The Broken Raven

by Joseph Elliott

  “Yes. Do you remember we found his diary at Dunnottar Castle? Does Cray still have it?”

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t seen it since we left there.”

  “I need to find it; it might be important. I don’t suppose you could take me to where Cray is after we’ve looked for the people I was with?”

  “Of course. I’m heading back there in the morning anyway, and I’m sure Cray will be pleased to see you. For now, though, you should try and get some sleep. Sorry to say it, but you look terrible.”

  I smile a little and rub my eyes. The smoke from the fire is making my eyelids heavy.

  “Thanks, Mór,” I say. “You’re one of the good ones.”

  “I know I am,” she says. “And don’t you forget it.”

  “Get up.”

  Konge Grímr’s pullin on my chain. I usually hear him wake up. I musta sunk deep. Despite bein so sapped, I was awake most of the night thinkin about them two kings sat there with their maps and their plans and their harsk ugly laughs, thinkin they’re so clever and so right and can do whatever they want. I may not know much, but I know sure as the moon it’s not right what they’re plannin. There isn’t nothin good gunna come out of all that killin. Way I see it, people should leave other people alone, free to live their lives. That’s what Granpa Halvor always taught me. Not attackin people where you don’t belong, not takin other people and makin them slaves, and definitely no killin cuz of some bugdumb dream.

  People are gunna die. Lots of them. Even Konge Grímr’s own wreckers. Don’t they give no damn about that? And them people on the island what don’t even know what’s comin. It’s not fair, none of it.

  The note kept me up thinkin last night and all. I know you can understand us. You’re being watched. It musta been too obvious that I was listenin durin the meetin. But which one of them wrote it? And is it a warnin or a threat? There was only four of them in the room. It couldn’t of been Bolverk — his way is all action, not words. And it couldn’t of been Konge Grímr neither, cuz I would’ve seen him do it. That leaves only King Edmund and his advisor, Aldric chicken eyes. What game they playin? Unless it was one of the guards. . . . Whoever it was, I gotta be more careful.

  Someone enters and helps Konge Grímr into the huntin gear what they’ve brought for him. Once they’re gone, Konge Grímr ses to me, “Are we alone, girl?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Then know this: last night I was drunk. Anything I may have said to you means nothing, and if you mention one word of it to anyone else I’ll skin you alive.”

  Charmin as always.

  Someone knocks on the door. A diffrunt servant has come to show us to the stables. King Edmund’s takin us on a hunt today. He suggested it late last night and Konge Grímr and Bolverk lept on the idea. It’s an Inglish thing: they let loose an animal in the woods then chase it on horses until they kill it. Sounds like a mean waste of a life to me.

  When we get to the courtyard outside the stables, lots of men are already on horses, including Bolverk and Aldric. Bolverk gives me his usual grotweasel stare. A shiny brown horse is pulled out for Konge Grímr. I show his hands the stirrup and the reins, and he swings himself up easy. It’s a double saddle, what’s got me thinkin I’m sposed to sit in front and do the ridin. A quick tug on the chain from Konge Grímr’s got me knowin for sure. I’ve ridden wild horses plenty back home, but they’re half the size of the beast snortin in front of me now. It takes four tries for me to get my leg up and over. Then I’m on and it’s hek high. I don’t usually use no reins neither, but I know how they’re sposed to work. I hold them tight, hopin they’ve given me a horse what knows how to behave.

  King Edmund is carried out of the palace by his guards and lifted onto a mustard stallion with a blond mane. His horse has got a double saddle and all, and one of his guards sits up behind him. Plenty more of his guards mount their own horses, which surround King Edmund on all sides. Lady Beatrice comes out too, dawdlin and lookin bored as usual. There isn’t no sign of her pig today. She lets a horseman help her onto a black mare what’s got a bright white mane and tail, and a white stripe down its nose.

  A bulkin door in the side of the palace opens and four men bring out a large wooden crate. There’s somethin alive in it what’s bangin and howlin and tryin to get out. The men place the crate on a cart that’s attached to one of the other horses. The ripshriek sound of whatever animal’s inside doesn’t stop, but it’s soon drowned out by twenty or more hounds what come runnin into the courtyard. They’re yappin and barkin all around, specially at the crate with the animal inside. They jump up, tryin to get at it, but it’s too high for their scratchin paws.

