Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Killen walked the streets of Kos, past small shops and marketplaces, taking in the bustling city’s sights, sounds, and scents.

This was heaven and peace compared to the onslaught of relentless shouts and commands of the drill sergeants he’d endured in recent weeks.

Incessant and insistent, they’d echoed through the training grounds, accompanied by the cacophony of clanging koya sābərs.

He clamped down on more klaw.

His muscles ached.

Nada.They screamed in protest from a day of pushing his body to the brink of exhaustion.

The discipline of repetitive and gruelling exercises, mental fortitude tests and draining simulations was wearing down his soul.

They were all designed to mould and shape him and his fellow cadets into finely tuned and disciplined warriors.

But there was only so much a man could take.

Needing relief after the evening meal, Killen had taken off for Kos.

He slowed when he spotted a girl in front of a tiny cart at one alley corner. She was no more than ten, too young to be out this late hawking wares.

He paused in the darkened eaves of a shop, curiosity piqued by the sadness in her face.

She was working the street, rushing her products in a tray to passersby.

Her hands cradled a small, intricately crafted wooden figurine.

She fixed her eyes on a high-born Kəˈnerē man hovering through the thoroughfare, his face buried in a gold-lined book.

‘Sire, sire,’ she called, chasing after him, ‘please take the last one left. Ten schill coins, if you can. But anything will do.’

The man ignored her, but she persisted, racing after him, taking flight, until she reached out and tugged his robe.

That’s when the Kəˈnerē whipped around.

Killen’s eyes widened as he kicked hard.

He growled as the girl flew through the air, her wooden figurines exploding from her tray and shattering on the ground.

She, too, was about to hit the surface when a strong arm tagged her.

She looked up into Killen’s face. ‘Sante,’ she gasped.

Wriggling from his grasp, she rushed to her broken wares.

A blaze of rage lit up the Král-In-Waiting’s craw.

He’d zero fokks to give when the weaker were violated by the stronger, more so if the victim was a defenceless soul or child.

The Kəˈnerē was tracking further down the street

Killen threw his hood on and spun into a dark corner.

While he did, he let his hawkstone loose.

It sent a razor wind into the atmosphere, projecting air into a gale so sharp it could cut through matter from a distance.

The íkan-infused wind whipped around the nobleman.

First, the Kəˈnerē’s cloak fell apart, then his trews, shirt, and underwear.

The semi-crowded street came to a stop, and Katánians gazed in shock and amusement as the noble tried to gather up his flayed gear.

Killen dispatched one of his koyas into the fray, guiding it to where the high-born was flailing for his ribboned clothes.

The weapon turned to its side and delivered a series of lightning-fast slaps on the nobleman’s exposed backside.

Before it whirled and tore back, it moved so fast it was almost invisible to the eye.

It stopped in a hover over the young lass who was trudging empty-eyed through the streets.

A bundle fell into her tray as it whipped away.

The girl was startled and reached with trembling hands for the pouch that had dropped from thin air.

Killen zeroed in on her expression as she opened it, her face lighting up.

Even from afar, he estimated the heavy sac contained enough gold schills to cover her wage for several weeks if not a month or two.

She grinned, then darted her eyes around, searching for her benefactor.

She found no one, for most street folks were focused on free entertainment in the opposite direction.

From the shadows, he sent her a kusudi intent. Go, you earned it.

She widened her eyes, blinked and nodded before scurrying away, disappearing into the crowd, her mellow green krest shaking in the wind.

He deduced she was a Kíkāra, perhaps the child of a market trader or farm labourer. They’d been the hardest hit of the kəsts by the draconian war machinery of his grandfather’s court.

When the last Kíríga had exploited their farms for minerals to build his beserking ships, their harvests dwindled and failed.

Their men were forced to struggle, and families were abandoned due to famine across rural Katánē.

Leaving behind the crowing throng surrounding the mortified high-born, Killen resumed his walk through the city.

His thoughts were heavy with the weight of the girl’s reality.

Conflicted, he wanted to fight for his people’s cause and lead a new royal monarchy to end the suffering of the many.

But he knew his true calling was beyond just war and a throne. He had to seek out the mystery truth the hawkstone had drawn him towards to fulfil his purpose.

He’d been playing with his growing abilities to prepare for whatever the fokk was coming.

His intervention this evening was one example of how his proficiency enabled him to perform impossible feats.

Regardless, the girl’s plight had shaken him.

He could not abandon this realm’s throne for a cause, and his people did not deserve to be abandoned for an unknown, mystic errand.

He needed a fokkin’ drink.

