In the
Overlord’s all-seeing eyes, such men are like unto murderers and idolaters,
less to Him than
a mote.
– The Tanlin, 241.14
Snow-clad and
ice-bound, the two peaks opposite rose in ragged splendour to pierce the egg-blue
sky of dawn. Wisps of cloud gusted and swathed about the rock formations,
occasionally obscuring the chasm far below. Scattered on narrow ledges and
precipitous ridges, thousands of drab-clothed men stood or crouched, waiting.
Wrapped
in an inadequate fawn-fur cloak which freezing gusts of air threatened to whip
from him, General Foo-sep braced himself and, his clean-shaven chin set with
annoyance, looked down upon his suffering men. His gums ached dully with the
insidious cold, yellow teeth chattering. In vain he rubbed fur-gloved hands
together.
An
entire toumen! Ten thousand men! And they were to take orders from an accursed
civilian! He seethed, casting an embittered glare to his right, at a black-clad
man of slight frame, parchment-coloured skin and ebony pebbles for eyes.
The
wind slapped at the man’s fur cloak and whistled over the bare out-jutting
rocks nearby.
Wind-howl
was deafening on the outcrop up here, yet only a step back into the shelter of
the overhang no sound penetrated; and from here the entire range of the
Sonalume Mountains seemed enveloped in this same eerie stillness.
“They
will be along soon,” said the civilian, visibly tensing as he leaned over the
sloping ledge. His bear-hide boots crackled as he moved, shifting ice from the
soles.
Below
– a dizzying drop that had claimed too many men already – the bottom indistinct
in a slithering purple haze.
Foo-sep
discerned the tiny motes of black in the sky and, as the shapes approached, he
was struck by their immense size. Framed by the two grey-blue peaks, the birds
were coming; he had to admit, grudgingly, as predicted.
“Now!”
howled the civilian.
Hoarfrost
encrusted brows scowling, Foo-sep lifted his arm and signalled to his men on
both sides of the wide, gaping chasm.
Soundlessly,
with military precision, the prepare signal was passed through the dispersed
ranks.
Foo-sep
raised his eyeglass, careful lest he touched his skin with its icy rim.
Stern-faced
with the cold and, at last, a sense of purpose, his loyal soldiers were now unfurling
nets and arranging stones for quick reloading of their sling-shots.
Foo-sep
slowly scanned across the striated rock face.
Abruptly,
the birds leapt into focus, their presence taking away his breath in cold
wisps. Such an enormous wingspan! And red, O so red! He hesitated at the
thought of the task ahead.
His
momentary indecision must have been communicated to the other, or perhaps the
civilian possessed even more arcane powers than those with which he was
credited; “The King desires it,” was all he said.
Foo-sep
nodded and moved the eyeglass across to the other rock face where the remaining
soldiers were trying in vain to keep warm, quivers ready, bowstrings taut and
poised.
Now
the birds were entering between the peaks.
Foo-sep
waved to a signaller who blew three great blasts on his horn. The sound echoed
among the peaks.
In
a constant flurry, ice-coated nets looped out, a few attached to arrows,
entwining many of the creatures’ wings. Some birds swooped beneath the heavy
mesh then swerved, talons raking the men responsible. Others used their wings
to sweep soldiers from the ledges as though dusting furniture. Stones hit a few
on their bright red crests and they plummeted, stunned, to be caught by
outstretched nets beneath; nets that were slowly filling up, straining at their
supports.
Watching
through his eyeglass, Foo-sep was amazed at the weird silence of the birds:
only their frenetically beating wings generated any sound; all other noise
originated from his yelling and shrieking soldiers as they flung nets and
stones or were dragged from precarious positions. He scowled as a group of
fools forgot to keep clear of their own nets; entangled, they were wrenched to
giddy, plunging deaths.
Pacing
from side to side, Foo-sep watched helplessly as his beloved toumen was
decimated. And for what? A few hundred birds!
His
attention was diverted to an uncannily large specimen ensnared in nets, its
feathers flying as it clawed at two soldiers on a ledge while they loosed
sling-stones at the creature.
Yet
the missiles had no effect, and the massive curved beak snapped through the
brittle mesh as though it was flimsy plains-grass.
As
the bird looped, Foo-sep noticed a distinctive marking none of the others
seemed to possess – a white patch on its throat.
The
civilian must have observed it also, because at that instant he gripped
Foo-sep’s arm, lips visibly trembling, black pebble-eyes shining. Then, in
desperation, the idiot shouted an order that made no sense at all: “Let that
one go!”
Numb
with cold, bitterly aware of how many good men had suffered already at the
talons of that gigantic bird, Foo-sep steeled himself against his better
instinct and cupped gloved hands round his mouth.
“Let
that one go!” he called.
And
the words echoed, mocking: “Let that one
go!”
[From Floreskand: Wings, pp3-5]
***
The midday sky
was brimful with red tellars. The entire populace of Lornwater seemed to be out
– on the street, rooftops, city walls or at windows – looking at these mystical
creatures.
