Wulmaer

The urgency with which the messenger rushed into Wulmaer’s personal cell told him immediately that something was wrong. The youngling’s talons clicked on the stone as he crossed the threshold and made a hurried bow. It was one of the Observer’s personal assistants, an unfortunate Dyrian Auldhund with the nubs of wings that never fully formed and arms that twisted in upon themselves in perpetual spasm.

“Yes?”

“I am Caelin, the Observer’s assistant.”

“I know who you are.”

“Brother Wulmaer,” the youngling said, “The Ganlins are missing.”

Wulmaer figured the boy had misspoken, so he waited for Caelin to correct himself. When he didn’t, Wulmaer frowned. “The family?”

Caelin nodded, his long head bobbing upon his narrow shoulders. “All of them. Vanished.”

Wulmaer put down his pen. “A family that size doesn’t disappear. Did Aderyn send someone out to the Slopes?”

“The weigh-line was cut,” Caelin said. “All the aspens beyond the woodlands at the edge of Ganlin territory are dead.”

“That doesn’t mean they went missing,” Wulmaer said, but a chill was beginning to form under his neck-plates. The Ganlins would never let the weigh-lines go to ruin. Not if they were still alive.

Caelin bowed his long head again. “The Observer would like to speak with you about it in more detail, brother.”

Wulmaer dismissed him and went to his balcony. The Observer’s tower was built several stories higher than his own, poised with an excellent view of the ruins of Ariod—and any interlopers who were stupid enough to try and scavenge them.

Bracing his tail against the floor, Wulmaer climbed onto the railing, bunched his legs, and launched himself toward the Observer’s balcony. His wings spread in a snap as the membranes caught the air, and Wulmaer immediately found himself in a struggle to fight the wind whipping through the abandoned valley and the Dyrian towers that guarded it. Wulmaer pumped his wings furiously, hoping no one was looking as he awkwardly sailed at a forty-five degree angle from his intended path.

Flying had never been his strong suit.

He was really beginning to re-think his decision when a new gust dragged him over the ruins and he looked down and caught sight of the flitting shadows of ancient monsters crawling the surface below. He redoubled his efforts, concentrating on getting back into safer territory. For grueling minutes, he seemed to just hover, until the wind died just enough for him to make headway. When he finally made the Observer’s balcony in a trial-by-error attack, Aderyn was already there, watching him. She gave him an amused look when he alighted beside her.

“You could have taken the stairs.”

“I like to fly,” Wulmaer lied.

“You’re no good at it.”

“Just a little out of practice.”

She smiled at him, displaying a ragged row of prickly lizardine teeth. “Brother, you were never in practice.” She turned and moved back into her tower, almost brushing the door with the gray-black feathers that were folded against her back. Her untaloned feet padded softly on the stone while his had the same ringing click as Caelin’s.

Once they were inside, Aderyn shut her cell door and sighed. “They’re killing each other again.”

Wulmaer eyed the stacks of reports she had upon her desk, a hefty collection of scrolls and bird-borne messages. “You know this for a fact?” He glanced at Aderyn.

The rough reptilian skin around her eyes was drooping and dark. She let out an exhausted sigh and nodded, her v-shaped chest deflating to half its size. She motioned for him to lay down.

Wulmaer moved to the padded visitor’s area and flopped to the floor. “Tell me.”

She went to her table and gathered an armful of scrolls before joining him. These she dropped to the ground between them before settling to her stomach upon the floor across from Wulmaer, her hind legs tucked beneath her politely.

She plucked a scroll from the pile and pushed it towards him. “A report from the Spyre. Six Ganlins—one of whom wasn’t even an Auld—disappeared last week.”

Wulmaer grunted. “Bodies?”

“None.” She shoved another report at him. “An account by a rural fisherman who saw two Ganlins researching aquaculture outside his village accosted by five men in black.”

“Aulds?”

“He says no. They killed their quarry with clubs and swords before disappearing into the forest with the bodies. Though the villagers did an extensive search of the forest, they could not find the bodies. It took place on the same day the Aulds of the Spyre disappeared.”

