Unicorn Point

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.

12 - Troubot