Before the Crow

by Aaron Bunce

  They definitely weren’t garrison men.

  “You’re over here,” Sayer said, guiding her through the group.

  “Freckles,” Dennah said happily. The speckled mare tossed her head and tail excitedly in response. She grabbed the horse by the bridle and smoothed down the soft hairs on her nose. Freckles snorted and nuzzled her affectionately.

  “That’s a good horse,” Sayer said.

  “The very best!” Dennah replied, climbing into the saddle.

  Sayer pulled a strap tight on one of her bags and walked over to stand directly beneath her. He pulled a dagger from his robes and slid it into her furs, his hand dropping onto hers, before sliding down to the hilt of her sword.

  “The snow is deep. Go slowly, and use caution,” he said, his hand sliding reluctantly off the weapon. Dennah nodded. His message was well received.

  * * * *

  Roman kicked the melted length of chain aside, before retrieving Rat’s oil lamp off of the ground. He could feel the small flame dancing in the darkness. It resonated inside him, calling out to him and seeking his control.

  He approached the soiled mattress, Rat’s eyes glimmering like green gems in the light. But it wasn’t the boy sprawled out over the straw cushion now, but an old, and very frail looking man.

  “Rat?” Roman asked.

  “Among others,” the old man said, coughing weakly. “Help me to sit.”

  Roman set the lamp down and scooped the old man up, helping him to lean against the wall.

  “Thank you, Roman,” the old man said. “I’m sure the number of questions rushing about in your head has grown.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’ve gone by many names over the ages, all to suit my needs at the time. To gain influence, hide, or survive. You’ve known me as a Crow. A soothsayer, seeking the truth in your words. As a jailer, harsh and cruel. A crazed old man, full of stories whispered through a hole in the wall. An unassuming boy, harshly mistreated by so many.”

  “But, why?” Roman asked, trying to put all of the puzzle pieces together.

  “Why? The answer is actually quite simple. I knew what you are, but I needed to know who you are. Does that make sense?”

  Roman shrugged his shoulders.

  “I couldn’t afford to bestow my gift upon the wrong person. I needed a hero, not another monster. Not with what is coming. Your people will need you, especially considering what, and who, you are,” the Crow said.

  “What I am?”

  The old man nodded, his body convulsing as he coughed. His eyes pulsed with a weak green light, but faded again.

  “My time is…very short. I only wish that I had the time to tell you everything. I’m afraid there is a great deal you will be forced to figure out on your own. First, I am one of the last of an ancient people called the Nymradic. We lived on these shores ages ago, long before any of your people. But despite all of our power, we were doomed to suffer and vanish. It was a sickness. A blight. We made many sacrifices in our desperate fight for survival. In the end we resorted to a dark, horrible magic. We returned to these lands ages later, and discovered that a new people had settled here. The Dalan were just like you. We took them and perverted them, bending them to our needs. We stole their young and used our dark, twisted magic to mold and alter them. They became something altogether different.”

  “Why change them?” Roman asked.

  “Some of my kind didn’t need a reason. It was mostly because we couldn’t bear young any longer. We were the last of our kind, and were looking for ways to deny extinction. It was I, and one other Nym that helped our children, the Dalan, rise up. I thought the other, my dearest friend, perished.”

  “The Great War,” Roman mumbled.

  “Yes, I have heard that the dwarves call it that. It is one and the same. We taught the Dalan how to make weapons strong enough to defeat our kind. Together, we forged blades of pure onyx, and bound within them powerful, hungry spirits. They were supposed to be destroyed after the Nym fell, unfortunately, one survived. It ended up in King Alrik’s hands generations ago, when your people first landed on these shores. That blade was never meant to be wielded by your kind. It crippled him, almost tearing his soul from his body. His bloodline was forever tainted.”

  Roman was aware that his mouth had fallen open, and that it felt horribly dry. He tried to speak, but couldn’t form words.

