put his boots on, wrapped a towel around
his waist, and asked the wench to guide him to his room. Once inside, he draped
his clothes over the chairs and table, and then cast a brief prognostication
spell. It was a simple spell that would seek out the near future and give a vague
sense of what was to come, and he was not at all surprised by the strong sense
of foreboding it brought.
They would come tonight, but he didn’t know when. He hoped
it would be early; he needed to get some rest. He sighed and prepared for the
inevitable encounter. He wasn’t worried, exactly, but when they came, he wanted
to ask them the right questions….
8
Angus stared as the large, brown-feathered bird clawed at
Giorge’s chest with its talons as if it were trying to reach in and rip his
heart out. They were sharp talons, and the thin leather of his armband was
already showing signs of shredding. At the same time, it flapped its wings and tried
to peck at Giorge’s head.
As the second fletching passed, its wingtip struck Angus’s right
temple and he sagged to his knees, dazed. The scrolls slipped from his fingers
and rolled away. His vision blurred for a moment, and when it cleared he saw
the second fletching heading for the writhing bundle of Giorge and the first bird.
It was a noisy bundle, with Giorge’s screams and the fletching’s screeches
merging into a strange harmony. The bird screeched and pecked at Giorge, and
then Giorge would scream. Another screech, another scream….
The second bird hopped around, pecking at Giorge’s legs and
feet as it tried to find an opening.
Angus chuckled—or thought he did; the bizarre sound seemed
to melt into the hideous squawking of the fletchings and Giorge’s frantic,
pain-wracked squeals as they echoed off the cave walls.
Angus blinked several times, but a gray haze swarmed through
his head, mocking him. He shook his head—and fell forward, barely catching
himself with his hands.
The sounds of thrashing, squawking, squealing, screaming
were furious, intense. Then some of the squawks deepened and gurgled and the
others redoubled in intensity….
Angus gasped and pushed himself backward until he was
kneeling unsteadily. His torso wobbled about like a lopsided dagger twirling on
its point. He blinked. Those daggers always fell.
Why was Giorge wrestling with a bloody bird? He was still
wobbly when Giorge slammed the bird against the wall and plunged his knife into
its chest. The other bird jumped up and clawed at his chest, its beak slashing
upward for the eyes.
“Someone should help him,” Angus muttered, looking around.
Then he realized it should be him. But what could he do?
Giorge was stabbing at the thing with a knife. He had a
knife, didn’t he? A stiletto? Yes, it was in his boot. He had two of them. He
could throw them, couldn’t he? He didn’t have to stand for that, which was
good, since he didn’t know if he could stand. He reached down and lifted the
stiletto from his left boot sheath and threw it.
It was a weak toss, poorly aimed, and clattered against the
wall.
No matter, he would throw the second one, and it might hit
something. Hopefully, it would be the bird clawing at Giorge’s arm. The other
one was flopping about, blood squirting from its chest. It was dead, or close
to it. He took aim and threw the second stiletto as hard as he could.
The fletching squawked, more from anger than pain. The
stiletto had struck a wing, near the joint connecting it to the bird’s chest, and
stuck there. It did a little damage but not enough. Even as he watched its
frantic attack, the stiletto slipped out and fell to the cave floor.
Angus struggled to his feet and wobbled into the fray. His
arms felt lazy as he grabbed at the long brown and white tail feathers. When he
caught a grip, he pulled. The bird’s claws slashed at Giorge’s body, and it
slipped free from his grasp. Angus took a deep breath and snatched at it again.
He caught the tail, and this time his grip
his waist, and asked the wench to guide him to his room. Once inside, he draped
his clothes over the chairs and table, and then cast a brief prognostication
spell. It was a simple spell that would seek out the near future and give a vague
sense of what was to come, and he was not at all surprised by the strong sense
of foreboding it brought.
They would come tonight, but he didn’t know when. He hoped
it would be early; he needed to get some rest. He sighed and prepared for the
inevitable encounter. He wasn’t worried, exactly, but when they came, he wanted
to ask them the right questions….
8
Angus stared as the large, brown-feathered bird clawed at
Giorge’s chest with its talons as if it were trying to reach in and rip his
heart out. They were sharp talons, and the thin leather of his armband was
already showing signs of shredding. At the same time, it flapped its wings and tried
to peck at Giorge’s head.
As the second fletching passed, its wingtip struck Angus’s right
temple and he sagged to his knees, dazed. The scrolls slipped from his fingers
and rolled away. His vision blurred for a moment, and when it cleared he saw
the second fletching heading for the writhing bundle of Giorge and the first bird.
It was a noisy bundle, with Giorge’s screams and the fletching’s screeches
merging into a strange harmony. The bird screeched and pecked at Giorge, and
then Giorge would scream. Another screech, another scream….
The second bird hopped around, pecking at Giorge’s legs and
feet as it tried to find an opening.
Angus chuckled—or thought he did; the bizarre sound seemed
to melt into the hideous squawking of the fletchings and Giorge’s frantic,
pain-wracked squeals as they echoed off the cave walls.
Angus blinked several times, but a gray haze swarmed through
his head, mocking him. He shook his head—and fell forward, barely catching
himself with his hands.
The sounds of thrashing, squawking, squealing, screaming
were furious, intense. Then some of the squawks deepened and gurgled and the
others redoubled in intensity….
Angus gasped and pushed himself backward until he was
kneeling unsteadily. His torso wobbled about like a lopsided dagger twirling on
its point. He blinked. Those daggers always fell.
Why was Giorge wrestling with a bloody bird? He was still
wobbly when Giorge slammed the bird against the wall and plunged his knife into
its chest. The other bird jumped up and clawed at his chest, its beak slashing
upward for the eyes.
“Someone should help him,” Angus muttered, looking around.
Then he realized it should be him. But what could he do?
Giorge was stabbing at the thing with a knife. He had a
knife, didn’t he? A stiletto? Yes, it was in his boot. He had two of them. He
could throw them, couldn’t he? He didn’t have to stand for that, which was
good, since he didn’t know if he could stand. He reached down and lifted the
stiletto from his left boot sheath and threw it.
It was a weak toss, poorly aimed, and clattered against the
wall.
No matter, he would throw the second one, and it might hit
something. Hopefully, it would be the bird clawing at Giorge’s arm. The other
one was flopping about, blood squirting from its chest. It was dead, or close
to it. He took aim and threw the second stiletto as hard as he could.
The fletching squawked, more from anger than pain. The
stiletto had struck a wing, near the joint connecting it to the bird’s chest, and
stuck there. It did a little damage but not enough. Even as he watched its
frantic attack, the stiletto slipped out and fell to the cave floor.
Angus struggled to his feet and wobbled into the fray. His
arms felt lazy as he grabbed at the long brown and white tail feathers. When he
caught a grip, he pulled. The bird’s claws slashed at Giorge’s body, and it
slipped free from his grasp. Angus took a deep breath and snatched at it again.
He caught the tail, and this time his grip
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