The Door Before

by N. D. Wilson

  And still Nimiane filled herself—until her skin was a rippling rotten sea and her back arched and her jaw fell open and her teeth spun in her spotted gums, until her joints unhinged and twisted with a noise like giants chewing, until she stood only on two quivering toes, until even those toes rose off the ground.

  The floor whispered her crimes in all the tongues of men.

  The dust cursed her.

  Nimiane walked into the dark realm of madness and destruction, and she was almost unable to return.

  But she did.

  Nimiane’s tongue curled and spiraled in her mouth. A thousand voices struggled in her throat. And she released her first blow.

  The earth quaked and rolled. Cliff faces shed one thousand tons of stone into the sea. The house heaved.

  Nimiane fell to her knees, grabbing at the ground, fighting to funnel the strength beneath her men and into the trees.

  The skin on every fingertip split and peeled back from the bone. Her veins snapped and writhed, struggling to explode from her body, and still she fought.

  She threw more strength into her struggle. Another blow. And another.

  Exhausted, fractured, many miles past death had she been mortal, Nimiane collapsed, unable to feel her pain or even shiver in her exhaustion. The floor was silent; the voices were gone. The ghosts, the souls, the stolen lives, all were finally spent and gone.

  Granlea Quarles fell from the ceiling, landing on the plank floor like a sack of mud.

  Outside, the witch’s magic found its many marks.

  Squid woke suddenly in strange stillness. He sat up by his tree trunk and threw his ears forward, lifting his nose in the air and sniffing. Above the house, out over the sea, a storm the color of midnight was forming. In the house, out of sight and out of scent, there were many strange things, things that pricked up the pelt between Squid’s shoulders and set a low growl working in his chest without permission. In front of the house, an army was pressed into dense ranks, and thousands of black feathers fluttered in advance of the storm.

  The first surge of life pulsed through him and into the tree before the ground even had a chance to tremor.

  And then the trees shook. Rocks hopped. The army slipped and staggered, and the ravens—as one—cried out in piercing anger.

  Hundreds of black wings flared and black beaks parted, calling for blood.

  The trees rumbled and rattled in their holes, and an unkindness of ravens…

  a congress of ravens…

  a melee of ravens…

  a cacophony of wings and claws and feathered shrieks all took to the air, a black attack on the sky, the vanguard of the storm.

  Squid groveled on his belly as the tree behind him began to change. And the tree in front of him. And every tree he could see.

  Starting at the dot of blood on the bark above Squid’s head, the wood began to part and widen into a doorway large enough for a child to enter—or a hunching adult. Four doors opened in the tree—one at each point of the compass—but they didn’t connect. Four to a tree, but each releasing its own air, its own smells. They were all doors into darkness. The heartwood was gone. Or hidden.

  The tremors stopped. The trees had been remade. And then the ravens descended, screaming.

  Black birds swooped for every door, diving without hesitation into darkness—two into the door above Squid.

  And as they disappeared, the army of men advanced.

  It seemed to take no time at all before a single raven reemerged from a tree, trumpeting discovery, fluttering above a doorway, calling all hunters to come and see what had been found.

  Men with blades and moving mushrooms raced forward. The men who smelled of fire followed after.

  But Squid was distracted. From the door behind him, he smelled something unknown and mysterious and very alive. Alive and angry and…interesting.

  Turning his back on the attack behind him, he nosed forward into the cool air in the tree, snorting and sniffing.

  —

  LAWRENCE WAS TRYING NOT to cry. After all, he was with his parents, even if they were all in a strange stone hallway while angry men with old-fashioned guns and heavy shields waited for two other men to cut the iron door down with flames so they could attack his sister and his friends.

  Behind the gunners, there were three shapes—he assumed they were men—wearing floor-length black chain-mail sheets without eyeholes or mouth holes. They each held a brassy net like a weapon.

  Robert Boone turned away from the door and looked at the Smiths.

  “You should leave,” he said. “Get your son out of here.”

