Raven's Warrior

by Pratchett, Vincent

  The needs of the living taken care of, the needs of the dead now followed. Into the pit they were respectfully placed, some whole, most broken, and others just a limb, or head. By late afternoon the field had been cleared. The bodies overflowed the depths of the earthen bowl and formed a mountain, not unlike the one she had climbed before. At the end of her song she spoke the name, “Qin Shi Huang Di.”

  She bid the page look up at the colorful promise that spanned the sky. In silence the mound was covered with the shattered boughs and branches of what had once been living trees. The fire would burn long into the night, and the woman in white would tend it reverently.

  The commander was placed into the horseless cart, the bear hide used to form a harness for the boy to do the pulling. With a grip of iron, he pulled the boy close so that his words would not be lost. “The library,” was all he said. The page struggled for a more comfortable distance, and looking down into the eyes of the man, he replied, “yes, lord, do not worry, it is safe.”

  In all, one hundred and fifty men, made up of both the wounded and the able, returned to the capital. They emerged slowly from this valley, a broken man bound by rags, pulled by a boy now bound by duty.

  The page had chosen, and in his choices he had found his freedom.

  The Beginning

  Selah cleaned and dressed again the wound upon my horse’s back. We rode on in the contemplative silence of life’s uneasy embrace. The storm had passed and rays of sunlight reached down to touch and warm the earth. The voice of the songbird and the gentle rustle of leaves kissed by the changing winds wove an enchanting melody, but its lightness only added to the burden of our hearts, for our survival had come at a heavy price.

  In the distance ahead we saw the glint of silver light reflected through the heavy foliage, like sunset’s diamonds upon a now calm sea. We rode towards it at a leisurely pace, drawn by its call. Mah Lin dismounted to investigate further and returned without a word. In his hand he held the length of steel bamboo. The shaft was blackened but not bent, and its blade was even brighter than before. With a graceful spin he tucked it back in place along his stallion’s flank.

  We were painfully aware that we would soon lose the company of the beggar; his favors bulged beneath his rags. In a way it seemed that he had always been with us, and we with him. As we ate lunch he bid us look back at the sky from where we had come. The promise of the distant rainbow faded only when our meal was done.

  The old beggar turned to me and quoted the ancient scholars:

  “When human beings interfere with the Way,

  the sky becomes as mud,

  the earth becomes exhausted,

  the balance crumbles,

  and a myriad of living creatures become extinct.”

  As I chewed and swallowed the last of my meal, I tasted these words from the Book of the Way, and thought deeply about the beggar. When we had drained the last of our tea and prepared to ride, he bid us each farewell and blessed us with his grace.

  “Our paths now change,” he said, and when he tried to return Mah Lin’s horse, the monk would not take it. “If wishes were horses then beggars would ride.” The monk said, as the beggar flashed his toothless smile and swung his body upward. Mounted, the beggar sat tall and straight in the saddle and looked not old at all. He turned his pale steed towards me and said, “Young King, we will meet again.” Turning away he set out in a northern direction.

  I called to him as he began to leave, “Beggar, I don’t even know your name.” To which he laughed, and even the monk seemed amused. The black rider paused, steadied his mount, and caught my eye.

  “Arkthar, I have had many names through many times, but I assure you, you do indeed know well my name. Remember me kindly in your writing, Arkthar, for in the world of men I am already much maligned.”

  With that he turned and was on his way, and we were once more three in number. To the piercing call of Selah’s black-eyed pet we moved on, for there was no longer a place in this land for us. When what remains of the battalion finally staggers back to the capital, the full fury of imperial power will be released against us. As ominous as this truth was, it could not detract from our joy to have each other.

  By evening’s muted light, Mah Lin laid out our new direction, “We return to the western frontier not far from where we claimed you. There is a thriving community of monks there, men who know the value of the sacred word. The hot, dry climate here suits well the task of preservation. In the high cliffs that guard them, we will hide the wisdom of the ages, to be resurrected only when all truth in the outside world is lost in war and greed.”

