Raven's Warrior

by Pratchett, Vincent

  Whether to season our food or to heal affliction, her purposeful actions freed the dormant vitality from the withered leaves of a plant that seemed long dead.

  I held a stem gently between my calloused fingers, as I teased its clump of roots I saw the dirt land on the crude wooden countertop like the white soot from the chimneys of my homeland. She drew me from this idle action with a question, “Where do you come from?” was all she asked. From the roots and the soil I looked up into the wide brown eyes of a curious child, and realized I had all but forgotten my past.

  I closed my eyes to banish time and distance, as memory began to conjure the dark phantoms of my own history. They opened slowly and fixed upon the delicate root and soil that lay before me, and speech gave my past both voice and life.

  “Sea Lass,” I began, “The place from where I come is a mother blessed with beauty and fertility. She wears robes of living green, and all its shades cover her hills and valleys in a complete and seamless embrace. In her western reaches she is adorned with rock and mountains. It is in place both harsh and generous, and she wears this landscape like precious jewelry. She has always given openly, so that man and beast may live and prosper from one generation to the next.” My eyes closed once more to search with my thoughts the visions I had left behind, and she waited quietly and patiently for more.

  “On all sides she is held by the sea, sometimes gently caressed, and sometimes savagely pounded by the fury of her wild lover. From ocean and sky she draws the weather, and it falls as rain. This rain is what keeps her and makes her whole, and it is the rain that speaks her very moods. Sometimes it falls light and gentle like a mist that delights the senses, but sometimes it drives heavy cold and hard and carries the taste of ocean salt, like tears. From these heavenly tears of sorrow and joy, all life does come.” My memories now welled up within me and spilt out in truth unstoppable.

  I spoke slowly so that she could more easily understand, “I knew no parents, my father died at the hands of the Norse raiders and my mother was taken never to return, but that was longer ago than I remember. When God takes with one hand he gives with the other, and for a child with nothing I had something beyond measure. I had the land of my ancestors written upon my heart. Its people, my people, were written upon my soul. With the passage of time, my body grew strong and I acquired the skills of war.”

  My voice bounced within the confines of the small room, “In this great land, my land, where farmers till and toil, a man with a sword has his place and purpose, for farmers are bound by land and family, and I was without either. The short sharp iron gave me a way to carve my niche and fill my belly, I did not prosper, but I did survive. Battles were my bread and their spoils my butter, for morality does not feed the body. The scarred furrow of war was the trough at which I drank, and at this trough I did drink deeply.”

  Silence settled in the room around us, my thoughts returned from my world to theirs. Her head was bowed, and her hands rested on the rough-hewn countertop. I had spoken for the first time of my parents and my homeland. I looked down upon the delicate plant that lay before me, and my thoughts journeyed home once more. Vividly my mind’s eye beheld the savage Norsemen, and once again my mind’s ear heard the screams from the darkness, but to these thoughts and memories, I could never give a voice.

  As the lass looked down at the plant that I had been holding, a solitary tear fell upon its coiled roots, and the grey soil that still tenaciously clung to it turned mud black.

  The Roots Are Severed

  “Do not cry for me,” I said softly, “For I have shed enough tears for both my homeland and my clan.” I spoke no more, for although my words did purge my soul, they came with a price of awakened pain and sorrow. There would be no more speech, but memory tumbled and rose within my mind like a gollum made from the clay of what was once my birth land, and this effigy conjured from events long past emerged and walked with a life and power both terrifying and unstoppable.

  At a young age I had my fill of blood and killing, and had in pocket enough coin to buy some land and make a family. The nature of thirst and hunger is a craving for what is missing, and family and land were the things of my childhood that I did not have, now I felt them for the first time within my grasp and attainable. I traveled back over hill and sea to the place from which I was born. The time of two moon cycles brought me home to the town called Kilkenny. From where I had come, I had at last returned.

  I mixed openly for a fortnight with the local farmers and the people of this region. They knew me not, but my warrior past was marked upon my body and did at times bring glances of fear and suspicion. I enjoyed watching as they passed their days and lived their lives of commerce and trade. I knew I was no farmer, but I had some skill around a simple forge. I pictured myself settled as the local smith, creating shoes for the large plow horses and repairing iron tools. By night’s quiet comfort, I took meals within the local inn and drank the grains that grew in fields of wonderful peace.

  I made conversation and soon made friends, as fear gave way to acceptance and suspicion fell to trust. I felt at the right place at the right time. I had for the first time a people and a clan. I felt sure that the short sword at my waist would soon find rest, and I would be free of this thing called war.

  But that was not to be.

  I was slow with drink and well relaxed within the tavern walls when the cry went up and the alarm was sounded. A boy much younger than I ran in and screamed that the raiders from the north had landed upon our soil once more, and would soon set upon us. It had been two decades since their last foray; a raid that had robbed me of both my parents, and a time still remembered with dread and terror.

