The Skull and the Crow Chapter 3: The Castle Wall

Black Ranio was more than just the biggest bounty hunter in the world, although that was no small feat. He was a criminal feared across the continent, an assassin wanted in every kingdom. Known as Black Skull, the immortal killer, his face was never seen, hidden beneath eternal black armor that gave him his nickname. He hunted people for money, but that was the least of his crimes. For Black Skull was also the Tormentor of the Storm, a warrior in the service of the Red Storm and alien lords. No one survived Black Skull.

The spots on Ulam's skin faded, and his red nose turned pale. He began to mumble orders to defend himself, to position the guards, to close the gates. But his stumbling words were cut off, as the throat of a loyal horse had been cut before. The groom stepped forward.

"You two," he pointed at a pair of officers, "go to the stable and bring my equipment. Now. Close the gates and remove all sentries from the battlements. I want the sergeants assembled here immediately, and every man capable of wielding a sword armed and ready to fight."

Without changing his expression or raising his voice, that man dominated. The officers rushed to carry out his orders without even thinking. Instructions began to be distributed as the fort stirred, unaccustomed to a leader.

"Ingram, Trebane, take your weapons and meet me in the front yard. We will lead the defense."

"And me?" Ulam whined.

"Stay out of the way and don't get in my way. I don't want you ruining the men's morale, and in any case, it's already too late."

The gates creaked, and above all, there was the scream of the first sentry who fell from the battlements, shot by an arrow.

"It's not just animals that sense death, Captain Ulam."

Soon the two officers returned, carrying the heavy load that the stable boy had stored away. They unrolled the cloths to reveal complete armor, shiny and polished, along with a sword and a large shield that bore the symbol of the Order of Light.

"Help me put on the armor," he commanded. The officers were eager to carry out the decisive order.

As the armor was donned, the groom transformed before their eyes. It should have been obvious to everyone: Orion was a warrior, not a servant. It was evident in his straightened back, broad shoulders that could support life, and thick arms that wielded the shield as if it were nothing. More than a warrior, he was a knight; the symbol of the Order reflected in his serene confidence and well-trimmed beard. Dressed in armor, with sword and shield in hand, Sir Orion Drake, knight of the Order of Light, was a formidable figure. His hair and eyes were gray, and his beard resembled sword steel, while his chest was made of stone—a wall in the shape of a man, more solid than the world and much more deadly.

He gave orders to the sergeants and met Ingram and Trebane in the courtyard. He positioned the soldiers behind him, organized them into battalions, and formed a defense that he knew would not hold. The centaur carried a huge reaper's scythe and several javelins on his horse's back. The dwarf, in amazement, checked a pair of pistols for the last time while stroking his blond mustache and finishing strapping a long rifle to his back.

"These weapons are illegal," a soldier stammered at Ingram.

"That's true," the dwarf's gaze made the soldier swallow. It was the look of someone who loved their job, cherished their tools, and was about to start their shift.

The soldier scraped the ground with his foot, trying to find a better topic. "What is he going to do?" he asked, pointing at Orion with his chin.

"He'll do what he does best," Ingram laughed. "You're going to die, my boy."

War horns sounded, and Orion drew his sword. Ashlen Ironsmith remained alone in the hall with Captain Ulam.

❖

Rain fell heavily, soaking Sir Orion Drake, but he remained dignified, impassive as a tower, calm as a volcano. He planted his greaves in the mud that had already formed on the ground and waited for the first enemy. A few meters away, the dead sentry lay, his open mouth overflowing and gurgling with rain.

"They are barbarians," Trebane shouted across the courtyard over the noise of the rain, thunder, and distance. "See the feathers on that arrow? They are barbarians." Orion didn't see it. Only the centaur was capable of discerning such details in the dark, at that distance, through the curtain of water.

"Come up on the battlements and take a look at them, Trebane," Orion commanded. "I want to know if there is a wizard."

"I'm not going up on this crap if there's a battalion of archmages and two minor gods," Trebane roared. Centaurs hated heights.

"I need to know if there is a wizard."

