The Tower of Ravens

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Throw them some food,’ Rhiannon said. ‘That’ll keep them busy while we get away.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Iven answered, as the growling rose in volume and ferocity. The horses all sidestepped nervously, ears laid back.

  ‘Pity ye have no meat to feed them,’ Rhiannon said with feeling. Iven cast her a rueful glance, knowing how much she had missed eating meat since joining company with the witches, and scrummaged in the store-barrels for something to throw the dogs.

  As soon as Iven flung some hunks of cheese and bread and onion pie at the dogs, the starving animals leapt upon the food. At once the two carthorses began to jog away down the road, Rafferty and Rhiannon close behind, leading the other horses. They met Cameron at the crest of the hill, and after a hurried consultation he climbed up onto the driving seat of the red caravan, taking the reins from Landon, who was looking white and frightened. Behind them they heard vicious snarling and barking as the dogs fought over the remnants of the food. The carthorses quickened their pace, the caravans swaying precariously.

  Halfway down the hill, they found Edithe, sitting white-faced and bleeding on the ground, a dagger clenched in her hand.

  ‘My mare!’ she cried. ‘My horse! I just saw her, bolting away again. That way!’

  ‘Where Lewen?’ Rhiannon asked.

  Edithe shrugged, pointing down the road, which dipped and then rose again over the crest of another low hill. Behind them they heard yelping, a lot more snarling, and then, ominously, the long, drawn-out howl of dogs on the hunt. For a moment they all froze, listening, then everyone leapt into movement. Iven half-carried Edithe up the stairs of the red caravan, shoving her through the door, then scrambled up into his driver’s seat again. He brought the reins down on the gelding’s rump with a thwack and the big, shaggy grey began to jog forward, whickering in distress.

  ‘I get Donnagh,’ Rhiannon said and thrust Basta’s reins at Rafferty, before wheeling Blackthorn round and urging her into the air. The great black wings rose and fell rhythmically, horse and rider soaring high into the air. Rhiannon could see the terrified mare stumbling blindly across the rough fields, and followed her, calling out to her with her mind. Stop! Ye will fall. Do no’ fear. I come. Me and Blackthorn, we come. Stop …

  The mare’s headlong pace faltered and she came to a halt, shuddering with exhaustion, her head down, her legs braced. Blackthorn folded her wings and went spiralling down, landing lightly next to her. Donnagh flinched but was too exhausted to shy away. Rhiannon reached out her hand, grasped the bridle and forced the mare to walk along beside her, her hide scummy with sweat, her legs trembling. As they walked, Rhiannon scolded the mare and she hung her head in shame. When the brown mare had caught her breath, Rhiannon coaxed her into a stiff-legged trot, conscious all the time of the howling of the pursuing dogs.

  By the time they reached the road again the dogs were racing along just behind the caravans, which were swaying roughly over the ruts in the road, all of the horses galloping at full speed, necks stretched out. Rhiannon let go of Donnagh’s bridle, warning her sternly to keep close and not bolt again, then unhitched her bow from her pommel. She drew an arrow from the quiver on her back and lifted the bow, aiming carefully. There was a twang and then a dreadful yelping. One of the dogs went down under the wheel of the red caravan. Some of the pack turned on the injured animal, tearing it to pieces, but the others kept on running, snapping at the horses’ heels, trying to hamstring them. Rhiannon shot another arrow, and another. Two more dogs fell.

  Then Landon’s horse stumbled, his injured foreleg giving way. He fell heavily into the road, almost dragging Rafferty down with him. As the dogs leapt upon the terrified horse, tearing out its throat, Rafferty heaved himself back into the saddle and forced his own horse’s head around, whipping him forward. He had let go of all the lead reins but the horses were running together now, as a herd, and did not need to be led. Blackthorn galloped behind them, keeping them all together.

  ‘Where Lewen?’ Rhiannon called out, anxiously.

  No-one could answer her.

  Lewen scrambled to his feet just as the dead woman lurched forward, decaying arms held open as if to embrace him. As her bony fingers seized him and drew him closer, the foul stench almost overwhelmed him. For an instant he stared into the empty eye sockets so close to his, where he could see the wriggle of white maggots still feeding. Violently he pushed her away, staggering backwards. She fell, her mouth open as if to shriek, and as she hit the ground her skin burst open like an overripe plum, putrid flesh spilling out with a liquid splash that caused Lewen to bend and vomit violently. Again and again he retched, until his stomach had nothing left to give, and then he broke into a stumbling run.

