The Broken Raven

by Joseph Elliott

  When he’s not walkin, he’s sittin and eatin and neckin with Bolverk and the other wreckers. It’s a hek easy life bein a king.

  I don’t see King Edmund again until evenin meal. He’s carried down in his gawkin lynx bed and brought to sit next to Konge Grímr, same as before. He’s still clatterin with all his armor on. Lady Beatrice is there too with the fat, skittin pig trottin beside her. She’s dressed in red today in clothes what are just as stupid as what she was wearin yesterday. She looks at me as she walks past, but there’s nothin goin on in her eyes. She hasn’t got no smarts is what I’m thinkin.

  There isn’t no other Inglish women here, same as yesterday, sept for the ones what bring in all the food and top up the drinks, with their bowin heads and quiet mouths. I wonder if Bolverk was right and King Edmund finds women offensive for some reason. It’s not right, that’s for hek sure.

  I load up a plate for Konge Grímr and he starts stuffin the food in his hole. The chew smells hek scrammin. I haven’t been given nothin to eat all day, and my stomach’s crampin like a choked squirrel. I don’t wanna beg. I’m not gunna beg.

  “Your Supremacy,” I say in Konge Grímr’s ear, “I haven’t eaten nothin since before we left the boat. Could I have somethin to eat, please?” That’s not beggin, it’s askin.

  Without stoppin his own chewin, he reaches out and grabs the first thing his skittin grubbers touch: a roll of bread the size of my fist. He chucks it on the floor, expectin me to scramble after it like some dirty rotdog. I’m not no dog and it makes me hek fiery that he’s treatin me like one. I’m sure as muck not gunna leave the roll on the floor, though.

  It’s the most hek ríkka bread I ever tasted. It’s still warm and there’s brown stew sauce on it from somethin or other. I don’t care what it is, nor that there’s grubmuck on it from the floor neither. I chomp on it and chomp again. I’m about to put the last piece in my mouth when I get shoved in the shoulder by a scraggin wet snout. It’s the pig — Lady Beatrice’s one — what must’ve seen the food fall on the floor and wants some for itself. I shoo it with my hands, but it’s not goin nowhere. It’s fat enough — it doesn’t need no feedin like I do. But now it’s strokin me with its big pink snouter and pleadin with its beady little gawpers.

  I break the last of the roll into two pieces and hold one of them out for the pig. It scoffs it down, ticklin my palm with its gobbler. I scratch it under its chin, which makes its bottom wiggle. Before it gets any ideas about eatin the other piece and all, I shove the bread in my own mouth. The pig’s flappy ears rise up, askin if I got more, but when it sees that I don’t, it trots back to Lady Beatrice. That’s when I notice she’s been watchin me. Her face is so blank I don’t know what she’s thinkin. Maybe I wasn’t sposed to feed her pig. She doesn’t look fiery, though. She pats the pig on its head and turns back to the table.

  After evryone’s finished eatin, we go through to another room. Konge Grímr leans heavy on my arm to stop himself stumblin after all the mead he’s been neckin. He squeezes my head harder than usual for me to describe the new room to him. I tell him it’s much smaller than the feast hall and has soft on the floor like the palace entrance but that this time it’s blue. There’s a bowl of water by the door for washin hands. I lead Konge Grímr to it. After he’s washed, he shakes them dry, gettin stinkin dirt water all over me. I don’t think he did it on purpose, but he might of.

  We sit down at a round table and someone closes the doors. There’s four people at the table: King Edmund, Konge Grímr, Bolverk, and a scrawny man with skinny cheeks and chicken eyes. Two guards stand behind King Edmund, still with their hands on his shoulders, and there are six other guards in the room — three by the window and three by the door. It’s a hek lot of guards for one small room.

  “Well, then,” says King Edmund. He clears his throat with a harsk growl what goes on for hek time. “It is time for us to discuss plans for the eradication of our mutual enemy.”

  “Of course,” ses Konge Grímr, “but first, we must drink — to celebrate our union!”

