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Killen floated past more combatants, this time a more superior ilk.
His brow rose at the vast krests of the imperial hawk hunters and the golden leonine-like locks of the Krypós elite guards, which flowed behind them like banners in the wind while they soared across the sky.
They were entangled in mid-air wrestling matches, their supine, grappling bodies and giant wings caught in interlocked throws, their throats grunting harshly. At the same time, they pinned their opponent’s rachís in fast and furious submission holds and takedowns.
To Killen, the sinewy, soaring and well-muscled warriors were an almost-too-perfect fighting machine.
Their aero dynamism was impressive as they swooped at each other with their sab?r koyas, dodging and weaving, perfecting their descents and dives, thrusting and sparring to the barks of their superiors, and sweat poured down their backs.
Just then, a giant roar sounded over the valley.
‘Incoming,’ the lead Kärd called.
The small group paused midstep, watching as a single gargantuan warship blasted into view, its exhaust kicking up a mighty dust storm.
‘The Kogun always fokkin’ swirls the earth like the tail end of the planet-wide khaboob,’ the head escort growled.
His second in charge shook his krested feathers. ‘Nada. A khamsim that obscures most vision. Phase on your avi mask, stranger; the tiny flying rocks will scratch your eyes out. We Krypós have inbuilt hoods for this purpose.’
Killen’s silent command caused his cloak to form into a Katánian-styled beaked hood and eye shield. Complete with a mouthguard that tracked over his orifices.
The mighty ship touched down like a beast lashing dust and sand about and whipped up to join the larger bloom it had created high above.
Moments later, a door rippled open on the grand ship’s hull, and Killen spotted two figures soar from inside. Their winged departure was followed by most eyes in the encampment.
They flew into the vast training grounds and landed, stalking away towards the camp’s centre.
The giant craft roared back into the sky and roared away towards the north.
‘Where’s it going?’ Killen rasped out loud, for neither of his former companions had shared.
‘To its perch in the mountains surrounding Kos and Karth. As decreed by our laws, we keep any tekhne high above, away from the sacred land below.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re a curious magpie. Why would we need anything but our wings, wichawi, and wit on Katáne? Or don’t they teach that in the backwaters of wherever thebumfokk you’re from?’
While the Kärds sniggered at his expense, Killen huffed. Still wrapping his mind around the mystic-leaning hearts and minds of these unusual beings that he needed to conquer.
Not with brute force but with a wily cunning fused with sterling truth.
Game on.
They threw him into an incarceration káján at the edge of the camp.
The synth-steel woven shelter already housed several detainees.
From rake-thin spectres with the remains of tattered plumage on their backs to a few drunk Katánian warriors who hissed and snapped in his direction.
They gave him long, sly looks as if waiting to pounce on him.
Eyes like flames, fierce and fiery, burning into his skin as they devoured the sight of him, ready to strike and strip him of his belongings.
The musty scent of dirt and sweat wafted off their bodies.
The metallic tang of fear and anticipation was mixed with the shuffling of feet and clanking of chains, adding to the tense, savage atmosphere.
One detainee, a female with dirty, torn gold and white rachís, one of which was broken into two and trailing on the ground, leered at him and bared her talons.
