Wilding

9. 5

5

Eoforwic, Deira. November 3, AD 642

The crows flew on whispering wings, two black shadows against the deepening twilit sky.

Wulfram calmed his mind as the birds approached. He closed his eyes, shuttering his thoughts from the boy who sat docilely at his feet, whose will he held in an iron grip in his mind.

Not long now, he promised himself, fingering the amulet at his neck as the birds fluttered down before him. Just a few months more. A sudden fear pierced him, that he would be unequal to the task ahead. He blew out a breath and dismissed the thought. He could not indulge his fears now.

The task that propelled him to this century was both immense and delicate all at once. Immense in scope but delicate in execution, the web he was weaving was subject to many variables. Fear could easily sidetrack him from his purpose.

He opened his eyes and crouched down, squatting in front of the birds. For a moment, he admired their beauty: the gleaming black feathers, the powerful beaks, the intelligent eyes.

The larger of the two—the male—hopped towards him, c*****g its head. Behind it, the female gave a low quork, ruffling its wings in sudden agitation.

Wulfram felt the familiar spurt of anticipation as he expanded his Fey senses, looking into the crow’s beady eyes.

Even though he had braced for it, the sudden rush of sensation overtook him. For a moment, he lost himself, his mind expanding and contracting to fit the parameters of the crow’s alien intelligence.

The sheer b********y of its existence flooded through him, its innate drive for self-preservation a ravening storm. It was like a bracing dunk in a cold river, a shock that made all of Wulfram’s senses come tingling to life.

Time dropped away from him. The bird had no sense of the future or past. It lived in the now, unconcerned with time’s passing. This, too, had its own seductive charm, the freedom from past regrets or future worries a liberation all its own.

But Wulfram could not allow the crow’s mind to dominate his own, no matter the thrill that it gave him. All of the Clan heard the tales of those who lost themselves in their animal brethren; some had even seen it happen. He forced himself to concentrate and began to look through the crow’s memories, to see what it had seen.

Humans were mere ghosts upon the landscape of the crows’ existence. They flickered in and out of their lives like background actors on a television screen, rarely important to the main story of the bird’s lives. But the Fey were solid bright beings that the crows found as fascinating as the shine of gold under the sun.

This was helpful to Wulfram, whose main interest was in the doings of his own people. He flipped through the pictures in the crow’s brain, and when he saw one of his kind, he slowed down and took a look.

The crow tried to help him. It thrust its encounters with other Fey at Wulfram eagerly—too eagerly, for the kaleidoscope of impressions became a bright blur that threatened to overwhelm him.

Wulfram gritted his teeth and bore down, forcing the crow to slow down. It quorked, a shudder running through it, its beak clattering.

The pictures clarified. He saw Raegenold, the Unseelie King. Wulfram’s lip twisted. Cocky brat. The king laughed with his queen as they rode through a forest, the sun flashing off his golden armband. The same armband he had given the young king as a gift, Wulfram noted in satisfaction. Raegenold’s vanity was an important tool for Wulfram to use. All the gifts and flattery were seeds that would flourish into something useful, when the time came.

The memories wavered, and then Wulfram saw Raegenold’s cousin speaking earnestly with a human, who appeared as a blurry outline. But the human moved, made an impatient gesture that Wulfram recognized, along with the arrogant tilt of the head. Penda, king of the Mercians.

Doing his part, speaking into the king’s ear. Excellent.

The picture faded, to be replaced by one that caused Wulfram to stiffen with shock.

For a moment Wulfram thought it was another bundle of Fey-pictures, for he saw a confused impression of a figure in the midst of a bright flash. The crow didn’t like the peculiar sensation that accompanied the white-bright flare of light, and it croaked in protest as Wulfram looked more closely at the scene. The figure emerged from the flash, stumbling, running, unmistakably Fey.

Wulfram sucked in a breath, recognizing instantly what had happened. He had experienced that flash himself. A Traveller had Crossed.

He watched, transfixed, but the crow’s concentration wavered, fear coursing through it. There was something else there, something that overwhelmed the crow, something that it didn’t want to look at. It tried to allow the memory to slip away, to show Wulfram something else. Wulfram snarled, grabbing at the bird’s attention, forcing it to show him more.

The female crow burst into flight, screeching in alarm, but Wulfram ignored it, wrapped up in the memory he was wresting from the crow’s reluctant consciousness.

Two other shapes appeared—from the flash? It was hard to tell. Wulfram squinted, and then an icy spear pierced his gut as recognition came. The Undying. The shock momentarily unmoored his grip on the unfolding memory, and it wavered for a moment. But Wulfram quickly recovered and the scene sharpened again. Two Undying, pursuing the Traveller. Wulfram saw their black figures, saw them quickly gain on the Fey.

