Sword Quest Read online

  “I have things of great value this year.” Kawaka bowed down at the Ancient Wing’s feet, smiling. “Your Majesty, I have fans of egret feathers for you, and I have this slave, this unidentified bird, of no known species.” His claws rested on the wooden box, but he didn’t yet speak of the yellow gem, hoping to save the best for last.

  013-Unidentified was prodded forward, and a chorus of oohs and aahs came from the scholars. “Really?” Hungrias studied the scrawny white bird doubtfully. “He is the only one of his kind?”

  The chief scholar of the court fluttered forward, armed with rulers and little hammers, and did a lengthy examination. He flipped through a heavy tome labeled The Complete and Thorough Record of the Class Aves. At length, he declared, “Yes, Your Majesty! This bird is not listed in the book! He resembles a dove, but has certain traits of seabirds. His feet are rather too muscled for a passerine, yet his head and neck clearly mark him as a woodbird…”

  The Ancient Wing’s tiny eyes shut in bliss. “My, my, this is even better than the two-headed rooster that I got last year! Very tasty he was, too!”

  013-Unidentified yelled in protest. He tried to leap toward the emperor. “You shan’t!” It was all he could think of to cry. His separation from his mother, Irene, his seasons of washing dirty dishes in the Marshes Battalion…had he suffered all that just so that this fat bird would have a content stomach? How many other birds had encountered the same fate?

  Immediately two archaeopteryxes pushed him roughly to the ground. The Ancient Wing puffed up in anger. But then, a noise broke through the hallway.

  Emperor Hungrias straightened as a spindly messenger burst from the hall. The bird’s long tail dragged behind him and the wet feathers on it were torn and broken. “Message, Your Majesty, from Sir Rattle-bones,” he gasped. Hungrias looked keenly interested, forgetting about the outburst of 013-Unidentified. Kawaka jumped.

  “Go on,” Hungrias ordered eagerly.

  “He is on his way back from inspecting the lands across the Augoric Ocean. He sent me ahead. I am to inform you that Sir Rattle-bones has succeeded in obtaining one of the Leasorn gemstones. It is red!”

  “A Leasorn gemstone!” Hungrias nearly toppled off of his whalebone perch. Inside the ruff around his neck, the feathers of his head were standing on end with excitement. “From the lowly birds’ stories,” he mumbled to himself excitedly, “they say there are seven of them. Is he sure?” he demanded of the messenger. “It’s definitely a Leasorn?” “Yes, Your Majesty.” Hungrias had never recovered from the disappearance of his son two years before. He grieved and ordered a fitting punishment for Sir Maldeor, but his heart was not satisfied. He brooded on the gemstones and the lowly birds’ legends until an idea formed in his mind—if only he could find all the rest of the jewels, he felt, he would recover the young prince, too. He ordered his remaining knights to locate the gems and they hastened to obey. Now finally a stone was on its way to him! Hungrias grunted with pleasure. “Yes, yes, my little son will be back soon!” He turned to Kawaka, whom he’d forgotten was still sitting there. “When is Rattle-bones coming? Is there an estimated time?”

  “He shall arrive at Castlewood four weeks from now at the earliest, or two months at the latest.”

  “Indeed! I must see to it that we depart my Winter Palace early this year, perhaps tonight.” The Ancient Wing waved a wing to dismiss the messenger.

  “Your Majesty!” Kawaka said, agitated. “I must mention the most important of my gifts to you! Look at this.”

  He opened the wooden chest that he had been holding. His hopes for making the last piece of tribute the best that the emperor owned had been dashed by the news from his brother, and it was all he could do to stop his teeth from gnashing.

  “Oh!” all the scholars cried. The chief strode forward. “Is this what I think it is?”

  Heads tipped forward at the glowing yellow stone nestled in the box. 013-Unidentified craned his neck to see as well.

  “Your Majesty, the former knight Maldeor went miles out of the Plains territory to find a Leasorn gem that is orange, and now my dear brother Sir Rattle-bones has crossed an entire ocean to find the Leasorn gemstone that is red. But I”—Kawaka allowed himself a humble bow—“a mere regional knight, have searched in Your Majesty’s own blessed territory and have found this beautiful yellow Leasorn.”

