Raven's Edge

by Alan Ratcliffe

  It was a dark time for the realm. Not every northern lord joined Caderyn’s revolt. Lord Maccallam, Duke of Strathearn, remained loyal to the crown and as the Legion pursued the rebels he joined his strength to theirs. But blood, respecting no borders, had been intermingling between the northern clans and households for centuries, and thus in the battles to come near as many of the rebels were struck down by their own kin as they were by southern swords. Over time, the scorched lands had recovered – or much of them – but the feelings of betrayal on both sides and the deeper wounds of families divided remained.

  And so it was that a girl not yet born when Caderyn first broke the Empire in half could enter an inn not two days’ ride from the duke’s castle and find herself in peril simply for mentioning his name.

  She felt the weight of eyes upon her, and glancing around once more she saw just as many were trained on the weapon hanging from her belt as they were her face. But the charged atmosphere inside the previously tranquil inn wasn’t fear, she realised, it was anticipation. They were waiting for her to draw her sword – hoping for it even. Old though they were, if they’d fought in the war, on the losing side no less, they seemed more than happy to redress the balance in some small way. She wondered how many of the duke’s men had been chased from Firbank already, the sound of aged laughter ringing in their ears.

  With difficulty, she fought down her natural instinct to reach for her blade. Tact was the better option here.

  Smiling sweetly at the innkeeper, as if unaware of the simmering resentment building behind her, she began, “I’m sure the baron wouldn’t wish for the duke’s son...”

  “Fuck the duke’s son,” he said bluntly. “He’s getting what he deserves. How many loyal northern sons fell to that pig-headed bastard’s sword?”

  “And how many more will fall if I go back and tell his grace about the town standing in the way of saving his son’s life? How many of his men do you think he’ll send then? Fifty? A hundred?” She risked another glance at the rest and saw worried expressions there. “No matter what Lord Hyland thinks of the duke, he’ll not stand against the man to whom he swears fealty,” she said loudly enough for all to hear.

  The innkeeper opened his mouth as if to speak and then shut it abruptly, teeth clicking together. His face coloured, going from red to purple, and his eyes burned with such anger that for a moment she thought he would strike her. Instead, by degrees, he regained control of himself. “You only want to talk to her?” he asked, through gritted teeth, when his colour had returned to normal.

  “That’s all,” Raven agreed. She hoped it was a promise she’d be able to keep.

  His eyes drifted over to the others, and he gave a small nod. Heads turned grudgingly back to their companions and resumed conversations. “Then, aye, I know of Aggy. Black Aggy, they call her round these parts. But I don’t know where she’s to be found. Nor do I know any in town who’d tell you. Most’d sooner anger a duke than a witch.” The last word came out as a whisper, as if he was afraid to speak it aloud.

  “And those outside town?”

  He said nothing for a moment, then nodded. “Aye, there is one... who would know how to find her, leastways. As to getting it from him, that’s your problem.”

  He told her to seek out a crofter a few miles north of town, beyond the wooded ridge for which it was named. Eventually she’d find a thatched cottage belonging to one Lothar. Evidently he would be able to tell her how to find the crone.

  “How can you be sure he knows the way?” Raven asked.

  “His wife was with child. Had some problems, or so I heard. They say he went to Black Aggy for help.”

  Raven had no idea why this Lothar would be willing to divulge the wise woman’s whereabouts when none in the town would apparently do so, but it was a solid lead at least. “Thank you.”

  She went to leave, but the innkeeper summoned her back. “One last thing,” he said. “I’m a man of my word, there’s none as can say I ain’t, and Divine knows I need the coin, so the room’s still yours.” She could sense there was a ‘but’ coming, and it didn’t take long to arrive. “But you’re to be gone first thing in the morning. And I don’t want to see you around here again.”

  She nodded to show she understood. Then she left him, basking in the glow of his small victory, wrenched the inn’s door open and was gone. She was pleased to no longer feel the weight of the elders’ eyes upon her, though it would be a good minute more before the pounding in her chest abated.

