The Crow

by Alison Croggon

He flickered their tenuous connection shut. The darkness suddenly seemed much darker.

  He had never felt so alone in his life.

  When he vomited up his dohl again the next morning, Hem began to suspect that the sorcery might be in the food. As with all southern cooking, it was spiced; but the spices tasted cruder and were administered with a heavier hand than Hem had been used to. He wondered where the food was stored, and whether he could bypass the vigilances and guards that would undoubt­edly protect it. A casual question to Reaver revealed there were gardens behind the huts, dug by the snouts themselves, where much of their food was grown.

  "Don't think you can thieve any, Slasher, boy, even when you're hoeing the weeds," said Reaver, looking at him narrowly. For some reason, Reaver seemed to like him, and had appointed himself his guide and protector in the block. "There's been others thought they could, and they got the spike."

  "The spike?"

  "It's pretty funny," said Reaver. "They take the kid and tie him up and skewer him on a sharpened stick in the middle of the yard. But only partway, see; then they stake him in the middle of the yard. He slides down very slowly, you see. You can hear the yelling a league off; it goes on for hours. It's been a while since we had one of those," he added, with macabre regret. "It's been a bit bloody boring lately."

  Hem sniggered, as if he were pushing down a sudden fear­fulness; inside he was appalled, as much by Reaver's reaction as by the brutal punishment. But he was careful not to let any of his real responses show. He was getting good at this double life, he thought sardonically. Hem was inside Bared, who was inside Slasher. How well hidden could he be?

  If the food was ensorcelled, he could not eat it. And if he could not eat it, he would have to steal food from somewhere else, or face starving to death. Spike or no spike.

  He would have to go raiding.

  That day Hem began training with the snouts. After weeks of working with Zelika and Hared he was fit and skilled, but he took care to smother his abilities with a certain clumsiness. His hunger was beginning to bite and he did not have to pretend his tiredness.

  All the blocks trained separately, under different command­ers, some of whom were Hulls. The dogsoldiers remained at a distance; it seemed they were there simply to guard the com­pound. The Blood Block toiled for punishing hours under a slate-gray sky, marching up and down the huge, bare yard in the center of the camp, learning how to move in formation to shouted orders. After a break at midday, their training shifted to combat skills: they were divided into groups of ten, and then six, and then into pairs. As all of them possessed different weapons, this was challenging; moreover, the snouts took their training very seriously and, unlike the swordcraft lessons in Turbansk, if Hem didn't pay attention, there was a real chance that he might get hurt.

  When they were fighting in pairs, he found himself eye to eye with a girl of about twelve. She had the almost painful thin­ness of all the snouts in Sjug'hakar Im, but this had no effect on her strength or endurance; she carried a spiked mace that seemed far too big for her, but she wielded it without difficulty.

  Hem was taken aback by the hail of blows she directed at him and, despite himself, shouted at her as she came for him, her face empty of anything except enmity.

  "Are you trying to kill me, you fishbrain?" he hissed, as he backed away, trying to parry her blows. He feared his short­sword might shatter, and a good blow from the mace might well break his arm.

  The girl didn't answer and Hem was forced to fight her to defend himself. She swung a massive blow at him and he dodged the weapon and came in under her guard, tripping her with his foot and knocking the mace from her hand. She sprawled forward on the ground, scrambling to get up, and Hem put his foot on her neck and leaned down to her ear.

  "Don't bloody try that again," he whispered hoarsely.

  The girl rolled her eyes at him, twisting to get away. Hem pressed harder, so her face was pushed painfully against the hard earth. He was shaking with fury.

  "I'll make you eat dirt," he said. "You stupid muckhead. You could have killed me."

  "Let her up." The voice came cold over his shoulder. Hem shuddered, realizing that he had just made a dreadful mistake. Slowly, thinking fast while his face was turned to the ground, he took his foot from the girl's neck, and turned around.

  "She could have killed me!" he shouted, his voice high with outrage.

  "Then," said the Hull, staring at him intently, "you would not deserve your place in the Blood Block. Slitter was quite cor­rect. Only death blows are not permitted."