  “Yes, you can feel the truth of it now. Your mother was Ophelia Algast, sister to the fallen king. You share their blood, and with it, their curse.”

  “But how do you know?” Roman asked, finally finding his voice.

  “Because I was there, Roman. I watched your father fall in love with your mother, and I helped him plan her escape. I only wish there was more I could have done for her. She was kind, loving, and compassionate, nothing like her brother. Your father was a good man,” the Crow said, his hands starting to shake.

  Roman’s insides wrenched up and his eyes burned. “I knew it. I knew it wasn’t true. I knew they were good,” he whispered.

  The Crow smiled weakly, before shaking and coughing violently.

  “My time has come. You must know this. The curse that haunts your blood is not gone. I have just given you the strength to take control. You sit as if on a precipice between this world and the spirit realm. That is how the Ifrit found you. To them, you are an empty vessel. It will not be long before another finds you and tries to force its way through you. Send your mind out into the spirit realm. Find a being and draw it into yourself. Pick wisely. The right spirit will aid you, support you, and make you stronger, but the wrong sort. Well, you’ve already seen that kind,” the Crow said.

  “I don’t know how to thank you. Where do I start? Where do I go?” Roman said desperately, waving his hands towards the walls.

  The Crow gagged, his face contorting painfully. His hands and legs started to shake. Roman watched as his fingers turned white, hardening like stone.

  “Ahh,” the Crow gasped, the change moving up his hands and then his wrists. “Find a spirit. One that can guide you. There is armor and weapons in the next cell. Haybear’s cell. Use it, and find your way out through the tunnels. There is a box there. I took it from the lord constable. It contains items left by your parents. Once free of this place, head north. Find your friend. She knows of your parents, and I fear the lord constable will see her silenced.”

  Roman crouched forward and held the old man as his body shook, his eyes sliding back in his head.

  “Wait, there has to be some way for me to help you. Let me save you. I still have so many questions,” Roman said desperately.

  He felt the skin of the man’s arms turn hard, the change sliding up his chest and onto his neck.

  “Not me. I welcome this. Make yourself strong, help Dennah. Seek out my friend,” the Crow gasped one final breath. “Find my friend. Find Pera in the north. He will help you.”

  The Crow shook one final time, the skin of his face and head turning to stone. Roman rocked back on his heels and almost fell over backwards. He leapt to his feet and staggered back, his mind reeling.

  He had waited and begged for revelations for so long, now that he had the information, he didn’t know what to do with it. He’d dreamt of this moment many times, only this wasn’t how he envisioned it happening. The Crow’s words untangled many of the mysteries haunting him. Unfortunately, it also created a host of new ones as well.

  Roman’s gaze dropped to the Crow’s outstretched hands. He hadn’t noticed it before. He was too close. A heavy iron ring of keys was hooked on an extended finger.

  “The door, the tunnel,” he whispered and pulled the keys free.

  Roman stood, but hovered before the old figure for a moment longer. “Thank you…for everything.”

  Scooping the lamp off the floor, Roman stepped gingerly out through the ruined doorframe of his cell. He stepped over broken stone and timber, turning left and walking down the dark hall.

  Quickly, he thought, wanting
to gather whatever supplies the Crow had left him and be gone, before someone else showed up.

  The door to the next cell opened easily. He stepped inside, pulling the door closed behind him. A straw mattress, just like the one in his cell, sat against the far wall. Roman could tell that someone had gone to great pains to make the space as comfortable as possible.

  A bookshelf lined one wall, its dusty shelves covered in old, crumbling tomes. A threadbare rug lay on the stone floor, but it was something on the wall that caught his attention. Someone had scored the stone, slowly and deliberately chiseling a mural into the stone. An eye floated over an obelisk, or tower. Strange looking figures were hunched over all around it, prostrating themselves as if in worship or fear.

  “Move,” Roman growled, urging himself forward.

  He set the small lamp on the shelf, its flame flickering and growing weak. He picked up a heavy jerkin off the pile on the bed, and pulled it on. Next, Roman swapped out his trousers, pulled on the new boots, grabbed the bow, and slung the quiver of arrows over his shoulder.

