Page 83 of Blood Fist

“Only what I was told as a child…you know, ‘don’t go too far in the woods or the Gollums will get you’ kind of thing.”

Buzzard hummed. “They’re borne of magic. Not like an elf or a dragon who cancreatemagic. They are madeofmagic. Festered magic. Magic that is left alone so long it rots.”

Ridan’s fingers stilled. He listened to the bubbles in Buzzard’ss curls pop as he processed the information. What kind of magic user was so strong they could just…forget enough magic that it created creatures like that? And why were they so close to the clans and not in Kaldonea, where magic was still used?

“Why didn’t my sword affect them?”

“Ah, that.” Buzzard ran his broken talons along the creek bed, muddying the water. “I can’t be sure, but I’m pretty sure whoever created them used them for protection. My guess is they were spelled to protect against blades.”

But not against hammers.

It was an unusual weapon. Likely, whoeverbespelled the Gollums didn’t consider someone would use anything besides a blade. The clans were known for using all sorts of weapons—whatever worked for the warrior.

Kaldonea was not.

When Brune first arrived, he said he was forced to learn to use a sword, even though he showed no aptitude for it. The Gollum’s creator must be from Kaldonea.

Buzzard was silent, his breathing a little ragged from speaking. Ridan tried not to let his thoughts run off with him, focusing on the task of cleaning Buzzard as best he can. When they got back to the clan, he’d have to have Sehleh help tame the ratty nest of hair. She had lots of practice with Jonen’s.

As he was helping Buzzard dunk his head into the shallow creek, Brune reappeared, holding two dead rabbits. He began preparing them to roast over the fire as Buzzard rinsed out his shirt. It was nasty, but there was no other spare clothing. They laid it out to dry by the fire and gave Buzzard Brune’s borrowed cloak to wrap up in.

Darkness had fallen by then. Brune seemed focused on cooking the meat, so Ridan turned to Buzzard.

“You know Schok?”

Buzzard nodded. “I did.” His golden eyes were brighter by the light of the fire. “I’m guessing he didn’tgiveyou that feather, did he?”

“Not exactly.” Ridan wasn’t sure how much he wanted to give away. Buzzard seemed like a victim, but how could he trust a creature of magic? One that wasn’t even supposed to exist. One who was found at the end of a magical feather pulled off a thrall sent to kill them?

Buzzard didn’t push, but Ridan knew he wanted to.It honestly looked like all his energy was spent just keeping himself upright.

“He was sent to kill us with his flame magic,” Ridan said.

Shaking his head so hard droplets of water flew off his feathered curls, Buzzard curled his talons around the cloak. “Schok wouldn’t?—”

“He’s a thrall.”

Buzzard froze. Jaw working, Buzzard finally looked away into the night. He was silent for a long moment.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” he finally muttered. “They finally…I thought maybe he would be protected, but I should have known.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a story,” Brune commented, his eyes on the meat as fat snapped over the heat.

Buzzard didn’t look back at them. “My first memory is of bars—over windows, in cages. I don’t know where I was hatched, or who my nest is. I have no idea how I ended up here.”

His wings fluttered, a little stilted movement that made him wince. He pulled one into his lap, stroking his fingers through the ragged feathers. “From a merchant sailor, I was sold to a man named Cyrill. He’s a powerful magic user. He wanted a harpy for his collection. Not only to have but to use.”

“To use?” Brune asked, his eyebrows drawn.

“For magic,” Buzzard clarified. “Despite how it seems, humans cannot create magic. They can only use magic that already exists in the land. Only the magically borne can create new magic.”

“He used you to make new magic?”

“In a way. From what I gather, harpies are not the most potent of the magically borne.” He plucked a feather, running a finger over the mangled shaft. “At first, he kept my wings clipped to keep me from flying away.But then my wings grew too large. I couldn’t fit in the cages anymore.”

A dawning sense of horror dawned as he processed Buzzard’ss words. He didn’t know if harpies aged the same way as humans, but Buzzard was clearly an adult. Which means his entire life he’d been captive.

And his wings. He could see it now. Someone had clearly broken them. Forced them into an unnatural shape and let them heal improperly. The pain must have been excruciating. Even now, if his winces were any indication.