Bookweird (4 page)

 

The Battle of the Ravens

T
he stoat archers took position by the side of the path, sheltering behind whatever boulder or overhang they could find. Like them, Norman moved to the side, but he was too big for the soccer ball–sized rocks to offer him any protection. He had read about raven warcraft in
The Helm of Bildung,
book IV of the Undergrowth saga, and he had no desire to be part of it. Duncan and the swordsmen formed up in a circle in the centre of the road, their backs against each other and their blades bristling. All eyes were on the sky. For a moment it seemed that nothing might happen. No bird called out. The only sound was of the wind howling through the pass. Norman relaxed his shoulders and prepared to step forward, until he noticed that the stoats remained still and vigilant.

Duncan's warning cry came first. “Wits about you, lads. Here they come.”

Then came the sound of a great bustling of wings, like water rushing through rapids.

Norman crouched down as a black form wheeled into view around the curve of the mountain. The raven flock moved like a single entity, coming in high and circling the assembled stoats below.

“Fire, fire! What are you waiting for?” Norman muttered, but the archers were experienced warriors. They waited patiently, arrows nocked.

Norman squinted into the brisk alpine sky trying to tell how the ravens were armed. In
The Helm of Bildung,
the fox engineer Daedalus had built crossbow harnesses for his raven warriors. The weapons had been devastating. The ravens had been able to attack from a distance and height beyond the reach of ground archers. Only the owls and the hawks had been able to defeat the crossbow ravens. That was the only time that the micelings of Undergrowth ever allied themselves with their archenemies in the air. But this had been a long time ago in Undergrowth history, and Norman knew there was no chance of hawks or owls coming to their rescue today.

“Draw,” the steady voice of Duncan finally commanded. The archers drew back their strings and planted their back paws.

“Take aim.”

A dozen arrows slowly tracked the sweep of the ravens, as the attackers made their approach.

“Loose!” the Prince cried, and those dozen arrows took flight. They were too fast for Norman to track them—he only heard their whoosh through the air. The enraged cries of the ravens were the first sign that some arrows had found their target. Norman watched as a few black shapes tumbled from the sky. Surely if the ravens had crossbows the bolts would have been unleashed by now. The thought gave Norman some hope, but he had little time to savour it. The remaining ravens continued undeterred on their attack run, swooping overhead, unleashing a hail of rocks as they closed in.

The missiles flew in along low trajectories, whistling through the air toward the ambushed party of stoats. The sound of them ricocheting off shields was shockingly loud. The swordsmen had anticipated the attack and defended themselves. The archers were not so lucky. They had admired the flight of their arrows too long and had ducked behind their boulders too late. Norman heard
high yelps as three or four of them were struck and fell to the ground. In front of him a stoat archer lay motionless and unprotected in the middle of the path.

Shock and pity made Norman act without thinking. He dashed out into the open to the stricken archer, who was not heavy. He's about the weight and size of our old housecat Moggy, Norman thought incongruously as he lifted the furry little body. The thought made it worse. They had taken Moggy to the vet for the last time three months earlier. It still brought a lump to the top of his throat, but as he shuffled backward to the side of the cliff, his pity was shaken from his head—by a sharp blow and a stinging explosion in his temple. It made him stop for a moment to look up. A crow wheeled away from him now, shrieking victoriously.

A curious thing happened then. The throbbing in his forehead made Norman realize that he was in real danger, but instead of frightening him, it only made him angry. Carefully he placed the unconscious stoat in a sheltered spot and turned to avenge himself.

The ravens had circled again and were coming in for a second run. They had not had time to reload with rocks. This would be hand to hand.

“Fire on your own marks, archers,” Duncan called out.

Arrows were unleashed singly now as each archer tracked a diving bird. There were more ragged cries and more falling ravens before the squadron struck again, but still they struck, racking the little formation of swordsmen with steel-tipped talons that glinted in the high mountain sun. The swordsmen slashed at the sky, but the birds moved too fast.

