Tristan froze, holding his breath.
Several of the awful things stretched their long wings and half flew, half jumped into the trees at the farthest edge of the clearing. Their speed was astounding. Perching almost gracefully upon the bending branches, they closed their wings, becoming quite still. The silence surrounding this place was suddenly overwhelming, for now even the captive consuls did not move. And then the creatures’ eyes began to glow even more brightly.
The red within their orbs became brighter and brighter, until it was actually painful to look at. The beams of red light shot from them, tearing across the clearing and into the night. The intensely focused tunnels of scarlet illumination were so vivid that Tristan and the two others were forced to turn their heads.
They’re looking for us, the prince realized.
The three of them slid back down behind the crest of the knoll just as the scarlet beacons shot out in their direction. Once behind the lip, the prince looked up to see the red lights shooting crazily to and fro, crisscrossing almost constantly as they searched out any sign of movement. It seemed to go on for an eternity, imprisoning the three of them there. Finally the crimson beacons vanished. At an approving nod from Wigg the three of them slowly made their way back up to the crest and peered over it cautiously. The hideous birds were all back on the ground, again tending to their containment of the consuls.
Why are they doing this? Tristan wondered. Joshua said that they have the power to fly the consuls away. So why do they stay here, in this one place? Almost as soon as he thought the words, the prince got his answer.
Many of the birds turned their heads to one side of the clearing. Looking toward the edge of the glade, Tristan squinted into the darkness, trying to see whatever it was the creatures were looking at. A figure upon a horse appeared from out of the woods and rode slowly into the midst of the stricken consuls.
The birds were not alarmed, Tristan realized. They knew the rider.
The fellow jumped down from his horse, the spurs at the heels of his boots jangling lightly. Walking in between the various consuls, he began examining them closely. He was tall and lean, and looked to be dressed in brown leather. A dagger hung low at his left side, tied down to his thigh. He carried no sword. The cruel face that showed up in the rose-colored moonlight was sharp and angular, revealing sallow eyes and gaunt, sunken cheeks. His unkempt hair was long and dark. Then he turned just right in the moonlight, allowing the prince to see the miniature crossbow that was laced along the top of his right forearm. Tristan’s endowed blood immediately began to swirl hotly in his veins.
Scrounge.
Wigg turned to the prince, his raised eyebrow telling Tristan without the need for words that he was not to move, no matter what happened. His lips in a snarl, the prince could hardly contain his anger. Nonetheless, he nodded a curt agreement back to the old wizard and turned to lock his dark eyes upon the assassin in the glade—the man who had become the object of his unyielding hatred.
Scrounge stood before one of the larger birds. “They are in good condition this time?” he asked. “None of them are damaged severely?” The bird he was addressing tilted its grotesque head and made a harsh call into the night, apparently answering.
They understand, Tristan realized, amazed. These birds are not simple, mindless beasts. They can actually think!
Scrounge smiled at the awful thing. “Very well, then. Let’s begin.”
The bird began extending and retracting its deadly-looking claws, as if in apparent anticipation of what was to come, and then jumped upon one of the consuls lying on the ground. Straddling him, it pinned his arms to the earth with its long, dark claws. Another of them did the same to the consul’s feet as the remaining birds began to contain other men. One bird kept watch over those consults who were not yet restrained.
Scrounge smirked. He removed a dagger from inside his shirt, rather than reaching for the one at his side. In the bright moonlight the prince strained his eyes to look at the blade. It did not appear to be stained yellow. And then, with the methodical, painstaking precision of an expert butcher, the assassin began his grisly work.
Bending down, Scrounge reached for a pinioned consul’s right arm and pulled back the sleeve of his robe, exposing the tattoo of the Paragon. The consul tried frantically to get away, but he proved to be no match against the strength of the two horrific birds. With four quick, surgical strokes Scrounge excised the tattoo completely as the consul’s screams reverberated through forest. Then Scrounge lifted the tattoo, impaled on the end of his dagger, into the moonlight. He smiled as if it were some bloody, sick prize he had long coveted, then walked back to his horse and retrieved a leather satchel from the back of his saddle. He deposited the tattoo into the satchel and brought it back to the center of the clearing with him.
The consul he had just cut fainted. Scrounge and the birds ignored him as if he did not exist. Instead, Scrounge selected another of the captives and began the same process, the screams commencing anew into the cold night air.
And so it went, one victim after the other, the great, obscene birds holding down the consuls while the sadist employed his dagger. The screams and the begging ripped into the hearts of the wizard, the prince, and the gnome as they watched silently, helplessly, from the knoll.
Wigg lowered his head in the midst of all the madness, tears coming from his eyes. He looked over at Shannon and the prince and again shook his head, silently telling them both that they must also do nothing, despite how much it hurt. Tristan’s eyes were not full of tears. Instead they held the same kind of darkness Wigg had seen in them whenever the Chosen One had thought of Kluge, the previous commander of the Minions of Day and Night.
Despite how much Wigg wanted to reach out a hand to try to stop what was happening, he was still unsure of the birds’ powers. He looked over again into Tristan’s face, knowing how hard it was for him to remain still.
He will face Scrounge before this is all over, Wigg thought. And when the time is right, I will not try to stop him.
And then, blessedly, the assassin’s work was finished.
Scrounge picked up all of the tattoos from the ground, carefully placing them into his satchel. Turning to the birds, he said, “Take these consuls to the master. And be careful with them. They are no longer to be harmed. Should any of you drop one, you will pay for your mistake with your life. Go now.”
With that each of the great, awful things grasped one of the consuls firmly in its claws. Tristan noticed that the birds now seemed to be concerned for the men, rather than simply trying to contain them in the glade. They took the greatest of care when gripping them with their long, black talons. Then they flew up and away. For a moment their silhouettes, bizarre-looking with the consul’s bodies dangling below their wings, flashed across the rose-tinted light of the moons. As a group they wheeled into the dark sky and were gone.
Scrounge remained alone on the blood-stained grass in the middle of the clearing. For a moment he simply stood there, looking at the moons, a wicked smile creeping across his angular face.
Placing one of his hands into the satchel, the assassin ran his fingers luxuriously through the twelve bloody pieces of human flesh he had obtained. He then walked back to his horse, tied the satchel to the back of his saddle, and galloped away. The sound of his mount’s hooves eventually retreated into nothingness.
Someday, Tristan swore to himself as he gripped the hilt of his dreggan.