The wind that snaked through the Vultarian cliffs was a thing of teeth and whispers. It scoured the granite faces of the mountains, carrying the dust of ages and a palpable sense of menace. Elias pulled his cloak tighter, the fine wool feeling flimsy against the oppressive weight of the air. They had passed the last of the bone-and-feather totems an hour ago, gruesome sentinels that marked the edge of the Vultarians' hunting grounds. Now, they were in the heart of it.
"Charming decor," Elias murmured, his voice a low counterpoint to the wind's moan. "Really speaks to a minimalist, yet deeply macabre, aesthetic. I'd have suggested a splash of colour, personally. Perhaps some wildflowers woven into the ribcages."
Beside him, Thorne grunted, his gaze sweeping the serrated ridgeline above. He moved with a heavy, deliberate grace, a boulder weathering a storm. "They're not decorators, Bard. They're butchers. Also you already made that terrible joke, so if you have nothing else to say, stay quiet. I need to hear."
Floating just ahead of them, a small, luminous sphere of soft blue light pulsed erratically. The air here was thick with something ancient and hostile, a spiritual static that grated on the little spirit's senses.
Thorne stopped dead. His hand rested on the worn leather pommel of his sword. He didn't draw it, not yet, but the stillness in his posture was more alarming than any overt threat. He tilted his head, listening not with his ears, but with an instinct.
"What is it?" Elias asked, his own practiced nonchalance beginning to fray at the edges.
"The rustling," Thorne said, his voice a low rasp. "It's keeping pace. We're being tracked."
The words hung in the air, heavy and cold. The wind died abruptly, plunging the narrow gorge into an unnatural silence. Even Olaf's nervous humming ceased. In that vacuum, the world seemed to hold its breath. Elias could hear his own heartbeat, a frantic drum against his ribs. He scanned the scree-covered slopes and the dense, thorny brush clinging to the rock walls. He saw nothing but stone and shadow.
Then the silence broke.
It was not a sound so much as an eruption. From the rocks, from the brush, from the very shadows themselves, figures burst forth. They were lean and wiry, their skin daubed in stark white bone ash, creating ghoulish patterns that mimicked skeletons. Their eyes were wild, black pits of feral intensity. They wielded crude clubs studded with sharpened flint, knives of jagged obsidian, and nets woven from thick, dark sinew.
A chorus of shrieks tore through the air, a cacophony of guttural clicks and broken words that scraped at the ears. "TRESPASS! CROW'S LAND!" "BLOOD-TAKERS! FILTH!"
Before Elias could so much as draw a breath to weave a song of calming, a shadow fell over them. He glanced up. Dark shapes plummeted from the clifftop. With a series of dull thwumps, heavy nets descended, the sinew ropes coarse and strong. One enveloped him, tangling his arms and pinning his lute to his back. Another crashed down on Thorne, who roared in frustration as he was ensnared.
Olaf, in a panic, flared with bright, defiant light. He zipped towards the nearest hunter, a tiny comet of courage. A warrior with a leering, skull-painted face simply backhanded him out of the air with a brutal swat of his club. The spirit cartwheeled with a pained squeak, his light dimming as he tumbled into the thorny brush. He was a creature of influence and whispers, not of brute force. Here, against this raw, physical violence, he was as helpless as a moth.
The Vultarians descended in a frenzy. They moved with a loping, animalistic gait, snarling and drooling, their wild eyes fixed on their prey. They were not soldiers; they were a pack of wolves that had learned to walk upright.
Thorne was a cornered lion. With a savage roar, he heaved against his net, the muscles in his back and shoulders bunching like ship's rope. Sinew snapped. He tore a single arm free, his hand scrabbling for the hilt of his sword. For a glorious, fleeting moment, he was the knight he once was. He lunged, getting his feet under him, his blade half-drawn from its scabbard.
The pack fell upon him.
