The World Raven

by A. J. Smith

  ‘I’m sorry I let you,’ replied Dalian. ‘I only ever wanted you to embrace Jaa and become a wind claw like your father.’

  Hasim scratched his head, as if a thought suddenly intruded. ‘I do feel him,’ he murmured. ‘Maybe it’s just you, but I do feel Jaa. He’s happy with me. I’ve never felt such a thing before.’

  ‘If you feel him, you are one of few,’ replied Dalian. ‘And you cannot rest when the Fire Giant hangs on by a thread. I will find the exemplar, but you must rejoin the Long War as a soldier for Jaa.’

  Bronwyn expected a witty response or a cavalier show of apathy. What she got was a nod of conviction. Something had changed in Al Hasim. He had felt his god for the first time, and it was not a feeling to be mocked or cast aside.

  ‘We will meet again, my son,’ said Dalian. ‘For as we endure, so does Jaa. The Dead God can claim his lands and his followers, but we will keep the Fire Giant alive.’ With a warm smile and a subtle bow of the head, the ghostly figure faded from view, appearing to slip into the gap between moments.

  The blue light faded with him and Fynius sprang to his feet, looking again like a mischievous gremlin. ‘No need to thank us, man of the sun. It was a pleasure.’

  Hasim wasn’t listening. He looked at the space where his father had been and his eyes appeared to burn with a distant fire. Bronwyn wanted to reach out to him, but she could feel heat from his body and smell the distant aroma of smouldering rocks.

  Fynius stood and again addressed the air between them, as if someone was speaking to him. ‘Really?’ he asked. ‘Is that even possible?’ He paused, his mind processing something. ‘Okay, but don’t take too long. You’ve nothing left.’

  He closed his eyes and his head went back as if some strong wind had suddenly hit him. His arms and legs twitched and his eyes shot open. He looked at her, his face dropping into a look of intense loss and sadness.

  ‘Bronwyn!’ It was not Fynius’s voice. ‘I have no more power, no more time. I fade into the void and I must say goodbye.’

  ‘Brom?’ She grabbed Fynius and saw her brother’s love in his eyes.

  ‘I remember you, sister. Before I leave, I wanted you to know that I love you.’

  ‘Where are you? Can you come back like Hasim’s father?’

  He smiled at her, Brom’s boyish charm showing through Fynius’s face. ‘No,’ he replied, grabbing her in a tight hug. ‘We have no more power. The World Raven can no longer sustain a shade. We have used every reserve of divine energy left to us. Brytag will endure, as his followers endure, but Bromvy Black Guard of Canarn must go. Goodbye, Bronwyn.’

  She didn’t let go of him, even as her twin brother roared with anguish and left Fynius’s body. The man of Ranen slumped in her arms, and only Hasim’s help stopped her from dropping him. They lifted the slender captain of Twilight Company and placed him on the bed, where Al Hasim had been minutes before.

  ‘I can’t feel Brytag,’ murmured Fynius. ‘I can’t hear him. I just hope it was worth it. I just hope it was enough.’

  ***

  She’d kissed Hasim a dozen times since Fynius fell asleep and he felt further away each time, as if he’d already left, drifting away as surely as Brom. But with Al Hasim she sensed that he was bound for Karesia and an exploration of his new faith. He looked across the sea, from the battlements of a high tower, with a pinched look of intense thought on his face. Bronwyn stood next to him, their hands clasped together, but she didn’t say a word. The duchess of Canarn had said goodbye to her brother and she now had to say goodbye to Al Hasim. Now she had her own journey to consider. But hers would not take her far from home.

  Fynius had curled up in her bed and entered a deep sleep, saying nothing more to them. They’d retreated to the great hall, and then to the tower overlooking the harbour of Canarn. It was a clear morning, with a bright blue sky threatening to intrude through patchy clouds.

  ‘Kessia?’ she asked, after several hours of silent meditation.

  He nodded. ‘I’ve not been there for ten years. I think I might start a cult of Jaa worship. The subterfuge appeals to my roguish side.’

  ‘So, the Prince of the Wastes returns to Karesia. I feel sorry for the Dead God.’

  Hasim smiled, returning to his old self for a moment. ‘There must be thousands of people, languishing under this Twisted Tree, who could do with an alternative. Every person I turn back to Jaa is power stolen from the Dead God.’

