Raven's Edge

by Alan Ratcliffe

  Conall had partaken of it as well, albeit sparingly. Whether it was the strength of the liquor or because he was unaccustomed to it he wasn’t sure – probably a combination of both – but shortly after draining his first cup his head began to swim alarmingly and though a servant had been quick to refill it he’d since left it untouched.

  Still, it had left him with a warm glow that spread up from his stomach and made his cheeks flush, and he grinned foolishly at those around him as they regaled one another with bawdy tales and outrageous boasts.

  With their words rolling over his head, he looked along the table once more and through the haze his eyes met those of Kester’s betrothed, Niamh. She flashed a smile that touched eyes the warm, deep blue of a summer sky (at this point in the story, Raven’s own eyes rolled in their sockets) and he replied in kind, cheeks burning even more hotly than before. Without question, she was the most beautiful woman Conall had ever laid eyes on, the golden tresses of her hair tumbling past her shoulders like a waterfall formed of droplets of sunlight, her skin as smooth and unblemished as the finest porcelain. Furthermore, she was as pure of nature as she was of looks, and had always treated him kindly.

  Once again, Conall felt a simmering resentment at the cruel fate that had seen him born last and Kester first. He loved his brother, of course, and looked up to him in the way that younger siblings do despite spending much of their time at each other’s throats. But gazing now at the large, barrel-chested figure sitting to the left of the golden-haired vision, much of his face hidden beneath a ruddy beard as thick and wild as a gorse bush, he resented that such an uncommon beauty as Niamh Dunmar should be promised to a boor like Kester through a mere accident of birth.

  “I’d close your mouth, little brother, lest it attract flies.”

  Conall jumped and looked up into the bemused smile of his other brother, Fearghus. The duke’s middle son leaned across the table to ensure his words reached his ears alone, and Conall wondered how long he’d been watching him. His jaw shut with a click. Fearghus laughed and leaned back in his seat, observing others around the table, his eyes twinkling with wry amusement. If the Divine had gifted Kester the brawn, then surely he’d sought to redress the balance by endowing Fearghus with brains no less impressive in their own way. Conall sometimes wondered what that had left him with.

  There was movement in the middle of the table as Kester lurched to his feet, belched loudly and roared for silence. He stood swaying uncertainly for several moments as the chatter around him quelled. Conall squinted blearily at his brother, trying to keep the room from spinning around his ears. Even through his rising nausea, he felt oddly proud that Kester, who’d drunk more than anyone, was still able to stand unaided, let alone speak.

  The latter proved a step too far, however, even for such a bull of a man. As something approaching a hush fell over the hall, he slurred a few words of thanks to the assembled nobles for attending such a joyous occasion. This was marred only slightly when he staggered sideways and looked set to topple unceremoniously to the floor, but his intended bride leapt to her feet and wrapped her arms around his broad chest. A show of affection it may well have been, but there was little doubt its main purpose was to keep her prospective husband upright for the conclusion of his speech.

  This proved to be mercifully brief. Kester scowled and peered belligerently around the hall. He shook his head as if trying to clear it, then apparently gave up on remembering whatever words he’d prepared. “To hell with the lot of you,” he bellowed, to general cheers. “Bring out the meat!”

  The great oaken double-doors at the end of the hall crashed open, admitting half a dozen liveried servants. Upon their shoulders they bore an enormous platter the size of a cart-wheel, on which rested a whole roasted ox, its flanks coated with a thick, sticky glaze that glistened succulently in the flickering torchlight. A huge roar of approval went up from the revellers, who pounded their fists on the tops of their tables as the procession made its way to the centre, where Kester waited, beaming.

  As Conall’s eyes fell upon the huge beast’s carcass, a feeling of panic bloomed in his chest. He fell back in his seat, his shoulder-blades attempting to burrow their way through the wooden back-rest. He couldn’t explain why, but the sight of the platter and its contents made his blood run cold. It just looked... wrong. That was the only way he could explain it. The beast’s flanks, which had seemed so appetising as the platter first entered the hall, now bulged unnaturally as if something within was pressing against it, trying to force its way out.

