The World Raven

by A. J. Smith

  ‘You have a problem,’ began Nanon. ‘There is an enchantress in Ro Weir. All your swords and armour mean nothing to her.’

  ‘But you can help?’ Xander prompted.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ replied Keisha, her voice deep and sultry. ‘I’m a dark-blood, like my father. Nanon will get us into the city and I’m going to kill the Mistress of Pain.’

  The short forest-dweller grinned, the first such expression Xander remembered seeing from one of his kind. ‘We plan to dig in and besiege her out,’ said the king. ‘once we have seen the common folk safely north and have pushed through the Hounds. If you want to kill the witch first, that’s even better.’

  ‘Yes, I’d noticed you were holding position,’ said Nanon. ‘Sooner or later you’ll have to meet them in open battle. If you march south now, you’ll be flanked, but you’ll reach the city and be able to dig in – assuming you kill the massive mob of black steel waiting to meet you.’

  ‘You’ve seen them?’ queried Brennan. ‘What are they waiting for? We haven’t moved in almost a week.’

  ‘They don’t know which way you’ll go,’ replied Nanon. ‘I think they secretly hope you’ll withdraw under superior numbers. If war is your goal, you mustn’t stay here any longer. We can kill the witch, but you must reach Weir before the Hound Lands are emptied and Tor Funweir chokes. Otherwise your name will be lost amidst the limitless branches of the Twisted Tree.’

  Xander shared looks with both his wife and his adjutant. Nanon was terse in his summary, but nothing he said rang false. The army had waited, protecting fleeing folk and clearing small packs of Hounds, but they’d won no decisive victories; nor had they pulled the Karesians into any significant battles. Despite a thousand theories and reports, in reality they could only guess at how many Hounds awaited them and how many more Karesia could provide. There were armies to the east and to the south. He could only march in one direction.

  ‘My king,’ said Brennan, ‘he speaks wisely.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Gwen. ‘Both sorcery and swords will play a part in this war. If Tyr Nanon and Keisha can deal with the sorcery, we should provide the swords. South?’

  ‘South,’ he agreed. ‘Brennan, muster the vanguard and tell everyone else to make ready. Will you accompany us, Tyr Nanon?’

  ‘Afraid not,’ replied the forest-dweller. ‘I never liked armies. Too little personality when you put men in companies and brigades. And we can move much faster on our own. But, before you go...’ His grey face fell into a look of concern. ‘Do you know of the Dark Young?’

  Xander shivered, as if a sudden chill caught his limbs when he was reminded of the thing he had fought under Ro Haran. Gwen balked slightly and Brennan growled. Round the fire, only Sigurd and Nanon remained impassive. Even Keisha showed revulsion and fear at mention of the tree creatures.

  ‘I see you do,’ said Nanon. ‘The priest and altar of Shub-Nillurath. I have been in the catacombs of Ro Weir and have seen what the Mistress of Pain has created. If I had a god I would thank him that her creatures were shrouded in darkness, but she has many.’

  Brennan stood from the fire and raised his chin. His hand rested on the hilt of his old longsword and he tensed his muscles. ‘We had ten soldiers and we burned one of those things to the ground. Imagine what we can do with forty thousand soldiers.’

  Nanon peered up at the major, tilting his head and looking more like a Dokkalfar. ‘You are brave, man of Ro. And I’m gambling a lot on you being right, but do not cast them aside so freely. They are the doom of my people, in more ways than you know.’ He looked at Tyr Sigurd and a look of distant sadness passed between them. ‘Take your army south and retake your city – but be ever mindful that Shub-Nillurath’s children still have a part to play in this battle of the Long War.’

  ***

  Xander hoped that the battle of Narland would be remembered. That tales and songs would rise from the hearts of the Ro in remembrance of a glorious victory against all odds. Perhaps even the king would be mentioned – either in praise or in mockery.

  The army was mustered, well-prepared and facing south, having assembled into mixed columns and marched at speed to the largest concentration of Hounds they could find. Nanon was right; dozens of packs had been run over by their advance, but now, at the edges of the duchy of Weir, they faced off against a huge mass of black armour and scimitars. It was the biggest army he’d ever seen, perhaps fifty thousand strong. All he needed to do was punch a hole through steel and flesh and march to the gates of Weir. A simple proposition, made complicated only by fifty thousand warriors of Karesia.

