Lupus Rex (5 page)

Ysil shook involuntarily at the elder’s words, the imagery quite effective. Monroth betrayed nothing, his countenance unfazed.

The path came into a dale where Ysil had played many times. They were not far from the nest now, dangerously close to the field. Then they heard it. The cawing screeches of the murder. The jagged cacophony of sound cut through the forest and left Ysil trembling. He had never heard this before, though many times he had heard various murder songs. Sometimes they cawed for no evident reason at all, but today the song was a chaotic melody of screeches, notes, and words. None of the crows’ cries were understandable. And even with their cawing as loud as it was, there was no sense to be made of it.

“We must get a quick look at the field from the thickness of the hemlock above, only a quick look to see if the little ones are there,” said the old quail, “then we must take to the undergrowth and remain within no matter what we see or hear.”

The birds flew to the top of the hemlock and from there could barely see the field. Scattered all across their distant home were many small black spots. More crows gathered in one spot than Ysil had ever seen. From what they could discern at such a distance there were no quail within the field, alive or dead, and Ysil was relieved. Then they flew to the forest floor once again, and peeking into every bush and beneath each stump, made their way along the trail, occasionally calling a low trill for the immature and unwise birds.

Chapter Three

The Reckoning

The King is dead!

We must ahead

The words be read

By magic head.

The King is gone

We join in song

The King is gone

We loved him long!

T
HE CROW SONG’S
words of celebration were cast within the screeching chorus that ruled the field. Some sang this over and over, but many more were merely making noise. The crows made their great gathering known to any who might come near, the tumult of their cawing and screeching so loud as to still even the songs of the mockingbirds and the jays, who kept a good distance. None but Ophrei and Fragit even knew what the Reckoning would entail, but there was enough knowledge to spread rumored suspicion. The field’s grain had been cleared by the man’s machine, and the birds knew the man would not likely venture this far from his home again until the spring, so they cawed in unabated excitement. A crow seldom tries not to be heard, for that matter. A crow always draws attention to itself. That is its way.

Jackdaw was back to his eager and excitably happy self again and was hopping around the field, leading the song. The King was dead, and the time for the new one to be chosen had come. This was the Reckoning.

But not all in the field were jovial. The King’s three sons were somber and still, each keeping to their own group of followers and family. The three crows’ reasons for worry were some the same, but also different.

Nascus, the second-born, had loved the old crow and cried into the wind all the way back to the field. He was afraid of the Reckoning, as all his brothers were, but at the same time knew it must be done. He had known this all his life and accepted it as the order long ago.

On becoming King, Nascus would take the crown and rule—should the Reckoning choose him. The year before, a raging coyote had attacked his mother in the night, its mouth full of foam, its eyes bleeding red. The animal had been driven away, but not before it had taken the life of his gentle mother. Today, Nascus felt the consuming sadness of an orphan, as if the whole of himself had been cut into pieces. He had loved both his parents deeply.

Milus stood in the middle of a small group who held allegiance to him. He was the largest of the three brothers, and the youngest. He was silent and downcast. Milus had always been thoughtful and distant. Nascus watched his brother, and his sadness deepened even more. He knew his younger brother had always dreamed of leaving the field, of beginning a new life. Milus could be given the crown to the Murder’s Tree that very day, but his heart was not one of a King and held no dream of becoming one. He loved the wind and the rain, the jagged view of the moon through a white poplar’s branches. But though Milus often considered leaving and had even voiced this on occasion to Nascus, he seldom left the field, nor went far from his mother, Edith.

Of the three brothers, Sintus had the dominant group of followers, and they congregated around him. Nascus watched them whisper to him. “You are the wisest!” they were saying, and, “Today you will take your rightful nest!” Sintus was silent and thoughtful, and Nascus knew his brother considered it his destiny to be chosen. He had said so many times to Nascus, and it was no secret to anyone. When the brothers had gathered over their father’s lifeless form, Sintus had professed no faith in the Reckoning or in its outcome. The middle brother examined his older sibling’s cool and devious eyes that fall afternoon. Today Sintus seemed so certain of himself, his band of followers whispering and cawing in his ear their support. He looked up and caught Nascus’s eyes upon him and glared back in disdain and contempt.
You were born of folly and will die a fool’s death
, his eyes said.

The largest group of crows held allegiance to General Fragit, which is to say all the rest of the crows, numbering fifty-nine. Within the group was the Guard, twelve crows, strong and mature, dedicated to his command to death. Beyond these there were no formations to his army, or at least none visible, but the ranks were well known. The General answered to no one on the field now that the King was dead, but he did have an equal. That equal was the rook Ophrei.

Ophrei was the listener, the sorcerer. He heard the whispers of the wind, and at night, while the rest of the crows slept, he spoke to the ghosts. Ophrei was enormously old, older, in fact, than the King would have been had he still lived. No bird remembered a time when Ophrei did not hold council with the King daily. He was the commanding sage and the instructor. Only he knew the way of the Reckoning. This was the order of the crows, that this cousin bird control the ceremony. A crow may hold spoken or unspoken loyalty to animals of other kinds, but a rook held allegiance to none, not even their own. The only fidelity the rook held to was to the wind, and to the order.

When Ophrei stepped out of the circle and moved toward its middle, heading to the center of the field, the singing and cawing descended quickly to a rustling quiet. He hopped and flapped his way slowly until he was encircled by the murder.

