Dawn came and cast off the dark, returning the land to half-light. He hoped to see a sign of change but the land was still scorched and lifeless.
For a week, the Khryseoi followed their routine of cooking and caring for the wounded. Raven sat atop the wall each night. When the week had passed, the battle fires beyond the Riven Plains faded to embers and went out. He shivered as he wondered what remained in the ashes.
There were heavy footfalls on the stairs. It was Wolf. He’d never mastered the art of moving in silence, despite Raven’s lessons.
“What are you watching for, night after night?” said Wolf, with a yawn.
Raven turned his head. Wolf was dark around the eyes from lack of sleep. “Phylasso,” he said.
Wolf kicked off his sandals, sat down beside him and dangled his legs in the air. “He could be away for some time.”
“He may not return at all. We have to consider that possibility,” said Raven. “I can’t stop thinking that we’ve become endangered; we are all that remain of the Khryseoi. Only Phylasso has the power to grant immortality. What will happen if we lose this gift?”
“Then we would die like mortal men,” Wolf answered with a shrug, “but still our bodies remain untouched by old age, our wounds heal faster than mortal men’s, and already, there’s word that some of our brothers and sisters have returned from death.”
“Some, but not all.”
Wolf looked away to the distance. “Only time will determine how many were unbound in the siege. We still have our gifts. Phylasso lives and will return. I’m sure of it.”
“That’s as may be, but look how quickly we’ve forgotten that Eurynomos still lives too. What if he’s able to find another way into our world? Who will defend it then?”
Wolf scratched his beard. “I don’t know. We’ll have to find a way. You worry too much, Raven. Here... now... in this moment, we know Eurynomos has been banished from our world. The war is over. Tomorrow, we should pay our respects to the dead... of both sides.”
The next morning, they started collecting the dead. The bodies of The Forsaken and Khryseoi were piled high on funeral pyres and set alight. Cremation had been the only sure way to dispose of the dead, to prevent Eurynomos from using the bodies to strengthen his army of The Forsaken, but beyond caution lay the sacred Khryseoi rite; four hundred years of burial by fire.
The bodies crackled and burned, creating columns of smoke tall enough to touch the clouds. When there were no more of the fallen to be found, the Khryseoi prayed for the dead from both sides and began to grieve. Raven kept to himself and watched from the top of a rise. The fires burned for days and he wondered if the rivulets of smoke carried the spirits of the dead into the sky.
After a month, it rained. Raven stood out in the open until he was drenched to the skin. Afterwards, he slept deeply for the first time in centuries, comforted by the gentle pattering of drops against his tent. When the rain stopped, the clouds broke and thinned and he saw the dazzling blue sky. He heard someone laugh with joy, a smattering of cheers and a woman break into song. The earth soaked up the rain and looked more brown than black in the sunshine.
Fresh sweet rain continued to fall, washing away blood and ash. Insects returned, and birds, spreading seeds from nearby lands. Grasses grew again, followed by bushes and shrubs, and within a year, Illyria was green. Raven walked the land and marvelled at nature’s resilience. As life took hold again, only a few brown scars remained. He buried his bare feet in the soil, closed his eyes and swore he could feel the earth healing Herself. With every breath, he felt both insignificant and exultant in Her presence.
On the third anniversary of the last battle, the remaining Khryseoi gathered to vote on their future; whether to stay together or disband. Raven felt the ballot was being held in haste. To him, the years had passed as quickly as a season. He’d barely broken the habit of taking his bow wherever he went. He looked at the faces of the gathered Khryseoi. Many had begun to use their true names. Night after night, they had exchanged stories about their homelands, families and lives before the war. Now, their eyes had started to become dull with a lack of purpose. Some shuffled their feet, others chewed their fingernails and one man had nodded off to sleep. They woke him when it was time to vote. Each Khryseoi took a pebble and placed it in one of two urns. Raven held his stone tightly but as he approached the urns, he put it back in his pocket and returned to his seat next to Wolf. The vote counter raised a stick and broke both urns, letting the pebbles spill onto the ground. One was full, the other empty. “I declare the war over!” he cried. Wolf gave a hearty clap and the gathering broke into cheers and applause. Raven had heard him speak about leaving many times. Resting his hands on his lap, Raven looked at the Khryseoi and wondered if this was to be the last time he would see the men and women he’d come to call close friends. He wondered if they would return to their homelands, or drift wherever wind or whim took them.
