testimony.’
Cappen stumbled onward. From time to time he glanced back. In the shadow of the
wings, Jamie’s hair blazed. He stood foursquare, spear grasped as a huntsman
does. Agape, the Flying Knife rushed down upon him. Jamie thrust straight
between those jaws, and twisted.
The monster let out a sawtoothed shriek. Its wings threshed, made thundercrack,
it swooped by, a foot raked. Jamie had his claymore out. He parried the blow.
The sikkintair rose. The shaft waggled from its throat. It spread great ebon
membranes, looped, and came back earthward. Its claws were before it. Air
whirred behind.
Jamie stood his ground, sword in right hand, knife in left. As the talons smote,
he fended them off with the dirk. Blood sprang from his thigh, but his byrnie
took most of the edged sweep. And his sword hewed. The sikkintair ululated
again. It tried to ascend, and couldn’t.
Jamie had crippled its left wing. It landed – Cappen felt the impact through
soles and bones – and hitched itself towards him. From around the spear came a
geyser hiss.
Jamie held fast where he was. As fangs struck at him, he sidestepped, sprang
back, and threw his shoulders against the shaft. Leverage swung jaws aside. He
glided by the neck towards the forequarters. Both of his blades attacked the
spine.
Cappen and the women hastened on.
They were almost at the pergola when footfalls drew his eyes rearwards. Jamie
loped at an overtaking pace. Behind him, the sikkintair lay in a heap.
The redhead pulled alongside. ‘Hai, what a fight!’ he panted. ‘Thanks for this