  He stared desperately around at the other lords, but saw none of his concern mirrored in their florid, grinning faces. He watched as Kester pulled down a broadsword from its hooks above the hearth. Conall wanted to scream at his brother, to warn him, but fear had closed an icy fist around his throat and no sound would come forth.

  He still squirmed in his seat as the servants reached the top table. But as they laid the enormous platter before Kester, Conall saw they were no longer human. Where before their faces had seemed normal, now they were monstrous; growling and leering through an array of misshapen snouts and beaks, their eyes glowing red as hot coals. He tried to scream, but the fist still gripping his throat tight meant only a strangled croak emerged. The uproar in the hall meant that none heard, save Fearghus who frowned at him, puzzled. Can’t you see them? Conall wanted to shout.

  Kester stood before the platter, feet planted firmly a shoulder’s width apart. Gripping the broadsword’s hilt in both hands he rested the long blade against the huge carcass, readying himself to deliver a mighty blow.

  Conall tried to rise, to halt the spectacle while there was still time, but his feet slipped away beneath him and he flopped back in his seat with a thump. He stared helplessly at the others again, and this time in place of smiles he saw frowns and wide staring eyes. Some of the assembled nobles waved their hands at the air before their faces, as if bothered by an insistent insect, while others sat still, hands gripping the arms of their chair with knuckles as white as their faces. The sense of wrongness that had so unnerved Conall now threatened to overwhelm him wholly.

  As Kester raised the heavy sword high over his head, Conall saw wisps of smoke billowing up from the floor to obscure his legs. The cloud grew, spreading over the table, and along its length the revellers began to cough and clutch at their throats.

  Swaying slightly, Kester again shook his head, a look of perplexity on his face. Then he shrugged and swung the blade down with all his might, just as Conall found his feet at last, mustered his strength and cried out, “No!”

  But it was too late. The broadsword swept down and clove the great carcass in two. From the dark recesses of its innards poured a vast swarm of bloated, black flies. Furious buzzing filled the air as the swarm engulfed the table, assaulting the faces of those frozen in horror. People flew, startled, from their chairs, some falling back head over heels in their haste to escape. Nobles who only moments before had been laughing and joking were now clawing at their faces as the black, buzzing horde pushed their way into their mouths, noses and ears.

  “Corpse flies!” someone screamed, and as others took up the cry Conall saw it was true. The insects’ bodies were grossly over-sized and bulbous, no doubt swollen by feasting on the animal’s decaying flesh. Tiny eyes glowed red with sullen malignancy as the creatures battered his face. Hundreds of sharp, pointed protuberances slashed tiny cuts across his skin.

  Letting out a low moan, Conall crawled away and collapsed into a corner. He flapped at the air and grimaced as fat, blood-bloated bodies slapped wetly against his hand. He covered his eyes and peered cautiously through his fingers. All around the hall were thrashing, flailing figures staggering around half-wreathed in smoke that continued to fill the room. It was as if Kester’s jest about damning them to hell had come true.

  At that moment a shrill, mocking screech cut through the wails and cries of the struggling guests. Conall risked another glance, and through the humming cloud of black
shapes he saw a grotesque figure perched atop the high, wooden gallery overlooking the hall. It might have stepped from between the pages of a children’s fairytale and were it not for the nightmarish scene already unfolding all around him he might have doubted his eyes.

  It was female, that much at least could be discerned. She was dressed in rags, most of which were covered by a mouldering shawl the colour of swamp mud. Around this and a ragged skirt were sewn dozens of small skulls and animal bones, the overall effect of which was to give the impression that a primeval midden had lurched suddenly and regretfully into life.

