Raven's Warrior (18 page)
His page had his horse at the ready. He swung his leg up and over the saddle, and steadied the charger for control. Almost trampling the page, he kicked roughly into the animal's sides and galloped out to gain control of the madness unfolding all around him. The stumbling, waking men followed suit, and soon the commander had wrestled order from the chaos. The damage was confined to the large war machines, and within twenty-five minutes, the soldiers were assembled on all four fronts.
The small fires on the plain were clearly his destination, and the guerillas were dark against the moonlit snow still shooting the last flames in the direction of the engines. The Supreme Commander, with monk steel held high he screamed the order, “Charge.” From all sides the troops and cavalry flooded forward towards the men who stood alone in the open. Some horses dropped and toppled riders, some infantry fell and were trampled in the fray. The traps had done their job, but the tide of this attack would not be stemmed.
Like fools the men on the plains waited, unconcerned by the forces coming against them, and then finally almost within arrows range, they bolted. Like rabbits they ran towards the walls from which they had earlier descended. As the commander and the full charge of men and horse closed in on the prey, ropes were flung down the massive walls. The fools clung as they were drawn up, but no protective arrow cover was forthcoming. The commander was elated as he saw many men being lowered simultaneously on each of four walls, dangling now between heaven and earth.
It was at best a dim-witted rescue attempt or a poorly executed second attack. It mattered not; this was the slaughter he had been waiting for; his taste for blood mingled with temple mount memories. He saw the archers set their arrows and take aim.
Now closing at full speed he shouted the order for all archers to fire, an order that was repeated on all four sides of the fortress. As the men of the night incursion approached the top of the wall and safety, a hailstorm of arrows and crossbow bolts sailed up and rained down, filling the brightening night sky. Just before the many shafts began to land all around them, they were up, over, and down onto the other side of the wall.
They lay exhausted but safe as the monstrous barrage hit with a deafening ovation. The second in command was there to meet them, and he kept them low and safe from the hellish storm. “All back and accounted for, my lord,” he roared above the missiles' thunderous applause. All were covered in the blood of their mission, and the loyal second took survey to make sure none of it was theirs.
After what seemed an eternity the noise subsided. The Supreme Commander could not understand what manner of men were these that would not fall. He shook himself from the fog of drink, but his eyes still saw what his mind could not explain.
The nine were now together on the wall beside the steady second in command who happily informed them, “My lord, the last-minute rescue attempt was a complete and utter failure, a slaughter of great proportion.” Along the thick wall top he shouted the order, “Pull.” And in unison the grunting of weakened men pulling for their lives began on all four sides.
To the amazement of the two young brothers, the straw men were pulled up and over the wall. It seemed to them like the motion of fishermen hauling in nets. They lay where they fell, one atop the other and more than three hundred in total. All seemed now more porcupine than human in shape. Every quill was an arrow, and each straw warrior had more than forty quills. They had collected well over one thousand arrows and three hundred bolts.
They laughed at the sight, and the success of the plan. This was the jubilation of men who had faced great danger and returned untouched and victorious. It was the joy of soldiers who have earned survival.
The second in command looked to educate the young lads and said dryly, “This is the manner of killing two crows with one arrow. Learn it well.” To which the youngest of the boys said, “I too have killed two crows with one arrow.” He opened his shirt to reveal three bottles of strong drink stolen from the sleeping sentries he had killed that night. “Have I learned it well?” he proudly asked.
The second in command smiled, “I think so, youth.” he said, and then, with more composure added, “But we must drink those crows to be certain.”
The aftermath of the night raid could be seen clearly from the great height of the walls. The grey-blue smoke filled the entire clearing and glowed purple in the red morning rays. The once ominous machines of siege had been reduced to smoldering, blackened stumps. The scavenging crows that had held dominion above the rebel city for so long had now expanded their empire to the plain as they picked at the flesh of horse and man.
His men had done damage, but the final outcome would not be changed. Sixteen more were being lowered into the earth within the walls, once brave men, reduced now, to fodder for the worms. The young leader was thankful that he had given the few that still remained this small taste of victory, a true delicacy in the midst of their great famine. He allowed the enemy to retrieve their dead even though they were well within range. He had never had a real appetite for war or for blood.
In the time before strife he was a carpet weaver, and after his wife and family this was his one true passion. This northern region of his homeland was once famous for the intricacy of its patterns, the boldness of its dyes, the density of its knot work, and the quality of its wool. This art he learned from his father who had learned it from his. Since childhood he had expected and accepted that he would be nothing else, but Death held other ideas.
Life had made him a weaver of a different sort. He always carried within him the songs of the weaving sequence and the wooden rhythms of the looms. He saw full patterns when others saw only the chaos of an unfinished work, he saw color when they saw only grey, and he saw works of beauty where others saw only a place to walk and trample.
Now he wove the hearts, minds, and actions of his men, for what was an army if not a tapestry of men bound strategically for a common goal? What was a tribe, if not the timeless fabric of a people woven together in harmony, durable and complete, to cover, claim, and keep warm a tiny patch upon the earth?
From the height of his fortress he watched the commander galloping back and forth on his powerful steed, and even from this great distance the rage was almost tangible. The young leader smiled to himself because, as hopeless and bleak as their position was within these four walls, within the enemy encampment the atmosphere would, at least on this day, be much worse.
The fires of the nighttime raid consumed the commander. Once again he had been taken by surprise. The loss of life was a part of the equation of warfare and could be easily explained. The loss of the emperor's war machinery was a different matter entirely. The imperial courts ran on taxes and money, and machines of this caliber did not come cheap.
