Chickens

“Chickens?” Sir Albert asked. His thick, snowy brow raised into the shadow of his helmet. “Are you certain the scout has not gone mad?”

“It's right here in writing, sir,” Jasper said, holding out the rain-soaked scroll. “Signed by Sir Geven himself. Formation of chickens. Estimate at three hundred thousand visible. Possibly more incoming.”

Albert shook his head, peering out over the battlement. “What is that mad bastard playing at?” he asked. “He has always been creative in his assaults... but chickens? What does he hope to accomplish?”

“Well, sir,” Page Bryant piped up, his voice cracking with budding adulthood. “I was bitten by a guinea hen once. Pretty nasty. Got infected bad.”

Albert and Jasper both looked at the boy, amused. “Still, Bee,” Jasper said. “You are talking about a fight against trained, armored warriors entrenched in stone construction. I doubt a few bites from a guinea hen will put us out of commission.”

“So what, then?” Albert said. “A distraction? An illusion? That many chickens could certainly be masking any number of dangerous things. Have there been any reports from the east?”

“All clear there, sir,” Jasper said. “The villagers at Capton are still planning to hold their solstice rites, it's been so quiet.”

“Let's hope that we can keep them safe long enough for such celebration,” Albert said. “We must find out what Xyvier is up to.”