Vulture (27 page)

31 - Mythos

The wind howled, even though the land was in full bloom. Krishani stood in the middle of a village. Lining the path were straw huts, merchants with their wares, and barrels and baskets full of supplies for clothes and cooking. A hut next to it had buckets filled with apples–bright reddish pink apples that made Krishani salivate. Nobody looked at him, his hand shoved into his pocket to conceal the stone. He carefully pulled his hand out and twisted the cloak around his shoulders. A woman with a beige wrap on her head whisked past him, skirts dragging along the ground, an armful of garments in her hands. Krishani glanced behind him, noting a stone cairn with weaponry spread across the slab. He idly reached for his sword and realized too late he had dropped it in the forest and hadn’t picked it up. The people rushed back and forth, afraid of something, but then, everyone he saw was either scared or dead.

These days he preferred scared.

He sauntered over to the weapons, taking his time, picking out something to fight with. He glanced into the shadows of the domicile, expecting a blacksmith’s fire or someone inside working on something. It was empty. Krishani picked out a broad sword and a dagger, tucking the latter into his boot, and turned to survey the land. He was in a valley tucked between mountains, the ground flat and rocky, grass spreading across the expanse of the ravine. Straw huts speckled the land on the other side of the road, with squat roofs visible as far as the eye could see. Humans had a tendency to hollow out the ground for their homes. He sometimes wondered why they didn’t live completely underground but never had a chance to ask anyone.

Krishani glanced down the road, left, and then right. There was nothing coming, not yet anyway. He made the mistake of getting to know the villagers once, and he wouldn’t make that mistake again. He needed to be ready. He clenched his fist and glanced at the sky, realizing with a smirk why the villagers seemed alarmed. Clouds gathered above him, blotting out the sunset and pouring smoke over the stars. He managed to survive off his weather abilities, creating fire when necessary, making rain when he was thirsty. He was much better at foraging for food than squirrels. He was never hungry around villagers. Imagining what they would look like frozen-faced, wounded, and dead was enough to make him lose his appetite.

He stood his ground, clutching the sword in his right hand, ignoring the pain stitched to his back. His only regret was failing to locate any arnica flowers to rub on the wound before transporting. He wasn’t a master at healing himself, but he was invincible. He could spend lifetimes chasing after enemies like the Horsemen and it would do nothing. Something worse would come, and he’d never have another spare moment with Kaliel to enjoy the life she stole.

Maybe what the land was trying to give him by giving her life was a reason to live, but sometimes the gift felt like a curse. He felt her sorrow when he barked at her. He never treated her that way before. Not once in all of his time on Avristar had he told her she was a useless, careless girl obsessed with fantasy. He used to think that about the other girls in Avristar, the ones from Araraema, but never Kaliel. She was so much more than what she seemed, strength bound in her innocent form, an embodiment of magic so strong she could light up the earth like her own star in the sky.

He was deaf to the shouts around him as they pitched high in the air. Louder wails, mumbles, and sharp tones blended into a cacophony. Villagers gathered in the streets, thunder rumbled above them, and rain smattered the ground. People knocked into Krishani’s shoulders as they passed him, stumbling on the dirt and pulling themselves up. A woman scooped a child into her arms and hid her face in the crook of its neck. She began scurrying towards the far edge of the valley. Something swooped in, something Krishani was prepared for, something he had been waiting for.

A
whoosh
of flames raced across the first straw hut at the east end of the village. Even with the rain the fire blazed, turning straw huts to char in seconds. Villagers cried out. He would have to reach them before the Vultures came, before they tried to devour the souls in haste.

Krishani took a deep breath and turned to the demonic horses. It was the black one, its rider concealed, sword hanging by its side. Krishani raised his sword and crouched, wanting to knock the horse off its feet. Instead the Horseman changed course and made a wide circle around Krishani, dragging his sword along the huts in the marketplace, scattering fabric, apples, and weaponry everywhere. The horse rode roughshod over the huts, its legs kicking up wood, making the flimsy domiciles fall apart.

Krishani glanced over his shoulder and frowned. He was certain the Horsemen wanted him dead, as they wanted everything dead.

