The Black Raven
“So, Rhodry Maelwaedd!” Raena spoke in the rough border patois of Deverrian. “I’ve got you good and proper now!”
“Maybe so,” Rhodry said. “If you live to take me.”
Raena laughed and cracked her whip in the air. As if it heard the sound, the spearpoint flamed like a torch and hissed. Her horse flung up its head and danced backwards. Rhodry could see how hard it was for her to get it back under control, what with her holding both reins in one hand. She lashed the whip again.
“And how long will you hold on to that bit of wood?” Raena said. “I do wonder.”
Raena lifted her whip and snapped it right at his face. Rhodry flung up his spear in a parry. When the whip curled round the spearpoint, the braided thongs thrashed like a dying snake and hissed like one, too. With a scream Raena pulled it back, but a severed length of the lash fell, twitching, on the ground at her horse’s feet. The bay whickered and threatened to rear. With a muttered oath the fox rider drew his black sword.
“Let him be!” Raena snarled. “He’s mine!”
The fox rider ignored her and spurred his horse forward. Rhodry had just time to jump to one side and swing the spear at his horse’s head. The black whickered and fought the bit, but the fox rider wrenched its head around hard. Rhodry swung and smacked the black across the nose. A calculated risk—the fox rider’s sword was slashing down, straight at him, but the horse squealed and reared, its forelegs pawing the air, and the rider’s stroke missed. Cursing a steady stream, Raena was trying to force her horse toward Rhodry, but it too balked and tossed its head so violently she nearly lost the reins.
Rhodry howled out a berserker cry and rushed straight for the blood bay. He could hear the fox-man yelling something incomprehensible at Raena, who was trying to lash the whip with one hand whilst hanging on to the reins with the other. When her gelding saw the flaming spear heading straight for its eyes, it reared, came down hard, and kicked out. Raena tumbled inelegantly over its neck into the dirt. With one last whicker of panic, the horse bolted, galloping off toward the perpetual sunset.
Hooves sounded behind him—Rhodry spun round just in time to parry a sword slash as the fox rider charged him. The spearpoint slid off the sword blade as if by its own will. Rhodry snapped his wrists and swung the spear behind the fox-man’s futile slash. The blazing bronze point smacked the fox rider’s back—a glancing touch that should have done no harm, but the black armour shattered with a sizzle like burning fat. With a clumsy backhand swing Rhodry brought the spear back round as the fox-man struggled to turn his horse. Another clumsy strike with his spear—this time it glanced off his enemy’s black greave. Red fire shot out. The greave broke in half with a puff of black smoke and the stink of burning fur. The fox-man screamed in agony and spurred his horse hard. The horse leapt forward, and they galloped away, right past Rhodry and over the plain.
Rhodry howled in berserk laughter, so lost to the world that Raena nearly caught him. She’d got to her feet, and with a curse she lashed out with her whip. The tip seared down his back, but the pain only made him laugh the harder as he swung to face her. The black braid flashed down; he flung up the spear and twisted, caught the whip and pulled. The spearpoint burned through the leather and let her pull what little was left of the lash free.
“Lord Havoc!” she cried out. “Come back!”
She turned her head to look for the fleeing fox rider, just for an instant, but an instant was all Rhodry needed. He jumped forward and stabbed with a heft of the spear. The blade struck her flat between the breasts and flamed. With a scream of agony she dropped the whip and staggered back.
“So, you slut of a whoring bitch,” Rhodry said. “Who’s got who good and proper now?”
She flung her arms into the air and jumped, a gesture that caught him so much by surprise that he stared, paralysed. With a shriek that turned hoarse in mid-cry, an enormous raven flapped into the air and flew, circling round him once with one more cry of contempt. He stood openmouthed and watched as the bird flew away in the general direction of the fox rider.
“By the black hairy arse of the Lord of Hell!” Rhodry muttered.
On the ground lay the remains of her black whip. Rather than touch it without knowing what it might do to his hands, he slid the spearpoint under it, meaning to pick it up, but the handle bubbled like bitumen in a pit and melted into a puff of ill-smelling smoke. Raena wouldn’t be using that weapon again.
