Before the Crow

by Aaron Bunce

  Henri felt a thrill course through him. I touched him, and he heard me! He thought excitedly.

  The maid bit her lip, screwing up her mouth. She pulled her hand back into her body, only to reach out a heartbeat later and snatch the ticket from his hand.

  Luca pulled his hand back, his face practically glowing. They exchanged words, but Henri’s attention was pulled away by movement across the room. A dark shape flitted about, dancing in and out of the flickering light.

  Henri pushed away from the table and paced slowly down the row. He stretched up onto his tiptoes and ducked around a group of men who settled down around the bench. The shadow turned and extended. For a moment, it looked like a man, but twitched and contorted back into an undistinguishable shape.

  The shadow slid across the floor, melting into the darkness next to the fireplace, only to reappear in the nearby hallway. Henri followed it slowly, looking back to check on Luca. The maid moved away, leaving his boy sitting alone at the table, a wide smile on his face.

  The fire glowed next to him, but he couldn’t smell it, or feel its heat. Henri leaned out into the hallway, trying to keep the strange presence in sight without leaving Luca alone. The hallway was long and dark, the doorways on either side like dark pools between the lanterns set high on the walls.

  The space looked empty and he started to pull back into the dining hall, just as the strange shadow slipped into the light. The figure slid across the floor, twitched and took a step. It elongated into the shape of a man and leaned against the wall, its blurry edges rippling and splintering.

  Something moved in the shadow next to it, and then another. Henri watched as the shadows all the way down the hall came alive. Strange walking shadows emerged, moving like creepy puppets. They worked over the air, their form crystalizing into man-shaped faces.

  Goddess, are they smelling the air? Henri thought in horror as the dark figures slowly moved towards him.

  Chapter 28

  Do you remember?

  Brother Dalman jumped over a broken stone and danced around another patch of ice, moving quickly to get out of the frigid night air. His body trembled and shook, his nostrils sticking together every time he breathed through his nose.

  He couldn’t remember a time this cold, at least not one where he was foolish enough to venture outside. He tried not to think about the biting cold. How it made his mouth numb and his ears ache, so he thought about anything else.

  Is Kida on his way out of the city yet? Is he safe? He wondered, troubling over his fear for his understudy. He is going to be okay, you old fool. Bring your thoughts back to now, to the meeting.

  He rubbed his arms under his robe and tried to focus on the path ahead. He was cold, burdened by doubt, and emotionally compromised. There was a dark chaos pulling at the corners of his world, and it troubled him that he wasn’t able to identify it. And worse, no one else seemed to see it.

  He couldn’t open their minds and make them understand. In the end, Brother Dalman could only hope that the Councilmen would listen and take his concerns seriously. They held all the keys and controlled all of the doors.

  An unsettling flutter gripped the monk’s heart as the Council’s Seat came into view. It was a colossus of stone and pillars, alight with the fire from a hundred bronze braziers.

  He strode into the plaza, twisty and ornate evergreen trees set in perfect rows. The doors weren’t guarded so he tromped up the steps and tried to enter. His hand slipped from the polished handle, the door securely denying him access to the warm interior.

  Ice, Brother Dalman thought and curled both hands around the handle this time and pulled, but the door wouldn’t move.

  “Locked, why?” he cursed irritably, shaking and hopping from one foot to another. He longed for some furs, or another heavy robe to don.

  Eager to get out of the cold, Brother Dalman scooted down the steps and made his way around the massive curving wall. The rock path crunched beneath his feet. At least it was free of ice.

  He came upon a smaller, side entrance, but its torches were cold, and the door was barred shut. Damn…damn, he thought over and over again, cursing his decision to leave the warm comforts of his room.

  The curving path led to another door on the opposite side of the building, but his spirits fell as soon as it came into view. He knew it was locked before reaching for the handle. Determined to return to his room, Brother Dalman made for the plaza. The wind cut at his face now, so he pulled the robe’s hood down to cover as much skin as possible.

  A strange noise bounced off the building’s stone, echoing oddly against the ground. He stopped and looked around, unsure if the source was in front, or behind him. It sounded like footsteps, a lot of footsteps.