Before the Khryseoi disbanded, someone put a second proposal; that one Khryseoi should remain to watch over Illyria for Phylasso’s return, or in case any trace of Eurynomos or his servants reappeared. They decided to build a tower, high on the cliff above the ocean, for The Watcher to keep vigil.
Raven volunteered to be The Watcher, as did Lilya of the Saami people who had lived in the cold north beyond Scythia before the war.
“There’s no need for two Watchers,” she said. “How about a compromise. You can visit me every now and then, and bring news of the world. Why do you choose a life of solitude?”
Raven shook his head, disarmed by her even gaze and gentle smile. “I could ask you the same question.”
She held her arms out wide. “I like the climate.”
He laughed.
“That’s better!” she said. “You’re much too serious, Raven. And besides, as I’m a shaman, I’m better qualified.”
He nodded. “You’re right.”
The council marked the end of the war by setting the wall alight. There was feasting, drinking, merriment and song for many days.
Raven strayed from the revelry. Toying with the voting pebble still in his pocket, he looked across the land towards the sea. His feet shuffled forward as if compelled to move of their own accord. He set them free and strode over the hills and through the valleys towards the coast. He marched through the night and the next day until he could smell the sea. Standing on the edge of a cliff, he gazed at the ocean. The stench of rotten fish had gone, and the sea, once stained a murky putrid green, was now clear and blue where the water met the land. He took the voting pebble from his pocket and cast it into the sea. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, feeling a sense of calm at last.
The wind rose, swirling his hair about his face and whistling in his ears. As it fell away, Raven thought he heard a man’s voice say, “Come!” He strained his ears but didn’t hear anything further. Again, a compulsion rose in his belly, urging him to follow his feet. Turning inland, he saw the veil of smoke rising from the burning wall, drifting in the wind. He walked first with urgency and then broke into a run, crossing the plains, heading towards the heart of the land, the place the wall isolated from the rest of the world. As the remains of Eurynomos’s fortress came into view, Raven saw the land was still blackened and dead. He stopped at the edge of the scar upon the earth, breathing hard. The smell of rotten flesh and faeces filled his nose, and he gagged, reminded of Eurynomos’s pervasive odour. In the cool breeze, his sweat dried on his skin and prickled his back.
“Remember this place, Raven,” said a male voice, clear and close, but also hoarse and thin, as if he was struggling to breathe.
Raven turned around but saw no one.
“This is Eurynomos’s mark upon the land. Even in defeat, he reaches out with his will to cause the lifeless to rot. His scent is carried by everything that decays. It is sweet to flies, his earthly servants. This is to remind you of his power. The war isn’t over. Many of his servants remain. They are weak but will re-emerge in time, more determine
d to free their master. If they succeed, Eurynomos will lay the world in ruins. You must be vigilant and prepare for their coming. Raven, you are...”
The voice faded and was gone. Raven waited for a moment, hoping to hear more. As the wind rose and roared in his ears, he began to wonder if it had been his imagination.
* * *
Returning to the Khryseoi camp, Raven found Wolf rolling up his tent and packing a bag.
“Ah, Raven!” said Wolf, with a hearty chuckle. “I was beginning to think you’d embraced your freedom and set off to explore the world.”
Raven shook his head. “I’ve been walking.”
“Walking?”
“Yes. I visited the site where Eurynomos’s fortress once stood.”
Wolf scrunched his nose and grunted, but continued to stuff clothes into his bag. “Yes, the earth is still a damned mess. Perhaps, some day, it will all turn green again.”
Raven bit his lip. “While I was there, I heard a man speak.”
“What man?”
