The damp, suffocating silence of the ancient canopy was the first thing to settle—not as a mere absence of sound, but as a heavy, velvet weight that pressed against the ribs.
High above, where the tangled crowns of the great oaks choked out the noon-heat, the rustling wind died a sudden, gasping death. The leaves grew rigid upon their stems. A sullen, stagnant stillness washed through the thicket, thick with the sharp tang of rotting moss, the musk of damp loam, and the iron scent of the nearby marsh.
Khyber stood amid the shadows, his gnarled hand resting on the pommel of his rusted iron blade. He did not look at the sky, but kept his eyes fixed on the low-slung, sodden thatch of the hovel.
"Aye... the air turns foul and fat," the old man grunted, his voice like the grinding of millstones in a winter drought. "A fine season for the breaking. A master-hand couldn't have fashioned a better ground to cure thy soft flesh."
A few paces off, the brook choked through the weeds, its muddy, amber waters thick with fat, slow-moving dace that darted between the slick river-stones without a care. The heavy oak door of the hovel creaked upon its leathern hinges, a low, groaning complaint that scraped against the quiet.
Daker stepped into the weak, yellow light. He wore no smock; his torso was bare to the biting damp, the hard lines of his ribs rising and falling with his breath.
The midday glare hit him—not a clean light, but a thin, piercing lance that split the mist and struck his eyes like hot needles. The sudden brightness was a blinding wall. Daker flinched, his brow furrowing into deep, white ridges as he hoisted a calloused forearm to shield his brow from the sharp sun-glare.
Just as the shadow of his knuckles fell across his squinting eyes, offering a brief reprieve from the blinding dome above, the high, clear ring of iron shattered the forest's peace.
The iron tongue bit the air.
Stumbling on the slick, moss-grown roots, Daker lurched two steps from the threshold, his gaze sweeping the wild green. Hanging from the low-sweeping boughs of the elder-trees were dozens of small, heavy brass bells, their metal skins dull and tarnished with age. With every breath of air that crept through the brush, they swung on their hempen twines, giving voice to a rhythmic, mournful chime that droned through the hollow.
A sudden, watery chill raced down the boy's spine, the small hairs on his arms standing like wheat before a hailstorm. The air behind his shoulder grew thick, the heat of another man's frame crowding his space, too near, too sudden.
Khyber was there, rooted like an old stump.
Daker's frame went rigid. He turned by degrees, his boots sucking in the mire, and then flung himself backward with a breathless gasp. His heart beat like a trapped crow against his ribs; he clutched at his breast, drawing a ragged, whistling breath to clear the sudden terror from his throat.
"Art thou minded to send me to the crows before the lists are even drawn?" Daker barked, his eyes wide and white against the gloom as he glared at the old soldier. "What manner of churl creeps behind a man's back like a graveyard thief?"
Khyber's weathered maw twisted into a sharp, mocking grin, the deep lines about his mouth showing yellow teeth. "The sort what lives to see the next barley-harvest, boy!"
Daker shook his head, his teeth clicking in bitter vexation. "Tis a fool's errand, seeking sense from a tongue so twisted."
The old man shot back before the words could leave the boy's lips, "Then why keepest thou barking at me like a chained hound?"
Daker drew a slow, deep breath, his nostrils flaring against the smell of dry mud and wet hair. He looked square into the old man's milky, bloodshot eyes. "What is thy purpose here?"
The mirth died out of Khyber's face as quick as a candle-flame in a gale, replaced by a cold, flinty gravity. "I am minded to take thy sight."
The words fell like lead into the pool of silence. Daker went stiff, the blood in his veins turning to winter frost. He stared, his jaw slack. "Has the sun addled thy wits, old man?"
Heedless of the boy's rising panic, Khyber spoke with a flat, deadly certainty. "Twas thy own tongue what begged to be named the 'Blind Crow Knight,' or didst thou forget before the dew dried? To find that path, I must needs plunge thee into the deep dark... and then, I shall have the plucking of thy eyes."
The moment those grim words cleared the old man's teeth, the ancient, beast-like urge to live flared in Daker's gut. In the space of a heartbeat, his hand darted to his hip and the iron tooth of his dagger cleared its boiled-leather sheath. The metal sang a short, wicked note as it met the light. He shifted his weight, his bare soles gripping the wet earth as he dropped low into a guarded stance, his blade held low and ready to spill blood.
A dark, cruel smile split Khyber's scarred face at the sight of the bared steel.
