Sparrow’s Last Kill

Sparrow’s Last Kill

    Sparrow was old. Older than the mountains, the children said, though they were wrong. Time had treated her kindly – at sixty-seven years of age, she could still pull the bow her eldest son had made, albeit barely.
    From her home’s upper balcony, she could see her yard – grandchildren still at play – and beyond that the village that bore her name, “Sparrow’s Crest”. She wasn’t particularly fond of the name. The village had grown up around the mansion she had built after returning from years spent as an adventurer and mercenary, yet she hadn’t chosen the name – it was chosen by travellers for her.
    She sighed. Twenty years out in the world, and thirty here after. Mercenary work – and playing the hero adventurer – was dangerous stuff; but she’d survived and received an early, rich retirement. Not a bad trade, assuming you lived. Sometimes when she saw one of her fellow Winged Ones in the air she regretted the wing she had all but lost, but only sometimes. She turned in the room, and faced the mirror.
    The years had been kind to her, though her hair was grey and her face old and wrinkled. She smirked at herself, thinking not wizened yet, at least. She extended her wing and what remained of the other out over her shoulders, and frowned sadly. Her right wing was fine, and despite her age remained brown feathered, but the other – what remained of it, little more than the bones – had barely any feathers upon it.
    She missed flying, despite having been unable to for just over thirty years. She’d had one hell of a life, all considered. Ten years as a mercenary, and nearly ten again helping fight the monsters that plagued the duchies. Seven kids, and thirty years as a mother and leader of the community that had sprung up around her mansion. Perhaps it said something about the difference of the Winged People from other kinds of man in that the man to who she had made both her bonds had not tried to curb her ambitions – though he had offered her some wisdom.
    It had been his idea to work with the Winged Guard to setup an outpost on the peak above, with the village serving as a source of supplies and entertainment for those above. He still served there as the book-keeper, despite his age. She missed him often during the day, but he flew down early each evening  to join her in eating the meal her servants made.
    Sparrow made her way down to the yard entrance slowly, and pushed open the door. Her grandchildren were playing in the yard, and Fen was winning their game – again – by hovering above on his emergency wings. Despite her son’s best efforts, Fen continued to trigger his wings to amuse himself, instead of only to save himself.
    Sparrow shook her head, and said “Fen! What does your dad keep telling you about using your wings like that? Get over here now so I can give you a clip across the ear!”
    Fen looked at her sheepishly, landed, and said “But grandma! It’s safe here! There’s no monsters around here! And grandpa can bring the Guard if anything shows up!”
    “Not before it eats you, silly boy,” Sparrow strode over to where Fen had landed, and stuck her mostly amputated wing in his face. “And you’ll get off worse than me!”
    Fen started to take off with a defiant smirk on his face, but his wings disappeared. Sparrow shook her head. “I think karma has stopped you today, Fen. Now be good and get back to playing with the rest of the kids.”

***

    Later that day Sparrow, two of her sons, one of her daughters, their spouses, and eight of her grandchildren were atop a broad rock, having a picnic in the woods near the village. A rope ladder allowed easy access, and Sparrow was grateful that she was still able to manage the exertion.
    She munched happily upon some carrot sticks – carrots being something she’d been responsible for bringing to the relatively temperate (compared to usual Winged One settlements) region she lived in – and smiled. Her family surrounded her, and her bow lay by her side, just in case.
    “Can we go play now Dad?” asked one of her grandchildren. Her father nodded, and the children took off down the rope ladder, laughing happily.
    “I’ll keep an eye on them,” said her daughter, taking to the air. All of her children had gained their wings, a rarity among the Winged Ones (especially for such a large family).
    Sparrow smiled as they left, and said “Remember when you used to play in the woods yourselves? It’s so long ago now, but it’s good to come back here and remember. And for a new generation to play.”
    Her eldest son grinned, and said “You reflect too much, mum. You should focus on the food we made for the picnic, the sunlight and the wind; and the peace there is out here.”
    Always said he should’ve been a poet, Sparrow thought to herself.

***

    Suddenly a scream came from the forest, breaking Sparrow from her reverie. She leapt to her feet, and looked out into the forest.
    The children were running back from among the trees, from what she could see. With a fwoosh, she heard her daughter land beside her. “Some kind of beast. Clawed my arm. Kids should make it when they trigger their wings; it was fairly far away when I spotted it. Where’s the emergency gear?” her daughter said, clutching her arm.
    “In my backpack,” said one of her sons. Sparrow grabbed her bow, and stared intently out at the woods. Her grandchildren were flying now; the wiser ones flying up to escape the creature, but some just flying ahead. Fen was, however, slower than the rest. With no emergency wings to fly with, he was unable to fly ahead, unable to fly up and escape the beast.
    "That fool boy," muttered Sparrow, readying her bow. I hope it's something we can kill before it catches him.
    She frowned grimly as the beast came into sight. It was of the same kind that had crippled, and almost killed her, years ago. A scaled, and tough four legged beast with a single horn on its head; the head itself dominated by a huge, gaping maw.
    "It has a weak point," said Sparrow. "It's like the beast that crippled my wings. Beneath the horn there's a gap, through which an arrow can easily slip into the brain. I'll try and pick it off before it catches Fen."
    Sparrow drew back an arrow in her bow, arms straining to pull the bow fully. She aimed at the beast as it hurtled towards Fen as he fled to the rock. She swore as she steadied the bow, checking the wind and the distance.
    Her first arrow struck the beast in the head above its right eye, and it roared in pain, but hurtled onwards. Her son swooped down from above and grabbed Fen, launching himself back into the air with the boy tightly held. The beast snarled, but kept coming; the rock its new target.
    Her second arrow scraped the horn of the beast before embedding itself into its back, missing as the beast bowed its head to smash through a fallen tree. Her children were readying weapons behind her, ready to fight the beast from atop the rock.
    But Sparrow's third arrow struck home; disappearing almost completely into the soft flesh beneath the horn; penetrating through a hole in the beast's skull and into its brain. It stumbled and fell down, its body tumbling as it slowed. The beast was dead.
    Sparrow looked back at her children and grandchildren, awe upon their faces. As he landed, her son said "You really are a hero, mum."
    Sparrow grinned, and sat down to catch her breath.