Effie released him. Whirling, she stepped forward and planted her cane before her, clutching it in both hands. She cast out her senses, not at the mob this time, but at the fields and hills surrounding them. She felt for the critters who rooted in the hedges and those that took to the sky, for those that tunneled underground and those larger who grazed at pasture.
Hidden around her, she found allies.
Forming a simple plan, she molded Fey Craft into a plea for help. She sent an image of a skulk of foxes stalking across the field. They come to steal your eggs and harm your younglings, it said. Come. Help. Hurry.
Cawing sounded within a copse of trees at the edge of the field. The call echoed from the high tower roofs above. Effie closed her eyes. Raising her arms, she made her inner self sprout feathers and lift into the image. Soaring into the murky night, she cawed and felt the vibrations rattle her throat.
That’s it. Join me. A flutter of wings swooped into the sky. Circling from tree and tower, the murder of hooded crows flocked into a whirling storm of wing, beak, and claw. Effie banked the crow version of herself. She dipped and shot like a bolt for the foxes. Shrieking, she pecked and flapped and ripped with her claws.
The ground spun beneath her. She became disoriented. Yanking herself from the image, her body became heavy and cumbersome. She used her cane to brace herself, to keep from tumbling over. As she blinked away the remnants of her Fey Craft, waves of nausea made her sway.
But the murder followed her lead. They did as she wished. Only it wasn’t foxes they assailed. The crows swarmed the mob. Flashes of black and white and brown feathering swirled in the failing light. The racket of their cawing rang in Effie’s ears.
At first, those of the mob ignored the crows. They continued their steady march, tramping through the grass with deadpan stares. Effie steadied herself and threw up another glamour. Each crow became four, and then ten. The swirling, darting shapes blotted out the mob as if a dark cloud had swallowed it whole. Their cawing drowned out all other sound. It came, blaring and riotous, fueled by a predator’s wrath.
The soldiers lowered their rifles. Mouths fell slack. They shuffled anxiously. Some pointed in disbelief. Effie caught out of the corner of her eye their jaws working, but she couldn’t hear any of their exclamations. The din of the crows was too loud. She glanced at Gaelyph and saw the warden nodding to her, urging her on. The gesture startled her, but she kept her concentration on the glamour.
A man from the mob, one who wore a brown frock coat that had seen a month of soiling, jerked as a crow battered his ear. Another in a dark suit flailed his arms. Neither halted their advance. But they slowed, and soon others of the mob did as well. Their pace crawled.
The small victory thrilled Effie. She sought out another group of auras she had sensed earlier, those already familiar to her. Sweet Tom Reedling had mounted his horse. Perhaps the lad had spied the mob from afar, or perhaps he had heard the crows. Effie didn’t care either way. She didn’t call to him. She called to those he tended.
The horses knew her from their journey from Edinburgh. She had no need to persuade them as she had the crows. Her Grundbairn nature had created a bond of friendship with each of them as they’d trotted down the carriageways from the city. They recognized her call. The gentle touch of Fey Craft begged them to hurry.
The one she’d ridden, Barnaby, charged first. He broke at a gallop. She couldn’t hear the pounding of their hooves over the cawing of the crows, but she could feel their rumbling progress trembling the ground. Barnaby crested the gentle rise and came into sight. His companions trailed a few lengths behind. Sweet Tom Reedling clung to his saddle. The lad fought the reins until he saw where the horses headed.
“Sergeant McGrady, prepare the wounded.” Effie shouted through the din. She indicated the horses with her cane. “We must distance ourselves from the mob.”
The sergeant swung his gaze between the charging horses and shambling mob. He eyed the high stone towers behind them. “We can make a defense here. The gate is open, but the walls are strong.”
Effie shook her head. She had to force her hand from grabbing the man once more. “They will trap us inside and force our hand to kill them,” she said. “That is no defense at all.”
“Halt! Stay back!” Brandon cried. His rifle popped in his hands, blasting smoke and fire. The warning shot blew up chunks of dirt at the feet of a young man whose hair had been pulled and yanked by the crows.
A trickle of red ran down the young man’s nose. His steps quickened. His hands curled into fists, and a snarl came to his lips. Behind him, a score of others did the same. The mob was upon them.
Brandon leveled his rifle.
Without thinking, Effie reached out with Fey Craft and ripped free the fetid weeds of the banshee’s touch. The young man wailed. He covered his eyes, as if from a blinding flash, and sank to his knees. The sound panged her. She might as well have pulled the trigger of Brandon’s rifle for all the good her efforts had done.
The others didn’t slow. They charged like a pack of starving wolves.
Effie tore her gaze from them. The horses thundered across the field. They overtook the bulk of the mob but would not reach them in time. Not before the first wave crashed into them.
She reached again with Fey Craft, girding herself to tear free the banshee’s touch. But she froze. Her gaze swept to the young man and to the woman who still huddled in the grass, gibbering. Her heart thunked to her knees. She cursed herself a fool. The warden had been right, and she knew it. These afflicted were already dead. Freeing them of the banshee’s touch only to leave them to starve, befuddled in a field, was no better fate than a bullet.
Brandon stepped forward. He bashed the butt of his rifle into the young man’s temple. The young man flopped over and lay still. Brandon hovered over him, head bent. His shoulders trembled.
“The Sidhe Bhreige did them harm,” said Gaelyph. He came to Effie’s side and flicked his sword toward Brandon. “It was not his doing. Nor yours.”
She shook her head. “I…I cannot abandon them in such a state. We must take them with us or remain here.” The words tumbled from her lips, but she knew them for folly. She could do nothing to save the infected. The Barrow Witch had already stolen their minds.
“No,” said Gaelyph. “The steward needs us, Grundbairn. We cannot tarry here, nor laden ourselves with a needless burden. It serves no purpose for the greater good.”
The warden slapped her cane with his blade. The jolt of it startled her. The greater good. They were words meant to justify a heinous action. They were words Sir Walter Conrad would utter, and Lord Granville. They had even passed the lips of Stuart Graham.
It infuriated her that the warden would use them. But it infuriated her even more that she agreed. She had to accept defeat. She saw no means to heal the afflicted mob, and no means to rescue them from their terrible fate. She and the warden could not seal themselves in the castle and hope for a better tomorrow. They had to abandon the afflicted for the steward’s sake. His rescue mattered more.
Rifles cracked. Muck and bits of grass sprayed into the air. The soldiers shouted. They waved their rifles, warning the charging mob to stand back. Another volley rippled from their line. The tinge of gunpowder came sharp.
“Go!” hollered Sergeant McGrady. He clicked back the hammer of his pistol. “Our wounded would only slow you down. Take Brandon and Tom and go. We will make our stand in the castle.”