Valley of the Shadow

by Michael Gardner

  “Halt!” said a young Greek warrior, presenting the tip of his spear. His knuckles were white and his skin was too smooth to have seen many battles. He watched Raven without blinking. “What business do you have here?”

  Raven lowered his hood and presented his palms. “I have been told by a friend to seek Olus. Is he here?”

  “If you’re telling the truth, speak the password.”

  “Red earth,” said Raven. The young soldier relaxed and lowered his spear. “Now, where may I find him?”

  “This way.” The soldier led Raven past the tents, camp fires and mingling groups of men. Many looked too young to have seen bloodshed, and those with battle scars still looked afraid. He stopped at a small tent away from the main gathering. Sweeping the flap aside, he spoke the password to someone inside and motioned Raven to enter.

  Raven acknowledged the guard with a nod and passed into the tent. The air was cold and he drew a sharp breath. He saw a Greek soldier bent over another man, lying flat on his back. The Greek turned. His face was lined and sallow, but not from age. He’d seen too much war and was old beyond his years. “You must be Olus,” said Raven.

  Olus nodded. “And you must be Raven.” He turned his attention to the man lying still. “He said you would come, but I fear you’ve arrived too late.”

  Raven crouched at Olus’s side. The prone figure was Wolf, heavy shoulders pressed against the earth, and large muscular arms at his sides. His broad chest was still, and his eyes were dark, staring vacantly at the canvas shifting in the wind above. Letters had been cut into his chest with the tip of a blade: Lykos.

  “We found him this morning,” said Olus, “on the beach where the waves break onto the sand. We thought he must have drowned. It wasn’t until a physician removed his chiton to examine him that we discovered these wounds. His back has been broken.” He swallowed. “Does the word have some meaning?”

  Raven bowed his head. “Lykos was his name... the one his parents gave to him.” Olus frowned and opened his mouth to speak. “Leave me for a moment,” said Raven, as he took Wolf’s face in his palms.

  Olus nodded. “I’ll take some air. Call me when you’re ready.” He brushed through the tent flap and was gone.

  “Old friend,” Raven whispered, “are you there? Speak to me.” He gently touched one of the wounds on Wolf’s chest with his fingertips. The blood had congealed. He couldn’t hear the inaudible hum, see the colours behind his eyelids, or feel the warmth of Wolf’s immortal spirit. He had been unbound; the link between his immortal spirit and the earth had been severed. It was said if a Khryseoi was unbound by a dark spirit, the soul was forfeit to Eurynomos, to suffer for eternity. Raven cradled Wolf’s head to his shoulder. He drew a sharp breath as grief constricted his chest, and he held Wolf for several minutes, before laying him down again. “I don’t feel numb now,” he said, closing Wolf’s eyes with his fingertips. He took a moment to calm his breath and troubled mind, before he called out to Olus.

  Olus appeared through the flap, carrying a plate of bread, cheese and olives, and a cup of water. He set them on the ground next to Raven.

  “When did you last see him alive?” said Raven.

  Olus sat down with his hands on his lap. “Just last night, after he emerged from the General’s tent. He’s been with us ever since he escaped the Persians.”

  Raven wiped his eyes. “He told me he’d been captured, but little more. What do you know?”

  “He stole into Darius’s palace, although he never said why. A woman, perhaps? He was captured, held for months, questioned, and tortured. It’s a wonder he was able to recover so quickly from the injuries they inflicted upon him.”

  “Indeed,” said Raven. “Did he say what they questioned him about?”

  “You,” said Olus.

  “Me?”

  “That’s what he said. When the General asked, Wolf said you and he had served together in a war in a far-off land, and that this war was of special interest to his captors.” Olus paused and peered at him for a moment. “Neither of you look old enough to have fought in a war in a far-off land.”

  Raven drank the water and picked at the olives. “Go on.”

  “After many months, he managed to escape his bonds and overpower the guards. He brought us news of the Persians amassing their army and warned the General they outnumbered us ten to one. The General decided immediately to send a messenger to Sparta, to call for aid. Wolf tried to dissuade him, saying the Persians had set a trap, but the General wouldn’t listen.”

