Scabbard's Song (13 page)

side of the room from Humbold. Oh, you, said Soldier, dully. Id forgotten about you. Do you need feeding? Im not sure what I can get you certainly not worms. Im just about to go out and get some hay for the mare. Nope. Ill eat what you eat, later. You go and get the hay. Ill watch His Majesty over there. Humbold looked up and stared hard at the bird. Oooops, said the raven. Touched a sore spot. Soldier went out into the wind again, which was now raging through the trees and round the eaves of the cabin. He visited the lean-to where the ass stood and pondered on whatever asses think about. The lean-to served as a wood store and corral, having a hollow-log watertrough beneath it and a hayrack fitted to the wall of the cabin. The cabin itself was a wayfarers resting place, probably for riders, messengers between cities. He took an armful of hay and went back into the cabin, placing the hay on the floor for his mare, who began munching gratefully. Humbold said, The horse has shit on the floor. Soldier made no reply. She had indeed. There was a nice steamy pile on the boards behind her, the smell of which had begun to pervade Soldiers frozen nostrils. He took two firewood logs and scooped up the mess between them and threw the whole lot through the window. Happy now? he said to Humbold. The horse should be outside. You will be the first to leave, not her. Well said, cried the raven, fluttering his wings. Priority to animals and birds, I say. Wheres that grub, Soldier? Coming up. Soldier took his saddlebag to the fire. Wash your hands first, the raven said. I dont mind the taste of horse shit, but it does give me the runs. After the meal they each went to their own side of the cabin. Soldier hung his scabbard over the roughly hewn bedpost, knowing it would wake him if Humbold tried anything in the night. But before they managed to get to sleep, the raven let out a shriek. Soldier responded immediately, leaping off his bunk and going to the window where the black bird was looking out into the night. What is it? Drots, said the raven. Thousands of them. Drots were bloodsucking fairies, not much bigger than a mans index finger. They were fond of drinking blood. They liked humans because of the lack of fur and feathers: their skin was easy to get at. Drots bit into the flesh, or scratched it with their sharp nails, and then lapped up the blood. A man so caught in the open might die of bleeding from a thousand cuts. As it was, they were inside, but needed to block up all the entrances and exits to prevent the drots from coming in. Quickly, the chimney, said Soldier to Humbold. There was no argument from his enemy: the pair of them had to work together now if they were to survive. Humbold immediately threw water on the fire and began frantically stuffing rags in the hole in the roof to block it. Soldier did the same to the window. Then the pair of them began working on the cracks in the floorboards and round the door jamb. The activity was feverish, while the bird strutted up and down, yelling superfluous instructions. From outside there came a noise like grain falling in a chute1 like hail hammering on a slate rooftop. It came swishing in on all sides of the cabin and began battering at the door, the window, the walls. It sounded as if there were a million drots out there, coming in like a cloud of locusts, their tiny wings rasping together. Soldier had experienced drots before, but not in such vast numbers. Down in Guthrum they were controlled by greater pests, by larger predators dragons and such who ate them in numbers. Here it seemed they bred uncontrolled. Such a multitude of drots, such a swarm, could suck a body dry of blood within minutes. They had to keep them out or they would be engulfed. Over there, the door! Get something in that crack! The drots knew they were in there. They could smell the horse dung and the sweat, and they wanted the blood. They flew at the cabin as if they could batter it down with their tiny bodies. Wave upon wave of them swept into the walls and hit the roof, hoping to force a passage. Others, single drots with a little more intellect, attempted to find holes by which to enter. Never before in such numbers, said Humbold, staring at the roof, on which fairies were landing like arrows from a thousand archers. If they get in, were doomed. Then the clattering noise decreased. Suddenly it went quiet outside. Whats happening? asked Soldier, tempted to take one of the rags away and peek through a hole. What are they doing now? I cant believe theyre gone. They must be up to something. Almost before the words were out of his mouth there came a creaking sound above the noise of the wind. It sounded like a swaying tree. The noise went back and forth, back and forth. The occupants of the cabin all looked at each other, wondering whether it was the drots who were making that sound, or whether the wind had increased in strength. Let me look, said the raven. Just a small hole