Andrew Offutt - When Death Birds Fly

“And now here in Nantes, in your corporeal body?”

I have said so.

“Your human body.”

So I have stated.

The haughtiness covered unease and Sigebert knew it: He did not know that Lucanor’s fleshly body was ragged, filthy, almost starving, and slept now in a stinking alley by the river front. The black owl was impressive and horripilating. It could feign to be free of these considerations and inspire terror in ways that a man, a most mortal man indeed, could not. The black owl could even kill. It was not merely a ghostly apparition; it was real.

Yet the black owl was Lucanor, and bound to his body. It dared not allow that body to be harmed.

A man had come to tell Sigebert that the ravens were flying: the black birds of war and death; Clovis’s war on Syagrius of the Roman kingdom. Now another bird came ‘to tell him other news… and once again a bird was involved, and once again it was the black bird of battlefields. Raven , for such Sigebert remembered was the name of the ship of Wulfhere and Cormac.

“It is a season of birds,” Sigebert muttered, and aloud, smoothly, “Well then, come to me in your own form on the morrow, and we will join forces.”

What said thee? It had the sound of an order. Bare, helpless to my talons and beak, you dare speak of joining forces? Foolish man! I am not here to accept thee as my equal, but because I can use thee. Beware! I can rend thee apart and find another tool!

Horripilation crawled over Sigebert’s skin like a migration of ants and a little frisson went through him. The creature could do as it threatened; he doubted that not. Yet… would it? Did it dare? Had it come for a tool or for an ally? Was he not strong, Sigebert of Metz soon to be Sigebert of Nantes, and coming on for being stronger? He thought to recognize the bluster of desperation in its seeming strength and big words. Was it not there?

Two things Sigebert the Frank was not: true coward, or poor judge of men. Indeed, his was judgment that kings might envy and seek. If only one knew… if only Clovis would hasten to take more power, and more; soaring power! Then, Sigebert thought, then will Sigebert come into his own. Valued, valuable, powerful… rich! As, of course, he deserved: surely advisor to Clovis, truly King.

Having thus bolstered and gathered his courage, Sigebert spoke in response to the threat of this fell creature.

“Then do so. Waste no more time on threats. I say that you bluff-and lie! None but I, Sigebert, will or would shelter you. None but I will give you your chance of vengeance and house you after. You know this, creature! An you can deny it-strike!”

The silence that followed his challenge was terrible.

In all the world Sigebert was aware of nothing but the lambent topaz eyes of the thing he faced, and of his own maddened heartbeat. He’d gone sodden from armpits to belt, and running sweat tickled. He bore it, unmoving, wishing that he had contented himself with the word “bluff” and not added the directly angering and challenging “lie.”

The huge black owl screamed. Never had Sigebert heard a more frustrated cry. In raging anguish it acknowledged that whether he walked in his own unimpressive body or winged abroad in baleful spirit-form as greatly enlarged bird of prey, Lucanor the mage of Antioch was a meager being who had need of a powerful ally… a powerful master.

The Frank suppressed his smile of relief. He sat impassive-seemingly-and he stared with flat, hooded eyes.

The vast wings beat wildly-and the black owl was not there. It vanished.

Sigebert sat for a time ere he reached for the flagon. Even after that pause it slid in sweat when he lifted it, and he must set it down again until his hands had ceased their shaking. He wiped them on his clothing and felt their chill. He lifted and looked at them with a sort of remote curiosity while they trembled. And then, cynically, he laughed. It was release.

“By the gods! Had I been wrong-!” More release, that; the sound of his own voice helped. Now more wine was required, and more.

The girl Cathula was not troubled by his attentions that night, after all.

The sun shone bright and warm next day on Sigebert the Frank. He was at practice with swords in his courtyard. A rack of long Frankish blades stood to hand. Five of Sigebert’s barbarian soldiers were present, in their close-fitting trews and hard leather vests. Three watched whilst two engaged their master simultaneously, at his bidding.

Sigebert was unmasked. Clad as plainly as his guards, he put from him consciousness of the thickness, the pounding of his head. This was both necessity and recreation, and Sigebert loved it.

He shifted position, caught a stroke on his shield and drove his point at the man’s side above the hip. At the last instant he pulled the thrust so that it did not pierce the leather. Even so, the man knew he had been touched. He made a soft gagging noise and reeled.

Now the other was prevented from coming at his master. Stranded on the far side of his stricken partner, he had to move smartly to rightward, and by then Sigebert was prepared for him. The long double-edged swords glittered in the sun.

The soldier cut at his master’s head, feinted a blow with his leather-covered shield, and swept his swordtip quickly down in an attempt to skewer Sigebert’s foot. The foot was not there to be transpierced. It flashed aside, moving with a dancer’s ease. Had been a foolish ploy anyhow, as the foot was too small a target, and forever amove.

The soldier paid for it. Sigebert brought his shield’s rim jarringly down on the man’s arm. His sword clattered on the courtyard stones. Sigebert feigned killing him.

There arose some sycophantic applause and comment. Seigbert One-ear ignored it, scowling and preoccupied. He raised his eyes as the messenger Faraulf arrived.

“Good morrow, my friend. Saw you that?”

“The end of it, sir, aye. Was ye fighting the pair together? ”

“And won! Do not make it sound so awesome, for we both know better. I’ve discovered that two men are weaker than one alone, when the one knows what he’s about. They lack his coordination… tend to stumble in each other’s way.” He squinted along his nicked sword-edge. “Also, these be my men. I suspect they are not fighting as well as they might. The trick that last dog tried, stabbing at my foot as if he held a spear, was a little too clumsy. He verily gave me the bout.”

“Mayhap he requires training,” Faraulf suggested.

“I’ll see that he has it! Aye, till his body cries for respite and his lungs ache for breath, day after day! When he faces me again, he’ll not incline to treat me gently in hopes of preference! I, too, require hard training. Do these fools think I am playing idle games, they must learnotherwise!” Sigebert’s voice rose in passion, and Faraulf blinked.

“Was clever use of the point, on the other man,” Faraulf said. Shoulder length, the messenger’s hair looked as if it had fallen into a tun of hot butter.

“Ah, you arrived in time to see? Aye, Faraulf. The point is much ignored. D’ye know that when the Romans came here they hardly used the edge? Over the centuries swords have lengthened and now the use of the point-so!” he cried, skewering the air- “is nearly forgot. I’m told that Cormac mac Art uses it well. Therefore I try its employment. I find that it works quite nicely. The hortest way to a man’s throat or vitals is best.” And Sigebert repeated softly, “Cormac mac Art.”

“The pirate?”

“The same. One of those black-haired Celts. Came from their stopping offin Spain on their was to Hivernia away from its previous people, I reckon. I’ve cause to think on him from time to time. It’s in my mind that we may meet again, that Hivernian dog and I. Should it befall, I’d not be unprepared.” Sigebert’s gashed face twisted appallingly. “One of his men gave me these scars.”