by GJ Kelly
They writhed, all four of them, pawing at the air or tearing at the ground, squealing, high-pitched, a piercing sound which carried across the land to the village, scattering sheep already made nervous by the creatures’ hunting calls.
“Back into the trees!” Elayeen cried, hurried pushing her horse backwards into the cover of the pines, and keeping her eldeneyes fixed upon the fast-lengthening hyphen in the sky to the north. “Back! Back! They have a Razorwing!”
Safe within the tree line, they watched as the winged assassin swung and jinked, and then sped harmlessly past them no more than thirty feet above the ground, clearly demonstrating that it had seen them and had marked them as targets.
The howling and thrashing death-agonies of the Yarken slowly faded, becoming a low keening and a feeble twisting on the ground.
“Those vakin creatures die too quickly,” Meeya grimaced, her eyes, like those of her companions, following the Razorwing as it flew a wide arc around the village, and began to gain altitude.
“Yet dead is good for all things dark-made.”
“She was a child, Leeny! Just a child, alone and afraid and far from home.”
Elayeen could see the rage simmering and glowing darkly in her friend’s eyes. It reminded her of Gawain, and the rage she had so often seen and felt in him.
“There are more children in the village, Meeya, and they are in need of our help. Calm yourself.”
“Isst, miThalin,” Meeya muttered, and drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
“The Razorwing patrols a wide perimeter around the village,” Valin announced, “And maintains a close watch from high up. I do not think we can reach the village while the creature exists.”
Elayeen agreed, and studied the terrain between the village and the tree line. “Yet a child on a pony evaded it.”
There was a sudden burst of purple fire from one of the Yarken, aquamire liberated, smoke belching as its carcass was consumed. Then another, and then a third. The fourth continued to whine and mewl, and Meeya took half a pace forward so she could see it through a gap in the trees. Without hesitation she drew string, sighted, and loosed another arrow into the creature’s hindquarters. Its renewed howling and thrashing brought a curt nod of satisfaction from the dark-eyed elfin Ranger, and she stepped back a little, turning her attention once more to the dot of the Razorwing to the northeast.
“Happy now?” Elayeen asked, slightly taken aback by the depth of passion her oldest friend had demonstrated in torturing the surviving Yarken.
“Isst, miThalin,” Meeya replied, teeth clenched in defiance.
“Then perhaps we can all bend our minds to the destruction of the Razorwing, or evading it.”
With a burst of aquamire, the last of the four Yarken was consumed in flame.
“Many sheep seem to be gathered in a line to the south,” Valin pointed, “There is a spring near the foot of the slope, and a stream has formed. There is another joining it further on.”
“So there is. We’ve seen many springs and streams in this terrain. You think it important?”
“The pony and rider were small, miThalin. It might have been possible for the child to have led the pony along the stream where it has cut its ragged channel over the ages, and with sheep on the banks either side, perhaps been well enough shielded from the Razorwing’s view to pass beyond its range.”
“Only for her scent to be detected by the Yarken much later?”
Valin shrugged. “I can see no other obvious means of escaping the village undetected by the bird. According to the letter, it would seem that the adult riders despatched to the north and south were killed by the Razorwing. Perhaps the Yarken were created after the child succeeded in avoiding its attentions.”
“But the channel cut by the streams is too small for any adult with horses to use going in or coming out. We can’t go that way,” Meeya sighed. “We are unlikely to be able to bring the Razorwing down with just the three of our bows. Only a cloud of arrows, or Thal-Gawain’s clever fence might work.”
“Alas, mihoth, we have no jars of pickled roping, and no supply of Eastlander halberds.”
“We have a jar of pickled onions, and two other jars whose contents are unknown.” Elayeen smiled, though grimly, eyeing the distant village, and the circling Razorwing, and remembering the destruction of the flock at Far-gor. She also remembered Gawain telling her of an old instructor of his, and the lessons he had learned. It had been after his time below the Teeth, after the destruction of the great lens, and after the fug of throth had cleared in the first days of their marriage…
Be creative! he always used to say. Superior quality wins the day! He had so many lessons, and all of them gems. I wish I’d paid more attention to the man. I think his lessons guide me even when I don’t recall them to mind. In the cavern beneath the Teeth, when I stood before the dark lens, evil all around us and pressing in, I suppose I was being creative. He was a great teacher, I think.
