Raven Flight by Juliet Marillier
“We’ll be close to the road by nightfall,” Tali said. “And walking on it in the morning. It’ll be busy. Keldec will have substantial forces back at Summerfort by now. They’ll be moving to and fro, and so will ordinary folk. For us, ordinary folk are almost worse than Enforcers.”
“They can hardly be worse.” When a settlement or household incurred the king’s wrath, the Enforcers acted without mercy. They had no regard for human life or human dignity. I had seen what they could do.
“They’re harder to read. An Enforcer makes no secret of his loyalty. He acts as you’d expect a king’s man to act. A farmer or fisherman might be anything. Friend or enemy. Helpful or treacherous. Terrified or prepared to take a risk. We’d best practice our story before we go down there.”
“Don’t forget to wear your kerchief, and keep your sleeves rolled down. Those men at the river noticed your tattoos.”
Tali ran her hands through her dark locks, which were cropped to finger-length, making her stand out from a crowd even without the body markings and proud carriage. “And hide my weapons again, yes? Just as well a fighting staff can double as a walking stick or I’d have to disobey Regan’s orders.”
This remark made me curious. “So you usually obey them?” I asked. “You seem so strong in your own opinions, I thought …”
“I’m a fighter. Regan’s a leader.” She turned and headed down the hill. I scrambled after her. “In a war, you obey your leader,” she said, still striding ahead. “If you don’t, everything falls apart.”
There was a reservation in her voice. I took a risk. “But?”
“It can be hard to set aside the past. You must know that as well as any of us. I’ve done it. Fingal’s done it. Flint’s done it. Regan … He struggles with it sometimes. If he has any weak spot, it’s that.”
“I know something happened to Regan. Or to his family. Flint told me once that it gave him good reason for what he’s doing now.”
Tali looked over her shoulder. Her expression was somber. “More than enough reason, Neryn. But that story’s his to tell.”
“I understand.”
“Another man might have taken vengeance in blood and fire, or made an end of himself. Regan is stronger than that. There’s a light shining in him, moving him forward: the light of freedom. That’s what draws all of us to follow, to take risks, to keep on fighting when we see our comrades fall beside us. But there’s no light without shadow.”
Our path came out at the edge of the woods; we looked down on the road linking Deepwater to Hiddenwater, the smallest in the chain of lochs. For a while we stayed in the shelter of the trees, assessing what movement there was: carts, riders, people on foot herding stock. A group of Enforcers swept along the way. Folk scattered before the drumming of their horses’ hooves. The Cull was not until autumn, but that would not stop the king’s men from breaking down doors and putting the disloyal or the canny to the sword. Out of sheer terror, ordinary folk would lie about their neighbors. To protect his own skin or that of a wife or child, brother would denounce brother. I wondered if Keldec had kept Flint close by him this spring, perhaps ordering him to stay at Winterfort until the court moved west in time for the midsummer Gathering. For more nights than I could count, I had not dreamed of him. Wherever he was, I hoped he was safe.
We camped one last night in the woods, without a fire. When morning came, we packed up, rehearsing our story in whispers. Tali was Luda, I was Calla, the name I had used before when on the run. Not sisters; with one of us tall, dark, and athletic and the other slight and fair, that seemed likely to give rise to questions. We were friends and neighbors from a settlement called Stonyrigg, in the western isles, and we were returning home after a visit to Luda’s sister, who had wed a man from the north. The distances involved were farther than most ordinary people would dream of traveling for such a purpose, but the story should be good enough to get us to Pentishead and, with luck, over to the isles. That was if folk did not notice how ill Tali’s upright carriage, authoritative manner, and snapping dark eyes sat with her drab working-woman’s clothing.
