The Pleasure of Memory (71 page)

Maeryc suddenly twisted around onto his hands and knees. He was screeching incoherently as he pawed through the grass for his sword.

Mawby moved in before him and again raised his sword. “I’m sorry, Maeryc,” he whispered.

Maeryc suddenly went silent. He froze for just an instant, and then pushed himself upright onto his knees. He seemed to be looking up at Mawby. “No,” he whispered, “You can’t do that. You can’t…you can’t do that!”

Mawby readjusted the grip on his sword. His palms were sweating. He wasn’t sure what to do. He wondered if Maeryc were fighting past the demon’s hold again. Maybe he was on the cusp of breaking free.

“It isn’t right!” Maeryc screamed.

Mawby’s sword drifted lower. “Then come with me, Maeryc,” he urged, “Please! Just—”

“It isn’t fair! I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. You can’t do this!”

As he watched Maeryc raving in the grass, Mawby suddenly understood. Maeryc wasn’t speaking to him at all. The hack’s attention was on the sky behind him.

Mawby turned. A flock of black birds was rolling down toward them like a living plume of smoke. He thought for just a second that it was the fever bringing him hallucinations, but then the terrible reality of it exploded through his mind. These weren’t birds at all. They were prodes!

“No!” Maeryc shrieked behind him, “No, goddamn you! No!”

Mawby staggered back through the grass, moving quickly back behind Maeryc. There were too many of them coming down too fast! They were only a hundred yards out. There was no time to get away. He was a dead man! They were both dead!

Then he remembered the vial. He had to get the vial.

He dropped his sword and dug desperately into the neck of his shirt, but it was too tight against his bandages. He clawed at the thin leather cord. The cord snapped and the vial flipped free. It landed in the grass before he could catch it. Mawby dropped to his hands and knees. The prodes were screeching above him. The sound of their leathery wings sounded like muted thunder.

He ripped at the long grass. When his fingers finally uncovered the tiny glass ampoule, he held his breath and broke the glass tube toward his chest. Pearly fluid spattered his shirt.

The prodes eclipsed the sun. Mawby grabbed his sword and climbed back to his feet. Maeryc was standing in the grass several feet before him with his wretched face turned up toward the descending death. The prodes were nearly on him, but before they could strike, he turned his glowing red eye toward Mawby and said calmly, “Don’t tell her, Maw! Don’t tell Koo I died this way. Tell her I—”

The line of prodes pounded into Maeryc like a heavenly sword. A few of them hit the ground so hard they flopped around in the throes of death, necks and wings broken on impact. The rest blanketed Maeryc under a frenzy of black quills, screeching and tearing at his flesh as if they were one vile creature with a dozen mouths.

Two prodes abruptly broke off from the rest and flew several yards straight up into the air. Then they turned on Mawby and came at him.

Mawby stumbled backward through the grass with his sword held out in defiance of the attack, but the creatures stopped a yard short of him. They didn’t advance. They just hung there, thrumming the air with their membranous wings, their black talons clicking at the space between them. Black as midnight, hey were the size of eagles, but appeared more brethren to bats. Long, black bills filled with hundreds of needle-like black teeth snapped and hissed at him. Nearly covered in fine, oily hair, their backs were a wild brush of long black quills that glistened wet in the sunlight. Their quills flared with each screech.

When they finally broke away from him, Mawby collapsed into the grass, falling hard to his side. Pain seared his chest and back. He could feel the heat of fresh blood under his shirt. His wound had ripped open again, worse now, he was sure of it. The pain was making him dizzy. He wanted more than anything in the heavens or hells to just lie back in the grass and succumb to his agony.

But he couldn’t quit. He had to get the Blood Caeyl.

He somehow managed to force himself back to his knees. Maeryc was now completely obscured beneath a screeching frenzy of boiling wings and quills and ripping beaks. At first, Mawby thought they were feeding on him, but then quickly realized the truth. They were trying to carry him!

The black mob of flailing wings began to rise, collectively lifting Maeryc’s body into the air. Three lifeless black blotches remained behind in the grass, victims of their own enthusiasm for the kill. The screeching chaos of black wings lifted Maeryc several feet, but then stalled.

