Raven Flight (16 page)

“Islanders are stubborn folk,” said Rohan. “Could be a lengthy process getting information out of them. Lengthy and untidy. One man, covert operation, quick strike—in my opinion, it’s the only way to do the job.”

“You volunteering?”

“You must be joking.” Rohan grimaced. “Have you ever seen me get on a boat if I can avoid it? We could split the troop, send Tallis north with one team while I take the other south. Regroup when the targets are all accounted for.”

Down below, Tallis’s arrow flew straight to the distant mark. A small chorus of congratulation broke out.

They stood watching a while longer. If there was an obvious omission in Rohan’s strategy, neither spoke of it.

“It’s a sound plan,” said Owen Swift-Sword levelly. “Call the men together after breakfast and we’ll tell them.”

Before dawn we headed down to the road. It was too early for folk herding stock or driving carts to market. With luck it would be too early for Enforcers. We walked in silence, each keeping her thoughts to herself. I had dreamed of Flint, and that was enough to keep me quiet. He’d been
at Summerfort, watching his men as they trained in the yard. Talking to another Enforcer. His blunt features, so dear to me, had borne an abstracted expression; his gray eyes had been troubled. What the two had spoken of there was no telling. Whether it meant Flint was at Summerfort now, or whether the dream was created by my longing for him to be close, I could not say. But something of my feelings must have shown on my face, for I caught Tali looking at me from time to time, eyes shrewdly assessing.

As the road approached Hiddenwater, it wound between barren, stony slopes. The small loch lay in a deep bowl, sheer rock walls almost encircling it. The water was pearly gray under a sky of vaporous clouds. Here and there a hint of the dawn to come brightened the stark stones. The wind was from the west, an eerie whistling along the lonely track.

“Hear the ghosts,” I murmured.

Tali looked at me as if I were touched in the wits. “The story of this place is well known, of course: an ancient battle with many fallen. But what folk hear as they pass through is only the wind.”

“You’re wrong. Warrior-ghosts haunt this place; the sound is their voices, crying out.”

“Nonsense, Neryn. How can you know that?”

“I know because when I came the other way, I saw them.” It had been a momentous encounter. A turning point in my life.

Tali made no comment, but something had changed in her expression.

“Walk quietly,” I said. “If anyone can catch sight of them, surely it’s you.”

“I’m carrying iron.”

“These are warrior-spirits, the ghosts of the dead, not Good Folk. If they want to come out, iron won’t stop them.”

We were halfway around the narrow path that skirted the loch when we heard the marching of their feet behind us, soft but regular, then a voice whispering
Halt
. Tali whirled, staff up in defensive mode. I turned more slowly.

They stood in a neat double line, eyes bright in their skull-like faces. Their warrior garments were rent and stained, their boots cracked and broken. Some wore helms of leather, some were bare-headed, their hair ragged, their beards wild. Here and there an ugly wound split a skull or left a limb hanging crooked and useless. One young fighter had a great hollow in his chest, as if an ax had cloven his body nearly in half. From somewhere down the line came a faint skirl of pipes and the
rat-tat
of a ghostly drum.

Tali stood frozen by my side, her staff gripped in both hands.

“We greet you, warriors of Hiddenwater,” I said, doing my best to look like the fighter they had once asked me to become. “How do you fare?”

Well enough, Caller
. The answer came from everywhere and nowhere.
What news?

“You bade me fight. I am preparing for that fight. Others too. My companion here is one of them.”

Their eyes went to Tali. To her credit, she met that hungry gaze with confidence.

“Brothers, I salute you,” she said, and to my astonishment I heard a tremor in her voice. Not fear; she was afraid of nothing. “What mighty battle brought you to this sad extreme?”

They gathered closer, breaking their formation to encircle us on the path. A chorus of whispers told the tale:
We were camped yonder, under the trees that once grew in this vale. Conal’s men came down on us by night, as we slept. Broke the ancient truce. Blood on the stones. We fought hard. We fought long. We fell
.

“What was the ancient truce?” Now it was Tali who seemed hungry; her hands were white-knuckled on the staff.