Even
Ulran’s height was dwarfed by the bird’s wingspan. With bristling carmine red
feathers, yellow irises and darting black slit-pupils, the red tellar appeared
a formidable bird, predatory in mien, an aspect completed with lethal talons
and huge curved beak. And yet not one living soul, Ulran included, had once
reported seeing a red tellar eat. To compound the enigma surrounding them, they
were rarely observed landing anywhere.
And apart from the muted whisper of their wings, they created no sound at all –
unlike the local avians that infested most eaves, lofts and trees in the city.
Ulran
burst out onto the inn’s flat roof as a shadow darkened the area.
A
solitary red tellar broke formation and dived down from the main body. Ulran
instinctively glanced back at Aeleg and Ranell; but Scalrin’s sharp eyes had
spotted them and he veered over to the opposite side of the roof.
A
slight crack of mighty wings, then the bird was down, talons gripping the low
wall by a shrine to Opasor, lesslord of birds.
Ulran
motioned for the others to stay where they were.
Aeleg
and Ranell stared, as if thunderstruck that a red tellar should land on their
roof.
Recognition
flickered in Scalrin’s eyes as Ulran knelt before the bird’s great feathered
chest. Without hesitation the innman reached out, gently stroked the upper
ridge of the bird’s beak and smoothed the silken soft crest.
In
answer, Scalrin’s ear feathers ruffled and he settled, pulling his greater wing
coverts well into his body.
The
innman exhaled through his nose, then relaxed, steadying his breathing till it
was shallow. Ulran closed his eyes and slowly outstretched his hand again, palm
flat upon Scalrin’s breast. A rapid heartbeat pulsed under his palpating hand
and transmitted sympathetic vibrations through his own frame.
Their
rapport created a bridge and across this span came primitive communication,
sense-impressions. Ulran gathered that something was seriously amiss in Arion.
Something
terrible, something concerning Scalrin.
Ulran
opened his eyes, surprised to discover moisture brimmed his lids for the first
time since his wife Ellorn’s death.
Then
Scalrin was gone, powerful primaries lifting him up to the vast multitude of
his brethren. As far as the horizon they still flocked.
But
what did it portend?
***
“Trouble in
Arion?” the stranger enquired as Ulran stepped from the stairs into the
passage.
Ulran
did not show the surprise he felt at this disclosure.
The
wiry stranger was evidently chagrined at the innman’s negative response but,
poise quickly regained, explained, soft spoken, “I walk with Osasor.” An
offered hand.
Ulran’s
enfolded it completely: a gentle, yielding handshake. Not the usual type who
would follow the white lord of fire, the innman thought.
“Cobrora
Fhord,” the stranger made the introduction, dressed sombrely in a grey cloak,
charcoal tunic and trousers, colourless face angular and thin. “I can enlighten
you a little on the behaviour of the red tellars. And I would like to join you
on your journey to Arion.”
Ranell
appraised the stranger with quickened interest; Aeleg stared at Cobrora
shrewdly.
Ulran,
unblinking, said, “But I haven’t mentioned that I’d go – though I was
considering it.”
Cobrora
nervously stroked long lank black hair. Ulran noticed the glint of some kind of
amulet beneath Cobrora’s grey cloak. Big brown eyes suddenly evasive, Cobrora
Fhord murmured, “My – er, properties might prove useful – should you decide to
go.”
In
preference, Ulran always travelled alone, in this way being responsible for
himself and nobody else. But, this Cobrora presented a conundrum. The roumers
regularly and swiftly carried messages along their established routes complete
with staging posts, unmolested by villains and Devastator hordes, but even they
could not have carried news of Arion’s dire affairs in such a short time. And,
as conclusive proof of this psychic’s ability, Cobrora knew of Ulran’s
intentions to travel to Arion. It was just possible that the strange powers of
Cobrora’s spirit-lord could be of some use on the long trek.
“All
right,” said Ulran decisively. “But first we must arrange equipment.” And,
looking at Cobrora’s thin city clothes, he added, “We must dress you properly
for the long journey ahead. It may be summer – but the nights are harsh and the
mountains will prove inhospitable.”
[From Floreskand: Wings, pp34-36]
Thus
begins the quest to solve the riddle of the red tellars. Ulran discovers he
must get to Arisa within seventy days and unlock the secret of the scheduled
rites. He is joined in his quest by the ascetic Cobrora Fhord,
who harbours a secret or two, and also the mighty warrior Courdour Alomar, who
has his own reasons for going to Arisa. They learn more about each other –
whether it’s the strange link Ulran has with the red tellar Scalrin, the lost
love of Alomar, or the superstitious heart of Cobrora.
Plagued
by assassins, forces of nature and magic, they cross the plains of Floreskand,
combat Baronculer hordes, scale snow-clad Sonalume Mountains and penetrate the
dark heart of Arisa. Here they uncover truth, evil and find pain and death.
Floreskand: Wings
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330 pages (complete with maps, indexes and a glossary)
