The Crows
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The sound of neighing horses and shouts rose from beyond the towerhouse walls.
Yesugei scrambled up the battlements, staying low as he approached Marmun and Valishin, crouched behind a crenellation. Peering over the walls, he first mistook the flickering lights beyond the walls for. But as he squinted through the darkness, he made out cavalrymen on horseback, their helmets and speartips gleaming as they galloped through cobblestone streets, searching from empty house to empty house.
A bright flame bloomed to life in the night as one of the houses on the outskirts of the town caught fire, its dry thatched roof set alight in an instant by a torch. Then another, and another. Soon it seemed Balai had been transformed into a great field of orange flowers, with fiery petals licking hungrily up at the night sky.
Yesugei nocked an arrow as others joined him on the battlements. Rudin slipped beside him, his helm reflecting a splash of bright orange from the glow of the flames. Vasilisa knelt at his other side, masking her fear with anger as she stared at the burning town.
“How many are out there?” whispered Vratislav as he limped over to the battlements, wielding an ax.
Yesugei tried to count the moving silhouettes, the torches, but the shadows of the fires blended them all together into a single mass. “Two dozen? Maybe three? Too many.”
Over the roaring of the growing flames and neighing of horses the raiders’ shouts in the Klyazmite tongue grew louder. The stream of torches moved closer towards the keep. Now everybody was at the battlements, staring in terrified awe at the town below as more and more buildings erupted into flame.
“Valishin, Gastya, take the women and head down to the pier,” ordered Vratislav, his sickly face rendered hollow and skeletal by the glow of the fires. “Stay low and get that riverboat out into the water.”
“But the others left it behind, what about-”
“If we can’t get out onto the Cherech, then we’ll all die,” spat Vratislav. “Go, your boyar commands it!”
The peasants scrambled from the battlements, Valishin clutching his wife’s hand as they hurried across the courtyard to the hidden exit. Nesha started to follow but turned back to face her husband, her voice trembling.
“Remember your duty to me, Vratislav,” said Nesha, her eyes watery with tears she stubbornly refused to shed. “I will not be a boyar’s widow, understand?”
Vratislav knelt and kissed her forehead. For a moment, it seemed Nesha might convince him to leave, but he gently placed her hands in hers, squeezing tightly. “It’s all by the will of the gods. Now go. Run. We’ll follow.”
Reluctantly, Nesha descended the battlements. Vratislav’s gaze then shifted to Vasilisa, still on the walls with a dagger in hand and the cleaver strapped to her back.
“My lady-”
“No,” interrupted Vasilisa, her gaze resolute. “I’m staying here. As your liege lady, I command myself.”
“But your father-”
“My father isn’t here.” Vasilisa stuck her jaw out in defiance. “But I am still a daughter of Belnopyl, the lineage of Raegnald. Our blood has always defended our subjects and vassals, and everyone here is among them.”
“We can’t hold these walls forever,” retorted Vratislav, gesturing over the gathered peasants - Marmun, Doru, and Khavel wielding their tools, and Rudin with his spear. “I won’t risk you dying in the retreat from the walls. Of any of us, you should be the first to escape.”
“The arms-masters always said a lord who commands respect is the one first in battle, and the last in the retreat.”
“The ones who held true to that advice were the ones who died, my lady…” Vratislav’s voice grew desperate as the torches drew ever closer to the base of the keep’s walls. “Please.”
Before he could say more, Marmun called them to the edge of the battlements. Below, several cavalrymen halted at the gates. Yesugei clutched the feathered shot tight in his fingers as he glanced carefully down. A dozen riders, clad in heavy mail and adorned helms, stood just below the walls. One carried a large banner, but in the dim torchlight, its colors and symbol were impossible to discern.
Then one of the horses - a powerful courser bred for war - reared up and gave a loud neigh that echoed out over the keep.
“Open the gates!” shouted the horse’s rider, a lancer wearing a tall, pointed helmet decorated with silver. “Come out and fight, you cowards!”
“Hold down there!” called down Vratislav as he leaned out over the walls. “This town’s been abandoned!”