  “We will not,” Albert growled. “My daughter is in there. If you try to hurt her, blood will be spilled, boy. Mine or yours, I don’t care which, as long as it isn’t hers.”

  “Robert,” Thor growled. “You’re overreacting.”

  Robert met the big man’s gaze, and Lawrence moved a little closer to his father.

  “Way-magic has been conducted on these grounds already,” Robert said. “If you have enabled more of the old ways to be opened, it is not possible for one in my position to overreact. Judgment will be swift and final. And I will stand before the Sages of this Order with a clear conscience.”

  Iron popped and squealed as flames finally parted the hinges. The heavy door dropped its weight onto the stone floor with a boom that rolled away down the long hall.

  Robert Boone drew both of his guns and cocked the hammers with his thumbs.

  “Heave!” he yelled. “Set the door aside!”

  Many hands obeyed.

  Trudie pulled Lawrence tight and grabbed her husband’s hand as the room opened.

  The men with shields braced for assault, but none came.

  The room held nothing but a single raven, fluttering around the beams, and as they watched, the bird dove into an open sarcophagus cupboard, and its cries ceased.

  Robert Boone shoved his way into the room, turning in a slow circle beside the table, scanning the door and the cupboard-lined walls.

  “Albert,” Trudie whispered from behind Lawrence. “Tell me she’s okay.”

  Albert said nothing.

  Thor crossed his arms and exhaled loudly, clearly relieved.

  Robert Boone swept the lightning frames off the table onto the floor.

  “Smiths!” he bellowed. “You will answer for everything your daughter has done.”

  And mushroom hunters and blade slaves poured out of the sarcophagus into the room.

  —

  HYACINTH WAS SITTING ON an enormous fallen tree, gray and dry and smooth. It had a crack in its belly that she and the brothers had managed to exit with a fair amount of wriggling, and she was instantly grateful that she had chosen the door she had.

  She had chosen a large Japanese door, with wide dark planks clearly milled from a single tree and small inset windowpanes made of mother of pearl, mostly because it had a large amount of wood for her to work with. But it had also been the most beautiful door in the room. And it had led her to a beautiful place.

  The lake island was tall, dotted with smooth boulders and rugged trees. It smelled like moss and rain and…barn. Animals. But she heard no bird and saw no beast. The lake water licked at beaches of round stone, and a crisp breeze came and went, shifting the scent.

  Mordecai and Caleb had gone exploring, giving Hyacinth the chance to sit in a moment of peace and attempt to process what her future might be. She wasn’t sure. And that was all that she was sure of.

  When an enormous fern moved at the end of her log, she assumed the brothers had returned with their report and they would be forced to discuss plans. Instead, an animal appeared. It froze, staring at her with a perceptiveness that she had rarely encountered in humans.

  The animal was the color of an old slate blackboard, with chalk traces that would never be removed. It was low-slung on four legs and built like a short-legged, wide-bodied dog. It had scaly, baggy skin, a blunted horn on its nose, tiny sharp eyes, and dark feathered wi
ngs that would have been large on an eagle.

  “What are you?” Hyacinth asked out loud. “A flying rhino? Are you full grown?”

  Despite the horn, she had no fear of the animal. Although it clearly also had no fear of her.

  She wanted to slide off the log and hug the creature, scratching and rubbing its dry skin until she found the spots that would make it groan and roll onto its back. But the seriousness of the animal stopped her. It was obviously passing judgment on her, and it was doing so with an extreme solemnity, a dignity that defied the creature’s comic construction.

  “Well,” Hyacinth said. “Do I pass?” She smiled, still resisting the temptation to move from her perch.

  The animal flared wide rhinocerine nostrils and puffed at the air.

  Hyacinth heard more puffing behind her.

  Spinning around, she found herself face to face with two more, seated on the log only three feet from her. These two were paler—the chalk on the board rather than the board—and their horns had seen less battle. Both of them had their noses in the air and their beady eyes on Hyacinth. The breeze rustled cloud-colored feathers on their upstretched wings.

  Hyacinth wanted to laugh out loud, but she knew that laughter would be highly offensive. At least right now.

