Before the Crow

by Aaron Bunce

  “Her guilt cannot be rendered with no witnesses. Our laws state,” Tilith started to argue, but Teague cut her off once again.

  “None to speak, because they are all dead!” Teague said, stepping forward and motioning passionately at the line of bodies in the snow.

  “So, murder begets murder, Commander? We haven’t the means to render her guilt, or his for that matter. All we have is our emotions, and the violence that can inspire. What if she was the victim of circumstances? What if he is telling the truth? What if there is something else, something both nefarious and powerful at play that we have yet to unveil?” Tilith argued, gaining confidence.

  “And what if he spins lies? Then I put every other person in the town, the province, and the whole of Denoril at risk. Their lives…their blood would be on my hands.”

  “…and so would theirs,” Tilith interrupted, gesturing to Roman and Dennah. This time Teague didn’t immediately have a response.

  “You know our charge. Bring this town back into lawful order.”

  “So we do that, but with a clear conscience. Not like this. Not butchering people in the snow before a rabid mob,” Tilith whispered, her curly brown hair billowing in the breeze.

  “Then what, bold Tilith, might you suggest?” Teague growled.

  “Take them to Falksgraad, Captain,” Tilith growled back, “make them stand before the Crow.”

  Teague looked down at Roman, catching his gaze, contempt filling his eyes. He looked over him to Dennah, and stomped back towards the elder’s house.

  “Be it on your head then!” he yelled without, turning.

  Part Two

  Corruption

  Chapter 6

  A Slow Suppuration

  The noises of the city had grown strange of late, not unlike that of a strangled animal, wheezing and struggling for breath. The streets, although still filled with its usual traffic of highborn and commoners, also had seen an increase in wretches and vagrants.

  As a whole, the mood had grown darker and considerably more disheveled. Before the snows set in, Ban Turin was besieged by unseasonable rain and ice. The weather constantly churned the sky, breaking in dark torrents for days without end. Many of the side streets and back alleys became impassible troughs of mud and heaved brick.

  Refuse wagons, responsible for carting away rubbish of all kinds, became stuck in the mire, and were subsequently locked in place as the temperatures plummeted. Heaping piles of stinking garbage now accumulated. Even the bone rattling cold and biting winds couldn’t repel the bloat flies and other vermin. Where men and women once congregated now only crows and rats were brazen enough to linger.

  The changes to the city were not lost on everyone. Where so many commoners saw foul weather and bad luck, Brother Dalman understood a different truth. He hadn’t stayed in the capitol for a love of political rhetoric, although he found the councilmen provided no shortage of entertainment. He knew that something present, something lingering just out of sight, was responsible.

  Brother Dalman could sense a darkness beating at the city’s heart, like a festering wound that refused to heal. He had seen enough seeping wounds before. He understood all-too well that if the corruption was not contained, and the suppuration spread, it would kill the whole body.

  Despite what he had led the Council of Lords to believe, Brother Dalman had not come to the capitol to argue the merits of historical scrolls and banned texts. His charge, as few knew, was considerably more secretive. Quietly, he had accumulated information. The order of Denil, as old as any in the land, had benefactors both rich and influential.

  Beneath the placid demeanor and unassuming monk’s robe stirred a mind of unimaginable vision and calculation. Few people could claim to truly hold his confidence, and fewer still had ever actually earned his trust. Many underestimated him throughout the winter thaws, considering his grayed hair and ever-creeping wrinkles to be the signs of weakness. Most of those people however, had eventually come to regret it.

  A lifetime of work had helped him to hone his skills, instincts, and reflexes. Throughout those numerous winter thaws, Brother Dalman thought that he had seen everything. It was, after all, his experiences that helped him to adapt so quickly to each scenario he found himself in. Persistence was his way, while adaptation and flexibility kept him alive.

  With all of his knowledge and skill, Brother Dalman found something highly unsettling about his surroundings. It was a lingering sense of unease, one he could neither explain nor shake off. He had experienced degradation and filth before, but this felt different. He would never claim to possess any sixth sense, or magical prowess, yet something, either drifting within the air of the capitol, or seeping from the calcium-stained stones, hovered like an irritant all around him.

