The Raven’s Knot. Robin Jarvis
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called Thought rocked miserably to and fro, averting its Master’s questioning glance.
‘Answer me!’ the cloaked figure commanded sternly. ‘The trivial art of speech was my first gift to you both. Have the wasting, dust dry years robbed you of that, or do you merely wish to displease me?’
Blinking its beady eyes, the creature slowly shook its head before opening its black beak. Then, in a hideous, croaking parody of a human voice it spoke.
‘Allfather,’ the raven uttered in a cracked, dirge-like tone. ‘Alas for mine brother, I doth fear the words of Memory shalt forever be stilled. The days of his service unto thee art ended indeed. His dead bones lie yonder still, unable to hear thy summons. The weight of years did ravage him sorely, more so than their corroding action did unto mine own putrid flesh.’
Its Master lifted a wizened hand and caressed the bird tenderly. ‘It is to be expected,’ he murmured sorrowfully. ‘The ages have plundered my strength and my greatness wanes.’
‘Never!’ the raven squawked. ‘Thy cunning and craft endure beyond aught else!’
‘Lift your eyes my slave and look about you. This is not the land you knew. You have been embraced by death many thousands of years. Since you and Memory penetrated the encircling mists at the vanguard of our forces, the world has changed beyond recall.’
‘In truth,’ the bird muttered. ‘Is it indeed so long? Then the battle was lost and the Three victorious.’
‘Can you remember nothing of those final moments?’
Thought closed its eyes. ‘The span of darkness is wide since that time,’ it began haltingly. ‘But hold, I can see the field of combat which lay betwixt us and the woods wherein our enemy did lurk. The day is bright with sword play and the air rings with the music of steel as I ride the wind and view the glorious contest raging below.’
‘What else do you see?’
‘Mine eyes are filled with the glad sight of our conquering forces, the Twelve are with us and no one can withstand their fury. But wait, Memory my brother, he hath hastened toward the wood before the appointed time. I call yet he cannot hear. I fear for him and charge after, yet already he hath gained the trees. To the very edge of that forest I storm, ’til the mist rises and it is too late. I see but briefly the daughters of the royal house of Askar standing beneath the great root and then there is darkness.’
The raven became silent and ruffled its feathers to warm itself.
‘Locked in their custody you have been for all this time,’ the cloaked figure concluded. ‘Yes, the battle was lost and even the Twelve were routed. I, too, was defeated, but the war was not over and still it continues, for I have arisen. Though I am weak and ailing, so too are they. The enchanted wood is no more, the stags are departed and the well is dry.’
Thought cocked its head to one side as its Master continued.
‘There is a chance, but we must be careful. Although the mists no longer shroud the attendants of Nirinel, they have amassed a great store of artefacts within that shrine of theirs. It is the combined power of those treasures which now protects them. If we are to succeed we must draw the loom maidens out, shake the web and when the spiders fall, smite them.’
Upon his robed shoulder, Thought began to hop from side to side. ‘Verily!’ it cried shrilly. ‘Strike the treacherous scourges down and show unto them no mercy. Dearly will they pay for the doom of mine brother. I shalt feast on their eyes and make a nest of their hair. Tell to me how this delicious prospect may be achieved, my Lord – I ache for their downfall.’
‘Many treasures they have acquired over the sprawling centuries,’ the hooded one answered gravely, ‘yet the greatest prize lies without their walls. A marvel so rare and possessed of such surpassing power that it could bring about their ultimate ruin.’
Crowing delightedly, the raven jumped into the air. ‘How is it the witches of the well have been so blind and blundered so?’
‘Oh, they are aware of its existence,’ came the assured reply. ‘Urdr knows, she recognises this thing for what it is and fears it as do I.’
‘Thou art afraid of this treasure?’ Thought cawed in astonishment. ‘How so, my Master?’
‘Much has transpired since you passed into oblivion,’ the figure said darkly. ‘The prize I seek is hidden and cannot be won save by one who has drunk of the sacred water. I must endeavour to compel one of the three sisters to deliver it to me – and in this you are to play an important role. Many leagues from here, where this mighty thing is bestowed, the trap is already set and into it I have poured my failing enchantments.’
The raven landed back upon the shoulder and stared into the darkness beneath the hood.
‘Yes,’ the unseen lips answered. ‘I have laboured long to call them back, my most terrifying and deadliest of servants. Daily their numbers increase and soon they will be Twelve again.’
Cawing softly to itself, Thought shook its wings and glared up at the sky.
‘Once more the old armies shalt ride – inspiring dread and despair into the stoutest of hearts.’
‘And you will lead them,’ the figure instructed. ‘The Twelve are wild creatures of instinct and destruction. They have need of commanding but I must remain here to gather what little strength I can for the final days. I had hoped to despatch both you and your brother to order their movements, yet you shall not go alone. Someone shall go with you.’
‘Who Master?’
The figure took a last, despising look at the museum before turning to shamble back along Well Lane.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘There is a great deal to be done and the time is short. There is one nearby who will aid us, although he does not yet know it and will have to be deceived into our service, I believe he will suit the purpose very well. His good must be subverted, we must erode his will and entice him to do our bidding. When the treasure is found it is he who must wield it. Soon the webs of destiny will be destroyed forever and the shrine of Nirinel a smoking ruin.’
With the raven cackling wickedly upon his shoulder, the cloaked stranger shuffled across the street and melted silently into the dim grey shadows of the nearby, derelict houses.
A leaden sky and drenching drizzle heralded the dawn and the thick, slate-coloured clouds that reached across London ensured that the dismal weather was there for the rest of the morning.
It was an uninspiring start to the first day of term after the Christmas break and by the time they splashed to school, the pupils of the local comprehensive were a damp and straggly rabble.
Built just after the war, the buildings were a dreary collection of concrete boxes which, by nine o’clock, were awash with dirty footprints and dripping coats.
For Neil Chapman it was as if he had awakened from a long sleep. That morning was the first time he felt truly free of Miss Ursula Webster’s influence since he and his father and brother had moved into The Wyrd Museum over a week ago. It was a peculiar sensation, that forbidding building, and the manipulating controllers of destiny it contained had fuelled his thoughts from the very first day. Now the real, normal world seemed pale and unimportant by comparison.
The boy shook his head, startled at his own thoughts. Now that everything was as it should be he was finding life a bit dull. At breakfast that morning, Josh had been his usual annoying self and made no mention of what had happened, almost as if he had forgotten the entire episode – either that or he had been made to forget. Then, when Neil tried to explain it to his father, he could see that Brian didn’t believe a word.
Regretfully, Neil realised that it was no use pining for excitement. For him the adventures were over, he had completed his task for the Websters and would now have to get used to living a mundane life again.
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