For me, it was easier to go unnoticed, provided I did not betray my canny gift. I was neither exceptionally tall nor unusually short. As far as I knew, I was neither strikingly beautiful nor startlingly ugly. In my ordinary attire, with my walking staff and small pack, I could be any traveler. I had a knife, yes, but so did most folk. A person had to be able to make fire. She had to have some means of defending herself on the road. As for my footwear, my old shoes with their delicate stitchery had been left at Shadowfell. Now I wore a pair of sturdy walking boots. My hair, which when newly washed was honey-colored, was tightly plaited and pinned up under a kerchief similar to Tali’s. A bracing dip in a stream was the closest we’d come to bathing since we left Shadowfell; if folk noticed anything, it would probably be the way I smelled. “What are you smiling at?”
“Not at you, I promise. I was thinking about how filthy I am and wondering how long it’ll be before I next have a hot bath. I doubt the Hag of the Isles lives in a place with such luxuries.”
“There’s always the sea,” Tali said. “A nice cold bath. You could play with the seals. That’s if I succeed in teaching you to swim.”
“Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it. Shall we move on?”
There was a series of difficult firsts: the first day’s walking down on the road; the first time we exchanged wary nods with other travelers; the first night spent at a wayside inn, where a few coppers bought us a bowl of watery porridge and a flea-ridden pallet. We’d wanted to avoid such places, which were collecting points for gossip and rumor, but sudden heavy rain cut our day’s walk short and gave us no other option for shelter. We spoke as little as possible and headed for bed soon after our meager supper. Over the meal we heard talk of new arrivals at Summerfort, a troop of Enforcers, maybe two troops. There was speculation as to when they would ride out and which direction they would take. Last autumn’s Cull had been thorough; only the western isles had been entirely spared. That did not make folk safe from unexpected visits, from fists pounding on doors and masked men asking hard questions. If the king’s men didn’t like the answers they got, people were apt to find themselves strung up or worse.
We left the inn soon after dawn, heading west toward Hiddenwater.
Early-morning light touched the guard tower at Summerfort, where Owen Swift-Sword stood alone. To the south lay the expanse of Deepwater, lustrous as a dark pearl. Close at hand the Rush branched as it flowed into the loch. Behind him, to the north, lay the mist-shrouded peaks of the Three Hags. Beyond was the way to Shadowfell.
The creak of footsteps on the ladder. “Owen? You up there?”
He reached out, grasped his comrade’s hand, hauled him up to the platform. The two stood side by side awhile, looking out, not talking. To the west, wooded hills, the lakeshore winding away, the road to the isles. To the east, below the tower, the practice area, where already twelve men of Stag Troop were engaged in an early-morning drill. Beyond, the way to Winterfort and Keldec’s court.
Rohan Death-Blade cleared his throat. Glanced toward the ladder. Down in the practice area, the men had set up targets for archery. “They’re ready,” he said. “We can be on the road as soon as you give the word.”
“Mm.” His troop leader’s gaze did not move from the practice area.
“Some advantage in moving before Bull Troop gets here. You saw how the fellows clashed at Winterfort.”
Owen nodded, but made no comment.
“About the target in the isles,” Rohan said, dropping his voice to a murmur. He moved to the ladder, took a look down, returned to the parapet once more. “You know that job’s best covered by a man on his own. Two at most. Sail over with more than that and the quarry will have gone to ground before anyone sets foot on shore.”
Things unspoken lay heavy between them.
“Islanders are stubborn folk,” said Rohan. “Could be a lengthy process getting information o
“You volunteering?”
“You must be joking.” Rohan grimaced. “Have you ever seen me get on a boat if I can avoid it? We could split the troop, send Tallis north with one team while I take the other south. Regroup when the targets are all accounted for.”
Down below, Tallis’s arrow flew straight to the distant mark. A small chorus of congratulation broke out.
They stood watching a while longer. If there was an obvious omission in Rohan’s strategy, neither spoke of it.
“It’s a sound plan,” said Owen Swift-Sword levelly. “Call the men together after breakfast and we’ll tell them.”
