Burning Tower (39 page)

Mouse Warrior looked around him and spotted Sandry on the tower. He shouted an inaudible question.

A bird broke through. Sandry pointed. Mouse saw it. He whirled his sling a breath too slow. Mouse was dead, torn apart, when Secklers slew the bird.

Sandry saw Clever Squirrel climbing the ladder. She pulled herself up and looked about her. She asked, “How goes it?”

“We'd be fine if there was an upper limit to these birds. They're too many. Squirrel, stop distracting my soldiers.”

“Could you deal with the rest of the birds if I take out the rooster? And the god?”

“And the
god
?” She just looked at him. He said, “Yes. What have you got in mind?”

She looked east toward the bathhouse.

Burning Tower tied Spike, then jogged into the bathhouse. She came out with Regapisk. Two more soldiers came running up. They talked briefly. Then they tore the door off.

“I hope they get it right,” Squirrel said. She started climbing down.

The terror bird rooster wasn't dancing in rage. He was looking about him, studying the war. It made Sandry uneasy. The birds were too many. If the rooster organized a charge, they were doomed.

I
t looked like Sandry was holding the birds. Clever Squirrel walked rather than ran, conserving her breath.

Tower and Regapisk and two soldiers were working on the bathhouse, making good progress. They'd enlarged the bathhouse doorway and were fitting in a much bigger block of petrified wood, part of the floor of the cooling-off area, using the same hinges that had served the little door. That setup wouldn't last the ages, but it didn't have to.

She looked inside. They'd broken a hole in the tuff wall into the chimney beyond. Of course the bathhouse was stone cold, but Squirrel had wanted to see that for herself. And the hole into the chimney looked big enough.

“We're ready,” Squirrel said. “Blazes, take the statuette and go.” Burning Tower jogged into the bathhouse and came out with the stone bird. “Regapisk, stay. We need you to bar the door. Lurk, put that inside. The rest of you, back to battle. From here on, it's just us.”

 

Spike surged uphill like nothing on Earth could stop him. Burning Tower clutched the petrified wood bird hard against her ribs.

A thousand terror birds were running toward her. That number never seemed to decrease! Tower guided Spike up toward the rim—and there, that was the rooster, and now he was in the lead.

Tower turned Spike and fled.

She took a moment to wonder how she would protect Spike. The new, bigger door would admit a one-horn—but then he'd be trapped inside with a terror bird! No, she'd just have to jump off the bonehead and count on the statuette to keep the rooster distracted.

The birds flooded toward her, but, drawn from hundreds of miles around to fight in battle, they were tired. Warriors hacked at the dawdlers, hurled arrows and spears. The rooster was far in the lead.

 

Clever Squirrel waited in the doorway. Doubts riddled her, but she shrugged them off. There was nothing left to do. And here came Spike and Burning Tower. It was far too late to change plans.

She was counting on walls of depleted petrified wood to shield the interior against magic. Putting the bird statuette inside had worked well enough: its influence cut off, the hens had danced in confusion, and the rooster had come closer to take command.

So. Regapisk was on the bathhouse roof, possibly safe, possibly not. Tower jumped off Spike, shouted at the bonehead, and ran for the bathhouse. Spike kept moving. The rooster ran after him.

Tower dashed inside, came back to stand in the doorway. She screamed at the rooster, waving the statuette. The rooster thought it over, then charged the bathhouse.

“Remember, you first,” Squirrel shouted.

Tower nodded. As the bird came up, she ran into the bathhouse. She dropped the stone bird. The hole in the foamed rock wall was just big enough. She scrambled into it, through ankle-deep ash, up the chimney and out. Squirrel followed her through the hole and stopped there.

The bird hadn't stopped to kill Spike or Regapisk. It shouldered through the enlarged doorway and stopped suddenly in the sweat room. Squirrel heard the big new door slammed shut and barred from outside.

Regapisk had better be back on the roof, before a thousand more birds arrived…and here they were now. Squirrel could hear them thumping against the thick stonewood walls.

Squirrel began to chant.

