As the Crow Flies

by A. R. Williams

  Aziru was amazed at the fact that even the floor was heated. He could feel his toes again, feel the warmth return to his limbs. His socks became damper as his feet began to sweat. His body was sweating now too. The room was uncomfortably hot.

  He continued on. It felt like he had walked many miles by the time he came to a circular reflecting pool. Four tall statues, about three stories high, circled the pool. Their hands clasped the hands of the statues beside them so that it made a second circle around and above the pool.

  When Aziru looked into the pool, he saw himself reflected back. There were no reflections of the statues that surrounded the pool, no reflections of the trees that rose above the statues, and no reflection of the false sky that decorated the ceiling. Only the reflection of himself stared back.

  Aziru ran his fingers through the water. No ripples marred its surface, but the reflection of the statues, and the trees, and the false sky appeared exactly where they should be. Aziru’s reflection disappeared.

  What type of sorcery was this? What did it mean?

  Aziru looked behind him. The distance forward and the distance back were now equal. Aziru moved on, continued forward, hoping that an answer was closer now than if he retreated back the way he came.

  It felt as though he walked miles more. The trees finally came to an end. Ahead of him was a giant-sized obsidian throne that stood out from the white marble of the walls.

  A man sat on the throne. He was encased in dark grey armor and sat so still that Aziru wasn’t sure if he was alive, some great marble construct sculpted by human hands, or just a figment of his imagination. His skin was milk white, as smooth as the marble walls, and it gleamed as though it were reflecting the light that came off the walls. Aziru walked up to the throne.

  The man’s face was smooth, and cold, and void of any expression of life. There wasn’t the slightest wrinkle on his face or skin and blue veins crisscrossed beneath the smooth layers of his skin. He had the countenance of someone that had existed before the beginning of time and would exist until the end of time.

  It didn’t appear as though he was breathing.

  A groan came from behind the throne. Aziru circled around to the backside, keeping watch on the strange, statue like being that sat in the chair. He gasped when he made it completely around the chair.

  Wyborn lay on the floor, bleeding from a thousand cuts, blood pooling around his body. Azriu knelt beside him, felt for a pulse. The heart beat was weak and growing weaker. He rolled Wyborn over. For a second his eyes held the gleam of life, then it faded and Aziru knew that he had passed. He reached down and closed the big warrior’s eyes.

  What had happened here?

  Aziru walked back to the front of the throne. The pale man’s eyes were dark, the entirety of his eyeballs nothing more than two black orbs. An odd glittering, almost like star light, pulsed and faded in those strange black eyes. Somehow, Aziru knew the man was staring at him.

  “Dosorn?” Aziru asked, remembering the name Echrod had used for the god of death.

  The man did not move. There was a burst of light from his eyes and the eyeballs turned almost a pure white, then dwindled back to the black nothingness with the glittering of stars.

  A horn sounded, similar yet different than the horn the goat-men had used. The being that sat on the throne looked up with a new found interest. Aziru looked in the same direction the man stared.

  One of the trees shimmered like a desert mirage, then the air filled with thousands of crows. They flew in a disorganized mass, squawking and cawing. They circled the room. Separated. Then finally, they all found their places among the trees. One broke from the group, a blue-eyed crow, and landed at the base of the throne. He shimmered much like the trees had done, then morphed and grew, and formed into a man that knelt before the pale man on the throne. He stood and approached, Wyborn’s sword in one hand and Echrod’s pendant in the other.

  He glanced at Aziru, was hesitant for a moment, and then laid the items at the pale man’s feet. “They … have … magic,” he said.

  The pale man nodded, looked down on the artifacts, his eyes glowing with joy. Aziru snatched up Echrod’s pendant without thinking.

  The pale man kicked Aziru so hard he knocked him back six feet. His eyes were black as he rose from the throne, standing almost seven feet tall. The bird man changed back into bird form and flew into the trees with the other crows. The birds began to caw wildly, like spectators watching a gladiatorial fight.

  “Who are you?” Aziru asked.

