Raven's Sword: Darklands: The Raven's Calling, #1

By Scott E. Douglas

An Iron Age Fantasy with heart.

You once told me a man has nothing to live for unless he has something to die for. You're wrong. A man has something to live for when he has something to fight for.

Tergal, a lad from the legions, is the only survivor when his troop is set upon by Darklander villagers. Rescued from death by Ambial - a girl of a mysterious race called Vaerlings - he finds his destiny, his life and his love inextricably tangled with his rescuers.

There is a purpose for his survival.

But who decides this purpose, who decides this fate? Is it one or all of the five fates? Is it the mysterious stranger? Is it the woman he loves? Or is there something more sinister, and his survival merely a temporary reprieve?

_____

So you know, there's some swearing, some violence and some reference to sex. It's not "Game of Thrones" level, but it's there. It's not graphic and it has to do with the story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott E. Douglas
• Release date: Jan 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386845539

Book preview

1. Battlefield

RAVENS CIRCLED AND swooped, sometimes landing to tear what flesh they could from the leather armoured corpses on the plain.

Kerntael and his company saw the birds from a long way off. He suspected they’d come across remnants of a battle. They couldn’t avoid it. Their only other route would add five days to the journey, and they were already three days late.

An oracle caused the presentation ceremony to be postponed. Then there was the warning. Something was stirring beyond the Northern Mountains. No one could tell what it was, but all the Lingen could sense it, especially the Vaerlings. This was good reason to haste. Now there was smoke rising to the west and birds over the hill to the south. Funeral pyres? Kerntael hoped so. The trees were enough to keep them hidden for now, but the trees would give way to a plain over the next hill. If the smoke were funeral pyres, that meant it was a Darkland tribe who won the battle and they’d be busy with their rites until long into the night.

You want to look or should I? Raonael asked as he strode toward Kerntael.

I’ll go. Kerntael nodded. You wait with the women. They might need protecting.

Raonael smiled. Be quick, he said. If there’s trouble I want to be well past it before night, if we can.

Kerntael picked up his bow and a quiver of arrows. He whistled to his son, Ernshael, to follow. At sixteen summers, the tall blue-eyed boy was now already a man. Kerntael kept adding to the boy’s responsibilities and this would be something that he needed to see if he was going to have a man’s place in the tribe. They ran to the hill, reaching the top in a few minutes. Evidence of the battle was obvious. Kerntael could see the bodies long before they were out of the trees. He looked at his son and nodded reassuringly. They walked down the hill to the edge of the tree line.

The plain smelled of the mixture of bile and excrement leaking from the dead. The smell didn’t include that of rotten flesh. This meant the battle wasn’t long finished, two days at the most, probably the previous day. The victors must have spent the morning gathering their own dead. All that remained on the ground were the remains of brown-skinned invaders from the east. Most were stripped only of their weapons. The local Darklanders were superstitious about the clothing of the dead, and no matter how valuable the leather armour might be, it would remain to rot with the corpses. Kerntael noticed some bodies with their heads uncovered. these must have had metal helmets. Superstitious or not, metal was valuable.

The birds feasted unmolested. This was enough to convince Kerntael that all here were dead, so they returned to the others.

Ambial was the first to approach them, her golden hair and sweet smile a welcome sight after the gruesome scene over the hill. Although green eyes were common among the Vaerling, Ambial’s eyes were the brightest, or was he just looking through the eyes of a loving father?

Well? she asked as soon as they were near.

Well it’s a field of blood, Ernshael said. Dead invaders everywhere. Yesterday was a good day for the Darklanders.

Kerntael glared at Ernshael. It was not a good day for all of them, he said and pointed toward the smoke. Let’s go. They strode to the rest of the group.

Raonael met him.

It’s a battleground, Kerntael told him. Covered with the Otherlanders we were warned about. They must have tried to do something to the Hingarnar.

How many dead then? Raonael asked.

Two to three hundred. The Hingarnar probably took their twenty or thirty to sacrifice. I don’t know how many fled but there couldn’t be many. We’d have seen some of them.

