by Chogan Swan
In seconds, he’d closed the distance and was close enough to see the grey wattles over the pigeon's beak. Just before impact, the pigeon—warned somehow—twisted, attempting to somersault down away, but it was too late.
With a deft flick of his tail and wings, the raven changed course and intercepted, his feet grasping the bird's wings. The pigeon thrashed and turned, a vicious peck bounced off Fletch's breastbone. Before it pecked again, the raven stabbed it through the eye with a quick thrust.
Fletch snatched at the message hanging from the pigeon's leg, snaring it with his foot. It came free when Fletch pulled up, letting the weight of the bird snap into the fine thread. But, as the string snapped, Fletch felt a wrenching in his right shoulder. With a sickening feeling, he spiraled down, out of control. He pulled into a painful shallow glide—just missing a rocky outcropping and ending in a clumsy, beak-banging tangle in a clearing.
Somehow, the landing didn't do him any more damage. Fletch struggled to his feet and straightened his plumage with a shake that made his shoulder twinge. He’d have to be careful with that. Now what? Seven leagues from the coast with a bum wing. If only he'd followed the stupid pigeon to the ground to get the paper. But no, he had to show off when nobody was even watching.
He tried to move his wing again.
Ouch!
He wouldn't be using it for a while. All he could do was to sit tight. Jyrmak would find him somehow. He certainly wasn't going to walk back to the coast.
Fletch looked around at his surroundings; he couldn't see anything from the ground—all around him trees blocked his view.
The clearing was almost bare; it had only a few scraggly bushes and a pile of crumbling boulders on the north side. The raven muttered in frustration, hissing and clicking without opening his bill.
The only thing he could see, aside from the trees, was the fog moving in from the northeast and blue sky to the west. The fog darkened as it rolled closer. A thin black streamer grew out of the top of the clouds. Rising higher, it formed a circle before turning west and making for the coast. It veered with the wind in a thickening column on a path that would bring it straight over him.
He saw now that what had seemed to be part of the fog was indeed a large flock of birds. He wondered how they'd found their way through the mist. They were making good time, even for having the wind with them.
Not many birds flew that fast: swallows? No, no, they were not swallows; too large, too dark, the wing motion was wrong. It was a flock of large, black doves. Somehow, they were coming after him.
Fletch spread his wings to take the air, but a spasm in his shoulder reminded him he was grounded. The raven looked to the flock; bigger now, they would be here soon. Already he picked out individual birds.
Think! Think!
He looked around. What did ground animals do when the hawk flew over? They went underground.
Yech!
Fletch hissed, the idea of going below the dirt like a worm made him feel sick. But then, being torn apart by the sharp bills of the doves was even less appealing.
Fletch hurried to the rock pile. Maybe there was a hole, a burrow or a crack, anything big enough to hide him. The largest boulder had a narrow crack from top to bottom. Without a second thought, Fletch scrambled through the narrow opening, he'd stopped hissing and clicking, now he was praying. He had to get back. His friends were at risk.
He worked into the crack, looking for an opening to the side that might give him more security; they might still get at him from two sides where he was.
He heard a rustling somewhere close by and turned his head to see where it had come from. Was the black flock at the crack already?
Distracted, it came as a surprise when his feet slipped from under him and he slid down a steep ramp of water-polished stone. Fletch stifled a croak and stopped by pressing his good wing on the side wall and pushing his feet out as far as they could go. The effort of bridging the crack was so intense he almost let go when he looked down and saw he was on the lip of a drop.
What he’d taken for a large boulder in the clearing was the top of the large crag he’d just missed in his tumble from the air. It had an overhanging roof on this side. From here, he might glide far enough to find a new hiding place, or he might not pull into a glide. Then he’d smash into the rocks. He pushed himself around to face the drop then slid into the air and spread his wings. It hurt, but he locked his wings and slipped into a shallow glide. He looked around for decent cover. Trees and rushes bordered a brook that turned east about two hundred feet away. If he got around the corner of the stream, he'd slip out of sight.