"Let's make a deal: I'll kill everyone, and if there's a wizard, I'll kill him too." Orion knew it was impossible to argue with his friend, but an officer took that as a license to question him.

"Cavalariço," he began, but the look on Orion's face was enough to change his tone and words. "Sir knight..."

Orion ordered him to speak.

"Why don't we position ourselves inside the castle? Defense would be much easier."

"Against an army, yes," Orion replied. "But not against Black Skull. He would be in and killing before you knew it. In position, soldier!" The officer ran, almost afraid, almost grateful. These were fake soldiers, sergeants from other years, parade officers—but they were beginning to taste real military life, and they became intoxicated. Orion believed men only needed encouragement and a leader to be heroes. He didn't expect the Arantar garrison to perform heroics, but he did expect them to fight; he didn't expect them to fight well, but he did expect bravery. Even some servants had taken up arms—they were soldiers now, albeit bad ones.

The rain extinguished any torch or lamp, leaving only the light from inside the castle and a handful of old enchanted stones, already half-worn or faded. On one hand, it would be hell to fight like this. On the other hand, it would be better for men not to see the enemy's superiority. The courtyard was too large, just as the castle was too large, and the contingent was far from occupying it all. Orion knew that if the barbarians had even a modicum of tactics, they would outflank them. Even without that, it was difficult to mount a defense in such open terrain, with men so devoid of experience and talent. He was counting on himself, Ingram, and Trebane to beat back the first wave, kill as many as they could, and scatter the rest to make the fight possible.

Four tall ladders crashed against the walls of the fort, and soon the first heads appeared as the invaders climbed from the other side. The trumpets sounded again within the darkness, and a flash of lightning illuminated the pairs of eyes filled with light and frenzy.

"Archers, prepare!" shouted Orion. "Not yet!" Under those conditions, at that distance, no man would hit a single arrow. Orion maintained discipline until he knew the shots would not be wasted. Soon, a dozen invaders appeared on the battlements. As Trebane had predicted, they were barbarians: bulky bodies bloated with muscle, hair and tattoos, hair braided with feathers, and scars decorating their skin. They wielded axes and wild clubs, dressed in rags, leather, and some strange armor that Orion couldn't identify.

Suddenly, a report louder than thunder rang out—a dry boom that made the nearest ears ring. A cloud of smoke erupted, and the head of one of the barbarians exploded. Ingram looked like a large boulder with a long rifle barrel, covered in an oiled cloak meant to keep the powder dry.

"Eat lead, you bastards!" shouted the dwarf.

Orion accepted that as a declaration of war. "Archers, now!"

The arrows flew in short trajectories, most falling behind the battlements, some embedding into tattooed chests, while others didn't even reach the walls. From the barbarians, a collective roar rose, and only two fell. More invaders appeared from behind the stone, climbing the stairs, and the first ones jumped into the courtyard, collapsing and still screaming—one of them breaking an ankle while the others charged forward.

The killing had begun.

The archers, positioned behind all the battalions, fired at will. The arrows whizzed incessantly above their heads, and every now and then, a barbarian fell without being clearly seen—more luck than skill. A curse echoed as one of the bowstrings broke, biting the archer's face.

But Orion took little notice of this; he had his left foot in front, his right foot steadying his body on a solid base, his shield protecting his torso, sword raised behind him, and he was waiting for the first enemy. A towering barbarian, head and shoulders above the others, ran at him with abandon, brandishing a huge two-handed axe, slashing through the air—happy, angry. Orion's beard dripped with rain; he remained motionless, his face like a gap carved in stone.

The barbarian raised the axe above his head and brought it down with impressive force. The weapon's reach was formidable, and two good hits would be possible before the knight could strike back. Orion raised his shield in a quick and practiced movement that he executed without thinking. His arm barely gave way. The barbarian raised it again, and in an instant, Orion stepped forward, out of the enemy's reach. The immense blade whizzed harmlessly behind him. Orion threw the shield forward, hitting the barbarian's chest hard, then raised it to strike his windpipe. The enemy's bulk bent, and Orion thrust his sword, piercing soft stomach and brittle bone. The barbarian staggered back, trying to prepare the axe, but Orion followed him, as if in a dance, his leg in front and his sword cutting at chest level. An ugly, bloody gash opened; Orion deflected the enemy's arm with his shield and prepared his sword for a high, long cut. He turned his body, and the barbarian's head rolled to the ground. An instant had passed.

