Before the Crow

by Aaron Bunce

  Tanea took a step back, her blood running cold. It wasn’t just the priest who knew of her connection to Julian, the priest that just tried to kill her, but also El’bryliz. A young man she knew nothing about.

  “Why were you watching me? How did you know?” Tanea asked.

  “I have been watching Father Pallum for some time now, as I have been instructed.”

  “But why are you following him…how did you know?” Tanea asked, feeling the shivers wrack her body.

  “I was instructed to watch all the priests, and observe their behavior. But it was Father Pallum who seemed to keep the most secrets. I followed him to the library one night, very late. He came to this chamber, but used a different route. He just stood, with his eyes closed, for a very long time. He talked to himself. It was scary. I haven’t seen him come here since,” El’bryliz said, his dark eyes shining in the light.

  He walked over and held his lantern up to a stone pedestal set against the wall, and said, “There was a dagger here, made out of a strange metal. He picked it up and put it down several times, but eventually took it with him,” motioning to an outline left in the thick dust.

  Tanea recognized the shape well enough. It was the dagger the priest tried to stab her with.

  “But why…” she stammered, until the young man motioned toward her feet.

  Tanea stepped back and bent over, letting the light of her candle spill out over the ground. A drain sat at the bottom of the massive table. The stone at her feet was stained dark, almost black, leading in an ominous trail to a drain set in the floor between her feet. Tanea doubled over as a sharp pain erupted in her ankle. The pain flared, throbbing clear through to her bones, but then was gone.

  Julian, she thought instantly, goose bumps peppering her skin. It felt like someone dumped ice water down her back.

  “I need to get out of here. I need to get…” Tanea started to mumble and pace. The Chapterhouse felt smaller around her, and anything but safe.

  She thought of Julian. Just the thought of him made her feel safer, but he was out there somewhere, and hurting. He couldn’t help her, but he needed her. She was an orphan, raised her entire life in the church. She didn’t have anyone else.

  “I need to get out of here. Can you get me out of here?” Tanea asked, but instantly thought of the massive front door, and the crowd of people that always congregated in the hall. “He’ll see me, or someone will. They’ll tell him where I am,” she said, her heart racing.

  Two hands clamped around her arms as El’bryliz spun her around. He looked into her eyes, and spoke slowly, and calmly. “No he won’t! Now come with me. I know another way.”

  * * * *

  “Fool! Stupid, clumsy, soft skin!” Ghadarzehi cursed, kicking Julian hard. He reached down and grasped him by the front of his furs and attempted to wrench him from the ground, but his foot was still stuck in the rocky bramble.

  Julian hollered, feeling his ruined ankle pull and stretch. The warrior growled deeply and pulled a short blade. He ducked down and sliced through the twisted roots in a single, efficient movement.

  “Stand!” he growled, lifting Julian and setting him down, clear of the snare.

  As soon as his foot touched, his knees buckled, searing pain shooting up his leg and echoing all throughout his body. Ghadarzehi smacked his head with a calloused hand and wrenched him upright once again, but Julian cried out, and fell back into the snow.

  No matter what you do, do not stand, Pera echoed, making no effort to block out the horrible pain radiating from his leg.

  Ghadarzehi looked at his larger counterpart as he walked up. He mumbled something softly. Something Julian couldn’t understand.

  He tells his Jah’dun that you refuse to stand. He thinks you are weak, Pera said, translating.

  The larger of the two Yu warriors looked at Julian, but then pulled his sword, the blue metal gleaming in the early morning light. The blade swiveled easily through the air, the point coming to rest just above Julian’s clavicle.

  “You will stand. You will walk! Now!”

  Julian shook his head, inching away from the brutally sharp edge of the blade. “I cannot. My leg. It is broken. I caught it in the roots there, and tripped,” he said, fighting to maintain his calm.

  The larger warrior turned to Ghadarzehi, and mumbled something, carefully concealing his mouth as he spoke.