There was no magic in her words, other than that she was speaking a tongue the gods understood. Magic wouldn't work here anyway. She was taunting the god, hoping to drive him to blind rage.

The bird's response was a beak thrust into the chimney. Squirrel leaped up, caught herself, and kept climbing. Up and out of the chimney, with a bird's beak below her smashing big chips out of a stonewood wall. And Regapisk to lift her free.

Regapisk asked, “What's happening?”

Squirrel said, “It's the god's decision now.”

Regapisk looked blank.

Poor Regapisk, always out of the loop. Squirrel said, “The god is riding the terror bird rooster. The rooster is in the box. It can't even call for help; see how the birds are milling around? No magic gets in or out. When the walls have absorbed enough manna, the god goes myth.”

“He doesn't need to call,” Regapisk said. He pointed to a distant figure. Thundercloud, resplendent in his robes of office, surrounded by a host of apprentices, was running toward the bathhouse door.

“H
e'll break the door down,” Squirrel shouted. “Stop him.”

“How?” Regapisk demanded. “You stop him.”

Squirrel sang. Little happened.

“What are you doing?”

“It's a slowing spell, but it's not working,” Squirrel said.

“I knew it would come to this,” Regapisk said. He leaped down off the roof to stand in front of the door. He fingered the salamander brooch. “Tell Aunt Shanda.”

Squirrel looked around for help. “Tower! Get Sandry! Get Arshur! Bring help!”

Burning Tower whistled, twice, and Spike jumped over a bird he had been fighting and ran to stand next to the roof. Tower leaped on his back, and they galloped toward the guard tower.

 

Sandry could see the roof of the bathhouse but not the door. Something was happening there. And now Burning Tower was riding Spike, coming toward him. She needed help.

He signaled to Younglord Whane down on the road below the rim, his arm circling over his head then pointing down to the base of the guard tower:
Come here with my chariot. Now.

Whane waved and leaped into the chariot.
Good driving,
Sandry thought, as Whane wove between two squabbling birds. Squabbling. The birds were fighting each other as well as humans. They weren't working together at all.

A flash of lightning from near the bathhouse. He caught a glimpse of green and gold robes, a high headdress, a flashing arrow followed by lightning. Thundercloud was coming. Thundercloud the traitor.

“My Lord!” Whane was shouting from below the tower. He looked pleased with himself.

Sandry came down the ladder too fast, knocked his breath out landing, and climbed painfully into the chariot. “To the bathhouse,” he wheezed.

“Sir?”

“Follow the lightning. Ride to the lightning.”

“Sir!”

The chariot wheeled. Here in the compound, the ground was clear enough, nothing for the horses to stumble on. Tower was coming, though, and the horses reared to avoid Spike.

“Sandry,” she shouted. “Squirrel needs you! Over here!”

“I saw.” He was getting his breath back. He took his bow, already strung, from the bow case and selected a stout bone-shafted arrow. A flight arrow, for range.

The chariot clattered between the low buildings of the compound, past the common bathhouses, toward the rose garden. Lightning flashed among the roses, then there were flashes of green and ruby red.
Hummingbirds,
Sandry thought.
Afraid of the lightning.

Lightning. From where? And it was pouring rain now, rain in bucketsful. The bow string wouldn't last long in this.

Another lightning flash, this time just next to them. The horses reared from the thunderclap. “There!” Whane shouted.

Master Thundercloud, splendid in his robes of office, running toward the bathhouse.

“Stop him!” Squirrel was screaming from the roof.

Burning Tower shouted, and Spike dashed forward and stopped as if he'd hit a wall. The beast screamed in agony. One of Thundercloud's apprentices was holding up a sigil, and whatever it was, it was more than Spike could bear. The one-horn screamed again, an eerie sound in the driving rain.

Thundercloud ran toward the bathhouse door, bow in hand. Whane whipped the horses forward, but they were confused by the thunder.
We're too far,
Sandry thought.
We'll never stop him….

And Regapisk dashed out, sword raised. He waved it in Thundercloud's face, struck at him clumsily, missed. Another flare of lightning and Regapisk was down. Thundercloud raised his arms in triumph, nocked another arrow.

