by Hal Emerson
“Let’s go,” he said.
The man snapped a fist to his black-plumed half-helm in salute, and barked orders to his troops. They moved off at a fast jog, slowed down only slightly by the heavy armor they wore. They may be threadbare, but they were heavy infantry, and each wore full plate armor, gauntlets, greaves, and a half-helm. For weapons they carried spears in their hands, and wore broadswords at their hips. Raven wasn’t accustomed to Kindred being so well-armed: most of them were ambushers, and as such dressed and fought with daggers, short swords, or bows.
Like Leah.
His knees buckled and he stumbled, but by the next step he’d regained his strength and continued on beside the captain. The man didn’t look at him; he must assume there was something on the ground. They continued on, staring straight ahead, and all the while Raven felt like weeping, but no tears came.
Feeling was his weakness; it always had been.
They passed through the Inner City gate – gray stone guarded by only a token number of Kindred in the green and silver of infantry – and made their way quickly through the streets beyond. The city looked as though a heavy wind had come and tossed it sideways: scattered clothing and furniture littered the paved roads, and the highest buildings, soaring even higher than the Inner City guard towers, had been gutted and turned into look-out posts by the Kindred, dislodging more detritus that swirled around the city streets. As they passed through, careful to step over broken furniture and the flapping ghosts of unmanned clothing, Raven’s mind turned to the path they were headed for, the secret, hidden Seeker’s stairway. It was the same stair he’d used to infiltrate Banelyn when he had sought the Path of Light that would lead him to the Seekers. Back when he’d still be convinced all of this had been a test.
The same path Leah and Tomaz followed to save my life.
He grimaced and tightened his hands into such tight fists that his nails dug furrows in his palms. The pain and tension forced the memories away, draining them from his mind like blood and pus from an infected cyst.
They passed by a small park set up with three wooden stages amidst curving pathways bordered by rhododendron and azaleas. Raven realized it was the same park he’d seen months ago when passing by, the same place where the Imperial aristocracy, the High Blood and Most High Blood, held their slave auctions. Part of one stage had been torn down, and the other two tilted drunkenly. There was blood there, soaking into the wood like an uneven coat of paint.
I hope the slaves … no. No, I won’t hope anymore.
The sounds of battle met them as they crossed into the outer ring of Banelyn City proper, the middle third of the city between the Inner City gate and the Outer City that was segregated from the rest by the Black Wall. The Wall itself loomed above them now, covering the lower half of the sky and blotting out whole swaths of stars like an ink stain on a beautiful tapestry.
They turned a corner into a thin brick alleyway, then turned again onto a street parallel to the first, and saw in the distance Kindred fighting Kindred. Raven reached out and grabbed hold of the Raven Talisman; the black markings etched into his skin by his Mother the Diamond Empress grew hot; his mind expanded outward, and suddenly he was seeing thousands of details that flowed to him in waves. The smell of smoke was stronger, and so too was the stench of fear and blood and sweat. The shadows seemed lighter, easier to see through. His hearing sharpened – enough to hear the gasps of surprise and disbelief as the men and women behind him saw two groups of Kindred fighting one another. He could read shock and confusion on many faces in the forces ahead of him, and knew this particular part of the battle had only just commenced.
Continuing forward, now with an enraged group of Kindred at his back, they began to work up to a faster speed, he searched the crowd methodically, going from soldier to soldier, trying to pick him out. A thrill ran through him – there, in the midst of the attacking group, was a tall figure riding a beautiful white horse. As the horse reared back, the beautiful stallion outlined in perfect tableau by the light of burning oil lamps that lined the streets, the rider’s long golden hair fell back from a helm-less head, revealing a perfect face and masculine jaw. It was like looking at a moving picture of a fairy story – here was the hero, perfect and true.
Henri Perci.
