A straggler sheep suddenly burst from a bush, galloping away from the shore.
Whooping with glee, the huge bird sprang from the water and waddled after the ram on webbed feet that sported thick sharp talons. Its legs seemed fairly short, but only in relation to its huge body, for it shot over the ground faster than the ram. The sheep swerved behind a copse and the bird swung after it.
Then, suddenly, there was silence.
The companions stared at one another. “Dare we go to look?” Gregory asked.
“Dare we not?” Geoffrey turned and ran toward the grove.
They stepped carefully and quietly between the trunks until, parting a final layer of leaves, they saw the giant bird gulping down a last bloody morsel. Of the ram there was nothing left.
Alain swallowed hard, then asked, “How name you such a bird, scholar?”
“It is a Boobrie,” Gregory answered in a hushed voice. “I have read of such things but never thought them real.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t,” said Geoffrey, “until now.”
The Boobrie opened its beak and gave a cry of defiance. The men stared, for its call was a roar now, like that of a bull.
“The laugh must have been its mating call,” Gregory said.
“Or a cry of delight at sighting dinner,” Geoffrey said drily.
The Boobrie opened its beak again and emitted the whooping laugh as it waddled toward them.
Geoffrey and Alain drew their swords, but the Boobrie only roared the louder and waddled toward them—much faster than its short legs should have.
“Beware.” Gregory’s voice was oddly remote, his eyes glazed, even though he stared at the huge bird. “This is a thing of witch-moss, yes, but it has not been crafted to seem a faerie creature. It will not fear your swords.”
“Then it can be carved by them. Let us attack from both sides, Alain, so it shall pause to decide which one of us to repulse.”
“Indeed.” Alain circled to the right.
Geoffrey circled to the left. The bird turned its head to look first at him, then at Alain, roaring in anger and bafflement.
“One of us, at least, shall end it with a sharp stroke across the neck,” Alain said, determined.
“It shall not die so easily,” Gregory sighed, “and those claws can do great damage ere death stills them. It is of such a terror I have dreamed—a nightmare creature, but one that could really live.”
“Then take it apart!” Geoffrey said.
“I seek to,” Gregory answered, “but something seeks just as strongly to hold it together.”
Geoffrey’s eyes widened. “Some secret sorcerer, watching even as we fight?”
“If he does, he watches from a great distance,” Gregory answered. “I think it more likely a binding spell that lay quietly waiting for someone to try to dissolve the creature.”
“A plague upon the magus who made it!” Geoffrey spat. “This was no work of a shepherd telling a tale to his mates, brother, but a well-planned work of a master crafter!”
The bird made up its mind and charged at Gregory, roaring.
“It knows the source of its greatest peril!” Alain shouted as he sprinted after. “Set upon it, Geoffrey!” He caught up with the Boobrie and swung his sword in a flat arc that would have bisected anything it met.
Geoffrey leaped in from the side, swinging and shouting, “Orange sauce!”
The bird jerked to a halt in sheer surprise, turning to gape at Geoffrey.
“ ’Tis not a duck!” Alain protested.
The Boobrie’s head pivoted to glare narrow-eyed at Alain.
“Duck yourself!” Geoffrey cried, and Alain did, just in time for the Boobrie’s breast to slam into his shoulder as it charged. Its beakful of teeth closed on air instead of the throat for which it had aimed. From sheer reflex, Alain stabbed. “I spit thee, fowl!”
The Boobrie roared in rage and pain and curved its neck to bite at the nape of Alain’s neck. He leaped back, though, pulled the sword free, and the poignard-teeth closed on the blade.
Geoffrey leaped up behind it and slashed—but he only sheared tail feathers, for the bird was turning to this new threat even as he swung. It lunged at Geoffrey, wings raised high, eight-feet-long clubs poised to strike.
Gregory jumped in, caught a wing tip, and threw his whole weight against it, shouting, “Savory! Sage! In a batter with wine!”
The Boobrie honked in dismay as it swung around him.
“Beware those teeth, Gregory!” Geoffrey cried, dashing in to protect his little brother—and a wing cracked into his head, knocking him to the ground.
“I am safe!” Gregory cried, releasing the wing-tip and leaping back. “Up, brother! Save yourself!”
There was no need to worry about Geoffrey, though. The Boobrie was charging Gregory now, blood in its eye, beakful of teeth reaching out, wings arched to strike.
“Drumsticks!” Alain cried, and dived to wrap his arms around one yard-long leg.
The Boobrie hooted, flapping its wings in a vain attempt to balance on one webbed foot. Then it tumbled; its foot twisted in Alain’s grasp and the heel spur raked his chest. He ignored the pain and hung on, trying to clamber to his feet.
“Up, friend!” Geoffrey seized Alain’s collar and hauled him upright. “Loose the beast and let it fly!”
The Boobrie was indeed struggling to get back on its webs. The young men backed warily away, swords at the ready, but something hooted out on the lake.
The Boobrie’s head swung around.
The hooting turned into a burbling laugh.
The Boobrie roared in anger and ran heavily back toward the lake. It plunged into the water, leaving a few streaks of red in its wake, but gliding quite steadily nonetheless, answering the hooting mirth with its own chortling cry.
“How lucky for us that another Boobrie came to challenge it,” Alain said shakily.
“There is none other, but this one shall circle the lake for hours trying to find it, growing steadily more and more maddened as it fails to discover what it seeks,” Gregory said.
“I thought it was something of the kind.” Geoffrey nodded. “How did you do it, brother? Ventriloquism?”
“Of a sort,” Gregory acknowledged. “I studied the vibrations of its cry when first it called, so I knew how to modulate the air currents out over the water to make the sound of a challenger.”
“Well done, if a bit tardily,” Alain said.
“Tardily indeed!” Gregory tore open the prince’s doublet. “Let me see how deep that wound is, and how much inclined to infection!”
“Oh, kill the bacteria with a thought,” Geoffrey said crossly, glaring at the gouge in his thigh.
“As you do?” Gregory noted the direction of his gaze. “Well, knit the flesh back together, brother—or if you would like more objectivity, I shall do it for you. Are you angered from the pain, or because your hose are quite irretrievably stained?”
“Neither,” Geoffrey groused. “I simply dislike losing—or in this case, not winning.”
“Besides,” Alain said through clenched teeth, “he was counting on roast fowl with all the trimmings. Have a care, Gregory! It may be deeper than it looks.”
“The pain you feel is the wound closing,” Gregory assured him. He stood up, watching the torn flesh flow back together as he made cell bond to cell. “This is easy enough to do. I wonder how our enemy made it so hard to render the Boobrie back into the fungus of which it was made.”
“Perhaps it was simply the strength of its desire to live,” Geoffrey suggested.
“It is certainly convenient to have a wizard along when I’m apt to be wounded,” Alain said with a sigh of relief. He tested his wand. “I cannot see the slightest trace of a seam.”
“He is a passable tailor,” Geoffrey grunted. He looked up at another whooping laugh from the lake. “Are you certain there is no other male Boobrie about, brother?”