“How ridiculous!” Allouette’s counterattack was scorn. “Whoever heard of a beak with teeth!”
“Aye!” Cordelia picked up the idea instantly. “Are not things impossible called ‘rare as hen’s teeth’?”
“Impossible this creature is,” Quicksilver agreed. “Cannot that beak tear as well as any eyetooth?”
“Do you say ‘aye’ to my tooth?” But the Kow’s teeth dwindled on the instant and disappeared. It paced forward, reaching out. “Still, as you say, my beak is sharp enough to shred you!”
“Sharper than its owner, I doubt not,” Allouette returned.
“But duller than my sword.” Quicksilver drew. “My apologies, creature—it is not bronze.”
The Kow eyed the sheen of Cold Iron with misgiving. Then its beak turned into a muzzle with lips that curved up in a grin. “Do you thirst, damsels?” And as they watched in horror, it grew an udder.
Cordelia turned to her companions, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Why is it so obscene to see a horse with an udder?”
“If you can call that a horse,” Allouette said with withering contempt. “I have never seen so bizarre a collection of parts in my life!”
“Have you never seen a man of parts?” the Kow returned. “Nay, I shall grow some if you wish.”
“Thank you, no.” Cordelia smiled, actually amused. “We all have men at home with all their parts, enough to last us all our lives.”
The Kow frowned, clearly nonplussed. “Have you never learned it is rude to refuse a gift? Nay, taste of my milk!”
“I suspect this creature is beyond the pail,” Cordelia told Quicksilver.
“Alas!” Allouette said to the Kow. “We appreciate the thought.” She suspected that the Kow knew exactly how they appreciated what it was thinking. “Unfortunately, we have no bucket.”
“If Fate is kind, you should indeed not seek to buck it,” the Kow rejoined.
Cordelia kept her smile. “You do not claim that you are Fate, I hope.”
“So should you hope indeed,” the Kow returned. “Nay, make a bucket of bark so that you may taste of my milk!”
“A mammal has milk only because it has young to suckle,” Cordelia pointed out. “Have you, then, given birth?”
“Any who know of me give me a wide berth indeed! What is this ‘mammal’ you speak of?”
“Why, any creature which suckles its young,” Allouette explained.
The Kow frowned. “This is to say that a bird with webbed feet and a bill is a duck, but a duck is a bird with webbed feet and a bill!”
“The bill for thus baiting us will likely be too high for you to pay,” Quicksilver said darkly.
“Then you would be well advised to duck when I say so!”
“It has the egg of an idea there,” Cordelia admitted.
“No doubt that will make the creature brood upon it,” Allouette answered.
“Be sure you would not wish to meet my brood,” the Kow retorted.
“Are there more than one of you, then?” Cordelia asked in wide-eyed innocence. “I had thought you a singular creature.”
“What, like the phoenix?” The Kow grinned again. “Would you have me disappear in a burst of flame, then?”
Allouette saw her chance and said with withering scorn, “As though you could!”
“Think you anything is beyond my scope?” the Kow demanded, affronted.
“I would not see you burnt to a cinder.” Allouette backed her horse away, widening her eyes as though in fright.
“Behold what you fear, then!” the Kow cried triumphantly.
“Back, ladies,” Quicksilver barked with sudden dread.
They all managed to back their horses a few paces away before the Kow, laughing hysterically, burst into a geyser of flames that ballooned out to singe the ground for thirty feet around before it died as quickly as it had bloomed, leaving only a mound of ashes behind.
Cordelia heaved a sigh of relief. “Most cleverly done, Allouette! You baited the creature to its own doom!”
Allouette flushed, pleased at the compliment and wondering if it betokened real acceptance.
Cordelia turned to Quicksilver. “How did you guess that it meant to burn us to char with itself, lady?”
“I would have to think somewhat to answer that.” Quicksilver frowned. “Suddenly I knew what it meant to do—perhaps because it was too gleeful in its eagerness to demonstrate what Allouette had said it could not do, perhaps because its nature is mischief and malice . . . I cannot say for certain.”