  * * *

  Ignoring the protests of muscles aching after days in the saddle, as well as her own reluctance to march straight off into the wilds having only just arrived in town, Raven struck out towards the high ridge overlooking the town to the north. After what had transpired in the inn she felt the need to be alone again.

  For a while, at least.

  There was no path to speak of, but it wasn’t long before she was passing beneath the canopy of the thick forest of pines and firs covering the ridge. The branches overhead intertwined like clasping fingers to completely block the sun, and as she pressed on it darkened until it was as though dusk had fallen. It was quiet too, the only sounds made by her own feet scrunching across the carpet of dry twigs and dead needles. Neither worried her unduly; anyone who had ventured into the depths of the Spiritwood and lived to tell the tale would find nothing to fear in any of the other forests of the Empire.

  No bärgeists here at least, she thought. She hoped it would be a long time before she next encountered one of those hulking terrors. There were signs of life, though. A multitude of burrows, both large and small, hinted at a variety of woodland fauna and threatened to turn the ankle of an unwary hiker. Here and there she spotted the orange-red flashes of squirrels scrabbling up and around the trunks, or digging hopefully through the undergrowth in search of pinecones. These, scattered around the forest floor, were yet another reminder of the encroaching winter.

  Gradually, it got lighter again until at last the line of trees ended and she stepped out onto open ground. Ahead of her was a rounded dell nestled between the ridge and the foothills a couple of leagues to the north. It was as if a giant bowl had been scooped out of the land, inside which was verdant lushness. A small lake sparkled prettily in the sunlight, and beside that a grove of a dozen or so trees that from their shape Raven guessed was an orchard. A small cottage squatted near the middle of this hollow. From its straw-coloured thatch sprouted a chimney, out of which drifted a plume of light-grey smoke.

  There was no other building within sight, so with a shrug of her shoulders Raven began down the shallow incline. As she drew closer, she noticed other details. To one side of the cottage was a modest vegetable patch, fenced off no doubt to discourage the attentions of a pair of sheep that meandered up the face of one slope, grazing in the mindless, unhurried way of livestock.

  Crofters’ cottages such as this were a regular feature of the lowlands, where the land could still be worked but was too rocky, the soil too poor to sustain larger farms. Sometimes they were gathered together in small communities, elsewhere sat alone and isolated, as this one was. At each, the crofters would grow what they could, which was often barely enough to sustain them let alone pay the rents demanded by the landowners. It was thankless, back-breaking work and, on top of that, most needed at least another form of income... and as she now spied a pile of logs stacked against the wall of the cottage she guessed Lothar’s came from the adjacent forest. A town the size of Firbank would have no shortage of uses for lumber.

  Raven was a couple of dozen yards away, when the door of the cottage swung open. A young woman emerged, dressed in a plain woollen dress and a pale linen headscarf covering light-brown hair. In her hands was a broom of tied twigs, and she was so focused on sweeping a cloud of dust and dirt into the open she didn’t notice Raven until she was almost standing in front of her.

  “Good morning.” Raven smiled, but when she saw the woman’s tight, grave expression it died on her lips. Though youn
g, the woman’s face was lined and troubled.

  “You want something, stranger?” The woman’s tone was unfriendly, but Raven didn’t blame her suspicion. For those living alone in the wilds, an armed wanderer at your door was rarely a welcome sight.

  “I’m looking for Lothar.”

  “Aye?” The woman studied Raven’s face more closely, probably wondering why a strange girl was asking after her husband. The bewildered man would likely face some searching questions later that day. Finding no answers in front of her, the woman shrugged and tossed her head in the direction of the orchard. “You’ll find him out back,” she said. A shadow passed fleetingly across her face and then she was gone, turning and going back inside before shutting the door firmly in Raven’s face.

