The World Raven

by A. J. Smith

  She wanted to leap from the top of the tower and run to him, but her path was blocked by hundreds of fighting men and spreading piles of the dead. The jump down wasn’t too far, but she’d be landing on the heads of Rulag’s battle brothers and they’d kill her before she had both feet on the stone of Tiergarten.

  ‘Alahan,’ she mumbled, over and over, her voice quivering. She was so close, but perhaps further than she’d ever been. Maybe she’d have to watch him fight. Maybe she’d have to watch him die.

  The gates were buckling. Each thunderous blow of the ram was accompanied by more waves of splintering wood, reaching her ears as a horrible grating sound. She didn’t know how old the gates were or if they’d ever been breached, but Alahan and his men took the attack seriously, standing behind circular shields and holding axes ready.

  Along the battlements, Halla had disengaged and was signalling to someone behind her. Her men had cleared a section of the walls and were throwing bundles of burning pitch into one of the towers. The men still to mount the walls had faltered and were beginning to flee back down the tower, surprised by Halla’s ferocious defence. The wooden structure had caught fire and was slowing, billowing more and more black smoke into the crisp air. The battle brothers of Ursa redeployed, focusing their efforts on less well-defended sections of the wall, or lining up to flood through the gate.

  ‘Alahan,’ she mumbled again, not knowing what to do and hoping that he’d happen to look upwards and see her terrified face at the top of the tower.

  He didn’t see her. He just stood, axe in hand, glaring in front of him. She couldn’t see the gates, but imagined her brother was staring at broken wood, trying to calm his mind for the battle to come. The old priest next to him was more stoic, his long, white beard barely ruffling in the breeze. His war-hammer was still, held casually across his chest, but she’d known enough priests not to underestimate the old man. Her uncle Magnus had told her of Old Father Brindon Crowe, a man of Rowanoco wiser and more powerful than any other who had lived. Magnus had also told her that he drank too much mead and was a miserable old git. Ingrid didn’t care about the last bit, as long as the priest stood next to her brother and kept him alive.

  Then the gate exploded inwards. She saw planks of wood flying into the air and men dying from huge splinter wounds.

  ‘This is our ground!’ screamed Alahan, charging at the gates.

  He didn’t look back or wait for men to follow him; he just ran, his face a mask of focus and anger. He disappeared beyond her sight and Ingrid held her breath. She could hear fighting and shouting, but not see the battle itself.

  ‘Don’t die, don’t die!’ she cried.

  She glanced back and saw hundreds of men of Ursa queuing to rush the broken gates.

  ‘Now!’ roared Halla, leaping atop the battlements and swinging her axe high in the air.

  Nothing happened for a moment, then a series of guttural shouts echoed from the north of the city. The paths leading up to Giant’s Gift erupted with warriors, tattooed in blue and frothing at the mouth. They were like no men of Ranen Ingrid had ever seen. Most were bare-chested and swung strange axes, not made of metal or wood.

  ‘Varorg!’ screamed the leader, soundly unnaturally like a troll.

  They were few, maybe two hundred, but they made an almighty mess as they sliced into the columns of men, arrayed before the city. They moved in a wedge, from north to south, following the arc of the city walls and taking the attackers by complete surprise. The two remaining siege towers were suddenly empty of warriors as the blue men caused havoc on the plains below. Each of them carried only a huge axe, forgoing a shield and relying purely on strength. Some died and most were wounded, but they didn’t seem to care. In fact, they screamed louder and appeared happier every time they were cut. There were still many thousands of men on the plains, but enough had worked against them that they were now on the back foot.

  But the real advantage came when the line of men by the gate was severed. With no reinforcements, the attack faltered. The brute shock and suicidal frenzy of the blue men’s attack had allowed Alahan’s men to clear the gateway and they now rushed forward to assist the blue men outside the walls.

  A horn sounded from the rear, carrying from the gullies of the Crystal Fork to the walls of Tiergarten. Rulag was signalling a withdrawal. Both sides had lost many warriors, but the defenders had proven far more obstinate than the lord of Jarvik could have expected. Even Ingrid, shaken out of her confidence by the realities of battle, had been surprised by the resistance on display.

