Dusty Wings

The moonlight turned the man’s hair the color of the sun. Large wings draped over his shoulders matched the dusty sand of the road before him. His feet dragged. So did his horse’s hooves as he led the mare into the empty town. 

The man gazed at the buildings as he passed, his eyes in the lamplight turning the color of the wings across his shoulders. Casually he read each sign: the tanner, the smith, the healer he all passed, though blood speckled the feathers at the edge of his cloak, and the hand not holding the mare’s reins hung limp at his side. 

He did not pause his amble until he reached the structure with the most light and noise escaping through its windows. His head tilted as he read the hanging sign above it: The Dusty Eagle. Something resembling a grin tugged at the man’s young face, and he tied his horse next to a sleeping griffon. Neither the horse nor the man seemed afraid of the creature; it was small, and had a saddle on its back. 

With a final pat to his horse’s neck, the man pushed the door of the tavern open with a slow creak. Light and laughter spilled into the night. The man stepped in, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Candles sculpted into strange shapes by melting wax and little maintenance stood on every table, and an iron chandelier hung in the center of the room, each candle a differing length. Few patrons sat in the tavern at this late hour, huddled together and playing cards or discussing secrets in voices that alcohol made them think were hushed. Two were men, but the other two had pointier ears concealed by shimmering hair. One of these had a feather the same color as the man’s cloak stuck into his hair.

Ignoring the patrons, the man stepped up to the bar, resting a hand on it. His other hand still hung limp and hidden beneath his winged cloak. He spoke only enough words to the young barmaid to get a room and food and drink, which the barmaid promised she would get him as soon as he found a table to sit at. He spoke as if he wasn’t used to speaking, each of his words rasping as he finished them. The young woman’s face heated to hear it, and when she handed him a key to an upper room, and their fingers briefly met, she quickly drew her hand away as her face turned scarlet. Clearing her throat, she began cleaning the dirty counter with an even dirtier rag. Her gaze flashed up to the man. He stared at her yellow braids. Ducking her head, she continued cleaning. The man lingered a minute, slipping the iron key into a pocket, then left the bar and folded his thin body into a seat far removed from the other patrons. Feathers rustled as the wings parted around his knees. The barmaid came and dropped a mug of ale in front of him. Slowly, he grabbed it. He raised it to his mouth, his thin face never moving as his eyes observed the room over the rim of his drink. In the candlelight, his golden hair glowed almost ginger. He did not move.

The elf with the feather in his hair was the first to notice him. He touched his Elven companion on the shoulder and pointed to the corner where the stranger sat, watching them with large eyes. The other elf turned, saw the young man, and laughed. He stood from his seat and walked to the table of men.

“Have you noticed our visitor?” he said, putting his arms around the two men. Both were large and strong, dark haired and graying. One was sculpted and handsome. The other was formless and ugly. They glanced at the stranger in the dark, then looked at the elf above them.

“What of it?” the handsome one said. He took up his ale, glowering into it as he drank.

The feathered elf joined them, touching the ugly one’s shoulder with a slim hand. “What is he wearing?” the feathered elf said.

The ugly one shrugged the hand off, stealing the other man’s drink. “Come off it, Orlan, I’m not a fashion expert like you.” He talked loudly.

Orlan laughed, plucking the feather from his fair hair and holding it before the ugly one’s nose. “What kind of feather do I wear, Gorman?” he said.

Gorman blinked at him, his eyes red and small in his large face.

“It is a griffon’s feather, boys,” the other elf said, sitting next to the handsome one. He nodded at the stranger. The stranger stared at them, light eyebrows drawn together. “His cloak is made of the same feathers.”

“Do you know how much a single griffon feather costs?” Orlan said, sticking his back behind his pointed ear. “To have a complete set of griffon wings…”

“It could make the two of you rich,” said the other elf.

“Maybe even rich enough to become lords,” said Orlan.

The two men’s eyes gleamed. They stared at the man. The man still had not stopped looking at them, neither concern nor confusion written on his face, but rather a sort of complacent content. The men suddenly hated him for it.

“What do you say, Gorman?” the handsome one muttered.

Gorman mastered his voice for one sentence, and muttered back, “The Lord brothers Holden sounds pretty fine to me, Vince.”

Vince nodded. He took the mug of ale he and his brother shared and drained it, then stood. Gorman stood with him. The elves fell back, their teeth flashing in the flickering candlelight, and watched.

Seeing the two large men approach, the stranger finally shifted, frowning at his mug. The brothers sat, one beside him, one across from him. Unconcerned, the man tipped his head back to drink from his cup.

“Welcome, stranger,” said Vince, who sat beside him. He laid a friendly hand on the man’s shoulder. The feathers beneath his hand were long and soft. He grinned. “Allow me to introduce ourselves. My name is Vince Holden, and this is my older brother, Gorman. Usually I’d let the elder do the conversing, but Gorman’s got a bad habit of drinking too much and losing his tongue.”

