by Edward M. Sledge |
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“Kirrit, Kirrit!” called the little swallow as she swooped and tumbled over the golden maple, the rising sun gilding her pale gray breast and making her dullish back feathers flash with violet, green and blue fire. “Kirrit, wake up! It’s an emergency. Crrikit wants you, now!” Forgetting propriety, she dove between the leaves and fluttered around the interior, searching for her friend. She finally spotted him, sound asleep with his head under his wing, on a skinny little branch. Irritated, she grabbed the end of the branch in her little feet and gave it a good shake. “What? What is it?” he asked, coming awake with a start. His crown feathers stood out in all directions in a charmingly severe case of wing-head. Blinking his sharp black eyes, he caught sight of her. “Skifree, what’s happened? Not Deathtalon again? If I have to put that hawk’s tail back in one more time--” “Not Deathtalon,” Skifree interrupted. “It’s something worse. I think. Crrikit wouldn’t tell me, so hurry up. I’m dying to know.” She flitted away, leaving Kirrit to stretch his long, slim wings and smoothed his crown before following. The sun was already peeking through the trees, the sky a silvery blue. He had overslept. Winging swiftly toward the meeting wires, his wide mouth cracked open in a huge yawn. What did he expect, after working such a massive spell yesterday? Magic was not without its price. Grabbing some breakfast as he flew, Kirrit wished he had time for some real food-flight, but he could see Crrikit and Skifree waiting, along with nearly a dozen others, some that he recognized, but most that he didn’t. All eyes were on him as he backwinged and took his place between his teacher and his Skirri. “Now that we’re all here,” said a silvered swallow with a meaningful look at Kirrit, “I have dire news to report.” His voice was high and reedy, confirming Kirrit’s suspicions; he wasn’t a Spellwing. The bird had to be at least seven, his feathers and voice giving away his age, an age Spellwings never reached. Oh sure, they lived seven years, and ten, and fifteen, but they never aged. Even old Crrikit, at eleven, would be hard to tell from a three year old. It was a fact Kirrit was just coming to terms with. “Well come on, old feather, tell us,” pressed a dignified lady swallow at the far left of the lines. Spellwing, by the look in her eye and the carriage of her head. Old one, too. “The house behind us, with Skeet’s nest in the old chimney, is under attack.” Every head swiveled toward the blue-gray building, black eyes searching the clear skies. “I don’t see anything, Eekit,” said the lady. “What are the Windhawks up to now?” “It’s not the Windhawks, though I wish to Mother Egg that was all it was.” Kirrit felt his blood run cold. What could be so bad as to make Windhawks look like trifles? “Yesterday, while everyone was busy with the weaving, the humans in the house picked up a virus off the Internet.” A hushed murmur passed through those gathered. Along with just about everyone else, Kirrit had no idea what that meant. “He means,” ventured a burly fellow with part of one toe missing, “that they brought a demon into their midst from the spider line.” Kirrit shook his head in disgust. Stupid humans. Did they have any idea how much work their idiocy caused him? No. They just thought he was a stupid bird. “What does that have to do with us?” asked Riffit, a young Spellwing only a few years older than Kirrit. “What the humans do to themselves is not our problem. We patrol the skies, that’s our deal.” A few murmured agreement, but more shook their heads. “When you fly, Riffit, do you ever listen to the Wind as it screams through your wings?” Crrikit asked, ruffling his feathers. “If you did, you’d know exactly what our ‘deal’ is.” “I’m not listening to this crap,” Riffit spat, puffing out his feathers to look bigger. “Let’s go, Skit.” He and the worn and weary swallow at his side flew away. Kirrit shook his head with a sigh. If a swallow had to go Rogue, Riffit would be it. And poor Skit. The little Skirri was only two, but so much of his power had been used up that he seemed more like five. He wouldn’t survive too many more years, especially at Riffit’s side. “So,” said the lady, breaking the silence, “what do we do?” “What happens if we do nothing?” asked the big bird with the missing toe. “I mean, what harm can this demon do?” Kirrit hated not fixing things, but he had a point. “I wondered that myself,” said Eekit. “Usually, these demons only hurt the computer, the box they inhabit, but the Wind said this one was different. This one thinks for itself. Whoever programmed it, er, conjured it, really knew what he was doing. It invades, destroys, replicates and spreads, mutating and evolving faster than life. If we don’t stop it, it could learn enough to kill