At first in ones and twos and then in large groups, the swarm of birds left off attacking the men. They flew away from the oak ring in sundry directions, diminishing to specks and then disappearing. All was quiet. Eight bloodied and battered figures with feathers sticking to their wounds and in their beards and hair descended with little grace from the oaks. Bagsac groaned the loudest and fell off his oak branch. When he picked himself up, a grimace stretched his face, and he bent over and held his hand to his backside. He began hobbling toward the nearest farmstead. “Not my fault,” he mumbled
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