by William Broom
in Issue 96, January 2020
Five men stood around the oracle, each of them covered by thick leather from head to toe. Their gloves, coats, boots and hoods were all of a single piece, to protect them from the luminescent vapours rising from the fissure in the chamber’s floor. Across their mouths were strips of gauze to filter the air they breathed.
The oracle wore only a simple blue dress, and her face was uncovered. She drew in a deep breath, and her eyes rolled back in her head. The prophecy was about to begin.
Andras was sweating like a pig inside his suit. There was no reason, he thought, that he had to be here for the prophecy. He could be outside, soaking up the equatorial sun, and the alchemists’ work would proceed just the same. But protocol stated that he had to be in the room, to verify that there was no chance of contamination.
The oracle began to shake. One of the alchemists moved forward to hold her so she would not fall. The spasm climbed up from her legs, to her arms, to her mouth, where it spilled out in the form of words. She groaned: “He shall bring about the downfall of his own house…” and fell limp.
A cloud of fog, brighter and thicker than the rest of the vapours, billowed out from her mouth. This was the prophecy. One of the alchemists pumped on the bellows machine to create a vacuum inside it. Another one held up the hose and the prophecy was sucked into the machine.
“Got it,” said Bezoar, the senior alchemist. “You two clean up in here.”
His assistants would re-seal the crack in the floor and then take the oracle back to her chambers to recover. Meanwhile, Andras and Bezoar wheeled the bellows machine out of the room, up a sloping corridor and into the laboratory.
“Phew,” said Andras, peeling off his hood. “Hot as Hades’ armpit in there.” He ran a hand through his thick black hair, wiping away the sweat.
“Try wearing it for six or seven hours straight, then you can complain,” Bezoar replied. With long practised motions, he hooked up the bellows machine to his distillation equipment. First he opened the valve and let the gaseous prophecy flow into a sealed glass beaker. Next he poured a mixture of rose water and ink into the beaker and shook it until the prophecy became infused into the liquid. By heating the liquid he was able to distill it down to a concentrated form. Now it was safe to open the beaker to the air.
Bezoar took out a sheet of paper and a quill. “He shall bring about the downfall of his own house. That was the correct wording, yes?”
Andras nodded. Bezoar dipped the quill into the solution and wrote the words out on the paper. Then he folded the paper once and slipped it inside a leather wallet. “You’re good to go,” he said. “Just a half-dozen forms to sign.”
Twenty minutes later, Andras was outside in the courtyard of Oracle West, putting on his feather cloak. Bezoar handed him the prophecy and he tucked it safely into his travel sack.
“Fly safe,” said Bezoar.
Andras took the corners of the feather cloak in his hands and flapped his arms slowly. After a moment, he began to rise into the air. Soon the temple complex of Oracle West fell away below him. Beyond its high walls were the streets of a seaside town. A few mortals peered out of windows or glanced up from fishing boats as Andras flew overhead. Most hardly spared him a glance, though. A Fate Agent flying with a feather cloak was nothing new for these people. They thought of the alchemists as an esoteric cult, and the flying men as some kind of divine messengers. Few of them had any idea that the work done at Oracle West was vital to maintaining the entire world in which they lived.
Not for the first time, Andras felt a sense of paternal warmth toward the ignorant masses below him. Without me, he thought, your lives would be a cavalcade of chaos that you cannot even imagine. The town shrank as he rose higher, and the coastline of the great peninsula spread out before him, until it was obscured by clouds.
* * *
Cassimede sighed and rubbed her temples. For the fifth time that afternoon, she took out the leather envelope where she kept her current prophecy. Wearing silk gloves that went up to her elbows, she extracted the bare paper of the prophecy and laid it on her desk. She stared at the words again, as though this time they would say something different and easier to deal with.
“Every second child of her bloodline shall be the conqueror of a mighty city,” she read aloud. “Who the hell came up with every second child?”
She knew, of course, that nobody had come up with the prophecy. It had arisen fully formed from the bowels of the earth. Nobody had any control over what the prophecies actually said. All she was able to choose was whom the prophecy would apply to. As a Fate Agent, that was her job. Like most jobs, some days she just hated it.
