Word Count → 1007

A familiar whinny drew the Hydra from his practice. Ezekiel rose from the fighter’s stance, his hands relaxing from their half-curled posture. The heavy hoof beats of the Clydesdale were followed shortly by his roan-hued companions approach. He seemed anxious, and snorted loudly with each approaching step. Ezekiel met him in three strides, his mount pushing his large skull into the coyote’s chest. “Easy,” he said in the low-speech, hands gesturing as they flowed over the horses’ face.

Viggo, like all horses, spoke with the peculiar accent of their kind. It was full of subtle motions and noisier displays, but there was something wrong. Concerned, Ezekiel turned and retrieved his bow, quiver and bag and threw these on quickly. He was still holding the bow as he mounted in a half-turning jump, landing on the stallion’s withers with practiced ease. A month ago, he would not have been so keen to fly across the Waste on the back of such a beast, but a month ago things had been much different.

While not as fast as a smaller hot-blooded horse might be, Viggo was still faster than Ezekiel and ran with weight that made the young man comfortable. It meant he would be able to carry things or people if the need arose, which he feared might be today. However, as they neared the forest, he saw a familiar shadow rise from the pines. Viggo slowed suddenly, and the raven swooped down to meet them. Ezekiel’s free arm extended and took Marlowe’s weight with ease. Distress showed from the bird’s shuffling, and he cawed mournfully. “What’s wrong?” Ezekiel asked quickly, eyes wide with worry.

“Death came, prince, and he came to take in force. I need your help.”

They rode together into the forest, Marlowe taking wing to guide once Viggo could go no further. In the bramble and the still-cold lair of pine, Ezekiel saw what it was that had so distressed the raven.

It looked as if a tornado had swept through and destroyed the raven’s home. Nests were scattered along the pine floor, torn to shreds. Ezekiel’s jaw set as he realized the damage; chick feathers floated along with the breeze, just barely hiding the faint scent of blood. The more prominent scent of cat filled the air. He turned to the raven, which was perched low now that the coyote had come. “How many did you lose?”

“My mate and nearly all the chicks. The winter weakened our flock, and many traveled from the Waste to wait it out. Until summer comes, we will not be able to fend off the cats.”

Ezekiel’s nose twitched. There were two scents, but they were remarkably close. A mated pair, perhaps, or siblings. He growled lowly. Cats were no friends of his, especially after seeing the remarkable level of cruelty they displayed. “I’ll find them for you,” he promised, clutching the bow.

“That is not why I sent for you,” Marlowe said sharply, seeing the anger rise in the copper-tipped boy. “I have served your family for years, and now I will ask that you return the debt.” He cawed loudly, and was answered by higher voices. Two fledglings, old enough to have fled from the destruction of their nest, peered out from the higher branches of one of the trees. “My sons cannot stay here and risk the cats’ return. Take them with you and see they survive. They are learning to fly and will be able to aid you as I have done—they do not speak your tongue yet, so there is no one else I would send them to.”

The coyote nodded and watched as Marlowe flew to meet the pair, speaking to them and explaining what was to happen. Both birds looked nervous at the two-legged creature below, but fluttered down awkwardly, branch by branch, to meet him. Marlowe landed on Ezekiel’s shoulder to prove he was a friend, and the chicks clambered up his other arm with sharp talons and wide-eyes. Ezekiel hid his grimace, though Marlowe seemed to sense it and cocked his head in a bird’s smile. “I’ll be around to help you teach them,” he reassured the coyote, taking wing as they began heading back towards the horse.

Again, the chicks squawked and shifted uneasily at the horses’ appearance, but after Viggo dismissed them as not-predators, he ignored the pair. Ezekiel shuffled them into his bag, pulled the bowstring across his chest and mounted, listening to the chirps settle as the ravens finally gave into exhaustion. Marlowe, having landed nearby, dipped his head once. A similar gesture was given, followed by a question from the coyote. “What do you call them?”

“The larger of the two is Ibsen, and the smaller is Zola. Perhaps one day you’ll find their stories as you did with mine.” A cawing laugher broke from his dark body, and Ezekiel smiled. He was familiar with the rather cruel world outside of the idyllic pack life wolves and coyotes had carved out for themselves and knew such tragedies went unchecked in the wilderness. This did not prevent him from feeling hatred for the cats that had killed Marlowe’s clutch and mate.

A single-handed gesture was given as farewell before Ezekiel gripped Viggo’s thick mane with one hand and set off at a canter towards the caves. Once there, he dismissed his horse to graze and set about preparing a space for the birds. He used a makeshift crevice to form a new nest, and pulled out tufts of his own shedding pelt to line it with. Had he known more about birds, he would have seen that this was perhaps the smartest thing to do. The pair would learn his scent and come to recognize him as their protector. Ezekiel settled the two into the quickly-made nest before starting a fire. Its heat quickly filled the cave and lulled the nervous ravens back into sleep, while Ezekiel searched through his collection of books to see if he had unwittingly found their names before.