The World Raven

by A. J. Smith

  ‘Thank you,’ muttered Lylla, trying to smile at Arjav. ‘Will you eat, great mother?’

  Ruth looked at the child, narrowing her eyes in curiosity, until Arjav ushered the girl back out into the valley.

  ‘I will,’ said Randall, grabbing a hunk of buttery bread. The fish was smoked to a golden colour and gave off a rich, savoury smell. His belly thanked him with a contented gurgle as he chomped on mouthfuls of dense bread.

  ‘Oron Kaa,’ said Ruth. ‘The name disturbs you. Why?’

  Lylla refilled her pipe. ‘My son is afraid of it too. Why in the halls beyond does your road lead to such a place? You would be welcome to stay here as friend and guardian.’

  ‘I am no longer looking for worship,’ replied Ruth, making Randall stare at her. ‘Perhaps a century ago I would have taken your offer, but I find that I am in a hurry.’

  ‘A shame,’ said the Kirin. ‘Our land is in need of some protection. It appears the Twisted Tree likes us no more than the Purple clerics of Ro.’

  ‘It’s happening everywhere,’ said Randall, spitting crumbs on the floor as he spoke. ‘I don’t think the Twisted Tree likes anyone. I suppose we’re... fighting against it. That’s why we need to get to Oron Kaa.’

  ‘I have four sons,’ said Lylla. ‘One was executed in Kessia for speaking against the Twisted Tree; one was inched in a Thrakkan dungeon for the same crime; and the remaining two are ship captains... perhaps the only people who will still be free in ten years. My eldest son, Raz Mon, will be able to help you.’

  Randall finished his mouthful and smiled at the woman. ‘You might be the friendliest person I’ve met since I left Tor Funweir. I don’t really know how to say thank you any more.’

  ‘You need not say anything, young man,’ replied Lylla. ‘If your road leads to Oron Kaa, I can assist, but I would bless the earth and the stone if the fates would gift me with a Gorlan mother to protect my land.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Ruth, her eyes strangely sad and wistful. ‘We are few. Our days guarding the deep woods are ended.’

  ***

  He slept well in a large bed, under warm blankets. The room was a box, with just the bed, a window and a standing basin of clean water, but to Randall it was better than the finest tavern. The Kirin farmstead was quiet and smelled of fresh bread and freshly cut grass. From his first-floor window, when he woke, Randall could see a bright morning sun, spreading as a golden line across the valley. He hadn’t found Utha, but he’d found a degree of peace, if only for a single night of good sleep in a welcoming Kirin village, deep in the woods of Oslan.

  Ruth had said that he was now more than a mortal man. He didn’t feel any different, certainly no less mortal. He felt refreshed and strong, but that could just be a good night’s rest. Perhaps there was something else, a gradual lessening of worry and fear, as if his mind no longer needed to concern itself with things that used to terrify the young squire. Unfortunately, the only way to test his new might was to stare down another of the Seven Sisters... and this was both unlikely and unwise. Greater than a mortal maybe, but still not a fool.

  There was a knock on the door. Just a gentle sound, but enough to get him out of bed. ‘I’m just getting dressed,’ he said.

  There was no reply. He dressed slowly in freshly cleaned clothes that hugged his tired limbs, and left the small room. Standing in the corridor, arms crossed, was a tall Kirin man, wearing only laced-up leather trousers and a matching waistcoat. The black clothing was stained and ripped at the joints, revealing scarred flesh and large muscles.

  ‘Hello,’ said Randall. ‘Are you a friend of Lylla’s?’

  The tall man assessed him, then strode away, back down the stairs. ‘Come, boy. Ten hours is enough rest.’

  The young squire belted on the sword of Great Claw and followed. Back in Lylla’s sitting room, he found a half-eaten breakfast of fruit and bread and three leather-clad Kirin men. Their katanas and bows were stacked in the corner and they stopped eating to cast wary eyes at Randall. Without Ruth or Lylla there, he felt naked and alone under their hard glares.

  ‘Sit, boy, eat,’ said the tall man.

  Randall did as he was told, perching on the only free armchair. He munched on a shiny, green apple. ‘Do you four live here?’ he asked politely.

  The three seated Kirin frowned at him. The tall man, now standing over his shoulder, grunted, as if he’d completed his assessment of the young man.

