A Conspiracy of Ravens
an excerpt

...a soldier awakens...

The cold was her universe; a bitter, relentless chill that defined her body in dull ache. Her awareness extended no further than her limbs and torso, all of which throbbed in a rhythm that repeated too slowly, too infrequently to sustain her. Reality slipped away, remaining only at the edges to remind her how to feel pain. Darkness surrounded her, though it was not true darkness for she did not know the meaning or form of light -- it beckoned her to slip away, leave the cold behind and come dance in the warmth.

A spark of heat welled up from what she thought to be her chest, contained within the chill surrounding it but refusing to die out. And she felt it reach tendrils of warmth into each limb -- into her head, which she now realized also existed -- and vague perceptions of sense began to dance just out of her reach. Memory, too, returned in the faintest suggestions that there might once have been a time that she was not cold, that she moved, that she ran and jumped.

Return to me, my songbird, my love… stay strong for me…

And the voice. She knew what a voice was, though the conception of the throat was beyond her. Should she trust it? Did she have a choice? Her body began to flow with more of the spark; the throbbing hurt more keenly now, but came with strength and renewed vigor. She clung to the throbbing, willed herself to strengthen it further, and its thundering obscured whatever the voice might have said.

thump-THUMP… thump-THUMP…

So cold.

There was another voice, she realized, a droning in the background that barely penetrated the drummbeat of her -- heart? Was that it? She could not make it out, and for the moment anything outside of her own self was irrelevant. Focus, she needed to focus… come back to herself. All of the rest could wait until later.

…yes, my bird, my care… you are strengthening… borrow more of mine, come back to the world. You are needed.

Awareness of her body returned in full by fits and starts, though most of it she could not feel, as though the chill had excised whole portions of her arms and legs. She was a woman. She lay on her stomach, face up, limbs splayed out. The thundering rhythm of her heart increased in its tempo, and as it did each individual beat hurt her less. Compensating, though, was the new pain that came with the increased sensation -- a stabbing, not an ache, as though she was pinned by a hundred tiny knives to whatever rested against her back. She felt something stir in her throat; it was a whimper, a piteous noise to release some of the pain.

With the pain came fragments of memory; a name, an identity. Tamara Roth, Sergeant in Lady Illsere’s House Guard. First and Third. Registry of three-twenty-two-leapord. What she was doing in the cold place, what pinned her to the ground and what the voice outside was all remained elusive; she grasped at knowledge of her place, and touch began to come back.

Something rested on her skin. It was dry, but cold. Powdery. Wet in places, though, which was odd -- she hunted through her memories, unable to find a word to describe this. She could barely feel it on most of her body; the sensation was keenest on her face and in places across her chest and arms. Was she wearing something, then? It was impossible to say.

It was also at this point that she felt something else; something not-her, but intruding into her body, somewhere around her gut. The alien presence burned as cold as the outside, and pain flared more sharply around it. She felt herself move, flinch in reaction, which sent more pain surging through all points of her. Another strangled cry died in her throat, stifled for the cold’s damage to her voice.

With her own attempt to speak, however, hearing returned in a rush. The other voices, they were speaking.

“…right, get that in the cart. Chainmail’s in horrible shape, but the shield still looks good, and that sword is a nice piece. It’ll bring a hefty sum. Oi, Markus, move your lazy arse! This cold’ll freeze your bits off otherwise!”

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