The barbarians came by the dozens, filled with greed and teeth, enthusiastic and unmethodical. Orion remained cool, stone on his face and silk in his movements, slipping into the known and practiced rhythm of the fight. Shield, thrust, slash; shield, thrust, cut, and the barbarians fell around him.

From time to time, the report of Ingram's weapons could be heard. The dwarf took his time reloading his pistols and rifle, moving everywhere, staying away from enemies and rain. But each shot was a death, and he screamed curses when he hit a chest instead of a forehead, eye, or throat.

Trebane was mowing down enemies. He held the huge scythe with both hands, cutting the barbarians like wheat. A smaller invader came at him from behind and was split in two. The centaur stood up on his hind legs, using his hooves to crush skulls, trampling the half-dead, and driving away the most cowardly.

"You are the hunt, sheep!" he shouted. "You are the hunted! Burn for Allihanna!" Suddenly, a column of flames incinerated three distant barbarians. The centaur took so much pleasure in hand-to-hand combat that he almost forgot the mystical gifts of the Goddess of Nature. He roared another wild prayer, and soon lightning struck one enemy after another. The soldiers trembled, but these were the clean rays of nature, the storm of Arton. Tendrils rose from the bloody mud floor, entangling the invaders. Nature turned against the barbarians, and Trebane rejoiced. But though there were hills of corpses where the three passed, the soldiers did not share the same success. Orion had formed them into a shield wall, but the clash of the first barbarians managed to break the defensive line. Soldiers and invaders scattered, fighting without order, without technique. Orion knew that only a very strong, blessed, or lucky man could win a fight without technique. The soldiers of Fort Arantar were neither strong nor lucky, much less blessed.

"HOLD POSITIONS!" shouted the knight. "Fight as you were trained, with all demons! Keep order!"

The men lost any semblance of order; they were in the midst of panic, and Orion had no doubt they would soon begin to flee. They struck when they saw a chance, took cover when they didn't, and fell for every enemy bait. They thought before striking, which was absurd. It never occurred to them to defend their companions, and so they all fell. Without breaking the rhythm of death, Orion saw that it was a massacre.

A band of invaders jumped from the battlements, falling in a more or less compact group.

"With me!" shouted Orion. "Soldiers, with me! Charge!"

A handful rushed to him as if pulled by ropes. Some died due to distraction, carrying out the order without seeing an enemy nearby. Orion slammed his shield into three barbarians in front of him, opening the way for that precarious formation to run in a poorly made wedge, headed by himself.

"Charge! Khalmyr! Khalmyr!"

The name of the God of Justice thundered in ten or twelve throats, and the onslaught caught the barbarians still rising from their leap. Orion's sword cut off two heads and tore off an arm as he penetrated deep into the enemy group, while the soldiers used their swords like machetes, managing to kill some.

Orion spun around, knocking down two more, saw some unarmed barbarians, and noticed some soldiers taking advantage of the situation. He raised his shield to block an axe, but the attacker's head exploded with a shot from Ingram. Orion turned around, barely noticing the huge man he was about to strike, and suddenly, the edge of his sword struck something hard, making a noise that hurt his ears.

In front of Orion stood a barbarian with tattoos and scars, and something else. His chest was covered by a kind of armor—no, not armor. It was a resistant plate, part of himself, like the shell of a beetle. The man's eyes glowed red, not just with anger. His skin glistened with a disgusting, acid-smelling slime. And Orion knew the battle was lost.

