The World Raven

by A. J. Smith

  ‘Realm of form?’ queried the shade, not fully understanding what he was being told.

  ‘I don’t know of any other name,’ replied the Guardian. ‘It used to be the Fire Lands, but I am sure the beings below would have named their own realms by now.’

  ‘You mean the lands of men?’

  ‘Men, Volk, Dokkalfar, Jekkans... perhaps the land of mortals.’ The dragon smiled again, as if pleased with itself.

  The shade looked again across the labyrinth. At the furthest edge, framed by distant shards of lightning, was a plunging sinkhole, wreathed in rotten energy and appearing to fall into nothing. He could feel the toxic power of Shub-Nillurath returning to the world.

  ‘I can reach the exemplar from here?’ asked the shade.

  The wings flared. It was a shrug of uncertainty, but also a gesture that showed the dragon’s size. ‘No, but you still have a connection to the lands of men.’

  The shade remembered a troublesome youth. Dalian Thief Taker had a son, perhaps the only tangible proof that he had ever lived. ‘Al Hasim, but my memory is foggy.’

  ‘Through the tear you can reach him,’ said the Guardian. ‘A dive of faith, reliant upon your son catching you. He can anchor you to your lands of men; give you time to find your exemplar.’

  ‘I am glad of this information. Though... I am uncertain.’

  ‘What is wrong?’ boomed the Guardian, its eyes drooping into a pinched expression of concern. ‘Perhaps I can help.’

  ‘I’m surprised I can remember my son. I am of the Shade Folk; emotions should not concern me, but I feel hope that perhaps my journey continues.’

  The dragon grumbled, slowly smacking its huge lips together. ‘Lore exists telling of your kind. The first shade served the Stone Giant, long, long ago.’

  ‘So, what ails me?’

  More grumbling, then a guttural cough, sending more phlegm to smoulder on the rock. ‘Nothing ails you. You are being nourished by another. A raven cawed in the distance as you arrived, telling me to help you. A shade, far away, is consuming itself to make you whole. You are becoming more than a memory. As long as the World Raven’s power lasts.’

  CHAPTER 14

  LADY BRONWYN IN THE CITY OF CANARN

  SHE HADN’T WORN armour for so long. The feel of tight leather and segmented steel plates was comforting, but made her feel strangely nostalgic; it made her think of her brother and endless hours sparring with him in the keep. She’d never developed great skill with the longsword, but was quick enough to be dangerous with rapier or shortsword. It was the latter that now held Hasim’s scimitar at bay.

  ‘You still wince before you parry,’ said the Karesian. ‘As if you expect to get hit.’

  ‘Swords are sharp, you know,’ she replied, stepping backwards and holding her guard.

  ‘Granted, but don’t enter a fight thinking you’ll lose. What’s your advantage?’

  She twirled the blade, smirking at him. ‘Besides a certain feminine elegance... I suppose, maybe my speed?’

  ‘You’re quick,’ he replied. ‘And I know about such things.’ He made a figure-eight with his scimitar, skilfully cutting the air. ‘I’m pretty quick myself.’

  She lunged, taking a wide stance and forcing him backwards. ‘Arrogance breeds overconfidence.’

  ‘I’m still alive, sweetness. I must be doing something right.’

  ‘Alive, but homeless,’ she replied, feinting at his exposed chest.

  He side-stepped, but didn’t counter-attack. ‘I don’t know about that... Canarn is feeling a bit like home. Much more than Kessia ever did.’

  She spun, slashing at him, only to be met by his raised scimitar. ‘I happen to know that the duchess is picky about who she allows to stay in her city.’

  ‘Well, I knew her brother,’ he replied. ‘He’d never forgive me if I left.’

  She relaxed her guard, letting a wave of sudden emotion flow over her. ‘I don’t want you to stay because he’d want you to. I want you to stay because you want to.’

  ‘I don’t need to tell you why I’m staying, my love,’ he replied, adopting his best sultry smile.

  She was largely immune to his charms now. At least she told herself she was. Bronwyn liked to believe that she loved the Karesian scoundrel because of some inner connection rather than lust. But is lust so bad? she thought.

  ‘We could just disappear for a few days,’ he whispered. ‘Forget about all of this and take a boat to a secluded island.’