  The man turned his head. He stared at the pendant grasped in Aziru’s hand.

  “Dozorn, imi ath nato. Am canta de nebri.”

  A sword as black as midnight materialized in his right hand. It was longer than Aziru was tall.

  Aziru stood his ground, did not back away from that impenetrable stare. “Are you the god of death?”

  The being’s eyes flashed. The sword clasped in his right hand glistened as though it was wet with some unknown liquid. A cloak not made of feathers, but from living crows themselves hung from his shoulders.

  “Como de stes dox loqua. Am canta de nebri.”

  The man walked forward swinging the sword as he came.

  Aziru backpedaled and slid the pendant around his neck. He met the next strike, was pushed back from the strength of the blow. Flashes of lightning shot from the blade. Aziru felt tingles along his skin where the lightning bolts struck him.

  The pale man came on. Fearless. He swung the blade side-to-side like a scythe cutting wheat. Every time Aziru met the blade with his axe lightning shot from it and struck him. He couldn’t get past it’s length no matter how he tried.

  When he missed a blow, and that sword connected, the area hit went numb for a few seconds. Aziru dodged and retreated. He met the opponents strikes when he had to, taking the shock from the lightning bolts that him.

  The strikes grew more powerful the more they connected. He was weakening, he could feel it. His opponent knew it too.

  On came the pale man. His eyes glowed with every strike that made contact. A grin crept up on his lips.

  When Aziru was cut, the numbness lasted a little longer than the times before. Aziru had little choice. He retreated, countered when he could, but avoided the practice least the lightning weaken him further. He had to try something different.

  He shrugged out of the pack, got it off one shoulder, then parried a blow. He retreated some more, dodging and twisting in ways no blade of wheat could.

  He got some space, freed the other shoulder from the weight of the pack, then carried it in his free hand. When the pale man got close, Aziru tossed the pack at his head. The pale man ducked, but it gave Aziru time to slip in, parry the sword off in a direction that would take longer for the pale man to recover his back swing.

  He was open, so Aziru struck. His axe swiped across the pale man’s face just below his left eye. A long, thin cut opened and blood dripped from the wound.

  The pale man hissed in pain. His forward advance halted. Aziru grinned, the son-of-a-bitch could feel pain. He may not be human, but he wasn’t a god.

  That tiny little hesitation gave Aziru the time to make a second attack. He got in deep, the pale man obviously used to attacking and not defending. This time Aziru forced him back.

  A dark, black shape came out of nowhere. It clawed at Azriu’s face, at his neck. The attack didn’t hurt, but it interrupted Aziru’s strike. The pale man took the offense once more.

  Aziru looked behind him. Saw one of the trees looming. He could use it as cover. Try and work around and find an opening. As he stepped back onto the black earth, a shimmer surrounded them.

  He stepped back. His foot sunk into the snow. The cold air and wind took his breath away. Aziru looked around, surprised. They were fighting outside in the dark forest. It was night.

  As Aziru moved around, he realized the pale man would only extend so far out into the forest and the ripple effect around the tree stayed constant as long as he sta
yed close to it.

  Aziru withdrew, retreated further into the woods. The pale man watched him, but didn’t follow. They stared each other down, Aziru’s breath steaming in the cold air. The respite gave him a chance to catch his breath and he was in no hurry to continue the conflict.

  “Come on!” Aziru yelled. “Come get me.”

  The pale man did not respond. He turned and walked back to the tree. As he disappeared, the ripple effect waned. Aziru realized he would have to go back too. He couldn’t survive without his pack. And the crow that had attacked him had stolen Echrod’s pendant back.

  Aziru ran at the ripples, if they vanished while he watched would he be able to get back?

  He dove at the portal, just as the last of the ripple faded. Aziru was back inside the structure. And warm.

  The dive saved his life because just as he materialized the pale man was waiting for him and attacked. Aziru rolled beneath the blow and took off running.

  The pale man raced after him.

