As the Crow Flies

by A. R. Williams

  “Another army,” Echrod echoed. “But I don’t see their bodies. Have you seen anything like this before?”

  Wyborn shook his head. Aziru agreed.

  The other bones. They belonged to no creature that had died here. They had been carried into battle, weapons designed by a primitive hand. There was another army out there and yet they had suffered no casualties.

  Aziru looked around the grizzly setting.

  There was another army lurking in these woods—an army neither of northmen, mercenaries, or Persaians. There was another army out there, an army that had not left any wounded or dead behind.

  They reported their findings to Malrik. He rode up behind them and halted his destrier. Three of his lieutenants rode with him. “Your mercenary brethren fled. Now they are dead because of it. I regret I didn’t have the chance to kill them myself.” Malrik looked over the scene, shook his head. “At least they managed to take some of the barbarians with them.”

  Aziru raised the bone dagger he had found. “This is not a weapon used by us or the northmen. Somewhere out there, there’s another army.”

  “No matter,” Malrik said shrugging. “If they use weapons like that they will fall before our might. Take heed of the warning left here. The gods have seen to it that those who run will have death come looking for them.”

  Aziru gazed unflinchingly back at Malrik. “If I were going to flee, I would have left you to die in that battle field alone.”

  Raising the bone dagger up, Aziru waited for Malrik to take it.

  “There’s another army out there,” Wyborn said. “One that cares neither for northman or southerner.”

  Malrik took the weapon from Aziru’s hand. He twisted it around, studying it, then dropped it into the snow. He looked at lieutenants and smiled. “If they fight with weapons such as that, they will be easy to defeat.”

  “There are bodies here who say otherwise,” Aziru said, louder than he meant to.

  “I’ve said all I’m going to say on the matter. Your mercenary brothers got what they deserved. And if you’re not careful you’ll be next. Now, get moving, you’ve wasted enough of my time tonight.”

  Aziru felt his anger rise he grabbed the reins to Malrik’s horse. “They are not my brethren. I hired on as a single man and as a single man I’ve kept my word.”

  “Keep it that way then, but mark my words. Any single man who flees this night, I will hunt down and slay myself. Furthermore, since you and your barbarian friend feel so strongly about this, you both have watch the rest of the night--and take that old fool with you, the one that started all the trouble before.” Malrik pulled the reins of his horse free. “Now, get moving.”

  Aziru and Wyborn watched them ride off.

  “They didn’t even listen,” Aziru told Echrod later.

  Echrod exhaled deeply, his shoulders sagged. “Did you expect them to?”

  “A good leader at listens when his men show him something important,” Wyborn said. “Malrik never should have been given command.”

  “He wasn’t,” Echrod said, his voice tired. “His father gave the council many gifts and even promised one of them his daughter’s hand. Such is the way the nobles increase their lot.”

  Wyborn grunted. “I will never understand how you southerner’s do things,” he said.

  Echrod laughed weakly. “I wouldn’t expect you to, northman. You’re a barbarian. Civilized men have rules that govern their actions.”

  The night passed slowly. Aziru stood guard alone, silent and watchful. Wyborn walked the perimeter of the camp. He was no longer in the mood for talk. The moon slipped behind the cover of clouds, then back out the other side. Their was enough light to see. The stars twinkled in the heavens like jewels waiting to be stolen. There was little wind and the men’s drunken laughter carried well into the woods.

  “Aziru?” Echrod whispered. “What gods do the horse riders worship?”

  “Go back to sleep. We’ll have a long walk tomorrow in order to get free from this forest. We’ve been up most of the night as it is. Save your strength, you’ll need it in the morning.”

  “I won’t live that long.”

  “You didn’t think you would live as long as you have. You thought you would die yesterday and the day before that. You sword that you would be killed in the battle. Yet, here you are disturbing my watch with talk. Get some sleep.”

  “I can’t. What if death is cold like these northlands? Cold like this ground. I mean, it could be hot and full of fire like they say. But what if it isn’t like any of that?”

