Raven's Warrior
YMAA Publication Center, Inc.
PO Box 480
Wolfeboro, NH 03894
1-800-669-8892 â¢
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 âMiddle 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 vÃk, 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
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, â
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 take 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. â
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.
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.