Sword Quest Read Online Free PDF Page B

him. He felt his ropes starting to char. But his feathers were burning as well.
    One rope fell. He fluttered the freed wing awkwardly and leaned forward to peck at the ropes around his other wing. The ropes dropped into the flames and withered to ashes.
    Summoning his ebbing strength, Wind-voice beat his wings and flitted toward the hole in the ceiling.
    It was a tight fit, but he struggled madly. There was a rip. He was in the air, in the night air! The bitter wind welcomed him.
    “It escaped!” cried an archaeopteryx below.
    Wind-voice’s body was blazing as he flew. The long sweeps of the flailing wings were sweeps of flame. He looked like a firebird.
    The archaeopteryxes shot a volley of arrows at him, but they fell short.
    He knew he could not last long in the air. His past was burning away. He could be what he wanted to be.
    013-Unidentified is truly dead, he thought as his scorched body faltered and plummeted down. Wind-voice is reborn.

In everybird’s innermost heart there lies a moral compass.
    —FROM THE O LD S CRIPTURE
    4
B EGINNING
    F ly in low to the west, Wind-voice! Hide!” Irene, his mother, shouted. Frightened, he obeyed. His mother started flying in the other direction, jumping now and then, pausing a few times to let the archaeopteryxes catch up. She let one of her wings trail behind, feigning injury in a desperate attempt to draw away the enemy.
    He stumbled in terror and looked back. Irene disappearedfrom sight around a sand dune. The archaeopteryxes followed. It was the last time Wind-voice saw his mother.
     
    Memory scorched Wind-voice along with the flames. He closed his eyes, trying not to scream, as the ground rushed up at him. His wings were useless. He twisted to land on his feet, and his right foot jammed full-force onto a rock. The rest of him crashed down onto it.
    Though most of the flames had been beaten out by his crash, a few feathers were still smouldering. Then, to his surprise, a thin, high voice whispered in his ear. “Wind-voice! Thank the Great Spirit, you’re alive!”
    It was Winger. The woodpecker scooped up some cool, wet mud and put out the flames quickly, then smeared some more to blot out all of Wind-voice’s white feathers so he would not be easily spotted. “Try to get up,” Winger urged. “Quick, quick.”
    “Where can we go?” Wind-voice asked, staggering to his feet.
    “I know where. Just come with me.”
    Wind-voice knew he could not fly. But he limped as fast as he could, trying not to put much weight on his injured claws, the woodpecker supporting him.
    Wind-voice’s vision began to blur and waver. Suddenly he saw the rich purplish black of another bird, a myna,who appeared beside Winger and helped Wind-voice walk. Supported by the two birds, he stepped into the fringe of golden light from a campfire and saw a gray-and-blue bird practicing the graceful movements of swordplay, all alone. Wind-voice flinched at the sight of the red and orange flames.
    Bright flashes of green-blue filled the air as little kingfishers darted toward them. The stout myna congratulated Wind-voice on his daring escape. Ewingerale said something to him excitedly in his shrill little voice, but he couldn’t catch the words. So many smiling faces loomed up at him. Some started bandaging his burns and washing his injured foot with cool water.
    Then Wind-voice turned and saw two dull yellow sticks in front of his eyes. Numbly he realized they weren’t sticks at all but spindly legs. There was an ugly scar on the right foot. He looked up to see folded wings and a body and, higher still, a long neck curving over and a pair of yellow eyes looking at him. It was the bird who had been practicing with the sword. The heron’s white face was almost comically wedgelike, but the two bold, black brushstrokes sweeping up above the eyes, however, were just menacing enough to stop any laughter. He said in a deep, vibrant tone, “Welcome, son. You are safe here. I am the heron Fisher.