Sword Quest (7 page)

Stormac saw a sack of tiny tinsel stars among the eagle’s odds and ends. “Those shiny things!” the myna exclaimed. “What are they for?”

“To toss in my performances,” Fleydur said cheerfully. Then his eye fell on Ewingerale’s harp. “Just my luck! A harpist! A singer needs music. I’m not so good at instruments. I had a trumpet once, but it got broken in a scuffle. I haven’t had the opportunity to make or get another one, but it will surely be good to have a harp along!”

“You sing?” Ewingerale seemed delighted. “That’s wonderful. I can play ballads to go along….”

Wind-voice felt his own tattered heart swell with joy and hope. Stormac grinned too. Later on he told Wind-voice, “He may pretend to be a simple bard, but I can tell he’s got some training under his feathers. It will be great to have an extra fighter with us.” He frowned. “But still, I’ve never seen an eagle this far from the safety of the mountains. And I don’t know why he claims he’s an orphan. I’m sure Fisher said something different. I don’t suppose it matters, but it’s odd, don’t you think?”

Seven miles farther they arrived at the river. A thick stand of willow trees, cattail banks, and bulrushes was filled to the brim with archaeopteryxes. Many armed birds patrolled the riverside, for this place marked the end of the territory that was firmly under the archaeopteryxes’ control. Most of the birds allowed past the river were those who had special permission from a highly ranked archaeopteryx. Merchant birds, once they paid a tax from their wares, came and went a little more easily; bards such as Fleydur could travel more or less freely.

Wind-voice nervously tapped his claw. He looked around and saw birds waiting for their chance to cross, sitting in groups. Some seemed to have been there a long time.

Fleydur had made them wait, hidden in the cattails, until the sun set and a crescent moon was rising, casting only a faint light. Now the four friends stood in a line of birds. Colorful berry stains had been smeared on their feathers. Wind-voice was no longer white, and Winger’s bright red head had been blackened. Each of their shuffling steps jingled bells.

Wind-voice saw a small finch yanked out of the line by a beefy archaeopteryx. The finch didn’t return.

Wind-voice and his companions stepped closer to the light cast by a ring of lanterns. Ten pairs of eyes stared at them. Ten toothed beaks glinted at them.

“We are birds of the music trade,” said Fleydur. “I have the best voice in the Forests and the Marshes, and my good fellow tradesbirds here…well, let us show you!”

Waveringly they broke into song, looking at each other, soon smiling as they trilled. Fleydur did a spectacular sword-swallowing feat while Stormac tossed sparkling tinsel stars into the sky. Somehow the song made them feel a bit more courageous. Ewingerale plucked at his little harp. The eagle and the myna started whirling in a circle. Every few seconds, the two spinning, dancing figures blocked Wind-voice’s view of the archaeopteryx soldiers standing and hovering there. He
sang numbly, almost mechanically, as he saw silvery bells move up and down in front of him…then the staring pale eyes of the archaeopteryxes, then the bells again, then the eyes, until he thought they were one and the same…

It was really only a matter of a few minutes, although it seemed like a lifetime. They were ignored and roughly pushed outward to the tossing air currents above the river.

They still sang a little as they flew, partly for the archaeopteryxes’ hearing, partly for themselves. Then their song faltered and died. Wind-voice’s heart felt hollow. They’d crossed the river. He should feel triumphant; but what could they do now? Where would their path lead them?

Remorse for the past enables us to do better in the future.

—FROM THE
O
LD
S
CRIPTURE

M
aldeor sat back in his newfound throne and gave a throaty chuckle. His army had captured a strange traveler. Soldiers had searched him and found a silver badge. It had a curved P surrounded by flowing tropical flowers. None of his officials thought it worth much attention, but the design of the badge had sparked an idea in Maldeor’s head. Could P stand for Pepheroh, the ruler of Kauria?

There was a hubbub among the archaeopteryxes, and even the dignified officials stretched their necks to get a clearer view as the prisoner was brought before the throne. The bird had blue eyelids, a black nape and back, and a face and bib the color of a ripe banana. He was stocky and thickly muscled. The beak, or whatever it was, was shockingly ridiculous: Not only did it look heavy and was as long as the rest of the creature’s body, but it also had a green base that merged into yellow with a magenta tip. “Is it painted?” somebird whispered.

“What is it?” Maldeor said.

“Your Majesty,” declared a scholar as he took out a piece of rope and measured lengths, then looked through his copy of
The Complete and Thorough Record of the Class Aves
, “this is a toucan.”

Maldeor held the silver badge in his claw. The toucan
immediately focused on it, his blue-rimmed eyes steady.

“Where are you from?” Maldeor asked softly.

“Nowhere,” the toucan, who was Ozzan from Kauria, answered.

“Nonsense!” Maldeor leaned forward on his perch. “Where, exactly? An island, perhaps?”

After a pause for thought, the toucan nodded.

