Mercedes Lackey - Anthology (4 page)

 
          
In
another moment a second, smaller raven dropped down from the sky. The sleek
head turned and dipped as the bird half spread its wings, neck feathers
fluffing, and lifted its tail. The first raven watched for a moment, then
appeared to expand, rising to its full height, feathers bristling around its
head. This was the one, he remembered, that had always taken the lead in
calling the other young ones, and challenging the territorial pair for food.

 
          
Very
imposing, thought Bui in amusement. Does she appreciate it? He was almost
certain that the smaller bird was a female now.

 
          
For
a moment she watched the male,
then
repeated her bobs
and bows, murmuring love talk with coos and snaps. Bui was abruptly reminded of
the way the servant girls used to flick their aprons to tease the men in the
hall.

 
          
If
these birds were not yet a mated pair, they were certainly courting. Good luck
to you—Bui thought wistfully. Even if he were to win back the farm, a kinslayer
would be a poor marriage prospect for any man's daughter. There was a girl
called Asgerd, the daughter of Geiralf Bard-son who had a farm over at
Langdale, whom he had thought might make a good wife for him when they were
both grown. Suddenly her face came clearly to memory.

 
          
Since
the day he was driven from the farm all Bui's energy had been focused on
survival, but in this moment poised between light and darkness while the ravens
danced, something long suppressed stirred and shaped itself into a stave of
poetry—

 
          
Mournful
the man who must go mateless, Who lonely lies in the lee of the fell; Even
Odin's friend, the doom-fated raven, the bird of battle, a bride may win.

 
          
.
. .

 
          
When
the Outmonths had passed, the days began to lengthen swiftly, and the air rang
with the cries of returning birds. The green of new grass veiled the sere
slopes of the moorland, jeweled with daisy and dandelion and the more delicate
blossoms of pinks and saxifrage. The warming air thrummed with urgency, and as
the young ravens played upon the wind, Bui and the two Norwegians cut sticks of
willow and began to practice their swordplay.

 
          
As
they sat by their fire on an evening halfway through the Milking Moon, Hogni
lifted one foot, wiggling his toes so they stuck out of the holes in his shoe.

 
          
"We
need to kill a cow."

 
          
"What?"
The others looked at him.

 
          
"I
need new shoes, and so do you, not to mention rawhide and sinew to repair our
weapons. And I am growing very tired of eating bird-flesh and dried seal."

 
          
Torstein
laughed, but Bui grew thoughtful. Hogni had a good point, even though, with the
warming weather, the people of the farm would be more inclined to come looking
if one of their beasts disappeared. Still, he had always known that he could
not stay hidden here forever. Perhaps it was time to make his move.

 
          
Nonetheless,
he insisted on separating the heifer they chose from the herd and driving her
up onto the fell before they made the kill.

 
          
They
had bled out the carcass and were hard at work on the hide when the first raven
arrived. Bui looked up, but it was not the white-spotted male he had been
expecting. This was a smaller, younger bird. It lit on a boulder, looking
around nervously, then extended its wings and flapped away.

 
          
"That's
right," Bui laughed. "Go call the others. There will be more than
enough for all.

 
          
They
heaved out the guts in a pile for the birds and continued the butchering.

 
          
Presently
a bird quorked from overhead and another answered it. Bui looked up and saw two
ravens circling, discussing the carcass with harsh cries. He stiffened, thinking
the territorial pair he had encountered the previous year
were
back, though he would have thought this kill out of their territory. Then the
male glided down, emitting three slow "knocking" calls, and he saw
the white spot on its tail. After a moment the female followed him.

 
          
Now
he could see the other birds, half a dozen tattered black shapes fluttering
across the sky. They swirled down in the wake of the first two, but as they
began to alight, the white-spotted male reared up, head feathers bristling
until they stood up on either side like two ears, and began to strut back and
forth, warning away the very birds whom the season before he had led against
the territorial pair.

 
          
For
a moment Bui stared, gut twisting as if he himself had been betrayed. Then he
ran toward them, waving his arms and yelling until all the birds had risen
squawking away. Torstein and Hogni watched open-mouthed, but Bui did not
explain.

 
          
That
night Bui dreamed. He was moving across the moor, and as he looked down he realized
that he was flying. A glance to either side showed him black wings. The
sensation was sufficiently novel that for some time he gave himself up to the
pleasure of exploring the capacities of this body, soaring and diving,
performing rolls and twists, dancing with the wind.

 
          
His
play was so absorbing that it took some time to realize that he was not flying
alone. Two larger ravens flew with him, one to either side.

 
          
Their
feathers shone like polished metal, but the light came from within. They drew
closer when they realized he had seen them.

 
          
"I
am Huginn—" said the first raven. "To know thy way is to know
thyself—"

 
          
"I
am Munnin—" said the second. "Remember. . . ."

