The Raven Warrior

by Alice Borchardt

  This terrible forest couldn’t continue forever, could it? But then his mind replied, Why not? For some it had. And they lost their way and wandered until they died or perhaps even didn’t die but struggled forever, each day a perfect copy of the last, dull misery forevermore.

  But Bax was warm and Arthur was lying against his back. The dog gave his hand a swipe with his moist tongue.

  Why, if the only peace left is sleep, he thought, why let me sleep? And he did.

  The first gray light woke him, and he found the hollows formed by the twisted roots around him filled with water. Again, both he and Bax drank. As he looked around at the fog curling in the treetops, the ancient trees that pressed in on him and the strange pale light that was all the omnipresent fog would let through, he thought, I will lose my sense of time in this place.

  He hadn’t been burned badly by the fire that drove him into the dark forest, but he did have a raw patch of skin on his right arm. It was healing now and itched. He scratched it idly and felt the sharpness of his nails.

  Yes, he thought. Then he used his sharp right thumbnail to slice a mark into his skin on the inside of his left forearm. One today, one tomorrow—that keeps track of time.

  Then, oddly, he felt stronger than he had yesterday. He felt no hunger and wondered if the massive dog Bax was also free of the need to eat. The dog stood quietly on the high roots of the tree before him. Then, when Arthur indicated he was ready to begin walking, Bax led him away into the dark-pillared, misty forest.

  He decided he was stronger because he found it easier to deal with the trees. At first he had seen them as nightmare shapes in the gloom, hemming him in. But now, as he had grown to know them, he became expert at finding footholds among the multiple twisted roots that formed the valleys between each mountainous trunk.

  Just as well, because the ground began to slope downward more and more steeply and the thick, tortured roots became a stair. Often he found himself stepping down the root system of one while looking into the crown of another. Sometimes the fog blew away for a second and he looked at the daunting view—a precipice clad in the living armor of the giant oaks that drove impossibly massive roots into the stony soil and held the iron-hard trunks and shiny, reflective green leaves to a foggy sky. Strong, they were strong in the way that the trees that composed the tower were. Burgeoning life-forms that ever renewed themselves, century after century, millennium after millennium, for all time.

  He knew this was certainly so when he and Bax came to the occasional clearing formed by the death of one of the oaks and saw a sapling formed and rising from one of the dead oak’s roots. Tall, slender, and fair, it reached upward for the light. Strength there; strength surrounded him when he came to sleep. And as he threw his arms around the dog’s neck, he thought the moon must be out above the covering fog, because it glowed like chalcedony or sometimes a white opal sparkling prismatically with a thousand colors of blue, violet, gold, and rose.

  The king, the Dark King Bade, must hope this forest would destroy him. This was Arthur’s first thought between sleep and waking. It wasn’t working. No, not at all, he thought as he sat up.

  He studied the wet, dark-fissured bark of the nearest oak. Strength; he felt the strength of the tree in his body and he remembered the Flower Bride in her incarnation as the creatrix of the first trees. Those that bloom before the snow is melted or in milder climes, while the forest floor is still black with last year’s fallen leaves. These trees bloom and blow: the willow, the tall, gray-barked ash, the oak. Their lovers are the cold spring rain, the late winter wind slashing the bare branches, and the boiling storm.

  He closed his eyes and embraced her. She was soft as the downy red catkin of a willow and her breath was that of a mountain torrent, unbearably sharp and sweet at the same time. His pleasure was the frosted touch of winter’s final rain, savage yet cleansing.

  Then she was gone and he felt the strength of the trees; trees that endured forever, replacing themselves as they fell. It entered his flesh, the roaring blood in his veins, the dark, complex red marrow of his bones, as she prepared him . . . for what? He could not possibly imagine what such a transformation could presage in this life or another.