  Raven pushed the plate aside. “Why?”

  “We’ve always asked Sparta for aid,” said Olus, as if the reason were obvious. “The General said the Persians wouldn’t be able to chase down Philippides, our best runner, if they hadn’t yet made land. Wolf tried to reason with him. He said the Persians had planned to send their best warrior to intercept our messenger at the Isthmus of Corinth. He said this warrior could run down Philippides with or without a head start.”

  Raven nodded. “The land is narrow there and you can see both coasts from the right vantage point. When will Philippides be ready to leave?”

  “He left this afternoon.”

  Raven handed the plate back to Olus. “Then I have no time to savour your cheese.” He raised his hood and gathered his bow. “Will you grant me a favour for saving your messenger?”

  Olus nodded.

  “Burn Wolf’s body until the bones are reduced to tiny pieces. It’s the custom of our people.”

  “I’ll see it done.”

  “Thank you,” said Raven, disappearing from the tent and into the night.

  The Athenian runner had many hours head start, but Raven knew Greece intimately, every shortcut and hindrance to swift passage. He concentrated on his breath, filling his chest with air, willing his body to perform a task beyond its mortal limits. The Khryseoi were blessed with several godly gifts: the power to heal quickly from any non-lethal wound, never to age past their prime, and to return from death with the memories of past lives. Everything else was learnt through centuries of practice, by training the body and mind to achieve feats that seemed magical, but were in fact within the powers of the possible, even for mortals of a shorter life span. Raven had trained his body to run for many days without rest. He hoped Philippides and the Persian weren’t so well practised.

  Raven reached the Isthmus on the second day, when the sun was low in the sky. He found a knoll with a small rocky outcrop, an adequate vantage point, with a clear view to either shore of both the Corinth and Saronic Gulfs. He crouched on one knee, rested his bow on the other and drew an arrow from his quiver. He nocked the shaft and poised his forefingers on the string.

  Each of his arrows had been crafted for a specific purpose. His quiver, made from hardened calfskin, contained many shafts, each taking as long as a year to make; from seeking out of materials with specific properties, to experimentation, and then the perfecting of every detail of the design.

  The arrow he had selected was long, cut from heart oak at the head for weight, and of supple yew for the rest of the shaft. The head was sleek, a bronze leaf, shaped like the tip of a Greek spear, to pierce armour. The fletching was made from raven’s feathers, although he had not killed any bird to acquire them. Raven would not kill the noble bird from which he had taken his name. The quills were a blessed gift, a fletching for an arrow of rare purpose; to stop a dark spirit. He waited, unmoving, resisting the desire to close his eyes and rest.

  The bowstring reverberated in the breeze and sang a soft note, a lament perhaps, for imminent bloodshed. Raven silenced it with his forefinger. He felt a lump form in his throat as he thought of the Athenian warriors, waiting in the foothills at Marathon Bay. Familiar sensations felt close again: fear, panic, the prospect of fighting a battle against a formidable foe.

  Slowly, the horizon was split by pale fire, burning away sea and stars. The sun, chariot of the Gods, ascended into the sky, painting the clouds red and gold. As the contours of the land
and sea became clear, he gripped his bow and readied himself for his first meeting in many centuries with one of Eurynomos’s servants. He put aside his grief for Wolf, his sympathy for the Athenian soldiers, and the memories of his own war. The servants of Eurynomos had never shown mercy. He needed a merciless heart to defeat them.

  In the distance, maintaining a steady pace, a single figure made his way across the Isthmus, sandals kicking up the dust. He was without any fat to hide the muscles working under his skin. Raven watched as he approached; face drawn, mouth agape, drawing air. His eyes were glazed, past fatigue. Only determination drove him on. It was an incredible effort for a mortal man and worthy of an epic poem.

  Raven considered emerging from his hiding place, to offer Philippides a mouthful of water, for mercy’s sake, but he quietened his breath, remained a statue, and allowed Philippides to run onward.

