Chapter 3 - Dead A Head

“Death exists only as a memory of those who will someday conquer it.”

by, LeeRan Sing, S&S

Black teeth grinned through a wiry thin beard.

“Second,” it spat. Cort stared at those teeth. “Second Seergnot, are you awake? Cort?” a familiar Human voice called out. It was Krence, First Seergnot, of the Horde smirking at him. This living abortion was his commanding officer. Krence’s head rocked and bobbed slowly. A tuft of greasy hair fell from his forehead. “Second, are you too wounded to share this female’s loins?” Krence asked as he raped someone…

“Fisher port, dead ahead!” a voice from above squawked.

Krence’s grin faded into clouds and ocean as Cort was startled back to the present.

“Fisher port, dead ahead!” a voice from above squawked again.

Cort ignored this and looked out over bow of the dead creature and saw only ocean. Humans and Strooga worked feverishly to prepare the ship for anchoring at the Fisher Port. That land once conquered by the Horde, was not yet in sight. But just the word, Fisher, twisted his stomach like a parched man would a wet rag to wring out every drop. Cort’s stomach was his weakness, probably his only. A gut as a worst enemy and at times a best friend. It controlled him, molded him and made him what he is today. Not just a guard for a noble but a man who could look at his own reflection and not feel that gut wrenching twist of dread. Unless of course someone mentioned Fisher or Artist. Both words made him desire to vomit.

He shook off those thoughts and looked up to the Preen’s hawk-like gawk. He quickly shifted his eyes and found the tranquility of the light blue sky with its free-floating clouds.

The Preen stood alone, high in its lookout’s nest atop two long thin bones that once helped to support the Plathora’s massive frame. No sail, or rope, or ladder hung from this mast, just the Preen. This mostly Human looking birdman stared directly at Cort. The eyes of a bird of prey looked down its beak and into Cort’s eyes. Its arms and legs each ended in a set of talons that grasped the bone crow’s nest.

This Raptor was one of the few survivors of the failed coup. More of a spy than a fighter, its last minute detection of an enemy flanking force saved the Prince. The Prince owed the birdman but Cort didn’t trust him.

Cort considered the idea that the Preen, named Raptor, had seen his reaction to that word, Fisher. Preens see everything, from minute details at great distances to changes in air currents and temperatures. An emotion from the emotionless Cort? This seemed ridiculous so Cort continued to stare up at the birdman. The Preen did not back down. It just cheated. Pointing out of its own line of sight it repeated its call from earlier.

“Land ho! The port of the Fisher’s!” he squawked.

Movement of an eye, a twitch, a breath out of rhythm and Cort would lose to the avian lookout. Then his enemy, his gut, reared up and twisted. The slight contraction of betraying stomach muscles and Cort had lost the staring contest. The beak faced fowl’s head turned with a sharp pivot motion and a grin.

“Cort,” the prince summoned.

“Yes?” the guard answered as he regained composure.

“Escort me to the… front of the boat.”

Cort nodded. Prince Gormand stood and Cort looked at his ass. Not in a sexual way, more out of curiosity to see if the royal butt had molded itself to the exact shape of the bony chair the Prince had rooted himself in at the start of the trip. Unfortunately, his noble rump returned to its original flat and skinny self.

Prince Gormand waltzed past three Strooga helmsmen and they disregarded him. All around, crewmen, Strooga and Human alike scurried about doing their respective tasks and Cort made damn sure no one got within arm’s reach of the next king of all Humans. Then a shadow fell upon them.

“Caw, caw!” came a noise from above.

Prince Gormand looked up. Raptor fell from his lookout position and was plunging directly for him. The hawk-like man’s jet-black facial feathers fluttered in the air that rushed past him. Preens had small downy feathers but no wings… And the Preen hadn’t fallen as its barbed talons flexed.

It hid in the ruins of the Fisher village. They were coming. It could smell their stink drifting in on the ocean breeze. So could its many children as they protectively curled their long lean scaly bodies all around it.

An uneaten fish head lay on the beach. It was his hunt. His prey. His favorite part. His bones. Yes, his bones. But to retrieve it would mean detection by those reeking lifeforms carried over the waves.

So it kept hidden. There were no gulls or crabs here to scavenge it away. This beach was dead and his fish head would still be there when they were gone. And the hot sun would make it stink. But it was still his fish head…

Next Chapter: Chapter 4 - Nose Dive