  ‘They’re running,’ boomed Old Father Crowe. ‘Stand fast, let ’em have the plains. We keep the walls.’

  ‘Get rid of those fucking towers,’ commanded Halla.

  The battlements were still alive with combat, but the defenders now rallied behind the axe-maiden and, with no reinforcements, the attackers were quickly pushed back or killed. Flaming torches and more pitch were thrown at the towers and Ingrid took a final look behind her. Before she jumped down, on to blood-red stone, she flashed a grin at the fleeing men. They weren’t beaten, but they were bruised enough to prove a point. She hoped that Rulag Ursa, skulking somewhere out of danger, now believed her. Alahan really wasn’t that easy to kill.

  CHAPTER 21

  SAARA THE MISTRESS OF PAIN IN THE CITY OF RO WEIR

  SHE IMAGINED A huge tower, built in the centre of Weir. It would be narrow, black and featureless, commanding awe and fear from any who saw it – and it would be seen for miles inland and miles out to sea. Within, she would build unlighted chambers and twisted corridors, the angles and turns of which would be known only to her. On the top level, she would sit on a throne and look out across her Tyranny, through the only window.

  If her thralls braved the dark labyrinth of her tower, she’d allow them to seek counsel, but all other lesser creatures would remain as ants, crawling this way and that as her whim dictated. Some would be enchanted, others would serve out of fear, most would be compliant for the depraved excess she allowed. In time, the Tyranny of Weir would be as a hand, fitting delicately into a glove of pleasure and pain. It would become the only reality she would allow.

  Her vision was crystal-clear, as if the tower was already built and the land already subdued. Shub-Nillurath pulled her close and showed her the future, whispering of pleasure and pain. She no longer doubted. The Forest Giant embraced her, clutching her to his chest and strengthening her mind. People called his name in rapture and she felt his infectious power returned to the world, like insects crawling on her skin. Soon, enough of his might would have returned for the sky to split, and the Forest Giant to claim his land in person.

  She had no illusions of unity between Tyrants. Her position would be given by Shub-Nillurath, but he would not lift a tentacle to support her. Nor would he care to support the Jekkan Tyrant of the Fell or the Aberration, in whichever corner of the land it ended up. She imagined that rivalry between the Tyrants would define their existence.

  ***

  Back in the dusty vault, she willed the cloud-stone into life. The glassy orb had been vibrating for hours as someone desperately tried to contact her, but she’d remained unmoved, concentrating on her own needs before those of her thralls. With a wave of her hand, a rugged face appeared in the stone, framed by a dirty brown beard and angry eyes of the deepest green.

  ‘Finally. Do you see me, bitch?’ barked Rulag Ursa, communicating with her from half a world away. He backed away from the stone and revealed a semi-circle of bloodied warriors, all scowling at her. On the ground before them, nursing the stump of his arm, was Kal Varaz, the wind claw she’d sent to Fjorlan. ‘And do you see him?’

  Rulag grabbed a fistful of the wind claw’s hair and showed his badly beaten face. Both eyes were swollen closed and his jaw was a deep crimson. ‘This man lied to me about your fucking trees,’ snapped the lord of Jarvik. ‘That means you fucking lied to me.’

  She tried to remain composed, but small twitches of irritation kept appear
ing at the corners of her mouth. ‘Speak plain, my lord Bear Tamer,’ she said with an ominous purr.

  ‘Your risen men, darkwood trees... Dark Young, whatever the fuck they are. They’re being torn apart all along the Crystal Fork River.’ Absently, the loathsome warlord kicked Kal Varaz in the face and rendered him unconscious. ‘Trolls ain’t never had so good a meal.’

  ‘The city stands?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, it fucking stands,’ he shouted. ‘It stands and it fights – like the Ice Giant himself has sharpened their axes. Bad luck has plagued us since we left Fredericksand.’

  She thought quickly. Her campaign in Ranen had not gone smoothly since the day Rham Jas Rami killed Ameira in Ro Canarn. Every thrall she had had in the lands of Ranen, phantom or otherwise, had been killed. She had no generals to suppress the peasants and lesser men of the Freelands, but still Rulag could be useful. If her Dark Young had been bested by Rowanoco’s Ice Men, she’d have to rely on the axes of brutish ignorant men.

