The Raven's Eye
The Boy Beneath the Raven's Eye (Part III of IV)
This is part III of IV. If you missed part II, you can catch up on it here.
Or you can start from the beginning here.
“Valeris al’dethel, fortis al’vethel. Glory to the fallen, courage to the living. Do you know why these are our words, Orin?”
Orin walked through the town square with his head held high, his father’s banner snapping in the wind beside him. It was a bright, warm morning, spring having finally broken winter’s hold on the land. Their boots squelched in the puddles left by last night’s rains as they marched towards the city gate.
“No, father,” Orin replied, quickening his pace to keep up with the general’s long stride.
“And what of our sigil? A black raven clutching a gold key. Do you know how I came by it?”
A pair of guardsmen stood at attention outside the guardhouse, chests lifted, shoulders squared. At the sight of his father’s banner, they smacked their fists to their chests, then drove the butts of their spears into the ground.
“Valeris al’dethel!” they shouted.
“Fortis al’vethel,” his father replied, nodding at the two men.
“Well, the men call you Blackwing,” Orin said, mimicking his father’s gesture.
“They do.”
“So, you took the raven as your standard to honor them,” Orin guessed. “And to warn your enemies of the fate that awaited them on the battlefield.”
“Hmm,” his father murmured. “And the key?”
“The key...” Orin trailed off. The key never did make much sense to him. Not like the raven, whose meaning was obvious. It meant spilled blood and rotting corpses. A soldier who remained to watch the carrion eaters feast was typically on the right side of the battle—just like his father.
But a key wasn’t a symbol of great battles and conquered enemies. It meant locked doors and hidden secrets, neither of which fit the open face and easy confidence of his father.
“Oi! Blackwing!” a man on horseback called from the gate. “The men await your orders, sir. Get a move on before this lot decides to turn tail and run on back to their mother’s teat!”
“A moment please, Aldric,” Orin’s father called over his shoulder. “I pray that my most trusted Captain can keep his Legion together long enough for me to say goodbye to my son.”
Orin didn’t catch Aldric’s reply. His father had gotten down on one knee, resting his hand on Orin’s shoulder and blocking his view of the open city gate.
“My standard does honor my men, Orin,” he said. “And with any luck, it’ll make a more cautious enemy think twice before charging our position. But a reputation must be earned before you can stick it on a banner.”
He reached down and grabbed Orin’s hand, then, with a sad smile, lifted his son’s fingers to the wrought iron clasp at his throat. “Death lives beneath the Raven’s Eye, son,” he said, tracing Orin’s thumb along a bead of bright onyx. “All men seek him out one day—some willingly, most less so. It’s a heavy burden to send men on that journey.”
Orin met his father’s gaze. The man wasn’t far into his third decade, but the corners of his eyes were etched with dark creases, his brow drawn tight in a perpetual furrow. “But a good soldier goes anyway,” Orin replied. “You taught me that, father.”
Even if you won’t apply the same standard to your own son, he added silently.
“That they do,” the general said, lifting an eyebrow. “Because a good soldier honors his duty, as you will honor yours. Your place is here, with your mother.”
“What honor is there in staying behind while there’s a war to be fought? My training, my time in the barracks—what good were they if I’m not permitted to make use of them?”
“Not permitted to make use of them?” His father frowned. “Valeris al’dethel, fortis al’vethel. A soldier may fight for glory, Orin. But a general knows that more often than not, he’ll never live to see it. And so, we honor him in death, as is the due of any soldier who’s paid the final price.”
He released the boy’s hand and made to stand. “But the dead need no more courage. Those of us who served with them, who must carry on the battle in their absence—we do. 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.”
Orin lifted his eyes to the banner still gripped in his father’s hand. The raven unfurled its wings in the warm, spring breeze, the key a golden weight in its sharp talons. He clenched his fists as his father’s free hand returned to his shoulder.
