[Rimbaud]

The Murder’s Balance

Fingot Sparrowbane had slept fitfully. His wings hurt, the rain plastered his feathers to him and he should have been thoroughly miserable. This was not the case. The oldest living crow missed little and had pushed his physical tortures to that place at the rear of his mind, as he concentrated on reading the balance of the murder. He felt Mitakaw’s eye upon him but ignored it for the time being. The younger crow was stationed high above him, in an adjacent tree. The younglings always took the high branches. Instead, Fingot, by the merest motion of his head, summoned the hulking Hardclaw, another of his sons, and his staunchest ally. Hardclaw was massive, and somewhat ponderous in flight. His mind was not agile, but he knew loyalty and he knew the will of Fingot was rarely surprised. His fealty, as with his father’s was to the murder, not to any faction. Fingot used him shamelessly for his dirty work.

Yet by the time that Hardclaw had shuffled beside him, head bowed to catch his orders, Fingot had moved ahead mentally again. The original plan had been simply to take Brak down to the ground, and for Hardclaw to make then obeisance to Akaaw. Such plans, however, were only effective when the Chief held a majority tone. The number of crows hanging on Brak’s polemic was disconcerting.

Sparrowbane could feel Akaaw watching him, judging what to do, waiting for his advisor’s sign. He made up his mind. He spoke briefly and quietly to Hardclaw, who departed his side silently.

Barely clacking his beak, imperceptibly moving, he had their attention. The relay crows instantly took their positions, the message moving back through the throng as he spoke, softly, his voice worn away, and hushed by the rain upon the broad leaves. The murder re-organized itself, in the subtle but familiar ways. With a surge of pride, Fingot saw that Mitakaw had learned and understood. His crows stood close to Akaaw, almost directly behind him, an unflinching sign of support. Some of these younglings snapped at those in Brak’s coterie – there had been some fluidity between these two groups, but no longer. Lines were being drawn. The murder was on a wing-tip. Suspense mounted.

In his mind, Fingot saw Mitakaw, older and wiser, leading a great murder south…south to the lands of sun and plenty; away from the affairs of two-legged fire-holders. Yet that was so far away…

“Crows of Akaaw, Crows of Isengard,” he began. The relay crows chattered. Those on Brak’s group shifted uncomfortably, and those that had listened ardently before, shifted slightly away from the large dissenter. Most of the crows gathered could not remember the last time Fingot had addressed the murder. “I have returned from a forest floor of seeping death!” There were some caws at this and Mitakaw’s coterie clacked their beaks. “I return to find good crows questioning the Leader of the Murder! Questioning he who has strengthened the crebain of Isengard to a fearsome body. He who speaks directly with the fire-wielder of the Dead Black Tree.”

Akaaw said nothing, but watched all, his eyes beady and cunning. Fingot’s voice was failing.

“Some question Akaaw’s wisdom in bringing us so far into this land. Dare you counter his judgment?”

With a sickening thud, Hardclaw sliced from a great height directly into the chest of Brak, sending him tumbling down, out of sight amongst the lower branches. Hardclaw recovered himself and steadily climbed to sit beside Fingot, who continued unruffled.

“Such questioning is not permitted. You wish for man-flesh? Horse-meat?” The crows cheered up visibly. This was more like it. “Akaaw brings you these things!” There was much nodding and wise agreement. The reign of Akaaw at Isengard had brought a fairly steady stream of death in the surrounding forests.

Fingot stopped, and flicked a wing-tip at Pip’kha, who in turn nodded to Akaaw, who gathered himself.

The Chief began, his voice sounding clear, strong and loud compared to Fingot’s rasping caw. The relay crows were not needed. “We fly north. You fly where I say. We feast on our enemies! We are the black glove of the White Hand! To the skies, crebain!”

Now Fingot acknowledged his son Mitakaw’s gaze and gestured swiftly. Mitakaw rose up, sending his birds spiralling up into the sky, the rest of the murder straining to catch up. Akaaw gestured to his own lieutenants who landed flapping and cawing in the midst of Brak’s diminishing revenue, scattering them, with much snapping and a little bloodshed.

Hardclaw shook his head to Fingot. Brak was not dead.

Yet it was the time to fly. Pip’kha and Hardclaw aided Fingot into the skies, and they flapped slowly, watching as Akaaw rose up steadily, carving to the front of the murder, barely acknowledging Mitakaw and his new-found fealty, as was correct.

Orders started spinning back from Fingot and the Chief. Groups of crows were created and cast off from the murder, swinging low over the forest, scanning, searching.

[ March 06, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]