Tale of a blackbird, p.2
Tale of a Blackbird, page 2
Bella had always told her that when you thought you were safe, that was when the enemy would get you.
The words stung at her heart. She remembered the necklace and checked if it was still there, which it was. Birdie tucked it away as she walked into a clearing and approached the ancient willow tree at its centre.
In her younger days she had spent many days out here climbing the old tree. A squat mossy wall ran up and over a hill beyond it. She sat down by the willow tree, taking her boots off and squeezing the damp from her socks. She grunted as she tore fabric from her soggy pant leg to wrap her blistering feet with.
Boots and socks back on, Birdie stood up and took a long look at the tree, running her fingers over where they’d both carved the letter B. She stopped beside it, felt the worn grooves beneath her fingers, felt the pendant’s cold surface pressing against her skin, and with a last lingering glance behind her, she left the tree behind, following the wall up the hill.
The old trail that marked as far as her and Bella had ever gone came to an end far too soon, passing out through a tangle of trees and bush. It crossed a ditch and opened out onto a dirt road. The sign which was supposed to give her directions had been burned, but she needed to go west, or was it east?
“Shit-balls.”
Focus.
Birdie shivered as Bella’s voice floated through her mind, as if she was still there with her. Checking the sky, Birdie made sure the directions were correct, then placed her foot to the edge of the road, aware that with one more step she would be leaving the safe circle she had spent her entire life in. Her hands shook.
What lay ahead of her? Would she be better off staying at the wrecked cottage, and try to rebuild?
But there was no turning back. Not now.
Not ever.
The path didn’t give way beneath her boot, and the road didn’t open up and swallow her whole. It also had no fresh tracks, which was always a good sign. Routes around their home were scarcely used as the woods were believed to be haunted. A legend created by Bella’s relentless harassing of any traders who used to pass through the area.
But were they just stories? Those things last night had to be spirits, demons even.
“Get yourself together, Birdie,” she chided. “There’s no such thing as spirits or demons, or magic for that matter. It was lies people tell little children to scare them to bed, and you’re not a child, so stop filling you mind with absolute...”
Birdie stopped walking. She had smelled something just then, something burning. Smoke from a fire, or somebody cooking in a house, perhaps? Further down the path, she saw a smoke column rising above the trees and decided to leave the path, instead creeping through the trees. Through the gaps, across the clearing, was a smouldering village. Birdie began moving around the clearing, from one tree to the next, being as quiet as possible. There were no signs of life; not even a farm animal called out from the ghostly sight.
At the other side of the village, she crouched in some thick ferns and was about to walk into the clearing to get a closer look, when a hand grabbed her from behind and pulled her back down to the ground. Another hand covered her mouth before she could scream.
“Keep quiet or I’ll cut your throat,” hissed a voice close to her ear. Birdie looked up at the figure kneeling over her. Two bright blue eyes shone from a woman’s face covered in mud. Her hair was braided and caked in mud also. The woman put her finger against Birdie’s lips before taking her hand away. “They might still be around,” whispered the woman, standing.
“Who?” Birdie sat up slowly, rubbing her neck, also noting that the knife was still very close.
“Who do you think?” the woman jabbed her knife at the village. “Lie down. If I hear you moving…” The woman held up the knife, so Birdie nodded, lying down amongst the thick ferns. The woman disappeared from view, her faint footsteps quickly fading.
Minutes passed. “Come on,” Birdie whispered. Drops of light rain fell, increasing to fat beads, dripping into her eyes, sticking her tangled hair to her scalp all the more. More silence, her heartbeat the only companion in the world. It drummed in her ears as the moments stretched out.
The sound of a breaking twig came from behind her. Birdie froze as she felt something tug on her foot and a man’s voice growled something unrecognisable. Birdie could only give a pathetic squeak as she felt a hand grab her leg and was dragged out of the ferns.
