Out of Phaze

She changed to hummingbird form, letting the harness drop. She darted to the magic screen, but could not pass. Her magic had been restored, but its magic had not been nullified. She needed the amulet.

She darted back and tried to pick up the fallen amulet, but it was too heavy for her present form to manage. Already the troll on guard was staring, about to cry the alarm. But the troll was outside the cell, and could not get in.

She changed to girl form, stooped, picked up the amulet, and hurled it at the barrier. There was a sparkle as it burned through, then dropped outside. She marked the place, then changed back to bird form and darted at that invisible hole. She folded her wings and slid through, feeling the terrible pressure of the barrier’s magic against her tiny body. A hole the diameter of a unicorn’s horn was a tight squeeze even for her present form!

She wriggled on out of it, spread her wings again, and darted under the troll’s ugly nose and on down the hall. She was out of the cell, but not really free yet. She had to win clear of the Purple Adept’s Demesnes entirely.

Fortunately her present form had a good sense of smell, especially for the things of nature, such as the bloom of flowers. She could trace the currents of fresh air. She flew upcurrent, following the freshness to its source: a vent-shaft leading to the surface. It was covered by a grille, but the holes in it were large enough for her to pass. She flew up and out—and almost into the clutches of a harpy.

Knowing that the harpy would snatch her and kill her, she changed immediately to girl form and dived for a stick with which to fight it off. Unicorn form would have been better, but she knew that any appearance of a unicorn here would alert the Adept; she couldn’t risk that.

Her ploy worked. “A vampire!” the harpy screeched, mistaking her fleeting glimpse of the hummingbird for a bat. “What do ye in Harpy Demesnes?”

“Just passing through,” Fleta said, holding the stick ready.

“Well, this will end thy travels!” the harpy screeched, and launched herself, talons extended.

Fleta smashed the dirty bird with her stick, with mixed result. The harpy was knocked to the ground, but the stick was rotten, and shattered.

“O, I’m going to skewer thee!” the harpy screeched, righting herself and spreading her gross wings again. Like all her kind, she was a tough old bird.

Fleta fled. She wanted no contact with those poisoned claws! As a unicorn, she was proof against most magic, regardless of the form she assumed. So the poison would not kill her, but it would make her sick and leave an ugly scar. She outdistanced the harpy and concealed herself in thick brush. Too bad it wasn’t that easy to foil an Adept! But of course nothing could foil an Adept, except another Adept.

But the harpy’s commotion attracted others of her kind. There was rustling all along the forested slope. Fleta knew she was in real trouble now; even in unicorn form she would have trouble breaking out of this. They would soon sniff her out.

Then she remembered Phoebe’s feather. She brought it out and set it on the ground. Then she changed to unicorn form and struck her hoof against a rock, making a spark. The spark jumped to the feather and started it burning. Then Fleta changed back to girl form, hoping Phoebe would quickly smell the smoke. That was the secret of that “magic,” of course: each harpy could detect her own essence from almost any distance. Some harpies used their own excrement to mark off hunting territories.

But Phoebe was some distance away, while the other harpies were close. And the wind was wrong. If the smoke did not reach her, or if it took too long to carry Fleta’s summons. . .

“I smell a bat!” a harpy screeched, close by. That was an exaggeration; it was the hummingbird she had winded.

Fleta cast about desperately for some escape. She knew she could not make a break for it through the air; she could maneuver well, but could not outfly the harpies in a straight-line effort. But how could she hide, when they smelled her?

She spied a small hole in a nearby trunk. She did not trust such holes, for anything could be in them, but now she had to risk it. The harpy was already lumbering into sight. She shifted back to hummingbird form and darted in.

She was in luck. The hole was empty, though by the smell it had on occasion been used by a wren.

Almost immediately, the body of the harpy thunked into the trunk. A talon plunged into the hole. “Gotcha, batbrain!”

But again it was enthusiasm rather than accuracy. The hole was deep, and Fleta was able to wedge herself back beyond the range of the talon. The dirty birds couldn’t get her. Now she had only to wait. She hoped.

“So it be that way, eh?” the harpy screeched. “Well, I’ll spit on thee!”

Oops! A harpy’s spittle, like her poison, was vile stuff. If a globule of that caught Fleta, it would foul her unmercifully. It wouldn’t really hurt her, but it would be a singularly unpleasant experience.