“His voice was carried on the wind.”
Wolf glanced at him with an eyebrow raised. “Really? Hmm. What did this ‘man’ say?”
Raven swallowed hard. “He said the war wasn’t over, that we should prepare for the next wave.”
“What next wave? We’ve searched far and wide. There’s been no sign of Eurynomos, The Forsaken or any dark spirit!”
“The man said they are weakened but will return in time.”
Wolf paused, a half rolled-up belt in his hands. “You’ll have a hard time convincing the other Khryseoi. They’ll need more substance than ‘a man speaking on the wind.’ Were you taking wine? Or red mushrooms?”
Raven shook his head. “I rarely consume either.”
“A dream then.” The leather spun through Wolf’s fingers and he tucked the tight roll amongst his clothes. “Set this notion aside, Raven. It’s time to move on.”
“You’re going?”
Wolf nodded.
“I don’t know if I’m ready. Where will you go?”
“Somewhere,” said Wolf, with a shrug. He looked at Raven. “Three years is a long vigil, even for a Khryseoi. We’re no longer bound to this place.”
Raven looked at his hands. They were smooth and free from cuts and grazes. “This is the only life I’ve known. You’ve lived many. What am I going to do now?”
“Experience life for yourself,” said Wolf. A small smile parted his lips, barely visible beneath his wild blond beard. “Why don’t you come with me?”
“I think I’ll stay here for a while and help Lilya build the tower.”
“She has plenty of time to do that herself,” said Wolf, tightening the drawstrings of his bag and slinging it over his back. “Raven, you’re young, relatively speaking.” He put his arm around Raven’s shoulder. “We should experience... what did you call it? Normal life. Yes, that was it. We should see the world we’ve saved. Are you sure I can’t change your mind?”
Raven looked at the piles of smouldering ashes that had been his home for many years; all that remained of the watch towers and the wall. The wind and rain would carry them away to fertilise the land. He looked at the green hills and turned back to Wolf. “You said Phylasso recruited you for your bravery and cunning.”
Wolf grinned.
“Very well,” said Raven. “I’ll pack my bag. I need an ally. Perhaps, as we travel, I’ll be able to convince you it wasn’t a dream.”
~ Chapter 2 ~
Attica (Central Ancient Greece)
490 BC (sixteen hundred years after the war with Eurynomos)
Raven heard a man running up the hill towards him, panting loudly and disturbing the air, so that insects scattered in all directions, birds fell silent, and a cloud drifted across the sun as if to shield it from the intrusion. Raven set the arrow shaft he’d been sanding and his sharkskin strap aside. Blowing the dust from his fingers, he rested his hand lightly on the pommel of the knife at his hip. Only his jaw tightened.
The man emerged over the rise, trampling the dry grass flat. His blond hair was plastered to his face, and his sky-blue chiton, a popular colour in Athens several years before, was dark with sweat around his arms and chest. He wasn’t carrying a weapon, just a calfskin, rolled into a tube and tied with string. As he waved in greeting, Raven noticed a row of calluses across the line of the man’s knuckles. An Athenian Hoplite then, for the breathless man was a shield bearer and a slave, and likely a favourite one, who could only have earned the chiton as a gift.
The man stopped, sucked in several deep breaths and managed a small smile as he recognised Raven. He glanced at Raven’s hut perched on the hilltop amongst the woodlands and back again. “Beautiful day!” he said. “You must be Raven!” He held up the calfskin, a messenger’s container for protecting a papyrus from getting wet.
Raven loosened his knife, hands moving with the certainty learnt from centuries of practice. “What do you want?”
“A friend of yours... told me I’d find you here... asked me to deliver this.” The Hoplite offered up the package again.
Raven stepped forward and accepted it.
“He also said you’d be grateful,” said the man, still holding out his hand.
Raven loosened the tie and unfurled the skin. It protected a letter, signed with a thumbprint in blood; the mark of a Khryseoi. Raven closed his eyes and felt the subtle emanations from the spirit world; an inaudible hum, rich colours invisible to the naked eye, warmth that could not be felt with fingertips. He opened his eyes. “Thank you,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He found a silver drachma and placed it on the man’s outstretched hand.