  Bolverk thumps his fist on the table in agreement. King Edmund keeps his lips tight and nods to one of the guards. The man goes to a flagon in the corner and pours some dark brown liquid into four metal tankards. He slops them in the middle of the table. I reach across and pick one up for Konge Grímr. It’s so bulkin I gotta use both hands. I put it in front of him and place his scraggin fingers on the handle. Straightaways he lifts it to his lips and glugs down three bulk drekks.

  “I trust it is to your liking?” King Edmund ses.

  Bolverk’s been neckin his own and lets out a grizzleburp.

  “It’s very fine,” ses Konge Grímr, neckin one more drekk.

  “On to business, then,” ses King Edmund. He clicks his fingers, and the scrawny chicken man next to him pulls out a long scroll. He unrolls it, and it’s bigger than what the whole table is.

  “This is a map of the mainland: both Ingland and Scotia, as well as all of the islands,” ses the chicken man.

  “Who are you?” Konge Grímr ses, cuz it’s the first time the man has spoken. I bite my tongue to stop myself from sayin He’s the scraggin man with chicken eyes.

  “My name is Aldric, Your Majesty. I am an adviser to the king.” He’s got a high voice like a woman’s. Bolverk’s smirkin and I think that’s why. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to point out exactly where the clan you spoke of resides?”

  Evryone leans forward and is lookin at the map. Sept Konge Grímr, of course, who can’t see nothin. Bolverk licks one of his fingers with his thick lollin tongue and then jabs it down on the map.

  “This is the island here,” he ses. “Their settlement is on this northernmost tip, but it’s now occupied by people from a neighboring isle. Unless the clan has succeeded in reclaiming it, it’s likely we will find them here.” He jabs his grubber down on another spot, farther south. “This is the home of a different clan, who were also our prisoners; the two clans fled the mountain together, so may well be supporting each other now that they’ve returned.”

  King Edmund nods, which sets the metal chains on his hood clangin. His whole scraggin face is tight as mud cracks. “It sounds like there are more of them than I first thought,” he ses. “I have dispatched spies to mainland Scotia; I shall send word for them to scout this island as well.”

  “As I mentioned, these people should not be underestimated,” ses Konge Grímr.

  “My spies are more than capable of taking care of themselves. They are, shall we say, ‘special.’ They’re my new innovation, one I have been perfecting over the past decade. The Scotians will not see them coming . . . in more ways than one.” He makes a phlegmy sound in his throat what’s either a laugh or a cough. “Once they return, we will have a clearer understanding of the situation.”

  I wanna know more about the spies, but neither Konge Grímr nor Bolverk asks, and King Edmund doesn’t say nothin more about them neither. Instead, he tells them about his army, which he boasts is the most hek bulkin army the world has ever known: tens of thousands of soldiers what’ll march north at the click of his fingers with nothin but killin on their minds. He talks about secret weapons and special armor and dark creatures what don’t sound no good neither. What with Konge Grímr’s wreckers and all, the people in Scotia don’t stand a chance.

  The four of them — Konge Grímr, Bolverk, King Edmund, and Aldric chicken eyes — talk on forever about all the ways they’re gunna wipe out the Scotian people. Although they don’t use the words wipe out; they use more bloodsplash words like kill, massacre, and destroy. The more they talk, the more twistgut I feel, specially when they say about gettin rid of the kidlins and all. They speak about the girl again, the one they think can talk with animals. Sounds foolin to me, but what do I know? She’s only a few years older than me, and Konge Grímr’s specially keen to get his harsk hams on her. He wants to hurt her the most. They yap on as if I wasn’t there cuz they don’t think I can understand, but I’m listenin tight and
hearin it all.

  All the whiles, Konge Grímr and Bolverk are neckin more and more. The guard keeps fillin up their tankards, and they’re both turnin more sour with evry drekk. King Edmund hasn’t supped none of his beer. Aldric takes a sip evry now and awhile, but they’re so small they’re not really no sips at all. I’m getting hek sapped and I wanna go to sleep, but no one cares one speck about me.

  “Why do you wear all that armor?” Bolverk asks King Edmund all in a sudden. The two guards what have got their palms on the king’s shoulders tighten their grip a blink. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Bolverk goes on. He holds his hands up in front of him. “I’m not going to cause any trouble. I’m just wondering, that’s all. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” ses Konge Grímr, “we’re all friends.” Both Bolverk and Konge Grímr are smiling pigsick.

