Ravenwood

by Andrew Peters

  “Anyhow. Thought you lot might be in the squit. Now you are! The smell ain’t too healthy, but a boy’s gotta do what he’s gotta doo-doo!” Mucum pushed hard and the massive squit cannon trundled into view, manned on either side by Ark’s old colleagues. “I figured the scaffields ‘ad enough fertilizer. These childish thugs could do with a bit o’ growin’ up, if you see what I mean!”

  “That be moi boyo!” sang a voice from the parapets. “Oi always know’d yow be the bravest!”

  Mucum couldn’t help grinning. As he’d come in, the sight of Joe laid out on the ground had almost stalled him. He’d quickly checked the faces of the other dead Rootshooters splayed around the yard, feeling guilt at the relief when the one he searched for wasn’t there. “Flo! I’m finally gonna kiss your socks off when we’re done!”

  “That be so romarrnnntic!” she said with a heaving sigh. “Yow’d better get on now. See yow later, Oi pray!”

  “It’s a promise!” This time, he’d keep it.

  Flint felt ashamed of being defeated by a bunch of common boys. “What do you think you are doing?” he roared at his men. First they had to deal with weirdo white grubs thinking they could fly, then a boy who flung his men into the air. Now the very sewers had risen against them. To top it all, the few who had any hearts left beneath their chain mail nearly sighed at the exchange between Mucum and Flo.

  Flint knew he was about to lose command. All that he had left was the loyalty of his men and their pride. “Would you be defeated by mere children?”

  Their leader was right. They were armory born and bred. Their job was to maim and murder for whoever paid them the most. Flint shouted, “I want every one of them dead!” It was an order they understood.

  But Flint’s wish was not about to be easily granted. As his men let their blades lead them back into the fray, Mucum took control of his tiny but effective band. Little Squirt operated the rotating tracker on the cannon, turning a wheel that fired a constant jet of liquid like a geyser, spraying around the cloisters to take out the bowmen one by one. Mucum was hit in the arm by an arrow, but he simply snapped off the shaft and continued shouting instructions.

  The remaining Rootshooters landed in the middle of the action and stripped off their wings, kneeling down to send a deadly spiderweb of threaded harpoons into the few archers who hadn’t been washed off their feet by the force of the cannon.

  Ark watched in amazement. He was humbled by his friends’ risking all. With their help, the fighting might be quelled.

  The King had regained his youth, deciding that mercy was not in the cards for the soldier trapped beneath his foot. He stamped down, snapping the man’s neck, then jumped forward, roaring like a bear, his blade swiping and clawing at any unfortunate solider who got too close.

  It was a rout. Flint backed away like a wounded animal, watching all his best-laid plans go amiss. Where was that coward Grasp? And would Maw abandon this coup so easily?

  The squit cannon dripped dry, the tank that fed it beneath the castle now empty. Mucum was not bothered by this change in circumstances. “Come on, boys, let’s clean up the last of this mess!” And with only meaty fists as weapons, he waded into the battle, swinging his big arms like a pair of broadswords. Even Little Squirt showed no fear, darting around like a squirrel to trip up Flint’s men so that they fell directly into the path of stabbing harpoons or Mucum’s bone-crushing punches.

  Finally, a sick silence fell into the yard. Every one of Flint’s men lay dead or groaning on the ground. The archer’s bows lay scattered around the cloisters like fallen leaves, fingers that would never string up again now curled in a rictus of death.

  Ark stood directly in front of Flint. “I will finish with you now.”

  Flint towered over the boy, the last traitor standing. “You have no weapon. I have no fear.”

  “But my words might convince you,” said Ark. “Kneel!” The command was soft. He’d learned his true mother’s lessons well. And mothers would fight to the death to protect their territory.

  “You would have me bow down? I think not!” The arrogance still played around Flint’s features — the jut of his jaw, the defiance in his gray eyes.

  “Kneel!” said Ark, who would not be brooked. As their eyes met, the power of the forest flowed between them, enveloping Flint’s body, forcing it to stagger as every ounce of willpower was put into resistance. However, given time, a tree will crack stone as easily as a chisel. Despite himself, the Commander’s knees bent and he collapsed onto the floor.

