The Unkindness of Ravens

by Cory Huff

  They didn’t respond, and Cichol wondered if they perhaps didn’t speak the common tongue. His dwarfish was non-existent. Not many dwarves left anymore. He had lived underground or at sea for over 200 years and hadn’t had time to pick it up. He thought one of his men spoke dwarfish. As he was pondering what to do next, he noticed the dwarves were signing to each other. They were attempting to be furtive about it, but they were making hand gestures. Interesting. Not as dumb as they looked. He saw the look in their eyes harden, and he knew what was coming.

  They rushed him, shouting to scare him. If all four of them got to him and got their hands on him at once, he doubted he could escape. However, he was too experienced to let that happen. He quick-stepped to the right and lunged forward, slashing the end of his saber across the neck of a dwarf. Blood gushed, and the dwarf collapsed, clutching its mortal wound. Cichol didn’t watch. Instead, as soon as his saber hit he drove his left-hand dagger out and buried it to the hilt in the eye of the next dwarf in line. He went down like a sack of rocks. Cichol repositioned, his feet perfectly balanced. His weapons dripped blood as the other two circled. He turned, watching them, keeping his weapons between himself and them. More hand signals. They split, one of them circling the opposite direction. They were trying to flank him, but that wouldn’t work. He charged straight ahead, slapping aside the dagger the dwarf thrust at him, scoring a shallow cut on the inside of that arm. Cichol’s saber slashed across the dwarf’s throat, then again across his face. He fell too and gurgled out his final breaths. Cichol whirled on the last dwarf, who ran down a side alley. Cichol clicked and whistled.

  A boot came out of nowhere, connecting with the fleeing dwarf’s knee and bending it sideways with a loud snap as the dwarf cried out in agony. One of Cichol’s men stepped out of a connecting alley and held his saber at the dwarf’s howling face. Cichol nodded, switching back to the guttural language, “Good. Don’t kill him. We need information. Gag him before he attracts more friends.” The pale Thalamhtuatha quickly and efficiently gagged the twisted dwarf and bound him.

  “We need to find out what he knows. Take Sterich and bring this one back to the ships. Find out everything you can.” As Cichol finished issuing orders, Sterich stepped out of another alley along with two more white Thalamhtuatha. His entire patrol had converged here when they heard the sounds of battle. Good. They were well trained and disciplined. Sterich stepped over and took one end of the writhing dwarf’s tied up body. He and his companion began carrying the pitiful creature back to the ships.

  Cichol watched for a moment, then turned and nodded to his two remaining men. “Circle through the alleys again, converge at the palace. The plan doesn’t change from there. We will go into the populated part of Atania, see what’s happening and report back. We will sweep back through this area on the way back to see if anyone else shows up.”

  Things were going well. They would have this sector secured and report back to the Emperor quickly. The initial reports were not entirely correct. It was not abandoned. But the few people here would present no meaningful resistance.

  When they finished off the humans here, he would claim a portion of this abandoned city. He would rebuild one of these buildings and set up an intelligence exchange. He would become even better at his job as spymaster, and the Emperor would reward him richly.

  Back on the boat, in the captain’s quarters, Crom quietly listened as Cichol reported on the city they were preparing to invade. Crom was another of Emperor Gabalifix’s advisors. Although Crom and the Emperor were both minotaurs, he was not as tall or muscular as Gabalifix. At just over six feet tall, Crom was quite short and physically weak compared to his peers, though still stronger than most humans. Crom wore his jewelry of rank openly, ear and nose piercings connected by gold chains with charms dangling. Tattoos covered Crom’s body as well, ranging from his ankles just above his hoof all of the way up his torso to his neck and down his arms. The tattoos showed on his skin underneath his fur. They were marks of power. Crom was a shaman, and he was concerned about the religious practices of humans.

  It didn’t seem possible, thought Crom, for them to be so obtuse. The people didn’t keep more than a perfunctory watch at the wall facing the Thir. They kept no watch at all at the ruins. They genuinely seemed unaware that there was an army at their doorstep. This wouldn’t be a fight. It would be a slaughter if they resisted at all. He watched Emperor Gabalifix take it all in, nodding, even laughing here and there.

