The Crow

by Alison Croggon

  Now they needed to make a hide, so they could watch unob­served. Hem found a thicket on a small hillock that he thought was perfect for their needs, but Zelika said it was too close to the road. They had a brief but furious argument, conducted entirely in whispers, before they settled on another thicket without such a good view of the camp, but a bit farther back toward the trees.

  They spent a bit of time arranging their hide – fussily plac­ing water bags where they were most convenient and pushing back bramble branches – before they had something to eat. Hem tiredly cast a strong glimveil, the magery draining the remains of his strength. He could feel the tension thrilling through Zelika: now that they had reached their goal, her body was pulsing with excitement. Hem felt no excitement at all, only a dull dread that seeped through his exhaustion. He didn't argue when Zelika said she would keep first watch, and simply lay down to sleep with Ire in his usual place at his neck.

  When Zelika woke him the sun had just risen, flooding the hills with a bleak, pale light. Hem blinked, feeling that it had been days since he had walked openly in daylight. Ire gave a sleepy peep and flew up into a tree above their heads. Hem pushed himself on his elbows to the front of the hide and peered through the narrow opening. Now he could see the camp properly, he was shocked by its size; it was much bigger than he had imagined. Long huts stood in rows inside what seemed to be a roughly built stockade with a high spiked fence. Dogsoldiers stood guard on high platforms above the fences. Inside, he could see groups of figures forming complicated patterns; he thought they were probably practicing battle maneuvers. Faint shouts floated toward them on the still air.

  "Training," whispered Zelika. "They've been marching since before dawn."

  "You can't really see from here," said Hem.

  "We can see well enough," Zelika answered tartly. "Remember what Hared said about heroes. It's good that it's not raining; the light's very clear. I'm tired; wake me up if any­thing happens."

  She crawled back into their hide and Hem stayed where he was, watching the camp, thinking that he would feel much safer if it were raining. Despite his glimveil, the clear light made him feel very exposed. He spent his time trying to count how many people might be in the camp, and mentally noting every­thing he saw, storing it in his memory. It was hard to tell if the figures he saw were children; he could tell dogsoldiers from humans at this distance, but not much else. The games that Hared had forced them to play in Nal-Ak-Burat did not seem so pointless now; he knew he would remember everything accu­rately.

  At midmorning he saw the gates open, and a file of people left the camp led by a lone rider. To Hem's alarm they began to march up the hills, toward their hiding place. He watched them for a time, and then noiselessly crept back into the brambles to wake Zelika.

  By the time she wriggled out to their watch point, the line had disappeared behind a low hill to their left. Hem silently ordered Ire, who, despite all warnings, had been squabbling with some local meenahs, to be quiet and to hide.

  When the file reappeared from behind the hill, they were much closer. Now Hem could see them more clearly. They were definitely children, perhaps a hundred of them, all of them piti­fully thin. Their hair was cropped short, close to their heads, and it was hard to tell their sex. They were mostly, Hem guessed by their skin color, from the eastern parts of the Suderain; none had the black skin of Turbanskians. They wore an assortment of armor, from dusty ceramic plate to oddments of hardened leather and chain jammed over ragged tunics and trousers. A couple of them seemed tiny, and were probably around ten years old. Some were as tall as Hem, but none looked older than about fifteen. They were led by a cloaked fig­ure on horseback, which Hem could tell, from a chill that made his skin creep even at this distance, was a Hull.

  Despite their motley appearance, the children marched in an eerie lockstep, which made the hair rise on the back of Hem's neck. It was unnaturally precise. There was none of the usual fooling of the young; they walked with a wholly focused deliberation. Hem could feel Zelika trembling beside him, although he couldn't tell whether it was with fear or excitement.

  The group halted on a barked command only a few hundred spans from Hem and Zelika's hide. The children rapidly formed groups of about half a dozen each and then headed in different directions into the forest. Hem held his breath as one group passed within a dozen paces of them. This close he could see their faces, looking from side to side, as they marched. Although he was very afraid of being sighted, this frightened Hem more than anything else. They had the soft, unformed fea­tures of children, but their faces were expressionless masks, their eyes glazed and somehow implacable. As they neared them, bile seared Hem's throat, and his whole body throbbed with sickness.