  The King watched, appalled at the ease with which Ark bent this once proud man into a bundle of shaking muscles. “Must you do this?” He stepped forward, trying to intervene. “We shall expose his deceit by trial. This is the way of the Dendrans.”

  “I am sorry, Your Majesty. But the moment your trusted colleague agreed to have you killed, his path was set.” Ark remembered a nervous sewer apprentice running away from danger like a rabbit. That young Malikum was no more than a misty memory. “Now I will give the Commander one last chance for mercy.”

  All this time, Flint crouched on all fours on the bloody ground like a wounded animal. His lips tried to form words, but Ark’s hypnotic hold stopped any response.

  “You will ask the forgiveness of your king and the people who trusted you to protect them!” Each word was like an acorn dropped and instantly rooted in the dark soil of Flint’s mind. Flint, surrounded by a cohort of corpses, bit down hard on his lips until the blood flowed freely down his chin. If he spoke up and admitted his wrongs, the mad boy would let him live. But that was not the way of a leader. He would not submit.

  Ark knew exactly what the man’s response would be. “You … will … do … as the forest desires!” And now it was Ark towering over Flint, every syllable hammering into the man’s brain.

  Flint’s eyes rolled up inside his skull. He was losing everything. In his mind, gold ingots fell over the edge like leaves, forever too far from his failing grasp. It had all seemed so easy, so long ago. His lips parted as his mind finally snapped. “Not … King … Arborium … Mfffff.” The next few words were gibberish. A string of frothing dribble unraveled down the side of his mouth.

  Ark turned away and inclined his head toward Quercus. “Death is a great friend compared to the companions that will accompany this traitor’s mind for the rest of his days.” But despite the strength of his speech, Ark was trembling all over. He could taste the bile rising up into his throat, feel the twisting of snakes in his stomach. It took every remaining ounce of strength not to throw up there and then.

  The King could not speak, though his hands clenched the hilt of a bloody sword dug into the wood. How could he judge a boy who had saved both his life and the country?

  Two of Quercus’s men tiptoed in fear around Ark, grabbing the body that was once Commander Flint and tying the hands behind the defeated man’s back.

  “It’s finished,” said Ark, his heart filling like a cruck well as he surveyed the courtyard carpeted in corpses. A terrible tiredness overtook him. He had done as the Warden asked, killing none himself, though he could not stop the Rootshooters exacting their revenge. But to bend a man’s mind like a sapling and then snap it? If this was what leadership required, he wanted none of it. He felt as empty as the dark scene that confronted them all.

  The battle was over, but it was the bleakest of victories.

  45• A SUDDEN TURN

  A sound filled the night air, echoing around the wreckage of the courtyard.

  Somewhere up above, a giant woodpecker hammered at invisible branches in a repetitive rhythm. The noise was so loud that all the survivors put their hands over their ears to block it out. At the same time, a fierce wind blew down, tugging at cotes, riffling through the hair of prone bodies, and blurring the eyes of those who dared look up. A thin black line hissed down from the sky. At its end came what looked like a fully garbed Holly Woodsman, descending at an impossible pace. Before the King could even speak, the figure landed and pul
led back the hood.

  “My lord. I don’t think I have had the honor?” Despite the noise overhead, the voice cut through as clear as glass.

  It was brave, Ark thought. All was decided, but her arrogance had lost none of its unnatural shine.

  Quercus studied the woman who stood before him, fur-clad boots resting on the blood-spattered boards. “Lady Fenestra!” he shouted above the din of the rotor blades. “Envoy of Maw, I presume? Have you come to surrender now that you are surrounded?”

  The sharp set of her smile was disturbingly confident. “Oh, let me assure you, if you look through the glass darkly, you will see that matters are the other way around, my dear little weak king!”

  All stood spellbound by her performance. Was she mad? But the clouds cleared, revealing the source of that pounding rhythm. A black shape blotted out the sky, and from its belly, more dark lines spun out like instant spiderwebs. Each carried a figure cloaked in black, cradling shimmering danger in its arms. Red dots suddenly appeared like little fireflies hovering over the chests of the King’s men.