  A brown stallion appeared, galloping along Philippides’s path, its hooves barely disturbing the earth. A bald rider sat astride its back. He held a sword aloft, similar in shape to a short Greek blade, but black.

  Raven grunted and doubled over as if he’d been punched in the stomach. The raw burn of bile rose in his throat. He recognised the sensation, although he hadn’t felt it for a long time and never in such a violent manner. It was the epiphaneia: the moment of recognition between immortal souls.

  As Raven recovered, the rider closed on his quarry. Philippides’s eyes brightened with fear. His legs pumped harder, willing his body to run on, but no man, not even an immortal, can outrun a horse.

  Raven tasted the wind, drew his bow taut and loosed the arrow, which hummed like a swarm of bees as it flew, before finding its mark in the rider’s chest. He toppled from his horse to the ground.

  “Run!” Raven cried. “Run! Don’t stop!”

  Philippides looked over his shoulder once more and ran as if Cerberus, the three-headed hound of Hades, had emerged to give him chase.

  Raven’s eyes remained fixed on the Persian. He pinched his lips to his teeth and let out a shrill whistle. The horse started and reared onto its back legs with a loud whinny, before taking off at a gallop, its hooves pounding the ground, throwing up a dust cloud in its wake.

  The Persian reeled to his feet, one hand clasped to his left breast where Raven’s arrow was embedded. He scanned the rocks, eyes unfocused, as if he had drunk undiluted wine. He turned briefly in Philippides’s direction, but instead of giving chase, ran towards the sea.

  Raven drew a second arrow but he no longer had a clear shot. He dropped his bow, drew his bronze short sword and sprinted after the Persian. The tussock whipped his ankles as he ran. He closed on the Persian, feeling an echo of the epiphaneia squeezing the air from his lungs and making the pursuit a labour. Raven followed the Persian’s tracks. He’d left deep impressions in the sand, and by the angle of his footfalls, was struggling to maintain his balance, from the arrow, the epiphaneia, or both. Raven leapt over a dune and saw the Persian ahead, approaching the shore. He pressed on, closing the gap between them.

  The Persian stopped, turned to face Raven and stood upright. He pulled the arrow from his chest as if it were an annoyance. Tossing it aside, he raised his black blade in the air. It was a cruel weapon with five sets of inverted barbs at the base of each side of the blade.

  Raven raised his own weapon and the blades came together. With a shrill ring, Raven’s sword shattered like a clay pot. He avoided the tip of the Persian’s blade but felt its breath on his face. The Persian lunged, driving his forehead into Raven’s nose. Raven heard a sharp crack as the bone broke. He reeled and fell backwards onto the wet sand, tasting sea spray and blood. The waves rushed into the shore, swamping him to the waist in cold brine. Raven summoned his strength and wits, reached for the knife in his belt and hurled it, skewering the Persian through the heart.

  The Persian spread his arms wide, the knife a metal appendage projecting from his chest. White foam lapped against his ankles. “Raven...” The word bubbled from his mouth.

  Scrambling on all fours, Raven retreated. “You know my name?”

  “Unless you have another?” the Persian replied.

  Raven drew a long breath. “Who are you?”

  The Persian faltered, knees buckling with the tide. He pulled the knife from his chest and his blood mingled with the sea. “Embrace me, brother. You have given me a mortal wound. This body is spent.”

  “You are not my brother.”

  The Persian fell to his knees. Seawater slopped against his chest, drawing his blood like thinned wine. “I too am denied death. We are brothers,” he sobbed. “Show compassion. Release me from this torment!” He bowed his head.

  Raven regained his footing and approached. “Speak your name!”

  “My people call me Acabar. Brother, release me from this tormented existence. I suffer so.”

  Raven shook his head. “You are a servant of Eurynomos. Tell me your true name and I will do as you ask.”

  Acabar bowed his head and then nodded. “First, embrace me, brother. Embrace me and I will tell you the truth about the war, about Phylasso and your friend Wolf...”

