The first hawk had slowed its pace and was still in view when Hildesman had made his dash for cover. He could see it tilt itself into a great arcing turn, which would bring it right over top of the camp. Its mate, meanwhile, emerged on the other side of the great oak he had used to cover his movement, already in a turn of its own, though it had much less of an arc before it could face him.
His well-worn instincts kept his aim steady and time seemed to slow as he turned the barrel of his rifle on the nearer hawk. He squeezed the trigger, and heard the ear-splitting BANG as the powder cartridge ignited and propelled the slug away from him. A brief cloud of smoke followed it as he worked the lever, turning the cylinder to the next round. Even as he watched the smoke dissipate and felt the next cartridge click into place, there was a sudden tilt to the bird’s flight and he thought he saw a spray of something like splinters trailing one wing. The bird began its descent, aimed right at Hildesman. Still in the oddly-calm grip of absolute focus, he raised the barrel of his gun again and fired a second round.
By the time he did, the direhawk was close enough that he could see the array of horns that poked out through the layer of feathers. He imagined he could even see the barbed spines arrayed along the front-facing row of striking feathers. Its elongated mouth split open, lips extending well past where the beak ended, its small tongue almost comical in comparison to the slicing edges that surrounded it. The bird was still shrieking when it hit the ground with a force that seemed like a tree had been felled. Hildesman kept his feet, feeling the third round click into place.
He was too late. The direhawk had fallen short in its killing dive, but it was still close enough that when it snapped a wing to its full extension, the tip of it caught Hildesman with enough force to hurl him backwards. He felt the air leave him as he slammed back into the log that should have been his sanctuary. His focus shattered, and he slumped to the ground, gasping.
The direhawk drew itself to its feet, standing with stout wings folded over its back. It leapt at Hildesman with the lopsided hop of a crow, raising one wing to slam the attack feathers down on him. To his surprise, he felt a weight in his left hand, and a beam of yellow light split the space between them, staggering the bird back half a step. Two thoughts slid together from the puddled mess of his mind trying to find breath, and he realized he had drawn his bolter and fired it. That knowledge crashed into a third thought just as the bird righted itself for another charge, and he squeezed the trigger again. He felt a searing sensation in his palm, and he noted that he seemed to have dropped his bolter. Moments passed before he found his breath again. He noted that the direhawk that had been assailing him was now marked by a long seared scar along its neck, and it no longer seemed to be moving.
Pant. Pant. Hildesman caught his breath slowly, trying to recreate the last several seconds. Yes, he had fired an extended discharge from his bolter. That had been the searing pain as it overheated from misuse. In turn, it seemed to have seared the direhawk’s neck deeply enough to incapacitate it. Just to be sure, he trudged up to it, drawing his knife with his uninjured hand, and on the third attempt he managed to fit his knife between its vertebrae and sever its spine at the base of its skull. Okay. Direhawk killed. Why did something still feel wrong?
A gear shuddered back into place in his mind. Right. Two hawks. Why hadn’t the second one killed him yet? Francine, he thought, panicked. He turned, staggered ten steps, then realized he had lost his bearings while he was out. It took a few precious seconds while he reconnected the landmarks in his mind and pointed himself at camp. There were two shrieks. He broke into the best run he could manage. Camp wasn’t far. He might still make it before the bird could dismantle the lean-to.
He leapt the fallen log, first friend, then foe, now obstacle, and skidded into the clearing, snagging the barrel of his rifle as he did. He reached for his bolter as he took in the scene. Focus snapping back around him.
The remaining hawk was mid-dive, aimed to strike Francine. Francine had come out from under the lean-to and was standing, feet planted and weapon raised, as a plume of steam announced the nearly-silent release of a steel quarrel in the bird’s direction.
Strangest of all, Hildesman could see a screaming woman sitting astride the bird, legs tucked underneath. Her hands were raised and her mouth twisted with fury as her mount dove at the small child. Francine, for her part, dove to the side, landing gracelessly in the dirt as the bird crashed into the ground where she had been standing less than a second before.
Hildesman finally managed to get his rifle in position and squeezed the trigger, raising a spray of boney shards and feathers and blood where it struck the direhawk. The beast’s rider turned her gaze on Hildesman, then snarled words he could not make out past the ringing in his ears. The bird rose to a crouch, wings splayed as if to surround Francine, and the woman hurled herself from its back, running for Hildesman in a full sprint.
“Please…” a child’s voice drifted to Hildesman, and then he felt all sense leave him. A split second later, he heard a scream like the pure chime of a bell. It continued for what seemed like an hour trapped in between two heartbeats, and then faded. He opened his eyes, not remembering when he had closed them. He saw the strange woman flinging herself onto the direhawk as it lifted out of the clearing. Francine and the woman each seemed limned in a yellowy haze, like electric lights cast onto fog. The hawk began to fly away and Francine opened her mouth to scream. What came out instead was a pure chime to match the first. The hawk staggered in flight, then crashed to the forest several hundred feet away.
Briefly, Francine turned a fearful gaze towards Hildesman, and then she fainted, crashing into the dirt for the second time in what Hildesman now estimated to be less than thirty seconds. He nearly followed her into unconsciousness, kept awake only by the shock of what had just happened.
Francine was Marked. And he had nearly brought her to the city gates.
