The World Raven

by A. J. Smith

  ‘Bronwyn got sick of you?’ he asked.

  The Karesian chuckled, stretching his back. ‘My charms can’t compete with a glimpse of Canarn. She’s a duchess, remember.’

  Fallon vaulted to the ground and groaned. Even at the back of the column, he was surrounded by armour, horses and carts. If General Frith wanted to take this army anywhere at speed, they’d need to ditch half the men, or risk starving.

  Brother Lanry and Vladimir Corkoson approached from one of the wagons. They’d both complained sufficiently to not have to ride any more. The men of the Darkwald Yeomanry, languishing at the back of the army, didn’t need their lord’s word to follow in the wake of the Red Knights.

  ‘My arse feels like a rutting stallion’s gone at it,’ said Vladimir.

  ‘A pot of steaming tea would be pleasant,’ said Brother Lanry.

  Hasim and Vladimir looked at him with raised eyebrows.

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Lanry. ‘We’re not all interested in alcohol and... and women of disrepute.’

  ‘I assure you,’ said Hasim, ‘my interest in women of disrepute is entirely honourable.’

  Fallon began to unbuckle his saddle. ‘I don’t think there are many whores in Canarn,’ he said. ‘Not from what I remember.’

  Lanry winced. ‘Please, Sir Fallon, can we call them women of disrepute?’

  ‘Rather than whores?’ interjected Vladimir.

  ‘What about beer?’ asked Hasim. ‘Can we still call that beer?’

  Lanry flapped his hands at them, burbling something about the One.

  ‘Don’t concern yourself, Brother,’ said Fallon. ‘Our Karesian friend is deeply under the thrall of Duchess Bronwyn. I doubt she’ll indulge his interest in whores... sorry, women of disrepute.’

  ‘It’s just not that kind of city,’ mumbled Lanry, disappearing in the direction of the supply carts.

  ‘I’ll take tea, beer or a comfy bed,’ said Vladimir. ‘Just some warmth would be nice.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh,’ said Hasim. ‘You couldn’t last an hour without a bottle of wine.’

  The Lord of Mud feigned offence. ‘How dare you, sir! I am equally comfortable quaffing beer, ale, mead and spirits of all kinds.’

  ‘Ever tried desert nectar?’ asked the Karesian.

  ‘Once. I believe I was robbed by a couple of young ladies shortly after my fourth glass.’

  ‘Had you paid them?’ asked Hasim.

  ‘No,’ replied Vladimir. ‘One expects to be robbed in a brothel. This was just an unfortunate tavern incident. Somewhere in Weir, I think.’

  ‘Let’s try to re-create that incident in Canarn.’

  ‘We won’t be staying long,’ Fallon told them. ‘I don’t think Canarn would welcome another Red Army.’

  ‘I think I might stay,’ said Hasim.

  ‘You’re welcome to ride with me, my friend,’ offered the Grey Knight. ‘There’s a war brewing and those scimitars of yours could make a difference.’

  The Karesian shook his head. ‘One way or another, the Seven Sisters have claimed a lot of my friends. If I’m to keep fighting, I’d just as soon do it with my brain – and my brain is telling me to stay here. Gods never did much for me.’

  ‘A luxury not all of us are afforded,’ replied Fallon.

  For a change he actually wanted to speak to Torian’s shade. In fact, it was probably the first time ever. The apparition had been quiet, without so much as a terse declaration to remind Fallon he was more than just a swordsman. At this particular moment, he thought, he’d welcome some reassurance, or even basic guidance. But none came. What did come was darkness, and in the northern plains of Canarn it came remarkably quickly, creeping up the horizon until it was total, with barely five minutes of twilight. At least it wasn’t raining.

  ***

  Ro Canarn was bigger than he remembered. Compared to the ruins of Hail and the wooden stockades of South Warden, the city was huge. It had a solidity that was missing in the lands of the Free Companies. It wasn’t just that it was constructed and walled in stone, or that its towers were rigid and tall, built as a direct extension of the high cliff face. No, it appeared solid because that’s exactly what it was, an old stone fort built to defend an indefensible land. When it had fallen, it had fallen from the sea, an invading fleet exploiting its only real weakness. From the land, its towers and battlements were near-perfect defence – on high ground, overlooking acres of farmland. A few hundred crossbows and some artillery and it could hold indefinitely.

