A Whisper of Wings (64 page)

“It is the decision of this committee, and it will stand! A battle can only be won by the most careful deliberation. Hasty decisions…”

There was a chorus of agreement from the upper branches of the trees. After two days of debate, the defence council had achieved absolutely nothing.

Keketál sat on a log and watched the proceedings with contempt. Each idea brought before the house was bitterly contested; the tribes each sought to further their own ends. It was a chaos that would kill them all! Someone had to do something! Every minute brought the Bitch-Queen closer.

“Enough! Arguings go on long enough! Iss time to make decisions!”

Keketál leaned upon his blood-stained oita, and the other counselors all turned to stare.

“The army iss gathered! We must decide what to do with it. Iss just one little vote! Just make-a-do and let Keketál get back to work!”

“Lord Keketál reaps in many demon heads. This morning he has taken three. Bring us three demon heads and earn the right to speak against him.”

“I propose a motion. Dictatorship or freedom? Should we create a tyrant in emulation of the savages, or will we operate by democracy? Those in favour of dictatorship?”

The river gleamed in the moonlight like a strip of tempered steel. A black horde spilled down through the shadows and shot out across the water. Zhukora’s naked figure stood proud above the river bend and watched her children swarm forward through the night.

The enemy had gathered themselves together for the killing blow. They had conscripted the weavers and the shepherd boys and had told themselves that they had an army.

Zhukora had reacted with blinding speed. A third of her army was spilling out into the night. Daimïru would take them on a wide sweep about the enemy flank; the hammer to Zhukora’s anvil. Zhukora looked upon her world and found it good.

“Follow down the river to conceal your ïsha trails. There is a faultline in the earth five swoops down stream. Follow the path of ïsha disturbance. Leave no sign of your passing.

“I want two scout groups forward. Rooshïkii, take the van. Deal with any enemy contact immediately. There must be no survivors to report our move. In the morning you will have simply disappeared.”

“Yes Leader!”

The young scout chief cracked her wings out in a bow and then flung herself into the night.

From the cliffs above the river, Shadarii’s pilgrims watched the demons pass. Mrrimïmei stared at the Skull-Wings and let her face twist up with hate.

“An army. Zhukora’s out to rule the world, and we let it happen! We followed that mewling healer instead of staying to fight!” The woman ran a hand across her empty womb and spat. “Do you see what they’ve brought us to, these creatures with their visions and their missions! Power serves only power. Between Shadarii and her sister they will enslave a world!”

“They try to shape the world to match their own twisted visions. Our world is dying. We can only be free when we have rid ourselves of Shadarii and her sister.”

There was silence beneath the trees as the other Wrens slowly looked away. Totoru fearfully reached out to touch his fiancé, but Mrrimïmei turned her back and shoved the man aside.

Far down in the water, great yellow eyes swam up through the depts and watch the surging waves of warriors cross the riverbanks. Silver scales gleamed - great whiskers stirred in currents deeper than the waters and older than mere time. Grandfather Catfish puffed his gills in thought, then turned and swam silently downstream, swimming steadily towards the final meeting.

***

The autumn mornings were always sharp and cold. Dew lay across the grass to sparkle in the light as a magpie warbled joyous welcome to the dawn. Far overhead an ibis wheeled and slid across the trees. The world shone bright, the day grew sharp, the skies were wide and blue.

Across the open hilltops the Confederation army seethed like a vast swarm of ants. A hundred thousand men were arranged in a vast amorphous mass. Only one group showed any sense of order; Keketál’s tiny warband hung far back in the rear along with the outlandish Zebedii.

Keketál’s men stood at their posts in watchful silence. They were The Guard; the picked men of four divergent tribes. Though a mere two thousand strong, each one of them had fought hard to win his place. They came because a man had given them a sense of pride and purpose.

Lord Keketál the River’s Gift stood eating pickled onions from a jar. Captain Hupshu moved carefully downwind, much to the amusement of his men. Keketál munched on as though he had not a worry in the world. He paced amiably up and down the steady lines of his beloved Guard, crunching onions between his fine white teeth.

Suddenly Keketál froze. The nearest guardsman was watching him, his eyes hopefully following Keketál’s fingers as they dipped into the jar. The leader looked at his onions and gave a guilty blush.