“And who are you?” yelled the lancer. “One of Crahask’s warriors? Busy pissing yourself behind stone walls while we burn your precious town? Tell that cockless fucker Crahask to get out here and fight with honor - or did he run off with the women and children?”
“Damned if I know where Crahask has gone, but he isn’t here!” shouted Vratislav. “The place was abandoned when we got here ourselves, and we owe no allegiance to Crahask. Do what you want with the town, but leave us be.”
Before the lancer could respond, another rider emerged from the shadows, flanked by footmen with axes and spears. The lancers at the gates fell silent, deferring to the heavily armored newcomer. His plumed helmet bore a metal faceguard styled as a grinning mustachioed man, its demonic visage flickering in the firelight. So, this one is the leader.
The boyar chuckled as he lifted his mask. A ruddy and squashed face peered up at their band on the walls. “Vratislav. I believe we missed you at Yerkh.”
“Stribor?” gaped Vratislav as he looked down at the commander. On the hanging shields of the footmen, Yesugei spotted the roaring griffon of Gatchisk. “Gods, what are you doing?”
“Waging war,” replied Stribor with a slim, feral smile. “The Khormchaks are coming, haven’t you heard?”
“It was you who attacked Yerkh, wasn’t it?” Vratislav spat, the veins in his neck bulging with rage. “ I saw the banners, but I didn’t think…you wage war by turning your swords against your own people?”
“I’m foraging, as any good student of war should,” said Stribor. “Times will be tough. When the nomads come, they’ll strike along Yerkh and Balai again, taking slaves and supplies. I’ll leave them nothing but ash to pillage from the borderlands. Besides…”
He adjusted his grip on the reins. “I owe nothing to that sunken cunt Gvozden, nor Igor. Only Prince Svetopolk still fights for our freedom. He’s rallied the north and Pemil to rise against the nomads and cast off their yoke once and for all. A dozen of us boyars from the south have already sworn to him after we heard news of the gods’ wrath against Belnopyl’s, and more are flocking to his warband every day.”
“You still swore an oath to serve Gatchisk,” muttered Vratislav. “I never thought you to be such a disloyal dog.”
“I’m loyal to my land and freedom first,” Stribor snapped, bitterness sharp in his tone. “Not to some shriveled old fools who let their people be enslaved. The House of Gatchisk fell the day Gvozden exiled his own son and bowed before that weakling Igor. All Gatchisk and Belnopyl’s princes want is peace, no matter how badly they must starve their own to appease the khans. But some of us still remember when we were free. We want vengeance for our fallen, we want freedom, we want blood. And whoever does not stand with us, stands against us.”
“Now,” Stribor drew his sword, pointing it toward the walls. “In the name of Prince Svetopolk the Bright Sun, open the gates and surrender.”
The peasants exchanged uneasy glances, then looked to Vasilisa and Vratislav, who stood tense at the battlements. Surrender might have seemed an option, but Yesugei read the truth in the warriors’ eyes. The only ones who might be taken prisoner would be Vratislav and Vasilisa - they’d be worth far more alive and ransomed than dead. But for commoners and himself, their fate was spelled out in the cavalry’s ready weapons. None of them are interested in extra prisoners slowing them down. They'll kill the rest of us here and now once we open those gates.
“I have my subjects here,” Vratislav called out, blindly hoping against hope to negotiate. “Can you guarantee their safety if we surrender?”
“I’m done with this,” Stribor said, raising a fist. A cavalryman hurled a spear at the walls, narrowly missing Vratislav as Vasilisa pulled him down and behind the walls by his tunic.
“Over the walls. Kill everyone but the girl and the boyar,” Stribor ordered. A storm of javelins and arrows exploded from the darkness, forcing everyone to crouch low as the missiles clattered against the walls. Yesugei heard warriors dismount and ready their weapons below.
“Hold the walls!” Vratislav shouted over the din. “Strike anything that climbs! When we can’t hold, retreat to the river!”
The walls were high and rough, but the earthen hill upon which the keep sat was low and sloped enough for the warriors to climb it bare-handed. Yesugei spotted the warrior at the lead scaling the slope, shield and sword in hand. He loosed an arrow, striking the warrior in the shoulder and sending him tumbling into the dark. The cries of the armored horde grew louder as the battle began.