  The group passed them and disappeared into the wooded hills, where Hem and Zelika could hear the sound of their marching retreat into the trees. Ire told Hem he was going to follow them; and when, with a pang of anxiety, Hem agreed it was a good idea, he flapped away through the trees. As Hem felt the touch of Ire's mind dwindle into the distance, he sud­denly felt achingly lonely.

  He listened to the squawking of disturbed birdlife as the bands of children pushed into the hills and then, not long after the sound of footsteps had sunk beneath the rustle of the leaves, he heard what sounded like an affray – the faint clash of weapons and a hoarse scream. No doubt the children's sword skills were being tested against the nameless creatures of the Glandugir Hills.

  Hem shuddered and drew a deep, trembling breath. He turned to Zelika, not yet daring to speak, not sure if he had the words to say what he felt. Zelika's eyes were very bright, and her face was full of horror.

  "What have they done to them?" she whispered. "What have they done?"

  Hem shrugged. He didn't know.

  "Medhyl," he whispered. "I think we need some."

  He wriggled back into the hide and returned with his flask of the precious liquor. It was more than half empty, but he took a long gulp before handing it to Zelika. It made him feel a little better, but not much.

  Neither of them slept after that; they couldn't. They lay on their stomachs peering through from their hiding place, their eyes gritty with tiredness. The sun slowly climbed into the sky and hid behind some thick clouds, and it began to drizzle. They gloomily watched the camp, where dozens of children were performing drills in a large open yard in the center. Hem sent his hearing into the hills, trying to gauge what the bands of children there were doing and whether they were coming back, but something baffled his senses, as if a web of thick mist was woven between the trees. He hoped that Ire had not run into trouble; he dared not try to summon him. At least, he thought, their cover seemed effective; no one had made so much as a glance toward their hiding place.

  At midday Hem crawled back into the midst of the thicket and dozed restlessly, sliding into fragmentary dreams in which the winged creature snapped out of nowhere and woke him with an unpleasant jolt. He sipped some more medhyl, and crawled forward again, lying next to Zelika. He gazed out over the rocky slopes before him, his eyes watering, thinking that he never wanted to see this particular landscape again in his life. All they had to do was to wait until nightfall and then leave the way they had come, making for their tryst with Hared.

  And after that, thought Hem, we should just meet Saliman and Soron and go to Annar and find Maerad; even if it's at war, it can't be worse than this place here. He pushed down the fear that Maerad might be dead, or that Saliman might not return from his own quest.

  Toward dusk the bands of children began to emerge from the Glandugir Hills. To Hem's relief they gathered some dis­tance away from the hide. They moved with the same discipline that had so unnerved him earlier, but even from this distance he could see that some of them were wounded, and some bands seemed smaller than before. Many carried the corpses of deer or pigs slung between two of them from pikes or spears, and Hem realized that these were hunting parties, sent out to catch food for the camp.

  One very small boy was carri
ed by two others, his body limp. The smaller unit reached the larger group and laid the injured one on the ground. Hem saw the Hull bend over him, as if examining his wounds; there was the brief flash of a sword in the dying sunlight, and then the other children took the small body away from the group and flung it into some nearby bushes.

  "They killed that boy," breathed Zelika in disbelief. "They just killed him. Just like that!"

  "He must... he must have been too hurt to heal..." said Hem wretchedly.

  At that moment, Ire called gently into Hem's mind. He had landed silently in the tree above their hide, and Hem had had no idea he was so close; normally he would have called as soon as he came within range. This bespoke an unusual caution.

  Are you all right? asked Hem, relief flooding his body.

  Yes, said the crow shortly. But I'm not going back there. Never again. Be quiet. There are more coming.

  They heard nearing footsteps and the crackling of branches and grass and then, only a few paces away, four children came into view. Their faces were scratched and bloody, and the arm of one – a boy, Hem thought, of about eleven – hung uselessly by his side.

