The Song of the Sirin (Raven Son Book 1)

by Nicholas Kotar

  The rock he had noticed before moved of its own accord off its ledge. It fell, struck the ground, bounced, and changed…

  …into a monstrous creature, over seven feet in height, standing on two rippling, hairy legs. Its arms and chest had the shape of a man’s, but larger and covered in a thick tangle of grey fur. Instead of a face, it had the slavering maw of a wolf. Its eyes were the source of the screaming fear. They were the eyes of a demon with pits of emptiness instead of pupils, black like a bottomless abyss. Brown saliva dripped from its fangs. It growled, but it also laughed. Voran’s blood felt like ice in his veins.

  “I come as bidden, prince,” the creature spoke with a guttural bass. “What would you have me do?”

  “I… did not…” Mirnían sounded like he had pebbles in his mouth. “What are you?”

  “The sound of strife calls to me like fresh blood. Malice sings to my ears like a lamb in death-throes. I am hungry, fair prince. Will you kill the offending wretch, or will you let me?” He pointed at Voran with a twisted black claw.

  Mirnían did not answer.

  Hissing with excitement, the changer approached Voran. Its eyes, dull yellow with black absence in the center, darted up and down. Its jaws panted with expectation. Black claws twitched as they reached for Voran’s eyes. The wolf ears lay flat against its monstrous head.

  “Such young blood I have not tasted in centuries,” it whispered, then grimaced. “Is that the stink of Sirin on you? Never mind. I am very hungry. Your eyes first, my beautiful boy.”

  It reached for Voran’s face. He lay without power, fear choking him. His breath gasped frantically, but his body was in a vise, helpless, as though laid out in a blasphemous sacrifice to this demon.

  Something growled behind the beast, and Voran heard a nauseating crunch. The changer howled. It snapped Voran awake, like falling out of a nightmare. The changer was on the floor, scrabbling at something colossal and black. A wolf the size of a bear. Voran felt the flame surge inside him. He drew his sword. Tense and ready, he waited for an opening.

  The changer managed to throw off the black wolf and faced Voran. It screamed and it screamed.

  “I do not fear you, creature of the Darkness,” whispered Voran. He feinted, waited for the changer to defend himself, then plunged the sword into the creature’s chest, underneath its arm. The beast dissolved. Voran’s sword clattered on the rocks. A stench of rotting flesh filled the cave, and a column of black smoke oozed out into the forest, puss-like.

  The black wolf shook its head, as if disgusted. It stood up and padded toward the three travelers.

  Voran laughed and extended his arms to the huge wolf. It cuddled against him with its huge head like a house cat.

  “I was hoping I would see you again,” said Voran, smiling. “It seems you have paid off your debt to me handsomely.”

  The wolf harrumphed. “You have a high opinion of yourself, cub. Your debt to me is now lifelong. Do you even realize what that thing was?” She spoke with a woman’s voice. When Voran got over the initial shock of hearing the wolf actually talk, he realized there was something vaguely familiar about the wolf’s voice.

  “A changer, is it not?” Voran said.

  “You say that as though you know what that is. You have no idea.”

  Voran turned to the others. Their eyes were bigger than their faces, especially Mirnían’s, who was clearly having a hard time convincing himself that the talking wolf was a figment of his imagination.

  “Cub,” said the wolf. “That creature is the least of your problems. The army of the Vasylli has been routed.”

  “What?” Mirnían snapped out of his stupor. “What do you mean, routed? Impossible!”

  “As impossible as wolf-men prowling the woods, my prince?” She turned on Mirnían, snarling. “As impossible as a prince of Vasyllia calling on a creature of the Raven in the anger of his heart?”

  Mirnían flushed.

  “I don’t understand,” said Voran. “Mirnían called that thing? How? Why?”

  Mirnían moaned, answering as if against his will. “I wished your death, Voran. You drove me to such a passion that I lost all self-control. I wanted to kill you with my own hands.”

  “Why, Mirnían?”

  “You really are that thick-headed, aren’t you?”

  The wolf growled. “Envy, Voran. That creature smelled his envy like a wolf smells blood.”

