Before the Crow

by Aaron Bunce

  The creature stalked forward, passing through shadow and finally emerging fully into the light of the braziers set in the wall. It extended its large arms out to its sides, the massive clawed hands scraping against the shelves on either side and blocking any route of escape.

  “What do you want?” Eramos screamed, picking up a heavy helm off the floor and heaving it like a stone.

  The beast snatched the helm out of the air with one of its smaller arms, and set it carefully back onto the pile as it stepped over.

  Driven by panic, Eramos ran at the wall, scrabbling against the stone, but he would never hope to reach the window set high overhead. He fell back down and tripped on a gauntlet, landing hard on his backside.

  Eramos scrambled backwards, sliding on the rough stone until his head collided painfully with a shelf. He had nowhere left to go.

  “No! Please!” he shouted desperately, a horde of thoughts and images flashing through his mind. He thought of home, but it was fleeting, no more than a vaporous wish, breaking apart.

  What does it want? Oh sixth arm, I’m going to die. The window…the gear, why would a beast steal armor? He thought, its shadow falling over him.

  Hot, rancid breath splashed over his face. He threw himself forward, gagging and moaning, crawling forth like a child as he tried to escape between the creature’s legs, but its smaller arms snapped out and scooped him up.

  “No-no-no. Please!” he begged as the beast lifted him up.

  He shook his head, slapping, kicking, and punching anything within reach, but he felt like a ragdoll. He tried to tear his gaze away from its horrible, milky eyes, but something in their depths grabbed him and refused to let go.

  The beast snorted, its hot breath burning his eyes and nose. Jaws parted, exposing an impossible number of sharp, translucent teeth.

  “Please…I don’t want to die,” Eramos cried, tears running down his face as he lost control.

  The creature cocked its head to the side and considered him for a moment, the skin around its eyes and mouth pulling tight. Eramos sobbed, but couldn’t help but feel that the creature was pained, or even conflicted.

  “FIND…PEACE,” it growled.

  Eramos squirmed, the creature’s smaller arms holding him in place. He was faintly aware of its larger arms snapping forward, its hands swinging about. He jerked, involuntarily drawing breath as an enormous force pressed in on either side of his head, and then Eramos knew no more.

  Chapter 19

  Waking up

  Gladeus gasped, his chin sliding off the palm of his hand. He looked around his suite, his confusion mounting. It felt like he had woken from a bad dream. A very long, bad dream.

  He swept a collection of filthy plates and glass onto the floor as he tried to stand. He sat in a pool of cool light, filtering in through a partially curtained window. The rest of the room was consumed by darkness.

  “My head,” he gasped, holding his hands to his throbbing temples.

  “Patty…Nanden,” Gladeus croaked weakly. But there was no answer. In fact, he couldn’t hear a single thing in the dark house.

  With a great amount of pain, Councilman Gladeus DuChamp straightened his aged legs, and stood. He reached down and scratched his belly, but his fingers snagged in soft fabric. He pushed through the bunched up fabric until his fingers met skin.

  “Where…what happened to me?” he whispered, clutching to his shrunken belly and withered arms. His hands patted and slid across his body, exploring a physique that felt completely foreign to him. His heart hammered in his chest as he tried to make sense of it all.

  I’m stricken, gray rot, or…a curse. That’s it. Someone has cursed me. His thoughts slipped into darkening spirals of death and putrefaction.

  He stumbled through his dining hall, sliding his hands along the walls to guide him in the dark. He passed the privy room and a horrible smell wafted over him. It smelled like moldering refuse.

  Gladeus leaned in, his baggy shirt pulled up over his nose and mouth. Dark shapes loomed in the darkness. Dark, man-sized shapes covering the ground.

  A desperate, terrified moan escaped his throat as the councilman spun, desperate to simply get away. Piles of something soft, stinking of animal filth tangled his feet, and he tumbled forward. His head smacked the ground, showering his vision with bright, dancing shapes.

  “No-no-no,” he cried pathetically and kicked his feet. The tangle finally came free, and he crawled blindly forward.

