He tried to think. He had to get a message to Sliffisunda somehow, get him to talk. But where was Sliffisunda? Was he even here? His frantic thought was interrupted by a harsh cawing as a flier came over them from the east, flying low, screaming its message so that all could hear: “Pamra Don is a heretic. Pamra Don denies Potipur. See how the Thraish deal with heretics!” Elsewhere upon the plain other fliers soared, all screaming the same message.
The flier turned and came over once more, still screaming.
The general spoke to his aide. Before Tharius could intervene, men reached for their crossbows and quarrels flew. The flier choked, sideslipped, tumbled from the sky in a crumpled heap. Elsewhere on the plain, other crossbowmen began to shoot and other fliers fell. From the butte came a cry of rage. The Talkers had not expected this. Fliers and Talkers rose from it in a cloud, straight up, offering no further targets.
Oh, gods, Tharius thought. Now they won’t listen to any offer of talk.
The roar became a howl. Gendra sank to her knees. The stupid fliers shouldn’t have done it. Shouldn’t have threatened Pamra Don. It was all going wrong, all wrong. “Sliffisunda,” she croaked, trying to warn him. He ignored her, his eyes glowing. “Don’t,” she croaked. “You’d better take the woman down to them and let her alone.”
He turned his back on her, shat, walked closer to the edge of the butte, eyes still fixed on the other tabletop.
When they began to descend, Pamra leaned over the basket side, seeing everything from above, a great, scattered carpet of followers, her followers. She took a deep breath and the rapture came, glowing. All her followers, waiting for her.
“Pamra Don,” said Lila again.
She scarcely heard the child. Above her, wings tilted toward one of the flat-topped mountains. It had a huge nest built on it, a flier nest.
Before she could think about that, they had taken her out of the basket and tied her to something in the nest. What did they think she was? A nestling? The fliers were screaming in rage. They wanted her to look like a nestling, that was it. Wings lifted in a cloud, leaving only one or two of the fliers behind her. She could not see them. She could not see the nearby followers, either, only the distant ones, a wave of faces, turning toward her, thousands of faces.
She smelled smoke. Smelling smoke always made her think of flame-birds. In her arms, Lila grew very still. Still and hard.
Tharius had no more time to think of talking with the Thraish. A laboring pair of fliers appeared high above the butte and dropped onto it, burdened by the load they carried. “Tell your men not to shoot,” Tharius cried. “That’s Pamra Don.”
Too late. The bowmen were already shooting, but it had no effect. The edges of the butte effectively blocked the bolts, which rattled harmlessly on the rocks. Tharius focused his glass upon the butte top. There was a huge pile of twigs and branches there, an untidy cupped mass, as all Thraish nests were. His stomach heaved, and he vomited violently, Martien holding his shoulders. “Stop them,” he croaked. “We’ve got to stop them!” Suddenly he knew what they were about to do.
There was no time. There was scarcely time to feel horror. The distant figure was tied upright in the nest and it was set alight, all in a moment. A moment. They could scarcely see her through the smoke. “She’s carrying the baby,” Tharius cried, as horrified at this as at the distant puff of smoke. Flames rose up, almost invisible in the sunlight. Word spread among the crusaders, and they turned toward the butte, seeing the fliers circling above it, the flames, the struggling form there disclosed, then hidden by blowing smoke. A cry rose up, a great shout. One of the bowmen made a lucky shot, and a Talker tumbled from the sky. The fliers rose, screaming, then darted downward, claws extended, only to fall victim to the cloud of bolts. Some fell into the plain still alive and were beaten to death by crusaders as the shout rose, louder and louder.