  The city had weathered more than its share of trauma, but the tower of the World Raven still stood, defiantly watching over the lands of Canarn. William of Verellian called them a tough people who would only get tougher after the invasion. Certainly the approaching Red Army was not greeted with any joy. Only the presence of Lady Bronwyn caused the gates to open, and even then the gate guards allowed only ten riders to enter, under the sight of a dozen crossbows. The bulk of the army camped to the north, largely out of sight. The men and women of Canarn knew they were there, but weren’t constantly faced with another army marching to their city under a banner of Red.

  With the duchess rode Fallon, Sergeant Ohms, Al Hasim, Brother Lanry and Malaki Frith, along with four personal aides – seasoned Red Knights with peace-tied longswords. It was a varied group: some knights, some traitors, a cleric, a noblewoman and a... whatever Al Hasim was. Whatever he was, he was as close to Bronwyn as their horses would allow.

  Through the northern gate, they rode from thinly placed cobbles to a stone courtyard, with the inner keep rising high above them. The drawbridge, leading to the keep, brought back a hundred memories of dull weeks spent on itchy bedrolls complaining to Verellian. It had been many months since Fallon rode north from Canarn, and the city felt no more like Tor Funweir than it had then. The winding, narrow streets, leading towards the harbour, opened into courtyards and small gardens. It was more enclosed than Tiris, cleaner than Weir and far smaller than both. It had none of the enforced piety of Arnon. There were no banners of the One God, just the tower of the World Raven and a newly constructed monument of a longsword, a leaf-blade and an axe. The city appeared to be empty, or at least no-one was wandering the streets. Smoke snaked upwards from chimneys and smells of meat and fish filled his nostrils, but the population stayed indoors.

  At least Bronwyn and Lanry were pleased to be home. The duchess practically leapt from her horse, while the cleric dismounted as quickly as his old bones would let him. The watchmen, men and risen men in light blue tabards, encircled them, reserving their most hostile glares for the Red general and his men.

  ‘Thought it was a rumour,’ muttered Ohms, turning his nose up at the risen men.

  ‘Never seen them this close up,’ replied Fallon.

  ‘Are we okay with this?’ asked the sergeant.

  Frith clearly wasn’t. He pointed at the non-humans, spluttering something about heresy. One of the watchmen, a man of rank with pale skin and wide shoulders, stepped forward and aimed his crossbow at the general.

  ‘Got a problem, Red man?’ demanded the man of Canarn. ‘You’re lucky we let you though the fucking gate.’

  ‘Auker, this is Knight General Malaki Frith of the Red church,’ said Brother Lanry. ‘Should probably watch your manners.’

  ‘Fuck him,’ replied Auker. ‘We don’t answer to him. Not now – not ever.’

  Frith’s guards wheeled their horses threateningly, but the general kept his composure.

  ‘Lady Bronwyn,’ he said, ‘your choice of watchmen aside, do we have permission to enter your city?’

  She breathed in deeply, letting her eyes play over the rooftops of Canarn. Fallon imagined her mind as a whirl of emotions. The death of her brother, her return to the city... it must have been overwhelming.

  ‘Auker, they are welcome,’ she said softly. ‘General Frith, you have no authority here and are my guest.’

  Again, the knights glared and their hands clutched at their longswords. A shake of the head from
Frith calmed them, but the atmosphere was tense.

  ‘This is still a city of Ro,’ said the general. ‘I was not part of the attack on your city. That was Commander Rillion and Cardinal Mobius. Along with their enchantress. They are all dead. There is no-one left to blame.’

  Bronwyn appeared to ignore him, and instead turned her back on the riders and addressed Auker. ‘It’s good to be home. I would like rooms prepared for these men and food provided. The army to the north will remain where they are. If they encroach, let them know they are not welcome.’ She bowed her head, glancing at Lanry. ‘Lord Bromvy is dead. We will have a memorial when I am settled.’ She marched off, unaccompanied but for the watchmen and the Brown cleric. She reached the drawbridge and turned, locking eyes with Fallon. ‘If you have a plan, Fallon of Leith, I’ll be in the great hall in four hours, after I have washed and slept. And, General Frith, you and I need to establish a chain of command.’

