The Book of the Crowman

by Joseph D'lacey

  “You know, if what the Chieftain says about the Ward is right, aren’t they going to have scouts and spies all over the place? I’m frightened, Gordon. I’d much rather travel during the day – like we did before.”

  Two to one. Proving to Gordon that democracy was fundamentally flawed. He couldn’t stand the idea of not being with her tonight, of not being inside her. He had, of course, considered the danger of roving Ward scouts but they usually travelled in ones and twos. They’d have been easy enough to dispatch but Denise’s opinion changed things.

  There was a compromise, of course. After spending some time with Denise, he could leave while she and Jerome were sleeping. Travelling alone at night, he’d be there as dawn rose or even earlier, allowing him to continue the search without too much of an interruption. And Jerome may have been an idiot, but Gordon knew he’d take Denise safely the rest of the way.

  “OK, you win,” he said. “The farmhouse it is.”

  Jerome wheeled his horse away and walked it off the A5 onto a side road just beyond the top of the rise. Denise’s horse followed its companion and Gordon walked along behind them. There wasn’t much to see; the mist grew thicker by the moment, seeping through the hedges and swirling around them.

  Soon he was following the sound of hooves on tarmac rather than the sight of two horses. Considering Jerome had seen the farm from the A5, they seemed to walk a long way before they reached a gate. Once they passed through though, Gordon realised the First Guard had at least been right about something. He could now see the grain silo, outbuildings and the main farmhouse, all ranged around a broken and pitted yard.

  He expected the house to be partially ruined or burned out by looters but when he got closer he could see not even the windows had been broken. He reached into his pocket for his knife. The place was in such good repair, the chances were the occupants had defended their territory with some vigour. If this was of any concern to Jerome, he didn’t show it. He dismounted and wrapped the reins of his horse over the top plank of a wooden fence bordering the sloping fields. From here Gordon could just make out the tops of a few radio masts poking up through the deepening fog. Other than that there was no sign of the A5 or any other feature of the land. He might have been looking out across a vast, grey lake.

  Jerome helped Denise down from her horse and secured it beside his. He was a lot shorter without his mount, Gordon was amused to note, but he was bold; he opened the back door of the farmhouse like he owned the place and walked inside without any attempt to keep the noise down. Denise looked back and held her hand out to Gordon. By the time he’d reached her, though, she was already inside.

  Jerome was rifling through the kitchen cupboards, bringing out tins and putting them on the counter. A couple of candles burned on the well-worn pine of the kitchen table. Jerome worked almost frantically in the shadows, releasing food and seasoning it with salt and pepper. Moments later, he handed Denise and Gordon a tin each. The lids had been cut open with a short knife blade he’d found in a drawer. Gordon noticed the cooker was a range, set up for solid fuel. If they gathered some wood they could get a fire going.

  “Why don’t we eat this stuff hot?” he suggested.

  “What’s the point?” asked Jerome.

  Gordon sighed quietly. All of a sudden he was very tired of Jerome’s brash, careless attitude. Perhaps he’d have responded better if an order had been issued to cook the food.

  “Never mind,” said Gordon. “I don’t suppose you found any cutlery, did you? Or are we dining with our fingers tonight?”

  A spoon struck Gordon in the chest and clattered to the floor. After a moment, he picked it up and began to eat. His meal was a can of unflavoured butter beans. They tasted bitter.

  “Did you check the dates on the cans?”

  “They’re all fine,” said Jerome.

  Gordon ate quietly. The quicker he and Denise could find a comfortable room to settle down in for the night, the better. His eyes met hers again and again in the flickering gloom and he saw in them her rising heat, just as he had seen it on every other night he’d spent with her since they’d sheltered by the river. Maybe staying in the farmhouse wasn’t such a bad idea.

  The moment she placed her empty can on the table, Gordon stood up and reached out to her. This time she took his hand. He picked up one of the candles and held it out in front of them as he made for the corridor leading away from the kitchen.

  “Sleep well, Jerome.”

  The First Guard didn’t reply.

