Raven's Warrior

by Pratchett, Vincent

  The usually stoic priest was clearly proud of his daughter, and the beggar, still in blackened tatters, was unmoving beneath his shabby attire.

  The accursed spoils of war that once hung behind the seat of power had long since gone, as had the heavy dread that had once filled the city. Indeed initially, the feel within this court seemed unusually warm and light.

  My mind and ears now floated up and outside these red brick walls and towers. I could hear the laughter and joy of children once again running wild. Trade and commerce had begun to pulse, and the many open sores of plague had begun to heal. Life had now returned after the long winter of pestilence and annihilation. Spring had come once more.

  Our horses were well looked after thanks mostly to the commander’s awkward page, and in my mind I was already riding. They, too, would enjoy the work and the journey ahead. They were fit and fed and I looked forward to their company.

  My mind soon returned to the large court, and again I could feel the disturbing presence of the cloaked commander far behind me and to my left. I knew his hatred had not tempered, and to me he seemed more mad dog than man. The speech from the throne was coming to an end, but had seemed almost as long as our entire stay.

  Finally the emperor was finished, and now no longer speaking to all assembled, he looked to us and said, “Ask of me any favor and it will promptly be granted.”

  Mah Lin spoke first, “I want for nothing, my lord.”

  Selah was the next and she looked with love to her father and to me, “I want for nothing, my lord.” was all she said as she smiled shyly.

  The emperor then turned to me, “speak warrior,” he urged.

  “I, too, want for nothing, my lord.”

  He nodded in silent understanding. Lastly he addressed the beggar. “You who have never had anything may ask any favor.”

  The beggar removed his hood, and although old and frail, his powerful presence now controlled the heart of imperial power.

  “I ask two favors, my lord.”

  The emperor was pleased that at least for one of us he could be of service. “Speak them,” he implored.

  The beggar did not hesitate, “I need a bag of fine silk to carry my treasure to its northern home.”

  The emperor was amused by the thought of a beggar’s treasure, and moved quickly to strip a fine bag from his high-standing minister, and slung it with ceremony across the black rags that half hid the skinny shoulders. The emperor had been expecting a far more opulent request.

  The ruler bid him, “Ask again.”

  The beggar now paused and looked around the whispering court. His black eyes returned and held the emperor in their fearless grip, as he drew forth from beneath his rags his brass begging bowl. He spun with the power and grace of an untamed animal and sent the large heavy bowl skittering loudly across the cold stone floor.

  It came to rest in the darkest and farthest corner by the feet of the shocked Supreme Commander. As everyone stared in disbelief, the loud voice of the beggar echoed through the silence of the hall. To the emperor and for all to hear he implored, “Bring me the head of the northern rebel, it is time that he find rest.”

  As the shocked and empty voice from the throne spoke the words, “It shall be done,” the unearthly cry of a human animal rose up from the shadows and resonated in the caverns of the beggar’s bowl.

  The Homeward Journey

  Within the hour we were ready, for like our horses we wanted to quickly leave. Selah’s white mare nuzzled and snorted happily at the reunion. Her horse danced and played as the young page brought the other three. He had centered my saddle upon the blue square weaving, and on the back of my charger its quality and color came to life in the sunlight. All three noticed and nodded in appreciation. The page stroked our mounts farewell, and to us he whispered, “Be careful.”

  By saying little he had said much, but it was really nothing we did not already feel. The beggar had his favors tucked beneath his rags. It was understood that he would return with us before traveling to the cold northern lands, where the rebel would find his final place of peace.

  The complexion of the land over which we returned was much healthier, although many of its people now bore the lifelong scars. We moved smoothly by daylight compass and nighttime star. This was not a carefree journey, although it was not completely joyless either. We stopped briefly at the same inn, and Selah held her former patient and once more crooned the songs of her childhood.

