The #Broken_Dagger Forum

Spring strides briskly through the forest around the mill, dusting the trees with pale leaves, drawing green shoots from the leaf litter, banishing the winter's frost and snow until the stream runs fat and boisterous between its banks. The treetops are similarly bustling, birds singing and flitting to and fro among the branches, many bearing sticks and twigs and tufts of grass and moss to build hopeful nests.

The millpond crows, a raucous tribe that claims the pines overlooking the mirror-dark waters, are no exception. Ramshackle clumps of sticks grow day by day in the trees, in between noisy squabbles over particularly desirable spots. Cherny's watched them from the window in his attic, or from the ground below, having come to know the birds passingly well - or some of them, at least, a handful who've made a habit of loitering around the tumbledown outbuilding he's turned into a secret refuge for him and Many-Fights, croaking for scraps and offcuts as he prepares the hound's meals of good beef and lamb. At first he'd throw them a morsel here and there to keep them from pilfering the mastiff's food, but as the winter gnawed on the forest's bones he took to leaving them their own portions on a fallen trunk, chopped up into manageable morsels, and that habit has continued into the Spring.

Today is no different in that regard, and beady black eyes watch him from the branches above as he makes his way to the fallen tree, battered tin bowl in hand. Some small details changed, though - his hair newly-cropped from where it'd grown shaggy and unkempt over the winter months, and a cloth sack held under one arm. The chopped steak set out in its usual place, from the sack he retrieves a clump of something soft, for the most part silver mingled with darker flecks - a string bag, a mesh of knotted yarn, packed with ashen curls and jet-black locks fit to stuff a cushion. He ties it to a snapped-off branch before glancing up to the crows above, murmuring a quiet count under his breath; apparently satisfied, he heads back for the little outbuilding where Many-Fights already smacks and gulps his way through another meal.

It takes a little while, longer than it takes for the tin bowl to empty, but before too much time has passed the crows carry not just sticks and twigs to build their untidy nests, but soft clumps of white-blond hair with which to line them.

Days blend into weeks, and the woods surge from the tentative shoots of early spring to the rampant growth of early summer. The millpond crows brood jealously over nests full of speckled eggs like blue-green jewels, cosy and safe in their beds of silvery curls.

They hatch, and the trees echo to shrill cries from among the pine needles, hungry mouths insistently agape. A good year for crows, the wrinkle-skinned hatchlings hearty and plentiful, and the proud parents run their feathers ragged ferrying food to the their ravenous progeny, worms and insects and carrion by the beak and cropful.

Cherny takes pride in their success, and does what he can to secure it by leaving out dishes of finely-diced scraps and offal - not least to grant Many-Fights some respite from black-feathered scoundrels who'd pilfer his meals right from under his nose, given the chance.

The crows grow accustomed to the boy's routine, and line up impatiently on the branches above while he prepares their victuals on a scarred old board, occasionally swooping to catch the dainty morsels he flicks high in the air, much to his delight. He chides them when they bicker over the choicest scraps, implores them to be polite, to take their turn, but more often than not mealtimes are a disordered scramble of oily feathers and raucous shouts. He grins and laughs anyway, and spends his mill earnings on making sure there's enough to go around.

The hatchlings grow vigorously in the untidy nests above, nourished by good meat and warmed by fine bedding; stubby pinfeathers darken their backs and wings, and bright little eyes peer down upon the pond, the mill, and the skinny figure that comes and goes so far below.

Weeks pass, and the hatchlings come to fledging. A span of days in which every branch around the pond bears a sulking young crow in shabby brown plumage, shouting with wide mouth and fluttering wings for food and attention each time an adult strays nearby. A span of days in which lessons are taught, the fledglings exploring the woods in an ungainly mob, quick to rise in an explosion of clattering wings when disturbed. With time the parents retreat to their trees, relieved at their offspring's newfound independence, and rest.

The young, meanwhile, learn about feeding times, and gather in the treetops well ahead of their boy's arrival. They jostle and squabble for the best view as he tucks morsels or meat into the crevices of a fallen and half-rotted old tree, each marking well where the juiciest scraps are hidden. Their boy concocts games for them, forcing them to work for their keep - Treasure Hunt, Fetch The Button, Sing For Your Supper, Bring Me That, Ask Nicely - rewarding them from his own hand when they pass his tests. They rise readily to each challenge he poses, bead-bright eyes watching with unseemly intelligence, heads cocked as they listen to his raw voice and understand.