“That’s all very well,” Rhodry said aloud. “But how by all the ice in the hells do I get back home?”
When he looked up into the sky, he swore aloud. Unnaturally large birds were flying straight for him, a pair of them this time. Apparently Raena and her strange ally had come back for more. He let his knees bend and crouched, waiting, spear held in front of him, as they flew closer and closer. But they proved to be no ravens—he could recognize a red hawk. The other was some strange grey bird that reminded him of a linnet.
“There he is!” The linnet sang out with Dallandra’s voice. “Thank every god in the stars!”
Rhodry laughed and waved the spear in greeting. The linnet dipped her wing, then turned with a graceful flap and headed after the raven. The hawk slowed, circled, and dropped down. As it sank it changed, shimmering with blue light as feather smoothed into flesh. For a moment Rhodry saw Evandar hovering naked in midair, buoyed up by huge wings. With one last flap Evandar’s feet hit the ground; the wings disappeared into arms. Dressed in his usual elven tunic and trousers, Evandar stood before him.
“My apologies,” Evandar said. “We tried to find you before Raena did, but you seem to have dealt with her easily enough.”
“It was luck, mostly,” Rhodry said. “She didn’t have a battle-steady horse, and then this spear—it started life as the bronze knife you gave me, all those years ago.”
“Spear or knife—it doesn’t matter to the thing. It will become one or the other as you wish.”
“Handy of it. Neither Raena or her vulpine friend liked the taste of the point, especially when it caught fire.”
“Shaetano was here?”
“Who? This fellow looked more like a fox than a man, and she called him Lord Havoc.”
“Shaetano it was, then. My brother.”
“And here I thought Rhys Maelwaedd was nuisance enough as a brother! Can we get back to the real world?”
“What makes you think this world isn’t as real as yours?”
“My apologies, then, but it’s not as cozy, is it now?”
Evandar laughed. “I’ll grant you that. We’ll leave it behind, then.”
“How? I can’t fly like you can, and I left my horse behind somewhere.”
“Dar’s got your horse. Dalla and I flew over him and his men on our way here. I’ll call us up a pair of mounts, and we’ll ride back in style.”
“Splendid! And whilst we’re riding, I’d like an explanation, thank you very much, of what all this cursed dweomer means.”
With the long sight of the magical linnet, Dallandra had seen Rhodry strike Raena with the dweomer spear. While normally the raven could outfly her, she was counting on that wound to slow her quarry down. Sure enough, she’d not gone far before she saw the raven flying low to the ground on wings that trembled and beat an unsteady rhythm. Although Raena was heading toward the forest that marked the boundary of Evandar’s Lands, she was tiring too badly to reach it. The trees were still a dark swell on the horizon when the raven screeched once, then settled to the dusty earth.
In human form Raena appeared, staggering as she walked a few steps toward a flat grey boulder, lying half-buried in the earth. In a near faint she flopped down upon it. Dallandra circled overhead, then landed not far from the boulder. She transformed her image into her usual elven body, complete with clothing, an easy job on the astral plane. Raena saw her, started to rise, then sank back onto the stone.
“Lord Havoc!” Raena threw back her head and howled the name. “Lord Havoc! Come back!”
As Dallandra w
alked over, she noticed Raena’s eyes, studying her in a glitter of malice. The raven was perhaps not as spent as she chose to look. Dallandra stopped a safe distance away.
“Lord Havoc’s deserted you,” Dallandra said. “He’s a coward.”
“Indeed? Think you I know that not? He be so, but of use to me and my holy lady all the same.”
Dallandra started to answer, thought better of it. For a long moment they considered each other in silence.
“Here!” Raena said abruptly. “I do know you. You be the elven witch that stands guard over the cursed silver dagger.”
“The very one. It was a foolish thing you did here today. Rhodry could have killed you, you know.”
“That I do see and most clear, like. What does move you to warn me so?”
“I’m not really sure. I feel sorry for you, mayhap.”
“Oh, do you now?” Raena tossed her head like a startled horse. “And why?”
