by Tony Healey
"Who's this?" Crow asked it, as if repeating a question. "His name is Rowan. He's going to be here a couple of days. No, no, no, nothing like that."
Rowan watched the one-way exchange, a realisation dawning upon him that all was not as it seemed. Kip came to sit on his haunches at Crowstone's feet.
"What do you mean by that? Cheeky sod," Crow said.
Kip looked up at him, then in the direction of the hares hanging from the wall and back again.
"Go on. Just the one."
Rowan watched Kip pad over to where the hares hung, stand on his hind legs and pull one free with ease. "Were you talking to it?" he asked.
"Well, yes. What did you think I was doing?" Crow said with a chuckle. "I'm not a loon, if that's what you were wondering. Though I think by your expression you have the vague beginnings of a notion of what I may be."
"You're one of those mages, aren't you?"
"Some call us by that name. Others prefer shamans, wizards, even sorcerers . . ." he laughed again. "I've always liked pilgrim, myself. Unlike most of my order, I tend to wander. I find it suits my purpose better."
"Your order?"
"The Order of Eld. There are less of us now than there once was, it's true. But we are still very active, even if our numbers are significantly diminished," Crowstone explained. "We each have areas of expertise, I suppose you'd say. My own has always been in the natural, the organic, the flora and fauna. Never more at home than among the whistle of the wind through the trees, the song of the river. I was born with the ability to converse with animals. When they want to speak, that is. Some of them can be downright rude."
"Oh. Right," Rowan said, wondering if what Crowstone had said initially about being a loon wasn't entirely incorrect. "I see . . ."
"Kip is what you call a bearcat. I found him nuzzled up to his dead mother as a pup, in the forest that borders us from the Eastern Empire," Crow said. "Nursed him, took him with me wherever I went, and we've been travelling companions ever since."
"You've been east?"
"Yes. There are not many places I have not been," Crow said. "You know, I used to carry him around my shoulders. Would you believe that to look at him now? He's very useful. Bearcats are fantastic climbers. Handy in foraging bird eggs. My tree climbing skills aren't what they were as a boy."
A mage. A shaman. A wizard, Rowan thought, head more than a little muggy. A magic man. The kind you hear tell about as a child. The Order of Eld. A fairy tale reaching back to the past.
"So how do you know who I am?" Rowan asked.
"I have held an interest in your comings and goings for a long time," Crow said. "As have other members of the order. You and your former associate Muriel Bonnet."
"Why?"
"It's hard to explain," Crow said. "You could say we see potential in your futures."
"Ah ha," Rowan said. He put his empty bowl to one side. "So I've been watched."
Crow shook his head. "No. Not watched. But from time to time I have made it my business to see how you're doing. Luckily for you, I was there when those two bounty hunters set upon you. Though you did an admirable job of fending them off."
"I guess I owe you my thanks," Rowan said, not more than a little grudgingly. He lifted his top, looked at wounds on his stomach. Red and sore, but the stitches were neat and tidy. Where the wounds were exposed, a poultice had been pressed into the open flesh. He still remembered Ceeli's fingers pressing her own concoction into his wound. It all seemed like a dream now, though not much had changed. "And for these."
"More than welcome. Now, I happened to notice whiskey among your possessions. Not bad whiskey, either . . ."
Rowan waved a hand. "Open it. I think I more than owe you a drink, as it stands."
Kip sat by the fire crunching through the hare as Crow got up to fetch the liquor. Outside, beyond the window he could see the snow still falling in droves. He remembered, years before, the battle of Karylon. That had been fought in the snow. By the end of the day, the snow was red as a poppy field. Crowstone handed him a tin cup that held a healthy splash of whiskey.
"To a warm fire in cold weather," he said and tapped his cup against Rowan's before throwing it back in one go. "And whiskey. I'll always drink to that."
