Tale of a blackbird, p.1
Tale of a Blackbird, page 1
Tale of a Blackbird
By R.C.J. Dwane
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2022 by Rory Dwane
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
Published by Crumpled Papers
https://rorydwaneart.wordpress.com/
To my mother, for all the books.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1: The Unknown
Chapter 2: Clerics and Schemes
Chapter 3: The Coin Flip
Chapter 4: Hall of Faces
Chapter 5: Making Friends
Chapter 6: Dreams and Nightmares
Chapter 7: False Facades
Chapter 8: Repentance
Chapter 9: Monsters
Chapter 10: Ambushes and Insubordination
Chapter 11: Out of the Frying Pan…
Chapter 12: Sunnyside Slums
Chapter 13: The Bone Portcullis
Chapter 14: Strangers
Chapter 15: Bubbling Over
Chapter 16: Out of Body Experiences
Chapter 17: Escape
Chapter 18: Into the Fire
Chapter 19: Hidden Passages
Chapter 20: Bullseye
Chapter 21: To the Depths
Chapter 22: Moonlit Room
Chapter 23: Into the Fray
Chapter 24: Chance and Fate
Chapter 25: Nightmares, Awake and Dreamt
Chapter 26: Cat’s Out of the Bag
Chapter 27: Strange Company We Keep
Chapter 28: Marked
Chapter 29: The Twilight Temple
Chapter 30: Lost
Chapter 31: The Sword of Mala
Chapter 32: A Sick Man’s Ailments
Chapter 33: Sell-outs and Skyfire
Chapter 34: All Aboard
Chapter 35: Tore, City of Dreams
Chapter 36: The Fortress
Chapter 37: I Know You…
Chapter 38: Battle of Mount Lena
Chapter 39: Nothing Personal
Chapter 40: Embracing Your Demons
Chapter 41: How the Mighty Have Fallen
Chapter 42: Just a Dream
Epilogue
The Sea of Circles
Sneak Peek of Song of a Feather!
Prologue
Chapter 1
About the Author
Also by R.C.J. Dwane
“We are all subject to the fates. But we must act as if we are not, or die of despair.”
- Philip Pullman
Prologue
The city of Mala was on fire.
Burning bodies fell from the spire like cinders from a flaming chimney, a high tower dominating over the layered districts of the city spat out its inhabitants like shooting stars in the night sky. Screams, smoke, clashing of metal, it all wafted along the air current into the Clerics Palace, where he watched his plan unfurling with a smile. By now the last of the Black family would be cornered in the upper spire, being put to the sword, and soon the other eleven cities would know of their downfall.
Let them be afraid, they will all meet the same fate.
“Master,” a masked man announced himself. “I have bad news.”
“What is it?”
“I’m afraid the Black heir wasn’t found among the bodies.”
He turned on the masked man. “Then find him, find Maddox. Seal the port. Do not let him escape!”
Outside of the palace the army amassed and were soon to be sent down to slaughter all uprising citizens in the lower districts. In the lower districts the loyal citizens to the Black family had put all local officials to the sword and hung the bodies from the lampposts. Beyond the high walls that enclosed the city of Mala and to the south was a port, where a man and woman hidden in a crate were lifted and stowed away in the hold of a ship bound for the mainland. In the woman’s arms she cradled a bundle of rags that stirred, but the woman rocked the baby until it fell back to sleep. The ship cast off and waves rocked the sleeping child further, who dreamt of screaming shadows, safe in the arms of a woman who was not her mother.
The ship drifted away, leaving behind it a city without an identity. Leaving behind it a tower of death that had once been their home, with halls filled with corpses that had once been their family.
Mala was the past.
Days passed into weeks to months as the man and woman fled into the distant mountains, away from the clutches of their enemies. A house was built and became a home, where the child grew into a curious little girl who never shied away from the hard training placed upon her. Three years passed when the man received a piece of paper which arrived tied to the leg of a raven.
He left and never returned.
Chapter 1: The Unknown
“Wake up, my little blackbird,” a sing-song voice merrily called from the distance, making the boat rock and landscape fade. Her throat was parched, skin slick with sweat, but even though she realized it was a dream, Birdie struggled to keep hold of it, to make sense of it. But it was gone, like a shadowy room when the curtains are thrown open—which was just what happened. Bella pulled them aside and let the daylight flood in, making Birdie moan and block the light from her eyes with her hands.
“Do you have to do that every morning, Bel? It’s my birthday, let me sleep!” Birdie pulled the bedcovers back over her head and groaned as her aunt’s footsteps came closer.
“And you think the evil in this world cares that it’s your birthday? Evil creatures, demons, it’s her birthday! Please wait until it’s a time more suitable. Get real—or more importantly—get dressed!” A hand grabbed the blanket and Birdie kicked at it, but to no avail, as the blanket was ripped off and flung to the ground.
Birdie shielded her eyes by looking between her spread fingers, seeing if the blanket was a lost cause or not, but Bella had her hand on her hips, a sure giveaway. Birdie yawned and stretched, wiped the sleep from her eyes.
