A few people turn their heads in my direction. I stare at the ground, hoping it might crack apart and swallow me whole.
“No mention of me,” Cray whispers in my ear. “Always the unsung hero . . .”
I nudge him with my elbow.
“The Badhbh has . . . past experience with the sgàilean. He has forged weapons for us capable of destroying them. These are no ordinary weapons, and the decision to create them was not made lightly. The destruction which the sgàilean have already wrought on this island is all the confirmation we need that our ancestors were right in declaring magery undùth. However, if we are to defeat them, we have no option but to combat their dark magic with our own. It may not feel right, but it is a necessary evil. So, take up arms and we will use them to strike the shadows down.”
“How do we know the weapons will work?” someone calls out.
“We don’t,” replies Kenrick. “But there is no way to test them without the sgàilean discovering what we are doing. They are intelligent entities, and we must utilize the element of surprise. We will fight from the edge of the loch, keeping our feet submerged in the water’s protection. That way we can always retreat farther into its depths if necessary.”
“What about the children?” shouts somebody else.
“As soon as the sun sets, all fires will be extinguished with the exception of those in the sickboth and in the nursery, where all the children will be. The dark magic within the weapons will attract the sgàilean to us — the Badhbh assures me that once the first few come, the rest will follow. Then we fight. Clann-na-Bruthaich and Clann-a-Tuath side by side. Together we will overcome this darkest of foes. Tonight we rid ourselves of the shadows’ curse!”
On his last word, he pulls a sword from the huge feast pot in front of him and raises it into the air. It glows the same red as the Badhbh’s sword. Everyone in the crowd raises a fist and shouts out in support of his words. Then those closest to the pot reach in and start passing back the many weapons that are inside. Swords, knives, bows and arrows, all manner of weapons pass from hand to hand, each one emanating the same soft, ethereal light. Cray pushes his way forward to ensure that no one else takes his spear. Once he has it, he spins it in the air, the red glow of its tip making impossible circles above his head.
The woman in front of me offers me the choice of two swords — one long and sharp, and the other a short, metal practice sword. I choose the practice sword; it’ll be easier to wield, and its bluntness shouldn’t make too much difference against the sgàilean. Aileen dismounts from Bras and accepts a large meat hook from someone else.
“What w-weapon can I have?” Agatha asks anyone who will listen.
“Ah, Agatha, I’m glad I found you,” says Lenox, stepping through the crowd. “I have an important job for you.”
“I know what is an important job,” says Agatha, “and it is — fighting. I have to do the f-fighting. It is the most important one.”
“Actually, Agatha, we think you’d be most useful staying with the children.”
“No!” she shouts. “I am not a — child.”
“I know, we know, but we need your help to look after them. You’re good at helping people, aren’t you?”
Agatha nods, but she’s still frowning. “But I am the hero,” she says. “I want to be the h-hero.”
“Being a hero doesn’t necessarily mean swinging a sword,” says Lenox. “Helping people is being a hero too. You’ve never been trained to use close-combat weapons, so I’m reluctant to place one in your hands now. Besides, there aren’t enough for everyone. So make your way over to the nursery — they’re expecting you there.”
Agatha spins on her heel with a growl and storms off. I’m glad she won’t be fighting. Part of me wishes I’d been given that option too. It’s all happening so quickly; I’ve scarcely had time to catch my breath since arriving back on Skye. Exhaustion from the past few days weighs heavy on my shoulders. I suppose I can rest when I’m dead . . .
“To the loch!” someone shouts, and I’m swept along with everyone else. Once we’re there, we spread around its edge, facing outward. There’s a nervous excitement in the air, which hangs over us like a swarm of hungry bees. Cray stands on one side of me and Aileen is on the other. Maistreas Eilionoir is nearby, swinging her sword in a double loop. I’ve never seen her use a sword before, but it looks comfortable in her hands.
All of the deer have moved into the safety of the water behind us. They know what’s coming. Bras is there too — this is one fight Cray does not want him involved in. One of the Hawks rings a chime: the signal for all of the external fires to be extinguished. Water is poured over them, and they fizzle out with sad sighs.