“This is the order! All hear,” he cried. Jackdaw, who had up to this point been inciting celebration, silenced immediately, the last words of the song echoing with the proclamation from the rook.

“The time of Reckoning has come!” called Ophrei, raising his wings into the air. And as suddenly as their silence had settled, the birds burst into chaotic applause and screeching.

Ophrei quieted them with a lift of his wings. “I require all, prince and soldier alike, to follow my exact order during this Reckoning. This is the order: You will abide by the call and do as led. The General will guide when needed. All birds will respond immediately. Now,” he said, “I command a word from each and every one of you, all except the brother princes. Their words I will hear later. But from each of you now I command a word of life. These words are the beginning of the Reckoning, and with it, I will hear the steps.” He walked to the edge of the circle and glared at the General. “Fragit will be first.”

Fragit looked to the rook, and though it was clear he did not truly understand, he put forward a word. “War,” he said.

The rook made no response but went on to the next in the circle. The crow said, “Tomorrow.” The next said, “Mouse,” and the next, “Forget.”

This took a long time for the rook to go around the whole of the field, taking a word from every crow. When he had finished, he walked back to the center of the field, the middle of the circle. The rook sat down in the field and closed his eyes, still now, with the words filling his head like a tall cloud carrying a storm.

“I will now listen to the wind,” he said. “The words were within your bodies and beneath your feathers and from your very beaks, crows, but also from the breath of the wind.” As he sat he repeated the words the murder had given aloud, occasionally pausing and tilting his ear to the sky as if listening. Finally, he raised his aged head. “The wind has whistled and laid out the path of the Reckoning. In this I have heard the order,” said the rook. “General, with you I must hold council.”

Fragit walked to the old bird and the two talked for a while, keeping their voices low, so that none other could hear their words. Then, with a determined strut, the general returned to the edge of the circle. He looked to the brothers. “Princes,” he called, “you must go to the rook now. The Reckoning has begun.”

And when the words of the General reached his ears, Nascus felt a nip of fear strike his belly like the stinger of an enraged wasp.

T
HE QUAIL DID
not go to the nest, as they felt certain the little ones would not be there. Instead they moved through the thickest of the brush, always wary and careful. Cotur Ada felt that every crow in the murder would be in the field, with none patrolling the surrounding woods, but he knew they could not be too careful. Their very lives depended on taking absolute precaution.

They had found no sign of the two young birds. They passed an old groundhog’s den and Ysil peered inside, whispering, “Erdic! Anur! Are you there?” but there was no response. Monroth chanced a swift flight up into an old oak where in a rotted hole the two often played, but they were not within. Cotur Ada felt he knew where the two were: hiding on the edge of the field, beneath and within the dull green of the stinging nettle. Why come so far and not be watching the crows? And though the black birds were certainly consumed with their Reckoning, they were always wary and would be watchful for any intruder. They checked each hiding spot they knew of just to be sure.

The nearer to the field they came, the more Ysil’s anxiety grew. With each careful step they grew closer and closer to enormous danger. The crows in the field had grown perplexingly silent. The three quail scurried beneath a blackberry bramble, and, shifting their bodies between and beneath the thorny branches and browning leaves, they moved forward until the Murder’s Field came into view. Cotur Ada motioned for the two to be silent and still. The quail lay prone within the recess of the bush and observed, listening intently for any sign of the two young birds they were seeking.

I
N THE FIELD,
the King’s sons hopped toward the middle of the circle. The crows in the vast ring were fatally silent as the three approached the old rook.

“This is the order,” called Ophrei. Then he turned and stared intensely at the three princes. “You are birds of strength and, to an extent, all rightful by birth. You are the entire one, and still none of you are the whole without the other. One of you will remain in flesh, and the other two will offer their own so that it may become something else.” He came close to Sintus, who tendered back an apprehensive eye. “I am the voice and you are the motion. I give form to your word and will hear the telling of the order on the wind. Now, a word of face to each of you. This word is to mirror my own, as your reflection in the still water. Listen carefully and take heed before you speak the word given to you. Listen to it in your heart before you move your tongue.” Then he moved his beak to within striking distance of Sintus. “Elder one, you will respond to my word of face with your own. Then, in turn, the other two. This word will determine the order of the Reckoning. Your word is
take
.”

Sintus made a slight chuckle under his breath and kept his eyes on his supporters. “Wheat,” he said. Ophrei gazed into his eyes for what seemed a long time but was only a brief moment. The rook moved on to Milus.

“Your word is
remove
,” said the rook to the youngest bird. To this Milus responded after some deliberation, “Storm.” And he broke into a fast breathing, his eyes darting around the field in disquiet.

Then it was the turn for Nascus to offer his word. The rook came close to him, a mirror of sparkle between the two birds’ eyes. “The words will tell the order and the words only,” said the rook, seemingly to no one in particular, though he did not look away from Nascus’s eyes.

“I will claim no preferred,” the rook continued. “Though your tears for your father hold a strong message.” Nascus had noted the other brothers had not cried at all. He did not divert his gaze from that of the rook’s and presented no claim or answer. The rook did not seem to require one. “However,” said the rook, still in his low and measured tone, “I will not allow any acumen to guide the Reckoning.”

Ophrei puffed up and seemed to return to his purpose. “And now, your word of order:
change
,” he said.

With what was the slightest hesitation, but not looking away, Nascus replied: “Fire.”