Map’s Edge

by David Hair

  ‘Good luck today,’ the girl breathed. She was probably Zar’s age, but pale and sheltered, barely touched by the hardships of the road: a hollyhock, the sort of girl Zar normally despised. But looking more closely, she saw the girl’s hands were chafed from hard work, and there was no spare fat on her. She too was pulling her weight, just in a different way.

  ‘Thanks,’ Zarelda replied. ‘Um—?’

  ‘Sheena Grigg,’ the girl answered. ‘Is it true the birds out there are ten foot tall?’

  ‘At least – and really dangerous, with huge beaks and claws. But we know what we’re doing.’ She struck a manly pose. ‘We’ll catch plenty, enough to feed the whole caravan.’

  Sheena gazed admiringly, but without envy. ‘I’m learning to cook, to be the best wife a man could want.’

  Well, it’s an ambition, Zarelda thought. They finished peeing and Zar hurried back to camp, thankful that her own horizons were wider.

  I’m lucky, she reflected. There was no guarantee I’d become a sorcerer. But even if she hadn’t, she couldn’t ever have seen herself as a typical wife, and even less so out here. I’m going to be like Tami, wild and free.

  ‘Be careful,’ her father told her, as they wolfed down their meagre breakfast. ‘These flightless birds sound dangerous.’ Then he grinned. ‘I wish I was coming too.’

  Instead, he’d be spending the day seeking istariol traces in the river. That was vital, of course, but for once she felt like she had the more important role. The caravan’s provisions were almost gone and starvation was a real and present threat.

  ‘I’ll save you a tail feather,’ she smirked as she got ready. ‘You can wear it in your hat.’

  ‘Sure,’ her father said, giving her a hug. ‘Take care, don’t get hurt, follow instructions and—’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she told him, scampering off; after all, she now knew more about hunting than he did. Collecting her bow and arrows and the torch she’d prepared the previous night, she set out to meet Banno, feeling intrepid and not a little nervous.

  The hunters were gathering, exchanging greetings, and Zarelda felt proud to be the only woman in the group. She’d gained a reputation as an excellent archer, as well as being stealthy and possessing good bush-sense.

  A crowd had gathered to see the two-dozen-strong hunting party off, so Cal Foaley drew them into a circle. ‘I won’t brief you here, with half the camp listening in. Give ’em a wave, then follow me out.’ Then he led them into the woods, to cheers that quickly faded.

  ‘Sleep well?’ Zar asked Banno.

  ‘Would’ve slept better with you beside me,’ he whispered, and they shared a smile, remembering the night alone by the lake. Even the frightening encounter with the giant birds now felt romantic.

  Maybe next time we won’t hold back, she mused, feeling a little hot and bothered, but in a pleasant way, buoyed along by a giddy sense of possibility.

  They reached a clearing, where Foaley gathered them in. ‘Right then, listen up. Gan Corbyn’s found a flock of the beasties – Mater Varahana says they’re called phorus birds, if you like proper names – in a glade west of here. So we’re going to split up: some will head for the river and set up snares and archery stations at the crossing. That’s the anvil. The rest are with me and we’ll form the hammer. We’ll drive the flock into a trap and with luck net the lot – that’s about forty birds.’

  A few men vented low whistles and one asked, ‘Are they really twice a man’s height?’

  ‘Zar and I have seen ’em,’ Banno replied. ‘They’ve got claws like daggers and beaks that could crack a skull.’

  Some looked disbelieving, but Gan Corbyn backed him. ‘I seen ’em too, just an hour ago.’

  Having a full adult verify the tale made it real, apparently, because the hunters all nodded, which made Zar quietly fume.

  Foaley gestured for silence. ‘These aren’t cattle we’re hunting, but predators in their own right. Varahana says the old records spoke of these creatures hunting in packs and being able to run like deer. Respect them.’

  ‘Don’t get close,’ Gan Corbyn added. ‘It’s arrows and spears, and firebrands to drive ’em before us.’

  ‘I can light the torches without needing a fire,’ Zarelda put in, earning some uneasy glances.

  ‘Good,’ Foaley said shortly, ‘that’ll reduce the chances of them detecting us before we’re ready to drive them. Beaters, step to my left: you’ll be with me. Trappers and archers to my right; you’ll remain here with Gan. Now, any questions before we go?’

