The Raven's Banquet by Clifford Beal

Author:Clifford Beal [Beal, Clifford]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Fantasy
ISBN: 9781849977562
Google: vC2PAwAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00KAY77KW
Goodreads: 22009426
Publisher: Solaris
Published: 2014-05-12T00:00:00+00:00

WHEN I AWOKE, I was for a moment convinced of my own death. I lay in my grave, the close darkness around me giving way far above to faint light, light showing its way through the unpacked earth above me. Yet, as I drew more to consciousness, I saw that it was the roof of a bower that lay over me, weak sunlight peeking through the cracks. The strong but not unpleasant smell of the poultice that lay across my brow had brought me back to the earthly plane. My head ached as though with drink. I remembered then what had happened.

I brushed my arm along my chest as I lay there. To my shaking hand the touch was damp, of sodden cloth. My armour was gone but I was still in my bloody coat and doublet and my mud-stained breeches. The little pouch lay still upon my breast, secured by its leather necklace. My hand curled around it, the sound of the little twigs inside crackling in my grasp. The memory of Anya’s words came to me again.

“This charm will preserve you...”

I stripped the poultice from my brow and turning on my side, struggled to rise from the straw mat that I lay upon. The effort brought forth a violent retching and I fell back and held my head. I tried again though, after a bit, and my stomach complained a little less. Wobbling, I managed to get to my feet and stumbled out of the hovel and into the light of day. My eyes were yet not focused upon the scene before me but I could spy a group of people ahead and the rising plume of a cooking fire. I was in a clearing, still surrounded by forest, and around me were scattered half a dozen huts rough-fashioned of sapling trunks and topped with roofs of branches and moss.

Those around the fire saw me and a few came forward to greet me. I recognised my soldiers and Christoph was among them too. All were a ragged band of scarecrows, clothing fouled by weather, by earth, by sweat, and by blood. And it struck me full then, that I was looking on the defeated and broken remains of what had once been a whole company of harquebusiers.

One fellow helped me limp over to a tree stump that served as a stool. I lowered myself down and touched my scalp to feel a great bump raised on my crown. A peasant woman, hard-favoured and wizened, stirred something in the great black cook pot that lay on the flames, the tongues of which began to warm me where I sat. She glanced at me but said nothing and kept to her cooking. Other women I now spied, arms laden with faggots, walking through the clearing. They wore sad, rough spun clothing of brown skirts and leather bodices. And the woman who laboured over the stew pot wore a shirt of the coarsest linen, stained and torn.

A soldier, one who I knew was named Hartmann, proffered a cup of water to me.

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