  The darkness descended over the city, sometimes long before the sun was even given a chance to cast its rays. The air felt heavy, and the chill oppressive. He walked along a cluttered thoroughfare, minding his footing on the slippery walkway, desperate to keep his robes pulled tight and his hood low. The lane’s actual name was lost to him unfortunately, as vagrants had torn down its cobbled sign long ago. He knew it only as Braggart’s Way. It was a fitting name too, as it was home to countless lowlife’s and prostitutes.

  Brother Dalman stepped off of the cobbled walkway, and was forced out onto the muddy roadway for the first time. The lane’s ill repair was of no consequence, although he found himself subconsciously stepping in the footprints that had been locked in the mud when the freeze set in.

  His quarry, as he would lead none to believe, traveled along the same path, just a short distance ahead. Brother Dalman moved slowly, gravitating between the shadows that pooled heavily along the dreary way. On several occasions he would duck through an archway, or under an elevated walk to break his angle, stopping to meander within groups of unfortunates, or those few street merchants that dared to peddle their wares here.

  This wasn’t the first time he had set out to follow this particular individual. The diminutive figure, he found, was as cagy as a fox, and had given him the slip more times than not. Brother Dalman, graced of thaws of experience, knew better than to succumb to frustration. Someone who willfully followed too close oftentimes became the one who was followed, or worse, just another corpse in the frozen mud.

  What are you disposing of this time, my friend? Brother Dalman thought to himself, as the small cart rattled down the lane. It wasn’t altogether odd that a well-respected man, seated in a foremost position of power, would associate with such an individual.

  Not odd, but not altogether surprising, he thought to himself with a chuckle.

  Brother Dalman tried to push by a filthy looking man who instantly moved to block him. With blackened teeth and sallow skin, the flesh monger, as many called them, forced a young woman toward Brother Dalman.

  “She’s all yours, master…long as you want her. Only a small sack of silver tributes,” the flesh monger rattled off, proselytizing as he always did for new customers.

  The unfortunate woman, young enough to be Brother Dalman’s grandchild, spread her threadbare robes, exposing her bare body beneath. Her hair was dark, shoulder length, and ratted with curls. She was pretty, with small breasts and narrow hips, but had yet to fill out. It was her eyes that he found most striking. She met his gaze reluctantly, before dropping her eyes to the ground once more. They were pale blue and reminded him of a clear summer sky.

  “See, nice, heh? And…” the flesh monger started to spout, but his voice choked away as Brother Dalman’s hand flashed around his neck. To those standing around them it looked like the monk simply squeezed the monger’s shoulder, perhaps as they haggled over the young woman’s price. The monk’s grip was significantly more practiced however, and as he pulled the man around, his thumb sank deeper into the hollow between his collarbones.

  With steady pressure, Brother Dalman swung the wiry man around a corner and into the shadow of a stone column. The flesh monger’s face screwed up in a ho
rrible grimace as he gagged ineffectually for breath.

  “Sickening wretch, what family did you steal her from?” Brother Dalman hissed as he released the pressure on the monger’s shoulder. With a raspy explosion, the flesh monger doubled over, clutching to his chest with both hands.

  “Please, sir, don’t hurt him,” the unfortunate young prostitute pleaded as she attempted to divert Brother Dalman’s attention. With a firm hand he broke the young woman’s grip and twisted her off to the side.

  “You’re a…dead…man,” the flesh monger wheezed, a thick glob of drool spilling over his bottom lip.

  “In due time,” Brother Dalman replied smoothly, “where did the girl come from?” he asked again.

  The young woman continued to plead behind him. Her pathetic sobs for her despicable owner only drove the controlled monk closer to anger.

  Before the flesh monger could retort angrily, Brother Dalman struck. His hand snapped forward, driving into the monger’s gut and flashed back to his side in a single quick movement. Brother Dalman stood perfectly still as the monger slumped forward onto his shoulder.