As more and more warriors rushed to climb the hill, Yesugei saw Khavel and Marmun throw a large empty barrel over the walls - it tumbled along the uneven slope of the hill, and cast several more men into the darkness. Rudin pulled the javelins free from the catwalk and hurled them back at the teeming crowd, but Yesugei didn't see whether he hit his mark.
There seemed to be no end to the charging killers that climbed to reach the walls - their armor was sturdy, and even those struck by barrels, rocks, or javelins were only stunned and came scrambling back up after regaining their bearings. Like a surging swarm of black ants they pressed on and upwards, until eventually a pale arm grasping a sword swung over the edge of the walls next to Yesugei.
Before he could react, Vratislav’s axe struck down, severing the hand. Blood sprayed as the warrior shrieked and fell. Vratislav tossed the fallen sword to Doru.
“I don’t know how to fight with this!” Doru shouted, eyes wide with fear.
“Watch yourself!” Rudin warned as another warrior came up the wall, his shield awkwardly held aloft as he swung one leg over. Doru froze, but Rudin charged, burying his boar spear deep into the warrior’s hauberk and shoving him back over the battlements.
More warriors began to climb up over the walls, plunging into the desperate push. The smells of smoke, blood, iron, and death filled his senses until it became a single smell - the smell of battle. The only rhythm that anchored him was the mantra nock-draw-loose he repeated in his head as he shot arrow after arrow at the swarm of warriors - aiming for unprotected legs, armpits, or faces. But it was not enough to stem the armored tide.
Marmun dragged a climber onto the battlements by his belt, and Khavel crushed the man’s skull with his hammer. Vratislav hacked at another warrior, wrenching his helmet off with the force of his blow. Before the man could retaliate, Vasilisa darted in, slicing his throat with her dagger. She then seized his sword and rejoined the desperate defense.
A strangled cry tore through the air. Yesugei turned just in time to see Doru collapse, blood spraying as a longaxe ripped across his chest. The weapon’s wielder was massive, a hulking brute who towered over his comrades. With a berserk scream, the axeman charged down the battlements, trampling the injured apprentice without pause. Rudin stepped forward, spear in hand, but his thrust glanced harmlessly off the warrior’s chestplate. The axeman didn’t slow—he smashed the poacher across the face with the haft of his axe, sending him tumbling into the courtyard below.
Only Vasilisa stood between the berserker and Yesugei. Frantic, Yesugei struggled to nock an arrow as the warrior closed the distance. Vasilisa met his attack, sword against axe, and their clash rang with a metallic screech. Their weapons locked for a moment, but the axe’s hooked blade caught her sword’s hilt. The blade wrenched free from her grasp with a mighty pull, and tumbled over the walls into the darkness below.
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Vasilisa staggered back, unarmed. The warrior raised his axe high, preparing to deliver a fatal blow. Yesugei’s fingers tightened on his bowstring as he aimed, but time seemed to slow. Blood dripped from the axe, its arc frozen in the air, each drop staining the already slick battlements.
He released his breath, heart pounding. It was too late.
The axe fell, splitting the silence with a sickening crunch as it struck flesh and bone.
***
The world seemed to halt as blood bloomed across the cloth wrapping the Apostle’s cleaver. The fabric unravelled beneath the soaking weight, slipping away to reveal the grotesque weapon to the world: rows of yellowed, jagged teeth embedded in flesh that oozed and pulsed as if alive.
Vasilisa's grip faltered for a moment as she drew a sharp, steadying breath. Her hand had sought the cleaver out of blind desperation, a futile gesture; she had resigned herself to the warrior's axe falling upon her. It was too heavy, too unwieldy—she knew this in her heart. Yet, impossibly, the cleaver now felt light - its weight was gone, replaced by an undeniable certainty that it belonged in her hands. Molded to fit her hands and hers alone.
She watched, transfixed, as a grayness spread from the point of impact. The blade stiffened and cracked, pulsating flesh petrifying into solid stone. Veins of fissures snaked across its surface, and with each passing moment, the cleaver grew lighter.
