Raven's Warrior Read online

  YMAA Publication Center, Inc.

  PO Box 480

  Wolfeboro, NH 03894

  1-800-669-8892 • www.ymaa.com • [email protected]

  Paperback edition

  978-1-59439-258-0

  Ebook edition

  978-1-59439-259-7

  © 2012 by Vincent Pratchett

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Editor: Leslie Takao

  Cover Design: Axie Breen

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Publisher’s Cataloging in Publication

  Pratchett, Vincent.

  The raven’s warrior : a novel / Vincent Pratchett. -- Wolfeboro, NH : YMAA Publication Center, c2013.

  p. ; cm.

  ISBN: 978-1-59439-258-0 (pbk.) ; 978-1-59439-259-7 (ebk.)

  Summary: Wounded in battle (900 A.D.), a near dead Celtic warrior is taken by Viken raiders and sold into a Baghdad slave market. He is dragged further East, through the desert, into the ‘Middle Kingdom’ where he is bought by a warrior priest and his beautiful daughter. Hazy images of silk, herbs, needles, potions and steel, can only lead to one thing, he has been purchased by a wizard and his witch. Arkthar fears for his soul.--Publisher.

  1. Celts--China--Tenth century--Fiction. 2. Magic, Chinese--Tenth century--Fiction. 3. China--History--Tenth century--Fiction. 4. Taoist priests--China--Tenth century--Fiction. 5. Adventure fiction. 6. Historical fiction. I. Title.

  PR9199.4.P73 R38 2013

  813.6--dc23

  2012954198

  1301

  Editor’s note: Viken is the historical name of a region in southeastern Norway, believed to derive from the Old Norse word vík, meaning cove or inlet. Etymologists have suggested that the modern word “viking” may be derived from this place name, simply meaning “a person from Viken”.

  Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  DRAGON

  Seal Script Calligraphy from the time of the First Emperor

  QIN SHI HUANG DI

  Every man’s life story begins at first breath, but this is not my story alone, and so it begins much closer to my last.