  “Wolf!” Dubían visibly trembled. “How do you know that the Vasylli were defeated?”

  “Do you doubt the word of Leshaya?” She bared bloody fangs at Dubían.

  “No, Leshaya,” said Voran, placating. “But tell us nonetheless.”

  “Come, I will show you. I watched the battle.”

  “You did nothing to intervene?” asked Mirnían.

  “I have little love for Vasyllia,” she said and loped out of the cave.

  She took them deeper into the woods, to a craggy hill overlooking the tree line. Voran climbed it before the rest. All around he saw nothing but forest, except in one direction. To the west stood a high plateau, a mile away at most. Even from this vantage point, he saw a horrific mound of piled bodies, their mail glinting in the morning sun. The ravens looked like flies swarming a dung-heap. Voran felt sick.

  “What happened?” Mirnían stood next to Voran. His face was chalk-white.

  “They never had a chance,” said Leshaya. “This is a new kind of enemy, like nothing ever seen in these woods. They have no fear. They sidle up to death as if it were a life-long companion. Pain affects them little. But the Vasylli destroyed themselves. They were too arrogant. It was almost laughable. The initial skirmish was bloody, and the invaders took to their heels and ran away. Thinking this was a rout, the Vasylli ran after them with no semblance of order, giving up the high ground. As soon as they entered the deepwood, the marauders turned around and counterattacked. Reinforcements were waiting in the trees. In seconds, they surrounded the Vasylli. It was a calculated move. A trap. They left none alive.”

  The reality seeped into Voran slowly, like waking to realize a nightmare was real. That was at least three, four thousand lives snuffed out. How many of them were his friends, his cohort elders? He stood staring at the mound of death, trying to make sense of the disaster. If the pilgrims were also dead, the three of them could be the last Vasylli in the forest.

  Voran felt a song rise up from the depths of the earth through him and up to the Heights, a dirge from the time of Lassar of Blessed Memory. He sang.

  Peace eternal to your servants,

  in your bosom, Adonais,

  grant this.

  Sobs spluttered through the song. When Voran could sing no longer, Mirnían repeated the dirge with his resonant baritone. Dubían wept aloud, his tears streaming down his beard and hissing as they fell on the cold earth. The wind picked up as they sang, harmonizing. Rain dropped on them, slowly and heavily, then clumped into feathery bunches of snow. The trees swayed back and forth, in time with the flow of the dirge. Then all fell silent.

  Voran fell on his knees and bowed his head as his tears continued for his fallen brothers, for all the orphaned children, for Vasyllia’s dark time.

  “Do not joke with giants. Their humor can get you killed.”

  -Old Karila proverb

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Waystone

  They followed Leshaya for a week, heading east. The distant shimmer of the last Vasyllian ridge remained on their right for the first few days, then they turned away, and the mountains faded into mist. By the end of the week, the peaks were no longer in sight. This was completely unfamiliar territory for Voran.

  They no longer pitched tents, sleeping instead under the stars, wrapped in wools that kept every part of their bodies warm, except their faces. At least once a night, Voran woke from the numb burning of his frozen nose.

  Dubían had insisted that he return to warn Vasyllia. Voran could not stop the big man, but he thought him foolish. Mirnían agreed.

  �
��No, there is no wisdom in returning now,” Mirnían had said. “There is as much likelihood of you being captured as arriving in Vasyllia in time. And the scouts will have seen the enemy already.”

  But Dubían would not be deterred. Seeing the back of him brought Voran more grief than he expected. He feared he would never see him again.

  On the eighth day after encountering the changer, the mountains lessened into rolling hills. Voran’s ears began to pop as they descended. That day, they stopped early, before the sunset. They laid out their food and furs at the shores of a glass-clear lake.

  “You might think that the lake is shallow,” said Leshaya, “but it is not. Do not be fooled. That is one of the deepest lakes in this part of the world.”

  “That should be the slogan of our journey,” grumbled Mirnían. “Nothing is as it seems. Never in my life did I think I would follow a speaking wolf on a journey to a doorway that exists, but only sometimes.”