* * *
Next day, Rowan was outside helping Crow find food. Kip padded alongside, dry snow like powder on his black fur. The day before, the animal had warmed to Rowan. Sat on his lap, wanting to be stroked. The animal had a surprisingly pleasant aroma, like sweet buttered corn. Rowan hadn't expected Kip to weigh as much as he did and on closer inspection, his claws were quite impressive.
"I see the bear connection now," Rowan had told Crow as he stroked Kip. "But I'm curious about the cat part. As I said, when I saw him I took him for a big dog . . ."
"Maybe I'll get him to demonstrate tomorrow," Crow had said. He'd looked at Kip for a second, then rolled his eyes. "All right, Kip. Maybe I'll ask in future. Have you always got to take the offensive?"
Now Rowan watched as Kip clung to the bark of a wide tree, claws allowing him easy purchase as he climbed up into the lower branches. "That's it, Kip. That nest right there. See it?"
The bearcat went to the nest halfway up the tree and nosed about before he lifted his head. Rowan could see an egg in his mouth. Crow stood under him and Kip dropped it – as if the whole thing had been rehearsed before – into Crowstone's open hands. "Five more? That'll have to do. I'll take a half dozen eggs anytime."
Rowan still found it jarring to have Crow respond to Kip's unspoken questions and remarks. But he was getting used to it, slowly, by degrees. The bearcat repeated the trick till all six eggs were safely stowed like a busker's takings in Crowstone's fur hat. He handed Rowan the hat and said with a wink, "Watch. This is where bear meets cat."
Rowan watched as Kip positioned himself over Crow a good fifteen feet above, and proceeded to dangle, using his long bushy tail to hang from the branch. Crow held his hands out and Kip dropped straight into them – with a slight gasp from Crowstone.
"Heavy?"
The mage nodded as he put Kip on the ground. "More so each time." The bearcat threw him a reproachful look and strutted off. Crowstone stood next to Rowan. "He gets a bit upset when I mention his weight, would you believe. Quite vain."
If you'd asked me that a little while ago, Rowan thought. I'd have said no. But now? I reckon I'll pretty much believe anything.
* * *
Rowan fed wood into the fireplace. His wounds were much better. Still painful, still sore around the edges. But whatever Crow had pushed into the cuts seemed to have helped them to heal. More importantly, there had been no infection. He remembered the cut up his back and how Ceeli had performed a similar feat with stitching and herbal mush.
He also remembered those same crude stitches pulling apart as he dug his wife's grave – and that he'd almost relished the pain. For one with big, thick hands, the mage had stitched him up neat and tidy. He stood back, arms crossed and watched as Crowstone busily filled a long wooden pipe with a skunk tobacco that looked more green than brown.
"What did you mean about my future? What you said before," Rowan said.
Crow glanced up. "This will sound fantastical to you, but I'll tell you anyway. Whether you believe it or not, you must be told. Now is the time. There are members of my order who believe that Muriel Bonnet and yourself have a part to play in the destiny of this land. In the shaping of Starkgard. Whether I think them right is not the issue. My job is to serve, to do what I can. To follow the decree of the Order, where that is possible or fair, and see that I help you any way I can."
"The destiny of this land? What's that supposed to mean?"
"The turmoil that has, only recently, played out in Starkgard is only the beginning. There is war coming, Rowan. And Starkgard is not prepared for it. For the first time in centuries, the crown has fallen to darkness. The North stands with a politician in command. There will be many pieces on the chess board, and the Order believes tha
t yourself and Miss Bonnet are two such important pieces. It's our job to try to help you around the board, where possible," Crow said. He sighed. "I know none of this makes much sense. But you must trust me. The future is not pre-written. It can only be guessed at. An educated guess, but still . . . guess work nonetheless."
"You say a war. A war with who?"
"That, too, is hard to see. I myself lack the gift of divination. But it has been seen, glimpsed by those who do have that ability. They say it is coming, and that there are numerous people who will have a part to play before the end," Crow explained. He lit the pipe, his face briefly illuminated by the flare. "This land sits upon a knife edge, and nobody sees it. If the right elements come together, Starkgard and its peoples might just make it. If not . . ."