  Ark instinctively knew what was about to happen. All he could do was watch in utter horror.

  “I think that now would be as good a moment as any? But please, spare the King.” The envoy snapped her fingers and several simultaneous cracks echoed around the trees. The shining red wavering dots bloomed like sick roses. The scent of blood hit their noses as, one by one, good Dendrans collapsed on the ground, instantly stabbed by shards of modified glass, their life force pooling and spilling out of the courtyard and over the edge of the great trees to drop to the earth far below in dark, red, unnatural waterfalls.

  Ark took in several sights at once. Up above, on the battlements, another feminine cry rang out as Flo was punched back by a single blast. Down in the yard, Mucum had ducked behind the squit cannon as g-bullets shattered harmlessly against the side of its barrel. Little Squirt was not so lucky. How could a tiny projectile lift a whole person off the floor? There was a gasp and the young sewer apprentice tumbled backward in a heap.

  As all this happened, Ark was aware of the heat in his own chest. He glanced down to see his own, bright red buzzing dot. But Corwenna had trained him well. As the bullet came toward him, he watched its trajectory, dividing it up into milliseconds. It was a simple matter of telling this speeding product of Maw that he was no longer in its way. He stepped to one side, allowing all the rifle’s projectile force to fall harmlessly, plowing into the far wooden wall.

  The surprise lay on the face of the shooter. Petronio! Like a demon that would never give up, his chubby face leered toward him.

  “Son of a beech!” was the only curse that came from his lips. “I thought the ravens had you!” It was rare for Petronio to be puzzled.

  Ark had no time for personal grievance. The slaughter had to be stopped. Is that what the thin hollow whistle tucked in his cote was for? Petronio’s words were a sudden gift.

  Ark lifted the whistle to his lips and blew a note of total silence. But far behind the peaks of ice, and wrapped in branches that wriggled and twisted like snakes, sat a woman deep in the hollow of a tree who heard the note, as did every creature she cared for.

  “Help us!” murmured Ark, at the same time aware of shining splinters eating up the distance toward intended targets.

  Look through the glass darkly, said Fenestra. She hadn’t looked hard enough. By allowing such alien weapons into the conflict, the envoy had lost honor and thereby brought on darker consequences.

  All this, in the gap between one breath and the next. Maw was here and its troops were about to meet all that the Ravenwood could offer in return.

  Ark’s head turned to the west. They were coming as they had always promised. Now! The moon was blotted out as the sky suddenly filled with screeching shadows. A beating, flapping mass of black, far louder than the single, suddenly vulnerable flypod. And they were led by one bird, soaring through the slipstream.

  Every eye turned upward.

  “Blimming heck! It’s Hedd and his gang!” shouted Mucum. With all that blood, it was a wonder they hadn’t come before. But would the perfume drive them wild? No one knew if they were friend or foe.

  Ark had no time to worry about Dendran fears. The ravens of Arborium still needed his guidance. The boy reached out to Hedd, felt the keenness of that savage but noble mind, saw his intent but worried for the consequences. He pleaded with Hedd to ignore all instinct. The lead raven had to convince the rest of his furious flock. For once, they must not go for the injured, but for those who caused the injuries. As if in answer, the flock wheeled and turned.

  For a brief moment, there was panic in the soldiers’ eyes. With their armored vests and infrared visors, all they saw was a bunch of oversize birds flying toward them. Feathers against high-velocity rounds. Easy!

  They turned their transparent weapons to the skies and let off a volley that would have cut a regiment of Dendrans in half.

  And indeed, many of the brave birds fell at that first assault. Ark felt each death like a body blow. He saw the dimming of their eyes and even worse, the memories of their long, airborne lives spilling into the cold air around them. But their companions continued to fly, sharp and precise, their claws turned out to rip these interlopers into bite-size gobbets of flesh.

  Weapons, far more advanced than anything Arborium had ever seen, clattered onto branch lines and plummeted toward the ground, spinning around in circles like the useless lumps of forged glass that they were.