The mad warrior grunted, struggling to free his axe from the blade, but Vasilisa seized the moment. She tightened her grip on the smooth bone handle, her silenced heart giving a faint, thrumming buzz that sent warmth coursing through her veins.
Time rushed back to her—the shouts, the clash of steel, the stench of blood and sweat. For the first time, she felt the cleaver’s power truly awaken, and it was hers.
The longaxe ripped free from the petrified blade with a puff of dust, but the warrior’s movements were sluggish - slowed by surprise and fear.
The cleaver crushed and then sheared through the top of the warrior’s iron helmet with a bone-jarring impact. For a moment, it seemed as though the man was simply dazed. But then his axe fell from his grip, and his body swayed before collapsing, the split helmet revealing her deadly precision. Soldiers on the walls froze, their eyes on the monstrous weapon and the fallen man.
Vasilisa stood over the body, blood spurting from the cleaver’s devastating blow. It was her handiwork—but the weapon’s power left her unsettled, its teeth still gleaming, its purpose undeniable.
And the blade spoke to her.
It wasn’t just a feeling of bloodlust - it was an entirely separate presence, one that emanated from within the blade itself. Many voices speaking as one.
Fear? Control. Survive.
A ripple of hunger coursed through her arms, accompanied by a strange understanding. Know us. Help us.
Shargaz was its name - the presence that dwelt within the blade, puppeteering the many voices as one. The more energy the thing absorbed, the more it wanted to absorb. The sword’s craving became her own - it was like an aching thirst, one that would not be satiated with the life of just one. The sword was starving, and its hunger yearned to be unleashed.
“Run.” Vasilisa warned the gaping warriors, though the voice was not her own. It grated with the anger of an Apostle, the hunger of Shargaz, and her entire body came alive with unnatural power. It's not enough. I need more.
She felt impossibly light and agile as she lunged at the frozen soldiers. She realized she was smiling as she raised the cleaver high and took another swipe at the man closest to her. With a loud crack the heavy blade splintered the soldier's wooden shield, and sent him tumbling over the parapets with a scream.
“Run!” another soldier parroted, and the panic took like a wildfire. The men pushed and shoved at each other as they scrambled to descend the battlements with cries of, “A witch! They have a witch!”
Vasilisa swung the cleaver with reckless abandon, driving the screaming animals back until she stood over the injured mason's apprentice, who was pulled to safety by a companion. One soldier gathered up enough courage to charge her with a spear, only to collapse with an arrow lodged in his chest.
“Vasilisa!” Yesugei called. She turned to see that everyone else had already retreated - Marmun and Khavel were carrying Doru across the courtyard, Vratislav stood at the postern door to the pier with his axe in hand, and Rudin seemed to have disappeared altogether during the fight. “We need to leave! We cannot hold this!”
Yesugei pointed downhill, where the fleeing cavalrymen were already regrouping as Stribor roared at them to press on. From the darkness, a squad of archers drew closer to the walls, readying their long infantry bows.
She nodded, then slipped from the battlements alongside Yesugei as the first volley of arrows whistled behind them. As they hurried across the courtyard Vasilisa heard axes splintering the gate behind them.
Then in the wake of the arrows, a long tongue of flame streaked across the night sky, landing on the roof of the keep’s stable. The dry thatched roof immediately began to catch fire, and Vasilisa saw a look of horror come upon Yesugei’s face as he skidded to a stop.
“Kaveh’s horse!” he shouted, spinning back toward the burning stables.
“Leave him!” Vratislav and Khavel yelled as the soldiers advanced, but Yesugei plunged into the inferno. Vasilisa stood frozen in the courtyard, watching as the hungry flames crawled across the dry thatch, causing the whole stable to groan under its collapsing weight.
“My lady! We need to run now!” cried Vratislav as he shooed Marmun and Khavel through the hidden doorway. “Leave him! He can fend for himself!”
Dozens of axe blows rained down upon the old wooden gate, ripping open a hole large enough for one soldier to squeeze through. When the first man through the gates was not greeted by the keep’s defenders, he shouted back to the others who crawled after him. Soon, soldiers flooded through the breach, enraged and looking for revenge.
Vasilisa remained still, her eyes fixed on the burning stable. Smoke billowed out, and she heard Kaveh's horse whinnying in panic.