  Everyone signed readiness and off they went. Zar stayed close to Banno as they began their circuitous trek through the forest, seeking the right point from which to drive the flock towards the river.

  A few minutes in, a hunter named Goskyll jogged in beside Banno. ‘So,’ he puffed, ‘one of the mighty Rhamps is actually doin’ something useful, eh? About time.’

  ‘Banno’s been scouting and hunting all along,’ Zarelda retorted, ‘as you bloody well know.’

  ‘Aye, but he’s the only one, ain’t he?’ Goskyll replied. ‘Rest just piss around in camp, causing trouble.’

  ‘We’re fighting men, not hunters,’ said Banno equitably.

  ‘Fighting men? More like farting men, stinking the camp out.’

  ‘If you’ve got nothing to say, you can krag off,’ Zarelda told Goskyll. ‘You think you’re better than them, fine; but Banno’s one of us.’

  Goskyll’s belligerent face twisted into scorn. ‘So the Rhamp lets his woman do his talking, does he?’

  ‘Zar’s not my woman—’ Banno went to say, his earnest face turning angry.

  ‘Nah, ’course she’s not,’ Goskyll jeered. ‘Can’t be, when you’re not even a man.’

  ‘You shut your mouth,’ Zarelda warned, as Banno put his hand to his hilt.

  Seeing that, Goskyll fondled his own weapon. ‘You in for a beating, Rhamp?’

  ‘Just piss off,’ Banno replied, sounding boyish before the full-grown hunter.

  Goskyll might be older, but to Zar, he reeked of belligerent stupidity, the sort who couldn’t keep more than one idea in his head at a time.

  ‘Just leave us alone,’ she warned, ‘or I’ll tell my father—’

  Goskyll wrinkled his nose, but he also appeared to take on board the reminder of who she was. ‘Oh, you going to whine from behind the skirts of ’is Lordship now, Princess? Pampered brats deserve each other.’ He spat at Banno’s feet, but contented himself with sneering, ‘You’re not wanted out here, Rhamp, and nor are your father’s thugs. Watch your back.’

  Banno looked angry, but Zarelda knew he didn’t have the streak of violence this man showed, so she was relieved when, after a tense few moments, he removed his hand from his sword. No doubt to Goskyll it looked like cowardice, but not to her.

  ‘Anytime you want a real man, you come find me,’ the hunter leered at her. ‘I’ll give you a proper seeing to.’ With that he swaggered away.

  She grabbed Banno’s arm and feeling him shaking, hugged him, to hold him in place. Goskyll would tear him apart, but she didn’t think less of him for that. The miasma of violence that hung round men like Goskyll made her feel ill. ‘Forget him,’ she urged. ‘You’re more of a man than he’ll ever be.’

  ‘I’ll get stronger, I’ll practise my sword-drill—’

  ‘I don’t care. What’s important is that you don’t ever turn out like that pig. He’s more of an animal than anything he hunts.’ She kissed his cheek and held him until his tension dissipated.

  Eventually Banno calmed, but she could still sense his shame. She wondered what it must be like for him, to be the sensitive one in a violent, brutal camp like his.

  ‘Where was he when we first found these birds, anyway?’ she said, putting energy into her voice. ‘Let’s go hunting and show them all.’

  *

  The journey proceeded without further incident through an increasingly living forest that nevertheless had a sinister sense of abandonment and
decay. Mist soaked up any noise and conversation drained away, silenced by the eerie landscape.

  About half an hour after leaving the trappers behind, they reached a small clearing at the foot of a low hill, where Gan Corbyn’s son Tasker was waiting to monitor the flock of phorus birds. He reported that they’d unearthed a warren of cat-sized rodents and were feeding ruthlessly.

  ‘You should see them move,’ Tasker Corbyn enthused. ‘They swarmed over these huge rats an’ just slaughtered them – they’re digging up the last few nests, just over that rise.’

  Zarelda strained her ears, fancying she could hear their calls.