Gorman stuck out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said, his words once more loud and slurred. The man did not shake his hand. Gorman’s hand fell onto the table, rattling the cup. The man grabbed it to keep it from spilling.

“My brother and I couldn’t help but notice your fine cloak,” Vince said, his hand trailing down the feathers as he spoke. “Beautiful attire. Looks to be made from griffon wings. Can’t imagine what it cost.”

“It cost me nothing,” the man said, his voice low and even, despite the rasp to it.

Vince spluttered. Gorman laughed, loud and obnoxious. “Nothing?” Vince said. “Am I to believe you wrestled it from a griffon yourself, then?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “I thought I saw a griffon outside, if you want to try your own luck at wrestling a griffon.”

Gorman scowled, a noise deep in his throat like the growl of a dog.

“That belongs to the Elf Chief, Orlan,” he said. “To take it from him would be close to starting a war.”

The man’s eyes flashed to the two watching elves. They sat still, but not relaxed, like cats waiting to pounce. He cleared his throat and took a sip of his drink. “Then I can’t help you, gentlemen. I’m sorry.”

Gorman rose from his chair, but Vince waved him down, and the large man fell back with a thump. Vince put an arm around the man. The man glared at him, but Vince acted as if he didn’t notice. “Sir, I’m worried I didn’t get a name,” Vince said, his voice low and feigning friendship. “How rude of me, to introduce myself and not ask for an introduction from you! Would you kindly give one now?”

The man paused. He glanced at the bar. The barmaid stood behind it, frozen in the action of washing a glass, staring at the man with wide blue eyes. “I don’t give introductions easily,” said the man, his gaze still on the barmaid. The semblance of a grin quirked his mouth. “But if you wish to call me anything, you may call me Dragon Slayer.”

The brothers guffawed, and Vince slapped his back. “It’s been too long since we’ve had a jester in town,” he said, still trying to recover from his mirth. “Thank you for the joke, Stranger. But truly, what is your name?”

Slowly the man looked at him. He seemed to do everything slowly, and his calmness at last sent a twinge of unease through Vince. The strong man shifted under the stranger’s hazel eyes, and he retracted his hand.

“I told you,” said the man, “I don’t do introductions. I came from the mountains over eastward, and crossed paths with a dragon the village near Yorrin’s Canyon claimed raided their town and others nearby. I slew it. If you doubt me, travel to Mosstown and ask to see the beast’s head. It hangs over the lord’s door now.”

Gorman’s jaw dropped, but Vince was less easily impressed. His nostrils flared. “If you wish us to believe you completed this task, show us proof. The lord of Mosstown could have killed the dragon, for all I know. What’s to say you did?” he said.

The man blinked. He drew his hand inside his feathered cloak, then brought it out, a dagger clasped in it. He placed it on the table. The blade still shone with blood. Plastered near the hilt of the weapon, a small gray scale glistened. The man freed it from the dagger and set it before Vince. He hid his dagger beneath his cloak again.

Vince picked up the tainted scale. It trembled between his fingers as he studied it. The scale was small, but rough, and only one animal produced scales with patterned ridges like that. He threw it down on the table, wiping his hands on his shirt. Gorman picked it up where it fell, staring at it with the stupidity of a child not knowing what treasure he found in a glimmering rock.

“I see you are an honest man,” Vince said, and his voice shook. He coughed into a fist. When he spoke again, his voice once more was handsome and smooth, matching his face. “Let’s make an honest deal, then. How much for your cloak?”

“It isn’t for sale,” said the man. 

Vince laughed. “Surely you’d be willing to part with it at the right price.”

“I do not wish to for any price.”

“You part with it,” Gorman grumbled, setting the scale down, “or we’ll part you from it.”

The man raised a sandy eyebrow at him.

Vince shrugged. “Unfortunately, my brother is right. Nothing is stopping us from taking it off your shoulders. It would be wise for you to at least get some money from the transaction.”

There was no hint of a grin now. Now it was full. “I don’t want any money,” the man said. “And if you wish to try to take these wings from me, I grant you permission.”

Vince truly feared the man now. A dragon slayer, who did not appear frightened by two men twice his age and size, who calmly told them to take a valuable possession from him. Vince stood. He would walk away from this.

But his brother was drunk. The idea of being called Lord Holden had planted itself into his mind, and he could not let go of it. He stood too, but not to walk away. He grabbed the dragon slayer by the shoulders, pulling him out of his seat, and drew his fist back.

