Law of the Wolf Tower: The Claidi Journals Book 1 by Tanith Lee (black authors fiction txt) 📕

made of wood, I thought, and covered, like my gown, with feathers. It all looked absurd.

The crowd was calling out a single phrase over and over again, everyone dead drunk and grinning ear to ear, and the men on the winged things raised and lowered the wings with a dry creaking sound.

‘What are they calling?’ I said to Nemian, not really caring.

‘Well, Claidi, you see they pedal over the cliff here, and then they flap their wings.’

‘Oh. Sounds daft to me.’

‘In a way. It’s a festival to honour their god.’

‘You mean God?’

‘Not quite.’

‘If they go – over the cliff? – then isn’t that dangerous?’

‘Exceedingly. The flying action somewhat lessens the fall. But they usually break an arm or a leg. That’s what they’re shouting, Break a leg! It means good luck.’

My mouth, trained to it by now, fell open on a reflex.

The pedallers were off anyway, thundering forward along the flat, arms and wings already vigorously waving.

And each one came to the edge, the edge of white cliff and diamond-dazzled night – space – and rolled off.

Everyone else, also Nemian and I, ran to the edge and peered after them.

There they went, down and down. In the air, they flailed, flapping and spinning, grotesque and funny, and frightful.

And one by one, they hit the ground far below, each with a crash and a scream. Clouds of what looked like steam came foaming up.

The Featherers were cheering. I was so frightened to see, I couldn’t look away.

But one by one all the men crawled from the shambles of their flying-machines, which were all in bits now.

‘Only two broken arms, apparently,’ said Nemian, turning from the GFO, who was burping and guffawing next to us. ‘They take all year to build their craft, and one minute to smash them. You can see, though, Claidi, it’s a dust-pit down there. Like the wings, that helps cushion the fall.’

I was going to reply with something witty or just pathetic, when I found all the villagers were touching me again. Some had hold of my arms. They were tugging and hoisting, lifting me off my feet.

At last I lashed out. It wasn’t any good.

‘Nemian – make them stop—’

Nemian looked startled. He said something in their awful language, and then turned and said it to the GFO.

But the GFO just gobbled and slapped Nemian on the back, and offered him the jar of drink again.

From Nemian’s face I finally realized what was meant to happen now.

Whether they thought it wouldn’t hurt, that I’d only break a leg, I didn’t know. Or whether I was the best sacrifice to hand, a strayed traveller there exactly on the right night of the festival, I didn’t know either.

Whatever it was, wingless in my feather dress, I was about to be slung over the cliff.

I screamed and kicked. I think I managed to ram my feet into someone’s stomach. But it wasn’t much of an achievement really. It wouldn’t help.

And Nemian had been grabbed now, and was on the ground. I couldn’t see him through their great stomping unbroken-unfortunately legs.

My bag – with this book – dropped back on the ground. I lost sight of it.

I was screeching and wailing. (You’ll understand.)

And then, through all the din, the blur of panic and fear, a kind of dark explosion tore, and all at once I was flying – not off the cliff – but through the air, until I hit the ground which was only the flat hilltop, and then someone hauled me up and I landed on something both harder and softer—

Inexplicable. I kicked again and the something caught my foot.

‘Here, you morbof, don’t kick my okking eye out.’

Like surfacing from a depth of water, I rose and snarled into an unknown face. And yet, not the face of a Featherer. He was black as ebony, and he laughed even as he prevented me from clawing at his left eye.

‘Watch it, chura. I’m here to save you.’

His hair was long, in tight braids, about ninety of them. How magnificent. But I didn’t care. I tried to rip them out. Then he got my hands. He said, and he was running now, carrying me with him somehow, ‘Look, chura, you’re all right. We’re going downhill, not off the cliff.’

It was true.

‘My name isn’t Chura.’

He looked vague but unconcerned.

‘No,’ he said, ‘the Sheepers said you were Claadibaa.’

‘Claidi.’

He laughed again. ‘Fine. Claidi. You don’t know, do you? Chura only means “darling”.’

We arrived where? It was a hillside.

Up there, torch flash, howls, cries, the rasp of metal clashing and a sharp bang, the noise of shot, a gun.

‘Nemian—’ I cried – ‘my book—’

‘Book’s here, Claidi,’ said this fantastic being who I’d tried to disfigure. ‘Nemian? That him? He’s all right.’

He handed me this book. Not the sack. That was gone. Didn’t matter. I clasped the book, and I sobbed. Sorry, but I did. Only once or twice.

My rescuer kindly patted me. ‘Everything’s all right.’

Apparently everything was all right.

‘They were going to throw me over,’ I unnecessarily reminisced.

He said, ‘Drink this.’ I pushed it away, but it was pushed back, and it was only absolutely delicious water. As I gulped, he said, ‘We had to wait, you see. Be sure. Make certain we hadn’t got the wrong end of the stick. So we followed you up, hung round the Feather village. Argul said, let them – the Tribe, that is – get drunk, make it easier, seeing we were a bit out numbered. He ran straight in to get you just then, only he was sort of detained – a couple of blokes with knives. So I had the lucky pleasure of getting you away. I’m Blurn.’

You’ll think I’m dotty. I instantly remembered the shouts at the Sheeper guest-house: Kill it properly, Blurn. Don’t eat it alive.

Somehow I kept quiet. He’d saved me. There are limits.

Men were streaming down the hill. All bandits. Oh well.

Argul stood by the spot where they’d planted one torch left over from the Throwing-Claidi-off-the-Cliff Festival.

He stared at me, his