Of Crows and Jackdaws

Part 6 - The Lay of the Jackdaw

It was a beautiful night of spring. Quite cold, but Old Hobson didn't mind since the Malliverian Archmage had gotten rid of the frost fiend that had been haunting his land. The huntsman's widow had tracked the creature to a cave where all was dead save for foul-smelling mushrooms and moss, and the ground was hard and cold as ice. After the beast had been unearthed, that silent knight plunged an incandescent blade in the heart of the creature, and Father Darian put fire to the monster with a torch that had been lit at the flame of a consecrated votive candle. The little enchanter was prudent, and so he insisted that they cut the daemon spawn's head off and burned what remained until there was naught left but charred bones.

There had been no incident since then.

He was coming back from Bannerbrock, where he had sold some eggs and one of his cows. He had stayed late because he had met an old friend who was visiting from the North. His daughter must be worried by now, but she would get over it in no time. He had taken a longer route, but it was safer and well paved; lit, even. In less than an hour, he would be home.

His ox was getting agitated: it was unused to be out so late. When the animal slowed down to a halt and started mooing wildly, Old Hobson was troubled.

"Damn animal! What's wrong, boy? Why're you afeared?"

The lanterns were snuffed out by a sudden violent gust of wind, and the ox howled and moaned, and struggled frantically. Old Hobson took its head in his hands and talked to it in a soft voice, as if to a frightened child.

"Calm, boy. Calm. 'Tis just the wind, nothin' more. Calm."

The ox seemed to be appeased and stopped whining. Old Hobson stayed there for a moment, stroking the head of his ox, and out of nowhere came a glacial voice full of malice.

"Twasn't just the wind, ol' fool."

Old Hobson felt a cold and implacable hand grab him by the hair and yank his head to expose his neck, and then an immense pain pulsing from his jugular and coursing through his entire body, like a blistering frost in his veins. He was thrown backward and heard his assailant laughing.

"Let's keep you for last, ol' man. I'll first have a taste o' your cattle."

Old Hobson heard his ox moo and bellow and whine in terror and then nothing but sickening sounds of slurping, tearing and gulping. He felt tears running down his cheeks and blood dripping from the wound on his neck. In the morning, his daughter would be so worried, so alone, so afraid.

But then, he felt something warm on his heart.

He brought his hand to his chest and sensed a metallic object, like a thick coin.

A few feeble notes flew through the air, fragile and faint.

"What are you doin', fool?" The vampire's voice was a screech, full of anger and annoyance. "Seekin' comfort in a nursery rhyme in your final instant?"

Old Hobson whistled again, and again the notes were weak and powerless, like a wounded bird trying to take flight.

The vampire was taken with a sinister laugh.

Again, the old man whistled, but this time, the sound rose with joyous vigour and bounced in the trees.

The vampire stopped smiling abruptly and glared at him with feral eyes.

Again, and this time, the whistle leapt and echoed throughout the woods.

The vampire lunged at Old Hobson, but from behind him came the first notes of the Lay of the Jackdaw.

Riza of the Lauss turned around and saw a man in an old black jerkin, walking toward them with a staff rested on his shoulders.