A Blackbird In Silver (Book 1)

by Freda Warrington

  Setrel reined in his chestnut roan cob at the water’s edge. ‘You told me that you needed to reach Forluin. This river leads out into the Western Ocean, and it is a broad and good waterway.’ He led them at a brisk canter round a bend in the river, to a small bay where two fishing boats and a ship were moored in front of a shipyard that was set back on the bank.

  ‘See that little ship?’ It was a beautiful vessel indeed, larger than The Star of Filmoriel, trim and strongly built, and gilded with designs of red, gold, and blue. ‘If you can find a way, any way, to help us, she is yours, and a crew to sail her, and anything else you ask. I’m afraid this may sound like a bribe, but I mean to show you that you will be repaid. And if the prophecy is hollow, well… you might as well take the ship anyway, who am I to deny you that?’ Setrel sighed, sounding deeply sad. ‘The odds are against us, but we will not surrender. With our own army and the army of nemen we’ll stand till the last of us is felled.’

  Ashurek stared at the ship as if gazing straight through it. Then he looked round at the Elder.

  ‘I know Gastada and I know the Shana, and there is one plan only which may defeat your enemy. It is something that I swore I would never do again; but necromancy is the only force of this Earth by which we may achieve impossible things.’

  Setrel felt his own optimistic bravery turning to cold fear as Ashurek went on. ‘It is a dark and terrible plan, but I will do it so that my dead countrymen may lie in peace, and not walk down and murder your children in their beds.’

  He spoke shortly, as if bitterly regretting what he said, and when he finished he did not look at them but turned his eyes to the broken grey-and-cream sky.

  As they watched, three great black crows sailed over against the clouds.

  Chapter Fifteen. ‘I can see no escape.’

  Skord was sitting up in bed the next morning, his face drawn and pale. Thanks to Setrel’s care his wits had returned, although he was by no means himself yet.

  ‘Are you feeling better?’ Estarinel asked as he entered the bedroom.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Skord responded. Then he frowned. ‘Why – why did you save me, after all the harm I’ve done? You should have left me to die.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Estarinel replied, smiling in an attempt to cheer the boy. ‘You’re dispirited, I know, but rest and food can work wonders.’

  ‘A girl comes to talk to me – what is her name, Seytra? She reminds me of my sister. She would have been like that, if she’d grown up… I wonder where she is? And my parents… my father had the Plague – my fault – no, his fault – he should have died bravely in battle… but he did, didn’t he? And my mother… I deserted her. Left her alone at the farm. Oh, I must go back – I must go back now, she’ll kill herself!’

  The boy’s eyes were full of confusion and fear. Estarinel saw that the memories of his lives in Drish and Belhadra were hopelessly muddled.

  ‘No, Skord, calm down,’ he said, pushing the boy back against the pillows. ‘It’s all right…’ but he knew nothing was all right, and any comforting words would be a lie.

  ‘There was a girl I was betrothed to… we were to be married when we were twenty-one – what happened to her? Ye gods – I killed her! You saw me – you watched, you didn’t try to stop me!’ Skord’s face hung with horror and he leaned back, squeezing his eyes shut. ‘I’ve lived two separate lives and now I can’t tell them apart. I don’t know who I am.’

  Estarinel could almost have wept to see him. It had been easy to despise the boy when he had been the arrogant and callous messenger of the Serpent. Now Estarinel felt responsible for transforming Skord into its tragic victim.

  ‘You must not blame yourself,’ Setrel had said the night before when he had explained Skord’s troubles in more depth. ‘Perhaps Skord can never come to terms with his past – but without his memory, he was no better off. The price of his freedom from pain was to be without conscience… forever trying to avenge a wrong he could not remember and did not understand. Perhaps, in the end, you will have helped him.’

  At this, Ashurek had stood up and walked out of the room. Estarinel had stared after him, then remembered Gorethria’s involvement in Drish. Estarinel had been so preoccupied that he had, unbelievably, put it from his mind.

  ‘Ashurek feels far deeper guilt than you,’ Setrel had continued quietly. ‘Yet I sense that he won’t admit it to himself. He thinks he has no conscience, but I believe he has a very high sense of responsibility, so acute that it torments him continually.’

