on the left struck Wind-voice as familiar. He whirled to face him, bringing his sword to a guard position. The soldier attacked. Wind-voice dodged, but his foot was nicked.
He recognized the face of Dubto. “013-Unidentified!” the archaeopteryx called.
“You were kind to me once!” Wind-voice cried. “Why do you want to kill me now?”
“It’s the command of the new Ancient Wing.”
“But…why listen to him? Why not listen to your heart?”
“He has the beak ring. It is the age-old custom.” Dubto’s face shone with fierce loyalty. “Archaeopteryxes must follow whoever wears it.”
“This is…” Wind-voice looked bewildered. “What about yourself? What would you choose for yourself?”
“I—” Dubto whispered, but he did not finish, for in that instant Stormac swept up and thumped his staff on the archaeopteryx’s shoulders. Dubto plummeted away into the water below. Wind-voice looked around. The other soldiers had fallen as well and were struggling to rise again through the spray of water. Archaeopteryxeswere powerful fighters but clumsy flyers.
“Looks like you have trouble dealing with that one. Just lending a wing,” Stormac said cheerfully above the noise of the splashing water.
Wind-voice was dumbstruck. “You almost killed him!”
Stormac hovered, bewildered. “Wind-voice! They were sent to kill you! The archaeopteryxes nearly roasted you! Have you forgotten?”
“Hurry!” shouted Winger. “We must fly!”
Confused, Wind-voice matched wing beats with his companions till the archaeopteryxes could no longer be seen through the screen of lakeside trees. Was he fighting for revenge now? A picture formed behind his eyes: He, as an old warrior perched on a hill, saying, “Yes! I made him pay for that,” and checking off a grudge out of a list so long that it tumbled down the mountain slope. Is this what my life would be? he thought, troubled.
Later that night, by their tiny campfire, Ewingerale came up to Wind-voice. Without a word, he carefully used a few strips torn from his vest to bind up the wound on Wind-voice’s foot. “Nothing is clear in life,” he whispered. Then, sitting back, he tuned his harp and started playing and singing a little song:
Why do we fight?
We often don’t know.
Isn’t the reason we fight murky like stew?
Thick like split-pea porridge.
We often don’t know what’s false and what’s true,
Just face it with some courage.
Wind-voice listened mournfully. He tried to smile back at Winger. The song helped a little, but confusion still swirled in his head. Had Stormac’s warrior logic been correct? Could it be truly right to kill a bird who had once been kind to him, even if that bird had been sent to kill him now? Or was there some other way?
As they traveled on, they passed fresh ruins of homes. Once they saw birds gathered together in an eerie cemetery, staring at the sky. “We’ll join the dead soon, we’ll join the dead soon,” a wren bawled. Vultures spanned overhead. When Stormac called to the mourners, asking what had happened, they only said, “Maldeor’s back.”
“Who is Maldeor?” Stormac demanded.
No answer.
“A league away, there are more carcasses.” They could faintly hear the croak of one vulture to another.
“I don’t care!” the second vulture howled from theground beside a still body. He looked wildly about. “For a long time I was glad the archaeopteryxes had taken over. Rotting carcasses that were unburied and unclaimed were bountiful. But it’s different when one of them is my own murdered sister.”
Wind-voice and his friends helped the stricken vulture bury his sibling. Winger cried softly:
The howling wind carries away our elegies.
Behold: white bones piled up at the graveyard,
Unburied.
Dear ones killed,
Neither by gods of thunder nor plague
But by toothed birds.
Can wailing call them back?
Can mourning comfort their souls?
Only ghostly songs echo.
We can’t let this
He recognized the face of Dubto. “013-Unidentified!” the archaeopteryx called.
“You were kind to me once!” Wind-voice cried. “Why do you want to kill me now?”
“It’s the command of the new Ancient Wing.”
“But…why listen to him? Why not listen to your heart?”
“He has the beak ring. It is the age-old custom.” Dubto’s face shone with fierce loyalty. “Archaeopteryxes must follow whoever wears it.”
“This is…” Wind-voice looked bewildered. “What about yourself? What would you choose for yourself?”
“I—” Dubto whispered, but he did not finish, for in that instant Stormac swept up and thumped his staff on the archaeopteryx’s shoulders. Dubto plummeted away into the water below. Wind-voice looked around. The other soldiers had fallen as well and were struggling to rise again through the spray of water. Archaeopteryxeswere powerful fighters but clumsy flyers.
“Looks like you have trouble dealing with that one. Just lending a wing,” Stormac said cheerfully above the noise of the splashing water.
Wind-voice was dumbstruck. “You almost killed him!”
Stormac hovered, bewildered. “Wind-voice! They were sent to kill you! The archaeopteryxes nearly roasted you! Have you forgotten?”
“Hurry!” shouted Winger. “We must fly!”
Confused, Wind-voice matched wing beats with his companions till the archaeopteryxes could no longer be seen through the screen of lakeside trees. Was he fighting for revenge now? A picture formed behind his eyes: He, as an old warrior perched on a hill, saying, “Yes! I made him pay for that,” and checking off a grudge out of a list so long that it tumbled down the mountain slope. Is this what my life would be? he thought, troubled.
Later that night, by their tiny campfire, Ewingerale came up to Wind-voice. Without a word, he carefully used a few strips torn from his vest to bind up the wound on Wind-voice’s foot. “Nothing is clear in life,” he whispered. Then, sitting back, he tuned his harp and started playing and singing a little song:
Why do we fight?
We often don’t know.
Isn’t the reason we fight murky like stew?
Thick like split-pea porridge.
We often don’t know what’s false and what’s true,
Just face it with some courage.
Wind-voice listened mournfully. He tried to smile back at Winger. The song helped a little, but confusion still swirled in his head. Had Stormac’s warrior logic been correct? Could it be truly right to kill a bird who had once been kind to him, even if that bird had been sent to kill him now? Or was there some other way?
As they traveled on, they passed fresh ruins of homes. Once they saw birds gathered together in an eerie cemetery, staring at the sky. “We’ll join the dead soon, we’ll join the dead soon,” a wren bawled. Vultures spanned overhead. When Stormac called to the mourners, asking what had happened, they only said, “Maldeor’s back.”
“Who is Maldeor?” Stormac demanded.
No answer.
“A league away, there are more carcasses.” They could faintly hear the croak of one vulture to another.
“I don’t care!” the second vulture howled from theground beside a still body. He looked wildly about. “For a long time I was glad the archaeopteryxes had taken over. Rotting carcasses that were unburied and unclaimed were bountiful. But it’s different when one of them is my own murdered sister.”
Wind-voice and his friends helped the stricken vulture bury his sibling. Winger cried softly:
The howling wind carries away our elegies.
Behold: white bones piled up at the graveyard,
Unburied.
Dear ones killed,
Neither by gods of thunder nor plague
But by toothed birds.
Can wailing call them back?
Can mourning comfort their souls?
Only ghostly songs echo.
We can’t let this
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