  ‘A secluded island?’ she queried. ‘What makes you think you can trap me so easily?’

  ‘I will be nothing but the perfect gentleman.’

  She grabbed his shirt and kissed him roughly. Hasim dropped his scimitar and wrapped his arms round her waist, lifting her off the ground. With her legs wrapped tightly round him, they fell back against the wall, tearing at each other’s clothes.

  ‘Don’t be a gentleman,’ she breathed. ‘There are enough gentlemen in my life.’ If she must live as an errant duchess, why not have a Karesian scoundrel for a lover?

  ***

  On the wooden table was a pile of unread papers. She’d scanned the first few, but left the balance in a disorderly stack. An unexpected side effect of her return to the city was the abundance of paperwork that required her attention. Certain things she’d brought back with her – scrolls from South Warden and Hail, agreeing to peaceful coexistence and mutual protection. Others were from the lands of Ro, variously asking for alliances or land. It appeared that certain lesser nobles of Tor Funweir wanted to relocate to the duchy of Canarn. She knew little about how her city was perceived across the sea, save that her father had commanded little respect. Brom had not been in charge long enough to establish any kind of authority, so it fell to Bronwyn to lead Canarn into an uncertain future.

  Lord Hetherly of Chase, Sir David of Rayne and others had sent her proposals of marriage, each hoping to make himself duke of the city. The lords of Tor Funweir saw Canarn as a possible safety net for when their lands were consumed by the Dead God and his Twisted Tree. They showed little faith in the scattered armies of Ro. She thought that their time would be better spent defending their lands, rather than conspiring on ways to leave.

  ‘I, Lord Hetherly of Chase,’ she read, ‘hereby make a most respectful proposal of marriage. Lady Bronwyn, tales of your wisdom and beauty have spread to my lands and I can think of no better future for your city than to ally with the ancient house of Chase.’

  Ancient house? Bronwyn didn’t even know where Lord Hetherly’s lands were, let alone how long they’d been there. Somewhere near Du Ban maybe.

  ‘I have five hundred men-at-arms and a household staff of two hundred. I’m sure you will agree that these additions to the beautiful city of Ro Canarn can only serve to strengthen our respective positions. I eagerly await your letter of acceptance, after which I will travel to your city and we will begin preparations without delay.’

  What a load of horse-shit, she thought. But at least he attempted to be respectful. Others had acted as if they were doing Bronwyn a favour by proposing marriage. Sir David had gone so far as to write that she was his second choice, languishing behind a young lady from the Falls of Arnon. Luckily for the young lady, she didn’t control a city or live sufficiently far away, so the Lord of Rayne had accepted Bronwyn as a potential replacement. She imagined a cleric or adviser telling their lord of the benefits of moving to a defensible city across the sea.

  Other requests were more humble. Farmers and traders wishing to establish themselves in her duchy, offering a slice of their profits in exchange for small pieces of land, or property in the city itself. These requests would be met more favourably. Despite her stubbornness, Bronwyn welcomed new additions to Canarn. It was, after all, half empty. Dozens of taverns and shops, first closed when the Red Knights attacked, had remained locked up, with no-one to re-establish business or remove boards from windows and doors.

  She rubbed her eyes and yawned, too tired to feel happy about her
city’s rapid increase in desirability.

  ‘My lady, there is a man with a dog at the northern gate,’ said Auker, shaking Bronwyn out of a half-doze.

  ‘What? What man?’ she replied, sitting up.

  ‘A thin-faced Ranen in a blue cloak. Says you know him.’

  She rubbed her eyes and poked the nearby fireplace into life, sending small sparks across the blackened wood. It was several days since General Frith and Brother Lanry had left for Ro Tiris and her keep felt empty. The Red Knights, waiting to leave, were camped outside the city, and would be gone in a few weeks.

  ‘Did he have a sinister smile?’ she asked. ‘Looks like a gremlin who’s pleased with himself?’

  ‘That he did, my lady.’

  She was tired and unfocused. ‘How late is it?’

  ‘Taverns are closed,’ he replied. ‘I can tell the gremlin to come back tomorrow morning.’

