The Book of the Crowman

by Joseph D'lacey

  The Wardsmen racing towards him from the underpass were almost within reach. He heard someone shout:

  “Grab him!”

  Frantic now, he ground his boot heels into the horse’s flanks.

  “Go on!” he yelled.

  They clattered up the slip road, gathering speed and joined the northbound carriageway of the M1.

  As he came level with the motorway he looked across it. It was deserted.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Behind him, the quickest Wardsmen to react had managed to mount up and were already racing out of the camp. He spurred the horse on with desperate kicks, eliciting agonised whinnies.

  “I’m sorry. But you have to go faster. As fast as you can.”

  The horse’s hooves were thunderous on the damaged tarmac and Gordon feared it would break an ankle in one of the cracks. The fall would probably kill both of them. But the horse avoided every fissure in the road’s surface. Up ahead in the distance Gordon thought he could see other forces massed on both sides of the motorway, fighters wearing the drab khakis and browns of the Green Men.

  Great Spirit, let me make it. I’ve come this far. Don’t let it end yet.

  He chanced a look behind. The mounted Ward troops were faster. Much faster. Their horses were bred for galloping and jumping, not pulling carts. But there was still some distance between them. Enough that he could reach the Green Men if he maintained this speed. Gordon, knowing little more about riding than he had to stay on the horse, kept his head down and held on with all his strength.

  About a mile from the first Green Men, the cart horse began to tire. He looked back. Many of the Wardsmen were now close enough to fire crossbows and hit him, he had no doubt. He kicked his horse harder but it no longer had the reserves to respond.

  “Please! Come on! Just a bit farther.”

  The horse slowed. Now, over the sound of his own mount’s hooves, he could hear the thunder of twenty more right behind him. He glanced back and saw the expression of glee on every Ward cavalryman’s face. Their horses weren’t even winded. They were enjoying the hunt and they knew they had him.

  Gordon could do nothing but look behind and try to anticipate the inevitable attacks. The face of the nearest Wardsman creased in confusion when a thin wooden shaft appeared at his chest. The man slipped from his saddle onto the tarmac, pulling his mount to an abrupt halt. A second shaft appeared above the foreleg of a chestnut coloured mare. The horse collapsed to the ground, rolling over its own neck and landing on top of its rider. Gordon looked ahead. Green Men were loosing volleys of arrows from the cover of the trees at the top of the grass verges on both sides of the motorway. They came thicker and faster now, thumping into flesh and bringing the Ward pursuit to an end.

  Gordon rode on, allowing his horse to slow to a canter and a trot. As soon as it stopped he dismounted and came to the front of the sweating creature, its lungs pumping like huge bellows.

  “Thank you,” he said. “You saved my life.”

  In his wake, the Green Men took to the road and finished the fallen Wardsman with blows to their heads and blades to their throats. It was swift and efficient. The unharmed mounts were taken and added to the Green Men’s own small band of cavalry, the wounded horses were dispatched and dragged away, presumably for meat. Gordon had walked among the starving foot soldiers. He wondered how many of them had already subsisted on the flesh of their own kind and how many more would do so today once the bodies of the fallen Wardsmen had been stripped of clothing and booty.

  A party of four First Guard appeared on horseback, leaving the cover of the fields beyond the southbound carriageway. He held up a hand to them and they hailed him back. He led his winded, sweating horse towards them.

  “You must be Gordon Black,” said their lead rider as Gordon crossed the central reservation to meet them. “Heard a lot about you but we assumed you weren’t coming.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “Jerome Proctor said you never showed up.”

  Any doubts he’d had about his suspicions, any hopes he’d had for Denise’s innocence were quashed in that instant. But he wanted Jerome for himself; he planned to give the traitor a special and unique reward when the time came.

  “I probably walked right past them,” he said. “It was a busy road.”

  The First Guard nodded to the south and asked:

  “So what was that all about?”