  Now, sitting with Skord, Estarinel reflected that the boy’s best chance would be to stay with Setrel. Surely the Elder’s gentle and wise counsel would eventually untangle his diverse miseries – if only Gastada did not win the war.

  ‘Listen, Skord,’ he said, ‘you’ve been ill, and you’re bound to feel confused. But you’re alive and here now, with a chance to start a new life. Are you going to use it?’

  ‘What’s the point? That thing waits outside to take me… and if She… if Arlenmia has her way, the Serpent will rule everything. Oh, I don’t want to remember who I am. It’s unbearable.’ After a minute Skord reopened his eyes and said, ‘That’s better – that’s the best. When I was in the forests with my friends, running races, climbing trees…’

  Estarinel sighed to himself. Perhaps Skord could find a way to cope, by filtering out only good memories, but would he ever be really well again?

  Ashurek entered and looked at Skord and Estarinel.

  ‘Here’s a cheerful company!’ he said. ‘We’ll be leaving tomorrow, after the start of the battle, to carry out the insane scheme. It has to be done in a dark place, well away from human habitation.’

  ‘I haven’t got to come with you, have I?’ Skord said, his eyes flying open.

  ‘I’m afraid you have, lad,’ Ashurek answered gently.

  ‘I can’t! I won’t set foot outside the door,’ he protested, eyes full of fear. ‘It’s waiting for me out there!’

  ‘Perhaps it is. But it is part of the plan to save both this country and you, so if you won’t come freely we’ll tie you up and drag you out.’ Ashurek spoke with a dangerous light in his eyes.

  ‘Ashurek, can’t you see how frightened he is?’ said Estarinel. ‘Let him be – he’s suffered enough.’

  ‘I should have stayed with Arlenmia.’ Skord shuddered. ‘I betrayed her to you… I didn’t care what I was doing. I loved her, though I always behaved as though I loathed her. I’d follow her anywhere if she only asked me… Everything I love I behave as though I hate – why do I destroy everything I love?’

  Estarinel put his arm round the boy’s thin shoulders and shook him gently. ‘Don’t destroy yourself with self-pity. Things are bad for all of us. Try to find some courage.’

  ‘I daren’t leave the cottage,’ was all Skord would say.

  That afternoon, to their surprise, the entire village launched itself into festivities, as if there were to be no dreadful battle the next day.

  ‘It’s tradition,’ Setrel informed them. ‘Whenever something bad happens we dance and sing, so it can always be said we faced our fate in joy, not sorrow.’

  The sun touched the delicate tints of the village and glowed behind the dancing village maidens. Seytra stood out among them, a moth of white and silver. There was a large throng around the village green; women in long, full-skirted tunics of wine-red, green or cream velvet, with neck and arm ornaments of silver; men in war gear of leather and bronze; village officials in robes of state. Children shouted and sang. The festivities lasted into dark, when fires were lit and oxen roasted.

  The next day, preparations for the coming battle were in full swing. Ashurek had outlined his plan to Medrian and Estarinel. Although they all had misgivings about, it seemed the only possible course of action.

  The fighting did not begin that afternoon, as they had expected, but at dawn the next morning. The waiting, as Gastada must have known, increased their tension and fear a hundredfold. The three saw that, beneath th
e armour of calm stoicism, the people of Excarith were in deep terror. Darkness was descending upon them.

  For Ashurek’s plan to be effective the three could not set off until the Dead Army came forth. The night seemed endless, full of movement and voices as soldiers prepared anxiously to fight. Medrian, Estarinel and Ashurek caparisoned themselves for war, and Setrel made them gifts of leather shields, breastplates, and heavy axes. He also gave them a glass phial filled with a pale gold powder.

  ‘This was one of my most important discoveries,’ the Elder explained. ‘A powder that can hold some sorcerous energies within it. If in peril, scatter it about you and it will repel evil creatures. This is how I have protected the cottage against Skord’s demon.’

  ‘Our thanks, Setrel,’ said Ashurek. ‘And if your cottage is so protected, your wife and children should remain inside, and lock and bar the doors.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Seytra broke in. ‘We can’t do that. We’re all going up to the army camp, to help the wounded men.’