  As proof, Kawaka flipped the gemstone over gingerly, and a facet with carvings was revealed. The chief scholar placed a small piece of fine birch bark over the stone, took out a tiny stick of charcoal, and traced the strange script on it. 013-Unidentified could see the lines clearly as the scholar held the bark up to the light, but the odd marks meant nothing to him.

  “Indeed, indeed, Your Majesty,” said the chief scholar. “I do not recognize this script at all. Very strange, very strange indeed. I must study this further.”

  “Two Leasorn gems!” Hungrias fanned his wings happily. “What a year for tribute this has been! We must celebrate. Tell the cooks to prepare a special meal. Oh, yes”—he pointed a wing at 013-Unidentified—“we shall see what this one tastes like tonight! Be sure he is still alive when he is placed on the spit. It improves the flavor so much.”

  Dozens of pairs of hungry eyes fastened upon him as 013-Unidentified was dragged off to the kitchen, where he was lashed to a metal pole over a fire. Slaves, turning their faces aside, slowly rotated the spit as flames crackled eagerly.

  013-Unidentified fainted from the heat.

  A righteous heart can beam a light in the darkest place.

  —FROM THE OLD SCRIPTURE

  3

  CHOICE

  Gradually 013-Unidentified became aware that a raven was clacking his beak loudly. “Come,” the raven rasped, beckoning. “Come, you don’t want to be late.”

  “No!” 013-Unidentified whispered. For some reason, he didn’t want to go anywhere with this stranger.

  “Come,” the bird insisted. “I’ve been ordered to bring you, and bring you I must. But if you ask, I must bring you back again. Those are the laws I obey.”

  Out sprang a claw that clasped around the white bird’s neck. He gasped. His conscious soul was being lifted out of his body! The raven flew out of the kitchen. Nobird seemed to notice. 013-Unidentified turned back to look, and saw his body still on the fire.

  “Where are we going?” he asked the raven, choking.

  “To Yin Soul.”

  They flew over an endless stretch of gray, an angry ocean beneath them. It seemed only minutes before the raven dropped 013-Unidentified. He landed before he could open his wings.

  He was in a small red room, the walls lined with looming bookshelves. On the far side was the red frame of a fireplace, surrounded with red incense and sputtering red candles. The sharp cinnamon perfume they gave off stung his eyes.

  “Hello, dear 013-Unidentified.” The youngster jumped at the sudden words; they were whispery and thin. A scaly creature in a broad red manteau nodded slightly as he scuttled from behind a pile of books. He looked a lot like an archaeopteryx, except he was larger and had four wings. “I am Yin Soul. Come here, young one, and perch beside me.”

  013-Unidentified obeyed in a dreamlike trance. The carpet underfoot, woven with a design like red and yellow flames, felt so plush.

  “I do feel very sorry for you.” The creature’s eyes softened with what looked like a fatherly fondness. “You were going to die. They wanted to cook and eat you; how cruel! But now you’re here. You want to live, surely? Everybird wants to live!” Yin studied 013-Unidentified. He began again, quietly. “I like your spirit. Facing the reality bravely. But don’t you want to fight your enemies? Don’t you want to steer the flight of your life? I can save you from that fire. You’d be free.”

  013-Unidentified gaped. “Free! I—”

  Yin Soul’s eyes bore into 013-Unidentified’s. “But being free is not enough. You know that your enemies deserve to be punished. They deserve to be punished for causing you pain, for every injustice, for
every feather they tore loose. Some even deserve death! I know a way for that. Hero’s Day is the day of the fifth full moon in a year and a half. You know the legends about a magical sword that can be found at Kauria, the Island of Paradise. If you find the sword on that particular day, you will have power over all your enemies. Then you can do what your heart tells you to do! All you must do is agree to swallow my essence.”

  After a silence, Yin glanced into the distance and sighed. “I am like you. I know how it feels. Truly.” He smiled sadly at 013-Unidentified.

  “Why do you want me to swallow your essence?” the white bird asked at last.

  Yin Soul closed his eyes. “Then I would be able to guide you from inside your body.”

