The Adventures of Outrage

HE NARROWED his eyes and glared at unfamiliar mountains and rivers, anger binding his heart despite the freedom that fluttered through his feathered wings.

Weariness plagued his body and a small wound stung when the wind bit him. His thoughts drifted for a moment over the wide winding ravines and rivers, the harsh cliffs and sandy stone that he used to know so well.

Then blood had flowed and the war-screams of his wingfeld had ripped at his heart as they fell from the sky.

Now, he drifted now over dense forestland, rivers he could hear, hidden from sight but for tiny flecks of light glimmering through the leaves. Mountains shrouded the distance with their bulk, blocking the skyline. He loved the skyline, to see for miles, small animals skittering over the plains, men riding horseback, mere dots on the horizon. Here there was nothing but sporadic shadows and rock.

Clouds rolled over and rain pelted his wings, rolling off his oily feathers. It pounded at him and drove him to perch. He swooped low. Perhaps a tree would open its arms to him?

As he neared the waving tops, a woosh of flapping and fluttering, then the noise of angry caws rushed at him, “Invader, Invader!” Black feathers and coal black beaks jabbed and stabbed at him. He dove and looped upward, spiraling into the storm away from the murderous crows. The cawing faded, but lighting flashed and thunder crashed around him. The vibration knocked him sideways.

He dove again, his strong wings aching. The moment he neared the treetops, the wicked, black-feathered attackers rushed against him crying, “Death to the Screamer!”

He dodged beaks and claws, slashed and stabbed in defense. His talons were sharpened with heroic deeds and his beak deadly with battle-knowing. He screamed his war-scream. But a cloud of crows mobbed him. He tried to out-maneuver, still they bit his shoulders, beaks slashed his feathers. He felt himself tumbling toward the dark wet earth.

A hallow in a great tree loomed ahead! With a great burst of speed, he eclipsed his attacker’s ambitions. As soon as his claws clutched the edge of the hallow, the cawing murderers dispersed, and their angry cries faded and disappeared.

The only reason the crows would cease their attack was if something that frightened them more than one lone hawk inhabited the hallow in the great oak. It was a chance he had to take.

He felt the blood and strength seeping from him.

“Whooo.”

Hop-twirling, he faced the speaker.

“Who-oo,” repeated the owl. A large owl, whose great gray feathers fluffed and ruffled around his face and curled beak. Talons, long and tipped, spread and curled the bark of the tree as the owl swelled his chest.

“Whooo are you? And what do you do in my nest?”

“Forgive me, great one. I had nowhere else to come for shelter against the crows.”

In his own territory, an owl would as soon kill a hawk as ask him questions, but this owl seemed curious, more so than furious about the sudden intrusion.

“They would not dare abuse your long-suffering or risk your disfavor.” He spoke with deference, for all creatures knew that the owls were the keepers of great wisdom.

“You are one of the Tridath Hawks, a desert dweller. What do you do in this part of the world, so far from home?”

“If you, Elder, have heard of the Huskal-Tor wars, then my plight is well known to you, for me and mine were lost, but for the escape at the river Triggo.”

The owl seemed to soften and bent toward him.

“What is your name, Eriad?”

The gentle term for wanderer, fell from the owl’s beak. Perhaps the owl would not fight him after all.

“Outrage, High Hawk over all the Torath Hawks who ruled the skies of the Tridath Deserts. Of which, I am the only one left.”

“Ooooo.” The owl tensed.

Outrage readied for an attack, though he knew he was far too weak to defend himself for long against this Oliander. For the owl possessed all the markings of an Oliand owl, the most revered owls of the northern world, great gray feathers streaked with gold, white face and yellow eyes.

“What do you seek, Outrage, King of Torath?”

“King no more, for I failed to protect my wingfelds. I seek only a place, a place to burn, and to be alone.”

His brow arched over his eyes, and he bowed his neck, the ire within him unfurling. He almost wanted the death blow. He would meet it with all the vigor he had left and greet his wingfeld in their glorious rest.

The great owl spread his wings, an impressive span that could not fully expand within the hallow.

“This is a wide forest, with many good abodes. In the cliffs, in the trees, in caves. Rest until the rain lets, then search your place. Only be weary of the thorns, the hunters, the great vultures and eagles. Each of these has his mission, and each his skill in the deadly battle, but the eagle above all has his pride and will defend it with a bristling fever.”

“I thank you for your kindness, O great one, may one low as I be privileged to know your name?”

“Baladere,” the owl hooted.

“And that name I will never forget.”

Outrage bowed, arching his beak to his crest once more. Then in silence, they waited for the rain to cease, Baladere contemplating the shift that a hawk of Tridath would bring to the wood, Outrage thinking of where first to search for his new abode and place of exile.