With time they come to him not just for treats but for company, to accept a scratch of dull fingernails upon their necks or cheeks, eyes drifting half-closed at the bliss of his clever touch; they perch on his thin shoulders, preening his hair and chuckling hoarse crow-words into his ear; they take their roost in the trees around his little shack, greeting him in the mornings as he emerges to tend to his chores; they leave the mill's vegetable garden alone at his behest; they make a game of chasing away other birds, intruders who might maraud among the tender young shoots and leaves, and their boy rewards them from pockets laden with the crusts of yesterday's bread.

They prosper.

He speaks to them as he would friends, laughing at their antics, chiding them when they squabble too fiercely among themselves over some coveted scrap or trinket. He tells them to be kind, to take turns and share, to look after one another; at first he must withhold his morsels and kindnesses from those who misbehave, but that is not necessary for long. He finds new games for them to play, ones that require cooperation, clever tests with sticks and stones and pieces of string.

He guards a little dish of meat scraps as they surround him in a circle, chasing away those who venture too close with flailing arms; they laugh as they flap clumsily back, for while the boy's back is turned the crows at the far side of the circle dart forward to snatch up slivers of meat; the decoys peck at his heels and tug at his coat-tails if he realises his mistake and turns back. The game goes on, the crows taking turns to taunt him away until the dish is clean and each of them has had a chance to win a beakful of scraps.

He sits and talks to them, telling them stories of things he has seen, things he has done, people he has met, of his friends and his foils, those he adores and those he abhors. He shows them little trinkets he has picked up - this found near the blacksmith's shop, a good iron nail; this from behind the teahouse, a shard of fine porcelain with pale glazed roses; this from the joiner, a turned wooden handle for a drawer or little cupboard, split on one side and thus discarded.

The crows attend to his words, gathering around according to a hierarchy of their own; they vie to see who sits closest to the boy, where they might hear the most clearly or be the first to examine his story-treasures with oil-black eyes and inquisitive beaks. They pass the trinkets and curios among themselves, chuckling and chattering all the while; the boy's ears are filled with hoarse little voices and he listens with a small smile, head tilted, eyes bright.

Here and there he offers a word - iron - button - shell - leaf - and this becomes a new game, words echoed back to him with his own voice. He gifts them with more words by the day, and soon the trees are filled with muttered fragments of conversation - stick - go - go yes - food - food no - stone - no more than a word or two or three, bereft of context, as his students practice among themselves.

Over time a web of custom grows between the millpond crows. It becomes a game in itself, a game of constantly-shifting rules in which the goal is to know the rules or be ignored, excluded from the clique of those who know how to play. On one day it might be necessary to bow three times in greeting; on another, to to rap one's beak upon branch or stone; on the next, to wink first one eye and then the other. It is a game of fads and trends, of observation and interpretation, with particular esteem granted to those who invent - or pick up on - the most subtle or elaborate rituals.

One day their boy sets his crows a new challenge, a test, for there are a full score of them and some to spare. Bring me your names, he says, and they stir uncertainly at this command, muttering among themselves. It is a new game, unfamiliar; the boy makes no attempt to describe its rules, no matter how vocally they protest at so vague a challenge. Bring me your names.

At last a crow at the edge of the group - one who'd spent the time in quiet thought rather than noisy dissent - at last she works it out, understands in a sudden blaze of comprehension that has her croaking and hopping in place; she drums her clawed feet - left-right-left-right-left, for that is the day's rule - and cackles the explanation to her siblings and cousins. Realisation flashes quickly from one bird to the next, and the air is abruptly filled with the clattering of black wings and rough shouts of excitement.

For the next full day the Lake and Town and Woods seem infested with crows; not that there are more of them, but they are everywhere, exploring, investigating, watching, calling to one another with hoarse cries that echo across treetop and rooftop. They pick over roadsides and leaf litter and midden-heaps, peering in through open windows and loitering near market stalls.

As afternoon fades into evening they return, by ones and twos and more; the boy waits for them at the fallen tree, sitting cross-legged upon dead wood that bears the scars of hungry, prying beaks. They fill the branches above, a muted parliament, and his smile grows as he notes that each of them, every one, carries something in their beak.

At last they are gathered, and the first of them - the first to realise what he meant, the first to take flight in search of a name, flaps down onto the feeding tree and approaches the mill-boy to offer up her prize: a clump of russet fur, with dark guard hairs and soft white undercoat; he accepts it with care, brows lifting in curiosity, and it's only when he lifts to scent at it that he grins, realising what it represents.

A moment to tug a loose thread free of his coat-hem, tying it neatly about the tuft and setting it down before him. An affectionate touch for the bird's brow, and he speaks her name: Fox Tail, after a token won with both bravery and cunning, plucked from the hide of a creature that would have readily devoured her. She accepts with a quick bow of her glossy head, a hoarse little echo of his words first from her throat, then rippling through those who watch from above. Fox Tail.