They would have fled south, or east, toward the ocean, Raonael told him.

Any sign of them about? one of the others asked as he approached.

None, Kerntael said. There were now three men behind Raonael. No sign of the Hingarnar either.

Can we get past the field by sunset? another asked.

What do you think? Raonael asked Kerntael. Should we wait?

Kerntael drew a deep breath and looked around. The four women were busying themselves with bags nearby, trying to overhear the conversation. Ernshael and Ambial had joined them. Warnagael stood to one side, looking toward the smoke. The old man’s face was a mask of concern. Raonael must have seen Kerntael looking that way.

What concerns you father? Raonael called.

The smoke from those fires. Warnagael pointed his gnarled walking stick toward it. They’re funeral pyres, but look at the swartfuguls. They’re flying toward the smoke.

All eyes turned west. The old man was right. The black birds were steadily moving from the south, toward the smoke of the fires of the west.

Are they sacrificing their captives already? Raonael asked.

Warnagael shook his head. It takes more than the cut open corpses of a few Hingarnar sacrifices to call those birds away from a field of fresh food.

Well then what? Raonael sounded impatient.

You think it some kind of omen? Kerntael asked.

I don’t know what it is. Warnagael looked at the others. It’s very strange is all I know.

Raonael looked toward the hill. No sign of the Hingarnar you say? he asked as one not expecting an answer. Then we go now, cross that plain and get over the next few hills before we stop. And we’ll have no fire tonight.

The Hingarnar won’t attack a group of Vaerlings, will they? one of the women asked.

They might not recognize us as Vaerling, Raonael said. They’ve had a victory and now mourn their dead. The swartfuguls, black birds, are now heading for the fires of their dead. I don’t know what their stories tell about them, but I know they find the black birds significant. What I do know is the black birds are sensitive to the tides of the Otherness, and they’re abandoning food. He looked at Kerntael.

Kerntael nodded. Let’s move quickly.

THE SMALL TROUPE MOVED swiftly over the hill to the tree line, then cautiously across the plain. They kept to the western side of the field as they crossed. Although this brought them closer to the Darklanders, it also meant they were less visible from the path that emerged from the forest. It also afforded them the forest, should they need to hide.

They crossed the field unnoticed, then onto the path through the forest on the other side. Ambial spent most of the time on the battlefield trying to avoid looking directly at the dead... Otherlanders? Was that what her father had called them? If not for their brown coloured hairy skin, they looked very similar to Darklanders.

As they continued up the hill, something caught Ambial’s eye. It was smooth and brown and among the bushes on the side of the path.

What’s this? she asked as she left the group to investigate.

What’s what? Kerntael said.

It’s just another dead invader, Ernshael called from the group.

Ambial looked and made out a brown face with some sort of dirt on its chin and cheeks. It was under a metal helmet and attached to a body wearing a leather breastplate, a leather skirt and sandals. Something about the breastplate bothered her though. She was about to dismiss it and continue on her way when it occurred to her. It moved. Only slightly, but it was moving, up and down.

This one’s alive, she called to the others as she bent over the body.

Kerntael walked to her. Do not interfere with this, he said softly. It is the end of the warrior’s way, the end he’s chosen and the one he’s deserved.

How can you know that? Ambial knelt beside him and lifted his helmet. His wounds aren’t fatal, unless we leave him. His saival, though stained, isn’t as dark as his skin.

How can you know that? Kerntael asked.

The same way you know he deserves to be left to die. Besides, look. He hasn’t yet seen twenty turns of the seasons.

And he won’t. Raonael walked over to look. You shouldn’t argue with your father, he said. But even if you do, you shouldn’t argue with your weiganfraujan. The Otherlander stays. If the fates will it, he will survive on his own. We shouldn’t—

And look at this, Warnagael said, holding a black feather.

It’s a feather of a swartfugul, Raonael said. There were hundreds around here before.