The stable roof began to dip inwards when the doors suddenly exploded open, and Kaveh’s horse burst out into the courtyard. The charging soldiers scattered as the powerful steed galloped towards them, knocking over and trampling those who were too slow to move aside.
Then Vasilisa saw Yesugei’s crouched silhouette slip out from a side window as the burning roof collapsed completely, sending a bright explosion of sparks and flying debris into the air.
The nomad’s face was covered in soot and sweat, but all he had to say as he ran to catch up with Vasilisa was, “I couldn’t let him die. He still needs to carry his old master back home when I return. One day, I’ll find him again.”
With that, the two of them disappeared through the doorway followed by Vratislav, who slammed the hidden exit shut and braced a wooden beam against the door before descending the dirt path to the pier.
All around, Vasilisa saw only bright orange flames as the raiders’ inferno swept across the rest of the buildings in town. Smoke billowed, choking them as they ran half-blind toward the docks. Through the fire, she saw the griffon banner of Gatchisk, soldiers rushing to cut off their escape.
She heard a horn blast in the distance. At first, she thought it was a raider's signal, but when it sounded again, she recognized it. Squinting through the smoke, she saw Nesha signaling as Valishin and Gastya pushed the skiff into the river, joined by Marmun and Khavel, who laid the injured Doru inside.
The boat rocked violently as it entered the Cherech, but it stayed afloat. Peasants piled into it, the flames chasing them.
Vasilisa coughed from the smoke, feeling Yesugei's hand grip hers as he and Vratislav staggered down the path toward the docks. Over the roar of the flames she heard Nesha’s guiding voice, shouting their names and urging them to hurry, hurry!
A loud creak split the air—one of the tall wooden watchtowers, a great pillar of fire from ground to roof, groaned and tilted down. Flaming debris rained down, and Vasilisa was shoved to the ground as the tower collapsed, exploding in sparks and embers.
When she opened her eyes, her heart sank. The fallen tower blocked their escape, a fiery wall cutting them off. The flames lashed out, forcing Yesugei and Vratislav to scramble back.
Yesugei choked through the smoke, and called to Vasilisa, “I don’t see a way out!”
No way out… The phrase echoed in Vasilisa’s mind, threatening to overwhelm her. She blinked through the blinding smoke, her eyes stinging, but all she saw were walls of fire hemming them in. Behind them lay the only exit, where soldiers surged from the keep, swords gleaming as they charged.
Amid the chaos, the blue griffon on Stribor’s banner gleamed blood-red in the firelight. Stribor barked orders from atop his horse, and his men pressed down the street.
Yesugei loosed an arrow that thudded into a raised kite shield. His second struck an axeman, sending him crumpling. Reaching for another, he froze—his quiver was empty. Terror filled his eyes as he looked to Vasilisa.
She had no words to offer, no rallying cry. Vratislav, his injured leg giving out, collapsed beside her, too spent to lift his ax.
The only way is through. Vasilisa gripped the Shargaz tight, standing tall with the licking flames at her back as she waited for the soldiers to get close.
The first man to run up was a swordsman, who raised his shield high as he approached. Vasilisa swung the cleaver, and the mighty blade shattered through the shield, sending its wielder flying. Two more men charged in their comrade's wake and met a similarly gruesome end - the toothed blade of the Shargaz ripped through maille and tore apart the men beneath. As she stepped over the growing pile of corpses, Stribor's men faltered, and their bravado evaporated once more into fear.
"Take her, you fools!" Stribor bellowed from behind the shrinking ranks. "She's just one woman! Where are the bowmen?!"
But Stribor’s men did not heed their boyar’s roaring. Fear had its claws in his men - hesitant steps turned into retreat, and then a full rout. As two more men threw themselves against her and fell, Stribor’s men broke - shoving past each other and their boyar in terror.
“Stop!” cried Stribor as he waved his sword. “Turn back and fight, cowards! Fight!”
Seeing the armed band melt away before her, Vasilisa felt a new rush of energy. Cleaver raised high, she darted for Stribor. The boyar, distracted by his fleeing retinue, barely brought his sword up in time to deflect her strike. The Shargaz shattered through the steel, and knocked the boyar from the saddle. He scrambled back on all fours like a bug, raising a trembling hand in a plea for mercy.
