Читать книгу The Raven's Warrior - Vincent Pratchett - Страница 7

The Arrival

My downcast eyes had measured both my journey and my life, but not in length or duration, for me time and distance no longer existed. No, they measured simply by what they had seen. They saw my body, wounded, starved, and ill, wither to the bone. They saw rivers turn to ocean, fields turn into forest, and forest turn to sea. They saw seas become mountains, and the mountains turn to desert.

In the desert they saw the sun paint my body with a color it had never worn, the color of the shifting sands. When they had seen my mummification process complete, they saw more. They saw desert become dusty road, and dust become cobblestone. They told me we had entered the kingdom of my enemy. When they saw the ground before me stop moving, they stopped measuring and told me I had arrived at a far flung outpost. It was here that they struggled to finally look up. I saw the multitude of strange people that surrounded me stretch to the horizon, and I felt only pain.

This was not an ocean of blue and green water, but a sea of brown, and shades of brown like an ocean of sand. It was a vast sea of human waves. It was a desert of the drifting dunes of humanity, and it made my eyes thirst. My eyes did not thirst for water like the flesh does, the endless shades of desert brown made them thirst for color. They had not seen bright colors since the blood had ceased its flow, and now they craved them.

On the distant horizon they saw sunlight split to rainbow, the answer to their prayer. It was like the sparkle of the setting sun on water or a shaft of light shining through jewels. My thirst was quenched, and my pain had faded. My eyes once again saw the people around me, and I felt something stronger than pain. I could feel their fear, their wonder, and their pity, and I wept.

The once distant flash of rainbow drew closer now. The desert of humanity parted before it, and it passed unimpeded. I saw that it was not a cruel mirage of deprivation, but a rider wearing the dazzling cloth colors of red, blue, green, and gold on a background of silver white, and they shimmered magically with his every movement. He was real, and followed closely by a horse-drawn wagon led by a female servant clad in the ordinary brown colors of the desert’s caress. My eyes followed their progress.

As they entered the square the servant and cart hovered back, while the man of color approached. His strong graceful movement told me that this one was skilled in the arts of war, and the long straight blade sheathed on his back hinted that my execution was at hand. Beside me now, he spoke in my language but in a tone and rhythm all his own. I had to listen carefully and closely as he asked only my name. Then I had to fight hard to remember it; it had been so long since I had answered to it. “Vincent,” I replied as strongly as my voice would allow.

He began to laugh. “Latin, meaning one who conquers,” he said. “That is funny given your circumstance.” My blood ran cold, for in my world, the one from which I had been so violently taken, being questioned by those that know Latin is almost always followed by a slow and agonizing death. The reality of my present situation flooded in, and I began drowning once again in a dark and paralyzing emptiness.

His first words had plunged me under but his next seemed to grab my head and hold me up, allowing me to breathe again. “Do not despair,” he said calmly. “Some believe that the one that endures has conquered.” And then a movement faster than an arrow’s flight, his hand was drawing up the bladed edge. I could hear it gather speed out of the sheath, and then silence as it cleared and swooped down. I stretched my skinny neck to give a clean target, but instead felt a jerk at my wrists, as his blade’s arc bit the chain that had held my hands together for so long. The links fell at my feet like the pruned branches of an olive tree.

Since boyhood I had heard the warriors tell stories of reverence about a sword that could cut through iron like a cleaver through meat, but these were just stories. I had been a soldier my whole life and had never seen one. Now looking at the metal bonds that lay coldly at my feet, I felt strangely complete.

I braced for the next cut, but the sword had returned to sheath, and its wielder had turned to address the throng. Although I didn’t understand his words, I clearly understood their meaning. “This man now belongs to me.” He directed their attention towards the cart of plunder. He studied the horde and asked, “Are there any objections?” There was only silence as the crowd’s interest had now shifted towards the rest of the spoils. His eyes met mine and in a low voice he said, “From today I am your owner. Vincent, your life sentence has just begun.” His servant helped me to the wagon as the crowd pushed closer to the treasure-laden cart.

My eyes caught the flash of shadow moving across the ground where a high-flying carrion bird had come between us and the sun, and I knew then that Death would wait.