If there was one person to whom Radu owed his undisputed place within the ranks of Raji’Rav, it was Master Zakane. The swordmaster was closer to the Raven Blades than any other Raji’Draq. Even though he himself was indebted to the Blood Blades, he still functioned as the mission leader of the assassins. An assignment not authorized by him was not conducted by the order. And his recommendation was a guarantee of safe admission to the clan for every aspirant. For this reason, he was also called the Black Fox. This certainly not only due to his dark skin. Many an upstart he had trained personally. However, when it came to Radu, he had a lot of concerns. The boy was older than most of his grade and extremely stubborn. Just like his exiled father, whom Zakane knew all too well.
With a stern look, the swordmaster watched the lad’s every step. It was well past midnight, and they still were stuck with the same pattern of movements they had been two hours ago. “Will you finally leave this Night Blade footwork out of it?” Zakane was furious. Radu refused to apply the lessons the way he had been taught. Even worse, he was disrespectful of his mentor’s words.
Disgruntled, the young lad kicked the wooden dummy at the Draq’enar combat ground and viciously dropped his training wood. “I am not a child anymore, Zak,” he snapped at his mentor.
“And yet you are still my student,” Radu’s superior reminded him with folded arms. That haggish look. Zakane recognised it immediately. “Pick that thing up.” The black giant did not tolerate any contradictions. Nevertheless, he got to hear a frustrated cry of rage. “Save your hubris. You are welcome to excel in reinventing our martial art when you are Lord of the Raven Blades. But as long as you’re still training under my sword, you will obey.”
Radu spitefully fished the training wood out of the sand. A lesser one would not have succeeded in putting the newcomer from House Nightstride in his place. Zakane however had become somewhat of his older brother—if not the Rayan father figure he thought the boy urgently in need of. This unformed character of a Rayonaigh was too unstable for the Nemesian lessons. Zakane himself had to accept this when he was younger. The tribes of Azwood were older and more disciplined, which gave them an advantage in overcoming their animalis. Rayonaigh and Sionnaigh, on the other hand, had a far more impulsive disposition, which was their greatest enemy in battle. One parent was enough to pass on this trait, as was the case not only with Radu, but also with Zakane.
“Again,” the swordmaster commanded his student. “And strike that girl out of your head while you’re on my battlefield. She can’t help you with this.”
Indeed, it struck a blow at his words. A huge one, in fact. Radu reacted extremely sensitively to this topic. Another weak point. “Don’t you dare talk about her!” Radu yelled at him. His mentor deliberately overstepped the mark. Aware of it the raven blood was, yet he could not contain his temper. The training wood had its day. In a powerful blow against the dummy, it splintered in two. Radu stood up to Zakane, ready to defend the honour of his young mistress for trivial reasons. Evidence was given by the black plumage immediately taking possession of his arms.
A strenuous student—neither particularly willing to learn nor receptive to the teachings of the Raji’Draq. The half-blood understood only one language. Pain. It sat deep inside of him, especially at this time of year. Spring had come to the north of Rayan and mating season was about to begin. Separation from his sweetheart affected the young raven blood more than he could understand. He hadn’t seen her for two and a half years, let alone felt her. He had to let off steam.
“Then let’s see what you can do,” Zakane challenged him. Before he knew it, a swift uppercut reached for his chin. But it would end in the Black Fox’s palm as it did so often. “How many times do I have to tell you that the steps of a Rune Panther don’t match those of a Blood Raven?” The swordmaster painfully squeezed Radu’s fist with his own grip. “The way you behave brings her nothing but shame.”
Radu’s blood was boiling. With his free hand, he presumed to pull five extended raven talons across Zakane’s face. They left deep scratches on the Raji’Draq’s left cheek. Now, a quiet giant’s patience was at an end. A slap in the face with the bare back of his mighty hand was enough to make the raven’s head spit blood. Albeit he wasn’t remotely intimidated. His knee rammed into Zakane’s radial bone, who then lost control of Radu’s fist. The cunning young rogue had jerked loose and sent his fist at the swordmaster’s chin again, this time with success. Then he jumped back to safe distance with a nimble leap.
Zakane snarled in amusement. “You really want to know tonight, don’t you?”
Radu glared at him with a malicious grin. “What, are you afraid of me?”
Resounding laughter rumbled from the broad chest of the Draq’enar master. “Come on, get your flogging.”
