Of Crows and Crusaders

"Feathers."

The boy squats low in russet clay raked into a squalid mound beside the toppled village gate. His gaze falls unseeing on the readying ranks. Oiled leather and singing mail and polished metal. Smiles disjoint against our lethal spearheads.

"Feathers," the boy mumbles again.

Gnats trill in curdled clouds around his sunken face.

"What's that, son?" I ask, letting my mount's lead slip to the ground.

"Feathers," the boy mewls, cracked lips trembling.

I fish a rubbery strip of salt-licked jerky from my saddle bag. I have a boy near about his age, hair that same honey hue. Absent the grime. Absent the scaled, peeling patches. The blotched smattering of insect stings.

"Are you hungry?" I ask.

The boy ignores me. I slog nearer and hold out my desiccated morsel.

"Feathers. Feathers. Feathers."

He gapes at the gore-tinted loam, mantra tumbling.

Madness? Shock? Grief? Perhaps all three. I keep my eyes from the pillared smoke behind us. The stink grates my conscience all the same.

"Here. Eat," I insist, pressing my offering nearer to his grasp.

The boy hooks clay-mottled fingers around my wrist. F­ebrile threads flame in his eyes as he peels his gaze from harrowed visions.

"Feathers," he hisses around nubbed teeth. "The last sight your eyes will see."

I roll my wrist from the skeletal grasp. Talons clench inside my throat. I stumble back to my stamping charger. My hands swat a trembling ward against evil. Too late. The curse unfurls cold tentacles across my chest.

Captain trumpets our ranks to attention. Time to ride out. We leave the shambled village on a rattling crest of patriotic song. I lift my voice to join my brothers, taking comfort in the rousing chorus. We are many. We are righteous. We break chains and slay wicked gods. There is nothing to fear.

A shadow falls from above. Then another. Wheeling. Cackling. Mocking. Black feathers gleam astride a chill, wild wind.