The Raven Lady Read online

  The risen dead. Truly the legends of my countrymen were legends no longer. I might have guessed as much myself, had I not fixed on the idea of the lady’s treachery.

  The creature’s bejeweled and claw-tipped fingers, the size of saplings, braced against the ground as it fought its way out of the barrow. Huge clods of dirt rolled and bounced down what remained of the mound.

  The princess turned and ran and I followed. We made it halfway across the saddle before we heard thunderous footsteps behind us—we were trapped. The only escape from where we now stood was back up the exposed stairway to the viewpoint and then down the other side. We’d never make it to the top before the creature caught up to us. It might not be able to follow us, but it was tall enough to bat us right off the hillside.

  “What now?” asked the lady, breathless.

  I raised and aimed the revolver at the monstrosity, waiting as each long, deliberate, stride brought it closer.

  The wight wore a crown of dark, pitted metal, ornamented with a collection of antlers, bones, and tusks. The upper portion of its face was obscured by a pair of goggles, though there appeared to be only empty sockets behind them. The crown had a jaw piece, like a helm, made from an animal jawbone with a few remaining teeth. This piece, connected and hinged with rusted gears, hung slightly open, revealing thin gray lips. Some kind of flexible tubing extended down from the jaw, wrapping over both shoulders. As the wight exhaled with a loud hiss, fog rose in the air in front of its face.

  Taking a long stride, the creature raised a mace, and I fired my revolver. No enchantment interfered with the firing mechanism, and I kept pulling until the piece was empty. I had a good eye, and every shot had struck either the head or the hide-covered chest—one bullet even dislodged a tooth from the jaw piece. But the wight’s only reaction was to begin swinging the spiked iron ball on its chain in preparation for attack.

  “It’s already dead!” cried the princess, and we scrambled aside as the iron ball descended toward us and struck the earth, spraying pebbles and dark soil.

  “It breathes, does it not?” I shouted back. “If you’ve a better idea, please advise me!”

  There came a series of rapid swishing noises as a volley of arrows flew over our heads—the firglas patrol had found us and begun their own assault from the ridge above. I could hear the captain shouting orders. But the arrows were even less effective than the bullets, bouncing harmlessly off both helm and hide. What we needed was a crushing force, like a cannonball or catapult.

  Aboard Aesop we’d make short work of it. We were not aboard Aesop, however, and the wight was readying the mace for another attack.

  We avoided the blow again, the massive iron ball knocking loose the bottom stones of the stairway behind us. We’d not hold out like this for long, trapped on the saddle with the cursed thing.

  “Keep it occupied!” called the princess, moving away.

  “What?” I called after her. “Where are you going?”

  She was off at a run, and I muttered a curse before shouting to the patrol on the ridge, “Keep up the attack! Hit it with everything!”

  After bending to load up my arms with stones—because it was the only thing I could think of to do—I ran in the opposite direction of the mad elf woman, flinging stones at the giant as I went.

  Koli

  Arrows and pikes sailed through the air. The king was flinging stones and yelling like he was deranged. And it was working—the wight paid no attention to me. I whispered a shielding spell just in time to divert a stray pike, and when the weapon bounced harmlessly to the ground, I grabbed it.

  It breathes, does it not? The king’s question repeated in my mind—such a creature should not breathe. A draug was no more than a reanimated dead thing. Maybe the fog pouring out of it was not breath at all, rather a result of some mechanical process, similar to what I’d seen in the little machines at Knock Ma. No windup keys this time, but steam power, like the ship that had brought me to Ireland.

  Could it be that the steam was conducted through the smooth black hoses that curved over the wight’s shoulders?

  I ran across the grassy saddle, circling around behind it. The hoses were concealed beneath a rodent-gnawed animal-pelt tunic that draped down the wight’s back to its knees, where a torn leg-covering revealed a joint formed of bare bone reinforced with an iron hinge. Through the rat holes I glimpsed metal workings—gears, joints, and pipes. The bristly tail of one of the pelts used to make the tunic hung down the middle of the wight’s back.

