The Legacy of Dirty Birds

Give and Take

Harold Tarif was seventeen when his sword first tasted flesh. Its hair was matted with blood and grime, limbs gaunt and littered with scars. Its mouth was stuck open, teeth snarling, sharp, startling white against all the red when the rage left its eyes. That's what it was, rage, a sick but living form who, moments before, had wanted nothing but to kill and eat him. This time he'd won.

He'd hoisted the corpse over his shoulder, cringing under the feeling of wet seeping into his clothes, and brought it back to campus. His patron took a feather and made a quill from his catch. He remembered the cheers. He remembered celebration being pinned to his chest. He remembered the way he glowed in the eyes of others and the power it gave him. He was fixed on bouquet-renown that died too quickly and left its sharpened, dried, browned petals scattered on the floor. The taste of blood always leaves a man starving in a way that can never be satisfied.

He was grown when the next body arrived on his doorstep. A breathing, pale skinned one with no feathers. The toddler hid behind the leg of the cadet. Something about the way his big green eyes stared made Tarif want to smack him.

"Sir, we found him wandering around the armory, had this note in his hand." The cadet handed him a folded piece of paper.

The writing was messy and nearly intelligible, but even then Tarif could tell no child had written it.  It was addressed to whom who read it, keep the child, his name is Calum. Nothing more. His blood started to boil.

"I don't have time for this, put up a missing child poster. This is military school not an orphanage."

The cadet pulled off his helmet and held it to his chest. "We have sir. He's been with us for three weeks. We've scoured all of Colliste trying to find where he came from. The boy hasn't been able to remember anything useful."

"Doesn't remember..." Tarif's upper lip curled as he stared down at the boy, who watched him still. "Fine. Find a maid who'll take him."

The first one was a lady named Martha who lived in the castle's servant quarters and worked in the kitchen. The second was Gertrude from the laundry room. Then it was Darlene the Hunt groundskeeper. The mysterious, guardian-less boy was passed around to those who could care for him. He spent a year here, maybe two there, a summer with the chef, one winter with a palace servant. Then Tarif came knocking. He wore the red-striped uniform of a Patron, leaned on a cane and limped with every step.

"Good afternoon Patron, he's all packed and ready to go." The maid who met with him said.

For Calum at age eleven, packed, meant he carried his panpipes and toy sword in a pillow sack. The clothes he had on were too big. He still had a nervous edge to him, like a feral kitten, and didn't say a word on the carriage ride to the Black Hunt Barracks. He never made eye contact. Tarif still wanted to smack him.

"All those years with maids and you were never taught manners, I shouldn't have expected so much." His tone was thick with disdain.

The boy looked glanced up, eyes wide. "Sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."

"Sorry sir. I didn't mean to be rude, sir."

"Sorry sir," he repeated.

Tarif watched him, the buzz of annoyance roared in his ears. Calum stared at the floor. His shoes were worn and dirty. Tarif's were black and polished. It remined Calum of beetle shells.

"You'll be a respectable young man soon." Tarif sighed, and watched the scenery pass by the window. "The Black Hunt is one of the finest educations a boy can get. Don't let me catch you taking those blessings for granted, you're just lucky, you haven't earned your place here yet."