The Crow Page 10
Saliman was silent a moment. "Yes, Zelika," he said gently. "That is exactly what a battle is like."
LAMARSAN
* * *
To admire beauty without envy is love:
To lie in the darkened garden to hear the song
Of the unseen nightingale is love:
If you would hold a knife to your heart
To spare another, that is love:
To love is to give everything away for nothing,
To open your house to the dark stranger:
The world is a pit of fire and shadows,
Those who love throw themselves into it wholly:
Ah my heart, only you know best
How love is the mortal flesh burning in darkness.
— Murat of Turbansk, Library of Busk
VI
THE DEATHCROWS
Night fell over Turbansk. It was a night of velvet air, gentle and warm, and crowds of stars blazed in the moonless sky. Jasmine foamed spectrally over the walls of the city, its sweet scent falling pungent in the streets and alleys, and the starlight lent the flesh-colored stone of the buildings an eerie pallor. Turbansk seemed a lovely mirage that trembled against the darkness, its towers and domes as insubstantial as a dream.
Saliman had retired early, and Zelika had disappeared. Hem knew he was exhausted, but he could not sleep. He tossed and turned restlessly in his bed, and at last rose and threw on a tunic and slipped out of the Bardhouse, leaving Ire behind him on his usual perch, his head tucked under his wing.
Hem walked barefoot through the streets of Turbansk, listening to the night sounds: the cicadas shrilling loudly in the treetops, the occasional sleepy crooning of doves, the calling of frogs. Bats made graceful parabolas in the air, their high, tiny squeaks sounding between the trees. And there was also the strange moaning noise he had heard the day before, and had thought was the wind. It was louder than it had been, and with a stab of fear Hem realized it must be the braying trumpets of the Black Army, still distant, but closer now, closer all the time.
Although it was near midnight, Turbansk was not sleeping. Armed soldiers moved through the wider streets, some purposeful and unspeaking, others joking, and he saw runners taking messages from the Ernan to the guard towers. But as Hem walked on, he passed some houses bright with lamps, their gardens strung with paper lanterns of many colors; and from them Hem could hear conversation and laughter, and strains of music – the dulcimers and flutes and drums of Turbansk playing the long, wild songs of the ancient city. The music, so defiant in its loveliness, plucked his heart with a special poignancy, and he stopped outside one house and listened.
When Hem had first arrived in Turbansk, he had scornfully told Chyafa that Turbanskian music had no melody and made no sense, and was far inferior to the music of Annar. It was, he reflected now, perhaps the reason why Chyafa had so persecuted him; for music was Chyafa's great passion and he was the most talented dulcimer player in their class. Now, as he stood by the wall, listening to the throb and passion of the music on the other side, Hem regretted his words: Chyafa had been right to say he was ignorant.
Whoever was singing, Hem thought, was a great singer. His voice wound through the complex rhythms and melodies of the instruments, binding them together into coherent harmonies; and then it would soar into its own dance, like a bird that suddenly leaves the flock in a moment of exuberance and acrobatically twirls in the air, showing off its grace and skill, before returning to the flock again. So the music moved through its repetitions, eternally the same and eternally different. And as Hem listened, he began to make out some words:
Blessed are the roses of Turbansk, blessed the bounty of their beauty,
For their hearts are softer than skin and yet they open endlessly
And out of their hearts spill colors to delight the eye
And perfumes enough to make rich the moment of each who passes.
The roses do not choose to give to one and not to another:
The poor man and the prince alike are given their grace equally.
Blessed are the roses of Turbansk, although they wither and die
And pass into shadow as each of us must pass into shadow.
The prince and the poor man are given this darkness equally
But their moment of Light is not less beautiful for its passing
Nor is the gift of their grace any less for the shadow that follows them:
Neither the prince nor the poor man nor the rose are less
Though the sun must go down behind the hills and the hills down into dust
Though even the Ernan's glory must come at last to decay
Though the petals wither and drop from the stem to the ground.
All shall pass, all shall pass, to the night that has no morning
Yet another morning will rise and buds will open in new colors...
Hem pressed his forehead against the wall and shut his eyes, letting the song's mingled lament and celebration flow into the deepest parts of his soul. The song finished and it was like the end of a dream; he looked up, startled, and realized suddenly how tired he really was. Slowly he walked back to the Bardhouse and went to bed, and this time slept deeply and dreamlessly.
Zelika was standing by Hem's bed, shaking him, and he turned over groaning, blurred by sleep.
"Wake up!" said Zelika.
Hem sat up slowly, his hair sticking out, and Zelika regarded him with scorn.
"You'd sleep in if the world was about to end!" she said. "It's late."
Hem looked at the light coming through the casement. It was late. He was surprised.
"I thought you'd like to know that the Black Army is here," said Zelika.
"What great news."
"So let's go to the Red Tower and see. I don't think anyone would mind. You have to come, though; I don't think they'll let me in by myself, but everyone knows you..."
Hem was still blinking, fuddled by sleep, and impatiently Zelika shook him again. "Well, come on!"
"All right, all rightl But I don't have any clothes on and I can't get dressed until you get out of my room."
