Bryan pulled him roughly aside. “Where?” he demanded again. “You have to tell me where.”
Tinothy pointed absently around the side of the mountain toward a wide valley. “Down there and moving south,” he explained, his voice a monotone, purely expressionless.
“How many?”
“Dozens. Hundreds, maybe.”
Bryan looked again at the crawling line of fleeing people along the road, beginning to understand.
“Forget the talons,” said Lennard. “We have to get home.” Several others echoed the young man’s sentiments, but Bryan realized a different need.
“No,” he said quietly. “There is nothing we can do for Corning. We know not if the town is still standing, and we are two full days’ march away.”
“Then what are we to do?” demanded Siana, one of the three girls in the band. “We cannot just sit here and watch as our people are destroyed.”
Bryan had no intention of doing anything of the kind. “Talons in the mountains,” he said grimly. “Do you understand their purpose?”
“They shan’t catch us!” Siana retorted, as if the notion that any talons could find them in this wild land of mountains and valleys was purely absurd.
“Moving south,” Bryan growled at her, at all of them. “Toward Doerning’s Walk.” He pointed down to the road, the others began to catch on. Doerning’s Walk was the swiftest route out of the northeastern tip of the Baerendels, an intercepting course for the main road of the western fields.
“Too many for us,” Siana remarked, the anger gone from her voice now.
“You mean to stop them?” Lennard balked.
“Not stop them,” Bryan replied. “We are but a few.” The grim light in his eyes when he looked around at his friends inspired their courage and determination. “But we can slow them down.”
“What do you plan?” asked Siana.
“We can get to Doerning’s Walk before them,” Bryan replied. “There are narrow trails where a few people and a few cunningly placed traps can bottle up a larger force for a long time.”
“That is our duty,” Jolsen Smithyson piped in. He looked back to the smoke cloud, knowing that if talons had indeed attacked the city, his father would have stood resolutely against them. He could not know, however, that his father was already dead.
“You are best with the bow,” Bryan said to Lennard. “Go with Tinothy and flank this talon band. A few well-placed arrows should turn them from their course, or at the least slow them. You must buy us some time so we can prepare the party near Doerning’s Walk.”
Andovar thundered past the leading edge of the refugee line, his cries and determination lending them some hope. “Ride!” they cheered after him, guessing that he was the herald who would alert all of Calva. “The King will come!” others shouted, punching determined fists into the sky, knowing that to be their only hope.
When the sky before the ranger darkened, and that behind him turned crimson with the setting of the sun, he did not stop. His horse, spurred by the magical urging of the witch’s daughter, continued its tireless pounding pace, and no weariness came over Andovar’s grim visage.
He crossed the great river and through the streets of Rivertown, crying, “Talons! Talons! Gather your arms and courage!”
The brave folk of the town, already more than a little suspicious at the sight of the clouds of smoke on the western horizon, rushed from their homes, shops, and taverns to heed the call of the ranger. A fresh horse was offered, but Andovar, trusting in the magic of Rhiannon, declined.
And then he was off again, to the few towns along his course, and beyond, to Pallendara and the only hope.
Lennard wiped the sweat from his fingers, then replaced them on the bowstring. A hundred yards below him marched the talon force, clearly visible along an open trail.
“How many?” an obviously frightened Tinothy dared to whisper.
“Let fly a few,” Lennard replied. “It will take them many minutes to get up that slope. Are you ready?”
On a nod from Tinothy, the bowstrings twanged.
Lennard, an amazing archer, had his fifth shot in the air before the first ever struck. He had gauged the distance correctly, but still it was more luck than skill that three of his five hit their mark, dropping talons to the ground. Tinothy was less successful, but still managed to get one.
The talon ranks split apart in confusion as the wretched creatures dove for cover, not even able to discern the direction of the hidden attackers.
A smile erupted on Lennard’s face. “Take that, dogs!” he cried as loudly as he dared. But when he turned his widespread grin upon Tinothy, he saw that his young friend wasn’t sharing his elation.
For the tip of a cruel spear prodded through the front of Tinothy’s chest.
They hadn’t figured on scouts.
Bryan peeked under the long, flat stone. “Deeply washed out,” he reported. “If we dig it out more, it will not support their weight on this end.” Heeding the command of the halfelf who had become their leader, Siana and three others set about the task.
All along this narrow stretch of trail, with rocky drops on either side, the majority of the group went to work, setting trip wires and deadfalls, and loosening stones along the edges. Thirty yards ahead, in a thick copse of trees, Jolsen Smithy-son led the work on camouflaged barricades and trip holes.
“Will this be the last?” Siana asked.
“The last big one,” Bryan replied. “Take as much time as you can; this one, above all the others, has to work if we are to have any chance of slowing the talons.”
“And how much time is that?” Siana asked grimly.
Bryan shrugged. “I’m going out to scout for Lennard and Tinothy,” he explained. “And for our guests.”
Tinothy dropped facedown, and an ugly talon leaped astride the dead boy and tore its barbed spear from his back, twisting the weapon as it came out, reveling in the gore.
Solely on instinct, Lennard snapped his foil out and poked the vicious creature. The tip of the slender blade slipped in through the talon’s makeshift armor, but the weight of the creature as it fearlessly bore in bent the foil over and snapped it in half. Lennard fell back, barely dodging the first jab of the crimson-stained spear.
Again Lennard’s luck prevailed, for as he stumbled, the eager talon overbalanced and came crashing down on top of him. The remaining half of Lennard’s foil, pinned point out between Lennard and the falling monster, did not bend so easily.
The talon thrashed wildly for a moment, bruising Lennard about the face with heavy blows. The young warrior thought his life was surely at its end, but then the thrashing stopped and the talon, quite dead, lay still. Lennard took a long moment to find his breath, then gingerly rolled the thing off him. His foil, still impaled deep in the talon’s chest, went over with it.
He knew Tinothy was dead, but he cradled his friend gently, not knowing whether to try to carry the body back with him or find a place for it here. The decision was stolen from him, though, as the sound of approaching talons reminded him that he was far from out of danger. He scooped up Tinothy’s sword and quiver and scrambled off over the rocks.
Flopping footsteps and angry grunts followed him every step. Stumbling, blinded by tears of remorse and fear, Lennard ran on, down the back paths toward Doerning’s Walk, toward his friends. If he could only get to them!
Most of the sounds receded, but Lennard’s sense of dread followed him vividly. He splashed into a mountain stream and cut around a huge boulder, looking back over his shoulder for the expected pursuit.
And in his haste, slammed blindly into the chest of a waiting talon.
Lennard bounced back against the stone, glancing up just in time to see doom, in the form of a talon sword, descending upon his head.
He screamed and closed his eyes, and hardly heard the clang as the blade met an intercepting shield and was deflected harmlessly aside.
And then Bryan was between Lennard and his attacker, slashing his elven sword in a quick cut across and then back. The talon dropped its weapon, choosing instead in the last fleeting moments of its life to clutch its spilling guts. Without so much as a grunt, it slipped to its knees in the cold stream.