Now he could see the first rise of mountains in the distance, looking a furry blue. Here and there bands of green showed meadows and fields among the trees, and the glint of silver, like carelessly flung coins, marked the course of the river that curved its way from the mountains to the ocean.
Below and behind him were the lines of his troops. Falcone rode with Massamo Fabroni at the head of the soldiers. The Cérocchi prince was mounted on a huge red stallion that Lodovico had admitted he would have chosen for his own had he not been riding Bellimbusto. The old Lanzi captain was mounted on a rawboned liver-chestnut known for his unflagging energy and uniformly bad temper. They were a strange pair, to be sure, but the men behind them were certainly as ill-assorted as their leaders. Yet thought Lodovico as he brought Bellimbusto wheeling in an enormous circle over this unusual army, with the help of God, they might yet emerge the victors. The implacable enemy could be overcome.
As the shadow of Bellimbusto’s wings passed over Falcone, he looked up and lifted his bow in solemn greeting. Lodovico returned the salute and added one for Massamo Fabroni, then set his mount’s head toward the west.
Up here the winds were singing high, taunting songs that Lodovico knew well presaged a storm. To the south he could see an ominous dark line in the underbellies of towering, pink-shot clouds. The air itself crackled its anticipation. There would be time enough to make a good advance, he hoped, but this night they would have to stop early and make a secure camp. Fleetingly he wondered if Anatrecacciatore had called up the storm to harass the men who rode against him. It was possible, he knew. He had seen just such sorcery in the land of the Great Mandarin, though there the storms had come snaking in out of the desert, hot and treacherous as Turkish bandits. Here, the land was vaster and more verdant, yet Lodovico sensed that Anatrecacciatore would turn this to his advantage if he could.
As Bellimbusto’s wings strummed the air, Lodovico found himself remembering the leave-taking of that morning. He had no one to embrace him with the tenderness and fervor that so many of the men inspired. He had stood a little apart, desiring no pity for his isolation. But Falcone had found him, and had brought Aureoraggio to him. What torment he had known in that instant! He had been near to forgetting himself, but instead had murmured a few courteous remarks to the Scenandoa princess before thanking the Cérrochi prince for his consideration. Now he could see Aureoraggio’s face in the clouds, could hear her soft accents in the crooning wind. He told himself sternly that he should be watching the ground beneath him, not dreaming of that unattainable maiden. He sat straighter in his saddle and was glad that he had not brought his chittarone with him, for this way he had no excuse to lose himself in music.
Some little time later, he was far ahead of his troops on the ground. The forest rolled out below him, endless, with fewer and fewer clearings and cities to be seen. Lodovico marveled at the immensity of it. What would the lone traveler be faced with in that forest below? It was a sobering reflection. These forested mountains, resting in their blue-green haze, how often had they swallowed up men with the same casual ease that the sea devoured sailors? He looked toward the west where the mountains were higher, more formidable, and tried to remember what he had been told of the rivers that lay beyond.
He was distracted by the sound of birds, a joyous, shrill sound that seemed to well out of the trees below him. Lodovico leaned back in his saddle, delighted to hear the twittering chorus. He was astounded when, in the next instant, Bellimbusto let out a distressed cry and dipped suddenly before striving desperately for greater altitude.
Lodovico gripped his saddle with both hands, staring around in bewilderment. He tried to speak reassuring words to his mount, but in a moment his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth as he saw thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of birds erupt from the forest beneath them and begin a frenzied upward assault. The sound that up until that time had charmed Lodovico now took on the sinister characteristic of a war cry.
Valiantly Bellimbusto drove upward, his wings thundering his fear. Lodovico gave him his head and moved high in the saddle to give him more upward balance. The sound of the birds grew louder and louder, a terrible shriek like the mightiest storm wind.
The first attackers arrived, the small, swift birds with beaks and talons sharp as needles. They darted about the hippogryph, shrilling their wrath, plunging and diving at the eyes and neck of Bellimbusto and at the face and chest of Lodovico.