  Blinded by the heavy rain, he slipped in the mud and fell into a long shallow pit. The bottom of the pit was covered in water and he was drenched to the skin and smeared with clay. He hauled himself upright and dragged himself out of the ditch, clutching at the slippery muddy sides for purchase. Wiping the slimy muck from his face he saw he was right up under the shadow of the trees. There were other mounds of disturbed earth nearby, and a few long pits like freshly dug graves.

  Lewen’s skin was crawling, and he scraped away as much of the mud as he could, feeling sick. Something moved under the shadow of the low-hanging branches and every nerve in his body jumped. Lewen peered under the branches fearfully. Seeing a dark, man-like shape lurching towards him, he spun on his heel to run.

  A corpse stood right before him. Lewen cannoned into it before he could help himself. He cried aloud in horror and recoiled, as the rotting cadaver reached out with pleading hands, grasping his arm. Lewen wrenched his sleeve away, feeling it tear. ‘Stop it!’ he cried. ‘Leave me alone!’

  For a moment he stared into the cavernous, half-rotted face, seeing beneath the grey skin and the staring hollow eye sockets something of the man it must have once been. The stench was so overpowering his breath snagged in his throat. He pressed his hands over his nose and mouth, trying not to vomit again, and backed slowly away. He felt something, or someone, right behind him, and froze. Very slowly, his limbs trembling violently, he turned.

  Close behind him stood an old man. White hair still clung to his blackened scalp. Filthy scraps of shroud hung from his bony shoulders. Bones gleamed palely through the withered skin. He was crying, his mouth hanging wide open, his hands held up in entreaty. A horrible keening sound filled the air. Lewen thought he could hear words among the sobbing and wailing. ‘Help us, save us, avenge us,’ he heard. ‘Heeelp us!’

  Lewen backed away, turning on his heel. On all sides stood emaciated corpses, their hands held out pleadingly, their decomposing faces twisted in grief. More came shambling out of the forest. A few were mere skeletons, their jerking bones held together by some invisible force, their jaws clacking horribly. Many were no higher than Lewen’s thigh.

  He heard Argent’s trumpeting neigh and ran that way, dashing tears from his eyes. The stallion was in a terrified sweat, the white rim of his eyes showing, his ears laid back. Somehow Lewen managed to haul himself into the saddle before his legs gave way. The stallion swerved and began to run. Lewen made no attempt to control the stallion’s headlong pace, using all his strength just to stay in the saddle.

  Then he saw the caravans hurtling towards him down the rough, stony road, swaying so violently it seemed they must topple over. He leant forward, pressing one knee into Argent’s hot, damp side, pulling gently on one rein. Obediently the stallion veered round and came galloping alongside the blue caravan.

  ‘Stop! Stop!’ Lewen cried. He could not frame the words to describe what he had just seen, but knew only that they must not go any further.

  Iven was driving the caravan. ‘Lewen! What’s wrong?’

  ‘Must stop,’ Lewen panted.

  ‘Canna stop,’ Iven shouted back. ‘Dogs at our heels.’

  Lewen glanced back over his shoulder. Behind the swaying caravans, behind the galloping wild-eyed horses, came the mob
of dogs, howling with blood-lust.

  ‘They took down Landon’s horse, you’d think that would hold them off for a while,’ Iven said. ‘But they’re mad with hunger, poor mutts.’ One wheel of the caravan hit a pothole and he was almost jerked off his seat. He hauled himself upright and concentrated on the road, such as it was.

  ‘No’ safe ahead,’ Lewen said. ‘Iven, there’s … walking dead ahead. Dead people, corpses, walking around in broad daylight.’

  Iven’s eyebrows shot up. He hauled back on the reins instinctively, but the grey carthorse had the weight of the caravan at his back and could not easily stop.

  ‘Dead people?’

  Lewen nodded. ‘One took hold o’ me.’ He shuddered involuntarily, feeling nausea rise in his throat. ‘I pushed her off me and she … sort o’ fell apart. But there were others, Iven. I saw them moving in the trees and … arrgh, I smelt them.’ His stomach won out and he leant over, retching. Argent neighed in protest and swerved sideways, almost unseating Lewen.