“Because you’ve been duped by lying spirits. They’re not gods, Raena, not Shaetano, not Alshandra either. When they claim to be gods, they—”
“Blaspheme you not my lady’s name!” Raena rose to her feet. “Or I’ll scratch your eyes out.”
“Your ‘lady’ is dead.”
“Not! She liveth still and someday will come to us again, no matter how you ply your foul false magicks.”
“The matter’s not in my hands.”
“At last you speak a true thing. She will return when she chooses, and she alone will choose. The Horsekin did prove themselves cowards, and so she hid herself from them. When they prove worthy, then will she reappear in all her glory. And I did fail her in the holy charge she laid upon me, and so I be no better than they, and no more worthy of her.”
“You don’t understand. She’s gone. Well and truly gone.”
“Not! I say to you, not!” Raena shook her head in fury. “Someday she will lead us to our heritage, that which she did promise us.”
“The Slavers’ country?”
“Just that. And at her return, neither you nor any other mortal shall stand against her. She be not dead but withdrawn from this world.”
She’s gone mad! Dallandra thought to herself. But she’s the more dangerous for it, no doubt.
“Listen to me, please!” Dallandra said aloud. “If you keep using dweomer this way, it’ll cause you great harm. You don’t know how to use the power Shaetano gives you. He’s leading you to your ruin.”
“I’ll not hear this no more, elven witch.”
Abruptly Raena turned and ran, dodging round the boulder and heading toward the forest. Although Dalla took out after her, panic lent her quarry speed. Raena took one last step, then disappeared as suddenly as if she’d run through an invisible door and slammed it behind her.
“Ah ye gods!” Dallandra said. “Well, at least I tried to warn her. On her own head be it!”
She stepped up onto the boulder and transformed herself back to the linnet. With a mournful cry she leapt into the air and flew off, heading for Dun Cengarn and Rhodry.
For three days and on into a fourth Raena stayed missing. With some of the militiamen Verrarc hunted for her in the farmlands surrounding Cerr Cawnen; but no one had seen her, and they found no tracks. He searched all through the city as well; again, he discovered no trace. At night he would lie awake, alone in their bed, and curse her for shaming him so. Although no one said a mean thing to his face, he knew perfectly well that behind his back the gossip was flying like the feathers when a farmer slaughters chickens.
Finally, on the fourth afternoon Verrarc went into the ruins of the temple and tried to invoke Lord Havoc; no one answered or came. He stood in the dark room and wept with both hands over his face, as if he could shove his sobs back into his throat. The sun was setting by the time he left the temple ruins. He stood for a moment at the peak of Citadel and watched the night, gathering storm clouds to cover the stars. If it snowed, and Raena were out somewhere in the countryside—he couldn’t finish the thought. Far below the lake steamed around its rocks. For a moment he considered throwing himself to his death; then he shook the evil thought away and headed downhill to his compound.
When he came in, Korla was laying more tinder on the fire in the hearth. She looked up and made a grunting sound that did for a welcome, then went back to her work. Verrarc hung his cloak up near the fire to dry, then walked into his bedchamber to take off his boots. Raena was lying naked on the bed, sprawled on her back. For a moment he could only stare gape-mouthed. With a little moan she raised her head, then fell back against the pillow.
“Ah ye gods!” Verrarc rushed over and sat down beside her. When he laid a hand along her cheek, he found it cold and a little damp. He could hear her breath wheezing and gurgling in her chest.
“Oh, my love!” He was stammering through tears. “What befell you? Where have you been?”
Raena opened her eyes and tried to speak, then fainted. Yelling for Korla, Verrarc went to the hearth and began laying a fire. The old woman came shuffling in, saw Raena, and screamed.
“Witchcraft!” Korla hissed. “How did she get in here?”
“I know not and I care not,” Verrarc snapped. “Bring me some fire from the other hearth! Then send Harl to town to fetch the herbwoman!”