  She slowly put her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply. ‘I won’t ask you to stay, but I don’t want you to die.’

  He laughed heartily. ‘People have been trying to kill me for years, my love. Karesians, Ranen, Kirin, mostly Ro. Perhaps my father brought me some extra luck, or maybe Jaa was watching. I feel him. For the first time in my life, I truly feel him. I have to do what I can.’

  Bronwyn looked into his eyes and could detect no shred of doubt. ‘I understand,’ she whispered. ‘You will always be welcome in Canarn.’

  ‘Brom would want you to stay,’ he said, stroking her cheek. ‘This is your city as it was his – as it was your father’s.’

  ‘I’m staying,’ she replied. ‘I have a notion that I’ll give a proposal of marriage to Vladimir Corkoson. He’s one of the few Lords of Ro not to ask me. If we can establish a realm between Canarn and the Darkwald, perhaps we’ll remain free for a little longer. Keep Brytag as our patron, maybe give back a little power.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Brytag is a fine choice, and Vladimir is kind-hearted, but he uncorks a little too easily.’

  ‘Well you’re not going to marry me,’ she said with a girlish smile. ‘And Vladimir is more appealing than Lord Hetherly of Chase. I don’t even know where Chase is.’

  ‘Oh, the Lord of Mud is a far better match than me. I should just warn you that he can’t stand straight without a bottle in his hand.’

  ‘I’ll live with it,’ she replied. ‘I doubt he’ll see it as a proposal of love, and Fallon said to keep Canarn strong. That’s advice you take to heart. The Darkwald is a large realm, given little respect by the rest of Tor Funweir. We have that in common.’

  Hasim frowned, his thoughts appearing far away.

  ‘Are you thinking about your father?’ she asked. ‘You never talk about him.’

  He smiled, as if remembering a private joke. ‘It’s a long story. He was always obsessed with Jaa, and I always rebelled. It never occurred to me to actually listen to him. Though he helped me escape Kessia when Rham Jas got me in trouble. He could have had me killed... he should have had me killed. He just wanted me to be something I wasn’t. But I knew he loved me and I always thought I’d see him again.’

  She kissed him, letting his tears touch her cheeks. She loved him too, but she couldn’t compete with Dalian Thief Taker. Hasim was one of the last followers of Jaa, and she was one of the last nobles of Ro. The world would not allow them the luxury of happiness, no matter how much they rebelled against the Dead God and his armies.

  CHAPTER 15

  ALAHAN TEARDROP IN THE CITY OF TIERGARTEN

  THE DREAMS NEVER stopped. Each night, Alahan fell into a deep pit of tentacles and despair. He was the exemplar of Rowanoco, but had nothing to show for it. He was the son of Algenon Teardrop, but he doubted everything. When the day ended and the cold cut through his limbs, he was just a young man from Fredericksand with an old name and dark dreams.

  The tentacled woman had grown tall. She spread her arms round thousands of squirming figures in a tight embrace. Her arms echoed into dozens of tentacles, each one flailing at the figures, grasping and squeezing until all life was gone. She hugged the motionless bodies close, a gleaming smile all that was visible of her face. Why did Rowanoco show him this each night? It was as if the Ice Giant wanted him to know some truth but was too far away to make him understand. The shade of his uncle, Magnus Forkbeard, had been silent for days and Alahan’s thoughts had turned to drinking in the ice halls after he felt the cold steel of Rulag Ursa’s axe.

 
Then he was awake, his eyes snapping open to look at the grey stone ceiling. Something was wrong. Some nagging sound had reached his ears and pulled him from sleep. It was still dark, with a crackling globe of firelight the only illumination. He sat up and saw rolling shadows playing off the doorway. A slight wind caught the fire and it displaced the shadows for a second, showing a silhouetted foot at the base of the door. Someone was standing outside and Alahan had woken at a footstep. His eyes flicked to his axe, Ice Razor, leaning against a chair by the far wall. Then back to the door. The shadows had returned and the silhouette was gone.

  Unsure whether he was truly awake, he froze, lying under a thick fur blanket, his eyes fixed on the shadowy door. The handle creaked and was then silent. Then it creaked again, slower this time, quieter. A sliver of dull light appeared as the door opened just a crack. The firelight from the corridor mingled slowly with the glow of his hearth and illuminated a man in the doorway.

