Caprion's Wings Read online

  Caprion stared. He could barely identify them as the Sixth Race. Premature gray flecked their hair, their life seeping out with each ragged breath. Their eyes were completely white, totally blind.

  The soldiers fell silent. They moved to stand at attention, falling naturally into rank.

  “At ease,” Sumas said casually, then paused for Warden Dahlia to take her place at his side.

  Caprion's eyes moved to the open gate that led to the dungeons. Two granite pillars stood between himself and the gate. They would offer enough cover for him to slip past the soldiers and into deeper shadows where he could continue to the hallway. Still, too many eyes roamed the chamber. He would need to wait for a distraction.

  Sumas cleared his throat assertively. "Before you stands a line of the Unnamed," he began. “The Sixth Race, the children of the Dark God, creatures of Shadow and Fire. None of you have seen one before.” Sumas smirked. He began to pace. “Back at the conception of our race—when we were molded by Wind and Light and placed under the care of our God, the One Star—we were given a duty. A duty to preserve peace and order in the world. To vanquish evil from the land and to destroy the Dark God's children.”

  "Tonight," he continued, "we initiate you into the sacred practice of our kind. These methods were passed down long before the Great Fall, before even the city of Asterion was built, before the Island of Aerobourne ever took to the skies. Tonight, you become true soldiers—defenders of the realm of Wind and Light.” Sumas’ voice echoed around the chamber, gaining strength and volume. “You will become deft with magic; you will use your voice in battle and learn to blind the Sixth Race with your wings. You will learn to kill them, and do so efficiently, before they can kill you." Sumas gave the soldiers a long, hard stare. "These slaves are weak specimens of their kind, but do not be fooled. Our enemy is dangerous, deceitful, and highly skilled. These broken puppets were made so new recruits like you can practice—so that one day, as a true soldier, you can defend this great city. When that time comes, you will know how to kill the Sixth Race, and you will want to." Sumas glanced around the ranks. His eyes locked on Talarin and he slowly frowned.

  Caprion sucked in a nervous breath.

  Then his brother turned abruptly and walked along the first row of soldiers. “These slaves are like most of the Unnamed—unskilled savants, in their tongue. But their warrior caste, the Named assassins, are masters of treachery. They will slit your throat faster than you can summon breath for a song.” Another long, ominous pause. A thick, spellbinding energy slowly accumulated amongst the soldiers, their eyes riveted on the ten slaves.

  Caprion took note of this. He could probably march clear to the center of the room and no one would turn to look. Now is the time.

  He left the corridor and slipped along the rear wall, careful to avoid the light of the sunstones. He remained hidden by looming shadows that thickened toward the entrance to the dungeons.

  Sumas began striding back and forth again, looking down the ranks of soldiers. Caprion ducked behind the first large stone pillar to stay out of sight. His brother's voice carried on. “Soon, you will know the ancient spells and combat methods of our kind. I will drill you until I decide you are fit for the field. For some of you—most of you—it will take years.” His voice turned smug. “Some of you will not pass this training―perhaps due to foolishness and miscalculation, but most likely because you do not have the ability to channel this level of magic. It takes a great amount of strength to defeat these demons, and you must have complete knowledge of the Light. However, you all have wings, so you have the chance of rising through our ranks to a lieutenant, or perhaps some day, to a Captain. Take heart and train hard.”

  Caprion gritted his teeth, aggravated by Sumas’ last words. In his deep baritone of a voice, his brother almost made their purpose seem real, not some forgotten legacy crashed into the ocean, split into shards of rock. What a waste of breath, Caprion thought. Nothing more than a pompous performance. All Harpies born on the Lost Isles knew of their lost heritage, remnants of history and lore, and of course, their long and deep hatred of the Sixth Race. But the War of the Races was long over. What good could the Harpies do for the world, isolated on this small rock of an island? He doubted the Sixth Race would ever arrive on their doorstep. There would never be another war against the Dark God’s children.