Before Daker could even plant his heel or shift the balance of his hips, the old man blurred—not like a man running, but like smoke caught in a sudden draft, vanishing from the boy's field of vision only to materialize directly behind his shoulder.
Before the dagger could swing, Khyber's thick, calloused hands whipped forward with the speed of a striking adder. A length of coarse, pitch-black homespun cloth was lashed about Daker's brow, pulled so taut it threatened to crack the bone beneath.
Daker stood frozen, his breath caught in his throat. Confused and shaking, his fingers scrambled up his face, his nails catching on the rough, scratchy weave of the wool. It was naught but a blindfold.
"Bwahaha...!"
Khyber's roar of laughter shook the silence of the glade, a great, booming sound that set the crows to flight from the distant treetops. Still bellowing, he brought his heavy, spade-like palm down upon Daker's bare back. But the old rogue knew no measure in his mirth; the blow fell with the weight of an oak timber, driving the wind from the boy's lungs and sending him crashing mouth-first into the black muck.
Daker strained against the fabric, his eyelids fluttering against the dark, a hot tide of blood rushing to his ears. Lying in the dirt, his fingers clawing at the grass in impotent rage, he spat a mouthful of bitter grit and hissed through his teeth, "Thou old dog... I'll have thy hide for this..."
In the next heartbeat, a hand like an iron grapple hooked into Daker's shoulder, hoisting his frame from the dirt as though he were an empty grain-sack, planting him back upon his feet.
Khyber's voice lost its jest, turning hard as frozen iron. "Hark ye, boy. The real labor begins before the sun turns. The elder-boughs are heavy with brass tongues. My steel shall seek thy ribs even as those bells weep. Thou hast but one task: set thy ears to the wind, trace the brass-bound cry and the rasp of my breath, and move thy carcass out of the path of my blows. If my hand so much as brushes thy smock, thou hast failed the day, and we begin anew when the mist rises. Dost thou understand the weight of it, boy?"
Gasping for air through his clogged nostrils, Daker choked out, "Aye. I take thy meaning."
Khyber gave a low, secretive chuckle. "Good... then let the dance begin."
In an instant, the very air seemed to thin and sour. Daker stood alone in a blind world, surrounded by a labyrinth of brass tongues hanging from the weeping trees.
Beneath the heavy, delayed black wool, he screwed his eyes shut. He closed his mind to the light he could no longer see, throwing the whole of his soul into the hollows of his ears.
Then, cutting through the graveyard quiet, an iron tongue bit the air... a low, resonant chime.
Then another to the right... a third behind... a fourth above...
Slowly, the whole grove began to sway, a maddening, disorienting tangle of metallic cries that echoed off the rocks until the air was thick with sound. It was an auditory maze, a trap woven of noise. Daker held his ground, his fingers white around the grip of his ash-wood practice blade, his heart steadying.
Suddenly, a violent, frantic clattering erupted from his left—the sound of wood snapping and brass ringing in wild haste, as though a heavy boar were crashing through the thicket at breaking speed.
Trimming his ears to the din, Daker measured the distance of the coming blow. His thighs bunched, his sinews tightening like bows as he prepared to drive his wooden length into the dark—
Then, every bell died at once.
The forest dropped into a suffocating, deep-well silence. Daker's heart hammered against his ribs like a snared rabbit. Under the terrible weight of the quiet, thick drops of sweat gathered at his hairline, tracing hot paths down his cheeks before dripping onto his collarbone. His throat felt as dry as chaff during the August threshing.
In that selfsame fragment of time, a sudden, unnatural warmth brushed the skin of his cheek—the hot, sour smell of a man's breath.
Before his mind could command his limbs, a heavy, wooden shaft crashed into his jaw with the force of a falling timber.
A dull, wet thud echoed through the glade.
The force of the blow lifted him from his feet, slamming him hard into the roots and stone. Blinded by a sudden flash of white light behind his eyes and a dull, throbbing ache, Daker ripped the black cloth from his brow. For a moment, his jaw felt as though it had been struck by an iron-smith's hammer.
As the milky mist cleared from his eyes, he saw Khyber looming above him like an ancient barrow-stone. In his gnarled fist, the old man held an iron cattle-chain, from which dangled a heavy, cast-brass sheep-bell.
Looking down with an eye as cold as winter skin, Khyber spat on the grass. "What didst thou look to find? Didst thou think the King's arena was a country fair where maidens play at tag? If thou steppest onto that blood-soaked earth with such a craven heart, the first true man-at-arms will leave thy teeth in the dust."