  ‘We do not,’ he replied. ‘We arrived early this morning, and we have heard a strange tale of strange visitors.’

  Lylla Vekerian emerged from the kitchen, wearing a white apron and carrying a smoking platter of fried fish. ‘Ah, young man, good that you’re awake. Hungry?’

  He nodded and took another bite of his apple. ‘Where’s Ruth?’

  Lylla smiled at him. ‘She’s been standing on the western palisade for hours, just staring into the woods.’

  ‘If she likes it so much, why doesn’t she stay?’ mused the tall Kirin man. ‘We could accommodate this one if she needs to keep him around.’

  ‘Manners,’ snapped Lylla. ‘Young Randall is a guest in my house. Sorry, young man, my son has been travelling through the night and his mood appears dark.’

  ‘Your son?’ enquired Randall, looking up at the man. ‘One of the sailors?’

  ‘Raz Mon Vekerian,’ said the man, ‘captain of the Black Wave.’

  ‘He can take you south of Skeleton Bay,’ said Lylla, ‘to the edge of the world.’

  Her son gritted his teeth. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But my crew will not be happy. Certain destinations can lead to mutiny. Especially when there is money to be made ferrying refugees from an imploding Karesia.’

  Randall finished his apple and flaked a fillet of fish across a thick slab of bread. ‘Where can they go? Tor Funweir is no better.’

  Raz Mon Vekerian didn’t display emotion. His face was still and ice cold, though his three shipmates grinned at Randall’s naivety.

  ‘There are other places, boy,’ said one of them. ‘Most are bound for the twin cities, some even for the Freelands or to chance their luck in Fjorlan. Anywhere that doesn’t revere this Twisted fucking Tree.’

  ‘We seek to oppose that tree,’ replied Randall. ‘I make no claims to being a mighty warrior or shrewd tactician, but I have a close friend who is both... and he’s bound for Oron Kaa, with a good head start.’

  Again, the Kirin balked at the name. One of the seated men bit his thumb and looked up, as if to ward against evil spirits.

  ‘Why does it scare you?’ asked Randall.

  ‘We don’t talk of it here,’ said Raz Mon Vekerian. ‘It causes an ill wind to discuss such places while ashore. At sea a man can be free to talk of whatever he wishes. He can be free to worship any gods or none. There is no blasphemy at sea.’

  Lylla sat next to him and filled her pipe. ‘The settlement you wish to reach is known to our family.’

  ‘Mother, please. Not here. The winds will listen and punish us.’

  Randall finished his slice of bread and fish, and took an offered mug of sweet tea. ‘So, once we’re at sea, you’ll tell us all you know of... the settlement?’

  ‘Once I’ve killed any of my crew that refuse the journey, yes.’

  CHAPTER 2

  GWENDOLYN OF HUNTER’S CROSS IN THE RUINS OF COZZ

  THE SOUTHERN GATEHOUSE was just a pile of blackened wood and steel, with motionless and twitching limbs poking out from between planks. The black armour of the Hounds had been turned into mangled metal by the fire, looking like a garden of jagged points. It made searching difficult. Alexander Tiris, the Red Prince of Haran, had not been found in the open, so, as morning rose, they searched through the debris. Under the ruined gatehouse, Tyr Sigurd had seen the tip of a large sword and Gwen commanded the remaining troops to clear the smouldering pile of rubble.

  The Merchant Enclave of Cozz was no more. No buildings stood and no citizens remained. It was no more than a monument to brutal warfare an
d suicidal madness. She didn’t know how many people had lived in Cozz, but it was several thousand certainly. Some would have escaped, others would be languishing as slaves, but most were dead. Even before the Hawks arrived and the world went black, the enclave had been smashed and smashed again. Her warrior’s mind imagined how any rebuilt settlement would be stronger, with artillery and a dedicated force of guardsmen, as its strategic importance demanded. But for now it appeared almost dreamlike, with wisps of memory and death floating in the ash-filled air.

  ‘My lady,’ said Sergeant Ashwyn, pulling the tarnished blade from the rubble.

  Gwen and ten Hawks of Ro stared at the blade. It was Peacekeeper, Xander’s bastard sword.

  ‘Clear the rubble... clear it quickly!’ she snapped, dropping to the floor to heft planks of wood out of the way. ‘If he’s under there, we must find him.’