  Caprion glanced around the pillar and saw the soldiers still distracted. He dashed forward again between the sunstones, avoiding their light. He reached the front of the room where shadows enveloped him, then paused behind the final stone pillar near the iron gate to the dungeons. From this position, he could see the nearest slave’s emaciated, skull-like face only a few yards away. As Caprion hesitated, the slave’s face shifted toward him, blind white eyes shifting restlessly. Caprion stared, unable to look away.

  Then the slave's face turned back to the ground. Warden Dahlia began to speak in a sharp, staccato voice, explaining the basic function of the dungeons and which areas were off limits to new recruits.

  Caprion didn't wait for the lesson, but instead sprinted across the narrow space between the pillar at the open iron gate. He leapt down a short set of stairs and passed through the gateway, landing among the shadows on hard ground.

  The new tunnel unfurled before him like a black, gaping mouth. A typical soldier could use his wings to see by, but Caprion did not have that ability. The darkness remained solid and complete, as thick as a blindfold. His heart quickened at the sight, but he forced himself to walk forward.

  He started slowly, his hands feeling along the walls for direction. He continued like this for several minutes, following the curve of the corridor. The voices from the practice chamber faded behind him until he felt completely isolated. Occasionally, his fingers brushed against wood—doors to somewhere—and then more stone. His task seemed more absurd the farther he walked, his thoughts as doubtful as his direction. Somehow, he had thought the dark voice from his dreams might reveal itself now that he had entered the dungeons. He reexamined his purpose, his reasoning, and it all seemed terribly thin. I’m chasing stars, he thought self-deprecatingly. This is a child’s game of hide and seek. What do I hope to find? There are no answers here.

  But he continued onward. It would be a shame to turn back so easily after coming this far. Nothing waited for him back on the surface and he had no other plan—so I must go on. Eventually, he felt moisture beneath his fingers, seeping through the chiseled stone walls. He could smell salt in the air, and for a brief moment, he almost heard the vague, rhythmic crash of the ocean. Perhaps a second exit lay ahead, or a ventilation shaft, or an innocent split in the cave wall. He took a few breaths and followed the fresh air currents, forced to rely on his other senses.

  As he continued down the corridor, he tried not to question his sanity. A fool’s errand, he thought. Why come to such a dank, miserable place? Here he was, down in the earth...but where in these tunnels could he possibly find that insidious voice? Perhaps his visions were nothing more than terrible, taunting nightmares after all.

  Then, suddenly, a sound reached him―the perfectly-pitched ring of Harpy voices. Caprion came to a rigid stop, folding himself against the wall, breathing shallowly.

  Two voices rang musically down the tunnel. “Is Warden Dahlia intimidating the fledglings again?” one asked, a male.

  "She never misses her chance," the second one answered, a higher-pitched female. They both laughed.

  "I hate guard duty," the first one sighed. "It gets cold down here. And creepy. These creatures get more lively in the darkness. If they were to escape…."

  "Impossible, Rathiem. Don't even consider such nonsense."

  "But suppose it were to happen," Rathiem continued without hesitation. “Imagine if they were to all escape at once. What would you do, Kyta?”

  “Kill them,” the female said simply. “I bet those fledglings would drop pants and run crying.”

  “There are so many slaves though….”

  “
Most of them are half-dead anyway,” Kyta said flippantly. “Florentine and Sumas would round ‘em up and drop the lot of them off Fury Rock.”

  Rathiem laughed again at this. Then his tone turned grim. “Down in the crypts, though…what do you think if that one got out?”

  “Oh don’t be silly,” Kyta brushed him off again. “There’s no demon in the crypts. That’s just a dumb ghost story the officers use to scare new recruits. Helps keep ‘em in line.”

  “I don’t know….” Rathiem murmured.

  Caprion turned his head toward their conversation, his interest piqued. He couldn’t see any light in the distance; there must be a corner up ahead. He crept slowly down the hallway, listening intently.

  “Balamit was on patrol last week down in the crypts,” Rathiem continued. “He told me he heard a voice.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “He seemed pretty scared about it,” the soldier said emphatically. “Tried to swap shifts with me—as though I’d agree after that! I hate going down there,” he repeated.