The barbarian wielded two axes, striking with the speed of bare hands, meeting Orion's fighting rhythm with frenzy. The axes became a blur. Orion took two blows to his armor before a blade found a gap, filling his shoulder with blood and pain. The shield weighed down on him, and he was a little too slow to block a butcher's strike to his cheek. The barbarian continued to attack, and Orion decided to focus on the assault—a different rhythm, but one he had also learned and trained. But he found only hard carapace where there should have been soft flesh. A stronger blow struck his shield, forcing the knight to bend his legs. The barbarian towered before him, opening his mouth in a jubilant scream, ready to kill. With a leap, Orion rose, lunging upwards, and thrust the tip of his sword into the barbarian's open mouth. He destroyed the roof of the mouth and the soft inside of the skull, but was surprised when he couldn't completely break the head. The enemy fell, but the blade was covered in sickening goo, and there was a dent in it.

The knight cursed himself for neglecting the battlefield for a moment. Above him, more barbarians arrived. They no longer jumped or climbed the stairs—they had wings like insects and flew clumsily, landing heavily. It took them a while to recover, but the first soldiers began to flee when they saw them.

Fort Arantar had fallen.

Orion fought, returning to the others, ordering the internal doors to be opened for a last stand inside. The outer gates were broken in, the wooden beam splintering under a boot.

"Deliver Ashlen Ironsmith to me!" Black Skull shouted.

The killing stopped for a moment.

"Bullshit," Ingram muttered.

There stood Black Skull.

❖

Black Skull stood out, darker than night, before the destroyed gates. None of those men had ever seen him—the proof was that they were alive. But stories, the infamy and fear that accompanied the bounty hunter, and the miasma of evil that fouled the air around him, were good harbingers.

"Deliver Ashlen Ironsmith to me," he repeated.

His voice was metallic, emanating from inside the helmet, undefined and booming. Not an inch of skin was visible, as if the black armor were his flesh. His face was masked, carved into a skull. A dark cloak, of an indefinable color, hung wetly from his back. In his hands, he held two long, thin swords.

Black Skull was on guard.

His posture, his body almost limp with boredom, suggested disinterest rather than battle. Black Skull was not imposing; he was dangerous. Immediately, Orion wanted to confront him. Black Skull walked idly around the courtyard, the slaughter roaring around him once again. When he noticed a soldier, he killed him as one would crush an insect. His blades were quick and accurate, and he slaughtered effortlessly. Orion was clearing a path of bodies to find him when he noticed the swaying form of Captain Ulam running toward the bounty hunter. For a moment, Black Skull paused in the mud and rain, tilting his head as if trying to understand.

"Ashlen Ironsmith is here," Ulam gasped. "You can take him; he's inside. You don't need to kill us."

"No," said Black Skull. "I don't need it," and he cut off Ulam's head. He continued walking, bored, toward the inner doors the captain had left open. His armor made no noise.

"Criminal!" Orion roared. "Surrender yourself to the justice of Khalmyr!"

It was a good challenge. Black Skull turned his face encased in metal, almost in disbelief, almost uncaring, and didn't change his slouched posture when the knight attacked, shield in defense and sword in threat.

Orion's heavy blade described a gray arc, wide and sharp, a swift demonstration of training and strength. Harmless. Black Skull projected himself in an instantaneous, feline leap, spinning his armored body in the air, gracefully avoiding the sword. He landed soundlessly, barely disturbing the bloody mud, in perfect balance. Every movement was precise and necessary. The metal of the black armor seemed to multiply and have a mind of its own: plates covering the space left by other plates that moved, without flaw. Orion attacked again from below, but Black Skull parried easily with both blades crossed. As the knight readied himself again, the thin swords met the sides of his stomach. Black Skull fired a cable into the air, a blow to the chin that drew saliva, blood, and teeth, piercing through Orion's already injured shield arm.

Orion ignored the pain but found it impossible to match his opponent's speed. He attacked again and again, the metal becoming heavier, never finding the enemy's body.

Suddenly, Black Skull jumped, and the mud below splashed everywhere, accompanied by a shot from Ingram. He had barely landed when Trebane charged at him from behind, hooves raised to trample. Black Skull evaded the centaur, using his cloak to disguise his body, but he was surrounded. Orion lunged with his sword and managed to touch the black armor.

"Let's become famous, Orion!" Ingram laughed. "Those who killed Black Skull!"