  King Edmund sits up straighter in his chair, creak-clankin with evry move. “You cannot see my face, Grímr, but perhaps the girl you call ‘your eyes’ has informed you: I am not a young man. Quite the opposite; I am incredibly old. I plan to live forever, and so far I am succeeding rather well at it. I have defeated death.” He pauses to take in three raspy breaths. “One does not escape death without extreme measures and excessive caution. I am a master of both.”

  “No one can live forever,” ses Bolverk.

  “That is where you are wrong,” ses King Edmund. “I can, and I intend to. My physicians have developed elixirs to impede and reduce the effects of aging and are in the process of systematically replacing every organ in my body with a new, healthier one.” No one asks what poor rotweasels he’s stealin these bodyscraps from. “Besides, I already know how I will die, which gives me the ultimate advantage over Death.”

  “And how’s that?” asks Bolverk.

  King Edmund smiles, makin his eyes screw into worms. “That is not for you to know.”

  “Oh, but we know already,” ses Konge Grímr. He’s the one oozin smugness now.

  “Oh?” The wrinkles on King Edmund’s forehead are scramblin.

  Somethin’s changed in the room. No one’s laughin no more and the air’s turned to dung.

  “It’s surprising what you can discover if you ask the right people and pay the right price; isn’t that right, Bolverk?”

  “It is, Your Supremacy.”

  “We discovered many things about you,” ses Konge Grímr. “Including that you believe you will die at the hands of a Scotian, which is why you attempted to exterminate every last person in that country. It is also why you were so perturbed to discover there are people still alive there.”

  The only sound in the room is King Edmund’s wheezy breathin. “Well, haven’t you been busy,” he ses. He pulls at the scraggin flaps under his chin while he decides what to make of Konge Grímr’s snoopin. After a few strokes, he smiles a false smile and ses, “You’re perfectly right, of course, and — since we are now in allegiance — I see no reason to deny it. Many years ago, I dreamt that I would be murdered by a Scotian. It was more than a dream; it was a vision, a warning, and I immediately recognized it as truth. That is why I did what I did. You know about my plague, I presume? A lethal illness that spread from person to person, leaving no one alive. It was quite ingenious. The disease was inserted into rats, which were then unleashed upon Scotia, but not before we dug the longest trench that has ever been seen. It spanned the entire breadth of the country — from the west coast of Ingland all the way to the east, right on the Scotian border. Once the rats were released, the trench was set on fire to ensure the rats could not return. It also prevented infected Scotians from crossing the border into Ingland. The trench was kept burning for over a year, during which time the plague wreaked its havoc. It was more effective than I could have ever imagined: it wiped out every man, woman, and child from that dastardly place. Or so I thought. The news that there are survivors is . . . unsettling — I will not deny that — and has led to certain extra precautions.” He lifts up both his arms, indicatin the armor. “However, their numbers are small and my army is unstoppable. With the addition of yours, we will have no problem in destroying them.”

  This king is batcrazy. He’s even more cracked than Konge Grímr, if such a thing is possible. He killed evryone in a whole country just cuz of some stupid dream. There isn’t nothin right about that. I wanna scream at him. I wanna tell him he was wrong to do what he did and spit in his hek smuggin face. But I can’t do none of those things, cuz I’m not sposed to be understandin a single word he’s sayin. So I just gotta stand here, pretendin like evrythin’s fine while my insides swarm fire.

  Finally, King Edmund announces that they’ve talked enough for one night and he wishes to sleep. About time too. Konge Grímr is so oafed he has to have four of King Edmund’s guard men drag his harsk bulk up to his room. Once we’re there, the men start to take off his furs, but he pushes them away.

  “Don’t you touch me,” he ses, his words all slurrin. “I am a king, sent from Øden. Get out, get out!”

  The men look at each other unsure, then bow and leave the room. Now it’s just me and him.

  “Are you there, girl?” he ses in our language. Course I’m here. I’m chained to him with a mountain of thick skittin metal. Where the hell else does he think I’m gunna be?

