A Worry with Warlocks – Episode 8

I’ve always been envious of birds soaring high overhead. Often I’d imagined how omnipotent they must feel, immune to the cares of the world as they gaze down from their lofty height. What could be better than soaring on graceful wings through the realm of the gods, casting your scornful gaze on the miserable, wingless creatures far below crawling like arthritic ants across the face of the earth?

Which was why, after quelling my initial panic at finding myself turned into a pigeon, I’d taken to the air with… well, anticipation.

I won’t blame you for thinking it wasn’t exactly the best time to be embracing the wonders of flight, that instead I should have focussed my concern on the prospect of being clawed to shreds by a murderous warlock in the shape of a hawk.

And, after a few seconds of clumsy flapping, that very concern crashed into my mind with an unwelcome thump.

The plan I’d hatched as I’d launched myself into the air, was for Trewla and me to climb to the heavens. I reasoned Akalemmo would ignore us – a speedy swift and an elegant pigeon – and go after Grimmon, who as a stubby-winged greenfinch, would be easier prey. You may think me heartless, but knowing as I do what a slippery little customer Grimmon is, I wasn’t worried. The goblin would lead him a merry chase and more than likely survive.

That plan soon turned to dust.

My heart sank into my scaly toes as it dawned on me that pigeons aren’t particularly well equipped when it comes to soaring.

My wings were far from graceful, and my body too stout to climb any higher than the altitude I’d been at since taking to the air at the top of the warlock’s tower.

I glanced behind. The hawk was flying only a stone’s throw behind, each flap of his powerful wings devouring the distance between him and me rather too fast for comfort.

With panic flailing at my wits, I scanned the ground, looking for somewhere to hide. Flat desert terrain, dotted here and there with small clumps of spiky grass, and the occasional fist-sized rock, didn’t promise much in the way of concealment. It was like being chased by the scorpion all over again, apart from this time we were airborne and it was a hawk rather than a poison-tailed arachnid who had me in their sights.

Plan B sprang into my head. I could sort everything out by casting a spell. But the pages of the spell-book in my mind were blank. Even if I’d remembered a spell, pigeons’ beaks don’t lend themselves to speech. Reciting the words of a spell was out of the question.

I hastily reformulated plan A.

Instead of escaping to the heights, I could overtake Grimmon. When the warlock slowed to deal with the goblin-greenfinch, it would buy me time to reach the safety of Castle Silverhill. Trewla wouldn’t be in any danger because, being a swift, she would already be far ahead, and would likely get to the castle before me.

Grimmon was a small green dot bobbing about in the air ahead. I couldn’t see Trewla. My spirits lifted. She must already be some distance in front.

Beating my wings faster, I slowly caught up with the greenfinch. When I was close enough to see his individual tail feathers, a small shape swooped from above and circled around us.

It was a swift.

Trewla!

She zipped close to me, her little black eyes boring into mine.

I wanted to yell at her, ask her what she was doing, point out that she could be leagues ahead by now if she’d flown in a straight line, but the only sound that issued from my beak was a strangled peep.

There was no time to be wondering what she was up to. Hoping she would follow my example, I overtook Grimmon.

With a flick of her wingtips, Trewla banked away, and darted upwards out of sight.

Was she annoyed with me? Was that what had sparked her abrupt departure?

No.

An instant later, talons smacked into my back. Tumbling in disarray, my wings tore at the air, the world span, the sun seared my eyes.

And every now and again, in my wild gyrations, I caught glimpses of the hawk directly above me.

Akalemmo was faster than I’d thought. He glared down at me, his eyes burning with hate.

“That was just for starters!” he squawked. “To let you know I’m here!”

The ground, rushing closer with every beat of my hammering heart, felt like a more important thing to worry about than how the hawk was able to speak.

Plummeting with all the aerial grace of a teapot, my sluggish brain registered the uncomfortable fact that screeching like a banshee wasn’t helping to slow me. I clamped by beak shut.

My wings were fluttering likes flags in a gale. With enormous effort, I forced them to keep steady. It took forever, and by the time I righted myself, and took stock of the situation, my gut clenched. I was no longer in the wild blue yonder but skimming over the desert at little more than the height of a troll hunched over to clean his toenails. That is to say, two Grimmon-sized goblins high.

Where was the hawk? I couldn’t see him. Had he lost sight of me too?

My heart leapt at the sight of the tops of Castle Silverhill’s towers a mile or so away. I banked towards them. All I had to do was keep my wings flapping, maintain my altitude, and I’d be there in a matter of minutes. Somewhere in that pile of crumbling stonework I called home, there would be an open window. Once inside, I’d be safe.

Trewla was probably there already.

Trying to ignore the fatigue creeping into my muscles, I pushed myself onward.