  Gladeus gathered the curtains, bunching up the heavy fabric in both hands, and ripped them open. Cold moonlight streamed in, flooding over him and filling the room. He turned and started to weep.

  The bedchamber was ramshackle. Dishes, rotting food, dead rats, and clothing dotted the floor. Feathers lay in a scattered plume around his expensive bed. The large down mattress was stained and slashed, jaggedly torn open.

  Stepping forward, Gladeus cursed, but his breath caught in his throat. He started to sob again, his feet landing on sticky, fleshy objects on the floor. He refused to look down.

  The doors to his chamber refused to open, so he backed away and threw his weight forward. The doors barely moved. Gladeus grasped the handle, grunting through the horrible ache in his hands. The flat latch refused to budge.

  “Hello?!” I say, open this door. Open it immediately!” Gladeus yelled, his voice cracking and failing him.

  He stepped back and kicked at the doors, rattling the stout lock, but doing little else. He kicked again, and again, but sagged forward into the door, his heart racing and his strength gone.

  Something rattled in the room behind him. He turned, unwilling to keep whatever it was to his back.

  “Is s-s-someone there?” he asked weakly. In response, a goblet tipped over. He heard the glass break and a strange, raspy squeaking noise.

  Gladeus spun about, kicking, punching, and running his shoulder into the door. His breathing became furious and sweat covered his face and arms.

  “Open it, open it, open it!” he ranted madly, but the stout wood door mocked him, rattling and creaking quietly.

  A noise echoed from the space beyond the door. It could have been a door opening, or the wind rattling a shutter. It didn’t matter what it was, as long as it was someone coming to help him.

  “Help me. Please, open this door,” Gladeus called out, panting through his over exertion. He slumped to his knees, banging his palm against the cold wood.

  A light appeared, small and distant. It shone through the crack between doors, hanging tantalizingly before him.

  “Is that someone?” he called out, smashing his face up to the gap between doors.

  What has happened to me? To this place? I will find out who is responsible, and see that they are beaten without mercy before Balin guts them, he thought, watching the light approach. Warmth blossomed inside him. Someone was coming for him.

  The light hovered just beyond the doors, but he didn’t hear the telltale rattle of keys. He tried to wait patiently, but he regained a bit of his old form, and his temper flared.

  “Hurry along. Unlock this door, this instant!” he barked.

  Someone chuckled on the other side of the door, the voice muffled and distant. Something metallic scraped into the door and relief flooded through him as the counterweights dropped.

  Gladeus tumbled forward as the doors eased open, his face smacking against the unforgiving stone.

  “Let me help you, Councilman,” a man said, wedging his hands under Gladeus’ armpits and easily lifting him off the ground.

  He recognized the voice instantly. “Oh, Balin. You are a blessing. I thought myself surely lost.”

  * * * *

  Brother Dalman hastily signed his name and dropped the quill. He sprinkled sand on the parchment to dry the ink, before rolling it up. He poured wax on the overlap and pressed his seal down, binding the message shut.

  “Kida, are you ready yet?” he asked, turning.

  “One moment, please. Just a…” the young man rep
lied from the adjoining room.

  “Haste, haste, young man!” Brother Dalman whispered, quietly urging his understudy on.

  A moment late, Kida appeared in the door, a heavy, fur-lined coat hastily donned, and his arms tangled in his knapsack.

  “I’m all tangled up in…this,” he grunted, trying fruitlessly to extricate his arm.

  “Easy, Kida,” the monk said, pulling the young man around and pulling his arm free of the snare. “Take a breath, close your eyes. It’s a simple task, but not if you allow your nerves to defeat you first.”

  Kida tensed his shoulders, but let them drop again as he took a deep breath. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, the half-crazed look was gone from his eyes. “I’m okay now. Yes, I’m okay,” he said.

  “Now, let’s go over this one last time,” Brother Dalman said, resting his hands on the young man’s shoulders, “from the beginning.”