  He looped the sword belt and pulled it tight, before loosening it a bit for comfort. Lastly, Roman picked up the box, its lid glittering with sparkling detail. He ran his fingers over the polished wood and scalloped edge, wanting only to pull it open and rifle through his parent’s treasures, but he knew he didn’t have the time. Not yet at least. He tucked the box into a small leather bag and slung it around his neck. Jingling the keys, Roman reached for the lamp just as its flame sputtered. A heartbeat later the door clicked loudly in the hall.

  No! He thought angrily, dousing the small lamp and ducking down next to the door. Light filtered in from the hallway, falling upon the etchings on the wall, the shelf, and then the bed.

  Roman cursed quietly and jumped from the darkness. He jumbled up his discarded clothing on the bed before draping the blanket over them. He crept back to the door just as the torch appeared outside the door.

  “Why are we down here again?” the man holding the torch asked, his voice raspy and high.

  Roman held his breath.

  “Do’ know. Just heard that the lord constable ordered extra men on watch down here. Maybe he’s afraid one of these wretched saps is gonna escape!” another man laughed from further down the hall. His voice was considerably deeper.

  “Hey, take a look at this. The door…what the?” one of the men cried, the telltale ring of steel sliding free of its scabbard splitting the air.

  “Hey you! Keep your hands up,” the man with the raspy voice said, his voice echoing out of Roman’s cell.

  Roman put his weight against the door and eased out into the darkness. Torchlight streamed from the ruined doorway of his cell. He moved across the passageway quickly, glancing back once before sliding around the corner and moving towards the doorway at the far end.

  “Blimey. He’s cold, and hard as rock. This ain’t natural. Run up and fetch the watch captain. Fetch Teague,” one of the soldiers yelled.

  Roman broke out into a run, the keys clutched tightly in his hand. He reached the end of the passageway and dropped quickly to a knee. The darkness smothered him as he fumbled blindly to find the keyhole.

  A door banged open behind him. He heard a man shouting and the clap of boots against stone.

  Quickly, Roman…he thought. His hand glowed, and a heartbeat later a lively spit of fire crawled over his index finger. Using the light, Roman located the keyhole, inserted the key, and turned.

  The door pulled open, the hinges groaning. He heard voices echoing down the stairwell. The door creaked open a hand, and then some more. Roman crawled forward, clawing at the stone on the other side.

  Torchlight and noise filled the passage behind him. He braved a glance before pulling the door closed. Soldiers holding torches ran by, moving towards Haybear’s cell. He counted a score, or more.

  Roman eased the door shut, and locked it, before turning and heading blindly into the darkness. He held his arm out before him, his finger alight like a tapered candle. The tunnel expanded and crowded back in, the walls and ceiling jutting in jagged formations.

  Loud voices echoed directly behind him. Roman clamped his hand shut and continued forward in darkness.

  “I can’t see nothing. It’s too dark,” a soldier yelled behind him.

  The door rattled loudly, driving him faster and deeper into the dyp mork. Roman crawled forward, feeling his way through the dark with outstretched hands, fearful of letting even the smallest amount of light forth.

  Sounds echoed out from all around, yet he pushed himself further. He came to a wall and turned right, found another dead end and turned left. Roman became so turned around he lost track of which direction he had come.

  Roman’s fear quickly turned to panic, and he forced himself to stop. Settling back on his haunches, he pushed the fire forth, allowing it to crawl out over his right arm. Bright, flickering light filled the cavern.

  Steady, slow, and don’t panic, he told himself.

  Using the fire, Roman began to move again. He turned a corner, and then another before coming to a fork. The right leg ended abruptly, so he turned, and tripped on something stretched across the path. Roman kicked free and pushed away, holding his fiery hand out before him defensively.