  Markos and his paladins were stationed on the left flank; Brennan and five thousand mounted knights were on the right. In the centre, Xander and Lord Ronan Montague would follow the banner of Tiris, with their infantry behind. The lead riders fanned out, relaying orders to their troops and redeploying the army. Markos and his knights formed up into a wedge on the left. Brennan and four companies of mounted Hawks did the same on the right.

  Daganay rode to the front, wheeling his horse next to Xander in order to address the troops. ‘With your permission, my king?’

  ‘Make your words strong, my friend,’ he replied.

  The Blue cleric held his mace above his head. ‘Men of Ro!’ he shouted. ‘This is my country – this is where I was born. I like this land. It isn’t perfect – it isn’t any kind of paradise, unless you wear Purple.’ The nearest ranks laughed at this gallows humour. ‘But I like it nonetheless. I don’t want it to change. I don’t want this dead god telling me what to do. I may die here... I probably will, I’m a fat old bastard. But I’ll kill anyone who tries to tell me that this isn’t Tor Funweir – and we’re not men of Ro.’ Men cheered this, their desperation evident in their clenched fists and gritted teeth. ‘They say these are the Lands of the Twisted Tree. I say this is Tor Funweir. I have a mace, I have a king and I am not afraid. You all have weapons – and you all have a king. Are you afraid? Do you fear the faceless masses of the Dead God?’

  ‘No!’ came the booming reply.

  ‘Each sword arm makes a difference. Each man you kill makes a difference. With every swing of our swords we will claw back Tor Funweir. When the dust settles and the dead swim in the waters of beyond, know that your sword made a difference.’

  The men were roused, but their eyes remained steely as they let forth a grim cheer. The central ranks, mostly guardsmen, men of Du Ban and a few companies of Hawks, slapped each other on the back and shared words of encouragement, the most senior warriors using their experience to calm the newly bloodied.

  ‘My king,’ said Sergeant Ashwyn. ‘Another fucking white flag.’

  Xander looked south and saw a small party of horsemen approaching, their flag of parlay swinging in high arcs as they stopped between the two armies.

  Gwen nudged her horse next to his. ‘Just more horse-shit,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing they can say to us, not now.’

  Brennan and Markos signalled that they were in position on the flanks, ready to charge when the order was given. If the day went well, the cavalry would dismantle the edges of the Karesian army and force them into the centre, making men flee and catching the rest in a meat-grinder on three sides. If the day went well.

  ‘My king?’ prompted Ashwyn. ‘Orders.’

  ‘Gwen, Ash, Sigurd, you’re with me. If they want to talk, let’s talk. Let’s go and pick a fight. Everyone else – hold.’

  He nudged his horse forward, but didn’t press it into a gallop; he wanted to allow the opposing warriors to get a good look at him. Behind, the army of Ro held their ground, ready to attack if ordered to do so. Xander knew that each one of them was itching for a fight. Their eyes, their posture, their stillness. They were a coiled spring waiting to be released by their king. A frenzy of swords and patriotic rage could be unleashed at a word or a gesture.

  They reached the Hounds asking for parlay and stopped, two small groups of riders between two huge armies.

  ‘Speak!’ s
aid Xander.

  None of these Hounds wore helmets and it was strange to see them as individuals. They had faces and expressions, though all looked half-dead and to be in some kind of trance.

  ‘I am Whip-Master Turve Ramhe,’ said an older man whose swarthy face was covered in small scars. ‘I have an offer from the Mistress of Pain to the king of the Ro. You can have your life and the lives of your men. All you must do is withdraw to your city and give up your Tor Funweir. This land is no longer yours. We are prepared to give you the duchy of Haran, as long as you swear allegiance to the Twisted Tree.’

  The man’s gaze flowed across all of them. He frowned at Xander, sneered at Ashwyn, snarled at Tyr Sigurd and leered at Gwen. Everything about him was grotesque. His eyes were narrow, his face sweaty and scarred.

  ‘Not acceptable,’ said Xander.

  The whip-master nodded, thrusting out his bulbous chin. ‘If you reject this offer, I have been instructed to cut out your eyes and make your wife eat them, before I rape her with my scimitar.’

