Burning Tower

by Larry Niven

  “Defend me?” Arshur demanded. He whirled his great sword and laughed. “Defend me or stand behind me?”

  “If you die, we die,” Sareg said quietly. “I’d rather be killed by a bird than impaled by the Supreme One.”

  “Know how to fight those things?” Arshur demanded.

  “No, Majesty.”

  “Magic? Wizards?” Sandry asked.

  “The Great Mistress is trying to ready them,” Sareg said. “She keeps the Ring of Protection strong, but she says something, or someone, is fighting her.”

  “An enemy wizard?” Ern demanded.

  Sareg shrugged helplessly.

  “Can the Great Mistress blast those things?” Arshur demanded.

  “No, no—that kind of magic belongs to Thundercloud,” Sareg said. “And no one can find Master Thundercloud. Most of his apprentices are missing too. So are many of the rain arrows, and all his robes of office.”

  “What does that mean?” Arshur demanded.

  “I don’t know, Majesty.”

  “Betrayed,” Arshur said positively.

  “So what will the Great Mistress do?” Sandry demanded.

  “She’s casting the spells she knows,” Sareg said. “Sleep and calm and fear and nightmares. And she sings songs to the Protection Stones.”

  “Is that what’s holding those things back?” Sandry asked.

  Sareg shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m not a wizard.”

  “I think the eyes are getting dimmer,” Younglord Whane said.

  Squirrel’s sleep was so deep that Burning Tower feared for her health. She didn’t stir when Tower patted her cheeks, or rubbed her hands, or pulled her hair. Tower lifted her by her ankles and dipped her head in a basin of water.

  Squirrel stirred. Her eyes vacant, she whispered something under her breath. Then, “You’re strong,” she said.

  “You’re little. What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing now. That crazy wizard put me under a spell of sleep.” Squirrel still seemed dazed. “Tower, I went to Avalon to get a spell from Morth. I ever tell you how my grandfather died?”

  “Father did.”

  “He walked into a gold field with Mother and Whandall. Wild magic all around him. All the old failed spells he’d made in the past started coming true. If he’d known how to unravel a spell, Grandfather could have saved himself. I asked Morth how to do that. I expect he’ll want a heavy price some day—”

  “Good, good. Now what do we do about the birds?”

  “What birds?”

  Chapter Eleven

  The King at War

  Lord Regapisk was panting as he ran up from the pit. A dozen and more merchants and wagoneers and guards were strung out behind him, all gasping for breath.

  “Good to see you,” Arshur shouted.

  Arshur stood in a battle line across the access road, imperial guards to either side. He was flanked by the others. Sandry had arrayed every soldier in ranks just below the crater rim. Some had bows. Some carried atlatls and spears. Ern’s boy was just finishing the task of hitching the mules to Regapisk’s chariot. Sandry’s chariot stood ready, but there was no one in it. Regapisk understood. This wasn’t good terrain for chariots. There was no room to maneuver, and the boulder fields on each side of the access road were better than walls. The birds might work around behind Sandry’s roadblock to get to the wagon laager, but it would take them time, and they wouldn’t do it unseen.

  Regapisk hadn’t thought this way in years, not since the nearly forgotten lessons taught by the Peacevoice assigned to his military education. It always came hard to Regapisk, as it was easy for Sandry, and it had never seemed important before.

  Chariots were no use here, but up on the plain above the rim it would be different. Up there was rough too, better ground for mules than horses. It would take a skilled charioteer to keep his chariot upright. And I’m out of practice. Would that be important? There was no way up there now. The birds were gathered tight against the crater rim, clustered just beyond the flashing-eyed statues. Hundreds, Regapisk thought. They’d number several hundred, maybe a thousand, and more coming from far across the plain. There were frantic shouts from the guard tower.

  Sandry was in armor. Whane tightened the last of Sandry’s laces and began struggling into his own. For the first time since they left Crescent City, Regapisk regretted not buying armor, but Arshur wasn’t armored, only wrapped in thick wool leggings and a leather jacket. The merchants weren’t armored either.

  Most of the merchants took up arms and joined the ranks. It didn’t look very safe with them. Regapisk drew his Lord’s Town sword and went to join Arshur.

  “Regapisk,” Sandry said crisply. “I need an object in Clever Squirrel’s possession. Can you find her room?”

  “Sure, the women all bedded down in the same complex. What do you need?”