 
          
Then
they soared ahead of him, movements matched until they seemed one being, whose
brightness merged, then blinded, so that he floated, without need or volition,
in the light. In that blind brilliance it seemed to him that he heard another
voice that spoke to him for some time. But when he opened his eyes at last to
the thin light of morning filtering into the cave, he could not remember the
words.

 
          
In
the morning, Hogni, who had decided he wanted to make a drinking horn, went
back to the carcass for one of the heifer's horns while Torstein and Bui stayed
at the shelter to prepare the meat for smoking. But the young Norwegian
returned much more quickly than he had gone.

 
          
"Douse
the fire!" he
called,
his face pale. "There
are men on the moor!"

 
          
As
they covered the fire and bundled their tools into the shelter, Hogni told his
tale. The farmfolk must have tracked the heifer. He had seen two men, circling
the carcass and gesturing. As always, the boys had brushed away their tracks,
but the carcass would still have shown the marks of their butchering.

 
          
Bui
had frightened the ravens, whose voracious beaks had always obliterated all
other evidence, away.

 
          
"They're
thralls," said Bui when Hogni finished. "They will go back now to the
farm to report what they have seen."

 
          
"Then
we have a little time—enough to get away." Torstein began to bundle up his
things.

 
          
Bui
shook his head. This must be why he had dreamed. Images, half-understood and
half-remembered, surged in memory.

 
          
"But
we can't stay!" exclaimed Hogni. "Now they know someone is up here,
they will be combing the fells for us by tomorrow!"

 
          
"That's
so," answered Bui. "But they don't know that we've been warned—we
must attack the farm!"

 
          
He
straightened, watching the color come and go in their faces, willing them to
agree now, before they had time to think about it too much and grow afraid;
before he himself lost his nerve. They had all known this moment must come. No
doubt they could survive another year living like beasts on the fell, but at
the end of it would their hearts still be those of men?

 
          
Just
when he thought the silence must become unendurable, Hogni gave a little laugh.

 
          
"I'm
tired of sleeping on a pile of moss and birdskins anyway. Whether I lie
tomorrow night in a farmhouse bed or in Odin's hall, it will be an improvement
over here."

 
          
Torstein
grinned back at him. "No doubt Bui will want to carry that sword he's been
sharpening, and you're best with the ax, so I guess that leaves me the
spear!"

 
          
Bui
wondered if they could hear his heart pounding in his chest. Wordlessly, he got
up and went to the rock-built cupboard where he kept the sword. But Torstein
had been right—it was already sharp, fitted with a new hilt of seal-bone and
well oiled. With it he kept the framework of the helmet.

 
          
Thoughtfully,
he considered it, then cut pieces from the still raw hide of the cow and began
to piece them together over the frame.

 
          
But
it was not enough. The image of the white-spotted raven strutting beside the
cow carcass teased at his memory. During the winter he had found a dead raven
and saved the wings. Now he bound one to each side of the helm so that they
stood up like ears. Then he tried it on. Torstein raised one eyebrow and Hogni
laughed, but Bui ignored them.

 
          
Now
Lam
the king-raven, he thought grimly, and I will
claim my own!

 
          
When
the last light had left the sky Hrafn-Bui led his little war-band down the
vale. By the time they came to the wall of the garth, it was near
midnight
. But it was as well that Bui led
cautiously, for as they started to climb over, the door of the long-house swung
open and firelight spilled across the ground. A man's figure stood silhouetted
against it. Bui's heart fluttered in his breast as he recognized his uncle's
heavy shoulders and the foreward thrust of his head.

 
          
He
reached out to push the others back and found them already crouched behind the
wall.

 
          
"I
thought you said everyone would be asleep by now," whispered Torstein as
Harek trudged across the yard to the privy.

 
          
"They
should be. They're nervous, too—"

 
          
"They've
been sitting up, planning how to catch you!" Hogni's laugh was stifled as
the door to the privy banged open and Harek went back to the hall.

 
          
The
dog stood up as he neared, but Harek kicked it aside and closed the door.

 
          
They
waited, shivering a little as their bodies began to cool and the stars wheeled
overhead through the slow hours of
the outtide
. When
they looked again, the glow around the door had dimmed, and the squat shape of
the turf walled long-house bulked dark against the night sky. Bui stood up,
feeling excitement fire his blood, and slipped over the wall.

 
          
As
he moved towards the house, the dog began to growl. Hogni and Torstein hung
back, but Bui whistled softly, and the growl became a grunt of delight as the
animal caught his scent and leaped toward him. Bui told himself the dog's affection
should be no surprise—he was probably the only one on the place who had been
kind to it—but his eyes stung with tears all the same.

 
          
"Quiet,
Ulfr," he whispered, when he could get the beast to calm down. He dragged
it by the collar to sniff Hogni and Torstein.
"Friend,
Ulfr, friend.
Now be still!"

 
          
When
he let the dog go, it frisked around them, but made no other sound. He motioned
to the others, and they moved around the hall toward the sheds.