Unicorn Point

11 - Phoebe

Phoebe perched in her den, desolate. She had done wrong; she knew it. She had let an unharpylike compassion lead her into helping the ‘com-boy Flach escape—and Translucent had caught her at it. Yet the boy was the foal of the unicorn Fleta, who had befriended her and cured her tailfeather itch, and of the Rovot Adept, who had given her a hairdo that had made her the Flock Leader. How could she turn Flach away? She knew that a true harpy would have pounced on the boy and offered him up to the Adepts, gleefully reneging on any debt owed his family. By her action she had proved that she lacked the proper harpy attitude. So now she was barred again from the Flock, and there was to be a scratch-off to select a new leader, and she was in the dumps.

Yet such was her depravity, she knew she would do it again. The rovot and unicorn had given her an illicit taste of some thing virtually unknown in harpydom: friendship. Now she cravenly clung to the notion. She wanted to be among folk who cared for those they were with, instead of perpetually cursing them. So here she was, deprived of the kind of company she no longer desired anyway. She was sorry the lad had been recaptured. It was an irony that he had been hiding from those same folk who had befriended her. But she knew that they did not really want to be on the side of the Adverse Adepts, any more than she did. They too were stuck in a nasty situation.

She went down to her spring and peered at her reflection. Her fright wig was sagging; the rovot’s spell was slowly wearing off. But it had become the mark of her leadership among the harpies of her Flock, and its appeal to her was fading with the appeal of association with the Flock. She was ready to let it dissolve away. But because it was the gift of the rovot, she would not hurry it.

She was hungry, so she hunted. Fortunately for her, this region was rich with small prey, because an Adept enchant ment prevented her from leaving it. They were still mulling over her fate; they might kill her, or they might merely maim her, depending on their judgment. If she had any way, she would flee to the other side for sanctuary, but she knew she could not. She was in the same situation as the near-Adept Tania, who it seemed had now helped or tried to help the enemy twice. Had Tania not been the sister of an Adept, and a rather pretty young woman, too, she might have suffered grievously, the first time. Had she not managed to defect, she would certainly have suffered the second time. Phoebe knew the cause of her problem; it was common gossip in the Flock. She had been so foolish as to fall in love with Bane, the son of the Adept Stile. They were working on the same side, so she had not been able to use her Eye on him and bend him to her cruel will; instead he had bent her to his kind will, and thereby destroyed her nature. Even as Phoebe’s nature had been destroyed. Ah, the corruption wrought by exposure to decency!

She flew low through the forest, and spied a foolish fat rat gnawing on a gourd by day. She gave a rat-terrorizing screech and pounced. The rat jumped away, but she snatched it in mid-leap. Harpies were the champions of snatch! The Harpilympics featured the two-claw snatch and the one-claw snatch and the single, double and triple snatches, and the winners were so fast that the motion of their claws could not be seen; the prey went from ground to mouth seemingly of its own volition. She had seen one prize-winning demonstration in which a mouse, rat and rabbit had been snatched, with the first finishing in the mouth of the second, and the second in the mouth of the third, and the third in the mouth of the harpy, all seemingly in a single blurred motion. Triple snatch galore!

There was a rumble behind her. She flew up, startled, and turned in air to look back, the rat still struggling in her claws. A cleft opened in the ground, and from it rose a fat man in a purple robe. “Purple Adept!” she screeched, astonished and hardly pleased. “Hast come to dispatch me at last, thou bulging sausage?”

The ground closed, leaving him standing, unperturbed.

“Merely to make thee choose, bird brain,” he said equably. “An I had a choice, would I choose to snatch thine eyeballs from thy foul face, and thy tongue too, and wrap them that they squirt not too much when I chomp them,” she screeched.

“An thou not be quiet, hen, willst thou hear not mine oner.”

“This for thine offer, offal!” she screeched, letting go the very foulest of droppings. “An thou meanest not to torture me to death, get thy presence gone from here ere I suffocate from the mere smell o* thee!”

“The offer be this: resume the leadership o’ thy Flock, or be afflicted with the return of thy tailfeather itch, ten times as bad as before.”

He had certainly pinpointed the opposite extremes of her preference! But she knew better than to trust this. “Where be the catch, flatus?”

“There be a task for thy Flock to perform.”

“Harpies perform tasks not!” she screeched. “We be dirty birds o’ prey, not beasts o’ burden!”