The dancing lights of a kantína sign caught his eye.

Attracted by the dim light that shone through its dusty windows, he pushed through its doors, tagging his shroud closer.

The place was packed with Katánians of all kəsts.

Some were laughing, others howling out songs, but all were seeking an escape from the chaos of the world outside.

Most were too intoxicated to notice him, but some locked onto his towering Hawk physique and glanced away with wariness.

He approached the rough-hewn counter.

The barkeep, a grizzled older man with a missing eyeball and a scar that ran from his nose to his chin, studied the Kíríga. ‘You’re a beast.’

‘It’s been said,’ Killen drawled, settling onto a stool.

‘What’s your poison?’ the bartender asked, his voice gravelly with years of smoking.

‘Whatever will help me forget,’ Killen rasped.

The publican nodded with a gleam in his eye and dispensed him a shot out of an aged bottle. ‘Try this,’ he murmured.

Killen threw it back.

It was fiery and almost made him gasp.

‘All forgotten?’ The barkeep laughed. ‘’Tis the highest-proof single malts in Katánē.’

Killen shook his head, working his tongue around the daring flavours of dried fruit and butterscotch. ‘’Tis bold.’

‘More?’

Killen considered his options. ‘Hit me.’

One drink soon became two and three, and feeling generous, Killen bought a round of drinks for the small bar’s clientele.

Which elevated him from stranger to friend in seconds.

Before long, his stool was surrounded by friendly, back-thumping locals. He sang along with their songs and engaged in conversations, some nonsensical, most insightful.

He listened as best as his hol’ pickled mind allowed.

In time, raw honesty was unveiled as his new friends spoke of their loved ones who had been lost to the war.

With tears in their eyes, they expressed their fears for the future and their hopes for peace.

They wept as they shared their struggle, hardship, and the constant fight for survival. Their words were filled with hope and despair, dreams and nightmares.

They talked about their experiences and told stories about the battles they fought for their children, farms and eyries.

They even discussed the warmongering of the ruling classes.

Of the never-ending conflict that had claimed so many lives, and their burden weighed on his soul.

He recognised the need, the desperation in their eyes.

But there was also optimism, a yearning for peace that echoed in their voices.

As the bar cleared, he wandered back to the counter to settle his bill.

‘Young man,’ the barman growled, ‘I have been watching you all night. Your heart blazes with a passion stronger than any I have seen in years. You have a purpose, a destiny, a fire that burns within you. Yet you’re not one of us from this neighbourhood, neither Kíkāra nor Kāzin. Tell me, what brings you to this place?’

Killen hesitated, ‘A simple drink, that’s all. But you’re freakin’ right. There is a calling of íkan on my life.’

‘An íkan priest in the making,’ the older man murmured, ‘chosen to show the world the way to peace and prosperity.’

‘You’ve no idea,’ Killen murmured.

Perplexed, the barman raised a brow and shook his head. Still, he went on. ‘My nephew became a monk and now resides in a monastic temple in the Great Bleak. Whether you follow the divine path or one of your design, I sense you will have to sacrifice and suffer hardship. But I see in your eyes that your heart beats strong, and your purpose is just. Stand tall and carry forth the radiance of hope you bear. Katánē needs your kσχύς light now more than ever.’

The words pierced Killen’s soul with their kindness, and he nodded, gripping the older man’s hand with gratitude.

‘Katánē can be a dark and troubled place,’ the silver-haired Kíkāra grunted, ‘but with your help, perhaps the darkness will be vanquished.’

Killen groaned.

A legion of screeching khārpies had set up shop inside his head, using his skull for practice, each successive blow increasing in volume.

Worse, a thick, firm grip shook his body, lashing it from side to side.

‘Fokk off!’ he snarled, thrashing on the fur-covered pallet.

The beating only intensified, and his stomach contracted with pain.

Sweat poured from his pores, exacerbated by the sticky, wet pre-dawn heat of the Karth Valley.

Memories of the previous night’s carousing crashed into his head.

Images of drinking moonshine whisky with the other recruits after he returned from his city sojourn flooded his mind, and he moaned.

His problems were soon compounded by a wave of cold water splashing over his prone body.

‘Oy!’ he roared, jackknifing upright.

He was about to launch into an avalanche of abuse when he stopped short at the sight of Kaxim standing over him with a no-nonsense expression on his stern face.

‘Up kujāa! The drums beat to wake the laggards. This means the Sābər Hawk cadets rise as one for the first drill session of the day.’

