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Out of the howling of the wind came a resonance that carried above the whistling and shrieking of the streaking sand on the outskirts of the vast airfield.
‘Is that music I hear?’ he asked, turning to Kaxim, his eyes glittering with curiosity.
‘It’s the Kanari Horns,’ his armourer murmured with a twist to his lips. ‘The army’s orchestra. They insisted.’
Killen’s heart jolted at the chorded strains.
It was a shot of euphonic adrenalin.
A hyperactive, insistently aggressive and acrobatic sound that entranced him.
Through the dust-laden mist, columns of Sab?r Hawks appeared as far as the eye could see, hovering in a tight circle high over the desert sand and rocks.
They all held instruments in their hands. Each musician was lost in an incandescent virtuoso, playing with all their bodies as fantasies and visions of archaic incubus passed through them.
‘What am I meant to fokkin’ do?’ Killen groused.
‘Fly amongst it. Let the wind and song carry you,’ Kaxim murmured. ‘It is the breath of kemí.’
He took a deep inhale, bowed his head and allowed his vast wings to unfurl rearward.
Part transmuted, his mighty rachís spread out as he rose into the air, higher and higher.
Following close behind were his two companions.
The three titanic Ka?'m??ric Sab?r Hawks soared and ascended between the euphonic honour guard as they stretched out their plumes.
This created a wall that bounced the haunting refrain from the Hawks to the Klós guards on the starts below before the music surged and flowed over the plain.
The immense orchestral textural sound they generated was detailed yet varied, encompassing light and dark, serenity and turbulence.
It recounted a nuanced story, enhanced and horrified with rhythmic ingenuity.
It’s called ‘The Battle of Kinjata’, Kaxim explained to the Kíríga via their neural node link. It speaks of power, might, transformation and the dawning of one of Katáne’s greatest heroes. Incidentally, one of your ancestors.
Killen took note of the mention, letting his soul fly on the wings of the urgent notes, which told of epic heroism, passion and cruelty.
The chords plummeted, soared, and he lost himself in the stirring cadence, becoming a force of nature.
From time to time, the orchestra would sing out in choral reprise, their forceful, evocative song swelling with emotion and expressiveness.
The dramatic symphonic coda built into a rousing finale that fell to a sudden, silent, windless calm.
Killen served Kaxim with a raised brow as he turned to face the hundreds strong, their instruments and wings glittering in a brilliant blaze of the plain below.
‘The Kíríga is welcomed, and in what majestic fashion,’ Kaxim murmured.
Around them, the vast grassland was walled in by peaks, jutting cliffs and steep ravines.
On the edge of the multitude were silken tents with bright fires in a circular rampart of flames.
It was grandiose, awe-inspiring and jarring to Killen’s soul.
Speak. They wait to eat your words, Kaxim said in his mind.
The sea of wild-hued plumage in front of him trembled in the wind, and the kaleidoscope of ribbons from the ends of horns and trumpets fluttered in waiting.
Keep it brief. They’ll want to see more of your prowess in koya fighting on the battlefield than hear you crow on like the beaked Elders of Kos.