He banked east following the flow of the water below and looked around for another place to go to cover, but instead his eye lit on something in the water. An old, fire-scorched half-section of a sycamore log rode the stream below like a miniature boat. Fletch turned toward it. If he could land on it without falling in and drowning, he might ride it well away, while the pigeons searched the sky.
Fletch hit the drifting wood and flopped on his breast without capsizing though the piece of sycamore skidded and wobble at the impact. There was enough cushioning in the water to keep his landing from being too painful on his breastbone. The raft spun, making him dizzy, before it settled in a stable position and swept him down the path to the sea.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
“You're lucky this wasn't serious,” Jyrmak said as he let his vision come back from its mystic journey below Fletch's feathers and skin. “You just wrenched it, there may be some swelling and soreness, but it should be fine in a couple of days. What was all that about anyway?” he asked. “I told you to come back to camp and report, not squabble with every pack of ruffians you meet.”
“Squabble?” squawked Fletch. “Me? Squabble?”
“Oh, don't get yourself all in a huff. If I hadn't heard you croaking when you came downstream.... What were you doing? There's a spy in the camp. It's hard enough to find something like that when I have time. Now you..., almost get yourself torn to shreds by a flock of pigeons.”
“The pigeon I intercepted,” said Fletch, “had something.”
“What?”
“Oh, nothing important, maybe it was a love letter or a recipe for seed-cakes.”
“Where did you drop it? We must go back for it,” Jyrmak fretted. “If that message gets through...”
Fletch cackled. It wasn't often he could get a rise out of Jyrmak. “Relax. Who said I dropped it? I'll give it to you in a minute,” Fletch belched. “Be glad to get rid of it, horrid thing, tasted terrible.”
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
Marshall bit his lip and scratched the back of his hand with his stubbled chin. “I can't quite make it all out,” he said, poking at the scrap of paper with a cautious forefinger. “The writing is so tiny in the first place and it's smeared on the edges. It seems to note our location and strength along with details on patrol routes. Down at the bottom it mentions movement of our camp; then it's illegible again. Where has this been?”
Fletch clacked his bill in amusement, rocking on the table.
Jyrmak glared at him.
“Never mind,” Jyrmak said. “The important thing is—it didn't get into the wrong hands.”
Marshall nodded. “I'll leave you to it then.” he said and hurried off shouting orders to his crews.
The raven shook his feathers out and preened his breast. “I don't understand why you’re going to all this trouble. There is only one man in camp who could release messenger pigeons without arousing suspicions.”
“These birds traveled both ways,” muttered Jyrmak. “And I've known Almin for years. I recommended him for his apprenticeship. I'd like to think I knew how to judge character.”
Fletch shook his head, clicking in disapproval. “You haven't spent an hour with him in at least ten years. Men change, Jyrmak. It's not like you to be so fuzzy headed. One of those... patterns doubtless protects the man. What did you call them?”
“A thought-defle
ction pattern? It’s a magic.”
“Right.” Fletch turned to his preening again, making sure his primary feathers weren't unhinged. “Well anyway, don't you think you should at least check it out?”
“I plan to,” said Jyrmak, scratching his beard.
“The thing about those deflection patterns,” said Fletch. “They don't seem to be designed for birds. This is why I’m thinking, it must be a pretty piece of work if a suspicious old bird like you won’t even put the facts together.”
Jyrmak snorted. “Just to get some peace on the matter, I'll do it.” He hitched up his tunic and sat, closing his eyes, concentrating.
Across the camp, Fletch saw Arod's tall figure coming into the clearing. He’d been at the village camp—the area where families and the old and young were quartered—getting the departure organized. The King looked haggard; he'd been weeks without a full night's rest. His thick, silk robe—once magnificent—had been cut short to make movement easier and dyed dark for forest camouflage, but he still moved with spare, athletic grace.