  He paused to let his words sink in, and then continued, “It is a place called Dunhuang. The brothers there will supply us with all we need for the long and perilous journey ahead.” His eyes held us, “I suggest we might find refuge in the land of Arkthar’s birth.”

  Despite the seriousness of the monk’s tone and the danger that it conveyed, the thought of returning to my homeland pleased me. I had under my armor the broad-point that had almost taken Selah’s life. In the land from which I had been stolen, I will fire up a forge and hammer it into a ring of Celtic knots. Under oak and in the presence of the monk, I will ease it on her finger, for in truth, she is the stone that will forever sharpen the edge of steel. In each of our minds the spark of hope rekindled. For now, however, we rode on and did not even cast a glance at Mah Lin’s dragon compass.

  So it was that as quickly as one life together had ended another one had begun; one journey finished and another started. It has been this way since before the time of men. Beginnings and endings eternally bound together like the great dragon holding the tip of its long tail between its powerful teeth as it rests within its lair.

  Epilogue

  They made their way westward. As sunset approached, the warrior, the witch, and the wizard made camp beside a tranquil lake. Its waters spanned the horizon, and gave them a dinner of fresh pulled greens and fresh caught fish. These were bigger by far than the rainbow species of their land and held an earthy taste. The blue smoke of the cooking fire descended gently and hovered closely over the surface of the lake. They sat quietly as the sun painted warm colors on cloud, smoke, and water, before disappearing over the earth’s far edge.

  His children were tired and fell asleep together even before all the stars had made their appearance. The monk, however, was not. He took his bladed steel and slung a traveling bag across his shoulder. He began to climb up towards a high rocky outcrop. His upward journey leveled off, and soon he passed through a clearing and emerged upon the flat granite cliff top.

  Here between heaven and earth he began to move by full moon’s light. The blackened hollow staff whirled and sang as the night air rushed over the tiny hole. Within an hour he was drenched in sweat, his silk robe clung to his muscular frame, and he pushed himself onward. Fully spent, he lay with his back against the granite floor and stared up into the clear night sky. From his lone vantage, it seemed as if the heavens revolved around him. Here he lay, watching from its center.

  The monk contemplated the weapon of Thor. The lightning issues with blinding light, and eventually the thunder sounds to mark its passing. Mah Lin saw the mighty bolt descend within the glade. He suspected now that the ensuing thunder was held within his hands. It had taken form months before. It had arrived quietly, and until now gone unnoticed and unrecognized. The staff created as a basic weapon had not changed in appearance, but in purpose. He saw a new invention, one that held a dreadful promise.

  Sitting upright, he looked out over moonlit lake from his high vantage on the cliffs, and prayed.

  The dawn arrived quickly, and night stars yielded to the growing brightness of the sky. Mah Lin stood and briefly stretched, he felt refreshed even though his night had been sleepless. Like the wizened oracle, he sat cross-legged and opened the satchel he had brought with him. From within he removed an arrow, a stick of temple incense, and a small leather pouch. The thin smoke trail rose as the sti
ck burned, mingling with the fragrances of the new day. His weapon rested across his lap as he loosened the pouch strings.

  He held the arrow and ran his finger gently over its black raven feathers. His strong hands moved to its iron tip and snapped it off with an ease that belied the strength of the wooden shaft. Discarding the deadly tip, he poured the black powder from the pouch through the small singing hole of his metal staff. From beneath his robe, he took the silver thunderbolt and swathed its lower end in sphagnum pulled from his granite base. Into the hollow end of his weapon, he placed the moss-wrapped vajra, and with the headless wooden arrow, plunged it down to meet the powder.

  The priest stood and drew fresh breath and stuck his blade into a crack in the rocks so that it angled toward the lake. Mah Lin gazed sadly out over the horizon. “It is time,” he said to himself as he held the burning incense in his hand.

  The priest pushed the burning ember tip into the hole. With a mighty crack and a flash of smoke and flame, the barrel emptied and the world forever changed. The wondrous symphony of morning songbird was instantly silenced, as the echoes of the explosion dimmed and faded. The cloud of blue grey smoke momentarily wrapped the priest, then drifted and disappeared. Mah Lin’s features remained stern and unshakeable. In his hand he held a new weapon, and he felt the need for haste.

