Raven's Warrior

by Pratchett, Vincent

To my eyes and ears the population was thicker than any I had ever seen, but the grave faces of those I rode with spoke a different story. To them the city bustle seemed eerily muted. Any that looked in our direction quickly looked away and scurried behind a closing wooden door or window shade. Even the screams and laughter of the wild urban children had been dramatically stifled. Like the bones of the rain bringer, my imagination brought this city back to life, back to the vitality of normal times. If this capital was a mighty dragon, it was one who trembled in the throes of death. It was a beast that now faced and understood its own mortality.

  Finally we arrived at the blood red outer walls of the imperial palace they called the ‘grand inner.’ It lay nestled and protected in the center of this great urban expanse. After passing through yet another gate, we were herded like animals through the corridors of stone by our military escort. Their sideways glances told us that we were not the first that had responded to the minister’s proclamation, and that none had been successful. It was also clear that although we were not the first, we were perhaps the strangest.

  As we spilled into the large nine-pillared hall, dignitaries were already in their places. The large throne, with carved dragons on each arm, was empty, and our eyes focused on a carpet of exquisite beauty that hung behind it.

  My eyes were pulled briefly from the image of its two dragons, as a grey-caped commander hurriedly brushed by to find the darker corners of the hall. His face was kept low as if trying to be invisible, but the mangled features could not hide their contempt and hatred no matter how his head was held. I looked to Mah Lin for a sign of explanation, but could read nothing but serenity upon his strong features.

  I turned back now to the direction of the carpet as the emperor entered and took his place upon the throne. A man of quiet dignity stood by his side.

  The Grand Inner

  Understand that the position of the imperial chroniclers is a serious one, but sometimes accuracy is deemed less important than the need to engage future generations. Often a more riveting tale will usurp the mundane details of stark event. History would record us as a Taoist hermit from Omei Shan, a holy physician, a ‘numinous old woman’ (in this case a nun), and a ‘Ouija board immortal.’ In any event, we had arrived, and it was recorded correctly that we would introduce inoculation to the empire.

  The emperor recognized the robes of Mah Lin’s order, but his voice betrayed nothing as he bade us speak. Selah calmly spoke for us. “While we cannot cure those already ill, we can prevent the pox from taking hold of those untouched.” In this land, a great physician is not one that heals the sick; a great physician is one that prevents the healthy from contracting the disease.

  The minister stooped and whispered to the emperor’s ear. The ruler wore his mask well, but it could not hide an incredulous glance in our direction. His features quickly regained their composure and he spoke for all to hear.

  “None so far have been successful, and none have looked more unlikely to succeed than you. Even the greatest of rulers must bow sometimes to the advice of his most trusted. You may stay, and I will pray for your success.” We obviously had powerful allies within the court, but clearly we also had powerful enemies.

  Spurred on perhaps by the emperor’s derision, it was the beggar who initially poked at the festering boil of hatred and venom and brought it quickly to a head. With the support of Selah and Mah Lin he instructed, no, commanded the emperor to destroy the carpet, before our work would begin.

  He was direct, “That is the trophy that holds the seeds of pestilence and must be burned.”

  Everyone within the court drew breath at the same time. It held the tension of a drawn bowstring. The imperial guards were steadied by an almost imperceptible wave of the monarch’s hand. The first minister feared his life was forfeit for this brazen affront. It was clear to the Son of Heaven that these strangers knew nothing of palace protocol. Still, he wondered whether they were monumentally foolhardy, or heroically courageous. Time, he surmised, would tell.

  I felt once more the sword on my back as I turned and saw him. This one sought the shadows, but his hatred found the light. I saw evil wrapped in the flesh of a man and skin of beast. He glared with wrathful eye at the monk’s back.

  His unmasked loathing blew through me like a strong wind. The fires of my warrior mind flared. I heard Death whisper unknown words to the heat that seared my soul, but the drawing of a single breath brought it once again to peace.

