Chapter 42 Zephyros
Zephyros
Zephyros circles low, wings beating storms into the cracked earth.
Below, his little one slashes and claws at the taloned fiends that swarm her.
Her rage burns bright, but the creatures are too strong, too fast. His talons itch to rip them apart, his jaws crave their bones, but one strike from him would crush her as surely as them.
Cursed bulk. Always the wrong size to save what matters most.
Fragor dives like a thunderbolt nearby, and Stormsong drops, bellowing her name. Zephyros aches with relief. The human never falters where she is concerned. For that, Zephyros is starting to truly respect him.
But the carrion-witches do not flee. They drag her like a kill toward the boulder. Zephyros unleashes a roar that shakes the ground, but the harpies do not relent. Cowards they may be, yet their desperation makes them bold.
He holds to their bond, feels her panic. Her breath hitches, her pain spikes. Then the ground itself swallows her scream.
Gone.
Again.
The bond flickers, jagged with terror, then she plummets out of reach as though the earth itself has hooked greedy claws into her soul.
The roar tears out of his chest, rattling the air like mountains cracking. His bond coils sharp inside him, her fall dragging him down with her. The light vanishes as the boulder slams into place. Rhealyn slips beyond his reach, sealed in a black tomb.
He follows her through their connection, senses the drop…
her body tumbling, striking rock, then the brutal stop far below.
Pain stabs his chest as though he takes the impact himself.
Old rage tears at him, muttering that he should have been faster, should have spotted them before they grabbed her. He should have—
—Zephyros? Her voice, desperate. Can you hear me?
—I am here. I sensed your fall. I will tear this earth apart stone by stone if I have to. There is no way I am losing you again.
—I’m good right now.
Yet, deep fear flares through her. Not of the tight space, but of something else that moves in the dark with her. He feels it brushing her mind like cold scales.
A Screechclaw!
Zephyros circles once closer to the ground as Stormsong finishes the last harpy with brutal efficiency, skewering the hag with a Wind Spear.
Wasting no time, he charges toward the boulder like a mindless beast, as though his puny strength could shift such weight.
Yet Zephyros understands his desperation.
The human’s strength proves as useful as a gnat against a dragon. Zephyros sweeps lower, watching as Stormsong steps back, summoning his wind magic. The human’s power swirls and gathers, then blasts against the stone only to scatter uselessly around it, barely shifting it.
Beneath the earth, Rhealyn’s terror pulses through their bond like a wound. Whatever lurks with her in that darkness moves closer. There’s no time for this.
Zephyros tucks his wings and dives. The wind howls around his scales as he plummets toward the ground where Stormsong stands. The human throws himself flat against the dirt when he sees Zephyros.
As if snatching prey, he extends one massive talon, obsidian claws digging into stone. One flex and it lifts free, revealing the jagged hole beneath. He tosses it aside, and it crashes into the barren earth, splitting on impact.
Zephyros banks sharply, wings cutting through wind that feels thick as water. Too slow. Too cumbersome. He curses his bulk again, his inability to do delicate work. What use is all his power when she needs small, nimble limbs to help her?
Below, Stormsong launches himself into the darkness feet-first, without even a cursory glance for what might await. Zephyros begs the idiot doesn’t snap both legs on landing. Or impale himself on whatever stalactites lurk below.
—Rhealyn! Stormsong is coming.
Zephyros circles back, feeling her flicker of surprise and relief through their bond.
A growl rumbles deep in his chest as Zephyros scans the barren landscape.
The other Skyriders fight the remaining Screechclaws as he lands near the hole, determined to dig to the bowels of the earth if he must, but only watching for now, making sure no more harpies come.
They always do, like flies to decaying flesh.
Centuries of war, and the pattern never changes.
Only now they hunt his rider specifically.
Something clicks in the darkness below.
Zephyros narrows his eyes and focuses on the bond, Rhealyn’s senses serving as his own.
VAYLEN
I land in a crouch, squinting through swirling dust and oppressive darkness, a single shaft of light coming from above. My eyes strain to adjust, searching for any sign of movement among the shadows. The air tastes of earth and something else, something foul.