Before dawn we headed down to the road. It was too early for folk herding stock or driving carts to market. With luck it would be too early for Enforcers. We walked in silence, each keeping her thoughts to herself. I had dreamed of Flint, and that was enough to keep me quiet. He’d been at Summerfort, watching his men as they trained in the yard. Talking to another Enforcer. His blunt features, so dear to me, had borne an abstracted expression; his gray eyes had been troubled. What the two had spoken of there was no telling. Whether it meant Flint was at Summerfort now, or whether the dream was created by my longing for him to be close, I could not say. But something of my feelings must have shown on my face, for I caught Tali looking at me from time to time, eyes shrewdly assessing.
As the road approached Hiddenwater, it wound between barren, stony slopes. The small loch lay in a deep bowl, sheer rock walls almost encircling it. The water was pearly gray under a sky of vaporous clouds. Here and there a hint of the dawn to come brightened the stark stones. The wind was from the west, an eerie whistling along the lonely track.
“Hear the ghosts,” I murmured.
Tali looked at me as if I were touched in the wits. “The story of this place is well known, of course: an ancient battle with many fallen. But what folk hear as they pass through is only the wind.”
“You’re wrong. Warrior-ghosts haunt this place; the sound is their voices, crying out.”
“Nonsense, Neryn. How can you know that?”
“I know because when I came the other way, I saw them.” It had been a momentous encounter. A turning point in my life.
Tali made no comment, but something had changed in her expression.
“Walk quietly,” I said. “If anyone can catch sight of them, surely it’s you.”
“I’m carrying iron.”
“These are warrior-spirits, the ghosts of the dead, not Good Folk. If they want to come out, iron won’t stop them.”
We were halfway around the narrow path that skirted the loch when we heard the marching of their feet behind us, soft but regular, then a voice whispering Halt. Tali whirled, staff up in defensive mode. I turned more slowly.
They stood in a neat double line, eyes bright in their skull-like faces. Their warrior garments were rent and stained, their boots cracked and broken. Some wore helms of leather, some were bare-headed, their hair ragged, their beards wild. Here and there an ugly wound split a skull or left a limb hanging crooked and useless. One young fighter had a great hollow in his chest, as if an ax had cloven his body nearly in half. From somewhere down the line came a faint skirl of pipes and the rat-tat of a ghostly drum.
Tali stood frozen by my side, her staff gripped in both hands.
“We greet you, warriors of Hiddenwater,” I said, doing my best to look like the fighter they had once asked me to become. “How do you fare?”
Well enough, Caller. The answer came from everywhere and nowhere. What news?
“You bade me fight. I am preparing for that fight. Others too. My companion here is one of them.”
Their eyes went to Tali. To her credit, she met that hungry gaze with confidence.
“Brothers, I salute you,” she said, and to my astonishment I heard a tremor in her voice. Not fear; she was afraid of nothing. “What mighty battle brought you to this sad extreme?”
They gathered closer, breaking their formation to encircle us on the path. A chorus of whispers told the tale: We were camped yonder, under the trees that once grew in this vale. Conal’s men came down on us by night, as we slept. Broke the ancient truce. Blood on the stones. We fought hard. We fought long. We fell.
“What was the ancient truce?” Now it was Tali who seemed hungry; her hands were white-knuckled on the staff.
A sigh ran through the spectral troop. Yonder lies Corriedale, the whispers told us, and several hands pointed roughly north. And yonder Ravensburn, our own place. They pointed south. The truce let men of each holding use this track from seeding to harvest; from lambing to the autumn culling of stock. Our chieftains were long at war, but folk must have a livelihood. Conal broke the truce. His men set a stain on their honor that night. They left us dying in our blood, and they bore away our chieftain.
“Ultan of Ravensburn,” breathed Tali. “They cut off his head and set it up on the parapet of Conal’s stronghold at Corriedale for folk to throw stones at. The tale goes that for many nights the moon in those parts showed blood-red, and Ultan’s head could be heard crying out, ‘Shame! Shame!’ ”
The spectral host had fallen utterly silent. I too had nothing to say. Tali’s response had astonished me.
Roll up your sleeves. One voice, every voice.