  The blade of Mah Lin’s staff was now always unsheathed. We would move fast, stay vigilant, and deal with anything that may come our way. There was little doubt, however, that in some form it would come, and we would not be taken by surprise.

  I have had this feeling many times before a fight. It is a burning of the senses that the instinct to survive ignites. Mah Lin was ever more a warrior priest, and as I watched the beggar I knew that despite his tattered exterior, he would not wilt in battle. I rode close to Selah, on the promise made to a loving father; even though she was far from helpless, I sought to always protect her.

  We were nearing the end of our journey and approached the safety of our homeland. Silently I tracked the distant cloud of rising dust for more than an hour.

  “What do you see, Arkthar,” Mah Lin asked.

  “Light infantry, no horses, no heavy weapons, fifty perhaps sixty in number, moving fast, no way around, and we are too close to home not to give up our location,” was my terse report.

  “What would you advise?”

  “We must cut through them like steel through iron. We are lost without horses. Selah and the beggar must push ahead with all four and protect them. When safe she can shield us from a distance with arrow cover; we will break through and be past them. They will limp home, and we will ride.”

  With curt nods from his daughter and the beggar, Mah Lin looked at me. “We agree.”

  So it was upon this road that we met imperial troops but gave no signal of our concern. At two hundred yards their archers released first volley. We charged under and towards with the speed of demons. The beggar held four reigns, and Selah at the forefront released arrows with machine precision. Many fell well before we had reached them, and many more fell under the hooves of our mounts.

  At full gallop Mah Lin and I dismounted as the four horses and two riders were past and safe. Selah sat backwards now, and with the beggar in control of the flight, she fired arrow after arrow, most biting deeply into their mark. For Mah Lin and me striking at a full sprint was second nature. These soldiers knew only how to stand and fight. It was as the carnage of the bamboo grove, but now men fell instead of wood.

  As wind moved over his weapon, the sound of the monk’s bladed staff sang to me of his location, and the damage of long and short-range steel was as brutally thorough as it was final. Panic soon gripped the soldiers, and Selah and the beggar charged back to us again. All the while her arrows flew and men perished.

  Mounted in an instant we flew for the protection that distance would afford. Behind us any that were not dead were stumbling, and the few that were not lying or stumbling, were running in the opposite direction. We were so close to safety when I heard the whisper of the feathered flight, and the thud of flesh struck well.

  She cried out briefly and fell forward onto the red-stained neck of her white mare. The beggar grabbed her reins, and we flew home as quickly as the wind before the storm.

  The Trusted Minister

  His life within the palace had changed much and he had changed with it. For his family, past and future, he would continue as he always had, giving advice to be accepted or rejected by the Son of Heaven. His one solace was the company of the page, a boy not unlike his son, and like his son, a boy he could no longer protect. Duty bound, he gathered his thoughts and prepared to advise his tired ruler.

  The events of recent days had unfolded quickly, and would ignite a course of action that he could influence very little. Perhaps this was the biggest change. His life before had revolved around Im
perial power, but now it revolved around a world of limitations and shortcomings, both his and those of his beloved emperor. Loyalty was his only constant.

  The minister must lay the facts before the feet of power. Soldiers of the Imperial army had been killed. The emperor listened to his report without emotion. In these times no weakness, real or perceived, could be shown.

  The job of advisor was often a balancing act of delicate proportions. As a trusted official his job was to inform, but sometimes in the delivery of information lies the ability to sway. “My Lord,” he began, “there has been an occurrence close to the homeland of our recent guests. It is an incident of a serious nature and one requiring your immediate attention.” In the somber quiet of the private chamber, he pressed on with the details. Twenty-three of our soldiers are dead, twelve wounded. Although his report covered only the imperial perspective, he would try to shed light on the truth.