A man built like a bear had three scars running down over one discoloured eye, yellow teeth revealed as he frowned down at her. The man spoke again in a language she didn’t understand. He looked around and smiled as he settled his gaze back on her. He pulled out a jagged, badly forged knife from inside his fur coat and whispered something.
Birdie tried to push herself away from him, snatching at the ferns and grass for something sharp or heavy to use as a weapon, cursing herself for leaving her knife behind in the cottage. He snatched up a short coil of rope from his belt, pulled loose the knot, and tried to grab her leg again. She kicked it away, but the man growled and lurched at her, punching her into the ribs, folding her up like a blanket. He’d the rope slipped over her ankle and tightened in a heartbeat, and she was still trying to suck in air as he pulled her along the forest floor, sliding over rocks, sharp thorns which scratched at her arms and neck.
“No, get off!” Birdie croaked, searching for something to use as a weapon, but all her fingers found were grassy clumps and edges of embedded rocks that wouldn’t give way. She managed to slip her arms around the end of a fallen log. He tugged on the rope, making her leg burn with the tension. As she blinked up at him, Birdie couldn’t help the fear that rose in her. It bubbled up and clawed its way out of her throat in a whimper.
The man smiled wider.
She kicked her legs at him as he closed the distance between them. “Get the fuck away from me!” she screamed, aiming a kick at his groin, but he blocked it with his leg, returning a kick into her gut, making her gag and curl up once more.
The man laughed as he pulled away her arms, putting the knife’s tip against her cheek. The world spun then as he pounced on top of her, forcing the air from her lungs like a bellows. He backhanded her into the face with his free hand. Its sting was unnatural, turning the world above her into a spinning chaos of colour. As he pressed the knife’s point into the hollow of her collarbone, she could feel blood trickling down the side of her neck. He grabbed her by the hair and went to cut the fabric of her tunic, when a voice spoke from behind him. The man glanced back and stood up.
Air felt like icy shards as it rushed back into her lungs. She tried to push herself up, to get away, but her legs were too weak and she just collapsed onto the log. Using it for support, Birdie crawled away from the man and spat out bloody spit and lumps of dirt. Strange voices were speaking in that piggish language, but she didn’t care. All that mattered right now was getting away.
Birdie stopped crawling.
One of the voices was familiar.
Looking back, the woman with the mud on her face smiled, pointing around at the woods, then at Birdie. The man laughed and slid his knife into his belt, rubbing his hands together before glancing back at Birdie and nodding, thumbing his chest. There was an easy expression on his face as he spat into his hand and offered it to the woman. After they released hands, he moved towards Birdie.
Her breath heaved in her chest as they moved closer, the man sliding out his knife once more, lips cracking to reveal rotted teeth. They were both on the same side. She was going to die.
He reached out for her with dirt-caked fingernails, jagged blade getting closer, and then there was a swishing sound. His eyes bulged as the sword sliced through the flesh and bone of his neck, ripping tendons like fishing line, and his head went spinning up into the air, landing with a horrible squelching sound, rolling along the forest floor and coming to a rest beside Birdie.
The eyes were still rolling, lips twitching. Streams of blood spurted out from the gaping wound where his head had been, turning everything in its immediate vicinity red, which included Birdie. His decapitated body stabbed at empty air, but thankfully with limp arms which widely missed anything and she jumped back.
The body dropped to its knees. Blood spurted up from the gaping hole once more in a final jet. The woman kicked the body onto the ground, lifted her sword and drove it through the man’s back, piercing the heart and stilling the twitches.
Birdie vomited, getting it all down the front of her clothes and her filthy boots.
The woman pulled her blade free and kicked the man's corpse. “Fuckin’ pigs,” she growled, and then looked down at Birdie. “You OK?”
“You’re not with them?” Birdie wiped her mouth with her sleeve, allowing herself a small shiver.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re not going to kill me?”
“Maybe, maybe not.” The woman spat onto the man’s corpse. “Damn animals, surprised they don’t bleed shit.” The woman leaned down and cleaned her sword on the man’s clothes.