  Hem swallowed. He could not read the Hull's expression; its voice was soft, with an edge of menace. "You are new here, yes? Your name?"

  "Slasher, your – your – " Hem realized he had no idea how to address the Hull.

  "Captain will do," said the Hull, with a flicker of cold amuse­ment. "Slasher. Ah yes, the simpleton." It examined Hem closely, and his guts clenched with panic at the Hull's ironic tone. The last thing he needed to do was draw attention to himself.

  The Hull's attention snapped to the girl, who was still on the ground. It gave her a kick and she groaned and stood up, rubbing her neck and directing glances of pure hatred at Hem.

  "Continue," said the Hull, and strolled over to another pair of fighters.

  It was a hard afternoon; Hem spent his time fending off Slitter's attempts to avenge her humiliation. He let her knock him down when the blow coming his way was not life­threatening, but rolled away when she tried to stamp on him. By twilight he was exhausted and famished.

  Nobody noticed whether or not he ate his dinner; the snouts ate like ravening animals, shoveling as much food into their mouths as they could. Hem curled his nose at the thin stew in his clay bowl; the smell was disgusting. He pretended to spoon it into his mouth with enthusiasm, spilling much of it. While he did so he glanced around the huge mess hall, trying to see whether Zelika was present. It was impossible; there were too many people, and with their shorn hair and identical clothing, they all looked the same.

  That night he made a heavy shield and conjured a rough semblance of himself to lie in his pallet breathing softly, to cover his absence. Then he cloaked himself with shadowmazes and glimveils and stole out of the hut, dreading lest the vigilance should sense his concealments. It was not a very sophisticated vigilance; it was designed merely to detect children who sneaked out of the huts, no doubt on errands similar to his own. But a strong magery could still trigger its alarm, and he was very cautious.

  The camp was deserted, lit by a dull red glare. A gibbous moon was heaving itself above the horizon, barred by dark clouds. He could hear the cries of unfamiliar night birds and animals in the distance, and wondered briefly how Ire was surviving. On the platforms above the high fence he could see the dark outlines of dogsoldiers, clanking faintly as they moved. Swiftly he made his way to the gardens, alert for any sign of Hulls, giving the Prime Hut a very wide berth. He easily skirted the vigilances that bordered the gardens, and soon found himself among orderly rows of aubergine and pumpkin vines, turnips and sweet potatoes, and rows and rows of beans. The domestic smell of cultivated greenery was incongruous; there was nothing wrong with these plants, even though they grew in wounded soil, and the breath of them was like a balm.

  Carefully he pulled a turnip from the ground, brushed off the earth, and ate it. It was hard and its fibers caught in his teeth, but he was so hungry it tasted delicious. Then he moved from plant to plant, taking a bean here, an aubergine there, putting the rinds in his pocket. It was not the best of meals, but it filled his belly. He gathered a few extra supplies for later, plucking vegetables where his thieving would be least noticed. When he had finished, he crept out of the garden and stood, undecided, at the edge of the training ground in the shadow of one of the huts.

  After his meal, he felt revived. His semblance would last another hour or so; he ought to use the time to explore the camp. He moved warily from hut to hut, listening, unsure what he was looking for. It was eeril
y quiet, dark, and deserted; but a feeling of watchfulness made him nervous, and he flitted through shadows, frightened that at any moment he might be detected by some vigilance he had not sensed.

  He had made his way to the opposite side of the compound, far from the Blood Block, when a sudden scream made him jump. It sounded like someone in an extremity of terror – desolate and hopeless. There was a pregnant silence, and then followed a chaotic babble of complaints and sobbing and wails. It barely sounded human, but it was torn from human throats.

  When his heart stopped pounding, he sharpened his hearing and traced the noise to a hut that stood by itself behind a fence. It was guarded by a strong vigilance, and he dared not go too near. He listened as the terrible noise died down and then, heavy with a sudden deep depression, went back to Blood Block Two. He slipped noiselessly through the door and into his own pallet. He was now so tired all his limbs trembled. He emptied his pockets of the stolen vegetables, hiding them under his pallet with a glimveil, and dropped asleep almost at once.