  Zelika gasped and then, before Hem could do anything sen­sible, she sprang out of their hiding place into the open. He grabbed her as she lunged out but her cloak ripped out of the hand. Hem reeled, feeling his glimveil shudder to the point of breaking, and frantically whispered a word to steady it as he lifted himself into a crouch, as if to follow Zelika. But something stopped him. Instead, frozen with shock, he watched as Zelika pounced into the small clearing to the side of the four children, her shortsword drawn.

  The children turned with an eerie simultaneity, instantly hefting their weapons. From their point of view, it would have seemed that she burst out of the air itself; they would not have been able to sense her until she broke through the limits of the glimveil. But none of them seemed to register any surprise; their faces were calm and unruffled.

  She's gone braintwisted, Ire hissed into his mind. Get her back. Those humans are not right; they will rip her to bits.

  How can I get her back now? said Hem. He cursed out loud, feeling an icy sweat of fear break out all over him.

  "Nisrah!" Zelika cried. She reached the wounded boy and shook him violently, but instead of wincing he just stared at her blankly. "Nisrah, it's me, Zelika!"

  The other children surrounded her, brandishing their weapons, but for the moment did not attack her. Zelika grabbed the boy to her breast and kept the others at bay with her sword. She muttered into the boy's ear, eyeing the others warily and draw­ing back.

  "Come with me, Nis. Now. We'll get away from here."

  "That's not my name. I don't know who you are." The boy's voice was a hoarse monotone, but something like recognition flickered in the depths of his eyes.

  "Your name is Nisrah, and you're my brother, and you're witched. Stop it, stop it now. And you – " Zelika thrust her sword toward the other children, "you're all witched too. Stop there. Now."

  Zelika was speaking with such furious intensity that the other children halted and, for the space of a heartbeat, their faces blurred with a sudden wash of feeling – of an unen­durable pain. For a wild moment, Hem, watching in horror from his hiding place, thought that Zelika might actually break through the horrible sorcery that held them: she was afire with a kind of madness that was as compelling as any magery.

  She pulled Nisrah back another step. He stumbled and cried out as she wrenched his wounded arm, and the moment passed. The feeling that Zelika had roused within the children focused into expressions of murderous fury. Roughly Nisrah tore himself from Zelika's grasp, and she nearly fell over. Nisrah had no weapon; his sword arm was wounded. He punched Zelika in the face with his unhurt fist, and she buckled; not so much from its force, Hem thought, as it wasn't very hard, but from the fact of it. The boy stepped away from her, and when Zelika started toward him, to grab him again, he raised his fist.

  "Nisrah!" The cry held such despairing anguish that Hem closed his eyes; he couldn't bear it. "No!"

  "She's a spy," hissed a girl. Her filthy hair stood up in spikes, and she held a spear that looked too heavy for her to carry, although she seemed to heft it without effort.

  With a menacing slowness, the children began to circle Zelika. Now their faces were expressionless again, and their movements spoke only of merciless intent. They all had long weapons – a sword, a pike, a spear – double Zelika's reach with a shortsword. She backed away toward a tree, breathing hard.

  "You were always an idiot, Nisrah," she said, her voice hard. "Do what I tell you. Get behind me. We'll get away."

  "You're not a snout." Nisrah spat on the ground.

  Zelika spoke without looking at him, her eyes fixed on the other children. "Don't pretend you don't remember me," she said. "Of course you do."

  She did not seem at all afraid: when the tallest boy lunged forward with a pike she leaped past his thrust with a deceptive, dangerous grace and stabbed him in the throat. He fell, gurgling blood, and she whipped around and parried a blow from the other boy, while the girl drew back, eyeing her warily. Nisrah did nothing, neither attacking her nor hindering the others. He seemed dazed.

  "Get behind me, Nisrah. Now."

  Nisrah made a step toward Zelika and halted, suddenly looking uncertain. Zelika whipped the long sword out of the girl's hand and she flung up her hands, wringing them with pain, and threw herself at Zelika, dodging her sword. Zelika twisted so fast that Hem hardly saw the movement, and the girl landed hard on the ground, winded.