  “Balamit is a liar. He cheats at cards, too,” Kyta added. “Probably drank too much ambrosia and wandered off his route. Once, a fledgling kept saying she heard a woman crying, and when we looked, we found a small crack in the rock. The wind would push through it and sound like this,” Kyta made a long, hollow moaning sound. Then she sniggered. “The darkness can play tricks with your mind. Keep a level head and stop talking like a sissy.”

  Rathiem stayed quiet, obviously put off by the rebuke.

  A light became apparent in Caprion’s vision. He blinked and held up his hand to shield his eyes. The dark stone corridor suddenly came into focus: rough-hewn walls and uneven footing, a narrow path winding through the cold rock, turning sharply about twenty meters in front of him. The two Harpies had to be just around that corner. As he stared, the light grew brighter. His sucked in a quick, panicked breath. Nowhere to run―what now?

  He turned around, searching the tunnel for any place to hide. His eyes landed on a small, wooden door against the wall, a bolt drawn across it. Without thinking, he undid the latch and eased the door open, careful not to cause any noise. He glanced into the room beyond, his eyes straining against the shadows. Nothing moved. It looked empty. He slipped inside and pushed the door shut, then turned to watch through the grates in the heavy wood.

  Kyta and Rathiem appeared around the corner, gliding effortlessly down the corridor. By their helmets, they were both third-year cadets. They passed his hiding place without a second look.

  “Did you see the new batch of slaves they brought in?” Kyta said enthusiastically. “Fresh ones, and young. Can’t wait to try my wings against them.”

  “I heard there’s a few children this time,” Rathiem replied.

  “Aye,” Kyta agreed, full of vicious intent. “They last longer. More resilient. And they don’t know any better than to put up a fight.”

  Rathiem said something back, but his voice faded as they continued on their way. Caprion held his breath, waiting as the light slowly faded. He finally let out a sigh of relief. The soldiers were more lax than he expected. He grinned. If Sumas were here, he’d throw a fit.

  Suddenly, in the darkness behind him, he heard a small cough.

  The hair rose on Caprion's arms. His first instinct told him to bolt back out of the door, but the cough did not sound heavy or threatening. No, it was lightly pitched, like a child’s. He hesitated, turning slightly to face the darkness.

  The cough sounded again, and he dared to label it feminine. His alarm slowly faded as his curiosity grew, and he peered deeper into the pitch black shadows of the room. His eyes were useless in the darkness. He licked his dry lips nervously, his heart tripling its pace.

  Then a young girl’s voice called out to him, slightly quivering. “Hello?” She sounded more scared than he was. Her words did not resonate musically around the room like a Harpy, nor did they hold any kind of power. She had to be one of the Sixth Race. Something moved again, and he heard the dull clink of chains. Caprion slowly relaxed.

  “I’m here,” he said to the darkness. And then, “Who are you?”

  No immediate answer, but the chains clinked again. Another cough. “Who are you?” the girl replied suspiciously.

  Caprion felt a strange smile tug at his lips. He took a hesitant step forward, trying to remember the size of the room. “My name is Caprion,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  The chains shifted and suddenly a small light appeared in the corner—a shard of sunstone embedded in the prisoner’s collar. She must have shielded it with her hands when he first entered, trying to hide her presence. Caprion’s eyes had grown used to the shadows and the white ray of light seemed to cut like a knife. He blinked several times before he could make out the room clearly: a small space of three square meters, the ground dirty and stained, a low ceiling, and an uneven floor. Rows of chains lined the walls.

  The girl had wrapped herself in a ragged scrap of blanket, easily passed over at first glance, since it blended well with the shadows. Her eyes caught the light of the sunstone and reflected it like a cat’s. He could see their color quite vividly—bright green, like two emeralds. Her black hair fell in a messy braid down her back. A chain connected the collar around her neck to an iron ring in the wall and thick shackles bound her hands. It all seemed unnecessary. She looked harmless, like a kitten bunched into a corner.

  His eyes traveled to a piece of bread resting near her foot. A trail of crumbs led across the ground. As he watched, a small brown lizard, no bigger than his own thumb, scurried from a crack in the wall and took a corner of crust. The girl reached down and picked up the small animal, her attention shifting.

