"Oh, that's right, use a blade on a poor defenseless female!" his attacker cackled. "Well, if you want to use weapons . . ." It swooped away from him, and something cracked into the top of his head. It didn't hurt, but he felt a warm fluid oozing down through his hair—and it stank at least as bad as the bird!
What kind of fowl laid rotten eggs?
He pushed the mess back away from his forehead, shuddering at the feel of the goo, and got a good look at his attacker. It was indeed a foul fowl, a huge female bird, the size of a condor—but she had a woman's head, and pendulous breasts. Her hair had never heard of a comb, much less shampoo, and her feathers were filthy. Rod obviously wasn't smelling her natural odor, but that of her food—several years' worth of it.
A harpy.
Beyond him, the two knights were thrashing about, knocking harpies out of the air—but they weren't using their swords, so the birds just kept swooping back.
Rod could understand. Somehow it didn't feel right, using a sword on something that looked like a woman.
The harpy was screeching back to the attack like a dive-bomber, and Rod suddenly saw the advantages of a shield. Not having one, he glared at the egg that plummeted toward him and thought Feedback! at it. The egg halted, looped up, and began chasing the harpy. She saw it coming, gave a squawk of dismay, and swerved out of its way.
It swerved to follow.
"He's doing it," her buddy called. "Distract him, and it'll drop!" She suited the action to the word; her idea of distraction was aiming for the eyes, claws first.
Rod ducked, came up fast, and caught her under his arm, managing two good swats on the tail feathers before his nose couldn't take any more. She went off in a flutter of fluster—but the egg was still chasing her buddy.
"Take it back!" she cried, arrowing straight for Rod and swerving aside at the last minute. He saw it coming, with horror, and ducked, but not fast enough. The shell broke on his forehead and his head filled with the sulphurous reek. He swatted at his face, trying to clear the mess, and intercepted the talons that were reaching for his eyes. He caught them, and rage boiled up. Chivalry countered it, but chivalry was wearing thin. He swung the harpy around his head. She cried, "Don't you dareV so he did—he tossed her right into her colleague, and the two of them went down in a squawking, milling cloud of pinfeathers.
Rod barely had time to see Modwis and the squire flailing about them with quarterstaves, swatting at harpies. They didn't hit them, of course—the harpies sheered off, squawking, "You're not supposed to do that, boys!"
"You've got to play the game!"
Then the two who had chosen him were on him again, clawing and screeching. "You think it's time to stroke him, Phyla?"
"Don't be silly, Chlamys—he's not in a position to do you any good!"
Rod decided it was time to be offensive. "Charge!"
Fess leaped straight at the two harpies.
They got out of the way in time, with squawks of indignation. "Stay away from him, Phyla—you've got to associate with the right people."
"Yes, it's all in who you know."
"Where to, Rod?"
"Around in a circle, Fess. Get 'em chasing their tail feathers."
The heinous hens were right behind him. "Oh, so you think you can get away with it, eh? He doesn't know much about harpies, does he, Phyla?"
"Let's show him!" her mate cackled, and they peeled off into the blue, going for altitude.
Now! while they were away for a moment. Rod leaned down and caught up, not a staff, but a whole fallen branch, late of a pine tree. As the female Fokkers roared down at him, he swirled the branch around his head in a moulinet.
"Oh, isn't that nice! He's sweeping up for us!"
"No, wait, Phyla! He's…"
The bough crashed into her, sweeping them both out of the sky with a flurry of indignant screeches.
Modwis and the squire advanced, with determination and upraised staves.
"Get out, Chlamys! They look like they've got their mouths set for fried drumsticks!"
And they were off and running, flapping like albatrosses, barely managing to get into the air a few feet in front of the quarterstaves.
"Enough is enough!" Rod fumed.
One of the harpies banked back toward him. "Don't talk that way! You can't be honest and hope to get ahead!"
Rod swirled his bough at her, then squeezed his eyes shut and thought hard.
The squires shouted in surprise, and the knights exclaimed.
Rod looked up and saw three cats with twelve-foot wings sailing toward the flock with happy yowls.
The harpies shrieked with horror and flew for the coop.
"Art whole, Sir Knight?" Beaubras cried.
"I am well, though reeking." The old knight was trembling with rage. "How dare such filthy creatures so befoul a belted knight!"
"Be mindful of thy chivalry, brave paladin!"
"Why, so I am." The old knight finished wiping yolk off his golden helmet and unlimbered his lance. "Those brave felines are sadly outnumbered, Sir Beaubras! See! Even now, the birds of foul feather turn upon them!"
He was right. The whole flock had pulled together and were wheeling back with caws of delight, straight for the winged cats.
The cats yowled and dove straight on.
"What brave creatures!" Beaubras exclaimed.
"The cats are females, too!" Rod called. And they were; he'd had a last-minute inspiration.
"Then we must give them rescue! Charge!" And the old knight galloped off, lance spearing straight up toward the flock. His squire kicked his donkey and galloped after him, staff whirling.
The harpies saw them coming and changed their minds; this looked too much like an even fight. With squawks of dismay, the whole flock wheeled and headed back toward its roost in an old windmill.
The old knight streaked away in pursuit, his squire riding frantically after.
"I shall be sorry to lose their company," Beaubras mused, watching knight and squire depart, "though I cannot deny they are needed here."
"They've got the right stuff," Rod demurred, "but they weren't really all that great as fighters, you know."
"Nay—though who knows what doughty deeds they may once have done?"
Rod privately thought that Beaubras should know if anybody did, after all that talk, but he was polite enough not to say so.
The flock of harpies dove into the old windmill. It was dilapidated with the years, its sails torn and dusty. With a high, clear call, the old knight charged straight at it, his squire close behind him.
"Yet their faith in chivalry is inspiring," Sir Beaubras said.
"Oh, yes," Rod said softly. "Oh, yes."
Modwis nodded. " 'Tis such as they who will ever cheer the hearts of those who suffer for the doing of the deeds they believe to be right."
Chapter Nine
The sun was directly overhead, and Rod was beginning to think about lunch when something roared. He noticed a Doppler effect and looked up, just in time to see a nine-foot-tall man with a hideous face and six arms charging down at him.
Beaubras shouted, reining his horse around and couching his lance. Modwis blanched, but he pulled out his iron club.
What else could Rod do? He drew his sword.