  He had five marks on his arm when they came to the valley. It was no longer a struggle for him to find his way between the trees. In fact, sometimes Bax followed him as he made his way down the slope. He had noticed the wind was rising and from time to time it blew away the fog. He was able to glimpse the forest as a mass of shimmering green leaves clothing the slopes around him. That and the momentary sun on his face were an exquisite pleasure.

  Yes, in the brief flourishes of wind he saw that he and Bax were walking into a V-shaped valley. A mountain torrent raced through the bottom of the fold of land between the steep slopes toward an unguessable destination. Above the vista of shimmering green, an eagle soared.

  He remembered he had been an eagle once. A second after, he found he was again an eagle and he looked down through a magnificent bird’s eyes and saw the river widen and spread as the forest ended and the water spread out to refresh a multifold garden that surrounded a soaring palace of light.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Black Leg retreated to a grotto in the side of the mountain to lick his bruises. His body was pressed against the stone wall. Outside, the raven laughed.

  “You weren’t a great big lot of help,” Black Leg snarled.

  “The wolf is a sacred animal to him,” the raven said. “He did wrong in trying to kill you. He knows it now. You are linked.”

  “Linked how?” Black Leg asked.

  But the raven was gone and the helm rested in a patch of sun near the hollow tree where Black Leg’s clothes were concealed. He dressed. His mood was somber. He’d come closer to dying in this engagement than he ever had before. He wasn’t used to being afraid. The dream of being a great warrior had been an almost childish one, and he had been certain his natural advantages as man and wolf would grant him victory over lesser beings.

  He saw this wasn’t necessarily the case. Death had never been a real possibility to him. It was now, and he was surprised to find that he feared it.

  When he was dressed, he clapped the raven helmet on his head, then stood looking out over the valley. He could go back to her. She didn’t give a tinker’s damn about courage or battle or even honor. But what would he be if he did? Her pet? A fool running from the one responsibility he’d been called upon to fulfill?

  The morning breeze fanned his face and whispered in the brush and scrub oak that covered the hillside. No, there was too much man now in him to be a true wolf. And too much wolf in him ever to fully understand the men he had partnered with. But Cregan had ordered him to reconnoiter and, at least as far as Black Leg was able, he would obey his orders.

  So it happened that a few hours later he was sitting cross-legged on a cowhide in Cregan’s mews eating a pork loin and describing the party of Huns. The ashes of the drinking hall were smoldering across the courtyard. Cregan had burned it down as requested by the more fastidious members of the community. As many of Cregan’s men as could fit into the mews among the very spoiled hawks were listening. The eagle behind Cregan was straightening her feathers with her beak.

  “What I cannot understand,” Cregan said at length, “is how you get so close.”

  “I’ve hunted with my father and his brothers since I can remember,” Black Leg said. “Often we lived by hunting and I’m good at moving about at night silently.”

  “Yessss,” Cregan said slowly. “I suppose that could explain it. There will be gold in that wagon.”

  One of the other men said, “The Huns have been victorious all along the coast.”

  Cregan frowned. “They are very close to being out of our territory and in more settled country. But they’re probably too big a prize to let slip through my fingers. Many of the men in the village are up in the mountains with the herds. If word reaches the villa that I think they’re making for it, the Roman lord
there will send a detachment of Franks to burn us out. So . . .” He paused. “Boys, all the men in the escort following that wagon will have to die. Because if word reaches the Franks that we’ve attacked one of Attila’s parties, we haven’t enough men in camp right now to beat off a revenge party. Hear me!”

  Black Leg felt a sick horror as he looked around at the faces of the men surrounding him. No one appeared unhappy or dismayed. They were a hard-bitten crew, used to doing what was necessary to ensure their own survival.

  Cregan read his dismay. “Boy, if you cannot obey my orders to the letter, then remain behind and keep the women company. For if you let one of those sons of hell slip past you, I’ll cut out your heart with my own hands.”

  Black Leg felt a chill and the hackles rose on the back of his neck, as did the hair on his arms.

  “No,” he said, then repeated, “No! I’m in.”

  Cregan grunted, then said, “We’ll try to reach the river at dusk.”