  “First, walk to the carriage house inside the south gate and ask for Whit. He will set me up with a trustworthy carriage master. Avoid alleyways and by lanes. Stick to the busiest thoroughfares. Next, pay for a private carriage to Silma…”

  “Since…” Brother Dalman prompted when the young man slowed.

  “Carriages can’t make the Astralen approach,” Kida said, regaining his composure. “Pay for a horse in Silma, and ride to Castle Astralen. Request an audience with Lord Thatcher. Tell him that you sent me. Lastly, give him this message. Let no one else touch it, read it, or know about it,” Kida finished, nervously holding up the sealed, rolled message.

  “Perfect. You’ll do fine,” Brother Dalman said, a genuine smile creasing his face.

  “I know. Only, well…” Kida said, fidgeting with the fur lining his coat.

  “The first time traveling alone is frightening. I wish it was under different circumstances and that I could be there with you. I feel you are in greater danger here, in the capitol, than on the road. You will be safe with Lord Thatcher. He is a good man, and an old friend.”

  Kida nodded, after taking a deep breath, the worry lines wrinkling his forehead lifted.

  “What about you? If things are as dangerous here as you say, shouldn’t you leave too?”

  “The thought has crossed my mind, Kida. But there are good people yet, that will rise if called upon. I am sure of it.”

  Kida nodded resolutely.

  “Live in truth,” Brother Dalman said, grasping Kida’s arm.

  “May truth live within you,” Kida replied and squeezed back.

  Brother Dalman watched the young man adjust his knap sack before walking out into the hall, and then he was gone. A tickle of unease wrenched his stomach, and for a moment he questioned his decision to send the young monk away.

  It is for the best?

  Brother Dalman settled in for a few moments of meditation. He controlled his breathing, taking a few extra moments to get into position. He longed for his younger days, when his body didn’t fight him so much.

  Brother Dalman took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He collected the chaotic thoughts polluting his mind, his fear for Kida, his fear of the darkness spreading throughout Ban Turin, and the muddling influence of old age, and expelled them with a steady breath.

  He struggled with these pressures more than perhaps any other monk in his order. After all, he was one of only a select few Denil monks allowed to travel.

  After several deep, cleansing breaths, Brother Dalman worked through his meditations, one by one.

  Truth in life. Truth in Wisdom. Wisdom in knowledge.

  The stress faded away as Brother Dalman fought to control his thoughts. But it was a struggle. Dark uncertainties continued to creep in, forcing him down winding, troubling paths that he couldn’t account for. Dark questions bubbled up. Questions he couldn’t answer.

  “Bah!” he spat, giving up and slapping his hands against his thighs.

  Something dark and ominous was at play in the capitol, but he couldn’t see the bigger picture. Why? He could think of dozens of specific examples, like small pieces of the city rotting and falling off. But what is afflicting it?

  Brother Dalman didn’t have any specific answers. Yet there was one constant, one idea that kept popping up in his observations and queries, Councilman Gladeus DuChamp. The councilman, although always partitioned off and as official as usual, was connected somehow.

  People were disappearing. They were dying. He watched their bodies dumped into the river. Discarded like refuse. Brother Dalman thought of the strange, dark figure, and a chill instantly fell over his skin.

  Brother Dalman followed the man several times, or tried to. He seemed to be doing DuChamp’s dirty work. He never heard him speak, or kill. He moved without sound, and every time he tried to get close enough to see his face, he melted into the shadows.

  He tried to approach the other council lords to express his concerns, but they were harder to corner than a flock of flighty chickens. They’re all corrupt, and afraid that if they expose DuChamp, people will see their own lechery and corruption.

  “Why are DuChamp’s dealings a concern for a monk?” he whispered, closing his eyes to visualize Lord Russo’s face from their previous meeting. Russo didn’t understand. He was just as corrupt.

  The man is senile and incompetent, functioning on nothing more than his familial title and wealth, he thought, feeling his thoughts turn bitter.