All that day Gwira fussed over her patient. She made Raena breathe steam from simmering herbwater, made her drink decoctions of some green muck, mixed up still a third preparation to form into a poultice for her chest. Raena coughed and moaned, swore and spat up great lumps of greenish rheum, then lapsed into sleep whenever Gwira allowed her. While the herbwoman worked, Verrarc paced back and forth in the great room by the fire. He was remembering another visit of Gwira’s to this house, when his mother lay dying from her husband’s brutality. Gwira had seemed old as the moon then, too. Korla had taken him out of the house down to the lake to distract him, a little lad then—how old? He could not remember, and it didn’t matter. Korla he remembered as being still vigorous, a stout woman with grey hair and a ready smile.
“Councilman?” Gwira spoke from behind him.
Verrarc spun around, his heart hammering in sudden fear.
“I do think me she’ll live,” Gwira went on, “be I able to keep her chest clear.”
“My thanks to every god!”
“Ah, but no easy hopes, lad! There be a need on us for caution. This be no light chill, cast off with a few sneezes. It will take many a day of physicking to get her well.”
“Do whatever you can, and I’ll reward you twice.”
“Hush, lad! The matter may be out of my hands. I do think you’d best send Harl for Werda again. The evil spirits, they did carry her off, or so I’d think. Werda, she will ken the truth of that.”
Later that evening Verrarc was allowed to see Raena, tucked up in bed with a mound of pillows under her. He pulled up a chair and caught her hand between both of his, kissed her fingers, and held her hand just for the comfort of her living touch. She sighed and turned her head to smile at him.
“What befell you?” Verrarc said. “Where did you go?”
“None of your affair.” Her voice was the barest whisper.
“Well, ye gods, worry’s half-eaten my soul! There be a want on me to know where you went.”
She turned her head away and closed her eyes. Verrarc laid her hand gently down on the blankets, then sat back in his chair and considered her. Now that she was safe, he could realize just how furious he was. Evil spirits! he thought. Not by half! Did she have another man somewhere? He was sick to his guts of her disappearing on him. When she’s well, he told himself, then will I have the truth of this! If she’ll not tell me, then I’ll—Well, and just what would you do? he asked himself. Throw her out? Lose her forever?
He sobbed once, then choked back tears. The shame of the thing, he knew, was eating him far more than his fear of losing her.
Evandar returned to his own true country to find that Winter had won the battle with his artificial spring yet once
again. In his absence the snow had stayed gone, but a freezing wind had brought ice to replace it. He swore aloud in rage and stood on the hill to survey the damage. Every tree glistened in the cold sun, each branch and twig hung sheathed in silver ice. The reeds along the riverbank glittered as sharp as spearpoints. When he walked down the hill, the grass crunched and crackled under his feet. He looked back to see his footsteps, black marks in a silver carpet.
Near the riverbank his people huddled in the tattered pavilion. Men and women alike had wrapped themselves in cloaks and cloths and every bit of stuff that might warm them. When Evandar strode up, Menw rose and ran to meet him.
“The ice, my lord,” Menw said. “It cuts and stings.”
His people moaned and stretched out pale hands. When he’d been making the illusions of bodies they wore, Evandar had modelled them upon the elves, tall and slender with pale skin, though some of the folk had chosen richly dark skins like those that humans wore in Bardek. He’d given them the illusions of clothing, too, long dresses for the women, tunics for the men, but now everyone had wrapped themselves in their heavy cloaks; they clung together against the cold.
“My lord!” they cried out. “Bring back the spring!”
“And if I do, how long will it endure?” Evandar said.
Everyone began talking at once while he listened, aware only of their pain, not of the meaning of the words, with his rage troubling his mind. What could he do? No matter how often he restored the spring, the moment he left, this wretched winter would sneak in behind him and take over again. Yet how could he stay on guard? Rhodry, Dallandra, all his schemes in the physical world—they demanded him as well. He snarled aloud like a wolf. Menw jumped back.
“Have we offended you, my lord?”
“Nah nah nah, and my apologies. I don’t know what to do, that’s all.”
Everyone gasped, staring at him. Never before had they seen him thwarted like this. And what will happen to them once I’m gone? he thought.
Apparently the winter had laid ice all through the Lands, because he suddenly heard distant horns. With Menw right behind him Evandar ran out of the pavilion. The rest of his folk hurried after and stood blinking in the ice-bright sun. Across the glittering meadow another army came riding, waving bits of white cloth to signal peace and surrender.