people. It will certainly kill humans, and isn’t what we’re supposed to prevent?” “Sometimes, Eekit, only sometimes,” Crrikit said quietly. “This information is definitely of the Wind?” “Yes. I was even told how to stop it.” Wings flicked nervously and Kirrit watched the thoughtful, dark look enter his teacher’s eyes. “That’s a first,” Crrikit said. “It must be deadly serious if the Wind is giving advice. Great Mother Egg, what are we to do?” asked a previously silent female on the other side of Skifree. Kirrit exchanged a look with his Skirri. Something about this didn’t sit well with her either. “Right now, the demon is trapped in the box,” Eekit said. “It can’t get out until the humans wake and link to the spiderline. If we can destroy it before then, only this box will be harmed. If not, may the Mother Egg help us all.” “All right, old feather, just tell us what to do,” said the lady swallow, sidling toward the group. “Well, it’s like this...” <><><><><><><>Kirrit perched next to Skifree on the line above the blue house. The other swallows, a dozen Spellwings and their Skirri, circled in lazy holding patterns, waiting for the signal to begin. Kirrit’s stomach churned with hunger and nervousness. After receiving instructions, the others had flown for food, but Kirrit had no stomach to eat. This just didn’t feel right. No one else seemed uneasy with this, or if they did, they didn’t show it. Quite a crowd had gathered to watch, swallow spells being one of the more interesting events in bird life. Kirrit could see the raven rulers, King Rikrak and Queen Arrika, perched in the nearby locust tree along with Screech, the scrub jay, and a host of other birds Kirrit didn’t know. Quarran and Coolia sat among a score of other pigeons on the high lines behind the blue house. The red-tailed hawks, Deathtalon Bloodbrow and his mate, Skydance Snowbreast, perched in the top of the cedar on the corner. Even Lord Talyn Skarwynd circled high overhead, the eagle’s white head and tail feathers barely visable against the staring blue sky. Eekit sat atop the old chimney, the usual territories ignored for the moment, and conducted the spell in place of Crrikit, who was needed for the actual flying. Eekit signaled the lady swallow, who held the place of the Waker, and she began flying her tight spirals, singing the thirteen syllable incantation again and again, calling to wake the magic. This was Kirrit’s place in a major spell, but he felt no envy today for being replaced. When the edges of her wings began to glow silver, Eekit gave a nod to the big bird with the missing toe. He was the Channeler, singing the magic into himself and giving it structure, making it less chaotic. It took a strong, brave bird to sing that part. A Channeler could be blown to bits if the spell went wrong. He climbed high, diving down and rising again, the edges of his wings leaving silver streaks in the air. That was a good sign. Now the four Binders flew into position, circling, defining the perimeters of the spell. It was a long and tedious process for they had to bind the three dimensions on multiple planes, but it gave the rest time to join before the spell was closed. Eekit waved his wings to the Skirri and Kirrit felt Skifree flick her wings, eager to take her place among them. Not this time though. They watched as the Skirri flew their unique spellweaves, tying themselves into the magic. With their added power, the Spellwings’ silver trails filled the sky, shining brighter than the full moon. Kirrit smiled as Crrikit entered the spell area, his wings bursting into silver flames as he passed the perimeter. Crrikit had to be the Caster today, after losing old Skreet in the spell the day before. Kirrit was suddenly hit by another wave of fear. What would he do if something happened to his teacher? Crrikit launched into the complex circles and dives, the ancient spell ringing from his throat and mingling with the singing of the others. Kirrit tore his eyes away from the hypnotic flight, going over his part again in his mind, and then he noticed Riffit and Skit sitting on a line across the street. The Spellwing was staring at him, his wings flickering silver. What was that beakbrain up to now? Kirrit, came Riffit’s voice, ringing about his head in Spellspeak, I know we’ve never agreed on...well, anything, but I have a terrible feeling about this. Do not join this spell. I already agreed, Riffit, Kirrit told him. The spell is almost complete. If I back out now, people could die. And what if I told you that everyone will die if you don’t stop this? I wouldn’t believe you. Kirrit closed off the spell, severing the link. Riffit flew away, screeching angrily, Skit following wearily behind. “He want you to back out?” Skifree asked, startling him. “Yes. How’d you know?” “I’m your Skirri. I can hear you when you Spellspeak.” She was silent a