  Evil Grows

  The commander had heard the news of their arrival even before the emperor, and dressed quickly to see if it were true. He was too slow even in his great haste, for the strangers had already been escorted to the safety of the palace. From the shadows of the court he tracked his prey.

  The monk he easily recognized; older now and much more powerful. His face ached as his eyes and memory focused. He was shocked and unnerved by the presence of the tattered beggar, and he now wished that he had killed him in the street when he had had the chance. And then his eyes took in Selah. Even to the commander, Selah was remarkably beautiful, and he had quickly incinerated this thought with fantasies of her rape and murder.

  The pale one wore the chain mail shirt of foreign lands, and the silken blue, between the rings, shimmered even in the dull light of the court. His hair was the color of the mountain deer and his eyes the color of the deepest sea. The commander knew by visceral instinct the sword that nestled on this warrior’s back, but dismissed the lowly wooden toy carried under the warrior’s waistband. His face throbbed with rising intensity.

  The carpet behind the throne was the source of his pride, the visible testimony to what was his life’s greatest accomplishment. These were the twin dragons of north and south that had gained his favor from the Son of Heaven. What world is this, where a beggar directs an emperor? This is surely too much to swallow. Control was a virtue that did not come easy for the commander. Yet here in the imperial court he knew that he must harness himself, for if he were to attack now, he would be cut down like a dog by the emperor’s bodyguards, and the victory of sweet revenge would at best be short-lived.

  He tried to calm himself as he stood, recalling the long cold passage of the day he had waited to kill the bear, and the long cold passage of siege before he killed the rebel. Time would drag on like the suffering of disease, but eventually it would end, and he would be ready. Yes, he must be both patient and controlled, for the time was not yet, and the place was not here.

  Most likely their mission would be fruitless, their time and effort wasted. To stop this sickness was only the pitiful dream of a broken man, a minister who had lost everything and now clung only to hope. Although the commander had lived life unburdened by any spiritual creed, he would now pray for their downfall, and he would wait for his time. Fail or succeed, the work of his enemies would inevitably conclude, and they would return from where they came. The power of the emperor could not always protect them, and in distant place Death would do his bidding.

  He had already secured permission for their destruction, and an emperor’s word cannot easily be undone. Still, in light of present circumstance, stealth seemed a prudent strategy, for he had at least learned the value of a coward’s patience. Within his mind, soothing thoughts crooned that in the long run it mattered not that revenge must wait a little longer, as long as the outcome would remain unchanged.

  From the shadowed comfort of the imperial court, he plotted. The commander need wait only until the time was right. He would endure the slow and agonizing passing of the heavens and stay away from the revealing light.

  The Task At Hand

  None of us ate lavishly or availed ourselves of the palace luxuries that were ours for the asking, instead, we centered ourselves for the battle that was before us. Palace protocol was broken for us, and we were allowed to keep our weapons within arm’s reach, even in the company of The Son of Heaven. This was a title that contrasted strongly with the concept that I had been raised with, but I said nothing
, for this was not my place, it was theirs.

  In their place, in this palace, I felt the cruel eyes of the one called Supreme Commander follow our every move. They watched from the shadows. His hatred was tangible, and I felt like one who walks through a forest of northern wolves. The Sword of Five Elements on my back gave me comfort, and I was not negligent in my practice. Every day I would find time to trace the five cuts and sit with hands in the position of the vajra mudra. In my solace I prayed for peace, and in my movement I prepared for war.

  Ironically, with the scale of the task before us, it was crucial that we have the cooperation and partnership of the commander’s military forces. Selah would turn these military forces from the purpose of killing to the duty of healing. This, too, must have greatly irritated the Supreme Commander like the painful sores of the lesser pox. But within the red palace walls, only the will and the wishes of the emperor had power.