“This be a mock combat situation,” he explained. “Thou must engage in a siege ‘gainst a vampire Flock, the one to capture the flag o’ the other and lose not its own.”

“Mock?” she screeched, still looking for the catch she knew was there. “The only one I wish to mock is thee, thou miserable excuse for feculence!”

“Teeth and claws be nulled; their action seems real, but the victim suffers mere loss o’ function, not o’ limb or life, and after the siege be done, all victims recover without fur ther effect.”

“What kind o’ combat be that?” she screeched. “Action without the splatter o’ blood be no action at all!”

“I agree with thee, stinkfeather, but such be the rule. It be part o’ the compromise hammered out with Stile.”

“With Stile! Thou hast no dealings with the Blue Demesnes!” But this interested her more than she could afford to let on. If some way offered to defect to Stile . . . “This siege be ‘gainst a Flock o’ bats supporting Stile. It be one o’ three, and two o’ three gives the final victory. Canst snatch a flag from bats, dangledugs?”

Now the catch was coming clear. She wanted to defect to the side of the Adept Stile—and here she had to oppose it. The Purple Adept, suspecting this, had devised an exquisite torment: she would have to labor to deny Blue the ultimate power. Was she to do this, as she knew she could, or suffer the torment of the tenfold tailfeather itch? She knew the Adept was making no bluff; his threat was well within his power of implementation.

She was a coward; she knew it. She could face dismemberment or death, but not the tailfeather itch. It would tear her up to do this to Stile or his minions, but she could not face the alternative. “Aye,” she murmured.

“Methinks I did not hear thee, frightface,” he said. “Dost agree to serve?”

“Aye,” she said reluctantly.

“I saw no ripple.”

“Aye!” she screeched, and now the ripple radiated out, committing her to her ultimate. She would do her very best to accomplish the thing she hated to accomplish.

“Aye,” he agreed, smiling smugly, and his cleft in the ground opened and took him in.

Phoebe surveyed the grounds of the siege personally. She well understood the importance of terrain, having had to hunt alone for the years of her tailfeather itch; a hunter who knew her ground had a significant, often critical advantage over one who did not. The key to success was to drive the prey into terrain unfamiliar to it; then it could readily be trapped and snatched.

In this case the prey was a flag; it could not be driven or spooked. But the importance of knowing the ground re mained, for creatures would be carrying that flag. Bats would be guarding it, thus they were prey. Also, bats would be seeking to steal her own flag, and any who got hold of that 9 flag had to be caught immediately. The parallels to genuine hunting were close enough.

Her flag was mounted at the top of a towering pine tree. She had no choice about that; the Adepts had determined the regions and placements beforehand. The bats would fly low, using the concealment of the mixed forest, perhaps even crawling up the trunk of the pine tree to reach the flag. Once one of them got it—the thing was of very light fabric, so that it weighed almost nothing—that bat would head for the sky, using its superior speed to outdistance the pursuit of the har pies. The moment the two flags were put together by one creature, the siege would be over, and the victor the team of the one who held the flags.

She would have to assign hens to guard that tree, to nab any bat who tried to climb it. That was simple enough. Pre vention was obviously the best defense; she had to see that no bat got close to that flag.

She flew across to the enemy flag. This was mounted on a pole atop a small mountain peak. It would be easy to access it by air, but the hens would be readily spotted. Bats in man form would be able to pick off the harpies, using bows and arrows. That was the problem: while a harpy was more than a match for a bat or several bats, a manform vamp with a good weapon was a match for several harpies. The hens could fly high, out of range of the arrows, but would have to de scend to within range to snatch the flag. That was no good; they would be riddled in short order. The arrows, like other weapons, might have only a temporary effect, but the siege could be lost if they made a careless approach. She flew in increasing spirals around the full region, peer ing at everything. Here there was a chaparral, a thick tangle of small evergreen oak trees, a fairly effective barrier to the manform but not to batform. There was an inlet of the eastern sea, tapering from broad to narrow and finally ending at the mouth of a small river. That would be easy for either form to fly over, but the manforms would have to swim, where they would be vulnerable to harpy attack. There was a ridge of hills angling roughly between the two flags that would serve as excellent cover for manforms with weapons. There were fire-cleared glades, and patches of thin forest; the cleared regions formed a random and fairly intricate pattern that could offer both promise and danger for infiltrators. The east part of the siege area was limited by the Eastern Sea that surrounded the East Pole. This was infested by salt water predators and was unsafe for any land or air creatures not protected by magic. But the inlet was fresh water, from the river, and she spied no dangerous marine creatures there. Interesting. This region was as new to the bats as to the harpies, being neutral ground; the bats might not realize the significance of the fresh water here.

