Travel Log of a Raven

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Written by Michelle McCollyer

Though some call us lesser names, we call ourselves Ravens. Should a noble or high born warrior fall, for a fee, a Raven ensures a body returns home.

The deathmire of Atawa should have been a Raven’s dream. For every warrior standing, dozens lay dead, mounded together in towers and walls taller than most men. Those left alive piled the bodies in mid battle, desperately needing a barrier between them and the flights of arrows and the charging knights.

Atawa could have been a Raven’s dream, but I arrived a day too late. I passed several Ravens on my way with their carts loaded up with bodies of the wealthy gentry, the real trophies. They piled their carts so high the hooves of their oxen hooves kept sliding, clacking about on the rocks, trying to get enough traction to tug them over the ridge. Those Ravens who left early were the lucky ones. The nobility screwed the rest of us. Once rested and no longer required to fight, many of the remaining warriors opted to personally take home bodies of their fallen companions, leaving us with the remaining nobodies. What work is there for a Raven after Peace?

Atawa was a grand damn mess. Why would anyone ever live there? Those idiots founded their town in a sinkhole between three mountains. Idiots. They deserved to have their town destroyed. Who’d ever fight for this place? Completely indefensible, all three armies charged in, one after the other, slaughtering the last to hold it. At the end of it, nobody was left to fight; they all laid dead, so they declared Peace. Three great armies annihilated each other over a place like this. Idiots.

By the time I arrived, the Merchant scavengers had already disassembled most of body barricades, removing everything sellable. The Holy Men of Spiritual Kingdom -- I like to call them Blessies -- didn’t even have time to honor the dead yet. It’s tough to return a body without heirlooms. You rarely will get payment from the receiving house. You’re lucky if the house doesn’t accuse you of looting the dead yourself. I was nearly hung for that once. Though I had no work, I was glad I didn’t have to guard any bodies against the Merchant Scavengers this time.

They called it Peace, but I saw more brawls between peasants than I’d ever seen.  Only a few hours of Peace passed before the Blessies and the Scavengers started their second brawl. Those Merchant Scavengers snatched an heirloom off of some Legendary Bowman of the Spiritual Kingdom. Ruthless. Guess the Blessies don’t have war scavengers. In fact, I hear Blessies don’t get payment for their work; no gold, no loot, nothing. How do they eat without gold? Pit them against those Merchant Scavengers who’d sell their children for gold…better than a bear fight. They expected us all to joke it up jolly with each other, those Ravens and hussies from the other Kingdoms, as if we didn’t just jab at one another with broken branches and cooking pots, as if we didn’t just fight each other for the last forty years. Call that Peace, huh? Idiots.

Even with the few of us alive, we were all starving. There was no food. You’d walk two days before you’d even see a squirrel to roast. Every cricket caught. Frogs ceased to chirp. Not even the wolves dared to sing. I’d fall asleep to the silence of rotting bodies.

I was screwed, you see, but luck kissed me on the cheek.  As I shoved through what bodies I could in the fields, looking for marks of nobility--missing ring fingers, empty jewel studs in the armor and such-- a former commission recognized me and ordered me to the Royal Tents. I nearly shat myself. I thought they’d changed the rules of conduct on me again, new King and all. Thought I’d somehow broken some new law. Instead, they promoted me.

You see, my talents extend beyond the average Raven. I know my letters and can write them. They call me The Legacy Liar. I write Valiant Death scrolls for commissions. I enshrine noble deaths and brave deeds in ink, ensuring the dead’s legacy lives on for future generations. Then I return those scrolls home with their valiant body. I was set for the year. A few bodies and a stroll took me to the next year’s battle. I’m the best of my profession, and a much better prose writer than that bastard Sam. He disgraces my profession with lies. At least I try to uncover the truth of a death before giving the tale an heir of honor. I can’t always do it though. Especially when everyone’s dead.

They gave me a title. Imagine me, a royal scribe… Apparently, the former royal scribe, swept up in the vigor of avenging our former dead King, actually thought he could do so, and ended up beneath a pile of bodies. Now I have his title, The Royal Record Keeper For-now-est. Only, I am to relinquish my title once I’ve finished the work here.

Thus far, I’ve recorded several warrior deaths from the Great Houses, the families who rule whole regions of the Kingdom. If I can remember them properly, I can duplicate the stories for those Noble families.  It’ll be rough, delivering a scroll without a body, but it’s all the work I’ve got. Maybe I could get the new King to put his seal on the scrolls, then I could live easy for two years, I bet. Perhaps the new King For-Now-Est will need some more scribe work after that.

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