“This is why I carry my own banner, Orin. I earned it. Through blood and death, yes. But mostly by refusing to step back as others fell to the mud around me. A key will unlock a door, but it can’t force your legs over the threshold; a raven will feed on a corpse, but it can’t be blamed for putting it on the battlefield. Do you understand?”
Orin hesitated. “I—” Did he? He lowered his eyes. “No, father. I’m sorry.”
His father lifted his son’s chin. “Good. It means I’ll still have something left to teach you when I return.” He released Orin’s face and turned towards the open city gate. “Take care of your mother, son. Valeris al’dethel.”
“Fortis al’vethel, father.”
Death lives beneath the Raven’s Eye.
Orin’s boots scraped against pale, gravelly soil as he made his way up the mountain pass, his banner shifting lightly in the chill breeze. Pip followed a few paces behind, cursing to herself as she scrambled to keep pace.
Tristan brought up the rear, faring even worse than his tiny companion. He had slung his bag over one shoulder, its weight growing more burdensome with every step as the incline steepened. Orin had offered to carry it for a while, but Tristan had refused, claiming he’d rather his own bones shatter and snap before permitting another to touch his beloved’s remains.
Orin shook his head as he heard the curly-haired man stumble and whimper behind him.
A good soldier knew his limits.
Orin took a deep breath, examining the landscape as he trudged onward. The tall pines and dense spruce had become thin and gnarled, with dull needles and thick, knuckled roots that sprawled across the rough trail. On either side of the pass, the mountain climbed sharply upwards, exposed rock faces rising into the air, fractured and uneven, with mounds of white snow collecting at their base.
He tilted his head towards the sky. Dull, grey clouds loomed overhead, and the cold wind that whistled through the pass carried a promise of more snowy days to come.
“C’mon, Princeling,” Pip called over her shoulder. “Drop those stinkin’ bones before you get yourself left behind! Or at least before you trip and fall on that sword.”
Orin turned and grimaced. He stood by his decision not to leave the deserter’s blade behind. This was a dangerous quest, even without a bandit lurking in their wake. A well-armed party stood a much better chance of success than an ill-equipped one.
But Tristan... Tristan would likely be safer if the blade were in anyone’s hands but his.
“I’m a cook!” he yelled back, hands shaking on his sword hilt as he angled the blade point-down, the tip hanging between his legs. “Not some damned soldier boy or quick-footed street urchin!”
“Watch who you’re calling an urchin, Princeling. I’m a lady—you know, one of them warrior maidens. I practically piss nobility.”
“You wretched girl,” the young man muttered. “I cooked for the Lord himself, I’ll have you know. You wouldn’t have been fit to clean his lowest servant’s privy.”
Orin stopped and sighed.
A good soldier should always act with honor, even if he couldn’t guarantee it would be repaid in full.
“If the poor sods were eatin’ your cooking,” Pip said, “there ain’t a bloke in the whole shittin’ kingdom paid enough to tend their chamber pots.”
“That’s enough, Pip,” Orin said, walking back to join his little army. “Besides, I thought you said you were a ‘Robin Hood’ type. Something about stealing from the rich to give to the poor?”
Pip made a rude gesture in Orin’s direction and plopped down on the stony ground. “I don’t know why I decided to follow some shit-brained tumbler, anyways. Walkin’ halfway up a mountain chasin’ phantoms. You’re lucky I didn’t leave you alone with that pissin’ fop.”
Orin crouched down next to Pip. “That I am. We have a tough battle ahead of us. I’m thankful for every spear and slingshot I can get.” He lifted his gaze to the young man struggling towards them. “Tristan, perhaps you’d like to prepare a midday meal for us? We’ll need our strength if we’re to finish climbing the Raven’s Eye before nightfall.”
Tristan groaned as he dropped his sword and flopped to the ground beside Pip and Orin. “My love,” he moaned, laying a tender hand on his bag. “They’re trying to kill me ere I reach your final resting place. Forgive me. My spirit remains strong, but my body weakens.”