Their fight would have entertained the arena. Despite his powerful stature, Zakane repeatedly broke into a sweat in confrontation with this snotty rascal. Relentlessly, Radu stood up again every time he received a blow. Training fights with him got both of them out of breath more often than his superior would have liked. He would make for a magnificent beast of the Raven Blades as soon as he had finally learned what humility and restraint were crafted of.
As always, they exchanged blows until morning’s early hours. And as always, it ended with Zakane bringing his student to his knees thanks to a calculated sequence of combat steps and powerful claw blows. However, after all that time of training him, it took the Black Fox longer and longer to do so. He himself did not emerge from the duels completely without injuries anymore either. Nonetheless, Zakane was not finished with his uncouth block. He would shape Radu into his greatest masterpiece in the coming nights: the most feared Raven Blade in all of Gardyan—steeled and battle-hardened, honed by the strict hand of the Raji’Draq and Night Blades alike.
At dawn, the experienced ebony warrior surveyed his latest project. Like a guardian carved in stone, he took position at his lookout close to Araqon’s roots, which towered over the grounds of the Draq’enar Arena. Radu still had a hard time forgetting the teachings of the Twidan even for a moment, while he went back to the regular exercises down the clay court with a fresh training stick. Nobody would turn Zakane’s training plan upside down, even after such an extended duel. The fact that the boy now felt his muscles painfully would dampen his exuberance a little.
What a result of common endeavours he had in front of him there. As if it were yesterday, the fox blood remembered his raven father’s words. Ages had passed since he went to Akanaaru with Bozan and Arayon. A pact was forged that day at the shores, yet peace was deceptive. Swaying his head imperceptibly, Zakane put his hands behind his back, his shoulders slowly circling to relax his muscles. “How long have you been spying on us?” His gaze glanced at the silhouette of another fox blood that had gathered under Araqon’s crown.
“Long enough,” his lord general responded. Aaron finally wanted to get an idea himself of the much-vaunted half-blood. He had delayed it for quite a while. “How is he doing?” He crouched down next to his clan brother on the ledge to take a closer look at the lad.
Zakane sighed. “He’s a stubborn buck.”
“Ha.” Aaron wasn’t really surprised. “Have you already told him?” Thoughtfully, the lord general watched the boy’s defiant battle steps from a distance. He couldn’t help but recognize his blood brother in him.
“No. I didn’t,” the Black Fox responded.
Aaron hung his head and began to scratch indiscriminately at the rocky ground with his claws. “Maybe it’s better that way.”
Zakane raised an eyebrow and lowered his gaze to his general. “I didn’t tell him because it is not my task,” he clarified. He did not interfere in family matters, even though he and Aaron belonged to the same clan. In this regard, he kept it just like his compatriots from House Nightstride. It must have been clear to them from the beginning whose bastard had stumbled out of the portal in front of their feet. “You would do well not to delay it any further,” the swordmaster admonished. “The lad must know what to expect. Maybe then he’ll finally cause me fewer problems.” In murmur, Zakane moved away to take a break in the Draq’enar’s hot springs. A change of shift for his general, even though he was not assigned to the roster.
At such reproaches, the general grumbled. As if he had hoped the tricky situation would disappear into thin air, Aaron allowed some more time to pass before he finally went down to the training ground. Radu lowered his fighting wood when he saw the stranger coming towards him. He looked at the man disparagingly.
“Take a stand at attention of your general, boy,” Aaron greeted him in the ways of a superior.
Stance was taken hesitantly. “Lord Sion?” Radu sounded incredulous. Why would the commander-in-chief of the Raji’Draq want to talk to him at this time of day?
“That’s right.” Aaron’s expression seemed tense. Examining the raven blood up close, it became a certainty, what many had long suspected. “You have your father’s features, my friend.”
Another topic to which Radu reacted extremely sensitively. He kept his composure in the general’s presence, but his annoyance at the point of conversation was not to be overlooked.
“Do you even know who he is?” Aaron inquired.
Heavy panting indicated the deepest discomfort on Radu’s part. “Some exile, whatsoever.”
He sounded indifferent, which caused Aaron to think about the right words once more. In his mind, he had gone through them many times and now they didn’t quite fit after all. “Ah.” Entangled in an inner monologue, the general paced up and down in front of his raven protégé. “Come with me.” Unexpectedly, a firm slap hit the young man on the shoulder and pushed him on a stroll around the training ground with Lord Sion. “Do you know how long the Draq’enar has been standing?”
