The World Raven

by A. J. Smith

  Behind him, Ohms had managed to marshal the ruined carts into some kind of defensive bulwark. It was the way of knights to want a wooden wall whenever they stopped for any amount of time. It was rough, but provided a line to patrol and a raised position from which to view the southern fields. They were exposed, but buoyed by their victory and showing no fear of additional Hounds.

  ‘Fallon, we have survivors,’ said Verellian, flexing his maimed hand.

  ‘You sore?’ asked the Grey Knight.

  ‘Still getting used to the new strength. Happily, the Hounds are terrible swordsmen, but wonderful practice.’

  Fallon hopped off the cart and faced his old friend. ‘You’re being more respectful than I’m used to. You’ve not called me a pig-fucker for days.’

  Verellian screwed up his face. ‘What do you want me to say? That you’re exemplar and I don’t feel right insulting you?’

  ‘You don’t feel like that,’ he replied.

  ‘No, I don’t, but a lot of these men do. If they heard me treating you like the low-rent turncoat you are, it might affect your image.’

  Fallon laughed, glad of the insult. ‘Well, let’s keep pretending,’ he replied.

  They returned behind the wooden bulwark, to where Lucius had restrained a dozen survivors. Ohms had the rest of the men at ease, resting as best they could with minimal rations and small fires. As soon as Fallon returned from the upturned cart, Ohms ordered two men to replace him on watch, making sure the southern plains were guarded.

  ‘They all had pouches of some drug shit,’ said Lucius. ‘Black, squishy stuff.’

  ‘It’s what keeps them compliant,’ said Verellian. ‘You’d need drugs to make you fight if you were that shit at fighting.’

  ‘What do they do with it?’ asked Lucius.

  ‘Smoke it, I imagine,’ replied Fallon. ‘Just get rid of it.’

  ‘Aye, my lord.’

  The prisoners were lying face down on the grass, stripped of their armour, with their arms restrained. Their wounds were minor – a cut here, a shallow stab there – and none were in danger of imminent death.

  ‘How many got away?’ he asked.

  ‘Hard to tell,’ replied Lucius. ‘A couple of hundred at least. Two of these fuckers pissed themselves. I thought the Free Companies were poor soldiers, but these Hounds are a fucking disgrace.’

  ‘I think they know that,’ he replied. ‘So do their masters.’

  Lucius pulled one of the Karesians into a seated position and slapped him. The prisoner had a debilitating slice across the back of his leg, but was otherwise unhurt.

  ‘He tried to run, but didn’t get very far,’ said Verellian. ‘He talks better than the others.’

  ‘Your name?’ asked Fallon, keeping his tone calm.

  The Hound looked at him with red eyes. He was older than Fallon and his face was scarred across the cheeks.

  ‘Raza,’ he replied, dried blood cracking on his lips.

  ‘Well, Raza, my name’s Fallon the Grey. Please understand that your life is in the balance unless you cooperate.’

  The Karesian gritted his teeth and winced in pain as Ohms pulled him upright, standing on his wounded leg.

  ‘I understand,’ he grunted.

  ‘Good. Now, tell me the Hound troop placement around Ro Weir – and anything you know about the Hawks.’

  Raza spat bloody phlegm on to the grass and cleared his throat. He was in pain, but wore it well. Fallon guessed this was not his first battle, nor his first injury.

  ‘Troop placements... hard to answer. Many packs, with more coming. We don’t deploy like you, we just mass.’

  ‘How many?’ asked Fallon.

  ‘A hundred thousand – many packs formed in a line round your Weir, clearing any citizens not yet under our domination.’

  Verellian and Fallon shared a glance. The number was not a total surprise. It was all the Karesians had. They didn’t have skill, discipline, honour or loyalty – but they could overwhelm most targets like an army of ants sweeping the forest floor. He spared a thought for the common folk of Tor Funweir, having to deal with the new order.

  ‘You’re a long way from Weir,’ snarled Ohms. ‘Why so far north?’

  Raza tried to compose himself, but his leg wouldn’t take his weight and even small movements made him wince.

  ‘We were part of an advance force,’ he slurred, spitting out more blood. ‘We’d been killing risen men in the Fell; then we were ordered to outflank your king.’

