Ice Blink

26: The Crow

The shack rattled in the wind, poor protection against the might of the blizzard. Poor protection against Annoatok. Mortu. And me.

So they had found the first temple, as Mortu had told the Crow that they would. They still hadn't noticed him, and he had expected better of the Commander of the Takaani. People whispered that his predecessor, the Mad Wolf, had been able to sense a feather falling in a whiteout. The young one was a poor replacement. He was almost disappointed. He had thought they'd be more suspicious, wary, careful. They'd driven his ally, that useless scout whose name he hadn't bothered to learn, into the claws of the ahkiyyini, and now they thought they were safe. Unwatched.

Fools, all of them.

He pitied Captain Viggo as he pictured him struggling through the blizzard, trying to keep the Nualik prisoners in line. He'd been given the dregs, the worst tasks to supervise, and he must be fuming.

The day Mortu gave him his instructions shone in his memory like a beacon in a sea of grey.

*

He knelt on the flagstones, legs screaming from the prolonged contact, head bowed. The wound in his side seared with fire and his scratched cheek burned but he kept his eyes trained on the foot of the throne, hair falling across his face, waiting, hoping, praying.

Finally Mortu rose to his feet and the Crow heard every step, felt every breath of air as it stirred, as it parted for him, his leader, his Sovereign.

The ashes of the dead still caught in his throat, his eyes hadn't stopped watering from the smoke, but none of that mattered anymore. The village had been the first to fall to make way for Annoatok's victory – it was a casualty of war, and nothing could be done about that. They had given them chance to surrender, they would have taken them in painlessly – with guards watching their every move, trying to gauge their loyalty, but still, no blood would have been spilled. It was a waste, Mortu always told his men, a waste of good, precious life.

Triumph or failure. The Crow would be received with no in-between. They had won the village, but at a cost, and he could never predict the Sovereign's reactions.

Mortu stopped in front of him and he cursed the curtain of hair for blocking his view. His heart hammered a steady beat.

Then rough fingers slid under his jaw, sweeping his hair aside, and he lifted his face.

"Welcome back, my Heir." Mortu's features exuded strength, his dark eyes were wise and old beyond his years, and he was built like a soldier. A silver scar rippled down one cheek, another cut across the bridge of his nose. They didn't mar his features. They were lines of starlight, bestowed by Malina the moon goddess.

The Crow's heart flooded with light. "Thank you, Sovereign, for receiving me. It's good to be home."

"Rise."

Ignoring the pain, he rose fluidly. Mortu looked him up and down. The tailors had presented him with new attire upon my arrival, clothes befitting a Crow: a parka which reached his knees, dyed a smart charcoal grey, with a band of glossy black feathers sewn on each sleeve.

"I see they've rewarded you for your foolish blundering."

"My –?"

The blow came so fast that he didn't even see it.

His head snapped to the side and the cut on his cheek reopened, blood leaking his my face. He reined in his cry of pain before it could escape.

"I will not thank you for starting a war," Mortu growled. "Painless, I told you. Clean, quick, I ordered. News of this will reach Illulik faster than you think, and before we've even left our territory, they'll be declaring open war."

He squinted through blurring eyes. "With all due respect, this would've happened anyway. There was no way we could have convinced them to submit without a fight. We did all we could, and by the end, we'd salvaged as many people as possible."

"How bold you've grown. You think it wise to speak back to me?"

"I'm telling you what you need to know."

"Ah, my son." Mortu took his face in his hands.

Son.

My son.

His entire life, nearly twenty years spent striving to please him. And he had never called him that before.

"It won't happen again. I promise I'll do better."

"No. No promises." Mortu's hands tightened.

"All right." He swallowed hard. "I will do better."

Mortu sighed, turning his head to inspect the cut as if the sight pained him. "I don't enjoy this – treating you this way. But you're my heir, my legacy, and everything rides on your shoulders. I want you to be like me. When I'm gone, I want you to continue our work and grow to be better than me. When you do," the ghost of a grin flickered on his face, "make sure they don't forget my name."

He hadn't failed completely – he was still his heir – still alive. "Of course. They'll never forget you."

"Good." He released him. "Come."

The Crow followed Mortu across the great hall, past the fire pit, and out into the main courtyard of Kilallurak Fortress. Snow buffeted them but Mortu cut through it as if it were the gentlest summer breeze.

He led him to the war table: a huge slab of ice in the centre, painstakingly carved into the shape of the continent. The Crow shuddered but drew close despite the chill radiating from its surface.

"See this?" Mortu murmured, sweeping a hand from North Ice, past Mid-Ice to the distant South. "This is ours. Like ice, we can sculpt it into what it was always meant to be – what it was born to be." His hand stilled upon a spiky marker. There was no name attached, but they knew it. Illulik.

"They'll try to stop us," the Crow said.

"They will do their best. It won't be enough. I have another mission for you."

His heart sank. He had only just returned, and after days of travelling Kilallurak felt more comforting than ever before. It felt like home. Even seeing Viggo and Nyra's familiar faces wasn't so bad. "I'll do it. But..."

"But?"

"I belong by your side. Learning from you."

"You'll be back soon enough, but for now this is more important, and I wouldn't trust anyone else to do a better job."

He threw his shoulders back. "Tell me everything."