  Crom was struck again by how intimidating Gabalifix was, even when he wasn’t ordering an execution, fighting or shouting orders in battle. He was nearly eight feet tall, not counting the curving horns that arose from the side of his head. The shiny, rich brown fur that covered his bovine face had no fat underneath it at all. Every muscle of his face, arms, and torso were taught and rippling as he laughed and gestured. The black eyes hid a devastatingly effective tactical mind. His army had never lost a battle at sea or on land. Gabalifix wore no jewelry, eschewing marks of rank. Few ever made the mistake of thinking anyone else was in charge when Gabalifix entered the room. His aura of power and his assumption of obedience were mantle enough.

  Moreover, if they ever were not, Gabalifix could employ the massive two-handed sword on his back as well as any warrior alive. He was a rare, dangerous mix of intelligence, power, and ruthlessness. Crom was glad to call him a friend. He was sure that the two of them together would conquer this pathetic group of humans, and take over the entire continent. Gabalifix had big visions that included taking control of this city and restoring the seafaring primacy of the minotaurs. Crom hoped that those visions came to fruition. The subjugation of the humans was the priority right now, in any case.

  Crom spoke up, his voice quiet but confident, “Did you see anything mystical?”

  Everyone, Cichol, Gabalifix, and the attendants with their trays of food and pitchers of water, as well as Gabalifix’s other advisors, turned to look at Crom. Crom tended not to speak a lot. He mostly kept to himself, so he knew it was somewhat surprising that he spoke in this meeting at all.

  Cichol responded to Crom’s question, “I’m sorry, mystical?”

  “Mystical. Places of worship. Anyone performing miracles or healings? Anyone floating objects with the power of their mind? Even obvious charlatans?”

  Cichol responded again, “There was a large building that some of the people called a temple. It was still under construction. I didn’t see any sacred groves. These people have a new religion, but it doesn’t appear to be powerful in that way. I saw a handful of warriors that the church had trained, but that force is so small that it shouldn’t pose much of a problem. There are fortified walls around the temple as well, but if they close those doors, they won’t be able to protect the entire city, and we can starve them out.”

  Gabalifix spoke, his rumbling and deep voice sounding doubtful, “We’re not here for a siege Cichol. If they have food stores, that could be problematic.”

  Cichol shrugged, “Again, there’s not enough of them to worry. If we take the rest of the city, there’s nothing they can do but wait us out. They’ll either die of starvation or live inside their temple for a long time with no hope of leaving.”

  Gabalifix’s eye bore down on him, “If this becomes an extended siege, I will put you in charge of taking the temple Cichol. You will lead the attack on the front gates.”

  Crom could see that Cichol didn’t like that idea. He and the Thalamhtuatha were better at scouting, hit and run strikes, and targeted killings, not protracted battles. “Perhaps we should formulate a plan to take the temple first, so it doesn’t become a problem?”

  Gabalifix chuckled. “Yes.”

  The war council watched as Cichol laid out a possible scenario. They added their thoughts and ideas as the meeting extended into the night. They would attack soon, but there was no urgency. They were all sure this would be an easy fight.

  Dubhaine woke up. It was nighttime. It had been nearly two weeks since the fire, and she
had spent that entire time hiding in the woods near a goblin tribe, albeit remaining in hiding. She had found a decaying mansion in Old Atania with beds. Each day she had gone deep into the meditative practice of the Ogham, seeking healing and peace. She fell deeper into the magic of the world than she had ever gone. The Cumhnantach seemed to believe she was dead. She received no visitations from the dark-cloaked figure. She assumed she was free of them, and she was glad.

  Dubhaine had no interest in working for the Cumhnantach. Their orders to murder the woman Sophronia had been evil. The woman didn’t know why the Gaeas was in place. She didn’t know the history of Cyric the Warlord. She was tapping into the same power that ancient humanity had learned to access. The same source the Cumhnantach itself tapped. Who were the Cumhnantach to dictate who could and couldn’t use the Ogham?