Killen tried to peer beyond the gloom of the tented dormitory’s open flap and groaned. ‘Drills? But it’s our day off?

‘Fokk days off. You train when the commanders say you need to.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Long after the first cock crow and time for you to rise.’

‘But I’ve not slept. Sand flies kept me up all night.’

‘Dust midges, eh, chief?’ Kaxim mocked, his eyes falling to the empty bottle beside Killen’s bed.

‘Took a rest down at the edge of the plain. Must have fallen into the dunes. I crave more kip,’ Killen groused.

‘Nada. Sleep is the cousin of death, and you’re about to learn how to stay alive today. Get up now before I drag you out of the tent myself!!’

Apologies for the harsh rhetoric, Kaxim said into Killen’s mind. But I have to keep up the ruse that you’re a country bumpkin from a small kíjí.

Fokk you.

Kaxim grinned as he strolled away.

As Killen knifed up and tagged his boots, he chomped down hard on a wedge of klaw. His jaw moved with vigour as he sought a quick hit of the stimulant it always delivered.

Kaxim swept away, shouting at more prone forms curled up in the narrow beds, and more drill sergeants advanced across the enormous tented hall.

Moments later, Killen found himself outside in the crisp cold of the wee morning.

He stumbled behind other cadets while they powered through a brutal circuit for the next three hours, led by Kione, Kaxim and their fellow Sābər Hawk trainers.

They started with numerous laps around the camp, followed by fast-paced jogs up and down the steep valley slopes and a series of excruciating muscle-building repetitions.

More of what Killen and his companion novices had endured these past weeks.

Their ears were subjected to loud teasing and ribald mockery from the camp’s kínduna generals, who stood nearby covered in thick feather cloaks.

Their breath formed misty clouds in front of their faces, giving them a ghoulish appearance in the gloomy first light.

As his body woke, Killen began to buzz, especially when the entire squad took to the air in a series of wind drills, which were his favourite.

He unfurled his vast rachís and found a gust, swooping in swift, agile flight with astonishing manoeuvrability.

Throughout his young adulthood, he’d mastered incredible aerial momentum on Devansi.

Even now, as a full-fledged warrior, he loved the thrill of high speed, and he pushed his skills, taking powerful, shallow beats interspersed with glides on the level sail, his aerofoils in a narrow V, pressing forward.

It didn’t take much urging for him to race his fellow warriors, and he was soon outstripping them in the air.

Later, muscles aching, skin torn and rubbed raw and famished after a night of excessive queasiness, he grinned to himself.

He’d survived another brutal experience, which was fokkin’ ecstatic.

Along with the other recruits, he lined up at camp’s mess kājān for a hearty meat and lentil stew, served with large chunks of bread and tankards of light beer.

A group of lancers who resembled the fierce giantess spear warriors guarding the commander’s tents doled out the meal.

At one point, Kaxim strode to the first table and leapt onto it, addressing the cadets. ‘Eat fast, hawks and eagles,’ he growled. ‘The afternoon is focused on assessing your sābər skills, so get a move on.’

After their repast, Killen and the recruits made their way west of the camp.

They all stepped into a sprawling, pitch-sized open arena that roared with the industrious orchestra of a fine-tuned force readying itself for battle.

‘Just like the Keste Nihb archers and Kaxuaraí lancers master their arrows and spears, you must soar like predators. To decimate the enemy and blade them before they’ve even figured out where the weapons came from is the Sābər hawks calling. You must dominate with your koyas. In fact, as the most elite wing of the army, we cannot never fail.’

Kione added. ‘We have to spin like a thousand sandstorms and race like a million white-throated needletails.’

One of the recruits raised a hand. ‘How so?’

Kione froze, whirled to face the young man, then squatted on the low, his sābər held above his head.

With a growl, he leapt, vaulting himself high into the air, spinning like a whirlwind, with his sābər thrusting left and right so fast. He was covered in a flurry of silver energy that infused the atmosphere with electricity, a display of his menacing potential.

With a final twist, the warrior floated back down to earth, his soles touching the ground without a sound.

His daunting leap had attracted the nearby squads in training, and they cheered profusely. Kione bowed his head in acknowledgement.

‘We begin our assessment by seeing how you handle your weapons.’

The commanders divided the forty-odd recruits into four groups and paced between them, studying how they used their koyas and positioned their wings, rachís, hands, and feet.

Kaxim worked with Killen’s quartet.

After watching Killen for a few minutes, the King’s armourer stepped in, clasping the Kíríga’s arms and shifting his body. ‘You extend the sābər koya toward your adversary and obstruct strikes from the opponent. You can use your íkan to elongate the long blade of the koya or for stabbing and slashing at the enemy’s chest and head.’

