Free ABACUS by Chris McGowan Page A

the dawn chorus had ever sounded so loud.
    â€œI wonder what they’re saying,” whispered Arthur.
    â€œTime for breakfast!” suggested Hector, patting his big belly.
    â€œTell me what you hear, young Arthur.”
    AP cocked his head to one side. “A good omen,” he declared. “They thank you in advance for ridding their home of intruders.”
    Arthur gazed at the birds. Then, turning to AP, he asked whether AP was going to do what Medoc did and turn into a bird.
    â€œNo, not yet. I’ll stay longer.”
    When they reached the top of the ridge young Wilf appeared, rubbing his eyes. “Nothing changed during the night,” he reported. “The invaders are asleep.”
    Suddenly Hector’s stomach gave an enormous rumble. “Hush that belly!” whispered Gavin. “You’ll wake the entire camp.”
    Arthur gave the order and the warriors set off, moving like stalking lions.
    Soon Arthur’s men were in position, waiting for dawn. The invaders slept on, oblivious to the peril surrounding them.
    AP could have stayed behind on the ridge and “disappeared” like Medoc. Instead, he was now standing beside the camp, beneath the fading stars. Time seemed to stand still. But as he stood there, staring at the heavens, the eastern skyline was turning gold. It was time.
    Swords raised high, the warriors moved forward, each picking his own man. Then, on a signal from their leader, the battle began. AP, horrified by the scene, was riveted to the spot. Sights and sounds assaulted his brain—swords slicing flesh, agonized screams, blades chopping bone, spurting blood. Then the odor of carnage wafted his way—a revolting blend of butcher shop and farmyard. Sour bile bit the back of his throat and he could feel the world beginning to spin.
    AP could have blamed the warriors for the bloodshed, but that would have been unfair. The invaders had slaughtered defenseless villagers—now they were paying the price. Maybe what disturbed him most was the euphoric way the swordsmen went about their grisly business.
    Eventually it was over. Arthur’s men, although heavily outnumbered, had killed every invader and suffered few casualties themselves. All was deathly still. AP could hear the sound of the sea, being carried on the wind. He thought the warriors would be shouting with joy, but most of them just stood there, surveying the scene as if shocked by their deeds.
    Arthur strode up and laid an arm across AP’s shoulder. “You never changed into a falcon.” He sounded surprised
    â€œNo.” AP’s voice was flat and lifeless.
    â€œYou have helped me win a great victory. I am again in your debt, young Arthur. First my grandfather’s dagger, and now—this.”
    AP remained silent.
    â€œMedoc was right. After our council meeting, when he suggested I take you with me, I thought he’d lost his mind. ‘How can I take a boy who cannot even handle a sword into battle?’ I asked him. Then Medoc reminded me of your great powers as a sorcerer, and it began to make sense.”
    Suddenly the horror of the battle, and the thought that somebody hated him enough to want him killed, was too much for AP. He needed to be alone.
    â€œThe time has come for me to become a falcon. I must fly over the land to restore my powers.”
    Arthur smiled. “As you wish, my gifted young friend.”
    AP headed for a lone tree, off in the distance. Walking around to the other side, he crouched down and vomited.

Chapter 8: Marooned
    News of the victory reached the hill fort before the warriors returned, giving everyone time to plan a rousing welcome.
    People waved and cheered from the top of the fence. They lined the path leading up to the gate. Some ran down the hill to greet the returning heroes. There was shouting and clapping, laughter and tears.
    Kate grabbed her brother before he reached the gate, lifting him off the ground.
    â€œI