As the Crow Flies

by A. R. Williams

  As the Crow Flies

  © Copyright 2017, A.R. Williams

  Cover images licensed from Depositphoto.com

  Image 1: VBaleha

  Image 2: Prometeus

  Image 3: Prometeus

  Image 4: Demian

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted in the case of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author. Inquiries should be addressed to arwilliams@a-r-williams.com

  This book is sold DRM-free and is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased exclusively for you please purchase a copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  Synopsis:

  Aziru is a mercenary fighting in the Persai army. When the army is routed, the survivors are forced to retreat for home, the enemy close on their heels.

  Their flight leads them to the Black Forest. Ten thousand years old and surrounded in superstition, the forest is rumored to be haunted. Legend says, that no one who entered has ever returned.

  Caught between two choices, one going ahead, the other turning back, the soldiers must find their resolve and renew their courage. But it is a promise made to an acquaintance that will truly test Aziru’s skill in combat and his ability to keep his word.

  “As the Crow Flies” is a sword and sorcery novelette. About 15,000 words long

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  EPILOGUE

  MAILING LIST

  OTHER BOOKS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THANK YOU

  Two thousand Persaian soldiers had marched into the northern wilds, less than three hundred marched back out. The tattered remnants of the army staggered through the snow, the line lengthening as the wounded fell behind.

  A feeling of hopelessness set in as their numbers dwindled each day. Each morning they rose, disheartened by their defeat, and bent their heads to the wind. They lifted heavy legs, wooden from the cold, and trudged onward, leaving streaks of blood behind them and those that did not wake where they lay. Each day they worried about northern reprisals and constantly looked behind them for any sign of new attack. When no threat emerged, they gazed forlornly ahead. The rugged, northern mountains stood as a last indomitable barrier between them and their goal.

  Persai, their homeland, was nothing more than a sigh on the wind, and many leagues away. Would they ever see those borders again? Would they ever see the rolling, green hills?

  A light snow began to fall as the army entered Eyfrod Gorge. Aziru stepped aside to drink water from his canteen. It was cold and freezing, but he forced himself to drink it nonetheless. Even in conditions such as this, the body needed water. As those behind him passed, Aziru studied them.

  The path was narrow and crooked. At most three men could walk side by side at its widest point. It was good, defensible space that would make it easier to hold their ground if attacked. Yet, as he watched the Persaian soldiers walk past one by one he realized that most were already spirit-dead.

  They walked with their heads down and did not survey the change in landscape, or look warily about for any sign of the enemy, nor hold any fight in their eyes that they were determined to survive this adventure. They showed no sign of hope that these mountains were the last obstacle before them, no hope that they would make it home.

  Many were wounded. They leaned on pikes, or staffs, or hastily made crutches carved from tree branches.

  As Aziru watched them, he noticed the army walked into shadow. His people had a saying on the steppes, ‘to walk into shadow is to walk into death.’ The two cliffs on either side rose almost straight vertical before they disappeared into a swirling, white mist hundreds of feet above.

  Aziru pulled on his long braided beard, then gripped his battle axe tighter. If he was going to meet his death, he would meet it fighting. Only two from the mercenary company he had joined were left. He and Wyborn, the big northman, who none of the Persaian’s trusted. The other mercenaries had fled as soon as the battle turned south, Wyborn had stayed. Aziru slipped in line behind the Wyborn, eyes shifting as he studied the route ahead, looking for any sign of danger.

  As the day wore on and the sun moved slowly across the sky the shadows shifted from one side of the gorge to the other, then began to grow deeper. The cliff faces on either side towered above them.

  They came to a point where thousands of ravens nested in the crags of both cliffs. Their black bodies speckled the snow covered rocks until they and the rock appeared almost grey higher up. The continuous sound of beating wings echoed off the cliff walls as birds came and went, rising into the air or descending to whichever nest was theirs. They were noisy things. Their caws and shrieks a constant wail that made it hard to hear anything else.

  Crows with nests lower on the rocks peered at Aziru with cold, black eyes. Aziru peered back. The birds were not intimidated. They wobbled their bodies down onto their nests.

  “We’re dead,” Echrod moaned as he slowed his walk and stared up at the crows. He wore the colorful robes of his people draped over his fur and leather coat. The bright red, yellow, and green hues stood out against the brown of the cliffs. His mouth hung open and terror flashed in his eyes as he looked up at all the birds. His paced slowed further until he walked between Wyborn and Aziru.

  “They’re the souls of the dead,” he said. He looked at each of them. “They’re the souls of those we left behind. They’ve come to feed on us when we fall.”

  Blood trickled down Echrod’s nose and had been doing so off and on since the battle that had sent the army in retreat. Echrod wiped at it absentmindedly. Moments later, a new stream of blood ran down his face.

  “You see how they look at us?” he asked, his eyes wild. “They’re angry that we abandoned them. Dosorm, the god of death looks down on us from up above and he wants to add our souls to his collection.”