  Aziru had a plan. He needed to recover his pack. Needed to grab Wyborn’s sword. He had a head start on the pale man, but he was losing ground.

  Azriu reached his pack first. He scooped it up and shoved it onto one shoulder. The pale man caught up to him. Aziru turned around and met his blows. As they fought he moved toward the throne and Wyborn’s sword.

  The bolts of lightning were taking their toll. Aziru wouldn’t be able to take much more. He gritted his teeth. Backpedaled and dodged. Sometimes countered, then got room to breathe. For what seemed forever, he finally reached the sword. He picked it up and broke contact once more. He had promised Echrod he would return the pendant, that wasn’t going to be possible. He had failed. He wasn’t going to be able to keep his word.

  Sword in hand, pack on one shoulder Aziru stopped running.

  “Now, let’s see what you’re made of.”

  A weapon in each hand, Azriu was able to dodge and counter. He attacked. Looking for the opportunity to break contact and flee for the trees.

  The pale man fought valiantly. He had learned. He changed his pattern of strikes so his blows didn’t leave too much room to recover from. He knew that eventually the abuse from the lightning would wear Aziru down.

  Aziru thought as he fought back and forth. He changed his plan once again. When they were near the trees, he pressed the pale man back until the ripples appeared. When they did, he threw his axe at the pale man’s head. The pale man raised his sword to deflect it.

  Aziru charged. He slammed into the pale man, pushed him back. The ripples formed around them, the air pulsed. They were back in the forest once more. Aziru dropped Wyborn’s sword and grabbed the pale man by the crow cloak he wore. He spun him around, pulling the pale man off balance. He always stayed behind him. He let go, the pale man stumbled over a tree root and fell far from the tree.

  As he tried to rise, his body hardened and turned into marble. He was solid as a statue. Aziru took a deep breath, then collapsed into the snow.

  When he woke up, a fire had been built. He was dressed in his furs. His pack was beside him, but he had neither Wyborn’s sword or his own axe. They were gone. He tried to find the tree that had transported them here, but none of them produced the ripples.

  Aziru looked at the pale man. He was still a statue. What kind of being he was, Azriu knew he would never find out. But he had survived the encounter, defeated his opponent, and was still alive for more adventures. That was enough for now. He vowed he would still make the journey to Echrod’s home, tell his family about the bravery he had shown. Inform them of his fate.

  Azriu picked up the pack.

  A black shape caught his eye. It was the bird-man. He was dressed in the cloak of crows that the pale man had worn. The bird man raised his hand. The pendant hung from his grasp.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for freeing me.”

  The bird-man also passed Aziru his axe. Without changing into a bird, he floated into the sky and flew away.

  It was mid-morning when Aziru arrived in the small town of Maesa, Persai’s northernmost city and Echrod’s hometown. A light frost covered the ground and a young girl carrying a staff bigger than she was shepherded a flock of llamas through the narrow, dirt streets. The village was just beginning to wake up.

  Cook fire’s black smoke rose from many chimneys, carrying the scent of bacon and ham. Vendors and merchants, up before dawn, prepared their shops for the day, unfurling multicolored awnings that flapped in the breeze. They layed out their wares and quietly talked to their neighbors before moving on their way to other tasks. Pictographs decorated the poles that held up the awnings: a colored square for rug merchants, an ear of corn for farmers, and a mug of foaming ale for cantinas. Aziru stopped one vendor and asked about where he could find the black smith. The vendor told him he was on the wrong side of town, then pointed in the direction Aziru needed to go. Aziru thanked him, and purchased a cup of quab. The drink steamed in his hands and was warm and spicy to the taste. The heat from the drink was good and sent fire along his body from his head down to his toes.

  Aziru quickened his pace, eager to return the pendant to Echrod’s daughter, so that he could be on his way. He stopped to ask directions one more time before he finally found Ili-Hadda’s home. It wasn’t in the town proper and sat nestled comfortably in the green hills that surrounded the town. The dwelling was separated into two structures about one hundred feet apart. The main house, the larger of the two structures, still seemed asleep. A thick frost decorated the roof and windows. No cook fire rose from the chimney.

