Stephen Zimmer - Crown of Vengeance

When Ayenwatha was on the underside of the Darrok, they were impotent. Now that he was in plain view, they moved with alacrity.

A barrage of arrows was loosed towards Ayenwatha and the Brega, most going awry amid the Trogens’ hurried, frenzied rush to fire. A searing pain erupted suddenly in the back of his shoulder as one arrow lodged itself into muscle and struck bone.

Arax roared and jerked suddenly. Ayenwatha’s heart leaped in that perilous moment, as his life wholly depended on his steed’s ability to maintain flight. He had no way of telling where the arrow had struck his steed, and prayed desperately that it was not a fatal hit. He looked around wildly, before finally espying the arrow shaft sticking out of Arax’s rear haunch.

Though unsteady, the creature was well-trained and had a natural instinct for self-preservation. It regained control, securing a steady pattern of flight despite the fiery pain that undoubtedly raced through it.

The Trogens above were distracted from their attentions on him, as another outcry rose amongst them. Many fell over as another massive jolt occurred along the platform. Ayenwatha saw that Sky Arrow had succeeded at his end, and was just about to dive away from the Darrok.

Sky Arrow did not have the good fortune of Ayenwatha.

Ayenwatha cried out in helpless frustration as the huge claw of the Darrok swiped and batted Sky Arrow and his steed with full impact, casting them far away from the beast. Their shattered bodies tumbled lifelessly downward.

Ayenwatha cried out in anger, as he watched his friend’s body plummet towards the land below. Bitterly, with tears welling in his eyes, he guided Arax towards safety. The Brega was injured and unfit for any more fighting that night, no matter what Ayenwatha might have been willing to do.

He threw a quick glance over his right shoulder, wincing at the biting pain that throbbed within his left. The Darrok was unmistakably altering its course of flight. The Trogens were well aware of their own peril, and likely they were heading away to find some emergency expanse of ground where the Trogens could attend to the repair of the harnessing.

Each moment carried the Trogens within a delicate, precarious position. A little imbalance and the Trogens’ fate would be a long plunge through the sky. It was clear that they were not interested in such a foolhardy risk, and had chosen to fight another day.

Ayenwatha closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and uttering two silent prayers. From the wellspring of his gleaming eyes, a couple of tears streaked down his cheeks. He was not ashamed, as the tears were born of loyalty and friendship.

The first prayer was one of thanksgiving for the plan having worked to disrupt the Darrok’s attack. The other was for Sky Arrow and his spirit, that he would find his way to the realm of He Who Holds the Sky, the great One Spirit, a place of radiant skies and bounteous hunting.

He had led Sky Arrow forth, bringing the young warrior with him in the counterattack on the Darroks. In the thick of the battle, he had selected the Onan warrior for the dangerous strike at the Darrok’s harnessing. Never was there a greater weight of burden than when his leadership had directly resulted in the death of another. Ayenwatha hoped that Sky Arrow was even now being embraced by their ancestors, and that he was being welcomed into bountiful forests whose illumination required no sun.

“Till the day we hunt again,” Ayenwatha whispered, glancing towards the stars above.

Wiping his eyes, he looked around for the other Darroks, to see what had befallen the defenders and the attackers. There were three others moving away in a tight formation, following the Darrok that had suffered the heavy damage to its carriage harness.

Ayenwatha made the best appraisal that he could. The Trogens had taken many losses, had witnessed the vulnerabilities exploited by Ayenwatha and Sky Arrow, and were clearly not in a position to sustain the attack. Ayenwatha felt an instant sense of relief despite his personal sadness, knowing that the assault upon the village was over for the time being.

With a throbbing pain in his shoulder, and now feeling the warm blood trickling down his back, he guided his wounded sky steed back towards the village. It was distressing to take in the sight of all the wreckage as he flew in, but there were no good places to land in the immediate areas surrounding the village’s hill. Numbly, he eyed the scattered flames that still licked at the night, guiding Arax towards a patch of open ground. Shortly after Arax had alighted upon the ground, several other surviving warriors set down within the remains of the village, the fighting now over.

On foot, Ayenwatha guided Arax and the others through the village. He ignored the arrow protruding from his body, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead, not wanting to look towards the broken bodies and shattered remains of the buildings riddling the village grounds. The fires still burning in different sections of the village were not a threat. They were already beginning to die down, having expended their fury as timber was turned to ash.

Once out of the front gate, they carefully started down the slope. Arax exhibited a slight limp, and the hardy sky steed whined with the biting pain that it felt from its wound, aggravated further while walking on the ground and supporting its body weight with its legs. Ayenwatha paused a couple of times and spoke soothingly to the beleaguered creature, the arrow shaft still embedded in its blood-matted haunches.

Nearing the base of the hill, a number of villagers came out from the trees and hastened towards the warriors. Their eyes were laden with sorrow and fear, the burden growing even heavier as they noticed the absence of many warriors who had not returned.

Villagers trained in healing arts, including those of the Healing Societies, were immediately summoned to help injured warriors and steeds alike. They guided those who had suffered significant wounds to open spaces amid the trees. Ayenwatha and Arax were helped over to a space in between the prominent roots of an ancient oak tree.

In moments, the arrows in Ayenwatha and Arax were taken out. Ayenwatha was dizzy with the intense flash of pain that he incurred, but he kept his body under control. His steed thrashed madly about, knocking over a couple of villagers that were laboring to restrain the beast. At a few soothing words from Ayenwatha, spoken through gritted teeth, Arax calmed down enough to be led away to where the rest of the sky steeds were being tended. The wounds were then dressed in a makeshift manner, as there was little access to either material or sacred healing herbs.

Litters were hastily fashioned for a couple of the warriors that were very badly injured. The two warriors would likely require the full rituals of the masked Healers, those of the Healing Societies who wore the sacred masks carved from living trees. Ayenwatha and the others were soon relieved to learn that most of the sacred masks in the village had been salvaged, and that most of the members of the Healing Society had survived.

Ayenwatha lay to one side, his wounded shoulder kept off of the ground. He quietly endured the moans of the injured warriors close by, wishing that he could not hear the sounds that brought him more pain than his physical wound.

It had been all that he could bear to suffer the horrid shriek emitted by Arax, when the beloved steed’s arrow had been pulled out. His ears now conveyed without mercy the incessant sounds of crying and lament pouring from his fellow villagers. His heart grew heavy, along with a deadening fatigue that slowly enveloped his body. It took all of his concentration just to confer with the warriors that began to visit him, or to bring him new information.