13
The blonde man turned to face Davis. The air was hot and
every breeze was full of dust. Davis swayed a little on his feet. He was
acutely aware that he was probably going to die soon. Hell, he may already be
dying. The amount of blood he was losing from his shoulder wound was startling.
Davis stood his ground. He was not afraid. If this was
finally his moment to die he would go fighting.
Elven smiled. His snarl revealing too much of his teeth. He
raised the broken sword, mirroring Davis’s stance.
This was it, the end. Davis didn’t have much strength left. It
required an enormous force of will just to keep his sword up. His hand had
begun to tremble.
The blonde man’s malicious smile widened when he saw this.
This made him look quite insane.
“Well, what know?” Elven asked.
Davis had no answer. He cocked his revolver. Elven took a
step forward. Davis nearly stumbled taking a step back. The steel of the broken
blade flashed.
With blurred speed the blonde man moved to the left. Davis’s
gun hand followed with nearly the same inhuman speed. He was operating purely
on instinct now. There was no time to think. Davis stayed his hand. He didn’t
fire. Greene moved, closing the distance and raised the broken sword. Its blade
shone brilliantly. Davis drew back his own sword. His revolver still leveled.
Davis and Elven thrust their blades forward at the same
moment. Each man aiming for the other man’s heart. The broken blade moved far
too fast. Too fast to even see. In the split moment before the broken blade
entered Davis’s chest he fired the final shot. The Revolver roared, aimed directly
at Elven’s face.
The broken blade moved to stop the round. So fast. Not even a
blur of steel this time. The round should have struck just above the blonde
man’s right eye. Instead it made a loud metallic snapping sound as it bounced
off the broken blade.
The moment the round ricocheted Davis’s blade entered the
Blonde man’s chest. His strike was fast and true. The broken blade flashed once
more. It came down on Davis’s blade, shattering it. Davis fell back.
14
It was too late. Elven Greene looked down in horror. Four
inches of Davis’s sword were buried in his chest. Two more inches of blade were
sticking out like a metal tongue. He took a step back.
With a great effort Davis sat up, the broken remains of his
own sword still in his hand. Elven took another step back. A strange, low
gurgling sound now coming from him. As Davis stood up he dropped Lee’s empty
revolver. He brought his hand up to this shoulder wound and nearly screamed as
he applied pressure. He pressed his palm firmly against the open wound.
The blonde man looked at him. He looked at Davis’s broken
sword, the expression of horror still on his face. He stepped back again and
tried to raise his weapon. He couldn’t.
His arm fell to his side and the broken sword slipped from
his fingers. The weapon fell to the hot dirt.
The moment the sword had left his hand the wound in the
blonde man’s chest started bleeding, darkening his shirt. He coughed and blood
began to spill from his mouth.
“How… did-?” Elven asked, coughing blood. His hand came up to
touch the blade protruding from his chest. The horror on his face now mixed
with pain and fear. His voice no longer hollow. No longer coming from
everywhere.
Davis did not answer. His own breathing was now shallow and
labored. He had been right. This was the end. After so long, the hunt was
finally over.
The two men stood facing each other. Alone in the wastelands.
The town of Lock at their back. The hot breeze swelled for a moment and then
receded. The relentless sun above looking down at them both. The face of the
blonde man cleared. The look of pain seemed to drain away. He looked at Davis
for a long moment. No anger in his eyes. Or hate or malice. There was nothing
but his gaze. Steady in this heat.
The blonde man fell back. A small plume of dust rose as he
hit the hard ground. He lay there in a widening pool of his own blood. His eyes
looked absently up at
the sky. Elven Greene was dead.
Davis let out a sigh. The pain made it hard to breath. The
sweat against his forehead felt cold. Finally over. Finally done. He was dying.
But at least now in death he would be free of the wizard. At least there was
that. He gave his small smile at the thought. He dropped his shattered sword.
His bloody hand fell from his shoulder.
Davis looks up at the sky. It is vast, with not a cloud to
break up its blue emptiness. The sun beats down relentlessly. He falls forward,
onto the hard ground. He passes into a darkness. And in the darkness he can
hear his father’s voice.
15
Far above and to the north of the town of Lock, an eagle
soars. Its large and powerful wings catch the thermals and propel him upward
with almost no effort. Its dark, golden feathers glint in the harsh glow of the
desert sun. His gaze is sharp and his eyes see far. In the distance there is a
bull grazing in a small patch of yellow grass near a solitary house in the
outskirts of Lock. Being so near a town is dangerous. But the eagle is hungry.
And a predator will not be denied its prey.
The eagle beats its massive wings and shifts its tail to
change its direction. It then folds its wings and dives. It cuts easily through
the hot dusty air. Like a giant feathery bullet it finds its mark. At the last moment it opens its wings and flashes its talons. The long, black blades sink into the
tough neck of the bull. The eagles weight drives the bull to the ground. It
sinks its talons deeper. The bull is dead before it knows what hit it.
The eagle begins to eat its catch. Tearing strips of beef
using its curved, razor sharp beak. Hearing the commotion the man in the house
comes out. Crossbow in hand. The eagle looks at the man wearily. As he
approaches the great bird opens its wings and lets out a piercing shriek. A
warning. The old farmer is stunned. He hasn’t seen an eagle that big since he
was a small boy hiking through the mountains with his father. There had been
more eagles back then.
The farmer moved away. The bull had been about ready for
slaughtering anyway and it was a little too big for the eagle to carry it home.
He would let the eagle eat its fill and fly away. He would then skin the bull,
gut it and cure the meat. It would be worth it just to watch this giant animal
for a little while. The man sat, remembering tales of the first settlers to
come out of the main provinces into the wastelands. Back then, every so often
an eagle would swoop down and snatch up an unsuspecting traveler off the road,
leaving behind nothing more than a pack or a shoe or a wagon. Great winged
devils they had called them. Eventually, almost all had been hunted down and
killed. The only surviving eagles had been driven into the mountains. Sometimes
a winged devil egg would be found and large parties and celebrations would be
held. With giant omelets as the center piece of the feast. It would take three
strong men to flip the oversized omelet in a skillet nearly the size of a small
bathtub. The last such party had been a been before the old famers times. But
everyone liked to tell the stories.
These gold eagles were a little bigger than the white eagles
of the old kingdoms. But, unlike those, the gold eagles could not be trained to
carry a man. They were to smart. They were dangerous. As far as the farmer knew,
no man had ever ridden a gold eagle. Although many had tried and more than a
few had had their eyes pecked out or worse.
The great bird ate its fill. After it was done it looked at
the old man. It seemed to be considering him. Then after a moment it beat its
great wings and once more took to the sky. It used the rising warm air of the thermals
to gain altitude easily and headed for its home. The old farmer watched it
until it was gone from sight. He smiled.
He produced a knife and, still smiling, got to work skinning
the bull. It looked like steak for dinner tonight.