  ‘I’m glad you said that,’ Xander replied. ‘It means I won’t have to decide whether or not to kill you.’

  Almost before he’d finished speaking, Gwen’s leaf-blade had entered the space between them. She flung it underarm from a scabbard on her thigh, cutting the air with a whistle to lodge in the whip-master’s throat.

  ‘That’s the second man I’ve killed under a white flag,’ she observed as the remaining Karesians fled in horror.

  Xander drew Peacekeeper and filled his lungs so he could be heard by both armies. ‘We are the Hawks of Ro: stand down or die!’

  Three horns sounded from behind and the thunderous roar of men unleashed filled the landscape. The Hounds, filling his eyes from horizon to horizon, stayed where they were, having no horses to meet the ongoing charge and little genuine will to fight.

  ‘Stay alive, my love,’ they whispered to each other as the wave of armoured warriors picked them up.

  Sigurd broke off to join his forest-dwellers, skulking in the middle of the army, while Xander, Gwen and Ashwyn rode at the centre of the advance. The Knights of the Dawn made the most noise, their armoured chargers slow to pick up speed but unstoppable when they got moving. Brennan’s cavalry covered the ground more quickly and both wings of his army fixed on the Hounds’ flanks.

  ‘This is the ground to die on,’ roared Daganay from the mass of troops. ‘This is the time – fight for your king!’

  Xander was no raw recruit; he had fought hundreds of battles. But charging a pack of fifty thousand Hounds as king was new even for him. Such a battle had never taken place in the long history of Tor Funweir, and was only happening now because he had forced it. It would have been an unthinkable nightmare just a few short years ago. It was poor strategy, too rash, too aggressive – there was no territory to be gained, and a simple victory here would not make the Hounds abandon Ro Weir and the south. But it would mean they could win, if only for a day and only for a single battle. If only to give Nanon and Keisha a chance to kill the witch.

  He rose in his stirrups and tensed his legs, balling his hand into a fist round the horse’s reins. Peacekeeper was aloft, swaying in the air with the red hawk of Haran, the black raven of Canarn, the gold eagle of Tiris and the white dove of Arnon. Four of the great cities of Ro united.

  ‘For the One God and for King Alexander Tiris,’ intoned Markos of Rayne as the knights lowered their lances.

  The sound of impact was deafening. The first few ranks of Hounds came and went, reaching him as barely a bump on the plains as warhorses rode them down. His world narrowed until all that mattered was the sea of black armour directly in front of him. They crashed into the pack, but even though they killed hundreds with hoof and steel, he could see that they had barely dented its mass. He couldn’t see the flanks, nor Brennan and Markos; he could only see more men that he needed to kill.

  Horses began to falter and riders were swarmed, pulled to the ground and run through. Hounds kept dying, throwing themselves at the warriors of Ro with no evident skill or training. Their sheer numbers blunted the charge. He’d lost sight of Gwen, last seen somewhere to his left, and only the stream of coarse language enabled him to locate Daganay. He tried to focus, keeping the Hounds back from his horse with Peacekeeper. He swung his mount left and right, clattering men to the ground and kicking others to death.

  ‘General!’ shouted Ashwyn, as the sergeant was thrown to the ground by a rearing horse.

  Xander drove his bastard sword into a man’s skull and swung out of the saddle. His horse whinnied and began to gallop away, sending a cluster of Hounds to the muddy ground.

  Ash was being mobbed by black armour. He lay on his back, holding his shield in both hands and swearing. Xander ducked a swipe, parried a thrust, killed a man at the neck, another in the chest. He headbutted a Hound that tried to tackle him, dragged a wounded man of Ro to his feet, and still couldn’t see Gwen. The men attacking Ash all looked up at him through narrow visors. Two ran away, another two met Peacekeeper and Ashwyn killed the last.

  ‘Don’t die,’ said Xander, helping the man upright. ‘I need you to repair my sword after the battle.’

  The blacksmith didn’t have time to reply and Xander didn’t have time to ask if he was okay. There were more Hounds – many, many more Hounds.

