Page 40 of Prince of Flowers
“Then what the hell was all that roaring?” I asked, searching for a tiger, a panther — could have been anything. This was the Oriel of Earth, after all.
Sylvain stretched his arms out and yawned. “Clearly just your imagination. Aww, did Lochlann have a bad dream? Throwing shoes and all. Let’s just go back to bed.”
A nearby bush rustled. We whirled as one, a sword already forming in Sylvain’s hands, magic streaming from my soul and into the grimoire. But then the next bush rustled, and the next one, and the next.
“Oh, fuck,” I muttered. “Oh, shit. Armor. Sylvain, armor, now.”
For once he didn’t argue, summoning a fresh wave of leaves from the trees, clothing himself in his usual breastplate. I placed my hand on his shoulder, forcing a pulse of magic to run through his body, encasing him in a silvery-gold shield.
“What is it?” he asked, unafraid, but quiet, careful.
“Bush babies,” I said, knowing better, my skin crawling.
Sylvain straightened himself out, dropping his sword hand. “Bush. Babies. Are you — Locke, seriously, now. Are you joking?”
The little bastards came tearing out of the undergrowth, chittering and shrieking. Whoever named these horrible monsters should have picked something better. Even Ermengarde Frost’sTreatise on Mythical Animals and Creatureshad them listed as such. A cruel joke, because these assholes were a far cry from galagos, those adorable furry creatures with the huge eyes back on Earth.
No. The bush babies of this Oriel were actual sentient bushes, so named for being so small and unobtrusive, and for their very, very irritating screams. Their natural camouflage and propensity to hang out in great numbers added to their threat, making it easy for them to gather near unsuspecting victims. Or even around them, fencing them in, the way these babies had done to us.
A bush ambush. Holy crap, I hated these things.
“The skeletal structure of a central trunk and branches,” I explained hurriedly. “Lots of thick, leafy foliage, makes them tough. And watch out for poison.”
Hence my warning for him to throw on some armor. Whether it was by squirting their berries or delivering their juices through crudely fashioned darts and arrows, the bush babies could quickly overwhelm a vulnerable traveler.
Oh, and that was the other thing — they were smart enough to make their own weapons, using sharpened branches as spears, shorter twigs as daggers. Nearly as intelligent as goblins, and just as nasty. Fucking assholes, every single one of them. What I wouldn’t do for a dragon, a baby salamander, anything to torch these monsters to hell and back.
“Pitiful,” Sylvain said, hands at his hips. “Why, I can end this fight in one go. Hah!”
He clenched his fingers. I waited for the satisfying screams of the bush babies, watching for the carnage of leaves being ripped off their bodies — but nothing. Sylvain stared down at his hand in open horror.
If I ever met Ermengarde Frost, I could teach her at least one thing. Maybe she wasn’t as thorough about mythozoology as I’d believed. These things only looked like plants. If Sylvain’s power couldn’t destroy them, then it meant that they were actual flesh-and-blood creatures that only resembled tiny bushes. Great. Gross.
And if that was true, then what the hell were their berries supposed to be? Super gross.
The bush babies screamed, lifting their sticks and blowguns in the air. I bared my teeth, encasing my grimoire in a layer of magic with one hand, drawing my dagger with the other. A cluster of four, five bush babies approached me, chittering and shuddering.
I threw the book at them. Literally. The empowered grimoire smashed two in a single blow, their crushed bodies leaving wet, greasy smears in the grass. So gross. I slashed with the dagger, thrust it at another sentient bush, roaring the whole time, going slowly insane from their wailing, their constant ululation.
“They communicate with that horrible shrieking,” Sylvain shouted, slashing his sword at one of the bush babies, directing a flurry of leaves against another. “It’s how they coordinate.”
I hadn’t even noticed that, assuming they were only battle cries at first. There must have been some semblance of language in there, not that I could pick up on anything — the chitters came too quickly, never differing in cadence or rhythm, at least to my ears.
But the maddening sound of their shrill little voices filled the night as they attacked, in batches, in lines, these faceless creatures with their eerie sense of strategy. They fired their flimsy weapons, tiny darts and arrows shooting out with pings and whizzes. Their trajectories were weak and limp, the poisoned barbs missing us completely.
Still, one of them was bound to land on a patch of bare skin soon enough. I retrieved my book, flicked the bush baby goo away, and spread it open, letting it levitate before me to use as a mobile shield while I considered my options.
These tiny assholes would just shoot down my doves if I called them in. And the grubby cat — he was scrappy, but they would overwhelm him with their numbers and tear him to shreds. But the wolf? Hmm. That just might work.
“Sorry, Old Man,” I said, gesturing with my fingers, murmuring the first words of the summoning spell. A howl drifted in on the wind, a call from a world away as he answered my summons.
I blinked, and there he was, ancient and tattered, but majestic in his own way. The gray wolf I’d come to think of as Old Man had been on his last legs since forever. Every time I summoned him I feared the worst, expecting the portal to open and spit out a pile of fur and bones. This wolf needed a younger wolf to chew his food for him. This wolf was supposed to be in a home playing mahjong and bridge.
But I loved him dearly, called him whenever I could, adoring the excitement in his eyes every time he appeared. Old Man just wanted to be useful, to see the battlefield as often as possible before he went up to wolf heaven to have endless wolf orgies for all eternity.
Old Man bared his teeth at the bush babies, prepared to rend and tear, but I went down on one knee, patted him by the scruff. He pushed his head against my hand, greeting me in kind.
“It’s been a while, Old Man. Give us a show. Let’s hear you sing.”