Just to annoy Zelika, Hem took longer dressing than he normally would. When he came out of his bedchamber, she was fizzing with irritation.
"I want breakfast first," he said, when she tried to drag him out of the Bardhouse.
"You can have breakfast afterward."
"I'm hungry," he said stubbornly. "I'm not going anywhere until I've eaten something."
Zelika saw that he might refuse to go at all if she kept pressing him, so she gave in with the sudden surprising meekness she could display when she realized other means were useless, and followed him to the dining hall.
The Bardhouse was absolutely deserted. Hem stopped dawdling because he was as anxious as Zelika to see what was happening. He took an apple from the store and gulped down a cup of water and then they wended their way to the Red Tower.
The guard at its foot simply nodded when he saw Hem, and he and Zelika climbed the endless spiraling steps, stopping every now and then for a rest, up to the very top.
They heard the Black Army before they saw it. The faint bray of trumpets that had lain underneath the busy music of Turbansk had now ceased; instead there was a low throb of war drums, like another pulse in the blood. The hair on Hem's neck prickled.
Two Bards, Inhulca of Baladh, whom Hem knew by sight, and Soron of Til Amon, his friend at the buttery, were already there, as well as several soldiers who were keeping a lookout, peering through the curious eyeglasses that Bards used for star-watching. Soron greeted Hem somberly and nodded toward Zelika.
"They're here, then," said Zelika.
"Aye," said Soron. "What was left of the II Dara forces came fleeing through the gates in the small hours of the night. And they were not long followed by the vanguards of the Black Army."
"What was left?" repeated Hem. "Why, are there not many?"
Soron hesitated before he answered. "They said there were some te
n thousand fighters at the II Dara," he said. "And of those ten thousands, I think maybe ten hundreds came through the gate. And of those who came, many are wounded. For those left behind, they say there is no hope."
"So few," whispered Hem, exchanging a glance with Zelika.
"Many friends fell and will not return," said Soron. "But look. You will see why. And yet more come."
Hem and Zelika stood on their tiptoes and peered over the parapets of the Red Tower, and their breath stopped.
The Fesse of Turbansk, which they had last seen empty and deserted, now pullulated with masses of figures that looked from this distance like a huge swarm of ants. At first it just seemed chaotic, but as Hem stared he began to see an order emerge. The army was not milling around randomly: every part of it was busy. To the west, stretching down to the gentle shores of the Lamarsan Sea, rows and rows of brown tents were being erected, making a city that seemed almost as big as Turbansk itself.
Closer to the walls, great numbers were digging trenches; and structures of wood and iron, the siege engines of Imank, were already being built by teams of soldiers. Before the West Gate some hundreds were involved in furious activity. Hem squinted, trying to see more clearly what they were doing: it seemed to him that they were probably building a ramp, like the one Saliman had spoken of at II Dara. He looked along the East Road and saw that Soron was right: although the Fesse already seemed full, yet more marched along the road, as far as the eye could see, rows and rows of soldiers interspersed with great ox-wains dragging in supplies, and larger animals he could not identify. Where they had been, columns of black smoke rose into the sky.
The only area that was clear of the Black Army was immediately before the city walls, which was empty for the space of a bowshot. And from the Red Tower, Hem could see the city walls bristling with archers, standing behind the zigzag battlements, and the sun banner of Turbansk unfurled from the top of every tower, glittering in the clear light.
Hem turned and looked down to the harbor, and then over the Lamarsan Sea. A haze lay over it, but then, with a throb of fear, he thought he saw a blur on the water in the distance: was that the fleet from Baladh, which Saliman had spoken of? He leaned forward, squinting, but could not be sure.
Hem thought of the slaughter at II Dara, and a lump formed in his throat. Ire gave a subdued caw, and wiped his beak on Hem's hair.
"We are too few," said Soron, echoing Hem's thoughts. "We have two score thousand. I cannot count how many stand there before the walls, but I do not need to count to know that if each fighter here killed three enemies, they would still outnumber us."
"Saliman doesn't think we will stand," said Hem.
"No one thinks we will stand," said Inhulca, a tall Bard with a weather-roughened face and a nose that looked as if it had been much broken. He had the light skin of a Baladhian, and he looked on Zelika with open curiosity, although he was too polite to comment on her presence. "But we stand here, all the same. It is the calm before the storm." He smiled; Hem thought it a savage smile, and it sent a strange thrill down his spine. "But I am due at the Ernan. I will see you, Soron."
"Until later, Inhulca," said Soron.
The Baladh Bard left, and Soron glanced again over the parapet and then looked at the children. "Well, no one can fight without eating," he said, stretching. "I had to see for myself, but for the moment my part in this war is in the kitchens. Are you staying here, then?"
Hem had seen enough, and looked inquiringly at Zelika.
"No, I've seen what I wanted to see," she said. Her face was hard and closed.
"We'll come down with you, then," said Hem to Soron. "If that's all right."
"It's all the same to me, young Bard," said Soron. "If you have time to come to the kitchens, I'll give you both some seedcakes and a dish of tea."