  He saw Alahan, saw that he was awake, and darted forward, drawing a curved knife. The young thain widened his eyes and threw off the blanket just in time to catch the man’s arm and stop the knife entering his neck. The man was bulky, wearing thick furs and chain armour. He pushed down on Alahan’s bare chest, gritting his teeth and pushing the blade downwards.

  ‘Just let it happen,’ grunted the man, using all his strength to push the blade to within an inch of Alahan’s neck. Behind, through the dancing firelight, two more figures entered the room and closed the door, muttering to each other to be quiet. Before the door closed, Alahan briefly saw other figures, holding bloodied axes, in the corridor.

  ‘He’s awake,’ said one.

  ‘Not for long,’ replied the man grappling with Alahan.

  ‘Just get it done.’

  Through the darkness, the sweat, the sudden waking and the men wanting to end his life, Alahan roared and shook his head, coming fully awake. He pushed the blade aside, unbalancing the larger man, and brought his knee up into his groin. The man flailed and the blade dug into Alahan’s shoulder.

  ‘Stop flirting and kill him,’ muttered the man by the door, keeping his voice low and sounding as though he was keeping his temper in check.

  The third man had his ear to the door as if he was terrified they’d be discovered. Both men, seeing their companion in trouble, now drew similar curved knives.

  ‘Fucking coward,’ spat Alahan, pulling the knife from his shoulder and driving it into his assailant’s head. The would-be assassin had let go of the handle and was cradling his sore groin, but now he stared blankly, blood trickling from his mouth, nose and the fatal wound in his temple.

  The other two men, similarly dressed in fur and chain, advanced just as Alahan sprang to his feet, keeping the bed between them. He wore only woollen leggings, but the cold was defeated by his adrenaline and survival instinct. His eyes flicked to Ice Razor, but the men blocked his path to it. He would remain unarmed.

  There was shouting in the corridor as if the axe-men outside had been discovered. Steel against wood and strange growling. The men in the room looked at each other, alarmed by the sounds, but didn’t back away.

  ‘Your death needs to happen, Teardrop. The age of strength begins and we will take your life and your name.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to,’ he replied, reaching down to coil his fur blanket around his wrist. The knife wound in his shoulder had only caught flesh and was not debilitating.

  They attacked together, one high, one low. They were big and determined, but their clothing made them slow. Alahan whipped the blanket into one of their faces and dodged the other. He was barely clothed and that made him fast, but one mistake and he’d bleed.

  He moved away, trying to get to Ice Razor, but the blanket was now tangled and he had to let go, giving the men room to cut him off.

  ‘Just die, boy!’

  Outside, the sounds had risen in volume as running feet and roaring voices travelled along the corridor. The strange growling was now right outside his door, but the men still attacked again.

  Alahan could avoid one, pushing his forearm into the man’s wrist, but there simply wasn’t enough space to avoid the second blade. It hit him in his exposed side, cutting deeply into his flesh. He howled in pain, punching the man in the face, but was barrelled to the floor by their collective weight.

  It was now all arms and legs. The blade in his side remained, and the pain was extreme, but his strength didn’t leave him. He was punched, kicked, his head was slammed into the stone floor, but he avoided the remaining blade.

  ‘Hold him down,’ barked the armed man.

  Alahan got an elbow in the stomach and had the wind knocked out of him. They wrestled him flat and he saw a boot coming down to connect squarely with his face, making stars appear in front of his eyes. Then the bedroom door smashed inwards and Timon the Butcher appeared.

  The Low Kaster was frothing at the mouth and his head, free of its leather strapping, was pulsing with red veins. His eyes were black, and blood dripped from a dozen small wounds across his bulbous torso. He held the limp arm of an axe-man, dragging the dead body behind him as a child would drag a favourite toy. He drooled and his flabby lips smacked together.

  ‘Varorg!’

  The huge berserker loped into the room and flung the dead body at the wall. Several more bodies were revealed outside as he left the doorway.

  Alahan was kicked again, but refused to stop struggling. He had managed to keep the remaining knife from finishing him off, but he was now completely prone on the floor and pain from his side was gradually sapping his strength.

