Broken Wings

Sparks

"Halt," the ogern spokesman said when I got within three paces of the group. "You are to don this mask whenever you are taken from this pen." He gestured, and one of their party approached me while the rest shifted their weapons to more ready poses. Before I could decide whether this was worth trying to resist, she reached me and slapped a piece of black cloth over my mouth.

I cringed backward at the hair-raising sensation of the 'mask' moving on its own to wrap securely around my lower face. It pressed my scruffy beard down as it covered everything from just below my nose and cheekbones to where my chin met my neck. I worked my jaw and tugged at the itchy spots, quickly finding that the cloth stretched and contracted as needed to keep itself in place over my mouth.

"Do not attempt to remove that mask," the ogern leader instructed. "Pulling too much will trigger your suppressor. Now," he barked as he and his group moved to surround me, "come." And they began marching me toward the gate.

Clever. Very clever. It was such an elegant solution I couldn't help but admire it. I met Steel's eyes as we passed, curious if he understood what this mask meant. If his incredulous, open-mouthed expression was anything to judge by, he did indeed. I gave a single, quiet chuckle I don't think he heard. This mask they were making me wear was proof the Sylvan took the threat of my fire-breath seriously. It was probably fire-proof, and either way it would catch any venom I expelled and hold the burning liquid right against my own face. If I tried to remove the barrier, I'd end up in that stunned, docile state again. It seemed like an effective muzzle, and I was not willing to test it. While my skin now produced its own fire retardant, I'd learned in my training with Anea that this didn't protect me from the heat my flames generated before they were snuffed out.

I shuddered and fought down a sudden surge of nausea. The thought of burning myself summoned vivid flashes of screaming figures wreathed in sheets of white-yellow fire, the sickening stench of burning hair and skin, and the blackened bones and flesh of one who survived my fire-breath. I gritted my teeth and forced my focus back out of my own head as my escort ushered me through the gate. Then we began the march back to the Sylvan's central cluster of tents.

It was a profound relief when we made it far enough to leave the nonstop stream of voices behind, leaving only a faint, dull buzz in its place. Silence. Sweet, sweet silence. I reveled in the quiet for a few more minutes, until I noticed that my ears were actually pretty itchy with the cotton stuffed into them. Since I wouldn't need to talk to any English speakers until Vaa'len was done with me, I pulled my headband up and removed the stuffing. I shuddered at the sight of the yellow glaze of earwax they'd accumulated over the past few hours, then stowed them and the headband in an otherwise empty vest pocket.

A strange sound caught my attention then, and I looked up to see we were passing the clearing with the canvas hangars I'd noticed yesterday. What the hell are they keeping in there? I wondered, trying and failing to place the alien mix of low growls, squawks, and blood-freezing screeches emanating from the gigantic tents. Whatever they are, they're big and they sound pissed. There was no way to get any further hints though, and we soon left the mystery behind us as I was led further through the eerie quiet of the huge encampment.

The silence was broken again by the sounds of laughing kids at play. My guards stopped and tightened their ring around me as a group of four or five sylvan children came pelting onto the path ahead of us from between the close-packed tents. One of them noticed my guards and me and stopped short to stare. This caused the kid right behind to collide and knock them both to the ground. The rest of the group carried on without the two stragglers, who were now picking themselves up as they both continued to stare.

"That's got to be him!" the one who'd first noticed me exclaimed to his friend, pointing excitedly. I thought they might be a boy and girl, but it was hard to tell. Both had long hair like every sylvan I'd seen, male and female, and wore simple clothes of light brown pants with long, muted green shirts hanging down to their hips. "The one Mom and Dad told us about."