“Come on, I let you sleep past sunrise. Get dressed and meet me outside.” Bella turned and left the room, taking the blanket with her and opening the window for good measure.
Using the wash-basin in the corner, Birdie washed and dressed into her training clothes, tying her tousled hair back into a tight braid. In the main room of the cottage a steaming pot of porridge hung over the fire, which she ladled into a cup along with a spoonful of honey and brought outside with her.
The surrounding woods were alive with activity, birds chirruped from the trees as they swayed, creaking and knocking against each other. Bella stood by one of the workbenches by the woodshed, sharpening her knives. Birdie ate the porridge as they set off along the trail, walking adjacent to the river where a lone beaver was once again making repairs to the dam, and entered the treeline, passing by the archery range and coming to the Knife Tree.
It didn’t look anything like a knife, really, and was only called that due to the fact that it was a dead elm tree that they used for throwing blades at. It was situated just before a steep decline, and Birdie had spent many hours during her life searching those thorny bushes for misaimed weapons.
There were other trees they could have used. Hundreds, in fact. But that would be easy, and if there was one thing that Bella hated more than anything, it was doing things the easy way.
The first time Birdie had confronted her aunt over the Knife Tree’s location—or more correctly the scratches and stings gained from searching through those bloody bushes—the only answer she’d gotten was ‘It builds character’. Builds bloody calluses, more like.
“You first,” Bella said, putting her hands on her hips. Birdie took the three throwing knives from her belt and took position. They hit, the second just making the trunk.
“Not bad,” Bella said sucked her teeth. “But you’ve been slacking lately. Try again.”
Birdie pulled the blades out of the trunk and re-took her position, but hesitated.
“Is something the matter?” said Bella.
Birdie twirled the knife in her hand. “You’ll never answer.”
“Questions, is it? Go on, it being your birthday and all.”
“I was dreaming of Maddox last night, his face was hazy after so long, in shadow. You know the dream I told you about before, when you fled in the boat?” Bella nodded and Birdie closed her eyes, trying to bring it up in her mind’s eye. “But there was something else, before that. Something new, someone new.”
Birdie peeked and saw Bella had lifted an eyebrow, a rare mark to show that she was intrigued.
“I didn’t see a face, but he was looking at the spire. It was there in my dream, just like in the books, and he was… happy. He was happy about the people being killed, about the people that were jumping out of the spire. He was responsible for their deaths, and he didn’t care.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about it, Birdie. If it’s who I think it is, he’s a long way from us now.”
“You know him?”
“I never knew him. But Nefaro was the ring-leader behind that night. He’d organized everything. I guess that must be who you’re seeing.”
Birdie didn’t like the thought of the murderer of her family infiltrating her dreams.
They remained throwing knives
She dreamed of tree-sized bushes that kept chasing her around the house, throwing knives at her.
Upon awaking, the fire was almost out and Birdie put a few logs onto the dying embers. Bella wasn’t anywhere in or outside the cottage. Birdie noticed a package on the workbench outside. Picking it up, she read Bella’s note on the parchment.
Happy sixteenth birthday, little Blackbird.
Birdie untied the ribbon and opened it.
Inside was a beautifully hand-crafted knife, with a hickory handle and polished steel blade. A bird had been carved into the hilt, which had been painted in a midnight black. While Birdie wasn’t one-tenth as good at forging weapons as Bella—and that was being generous—she had been painstakingly put through the basic lessons, and at least could respect the time and effort the woman had put into her gift.
After checking outside for her aunt and finding a note by the woodpile it read ‘patrolling area’. Birdie decided to go fishing. Shouldering her rod, she set off down the path and followed the river until it joined a larger one.
It was unusual for her not to be on patrol with her aunt. Birdie often patrolled the south and eastern boundaries. Not many people ventured this deep into the forest, so far from civilisation, but Birdie knew they were still being hunted.
She felt a small bit guilty about shirking her duties, even if it was her birthday. But with the sun shining down on her face and the river gurgling by, the smell of fresh grass strong in her nose and the anticipation of catching a fish, she wasn’t complaining.
Birdie sat by her favourite spot near the moss-covered boulders, and was about to cast, when something caught her eye. Not fifty paces downriver she found torn clothing, with blood stains covering the fabric, and more blood drops led away from the river and into the trees.
It looked like it was from her aunt’s clothing.
Following the blood trail into the trees, a figure sat slumped against a pile of rocks. Birdie couldn’t see its face, the figure facing away from her; only a bloodied hand that lay limp by its side. Steeling herself, she walked around to get a better look.
It was a man.
He had short cropped hair turned scarlet from the two gashes running down his scalp and forehead. Two familiar throwing knives stuck out from his chest, one of which looked like it had pierced his lung. She picked up a stick and poked him. Feeling braver, Birdie held a hand in front of his mouth. Not breathing, so she checked his pulse. Dead.
