Raven's Warrior by Vincent Pratchett Read Free Book Online Page B

inside his tunic. Here the boy struck. The thick, pointed stick found an eye. The cry of pain cut through the darkness. It was the sound that should have come from the lad but could not. With a kick of both legs, he was free and snatched the warrior’s short sword away in both his tiny hands. He did not stop.
    He hacked the kneeling giant savagely. He smelt the blood and felt its warm wetness paint his face and body, and still he slashed. The rage that was his life drove him onward, unaware of when the man no longer knelt or when the man had perished. The boy was still cutting with all his might when the others broke upon the scene. It was the smith that wrapped him gently in mighty arms and whispered soothing truths, “Vincent, stop now, it is enough.”
    All stood quietly in the forest, taken by the scene that they had come upon. The boy was blood soaked but unhurt, the warrior did not fare as well. His corpse was stretched upon the ground recognizable only by its heavy tattoos. The chest was open and hollow, and in the small clenched fist of his left hand, the boy held the dripping heart of his adversary.
    As is common in the world of war and atrocity, nothing more was spoken of the night’s event. The smith held the boy closely as he led him towards the stable. He saw the look in the lad’s wild eyes and knew that this one now had the taste of blood. That would serve him well he thought, as would the short sword the warrior no longer needed. By midday he had finished sharpening it anew, and this small one had joined the ranks of men. The civil world of fire and straw was now behind him.
    The smith was impressed with the sharpness of his own handiwork. This child is different he mused, and as he placed the freshly honed weapon into the boy’s young hands he drew him near.
    â€œVincent, may the force that made you guide and protect your path, and may God have mercy on your enemies.”

The Shield
    His first foray into the world of men was less than successful, and his first skirmish did not last long. With a child’s foolishness he thought it would be the most memorable, but in fact, he was left with almost no memory of it at all. He picked his target, a large lowlander with a wooden shield, and attacked with all the spirit of a full grown Celtic warrior. That was his only surviving recollection.
    By God’s mercy a large mercenary had befriended the boy and kept a watchful eye. He was skilled enough to finish what the boy had started, fast enough to pull him from where he had fallen, and kind enough to bear the wounded boy home. Vincent had been unconscious for the two-day carry, the first and only casualty of this excursion. He was laid groaning upon the familiar straw and held down throughout the night as he thrashed violently against enemies that only he could see.
    The one that had hauled him stayed with him, watching to see which way the lad would go. The soldier wondered to himself why he had worked so hard on the boy’s behalf. The smith assured him that this one was worth saving, and that he was right to intervene.
    Like the worst hangover, morning light brought agony and confusion. The dull ache in Vincent’s neck contrasted with the sharp pains shooting down from his head. This sobriety was not a pleasant state, and his missing reality would have to be filled in by others gradually, one painful fragment at a time. For now, however, he lay where he was dropped. Eventually he deployed tentative fingers to survey his damaged skull.
    â€œA simple fracture, leave it alone,” the smith told him, while the soldier added, “You forgot about the shield.” In truth he had forgotten the entire encounter. The event, however, was not without lesson.
    For a Celt the head is the seat of power, the house of the soul, and his would have to be rebuilt. He could not stand. His balance was undone, and there was no hearing on his left side. Fingers again explored, dipping into