  CONTENTS

  THE BEGINNING

  THE ARRIVAL

  REBIRTH

  MY MIND’S CONCLUSION

  THE NOVICE GATE

  WEAPONS AND WORDS

  THE SACKING OF THE TEMPLE

  TRANSITIONS

  RENEWAL

  A NEW DIRECTION

  SLAUGHTER AND STEEL

  REVENGE

  IN THE EYES OF AN EMPEROR

  OLD WOUNDS REOPEN

  FIRST BLOOD

  THE SHIELD

  LIFE SPEAKS

  DREAMS

  THE MOTHER

  THE ROOTS ARE SEVERED

  BY SEA AND BY LAND

  BALANCE

  THE NEEDLE POINTS NORTH

  THE BEAR

  ENTRENCHED

  THE ORACLE SPEAKS

  THE SIEGE

  SACRIFICE

  FIRST STRIKE

  THE OAK

  WATER AND FISH

  THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE

  STANDING AT PEACE

  HEAT

  CHI

  THE GUARDIAN

  THE FIRST EMPEROR

  THE ENTRANCE

  SLEEP

  THE FIVE CUTS

  THE LIGHT WITHIN THE DARKNESS

  THE VAJRA AND THE MIND

  TO SEE BEYOND

  THE MANNER OF KILLING CROWS

  THE LAST MISSION

  OVER THE WALL

  THE WHORE AND THE CRONE

  FIRE AND STRAW

  CHANGES

  A BARGAIN REFUSED

  ON TWO WINGS

  BOW AND SHIELD

  THE BEGGAR’S BOWL

  REACHING FOR THE RAIN

  CIRCLES OF WOOD AND STEEL

  DRAGONS

  A FATHER’S GIFT

  THE SHAPING OF STEEL

  SELAH

  THE BOW

  THE BLADE OF MAH LIN

  LOTUS AND SWORD

  FULL CIRCLE

  THE IMPERIAL COURT

  THE POX

  FATHERS AND SONS

  THE GUEST

  THE PATTERN IN THE THREADS

  DEPARTURE

  FROM THE EYE

  THE AWAKENING

  THE CAPITAL CITY

  THE GRAND INNER

  EVIL GROWS

  THE TASK AT HAND

  THE MANTIS KING

  A CHALLENGE IN THE SAND

  THE FACE OF THE ENEMY

  A DARK VISITATION

  THE SUNG

  URBAN NIGHT

  THE MORNING LOOMS

  THE POEM OF LI BAI

  THE EMPEROR

  THE TIME DRAWS NEAR

  TWO FAVORS

  THE HOMEWARD JOURNEY

  THE TRUSTED MINISTER

  THE PREY

  THE CAVERN’S BOUNTY

  DRAGON FIRE

  SAGES AND KINGS

  THE HORDE APPROACHES

  ANSWERS

  GATHERING POWER

  THE DIE IS CAST

  AWAY

  THE MEASURE TAKEN

  THE HARE AND THE HOUNDS

  THE APOCALYPSE

  THE VALLEY OF DECISION

  SOUTHERN WINDS

  THE BEGINNING

  EPILOGUE

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The Beginning

  I soar in effortless circles around the plodding caravan far below me, gently riding the desert winds. It is not the glitter of sunlight on jewels that attracts me, for I do not covet the spoils of war, but crave only my humble share of war’s terrible outcome. The hot rising air is cradled beneath the feathers of my outstretched wings, and carries with it the tantalizing odor of sand and blood. I fly on, driven by primordial hunger and beckoned by the smell of death. Drawn closer now, I am intrigued, for I have found its source.

  I can see him clearly. He is chained behind the cart laden with plunder and pulled by great horned oxen. He jerks and stumbles forward at every tug of the cattle’s methodical steps. Blood is the clothing that covers his body. Wounded and tortured, decay did not wait politely for death’s cue, and the flies have already joined the feast.

  My spirit knows that this cruelty is the work of men, nature is much more merciful. I can see that the dying captive is mad. He raves with agony and fever at every near fall. Nature mercifully has removed mind from body, so his mind knows nothing of its body’s plight or pain, and by nature’s mercy I sense his journey will soon be over.

  But that time has not yet come, and I fly upwards towards the heavens to banish my gloom. As clouds part and early stars move slowly before my eyes, I bite and savor simple concepts, tasting the timeless comfort of universal truths. With pain and blood they are born, they live, create life and take life, and then with blood and pain they leave through Death’s cold gateway. It is Death’s black finger that puts the final punctuation at the end of every man’s life sentence.

  It was then that I heard Death laughing, and when he had finished his chuckle he began to speak. “I have heard the delirious ramblings of countless dying minds. I am amused by yours. Heavy philosophy to hapless metaphor, ‘my black finger puts the final punctuation at the end of every man’s life sentence?’ That is very funny given your circumstance. Fly down with me to see the wretch again.” As we flew lower Death continued to speak.

  “Many times in many battles I came to tak
e him, but he was elusive and agile. Even though I couldn’t reach him, he did my work well and sent me many. Did you know I have whispered to him every step of his journey and still he will not come? Yet even if he does not die along the way, he knows I wait to embrace him at the executioner’s block. Why does he resist?”

  We angled closer to the man as he continued. “I know this unreasonable tenacity is testimony to the power of life and creation, and to feel life’s pulsing strength is a new experience for me, an experience for which I will always be grateful.” We flew closer still, and hovered. The stench was intoxicating. I saw the war prisoner’s wild eyes, and in a heartbeat ravenous euphoria was replaced by terror.

  I saw and understood that this smell of what was once a man was me, and in panic I began falling from the sky.

  Death steadied me, “Do not be afraid,” he said as I plummeted towards myself. “I came once more to take you, but I am in your debt. You have challenged me, aided me, helped me hear life’s song, and finally you have even made me laugh. ‘My black finger puts the final punctuation at the end of every man’s life sentence,’” and his laughter began all over again.

