The World Raven

by A. J. Smith

  ‘In life, his name was Rham Jas Rami,’ replied Torian. ‘He killed me.’

  The Kirin had no expression, as if he was a body with little or no mind, but his movements became lightning fast as he attacked. He ran directly at Fallon, their blades clashing next to the Grey Knight’s head, before Rham Jas disengaged and gave ground, moving across the dusty floor.

  ‘I’ve heard of this Kirin,’ said Fallon. ‘An assassin. I believe we have him to thank for killing his share of enchantresses.’

  The Kirin attacked again, another single attack, launched with speed and finished with a darting run, back out of range. Fallon only just managed to parry, avoiding a heavy blow to the chest. Rham Jas used disorienting tactics and didn’t get involved in duelling. He was quick and strong, but his true strength lay in his reactions. Fallon could see his eyes assessing every inch of his opponent before he attacked, finding weaknesses while concealing his own.

  ‘Am I supposed to kill him?’ asked Fallon.

  ‘If you can,’ replied Torian. ‘He is a fearsome opponent, even for you.’

  The Grey Knight loosened his stance, letting the longsword hang loosely at his side. The Kirin took note and stepped closer, concerned that he might be drawn into a feint. He circled Fallon, staying on the balls of his feet, his katana held close. Then he attacked again. He didn’t run, but took a wide stance and covered the ground in two steps, swinging for Fallon’s head. As he approached, the Grey Knight moved to meet him and punched him in the face before his blade could strike. Rham Jas was stunned for an instant and lowered his sword. Fallon punched him again and kicked the katana to the ground. Two more punches and the Kirin dropped. He was dazed, but alive.

  ‘Am I supposed to kill him?’ repeated Fallon.

  Torian smiled. ‘Perhaps not.’

  Rham Jas vanished from the dusty training ground and the Purple cleric faced him once again. ‘We have limited power to give,’ said Torian. ‘We have chosen you over a hundred Purple clerics and ten thousand Red Knights. We need to know that you deserve Brytag’s gift. We have seen your heart and know that your honour is unquestionable, but we need to see your sword arm, for that is where we will strengthen you.’

  Fallon chuckled. ‘My sword arm? The one thing I’m confident in?’

  Torian attacked, hacking at his head with controlled strength. He retreated from the blows, deflecting most but feeling a sharp dislocation as he was struck on the left temple. Fallon dropped his sword and gasped for air that would not come.

  ‘If you had been awake, you would be dead,’ stated Torian, as the Grey Knight clutched the side of his head. ‘It is not enough to be a good swordsman, even a great swordsman. We need your sword arm to change the world. Now, stand, and defend yourself.’

  Fallon had been struck before, but never so badly. The pain surged through his body, making everything fluid, but the sensation quickly passed and his hand came away from his head with no blood. ‘Please don’t do that again. Real or not, getting a blade in the head is not pleasant.’

  ‘You are the last of the old!’ roared Torian, attacking again. Fallon side-stepped and avoided being struck, retrieving his longsword to guard the air between them. ‘You are the first of the new!’ Another attack, this time a lunge, avoided with a strong parry. ‘We don’t want a Knight of the Red!’ Their blades clashed with dizzying speed. ‘We don’t want a Purple cleric!’ Fallon kept his blade close and his stance defensive. ‘We want a Knight of the Grey!’

  Suddenly he felt everything slow down. The dusty training ground fell into the distance and Torian’s shade became a flickering apparition. Fallon’s body relaxed and he felt the duel happening at the corners of his perception. The clash of their swords made no sound and his muscles didn’t tense as he fought.

  ‘I’ve known nothing but combat,’ said Fallon, parrying with speed he didn’t know he possessed. ‘I was a knight before I was a man. I’d killed before my sixteenth year. I tested my skill at every turn and I never found my match. If I’m to test myself against the One God, I fear for his survival.’

  Torian did not slow, his sword now moving as a blur of steel, but Fallon met every attack with an effortless parry. As the duel continued, he realized where he had found the new power. Each time their blades clashed he took a little more from the shade, weakening Torian and strengthening himself. He found new moves, new ways to block and attack. Old weaknesses disappeared, like repairing holes on a well-used road.