The force of the ravens' attack was enough to knock a few of the stoats to the ground. They were still being helped to their feet when a second wave of rock launchers hurtled in. There was no sound of rocks bouncing off shields this time. Norman looked in dismay as more stoats fell. A trick, he thought—they'd held some back from the first attack. It was a clever ploy. The stoats were in disarray. The formation looked ragged, and at least half the archers were disabled. Another attack like this might break them.

The ravens seized this chance to bring the fighting in close. They came in at all angles, each bird lining up a stoat. Bows and arrows were useless in such close quarters, and even the archers drew their swords now. Formations and battle plans were forgotten. The melee had degenerated into single combat, stoat against raven, sword against armoured claw.

Through it all, Duncan called out encouragement to his fighters: “Have heart, men—remember what blood runs through those veins!” He swatted his own assailant away with a mighty swing of his sword, slicing across the angry bird's face. The battling prince did not wait to see his attacker stumble and cover his blood red beak with a bent wing. Duncan knew what his blow had done and was now leaping to the aid of the man who fought beside him. Seeing it with his own eyes, Norman could not help but be reminded of Duncan's father, Malcolm, battling on bravely at Tista Kirk, back in chapter one.

Norman's head still smarted. He longed to do something to avenge himself and the little archer slumped beside him, but he hadn't a clue how to make himself useful. He watched helplessly as the battle raged around him. The ravens tried to pull their prey away from the main body of the fighters, where they could set upon them in murderous groups of three and four. The stoats tried to hold together, forming up around their leader and beating the ravens back, but the ravens' cowardly strategy began to work. They singled out one wounded warrior, a tactic they must have learned from their wolf allies. Norman's rage bubbled as he watched three ravens drag the poor stoat away from the main battle. His companions rushed forward to reclaim him, but more ravens intervened, slashing at the rescuers' eyes with their claws. Norman was close enough to see the terror flash momentarily in the captured stoat's eyes before the defenceless creature raised his arm to shield them. His attackers tugged his arms with their beaks. They meant to blind the poor thing.

This was too much for Norman.

“Get off him, you scum!” he screamed.

His voice boomed through the canyon. Startled, the ravens stopped and looked. They regarded him disdainfully for just a moment, then set about their victim once more. What had the pink giant done in this fight yet? they must have thought.

Their contempt only made Norman angrier. Without a thought of what he might actually do, he ran at the three ravens at full speed. Some instinct took over as he hurled himself at them, as if he was charging down a loose ball on the soccer field. He followed through with a swift kick, connecting firmly with one raven's flank and sending it hurtling into the cliff wall. The black bird struck the rock hard, then tumbled to the ground, shook itself from the blow and staggered back as if confused, one wing hanging at a sharp angle. The two other birds hopped back in surprise.

Somewhere a stoat voice cried out in alarm, “'Tis young Malcolm!”

Norman stepped over the prone stoat protectively. The ravens eyed him viciously and hopped tentatively where they stood, but neither advanced nor retreated. Their victim was still alive, but covered in too much blood for Norman to know where the wounds might be. Norman crouched down and stroked its ears instinctively as he would any pet. It was only now that he noticed how small the stoat was, not even fully grown. Once again, the unfamiliar battle rage surged in his belly.

“Bullies!” he cried, facing the ravens again. His hand found a handy rock, and he stepped forward to hurl it side-arm at the defiant birds. If he tried a hundred times he would never again be able to throw another rock with that velocity and accuracy, with such deadly effect. The stone struck one raven full force on the head. It let out half a cry before falling still to the ground. Norman kept going, rushing toward the remaining raven, screaming once again, “Filthy vermin!” It was Undergrowth's worst insult, and he meant it. What sort of creature picked on a poor kid like that?

Norman's charge turned the battle. The ravens had never seen anything like him—nothing so tall and so loud that wasn't a bear. They would never dare face a bear, and Norman at this moment
seemed as fierce and as deadly. They stumbled back toward the crest of the pass. Stoats harried them all the way. The blur of battle was slowly lifting for Norman. He sank to a knee beside the bloody stoat. The young creature was stirring, rising with the aid of two companions who had rushed to his side.