  “My people believe to continually talk of death is to draw it to you. To watch for the shadow of death, and to study it, is to miss out on all that life has to offer. Sooner or later the shadow will grow and engulf us all. Why stare at it? Why search for it? Live. Live and let the light of life keep the shadow at bay.”

  “I wonder. . . do you think I’ll see Zandia again. When I die. If I do, dying wouldn’t be so bad.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather see your daughter again? To hold her in your arms? To marry her to some village boy? Get some sleep, Echrod. You think of death too much.”

  “I can’t. What if I never wake? What if no one ever tells my daughter how much I loved her? What if …”

  “I told you. If it’s in my power and you die whether this nigh or the next, I’ll do what I can to let your daughter know what happened.”

  A crow with cold, blue eyes glided onto a branch above the small fire they had made. It spread its wings, then groomed itself with its beak. The bird folded its wings to its side.

  “Thyl,” Echrod groaned.

  “What?”

  “Thyl,” Echrod said. “The trickster.”

  Echrod stared at the crow. The bird looked down on them, its blue eyes clear as a flowing river. Aziru sat up. Was that the same bird he had seen before? How many crows could there be with blue eyes?

  Aziru stood. The bird watched them, its eyes full of intelligence and cunning.

  Caw! it shrieked. Caw! Caw!

  Another crow landed on the branch, added its call to the first. Then another and another.

  A thousand more crows appeared, the fluttering of their wings a silent, pulsating rhythm that seemed to make the forest come alive. The birds filled the trees, the ground, the makeshift camp. Their screeching was loud enough to wake the dead.

  “Thyl,” Echrod mumbled once again.

  “Damn it, Echrod! Who is this Thyl you keep rambling about?”

  “Back in Eyfrod Gorge a battle took place between a wizard named Thyl and the god of death, Dosorm. Thyl wanted Dosorm’s power. Some say so he could be the new god of death. Others say that he wanted to bring back the love of his life.”

  Echrod rose, stared at the bird with unflinching conviction. “They fought, for many hours. And when the wizard was close to death he flew to the top of the gorge to try and escape. But Dosorm was already there. He cast a spell and turned the wizard into a crow. Forever more, he would be a creature of death, living off the flesh of the dead.”

  The crow bobbed its head three times as though it agreed with the story Echrod told.

  Caw, caw, caw it screamed, and a thousand crows seemed to answer.

  The Persaian’s woke to the noise, tried in vain to scare the birds away. The crows continued their shrieking. They were surrounded by the sound, by the birds. Then off a ways, in a direction that couldn’t be determined, came a noise that sounded like an injured goat mewling or a cow giving birth.

  “What was that?” Echrod asked.

  What indeed? What beast could make such a noise? Aziru pulled his twin-bladed battle axe from off his back.

  Naaaaaaaarggggggh! The sound came again.

  All around him, those who were not wounded stood. They looked around bewildered and confused.

  Malik rose, gathered his mount and rode off into the darkness, his lieutenants following behind him.

  The strange wailing continued, making an ethereal sound as it mingled wi
th the cawing birds. The Persaian soldiers gathered in confusion, unsure of what the sound foretold, unsure if their captain had deserted them.

  Aziru swallowed. What had happened to Wyborn? He was late getting back from his rounds.

  “Prepare your weapons,” Aziru told Echrod.

  “Why? What do you see?”

  “Gather your weapons!” Aziru shouted out to everyone. “Form a ring around the fire. If anything comes from the night to take our lives, use steel to send it back to whatever hell spawned it.”

  The men started to form, their instincts and training taking hold at last. They shouted instructions to one another. Formed groupings and rank. Within moments a wall of steel began to form.

  “Help the wounded to the center,” Aziru shouted. He extended a hand to Echrod and shoved his spear into his hand.

  “Any man that can stand is a man that can fight.”

  Nnnnnaaaanaanannaaaa!

  “Form a ring! Make it tight. Three men deep! If you have a spear, give it to someone in the second or third rows.”