  Instantly the room cleared as all inside rushed to secure the safety of their wives and children, to collect, to assemble, and to fight. I was given the courtesy of the warning but was not asked for anything in return, for to them I was still a stranger, but to me they were my people. In the confines of this empty room, I continued to drink my ale and checked the sharpness of my hungry sword. By the time of four cups, I was stripped and naked, my sword and my mind my only armor. With the last of my woad flower dye, I painted my body for battle and emerged with the breaking dawn.

  Men collected their families and brought them to the square. The wives, the children, and the elderly huddled in mass while men who were merely farmers gathered rusted weapons and farm implements. I walked among them naked with deep blue skin and sword in hand, the savage demon within me prepared now for its release. They questioned not why I chose to fight, for they had taken me in by full measure. I was ready for blood, and Death’s dour purpose was written clearly and terribly upon my features for all to see.

  I moved with the men, some of great bulk, for farming is not an easy living, and we flowed down to the river from where the enemy had emerged before. Their fleet had landed by sail, and moved swiftly up the Barrow River by arm and by oar. They took route by the left fork, a river called Nore which was named for their last incursion. My heart beat faster as my eyes saw the dragon headed prows moving high and swiftly toward our group. Six ships in number, it was a battle we would not survive.

  At first blood it was clear that my people were brave but not skilled, and they fell quickly and painfully before the first onslaught. I killed two raiders in succession, but their fierceness in battle was greater than any sagas told. By sheer number we dispatched the first of their party, but the other long boats had now joined the fray.

  The largest of our party held me in a tight grip and spoke with the intense clarity of one who has already seen his death, “They come for plunder and for slaves. Young prince, the treasure of our land now flees to the hills of Dunmore. There lies a cave that will hide and shelter, go back and get them to its safety. We will hold, we will delay, and we will die here among the banks.” Without thought I saw the wisdom of his words and turned and obeyed his orders without a question.

  With distance the cries of this battle did soften and grow silent, and
in three hours I had caught up to the wandering mass. The children, the women, and the old ones moved painfully slow. Some carried babies, some carried parents, and all carried fear. Our pursuers gained ground, but at last I saw the great mouth and led them through its darkness. This great womb opened, and inside we numbered almost one thousand. Amid the crying I spoke for silence, and as I listened I heard the Norse men closing on our hidden place. Inside I urged them deeper and ran back to the opening hoping to lead the enemy away, hoping that the treasure of my land would be held safe by its mother.

  In the bright light of day as my eyes adjusted from the darkness, they were upon us. I charged the invaders and knew that nothing would be safe. I moved fast and dodged the arrows that came my way, with a loud cry I set upon them cleaving limb from body. A strong right arm stained the ground on which it fell, and I continued my killing until a blow from behind cut through my arm and shoulder. I staggered and turned, and saw that the one-armed Norseman had pried his sword from his severed right arm and struck me with his left. More blows fell, and with darkness descending deeper than the cave, I thought that I heard Death call me by name.

  In agony they held me roughly up and vision came to me again. Their Norse tongue was rough, but I knew its meaning. Alive I at least was of some value, although I had come at a dear price; for six were dead and three were wounded. I was lashed to a rough wooden shield to make my carry easy, and all but two descended into the darkness. With swords drawn and thirsty, they entered, and the slaughter of the innocents began.

  From Dearc Fearna, “The Cave of the Alders,” the screams and cries reached my ears but truly Dark Fear, as it sounds in the Saxon tongue, was now a more fitting name. For over one hour the painful cries rose from the mighty opening, as if mother earth herself screamed her pain. But no birth would come from this womb, finally still and silent, all inside were dead, left where they had fallen, a lesson perhaps for those that chose to resist or maybe a simple economic statement that nursing mothers, children, and the old, make poor slaves. Either way in the business of slaughter the Norse brood was methodical and efficient, for I lay now, its lone survivor.

  Half mad and half dead they carried me on shield to the waiting ships. My journey through hell had begun. I was empty, a man without a tribe, a man without a country. I jumped back from the darkness of my recollections to the sound of the lass’s voice, and I turned in her direction.

  She stood now beside her father and without judgment or pity she replied to my desolate thoughts, “It is written that one day you will have both again, and these you shall have beyond your wildest measure.”

  By Sea And By Land

  That night as I lay quietly in my bed I continued to rake through my pained memories.

  I was cast into the dark hole of their long ship and did not need to be tied for, indeed, I could barely move. By oar to ocean the dragon boats raced, and once there the large mainsail was set, and we were driven only by wind and current. The movement of the ship made me sick beyond measure, and so I lay, in blood, in vomit, and in my own excrement. At first I knew not speed or direction, but by the gathering coldness and the shadows of the sun, I realized we moved northward and to the east. Rough bread was sometimes thrown my way, for even some of these men could still feel pity.

  I watched and listened to them daily, to know if I was to be fed or beaten. I got to know their habits and routines, and at times they seemed almost like normal men. They worshiped their gods, ate their food, and drank as my people did. I remembered my mother and wondered if she had faced a similar fate so many years ago, and I hated them with all the power of my immortal soul.