  Brother Dalman crept forward, warily. The curving, spindly evergreen trees coming into view, and then the braziers. He saw the fire flicker and dance, reflecting off gleaming armor as the soldiers walked by, formed up in two perfect columns.

  “Why is the Silver here, in such numbers?” Brother Dalman mumbled, counting the armored figures as they filed into the massive building.

  Is this a show of strength? Is this the Council taking my concerns seriously?

  He hung back, crouched down, using the curve of the building to shield him from the troop of armed soldiers. He would sit back and observe for a moment, until he understood a little more of what was going on. Fools rush in…

  Brother Dalman made his way into the plaza only after he was sure all of the Silver Guard had passed. He slipped forward, quietly, and gave the door a gentle tug. It pulled open easily, allowing him to slip inside.

  He stood just inside the door, his back pressed up against the smooth wood. He felt horribly awkward, like he was intruding on something well beyond him. The soldier’s backs were to him, formed in perfect lines, all facing the gilded doors to the Council’s audience chamber.

  The armored figures didn’t fidget, sway, or bounce. They looked every bit like the white stone statues of the Councilmen towering above them. They didn’t give any indication they knew he was there. And yet, Brother Dalman felt wholly unnerved. He felt out of place, like a thief caught in a room he thought was empty, only to find out it was in fact occupied.

  A shout sounded from beyond the massive doors, and then another. Something crashed loudly. Brother Dalman took a half step forward, unsure if he should continue forward or turn and leave the capitol altogether. Something was happening. That much was clear.

  The monk moved sideways, silently sliding his feet. He inched along the wall, his hands gliding over the wall, his breath trapped out of fear for the slightest noise.

  Another crash sounded, one voice rising above the din. Brother Dalman scooted across the open expanse, his robes pulled up to prevent the swish of the heavy fabric. His breath came out in an angry hiss just as he reached the safety of the sweeping staircase. He leaned against the wall and sucked in a deep breath, rubbing his chest and cursing the frailties of age.

  A quick glance around the corner confirmed that the soldiers still hadn’t moved. It was odd, to say the least. What were they posted for? Were they waiting for something? In the angst of the moment, he couldn’t imagine what for.

  Moving as quickly and quietly as he could, Brother Dalman started up the marbled stairs. He fought the urge to turn, when every bit of his sense told him he should be elsewhere. His quest for knowledge and truth overrode it all. He needed to see whatever was happening, for the sake of Denoril and her people. Change had a tendency of trampling the commoners.

  The stairwell was dark. Brother Dalman could smell the oil in the sconces on the walls, but felt comforted by the obscurity of the deep shadows. He moved forward blindly, stumbling over invisible steps as he moved toward the sliver of light.

  The sound of the chamber washed over him as he eased the door open and slid through. The slap of flesh, perhaps a palm slammed against a table, resounded throughout the space and a graveling voice followed. Another man responded, his voice much
deeper than the first.

  Brother Dalman bent low and hiked his robes up to his knees. He crept down the row of seats, moving toward the bright audience chamber below.

  “An accusation founded on nothing more than your own fear!” a man cried out below.

  Ducking below the low wall, Brother Dalman made his way to the right side of the balcony, where massive, pleated curtains hung from the ceiling. He ducked behind them, concealing himself in their billowing fabric.

  The councilmen stood clustered together below, their robes and hair disheveled. They looked like they had been fighting.

  “Accusation?! Horse dung, Gladeus. You’ve wanted the throne, no, lusted over it ever since we tossed that coward from the throne,” a tall man, with salt and pepper hair, yelled.

  Brother Dalman recognized the shiny pate of Councilman Gladeus DuChamp as the old man’s head snapped up. The monk almost didn’t recognize him. Gladeus looked thin, almost sickly, and his skin was touched by a ghastly pallor. It looked like he hadn’t seen any sun for a great while.

  * * * *

  “If I wanted it, I’d have it,” Gladeus hissed, a simmering rage clenching his insides.