“Come on, come on,” Wulfram muttered under his breath. He was not sure who he was rooting for, the Fey or his dark pursuers. A sudden sense filled him that the outcome of this race was vitally important—a sense of a key turning in a lock, a door opening wide.

The Undying were just about upon the Fey. A dark thrill coursed through Wulfram as he saw their clawed hands reaching for their prey.

He felt the crow’s upsurge of alarm, felt it gather itself for flight, and he grabbed it instinctively, pinning it to the earth, hardly feeling its struggles beneath his hand.

And then suddenly a sense of power rushed through the crow’s memory. Not Fey power, although Wulfram could see that bright corona coursing through the pursued Fey. A surge of energy, more felt than seen.

Just as the dark creatures reached the fleeing figure and put their hands on him, they vanished completely.

Wulfram blinked in shock, stunned at their sudden capitulation. They gave up, he thought, incredulous.

The Fey in the crow’s vision tripped and went tumbling, a loose-limbed inelegant sprawl that ended as his head struck hard against an outlying rock, and he went still.

More than anything, Wulfram needed a good look at that Fey, but at that point the fool bird took off in alarm, panic fuelling it. But the bird’s training belatedly asserted itself, and it remembered that its Master wanted information on any of the shining ones, so it turned back.

Wulfram saw a shadow-figure, approaching the Fey. A human. But things were becoming dim, the memory slipping away, blackness rushing in around the edges of the picture. Had the Undying come back, while the Fey lay helpless?

Wulfram snarled and bore down, fighting the crow’s obstinate brain, bringing his power to bear on the stupid creature. He had to see the Fey’s face.

“Master! Master!”

The words were not just spoken: they sliced through his mind like a knife through hot butter. The result was like pulling the plug on the television. Everything went black, and Wulfram was abruptly thrust out of the crow and back into himself with a shuddering gasp, his eyes flying open.

It was the damn fool boy. He was hanging on Wulfram’s arm, shaking it, his eyes wide with terror. Wulfram roared in rage and struck the boy hard, the heavy ring on his finger splitting the boy’s cheek, sending hot blood spurting as the boy tumbled away.

Wulfram grabbed him by the neck of the tunic, hauling him up again, fist c****d to pummel the stupid useless thrice-be-damned human into hell where he belonged. He needed to see that Traveller!

“Master! The bird! Stop, Master!” The boy was practically gibbering in fear, with blood, tears, and snot flowing down his face. “The bird!”

The words penetrated the fog of rage in Wulfram’s mind and he looked down, seeing a still bundle of black feathers beside him.

The crow, dead. Icy fear swept through him at the sight, as those last moments of connection came back to him; his surging power, the feel of the bird beneath his hand as he pressed down physically and mentally on it, forcing it to show him more, the onrushing blackness.

That blackness that obscured the final picture was not the Undying but the crow’s impending death.

And with their minds linked together…

A shudder shook him, and he cradled the boy to his chest, taking a few shaky breaths. “Good boy,” he muttered, relief coursing through him. He felt the boy’s pleasure at his praise through the bond they shared, and he rumpled the boy’s hair absently. “Good boy.”

He sat still for a moment, composing himself, thinking through what he had just seen. A Traveller, and a powerful one at that, shining brightly in the crow’s memory. One of importance to the Undying, that much was certain. Why they had vanished was a question he would give much to have answered. He needed to find that Fey, soon. He looked at the dead crow beside him and shook his head, his lip twisting in disgust, this time at himself. A foolish mistake.

He clambered wearily to his feet, pushing the boy away from him, congratulating himself at his foresight in binding the human to him. It had saved his life, certainly.

He heaved a breath. His power was drained, the exercise with the crow having taken much of his concentration and strength. But there was one more thing he had to do.

Closing his eyes, he brought a small flicker of power to life within him once again. Thankfully, he didn’t need much for this particular exercise. His Gift would aid him, his innate ability to commune with the corbae. He spread out his arms and summoned them, and they came, beginning with the mate of the dead crow at his feet, which landed on his wrist with a small quork. Others followed: more crows, jackdaws, a few ravens, until finally a small flock of birds gathered around him.

They landed on his arms, on his head, at his feet. He pictured the Fey he had seen in the crow’s memory—young, graceful, powerful, thick unruly black hair, an impression of the hard angles in his face, the sense of his desperate will. He sent the picture to the birds and commanded them: Find him. Tell me where he is.

He released them, and they erupted in a fluttering explosion, winging away from him into the deepening night.

Wulfram watched them go with satisfaction. They would not fail him. They never did.

He turned and walked away without a backward look at the still bundle of feathers on the ground, nor at the boy, who stumbled after him, a dirty hand pressed to his bleeding cheek.