  With increasing panic, Hem heard people running toward them, although no one had shouted for help and there had, so far, been very little noise. He gripped his sword until his knuckles whitened, remembering Hared's admonition: No hero­ics. Heroes tend not to return. What should he do now? To leap out and fight alongside Zelika would be sheer suicide; and yet he could not stay where he was and simply watch her die. For several agonizing moments he wavered, unable to decide what to do; and then he took a deep breath and started to creep out of the hide.

  Just before he broke cover, Ire screeched and flew into his face, all claws and beak, scratching and swearing, tearing at his cheeks. Hem fell over backward, his sword tangling itself in the brambles overhead.

  You can't help her now, the bird hissed. It's too late. She's wildered, gone.

  Hem scrambled forward, cursing and sobbing, but Ire reared in front of him, his feathers bristling around his neck, his wings raised, his yellow eyes blazing. You can't help her, he said again.

  Others had reached the skirmish. Hem couldn't see what was happening; he could hear cries and grunts and screams and the horrible noise of weapons breaking bone. Then his stomach twisted, and he knew the Hull was very close. He dou­bled over in mingled terror and sickness. He could feel, like a chill blade in his mind, the direction of the Hull's gaze; it was hunting through the undergrowth, it was studying the bramble patch and its inadequate cover; any moment it would break his glimveil, it would find him, and haul him out...

  Ire flapped upward and then gave a hoarse shriek and burst out of the top of the thicket. The eye of the Hull faltered, dis­tracted by the crow's noise, and passed over Hem's hiding place. Hem cringed into the ground, too afraid to move. Zelika was screaming imprecations at the Hull: she was now, thought Hem, completely berserk. Her curses were cut off with a stun­ning abruptness, midword, and Hem thought that she must have been killed. Recklessly he sent out his senses and touched for a moment her warm, breathing presence: she was not dead, nor even wounded. She must have been gagged by a spell.

  "Bind her," the Hull said. Its voice seemed to come from a far and terrible distance, although it stood only a few paces from Hem. "She may be useful. Leave the others."

  Hem lay as if he were paralyzed, his whole body shudder­ing, his mouth gritty with dirt and leaves. A trickle of blood slowly ran down his face where Ire had pecked him. He heard the iron scrape of swords being pushed back into scabbards, the
clink of weapons lifted from the ground, a grunt as someone picked up something heavy, the uniform tramp of feet vanish­ing into the dusk.

  He couldn't open his eyes; he couldn't even cry.

  Zelika was gone.

  DEN RAVEN

  * * *

  The river is dark and deep and wide

  The shore is far away

  And I must swim this heavy tide

  Every night and every day

  The lights are warm that beckon me

  The shore is far away

  And I know where I'd rather be

  Every night and every day

  The chains are heavy on my feet

  The shore is far away

  They give me dust and ash to eat

  Every night and every day

  One day I'll see my dead ones there

  The shore is far away

  And then I'll rest from work and care

  Every night and every day

  Den Raven slave song, Library of Turbansk

  XVIII

  DISGUISE

  A red half-moon, rising through pestilential vapors. Blurred stars bleeding into a mottled sky. Earth a purple stain.

  He is lying on the ground, and its sickness reaches into his body and makes him retch in his sleep. He can feel its wounds as if they are snagged in his own body The earth cries to him, a slow vibration of pain, cut, maimed, poisoned, gashed, marred.

  Far below him, reaching up into his being, he feels a slow fire, a writhing of bright, liquid rock. He is possessed by a voice with no mouth, a language with no words, a raging music that twists him, distorts his bones, desiccates his lips, erases his eyes, warps his flesh to wisps of ash.

  There is no healing here.

  He opens his eyes. He watches the stars fade into the slowly lightening sky. His bones are scattered over the earth's brittle surface, a skein of dust with no purpose. The wind rises to a scream, boiling clouds swallow the horizons, lightnings pun­ish his sight. The earth folds and climbs up to meet the sky: but no, it is a wave, here, leagues from the sea, a single wave, crested with white foam. It is completely silent. More than any­thing, it is silent, and its silence terrifies him. He watches as the impossible wave surges inexorably toward him, swallowing the earth in its path. It will devour everything, even the clouds. Mercy is a human vice; the wave knows nothing of it. Soon everything will be silent.