Tali passed me her staff, then obeyed the request, revealing the elaborate tattoos that circled her arms from wrist to shoulder, chains and swirls and flying birds. She took off her kerchief and pulled down the collar of her shirt to show the row of birds around her neck.
A wordless whispering of excitement broke out among the warriors, a restless vibration that made my heart thump. A tall, lean fellow walked forward through the crowd; the others fell back to let him pass. In life, he might have been handsome. He carried himself straight. His hair was long and dark; his tattered clothing had once been that of a leader. As he approached, he rolled up his ragged sleeves, and on the pallid flesh of his arm were inked chains and swirls and flying birds. You are one of us, the ghost said, and One of us, echoed the others. Ultan’s heir, breathed the ghost. A warrior.
“I am a warrior,” Tali said, “but I am not Ultan’s heir, and neither is my brother. Ravensburn fell to our enemy long ago; it is lost to us. But we are of Ultan’s blood, and we are still fighting. Not for a single territory or a single stronghold. We pursue a far greater cause. We seek freedom for all Alban. Freedom from tyranny, freedom from terror, freedom to build our land anew. No doubt men of Corriedale died here that night, along with the heroes of Ravensburn; there must have been bitter losses on both sides, for I see you fought long and hard. Corriedale’s fallen were treated more kindly after death, I imagine. But they were no less dead for that. In our war, old enemies will fight, not against each other, but side by side.” She paused. The tattooed man had reached out tentative fingers toward her neck, where the dark birds of Ravensburn followed their straight, unswerving path. “You are my kinsman,” Tali said, and I saw to my astonishment that tears were running down her cheeks. “My ancestor.”
Ultan was my father. In the harsh, faint ghost voice I heard a fierce pride. My name was … The warrior hesitated, as if reaching for something almost fled. My name was Fingal.
“I am descended from your daughter,” Tali said. “My brother is named for you. So we keep your memory alive and honor your courage. Our land may be lost, but the blood of Ravensburn flows strong and true. Know that, my kinsman.” She reached up a hand to dash the tears from her cheeks, and I saw in that gesture the same pride I had seen in the ghostly warrior.
“It’s almost day,” I said. When I had encountered these spirits before, they had vanished with the first rays of the sun. “We must say our farewells and move on.”
Keep her safe, Fingal said. Keep the Caller safe. That is your mission. She carries the flame. Guard her with your life. Farewell, daughter of my daughter.
&n
“Farewell, warriors of the west,” I said. “I have not forgotten what you taught me. Weapons sharp; backs straight; hearts high.”
Weapons sharp; backs straight; hearts high. Farewell.… And they were gone.
* * *
Beyond Hiddenwater lay a broad area of farmland, a place I had crossed by night coming the other way, ducking from one sheltered spot to the next with my heart in my mouth. Tali had decided we would go straight on, since the alternative—hiding up on the hillside until dusk—would lose us a whole day’s walking. Once past the farmland we would be on the wooded shores of the next loch, Silverwater, and could go on under reasonable cover.
I asked no questions, and she held her silence. What had struck me most strongly was the way the spectral warriors had shared their story with her, as if she were one of them. And it seemed she was: theirs by blood and theirs by calling, a warrior of Ravensburn. When I had first encountered the ghostly comrades, last autumn, I had thought the past all but forgotten for them. Perhaps, when they had bidden me sing the song of truth, that ancient anthem had woken their memory. Or perhaps the spark had been Tali herself, a vibrant, passionate warrior as they had once been, a fighter who wore the clan patterns by which they had lived and died. Guard the Caller, they had said. They knew what I was. They knew what I could be.
There were folk about on the farms, letting chickens out to forage, hanging clothing on a line, forking a dung heap. A tired-looking horse pulled a cart laden with lumpy sacks. A girl with a dog herded sheep from one walled field to another. We kept our heads down and walked on by. Not far to the shelter of that wooded hillside. I imagined Sage and Red Cap up there somewhere, looking out and exchanging wry comments as they watched our progress. Judging by what Hollow had said, word of the mission was spreading fast among their kind. “You! On the road!”