"I don't know whether to laugh or vomit," a voice wakes me. Max, sitting up and watching from his bed, sends a humored disbelief my way. The candles on the dresser are relit, and Max slides back into his boots. Nana still has her arm around me, right where she left it, and her eyes linger on my face.
"You truly have no standards," he adds.
"Shut up," I groan, loosening Nana's arm from me and getting out of bed. I help her up, Max snickering quietly to himself, and put her coat back on.
"Good morning, sirs and madam," the innkeeper says out in the lobby, bright and cheerful. "Care for a biscuit for your travels?"
Max and I eye him with an odd look. The groomed man extends a platter to us filled with a single layer of round fluffy golden things. Had he been awake all night? Where did the biscuits come from? Though they look warm and delicious with their buttered tops, did some sinister concoction hide within? Or did a paranoia take up residence in my mind?
"Thank you," Max says, reaching out a hand and taking one for each of us. He takes a big bite of his, half of it already gone. Nana nibbles on hers. I keep mine in my hand, wary to taste it, but thank the man regardless.
Outside, I toss the biscuit into the dirt.
"Well that's rude," Max says, looking at the now-filthy thing.
"Just a bad feeling," I shrug it off. "How does it taste, though?"
"S'alright, weird aftertaste. Not bad, just weird."
"If you start to cough up blood or something, you're on your own," I tease as we make our way to our horses.
"She can ride with you today," Max declares, his mouth full of the other half of the biscuit.
I don't protest. He gives her a hand once I'm on. She wraps her arms around me again, holds me tight, and happily wheezes that word once more. Elbert. Now that I am awake, there is enough energy in me to fuel curiosity.
"What is that, Nana?" I ask. If she offers an answer, I cannot hear it. She remains still, holding onto me close, as we ride down the street.
We pass under another large sign, likely similar to the one on the other side of town, and the road brings us back to the wild. Hills roll to the west while plains stretch to the eastern horizon, trees dotting both landscapes. Ahead, far in the distance, lies another thick clump of wood. Birds fly and sing high above, daring to race against the slow wind. Their sweet songs accompany the trotting rhythm of the horses. We ride like this for a long while, following the occasional curve and bend of the road as that distant forest creeps ever closer. A few little groves of tall trees visit the roadside every now and then, providing a momentary shield from the sun. The air holds more warmth that it had last night, but a twinge of chill remains, though not uncomfortable.
Something glimmers ahead, a round and brief shine. It comes and goes in a short succession, fading in and out. Out from it manifests three beings: two men and a white tiger between them. The men's faces are painted, thick black lines around their eyes and mouths and the rest a menacing red. Dressed in black leather from the neck down, and each wielding a dagger in opposite hands, they stare us down. The white tiger snarls as it crouches, showing off its large teeth. It issues a roaring command to stop as we come near, and we obey.
"Surrender what coin you have," the one on the right demands.
"All your valuables, too," orders the other.
"Do so and you shall be free," they say together.
"That's a weird fuckin mantra," Max says out of the corner of his mouth.
"How many times do you think they rehearsed that?" I ask in the same fashion.
"At least all morning."
"Definitely."
"GRAAH!" Nana chimes in, loud.
"And if we don't?" Max calls out to them. The tiger sounds off again in response, a thunder in our ears.
Max and I look to each other, nod, and dismount. I tell Nana to stay on the horse, and she seems to understand; she does not reach out to me or attempt to crawl off. We meet between the horses, slow steps approaching the painted ones. Only the sound of our footfalls on the dirt play with the feline's rumble, the birds gone. We stop a few yards away, Max's hand going to his pouch of coins. He hesitates there, his fingers caressing the leather. A devious smile grows on his face, and so does mine.
"Not used to slaying this kind of pussy, but it's worth a try," he jokes.
"So crude," I comment.
We both draw our swords and take stance. The tiger growls louder, and the men offer harsh noises of their own. The tiger sets back, hungry murder in its eyes as it readies to pounce. A sound cuts through then, innumerous avian voices crying out. A confusion replaces our foes' malice, their eyes drifting beyond Max and me. We follow, certain of no misdirection on their part. Back between the horses stands Nana, coat shaken off and rail-thin arms held out to either side. Chin down, those blind eyes target the trio. Sitting on the tree branches, the road, and her arms alike is a cacophony of birds. Different colors and sizes make up the party, but each look on with the same wicked intent.
"WAR!" Nana bellows, an unnatural deep and guttural command that sends my heart cold and racing.
The birds take flight at the word. Soaring together, they block out the sun for a moment before descending upon the white tiger. It runs into the plain, hissing and swiping at them. As it bloodies one, another takes its place. The cat shrieks, terrified desperation. But the birds are fearless and do not yield. Pecking, biting, clawing, crimson sprouts amongst the white fur.
More frustration, an enraged mourning, comes from the men. They leap, daggers slashing in greed and anger. My attacker holds his weapon in his right hand, the blade coming close but not quite enough to pierce my heart. With my free left hand, I smack his arm away. The short and slim blade flies to his other hand, and he brings it down on my sword arm. A slit of scarlet spreads there, staining the white cloth. My fist around the hilt of the sword tightens, bolting the black lines on his face. The hit knocks him back a few steps, the dagger switching hands once more to lay a protective hand on the impact point. Despite the sting in my arm, I swing my blade as it remains high. A stream lets loose at his ear, a chunk of the thing sliding down the sword and leaving a crimson trail.