  Not one for small-talk, then. Raven wandered around the cottage and made her way over to the grove of what turned out to be apple trees, their branches heavy with ripe fruit. She wondered why they’d not yet been picked.

  A man in rough labourers’ clothes stood in the shade, casting around at the ground as if he’d misplaced something and occasionally stooping to pluck something from the grass.

  “Hail,” Raven called. The man turned and regarded her with a face near as grim as his wife’s. “Are you Lothar?”

  “Mebbe I am,” he allowed, his voice curiously flat. “It depends on who’s asking.”

  “A friend.” It seemed a safe thing to say. Raven glanced down and saw that in his hands the man clasped a small bouquet of purple flowers. Though others seemed to bloom around the orchard, it seemed he was only interested in collecting this specific type. “They say you can help me find the wise woman, Aggy.”

  “Do they now?” The crofter’s eyebrows arched upwards. With his free hand he scratched thoughtfully at the side of his nose. “Well, aye, I reckon I can at that.” He turned and extended an arm out towards the east. “You want to head that way, keeping the mountains on your left. If you pass the standing stones, you’ll know you’re on the right path. Eventually you’ll come to a wood. Inside o’ there is a hollow. That’s where the witch lives.”

  “A wood and hollow,” Raven said. “Like this one?”

  A phantom smile twisted the man’s lips. “Nay, lassie. This be a dark place, and not somewhere to tread lightly. Blackrot Mire it’s called, and they say something foul lurks within.”

  Raven smiled. “Besides a witch?”

  “Mock if you wish,” he replied mildly. “But even the great Caderyn gave that place a wide berth as he fled west. Best keep your wits about you, if you truly mean to seek out the crone.”

  “If it’s as bad as you say, what made you go there?”

  The man regarded Raven a moment, then began to walk away, beckoning for her to follow. “A few months past, Mhairi – that’s my wife – was with child. When her time came, I knew something was wrong. It was too soon, and the way she was screaming...” He walked silently a few moments, before taking a deep breath and continuing. “There’s no midwife in town, not since old Mrs Crainey passed two winters back. I left it as long as I could... too long, going mad with worry. When it didn’t stop... I knew I had to seek out the wise woman and bring her back.”

  Raven frowned. “How did you find her?”

  “I went there once, when I was young. And foolish. I still remembered the way. Others in town ken it as well, though I guess none’d own to it else ye’d not have come all the way out here.” A distant look came into his eyes. “Anyhow, I found Aggy and brought her back with me to help with the wife and bairn.”

  “What happened?”

  He laughed. It was a dry, bitter sound devoid of humour. “I cannae say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” Raven asked.

  “The first. Aggy told me to wait outside, and Mhairi won’t speak of it. All I ken is that after an hour or more inside, she came out but once and asked me a question I still hear every night when I close my eyes.”

  There was something in his tone that sent an icy chill up Raven’s spine and raised goosebumps along both arms. “What was the question?” She feared the answer but felt compelled to ask.

  The crofter appeared to ignore her. After a few paces more he stopped. “We’re here,” he said. Then he stooped and placed the purple bouquet on top of a small patch of earth that Raven now saw was more freshly dug than the rest. He met her eyes for the first time since they left the orchard, and within them she saw a howling emptiness, an icy void that she knew reached down to the very core of him. Knew, because she’d felt it herself, recognised the source of it. Grief.

  He pointed a trembling finger at the purple flowers. “Primroses,” he explained. “That was to be her name. Primrose.”

  Raven thought he might weep then, but the crofter’s eyes, as pained as they were, remained dry. Perhaps after all this time there were no more tears. She wanted nothing more then than to be away and to leave this man and this woman, who likely hadn’t done anything to deserve what had happened to them, to mourn in peace. But there was one last thing she wished to know.

  “No-one in town would speak to me. They’re afraid of what might happen to Aggy, I think. But it’s more than that, they’re afraid of her. Of what she might do if she found out they gave her up to the duke. Why aren’t you?”