Sandry's arrow was already in place. He drew the arrow to his ear, held steady, released…

Thundercloud screamed in pain and outrage. He turned toward Sandry and shouted curses. A wave of pain ran through Sandry's head and body. Another wave of pain in his arm. His arm was heavy, too heavy to hold the bow.

“You can bear it.” His mother's voice, speaking in his ear. His mother? Or Squirrel, who was singing in a language Sandry did not know but was at the edge of his understanding, soothing, easing the pains. He gestured for Whane to turn away from Thundercloud, turn away, turn away…

“Away?”

“Go! Now!”

“Sir!” The chariot wheeled. An arrow fell behind them and the horses reared again from the thunder, leaped forward.

“Now stop. Turn,” Sandry said quietly.

“Aye.”

His arms ached, and Squirrel's song was softer, but he could lift his left arm. Another arrow, bone-shafted, a flint arrowhead, gull feathers. Sandry noted every detail of the arrow as he drew it. Thundercloud laughed and turned away contemptuously, nocked an arrow to fire at the door of the bathhouse.

Slow. Aim. Smooth release. The arrow took forever to fly. It struck Thundercloud in the back. The priest screamed and dropped his bow. Lightning struck, knocking Thundercloud and two apprentices to the ground. Another apprentice turned to run, but now Spike was free of whatever had held him. He ran forward to batter the boy to the ground, and danced on him with sharp hooves.

Whane had already started forward when Sandry's arrow struck. “Drive!” Sandry shouted. Thundercloud was thrashing on the ground, trying to rise. Spike turned toward the priest, but the apprentice with the sigil managed to get to his feet, and Spike was driven away. Thundercloud shouted another curse. Sandry felt his strength begin to drain. “Drive!”

“You can bear it.”

But I can't. I can't stand up—there's no strength in my legs
. His mother's voice was blended with Squirrel's wordless song: “You can bear it.”

Thundercloud was shouting. Squirrel's song rang out above the shouts. Whane was urging the horses forward. Sandry struggled to find the strength to raise his bow. They were close enough now to hear the frantic shrieks from inside the bathhouse, furious pounding on the doors as the rooster god tried to batter his way out.

Thundercloud struggled to get to his feet. Blood poured from wounds in his shoulder and back. “I come, I come.”

“No. You will not.” Tower stood in his path. She raised her war hammer. Sandry felt a rush as his strength returned, and now it was Tower who fell helpless to the ground.

“Enough,” Sandry said. He leaped off the chariot and seized Thundercloud's arms. “Whane.”

Whane was already there. They held the priest's arms behind him. Whane stuffed something into the priest's mouth so that he couldn't talk. Sandry felt the priest's struggles dying away.

The clatter inside the bathhouse stopped. There was a long and ominous silence.

“The birds have stopped attacking,” Whane said quietly. “They're milling around.”

“And running away.” Clever Squirrel had come down from the roof. “Blazes, you all right?”

“Yes,” Tower said weakly. “Whew. What was that?”

“It will pass,” Squirrel said. She listened. “Quiet in there.”

“What does that mean?” Sandry asked. He held Thundercloud tightly, but the priest had ceased to struggle.

“I think the god is myth,” Squirrel said.

Thundercloud spit out the ball of waste that choked him. “He cannot be dead,” he shouted. “He cannot die. But—”

“But what?” Squirrel demanded. She put her hand on Thundercloud's forehead. “What?”

“Did you not dream it?”

Squirrel looked puzzled. “I dreamed of a transformation, of a god made small and angry.” Suddenly she stood straight and laughed hysterically.

As she did, a hummingbird rose out of the chimney.

It flew straight at Clever Squirrel's face, then veered off as if abruptly realizing how
big
she was. It circled once, and then buzzed off toward the garden.

“Left-Handed Hummingbird,” Squirrel said. “Now I know what that means.”

“Is it over?” Regapisk struggled to sit up. He was favoring his right arm. Something wrong there, the shape…

“It's over,” Squirrel said.

“Welcome back, Cousin,” Sandry said.