happen—the world, turning into a graveyard! Wind-voice thought. “I must find the hero and help stop the archaeopteryxes,” he said aloud.
The marshland grew drier, turning into a forest. Wind-voice’s injured foot worsened. The wound had gotten infected, and the foot was beginning to swell. Stormacasked directions of a small, frightened hummingbird, who told them the way to a beech tree in a thicket where a healer, a shrike named Rhea, could be found.
Just outside her bush, Rhea, wearing a faded purple shawl, sat tending to the wounded birds. When Wind-voice showed Rhea his right foot, she applied a pungent paste to it and bandaged it. “Here, drink this and you will feel better.” The delicate old shrike gave Wind-voice a cup of crabapple cider. “There is something I must attend to. Rest here as long as you wish.”
She went deeper into her thorny bush.
Wind-voice wondered if it was his imagination, but he heard faint murmurings, as if from voices in the distance. Then a small finch, one wing wrapped in a clumsy bandage, came through the door and asked for the healer.
“She went through there,” Wind-voice said, and hobbled over to call her. He found that the murmuring voices grew louder as he went farther into the bush. From the wide eyes of Stormac and Ewingerale, he knew they heard them too.
They ducked under a low branch of the bush and found themselves inside a tree. The bush concealed a secret entrance to the beech tree, which had a hollow trunk. Cracks in the bark above let in light. Many birdswere crowded into the hole, some with battle scars, some wearing the robes of scribes. Young and old alike perched, listening. Not all were forest birds. A sandpiper twitched uncomfortably in a pile of wood chips. A bright lyrebird made a splash of color in the corner.
The three companions slid into the back row, concealing themselves behind a dry old branch with a pointed tip.
“…as I have said, a new threat seems to be gathering,” a troubled chiffchaff was saying. “That knight, Maldeor, the one who lost the prince and was abandoned to die, is alive. And he’s back. It’s rumored that he dethroned Hungrias himself! He’s searching, too, searching for something, and killing whatever gets in his way. You all know of his notorious Deadly Fate move.”
“What should we do, then? How can we protect ourselves?” one of the younger birds said.
The dry old branch beside the three listeners suddenly became animated. The pointy tip opened and said, “Aye! Tell us!” The thing was not wood at all but a bird, a tawny frogmouth, so camouflaged that they had not recognized him.
A gruff voice rang out. It belonged to a proud old mockingbird. “I’ll tell you what we must not do. A false notion spreads fast. Put a drop of ink into water andpretty soon everything’s cloudy. Some have the false idea that we can ally ourselves with the archaeopteryxes. The Three Brethren have done it already. See where it has gotten them! The crows and ravens and mynas are no better than servants.”
Wind-voice heard Stormac, beside him, draw in a sharp breath.
“If you befriend them, they’ll turn on you or use you like a tool,” the mockingbird went on. “We must stay apart from them. Don’t be sympathizers or weaklings.”
“You speak in generalizations,” Rhea the healer argued. “‘They,’ ‘we’? We are all birds, all of the class Aves. Can an entire race truly be evil?”
“Well, yes, I suppose you have some individuals who are different,” the mockingbird conceded. “But just a few; and how important are those few? Most are our enemies and must be destroyed. Yes, there is another false notion that we must guard against: the idea that help will be arriving soon. There is no help but ourselves. Believe in such a thing and we’ll be languishing, vulnerable. We must—”
Wind-voice crept out from behind the frogmouth. “But a hero is coming! We just have to prepare for him and help
The marshland grew drier, turning into a forest. Wind-voice’s injured foot worsened. The wound had gotten infected, and the foot was beginning to swell. Stormacasked directions of a small, frightened hummingbird, who told them the way to a beech tree in a thicket where a healer, a shrike named Rhea, could be found.
Just outside her bush, Rhea, wearing a faded purple shawl, sat tending to the wounded birds. When Wind-voice showed Rhea his right foot, she applied a pungent paste to it and bandaged it. “Here, drink this and you will feel better.” The delicate old shrike gave Wind-voice a cup of crabapple cider. “There is something I must attend to. Rest here as long as you wish.”
She went deeper into her thorny bush.
Wind-voice wondered if it was his imagination, but he heard faint murmurings, as if from voices in the distance. Then a small finch, one wing wrapped in a clumsy bandage, came through the door and asked for the healer.
“She went through there,” Wind-voice said, and hobbled over to call her. He found that the murmuring voices grew louder as he went farther into the bush. From the wide eyes of Stormac and Ewingerale, he knew they heard them too.
They ducked under a low branch of the bush and found themselves inside a tree. The bush concealed a secret entrance to the beech tree, which had a hollow trunk. Cracks in the bark above let in light. Many birdswere crowded into the hole, some with battle scars, some wearing the robes of scribes. Young and old alike perched, listening. Not all were forest birds. A sandpiper twitched uncomfortably in a pile of wood chips. A bright lyrebird made a splash of color in the corner.
The three companions slid into the back row, concealing themselves behind a dry old branch with a pointed tip.
“…as I have said, a new threat seems to be gathering,” a troubled chiffchaff was saying. “That knight, Maldeor, the one who lost the prince and was abandoned to die, is alive. And he’s back. It’s rumored that he dethroned Hungrias himself! He’s searching, too, searching for something, and killing whatever gets in his way. You all know of his notorious Deadly Fate move.”
“What should we do, then? How can we protect ourselves?” one of the younger birds said.
The dry old branch beside the three listeners suddenly became animated. The pointy tip opened and said, “Aye! Tell us!” The thing was not wood at all but a bird, a tawny frogmouth, so camouflaged that they had not recognized him.
A gruff voice rang out. It belonged to a proud old mockingbird. “I’ll tell you what we must not do. A false notion spreads fast. Put a drop of ink into water andpretty soon everything’s cloudy. Some have the false idea that we can ally ourselves with the archaeopteryxes. The Three Brethren have done it already. See where it has gotten them! The crows and ravens and mynas are no better than servants.”
Wind-voice heard Stormac, beside him, draw in a sharp breath.
“If you befriend them, they’ll turn on you or use you like a tool,” the mockingbird went on. “We must stay apart from them. Don’t be sympathizers or weaklings.”
“You speak in generalizations,” Rhea the healer argued. “‘They,’ ‘we’? We are all birds, all of the class Aves. Can an entire race truly be evil?”
“Well, yes, I suppose you have some individuals who are different,” the mockingbird conceded. “But just a few; and how important are those few? Most are our enemies and must be destroyed. Yes, there is another false notion that we must guard against: the idea that help will be arriving soon. There is no help but ourselves. Believe in such a thing and we’ll be languishing, vulnerable. We must—”
Wind-voice crept out from behind the frogmouth. “But a hero is coming! We just have to prepare for him and help
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