  Thankfully after a long silence his ruler asked, “Who fired the first volley?” He measured his reply, “Official reports state that first blood was drawn by the four, but it seems unlikely…” A wave of the emperor’s hand cut short his interjection. The ruler again fell back into contemplation, and the minister knew that only official reports carry weight. After a moment that seemed longer than eternity did the power of the throne speak again, “Mercy is a virtue extended only by the weak.”

  “My Lord, it is obvious that these events were spawned by the one that has always challenged…” Once again the minister was cut silent. “I already know the truth.”

  The minister watched now as the emperor stared blankly, his mind moving and measuring before he spoke again. “I thank you for your report and your loyalty, but there is nothing left to say.” The minister stood speechless as tears welled up and spoke above his ordered silence.

  Uncharacteristically, the emperor placed a hand upon his servant’s shoulder and in a gesture both kind and unexpected, explained gently, “They saved my people and I owe them much, but they are not more important than the future of my kingdom. In each I perceived a light of destiny, a power perhaps equal only to my own. These are strange times, and events must now unfold by their own course.”

  Through a lens of tears the minister looked proudly upon his emperor, as the voice of all power continued. “What is meant to happen is already written. The motion of the heavens will not be stopped. It may be that the bear has bitten more than he can chew. Have faith in the ever-expanding universe, that chaos will rule only briefly, before balance is restored. Take comfort in my words, for although I struggle to cling to the power of this dynasty, am I not still… The Son of Heaven?”

  With that the emperor took his leave, and in his wake the minister stood in shock. The high official once so bound up the workings of the material world of power and politics had now caught a glimpse of the ethereal and the spiritual. As the words of the emperor faded like a distant echo, he bowed his head and prayed once more. He did not pray for the death of the commander however, for he was beginning to understand that evil carries the seeds of its own destruction.

  Instead he prayed for the four that had answered his official proclamation, and for the life of the page that had become his son.

  The Prey

  For once the commander had suppressed his irritation and planned his maneuvers well. He had not left the palace for three full weeks. Instead, he had remained under the watchful eyes of the entire court and sent his orders quietly from afar. He had calculated accurately that fifty infantry would not be enough, and he had reasoned perfectly that there would be survivors to tell the tale of an unprovoked attack. Now he would be able to attend personally to the butchering of the monk and all his family.

  The commander missed the company of the northern rebel, and he looked forward to bringing him back. He received the expected summons for a private audience and smiled his damaged smile as he weighed his prospects. He swung the heavy cloak over his polished-armored shoulders and marched into a small, secured anteroom to hear the Son of Heaven tell him what he already knew.

  The emperor was grim and serious as he reported the news. On bended knees and with his head to the floor, there was no real need for the commander to listen. He heard the important parts. An unprovoked attack on an unsuspecting Imperial squadron could not go unpunished. He was to assemble with all haste and proceed south and to the east in the service of the empire.

  The five hundred men that he selected were the most ruthless that had ever served under him. Good soldiers are ones who have a sense of duty, but the men selected were loyal only to the pleasure of the kill. They enjoyed rape, child murder, and the senseless slaughter of civilians. In short, the people that the commander hand-picked were all men very much like himself.

  There was, however, one exception, and the commander called roughly to his page, “Polish my armor but don’t touch my cloak. I’ll take my meal in my quarters tonight, and you leave with me tomorrow.” He waited cruelly for the boy’s confused look before he added, “We go to kill your new friends.” The page was silent and looked down toward the mantis held secretly in his hand so that the commander could read nothing on his young features.

  By evening the final preparations were finished, and the well-satisfied commander retired to his quarters. They would leave early in the morning, and the march would be set double time to reach the quarry quickly. He had gotten the reports of the incident from his own sources and was mildly surprised by how well the staff and sword had functioned together. No matter, he thought, against this five hundred there would be only one outcome.

  He took no alcohol that evening, preferring to be fresh when they left. He looked at the bearskin that was draped across his bed, and he thought proudly of the trap that he had set. Free from drink he had trouble falling asleep, but would not risk the company of another whore, and when sleep finally did come, it brought no rest.