  ‘No, no,’ she grumbled, straightening her dress and wrapping her thick cloak around her shoulders. ‘Go and tell Fynius Black Claw that I’ll be happy to receive him.’

  ‘Aye, my lady.’

  She left her office, yawning loudly, feeling a tired shiver travel up her spine and across her shoulders. The room adjoined her bedchambers, where Al Hasim could be heard snoring. She had not moved to larger quarters and had left Brom’s and her father’s rooms exactly as they were. She hadn’t yet decided if this was due to a mourning period or if she just preferred her old room.

  She yawned again, this one stretching her mouth as wide as it would go and causing a more pronounced shiver. Hasim snored himself awake and grunted at her, his arms flailing from under the blanket and reaching for her.

  ‘Why are you awake?’ he slurred.

  She rubbed her eyes and smiled at him. ‘Well, I was awake because I was enjoying a moment of peace and quiet. I’m now awake because there’s a mad Ranen at the gates who doesn’t appear to know that it’s the middle of the night.’

  ‘What?’ he coughed in reply. ‘What Ranen?’

  She frowned at him, shaking her head.

  ‘Oh, that Ranen,’ he said. ‘What in the halls beyond does he want?’

  ‘Why don’t you come with me and ask him?’

  She stood and composed herself. Luckily her clothes were in a side dressing room, so she could get properly dressed out of the way of Hasim’s tentacle-like arms. Even Fynius Black Claw deserved a degree of formality when visiting with a duchess. He’d probably never been to Canarn and she wanted to make a good impression, perhaps even dissuade him of his notion that the people of Ro were his enemies.

  ‘Do I have to get dressed?’ grumbled Al Hasim.

  She ignored him and entered her dressing room, where she began selecting clothes of an appropriate level of formality. Nothing too ostentatious, and certainly no armour or weaponry.

  ‘You ignoring me?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I just thought you could answer your own question.’ She looked back into her bedchamber and blew him a kiss. ‘I suspect Fynius would not appreciate a naked man of the sun.’

  ‘Then he’s madder than he looks,’ said Hasim. He slowly got up, groggily pulled on a pair of laced, leather trousers and searched for his sword belt.

  ‘Leave the blade,’ she said. ‘Let us not confirm his worst suspicions.’

  ‘I told you before, I’m not Ro,’ he replied. ‘I don’t even know if he’s got suspicions about Karesians. Didn’t seem to at South Warden.’

  She lowered her eyebrows at him. ‘I’m not meeting him armed, so neither are you.’

  Once dressed, she allowed him to fleetingly snare her in a tight embrace. He grabbed her rear and pulled her against him, latching on for a deep, passionate kiss. She stroked her hands down his back, then pushed him away with a devilish smile. ‘Down, boy!’

  He smirked and made a predatory snarling sound. ‘Very well, my lady. I’ll control myself.’

  She turned away from him and looked in her full-length mirror. Not too bad. She’d developed more pronounced muscles since leaving home and her hands were no longer soft, but her bearing was still that of a noble of Ro. Her dress touched the floor and was of thick blue brocade, with a simple overtunic of the same colour. An appropriate ensemble for the occasion, but strange compared to the homespun clothes she’d been wearing in the Freelands.

  She heard a dull thud from behind and spun round. Hasim was lying on his back, arms and legs spread. She thought he was joking, until his body began to convulse. She ran to him, cradling his head.

  ‘What’s— what’s wrong?’ she spluttered, as her lover’s eyes looked right through her. Blood pooled at the corners of his mouth and his whole body shook. ‘Hasim!’ She kissed him and got no reaction. She slapped his face and he didn’t stop shaking. His dark skin was hot to the touch and veins began to rise on his forehead.

  She left him and flung open her door. ‘Auker, come quickly!’

  She shouted the guardsman’s name three times before he appeared at the end of the torch-lit corridor and saw her stricken face.

  ‘My lady?’ He rushed to her side and saw Al Hasim, convulsing on the floor. The Karesian’s chest was streaming with sweat. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘Help me get him on to the bed.’

  The guardsman obliged and hefted the lithe Karesian over his shoulder. Grunting with effort, he laid Hasim down as gently as he could on Bronwyn’s bed. He didn’t stop shaking, and his eyes still stared at the ceiling.

