Raven's Warrior

by Pratchett, Vincent

  The beggar spoke in tones of life and death, and held my eye.

  “Arkthar, do not stray from my formula. With her thimble measure carefully and accurately into my bowl six of the white snow that lies near the bat manure, four of the willow charcoal of the cavern forge, and two of yellow brimstone that cling to the walls like the bats.”

  This man was indeed, more than he did seem. My mind wandered in the midst of my sorrow, but his sharp voice brought me back to center.

  “Bring back the one-arm hammer and a mix of moss and clay as well. Is it clear? Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I said, although I did not understand at all. I understood well though how to follow orders, and I left for the cavern riding with the fear fed speed of the truly desperate.

  I had never been in the cavern forge at night, and on this night the moon and stars hid mournfully behind the dark veil of cloud. I entered through the dry back tunnel, and I set about finding and lighting the torches on the walls. The bellows were silent but the water still rushed, and the wind sang sorrowfully of our circumstance. Within this great cathedral it howled like the Banshee of my homeland. It cried for my fallen people and it cried for those who were soon to die.

  I quickly plucked the green moss that covers the entrance rocks and scooped some red clay that we used in the tempering of the blade. This done, I retrieved Mah Lin’s small hammer. Then carefully I attended to the beggar’s written order.

  I fought with the desolation and focused on the task set for me. I held the formula and the bowl, and I thought of Selah happily sewing my scholar’s robes as she wore the thimble that I now held. It seemed such a small measure for medicine that I prayed was magically potent. I read twice and measured once each of the ingredients and poured them into the old brass bowl. Strong in unwavering purpose I left the darkness to join the others.

  I had not been gone long in the measure of living time, but it was more than long enough to see that Selah’s beautiful spirit had continued to slip away.

  Dragon Fire

  The beggar anxiously took his bowl, and with a spice mortar began to grind the carefully measured ingredients into a fine dark powder. It called to mind his work within the palace, but Selah was cut down by wound not sickness. He had me mix moss, clay, and water into thickened paste upon the table where she lay unmoving. Mah Lin now turned the attention of his sharp knife to the arrow shaft buried deeply in her back.

  As I mixed, I watched him cut the wooden shaft by two thirds, so that it now protruded out the exact thickness of her chest. Into the fletchless remnant of the arrow, he began to carve a hollow trough. He was careful not to move it, and the work was painstaking. When he had finished, he was covered with the sweat of his endeavor.

  An incense stick burned mid table. The heady aroma of sandalwood centered me and brought me strength.

  We all were finished with each of our tasks, and Mah Lin propped up his lifeless daughter as we three gathered around her dimming frame. The beggar filled the shaft’s deep groove with the black powder. It seemed like the loading of a small canoe with the provisions of a dangerous journey. He looked to me to have ready the clay moss paste, and he looked to the monk as if to borrow some of the priest’s deep inner power.

  Mah Lin’s voice cracked the shell of dread.

  “Arkthar, take the hammer. Set fear aside and bind your mind with courage. Look not directly at the shaft. On the command, and with one blow to arrow’s end, you must drive it through her chest but not strike past her gentle back. You must aim the arrow between the ribs. May your God direct your hand.”

  I readied my weapon as I was told, while Mah Lin placed his hand at Selah’s chest to catch the arrow’s tip. The beggar took the burning stick and held its glow just above the well-packed groove. He counted clearly and at three touched it to the dark powder held within the carved and severed shaft. Instantly the room blazed white.

  There was no time for horror as I struck with all my being to the beat of the blinding flash. Both the dazzling white light and the arrow were gone, and from the front Mah Lin caught and pulled it fully through. She cried out as her wound drew in the heat and brightness with a sputter, and the smell of her burning flesh joined the acrid stench of the powder’s rising smoke. In darkness and by feel, we immediately pushed the clay and moss into the blackened holes of chest and back, her body stiffened and collapsed, and in less than a heartbeat it was over.

  The two men bound her wound quickly and tightly with silken strips. The monk laid his daughter back down upon the table as I stood by, blind and open mouthed.

  My vision began to recover from the great burst of light, and I soon saw the arrows shortened length upon the table. Its ugly metal broad-head and the charred and hollowed shaft dripped with black red blood. Mah Lin’s put his ear close and listened to the rhythms of his daughter chest.

  He straightened slowly as the dawn’s light began to fill the room. Mah Lin turned to the beggar and myself and announced, “The Dragon Fire has sealed her well. She will live.”

  There were no words for what I felt. We had not lost her.

  I lay down peacefully beside her on the table and listened to her breathing.

  With eyes closed I still saw the dragon’s fire. It had painted its image inside my eyelids, and its power blazed within my soul.

  Sages And Kings

  Sleep took me until early evening. I felt nothing of the table’s hardness, and knew nothing until I woke to the touch of Selah’s hand upon my cheek.

  “Arkthar,” she said, “I had dreams.”

  “Rest love,” I said quietly, and was happy to see that color had come back to her face.

