Winged Warrior

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Thousands of years ago…

The High Priest of Kaltara opened his eyes. He peered through the fog of delirium at the faces gazing down on him. He watched the faces incomprehensibly as their mouths moved, but their voices were jumbled and distant, their eyes sad and worried. The priest closed his eyes once again as the rivers of sweat trickled over his burning body like tiny creeks flowing through a forest fire. He offered a silent prayer to Kaltara to ease the pain that was racing through his body, but the nearby voices intruded into his meditation.

“He is burning with fever,” one voice came through clearly. “Nothing can be done for him. His end is near.”

“Nonsense,” retorted anther voice, “Kaltara is testing him. He is strong in his faith. He will survive. Mark my words.”

A commotion ensued as another person entered the room. The priest forced his eyes open to see what was happening. His vision had cleared somewhat, and he recognized the king entering the room. The others present bowed before the royal ruler of Angragar. King Regis ignored the people in the room and walked directly to the bed. He knelt next to the bed and took the priest’s clammy hand in his own.

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