  ‘You must take the city,’ she insisted. ‘You must eradicate every drop of blood from the family of Teardrop. Only then will you truly be the Tyrant of Fjorlan.’

  ‘Fuck you!’ screamed Ursa. ‘I’ll take the city, but we’re through. I don’t need you or Rowanoco to make me thain of Fjorlan. I’ll take it with strength.’

  To punctuate his point, he stomped violently on Kal Varaz’s head with a heavy, steel-shod boot. Three, four, five times he stamped downwards, until the wind claw was a twitching mess with half a head, splayed on the bloody ice of Fjorlan. With a roar he then drew his axe and smashed the cloud-stone into a thousand pieces.

  ‘Fool,’ she muttered, once her own stone had returned to a cloudy sleep. ‘He destroys an item more valuable than his life in a fit of pique.’

  She took some deep breaths and calmed her mind. She lamented the failure of her campaign in Ranen, but it didn’t sting like it might once have done. One day, when Tor Funweir was firmly under her heel, she’d lead her host north and conquer the lands of ice properly. Perhaps Rowanoco was indeed stronger than the One or Jaa. And perhaps she had been naive to trust in the fool of Ursa. The Freelands had stubbornly repulsed her attack, and Fjorlan was clearly more dogged than she’d predicted. Let them have their ice and their Earth Shaker. Their time would come when Shub-Nillurath had returned to his true might and majesty.

  She left the vault and tucked the cloud-stone away in a thick canvas pouch, tied to her belt. She was at the base of the knight marshal’s barracks, in dusty catacombs unused for decades, where stone vaults plunged away into impenetrable darkness. She’d sent trusted aides into the dark bowels of Ro Weir and found lost dungeons and vast passageways by the score. In the furthest of the vaults, behind a circular door of chiselled stone, Saara went to visit her last remaining sister.

  Isabel the Seductress was motionless, chained to the floor with her eyes rolled back in her head. Her mind was reduced to a globe of lost consciousness, smashed into submission by phantom thralls. She couldn’t think clearly enough to move, or even to scream. She could laugh and she could drool, but nothing more.

  ‘Sleep well, sister,’ she said, stroking back Isabel’s matted hair. ‘You will be here for centuries, shouldering this burden for me. I hope you know how much I love you – how much I need you. Your pain is a gift from Shub-Nillurath. Do not flee from it.’

  She wished Isabel could be at peace, but she was writhing in sharp internal torment and Saara knew it.

  ‘Your sacrifice is necessary. As sanity leaves you, know that I will remain. And, as more Sisters rise in Oron Kaa, I will insist they pay their respects to your inert body. You will be an altar to pleasure and pain as the Tyranny of the Twisted Tree claws into this land.’

  Within Isabel’s mind was a cage, a maelstrom of faces and names. Everyone enchanted by the Seven Sisters dwelt in the bowels of her consciousness, howling in resistance. Each thrall was met by a barrier of divine might, blocking their attempts to reach Saara. Instead they had consumed Isabel and were now locked away in an empty vessel.

  She backed away from her sister and left the vault. Flickering red torch-light danced across the grey stone, providing minimal illumination. The catacombs were vast and labyrinthine. It was the only place she could truly be alone. No-one followed her down here, not even Elihas. Many levels above, her followers fucked and drank and smoked drugs, revelling in their new-found freedom. Ro and Karesians, lost in pleasure and pain – each one was a shell, with nothing to offer Saara but compliance. They were people of influence, wealth and power. Now they gave all they had to the new order. To the Lands of the Twisted Tree.

  She walked down a long stone corridor, lost for centuries underneath Weir. From the wall, rotting weeds thrust from every gap, and a thick dampness permeated the air. Towards the end of the passageway, she turned a sharp corner and entered the catacombs. The Dark Young swayed in the fetid air somewhere in the darkness, beyond her sight. She held her arms wide and closed her eyes, drinking in the divine energy dribbling from the trees. She couldn’t see them, but their presence was enough to elicit a tinkle of pleasure, travelling up her spine to caress her mind.

  ‘We are as one,’ she intoned. ‘Bless me with your strength.’