  This was a surprise. Everyone within earshot snorted with derision, doubting that the Hounds were capable of such strategy.

  ‘With this mob?’ queried Ohms. ‘You ran from us.’

  ‘No, master knight, we are a scouting pack. The main force is sixty thousand strong, moving west against your king.’

  Fallon considered it. It was sound strategy, based on their advantage of numbers.

  ‘Our forces are limitless, our strength endless,’ said the Hound. ‘You make war in lines, with order and discipline. We swarm you, choking your lines with dead men. Death means nothing to us. It means everything to you.’

  ‘Raza, look at me,’ said Fallon, drawing the Karesian’s eyes upward. ‘Where is the king?’

  ‘South-west,’ said Raza. ‘Somewhere between Lob’s Wood and the hills of Narland. Our scouting packs have all been destroyed before accurate reports could be relayed. All we have found are cartloads of fleeing Ro.’

  Verellian grunted, screwing up his face. ‘They’re holding position?’ he asked. ‘He’s got balls, our new king.’

  ‘How many men has he got?’ asked Fallon. ‘How many warriors of Ro are you looking for?’

  ‘Unknown,’ replied Raza. ‘Some forty thousand. Nothing to threaten us. Once we smoke them out.’

  ‘You won’t be smoking anything, son,’ said Ohms, kicking the Karesian’s wounded leg. ‘Feel helpless, don’t you? Feels shit, doesn’t it?’

  Raza shrieked and looked imploringly at Fallon. When he saw that no-one was going to stop the sergeant, he fell back to the grass and wept in pain.

  ‘What do you think?’ Fallon asked Verellian, giving the Hound a chance to compose himself.

  The Grey Captain considered it. ‘Forty thousand is the largest army of Ro I’ve ever heard of. But the Hounds are just too many. We’ll have to trust they can get past the flanking move. Either way, we have to hope they can dig in around Weir.’

  ‘If not,’ mused Fallon, ‘we’ll have to save as many of them as possible. There is a time for fighting and there is a time for protecting. Let’s hope we know the difference when we see it. But I need a new sword first.’

  ‘You’d do better with a greatsword, something two-handed and heavy. A shield is a waste of an arm for you.’ He scanned their men and saw two hundred longswords. ‘Don’t know where we’ll get one out here, though.’

  ‘A dead Hawk,’ replied Fallon. ‘I’ve seen a few.’

  ***

  Fallon stood over the body of a dead man of Ro. He had a frail right hand and wore a red tabard, with a rampant hawk sewn into the fabric. They’d found him sprawled across a bramble bush, directly in their path. They were now in the hills of Narland, riding hard in the wake of the Hawks’ advance. Their progress was just short of spectacular and Fallon allowed them a few minutes’ rest while he picked up a new blade.

  ‘Try it out,’ said Verellian, reaching down and retrieving the two-handed sword. The dead man’s crippled hand was strapped to the hilt, with his stronger hand doing all the heavy work. ‘It’s well-forged. The Hawks know about steel.’

  Fallon took the greatsword and felt its weight. He’d trained with the heavier blades, but never wielded one in battle. It felt surprisingly comfortable, with a long hilt and parrying hooks on the cross-piece. The sword was at least four feet long and tarnished from years of use.

  He turned it aside and knelt down next to the dead warrior of Ro. The man had two deep cuts to his neck and head. The second blow had likely been
delivered when he was already dead. They were smooth cuts, indicating the curved scimitars of the Hounds.

  ‘This is a good blade,’ he said to the dead man. ‘I’d like to take it.’

  He heard the distant voice of Torian’s shade, as if the words had been spoken in the distant past. ‘His name was Boldin of Triste,’ said the voice. ‘He was born in a small fishing village in the river lands of Haran and he was a corporal in the Hawks of Ro, loyal to his general.’

  ‘Where did he get the blade?’ whispered Fallon, quietly enough that Verellian wouldn’t hear.

  ‘Alexander Tiris broke Boldin’s hand in the training yard. The young swordsman never regained enough strength in his right hand to properly wield a shortsword, so his general had a greatsword forged and trained the man to use it. He used that sword for seven years. He favoured an aggressive style, using the strength in his shoulders to compensate for his crippled hand.’

  ‘Would he want me to take it?’ Fallon looked at the man’s closed eyes, imagining all the things he’d done and all the things that had been taken from him.