  ‘She’s right, we have to do what we can, not cower inside,’ Ayla said with a smile. Her voice fell. ‘For every life we save… one less enemy.’

  Skord appeared, also dressed and armed, looking very white.

  ‘You won’t have to tie me up and drag me after all,’ he said. ‘I have rallied. Are you surprised?’ There was a hint of his old mockery in the words, but not in the flat tone of his voice.

  ‘No, very pleased,’ said Estarinel. ‘Setrel has kindly said he’ll lend you a cob to ride out with us.’

  Skord did not ask where they were going. Perhaps wisely, he preferred not to know.

  Estarinel must have checked Shaell ten times, feeling down the strong, sinewy legs of the stallion, lifting his feet, checking girth and buckles over and over again. Ashurek seemed filled with impatient fiery energy, while Medrian was as emotionless as ever.

  At last, as a silver net of light broke over the village, Setrel came to them and said, ‘The Dead Army is advancing. Are you ready?’

  They took their leave of Ayla and the two children, who watched with quiet courage in their faces as they rode away. Seytra held her younger brother’s hand, inwardly hoping that Ashurek had taken note of her plea.

  Setrel rode with them to the army encampment. As they trotted between the smoking embers of camp fires on one side and tents on the other, they saw a wounded soldier being carried to a tent.

  ‘When the battle is over,’ he was sobbing, ‘we have to go out and hack all the dead to pieces – hack our dead friends and brothers to pieces to stop them standing up and fighting the next day…’ he was carried out of sight under the tent flap.

  ‘I’ll leave you here,’ Setrel said. ‘I have much business to attend to. I must thank you for coming to me and for agreeing to help, and apologise for involving you in our sad affairs.’ He pulled at his long, silky beard. ‘I wish you every success in your mission. Of course, I hope to see you again tonight, and we shall give Skord a home while you continue your journey. And I must thank you for allowing me to record the details of your Quest.’ The previous day, they had told him who they were, and all that had befallen them. ‘Though it is not complete, it means the world shall remember what truly happened, and not create foolish myths. Yesterday I buried the document, and all my other books, so that they won’t be destroyed by Gastada. Tonight I hope I’ll be able to unearth my own books, but your record shall remain secret, until the Quest is over, for good or ill.’ Setrel’s face was grave, but a smile sparkled in his grey eyes. ‘Again, my warmest thanks, and fare you well.’

  They all shook hands with him and parted, saluting.

  At the lookout peak, the four riders studied the vast, flat, softly-coloured valley. They looked at the river Retherny and thought of the small ship that perhaps that very evening would be carrying them towards the sea.

  About two miles north of the encampment, over several square miles of field and wood, armies manoeuvred and forayed. The fighting was patchy, and laborious and violent, due to the necessity of cutting each enemy to pieces. Over the past year the armies of men and nemen had been so pressed and disciplined by fighting against the Dead Army that against a normal army, Ashurek reflected, they would have been invincible.

  Ashurek unfurled and studied the map Setrel had given him. Then they began to ride down to the yew forests that Ashurek had chosen for his plan, cutting through copses, fording streams and keeping to small, sheltered valleys. They managed to avoid the battle completely for some time.

  When they had cantered steadily for about half an hour, they heard the clash of weapons and battle cries burst suddenly from a clump of trees near them.

  ‘Too close,’ said Ashurek. Vixata began to high-step, nostrils flaring. They drew battle axes from their belts and rode cautiously on, heading for trees ahead. For a few minutes the air quivered, soft and still, and the only sound was the thud of horses’ hooves on grass. Then the battle sounds broke out again, further away but ahead of them now.

  Immediately, at this threat of danger, Medrian seemed to relax out of the cold tension that gripped her, and began to exchange a few words with Ashurek. Estarinel was quiet, brooding on the realisation that had come to him over the past few weeks.

  Forluin had suffered a dreadful attack, but other countries were suffering too, in different but equally terrible ways. And perhaps it was not just Belhadra and Excarith, but every country in Tearn, and the Empire too. A half-year’s light only, before the Serpent swallows the world.

  They trotted into the trees, following paths through the brown and green tangle of bushes and sun-dappled trunks. There was movement ahead and, suddenly, behind and to one side of them. They had ridden straight into a corner of the battle.