  The sound of drums split the night. Then there was no denying that it was not a beast that made the noise, but men. There was no sign of Wyborn and Aziru knew that he must be dead.

  Aziru strode to the ring, nearly two hundred men gathered and armed. He screamed orders out and he heard the orders passed down as the men stood and waited for whatever was out there to come to them.

  All of a sudden the drumming stopped. The strange wailing ceased, and the birds flew up into the trees. There was only the sounds of two hundred or so men breathing heavily, the crackle of fire, the stirring of the wind. Their steel gleamed evilly in the firelight. The soldiers’ breath expelled in wisps of soft mist.

  Then it came.

  A loud wailing that drowned out any that came before it. A horde of men or beast rushed from the woods. They were clad in shaggy, white goat fur and were armed with weapons made of bones and stones. On their faces they wore the skulls of rams and goats and deer. They stood at the edge of the camp, breath misting into the air as they shouted and roared in that strange squealing sound.

  “To arms, to arms,” Aziru yelled.

  “Meet them,” someone shouted. Some of the soldiers moved, others stood still.

  “Hold the line,” Aziru countered. “Do not move until they are within range. Let them attack us. Keep the formation tight.”

  A massive man, some seven feet tall, emerged from the group of goat men. He wore a helm with a rams head. The horns were thick and curved around several times. The man, himself, was muscled like an ox. He had to be the leader of the group. If he fell? Would the goat men fall too? In his hand he held a massive bone that belonged to some animal that had to be bigger than any Aziru had ever layed eyes upon before.

  The leader pumped his massive club in the air five times, shouting with each thrust of his hand. The strange goat men rocked back and forth on their heels.

  “NARRGGGHHH!” the big man yelled.

  A mass of goatmen charged the line. They had no order. No discipline. The ground shook beneath their feet.

  Aziru could feel the nervous tension in the line as the men braced themselves for combat.

  “Steady,” He yelled. “Let them come to us.”

  The goat men were undisciplined. They did not move as one, they were not an army prepared to go to war. “Discipline. Discipline will win this day! Hold the line! Have courage. Discipline and courage will see us prevail.”

  They came on. Ten feet away and closing fast.

  “Men, forward step.”

  As one the line moved, shields raised.

  “Sword arms prepared, men. Spears ready!”

  The enemy yelled. They were wild and uncontrolled. Two rows of spears would meet the onrushing group. But there wasn’t enough men—there would be gaps.

  “Thrust!”

  The second line thrust forward as one, the swordsmen stepped in, slashed, and drew blood.

  There was a shudder that went through the line as the strange foe collided with the shield wall. The line rippled against the shock, but held.

  Aziru looked up and saw that the second wave of goat men had already charged.

  “Hold the li—”

  But it was too late.

  The line would hold or it would not. They would die today or they would not.

  The second wave crashed into them. Faster and stronger than the first. They found the gaps in the line and the line buckled and broke.

  All around him the sound of battle took place. The screams of the injured filled the air. Chaos ruled. There was no time to think. Only to parry, and strike, and counter, whatever was in front of him.

  Aziru ducked a blow and there was no more time to talk. His axe stayed in motion as one fell before him then another. Aziru had slain several of the attackers in short order. They were unskilled, and fierce, and outnumbered the Persai army by a good amount.

  The huge goat-man swung the massive bone he carried like a club. With one swing he took out two men.

  Aziru stepped in front of him. The man was muscled like an ox. He swung the club from right to left, grunting as he did so. Aziru could hear the wind whistle as the blow passed over his head.

  The goat-man tried to swing the club back, left to right. Aziru shifted, slammed his axe into the weapon. Most of the bone shattered and went from a club to a jagged dagger like instrument.

  The goat-man didn’t stop, unfazed by the loss of his reach. He jabbed the bone forward.

  Aziru countered again, the weight of the axe had taken him too far in the wrong direction. He gritted his teeth, swiveled, his body torqued to bring all of his strength into the blow and the axe back in line. Just as he was about to connect, his foot slipped out from under him and he hit the ground hard, his head slamming into the ground.