Not like this, he said and lifted a metal shield on a piece of stick. It had the image of a black bird somehow beaten into it and numerous feathers attached.

What do you think it means? Kerntael asked.

I don’t know that it means anything, but it’s something else strange. Warnagael said.

It means we should save him, Ambial said.

I’ve already said—

Then I won’t be able to bond with Frañchael, she said.

What? Don’t be stupid. We’ve just returned from the presentation ceremony. You were presented to him as his bond.

I won’t be able to bond with him, Ambial told Kerntael.

You’ll be bonded to him before two summers. It’s why we came.

And I’ll have the saivalvahm of this man’s murder. You said it yourself, if the fates will it, he will survive. Well isn’t it one of the five fates that brought us here?

No we—

If the ceremony hadn’t been delayed, would we have come across that battleground? Ambial looked at Raonael. If the delay had been two, instead of three days, would we have gone around it? And look how far from the battle he is, and look at this. She pointed to the Otherlander’s feet. Something has dragged him here, see the marks? There were drag marks through the undergrowth. Some kind of beast has dragged him here and look, it left him unharmed.

Warnagael examined the head of the unconscious Otherlander, then the ground immediately uphill from it. There are tracks, he said. Some kind of dog. I doubt it would be an ulfarrh though, unless it was a bitch intending to feed her pups.

It would be a big one then, Raonael said. He looked at Kerntael and nodded. If you say it, we’ll take him.

Kerntael looked at Ambial. If I kill him now...

...the saivalvahm will be mine for letting you.

You have your mother’s stubbornness as well as her beauty, he muttered. And you keep silent! he pointed to Ernshael who was trying not to snicker. Now hurry and make a litter.

2. Sleep

RAVENS ATTACKED, SCREAMING as they swooped. The kaa of the birds weren’t the only sound though. They were mixed with the battle cries of Darklanders, thuds of spears and arrows striking shields and the screams of the killing and dying.

Tergal lay on the ground. He could see nothing but ravens in the blue-green sky. I’m one of the dying, he thought as he watched the birds circle and swoop.

One dived toward him. He snapped his eyes shut, remembering the stories he’d heard from his childhood of ravens plucking the eyes from young children.

Stupid. I won’t need eyes soon. But they won’t need mine yet. He tried to move but still couldn’t. What happened?

He remembered walking onto the plain, out of the forest, with the rest of his squad. He remembered lining up when the Darklanders poured out of the forest on the other side of the plain and started screaming. He remembered lifting his shield as the first volley of arrows started striking their position, walking forward beneath the barrage of arrows, then arrows hailing onto the shields. The commander yelled for them to stop and they stopped while several volleys of arrows flew over them from behind. Between the shields he could see many of the savages fall as a result.

He drew his sword when he heard the command, and marched walking forward with the rest of his troop. They stopped when commanded and braced themselves against their shields for the onslaught. The thump of bodies against their wall of shields was the last thing Tergal remembered of the battle, before waking on the ground, watching the ravens.

There was a growl behind him. Panic shot through Tergal’s body, but it still wouldn’t respond to his need to move. There was pressure on his shoulder and all went black again.

THIS TIME TERGAL AWOKE on a frozen plain under a dark green sky. It was like the plains of the north he remembered his uncle had described. Rolling countryside with snow encrusted pines and frozen waterways, it looked exactly as Tergal imagined it should, complete with an evening sky dominated with the lights of the Darklands. That was so long ago, nearly ten winters ago, when Tergal was still a child. His uncle had been dead for these past six summers.

A wolf looked at him from behind a nearby pine tree. It sniffed the breeze then looked away. There was the Kaa of a raven. It landed on the tree above the wolf. The wolf looked up and then turned and trotted away. The bird flew after the wolf.

Aren’t you going to follow them?

Tergal turned and saw a very pale man with white hair and beard. He wore a red tunic and was handing a red and green tunic to Tergal.

Tergal looked down on his bare brown belly and realized he was naked. Though his skin bore ample black hairs, they weren’t enough to keep the cold at bay... or shouldn’t be. He looked around at the landscape again. Yes, there was snow. He should be cold. He looked at the man again and understood.

