Songs of the Dying Earth

He searched the forest floor without success until darkness fell. He slept masked beneath the trees, and the weight upon his face, together with the smoldering heat in his vitals, woke him to a dawn sky alive with soaring pelgrane. He watched, fascinated and fearful, until the black company dispersed. Then he moved on through the forest, footsteps careful, eyes darting everywhere. Once, he caught a gleam of ultramarine under a bush, but found there nothing more than an ancient glazed sherd. Later, he discovered a spread of old bones moldering amid the shadows, but the horned tri-lobed skull did not belong to the species that he sought. Along a faint trail he wandered, and, as he went, the heat in his belly sharpened and expanded to fill assorted organs.

At last, he came upon a corpse — putrescent, half devoured — and his pulses quickened. Approaching with caution, he spied great leathern wings, an elongated head of black horn, fanged snout, gargoyle face. A dead pelgrane — potential key to his salvation. Drawing the knife from his belt, he knelt beside the corpse. The tough black substance of the head was resistant, but the eyes might offer ingress, or perhaps a rock would serve to crush the skull. Farnol sawed away with a will. So absorbed was he in his work that he failed to note a shifting shadow, a puff of breeze. A voice rasped at his back.

“My mate, my meat.”

He twisted in time to meet the leering eyes of a second pelgrane. The hook of a black wing slammed his head, and the world went dim. He did not entirely lose consciousness. He was aware but unable to resist as he felt himself seized and borne aloft. The cold wind on his face revived him. He heard the rusty creak of the pelgrane’s wings, he saw the woods and the river far below, his last sight of the world. Presently his captor would let him fall upon some rocky outcropping, and then devour him at leisure.

The pelgrane did not drop him. On it flew along the Derna, until the bluffs heightened and steepened, and the vegetation clothing their rock dwindled. The bare shelves and ledges were dotted with massive nests of wood, river reed, and bone, cemented with clay. Toward one such spiky haven, Farnol was borne, and deposited on the shelf beside it. Over his protests, his captor deftly stripped the garments from his body, then tossed him into the nest. He shared the space with three hideous infant pelgrane, all of them asleep. At once, he attempted to climb out, and the powerful thrust of a great hatchet beak propelled him backward.

“Stay.” The pelgrane’s voice, while deep and harsh, was recognizably female.

“Madam, do your worst. I defy you.”

“Ah, the meat is well spiced.” She cocked her misshapen head. “Just as I would have it.”

“Allow me to depart unharmed, else I visit destruction upon your young.”

“Excellent. I encourage you to try.” The pelgrane uttered a distinctive croak, and her repulsive progeny awoke.

Three sets of leathern wings unfurled. Three pairs of reddish eyes opened to fasten upon Farnol of Karzh.

“Observe, my little ones,” the mother instructed. “I have brought you a specimen upon which to sharpen your skills. This creature is known as a man. Repeat after me. Man.”

“Man,” the nestlings squeaked in unison.

“Do not be lulled into carelessness by the comical appearance. These bipeds display a certain low cunning, and some of them possess magic. Now, then. Who will show us how to bring him down?”

“I! I! I!” offered the nestlings.

“You, then.” The mother gestured.

Wings spread eagerly wide, the designated infant hurled itself across the nest, half hopping, half gliding. Farnol deflected the attack with a blow of his fist. The pelgrane bounced off the wall and hit the floor, to the tootling merriment of its siblings and the full-bellied mirth of its dam.

“Can you do better?” Another winged gesture.

A second juvenile launched itself at Farnol’s legs. He kicked it aside, and fresh guffaws arose around him. A third flapping attempt was similarly thwarted.

“Children, I am saddened,” the mother pelgrane observed with patent untruth, for she still shook with laughter. “Your predatory performance leaves much to be desired. Now, attend. It is always best to take the prey unawares, but when that is impossible, you must take care to seek the points of vulnerability.” Perching herself upon the edge of the nest, she leaned forward to point a precise wing tip. “Here — the neck. Here — the belly. The groin. And finally, never underestimate the utility of the knees, when approached from the rear. Thus and so.” Her powerful wing smote the specified joints, buckling Farnol’s legs. A shrewdly angled shove toppled him onto his back.

At once, the three nestlings were upon him, their combined weight pinning him to the floor, their abominable odor foul in his nostrils. In vain he struggled to dislodge them. Their baby fangs scored his limbs, and he felt the wet warmth of blood. Little squeals of joy escaped the infant pelgrane.