  We four were set up within days. The method of scratching and infecting was not the best for such a large scale project, and the implanting of the sprouts of a virus still very viable was dangerous. She had from the beginning chosen to work with the fallen scabs. The dead ones she called them.

  “Like the crows of siege, the dead must now feed the living.”

  As was sometimes the case, I didn’t understand her fully, but I served her as well as I could. Sometimes I was her protector, sometimes her helper, and always I was her lover. Over time and the course of multiple inoculations, she could harvest the scabs of the ones who had been inoculated with the scabs of someone who had been inoculated. They were weaker and less virulent but still triggered the body’s defense.

  We were a strange healing factory. The black-robed beggar used his brass begging bowl as a pestle and ground scabs to a fine dark powder all day long. This powder was placed in the nostrils upon cotton. The body heard the attack, sounded the alarm, and responded with intrinsic wisdom. It quickly built inner walls to stop its unseen foe.

  This is the technique that we passed to the military. They, in turn, brought it from the palace to the far reaches of the empire. The cure flowed out like the minister’s proclamation.

  The Mantis King

  He was socially awkward in the world of people, but within the world of nature he was in his element. Animals liked him, and he in turn enjoyed their friendship and company. In the wordless presence of those entrusted to his care he was confident and guileless. It was a gift, and it had secured his job as page. Like many gifts though, under the cruel eyes of his commander, he often felt it more a curse.

  Rest and recreation was a privilege that seldom came the boy’s way, but now that it had, he would use it wisely. The commander’s page searched happily in a wilder region of the sprawling metropolis called Kaifeng. Along urban ditches he walked, happy to be away from the rigors of his day and the oppressive presence of the Supreme Commander. A small grove of fresh green bamboo rose up from the sewage trenches like a small oasis in an urban desert. It was beauty rising tall and majestic from raw filth, strengthened by the squalor that fed its root.

  It was in these small groves that he searched with well-trained eye. He was a hunter and this was his domain. Finally he saw it. The bright green insect flew ineptly from one grove to the next, with the young page in hot pursuit. It was clumsy in flight, but on ground it was a skillful warrior. He held his breath while moving towards his quarry from behind and downwind, and with a single pounce he seized his prize.

  The young man felt the flutter of wings within his cupped palms. He carefully slipped the fresh captive into its new home made of discarded eating sticks and fine silk mesh. The insect secured, he studied the preying mantis as it reared up like a horse, its green eyes scanning and its arms held strike-ready across its chest. It was prepared to defend and protect, in an instant, poised to kill. “Surely,” the lad said to himself, as he walked back to the stables, “This is a champion.”

  At night the soldiers gathered within the confines of the barracks to talk, to drink, and most importantly to wager. Mantis fights drew a raucous crowd, and serious money often changed hands. He had a good eye for mantid gladiators, and this one was an amazing specimen. He saw heroism in its stance, perhaps it would make him wealthy.

  His happy musings were sharply cut by the sight of the approaching commander. The commander, too, had been hunting, and the look on his damaged face told the boy that he was the prey. The page had felt the commander’s rage many times; he knew the beating was inevitable, and his only thoughts were for security of his tiny warrior. He managed to place the cage down safely, just before he was sent sprawling by a closed fist.

  It was always a gamble, and he wondered if he should try to stand or stay down. It mattered not, for the bet was fixed. Whichever course he chose, it would be the wrong one. A heavy kick landed on his ribs, and he rolled in pain. The commander seemed more angry than usual this day, and the beating was relentless. The commander had caught up to the rolling figure of the page and was about to launch another blow.

  He was frozen mid-strike by the commanding voice of Mah Lin.

  “Stop,” was all he said, but with a force that could halt a charging horse.

  The commander turned in full fury towards the monk, who stared coldly back into the dark eyes and mangled face. “You dare to order me?” he asked, as he moved menacingly closer to the priest. He was used to seeing those he addressed tremble, but there was no fear upon the robed one’s face.