  More than a mile away the sharp-eyed raven saw the small splash far below him. Swooping low it watched the rings spread concentrically over the polished surface, as the silver steel thunderbolt sank quietly beneath the dark lake waters.

  Historical Note

  After a time of wandering the countryside during a period of great famine a young Daoist priest settled at the sacred Mogao grotto complex in Dunhuang. Wang Yuan-lu (1849-1931), was determined to restore the site which had fallen into disrepair. In 1900 his accidental discovery of a sealed up cave (Cave 17, presently known as the Library Cave) revealed the priceless treasure of an ancient library perfectly preserved by the dry desert climate.

  Most of the manuscripts dated between the 4th and the 11th centuries are Buddhist, as well as Daoist, Manichean, and Nestorian Christians. The manuscripts, on paper, silk, wood, and other materials are paintings, printings, and writings in many languages, including Sanskrit, Tibetan, Tangut, and even Hebrew in addition to Chinese. Their contents cover religion, history, literature, astronomy, and astrology.

  Dunhuang, once a thriving outpost, lies at the gateway to the Silk Road, which in ancient times was the primary entrance and exit to all of China. Scholars still speculate as to why the Library came to be hidden there, and by whom.

  Acknowledgements

  When I was a young man I lived with my Aunt Evelyn on her small farm in Ireland’s rugged County Mayo. By the hearth’s turf fire she spoke of Irish culture and history. She talked often of the Storytellers, “mighty men who once walked the whole width and breadth of Ireland for a buttered slice of thick soda bread, a drop of whiskey, and an audience.”

  “They are rare now,” she said, “disappearing like the Old Ways, replaced by this modern age.” It was her opinion that “stories surround them like the air, and the dying art of the teller is rooted simply in their ability to inhale and remember the language of their dreams.”

  Many years have passed, and I am forever grateful for that time, hopeful that now I may finally have learned to listen, to breathe, and to remember.

  The journey from story to book has been a wonderful one, and I owe a debt to many along the way. I would thank my friend Jody Amblard who told me I can write well, for belief is the beginning of magic. My children also had an important role. My son Umojah sat spellbound while I read aloud to him chapter by chapter, and at the end of each would kindly share his thoughts and feelings. My daughter Naomi who loves to read said only that she will wait until it is a real book. If magic is kindled by belief, it is fueled by faith, and hers was unwavering.

  Finally, I want to acknowledge the people of YMAA publishing, for without them there would be no book. In this time of economic uncertainty, David Ripianzi was brave enough to publish the first novel of a relatively new writer. David Silver generously shared his wealth of martial arts knowledge with me; it was his insight that added depth and dimension to the bones of my tale.

  My editor Leslie Takao’s work on this project will never receive the full recognition that it truly deserves. If the reader enjoys a turn of phrase or the clear expression of a complex thought, there is a great chance that she is behind it. Without her unwearied and prolonged effort, this work would be like armor that is dull in the bright sunlight, or a sword that has not been well sharpened for the battle ahead.

  From my heart I thank you all.

  About The Author

  Vincent Pratchett was born to an Irish mother and English father. The Irish tradition of storytellers on one side, and accomplished writers on the other. He is related by blood to renowned fantasy novelist Terry Pratchett. Vincent’s writing includes novels, screenplays, children’s storybooks, and numerous magazine articles.

  He began training in the martial arts at age ten. He has taught martial arts at the University of Guelph, and Qigong at the Ontario College of Traditional Chinese Medicine.

  As a young man Vincent traveled across Asia, walking in the footsteps of Alexander the Great, Marco Polo, and Genghis Khan. He settled eventually in Hong Kong where he worked as a bouncer for a prominent nightclub until breaking into the Hong Kong film industry as an actor and stuntman.

  Returning to Canada, Vincent became a professional firefighter and continues to teach and train in martial arts. He resides in Toronto, with his two children.

  Dedicated to my ancestors with respect,

  and to my descendants with love.