He clapped his hands to his ears, but the shrieking only seemed to get louder. The wings flapped on and on. Any second he expected to feel talons sliding into his cloak, beaks pulling his skin. Something gripped his arm. He cried out. He tried to wrench away, but it was only Bartholomew, dragging him to his feet and shouting, “Come on! Back to the woods! There’s nothing we can do here!” Pikey stumbled, almost fell again. The woods? The faery woods? Bartholomew was already running, back across the fields the way they had come. The birds were no longer overhead. Behind him, Pikey heard a horrible, desperate wail. He looked back over his shoulder. The birds were on the hill. They covered it now in a black swarm, glistening in the early winter light. He couldn’t see the soldiers anymore. But he heard them. “Barth!” Pikey screamed, setting off after him. “Barth, the soldiers! They’re being killed!” Bartholomew didn’t slow down. “We can still get through!” he shouted back.