She completed her survey. Bats were doing a similar job; this was a time of truce before the siege. She ignored them, and returned to her headquarters. She had learned what she wanted, and was now working out a strategy for victory. For she had decided: she might wish that the Adept Stile’s side could win, but she had made a deal, and she would give it her best. The bats would only beat the hens by out-sieging them and she doubted they could do it. Strategy had always been her forte, as the Purple Adept had obviously known; some other hen might have botched the siege, but Phoebe would not.

Part of her wished that the bats had a superior strategist who could defeat her, so that Stile could win. But the rest of her knew that would be terrible for her, and not just because a loss would beget the tenfold tailfeather itch. She had pride, after all; she had to prove she was the best, no matter what the cost. Prove that she had not really been corrupted by decency. She hated this, but it was the way it was. Now she faced her Flock. “There be our flag,” she screeched. “Across the valley there, be the bats’ flag, mounted on a hill. The game be this: we must snatch the enemy flag and bring it back to join ours, and that be the victory. But we may not touch our own flag, only the enemy. An they take it, we must destroy who carries it, and leave it lie, and guard it till we bring theirs to it. Questions?”

“Can we kill them?” a horrendous old harpy screeched.

“Nay, Sabreclaw. But we may try. Our claws be enchanted so they poison not, only stun, and the same for the bats’ weapons. This be a play-siege, but do thy worst, for it will seem real, and only when it ends will the wounded and dead recover.”

“Those bats be under the tutelage o’ Vodlevile and his cub Vidselud,” a grizzled old harpy screeched. “They be friends to Stile, and be no fools. What be our strategy?”

“Right dost thou be, Hawktooth,” Phoebe screeched. “They be no mean adversaries. They have both speed and power o’er us, in one form or t’other. But our strategies be two. For the defense thou willst govern, taking thy place in the tree below and snatching and dispatching any bats who come near. But beware, for thou willst have too few hens to do it well; thou must be cunning and waste no effort on tri fles, lest they overwhelm thee and take the flag and fly it high and fast beyond thy means to reco’er.”

“Too few hens?” Hawktooth screeched. “Why?”

“Because we need the rest on offense. As we do our job, thou willst not be hard-pressed long.”

At the word “offense,” the members of the Flock pressed in more closely. That was what they liked.

“Thou, Sabreclaw, willst lead the attack on the enemy flag, with six tough birds o’ thine own choosing,” Phoebe contin ued. “But this be no easy thing.”

“Give me six foul hens and false, and there be naught to stand in our way!” Sabreclaw screeched boldly. “We’ll smear those bats into spatters o’ blood!” There was a raucous chorus of agreement. How these birds loved blood! This was of course the root of the traditional enmity between harpies and vampires: competition for blood.

“Nay,” Phoebe screeched, quelling the commotion. “This be a secret attack, avoiding mayhem.”

There was disgust, horror and outrage. “What kind o’ attack be that?” Sabreclaw demanded righteously. “An attack without blood be no mission for a harpy!”

“Blood with no victory be no mission for us,” Phoebe countered. “Dost want to hangfeather in shame for losing the siege to mere bats?”

They had to admit, grudgingly, that she had a point, albeit a technicality. They wanted blood and victory, not one or the other.

A nasty thought pushed into Phoebe’s consciousness, like a tapeworm in the gut of an otherwise edible morsel. Was she assigning the most ferocious hen of the Flock to this mission in the hope that Sabreclaw would be unable to control her lust for bloodshed, and would go on a rampage and mess up her mission, so that they would lose the siege? That would bring no direct shame to Phoebe, if it was clear that her strategy would have been effective. Yet if it were also clear that she could have assigned a hen who would have obeyed orders . . .

She had to do this right. “Thou willst commit to doing this right, or needs I must appoint an other squad leader,” Phoebe told Sabreclaw firmly. “The success o’ the siege depends on this, and the shame be mine if there be not discipline in the ranks.”

