The Skull and the Crow Chapter 1: Two for the Ambush

It was a good day for a robbery. In fact, it was a day when a robbery was destined to occur. The bandits were young, hungry for meat and a better future. The sun was hesitant, and that day men would kill for a little food, a little gold, and a little honor.

There were twelve in total, and none of them were particularly skilled. They were the youthful scum of Arton—strays, fugitives, and undesirables, bandits by vocation or circumstance. There was not a drop of regret among them. The group fluctuated with the tides of a life of crime; some died or were arrested, while others joined in, terrified or anxious. But two ruled over them all, having remained steadfast since the inception of what they called the Broken Tooth Gang. These two now lurked, barely breathing as they followed the future victims of their ambush with hungry eyes, their mouths salivating for money and combat. Just the two of them, as always, for they deemed the other ten too slow, noisy, and stupid.

"How are you?" Darien whispered. "Can you fight properly, or will you be left shaking all over like a virgin?"

"You don't need to be scared. I can protect you," Vincent replied. Darien nodded with a roguish half-smile, his anticipation for battle giving him goosebumps.

The truth was, Vincent wasn't well. His hand trembled, and he was soaked in sweat. He had felt this way for three weeks, plagued by fevers, red spots, and what he hadn't told Darien—hallucinations. "A weird damn disease from this place forgotten by the gods," he thought. It had begun with a thorn, or stinger, or whatever it was, that he found lodged in the back of his neck. "A poisonous insect, a plant, or something else," he mused. But if he left Darien alone, the fool would likely get himself killed in less than five minutes.

The two of them lay very still against the ground, on a slope covered in indecisive vegetation. A few meters below was a narrow, winding trail, allowing only one horse at a time. On the other side of the road, the semblance of a forest began, covering uneven terrain. Behind them, the rest of the Broken Tooth Gang waited for the signal of a whistle—or more likely, the sounds of battle, should Darien throw caution to the wind and begin the fight alone.

The victims approached, little by little, their horses struggling on the stony ground. The animals and men sweated under the weight of their heavy armor, shields, and blades. There were five knights, all shining, clad in silver metal, with six or seven squires and servants following them.

"There are many of them," Vincent said softly.

"Half will run away when they see a sword," Darien scoffed. "They are servants who miss castles and cities."

"See the banner, Darien?"

The banner of the Knights of Light flew high: the gallant order of chivalry that was the pride of the kingdom of Bielefeld, devotees of Khalmyr, the God of Justice, known for their courage in battle and mercy toward criminals.

"Knights don't know how to fight in the woods," Darien declared.

"Knights are not victims of ambushes, Darien."

"That's why. You'll be surprised. They won't even smell it." Vincent suppressed a sigh of irritation. He looked at his friend, wanting to strike him right then and there, but saw only confidence on Darien's face. Darien was just a boy, like everyone else in the Broken Tooth Gang—handsome in a way Vincent hated to admit. Tall and lean, he was full of limbs, thin and electric. A mocking mouth, small defiant green eyes, and brown hair styled in careless perfection—a type of boy mothers warned their daughters against.

Darien returned Vincent's glare, exaggeratedly mimicking concern. Vincent's serious demeanor never wavered, his angular face betraying no emotion. His square jaw remained set as he pondered the infinite possibilities of things going wrong in every small task. He was as tall as Darien but more compact and well-built, drawing sighs from silly girls he pretended not to notice. He knew how to use his eyes like beacons, turning them on to win favor, and he was as vain as a maiden with his well-groomed, curly blond hair.

Both had strange appearances for the Purple Union, their white skin clashing with the vibrant mix of ethnicities inhabiting the area. They had often been told they must be lost children of some "civilization" family. It didn't matter; they both had gold as their father and death as their mother.

It was just like Vincent to sweat profusely before an attack, Darien thought. The victims were dangerous, but those who weren't were never worth it. "At least promise you won't attack alone," Vincent said.

"I promise," Darien lied.

"It's good to be young," Darien thought. "But it's even better to be a criminal."

Justin Gherald was a knight, and he was seasick. He loathed the Purple Union, which he considered a filthy stain of savagery unworthy of the border with the noble kingdom of Bielefeld. Justin wanted to go home, but more than anything, he wanted to vomit.

Nausea had plagued him since the penultimate battle with the barbarians on their return. Although his orders were to investigate the recent strange happenings, monster sightings, and turmoil in the simple-minded politics of the Purple Union, he hadn't wasted the chance to civilize some savages with steel. The first five or six encounters had been easy—like hunting foxes. The knights' powerful spears pierced unprotected bodies regardless of how hairy or muscular they were. His four men who had died in those clashes would be both heroes and justification for a large-scale invasion. Sir Justin wanted a war—but an easy one.