The sun starts to set, hidden behind a mess of lumpy clouds. We all look in its direction and watch as the sky slowly dims through shades of gray.
“Are you ready?” Aileen whispers.
“Definitely not,” I reply.
Maistreas Eilionoir is the first to raise her sword, then everyone else follows her lead, creating a ring of magical light to attract the sgàilean. The only sounds are the distant shrieks of crickets and the occasional splash as one of the deer slides through the water. Everything else is still.
Now we wait.
Rain is spewin down around us in sicksquit lashes. My ribs are sore from the bjark and my head’s throbbin from fallin off of Eydis, but I haven’t got no time to be worryin about none of that right now.
From where he’s standin next to his bulk elk, Bolverk pulls out a length of rope — I’m guessin for tyin me up. There isn’t no way I’m lettin him do that.
“You’ve been a very naughty little raven,” he ses. “The king is not happy with you one bit.”
“I don’t give two hells about the king,” I say.
Bolverk whistles. “I’d advise against saying anything like that in front of His Supremacy.” I can’t stop starin at his scar, at the way it slices through the ink goat’s neck. I have a twistgut feelin that I’m about to share its fate. “Not that it’ll make much difference. The way he was talking when I left, he’s going to skin you alive. In fact, I might ask if I can have the pleasure of doing it myself. A reward for tracking you so successfully — do you think that sounds fair?”
I’m not really listenin. All I’m thinkin is I need to get away. But how?
He sees my eyes flickin for an escape route. “There’s no way for you to escape, so let’s do this the easy way, shall we, and save ourselves a whole lot of pain?”
He doesn’t know me at all if he thinks I’m just gunna let him take me easy. But I sure can pretend that’s what I’m gunna do.
“Fine,” I say, standin up.
“Show me your hands,” he ses. I put one of my hands above my head. “And the other one,” he ses. But the other one’s busy pullin out the file Lady Beatrice gave me from the back of my waistband. I sneak it out slow, then, soon as it’s free, I launch it at him. Before I see if it hits, I’m turnin and jumpin and stretchin for the lowest branch of the nearest tree. The first time, I miss. There’s growlin behind me. I’ve only got one more chance. I jump again, and this time I grab it. I heave myself up and scurry higher, out of reach.
Bolverk is directly below, blood tricklin from a small slash on his arm where the file hit. He’s too heavy to follow me up the flimsy branches and he knows it. It’s makin him hek fiery.
“You can’t stay up there forever.” He bellows loud and smashes his fist into the tree trunk, sendin it wobblin and cuttin his hand and all.
Eydis whinnies and rises up on her back legs.
“It’s okay, Eydis,” I call down to her.
That was a mistake. Bolverk looks at me, and he looks at Eydis. Then he bends down slow and picks up the file I threw. He takes a step toward Eydis, then another one.
“You leave her alone,” I say. “She didn’t do nothin to no one.”
“Shhh. Me and your horse are just making friends.” He strokes the back of his hand down her neck. “Aren�
��t we, pretty horse?”
“Don’t you touch her.”
“Such a pretty horse.” He raises the file level with her eye. “It’d be a shame if something were to happen to her.”
“Stop it. Stop it!”
“You’ve got until the count of three, little raven, until I have an accident with your horse here. One. Two.” He’s countin too fast. “Th — ”
“Okay. I’m comin down.”
I crawl back down the tree and drop onto the wet ground.
Bolverk barks a single laugh. “I’ve got to be honest, I’m a little disappointed. It’s a horse. You know that, right? A horse that you’ve known, what? Less than a week. You’re giving yourself up for a skittin horse? I thought you’d be stronger than that.”
I don’t say nothin. I don’t care what he ses.
He walks toward me, loomin over me like the hek massive oafogre he is. “It’s over, little raven; there’s nowhere left to run.”