One of the prodes suddenly flipped free. Mawby barely rolled away in time to avoid it as it bounced to a stop in the space he’d just evacuated, a shapeless mat of oily quills.

He looked back in time to see Maeryc’s body hit the ground where the creatures dropped him. A few of the prodes drove back into him and resumed their attempts to lift him, while the others swirled the air above him like oily smoke. Another of the circling prodes suddenly flipped off from the collective. It hit the grass hard several yards later and flopped about wildly. The remaining prodes spiraled upward in cyclonic formation. When they were fifty feet above him, they turned and flew off into the plains as one.

Mawby looked back at Maeryc and tried to breathe.

Three prodes were still upon him. The largest of them crawled up Maeryc’s body. When it reached the hack’s chest, it paused, turning its head one way and then the other as if studying the dead warrior. Then it stabbed its long beak into Maeryc’s face.

The sound of the prode ripping at Maeryc’s flesh was nearly more than Mawby could bear. He slapped a hand to his mouth and willed back a sudden rush of nausea. Then the large prode stopped and turned toward Mawby. In the tip of its blood-covered beak, it held a brilliant red spark. The Blood Caeyl!

The prodes exploded skyward. In a last hopeless gesture, Mawby heaved his sword at them, but the weapon only flipped uselessly away into the grass. The two groups of prodes pulled together as they ascended. Within seconds, they’d regrouped into the form of one massive bird, a smaller version of the vulture he’d seen earlier. There had been no vulture at all.

As he watched the re-formed mass lift skyward, despair poured over him. Everything was lost. Everything he knew and loved was gone. His failure and loss felt as physical as the wound on his chest or the burns on his face.

He couldn’t breathe. The world was spinning sickeningly. He dropped hard to his knees in the trampled grass. One of the dead prodes moldered in the grass beside him with a ridiculously long arrow spiked cleanly through its breast. The sight sent him laughing.

Baeldons.

It was like the final line that punctuates a bad joke. Baeldons were in the area. Baeldons were near enough to kill an airborne prode with an arrow.

A hot wave of fatigue swept over him. The grass blurred into a swirling tapestry of green that rolled past him in slow, dulled motion. He landed on his side with the sweet smell of dirt in his nose and the coarse fieldgrass beneath his cheek. He closed his eyes. The world of sight and sound and smell faded gracefully into shadows, and he knew that at long last, he was dying, and he’d never been more grateful for anything in his life.

XXXVI

THE RUNNER

ENZIL KEPT A WARY EYE ON THE VULTURE AS HE MOVED UP THE HILL BEHIND THE SECOND SAVAGE.

The more he studied the huge bird, the more convinced he became that it wasn’t what it appeared to be. It was descending too rapidly, spiraling downward in a way he’d never seen any raptor do before, especially one of such size. It was diving for the first Vaemyn at the top of the hill, he was sure of it. Then, when the giant bird was within a hundred yards of the warrior, it exploded.

Wenzil reined his horse to a hard stop. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The vulture simply came apart, spraying its bits in every direction. He listened for the delayed punctuation of cannon shot, but none came. Then, as quickly as it’d disintegrated, the drifting specks of vulture began pulling back together.

“Khe’naeg’s balls!” he whispered.

Most of the black spots coalesced back into a smaller version of the vulture and coursed out over the plains, but the other parts continued descending. They pulled together like a swarm of bees and spiraled toward the earth, diving down toward the first savage like a spear.

Old stories forced their way through his shock, stories of black, bat-like creatures with leathery wings, creatures covered with quills so poisonous that just one prick brought on a slow, convulsing death. It was said that they’d been hunted to extinction centuries ago.

“Prodes,” he whispered, “How is it possible?”

He didn’t know what to do. Should he approach or stay back? Scanning the vast plains surrounding him, he knew there was no point in running. There was no place to run to, and his movement would only bring attention to himself. He glanced back at Belfry Hill towering above him. There was always the tree. He thought about Hector and said a quick prayer that his friend knew the phenomenon for what it was, that he’d get his ass out of there while he could.

The black column streamed violently down toward the savage on the hilltop. They descended in silence broken only by the whip of their wings against the air. Wenzil watched in horror as the column of prodes struck the hilltop without even slowing down. They drove into the Vaemyn like a spear sent by Calina herself, knocking him mercilessly into the grass. The savage probably didn’t even know what hit him.