  “Where did you get the girl?” he asked evenly.

  “Tide…Tidesburg. I bought her and her sister from their family for a handful of silver, and a mule. Her mother was dead and her father was thrown into the mines. It doesn’t matter though…” the monger snarled and reared back.

  Brother Dalman had been patiently waiting, and when the larger man’s hand stabbed out, he was ready. The small knife slid out of the monger’s sleeve, sliding right into his hand, but the vigilant monk would not be caught off guard. He swept his left hand down, arcing in a crescent that caught the monger’s wrist.

  The impact knocked the knife out wide, just enough so that it missed Brother Dalman’s robes. He took a small step forward and drove his right hand into the ball of the man’s shoulder.

  The flesh monger grunted as the joint popped and the arm went limp. With grim satisfaction, Brother Dalman kicked the small knife, and sent it rattling off into the darkness.

  With his left arm useless at his side, the monger staggered back into the stained brick of the archway. Brother Dalman knocked aside an ineffectual punch from his opponent’s right fist and drove his elbow hard into his soft midsection. The aged monk, always controlled, turned toward the unfortunate young woman as her filthy owner collapsed in a heap.

  “You do not belong to this…this person…any longer,” he said evenly, and then reached into his robes.

  The young woman, flighty as a caged bird, flinched dramatically as he pulled his hand free. Brother Dalman slowly turned his hand over and opened his palm, eager to show the woman that he held no weapon, or meant her any harm. With a gentle toss, the monk tested the weight of his coin purse before depositing it whole in her trembling hands.

  “Do you have family, or friends that can shelter you?” he asked.

  The young woman clenched tighter to her robes, and with face cast to the ground, shook her head.

  “Take the gold. There is more than enough there to buy passage far from here. Take your freedom south to the Lakes, or beyond,” Brother Dalman intoned and walked away.

  He didn’t have to look to know that the young woman hadn’t moved from the spot. He understood the weight of every decision pressing in around her, and for that very reason he knew she had to make the choice on her own. He could only hope that she would move herself in the right direction. Forward, not back.

  The silver-haired monk straightened his robes as he walked back down the lane. His quarry was gone by now, but he continued on anyway. Silently he chided himself for his unnecessary involvement with the flesh monger and his whore, despite a small voice in the back of his mind telling him that he had done the right thing by the girl. He had a hard time believing that he had affected any real change however as he passed similar men and young women at seemingly every archway and cross street he passed.

  His thoughts became uncharacteristically chaotic, and he found his fists clenching tightly as his side. It took a moment to master the sudden and powerful emotions, but he tempered them, as he always did.

  None would blame him for his outburst. After all, the corrupting influences of the capitol were an effervescent toxin that attacked every one of your senses all at once. They were, it appeared, affecting him more than even he would have thought.

  A gentle noise rose above the din, washing between the close quarters of Braggart’s Way like an invisible wave. Brother Dalman looked down at the ground as his foot landed in a squelchy pile of horse manure. He moved to scrape it off but stopped. A large puddle of rancid soup had been thrown in the middle of the lane. It had yet to freeze, and through its midst was a single telltale track from a wagon wheel.

  Brother Dalman instantly forgot about the manure and proceeded forward. In a subtle move, the monk ducked over next to the buildings and into a crowd. A short distance ahead, stuck in the middle of the lane behind a logjam of people, was the small wagon.

  Slowly, Brother Dalman moved through the throng of meandering destitutes and wayfarers. He pulled himself forward, swimming against the current as the crowd became larger and more animated.

  He bounced on the balls of his feet, trying to catch sight of the source that had so stirred the locals into a commotion. A whip cracked and everyone around him flinched, gasping audibly. A loud voice pierced the clatter as Brother Dalman pushed clear of the crowd.

  The wagon had struck a small cart emerging from an alleyway. The smaller vessel had broken open, spilling its contents all across the lane. The sudden appearance of food flooded the lane with people desperate to claim whatever they could get their hands on.