  ‘Then the smell of their feeding should mask our approach,’ Foaley said. ‘Thanks to Zarelda and Banno we know they don’t like fire, so let’s make sure they fear us.’ He ran through the details again: they would light their torches and fan out in a horseshoe formation, then drive the flock towards the river crossing. ‘It should take us about twenty minutes to get them where we want them, so long as we keep it tight. Close up as you go and don’t flinch if they rush you. We don’t want them panicking, just scared enough to back off.’

  There’s only a dozen of us and more than forty birds, Zarelda worried, remembering those giant, mad-eyed creatures with their terrifying beaks. If they just turn and charge us, we’ll get mowed down. She fancied everyone was thinking the same, but they were out of meat and desperate. Voicing such fears wouldn’t help.

  ‘Zarelda,’ Foaley commanded, ‘light us up.’

  She’d never produced a spell on demand for anyone but her father, but Adefar came at her call, giving her the confidence to conjure flame and light the men’s torches from the palm of her hand. They all looked impressed, though some, like Goskyll, were still undressing her with their eyes, making her seethe inside.

  ‘Right,’ said Foaley, ‘we’ve got about an hour of flame, so let’s get moving.’ They fanned out, Zar and Banno going left, and once Foaley signed them forwards, they moved into the trees, losing sight of all but those immediately to the left and right, who were just dark silhouettes trailing orange flames. Zar had Banno to her left and Goskyll on her right, which she didn’t like at all, but she concentrated on picking her way forward down the slope into a thicket, where she heard the phorus birds straight ahead.

  They reached a patch of torn-up earth, the scars of the birds’ claws like wounds in the soil. The dog-sized rats Tasker had described were lying everywhere, limbs torn from bodies, their abdomens ripped open and the insides devoured. The air stank of blood and foulness, making Zar’s stomach churn.

  Torches closed in on either side, forming a cordon as they advanced, and she heard scrabbling claws, squabbling birds and the shrieking of cornered rats. Then from somewhere to her right, Cal Foaley began to sing a hymn to Gerda and they all took it up.

  ‘With the strength of She who died for us, I march to victory,

  Ever with my head held high, cross land and o’er sea,

  Through cannon’s fire and flames of war, onwards and ever free,

  Gerda my strength, my light; I pledge my soul to Thee!’

  The phorus flock fell silent, then some started emitting querulous calls. Lifted by the song, she raised her torch higher and started singing the second verse as they closed in. Through the ghostly trees a dark shape bobbed out of the gloom, cawing like a crow, twice her height with big eyes gleaming.

  ‘Gerda my strength, my light; I pledge my soul to Thee!’

  The phorus bird glared at her, raked the turf and shrieked, but she thrust out the flaming brand and it darted backwards, jabbing at her with its beak but not daring to come fully into striking range.

  She took another step forward as they belted out the third verse and chorus and more phorus birds appeared. She had four birds before her now, giving ground step by step, but they were barely retreating, almost daring her to come in range of their lunging beaks. But her fellow beaters loomed out of the mist, closing off every direction except the river.

  She faced fully a dozen of them, grouping around one giant male with vivid feathers of emerald and orange and looking ready to charge – until a flintlock cracked and the male staggered, a bloody hole in its breast. As it fell, the rest of the flock recoiled, snapping and hooting but giving ground, flustered and unnerved, as much by the gun’s sound as the sudden death.

  As one, the hunters strode forward.

  ‘Be thou with me every step, upon the path of life

  Through the tender year of youth, in vigour and in wealth,

  Strengthen my soul as body fails and keep me true in faith,

  Gerda my strength, my light; I pledge my soul to Thee!’

  For one terrifying moment it looked like the phorus birds were rallying, but a second shot into the air broke their nerve and they began to fall over themselves to retreat. With mastery established, the game changed from confrontation to herding. The birds fell back with growing urgency, seeking to outflank the beaters and their frightening fire-brands.

  The hymn ended and they began to jog forward. Zarelda lost track of time as they ate up the ground and before she knew it, they were on muddy ground and she could hear the music of the river ahead.

  The ground dropped towards the very bend they’d targeted and she heard Banno whooping. Goskyll reappeared on her right, hollering and waving his torch at the dozen or more phorus birds before them. He threw a look at her, shouting, ‘Watch me—’

  Then he yelped as the birds turned at bay as if sensing the trap ahead. One bird loomed over him and he thrust the torch into its face—

  —and as if in slow motion, another bird darted in and raked open his belly with a taloned foot.