  As the shade’s movements became clumsy and uncoordinated, Fallon launched a ferocious attack and drove Torian to his knees. The Purple cleric defended his head with a horizontal blade, but the Grey Knight effortlessly broke through the defence and split him down the middle, from head to chest. The body broke apart, revealing a bright light, and Torian again became a ghostly apparition, floating above his own dead body. His face was serene, but fading from view, as the last of the One God’s power was passed to his exemplar and the Knights of the Grey.

  ‘Lead them into battle, exemplar,’ said Torian. ‘Lead them and gift them with your strength. As the Grey Knights act as one, each of your sword arms can change the world.’

  ‘Will I see you again?’ he asked.

  ‘No, but we will be watching as you form the new order. Always remember, Fallon, honour must stand at the fore. Do with those of the Red and the Purple as you see fit, but make them understand. Make everyone understand. As you endure, the One God will regain his strength. But you must endure and you must protect as much of Tor Funweir as you can.’

  ***

  North of Cozz was a line of destruction. The enclave itself was a smouldering mess, and hundreds of wrecked and abandoned carts framed the highway. It didn’t look like Tor Funweir – it didn’t look like any place.

  Two hundred Knights of the Grey camped round a small fire, to the west of the King’s Highway, in a copse of trees. They’d changed mounts in Tiris, and again in Voy, maintaining their speed. They stopped for an hour to eat, then two to sleep. They’d seen no Hounds to fight, and few Ro to help, but the wilds of Tor Funweir were ravaged, with abandoned farms, homesteads and whole villages. It made Fallon sad to see what had happened in their absence. This was no joyful homecoming and each of his knights kept their own counsel during the journey. Even Verellian had been quiet, though Fallon could feel echoes of his new power passing to each of them. As he woke on the tenth day, he knew that there was no power left for the Red, the Purple or the Gold. Everything was within the two hundred men of the Grey. They were trained warriors and some of the most dangerous men in Tor Funweir, but now they stood, walked and rode with straight backs and strengthened muscles. Each one was now more dangerous than Fallon had been when he defeated Torian.

  ‘Six days to Weir,’ said Verellian. ‘At good pace. I’d say the king is too far for us to reach him before he gets there.’

  ‘I’d say you’re right,’ he replied. ‘We’ll have to pledge to him as he besieges the city – or retreats.’

  ‘Alexander Tiris is not known for his piety,’ grunted Sergeant Ohms.

  ‘But he is known for his honour,’ said Fallon. ‘I think he’s the right man.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Verellian. ‘One thing that binds the two hundred men here is that we were none of us the most pious of men before we took the Grey. The One God doesn’t want piety.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Ohms.

  A whistle sounded from the flats, beyond their camp, where Lucius of the Falls was on watch.

  ‘Check on it,’ he said to Ohms.

  The sergeant nodded and rose from the fire. The others held their sheathed longswords in a cautious display of readiness, but none were raw recruits and they all kept calm. Below, within sight of Fallon, the rest of his men all looked up the ridge and slowly stood. Each man wore a chain shirt, having discarded their heavy plate for the sake of speed.

  ‘Slowly,’ said Verellian. ‘Nice and slowly. We’re the hunters, not the hunted.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Fallon, who had b
een the first to stand. ‘Remember, this is Tor Funweir. Anyone who says different is our enemy.’

  They moved slowly away from their fires, past their picketed horses and over a small, craggy slope, to the flatlands surrounding Cozz. No features but distant trees, abandoned carts and the ruined enclave itself.

  Ohms appeared from the south, with Lucius behind. ‘Men approach,’ said the gruff knight.

  ‘About a thousand,’ supplied Lucius. ‘Black armour... look like chess pieces.’

  Fallon considered it. A thousand men would likely be a straggling pack or some outlying patrol. But they’d know more than him about the situation in the south. ‘Let’s have a look,’ he said, striding to the front of the men.

  They fanned out across the grass, moving south between ruined carts and grazing horses, free of their restraints. The dust rolled gently from the King’s Highway, signifying a small group moving towards the enclave.

  ‘A thousand men is a lot,’ said Verellian, falling in behind Fallon as they strode towards the dust.

