He twisted in time to meet the leering eyes of a second pelgrane. The hook of a black wing slammed his head, and the world went dim. He did not entirely lose consciousness. He was aware but unable to resist as he felt himself seized and borne aloft. The cold wind on his face revived him. He heard the rusty creak of the pelgrane’s wings, he saw the woods and the river far below, his last sight of the world. Presently his captor would let him fall upon some rocky outcropping, and then devour him at leisure.
The pelgrane did not drop him. On it flew along the Derna, until the bluffs heightened and steepened, and the vegetation clothing their rock dwindled. The bare shelves and ledges were dotted with massive nests of wood, river reed, and bone, cemented with clay. Toward one such spiky haven, Farnol was borne, and deposited on the shelf beside it. Over his protests, his captor deftly stripped the garments from his body, then tossed him into the nest. He shared the space with three hideous infant pelgrane, all of them asleep. At once, he attempted to climb out, and the powerful thrust of a great hatchet beak propelled him backward.
“Stay.” The pelgrane’s voice, while deep and harsh, was recognizably female.
“Madam, do your worst. I defy you.”
“Ah, the meat is well spiced.” She cocked her misshapen head. “Just as I would have it.”
“Allow me to depart unharmed, else I visit destruction upon your young.”
“Excellent. I encourage you to try.” The pelgrane uttered a distinctive croak, and her repulsive progeny awoke.
Three sets of leathern wings unfurled. Three pairs of reddish eyes opened to fasten upon Farnol of Karzh.
“Observe, my little ones,” the mother instructed. “I have brought you a specimen upon which to sharpen your skills. This creature is known as a man. Repeat after me. Man.”
“Man,” the nestlings squeaked in unison.
“Do not be lulled into carelessness by the comical appearance. These bipeds display a certain low cunning, and some of them possess magic. Now, then. Who will show us how to bring him down?”
“I! I! I!” offered the nestlings.
“You, then.” The mother gestured.
Wings spread eagerly wide, the designated infant hurled itself across the nest, half hopping, half gliding. Farnol deflected the attack with a blow of his fist. The pelgrane bounced off the wall and hit the floor, to the tootling merriment of its siblings and the full-bellied mirth of its dam.
“Can you do better?” Another winged gesture.
A second juvenile launched itself at Farnol’s legs. He kicked it aside, and fresh guffaws arose around him. A third flapping attempt was similarly thwarted.
“Children, I am saddened,” the mother pelgrane observed with patent untruth, for she still shook with laughter. “Your predatory performance leaves much to be desired. Now, attend. It is always best to take the prey unawares, but when that is impossible, you must take care to seek the points of vulnerability.” Perching herself upon the edge of the nest, she leaned forward to point a precise wing tip. “Here—the neck. Here—the belly. The groin. And finally, never underestimate the utility of the knees, when approached from the rear. Thus and so.” Her powerful wing smote the specified joints, buckling Farnol’s legs. A shrewdly angled shove toppled him onto his back.
At once, the three nestlings were upon him, their combined weight pinning him to the floor, their abominable odor foul in his nostrils. In vain he struggled to dislodge them. Their baby fangs scored his limbs, and he felt the wet warmth of blood. Little squeals of joy escaped the infant pelgrane.
Farnol’s desperate eyes sought out the mother, who sat watching with an air of serene domestic contentment. “A warning, madam!” he exclaimed. “Know that I have swallowed a potent bane, no doubt deadly to your kind as it is to my own. Would you allow your offspring to gorge upon poisonous provender? Think well!”
“Indeed. I think that I have never before heard this particular tale, and be certain that I have heard many. How gratifying to discover this old world offering fresh experience. You are correct, however, in noting the children’s need of guidance.” She raised her rasping voice. “Little ones, desist! Do not consume the man before you have had full use of him. Further practice is indicated. Desist, I say.”
A protesting din arose. Oh, Mother, the savor! The maternal pelgrane remained obdurate, and the three nestlings withdrew, grumbling. The weight pressing Farnol’s body vanished. His breath eased, and he sat up slowly. His flesh was crisscrossed with scratches and blotched with punctures. Fire licked his vitals, and fear chilled his mind.