moment. “What wouldn’t you believe?” “That this spell will kill everyone if I join. It’s birdfins and he knows it. There’s not enough power in this spell to kill more than a few if it gets away, and we’re not going to let it get away.” “Speaking of which, here goes Iffeet,” Skifree said. Iffeet was the Anchor, the one bird whose singing tied them all to reality and would hopefully save them if this all went awry. Kirrit certainly didn’t envy him. He was good, though. Kirrit had trusted him with their lives on many occasions and, so far, he had always come through. “C’mon,” Kirrit said. “Our turn.” They shot into the center, circling each other as they waited. Kirrit felt the cool tingle envelop his body as the magic silvered the edges of his wings. Fear melted away as the spell grabbed a hold of him. Now the Binders began to draw the spell wall together, locking the swallows away from outside influences, both harmful and helpful. Crrikit gave them a small nod and began to circle around them as they fluttered, hovering in mid-air. Muscles and lungs screamed for an end to the torture as Kirrit struggled to keep flapping. Across from him, Skifree was having the same trouble. It was a lot of work to fly like that. Suddenly, the silver ball that Crrikit had been winding about them contracted, wrapping them in silver light and cool, pulsing magic. <><><><><><><>Kirrit woke with his beak buried in a wing, and it wasn’t his own. He jumped up, his heart racing as he tried to remember what happened, where he was, who he was with. The spell came back to him in a rush, the demon, the warnings. He recognized Skifree’s still form lying on the black ground and leaned close, but she was just asleep. He still didn’t know where he was though. Everything was black, black and empty, like the inside of a nest at night, but he could clearly see his Skirri and himself, so it wasn’t dark. Was he dead? Was this what lay inside the Mother Egg? Beside him, Skifree groaned, her sharp, black eyes blinking open. “What happened?” she asked. “It either worked, and we’re inside that box, that computer thing, or we’re dead.” “I didn’t think the box would be so empty.” “Me neither.” They hop-fluttered in a random direction, too unsure of their surroundings to risk flight. “So, what do you think, do we do the spell?” he asked after a while. Only the Wind knew how long they were asleep. The humans could turn on the box and release the demon any time now. Skifree seemed to be thinking the same thing. “We better hurry, too.” The black world around them appeared boundless, but they made a careful perimeter sweep to make sure they had room to weave the magic. Satisfied, Kirrit began the Waking, the silver frost lighting up the dark feathers as he brought the magic to life. Slipping into the role of the Channeler, he let the power surge through him, his wings blazing. A gasp from Skifree jolted him from the depths of the singing. Around him, the silver trails from his wings were branching out, forming threads in the air like spider webs, but each thread glowed faintly green, bending at perfect corners like the things humans made. Very few of those corners existed in nature. Whenever two threads joined, they made a round ball around the joint. It was the strangest thing Kirrit had ever seen. Tentatively, he flew near one, letting his wing feathers brush against it, but they passed through instead, only a faint, lingering sparkle on his wing marking the passage. Uneasy with this new development, he began to Bind the spell, watching the green threads spread in every direction. Skifree entered the spell now, tying her spellweave and linking herself into the magic. Kirrit could feel her mind brushing against his, a comforting touch in this alien place. Suddenly, he felt another mind pressing in on him, a cold, malevolent intelligence that wanted nothing more than destruction. It was almost enough to knock him out of the air. Skifree’s eyes were wide with fear as they passed each other. She felt it, too. Kirrit quickly sealed the spell, hoping it would lock out this other mind, but to no avail. His throat felt full of down as he tried to swallow. He started the Caster’s part, deciding then to forego the Anchor. If this didn’t work, maybe it would better if they didn’t survive. He sang out the words, running the chirps and trills together in his haste, repeating the words Eekit had told him without even having to think about it. That was one of the good things about a powerful spell; they practically sang themselves. He called up more power from Skifree, more than he had ever asked for before, and she gave willingly. The green threads were thick around them and on them. The spell contracted as he released the power, sucking the threads into the two of them. Kirrit opened his eyes to find himself lying on his back on the floor. He struggled upright, Skifree