  Dubhaine felt heartsick that Mindee had followed those orders. It had resulted in the death of an innocent woman, the short young woman who had tried to stop her from finishing off Liam. Mindee had always been violent and dangerous. She was like an animal, doing whatever it took to survive, including selling her soul to work for the Cumhnantach. She wondered if the fire and the collapse of the building had driven Mindee away for good. Would she be able to front if Mindee returned, and keep Mindee from murdering more people?

  Sometime the previous night, Dubhaine had gone from deep meditation into sleep without noticing. Her dreams had been full of dark shadows, creatures lurking in the dark. She had been walking through Old Atania, and every time a shadow crept into her peripheral vision, she looked, and it vanished. The feeling of being watched and followed had been overpowering. That was what woke her.

  Dubhaine slipped into some fresh clothing she had found here in this abandoned mansion. They were fresh in the sense that they were new to her and not covered in soot or blood. But they were moth-eaten and old. They had been here since the end of the Hartland War was Dubhaine’s best guess. More than 100 years just sitting in a servant’s dresser, forgotten like the rest of Atania’s once-great kingdom.

  As she donned the everyday brown uniform, she saw the insignia. Three red gemstones set over the left breast. The Bloodstone family symbol. So this was the royal mansion. Dubhaine was a little surprised the Sidhe hadn’t destroyed it in revenge for the genocide that Cyric the Warlord had committed. Perhaps they left it standing in remembrance of Darian Bloodstone who had tried so hard to forge an alliance between the mortal realm and fey realm.

  Dubhaine smiled as she stood unsteadily. She needed to eat. She’d been subsisting on gathered berries and mushrooms from the woods while she fell into the Ogham and recovered. Her body was mostly healed but needed energy badly. She smiled because she had left the service of the Cumhnantach, but donned the service uniform of the humans. Not just any uniform either. The dress of the family of their last great leader, Darian Bloodstone.

  Thoughts came into her mind unbidden as if someone were speaking to her, but she only heard the voice with her mind. “So we’ve traded one form of servitude for another?”

  Dubhaine froze. That was Caile’s voice. Caile was speaking to her. She thought back to Caile, cautiously. “Perhaps it is our nature to serve?”

  “I always thought of myself as a leader, not a servant,” Caile said.

  Dubhaine paused. She didn’t know what to say. Her thoughts ran to Mindee and the Cumhnantach.

  “I am not Mindee. Mindee took over so that we could survive. Before that, I had been a leader for as long as I could remember before…well, before the war. I was a renowned dancer and singer Dubhaine. Do you remember that? The Tuatha loved me and followed me everywhere.”

  Dubhaine had fleeting images of crowds of Tuatha breathlessly watching her. There were tears and laughter. Cheers. They were looking at her, but she didn’t remember being there.

  “You weren’t there. I was. Just like you weren’t there when I learned how to fight and how to use the Ogham,” said Caile.

  Dubhaine saw flickering images of her hand holding a sword. Drills and more drills. Fights against goblins, orcs, and humans in silver armor. She could feel Caile’s frustration and sadness.

  Dubhaine set her jaw. They were going to have to learn to coexist, “Well, we’re both here now, and I need to eat. I’m going to go set snares in the woods and catch a rabbit or a squirrel. Maybe steal something from that goblin camp.”

  “Pathetic. You’re pathetic,” said Caile. Dubhaine felt the disgust course through her body. It was a disorienting sensation of tension and shuddering, so she shoved it down.

  “But I’m free,” said Dubhaine.

  Caile disappeared. Dubhaine felt her leave. This was the first time that she had fronted this long. The first time that Caile had ever hidden from her. What was happening?

  Dubhaine made her unsteady way out of the mansion and spent the morning gathering branches and setting snares. Her woodcraft was not as good as Mindee’s, but she remembered enough to lay the traps across rabbit trails clumsily. She avoided being seen by Sand’s troupe, and by the end of the evening, she had gathered enough berries and roots to take back to her empty home. She snacked on the raw food and hoped that her traps worked. She fell asleep again shortly after eating.