Arod spotted Jyrmak and hurried over. As the King walked between two tents, Fletch heard a strangled scream from the north end of the camp.
“Blast it!” yelled Jyrmak.
The scream came again, high-pitched and agonized. It came from the temporary pigeon loft. Almin Smyth staggered out of his tent, holding his head. He fell to the dirt, twisting in pain and moaning. In a moment, Jyrmak was kneeling beside him prying Almin's hands from his temples to look at his eyes. Dark blood trickled from the corners running across the sclera and onto his face.
In a spasm of agony, he screamed, “Medicine! My medicine!” Then he collapsed, senseless.
“What sickness is this?” whispered Arod.
Jyrmak shook his head. “The world's ill. Even so the dark rewards the ones it snares.”
“Can you help him?”
“I dare not, nor would it do any good—his mind is gone.” Jyrmak reached inside Almin's tunic and lifted out a locket by its chain. A few steps took him to the riverside where he placed it on a flat rock. He picked up another stone and smashed the locket. It flashed red. Tiny bits of blood-colored stone fell from the locket's two halves and an acrid smell filled the air then blew away on the breeze.
“Balaak may have sensed too much of me already.” Jyrmak said. “If he is sure of me, he'll take steps that would come too soon for us. We must move out as soon as possible.”
Marshall came pelting back through the camp, but seeing no immediate dangers he slowed to a walk. “This was our leak?”
Jyrmak nodded, sighing. “So it seems.”
“How is he dead? I would have questioned him.”
“How was he corrupted?” broke in Arod. “You recommended this man yourself; I remember.”
“Almin was never was corrupted, only confused, thinking he was writing letters to a good friend.”
Jyrmak rubbed his eyes. “If I had been closer to him, this needn't have happened.”
“No,” Arod shook his head. “No one was close to him. That's why he was singled out, but he was a good man, and we will bury him with honor.”
Fletch came running and hopping over to them. “There are two of those birds in the far coop,” he said.
Jyrmak rose from his knees and dusted off his leggings. “I'll take a look; there may be something to learn. Almin's birds will need caring for, your majesty. You should find a suitable replacement as soon as possible. Also, from what Fletch saw to the north, our men should have some eye protection available to protect them from these black doves. It may be important.”
“I'm sure the women can make something from reeds,” replied Arod and turned to go. He hesitated a moment and said, “Evil will always find a weak spot to strike at, Jyrmak. If it hadn't been Almin, then someone else.”
“Yes,” Jyrmak said. “I suppose you are right, but it saddens me. There is no one to mourn him but me. He had no one; no one at all.”
“His flock,” said Fletch.
The men looked at the raven, puzzled.
“His flock mourns him,” repeated the raven.
And even to the ears of the two men, the sound from the pigeon coops did seem to have changed to a sound of grieving.
In short order, the camps were packed and moving. The fog rolled in behind them.
Chapter 8 (New Day)
He groped for his sword. Someone had come up behind him in the shadows and hit him in the head with a rock... an enormous rock. Everything was black, and his head throbbed, but he reached for his belt.
“Huh, I can't believe it,” said a far-off voice. “He's moving, still alive.”
“Lift him by his heels,” said a softer voice. “I'll squeeze the water out of him.”
Someone grabbed him, lifting him around the chest. Water ran from his mouth; he coughed and vomited.
Then he dropped, and lights jumped behind his eyelids. When he opened his eyes, everything was whirling, so he shut his eyes and tried opening them again.
A big man in red and blue uniform was wiping his soiled boots on the grass. Several men on horseback were laughing. Two had dismounted and stood near. One of them—blue eyes in a hard face—checked his pupils.
“Get him out of those wet clothes and wrap him in blankets. We'll camp here and continue on tomorrow.”
His head still spun, and he closed his eyes again, trying to slow it. Someone removed his clothes. Then, a soft, warm body and scratchy blankets.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
It was warm, and his head ached. He touched where the ache was the worst and found a lump that spanned the width of three fingers. He opened his eyes. The sun was well up, and he was under a small mountain of blankets.