Rowan shook his head. "This is all very cryptic," he said. "And not a lot of use if you ask me."
"I know it's not," Crowstone said. He extended the pipe. "Here. Have a puff. It won't kill you. Might clear your head."
He took the pipe, sucked it in, held the smoke then exhaled slowly, savouring the taste. It was good tobacco, mixed with a little weed as far as he could tell. It certainly made him feel much more relaxed. Rowan handed the pipe back, sat on the floor with a grunt as his stomach muscles sang out. "Good smoke."
"This?" Crowstone said, regarding the pipe with a chuckle. "This stuff's for babies."
The fire popped in the grate and Kip lay sprawled out before it, eyes closed, chest rising and falling. "Every time I see him, he's asleep," Rowan remarked.
"Yeah . . . that's why I called him Kip, cause that's all he does," Crow said. "Besides, I like it when he's asleep. He can't hear what I'm saying. Gives me some peace."
"How comes you can talk to him anyway? I've never seen his mouth move, never heard anything more than the occasional growl," Rowan said.
Crow tapped his temple. "In here. He speaks to me in here. I can't reply that way, it doesn't work like that. So I end up looking like I'm talking to myself, which makes me appear even madder than usual. It's got me into one or two situations over the years, trust me."
"That must get difficult," Rowan remarked.
"You wouldn't believe. And you know what? I think the little bastard enjoys it," Crow said, pointing his pipe at the sleeping bearcat, looking for all intents and purposes as if butter wouldn't melt in its mouth. "He's got a strange sense of humour that one."
* * *
His horse had been put outside under shelter alongside Crowstone's own ride, a grey pony. Rowan went out there before nightfall to ensure the two animals were secure and covered over. There was no helping the cold, but he could do something to take the edge off. A sheet over each was the most he could manage. He stood stroking the neck of his own horse and wondered if he would get far, should he decide to mount the beast and ride off. Get away from Crowstone and his talking bearcat sooner rather than later. What part did he want in the affairs of Starkgard? In the loss of a king, or the loss of a war for that matter?
He cared only for vengeance. Cared only to get as far as Greyside, where he would see his hands awash with Quayle's blood.
But it occurred to him that he owed Crow for saving his life, and that there was probably more to events than there seemed at first. Perhaps because something is mysterious, it should not be dismissed straight away. Above all else, he wanted to know just what it was the Order of Eld thought his destiny to be.
What did he care if Starkgard became embroiled in yet another war? It had just finished fighting itself – he was sure Starkgard would stand a war with a neighbour just as well.
His sole purpose, as he saw it, was to find Quayle and kill the son of a bitch. After that, as far as he was concerned, the future was unwritten. On that score he could wholeheartedly agree with the mage.
And what of Muriel? They'd parted company a long time ago. He'd gone his way, and she'd gone hers. Was she still in the same business? Lending her sword, her bow and arrow to the highest bidder? If so he'd never heard anything of her. Their decision to go their separate ways had been far from mutual, but still there'd been no feud between them. A little bad blood, perhaps, but nothing to kill each other for.
They'd had a friendship. She'd not understood why he would want to walk away from the free and easy life, the bags of money, the fine clothes and even finer food.
And though there'd not been romance between them, Rowan still found he cared about her. It was enough to hear her name for him to wonder if she was all right, wherever she was, whatever she was doing. In the same way that a Brother loves his Sister, he worried about her involvement in the Order's premonitions as much as his own.
What could two former mercenaries have to offer the future of the North?
He decided it was better for all concerned if he stuck with Crowstone. When he went back inside, the mage was packing. "We will leave tomorrow after sunrise."
"Really? So soon?"
"I have been cooped up in here with you for two weeks now. That's long enough for me. Your wounds will heal properly on the open road," he said. "I despise sitting in one place for too long as it is. Now I see that you are moving about with ease, we should be on our way."
"As you say," Rowan said. He sat on the edge of the pallet and looked to his sword, propped up against the wall. "I'm headed North, though."