  Panicked and anguished cries erupted from the ridge, and glancing up I saw the giant had landed the spiked ball on top of the firglas patrol. As their leader shouted, assessing the damage, the creature yanked on the wooden baton to retrieve the ball. It did not budge. The spikes dug into the earth, making it harder to free the weapon from below the ridge than it would have been from above.

  The firglas were mustering, and a handful of them scrambled, spider-like, onto the chain that connected the ball to the baton. As the giant strove to wrest his weapon free, ignoring the firglas creeping closer, a large stone flung by the king struck its helm, knocking loose one side of the jaw piece.

  The wight let go of the mace and the baton slammed against the hillside, sweeping the firglas to the saddle below—and likely to their deaths. It then rounded on the king, who shouted something in his own tongue. The hairs on my neck lifted as lightning forked down from the sky, accompanied by a huge crack of thunder. The strike grounded itself in the creature of iron and bone.

  It was an impressive display of magic—I’d never seen anyone but my father conjure lightning. The king would have had to call on air, fire, and water, and such a powerful spell could exhaust one or more of those resources for hours. If the wight survived the strike, there would not likely be another.

  The creature stood frozen, and I held my breath. Then came a loud hiss of steam, and it raised its bony fists to the heavens, loosing a bray of fury that shook the ground and caused me to clamp my hands over my ears. It took a step toward the king.

  Suddenly I remembered something—the “vein of magic” Doro had tapped into to create Corvus. Was it possible this was his doing? He couldn’t have known that we would come here today, could he? He was the king’s steward, and Finvara had obviously been as far as the saddle before. Was I meant to let the wight destroy him? But as the Elf King’s daughter—and the descendant of a powerful sorceress—would I not be suspected of involvement in his murder?

  The wight again brayed its rage as the king evaded the swinging fists. This was the only chance I was likely to get to help Finvara.

  Glancing skyward I found my furies, who were making a hellish racket as they circled the scene of battle. “Make yourselves useful for once,” I grumbled. I clenched my fists and shouted my command.

  The birds began diving at the head of our attacker, but I did not pause to congratulate myself. The wight stood maybe ten yards away from me—it was far enough to build up speed, and I would need it, because the king’s lightning had ruled out a buoyancy spell to aid my effort. A magic-wielder like my ancestress, and even my father, could draw on resources from much farther away—my own magical ability was feeble in comparison.

  Gripping the pike in both hands, I ran. I struck my first target, a small stone slab that would add distance to my jump, and I pushed the tip of the weapon against the rough surface, grunting with effort and vaulting skyward.

  Then I focused on my second target: the bristly tail that hung down from the giant’s tunic. One chance.

  My shoulder struck the wight’s back with enough force to stop my breath, but I caught the tail in one hand and latched on, hauling myself up, hand over hand. The wight spun in surprise, flinging an arm to brush me loose. A deadly sharp talon sliced my leg and I cried out. Pushing the searing pain out of my mind, I squirmed and shimmied my way up until I could almost touch the wight’s should
er.

  Still clinging to the foul tunic, I braced my feet against the wight’s back. Then I launched up and out with my legs as I let go of the tunic, making a desperate grab for one of the black hoses that hung down from the helm. I caught it with my left hand, grunting as my weight came onto my arm. I reached up with my other hand and secured my grip. Then, kicking against the wight’s ribs for leverage, I began to swing and tug.

  The hose did not release, but my weight pulled the wight’s head to one side, unbalancing it. The giant stumbled. I held on, continuing to tug and twist, arms burning from the strain.

  “Look out!” came a shout from below, and on instinct I let go.

  The wight’s hand cut through the air just above me as I fell. The impact against the hard ground knocked the breath out of me. I’d only just avoided landing on the stones.

  When I glanced up, I saw that the wight’s taloned hand had sliced the hose clean through—it coiled and whipped out like a serpent, spewing steam.