  Most of the figure’s face was thankfully hidden behind a veil of lank, filthy hair, but those features that were visible were no less degraded than her garments. A hooked beak of a nose, crusted with warts, protruded like the prow of a demonic ship sailing through the gates of damnation, while above it two eyes glittered with all the warmth and kindness of distant stars.

  As the ghastly figure let out another high-pitched cackle, the torches around the hall flared green, bathing the hall and everything within in unearthly light. Conall could only look on in silent horror as, through the pall of smoke and buzzing flies, the hag seemed to warp and grow, twisting into unnatural shapes.

  “Leuk a’tha chittering gentles,

  Cowrin’ frae ma clartie clegs.

  Paughty men aw, scair’t an’ feckless,

  Drucken oan tha bluid o’tha Lallans.

  I rede ye, paughty gentles, be a’fear’t.”

  The voice was abrasive, like steel boots crunching across gravel. As the words and imprecations tumbled from the gallery, the thrashing guests fell silent and gawped at the speaker.

  Conall’s father struggled to his feet. “What devilry is this?” he demanded. “Who are you, and what business have you here?”

  “I come fae ye, false lord,” the crone replied, pointing a gnarled, bony finger in his direction. “Fae too long ye’ve disrespected the land, soaked red with the blood of ye kin. How many sons o’ the north did ye slay tae keep the southern king oan his throne? Well, nae more. The carrion-crows have come home tae roost, paughty-man. Heed me! Before the first flake o’ winter snow falls, yon heir will lie as dead as the loyal no’rn sons he took up arms agin. This I swear, by the auld gods.”

  Conall saw his father’s face pale. Her dire threat delivered, the crone began to mutter an incantation under her breath, her arms waving and body undulating in a grotesque dance. Though he could not make out the words, the low drone assaulted his ears, tunnelling into his brain. Terrified, he clamped his hands against his ears, trying to block the sound. But her words continued to echo through his head, winding and twisting around one another until they filled his being. As he looked on, frozen in fear, he thought he could even see the words as they tumbled from the hags withered lips, long streams of poison and hatred, writhing like serpents. He screamed.

  Kester shook off his torpor and let out a fearsome bellow. He charged for the hall’s main doors, no doubt making for the stair leading to the gallery in the passages beyond. Just then the crone’s incantation built to a crescendo. As the tumult of words abruptly ended, she threw her arms wide and every torch within the hall went out with a hiss, plunging everything into darkness.

  * * *

  “What happened then?”

  The young noble finished his story as they still walked along the cold, grey stone corridors of the castle. An occasional guard or servant would eye Raven warily as they passed, but the sight of Conall was enough for them to let her presence pass without comment.

  He stopped outside a wooden door. “There’s not much more to say,” he said. “By the time servants were able to relight the torches, the witch had gone. Kester returned moments later and reported finding the gallery empty. Nor did any of the door guards see any such figure leave.”

  “And the flies?”

  “Gone as well,” Conall said. “There were plenty of dead ones, but they were just normal black-flies. We found no trace of the big ones, the corpse-flies. We assume that when the witch vanished, the spell she cast was broken.”

  Raven chewed her lip, thinking. “The first words she spoke, what language was that?”

  “Oh, that was just the old tongue of the lowlands.” Conall smiled, as if relieved to be able to answer a question definitively. “No one really speaks it these days, apart from the elders of the more remote villages and the like, but most can understand it well enough.”

  “What did it mean?”

  Conall shrugged. “She was mocking us for being scared by the flies, accusing us of being proud and foolish and saying we were right to be afraid.”

  “And the incantation you heard, presumably that was the curse? How long did it take for Kester to fall sick?”

  “He was found collapsed in a hallway the very next day and was taken to his bedchamber. He’s remained there ever since.”

  Raven hesitated a moment before speaking next. “The curse... how bad is it? How is Kester now?”

  “At first it seemed to trouble him greatly. For days he thrashed and screamed most terribly. But as the weeks have passed...” Conall smiled sadly and pushed open the door. “See for yourself.”