“Again,” said Mother.
This time, the three of them worked together, launching themselves simultaneously at his face, his abdomen, and the back of his neck. He beat them off at the cost of much effort and considerable blood, then slumped against the wall, exhausted. When the energetic youngsters launched a renewed, well-coordinated attack seconds later, they pulled him down with ease, and would surely have devoured him then and there, but for their mother’s intervention.
“Not yet, children,” she admonished. “But it should not be long. Your progress is noteworthy, and you have made your mother proud!”
Night fell, and the nestlings composed themselves for slumber, huddled in a malodorous heap. Mother seemed likewise to sleep, but evidently retained some awareness. Three times during the course of the night, Farnol attempted to climb from the nest, and each time she roused herself to forestall him. At last, he fell into a miserable, fitful slumber, filled with dreams of inner fire. He woke at dawn to find that his dreams reflected reality. The heat had spread from his midsection to scorch its way along his limbs.
The pelgrane were awake, infants bouncing, mother flexing her great wings.
“I go forth to forage,” she informed her brood. “Today, it is easy. There is still plenty of meat left on your good father.”
“Meat! Meat! Meat!” the gleeful infants shrieked.
“What—you feed upon the flesh of your own family?” asked Farnol, startled into speech.
“It would be a pity to let it go to waste. What, shall I demonstrate ingratitude, even incivility, in refusing the most beautiful sacrifice that any male can offer on behalf of his mate and his children?”
“And this beautiful sacrifice—was it altogether voluntary in nature?”
“Such a query can only be regarded as unseemly.” Mother reproved. Her attention returned to her young. “For now, I leave you alone with the—what, sweet ones?”
“MAN!” chorused the nestlings.
“Just so. You may play with him, but take care, for he is not readily replaced. When I return, I expect to find the—”
“MAN!”
“Alive and free of major damage. Otherwise, I shall be cross.” So saying, she launched herself into the air and flapped away, wings creaking.
No sooner was she out of sight than Farnol commenced climbing the nest wall. When one of the juveniles seized his ankle, he kicked the creature aside and hoisted himself to the rim, whence he caught sight of his belongings—garments, pouch, sword and scabbard—scattered about the ledge. As he swung one leg over the edge, the three small pelgrane set upon him. Their skills and coordination were improving by the hour. Farnol resisted with vigor, but they swiftly dragged him back, threw him down, and seated themselves respectively upon his chest, his stomach, and his thighs.
One of them took a small nip out of his shoulder, swallowed, and squeaked in pleasure. Another bit a similar morsel out of his leg.
“Enough, pernicious vermin!” Farnol cried out in desperation. “Devour me at your own peril—my flesh is toxic.”
“Pah, we are not afraid!”
“We are pelgrane, we can digest anything!”
“You will see!” The speaker tore a small shred of skin from his back.
“Your mother will be cross,” Farnol essayed between gasps of pain.
This consideration gave the infants pause. A doubtful colloquy ensued, at the close of which, the largest o
f them decreed, “Play now, eat later. The Man will run to and fro, and we shall bring him down.”
“Play, play!”
The nestlings hopped from Farnol’s body. He lay motionless.
“Come, get up and run about!” they exhorted.
“No.” He did not stir. “The three of you will only knock me down again.”
“Yes, that is what we intend. Come, play!”
“I will not. Shall I tell you the reason? Your game is too easy, fit only for feeble babes. It presents no challenge to fine, well-grown youngsters such as yourselves. Would you like to play a game demanding of skill, a game worthy of future hunters? One of the most prized accomplishments of the adult pelgrane resides in his ability to drop rocks, clods, bricks, and the like upon his quarry from above, stunning the prey at a distance and thus facilitating capture. It requires a keen eye, a steady talon, coolness, and precision. I wonder if you three are ready?”
“Ready, ready, READY!”
“Very well, then. You will drop or fling objects, while I seek to evade. The items must be light in weight, however, lest I be crushed, and your lady mother correspondingly vexed. I noted a number of suitable items lying scattered about the ledge, outside of the nest.”