Norman tore his gaze from the recovering stoat, his eye drawn reluctantly to the bird he had felled. Its repulsive glossy eye was motionless and unblinking. A sick churning tumbled through Norman's stomach. He had killed that bird. It was just sinking in, as the cries of the ravens became distant and the pursuing stoats returned. Norman had never killed anything before. He knew kids who threw stones or fired BB guns at birds, and he hated them. Was he one of them now? For a long time Norman just stood there, looking but not really seeing anything.

A deep growl of a voice disturbed his reverie. “You do more than see, then.”

“Huh?”

“You are a fighter as well as a seer.” It was Duncan who spoke.

“Not usually,” Norman said slowly. “But I had to. They would have poked out—”

“I know what they would have done, and I thank you for it. You fought bravely and well. You have saved my boy's life. I will honour you for this.” Duncan crouched to feel the young stoat's wounds. The youngster smiled woozily as Duncan introduced him.

“My boy, Malcolm. He will remember his first battle, and I your part in it.”

“Malcolm, named after your father,” Norman said softly.

“Indeed, seer.” Duncan nodded as he spoke. “Indeed he is. And what are you called by your people?”

“My name's Norman.” He had told him twice already, but he didn't mind repeating it.

“Welcome, Norman Strong Arm, and thank you. Let's be moving now. Those blackwings will be warning their masters.”

 

Norman Strong Arm

B
y some miracle all of Duncan's stoats had survived the battle at the pass, although several had to be shaken back to consciousness. They rubbed their heads and grumbled, but they found their feet soon enough. Those that had taken cuts from the ravens' steel-tipped talons and beaks were patched up and bandaged. They too would be able to hobble their way down the path. Only Duncan's son, Malcolm, needed help to continue. Duncan ordered his men to make a stretcher for him. A piece of canvas sail was found, and a single pike for one handle, but they needed a second. All the other pikes had been broken during the confusion of the battle.

“Well, find some other stick then!” Duncan was beginning to anger. “We've to be moving from this place.”

Norman stood over the stricken stoat. He could not shake the uncanny memory of his lost pet cat. “I'll carry him,” he said quietly.

The animals looked up at him, still surprised every time he spoke.

“Make a sling, like a hammock, that I can put around my neck,” he said more loudly. Norman had seen human mothers carry their babies in such contraptions. He didn't see why it wouldn't work for the wounded stoat.

Duncan too saw immediately that it would work. “Aye, do as he says. Let Norman Strong Arm bear the bairn. We'll travel faster for it.”

And so the canvas sail was fastened into a sling and the half-conscious creature was slung around Norman's neck. The weight was no burden at all. If anything, it was comforting to have the thing breathing slowly against his chest.

Duncan regarded Norman curiously while he adjusted the sling. He held Norman's eye for a moment then turned away. “Right, then, let's be off,” he ordered gruffly, obviously eager to be away from this place. If they were lucky, the ravens would want to deal with the stoats' incursion themselves. Scouting parties would be sent out, and a larger force mobilized against them. If they were unlucky, the ravens would pass the intelligence on to their wolf allies, and Duncan's surprise attack on Scalded Rock would be no surprise at all.

The barren mountaintops offered no protection. They needed to crest the mountains and descend to the tree line on the other side before sunrise. The party marched as quickly as it could, eating and drinking on the move. Bread was found for Norman, and a sort of salad was made from the weeds at the side of the road. It was enough to stop his stomach grumbling. The stoats were reluctant, though, to share the water from their skins with their giant companion. Norman could tell that they feared he would drain it all. When Duncan noticed this, he dropped back, handing his own water skin over to Norman before returning to the head of the column. The other stoats looked away, embarrassed.

