Caprion's Wings (7 page)

He left the corridor and slipped along
the rear wall, careful to avoid the light of the sunstones. He
remained hidden by looming shadows that thickened toward the
entrance to the dungeons.

Sumas began striding back and forth
again, looking down the ranks of soldiers. Caprion ducked behind
the first large stone pillar to stay out of sight. His brother's
voice carried on. “Soon, you will know the ancient spells and
combat methods of our kind. I will drill you until I decide you are
fit for the field. For some of you—most of you—it will take years.”
His voice turned smug. “Some of you will not pass this
training―perhaps due to foolishness and miscalculation, but most
likely because you do not have the ability to channel this level of
magic. It takes a great amount of strength to defeat these demons,
and you must have complete knowledge of the Light. However, you all
have wings, so you have the chance of rising through our ranks to a
lieutenant, or perhaps some day, to a Captain. Take heart and train
hard.”

Caprion gritted his teeth,
aggravated by Sumas’ last words. In his deep baritone of a voice,
his brother almost made their purpose seem real, not some forgotten
legacy crashed into the ocean, split into shards of rock.
What a waste of breath,
Caprion thought.
Nothing more than a
pompous performance.
All Harpies born on
the Lost Isles knew of their lost heritage, remnants of history and
lore, and of course, their long and deep hatred of the Sixth Race.
But the War of the Races was long over. What good could the Harpies
do for the world, isolated on this small rock of an island? He
doubted the Sixth Race would ever arrive on their doorstep. There
would never be another war against the Dark God’s
children.

Caprion glanced around the pillar and
saw the soldiers still distracted. He dashed forward again between
the sunstones, avoiding their light. He reached the front of the
room where shadows enveloped him, then paused behind the final
stone pillar near the iron gate to the dungeons. From this
position, he could see the nearest slave’s emaciated, skull-like
face only a few yards away. As Caprion hesitated, the slave’s face
shifted toward him, blind white eyes shifting restlessly. Caprion
stared, unable to look away.

Then the slave's face turned back to
the ground. Warden Dahlia began to speak in a sharp, staccato
voice, explaining the basic function of the dungeons and which
areas were off limits to new recruits.

Caprion didn't wait for the lesson,
but instead sprinted across the narrow space between the pillar at
the open iron gate. He leapt down a short set of stairs and passed
through the gateway, landing among the shadows on hard
ground.

The new tunnel unfurled before him
like a black, gaping mouth. A typical soldier could use his wings
to see by, but Caprion did not have that ability. The darkness
remained solid and complete, as thick as a blindfold. His heart
quickened at the sight, but he forced himself to walk
forward.

He started slowly, his
hands feeling along the walls for direction. He continued like this
for several minutes, following the curve of the corridor. The
voices from the practice chamber faded behind him until he felt
completely isolated. Occasionally, his fingers brushed against
wood—doors to somewhere—and then more stone. His task seemed more
absurd the farther he walked, his thoughts as doubtful as his
direction. Somehow, he had thought the dark voice from his dreams
might reveal itself now that he had entered the dungeons. He
reexamined his purpose, his reasoning, and it all seemed terribly
thin.
I’m chasing stars,
he thought self-deprecatingly.
This is a child’s game of hide and seek. What do
I hope to find? There are no answers here.

But he continued onward.
It would be a shame to turn back so easily after coming this far.
Nothing waited for him back on the surface and he had no other
plan—
so I must go on
. Eventually, he felt moisture beneath his fingers, seeping
through the chiseled stone walls. He could smell salt in the air,
and for a brief moment, he almost heard the vague, rhythmic crash
of the ocean. Perhaps a second exit lay ahead, or a ventilation
shaft, or an innocent split in the cave wall. He took a few breaths
and followed the fresh air currents, forced to rely on his other
senses.

As he continued down the
corridor, he tried not to question his sanity.
A fool’s errand,
he thought. Why
come to such a dank, miserable place? Here he was, down in the
earth...but where in these tunnels could he possibly find that
insidious voice? Perhaps his visions were nothing more than
terrible, taunting nightmares after all.

Then, suddenly, a sound reached
him―the perfectly-pitched ring of Harpy voices. Caprion came to a
rigid stop, folding himself against the wall, breathing
shallowly.

Two voices rang musically down the
tunnel. “Is Warden Dahlia intimidating the fledglings again?” one
asked, a male.

"She never misses her chance," the
second one answered, a higher-pitched female. They both
laughed.

"I hate guard duty," the first one
sighed. "It gets cold down here. And creepy. These creatures get
more lively in the darkness. If they were to escape…."

"Impossible, Rathiem. Don't even
consider such nonsense."

"But suppose it were to happen,"
Rathiem continued without hesitation. “Imagine if they were to all
escape at once. What would you do, Kyta?”

“Kill them,” the female said simply.
“I bet those fledglings would drop pants and run
crying.”

“There are so many slaves
though….”

“Most of them are half-dead anyway,”
Kyta said flippantly. “Florentine and Sumas would round ‘em up and
drop the lot of them off Fury Rock.”

Rathiem laughed again at
this. Then his tone turned grim. “Down in the crypts, though…what
do you think if
that one
got out?”

“Oh don’t be silly,” Kyta brushed him
off again. “There’s no demon in the crypts. That’s just a dumb
ghost story the officers use to scare new recruits. Helps keep ‘em
in line.”

“I don’t know….” Rathiem
murmured.

Caprion turned his head toward their
conversation, his interest piqued. He couldn’t see any light in the
distance; there must be a corner up ahead. He crept slowly down the
hallway, listening intently.

“Balamit was on patrol last week down
in the crypts,” Rathiem continued. “He told me he heard a
voice.”

“Ridiculous.”

