A Blackbird In Silver (Book 1)

by Freda Warrington

  ‘Now,’ he said, his voice level, ‘we begin.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Skord in a fearful tone verging on panic.

  ‘You’d better tie him to a tree,’ sighed Ashurek with grim humour. ‘We’re going to release you from your demon.’

  ‘But you’ll have to summon it!’

  ‘Look – I’ll not have this plan set awry by you panicking. Go and stand with Medrian and Estarinel. Put your arms round Shaell’s neck; there’s nothing like a horse to comfort you if you’re afraid.’

  Ashurek spoke distantly and his eyes looked strange. Fearful of the Gorethrian, Skord fell back to where the others waited.

  ‘When the demon appears, don’t look at it or listen to it. Ignore it, think of something else. It can possess an unguarded mind in an instant.’ To himself he whispered, ‘In your name and for your sake, Silvren, I pray this plan will work.’

  He began the incantation. Words of an old, long-dead language fell from his lips. Too fast, they tumbled over each other as if someone else were speaking them. As when the storm had dragged them into the White Plane, and when Arlenmia’s forces had carried them to the gorge, he had the feeling of being dragged into fell darkness.

  The others watched him; a thin, dark figure standing motionless, his back to them, speaking in a low monotone alien words, words that should never have to be spoken. At first it seemed nothing was going to happen. The forest seemed very stuffy and dim, as if all air and light were being sucked from it. Skord was huddled against a tree trunk, alone and shaking with dread.

  Suddenly the forest became quite black. The darkness clung round their faces like cobwebs, or old, rotting velvet. For a moment Estarinel thought he was not in a forest, but in a place of cold, wet stone that was always lightless, and there was something in that darkness, begging, begging to die… but now a silver figure appeared in front of Ashurek, slipping through the dark gate as an egg slips from its shell. It was not a lovely silver but the colour of a blazing acid flame, and its face was broad and leering.

  It was worse than Estarinel had remembered. He thought he had never seen anything at once so beautiful and so hideous. Beside him, Skord crawled forward, as if unable to stop himself.

  The demon ignored Ashurek and moved towards the boy. Ashurek stepped between them.

  ‘Siregh-Ma!’ he said. The demon ignored him still and, floating as if it were not on that plane, moved around him to reach Skord.

  ‘Siregh-Ma!’ Ashurek cried again, keeping himself in front of the boy, who, paralysed and trembling with fear, was prostrate on the forest floor. ‘Siregh-Ma!’ Ashurek shrieked. ‘At the third invocation you must answer your summoner!’

  The demon stared at Ashurek. It opened its mouth, which gleamed wetly as if full of fresh blood. ‘Ah,’ it began sibilantly, ‘I know you. You are the one that Meheg-Ba wants.’

  ‘I am your summoner,’ said Ashurek through clenched teeth. The summoning was worse than he recalled; he felt the lobes of his brain being pulled apart, probed by spidery fingers.

  ‘Why have you summoned me, me in particular? Still, as you have, I might as well take the boy.’

  ‘Forget the boy and listen to me. I offer a bargain.’ He cringed inwardly as he said the words, words he had sworn he would never say.

  ‘How very interesting,’ the demon hissed, and its voice seemed to echo from an abyss. ‘Nothing, I hope, to do with the little witch Silvren.’

  ‘Be silent!’ Ashurek commanded, and the demon stopped in mid-sentence. Skord began to look up, amazed. How could Ashurek have such courage as to give orders to a demon? ‘The Shana have mocked and tormented me for the last time. We’ll do our business and you can go.’

  ‘You were never renowned for your manners,’ smiled Siregh-Ma. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Release the boy and leave him free.’

  ‘Him! What do you want that wretch for?’ the demon exclaimed. ‘What can you pay me?’

  ‘An army of the dead that have invaded this country. You may take them all in exchange.’

  The demon grinned. ‘Oh come, Ashurek. Do you think the Shana had nothing to do with their existence? To offer them to me is a ridiculous bluff.’

  ‘But most are Gorethrian soldiers. I was their High Commander, therefore they are mine to offer.’

  ‘Ah, nicely said. It seems to me, though, that I’d be doing you a double favour.’

