Scabbard's Song (14 page)

doorway, his face crusted with newly forming scabs. Look what youve brought me to! Me, the ex-chancellor of Zamerkand, the dethroned king of Guthrum! To this indignity, this humiliation, this pain. I hope you rot, the pair of you, all three of you, he added, remembering the mare. I hope you sink in a bog and all traces of you disappear for all time. You have brought me low. I have fallen, plummeted, into the pit of despair. It must make you very happy, Soldier, to see me thus. It does not make me any happier than when I saw Queen Vandas head flung over the walls of Zamerkand, wrapped in rags. You have a lot of sins to atone for, before you start accusing others of laying you low. You have brought this on yourself. You are a thief and a murderer . . . A king cannot murder. It is called just execution. A thief and a murderer, I say, and lucky to have been banished rather than hung, drawn and quartered as you should have been. All the while Soldier was talking he was saddling his horse. Bah! Humbold was disgusted. Who can talk to such a creature as you? I shall see the Drummond kill you yet. Perhaps. But I shall die an honourable man. Is there honour in all your deeds? sneered Humbold, as a parting shot, when Soldier swung himself on to his mare. I seem to remember something about massacres and slaughters. Perhaps youve conveniently forgotten again? No, those are my stains and I shall do my utmost to remove them thank you for reminding me of my own humbleness . . . Soldier swung his horse round and began to trot along the icy trail that led up into the foothills at the end of the valley. The raven settled on the horses rump; enjoying the swaying rhythm of the mares movement. Soldier turned and looked back once, remembering Humbolds ass for the first time. Its skeleton was propped against the lean-to, still standing, the joints locked in place by the cold. Humbold would have to walk out of this place, for drots had feasted on his transport. Unable to get into the cabin, they had stripped the ass down to the bone. A salutary warning. Once out of sight of the ex-king, Soldier brooded on the ills of discovering he was the knight Valechor. He too had taken many lives, some of them possibly innocent except in defence of their own kin. Why couldnt he have been a kitchen slave in the last world? How glorious it would have been to find he had been a serf and now risen to the rank of general and consort of a major kingdom! But no, he had been a man of consequence, and not just that, one steeped in the violence of personal wars. Humbold was right: Soldier was no better than the exiled murderer. There was much blood on his hands. It was too late to ask forgiveness of the Drummonds: there was but one left and he a mortal enemy who would never accept the hand of remorse from a Valechor. Soldier had to live with his past and try to make amends in other ways. Perhaps by serving the citizens of Zamerkand to the best of his ability, and being faithful and loving to their queen. The second is not so hard to do, he told himself. More the greatest pleasure in the world. The first will take fortitude, for I am a man easily bored by bureaucracy and servitude. There are others more suited to such civilian tasks. But I must do my best not to become impatient, not to look to the horizon, not to scratch the itch in my hand for want of a sword. Going through a bad patch, are we? asked the raven, its grating voice startling Soldier for a moment. Having doubts? Filling the parchment with resolutions? Im glad Im a thing of feathers. You are a most annoying thing of feathers. Yet here I perch. And I could be your soul, for all you know. Perhaps I am. A dark soul, yes, that is mine. But perhaps not, continued the raven, for there is wit in this feathered form, while your soul . . . Is dull in comparison? The raven cackled. You said it, Soldier, not I. Oh yes, you ilove indulgences, dont you? Misery, thats what you enjoy. I Wallowing in misery. Maudlin creature! Come out of it. Rise above it. Be determinedly joyful and refuse to follow the lead of your desire. Give you a grey thought and youll make a cloak of it, aye, and hat and gloves too! Do you want to remain a shadow in your shadowy world? Am I indulgent? Yes, I suppose I am. Then cheer up! Indeed I shall, cried Soldier stridently. Youre right, bird, I have no business being miserable. We have a task ahead of us. Humbold said I am cursed, doomed to wander like an itinerant holy man. So I may as well do it cheerfully, of good mind. Once this quest is over, no doubt therell be another waiting, and another . . . the reflection was gloomy but Soldiers tone was still positive . . . but hopefully some time we shall have the witchs curse removed and will be able to settle to an ordinary life. At least it gets you out in the fresh air, cried the raven, getting into the mood. With good company! Aye, that too. And the countryside abounds with game- We shall live like kings. And