  The sudden rush had spooked the small carthorse, and sent it into a panic. Even as Brother Dalman watched, several men crowded in, holding their hands up as they fought to bring the animal under control. Throughout the chaos of the scene, he focused in on a single detail. Perched atop the seat of the wagon, like a shadowy bird, sat the cloaked figure. He sat perfectly still, and only when the two men brought the horse under control did he move.

  Brother Dalman couldn’t hope to hear what the man said, but he took enough from his body language to understand that the diminutive figure was not happy. The horde continued to mill about, emboldened by the chaos. They blocked the road, fighting over burlap sacks of cabbage, potatoes, and apples. Only when the figure seated upon the wagon brandished his whip did they take notice.

  Brother Dalman pushed forward, and despite his steely nerves, flinched when the crack of leather split the air. The crowd bunched up around him, drawing tighter together for protection from the whip’s sting. A moment later the lash cracked again. This time the crowd disintegrated.

  Panic gripped him as his concealment blew away, moving like a scattering flock of birds. He looked around frantically for a moment, searching for a place to hide, but the chaos rendered him temporarily dumb. A woman, head down, and her arms full of fruits and vegetables, appeared before him in full flight. There was no way for Brother Dalman to get out of the way in time, and with a frightened cry, she barreled into him.

  Food went up in the air, scattering to the ground and rolling dangerously beneath their feet. Brother Dalman slipped and caught himself, but then his foot came down on an apple and the world tilted up on end. He landed hard on his back, even as the mob stampeded in around them. Feet crashed down, tromping on the ground next to his head and on his robes.

  The crowd thinned enough and Brother Dalman rolled to his side and pushed off of the ground. He threw an elbow into a man that ran blindly into him and limped out of the crowd. As quickly as the throng had frenzied, it disappeared.

  Brother Dalman leaned back against the side of a large stone building, absently brushing at the filth that now covered his robes. Despite his best efforts, he knew there would be no getting rid of the street’s grime. Not without a hot bath and a laundry anyway. He took a deep breath to master himself, and then proceeded back down the darkened la
ne.

  He maintained a leisurely pace. It would attract all of the wrong kind of attention if he looked like he was in a hurry. After all, he could easily hear the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves off the frozen lane ahead.

  The further he ventured down Braggart’s Way, the seedier his surroundings became. Brother Dalman pulled his heavy robes in a little tighter. The corners were now mostly empty. Either the flesh mongers, toting their human produce, avoided this part of the city, or something had driven them away.

  Dark figures moved out of the corners of his eye, but melted into the shadows if he turned directly toward them. The large lanterns lighting the street were so caked in soot and filth that their light was barely discernible. He passed doorways, and within the darkness, Brother Dalman caught glimpses of reflected light.

  A clatter resounded off the cobblestone road, freezing Brother Dalman in his tracks, yet he turned and found no one behind him. He set off again at a faster pace. The clapping of hammered horseshoes against frozen mud could no longer be heard. It had been replaced by another noise. One that was steady, almost like rolling thunder.

  The lane curved, breaking his line of sight for the first time. He made the decision quickly, and acted on it even faster. With sure footing, Brother Dalman paced down an alleyway to his right. He picked his way past the piles of refuse, and hopped over a figure, laid out prone on the ground. At the intersection of the next lane, Brother Dalman turned left and continued on, hugging as closely to the buildings as he could.

  The lane ended abruptly before him, spanning out into the sweeping, black currents of the King’s Fall River. The lane split off to his left, and right, following the waste-high stone wall that enclosed the river’s southern bank. Across the water’s sweeping breadth, jutting up into the air at an impressive height was the northern wall.

  Brother Dalman shrunk into the shadow between two glowing lanterns and tilted his head back, taking in the impressive site. Hundreds of lights, no larger than a fingertip, floated above the dark expanse of the stone wall. He had looked down on this spot dozens of times, all during his various trips up city to meet with the councilmen and merchant lords. To see the spot now, from so far below, changed his perspective of the city’s elite, and their lofty perch above the commoners and low born.