A Good Soldier
The Boy Beneath the Raven's Eye (Part IV of IV)
This is part IV of IV. If you missed part III, you can catch up on it here.
Or you can start from the beginning here.
Orin’s foot crossed the threshold beneath the arch.
When it came down on the other side, it landed on wet cobblestones.
A city street stretched out before him. Shopfronts lined both sides, shielded from the weather by damp canvas awnings that sagged with rainwater. Overhead, painted wooden signs creaked in the chill wind. A golden loaf of bread to his left—accompanied by the faint smell of yeast and woodsmoke—announced a bakery, while a chipped tankard further down the street proclaimed the local inn.
Orin turned on his heel and reached for his sword. The arch had disappeared, along with the mountain pass beyond it. The street behind him was much the same as the street ahead—cold, wet, and empty save for the creaking signs and the fat drops of rain falling from the sky.
He drew his blade and dropped into a defensive crouch. Turning in a slow circle, steel angled outward, he scanned the street for signs of life.
“Pip?” he called. His voice sounded quiet to his own ears, as though the air were choking the life from his words. “Tristan!” he yelled, louder this time, but with the same result. Cries that should have echoed down the street died the moment they left his mouth, snuffed out like a candle in a sudden breeze.
He gritted his teeth. No tricks here, lad. Whoever this Brynn was, she was clearly an ally of his adversary, sent to push him off course.
Orin stalked forward, charting a cautious path towards the inn. No matter. He wouldn’t be dissuaded that easily, especially with his companions still out there, caught in his enemy’s grip. His father would never abandon his men to such a fate, and neither would he.
A soldier doesn’t show weakness.
“Come on now, get on with it, lad.”
Orin stopped short. “Brynn!” he shouted, snapping his head from side to side as he strained to locate the speaker. “Show yourself! I... I...” he trailed off. For all his shouting, his voice was now barely more than a rough whisper, like dead leaves sliding across stone.
Up ahead, the door to the inn creaked open. Flickering light from a hearth spilled out onto the wet cobblestones, and a low murmur of voices filled the air, mingled with the faint sounds of clanking tankards and chairs scraping against the floor.
Kraa! Kraa!
Orin tilted his head towards the painted sign swinging above the inn. A raven perched atop it, one-eyed, with a puckered scar running down its left wing. It cocked its head at Orin, then—spreading its feathers wide—launched itself into the air and swooped into the inn.
Orin’s gaze lingered on the open door a moment longer. Death lives beneath the Raven’s Eye. Steeling his resolve, he tightened his grip on his sword hilt and strode forward.
Pausing at the threshold, he peeked into the common room. A fire crackled merrily from the hearth against the far wall, surrounded by wooden tables and benches that glowed in the amber firelight. They were all empty. The entire inn was empty—yet the faint whisper of voices persisted, along with the sounds of clanking tankards and clinking glasses from the vacant bar.
Blade held steady before him, Orin moved deeper into the room, eyes sweeping the corners, the rafters, the space behind the bar—searching for anything that might leap out at him.
He jumped, cursing as a flutter of black feathers erupted from the rafters above the door. The one-eyed raven croaked, tracing a lazy arc across the common room before settling onto the bench nearest the blazing hearth. It turned, cocking its head at Orin before leaning down to peck at some loose crumbs scattered across the bench.
“Who are you?” Orin asked, trying to speak through whatever spell had stolen his voice. The raven ignored him, continuing to peck at the bench as Orin drew closer.
His eyes caught on a large black cauldron swinging above the flames. Glancing sideways at the scarred raven, he let one hand fall from his sword as he reached for a wooden ladle hanging at the side of the hearth. He dipped it into the cauldron and began to stir.
Porridge.
“See? I told you there’d be porridge. Somethin’ warm and simmerin’ to take the chill from your bones.”
Orin dropped the ladle and spun around, lifting his blade with both hands. The raven stopped its pecking and turned towards the door.
“Please, da, can we just go home?”
“Piss that, the night’s still young m’girl. Now be a lass and fetch me a tankard of ale from the barkeep.”
Two figures stepped into the inn—a man and a young girl, both dripping with rainwater. The man was tall and ragged, with a tangled beard and dirty blond hair.