I don’t wanna run; all I wanna do now is hurt him — for tormentin me, for threatenin Eydis, for the way he thinks he’s so much better than me and can do whatever the hell he wants. I lunge toward him, but he bats me aside with his thick skittin paw as easy as if I was trampwheat. I’m on the ground. My lip is cut. He grabs a fistful of my tunic and drags me to the drop like he’s gunna toss me over, but I know he won’t; Konge Grímr will want me alive.
“You probably think I won’t throw you over, that the king wants you alive” — rot him to hell for bein right — “but I don’t trust you, little raven. I don’t trust you to behave yourself on the journey back. You’re a slippery little wench, and I sure as hellfire don’t want any more trouble out of you. Much easier to say you fell, and return with your broken body.” He means it, I can tell; he’s gunna throw me over. He laughs then, and a thin line of dribble lands on my face. He’s got my arms tight so I can’t wipe it away. “I’ve always enjoyed the irony of your ink,” he ses. “You know the meaning of the raven, I presume?” Course I know — all kidlins are taught the meanins of the diffrunt inks. “What could be funnier,” he ses, “than a tattoo that’s supposed to represent hope, looking like it’s already dead?” His scar is even more gawkin ugly when he smiles.
I grit my teeth. “Wreck you to hell!” I shout. I grab and pinch and scratch at his harsk scraggin arm, but it’s like tryin to hurt a growler bear.
“Enough talking. It’s time to see if the little raven has learned how to fly.” He grins at his own joke and lifts me off the ground.
Somethin charges at him, a black blur that crashes into his side. Eydis! She hits him bamsmack on his arm with her head. He’s so surprised he drops me and trips over my legs, stumblin forward, only there isn’t nowhere forward for him to go. Only the edge, the drop to nothin below. I haven’t never seen someone look so angry as what Bolverk looks in that moment. And then he’s gone, his shouts fadin fast. I scramble to the edge to watch him fall, but I can’t see nothin: he’s already been swallowed by the rain.
I wrap my arms around Eydis’s neck. “You really are the most hek ríkka horse there ever was!” I’m shakin all over, from the cold or the wet or the shock or somethin. Eydis nuzzles into me, and I rub the white stripe down her nose just how she likes it. Bolverk’s giant elk stands a few yards away, watchin over us with indifference. The rain splashes off its bulkin antlers.
“Come on, Eydis,” I say, turning my back to the elk. “We gotta find us some shelter outta this spew.” My voice is tremblin and my legs are hek wobblin, but I lean on Eydis and she supports me.
One last push and we’ll reach the channel what separates the island from the mainland. It didn’t look wide on King Edmund’s map, and I’m pretty sure horses can swim. I hope they can cuz I’m not leavin Eydis behind, that’s for hek sure.
Then we’ll be on Skye. We’re so close now; we’re gunna make it, I know we are. Isn’t nothin gunna stand in our way.
The wait is agonizing as we stand in silence around the edge of the loch. The wind has picked up and careens around us with reckless abandon. I clench my teeth together to stop them from chattering.
After what feels like forever, the final shreds of daylight disappear and the whispering begins. At first, it’s not easy to hear it over the wind, but it soon grows louder — that foul, aggressive sound I’ve heard so many times before: the sgàilean are coming. Lots of them. We all take a collective step backward until our feet and ankles are submerged. Sgàilean can’t move through water, so as long as we stay in the shallows, it should prevent them from grabbing us.
My heart gallops in my chest. What if the weapons don’t work? Or the sgàilean find a way to force us out of the water? I’ve seen what they’re capable of: ripping, tearing, snatching, slashing. It’s all they know how to do.
“Where are you going?” Kenrick calls from farther around the loch. A man has broken out of his position and is hobbling away from the line. “Come back. Everyone else, hold your ground!”
It takes me a few moments to realize the fleeing man is the Badhbh. I sprint after him.
“Jaime!” shouts Aileen, but I don’t stop.
I grab the Badhbh’s elbow and spin him around. “Where are you going?”
He shakes me off. “This is not my battle.”
“Yes, it is. The sgàilean exist because of you. You made them; you need to take responsibility for them.” I can’t let him abandon us; if he doesn’t have faith that we can beat them, what hope do the rest of us have?
“I did what you asked: I helped your people. I made your weapons. Now, leave me alone.”