I shot over a rise in the ground. On the other side, a column of rock, poking up like a lone organ pipe, sent me veering to one side to avoid turning myself into pigeon paste. At that instant, a bolt of fire shot past me. The organ-pipe-rock erupted in flame and fragments of stone.

“Ha! Lucky escape! I won’t miss next time!” screamed Akalemmo.

He must be flying above me, keeping pace. If I carried on in a straight line, I wouldn’t stand a chance.

With my heart in my beak, I swung to the left, then with a flick of a wingtip, dived to the right. Another bolt of fire flashed past to me and hit the dirt.

Pelted by sand and pebbles, I curved away.

On and on I flew, zigzagging for all I was worth, with fire crashing into the ground around me.

“Stop dodging about, damn you!” bawled the warlock.

My lungs were fit to burst, my jolting heart was about to tear my ribs apart. I couldn’t keep going much longer.

Through my exhaustion-hazed eyes, I saw water below me.

The moat!

I was seconds from the castle.

With my last reserve of energy, I thrashed my wings to gain enough height to pass over the castle wall.

Inch by painful inch I rose.

I didn’t have enough breath left in me to scream when fire blossomed on the parapet. The shockwave pummelled into me and I tumbled down, barely conscious.

When my head cleared, I was lying on my back on the ruins of a guardhouse at the foot of the wall. Too exhausted to move, I could only watch numbly as Akalemmo circled high overhead.

“I’ve got you now!” he called, his voice booming despite how high above me he was. “You’re a sitting duck!”

He appeared to think for a moment, then added, “I mean, I know you’re a pigeon, not a duck. It’s just an expression.”

I nodded feebly to show I understood.

“Right. I’m glad we cleared that up.” An unearthly orange glow filled his eyes. “Back to the business in hand. Prepare to die!”

His eyes brightened fiery red.

I couldn’t tear my gaze away. Transfixed, I watched as he circled past the lightning rod on the tallest tower, his eyes glued to mine, and gathered his power for a final pigeon-incinerating burst.

His pupils blazed like twin furnaces. He took a deep breath.

I flinched, as I stared death in the face.

A tiny feathered form streaked from the blue and smashed into one of Akalemmo’s wings. The jolt flicked him onto his side, and sent him into a spin. A jet of fire shot from his eyes and set fire to a tree on the other side of the moat.

Whirling helplessly, he fell like a stone.

His shouts of rage turned to cries of terror as he realised what was directly beneath him.

The lightning rod.

For a moment it looked like he would right himself, but he was too late. The lightning rod’s sharp tip pierced his chest.

There was a bright flash, and his body morphed back into a human’s.

The last thing I remembered before blackness took me, was the sight of his corpse, impaled on the rod, swaying gently in the wind.

When I awoke, I was in bed. I was human again.

Had it all been a dream?

I pushed back the covers. I was still dressed in my driving outfit. My coat was stained with dragon’s blood and covered in scorch marks. My hat, singed on the brim, was hanging on the hatstand in the corner of my room.

Not a dream, then.

Akalemmo’s spell that turned us into birds must have had Drucher’s reversal built into it, which is why I had reverted to human form.

I wondered how I’d ended up in bed. Had Trewla and Grimmon carried me there after they’d turned back to elf and goblin respectively?

A roll of thunder caught my attention, and I looked out of the window. Low clouds drifted across a gentle landscape of rolling green hills.

The castle had moved to a new world. That was a relief. I’d had enough of deserts to last a lifetime.

And, seeing as the curse usually moved Castle Silverhill during the night, it must be morning.

On cue, my stomach rumbled. It had been far too long since I had last eaten. A whole day and night, by my reckoning. I pulled on my slippers and went down to the kitchen.

And there they were, Trewla and Grimmon.

Cook was there too, of course. As far as I know, she never leaves the kitchen.

“Um… What’s for breakfast?” I said.

Grimmon ignored me, pretending to be more interested in the rat he was dining on.

Cook opened her mouth to answer, but Trewla cut in with, “Is that the first thing you thought to say after everything we did for you?”

She glared at me, her fists on her hips, the oven’s glow turning her hair into a mane of fiery golden threads.

I racked my brains.

“Oh…” I said. “Good morning.”

I smiled to indicate I hadn’t taken offence at her pointing out my lack of manners.

Trewla called me an idiot, and a few other choice names besides.

I think she was concealing her true feelings because, when it dawned on me that I should thank her for what she’d done and mumbled a few words to that effect, she gave me a look which I interpreted as thoughtful, but which Grimmon later said – once he was speaking to me again – was actually her wondering if I would taste good with onions.

As far as I know, elves aren’t inclined to eat humans, so I’m treating Grimmon’s comment with the contempt it deserves.

Nevertheless, these days I tend to avoid standing near Trewla when she’s holding a knife.

Just in case.

*** THE END ***

A Worry with Warlocks – Index of Episodes