“We shall secure them—make ready to commence fruitless evasive action!”
The infants were capable of brief, low flight. They flapped and glided from nest to ledge with ease. For some moments, Farnol heard their voices racketing on the other side of the wall, and then they were back, clutching assorted objects; a stone, one of his shoes, his pouch. Briefly they swooped overhead, then simultaneously released their burdens. He took particular care to dodge the stone. The shoe grazed his shoulder in falling, and the pouch hit his head squarely.
“I win, I win!” One of the nestlings squalled in triumph.
“I shall win next time!”
“No, I!”
They vanished, and reappeared moments later. Two rocks and his other shoe rained down upon him. He evaded all. Clods of comparatively soft mud followed, and now he judged it wise to let them hit. Mud spattered his shoulders, face, and hair. High-pitched squawks of victory resounded.
“I concede.” Farnol lifted both hands in good-humored defeat. “Had they been rocks, I must have succumbed. You have demonstrated your prowess.” Retrieving his pouch, he opened it and found Tcheruke the Vivisectionist’s vial of Stolen Repose intact. He pulled the cork and applied the oily contents to his naked body.
“What do you do?” The juveniles, perched on the rim of the nest, watched bright-eyed.
“I prepare a new game. I shall run to and fro, you will try to take me down. But it will not be so easy, this time. Observe, I anoint my flesh with an oleaginous substance, allowing me to slide from your grasp as terces slip through the fingers of a profligate. You will not hold me.”
“Yes we will, yes we will!”
“Prove it.”
They flung themselves at him. Farnol jigged and dodged with vigor, eluding them for a time, but presently found himself prone, the nestlings perched on his back.
“We have won again!” A razor nip underscored the announcement.
Four or five nips followed, and a happy gabble arose among the pelgrane.
“The meat is sweet!”
“The new sauce is to my liking!”
“The sauce is tasty and delicious!”
He felt their avid tongues upon him; another bite or two, and then the animated voices slowed and slurred as the Stolen Repose took effect. The nestlings fell silent. One by one, they slumped to the floor and slept.
Farnol stood up, mind racing. He tossed his shoes and pouch from nest. Turning to the nearest infant, he stooped, strained, and succeeded in slinging the limp creature over his shoulder. Thus encumbered, he climbed the nest wall, tumbled the pelgrane out onto the rocky shelf, and jumped down, landing safely. His belongings still littered the shelf. Locating his sword, he drew the blade, and, with a sense of simple satisfaction, sliced off the slumbering infant’s head.
The skull had not yet acquired the firmness of maturity. A few blows of a rock sufficed to smash it open. Investigation of the wreckage proved distasteful, but rewarding. At the base of the brain he discovered the headstone that he sought; an object no larger than a pea, hard as a pebble, pied blue and ocher, dusted with wandering motes of black glow. He wiped the headstone clean and placed it in his pouch, then dressed himself with all haste, for instinct warned him that Mother’s return was imminent.
Quitting the ledge, he hurried away across the stony slopes, making for the shelter of the High Boscage. He took great care to skirt the numerous nests dotting the region, and as he went, he frequently looked to the sky. The thickets appeared immeasurably distant. Centuries seemed to elapse before he slipped into the welcoming gloom beneath the aged trees. From that shaded refuge, he cast another glance skyward, and now spied a winged form swooping low over the nest on the ledge.
Mother had come home to her abbreviated brood.
She alighted. Some moments of silence ensued. Then a scream rang forth, perhaps the most terrible cry ever to echo among those bluffs; an elemental blast of grief and ultimate rage. Farnol of Karzh cringed at the sound. Without conscious thought, he pressed the Chameleon Mask to his face, froze into immobility, and blended with his surroundings.
The scream resounded far and wide, carrying passionate promises along the River Derna. Its last reverberations died away, and its author took to the air, sailing in widening circles characteristic of a methodical hunt.
For some moments, Farnol stood petrified. Eventually, a sense of purpose heightened by inner heat set him in motion again. He looked up into an empty purpling sky. For now, Mother was nowhere in evidence. He removed the mask. Its tingle was maddening and its benefits belonged solely to a stationary wearer. He walked on beneath the concealing boughs.
