by Aaron Bunce
The ground appeared beneath her, looming out of the dark confines with almost no warning. But she was not caught unawares; she knew this place too well. With a cry she unfurled her wings, catching the warming air with a whoosh and crackle of straining membranes. She hit the ground hard, hard enough to kill a mortal person, but then again she was hardly mortal.
She stood in the pool of light from above, but the rest of the tower’s lowest floor was pitch-black. She turned expectantly, her eyes pulsing bright green with every riotous beat of her heart. She felt them moving tentatively through the inky darkness. They had not seen what she had, nor were they filled with her confidence.
Nephera spun in a circle. A pinprick of green light appeared in the darkness, and then another, until she was completely surrounded by glowing green eyes. They crept forward out of the darkness, a multitude of her kind. They shuffled forward, crowding around her. She felt their desires and heard the chorus of their voices.
“We rise!” she cried out.
Chapter 16
Drawn Out
Roman watched, stunned when the two soldiers removed Dennah’s chains and ushered her out through a door on the far side of the gallery.
“What did he say? Where are they taking her? What did he decide?” Roman asked the guard frantically, trying to piece it all together. The guard pinned his club between his arm and his body as he turned, flipping the catch to open the cage door.
“Your turn,” he muttered simply, ducking in and grabbing Roman by the ropes binding his wrists.
He was a thickly built man, of medium height. He had gray streaks in his hair and beard, and muddied, greenish-brown eyes.
“Can’t you at least tell me what they are going to do with her?” he asked.
“You’ll shut that mouth, unless you want another throttling,” the man threatened.
The guard pulled Roman forward harshly. He staggered forward, his legs weak from hunger and exhaustion, but also from the iron chain’s weight. He received a sharp jab from the hilt of a blade in his back as motivation.
The men circled in around him, blades pulled free and leveled against him while the boys bustled in, shackling him with chain as they had done Dennah.
Once the shackles were in place the men cut the ropes, allowing the boys to pull Roman’s arms out wide. He grunted as they continued to tighten the chains, even when his arms were pulled tight. The men backed away after Roman was locked in place. Roman looked up and met the penetrating gaze of the lord constable.
“Your name is Roman Erland, is it not?” the crier asked.
Roman nodded resolutely.
“And your face. How did it come to look like this?” Lord Desh asked, indicating the fresh bruises and split lip.
Roman felt the soldier behind him dig the tip of his sword into his back, reminding him of the promise he made to kill him earlier. Roman shook his head, lowering his eyes to the ground.
“Very well. You stand in this chamber accused of the most horrible crimes possible. Both brutal against your fellow man and woman, but also against the laws as handed down from your merciful Council Lords. Men of repute have made testimony, implicating you in the deaths of a score of innocents. These dark and fiendish acts will not be tolerated. I was prepared to rule on your fate, based off of Captain Markus Teague’s account alone, but one person has stepped forward to speak for you. And according to the law, that person must be heard. Know this, without her you would not receive the benefit of this tribunal.” Lord Desh spoke plainly, in a clear and harsh voice, as if Roman were an unruly child in need of punishment.
Roman shifted. He tugged at the chains, but they were excruciatingly tight, pulling painfully at his shoulders. The constable’s words struck him.
Without her, he thought, just as Tilith stood from her seat in the gallery. The cleric quietly made her way down the stairs before settling next to Roman, avoiding eye contact. Roman suddenly became very nervous.
Lord Desh shifted in his seat before nodding to someone in the gallery. Markus Teague stood, and carefully made his way down the stairs, never taking his gaze away from Roman and Tilith.
The intimidating captain bowed slightly to the constable before turning back to Roman.
“Greta Olfson took you in when your father died, correct?” Teague asked, clutching his hands behind him.
“Yes she did.”
“Frenin Feldershine, the elder, looked after you, checked in on you. He made your wellbeing a personal priority. Correct?”
Roman nodded.
