The Raven Warrior

by Alice Borchardt

  She doubled over laughing and said, when she got herself under control, “Hero you may be, but I think you will never learn caution.”

  “Christ!” he shouted. “I might just as well have tried to eat fire!”

  Even as a human his face was red, his eyes swollen.

  Something like the sound of a cluster of glass bells resounded through the garden. She smiled and cocked her head to one side, listening.

  “They talking to you?” he asked.

  “Trying to. I told you before it’s been a long time since anyone like me came here. They have missed . . . us. Part of what makes it difficult is they’re all speaking at the same time.”

  Black Leg could hear the distant, mingled strains of what sounded like a massive fugue, the musical lines of which merged into a magnificent tapestry of sound. He knew about music; he’d had some education about it from Dugald and Maeniel, who knew the sacred and profane compositions of the Greeks and Romans. He also knew the songs of wild things, birds, wolves, whales, and dragons. He knew music as a high form of communication, sacred, dangerous, and beautiful, capable of inspiring listeners to deeds of valor and incredible self-sacrifice; and also on the darker side, to cruelty, heedless violence, and suicidal despair.

  The Greeks sang when they marched into battle, as did the Romans and his people. The music of death bound an army together and took them forward, triumphant over fear to look into the empty eyes of absolute annihilation.

  “There are a lot of them here, aren’t there? I mean, the kind you know,” he said, then asked, “It bother the vine that we took the melon?”

  “No more than cutting your fingernails or hair bothers you,” was her answer. “Seems the melons aren’t the part we want, though they were a condiment to the people who planted them. Try the flowers.”

  She picked one. “Delicious!”

  They were, Black Leg thought after he’d eaten five or six and was beginning to feel better. They were big, yellow, soft, and moist, with a creamy taste. There were a lot of flowers on the terrace occupied by the vines.

  They wandered on, tasting, touching, and listening to the manifold melodies and sensual delights offered by the hidden garden. There was a fig that sang and dripped purple, sweet fruit. Another fig that didn’t sing, with greenish-yellow fruit. Twined among its branches was a vine that bore a spherical, black-red fruit with a rich, sweet acid and slightly salty taste.

  They were both gorged and relaxed—Black Leg had discovered the greenish-yellow fig had the same effect as a mild alcoholic beverage—when they at last sat down to contemplate their new kingdom.

  “If it wasn’t for those birds,” Black Leg said, “I’d think this was paradise.”

  “If it wasn’t for those birds,” she repeated, “we wouldn’t have to worry about finding shelter for the night.”

  Black Leg glanced around uneasily. “Your friends tell you what’s up top, outside these canyon places?”

  “No,” she answered. “They don’t want to talk about it. For some reason, they’re really afraid.”

  “Yeah, well, that bothers me,” Black Leg said. “When the first little vine was frightened, we found out he had good reason. This garden . . . or whatever . . . was created. It didn’t just happen accidentally. Someone—or maybe some things—built it. What happens when they come to harvest their crop?”

  “No!” she said, her voice dreamy. “No, they are gone . . . long gone. . . .”

  She rose, seeming almost in a trance state, and waded out into the lake at the center of the garden. She was only ankle-deep when she dissolved into droplets, which fell into the still water like a small rain shower and vanished.

  Black Leg found he was queasy and cold. He wouldn’t admit to himself how frightened he was. This strange, sometimes terrible, place had come close to killing them both. He looked up again at the blue, sun-suffused sky above and saw that it was growing late. Those birds, if birds they were, had come at dusk. When they’d entered the garden, the lake waters had danced with golden light. Now they were dark, the water plants green shadows against an inky tarn.

  The canyon must run due south, and the sun must be close to completing its journey into the west. Where, oh where to hide?

  He went wolf. The wolf could see better in the gathering dusk, and besides, the chill rising from the glacier meltwater was beginning to fill the air. The dying sun reddened the east canyon wall, and the wolf’s eyes, more attuned to the gradations of light and shadow than any human’s ever could be, picked up the darker slits in the rose-colored stone. They reminded him of the slits made for archers in the fortifications of Hadrian’s Wall. Then there were what looked like holes at the back of the top terraces.

