The pearl was nearly spent when the Billibee posse encountered the suffocantor, but a fool could see it was uncanny. The dark-green vines had a purple sheen when the light caught them, and they swayed and rippled heedless of the wind, almost too slow to perceive.

There were six soldiers from the stronghold clad in light armor and seven militiamen armed with spears, hoes, and bows. An unusually small posse, for the man at its lead had been unable to convince anyone who’d witnessed the confrontation in the square to join up. No amount of cajoling, ordering, or outright denouncing men as cowards could get them to follow the priestslayer’s trail.

A wiser man might have abandoned the chase, but the leader of the posse was a young man with more chin than sense. A wealthy man’s son, he wore a shiny silver helmet with a gaudy red plume, quite oblivious to the men rolling their eyes at his back. Already, he’d remarked nearly half a dozen times that the tale from the square was likely greatly exaggerated, and that it was likely just an ordinary bear. Already, the other members of the posse exchanged glances. Ordinary bears didn’t leave footprints big enough to bathe a child in.

Indeed, there had been nine militiamen when they’d set out, but some time ago, two men had drifted to the back of the party, stepped behind a tree, and waited until the others were out of sight to turn back. No one had mentioned it, for they were all wishing they’d thought of it first. Now, the remaining men were confronted with a strange wall of vegetation that clearly did not belong, and none of them would approach.

“Clear a path!” the man in the helm ordered, but no one seemed inclined to obey. Too many had seen the penny priest’s awful end.

“Women.” The leader sneered. He drew his sword of castle steel and prepared to hack his way through.

CLANG!

The pointed helmet flew into the brush, the suffocantor’s motion so swift they could not even see it. A second vine shot out and wrapped itself around the man’s neck. The others could do nothing but watch the vines squeeze the life from him.

When the captain’s struggles ceased, the vines drew him toward the suffocantor’s roots, wrapping around him like a serpent. There was a peal of metal as the polished breastplate bent, and the vines squeezed the lifeblood from him like a grape.

The posse’s courage bled out with their leader and more of a few of them turned away to be sick. That was the end of the posse. The retreat began at once. Vines wrapped around the dead man like a shroud. Soon, the only trace of him was the glimmer of silver in the brush where the ridiculous red plume jutted from the empty helmet.

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A pair of dark green eyes watched the posse retreat. Perched in the crown of a tall maple tree, a splendid gyrfalcon had observed the whole grisly scene. When the aged magician had claimed nothing without wings could follow, she’d dipped her beak in amusement and fanned her own impressive wingspan.

Zongor was large even as gyrfalcons went. Her plumage was silver, mottled with streaking diamonds of blue-black and shimmering bands of darkness at her wingtips and tailfeathers. Upon her breast a jet black ᛉ was marked.

When she was satisfied the men would not rally for another try at the suffocantor, she dove from the branch and beat her wings to rise above the canopy to find the wizard’s party again.

Her quarry was not difficult to find. Though the leaves were dense below, the disturbance of the bear’s passage was unmistakable. Younger trees trembled from his footsteps alone, and even full grown maples shook as he brushed against them. Feeling assured she could not lose them, Zongor circled higher. She was hungry and on the watch for prey.

CLOSER! the voice boomed in her ears as if her master stood right behind her, and her beak clenched in distaste. She was meant for flying high. She did not like to be so close to the treetops. It would scare away prey.

She hesitated for a few beats, long enough to convey displeasure, but swift enough to avoid punishment. Then, she dove low and found a perch.

The bear lumbered up a slope now, a rut of ochre earth where a landslide had swept away trees and exposed the bones of the earth. The others climbed after the bear. The children and the dogs could easily keep up, but the old man favored his staff as he ascended. She observed the magician, lifting her head and feeling quite superior.

What suffering to be shackled to the earth! Halfway up the incline, the wizard turned to look behind him, mopping the sweat from his brow. For an instant, it seemed he stared directly at Zongor, and the plumage of her neck rose in alarm. But no recognition glinted in those hazy eyes, and soon, the old man turned back to the path.

It took some time for her heart to stop hammering. Of course, he could not see her from such a distance! He was a creature of the earth, far more concerned with the ground and things that grew than the sky and those who flew.

At last, the wizard made his painful way to the summit, and he did not look back again. He exchanged a few words with the boy, then with the girl, and soon, they were all climbing back atop the bear.

For the rest of the afternoon, they followed the winding trail, stopping wherever they found berries so that they and their hairy steed could feast. The whole time, Zongor could catch nothing, and her own hunger grew more insistent, but her master would not let her hunt. Seething with resentment, the Gyrfalcon pursued the magician’s party all through the afternoon.