Daker's cheek was already puffing like a bloated toad, a dark, plum-colored welt rising beneath his eyelid, where a thin trickle of dark blood began to leak. He wiped his maw with the back of his hand, spitting a mouthful of red foam into the dirt.
Without a single groan, without a word of complaint to the sky, he bound the black wool back over his eyes, groped through the leaves until his fingers found the ash-wood hilt, and forced his shaking knees to lock straight once more.
A sudden stillness took Khyber's tongue, a rare flicker of wonder passing through his old, scarred face.
The blow had been delivered with enough meat to fell a bullock, the old man thought, his mind racing back to older fields. When I put the common levies through this trial, most weep for their mothers before the sun is high. But this whelp... his bones are made of different oak. There is a dark iron in his blood...
A wide, wicked grin split Khyber's lips. He muttered under his breath, "Aye... now the true skinning begins!"
Khyber moved with the same dark speed. The bells clattered in a mad, deceptive chorus, filling the ears with false steps, but this time, no iron chain swung through the air. Instead, putting the whole weight of his hip behind the blow, Khyber drove his iron-shod boot straight into the boy's belly.
"Ugh...!"
The ash-wood sword flew from Daker's numbed fingers, clattering into the briars. Clutching his middle with both hands, he dropped to his knees with a dull groan, his breath coming in short, wet gasps as blood and spit began to pool upon the dark earth.
The pain was a sharp knife turning in his guts, yet Daker would not bide in the dirt. Lifting his blind face toward the sound of the old man's boots, his bloody lips pulled back over his teeth in a terrible, death-head grin of pure defiance. He began to drag his frame upward against the gravity of his hurts.
Khyber's eyes widened, his brow furrowing in genuine disbelief. The boy's spirit would not break. Minded to tame the whelp once and for all, Khyber lunged forward, his fists raining down in a tireless, heavy storm of blows.
Yet this time, Daker did not yield an inch of ground. Amidst the red fog of his pain, an old, soft voice from his winter-years echoed in the hollow of his mind—the voice of his mother, smelling of woodsmoke and dried lavender:
"Daker, there is no increase to a man's soul in the shedding of blood..."
The moment those words touched his remembrance, a sudden heat, like a spark dropping into dry straw, flared through his limbs. Without his eyes, relying solely on the sudden shift in the wind and the heavy scuff of leather upon the peat, Daker knew where the old man's weight must fall.
Dropping beneath the swing, he threw his upper body forward, his arms locking about Khyber's knee like iron bands.
Gathering the last remnants of his strength—the strength of a plowman turning heavy clay—Daker heaved upward, uprooting the old soldier from the earth and slamming his heavy frame down into the hard ground.
The earth groaned with a dull, heavy boom.
The shock of the fall vibrated through the mud, the force of it snapping three ancient brass bells from their boughs; they hit the dirt with flat, dead thuds. As Khyber hit the stones, the bone of his right shoulder gave way with a wet, sickening pop that sounded like a green bough breaking in winter.
A dark fountain of red erupted from the old man's nose and mouth. A raw, gurgling scream of pure agony tore from his throat, echoing through the lonely timber until it died in the heavy mist.
Khyber lay broken in the dirt, his strength spent. Against every law of the camp, the boy had crossed the river.
Daker's frame was trembling, his skin painted with mud and red stains, but beneath the black wool of his blindfold, that same dark, uncanny smile remained. Before the sun could touch the western treeline, Khyber's eyes rolled back, and the blackness of sleep took him for the remainder of the day.
The heavy mantle of night soon covered the forest, cold and thick with the scent of damp pines. Commander Seraphina and General Valerius made their way through the dark timber, their boots silent on the mast, until they crossed the threshold of the low hovel.
The moment their eyes fell upon the hearthside, they froze, their breath catching at the sight of Khyber. He lay upon a pallet of straw, a broken, bloody ruin of a man.
Relying on the grim knowledge gathered from a hundred bloody fields, General Valerius stepped into the light of the tallow candle. He knelt by the unconscious rogue, his large, calloused hand gripping the twisted shoulder. With a sudden, violent twist of his wrists, he drove the bone back into its socket. A sharp, wet click echoed in the small room.
"Are you with us, Khyber?" the General asked, his deep voice like the rumbling of a heavy wagon, laced with the instinctive, unyielding respect he offered to every man who had shed blood for the realm.
Groaning as the pain washed through him, Khyber gave a weak nod of his head. He looked up into the General's scarred face, his voice thin and raspy, like dry straw. "General... I must have thy ear. Alone."