  A dozen more snouts puffed around her.

  Slowly, she scanned her surroundings. There seemed to be one or two of the creatures on every rock—various shades of gray, various sizes, but all watching her. Two, no, three so small they had to be from a fresh litter. Another virtually hornless with tattered wings, the size of a solid pig.

  And only the first of them had made any noise upon arrival. Clearly, it had been intentional. They had watched her until they were ready to be noticed. Until they had gathered a great enough force.

  Hyacinth felt fear try to climb up her throat, but she immediately forced it away and focused on friendship.

  I’m a friend. I’m loyal. I’m kind and gentle and I will harm no one.

  That wasn’t true. And she couldn’t lie to these things. She could see that in their eyes.

  I harm only enemies. Only those I must.

  And then two croaking ravens exploded out of the crack in the log between her feet.

  Hyacinth screamed, rocked backward, and fell.

  Dead wood and ferns and moss all crumpled beneath her. The impact was hard, but not hard enough to steal her breath. All around her, animals were bellowing and the air was filled with the beating of many wings.

  Hyacinth rolled onto her knees and climbed quickly to her feet, looking over the fallen log at a great deal of chaos in the air.

  At least fifteen of the heavy winged animals were pursuing the ravens out over the lake. They weren’t fast, but they were efficient, and they were clearly of one mind. Fanning out in a wide crescent, they corralled the black-feathered birds back toward the island.

  But one of the hunters wasn’t in pursuit. Instead, he was climbing as high as he could—heavy slate body drooping between his large goose wings.

  The ravens dropped low, croaking in panic, flapping frantically back toward the island and Hyacinth and the crack in the fallen log.

  The high-flying hunter stopped climbing. He tucked his wings in tight to his wide body, and dove.

  Part dart, part meteor, the animal fell with deadly purpose. The other hunters fell silent, and the rattling cries of the ravens were suddenly alone.

  The two black birds were still over the lake when the heavy animal smashed through the lead raven in a cloud of feathers and then hit the water like a bomb.

  The splash rose up in a plume, rolling the second raven onto its side and sending it veering into thick brush on the island’s bank. As the rest of the hunters closed in, the bird fought free of the brush and managed to get back off the ground, desperately flapping straight up the island at the fallen tree in front of Hyacinth.

  “No!” Hyacinth yelled. Belly hopping up onto the log, she tried to throw her arms in front of the crack, but her reach was too short.

  The wet raven vanished into the tree. Half a heartbeat later, wide wings and a young horn and chalky skin vanished after it, billowing air up around Hyacinth’s face.

  The island was suddenly calm. Scrambling back up onto her perch, Hyacinth looked around, breathing hard.

  The animals were all back on the ground, motionless, with noses in the breeze and wings uplifted. And then the big meteoric hunter rose out of the water, wading up the bank with slow solemnity. The dead and dripping raven dangled from his mouth, and as he laid its body on a rock and spat out feathers, three piglet-size copies of himself scrambled out of the bushes and raced forward. While the dripping conqueror attempted to spit out the feathers stuck on his pale pink tongue, the young ones tore into the carcass around his feet.

  Carnivores, Hyacinth thought. That isn’t reassuring. Not at all.

  —

  SQUID HAD HIS HEAD and shoulders all the way inside the tree when the raven darted out above him with the wide-winged light gray creature snapping right behind it.

  When the gray creature grabbed the raven in its jaws and tumbled to the ground, Squid hopped around on all three legs, unsure of how to respond. An enemy of an enemy wasn’t always a friend. But whatever the creature was, it didn’t seem at all bothered by the wounded dog, or by the hundreds of other trees with gaping doors, or by the armed men and wizards swarming around one tree in particular. With the raven still flopping in its mouth, the animal tucked its wings in tight and walked calmly back toward Squid, past Squid, and then into the tree.

  While men yelled and ravens swirled, Squid’s caution was devoured by his canine curiosity.

  Sniffing long and hard, with eyes strained wide and ears thrown forward, the wounded dog limped into the open door.