  Their hearts sank. It seemed the demon had seen through the bargain. However, Ashurek knew something of the primitive psychology of demons, and he said, ‘Think of it. The energy of the fighting corpses, created by many Shana, all pouring into you alone. You’d gain power by it. Or is your love and loyalty to Gastada such that you wouldn’t betray him?’

  ‘I loathe Gastada,’ Siregh-Ma answered with feeling. ‘You have a point. The boy is useless to me, and it would be a grand joke to foil Gastada’s plans.’

  All creatures of the Worm loathe each other, Ashurek thought sourly.

  ‘What Gastada is doing,’ the demon continued, ‘is ineffective anyway, compared to what Arlenmia has undertaken.’

  Ashurek did not reveal his curiosity at this statement, for to do so would lay himself open to possession. ‘So, the bargain is made,’ he said sharply.

  ‘Yes,’ said the demon. ‘Why not? It matters little. Gastada, however, will be furious, unfortunately for you!’ Siregh-Ma began to float slowly about the murky forest, bestowing a taunting smile upon Skord.

  Ashurek began the words to dismiss the demon but it seemed oblivious to him. It looked at Medrian and, to his surprise, she looked fearlessly back, standing still and quiet as stone. The silver figure stared at her, hesitated, and then retreated, now floating before Estarinel.

  ‘The bargain is made. Go!’ Ashurek cried. The demon’s intention to possess the Forluinishman was obvious.

  ‘How sad for Forluin…’ it hissed, and Estarinel sensed the appalling magnetic power of it. He had been so careful to look down at the forest floor, yet now he was staring directly into its terrible argent eyes, seeing ghastly forms and patterns in them. The eyes seemed to fill his whole field of vision; the atmosphere became a dark silver-rust membrane shot with iridescent veins of dull green. And the membrane vibrated, softly, like an eardrum. He could hear screams, not realising that they were his own.

  Ashurek knew then that the summoning, as he had feared, had gone terrifyingly wrong. All the strength left his body and he crumpled onto the ground, the words of dismissal refusing to leave his lips.

  Then Medrian began to walk towards the demon. Her hands were outstretched like white claws and she seemed engaged in a painful, intimate struggle with herself. She put herself between Estarinel and Siregh-Ma and looked into the demon’s terrible eyes.

  ‘You are disobedient, you are breaking the bargain,’ she uttered in a strained yet commanding voice. ‘Get you gone!’ Her blanched skin reflected the demonic glow as if the awful pale light was streaming from her own face.

  The demon’s mocking smile was gone. For an instant it actually looked frightened. Then it was sucked into the knot of shadow behind it. The ground heaved and the wind tore like a roaring beast through the trees. A moment later the forest grew light again. Ashurek stood up and saw Estarinel helping Skord to his feet.

  The Forluinishman’s face was drained and his hands were shaking visibly. Medrian was leaning against a tree, her hair falling across her face, breathing hard. Ashurek stared at her with both intense relief and suspicion. How had she dismissed the thing?

  He went to fetch the horses, which were shying nervously away through the trees. Estarinel took the palfrey from him and led the animal over to Medrian.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Estarinel asked, placing a hand on her shoulder. She turned to him like a terrified child seeking comfort, and he held her, stroking her hair. Trembling convulsively, she hid her face against his shoulder. She had done something – only she knew – for which she would pay dearly later.

  ‘
You saved me from that thing,’ he said with awe and gratitude. ‘Did it harm you? Tell me.’

  Abruptly she pulled away from him and took the palfrey’s reins. She swept her hair back from her face with a hand that was now perfectly steady. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said, her voice cold. ‘And you, are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t really remember what happened.’

  ‘Just as well,’ said Ashurek. ‘It seems I must thank you, Medrian.’

  ‘No, forget it,’ she replied curtly.

  Skord seemed dazed as Ashurek helped him onto the roan cob, muttering, ‘It’s gone, it’s left me…’

  ‘Yes, lad, even a demon must keep a bargain,’ said the Gorethrian. ‘So, Setrel will have his miracle… but at what cost? Come, let us not brood on this event. We’ll ride back to Morthemcote and see how they have fared.’