  “They’re no such thing,” Wyborn said laughing. “They’re birds and only birds. I think that blow to your head scrambled your brain like an egg.”

  Wyborn was a big man, taller than Aziru was but not as muscular. He had not made many friends in the mercenary corps that had hired out to Persai and he kept mostly to himself. His long, blond hair fluttered in the wind as he bent his head back and looked up. His blue eyes twinkled.

  “Dosorm!” he yelled, cupping his hands over his mouth. “Can you hear me? Do you want to eat us, you fickle god?”

  For a second it seemed the birds quieted all at once and the only sound that could be heard were the echoes of Wyborn’s powerful voice. The echoes faded away and silence surrounded them. The pulse of the wind moaned through the gorge. The birds had ceased their hectic flight and it felt as if they turned those million black eyes on the small group of men. Aziru’s hair rose on the back of his neck.

  The wind died. The silence deepened.

  Wyborn cupped his hand to his ear and listened for a reply. There was no answer. His blue eyes glinted with amusement and he smiled down at Echrod.

  “There a
re no gods up there, fellow. Just birds.” He crinkled his nose. “And a huge heap of their dung.”

  Wyborn nodded at Aziru.

  “What do you think is up there, rider? Do you believe in this god?”

  Aziru gazed upward, his fingers sliding along the shaft of his axe to a position better for defense. The silence was deafening. Aziru shrugged. “I don’t care as long as the damn things don’t shit on me.”

  The crows once again resumed their hectic activity. The sound of their caws and screams a welcome relief from their noiseless protest.

  Wyborn roared with laughter, his cheeks already wind burnt turned redder still. Echrod shook his head and muttered about what fools he was doomed to keep company with.

  “Dosorm is up there,” Echrod said. “He doesn’t like when people mock him.”

  Aziru looked again at the birds, then they pushed onward and talked of other things. The snow began to fall more heavily late in the afternoon. A hushed silence fell over the procession as the cold deepened. The wind picked up, whipped through the gorge, and cut through furs and leathers both.

  Hours passed. The day dragged on. So many men had walked the path that the snow began to melt beneath their feet and harden again. A wet sheen of ice covered the footprints of the men that came before them. The ice crunched beneath their feet.

  “Riders! Riders at the rear.”

  The shout came from behind them. Everyone within hearing distance stopped and looked back. Aziru could see the faces of some of the men as they found their courage and others as they lost theirs. The wounded and the spirit broken, hurried down the path, hoping to escape. A handful of others, gathered around, weapons drawn. Aziru was pleased to see that there were still some from Persai who remembered their duty.

  Wyborn drew his sword, widened his stance. He swayed on his feet, swinging the sword back and forth. “Maybe we can buy them some time,” he said.

  Aziru nodded, this was as good a place to die as any other.

  Echrod dropped his spear, then knelt on one knee. He removed his bow from off his back, then pulled off his gloves. His hands shook as he withdrew one of his few remaining arrows.

  Aziru noticed that one of the cliffs jutted out a ways into the path, the riders would have to maneuver around it before they could get a view of the defenders. He walked to the cliff and climbed up. There were handholds he could use to keep himself in place. The cold bit into his fingers as he clung on the rock face. His fingers were numb and he could scarcely feel his axe by the time the rider rounded the corner.

  The sound of hooves crunched on the ice. The first rider came through on a huge destrier. The horse plowed into the men. The rider swung his mace down across his body. One blow slammed into a man’s neck before he could raise a defense. The man screamed out, his voice broken, then fell beneath the horse’s legs.

  Aziru jumped onto the rider’s back, grabbed him beneath the chin. He pulled the man’s head to one side, tried to throw him from the saddle, but the rider was big and strong and refused to move. He reared back with an elbow, trying to dislodge Aziru from the horse.

  The men on the ground surged around the animal. Daggers slashed at the rider’s legs. Spears were thrust upward. The rider jerked the reins, causing the horse to buck, and spin, and kick. Aziru wrapped his arms around the man’s throat and squeezed.

  Fwwiip.

  The arrow came from nowhere, pierced the rider’s chest. There was a soft groan and most of the fight left the man. Aziru twisted his neck and threw him from the horse, then wheeled the horse around as two more riders came around the corner.

  He met the first, his axe cutting through the cold air. The northman raised his sword and blocked the strike. Their weapons met, screamed as steel met steel, then peeled away as the horses danced away. The second rider had no room to maneuver as Aziru attacked the first once more.

  The men on the ground charged upon them. The horses shifted and jostled. The second rider scooted through the opening, his sword slicing down on the men around him. One man fell, then another. The second rider turned and looked for more. It was Wyborn’s blow that severed the man’s leg near in half. The Persaians pulled him to the ground, all letting go of their fury upon the still body.

