Perched

A fierce wind ripped through Joren’s hair, pricking his scalp and toying with his torn and useless hood. Ice and frost clung fervently to his thick and gnarled beard, encasing it in a hoar crust. Driving sleet pierced his tattered gloves, numbing his tenuous grip.

“Algus!” Joren’s scream was muffled by squall, cloud and snow. Frigid teeth dug into his cheek as he tightened his hold and pressed against rough stone, shielding himself from another strong rush of wind.

His cry went unanswered.

Doubt and regret sapped strength from his arms. His hope of sanctuary had fled long before he embarked on this trek across a world he no longer knew. Mountains came and went like an uneven tide. Forests caught blaze amid driving rain. Lakes swelled and flooded at a whim. Entire cities were swallowed or torn asunder before his eyes.

For all his wishing, Joren could not go home any more. Algus had told him as much.

Familiarity was now found amid gusts, howls and grim cliffs. A shrill cry locked Joren’s muscles, freezing his heart in his throat. Alone amid a soulless din, Joren understood why Algus had not answered his call.

He turned his gaze toward thick clouds and searched for shadows to match what his ears had heard. It did not take long before his eyes found a pair of dark shapes drifting in a vapid approach. Each slow, rhythmic flap of their wings drew on dark memories. Tales of Sky Claws had haunted him in his youth. Now he would have a tale of his own.

Edwick. Nora. Jeffsen. “Mae,” he whispered. His eyes remained dry. What tears he had were already frozen on pitted cheeks.

A second screech broke his trance. Mindful of his feeble perch, Joren reached along his baldric with a free hand. Comfort blossomed as his fingers wrapped around an old friend, one that he had considered trading for nothing more than a night of shelter and bread. His deadened fingers warmed as they curled around a handle wrapped in worn wolf-hide, a trophy from his first conquest as a man. Thankful for his last friend, he worked his blade free from its sheath and howled in return. Then he held in silence. He waited. He watched.

A monstrous visage broke through cloud and storm, filling his vision with leathery flesh, teeth, and wicked claws. Barbs sprouted from every protrusion, eager for a taste of flesh and blood.

Joren flung himself free from rock and ice. Air tore at him eagerly as he plummeted past cloud and snow. He rolled onto his back to watch his attacker dive in pursuit. He checked his grip and prayed, waiting for a demon to save his life.