Aeries could be rebuilt; the future was much more difficult to replace.
Rendel could care less for his captors’ war. All he wanted was what the leader had taunted him with since his arrival. Just beyond the circle of bird people watching over his questioning were the towering and seductive effigies he had discovered in his research. How ironic that they should stand as silent monitors of the Vraad’s torture. There was power in this cavern, power more ancient than that of the birds. They understood that, somewhat, and he knew that they had been attempting to both utilize what they had found and also locate the original home of those who had created this edifice within the mountain. It lay across a vast expanse of water, however, and so they had no way of knowing how their explorers were doing. He already knew that the overlord was growing impatient. The avian leader had already taken out his frustration on the prisoner twice.
When they were finished with feeding and watering him, he repeated his question. “What do you need me for?”
One of the other avians, an elder by the looks of his balding form, cocked his head so that one eye was focused on the leader and squawked at him for several seconds. The overlord’s reply was short and succinct. It was also unnerving. The others instantly knelt, spreading their wings, smoothing their feathers, and cocking one eye earthward, essentially showing their trust in the leader by making themselves blind to his presence. He could have struck any of them down. It was a sign of submission, of course. Submission to whatever plan he had… hatched, Rendel though wryly. A plan that the sorcerer was evidently an integral part of.
He had an inkling of what it was even before the overlord reestablished contact. Unlike most times, Rendel now welcomed communication. It might be his only path to freedom.
Images of his clan, especially a bird’s view of the most dangerous, a huge monster that Rendel knew could only be his father. The imprisoned spellcaster relayed an image of his own. His father as a leader. His father as a sorcerer of great strength. His father as an adversary who would crush the avians’ bodies beneath his boots and plant the dragon banner in their blood-smeared chests.
From the earsplitting shrieks that filled the cavern and echoed until Rendel thought he would go deaf, he gathered that the entire aerie knew what he had told the leader.
A new image was directed back at him with such force that Rendel nearly passed out. It showed the Tezerenee scattered about the landscape, their bloody corpses all that remained of the once-proud clan. The dragon banner still stood, but this time it protruded from a gaping hole in the throat of the patriarch himself.
“A pretty picture,” Rendel choked, “but not so easily accomplished.”
Now it was his own image that appeared in his thoughts. He stood a free man, one working beside those of the aerie, unlocking the mysteries of the ancient lords. The avians’ discoveries were his to share. He saw himself seated in a vast citadel of his own, a massive manor partly built, partly grown from the soil. It already existed, a ruined artifact from an even older race than theirs that the bird people had rebuilt to greater glory. It only lacked a master.
They wanted him to betray his clan again, to lead the Tezerenee into a trap in which they would perish to the man. In return, Rendel would receive his heart’s desire… his own domain and the secrets he had sought for upon crossing to this world.
Not for one moment did the captive sorcerer believe he would ever live to see the day of reward. They might let him live long enough to aid them in their attempts to understand the talismans of the long-dead race, but Rendel would never see the domain they had promised him.
Nonetheless, he nodded his head in agreement, hoping they understood the movement. Apparently they did, for there was a sense of approval from the leader, who removed his hand from the Vraad’s face and signaled once more to the two females who had fed the prisoner. Another avian, a tall male, undid the bonds that held him to the wall and caught him as he collapsed. The females took him by the arms, surprisingly strong for being so much smaller, and carried him from the council. He assumed that was what he had faced.
They brought him to a mat and assisted him as he slowly lay down on it. It was soft, so very soft. Every bone in the Vraad’s body screamed as he moved. He would, he thought, be very stiff when he awoke… if he ever did.
When he had settled, the two females left. They were replaced immediately by four others, one carrying a bowl. Despite his sparse meal, Rendel was not hungry; he wanted only to sleep for the rest of eternity.
Two avians stood on each side of him now. The one with the bowl held it out to the others, who reached in and scooped out a thick soup substance that dripped all over his prone figure.
“Dragon’s blood! Watch where you’re dripping that muck!” What were they going to do?
When all four had a handful of the substance, they poured it on his naked form and began rubbing. Weakened as he was, the sorcerer struggled in vain against their combined might. The avians were quite capable of going about their task with one hand while holding him down with the other. With this method, they massaged his body from top to bottom.
There was no feeling of arousal, not when a talon reminded him now and then what his half-closed eyes could only vaguely still make out… that his companions were not human, but a vicious race of bird people. What they did, he realized as consciousness began to slip away, was necessary if the spellcaster wanted to be able to move when he woke. The massage and the substance, combined together, had already eased some of the pain. It made sense; his captors hardly had the time to wait for his recovery, not if he knew his father. The patriarch, once alerted to the presence of enemies, would not rest until they were beaten. The birds, meanwhile, hoped for a quick and treacherous victory, with their willing prisoner as the key.
Rendel’s last conscious thoughts, concerning what he would do when the time came, left a smile on his face long after he fell asleep.
The golems continued to stagger toward them, like unliving horrors from a nightmare. Xiri had her knife out and was muttering something under her breath.
What were the golems doing here? How had they crossed the violent seas?
“These…” the elf finally managed. “These are what I saw! What are they?”
“Golems.” He watched one fall, then right itself. After a moment, Dru realized that they did not walk as the blind in an unfamiliar place, but rather as children did who were not quite used to walking. The Vraad recalled his own daughter’s first steps and how similar these were. The uneven ground certainly did not help.
There was something else, though. No matter what direction that golems came from, they all stared toward the same location, as if drawn by a great treasure.
“Xiri! Take my hand!”
He was pleased when she did not question his action. Cautiously, the sorcerer walked toward an area where there was somewhat of a gap between the faceless horde. “Be ready for anything!”
Dru allowed the golems to continue on unhindered, only making certain that he and the elf were not directly in the path of any of them. As he had surmised, they steered, not toward the two intruders but rather in the direction of the rift.
Xiri choked back a gasp as one of the robed creatures brushed her backside on its trek toward the tear. “They do not want us at all!”
“No. They want what lies beyond the tear.”
“You called them golems. You recognized them.”
The last of the unnerving figures had stumbled past them. The first were nearly at the rift. The fascinated sorcerer released the elf’s hand and took a step toward the line of steadily moving figures. “We made them. The Tezerenee, that is. I worked with them, though. These were supposed to be our new bodies when our ka shifted to this world. We could touch the land here-the shrouded realm, as I called it-but not physically cross.”
“Then, these are your people.” She shifted the blade, debating whether to throw it or not. Her skin was even paler than before.
Dru shook his head and started back toward the tear. Now that he knew the golems did not want him, he was curious as to what they sought. “No, those aren’t Vraad. They would look like me, if they were.”
“Then what are they?”
“I think we should follow and see.” Whatever his feelings toward the citadel on the hill, they were secondary now.
“You know,” she said, lowering but not sheathing the knife, “that they must be what the guardians feared.”
