The Starfollowers of Coramonde by Brian Daley Page A

birds were
joining them every moment. “The cliff face,” Ferrian called. “’Tis better
protection than none!”
    They galloped
back, knowing they couldn’t outrun their pursuers. The birds ignored the
riderless pack-horse and were on them in seconds, many species commingled.
Streaking by, they blotted all sounds with their calls and wounded men and
horses. Gil fired twice from each handgun. The birds peeled off from the
blasts, then gathered again, more rapidly this time.
    In the
shelter of the cliff face, they fastened up their cloaks for what little
protection it meant. The horses whinnied, tossing their heads and showing the
whites of their rolling eyes. Ferrian pinned Woodsinger’s mount up against the
rock with his own and waited, light racing up and down his scimitar. “Is there
a conjuration that would help?” he shouted.
    Andre’s brow
creased. “It is difficult to say. These are no supernatural foes, only living
creatures following some imposed will. I have no ready spell for it. It must be
a thorough enchantment.” Given time, he could disperse it, but he had no time.
    Gil watched
the flock come in again. “Andre, it’s with you now. This cliff won’t protect us
from anything but rain.”
    “Rain!”
echoed Ferrian. “Andre, bring a downpour!”
    The squat
mage looked up dubiously. The clouds were still overburdened with moisture, but
he wasn’t sure mere rain would stop the attackers.
    He
dismounted, as Angorman took his horse’s bridle. His mystic passes began; the
sky rumbled.
    The birds hit
them again, landing and clinging to whatever skin or clothing they could grasp.
Even Woodsinger was hurt, as beaks found her legs and feet. Another salvo drove
some off, but the rest hovered and pecked and clung. The companions slapped at
themselves and each other. Faces and hands were wounded, and the plunging
horses were near insanity.
    Ducking and
thrashing, Andre completed his spell with a syllable of Command. Rain came in
sheets, battering the fliers but not deterring them, though it struck with
driving force.
    Covered with
them, Andre opened his palm. A brilliant flash of light broke forth, scattering
them. It was a spell of sight more than substance; they sensed it, and resumed.
    Andre was
reduced to despair. Harnessing his arts, he might fell individual birds in
large numbers, but they would eliminate him long before he could finish them.
    Woodsinger
screamed and began slapping at a starling that had fixed its claws near an
opening in her cloak, stabbing its beak at the child’s struggling arm. Wincing
in pain, the baby began to bawl. The nurse brushed the starling away and
covered her charge again, but the wails continued.
    Gil heard. He
slid from Jeb and lurched to Andre’s horse, hoping the wrapped Blazetongue
would show signs of its fire. He couldn’t get to it; the bucking, terrified
animal wouldn’t allow it, though Angorman held its bridle. The American heard
Ferrian shout for him to beware. Batting at the unavoidable birds, he got out
of the way. The Horseblooded leaned over, slicing with his scimitar. Thongs parted
as one; Blazetongue dropped to the ground.
    Another
round, fired into the air, won Gil more space and time. He snatched the sword
and sprinted to Andre. The wizard was stumbling toward the cliff, covered with
feathered attackers. One of his wounds, over his temple, had blinded his left
eye with his own blood. Gil helped him beat himself free.
    “Andre, the
baby’s scared. Can you get the sword working?”
    The wizard
shielded his face and tore the coverings from the weapon, while birds whirled,
pecking. “I know not; its fire is not nigh, so far as I can detect.”
    He unsheathed
the greatsword and tried to hold it up in both hands, the phrases of a
conjuration tumbling from his lips. He was soon buried under the fliers, his
spell stopped cold. He jabbed the blade’s point into the ground and stumbled
back.
    Gil dropped
to his knees. Together they punched and pounded at