The animals still could not fathom what sort of beast Norman was, but at least they had a name they could call him now. Norman Strong Arm was the hero of the battle with the ravens. He had saved two stoats, one of them Duncan's own son, and his throwing arm had driven off the birds when the battle seemed lost. Norman tried not to think about that moment. The ugly, plaintive squawks of the dying raven reverberated in his head and filled him with remorse. Death was strange and frightening to him. His sister Dora's three goldfish had died, one after the other. He had had nothing to
do with it, but he had still felt guilty when his mother had flushed them down the toilet. And there had been Moggy. The cat had been older than Norman himself. She had always been part of his family. Norman had not been able to understand why the vet could do nothing for her at the end. Dora had cried for a day and began asking for a new kitten the next morning, but Norman wanted no replacement. He had always felt that they should have done more. He didn't know what, but something.

Carrying the injured stoat made Norman feel like he was helping somehow. The animal's body heat against his chest felt familiar and comfortable. Its body rocked with the rhythm of its breathing, and with each deep breath it let out a high-pitched little wheeze. It sounded like Norman's father's quieter snores.

The party continued quickly along the path, the stoats dropping to all fours to pick up the pace. They dashed ahead in quick spurts, stopping at each corner or outcropping to quickly spy or sniff out danger. They looked more like animals this way, less like people, and it reminded Norman just how strange this whole situation was.

I am in the book, he thought to himself. I really am in it. It might have been just his hunger, but the thought of having fallen into the book made him feel oddly dizzy. He found himself looking up at the sky now, not for signs of the raven pursuit, but half expecting to see the eyes of the readers looking down on him.

I wasn't always in the book, he mused—not in the original version. The book has changed because I'm in it. He wondered if the actual physical book had changed due to his presence, whether the other kids higher on the library waiting list were wondering what a human boy was doing in the world of Undergrowth.

Norman had not read this far. Would Duncan's party have crossed the Glace Mountains without him? Maybe finding Norman had delayed Duncan's party. Perhaps they would never have stumbled across the ravens if they hadn't spent the morning dealing with him. But what if they had met the ravens in the book? Would they have fared as well? And what about young Malcolm? Was the young prince meant to die in the book?

The human boy patted the sleeping body of the stoat he carried. “I don't care whether it was meant to happen,” he said quietly. “I'm glad I saved you.” He scratched the little stoat's ear gently, as you would a cat, and like a cat the animal let out a low purr. “Don't worry, Malcolm. I'll look after you,” he promised, reassuring himself as much as the stricken animal he carried.

It wasn't hard keeping up with the stoats. They were capable of intense bursts of speed, but they were sprinters, not cross-country runners, and their cautious instincts didn't favour careening on heedlessly at full tilt. After every burst of speed there was a pause and a hasty peering around for danger. By maintaining a steady walk, Norman was able to keep pace with them. Only the sharp incline of the path caused him trouble. They were descending now, and Norman took the utmost care to keep his footing. A grazed elbow or stubbed toe wouldn't be the end of the world, but a fall could harm his young charge. He picked his way carefully down the path, holding his hands in front of him—not just for balance, but to protect the sleeping stoat in the sling on his chest.

The sun was setting when they finally saw the tree line. It cut a jagged silhouette across the orange sphere, like teeth gradually nibbling away at it as it descended. Duncan urged them to hurry, but they were all tired by now.

“C'mon, lads, let's not dawdle. There's dry beds and fresh victuals beyond those trees. Let's have at 'em before it's too dark, eh?”

There were a few weary grunts of agreement, but the stoats quickened their steps only briefly before falling back to the same exhausted plod. The party drew up tighter as the light faded. No one wanted to be out of earshot or eyesight of his companions as the night came on. In the dark of early night, they would not see the ravens until it was too late. Duncan peered anxiously at the sky more often now, and around at his men, gauging their strength and calculating their odds if they had to fight another squadron of ravens. Frequently his gaze fell on Norman, his sharp eyes darting over him, judging him before falling on the bundle around Norman's chest. Norman tried to look strong and dependable.

That last half hour before nightfall seemed to last forever. The stoats were accustomed to moving around in the dark, but Norman's eyes weren't quite so acute. He frequently stumbled on the rocky path, making a huge ruckus. His travelling companions glared back at him scoldingly, as if they could not believe he could be such a clumsy oaf, then motioning upward as if they were sure that his din would summon the blackwings.

