Raven's Warrior by Vincent Pratchett Page A

hers alone, he moved with purpose through the throng. His eyes took in all. He stopped to tighten a darkened blanket across the shoulders of an ancient, he moved to wipe a child’s tear and lend his courage to one too young to speak.
    In whispered tones he spoke to his soldiers, assuring that each one knew his solemn purpose. As she watched him from her distance, her heart ached within her chest, and she held him within her mind’s embrace. She knew this final one, must last for her remaining lifetime. The moonless power of the night was upon them, and to this power he prayed to keep them safe.
    He moved finally to his wife and children and held them tightly one by one. Smoothly he slipped her the sharpened dagger, the loud unspoken truth, that their death was better than their capture. She quickly tucked it under her sleeve. Too soon it was their time, and en masse they moved to the southern wall. The soldiers descended rapidly, the lust of battle was already coursing through their veins. Into the darkness they dropped, and in the blackened silence that followed, the civilians waited with anticipation.
    When the sounds of the nighttime battle reached their ears from the far end of the surrounding field, they knew it was their signal. They were lowered by scaffold roughly to the snow-covered ground. Their sentry watched over them with sword drawn until all in their group were down. They wove their way through the protective stakes of sharpened timber, and although they rushed, their pace was a limp with the old and the young. The weaving amble through the angled stakes reminded her of peaceful times spent watching her husband work the loom, and with fierce resolution she shook those memories from her mind.
    The smell of death cut through the darkness as they passed near the forgotten carcass of man or beast. She was glad the darkness hid the view, and that the rags that silenced the sound of children also kept them safe from the stench of war’s true horrors. Their party moved as one, spread out upon the killing field like the great mythical serpent. They undulated away from the clanging of steel and the cries of the embattled, until to the ear it sounded merely like the distant drone of children playing.
    The leading sentry pawed the snow covered ground frantically. For a time brief by normal standard but an eternity by theirs, he searched. He reminded her of the hungry wolves that dig for a dead elk buried beneath winter’s white blanket. He held his panic in check until at last he was rewarded. He pulled away the canvas cover to reveal the opening of the well-placed tunnel, and into its cold blackness they descended.
    They moved as the blind move, an outstretched hand on frozen wall, silent and with only one direction—forward. Under the enemy camps they pressed on, moving quietly but for the occasional stumble. Finally they reached the hidden exit near the forest’s promised safety and emerged from their underground corridor under the watchful eye of their armored guardian. She drank the cold fresh air like a baby fresh from the womb, and even in the thick darkness she saw their protector was not much more than a child himself. The noise of the distant fray was carried softly to them upon the night winds.
    She held her children close, one by hand and one at breast, and looked with gratitude to their young protector. No cry escaped his lips as she saw the sword emerge from his chest. She saw his pain upon his face, and knew his silence was his last heroic act. As he fell where he was struck, she released her hold on the small hand and made distance. With a brief struggle the imperial soldier had freed his saber and now rushed to cleave her lone-standing son. From behind, her blade was drawn across the enemy’s throat, and if he could have screamed he would have, but he fell in silence as the white snow pooled black within the darkness.
    She helped the others move to the safety of the forest, and