  “Lord Morimer is just lending voice to his frustrations. Gentlemen, let’s not lose control of ourselves and become like animals. Much more is expected of us than that, I think!” Lord Thatcher said, his whole body trembling.

  Old fool’s mind is losing touch with his body, Gladeus thought angrily.

  “I just want to return to my bed. I am tired and not in a mood to endure these games. Please, whomever brought us all here, let’s just be done with this all so that we can turn in,” Dorel Russo, Earl of the southlands, said pleadingly.

  Gladeus licked his lips and took a breath to respond, but he never got the chance.

  “So you can cover your decomposing bodies with blankets, pillows, and furs,” a woman said, her voice silky but undeniably strong.

  “Who…what?” Gladeus sputtered turning about.

  He looked to the group of men, the sea of open benches behind them, and finally up to the dais. His eyes brushed over the four, large overturned chairs, most which he had tipped over during his tirade, but came to rest on the one left standing.

  A small figure sat on the red velvet cushion, her dark hair spilling out over her shoulders in glossy curls. His gaze crawled down her slender frame, tracing the pale skin and alluring curves back up. There was a strange hairpiece sticking out of her hair.

  “Gladeus, why does your whore think she can speak to us with such disrespect?” Miko Kingsbreath gasped, swinging a wrinkled glare his direction.

  “My…uh,” he stammered, struggling to sort it out.

  A sharp pressure jabbed into his mind, doubling Gladeus over and almost knocking him senseless. He held his head, yet he couldn’t feel his hands against his face. Hands propped him up, but then the pain was gone, and with it the fog that had previously obscured his thoughts.

  “The…girl!” he hissed, straightening up. Everything rushed back to him. He remembered a frustrating conversation with a monk out front of his manor, Balin, and then the girl.

  “Nephera,” he mouthed, the name filling his mind. Horrible memories accompanied it, and suddenly, his shrunken, weakened body wasn’t such a puzzle. “Guards! Guards!” Gladeus cried suddenly, pulling Lord Strongside and Russo before him, using their bodies as a shield against the young woman.

  Morimer wrenched out of his grip and turned, angrily, growling, “What is wrong with you, Gladeus? Can’t you handle your playthings anymore?”

  “She’s not a girl…she’s something else. She bewitched me, poisoned my mind, and used me,” Gladeus gasped, falling backwards.

  The other Councilmen laughed and mocked him, but he knew better.

  “Guards!” Lord Thatcher called out. In response, a trio of men stepped forward from the shadows of the dais. Gladeus hadn’t even realized that they were there.

  “I, unlike you fools, brought my guard escort,” Elder Lord Thatcher said, condescension and saliva dripping out of his mouth. “Guards, take this girl away. Throw her into a cell until Councilman Gladeus regains his balls and his wits!”

  The Knights of Silver snapped to attention, pressing their fists to their chests before turning on Nephera. They converged on her from both sides, swords held ready, and hands extended to grasp her.

  “Miss, come with us, please,” one of the men said, his voice deep and strong, but she simply smiled and turned to look at him.

  “I said, come with me!” the Knight of Silver said. He lurched forward, grasping for her arm, but staggered back a heartbeat later, his sword clattering to the ground.

  Gladeus scooted back and away from the scene as blood poured out from beneath the knight’s helm, coating his breastplate and tunic.

  “What’s this?” Lord Thatcher cried out, the other Councilmen babbling and yelling.

  The other knight took a half step back before looking to Lord Thatcher.

  “Well, kill her,” he said, angrily.

  The knight nodded and brought the sword back and lunged forward, but a shadow cut across right in front of him and his blade was knocked aside.

  The knight twitched and gargled something, just as the shadow behind him came alive. A massive white arm appeared from the darkness and lifted him clear of the ground. He kicked his feet and thrashed his arms, but he appeared powerless.

  A massive, hideous, white creature appeared from the shadows. It was a monster from Gladeus’ nightmares of late. Or were they just dreams? Had his mind been playing him for the fool?

  The beast twisted the Knight’s helm as if were playing with a doll, and the man went limp, before falling to the ground in a pile, dead.