Sabreclaw had to commit to doing it right, lest she be sum marily removed from the action. “But an there be no other way, then—”

“Then blood,” Phoebe agreed. “Likely once thou dost put thy claw on the flag, and before thou canst rise beyond the range o’ their weapons, there be action. But before then, thou and thine be the meekest o’ sparrows.”

“Aye, and dragons after!” They were coming to terms with it, realizing that the blood would likely be only delayed, not aborted. “But how do we get close? That flag be in plain view, and the bats be not batty enough to leave it unguarded!”

“Precisely,” Phoebe agreed. “That be exactly why the sneak-snatch be necessary. Another squad will mount the overt attack, distracting the bats, whilst thou dost lead thy squad down under cover o’ the trees and through the chap arral—“ Here she paused to scratch a diagram in the dirt below her perch. “Needs must scurry like rats, wings furled, to pass this thicket, but the bats, assured we will not be there, will leave it unguarded or lightly guarded. Take out the guard silently and ferry through single file. Here there be water, an inlet o’ the Eastern Sea. Find the old tree fallen into it, and grasp the trunk o’ it and climb down into the water—”

“What?!”

“And under the water,” Phoebe continued relentlessly. “It be a well-known fact that most creatures believe that harpies hate water—”

“We do hate water!” Sabreclaw screeched.

“And lack the gumption to go near it. But the truth be that though harpies may have a strong and justified aversion to water, they be not afraid o’ it, and can handle it when the dictates o’ courage demand. Dost disagree?”

There were evidently a number in the Flock who wanted to disagree, but none did, oddly.

“By going under the water, canst pass where no bat expects,” Phoebe explained. “The inlet be narrow here, and the water fresh, so no saltsea predators be there. Hold breath, set claws in sunken tree, pull along, and the farthest branch be at a clutch o’ reeds the other side, concealment for emer gence. Crawl out unobserved, seek cover o’ nearby forest arm, and continue on toward the mountain bearing their flag. Take ne’er to the air, and hide whene’er a bat shows, making no disturbance. Then, when there be no chance to get closer unobserved, make a mass rush for the flag, taking out all bats in range, and snatch it and wing for the sky and bring it back to join ours.” Phoebe fixed Sabreclaw with a steely gaze. “Canst do?”

Sabreclaw hesitated, but realized that this was the way it had to be. “Can do,” she agreed. It was obvious that she dreaded the crawl under water, but saw the merit of the plan, and knew she had to prove that harpies weren’t afraid of anything.

“Then pick thy squad,” Phoebe said. “When the siege starts, take thy time, go down out o’ sight when none be watching, and let none see thee advance. The success o’ this siege be in thy claws, and the glory be thine an ye succeed.”

Sabreclaw set about selecting her squad of tough hens, and Phoebe went on to more routine matters. The remaining hens were assigned to offense and defense, and there was one sui cide squad who would make a determined raid on the enemy flag at about the time Sabreclaw’s squad was passing under the water, to draw the attention of the bats. It was all intended to seem conventional enough, as if harpies lacked the wit for innovation or subtlety, and with luck the bats would under estimate the opposition.

The siege began at noon, and would continue until settle ment. The harpies knew they had to win it by day, because the bats were supreme by night. But Phoebe figured to do it in the first hour; if her sneak ploy failed, they would be in deep droppings. She had rehearsed all the squads in their tasks; in addition to the flag defense and the flag offense, there were the mock oflense and the general defense to be seen to. Phoebe herself would hover above and go where needed to buttress a problem area.

She went forward with her lieutenants Hawktooth and Sa breclaw, to meet the bat leader Vodlevile, his son Vidselud, and a female bat. When the bats assumed their manforms, Phoebe was amazed. “Suchevane!” she screeched, recognizing the loveliest of all the vamps. “How earnest thou to be here? Methought thou wedded to the Red Adept!” For the alien from Proton-frame, Agape, had exchanged bodies with the unicorn Fleta eight years prior, and come to Phoebe for help, then gone on to the Red Adept, who had finally solved her problem. In the process Suchevane had gotten to know the Adept; she was beautiful and lonely, and he was powerful and lonely, and one thing had led to another, and now they had their mixedbreed son, Al. In the old days such a union would have been impossible, but the rovot and the ‘corn had shown the way.