She got up from her desk and stared longingly out the window. The slopes of Mount Meru were glittering as people lit the first lamps of the evening. Somewhere on Solace Ridge her own house was waiting for her, but she had a deadline to meet. Maybe I’ll make another coffee, she thought, but then remembered she had run out.
Before she could sit back down, salvation arrived in the form of Andras, her desk neighbour, returning from a trip to Oracle West.
“Working hard or hardly working?” he said as he came in. Andras had a goofy smile that could make even the lamest jokes seem passably amusing. Even though he’d had his five hundredth birthday last year, he still didn’t look a day over three hundred.
“Ugh,” Cassimede replied. “I’m getting nowhere with this stupid thing.” She read out her prophecy to him and he winced sympathetically.
“That’s going to be a lot of hours in the library,” he said. “My new one’s a piece of cake. He shall be the downfall of his own house. Should be able to knock it out in a day or two.”
He put on his own gloves, sat down at his desk, and unwrapped the fresh prophecy. They sat in silence, each staring at their work–but Andras only lasted five minutes before he stood up, stretched, and looked out the window at the sinking sun. “You know what? I’m not going to get anything done tonight. Let’s just clock off and go for a drink.”
“You go. I’m going to be working late on this one.”
“Ah, forget about it. Just put in a request to extend your deadline due to complications. Then you can come out with me tonight.”
Cassimede gave him her half-frown that meant ‘convince me.’ Andras obliged. “We’ll start out with amrita margaritas on the Hill, then move on to Calliope’s for soma bombs. Drinks on me. Come on, you work too hard anyway.”
Cassimede sighed. “I’m going to hate you in the morning.”
* * *
In fact, most of her hate the next morning was directed towards herself–specifically, her self of three o’clock the previous day, who had drunk the last of the coffee. Between her splitting headache and the convoluted prophecy, Cassimede didn’t expect to have a very productive morning.
Andras came in some time before noon. His eyes were bloodshot and he had a steaming cup of coffee in his hand; he looked dog-tired, but excited about something.
“Just woke up?” she said.
“Haven’t slept, actually. After I went home I couldn’t stop thinking about work, so I went up to the Great Library as soon as it opened. I’ve found the perfect candidate for my prophecy. Want to see?”
“Sure,” said Cassimede, feeling a familiar twinge of envy. Once again she was reminded that, despite his questionable work ethic, Andras was one of the most talented Fate Agents in all the House of the Loom.
He beckoned her over to the seeing-sphere that they shared. The sphere was of burnished bronze, very smooth, and sat on a pedestal in the far corner of the room. Andras waved his hand over the sphere and murmured the incantation to activate it. The reflections in the polished metal swirled together and formed a chaotic tangle of images. Andras spoke more words, commanding the sphere to show him what he wished to see. The scene that emerged was of a tanned boy, wearing a loincloth and carrying a wooden staff as he picked his way up a rocky slope. Ahead of him, a herd of goats were grazing.
“This is the candidate,” said Andras. “He’s a lowly goatherd on the western edge of Sampardia.”
Cassimede shrugged. “Forgive me if I’m not terribly impressed.” This was one of the most basic principles of the Bureau of Fate. When prophecies were allowed to be spoken freely, they could cause practically unlimited chaos in the world: the fall of empires, the rise of tyrants, war, famine and plague. The Fate Agent’s task was to apply the prophecy in a way that would limit its impact. Clearly, the downfall of a house of goatherds would be a very minor snarl in the great tapestry of history.
“Ah, you haven’t seen the beauty of it yet.” Andras shifted the image to a scene from the near past. The boy was crouched in the corner of a grimy hovel. A disheveled man pelted him with scraps of rotten food and fragments of a broken pot.
“He’s got no family besides his father,” said Andras, “Who’s an utter bastard to him. So the downfall of this kid’s house will actually be a good thing.”
Cassimede was impressed. There was no requirement for Fate Agents to do good in the world, only to limit chaos. Andras had put in the extra effort entirely of his own volition.