"Hurry up, I'm almost sober," Trebane added.

Orion said nothing.

Black Skull was a whirlwind, blocking and cutting, but he couldn't avoid all the sword and scythe blows, nor the shots, nor the lightning and Allihanna's furies. He ducked to dodge a hoof, and suddenly he was off at a run, spraying mud, almost upon Ingram before the others could notice.

The dwarf unloaded both pistols, but Black Skull dodged one shot and parried the second with a blade. Crouched as he was, the tip of one of his swords cut through the mud and pierced Ingram's stomach, lifting him off the ground. Black Skull turned, the rain washing away the mud and blood. Ingram fell onto his back, grinding his teeth. Trebane, an instant late, ran toward his friend, aiming to heal rather than attack, and received a long, thin, deep cut across his ribs. The bounty hunter rushed at Orion, who met him by crouching behind his shield, turning frantically to block blow after blow.

"Come this way!" shouted a nearly vanished voice.

The man who had caused it all, the stranger who had appeared at the castle gates, Ashlen Ironsmith, held the inner door ajar. Orion could see, from the corner of his gray eyes, that most of the survivors were running that way. Black Skull also looked, and the knight seized the moment to retreat, rolling enough in the mud to evade the enemy's swords. He roared at Trebane to take Ingram away. He prayed to Khalmyr to be quick enough and ran to the door. Did he see this coming? No, it wouldn't be fast, and in a maddening instant, he realized a blade would hit his back. But Ingram, carried like a sack of potatoes on the centaur's shoulders, spilling his intestines over his friend, managed to raise his rifle. Swinging and half-dead, he hit Black Skull in the chest.

Black Skull fell back, but only stunned. Orion reached the door, dragged the last two soldiers inside, and Ashlen closed it with a wooden beam.

"It won't last," panted the knight.

"Come with me," said Ashlen Ironsmith. "I discovered a secret passage." Only a few minutes of actual combat had passed. Orion was used to that feeling: time dilated in battle and shrank in the long wait that always preceded it. Closed in the castle, they felt a sense of deafness as the screams of the fight and the clang of metal suddenly fell silent. The bodies were as if asleep; the pain was still vague, but the emotion of slaughter was already dissipating, giving way to the lucidity that would bring all reality to the surface.

The furious drops of rain could barely be heard on the other side of the walls.

Orion looked around. Ingram, despite blood and stench gushing from his stomach, was not the worst off. One soldier held a severed arm at the elbow, his face absurdly calm as if he had not yet comprehended what had happened. Some sported so many cuts that Orion wasn't sure how they were still alive. A sergeant with a sunken chest would drown in his own blood. They were not an encouraging sight, and there were few of them remaining. Trebane poured some of Allihanna's life power into the wounded, healing some, but others were already beyond help.

Outside, more thunder rumbled, accompanied by barbaric roars. The heavy door shuddered and creaked. It wouldn't hold for long.

"I discovered a secret passage," Ashlen repeated.

Ingram managed to pull himself up, despite his stomach wound, to grab Ashlen by his clothes. "What the hell, who are you?"

"Do you really want me to stop and explain now? Please, come with me. He won't give up."

Everyone looked to Orion, whether out of certainty or instinct. "Let's go," said the knight.

That strange, crippled man—ragged but somehow special, with a boyish look on his face despite being around thirty—led the survivors into the bowels of the fort. He moved strangely, with a grotesque limp due to his bizarre prosthetic, but it didn't slow him down. He used it as part of his body, almost like a technique. Sometimes the false foot helped him be even faster, lighter, and silent—like a thief.

They entered the less noble corridors of Fort Arantar, and soon Orion joined the small contingent of servants in that ragged group. Passing through the kitchen and a previously ignored door, they finally arrived at a trapdoor leading to a tunnel. It was excavated from living stone and rough earth, supported by crude wooden pillars that did not inspire much confidence. They entered, finding no light other than the few torches they carried. The tunnel stretched on as far as the eye could see, narrow enough for only two to pass side by side.

Trebane rolled his eyes, staggering and gritting his teeth; in addition to heights, he hated closed places.