“The Flock be short a member, so I returned,” Suchevane replied.

“But this be a siege!” Phoebe protested. “It be very like war. We dirty birds thrive on it, but thou dost be too delicate for aught like this.”

“Delicate? I raised the child o’ a troll!”

She had a point. “Well, the mayhem be but mock,” Phoebe said. “ ‘Twere else a shame to mangle thy pretty features.”

“Aye,” Suchevane agreed, smiling. Such was her beauty, despite her advancing age and state of motherhood, that the harpy minions were nauseated.

“Thou knowest the Adepts, human folk, and animals be watching,” Vodlevile said. “E’en as their magic nulls our weapons, it sends the image o’ this activity out. This be why none o’ us may contact other beyond the demarked region, lest they learn things illicitly.”

“Aye,” Phoebe screeched moderately. “We mean to win, an all will see how we do it. There be no rules o’ conduct here.”

“Save touching not thine own flag,” he said. “Then let us part now, and next we meet as combatants.”

“Aye,” she repeated. Then she and her minions flew back toward their flag, and he and his minions turned bat and returned to theirs.

“Easy pickings!” Sabreclaw screeched.

“Nay, that Vodlevile be a cunning one,” Hawktooth warned. “And that hussy, the bride o’ the troll—no good can come o’ the like o’ that.”

Phoebe was inclined to agree. Suchevane had not spent eight years with the Troll Adept without learning something about the applications of power. It would be best to take her out early, as well as Vodlevile and Vidselud, so as to render the enemy leaderless. Of course, the bats would be trying to do the same to them. “Watch thy tails,” she warned the other two. “We three be marked hens, now.”

“Aye,” they screeched in chorus.

“Ho’er through the fog and filthy air!” she screeched at the Flock as they rejoined it. It was the code for the start of hostilities. Immediately the hens launched up and out, screeching a splendid cacophony. Simultaneously the bats fountained up from their starting point; Phoebe saw the cloud of them, before it dissolved into its business formation and was hidden behind the trees.

Her squads went out as assigned. The Mock Attack Squad made a hullabaloo and flew forward toward the enemy. Be hind this noisy cover, the Flag Defense Squad went back and disappeared into the foliage of the big pine tree. The General Defense Squad faded into the brush between the other two. The Sneak Attack Squad simply disappeared. The bats came on without hesitation. Phoebe climbed high, out of range of arrows, and watched the unfolding engage ment. She saw the Mock Attack hens charging up and taking cover behind trees as they spied manforms; that way the spears and arrows could not catch them. The manform bats paused, naturally enough; they knew better than to charge past harpy infested trees, for the hens would spring out suddenly and claw their heads, blinding or killing them. However, a number of bats were flying above the trees, getting beyond the first line of harpies. They were not landing near, to tackle the hens from the rear; they were going on toward the harpy flag. That didn’t worry Phoebe; the moment the bats approached it, the defensive harpies would fly up and snatch them. The bats could not get through in batform while there were defenders. They would have to eliminate the de fenders first.

The bats dropped to the ground part way there. Some of them became manforms, while others remained bats. What were they doing?

Soon enough, she saw. The manforms were using their weapons to cover the advancing batforms. A bat would fly forward; when a harpy napped up to snatch it, a manform would loose an arrow at the bird. That was dangerous! “Messenger!” Phoebe screeched, and a hen assigned to this duty flapped up to join her. “Go tell the Defense Squad to go for the manforms instead. Three birds to a man; pounce from cover and destroy. Do not fly up into their arrows!” The messenger-hen flew down, and shortly was screeching the new orders. Phoebe watched as three charged one man form. He put an arrow through the first, but the other two came down on him and scratched his eyes out. Then they picked up a new third companion and went after the next manform. This one tried to change to batform and escape, but a hen snatched him out of the air and bit off his head. Of course these effects were more apparent than real, thanks to the magic of the Adepts, but it was evident that most of the dirty birds had forgotten that. The new defense was working! Meanwhile the forward line of hens was making progress. They were flitting from tree to tree, forcing the manforms to stay well clear of the trees, because within the region en closed by branches the smaller henforms were more deadly. But then they came to a wide clearing, and here the weapons of the manforms dominated.