  46

  Megan takes the tiniest, most overgrown routes she knows towards the village outskirts, ducking through gullies, between hedges and along disused farm tracks. This extends the distance she has to run but it will slow the horses if not the dogs. The animal inside her rises to the chase, not like the fox to the hounds but like the wolf. She is leading them the way she wants them to come, knowing the territory is unfamiliar to them. Behind her, already far too close, erupt the curses from riders slowed by thickets and tracks treacherous with loose rock.

  She keeps to the edge of the village, all the time making for New Wood. The last section between the cottages and the first pine trees is open and she pounds along through the dawn, the dogs and mounts, though somewhat slowed, still on her trail. As she reaches the edge of the wood, she hears the riders approaching fast and realises they must already have cleared the obstacles she’s led them through. Their hooves become a gathering of thunder, a storm close on her heels.

  The path through the pines is narrow but not narrow enough to prevent her pursuers from following. The sounds of the dogs is frantic now as they finally close on their quarry. Their baying is interspersed with snarls and growls. Megan knows they are hungry, that they can sense their prize is close.

  She flies into the clearing with the dogs’ teeth clashing at the space left by her feet, the snapping of their jaws as clean and neat as river rocks clapped together. With her sanctuary now in view and a cry of triumph about to leap from her throat, it is with disbelief and indignation at first that Megan feels hot, determined teeth take a hold her left calf, closing over the flesh and piercing it to the bone. Wet warmth bursts from every puncture in the blood-rich muscles.

  And then she is falling; falling and still trying to run as the second dog’s jaws clamp around her right thigh, stronger and more painful than the first bite, its teeth like needles of fire. The weight of two bodies hauling on her brings Megan to a halt and the dogs begin to shake their heads, tearing open the wounds they’ve made, releasing more of Megan’s blood to steam at the touch of the cold morning air. The horsemen surround her, their mounts wide-eyed and snorting clouds of exertion, sweat rising from their sleek bodies to twirl and evaporate in the grey light.

  Her strength and animal will leaks away with her freely running blood. Megan falls to the ground on her face. The two dogs, each attempting to claim its share, pull away from each other, opening her legs as they try to tear her in half. All she can do is wait for them to lose interest in the flesh there and go for her throat.

  I almost made it back, she thinks. At least I have done a Keeper’s work.

  She hears a hiss and a dull, wet snick. One of the dogs lets go of her. The same sound comes again, this time followed by series of high-pitched yelps. Megan looks up from the ground. Around her the horses rear and whinny. One dog stands, staring ahead and panting, an arrow directly through its head. The other chases itself in weakening circles, trying to remove a similar shaft that protrudes from between its heaving ribs. Soon the circling dog lies down, its teeth snapping weakly at the arrow.

  Megan looks towards the roundhouse. Mr Keeper is naked but for his bandages and a bloodstained sheepskin tied at his waist. His chest is heaving as he supports himself against the door, a third arrow nocked in his longbow. The riders rein their horses in and turn to face him. He looks so thin and pale to Megan that he could be a spirit. She begins to crawl towards him but she can only pull herself with her arms; her legs won’t resp
ond. His eyes meet hers for a second and he urges her on, levelling his next arrow at the riders.

  She hears a voice from above and behind her but she doesn’t turn to see which of the men is speaking.

  “This girl is a criminal. An arsonist. She’s destroyed my mill and we’re taking her back to Nunwych for trial.”

  “She walks the Black Feathered Path, gentlemen. And your attack on her is a far greater crime than any mill fire she may have caused. She cannot be a criminal because she acts on my orders. No doubt she set fire to what was underneath your mill too, eh?”

  There is no response at first. When it comes the man’s tone is low and threatening.

  “You Keepers do nothing but hold the world back from the glory it could attain. We were close. We could have resurrected the magic of the past, the powers that were every man’s before the Black Dawn.”

  Megan sees the weariness on Mr Keeper’s face.

  “Those powers were the cause of the Black Dawn.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Oh, I know it,” says Mr Keeper. “I know it very well.”