  Then, the wight listed.

  “Koli!” shouted Finvara. “Move!”

  I rolled onto my stomach and kept rolling, but suddenly I slammed against the edge of the slab I’d used as a vaulting platform. I’d not escape this time—the giant was falling straight toward me. Crossing my arms over my face, I cried out and braced for the impact.

  STONES

  Finvara

  The barrow-wight had spun on its heel at the last, and down it crashed, right on top of the princess. For a moment I stood frozen in horror, but then I heard a muffled groan and bolted toward the colossus.

  “Lady!” I cried, running along the length of its body. Could she have survived?

  Not possible.

  Another groan rose from somewhere beneath it, and I moved toward the sound.

  “Lady?” I reached the stone slab the giant had toppled over and bent down to look. The slab had propped up the giant’s torso enough to form a small cave, which had prevented her from being crushed.

  “Fires of Laki,” she swore, turning her head to grimace at me, “the stench.”

  Relief warmed my chest and I laughed out loud. Then I summoned what was left of my patrol, directing them to help me. As we took up positions alongside the body, one massive leg kicked and we jumped back.

  “Blast, it’s survived!”

  “Cut the other hose!” cried the lady, her voice strained and even more muffled. The giant’s weight must have shifted.

  Tugging the dagger from my belt, I rushed toward the head. The wight thrust out an arm, swiping clumsily but with enough force to knock me down.

  I cried out as my shin struck a sharp rock. Then I rolled out of range and jumped up, running again at the head. Finally I reached the remaining hose and sliced it through, and the wight’s flailing arm dropped to the ground with a thud.

  “With me!” I called to the firglas, and we lined up along the body and shoved.

  “Keep it up,” I urged. “A little more.”

  Grunting from the strain and sweating like beasts, we managed to raise it enough for the princess to crawl out.

  “All right, lads,” I called, “let it go!”

  The massive body slumped, and I knelt beside the princess. “Are you injured, lady?”

  Raising the hem of her skirt, she inspected a long gash down one calf.

  “Ach, let’s get you back to the castle,” I said grimly.

  If not for her boot she’d have suffered worse, but as it was, blood was pooling on the ground beneath her leg, and the color had drained from her face.

  “I can walk,” she said, her tone low and determined.

  “I think you’ll have to,” I replied, “but we need to stop the bleeding first.”

  I began unbuttoning my shirt. She watched me, wide-eyed, as I took it off and rolled it into a long strip from collar to hem.

  “May I?” I asked.

  She nodded, and I wrapped the shirt snugly around her leg, tying the sleeves to secure the makeshift dressing. Then I took her calf between my hands, pressing my palm against the wound to slow the flow of blood.

  “Forgive me,” I murmured. “I don’t have the magic for something like this.”

  This was not entirely true. My ancestor had possessed some knowledge of blood magic, but I had walled it off from my consciousness. Blood magic exacted a price—you could not replenish one man’s blood without spilling another’s.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said, “it’s much better.” A bead of perspiration had collected above her lip.

  I kept up the pressure for a little longer before checking the dressing. Splotches of bright red had soaked through, but it looked like the bleeding had slowed.

  “I think we could try now,” I said. “If it starts up again, or if it’s too painful, we’ll find another way.”

  I held out my hand and she gripped my forearm, cool fingers pressing into my skin, and pulled herself to her feet.

  “Easy,” I said, linking her arm through mine. “Rest most of your weight on me.”

  The firglas were prodding and poking at the fallen giant. They had flipped back the animal-skin coverings, revealing a strange amalgamation of mechanical and organic materials. There was a combustion chamber in the belly region, and a reservoir in the chest. Pipes for carrying steam, and pistons for operating gears and levers. Bits of gray flesh clung in various places—the lower jaw, the arms and legs.

  Already dead, the princess had said. Mechanically animated, it appeared. But how?

  Lingering on the field of battle, I glanced down at the woman on my arm. “How did you know what to do?”