A club slammed into his side, cracking ribs with a sickening crunch. Another caught him across the back of the head. He staggered, but his grip on his sword remained. His blade flashed out, a sliver of civilized steel in a world of primitive fury, and laid open a hunter's arm. A shriek of pain was answered by a wave of renewed violence. They swarmed him, their numbers an insurmountable tide.
A heavy stone crashed against his temple. Blood sprayed, dark against the pale rock. He went down to one knee, stubborn and furious, shaking his head as if to clear it of buzzing hornets. He tried to rise again, a monument of sheer, bloody-minded will. A final, crushing blow from a gnarled club sent him sprawling into the dust, unconscious.
Trapped and helpless, Elias watched in horror. He struggled against the net, the rough cords digging into his skin. He opened his mouth, his mind racing to find the notes, the words, the melody that could quell this savagery. He tried to summon the Song of Binding, a tune that could root a man's feet to the earth. But the music stumbled in his throat. The spirits of this place were not the gentle, curious sprites of the lowlands. They were skittish, terrified things that hid from the shadow of the Ice Crow. They cowered from the Vultarians' bloodlust. His call found no answer; his song was just noise, dissonant and powerless.
Olaf, recovering, zipped from the bushes, his form puffed up and glowing with a desperate, protective brilliance. He darted in front of Elias, trying to form a shield of light. The Vultarians recoiled for a second, hissing, their faces contorted in a mixture of fear and disgust. "False fire!" one snarled, spitting on the ground. "Spirit-filth!" another screeched, shielding his eyes.
One of the larger tribesmen, emboldened by the others, swung a crude hide shield and batted Olaf away once more. The spirit vanished into the shadows with a final, defeated flicker. The dismissal was absolute, a profound rejection of anything not born of the grim rock and cold wind of their mountain. Their superstition was as much a weapon as their clubs.
The chaos subsided into a grim, methodical process. Two hunters hauled the bloodied, unmoving form of Thorne. They bound him tightly with more sinew rope, his arms wrenched behind his back until the shoulders threatened to pop. One of them pried Thorne's sword from his limp grasp, holding it up and grunting in appreciation of its craftsmanship before tucking it into his own belt as a trophy.
Others converged on Elias, dragging him from the net and forcing him to his knees. His wrists were bound so tightly the circulation was instantly cut off. A hunter with breath that smelled of raw meat yanked the lute from his back. He held it up, a look of contemptuous curiosity on his face. He plucked a string. The sound, a pure, resonant note that had charmed kings and soothed beasts, was an alien thing in this desolate canyon. The warrior grimaced and deliberately scraped his jagged fingernails across all the strings at once, producing a harsh, grating shriek of noise. The other Vultarians laughed, a dry, rasping sound like stones grinding together.
They were mocking his soul. The violation was more profound than any physical blow. Elias's head bowed, not in submission, but in a quiet, burning rage.
Hidden in the deep shade of an overhanging rock, a tiny blue light trembled. Olaf watched, his form so dim he was nearly invisible. Fear warred with a fierce, unwavering loyalty. He could not fight them, but he would not abandon his friends. He would follow.
A rough shove to his back sent Elias stumbling forward. Thorne was dragged between two warriors, his boots scraping trails in the dirt. The Vultarians surrounded them, herding them deeper into the mountains, their posture that of hunters driving cattle to the slaughter.
As they marched, a low sound began to emanate from the tribe. It started as a guttural hum, a vibration that seemed to rise from the stones themselves. It grew into a fragmented chant, a single, repeated word that echoed off the canyon walls, building in power and menace.
"Crow… Crow… Crow…"
The word was a prayer. A name. A promise.
Elias's blood ran cold. He looked up, past the snarling faces of his captors, to the towering, ice-sheathed peak that dominated the skyline—the roost of the mountain's god. The bone totems, the ash-painted skin that made them look like carrion birds, the brutal, ritualistic nature of their attack… it all clicked into place with a horrifying certainty.
They were not being taken prisoner. They were being taken as a tribute. An offering to be judged, or more likely, sacrificed before the unblinking eye of the Ice Crow itself.