“Oh, put a shit rag in it, pretty boy,” Pip said, rubbing her feet. “All this bitchin’ is makin’ my head hurt. It’s exacerbating.”
“Exacerbating?” Orin asked.
“Yeah, that’s right.”
Orin looked down skeptically at his ragtag army. He reminded himself that he shouldn’t be too harsh on them. After all, he had set out on this journey alone, and had expected to finish it so.
A soldier didn’t always get to pick his comrades, but a good one made use of them regardless.
“Come on now, Tristan,” he said. “You brought supplies for your journey. Best not to let them go to waste. I’d hate to leave them to the ravens—or the bandits.”
At the mention of bandits, Tristan sat up straight and reached for his discarded blade. “Those villainous curs,” he muttered. “So be it. Make me a fire, and I’ll whip you up a stew warm enough to melt even those dastardly cutthroats’ hearts.”
“Of course, let’s—” Orin froze as something flickered at the edge of his vision, like a candle guttering in a faint draft. He stood and turned around sharply.
A harsh gale cut through the mountain pass before them, sharp and sudden. It bounced between the exposed rock faces lining each end of the pass, folding back on itself and picking up speed as it ricocheted from wall to wall. Dust and gravel formed a shifting curtain within it, lifted and borne along by the swift winds.
Orin took a step back and raised his forearm to his face as errant rocks flew from the whirlwind like arrows loosed by a panicked archer. He could hear his companions cursing and shouting behind him, but he was too distracted to look back. He lowered his arm a notch and narrowed his eyes, trying to pierce through the swirling cloud of stone and grit.
Behind the roiling veil, he could have sworn he saw the silhouette of a person—short, stout, unflinching. But before he could make out the stranger’s features, the wind burst forth in a mighty roar, racing down the mountain path and knocking Orin square off his feet.
“Watch it, Tumbles!” he heard Pip shout as he crashed into her on his way to the ground. He lay there for a moment, stunned, before a series of muffled curses and a flurry of tiny fists pounding on his back and shoulders convinced him to roll to the side.
“The mountain itself conspires against us,” Tristan cried, struggling to his feet on wobbly legs.
Orin rose and looked down the path towards where the gale had originated. The wind had died as suddenly as it had whipped to life. But now a stone arch spanned the distance between the tall rock faces, where before there had been naught but open air.
He touched his head, pleased to find that his helm had stayed on this time, and drew his sword from his scabbard.
His enemy was near.
Strange things were said to happen around the mountain known as the Raven’s Eye. Thanks to his father’s last words to him, he finally understood why.
Orin turned and addressed his army. “Pip, Tristan, ready your weapons and follow me. Stay alert. Our enemy is old and cunning. I can only guess what awaits us beneath that arch.”
“Aye aye, Tumbles,” Pip said, jamming her wooden bowl back over her head. She reached down and grabbed a sharp rock, tossing it deftly in her palm. “Killin’ phantoms is my specialty.” She grinned and looked over her shoulder at Tristan. “Keep up, Princeling, and try to keep from stickin’ yourself in the gut.”
“Death calls, my love,” Tristan said, laying a hand on his bag as he picked up his blade. “And this hollow husk shall meet its cries. Lead on, my friends.”
“Uh, right,” Pip replied. She turned back to Orin. “C’mon, move it already, soldier boy.”
Orin’s gaze dropped to his feet. His banner lay in front of him, crumpled and coated in a thin layer of dust. He picked it up, brushing the dirt from the raven’s feathers and lofting it into the air.
He narrowed his eyes at the arch—
Death lives beneath the Raven’s Eye.
—and took a step forward.
Orin tentatively laid a hand on the arch.
It was pale and mottled, the color of old bone and dusted limestone. Despite its sudden appearance, it looked old and weathered, as though it had stood sentry in this mountain pass for millennia. Bits of moss clung to the seams between each stone, and dark streaks cut through its surface, where rain and meltwater had traced the same path, year after year.
