chance at the quick kill missed during the
surprise attack.
The shaking faded. In a controlled whisper the wicker man said,
“Kill those campfires. They light us as targets.” Then
he began the slow, painful process of surrounding himself with
spells against the mantas’ bolts.
Toadkiller Dog limped around snapping and growling to make the
soldiers hurry.
Dousing the fires did not help. The mantas came in all night.
Their accuracy did not decrease. Neither did it improve.
The things seemed more interested in harassment than killing. In
keeping everyone awake and frightened of the moment the next blow
would fall. It was a weakling’s way to fight. Though no tears
fell from the sky when a bolt did splatter a soldier.
The minions of the tree god were trying to panic and disperse
the Limper’s army. That puzzled Toadkiller Dog. They were not
that tender of heart. Men slipped away by twos and threes. He
galloped as fast as he could on three real legs and a wooden one,
yelping and nipping and driving them back, and in interim moments
trying to get a feel for that monster in the sky. Some of the
deserters objected to his bullying. He had to kill a dozen before
everybody got their minds right.
Something familiar about a few of the lesser life sparks up
there.
The beast sensed the wicker man’s summons. He trotted
over. Spells now enfolded the wicker man in layers of protection.
Pain leaked out.
Toadkiller Dog was amused. The more surely the old shadow
guarded himself, the greater was his pain. To make himself
absolutely safe the Limper would have to subject himself to an
agony that would rob him of all reason, to the point where he might
not be able to get back out from behind the layered defense. The
beast wondered if they knew that up there. The wicker man knew the
answer. “The one they call the White Rose is riding the
windwhale, shaping their tactics.”
Toadkiller Dog woofed in exasperation. The White Rose! Soft of
heart but bitterly lethal of maneuver. It all fell into place. She
had locked them into no-win positions already. Without doing her
conscience an injury. The Limper could suffer protecting himself or
ease the pain and get blown off his withy steed. They could watch
their army evaporate through desertion or terrorize the men into
staying and have them mutiny.
And, from what he recalled of the White Rose, there would be a
third and subtler option, which she would push them toward. But she
could not comprehend the kind of murderous obsession driving the
Limper. She would leave opportunities and openings. She would give
second chances when the only workable choice would be to go for the
throat.
It was a night when hell was in session. No one rested. The
Limper hid so deeply in his defenses he could do nothing to stay
the harassment. The pace of the attacks increased as dawn neared,
as though the White Rose wanted them to know she could make their
day more horrible than had been their night.
The army was half-gone when the sun rose. The tree god had won
the first round.
His creatures refused a second round by day. The mantas cleared
the sky. The windwhale floated miles up and miles to the south. The
Limper collected his ragtag horde and began marching toward his
next conquest.
The time of easy killing was over. Now those who stood in the
Limper’s path were warned of his coming. Always that monster
out of the Plain of Fear hung overheard, a sword of doom ready to
fall at the slightest lapse in attention.
The White Rose made no mistakes. Whenever the Limper launched an
attack the mantas came fast and hard, trying to force him to cower
inside his spells of protection. He fought back, brought a few
down. Increasingly, he held back in hopes the windwhale would stray
too close. He looked for new weapons in the ruins of his
conquests.
The White Rose made no mistakes. Not once. But the maniacal
determination of the Limper kept his army moving, gaining on his
quarry. Till he gained his revenge, even the
surprise attack.
The shaking faded. In a controlled whisper the wicker man said,
“Kill those campfires. They light us as targets.” Then
he began the slow, painful process of surrounding himself with
spells against the mantas’ bolts.
Toadkiller Dog limped around snapping and growling to make the
soldiers hurry.
Dousing the fires did not help. The mantas came in all night.
Their accuracy did not decrease. Neither did it improve.
The things seemed more interested in harassment than killing. In
keeping everyone awake and frightened of the moment the next blow
would fall. It was a weakling’s way to fight. Though no tears
fell from the sky when a bolt did splatter a soldier.
The minions of the tree god were trying to panic and disperse
the Limper’s army. That puzzled Toadkiller Dog. They were not
that tender of heart. Men slipped away by twos and threes. He
galloped as fast as he could on three real legs and a wooden one,
yelping and nipping and driving them back, and in interim moments
trying to get a feel for that monster in the sky. Some of the
deserters objected to his bullying. He had to kill a dozen before
everybody got their minds right.
Something familiar about a few of the lesser life sparks up
there.
The beast sensed the wicker man’s summons. He trotted
over. Spells now enfolded the wicker man in layers of protection.
Pain leaked out.
Toadkiller Dog was amused. The more surely the old shadow
guarded himself, the greater was his pain. To make himself
absolutely safe the Limper would have to subject himself to an
agony that would rob him of all reason, to the point where he might
not be able to get back out from behind the layered defense. The
beast wondered if they knew that up there. The wicker man knew the
answer. “The one they call the White Rose is riding the
windwhale, shaping their tactics.”
Toadkiller Dog woofed in exasperation. The White Rose! Soft of
heart but bitterly lethal of maneuver. It all fell into place. She
had locked them into no-win positions already. Without doing her
conscience an injury. The Limper could suffer protecting himself or
ease the pain and get blown off his withy steed. They could watch
their army evaporate through desertion or terrorize the men into
staying and have them mutiny.
And, from what he recalled of the White Rose, there would be a
third and subtler option, which she would push them toward. But she
could not comprehend the kind of murderous obsession driving the
Limper. She would leave opportunities and openings. She would give
second chances when the only workable choice would be to go for the
throat.
It was a night when hell was in session. No one rested. The
Limper hid so deeply in his defenses he could do nothing to stay
the harassment. The pace of the attacks increased as dawn neared,
as though the White Rose wanted them to know she could make their
day more horrible than had been their night.
The army was half-gone when the sun rose. The tree god had won
the first round.
His creatures refused a second round by day. The mantas cleared
the sky. The windwhale floated miles up and miles to the south. The
Limper collected his ragtag horde and began marching toward his
next conquest.
The time of easy killing was over. Now those who stood in the
Limper’s path were warned of his coming. Always that monster
out of the Plain of Fear hung overheard, a sword of doom ready to
fall at the slightest lapse in attention.
The White Rose made no mistakes. Whenever the Limper launched an
attack the mantas came fast and hard, trying to force him to cower
inside his spells of protection. He fought back, brought a few
down. Increasingly, he held back in hopes the windwhale would stray
too close. He looked for new weapons in the ruins of his
conquests.
The White Rose made no mistakes. Not once. But the maniacal
determination of the Limper kept his army moving, gaining on his
quarry. Till he gained his revenge, even the
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