“Suffice it that her counsel saved our lives,” Allouette said with heartfelt gratitude. “I thank you, warrior woman.”
“And I you, dame of cleverness.” Quicksilver gave her a smile. “Shall I play Achilles to your Odysseus, then?”
Allouette returned the smile. “As you please, so long as, together, we have defeated this Trojan horse.”
“Who dares call me Trojan?” nickered a voice that seemed both distant and close.
CHAPTER
11
The voice seemed an echo of the Kow’s neigh. A slight breeze must have moved across the trail, for the heap of ashes stirred.
“Beware, ladies!” Cordelia rode forward, glaring at the mound. “I shall see to it that it rises not!” The heap of ashes split into a dozen smaller piles that began to drift away from one another as though blown by all four winds at once.
“Nay, forfend!” the echo of the neighing voice protested. “How shall I reassemble if you scatter my substance?”
“But you are more likely to dissemble than to reassemble,” Allouette pointed out.
“I prefer to take the creature in small doses.” Quicksilver dismounted and knelt to scoop up a handful of dust. “The smaller the better.”
“You need not take me at all!” the voice brayed. “I shall stay!”
With a doubtful voice, Allouette said, “In mischief you are too well versed.”
“I shall refrain!”
“I fear his refrain may be worse than his verses,” Allouette said to her companions.
“Let him take the shape of a singer, then,” Quicksilver offered.
“I shall return in a form far more benign, I swear!” cried the neighing voice.
“I am sure you do, when you are thwarted,” Cordelia told the Kow, “but I would have you spare our ears.”
“So long as you will have me at all!”
“We will not,” Quicksilver decided, “but we shall let you retain your substance if you swear that you shall only take form from happy thoughts and do all you can to aid mortal folk rather than plague them.”
Allouette nodded. So did Cordelia, but she frowned at their powdered foe.
“Wherefore do I feel a sudden impulse to pounce upon all rats and mice?” the neighing voice wondered.
“It may be because you took an owl’s head in your last form,” Cordelia answered. “As a bird of wisdom who guards folk by night you may reconstitute yourself.”
“Concentrate,” Allouette advised, “but not till we are far from this place.”
“I shall! I shall wait and re-form! Bless you, ladies! I shall sing your praises forevermore! I shall applaud you to the skies! I shall warble sweet notes of—”
“She said an owl, not a nightingale,” Allouette reminded.
“A night owl I shall be then! If ever you return this way, remember there is one who owes you a favor.”
The three women looked at one another in alarm. Then Allouette said, “The favor we would wish is that you treat all folk well, that you help rather than hinder.”
“Whatever you wish! Oh, thank you for your kindness and mercy! Merci! Gramercy! Forever shall I extol your virtues!”
“You make it seem as though being good would be a chore,” Allouette said, frowning. “There can be delight in giving aid.”
“I shall patrol, guard, and warn!” the Kow averred. “As an owl I shall guard this valley! All my life shall I hoot as I haunt this hollow!”
&
nbsp; “May your life be a hoot and a hollow indeed, then,” Allouette said. “Farewell, polymorph.”
“Is that to be my name? Polly I shall be, then,” the spirit cried, “and for you no more a fuss!”
“Polly Mor-a-phous?” Allouette smiled. “So let you be, then—and be sure we shall remember that favor!”
They rode away down the trail, glancing at one another but not saying a word until the leaves closed behind them and the strange deep warbling of a Kow learning to sing faded away. Then Allouette heaved a sigh and said, “The favor I’ll remember—but I doubt I’ll ever accept it!”
“It would not seem to be the sort of thing you could trust,” Cordelia agreed. “Even with the best intentions, that creature’s attempts to aid might go astray.”
“They might rebound on us and redound to his discredit,” Quicksilver said, then turned to Allouette. “But how is this, damsel? You might have been more accepting of the creature’s repentance!”
“I wish I could have been,” Allouette said ruefully, “but I was afraid to encourage its singing for fear the spirit might take to larking about.”
“I see!” Quicksilver’s eyes widened. “Worrisome indeed, for a lass whose name means ‘skylark.’”