When the sun itself finally disappeared into the jaws of the forest and only a few faint orange rays seeped up into the sky behind them, Duncan's party fell into a more constant bounding sprint. It was as if they could hear the wing beats of their enemies behind them. They forgot all caution and ran headlong for the trees. It was almost easier now for Norman, at a jogging pace. He lifted his feet higher, avoiding the ruts and boulders that had tripped him up when he walked, but he ran with one arm around the sling and the other in front of him. If he fell forward, he would rather break his arm than crush the little stoat.

He did not dare look back, but the sound of his own rushing blood in his ears sounded for all the world like the rustle of predatory birds at his back.

Norman picked out as his target a slender birch sapling at the edge of the forest. The pale gleam of its white bark was the only thing that stood out for him in the forest gloom. Upon reaching it, he grasped it tightly with his free arm and let his own momentum turn him around to face the direction from which he had come. The stoats scrambled in behind him. The closed bunch had broken up now, and each stoat was running at the best of his ability to the safety of tree cover. Only Duncan held up at the forest edge, urging the stragglers on, telling them how close they were to safety, reminding them of their brave deeds in the past and of their bold adventures to come.

Norman scanned the night sky and strained his ears, but there was no sign of a pursuit. He stood at that tree and counted the stoats as they rushed passed him. Duncan was the last. He slowed his pace and strode proudly into the forest on two feet, adjusting
his sword hilt and Cavalier hat and nodding solemnly to Norman as he did so.

“That's all of them then?” Duncan asked.

Norman whispered, “Yes.”

“And the boy? How's my boy?” the Prince asked, lowering his voice. Up close, the stoat's eyes and snout were more expressive. His bushy eyebrows were knitted close together, and his mouth twitched just slightly.

“Still asleep,” Norman answered. He worried that the small animal might be slipping into unconsciousness. The boy's father bared a fang. It worried him too, but he took pains not to show it.

“Wise lad,” he muttered gruffly. “Best we should all be asleep. Though where we'll find a stoat hole big enough for you, I don't know.”

It was all right by Norman if they didn't. He didn't think he could sleep in a hole if he tried. Not too far into the woods, the stoats found a large oak tree whose roots had been undermined by some long-dried-up stream. Below the tangle of roots were more than enough hiding places for the stoats. Norman curled up on a sheet of canvas at the foot of the tree and covered himself with another one, placing the still sleeping Malcolm beside him on the inside, nearer the tree. Duncan posted two sentries, who were to change every three hours, but he stood the first watch himself.

They were still too close to the edge of the forest to risk a fire for warmth, but Norman hardly minded. He was exhausted. The fight and the long trek had been more exercise than he was used to. He felt it in his bones as soon as he lay down.

It should have been easy to fall asleep, despite the awkwardness of his bed, but the stillness finally allowed him to think about the strangeness of the surroundings and of the day's events. If this was not a dream, how did he get here, and how would he get back home? What were his parents doing now? Had they been looking for him all day? Had they called the police? The image of his mother crying at the kitchen table occurred to him—like a sudden, unpredictable memory. These thoughts, the thoughts that he
had not let himself think all day, sent a shiver through him. He wrapped his arms around himself and pretended that it was the cold that made his body tremble.

The murmur of conversation from the resting stoats slowly died down, and all Norman could hear were the hoots and cracklings of the forest. He rolled onto his back and stared at the moon, careful not to crush the little stoat sleeping at his side. Only by imagining himself back in his own room could he coax himself to sleep. He had done the opposite so many times before, closed his eyes and imagined himself in a book with a forest or a castle just outside his closed eyelids. Tonight he closed his eyes and imagined himself in his own bed, imagined that if he opened them, the blinking amber lights of his computer would be there. He visualized a book laying splayed open on the bedside table next to his bed and pretended he could hear the indistinct ebb and flow of his parents' conversation downstairs.

Very gradually sleep overtook him, but not before, in a second of lucidity, he realized that falling asleep was as good a proof as any that he was not dreaming. You don't fall asleep in dreams.