“I’ll probably deliver the prophecy tonight or tomorrow morning,” said Andras, going over to his desk. As usual, it was a mess of unsorted paperwork that he was barely keeping a handle on. He put on his work gloves, picked up the prophecy paper and folded it into a six-pointed flower. The shape was not strictly necessary–touching the paper was all that was required for the prophecy to be transferred–but it was traditional.
“Ready to go,” he said, setting the flower aside. “Now for the boring part.” He filled his inkwell, took up a quill, and began filling out forms in triplicate.
* * *
The days were hot and the nights were cold out on the western steppe. Pico was shivering as he made his way up the hillside in only a light tunic. He hadn’t dared to take his father’s cloak, even though the old man had been asleep. The goats were bleating in the distance. They had gotten out of their pen again, as they did often now that the fences were broken in so many places. If Pico hurried he could bring them back home by midnight. Then he would still have a few hours to sleep before it was time to rise for the next day.
Pico looked up at the top of the hill, hoping to catch a glimpse of the herd. Instead he saw a lone figure standing there, silhouetted against the moon. He froze. Terror was crying out in his chest, telling him to run. But if he left the herd to wander there was no telling what his father would do to him.
Then the wind rose, and Pico saw the stranger’s cloak dancing in the air. It was made from hundreds and hundreds of feathers.
Pico’s heart leapt in his chest. A Bird-Man of the Mountain! He remembered the legends that his grandmother had recited to him. Whenever the Bird-Men appeared, they gave prophecies. Some were good, some were bad, but nobody who spoke to a Bird-Man walked away with their life unchanged.
Pico hesitated. Did he dare take that chance? But then, he thought, what change could make his life worse than it already was? He clenched his fists and carried on up the hill. The Bird-Man watched him silently as he approached. It seemed the man didn’t have a bird beak, like in the stories–just a normal face, shrouded by the hood of his cloak.
Pico stood for a moment to catch his breath. Then he said: “H-Have you come for me?”
The Bird-Man nodded once.
“What do you want, then?”
A gloved hand emerged from the feather cloak. It was holding a white flower.
“Is this for me?”
Another nod.
Pico reached out and took the gift. To his surprise, it was not a real flower but a fake one, made from intricately folded paper.
“Pico the goatherd,” the Bird-Man said, “I give this to you as a true gift of prophecy. You shall bring about the downfall of your own house. It shall come to pass.”
Then he turned away, lifted up his cloak, and leapt into the air. As graceful as any bird, the Bird-Man rose into the night sky.
“W-wait!” Pico cried. “What do you mean, my own house?”
But the Bird-Man had already disappeared into the darkness.
Pico looked down at the paper flower in his hand. Dread began to pool in his stomach like a dark oil.
* * *
It was early when Andras arrived at the Great Library, but the halls were already bustling with activity. Fate Agents hurried back and forth between the shelves, collecting information about potential prophecy candidates. Scribes moved tomes in and out of circulation, constantly updating them with new information from the Seers, who slaved over their seeing-spheres on the upper galleries. There were even a few Rectifiers, the internal police of the Loom, going about their own confidential business. Andras had a cheery word for almost everyone he passed. The immortals of Mount Meru were not just colleagues but also family of a sort; all of them could trace their descent back to the original three Moirai who had woven the threads of destiny in ancient times.
Andras found Cassimede sitting in a study alcove, surrounded by heavy tomes of genealogy. From the bags under her eyes, he guessed that she was still working on the same prophecy from the day before. He made his way over to her and set down a tall stack of forms waiting to be filed with the relevant authorities. Balanced precariously at the top of the stack was a plate of roast chicken he had brought from the Library mess hall.
“Want a bite?” he said.
“Thanks, but I already ate.” Cassimede closed the tome in front of her. “I think I’m finally getting somewhere with this one, Andras.”
“That’s good,” he said through a mouthful of chicken breast. Although he was usually faster at clearing assignments than Cassimede, he was secretly envious of the methodical way that she pursued each task. Just sitting next to her helped to focus his thoughts, which even he would admit could become a bit scattered at times.
He worked while he ate, filling out one boring form after another. Cassimede pored over her genealogies. Then, abruptly, she looked at him with a frown.