“I am perhaps unduly sensitive on the subject,” Allouette agreed, “but since it has already set itself to becoming a blithe spirit—bird he never was before—I would have taken that sort of counterfeiting rather personally.”
The sun was setting as Gregory, Alain, and Geoffrey rode down to the shore of a little lake. Their shoulders slumped, their heads sagged, and their horses’ hooves dragged. “By my troth,” Geoffrey sighed, “this has been a long day!”
“As well as a rather eventful one,” Alain agreed.
Geoffrey almost fell off his horse and knelt to scoop some water from the lake. “Let us see if this water is sweet or brackish.”
“Well thought,” Gregory agreed, and dismounted to lead his horse down to the water. Alain was halfway there when a frantic bleating broke out all around them. Looking up in surprise, they saw a huge flock of sheep bearing down on them, too much in a panic to be afraid of the men.
“Shoo! Go back!” But Geoffrey was still on his knees as the wooly mob poured over him.
They nearly knocked Alain’s horse out from under him, but he held the stallion by the reins and made shooing motions at the sheep, crying, “Avaunt! Retreat!”
They paid him not the slightest bit of attention, except to flow around him instead of over. Geoffrey, in front of his horse and still on his knees, was not so lucky; he went tumbling over as ram after ram and ewe after ewe leaped over him. When they had passed, he pushed himself up, staring after them. “Beshrew me, but I shall sleep soundly tonight!”
“Do not tell me you counted them!” Alain exclaimed.
“I missed some, I am sure—but I would estimate the herd to be ninety-eight strong, with one lamb.”
“Six tenths of a sheep? Like as not it was,” Geoffrey said, “though I would have thought them in a fever to run us down.”
“Certainly a panic.” Alain leaped down to help his friends up and batted at their clothes. “They have soiled you badly.”
“As badly as they were frightened,” Geoffrey said. “What could have thrown them into such a panic?”
A basso laugh answered him, echoing all around them—a senseless manic whooping. They stood stiffly, staring at one another as it faded.
“What manner of creature made that sound?” Geoffrey whispered.
“That one!” Gregory pointed.
They turned and saw, ploughing through the water along the shore of the lake, a huge bird, black all over, but with a metallic sheen, its back decorated with rows of white spots and with a white ring around a neck longer than a duck’s, its foot-and-a-half of beak dark yellow and hooked like an eagle’s, its huge eyes judging them as a replacement meal for the fugitive sheep. All in all, it was a very proper water bird—except that its body was at least eight feet long and its neck three, so its head was level with theirs as it glided toward them across the ripples.
A straggler sheep suddenly burst from a bush, galloping away from the shore.
Whooping with glee, the huge bird sprang from the water and waddled after the ram on webbed feet that sported thick sharp talons. Its legs seemed fairly short, but only in relation to its huge body, for it shot over the ground faster than the ram. The sheep swerved behind a copse and the bird swung after it.
Then, suddenly, there was silence.
The companions stared at one another. “Dare we go to look?” Gregory asked.
“Dare we not?” Geoffrey turned and ran toward the grove.
They stepped carefully and quietly between the trunks until, parting a final layer of leaves, they saw the giant bird gulping down a last bloody morsel. Of the ram there was nothing left.
Alain swallowed hard, then asked, “How name you such a bird, scholar?”
“It is a Boobrie,” Gregory answered in a hushed voice. “I have read of such things but never thought them real.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t,” said Geoffrey, “until now.”
The Boobrie opened its beak and gave a cry of defiance. The men stared, for its call was a roar now, like that of a bull.
“The laugh must have been its mating call,” Gregory said.
“Or a cry of delight at sighting dinner,” Geoffrey said drily.
The Boobrie opened its beak again and emitted the whooping laugh as it waddled toward them.
Geoffrey and Alain drew their swords, but the Boobrie only roared the louder and waddled toward them—much faster than its short legs should have.
“Beware.” Gregory’s voice was oddly remote, his eyes glazed, even though he stared at the huge bird. “This is a thing of witch-moss, yes, but it has not been crafted to seem a faerie creature. It will not fear your swords.”
