Andrew Offutt - When Death Birds Fly

In an arrased chamber on the upper floor, Sigebert lit more tapers. The wavery light imparted a sinister, even an inhuman look to the black leather mask he had not yet troubled to remove. The man Faraulf stood uneasily in his linsey-woolsy and leathers. He knew Sigebert of old, and had heard of his recent disfigurement.

Sigebert folded himself lithely into a chair. “Well?”

“I bring word from our lord Clovis, sir. ’Tis this: The ravens are flying! ”

Sigebert hissed softly between his teeth. The pre-arranged code he had waited to hear! “So soon, then!”

“Aye, sir. Our lord Clovis moved swiftly after he heard of your… misfortune.”

“Faraulf,” Sigebert said very quietly, “you court… misfortune, yourself, by speaking of that.”

Faraulf paled. “‘The ravens are flying!’“ he repeated, for a change of subject-any change of subject. “Now, sir. This moment as we talk!”

“The black birds of war,” Sigebert muttered, and laughed aloud. “The death -birds! That is good to hear!”

Beside his chair squatted a small table on dog-curved legs. It supported a flagon of wine and five goblets. Sigebert swept the mask from his head with an exultant motion as he turned to pour. The taper-light fell on the unscarred side of his face, smoothly shaven, fair of skin, handsome beyond the ordinary.

“And do you know what means this word you have carried me?”

“I do, sir. The Frankish kings march against Syagrius. My lord Clovis added a word from himself to yourself; that when he has taken the kingdom, you shall be Count of Nantes.”

“Splendid.” The word was a soft purr of satisfaction. “Well, my friend, you have come far. I’ll hazard you are both weary and thirsty.”

Sigebert turned with deliberate suddenness to hand the messenger a brimming goblet-and to display the gashed corner of his mouth, the savagely scarred cheek on the earless side of his head. He saw the effect with twisted amusement: Hard as he was, Faraulf came nigh to dropping the wine-cup. He did splash golden liquid over the brim. And he drank deeply, swiftly.

“Thirsty indeed,” Sigebert One-ear murmured. “You may find yourself a bed, Faraulf. In a day or two I will send you back to our lord Clovis with my thanks.”

It was dismissal. Dismissal from him who’d be Frankish lord of Nantes, once Clovis and his Frankish army had crushed the last holding of Rome in Gaul. Glad to receive it, Faraulf drained the wine to the lees. He set down the goblet, bowed to his lord Clovis’s one-time master agent at the court of Soissons, and departed.

Sigebert lounged back in his chair, smiling, stretching forth long, good legs.

Good tidings to receive! Aye, splendid, as he had said. He had been greatly chagrined to be sent from the court of Soissons, to take this insignificant if lucrative post. Plainly Syagrius had begun to distrust him. Well, that distrust would not matter long, now! He’d be swept into the rubble of the past where resided all broken kings and “kings” and shattered kingdoms-and the empire of Rome. In place of the Roman realm would stand a Frankish one. This boring time of obscurity would be over; Sigebert would stand powerful and highly placed in the world again. He chuckled softly, savouring his reward in advance. Exultantly he emptied his cup and filled it anew with topaz-hued wine.

As he sat drinking, he bethought him of the girl he had carried off. He’d not intended to enjoy her this night. Anticipation was also a pleasure, and she’d be filled with wonderment and apprehension; and too he had ridden far this day. Now… he smiled. He changed his mind. The word brought by Faraulf fired him with exhilaration. The girl should be bathed and prepared by now. His smile was gloating. Just a bit more wine. Then he would show her the pleasures of the body, along with the pleasures of pain.

The tapers throbbed and faltered as if nearly bereft of air.

Darkness seemed to intensify in the chamber, to press palpably down on the feeble sources of light. Sigebert froze in mid-movement, and he frowned though his eyes had widened.

An odour filled the Frank’s nostrils… a smell as of musty feathers. His throat seemed to close. He had difficulty breathing. The chamber seemed smaller, as though giving way before another Presence.

Wildly Sigebert thought, I have felt this afore!

When?!

Huge, round yellow eyes gleamed at him from the shadows like pools of the very wine he drank.

No! Madness! Begone! He held the cup of wine from him, regarded it as a traitorous friend become enemy. He looked back to the eyes. They remained, and now there was other movement…

A shape stirred there, a blocky black shape with a sinisterly tufted head. Immense wings ruffled and Sigebert heard them. Visions from a half-remembered-nightmare?-returned to him. Words had been spoken to him then, words that had since slipped his mind. It had been impossible anyhow. He looked upon that nightmare, now, materialized here within his privy chamber in his own home, in his waking hours. Eyes of topaz, wings of onyx.

Sheer freezing panic rooted him to his chair.

I have returned as I promised Sigebert of Metz. Dost thou know me?

Sigebert choked on words. “Not I, by the gods!”

I am the soul of Lucanor the mage. Luke-anner, magus. Indeed, your memory fails you. Once before, when thou wert wounded and ill, I came thus to thee. Neither wounded nor ill art thou now. Behold me, and believe.

“Believe?” Sigebert gabbled. “Yes, yes, I must! The soul of a wizard? Are you then a ghost?”

Nay. I enjoy bodily life yet. Mine is the power to leave my body and travel the night in this form, Sigebert of Metz, and my body is even now in Nantes-city. Far and far have I come on many a weary road, seeking thee.

“Seeking me?” Although chilled by this malevolent Presence, Sigebert One-ear maintained control over his nerves. Despite that it was uttered by such-such unnatural horror, this had the sound of the language of bargaining.

Siegbert said, “Why?”

We have mutual enemies, thou and I.

Sigebert was regaining confidence and aplomb. If what the apparition said-said? Sent , into his mind?-were true concerning its origin, the sorcerer had a fine sense of drama. Now Sigebert was supposed to ask “Who?” He would not. It was natural to him to seek to gain ascendancy; to hold it; having lost it or seeing it threatened, to regain and reaffirm. He sat silent, and forced the… owl, to tell him what it had to tell, unaided.

Their names be Wulfhere the Skull-splitter and Cormac mac Art of Eirrin.

“Ahhhh.” Sigebert gusted a slow, vengeful breath as those names unlocked the gates of memory.

Aye, this monster had appeared to him afore now. It had spoken then of those piratical thieves, reivers; had given him news whereby they might have been destroyed-and aye, he remembered: it had also predicted then that he would give no heed. As he had not. The black owl! Again! He remembered it. It had predicted too that when it came to him again, he’d give listen.

He would indeed.

“Aye,” Sigebert said grimly. “Now I call it to mind. A king over in Hispania cast you forth because of them, and would do death upon you, could he capture you. Was that not the way of it?”

It was.

The brief acknowledgment made the room suddenly heavy with a miasma of hate. Sigebert grinned, feeling himself on surer ground. He shared the hatred-and he knew it weakened a person, even though he did not seek to put it from him. His awe of the ghostly presence in his chamber diminished a good deal. Human, this Lucanor who sent giant owls in his stead, and driven, by hate. Ah yes.