scratched, they abruptly came to a realization of the situation. As I said, they were of poor quality. They were, if you will pardon the conceit, masichieri of the skies.
When this raggle-taggle band broke back for their birds, I shouted the orders it was necessary to give and see obeyed instantly.
The Pachaks raced forward first. They were, after all, hyr-paktuns, with the golden pakzhan at their throats. They were more used to what goes on in the aftermath of battles than Tyfar’s two retainers, or the Tryfant Hunch. But Nodgen, who had been a mercenary in his time — almost made paktun —
understood swiftly, and was out of the rocks and running after the two Pachaks.
Tyfar yelled to me. “The people out there!”
“Let us go over, by all means.”
So the rest of us ran past the end of the thorn-ivy and quitted the shelter of the rocks. We ran toward the boil of dust marking the fight. Long before we reached it, the flutsmen were lifting away, the birds’
wings flapping with vigorous downstrokes to gain takeoff speed.
Then I let out a roar.
“The famblys! Come back! Come back—”
But the jutmen, freed of the horror of the flutsmen all around them, simply clapped in their spurs and went haring away across the flats. They galloped in a string and they had their heads down and I do not doubt that most of them had their eyes shut, also.
So we stopped running, and stood and watched the folk we had rescued simply flee in panic.
“The stupid onkers!” said Tyfar. He breathed in, and then made a grimace of distaste, and spat. The dust drifted in, clogging our mouths, flat and unpleasant on the tongue.
Among the drift of detritus of the fight — dead animals, dead birds, dead flutsmen, dead jutmen, and a scatter of weapons — an arm lifted.
“One of them,” I said, “at least is alive.”
We ran across.
He had been a strong fighting man, clad in bronze-bound leather, with a neat trim of silver to the rim of his helmet. His face, heavily bearded, was waxen now, all the high color fled. His lips were ricked back.
Near him lay a young man, dressed in clothes and armor of exceeding richness, and this young man’s neck was twisted and ripped, and he could have looked down his own shoulder blades, had his eyes still possessed the gift of sight.
“He — is dead — the young lord,” gasped the bearded, dying man. “So — best — I die, too...”
“Who was he?” said Tyfar. He spoke in a hard, contained voice.
The bearded lips opened but only a gargle sounded.
I bent closer.
“Rest easy, dom. You are safe now—”
“Flutsmen — lord, my lord — you must—” His head fell sideways, and those craggy, bearded lips gusted a last breath.
I stood up.
“I,” said Tyfar, “wonder who they were.”
“It does not matter. They are dead or fled.”
We stared about on that unpleasant scene.
Presently, Hunch said, “Can we go back to the rocks now, please?”
“Not before you and Barkindrar and Nath have collected what is useful to us. And be quick about it.
There may be other flutsmen about.”
Hunch looked sick.
“Do we have to?”
“Assuredly you do. Now — jump!”
Tyfar nodded. “Nath, Barkindrar, set to it.”
I ploughed in to help select anything we thought would be of use to us. But, as a prince, Tyfar moved a little way off. He did not help us strip the dead of the rich armor, or rake through the satchels, or lift up the blood-caked weapons. But he did not walk away. He stood nearby, and if any further flutsmen showed up, why, then he would show what being a prince involved.
The bulky, bearded man bothered me. He had given his life, and that had not been enough. His young lord was dead. I surmised they were part of an expedition out to venture down a Moder after treasure and magic, and had been separated from the main body by the Muzzard vakkas. Then the flutsmen, ever avid to pick up morsels like that, had attacked.
Twisted under a fine zorca that had been shafted
When this raggle-taggle band broke back for their birds, I shouted the orders it was necessary to give and see obeyed instantly.
The Pachaks raced forward first. They were, after all, hyr-paktuns, with the golden pakzhan at their throats. They were more used to what goes on in the aftermath of battles than Tyfar’s two retainers, or the Tryfant Hunch. But Nodgen, who had been a mercenary in his time — almost made paktun —
understood swiftly, and was out of the rocks and running after the two Pachaks.
Tyfar yelled to me. “The people out there!”
“Let us go over, by all means.”
So the rest of us ran past the end of the thorn-ivy and quitted the shelter of the rocks. We ran toward the boil of dust marking the fight. Long before we reached it, the flutsmen were lifting away, the birds’
wings flapping with vigorous downstrokes to gain takeoff speed.
Then I let out a roar.
“The famblys! Come back! Come back—”
But the jutmen, freed of the horror of the flutsmen all around them, simply clapped in their spurs and went haring away across the flats. They galloped in a string and they had their heads down and I do not doubt that most of them had their eyes shut, also.
So we stopped running, and stood and watched the folk we had rescued simply flee in panic.
“The stupid onkers!” said Tyfar. He breathed in, and then made a grimace of distaste, and spat. The dust drifted in, clogging our mouths, flat and unpleasant on the tongue.
Among the drift of detritus of the fight — dead animals, dead birds, dead flutsmen, dead jutmen, and a scatter of weapons — an arm lifted.
“One of them,” I said, “at least is alive.”
We ran across.
He had been a strong fighting man, clad in bronze-bound leather, with a neat trim of silver to the rim of his helmet. His face, heavily bearded, was waxen now, all the high color fled. His lips were ricked back.
Near him lay a young man, dressed in clothes and armor of exceeding richness, and this young man’s neck was twisted and ripped, and he could have looked down his own shoulder blades, had his eyes still possessed the gift of sight.
“He — is dead — the young lord,” gasped the bearded, dying man. “So — best — I die, too...”
“Who was he?” said Tyfar. He spoke in a hard, contained voice.
The bearded lips opened but only a gargle sounded.
I bent closer.
“Rest easy, dom. You are safe now—”
“Flutsmen — lord, my lord — you must—” His head fell sideways, and those craggy, bearded lips gusted a last breath.
I stood up.
“I,” said Tyfar, “wonder who they were.”
“It does not matter. They are dead or fled.”
We stared about on that unpleasant scene.
Presently, Hunch said, “Can we go back to the rocks now, please?”
“Not before you and Barkindrar and Nath have collected what is useful to us. And be quick about it.
There may be other flutsmen about.”
Hunch looked sick.
“Do we have to?”
“Assuredly you do. Now — jump!”
Tyfar nodded. “Nath, Barkindrar, set to it.”
I ploughed in to help select anything we thought would be of use to us. But, as a prince, Tyfar moved a little way off. He did not help us strip the dead of the rich armor, or rake through the satchels, or lift up the blood-caked weapons. But he did not walk away. He stood nearby, and if any further flutsmen showed up, why, then he would show what being a prince involved.
The bulky, bearded man bothered me. He had given his life, and that had not been enough. His young lord was dead. I surmised they were part of an expedition out to venture down a Moder after treasure and magic, and had been separated from the main body by the Muzzard vakkas. Then the flutsmen, ever avid to pick up morsels like that, had attacked.
Twisted under a fine zorca that had been shafted
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