In the sky and on the ground,
Volgar hearts will cease to pound.
Slower, slower, heed my cry,
One by one, you all must die.
Like flies, the birdmen began to fall, their wings stuttering, their bodies writhing. We fell with them, breaching the city walls and drawing the arrows of desperate men who couldn’t differentiate between the Volgar swarm and a winged king. I abandoned the Volgar spells and hurled words of protection around us as Tiras circled the castle and came to graceful rest on the roof of the palace, folding his wings and releasing me only to bellow instructions at the open-mouthed archers.
“Majesty?” one shouted, and another lowered his bow and rubbed his hand across his eyes. Tiras wore breeches and boots but his upper body was bare, accommodating the wings. They protruded from his back, black as soot and tinged in red—identical to his eagle wings, but much bigger. The rounded tops eclipsed his broad shoulders, and the tips reached his heels. Hair, eyes, talons, and now . . . wings.
“Find me a sword!” Tiras roared, and he leaped over the edge, half-jumping, half-flying to the parapets below, running with his wings extended, shouting to his men and refocusing their attention to the task at hand.
Two guards lay in the bailey below, swords still clutched in their hands, their bellies laid open by Volgar talons. I didn’t hesitate, calling on the weapons to rise and find the king.
One for his left hand, one for his right,
The king has need of you tonight.
I heard the marvel and the fear of the warriors watching as the swords levitated and flew toward the king. I called to him in warning, and he turned and swept them up, his teeth flashing and his newly-acquired swords clashing. Then he took to the air like an avenging angel.
He flew to the crier’s tower overlooking the city square, and he called out to the people below.
“Women and children inside the keep!” Tiras roared. “Drop the bridge!” The guards along the entrance parapets rushed to obey, and the gates were lowered and the portcullis raised, allowing the Jeruvians outside the castle walls to find shelter within. They ran, hundreds of them, children clinging to their hands, eyes on the heavens, waiting for an attack that didn’t come.
For a moment, the skies were clear, the last wave of birdmen decimated by failing hearts and slings and arrows. A wave of hope washed over the castle—a lull in the storm—and the people looked from one to the other, wide-eyed and expectant, even as they rushed for cover.
“Are they gone?” The murmur swept over the ramparts and the parapets. “Is it over?” the king’s guard dared suggest.
The air was murky, the smoke obscuring the sky, and the darkness merciful. Hope became listening ears and bated breath, and atop the wall, Tiras’s voice rang out again. His people turned their faces from the sky to the winged king standing above them, seeing what he’d been so desperate to hide. He was glorious and terrifying—black wings beating, white hair flying—causing awe and a strange reverence to ripple over the shell-shocked crowd.
“Citizens of Jeru, for too long we have persecuted those among us with gifts. Healers, Changers, Spinners and Tellers have hidden themselves in our midst, fearful of what would happen if their abilities were discovered.
“I stand before you, King of Jeru, one who has lived with the very same burden and the very same fear, and I ask you to come forward, out of the shadows, all who are Gifted, all who are not, and fight for your families. Fight for your city. For each other. The battle is just beginning. The Volgar King will destroy Jeru. He will set his beasts upon you, and there will be no distinction between those who are Gifted and those who are not. We will all die or be enslaved.”
The courtyard was hushed for a heartbeat, then excited chatter and fearful questions filled the air. But there was little time for talk.
“Women and children, old and infirm, inside the keep,” Tiras shouted. “All who are Gifted or skilled, lend your talents this night, and you will be welcomed and protected in Jeru from this day on by order of your king.”
“They come, Majesty! The sky is filled with Volgar!” the watchman shouted.
Tiras abandoned the crier’s turret and flew toward me, tossing one sword aside as he touched down on the roof of the keep, and with one arm swept me up against him, lifting off once more.
Take me to the watchtower.
He ignored my command, his eyes on the flustered guard and the panicked citizens that raced toward the keep in droves. He took me to the entrance of the keep instead.
“Stay with them. Keep them safe . . . Keep yourself safe within the castle,” he instructed. His mouth took mine, hard and fast, and he was gone again, taking three running steps across the bailey before he was airborne once more. Closing my eyes, I called the Gifted, asking them to trust and obey. I’d seen the Volgar Liege. The battle was just beginning, and Jeru wouldn’t survive him without help.
Gifted men and women come
To the aid of Jeru’s throne.
The women and children crowded into the Great Hall, the windows shuttered and the doors barred to keep the birdmen from preying on them. I saw my father huddled with the other lords, eyes manic, calling for his attendants, who were nowhere to be found. I hoped they were on the wall with the rest of Jeru’s men.
The glass on the long rectangular windows shattered, spraying the crowd below, and an enormous ball of fire pirouetted through the air. My mind stuttered, conjuring words to change its trajectory, but I was too slow. Lord Bin Dar, his cape and his terror billowing around him, flung out his hands. The fire met his palms and became water, drenching everyone around him.