Understanding the weight of an old soldier's counsel, Valerius nodded. He turned his gaze toward Commander Seraphina, his eyes carrying a quiet reverence that held a world of unspoken devotion, yet maintaining the strict, respectful order of their battle-worn ranks.
"Commander," Valerius spoke, his tone low and laced with profound respect. "Please leave us for a brief spell. Take the boy into the night air."
Seraphina inclined her head, returning the gesture with equal gravity and unyielding professional grace. "As you deem wise, General."
Without a word, Daker and Commander Seraphina stepped back into the night, the heavy door thudding shut behind them.
Once the timber parted them, Khyber panted, his chest heaving against his cracked ribs. "General... there is no longer any call to shield this pup from the cold. I have given him the ears of a wolf and the cunning to keep his skin whole. We have but this night, the morrow, and the night that follows before the lists open. In this broken state, my hand cannot guide an iron blade tonight."
General Valerius laid a heavy, reassuring palm upon Khyber's whole shoulder. "Rest your bones, old friend. You have done more than enough for our cause. Even with the winter in your hair, you have dragged this boy through the fire for our sake."
Khyber let out a long, wheezing breath that smelled of old blood. "Valerius... in all my years among the levies, I have never seen a hound of his breed. Of all the raw boys brought to the Crows, nine out of ten run before the first night's stew is cold. Few have the iron in their marrow to stand the seasoning. Today, the lad proved he is worthy to bear my mark. My arm is dead for tonight... but when the sun rises, I will see him master his own steel. I shall give him the meat of my whole life in the span of one day. I cannot make him a master of every blade between sunrise and dusk, but whatever steel his hand favors, I will teach him how to find the soft flesh between the mail."
The General's face remained grim as stone. "So be it. Use the hours as you see fit."
Outside the timber hut, a cold, sharp breeze swept through the undergrowth, smelling of winter frost and dead ferns. The night air had grown crisp, and thousands of pale fireflies rose from the marsh, like sparks rising from a blacksmith's forge against the black wall of the woods.
Daker and Commander Seraphina sat upon a low ridge of granite. Breaking the cold silence, Seraphina spoke, her voice low. "Daker... how went the breaking today?"
Looking up at the black canopy where no stars showed, Daker let out a long, shivering breath. "Tis naught to speak of, Commander..." He paused, his fingers digging into the moss. "I know not... all of ye are risking the axe to keep my head upon my shoulders, yet a cold dread takes me that I might leave thy hopes in the dirt."
A sudden, fierce light flared in Seraphina's deep green eyes, mixed with a deep, unspoken grief. She reached across the stone, her fingers locking around Daker's calloused hand with the strength of a shield-wall. "If any churl seeks thy life in that pit, Daker, I shall leap into the red mud myself, regardless of the King's peace or the law of the realm... I will not see thee fall to the crows."
A faint, tired smile touched Daker's bloody lips. They sat for a time in the quiet, the cold wind rustling the dry leaves around their boots. Minded to lift the heavy shroud from their thoughts, Daker said softly, "Commander... let us leave these grave matters to the old men. Speak to me instead of the summer years, of the things we cherish. Who can say if our feet will touch this grass when the next sun sets?"
Seraphina gave a small nod, her eyes softening. And so, beneath the dark boughs, they spent the remaining hours of the dark sharing tales of the fair things they had seen before the war took the land.
On the other side of the oak door, General Valerius spent the long night over Khyber's pallet, washing the old man's hurts with sour wine and binding his cracked ribs with linen strips. Amidst the quiet labor, the black of the night thinned, turning to a pale, violet-hued dawn before any man took note of the hour.
The first pale bronze light of dawn broke through the elder-trees, cold and sharp. Daker lay fast asleep, his bruised brow resting against the rough wool of Commander Seraphina's cloak.
Suddenly, the hovel door slammed against the stone wall, and Khyber strode into the clearing. Seeing the lad sleeping like a babe in the clover, he let out a roar that shook the dew from the leaves. "Get up, thou lazy, fat-headed calf!!"
Daker started, scrambling to his feet in a blind panic, his hand reaching for a blade that wasn't there. Blinking against the cold morning light, he stared at the old soldier, his jaw dropping as he saw Khyber standing straight upon his own two feet.
A smirk touched Daker's lips despite his soreness. "Khyber! I was minded to dig a ditch for thy carcass yesterday!"
Khyber screwed his eyes shut, his fists bunching until the old veins on his forearms looked like blue worms. "I am not ready for the worms, thou foolish brat! 'Twas but a temporary clouding of my wits!"