He wasn’t cold because he was dead, and he was naked because he couldn’t enter the afterlife any other way. But what was this place?

Take the clothes before you freeze, the man said with an impatient tone.

But I... Tergal began and felt the first bite of cold. He took the clothes and put the tunic on. There were moccasins made of cow hide wrapped in the tunic, and some breeches as well. Thank you, Tergal said as he began to dress.

What brought you here like this? the man asked.

I... ah... died, I think.

The man laughed. You died did you?

I presume so, Tergal said. I was in a battle with... I was in a battle and then...

You been drinking, the man said. That’s what you been doing. Now them fyligyan that come to see you. You got to follow them. You’re here for a reason and you got to find it.

Where’s here?

You don’t know? He shook his head and walked a few paces after the raven. He stopped and turned to Tergal. You coming? he called. They’re not my fyligya... well the ulfarrh is, but the swartfugul is calling you.

Tergal put the moccasins on his feet and ran after the strange man. What’s a fyligya? he asked.

Fyligyan, the man said. What’s that fyligyan, what’re those fyligya?

Alright, I understand. What are they?

They are the ahmal who have chosen you.

Tergal didn’t understand.

The ahmal is what’s inside you that gives you life.

My soul? Tergal asked.

No, that is your saival, that is your life that dies when you do. Your ahmal is what goes on when the body perishes. The ahmal of the swartfuguls is your fyligyan. I don’t know why, but it has chosen you.

Help me understand, Tergal said. That wolf thing is a protecting spirit of some kind that has chosen me for what?

That ulfarrh is my fyligyan, the swartfugul is yours, and it isn’t to protect you. It will preserve you only because you are to serve it. Victory comes when the swartfugul is fyligyan. You are the first of your kind that I’ve seen chosen by the swartfugul.

Swartfugul, that’s the raven? The black bird?

The man nodded. Enough talk. Walk! He strode ahead.

They walked for hours. The strange man said no more, even though Tergal pressed for more answers. Though they travelled long, Tergal didn’t feel tired, reinforcing the belief that he was indeed dead. It couldn’t be the northern plains. He was felled on a battlefield on the island of Greantalia, nowhere near the claws of the north.

They finally reached what Tergal thought was their destination. It was a big tree beside a cliff. The cliff had a cave. The man stooped to enter it. Tergal went to follow him but was stopped.

No! It was the first word Tergal had heard the man say these past hours. Your fyligyan is the swartfugul. You are welcome under his tree, beneath his nest. You are not welcome in the den of the ulfarrh. His are the fyligya I serve.

What am I to do then?

You are here, so you are liuhtjan. You should know.

Liuhtjan? These words were strangely becoming familiar. Light giver? Tergal asked.

The man nodded. You are to give light to a people who feel they need none, and who want none. If it were not so, one of them would have been chosen, not you.

With that the man entered the cave. It seemed to become darker and colder as soon as the man left. Tergal pulled the tunic closer to his body.

It will be warmer closer to the swartfugul.

Tergal looked about for the source of the voice, but there was no one to see. This voice sounded female.

Come closer, it said again.

How can I move close when I can’t see you? Tergal asked.

You can smell me, and you can feel my voice. I would like it if you would get used to that, but I know you will forget. For now, approach the tree.

Tergal walked carefully to the big tree. The voice was right. It did seem to get warmer as he neared it. He soon saw why. There was a fire in a forge. He was sure he hadn’t seen it as he came with the stranger.

Closer.

Tergal looked around. He could still see nobody. There was a raven in the tree, but it couldn’t be the one talking.

No, it’s not, the voice said again.

Am I dead? Tergal asked.

Look at the sword. Look at it closely. Remember its pattern and you will live.

Tergal shook his head. What sword? What pattern?

Pick it up.

What sword? Tergal asked. I don’t see any sword.

It’s there, where a fairweitjan will make it.