  “Let’s go,” ses King Edmund, and his guards start nudgin the horses out of the courtyard. Konge Grímr thuds our horse hard with his heels, makin it tremble beneath me. It starts movin, though, and we follow King Edmund and the others through a hek bulk gate, which is decorated with gold vines and more gawkin lynxes.

  On the other side of the gate is a dirt track, which we follow for a couple of slogs. I keep holdin the reins, nudgin the horse this way or that, but I don’t have to do much; it seems chirpin enough followin all the others, which is lucky, cuz Konge Grímr’s still squeezin my head evry two blinks for describin what I can see. He really doesn’t need to do no squeezin; I’d have to be hek foolin not to know why I’m here by now.

  The track leads to a forest full of trees diffrunt from any I’ve seen before. Their trunks are like ogre thighs and the leaves are the size of my face. A harsk wind bickers, loosin leaves what float down to the forest floor like dyin stars.

  “Bring out the prey,” someone shouts, and all the horses stop. The men next to the cart pull open the crate and a gray blur shoots out. It doesn’t get far, cuz the men are holdin chains what are tied around the animal’s neck so it can’t run off nowhere. The beast yanks against the chains, wobblin the men on their toes. Its teeth are hek blades, but it can’t do no gnashin cuz of the muzzle what’s around its mouth.

  “What is it?” Konge Grímr asks me.

  “I dunno,” I say. “Looks like a wolf, but it’s bigger and more scraggin.”

  “It’s a wildwolf,” ses Aldric, who’s next to us on his horse.

  “Which is different from a regular wolf how?” asks Konge Grímr.

  “They come from the north,” ses Aldric. “Scotia. They are an . . . aftereffect of the plague. We don’t usually see them in Ingland, but — as His Majesty mentioned the other night — nearly a thousand of them came running into the country about a month ago. By all accounts, it appears they were fleeing your enemies in the northern Highlands. Most were hunted down and killed once they crossed the border, but a hundred or so were caught alive on the king’s orders and brought to the palace dungeon. They make excellent sport. Looks like it’s time for the slicing.”

  He draws our attention back to the wildwolf in front of us. A third man approaches it from behind with a stubby blade and cuts the wildwolf across the backs of its hind legs. The howl what comes out of the wildwolf’s mouth is gutsick. I explain what’s happenin to Konge Grímr and don’t hide that it’s not nice seein it.

  “You’re too sensitive, girl,” he ses to me. “It’s a beast. Beasts are made to be hunted.”

  The hounds are bein held back behind us, sept with ropes, not chains. They smell the blood and start barkin hek fiery.

  “Release the beast!” shouts King Edmund, excitement lightin his curdy eyes.

  The men holdin back the wildwolf unclip the chains and release it. At first, the wildwolf doesn’t know what to do, torn between attackin the men and runnin away. It decides on runnin and disappears into the trees. The slicin on its legs can’t of been deep, cuz it’s off sprintin quickspit.

  Soon as it’s out of sight, the dogs are let go of too, and then evrythin goes batcrazy. The hounds dart after the wildwolf — barkin like hell fiends — and the horses bolt after the hounds. All in a sudden we’re stormin through the trees, and I’m not d
oing no steerin or nothin, I’m just holdin on tight as I can, thinkin I’m gunna fall off any moment and get trampled under the hooves of the horses what are behind us. That’d be a skap way to go and no mistakin.

  Our horse twists and turns, weavin in and out of trees, tramplin over branches and moss. Konge Grímr’s suckin in air through his skittin nashers, makin sounds like he’s lovin every blink. The chase doesn’t last long. Our horse comes to a halt next to the hounds, which have got the wildwolf surrounded. The wildwolf snaps at them, but it can’t do no damage with the muzzle around its mouth. All the horses are stopped now, evryone watchin the poor rotten beast.

  King Edmund trots his horse next to ours. “Would you like to do the honors?” he asks Konge Grímr. He means killin it. I don’t know how that’d be possible, and I sure as hek hope he’s not expectin me to help him.

  “I can but try,” ses Konge Grímr. He holds out his hand and Bolverk passes him a small throwin ax. He raises it a little, listenin for where the wildwolf is. Can he really hit it without seein? It looks like it’s lined up good from where I’m sittin.