In the workings of military discipline this was somebody's fault, and punishment should come down from on high as the natural order. The problem was that there was no one left to punish. If the guards were still alive they would be publicly beheaded, unfortunately they were not. Apart from their initial panic, his troops had performed adequately in the execution of their duties. There still remained the matter of his whore, but she was wisely nowhere to be found.
An anger that seethes is an anger of the most dangerous kind. There is no release, and so it builds. If he could lay hands on the men within the rebel city, it would quell at least some of his fury, but he could not. His young page promptly received an undeserved and unprovoked beating. His anger still an ember in his gut, the commander was left alone to comfort and soothe his wounds with the knowledge that all of them would soon perish, no matter how many arrows they had gathered.
From his position among the tents, he turned towards the fortress and reached out with all the poison in his heart in the direction of its young leader. The leader from his high perch was still looking out over the plains at the charred skeletons of tower, catapult, and trebuchet, and smiling peacefully.
The Book of Changes is a manuscript of great antiquity. The rebel had often seen it consulted to glean insight into the way the universe will unfold. He had seen the casting of coins and the reading of the hexagrams. He did not need this book to tell him his fate; he read the changes with his heart and interpreted their meaning by his actions. This young lion was a man well versed in fate's moving landscape, and a man that could see patterns rising and emerging from the tangled colors of so many life threads.
Looking out over the plain, he absent-mindedly rubbed the coin in his pocket. He liked its cold feel. It brought him back to a time of normality; a time of family, commodity, and commerce. It was a time that now existed only in his dreams. He drew the brass coin from his pocket and stared at it anew.
It was a round coin with a square hole cut in its center that sat on his square palm. The small inner square symbolized earth and the round perimeter, heaven. This he had always known, but now he saw that his square palm mirrored the distant square of the surrounding forest. The outer ring of the coin's edge mapped out the enemy encampment, and the bordered square hole within modeled exactly his walled fortress. As he gazed down at the brass piece resting on his calloused palm, his mind and spirit took flight.
He saw what the crows see as they look down from the heavens, and he knew now what Death would see on its winged approach.
The young page came running to the commander as fast as his legs would carry him. He still kept his eyes averted but was no longer afraid to speak loudly. “Commander, Commander.” Bent over fighting to regain his breath he pointed towards the fort and chose his words minimally “Man,” he gasped for air and continued, “on the field.” Once more he drew breath and stood taller, “flag of truce.” The commander was already charging towards the lone figure even before the youth had finished his report.
The commander resisted the urge to fly full gallop, he had seen what the field pitfalls could do to both horse and rider. He approached with caution, and checked from saddle height for any signs of deception. Emboldened he moved within speaking distance, and resisted the urge to slay the emaciated rebel immediately. “Speak,” he said, “but select your words carefully, for they may well be your last.”
“My proposition is a simple one,” the rebel responded, “My head for the safe passage of my men.”
“There is nothing in that for me, you are already all dead men,” and indeed the commander was perplexed.
“All you need know is that I am offering a bargain for both of us,” was the dead calm reply from the gaunt young rebel.
The commander sneered through his broken face, “Your death and my victory are not negotiable. If I wanted bargains I would be dealing with a carpet seller,” he hissed.
“You are,” the rebel said proudly. “Remember always that you rejected this fair and honest deal,” the rebel continued in a voice now charged with conviction, “and remember this promise,” the rebel locked eyes with the Supreme Commander, “Only after your total victory, will our great battle really begin.”
He spoke to the commander like one in the throes of a fever. To the ears and eyes of the commander, something in the rebel's voice and manner echoed the ways of the old oracle. He spoke with the unearthly power of a mighty prophet, “As specters and phantoms we will strike at the heart of your empire, and there will be no mercy. We will inflict more damage in death than we could ever have done in life.” These words were not spit out like a curse, but delivered faithfullyâas absolute truth.
It was clear to the commander that this rebel's mind had broken under the strain of siege. The thought of killing him here and ending his raving passed through the commander's mind, but the placement of the rebel's firm grip on his battered sword handle caused him to hesitate.
As the commander turned his horse with a harsh pull and made distance between the two, the young leader walked towards the fortress and looked towards the heavens, as if summoning the dark and approaching clouds.
His second was there to greet him as he passed through the massive front gate and almost tumbled from his horse. At a glance his second knew that the talk on the field had not gone well, “My lord, I am sorry to tell you that inside these walls the news is also bleak,” he said. The rebel did not need to be told that Death had arrived, or that it came from on high, and flew on two wings.
One wing of the shadow of death was malnutrition. It had decimated his men steadily for the last three months. Those who had not fallen had been weakened, and these men were now touched by death's second wing, the wing of pestilence. It was the last cry of a deteriorated system, and its lament was heard throughout the stronghold. Death rose after landing like heat rises, and of the remaining two hundred, a full two-thirds now burned with the fever.
The rebel, his second in command, and the last six men of the night raid who could still stand moved directly to the treasure vault of their ancient city. It had been cleaned out long ago and now echoed hollow and empty, a cavernous barren cathedral. Of all the valuables that it had safeguarded over its entire life, a life that stretched back to the time of the First Emperor, only one remained. Against the back wall in a place where the light from wall torches did not reach, reverently untouched, rested the last and perhaps the greatest treasure of all.
The men picked it up in unison and with much effort hoisted it upon their shoulders. It seemed like a great tree trunk the length of four men and the weight of three. It was bound with ropes of silk, and its spiraled ends did give it the appearance of a thick oaken branch. Only its flexibility in the carry did speak that it was something else.
The rebel would share with his dying men a taste of luxury that they could never have touched in life. They would be treated as emperors.