What kind of funny questions did the guy ask? “About eight hundred years?” It wasn’t as if Radu had slept in history class.
“That’s right. Good, good,” Aaron continued. “Your father was about the same age as you are now when it was built.” He stopped in front of the historic fighting ring. “The ruby mines that lay under this fighting ground once gave Rubinburgh its name,” he explained to the youngster. “An ancient power flows within the crystals, for which the houses of Rayan once fought each other to death.”
Radu knew the story. The War of Clans was the tragic culmination of an antipathy deeply rooted in the ethnic rivalry and mistrust between Rayonaigh and Sionnaigh. Both tribes had a long history of mutual violations regarding territorial claims. An all-too-common vicious circle that always arose when emperors drove a folding rule over national maps and tore areas to pieces with a feather, disregarding local customs. The last legacy of the Witcher Kings of Valalfyr, who subjugated matriarchy for centuries. More tyrannical warmongers than sovereigns if historical records were to be believed. Under their rule, all of Gardyan once drowned in bloody massacres. Women and children fared the worst. Male descendants were either slaughtered by rival clans or assimilated into the barbarian castes of tribal warriors before they came of age. Female descendants met an even more agonizing fate. For the patriarchs, they were nothing more than a piece of childbearing flesh. And so, the Valalfyr’s battle became a battle of the sexes. Deposed by their own daughters in vengeful regicides, the second matriarchy was born out of a last infernal bloodbath. For a long time, the new lady-regents found it difficult to mediate between the tribes. Although they succeeded in transferring their peoples back to an almost civilized society with an iron fist, there was still no trace of peace centuries after the violent overthrow of their clan fathers. The Stones of Power, as the history books called them, were one reason for this. It was said that the crystals could cast powerful spells. But in the wrong hands, they caused immeasurable damage. Of course, each clan wanted to claim the mines for themselves after the fall of the Witcher Kings since the stones had been created right there.
“What does all this have to do with me?” Radu asked, still not knowing why Lord Sion personally visited him on the Draq’enar. He had hardly come for history lessons in private.
Aaron eyed him. The raven blood was a bright young lad, difficult to distract and focused on the essentials, presumably more than it would’ve done him any good. Letting his gaze wander over the combat ring, the general shoved his hands into his pockets. It must have been a good hundred years since he had last shed blood here. His blades were needed elsewhere these days. “Our mistresses are wise women, you know?” Melancholia took hold over the Lord of Dragon Peaks. “But putting a stop to the bloodlust of their warriors and relegating it to orderly, military structures, only the Raji’Draq can do. Your father made them what they are today. And you are his…”
“I am nothing.” Radu coldly glanced over at the general. “My blade belongs to House Nightstride.” He had nothing more to say about it. Unimpressed by Aaron’s words, he moved away from him to continue his training. And without knowing it, he again came after his father more than he would have liked.
“That’s exactly why you have to take your place among the Blood Blades!” Aaron became audibly more indignant. If it became known nationwide that the descendant of Arayon aimed to put himself at the head of a splinter group like the Raji’Rav, old feuds would resurface. No order would vouch for Radu as long as he did not profess his allegiance to the ruling dynasty of Arayona. “Your pride stands in your way and will unnecessarily endanger the Twidan if you don’t finally claim your birthright.”
Radu’s footsteps turned on the spot. Like a sharpened combat dog, he darted so close to Aaron’s face that the general could feel his hot breath. “Do you intend to threaten me?” he inquired in such a provocative manner that it was tantamount to a skirmish invitation.
“Don’t forget where your place is, whelp.” Lord Sion would have tolerated such behaviour from Radu’s father. But not from a freshman.
Said freshman, though, had little nerve for his authoritarian attitude. He smiled smugly at Aaron’s moral sermon. “My place is in Azwood. Anyone who wants to dispute it is welcome to try. I’ll take on all of you.” Radu did not give into the urge to tear the clydesdale’s face of this pompous general apart. But in order to not put his animalis to the test any longer, he quickly gained much distance from his superior and stomped away enraged.