  As he throws it, I tug on one of the reins with my hand. It’s only a speck of a pull, cuz I don’t want no one to know I did it, but it’s enough to make the horse shift its weight, throwin off Konge Grímr’s aim. The ax clips the hairs off the wildwolf’s tail but nothin more. Lady Beatrice is starin at me from the back of her horse. I’m hopin she didn’t see what I did.

  “Almost, Your Supremacy,” ses Bolverk. “Would you like another — ?”

  “Finish it off,” snaps Konge Grímr.

  A sniff later, Bolverk’s pulled out another ax and launched it at the wildwolf. It lands in the animal’s neck. The wildwolf judders once, all through its body, before fallin on its side. The hounds are still barkin, but they’re less interested now the wildwolf’s dead, and they start to drift away. The men on the horses do the same.

  “An easy victory,” ses King Edmund, lookin satisfied. “The same as we will have in Scotia.”

  I can’t take my gawpers off the wildwolf as it bleeds out into the undergrowth.

  The moon’s blarin tonight, splashin puddles over the stone floor in Konge Grímr’s room. He’s sat at a small table next to the bed, eatin again, and I’m stood watchin him eat, my stomach crampin with evry bite. He already had four meals today, but that didn’t stop him wantin more. He demanded someone brought him somethin up to chomp on before he went to sleep.

  The hunt this mornin left me feelin sunken. What got me most skapped was how unjust it all was. There were so many hounds, and so many horses, and the wildwolf was cut and muzzled. How was that fair? It didn’t stand a chance. It was always goin to die. I hate this skittin place, and I hate King Edmund and all.

  Why’s the — ? The door’s openin, so slow it hurts. I don’t know who I’m expectin to see, but it sure as muck isn’t her. Lady Beatrice. When she sees Konge Grímr’s still awake she looks like she might leave again straightaways, but then she looks at me and changes her mind. She steps in, creepin quiet, and puts a finger over her lips tellin me not to say nothin. The candles what are around the room flicker shadows across her face.

  “Who’s there?” Konge Grímr asks, turnin around so his body’s facin the door. I dunno how he heard her.

  Lady Beatrice shakes her head the smallest flinch.

  “No one, Your Supremacy,” I say, regrettin the last two words, cuz I don’t usually bother sayin them when we’re on our own. My heart’s pumpin waterfalls; I’ll be in hek trouble if he finds out I’m lyin. Konge Grímr doesn’t turn back around. He stays with his face lookin straight at Lady Beatrice, tiltin his ears one way, then the other. He knows someone’s here. I’m starin at him and so is Lady Beatrice. Neither of us dare movin.

  “You’d better not be lying to me, girl,” he ses.

  “Why would I lie?” I say, keepin my voice normal. “It’s late. Who’d be here now?”

  Konge Grímr hawks up a phlegm glob, spits it over the table, and turns back to his chew. Lady Beatrice glances behind her, then takes another silent step toward me, all the whiles keepin her gawpers on the king. She looks diffrunt. Not her clothes; they’re still the stupid dangly ones she always wears. It’s her face. She looks less bored, more determined, more smart. Praps there’s more to her than what I thought.

  There’s a piece of parchment in her hands. She lifts it up so I can see it. The writin on it looks similar to what was on the folded note I found last night. It must’ve been her what left it for me.

  Nod if you can understand, it ses on it in the foreign tongue.

  I pause, not knowin what the skit’s goin on. Why is she here? Can I trust her? Or is she a sneakin kerl tryin to catch me out?

  Her eyes are searchin mine. There’s pain in them and loss. Desperation. I read the parchment one more time, then nod.

  She turns the paper around, movin slow to not make no sounds. Konge Grímr’s still gobblin at the table next to me, bits of chew spittin out in all directions. On the back of the parchment there’s another message.

  Do you agree with the king’s plan for Scotia?

  What the hell am I sposed to say to that? If I tell her the truth, I’m not only betrayin her king and country, I’m betrayin mine as well. There are always choices. It’s knowin which are the right ones that’s the hard part. Granpa Halvor’s voice drifts through my kog. Somethin about Lady Beatrice makes me wanna trust her. I shake my head.