  Raven wiped the seawater from his eyes and felt the salt-sting subside. Acabar’s head, shoulders and chest were pitted with scars from countless wounds. Despite his powerful frame, he now seemed weak and helpless. Raven hoped for answers to all his long-held questions. He waded deeper into the sea, took Acabar by the shoulders and stared deep into his brown-black eyes. “Speak, Acabar. Tell me everything.”

  Acabar smiled with blood-framed teeth. He wrapped an arm over Raven’s shoulder and pulled him into a close embrace. Raven felt Acabar’s breath on his ear, shallow, barely holding on to life. “Speak, Acabar!”

  Acabar’s flesh became cold to the touch. Raven tried to separate himself from the embrace but couldn’t break the death hold. He struggled to draw breath as if his head were underwater. In his back, he felt the sting of the black sword. He’d forgotten Acabar still had it in his hand, beneath the surface. Acabar found a final burst of strength and drove the weapon through Raven’s torso to the hilt. They stood for a short time pinned together and then collapsed into the waves.

  ~ Chapter 3 ~

  Raven’s sight was filled with a deep, oily darkness. The gentle roar of the sea and the sound of waves dashing themselves against the beach faded into silence. Beneath his feet, the soft sand solidified and become hard as clay bricks dried in summer’s heat. The cool ocean breeze diminished, only to be replaced by a dry, dusty wind that swirled restlessly around him, burning his eyes.

  “Gods help me!” he cried aloud. The words echoed several times, before vanishing into nowhere.

  He touched his face, felt the roughness of his beard, patted himself all over and sighed with relief when he found no evidence of injury. As far as he could determine he was solid, but holding his hands in front of his face, he began to doubt if they were there. He wondered if Acabar’s blade had struck him blind. If that were so, his eyesight would return in time. For Khryseoi, all physical wounds healed. His body was covered with scars, not raised and ragged pink-grey lumps like Acabar, but faint white lines, a personal memoir of the conflicts he’d survived throughout his long life.

  Surprised to find himself standing, Raven lowered himself carefully to the ground, which felt as if it were covered with dried pine needles, splinters of wood, and sharp stone chips. There was no place to rest his head, so he sat cross-legged and waited, feeling the constant irritation of the ground against his calf muscles.

  An indeterminate amount of time passed. There was no difference between day and night. The temperature remained constant, tepid as a river after a hot sunny day. The wind continued to blow, cutting through his robes and covering his skin with irritating dust.

  “Perhaps I’m dead,” he said aloud.

  “Not yet,” answered a male voice somewhere near.

  Raven started. He reached for his long knife but his belt was empty. “Who are you? Where am I?” He reac
hed out, hoping to grasp the voice’s owner.

  The answers to his questions weren’t forthcoming, but Raven detected an air of amusement in the silence.

  “Try asking one question at a time.”

  The voice was rich, deep and familiar, but Raven struggled to place it. He had known many people, and had often felt the sensation of having met someone before. Faces and voices were difficult to separate. “What is this place?” he asked.

  “Don’t you know?”

  Raven exhaled heavily. “You invited my question! Why do you answer with another?” Save the constant wind rushing in his ears, Raven couldn’t make out any other sound. “Are you there?”

  “And now you ask another question... my apologies. It has been some time since I’ve had discourse. Which one should I answer first? There are now three.”

  Raven clapped his hands to his head. “This place... where am I?”

  “Surely you’ve been here before, Khryseoi?”

  Raven ground his teeth and felt pressure building in his temples. “Why don’t you bother somebody else? I’m not in the mood for games!”

  “I’m curious to understand why you don’t know where you are,” said the voice, sounding close enough now to be near Raven’s ear.

  Raven couldn’t feel breath on his face. He reached out, fingers finding open space. He strained his ears but couldn’t hear any sound over the ever-shifting wind. “I think I’ve been struck blind,” he said. “Last I knew I was on a beach.” He waited for a reply. “Are you there?”