  He smiled sadly. “Oh, I am lass. More afraid than you know.”

  “Then why tell me?”

  “Because it ain’t right, what she did,” he replied, and Raven saw then that at the bottom of the void burned the red-hot flames of righteous anger. “No man should have to choose between his wife and his child.”

  * * *

  Raven was still in a reflective mood when she re-entered the forest and made her way wearily back towards the town.

  She understood the crofter’s antipathy towards Aggy, but was in two minds about what she’d heard. To one not schooled in the healing arts it must have seemed callous to be forced to make such a choice. But was it a witch’s cruelty... or something else? What if instead of taking one life there had been no way of saving both, or that to attempt to do so meant losing both mother and child? While she had little experience of midwifery, Raven had heard of such complications before.

  But which was it, cruelty or compassion? If it was the latter, then how did that tally with the image of someone who would travel clear across the duchy to cast so foul a curse?

  Reluctantly, she pushed these thoughts to the back of her mind. Whichever it was, it didn’t alter the need to find Aggy of Blackrot Mire. But she vowed to have the truth of it from the crone’s own lips before deciding upon her course.

  When she stepped out from the line of trees and stood looking down upon the town, the sun was dipping towards the horizon taking the heat of the day with it. Raven hesitated. Though it would be dark soon, she was not yet ready to revisit the tavern and wondered what she was to do instead.

  There was movement in the corner of her eye and turning her head she saw figures moving around a field just beyond the town. In the midst of the gently waving stalks a small wooden platform had been assembled, in front of which were a few rows of benches. As several of the figures busied themselves around the platform, hanging a sheet at the rear and lighting torches on either side, she saw others drifting across from the town and settling themselves on the benches.

  Raven recalled the playbill she’d seen in the inn... and sighed. Somehow she’d known that, yet again, she’d end up watching yet another inept performance by one of the dismal troupes of players wandering the provinces.

  Still, it was better than nothing – if only just – so she made her way down the hill towards the field, her expectations set suitably low.

  Despite her own misgivings, the knot of villagers that had gathered on rickety benches before the stage seemed in high spirits. They laughed and chattered among themselves, waiting in heightened anticipation for the show to begin.

  That was how the wandering troupes made their living, of course. As poor as they generally were, for the small-folk th
eir appearance was a welcome distraction from the drudgery of everyday life. And if the performance was particularly bad, then the hurling of over-ripe fruit and vegetables was fine entertainment in itself.

  Raven took up a position at the rear of the audience – it was impossible to call it a crowd unless ironically – and stood, arms folded, as they waited.

  What followed was... unexpected.

  In a puff of purple smoke and an ear-splitting crash of cymbals, a player suddenly appeared in the middle of the stage. Man or woman, it was impossible to tell. Their costume was that of a harlequin, chequered red, gold and green, their face hidden behind a grotesque mask, nose and chin grotesquely elongated. Without a word, this figure pulled three knives from its belt and began to juggle them.

  Other masked figures appeared at the side of the stage. Dressed all in black they sprang out of the gloaming beyond the torchlight, making those sat nearest gasp in surprise. These new arrivals began to toss other knives to the figure upon the stage, who caught them mid-flight and effortlessly added them to the others spinning deftly between his hands. Finally, after Raven counted seven blades being juggled, the figure threw them all high into the air at once. There was another burst of purple smoke and a ringing metallic crash, followed by a series of loud wooden thunks. When the smoke cleared, all seven knives were stuck point-down in the boards, the masked jongleur nowhere to be seen. The black figures, meanwhile, had melted unseen back into the night. A ripple of applause went up from the audience.

  Other acts followed, one after the other, each one just as bizarrely impressive as the first.

  A huge, fat man with a bald head that shone in the flickering light drew gasps as he inserted flaming torches into his mouth one by one, and ended his performance by belching an enormous fireball over the heads of the audience, singeing the hair of those sitting closest.