The man looked at the coin for a moment, before closing his fingers around it. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” he said, turning to leave. He stopped and looked back. “It’s funny. From the way you were described; ‘a hermit with dark hair and dressed in black’... I thought you’d be older.”
“I am,” said Raven, dismissing the messenger with a flick of his fingers. He waited until the man was no bigger than his thumb in the distance before he examined the scroll. The page rustled at his touch, as if it remembered the reeds from which it had been made.
Raven,
I have completed my investigation of the prospective conflict between Athens and Persia. The situation is graver than we first thought. I travelled to Persia and saw their assembled armies. They are great, but that is not the worst of it. At long last, I have discovered the proof we have sought, that the war, our war, is not resolved. I apologise for the times I doubted the truth of your story.
Now the world is in grave peril. At Darius’s right hand sits a formidable warrior, a mountain of a man, scarred from so many battles he is blemished head to feet. This warrior whispers into Darius’s ear day and night, driving the King to a passion of blood lust against the Athenians. His intent is surely to manipulate these mortals to draw us out from our slumber, for he has succeeded. I was captured and questioned about matters I will not put in a letter.
We must talk and soon. I have not felt fear in a long time, but this warrior drove a spear of terror into my chest. There is no doubt he is possessed by a dark spirit, a servant of Eurynomos. You were right. They are re-emerging. We must stop this dark spirit, and return him to the pits of Tartarus, before he can free his master.
I wait with the Athenian army at Marathon Bay. Make your way there with all haste. Ask for Olus, aide to the General, and speak the phrase ‘red earth’. He will know where to find me.
Wolf.
Raven read the parchment twice. He walked to his hut, crushed the sheet into a ball and tossed it into the hearth. Fiery sprites leapt up and burned brightly for a moment as they consumed the page. He bit his lower lip and heard the rasp of his whiskers against his teeth. After sixteen lifetimes, he’d reasoned and rationalised the voice he’d heard at the ruin of Eurynomos’s fortress as a trick of the wind. Now Wolf was certain.
Massaging his brow with his fingertips, he still
felt unprepared, and he stood for several minutes breathing slowly through his nose. The long, lazy years after the war had drifted by and he had been able to forget The Forsaken and dark spirits. In a moment, as if he’d woken from a long sleep, their faces returned with clarity, tortured, half-consumed men, denied death by the strength of Eurynomos’s will. The God of Death could not be allowed to return to the world.
Raven loaded a selection of arrows into his quiver, grabbed his bow and strapped both to his back. He set off, running without pause, as swift as a mountain goat over the tussock, leaving few tracks as he passed. The woodland gave way to a dusty red-brown valley running between the jagged hills. As he ran, the air burned a little in his chest. He chose a long route over flat land to make the journey to Marathon Bay, as the mountain ranges of Greece were hard to cross and hampered even the most experienced traveller.
He arrived at dusk on the second day. It was a mild autumn evening, but a chill wind blew inland from the sea. It seemed to carry an ill omen and he shivered. The sunset cast deep shadows across the Valley of Vrana and burned orange against the Athenian’s tents.
He passed the Hoplites on guard. The cooking fires had been lit in the Athenian army’s camp, filling the air with a dull haze. Ten thousand soldiers waited, wondering if this would be their last meal before the Persians landed. The tents were crowded and most of the men looked as if they hadn’t slept much. They sat in huddled groups, having passionate conversations in hushed tones. All around, Raven could hear the slow scrape of stones sharpening the edges of bronze swords. The smoke from many fires made his eyes water as he emerged from the shadows, now past the guards on the perimeter. The atmosphere was strange yet familiar; the smell of sweat, the mood of anticipation, the way time seems to stretch while soldiers wait for their enemy to appear. It had been another time and place, and the people had been different, but he remembered the sense of purpose he’d felt sixteen hundred years before.
Valley of the Shadow Page 2