  The Jah’dun, Histarian, is smart. He suspects you, but is not entirely sure. There is tension between them. This is good, Pera said, interrupting Julian’s pain.

  Histarian moved aside, never letting the blade of his sword drop. Ghadarzehi dipped down, grumbling and pulled Julian’s left leg straight.

  The movement, even subtle, sent waves of excruciating pain up his limb. Julian’s mouth watered, and he very nearly became sick. He heaved in a breath, “Please...stop that!”

  Casting him a sneer, Ghadarzehi pulled on his boot, ignoring Julian’s discomfort.

  When we are clear of these two, you will heal this. You must…the pain is too much! Julian thought desperately, fighting to keep his composure from dissolving.

  Yes, but only after we are clear of them, Pera promised.

  Julian had to take the creature for its word. He hoped that his trust was not foolishly placed.

  The boot slid free after several hard pulls, of which the smaller Yu’urei warrior seemed to take great pleasure. Julian caught a glimpse of his pale, discolored flesh, and his foot hanging at an odd angle. A large, swollen lump sat just above the ball of his heel, where the bones of his ankle had displaced. The sight almost made him sick.

  The two Yu warriors looked at the mangled leg, and then back up at him. They turned to consider each other, whispering so softly their voices were almost carried away on the wind.

  They are waiting. Watching, Pera said, his voice echoing amidst the tumult of pain and frustration.

  “Dammit, it hurts!” Julian cursed, the cold bleeding away some of the pain. Waiting for what, to see if I am faking the pain?

  They know only the stories, passed down from generation to generation. They are legends to them, separated by eons, yet responsible for shaping almost everything about their culture, and them as warriors. They know that the Nym had powers of regeneration, but more than that, could manipulate flesh and bones to meet their needs. They are watching to see if you will do just that.

  Julian shifted in the snow, the throbbing pain radiating up his leg, plus the burning touch of cold on his backside, making him more uncomfortable by the moment.

  “Are you going to just stand there and stare?” he asked irritably.

  Ghadarzehi and Histarian looked up at him, sharing a few quiet words, but looked down to his leg again.

  Their doubt is growing. Good. We must feed that doubt.

  Feed their doubt, or feed you? Julian thought back.

  Either would fulfill our need right now. If you can get them to take you to the village below, we might find our means of escape. Distraction, or strength. Whichever comes first, Pera responded, his thoughts floating around Julian’s desperation like a raft he longed to grab onto.

  “I cannot walk like this, and you two can’t possibly hope to carry me through that,” Julian said, nodding his head toward the dense forest and jagged rocks beyond the river valley.

  Ghadarzehi straightened, pulling his long, curved blade free from its scabbard. “I will cut it off then, and you can walk on the stump,” he said simply.

  Julian retracted, wincing as he pulled his mangled leg through the snow. But it was Histarian, the Jah’dun, which reacted, pulling the smaller warrior back.

  Ghadarzehi stowed his weapon, before huddling closer to his larger counterpart. Their words became animated, their body language telling Julian that they were at odds. This was the conflict Pera was hoping for.

  “There has to be a healer in the village down there. They can see to the injury and get me moving again,” Julian offered.

  Histarian, as Pera referred, stood. Gh
adarzehi stood second and backed off a few paces, a slight scowl pulling at his gray lip.

  “You are right, soft skin. We cannot hope to carry you all the way to the whispering stones, nor are we capable of mending you ourselves,” Histarian said, slowly.

  It is their way. Only their Dah’run are taught to mend injuries. These two are warriors, not healers. If one of them were to become injured, they would continue to fight, until they couldn’t continue. If you did not hold any value for them, they would kill you, Pera said, answering Julian’s unasked question.

  So I really did leave them with no choice, Julian reasoned back.

  “We will stop in the river village and have your bones mended. But I warn you, my blade will crease your heart if you try anything,” Histarian said, threateningly, his hand gripped tightly on the handle to his sword.

  Julian nodded, and didn’t have to fake the pain when they pulled him off of the ground.

  Chapter 18

  Happenstances

  Eramos slapped his hand on the mantle. “Why don’t you do it for me?” he asked.

