Hunger gnawed in Skaar’s belly.
His feathers itched; bones ached.
He crouched atop the shattered planks of Archer’s wagon, a chipped and ragged rock in his talons, poised to strike the manacle around his wrist. Break this time.
He swung the rock, smashing it into the metal. The rock shattered, crumbling in his hand, its grains bouncing down the mound of mud and splintered wood to the gully floor.
“Aether damn you,” Skaar exploded, grabbing the chain and rattling it.
The runes carved into the metal flared, strange letters flashing fluorescent green—and pulsed.
Skaar froze. Pressure slithered up his arm and he gritted his teeth. Cold seeped through feathers into skin, threatening to stab deeper, right down to bone. He stood, quivering, sucking in one slow breath, then another. The glow faded. Close call.
His stomach growled again.
Reythr curse this place.
He kicked a half-buried axle and when the wood didn’t give, he swore as pain bloomed in his toes. The chain rattled under him, iron manacle chafing his wrist as he hopped about, wings flared, tail whipping the underbrush, hissing curses under his breath.
No matter how he looked at it, the manacle was an ordinary piece of metal. He crouched over it again, wedging a talon into the lock, twisted, failed, and then tried to dislodge the pins for the hundredth time that morning. The problem wasn’t the metal. Metal he could handle—except for silver. It was the galdar runes spelled on top of it. The glow in those cursed letters, scratched and scored into the iron, refused to die. Magic was annoyingly potent in the hands of humans—when they could use it.
As far as landslides went, this hadn’t been a big one. But it had been big enough. The mound stretched from top to bottom of the narrow ravine. Archer’s wagon lay overturned in the rubble, metal cage twisted, shattered wheels bared to the world like wooden ribs. Above, the cliffs loomed, threatening to dump another load of rubble on top of him.
That he’d survived the first slide at all was a miracle. Locked inside the wretched wagon, he’d bounced within its tumbling mass all the way to the bottom, the final impact turning his mind black. He was sure it had taken him at least a day just to summon the will to open his eyes again, skull throbbing as if someone had
carved it open with a rusted knife. When he’d probed the raw lump on the back of his head, the world had swum, and he’d doubled over and retched into the dirt.
Now here I am. Skaar shot the chain a savage look as it lay coiled in the mud. Trapped and exposed in the middle of human territory. A hare out in the open.
A breeze wafted the scent of musty earth over him, along with something else, a thick sour stench he knew too well. Death. Something—someone Skaar hoped—was rotting somewhere in the mound. Probably the horse. With any luck, Archer too. And good riddance. If Skaar never saw that accursed mancer again, he’d die a happy rarkyn.
Which might not be far off if he couldn’t get free. It was only a matter of time before the runes became too weak to bind him. Human galdar was like that. Their magic was strong but short-lived. If his captor was truly gone in the landslide, the runes’ power would soon fade. But who knew how long that would take? A fine thing it would be to die of starvation or at the hands of some yokel one day, only for the sigiled manacle to break the next.
He reached for the talisman about his neck and held it up to the light. Aloft in the air, the jagged rock of quartz spun in a slow circle. The lifeless rune carved into it—a memento from happier times—sent dapples of light over the forest floor and reflected a mud-crusted face back at him.
Reythr, you look like something a ginndir chewed on and spat out.
Dirt clung to his wasted limbs like a crusted scab, getting under every feather, into every orifice. Skaar scratched the mud-clogged crest atop his head. Grit rained from the long plumage and stuck in the ridge of feathers along his nose and brow. He sneezed, teeth nearly taking off his tongue, and grimaced as a fresh throbbing started in his head, just under his horns. Wretched luck.
He ran a talon over the rune in the crystal talisman: an old habit unbroken. Unlike the manacle, this piece of galdar working had been made for his tampering, but he’d drained the rune’s magic long ago.
He gave it a shake. “Useless thing.”
The crystal gleamed back at him. Dead. A mirror was about all it was good for. He let it drop with a sigh.
Forcing his eyes closed, Skaar leaned on the mound, willing himself to rest. Rest, recuperate, then challenge the manacle again.
A cloud fell across the sun.
Eyes shut, all Skaar knew was the warmth seeping into his bones left. He scowled, impatient as he waited for the warmth to return. It didn’t. A faint, rustling footstep triggered a warning in his head. He vaulted to his feet. Too late.
Not a cloud. Not a cloud at all.
A dart bit into his neck. His jaw dropped; a brief cry of surprise escaped him. His legs buckled.
Humans, was all he had time to think before the world teetered and turned black.
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