Tergal looked at the forge again. There was a sword laying in the fire, its handle resting on the edge of the forge.

Pick it up.

It’ll burn me, Tergal protested.

It cannot burn you. It cannot harm you. Pick it up.

Tergal carefully reached for the handle of the sword. The heat from the furnace was intense.

Pick it up now!

Tergal quickly took the handle and pulled the white-hot blade from the fire. Then, like in a dream, he turned and lay the blade on the snow beside the forge. It hissed and cooled, turning from bright yellow to red to dark blue, a very dark blue. He held it up and looked closely at the lines on it. They made a pattern. It looked like a feather pattern, as if the blade was made of tiny rods, like a feather is made of tiny...

All went dark and Tergal felt some kind of wet cloth on his head. The sky turned from green to yellow, like it was lit by the light of a fire. Tergal slept again.

3. The Awakening

THE STOREROOM BESIDE the hut of Ambial’s family constantly smelled smoky. It was where they smoked their meat, held their stores and now, kept the lander until he was strong enough to be sent on his way. Since it was Ambial who insisted on saving him, it was Ambial who was charged with caring for him. This meant keeping him warm with both fire and blanket, getting him to drink on those rare occasions he was nearly awake, and tending to his injuries, which was the distasteful bit.

The hairs on his body disgusted her, but the wound in his side needed attention. It first needed to be cleaned, then herbs needed to be applied and then it needed to be covered. The hairs got in the way of all this. Even the dirt on his face proved to be hairs, and they were growing. Ambial had cared for wounded faíhu before, and they had hair thicker than this lander, but there was something wrong about a lander, or a Lingen, with hair like this. She wondered if it were thicker, more like the fur of a faíhu and not like the hairs of a bairas, would it be not so disgusting. She thought not.

The fire needed wood again. Ernshael would have to be sent to gather some more before the wood pile became much lower. It would have to be stacked in here to dry.

Ambial looked at the hairy brown lad on the bed. Why did the fates spare one so... She shivered and then walked to the water bucket beside the fire. That too would need filling. A walk to the stream would be good to clear her thoughts. She took a small, wooden cup, drew some of the remaining water from the bottom of the bucket and walked to the bed. You need water to mend, she whispered to him as she lifted his head. Not this time? she said as she returned the sleeping head to its place. Perhaps once I return with fresher water. She drank from the cup and replaced it beside the bucket. It’s been two days. If you don’t wake soon, you’ll die, she said to him.

He started twitching.

Ambial huffed. Alright. Let’s try again. She filled the cup and took it to the bed.

When she lifted his head this time his eyes opened slightly.

Well, she said. We might not have wasted our effort. She put the cup to his lips. He drank, weakly, but he drank.

Once the cup was empty Ambial put it aside and lifted the blanket to look at his wound. She untied the linen that pressed the cloth holding the moss and herbs against the stab wound on his side.

While she was doing this, the brown lad started speaking, but it was a language she hadn’t heard before.

I hope you speak something more than that, Ambial said as she peeled the poultice away from the wound. It’ll make things difficult if you don’t.

More, he said in the language of the Darklanders.

Ambial walked to a table on the other side of the store and carried a metal pot to the bucket. She used the cup to put water in the pot and placed it on the fire.

What’re you doing? he asked.

Ambial returned to the table, took dried herbs from some of the bags and took them to the pot of water on the fire. I’m preparing a herb infusion to help you heal.

We have a common language then. He wriggled a little in the bed.

I was going to move you. Now you’ve saved me the bother.

Where am I?

You’re safe, two days south of your enemies in a place they don’t dare approach.

You’re Lingen, he said.

What makes you say that? Ambial sat on a chair beside the bed.

I’m still wearing the clothes of a Theolympian soldier and I’m still alive. Any other native would have killed me for my sword.

We have your sword. The metal in it will become part of a plough, or a scythe. Ambial sat back and waited for a reaction.

You didn’t answer my question, he said.

What question was that?

About being Lingen.

I wasn’t aware it was a question.

The Otherlander tried to