  ‘Mad dogs behind, walking corpses ahead,’ Iven said ruminatively. ‘Delightful place, this.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Lewen cried. ‘Look, those trees just ahead, that’s where they are, the walking dead.’

  Iven whipped his carthorse back into a ponderous gallop. ‘Ride, Lewen!’ he cried. ‘Ride for your life!’

  The road ran straight through the spinney of trees. Trees crowded close on either side, forcing them to fall into single file. Branches slammed into the sides of the caravans, scraping away paint and tearing free some of the decorative fretwork. They made no attempt to retrieve it, the horses behind driving it deep into the mud with their hooves. As the horses were forced to slow by the deep ruts and sucking mud, the dogs swiftly gained ground on them. Lewen and Rhiannon turned and fired arrow after arrow into the pack. Nearly every one found its mark and those that fell were meat for the other dogs to fight over. Soon there was only a handful of dogs still pursuing them, led by a big yellow brute with crazed eyes and blood-slavered jaws.

  Rhiannon had only one arrow left. With her body twisted right round, rising and falling to the rhythm of Blackthorn’s powerful gallop, she raised the bow and squinted along the arrow’s length. Just as she was about to let the arrow fly, a low tree branch knocked her from her horse’s back. With a scream she fell.

  ‘Rhiannon!’ Lewen shouted and brought Argent wheeling round on his haunches. Just as the big yellow dog leapt upon Rhiannon’s fallen body, Lewen shot an arrow straight through its chest, knocking the dog head over heels. Then Lewen flung himself down on the road on his knees, pulling Rhiannon into his arms. With frantic hands he brushed away the tangled mess of her hair, looking down into her face. ‘Rhiannon, Rhiannon,’ he whispered. ‘Are ye hurt?’

  She opened her eyes and looked up into his face. ‘No’ me,’ she said.

  Lewen bent his head and kissed her.

  The world went still and quiet, all the clamour of snarling dogs, stampeding horses and jolting caravans fading away. Rhiannon reached up her hand and cupped it round the back of Lewen’s head, fingers threading through his curls. Lewen’s breath caught and he pressed his mouth down harder upon hers, feeling her body curl into him.

  Then a shrill neigh of anxiety penetrated his dazed senses. He jerked upright, in time to see another dog leaping upon them. Instinctively he felt for his sgian dubh, the dagger he wore in his boot, but as his fingers found the sheath empty he remembered giving his knife to Edithe. He had time only to seize the dog’s throat in his hands and hold it off, even as the weight of the dog bore him down onto his back. Then suddenly the dog jerked and went limp, falling upon his chest, blood gushing all over his hands. He thrust the dog away and saw Rhiannon withdraw her dagger from its chest, and wipe its bloodstained blade on her breeches.

  ‘Best go,’ she said.

  He nodded, bereft of words. Together they ran and vaulted up onto the backs of their horses, leaving the dead dogs behind for the remnants of the pack to fight over. Then they were galloping down the road again, eager to catch up with the caravans.

  Lewen risked a glance at Rhiannon as they rode. Her black hair whipped out behind her like a living cloak and her hands and face and body were smeared with blood and mud. She turned and smiled at him, and he felt the hot clench of desire. He looked away, finding it hard to breathe. So beautiful, he thought. So dangerous …

  Rhiannon laughed.

  The next instant they were once again having to rein their horses in to a violent halt. The blue caravan had hit a deep rut and was bogged in the mud. Iven and the boys were desperately trying to drag it free, Rafferty pulling at the big gelding’s head, Iven and Cameron trying to lift the caravan with their shoulders while Landon knelt in the mud, thrusting branches under the wheel.

  Lewen dismounted. To his surprise his legs almost gave way beneath him. ‘Here, let me help,’ he said, coming across to put his shoulder to the wheel.

  ‘Quick! Quick!’ Iven cried.

  ‘The dogs are all dead, or gorging themselves on their kin,’ Lewen said wearily.

  ‘It’s no’ the dogs I’m worried about now,’ Iven said. Lewen looked up in surprise. Only then did he smell the rank odour of rotting flesh. Something moved in the grey dusk under the trees, something out of rhythm with the blow of leaf and rain.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he said blankly.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Iven shot back. ‘Now, heave!’