  And as for the Mawish force? They had been inoculated against gas. But there was no protection from razor beak and scything claw.

  “My men!” the envoy screamed, clutching at a table in shock, forced to watch as her handpicked elite became meat. Victory was literally snatched away.

  One of the birds came at Petronio, its beady eyes well aware that this prize was precious.

  Petronio had finally met his match. No cunning would free him from this encounter. He turned to face the bird. So be it.

  Grasp Senior had kept himself out of the action so far. He was currently cowering under a table nearby, able to see with awful clarity what was about to happen. Ignoring years of selfishness, he scuttled out from behind his cover and dived toward Petronio. “My son!” he shouted.

  All these years, the boy had only wanted his father’s approval. Is this what it took? Petronio’s brain calculated the possibilities and came up with one rather excellent outcome. He would not be crossing the River Sticks today. Petronio opened his arms to welcome his father’s saving embrace. But, at the very last second, he shoved hard, eyes locking onto the raven’s. “Take this lump of overpriced fat! You’re welcome to it!”

  The incoming bird was presented with an even juicier morsel. Animal instincts took over. As Petronio ducked under the table to save himself, his father gave one last, gurgling scream. Councillor Grasp had committed the only selfless act of his greed-driven life. His reward was a claw that pierced his neck and instantly severed his windpipe. Its task done, the bird flew off to support its brethren as Grasp slowly fell to his knees, then thumped onto the boards.

  Ark looked up. One of the ravens had veered away. Ark recognized the pattern of feathers around the neck. It was Hedd. What was he up to? Oh no! The bird was flying straight toward the only other creature that dared to travel the sky. However, this enemy had wings of steel. What could a raven do against such technical superiority? The answer was obvious.

  Don’t! Ark called, silently and desperately.

  Hedd flicked back one last glance that contained only sadness. Am with you to the end, boy of woods. Again we shall meet. Raven promise.

  Ark could do nothing more. No prayer, no sleight of hand, no begging to the trees would stop this bird’s intent. He watched in horror as Hedd gave a single, screeching crark. The thwack-thwack of the flypod faltered in its beat. Hedd had flown straight into the blades.

  Ark gave a single, powerless cry as the tears rolled down his cheeks.

  An
d then the brave bird was gone, leaving only a drizzle of honest blood cascading to the forest floor. Ark clenched his fist tight at the unfairness of it all. Why did doing what was right hurt so much?

  The metal monster was fatally wounded, listing to one side as it veered off into the trees to the east. There was a crash, a whoomph of flame that flared into the night and died away as the trees swallowed up the evidence.

  It was over before it was begun. Ark stood at the center, numbed by such courage, surrounded by a storm of falling feathers.

  As Mucum crawled out from under the wreckage of the cannon, and the last few Rootshooters tended to the wounded; as the King looked around in utter confusion, the grief of ages gouged into his face; as Little Squirt flopped onto his side and threw up great gouts of blood; as a child hugged his dead mother and cried a cruck pool of tears; as surviving ravens flew to nearby roosts to feed on Mawish flesh; as the envoy stood, surprisingly uninjured among the groans and rasping cries around her, Petronio took his chance.

  He leapt up from under the table straight at his most hated enemy. “You! Why won’t you die?” he snarled.

  Ark saw his childhood foe in front of him, eyes fired up with the heat of the battle.

  Petronio was not content with words. His eyes flicked briefly toward the man who was once Commander Flint. He grabbed Ark’s right shoulder with one hand. The other plunged deep into Ark’s stomach, searching for dark treasure. “Not so magic now, are you?” he sneered, stepping back to admire his handiwork, hearing the satisfying crunch as the blade bit.

  Ark staggered back, clutching at the dagger dug deep into his guts as if it was a gift. All was expected, dealt with. But not this.

  46• THE LAST GRASP

  Ark wondered why he wasn’t in pain. Was dying really this easy? Then he burst out laughing. “Corwenna said that fruit was good for me!” he shrieked hysterically.

  Petronio was thrown. After all, he’d just stabbed the skinny twig! “Have you gone mad? You should say a few prayers before you meet your maker.”