  013-Unidentified peered at Yin Soul, confused. Suppose, just suppose it was real. Then his troubles would probably end here and now, but…was his conscience telling him no? Was it the same thing that had made him say his long-ago name, Wind-voice, instead of 013-Unidentified when he spoke to the woodpecker captive, Ewingerale?

  You are Wind-voice, not 013-Unidentified, a voice deep inside him said. Think like Wind-voice.

  For a split second, everything in the room changed. Red blurred to gray. The flames went out; the candles were pools of wax. The cinnamon scents of incense soured into those of spoiled fish.

  The old, kind bird was transformed. The eyelids were gone, and Wind-voice could see his eyeballs, dark yellow as rotten plums. The gentle chuckles of Yin Soul changed to a dreadful sound, as if somebird was vomiting. This was what Yin Soul was truly like. The feathers on Wind-voice’s nape rose and he gulped. He was chilled with fear. It was suddenly very cold.

  The next second everything returned to the way it had been.

  “013-Unidentified, will you agree?”

  Wind-voice didn’t dare to look into Yin Soul’s face, but he knew what he wanted to say. “No. Take me back! I want to go back.” He rose and looked around. He saw the raven who had brought him here lurking behind a bookcase and stepped toward him. “Take me back to the archaeopteryxes.”

  “You cannot,” Yin Soul taunted. With a whirl of his wings, the shadows of ghostly birds, screeching unearthly sounds, appeared out of nowhere and moved swiftly toward Wind-voice. “You cannot. It is against your instincts to go willingly to your death. Come to me!”

  But Wind-voice knew—he had seen, in that brief moment of true sight—that Yin Soul’s apparent kindness could not be trusted. Whatever he offered, whatever he planned, Wind-voice knew he wanted no part of it—even if the other choice was death.

  Wind-voice faced the raven. “No! I want to go back! You said you must take me back!

  “I don’t think so. Stay.” Yin Soul rose as well and reached out a rootlike, quivering claw.

  Wind-voice flung a red blanket at Yin Soul. Then he grabbed hold of the raven’s feet and shouted, “Fly!” The raven cawed in surprise. The mangy bird dragged Wind-voice into the air as Yin Soul yelled below them, “Soon you’ll wish you had listened to me!” The ghost birds wailed along with their master. Wind-voice didn’t see Yin Soul shaking his balled claws, didn’t hear him whisper, “At least there is the other one.”

  Wind-voice closed his eyes tightly and could hear only the beat of the raven’s wings, which soon turned into the crackling of wood.

  To his horror, he could smell salt and pepper on his body. Had it all been a dream? Coughing, he opened his eyes. His smothered skin was flushed to a reddish pink, and his lungs felt as if they had collapsed. He was still over the fire. Tears burst into his eyes as sparks leaped up and scorched him. But the tears quickly evaporated in the heat.

  Wind-voice realized that there wasn’t much smoke around him. But the smoke had to go out somewhere. Craning his neck, he squinted at the ceiling above. Cold air blew through a jagged hole. He looked around. No archaeopteryxes cared to be near the heat of the fire. The fire tenders were all away on errands for the cook at the moment. He peered down into the flames. There was only one way, and that was the fool’s way. He opened his beak, sucked in a deep breath, and blew with all his might at the fire. Shutting his eyes tightly, he waited for the flames to flare back at him. He felt his ropes starting to char. But his feathers were burning as well.

  One rope fell. He fluttered the freed wing awkwardly and leaned forward to peck at the ropes around his other wing. The ropes dropped into the flames and withered to ashes.

  Summoning his ebbing strength, Wind-voice beat his wings and flitted toward the hole in the ceiling.

  It was a tight fit, but he struggled madly. There was a rip. He was in the air, in the night air! The bitter wind welcomed him.

  “It escaped!” cried an archaeopteryx below.

  Wind-voice’s body was blazing as he flew. The long sweeps of the flailing wings were sweeps of flame. He looked like a firebird.

  The archaeopteryxes shot a volley of arrows at him, but they fell short.

  He knew he could not last long in the air. His past was burning away. He could be what he wanted to be.

  013-Unidentified is truly dead, he thought as his scorched body faltered and plummeted down. Wind-voice is reborn.

  In everybird’s innermost heart there lies a moral compass.

