Raven's Warrior (33 page)
In its aftermath he struggled to stand, in tatters and in shock. He stumbled forward, driven only by the primal urge to escape this nightmare. Staggering through the anguish, he thought that he was free. Relief washed over him like the steady downpour, and tears of joy carved channels down his muddied cheeks. Outside the glen he collapsed upon the blood red dirt.
The boy had no idea how long he had lain unconscious, but the coldness of his body spoke of hours. He looked nervously into the glen to see if all remembered might just have been imagined, but it had not. Weapons of war and the broken remnants of life littered the field like the oak leaves of autumn. The odor burned within his nostrils. It was brimstone and fire; it was the smell of death. The page wandered aimless and unsteady, back into the open field unsure of purpose or direction.
The cry of a wounded animal drew his attention, yet he saw no scavengers here to feast upon the dead. Watching and listening, he saw a movement that chilled his soul. Not twenty paces from where he stood, the blackened hide rose and fell and tried once more to come alive. Ironically, it was the moon bear's own hide that shielded and protected the man who had taken her from life and family.
The page moved through the fog of war with only the thought, âthe time is now' to drive him on. Like the walking wounded the page advanced upon the animal, unaware of the muddied boulder he carried between his hands. He drew alongside the commander, paused, and drew new breath. Arkthar's lessons were fresh again upon his mind, âthink nothing, feel nothing.' His arms strained and trembled as the large rock was hoisted high above his head.
The commander collapsed again and rolled over, so that now they met eye to eye, one supine and one stretched tall. All thoughts of murder had compressed into this one defining moment, in an instant he would at last be free. The boy hovered between heaven and earth as he looked upon the man that had menaced him for so long. The commander gazed up at the heavy stone and back to the page that held it. The cruel eyes begged him now, not for life but for freedom from it, and in an instant it was over.
The rock was hurled down landing beside the commander's twisted face with a loud but harmless thud.
She came like the southern winds, unseen by all until she was upon them. She stood before the page, who rubbed his eyes as if waking from a dream. She had changed much since their last encounter, yet he knew her well. Amid the ruins of the mangled grove, she was resplendent. Her silver hair was neatly pinned, and white was the color she now wore. He stared at the leather amulet around her neck from which coins and jade hung like the cascade of a gentle waterfall. She filled his silence with a graceful bow, “I am here to serve, young Lord,” she said in a voice much younger than her many years.
She had journeyed far. Over many
li
she had trudged through changing landscapes, and like them, she, too, had been transformed. Since her night with the beggar, the madness no longer came to plague her mind. Her gift of divination faded, new sounds called her from beyond. They began quietly at first, a rustling of dry leaves in a surging breeze. She listened as she walked, and their voices grew clearer. In place and time the dead can speak loudly to the living, and they led the broken oracle along a different path. From her chrysalis of desolation, the sacred shaman had emerged.
She spun slowly, but with balanced precision, taking survey of the destruction that surrounded them. The screams of the wounded filled the air, but far louder to her were the cries of men already dead. Her voice felt to the page like a potent balm on an open wound, “We have much work to do.” The young man nodded and drew strength from her presence. The boy felt the winds of change swirling around him. He straightened, collected, and began.
Not trained to the military way, he never the less intuitively brought order. He organized the slightly wounded and the merely terrified into a cohesive working unit. They were responsible for stopping the flow of blood and the binding of broken limbs. In time the moans of the wounded subsided, and many others too damaged to continue, died where the lion had thrown them. He borrowed power from the shaman, who chanted and danced in ceremony to free the spirits of the dead.
Salvage was order, and anything that could be used to carry the wounded home was crafted for its new purpose. When he was satisfied with the progress made on these fronts, he began his dreadful task. From the anguish of men, he moved to address the suffering of the horses. Some were shaken but unscathed, some wounded but not beyond function, and some he dispatched quickly to end their agony. When he had finished this, he turned to reassess the changing needs of the destroyed battalion.