  “I uh… thought I’d do a little damage on the way in. Didn’t expect so many of them.”

  The First Guard grinned.

  “Worked out quite well,” he said. “Considering it was totally unplanned.”

  Gordon relaxed a little.

  “I think I owe you an apology,” he said. “If I’d had more time to think it over, I probably wouldn’t have led them right towards you.”

  “Well, I can forgive you that this once. But you’re working for the Green Men now.” He stroked his eyebrow three times in mock secrecy and reached a hand down. Gordon took it. “My name’s Dempsey.” He gestured to the three men with him. “These are Carter, Finney and Stone.”

  “Are you the ones who brought Denise north along the canal?”

  “That’s us.”

  “That’s two lives I owe you, then.”

  “Tell you what,” said Dempsey. “Seeing as you’ve brought us almost twenty enemy cavalry, we’ll call it quits, eh?”

  Gordon didn’t have time to thank him. In the distance there was a volley of funnelled thumps. Dempsey and his men started in their saddles.

  “Get off the road!” he shouted.

  Gordon tried to pull the cart horse with him but it wouldn’t budge. Dempsey and his crew were already up the embankment and trotting through a gap in the fence. Gordon sprinted up after them as a sudden whining grew loud overhead. As he reached the fence and dived through, six mortar shells exploded in quick succession. The shockwave from the first impact knocked him off his feet. He crawled the rest of the way into the field and rolled down the other side, out of range of the blasts. Hot tarmac and charred hunks of horseflesh rained down around him. His ears ached and sang.

  A few yards off in the field, the four First Guard had turned back, waiting for more shells. Gordon hurried over to them, glancing back all the time though no further mortars fell.

  When he reached the horsemen Dempsey said:

  “You OK?”

  “Fine. You?”

  Dempsey nodded.

  “They’re saving as much artillery as they can for the main event. Honestly, I don’t think they’ve got much firepower left.”

  “Do you really think you’re going to defeat the Ward in open combat?”

  “The Chieftain’s not that naïve. We have to wear them down before they meet us on the battlefield. And once they’re there, we’ll need a little guile. Right now we’ve got a dozen skirmishing parties harrying their columns and camps between here and Northampton. They’re attacking supply chains and fuel dumps, even poisoning their water – if an army can’t drink, it can’t fight.”

  Gordon was impressed. The Green Men had never been this organised before.

  “We should find some cover,” said Dempsey. “Do you want a ride?”

  “I’ll be fine walking,” said Gordon.

  51

  A journey across country of about a mile brought them to a small village called Clay Coton. All the way along the route and as far as Gordon could see to the north there were camps of Green Men fighters resting before the call to arms came. Riders threaded among the camps passing out smoked meat and crates of water rations collected in assorted glass and plastic bottles. Everything he saw and everything Dempsey told him gave him hope.

  The village had been populated by commanders and sub-commanders but Gordon didn’t see any sign of Jerome or Denise. In a way, he was glad. Dempsey and the others had commandeered a small cottage and they offered Gordon the sofa for a bed.

  “Thanks,” he said. It seemed rude to mention that he pl
anned never to spend another night indoors.

  They gave him meat and water and Dempsey explained the battle plan. It involved tempting out phalanxes of Wardsmen with weak-seeming bands of Green Men. Once each group of Wardsmen was out of reach of support, a stronger troop of Green Men would reinforce and attack. They knew this would only work a few times, but if they managed several of these manoeuvres early on and fairly simultaneously, it was hoped they’d be able to weaken the Ward considerably.

  The only projectile weapon any of the Green Men carried was a bow – a reinvention of the traditional longbow, Dempsey said. Living wild, as most of the Green Men did, one thing they weren’t short of was wood. Even in the places where the land appeared to have died, the trees yielded enough timber both for arrows and bows. Longbowmen had been the ones to save Gordon from the cavalrymen who’d chased him out of the Ward camp. Dempsey doubted his bowmen were quite as good as they’d been in times past but they were improving all the time and almost every man and woman knew how to use the weapon.

