Whispers on the Wind: The City of Clouds

Part 2: The Cave

The chill had infiltrated the small cave, but at least it provided respite from the wind. The steam of my breath lingered in the air, as I stymied the bleeding from Hirk’s wounds. His breathing was shallow, and the beatific look in his eyes caused concern within me. He had the look of one who had accepted death already.

“Who... are you?” he asked.

I was evaluating the rear of the cave. A slim crevice dove deep into the mountain. A strange scent was emanating from its depths.

“My name is Seryn-Jer, of Shorvor.”

“Your skill... how did you... a girl...”

My cloak was rigid with frost, and would provide us little warmth. As I had never encountered a Netreptan before, I had no idea whether the wounds or the cold would kill him first. I eased next to his long body.

“A sword is as deadly in a girl’s hands as a man’s, if the heart is that of a warrior. I consider myself a hêtar, a swordsman without a lord.”

“Why... are you here?”

The cold was seeping through us both, like a spectral assassin. In the cave mouth I could see the snow flakes pirouetting like tiny dancers. There were hints of shapes, of figures within the constant swirls of the blizzard.

I could see my father, resplendent in his ceremonial armour. Its crimson bands were like a wound in the flesh of the world. His skin, once tanned and warm, had the hue of ice. Yet he was mouthing words to me, calling from beyond the grave.

“What? What do you want from me?” I asked.

Hirk looked at me in confusion. “I’m sorry... I meant no insult.”

By my father’s side stood my brother. His neck was a vivid red rent. The blood had frozen into a crimson curtain. He did not call to me, but rather stared, pleaded.

“I brought dishonour to our family—it was not my place to avenge you. It was not my duty,” I cried.

My words were shrill in the cave. It was as if another spoke them, and I looked upon the scene from above.

A ragged wing draped over me. Hirk was trying to conserve our warmth. The grate of my fractured collar bone sent pain stabbing through my neck.

“It is... the kiss of the... mountain, Seryn-Jer,” Hirk said. “Reject its caress... focus your mind... elsewhere.”

His feathers were warm and soft on my face. His sense of peace, of hope, trickled over my heart. My mind wandered.

“The smell, the sweet odour at the rear of the cave, what is it?”

“Honey-mould. It is a fungus... that grows in the black roots... of the mountain, in the caves... below us.”

I smiled. “Honey? What I would give now for the honeyed wine that marks the onset of summer in Shorvor. Do you drink such things in your eyries?”

Hirk was quiet. I could see his head lolling. Sleep was one step from death in this place. I jabbed him with my elbow.

“Eyries? We... not eyries, not nests... we live in a city... high in the clouds.”

“Far above the cares of the land? Would that I could live to see such a thing, to escape from the turmoil of my days.”

His voice was a whisper. “There is time in this life... or the next.”

The numbness had pervaded every part of me. I could no longer feel my broken shoulder. This was no death for a warrior, yet this was not a foe I could conquer.

My father and brother had dissipated into the blizzard, yet I fancied that other shapes had taken their place. Tall, refined, all awkward angles and jagged edges.

Hirk’s breath dwindled against my skin. My eyes drifted shut.

(c) Ross M KItson 2012