“W-Who are you?”
The woman ignored her. “You live ‘round here?”
“My house was… was burned, like the village. My aunt… she’s…” Birdie couldn’t say the words.
The woman nodded. “We need to move. You fall behind, I won’t wait. Put these on.” The woman tossed her the man’s boots and a cloak from his pack, both of which were too big, but mercifully dry. Birdie didn’t complain about the smell.
The woman nodded once more and wiped her nose. “Well, I guess you’d best stick with me then, ‘til we get to an outpost at least.” She walked away into the woods, not looking back. Birdie checked that she was out of view, before kneeling down and taking the dead man’s knife. She cleaned it on him, and then spat onto the corpse for good measure, before turning and chasing after the woman.
Chapter 2: Clerics and Schemes
Kassova Kye fingered through the reports on his desk and smoothed back his long, oiled hair with his other hand. He looked back up from the desk, to the man standing on the far side of it. Only the man’s eyes were visible, the rest hidden behind a black mask, its bird-like beak pointing down in a curve almost touching its chin. A thick black cloak hid the man’s many weapons, which had clinked somewhat noisily as he had entered the room.
Kye hated the Masked Lodge, bunch of bloated up bodyguards, the lot of them.
But then, Kassova Kye hated everyone.
“You were saying, major…?” Kye managed in getting his tone of voice perfect, one-half terminal boredom and the other half icy contempt. The Kye special.
“It’s Moore and I said we need more men and powder in the eastern portcullis. You know how explosive the damn stuff is, keeps going off. If we’re attacked without it the fire-pipes on the walls won’t do a thing to save us. We could also use some more grunts for repairs, but His Supreme and the ministry have ignored any of our requests.”
Kye stood up, sweeping around the table and moving closer to the officer, giving him a flash of his metal teeth. “Say that again, would you?”
“We need men. We’re undermanned, there’s no way—”
The slap echoed off the marble walls, and as the officer stumbled away from being backhanded, he covered his face with a gloved hand. The mask had been pushed askew and revealed heavily scarred flesh beneath.
Kye pointed a finger at the soldier. “You need what His Supreme tells you, and that’s to hold fast and make do with what you have. Come here again begging for resources and I’ll have your body rotting on the eastern ramparts as a reminder to your men. Now get out of my sight!”
The soldier fixed his mask, saluted and moved to exit the room.
“Wait!” called Kye, clicking his fingers, making Vines—who had been silently standing in the corner for the past few minutes, now put an arm against the door. “I have an idea. Yes, Major Moore, I’m feeling generous today, quite generous. You have one month to use whatever resources you can gather together. Let’s call it a trial run. I’ll give you permission to begin taxing the refugees in the eastern valley. Call it… a Life-Levy, if you will. Any who can’t or won’t pay can join the army or leave, let them fester outside our protection in fear.
“Before one month’s time, major, I’ll send someone to inspect your progress. Any and all refugees who are drafted will be given basic training and armed, all supervised and supplied by you and your officers.”
Moore nodded and saluted once more. Vines opened the door for the man and slammed it shut behind him, making the torches flutter in their brackets. Once back behind his desk, Kye eyed the pile of papers.
Reports, reports, reports. The twelve rings of the underworld are filled with reports, surely.
Scanning through them, they were mostly supply orders, receipts. Though a thin metal vial had been sent from one of his agents, informing him they’d narrowly escaped capture by the Temple’s scouts, having been engaged in tracking their movements for weeks just beyond the eastern mountains.
If this agent sends me such a vague and useless report again, I’ll castrate him.
Still no word from his other agent, who had probably fled south.
If she ever shows her ginger head around here again, I’ll draw-and-quarter the bitch.