  We had begun the final dive of a bird of prey. There was no turning back. We were very close and flew very fast, faster than the speed of reflex. For me there could and would be no stopping. A wing tip away from impact, he flashed his final words. “No punctuation, Vincent, your life sentence has just begun.”

  Instantly my world blazed white. Like the coals of a forge it cooled, sinking steadily through a sea of red and orange. Finally it settled into the black cold depths of the night, from where I emerged and moved as a man once more.

  The fever had broken. The heat and redness around the wound still remained, but my arm no longer ached at every passing heartbeat. The blood that had seemed unstoppable had slowed to a trickle and had cleaned the wound as best it could. Dead flesh was gone, and the children of the flies had also vanished. A mind forced away by the body’s anguish has returned to its temple to worship at its altar of bearable suffering once again.

  I had survived, I had begun to heal, and I had forgotten everything that Death had said to me.

  The Arrival

  My downcast eyes had measured both my journey and my life, but not in length or duration, for me time and distance no longer existed. No, they measured simply by what they had seen. They saw my body, wounded, starved, and ill, wither to the bone. They saw rivers turn to ocean, fields turn into forest, and forest turn to sea. They saw seas become mountains, and the mountains turn to desert.

  In the desert they saw the sun paint my body with a color it had never worn, the color of the shifting sands. When they had seen my mummification process complete, they saw more. They saw desert become dusty road, and dust become cobblestone. They told me we had entered the kingdom of my enemy. When they saw the ground before me stop moving, they stopped measuring and told me I had arrived at a far flung outpost. It was here that they struggled to finally look up. I saw the multitude of strange people that surrounded me stretch to the horizon, and I felt only pain.

  This was not an ocean of blue and green water, but a sea of brown, and shades of brown like an ocean of sand. It was a vast sea of human waves. It was a desert of the drifting dunes of humanity, and it made my eyes thirst. My eyes did not thirst for water like the flesh does, the endless shades of desert brown made them thirst for color. They had not seen bright colors since the blood had ceased its flow, and now they craved them.

  On the distant horizon they saw sunlight split to rainbow, the answer to their prayer. It was like the sparkle of the setting sun on water or a shaft of light shining through jewels. My thirst was quenched, and my pain had faded. My eyes once again saw the people around me, and I felt something stronger than pain. I could feel their fear, their wonder, and their pity, and I wept.

  The once distant flash of rainbow drew closer now. The desert of humanity parted before it, and it passed unimpeded. I saw that it was not a cruel mirage of deprivation, but a rider wearing the dazzling cloth colors of red, blue, green, and gold on a background of silver white, and they shimmered magically with his every movement. He was real, and followed closely by a horse-drawn wagon led by a female servant clad in the ordinary brown colors of the desert’s caress. My eyes followed their progress.

  As they entered the square the servant and cart hovered back, while the man of color approached. His strong graceful movement told me that this one was skilled in the arts of war, and the long straight blade sheathed on his back hinted that my execution was at hand. Beside me now, he spoke in my language but in a tone and rhythm all his own. I had to listen carefully and closely as he asked only my name. Then I had to fight hard to remember it; it had been so long since I had answered to it. “Vincent,” I replied as strongly as my voice would allow.

  He began to laugh. “Latin, meaning one who conquers,” he said. “That is funny given your circumstance.” My blood ran cold, for in my world, the one from which I had been so violently taken, being questioned by those that know Latin is almost always followed by a slow and agonizing death. The reality of my present situation flooded in, and I began drowning once again in a dark and paralyzing emptiness.

  His first words had plunged me under but his next seemed to grab my head and hold me up, allowing me to breathe again. “Do not despair,” he said calmly. “Some believe that the one that endures has conquered.” And then a movement faster than an arrow’s flight, his hand was drawing up the bladed edge. I could hear it gather speed out of the sheath, and then silence as it cleared and swooped down. I stretched my skinny neck to give a clean target, but instead felt a jerk at my wrists, as his blade’s arc bit the chain that had held my hands together for so long. The links fell at my feet like the pruned branches of an olive tree.

