Raven's Quest

by Karen Hayes-Baker

  “Karasu! What is wrong? Are you ill?” the older priest asked his voice shrill with concern as he gently pulled the young man to a sitting position in the sand.

  Karasu did not answer; his mind was far away, his head still bent to the ground. He saw flashes of light, of flame and smelt of burning flesh and timber. He saw a fiery pyre piled high with bodies and wood and he recognised the plain upon which they burned. The scene shifted and his father lay dead upon muddied earth, his eyes open yet sightless and glassy. Men were shouting and screaming. A fierce battle was being waged, had been waged, and now his father lay dead.

  Another flash through his head and Hayato sprawled prostrate on the floor at the feet of a heavily armoured General clad in red and black. The General stamped on the leg of the prone man and Hayato screamed in agony. Karasu saw blood staining his brother’s hakama pants and watched with impotent horror as his sibling was beaten again and again by a faceless tormentor.

  A final shift to Mizuki, her hands bound and being bundled into a blackened, covered wagon, her beautiful face streaked with tears. Karasu felt her terrified plea for help. It plunged into his soul and ripped through his heart with such force that he physically gasped for air, his body slumping forward as he cried out loud.

  The older priest caught hold of Karasu just as he fell and looked shakily to the others who had now gathered around. He caught the eyes of the head priest, the Saishu, and shook his head with mystified bewilderment. The Saishu crouched so that he was level with his subordinates and lifted Karasu’s head gently with both hands.

  “Karasu my son. Look at me. What ails thee?” he asked kindly.

  With great effort Karasu dragged himself away from the visions spinning in his head and as he pulled himself back to sensibility a picture of a foreign ship floated fleetingly before his eyes and then was gone. He stared at the Saishu with wide, frightened eyes, the tears welling within them not yet fallen. He did not speak, but his expression was filled with sorrow.

  “Karasu?” Saishu pressed once more.

  The young monk blinked lachrymosely, his face contorting into unbelieving grief.

  “My father is dead Saishu Ryuu. Kyo-To-Shi has fallen. My brother and sister taken,” he whispered so lowly that the head priest had to bend his head nearer to hear. The Saishu gazed at his young apprentice for several seconds before nodding his understanding then he helped the trainee to his feet.

  “Yoshino, take Karasu to his cell. He should rest now,” the head priest instructed the monk still holding onto his young opponent.

  “Yes Saishu,” Yoshino replied with a respectful bow and guided a shaking Karasu away from the sparring field as the other priests began to tidy the quadrangle, removing the fallen katanas and raking the sand flat once more. Though curious at what had happened to their brother, they would not ask. It was not the way of things within the brethren.

  The Saishu watched the retreating figures of Yoshino and Karasu until they turned a corner and disappeared from view. Then he sighed and clasping his hands in front of his face in prayer, he walked towards the nearest image of Inari, the fox Kami, and bowed his head asking for guidance. As the wind tore at his hair and whipped strands from out of his tight pigtail, the first drops of rain began to fall and the mountains grew broodingly dark.

  FOUR

  Thom Devlin had never known a storm like it. He had been born at sea, had lived upon it for most of his twenty four years and still this felt like the fury of Hell unleashed. The Brig shuddered and creaked with alarming violence as she hit one massive wave after another, her bows sinking well below the water and then heaving up to point heavenwards before beginning her convulsive, trembling decent back into the black foaming pit of water.

  They had been aboard the Brig, the Rose, for roughly two years, going nowhere in particular, taking advantage of any opportunity that might arise, learning their trade and earning the right to be part of the clan they were born to. Thom earning the right to be Kapitan of this and greater ships. This was his voyage of transcendence, upon which he had to prove his worth and leave his carefree youth behind him to become the heir to her kingdom. It was a time honoured transition and one which every young man would undertake, but for him it held a greater challenge, he had more honour to lose. He had to skipper the ship, had to take the fight to their enemy and reap the spoils of war from their victims. On his shoulders lay the responsibility for his crew and their fate.