  ‘Kill that flabby cunt,’ said one of the men.

  The young thain was pulled into a chokehold by the last man and they rolled over as Alahan struggled to breathe, his eyes fixed on his friend. Timon held a heavy battleaxe and his clenched fists seemed to be as large as a man’s head. He ran at the knife-wielding assassin, ignoring the blade and driving the man into the floor with an immense strike. He was stabbed twice; once in the forearm as he advanced and once in the thigh as the assassin fell downwards. He didn’t react, or even flinch from the wounds.

  From the door, armed men of Tiergarten appeared and the sole living assassin, his arm still wrapped round Alahan’s neck, swore under his breath.

  ‘Better let me go,’ grunted Alahan.

  ‘Shut up, boy.’

  Timon knelt down and pounded on the fallen man’s head, until a dull crack and a spray of blood signalled his death. The Low Kaster then stood and vibrated, framed by a dozen new light sources from the doorway. Tricken Ice Fang appeared, joined by bloodied men-at-arms, and the arm round Alahan’s neck loosened slightly.

  ‘Keep back,’ grunted the man, fear in his eyes. ‘Keep back or I break his neck.’

  Tricken put a hand on Timon’s shoulder and the Low Kaster let him pass. Whatever frenzy Timon had been in, he now appeared calm, the grunting quietened and his eyelids drooping.

  ‘Let go of him,’ said Tricken calmly, picking at a blood stain in his dense red beard.

  The choke loosened a little more and Alahan, fighting the pain in his side, wrestled an arm free and grabbed at the man’s face. He dug his thumb into an eye and rolled free as his assailant groaned in pain.

  ‘Friend Alahan,’ wailed Timon, moving to help the young thain.

  Tricken swung the haft of his axe and rendered the screaming man unconscious, just as blood started to seep out from his eye socket.

  ‘Get him to Crowe!’ shouted Tricken, seeing the knife wound in Alahan’s side. ‘Move!’

  ***

  It was the second time Old Father Crowe had pulled him back from the brink of death. And the second time Timon had saved his life and delivered him to the priest.

  ‘Do you know why the Ranen are given to fighting among themselves?’ asked Crowe. ‘It’s because Rowanoco is a chaotic god. It’s a bold Order of the Hammer priest who’ll say with certainty what our god values. We know strength, honour and freedom, but the order of importance is
up for debate. You in Fredericksand generally value honour first; we in Tiergarten prefer to see freedom as paramount. Those in Ursa value only strength. No-one is truly right because no-one is truly wrong, and Rowanoco won’t interfere; it’s as if he wants us to disagree.’

  Alahan was lying on a stone table, surrounded by globed candles and sweet-smelling incense.

  ‘The Ranen will forever fight over which is paramount,’ Crowe went on. ‘But this is not just the latest disagreement. This is influenced from outside.’ He chuckled to himself, more a grumble than a laugh. ‘I’m strangely okay with us fighting for our own reasons – we’ve had a dozen minor skirmishes with Rulag’s lot since he took over – but the Karesian witches getting involved; that I cannot abide. Make no mistake, Rulag’s new religious convictions are not his own. He has not turned from Rowanoco. He has been pushed.’

  The young thain sat up and rubbed his side. The wound had been healed into a small scar. It had felt far worse than it now looked. They were in a windowless room, somewhere in the Hall of Summer Wolf where the cold barely penetrated. The room was lined with shelves, upon which were strange items and old scrolls. It contained a cluttered desk and was warmed by a low-burning brazier. It was an odd sanctum, but well-suited to Old Father Crowe.

  ‘So, the Greens tried to kill me?’ he mused.

  ‘They clearly didn’t send their best. And you may have been an afterthought once they failed to kill Halla.’

  Alahan wondered if Crowe was just being contrary for the sake of it; if the old man was testing him or throwing random insinuations into his speech in the hope that they’d be recognized.

  ‘Why do you attack me so?’ he asked, lying back down on the stone table.

  Crowe’s face wrinkled into a smile. The skin fell loosely from his cheeks and his eyes narrowed into dark creases. ‘I taunt you so you may one day be worthy of your name.’ He chuckled to himself, as if he’d said something funny. ‘Did it not ever occur to you that I spoke the same way to your father?’

  Alahan frowned. ‘He spoke highly of you.’