Crooked Pass from Stormsrock by Mark Harris

This is the first chapter of Stormsrock, the fantasy novel I'm working on. It focuses on Aerith, a member of a mountain clan called the Red Ravens. This is the character that I've written the most for and who's storyline has advanced the furthest (along with Sakun, a character you'll meet soon), so I thought it would be a good place to start. Aerith's story is one of the darker, more bloody stories compared to the other four main characters, with key themes of love, revenge, and power.

Crooked Pass

Black crows glided around the rocky peaks of Crooked Pass, high in the Aphralon Mountains. The falling rays of the sun struggled to pass through the thick blanket of dark clouds. A group of clansmen were gathered around a crackling fire, drinking and laughing, as a large bird was being twisted around a spit, fat dripping from its wings and into the flames. From out of their midst a flag rose, a crimson raven painted in blood on off-white cloth.

            A fair distance away from the camp, a young man sat on the side of the cliff. The rock he was sitting on was overlooking a thin, twisting road with rocky cliffs on either side.  His name was Aerith. He was sipping from a silver flask, but it was not alcoholic. He was on watch duty, and he needed full control over his senses. Aerith breathed in deeply, absorbing the cool night air. His eyes gazed down upon the road, trying to see if anyone or anything was nearby. A lone figure, a creature, anything. He brushed his long, ebony, hair away from his eyes. I need to get that cut; it’s getting in the way, he thought. His ears were carefully poised, ready to pick up any unwelcome noises. There were the regular distant calls of animals and beasts, and the din back at camp, but he needed to hear beyond that, if he was to hear anyone approaching before they were close enough to stick a knife in his gut. He ran a finger gently across the blade of his axe. The edge was sharp, sharp enough, at least. It was a short, one handed weapon made of steel, with strips of leather wrapped around the handle for grip. It was a crude, simple weapon, but that was all that was needed for a fight. Weapons strewn with decorations and encrusted with gemstones were nice to behold, but served no purpose. A weapons only purpose is to kill, he reflected.

Aerith would have liked to be with the others around the fire, but in a way he preferred to be here, in solitude, with what seemed to be the whole world beneath him. But he could not pretend to enjoy the gripping cold. It always seems to be getting colder nowadays. He was garbed in thick cloth and animal skins, but the hairs on his arms and legs still stood on end whenever the icy wind blew across the peaks. Although he generally disregarded all sound from the camp, there was one voice that he paid rapt attention to. She was a girl a couple of years younger than himself, with flowing auburn hair, and a voice that made his heart sing. Her name was Ysabelle. She smiled at him whenever he passed, or whenever she caught him looking in her direction, but she was not his. She belonged to another man, called Turek. Turek was muscular and fierce, with black braids of hair hanging heavily from the crown of his head. He was the leader of their camp, and his authority was indisputable. He was renowned for his ferocity and prowess in battle. In their last skirmish, against another of the mountain tribes, the Earth Men, he had killed five of them, decapitating two. After the Earth Men had retreated, he had brought the two severed heads to Ysabelle, who was clearly repulsed, but could not object to him. If she did, she would be left behind to fend for herself, or worse, killed. He had a feeling that Ysabelle did not even like Turek at all. At least, he hoped not. Suddenly, Aerith heard footsteps behind him, and he turned quickly to see who was there, axe in hand. When he saw it was a friendly face, he relaxed, and rested his weapon back on the ground, alongside his shield.

  “Here,” the incomer said, handing him a leg of the cooked bird. The man’s name was Pathre. Pathre had joined the tribe less than a month after he did, and he was closer to him than anyone else. They often hunted and took watch together. “I thought you might be hungry.”

  He took the leg gratefully, murmuring a word of thanks. Pathre slumped down beside him. “I can see why you like it here. You can see all the way to the sea.”

  “You can,” he paused, before shifting slightly in his seat and asking a question he had been contemplating all evening. “Do you ever wonder what would have become of us if we didn’t join the Ravens?”

  Pathre laughed, “And what, become a beggar in the cold streets of Kilnsguard? Or a common thief? No, I much prefer to be up here, with the rest of you lot. Freedom, companionship, and excitement. What more could you possibly want?”

  “Nothing, I guess.”

  “Exactly. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than where I am right now. Fancy a game of tactus? I need to beat you for once.”

  “I shouldn’t, I’m on watch.”

  Ignoring his friend’s refusal, Pathre dealt the cards out. “Who’s going to know? And you can keep watch at the same time.”

  Aerith smirked, picking up his hand. “Go on then, it doesn’t exactly take long to beat you.”

            Pathre played more proficiently than he usually did, but nonetheless he was no match for Aerith, and the match was over in less than fifteen minutes. “You cheated. There’s no way you could have known that I had a galamak on the table.”

  “Why else would you have played your avalanche the turn before?” Aerith grinned at Pathre’s disdain.