Fumbling for his great sword Falavedova in the ornate saddle scabbard, Lodovico was struck for a moment at how absurd it was, being high in the air battling sparrows, larks and linnets. These were creatures of beauty, of delight, not of this savage assault. He could feel blood on his face where the birds had struck and gashed him. Even as he dragged the sword from its case, Lodovico wondered how he could use it against such little, rapid foes. The long blade was designed to shear through armor, not feathers, to strike down soldiers, not songbirds. He felt helplessness as he saw the steel flash in the sunlight.
There were other sounds in the air now as the predators came upon them—hawks, falcons, eagles, powerful and restless as great cats, splitting the wind with faces like arrows. Their hooked beaks and keen eyes were quick to use the smallest weakness, quick to rip and tear. Their talons sank into flesh and their cries were screeches of loathing. Lodovico felt Bellimbusto lurch and scream as two white-headed eagles gouged for his eyes. The fabulous mount slid sideways on the wind as if seeking to escape from the tormentors that filled the air so densely that it was impossible to see what lay more than an arm’s length ahead. Infuriated now, Bellimbusto flailed out with his taloned front quarters and flung one of the fulvous-feathered eagles spiraling toward the forest that they could not see beneath them.
Though it offended his soldier’s pride, Lodovico began to lay about him with the flat of his blade, slapping the birds out of the air, sending them hurtling down. He could no longer aim to strike, but swung the sword wildly, praying that he did not touch his mount and end it for them both in one, long drop to the earth. Was this what the minions of Hell had endured at the hands of the angels? he wondered for an insane instant. With each swipe of his sword, he could feel the press of feathered bodies, hear the chorus of the wounded, but he saw little, and he felt as a blind man must when set upon by marauders. He yelled encouragement to Bellimbusto and sensed the answering strength.
Yet it was not enough. The larger, heavier birds were on them now, the geese, curlews, plovers, and turkeys. They were more dangerous than the hawks and eagles not only for their greater size but for their ferocity. Three enormous golden swans began to worry at Bellimbusto’s hindquarters even as the geese plucked at the black-and-bronze wings. Bellimbusto howled in protest, his gilded rear hooves striking out uselessly sending him and his rider lurching through the sky.
In panic Lodovico almost dropped Falavedova a clung to the high front of his saddle. His vision was blurred and his arms were so sore that he could not bear to lift them. With more determination than he had known, he possessed, he forced himself to hold the sword and to stay in the saddle as Bellimbusto rose sharply and dropped with sickening quickness, seeking to rid himself of the birds. There was still force in these movements, but Lodovico knew that it could not last much longer.
“Down! Down!” Lodovico shouted hoarsely to the hippogryph, and fought both dizziness and swifts as his mount descended. He tried to clear his eyes an thoughts. A little more time and the ground would rush upon them and they would be in the murderous branches. He set his knees against the heaving flanks and steadied the animal even as he guided him toward the forest below. There was a chance, he realized. He had seen a river sliding under the trees, and knew that there might well be beaches or grassy stretches near it.
The claws of the hawk raked his forehead and blood poured over his face, clouding his eyes. Impatiently he wiped it away with his sleeve and at the same time brought Falavedova around to hack at the bird. He knew a moment of gratification as
the hawk faltered and fell, and then he felt the battering of goose-bills on his legs.
Below the forest waited, the trees offering the spurious comfort of their leafy crowns that surely concealed deadly limbs capable of breaking him and Bellimbusto if they could be lured onto them. A woodpecker landed on his arm and began methodically to peck at his flesh. That beak, used to drill holes in trees, was hideously efficient on his shoulder. With a sense of revulsion that horrified him, Lodovico pounded the bird with the hilt of his sword and tore it away from him.
Still the trees covered the river, and still Bellimbusto, exhausted and harried now nearly to the limits of his legendary strength, flew lower and lower. The birds circled around them, their wings and their cries louder than any tempest Lodovico had ever known.