A gloved hand rises to hold the new little river at bay. My sword rises again and crashes down on the dagger, sending it flying to the dirt. He cries out, pulling the newly disarmed hand in close to his chest. A heavy foot lands in his gut, sending him back a few feet, breathless. A shaky, bloody hand reaches out. Tendrils of scarlet inch toward me, twisting and turning in the air. The shapeless form tightens in a snap and becomes a long length of crimson chain. The painted one thrusts it out, fast as an arrow. With a swing of my sword I try to parry it, but to no avail. The blood chain finds my neck, wraps itself there in a tight coil, and like a vicious viper squeezes. What little breath in me chokes in my lungs, setting them ablaze. Frantic, desperate, dying, I claw at the constriction. My fingernails find the sanguine hard as steel and just as ruthless. A cold breath of futile weakness fills my veins and drops me to my knees. Stars burst to life and die in my vision, pockets of black holes forming where they may.
My shoulders wetten. The blood runs warm, coating the cloth and coloring it cardinal. My throat eases, allows the air to enter. I nearly vomit by the sudden rush of it all. When the lights stop flashing in my eyes and the noise of strangulation clears from my head, there is a surrounding silence. A splash of red draws a line from me to the mage. He lays on his back, propped up on his elbows and sporting a face of fear. His wide eyes watch the sword pointed at him, going to its wielder in a slow slide. Max holds him there, his blade stricken scarlet.
A pile of dead flesh bloodies the dirt behind. Avian creatures feast upon a small mound far into the plain. Nana, silent and peaceful, strokes the coat of my horse. My knees are weak as I stand but keep me on my feet. Some of the mage's paint has smeared and smudged; a pitch strip of hair sits above his upper lip.
"Didn't really hesitate with the brother, did you?" I ask Max, my eyes hard on the innkeeper.
"I mean, he was trying to kill me," Max answers, a grim smirk in his tone. "And you clearly needed the help."
"I was managing," I argue.
"Managing to get your ass kicked," he jokes.
"How did you find us?" my question turns our focus to the one-eared man.
Incensed defiance burns through the fear in his silence. His held tongue tests Max's patience; the tip of the sword sinks into the shoulder when too much time passes with no answer. The painted innkeeper yelps at the piercing sting, a hand covering the new wound.
"We're not in the business of repetition," I tell him. "Answer the question."
"Go fuck yourself," he manages, a flavor of false bravery on his tongue.
Max's sword rises to the man's face, a little flick of the blade leaving a slash across the cheek. It hovers over the heart then, the tip resting on the leather.
"Last chance, asshole," Max warns.
"B-b-biscuits," the innkeeper's brief spurt of courage wavering. "Brother laced them with a tracking concoction."
"Hence the weird taste," I comment to Max.
"You do this often?" Max asks him.
"Only when a patron has a lot of money," he answers with a quivering lip.
"How do you discern that? You that good at sizing up your marks?" I add to the line of questioning.
"The cat has a good nose," his eyes go to me, and then find something between Max and me. "Had, I guess."
"Any reason why we shouldn't feed you to the birds?" Max asks, keeping a steady blade on the innkeeper.
"We just wanted your money and anything of worth," he explains. "We didn't want bloodshed. Everyone else just complies and we all go on our way. That's how it's been for years. Please, isn't my defeat enough of a punishment?"
"So you can go on and rob more people?" Max presses, the tip of the blade piercing the leather just enough that it tickles the skin underneath. "You're no better than a bandit."
"And we kill bandits," I say with a grim smirk.
A chorus of wings gathers around us. Bloody beaks wait in patience for their next meal. Their summoner, Nana, steps into the space between Max and myself. She wears her own ominous smile, blind eyes fixed on the main course. Though her hands rest at her side, the fingers curl sharp like talons. Any semblance of courage left in the man leaks out of him in a great stench of a mess.
"What do you think, Nana?" Max asks, not looking away from the prey. "Should we let him go? Or are your friends still hungry?"
The innkeeper's wide, silent stare pleads with the old woman. He gets a narrow one in return, accompanied by bloodthirsty upturned lips. We all look at her, even the birds. Her bony claws slip into our free hands, intense flameless heat. The smile diminishes and becomes a scowl in a second.
Unlike before, her voice comes not in an otherworldly boom. Instead, it is a light thing, delicate yet raspy. A dying breath, almost. She utters only three words. They come out slow, full of focused effort. They are not some trivial things, thrown about every day to those near and dear. They are careful, calculated, cold. A flicker of that previous terror she instilled returns as she says them, a quiet fear as opposed to the soul-chilling despair. Catching Max's eye for a moment, I see it in him too. Yet he holds his sword steady, not backing down just yet. After all, it is not to us she directs her menace. Not right now, anyway. Hopefully never.
"Feast, my children."
The man's cries are lost among the cawing. Max sheaths his sword. We guide Nana back to the horses and help her back into her coat. She rides with me once more, and we leave the birds to their carrion.