  ***

  News of Brom’s death made the atmosphere even more hostile. As the sun descended and Fallon woke from two hours’ sleep, he felt great empathy for the population of Canarn. He’d been pragmatic up to this point, trying to rationalize everything as a necessary consequence of humanity, but Bronwyn and her city didn’t deserve the treatment they’d received.

  His room – small, square and draughty – was off the great hall and he’d descended into sleep with difficulty and awoken tired, listening to crying servants and angry watchmen. The proud people of Canarn were in mourning for their duke. No-one could actually say how he’d died, only that Bronwyn knew, and they trusted her, just as she trusted the insane bird man, Fynius. This was no consolation to hundreds of grieving citizens, all wanting to know how Bromvy had died.

  ‘He died quickly,’ said Torian’s shade, appearing as a ghost in the corner of the room. ‘There was no pain, just peace. And his sacrifice was not in vain.’

  Fallon groaned as a sharp pain enveloped his head. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’

  Torian bowed his head. The wall was clearly visible through him and there was little fine detail in his appearance: the cloak, the steel breastplate, the sheathed longsword. He looked like a Purple cleric, but without any texture or expression.

  ‘Divine energy is becoming a finite resource,’ said the shade. ‘The One is losing his hold on the world. It takes much effort to appear to you. The barriers beyond are more solid than they have been for aeons.’

  The words were scratchy and uncertain, as if heard through layers of cloth or a closed door. Fallon stood, feeling sadness flowing in waves from the shade. ‘I need something from you. If the One God wants me for his exemplar, he must give me something – anything. I can’t take men to war if I know we’re all going to die.’

  ‘There is a possible alliance,’ replied Torian doubtfully. ‘We have been contacted by the exemplar of Brytag. He wishes a council. The World Raven’s power is not fading and he has offered help for the people of Ro. Perhaps power enough to train you properly, to turn you into the exemplar the One God needs.’

  ‘Who’s going to the council?’ asked Fallon. ‘There are other shades? Other exemplars?’

  Torian looked down, as if remembering a mistake. ‘Each Giant has an exemplar. Shades have not been needed for many centuries. Perhaps unwisely, they have only recently returned to the world. It appears the World Raven wishes us to coordinate to defeat the Dead God. The idea has some merit.’

  Fallon smiled. ‘Brytag helped free the king and South Warden, that buys him a fair bit of trust. And Fynius killed Mobius. That’s a good start.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ murmured Torian, ‘if the World Raven does not use all his might to empower Rowanoco, his friend. We will not accept help if we must crawl to the Ice Giant.’

  ‘War has come to all the lands of men; perhaps old grudges should be laid aside. If there are other exemplars still fighting, they deserve that power as much as me.’

  ‘We would sooner see the Dead God rise than act outside of our nature.’

  ‘Well, that sounds fucking stupid,’ said Fallon. ‘Grovel, beg, plead, whatever you need to do to save Tor Funweir. If I might die and get men killed, the least you can do is show a little humility when offered help.’

  Torian flared, momentarily becoming more visible, as if his power rose when he was angered. Fallon balked, thinking he’d gone too far and insulted his god. But, slowly, the flared anger dissipated and Torian smiled. ‘We chose wisely,’ said the shade. ‘You will be a fine leader for the Knights of the Grey.’

  ‘I’m to choose others?’

  ‘You are to knight those you think worthy. An order of the Grey must be formed. Until I return, you must act without me. Muster what forces you can and ride south. Test your skills whenever you can, for when I return, the One God will have need of your sword arm. A shadow will fall on the battlefield and it must be met with divine strength.’

  ‘Picking a fight won’t end this.’

  ‘Depends which fight you pick,’ replied the shade. ‘If that is too vague, a new king has been crowned and you must reach him.’

  ‘Xander Tiris,’ replied Fallon. ‘A fine general, but a king? What do the Purple think of that?’

  ‘He was crowned by a Brown cardinal; there are no living men of the Purple who outrank him. We have blessed the coronation.’

  ‘Perhaps a former Red Knight, crowned by a cleric of poverty, is exactly what we need. Please hurry back – and accept any help the World Raven offers.’

  ***

  A dozen men of Ro, a Karesian, a duchess, a lot of swords and a smell of dirt and sweat. Fallon was the last to enter the antechamber and it was packed practically to the wooden-vaulted ceiling with people. Lady Bronwyn, looking flushed, was seated at the head of the oblong table, flanked by guardsmen who were armed and on edge, with Brother Lanry and Hasim seated next to her. There was a gap the size of three chairs on either side of the table and the visitors clustered in the other half of the room, with General Frith, also looking flushed, facing Duchess Bronwyn.