"Same as me," Crowstone said. "A pure coincidence, I am sure."
"Fine," Rowan said.
Crowstone looked up, bushy eyebrows raised. "Besides, I fear the owner of this place may return any day, and I do not wish to be caught in the act of trespassing if you take my meaning."
Fourteen
They picked their way through the woods, the trees dense. So much so, they led their mounts by the reigns, walking ahead of them.
Kip trotted along in front of Crowstone, nose working at the frozen air.
(no scent)
"I fear not, my friend," Crow said. "I doubt you'll pick up anything in this. Nothing sticks in the cold."
(true)
Kip glanced behind at Rowan.
(he's going slow . . . looks like he's in a lot of pain)
"I know, but we don't have a choice."
(we could've waited a bit)
Crowstone laughed. "Yeah, I'm sure you'd like that Kip. A few more weeks in front of the fire. I know you too well."
The bearcat trudged on.
(i'm just saying)
"And don't I know it. You'd hibernate all winter if you were able."
(can't argue with you there . . . when can I ride on the horse anyway?)
"When I can, and not a minute sooner."
(get your own eggs next time)
"I just might. I can still climb," Crowstone lied.
(sure)
* * *
Starkgard could never be considered to be a featureless country. The woods gave way to hills and valleys. All of it covered in snow. More woodland and forest cut in from left and right, the occasional stretches of farmlands between.
Attempts at roads broke through the countryside, only to dissolve altogether when they met the woods. And more often than not they wouldn't pick back up on the other side. Rivers wide and deep cut their way from the Great Mountains and even in the winter they wouldn't freeze over completely – far too powerful for that.
The lakes were another matter. Those fishing villages that grew at their banks over generations came to accept the periods when the lakes are solid ice. At times there could be little to do but wait for them to thaw back out, and in Starkgard, that can take a while.
In the few major cities, life was much different. A different world. But across the majority of the North the living was hard. Cold right to the heart.
Men and women are thrust into that cold, and made, and shaped by it. Most fail. But a few make it through the other side, their bodies, minds and spirits tempered by the extreme temperature. Wits sharpened on the ice.
Where once a tyrant king ruled the land, a tyrant politician took his place.
And despite several years of civil war, he managed to maintain his iron grip on Starkgard and its denizens. He squeezed the kingdom. His lords challenged the barons and dukes for their land, their power. Slowly, piece by piece, Wagstaff gained control over the entire land. And what is a politician anyway but another tyrant?
* * *
They bought thick furs from a passing trader, and though the furs were toasty warm, they did little to alleviate the biting wind at the travellers faces. Kip didn't seem to mind the cold, walking alongside Crow's horse with his nose to the ground.
Rowan found the wind made his whole face hurt. "I can't wait to get out of this."
"Strong storms off the mountains," Crowstone said. "Blowing icy breath from the peaks. It'll probably get easier once we come around, start facing west."
"West? I'm headed North," Rowan said.
"Greyside, you said."
"Yeah. North of here."
"You head North as far as Rithford, then turn westward from the little stream," Crowstone said with a smirk. "Trust me. I've travelled all over these parts."
"Good. Then we shouldn't get lost," Rowan said and continued to urge his horse on. "Is there anything you don't know?" he asked over his shoulder.
"The way to make an edible omelette still eludes me, I'm afraid," Crow said. "But not through lack of trying."
* * *
A thick blanket of white covered the land, ensuring that every mile travelled was virtually indistinguishable from the next. The bare trees stood out in stark relief, the few evergreens among them like oases of colour amongst the monochrome landscape. They crossed a small, shallow river almost frozen entirely to the middle. The horses hooves smashed through the icy crust at its edges.
"How did you come to be a part of this Order?" Rowan asked Crowstone, seemingly out of the blue – but a question he'd been chewing over for some hours.
"It was a long time ago," Crow said.
"How long?"
"Too much to remember."
Rowan sighed with frustration. "Right."
"You seek a lot of answers," the mage said. "For a man with few to give."