  In her dreams, she walked through the ruins in Old Atania, casually strolling and remembering her time growing up here. She had spent weeks full of evenings at the Bard College, listening to the Tuatha and the humans sit together. The building was a sad, crumbled version of its former glory. The building was made of enormous blocks of grey granite with a marble facade, like all of the significant buildings in Ancient Atania. It was four stories high. It contained dozens of bedrooms for the bards in training, as well as classrooms, a fully stocked kitchen to feed those dozens, and a legendary concert hall with vaulted ceilings and perfect acoustics.

  The young bards in training sang and played instruments like mandolins, harps, and drums. The Tuatha sang songs about the Sidhe kingdom. The humans sang songs of war and ambition. Sometimes there had been bards of other Sidhe races as well. The dwarves, goblins, halflings, and even the orcs sent representatives to train here. The young bards of all races laughed and traded clever stories. They memorized each other’s histories. This profound exchange of culture had been one of the crowning achievements of Darian Bloodstone. He had been a warrior and statesman, with the heart of a poet. He had never been allowed the time to develop that heart, so he used his power to make the bard college the center of culture in this mortal realm. However, it had all ended when Cyric betrayed Darian and seized power, and that end was nowhere more evident than the collapsed roof and broken windows of the Bard College.

  Dubhaine was profoundly sad that these things were forgotten. She was perhaps one of the only people alive who knew the history of why the Sidhe destroyed Atania, and how great it had been before the Hartland War. For the Tuatha to survive they, with the help of the Winter Queen and the Unseelie Court, had sacked this place and wrapped all of the surviving humans in a veil of forgetfulness - the Gaeas.

  Her dream self stood there, lost in reverie in front of the now crumbled Bard College. A shadow in her peripheral vision caught her eye again, and she turned to look. This time she was startled to see a pale Thalamhtuatha walking through the ruins. The pale-skinned creature wasn’t even trying to stay hidden, and soon Dubhaine understood why. There was a large, mixed-race troop of warriors behind him. It had been a very long time since she had seen a minotaur, but now she was staring at a full battle-ready phalanx of the fearsome shock troops. They had a compliment of other fey creatures with them. The organized and disciplined orcs numbered twenty, in an organized formation of five by four. She looked, knowing she would see them, and found the usual troop of goblins bringing up the rear. They were pulling wagons and carrying gear. Gabalix’s host was a fully battle-ready army.

  One of the Minotaurs looked straight at her, making eye contact. He was tall, even for a Minotaur, and imposing. His rippling muscles were almost secondary to the burni
ng intensity in his eyes. This minotaur was an intelligent, dangerous being used to command. His deep, sonorous voice terrified her when he said, “Take her.”

  Dubhaine woke up shivering. She had never fought against Minotaurs. Who was this commander? Why had this dream happened? She sat up, realizing that the morning rays were streaming through the dirty windows. She had fallen asleep in her servant clothes but was lying under the covers of the great four-poster feather bed in the master bedroom. She wondered if King Darian had slept here.

  “That dream was a message. Something is happening with the Gaeas. The Winter Queen is using The Unseelie Court to make a move. We failed to protect them.” Caile. Again. Dubhaine didn’t answer. She didn’t want to know about the Gaeas. It was supposed to suppress the Ogham power in humans. There were some things about her half-human heritage that she wasn’t ready to confront, and the Gaeas was entirely too close to making her think about those things.

  Dubhaine rolled out of bed and strolled outside. She ignored Caile’s mutterings about the power of dreams and visions. She shut it out, and by the time she got outside, Caile’s voice went away. She would check her traps. Dubhaine was lucky enough to catch a rabbit. She snatched it and snapped its neck before it could make any noise. She made the rounds to the rest of her traps and found a single squirrel as well. Not bad. Old Atania was verdant and full of life. She silently thanked the spirits for that.

  She took the dead animals back to her mansion and roasted them in the fancy, massive brick fireplace. The small fire she set looked pathetic inside a fireplace that was practically tall enough for her stand inside, but it did the job. Less than an hour later, she was burning her fingers on roasted meat. She could feel her strength coming back to her. After eating, she meditated again.