The commander was laid and bound on a level section of the glen. The page assigned an older soldier to tend his wounds and give him water should he ask. None questioned how it was that a mere youth of no rank or stature had taken command. When all is undone, respect is earned by competence and ability, and the boy had both of these. The cart he had seen near the ancient homestead was drawn by hand to the glen. The page looked toward the shaman, who still danced upon the bridge between two worlds. Her gaze directed his attention to the crater where once a lion had stood, and he understood exactly what the next task would be, for the hole was wide and deep.
The needs of the living taken care of, the needs of the dead now followed. Into the pit they were respectfully placed, some whole, most broken, and others just a limb, or head. By late afternoon the field had been cleared. The bodies overflowed the depths of the earthen bowl and formed a mountain, not unlike the one she had climbed before. At the end of her song she spoke the name, “Qin Shi Huang Di.”
She bid the page look up at the colorful promise that spanned the sky. In silence the mound was covered with the shattered boughs and branches of what had once been living trees. The fire would burn long into the night, and the woman in white would tend it reverently.
The commander was placed into the horseless cart, the bear hide used to form a harness for the boy to do the pulling. With a grip of iron, he pulled the boy close so that his words would not be lost. “The library,” was all he said. The page struggled for a more comfortable distance, and looking down into the eyes of the man, he replied, “yes, lord, do not worry, it is safe.”
In all, one hundred and fifty men, made up of both the wounded and the able, returned to the capital. They emerged slowly from this valley, a broken man bound by rags, pulled by a boy now bound by duty.
The page had chosen, and in his choices he had found his freedom.
Selah cleaned and dressed again the wound upon my horse's back. We rode on in the contemplative silence of life's uneasy embrace. The storm had passed and rays of sunlight reached down to touch and warm the earth. The voice of the songbird and the gentle rustle of leaves kissed by the changing winds wove an enchanting melody, but its lightness only added to the burden of our hearts, for our survival had come at a heavy price.
In the distance ahead we saw the glint of silver light reflected through the heavy foliage, like sunset's diamonds upon a now calm sea. We rode towards it at a leisurely pace, drawn by its call. Mah Lin dismounted to investigate further and returned without a word. In his hand he held the length of steel bamboo. The shaft was blackened but not bent, and its blade was even brighter than before. With a graceful spin he tucked it back in place along his stallion's flank.
We were painfully aware that we would soon lose the company of the beggar; his favors bulged beneath his rags. In a way it seemed that he had always been with us, and we with him. As we ate lunch he bid us look back at the sky from where we had come. The promise of the distant rainbow faded only when our meal was done.
The old beggar turned to me and quoted the ancient scholars:
“When human beings interfere with the Way,
the sky becomes as mud,
the earth becomes exhausted,
the balance crumbles,
and a myriad of living creatures become extinct.”
As I chewed and swallowed the last of my meal, I tasted these words from the Book of the Way, and thought deeply about the beggar. When we had drained the last of our tea and prepared to ride, he bid us each farewell and blessed us with his grace.
“Our paths now change,” he said, and when he tried to return Mah Lin's horse, the monk would not take it. “If wishes were horses then beggars would ride.” The monk said, as the beggar flashed his toothless smile and swung his body upward. Mounted, the beggar sat tall and straight in the saddle and looked not old at all. He turned his pale steed towards me and said, “Young King, we will meet again.” Turning away he set out in a northern direction.
I called to him as he began to leave, “Beggar, I don't even know your name.” To which he laughed, and even the monk seemed amused. The black rider paused, steadied his mount, and caught my eye.
“Arkthar, I have had many names through many times, but I assure you, you do indeed know well my name. Remember me kindly in your writing, Arkthar, for in the world of men I am already much maligned.”
With that he turned and was on his way, and we were once more three in number. To the piercing call of Selah's black-eyed pet we moved on, for there was no longer a place in this land for us. When what remains of the battalion finally staggers back to the capital, the full fury of imperial power will be released against us. As ominous as this truth was, it could not detract from our joy to have each other.