  “You’re too good,” Pathre concluded, shaking his head. They sat and talked for a short while, but soon a voice called Pathre’s name from the camp. Pathre stood up, and said a brief farewell. And with that, he was gone, and Aerith was once again alone. As the night went on, the voices grew quieter and quieter, until they were completely silent. The noise was replaced by faint groans and snores, and Aerith was the only one awake. You just need to stay awake until they wake up, then you can rest. But even as the thought ran through his head, his eyelids were getting heavier, and it was getting harder and harder to fight off sleep.

Aerith awoke to the creeping light of the morning sun, and the distinct sound of a carriage trundling along the pass below. He cursed himself for falling asleep, but with a glance at camp, he realized that nobody would have noticed, as they were as soundly asleep as he had been a few minutes ago. He rushed over to the camp to rouse them, and alert them of the carriage’s presence. He knelt beside Turek, whose arms were tightly wrapped around Ysabelle, who had a faint look of discomfort etched across her face. Aerith felt a pang of jealousy for a second, but placed it aside, and gently shook Turek into consciousness.

  “What is it?” he growled angrily, his eyes still closed.

  “There’s a carriage on the pass, we don’t have long if we’re going to intercept it.”

  With this news, Turek leapt to his feet, and roared, “Up with you all! Get your gear ready, we’re dropping in on a carriage on the pass!” The rest of them struggled to climb upright as quickly as possible, before grabbing their weapons, a haphazard collection of swords, axes, hammers, spears and bows of all shapes and sizes. A few of them strapped crumpled helmets and beaten chest plates to themselves before nodding at Turek, showing they were ready to follow his orders.

  “As soon as I give the signal, I want bowmen to take down those horses. Everyone else get down to the road as quickly as you can, before they realise what’s going on. Capture everyone you can, and kill anyone you can’t.” He paused a few seconds, waiting for the right moment. “Now!” he yelled. A handful of arrows rained down upon the two horses pulling the carriage, and they let out a cry of pain as the barbed arrowheads buried themselves inside their flesh. Crimson blood trickled down their hides, and they collapsed to the floor. There was the scrambling as the Ravens, twenty or so of them, clambered down the rocks, finding the perfect balance between haste and care. The cliffs were steep, and a small mistake would send them plummeting towards their deaths, but many of the clansmen had lived in the mountains their entire lives, and were proficient at keeping their balance and finding footholds where there seemed to be none. It took less than a minute for the last man to reach the ground, by which time three frightened looking young men had pulled out weapons, and stood outside the carriage, glancing from left to right, trying to keep all of their enemies in their field of vision. There was no point in running away. They would be cut or shot down as they ran. The Ravens were soon upon them. Pathre was at the front of the charge, and was soon battling with one of the men. Their swords clashed three or four times before Pathre found an opening and slashed a deep cut in the man’s hip. The man knelt to the ground, dropping his sword, as blood ran down his legs, and onto the dusty ground. Another Raven thrust his spear into another man’s throat, and blood gushed from the man’s neck, as he fell to the floor, never to rise again. The third man lasted a little longer than the first two, swinging his blade from side to side, parrying and dodging blows from left and right. But he was massively outnumbered, and it was not long before he was slain. Aerith was surprised he did not just surrender, seeing the fate of his comrades. When the defenders were either dead or incapacitated, Turek wrenched open the door of the carriage, to see a finely-dressed woman sat bolt upright inside, sweat pouring down her face.

  “Didn’t anybody tell you not to travel these roads? Tie her up. And him, too,” he commanded, indicating the man Pathre had cut. They did so, and soon Turek was interrogating the two of them. “So who might you be?” he said, with mock politeness, but with an unmistakable undertone of menace.

  The woman held her head high, and answered with as much dignity as possible, “I am Estelia Manescroft, daughter of Lord Manescroft, steward of Kilnsguard.” The man beside her gave her a horrified glance, shocked that she had given away her identity so freely.

  “Aha! It looks like we’ve found ourselves a keeper!” Turek laughed. He turned to the man beside her. “And what’s your name?”

  The man mumbled something incomprehensible. Turek glared at him, and the man repeated, more clearly, “Destrum.”

  “Well, Destrum, I would like you to go back to Kilnsguard, and inform the steward that we have taken his lovely daughter hostage. Tell him we want a thousand golden coins in exchange for her life, and we can do the exchange at this exact spot, in three days’ time, as the sun sets. If he brings anyone with him, we’ll kill his daughter without a moment’s hesitation. You got that?” Destrum nodded weakly. His wound had almost stopped bleeding, but his linen shirt was soaked through with blood.

 “They’ll never believe him,” Estelia said. Aerith was astonished at the woman’s stupidity.

 “Might be you’re right,” said Turek. “Chop off some off her hair, and give it to me.”

  One of the newer Ravens leapt forward, eager to earn Turek’s respect. He took a dagger from his belt, and taking a handful of Estelia’s hair, sawed through it. Estelia looked outraged, but remained silent. She had been lucky, however. Aerith had seen hostages have fingers or worse cut off for proof of their capture.

 “Untie him, and send him on his way.”

  Destrum was passed Estelia’s locks of hair, and untied. Dazed, he stood upright, and started walking hurriedly in the direction that they had come from, obviously pleased to have escaped with his life.