  He had tripped on a body. The man’s corpse had been propped against the wall, his skeletal hand still clutching to a familiar stub of candle. Roman shivered and pushed down the other tunnel, which broke into two more. He ducked and weaved, stumbling across several more bodies. Or were they? Was he so lost that he was doubling back and stumbling onto the same body over and over again?

  Roman shook his head and leaned against the wall, fighting to keep his breath steady. A breeze rustled over him, a strange moaning noise filling the passage. He let the fire burn brighter, before lifting his hand toward the tunnel ceiling. A dark, jagged hole loomed overhead, extending up and into the darkness. Roman stepped beneath it as another gust of air rush down out of the darkness and disturbed the flames.

  “The wind,” he whispered dejectedly. He’d never crawl to freedom that way. The vent was too high and too small.

  “There has to be another way out of here,” he mumbled, refusing to give in to despair. Find a spirit to guide me, he thought, trying to reform his conversation with the dying Crow in his mind. The strange, old figure had told him so much. He’d almost forgotten.

  “Okay,” Roman said determinedly, and slid down onto his knees. He glanced down the dark passage behind him, and then before him.

  Closing his eyes, Roman took a deep breath and willed the fire away. Everything fell into darkness around him. He focused on the knot deep inside and felt it respond instantly. It wasn’t like before. The Crow’s gift put it at reach, but more importantly, gave him the control he needed.

  A rush of cold flooded into him as he pried the knot open. He extended beyond his will deeper, until he felt everything fall away.

  Deeper…he thought, willing his mind further into the strange expanse. Slowly, shapes started to appear in his mind, coalescing out of the ether.

  Roman became lost to himself. He pushed deeper and deeper, the strange, dark world beyond his own coming alive in his mind. Peculiar formations appeared, and then trees. He pushed beyond them, feeling the cold, almost tangible brush of their leaves against his mind.

  A shape appeared out of the vegetation, its outline afire in light. It looked like no animal he had ever seen. Roman could feel its thoughts and desires brush against his own. It felt strong, and primal, but it was fearful of him and quickly moved off.

  A single thought drove his purpose. He needed to find a spirit to guide him. There was only one that Roman ever trusted to guide him, and he let that memory guide his desire. His yearning and need found voice. He called out into the dark world as he moved.

  He lost track of how long he was kneeling there in the tunnel, surrounded by darkness. It could have been moments, or it could have been so much longer. His feet and legs grew numb, and h
is stomach was an empty, hollow pit, but he refused to pull back.

  A powerful spirit moved forth, considering him. It came to within arm’s length and circled him. It moved on all fours, its back dotted with sharp horns. He could feel the creature’s will extending and washing over him. It was strong, like the Ifrit. Its thoughts were strange and cold. The being’s curiosity scared him.

  Roman moved away, but could feel the spirit following at a distance. He pushed deeper, casting himself further into the spirit world, the effort starting to tax him severely. Distantly, his body started to shake, and his skin became damp. He needed to pull back and rest.

  Roman started to withdraw, a small spirit appearing in the foliage ahead of him. It slunk along, low to the ground, unwilling to come out into the open or get too close. He could feel its fear, confusion, and apprehension. It felt lost. And yet, there was something familiar about it that he couldn’t deny.

  He stopped and called out to the spirit. It stopped moving suddenly and considered him, its outline glowing even more brightly. Roman called out to it again and extended his hand. The spirit approached cautiously, its form still masked by the strange, shadowy foliage.

  The spirit extended its head out of the vegetation, the tip of its nose hovering just over his hand. Roman felt the creature’s will settle over him. It felt warm, gentle, and familiar.

  “Hello, boy!” Roman whispered.

  The dog’s spirit burst out of the foliage, enveloping him in a warm and welcomed embrace.

  Chapter 35

  Moving together

  Julian cinched the chest plate down as a handful of men rushed through the open door. He tightened the old sword belt and pulled Wraithman’s boots on.

  “You foul, murdering bastard!” the first man cried out as he spotted Benik, and then Wraithman’s shriveled form.