  “There’s an iron pot this big. In it there’s a statuette of a terror bird in petrified wood. The statue is magic. It attracts terror birds. Get it.”

  “Why not just ask the shaman?”

  Sandry looked at him for a brief moment. There was time, Sandry judged. He said, “Look down. Follow my finger. What do you see?”

  Regapisk looked. “That’s Squirrel and Tower.”

  “They’re halfway up here. I could wait for them to get here, then send one back for the bird statue, but I want it faster than that, and I want them both here. How much more of my time are you going to waste, Reg? You’re the man I can spare best. Get me the stonewood bird.”

  Regapisk ran. It came to him that he should have said something—Sir or Aye, as if Sandry was his superior officer? Or as if the men around him thought he was? Too late. He ran. He noticed that Burning Tower had turned back to the wagon laager. He turned to tell Sandry, shrugged, and ran down the steep path.

  He passed the shaman on the way. “Clever Squirrel!”

  She ignored him. He persisted. “Where’s the statue of the bird? Lord Sandry wants it.”

  “Oh, curse, I should have brought it—”

  “I’ll get it. You go to Sandry.”

  “It’s in my big bag.”

  Regapisk found a bag. He dumped its contents on the sleeping blankets. Something heavy rolled. He picked up an iron pot, tightly bound. He opened it and found a bird of glittering striated stone.

  He picked up the bird and ran.

  Clever Squirrel arrived puffing. Sandry said, “Shaman, I’m glad you’re up. You would have missed all the excitement.”

  “I was ensorcelled. I’ve had dreams!” She was shouting, and heads turned. “I know our enemies now. They’re the priests of Left-Handed Hummingbird, Master Thundercloud among them. They’re trying to stop the trade in magic.”

  “They tell me he can cast terrible war spells,” Sandry said. “I’ve never seen a war spell.”

  “Me either,” Squirrel said. She squinted up at the statues.

  “Worry about war spells when they happen,” Sandry said. “Right now, what we’re fighting is birds. I thought we could use that stonewood bird as a lure. Pull the birds up over the cliff edge, twenty at a time, and shoot them when they’re silhouetted against the sky. How’s it sound?”

  “I’m not a warrior, Lord Sandry. I wonder if the bird needs to be recharged.”

  “Curse!”

  “The manna’s thick as mud here. It should work fine. Sandry, look!”

  One of the statues blazed for a moment, then its glowing eyes grew dark. Sandry watched in horror as the great pillar of heads collapsed into dust. A score and more birds spilled over the crater’s edge like a dark wave. Sandry shouted over their screeching. “Ready! Throw!”

  Terror birds were coming over the rim as Regapisk climbed toward Sandry’s fighting men. A wave of spears and arrows answered them. Birds fell thrashing. Birds behind them came on.

  Regapisk called, “Sandry!”

  Sandry looked around. “Squirrel, take that.” He went back to directing warriors while Clever Squ
irrel climbed down toward Regapisk.

  She took the stone bird from him. “Where’s the pot?”

  “Pot?”

  “The iron pot. We need it for shielding.” Her eyes went big and round. “Without that, the birds will all come at once!”

  Regapisk absorbed that. I wasn’t told, he thought. It’s not my—Instead of speaking he drew his sword and stepped in front of the shaman.

  “Arm! Ready!” Sandry bellowed. He waited until a number of the men had put throwing spears onto their atlatls and stood comfortably. The birds thundered forward. “Throw!” Spears flew straight, not in an arc. Plenty of power. A line of birds screamed, and several fell. Others stumbled over the falling bodies.

  “Arm! Ready!” But the stone bird was pulling them in, sure enough. Some were getting through the hail of spears and arrows. It would be down to swords too soon.

  “Throw! Arm! Ready! Throw! Mouse Warrior, to me!”

  The little man scrambled to his side. Sandry said, “Gather twenty warriors and get them to the Office of Rain. Get all their rain arrows. We need them for ammunition. Kill anyone who tries to stop you. Kill anyone who’s wearing terror bird feathers.”

  Arshur laughed and used the atlatl to launch another spear. One of Sareg’s troopers had laid down his own weapons and was loading for Arshur. Sandry grinned. Every time Arshur launched a spear, a bird fell, and the only thing slowing the blond giant was loading.

  But he’d soon be out of spears. They all would. Spears and arrows, and then it would be swords.