for me to poke my head outside. Soldier looked at Humbold, who nodded. They found a knot hole in one of the walls which had actually been plugged with clay. Soldier took a knife and prised the clay out, until there was a sufficiently large opening for the bird to poke his head through. Now watch your eyes, warned Soldier. If any are near, theyll go for your eyes. Im not daft, muttered the bird. Ill whip my head back in so fast youll be blinded by the speed . . . You wont believe this, said the raven. What? chorused the two men. The drots theyre all gathered in a thick bunch like one of those balls of swarming bees. Theyre right on the tip of a tall pine tree. Uh-uh! The tree is bending towards the cabin . . . bending . . . bending. Theyre using their combined weight to snap the trunk of the tree so that it comes crashing down on this dwelling, hoping, I suppose, to crush it. Here it comes - here it comes OH! The reason for the birds last yell became apparent when he withdrew his head from the hole and was seen to have pine needles on and around his beak. The tree had crashed down, narrowly missing the cabin. One of its branches slapped the roof, but failed to dislodge or penetrate the thick turf that covered it. Even should the drots get through this turf, they would still be unable to enter the cabin, for the ceiling was made of solid pine trunks, pegged together and caulked with hard clay. Before they could close the knot hole in the wall a drot managed to squeeze into it and wriggle through. It whirred around the room like a lone mosquito, looking to draw blood. Soldier swatted at it with a rag, trying to kill or stun it. However, the drot, a silver female (the males being a dark blue, except for the king drots, which were a pastel mauve), finally landed on Humbolds cheek and instantly sank its teeth into his upper lip. Humbolds eyes watered in pain. He slapped at the creature, managing to strike it. The drot flew across the room with a mouthful of torn lip. She hit the wall and bounced down on to the floor, where Humbold trod on her. There was a nasty crack like a cockroach being squashed. Soldier picked up the flattened fairy and studied it. The creature was quite beautiful in many ways, except for its face. It was well formed in its body-shape, much like a slim, fit human. It rested in his right hand, its head on his fingertips and its feet in the hollow of his palm. Close to, Soldier could see the hairline stripe that went lengthways all around its body, going over the head and under the crotch, as if it were an almond nut or bivalve seashell, able to be prised into two perfect halves. There were sharply pointed ears on its head, large glaring eyes, and an expression on its face of utter fury. It was this which made the creatures countenance ugly. It had no malformed features or distorted organs, but the expression of rage and viciousness transformed what might otherwise have been the visage of an angel into the ugliest of beings. Such beautiful wings, though, he murmured, almost to himself. Look how they sprout from her back into the most delicate of gossamer appendages though brittle and shell-like to the touch. Strong too. Your boot has made no impression on them, Humbold. I swear you could use one to slice a hock of ham, they seem so sharp at the edges. Look at the filigree patterns, too, branching out into maps. What a shame these creatures are so hell-bent on blood . . . Yet they are, growled Humbold, having trouble in staunching the flow from his lip. Damned infernal creatures. Outside, the attacks on the door were being renewed, as the multitude flew at it repeatedly, trying to force it off its hinges. Then it went ominously quiet again and it seemed apparent they were up to more tricks. The drots intentions soon became obvious. There was a terrible thump! on the roof and the whole cabin shuddered. This was repeated several times, until the ceiling began to bow inwards, clearly under a great weight. Theyre lifting boulders, collectively, and dropping them from a height on to the roof. We must prepare ourselves. There, that birch broom in the corner should do as a weapon, said Soldier. Ill use this frying pan. Bird, youd better just attack with your own weapons. Beak and claws, never fail. At that moment a rock came crashing through the ceiling, narrowly missing the raven, and thudded into the floor planks. Within seconds the drots began pouring through the hole, which was mercifully not too large. Soldiers mare kicked and whinnied, stamping around in one corner as the drots attacked her. She was no slouch at using her own teeth though, snapping at the fairies and biting them in two. Soldier began swatting the buzzing creatures with the frying pan, while Humbold fought them off with the broom. The raven flew back and forth, snatching them out of the air with its beak and snapping them, letting them drop to the floor. Even as he was being attacked and bitten, Soldier picked up a three-legged stool