“Tell me its name.”

There was silence.

“Speak up,” Maldeor ordered. “There’s plenty to talk about today. The island that you come from. The gemstones, the sword, and the legend.”

“I will not,” the toucan said after a long silence. His heavy accent grated the air.

Maldeor shook his head slowly as if confronted with a naughty hatchling. “I’m afraid,” he said almost sadly, “that you will certainly reveal everything you know.”

“So,” said Fleydur once the traveling companions had found a safe perch for the night, “now that we are across the river, what are your plans? Where will you go?” His silver bells glowed in the moonlight as he settled in the lee of a cactus.

Stormac looked up from the beechnuts he had been
roasting. “Back to the herons, I suppose. They are my tribe now.” He popped a kernel into his beak and swallowed dejectedly.

Winger was writing in his diary. He closed it carefully and put it into his large pocket, then looked sadly into the distance, strumming a few chords on his harp. “I’m not sure. Where can we go? Wind-voice, what do you think? Should we try to find the rebels here on this side of the river? Maybe we can still join the fight and make some kind of difference.”

Wind-voice was looking into the flames of their fire as if he could find an answer there. “I wish…”

“Wish what?” Stormac said. “Wishes find no beetles for breakfast.”

“Don’t say that.” Winger leaned forward to look at Wind-voice. “What are you thinking?”

“I wish that we could do something to find the hero Fisher mentioned,” Wind-voice said. “We need him so badly. How much longer can we wait?”

Winger shrugged. “But what can we do?”

The coals glowed peachy orange and fiery vermilion, but the flames flickered a bright, clear yellow hue. The color reminded Wind-voice of something. He had seen it in between the claws of the archaeopteryxes’ emperor. Yes, a shining yellow stone, the amber gem of the kingfishers.

“The Leasorn gemstones,” he said thoughtfully. “Fisher said that some birds believe they have clues. Clues about where the hero’s sword might be hidden.”

“Huh,” Stormac snorted. “Made-up clues about a mythical sword. What help would that be to anybird?”

“Don’t be so quick to dismiss the idea,” Fleydur said, considering. “I’ve heard the same thing from bards of every land. Even my own tribe of eagles in the Skythunder Mountains has a gemstone, and it’s true,
there were strange markings on it in some language—Avish, I think.”

“The kingfishers’ amber stone has markings as well,” Wind-voice recalled. “I saw one of the scholars of the court copy them down.” His claws twitched as he tried to remember, and he scratched a few marks in the dirt. “It was something…something like this…”

The others peered down at the lines he had drawn.

“The great clue looks like somebird scratching for worms,” Stormac said, amused.

“No, no, it doesn’t!” Winger said, excited. “Look, look here, Wind-voice. Could it have been like this?” He rubbed out a few of Wind-voice’s lines and drew them again, slightly differently.

After looking at them for a long time, Wind-voice nodded. “Yes. Yes, that’s right. How did you know?”

Winger’s voice shook. “My father was a scholar. He was teaching me a written language like this before the archaeopteryxes came and destroyed our tribe. This is Avish, like Fleydur said, and it’s the language from which all bird languages are derived. It’s used as a
lingua franca
among learned birds. The written language is harder, though. This says, ‘The eye of the bird sees your wish.’”

Winger paused as memory flooded his brain. He spoke rapidly. “I had just mastered Avish when the
archaeopteryxes attacked my tribe. They wanted to know about Avish. My father refused to tell them and fought to the death. They killed my mother and my sister. I wanted to die with them, but an archaeopteryx enslaved me for my harp music and forced me to live on.” Winger swallowed and recovered. “I am glad that knowing Avish can help us now.”

The companions sat and stared at the marks Wind-voice and Winger had drawn in the dirt. Could they truly be clues to the location of the sword?

“It’s not much help, even if it
is
a clue,” Stormac said at last. “Are you sure that’s it, Wind-voice? I mean, you only got a glimpse of the thing.”

“I—I
think
so,” Wind-voice said doubtfully. But another memory was tugging at his mind. “There was a messenger. He said—he told the emperor that a knight, Sir Rattle-bones, would be bringing another gem from across the sea. A red one. He was carrying it then. He was supposed to be crossing the desert with it.”

“The desert?” Fleydur said sharply, looking up. “The only way from the desert into the archaeopteryx territory is across the river that we just crossed.”

The four of them looked at one another.

“I could go search for Rattle-bones,” Wind-voice said. “If I could find him—if I could get that gem, maybe it
would tell us something more about the hero’s sword. Winger, can you teach me Avish? I’ve never had a chance to learn since I became a slave. I know learning things like this will help me in the future.”

“Sure!” Winger said eagerly. “I’ll come along and teach you as we go. Maybe you’ll learn enough to read any clues that come our way.”

