The Starfollowers of Coramonde by Brian Daley

all night, refusing to go or break. But it had slackened by
the time they were breaking camp. Andre said they’d reach the border of Glyffa
in two days.
    The
companions rode stretching, working their muscles to drive out the chill.
Woodsinger held the baby inside her robes, as she sometimes did to warm her.
Gil took the rack from her and slipped it on his back. They made no effort to
hurry, watching droplets make their way down leaves and grasses. The pitched
Tangent, already drained, was drying slowly.
    Gil was
swaying along, fitting himself unconsciously to Jeb Stuart’s gait. He had
nothing in particular in mind, even the distance to Death’s Hold and Bey.
    An unexpected
blow to his back sent him against his saddle bow as his head was buffeted on
either side. There was less pain than astonishment; he thought for a moment
that Andre or Ferrian had ridden by to slap him, but he’d heard no hoofbeats.
He pushed himself upright as Jeb gave a disturbed whicker. A screech sounded
overhead and a shadow crossed quickly, alarmingly, in semaphore on the edge of
his vision.
    Gil spotted
his attacker looping in the air for another pass. He had difficulty telling
what it was—some large hawk or eagle, or something else. His immediate impulse
was to let it go; it had done him no damage. But a note of unmixed hatred in
its call warned him.
    He yanked the
Mauser out, led his target and squeezed off a round. The other horses jumped at
the shot; Jeb took it stolidly.
    It was a
miss; the flier had selected that instant to wheel in midair for another run.
Gil cursed. Sumbitch can turn like he has one wingtip nailed down.
    It veered at him.
His aim wavered overhastily. There was a hiss of fletching in heavy air, and an
eerie piping. The bird spun toward the ground, the tension of its flight
changing to helpless fluttering, feathers gyrating free.
    It hit the
Tangent with a limp roll, eyes still lit with the intensity of the unalloyed
hunter. It was no species they’d ever seen. Andre’s arrow stood from its
breast, a Horseblooded shaft that had made its piping moan by a trick of
carving the Wild Riders used. Gil holstered the handgun, musing that reflexes
and coordination were more important than instrumentality.
    He shrugged
off the carrying rack to check it. Diamond-hard talons had scored long, deep
tears in the tough hide and torn splinters from the wooden frame. An extra
blanket, rolled and stored inside, had been slashed in strips.
    “The bird’s
target was the rack.” Andre surmised. They looked to Woodsinger, who drew her
cloak more closely around herself and her charge.
    Hearing a
wave of trilling sound, they craned their heads upward. Then they were
surrounded by small birds who rushed past and hovered around them, a
multicolored tempest of feathers, a gale of small wings. Tiny beaks ripped at
them in passing; wings stung their faces. Gil yelped and slapped at them, his
hand coming away bloody. Woodsinger swatted with her crop, pulling her head
down among the folds of her collar. They all fought to master their horses,
realizing they were under no natural attack. Gil fired two rounds into the air,
not counting on hitting anything, to scatter the tiny furies. They exploded
away in every direction, but circled and swarmed like bees, and drew closer
again.
    Ferrian let
the packhorse’s rein fall. He pulled Woodsinger’s hood down close to her face
and swirled her cloak around her tightly. Taking her mount’s reins in his
teeth, the Horseblooded drew his scimitar, guiding his horse with his knees.
    Andre had put
away his bow. He, too, pulled his sword. With no time for spellcasting, they
had to get out of the open.
    Gil, the
Browning Hi-Power in his right hand now, also took his reins in his teeth, as
Dunstan the Berserker had taught him. He peered around for any sort of cover, a
cave, trees, anything. There was none. It was the perfect spot for ambush.
    The flock
swept around in unison and came back in their direction. More