and jammed it into the hole in the ceiling, crushing several fairies with the rim as he did so. Then he set about swiping those in the room, batting them with the pan and striking them against the walls and floor. Some lay wriggling there, broken, but still with that same snarling mouth and glaring eyes, never willing to admit defeat. Soldier tramped around, squashing those underfoot, hearing and feeling the sickening crack of their bony forms on the leather of his soles. It was a disgusting battle, which set his teeth on edge and made his stomach churn. This was not something he enjoyed doing, breaking fairies, but it was a matter of life or death. If they did not maim and kill the drots, they would be overwhelmed and their bones stripped cleaner than pale driftwood on a sunbaked beach. Help me here! yelled Humbold, flailing blindly with his witchs broom, as his face became encrusted with snapping drots. I cant see - I cant see . . . He went too near the horse, who was already mad with fear and kicking out with her back hoofs. She trod on Humbolds foot, making him scream in pain as she broke a bone there. It was mayhem and madness, what with the mare, the bird, the men and a roomful of flying rats. The raven landed on Humbolds head and began pecking away the drots, shaking them like worms, then tossing them aside. Eventually the ex-kings face emerged, covered in blood, but the eyes intact. Humbold had been lucky and had managed to close his lids before being bitten on the eyeballs. One drot was still stuck halfway up one of his nostrils though. Its silvery legs were kicking furiously, hammering against his teeth. Humbold pinched these legs between thumb and forefinger and pulled it out, yelling in pain as several nose hairs were torn away with the fairy. In his anger he bit the drot in two and spat the halves on to the floor. We need fire, growled Soldier, during a respite, before they breach our defences again. The tinder box was used to light some paper, which in turn was introduced to some faggots, and finally both Soldier and Humbold were wielding blazing torches. The sealed room began to fill with smoke. Soon, though, the stool had been punched through by another well-aimed boulder-bomb, and the smoke poured out through the opening. Thankfully, this slowed any concentrated attack by the drots, who hated fire and smoke and had difficulty breathing once they had entered the hole. They came into the room coughing and spluttering, and Humbold and Soldier were able to shrivel them with the blazing brands before they could recover. The smell of singed fairy-flesh was disgusting and made both men gag. Wings frizzled and frazzled; bodies curled up slowly like those of cooked beetles; heads split and popped like chestnuts on a hot griddle. This is the worst fight Ive ever been involved in, complained Soldier. Its like being attacked by savage butterflies. But even though they had accounted for hundreds of the determined drots, there were still thousands waiting their chance to get in and engulf the two humans and the bird. They could smell the scarlet fluid now, even over the smoke that sweet, sickly odour of human blood and it was driving those on the outside crazy. They were desperate to drink at the well of warm liquid, to lap to their hearts content on corpuscles. A pack of seven queens, gold with red stripes, went hurtling towards the hole, only to dash themselves on the stool which once again served as a plug to keep them out. For much of the night the drots continued to try to force an entry, but the occupants of the cabin were determined to keep them out. Then, at about three oclock, the fairies seemed to go away. At least, it all went quiet outside, followed by a period of intense cold in the cabin. Soldier wondered what had happened, but he was so tired he just fell into a bunk and dropped to sleep straight away. He was awakened once by Sintra, singing out that he was being attacked, to find Humbold halfway to his bed. He drew his sword and threatened the ex-king, who indeed was totally fatigued himself. The pair of them fell back into their beds, exhausted: Soldier grateful for his scabbards warning; Humbold cursing that he was so weak. When morning came Soldier opened the door and stepped outside. He found his feet were crunching on something like thin broken glass. When he looked down he was amazed to see that what cracked under his boots was not ice, but frozen drots. There were thousands of them, frosted into layers all around the cabin, iced into sugary forms that looked good enough to eat. Something had passed through, or over, in the night. Some narrow agent of blizzard and ice-storm, for stretching out before and beyond was the white road which Soldier needed to follow to reach his goal. He kicked at the poor meringued fairy figures that heaped the doorway and called to the black bird that they ought to be on their way, while the road was visible. Good bloody riddance! cried Humbold, limping to the