“What is wrong?” Isaiah muttered, tearing himself away from thoughts of Hereward and staring into the dark sky for some inspiration. What is wrong?
They were so vulnerable here. There was no terrain they could hide in or exploit for defensive (or even offensive) purposes. There were no trees to hide behind.
There was scarcely even a shrub to piss behind.
Just gently undulating, grass covered plains.
They were north of Margalit now, and Isaiah and Lamiah had sat down last night to estimate how long it would be before they reached Elcho Falling. Without any distractions — attacks from forces far more powerful than they, which was, considering the circumstances, more than likely — they had perhaps two weeks of hard riding to get there.
Two weeks, and gods knew what might happen to them in that time.
Isaiah also wished he knew what had happened at Elcho Falling. Something had happened; he was sure he could sense some disturbance, but what?
“Damn it,” Isaiah said, and started to look for any campfires that burned brighter than usual, which would indicate — hopefully — the start of breakfast.
Before he could move to take a step in any direction, Isaiah found himself suddenly crouched in a defensive huddle on the ground. The air above him, and on all sides, suddenly seemed to be filled with noise and the warmth of thousands upon thousands of bodies . . . and feathers.
Feathers.
Everywhere.
Isaiah thought he would choke on them.
Lealfast! It was his first thought and automatically he reached for the dagger on his hip.
Something thudded into him and reflexively he grabbed at it, trying to wrestle it to the ground so he could stab it in the —
Something rather large, and very irritated, pecked him viciously in the upper arm.
“Ommph!” Isaiah said, spitting out feathers. He recognised the peculiar musty smell of the creature now stalking in a tight circle around him, looking for an opening to strike again, but his mind simply refused to accept it.
Isaiah could hear men stumbling from tents, crying out in surprise.
The bird pecked again at his arm, but with less intent this time.
Isaiah held out his hands in supplication. “I am Isaiah,” he said. “Isaiah!”
The juit bird fluffed out its feathers in affront and looked away.
“Shoo,” Isaiah said, rising carefully to his feet and flapping at the bird with his hands. “Shoo!”
The juit bird took several high-stepping paces away, looking at him carefully with its large red-rimmed eyes.
Men were rushing everywhere now, and Isaiah risked shouting to them (heavens forbid if he set the birds off!). “Shoo them to the perimeter of the camp! It is all right, they will not harm us —”
Much.
“— just shoo them to the perimeter of the camp! They are juit birds … juit birds!”
Initial panic now gave way to muted laughter. Most of the Isembaardians had heard of the juit birds, if not seen them firsthand. Now they began carefully to herd the creatures toward the outer edges of the camp.
Lamiah had by now appeared at Isaiah’s side, still blinking sleep and confusion from his eyes.
“What the fuck .?” he said.
Isaiah raised his hands. “I have no idea, Lamiah. I am as stunned as you. But . . . it appears as if the entire population of Isembaard’s juit birds have just appeared in our camp.
“How?” Lamiah said.
“Magic . . . power . . . luck . . . a sudden southerly gust of wind . . . who knows? They are just now . . . here.”
“There must be . . . ” Lamiah stopped, peering through the slowly lightening sky.
“Millions of them,” Isaiah said, chuckling. “Look, the entire encampment is coated with pink feathers. They must have just fallen straight down from the sky.”
“But . . . but . . . ” Lamiah was still struggling to accept the fact that a few million juit birds had suddenly appeared in camp.
Isaiah laughed. “Shall we not be a sight, Lamiah, marching north in all our arrogant militancy, surrounded by squabbling pink birds.”
“They are not going to stay with us, surely?”
“I very much doubt they are going to leave, Lamiah. I think they are here for a reason.”
Lamiah grunted, watching in silence as soldiers everywhere tried to direct reluctant juit birds out of tents, beyond the range of cooking fires, away from the lines of half-panicked horses, and toward the perimeter of the camp.
“What reason?” Lamiah said finally.
“Gods alone know,” Isaiah said, “for I have no idea at all.”
Chapter 15
Elcho Falling
It was almost dawn, and Ravenna could pick her way through the deserted Isembaardian camp easily enough in the faint light. There was food aplenty here, and blankets and gear: enough to keep her fed and warm for months if not years.
She suffered terribly from Ishbel’s curses. Not only had Ishbel cut Ravenna’s unborn son from his rightful inheritance to Elcho Falling, and Ravenna from her powers as a marsh witch, Ishbel had cut Ravenna entirely from the aid and succour of any person left on this world.
No man, no people, and no country shall ever love or offer you safe harbour again, Ravenna, Ishbel had said. Go now from this tent and from this land. Go and bear your child in agony and sorrow, and weep that you have so thoughtlessly murdered those who loved you.
When Ishbel uttered that curse in Armat’s tent, Ravenna had struggled, but had been unable to resist the curse’s urging. She’d half stumbled, half crawled from the tent and into the night. For that night and much of the next day she had walked aimlessly, wandering hither and thither, one hand constantly moving protectively over her pregnant belly. The few people she’d come across — some Outlanders driving a flock of sheep south — had avoided her, even though she had called to them most piteously.
Ishbel’s curse: no one might aid her. She was an outcast, completely and forever.
Thus Ravenna had wandered, but, halfway through the day, she had become aware that all was not well at Elcho Falling. In fact, all was very bad at Elcho Falling. She was too far distant to understand precisely what was happening, but she could feel it. Her powers as marsh witch might be gone, but not those powers of common sense and intuition.
Something was happening at Elcho Falling.
Ravenna hoped Maximilian and Ishbel were being slowly stripped of all their flesh by crows of gigantic magnitude. Her hatred of the pair of them had festered over the past day into something so frightful that had Ravenna still enjoyed her powers, Ravenna was certain she would have cursed them both into the Land of Nightmares.
For several more hours Ravenna had wandered, her sense of something happening at Elcho Falling growing stronger and stronger, and finally she had started back toward the citadel, her feet dragging through mud and slush, the hem of her skirts stained and sodden, her flesh shivering in the chill, her hair hanging unkempt about her face.
Ishbel’s curse should rightfully have kept her away, but Ravenna gritted her teeth and ignored the nauseous feeling that grew stronger the closer she drew to Elcho Falling.
She would find out what was happening.
There might be an opportunity awaiting her.
So she slogged onward, one foot in front of the other, until she stopped in the late afternoon, gazing open-mouthed at the scene.
Isembaardian soldiers fleeing across the causeway into Elcho Falling, under attack from Lealfast fighters in the air.
Ravenna stood and watched for hours, arms hugged about herself, until that moment when Maximilian came out and worked his magic to ensure the last of the Isembaardians (and Ishbel, the bitch) managed to escape into Elcho Falling.
She watched as the Lealfast veered away in frustration, watched as the archway into Elcho Falling clanged closed, watched until late in the night when there was nothing left to watch any more, save the cold wind rippling over the waters surrounding Elcho Falling.
Then she moved into the deserted camp.
If there had been a soul left in it Ravenna did not think the curse would have allowed her to stay. She had pushed it too far already and was feeling a terrible urge to move away, move out of this land to wander, wander, wander. but for the time being she resisted as well as she could and scrabbled about the abandoned campsite for food and warmth. She even managed a few hours of fitful sleep, curled up in a ball under a pile of blankets in the corner of a tent.
The tent stank of men and armour, but she hadn’t cared. Ravenna was supremely grateful for just those few hours of snatched sleep — grateful because she shouldn’t have been able to settle, the curse should have driven her away. If she could resist the curse this much . . . then might she not eventually be able to break it completely?