The captain in black and silver signaled an attack, and the group of soldiers rushed forward with even more speed, rushing to save their betrayed companions. But before they had crossed half the distance, the former general himself spotted them, and shouted for his force to split and turn. The black-cloaked captain shouted the order for an all-out rush, and Raven felt a sense of peace come over him. The first two lines met and crashed together, repulsing each other before coming back and drawing each other in, like two fierce lovers in a long-awaited embrace. In the bare seconds before battle was upon him, Raven realized he didn’t feel a part of the men and women standing around him, pushing forward with primal yells on their lips. No, standing here among grown men and women who may be breathing their last breath, he felt completely alien. Despite all the lives he’d lived, despite what his Talisman had shown him, he did not feel a part of humanity.
He was still only seventeen years old, had only been a part of this world for the blink of a cosmic eye, and had only been away from the Fortress for a year. How could that be possible? How could so much have happened in so little time?
He drew his sword.
The forces came together in a crashing roar. The front line of Raven’s group gained ground as their momentum carried them forward, but they were just as quickly pushed back; even the heavy infantry were no match for the violence of men fighting to their deaths, fighting with a general who inspired them. Raven pushed forward, moving through the Exiles, and with each step tried to muster up a sense of self, some sense of longing for the life he’d led, but found he simply couldn’t. It was as if that particular human urge had gone out of him. He didn’t want life anymore, not really.
Death and silence; a release … the perfect consummation of my life.
Time seemed to slow and hundreds of details assailed him at once. The smell of death, sweat, and terror crushed him from all sides; he saw the mud caked onto the traitorous soldiers’ boots, the broken blood vessels in their rolling eyes; the air felt thick and heavy, saturated with sound and fury as it passed through his lips and filled his lungs. Golden lights winked into being in his head, each one signifying the life of a man or woman around him, each one a bundle of memories and strength he could harvest and consume.
He struck with General Dunhold’s sword and killed the first man who rose before him; the golden light that represented that man’s life went out, and it was added on to Raven. The world around him sped up as the Raven Talisman reaped the soul of the man he’d killed and used it to give the Prince new, stolen strength. He moved on to the next man, and cut him down as well, his eyes all the while on the distant form of Henri Perci on his white stallion.
But the tide of battle shifted, and as the Kindred behind him took heart in his bravery he was pushed forward at the head of a swelling wave of righteous anger. The movement broke his stride, and he was forced to kill the next man to confront him, and the next one after that. He tried to hold back, some deep part of him realizing this was too much too fast, but he had no other choice. His head had begun to swim as if he’d downed an entire bottle of wine in a manner of seconds, the memories of those other men coming to him hot and fast. His limbs jerked and flailed as his reactions sped up too fast for him to anticipate. A sword lanced out from nowhere and struck him a glancing blow across the temple, and he realized he’d never put his helmet on.
Memories began racing through his brain, memories that weren’t his. Sensations of pleasure, anger, hatred, guilt, love, all wracked his body as he experienced them anew in the form of other men’s lives. The smoke from the burning houses of the Outer City filled his lungs and choked him, even as the gaping mouths of others sucked what clean air there was away from him. He was dro
wning in a sea of chaos, and he was clutching for anything that would pull him out, anything at all that would save him.
Motion came to him through clouded eyes, and resolved into a man rushing forward. The solider raised his sword high, and Raven fell to one knee before him. The blade passed over his head and continued on; Raven thrust his own sword through the man’s belly, his added strength giving him the power to force it even through the man’s leather hauberk.
More life was added onto him, and suddenly the haze in front of his eyes had nothing to do with smoke. Bloodlust and rage seethed and boiled inside him, the last emotions of the men he’d killed. It rose up and filled him to the gullet, and he began to choke on it. He felt it overcoming him, submerging him, and he began to lose track of his own thoughts, his own mind.
Another man fell beneath his borrowed sword, and the rage grew. His senses sharpened yet again: he could see individual pores on men twenty feet away; he could distinguish between a million different variations of sound, knew which wailing voice belonged to which dying soldier. And through it all he heard, as though the distant, drawing whisper of a lover’s sigh, the cursing voice of Henri Perci.