His pleasure had ended when his knights faced the tattooed barbarians. There was a ferocity in them that surpassed that of other savages, a desire for death Justin had only observed in monsters, madmen, or himself. It was unlikely that it would be revenge: he had taken care to spread his slaughter equally among different tribes, fleeing their territories immediately afterward. In that battle, Justin lost eleven more men, and his proud expedition of twenty became a ragtag band of just five (not counting the servants, whom he never remembered, and who seemed to die indiscriminately). In that battle, Justin received a bad cut. He had looked at his own guts, vaguely aware of the stench and bloody jelly, and thought something indefinable about injustice, anger at the gods, and dying a hero. But the butcher shop had closed, to everyone's surprise. In just one day, the wound was already starting to heal. There was no explanation for it, so Justin decided he was a chosen one of Khalmyr, entertaining fantasies about taking power in the Order of Light.

But the nausea persisted. The wound wasn't completely healed, which was to be expected, but why that constant feeling of vomiting? Justin was irritable and distracted, believing that a knight of his rank and position should never have a stomach ache. There were also the dreams, the voices in his head, the bizarre thoughts that had taken hold. And there was that strange stinger he had found stuck in his neck the very night before the battle. The Purple Union was full of bugs and barbarians, and sometimes the two were confused. But Justin didn't want to think about all that. He wanted to think about being a hero, being the leader of all the knights, being a king, being chosen by Khalmyr, being a god.

"Sir Justin!" a young knight called, pulling him from his thoughts. His hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his sword.

Justin began a reply, but a war cry interrupted him as a boy jumped from the nearby slope and struck the first in line.

"Darien, no!" Vincent shouted, but of course, Darien ignored him.

Darien could barely wait for the knights to get within striking distance, eager as he was for profit and blood. He sprang up as if propelled by springs, his longsword already in hand as he began to run, leaping down the slope. His mouth opened wide, spilling a roar of pleasure.

"Ambush!" someone shouted. "Knights of Light, forth!"

Darien felt the ground slam against the soles of his feet. Disoriented for a moment, laughing and dizzy, he barely had time to throw himself down as the second horse ran over the first, and the man riding it swung a sword in a wide arc. The blow was precise and vicious, coming within inches of his neck, but Darien saw that his own strike had been more accurate and brutal, for the first man was now on the ground, groaning and leaking blood through his armor.

"Darien, you idiot!" Vincent's voice cut through the chaos. The young blond also jumped from the slope, but his descent was much more graceful. He landed lightly, meeting the second knight's blade with his own.

"Don't curse me in front of the victims!" Darien laughed as he stood up. The second knight delivered a powerful blow, which Vincent barely managed to parry. He shivered, his boots sinking into the dry sand of the narrow trail.

"I'm not cursing; that's my battle cry," Vincent panted, trying to pierce his opponent's guard.

"No," Darien thought calmly, smiling. The Broken Tooth Gang's war cry was different, and he took pride in it.

"Blood and youth!" the young brigand roared, and a thunder of youthful voices rose in response.

"Blood and youth!" they cried, their voices poorly formed, some still thin from childhood. They were boys still raw in body and spirit, desperate for something more.

The Broken Tooth Gang burst from the hillside. They screamed with abandon, running helter-skelter, tripping over roots or nothing at all. They waved mismatched weapons in the air: axes, machetes, hammers, clubs, rakes. Their charge was a portrait of what the world could do to green boys—thieves and murderers who dreamed of rag dolls.

Darien was on his feet and running, dodging the first horse's hooves, while Vincent was still dueling with the rider. Darien focused on the leader among the knights, an old man with a high chin and a greasy mustache, who looked as if he had nine gods in his belly. He was surprised when the old man turned his mount toward the slope, shouted an order, and charged up the rise, heading straight for the young bandits.

"No horse does that," Darien thought, but he knew nothing of life. The prodigious horse, strong as a monster and even more ferocious, ran up the slope, ignoring the branches that lashed at its hide, its mouth eager for a bite.

Horse and rider crashed into the Broken Tooth Gang, and three brigands died in the first blow. This old man was bloodthirsty; he carved a wide arc with his sword, decapitating the attacker on the left, crushing the boy in the middle's face, and splitting the last one's head apart. The horse reared up, maintaining its majestic balance while bringing down two sledgehammer hooves, crushing a skull and breaking a collarbone. The knight's sword rose and fell, severing an arm. A ferocious bite took three fingers from one of the boys. In an instant, the Broken Tooth Gang began to flee.

"Cowards!" Sir Justin cursed in jubilation. "Cowardly savages!" He urged his men forward. "Knights, onward! Khalmyr! Khalmyr!"

The boys turned their backs on Justin Gherald, and there was no greater pleasure for that man than poking an unprotected back. He broke one of the boys' spines, laughing at the gurgling sound it made. He saw another boy stumble and fall, turning to him as he cried, begging the gods and his mother. Sir Justin spurred his horse toward the child, hearing the boy's ribs crack beneath his feet, and he pursued them, killing with joy.

