Aryu began to run, but stopped. “Wait… What if it goes sideways?”
Johan didn’t care for the sudden pessimism but knew where it came from. They were far too close not to think of a backup plan. “The village,” Johan answered. “The one from yesterday. The bar with the electronic spouts.”
Aryu nodded. He remembered how startled he’d been when he saw those lights along the kegs. Was he really about to fly into this nightmare when a beer spout had rattled him so much?
His supplies in hand and treasure on his back, Aryu gave one last wave and then began to run with his wings folded behind him. As he reached a gully farther down the road, his abnormally large and powerful back muscles flexed and the wings stretched out beside him, catching the wind as he headed into it. In moments, his feet lifted off the ground. His wings began to arch and bend in long strokes like a kite picking up speed. His body began stretching out behind him, and after a moment of apparent weightlessness, he gave one huge twist with his wings, which took his whole body upwards. He bent himself forward like the demon he was rumored to be, gliding with the wind, and then dove slightly to gain speed. He couldn’t ‘fly’ like a bird, his body was too heavy, but he had mastered controlled gliding as soon as he was strong enough. From there it was only a matter of mastering the techniques that allowed him to move forward and gain altitude if conditions permitted. His friend looked after him until he was no more than a speck in the distant sky.
Johan re-shouldered his pack and stepped back up to the road. He checked what remained of Aryu's pack, taking whatever he thought he might need.
Where in the name of The Great God of Dragons did that damn sword come from? Johan thought with jealousy. He saw in one quick glance that it was a well-made weapon, just like his knife.
He began down the road at a brisk pace, already regretting the decision to add what little Aryu had to his overloaded pack. His best friend was a man with wings. At some point, he should stop being surprised with the details of life.
Chapter 4
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The Face of the Enemy
Nixon of the Great Fire and Ash, or just Nix to his few friends, emerged from the poorly lit bar with the excellent draft sometime after midnight. Or, at least, he assumed it was midnight. The truth was he'd been away so long that he could no longer rely on the moon and stars to aid him while seeking his whereabouts.
The old man had spoken in great detail about an item Nix was interested in, but the big man was upset early into the conversation to find out that the item the spirited old man wished to speak of was not the one he'd hoped. Still, it was as good a place as any to start.
With the conversation over, the information shared and the deal to never appear to the old man again sealed and honored, he secured the beastly sword on his back and began down the road and out of this town to where the man had said he'd find it.
“The place you seek is a small village to the southeast of here,” he'd told him. “The pup who took it was out on his blood-quest, a mission to manhood favored by many in those lands. “It's all a load of fart in a wind to me. I'd say it takes more than a little hike to make a man, eh? Well, a normal man anyway, which you, my ridiculous demon-friend, are most certainly not.”
Well, he was part right in that at least. Nixon was by no means a man, but he was most certainly not a demon either. Had the old man not been so bold and so damned likeable in Nix's eyes, it's safe to say his constant references to Nix as a demon would have seen him smash the old goat’s face in. Nix was no demon, but he was also not the nicest of God's creations, and it's true that he often found violence to be a needed friend if the situation had called for it.
Nixon of the Great Fire and Ash was most definitely one of God's creations from a time when God was more than just a man. From a time when God was a god.
That God was long gone from this place, this world, and its peoples. Most never even knew of that deity, only of his purge, the so-called ‘First Fall of Man.’ They only knew of the one they had called God. Nixon knew better than any alive, even those that had beaten time and lived far longer than a person should, that their deity was just a man. A mortal too lost to go home again.
Nix had been around, in one form or another, for just as long. He might even say longer, but he'd spent so many years and so much time chasing his target that he could remember nothing that came before that, provided there was anything to remember. He assumed there was. He assumed there had to be the great Power and deadly beasts that needed his disposal before the time of the false god. There had to be, didn't there?
It sometimes upset the fire-haired man-thing to know that his existence had become nothing more than being the janitor to what he considered mankind’s greatest mistake. No man born of woman was to possess the kind of power the false god did. It was too unstable, too unpredictable, and too reckless to let him continue on the way he did.
It wasn't Nixon’s place to criticize. His