  But there was a barrier ahead now. Dead birds, some still twitching. And up above, Hazel’s magic was channeling the birds, keeping them coming through the narrow gap between two of the ugly statues.

  Fire blazed high on the lip to the left. A pool of fire washed across the protection stones, spilling over the rim and down, but it died as it fell.

  “War spells!” Captain Sareg shouted in Sandry’s ear.

  “Doesn’t look effective.”

  “Someone hit it with a counterspell,” Sareg said. “The Great Mistress. She’s still fighting.”

  “Fighting who?”

  “I hate this!” Sareg shouted. “She’s fighting Master Thundercloud!”

  More birds leaped down the hill. Arshur’s spear impaled the first one, and two others fell over it. As they struggled to get up, something white flashed past Sandry.

  Spike, carrying Burning Tower. The one-horn charged up the hill. It reared high, then brought hooves down on the struggling birds. Tower was carrying a stone axe. Its handle was nearly as long as a spear. She brought the heavy axe head down on a bird to crush its skull.

  “Back!” she shouted. Spike reared again and turned and dashed back down the hill, but he wouldn’t get close to Sandry.

  “Tower!” Sandry shouted.

  Her reply was meaningless, a loud shout of triumph. Arshur took another loaded atlatl from the imperial guardsman and shouted as he hurled the spear. Another bird died.

  He turned for another spear and got a helpless gesture. No more spears. Arshur lifted his oversize sword and charged uphill. Regapisk and Secklers whooped and followed. Two or three birds had gotten ahead of the rest. The three men converged on the leader.

  The flood of birds seemed endless. Sandry had to learn how many were left. He sprinted for the observation tower. A bird saw him and turned toward him, and Arshur wheeled and whacked off both its feet. It came at Sandry anyway, wobbling, thrusting its dagger-tipped wings ahead of it.

  Sandry reached the ladder and climbed. Even over the screeching of terror birds, he could hear Arshur’s laughter.

  From the top of the tower he looked out into a sea of terror birds. The gaudy one, the “rooster,” was just outside the rim, hidden from everyone but Sandry and the imperial lookout—who had shouted himself hoarse and had nothing left to say.

  Sandry could imagine that the rooster was trying to get the other birds into ranks. If he’d brought his bow—no, it was beyond bowshot, even for his compound bow. Did it know how far the Lords’ weapons would shoot? And how?

  Regapisk was fighting a terror bird, sword to beak. They danced. They looked ridiculous and deadly.

  Clever Squirrel lifted the stone bird. The terror bird turned to look, and Regapisk sliced through its thick neck. It fell kicking. He had to dodge the claws.

  An idea struck her. “Regapisk!”

  “Yeah?”

  “Got your breath back?”

  “Sure. Hooff!”

  “Take this. Take the bird into the sweatbath! The one in the rose garden!”

  “Why the—?” Regapisk shook his head. “Close the door on it?”

  “Right!”

  Regapisk took the bird and ran.

  Eleven men and Mouse Warrior climbed uphill with armloads of rain arrows. Sandry watched them approach the imperials. Good thinking: they would be familiar with the weapons.

  The imperials seemed dubious, but some of them began firing into the mob of birds. Lightning sputtered along the tracks of the arrows.

  Burning Tower was riding Spike, and they were in the thick of battle. With magic all around him, Spike was at the peak of his form. Sandry saw Tower ward off a huge stabbing beak as Spike dodged under it and sank his horn deep in feathers and flesh. The bird wrenched loose and ran. Four more converged on it, beaks jabbing.

  Tower looked for another target.

  She was driving Sandry crazy. He was mightily relieved when Clever Squirrel shouted at her, summoned her back. They gestured and shouted. Then both women shouted at some of the warriors, distracting them.

  Burning Tower galloped Spike downhill, away from the battle, toward the sweatbath house. A couple of Sandry’s warriors ran after her, losing ground. Sandry’s impulse was to fume at losing warriors in the midst of battle…but it was too bizarre. It had to be magic, and magic was not Sandry’s business. Meanwhile…

  Where the rain arrows fell, birds were attacking each other.

  The terror bird rooster was on the rim now, dancing in rage, screeching commands at his minion hens. It did no good. Terror birds attacked magic, even when it was a rain arrow embedded in another terror bird. Now the birds outside the crater seemed to slow, losing interest.

  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.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Wizards’ War

  It 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.