  They did. No one was very heavily armed. No man carried a shield. Some, including Black Leg, had chain mail, but no one wore it. They carried swords and an assortment of ugly-looking pikes and spears, and the usual complement of knives, about three for each man. But no one wore anything that would clink, clatter, bang, or make any loud noise. They were armored in leather or simply wore padded shirts.

  It was dark in the riverbed, and the only moon was a faint silver crescent, almost lost among a vast multitude of stars.

  “Take point,” Cregan said to Black Leg, “and let’s see if you’re as quick and quiet in the dark as you say you are.”

  He was, even as a human, quiet as a wraith and he chose to lead the rest along in the shadow of the bank where they were almost invisible in the darkness. But it was Cregan who spotted the sentry. He hissed and his nails bit into the flesh of Black Leg’s arm.

  They both paused. Cregan’s men needed no instructions. They melted into the shadows as silently as ghosts.

  “No fool, this Pict who you say leads them,” Cregan whispered. “He expects trouble, if it comes, to come this way.”

  The water was only a trickle between the high riverbanks, and as long as Cregan remained where he was, no one could pick out either him or his men.

  “Can you kill him quietly?” Cregan asked Black Leg.

  “Wouldn’t matter,” Black Leg said. “There’s someone up there with him that will give the alarm even if he dies. His horse. He’s a Hun. They live with them, and someone’s got to cut the mare’s throat first.”

  “Hell!” Cregan whispered.

  Black Leg and Cregan crouched in the hollow of the bank. Just ahead, a sandstone promontory jutted out.

  “Come,” Black Leg said to Cregan, and went around the promontory. It brought them out of sight of the rest. Black Leg pulled off his shirt and his legs slipped out of his pants when he went wolf.

  Cregan made a strangled sound, almost like a sob.

  Black Leg turned human long enough to whisper, “I’ll take the horse. You—the man.”

  “I should have known,” Cregan muttered under his breath. “Her friends!”

  Black Leg put the knife between his teeth, then he was a gray shape, then gone. It took him a few seconds to find a path to the top of the riverbank. He turned human when he reached it. He knew it would take Cregan even longer, so he crouched naked in the weeds until the sentry vanished.

  He could smell the mare: horse manure, saddle leather, foam, and grain. The breeze was blowing toward him. He moved as predators know how, until the faint night breeze was directly on his face. Then he went in.

  He cut the windpipe first, and when he heard the shrill wheezing whistle, he drove the dagger deep into the jugular. She went down almost without a sound.

  He met Cregan back where he’d left his clothing, became human, and began pulling his shirt on.

  “You have a future at this, me boyo,” Cregan said.

  Black Leg’s hands reeked of blood and his stomach muscles were fluttering. He’d been terrified slicing through her windpipe; wouldn’t have been enough, he’d been afraid she’d cry out. But she hadn’t.

  “Think he has only one sentry?” Black Leg asked.

  “No! And you take your other shape and go find out.”

  Black Leg blew out through his nose.

  “Be still!” Cregan continued. “I think I know where he is. Once there was a villa near here. It had a palisade that’s mostly down now, but it had a stone building at the center. He will have forted up in there. He must have seen you.”

  “Only as a wolf,” Black Leg said.

  “You said he was a Pict,” Cregan whispered. “And, like as not, he knew you were no natural wolf.”

  Black Leg faded into his other shape. Cregan hadn’t told him where the villa was, but then, he didn’t have to. The wind was still blowing his way, and it told him a number of things about men, horses, cold, old stone, trampled grass, and the very faint tang of wood smoke.

  Here again the Hun horses were the problem. He waited, crouched in the grass, until the wind was still. Then he moved forward at a skulking crouch until he saw the broken teeth of the palisade fence, darker shapes against the star-crowded sky. No, no wind. It was very still, and he slunk closer and closer.