  Alone and eerily content, he found tracks in the new fallen snow. He followed the large, fresh paw prints of a moon bear. He was careful not to be taken by surprise and paid close attention to the nervousness of his battle-tested horse. The tracks led eventually to the mouth of a cave.

  Tethering his steed to a leafless stunted tree not far from the cave opening, he climbed quietly to a rocky outcrop twenty-five feet high and directly above it. The plan was a simple one, and one that he had seen executed many times as a boy. He sat in patient silence and watched his exhaled breath fog in steady bursts, as it mixed with the cold, crisp air.

  The image of the blackened beggar and his bowl filled his mind. He sat quietly like him, but instead of a bowl he cradled the rebel’s severed head in his frost-covered lap, and to his left he laid carefully his war bow and quiver. The wait would not be a long one.

  Already his horse whimpered and tugged skittishly at reins that secured him like a lamb tethered for slaughter. The commander could feel the heat rise from the opening as the large grey head appeared below him and sniffed the air cautiously. Hunger has a powerful pull, and his wild-eyed horse as if on cue began to panic. As the huge grey shag shoulders cleared the entrance, he lost his grip on the rebel’s head, and his reflex to save it caused him to lose balance and fall forward from the ledge. He fell from his height and landed square upon the shoulders of the raging bear.

  From flat upon the ground he saw that the lunar crescent on the animal’s chest restored and whole once more. He felt the powerful claws rip flesh from muscle and tendon from sinew. The pain was excruciating; he could hear and feel the cracking and breaking of his bones. The massive jaws gnawed his face, while the weight of the beast crushed out his empty life.

  He heard the crunching of his skull, shattered by the bear as easily as an egg cracks. The nightmare sound was drowned out only by the pain. The bear tightened its vise-like bite, and he felt his body lifted from the ground. With a mighty shake of its thick neck, the commander felt his head ripped from his body, and he screamed himself awake.

  Drenched in cold sweat, he rose on weak
legs. The rising sun had turned the morning clouds blood red, like a crimson blanket spread upon the powdered snow. The commander shuttered.

  A red morning sky would mean bad weather.

  The Cavern’s Bounty

  Her father and I carried Selah’s blood-soaked body from her horse into the main room, with the beggar following closely behind. Carefully we laid her upon the table taking care not to disturb the arrow that protruded from her back. The blood was dark and her breathing was shallow and irregular. I had seen wounds like this before, it was mortal. I stood numbly, I had not protected her.

  The beggar moved me aside, and quickly he and Mah Lin had loosened her tunic to examine the wound. Their faces were stern and grave as they conferred. They looked at the torn flesh around the shaft for clues about the shape of the arrowhead. The beggar noted the feathered flights were not spiraled so at least there was no rotation, but he was not pleased that the bleeding no longer flowed outwardly.

  He did not like her ashen features or the coldness of her skin. He did not like the darkened color of her blood. He did not like the whisper of the pulse he heard with fingers gently placed upon the arrow’s wooden shaft.

  The look on his face spoke everything to her father and to me, and yet inevitably his words still came.

  “Selah is dying,” he said. His voice was hollow and detached from all emotion. It seemed to float above our heads as it continued, “If there is any hope, it rests with Dragon Fire.”

  The word hope reached down through my despair and touched my soul. The word Dragon shook it to the core, and fully woke it.

  The two men were already in motion and ignored my question, “What is Dragon Fire?”

  Mah Lin was searching through Selah’s sewing box, and the tattered beggar was writing what looked like a prescription. They finished their tasks at the same time and approached me. Mah Lin was the first to speak, as he pressed Selah’s thimble into my waistband. “Ride quickly to the cave,” he said, as the beggar pushed both bowl and parchment into my idle hands. The blackened beggar had given me his written list and carrying vessel, the priest had given me the measure. I was like a child being sent to the market.