CHAPTER THE SIXTH
The raven glided through a tangle of branches, and claws outstretched, found a perch. From here, he could fix an amber eye on the scene below.
He waited.
A piecing shriek jarred Gnissa from beak to feathers. Swine must love life to resent giving it up so much. This one struggled against the rope and squirmed as the knife cut.
The raven disliked the shrieking. Undignified.
Ruffling its glossy feathers, it waited. In time, the struggles ebbed away. The swineherd stuck his knife tip-first into his butchering block with a solid thud. He used a smaller knife to gut the pig and then began piling steaming offal into a wicker basket.
Now.
The raven swept out of the trees. The lumbering fellow stood no chance. Before the swineherd could even look startled the raven swooped to the basket and snatched up a kidney. As the thief climbed into the air, the knife was jerked out from the block and sent sailing after him. It whistled harmlessly by, scattering a few autumn leaves.
Finding a perch where he knew the swineherd could plainly see him, Gnissa tore up the kidney and ate it bit-by-bit. Once he'd swallowed the last of it, Gnissa considered stealing another. The problem with kidneys is that eating just one is never enough. Gnissa considered it an oversight of creation that animals only had two. But the swineherd worked with more vigilance now, looking up to check where Gnissa was every few seconds.
With a croak, the raven took to the air, flapping over the swine-hut and sties, above the rusty forest. He stretched its wings out until the feathers splayed like fingers.
Woodland and marsh and glen passed away. The land arose and formed hills through which the bones of the earth thrust. Among these rocks was a craggy mound and in the mound, a cave.
Directly in the mouth of the cave stood a man. The raven circled. Some person from the Veld, he guessed. And just on the threshold of the cave, in front of the villager, sat what looked like a shaggy, dishevelled creature dressed like a man, but not quite managing the pretence.
The raven's circle narrowed, and became a downward coil. He landed on a finger of stone that pointed accusingly at the sky. White-black droppings stained the rock and a few bits of unfinished bone lay about its base. It was a favourite perch.
To the raven, the hairy thing looked mostly human, but stouter, more hunched, and ganglier in the arms and legs. For clothes, it wore rudiments of fur and linen and cord. Thick, wiry hair sprouted wherever a hem or cuff ended.
There was a small heap of copper and silver on the ground. As the man gibbered and clasped and unclasped his hands, the thing narrowed its bright black eyes and nodded just once, waggling an unkempt beard as it did. The man sank to his knees and reached to kiss the creature's hairy hand. Looking both disgusted and pleased the creature allowed this to go on--briefly--then, withdrawing its hand, it produced a satchel, which it threw into the dirt.
Snatching up the leather bag and dusting it off, the man backed away while bowing. He went a few paces, turned and ran. For a few moments the hairy creature watched the visitor run. Then, shrugging, he turned his intent, bright eyes to Gnissa.
Suppressing a shiver, the raven ruffled its feathers. "You should get yourself a fat gold ring to kiss, Snoro. I hear that is how the priests and priestesses of this age make grovelling more dignified."
Snoro sneered in his dour, resentful way, but said nothing. The raven hopped from the rock and glided a little closer, landing just out of the reach of those gangly, long-clawed fingers. "I don't know why you make them do that. Or at least, I cannot decide if it is pride or self-pity."
"What do you know of either? It pleases me, and it reminds them I am better than a brewer of potions to seduce smelly milkmaids, or cure gout, or mend a sick ewe." Snoro hunched his shoulders and pointed one crooked finger. "Look at him run." He smiled showing sharp, yellow teeth. "And besides, they pay me with old copper pots, and curds, and offal. This here is a good haul for this lot, and it's nothing but trinkets and a few pieces of silver. Silver. Silver! Once I was paid with skins full of gold. Now I get copper pots and tarnished earrings. I deserve something more for my services."
"You have some offal?"
"No."
"A moult on you then. Teasing your only friend like that."
With a dismissive wave, Snoro got up. "If you've nothing worthwhile to say, I am going inside to consult the book. I think that one of these days I'll cut out that tongue of yours and use it to brew a broth to make the drinker rude and ineloquent."
The raven croaked out a laugh. "But, as it happens I do have something worthwhile to say." Snoro paused, looked back. "There is a stranger in the Veld," said Gnissa. "I saw him last night, walking about happy as you please without his body. A cursed soul if you ask me, not that a simple bird knows much about it."
"Not that a simple bird knows much about anything." Snoro drummed his fingers on his chin. "A name?"
"Kveldulf." The raven pecked at a passing beetle. He missed, and the beetle spread its wings and flew away. "But, here is the fun part. He went and chatted to that old witch in the woods and before that he found your curse. He's probably undone it already."
"--What?--When?--"
"Oh, he found it last night while prowling about. I told him you'd be down at the dark pool tonight... or tomorrow night... or sometime. I was meaning to fly here and tell you straight away, but, well, then I forgot. Curse my bird brain." And with a squall of flapping wings, the raven was airborne and beyond the reach of spitting, angry Snoro the Nibelung.
Old Dark Things Page 9