  The smell hit Raven first. The stench of decay and sickness. It assailed her nostrils even before she’d set foot inside the chamber, almost making her gag.

  It didn’t take long to learn the odour’s source.

  The chamber itself was large but not opulent; like the rest of the castle, it was clear the Maccallams had little interest in decoration. The interior was dominated by a large, four-poster bed, from which hung thick, dark-blue velvet curtains, currently tied open. But it was the figure lying in the bed that first drew the eye.

  Raven had to suppress a gasp. Never before had she seen anyone so sickly and frail who still continued to draw breath.

  The head was little more than a skull draped with pallid, parchment-like flesh. The eyes were hollow, sunken pits. All that remained of a beard was ragged and clung to the sallow skin in patches, and was crusted with some unidentifiable pale-green substance under the nose and around the mouth, the lips of which were so bloodless as to appear blue.

  Above the coverlet, the figure’s nightshirt was visible, damp with sweat and stained with foulness. The man could only have been Kester, yet Conall had described his eldest brother as tall and powerful; the figure before her now, however, was little more than a wraith, old and decrepit before his time.

  Raven was so mesmerised by the sleeping figure of the duke’s eldest son, it took several moments for her to realise he was not alone.

  Sitting at Kester’s bedside was a woman, watching them silently. There seemed little doubt, going by Conall’s enthusiastic and somewhat breathless description, that the blonde woman regarding them curiously was none other than the sick man’s betrothed.

  “Conall? What are you doing here?” she asked. Her eyes, red-rimmed crying or lack of sleep, perhaps both, flicked to Raven. “And who is this?”

  “I’m sorry to intrude, my lady, but I’ve brought someone who might be able to help Kester,” the young noble said. “Raven, this is Lady Dunmar...”

  “Niamh, please,” the blonde woman said, moving around the bed to stand before them. “I’ve never been one to stand on ceremony, particularly in such grave circumstances.”

  Unsure what was expected of her, Raven dipped her head in acknowledgement. “As you wish... Niamh.”

  The blonde woman’s face lit up as she smiled, though the maudlin air that clung to her like a shawl remained. “Is it true, what Conall says?” she asked. “Can you help Kester?”

  Raven looked past her shoulder to the bed and the wraith-like figure lying therein. “I’m... not sure,” she said.

  “But you’ve seen cases like this before?”

  Not as such. This time Raven evaded the question. She moved past the noble pair and approached the bed. Close to, the duke’s heir looked even worse, his skin covered with a sheen of sweat that made hi
m glisten in the wan light. She was no expert on illnesses of the body and spirit, but even so could tell he did not have long. The fact that he was alive at all was a miracle in itself. Dead by the first snowfall of winter, Raven thought. The curse is progressing ahead of schedule.

  “Has a doctor examined him?” she asked. It was possible he suffered with an ague of some sort, albeit a severe one. It was not unusual to contract such sickness this late in the year, and it could be the witch’s visit was mere coincidence.

  “Of course.” Niamh stood at her side, gazing down at the wretched figure. “As soon as Kester fell ill, the duke summoned the most renowned doctor in all the north.”

  “Who would be..?”

  “Doctor Burbage, of Caer Lys.” The blonde noblewoman appeared taken aback that Raven had not heard of him. “For the past fortnight he has tended to Kester personally, but so far all his efforts have been for naught.”

  Raven glanced towards the night-stand, where alongside a bowl of water and a stack of towels stood a variety of glass bottles of different shapes and sizes. She picked one at random, pulled the stopper and sniffed cautiously at the contents. Whatever the solution was, it was without colour or odour. “Is he around? I would speak with him.”

  “Alas that will not be possible at this time,” came a voice from behind them. Raven turned and saw a tall, slender figure standing in the open doorway. It was an older man and, while she’d never before laid eyes on the Duke of Strathearn, there were enough facial similarities between him and Conall in particular for her to immediately understand she was face to face with the master of the castle.