  ‘A thousand doesn’t mean a thousand,’ replied Fallon. ‘A thousand means a hundred that can fight, a couple hundred more who will fight if they think they can win, and the rest barely know where they are. This is not a sophisticated enemy.’

  He had no fear of Hounds. It could have been five thousand and he wouldn’t have paused. He knew each Grey Knight felt the same. The One God would tell them when to be afraid. They formed up in a column, concealed behind the remnants of carts, displayed in chaotic piles of wood across the featureless plain. The Hounds appeared slowly, sauntering north in a loose mob. They all looked the same, encased in thin steel armour from head to toe.

  The debris parted, allowing the two forces to see each other. The Karesians stopped marching. They pointed and showed alarm, clustering into a steel mass on the King’s Highway. Their alarm turned quickly to confidence when they registered the two hundred men arrayed against them. It was as if they expected more to appear, perhaps a rearguard of Alexander Tiris’s army or some kind of ambush.

  ‘Hounds!’ shouted Fallon, still moving towards the Karesians. ‘We are the Grey Knights of the One God.’ He gave them a moment to process this, a moment they spent swinging their scimitars suggestively and joking to each other. ‘You will tell me your deployment to the south, and you may live.’

  They laughed. The sound was strange coming from a thousand blank steel faces.

  ‘Do you think I’m fucking joking?’ boomed Fallon, drawing his sword.

  The others formed a line either side of him, Verellian and Ohms standing closest. All two hundred held longswords, though William’s was held in two hands.

  ‘You don’t need to die,’ shouted Ohms, spitting noisily on to the grass.

  ‘But you’re going to,’ muttered Lucius.

  ‘Easy,’ offered Verellian, ‘remember, nice and slowly. We’re still the hunters, let’s not spook the prey.’

  ‘They don’t look like pheasant,’ whispered Ohms, ‘and we ain’t got no crossbows.’

  Fallon strode forward, keeping his blade low, and crossed the grass quickly. The others muttered prayers or coarse words of encouragement, but all followed. All they saw were enemies of the One God and invaders of Tor Funweir. Their blades and armour meant nothing. Their orders and their commanders meant even less.

  ‘You are foolish men of Ro,’ replied a faceless Hound, standing in the centre of their lines. His accent was thick and an edge of humour cut through his words, as if he imagined he was in control.

  The two forces were now close. The Hounds had no detailing on their armour or weapons. The only differences were in height and weight.

  Fallon smiled at the Karesian who had spoken. ‘You’re a long way from home. It’s a terrible thing to die on foreign soil.’

  ‘And who will be killing us?’ replied the Hound. ‘Not you and your band of... thugs.’

  ‘Thugs? Fuck off,’ growled Ohms, standing behind Fallon’s right shoulder.

  Verellian laughed, though his eyes betrayed exasperation.

  ‘Keep talking,’ said Fallon. ‘You’ll just anger men who are already angry. Answer my questions and live – simple.’

  They hesitated. The lead Hound turned his head left and right, confirming to himself that he commanded the larger force, but he appeared to have no idea what to do. Most of his soldiers held scimitars, but they didn’t line up in any kind of formation. In fact, most were trying to skulk as best they could behind their fellows. Though their faces were concealed, their heads were uniformly pointed downwards. Fallon imagined that they were just as blank-faced under their helmets.

  ‘I think we shall... kill you,’ said the Hound, with no certainty or confidence in his words.

  ‘Finally,’ said Lucius of the Falls, taking two large strides and swinging his longsword into the neck of the leader. The blade cut between thin, black steel plates and, as the knight kicked his opponent to the grass, blood sprayed upwards.

  ‘Kill them!’ roared another Hound, his voice tinged with fear.

  There were a thousand Karesians, but all of them were on the back foot, hoping that their mates would do the killing and they could survive another day. When faced with a solid line of longswords and men who knew how to swing them, the Hounds were just armoured bales of hay.

  ‘In a line, boys,’ commanded Verellian. ‘Hold, defend, strike, advance as one.’

  Each man knew his role. With shields held close and controlled swings, they cut down the first rank of Hounds and advanced over the bloodied grass, pushing the Karesians back. The scimitars that weren’t being held defensively bounced off shields with hardly a cut or blemish. Fallon barely exerted himself as part of their line. He killed one, then another, each strike finding a gap in their armour or delivered with strength enough to sheer steel.