  Black Leg sensed night moving swiftly toward them. He remembered that the dark birds had appeared when the sun ceased to shine into the canyon at all. Now the last golden light was moving up the stone as the sun sank deeper and deeper into the west.

  He discarded the wolf shape for a moment and ran down to the lake, waded in, and slapped the water, hard, two or three times with his open hand. She rose from the lake like a Venus formed by the waves. The sight of her nearly stopped the breath in his throat, she was so lovely.

  This time some sort of water fern was knotted at her hips like a skirt that swept down into dozens of curved-wand ornaments with tiny but vivid lilac flowers. Other finely cut, lacy fronds supported but didn’t conceal her breasts.

  “Damn, you’re beautiful!” he said as his eyes devoured the long-limbed, graceful body.

  “I won’t be so beautiful long, if I can’t persuade these waters to support my life,” she said. “That was what . . . I was trying to do. I think if I could stay all night . . .”

  He glanced back at the narrowing band of golden light nearing the canyon walls.

  “The sun is going to set in a few minutes. I don’t think I can do the Weyvern shape again, not without draining your powers. And we used up most of the flowers on that vine, the one that restored you. But I think I might have found us a hiding place up near the canyon wall. I think it’s hollow in places.”

  “Goddamn it! I thought I was getting close . . . but . . . come on, let’s try your way. At least take a look. I believe we can probably make it back to the river if we can’t hide. Then, if it has to be, you can turn Weyvern again.”

  “Let’s go!”

  They both ran up, he dropping into wolf shape on the first stride. They climbed, wolf and woman, up the terraces as though climbing a flight of giant steps to the top near the canyon wall. She peered in through one of the narrow, vertical slits.

  “Yes,” she said. “There’s some sort of opening behind these windows.”

  The light was visibly fading now. Black Leg ran along the base of the canyon wall, nose down, looking for an entrance. He found one, a hole only big enough to offer entrance for a wolf and a slender woman. He dove through and they found themselves inside a rocky chamber that seemed to run along the base of the canyon wall.

  The roof of the chamber wasn’t high enough to allow them to stand. But he, as wolf, and she, kneeling, could look out through the narrow embrasures into the valley below.

  “I don’t know if this is a perfect hiding place,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” Black Leg said. “How do we block the door?”

  She touched the embrasure opening and said, “It’s covered by glass or something close to it. Then there must be a way to close the door.”

  The wolf obligingly trotted to the door. Nothing. Only a small, arched hole that opened out onto the highest terrace at the top of the canyon.

  He stuck his head out and glanced up at the ribbon of light at the top of the canyon wall. It had narrowed visibly. He looked down at the terrace. This highest terrace, which overlooked the whole valley, was covered with coiling vines.

  The wolf slid out and turned human. “Maybe I can block the opening with dirt,” he said.

  He grabbed one of the large vines at the root, thinking to pul
l it up and back the soil beneath it into the opening. The scream that began at the lowest range of wolf hearing, then rose past the highest ultrasonic, seemed to pierce his eardrums like nails, worse, far worse than the attention cry of the dangling flowers at the canyon’s rim.

  Black Leg was paralyzed by pain, and the vine coiled around him like a giant serpent and brought him down.

  It took us some time to realize we had taken the fortress and destroyed its garrison. Utterly destroyed them. Maeniel was at my side; Ure and Gray stood holding their swords.

  The dead were scattered in front of the gates, as were a few of our people. There was still plenty of light, though the catwalks along the walls were only blackened timbers and glowing coals. Around the courtyard, the drinking hall was a seething bonfire at the center. No longer recognizable as a building, it seemed only a pile of burning logs.

  There is no more to be said.

  I sat wrapped in a salvaged mantle, shivering, while the rest picked the place clean. The cloth stank of smoke and wet mud, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t find it in my heart to care much about anything.

  Farry and his people bought all we could bring them, and we banked the gold and silver with the Veneti.