  ‘Send men to the chapel,’ she said. ‘I need one of Lanry’s acolytes, now. Anyone skilled in healing.’

  He nodded and ran from the room, shouting for other guardsmen to join him. The keep servants, roused by her shouting, clustered in the corridor, asking what was wrong, but she closed the bedroom door and sat by the shaking Karesian.

  ‘My love,’ she whispered, stroking back his hair. ‘What’s happening? Hasim, say something.’

  His eyes were not present, as if he looked at something far away. His face twitched as his stare intensified and his hands clenched into tight fists, forcing her to let go.

  There was a jaunty knock on the door. ‘Can I come in?’ said a Ranen voice.

  ‘Fynius? Now is not the time. Wait in the hall.’

  The captain of Twilight Company ignored her and opened the door. He had ushered away the servants and stood with Warm Heart panting happily next to him. His thin face dropped from a smile into a frown as he saw the Karesian.

  ‘Fuck, I’m too late,’ snarled the Ranen, rushing to Al Hasim’s side. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘What? Five minutes ago, maybe a bit less. You know what’s happening to him?’

  ‘I do,’ he replied, removing his riding gloves and unclasping his armour. ‘He needs help or he’s going to die and there’ll be no-one to catch his father.’

  ‘His father?’

  ‘It’s a lot to explain,’ snapped Fynius. ‘I can explain it or I can save his life. Your choice.’

  He sat on the bed, rubbing his hands together as if he were a healer, feeling Hasim’s hands and looking into his staring eyes. The man was no priest, but she did not doubt his connection to Brytag.

  ‘Help him,’ she said. ‘Please.’

  Fynius held the sides of Al Hasim’s head. ‘Did you catch him, man of the sun? I’m sorry I couldn’t prepare you. I rode as fast as I could. There is still a little power left for you and your father. We said everyone gets equal help.’

  The Ranen stared down at Hasim, his thin face twisting into an intense frown. He then looked up suddenly, staring at the thin air between him and Bronwyn. ‘I need more power to anchor him,’ he said to the air. ‘Hasim isn’t strong enough on his own.’

  For an instant, Bronwyn thought she saw another figure in the room, perhaps a man in a light blue cloak. She thought he spoke to Fynius before fading as quickly as he’d appeared. Something in the image was comforting, even familiar. Then the same blue light enveloped the room and a raven cawed
from afar. She gasped, but couldn’t move as the light began to churn like a stormy sea. Warm Heart sat in front of her, obscuring a rising wind from the middle of the room.

  Fynius was now open-mouthed in the centre of a pale blue maelstrom of whirling wind. His hands were still clamped to the sides of Hasim’s head, but he now pulled the Karesian upwards and blinding light passed between them. ‘We’ve not abandoned you, Fire Giant,’ he roared. ‘Jump and we will catch you.’

  She closed her eyes as the light became unbearable, but she imagined a man clad in black, falling from the sky to be caught by Al Hasim and Fynius. When she opened her eyes she saw an old Karesian man, with a high forehead and a stern face. He was ghostly and she could see the far wall through his body, but something about him suggested immense power. The blue light had not faded and she had no doubt that it was the only thing allowing her to view the apparition.

  Hasim was no longer convulsing and Fynius sat next to him on the bed, panting with exhaustion.

  ‘My son,’ said the ghostly figure. ‘I see you.’

  Hasim coughed and sat up, wiping sweat from his face. He took in his surroundings and flashed a tired smile at Bronwyn before getting up from the bed and approaching the old Karesian.

  ‘I felt you in my mind, Father. You were falling. I tried to catch you, but you were too heavy.’

  ‘You caught me,’ said the ghost. ‘With help from this one.’ He pointed a spectral arm at Fynius. ‘Without you, my son... without the memory of you, I would have drifted forever.’

  ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Dalian Thief Taker,’ said Fynius, looking drained of energy. ‘Please accept this as our gift to you and Jaa. We can’t help you find your exemplar, but we can give you the time to look.’

  ‘We can feel him, but it fades. I will find him.’

  Hasim and the ghostly figure of his father looked at each other. Both men’s arms twitched as if they wanted to embrace, but knew it was impossible.

  ‘I’m sorry I left,’ said Hasim.