“Wait, wait, wait! Nooo-!” the boyar cried as the cleaver whistled down.
Then suddenly, she felt herself struck bodily as if by a charging bull. The wind left her lungs, and her vision twisted—the moon spun to her feet, and blood-soaked streets inverted above her. She cracked hard onto the ground, and her whole body screamed in pain. What was that?
Staggering upright, she spotted a man in a red cloak walking calmly towards her, against the rush of fleeing men. A red glyph hovered before the blood sorcerer, and he extinguished it with a closed fist as he surveyed the aftermath of his spell. His face was pale as death, framed by nearly white hair, and the eagle sigil on his cloak marked him as Yllahanan—a blood sorcerer, and the first she had ever encountered.
“Hm. The witch still lives,” the man mused as he strode forward. “And you, my lord Stribor?”
“I’m still alive, you Yllahanan dolt.” The boyar snarled. He jabbed a trembling finger at Vasilisa. “Now, take the bitch!”
“It will cost extra. I want two more, of my choosing.”
Each breath came painfully, a twisting knife of agony driven into her ribs and aching bones. Yesugei was at her side, helping her steady herself, but she shrugged him off. Go, she wanted to say, if her throat was not tight with pain. Run, you fool! Now’s your chance!
“You can have all the flesh you want, just bring her down!” Stribor shouted. Vasilisa rose to her feet, and readied the Shargaz once more. Shimmering remnants of the sorcerer’s magic still hung in the space between them - Yllahanan blood sorcery was always rumored to be devastating, and now she understood its heretical truth. But such power must have drained him—this was her chance!
She leapt forward once more, but the blood sorcerer met her charge. A heavy iron club appeared in his hand, and it screeched as the Shargaz carved into it. Then Yesugei darted in with a fallen soldier’s blade, and they pressed him together. Yet to her shock, the sorcerer turned aside both of their strikes, moving faster than any man possibly could. Four times they clashed, and four times he parried aside their blows.
Her arms ached, her shoulders screaming under the weight of the cleaver. A brutal crack of the club sent Yesugei to his knees, and another struck Vasilisa’s arm, nearly disarming her of the Shargaz. But the sorcerer was gasping for breath, and his club was falling apart in his hands.
Vasilisa steadied herself, her muscles coiling like a spring as she prepared to leap forward once more. But her focus snagged on the sorcerer, who extended a hand out to one of the bloody messes she had made of Stribor’s fighters. With a grotesque, wet shlorp, a tide of blood tore itself free from the corpse, swirling into a floating sphere that quivered in the air. Black marks on the sorcerer’s hands flared red as his brow furrowed in concentration, his breath coming ragged.
Seeing her chance, Vasilisa lunged with a cry, cleaver aimed to sever the Yllahanan’s head—but hesitation bred her defeat. She moved too late.
The sphere hardened with a sickening crunch, then exploded outward in a violent flash. A thunderous roar ripped down the street, and the force of the close-up blast slammed into her chest like a thousand sledgehammers at once. Vasilisa crashed to the ground as blinding agony erupted in her chest, and the acrid taste of blood filled her mouth.
Dazed and gasping for air, she clawed at the ground, her vision swimming. Armored footsteps echoed strangely in her ears as Stribor’s men found their courage a third time and came on.
She looked to one side, and saw Vratislav raising his hands for mercy as a soldier wielding a mace loomed over him.
She looked to the other side, and saw Yesugei slashing at the soldiers before him like a wild, cornered animal.
Then she looked back, past the burning wreck of the tower, and saw Marmun pulling Nesha away from the docks as the boyar’s wife screamed and wept. The roar of the flames rose above her cries.
Fly, Nesha. Fly, Marmun. Everyone, fly. Fly as far as you can, and find peace and hope wherever you land.
Vasilisa’s fingers struggled to find the Shargaz, but then a heel crushed her fingers against the ground.
The sorcerer’s iron club swung before her eyes, and Vasilisa’s world exploded into agonizing pain, then darkness.
Nothing but darkness.