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The queen screamed and dropped, claws extended. Daine brought the bow up, loosing as she reached the best point in her swing. Her arrow buried itself in the queen’s eye as Onua cheered.
Daine had another arrow on the string and in the air, but the queen pulled away. Blood dripped from her ruined eye. If she felt pain, she ignored it, hovering well out of bow-shot, her good eye furious.
“Ohhh, I’ll remember you, girlie.” The hate in her voice forced Daine back a step. “Your name on my heart.” She looked at Onua. “I’ll return for you two ground crawlers. You belong to Zhaneh Bitterclaws now.” She launched herself into higher air and was gone.
“I can’t believe it.” Onua sounded as if she were talking to herself. “The rumors said there were monsters abroad, but these? Where did they come from?” She went to examine the body of one of the creatures, the stink so bad she had to cover her nose to get close to it.
Limping, Daine followed. She was unhurt, but she felt battered and cut and torn in a thousand places.
A chickadee lay in the road. She picked it up, to find a wing was attached by only a bit of skin. Tears rolled down her cheeks to fall on the dying bird. All around her, birds lay in the rushes, bleeding, dead.
“I’m sorry, little ones,” she whispered. “You should’ve stayed hid.” Her temples pounded. Stripes of black-and-yellow fire crossed her vision. Her ears filled with a roaring sound, and she fainted.
Onua saw her fall. The bird that had been in Daine’s hand jumped into the air and zipped past, nearly missing the K’mir’s nose. In the marsh, she heard a rush of song. Birds took off, clumsily at first, as if they were stiff. An owl that lay in the road moved, then flew away as she stared. She was positive that the bird’s head had been cut half off.
Shaking her head, she went to the fallen girl. As far as she could tell, Daine was unhurt. With a grunt the K’mir levered her onto a shoulder, surprised by how light she was. “You need to eat more,” she told her burden as she carried her to the ponies. Cloud trotted over to nuzzle Daine, worry in every line of the pony’s body.
“I don’t suppose you know a place where we can get off the road,” Onua asked, half jesting, never thinking these animals would understand her as they did the girl. Cloud trotted into a nearby stand of reeds. Just beyond her Onua saw a clearing, floored in solid ground.
This was food for thought. Onua followed Cloud. The remainder of the ponies followed her, Tahoi bringing up the rear.
Coarse hairs tickled Daine’s face. Opening her eyes, she saw nothing but Cloud’s nose.
“Let me up.” Her voice emerged as a croak. “I’m fine.” She wasn’t really—her whole body ached—but the pain that had knocked her out was over.
“Swallow this.” Onua brought over a cup of water. Drinking it, Daine tasted herbs. A tingling filled her veins and left her feeling much improved. The only sign of the pain that had knocked her down was mild stiffness.
“I didn’t faint ’cause I’m a baby or anything—” she began, afraid the K’mir would be disgusted by her weakness. She struggled to sit up, and finished the water.
“Don’t be silly.” Onua gave her a silvery feather. “Don’t touch the edges,” she warned. “They’re razor sharp.”
It was metal, etched and shaped like a feather. If it was steel, as it seemed to be, it was paper thin, impossible to bend. Moreover, it felt wrong, as the sight of the creatures had felt wrong. If she knew nothing else, she knew nature. Such creations did not belong in the world: seeing them made her feel wobbly and sick. “What were those things? Do you know?”
“I’ve heard tales, but—they aren’t supposed to exist, not here. They’re called Stormwings.” She heard awe and fear in Onua’s voice.
“What are Stormwings?”
“The Eaters.” Onua wrapped the feather and put it away. “But they’re legends. No one’s seen them for three, four centuries. They lived on battlefields, desecrating bodies—eating them, fouling them, scattering the pieces.” She crouched beside Daine again. “Listen—I need to leave you and the ponies for a while—I hope not too long. I can’t tell you why.”
“Then I’ll follow.” Daine was comfortable enough with her now to be blunt. “This is a marsh, remember? Quicksand, mud bogs, snakes—you told me you don’t know anything about marshes.”
“I can’t help that. What I must do is important. You stay put—”
A picture of the Stormwings as they’d first seen them flashed into Daine’s mind. “It’s that hawk, isn’t it?” she asked, and Onua looked away. “That black one. You tried to call him, but he couldn’t make it, so he hid in the reeds. Now you want to go after him. Why is a bird so important?”
Onua’s eyes glittered with annoyance. “Never you mind. He is, that’s all—he’s more important than you could imagine. If something happens to me, take the ponies to the Riders. Tell Buri or Sarge what happened—”
Daine saw how she might repay some of what she owed this woman for taking her in. “I’ll go.”