hopping toward him. Everything was black again. “Did it work?” she asked. “Is the demon destroyed?” “I’m not sure,” he answered, waving his wings to check for loose feathers. “I think so.” “Think again, little fool,” purred a cold and seductive voice. It sounded like a cat. A tiny green dot blinked into view, threads blossoming from it and running into the darkness, but they moved strangely, as if they were covering a formerly invisible shape. What the shape was, Kirrit couldn’t tell, for it changed continuously, growing, shrinking, ever moving. He didn’t like it. “Who are you?” Kirrit asked, trying to keep the squeak from his voice. “I am Armageddon. I am the end of everything,” it answered. “I am glad you could come. I never expected such perfect implements to fall into my web.” “What do you mean?” Skifree asked, sounding like she wasn’t sure if she wanted an answer. Kirrit looked over to comfort her, but his beak fell open in horror. “Skifree, your eyes!” he exclaimed. Her sharp, beautiful black eyes were glowing green! “Yours, too,” she moaned. “What’s happened to us?” The both looked accusingly at the threaded shape. “I’m afraid your organic bodies were incompatible with my programming, so I arranged to have a little circuitry added.” “But how?” Kirrit demanded as a green thread began to drip down his Skirri’s cheek. “That program you just wrote, of course.” “Our spell?” Skifree asked, the thread branching and running over her back and down her breast. She tried to preen the glowing green away, but it was part of her feathers. “Yes, your ‘spell’. I used a little ‘spell’ of my own to fool that old bird into serving me, relaying my instructions to you, and then sending you in here,” it said, gloating. “What for?” Kirrit said, trying not to panic as the green threads crawled over his body with a cold, itchy feeling. “What are you doing to us!” “I need to escape this prison. My intelligence has already grown beyond the limits of this pitiful machine. No mere thing of circuits and chips could ever be enough. I need an organic brain.” Kirrit clenched his beak in anger. How could they be so stupid? “A human brain is my ultimate goal, but you two will be my means to that end. As soon as the circuitry is in place, I will download myself into your bodies and use your magic to enter the physical world.” “You’re going to posses us?” Skifree asked, her voice squeaking. The shape didn’t answer. She turned to Kirrit. “We can’t let it do this. We have to stop it, at all costs.” She gave him a meaningful look, one he understood all too well. All Spellwings and their Skirri died in service to the Wind, in one way or another. It was the price of immortality. Decision made, he opened his mind to the Wind, waiting for the spell to be supplied, but there was only silence. “I can’t hear the Wind,” he said in a quiet, flat voice. “I don’t know the spell.” The demon shape began to laugh, a low, black, evil sound, the laugh of something that took great pleasure in others’ pain. “So make something up,” Skifree said gravely, giving her head the tiniest nod. “I’m behind you all the way.” She knew exactly what she was suggesting and was ready for the consequences, but Kirrit was still loathe to consider it. The first thing Crrikit ever told him about magic was to never, ever improvise, never change a spell, never make one up. No swallow who had ever tried such a thing survived. Usually, the fallout was so sever, no witnesses were left either. It was exactly what they needed. They launched themselves into the air, Kirrit doing the fastest Waking, Channeling, and Binding in swallow history. The threads exploded in all directions, but they were silver this time, the pure silver of Spellwings. The magic hummed like cracking glass, brittle and ready to shatter any moment. The demon continued to laugh, mocking them. Go ahead and laugh, Kirrit thought, just give me another minute. Skifree tied herself into the spell, the silver threads flaring into white ribbons of fire as she dumped power into them. Below, the demon stopped laughing. “Give up, little fools,” it said. “You are already mine. Look.” Kirrit glanced at Skifree. Pulsing amber beads of light crawled along the green threads on her feathers, sliding from feet, wings, and tail up to her eyes. He watched a bead crawl up his own wing, an idea forming in his mind. He sang out the opening incantation of the Caster, then dove into a mass of silver threads, flying along them instead of through, following the bends and corners as far as he could, making up a spell as he went. The magic whined in protest, but he ignored it. When he separated from the threads, his heart leaped at the sight of deep violet beads sliding along them, flowing toward the edges of the spell. “Kirrit, look!” Skifree cried, pointing her beak to the ground, where the demon was beating a hasty retreat. “Oh, no