“Uh, you like one? Iss good! Good onions. Iss wife making them! Delicious, yes?”

The warrior greedily accepted a dripping onion from the jar, then quickly passed the jug back down the line. Men swiftly dunked their fists and stuffed their faces with Keketál’s breakfast.

Keketál looked irritably down into the empty jug, then shot a hurt look at the troops. They smirked around their stolen onions and winked merrily at their chief. The leader fixed a beady eye upon his men, promising dire consequences in the evening.

From further down the hill there came a sudden sound of laughter, where a group of female slingers had tied bells to Harïsh’s tail. Moving awkwardly in her fine new armour, Harïsh inspected their handiwork. It seemed to please her. She saw Keketál grinning at her and flipped up her tail to show her rear.

Since returning from the forest, Harïsh had changed; something had happened in there, something so wonderful that Harïsh simply didn’t have the words to tell. Her husband looked at her and wondered at the sparkle in her eye.

Harïsh had gathered up three hundred shepherd girls and had formed the “Maiden Guard”. The womenfolk were more than welcome; they trained as long and hard as any of Keketál’s male warriors. What was more, those girls could shoot. Dear Rain but they could use those slings! Unlike the conscripts from the villages, these girls were true artists. They were the pride of the Confederation Guard.

They needed something to be proud of. Keketál looked out across the army and felt his spirits droop. The conscripts were poorly lead and badly frightened. Even from a distance Keketál could hear their officers still arguing about precedence. The men bore slings and farming implements, wooden forks and threshing flails. There were wheezing ancient men and pre-pubescent boys. The mighty army of the Confederation! Keketál’s heart sank as he felt disaster lurking in the sky.

Keketál deliberately discarded the face mask from his helmet, then hesitated briefly, bothered by half a memory. He put his back towards the enemy and turned to face his men.

Beside them, the tribesmen washed back and forth like a restless mist. The Confederation army was so vast that the flanks dwindled off into the haze. Keketál gazed in wonder at the spectacle and slowly shook his head.

A young girl came skidding through the tree tops at the army’s front. She made straight for Keketál’s side and skidded to a halt.

“M-My Lord, the savages are advancing from the North! The Bitch-Queen is at their head. Squadron seven has opened fire and are falling back as per your orders.”

“Reform the skirmishers behind our formation. Send their officer to me. I wish to thank her.”

Far off in the distance, a group of armoured maidens had burst out of the trees. They flew back fifty spans and sank to the ground. A second line of women dashed from the treeline and leapfrogged across the first, while the foremost group fired slings towards the forest, covering the move. The two ranks worked in perfect coordination - teamwork born through trust. They were well led, but then Keketál expected nothing less fromn his scout commander. Namïlii had turned out very well indeed.

With the demons approaching and the die already cast, Keketál drew his flute out of his belt and quietly began to play. He strolled unconcernedly along the lines and wove a spreading spell of calm.

Zhukora raced through the trees with branches whipping at her sides. She felt the wind rippling through her naked fur; the sun across her back and her army spread beside her like majestic wings of power. It moved to every thrust and motion of her will while Serpent screamed out overhead and howled for plainsman souls.

The strike force punched through the trees at reckless speed. The hillside loomed above; Zhukora screamed towards the open ground and let her spirits soar.

“Now!”

In one almighty surge, the two columns of warriors swerved aside. The battering rams of flesh and steel split left and right, deploying into two vast, unbroken waves. The black empress howled out her hunting scream, thrilling to the power that came raging through her soul.

“Kill, my children! Kill them! Let the earth be soaked with blood!”

The rear wave went to ground as the front ranks thundered on. Like a stormfront her warriors exploded from the trees. Slings fired, spears flashed, and suddenly the two armies met with a titanic crash of shock. Zhukora shrieked with lust as she led the Skull-Wings in the attack. Bodies whirled about her like a storm. The alpine teams each fought as a perfectly coordinated organism; ïsha flashed and hammered enemies from the air, and fleeing slingers screamed as spears stabbed down through their backs. High in the air, Zhukora stabbed out with her spear, laughing wildly as she pierced a plainsman’s lungs. She tumbled through the air like a shrieking meteor as demons raced beside her to fill the world with blood.