Page 24

“Aggressive creatures, aren’t they?” Bartholomew says as another vulture sweeps close to the barge, circling the wagons.

“What do you say we toss the cheese into the water and let them have at it?” Hector suggests with a cheeky grin.

While I would like nothing more than to do just that, I made Lady Forlentia a promise.

“No,” I tell them. “It’s part of our supplies—recorded and accounted for.”

Hector rolls his eyes toward Simon, but I ignore him.

The bird drops again, this time pulling the canvas from atop the cargo.

“Away with you!” a guard hollers, waving his hands in the air as if that will scare the vulture away.

Before we make it to the opposite shore of the river, two more of the ugly brown and gray birds swoop down, attempting to snatch our supplies. But it’s not until we drive the last wagon from the barge that they become aggressive.

I’m just thanking the captain when Hector suddenly cries out. I turn and find the young man on the ground, under a large vulture’s hefty weight.

Immediately, I draw my sword from its sheath and take after the bird. It lifts itself into the air before I reach it, cawing angrily.

“Are you all right?” I demand, offering Hector a hand up.

His shirt sleeves hang loose, torn. Deep slashes line his upper arms where the vulture dug its talons into his skin. He swears when he spots the blood dripping from the wounds, turning pale.

But there’s no time to worry about Hector’s injury right now because more of the winged beasts descend upon the group.

“Don’t kill them!” the Woodmore elf yells, frantically waving his arms in the air as he runs into the fray. “They’re only hungry!”

“Unless you want to offer yourself as a meal, get out of the way,” I growl, shoving the elf back just before one of the vultures makes a dive at him.

The bird meets my blade and falls to the ground.

“Henrik!” Simon yells. “The supplies!”

Two of the vultures have successfully torn the canvas off one of the wagons, and they’re poking through the contents with their sharp, hooked beaks, tearing into sacks of grain. Rice flows from a slice in the burlap and spills onto the road.

The livestock bray, squawk, and squeal as the birds attack.

Several of my soldiers run after them with swords, but the vultures simply fly away.

“Don’t we have an archer in the group?” I holler.

“I have a crossbow!” Bartholomew says from somewhere behind me.

“No, wait—” Before I can finish, one of the vultures attacks me, grasping my shoulder with its talons before it meets my sword. It falls to the ground, as large as an eagle, with a wingspan that’s as wide as a grown man is tall.

“No!” the elf hollers when Bartholomew aims his massive crossbow into the air. He bumps into the young duke, causing the bow to fall sharply just as the bolt is released.

It whizzes past my shoulder and lodges itself into the side of a wagon, barely missing one of the tethered goats.

“Sorry, Henrik,” Bartholomew yells, wrestling his crossbow away from the elf.

This is madness.

I kill five more vultures, but the feathered beasts keep coming. The few archers assigned to the supply run all prove to be nearly worthless. They send arrow after arrow into the sky, missing every time.

“Can’t anyone shoot a bow?” I yell, losing my patience with the lot of them.

Suddenly, a vulture falls to the ground in front of me. It lands belly up, with an arrow protruding from its chest.