Chapter 28

Chapter 28

‘We raise a glass to your honour. Kuvu!’

The table at the íkhara’s dining hall overflowed with platters of hearty food.

The air was filled with the aroma of warm bread, savoury meats, and the distinct scent of hoppy brew.

A fat cauldron on a sideboard held a bubbling soup alongside a giant keg.

Dusk filtered gold and orange shards of light into the kíota’s dining room, where five figures sat around the central elongated table.

Killen, Kione, Sana’a, Kaxim and Kultur.

The older man rose from his seat with a rare smile.

‘Now that the Kíríga has finalised the most crucial aspects of his koya training, I called for a kervisia, an íkan-infused beer ceremony, to commemorate this auspicious event.’

With a flourish, he served tankards of spirit packed with golden tendrils in smooth mugs carved with intricate designs depicting scenes of ancient Katánian myths.

The frothy amber liquid poured with reverence, now swirled with an almost magical quality.

The keeper of the kíota raised his stein and brandished it.

‘Kuvu!’ He bellowed, then slugged back his portion.

Killen, Kione, Sana’a and Kaxim repeated the chant and downed their drinks.

The Kíríga welcomed its mellow flavour with a slight bitterness, savouring its deep, hoppy, complex notes that lingered on the tongue.

It took a few gulps, and he’d swallowed the lot.

Slamming back the mug onto the table, he grinned.

‘More?’ Kultur invited.

Killen gave him a narrowed gaze and a severe glare.

Then his face split into a sudden smirk. ‘Of course, who wouldn’t say yes to more of that fokkin’ amazing brew? I’ve never sampled anything so blissful.’

‘Like an offering to the heavens,’ Kaxim growled with a grin, in a rare show of enjoyment,

‘A delightful haze of malt and barley, steeped in the rich history of a timeless beverage,’ Kione added.

Sana’a rolled her eyes. ‘You Katánians speak from your ass sometimes, and the poetry streak especially comes out when tipsy, I’ve noticed.’

‘Fokk off, Shotelai, you who lives life with such blunt focus, it’s a wonder your weapons cut. How could one not be poetic about kervisia’s complex flavours that burst on the tongue with each sip? How could you not fall in love with the bitterness of the hops, the sweetness of the malts and the refreshing effervescence mingled together in perfect harmony?’

‘How can you not stop yourself from waxing lyrical and spewin’ bull with every word you say?’ Sana’a clapped back.

Kione crowed, thumping his thigh. ‘Shotelai, you are a force of poetic nature that I’ll be keeping well away from.’

‘Sir, I don’t know about you,’ Sana’a drawled, ‘but whenever you open your mouth, it seems to change whichever foot was just there.’

Kaxim grunted. ‘Oh, she burns.’

‘She flames,’ Sana’a shot back, enjoying herself.

Kultur smiled like a proud father as he oversaw the pouring of more kervisia.

The quartet lost themselves in the rhythmic clinking of glasses and the heartfelt warmth of camaraderie, a celebration of companions connected by a common cause.

Killen savoured the moment.

He leaned back with a half smile, taking in the murmured conversation and the occasional laughs.

It was rewarding to have reached this milestone, and he treasured the reprieve this night gave him from the heavy onus of duty.

Betters till he was surrounded by friends and, even more so, the woman who kept blowing his mind, day and night.

Sana’a was seated by his side.

He stared at the nape of her neck, one of his favourite parts of her body, wishing right now to be inside her, loving her, head buried in that sweetest of spots.

Hissing to control his unbidden hardening, he reached for her hand under the table and gave it a quick squeeze.

She did the same, keeping her hand in his as he stroked a finger on her skin.

Life was righteous,he thought. Nothing could beat this feeling.

He swigged his second stein of beer, then jolted.

His vision blurred and doubled again, accompanied by an intense burning throughout.

A woozy sensation came over him. His limbs weakened as if hit with a shot of pure lethargy.

He stared at his beer mug, and for a second, his hawkstone flashed, revealing the streaks of dark poison laced through the swirling gold bubbles of the liquid within.

A second lurch of panic hit him, and he attempted to stand up but stumbled back onto his seat.

He just managed to groan a warning as his lips lost the ability to form words.

He struggled to glance up, his head moving ever so slow as Kultur eased away from the group, edging towards the open windows of the kíota.

Sana’a leaned over him as if moving in slow motion. He tried to say something to her, but his mouth refused to comply.

With a groan, he fought to slip out of the grasp of the cloying gloom he was being pulled into.

Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Kultur leap into the air and unfurl his wings.

You’ll thank me later from the depths of hell,the keeper of the kíota whispered into his neural node before rushing into the darkness. Or perhaps never.

Sana’a appeared to float to her feet, flinging a blade after the fast-disappearing kāugur.

One caught up to him and sliced through his back wing, shearing it.

He wheeled around with a screech of pain, shouting an íkantation into the wind.

A dark shroud formed from thin air and descended over the fleeing traitor.

The mass congealing and twisting in on itself turned into a replacement pinion, dripping with murky tendrils.

With triumph in his eyes, Kultur stroked away.

Killen’s eyelids fell, too heavy to keep open.

A commotion sounded in the distance as Kaxim rushed to the edge of the kíota and raced into the air to give chase.

He choked.

Kione’s arms came around him, keeping him upright even as he gagged.

Sana’a’s urgent, complex, commanding voice pierced the cloudiness of his mind. Her hands slapped at his face until his eyes fluttered ajar. ‘Killen! You’ve got a poison in you that none of us can cure. Use your freakin’ headlight to counter the venom. Do it now!’