“Andras, was this the name of your last candidate, the goatherd kid?”
She showed him the book she was reading. His fingers were covered in chicken grease so he wiped them off on the form he was about to sign. Then he peered at the name.
“Yeah, that’s him. Pico.”
“And you gave him the prophecy He shall bring about the downfall of his own house.”
“Sure, I brought it to him last night. Completely smooth transfer.”
“Holy shit, Andras. Look.” She pointed to the genealogical tables. “This kid is the long-lost son of King Zenom, who is the son of Teros the Wise, whose brother is the Emperor of Sampardia.”
Andras just stared at her. The words didn’t quite make it all the way through his brain.
“He was abandoned by his father as part of another prophecy. Didn’t you cross-reference with other prophecies before you went out?”
“I checked all the extant prophecies.”
“This prophecy wasn’t extant. It already came to pass, two or three years ago. You’re supposed to cross-check all prophecies resolved in the last hundred years. That’s the procedure, Andras.”
“I must have forgotten,” he croaked. The truth was he hadn’t forgotten. He just hadn’t wanted to bother with it.
“This is some serious shit, Andras. Sampardia is one of the greatest empires in the world and you’ve just–“
“I know! I know what Sampardia is!” he snapped.
“We need to tell the Rectifiers about this right away.”
“Wait. Not yet. Keep your voice down.” Andras glanced across the library floor, but nobody was paying any attention to them. He felt like a hundred horses were stampeding through his brain. What would the punishment even be for a mistake of this magnitude? Exile to the mortal realm if he was lucky. Execution before the Norn Council if he wasn’t.
“Look, there might still be a way to fix this,” he said in a hushed voice. “It was only last night that I gave the kid the prophecy. It won’t be completely stuck to him yet.”
Cassimede stared at him. “You’re talking about excising the prophecy.”
Andras swallowed. “I guess I am, yeah.”
It was well known that prophecies took up to two days to bond with their recipient. Within that time, the prophecy could be put back into the paper it came from–if the paper was soaked in the recipient’s lifeblood.
“He’s a child,” said Cassimede faintly.
“Only a mortal child,” said Andras, but his voice trembled as he spoke.
He stood up. “Just… just give me a couple of hours. I can put everything back the way it was.”
He hurried through the library and out onto the Road of White Wings. His head was still buzzing. Only a mortal, he told himself. How can you weigh a mortal’s life against an immortal’s? It’s like comparing a candle to a bonfire. Of course one is more important than the other.
He was almost running by the time he got to the Bureau of Fate building. He went up the stairs to his office, where he grabbed his feather cloak and his knife. Then he leapt out of the window.
Soon the Bureau, the Library and all the other gleaming buildings of Mount Meru were receding behind him. He folded his wings and dove, following the slope of the great mountain down for miles and miles, through the cloud layer and into the realm of the mortals. He flew hard across the Ember Sea, over the lands of Sampardia, and down to the western steppe. At last he zeroed in on a small flock of goats, moving across the face of the vast plain like a single cloud.
Andras landed a few paces away from the boy, sending the goats scattering in all directions. The boy didn’t bother to go after them. All his attention was on Andras.
“You came back,” he said.
Andras’ heart was pounding. He adjusted his hood so that his face was half-hidden, as was the normal procedure when appearing to mortals. He deepened his voice and said: “Child, do you still have the flower I gave you?”
Pico nodded. He reached into a loose pocket at the front of his tunic and took out the paper flower, now somewhat crumpled.
“Lay it on the ground,” Andras said.
Pico obeyed. “Are you alright, Mister Bird-Man?”
Andras’ fingers tightened around the hilt of his knife. He had killed people before–or at least, he had handed out prophecies that led to other people’s deaths. There had been no other choice. It was just the same here, he told himself. No other choice.
Pico took a single step forward. Now he was close enough that he could peer under the hood and see Andras’ eyes.
“Mister Bird-Man, you’re crying,” he said.
* * *
Cassimede sat at her desk, trying to look at the page in front of her. The words seemed to run together into a soup of ink. It was nearly midnight and there was no word from Andras. She held up her hands and saw that they were still shaking.