  With a will Lewen heaved. The caravan came up out of the mud with a sucking sound and rolled forward. The boys scrambled back to their feet. Then all went still and quiet as stone.

  All round them stood the company of the dead. Some were nothing but bones and staring skulls, others were freshly risen from their grave and bore only the faintest purple bloom of putrefaction on their chalky skins. Some even had eyes still, filmed over, their eyelashes clogged with grave-dirt. These were the ones who reached out their cold hands as if begging, who stretched their mouths into moans and shrieks, who groped their way forward, lifting their limbs in a grotesque parody of living movement. It was not the jerking skeletons that caused the most horror but those most newly dead, who had skin and hair and eyes still, and features recognisable still as old man or young woman or little boy.

  Rafferty made a gagging noise and swayed where he stood. Iven strode quickly to stand by him, holding him up with one hand. ‘Nina!’ he called softly. ‘Nina!’

  The door of the red caravan opened and Nina stood upon the step, looking out into the twilight forest where, step by stumbling step, the host of the dead closed in upon them. She stood frozen for a moment, horror on her face, then she reached back into the caravan and pulled out her guitar. ‘Close your eyes and your ears, my dears,’ she said gently. ‘And throw your cloaks about your horses’ heads. I am going to sing the songs o’ sorcery and I do no’ want ye ensorcelled too.’

  For a moment no-one moved, their muscles paralysed with dread. Then everyone sprang to obey. They wrapped their heavy, rain-wet cloaks about their horses’ heads and then huddled their own faces under the muffling folds of cloth, pressing their hands over their ears. There they hunched for an excruciatingly long time, hearing nothing but the thunder of their own blood in their ears.

  At last Lewen felt a gentle touch on his shoulder. He stifled a shriek and sprang away from the touch, fighting his way free of the folds of his cloak. Argent neighed and reared back, spooked by Lewen’s fear. It was only Iven though, his fair hair and beard bedraggled with rain.

  ‘All is well,’ he said. ‘Nina has sung the dead home.’

  Lewen looked about him in amazement. Dusk had fallen. Lanterns had been lit at the front and back of both the caravans, casting a warm circle of light over the road. The dead lay in crumpled heaps where they had fallen. Nina sat on the steps of the caravan, her guitar drooping from one hand. She looked ill and haggard, with deep blue rings under her eyes. The sunbird stroked its long, curved beak against her cheek affectionately.

  ‘How?’ was all
Lewen could say.

  Iven shrugged. ‘Ye think I ken, lad? I had my ears well plugged, I assure ye. I am naught but a jongleur. It is my wife who is the sorceress. All I ken is she has drained her strength. I have to get her to warmth and shelter, and quickly. I do no’ want her getting sorcery sickness! Help me rouse the others and let us get away from this accursed wood.’

  ‘Aye, away from here,’ Nina said in a dull, flat voice. ‘Away from the stench o’ death. Oh, Iven! Find us a house, a barn, somewhere with walls and a roof. For there are more out there, I can sense them. I do no’ want to camp in the open tonight, when we are all so weary.’

  Iven swallowed and rubbed his hand over his face. ‘Go and rest, my darling. I will find us somewhere safe, I promise.’

  She nodded and stood up, swaying for a moment as giddiness overcame her. Moving like an old, sick woman, she hauled herself up the stairs, the guitar dangling from her hand.

  Lewen went to Rhiannon, gently drawing away her cloak. He was surprised to find her sickly white and trembling all over, her pupils so widely dilated her eyes looked black in the flickering lantern light. To his surprise and pleasure, she flung herself into his arms, choking on sobs.

  ‘Why, what’s wrong, leannan?’ he asked, stroking her back.

  She shuddered, unable to speak.

  ‘Dinna be afraid,’ he said. ‘All is well. Look, Nina has sung the dead to sleep, or true death, what, I really do no’ ken. But they are quiet now and willna bother us again. All is well.’

  She pulled herself away from him, her hands clenched into fists. ‘No’ afraid,’ she said.

  Puzzled, he put his hand on her arm, trying to draw her round to face him. ‘No, o’ course no’. Naught to be afraid o’ now. Come, ye’re shivering. Ye’re wet through with rain, and the wind is cold. No wonder ye canna stop shivering!’