“Then it can be carved by them. Let us attack from both sides, Alain, so it shall pause to decide which one of us to repulse.”
“Indeed.” Alain circled to the right.
Geoffrey circled to the left. The bird turned its head to look first at him, then at Alain, roaring in anger and bafflement.
“One of us, at least, shall end it with a sharp stroke across the neck,” Alain said, determined.
“It shall not die so easily,” Gregory sighed, “and those claws can do great damage ere death stills them. It is of such a terror I have dreamed—a nightmare creature, but one that could really live.”
“Then take it apart!” Geoffrey said.
“I seek to,” Gregory answered, “but something seeks just as strongly to hold it together.”
Geoffrey’s eyes widened. “Some secret sorcerer, watching even as we fight?”
“If he does, he watches from a great distance,” Gregory answered. “I think it more likely a binding spell that lay quietly waiting for someone to try to dissolve the creature.”
“A plague upon the magus who made it!” Geoffrey spat. “This was no work of a shepherd telling a tale to his mates, brother, but a well-planned work of a master crafter!”
The bird made up its mind and charged at Gregory, roaring.
“It knows the source of its greatest peril!” Alain shouted as he sprinted after. “Set upon it, Geoffrey!” He caught up with the Boobrie and swung his sword in a flat arc that would have bisected anything it met.
Geoffrey leaped in from the side, swinging and shouting, “Orange sauce!”
The bird jerked to a halt in sheer surprise, turning to gape at Geoffrey.
“ ’Tis not a duck!” Alain protested.
The Boobrie’s head pivoted to glare narrow-eyed at Alain.
“Duck yourself!” Geoffrey cried, and Alain did, just in time for the Boobrie’s breast to slam into his shoulder as it charged. Its beakful of teeth closed on air instead of the throat for which it had aimed. From sheer reflex, Alain stabbed. “I spit thee, fowl!”
The Boobrie roared in rage and pai
n and curved its neck to bite at the nape of Alain’s neck. He leaped back, though, pulled the sword free, and the poignard-teeth closed on the blade.
Geoffrey leaped up behind it and slashed—but he only sheared tail feathers, for the bird was turning to this new threat even as he swung. It lunged at Geoffrey, wings raised high, eight-feet-long clubs poised to strike.
Gregory jumped in, caught a wing tip, and threw his whole weight against it, shouting, “Savory! Sage! In a batter with wine!”
The Boobrie honked in dismay as it swung around him.
“Beware those teeth, Gregory!” Geoffrey cried, dashing in to protect his little brother—and a wing cracked into his head, knocking him to the ground.
“I am safe!” Gregory cried, releasing the wing-tip and leaping back. “Up, brother! Save yourself!”
There was no need to worry about Geoffrey, though. The Boobrie was charging Gregory now, blood in its eye, beakful of teeth reaching out, wings arched to strike.
“Drumsticks!” Alain cried, and dived to wrap his arms around one yard-long leg.
The Boobrie hooted, flapping its wings in a vain attempt to balance on one webbed foot. Then it tumbled; its foot twisted in Alain’s grasp and the heel spur raked his chest. He ignored the pain and hung on, trying to clamber to his feet.
“Up, friend!” Geoffrey seized Alain’s collar and hauled him upright. “Loose the beast and let it fly!”
The Boobrie was indeed struggling to get back on its webs. The young men backed warily away, swords at the ready, but something hooted out on the lake.
The Boobrie’s head swung around.
The hooting turned into a burbling laugh.
The Boobrie roared in anger and ran heavily back toward the lake. It plunged into the water, leaving a few streaks of red in its wake, but gliding quite steadily nonetheless, answering the hooting mirth with its own chortling cry.
“How lucky for us that another Boobrie came to challenge it,” Alain said shakily.
“There is none other, but this one shall circle the lake for hours trying to find it, growing steadily more and more maddened as it fails to discover what it seeks,” Gregory said.
“I thought it was something of the kind.” Geoffrey nodded. “How did you do it, brother? Ventriloquism?”
Here be Monsters Page 15