  Additionally, since starvation had become the most immediate problem people faced, the Ward had lost support because they had no answer to the problem. Everything they did now was short term: steal or extort enough to stay alive, find and destroy the Crowman, kill every Green Man.

  At the mention of the Crowman, Gordon interrupted.

  “Have you seen him? Grimw… The Rag Man says he’s among us.”

  “I’ve heard that. And I’ve also heard of your search for him – from Denise and quite a few others. Stories of your exploits have spread right across the country. Today the story’ll be how you slew twenty Ward cavalrymen singlehandedly.”

  “It was forty at least,” said Gordon and they both chuckled.

  “Listen, Gordon, can I be honest with you?”

  “If you can manage it, you’ll be in the minority.”

  He hadn’t meant it as an insult and, as Dempsey didn’t appear to take it that way, Gordon felt somehow closer to him.

  “I’ve never seen the Crowman,” said Dempsey. “Or anyone like him. I don’t believe there is such a person. I don’t think he’s some kind of earth spirit or messiah, either. I think he’s a myth. Something we came up with to keep our hopes alive. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think that’s a bad thing and I don’t want to diminish the value of your search. In fact, somehow, what you’ve been doing these past few years has been an example to people. You’ve become sort of a legend yourself.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  “Well, it’s true.”

  For a few moments Dempsey’s soldiering mien fell away. Gordon watched the man, trying to guess his thoughts. It was as though Dempsey was trying to understand what could motivate an individual to act as Gordon had acted, to dress as he had dressed, to live so single-mindedly and yet without fulfilment for so long. When he spoke again it was in tones Gordon didn’t recognise for a few moments, the tones a brother might use; a brother or a friend.

  “I’ve been assuming all this time that you’ll fight alongside us, Gordon, but as I sit here and think about it, I realise that’s perhaps callous of me. The war you’re fighting seems different to ours. I want you to know that you’re at liberty to continue your search. No one will call you a coward or they’ll have me to answer to. If only a quarter of what I hear of you is true, you’ve done more than your share already.”

  Gordon acknowledged Dempsey’s words with a slow inclining of his head, not a bow of self-congratulation but of acceptance. The other First Guards had remained quiet since meeting Gordon. So close to battle and with so many spies on both sides, they were probably suspicious of his odd clothes and odd ways, the fact that he was a loner.

  Now Carter spoke up.

  “How many Wardsman have you killed?”

  Gordon was honest.

  “I don’t know.”

  “One for every feather in your hat?”

  “One for every feather in my coat. More maybe. I’m not finished yet.” Gordon stroked a hand along the plumage on his left arm. Carter almost laughed and then stifled it when he realised Gordon wasn’t joking.

  “The Ward are men just like us,” said Gordon. “They have the same requirements and the same choices. It’s too late to teach them that they’ve chosen the wrong side – we’ve all had that choice throughout history. It’s time for a new history now, based on exactly the same choice. This is everyone’s last chance to get it right.”

  He drew his lock knife from his pocket and unclasped the blade. He turned it in the stagnant, dusty air of the cottage, the dim light from the windows gliding along its edge. He studied its worn crescent of a blade, trying to understand the relationship between it and his hand, how his will had moved this blade, parting the veil to allow death entry, parting the flesh to allow bad blood its vent. This object was all he retained of his father. His father had been an honourable, brave man. He had made the right choice and it had been the ultimate sacrifice. In some way this blade was an extension of his father’s will too. Gordon hoped he had acted as his father would have wanted.

  “After all this time, after uncountable generations, there are still people who don’t understand their reliance on the land. Human mutations, they’ve not only forgotten her but turned against her. They are the Ward and the Earth cries out for their blood. What can I do other than answer her call?”

  Gordon folded away the blade with some reluctance, to find the four First Guard staring at him, Carter in particular looking pale. Gordon slipped the knife back into his pocket. He thought his explanation had been simple enough. Clearly, all it had done was mark him out as a lunatic.