  She felt a rumble and a vibration in the air. The Young swayed, left to right, shimmering through the veil of darkness. She knew they felt her. They stayed planted in the earth, not moving to attack or investigate. They would be her final triumph. Far above, tunnels were prepared, leading from the Hawkwood Gate of Weir to the deep catacombs. When the time came, the thousand Young would take the slow journey upwards and into the light of Tor Funweir.

  Then the Aberration howled. She could feel it in the darkness, not moving like the others but hunkered down and hissing. It had a savagery and bloodlust that set it apart from the lesser Young. It was the only creature she feared, as if a part of Shub-Nillurath’s hatred scratched within. It had eaten hundreds of men, consumed them to the last shred of bone, but still it hungered.

  ***

  When she was appropriately dressed in a high-collared black dress of thick satin, she rejoined the thralls, fighting her war in the stark daylight of Ro Weir.

  ‘My lady, please watch your step,’ said a nearby wind claw, offering her his hand.

  She reached the top of the regular stone steps and approached the duke’s balcony, above the King’s Highway, from where her senior aides directed their forces. Suddenly her senses were assaulted by thousands upon thousands of warriors. Below her, on the forward battlements of Weir she saw ranks of Hounds, wind claws and soldiers of Ro; on the muster fields of Weir were tens of thousands more, and on the horizon, low to the dawn sky, were the armies of Ro, sending flashes of red and steel across the open ground.

  ‘Have we sent emissaries?’ she asked.

  The wind claw pointed to a cluster of dead men and three white flags, heaped on the grass between the two forces. ‘I don’t think these Ro want to talk, my lady.’

  She smiled, finding the brutality of her opponents intriguing. In a different life, she’d have got to Alexander Tiris first and ensured his loyalty. He and his Hawks would have been fearsome allies and this battle would not be necessary. As it stood, Saara saw the coming conflict as little more than a theatrical opportunity to unveil the Thousand Young of Shub-Nillurath.

  From an adjacent staircase, Elihas of Du Ban emerged. The Black cleric of Ro, encased in his plate armour, was as stoic as always, sparing not even a glance at the armies before Ro Weir.

  ‘Our little war reaches its end,’ said Elihas. ‘Just a few more people to kill and Tor Funweir will be under heel.’

  Reports were delivered by a dozen whip-masters and Ro commanders, chattering in her ear about this thing or that. She discarded much of what they told her, listening only to the information she deemed important. The king of Tor Funweir had some fifty thousand warriors, formed up into mixed companies, with at least a third of them mounted. They had some risen men in their ranks, an
d the army flew many different banners. Canarn, Haran, Tiris, Arnon, and others she didn’t recognize.

  ‘How sweet,’ she muttered. ‘It appears they have united against me.’

  ‘My lady,’ began Elihas, ‘we have assembled as many Hounds as can be spared without leaving Arnon and Leith vulnerable. They number eighty thousand. They’re awaiting orders.’

  The Hounds were everywhere on the dusty green plains of Weir, squeezing into every corner of the muster fields and eclipsing the outlying farmsteads. The glare from their armour created a distortion and played tricks on her eyes. It looked like nothing more than a carpet of black metal, some new addition to the landscape where once there had been grass and trees.

  ‘Hold position,’ she said. ‘They are to encircle the city, covering every inch of the wall – with one exception.’

  ‘The Hawkwood Gate?’ offered Elihas.

  She nodded. ‘Keep it clear. And have only heavily drugged Hounds near it.’

  ‘And if Tiris just charges?’

  ‘Hold position,’ she repeated. ‘If they want to reach the walls, let them dig their way through eighty thousand Hounds who can’t run away.’

  Elihas smirked. It was the only humour his face seemed to allow and conveyed more scorn than amusement. ‘I can feel thousands of lives about to end. The Black aspect is happy this day – and my life’s work reaches its end.’

  ‘And when your work is done?’ she mused. ‘Will you finally submit to me?’

  His smirk disappeared and he looked her in the eye, perhaps the only man in Weir who would dare to do so. ‘I’ll make you a deal,’ he growled. ‘If you can enchant me, I’m yours. If not, you’re mine.’