  “Shh,” she whispered. “Don’t scare him.”

  Caprion wondered who she meant—himself or the tiny reptile in her hands.

  After a moment of uncertainty, he approached the back of the room. He loosened his sword, though he felt foolish doing so. A child, he thought. Just a defenseless child. She doesn’t belong in a place like this, even if she is of the Sixth Race. He remembered the scarred, hollowed-out bodies of the slaves in the practice chamber. He couldn’t imagine such a fate being visited upon a young, helpless girl.

  As he approached, the girl shrank back into the corner. She watched him warily, squinting against the sunstone’s light. He paused a few feet away and removed his hand from his sword. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he said softly. He infused his voice with a gentle touch, a singing spell meant to sooth the senses. All is safe here, he pressed into his tone. His voice resonated softly against the stone walls. Be still.

  After a moment, the girl took a deep breath. He saw the tension smooth from her brow. The girl studied him quietly, contemplative for her age, overly observant. It leant weight to her presence, somewhat disconcerting. He wondered if she was older than she looked, despite her diminutive size. He felt a sense of unease. Don’t let your guard down.

  Finally, she frowned. “You’re a Harpy?” she asked slowly.

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  She glanced over him again. “But…where are your wings?” Her voice came out in a rasp. It sounded painful.

  “My wings?” he asked distractedly. The sunstone gleamed at her throat. He looked closer and noticed the skin around her collar: red and ruptured, blistered and burned. Blood trickled from the iron collar to her neckline. He stared at the wound on her neck, his unease turning to horror. How could his people do this to a child?

  She looked at him shyly. “You’re the first Harpy I’ve ever seen without wings. Can you fly?”

  Caprion had the sudden, terrible urge to laugh. Even here, he thought, deep down in the bowels of the earth, I am still being asked that question! He shook his head in irony. Was it wise to share his wingless state with this girl? Perhaps she would realize his weakness and attack.... Damn it all, he thought. She’s in a far worse state than I am!

  "I have yet to earn my wings," he said bluntly.

  "So yo
u can't fly?"

  He frowned. “No, I can't.” His hand hovered closer to his sword, just in case.

  A grin suddenly split the girl's face, and the sheer simplicity of it struck him: her curving, slanted eyes framed by dark lashes, and a teasing dimple on her left cheek. She didn't look like a demon. Just a young, delicate girl sitting in the darkness, small for her age, bruised and burned and still speaking to him as though they stood on a street corner. He decided she must be older than he first assumed, perhaps the same age as his sister, around thirteen. Six years younger than himself. Soon, she would be thrown to the wolves. He felt empty at the thought.

  "It’s good that you can’t fly," she said. "Their wings hurt my eyes. You're very easy to look at." And she stared at him for a long moment as though to make her point. As her eyes searched his face, another small smile touched her lips, completely secretive. He couldn't guess her thoughts.

  "Well," Caprion stuttered, “uh…thank you.” He had nothing better to say.

  “Have you come to let me out?” she asked hopefully.

  He swallowed, wishing he could give her a happier answer. “No,” he said.

  Her face fell, and his heart plummeted with it.

  “Why are you here, then?” she asked cautiously. Her eyes narrowed. There it was—the face of an assassin, surprisingly cold and calculating.

  The look gave him pause. She’s still a demon, he thought. You can’t trust her. But she appeared firmly chained to the wall and he couldn't imagine her breaking loose. She couldn’t attack him, and she was still young, far from a full-fledged assassin. And perhaps…perhaps she knew something that could help him. Don’t be a coward, he thought.

  “I'm looking for answers, I suppose,” he began softly.

  She gazed up at him, completely focused. “Answers to what?” she asked curiously.

  Caprion decided to tell her the truth. "I am trying to earn my wings, you see,” he said, watching for her reaction. “But I keep having the same dream. That's why I'm here.” He described it as he had to Florentine that morning. The girl didn't ask what a Singing was, nor why the dark voice bothered him, and he wondered if she truly understood.