Hem brightened: Soron's seedcakes were a rare delicacy, and were especially delicious with mint tea. But it was the kindness underneath the offer that counted more. It was one thing hearing about the Black Army, and quite another to see it swarming on your doorstep. He felt more shaken than he had expected.
The calm before the storm, Inhulca had said. The streets of Turbansk did have a strange calm – a tense, still expectancy. The three of them hurried. Although there was no reason to hurry everyone they saw was walking quickly as well, and nobody was speaking. Hem thought it was eerie. The marketplaces were completely deserted; even Boran the coffee seller had closed his stall. Hem wondered where Saliman was.
They were close to the buttery when Ire let out a sharp caw, and jumped off Hem's shoulder into the air.
Fly! cried Ire. They are coming!
What do you mean? asked Hem, turning around wildly. He couldn't see anything. Zelika and Soron stared at him in puzzlement. But almost before he had finished speaking, a shadow fell over the far end of the street. They all looked up involuntarily.
Before they had time even to cry out, Soron had grabbed the children's arms and started running. Ire swooped around their heads, jabbering wildly in panic.
"Put your heads down!" Soron shouted, panting. He was a heavy man. "Don't look up. Run!"
The sky was dark with birds. They flew low in close formations over the streets of Turbansk, in flocks so large that they blotted out the sun like heavy clouds. Even in that brief glimpse, Hem had seen them plummeting in groups of five or ten or fifteen, down from the flocks, to attack people in the street. As they ran, Hem could hear the singing of bow strings, and soft thumps as bodies fell to the ground, and then in the distance someone screaming, and then someone else. The birds made no noise at all. Something went past his ear, as if a sword had just missed him, a vicious swipe of air, and then another; and then something struck the back of his head as if he had been hit by a stone. He felt no pain, but panic possessed him. If Soron had not been holding his arm, he would have been running blindly with no idea of where he was going. Suddenly Ire was on his shoulder again, cawing in distress and trying to hide in his hair, clutching him so hard his claws went through Hem's tunic into his skin. Hem heard Soron cry out, and something rushed up from them with a noise like a whoosh of flame, and he smelled scorched feathers and before his feet was suddenly a litter of small smoking corpses. They were carrion crows, he realized in that instant; but they seemed strangely the wrong shape. He had no time to wonder.
It was not far to the buttery, although Hem's chest was burning before they reached it. Soron thrust them through the street door, slammed it shut behind them and then leaned against it, staring at the children without seeing them, his breast heaving. They waited until they got their breath back, and then they walked to the kitchens. None of them felt like speaking. Something was tickling Hem's neck, and he put his hand back to feel. He was surprised to see that his fingers were covered with blood.
The way to the kitchens led through a gallery lined with long narrow casements. Zelika paused at its entrance, and peering over her shoulder Hem saw why: some of the windows were smashed; others were cracking under the assault of the crows, which dived recklessly against them with no heed to their own hurt. Half a dozen crows were already swooping through the gallery away from them, like a hunting pack. Ire cawed again, this time with defiance and rage, and Soron cried out in the Speech. A great bolt of white light leaped from his hands and hit the birds. They burst into flame and tumbled silently to the floor in a stench of burned feathers. Then all three ran through the gallery to the kitchens, to find the heavy door locked. Soron hammered on the wood, shouting, and a frightened young Bard, his assistant Edan, unbolted it and let them in, and then bolted it fast behind them.
The kitchen was darkened because all the shutters were closed, and a lamp was lit on the table. Besides Edan there were a number of people, some of whom had clearly run in from the street to escape the birds: two were bleeding from head wounds.
Hem, Zelika, and Soron sat down and breathed out.
"They are no ordinary crows," said Hem. It was the first thing any of them had said.
They're no relations of mine, said Ire huffily. Now he felt safe, he had regained his usual assurance and was sorting out his ruffled feathers with his beak. He seemed to have escaped injury. Even my cousins, who hate me, would not do that. Those birds are not creatures – they are mad.
Zelika's eyes were dark and huge. "They're evil," she said. "Twisted."
"Was there anything like this at Baladh?" asked Hem.
"No," Zelika answered. She did not say anything more.
"Edan," said Soron. "We need some tea. I am a little out of breath: would you brew some for the kind people here? Peppermint, I think; our stomachs are all a little shaken. And there are seedcakes that I baked just this morning in the cool room. Could you get them out?"
Edan started to boil water, and Zelika and Hem jumped up to help. In the ordinary tasks of preparing and sharing food the last of their panic began to dissipate. Hem wondered what was happening outside in the streets, what was happening to the archers on the walls: surely only Bards with their mageries could drive back those murderous flocks. Despite his fear, or perhaps because of it, he thought the seedcakes tasted particularly good.
The assault by the crows seemed to last for a long time. Since neither Zelika nor Hem could venture into the streets, they helped Soron in the kitchens, one ear attuned always to the soft menacing buffeting against the kitchen shutters. Then, very suddenly, it stopped. Hem, who was chopping root vegetables for soup, paused and glanced at Zelika. Without saying anything, they both went to the kitchen door and pressed their ears against the wood, trying to hear what was happening outside, and then cautiously opened it.