You should write a book of his lessons, mithroth, and thus preserve his memory.
Perhaps I will one day. The Sayings of Captain Hass. Yes, perhaps I will. But not tonight…
Elayeen snuffed the memory before the ache for Gawain could deepen. She took a deep breath, studied the slope leading down into the valley, then turned to look at the packhorse, the woods around them, and the Razorwing gliding in a slow circle of some half-mile radius with the village for its centre.
“Do we still have the rope, Valin?”
“Isst, miThalin. We have all our equipment from Tarn.”
“Good. We need to fashion a sledge, some five feet in length.”
Meeya and Valin exchanged glances, and then Meeya turned to bestow a quizzical look on her friend.
“Do we wait for winter snow and slide down the hill, Leeny?”
“No, though the idea is not entirely without merit. We shall make a sledge. On it, we shall put the iron cauldron given us by the good people of Fourfields, and the camp pans and stove given us by our friends in Tarn. We’ll empty the jars we have and use those as well. Then…”
“No, miThalin,” Valin sighed, “If you are planning to crawl out there behind a rickety field-made version of Thal-Gawain’s Razorwing fence, I fear you will be greatly disappointed.”
“I hope not, Valin. I do not cope well with disappointment.”
“You’ll learn to live with it this time though, Leeny, and there’s an end to it. If anyone is to be bait for a Razorwing, it will be Valin.”
Valin’s eyebrows shot up. “Thank you, miheth.”
“You’re welcome, mihoth,” Meeya beamed, “Now build the sledge and practice crawling while Leeny and I gather firewood.”
It took two hours to construct an ugly but effective sledge which could be dragged on its makeshift runners, and then to load it with the containers Elayeen had specified. These were filled with tinder and wood hacked into small pieces with the dwarven axe-hammer gifted them by Sarek. It took another half an hour to secure shortswords and long knives to the left hand side of the crude vehicle, and, after confirming that it could still be towed fully laden, the wood was lit.
They waited another half hour, feeding more fuel into the cauldron, pots and camp stove, until the heat from the metal threatened the sledge itself.
“Go slowly,” Meeya said softly. “And stay low so it thinks there are two of you, you and the sledge. And when it swoops, move slowly into cover behind the sledge, or it might not be fooled.”
“You seem quite expert in the matter of deceiving a Razorwing, mihoth, are you sure you wouldn’t rather serve as decoy for the trap, rather than risk my ruining the plan?”
“Silly Vali. And remember, it is fast. If it comes at you from the south, you will need to take shelter on the other side of the sledge, and then try to encourage it to attack from the north.”
“I shall try to remember, miheth.”
“And keep your head down.”
“Isst, miheth.”
Elayeen could h
ear the tension in their exchange, and see the depth of concern in their eyes. But these were private moments, and she simply gazed with concern of her own and moved to stand close to Meeya when Valin eased forward, the rope over his shoulder. He had yet to emerge onto the grassy slope when the Razorwing, circling towards the north, spotted him, and changed its course.
Valin hurried his pace, dragging the sledge and its fuming contents out into the open, and then he dropped to his knees, took up the slack, and began crawling, dragging the sledge some two feet behind him.
Though they hadn’t forgotten the Razorwing’s incredible turn of speed, it was still astonishing how quickly the deadly bird closed the gap. In no time at all it was losing height, wings spread and swooping, Valin scurrying to lie flat behind the sledge and its fiery pots. The creature, angling in to make a scything run from the north, was too fast for Elayeen and Meeya to engage from their cover within the trees, and they could do nothing but call warnings to Valin. Not that he needed them.
The creature overshot the sledge, jinked to the east and shot up into the air, slowly looping over for another attack. Valin, pushing himself up on to his haunches, waddled forward, dragging the sledge further from the tree line and trying to keep his head on a level with the cauldron and its glowing embers, the cast iron vessel surrounded as it was by pots and pans and earthenware jars.