Phoebe realized that someone was liable to do something brave and stupid at this stage, so she sent another message:

“Cross that clearing not! Go round it! Worry not about the time it takes, just protect your tailfeathers!” For time was hardly of the essence; this was a mock attack, and the longer it distracted the enemy, the better. The detour around the clearing was actually an advantage.

She hoped that Sabreclaw’s genuine attack squad was mak ing progress. If it proceeded too slowly, it might be success ful—after the bats had won the siege. But she could not check on them; they did not exist, as far as the others were con cerned, until they struck by surprise.

The bats, having taken some losses, had regrouped, and now were advancing in a leapfrogging wedge formation. Sev eral bats would fly forward together, covered by several man forms with bows, and several other manforms protected the bowmen with spears. When the hens attacked, the bowmen got some at a distance, and the spearmen got some close, so the hens were taking heavy losses.

The Mock Offense was working its way around the clearing, as directed. But Phoebe realized that this was now working to the advantage of the bats, because their flag was not really threatened yet. They could deploy relatively few man forms to keep the hens in check, and that freed more bats for the active front nearer the harpy flag. No wonder the tide was turning!

But if she recalled the Mock Attack Squad, that would only free the remaining defensive bats, and they could fly forward faster than the harpies. That was no good. There were problems all around because they were short of personnel; the seven secret birds were sorely needed now! Soon the bats would be at the flag tree, and that was too close. Phoebe realized that it was time for her to join the fray. They had to hold off the bat attack until the Secret Squad could strike. If they could hold out long enough, they would win. If not—

She flew down toward the point of the bat wedge. It was a virtual phalanx; indeed, the spearmen carried small shields. No wonder the hens were having the worst of it! How could she break this up? A direct charge would be ruinously costly; three or four or five hens would be dispatched for every man form they took out. But if they did not interfere with the phalanx, it would reach the tree, and then there would be overwhelming bat force surrounding the harpy flag. She scratched the ground of her mind, searching for an answer—and turned up a risky but promising ploy. If the hens could hide, and let the phalanx march right into the ambush, then they could attack from within the cover of the shields, too close for arrows or spears to have effect. They could wreak horrible havoc before the bats reorganized. She came to ground well ahead of the phalanx, out of its sight. Her beady eye had spied a small gully that would do for her purpose. “Hens!” she screeched with minimal vol ume, so that her voice would not carry to the sharp-eared bats. “Here to me!”

Soon she had half a dozen harpies clustered around her. “That batty phalanx be destroying us,” she whisper screeched. “Needs must we get inside it. Its path be by here; this be the clearest approach to our flag-tree. Hunch down, within this gully, fill it with your bodies, and I will scratch dirt o’er you, and leaves. They will take it to be a level approach. When you feel the weight o’ their passage, burst up within their formation and scratch them to pieces fast as e’er you can! They will turn and finally wipe you out; this be a suicide mission. But remember that it be only till siege-end; then all be undone, and all be heroes. Meanwhile see how many each can take out. An it be enough, it will preserve our flag and our victory.”

She was an effective screecher, because of her fright-wig; they quickly agreed and huddled down into the gully, their gross bodies filling it from side to side. Each hen spread her wings enough to hold up some dirt. Phoebe scratched earth and leaves and twigs over them desperately, cursing every root that inhibited her, trying to get them covered before the bats arrived and saw what was going on. Then she saw that she had a scraped area of ground that could be a giveaway, so she had to go farther afield and scratch a shower of dry leaves across that. The whole thing seemed too obvious; they would catch on, and poke their spears into the ground ahead, and wipe out the lurking hens before they could get started! What could she do? She couldn’t call on the hens hidden in the tree; they were the last-ditch defense of the flag. All her other hens were occupied elsewhere. She needed some kind of distraction, so the batmen wouldn’t notice the scuffled ground until too late.

She heard their approach. They were marching in step, no longer bothering to fly ahead in their batforms. The phalanx was all they needed to crush the opposition. Phoebe wished she had anticipated this ploy, so that she could have better prepared her hens for it.

She had to do it herself. She flew low across the ground to the nearest tree-cover. Then she flew up into the sky, toward the approaching phalanx, as if unaware of it. “I hear a bat!” she screeched at top volume. “I’ll mash it!” Then she hove into sight of the phalanx, and did a dramatic doubletake. “Awk! It be a squintillion bats! Retreat, cohorts!” She spun in air, and did a tripletake. “Where be my cohorts?”