The urgency in her utterance jolted him and cut through the fog.

With a groan, he sent a command to hawkstone to summon waves of kσχύς íkan to his aid.

He sensed its surge toward the dark tendrils, the light washing over him like a tsunami, fighting the rising tide of kízakan in his sinews.

The two powers surged against each other, battling, clashing, and lost in their ancient affray.

He inhaled as his lodestone suddenly activated his kemí, the breath of life from deep within its lungs.

He discerned it draw alongside the kσχύς, searing away at the kíza.

His body rose into the air, back curved tight like a bowstring as the agony raced through him, causing him to crash to the floor once more, his limbs thrashing.

Yet, at the edge of his consciousness, he perceived Sana’a and Kione looking on with horror. In the distance, Kaxim’s essence tracked back through the skies, chasing after the traitor.

His hawkstone flashed as it battled to save him. The two energies worked to keep him breathing surged, then with a more resounding, shuddering gasp of oxygenated kemí, the kσχύς cut through, healing him just enough to keep him from tipping over into Hades.

He slumped back to the floor, landing with a heavy thud even as oblivion enveloped him.

The malicious íkantation potion almost overwhelmed Killen.

Although the kemí and kσχύς within him prevailed, keeping him just alive, the last tendrils of kízakan were stubbornly fighting back, turning his skin a sickly shade of greenish-grey.

His hawkstone kept his consciousness alive, and his veins bulged with the battle raging in his sinew and arteries.

So weakened was he that it took Kaxim and Kione to carry him to his room in the kíota.

Where Sana’a attended to him, her care and tenderness unceasing.

His laboured breathing filled the air. Accompanied by a rasped cough as his body struggled to expel the poison.

The eerie silence that followed each hacking croak was a haunting reminder of how close he was to death.

It was as if he’d swallowed a flaming serpent. Which coiled and writhed in his throat. Its venom seared through his veins like molten steel, a suffocating and agonising demise that was all-consuming.

It was seeping out but taking its time to do so.

However, his hawkstone delivered a miracle in just twenty-four hours, fighting fiercely against the last of the dark, pulsing energy.

It took him a day to sit up and eat and another for the hawkstone to cleanse him entirely, but he still sensed a weakness in his body.

However, the worst was over. It was as if a raging storm had been quelled, a turbulent sea calmed.

The third day since the poisoning was when he realised how much he adored Sana’a’s eyes.

How he longed for her gentle hands as they smoothed a cool cloth over his feverish forehead.

He reached for the fall of her hair, which cascaded down her shoulders like silk, while she fed him soups and teas to nourish his weakened body.

He tracked a finger along the soft smile gracing her lips as she soothed him.

He clung to her voice, a soothing melody that lulled him to sleep and whispered words of comfort and reassurance.

Even the gentle tread of her boots and the clink of trays as she tended to him brought a sense of normalcy and safety to his world.

With each touch, she infused him with a new vitality and renewed hope and purpose. It was a healing balm for his aching heart.

‘Sante, khany’s,’ he rasped when his scalded throat allowed him to speak.

‘I’m just ensuring we don’t lose another good king.’

He caught the emotion in her eyes and a sheen of tears that moved him.

He thanked her with kisses pressed into the palm of her hand.

‘What of Kultur?’ he grated.

‘Don’t worry about him now, love. Rest, Kaxim is taking care of him.’

With a ragged sigh, he laid back in bed. The fear and horror of his close death experience he’d been holding back slammed into him.

His limbs trembled.

Sana’a must have caught it because she leaned over him and placed a hand on his shaking shoulder.

‘You survived. You healed yourself.’

‘It could have gone either way,’ he rasped.

She pulled back and aimed her unusual diamond-flecked eyes at him. ‘For a mere mortal perhaps, but not you. What’s your name?’ she whispered.

His brow furrowed, confused. ‘Killen Sable.’

She shook her head and leaned in.

‘I’m not just Sana’a. I am Sana’a - first daughter of the Selassie and Sinqueda,’ she paused for a second before completing her nomenclature. ‘Of the Siltan Clan of the Seven Wonders of Shotel. I am also the much feared Switchblade, a ‘shikari’ - a SHärd-blader, a slayer of drákons and a dagger woman. So again, I ask you, my love, what is your name?

His eyes flashed with understanding. ‘Killen, son of K’Elisa Djan and Riv Sable. The Kíríga - the rightful King of the Katánē, the Titan of Raptors, the wearer of the hawkstone, the reincarnation of the Thunder Eagle, and the Kaɪˈmɪərə Sābər Hunter, Storm Pale.’

‘A mouthful?’ Sana’a teased.

‘Tis,’ he rasped.

‘Never forget who you are, Kíríga, and what you can accomplish. You stared death in the face, and now you walk towards the sun with the shadows behind you. Fear has no right taking strides alongside you.’

He shut his eyes, her words nourishing his soul. ‘Grateful.’

They shared a long gaze packed with meaning.

With a smile, he pulled her close and pressed his lips to hers

When their kisses changed into passion and panting, she leant back with a smile and a shake of her head.

‘You’re better now, Kíríga. That’s a relief. But you’re still in no shape for what you’ve in mind.’

‘Nada, I’m a beast and hard for you, khany’s,’ he groaned. ‘Let me show you how good I’m feeling. Come here,’ he growled, a flash of energy rushing through him.

He wanted more than a chaste embrace, but he wasn’t fast enough to catch her as she darted away to the rumble of his quiet laugh.

Fokk, he adored her.