  Koli

  There was no accusation in his tone or expression, but I knew he must suspect me. I would suspect me. Yet I might very well have saved his life, and I was sure he knew it.

  “I guessed, Your Majesty,” I replied. “I spent some time examining your little machines last night, and it occurred to me this creature might be like them.”

  The king frowned. “First the ship, now this revenant. They are almost like . . .” His eyes moved over the exposed workings of the wight. “They’re like expressions of magic that have adapted to our mechanical age. What has caused it, I wonder? The opening of Faery?”

  “Perhaps, sire.”

  This had struck me as Doro’s handiwork, and my feeling had not changed. What was he doing? He might have killed us both.

  “Forgive me,” said the king, squeezing my arm. “You are impressively stoic, lady. Let’s get you back to the castle.”

  With the first step I felt a stabbing pain. I gasped and stumbled, and Finvara slipped an arm around my waist, preventing my fall. His hand pulled my hip against him, the heat of the steadying touch chasing away the pain.

  “Try again,” he urged, “but let me take your weight this time.”

  In his state of half-undress, it was impossible not to be affected by the maleness of him—despite the fact I was used to a rougher sort. The king was lithe and smooth-skinned, but there was nothing soft about the lines of his broad chest, the plane of his belly, and his thick upper arms. His body had been sculpted by a life at sea, while his flesh had an ageless quality. That he was pleasing to look upon I could not deny.

  He released my waist and again offered his arm. I hooked mine through his and also gripped the inside of his elbow with my other hand, fingers pressing into taut muscle. Then I allowed myself to sag against him.

  “That’s it,” he encouraged, and together we took a few steps forward.

  I limped along beside him, feeling with every step like broken glass was embedded in my leg. When we reached the half-ruined stairway, we stopped.

  “Bloody hell,” the king swore. “Whole-bodied, I think you’d manage it—no doubt you’re more sure-footed than I am.”

  He ordered the uninjured among the firglas to begin collec
ting wood for a litter, but then changed his mind.

  “The hillside’s intact enough to scale, I think, but it’s too damn steep for a litter.” He stood a moment considering, and suddenly snapped his fingers. “We need Doro. There may be a way to use Faery to get out of here.” He ordered two of the firglas to return to the castle to fetch the steward.

  “Bring some rope, for good measure,” said the king, “and see that a servant is sent for a surgeon.”

  I sank onto the grass to wait. The heavy atmosphere had cleared, shafts of sunlight penetrating the lighter cloud cover. I closed my eyes, feeling the warmth spread over my face and chest. It would be awkward seeing Doro under these circumstances. I wondered when I would have an opportunity to speak with him alone—I had many questions for my new ally.

  The sound of the king murmuring in Irish drew my gaze. Though he spoke too softly for me to make out the words, I could feel the pull of his magic and guessed he was trying to coax the stones of the stairway back up to their places. He was calling on earth rather than air or fire, so it had a chance of working.

  But it might be a more complicated undertaking than he realized. The steps were not just stones—they were ruins. As such, they were bound to the once-living beings that had built the stairway. They might choose to return to their man-made resting places, or they might resent the king’s attempt to manage them after having been disturbed for the first time in centuries.

  I got up and limped over to join him. When he paused in his incantation, I began to chant in Elvish.

  I did not often sing spells, and by the king’s reaction, I don’t believe he was accustomed to hearing them sung—he stared at me with his jaw hanging half open. Some kinds of spells could only be sung. The king was using a spell of command. To balance his effort, I sang a spell of persuasion.

  I didn’t know whether an Icelandic spell-song could have any effect on a pile of Irish stones, but I raised my hand, gesturing to the king to continue. He began his incantation again, and as our voices mingled, the lumps of granite began to roll, slowly and awkwardly, back up the hillside. My heart beat faster as the soil itself shifted uphill, defying nature’s laws to reform the stairway’s foundation. It felt satisfying, watching each step fit itself into place.