Somebody hammered on the office door.
“Cassimede of Blue Wing?” they called. “If you’re in there, open up.”
“I-it’s open.”
Three men strode into the room, wearing the black-and-turquoise cloaks of the Rectifiers. Their captain flashed his identification: a gold seal embossed with the mark of the Norn Council.
“Captain Shandakar, Fate Crimes Division,” he said. “I’ve got some questions, and I think you have answers. So you can tell me what I want to know here and now, or I can charge you with being an accomplice to malfeasance of destiny.”
The other two Rectifiers folded their arms and loomed over the desk. Cassimede swallowed. Andras was in trouble. But hadn’t he brought it all on himself? And what good would it do him for her to try and hide the truth now?
“I’ll talk,” she said.
“Good.” Shandakar put his hands on her desk. “Tell me where to find Andras of Yellow Star.”
“He… he went back to the boy, the goatherd who he gave his last prophecy to.”
Shandakar swept the papers off Cassimede’s desk and growled: “Don’t play coy with me. I mean where he went after that. Where did he take the boy?”
“I don’t know!” Cassimede cried. “Honestly, I don’t know. He was going to kill the boy. Didn’t he kill him?”
Shandakar leaned back. He and the other two Rectifiers exchanged glances.
“Alright,” he said. “You’re going to tell me everything that happened. From the beginning.”
* * *
The lights of Mount Meru were twinkling in the dusk. Voices floated up from the lower slopes. Feather cloaks swooped above the treetops and prayer flags fluttered in the wind. For Cassimede, alone in her house on Solace Ridge, it was all starting to blur. She had started drinking before noon again, and now she was well into her third bottle of ambrosia. If she put a bit of effort in, then hopefully she could be passed out by nine and have a good twelve hours of insensibility before the next day came crawling under her eyelids.
It was nearly eight months now that she had been under house arrest, pending trial. Eight months since Andras disappeared with the long-lost son of King Zenom. At first she had tried to stay positive. She had spent her time exercising or reading books. But after a while she became overwhelmed by the pointlessness of it all. Her fate was sealed. The only reason she hadn’t been brought before the Norn Council already was because they wanted to try her together with Andras.
For all she knew, she might be stuck in this limbo for years. Andras had a feather cloak, and he knew the secret runes that would hide him from detection by seeing-sphere. Who could say how long he would hide out with that kid he had apparently taken pity on?
She went for another pull on the bottle, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. Wondering without much interest who it could be, she lurched over and opened it.
It was Captain Shandakar. One look at his expression was enough to sober her up quite a bit.
“You’ve caught him,” she said. “It’s over, isn’t it? You’re taking me to the Council.”
Shandakar stepped past her into the house.”Actually,” he said, “we have not yet captured the rogue agent Andras. We have discovered his location, however. Not being able to view him with a seeing-sphere made things more complicated, but eventually we were able to track him down using conventional means.
“This is what brings me to you tonight. Although it was not my personal preference–” He gave a disapproving glance at the bottle in her hand, “–my superiors believe the retrieval operation might go more smoothly if you were involved. You have cooperated with our investigation so far. It will reflect well upon your case if you help us to bring Andras in.”
Cassimede bowed her head. The bottle in her hand suddenly felt like a childish affectation. She put it down.
“I could get him to surrender,” she said. “I could make sure he isn’t hurt. Any more than he has to be, I mean.”
* * *
Pico pulled back his arm and lobbed the stone as far as it could go. No matter how hard he tried, he could never hit the sun. The big orange ball seemed so close at this time of day, but somehow it was still out of reach.
The waterfalls at the edge of the world were gleaming like fire in the sunset. Their long tails drifted down for miles into the void until they were swallowed by darkness. So too would the sun be swallowed in another couple of hours. The first time he saw it Pico was scared the sun was gone forever, but Bird-Man had told him not to worry. The next day there it was, rising as a distant speck of light in the east.
Thinking of Bird-Man reminded Pico that it was time to be heading home. He picked up the sack of mushrooms and edge-roots that he had gathered and followed the path back through the grey dunes to the cottage. The sun had almost sunk below the horizon by the time he got there.