“Yes, or no. For the scribes,” Lord Desh said sharply.
“Yes!”
“At your own admittance, you visited the home of Garon and Greta Olfson, on the elder’s behest. Correct?” Teague asked, staring absently into the gallery.
“Yes, because he knew that…” Roman started to say, but Teague cut him off.
“A simple yes is all I require.”
Roman felt his face grow hot. His belly shifted and he felt the Ifrit start pushing against his resolve.
“You alone traveled to the Olfson farm. To the place where, let’s see, how did Frenin put it, Greta’s husband mistreated you with both word and deed. And you alone found Greta and the livestock dead, correct?” Teague continued quickly.
“Well, yes. I was alone, but I…”
“And you returned with the news that all were dead…people and animals, with only a mute girl. One who was unable to speak of what transpired. Is that correct?”
“Yes, but…”
“And yet, when the local vintner offers gold, you alone respond. Again, you return, while the entire city guard and a wealthy merchant lie dead. Is that correct?” Teague continued.
Roman felt Tilith shift next to him, but she didn’t speak. He took a deep breath, working hard to settle his nerves. His anxiety and fear fed the Ifrit. He could already feel the chain growing warm and swelling against him.
“And then, my men arrive. While under lock and key, you convinced the elder to set you free. You slew three of Lord Thatcher’s caravan guards and burned a barn down around them. My men chased you to the elder’s house, where they found you right after murdering him and the two women caring for the Olfson girl, Alina, whom disappeared,” Teague said, coming forward.
The audience in the chamber grew animated and loud. Some booed, and others cried out, yelling “murderer”. The scribes scribbled and whispered to one another, yet the only person in the massive chamber not moving was Lord Desh. The aged constable sat still in his seat, his hands resting on his cane just beneath his chin.
“Do you deny it?” Teague shouted, his voice rising above the din.
“No, I mean, yes. I didn’t hurt anyone. I didn’t do those things,” Roman growled, his face growing hot. His face scrunched up as the Ifrit pushed outwards, stealing his breath. He felt its will. It was undeniable, and dark. It wanted to burn, everything.
Teague turned back to the gallery as Lord Desh smashed his cane into the platform, again and again. The audience quieted, although not completely. Several people continued to shout and whisper.
“Cleric, you stand for this man. What leads you to believe that he is not the monster the honorable Markus Teague claims he is?” Lord Desh asked.
The audience grew very quiet. Roman looked from the constable to Teague, but couldn’t bring himself to look at Tilith.
“Lord Constable. I inspected the bodies of the dead. Their condition is unexplainable. They were touched by something powerful, ravenous, and evil. I could feel it lingering on their remains. This young man was stricken by illness and chained to a bed for the majority of our stay. He did not have the opportunity, or for that matter, the ambition to murder any of these people. He is just as likely an unsuspecting…” Tilith said.
“Lord Constable,” Teague cut in forcefully, “this young man had the only opportunity. He knew all those slain, and worse, their deaths all benefited him in some way. As soon as he was captured, he navigated his escape, and then rus
hed to the elder’s house and killed any remaining who could stand witness against him.”
“We know only what those in town were willing to tell us!” Tilith retorted angrily, her fists balling up next to her. “Why would he bring the girl back from the farm, to keep her safe, only to break out of chain and shackle to kill her later? The elder only showed him kindness. Why kill him as well? What benefit do you speak of, Markus?”
“The farmer berated and beat him…perhaps he held a grudge against his wife for allowing it to happen. And do not forget those people he ‘found’ in the orchard. A wealthy vintner’s purse full of gold sounds like a tempting prize for someone struggling to pay their tax.”
“I didn’t go to steal his gold! I went to help him, to harvest his apples,” Roman said defensively, but grimaced. Heat was welling up in his chest, and pushing its way into his head. The chain continued to swell, squeezing around his chest. He could feel it burning against his skin, and it smelled hot.