  As they rode back through the yew trees, there was a hoarse croaking as of crows flying above the forest. The trees seemed to close in around them, and they felt no light-heartedness at the success of their mission, only an increasing depression and fear.

  ‘We still have Setrel’s phial, if anything attacks us that cannot be fought by sword,’ said Estarinel.

  ‘If it works,’ replied Ashurek. He noticed that Medrian had pulled Taery to a standstill. ‘Why have you stopped?’

  She did not answer. She had turned the palfrey to face the way they had come and was looking intently into the trees. They saw that she was looking at a horse, a black, long-bodied, plain horse, standing riderless in the forest. It stared at her with baleful eyes. It looked distinctly similar to her protective familiar, Nameless.

  She began to trot towards it as if to chase it away.

  ‘Go!’ she shouted. ‘I don’t need your services now.’

  The creature did not move.

  ‘Good grief, where’s she going?’ said Ashurek. The black horse turned and cantered away, with Medrian chasing it. In only a few seconds she was out of sight in the trees. ‘I’d better bring her back,’ Ashurek said, and cantered after her.

  ‘Wait!’ Estarinel shouted, but his companions had disappeared into the darkness of the yew forest. He waited fruitlessly for them to reappear, overcome by a terrible sense of foreboding and an irresistible urge to follow them. He looked at Skord. ‘I must go after them. But I think it’s safest for you if you carry on straight back to Setrel’s house. Will you do that?’ Skord looked blank, but did not argue. ‘Here, take the map. Be careful, won’t you? I expect we’ll catch you up in a few minutes, but if not, we’ll see you later.’

  ‘All right,’ Skord said dully. He opened his mouth as if there were something more he needed to say, but all that emerged, ominously, was, ‘Goodbye.’ He turned the cob and trotted away through the trees.

  Estarinel pushed Shaell into a gallop, ducking to avoid low branches. His sense of dread was now verging on panic that he only controlled by telling himself it was the natural aftermath of the summoning, and therefore unfounded. Still, it was with great relief that he eventually saw Ashurek ahead. Vixata was dancing from side to side as the Gorethrian slowed her down. Estarinel caught him up and saw Medrian, ahead of them in the trees, still chasing the black horse. Patches of light showed through ahead, where the forest ended.

  ‘Go! I’ll have no more of your sort!’ she was shouting.

  ‘Come on,’ said Ashurek. ‘If we help drive that horse off, perhaps she’ll come to her senses.’

  The black horse led her out of the trees, and vanished.

  Ashurek and Estarinel rode from the forest onto a bare hillside and Medrian came trotting to meet them, hair and cloak streaming.

  ‘It’s gone,’ she said. ‘Thank goodness.’ There was a cawing of crows above them. ‘You needn’t have come after me. Did you think I’d gone mad?’ Her voice was very quiet and her eyes looked bleak and miserable.

  Estarinel suddenly remembered her words, ‘Don’t trust me,’ and the feeling of dread was growing ever more intense. Whether it was the doing of Arlenmia, or Siregh-Ma, or Medrian herself, the Serpent’s inevitable, inescapable trap was closing on them.

  Against the vast grey arch of the sky, three huge crows swooped down so fast that there was not even time to draw sword. They were gigantic and monstrous. Their wings were vast soot-black cloaks of barbed metal, and on their heads black spines bristled. They had huge saw-edged beaks the colour of rusted iron, and their eyes shone cornflower blue.

  The horses began to gallop as the crows swept down on them. Ashurek heard great, heavy wingbeats behind him, and suddenly the bird’s claws closed around his body, lifting him from the saddle. The crow’s talons, like steel blades, pierced clean through his leather breastplate and into his stomach and chest. The pain was agonising and inescapable. He tried to draw breath and sharp pains shot through his body. He could not breathe. With the blood pounding through his head and exploding across his eyes, he fell unconscious.

  The crows were gaining height with their three prisoners, wings beating, claws swinging beneath them, the air currents ruffling the black thorny blades of their feathers.

  Tiny as flies, the horses galloped on below them. Unseen by the three captives, the pale apparition of a woman with dark golden hair hovered in the trees, staring at the sky with despairing eyes. She flickered and vanished.

