his thigh, pierced on into the body of his fluttlann.
The saddlebird faltered in the air.
His pale blue and white wings flurried, beat with a panicky stroke, another, slowed the rhythm, drew out to a wide-planing glide angle. The wildman shook his bow at me. His mouth was an oblong blot of shrieked anger.
I felt for the fluttlann. Like the freymul which is called the poor man’s zorca because it lacks much of the superbness of the zorca, the fluttlann is regarded as a second-class saddle flyer. The strange and, if you care to delve, pathetic item to note about the freymul on land and the fluttlann in the sky is that, both being regarded a little slightingly, both are better than reports say, and both are willing and courageous and will serve to the utmost of their strength. This fluttlann tried to keep up; but his wound was sore and deep. Slowly, he gave up the unequal struggle and planed away, spiraling, looking for a good place to alight. With him he carried one moorkrim who was wilder than most wildmen in those dying moments of conflict.
My tyryvol tried to bite off my left hand.
I stuck the bowstave up, in a reflexive gesture, and knocked his head away.
My problems were not over yet, by Krun!
A quick grab saved me from falling. The bow went back over my shoulder. The tyryvol turned his head sideways and surveyed me with an eye that was not so much beady as downright voraciously calculating.
I started to swing, holding on with both hands, freeing my legs, swinging myself up and down like a pendulum. It was bend, pull, stretch, bend, pull, stretch. The animal’s head went with me like an upside down yo-yo. Like a pendulum I swung horizontally, along the line of his body, and I got my feet into the base of his neck where it joined his scaly body. I’d have liked to have landed him one in the guts; but I couldn’t reach that far.
He gave a choked up kind of squawk.
“That’ll show you you won’t shake me off, tyry!”
Down I swung and up and then down and around again, swinging like a monkey after a coconut. In the wind rush and bluster the sound of a ripping, tearing, death-bringing parting of the leather rein told me this was my last chance.
On that swing, just as the rein finally parted, I got my leg hooked around the tyryvol’s neck. I hung from one crooked knee. His scales cut into me. His head drove down and tucked in and his fangs, all yellow and serrated and sharp, slashed at my dangling head. His talons raked up from the rear to scrape me off and hurl me away.
I swung.
Sideways on my bent knee I hauled myself up. A flailing hand scraped on his scales, caught and gripped. With a frenzied cracking of muscles I heaved up. His talons gored my side and I swore at him.
His clashing fangs missed me by a whisker. His head shot up and he twisted around to get at me on the other side. I straddled the thick part of his neck. I held on. I held on!
I took three huge draughts of air.
The valley below swam dizzily.
By the disgusting diseased liver and lights of Makki Grodno! This was no time to test out Sir Isaac’s theories...
I sat up, clipped the tyryvol alongside his head, told him that his fun and games were over. He would come under control all right. Mind you, he’d be frisky for some time. He’d quite enjoyed it all.
The sweat lay on me thickly, clammy, chill and damned unpleasant.
After that it was headlong for the Pass of Lacachun.
By Zair! I don’t relish going through that kind of nightmare too often, believe you me.
Chapter five
Trapped in the Pass of Lacachun
The landlord of The Jolly Vodrin, Hamdal the Measure, had told us Prince Tyfar had taken two regiments. The reason for the statement now seemed clear as I circled briefly between the peaks, glaring down onto the Pass of Lacachun. The men down there were of two kinds: crossbowmen and spearmen. Hamdal had seen that and reported. Just how many there had been to start with I did not know; I did know and with dreadful certainty that
The saddlebird faltered in the air.
His pale blue and white wings flurried, beat with a panicky stroke, another, slowed the rhythm, drew out to a wide-planing glide angle. The wildman shook his bow at me. His mouth was an oblong blot of shrieked anger.
I felt for the fluttlann. Like the freymul which is called the poor man’s zorca because it lacks much of the superbness of the zorca, the fluttlann is regarded as a second-class saddle flyer. The strange and, if you care to delve, pathetic item to note about the freymul on land and the fluttlann in the sky is that, both being regarded a little slightingly, both are better than reports say, and both are willing and courageous and will serve to the utmost of their strength. This fluttlann tried to keep up; but his wound was sore and deep. Slowly, he gave up the unequal struggle and planed away, spiraling, looking for a good place to alight. With him he carried one moorkrim who was wilder than most wildmen in those dying moments of conflict.
My tyryvol tried to bite off my left hand.
I stuck the bowstave up, in a reflexive gesture, and knocked his head away.
My problems were not over yet, by Krun!
A quick grab saved me from falling. The bow went back over my shoulder. The tyryvol turned his head sideways and surveyed me with an eye that was not so much beady as downright voraciously calculating.
I started to swing, holding on with both hands, freeing my legs, swinging myself up and down like a pendulum. It was bend, pull, stretch, bend, pull, stretch. The animal’s head went with me like an upside down yo-yo. Like a pendulum I swung horizontally, along the line of his body, and I got my feet into the base of his neck where it joined his scaly body. I’d have liked to have landed him one in the guts; but I couldn’t reach that far.
He gave a choked up kind of squawk.
“That’ll show you you won’t shake me off, tyry!”
Down I swung and up and then down and around again, swinging like a monkey after a coconut. In the wind rush and bluster the sound of a ripping, tearing, death-bringing parting of the leather rein told me this was my last chance.
On that swing, just as the rein finally parted, I got my leg hooked around the tyryvol’s neck. I hung from one crooked knee. His scales cut into me. His head drove down and tucked in and his fangs, all yellow and serrated and sharp, slashed at my dangling head. His talons raked up from the rear to scrape me off and hurl me away.
I swung.
Sideways on my bent knee I hauled myself up. A flailing hand scraped on his scales, caught and gripped. With a frenzied cracking of muscles I heaved up. His talons gored my side and I swore at him.
His clashing fangs missed me by a whisker. His head shot up and he twisted around to get at me on the other side. I straddled the thick part of his neck. I held on. I held on!
I took three huge draughts of air.
The valley below swam dizzily.
By the disgusting diseased liver and lights of Makki Grodno! This was no time to test out Sir Isaac’s theories...
I sat up, clipped the tyryvol alongside his head, told him that his fun and games were over. He would come under control all right. Mind you, he’d be frisky for some time. He’d quite enjoyed it all.
The sweat lay on me thickly, clammy, chill and damned unpleasant.
After that it was headlong for the Pass of Lacachun.
By Zair! I don’t relish going through that kind of nightmare too often, believe you me.
Chapter five
Trapped in the Pass of Lacachun
The landlord of The Jolly Vodrin, Hamdal the Measure, had told us Prince Tyfar had taken two regiments. The reason for the statement now seemed clear as I circled briefly between the peaks, glaring down onto the Pass of Lacachun. The men down there were of two kinds: crossbowmen and spearmen. Hamdal had seen that and reported. Just how many there had been to start with I did not know; I did know and with dreadful certainty that
Similar Books