  Aziru lay there stunned. Where was his axe? He reached out with his hand, hoping to find the handle to the weapon. He couldn’t find it. Where was it?

  The goat-man looked down on him, raised the jagged piece of bone. Just then a spear skimmed the man’s side and thudded into a tree. The blow wasn’t fatal. The goat man staggered back a step. He looked down, touched the blood that began to flow from the wound. He grunted then stepped forward, lifting his weapon above his head once again.

  Aziru kicked out with both his legs, connected with the goat-man’s shins just as he was bringing the broken piece of bone down. His legs slid out from under him and he landed on top of Aziru, as Aziru deflected the dagger like bone.

  There was a strong smell of goat, as the man’s weight pushed him down on top of Aziru, his clothing smothering Aziru’s face. Clutching the goat-man’s back and tightening his grip, Aziru tried to maneuver the man around so that he would be on top. The goat-man felt like he weighed four hundred stone. He wouldn’t budge.

  The goat-man grunted with fury as he tried to pull himself free from Azriu’s grasp. Aziru changed tactics, he applied as much force as he could into squeezing the goat-man’s ribs until they broke.

  The goat man squirmed, began to slip from Aziru’s grasp. Aziru grabbed the man’s goat fur jacket in order to hold him down and not give him room to attack. With his right hand, Aziru tried to find his axe, grasped the goat-man’s weapon instead.

  Aziru let go of him. The goat-man rose up as far as his elbows, before Aziru struck the dagger into his side.

  The man’s body trembled from the blow. Warm, wet blood covered Aziru’s hand.

  The goat man pounded his elbow into Aziru’s head. Raised up then dropped all of his weight on top of Aziru. Aziru released him. Shielded himself from the impact by raising his arm.

  He thrust with the bone.

  The shattered remnants of the makeshift weapon hit the goat mask, knocking it sideways and revealing the man’s face. He was human, his eyes dark and round, and filled with pain. He had a long, brown beard.

  The goat-man unharmed by the strike, continued to try and push himself up again. Aziru let go of the goat-man
’s coat, grabbed a handful of his beard. The goat-man screamed as Aziru used his beard to pull him back down, just enough to strike with the shattered piece of bone once more.

  His mask aside, Aziru slammed the bone fragment into the man’s cheek. He roared in pain, tried to pull away more desperately, but Aziru held him tight, beard clutched in between his fingers. Azriu pulled him closer. The goat-man continued to struggle. Once more Aziru struck, and struck true, the piece of bone fragment pierced the man’s eye. He hollered in pain as a yellow liquid and blood squirted from the wound. The shattered bone protruded from his eye socket, the goat man rose up one final time and collapsed on top of Aziru.

  Aziru’s brain pounded inside his head and the smell of goat filled his nostrils. The goat man was dead. The sound of battle had diminished muffled by the body lying dead on top of him. As Aziru passed out, the sound of crows seemed to echo all around him.

  Peck. Peck. Peck.

  Peck. Peck. Peck.

  Aziru opened his eyes. The stars shown bright in the night sky. A crow, eyes dark as a void, stood on top of his forehead pecking at the space between his eyebrows. Aziru groaned and swiped at the bird. The crow cawed, then half flew, half hopped and landed on his chest. It looked at him, cawed again, and flew off into a nearby tree.

  Aziru pushed himself up and looked around. All around him, the bodies of Persaian soldiers lay dead on the ground. There was no sign of the goat-men that had attacked them. It was as though they had vanished. The only thing left of them were their weapons made of bone.

  Wherever he looked there was nothing but crows. They covered the ground like a huge black tide, surging over the bodies. Many pecked at the flesh of the dead, bone and flesh scattering in their haste to eat. Others waited in the trees, cawing loudly. There was a back and forth of movement, black wings, black bodies darting back and forth. As some finished they took to the trees and others glided down to replace them. They sat in the trees, heads bobbing up and down as they cawed, their purple-black wings flapping as they jostled for space on the branches.