He sucked in a breath and prepared to go after them, but when he brought himself to his feet he couldn’t move. All of the squat huts in the fields were on fire despite the torrents of rain. They sizzled and burned until they were skeletons, the rain washing the flames out.

The villagers were screaming, being blocked off by the red horse, its rider pushing them back to the center of the village. The steed trampled people under its hooves as it rose on its hind legs, the rider slashing at people pushing and shoving each other while trying to get out of the way. Krishani watched in mock horror as the black horse appeared again. The red horse was flanked by the gray and brown one. Krishani was used to their snarling mouths like snapping turtles, scaly fur, and shiny armor. He watched them kill thousands and hadn’t been able to touch them. He’d never be able to stop them from the disastrous ends they created for anyone they encountered.

The black horse turned to face Krishani, and he thought this was the moment they would end this abominable battle for good. He readied his sword and pushed the cloak off his face. He wanted them to know exactly who he was. His mismatched eyes felt like lightning as they gazed into the dark abyss of the rider’s hooded face. The black steed made a sound as the other riders stayed back, hunting down villagers trying to escape. Wispy white smoke lifted out of the bodies as they died and with each one he wished he could be holding their hands, whispering the blessing, giving them safety. His only saving grace was that the Vultures hadn’t shown up yet.

Krishani narrowed his gaze and invited the Horseman to attack him. But the Horseman didn’t budge. His eyes were on something in the skeletal huts off the path. Krishani followed his gaze to the little girl climbing out of a hut. Her tanned white hands clutched dirt as she pulled herself out of the hollow ground. She had long, brown hair and sky blue eyes, the kind of color that illuminated the dark. The front of her beige nightgown was covered in wet, sticky mud, and she was barefoot. Krishani looked her over for signs of injury but there were none. She had been trapped inside a burning hut but there wasn’t a scratch on her.

He watched with idle fascination as she rubbed sleep from her eyes and rain fell into her palms. It seemed she couldn’t hear the screams or the crackling fires or even the hooves pounding the ground. She stumbled forward holding her hands out to brace herself as her knees hit the edge of the dirt road. She pulled herself over the mound and walked into the center. She turned to Krishani, her bright blue eyes full of questions.

Krishani had nothing to say. All he saw behind her were the shapes of three Horsemen killing off every person the girl had known and the one black steed pulsing, huffing, and waiting for the moment its rider would dole out the final blow. Krishani hadn’t saved anyone before, something he felt guilty about, but there was never any time. People were always alive one moment and dead the next where the Horsemen were concerned. Krishani felt a dead weight in his chest, an instinctual aching and longing as the little girl stared at him. She had rosy red cheeks, a small mouth pressed into a line. Her nose was made of smooth, curved edges. Long eyelashes framed her delicate face.

His heart almost stopped when he glanced at her ears. They poked out, little barely-defined points, proof of her elven heritage. He had no words for what she meant to him in that instant. He never thought of a normal life. Normal to him was marriage to the land and duties in the Lands of Men. It was solitude; it was responsibility. It was never a family, but staring into her eyes made him long for castle Tavesin and Kaliel and all the things a life on Terra could bring him. A life bereft of the Ferryman, stripped of the responsibilities that brought him nothing but darkness. He envied the villagers and their way of life. He never found pure corruption in those souls, only fallibility, naivety. The villagers were betrayers and liars because they didn’t know better. They didn’t know how to have peace without argument. Krishani wished he had more time with them, time he could use to tell them about Avristar, to show them how to work in harmony with the land. Even if he hadn’t been that good at it before, he could teach others the lessons he had been taught.

The black steed scratched its hooves on the pavement, and Krishani knew what was going to happen. He wanted to throw the girl out of the way, but when the Horseman charged towards her, his sword lowered, the girl didn’t move. She didn’t flinch. The blade sang over her head. It rustled her hair but didn’t touch her, didn’t lay a scratch on her.