Wulmaer frowned. “Go on.”

She pushed another scroll his way. “A retired Ganlin Auldin disappears from a village along the edge of the Norfeld plains, along with seven of her children and their eleven grandchildren. Same day. No bodies.”

Wulmaer glanced at the enormous stack of scrolls and felt his first real curl of unease. “Each of those is a disappearance?”

Aderyn nodded her short, hairless head. “Each on the same day.”

“And the Slopes?” Wulmaer asked. “Ganlin Hall?”

“It’s too far inland. No one has been able to make it through the mountains to find out.”

Wulmaer considered. “You think the Vethyles?”

“Some of them, surely,” Aderyn said. “But not all. I think there was a bigger force behind this.”

“Norfelds?” The thought of the Norfelds starting a war left Wulmaer unsettled. They were so secretive in their affairs that after thirty years of attempting to infiltrate their ranks, the Dyrian didn’t even know who led them.

“Bigger,” Aderyn said.

Wulmaer began to get nervous. “Aderyn, I have a history of the southern banks of Ariod to finish, an epic poem to translate, a heap of artifacts to catalogue, and a flock of younglings to oversee on the northwestern dig.”

She shoved the scrolls at him. “Now you have a crime to investigate.”

Wulmaer got up, ignoring the scrolls. “Aderyn, you could easily get a younger lad—”

“You’re going to do it,” she said. When he glowered at her, she smiled again, her pretty face bewitching. “You’ll make sure the Ganlins’ souls see justice.”

“They could still be alive,” Wulmaer muttered.

“They’re not.”

“I don’t have the time—”

“The ruins have been here for a thousand years,” Aderyn said. “They can wait a few more while you figure out what happened.”

“A few years?” Wulmaer demanded. “Aderyn, I can’t—”

“They did find one body,” Aderyn interrupted.

Wulmaer fell into a sullen silence.

“In that same town where the retired Auld and her family disappeared, a hunter was out seeking game. He shot a deer and gutted it, but when he called his dog to return home, the dog wouldn’t come. It was in the forest, gnawing on the arm of a little girl, maybe two at most. Her head and right hand had been cut off. The clothes she was wearing matched the description of Auld’s grandchild, a little auldling who was rumored to be quite powerful.” Aderyn glanced up at him. “You know why they take the hand, don’t you, Wulmaer?”

Wulmaer felt his arm trembling from where he had dug his talons into his palm. He nodded.

“Good.” Aderyn stood and handed him another scroll, one that bore the Observer’s seal. “Find the ones responsible. You have my permission to bring back those you can, and kill those you can’t. Go with a team of your choosing. This must be done quickly, before it escalates.”

Wulmaer unclenched his fist to take the scroll. “How much weight does your edict carry?”

“You may drag Cyriaca herself back here, if you can prove she was a part of it.”

“We both know she was.”

“If you can prove it,” Aderyn said softly, “Use any means necessary.”

Wulmaer was startled by that. “She’s the matriarch of the biggest family in Bryda. It would be war.”

“They killed the Ganlins,” Aderyn said, her arm outstretched to encompass the stack of scrolls. “It’s already war.”

He said nothing.

“Further, the Ganlins were our greatest allies in the Spyre. With them dead, whoever did this will come for us next. They’re just hoping we’re too dense to see it.” Aderyn paused, giving him time to think. “So,” she said softly, “Are you ready to come out of retirement, Auldhund?”

Wulmaer thought of the younglings in the bowers, their hands chopped off, their bodies dropped into pits in the forest. He squeezed his hand around the Observer’s edict and nodded.

#

Three hours later, Wulmaer was standing in front of a line of volunteers. He would only take two with him, but every one of them was more than qualified. And, upon hearing that the Ganlin line had in all likelihood been completely annihilated, every one of them was in a lather to remind the Aulds of the Spyre why the ancients had feared the Unmade.