  The other structure’s door stood all the way open, the sound of hammer blows echoing through the air. An orange glow emanated from the forge. Ili-Hadda was awake and working. He was of medium build, with muscular arms, and short black hair. He must have been up for some time, sweat glistened along his arms and dripped from his face as he bent over a work table hammering a horseshoe into shape.

  “Are you the blacksmith Ili-Hadda?” Azriru asked. He stood in the doorway, basking in the warmth of the room.

  Ili-Hadda looked up, then back down at his work. “I am. What can I do for you, stranger?”

  Aziru raised the pendant and let it rock back and forth in his hand. “Echrod asked me to return this to his daughter.”

  Ili-Hadda looked up again. A dark look passed across his face. He lowered his hammer onto the table, then walked to the door, wiping his hands clean on a rag. “I knew Echrod wasn’t going to return when Malrik and his men came back a fortnight ago.”

  Ili-Hadda reached for the pendant. Aziru pulled it away.

  “What did you say?”

  Ili-Hadda scratched at the stubble on his face. “I knew Echrod had died when Malrik returned. I had told him not to join the army; but Echrod was an old fool and stubborn as a mule.”

  “Malrik is alive?” Aziru asked through gritted teeth.

  “Yes.” Ili-Hada nodded. He studied Aziru with a questioning gaze, his eyes growing dark and suspicious as he studied Aziru’s face.

  “They came back two weeks ago with tales of how they routed the barbarians and sent them fleeing. All was well, everyone joyful, and the army was making its way home. They made the mistake of returning through the Dark Woods when they were in turn set upon by creatures that were half-men and half-demon. The army was broken and scattered to the seven winds.”

  Aziru could feel his face burn with anger.

  Ili-Hadda stood motionless before him. “I take it their words were untrue.”

  Aziru nodded. “It’s all untrue.”

  “Everything?” Ili-Hadda asked. He frowned, then looked Aziru in the eyes. “Tell me true, rider. What happened out there? What happened to Echrod? The towns people wait for word of their loved ones. Wait for their return. Every day many stand in the bazaar keeping watch, hope in their hearts, that their loved one will return. They go to Malrik or his lieutenants and ask them to repeat their tale, ask them if they know what happened to their husbands, or fathers,
or brothers. The crowd thins everyday. Only the desperate cling to the hope that the army will return. My niece, she is among them. I see the light of hope slowly fade from her eyes. Yet, each day she wakes and makes a trek to the other side of the city.”

  Aziru told Ili-Hadda what had happened. He recounted the tale. He told him how they had pursued the barbarians across the tundra, how they had been tricked and led into an ambush. He explained how the mercenaries had been the first to break and run and how soon after the entire army was in shambles. He spoke of Echrod’s death and how his last act likely saved Aziru himself.

  Aziru raised the pendant, extended it out to Ili-Hadda as though it were an offering to the gods.

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  SWORD & SORCERY SAMPLER

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  A.R. Williams' "Sword & Sorcery Sampler" is a collection of sword-wielding heroes, dark magic, monstrous villains, and brave new worlds. Explore three different milieus--Kuwar, the dark city, the dragon brood adventures of Gerhardt and Father Neumann, and a tale from "Sword and Sorcery Adventures". These three spell-binding novelettes will have you riveted to the page: # "The Blessed and the Damned" - Her daughter kidnapped, Lorna Jassan travels to Kuwar to get her back, but old friends, and old secrets stand in her way. # "The Dragon Brood War (episode 1): It Walks Among Men" - Nothing is as it seems when Gerhardt is given a contract to kill a priest. That includes the assassin himself. # "Sword & Sorcery Adventure: Winter's Cold Heart" - In the cold of winter, Leif Jurgensen hunts a local monster in order to win the chief's daughter's hand in marriage. Experience the action that sword and sorcery tales are known for! Experience A.R. Williams' "Sword & Sorcery Sampler"!