eagles. Soldier was silent for a while, then he said, One thing still puzzles me why was I invited to the wizards funeral? You remember the wizards funeral, bird? I was the only human to attend? I have never been able to understand the reason for that. I can answer, replied the bird. He wished to honour you, because you were the only human, apart from IxonnoxIs mother, who was brave enough to support the old King Maguss heir. It was you who protected the witchboy, hid him along with his mother in unknown country, helped him train for King Magushood. That deserved some reward from HouluoH. Id have preferred gold and jewels, grumbled the knight, trying to joke with a bird who had a sense of humour, but a strange one. Being invited to a funeral isnt my idea ofareward. No you wouldnt. You had an experience no one else has ever duplicated, and probably never will. I suppose. The pair jogged on, through the wooded countryside, following the snowy road left for them by who knew who or what. Soldiers encounter with Humbold had left a bad taste in his mouth, but it had also unlocked a few more distant memories. Soldier remembered his childhood along the borderland, a place where raiding and thieving was endemic. His father had been a big, bluff man with little patience and rough ways. His mother had died young and he had known her not, though he had an older sister who added gentleness to his upbringing. She had married a Scottish monarch, king of one of the Hebrides, and had thus passed out of his life. When he was twelve his father took him into his first battle, against the Drummonds of course, and he recalled how terrified he was of the wild clan his family hated. The Drummonds had appeared over the hill, attired in animal skins and armour, with long wild hair flowing from under their helmets, their beards trailing over their shoulders. He had been horrified, and would have run, if his fathers bodyguard the huge and loyal Hamish Haldstack had not restrained him, out of sight of the elder Valechor. They are not worth running from, laddie, he whispered. They may look fierce, but they have rabbit dung for brains . . . Still, the Drummonds were impressive to a youth not yet old enough to shave. They had massive barrel chests which seemed to be bursting out of their breastplates. They carried round shields, tards, the size of tabletops. They wielded claymores that dwarfed a sextons scythe. Their black mouths screamed profanities and obscenities at the Valechors. They raised their kilts and wiggled their genitals to show their contempt for their enemy. They died not with fearful breaths, but yelling with rage at their killers. He had survived that battle, and many others after it. One day his grizzle-bearded father fell, a Drummond spear in his heart, and on that day he became the leader of the family. Haldstack also died that day, leaving him bereft of a guide and mentor, as well as a protector. He had hardened his heart still further and did as he believed his father would wish him to do: pursued the Drummonds. Eventually this led to the slaughter of the whole Drummond clan but one. He was not at first a baron or anything like, being a blacksmith by trade, but he was as determined as any of the Drummond breed. This Drummond had fought for the king, was knighted, become the kings right-hand man, and eventually the king himself. Thankfully, for that would have been the end of him, Soldier had been flung into this world, through which he now tramped. His uncles and cousins had now become hunted outlaws in a country which their enemy ruled as kings. In such feuds there were no winners, no heroes, no honourable men. There was just bloodshed and widows and weeping orphans. Soldier was embittered with himself now, for taking up his fathers fight. No one even knew the original reason for the hatred between the two families. A stolen sheep? A slight at a kings banquet? A chance meeting in the middle of a narrow bridge? These family feuds grew out of nothing into never-ending wars. Could it be stopped, even now, by an offer of the hand of friendship? Soldier doubted it, but he had decided he would attempt reconciliation, if it ever became possible. Deep in thought, said the bird, from behind him. Whats to do, knight? Oh, just indulging in the joys of memory. Sounds like it. I suppose youve noticed that the road has disappeared. Even the dampness has gone. We havent wandered far away, though. Look, theres one of those giant owl pellets! A packed and steaming pile of skins, horn and bones in the shape of a lozenge. Shall we meet the monster that swallows live cows and lays a road of ice, do you think? I know not. Damn, where has the track gone? I havent been paying attention. Ive just been letting the mare carry us on. Do you think she left the trail? I dont think theres been any trail to leave, not in the last half-hour. I suggest we stop and take our bearings. Have you your astrolabe? Soldier dismounted with a grunt. Yes, but thatll