without even seeing the deadly talons scraping at the air just above his head, that he'd been attacked by a dactylbird—one of Avalon's most vicious predators. And unlike most predators, these birds killed not just for food—but for sport.
Flying, ever since that first astonishing discovery, had never felt entirely joyous. Too many times he'd lost control in a sudden storm; too many times he'd caught a branch with his wing tip. And then there were those memories, impossible to push aside, of a vivid dream where batlike wings—his own, perhaps—had attacked the great wizard Merlin.
Yet despite its flaws, flying offered plentiful advantages. He could, thanks to his wings, avoid trouble. Evade predators. And maybe even stay alive long enough to make the greatest discovery of all: what sort of creature he really was.
Until the dactylbird spied him from above—and plunged down for the kill.
Basil fell, spinning wildly. With great effort, he extended one bony elbow and finally steadied himself. Spreading his small, ragged wings, he regained control at last. He swooped, flying over the pointed tops of spruce trees that grew so densely that they looked, from the air, like a giant patch of deep green moss covering the land.
At that instant, the dactylbird shot again out of the clouds. He raised his dagger-sharp talons, plunging straight at this creature who had eluded him one time too many. His heavy-lidded eyes gleamed a dull red, smoldering with anger. For he'd already wasted too much effort on this miserable little thing who looked less like a bird than like a shriveled bat with a lizard's body.
Basil's cupped ears stiffened at the sound of whooshing air. Without even taking the time to look, he raised one wing and banked sharply to the left. Simultaneously, the dark shape of the dactylbird shot through the very spot he'd been flying half a second before.
The attacker shrieked in rage, a piercing cry so loud that it echoed among the spruce trees below. Within those branches, many a squirrel and hummingbird and snake froze, paralyzed with fear, dropping the acorn or blade of grass or tasty beetle they had been carrying. A dactylbird's approach meant only one thing: Some creature was about to die.
Above the treetops, Basil swung around, veering out of the killer bird's path. What to do? How to escape?
Anxiously, his eyes scanned the area, searching for any possible cover. In theory, the dense green boughs of the spruce trees might work. But as high as he was now, even the tallest of them were too far away. He could never fly down fast enough to reach them before the dactylbird's talons sliced him to shreds. Except for one dead spruce, whose crown rose above the rest, no tree was near enough to shield him. And the dead spruce's branches didn't even hold a single green needle.
At once, his eyes glowed with an idea. A rash, utterly desperate idea. Though it was almost certain to fail, it was his only hope. And if, by some miracle, it worked . . .
The dactylbird shrieked again. Flapping his huge, angular wings, he flew straight at Basil. His murderous talons slashed at the air; with every powerful beat of his wings, he seemed to leap closer.
Releasing a shrill, terrified cry, Basil spun around and flew with all his might toward the dead spruce. His oversize ears, flattened against his head by the wind rushing past, could no longer hear his enemy's wingbeats. Yet all Basil's instincts told him that the killer bird was gaining swiftly.
Furiously flapping his scrawny wings, he drew nearer and nearer to the dead tree. His slim chest heaved with the effort, working so hard that every muscle felt ready to burst. Yet he kept going, flying faster than he'd ever flown before.
Not fast enough, though. Right behind, the dactylbird bore down on him. The attacker's beak snapped at Basil's scaly tail, nearly biting the little knob at the tip.
As rapidly as he approached the dead tree, Basil knew he'd never get there in time. Just as
Flying, ever since that first astonishing discovery, had never felt entirely joyous. Too many times he'd lost control in a sudden storm; too many times he'd caught a branch with his wing tip. And then there were those memories, impossible to push aside, of a vivid dream where batlike wings—his own, perhaps—had attacked the great wizard Merlin.
Yet despite its flaws, flying offered plentiful advantages. He could, thanks to his wings, avoid trouble. Evade predators. And maybe even stay alive long enough to make the greatest discovery of all: what sort of creature he really was.
Until the dactylbird spied him from above—and plunged down for the kill.
Basil fell, spinning wildly. With great effort, he extended one bony elbow and finally steadied himself. Spreading his small, ragged wings, he regained control at last. He swooped, flying over the pointed tops of spruce trees that grew so densely that they looked, from the air, like a giant patch of deep green moss covering the land.
At that instant, the dactylbird shot again out of the clouds. He raised his dagger-sharp talons, plunging straight at this creature who had eluded him one time too many. His heavy-lidded eyes gleamed a dull red, smoldering with anger. For he'd already wasted too much effort on this miserable little thing who looked less like a bird than like a shriveled bat with a lizard's body.
Basil's cupped ears stiffened at the sound of whooshing air. Without even taking the time to look, he raised one wing and banked sharply to the left. Simultaneously, the dark shape of the dactylbird shot through the very spot he'd been flying half a second before.
The attacker shrieked in rage, a piercing cry so loud that it echoed among the spruce trees below. Within those branches, many a squirrel and hummingbird and snake froze, paralyzed with fear, dropping the acorn or blade of grass or tasty beetle they had been carrying. A dactylbird's approach meant only one thing: Some creature was about to die.
Above the treetops, Basil swung around, veering out of the killer bird's path. What to do? How to escape?
Anxiously, his eyes scanned the area, searching for any possible cover. In theory, the dense green boughs of the spruce trees might work. But as high as he was now, even the tallest of them were too far away. He could never fly down fast enough to reach them before the dactylbird's talons sliced him to shreds. Except for one dead spruce, whose crown rose above the rest, no tree was near enough to shield him. And the dead spruce's branches didn't even hold a single green needle.
At once, his eyes glowed with an idea. A rash, utterly desperate idea. Though it was almost certain to fail, it was his only hope. And if, by some miracle, it worked . . .
The dactylbird shrieked again. Flapping his huge, angular wings, he flew straight at Basil. His murderous talons slashed at the air; with every powerful beat of his wings, he seemed to leap closer.
Releasing a shrill, terrified cry, Basil spun around and flew with all his might toward the dead spruce. His oversize ears, flattened against his head by the wind rushing past, could no longer hear his enemy's wingbeats. Yet all Basil's instincts told him that the killer bird was gaining swiftly.
Furiously flapping his scrawny wings, he drew nearer and nearer to the dead tree. His slim chest heaved with the effort, working so hard that every muscle felt ready to burst. Yet he kept going, flying faster than he'd ever flown before.
Not fast enough, though. Right behind, the dactylbird bore down on him. The attacker's beak snapped at Basil's scaly tail, nearly biting the little knob at the tip.
As rapidly as he approached the dead tree, Basil knew he'd never get there in time. Just as
Similar Books