The Razorwing had looped the loop, and was powering downwards, jinking this way and that to line itself up for its attack. Again, Valin eased back behind the protection of the flimsy sledge and its fence of blades, and again, the bird overshot the mark. This time, though, it continued on its way, climbing steadily, and then flipping around to make a run from the south.
Valin stood, dragged the sledge even further down the slope, and threw himself flat behind its left side as the Razorwing passed again harmlessly some six feet above the blades standing proud of the cauldron.
“It’s not working,” Meeya cried. “Vakin Dwarfspit, it’s not working!”
Elayeen could say and do nothing but watch as the creature made two more passes, inching lower on each occasion.
Valin watched the Razorwing circle away to the north again, and then, eyeing the distant sheep huddled in the floor of the valley below, stood up, and moved to position himself some ten paces from the mobile fence, waving his arms as if taunting the creature.
They saw it speed up, deadly wings a blur, speeding in low, adjusting its course. Valin slowly dropped to his knees, and sure enough, the bird dipped lower, razor-edged wings stretched wide for the kill. Then Valin dropped to all fours, the creature corrected its altitude accordingly, and, at the last moment, Valin flung himself face down in the grass and covered his head with his hands.
The creature, its heat-sensitive vision suddenly dazzled and confused by the fires in cauldron and pots when its target disappeared behind them, struck the fence blades with such force the swords were ripped from the wood to which they’d been lashed. The sledge jerked violently, wood splintering, spilling its load and hot embers towards Valin. Pieces of the beast’s wings whirled over his head, and the Razorwing, still alive but rendered flightless, tumbled through the air, succumbing at last to gravity, tearing gouges in the soft earth of Arrun as it cartwheeled to extinction in a puff of greasy smoke.
Valin leapt to his feet, brushing ash, splinters and embers from his sleeves and shoulders, and Meeya and Elayeen raced out of the trees to join him there.
“See how easy it was,” Meeya announced, desperately relieved, brushing a splinter of wood from his sleeve. “All that fuss over a bird.”
Valin shrugged, and eyed the remains of his handiwork. The sledge was smouldering, pots and pans blackened and overturned, the thin iron wire of the cauldron’s handle glowing red hot. “Isst, miheth. And alas, you now have a lot of washing up to do.”
“I’ll fetch the horses,” Elayeen announced quietly, “And leave you to pick up your teeth, Valin.”
Meeya glowered with mock outrage at her husband.
“Oh,” he managed.
oOo
21. Fallowmead
If they’d expected a welcome of the kind they’d received at Fourfields in Mornland, they were sadly disappointed. Sheep scattered at their approach, and though they scanned the land around them and saw no sign of darkness, the glowing shapes they did see clinging to each other or hiding within the gaily painted cottage walls were both disturbing and annoying. The elves had risked much to give aid to the village, and none of the inhabitants, it seemed, were brave enough even to step out into plain sight.
A well had been bored at the centre of the small but neat and well-cobbled village square, and there they brought their horses to a halt, arrows nocked to strings, fingers resting lightly for the draw should it be needed.
“Is this Fallowmead of the Midshearings?” Valin called, irritated by the silence and the figures his eldeneyes revealed cowering in the buildings around them. “If it is, come forth. We ride in answer to Kistin Fallowmead’s plea.”
A disturbance from a cottage with faded yellow walls, and suddenly its door was flung open, a woman of perhaps thirty breaking free of a man’s grip to rush across the cobbles, her plain and ankle-length dress hitched up the better for running.
“Is she well? Is Kistin well? Are the wizards looking after her?”
Other doors opened, people emerging, most of them men, curtains twitching here and there, faces peering out from behind the windows.
Elayeen looked down at the desperation etched on the woman’s face, the haunted look in her eyes, and then tore her gaze away to follow the progress of the man who limped, wincing, out of the cottage to stand behind her and hold her shoulders.
“My daughter Kistin,” the woman pleaded again, perhaps already beginning to read from the elves’ expressions the answer she feared most to the question she had to ask again: “Is she well?”