“Out of the question.”
She retrieved her crossbow and quiver from the packs. “Don’t be silly. It’s only a few hundred yards out. How much trouble can I get into? Besides, I know about bogs. And I can find lost animals.” If she waited, the K’mir would find a good reason to keep her back. She saw a game trail leading into the reeds and took it. “I’ll yell for Tahoi if I get stuck,” she called.
“Daine!” There was no answer. “When I was that age, I listened to my elders,” Onua muttered, conveniently forgetting she had done no such thing. She grabbed Cloud’s rein as the pony tried to follow her mistress. “No, you stay here. And don’t try to argue.” She tied the mare’s rein into a string for the first time since they’d left the fair, and settled down to wait.
The trail took Daine to a pond. She skirted it, always making for the spot where the monsters had left the wood. A grouse darted out of the brush. Following it, she walked a trail that lay on firm ground to reach the trees at the marsh’s edge. There she sat on a rock, wondering what to do next. If the bird was alive, it had come down somewhere nearby to hide from the Stormwings.
It was nice, this green wilderness. The scents of growing things filled her nostrils; the sounds of animals and plants waking from their winter sleep filled her ears. What had the badger said, in her dream? If you listen hard and long, you can hear any of us, call any of us, that you want.
Surely listening wouldn’t bring on the madness. She wasn’t trying to be an animal; she just wanted to hear them. Definitely she’d taken advice from worse people than badgers in her time.
Besides, if the hawk was alive and hurt, it might be thrashing or crying its pain. She’d hear it, if she listened.
She’d have to be very quiet, then.
She settled herself and slowed her breathing. Her blouse itched; she eased it. A burn throbbed on a finger; she put it out of her mind.
A breeze fanned the tips of the reeds, making them sigh.
Two plops ahead: a pair of mating frogs. She had no interest in that.
A rustle on her left, some feet behind: a pair of nesting ducks. Didn’t people think of anything else?
A gritty noise at her side was a grass snake, coming up to sun. It was nice on the rock, the warmth just perfect on her face and on the snake.
There—left, closer to the trees. She frowned. It didn’t sound like a bird—like the hawks and falcons back home. She felt dizzy and befuddled, almost like the time she had swiped a drink of her mother’s home-brewed mead.
That yip was a fox, who had found a black bird. A large one.
Daine headed in his direction. The fox yipped again when she almost made a wrong turn. She found him next to a large, hollow log. The hawk had concealed itself inside.
“Thank you,” she said. The fox grinned at her and vanished into the reeds while Daine looked at her new patient. “Clever lad, to think of hiding there,” she murmured. (And since when did hawks ever think of concealing themselves?) “Come on
out—they’re gone.” She put her hands into the log’s opening, praying she wasn’t about to get slashed.
The bird waddled forward, easing himself onto her palms. Moving very slowly, she lifted him out and placed him on top of his hiding place.
He stared at her, beak open as he panted. One outspread wing seemed broken in two places, maybe even three. Her hair prickled at the back of her neck. Anyone less familiar with hawks might have taken this bird for one: she could not. He was too big, and hawks were not solid black. His color was dull, like velvet—there was no gloss to his feathers at all. He wasn’t wrong as those Stormwings were wrong, but he was not right, either.
She cut reeds for splints. “I’m from Onua—Onua Chamtong of the K’miri Raadeh,” she told him. “You recognize the name?” She didn’t expect an answer, but she knew a kind voice was something any hurt creature responded to. “I have to splint that wing. It’s broken.” She cursed herself for not having bandages of any kind, and cut strips out of a petticoat.
“It’ll hurt,” she warned. “Try not to peck me, or we’ll never get you fixed.” Ignoring his gaze, she gently spread the wing. The hawk cried out only once. That was another strange thing, she thought; other birds had savaged her for less pain than she was giving this one. She secured the outspread limb onto its reed framework, feeling him shake under her hands. “You’re being a fine, brave lad,” she crooned, securing the last cotton ties. “Your ma’d be fair proud of you—wherever she is. Whatever she is.”
Repairs made, she slung the crossbow on her back. “I’ve got to carry you,” she explained. “Try to keep still.” When she gathered him up, taking care not to bump the wing, he trembled but didn’t bite or slash. “You’re the oddest bird I’ve met in my life,” she murmured as she followed the trail back to the road. “Heavy too.” She was sweating by the time she found Onua. “His wing’s busted.”