  Mah Lin and the beggar were preparing a meal, and the monk handed me a cup of bitter herb to ease past his daughters lips. For the moment there was peace in our home, but we knew our situation was precarious. We had at most only a full moon’s cycle before the hounds of war would be fully unleashed upon us. Until then we would live in quiet resolution.

  I still practiced the standing exercise daily, drawing on the strength and tenacity of my ancient oak. On a windy afternoon, I finished and turned, thinking I had felt the arrival of the raven, but instead was greeted by the ragged black beggar who had been quietly watching.

  His face smiled, but in a serious tone he said, “Arkthar, it is by their stillness that men become sages, and it is by their actions that they become Kings.”

  I had come to like the beggar, and he for his part seemed fond of me, but in truth I did not always understand the meaning of his words.

  Selah was recovering well, and by our third day back she was on her feet, although it would be a long time before she would be able to launch an arrow. After the evening meal we four sat in front of the hearth, and I stared relaxed and alert at the pictures within the glowing coals. When a loud crack rang out that sent sparks swirling into the heights, I remembered as a boy an old soldier telling me that these were the fairies coming from their world into ours. I held Selah gently in my arms and I touched the elements.

  I watched the fire play and roll along the soot-covered bottom of the large kettle, and listened to the steady clanging of its lid, as the water within it boiled and bubbled. I scanned the hearth from bottom to top. I saw the hearth’s earthen floor, its burning wood, the nimble flames, its silver kettle, and its bubbling water, and I wondered once again what would happen if the lid could not rise up to release the pressure.

  The beggar drew me from these thoughts, “Young King, you have shown me much about life and its great purpose. You have reminded me about the power of love. This is an experience for which I will always be grateful. I bid you good night.”

  “Good night,” I replied, and as I went to my sleeping place, I added for his amusement, “Is it enough?” He laughed happily and was gone.

  The dreams came upon me strongly that night.

  The Horde Approaches

  The commander marched with all possible haste. He flew over land with the strength an
d speed of one possessed. The end was but days away and he was emboldened by the smell of blood, a creature starved for flesh. Many times along the way he beat his page who would often slow to a mere trot. Indeed, even the hardiest of his killing brood were hard pressed to meet his pace but kept on in fear of retribution.

  The night’s repose was no longer for rest, it was used to sharpen instruments of killing and whet the appetite of destruction. The thought of their deaths consumed him. He craved it. The commander wondered if the beautiful witch was dead, and reveled in the thought that the monk may now be suffering as he had suffered. Part of him hoped that she still clung painfully to life, so the monk would see him take it from her. He knew almost their exact location, and he would with might and steel crush them between the stones of their ancient temple site.

  Often the commander thought about the beggar and wondered why he had dared to steal his prize and destroy his rightful spoils of war. Was it because he had nothing that he must take so much? Soon he would have something. Soon he would have a slow and lingering death, and his screams of anguish would voice his payment. His thoughts pleased him and drove him forward.

  The warrior was also large within his mind. At the palace, that man had dared to look upon his face and disgraced him on the training field. The slave called Arkthar will regret his loyalty. Like the vile beggar, he, too, will cry and plead for mercy, but there will be none. When all are dead the library will be gathered and packed. His emperor will be humbly grateful at its presentation. The commander smiled, vengeance and redemption were almost close enough to touch.

  The bear skin weighed heavy upon his shoulders, and he thought of throwing it aside so that he would not be slowed. But he could not, for this, too, was the rightful spoils of an attack gone well, a plan followed and a plan carried out. He thought briefly of his nightmare and of the red dawn. Over his shoulder he watched the skies darken.

  He cast the dreams away.

  Answers

  The dreams came like the flashing images of a violent thunderstorm. I saw the eyes of the dragon and knew that I would release it, and I knew that once released it would never again be contained. I rode through the blackness and I spoke freely with Death. I felt the earth cool and saw life grow from the ashes upon the mountain of fire. I saw metal harden and I heard thunder upon the time worn hills.

  I flew with the monk and the healer clothed in the tapestry of life’s emergence. We spun like the needle of the compass, and we drank the sweet water of creations beginnings.

  I saw the machines of war and malice, and I saw them grow throughout the ages. I saw Death and I embraced him. For without death there is no life, and without struggle there is nothing to overcome. My heart sang with the joy of victory. I was again a man upon the earth and looked up into the beauty of the starry heavens. I was incinerated by a mighty flash and then rose up in the smoke of all humanity.

  Rising as a cloud I saw the desert growing smaller beneath me, and I cried tears of joy. My tears gathered like a single voice, joined one by one by a choir of great number, until I cried the tears of all humanity, and they fell as rain. From high above the desert I saw life in multitude and myriad begin to blossom from the desolate sands below me, and as celestial cloud I reached out gently and touched the timeless creature. Lightning flashed through me with the intensity of Dragon Fire.

  I remembered all, and I over stood.

  Gathering Power

  I awoke early, my dream fresh upon my mind. I moved with the precision and economy of a man with a mission. I gorged my breakfast, for I did not know when I would eat again. I wore no top, the armor would slow me down, and I preferred to see the many battle scars that had helped to make me who I was. I was clear in mind and free in spirit, but to my three companions, I must have seemed a man unbalanced. I saddled my horse and rode, driven and directed by the visions of my night.