  “What choice do we have?” asked Voran. “It seems obvious that the pilgrims entered the Lows of Aer. We have no other trail to follow.” And perhaps he would find Lyna. The need to see her pierced even the veil of sleep. He only dreamed of her now.

  “You would be wise to practice a little humility, prince of Vasyllia,” said Leshaya. “You Vasylli are not equipped to battle the enemy now approaching your city. Try to learn something. It might prove useful.”

  Mirnían ignored her.

  In the morning, the lake was frosted over with thin tendrils of mist.

  “There lies our way,” Leshaya said, pointing with her muzzle at the mist.

  “What, over the lake?” Mirnían said. “It is not frozen yet.”

  “Not over the lake. Over the mist.”

  Voran smiled. He felt unusually eager this morning.

  Leshaya led the way, and Voran followed. Mirnían, shaking his head and muttering under his breath, came last. As Voran stepped on the mist, it seemed to be hard ground. He waded knee-deep in what looked like milk. No ice, no water. When they all reached the center of the lake, a wind raised the mist around them until they were bathed in it. Something seemed to shift in the shapes just beyond the white. As the mist lifted, a high plain revealed itself ahead of them. Not a stone’s throw away lay the strangest thing Voran had ever seen—a slumbering giant’s head, the size of a three-story house, bearded, wearing an ancient helmet made of a curious silver-copper metal. It snored. Every time it snored, a cloud of starlings flew up, only to alight back on the helmet as soon as it stopped.

  “Everyone is usually so taken with the head, they never notice the waystone,” said Leshaya.

  She was right. Voran had missed the ragged plinth. It had carved scratches on its face, too dim to be made out from this distance.

  “This cannot be real. I am dreaming.” Mirnían stood a few steps behind them, his face pale.

  Upon closer inspection, the scratches on the waystone were legible, though barely, after what seemed many centuries of erosion.

  If left you go, there love awaits

  If right you go, there gold awaits

  If straight you go, there death awaits

  “What wonderful choices!” Mirnían spat on the ground.

  “Maybe the head will be more enlightening,” said Voran. He picked up a rock the size of his head.

  “Voran, what are you…No, stop!” said Leshaya.

  Voran hurled the stone at the giant, just as it was breathing in to snore. The stone flew up the giant’s nose, and the head jolted awake, then sneezed like a gale. When Voran picked himself up, the head was awake. It looked very annoyed, but there was also something else in its eyes. The kind of amusement a bear might feel when faced with a charging ant.

  “Voran, you idiot,” whispered Leshaya. Her tail was stuck out straight behind her and her ears were at full alert.

  “Well,” the head bellowed. “You have my attention, tiny creatures. What do you want with me?”

  A sense of the scene’s absurdity struck Voran, and he spoke without even thinking.

  “Giant, what happened to you? Why does your head continue to live without…well, the rest of you?”

  Mirnían looked at Voran as though Voran had mushrooms growing up his nose.

  “UGGH!” The giant’s groan was like an earthquake. “Always the same stupid question. It’s not fair. It’s not as though I can, you know, walk away from stupid conversations. No. I’m stuck here, forever subject to witticisms and imbecilities.”

  “Buyan, ignore him. He’s but a cub.” Leshaya’s eyes flashed at Voran.

  “Oh, Leshaya, I didn’t see you there. You’re so small, you know. Can you remove these pimples from my presence, please? I am sleepy.”

  “Buyan, have you seen or heard anything of Vasylli pilgrims seeking the Living Water?”

  One huge eyebrow shot upward.

  “Ah! Always seeking information, aren’t you, Leshaya? What makes you think that a big oaf like me knows anything in the wide world?”

  “You’re right,” said Voran, turning away. “This is a waste of time. He’s obviously half-man…I mean, mad.”

  “Oh, thank you for that, annoying little person. I may know something of these pilgrims, or I may not. You’ll have to take that chance.”

  “Oh, by all the…” Mirnían looked ready to burst with frustration. “This is too much like a story. I hate it. Listen, whoever you are. What do we have to do to earn the chance at your knowledge?”

  “Finally,” the giant head sighed with pleased relief. “A little person with a brain slightly larger than a pea. I will tell you whatever you want to hear if you can guess a riddle.” It smiled thoughtfully. “I haven’t played at riddles in ages. Oooh, this will be fun. Here’s the first one:

  Above mighty water most often I mount,

  Trying the hearts of heroic men.

