Bran scanned the forest surrounding him. Big trees, spread out, with little undergrowth to speak of. Not good ground to fight a swarm of flying beasts.
But when it came to killing quetzals, there never was good ground.
He heard the buzz of their wings churning the air as they swiftly approached. No point in being quiet now. Quetzals hunted by smell, and they would have already caught theirs.
Though, he suspected, it was by another sense that they had tracked them this far.
Aelyn slipped from the shadows to stand by him. In one hand, he clutched a pouch with its drawstring slightly loosened to show a yellow powder within, while in the other, he held a slender, iron rod that resembled a fire poker but for how intricately it was forged.
"They've come for the pendant," the elf said. "They'll focus their attacks on me."
"I knew I'd brought you along for something."
An idea occurring to him, Bran shrugged off his cloak and, setting down his blade, began to wind the cloth around his left arm. Aelyn watched him wordlessly. As he stood, arm wrapped and sword in hand again, the buzzing had grown so loud he knew they must almost be upon them.
"When I throw this powder," Aelyn said as the leaves above them began to shake violently, "try not to be in the way."
Before he could respond, the canopy burst open.
Even in the dim light, the quetzals were dazzling. Wings sprouted all down their spines, a dozen pairs to each, their long bodies undulating through the air as the wings flapped in a rippling pattern. The feathers were brilliantly colored: the green-blue of glacial lakes, the bright red of arterial blood, the yellow of freshly husked corn.
But for all their beauty, the twisting, hissing ball of them swiftly descending toward them stirred in his gut nothing but fear.
With famed synchrony, the quetzals dove as one, like fifty arrows streaming toward their targets. Bran darted for a nearby trunk and spun around. Aelyn, unmoved, pointed the iron rod up at the tangle, then shouted. The words boomed through the clearing like a thunderclap, and the rod sparked.
Bran squeezed his eyes shut, but even behind his lids, it flashed a brilliant white. A roar filled his ears, and energy crackled around him, then a wall of wind sent him stumbling backward.
Opening his eyes, he squinted through the light dotting his vision at the mage. He stood, hat blown off, revealing his dark hair sticking out from its braid, his fiery eyes staring up in defiance. Around him, the dead bodies of seven quetzals lay blackened and crisp. Bran was surprised when his stomach rumbled at the smell.
"Not now, you insatiable animal," he muttered.
The quetzals had scattered before the lightning, but they'd already regrouped at the canopy and readied another attack. This time, instead of diving straight at the mage, they spread out like a noblewoman's skirts around him, then arced in from all angles.
Aelyn dropped the rod, tossed the powder in a circle around him, and withdrew a glass orb the size of an apple. "Now would be a fine time for aid!" he shouted above the tangle's hissing.
Bran was already moving forward, sword a blur as he chopped at a passing quetzal. "Kald!" he shouted as the steel met the serpent, and for a moment, the blade flared in brilliant flames. The snake shrieked as its tail severed, blood spraying over Bran, but even as it flew away, the sorcerous flames greedily ate at its body.
Recognizing the second threat, six of the quetzals veered off from their dive at the mage and flew shrieking toward him.
"Yuldor's flaming balls," Bran muttered, lifting his left arm.
Behind the approaching snakes, he saw the rest of the tangle descend on Aelyn, then twist away. As the quetzals scattered, he saw not the elf's mangled corpse left behind, but an orb of blue light surrounding the mage, a protective barrier that had warded the serpent's attacks away, and the yellow powder rising in flames around it.
But instead of giving up, the rest of the tangle turned toward Bran.
"Thanks for that!" he shouted, but there was no time to say more as the first half dozen reached him. Thrusting his cloak-wrapped arm out, he felt the snakes latch into it, one after another, their fangs just long enough to prick his skin. Grunting, he spun the blade up, and six limp bodies fell to the ground, their heads still lodged in his arm, their blood spraying into his face.
But the rest of the tangle was there, and they seemed less intent on his arm. Hastily wiping his eyes, Bran suddenly found himself in a dizzying, whirling dance, kald a mantra on his lips, Velori flashing with flames, the hilt growing unbearably hot beneath his glove.
But even as others fell or flew off, screaming and burning, the remaining score was wearing him down. Some he warded off with his protected arm, but others darted in, tearing at his legs, his shoulders, some even scraping his head. Bran dove into a roll and swept flames overhead, but still they came, harassing him as mercilessly as crows at carrion.
"Over here!" a youthful voice suddenly called.
One of the quetzals spasmed, then darted off into the woods. Three more followed it, then another two. Then the rest of the tangle, deciding there was easier prey, fled after the others.
Even as Bran chopped into one of the last serpents still attacking him and cried out as the second bit into his backside, he groaned. "You Night-touched fool, Garin!"
Awkwardly beheading the serpent that had lodged in his rump and prying it loose, he limped off in the direction that the tangle had flown.
Garin had never cared much for running.
In Hunt's Hollow, boys had little to occupy them but what they could find outside. Most of their games involved a physical contest of one or another — wrestling, archery, and slingshotting numbered among Garin's personal favorites. Races, however, never had. As often as not, he wouldn't even try but would pretend to give it an honest effort, then jog along at his leisure.
But now, with a tangle of quetzals in pursuit, he'd finally found a race he cared to win.
His heart hammered fast in his chest, wild as an unbroken stallion. His tortured lungs hardly seemed to pull in any air and screamed for more. His legs, leaden and clumsy, tripped over the brush.
But with winged death flying behind him, he had no choice but to push on.
He'd just thought to distract them when he'd flung the stones at the quetzals. He hadn't imagined the whole flock would turn and give chase. Now, he wished he'd remained a coward and done as Bran had bid him.
He didn't even know where he ran but took whichever course was easiest. When a ravine appeared in front of him, he veered and followed its edge. When the slope became steep after that, he searched for level ground. He heard the quetzals gaining on him, some flying overhead now, no doubt readying for a coordinated attack.
Garin's wind-teared eyes wandered to the ravine on his left. The only place safe from them.
But as much as he didn't want to be torn apart by flying snakes, he couldn't force himself to jump. The stream was thirty feet down, and shallow from the looks of it. Maybe if he lay down, he might escape the quetzals underwater, at least for a little while. But when he had to come up for air, what then?
And that was assuming he survived the jump.
The quetzals were circling all around him now, so many he couldn't count them at a glance. His feet edged toward the cliffside. He wanted to collapse with exhaustion and fear.