Heirs of Prophecy - Lisa Smedman [52]
As the pink rays of the sun slanted over the river, illuminating the walls and towers that surrounded the city, dark shapes began to rise into the air above a wide swath of greenery, itself enclosed by walls. Hearing the hoarse caws of his feathered kin, Leifander wheeled toward the flock. The crows-more than a hundred of them-were rising from their nesting place, a grove of trees beside a lake far too symmetrical to be natural. Now they were wheeling in the air above the lake, forming up for the flight to their daytime feeding grounds.
Leifander joined them, losing himself in their mid-air teasing and games. He tested his speed in a race against another young male, dived playfully at a female who avoided him with an adroit slip to the side, then found a strong current of salt-tanged air coming off the sea and showed off with a series of dives and loops that left the others croaking with envy. These birds were animals, not skinwalkers, but Leifander felt at home among them. They were his totem animal, their souls kindred to his own. Among them, he could lose himself in simple, mindless play. He could-
Flashes of sunlight from the ground below caught his eye. Wheeling in a tight circle, he passed over a wide, cobblestoned plaza a second time, and saw a group of several dozen archers beside caravan wagons, their brightly polished helmets reflecting the sun like mirrors. They looked as though they had lined up to receive rations-or
perhaps a shipment of arms. Curious, he dived from the flock for a closer look. It wouldn't hurt to do a bit of spying while he was there.
Settling onto the cool slate of a rooftop beside the plaza, Leifander hopped to the edge. From this vantage point two stories above the plaza, he could catch the scents of freshly sawn boards and the stink of the humans below, already sweating in their armor. The archers were carrying strung bows, and a few held quivers of arrows, but none had yet been nocked. Man-shaped targets-some made of wood, others sacks that had been stuffed with straw-lined two sides of the plaza, half hidden behind potted trees. Behind the targets, the ground floor windows of the shops had been closed and shuttered. Each of the streets leading to the plaza had been blocked by a wooden bar, beyond which a soldier stood guard. It looked as though the humans had assembled to practice their archery, but as yet the targets were unfeathered by arrows.
The four wagons were larger than those usually found in caravans and had been drawn up in a hne. They looked newly made and were as yet unpainted. They were without horses, their traces and harnesses coiled in a heap in front of each wagon. Strangely, though, a driver sat in each wagon's seat, just ahead of the enclosed cargo area, holding the reins as if driving an invisible team.
A sergeant shouted orders, and the archer closest to the back of each wagon opened its rear doors. His curiosity fully aroused now, Leifander hopped sideways along the edge of the rooftop, trying to see inside. He had almost reached a good vantage point when he saw a flash of a mailed arm as one of the archers pointed him out. A heartbeat later, the archer beside him raised his bow and nocked an arrow.
Leifander hurled himself sideways, wings flapping, as the arrow skittered against the slate tile beside him, knocking loose a tile. As the archer below laughed and swiftly drew another arrow, he hopped back out of sight.
They probably thought him nothing more than a crow- but that didn't mean they wouldn't skewer him with an arrow, just for sport.
Hopping across this rooftop to seek another, Leifander heard the sergeant shouting at his men to stop wasting their arrows, then voices arguing, pitched too low for him to make out the words. A moment later came an order to "mount up" followed by creaking noises below.
By the time he risked a peek down into the plaza again,