An arrow sailed toward her. She was alert for it, and took such little evasive action that it actually brushed her tail feathers. As it passed, she made a fortissimo screech and did a flip in the air. “Ouch; that scorched my tail!” Now she tumbled down as though injured, going into the scuffled region. She flapped furiously just above the ground, stirring up dust and leaves, and barely managed to avoid a crash. Now the ground had an excuse to be scuffed! She swooped into the lowest region of the flag tree, hiding from the phalanx. She had, she hoped, done her job of distraction. She had heard a laugh during her acrobatics; the batmen had enjoyed seeing her supposed distress. Now they were confident that there would be little further resistance, and they knew that would be at the flag tree. If they paid no attention to the ground—

The phalanx marched on, taking the most open course, avoiding cover where harpies might lurk. The gully was evident to the sides; the filled center of it seemed to be the obvious place to cross without messing up their formation. Had the bats not been so confident, they might have wondered at this convenient filling of a natural formation. But they stepped right up to it, and on it. There was a shriek from the ground. Sand and leaves burst up, as if an explosion had occurred. The harpies emerged at the batmen’s feet and commenced scratching. They were too low for the shields, and scooted under them before the bats realized.

For a moment the phalanx held its form. But the sounds of combat sounded within it: exultant screeching and mortified cursing. The formation broke apart as the batmen tried to use their weapons against the attackers underfoot, and succeeded mainly in stabbing each other. Beautiful! There had been about twenty manforms in the phalanx. By the time they broke far enough apart to use their weapons to destroy the six harpies, a dozen of them had been scratched too badly to continue. The hens had taken out two for one—an excellent score, though not as good as Phoebe had hoped. There were still more batmen advancing than harpies hidden in the tree. This was going to be tight. How much time had passed? It seemed but a moment, and it also seemed an hour. How close was the Sneak Squad to the enemy flag? Phoebe could not know.

The eight remaining batmen reformed their phalanx, and marched more carefully toward the tree. They knew there would be trouble here, and that it would be unsafe to change form until they were sure every defender was out of it. This would be hand-to-claw, arm-to-wing combat until one force or the other was wiped out, no quarter given. The phalanx moved right up to the tree. Then, abruptly, it broke apart, and all the manforms leaped for the tree. The defending harpies had been expecting action, but this was deceptively fast; the manforms were in among them before they realized, just as the buried birds had caught the phalanx by surprise. There was immediate turmoil in the tree, as spear poked at body, and claw struck at flesh. Phoebe scuttled aside as a spear came for her; fortunately the thick pine foliage masked her position, so the shaft was not well aimed. She found a leg and gave it one good slash; blood welled out as the poison went in, and the manform stiffened and fell back. She looked around, but though she heard action everywhere, she could not see it, and was afraid to move lest she interfere with one of her own. She heard an agonized screech, and knew that a hen had received a mortal stab. Then she heard the heavy crash of another manform falling. It seemed about even—but there were two more bats than harpies, so even wasn’t good enough. If one bat was left over then, peering worriedly up, she saw one bat appear from the distance, flying directly toward the flag. The bats had kept one in reserve! Now that all the harpies were locked in battle with the attacking batmen, no one was guarding the top spire. It could be a clean pickup, with no one even realizing that the flag was gone until too late.

All harpies were locked in battle except one. By the mischance of the obscurity of the action within the cover of the tree, Phoebe herself was free. She launched herself up, flying desperately around behind the tree so that the lone bat would not see her. It was a faster flyer than she, and it had the advantage of flying high and level, but she was closer. She could get there by the time it did, and that was all she needed. But she had been aloft during much of the action, and she had expended her strength recklessly scratching soil over the hens in the gully. Her ascent slowed as her wing muscles tired. Was she to be too late? It seemed she would. But she kept struggling upward, determined to do her utmost, lest she be accused of holding back intentionally. How could anyone know, if she missed that bat and let the flag get away, whether 1 she had really been tired, or had really wanted Stile’s side to win? How could she know?