  “You lazy shit! You pulled one duty this cycle, and I ain’t gonna do that for you too!” Beau said, running his dagger down the leather strap to hone the edge.

  “But it’s piss freezin’ cold out there and you’re better in the cold than I am. Come on, Beau. You know us southern boys don’t handle the cold well,” Eramos pleaded, holding his hands before the fireplace.

  He watched his friend chuckle, and ground his teeth, holding back a well-chosen string of obscenities. The Silver Guard barracks was almost completely empty, save for a lone, sleeping figure on his cot.

  Won’t bother asking Xander. He’s more likely to head butt me than do me a friendly. Plus, he’s stuck guarding those stuffy councilmen this turn, Eramos thought, gazing around the well-appointed room.

  “I don’t understand why you’re still standing here. Just go, inventory the damn armor room, mark the log, and come back. Hell, if you’d just gone in the first place, you’d probably be back already,” Beau argued, holding the dagger up to the fire to inspect the blade.

  “Don’t come to me next time you need something,” Eramos groused, turning and walking away.

  Beau chuckled behind him. “Haven’t yet, and probably won’t,” he said quietly, but Eramos heard him.

  Damn this place, he thought, pushing out the door and closing it behind him. Seven winter thaws in the Silver, and all I have to show for it is callouses on my feet and ass. Only action I’ve seen is inventorying armor and weapons, and occasionally standing guard outside the Council’s chambers. Fighting…right. Fighting to stay awake.

  Eramos joined the Silver Guard after taking top ribbon in sword, joust, and polearm at the Season Turn celebration at Alrik’s hold in Freedom’s Point. Just the thought of home made him colder. He missed the ocean, the sand between his toes, and the warm sun.

  Sun! “Ha!” he laughed, “if they could spend one day on the Dagger Coast, they’d never want to come back to these wretched mountains again! Yes, it gets cold in the winter, but nothing like this damn, wretched, freeze your face off crap!”

  He walked down the corridor, passing two men headed back to the barracks. The shadow on their chins was almost as dark as the bags hanging under their eyes.

  Unlucky guys probably pulled the gate rotation. Better them than me! He thought, hugging the wall to give the two weary looking men some extra room.

  Once a winter thaw men were selected for the gate rotation. They would post up in the guard shack at the south gate, spend a cycle manning that entrance, and then move to the west gate. After that they would patrol the outskirts, staying in the various guard shacks and towers. All in all, it was at least three cycles without a decent bed, fresh food, or a regular bath.

  “All that time in mail, plate, and lugging your shield and sword around,” he scoffed, the idea of so much weight in gear adding a bounce to his relatively unencumbered step.

  Working in the keep meant that he rarely wore his armor, and he sure as hell wasn’t lugging his sword around. Not so far behind the wall. He turned right at the bottom of the stair. The main hall was lined with polished suits of armor, all propped up to attention, their gauntlets strapped to halberds. Rich, green flags hung from the weapons, the silver fist of the Silver Guard glimmering in shining thread.

  At the end of the hall he turned right again, passed the dining halls and the kitchens and pushed out through a door and into the courtyard.

  “Damn sakes, ordinary folk’d store their gear in the same building as their fighting men,” he groused, jogging across the square.

  The armory stood a stone’s throw from the garrison barracks. It was a stout building, with narrow, slit windows and a heavy, reinforced door. A plume of smoke rose from the chimney of the smiths shop just beyond that.

  Eramos fished a heavy iron key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. He pulled it open quickly and pulled it closed behind him. Pulling the torch off the wall, he lit the large braziers sitting nearby. Two large tables sat in the center of the room. Their pitted surface was so infused with metal polish and spilled ale that they appeared black in the flickering light.

  If he’d come earlier in the day, when he was supposed to, he would have had to fight off the squires and their incessant questions. He couldn’t blame them. After all, sitting on your rear and polishing armor and soaping leather all day sounded horrible, and dull.