Birdie left the corpse and searched the area, finding another trail of blood that led away from the river. She found her aunt’s body crumpled by a dead-fallen tree, its bark all rotted and covered in a sickly black fungus that smelled of puss. Her clothing had been ripped open, revealing her chest, and scratch marks covered her upper torso, neck and arms. Birdie’s hands shook as she reached down to check her aunt’s pulse.
“Thank the Gods, you’re alive,” cried Birdie, as Bella gave a choking cough, spitting out a mouthful of bloody spit.
“Birdie, is that you? Don’t… Don’t touch the man. He… He’s diseased. Don’t touch him, or you’ll get it too.” Bella cracked open one bruised eye, registering the panic rising in Birdie’s face. Birdie frantically wiped her hand that’d touched the man on a moss-covered tree.
“You touched him?” Birdie nodded and Bella let her head drop. “Shit-balls.”
* * *
On entering her aunt’s room, the stench made Birdie gag. The incense did little to cover the putrid odour that crept over her aunt, like maggots to decay. For days now Bella’s skin had been breaking out with more of the white spots. They ran down her neck and chest, leaking puss onto the stained sheets. Old spots were now surrounded with a dark and peeling rash, veins turned green and swollen, lips a dark, dry grey. For some reason the disease had not stricken Birdie ill, yet. It could only be a matter of time.
Steeling herself, Birdie soaked the cloth in a bucket of water and wet Bella’s forehead, then threw the rag into the bucket and picked up the bowl. “Bella, I’ve made soup.”
After some time, Bella’s eyes opened. “Blackbird?” her voice was weak and croaking, like the toads by the river. Eyes dark shadows, sunken and tired.
“Yes aunt, I’m here. You need to eat some soup. You’ll feel better, I promise.”
“There’s no time. You need to leave, before I fall back to sleep. They’re coming, he was only a scout.”
“Bella, you’re ill. It’s the fever. It will get better if you please just eat some of this s—”
A high-pitched scream cut off her pleading, it echoed through the woods outside. Bella grabbed Birdie’s hand, nails digging into her flesh. “Get to the woods. Don’t look back!”
“Come with me. We can make it out together.”
“No, I’d only slow you down. Look for Maddox… in Mala. Don’t trust anyone. Take this...” As Bella took off her necklace and handed it to Birdie, she began to cough a black froth that drooled down her chin. “Go,” she rasped. “Run!”
“I’m not leaving! I’m not!”
But Bella pushed her away, still stronger even in her weakened state. Bella stumbled out of bed, forcing Birdie from the room, banging the door shut. Birdie tried to push the door open, but it didn’t budge. She slipped the necklace over her head and ran from the room, deciding to get outside and see what was happening. The walls passed by in a blur, and as she left the cottage another scream echoed through the surrounding dark forest.
It sounded closer.
Her foot tripped on something and she tumbled into the log-pile in front of the woodshed.
“Run,” Bella screamed from inside the cottage. “Don’t look back!”
Birdie saw lights deep in the forest. She ran across the open meadow, away from the lights. Another scream pierced the night, making Birdie look back instinctively, and her foot caught on a mound of grass. The ground went tumbling over, grass-blades filling her mouth and blocking out the curses dribbling from her lips.
Silhouettes appeared behind the cottage, moving between the trees, holding torches. Hundreds of popping sounds echoed through the clearing, as if the trees were possessed—as if they had come to life and were slowly moving, creeping closer.
Her legs felt like giving way as she wobbled on, but she made it to the edge of the clearing. Hiding behind a tree, she looked back, seeing the figures move closer to the cottage, seeing the torches they held thrown onto her home and its thatched roof catching light instantly.
Birdie turned away and wiped her eyes, held her hands over her ears, trying to block out the distant screams of her aunt. She took a step forward, leaving everything she had ever cared for and loved behind.
The shadows of the forest hugged her in a dark embrace as she fled into the unknown.
* * *
Birdie awoke from the nightmare drenched, her fingers digging into something hard.
In her nightmare Bella had been lying on her bed covered in flames and men’s faces smiled and jeered at her cries for help. It took Birdie a moment to recall where she was. Another moment to realise it hadn’t been a nightmare at all.
It had been all too real.
Pressed up against a tree, sap streaked across her face and hands. A small grey squirrel on a nearby branch looked at her curiously, before fleeing as she began climbing down. The days gone by since fleeing her home were a series of blurred memories. Hunger was a numb sensation in her gut, overshadowed by fear, senses numbed by shock and cold.
The years spent training with Bella had saved her, her body purely moving through instinct. Those winter nights spent avoiding her aunt’s detection had sharpened her eyes and ears, kept her alert to shadows not belonging to the forest.
Birdie came to the first marker, a birch tree with a broken branch, followed its direction, then hours later a small pile of rocks built like an arrow. The wind occasionally carried sounds through the trees; sounds not of the forest and that had no place in them. Smells of acrid smoke stung at her nose, cries from far off, and once she’d caught the stench of sweat, but had given its owner a wide berth. Her step was light and gaze watchful as a white deer of the north.
