“Well, if we are going to be here awhile, you might as well grow the rest of them before they wither and die,” Sylva said to the others. “I’d rather not take another trip to a volcano. Come on, chop chop!”
Fletcher and the others reluctantly went to join her, and soon the camp flashed green again, the spells draining the little mana the team had recovered on their long journey across the ocean. There were petals aplenty—if they kept the plants secure, they would have a lifetime supply.
Light was fading fast, as was the heat of the day. Soon the team was huddled under the Catoblepas pelt for warmth, with their feet to the fire. Before, the nights had been dark and oppressive, the only light being small wyrdlights to guide them to the bushes so that they could relieve themselves. But after traveling so far across the ocean, Fletcher doubted that the orcs would have been able to track them this far. So they slept by the crackle of the fire, casting their little camp in a warm orange glow.
*
Fletcher woke, realizing he had gulped down too much water after their dry flight through the desert. He didn’t want to move from his warm cocoon, but his bladder was uncomfortably full and he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep without emptying it. The first glimmerings of dawn were staining the sky, but it wouldn’t wait. He sighed and wriggled out from beneath the pelt, careful not to wake his mother and Othello, who were sleeping on either side of him.
Athena hooted softly above as he pushed his way through the barrier of branches on the border of their camp and took a few steps into the darkness. He was wary of going so far from the camp, especially when they hadn’t explored any of the surrounding jungle, but it had to be done.
There was a thorny tree among the bushes a hundred feet away that looked promising, so Fletcher made his way toward it, thankful that there was enough residual light from the campfire and the early morning sky to reach the broad trunk without a bright wyrdlight. He stopped and began to unbutton his breeches.
But something felt wrong. It was too quiet. When they had ridden Sheldon, the jungles had been filled with the rustle of small demons, distant hoots and the occasional coughing roar of a night predator. Now, there was barely the stirring of the wind. Something dripped onto his cheek, wet and heavy as a raindrop. He touched his hand to it, and it smeared red across his fingers.
Fletcher lifted his hand and produced a wyrdlight. The blue globe spun gently on the end of his finger as he pulsed mana into it, until the ball was as large as his fist. Fletcher’s breath caught in his throat as the full horror of what was before him became apparent in the spreading pool of light. Death had visited the jungles.
Dozens of demons were skewered on the thorns of the tree. Directly above was a dead Jackalope, a rabbitlike demon with small, sharpened antlers. Its rib cage was open and empty, and the eyes had been plucked out of its gaping skull. Beside it, the remains of a Mite’s carapace had been spiked there, leaving nothing but an empty shell.
Fletcher turned, his heart pounding with horror.
He began to run.
CHAPTER
20
THE TEAM STOOD BEFORE THE TREE, inspecting the macabre display as dawn spread across the sky. It was a gruesome sight; though in the new morning glow it looked far less sinister than the ethereal, blue-tinged spectacle that Fletcher had seen a half hour earlier.
“Well, this is great news,” Sylva mumbled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “I’m going back to sleep.”
“This? This is great news?” Cress exclaimed, turning to Sylva in confused horror.
“Yep,” Othello mumbled, turning back to their camp, where the crackling campfire beckoned. “Wake me in half an hour.”
“Am I going mad, or are they?” Cress asked, turning on Fletcher.
But Fletcher already knew what they were talking about, a forgotten fact swimming to the forefront of his mind. It was no surprise he had not immediately recalled it, for it had been taught during a lesson Fletcher had missed, pulled out of class so he could show Dame Fairhaven Baker’s journal.
“Do you know how Shrikes got their name?” Fletcher asked, scratching his chin. “I just remembered.”
“Err … not really,” Cress replied. “To be honest, I didn’t pay much attention in my demonology lessons; I was too focused on winning the tournament.”
“Well, they’re named after a real animal. There’s a bird species native to the borders of the Akhad Desert known as a Shrike. It has a habit of impaling their prey, usually insects or lizards, onto thorns. It’s so it can hold its catch in place while it feeds. Demonic Shrikes have the same feeding habits, so the name stuck.”
“So, it means we haven’t lost the Shrikes,” Cress said, understanding dawning on her.
“That’s right,” Fletcher said, eyeing the dripping remains and resisting the urge to shudder. “We just follow the corpses.”
*
Knowing that they were so close to the Shrikes put the team in a grim mood. They were in danger now, not only from the Shrikes but the predators and carrion eaters that followed in the flock’s wake. The deadly Wendigo was perhaps the most feared of these, its penchant for corpses giving it a stench to match its favorite source of nourishment.
From the freshness of the carcasses, Fletcher knew that the Shrikes would be roosting in the trees ahead, so they sent Pria to scout first, and approached carefully on foot, so as not to encounter the deadly creatures.
On its own, a single male Shrike was dangerous, with the wingspan of an albatross, the talons of an eagle and the cruelly hooked beak of a vulture. But when they migrated, the demons would band together in an unstoppable flock, decimating the populations in the path of their migration.
Most fearsome of all were the Shrike Matriarchs, the rarer, maternal leaders of the brood. In a strange reversal, the male Shrike bore a crest and wattle like that of a hen, while the brood mother’s own were fully developed, flaring from their heads as a rooster’s did. Twice as large as their male counterparts, they were capable of swooping down and plucking a juvenile Canid from the ground.
The team’s first sighting of the Shrikes was the next morning, when the flock broke through the canopy to continue their migration, having stripped the nearby jungle of all living creatures. The team flew after them—but only when the demons were no more than distant dots on the horizon, using Athena’s keen sight to keep track.