CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
The Master of Crows stood, furious at the impotence of his armies. Around him, cannons roared, muskets barked, and men charged forward at Stonehome. None of it appeared to make the least dent in the walls of power the place had conjured.
A raven fluttered down from its circling flight, landing on his outstretched arm. It croaked its displeasure in a tone that was all too easy to understand, even without the mental connection that he had to his birds.
“I know,” he said, switching to a tongue old enough that most of his soldiers wouldn’t understand even if they heard it over the sounds of the battle. “I know you’re hungry.”
The raven croaked again, and the need was there once more.
“I know,” the Master of Crows said. “What more do you want from me?”
In answer, the