  TRUDIE HAD MANAGED TO shove Lawrence into an alcove that held black suits of armor under dusty sheets. She pushed him to the ground and crouched in front of him, but the battle raging in the hallway was only a dozen feet away. It rattled the bones of the building and shattered windows with the noise.

  Ravens combed the ceiling above both sides, croaking out their battle cry. One after another, they swooped into the alcove, fluttered around as they eyed Lawrence, dodging Trudie’s blows before veering back out above the melee.

  Lawrence had never seen or heard anything like it. He wasn’t sure he ever would again. He had his hands pressed over his ears, but his fear and his grief about Hyacinth had vanished, replaced entirely with wonder and adrenaline.

  Defenders with shields had interlocked them to form a wall, and they’d dropped their bodies low to brace against the onslaught. Whenever one began to crumple, he called out and another man crawled forward to help him.

  Behind the bodies and the shields, Albert Smith and Robert Boone and a dozen others wielded guns. Firing and firing and firing until the gunshots and the echoes all became one.

  Thor was covered in blood and singing in another language, and even his huge voice could barely penetrate the chaos.

  The Viking stood in the center of the hallway, holding two black maces, and whenever the double-mouthed monsters or men with long blades managed to leap the shield wall, it was Thor who ended them with a blow. The real men crumpled quickly, but the mushroom men didn’t stop chewing and biting and clawing until they were in pieces and trampled to pulp.

  From both sides of the hallway, more fighters came. Men and women with suntans and boots and shotguns behind the shield wall; mushroom monsters and blade slaves from the other.

  “Forward!” Robert Boone shouted, but no one heard him.

  “Forward!” Thor bellowed, and all at once, the shields were lifted and the shield-bearers drove the wall forward into the attackers with as much force as they could muster. A mushroom man as tall as Robert but with a waist as thin as Lawrence’s leapt the wall with both mouths gaping and arms outstretched.

  A single swing tore him in two, and one half slid sloppily into the alcove. Trudie pulled Lawrence farther
away, pressing him against the wall.

  “Forward!” Thor bellowed again, and the shield wall obeyed. Fewer foes leapt over the top. Fewer guns fired.

  “Forward!” Robert Boone shouted, and this time every fighter heard him. “Push! To the doorway! Seal them inside.”

  The shield wall advanced out of Lawrence’s sight. As did his father and Boone and the Viking. The men and women in front of him now were unbloodied and tense in reserve.

  From outside and all around, Lawrence could hear bells pealing in alarm.

  “Did we win?” he asked his mother. “Is it over?”

  A storm of ice crystals swept through the hallway, tearing skin and clothes and gathering screams of pain.

  “Not yet,” Trudie said. “We have to run. Now. While we can.” She dragged Lawrence forward, but he grabbed his mother’s wrists and pulled her back. Something was coming. Something bad.

  The ice was followed by a rolling cloud of fire at head height. Ravens dropped to the ground smoking. The screaming heightened. Some of the reserves turned and ran. The rest pressed into the alcove, crushing Lawrence and Trudie against the back wall.

  Trudie hugged her son tight.

  “Dear God, be with them,” she whispered. And Lawrence heard her with his ear pressed to her ribs. She looked down at him. “Thank you.” Her eyes were wide and fearful. “How did you know?”

  Lawrence didn’t have time to answer. He hadn’t known. He had felt.

  And then both of his eardrums burst. Bodies spun down the hallway, swept by a wall of wind, and the first beams fell from the ceiling.

  —

  HYACINTH WATCHED AS THE second raven was chewed slowly by two midsize hornless animals. The rest of the animals watched as well, all with hunger in their eyes.

  And then Squid, bloody and gimpy, tumbled out of the fallen tree and sprawled in a fern. In an instant, every head turned. A few wings flared.

  “No!” Hyacinth slid down and scooped the sticky dog up in her arms. “Not for food.”

  The animals stared at her and at the dog, and their eyes told her very little. The creatures seemed bored by her display. The big one, still damp from his dive into the lake, actually yawned.