A sigh ran through the spectral troop.
Yonder lies Corriedale
, the whispers told us, and several hands pointed roughly north.
And yonder Ravensburn, our own place
. They pointed south.
The truce let men of each holding use this track from seeding to harvest; from lambing to the autumn culling of stock. Our chieftains were long at war, but folk must have a livelihood. Conal broke the truce. His men set a stain on their honor that night. They left us dying in our blood, and they bore away our chieftain
.

“Ultan of Ravensburn,” breathed Tali. “They cut off his head and set it up on the parapet of Conal’s stronghold at Corriedale for folk to throw stones at. The tale goes that for many nights the moon in those parts showed blood-red, and Ultan’s head could be heard crying out, ‘Shame! Shame!’ ”

The spectral host had fallen utterly silent. I too had nothing to say. Tali’s response had astonished me.

Roll up your sleeves
. One voice, every voice.

Tali passed me her staff, then obeyed the request, revealing the elaborate tattoos that circled her arms from wrist to shoulder, chains and swirls and flying birds. She took off her kerchief and pulled down the collar of her shirt to show the row of birds around her neck.

A wordless whispering of excitement broke out among the warriors, a restless vibration that made my heart thump. A tall, lean fellow walked forward through the crowd; the others fell back to let him pass. In life, he might have been handsome. He carried himself straight. His hair was long and dark; his tattered clothing had once been that of a leader. As he approached, he rolled up his ragged sleeves, and on the pallid flesh of his arm were inked chains and swirls and flying birds.
You are one of us
, the ghost said, and
One of us
, echoed the others.
Ultan’s heir
, breathed the ghost.
A warrior
.

“I am a warrior,” Tali said, “but I am not Ultan’s heir, and neither is my brother. Ravensburn fell to our enemy long ago; it is lost to us. But we are of Ultan’s blood, and we are still fighting. Not for a single territory or a single stronghold. We pursue a far greater cause. We seek freedom for all Alban. Freedom from tyranny, freedom from terror, freedom to build our land anew. No doubt men of Corriedale died here that night, along with the heroes of Ravensburn; there must have been bitter losses on both sides, for I see you fought long and hard. Corriedale’s fallen were treated more kindly after death, I imagine. But they were no less dead for that. In our war, old enemies will
fight, not against each other, but side by side.” She paused. The tattooed man had reached out tentative fingers toward her neck, where the dark birds of Ravensburn followed their straight, unswerving path. “You are my kinsman,” Tali said, and I saw to my astonishment that tears were running down her cheeks. “My ancestor.”

Ultan was my father
. In the harsh, faint ghost voice I heard a fierce pride.
My name was …
The warrior hesitated, as if reaching for something almost fled.
My name was Fingal
.

“I am descended from your daughter,” Tali said. “My brother is named for you. So we keep your memory alive and honor your courage. Our land may be lost, but the blood of Ravensburn flows strong and true. Know that, my kinsman.” She reached up a hand to dash the tears from her cheeks, and I saw in that gesture the same pride I had seen in the ghostly warrior.

“It’s almost day,” I said. When I had encountered these spirits before, they had vanished with the first rays of the sun. “We must say our farewells and move on.”

Keep her safe
, Fingal said.
Keep the Caller safe. That is your mission. She carries the flame. Guard her with your life. Farewell, daughter of my daughter
.

“Father of my father, farewell.” Tali was fighting to keep her voice steady.

“Farewell, warriors of the west,” I said. “I have not forgotten what you taught me. Weapons sharp; backs straight; hearts high.”

Weapons sharp; backs straight; hearts high. Farewell.…
And they were gone.

* * *

Beyond Hiddenwater lay a broad area of farmland, a place I had crossed by night coming the other way, ducking from one sheltered spot to the next with my heart in my mouth. Tali had decided we would go straight on, since the alternative—hiding up on the hillside until dusk—would lose us a whole day’s walking. Once past the farmland we would be on the wooded shores of the next loch, Silverwater, and could go on under reasonable cover.