  Sergeant Ashwyn shouted orders and men and Dokkalfar set about the large pile of rubble, frantically clearing wood, metal and body parts, cutting themselves on jagged steel.

  Images and memories flooded her mind, making her light-headed. Flickering paintings of moments she’d shared with Xander, but might never share again. They’d met in conflict, and each day since they’d fought one battle or another; against tradition, prejudice, blades – but they’d never lost. Had the bluntness of the Hounds truly defeated them?

  She could hear him saying ‘stay alive’, as he had done every time they’d ridden into battle. She wanted to say it to him, whisper in his ear that he must live... for her, for the Hawks and for Tor Funweir. He would be the king now, as the only living man of the house of Tiris still in the lands of Ro. A man who had attacked and liberated his own capital city and killed his own cousin, all to free Tor Funweir from the tentacles of the Twisted Tree.

  They’d come south from Ro Tiris with two thousand hawks and two Lords of Ro. One lord, Bromvy Black Guard of Canarn, was certainly dead and the other was missing. As for the warriors of Haran and Canarn, few had survived. She was in command of a broken force. Only the surviving Dokkalfar remained stoic. Tyr Sigurd and his forest-dwellers were quietly following orders and tending to the wounded men, while the rest tried to lighten their mood with hopeful talk of finding their general alive. Now, for the first time since the enclave had detonated, they all worked together to clear the rubble of the southern gatehouse.

  ‘There, at the bottom,’ she grunted. ‘That’s Brom.’

  Sergeant Symon, her self-appointed aide, moved to her shoulder and, bending his back, hefted a large plank out of the way. On the other side, when they heard their lord’s name, Tyr Sigurd and the Dokkalfar of Canarn doubled their efforts. They’d found his severed arm the previous night, but his body had so far eluded them.

  When the final plank was removed and a section of ground cleared, they saw two bodies and everyone froze, standing in a circle. Brom, his body half-burned, was splayed across another form, lying motionless beneath him, a form he had shielded from the explosion. Sigurd was the first to move, retrieving Brom’s raven-hilted sword and rolling him to the side.

  ‘General!’ gasped Ashwyn.

  Xander wasn’t moving. He was on his back and, thanks to Brom, largely untouched by the fire, but blood covered his legs and chest. Gwen didn’t need to order her men to help him. Everyone close enough moved in, with Ash and Symon positioning themselves to lift the general.

  ‘Be careful,’ she whispered. ‘Is he breathing?’

  ‘Unknown,’ grunted Ash, getting a good grip under Xander’s armpits. ‘Let’s get him out of here.’

  They moved his limp body from its blackened wooden shell and placed him on the dusty ground of the southern courtyard. Brom was lifted by Sigurd and laid out next to Xander. The lord of Canarn’s face was visible, but the rest of his body was broken.

  Gwen dropped to her knees next to her husband. His arms and legs were intact, his breastplate unbroken and his sword still in one piece, but he wasn’t moving. ‘Sigurd, can you help?’

  The forest dweller left Brom’s corpse and crouched down with Gwen. His grey face twisted in concern as he inspected the Red Prince. ‘His back is broken. His head has been struck repeatedly. His left leg is cut to the bone in three places. But he lives.’

  ‘He lives,’ she repeated, leaning over to kiss him on his blood-stained lips. ‘You live.’

  ***

  Her eyes hadn’t left his face. As they carried him, from the bloodied square to the relative security of the forward gatehouse, Gwen had looked at nothing else. The thirty surviving Hawks and seven Dokkalfar trailed behind them, their excitement tinged with worry. The general lived, but he was badly wounded. As afternoon wore on and Tyr Sigurd tended to Xander, the mood became more and more tense.

  ‘We need a White cleric,’ said Ashwyn. ‘Maybe Brother Daganay could do something.’

  ‘He’ll be with Major Brennan,’ she replied. ‘They’ll be here before nightfall. An army of Ro from Canarn, Haran, Tiris and Arnon. They’ll be looking for their general... perhaps their king. I hope there is still a man for them to find.’

  Ashwyn put his hand on her shoulder. ‘These forest-dwellers are clever bastards. Since we left Canarn I’ve seen Sigurd work wonders with a few roots and some berries. He says it’s not magic, but it looks like it to me.’

  ‘The Dokkalfar don’t think of magic as we do,’ she replied. ‘Half of what they know and do is magical to us. To them it’s just craft. Ancient and powerful, but craft nonetheless.’

