The Tower of Ravens (4 page)

It took a while to strip him naked, for he was heavy and his clothes were drenched. Then she had to cut off his finger and hack out his teeth, a task which made her feel utterly sick and wretched. By the time she had finished, the rest of the herd had lost interest and had headed back to the camp. She did not know what to do with the body. It seemed wrong to leave him lying on the stones for the wolves and eagles to feast upon, so after a moment of indecision and anxiety she heaved him up and slid his body into the river. Then, she toiled back up the hillside to the camp.

There One-Horn’s daughter arrogantly demanded the return of all the dead man’s belongings: the blue hat, the stag brooch and silver goblet, the golden medal, the music-box, the silver dagger he wore at his belt and the little black dagger he had worn inside his boot, and the warm hooded cloak, blue on one side, grey on the other. Angrily they were relinquished to her, for she had the blood-right and this was one law sacred to the satyricorn. She washed the white shirt and did her clumsy best to sew up the jagged rent, front and back, where her arrow had torn through the material. She sponged the blood and mud from the coat and breeches, then discarded her own smelly hides to dress herself in the dead man’s clothes. Everything fitted her well, for she was as tall as the prisoner had been. She enjoyed the feel of the soft clothes against her skin.

She dusted off the soles of her filthy feet and pulled on the stockings and boots, slipped the double-edged black knife into its sheath inside the left boot, and twisted the tangled mass of her hair into a knot at the base of her neck. Then she pulled the cockaded blue hat onto her head, and strapped the silver dagger to her belt, feeling stronger and prouder than she had ever felt before. She wished she could look at herself. Was she as handsome as he had been, the young man whose clothes she wore with such satisfaction?

The rest of the day was spent carefully filing holes in his teeth so she could hang them on a thin leather thong around her neck. She already had a fair collection of teeth and bones— mainly those of birds and small mammals, but a few sharp yellow goblin fangs as well. She stripped his finger-bone of skin and flesh and scrubbed it well, then hung it in the centre with the goblin teeth on either side, then the other bones and teeth from the largest to the smallest, finishing with the dead man’s twenty small, white teeth. All the while she worked she was aware of Reamon’s distress and revulsion but would not let it bother her.

The necklace looked good when she had finished, very full and heavy. She hung it around her neck, conscious of its weight against her skin. It rattled when she moved. She tried to keep her movements smooth, knowing she had aroused a lot of jealousy with her newfound glory. She told herself she would have aroused contempt and scorn instead of jealousy if she had not claimed the clothes and teeth, but the truth was she was enjoying the new respect in the eyes of the other satyricorns. Soon she would be gone. She did not need to fear their envy.

The Black Mare

Many stories of the fabled flying horses were told around the campfire. It was said they could not be tamed, and that any who dared try would be thrown from a great height and killed.

Yet Reamon had once told her that some men of his race had succeeded in taming the golden winged horses of the west, and these men became great princes and warriors. The only way to tame a flying horse, he said, was to stay on its back for a year and a day, without dismounting once. If a rider managed this feat of skill and determination, then the respect of the flying horse was won and it would submit to its rider’s will. Few ever succeeded, however, and many died trying.

One-Horn’s daughter thought to herself that if a man like Reamon could stay on a winged horse’s back for a year and a day, surely she could do it for a mere day or two. Just long enough to escape.

It was her plan to tie herself so firmly to the flying horse it could not throw her off. She thought the horse’s response would be to soar as high into the sky as it could. Eventually it must tire and come down to earth, and then she would cut herself free, letting the horse go. She did not care where she found herself, as long as it was many miles away from the herd.

Her big problem was how to capture the winged horse and keep it still and quiet long enough to saddle and bridle it, and to tie herself to the saddle. She had thought of rigging up a trap with a net but was afraid she might break the horse’s leg or wings. She knew it was no use leaping from a tree trunk onto its back, because satyricorns had tried that in the past and had only been thrown off.

From the moment she had seen the horse, an idea had been brewing in her brain, but while the herd was still looking at her sideways and keeping track of her movements, she dared not see if the idea might bear fruit. She waited two full weeks, long enough for the herd to begin to forget. During that time she kept up her usual solitary habits, practising her archery in the high meadows, bringing in the occasional fish or bird, sleeping well away from the fire. Eventually the other women stopped spying on her, being too busy with the normal squabbles over the men and the food.