He sets off again, in the direction of the nursery. So he’s planning on hiding with the children. And I thought I was a coward.
I let him go. I need to get back to the loch before the sgàilean reach it. Suddenly, everything around me grows darker and the whispering drowns out all other sounds. The sgàilean are inside the enclave. They drift as one, like the shadow of a storm cloud. They hit the loch’s northern rim first, the area farthest from me. There is shouting and confusion, then an earth-shattering scream pierces all other noise. I’ve never heard anything like it. There’s no way that it was human. Another scream rings out, even higher in pitch, containing even more agony. Is that the sound of a sgàil dying? The fighting ripples down both sides of the loch. The screams continue, becoming more and more frequent.
People are running toward me: Cray, Aileen, and Donal. Their weapons sway in their hands as they run.
“Come on,” says Donal as we meet, “we need to get you back to the loch.”
“Not your smartest move, running off like that,” says Aileen as we run.
“I thought I might be able to change his mind,” I say.
“We thought you were bailing on us as well for a moment,” says Cray.
He means it as a joke, but it stings, especially because it’s not true. I can fight and I intend to. No one saw what I did in Norveg, but I’ll show them now.
We arrive back at the southern shore and step into the water moments before the sgàilean sweep in on us. Cray strikes first, stabbing his spear into a shifting darkness on the ground. As it hits, the end of the spear glows ember orange. The shriek is so loud it batters the insides of my ears. The sgàil explodes in a swirl of black and then it’s gone, leaving nothing but the thick smell of burned meat. Cray is in his element. It’s mesmerizing to watch. It’s as if his spear is an extension of his body; it spins and turns and strikes with lethal precision.
“I’m enjoying this,” he says. He edges out of the water, seeking more targets.
Just because the weapons work doesn’t mean we can’t get hurt. As if to prove my point, I see a man dragged away by his ankle, his sword arm flailing as he tries to stop the heinous entity that has a hold on him. He must have stepped out of the loch as well. No one tries to rescue him; he’s gone before they can.
Aileen slashes a sgàil with her hook, then another. They both disappear with monstrous screams. I try to hit one as well, but they’
re moving too fast and they’re not coming close enough. I risk half a step out of the water, and something digs into my toes with razor claws. My eyes widen and I stab the ground in front of me. The pressure on my foot vanishes and so does the sgàil. I got one! I look up to see if anyone saw, but they’re all too busy fighting their own battles. I should be doing the same; a sgàil takes advantage of my lapse in concentration and nearly pulls me to the ground. Its grip on my leg is like a rush of icy wind. Aileen reaches out and digs her hook into the sgàil, turning it into wisps of dust.
“Don’t say I never did anything for you.” She winks at me, then turns away to attack another shadow on her left.
I retreat back into the loch and continue trying to hit the sgàilean from the safety of the water.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Aileen, raising my voice over the sgàilean’s screams.
“Sorry for what?” she asks with her back to me.
“For the way I spoke to you the other day, when we were in the meeting tree. And for how I’ve been since we came back from Norveg. For everything. I know I haven’t been a very good friend.”
She glances at me over her shoulder. “Seriously? You’re choosing now as the time to have this conversation?”
“What if this is the only chance we get?”
“Oh, very optimistic!” She strikes another sgàil. The burning smell makes my eyes water. “Look, you can tell me how sorry you are — and how great you think I am — once we’ve defeated these damn things. Deal?”
Fine, but I’m not doing much to help while cowering in the loch. Nearly everyone else is fighting outside the water, since it’s the only way to get close enough to the shadows. I take a deep breath and step forward, my sword poised. A sgàil darts straight for me. I drive in my sword, and it explodes with a burning scream. I get another one soon after. The sword feels lighter in my hands now, more responsive to the strokes I’ve been practicing. And the Badhbh was right: the sgàilean are attracted to the magic within the weapons’ dark red glow, making them easier to destroy. They’re vanishing all around us; the black smoke of their dissipating bodies curls across my vision, and their death howls rattle the air.
The Broken Raven Page 24