  The Huns didn’t bathe often and Black Leg concluded later that’s what saved him. His eyes were fixed on the ruined stone dwelling beyond the shattered walls when the overpowering stench of unwashed humanity flowed into his nostrils.

  No, the Huns hadn’t taken refuge in the house. They were waiting behind the palisade silently, probably taking shifts sleeping while they waited for what they hoped were deplorably careless brigands.

  It took Black Leg an hour to extricate himself from the environs of the villa, all the while hoping frantically that Cregan wouldn’t be so careless as to come looking for him. When at last he dashed into the riverbed, he found him where he’d left him.

  He gave Cregan his report while pulling on his clothes and doing up his leggings. He concluded by saying, “We could let them go.”

  “Yes, and what will we do with the dead horse and man?” Cregan said. “No, we’ve drawn first blood and now we must take the rest. The Frankish dux bellorum knows where the men in our village are. He won’t think twice about a revenge raid to recover the spoils. No, boy, he must never know. Or find out much too late to be able to launch an attack. No!”

  He and Black Leg crawled back to the rest.

  “They think to ambush us from behind the palisade,” Cregan told them.

  “So when do we hit them?” someone asked.

  “First light,” Cregan said. “We come out of the ground mist and it’s as I said. Don’t let a one of them get away. You!” He spoke to the big red-haired man. “Keep an eye on what’s left of the sentry. See if anyone checks up on him. If they do . . . kill them. You, Lancelot—whatever your name is—get some sleep.”

  Black Leg curled up, wished he could turn wolf, and closed his eyes. The wagonload of loot. That’s what made all this such a danger. The Frankish dux bellorum would never be able to get his irregulars to ride out against Cregan to avenge a simple raid. But a wagonload of gold—that was another matter. They would want some of that and now Cregan and his men were in too deep to back out. It was do or die now for both the men here and the women and children in the village.

  Well, I wanted to be a warrior.

  The sense of dawn woke him. He was a wolf and the end of night announced itself to his nose when the air grew so cold that thick mist hung over the barren fields around him. He scented the cold sweetness of the dew-drenched grass. His man’s mind saw the stars and in their positions he marked the end of night.

  Not night, not day, he thought when the sky began to brighten. He remembered Dugald’s training. These were the most dangerous hours—the things not completely one thing or another. But more than knowledge, he remembered the garden the way his mind—not mortal, not wolf—had been able to read it.

  He glanced
away from the sky and out into the riverbed. A broken tree trunk was sunk in the gravel bottom. The raven was perched on it. It turned its head to one side and peered at him with one dark, red eye.

  “You were no help at all yesterday,” Lancelot said, not knowing if he was speaking with lips or mind.

  “No, but then you did not ask,” was the reply from the bird.

  “Suppose I ask now?” he said. “What is the price?”

  He felt as though he stood on the edge of a cliff, ready to cast off into the wind and try to fly. And he wondered where birds found the courage to take wing for the first time. He felt a chill of fear.

  “Death,” was the reply. “Death is the price.”

  “Whose death? Mine?”

  This time he was sure the bird spoke only in his mind. “Immortal or nearly immortal creature, born not human, not beast, able to call up an eternity of survival in and with your endless changes of form. Go from this place. Lie with your mistress, the ruler of living waters, springs and fountains. Dally with her and forget the dark ruin of our souls and mankind. Between the two of you, never and forever seal your conquest of the flesh. Death is our price. The death you will mete out to others. The death you will endure. The deaths you will see. So many you will see as those you love as both man and wolf fall away around you. And last, your death that waits at the end of the warrior’s road.

  “Go away, wolf, and when you and she suck the nectar of unending pleasure for ten ten thousand years, you will in the end weep and say, ‘Alas, I have never been alive.’ Hear me, wolf. Death alone gives meaning to life, and you will never fully live until you know you must die. And make your peace with the knowledge.”

  Black Leg closed his eyes. He scented the morning and knew what the bird said was true. An everlasting evasion of responsibility was not life . . . however long it lasted. And the road he must tread was marked out for him.