Daker gave a low chuckle, poking at the fire. "A cloud that lasted till dawn?! And thou callest thyself a legendary Crow of the red fields, yet a boy from the fields left thee sleeping in the weeds!"
That was more than the old rogue's blood could bear. Moving with the sudden, terrifying speed of a striking hawk, Khyber closed the distance, his thick, calloused thumbs and fingers clamping onto Daker's ears, twisting them until the boy yelped. "Were I ten summers younger, I'd take the skin off thy back, thou insolent whelp!"
Wincing from the heat in his ears, Daker retreated into the shadow of the stone, rubbing his red skin. Watching the old mastiffs snarl, Commander Seraphina and General Valerius could not hold back their mirth, their low laughter drifting through the clearing.
Khyber turned a black look upon them, his voice like thunder over the hills. "What art ye two grunters staring at with bared teeth?!"
The General and the Commander straightened at once, their faces turning back to cold stone as they shook their heads in unison.
Letting out a long, heavy breath that stirred the mist, Khyber's voice dropped into a dark, solemn register. "General..."
At the sound of his title, Valerius's posture changed. The easy soldier vanished; his jaw set like iron, and he stood as though before a king.
Khyber continued, "The grain is in the ear, and we have no hours to waste. This day and the coming night... I shall see this boy learn the weight of his own steel. But when the next sun rises... what comes after is a storm no man here has seen in his darkest dreams."
General Valerius turned his flinty gaze upon the boy. "Daker, whatever knowledge Master Khyber gives you from this hour forward, you must take into your marrow with absolute obedience. My horse is saddled; I cannot return to this clearing. I must needs trace that foul parchment. Whence came it? What manner of black gall was used to ink those runes? For the first time my fingers touched that skin, and every time since that I have traced those lines... a strange, cold rot seemed to crawl through my bones. It happens without fail. But before I can learn its nature, I must take it back, for it is no longer in my chest."
The General's eyes narrowed as he looked toward the distant hills. "King Argus has locked it deep within the one vault where my boots cannot tread without an executioner's warrant... his own private bedchambers. I must slip past the guards like a shadow in the night. Therefore, I go to my labor... and you, Daker, must hold your ground here with a loyal heart. Queen Isabella has staked her crown upon your back. I can smell a massive, deep-woven plot brewing beneath this whole business."
Looking straight into the old soldier's eyes, Daker spoke with a hard, quiet certainty. "General, trouble not your mind. Master Khyber has given me enough iron that no man or starved rogue in that pit shall stand before my face."
Turning toward the old soldier, Daker gave a small, genuine smile. "Is that not so, Master?"
The moment that word—Master—struck the old man's ears, the corners of his milky, scarred eyes grew wet. A sudden moisture gathered in the deep wrinkles of his face. Turning his head toward the brush to hide the weakness, Khyber muttered under his breath, "Aye... the thick-skulled calf finally found his tongue..."
Daker stared at him, his face dropping into a flat, deadpan look. "Thou art growing soft in thy winter years, old timer."
Interrupting the banter with professional grace, Commander Seraphina stepped forward, her eyes locked with the General's in a silent, powerful understanding.
"General," Seraphina said, her voice soft yet firm with hidden concern and a soldier's steel. "The shadow grows short. You must ride. I shall find cause to slip from the walls and check on the boy's progress as the sun moves."
Valerius looked upon her, his chest rising with a quiet pride for the one who held both his heart and his flank in battle. He offered a sharp, respectful nod.
"See to it, Commander," the General replied, ensuring his words carried the full weight of his respect. "Keep your eyes sharp. And ensure with your life that no spy or crow from the high keep follows your track into these trees."
The four of them shared one last, heavy look—the look of men who might next meet on a field of blood—before turning to their separate tasks. Without another word, Khyber gripped his ash-wood shaft and began to drill Daker in the lethal arts of combat.
Beyond the edge of the deep timber, the King's iron orders had already begun to grind. The high turf of the tournament grounds was being cordoned off by lines of heavily armed knights in bright mail, their long spears forming an impenetrable wall of steel so tight that not even a sparrow could pass without the King's seal. Commander Seraphina rode out toward the valley to oversee the lines.
Meanwhile, General Valerius threw his leg over his great black warhorse, digging his iron spurs into its flanks as he galloped at breakneck speed back toward the high, cold stones of King Argus's Evergard Castle, where a dark web of treachery lay waiting in the shadows.
[Chapter End]