The cottage was only one room, but it was made of stone and not draughty at all. Bird-Man and Pico had found it here when they finally settled down, after those first dreadful days of running and hiding. Bird-Man had said, “We will be safe here, Pico,” and Pico hadn’t quite believed him, but it had turned out to be true.
When he walked in the door Pico shouted “Coo-coo!” and Bird-Man called back the same, though not as loudly. He was busy writing runes on the walls of the cottage. The runes kept them safe from other Bird-Men who wanted to hurt them.
“This is a feast, Pico,” said Bird-Man when he saw what Pico had gathered. Pico knew it wasn’t really a feast but he was happy that Bird-Man said that anyway. He put his arms around Bird-Man and squeezed him tight.
Once he had asked Bird-Man, “Are you my real father?” and Bird-Man had said no. But Pico still thought maybe he was, and only said he wasn’t to protect Pico from danger. Because if he wasn’t Pico’s father, why had he picked Pico up and carried him away? Why had he shown Pico more kindness in this half-year they had lived together than Pico’s old father had in his entire life?
“Let’s get this stew going, then,” said Bird-Man. He picked up the water jug and opened the door.
Then he froze where he stood.
“Pico,” he said quietly, “go and stand by the back door. When I tell you, you have to run. Do you understand?”
Pico nodded. But when Bird-Man stepped outside, Pico went instead to the window and peered out to watch what was happening. There was a woman outside the cottage, coming down the path from the east. She was a Bird-Woman.
“Andras,” she said as she approached Bird-Man. “Thank the gods, you’re really here.”
“What are you doing here, Cassimede?”
“You have to turn yourself in, Andras. You know this can’t go on forever.”
“How–how did you find me?”
“Listen, if you give up without a fight, the Council might show mercy–“
At that moment, Pico saw a flash of movement in the dunes. “Watch out!” he shouted, pointing from the window. The Bird-Woman glanced over her shoulder and called out: “Wait! Just let me talk to him.” But at the same time Bird-Man shouted “Run, Pico!” and then there were more Bird-Men, leaping up from their hiding-places, and arrows were buzzing through the air like bees.
Pico ran out the back door of the cottage like he had been told. There was a rushing sound above him and he screamed–but then he saw it was Bird-Man, his Bird-Man, swooping down to grab him. Pico clung on tight and they soared into the air together. The grey sands rushed past beneath them. They were free. They were going to be safe again.
Then an arrowhead ripped through Bird-Man’s shoulder, and they began to fall.
* * *
Cassimede grabbed the corners of her feather cloak and made to fly. Before she could, she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder. Captain Shandakar pulled her back.
“You tried to bring him in. You failed. Leave this to us now.”
Feeling faint, she watched the flying figures against the darkening sky. Andras rose, dove and rose again, trying to stay clear of the Rectifiers’ orichalcum-tipped arrows. For a short time the dance continued. Then one of the arrows found its mark. Andras’ body spun in the air for a moment, then plummeted into a copse of trees.
The Rectifiers folded their pinions and went after him.
“They’ll bring him out soon enough,” said Shandakar. “There’s nowhere to go. This is the end of the world, after all.”
Cassimede was left with nothing to say. The words she’d exchanged with Andras were burning in her memory. It had only been eight months, but he seemed like a different person altogether. Then again, she probably did as well.
Shandakar went into the cottage where Andras and the boy had been living. He came out a few moments later with a paper flower.
“This must be the prophecy in question,” he said. “We’ll bag it for evidence.”
He unfolded the paper, ripping it a little in the process. He frowned. “What…? This can’t be right.”
Cassimede looked over at the paper, and her heart dropped out of her chest.
This was not the prophecy.
This was something else entirely.
Cassimede grabbed the paper from Shandakar’s hands. She recognised it. It was a candidate registration form–one that Andras had been filling out on the day before he delivered the prophecy. Pico’s name and location were written at the top.
“I don’t understand,” said Shandakar.
