25 Zi’da 721
Wharkle-WHEEEEE!
The sound had entered Oram’s dreams somehow, and now he lay awake, staring blearily at the vague, dark outline of the rafters over his bed. He was in the former guardhouse that he still used as his quarters whenever he visited Egilrun. Bear and the other Rangers there had tried to get their Chief Ranger to take up more suitable quarters inside the walls of the main compound, but Oram preferred the familiarity and privacy the small outbuilding offered.
Wharkle-WHEEEEE! came the call again. Strange, he thought. Although quite drowsy, Oram was sure that he was awake now and not dreaming. And there ought not be red-winged blackbird singing outside his window at night, especially not in this season-Wharkle-WHEEEEE! came the call once more, sounding to the hunter insistent, even urgent.
Recollection and realization came just then, of both the source and import of those birdcalls; Oram snapped fully awake and alert, though he managed to suppress the urge to bolt abruptly upright before he searched the dark, map-cluttered room for clues of what the source of trouble might be that had provoked the magic bird figurine to sound its alarm. Near the floor, a faint outline flecked in dim yellowish lights, like fireflies, stirred into motion, and from somewhere within that outline issued a faint, low growl. Whatever had set the bird off, Choir sensed it, too. The song wolf stalked towards the door, growled at it for a trill, then, after pausing to listen, shifted his attention to the window.
Oram rose slowly, carefully out of bed. He was wearing only his nightshirt. The Zi’da air was cold, and his breath steamed in the faint light that filtered in through the glazed window. The shutters were open, he realized. He was sure that he had closed them before going to bed.
Oram’s spear stood in a stand in the next room, along with his crossbow. The weapon nearest to hand was his walking-stick, the knob of which he found with his left hand while he kept his eyes on the window. There came a scrabbling noise from there; something was trying the casement. Oram could see something moving along the bottom edge of the window, but nothing else. The bottom of the exterior window frame was a good six feet above the ground; a normal-sized man standing under it would scarcely be visible.
Having gotten hold of the stick, Oram next crept over to the table on which sat his acorn helmet. With that on, he could conjure up an armor that would protect him from all but the most powerful attacks. He did not do so just yet, however; the armor made noise, and he preferred stealth for the moment. Warning Choir to stand back so as to give himself room, Oram crept over next to the window and pressed his back flat against the wall, holding the stick across his body, about navel high.
Nor did Oram need to wait much longer for that to happen. The scraping sound became a click, and then an icy breeze wafted through the room as the window swung slowly outward. The Chief Ranger caught just a glimpse of the thin metal bar before it vanished from the base of the window frame. In its place, a gloved hand appeared, fumbling briefly for a grip, then a second. Oram briefly pondered smashing the intruder’s hands, but decided instead to wait, baiting whomever it was to crawl bodily through the window.
A head and shoulders rose quickly into view, silhouetted against the moonlit snow outside; the intruder obviously had something to step up onto to help him through the window. That head and shoulders then leaned through the window to peer into the gloomy interior.
Choir chose that moment to strike unbidden; the wolf lunged at the intruder’s near arm and grabbed it, trying to pull at it. Before the man (Oram had surmised by now that it was a man) could break free, Oram brought the staff up and then struck down onto the back of his head. The man let out a grunt and went briefly limp, whereupon Oram grabbed him by the back of his cloak and pulled his body the rest of the way through the window.
The intruder was stunned, though not unconscious, and he groaned as he made a weak, groggy effort to rise. Oram cut this short by shoving the end of the stick forcefully between man’s shoulder blades, flattening him face-down on the floor. When the intruder turned his face to the side so that he could breathe better, Oram could see his profile, and recognized him.
”Hello, Pattis,” Oram greeted quietly.