I asked no questions, and she held her silence. What had struck me most strongly was the way the spectral warriors had shared their story with her, as if she were one of them. And it seemed she was: theirs by blood and theirs by calling, a warrior of Ravensburn. When I had first encountered the ghostly comrades, last autumn, I had thought the past all but forgotten for them. Perhaps, when they had bidden me sing the song of truth, that ancient anthem had woken their memory. Or perhaps the spark had been Tali herself, a vibrant, passionate warrior as they had once been, a fighter who wore the clan patterns by which they had lived and died.
Guard the Caller
, they had said. They knew what I was. They knew what I could be.

There were folk about on the farms, letting chickens out to forage, hanging clothing on a line, forking a dung heap. A tired-looking horse pulled a cart laden with lumpy sacks. A girl with a dog herded sheep from one walled field to another. We kept our heads down and walked on by. Not far to the shelter of that wooded hillside. I imagined Sage and Red Cap up there somewhere, looking out and
exchanging wry comments as they watched our progress. Judging by what Hollow had said, word of the mission was spreading fast among their kind. “You! On the road!”

I snapped out of my reverie. Tali’s hand moved to her concealed knife, but she did not complete the movement. We halted, and Tali leaned on her staff.

A man had come to the edge of the nearby field and was examining us over the drystone wall. He was a burly individual with a pitchfork over his shoulder. At the far side of the field a younger man stood watching, a similar implement propped against the wall beside him. The field smelled of pigs, though no pigs were in sight, only a ramshackle sty.

“Fine day,” Tali observed in neutral tones.

“Where are you headed?”

My skin prickled. Nobody asked this kind of question anymore. Nobody shared information with folk they did not know.

“West,” Tali said.

The man grinned, showing blackened teeth. “Any fool can see that. How far west?”

“Home. The isles. Long way; we’d best get on. Good day to you.” Tali lifted her staff.

The man’s gaze sharpened; his companion strolled over to stand beside him.

“The isles, is it?” the first man said, and something in his tone warned me that our prepared story might not be good enough here. “Which part are you from, then?”

I spoke before Tali could mention Stonyrigg. “You
wouldn’t know the place; it’s small. I’m hoping to see my brother before we cross over. We heard he might be riding out from Summerfort soon, heading this way.” I paused for effect, then added in what I hoped was a convincing tone of pride, “He’s with Stag Troop.”

“Best be moving on, Calla,” Tali said. “The morning’s passing and it’s a long walk.”

Neither man said another word. Indeed, they might have been frozen where they stood.

“Good day to you,” I said politely, and we walked on, doing our best to keep a steady, relaxed pace.

It was only when we had crossed the last of the farms and were making our way up the hillside into the sheltering woods on the far side that Tali spoke. “Black Crow save us! What happened to Stonyrigg?”

“He sounded as if he knew the isles. I thought he might say
No such place
. With two of them, and two pitchforks, I didn’t fancy the odds, not to speak of the tales people might tell afterward even if we did get away.”

“A couple of farmers with pitchforks are no match for me, Neryn. But I see the point.” She paused to help me up a steep stretch of hillside. “Your brother, an Enforcer. Great story for shutting people up, true. But what happens if Stag Troop rides by and the fellow happens to mention that Calla was asking after her brother?”

“What farmer in his right mind would go up to an Enforcer and talk to him about his sister?”

“True.” We stood atop the rise to catch our breath. From here we had a fine view back over the patchwork
of walled fields to the rocky hills around Hiddenwater. I could not pick out which field was the one where the men had been working, but Tali shaded her eyes against the sun, and said, “The two of them are still there, forking soiled straw out of the pigsty. Good sign; nobody went running to share the news that two disreputable-looking women were on the road.” She set down her pack and reached for her waterskin, glancing at me. “Sit down awhile, Neryn.”

“I’m fine.” The response was automatic; I worked hard every day to keep up with her. But it was not true.

“Sit down. That’s an order.” She passed me the waterskin and watched my hands shake as I took it. Under her assessing gaze, I subsided onto the rocks.

“I’ll be fine soon. Sorry.”

“You’re white as chalk. Are you hurt?”

I shook my head. “I’m all right. Those men, talking to them, it brought back some bad memories, that’s all. Last time someone asked questions like that I ended up tied to a post, wrapped in iron chains, waiting for an Enforcer to come and take me away. I thought I’d gone past that, but clearly not. I’m sorry.”