  ‘There are oceans of understanding that block a clear answer to that question, but yes, I believe he would.’

  Then the shade was silent, as if it had never been there. Fallon stood and looked at Boldin’s sword. It had streaks of blood on both edges, and the tip was covered in wet earth.

  ‘It’s a good sword,’ he said, turning back to Verellian.

  The old knight looked at him with a knowing glint in his eye. He then nodded slowly. Fallon retrieved Boldin’s scabbard, unbuckling it from across his back and strapping it on.

  CHAPTER 19

  ALEXANDER TIRIS IN THE DUCHY OF WEIR

  ‘KING ALEXANDER, MAY I speak to you?’ asked the forest-dweller.

  Xander smiled at his chief scout, suddenly realizing how little they had spoken. ‘Of course, Sigurd. The fights are done for the day.’ He motioned to the nearest chair and offered a mug of wine. Brennan remained, cleaning his hands in a standing water basin.

  ‘Thank you, no,’ replied Sigurd, taking a seat. ‘I have no taste for the fermentation of grape.’

  ‘I suppose it must appear strange that humans spend so much time drinking. Men say that if you drink enough, everything feels better.’

  Sigurd didn’t crack a smile. His face resembled a statue, hewn from grey rock. ‘I find human habits interesting. I learned to treat them so from Tyr Nanon the Shape Taker. He said that humans either drink to forget or drink to remember.’

  ‘Your friend is wise,’ replied Xander.

  ‘He is – and he wishes to speak to you, King Alexander. Though he is wise enough not to approach unannounced through ranks of warriors.’

  Xander sat forward. ‘If you trust him, he is welcome.’

  ‘My king,’ offered Major Brennan. ‘Let me assess his intentions first. Even Dokkalfar can have ulterior motives.’

  Sigurd’s face didn’t change, but he tilted his head, as if he took offence at the Hawk’s words. ‘Tyr Nanon is a soldier of the Long War,’ said the forest-dweller. ‘He is above your suspicions.’

  ‘No-one is above my suspicions. I don’t know him, so I don’t trust him near the king.’

  ‘Easy, Major,’ said Xander, standing up. ‘Sigurd, is your friend waiting beyond our lines?’

  ‘Indeed,’ replied the Dokkalfar. ‘He and a female companion are to the east.’

  ‘Then we will go to him,’ offered Xander, smiling at Brennan.

  The Hawk major screwed up his face. ‘Aye, my king, that sounds reasonable.’

  He belted on Peacekeeper and wrapped himself in a heavy, woollen cloak. The sword had been cleaned and then cleaned again, but still a narrow streak of dirty black ran down the steel surface. It had been fired once, when first forged, and it had not liked being fired again in the inferno of Cozz. But it was still sharp and it would still serve.

  The three of them left his command pavilion and entered the twilight haze of Weir. Gwen was seated outside, arguing with Lord Markos about what the One God wanted. It was a common argument among the army men, and had become background noise, almost humorous in the way it bounced around between men of different characters and levels of piety. Markos was the only man who took it seriously. The paladin still preached to Gwen, trying to make her understand that, as queen, she had been chosen by the Stone Giant. He told her that, if Xander died, she’d be monarch of Tor Funweir and would have to rule. He saw scathing words, contained behind gritted teeth, and knew his wife didn’t want to think about it. In fact, she and Xander had agreed not to discuss the possibility of their deaths. Both of them hoped deep in their hearts that, if they died, they’d die together.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked, standing up.

  ‘Sigurd wants to introduce me to a friend of his,’ replied Xander.

  Brennan called for horses and a guard of Hawks to accompany them. Gwen left Markos, intending to join them, and they mounted quickly, with armoured men in formation round their king. Being guarded as king was a world away from being guarded as general, and Xander felt increasingly awkward as they rode through the camp, with Brennan shouting ‘Make way for the king and queen.’ He thought how helpless he must appear, needing Hawks to keep him safe. He was in fact as good a swordsman as any, and better than most, but kings needed protecting in ways that generals did not.

  ‘It’s all for show, my love,’ said Gwen, riding next to him within a circle of armoured men.

  ‘Doesn’t it bother you?’