  He ignored the door to the left, instead squeezing between the benches and opening the door to armor storage first.

  Blades are easier to count, I’ll save that for last, he thought.

  Something rattled beyond the door before he had a chance to open it. Rats, he thought with a grimace. He pushed the door open and dropped his torch into the holder just inside.

  Erasmo turned, scanning the room, “what the…” he mouthed. All of the armor on one side of the room had been pulled off the shelves and heaped into a pile in the middle of the room.

  “Savages! What in the burning hells!?” he cursed, noticing that the gear had been piled on top of a banner ripped off of the wall.

  Pranks weren’t unusual, especially when it came to inventory time. But in those cases his buddies would wait until after he finished his duty, and then turn up to mess things up. That way, it would be his ass ground into the dirt.

  Eramos kicked a leather glove irritably and moved forward to start picking up the scattered armor off the ground. Now he had to return every piece of gear to its assigned shelf before he could count it.

  “Ha ha, we’re so funny,” Eramos yelled, scooping some shoulder paldrons off the floor and sliding them onto the shelf to his left. At this rate, he would be lucky to be done with everything before the rooster’s first crow. And then he would have to turn around and do it all over again.

  Something rattled against the floor behind him. Damn rats, he thought, spinning around. A gauntlet rolled back and forth, as if it had just fallen off its perch on the other side of the room.

  “When I come back, I’m going down to the store rooms and rounding up every cat I can find. Then I’m gonna bring then back here, so they can eat every stinking’ one of…” he said, but cut short when a gust of cold wind swept into the room and rolled over his neck.

  “What the…?” he stammered, his hand rubbing his neck.

  His gaze drifted up the walls, tracing the mortar like the dark tributaries of a map. High above, at least four times his height, was a bank of windows. One was open, its metal frame bent and broken.

  “How did they get up there?” he mumbled, a cold, sliver of doubt sliding into his thoughts. Pranksters wouldn’t damage an armory window and climb through. They would simply grab the spare key from the quartermaster’s room and let themselves in.

  Eramos walked over until he was directly beneath the window. He ran his fingers over the wall, where something sharp had scored the surface of the stone. He tracked the gouges all the way up the wall, where they dis
appeared at the window.

  A shiver ran up Eramos’ spine a heartbeat before something crashed behind him. He jumped, his heart sliding into his throat and his hand dropping to his empty belt.

  Candles and log scrolls scattered over the floor, rolling away from the massive cabinet that had fallen away from the outside wall. The solid timber shelf, which easily weighed as much as ten men, had fallen, fracturing at its midpoint and blocked the door completely.

  He took a single step forward, a strangled cry for help dying in his throat. A strange noise, like the grinding of large rocks, cut the silence.

  “Sixth arm, is the building coming down?!” Eramos spat, dodging around the pile of armor and making for the blocked door.

  He skidded to a halt, his boot striking a helm and sending it skittering across the floor. Two strange orbs glowed in the darkness, hovering where the large shelf previously stood. He took a step back, his legs starting to tremble beneath him.

  “Who’s there?” he called out, trying his best to sound threatening.

  The grinding noise intensified, until it was unmistakably a growl. The sound instantly made his skin goose bump. The glowing orbs moved within the shadows, high on the wall, deep in the darkest corner.

  “You’re trespassing, whoever you are. This is Silver Guard territory!” Eramos said, moving further back.

  “TRESPASS…DOOMBRINGER,” the deep voice mimicked him. He jumped back as something massive uncoiled from the darkness.

  “Stay back!” Eramos shouted, terror clenching his chest in a vice.

  The creature lowered itself down the wall, slowly, deliberately. It passed directly before the torch set in the wall, its white, chalky skin changing color in the warm light.

  “NYM NEED,” it growled, pacing forward to stand before Eramos and the blocked door. It rose up to its full height, towering over him and exposing a second set of arms tucked against its chest.

  “Need? Need what? I don’t understand!” Eramos yelled, fear and frustration swirling together in his gut. His mouth watered and he thought that he might throw up.