“There is something not right with this young man, something dark. The caravan guard, the young woman, convinced me to let Tilith use her healing touch on him when he was infirm. He attacked her, and had I not been there, he would have likely consumed her like the others,” Teague said.
“I didn’t attack anyone. I found Greta in the field. I would never hurt her. She was like a mother to me,” Roman argued, but the audience reacted to his voice, hissing and gnashing their teeth.
Tilith quietly cleared her throat and said, “Lord Constable, I cannot openly refute Captain Teague’s argument, because I was not present to witness the murders in question. As thus, neither were any of us. I did apply my healing touch to him. I felt something within him, but I do not believe that it was him. Perhaps something dark inhabiting him.”
Teague shook his head and scoffed, before turning back to the constable. Roman’s anger peaked and he trashed, pulling and fighting against the chains. Lord Desh’s face scrunched up as he sat up a little straighter. He held up his palm, halting further argument.
“Mistress Tilith, it is as these matters so often are. One says one thing, the other refutes it. You argue with passion, and show the mercy and compassion your order is known for. Captain Teague, you command your arguments like you lead your men, strong, and disciplined. I am most troubled by these events, most specifically the slaughter of so many innocents. The dark tinge of magic continues to haunt our lands, ripping and tearing at the soft underbelly of our goodly folk. It is as it was in the days of old, before the Council ended the tyrannical rule of Kings. Unsavory people wielded strange magic craft in those days, and made victims of those who could not protect themselves. But it was not some foul monstrosity lashing out through people, but the people’s own dark and monstrous nature.
“Greed, lust, jealousy, ambition, and fear can drive many to lash out at one another. They became like predators, and everyone else, their prey. That, in part, it why those who practice the magical crafts cannot be trusted, or tolerated. I must say, my mind is firm in my course on your fate, Roman Erland. But I will consult the Crow, so that my actions may be carried to swift justice without the burden of doubt. His talent allows him to see through the veil of lies to a person’s dark truths.” Lord Desh sat back before motioning to the dark figure in the corner.
Roman tried to swallow, but a lump formed in this throat. Tilith and Teague stepped away, moving silently back to the gallery next to the constable.
He watched the strange figure approach, his steps making no discernable noise. The Crow stopped before Lord Desh.
“You heard it all?” the constable asked.
“A tangled web woven of two stories,” the Crow said, nodding. “I will discern which one is the truth.”
Lord Desh nodded and sat back in his massive seat as the Crow turned to Roman. Everything in the chamber changed. The corners of the room grew dark. The gallery fell away as the Crow split in two. The darker form moved towards him, its hands extended out before him.
Something felt oddly familiar to Roman as he looked up into the dark figure’s face. The Crow was old, and his face pale. Their eyes locked and Roman’s belly flipped over. The Ifrit lashed out, growing in size and intensity, pushing against the chain wrapped around him. It was so tight Roman could barely breathe.
The version of the Crow still standing before Lord Desh was speaking, its words washing over Roman in an indecipherable storm. He heard words spilling out of his mouth, yet he did not consciously speak.
The Crow’s dark form approached him, its fingers growing like drawing afternoon shadows. Its mouth opened wide, a strange noise filling the air around him. Roman suddenly understood why it felt familiar, just as its hands slid around his throat.
The Crow’s eyes surged green as he felt it pull him into the darkness. Roman toppled forward, his body falling into a cold dark place. All thoughts of the chamber fell away.
“Open yourself to me,” the Crow whispered. His voice seeped into his mind like a freezing rain. It wormed its way past his defenses, snaking deeper into Roman’s memory.
The darkness took shape, forming small, cold particles of snow and ice. A howling noise cut in just as the barn materialized all around him. Roman could smell straw, oil, but also stale wine.
No! He thought, desperate to deny the memory’s wretched meaning.
“Open yourself to me. Show me your truths,” the Crow whispered, appearing before him as a dark silhouette.