The forest was quiet and dim, the path clear and firm, but his way was far from easy. Internal disruptions had become impossible to ignore. The toxic heat burned along every nerve, insolently proclaiming its own advance. It worsened by the day, in accordance with Uncle Dhruzen’s predictions.
Some distraction from poisonous progress was furnished by hunger, for the provisions donated by Tcheruke the Vivisectionist had been lost, and the High Boscage offered little refreshment. More compelling yet was the distraction afforded by the dark figure periodically glimpsed patrolling the skies overhead. The broad wings, globular abdomen, and hatchet profile were unmistakable. Mother continued the hunt.
He pushed on at his best speed across a stretch of woodland entirely unfamiliar; he must have been carried high above it upon the occasion of his previous passage. Here, the tree trunks were curved like bows and crowned with tufts of long, transparent, membranous leaves. Rich growths of black renullta blanketed the ground, nourished by the tears of the Puling Jinnarool. The branches of the Puling Jinnarool supported a population of iridescent, large-headed insects with the sweet voices of grieving women. The air trembled with whispering plaints and reproaches.
Driven by hunger, Farnol plucked an insect from a branch and examined it closely. The creature possessed an exaggerated hammer head graced with feathery antennae, bulging purple eyes, and a meager tripartite body sheathed in chitin. Its appearance was not appetizing, but his need was great.
As if it divined his intent, the captive insect lifted its melodious voice in mournfully unintelligible plea. Its companions took up the cry, and a sorrowing, faintly accusing chorus arose, accompanied by a vast, urgent fluttering of countless wings. The trees and bushes quivered. The tiny voices harmonized. The uproar drew the attention of a dark figure wheeling above upon outstretched wing.
A rush of displaced air, a swift shadow, and Mother descended. There was time only to grab for the Chameleon Mask, to clap it across his face, and then she was there.
Farnol lay motionless under the trees. The ground was wet and black beneath him, springy with renullta and glinting with fallen leave
s. Presumably, his own form appeared equally black, springy, and glinting. Before him, Mother paced the grove, long head turning from side to side, red eyes stabbing everywhere. He dared not gaze directly upon her lest she sense the pressure of his regard, and therefore kept his eyes low, watching her feet pass back and forth. Her burning glances discovered nothing, and the fervent vociferation of the insects was evidently incomprehensible. Thrice, she paused to sort odors, but the fragrance of the Puling Jinnarool masked all, and she clashed her fangs in frustration. A bitter hoot escaped her, and she took wing.
Farnol lay still for some minutes following her departure. When he judged the sky thoroughly clear, he rose and went his way. As he walked, he scanned the sky, and for an hour or more spied nothing untoward. Then she was back, skimming low over the trees, so close that he caught the wink of a jeweled ornament upon her crest; so close that she might easily have glimpsed motion. Perhaps she had done so, for she glided in tightening loops above his hiding place, passing close over his head half a dozen times before veering off with a petulant hitch of her wing.
Mother disappeared into the sun, and Farnol’s trek resumed. For hours, he advanced slowly, his progress retarded by hunger, thirst, and internal conflagration. Around midday, he paused to feed upon handfuls of pearly fungi ripped from a fallen tree. Thereafter, the fire in his belly seemed to intensify, perhaps stoked by inedible fare.
An hour later, he reached a gap in the High Boscage; a broad, bare swath of ground, devoid of vegetation, black with the ancient marks of some forgotten disaster. At its center rose a polished dome, its walls a gleaming black touched with the polychrome highlights of a soap bubble. Prudence would ordinarily have dictated discretion. Today, hunger drove him.
A quick glance skyward detected no threat. Stepping forth from the shelter of the trees, Farnol made for the dome at a smart pace. He had not covered more than half the distance before a black form materialized overhead. No time for the mask; Mother had spied him. Down she came like a well-aimed cannonball.
The buffet of a leathern wing slammed him to the ground. Mother alighted beside him.
Songs of the Dying Earth Page 20