  Since boyhood I had heard the warriors tell stories of reverence about a sword that could cut through iron like a cleaver through meat, but these were just stories. I had been a soldier my whole life and had never seen one. Now looking at the metal bonds that lay coldly at my feet, I felt strangely complete.

  I braced for the next cut, but the sword had returned to sheath, and its wielder had turned to address the throng. Although I didn’t understand his words, I clearly understood their meaning. “This man now belongs to me.” He directed their attention towards the cart of plunder. He studied the horde and asked, “Are there any objections?” There was only silence as the crowd’s interest had now shifted towards the rest of the spoils. His eyes met mine and in a low voice he said, “From today I am your owner. Vincent, your life sentence has just begun.” His servant helped me to the wagon as the crowd pushed closer to the treasure-laden cart.

  My eyes caught the flash of shadow moving across the ground where a high-flying carrion bird had come between us and the sun, and I knew then that Death would wait.

  Rebirth

  The wagon that I fell into was lined with pillows and overlaid with a beautifully patterned carpet. I lay on my side, unmoving, like an egg in its nest, or an unborn baby in a wondrously colored womb. I heard the one who had claimed ownership of me say, “the road home is long and arduous; whether my daughter tends or buries, is not for me to say.” I felt the wagon begin to move, and I felt the one who I thought a servant climb in beside me. Clouds above and road below, my eyes closed, and I hovered between two worlds.

  The first leg of the journey was difficult. She began her work immediately. I felt the skill of healer in her hands. She massaged me firmly but gently, leaving no damaged areas neglected. Her fingers dug deep enough to draw moans from my broken frame, and then her palms smoothly reassured its bone and tissue. I could feel both strength and confidence in her attention, and I marveled at her dexterity.

  This went on day after day, but at week’s end I felt I could take no more, and I fell into the fearless sleep of the nearly dead. Through the depths of my slumber I smelled the fire, and as night descended she brought me a soup of bitter herb and beast unknown.
After the meal I remember nothing until morning came, and I awoke to the sound and motion of wheel on road once again.

  The next week’s travel brought more of the same, but was less strenuous. Now I grew used to the pungent aroma of plant and potion. I could feel the infused oils rubbed into my skin surface and beyond. I didn’t know if this was to cover my smell or to heal my wounds, and I didn’t care. We pulled on, and slowly I began to come back to myself.

  My limbs were drawn and stretched, and joints almost immobile began to loosen. Some treatments brought heat, some cold, others I could taste when applied. My body drank this attention like a sponge, and paused occasionally to sip strange teas from the cup she held for me. With each new nightfall I was happy to hear the fire built again, and ate ravenously the stew she served.

  Our last full week upon the grinding road began routinely with the rising sun, and her work continued. I watched her slip needles from a pouch and insert them deeply into my arm, chest, and shoulder. I braced for pain, but I felt none, even as she rotated them one after another. The feeling of having nothing and being nothing was beginning to lift, I was no longer burdened by this emptiness, but liberated by it. The insipid smell of desert sand had been replaced by the lush aroma of plant and blossom. My world was turning green, as if spring had come to me at last.

  I ate well that evening, and I left the confines of my traveling nest. By firelight I saw their faces, and for the first time I saw how beautiful she really was. I was a man well starved, but I did not hunger openly. I watched her from the cool darkness and was nourished by her presence. The moonlight played on her thick black hair. Its rich luster was like the coat of a wild fresh-run stallion. Her skin was soft even to the touch of my eyes. It had the color of amber spring honey, and the echoed fragrance of jasmine. Honey and jasmine, like the mead of my homeland, I felt strangely light headed as I drank her in.

  Their eyes were different than any I had ever seen, black like the richest and darkest wood and shaped like the knots that give it character. Hers picked up the reflection of the bright flames, and banished any trace of the night’s chill from my bones. I listened without understanding as they spoke in the language of their world. As I lay down, it washed over me like a wandering brook, and for the first time in a long time I began to dream again. There were the sounds of sword biting metal, the lightness of my arms, the flashing of silver edge, and the feeling of flight. I was both weapon and wielder in an ethereal battle that raged far beyond my waking senses.