Raven's Edge

by Alan Ratcliffe

  Eventually she grew aware of the silence, and turned to see Conall regarding at her curiously. “Did you say something?”

  “I just asked his name.”

  “I...” She turned back to the road, and shook her head. “I don’t remember.”

  Conall shrugged. “Whoever it was, if he was a hunter, you were in the Spiritwood, I take it. I’ve heard many tales of that place. Tell me, what was it truly like?”

  Raven grimaced and pressed her heels to her steed’s flanks, urging it into a trot. “Pray that you never find out,” she said.

  * * *

  For a time Raven rode ahead of Conall, carefully maintaining a speed marginally faster than his own. Where he walked, she trotted. Where he trotted, she spurred her mount into a canter. She sensed the young noble’s irritation, but Raven was enjoying both the silence and illusion of solitude too much to care.

  They proceeded in this manner for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, the sun cresting over their heads and beginning its slow descent towards the horizon before them. By this time, Conall had gotten the message that she wished to be alone and had long since dropped back. Both mounts now walked in single-file along the road, with several horse-lengths between them.

  As is often the way with people grown accustomed to being on their own, Raven both appreciated and resented the company. It was pleasant to have someone to talk to other than herself on the infrequent occasions she was moved to make an observation, but on the other hand whenever she wished to quietly think his inane chatter would drive the thoughts from her mind. And then there was the knowledge that he’d need looking after should anything happen to them on their travels.

  But as that peaceful afternoon unrolled in front of them, Raven mulled over the task at hand. There was something about the events of that evening in the duke’s great hall that bothered her. She’d had no prior dealings with witches, as she’d freely admitted. But the main reason why was not fear of becoming involved in the dark magicks woven by covens of hook-nosed crones cavorting in hidden glades by moonlight... rather it was because in her experience they simply didn’t exist.

  People were superstitious, she knew, particularly the further you travelled from the big cities. Life was hard for the small-folk, their livelihoods precariously balanced between meeting the demands of their landlords and feeding their families, and there was comfort to be found in finding a scapegoat for all ills that befall you. If a valuable animal sickened and died, it was witches. If the crop failed, it was witches. If your privy parts were afflicted with the pox, then never mind that fleeting encounter with the doxy in the next village, you’d better believe it was a witch’s work.

  One previous job had seen her visiting a farmer whose entire flock of sheep had been slaughtered in horrific fashion. She’d arrived at his farm and saw the poor creatures lying close together as if they’d sought safety in numbers, each corpse charred and blackened almost beyond recognition. Raven had examined the burns, and the patch of scorched grass amidst the bodies, and deduced they’d been struck by lightning. But the farmer had angrily dismissed this explanation and insisted that a hellhound was responsible. He’d withheld payment and, unsure what else to do, Raven had ventured into a nearby forest on the promise of finding the creature. Any hellhound that dwelt within was notable by its absence, but instead, she’d found an elderly male wolf, who’d looked as close to death as poor Kester. She’d taken its head, rolled the grisly trophy in the ashes of her campfire and presented it to the ecstatic farmer, who’d showered her with blessings as he handed over the promised fee in full.

  Raven’s belly had been too empty for her to worry about the moral implications of such deception. In any case, by then she’d seen enough on her travels to know that when people suffered a setback, most preferred to believe they were the victims of some malign, evil force than random chance and cruel luck. With the former there was at least a chance, however slight, for retribution.

  Yet, there seemed no denying that there had been someone on the gallery during the duke’s banquet. Even if she discounted the testimony of a young noble with a head full of folk tales and too much mead, Lord Maccallam did not seem like a man given to flights of fancy. Equally, that his eldest son was wasting away at a unnaturally fast rate before his family’s eyes was beyond dispute.

  But where might such a figure, more suited to a children’s fairytale, have come from? And if such a witch did inhabit the duchy, particularly one capable of such powerful magic as to appear in the midst of a secure castle and cast a deadly curse, how had she managed to keep her existence a secret until now? In all her travels Raven had never even heard a rumour of someone so practised in the arcane arts. And if you accepted it was possible for such a one to exist and to keep herself hidden from view, why reveal herself now? A decade had passed since the war’s end, and there had presumably been easier opportunities to target the duke’s heir in the intervening years. Furthermore-

  “You ride well.”

  Raven’s thoughts, so carefully assembled, vanished from her head like morning mist. She looked up and saw that Conall had ridden up on one of his thankfully rare forays forward to attract her attention. “I’m sorry?”

  “I just commented that you ride well. You maintain good posture even when your mind is elsewhere.” He smiled in well-meaning fashion. “You must have spent much time in the saddle.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Well, it’s just that it’s not often you see one such as yourself with a horse of your own.”

  “And what ‘one’ do you mean? A woman? A commoner? Or both?”

  Conall’s smile drained from his face while his eyes were filled with the panic of one who’d set out to pay a compliment and would give anything to be able to take it back. “I apologise,” he said hurriedly. “I didn’t mean...”

  “It’s fine, Conall,” she said wearily. “You’re not the first to have made such an observation.” And almost certainly not the last.