  We galloped full charge to the large clearing, where from horseback I reached up and touched the inscription from the time of the First Emperor. I spoke his words aloud, “Forever may this temple guardian protect the righteous and crush all evil that may choose to come against it,” and felt my heart beat faster. It beat with hope renewed.

  I continued on far past the great lion. I thought of the ancient prophets of my time and place. I thought of the Conquering Lion from the Book of Revelations and the final battle of good against evil, while I rode onward. Over the crest of distant hill, I found what I was seeking.

  It lay covered by vines and overgrowth long hidden from the world of men. These I put to flame. The fire burned and the smoke rose up until the ancient section was revealed. It was made of large hewn stone, skillfully laid, filled between with earth and rubble. It measured three men high and two in width. It was intact and strong for a length of four horses, and the ground dropped away from it steeply on the far side.

  This was once a wall and moat, built to shelter and protect. This hidden remnant that had stood so long, would serve my purpose well. Its charred façade cooled gradually as I marked it within my mind so strongly that I could find it blind. I rode in haste back past the iron guardian to the cavern of the forge. Through the coldness of the beating falls, I entered the dragon’s nest and pushed my body to its limits and beyond.

  The water driven bellows I quickly disengaged, and I harnessed its power to drive an ancient millstone instead. This time I measured the formula for dragon fire not by thimble but by the bucket. For two days and two nights I ground not with a bowl and pestle, but with the large stone that had once crushed grain and rice for this monastery monks’ daily sustenance.

  I slept short periods within the heart of the cavern, ignoring the cold rock beneath my bare back. On the morning of the third day, I began to work as hard as any slave, a slave that works toward freedom, and as I toiled I prayed for the deliverance of all that I had ever loved.

  By the barrel with the wheel, I carried a load of the black powder to the guardian, and I emptied it by funnel through a cracked seam atop its regal head. Load after load I wheeled and carefully poured the grainy contents into the ancient guardian. Through that day and entire night, I labored. I worked like the mighty ant that piles one by one the sand grains high and narrow around the entrance of its home when it feels the coming of a great storm. I am the ant that builds to protect its family and its tribe, and tell all who look from above the nature of the approaching weather.

  As the sun rose on the fourth day it was almost fully packed, and I remembered the voice of Death in dream telling me “that to unleash the dragon you must imprison it.” Through aching muscle and with tired mind, I poured the last bucket and I heard the voice of the beggar whisper gently within my mind, “It is enough,” and in my exhaustion I thought their voices sounded much alike.

  My return home was greeted by shocked expressions and Selah’s laughter. I laughed also, for I was blacker by far than the beggar had ever been. Mah Lin nodded when I asked if he had seen the smoke, and I said, “Remember where.” He nodded also when I suggested gravely that, “It may be time to pack the library into the saddle bags.”

  “Spoken like a true scholar,” Selah added as she laughed behind me.

  As the morning sky darkened, I washed in the battle blue dye of my homeland, put on my armor, and honed the cutting edge of my Five Element Sword.

  The Die Is Cast

  I stood among them, indigo colored from head to toe, my nakedness covered only with rough leggings and my chain mail armor. They stared at my face and blue-dyed hands and then to each other, but no words passed between them. The beggar had finished packing and loading the library manuscripts into the saddlebags. Our horses were ready and waiting. Selah had gathered everything that was important, and although she could still work only slowly, she was methodical and efficient. A week’s provisions were what would be carried. The dragon compass of the imperial army was slung across the priest’s saddle.

  We all gathered at the pond of fish and flower by the entrance of our home, and f
ed them one last time. Life had somehow become as clear as the water and as colorful as the liyu themselves. The smallest and simplest of details seemed breathtakingly beautiful. We four watched quietly as they devoured the treats we offered. We saw the ancient, weathered rock cradle the freshest lotus blossoms. A dragonfly hovered over the surface and settled momentarily on the flower’s round green leaf.

  The brilliant colors of the fish were like the red and white coals of the forge, and as they broke the water’s surface they brightened as if touched by the action of the bellows breath. The dragonfly quickly fled, gone now as though it never was. Passed the churning surface we peered deeply at the foreign world of life below. The shell of a painted turtle moved smoothly through its underworld like the casting of an oracle’s vision, and then it, too, was gone.

  From above us the raven’s urgent cry broke our peaceful spell, and we looked to its sound, up into the menacing clouds. The bringer of the rains approached us, and distant flashes in the northern sky drew ever closer.

  I saw the high flight of the sea birds move passed us, and we knew that the jackals were also closing quickly on our scent. With the jostling of a restless steed, a sacred painting fell from the stowage and unfurled upon the ground. It was Vajrapani, patron saint of the monastery called Shaolin, the oldest bohdisattvas of Mahayana Buddhism, and the guide and protector of the Buddha. His fearsome visage stared up at us, adorned with the trappings of war. He stood atop a lotus blossom in front of a wall of flame and smoke. He was clad in the orange skin of a strange striped lion, and in his hand he delicately held the vajra thunderbolt.