Page 33 of Phoenix Chosen 3

“Well, maybe we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves,” I say. “We haven’t done anything just yet.”

“Nonsense! You have defeated the harpyiai and now you will defeat the bandits!”

We arrive at the vineyard and follow Markos around the main building, where rows of straw mats are spread out, covered in grapes drying in the sun. Nearby, a group of grandmothers stomps grapes in large stone vats while a man sits on a stool, playing a tune on a double flute. The old ladies hold on to a rope strung over their heads for balance, and I can’t help but see them as a bunch of monkeys swinging along a vine.

Moving around the side of the building, we come to what looks like a large barn. Two donkeys tied up out front munch on piles of hay. There’s a wagon parked halfway out of the barn, and Markos takes us inside past it. I notice the wheels are caked over with mud. Airos circles the wagon and drags his fingers along the interwoven branches that make its sides. He pauses near the front and leans in to inspect the wood.

“Flames touched here,” he says. “But there is no blackening. It must have been a glancing heat, not strong enough to set the wood ablaze.”

“But strong enough to burn flesh,” Markos says.

We follow him through the barn. Lying on the ground is a human man, and sitting beside him is an Aylourosi tiger shifter. The man on the ground is covered in bandages, being attended to by an old woman holding a bowl of white sludge. He has one bandage pushed aside from his shoulder, and the skin on his chest is as red as a tomato. He’s been burned all along his right side, going up his neck and on his cheek. His eyes are closed, andhe cringes as the woman applies the sludge to the burn. The tiger man has a bandage wrapped around his head. His ears perk up when he sees us coming with Markos.

“Markos!” he exclaims.

“Gral, my friend, I’m sorry to see you hurt…”

Gral shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Markos. This is the last straw. We can’t continue to run shipments to Mestova. Bring your wagons to Aelonos if you can, but we can no longer make the journey here.”

“Wait, wait, wait, Gral,” Markos pleads. “Look. I’ve brought the heroes! They’re here to make this right, Gods willing!”

The tiger stares at us. “Markos, please. You can’t be serious. Clearly, these are vagrants.”

“Vagrants?” Kalistratos says, raising an eyebrow.

“I mean, we kind of are,” I say.

“Gral,” Markos says. “They defeated the harpyiai.”

The look on Gral’s face changes to surprise. His feline eyes narrow and his tail swishes curiously. “Three of you did this? How do you know they’re telling the truth?”

“Well, we’re alive, for one,” I say.

Airos gets out the essence stone and shows it to Gral. He takes it and gives it a whiff.

“It’s real,” he admits.

“You’re damn right it’s real,” Kalistratos mutters.

“Can you tell us what happened?” I ask. “We want to help.”

Gral sniffs and looks away in embarrassment. “I cannot. I was incapacitated. The terrain was clear, not a single obstacle. Suddenly, the wheels got stuck. How, I don’t know. There was no mud, nothing. I stepped down from the cart to take a look and…” He shakes his head. “A pain unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I couldn’t move my body. I fell, hit my head.”

The burned man groans and slowly opens his eyes. “They were… in the woods all around us… cloaked in the shadows. There was a noise, like the furious buzz of a giant insect. I saw Gral fall, and then… fire. It consumed me and yet did not light the wagon where I sat. I jumped and ran. I was desperate to put out the flames. It was as though my chiton was soaked in flames. Rolling across the ground did nothing. I had to tear it from my body.”

Airos kneels by the man’s side. “Did you get a glimpse of this fire wielder?”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

The old woman finishes with the ointment and replaces the bandages over his chest. “You should stay and rest, let these wounds heal before you burden yourself.”

“I need to return to Aelonos,” he mutters.

“As do I, but what choice do we have?” says Gral. He makes a growling, tutting sound in his throat.

“Why did you risk coming, if you knew about these raids?” Kalistratos asks, folding his arms over his chest.

“Because Markos is my friend,” Gral says, waving his hand. “And there are people in Metsova who need the herbs and medicine we had.”

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