  His embarrassment was so pronounced that Raven’s annoyance at his words faded almost instantly. Then, perhaps from some misguided belief that he needed to change the subject, he gestured towards her horse. “A fine-looking mare, as befits so skilled a rider,” he said. “Does she have a name?”

  “Meara.”

  “Is that a joke?” Conall asked, frowning.

  “No.”

  “But-”

  Raven sighed. “Look, I’m not from the north as you can probably tell.” The young noble nodded. “Well, I was newly arrived at Hunter’s Watch, up beyond the mountains. I’d long grown tired of hitching rides with caravans and had scraped together enough to purchase a steed of my own. I’d barely eaten all year trying to save every last penny I could. I sought out the town’s stable there, pointed at what looked the cheapest animal there and asked what it was called.”

  Understanding dawned on Conall’s face. “And he said it was Meara.” He laughed. “So when did you find out...”

  “... that Meara is the old northern word for horse?” Raven finished. “Later. Much later, by way of a highly amused innkeeper when I went to put her up for the night. In hindsight the stable-owner’s grin should have been a clue.”

  Conall smiled. “Did you never think to change the name?”

  Raven shook her head. “I’d grown rather used to it by then.” She reached out and patted the animal’s neck fondly. “Besides, I rather think it suits her.”

  “I suppose,” The young noble said, though it was clear from the doubtful look he gave the beast he felt otherwise.

  * * *

  “Where are we going, anyway?”

  Raven sighed inwardly. It was an hour or more since their last conversation, and she’d been enjoying the silence. “I’m not sure exactly,” she replied with a shrug.

  Conall’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?” He seemed appalled. “Are we not seeking the witch that cursed my brother?”

  “Of course,” she said, and saw the nob
le relax somewhat. “Even if your father cares not for my help, I gave my word to you, and to Lady Dunmar. And so I shall do all I can, until...”

  The word hung in the air between them. Both knew what it meant without the need to say it aloud. They’d both seen Kester, knew how little time remained to him. Raven coughed awkwardly and turned her gaze towards the rolling foothills. “The problem is how to find someone when you don’t know their name or where they reside.”

  “So, we’re just going to wander aimlessly around the countryside until we stumble across her?” Conall scoffed. “The men my father sent may not be perfect, but they at least set out with some kind of plan!”

  “I’m sure that will be of great comfort to the duke when he’s burying his son in earth stained black with the ashes of all the harmless old women he’s burned.” She saw Conall’s face redden. “Rest easy, my lord. We didn’t choose this path by random chance. Remember when you told me your witch spoke the old dialect of the Lowlands?”

  He shrugged. “Vaguely.”

  “Then perhaps you also know that most of those who still speak can be found to the west of Strathearn? Between here and Caer Lys lie numerous farmsteads and crofters who still observe the old ways. To the north and east many of the villages were settled by raiders who came across the northern seas long ago, and their origin can still be heard in their language, while as you travel south it’s rare to hear anything but the imperial tongue.”

  Conall relaxed back in the saddle. “So you believe our hag will be found along this road?”

  “Doubtful,” Raven replied. “However, there’s a village about a day’s ride from here, where we may find someone who knows of her. Provided we ask the right questions. If not, then we travel to the next, and the next, until we find what we’re looking for.”

  The young noble seemed appeased. “I suppose that’s as good a plan as any.”

  Raven had her doubts, but kept them to herself. While what she’d said was true, even if such a witch existed (something of which she had yet to be convinced), the small-folk were just as likely to deny all knowledge of her as reveal where she might be found.

  A vague sense of unease rose in her chest, and she fought it down. They were on this road now, and had to see it through to its conclusion. She could think of no alternatives, so little was there to go on. Either they would find the witch they sought and break the curse... or it would be a long time before she felt safe to show her face within the duchy again.

  They were passing through a small wood, and as they emerged into the open countryside once more Raven saw the sky was darkening. The sun was sinking rapidly towards the foothills, and the faint chill she’d noticed that morning impressed upon them once more. She brought her horse to a halt.

  “Is there a problem?” Conall asked, reining in his own mount.

  “It’s later than I thought,” she said. “We should stop for the night.”

  “Here?” The young noble glanced about them, perplexed. “I can’t see a town or an inn.”

  “My lord keeper of the ducal kennels has a keen eye,” she said drily. “You don’t see any because there are none to see. The nearest coaching inn is hours away yet, and I’m not keen to ride in the dark over such uneven ground.”

  “Which means...?”

  Raven slipped from her saddle, took hold of her horse’s bridle began to lead it back towards the trees. “It means we’ll make camp here. It will be safer in the woods than sleeping out in the open beside the road.”

  When Conall still hesitated, Raven stopped and turned. “You have slept outdoors before, haven’t you?”

  The young noble looked pained. “Father says I’m too young to go out on hunts with Kester and Fearghus...” he began.

  “It’s not that bad, really,” said Raven, who sometimes felt as if she’d slept outside more often than in a bed. “The ground’s hard, the air’s cold and there are precious few servants bringing you warm, spiced milk, but when you’re tired after a long day on the road, you hardly notice.”

