High above, several other crows glided across the dappled sky. Keech counted at least seven of them circling, holding back, keeping their distance while the closer trio advanced. A solid strategy. If he proved too capable, they could report to Rose and prepare a stronger ambush farther up the trail. The best Keech could hope to accomplish would be to hold off the attackers without revealing too many of his newfound tricks.
He dashed across the open field, high-stepping through snow mounds. No way would he lead them to Duck and Quinn, who were still hidden on the bluff by Quinn’s protective song. Instead, he aimed for a small gully that cut through the pasture.
Aside from the furious wind and the snowy putter of his own steps, there was no sound around him. The birds swooped down in silence. Keech dared a glance over his shoulder and nearly screamed when he saw the lead crow less than two feet away.
Keech sprang to his right. The bird zoomed at his face, and its carving-knife beak scored an instant line of pain across his cheek. He landed sideways in the snow and threw an arm over his face, hoping to keep the outstretched claws away from his eyes.
The crows soared past him and spiraled to the left, circling for a second attack. In a piercing staccato, they squawked—Ack! Ack! Ack!—as if a frenzied bugle had signaled a bloodthirsty charge.
Keech pushed to his feet, slogged back toward the fallen scarecrow, and raised his fist to taunt the three birds. “You’ll have to do better than that!”
Screeching in unison, the crows bombarded the field.
Keech grabbed the scarecrow’s flapping buffalo pelt and tugged. The nails slipped out of the rotten post, and the pelt came loose. As he turned to face the oncoming attack, he spread the big fur out in front of him.
The first crow veered to his left, the second to his right, but the last continued straight for him. Keech tossed the pelt, and the heavy hide enveloped the squealing thing. It crashed headlong into the field, kicking up sprays of frost.
“Gotcha!” Keech shouted. He aimed his finger at the bundle and reached for his inner focus, but before he could awaken his destructive power, the second crow was upon him. Savage talons appeared before his face, ready to slash. He jumped back, narrowly avoiding the claws.
Razor-sharp barbs slashed across his ear as the first crow struck, slamming into the back of Keech’s head. He tumbled forward, a spatter of his own blood marking the white powder. Keech flailed at the bird, punching wildly, till the crow climbed back into the air with a murderous squawk.
His mind dizzy with pain, Keech stood and stuttered forward, his boots slipping in the snow. A shredding noise struck his ears as the buffalo pelt tossed over the third bird ripped open. The crow wriggled out and shot back into the sky. Keech resumed his mad dash toward the ditch, lifting his knees high with each step, his heart raging inside his chest. Slick wetness trickled down his neck as he bled into his coat.
Rose’s dark-winged trio circled him, cutting off his path.
Keech skidded to a halt. Gasping for breath, he waved his hands in circles, mimicking the motions Edgar Doyle had used to summon whirlwinds. Keech attempted the chant the Enforcer had murmured to accompany the motion, whispering as he moved his hands. Sure enough, the telltale buzzing of his focus stirred deep within him.
The frozen winds around Keech shifted. The gale blowing out of the north slipped past him and curved around his boots. Despite the distraction of his wounds, Keech felt a sense of calm growing inside him. He faced the approaching crows and whispered, “Come and get it.”
A twisting gust pulled the snow into a whirlwind. Waving his hands, Keech felt the energy buzz ever stronger in his chest.
As he’d hoped, the three crows plunged smack-dab into the small twister.
Keech clenched his fist. “Take that!”
But in an instant, the birds burst out the other side of the flurry. The whirlwind of snow collapsed, dissipating like a puff of smoke.
Keech felt his focus extinguished just as the crows returned. They flew at his face, talons bared. He sprang away, throwing his arms over his head. A heavy weight landed on his back. He felt hooks dragging through his pelt and shredding his wool coat. A beak speared the flesh of his neck above his collar. Keech screamed into the snow.
Suddenly the weight lifted, and the sound of flapping wings touched his ears. Keech dared a peek and saw the monsters clambering back into the sky.
“Keech!”
Duck galloped across the pasture on Irving, hunkered low against the gale. Quinn sped beside her on Lightnin’, holding his homemade ax. Hector raced along behind them without the need for a lead rope.
Rose’s crows were still circling the area, screeching at the approach of the new riders, but they kept their distance. Pushing through the pain, Keech struggled to his feet.
As Duck neared, she said, “You’re bleeding! Are you still kickin’?”
Keech’s heart wouldn’t stop thumping. “I couldn’t get my focus to work. I’m a bit cut up, but I think I’m all right.” He hobbled over to Hector and swung up into the saddle.
Quinn pointed his ax. “They’re coming back.”
The three crows plummeted toward the pasture, each aimed at a different rider.
“Back to the trees!” Keech yelled.
As they swiveled toward the bluff, a screeching bird flew in close, flashing a pair of gruesome talons. Gripping his saddle horn, Keech slid sideways till he was hanging low off Hector’s side. The creature sailed past, missing him by an inch.