The bat got there first, but not by much. Phoebe saw it clutch the red flag and try to fly. But the flag was firmly tied to the tree, so that no stray gust of wind would dislodge it. The bat had to cling to the slender branch of the tree and tug repeatedly at the cloth, working it loose—and in that time, Phoebe completed her climb and reached the spot herself. The bat got the flag loose just as Phoebe arrived. It spread its wings—and Phoebe’s slash severed one wing and sent it tumbling toward the ground, still clutching the flag. Then Phoebe suffered a shock of horror. She wasn’t good at recognizing bats in their batforms, but up close she could do it by smell. That bat was female—and it was Suchevane. Of course they would have saved the lovely vamp for non combat duty! Phoebe had just struck down a friend, one who had helped the alien Agape as Phoebe herself had, years ago. She saw the bat strike the ground. It was so small and light that the fall really would not hurt it much, and the wing would be instantly repaired when the siege was over. Still, it had seemed so real, and in any other circumstance could have been real. Of all the folk Phoebe did not want to hurt, Suchevane was near the top of the list. At what cost had she won her victory?

Then she saw a manbat emerge from the tree, evidently having dispatched his opposite number. He ran for the flag. The siege was not yet over!

Phoebe, hovering tiredly, did what she had to. She dive bombed the manform. It was much faster going down than going up, especially this way. As the manform bent to pick up the flag, she swooped across and caught his head in her talons. The bladelike edges sliced into his neck, finishing him instantly. A standing manform might have fended her off with his arms, but this one was in a vulnerable position at the moment.

The manform dropped, unconscious, and rolled over, the flag in his hand. She looped back—and saw that it was Vidselud, the Bat Chief’s son. She felt another surge of anguish. He was about third on her list of bats not to hurt. Had she known—could she have done otherwise?

A third enemy emerged from the tree. This was Vodlevile, the Chief himself, holding a spear. He hurled it at Phoebe. She scrambled aside, but it caught the tip of her right wing. She felt the pain of the wound exactly as if it were real; could the Adepts be playing a macabre joke, making them believe that real injuries and deaths were mock?—but not mortal. She would be unable to fly well, if at all, but she could still get around on the ground. She took up a position between the batman and the flag.

Now Vodlevile was without his weapon, but that hardly slowed him. He charged her. Phoebe knew that if she got out of the way, he would pick up the flag and run, and she would be unable to catch him. But if she did not, he would crush her. Worse yet, he was about number two on her list of those she wished not to hurt. The others she had struck down be fore she realized their identities, but this time she knew. What was she to do?

She jumped up as he reached her, flapping her wings for stability despite the pain, lashing out with her talons. She hoped he was smart enough to dodge aside. He was. Her strike missed, but he lost his balance and rolled on the ground. She struck the ground herself, and ran toward him, knowing she had to scratch him before he got back to his feet. Wishing she didn’t have to. But she was too late; he was up and moving.

She scrambled to the side, keeping herself between him and the fallen flag. It was her only chance. He had to get by her to take it up, and if he could not—

He paused. “Good show, Phoebe!” he gasped. “But thou canst not balk me fore’er. Already dost thou be tiring from loss o’ blood.”

It was true. Her wings felt leaden, and her legs were tiring.

She could not fight much longer.

He charged, trying to pass her. She jumped at his feet, entangling them. He tripped and fell—but his hand flung out and got hold of the spear. He rolled on his back, brought the haft about, and clubbed her with it, knocking her down on her back. Yet the blow was not as hard as it might have been; he didn’t want to hurt her either. The spear twisted from his hand and fell to the ground again, but it had done its job. Phoebe knew at that moment that she was done for. The frame seemed to be spinning, and she could not summon strength to get back to her feet. Vodlevile, in contrast, was getting up. She could no longer block him from the flag.

Then she heard a heavy flapping. “Fie, batface!” Sabre claw screeched. “Defend thyself, an thou hast the nerve!” They had made it! Phoebe saw Vodlevile dive for his spear, but Sabreclaw only feinted at him. Instead she dived for the ground—and the red flag. She clapped the bats’ blue flag down on it. There was the sound of a gong. That suddenly the siege was over. The harpies had won! Then Phoebe gave herself over to unconsciousness. She had done her best, strategically and physically, and it had been enough. She had vindicated herself. If only it could have been otherwise!

But she was not after all permitted to sleep. Abruptly the pain and fatigue were gone, and she was whole again. Nearby, Vidselud and Suchevane were getting up, and other bodies were stirring. The siege was over, and the bloodshed was undone. It never had been real; the Adepts had spoken truly after all. Only the victory was real—the one she wished she had not had to win.