‘One quick strike from your sābər, using the shotel to block, is then followed by alternating the movement. Striking and impaling the sides, thighs and lower trunk while fending off the enemy. It’s a graceful dance between all limbs – both fore and back. The warrior who has mastered this technique is regarded as superior.’

‘Should be easy, right?’ Killen said with a small smile.

‘Is it? Perhaps we need a demonstration of your skills then, Killen of Kíjí Sable.’

Killen’s eyes narrowed at the open provocation. ‘Bring it on.’

Kaxim raised a brow. Are you sure, Kíríga? Before this multitude?

Killen’s eyes shuttered for a moment before he nodded, the older man appearing for a split second behind his eyes. Thehawkstonedemands it, butIam not surewhy.

Kaxim jerked his chin in comprehension.

His face coalesced into disdain. ‘A kujāa has sought to oppose the Commander in a rattling of sābərs. The challenge has been accepted!’

His baritone echoed like thunder across the valley.

The cry caught the attention of everyone within range. The sand pit emptied in seconds.

Word went round fast, and the crowd grew as warriors from all ends of the kambí soared in.

To witness an unprecedented match between the Commander-In-Charge and an unknown.

Kione stepped up as referee and ringmaster. ‘Let the clash begin!’ he bellowed.

Killen and Kaxim half-transmuted, keeping their human legs and upper body but transforming only to allow their wings to sprout on their backs.

Kione called. ‘Remember the basic rules of sābər hawk soaring. Try to stay at the centre of the sky. Do not go near its rim. The edges of air can be recognised by the appearance of ground, structures, sea, and trees. It is much more difficult to fly through such elements.’

Killen turned and subtly lifted his middle finger before turning back to his opponent.

He and Kaxim pulled their koyas from their napes and circled each other.

Kaxim, with his sābər, extended and tipped up.

Killen dipped even lower with his weapon.

Without warning, Killen pounced and spun to the right. Kaxim dodged his lunge and came at him with his flurried attack, the more burly Krypós warrior pointing his sābər towards Killen’s muscled thorax.

He twisted to the left and soared skyward.

Killen gazed down at the sanguine fluid dripping from the slice of skin Kaxim had taken from his chest.

‘First blood to the Commander!’ Kione called out.

The watching warriors bellowed as Killen studied his Krypós contender with wariness.

Kaxim whirled mid-air with a smirk on his face. ‘Does the kujāa yield?’

‘Never!’ Killen rasped.

An angry murmur arose from the troops.

‘A novice always yields when first blood is drawn,’ Kione advised.

‘I waive the precedent,’ Killen stated, swooping in. ‘I want the challenge to continue.’

All sound stilled.

Kaxim’s nostrils flared, but he jerked his chin. ‘One more round.’

Killen circled to the right, forced by Kaxim’s aerial speed.

Suddenly, images flowed from his hawkstone, not just visual but visceral, harkening to the soul. They were brutal and agonising, of wars that had passed and souls that had been ripped from their bodies in battle in this very same arena.

His unbidden reminiscing lost him time, and he only managed to dart to the away as Kaxim’s koya bore down on him and shredded in between the feathers of his wing.

Kíríga, keep your head on the mission. This is no time for daydreaming, Kaxim urged into his inner voice.

Killen shook his head, his silver hair flying about his crown.

He flung himself through the air, thrusting, stabbing and slashing.

Kaxim was, by far, the more trained of the pair. He blocked Killen’s blade with ease and poise, spinning around with such dizzying speed that he blurred against the sky.

He switched the sābər from his right to left hand and, with no warning, flung it at Killen.

It skyrocketed as the Kíríga wheeled to evade it. Thinking he’d missed it, he pivoted mid-air and wheeled to a stop, torso heaving.

Only to see a blur race his way.

Time slowed as he gaped at the koya hurtling toward him. Twas the same that Kaxim had launched at the start of the bout.

It powered through the sky, and for a moment, Killen lost sight of it as its golden íkan trails hid its glitter in the sun’s rays.

It whistled toward the half-Katánian, and his eyes widened, knowing he’d no chance of evading it.

It aimed at his chest and screeched with speed as it hurtled forward.

Kaxim called out, and the bristling weapon reached a total standstill, barbed with íkan tendrils. Its edge touched Killen’s skin with a feather-light touch.

His heart almost launched out of his breastbone as he stared at the weapon.

It inched further, and its sharp tip pressed ever so gently, releasing a single drop of blood.