Upright in the saddle once more, Keech watched as Quinn hurled his ax at the second crow speeding toward them. The dull side of the sharpened flinthead bounced off the creature’s midsection. The beast shrieked and flapped away, dipping to the left as though favoring a wing.
“Good throw!” Keech shouted.
“I need to get the ax back,” Quinn called as he swiveled Lightnin’ around.
Keech expected to see Duck still tearing along beside him. Instead, he spotted Irving galloping with an empty saddle.
Duck had been knocked to the ground. She was lying on her back, and a heavy black shape fluttered on her chest.
Furious cackles echoed down from the other two crows.
“Duck!” he yelled.
Resolution cemented Keech’s mind. He was no longer thinking, no longer planning. He wanted the birds gone, nothing more. Feeling the warm surge of his inner energies gathering, he waved his hand across the sky, his palm brushing past where he saw the birds.
A shimmer of ice appeared overhead. The crows flew straight into the glacial curtain and stopped in midair. A split second later, two feathered balls of ice plunged toward the field. When they landed, their disfigured bodies shattered like glass into dozens of pieces.
Keech bounded off Hector’s back. His mind was reeling, but he would sort out later what happened. Duck needed him now. He sprinted toward her, yelling her name—then stopped in his tracks.
The charcoal bird that had landed on her chest shuddered, then pitched over. Duck shoved it away with one elbow. She sneered. “Serves you right, you filthy gargoyle.”
“I thought you were buzzard bait!” Keech said.
Quinn galloped up on Lightnin’, his war ax back in hand. “What happened?”
Duck climbed to her feet and brushed clods of snow off her pelt. “I reckon I got in a pretty decent punch.” She wiggled her gloved hand, wincing a little.
Quinn’s mouth gaped. “You flattened that thing with a punch?”
“They ain’t so tough,” Duck said—but the sheer size of the dazed bird suggested otherwise. At the Home for Lost Causes, Keech and Sam had gotten a close glimpse of a crow perched on Bad Whiskey’s shoulder. That creature had been a respectable size, but the one lying on the ground before them was much larger, more like a nasty vulture than a crow. The bird appeared too heavy to fly, but Keech knew it could ride the wind in a snap. The creature’s long beak curved down in a crescent, and the talons were twisted and barbed.
The Lost Causes bent closer to inspect the thing—then jumped back in unison at the twitch of a wing. Snow was suddenly kicked up as black feathers thumped the ground.
“That critter’s still alive!” Quinn raised his ax.
The creature tried to rise, found one of its wings mangled, and slumped. A burning eye flashed at the kids, and the hideous beak creaked open. Startling them all, a terrible voice crawled like a serpent from its throat.
“Blackwooood,” the beast rasped. “I’ve caught your scent.”
Keech had heard that nightmarish voice before. On the night the Lost Causes battled Bad Whiskey in Bone Ridge, the Reverend Rose seized Whiskey’s thrall body and spoke to Keech through the outlaw’s mouth. The same sinister voice was speaking to Keech again, this time through the horrible crow. “Your days are numbered like a shadow that passeth away.”
“Shut up!” Duck clutched her ears.
“I’m coming for you all.”
“No you’re not,” Keech said. Pointing his finger at the creature, he opened his mouth to send the foul thing to its doom. For a second, he felt a small trickle of warmth sputter into his fingers, but then his focus energy fizzled away again.
A wicked laugh poured from the crow’s black gullet.
Unexpectedly a phrase entered Keech’s mind—a perplexing, ugly string of sounds that weren’t quite words. He had discovered the phrase a few weeks ago while reading the journal Doyle had left behind in his pack. This particular entry was dated 10 January 1833, and above the curious phrase Doyle had written five words: Invocation to Disrupt Concentrated Energies.
“Duck, Quinn, step back,” Keech said.
Swapping puzzled glances, Duck and Quinn shuffled back as Keech moved in closer to the Reverend’s crow. Peeling off one glove, he splayed his hand over the bird, like someone drawing warmth from a campfire.
“No-ge-phal-ul’-shogg,” Keech muttered, pronouncing the strange invocation from Doyle’s journal. The words tainted his tongue like curdled milk—a sign that he was dealing with an inhuman language, something unnatural—but as soon as he gave them voice, the crow on the ground ruptured in a flash. All that remained were charred feathers and tarlike gore.
Mouths agape, Duck and Quinn gazed at the remains of the destroyed creature.
“What did you say to it?” Duck asked.
Keech didn’t quite know how to answer. A terrible feeling clawed in his gut, as if he’d swallowed a quart jar full of nasty medicine. Moving to slip his gloves back on, he realized his fingers were smoldering.
Quinn broke the silence, pointing at the snowbound sky. “The other crows are falling back. They sure didn’t like that hex you spoke.”
The distant flock was, indeed, drifting away, retreating into the white haze of the storm.
“Or they’re done learning what they need to,” Duck said. The sharp bite in her voice suggested she was deeply troubled.
“Let’s go find somewhere to camp and get some rest,” Keech said, shivering. “Come first light, we’ll ride on to Hook’s Fort and put this day behind us.”