Wenzil kicked his horse into a lope and climbed cautiously up the hillside. He soon spied the head and shoulders of the other Vaemyn. He was up near where the other had been attacked. He just stood there watching something in the grass, most likely his fallen brethren. Wenzil cautiously eased his mount nearer. He was close enough now to see the flurry of black writhing in the grass ahead like a pit of boiling tar. He reined his horse to a stop. It was a feeding frenzy of black wings and quills and ungodly shrieks. The wings were whipping frantically in a horrible mass. They were trying to lift the body of the first Vaemyn.

A tide of panic rushed over him. He had to get the hells out of there. He had to warn Hector. They had to get away from there before they aroused the creatures’ attention. He was attempting to negotiate his horse into a lateral run around the hill when it all went south. A prode flipped away from the rest, driven by the force of an arrow. Hector’s arrow!

“Hector, no!” Wenzil yelled, “What are you doing?”

He had to stop the attack. He had to warn Hector before he agitated the beasts further. He prodded his horse into a risky gallop straight down the hill. The long grass whipped harshly at his legs, but the pain only fueled his drive. He glanced back up the hill in time to see the prodes drop the body. Then they were swirling heavenward like smoke from a funeral pyre. A second beast knocked away from the mob, another victim of Hector’s arrows.

“My gods, Hector!” Wenzil yelled, as he pushed his horse harder, “Stop!”

The prodes split off into two groups. Three or four of them were racing hell-bent down the other side of the hill toward Hector. The rest were coming for him.

Wenzil dug his heels into the horse’s flank. Time shrank away as his mind ascended into a tactical state. He fervently clicked off his options. They couldn’t outrun the prodes. He had to make for the tree up on that next hill and take a defensive stand, though it was unlikely he could make that distance in time to avoid talons in his back. Or worse, the quills!

He stood in the stirrups, moving with the rhythm of the horse’s flight as it galloped across the uneven plains. He pulled his bow under his shoulder and dragged an arrow from his back. He glanced back over his shoulder. The prodes were a hundred yards behind him and coming fast, but still too far out for him to make an accurate shot. He didn’t dare waste the arrow.

He leaned lower on the horse’s withers. They were already over halfway up the ascent to the tree atop Belfry Hill, but it was a long and cumbersome climb. He knew the horse would slow under its fatigue long before it made the top tree. He risked another look back at the prodes. Fifty yards back now.

He looked over across the roll of the hill and spied Hector. He was just a few hundred yards off to the right, though lower on the hill. He rode backward in his saddle, flinging arrows at the pursuing prodes. The man was a marvel. He was the single best rider and shot Wenzil had ever known, gifted to the point of supernatural ability. As he watched, one of the prodes chasing his friend stopped as suddenly as if it’d hit an invisible wall, a victim of Hector’s godlike skills.

Wenzil twisted back toward his own prodes. They were less than a hundred feet back now. He spanned the bow and took aim, holding his breath as he accommodated the rhythm of the horse. The arrow streaked away but missed its mark by a yard or more.

He yelled out a curse as he dragged another arrow free. He was nearly three quarters of the way up the hill, but his horse was slowing at a terrifying rate. When he glanced back again, there were only two prodes following him. He quickly scanned the surrounding sky but didn’t see the missing third, not that it mattered overmuch. Two prodes were no less dangerous than three.

He took aim at the nearest prode, but before he could release his arrow, something knocked the creature hard off its course. As it flipped away into the tall grass, he spied the unique red feathers of Hector’s arrow.

Wenzil looked over at his companion who was now riding sidelong over the hillside toward him. The idiot was shooting at these prodes while neglecting his own. Hec was protecting him at his own peril.

Wenzil cursed again. Then he twisted around in his saddle and fired another arrow at his final pursuer. The beast deftly evaded it, though it bought him some distance. As he drew another arrow, he glanced again at Hector. His friend still had two prodes flying hard on his tail, but he either didn’t see them or didn’t care. He fired another arrow at the last prode chasing Wenzil. Hector’s arrow arced across the grass toward Wenzil’s prode. An instant later, the prode tumbled away.