But what truly caught his attention were the etchings that lined almost every inch of the arch’s stone face.
He traced a finger along one, moving from a long, vertical line into rounded curves and thin horizontal strokes.
Ladrial.
A name, one common enough around these parts. And it wasn’t alone. The arch was crowded head to toe with names, cut into the stone at every height and angle. Some were carved carefully, with neat loops and fancy flourishes. Others were crooked and unkempt, as though carved by a rushed or unsteady hand.
The oldest were little more than ghosts of the hands that carved them, their edges worn down by time until each letter had nearly bled back into the stone. The newest were cut deep and bold, often overlapping the older names without apology.
Pip walked up beside him and laid her hand next to his. “Neat,” she said, tracing another name across the stone. “Give me your sword, Tumbles. My da’ always got mad when I tried drawin’ on the walls, but this one is practically pissin’ itself waitin’ for me to write my name on it.”
“That it is, girl,” a voice called from the other side of the arch.
Orin snatched his hand from the wall and jerked his head up.
An old woman stood opposite him, short and wiry, hands clasped behind her back. Her wrinkled skin and iron-streaked bun betrayed her age, but her straight back and cold, blue eyes radiated calm strength.
Orin’s eyes drifted to the sickle sheathed at her hip, next to a small, black pouch hanging from her belt. The old woman grinned.
“In fact, the cost to pass is three names,” she said, stepping towards them. “One from each of you—including that soft fella who looks like he’s about to vomit on my arch.”
Orin glanced towards Tristan. The young man did look a little green in the face. He stood a few paces back, holding Orin’s banner between shaky fingers, legs trembling—whether from fear or the weight of his beloved’s remains on his back, Orin couldn’t say.
“Who are you?” Orin demanded, returning his attention to the old woman.
The stranger turned and spat. “Name’s Brynn,” she said, wiping her mouth. “Now are you passing through or not?”
Orin hesitated.
Just a quick way to die.
“We were, before this arch appeared from nowhere, with you fast on its heels. What business have you in this pass? And what trick are you playing with us?”
“No tricks here, lad. I’ve been living in these mountains since last spring. Soldiers—if you can call them that—ransacked my village, forcing me and my granddaughter to seek refuge in these icy peaks.” Brynn shook her head. “As for the arch, if it’s a trick, it’s one played by another’s hand. I only tell you what I know. If you seek to pass through, the cost is a name from each of you.”
“I don’t understand,” Orin said.
Brynn whistled and beckoned Pip closer. “Girl, come here. Try taking a step through the arch. If it makes you feel more at ease, you can keep that slingshot aimed at my chest. I’ve faced worse.”
Pip looked to Orin, who shrugged.
“Alright, you old hag,” she said, pulling out her slingshot. “No funny business.” She stepped around Orin and planted herself in front of the arch. Then, gritting her teeth, she ran forward—and was immediately tossed backward.
“What the piss was that?” Pip shouted, scrambling back to her feet.
“As I said, three names,” Brynn said, chuckling.
“Three names,” Tristan muttered, joining Pip and Orin. “The stone keeps what the body cannot. They shall stand as a testament to our journey, long after our flesh has sloughed from our bones.”
“Yeah, what he said,” Brynn replied. She lifted her gaze towards the raven banner fluttering in Tristan’s hand.
Her grin widened.
“Come on now, get on with it,” she continued. “A name—your own, or another’s. The sooner you get through, the sooner you can get some food in your bellies. My granddaughter is back at the cottage with a pot of porridge simmering on the hearth.”
Orin lifted his blade from its sheath.
Your name or another’s.
He eyed the woman skeptically. Her story was plausible; the war had forced many families out of their homes. And the Raven’s Eye was a strange place. It wasn’t impossible to believe she had stumbled upon this arch in much the same way he and his companions had.
He lowered his blade to the arch, as somewhere overhead a raven’s croak split the air.
It’s too late to turn back now.
Orin began to write.
Continue to Part IV Here