“He seemed pretty scared about it,”
the soldier said emphatically. “Tried to swap shifts with me—as
though I’d agree after that! I hate going down there,” he
repeated.

“Balamit is a liar. He cheats at
cards, too,” Kyta added. “Probably drank too much ambrosia and
wandered off his route. Once, a fledgling kept saying she heard a
woman crying, and when we looked, we found a small crack in the
rock. The wind would push through it and sound like this,” Kyta
made a long, hollow moaning sound. Then she sniggered. “The
darkness can play tricks with your mind. Keep a level head and stop
talking like a sissy.”

Rathiem stayed quiet, obviously put
off by the rebuke.

A light became apparent in Caprion’s
vision. He blinked and held up his hand to shield his eyes. The
dark stone corridor suddenly came into focus: rough-hewn walls and
uneven footing, a narrow path winding through the cold rock,
turning sharply about twenty meters in front of him. The two
Harpies had to be just around that corner. As he stared, the light
grew brighter. His sucked in a quick, panicked breath. Nowhere to
run―what now?

He turned around, searching the tunnel
for any place to hide. His eyes landed on a small, wooden door
against the wall, a bolt drawn across it. Without thinking, he
undid the latch and eased the door open, careful not to cause any
noise. He glanced into the room beyond, his eyes straining against
the shadows. Nothing moved. It looked empty. He slipped inside and
pushed the door shut, then turned to watch through the grates in
the heavy wood.

Kyta and Rathiem appeared around the
corner, gliding effortlessly down the corridor. By their helmets,
they were both third-year cadets. They passed his hiding place
without a second look.

“Did you see the new batch of slaves
they brought in?” Kyta said enthusiastically. “Fresh ones, and
young. Can’t wait to try my wings against them.”

“I heard there’s a few children this
time,” Rathiem replied.

“Aye,” Kyta agreed, full of vicious
intent. “They last longer. More resilient. And they don’t know any
better than to put up a fight.”

Rathiem said something
back, but his voice faded as they continued on their way. Caprion
held his breath, waiting as the light slowly faded. He finally let
out a sigh of relief. The soldiers were more lax than he expected.
He grinned.
If Sumas were here, he’d throw
a fit.

Suddenly, in the darkness behind him,
he heard a small cough.

The hair rose on Caprion's arms. His
first instinct told him to bolt back out of the door, but the cough
did not sound heavy or threatening. No, it was lightly pitched,
like a child’s. He hesitated, turning slightly to face the
darkness.

The cough sounded again, and he dared
to label it feminine. His alarm slowly faded as his curiosity grew,
and he peered deeper into the pitch black shadows of the room. His
eyes were useless in the darkness. He licked his dry lips
nervously, his heart tripling its pace.

Then a young girl’s voice called out
to him, slightly quivering. “Hello?” She sounded more scared than
he was. Her words did not resonate musically around the room like a
Harpy, nor did they hold any kind of power. She had to be one of
the Sixth Race. Something moved again, and he heard the dull clink
of chains. Caprion slowly relaxed.

“I’m here,” he said to the darkness.
And then, “Who are you?”

No immediate answer, but
the chains clinked again. Another cough. “Who are
you?
” the girl replied
suspiciously.

Caprion felt a strange smile tug at
his lips. He took a hesitant step forward, trying to remember the
size of the room. “My name is Caprion,” he said. “What’s your
name?”

The chains shifted and suddenly a
small light appeared in the corner—a shard of sunstone embedded in
the prisoner’s collar. She must have shielded it with her hands
when he first entered, trying to hide her presence. Caprion’s eyes
had grown used to the shadows and the white ray of light seemed to
cut like a knife. He blinked several times before he could make out
the room clearly: a small space of three square meters, the ground
dirty and stained, a low ceiling, and an uneven floor. Rows of
chains lined the walls.

The girl had wrapped herself in a
ragged scrap of blanket, easily passed over at first glance, since
it blended well with the shadows. Her eyes caught the light of the
sunstone and reflected it like a cat’s. He could see their color
quite vividly—bright green, like two emeralds. Her black hair fell
in a messy braid down her back. A chain connected the collar around
her neck to an iron ring in the wall and thick shackles bound her
hands. It all seemed unnecessary. She looked harmless, like a
kitten bunched into a corner.

His eyes traveled to a piece of bread
resting near her foot. A trail of crumbs led across the ground. As
he watched, a small brown lizard, no bigger than his own thumb,
scurried from a crack in the wall and took a corner of crust. The
girl reached down and picked up the small animal, her attention
shifting.

“Shh,” she whispered. “Don’t scare
him.”

Caprion wondered who she meant—himself
or the tiny reptile in her hands.

After a moment of
uncertainty, he approached the back of the room. He loosened his
sword, though he felt foolish doing so.
A
child,
he thought.
Just a defenseless child. She doesn’t belong in a place like
this, even if she is of the Sixth Race.
He
remembered the scarred, hollowed-out bodies of the slaves in the
practice chamber. He couldn’t imagine such a fate being visited
upon a young, helpless girl.

As he approached, the girl
shrank back into the corner. She watched him warily, squinting
against the sunstone’s light. He paused a few feet away and removed
his hand from his sword. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he said
softly. He infused his voice with a gentle touch, a singing spell
meant to sooth the senses.
All is safe
here,
he pressed into his tone. His voice
resonated softly against the stone walls.
Be still.

After a moment, the girl
took a deep breath. He saw the tension smooth from her brow. The
girl studied him quietly, contemplative for her age, overly
observant. It leant weight to her presence, somewhat disconcerting.
He wondered if she was older than she looked, despite her
diminutive size. He felt a sense of unease.
Don’t let your guard down.

Finally, she frowned. “You’re a
Harpy?” she asked slowly.