignored it. Traveling could be difficult, and days of hard tack, jerky, and questionable meat could do that. He ignored Brune’s worried looks, even when the alpha insisted on riding so close their legs brushed.
When asked, Buzzard agreed to go back with them to the clan.
He didn’t have anywhere else to go, and even if he did, he wanted to go to Schok.
Though he had no real knowledge of thralls, he wanted to be with him.
See him again. Give him any sort of comfort he could.
Ridan emphasized that though he would have to stay hidden, Buzzard was not a prisoner and could leave at any time.