  Stubbornness took over as the battle carried on, consuming time as well as energy. He imagined the men at his back staying alert through grit alone, dealing with each new life-or-death encounter in turn, not looking too far ahead or thinking too much about their fellows. The Hounds were poor warriors, but hard living; drugs and sorcery had given them a toughness and determination that was hard to break. In small groups they were easily intimidated, but a huge army... he feared they could not be overcome even with grit and superior skill.

  Daganay became visible as bodies piled up on the ground and cleared his field of vision. The Blue cleric was roaring with righteous anger and clubbing men out of his way with his heavy mace. He stood in front of a wounded Hawk who was missing a leg and twitching on the ground. Another man, a guardsman of Tiris, lay nearby, trying to breathe through a severed windpipe and reaching for the churchman.

  ‘They’re wounded, leave ’em be,’ grunted Daganay.

  In the midst of so much death, the cleric was at his most dangerous when he was defending the helpless. Xander wanted to assist, but a chasm of black steel lay between them. He trusted his confessor to stay alive and save as many men as possible. But still he couldn’t see his wife.

  He grabbed a nearby Hawk. ‘Give me a line, soldier – form the fuck up.’

  He held an area of bloodied ground, driving his sword into any men who got close. Other warriors joined him, Hawks, guardsmen and a few Dokkalfar, pushing forward into a line and driving the Hounds back. Commands were relayed along the line, in grunted shouts and gurgled death-rattles, telling the army to assemble. In the distance, dust and blood flew at the corners of his vision and he saw riders at both edges of the Karesian army.

  ‘King Alexander!’ shouted Lord Markos of Rayne.

  The White paladin was still astride his armoured charger and appeared with his knights, like a tidal wave, over the Karesians’ heads. He had discarded his lance and instead wielded a huge two-handed greatsword, controlling his mount through the strength of his legs. His force contained many riderless horses and many more wounded men, but they hadn’t faltered. They scythed through the Hounds, breaking the flank into steel blobs of fleeing men.

  Lord Markos rode directly at Xander, ordering his men into an arrow behind him. The clatter of their charge displaced all other sound and suddenly the Karesians appeared less interested in fighting. They stopped and stared, looking at each other for guidance and finding none. Before they could decide on a course of action, they were ridden into the dirt by the White Knights of the Dawn.

  ‘I have a horse for you, my king,’ boomed Lord Markos, throwing down the reins of a riderless charger.

  Xa
nder killed the last obvious opponent and fell to a seated position on the grass. Ashwyn slumped next to him and they both looked up. From the right, Brennan’s cavalry had broken the other flank and the Hounds were in disordered retreat. In the centre, all around him, he saw a thick column of bloodied warriors. With him at their point, they’d cut a hole in the Hound lines. He’d barely noticed how far they’d gone or how many men they’d killed. It was like waking from a nightmare to find yourself at peace, in a warm bed with a blazing fire. Battles, it seemed, were experienced in small chunks. You never saw the whole, you just saw the pieces in front of you.

  ‘Gwen,’ he muttered, ‘where’s Gwen?’

  ‘The day is ours!’ shouted Daganay.

  The cleric pushed his way past weary men and leant on Xander, his breath coming in short bursts and his mace covered in a slick of blood.

  ‘Shall we pursue the fleeing Hounds?’ asked Markos, wheeling his horse and lowering his huge sword.

  ‘No, hold your position,’ answered the king.

  Markos glanced at the waves of fleeing Karesians and sheathed his sword. ‘Several thousand of the enemy are running, your grace.’

  Daganay coughed and spat blood on to the ground. ‘General, the grim work begins... men need killing and men need saving.’

  He looked around. No point of the compass was empty of blood and death. Hounds, Hawks, guardsmen, paladins: they all bled the same. He didn’t know how long the battle had lasted, just that his body ached like he’d been running for a day and a night. Time was just another thing he’d discarded while killing Hounds.

  ‘A good day,’ whispered a voice.

  He smiled before he turned, letting her voice wash over him. She was bloodied and favouring her right leg, but she was alive and she was standing. For a moment, Xander wished he could ask her not to fight, but he’d made her a promise he’d never break. Who was he kidding. She was tougher than him anyway.

  ‘My horse went down early,’ she said, wiping blood from her face. ‘The beast provided nice cover.’