  Hem blinked awake to find the pale sunlight of an early summer morning shining straight into his eyes. He squirmed sleepily aside from it for a moment, jamming his eyelids shut. Sunlight? he thought to himself, jolting suddenly awake, and sat bolt upright.

  He was sitting on soft grass underneath an enormous tree that stretched some hundred spans above his head, spreading a dappled shade around him. In front of him, in the east, the sun was just overtopping some densely forested hills, from which lazy mists curled upward and vanished. The sky above him was a clear, pale blue, and the air was fresh and cold, as if it had never been breathed before.

  I must be dreaming, Hem thought to himself. But this seemed more real than any dream he had ever had. He stood up, banging his arms against his sides for warmth, and on an impulse touched the tree's broad bole, wondering what kind the tree was: he didn't recognize it. Its trunk was a papery white, and its leaves were small and dark, densely gathered on graceful branches. He felt a sudden thrill as he touched the bark: the tree seemed deeply alive underneath his fingers, and for a dizzying moment he thought he almost heard the music the tree man had breathed into his ear in the city of Nal-Ak­Burat.

  Wondering, Hem walked around the tree's enormous girth and looked west. Plains swept before him, as far as he could see, alive with delicate pink-and-yellow grasses that trembled in the slight breezes. Far in the distance he could see what seemed to be huge herds of animals moving slowly, like dark clouds, across the plains.

  Hem shook his head. He had fallen asleep in a dark hut, noisome with the fusty smells of thirty sleeping bodies; it was impossible that he could be in a place like this. He pinched him­self so hard he bruised the skin of his arm, but nothing changed. He circled the tree again, and then sat down and breathed deeply, his body light with a feeling of relief.

  After a while, he realized what the relief was. For the first time in days, he did not feel nauseous. His earth sense reached deep into the ground with a profound, contented joy.

  Where am I? he asked himself. He didn't know that he had spo­ken aloud, but he must have, because someone answered him.

  It is not where, a voice said, but when.

  Hem jumped, his skin tightening with shock, and he looked wildly around. He couldn't see who spoke.

  Do not fear, said the voice. Here is no harm. Breathe the good air.

  Hem stared at the tree. Perhaps the voice came from there: it had felt so alive. Are you speaking to me? he asked, feeling foolish.

  There was a pause, and then, as he watched, the air before him twitched, as if it were a curtain, and a naked man was suddenly standing in front of him. If standing was the right word, thought Hem; he floated above the ground, in an orb that seemed to ripple with waves of shimmering light. His hair was long and dark, lapping down his back, and he was pale-skinned; but what caught Hem's attention were his eyes, golden and cleft with a vertical pupil. An Elidhu...

  We have met before, Songboy, said the Elidhu. Or was it after? It is sometimes hard to tell.

  Hem nodded, his mouth suddenly dry. He knew that this was the same Elidhu he had seen in Nal-Ak-Burat, although he bore no resemblance to the half-tree, half-man he had seen then. He was not as frightening in this semblance, but Hem's heart hammered in his chest; here in the open air he seemed more wild, more untamed, more beautiful.

  Does my home please you? asked the Elidhu. This is myself.

  Hem nodded fervently, not quite understanding and, in any case, finding himself unable to speak. The Elidhu laughed, then he reached forward and touched Hem's forehead. His hand was dry and cool. Hem shivered, not with fear, but with a deep delight, and a pleasant warmth spread through his body.

  Ah, you are weary, said the Elidhu. So weary. Rest, my child.

  As he spoke, the Elidhu was becoming less substantial, as if he were made of mist; Hem could see through him to the hills beyond. He watched as the Elidhu slowly faded until he had vanished altogether. His voice lingered in the air after him. Rest in my home...

  Home, Hem thought; ah, I know what he means. Here was no lintel, no door, no roof, and yet he was suffused with a sweet sense of homeliness, of belonging in some indefinable way to his surroundings. All at once he felt no fear or confusion, just a voluptuous sleepiness. He yawned, lay down on the soft grass in the shade of the tree, and fell fast asleep.

