Silk was pushing the long handle of his hatchet through the rope around his waist when he heard a soft thump behind him. Dropping the trapdoor, he whirled. Leaping so that it appeared taller than many men, a huge bird flapped misshapen wings, shrieked like a dozen devils, and struck at his eyes with its hooked bill.
Instinctively, he threw himself backward onto the top of the trapdoor and kicked. His left foot caught the white-headed bird full in the body without slowing its attack in the least. Vast wings thundering, it lunged after him as he rolled away.
By some prodigy of good luck he caught it by its downy neck; but the carpels of its wings were as hard as any man’s knuckles, and were driven by muscles more powerful than the strongest’s. They battered him mercilessly as both tumbled.
The edge of the crenel between two merlons was like a wedge driven into his back. Still struggling to keep the bird’s cruel, hooked beak from his face and eyes, he jerked the hatchet free; a carpal struck his forearm like a hammer, and the hatchet fell to the stone pavement of the terrace below.
The white-headed one’s other carpal struck his temple and the illusory nature of the world of the senses was made manifest: it narrowed to a miniature, artificially bright which Silk endeavored to push away until it winked out.
NEW WEAPONS
A whole whorl swam beneath Silk’s flying, beclouded eyes—highland and tableland, jungle and dry scrub, savannah and pampa. The plaything of a hundred idle winds, buffeted yet at peace, he sailed over them all, dizzy with his own height and speed, his shoulder nudged by storm cloud, the solitary Flier three score leagues below him a darting dragonfly with wings of lace.
A black dragonfly that vanished into blacker cloud, into distant voices and the odor of carrion …
Silk choked on his own spew and spat; terror rose from the wheeling scene to foot him like a falcon, its icy talons in his vitals. He had blinked, and in that single blink the whorl had rolled over like a wind-tumbled basket or a wave-tossed barrel. The drifting skylands were
He sat up.
His mouth was wet with slime, his black robe discolored and stinking. He wiped them clumsily with numbed hands, then wiped his hand on his robe and spat again. The gray stone of the battlement had been crowding his left shoulder. The bird he had fought, the “white-headed one” of Mucor’s warning, was nowhere to be seen.
Or perhaps, he thought, he had only dreamed of a terrible bird. He stood, staggered, and fell to his knees.
His eyes closed of themselves. He had dreamed it all, his tortured mind writhing among nightmares—the horrible bird, the horned beasts with their incandescent stares, the miserable mad girl, his dark rope reaching blindly again and again for new heights, the silent forest, the burly burglar with his hired donkeys, and the dead man sprawled beneath the swinging, hanging lamp. But he was awake now, awake at last, and the night was spent— awake and kneeling beside his own bed in the manse on Sun Street. It was shadeup and today was Sphigxday; already he should be chanting Stabbing Sphigx’s morning prayer.
“O divine lady of the swords, of the gathering armies, of the swords…”
He fell forward, retching, his hands on the still-warm, rounded tiles.
The second time he was wiser, not attempting to stand until he was confident that he could do so without falling. Before he gained his feet, while he lay trembling beside the battlement, dawn faded and winked out. It was night again, Phaesday night once more—an endless night that had not yet ended and might never end. Rain, he thought, might wash him clean and clear his head, and so he prayed for rain, mostly to Phaea and Pas, but to Scylla as well, remembering all the while how many men (men better than himself) were imploring the gods as he did, and for better reasons: how long had they been praying, offering such small sacrifices as they could, washing Great Pas’s images in orchards of dying trees and in fields of stunted corn?
It did not rain, or even thunder.
Excited voices drifted to him from somewhere far away; he caught the name Hierax repeated over and over. Someone or something had died.
“Hierax,” Feather had replied at the palaestra a week or two before, fumbling after some fact associated with the familiar name of the God of Death. “Hierax is right in the middle.”
“In the middle of Pas and Echidna’s sons, Feather? Or of all their children?”
“Of their whole family, Patera. There’s only the two boys in it.” Feather, also, was one of a pair of brothers. “Hierax and Tartaros.”
Feather had waited fearfully for correction, but he, Patera Silk, had smiled and nodded.
“Tartaros is the oldest and Hierax is the youngest,”
Feather had continued, encouraged.
Maytera’s cubit stick tapped her lectern. “The older, Feather. And the younger. You said yourself that there were only two.”
“Hierax…” said someone far below the other side of the battlement.
Silk stood up. He head still throbbed, and his legs were stiff; but he did not feel as though he were about to gag again. The chimneys (they all looked the same now) and the beckoning trapdoor seemed an impossible distance away. Still reeling and dizzy, he embraced a merlon with both arms and peered over the battlement. As if it belonged to someone else, he noted that his right forearm was oozing blood onto the gray stones.
Forty cubits and more below, three men and two women were standing in a rough circle on the terrace, all of them looking down at something. For a slow half minute at least, Silk could not be certain what it was. A third woman pushed one of the others aside, then turned away as if in disgust. There was more talk until one of the armored guards arrived with a lamp.
The bird, Mucor’s white-headed one, lay dead upon the flagstones, appearing smaller than Silk could have