  We hit two more places, both smaller than the first but almost as rich. And when we turned our boats back toward home, we slept on sacks lumpy with loot. When we landed at Ure’s steading hidden in an estuary to the north, I was a real queen and we were all rich.

  Ure piloted the boats to land. His people had a hall near the sea, high enough up to escape the tides but not so far as to be in among the trees.

  “They are sacred, these big, dark pines,” Ure told me. “And proprietary rites must be made before we can cut one.”

  An age agone, a river cut through the mountains and down, opening a path where none had been before and emptying into a lake that mingled at last with the sea. The path the river cut through the trees was densely overgrown by the gigantic pines, and they had fallen or been cut to form a screen over the rushing white water beneath.

  “The salmon come here,” Ure said. “Wonderful fish fighting their way up the savage rapids to the top. Many die, but those who live taste of the wild, pure water, the clean pine, and the wind that rushes through the river cut to the sea. We are theirs, these dauntless creatures, and they are ours when we two are sundered. And some day we will be, if I read aright. They and we will both die.”

  A long speech for him.

  I was wearing in my soul the dullness and sorrow of the battles I fought and won.

  “You are older now,” Ure said, “than when you set out.”

  “Yes,” I said as I climbed out of the boat and walked up the beach toward the hall. “I have touched the dead and they left their mark on me. No, I am not as young as I was.”

  Ure laughed.

  “Where do your people live?” I asked.

  The hall stood alone in the narrow, dry land strip between sea and forest. That forest was something remarkable. Dense, the trees giants that let in only a little light, and with a carpet of needles so thick I was sure that every step was cushioned by them. There was very little light beneath those trees except in those odd places where a lightning-burned tree had fallen, leaving an opening in the entwined branches of the canopy.

  I looked at Ure sideways and repeated my question. “Where do your people live?”

  I had trusted him when we started out. But then we had nothing worth stealing. Now we were dripping gold, and Ure was no candidate for sainthood.

  Maeniel and Gray were at my side, but as always it was Maeniel’s word I sought. He considered Ure as one wolf does another. Ure didn’t flinch.

  Gray looked offended. “My uncle’s hospitality is sacr—” He broke off because Ure laughed again.

  “My Lord Maeniel, have you ever gone for a walk in a large city after dark, with a full purse at your belt?”

  “Yes,” Maeniel answered. “When I wanted to introduce some variety into my diet.”

  “In that instance I was stranded in Constantinople without money to pay my passage back. And a purse may be weighted with lead, as well as gold.”

  “True,” Maeniel answered. “Where is this leading?”

  “Not to treachery,” Ure said. “Sometimes the biter is . . . bitten. I wouldn’t chance it.”

  The boys were disembarking from the boats now and wading into shore. Only they weren’t boys any longer. Nor were they only armed with slings. They each carried a sword, most had helmets, all had shields. Assorted knives, axes, and a variety of maces completed their equipment.

  We wore a variety of clothing, some of it still reeking of blood spilled when the original owners took their death wounds. In my case I had the woolen mantle Ure found for me after we destroyed the first pirate nest. And yes, despite airing it out, it still stank of smoke—nice—and carried the sharp, bitter taint of burned meat—not so nice. Under it I wore a white silk dress, part of a curtain or bedsheet—who knows? I threw it over one shoulder. Albe had whipped a seam up on the side that passed under my arm. I drew it in at the waist with a belt, gold knot-work adorned by pearls and clouded emeralds.

  In addition, three torques were at my neck, two gold and one silver, a half dozen bracelets, several anklets. Golden scroll bracelets clung to my upper arms. All proclaimed my leader status and my success against the pirates.

  I wore no weapons; I needed none. My right hand had been baptized by blood as it burned its way through a warrior’s body. The complex metal knot-work that is my people’s vision of the universe clustered so thickly there that it was almost impossible to see the skin, or at least it did when I felt frightened or angry. At other times I was as I had always been: pale, fair but with a light tan. My hair was coming in again, red-gold curls all over my head as yet too short to dress.

