“I may be awfully dense, but again, why pick on me?”
“Why, you’re the redbeard! You come of a hard race, have the iron I left out of my laws; must do it in any case, and why not the sooner.” He sang, to the same tune Malacea and Cola had used:
“When the redbeard comes again,
Then shall fairies turn to men.
When he touches the three places
He shall know them by their faces.”
As Oberon chanted the absurd verse, a sense of excitement invaded Barber. Once more he seemed on the edge of something he could not quite grasp, but now it was something splendid and promising as the discovery of a new world. Almost without realizing what he was doing, he stood up and clapped the great wings together behind his back. All the people in the hall gave a shout; Oberon and Titania stood up too, and the King extended his hand: “Go, then, Barber. You are our stay and alliance as iron must cover and protect gold, however precious and desirable the latter be.”
CHAPTER XVII
Go. Yes, but where?
The exaltation lasted till he had reached the castle gate, picked up his sword, and was winging out across the sea of rock through clear moonlight. He had not thought of asking directions, and it occurred to him that it would have done no good to ask. The people of the court would have answered quite honestly that they did not know. It was useless to expect from them precision in any physical or material statement.
Which way?
He had begun by flying round the castle in an Archimedian spiral, ever widening. Beneath, the tumbled rocks gave no sign of life, nothing that might be a guide. Even the distant horizon failed to show that gradation where the mountain country broke down to the craggy moors over which he had sailed the previous evening. For all he knew he might be flying straight back into Yorkshire and an aerial encounter with a Messerschmitt 109. He debated mentally whether a return to his own world under such circumstances would be more or less pleasant than continuing in this madhouse Fairyland, but could reach no decision. He reflected that this would have sent him into something like a panic a week before; now it merely afforded some faint amusement as he sailed along on tireless wings, now and again experimenting with the subtle pleasure of gliding.
It must have taken three or four hours of this kind of flight to bring him to the gorge where he saw the first tree, a scrawny conifer, clinging to the wall of a glen. He circled the place two or three times, taking bearings, before sweeping on around the now-wide circuit. Nothing but rock was visible at any other point, but when he returned to the region of the tree he perceived that the glen had deepened to a cleft between walls of stone, with a bright sliver of stream running down it, and there were more trees.
This might repay investigation. He drove along down the stream, which for some time showed no disposition to widen, but rather dropped deeper till it was running through a canyon between walls that held scrubby plants in addition to the trees at the bottom. But after maybe half an hour’s flight more the rock walls suddenly closed in from right and left; the stream, pinched to a thread, burst through a narrow gate, and with a clamor audible even at his altitude, plunged down a long waterfall into a deep bowl of a valley.
The sides were precipices save at the far lower end, where the stream escaped again, boiling through broken boulders past walls that slanted toward the crests to reveal a glimpse of something green beyond. The valley itself was maybe a mile across, all trees around the base of the rocks, all trees along the bank of the stream, but in between lush meadow. In the center of the meadow on the right bank a snow-white unicorn was grazing.
Barber slanted in for a nearer look. Indubitable unicorn. But as he came down on soundless wing, the moon-shadow of his passing flickered across the grass. The creature lifted its head, neighed piercingly, and flung itself toward the trees along the river at a headlong gallop. At the same moment Barber, hovering low, caught another faint sound, regular-irregular, like the unicorn’s hoofbeats. Tap, tap, tappty-tap, tap.
Any life was welcome and information after the blank thus far. He flipped his wings and dropped lightly to a tiptoe landing on grass as gracious as a lawn. Back under the shelter of the trees a shaft of yellow light reached upward, startling in its contrast to the blue moonglow. Barber stepped toward it cautiously, wand in left hand, the other ready to grip his sword. Tap—tap—toe.
The light was coming from a hole at the roots of an age-old tree. He got a glimpse of a small bearded face surmounted by a green stovepipe hat with a feather in it. At the same moment the face got a glimpse of him; there was a dull wooden slam and the spot of light vanished.
Barber stepped close to look at the base of the tree, feeling around the spot where the light had been. His fingers encountered a crevice, regular in outline—a door, made to look like part of the roots.
He rapped. The door gave a dull sound of solidity but no result, nor was there any response when he tried tapping it with the wand. But he was determined now to have converse with whatever denizen of the valley lived within, so sat down and waited patiently. With the faintest creak the door opened a little and the light crept cautiously out. Behind it the brown, bearded face appeared.
“Hello,” said Barber.
“Hello yourself,” said the face. “Ye gave me a fright. Sure, I thought ye were someone else.”
“My name’s Barber. Who did you think I was?”
“A felly I know.” The elf fished around behind him, brought up a shoe and began working on it, sitting on his doorsill. He spoke out of the left side of his mouth, the right side being full of pegs: “Where would ye be goin’ with that fine stick an’ all?”
“I’m not quite sure. To the Princes of the Ice, I think. Could you tell me which way they are?”
The elf jerked a thumb toward the outlet of the valley. “That way. Ye’ll be wan of Oberon’s folk. The back o’ me hand to ye, thin. If I’d known that—anyway, I’m hopin’ the ice people bate the livin’ bedad out o’ ye.”