  “You’re nothing but meddling old men with outdated views. You’ll all be relics of history within a generation.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Limping, his breathing laboured, Mr Keeper approaches the riders. The horses rear as he closes the distance, panic making them stamp their hooves. Megan hears him whisper to the horses, though his mouth doesn’t move.

  No harm shall come to you.

  The horses settle. When he is only a few paces away, Megan is able to see Mr Keeper’s wounds, bleeding freshly beneath the bandages. He should be lying still and resting.

  “You look half dead already,” says the miller.

  “It was you three who half killed me,” says Mr Keeper. “Don’t you remember?”

  He bares his teeth at them and the growl of a huge cat vibrates from deep within his chest. Once again the horses rear and the men struggle to calm them.

  “You?” blurts the miller. “But…”

  “Don’t talk to me about the power of the old times and the magic that existed before the Black Dawn. Your search for past glories is born of ignorance and stupidity. It endangers us all. I wanted to give you a chance to see things differently, to appreciate the magic that is all around you every day. The decision has cost me dearly. My duty is to this land and its people, not to three foolish men.” Mr Keeper uses his longbow to point back in the direction the men have ridden from. “Go back to your homes. Don’t return to this village unless you come willing to talk and willing to listen. If you continue your dabbling into the technologies of the past, your equipment won’t be the only thing to burn. What you’ve done carries a death sentence.”

  There is silence for what feels like many minutes. Megan’s vision begins to narrow and dim. She hears the men turn their horses around but Mr Keeper calls them back.

  “Take your filthy dog carcasses with you.”

  After that there’s nothing.

  47

  Denise fucked him with the same fierceness as before, drawing him onto her, into her, not inviting but demanding. There was a frenzy about her; that same desperation for union in the face of total destruction, as though this really was the last time. It roused in Gordon the most primal, harsh desire he’d known. They became animals once more, glad to be alive for another moment, just one moment more.

  Their pattern had always been to love and collapse, ride and rest again and again but tonight Gordon was unable to reach climax. His lust built and built but never reached its conclusion. Conversely, Denise cried out in ecstatic extremity time after time, her tones close to screams of pain. At one point, Gordon thought he heard a floorboard creak outside the door but he didn’t care whether Jerome was listening or not.

  After a while, Gordon felt a great cold quelling his fire. It seemed to rise from the core of him like advancing frost. It took his strength and it bled away his desire until he finally fell unspent and unfulfilled beside her; his skin the ice to her steam. Denise seemed contented though, more than satisfied by their savage dance. She laid a hot arm across his frigid chest. Gordon felt his breathing decelerate until it seemed as slow as the tides. The chill gripped him in its glacial cocoon.

  “I don’t feel well,” he said.

  “You’re alright. Probably just tired – you ran most of the way from Coventry.”

  “I think I got a bad can of beans.”

  “Get some rest. You’ll feel fine in the morning.”

  She leaned over and kissed his cheek. He was so cold, it felt as though her lips and arm were the only warmth he’d ever experienced. Her mouth lingered tenderly and for a long time, as though Denise didn’t want their closeness to end. Just before he fell into the arctic seas of unconsciousness, her lips left his cheek and her arm withdrew. It seemed as though she had sped continents away from him in just a few moments. He thought he heard her slip from the bed and dress before leaving the room but he could easily have been dreaming by then.

  Denise watched from the doorway as Jerome stripped back the musty sheets and blankets to reveal Gordon, curled and childlike on his right side. His skin bore the scars of dozens of fights and the wounding touch of thorn and bramble. His long dark hair, black feathers bound into it, lay around his head and shoulders, hiding his face. His breathing came in long, deep pulls, the pause after each out-breath seeming far too long.

  “You gave him too much,” said Denise.

  After an experimental prod or two with the sole of his boot, Jerome began to secure Gordon’s wrists behind his back.

  “He’s fine.”

  “You’re not taking him like this.”

  “It’s out of my hands now.”

  Denise stepped forward and pushed Jerome off the bed so hard he fell backwards, knocking over the bedside table and smashing the bulb in the defunct lamp. The back of his head connected with the wall and he lay dazed for a few moments. She flung the rope and it landed across his face and chest.