Krishani stumbled back, letting out the breath he had been holding in. The Horseman passed Krishani, and the demonic horse let out a loud neigh. He watched as it tried to buck the rider off its back, and everything happened too fast. Krishani turned to the girl only to see her bright blue eyes locked on him. Beyond her, the three riders finished with the last of the villagers, a mess of bodies under their hooves. With his sword raised, the gray one rode roughshod over the girl. Krishani went to grab her only to hear the
whoosh
of another rider beside him. The black horse bounded into the fray. A head rolled on the ground, stopping at Krishani’s feet. It was a surprisingly cloaked and concealed head. The gray horse whined in inconsolable pain as it writhed on the side of the road. Krishani had no idea what was going on as the brown rider took a shot at the girl and lost his head, too. It clattered to the ground and stopped beside the girl’s feet. She didn’t scream; she didn’t cry. She held her arms at her sides, her eyes wide.

Krishani tore his gaze away only to see the black rider with his sword in the air, blood streaked across the blade.

The Horseman killed the other Horsemen.

There was a stare down between the red and black steeds. Krishani watched as the red horse blew brimstone at the black horse and turned, holding its sword with fierce determination as it barreled towards the girl. Krishani reached out for her hand but was spun backwards by something cold. It prickled every pore, and he stumbled back, landing on his knees. The cold pressed into his shoulders, incomprehensible whispers ringing out. Frostbite ate the tips of his ears, and frost formed on his fingertips. His insides were ice, the curse spreading across his collarbone and down his torso. He tried to fight it. He had to because in the same instant the red rider was dangerously close to the little girl.

Krishani panted as the rider slumped forward and fell off the horse, his head sailing through the air and landing somewhere behind Krishani.

Krishani gasped and clutched his chest, trying to understand. The red horse fell on its side, smoking. The little girl faced the black steed, and Krishani thought for sure she would be dead. Even the Vultures wanted the little girl dead, but the black steed wouldn’t have it.

A bolt of lightning forked towards the land, striking the Horseman head-on. The horse and its rider began changing. Armor fell off the horse, scales turned to ash, and his mouth contorted, shriveling up and reforming to look more like any other horse. Its black mane was still as dark as night but was no longer littered with vines of dreadlocks. It neighed loudly and this time it wasn’t a snarl or a growl, and it didn’t breathe brimstone.

The Horseman himself was another story altogether. As ice cut down Krishani’s legs, the ragged strips of black cloak fell off the Horseman. What had always been an abyss became the face of a man. Long, wavy black hair was slicked back behind a tanned face that was hard as stone and chiseled into being. He had a square chin, high cheekbones and a large nose. His eyes were charcoal briquettes, eyebrows a thick knit of hair. He donned a white camisole and black breeches. In his belt he had a modest sword, not the monstrous thing covered in blood. He fell off the horse and seized, his mouth foaming.

Krishani would have helped him if it wasn’t for the amazing pain coursing through his veins. He couldn’t take this torture anymore. His head was pulled back, arms locked behind his back. The Vultures had never been this forceful before. They were never so desperate.

He watched in horror as the little girl approached the Horseman and fell to her knees beside him. All she did was touch him once with her little fingers and he stopped twitching. His face broke into a wide smile that reminded Krishani of Mallorn: trustworthy, someone who would take care of her.

“May I have your name?” the little girl asked.

“Mythos,” the man forced through gritted teeth. He struggled to sit but the girl put a hand on his chest, her other hand pointed at her own chest.

“Khryannalin,” the little girl said.

Khryannalin helped the Horseman to his feet, her hand firmly clasped in his. His eyes found Krishani briefly as the Vultures let go and he pitched forward, hugging his stomach and pressing his forehead into the mud. Krishani took a deep breath, and in an instant the little girl was atop the black stallion, the Horseman mounting behind her, grabbing the reins. He neared Krishani, but there was nothing lethal in his expression.

“Zanthos, Pronose, and Cronose are dead because none may harm this girl. Tell the story to all you know, for you will not see me again.” He turned the horse and gingerly trotted between carcasses of villagers, disappearing into the rainy night.

Krishani fell on his back, breathing hard, his mind a mess of incomprehensible thoughts. What he witnessed was by far the single greatest thing he had seen in his life.