Roman saw Banus form out of the mist, and then Dennah. The sight of the wretched little man made his anger well up. He heard his foul voice and Dennah cry out in pain. The Ifrit responded, drawing strength from his anger as it bellowed inside of him. It battered against his resolve, breaking through his control.
The dark silhouette shrunk away as Roman started to glow a deep, crimson. The chains wrapped around his chest pinched and crushed him. They felt cold one moment, and hot the next.
The Crow loomed above him, his eyes glowing like green lanterns against the darkness. Fire erupted within Roman, jabbing out through his skin like a million tiny hot blades.
“It is you!” the Crow hissed.
Shadowy tendrils swarmed out of the Crow’s dark figure, digging into him until he felt them brush against something immense. The Ifrit reacted, exploding forward, and instantly filling every inch of his body with its violent and combustive presence.
The chain swelled up, reacting violently to the Ifrit, and when he was sure that it would cut him in half, something snapped. The pressure released and he could suddenly breathe. The Crow retracted, slipping away as a bright light spilled through the shadows.
Roman became lost to the bright light and chaos. The air was filled with a horrible smell and a host of raucous noises. The fire bubbled up everywhere, seeking to break free and impose its will unabated.
The chamber clarified around Roman just as the last coil of red iron chain slid to the ground. The strange metal glowed red hot and wafted a strange odor. Blades jabbed into his midsection from all sides, touching his skin where the scorching metal burned clean through his clothes.
“Don’t move!” one of the soldiers yelled.
“I’m trying…” Roman growled, but a blow to his back knocked him forward onto the ground.
“Bind his hands,” a soldier said.
“Please don’t. I can’t hold it back. Please,” Roman pleaded.
The soldier put his knee into Roman’s back, smashing him into the ground and pushed his head to the side. He caught sight of his arm. The skin was bubbling and smoking. He had to focus, and use all of his willpower to force the Ifrit back down inside otherwise he knew there would no saving any of them. It would turn everything to ash.
A fist slammed into his back once, and then again, as the man growled, “I said don’t move, or else!” They slid rope around his wrists and pulled him up to his knees, straining his shoulders well beyond their limits.
“Enough of this! I’ve seen enough. Take this animal to the yard and show him�
�”Lord Desh said, his harsh voice cutting through the chaos.
The Crow appeared between them, blocking his view of the constable. The dark figure’s robe seemed to engulf the aged man as he bent over and spoke directly in his ear.
Roman took a deep breath and closed his eyes, focusing on the image of his mother, standing at the bank of a glimmering lake, a massive city at her back. He used the memory of her to bolster his will and force the Ifrit back into its cage.
“What!? Unheard of. I say, no! He is exactly what I have been charged with safeguarding this land against. You can’t…” Lord Desh said, but went silent.
The Crow leaned in closer, until Roman couldn’t differentiate one from the other. The tears filling his eyes didn’t help.
The crowd was moving out of the gallery. Men, women, and children were out of their chairs, crawling over the railing, and moving towards him. They wailed, ground their teeth, and cast their hands into the air.
“Murderer!” one woman screamed, charging at him, until a soldier with a pike stepped forward and blocked her path.
“What’s all this?” the soldier with his knee in Roman’s back asked the man next to him.
“I ain’t fer knowing. But if they don’t announce his sentence soon, this crowd’s gonna take care of his execution for us,” the other soldier said, jabbing his blade into Roman’s side a little harder.
Roman felt his resolve strengthen a bit, but the Ifrit still fought him. It was like trying to hold on to melting snow, and keep the water from running through his fingers.
“Secure my chamber! I will not have my court taken over by a mob!” Lord Desh screamed, pounding the base of his platform with his staff.
Roman was rising then. The men grunted, pulling him completely off the ground. Everything was spinning, and mixed with the chaotic din of the stone chamber.
A man came rushing at them, both fists swinging, but the soldier on Roman’s left kicked the man hard in the mid-section, doubling him over.