  A few yards ahead they saw a dead Gorethrian plunge a sword through a neman’s belly. The neman collapsed, choking. Three more warriors came scouting through the trees, set upon the Gorethrian, and felled it, only for more of the walking corpses to appear from the trees and engage them.

  From the riders’ right, a group of about ten men and corpses moved across, fighting furiously. The battle seemed to be moving into the trees, and as the riders took off for a gap in the foray, they became caught up in it.

  Vixata gave a sudden leap that almost caught Ashurek off balance. She shot out her hind legs at a corpse just behind her, twisting as he regained control of her. Facing the corpse, he dodged and took its sword blows on his shield until he managed to hack off its arms. He saw Estarinel turn in his saddle to strike at two of the corpses. By manoeuvreing Shaell to push at them, he felled one, but the other dealt him a deep cut on the arm. Blood welled.

  Ashurek tried to get nearer to Skord, who had not yet been assailed. The boy, still weak and ill, would stand no chance in such a fight.

  Another corpse came at Ashurek. A huge bearded man of Excarith followed and, with a mighty axe blow, severed it clean through the trunk.

  Ashurek reached Skord, turned Vixata to strike at one corpse, and hacked the arms from another. There was no joy in this battle. He felt only loathing at the fight.

  ‘Chop off their hands!’ he yelled at Skord. It seemed useless to attempt a fighting lesson in the heat of battle, but the boy seemed to hear and began making an attempt to defend himself. Medrian was having a hard time with the palfrey Taery. Although an exceptional steed, it was no war-horse. It took her all her time to control a nervous untrained animal, besides using a weapon to which she was unused. She preferred the sword, but axes were of more use against the Dead.

  Now they were pressed on all sides by fiercely struggling warriors. Noise and confusion reigned. Ashurek felt anger blaze in him, and gathering his strength he began to cut a path through the Dead Army. Skord followed him, so close on Vixata’s heels that the cob was kicked several times.

  Meanwhile, Estarinel had become entangled in a mass of fighting soldiers. Shaell sidestepped as a sword nicked his flank, put a hind foot into a tangle of creeper, and was suddenly pushed off balance. He fe
ll to the ground with a crash that winded Estarinel and knocked him out for a second. His leg was trapped under Shaell’s great bulk. The stallion got up immediately, unharmed. Estarinel, blinking away red and black stars, dragged himself to his hands and knees and managed to crawl through the bushes until he found a clear spot to stand and force his way back to Shaell.

  Medrian saw Ashurek, eyes blazing, teeth bared, blood running down his face from a sword cut on his forehead, forcing his way through the battle. It was beginning to thin in places. She saw her opportunity. There was a small clearing. She made Taery gallop across it and jumped him clean over the heads of a clump of warriors. Estarinel, breathing hard from being winded, followed her. The live warriors scattered before the powerful, snorting stallion, and the dead ones, staring from rotting, blind eyes, were unceremoniously barged out of the way.

  Ashurek turned in the saddle. The battle was moving further down below the treeline. Corpses littered the woods, lying still – for the time being. He saw that the other three were following him. They were making good progress, leaving the battle well behind them. As soon as they were clear of it he slowed down to wait for the others. Skord could not stop the hard-mouthed cob and it cannoned into Vixata’s hocks. The mare jumped forward irritably, kicking.

  Ashurek turned her round. Panting like a wolf, with blood streaming down his face, he looked ready to tear Skord apart. But all he said was, ‘Let the horses cool down. An hour’s steady riding, and we’ll be in the yew forest.’

  Well clear of the battle now, they walked the horses on a loose rein until they were cool and rested, then they cantered on across fields and past villages. All of them were wounded, but none so seriously that they could not go on.

  The old yew forest was a gloomy place of gnarled, low trees forming a thick roof of dark green and black. The floor was clear of undergrowth. It was stuffy, light-starved and claustrophobic. Branches hung with dark needles and poisonous, cup-shaped red berries drooped low over the paths.

  They went a long way into the oppressive place as Ashurek fastidiously sought the most suitable place for his work. At last he chose a clear space with a roof of tangled branches and they dismounted. He found himself trembling. He would never admit it, but he was afraid.