  She bit her lip and smiled. ‘It does. And it will do, right up until someone aims a crossbow at their new king and queen and our guards stop them.’

  They were not assailed by crossbow-wielding maniacs, and reached the eastern edge of the camp within ten minutes. The forces from Du Ban occupied huge pavilions of crisp, white fabric, all along the perimeter of the camp. Lord Ronan Montague did not acquiesce to the usual austerity of a mobile army, preferring to turn his portion of the camp into a palatial home away from home, tucked in next to a craggy line of rocks and overlooked by dozens of guards.

  ‘Tyr Nanon is waiting beyond the rocks,’ said Sigurd. ‘The forces from Du Ban did not appear... friendly.’

  The royal procession had garnered something of a crowd from around the white pavilions, but Brennan ushered away all the onlookers and led the company to a shallow ravine leading up and away from the line of rocks. Across the King’s Highway, the wilds of Tor Funweir stretched into the distance, revealing nothing but grass, trees and darkness.

  ‘Yonder,’ said Brennan, nodding at a thin globe of light barely visible between the trees. ‘Who camps so close to an army this size?’

  ‘A man who isn’t worried about that army being his enemy,’ replied Xander.

  ‘Not a man,’ corrected Sigurd, lifting his face and making a subtle whistling sound, reminiscent of a calling bird.

  From the distant campfire, two figures walked slowly into the open. Xander, flanked by his guards, rode in front of his men to get a good look at those who approached. The first figure was a dusky-skinned Kirin girl, holding a sheathed katana and wearing tight black clothing. She was attractive, but her face showed no trust and little compromise. The second figure was a Dokkalfar, though he was far shorter than any Xander had seen before. He was barely six feet tall, but carried himself like a predatory cat. He wore a Ro longsword and simple clothing of green and brown fabric.

  ‘A warm night, friend,’ said the king.

  ‘Indeed,’ replied the strange forest-dweller. ‘The fire was so you could see us. I have found that being too stealthy unnerves people.’

  ‘What are your intentions?’ snapped Major Brennan. ‘You are talking to our king.’

  Gwen chuckled in Xander’s ear, too quietly for anyone else to hear, though neither of them rebuked the major for his manner.

  ‘My name is Tyr Nanon. I was friend to Rham Jas Rami, and this charming young human is his daughter, Keisha. We’re soldiers of the Long War a
nd we’re here to help.’

  Xander looked more closely at the girl’s katana and realized he’d seen it before. ‘Then you will accompany us back to camp,’ he replied. ‘I will allow no harm to come to you.’

  ‘Form up,’ commanded Brennan, directing men to assemble round the two newcomers. Tyr Nanon looked with interest at the mounted Hawks, nodding and smiling as he was surrounded by steel and horses. He showed no fear and far more expressiveness than Xander was used to from a Dokkalfar.

  ‘Much as your camp looks delightful,’ said Nanon, ‘perhaps you’d care to join us at ours.’ He looked back over his shoulder at the flickering globe of firelight. ‘It is far less impressive, but requires far less ceremony. Your riding globs of metal can join us if it makes you feel safe.’

  ‘All of them?’ queried the Kirin girl, frowning at her companion.

  Brennan nudged his horse forward. ‘The king is free to rest himself round any campfire he so chooses, but I decide where his guards station themselves.’

  Gwen raised her eyebrows and muttered something to herself, before gathering up her horse’s reins and riding towards Tyr Nanon’s modest camp. ‘Stay or go, Brennan,’ said the queen. ‘But I want to sit down.’

  The major shook his head. ‘Accompany the queen,’ he ordered three nearby Hawks.

  Xander followed his wife, with their guards close behind and the two newcomers jogging to keep up. Their army was visible only as a series of distortions in the twilight air, spreading across the low ground and coming to his eyes as glints of fire and flashes of colour. When night fell, forty thousand warriors of Ro would be hard to see unless you chanced upon their lines in the darkness. Nanon and Keisha had secreted themselves within spitting distance of the army, but had not been seen by patrols or guards.

  Gwen, Xander, Brennan and Sigurd sat on the dusty ground, opposite Nanon and Keisha. Their guards remained mounted, forming a protective circle round the small copse of trees. The two newcomers had no baggage or supplies of any kind. No food or horses, just light armour and weaponry.