T Southwell - Children of Another God

When the world stopped spinning, she stared at the golden-skinned man dressed in black leather who sat where the eagle had been. His silver-studded tunic hung open to reveal a smooth, muscular chest, and her arrow protruded from it, oozing a thin red line down his belly. Worn trousers hugged his slender legs and narrow, scuffed boots shod his feet. His straight jet hair framed a scowling, fine-featured face with a sensual mouth and high cheekbones. He pulled her arrow out, studied it and tossed it aside. She gaped at him, awestruck by his wild beauty. He glanced at her without interest, and Talsy swallowed hard. He was Mujar. Her father had told her about the strange unmen, and armed her against them. Once, there had been quite a lot of them, but now only legends remained. The hatred of them had not faded from older minds, but hardly any of her generation had ever seen one. They were all supposed to be in the Pits.

The Mujar scooped up a handful of snow and rubbed it on his wound, grimacing as it melted. After a few seconds, he relaxed and glanced down at his chest. The wound had vanished. The Mujar rose to his feet, regarded her indifferently for a moment, and turned away.

Talsy raised a hand. "Hey! Wait! Help me, please!"

The Mujar looked at her, pursing his lips. "No Wish."

Talsy shook her head in confusion. "Please, my leg is broken."

The unman gazed at her with flat, empty eyes, clearly unmoved by her plight. He glanced around, measuring the clearing, and she knew he was going to leave her to the wolves. Reaching into her quiver, she found the white-fletched arrow and pulled it out. Her numb fingers fumbled with the bow as she struggled to notch it. The air seemed to swell, and the Mujar took a few light, running steps, then leapt high. A rush of wind and the sound of beating wings filled the clearing, and a daltar eagle rose into the air, each deep downbeat carrying it higher. She took careful aim, her heart in her throat. She must not miss this shot.

The bowstring twanged, sending the arrow hissing on its deadly course. It struck the eagle with a thud, making it stagger in mid-air. Its wings folded, and it plummeted to the ground in a spray of snow a few yards from her, where it lay still. Talsy crawled towards it, hoping it was not too badly hurt. Her father had told her to use the gold-tipped arrow on Mujar, but had not detailed its effect. To her relief, the eagle appeared only to be stunned, and glared at her when she neared it.

Mujar, the accursed undying. She reached for the arrow, then hesitated. What would happen when she removed it? What had her father said? She had not been listening that closely, and now wished she had. Something about owing debts? When she had asked the Mujar for help he had said 'no wish', and 'wish' was one of the words her father had used. If you helped a Mujar, he would grant you a wish. What was the other word? Gratitude. Yes, that was it.

Sitting up with a grimace, she bent over the bird, which watched her with fierce defiance.

"If I take out the arrow, you owe me, Mujar," she said. "If I leave it in, you can't change. You'll stay a wounded eagle, won't you? Maybe the wolves will find you and tear you into little bits. You can't die, so what happens? Do all the little bits go on living? In a wolf's intestines?" She shuddered. "Now you need help too. So, if I help you, you help me, agreed?"

The eagle glared at her, and she realised that he could not reply whilst in bird form. With some misgivings, she grasped the arrow and pulled it out, holding it threateningly, ready to stab him again if necessary. The daltar's eyes followed her hand, and its wings quivered. She wondered if it was too badly injured after all. It looked helpless on its back, so she lifted it by one wing and turned it over. It flopped down on its breast, its blood staining the snow, then raised its head and stood up. Its talons dug into the snow, and its wings rested on the ground as if to support it.

Wind rushed around her, making her gasp and raise the arrow. The sound of beating wings filled the clearing again, and the eagle vanished. The golden-skinned man reappeared and fell to his knees, his head bowed. His long hair hid his face as he sagged forward onto all fours.

Chanter sat back on his haunches and clasped the throbbing ache in his chest, blood oozing between his fingers. The few moments of utter powerlessness and agony had frightened him. Never had he been cut off from all the Powers, even Dolana. The girl's arrow had made him helpless, trapped within his mind. Her words had been a meaningless gabble, muffled and slurred, and his sight had darkened and blurred. As the ache receded, he raised his head to look at the Lowman girl. The bloody arrow she had pulled from his chest was notched in the bow again, aimed at his heart. He raised his hands and spread them in a gesture of appeasement and reassurance.

"Gratitude."

Her eyes wavered. "For pulling out the arrow?"

He nodded.

"I need help. You were about to leave me."

"Wish."

She slumped, lowering her bow. "Any funny stuff and I'll shoot you again, understand?"

He inclined his head. "Wish."

"Take me to my father's house."

Chanter studied her. It was a small wish for such a great service, even though the fact that she had shot him in the first place diluted his gratitude somewhat. Still, without her help he would have been trapped as a wounded bird, unable to change or escape. She had shown mercy by releasing him from the arrow’s terrible effect, instead of leaving him to suffer. Her blue-green eyes shone with the feral fear of a survivor born into a harsh world and used to its dangers, but afraid to die. Blonde hair escaped the untidy plait down her back and straggled around her face, which was pinched and blue with cold. A Lowman male, he mused, might have thought her pretty, with her small nose and large eyes, generous mouth and firm chin.

Shivers racked her, and she tugged at the front of her fur jacket, which was missing the thong that held it closed. Odd how Lowmen felt the cold, he reflected. With so little Crayash to warm them, they even died of it. He picked up a handful of snow and rubbed it on his wound, stiffening with a soft grunt as Shissar's healing power swept through him. The pain ebbed quickly, for the wound was slight, and he rose to his feet and stepped towards her, intending to carry her as she had asked. Her eyes glinted, and she raised the arrow, forcing him to retreat. He gazed at her in confusion, cocking his head to one side. How was he supposed to help her if she would not let him near her?

The girl eyed him, looking uncertain and distrustful. "If you hurt me, I'll stick you with this."

Chanter nodded, and she lowered the arrow.

The Mujar approached Talsy and knelt to slide his arms under her knees and back. He picked her up as if she was weightless, and she wound her arms around his neck, the arrow poised close to his skin. Up close, his matt skin glowed with health and his hair, although tangled, appeared freshly washed.

He glanced at her, his breath steaming. "Which way?"

"Oh." Talsy's cheeks warmed with embarrassment at being so enraptured as to forget this simple necessity. She pointed. "Over there."

The Mujar strode across the clearing and entered the forest, moving with a smooth gliding gait that hardly jolted her leg. His feet made no sound, and the frozen undergrowth seemed to part before him and close behind. He gazed ahead as if she did not exist. A thousand questions clamoured in her mind, and she asked the most pressing one.

"What would have happened if I hadn't pulled out the arrow?"

"I would have stayed a bird."

"And the wolves would have eaten you."

He shook his head. "No."

"Why not?"

"I am Mujar."

Talsy frowned. "What's your name?"