  Not that any of this weighed heavily upon Thom. Sailing was second nature to him. He revelled in the constant pit of wits he fought with the Storm God and with Abyssi, the unpredictable God of the sea. He bore no malice towards the vessels they overcame and ransacked, but neither did he hold much compassion for their crews. For the last twenty months they had plundered their way around the globe, burning the ships they captured and leaving the sailors aboard them dead or marooned in some foreign land.

  It was a dangerous life, a life of sudden violence and sometimes gory fear and exhilaration followed by endless days of monotony upon a vast empty ocean. Yet it was a life that Thom would not trade. He could not even imagine his world being anything but this constant battle with the sea and the navigators upon it.

  Of course Thom was no fool. He would choose his quarry carefully. A sailing Brig such as the Rose could not hope to win a fight against even the most lightly armed merchant steamer, but the proud and sleek clippers and barques of the long-haul trading companies were fair game, if not certain prey. He could not outrun such vessels, neither could he catch one in full sail, but he could outmanoeuvre the great leviathans and in doing so he had more than once brought about the destruction of a Wexby line silk runner or an Imperial merchant man. Stay clear of the Empire’s Navy steamers and he could take his pick of the sailing ships. And out here, in the greatest of oceans, no Imperial Fleet could bother him. Few steamers got this far, running out of coal long before they reached the ends of the Indienne Ocean, their last port of call Srelencha. No, out here in the enormous expanse of the Blue Ocean, Thom was free to assail any ship he dared.

  Two more months and they would start their voyage home, bringing with them the spoils of their pirate raids and to the reward of a frigate and a place in the Clan’s fleet of warships. Many had been the time when Thom might have been happy to forego this conclusion for it would mean an end to his freedom, his right to choose. But today, in this tropical maelstrom he wished more than anything that he had the helm of a powered ship at his command and not this flimsy wood and canvass tub.

  The Rose shuddered and plummeted downwards hitting the bottom of the trough with savage force and heeling dangerously to port. Thom grabbed the rail at the front of the poop deck pinning his right leg hard against it to prevent himself from falling over with the wild pitching of his ship. Men staggered about the deck swept from their feet by the massive waves that engulfed the vessel. All had life lines attached.

  She would not take much more of this pounding. Already stripped of most of her canvass excepting courses, lower topsails, jibs and gaff sail she still bucked and veered wildly, hardly responding to the helm and crashing headlong into the boiling sea. Though it would take them off course Thom gave the order to come about. The Brig could not make way in this wind, he had no choice but to run with it instead and though this would push them hard towards the Ashima archipelago he knew he had little choice. All he could hope for was that the storm might blow itself out soon, or that they could find safe harbour amongst one of the islands. He understood little of Ashima other than it was inhabited by a civilised people who bore a physical resemblance to the tribal folk of the Tailan peninsula. He had never been to the country and believed it to be politely tolerant of foreigners if not altogether friendly.

  As the Brig laboured to come around and take up position ahead of the wind she rushed forwards without effort, spray fuming over her deck, fore and main courses and lower topsails billowing. Thom ordered more men below to man the bilge pumps, she was lying heavy and he thought she m
ight be taking water. With a careful eye upon the flag above the mainmast, he dare not gybe in this tempest for she was sure to founder and breach, he set himself at the wheel relieving the helmsman and prepared for a long and exhausting stint through whatever Storm and Abyssi could unleash at him.

  He must had dozed off, or at least drifted into a daydream world for the crash of the boom, the of ripping canvass and splintering of wood came as a shock almost as much as the Brig’s violent and sudden heeling onto her port beam with gunwales almost submerged. How had he been so unaware? Three hours at the helm without relief was how. But with the men also labouring flat out manning the bilge pumps and working the rigging, there was no one to relieve him. Thom cursed loudly and fought the wheel with all his strength trying to bring the Rose upright again, yet stubbornly she swung into the wind taking water with every dive through the mountainous sea and listing perilously. Men clung to masts and fittings to prevent themselves from sliding down the turtle back deck, held fast by lines, but desperately trying to climb to the starboard rails to restore some balance to the struggling vessel.