Dissatisfaction was written all over Aaron’s face. He had underestimated the half-blood’s stubbornness. The worst thing about it was that his father certainly would have been proud of this rigid spawn. After all, it was precisely this defiance that had made the will of the maple goddess nationwide decree again. The daughters of Arayona had instigated the rebellion that brought down the Witcher Kings. As was written in the old imperial legends, every few thousand years, four children were born under a red moon, in whose veins Arayona’s legacy knew how to flow as fresh and unadulterated as in the days of old. Two girls and two boys. The last time this had happened, Arayon, Aaron, Aaron’s wife Adra, and his twin sister, the matriarch Aronya, were born. Their alliance held the empire together for centuries until the ritual murders of Nathum—a rebellion inevitably setting the precursors of a generational shift. Cultists of the Witcher Kings saw the opportunity to wrest the throne from in their eyes traitorous descendants of Arayona. Their revenge was on the Lunar Four, whose youngest generation obviously arrived way too early. Aaron’s son was born first, Aronya’s daughter was born second. About the other two children, nothing was known for a long time. To Aaron’s chagrin though, at least one of them announced himself with feral wrath just now.
“What a puke,” Lord Sion vented his anger as he climbed into the steaming spring water next to Zakane after his unsuccessful conversation with Radu. He had flown all the way from Dragon Peaks up here completely in vain.
“You two are cut from the same wood. So, I’m not surprised,” Zakane stated, completely unsympathetic towards Aaron’s frustration.
The general snorted. How could this black giant always be so calm? He knew exactly what was at stake. He even got more wise words for Aaron: “You will have to let him have his way if you want to win him over for our cause.”
Aaron lost it. “Should I send him audience requests to Spiritwaters when I need him, or what? I’m still his general!”
Zakane leaned back in the water, relaxed. The temper of House Arayona didn’t manage to startle him anymore. “Talk to her father,” he suggested. “Bozan will get a grip on him. He has trained him excellently and will continue to do so.” Truly. If the half-blood one day managed to combine the raven shift with the rune dance of the Night Blades, no fiend would be safe from him. The Black Fox had no doubts that Radu would succeed in it, even if he tried to drive this thought out of him whilst training. In order to unite two such powerful martial arts, a hard discipline was first required. Both styles were based on completely contradictory concepts. They had to become second nature to him separately before he could unleash their power simultaneously. Otherwise, the risk of his animalis’ permanent degeneration would have been too great.
“You’ve had your own plans with him for a long time, admit it.” Aaron could smell it when his arena master was about a project.
“There are things that his father might prefer to undo. But Radu is not one of them,” Zakane replied. “The countess knew it, so she gave him into the Twidan’s care. You should comply with her instructions.”
How Aaron hated it when the Lords of the Draq’enar tried to teach him. Sometimes he felt almost redundant, even if the work he did on the Dragon Peaks was essential to maintaining power. War dragons did not raise themselves, and they were usually much more receptive to Aaron’s guidelines than his own military staff. “Can anyone in this damned brotherhood for once do as they are told!” He had ordered Zakane to show that boy some boundaries. Instead, he let the rascal run loose.
In the end, Aaron gave in and appointed Radu a Raji’Rav the following autumn during the Great Blood Moon Hunt. In the circle of officers, he received his baptism in blood within the vaults above the Draq’enar. Those vaults in which Arayona once created the most lethal of her children: the Sons of the Red Stone.
One she dedicated to the dragon, who guarded the cave of birth. One she dedicated to the fox who had led her to the top of the magic ruby shrine. The last one she dedicated to the raven in Araqon’s branches, who became witness of her creation. Under his mark, Radu was to build up a gruesome reputation.
It took him less than ten moons before he had fought himself from a novice crow up to the rank of the Raven Blade’s supreme swordmaster in the Draq’enar Arena with merciless fury. And even before his official inauguration, the bastard was over the hills and far away. Vanished into the depths of Azwood, he straight up called on every potential opponent to track him down. For this insolence alone, each of them would meet their abrupt end just beyond the tree line. Out of the nocturnal forest mists he struck, with a rune dance of a hundred claws. One blade rifted, the other blade chopped, just like an unequal pair of raven’s talon and panther’s paw. He sent anyone who threatened the peace between north and south to Aaron’s court at Dragon Peaks, with three slits in their throats and two raven feathers in their empty eye sockets. Direct instructions from Rayan he did not accept unless they came from Zakane. The Black Fox’s stratagem came to fruition. His masterpiece was completed. The legend of the ghost raven, who walks between worlds as a messenger of death, was born. And he was a son of the Draq’enar.