  Aziru turned the horse, hooked the first rider’s sword and pulled it loose from his fingers with a quick, hard yank. The northman was pulled off balance and with all his might Aziru rose up from the saddle and slammed his axe into the man’s face. There was a dull thud, and the spray of blood as the axe bit deep and stuck. Aziru pulled on it three times before he finally freed it. The dead man fell forward, then toppled over, a hole in the center of his face.

  Wyborn wiped his sword clean on the furs of one of the northmen. “Another battle well fought,” he said nodding at Aziru. He grabbed the reins of the grey, calmed the horse enough to mount it.

  “Now, I won’t have to walk the rest of the way.”

  Aziru looked down at the third northman’s horse. The animal neighed in pain as it lay on the ground. Some of the attacks had been directed at the horse, multiple wounds bled out onto the snow. A red puddle formed beneath the animal.

  Aziru dismounted. He went to the horse, knelt and stroked its muzzle. The animal’s eyes were huge, and wide, and scared. “There now,” he said. “Your battle is done. It’s always the innocents that suffer in war. You fought well, you fought bravely.”

  “Give me your dagger,” Aziru said, extending his hand to one of the men.

  The man gave Aziru a blade. Aziru turned back to the horse.

  “There now,” he said, stroking the muzzle. The animal calmed. Its breath frosted in the air, mingled with his. “Rest,” Aziru said. He thrust with the dagger. Blood splattered his face. Aziru rubbed the muzzle once more. “Rest,” he said.

  The horse trembled, then was still. “You fought well, my friend. You fought bravely. I know that’s no comfort for taking your life.”

  They did what they could for the injured men. For the dead they did less. Once more they made their way through the gorge, the Persaian army somewhere ahead of them. Aziru and Wyborn kept the horses in the back of the line, just in case the northmen made another attack. The newly injured limped ahead, leaning on those who were well. The going was slow. All were thankful they had survived yet another encounter.

  The sun had sunk below the mountains when they finally exited the gorge. A strange, quiet forest loomed ahead of them beneath the darkening sky.

  Aziru was surprised to find the others waiting for the stragglers. Malrik, the armies captain, sat atop his destrier looking angry and stern. He was speaking to the men.

  Every so often, he gazed at the dark woods when some strange sound came from them. His hand never strayed far from the hilt of his sword. Those who waited with him hunkered down beneath whatever protection they had against the cold.

  Malrik frowned when he caught Aziru watching him. “You two,” he growled. “Where did you get those horses? Give them to men who need them.”

  He pointed at two of the noblemen that had lost their horses. “Etana, Otiartes, take those mounts.”

  Both Aziru and Wyborn drew their weapons as the men approached. Etana and Otiartes stepped back in surprise. The nobles still mounted rode forward, crowded behind Etana and Otiartes, who had drawn their weapons in response to Aziru and Wyborn’s actions.

  Everyone else watched unsure of what to do. The nobles seemed reluctant to press the attack. Wyborn and Aziru seemed more than willing to hold their ground. Malrik, his sword drawn, rode through the line of nobles. They seemed more willing to attack some of their own with him in the lead.

  “Wait,” Echrod shouted. He ran in between the two groups, raised his hands. “Have we not lost enough men. Look around, do you think we’ll make it home if we lose anymore. Do you think we’ll make it home if we fight each other?”

  “I gave an order,” Malrik said. “The price of insubordination is death.” Malrik raised his hand for a charge.

  “No
,” Echrod said. “No.”

  The Persaians who had fought the northmen in the gorge moved behind Echrod. They drew their weapons.

  The army that had gathered together as one for the first time since the retreat, was separated in two and ready to kill one another. Their breaths steamed in the frigid air. Some who stood outside the quarrel rose, then others rose too. As the last man stumbled to his feet, it became apparent how few they were. The men who had not joined Aziru or Malrik, joined Echrod in the center of the skirmishers, forming a wall between the two groups of men.

  “This isn’t right,” someone said.

  “We must make it home together,” said another.

  Malrik worked his jaw as he looked over the men, looked at what had become of Persai’s force. The army was down to two hundred men now, maybe less. He lowered his hand, but not in the gesture that ordered a charge. Malrik forced his horse through the crowd. “I gave them an order,” he said looking down on Echrod.

  “Hasn’t there been enough death?”

  Malrik pointed at Aziru and Wyborn. “I want those horses. I will have their heads when we get back to Persai and yours too, fool.”

  “If we get back. If we all die here, now, for this, then we are all fools.”

  Echrod turned to Aziru and Wyborn. “Please,” he said. “Someone must give or all of us will die.”

  Slowly, Aziru lowered his axe. Then reluctantly Wyborn followed suit. The nobles kept their weapons drawn. Aziru dismounted.

  The two men, Etana and Otiartes, approached. They snatched the reins of the horse from Aziru’s hand. Wyborn glared at them, then he dismounted also. The nobles took the horses and led them back to the rest of the riders.