  “It is not me that speaks it. The request comes from high imperial circles. Your young page will be working closely with us while we fight this plague, and this is ordered by the Son of Heaven.”

  Not even the Supreme Commander would think of going against an Imperial request, and he spat his anger at the man in robes. Bile oozed from his lacerated face, and he quickly wiped it with his arm. Looking with open hatred first to the page who sat bleeding, and then to the monk, the commander stormed away. His last long look, so close that the priest could smell the alcohol on his breath, held a promise.

  The monk picked up the broken boy who cried like the lost and bloodied child he was. As they began the walk back to the palace, he reached down and scooped up the insect that the page had forgotten. “Gambling is a risky business,” he said to the sobbing boy by his side. A reluctant smile burst from the face stained with blood and tears.

  “Teach me how to fight him,” the young man asked. “I will kill him if you show me how.”

  The monk smiled the gentle smile of a loving parent, “That will not be necessary.”

  They walked on in silence, and the page felt the pain of the beating begin to fade like the waking memories of a bad dream. When the two had arrived back to the stables, Mah Lin said quietly to the boy, “If you want to learn the art of defense, you must learn it from a great Master.” A hopeful spark shone from young eyes. “I will study by night and day,” the boy replied. Hope was replaced by confusion as the monk held the cage with the captured insect carefully up to the page’s face and said, “Here is your Master. Study well all the lessons that he will teach you.”

  The page sat in silence long after the monk had left. Idle and thoughtless, he took a blade of straw from the stable floor and slipped it through the mesh. His prisoner was ready, and impaled it with the speed of lightning. That evening while the rough soldiers gambled and drank, the page studied the skills of his mantis in the privacy of his small cold room.

  As he watched the graceful parries and deadly strikes coming from within the small mesh cage, the thought settled that he had found his teacher, and that their journey would be life-long.

  A Challenge In The Sand

  The priest, his daughter, the beggar, and I continued to work steadily at our task. The young page was often by our side helping with the vigor of youth and learning steadily the healing ways of the ancients. He had also found unexpected favor within the court. The emperor’s trusted high minister had bonded with the boy, for indeed the youth had many qualities of his b
uried son. On this day, Mah Lin turned to me and said, “All is well here, Arkthar, why don’t you go and train.”

  He was right. He knew that I had become like the guardian lion of our homestead, and that I could use a small respite. The sword kept my body whole and the meditation of the vajra mudra kept my mind sound. With his blessing I walked from the inner palace to the sanctity of the outdoor training grounds.

  Although all thoughts of war were for me a distant memory, I still enjoyed watching the young soldiers training upon the open military fields. I walked past the large archery fields and smiled inwardly, for Selah’s skill with an arrow was already better than the best of what I saw. The sound of arrows flight was replaced by the steady knock of wooden swords, this changed to steel on steel as I walked on towards a far more private area of this field. I drew the sword from my back, and in lone tranquility began to meld my mind and body.

  The first hour I spent in basic exercises. The Viken pirates of the North had taught me a valuable lesson, one which I would never forget, and the Iron Palm that Mah Lin had taught me in the cavern merged perfectly with the Viken wisdom of training equally the left and right. I began with palming. Not the iron filled bags, however, now I palmed the handle of my beloved Five Element Sword. From left hand to right hand, at first nothing more than a simple catching in midair. If the fist was the hardest weapon of the hand, then the catch was the softest, and I would neglect neither.

  Within the passage of half my hour, the intensity and rhythm of my catches had increased and both my palms had begun to ache accordingly. With the time of hour approaching, my steel did ring out from the battering of my hands. I would break both rhythm and speed for the last ten minutes, until even holding her became a task to push right through.

  Finished now, I sat as sweat ran, and massaged the healing jow into my throbbing palms. I enjoyed the smell of the medicine that Selah had prepared, and my hands cried in thirst for more. I ignored the stares from the caped commander in the distance, but took note that he and the three strong men with him meant me no good.