  ‘Watch the flanks,’ shouted Ohms, as a group of less-useless Karesians realized they could outflank the knights. ‘Thin the lines.’

  Men repositioned to cut off the manoeuvre, leaving those in the centre to defend against two or three Hounds each. Verellian favoured his shield, Ohms used brute strength, Lucius used superior skill. When their lines wavered under sheer pressure of numbers, Fallon broke ranks and strode forward. A glow of golden light enveloped him, flashing from every movement and arcing from the point of his sword.

  The first man died easily. The second fell like dust. Before he knew it, he was hacking into steel armour and cleaving flesh. He felt barely present, as if his glowing sword arm acted on its own, swinging the blade left and right as was needed. Parrying effortlessly, severing arms, legs and necks. He wasn’t touched by their clumsy attacks. Wasn’t cut, overbalanced, pushed back or surrounded. He stood tall, using strength and speed to cut down dozens of men. He could hear shouting and sounds of dying, but he didn’t stop, using the energy flowing through his body to overwhelm these lesser men.

  Then they began to run. Fallon’s advance had cut a hole through the pack, stopping any chance of his men being outflanked. The Hounds withered before him, like grass in fire. He felt taller, looking upon his foes from a height as they died from grisly sword wounds. He bashed one man in the face with his shield and the man flew back, barrelling another three to the ground. He kicked a man in the chest and felt his ribs break beneath his breastplate. Ten men tried to surround him, but he killed them all with no effort. He severed a neck, impaled a Hound on another’s scimitar. Two had their heads cleaved in with successive swings of his sword.

  Running men now filled his field of vision. The Hounds were being routed. They ran from the exemplar to be cut down by the Knights of the Grey. Then, with a resounding snap, his sword broke against a steel breastplate. He frowned with annoyance and smashed the hilt into a man’s face, then used his shield to throw Hounds out of his way. Their bodies broke against the hardened wood and steel, until the shield snapped across a man’s head.

  Then there was no-one left to kill. Around him lay dead and dying bodies. Along the hor
izon, glinting steel figures sprinted south. He was covered in blood and he panted heavily. His hands were scarred and felt sticky from sweat and blood.

  ‘Hold,’ shouted Verellian. ‘Do not pursue them. Let the bastards run.’

  Fallon turned his back on the retreating Hounds and faced his men. They were bloodied and their chests rose and fell with exhaustion, though each face wore an expression of joy, of victory – perhaps even of redemption. And they looked at Fallon, showing awe and gratitude. Perhaps for the first time, they truly felt like Knights of the Grey.

  Verellian approached him, cleaning his blade. ‘You were always good,’ he said with an ironic smile. ‘Now you’re a fucking nightmare. I feel sorry for the Hounds.’

  ‘For Tor Funweir!’ proclaimed Lucius of the Falls, raising his longsword to the sky and banging it on his shield. ‘And for the Grey.’

  None had died. All two hundred warriors of Ro were intact, with barely a handful of cuts to show for their victory. In that moment, their victory meant everything. They weren’t cutting down Ranen axe-men whose only crime had been to desire freedom. They weren’t besieging a city of women and children. They were fighting for Tor Funweir, protecting the lands of the One God.

  ‘Wounded men need killing,’ announced Verellian. ‘A couple of hundred Karesians are breathing their last while we congratulate ourselves.’

  Ohms sheathed his sword and ran a calloused hand down his bloodied face. When he had composed himself, he started shouting orders. ‘Right, you lot, put these bastards out of their misery. Clean kills, let’s not get creative.’

  ‘Keep some alive,’ ordered Fallon. ‘The least wounded.’

  ***

  No-one asked him to help, not even Verellian. Hundreds of bodies needed assembling into pyres, swords needed sharpening and armour needed bashing back into shape, but none of it was done with Fallon’s help. He stood on an upturned cart, looking south, watchful for any pack sent looking for their lost Hounds. Enough had got away that a response party was not out of the question. But the fear he’d seen in their eyes made it unlikely. Maybe they’d just keep running until they saw the gates of Weir.