Catherine Fisher - The Margrave-crow 4

“Men?” the Sekoi whispered.

“One.” Galen was moving now. “And other things. Dark things.”

Before them, to the left of the road, was an area of broken cliff, where landslips had long since crashed down, one on another. In the mixed lights of Atterix and Agramon it was sharp-edged, a mass of jagged shadows, gleams of quartz sparkling from the tilted strata. Sense-lines echoed confusingly.

They slipped silently through the rocks. Then Galen waved them still. Ahead, somewhere under the broken rock face with its springing thorns, someone was sobbing. A frail voice, high and helpless, muttering to itself incomprehensible words and prayers that rose suddenly to a shriek of “Flain, have mercy!” that cut Raffi like a knife.

Carefully, Galen moved the branches. They saw a ravine, and halfway up, on a narrow shelf that crumbled away under her, a woman. She was hard to see, crouched up tight and sobbing in the shadows, and around her in a half circle were four candles, all guttering low, with grease marks where others had been. As Raffi watched, another went out. The woman rocked herself in utter misery.

And then he saw something that filled him with terror. From the base of the cliff a dark paw reached up at her slyly. With a scream she stamped at it, beat it off. The things were gathered in the dark; inky, silent things, hunkering low. They moved clumsily, slinking from dark place to dark place. Moonlight caught their stooped, misshapen bodies.

“What in Flain’s name are those?” the Sekoi breathed.

“Jeckles,” Raffi whispered.

“Too big. Too quiet.” Galen glanced at the Sekoi. “You get to the woman.” Then to Raffi he said quietly, “Join the lines. Use the Second Action.”

“Is that all?”

The keeper turned, his profile hooked and dark. “Do as you’re told. I want to see these things close up.” Already the tingling energies of the Crow were gathering in him; he said, “Ready?”

Raffi nodded hastily.

The Sekoi had slipped away; now they both moved after it and apart, working their way noiselessly through the rocks, Raffi frantically making sense-lines, sending them out, frail tendrils of thought. It was hard to ignore the woman; her terror made him shiver, tangled his best efforts, but when he was almost dizzy with trying to shut her out, the powerful swoop of the Crow surged suddenly out of the dark and linked with him, snapping his eyes open. Crouched behind a tilted slab of quartz, he peered out.

The dark things were climbing. A mass of them swarmed up, over each other’s heads and shoulders, snuffling and hissing, rattling small stones. He moved, over-careful, but his foot slipped. A rock fell with a crash. Every one of the creatures turned its head.

Raffi stopped breathing. In the jagged moonlight their eyes were savage and reflective, like tiny bright mirrors. For a terrible second he thought they had no faces; then one opened a crooked slit and snarled, a crackling, painful sound.

Now, Galen said silently.

The mind-net sprang between them, a swift down-drop of searing blue lines crisscrossing the night with eerie light, falling on the dark creatures, crumpling them to a tangled, screeching, infuriated heap. Raffi scrambled out, desperate to hold it in his mind, but one of the beasts flung a rock; it hit him in the chest, flinging him back.

Galen was yelling, the awen-net shriveling away from him; Raffi grabbed breathlessly after it, but for a second his mind had been blank and it was gone. Stones rained down on him. The cliff-face was a riot of noise and screeching; he staggered up and saw the net hanging ragged and Galen jumping down into a mass of escaping shadows.

A muddy paw grabbed at his throat; spinning, Raffi flung a mind-flare at it and the beast crumpled with an ugly smack into the rocks, but other paws had him now, cold, evil-smelling hands tearing him away.

“Raffi!” The Sekoi’s voice was harsh, and far. A knife whistled, sliced into the neck of the beast climbing over him; warm blood spurted onto Raffi’s face. Struggling up, he thumped into Galen. Back to back, they faced the things. There were hundreds of them; slinking out of the rocks, dropping from bushes, squatting in the ravine. Glancing up, Raffi saw the Sekoi with one spindly arm around the old woman; she seemed stunned, clutching at its fur.

Galen said, “When they attack . . .”

“I don’t know! I don’t know if I can!”

“You can,” the keeper growled. “Just be ready.” From all sides the night crawled; the shadow-things swarmed over each other, their only sound a rasping, hoarse breathing, a leathery, terrifying sound. At his back, Raffi felt the keeper tense, drag energies from the broken hills, streams, the tangled whiplash bushes. His very being altered, became remote and strange and dark. When he laughed, his voice was the crackling harshness of the Crow.

The things stopped, suddenly wary, almost at Raffi’s feet. It was too late. The night exploded in their faces.

4

Long after my death, what I have begun will continue.

Creatures I could never guess at will be bred.

Horrors I never wanted will be unleashed.

And I will be blamed.

Sorrows of Kest

“RAFFI?” THE SEKOI WAS CROUCHED, looking at him, its yellow eyes sharp in the flame light. “Come closer to the fire,” it said kindly. And then, severely to Galen, “This boy is still in shock.”

“He’s not the only one.” Galen’s face was edged with firelight, the small cuts on his forehead and neck still oozing. He wrapped the blanket around the old woman and pressed the cup into her hands. “Drink all of it.”

She obeyed him, silent, her eyes never leaving his face. Raffi felt confused. As the Sekoi sat him near the crackling fire he realized he couldn’t remember it being kindled, and looked around in sudden fear. There were no rocks. This was a wooded place, green and dark. Mountain ridges rose high above them on each side. Somewhere near, a cold trickle of water cooled his mind.

“You must drink some too,” the creature said. “Galen, I really think there should have been more warning. His wits are totally scattered, and it was a miracle the ledge held long enough for me to leap from it.” Its seven fingers pushed a cup into Raffi’s; he drank thirstily. The water seemed to wake parts of him. He remembered walking now, stumbling along with the Sekoi propping him up, Galen carrying the old woman until she insisted on making her own way. For hours. Or only minutes?

His chest and ribs ached, and it hurt to breathe. Somehow he felt deaf, though he could hear perfectly well; his mind was numb, sore to use, and some great echoing crash was still going on fathoms deep inside him, over and over.

“What did you do?” he mumbled.

Galen glared at him. “What I need not have done if the net had been well made! Or held tight. Of all the scholars I could have chosen in Anara I had to choose you!”

“Not now,” the Sekoi said mildly. “Let him be.”

“We could have been killed!”

“But we weren’t. Thanks to the Makers.”

Galen gave it a sour stare.

“I’m sorry.” Raffi rubbed his chest. “I think I got knocked down.” He froze then, seeing the thing that lay in a heap by the fire. “Is that . . . ?”

“Don’t worry. It’s dead.”

The beast lay on its side. Close up it looked hideous, its fur mangy and bald in patches, an odd rusty color, its distorted body crumpled in a pitiful heap.

Galen left the woman to drink and came back. With one foot he rolled the beast over, then kneeled at its side. Fascinated, the Sekoi crouched next to him. “This is no jeckle. Look, it has hands.”

Galen turned one, cautiously. The paw was remarkably like the Sekoi’s own but thicker and more stubby; seven jointed fingers, one a distinct thumb, the nails ridged to abnormal sharpness, bloody and split.