He reeled in the saddle as a wild turkey blundered against him, thrashing wings at his head. Lodovico took Falcone’s dagger and stabbed blindly at the enormous bird and was rewarded by feeling it go limp in his grasp. He was about to thrust it away when he knew that he would have to sleep in the open that night, and determined that these birds would feed him and Bellimbusto. He shoved the turkey against the knot of blankets at the back of his saddle, and began to slice at the myriad attackers. He fared little better with the dagger than he did with his sword, but he found that working two blades together gave him a measure of protection he had not had before. With an effort he shouted heartening words to Bellimbusto and sensed his mount understands in the renewed surge of power from the huge wings.
At last he saw a narrow stretch of sand, and he gave the signal to the hippogryph to descend. In dismay, he saw that there were ducks on the riverbank and as they neared them, the ducks rose up in a body. It was more than he could endure, he feared, and he felt his heart grow cold in his breast. He brought his bloody hand, with Falavedova still clutched tightly in his wounded fingers, up to cross himself. He had failed his men and his God. He wondered if he should drop his weapons and give himself up to the fury of the birds.
Then he saw that the ducks had flown in terror, away from him and the faltering Bellimbusto in their fearsome cloud of screeching, chattering, birds. The ducks had fled! His face set itself in a hideous smile and he began once again to hack at the feathered adversaries around him.
Even as Bellimbusto’s gold-painted talons touched the sand there was a shudder of thunder in the air. Lodovico was out of the saddle at once, crouched low to fend off the continued attack.
It never came. The birds stopped, hovered in confusion, and then with strange cries, flew away from the spot and each other in terror, as if suddenly brought to their senses of the enormity of their unnatural transgressions. Lodovico stood still, one hand on Bellimbusto’s reins, and stared at the sky, empty now of everything but the thunder.
He landed the next morning in torrential rain near the camp his troops had set up. There was a great bustle to meet him, and shouted questions that were stilled when the men were close enough to see the tatters of his clothes and the bruised lacerations of his face and body.
“I must see Prince Falcone,” he said in a voice was cracked with exhaustion. “Where is he?”
A number of the men pointed the way to the Cérrochi’s tent, and just as Lodovico stumbled forward, the men parted as Falcone himself approached. “What happened? Why didn’t you return…” His demands ceased as he caught sight of Lodovico.
Lodovico lifted one blood-caked, shaking his hand to his forehead. “I met with opposition,” he said, hoping to make light of it. He felt fear sink cold fingers into the vitals of the men around him, and he knew that he had to dispel it at once. “It seems Anatrecacciatore has a certain humor about him.”
“The soldiers of flint and frost?” Falcone asked, the very name making his words soft.
“Oh, nothing so grand as that. A flock of birds.” He knew he could not venture laughter, so he contented himself with a shaking of his head.
“Birds?” Falcone echoed with a swift glance at the men. “Birds did that to you?”
“Well, there were a great many of them,” Lodovico allowed. “You know, targets that small are damned hard hit.” He was relieved to see the men lose some of the rigidity his arrival had occasioned. If only his voice didn’t sound as if it belonged to an enormous frog. He had not been able to do more than make the most cursory examination of his injuries, but he had a fair idea that he was not a pretty sight.
“Birds.” Falcone came forward now, and clasped his arm around Lodovico’s shoulder, more gently than it appeared, and still Lodovico could not entirely disguise his wince when Falcone’s arm touched him. “You must tell me more of this.” He looked toward Bellimbusto, standing in the rain, bedraggled feathers and matted hair making that glorious animal seem a discarded toy for a god. “Your mount…”
“I must see to him,” Lodovico allowed wearily. “He must be dried and stabled and fed. When I have done that, I will be with you in your tent. If you will tell Fabroni and your father that we must speak, I will be you directly.” His every joint ached, but he refused to limp. He waved to those warriors he knew and called a few greetings as he turned to lead Bellimbusto to the northern edge of the camp where the Lanzi horses were sheltered.