“Good, ye're awake,” said a voice behind him. “Hope ye're feelin' better cause we’re travelin’ today.”
He turned to see a tall girl with a loose mass of tangled, red-gold curls was buckling an old leather belt over a rough-spun dress.
“Yer clothes are dry,” she said, looking sideways at him as she sat to lash on her boots. “How 'bout getting up so I can pack the blankets?”
He sat and rubbed his head; it throbbed when he moved, but it was bearable.
“Here,” said the girl, handing him a bundle of clothes then sitting back down to finish her shoes. “If y' don't mind me askin', who's Alaina?”
Mind blank, he stared at her, .
Her eyes crinkled, laughing. “Y' called me that last night.”
“I don't know,” he rasped, shaking his head, but regretting it right away. “It seems like I should know, but I can't remember anyone with that name.”
“Well, my name's Keri. Yours?”
He shrugged. “I don't...”
Seth!
Someone far away was calling the name, but he couldn't hear it with his ears.
“Seth?”
“Seth. That's an odd name,” Keri said. “What's it mean?”
“I really couldn't say,” he murmured.
“Odd, not knowing what yer name means. Put yer clothes on, Seth,” Keri said, taking the top blanket from the pile and folding it. “If y' can ride, they'll put y' on a horse. If y' can't, ye'll ride in the wagons. Take my word for it, ye're better off on the horse.”
Even though the sun was up, morning chill was still in the air, and he hurried to pull on his shirt. It was a nice shirt, grey and soft, but thick and tough. The back of it was singed, and it held a whiff of smoke in its fabric. He should have a cloak, a pack and something else, but he couldn't recall where they might have gone.
Seth... he shut his eyes. It seemed right enough. At any rate, it would do for now.
“How did I get here?” he asked.
Keri sat on the pile of blankets and pulled an apple from a pocket. “Y' were in the river. Y've got a lump on the back of yer noggin. I was sure y' were dead. I think I squeezed more'n a gallon of water out of y'.”
“Who pulled me out?”
“That'd be me. Saw y' floatin' a way
s down from the spout.” She jerked her thumb behind her at a dark wall of the cliff where water cascaded from a hole.
“I owe you more than thanks then. You say I called you something... last night?”
“Yea, well, y' were pretty chilled, figured you might get the staggers if y' didn't warm up quick. Don't make too much of it. Nice to have time to sleep for once.” She turned to him and grinned, showing him dark blue eyes and a ghost of freckles across the bridge of her nose. “Sometimes I feed stray dogs too.” She picked up another blanket.
His head still felt strange, like it was stuffed with straw. He looked around, squinting against the glare of the sun at the pennons flapping above the tents. “Ibuchan light cavalry, thirty-second division, hawk platoon,” he muttered.
Keri stared at him. “How did y' know? Not many can tell all that from a standard.”
“It's my job to know… maybe.” he said, almost asking.
“What job?” She lowered her voice. “Spy?”
Seth frowned and shook his head. The fog in his head was still thick. How had he known? It had just slipped out when he wasn't trying to remember. “No, I don't think so. I’m having problems recalling...”
Seth put his head between his hands, trying to push his memory back into place…. Nothing.
“The bump on y'r head,” Keri nodded. “Happened once to a sailor on my street... Out in a scat boat, wind changed while he was fishing, jibed... couldn't remember his own mother.”
“Did he get his memory back?”
Keri offered a wicked grin. “Nope. 'Course, he didn't have much time. He couldn't remember his enemies either, and they took the advantage of it. I'd be careful if I was you. Think you might have enemies?”
Worried, he scratched his ear, suspecting he did. Then he rubbed his temples and concentrated. What clues did he have? Who was Alaina? A sister? Lover? It seemed as though he’d remember something like that. But no, it was all gone.