  A tall, well built, sandy haired young man joined Thom at the wheel and together they strained with gritted teeth as the Brig determined to sink herself. Neither man spoke, the sweat ran down their faces and backs, mingling with the torrents of seawater that drenched them as wave after wave smashed into the vessel and tore mercilessly over her decks.

  An ear splitting splintering and tearing ripped through the crash of the storm and it was within only a fraction of a second that Thom turned, saw the billowing white canvass shudder and begin to fall as if in slow motion, towards himself and his First Mate. With a cry of alarm, he grabbed hold of the big man and pushed him to the deck just as the gaff sail tore away from the mainmast, taking with it half of the boom to which it was attached. Missing them by a hair’s breadth the debris of sail and wood fell overboard dragging the still fast sheets into a deadly mess of entwined, taught rope.

  The agonised cry of a crewman reached Thom’s ears even above the din of the tempest. Both he and the burly man struggled to their feet. The Brig listed even further to port now as the wreckage of the boom and sail acted as a sea anchor dragging the Rose ever nearer to her demise.

  Thom glanced in the direction of screaming. A man was pinned to the port rails by thick cables of rope still secured to the boom overboard. The sheets were cutting deep into the sailor’s legs and even in the murk and through the driving rain, the young pirate kapitan could seen the ooze of dark red blood staining the already sodden trousers of the crewman. Without hesitation he undid his lifeline and pulled a knife from his belt. Sliding headlong towards the rails he managed to grab hold of some stray rope and slow his descent so that, despite the pitch of the ship and the extreme angle of her decks, he reached the man without careering overboard. Seconds later and the burly sailor was by his side followed by two more men, faces anxious yet determined.

  “Cut the sheets from his legs! Quickly or he may lose them,” Thom commanded, but as he began to work on the first rope digging into the sailor’s flesh he was jostled roughly by one of the newcomers, a chizzled old pirate with no front teeth and a bent nose.

  “Cut the bleeding wreckage free or we’ll all go down,” the old sailor shouted his eyes mad with fear.

  Despite the urgency of the situation Thom felt the anger rise within him and absurdly almost retorted, resenting a deckhand telling him, the son of the Pirate Queen, what to do. For the briefest of moments he nearly shouted back, but through his choler he understood that the man was right. They needed to cut free the fallen sail and shattered boom. It was their only hope of righting the ship and if truth be known, the only way of freeing the poor soul writhing in agony under its biting grip. He nodded and all three men joined him in hacking at the multitude of cables crisscrossing the rails.

  It seemed an eternity before the final strand of hemp gave way and the debris of the gaff was lost to the angry sea. An eternity through which they were deluged by water that threatened to take them to Abyssi along with the sail. It stung their eyes, half drowned their lungs, so that they gasped for air between each onslaught and it froze their limbs despite the relative warmth of the air. The wind howled and groaned through the rigging and the remaining canvass whipped and cracked like gunshot. Every sinew in their bodies ached with the effort of fighting to release the wreckage, with trying to stay aboard the tossing vessel as she tried her hardest to cast them off her heaving deck. But finally they did it and with a taught singing hiss the gaff sail and broken boom vanished into the abyss. The injured sailor slumped unconscious onto the deck and the Rose righted enough to allow her kapitan to give an order to have the man taken below before climbing back to the wheel and endeavouring to bring her back on an even keel. He was joined by his original companion, the big sandy haired young man and between them they did battle with the helm, less responsive now the gaff had gone, and finally brought the Brig back with the wind astern.

  Exhausted, Thom leaned heavily upon the wheel, gasping for breath yet oddly euphoric with adrenalin fuelled relief.

  “Thank you Mr Aledd. Tis an ill wind that we fight this day,” he grinned at his accomplice and pinned himself firmly in position as the ship pitched downwards into another deep trough sending a huge bow wave rushing along the decks.