  Conall still didn’t look convinced, and stared up the road longingly as if willing the far-off inn closer. But after a few moments he jumped down and led his mount away from the road and towards the wood. “I always wanted to go on an adventure, and I suppose this is part of it.”

  More than you know, Raven thought. But before she could say anything, he went on, “It’s just...”

  “Just what?”

  “What if I have to...”

  Raven sighed. “Just spit it out, Conall, or we’ll be trying to find somewhere to settle down in the pitch black.”

  “What if I need to... you know...?”

  Raven stared at him blankly. “Oh,” she said, as realisation dawned. “That.” She reached into one of the saddlebags hanging from her horse’s rump, and drew out an object about the length of her forearm. “If that happens,” she said, throwing the object at Conall, who caught it in mid-air, “then, my lord, I suggest you learn how to dig.”

  He stared dismally at the object in his hand. Though shorter than the ones he’d seen servants using in the grounds of the castle, it was, unmistakably, a shovel.

  * * *

  “Raven!”

  At the hissing of her name she passed from sleep into wakefulness instantly. Instinctively, her hand fastened around the handle of the dagger beneath the rolled cloak serving as a pillow. She brought it round in one quick motion as she sat upright.

  It was still dark. All she could see were the black fingers of the tree branches against the twilit sky and the whites of Conall’s eyes. The boy’s breath came in ragged gasps, his fright clear, and she lowered the weapon. “What is it?” she hissed.

  “Noises.” The pale crescents of his eyes turned towards the low ridge they’d made camp behind, beyond which lay the road. “Voices, I think.”

  Raven threw off the blanket and rose into a crouch, listening. Adrenalin chased away her fatigue, but she knew she’d pay the price the next day. She’d taken the first watch, giving the young noble a chance to rest, and wondered vaguely how long she’d been asleep during his before he’d roused her.

  Not long enough.

  Just then sounds carried through the trees, banishing any thoughts of sleep. Men’s voices. The words indistinct, but the tones were rough, the laughter coarse. More than one, she thought.

  Raven grabbed for the sword lying beside her makeshift bed and fixed the scabbard to her belt. Then, pressing a finger to her lips, she gestured for Conall to follow as she crept towards the ridge. Twigs crunched faintly beneath her feet, but not loud enough for anyone upon the road to hear.

  When they reached the ridge, she scrambled lightly up its side and lay down just below the top, with only her head showing above the crest. A few seconds later Conall lay down beside her.

  It took but a moment to locate the source of the noise. Small haloes of flickering light were making their way along the road. Torches, held aloft by a small group of men; four altogether, by Raven’s count. The distance was too great to make out their faces, but their appearance was similar. The hair of each was wild and shaggy, their cheeks hidden beneath thick beards. On top of their clothing, each wore a mismatch of light armour; leather vambraces covering their wrists and forearms, a chain shirt or leather cuirass protecting their torsos. Finally, each one carried a weapon, either strapped to their back or hanging from their hip. Though there were no visible markings to indicate whether they served a particular noble house, their attire was a uniform of a sort, revealing their trade if not their allegiance.

  “Who are they?” Conall whispered.

  Raven stayed silent, but she pointed towards a fifth figure, trailing miserably at the back of this grim procession. The rear-most of the four men did not hold a torch. Instead, in his hands he grasped the end of a length of chain. Every so often the chain would go taut, and he would give it a harsh jerk, yanking forward the poor wretch around whose wrists the other end of this tether was fixed. As he did so, a high-pitched
cry of pain echoed through the trees.

  “It’s a woman,” Conall gasped. “But where are they taking her?”

  Raven frowned. “This road leads to Strathearn, does it not?”

  Conall’s mouth moved wordlessly for a few moments as he struggled to grasp what she was saying. “You mean...”

  “They’re the men your father sent,” she said. “Witch-hunters. And it looks like they’ve found one.”

  “But... but she’s so young,” Conall said, aghast. The woman being dragged along in shackles was indeed youthful in appearance. Her skin was smooth, her nut-brown hair tied in a ponytail. “She looks nothing like the crone that cursed my brother.”

  “Are you surprised?” Raven said bitterly. “It’s as I told you, such men care nothing for innocence or guilt, only the bounties they might collect.”

  Conall lapsed into a brooding silence. On the road, one of the men made a comment, and the rough guffaws of his fellows filled the air. “What will become of her?” Conall murmured.

  Raven shrugged. “No doubt they’ll try to convince the duke she has information about the crone, as they know that after weeks with no success his desperation grows. Then she’ll likely be taken to the castle dungeon and tortured. She’ll either claim to know something, or be unable to satisfy their questions, but either way when they’ve no further use for her she’ll end up tied to a stake.”

  The young noble’s eyes fell to the ground. In that moment, Raven felt sorry for him, which was ludicrous given the difference in their stations. Yet in every young life comes a time when the world’s facade is torn away exposing the fetid reality of things as they truly are. For her, that time had come earlier than it does for most, and she recognised the haunted expression Conall’s face now wore. “Why don’t we do something about it?” she said.

  The young noble’s head snapped up. “Really?”

  Raven smiled without humour. “I’ve got an idea, but just in case it doesn’t work...”