By evening's muted light, Mah Lin laid out our new direction, “We return to the western frontier not far from where we claimed you. There is a thriving community of monks there, men who know the value of the sacred word. The hot, dry climate here suits well the task of preservation. In the high cliffs that guard them, we will hide the wisdom of the ages, to be resurrected only when all truth in the outside world is lost in war and greed.”
He paused to let his words sink in, and then continued, “It is a place called Dunhuang. The brothers there will supply us with all we need for the long and perilous journey ahead.” His eyes held us, “I suggest we might find refuge in the land of Arkthar's birth.”
Despite the seriousness of the monk's tone and the danger that it conveyed, the thought of returning to my homeland pleased me. I had under my armor the broad-point that had almost taken Selah's life. In the land from which I had been stolen, I will fire up a forge and hammer it into a ring of Celtic knots. Under oak and in the presence of the monk, I will ease it on her finger, for in truth, she is the stone that will forever sharpen the edge of steel. In each of our minds the spark of hope rekindled. For now, however, we rode on and did not even cast a glance at Mah Lin's dragon compass.
So it was that as quickly as one life together had ended another one had begun; one journey finished and another started. It has been this way since before the time of men. Beginnings and endings eternally bound together like the great dragon holding the tip of its long tail between its powerful teeth as it rests within its lair.
They made their way westward. As sunset approached, the warrior, the witch, and the wizard made camp beside a tranquil lake. Its waters spanned the horizon, and gave them a dinner of fresh pulled greens and fresh caught fish. These were bigger by far than the rainbow species of their land and held an earthy taste. The blue smoke of the cooking fire descended gently and hovered closely over the surface of the lake. They sat quietly as the sun painted warm colors on cloud, smoke, and water, before disappearing over the earth's far edge.
His children were tired and fell asleep together even before all the stars had made their appearance. The monk, however, was not. He took his bladed steel and slung a traveling bag across his shoulder. He began to climb up towards a high rocky outcrop. His upward journey leveled off, and soon he passed through a clearing and emerged upon the flat granite cliff top.
Here between heaven and earth he began to move by full moon's light. The blackened hollow staff whirled and sang as the night air rushed over the tiny hole. Within an hour he was drenched in sweat, his silk robe clung to his muscular frame, and he pushed himself onward. Fully spent, he lay with his back against the granite floor and stared up into the clear night sky. From his lone vantage, it seemed as if the heavens revolved around him. Here he lay, watching from its center.
The monk contemplated the weapon of Thor. The lightning issues with blinding light, and eventually the thunder sounds to mark its passing. Mah Lin saw the mighty bolt descend within the glade. He suspected now that the ensuing thunder was held within his hands. It had taken form months before. It had arrived quietly, and until now gone unnoticed and unrecognized. The staff created as a basic weapon had not changed in appearance, but in purpose. He saw a new invention, one that held a dreadful promise.
Sitting upright, he looked out over moonlit lake from his high vantage on the cliffs, and prayed.
The dawn arrived quickly, and night stars yielded to the growing brightness of the sky. Mah Lin stood and briefly stretched, he felt refreshed even though his night had been sleepless. Like the wizened oracle, he sat cross-legged and opened the satchel he had brought with him. From within he removed an arrow, a stick of temple incense, and a small leather pouch. The thin smoke trail rose as the stick burned, mingling with the fragrances of the new day. His weapon rested across his lap as he loosened the pouch strings.
He held the arrow and ran his finger gently over its black raven feathers. His strong hands moved to its iron tip and snapped it off with an ease that belied the strength of the wooden shaft. Discarding the deadly tip, he poured the black powder from the pouch through the small singing hole of his metal staff. From beneath his robe, he took the silver thunderbolt and swathed its lower end in sphagnum pulled from his granite base. Into the hollow end of his weapon, he placed the moss-wrapped vajra, and with the headless wooden arrow, plunged it down to meet the powder.