Wulmaer separated them in his mind by winged and ground. Though he hated to admit it, he was going to need fliers on his team this time. Expediency was important. A swift, decisive retaliation was what the situation required, and walking simply wouldn’t get them there fast enough.

He told the other Unmade as much and endured the mutters that followed when he said, “Those of you with flight skills, stay. The rest can go.”

When the grounded had slunk from the ranks, Wulmaer began to sort them by intelligence and ability. He needed brains more than muscle—whoever had orchestrated the massacre obviously had the cunning to expect immediate Dyrian intervention—and to have prepared accordingly.

Wulmaer settled on Cassia and Trefor. The former was small for a feathered Dyrian, even a female, though her wits and poisoned mandibles made up for her lack of bulk. Trefor, like Wulmaer, was of the skin-winged kind—much larger and bulkier, with a sharp mind that was deceptively hidden by an extended forehead and downturned horns.

After Wulmaer had made his choices and dismissed the others, he went to finalize their departure with their quartermaster. On the way back to his room to gather what flight-worthy possessions he would need to take on the trip, Wulmaer was stopped by a big shadow waiting for him outside his room.

A grounded Unmade stepped from the darkness created by the corner of the wall, slinking forward on four padded feet in absolute silence. The human characteristics of Wulmaer’s people had all but been bred out of this one, the only remnants that remained being the greasy, hairless gray skin and the round, tailless buttocks.

“I want to go with you, Auldhund,” the Unmade said. At the wispy rasp, Wulmaer couldn’t tell if it was male or female. The size, however, led him to believe his visitor was a male. Standing on all fours, his head almost reached Wulmaer’s chest, and when he straightened himself out, Wulmaer almost reached eight feet. Vaguely, Wulmaer remembered the quartermaster recommending a grounded skinner to take with him. Big enough to drag down a horse, the quartermaster had said. This one certainly qualified.

“Sorry,” Wulmaer said. “We need to move fast. Airborne only.”

“I can move fast,” the raspy voice said. It took another slinking step towards him, the grace of which made Wulmaer believe him.

Macsen, Wulmaer remembered. The quartermaster called him Macsen. He shook his head. “Sorry, Macs, lad, but I’ve got what I need.”

“Which town will you visit first?” the raspy voice demanded. It was obvious that speaking was difficult for this one.

Wulmaer winced. The last thing he needed was a grounded Unmade more animal than human mucking up a delicate political investigation. “Sorry.”

Macsen watched him through glittering green eyes that were arguably the only recognizably human part of him. Its big, batlike ears twitched. “Horix? Rovane?” It continued to watch him when Wulmaer said nothing. “Not east, then. That leaves Jeneston or Odiana.”

Though Wulmaer didn’t realize he had flinched, Macsen bowed low, leaving a drool of slobber on the stone floor. “I’ll meet you in Odiana, then.” He turned to go.

“Hold up,” Wulmaer said. “That’s a two hundred mile walk. We plan on being there in three days. You actually believe you’re going to make that kind of distance on foot?”

The grounded Unmade bore large fangs at him. “You think you’ll make that kind of distance by wing, Auldhund?”

Wulmaer knew he was being mocked. He also knew that anything that left a trail of drool on the floor would be completely overlooked as intelligent in human eyes.

“You get there before we do,” Wulmaer said, “And I’ll make you my second.”

Macsen cocked a misshapen head at him. “I thought that honor was Cassia’s.”

“Anyone who can read my body-language as easily as you just did deserves the opportunity.”

“Can’t read much of anything else,” Macsen said, by way of explanation. He nodded. “Excuse me, commander. You’ll have the wind in your favor.” Then he turned and padded away in silence. His talons were sheathed, unlike Wulmaer’s, which irritatingly announced Wulmaer’s presence to anyone within hearing whenever his walking surface was even semi-hard. Wulmaer found himself envying Macsen’s stealth.

Then he realized what the boy had meant. Without hands, Macsen couldn’t read books, couldn’t write, couldn’t turn doorknobs.

Wulmaer flinched, deciding he liked his clicking feet just fine.