Elayeen sighed. “I am sorry, lady. Kistin Fallowmead did not survive her journey to the Hallencloister. We laid her to rest, four days from here, with her bag and her doll and her book, and a blanket for her comfort.”
The woman’s face crumpled, she blinked, and tears began streaming as she turned to bury her face in her husband’s shoulder, clinging to him as she’d once clung to the hope of her daughter’s return. The man held her close, his eyes watering, and then his head bowed, and he in turn buried his face in his wife’s hair. Not even one of Rickerd’s immense strength could have stilled the silent sobs they saw wracking the bereaved mother’s body.
“Four days!” A man’s voice was heard from the other side of the square, and all eyes swung towards him, though his movement had already been marked by Valin before he spoke. “She only made but four days, and us waiting all this time for aid! We should have tried to leave! All of us, we should have tried to leave!”
“Aye!” Another voice called, “And with them dogs now dead and now that bird’s gone, we can! I say we quit this place now! Run, now, while we may!”
“All right!” A deep voice bellowed, and a portly man stepped forward, great mutton-chop whiskers greying at the temples, wearing a simple white smock over a heavy woollen undershirt and brown woollen britches. “That’s enough, all of you. There’s nowhere to run and you know it, Gonvil, you too, Alek. These folk said they come to aid us, fine welcome they got from Fallowmead. Olli, take Allis inside, go on now. This is no place now for you and she, go mourn your daughter, and be with your son.”
The bereaved couple made their slow and laboured way back to their home, a boy of perhaps four standing in the doorway, his face a picture of distress, not understanding the tension in the air or the reason for his parents’ weeping. When they were all inside the cottage, and the door shut, the portly man stepped forward again.
“I’m Crellan,” he announced, “Crellan Jokdaw, headman of Fallowmead. I bid you welcome, though we’re likely beyond all aid now.”
“We are Rangers of the Kindred Army,” Elayeen announced, “My name is Leeny
. These are Rangers Meemee and Valdo. We read the letter intended for the D’ith Hallencloister, and have come in answer to your call.”
“Aye, which is more of an answer than some of us expected to receive from anywhere. Last we heard from Sudshear the wizards were sealed in their castle, but we had to try. We thought poor young Kistin might make it after she beat that bird. But two days after she left we saw them dog things loosed from out the woods up there to the east, and they picked up her trail soon after.
“But come, put up yer bows and step down, friends. Gorrick! Get some ale and some food for the Rangers!”
“Aye-aye, no need to shout, Crellan, I’m only standing over ‘ere!” a voice protested. It belonged to a broad-chested fellow, perhaps in his late fifties, powerfully built and wearing the kind of apron common to innkeepers and taverners the world over. He turned to the callow youth beside him, tall and skinny with a freckled face and red hair, and clipped him on the back of the head.
“Go on then, Arbo, you heard the headman, ale and food!”
The youth, rubbing the back of his head, disappeared into the cottage.
Elayeen cast a last glance around the village, and with a nod, dismounted, and returned her arrow to its quiver. Valin and Meeya took their customary positions beside her, remaining watchful.
“Your letter spoke of a shipwreck. Of a wizard, monsters, and of a hundred warriors,” Elayeen said softly.
Crellan moved closer, as Elayeen had intended, and lowered his voice. “Aye. Weeks ago now it was. We normally leave the sheep to roam, see? Back then, we had two ‘orses, and the pony young Kistin rode. Lads would occasionally ride up there to the woods,” he nodded to the pines cresting the slope on the eastern side of the valley, “And around. Rounding up them sheep that’d wandered too far. We get no threat ‘ere near the cliffs, no wolves or ought like that. But anyway… Brod rides out to the cliff looking for strays, spies the wreck in Comfortless Cove below. He said he waved down to ‘em and called out, but that seemed to upset ‘em, and pretty soon up from the beach comes a ball o’ black smoke, all cracklin’ with lightning, like. Didn’t get up to the top, sort of fizzled out halfway up, he said. But back he come then, straightways, to tell me, and the rest of us.”