  Insects that thought to feed on me were quickly eaten by me, and occasionally a careless rat would find its way by my mouth to my stomach. I bound my wounds with rags found jammed between the planks of the hull, for I cared little if we sank or floated. I watched daily as my captors, men of great girth, little morals, and no fear, danced across the mighty ocean. I had been forsaken by God and prayed only for Death, but even his comfort would not be extended. Here in the cold blackness of my floating prison I knew that all had turned against me, and yet I still lived.

  Time passed and ocean became river and direction changed to southward. They carried me to the deck where I saw banks of green and trees of great size and number. I knew we had traveled far, for here and southward the ones we called Viken and Norse were now called the Rus. The great river was named Volga, and it cut through the lands that these wild men called the land of the Slavs, and this vast region was where they hunted freely.

  Sometimes we stopped traveling long enough for some of the Viken to run inland, only to return with women taken by force and held like me. At night I would hear the cries of the women as these fur-clad animals raped and violated them in unimagined ways. Some women chose death, but most were carefully bound because these, both fair and homely would fetch them silver coin, and I thought once more about the fate of my mother.

  Scraps of food continued to come my way, and blood seeped darkly from my filthy wounds. All along the well-worn route my jailors traded. I saw furs for amber, and silver for the living. New supplies were taken on, and new women were captured. I wondered if they pillaged from whom they traded, selling them back what they had stolen. At places along the river the ship was pulled by rope and pushed by oar, until at last we reached a port called Astrakhan that opened to a huge sea. Here new supplies were taken on and stock replenished. For three days we remained, their mood was joyous for the river was now behind us, and sail would be set once more to cross the sea before us.

  Green forest and stark mountain had yielded to sea and sand, and the icy cold had been replaced by scorching heat. On this Khazar Ocean we sailed without incident. The crossing was slow, for here blew only inland winds and not the gales of mighty oceans. I could taste the mist and knew that this inland sea was salted water, and not fresh like the lakes of my world. For two moon cycles we sailed southward until at last we reached another port, and leaving the ship we continued over sand by foot and beast. We traveled now with a desert brown people who on the surface seemed a cleaner race, much less barbaric than the Norse.

  The long journey ended much to the south in a kingdom of great wonder. Ironically, it was this flourishing people who had a boundless appetite for slave girls of white skin and fair hair. These great people were the driving force behind this human trade. The trappings of civilization meant nothing, and may God swiftly judge them all.

  Amid the sprawling city they called Baghdad, I was placed for sale. My poor condition coupled with the festering wound brought little interest from serious buyers, and I feared I would end as a one-armed eunuch amid a snow-white harem. Finally I was sold, only to be dragged eastward further through sand and heat to a place unknown.

  I fetched only a few dinars, and was overcome with joy to know that for all their trouble I had profited the Norsemen little. Few felt I would survive the desert journey, and with so little paid there was little to be lost, and this was my victory. Pulled by chain across the dunes, I felt the constant presence of Death high above my shoulder, but I cared not for my life and so was bound by nothing. In fever I was free and swore that whatever would come I would peacefully embrace.

  I pulled myself back from dark recollection and came back to my simple room. Since that time my agony has faded, and I am safe for now with Merlin and his daughter. I give profound thanks for my simple comforts and my fortune. Death had let me be. Instead of freedom from life, he had given me freedom in it.

  With this thought I felt hope, and passed gently into sleep.

  Balance

  The beggar walked steadily bowl in hand for most of the day. The tattered black rags that he wore dangled precariously from his skinny shoulders. What remained of its hood covered most of his gaunt face, protecting him from burning sun or biting cold, depending on season and circumstance. In cities he sat cross-legged for brief periods of time at the center of life’s busy world. Skinny fingers he
ld the bowl in his lap, and his head nodded grateful acknowledgement for each small contribution it received.

  His life was defined by the concept of enough. Enough to eat, enough to carry, enough to rest, and enough to move on; he was a migratory bird.

  He heard the distant marching of soldiers in formation growing louder and getting closer. He watched the passing ranks of the infantry and smelled the sweat and dust of their rhythmic cadence. He pressed closer to the walls that lined the street, his delicate frame hugged a bricked-up archway so that the cavalry could now pass without trampling him. The common people looked down and away from the sound of the passing military procession to minimize the risk of confrontation.

  This beggar, however, was far from common, and so looked up and directly into the spiritless dark eyes of its mounted commander.

  The powerful steed whinnied and rose in fear, while its rider tugged the reins and fought to bring it under his control. The commander struggled to regain his balance and once again in charge, reached down to the blade at his waist. The steady coal eyes of the beggar did not shift or loosen their grip and seemed to look past the wrecked visage of face and eyes and into the depths of a soul in torment.

  Rethinking the actions of reflex, the leader justified his inability to act decisively with the logic that the black-garbed vermin before him was indeed valueless and not worth the time or trouble of killing. He pulled the reins tightly and with a kick of the triangular stirrups, horse and rider moved quickly on.