Chapter Seventy-two
The Mists
rig’s engineered mists
provided deep cover for Ivy’s journey. Flanked by Rue and Klair,
and Rowan with his springform wings, Ivy and Lofft made the quick
passage across the remainder of the moors surrounded by the first
wing of the caucus. It was disconcerting flying blind—the veil of
cloud was thick and obscuring—but the birds flew true, guided by a
sixth sense. Nor did Ivy wish the mists away. She dreaded the
moment when they would clear—for only then would she be treated to
the fearsome image of their enemy.
When the mist did finally melt away, it mingled with the inkworks’ smoke and ash. Morning had yet to come. The group hovered above the dark city. The air smelled of decay.
Something small and fast whizzed by Ivy’s ear, and suddenly Lofft was taking evasive action—jackknifing, careering chaotically through thin air—and Ivy held on desperately. A chorus of shrieks rose from the gulls, who were armed with great stones that they dropped on the city beneath them, pelting the wall and inner courtyard with a hard rain. Angry, guttural shouts rose up as the alarm continued to clang.
A further volley of small, burr-like projectiles ripped through the air, and with horror Ivy saw a cluster of several birds fall—as if the magic that propelled the creatures away from earth abandoned them in an instant. The air was filled with feathers.
Great searchlights were lit, illuminating the stark underbellies of the bobbing weather balloons, a ceiling above the city. The powerful flares cast about the skies, everywhere. Birds darted and soared through the pillars of light—there one minute, vanishing the next into the gloom.
Rue and Klair banked steeply to the right, carving through the rancid smoke at a sharp angle above Dumbcane’s fountain, heading for Snaith’s lecture hall. For a brief instant, Ivy spotted Rowan. His beautiful wings were cupped beneath him; he appeared to be floating as he searched her out. Their eyes met—he smiled—and Ivy was struck with a sudden surge of hope and fondness for her friend.
Then, on all sides, harsh, chilling cries rose from below—vast drifting shadows were grasping for purchase in the air. Here were the Rocamadour vultures, and a great dread swept over Ivy’s body. So many of them, she saw. She was sickened by their numbers. Dark, swirling sparks floated before her eyes, and she resisted the urge to wave them away.
They flapped wildly. The terrible birds were slow to gain altitude, though—their great wings, made for soaring on thermals or catching the winds from the cliffs, did not serve them well for the swift needs of aerial warfare. They were at a disadvantage. But they made up for it by the true horror of what they carried upon their backs.
For the vultures of Rocamadour, great beasts that feast on death, each carried with them a passenger. Seated behind each of their gruesome heads and gripping roughly at their feathers was an oily, cruel ink monkey. Yellow eyes glinting and teeth bared, they urged the vultures on with their spiked tails.
Ivy watched in horror as several of them fixed on Rowan and, rising on an invisible wind current, surrounded him.