“This is the flower that was given to Pico,” said Cassimede. “But it isn’t the prophecy.” She wracked her memory for details of that fateful day. Andras had been hung over, and a little manic. His desk had been an unruly mess. “The real prophecy must have gotten mixed in with Andras’ paperwork. Which means Andras must have touched the paper and received the prophecy himself.”
She and Shandakar stared at each other, mouths agape.
“He shall bring about the downfall of his own house,” said Shandakar.
“The House of the Loom,” Cassimede whispered.
* * *
Pico hit the ground hard and rolled out from under the feather cloak. Branches had scratched his face on the way down, but he hardly noticed the pain. He scrambled quickly to his feet and turned back to Bird-Man.
“Come on, we have to run,” he gasped. He was trying not to look at the arrow protruding from Bird-Man’s back, or the blood that was soaking through the feather cloak.
With great difficulty, Bird-Man hauled himself up, leaning his weight against a tree. “Oh, shit,” he said. “I can’t believe this is happening to me.” His eyes went unfocused for a moment. Then he looked at Pico. “I’m not going to make it. You have to go on alone. I’ll keep them busy for as long as I can. Get to the river. Remember the runes and you will be safe…”
Pico leapt forward and threw his arms around Bird-Man. Blood soaked through into Pico’s tunic. “I won’t go. I love you.”
“You must.” Bird-Man began to laugh, and each rising of his chest pumped more blood out of his wound. “You have a great destiny to fulfil, Pico.”
With his eyes full of tears, Pico turned and ran through the trees. He heard Bird-Man shouting, and the voices of the other Bird-Men echoing through the trees in response. Then there were other noises, but Pico didn’t let himself think about what they were. He just ran and ran until he felt cold crawling up his legs and realised he was standing in the river. Then he dove in and let the current carry him away.
At first it took all his strength just to stay afloat. Then, further downstream, he was able to keep his head above water long enough to look back. He saw Bird-Men rising from the copse of trees, their bows drawn, their eyes scanning the landscape.
The water was icy against Pico’s skin, but he hardly felt it. A great warmth was growing in his chest at that moment, a wellspring of rage and hatred, strong enough to carry him through a thousand cold and lonely nights. As he stared back at the flying men, he thought: *One day I will find you, and I will kill you for what you did to my father. I will kill you, every last one.*
* * *
Soldiers marched through the primordial jungle, where no mortal had set foot in a hundred thousand years. Up the steep slope of the World Mountain came the armies of Sampardia. At their head rode the Emperor, Picothenos I, standing astride his jet-black war elephant and wearing the golden battle regalia of his forefathers.
For the past hour, they had been climbing through the cloud barrier that concealed the mountain’s summit. The fog was so thick that the Emperor could barely see more than a few paces in front of him; yet he could hear the drumbeats of his legions as they marched, and the low whinnies of the cavalry, and the creaking of the catapults and supply caravans. The finest warriors of half a hundred nations had been gathered under his banner for this, his final campaign.
From somewhere up ahead there came a high, sharp whistle from one of the army’s scouts. Picothenos’ military commander leaned forward from his seat and murmured, “That was the signal, your majesty. The end of the fog is very close now.”
“Good,” said the Emperor. He took his great horn from its sheath at his belt, and blew a single note that echoed through the forest like a thunderclap. A thousand other horns sounded in answer. The marching drums doubled their pace and the elephant-driver whipped the beast on. The entire army surged forward, up through the disappearing mist, and at last the immortal city appeared before their eyes.
Gilded towers glittered in the noonday sun and red flags flew above the terraces. The walls of the city thronged with defenders, and the air was filled with warriors in feather cloaks. As the first mortals broke through the clouds, the immortals drew their bows and prepared to fire.
Emperor Picothenos lifted his spear into the air and let out a war-cry that echoed down the mountainside. “Men of Sampardia!” he roared. “Our war ends today! Death to the feather-cloaks! Death to the fatespinners! Death to the House of the Loom!”
©January 2020 William Broom
William Broom comes from Melbourne, Autralia, where he works in a library and writes in his spare time. His stories have been previously published in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Kaleidotrope, and Aurealis. This is his first appearance in Swords & Sorcery.