  #

  That evening Setrel sat by his fireside, listening gravely as the neman, Benra, gave him a full report of the day’s events. The fighting had continued until mid-morning, when all the corpses had fallen to the ground as one, becoming truly dead again.

  ‘You should have heard us cheer!’ the neman said, and Setrel nodded, smiling. Around him sat Ayla and the children, Atrel and Seytra, eyes shining. There was another figure in the room, huddled by the fire, unsmiling but seeming at peace.

  ‘Skord,’ Setrel said to him. ‘You say they rode off north, but intended to come back?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Skord answered.

  ‘I can’t understand where they’ve got to. They should be back by now.’ Setrel turned a book over and over in his hands, his head bowed.

  After a few minutes his son, Atrel, said, ‘Dad, you’re crying. What’s the matter?’

  ‘Oh – just relief. We never could admit how much danger we were really in, and how frightened we were. But now we are safe again–’ He sighed and rubbed his eyes, ‘I keep thinking of the three who saved us, and the prophecy: “They shall come from the gorge, and by dark birds be taken.”’

  ‘They’ve got to come back, Dad,’ Seytra said. ‘Because of the ship, remember?’ But her father only shook his head, grasping his grandfather’s book.

  Eventually he said, ‘Benra, I want you to go on a long errand for me. The pay will be good.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ the neman answered.

  ‘I want you to journey down through Tearn to Morrenland, and there take ship to the House of Rede. I’ve written a letter detailing all that has happened here. I want you to deliver it to Eldor; embellish verbally as you see fit, and add everything you see on your way there, as well.’

  ‘I’ll do it, of course, but can I ask why?’

  ‘I just think he ought to know. Perhaps he knows already, but I want to make sure.’

  #

  The crows flew for hours over a landscape that was now tiny and far below them. A desolate night swept the daylight away, and two crescent moons, like half-closed eyes, stared through the clouds; and the crows flew on.

  Pain roused Ashurek to consciousness suddenly, and he saw an estate of stone and ash, corpse-grey in the dull night, passing below them. There was a huddle of buildings on a peak – a farmhouse, perhaps?

  Arlenmia had never meant them to arrive in the gorge and help Setrel; only a failure and misdirection of her power had allowed that. But now they were once more on their way to her intended destination. And it was, short of the Dark Regions, the most hideous place Ashurek knew: the castle of Gastada.

  Chapter Sixteen. A Certain Northern Nobleman />
  The castle was set on a shapeless plug of obsidian, like the broken stump of a tooth. The crows circled steadily down towards it, cruising on the sluggish wind currents.

  Their three prisoners were too dazed with pain to know or care what was happening. But more than their breastplates stopped them from being gored to death by the crows’ talons. Gastada wanted his guests alive.

  The castle was of bleak aspect, its jagged, decaying surface broken only by one door: a tall, triangular door, black and smooth but for two discs, one above the other, near its pointed arch. The discs were large and circular, and from each spewed a continual river of a viscous yellow fluid.

  Ashurek was not aware of entering through the door, only of the crow releasing him; for the pain as it withdrew its claws from his body was so severe that he was aware of little else. Within the castle, they were carried through a network of hot, dark corridors and small rooms without windows. There was movement around them. Guards were carrying them into the heart of the castle.

  ‘Careful with them,’ a harsh voice shouted, ‘we don’t want them to bleed to death before they get there.’

  The atmosphere alternated between stifling humidity and cold clamminess, and there was a thick stench like musk, sickly sweet and nauseating. All was as Ashurek remembered it from when he had been prisoner here before. Impressions drifted through his dimmed awareness: the motion of being carried; dark corridors closing around him; the sickening smell. All blended into a nightmarish dream such as haunts the twilight between sleeping and waking.

  When he next became aware, he was half-lying on a damp stone floor. He and his companions were in a small, crooked room that was wet and filthy, furnished with one table and one chair.

  A candle guttered on the table. There were two doorways, both triangular, each without a door so that a clammy subterranean gale was let through. This was no cell, but one of Gastada’s own living rooms. He cared nothing for luxury.