“Very courteous of you,” remarked Barber drily. “You’re on their side?”
“Not at all, at all. I’m hopin’ that in the ind ye bate the princes, for ’tis mane divils they are. But I’m hopin’ they give ye a good taste o’ the stick first.”
“Why?”
“That’s to pay ye out for what Huon did to us.”
“And what did this Huon do to you?”
“Mane to say ye don’t know? A great Barney’s bull o’ a scandal, that was. Oberon would have the idee o’ civilizin’ us, he called it, and sint Sir Huon to do his dirty work. Oh, that was the disthressful time, with batin’s and evictions and turnin’ us into frogs. Me own brother Usnech, the darlin’, was wan o’ those turned.”
“My word, I didn’t know Oberon went in for that sort of thing. When did this happen?”
“Wan thousand, six hundred, and eighty-four years ago, three months and sivin days to the minute.”
“That seems like a long time to carry a grudge. You certainly keep track of it.”
The elf wagged his head stubbornly. “Murther’s murther, and oppression’s oppression, whether ’twas tin thousand years ago or yesterday. And all because the boys would be havin’ their fun. Oh ’twas cruel; as though we’d forget and be friends.”
“Well, why not after all this time? Didn’t he make things better all around?”
“And what does that matter whin the heart is dead within ye? Be off with you, mortal, and tell that royal rogue he’ll get no help from the luchrupáns.” The elf drove the last peg into the shoe with a vicious whack, dropped back in his hole and slammed the door.
It occurred to Barber that he had not asked for help, but there was no use mentioning this to a closed door. He was just getting up to go when he saw what he had not noticed before—that a climbing rose wound round the base of the tree, embracing it so closely that there was barely room for the mannikin’s door to open. Though it was full night, the vine bravely lifted bud and open flower to the sky, rich doubl
e blooms with petals of mingled white and red, with an almost piercing fragrance. Barber bent to admire one; a vagrant air from nowhere bent the branch ever so slightly toward him as though to invite plucking.
“Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,
Röslein auf der Heiden . . .”
he murmured as he set it in his buttonhole, ran a few steps across the green lawn to gain momentum for the start and was just about to take off when a tiny shaft of light shot from the reopened door, a voice called, “Up the ice!” and there was a crisp wooden slam. Barber laughed as he rode upward, spiraling out of the encircling cliffs. There was no further sign of the unicorn; but now as he drove toward the valley outlet movement again showed between him and the moon.
Company of any kind were welcome, but as long wingbeats carried him toward this company he perceived it was not human but avian—the same big black bird that had looked at him across the window sill that morning, or its twin brother. It stretched its neck under a wing to regard him as he approached and remarked “Krawk!” in a friendly manner.
“Hello, birdie,” said Barber. “Would you be a raven? You look pretty well grown.”
“Krawk!” said the bird again, did a marvelous inside loop and fell in beside him. It was evidently as fond of companionship as Barber himself.
Below, the stream had broken from its valley prison and was flowing through a wide canyon with a rumble of rapids. The mountains were still wild and rugged, but not quite so harsh or waterless, slashed here and there with high gullies which evidently held springs, for trees grew along them, closing in farther down to mantle all the lower slopes. Barber eased downward to look for further signs of life. There were none; and he was just turning back to glide up a long hill-current when a wild shriek from the raven caught his ear.
He half-turned; the motion saved him, for at that moment something big and black dropped on him from above, and but for that warning would have caught him between the shoulders. As it was, a violent blow carried him down toward the tree-tops, something long and sharp and deadly dug through the back side of his trunks and came out with a rending of cloth as Barber put his full power into his wingbeat.
He banked, fumbling for the kobold sword, and trying to bring the attacker into vision. A hiss of feathers overhead accompanied by a second cry from the raven gave him momentary warning again, and he put strength into a drive forward and up. The change of pace threw his attacker more wildly off, but something slashed down a calf muscle. As he felt his hose turn warm with blood, another bank gave him a view of these attackers, now below and beating up toward him.
They were giant black eagles, almost as big as he was, and a second glance showed him that each had two well-developed heads. One of them was, in fact, snapping and striking with one head at the raven which swooped over it, while the other head spied for direction. But it was only a glimpse; the warning hiss sounded again and Barber jerked frantically sidewise to dodge the strike of a third eagle. The tip of a black wing caught him a dizzying blow on the side of the head, knocking off his plumed hat.
He made a quick estimate of the distance between himself and the rocks, then threw himself on his back to see where these heraldic monstrosities were coming from. At first he could make out nothing; then he spotted two more, almost exactly between him and the moon. One was diving, close enough to grow visibly in size as he watched, but not diving at him, for beneath the stroke Barber saw moon reflection from the glossy back of another raven. The bird avoided; there was a flurry of motion as the eagle checked and the two ramped against each other, their battle cries thinned by distance. Then the second eagle folded its wings and came in on Barber.