“Vaylen!” Rhealyn’s voice echoes from somewhere ahead. “Be careful. We’re not alone down here.”
I reach for my wind power, drawing a thin current of air around me to disperse the dust. There’s a clicking sound, the unmistakable sound of claws against stone. My body tenses, memories of a hundred battles rising to the surface.
“Rhealyn?” I hiss her name into the darkness, keeping my voice low. I pull a dagger from the sheath in my boot.
Something brushes against my arm and I nearly strike before warm fingers wrap around my wrist. Rhealyn’s touch.
“Are you all right?” I ask, relief washing through me as I find her outline in the gloom. My free hand instinctively moves to her face, fingers tracing her cheek, confirming she’s real, she’s here.
“Yes,” she whispers, her breath warm against my palm. “But something’s in here with us.”
The clicking stops abruptly. I pull Rhealyn closer, positioning my body between her and the unknown threat. The bond between Fragor and me pulses with warning. Danger surrounds us, though I’ve never known Screechclaws to not kill when they have the chance. They threw Rhealyn in here for a reason.
A faint phosphorescence blossoms in the darkness ahead, weak at first, then strengthening with each passing breath.
I angle my body to shield Rhealyn, dagger gripped in my right hand while my left summons a swirling vortex of wind.
The currents gather strength, wrapping around my fingers like liquid mercury, ready to strike or defend at my command.
As my vision adjusts to the eerie light, a figure takes shape.
The creature exudes pure, malevolent energy.
Her feathers are the color of midnight, streaked with blood red.
Her eyes, burning coals in the gloom, fix on us with chilling purpose.
Terrible, leather-skinned wings unfurl from her spine, slicing the air in time with my own exhale of shock.
Her claws, long as two handspans, gleam with a cruel shimmer. She’s no mere harpy.
It’s the Matron. Death incarnate.
Rhealyn gasps behind me, her fingers digging into my shoulder. My throat tightens at the sight of our most feared enemy, but I keep my stance firm, unwavering.
“You will not touch her,” I declare, voice steady despite the cold dread snaking through my veins. “Not while I draw breath.”
The Matron tilts her head, a parody of curiosity.
I blink, struggling to comprehend what my eyes are witnessing. The Matron holds her clawed hand outstretched, a dancing flame cradled in her palm, its orange light casting grotesque shadows across her face.
“Impossible,” I breathe.
No reports, no accounts in our centuries of warfare have ever mentioned Screechclaws wielding elemental powers. Fire belongs to the Skyblazes—not to these winged nightmares. Yet here she stands, controlling flame with casual ease.
My mind races through implications, each more troubling than the last. First their change in tactics, then their presence in Fort Ashmire and their targeted abduction attempt, and now this? Something fundamental has changed in our ancient conflict, and it scares me to the bone.
I strengthen my wind, forming a barrier and drawing Rhealyn closer behind me. The flame in the Matron’s hand pulses in rhythm with her breathing, growing brighter, then dimming… a living thing responding to her will.
“Be ready,” I whisper to Rhealyn. “Whatever happens, stay behind me.”
Then to my utter bewilderment, the Matron speaks, her voice scraping against my ears like shattered glass, rising and falling in harsh, guttural tones, an animalistic language that should be meaningless to human ears.
Yet as I glance sideways, I see Rhealyn’s face illuminated in the dancing firelight—her eyes wide, her jaw slack with recognition.
“What the fuck is she saying?” I whisper, tightening my grip on the wind barrier between us and the creature.
Rhealyn takes a step forward, her gaze locked with the Matron’s burning eyes. My arm shoots out instinctively to block her path, but she pushes against it.
“You understand her?” I ask, unable to mask my shock.
How in the name of the skies can Rhealyn comprehend any of that? No rider, no scholar in our history has deciphered their most basic utterances. Their sounds have remained as impenetrable as their Blighted Arcs for all our centuries of warfare.
Unless...
A cold dread seizes my heart as pieces click into place. Rhealyn’s missing time… did she learn while she was gone?
“Rhealyn,” I murmur, keeping my voice steady despite my racing thoughts. “What does she want?”