A handful of agents he had out there, searching constantly for any sign of Maddox Black and his sister, Bella. The Black Shadow had been a scourge in Mala the past few years, but his occasional bouts of murdering guards or burning buildings had vanished. Kye would find him, even if it was the last thing he’d do, he’d string that b—
A knocking on the door broke Kye’s train-of-thought, and he nodded to Vines, who unbolted the door. The turkey-like figure of Quadra-Minister Fleck wobbled in, his too-large official robe trailing behind him like a mummy’s quim. He looked in a foul mood—even greyer-skinned and darker-eyed than usual—and the wrinkled skin beneath his chin wobbled as he shook his head.
Kye stood up. “Good evening, sir, to what do I owe the plea—”
“This is no damn time for damn pleasantries.” Fleck turned and looked at Vines. “Get out!” Vines shut the door behind him. Fleck paced the room, looking up sporadically and fixing Kye with a cocktail of emotions, mostly bad. “I suppose you’ve heard, then? One of the eastern outposts has fallen. Those bastards have actually attacked us! The Eclipsi are nothing but savages, and they think they can match us? Attack us, the might of the world!” Fleck collapsed into the chair in front of Kye’s desk—without asking—and took out a purple kerchief from inside his cloak and began wiping beneath his chin, which had begun to sweat profusely.
Might of the world, indeed.
“His-Supreme is retaliating?” Kye opened his lower desk drawer, took out the bottle of spirits and poured the bright yellow liquor into a small glass, handing it to Fleck.
The man took it and sipped. “Better, thank you. Yes, of course he is, but he won’t be happy with you, Kassova.”
“It was unfortunate.” Kye nodded, walking around the desk, pacing the space behind Fleck. He knew the man hated it when he did it. “I gave the agent strict instructions. It was their last chance. I was wrong to put so much faith in their abilities. They will be promptly dealt with, have no fear.”
Fleck finished his drink. “Worried? Hah, it’s not me who let Nefaro down. He has summoned you.”
“What… when?”
“Right this moment, I wanted to come and give you the news, personally. Sergeant!” The door opened, but instead of Vines, an officer strode in, followed by a dozen other members of the Masked Lodge. Fleck smiled. “Come now, Kassova, let’s not make this any harder than it needs to be.” Fleck shambled out of his seat as the men surrounded Kye, who held up his hands.
Outside in the hall Vines lay unconscious on the floor, his hands and feet trussed up in rope. In the courtyard outside Kye’s headquarters, he and Fleck climbed inside a carriage. Four of the masked men sat opposite, two holding small crossbows, trained on Kye. As the carriage began rumbling its way out of the courtyard and along the cobbled road, Kye saw that all traffic on the bridge connecting to the Bone-Portcullis had stopped.
The carriage followed the road away from the bridge, first through the slapped together tenements, where some better off refugees had luckily been allotted beds, to the more maintained parts of the district. Kye thought about the refugees in the Spine valley, below the bridge they had passed, and he was content that he’d soon be at least putting an end to that problem.
The valley was an ancient earthwork surrounding the mainland port. The ministry had foolishly sought to put refugees in there. The four bridges—the Spines—the only means of access across and into the port, had let these streams of human refuse across. The Masked Lodge had supervised their transportation into the valley, through the network of ancient mining tunnels. The refugees had been spending the past few weeks and the scaffolding given to them to create thousands of cling-on residences, these now were scattered alongside the cliffs below the Spine like a bad case of crotch rot.
To cleanse the land, restore order, regain power. Nefaro’s Mantra drummed through his head, one of many statements of the old man’s that Kye held close to his heart. Kye would at least not be failing his master in that respect.
Kye held no doubts that the old man was angry. Kye had been his prodigy, schooled in the Clerics Palace at the early age of seven, then sent to the Palace of War at thirteen, sharpened of both mind and sword by the best at both. But recent events had warped that image Kye had created, had worked hard for, to the point that Nefaro had shoved his champion to the edge of the war against the Alliance, and put him on Gods-damned clerical duty, at the fucking east Bone Portcullis…
Kye unclenched his fists and took a deep breath.
It was surely the equivalent of hiring a whore just to re-patch your damned socks.
“What’s so funny?” Fleck was frowning at him.