Two could play at that game, he thought, flipping over into normal flying position and dropping for the mountain crests. Wind whistled through his hair in ascending pitch. Behind he heard a high, piercing screech, the sound of a rusty hinge. It had a distinct warble; no doubt, thought Barber, the heterodyning effect of a slight difference in pitch between the two larynxes belonging to a single eagle.
The top of a mountain grew at him, jagged and formidable. He spread and leveled off, with the strain tearing at his pectoral muscles. The horrible thought came to him that he’d miscalculated, he’d crash, didn’t have strength to pull out of the dive . . .
Then the mountaintop drove past. He was still going down, but down a slope, and a twig-tip slashed across the back of his right hand. At his hundred-mile-an-hour speed it stung like a whip and left a little line of emergent blood drops.
A glance showed that the eagle above had pulled up sooner than himself and was now joined by one of those that had attacked at first. Far off, another was engaged with one of the friendly ravens and seemed to be winning, for the smaller bird was only trying to beat off the attack and get away. Before he could make up his mind to do anything about it the two eagles above became three—five—six, they tipped over and came plummeting down at him with nerve-shattering screams.
Barber, cocking his head this way and that, dodged like the bat whose wings he bore. A claw touched his cheek. He tacked frantically; a wing struck one of his own, half numbing it and sending him tumbling. As he forced the painful member to pump, a victory-scream sounded from behind, probably over one of the ravens, he thought angrily, and put on speed.
The eagles had shot past, low over the valley. Now they swirled up in a cloud and sorted themselves into a diagonal line, like geese. Three more swam up out of nowhere and attached themselves to the end of the line, and they came toward him, all nine pairs of wings flapping in synchronism. Their intention was obvious. With a jar Barber realized that those predatory double-headers held brains enough for intelligent combination. One or two he could dodge, but nine, diving in quick succession, would get him sure.
He flew at utmost speed for a few moments, then came round in a sweeping circle to see whether they would follow if he affected to give up the direction he had chosen. They did; the hostility was implacable then, related to his existence and not his movements. There was nothing to do but fight them then, and oddly remembering a quotation from Kipling to the effect that a savage attacked was much less dangerous than a savage attacking, he pivoted on easy wings and slanted upward, whipping out the sword.
The eagle formation—another had joined it now—came up with him, holding the same strict alignment, but with the birds craning their doubled necks and screeching at each other, as though in perplexity. Barber felt a momentary thrill of gratification. He hoped it was not wishful thinking to deduce that, although the monsters were capable of plan, they lacked mental flexibility, the capacity to meet an unforeseen situation. He could climb faster, too, with his wide wingspread and better balance; he was past and gaining, the formation went a little uncertain, and he peeled off into an almost vertical drop.
The sword-arm came down with the added motion of his descent, taking one of them where wing joined body, and Barber shouted with delight as he felt the blade bite through. The eagle went spinning and screeching downward; Barber gave one swift wing-stroke and brought his sword up backhand onto the neck of the next in line. One head flew from the body, the other head squeaked, and the eagle began to fly in a zany circle. Another swing sent one tumbling in a tangle of feathers, and the formation broke up, eagles spreading in all directions.
Barber pursued one, caught it and killed it with a blow. Kipling was right and the things were practically helpless against attack from above. He went into a long glide to gain distance, looking for, but seeing no sign of the ravens. They must have been finished off, poor birds. Off in the distance the formation he had broken up was gathering again, and more eagles were coming up, some to reinforce the shattered group, others to form a new one, which immediately began to climb.
Barber drove for altitude, got above them, and dived in, killing several eagles. But the other formation climbed while he was about it and delivered a diving attack; it took both sharp flying and quick swordwork to get away unscathed. While he was about it more eagles c
ame up to join those already on hand; there must be at least twenty-five or thirty not counting those he had got rid of. At this rate they would smother him with mere press of numbers long before the night was done, and he had no assurance that the confounded double-headers were not diurnal.
Clearly, this counterattack in the air would get him nowhere in the long run, and equally clearly something better would have to be found soon. The eagles, he observed, climbing to stay above the latest arrivals, all seemed to come from the same direction. Probably they belonged to the forces of that mysterious Enemy to whom Oberon had referred. Their sudden attack might be on general principles, due to original sin, but the way they had kept after him even when he turned back did not look like it. Neither did their constant multiplication. More likely he was getting too close for comfort to that third place of the Fairyland prophecy.
Too close for the Enemy’s comfort. He recalled how his touch on the first of those places had put a stop to the kobolds’ antisocial activities and wondered whether there had been any improvement in the tangled and difficult life of the Pool since he touched the second. Below him forty-five or fifty double-headed eagles were circling and screaming, spreading to form a network which should be too wide and deep for penetration. He was so high now that the mountains beneath had lost relief and were spread like a flat picture map, with shadows and patches of green for coloring.
If he took the bull by the horns and sought out the birds’ point of origin, he might both find the third place and cut off the supply of eagles at its source. In any event, it seemed the only plan worth trying, since going back to Oberon with this following of impossible eagles did not commend itself.
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