do us little good out here, where we have no maps, no idea where were going, and without the road were supposed to follow Soldier made a fire and then took the crossbow he carried to hunt for food. Despite the abundance of game that the raven had mentioned, he was only able to bag a hare for the pot. To Soldiers disgust the raven pecked out the creatures eyes while it was still warm. Then it complained that the rest of the meat was too tough for a ravens beak, until it had rotted. Ill give you the lights in a minute, said Soldier, if you could be patient and wait until Ive gutted the beast. Whoa, cried the raven, looking down the slope which led out of the wood, theres carrion down there! Ill have a go at that while Im waiting. The bird flew out of the wood and down the hillside to the carcass of an unidentifiable animal which lay rotting there. The bird began to peck and stab at the putrid flesh, not realising it was violating the territory of another creature, a bird with far more efficient weaponry than the raven possessed. Suddenly, out of the bright blue sky, a thunderbolt appeared and dropped on to the raven, striking it behind the neck. The raven fell away from the cadaver, wounded to the point of death. A golden eagle, the creature on whose kill the raven had been feasting, clutched the carcass of the carrion in its talons and took to the air, heading back to its eyrie. Soldier had seen the raptor fall from the sky and had witnessed the attack on his feathered companion. He gave a yell and ran down the hillside, sword in hand, but the eagle had risen and was gone into the blue. When he reached the black bird he saw that blood flowed from the wound in the back of its neck, on to the mossy ground. Soldier stemmed the flow easily enough, but realised the raven had taken such a blow as could lead to its death. He carried the pathetic little bundle back to the camp site, placing it on a bed of leaves, wondering what could be done to save its life. I have no training in this, he said. What am I to do with you? But the bird never regained consciousness. It lay limp and barely breathing, never really stirring for the whole day. Soldier knew that the herb woundwort was good for healing injuries. He found some, boiled it, and applied it to the gash on the ravens neck. There was not much else he could do. The bird was clearly on the threshold of death, its spirit hovering there, ready to fly either one way or the other, the decision not yet made. A fresh breath of wind could win it life. An intemperate night could send it hurtling into the dark-clouded skies of the afterlife of the crow family. There was nothing anyone could do but wait to see which way the scales would tip. Soldier woke a couple of times during the night. Once he thought he heard the bird stirring, but it was just the mare, snuffling. He did not dare look at the raven in the dark, in case it had already gone. Such things as death were better viewed in the light of day, rather than in the early hours, when fears of ones own mortality were rife. When morning came, Soldier opened his eyes to stare up at the leafy canopy of the forest and the grey sky above it. Then he rolled over and looked to his erstwhile companion. Astonishment! Incredulity! Shock! There lay, not a feathered corpse, but a young boy, an urchin by the look of his rags and dirt, breathing shallowly. Wake up! Who are you, lad? Where is my bird? The boy, some twelve or thirteen years old, opened his eyes. What? My lord? Soldier recognised the voice. It was that of the raven. Such nearness to the afterlife, lying on the very borderline between life and death, had removed the curse from the ravens spirit. The dark otherworld of death and the dead had sucked the witchs oath from the heart of the bird, trapping it there, while the soul of the creature had finally slipped back over the threshold, into the world of light. He was a boy again! The bird had become the youth, no younger or older than when first cursed, who now stared up with worried eyes into the face of his saviour. Am I thus come back? said the urchin, lifting his arm to look at the dark skin that covered his human bones. Am I me again? You are indeed, child, Soldier said, smiling. Your feathers are gone, your beak and claws with them, and you are as good as me. I was as good as you before, snapped the boy, with the same asperity as the raven would have used. I just had a different form. Quite so. I stand abashed and corrected for my prejudice. He stared at the lice which hopped in the childs thick matted hair. Were going to have to clean you up though. Can you rise? The boy tried to go up on his elbows, but fell back again. I feel giddy. The wound is still affecting you. You must rest. Later, when you have recovered enough, you must get down to that stream and wash away the dirt. Ill find some betony to rub on your head, to get rid of those fleas. Yuck, boy, you smell. And those rags will have to go. Ill sew you a shift from one