  ‘You’ve been arguing,’ said Fallon, sitting down between the two groups.

  ‘Just a disagreement,’ replied Brother Lanry. ‘My lady is concerned about welcoming another Red Army to Canarn. Given the way she was chased out of this very city.’

  ‘No-one round this table was to blame, Lady Bronwyn,’ said Fallon. ‘Mobius, Rillion, the king... they’re all dead. If you want to blame someone, blame the Karesian witches that started this.’

  She kept her composure, but emotion hid behind her eyes. ‘So much has changed,’ she said. ‘My family have been consumed by this war. I’ve been blaming the Red Knights since you and Verellian chased me to Hail.’

  ‘I’m sorry for any part I played in your sadness,’ replied Fallon. ‘But you know the truth now – Canarn was sacked and the Freelands invaded by men enthralled to the Seven Sisters and their dead god. We’re merely the lucky ones, we survived. But there is still a war to fight in Tor Funweir.’

  ‘You have a plan, Sir Fallon?’ asked General Frith. ‘I have an army but no enemy to fight and no king to follow.’

  ‘I’m riding for Weir, to meet King Alexander Tiris,’ said Fallon, making everyone look at him. ‘My lord Frith, you should follow. Send riders after me and the bulk of the army as fast as they can move. Muster in Tiris.’

  ‘King Alexander?’ grunted Frith. ‘How did you come by this information?’

  ‘I know the One God blessed the coronation,’ said Fallon. ‘And I know the armies of Tor Funweir need help.’

  ‘We were months arriving,’ said Frith. ‘It’ll take months to get everyone back to Ro Tiris. There aren’t enough ships.’

  ‘As fast as you can,’ replied Fallon. ‘If you can’t ride to our aid, you can save what is left.’

  ‘This is a lot to accept, even from you,’ said the Red general.

  Fallon did sympathize. The general was a solid, pragmatic man, steeped in ceremony and averse to change. He was a true servant of the On
e, a man who genuinely didn’t think that Tor Funweir could fall.

  ‘I don’t know what power exists in my blood,’ said the Grey Knight, ‘but I know we might lose. Your men may have to take off their Red tabards and become protectors. Ten thousand Knights of the Red won’t dent all the Hounds of Karesia, but they might save the people of Ro.’

  Frith hung his head. ‘I need time to think on this, Sir Fallon. It is difficult to realize that you have been made a fool of. We were led away so Tor Funweir could burn.’

  Brother Lanry coughed politely. He leant forwards and smacked his wrinkled lips together into a smile. ‘Sorry for the impertinence, but I believe I can adequately cross the battle lines.’ He drew a bent finger across the middle of the table. ‘The One God has given us an exemplar, Maliki, and we should support any action he decides.’

  ‘Got my loyalty,’ grunted Sergeant Ohms, wrinkling up his grizzled face.

  ‘And mine,’ said Vladimir Corkoson.

  Fallon didn’t mean to, but he leant back and his shoulders appeared to swell, a subtle mantle of white emanating from his head. It wasn’t conscious. If he’d had the choice, he’d have preferred to appear like the rest of them. As it was, he was now apart, a creature of power among mortal men. It was Torian’s parting gift to him, perhaps the last shred of his power, used to display might to any doubters in the small antechamber.

  Lady Bronwyn and General Frith were stunned. The Red Knights, at their ease in the doorway, looked in awe, and Brother Lanry placed his hands together in prayer.

  ‘General, please believe that I never wanted this. I was more surprised than you are now. And it is not a glamorous endeavour... to be exemplar. To serve a god that you don’t understand.’

  Lanry stopped praying and chuckled. ‘I don’t think understanding is a requirement.’

  ‘Then, a luxury I am not afforded.’

  ‘I will do as you ask,’ spluttered Frith. ‘As the One God bids me. I will remain Cardinal of the Red until I am no longer needed.’

  The white light faded and Fallon tried to smile, as much for his own benefit as for those who were looking. ‘Thank you, General Frith. We will leave Lady Bronwyn to her city, a city that must be kept strong, for if Tor Funweir falls, Canarn will be a bastion of refuge.’