  ‘Well, with their craft and Brom’s courage, he’ll wake up, my lady. You listen to me now, Alexander Tiris is the toughest man I’ve ever known.’

  She tried to smile. ‘Thank you, Ash. But I just keep thinking about a king who may never be crowned.’

  ‘And a queen?’

  She blushed suddenly, averting her eyes.

  ‘Never thought I’d see Gwendolyn of Hunter’s Cross turn into a bashful young girl.’ He winked at her. ‘Don’t worry, my lady, when your husband wakes up I won’t tell him.’

  They’d remained at Xander’s side for the first few hours, but had now retreated to the ruined forward battlements, giving Sigurd room to practise his craft. Gwen had used a damp cloth to wipe blood from Xander’s face, until he looked like her husband again, and she’d left only when his face was imprinted behind her eyes. His pulse was weak and his chest barely moved, but she could not help him. Of the remaining soldiers, only the Dokkalfar had such skill. She had no choice but to return to the men and once more be a warrior, awaiting reinforcements. Ashwyn remained with her, while Symon kept a watch over the southern plains, mindful of the surviving Hounds mustering again for an attack.

  The shadows lengthened and the sky darkened until, barely an hour before dusk, sounds started to travel from the northern horizon, breaking the tense atmosphere. At first a dull thud, then a clank of metal, then the neighing of horses. Armoured men appeared on the high ground. A few at first, mounted and flying the banner of Ro Haran, then more, from every angle she could see, until the horizon had filled with an army of Ro.

  Twenty cohorts, tightly organized into columns with banners flying overhead. The red hawk of Haran, the black raven of Canarn, the gold eagle of Tiris, and others she didn’t recognize. The men of Haran were in the vanguard with ranks of watchmen and mercenaries behind.

  ‘Look yonder,’ said Ashwyn, pointing to a separate force riding over the hill. ‘That’s Markos of Rayne.’

  A line of white rode slowly under a silvery banner showing a dove. Lances were held high and each horse wore a skirt of metal, making their approach slow but loud.

  ‘Men of peace, clad in death,’ she murmured, sharing Daganay’s wariness of the White Knights.

  Lord Markos rode before his men, now clad in glittering silver armour. His greatsword was visible across his back, and he held the reins in one gauntleted hand. He led five thousand Knights of the Dawn – the entire order of paladins.

  ‘Nineteen thousand warriors, the best we have without t
he Red Knights,’ stated Ash.

  The army deployed slowly, coming to a stop on the fields north of the ruined enclave. Major Brennan, Brother Daganay and Lord Markos met at the front of the force and, with disbelief on their faces, rode towards the ruin. Gwen jumped from the skeletal battlements and ran to meet them, as the other survivors poked weary heads out from their places of rest to greet their brothers.

  ‘Gwen!’ shouted Daganay. ‘What in the halls beyond happened to Cozz? And where’s the general?’

  She reached them and, as the Blue cleric dismounted, she grabbed him in a tight hug. ‘Xander’s barely alive. Brom’s dead. Come quickly.’

  He held her tightly, briefly, nodded and started to run back towards the ruin. Lord Markos and Brennan followed, passing orders to their men to set camp. Despite his paunch, Daganay easily kept up with her, and they met Tyr Sigurd at the gatehouse. The forest dweller wiped blood from his hands, and the smell of his ointments and salves hung in the air.

  ‘Just in time, Daganay of the Blue,’ said the tall Dokkalfar, showing no emotion about his grisly work. ‘Your general fades.’

  They quickly entered the gatehouse, one of the few buildings that still had a roof, and clustered round a wooden table, upon which lay Alexander Tiris. He was wrapped in makeshift bandages, and pungent herbal poultices covered his leg and forehead.

  ‘His back is broken,’ said Sigurd. ‘And his head bleeds internally.’

  ‘Markos,’ said Daganay, ‘you’re of the White, only you can...’

  Lord Markos of Rayne set aside his sword and knelt next to the stricken king. He assessed the dying man, his eyes seeing and showing how grievous were the wounds. ‘My general, my king. Word has reached us from the Freelands. Your brother, Sebastian, is dead. The light of the One fades, from you and this world. I would see you stand once more. I would see you as king of Tor Funweir and protector of the Ro.’ His eyes were closed and the words formed a prayer.