The girl was thin and wore a brown wool tunic over patched leggings. Her roughly chopped blond hair hung over her face, partially hiding a bruised cheek and a split lip.
“Pip?” Orin yelled silently, stepping forward. Neither of the newcomers acknowledged him.
“But da,” Pip said, “I—” Orin flinched as the back of the man’s hand struck Pip’s cheek.
“Now!” the man shouted.
Pip cringed and scrambled over to the bar, where a pair of soldiers were drinking and dicing.
Where did they come from? Orin thought. He watched as the man walked towards the hearth. Still ignoring Orin, he lowered himself onto the bench, inches from the raven, grumbling under his breath about the rain and disobedient daughters. Even several feet away, Orin could smell the alcohol on his breath.
The raven rustled its wings and hopped onto the man’s knee, looking up and turning its head so its blind eye stared directly into his. The man paid it no heed as he held his hands to the fire, flexing some life back into his cold, stiff fingers.
How dare you strike a child? Orin thought, levelling his blade at the man’s chest. If words weren’t an option, perhaps the threat of steel would force the man’s attention.
A good soldier should always act with honor.
“Here, da.” Pip crept forward and offered her father a tankard of ale. Orin moved to intercept her, but she stuck out her hand, catching his eye and shaking her head slowly.
What? Why is she—
Her father yanked the tankard from her hands and shoved her away.
“Oi! You there! You look like a man in need of a little fun.” The soldiers from the bar pulled up chairs at a table next to Pip and her father. The speaker, a large man with a bald head and a chest like a barrel, slammed a dice cup down on the tabletop. “What do you say? Care for a game?”
“Yeah,” his companion said—a young man with light stubble and shoulder-length black hair. “Your girl here says you’ve been havin’ quite the lucky streak lately. Says this is the fifth inn you’ve been to tonight, and each time it’s been the same story. Tossin’ raven’s eye after raven’s eye.”
Pip’s father glared at the two men. “I dunno what you’re talkin’ about, lads.” He reached down and grabbed Pip’s hair, yanking her towards him. “This unappreciative whelp of mine does love a tall tale.”
The bald soldier reached into his pocket. “Oh?” he said, setting a die on the table. “Strange thing for a girl to come by a weighted die. What do you say, Elmir?” he asked his companion. “Wouldn’t you say that’s strange?”
“Strange, indeed, Bolrin,” the young man replied. “Stranger still to flaunt the Lord’s Law so casually. Not a forgivin’ man, our Lord.”
“That he is not, my friend.”
Pip’s father looked from the die to the two men, then back again. With a snarl, he tossed Pip to the side and rose from his bench. The soldiers followed suit, drawing their blades.
Kraa! Kraa!
The raven—disrupted by the sudden motion—fluttered over and landed on Pip’s shoulder. She rose from the floor and glared at her father, eyes brimming with tears.
Orin rushed towards her but stopped as the world around him began to tremble. The golden warmth from the hearth began to fade, its light giving way to dark shadows and inky blackness. As he stared, he noticed a fuzziness at the far end of the inn, as if it were losing focus and becoming less solid. It quickly spread, consuming the entire common room until he and Pip stood alone in a small circle of light, surrounded on all sides by the void.
Pip wiped her eyes.
“Sometimes, you gotta make your own luck, Tumbles.”
She disappeared—and the darkness crashed in around Orin.
“Pip!”
Orin groped blindly in the dark, trying to find something to grab onto. His voice was back to normal, and his shout echoed through the emptiness.
Kraa! Kraa!
Orin winced as the raven landed on his shoulder and nipped his ear. He cursed as it leapt away and flew ahead, its wings beating a steady rhythm through the darkness.
“Are you crossing through or not?”
“Brynn!” Orin called, running towards the sound of the voice. “What trick is this? Where are my friends?”
Laughter, low and mirthless. “No tricks here, lad.”
Soon, Orin’s breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. Sweat trickled from his helm down the back of his neck, and the hand gripping his sword grew slick and wet.
“The cost to pass is three names.”
The ground vanished beneath Orin’s feet. Cold stone became empty air, and Orin screamed as he fell into the abyss. He felt a feather brush his skin as the sound of wingbeats filled his ears.
“I wonder—which did you write?”
“My love, please—don’t leave me.”