The wings on the dragon slayer’s shoulders flared. One knocked Gorman aside, and the large man fell on his face. Vince yelped and stumbled back, knocking a chair over as he did. The two elves who watched from the shadows paled, and retreated farther into the dark that clung to the walls. The barmaid gasped and at last unfroze, the glass in her hands shattering at her feet. The dragon slayer stood, tall and thin, one hand holding his dagger at the ready. His other hung limp at his side. And behind him, filling up impossible space, nearly reaching the iron chandelier, his wings spread, brown and golden and not the wings of a griffon, but his wings, anchored to his back and shoulders, just as much a part of him as his arms and legs. A grin sat on one side of his face.

“Want to try again?” he said.

Gorman staggered upright. He blinked once at the winged man, eyes wide with momentary astonishment before they narrowed in hatred. He grabbed a knife from a neighboring table and lunged at the man. The man snarled, and stayed put.

“Gorman, you idiot!” his brother yelled. But the dragon slayer’s blade had already moved. It slashed with sickening speed, the dragon blood and steel catching the light of the candles in a horrible dance. Gorman wailed, and his own knife clattered to the ground, red droplets falling around it. Vince caught him as he swayed, easing him into a chair. Gorman’s arm bled heavily, a gash running from his elbow to his wrist. Staring at the blood, Vince paled, then flushed with anger. He scooped up the knife his brother had dropped.

“You harm my brother?” he said past clenched teeth. “You will pay for that.”

The man’s wings flapped once. The candles spluttered. He flipped his dagger, wiped it on a tablecloth and left streaks of red. Looking at Vince, he grinned. 

With an angry shout, Vince threw his knife. The dragon slayer’s eyes widened. The barmaid screamed behind the bar, covering her mouth. The man jumped, his wings taking him higher than just his legs could. He grabbed hold of the chandelier, sending the structure swinging as candles extinguished and disturbed light made the room spin. Vince’s knife planted itself in the wall across the room. The man was unharmed. But his dagger he had dropped.

He stayed above their heads, swinging from the chandelier with one arm hooked over it. His wings beat frantically, trying to keep himself balanced. Vince bent and picked up the dragon slayer’s discarded weapon. He looked up at the man, a darkness glinting in his eyes. 

“A bird in a cage,” Vince said, the dagger shining in his carefree hand. “Too afraid to come down, little bird, now that you are unarmed?”

The dragon slayer scowled, but did not respond. His limp hand only got in his way, and he could not haul himself up onto the iron structure he clung to.

Without warning, Vince threw the dagger. The dragon slayer cried out, his grip on the chandelier failing. He crashed to the floor in a confusion of feathers and steel and blood. The blade’s handle stuck from his shoulder, feathers red beneath it. He struggled to his knees, but he did not stand. The barmaid ran to his side, but he threw up his hand, warning her to stay back.

Vince laughed. “Yes, hide, Miss. He will meet justice now.” He grabbed the hilt of the dagger sunk into the man’s shoulder and yanked. The man cried and pressed his forehead to the floor. Vince grabbed his hair, pulling his head up. He set the tip of the dagger against the man’s throat. “I have tried to get those wings from you,” he hissed, “and now, I think I’m about to succeed.”

The man stared at him. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” he whispered. “Stand back.”

Laughing, Vince readied the blade. The man raised his hand, palm facing Vince’s chest. With a single word, fire blazed from the man’s hand, knocking Vince over as the flames spread across his shirt. The large man screamed, tearing at his burning tunic and stumbling backward. Gorman, brought out of his self-pitying daze, leapt up and ran at his brother, tackling him to extinguish the flames. Once safe, the brothers stared wide-eyed at the man who caused the burning. Now he stood, hands and wings drooping, breath heavy, a light in his eyes. He raised a hand. It caught fire, crackling against his fingers. The brothers turned and ran. When the door slammed behind them, the stranger turned to the two elves. His fire danced in their large eyes.

“Which one of you,” said the man, “suggested they take my wings?”

Without a word, the elves followed their human friends. Orlan’s feather fluttered to the ground, but he did not stop to retrieve it. The man’s fire extinguished. He lowered his hand.

“You’re…” a small voice said at his side. He turned. The barmaid stood beside him, staring at him with large eyes. “You’re a phoenix,” she whispered.

He smiled at her. “I go by many names,” he said, “but most are dangerous.” Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved the key to his room. “I don’t think I’ll be needing this after all,” he said. “But thank you for your hospitality.” Slowly, he held it out to her, watching with sorrowful eyes as she accepted it.

“Where will you go?” she asked.

“Away from the men who know what I am.” His wings rose. They settled across his shoulders, appearing as a cloak once more. He stood before her, simply a man again. “I must leave. I am sorry.”

“Me too,” the barmaid whispered. She clutched the key close to her heart.

The man raised his hand past his wings, laid it softly on her cheek. For a moment they stood, the candlelight flickering across their young faces. Then he turned, and left the tavern, freeing his horse and riding steadily into the stars.