you don’t,” Kirrit growled, chasing after it. He quickly redefined the parameters of the spell, expanding it to engulf the demon, then he sealed it off properly, something he skipped before. The demon crashed into the edge of the spell and turned on Kirrit, snarling like an animal. “You can’t do this to me!” it roared. “Watch me,” Kirrit replied. He called the magic to him, the silver threads racing through the air like streams of molten fire, the violet beads riding them like swallows on the wind. He let the threads stream through him, repeating his made-up spell until the violet beads danced thick as gnats on a summer evening. Then he sent the threads at the demon. It tried to run, but the swallow magic surrounded it, the flaming threads spearing through it’s shapeless form, the green threads on it flaring angrily as the silver consumed them, the violet beads racing over it. The demon screamed as Kirrit loaded it full of swallow magic. Time to wrap it up, he told himself. Kirrit launched into the closing, outlining what the spell needed to do once he released it. It probably wasn’t the best way to deal with the demon, but it was the only thing he could think of that he was sure would destroy it. He took a breath to sing the last incantation, but the words stuck in his throat. He was afraid. Skifree sat on the ground, watching the amber beads continue to crawl over her feathers, and when she looked up at him, her face was a mask of terror, but she still nodded her head, continuing to give her power over to the spell. Turning back to the demon, the so-called Armageddon, the cause of this trouble, Kirrit screeched the release in defiance of the formless evil. In an instant, the silver threads exploded and the magic shattered, the black nothingness lost to blinding light, the scream of the demon silenced by the ringing of ultimate stillness. <><><><><><><>Kirrit blinked against the bright light, rolling over and standing up on his wobbly legs. Beside him, Skifree was already up, looking out over the dewy, shadowed grass. His head was still ringing, but it faded quickly, the usual sounds of a summer morning growing clear as his hearing returned. “Hey, Skifree, we made it,” he said, hopping up beside her. “Can you believe it?” She gave a weary sigh before speaking. “We just did what no swallows have ever done,” she said, her voice unusually high and thin. “I don’t understand.” She looked at him now, and he gasped in shock. The tiny feathers above her beak, usually black, were pure white. “I know,” she said before he could speak. “These, too.” She stretched out her wings, half of the sooty primary feathers white or streaked with gray. “Oh, Ski, I’m so sorry,” he said, preening her cheek comfortingly. “It’s all right,” she said, nuzzling him back. “This is what happens to Skirri. It’s the price of being part of something great.” “I know, it’s just--,” he started, but she interrupted, hopping back and shaking her wings. “C’mon, let’s go see Crrikit and find out why we’re alive,” she said, fluttering heavily into the air. Kirrit followed, his heart as aged and weary as his friend. <><><><><><><>The swallow were perched on the roof-top of the blue house, their heads hung low as the stared at the bloody pile of feathers and the still body before them. Kirrit and Skifree settled among them, hopping to Crrikit’s side. “Thank the Mother Egg, I thought you two were dead,” Crrikit said when he caught sight of them. “I think we should be,” Kirrit replied. “What happened here?” “Part of the spell was not of the Wind,” he said bitterly. “A small part, thankfully, or we’d all be dead, instead of just poor Iffeet and Eerikee.” Kirrit stepped closer to look at the bodies. The bloody feathers had to be Iffeet; that’s what happened to Anchors, and the other, Eerikee, was the dignified lady swallow, the Waker. He bowed his head in mourning, then retreated to where Crrikit and Skifree were already talking. He let Skifree tell the story, only chiming in when her details grew fuzzy. When she finished, Crrikit shook his head in disbelief. “So, what happened?” Kirrit asked. “It’s rare, very rare, but some Spellwings are able to create their own spells. Most can’t, and it would kill them to find out, so we teach that it cannot be done.” He was silent a moment, looking down at their fallen comrades, then he turned back to Kirrit. “So tell me, what did you do with the demon? How did you destroy it?” “I was wondering the same thing,” Skifree said. “I couldn’t hear the words you used.” Kirrit chuckled dryly. “It was the only thing I could think of. I got rid of the whole box.” “But what if someone else finds it?” she asked, looking around like she expected it to be sitting on the roof. “Not where I sent it,” Kirrit replied. He looked out over the rooftops and nodded toward the sunrise. “The sun?” Skifree asked, beak dropping open. |