  “Yes,” I say. I don’t say “Your Supremacy” and he doesn’t remind me to say it neither. He’s not so bothered when it’s just me and him.

  “Take my furs,” he ses. He shrugs them off and slings them in my direction. They’re bulkin, but I fold them as best as I can. “And my crown.” He passes that to me too, then collapses backward on the bed. “You’re a good girl,” he ses. His eyes are closed and his words are slow. I don’t say nothin. “I never had a daughter. Three sons . . . no daughter. I don’t know girls. Didn’t want one. But I tell you, even you — even you — would’ve been better than the kvillótt sons I had. First two didn’t even last a year . . . sickly little weevils . . . and then Knútr. Knútr . . . I killed him, you know. Whiny little bikja. Ax in his head . . . Splash. Hell of a mess. Served him right . . .” He’s really slurrin now, and smilin to himself at the memory of what he did to his son. The smile disappears. “You’ve got it easy. All you do is follow me around, don’t have to think about anything. I’d rather be following like you.” He’s pointin at me, or at the ceilin, with one wild, wobblin finger. “Who’d want to be king? Everyone, that’s who, because no one knows. It’s not . . . Being a king is . . . And who’s gunna rule after me? No one, that’s who. Maybe I should live forever like that stupid . . . Good idea. I’ll live forever too . . .”

  His breathin gets deeper and more gravelly and, as I wait and watch, eventually falls into snores. He’s so helpless. I could probly choke him with the chain right now and he wouldn’t even notice — that’d be one way for escapin.

  No. I’m not killin no one. That’d make me just as bad as he is.

  I’m still holdin his crown. I put it down on one of the chests and wipe my hands on my clothes. What a night. I haven’t never been so sapped, but my mind’s still runnin on. I lie down on the floor next to Konge Grímr’s bed and wrap my arms around my knees. I’m about to close my gawpers when I see a small square of somethin tucked under the corner post of the bed, near where my head is. No one else would of seen it there, it’s only cuz I’m lyin so close. Could it of been left for me? No. But why else would it be there?

  My fingers are unsure as they creep toward it. I slip it out from its place with a rustle. It’s a piece of parchment, crisp and thick, folded over twice. I unfold it once, pause, unfold it again, then turn it into the moonlight what’s drippin through the window. The message is in the foreign tongue, and straightaways I know it’s meant for me.

  I know you can understand us. You’re being watched.

  The hurt stag moves forward a bit and then backward a bit. When he steps on the twigs they make snap sounds. Its eyes are moving around fast.

  “It said it’s afraid of the darkness,
” I say to Aileen. “The darkness came and it t-tried to hurt its — herd. I think it means the — shadow things. It is scared that the shadow things will come back and k-kill them all.”

  “Will it let us help?” Aileen asks.

  “Yes,” I say.

  We move closer to the stag. It is very pretty. I stroke it and it likes it. Its antlers are sharp. Don’t you stab me with your head, I say and then I say, Please, because of manners. It says it won’t. It is happy we are helping.

  It tells me its hoof is hurt. It was because it was too dark when it was running and it didn’t see the sharp bushes. It lets Aileen pick up its hoof to look at it. There is a big thorn stuck in the bottom. She pulls on the thorn. It is hard to come out. Then it is out and the stag pulls its leg away. It makes a pain noise like a bark but different and stomps its bad foot on the ground one, two, three, four times. The stag is better now the thorn is out and it is happy. It rubs Aileen’s arm with its head which is to say thank you and it does it to me as well.

  Aileen says the cuts on its side were done by thorns as well. I was worried it was the shadow things that did the cutting. There is nothing we can do about the thorn cuts. Aileen says it is not deep cuts and they will be okay.

  I’m Agatha, I say to it. But you can call me Aggie if you like.

  It asks me, What is an Aggie?

  It is a me, I say. It is my name. What is your name? It tells me it doesn’t have a name. Everyone needs to have a name. I do a think. I will call you Thistle-River, I say. Because your antlers are spiky like thistles and you are strong like a river.

  He likes his new name. He bows his head and I bow mine too.