  Goskyll shrieked and fell to his knees and the first bird’s massive beak hammered down, caving in his skull. He flopped bonelessly to the ground and the bird tore into his back, then looked up.

  Straight at Zar.

  She barely had time to think: the murderous bird was screaming and charging, its fellows behind it, straight at the only thing between them and freedom: her.

  Instinctively, she shrieked, ‘Ignus!’ and the torch in her hand redoubled in intensity, but the phorus birds kept coming, blood-crazed now and blind to sense. She realised at the last instant that they were going to go through her regardless and she’d end up like Goskyll or the rodents, just bloody rags of flesh.

  ‘Adefar,’ she bellowed, ‘flamma omnia!’

  It was the same spell, but at its most extreme: heat boiled through her and then streamed up the torch, charring the wood to ash and setting alight the very air before her. It was agony and ecstasy, blazing her vision to scarlet and shadow.

  It lasted just a moment, draining her like an emptying cup, and then she pitched forwards, landing on her knees at the feet of the onrushing flock.

  But the lead bird was screaming as its plumage ignited and the rest recoiled, driven back by the heat and the dancing flames swirling in the air before them. As their leader croaked and collapsed, they whirled and stormed away in terror. Then Banno was shouting her name and sprinting in and a moment later bowstrings were singing and a ragged volley of shots tore through the air.

  It was the last sound Zar heard as she fainted away.

  *

  Zarelda woke to the scent of cooking meat and the babble of voices. She was under a cloak – Banno’s; she recognised the warm, earthy smell – and comfortably close to a blazing fire. Above it, the entire torso of a phorus bird was being roasted.

  She sat up, feeling dizzy, then looked around. It was evening and the hunters who’d set up camp near the river were laughing and boasting about the catch.

  ‘Hey,’ Banno said, offering her a flask, ‘for the heroine of the hour.’ Around him, the men stopped and burst into applause.

  She smiled wanly, and put her lips to the flask.

  It was just water, cold and clean, and she perked up after guzzling it, remembering that panicked moment when she’d done everything her father had warned her not to do, overexten
ding beyond her established capabilities. It hadn’t been heroic.

  I could just as easily have torched myself.

  But it did feel good to be the hero.

  Foaley was explaining to those who’d missed the action that when the flock had sensed the closing trap, they’d tried to break out. ‘When Goskyll went down, we almost lost them. Zarelda cut off their final bid for freedom.’ He looked at her. ‘If you hadn’t, they’d have all escaped.’

  And you’d be dead, Banno’s eyes added. ‘I should have been closer,’ he murmured. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Stop apologising,’ she snapped. ‘We were lucky they came at me – if it had been someone else, they’d have got away.’

  ‘Aye,’ Foaley said, ‘you did us proud, lass. You did your father proud.’

  He’ll probably bawl me out for an idiot, she thought, but no one here needed to know that, and she decided she didn’t need to tell them. ‘Is Goskyll . . .?’

  Foaley flinched. ‘Aye. We buried him while ye slept, lass. I’ll show you the grave when you’re up and about.’

  She nodded. Although the man had been a creep, he’d not deserved to die like that. But life was random and cruel. ‘I’d like that,’ she said quietly.

  Then Norrin Harper struck up a melody and a few hidden flasks of carefully preserved alcohol came out.

  And Banno gave her some gaudy tail feathers as trophies.

  ‘One’s for Dad,’ she laughed, ‘to remind him who’s boss.’

  2

  Bathing hole

  ‘This’ll do for a camp,’ Raythe told Foaley, looking at the flat, dry ground, and their small party of scouts called a halt. It was late afternoon, and ideal.

  He’d divided his time between successfully testing for istariol in the river and following the scouts as they traversed the eerie, mist-shrouded woods. They’d glimpsed more of the huge birds, the Killerbeaks, as they were calling them. They hadn’t needed to hunt; yesterday’s haul had been more than sufficient and even now the best of the cooks were trying different ways of preserving the excess meat. Raythe was still glowing, knowing Zar’s fire-spells had saved the day, although he wasn’t quite so happy that she’d been in such danger.