  “Listen,” he said, “the Black Dawn has made the world a very simple place. Those who, even in these desperate times, can’t act for the good must be brought to an end. When they’re gone, we can roam the land again. And she’ll love us. The way she used to. Isn’t that what we’re all fighting for?”

  Carter, Finney and Stone glanced at each other and then back at Gordon.

  “I suppose so,” said Carter. “But no one’s ever put it quite like that before.”

  Dempsey was sitting in the corner listening and smiling. He nodded to himself and stood up.

  “We should have you making the final speech before the battle, Gordon. You’ll rouse the fighting spirit, even in the boys and the old men!”

  “I think I’d better save my breath for the wet-work,” said Gordon.

  “Speaking of which,” said Dempsey, “we’re going out raiding tonight. Trying to create as much disruption and demoralisation as we can. Would you like to come with us?”

  Gordon grinned.

  “Absolutely.”

  “We’ll leave here at dusk with about thirty men. I suggest you get some rest before that.”

  Gordon moved to the door and opened it. An eager wind swirled in around his boots.

  “I’ll see you this evening,” he said.

  52

  Megan wakes to the pain of her own pulse.

  She feels it in her thigh and her calf and wishes she could lose consciousness again. The pain won’t allow it and so she opens her eyes. As she had hoped, she is in the roundhouse. She is lying on furs and wrapped in blankets, her legs poking towards the stove. All around her are laid bundles of herbs and dried wildflowers. Mr Keeper kneels nearby. One hand clutches the bandage around his waist, the other holds his pipe. Though she can feel his eyes watching her, she sees his face only as a black oval, silhouetted in the light from the wind-eye.

  In that moment, she sees a furtive face peek in from outside. It is there for only a few moments. It puts a shocked palm over its mouth and it is gone. Megan once peered in through the wind-eye just as timidly and she now remembers her journey through the weave with Carissa as her guide; seeing her own body, pale and apparently dead on the roundhouse floor, while Mr Keeper knelt beside her.

  Something releases within Megan, the beginning of the loosening of a knot. In spite of the pain, which burns like coals und
er her skin, she is happy to be here. This place is safe and Mr Keeper is her guardian in a way even her own family can never be. He is her spirit father.

  “What a pair we make,” he says.

  She grins until she remembers the pursuit and attack. The sensation of the dogs tearing at her living flesh remains close, the certainty that she might die still lingers. The knot within her releases completely then. Her body begins to shake and she cries. She doesn’t recognise the sound she makes.

  Ohooo, ohoohoo, ohooo.

  It’s a wail of mourning for the life she almost lost. Not yet can she rejoice at being alive. The meat of her is still in the jaws of the dogs.

  Mr Keeper’s voice is soft and assured.

  “It will pass soon enough.”

  She nods, fast, through her strange tears and even stranger weeping, managing to smile despite her body’s unstoppable catharsis.

  Mr Keeper moves towards the stove with some difficulty but she can tell he is much improved. The bandage at his waist has been changed and the stain of blood over the wound is tiny now. From the boiling kettle he pours water into a pot to brew. The scent of unfamiliar herbs fills the roundhouse. He waits for the mixture to infuse and then pours a small bowl for Megan. By now her sobs have petered out. Mr Keeper props her into a half-sitting position and she is able to hold the bowl without spilling it when he hands it to her. He pours a similar bowl for himself and retreats to his cushions near the wind-eye.

  Megan drinks from the steaming bowl. The liquid is bittersweet but not unpleasant. It leaves her mouth and tongue swollen and insensitive. Within minutes the pain and throbbing in her legs has eased. A thankfulness to be alive rises from the deeps of her and her tears now are tears of gratitude. She does not regret walking this path. She knows her place in the world and she occupies it with a sense of honour and thankful pride. She drinks more of the numbing tea.