David Farland - Lords of the Seventh Swarm

“The bone years come to an end,” Cooharah said.

“Brightstar flies large. Soon, storms will wash all hunger from the heavens.”

Aaw stared at him in disbelief, then looked out the oval opening of their cloo. She could see Brightstar flying large, as large as the moon-something her people had waited generations to see. Aaw admitted, “The star is large, but do we dare bring a chick into the world?”

“We are old,” Cooharah warbled. “Our feathers grow brittle. If we do not choose now to become one, we must choose to become empty, like the wind.”

Aaw did not fear her extinction. Such was the curse of being born in the driest of the bone years. For ten generations her people had chosen to decrease their numbers. Aaw had never dared hope she would lay a fertilized egg of her own. But oh, how she yearned for it. With the drying of Stone Lake, and with her increased age, it had seemed that the chance would never come.

But now Cooharah solemnly stepped forward and tapped her forehead with his jaw again, three times. “Open, open, Two become one.”

Tenderly she reached up and nipped the feathers at his cheek, just beneath his spirit mask, in ritual preening. Cooharah danced forward, snaking his long neck up beside hers.

She shook her tail feathers, pretending to lay an egg, and together the two Qualeewoohs began the long dance of life, enacting their hatchings, their years of learning, their hunts in the sky, their choosing of one another as eternal companions: As the dance continued through the long night, unfamiliar hormones flowed into Aaw, making her dizzy, and she felt as if she floated through the room, until at last, just before dawn, she reached up and tapped Cooharah between the eyes with her own chin, saying, “Open, open, I am open.

Thirty years ago, Cooharah and Aaw had chosen one another for mates. Now, in the failing years of their lives, after decades of starvation and struggle, for the first time they consummated their love.

Later, her mate would carve the pictographs that commemorated this day into her spirit mask, then they would fly to the north, to far lands she’d only heard of in story, to look for a safe nesting ground beyond the drylands. But for now, she collapsed in easy joy.

On the morning of his first full day of freedom, Zeus sat naked atop the east citadel of Felph’s palace, watching Herm swoop and dive out over the east nature preserve.

Zeus sat naked because he was free to do so, his butt resting somewhat uncomfortably on the cold stone of a crenel, his elbows propped on the merlons at either side. His feet hung dangerously out over the citadel wall, a sloping drop of some three hundred meters.

The morning wind had a bite to it, but the dawn sun shining full on the matted hairs of his chest ameliorated the cold somewhat. Still, the only part of his body that felt truly warm was his head beneath his dark wavy hair.

Zeus could not stop laughing. He knew he sounded maniacal. Perhaps it was the glory of the day, or the lightness he felt with his Guide removed. Though the slim silver Guide had weighed only l80 grams, he now wondered how he had survived all these years, bowing beneath that onerous burden. So he laughed, and considered leaping from the height. Immediately, Herm tried to twist his wings, pull out of the palace walls to his death.

Why not? He was free. He could do anything, think anything.

Out over the garden preserve, Herm gave a whoop of delight, and hovered at the apex of his flight, a slender white spear in his right hand. His pinions flashed in the morning light, the undersides of his wings showing silver, then Herm dived, his wing tips back almost vertical, the spear thrusting down in both hands.

Zeus followed the line of attack to see why Herm rejoiced: a flock of skogs rose from the tangle below, a wedge of dark, compact creatures, flying so fast on their short wings they almost looked like cannonballs rather than something alive. Their vicious curling tusks seemed only to be smears of white.

It was a dangerous game Herm played. If he dived too soon, he would be hurled into their midst, and the skogs would flay him with their tusks. If he dived too slowly, he would end up behind the skogs, missing his prey. Only a perfectly timed thrust would win him a skog, and even then he would have to adjust to the added weight on his spear, try to avoid crashing headlong into the tangled limbs below.

Zeus howled in delight.

Herm flashed down toward the dark purple trees, intent on his prey. The skogs saw him, wheeled right. With twitch of a wing tip, Herm corrected his course. Distances were deceiving. At first, Zeus imagined these were small skogs; but as Herm neared, Zeus realized they were full-sized-each large enough to make a fine meal for three days. Only now did Zeus see how swift was Herm’s dive.

The skogs adjusted again at the last second, veering away. If Herm had been a diving raptor that relied on its talons, he’d have missed his prey. Instead, he thrust the white spear left, impaling a skog through the back.

Herm adjusted his dive, but the weight of the skog impaled on his spear threw him down, so he went crashing into the tangle. Herm shrieked for help as he hit, and Zeus leapt up, whooping and clapping, “Wahooo, wahooo! You got one!”

But he celebrated too soon. Herm was two hundred meters out, three hundred down. Zeus had difficulty spotting him. Herm landed in the top branches of a whipparoong tree, with its platelike leaves. They cushioned his fall, and halfway hid the winged man, but suddenly Zeus heard a vicious bark, almost a hacking cough.

Herm scrambled to get out of the tree. The broad leaves swayed, alternately concealing Herm and revealing him.

The skog Herm had impaled thundered into the air, still trailing the spear, covered with gore-its own violet blood. The skog shrieked, then winged toward Herm, slashing with its razor-sharp tusks.

Herm dropped back in terror, ducking beneath it, struggling to stay aloft in the upper branches of the tree by bracing his wings against the foliage. He lost his footing, dropped between some branches. He covered his face with an arm, just as the skog slashed him.

Zeus bellowed and shook from a belly laugh. In a moment, the skog turned away. Herm had the presence of mind to grab the end of the spear, rip it free, and jab as the skog made a second charge. Quite by accident, Zeus felt sure, Herm impaled the beast under the right eye.

It seemed the skog was dead, but Herm cried in dismay. To the south, the flock had wheeled, and now the skogs flew swiftly toward Herm, barking in anger. Apparently the coughing and grunting sounds of battle made by one skog called the whole flock to its defense.

The settlers on Ruin had named the creatures skogs-a contraction of sky and hogs-because their tusks so resembled those of a pig. The skogs used their tusks to pierce the upper limbs of dew trees to get at the nectar beneath. Skogs tasted marvelous; like young pork marinated in fruity sweet sauce. On Ruin they were considered a delicacy, but hunting them like this was foolhardy.

Zeus’s throat grew tight as the skogs approached. The flock held at least twenty beasts. Herm had no way to protect himself from so many. If he lived through the attack, he’d be covered with scars. Almost, Zeus ran to get the medi-droid, but he decided to stay, to watch.

As the flock drew down, Herm struggled in the canopy of the trees, then folded his wings and dropped from sight.

The skogs slowed, as if considering whether to risk flying under the canopy to kill the winged man, then thought better of it. The skogs could fly well under the dark canopy of the tangle, but could also get trapped in the nets of a sfuz or find themselves struggling in the jaws of a grumpin. Besides, they could not save their comrade.