  I peer over cliffs and perilous jaunts,

  Sounding the sum of all of my strength.

  Don’t think I’m a dragon, though indeed I breathe fire,

  A thousand sparks, like scales, rise up from my soul.

  I weep among welkin, though always keep watch

  To help, never hinder, the poor helpless man.”

  Voran couldn’t believe how easy this one was. “Beacon. The answer’s beacon.”

  The eyebrows came down like a drawbridge, and huge rotten teeth tried to chew the lower lip. In its disembodied state, the head found this difficult, which only made it angrier.

  “How did you?…Well, never mind. Something harder, then.”

  “We guessed correctly,” said Mirnían. “Now tell us!”

  “There are three of you. Three riddles. Each of you answers one. Here’s the next:

  My place is high perched apart from all favor

  To watch all the workings of this worrisome world.

  Well covered and cloaked in midnight’s dark color,

  I sing all the songs my bright cousins dread.”

  Voran’s skin prickled. That was not an accidental riddle.

  Mirnían scoffed. “It’s raven, you overgrown cabbage.”

  The giant head opened its mouth wide and tried to bite Mirnían.

  “The third!” commanded Leshaya. The head smiled daggers at the wolf.

  “I’m hopefully well held, lest I harass all my neighbors,

  For fierce am I found, oft forcing my way blindly.

  I borrow much beauty of all that’s about me,

  A shimmer and shine amidst the world’s show,

  Yet I terrify the toughest amidst my great temper.

  Having beheld the beginning of all this world’s bounty,

  I sing its great song on all sides of the world,

  Yet sit happily in stillness, in silence of mind.”

  Voran was stumped. Mirnían’s face fell. Leshaya remained tense.

  “That’s not funny, Buyan.” She growled, deep in her throat. The giant head laughed. There was no mistaking the malice in that laugh. Voran’s skin crawled all over his bod
y.

  “He will not help us,” said Leshaya. “We must choose a path on our own.”

  “Why do I have the nagging sense that you are going to suggest we go straight?” asked Mirnían.

  “Because it’s the only possible way,” said Voran. “Unless you have something else to say, Leshaya?”

  “Why can we not turn back?” asked Mirnían.

  “There is no way back,” said Voran. He did not look back, but he knew that he would find no trace of the mist-covered lake they had just crossed.

  “And we can afford the risk of the path leading to our death?” Mirnían nearly shrieked.

  The head snored.

  “Do you fear death, Mirnían?” asked Voran.

  Mirnían screwed up his eyes and pursed his lips. “Voran, you will rue this day.” He shouldered his pack with a grunt and walked past the head to the silvery path leading to the horizon. The head snored on. Voran followed.

  That entire day, and the next, Mirnían refused to speak to Voran. Leshaya was not much for conversation, either. She spent most of every day hunting. Sometimes she would be gone for hours. Voran’s loneliness ate at him.

  Soon the trees became smaller and rarer, until they gave way to shrubs and carpets of grass. Everything was bright green from constant moisture, even this late in the year. Their road led into a narrow dale, both walls of which sloped sharply upward and ended with three jagged peaks directly ahead. A narrow pass was barely visible between two of the teeth. The ascent did not look strenuous, but it was late evening by the time they reached the foot of the slope, so they stopped for the night. The rain picked up again by midnight, and with no shelter of trees anywhere for miles, the night was miserable.

  In such weather, even Leshaya seemed uncomfortable. Halfway through the night, she crawled toward Voran and lay at his side. He fit himself against her belly. Her warmth suffused his aching joints, banishing much of the cold to the edges of his hands and feet and nose.

  “Leshaya,” Voran whispered, unable to sleep. “There is something I don’t understand about the Lows. When I first hunted the stag, I had no trouble entering through the invisible doorway. I did not even realize I was in the Lows until it was too late. But in order to leave the Lows, the Pilgrim and I had to cross paths with the white stag. The Pilgrim called the stag a “bearer”. Why did we not just find another doorway out of the Lows?”