Orin blinked and shook his head. He was no longer falling. A flickering lamp cast dancing shadows across a glossy wooden floor, while pale moonlight peeked through a window with half-drawn curtains.
He stood at the base of a bed, where a curly-haired young man held a thin woman in his arms. Her hair was soft copper and her eyes were green like spring leaves. They sparkled as she looked up at the man.
“I’m still here, Tristan,” she murmured, closing her eyes.
“Tristan?” Orin asked, his voice fading once more to a faint whisper. As at the inn, the air in the tidy bedroom seemed to choke the life from his words, until only a breath of sound remained.
The young man and his lover ignored him.
“You’re so cold,” Tristan muttered, drawing the covers more tightly about her.
She sighed. “Cold? You’ve kept me warm until the end, my heart.”
Tristan’s fingers began to shake as he smoothed the blankets across her chest. “I—I’m sorry that I—” he broke off, tears spilling freely as the words refused to come.
Orin moved around the end of the bed to stand at Tristan’s side. He glanced down at his drawn blade and sheepishly slipped it back into its scabbard.
The woman opened her eyes and smiled. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” she whispered. “You gave me everything.”
“It wasn’t enough,” he choked.
She drew in a small, unsteady breath as her hand found his atop the blankets. “It was to me.”
She exhaled slowly as her fingers locked with his.
Orin leaned in, waiting for her next breath.
It never came.
Tristan wailed as he cradled her body in his arms, tears streaking down his face.
Orin laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder as a raven croaked from somewhere outside the half-drawn curtains.
The curly-haired man tensed and turned to face Orin.
“My love, please—don’t leave me.”
Orin blinked and shook his head.
He stood at the base of a bed, where a curly-haired young man held a thin woman in his arms.
“I’m still here, Tristan,” she murmured, closing her eyes.
What? Orin shot a puzzled look around the room. The same lamp flickered on the wall, casting shadows that mingled with pale moonlight from the half-covered window.
“You gave me everything.”
“It wasn’t enough.”
He glanced down, startled to find his sword back in his hand. He sheathed it quickly and moved to Tristan’s side.
“It was to me.”
“Tristan!” Orin screamed, grabbing his friend by the shoulders. His voice was still wafer-thin, but Tristan turned at the sudden gesture. He tensed and lifted his eyes to Orin’s as a raven croaked from somewhere beyond the half-drawn curtains.
“My love, please—don’t leave me.”
Orin blinked and shook his head.
“I’m still here, Tristan.”
Orin jammed his sword back into its scabbard and ran to the window. Outside, a raven croaked, harsh and mocking.
“What trick is this?” he demanded, tearing the curtains aside and thrusting his head into the cool night air. The raven—that damned raven. “Who are you? Face me!”
“It wasn’t enough.”
“It was to me.”
“No tricks here, lad.”
Orin turned sharply, his back pressed against the windowsill as the curtains tickled his neck beneath his iron helm.
Tristan stood with his head down, cradling his lover’s body in both arms. Her face and body were cloaked in white linen, stained red below her chest.
“The stone keeps what the body cannot,” Tristan muttered as he slowly lifted his head. His red, teary eyes found Orin’s. “I thought if I followed her, this moment would end.”
He smiled sadly.
“And so now, I court Death, for Life has nothing left to take from me.”
The sound of beating wings filled Orin’s ears as a strong wind tore through the bedroom. It knocked the lamp from its hook, spilling flame and oil onto the glossy wooden floor. It spread quickly, devouring the bedroom in a blazing storm of bright flame and black smoke. Tristan stood alone in the inferno, cradling his love to his chest.
Orin rushed forward, but a second gust knocked him from his feet—and out of the open window.
He fell—and once more, the darkness crashed in around him.
Orin landed on his back.
He opened his eyes to a starry night sky and the leafy tops of tall maple trees. Black wings traced an arc across the sky as a large raven flew in front of the bright full moon.
He sat up and rubbed his forehead—he knew this place.
A narrow dirt path wound through the forest, edged with tall grass and mossy stones. Fifty paces ahead, it opened into a small clearing where a modest stone manor stood, its tall windows dark and empty. A low wall encircled the estate. A simple wrought iron gate at its center was shut, its bars cold and still in the quiet evening.