He turned and went for the former Kindred general, cutting down two more men on his way, fueling his rage, destroying any last inhibitions he had. This death, this kill, this revenge, was all he knew and all that time contained. He had never wanted to kill like this in his entire life – and it made him feel good. It made him feel right.
It made him powerful.
Henri Perci spun about on his stallion, using the warhorse to stave in the head of a fallen opponent with its wicked hooves. He laid about him with an enormous two-handed bastard sword, with a blade nearly as long as a man was tall. It was slim though, and he whipped it through the air with a devilish speed the Prince had not anticipated.
Unhorse him.
Raven was only halfway to him, but he had a clear shot. Using the strength and dexterity of all the men he killed, it was a simple thing for him to take aim and throw his sword, end over end, through the crowd of men. The blade flew so hard and so fast it hit the horse’s chest and nearly went completely through, hilt and all. The horse immediately faltered, it’s front legs falling out from under it, and it’s head arched back to whinny one last time at the indifferent night sky, before it collapsed. Henri Perci sensed the drop, and threw himself from the saddle at the last possible instant, turning the dive into a roll. He came to his feet and was immediately confronted by three men. They attacked as one, with good form, thrusting at the same time, pushing him in toward each other, but they made the mistake of letting him grab up his sword, and with the bastard blade in his hand, he was a matchless force that cut them down in seconds, before they could even cry out.
Raven stepped through the last of the crowd into the space that had opened around the fallen general, and the man saw him as he knelt beside his horse, eyes and mouth wide, gasping for air as he tried to find his bearings. When his gaze fell on Raven, standing before him cloaked and armored in black, his lips curled and his teeth gnashed together. His eyes formed up into slits, and he spat out his words like poison:
“Finally, you face me like a man!” he roared. He stood up from where he’d knelt, face splattered with mud and gore. “Come – let me show you how a true Prince of the Kindred should fight! Test your mettle against a true Exile, one who has fought your kind since birth!”
The former general struck a defensive position and snarled at him, his face now a mask of hate so deep that it went beyond rage and anger to the depths of lunacy. The man hated him in a righteous way, in a way that made him feel messianic and transcendent, the shunned hero slaying the pretender. Raven saw that light in the man’s eyes, and as he stepped forward to meet him, he felt the cold emptiness from before return to him, countering the blazing heat in Henri Perci; the cold hollowed him out and purged him, and the rage and bloodlust of other men’s memories turned sharp and perfectly deadly.
It was child’s play. The traitor’s sword lanced out in a perfect thrust, and Raven moved a fraction of an inch to the left, letting the blade pass him by. Henri Perci slashed, trying to use the double-edged blade to cut the Prince; his form was impeccable, and Raven should have at least been wounded, but the Prince saw the motion in Perci’s eyes, and simply ducked beneath the blade. When he came up again, he was closer still. The taller man tried to use his height, swinging the bastard blade down in a whistling, diagonal arc, but to no avail. They were within arm’s length of each other now, and the realization came upon them both that Henri Perci could do nothing more.
He tried anyway. Hacking and slashing like a madman, dancing among the fallen bodies, never losing balance, never breaking stride, but still Raven came on, always one step ahead, always moving closer. Other soldiers had shied away from them, leaving them in a pocket of space no one dared to enter. Sweat was pouring from Henri Perci’s face, and even still he didn’t flag, didn’t falter. But Raven was too close now, and the traitor had no room to swing his sword.
So he dropped it. The metal hit the slick, blood-wet paving stones with a clang as Perci swung his fist, a surprise blow that should have taken Raven completely unawares. But with the speed of several men, Raven saw the gauntleted fist coming, and caught the wrist behind it. With a sharp upward blow, he broke the general’s arm, then came forward and dislocated his shoulder. Henri Perci cried out in pain and fell forward, pulled by the motion of Raven’s movements. His other hand reached to the ground, desperately grasping amongst the stones and bloody viscera for the hilt of his discarded blade.