  —FROM THE OLD SCRIPTURE

  4

  BEGINNING

  Fly in low to the west, Wind-voice! Hide!” Irene, his mother, shouted. Frightened, he obeyed. His mother started flying in the other direction, jumping now and then, pausing a few times to let the archaeopteryxes catch up. She let one of her wings trail behind, feigning injury in a desperate attempt to draw away the enemy.

  He stumbled in terror and looked back. Irene disappeared from sight around a sand dune. The archaeopteryxes followed. It was the last time Wind-voice saw his mother.

  Memory scorched Wind-voice along with the flames. He closed his eyes, trying not to scream, as the ground rushed up at him. His wings were useless. He twisted to land on his feet, and his right foot jammed full-force onto a rock. The rest of him crashed down onto it.

  Though most of the flames had been beaten out by his crash, a few feathers were still smouldering. Then, to his surprise, a thin, high voice whispered in his ear. “Wind-voice! Thank the Great Spirit, you’re alive!”

  It was Winger. The woodpecker scooped up some cool, wet mud and put out the flames quickly, then smeared some more to blot out all of Wind-voice’s white feathers so he would not be easily spotted. “Try to get up,” Winger urged. “Quick, quick.”

  “Where can we go?” Wind-voice asked, staggering to his feet.

  “I know where. Just come with me.”

  Wind-voice knew he could not fly. But he limped as fast as he could, trying not to put much weight on his injured claws, the woodpecker supporting him.

  Wind-voice’s vision began to blur and waver. Suddenly he saw the rich purplish black of another bird, a myna, who appeared beside Winger and helped Wind-voice walk. Supported by the two birds, he stepped into the fringe of golden light from a campfire and saw a gray-and-blue bird practicing the graceful movements of swordplay, all alone. Wind-voice flinched at the sight of the red and orange flames.

  Bright flashes of green-blue filled the air as little kingfishers darted toward them. The stout myna congratulated Wind-voice on his daring escape. Ewingerale said something to him excitedly in his shrill little voice, but he couldn’t catch the words. So many smiling faces loomed up at him. Some started bandaging his burns and washing his injured foot with cool water.

  Then Wind-voice turned and saw two dull yellow sticks in front of his eyes. Numbly he realized they weren’t sticks at all but spindly legs. There was an ugly scar on the right foot. He looked up to see folded wings and a body and, higher still, a long neck curving over and a pair of yellow eyes looking at him. It was the bird who had been practicing with the sword. The heron’s white face was almost comically wedgelike, but the two bold, black brushstrokes sweeping up above the eyes, however, were just menacing enough to stop any laughter. He said in a deep,
vibrant tone, “Welcome, son. You are safe here. I am the heron Fisher. Welcome.”

  With those words, the haze in Wind-voice’s mind cleared.

  “We’re free now, we’re free!” the woodpecker shouted joyously.

  Wind-voice noticed the myna, standing still but with one claw running up and down a long wooden staff. He flew over to the myna and thanked him. The myna made a slight inclination with his head. “Don’t mention it. You’re a tough one. My name is Stormac.” Wind-voice was surprised to see that, despite his warriorlike appearance, Stormac sported a funny necklace with a red wooden pendant.

  Wind-voice felt warmth that he had not thought existed in this forlorn, marshy land. “What tribe is this?” he croaked.

  “These times are hard on tribes,” answered the old heron, gesturing far and wide with both wide wings. “Several tribes, survivors of attacks by the archaeopteryxes, live together here as a community. We have egrets, mynas, and herons as well as the Ekka tribe of kingfishers.”

  Then another heron drifted over to them and handed them each a small, flat rock with steaming food on top. Everybody grew quiet at the sight of the heron. She seemed to be focused elsewhere. “Here,” she said. They stammered their thanks.

  The heron seemed to hear something nobird else did and wandered into the shadows, murmuring, “Candles…he made the best candles, even ones shaped like heron chicks. It’s a pity, but those chick candles have all burned out…”

  “That’s my wife, Aredrem,” Fisher said sadly, and went over to comfort her. “I was a candlemaker before the turmoil started. We lost all our children to archaeopteryxes or to hunger. I lost a toe in battle, so I cannot make candles as I used to. Poor Aredrem was shaken. She’s in a different world now. But Aredrem seems to have taken a liking to you two.”