  The city was indeed affecting him. He longed for the comforts of the citadel, its quiet places, whispering fountains, and scrolls. It was a place of meditation, solitude, and dedication to ideals and knowledge. A far cry from the capitol’s polluted streets of unmanaged filth and vice.

  Aged, stiff joints cried out as Brother Dalman pushed off of the ground. He stretched his knees and arms before pulling on his thick robe, silently cursing the damp, cold weather. Not even the crackling fireplace could fully dispel the wretched cold.

  He blew out the candles and left the room, taking extra time to ensure the door was locked. His hands tucked firmly into his oversized sleeves, Brother Dalman set out for the Council’s chamber, where he had finally managed to procure a private meeting with a select few of the ruling Councilmen. This time they would listen.

  * * * *

  Gladeus stood shaking in the cold air, watching Balin pull the gate closed. The small man looked as he normally did, dark cloak, soft leather boots, and gloves, but he seemed different.

  “I am so terribly pleased to see you, Balin. I awoke and felt as a stranger in my own home. I am not sure…what happened,” Gladeus said as the smaller man fell in step just behind him.

  “All will be right soon,” Balin said softly.

  Gladeus nodded his head, but uncertainty clawed at his innards. He turned, but could see nothing of the rogue’s face.

  “The manor. What happened to the servants? There is filth everywhere,” Gladeus said, his usual fire diminished.

  He remembered flogging maids for dropping glasses, or knocking vases over. That him felt far off, however, like he was torn in two and only half a man.

  “The staff was needed elsewhere. Do not fear, milord, all will be righted soon.”

  Gladeus nodded and turned back to the path before him. Balin’s voice sounded strange, muffled, and hoarse. Perhaps he was infirm, or injured? Gladeus thought to ask, but he felt so weak, so horribly vulnerable.

  They progressed through winding lanes, passing vast, grand homes. The large lanterns illuminating the streets cast a flickering glow all around, but it seemed paltry compared to the harsh cold and wind.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he walked the streets of Ban Turin, let along anywhere else. He missed his carriage, and not just for the shelter from the wind. Walking the streets amongst commoners and servants made him feel small. It made him feel powerless.

  “I will know who is responsible, Balin. You will bring them before me, so I can look in their eyes before they die,” Gladeus said between gasping breaths. He couldn’t remember wal
king being such an exhaustive chore.

  “All will be made right, milord. We will see to it right away!” Balin didn’t turn. His muffled voice slipped into the cold, blustery night air, but Gladeus heard him well enough. In fact, he wasn’t sure he ever heard anyone more clearly. It was as if the man was whispering it directly into his ear.

  “Perfect. And after that, I trust you will see to it that my manor is put back in order and a new staff is acquired. I must say, Balin, I feel a profound sense of safety with you here,” Gladeus said. “I fear I have not expressed my appreciation for you in the past. I must do better in the future. Restore my house and I will reward you with ample gifts.”

  “Yes, milord. I will see that you are well looked after.”

  They walked on in silence. Gladeus knew he wasn’t himself. He was diminished, perhaps even poisoned, but he had Balin, and the rogue’s deadly dagger. He need simply say a word, and the man would kill for him.

  They passed a manure trolley. Two men, wrapped in stained and tattered wool, shoveled steaming piles of fresh horse manure off the roadway. They looked up at Gladeus as they approached, their eyes like shining white jewels amidst their dark, smudged faces.

  The closest man wrinkled his lip and leaned onto his shovel, his vaporous breath clouding the air between them. Gladeus pulled his heavy cloak in a little tighter.

  The gall! How dare he show such blatant disrespect, he thought, a hiccup marring his step. He would throw men in the stocks for such insolence before. Some, he would have locked up, or shipped to work in his mine. But Balin continued on, apparently unaware.

  “Carry on…with your good work,” Gladeus croaked, suddenly feeling very alone, his nerve failing him completely.

  The elder councilman quickened his pace, his legs protesting and his heart hammering in his chest, but managed to catch up to the diminutive rogue. He wanted to ask Balin why he didn’t challenge the dung monger, but he wasn’t willing to admit that the man scared him.