  “Don’t talk such shit.”

  Jerome rubbed his head, his face screwed tight against the pain. He looked more stunned than angry.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked.

  “He has the right to some bloody dignity.”

  The First Guard struggled to his feet.

  “Fine. Get him dressed then. But make it quick.”

  He stood with his arms folded as Denise retrieved Gordon’s clothes from the floor. She knew where each item was; she’d been the one to tear them from him. She knelt beside him on the bed and rolled him gently onto his back. The hair fell away from his face and, by the candlelight, she saw the beauty and innocence of the boy he must have been until so recently. She looked up and saw the quiet satisfaction on Jerome’s face. He’d bested his rival without a single blow struck.

  “Fuck off,” Denise said.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Leave us alone. I’m not doing this with you gawping over my shoulder.”

  Jerome left without another word.

  When Denise was done, she called out for Jerome. He came back in to find Gordon laid out on the bed as though in a chapel of rest. His hair had been pushed back from his face and his hands were crossed at his breast. His coat of black feathers looked like a funeral suit.

  “Very funny, Denise.”

  “Appropriate though, Jerome. Considering.”

  “I still have to tie his hands and feet.”

  Denise stepped back from her drugged lover.

  “Whatever.”

  Jerome crossed to the bedside and checked Gordon’s pockets. Denise held up a battered rucksack.

  “I’ve got all his gear,” she said.

  Satisfied, Jerome hoisted Gordon into a sitting position.

  “Can you give me hand?” he asked.

  “I’ve done all I’m doing,” said Denise.

  Jerome tried to prove his strength but struggled at every step, getting Gordon over
his shoulder, lifting him up and then carrying him along the corridor to the kitchen and out of the back door. A horse and cart waited in the mist that swirled in the farmyard. A smart looking Wardsman wearing a helmet and armed with a cavalry sword, dagger and crossbow waited for them. On the back of the cart was a large grey ammunition trunk designed for heavy ordnance. Its similarity to a coffin was not lost on Denise as Jerome dumped Gordon’s limp body into it and staggered away with a relieved gasp.

  The Wardsman stepped forward to secure the lid of the munitions box.

  “Wait,” whispered Denise.

  She ran back inside and the farmhouse and reappeared with the top hat she’d decorated for Gordon.

  “He won’t need that,” said the Wardsman.

  “I don’t care. I need him to have it.”

  The Wardsman shrugged. Denise went on tiptoes, leaned into the box and kissed Gordon before placing the hat beside his crumpled form. The Wardsman screwed the lid into place with six wing nuts and leapt up onto the plank that formed the cart’s simple seat. He looked down at them. Denise thought she detected a note of amusement in his voice.

  “The Ward thanks you for your loyalty. When the battle’s over, your asylum is assured.”

  Denise managed not to cry, though the price of survival seemed suddenly extortionate. The cart disappeared into the mist. The clatter of hooves echoed around the farmyard and receded.

  48

  Gordon walks alone through a dead forest. The trees stand dry, barkless and woodwormed, their branches grey. The air hangs thick with the stench of rot and mildew. Distantly, he hears the cawing of a thousand crows – they are calling to him but he cannot understand their language. Eyes observe him from behind every tree but each time he turns to look, there’s nothing but the ranks of decaying uprights, stretching their dead bones into a dark sky.

  In his right hand he carries a sword as broad as his forearm. The blade is dull green-black but for its edges, honed so sharp it makes the air sing. Whorls, knots and symbols are etched into the matt surface and these too shine as Gordon angles the sword this way and that. Where the blade meets the haft, an exact engraving of the Crowspar drips thick Black Light. Each droplet manifests wings and flits away before hitting the ground, no more than a ragged shadow at first but soon becoming a magnificent raven, soaring fast between the hulking, spectral tree trunks then upwards to add its bright blackness to the sky. Locks of hair hang from the hilt of the sword, hair taken from the head of his father, mother and two sisters. Between these hangs an array of black feathers, twirling and twisting as he walks deeper into the dead woods.