A tearing and splintering sound—continuous and immediate—told them that the main door had given way.

They ran.

❖

Black Skull had never taken so long to kill a man.

That Ashlen Ironsmith was important, there was no doubt. Capturing him was vital before killing him. Just killing him would have been easy, even in Valkaria where the hunt had begun, even in other places. But capturing him was difficult.

There had been many more powerful targets. Black Skull didn't turn down jobs based on ability. Killings for money, killings for stratagems, killings to satisfy his masters—he was the world's greatest bounty hunter, and he had hunted heroes. Heroes were the hunt; men were the hunted; people were the prey.

Black Skull had died countless times during his hunts. Sometimes death was inevitable, no matter how much he planned. Sometimes it was convenient, even part of a ruse. Dying was trivial. Ashlen Ironsmith hadn't killed him once, but he was slippery.

He had no doubt he would seize his prey. Ashlen could flee across the continent, across the world, and would encounter traps and plots, allies and ambushes from Black Skull. This wasn't bravado; it was a calculated and meticulous truth.

But waiting is enervating.

Black Skull had not wanted to reveal his troops—not even part of them—sooner than planned. Nobody knew that the criminal had a private army, and that would cause all kinds of problems. Using the barbarians at that time was a hasty move, indicative of a new player, an anxious child. However, it was necessary. Ashlen Ironsmith had forced him to use his commands, and the Kingdom would certainly learn of it soon. Unless they all died in Fort Arantar. But Black Skull harbored no illusions: in castle invasions and skirmishes by the dozens, there was always someone left. That was why he preferred the clean, surgical hunt—one target, one attack, one kill.

With luck, Deheon's crown would underestimate his numbers. Black Skull was lucky. And, in any case, he always had a plan in place if the enemy was smart. Never smarter than him—and that wasn't bravado either.

He had climbed one of the castle walls, in the rain, in full armor, without difficulty. He found a window without bars and slipped inside. The fort was deserted. It was too large, a nightmare to defend. Only a fool, focused solely on battalions and infantry and not spies and wizards, would place such a small garrison in a fort of this size. In any case, thought Black Skull, whoever had improvised that defense had done remarkably well. The massacre would have been the same whether the soldiers were inside or outside the castle, but if they had been inside, he could have penetrated as easily as he had now and sneaked around at will. On the other side, there was a good strategist. Maybe it was that knight.

He searched corridors, analyzed tracks, and within a minute decided that the survivors had fled through some secret passage. Some time ago, he had heard the barbarians breaking down the door. He looked some more, saw marks in carpets and dust, and found a vague trail that led to the kitchen, through confusing rooms, and finally to a trapdoor. The trail was hot.

Black Skull led the barbarians through the secret passage. The narrow tunnel slowed their movements, but it should slow down the soldiers even more. The footprints were now clear—a stampede of terrified people on soft earth—and he read the story of the tracks: how the centaur got in the way, how someone had fallen here and there, and the group had wasted time helping them. Fresh trails of blood dripping were an invitation. It didn't take long for him to hear the sounds of whining and running.

"Kill them all," he commanded the barbarians. "Minus the target." He loved simple orders and simple deaths.

And the barbarians ran, and Black Skull ran with them, breathing in anticipation, and the group could already be seen, half-dead.

Then came the trap.

"Trebane, now!" came the distant voice of the knight.

The centaur roared, stomped the ground, and Black Skull ran faster, trying to get closer, trying to escape the danger zone.

Allihanna's flames roared, igniting the gunpowder that Ingram had strategically placed near two pillars. The world exploded around Black Skull. The tunnel collapsed, burying the barbarians and the hunter, and the soldiers of Fort Arantar had to run to safety. After the silence, they discovered the fort wall had collapsed. There were few soldiers left, but the enemy was completely dead.

❖

Days passed before the black gauntlet emerged from the ground. Black Skull rose from the hill of dirt, rubble, and corpses. He dropped to the floor, his body shaking with effort, his mind vibrating with calculations.

He had died, but death was trivial. He thought of Ashlen Ironsmith and the reward for him—the greatest reward of all.