  “Sixth arm! W-w-w…” Gladeus babbled, just as the last knight cried out. “Balin!” he said, finally finding his voice. The rogue’s outline materialized out of the shadows as the soldier fell, his dagger blade gleaming red in the light.

  “Barbarism! Murder! What’s the meaning of this, DuChamp? First your plaything, and now your assassin! This is your doing!? I knew it. You lured us here to claim power for yourself!” Lord Strongside stammered, falling back from the bloody scene on the dais, but also away from him.

  Gladeus couldn’t respond. He couldn’t look away from the glowing green orbs staring back from beneath Balin’s cowl. He was going to die. They were all going to die. He was sure of it.

  “Silence,” Nephera said quietly, the group going instantly and utterly quiet. “The time has come for things to be put back in their proper order.”

  “We declare the order of things,” Lord Strongside said defiantly, refusing to back down.

  Nephera stood and stepped forward, her remarkable green eyes glittering in the audience chamber’s bright light. Lord Strongside flinched, the group of noblemen backing away.

  “Order is its own master!” Nephera hissed, a pair of large, boney wings unfurling from behind her, “only to be tamed by the strongest!”

  Gladeus whimpered, the other councilmen stumbling and tripping over themselves. He pushed, scooting to get away from the horrible, winged girl. The green-eyed monster from his dreams, but he couldn’t move. He looked down, only to find his arms and legs twitching feebly.

  “What is t-t-this?! Magic craft, dark beast…she’s a monster!” Lord Russo yelled beside him.

  “Guards! Guards!!!”

  Gladeus didn’t know who was screaming. But as he looked back up to the horrible young woman standing on the dais above him, he realized that it was him. His voice warbled and broke, his lips splitting and his breath dying.

  He gasped a breath as the doors opened behind him. He heard them bang against the walls and boots clap against the ground. There were lots of boots, mixed with the clatter of armor, scabbards, and shields.

  Gladeus reclaimed a bit of his wits, the sight of soldiers adorned in gleaming plate filling him with a glimmer of his old strength. His hands moved, and then his legs. He was standing again,
the able bodies of Silver Knights filing in behind him, like a living wall of armor and blades.

  “Take her…and him!” Gladeus stammered, looking from the young woman to Balin. How had things gotten this far? How had he let his world crumble down around him?

  Balin started to laugh. It was a cold, muffled, and broken sound that chilled his blood. Gladeus realized in that moment that he had never heard the man laugh. The rogue reached up and slowly pulled back the cowl covering his face. Gladeus staggered back into the soldier behind him, his knobby, cold hands curling up before his chest.

  The flickering light of the audience chamber reflected off the hard, glossy metal of the strange mask. Runes and veins etched into the mask pulsed green, matching time with the rise and fall of his chest.

  “I’m afraid we are here to stay, Gladeus. It is you, that are no longer of use,” Nephera said, settling back upon his chair.

  “You have no position with which to bargain,” Gladeus growled, his determination fleeting. “You are but a few, while we have the strength and blades of these men, and the rest of the city behind us.”

  “But do you?” Nephera asked quietly.

  Gladeus chuckled, despite himself. He did his best to not look at the hideous monster, or Balin. “Yes, just look…” he said, turning to the armored men standing behind him, but his voice died in his throat.

  The closest soldier wasn’t a man at all, but a beautiful woman. She tilted her head to meet his gaze, her eyes a remarkable, sparkling green. She had the same eyes as Nephera, and the same cold, determined stare, just like every other soldier in the line.

  The line of soldiers inched forward, moving like a solid, unbreakable wall, pushing Gladeus and the other councilmen towards the dais.

  “The provinces won’t stand for this. Our families will unite and march on you with strength. They will cut you down like savage, feral beasts,” Lord Strongside spat.

  “They won’t, because they won’t know. And don’t worry, little man, my wrath is reserved elsewhere. You see, our grievance lies with others. They will pay with their lives. You, and your people, are simply a means to that end,” Nephera said, walking to the edge of the dais and dropping down before them.