  No, I could see why even so tough an old pirate as Ure might not care to try robbing us now.

  “But you know,” Ure continued, “my people will feast you and expect presents in return . . . and then late tonight, after the feast, we will want some of your . . .” He grinned, one bushy brow lifted. “Yes, they will want some of your . . . luck.”

  As he spoke, I saw the girls all rigged out in their best finery, strolling down to greet the men.

  An hour or so later, we sat in the great hall. I had the high seat with Maeniel, Ure, and Gray. The hall was shaped like an overturned ship. The fire pit ran down the center. It was a long one, and a whole deer, two boars, and a wild bull were turning on spits over the coals. The air was heavy with the scent of roasting meat, mead, beer, and blood.

  Yes, there had been a quarrel over the champion’s portion—but Maeniel didn’t let it come to a killing. Albe was hell bent on proving herself as dangerous a warrior as any of the men, and she had. Seems she was mistress of the art of unarmed combat. Some of the Pictish women were deadly in that respect.

  This is, you see, the salmon leap. The scarlet-bellied fish carries no sword, but it can climb the most treacherous rapids and waterfalls by simply using the coiled power of its muscles. As did Albe. Confronted by her adversary, she dropped her weapon and, pushing off from the table, somersaulted over his head, landed behind him, and whacked him in the head with a lead-lined glove she just happened to be wearing.

  He awakened eventually, somewhat the worse for wear, and forgot the quarrel. Soon he was hanging on Albe’s neck, swearing he would love her forever.

  “Yes,” Maeniel said. “If she keeps his brains addled enough, he probably will.”

  I ate well enough. Wild boar is a wonderful meat and these had fattened on pine nuts and bracken. The flavor of the ribs was delicate, yet rich. The beer was deeply malted, dark, and sweet. And the mead. Ah, what can be said of that. This was a mountain brew, and in summer on the high slopes beyond the forest, before the sheep arrived at their summer pasture, the heather blooms, joined by the gorse. The pimpernel twines among the lupines, white, yellow, deep blue, and daisies grow everywhere, black, orang
e banded with red and yellow. The bees stagger drunkenly from flower to flower, maddened by the springtime.

  A drought bespeaks the splendor of summer’s return and seeps into a young woman’s blood, bones, and hot loins. Makes her feel a goddess, and she dreams of love but feels the rise of lust the way a proud tree feels the sap racing up to fill the buds on the branches with flowers.

  So did I think, sitting in Ure’s hall.

  As it grew later, the feast became more rowdy. The boys had their fill of battle, but many—most perhaps—knew nothing of love. They were, as I said, the weak, the poor, the outcasts, the despised. The ones the young girls mocked, knowing no reason to want to make a match with them. Now they were blooded! Men! Wealthy warriors, who had dared the proving touch of battle and the sea.

  Most would be sought after now. Some would want to return, parade their success, and strut in front of the girls who had ignored or made fun of them, thinking now their families would sing another tune. And given the massive amount of loot in our hollow ships, almost certainly they would find their popularity quite gratifying.

  But of others, I wondered. For some the cruelty had been so unrelenting, the wounds inflicted so deep, the pain and loneliness so devastating to their minds and spirits that they would seek other harbors rather than endure what to them was a farrago of hypocrisy. Turn their backs on the communities that sometimes only allowed them to survive, and seek other, more welcoming steadings.

  I thought this might be true of Albe and Wic. They and the other girls sat near me and watched with cynical eyes the rather graceful and all-too-willing seduction of their male companions.

  “Be some sore heads in the morning,” Wic commented.

  Albe chuckled in reply. “What I want to see is who’s wearing what in the morning. The jewelry, I mean.”

  “The girls will get a lot of it. I’m resigned to that. I should have gotten Gray and Maeniel to . . .”

  “No,” Albe said. “It was only to be expected. You’re their queen, not a wet nurse.”

  “Do you have to sit here?” Wic asked. “I know the kings do, but my back teeth are floating . . . all that damn beer. . . .”