I hold the gobbit of nameless flesh between my fingers. The foetid carrion bird hops eagerly, a feathered jerking excitement on the leafless branch. I wait, its reward soiling my fingers, until it finishes its harsh cawing. My men sit astride their horses, impassive, the guttural sound of the craban no more than a chattering bird call. But to those who have the blood or the power – there are words in the calls of birds.
Crebain, crows, ravens and rooks. A glossy black-winged company of spies and sneaks, watchers and murderers. All but the raven are cowardly alone. All but the raven I despise – yet they are tools of value and I suffer them as such.
The bird tells of movement; of an eagle of Men walking over the land, of the whereabouts of a linnet and a magpie. I set the bird a new task, tossing it the stinking lump of meat, which it catches in its heavy, stabbing beak and swallows down in one greedy movement.
The filth believe that the best birds are those that feed on man-flesh. The filth believe that the best of everything comes from gorging on living man-flesh. The promise of it is enough to bind them and send them into a frenzy. I have seen them feed on men, with the black birds dashing between the filth, like dogs snatching scraps from a table. The violence in the air as each tries to snatch a share, breaking out into swift deadly struggles. As much orc is eaten as man in those bloody feasts – the weakest always preyed upon by the stronger. A harsh efficient culling. I let it rage, I have no need of the weak.
The down-sweep of the bird's wings as it launches itself to the air sends the stench of it anew towards us. My horse moves restlessly. The bird flaps lazily over to the sable flock, calling as they rise in a black cloud to greet it, like so many dark insects. A hundred black-beaded eyes spiral up and move into the northland directed by my will, fashioned to my purpose.
.