She flaps back up to the branches overhead and another crow takes her place, this one bearing a glittering strand in his beak; a thread of delicate links that glow in the summer sunlight for all that they are slimed with lakeshore silt; something precious - once treasured, then lost, and now found by bead-bright eyes. Golden Chain, the boy murmurs, and this bird too repeats his new name before carrying it back to his perch in the trees.

The ceremony repeats again and again as the crows descend one by one to trade treasures for names. Each name taken up into the treetops, added to the rest until the boy's lap is heaped with trinkets and the clearing is a-chatter with something like song.

...Oak Apple,
Sweet Berry,
Black Shilling,
Bright Penny

White Feather,
Crooked Pin,
Tin Whistle,
Copper Ring

Mirror Shard,
Pearl Shell,
Blue Bottle,
Silver Bell

Iron Nail,
Cat Bone,
Brass Buckle,
Arrow Stone...

Names that they have found or won or stolen; names earned with swiftness or daring or guile, plucked from streets and fields, and each with a story of provenance. The sun settles to the horizon, and the clearing echoes with raucous little voices as the crows regale one other with tales of how each earned a name.

A year. A year of strangeness and changes, of trials and ordeals. The crows had grown, had learned, had thrived when it seemed that all else in Myrken Wood had struggled and stumbled. Oh, the Winter was lean, but less so for eaters of carrion. And then came the Spring, and with it a flock of new brothers and sisters, gaping mouths in nests lined with a madman's curls. Weeks past and, as their siblings had before, they learned the use of their wings and chased one another through the treetops in raucous delight.

Before long the older crows, the previous year's brood, bring them to see Cherny at his new home in the lakeside lodge. He is delighted, of course, and makes a great fuss of them. He teaches them the games with which he'd tested their predecessors, and they learn quickly. They learn the tricks and tests, they learn how to find hidden morsels, they learn to trade treasures for treats, they learn words, and by midsummer the forest is filled with the chatter of raw little voices.



For a couple of crows to follow Cherny about has become customary; has become tradition, and the task falls to this pair or that according to some system the boy has not quite worked out - save that he understands the birds view it as a privilege, and not entirely due to his tendency to keep treats and morsels about his person. They watch over him, bead-bright eyes ever-alert for danger. He still fears the wolves that scarred his arms and took his sister's hand, and the presence of black-feathered sentinels grants him some measure of reassurance as he goes about his duties.

Finally, a day after midsummer, their vigilance is justified. A battle ensues between Noura, Cherny and the wolfish beast; at the end of it the wildling and squire still draw breath, and the brute lies dead on bloodsoaked turf. Not the wolf alone, however, for in the final moments, when it had seemed the squire might be struck down, his watchful crows had flung themselves at the beast's head in a storm of beaks and claws and thrashing feathers.

Bird-bones are light and hollow, and no match for savage jaws.



Sweet Berry. That was the name he'd won, plucked from a sharp-thorned thicket that grew along the riverbank; the brambles soaked their roots in cool water, producing fruit so fat with juice that each piece burst with sweetness on the tongue. No, not won - shared, a gift carried unbruised in a sharp black beak and set in Cherny's palm with immeasurable care. That was his way - to bring gifts, treasures found but not hoarded, be it forest fruit or shining trinkets, preening at the cries of delight such presents provoked.

All gone now, snapped away by wolfish fangs to leave only a bloodied mess of torn flesh and broken feathers, the crow's selfless heart crushed and stilled in an instant. His cousin had survived with only a ravaged wing - only! - but Berry was gone, a beloved friend reduced to a pitiful broken thing. Tin Whistle would likely live, in part thanks to the boy's careful doctoring, but whether she'd fly again he daren't guess. She rests for now in a straw-lined box, her wounds sprinkled with flour and her wing bound against her side.

For Berry the boy has done what he can, has smoothed ruffled feathers and folded the crow's wings over the crushed ruin of fragile ribs; he sits on the sill of his attic window, spine pressed back against the frame, and absently strokes the pad of his thumb over the dead bird's brow. Hunched black shapes line the trees nearby, silent and mournful.

Dusk draws in, and at length Cherny retreats from his windowsill perch; the feathered body he sets on a stool in front of the window, arranged in tender repose.

He moves with purpose as he makes his preparations, even as his eyes burn and his throat tightens in grief. As he leaves the lodge in the direction of the Broken Dagger there is a clatter of wings from above, his crows flapping to the attic window and dropping into the room beyond.

The boy walks away, and the woods behind him echo with hoarse moans of dismay.