“But you are certain that the ducks did not attack you?” Cifraaculeo demanded for the third time.
“They flew off,” Lodovico answered patiently, though his body hurt and he was almost too tired to speak. He had been in Falcone’s tent for several hours and had yet to be given food or the opportunity to bathe and change his clothes. He reminded himself that his report was more important than his comfort, but his weary sinews protested inwardly.
“But the other birds came at you in a body.”
“I have said so,” Lodovico responded more sharply. “I did not have time to determine how many of what bird attacked me, and I confess that I have not yet learned all the varieties of fowl that live in this land, but I assure you that there were a great many. Geese, swans and other water birds among them, but not ducks.” He had asked once why that should be important, and had been given no answer. Now he repeated his inquiry. “You have laid a great deal of importance on these ducks. Why is that?”
“Anatrecacciatore is the Duck-Catcher,” Falcone explained in spite of the fulminating glance cast on him by Cifraaculeo. “There has long been speculation about his name, but no answers. From what you have told us it would seem that he has control over the birds of the air, all but the ducks. It may be of use.”
It seemed to Lodovico that much of his fatigue had evaporated as he heard this. “He has no power over ducks? Do they inevitably flee him, do you know?”
Cifraaculeo glared down at the Italian hero. “We believe this is so.”
Lodovico got to his feet, uncaring of the protestations of his muscles and joints. “Why was I not told this earlier?” he wanted to know, looking from the Cérocchi Prince to the high priest. “If the ducks are not under his influence and always flee him, then they will be our advance scouts. We need only see where they are…”
They flee from us, too,” Falcone reminded him, though there was a guarded expression of hope in his black eyes.
“But, listen—they will fear Anatrecacciatore more than us, will they not?” He saw the tentative nods of agreement and hurried on. “We must set out flanking scouts, so that nothing will be missed. If the ducks flee toward us, then we know that the sorcerer’s forces are on the march. We’ll need a system of signals that will not alert the enemy to our tactics, and that way we will gain still more time. Unless Anatrecacciatore can command every other creature in the forest, we will have gained an advantage. With so malefic and subtle an opponent, we must have more intelligence if we are to defeat him.”
Falcone’s face grew sharper as Lodovico spoke. “It is well,” he said after a moment. “There are men of the Scenandoa who are noted for their skill in scouting. They will be glad to do this, for they have suffered much at the hands of Anatrecacciatore.”
“Yet these
forests are vast,” Lodovico said, feeling he had to interject a word of caution. “It would be an easy thing for all of us to blunder through them and never engage the other side in battle, so that in the end all each had to show was fatigue and field losses.”
“Do not underestimate Anatrecacciatore,” Cifraaculeo said gloomily. “He will know where we are and what we do, no matter what precautions we take. He will strike when it suits him, after we have gone far, when the spirits of our men have become disheartened, when each band of warriors is full of rivalry with all the others, so that they will not fight together, then, then Anatrecacciatore will send his invincible armies against us…”
Lodovico interrupted this catalogue of woes. “If his warriors are invincible, as you say, there is no reason for him to wait until we are lost in the forest and without provisions, weapons or morale. All he need do is send them crashing down upon us now, conquering your men near their cities so that plunder as well as victory is close at hand. If he must lead us far into the wilderness, it is only that his strength is not so vast as we have been led to believe and either he must fight on his own accursed ground, as the wizards of Russia did, or his troops are not invincible and he must stay near the source if they are to triumph in battle.” As he spoke, he could feel more hope surge through him. Yes, he saw that their cause was not entirely lost. While the birds had attacked him and Bellimbusto dropped through the air, he had feared that there would be no way to conquer such a powerful sorcerer, but now, hearing the words of the high priest and listening to the warnings, he realized that they had some small chance for success. His great heart was lightened and in his soul he thanked the mercy of God for this information, and begged forgiveness for his doubts, and the great sin of despair.
Ariosto Page 14