Raven stepped on and broke the hand.
Perci threw his head back and roared in pain, but even then he wouldn’t stop. He came up, and in a powerful rush butted his head into Raven’s chin.
The blow was painful, and it rocked Raven back a step, making his head spin. He dropped the arm he held, and Henri Perci, unsupported, fell to the ground. Raven’s brain seemed to be rattling around in his head, and he remembered vaguely Elder Keri telling him he had a concussion. His vision faded to a white mist, and then came back in sharp focus, then fuzzed once more. But through it all he could see Henri Perci coming forward – forcing the bones of his broken hand around the hilt of his sword. He managed it, and raised the sword in front of him – only to have the hand and arm caught by Raven, who wrested the sword from him in a savage tug.
Thunder broke the silence of the skies above them, and the skies opened up and let loose a flood of rain.
Raven saw through the falling sheet of water his own reflection in Henri Perci’s eyes as Raven gripped the hilt of the long bastard sword. He watched as the light in those eyes saw its own defeat, and still refused to die.
The sword came down, and the blade bit into the general’s neck, severing his spine but keeping his head attached to his body. The light in the eyes extinguished, but they continued to stare at Raven, to pierce him as the memories of the man flew into the Prince’s mind. There were many of them, and there was fear and rage in equal measure, but brightest of all, at the center and core of everything Henri Perci was, shone a single, bright moment, that flashed across Raven’s eyes.
“Promise me, son,” said an old man, with a white beard and flowing hair, “promise me that you will always fight the Empire and what they stand for.”
“I promise,” he said, and meant it, with all his heart.
“No,” Raven whispered, “no, get out of me, get out of my head.”
Flashes of light – a whisper of movement through the woods around them. Swirling motes of dust kicked up by the horses, the bad horses with the red and black of Roarke on them.
As the memory continued to play, Raven found himself clutched his head, tearing at his hair, as if he could pull the images out of him.
“NO!”
“One day,” said the old man with a loving, beautiful smile. “You will be a Prince. This is not over – the Empire, the Tyrant will never stop. You – you must promise me –”
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He cut off, choking on the words. Henri held the man’s hand, even though the rough, calloused fingers were squeezing him so hard. His father coughed and sputtered, and he rose up violently from where he lay. Blood and mucus dribbled from corners of his mouth as he spat out a mess of bloody phlegm. As his body twisted and spasmed from the pain, his side poured out a fresh gush of blood.
“Be strong,” the man gasped, his eyes suddenly distant. “They will return, like they always do. And there will come a time when we call for a Prince of the Veil once more. They will need a Prince like Goldwyn – and you will be that man.”
More pain and coughing, and Henri Perci watched it through wet eyes.
“No crying,” the man said, grabbing him harshly by the arms. His eyes were clear and blue, like a summer sky. “From this day on, your eyes are dry. The Kindred are in your hands after me – you are strong, and already the Elders talk of you. You will be the youngest General in a generation. And when the time comes for a Prince … it will be you.”
Henri nodded still sobbing, and watched his father die.
The memory was perfect, with a numinous, transcendent glory, and Raven felt tears running down his own cheeks, crying over Perci’s body as the man had cried over his father’s.
But where was the evil, the darkness, that would lead a man down the path of such anger and blind hatred so as to betray his own people in the hope of saving them? How could this terribly beautiful memory be the center of a traitor, the defining moment of his life?
Raven’s gaze fell on the sightless eyes of Henri Perci, and saw, again, his own face reflected in them, and deeper still, a reflection of his own soul.
No … no, he was not like me. He was evil, just like my Mother and the Children.
But the memories did not lie, and as they continued to roll, he found no evil. He found anger, and he found pain, but even when Henri Perci led his men against the Kindred, even here, he had given them instructions to disengage as soon as they drew Raven out.