Orin scrambled to his feet as a man approached the gate. He was tall and lean and wore a suit of chain mail beneath a dirty tabard.
Orin would have said he was a soldier—were it not for the tear in the front of his tabard where a lord’s sigil used to rest.
The man examined the gate for a long moment before laying a hand on the lock. It swung inward, and he passed inside—his figure fading with each step towards the manor house. He disappeared just as he reached its thick oak doors, as though the night had swallowed him whole.
“Wait!” Orin shouted, surprised that his voice had returned to its normal volume. He hurried up the path after him, trying to bury the memories it stirred within him. He had planned on returning here after his quest, hoping by then he’d have the strength to confront what he left behind. But with his quest unfinished...
A good soldier knew his limits.
The gate slammed shut as Orin reached the manor. He cursed, rattling the bars with his fists until his eyes caught on the lock. In the center, where the keyhole should be, was the outline of a raven.
He thumbed the clasp of his cloak.
Death lives beneath the Raven’s Eye.
Carefully, he pinched the metal latch and eased it open. He slipped the raven free and let his cloak slide from his shoulders. With unsteady fingers, he reached out and placed the one-eyed raven in the keyhole.
The gate swung open.
“Evenin’, miss.”
Orin spun around. Two men were moving towards the manor—one was short and stout with a bald head and a thick red beard; the other was tall and wiry, with dirty blond hair hanging past his shoulders. Their ragged cloaks and worn boots suggested they’d been on the road for a long while. Each had a scabbard hanging casually at his hip, and the dangerous glint in their eyes hinted that they knew how to use them.
And the woman standing in front of them with her lamp held high...
“Evening, lads,” she said. She brushed a lock of long black hair from her face. “The city lies just a mile east if you’re looking for lodging. I’m sure the inn has a room and a tankard for you.”
“Aye,” the bald one replied. “We passed it. Too many questions there.”
The tall man grinned. “Besides, it ain’t ale we’re thirsty for.”
“You should leave,” the woman said, tightening her grip on the lamp. “My husband will return soon.”
“That ain’t what we heard,” the bald man said, laying a hand on his scabbard. “We heard ol’ Blackwing was dead. We heard you was all alone out here.” He tsked. “Such a shame that. Must get awful cold at night in such a big home.”
Cold steel whispered in the night as the tall man drew his blade. “No need to make this hard, woman.”
“Mother!” Orin cried. He clenched his fists as he looked towards the forest, knowing what he would find—a boy, crouching behind a tall maple tree, an oversized helm swallowing his head. The boy made to rise, but the woman caught his eye and shook her head. He crouched back down, tears streaming down his face.
“Coward!” Orin yelled, rushing towards the boy. “You wretched, spineless coward! Do something!”
A good soldier knew his limits.
Because a good soldier honors his duty, as you will honor yours. Your place is here, with your mother.
The boy ignored Orin—as did his mother and the men confronting her.
“Enough of this,” the bald man said, sliding his blade from its scabbard.
For a heartbeat the night held its breath.
Then Orin’s mother flung her lantern into the man’s face. The glass burst in a spray of flame and oil. He roared, stumbling back with a curse.
“You bitch!”
The tall man lunged forward, sword flashing in the firelight. His mother turned and ran for the gate, skirts gathered in her fists. She didn’t get far before the man was on top of her.
Orin drew his blade and ran back towards the gate.
This time will be different. This time I’ll fight back. Like a soldier—like my father.
A scream split the air—not from his mother or the men assaulting her, but from the manor house.
“Get away from me, you pissin’ son of a whore!”
Pip?
Orin glanced over his shoulder at the manor house. It was flickering in and out of focus. One moment it was pale stone and tall windows, the next it was a gravelly mountain pass with gnarled trees and mounds of white snow. A bleeding young man huddled against a craggy rock face while a scarred deserter in a ripped tabard levelled his blade at a little girl.
“What’s the matter, lad? I thought this was what you wanted.”
Orin jerked around. The bald soldier was moving towards him. His face was burnt and blistered, and the whites of his teeth showed at the back of his jaw where the fire had eaten away his flesh.
Orin levelled his sword at him.