Then it retreated at Kaxim’s growl, whistling back toward the Krypós eagle, who plucked it from mid-air.

‘Yield?’ Kaxim murmured with a lazy drawl.

Fokk,Killen thought. This was going to be more freakin’ tough than he’d imagined.

Twas clear that Kaxim and, indeed, many of the elite Sābər Hawks had skills beyond his comprehension.

Killen had only pushed for the contest to test himself, and with a bitter twist of his mouth, he gave himself a fail.

Killen glanced up as Kaxim’s mind voice spoke. We Sābər Hawks are trained to kill and drilled by iron discipline. Into a regiment of fearless militants who serve as the Sābər spearhead for every significant battle we engage in.

You don’t say,Killen grumbled.

I do say. Our motto is ‘Death by Sābər’, where our existence depends on being cut down or cutting down the enemy. We’ve spent decades training, sparring and sky-fighting. We’re battle-hardened warriors, the opposite of your self-taught knowledge, making you easy prey for our serrated sābər blades. Thank fokk we’re on your side Kíríga. The question is, what will you do about the skills that you lack?

Although this was not news to Killen, the words jarred him as his essence teetered and tumbled from its perch of confidence.

Even as his inner eye peeled back to the hereafter, it showed him how he was like a newborn when pitted against the finesse of Katánian warriors trained to control body, mind, soul and íkan from infancy.

Killen gazed out to the ebony mountain beyond. Its inky marble crevices and massive granite boulders towered over the landscape, black and barren, in stark contrast to the semi-desert below.

His hawkstone thrummed as it reached a tendril out towards the summit like it had since he’d landed on Katánē.

He fought off a rush of old dark power memories that threatened to pour down from its peaks, shaking off the lure of effortless power and easy skill.

He pulled back his hood with a growl and jerked his chin at Kaxim.

Bowing his head, he conceded, perspiration rolling down his face and upper arms, wariness visible in the slow fold of his wings.

‘I yield,’ he rasped, floating to the ground.

As did Kaxim, who was swamped with cheers and back-thumping hugs from his fellow Sābər Hawks and even the kujāas, in awe of his prowess.

Killen took in the scene, his breath hitching.

An arm wrapped around his shoulders, and he turned to see Kione watching him with a half smile. ‘Your ego bruised, Killen of kiji Sable?’

Killen narrowed his eyes at the man and, with a nod, drew him away from the other warriors.

‘I’m months away from being ready, that’s clear,’ he rasped. ‘It’ll take ages to learn what you know. Not in time to make a dent in this war, let alone lead our outnumbered army.’

Kaxim swooped in, coming to a stop before the pair. ‘If you think you’re too unimportant to make a difference,’ Killen’s First Armourer drawled, loping over, ‘then try sleeping on the edge of a dune with sand flies.’

‘Fokk off,’ Killen growled. ‘On a serious note, though, you schooled me. My pride’s taken a hit, I’ll have to admit.’

‘Your humility is your weapon,’ Kione interjected. ‘Realising you need training is a crucial step. It’s the cocky warriors who get cut down first. However, very few retain any swagger in battle when they realise how difficult it is to stay alive. That’s when they give in to full-blown panic – some will even abandon the fight and take to the hills.’

Killen sucked his teeth at the picture Kione painted. ‘Not my style, brother.’

‘You won’t know what you’ll do until you’re in the thick of it. When you face your greatest enemy, your terror, remember this: the warrior who faces his fear and sacrifices his life for the sake of those he loves wins the pre-eminent accolade. Like Khiron, the magnificent Eagle Commander, said, ‘The good were worthy of note because they battled, and that battle was a great story.’

‘I need fokkin’ good training from a master.’ Killen’s jaw was tight. ‘You two up for it?’

Both men exchanged a look. ‘Nada,’ Kaxim said. ‘Our calling is to protect you, not to teach you how to battle. While you can out-soar most, you require more expert guidance on the art of blades and sābər koya control.’

‘I can learn the íkan from you and train my metanoids myself,’ Killen insisted.

Kaxim shook his head. ‘The thing is, Kíríga, before you can use íkan and metanoids to defeat the enemy, you must comprehend the basics. With someone who breaks the rules to give you an advantage over the Sābər Hawk-trained warriors. We can ask around, see who fits the bill.’

Killen’s hawkstone flashed, heating with an overwhelming force that almost took his breath away.

He saw glimpses in his consciousness, sensing its unrelenting will.

He sucked his teeth in frustration. ‘Go ahead and find options, but I may already have one such master in mind.’