Pilgrim. Sara Douglass

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       12 The Hawkchilds

      F ind for us and, finding, set those who run to our song against them.

      So Sheol had commanded, and so the Hawkchilds had done. In truth, they already knew much of what the Demons needed to know. Since their return through the Star Gate the Hawkchilds had flown virtually the length and breadth of their ancient homeland, watching, seeing, noting.

       Where the armies that think to trample us underfoot?

      There, in the north of the Silent Woman Woods. Many of them. Tens of thousands. Crouched about small campfires, waiting for who knew what.

       Where the magicians of this world?

      Those that are left crouch within the forests. That so few were left made the Hawkchilds whisper their glee to the darkened skies.

      They were those of the earth and the trees, and while they retained some powers now, the Hawkchilds knew they would eventually lose it. When Qeteb walked again beneath the heat of the midday sun. When the trees were blackened stumps smouldering under his fury.

      These magicians, these Avar, were impotent now and would shortly be completely useless. The best they’d had, Isfrael and the Bane Shra, had thrown themselves against the Demons, and had lost.

      And so the Hawkchilds paid them no heed. They would pose little, if any, danger. They soared through the dawning sky, whispering joyful melodies. There was no magic left in this land that could touch the Demons.

      None.

       Where this StarSon who thinks to rule the Throne of Stars?

      Harder. He was here, somewhere, in the forests, but the Hawkchilds could not spot him.

      Their joy faltered, and they hissed.

      Where this StarSon? His name is Caelum. Caelum SunSoar.

      As one mind they soared and dipped, thinking. Eventually, as mutual decision was reached, twenty-seven of the Hawkchilds veered away from the main flock and flew east. Over Minstrelsea. Hunting. Tracking.

      The main body flew westwards, seeking to carry out Sheol’s command. Find for us and, finding, set those who run to our song against them.

      Easy.

      They whispered their joy, and then broke apart, the Hawkchilds scattering over the entire land.

      In the very south-western corner of the Skarabost plains, an old white horse stood in the rosy light of the dawn, hunger raging unnoticed about him.

      He slept, dreaming of glory days past.

      Sheltering on the ground under the shade provided by his belly, the ancient speckled blue eagle sat fluffing out his feathers in utter indignation that he’d been driven to find such shelter from the Demonic Hour.

      But this was all there was, and somehow the eagle felt a kinship with this senile old nag.

      Overhead there was a rustling, and a whispering.

      The eagle started, terrified, knowing that what hunted was worse than the most crazed Gryphon.

      But the Hawkchilds swept over, not minding the horse or the bird he sheltered. As if they had not seen either of them.

      Little did either horse or eagle know it, but apart from the fey creatures of Minstrelsea, they were among the very few sane creatures left alive in the plains of Tencendor.

      Five times during the day and night, the Demons sent forth the grey miasma, carrying their horror throughout Tencendor. The peoples of the land came to know that if they stayed indoors during those times and tightly shuttered doors and windows, then they could not be touched.

      It was a dismal existence, but it was an existence.

      Tencendor’s fauna were not so fortunate.

      Apart from the creatures of the forests, or those livestock who were continuously sheltered within barns or even homes, most of the creatures of Tencendor had been touched at one time or another over the past few days by the Demons.

      Touched, and changed. Birds, badgers, cattle, pigs, snakes and frogs. All changed.

      All now running to the song of the Demons.

      The Hawkchilds hunted them down. Most of the creatures were roaming uselessly through grain land or the plains. And over the next few days all were visited by one or two of the Hawkchilds.

      Whispering instructions.

      An army in the northern Silent Woman Woods.

      Destroy.

      A myriad thousand people sheltering in Carlon.

      Destroy.

      Scores of hamlets and isolated farmhouses, still sheltering those who refuse to heed the sweet song of madness.

      Destroy!

      And when you roam, you will find the two-legs who, like you, have been touched. Absorb them into your flocks and herds. Use them.

      The brown and cream badger led forth his slaughterhouse band at the behest of the Hawkchilds. He was tired of the years spent huddled in his burrow hiding from the horsed hunters after his fur.

      Now was his time.

      The Hawkchilds flew west and found a further friend huddled in a pool of weak sunshine outside the walls of Carlon.

      A patchy-bald grey rat, sick of a lifetime of torture at the hands of the small male two-legs who ran the streets of the city.

      In the city, tens of thousands of people crowded inside tenements, hiding from the Demons.

      The Hawkchilds whispered in the rat’s mind, and it turned its head back to the walls rising above it and bared its yellowed teeth in what passed for a grin.

      Now was its time.