“Yes, that’s it,” the man said. His own sword had transformed into a sickle, and he casually tapped it against the point of Orin’s blade. Orin flinched as the rest of the man’s flesh sloughed off his skull. “Come on now, get on with it, lad.”
He batted Orin’s blade a second time. Behind them, another scream echoed from the manor.
“Of course,” the man continued, “by the time you’re done with me, that poor girl is gonna be dead meat on a skewer. What a shame—the lass reminded me of my granddaughter.”
“I won’t let you take her,” Orin growled. “Not like you took my father. Not like I let you take my mother.”
“Let me?” The man shook his head. He fixed his gaze on Orin again. Cold blue eyes shone from his burned sockets. “Valeris al’dethel, fortis al’vethel. If you can’t stomach losing your silver, lad, you can’t join the game.”
“Your mother is already dead,” the man continued. “Sometimes the pips just cut the wrong way. I’m sorry.”
“No!” Orin shouted. “She’s right there! This time can be different. I’m a soldier—let me fight!” Orin rushed forward and lashed out with his blade. Sword met sickle in a hard, ringing clash as the man parried the blow.
“Look again, lad,” he said.
Orin blinked. The scene before him wavered. The dirt bled into snow. The grass into stone. His mother’s scream into Pip’s.
“Pip…” Orin hesitated, lowering his blade.
“Your mother is dead,” the man repeated, tossing his sickle to the ground. He gently pushed Orin’s sword to the side and grabbed him by the shoulders. “This is a crossroads, not a destination. One path leads to what has already been taken; the other leads to what can still be saved. Don’t let your hatred for me ruin the girl’s chance for life.”
Orin was weeping openly now. The clearing in front of the manor returned as the vision flickered a second time. He looked towards his mother, struggling beneath the tall soldier, her blood spattering the green grass. Your mother is already dead. With a ragged sob, he forced his eyes away from her and back towards the open iron gate.
A key will unlock a door, but it can’t force your legs over the threshold.
“Do you understand?”
Orin closed his eyes.
Yes, father.
He spared a final glance for his other self, huddling beneath the maple tree. A raven squawked and burst from the leaves, flying into the night on a rush of black wings.
Fortis al’vethel.
Then, wiping the tears from his face, he turned his back on his enemy—and walked through the gate.
Orin walked down the narrow dirt path with his head held high, his banner snapping in the wind. It was a clear, cool morning, winter finally relenting to the promise of spring. A thin layer of snow still blanketed the ground, and his leather boots left footprints in the mud as he marched towards the manor house.
“Are we there yet, Tumbles?” Pip asked, fidgeting with her slingshot. “My feet are gettin’ sore.”
“I’d have thought a hike through the woods would be easy for a warrior maiden,” Orin replied. “Especially one who’s already scaled a mountain and returned to tell the tale.”
Pip grinned. “Don’t forget the bandit slayin’. I’m a pissin’ tarragon of strength.”
“Tarragon?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
Orin smiled as he lifted his gaze to a clearing where a modest manor house stood, dark and abandoned. The wrought iron gate before it lay open, creaking gently in the soft breeze.
They stopped a few paces away. Orin planted his banner in the ground and raised a hand to his neck, sighing as his thumb brushed bare skin where a one-eyed raven once rested.
His free hand hovered over his sword hilt for a moment, fingers lightly skimming the grip, before he drew the bandit’s sword from the second scabbard at his hip.
Kneeling, he began to trace a name in the dirt with the blade.
I wonder—which did you write?
When he was finished, he turned his gaze to a tall maple tree, where his eyes lingered for a long moment.
Courage is rarely flashing steel or splintered shields, son. It’s marching in formation as the arrows rain down from above.
It’s taking your next step as the man next to you takes his last.
“C’mooooon, Tumbles—hurry up. I’m starvin’.”
Orin stood and sheathed the bandit’s blade. He laid a hand on Pip’s shoulder and walked her past the front gate and into the courtyard.
“Sorry, Pip. You’re right—it’s rude to keep a warrior maiden waiting. Especially when there’s a meal involved. Allow me to show you to the kitchen.”
“It’s about pissin’ time.”
The gate swung shut behind them as they reached the manor’s front doors.
Out front, the banner unfurled in a sudden gust of wind, revealing a raven riding the breeze— wings spread wide, a golden key in its talons.