  When he woke again, back in the hut with the snouts, he felt completely refreshed, as if he had slept for hours and hours. He lay for a time on his pallet, thinking about his strange dream. Could it have been real, after all? Given that he had kept him­self awake in order to raid the garden, he could not have had more than a couple of hours of sleep; but he didn't feel tired. He lifted his arms above his head, stretching, and saw with a tiny shock a green bruise on his forearm, where he had tried to pinch himself awake during the night.

  Once Hem had solved the pressing problem of food, he began to settle into the camp's routine. It was very simple: training all day, meals morning and night, a lighter meal at noon. The snouts were certainly not starved, which made him wonder at their emaciated appearances. To his relief, the counting didn't occur every night: it was a tedious ritual that seemed to bore even the Hulls and other commanders.

  Saliman had told Hem about the rigid caste distinctions in Den Raven, and Hem studied the Hulls cautiously, trying to guess where they fitted in the rankings. Unlike the other snouts, he found it difficult to tell the Hulls apart: they all used glimmerspells, glamouring themselves as noble men and women, but the disguises didn't fool Hem's eyes. Those at the camp were not on the whole, Hem reckoned, especially important. However, there was one Hull, universally referred to as "the Spider," that really frightened him; Hem took care to evade the Spider's notice, as he could feel the aura of its sor­cery even from the other end of the training ground. He was glad that he had not met the Spider on his first night; he thought he would almost certainly have been discovered. The other Hulls – he counted six – had less native power than Hem did, although they used it prodigally. After his short training in the ethics of the Balance, Hem was shocked when he saw one Hull weathercalling, tearing a rent in the clouds to let sunshine fall on the vegetable garden, and then, just as casually, causing a local rainstorm. No Bard would use their magery so wantonly.

  Hem found that life as a snout was, more than anything, intensely boring. No one except him seemed to be bored, but Hem sometimes thought he would suffocate with it. Disobedience scarcely existed: when snouts were given orders they obeyed immediately, without question. At night they went to sleep early and did not stir. There were none of the midnight cruelties that Hem had occasionally witnessed during his time in the orphanage: no sly, vengeful beatings or murders of weaker children. He found it uncanny.

  Occasionally Hem saw children collapse under the training. They were taken away, and at first he thought that they would be treated for exhaustion. When he questioned Reaver about it, however, he was told that if it happened more than thr
ee times, they were not seen again.

  "Only the best stay at Sjug'hakar Im," Reaver said, with a pride that made Hem's stomach curdle. "All the weaklings are vanished."

  "Where do they go?" asked Hem. Reaver gave him a swift, contemptuous glance, and Hem realized that he had broken a code. He covered it up with an imbecilic giggle. In Sjug'hakar Im, you did not ask any questions if a snout suddenly disap­peared, just as you never asked any questions about anyone's past life.

  Retribution for transgressions, real or imagined, was severe. Hem had not been there long before he began to suspect that punishment was doled out randomly, with no thought for even the crudest justice. Snouts were punished as examples to the others, to reinforce with fear the bewitchment that kept them enslaved. It was also what passed in the camp for entertainment.

  Reaver had already told him about the spike, but there were other savage punishments. One of the more merciful – because it was, at least, quick – was the cur kill, which Hem witnessed on his third day. The blocks were ordered out for their usual morning drill, but instead of breaking for the midday meal an announcement was made by one of the Hulls. The snouts roared and whooped, waving their weapons over their heads, and then began to chant. It was too far away for Hem to hear, and he turned to Reaver to ask what was happening.

  Reaver, his face distorted with a lust that made Hem recoil, was shouting with the others. Together they were making a massive noise: "Cur kill! Cur kill!" He took no notice of Hem's question. Not wanting to seem conspicuous, Hem joined in the chanting.

  Still chanting, the different blocks arranged themselves in a long line, one or two deep, which stretched all around the perimeter of the square training ground. They put their weapons down behind them and punched their fists into the air. Then the Spider led a small figure into the center of the ground. Even from this distance, Hem could see that it was shaking so much it could hardly walk.

  For a horrible moment Hem thought it was Zelika. But then he saw it was too tall: it looked like a boy, his hands and feet shackled by chains. As the boy shambled to the center of the ground, the chanting raggedly ceased, and the huge crowd of snouts became completely, menacingly silent.