“If there even
is
another clue,” Stormac said skeptically. He shrugged. “The written old language makes my head ache. It’s the type of thing that overlords care about, not common folk. Wielding a staff—that’s the life for me.”

“But if you learned Avish, no one could deceive you,” Winger objected. He turned to the eagle.

“I’ll come,” Fleydur said. “You’ll need me. I know the desert lands. I can help you search.”

All three looked at Stormac. He scowled at them.

“I’m not even sure I believe all this,” he grumbled. “Languages and clues! Legends and stories! We’d be better off doing something more practical. But…I’ll come. We’ve
got
to fight against these archaeopteryxes somehow. I suppose a wild quest is no more than I deserve.”

“Deserve?” Winger asked. Too late he noticed Wind-voice shaking his head at him. The woodpecker had not
seen the look of bitter shame on Stormac’s face.

“What do you mean?” Wind-voice asked softly. “We’re all victims of the archaeopteryxes, one way or another. Why should you deserve to suffer any more than we do?”

Stormac was silent. “You don’t have to answer,” Wind-voice said. “If you don’t want to tell us…”

“No.” Stormac sighed. “I’ll tell you. I’m just afraid…” He picked up his staff in his claws and began to stroke the smooth wood. “Do you know of the Three Clans? The crows, the mynas, and the ravens? We stood out against the archaeopteryxes until our territory was overrun. We had two choices: flee into the wilderness or surrender. Some of us made a bargain. In exchange for our lives and a scant measure of freedom, we’d serve in the archaeopteryx army. I…I left what remained of my own clan, after we’d starved for nearly a week, just for the promise of regular meals. I sold my allegiance for seed and worms, for strawberries and nuts. My job was simply following the archaeopteryxes and carrying their supplies. No harm, I thought. How wrong I was.”

Stormac’s voice broke, and he took a deep breath. “Can I ever forgive myself, my foolish self?” he asked in a choked voice. “I followed the archaeopteryxes on my first
mission. They overran a small village of swallows, trying to squeeze information regarding the gemstones’ whereabouts out of them. Those little swallows fought so fiercely, but they had no chance, no chance at all. I never felt so much horror.”

Stormac looked at Wind-voice. Wind-voice’s face betrayed no emotion, but his eyes, shining out of his burned face, scared Stormac. They were so sunken, so dark, like black cherries dipped in ink; the steady, still gaze made him seem to be hunting for a hidden thing or perhaps just listening carefully. “I was like the fool who flew through a rain cloud, thinking it was cream, and came out wet on the other side. Now I wear this charm, this carving of a strawberry.” Stormac gestured at the crude bit of red wood on a grass cord around his neck. “I will not be misled by food again, for I have my berry here. But…the harm I’ve done remains. I don’t know if you can forgive me. If you want me on this search, I’ll come. But since you know now what I’ve done…” Stormac’s huge, watery eyes filled with despair. “If you want me to leave, I’ll go.”

“You don’t have to go,” Winger said gently. “Hard choices have been forced on us all, and sometimes we’ve made mistakes.”

“He’s right,” said Fleydur. “What’s passed is past.”

They turned to look at Wind-voice, who gently put his claws over Stormac’s.

“I don’t have a real family or tribe anymore. But from the weeks we’ve been together, I know you are as close as a brother,” said Wind-voice simply.

Fleydur led the way across the desert. They knew that Rattle-bones was heading northeast toward Castlewood, so they swung a little north in his direction. They scouted out dry canyons and looked through stands of dry, leafless scrub, hunting for signs of a traveling party of archaeopteryxes. Sometimes a cuckoo or a pygmy owl spoke to them of archaeopteryx sightings. They knew they were getting closer. As they camped each night, Winger drew figures in the sand and taught Wind-voice Avish by the light of the moon.

Then, on the fourth day, when they crossed the Amali River again—this time at a point up north, where it was only a quiet stream—they saw them. The four companions were traveling at the foot of a hill when Winger called out shrilly. The others looked up. There, just disappearing over the crest of the hill, with the sun shining on their backs, were the birds they sought: four archaeopteryxes, three garbed in light brown and the last in gray.

Wind-voice and his friends flew up the hill after them and slipped over the top to see the archaeopteryx band gliding down into a forested basin. The wind picked up the single gray cloak, and they saw a small package strapped onto the bird’s back.

“Rattle-bones!” Ewingerale cried.

The bird suddenly spun around. “You’ll be sorry to interfere with an archaeopteryx, you beggarbird of a musician!”

“Give us the package and we will not fight you,” said Stormac.

“Ha! You wish, dinner-to-be!” The three other archaeopteryxes all whirled around, raising spears.

Wind-voice stared, eye-to-eye with Rattle-bones. Rattle-bones blinked and exclaimed, “You! 013-Unidentified, wanted on the poster!”

“There is no such bird,” Wind-voice said.

The archaeopteryx threw a knife at Wind-voice. Then a bright flash of red light erupted from the package.