  “I’ll take it Kap’n, if you want to rest,” Aledd offered.

  Thom flinched as if struck and he darted a glance at his First Mate. But Aledd’s offer of help had not been borne through lack of confidence, there was no anxious fear etched upon his face. Thom saw only a willingness to help and though he would not care to admit it he felt thankfully relieved.

  “Tis well Dafidd. I will remain here. I will not make the same mistake twice. We need to reduce sail if we are to survive. I have little response to the helm and this damned tempest threatens to take us hurtling into Hell. Lower topsails Mr Aledd,” he replied with a wry smile.

  Aledd touched his forelock with his fist and hurried away into yet another spray fume to relay the orders. Thom watched him go and shivered. His mistake had nearly ended in the loss of the ship. No one need tell him that the loss would have meant that he and his crew would have surely drowned. As it was, one good man might die. He straightened his back and strengthened his grip upon the wheel and with Herculean effort he forced the images of the screaming deckhand from his head, but the cold hand of guilt gripped at his soul and lodged itself into his psyche and his heart.

  FIVE

  Hayato lay on his left side inside a dingy wooden wagon. His right leg pained him too much to lie any other way and his torso was a mass of blue contusions, dreadfully tender to touch and causing his breathing to be shallow and laboured. He suspected more than one broken rib, but cared little.

  Hayato understood that his father was dead and with the Lord Presidor’s demise Kyo-To-Shi and Kiki Province had fallen into the hands of Lord Kurohoshi. What would happen to his sister he dare not consider. His own fate was inconsequential. He should have died. Should have met with an honourable end or at least saved his beloved Mizuki from whatever destiny awaited her by fleeing to the castle and killing both her and himself. Hayato understood his own future would be one of degradation and ridicule. He was Kurohoshi’s prisoner, as much a war trophy as Kyo-To-Shi city. And when the warlord tired of the ritual humiliation of Lord Oyama’s heir then, Hayato had no doubt, he would die. But he knew he would not be afforded a worthy death, a Samurai’s death, for he had allowed himself to be taken prisoner. He was no proud Samurai. The shame of his predicament and the grief for his father and sister overwhelmed him and black despondency filled his heavy heart.

  The door to the wagon opened spilling bright light inside and causing the prisoner to screw his eyes shut against its glare. Someone entered quickly and hurried to his side. Someone light on their feet and smelling as fragrant as fresh flowers. He felt the cool touch of her hand on his forehead and with effort opened his eyes to meet those of his sister
. He saw the tears well and fall down her lovely, pale face and despite his own misery he managed to cast a searching glance over her form and satisfy himself that she was, as yet, unharmed. He smiled fleetingly and held up his right hand to her. She grasped it in her own and burying her face in his palm, kissed it over and over.

  “I thought... Oh Hayato what have they done to you?” she sobbed, the tears flowing freely now.

  “Not enough,” he replied bitterly, “They should have killed me.”

  “No! No do not say such things. Then I would be truly alone. I could not bear to be so alone. But look at you. So much pain.”

  She dropped his hand and reached behind her pulling a small black lacquer box towards him. She opened it and began to pull out an assortment of instruments, dressings and ointments.

  “He has let me come to treat you. Please, Hayato, do not turn your face away. I know the shame you feel. I can sense it burning through your soul, but I cannot lose you. Let me help?” Mizuki implored as her brother turned his head to the wall.

  The pain of hearing her despairing voice and unhidden lament was more than he could withstand. His humiliation was secondary, a selfish indulgence.

  “Why is he letting you do this? I thought he wanted me to suffer so that he could undermine any resistance there may be to his domination. The more beaten and subjugated I am, the more power he gains. No one would rally around a crushed and weak ruler. I thought he would want everyone to see that,” Hayato wondered out loud and reached up to brush a tear from off his sister’s face. She looked to the floor.

  “He wishes to be married to me. He has promised that you will live if I do this. Oh Hayato, please let me help you.”