At last One-Horn’s daughter felt free to return to her cache in the forest. She chose a chilly, misty evening when the herd was tired after a long day spent hunting, and filled with roast bear and
tia-tio
. Busy with their wrestling and boasting and gambling, they would not notice she had gone. Or so she hoped.

Going by a torturous, labyrinthine route, and taking care to leave no trail, One-Horn’s daughter came at last to the hollow log where she had hidden the saddle and saddlebags. She paused there for a long moment, listening, before daring to drag out her prizes. She had brought with her a hot coal wrapped in a pouch of fur. She used it to kindle a fat-dipped reed which she stuck in a knothole, and then she quickly rummaged through the saddlebags.

On the day the herd had hunted down the rider and his horse, he had somehow managed to knock out three of his pursuers before the herd had dragged him down. He had done so from horseback, at a full gallop, and without apparently drawing a weapon. None of the herd had thought to wonder how he had done it, except for One-Horn’s daughter. As usual she had been lagging behind the rest of the herd, not having their speed or stamina, and so she had seen the three women fall. While the others had raced on after the horse and rider, One-Horn’s daughter had stopped and examined the three fallen women. All three had had a sharp-pronged black thorn sticking out of their skin. She had pulled the thorns out and thrown them away, and all three women had woken some time later, red-eyed and grumpy and complaining of headaches. One-Horn’s daughter thought the rider must have had some way of throwing or spitting out the thorn, since he had hit the women at quite a long distance and with amazing accuracy.

With satisfaction, she found a pouch of black barbs tucked in the front flap of one of the saddlebags. With them were two small bottles, one red and one green, and a long blowpipe. Over the next few days, she was able to establish that barbs anointed with liquid from the green bottle only knocked their target unconscious, while those doused in the liquid from the red bottle killed. The girl’s plans crystallised.

She began to spend as much time as she dared searching for the herd of flying horses. Whenever she had a chance, she interrogated Reamon for all he knew about horses in general and winged horses in particular, although she feared him guessing her plans. She practised buckling and unbuckling the saddle and bridle, and whittled herself a quiver full of new arrows. She kept the blowpipe and pouch of barbs in her pocket, dousing the tips with the soporific liquid first. Whenever she could, she practiced using the blowpipe, until she began to have a fair measure of accuracy.

Having a plan to work towards steadied her and made it easier to deal with the petty unkindness of the other women, though at times she found it hard to hide her excitement, which thrilled her blood like pine-cone ale.

One clear fine evening, she was hunting high in the alpine meadows when she heard the distant neigh of a horse. Her heart leapt so sharply in her breast that it pained her. She looked about quickly and saw the herd of black horses galloping along a far ridge. There were more than a dozen of them, led by a tall, deep-chested stallion with horns as long as swords springing from his brow. The mares that followed him were smaller and daintier, and their horns were not so long, but they were still far bigger than the wild ponies she was used to.

The girl gazed up at the herd for a long moment, enthralled by their beauty, but then, as they cantered out of sight behind the ridge, she dropped the brace of coneys she held and began to run after them.

She ran till her breath tore in her chest, clutching at the stitch in her side, bounding over boulders and between trees, tearing her flesh on brambles and bruising her feet. Her anxiety was acute.

Two and a half weeks had passed since the last time she saw the winged horses, and she dared not lose her chance. As she came leaping and stumbling over the stony edge of the ridge, tears were beginning to blur her vision. She did not think she would be able to bear it if the horses had flown out of sight. She would just keep running, she swore to herself, and take her chances.

The horses were standing together in the meadow, heads bent to graze the sweet new grass. The stallion flung up his head and stared at her, his ears laid flat against his skull, his eyes ringed with white. Then he trumpeted a warning, rearing up on his hind legs before galloping about the herd, biting one mare on the flank when she was too slow to react. Black wings snapped open and the herd leapt up into the air, neighing in alarm. The stallion leapt with them, his wings so vast they blotted out the sun.

The girl flung up one pleading hand, calling silently,
No, wait
…

One of the mares turned to look at her, even as it launched itself into the air, tucking its legs up under its chest and belly. The stallion had soared over the ridge and the sky was again full of light, so the girl could see the mare clearly. She was very tall but delicately made, with slender limbs and a small, proud head. The long, scrolled horns were opalescent blue, and more blue flashed at the tip of her sable wings.