  Lady Beatrice closes her eyes slow, opens them again, then reaches somewhere into her clothes. When her hand comes back out again, it’s holdin somethin what catches the moonlight.

  A metal file.

  My gawpers go wide lookin at it. She’s handin it to me, so I can escape. I dunno why she’s helpin me, and I haven’t got no time to be wonderin that now. I stretch my hand out toward it. Lady Beatrice takes another step forward. The stone scuffs under her foot.

  “What was that?” Konge Grímr puts down the slab of meat in his hands. Dark gravy drips from the ink centipedes on his fingers.

  “Nothin,” I say.

  He’s not convinced. He stands up. “Take me to the door,” he ses.

  Lady Beatrice looks at me, her bottom lip twitchin. If he finds the door open, he’s gunna know somebody’s in here, but what choice have I got?

  I take his elbow and lead him toward the door, skirtin wide, away from Lady Beatrice. She stays where she is in the middle of the room, bendin away from him as he passes. Konge Grímr’s listenin hard for any sounds. We’re nearly at the door. Sweat’s dribblin outta my temples. Konge Grímr has his hands out, feelin the air in front of him.

  Right before he touches the door, I fall to the ground, makin hek clatter with the chain to hide the sound of me closin it.

  “What happened?” snaps Konge Grímr.

  “I tripped,” I say.

  He grunts and probes at the door, then turns and stares straight at me. I know he can’t stare proply, but swear Øden, right now he’s lookin deep into my soul.

  “I don’t know what game you’re playing, girl — whether you’re lying to me or not,” he ses, “but if I find out you’re doing something you shouldn’t be doing, I’ll make you regret it for the rest of your life.” He pauses, his mouth twisted like a dead maggot. I don’t dare to swallow. “Now take me back to my food.”

  It takes me a few blinks to remember how my legs work. I hold his elbow again and lead him back to the table. As we pass Lady Beatrice for the second time, she holds out the file. I hesitate for the tiniest speck, then wrap my fingers around the handle and take it from her, right under Konge Grímr’s nose. We both stare up at him, lookin for any sign that he knows what just happened. He’s not showin nothin. He reaches his chair, sits back down, and continues crammin.

  I look back at Lady Beatrice. Her smile is so small it’s almost not there. She nods once, then leaves the room, movin the door so slow that Konge Grímr doesn’t hear her go. He’s slurpin so noisy now he wouldn’t hear nothin
anyways.

  I still got the file in my hand. I haven’t got nowhere else to put it. Its handle’s drippin with my sweat. I’m gunna use it tonight: as soon as Konge Grímr’s buried in sleep, I’m breakin myself free.

  Once it’s light outside, Mór extinguishes the fire, picks up her spear, and slips back through the crack. I follow her out of the cave. It no longer hurts to put pressure on my feet; the balm and bandages Mór applied worked a miracle while I was sleeping. My clothes also dried during the night, although they’re now thick with the smell of smoke.

  Mór puts two fingers from each of her hands into her mouth and whistles, loud.

  “Aren’t you worried about imitators hearing?”

  “Duilleag will get here long before they do,” she says.

  Sure enough, almost immediately, her mighty bull lollops around the side of the hill. Mór hops onto his back and pulls me up behind her. She gives the Highland bull an affectionate scratch, digging deep into the long, auburn hair on his head. Then she holds on to his horns and he starts to gallop, reaching a speed that dries out my eyes in a matter of moments. It doesn’t take long for the familiar ache to creep into my backside; I’d forgotten how uncomfortable these creatures are to ride.

  We go back to the site of the Bó Riders’ former camp and circle it three times. I call out, but there’s no sign of Donal or Violet. Part of me is relieved there are no bodies, although that doesn’t mean much. We don’t stop or even slow down, and Mór is poised with her spear, in case there are still imitators nearby.

  “Where do they go at night?” I ask, the wind snatching my voice.

  “We don’t know. We haven’t found any signs of habitation, so presume they sleep out in the open.”

  “Don’t they get cold?”

  “Apparently not. Another trait they’ve stolen from the jellysquid.”

  Once I accept that neither Donal nor Violet is here, Mór turns Duilleag away, and we start riding west. I stay alert, scanning for any signs that they may have passed through, but at the speed we’re going, it’s a pointless task. The farther away we get, the heavier the gloom inside me grows.