Darien caught glimpses of the horror but was horrified nonetheless. He didn't notice when one of the knights leaped off his mount and charged at him, swinging a huge mace toward his face.

"Darien, you idiot!" Vincent's voice broke through the fog of shock, and he saw his friend far away, nearly three meters from the knight with the mace, unable to help.

"Blood and youth, or anything," Darien murmured, waiting for the blow that would kill him.

But suddenly, a bloody point appeared on the enemy's chest, and the knight staggered before collapsing. Behind him, Vincent stood with his arm outstretched; he had thrown his sword and was now unarmed.

"Vincent, you idiot!" Darien shouted, watching his friend turn toward the two knights preparing to attack him.

Vincent was an idiot, according to all standards established by Darien, who believed himself deeply knowledgeable about the world. Vincent was an idiot because he had been bitten or stung by some animal or plant and was now sick. He trembled with fevers and sweats, red spots covering his body, some as hard as tree bark (Darien was sure that intelligent men only suffered diseases that made sense and didn't let themselves be bitten by any insect). And more than anything, Vincent was an idiot because he didn't see they needed to attack someone wealthy enough to pay a shaman or medicine man who could cure him. Darien knew it was dangerous to attack the Knights of Light; those bastards fought like demons, and he knew they might have to kill good and devoted people of Khalmyr. But what choice did they have?

Now Vincent was proving himself an idiot by throwing his sword and becoming unarmed, which meant he was going to die, and it would all be for nothing.

Vincent shielded his face with his forearm, and a blade found his wrist. Blood flowed abundantly and brightly. The blade broke. The knight looked on in disbelief for a moment, but the other knight didn't notice and attacked Vincent with a spear. The boy turned instinctively, making a prodigious leap and extending his injured arm, which was now covered with a shiny, red carapace. He grabbed the second knight's helmet and yanked him off his mount, throwing his body at the other enemy. The two tumbled to the ground in a crash of metal plates, and Vincent suddenly realized what he had done.

Darien looked at his friend, seeing the arm covered in insect-like bark, red and swollen, with a massive hand ending in razor-sharp claws.

Vincent appeared stunned, his gaze darting around in a daze, taking in the pierced chest, the broken neck, the three knights he had killed. But another knight remained—one Darien had only wounded—and Vincent didn't realize he was staggering, sword in hand, to strike him.

Darien ran, gripping the longsword with both hands, bringing the blade down on the knight's neck. The man gurgled before falling.

Up on the ridge, Sir Justin had just slaughtered the Broken Tooth Gang and turned to see the young bandit with his bizarre new appearance. Something inside Justin clicked. The voices in his mind shouted loudly, and everything began to make sense. He didn't see it, but a slow trickle of red liquid dripped from the cracks in his armor, mingling with the children's blood.

The body was indecisive, rehearsing strange changes. Justin Gherald sheathed his sword and led his horse slowly down the slope.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked Vincent. "Do you know what you are blessed with, filthy child?"

In response, Vincent bared his teeth and raised his clawed hand. Justin smiled. "And you?" he asked Darien. "Were you also blessed?"

Darien inhaled deeply, and then his mind raced as he weighed his options. He looked at the man before him, covered in blood and strangeness, at his friend transformed into something other, and at the knight he had killed.

"Yes."

Sir Justin tried to decide if the boy was bluffing, but his mind creaked, and he gave up. The voices—the red voices—shouted to him that he had found his equals. Two boys with fair skin and lost souls who, by their appearance, could almost have come from Bielefeld—on their way, chosen by Khalmyr. Thoughts of holiness, power, and glory in the Order of Light flooded him. Surrounded by equals, in a circle of blessings. There would be a chance to think calmly later.

"You've been blessed," he said to Vincent. "We are both blessed. I will take you to Bielefeld, and you will be a knight."

Vincent swallowed hard. "You are a criminal," Justin said to Darien. "All can be forgiven if blessed by Khalmyr. You will also be taken as a prisoner."

And unwritten, the unspoken option of death hung heavy in the air. The Broken Tooth Gang had been slaughtered; only the two of them remained. They said there was justice in Bielefeld; perhaps there was also leniency? The two friends exchanged glances, fear and uncertainty flashing between them.

"This will be our secret. No one must know," Justin said, sniffing. He then noticed the squires and servants, who had been ignored throughout the fight. "Ah, no one must know," he added, drawing his sword.

There were three left that afternoon, and Sir Justin had had enough of the slaughter. After all, he discovered, killing servants was just as pleasurable as killing foreigners.

Darien and Vincent exchanged looks, bound behind the horse, on the trail to prison and nobility in Bielefeld. Blood had been lost, and so had their youth.