The Crow Behind the Mirror_Book One of the Mirror Wars

by Sean M. Hogan

  Charlotte glanced out the window. “When do you think winter will pass?”

  “I have doubts it ever will.”

  “Always the cynic, Daddy. Sometimes I wish Mother was still alive just so she could disagree with you.”

  “Believe me, I’d give anything to have another argument with her.” He clenched his fists. “And other times I find myself glad she left this world.” He relaxed his hands with a sigh. “Even the warmest light dies in winter.”

  “But you won’t let me die, Daddy,” she boasted. “Because you love me too much.” She extended her white-gloved hand and poked his chest with her finger. “It’s your one great weakness.”

  He locked eyes with her. “You think love is a weakness?”

  “Love makes one do foolish things. And, on occasion, love can get one killed.” Charlotte paused a moment, wrinkling up her dress in two fists. “If Mother hadn’t loved you...”

  “You and Ashley wouldn’t be here.” He placed his hands on her fists and she relaxed her grip in response. “There’s more to life than survival.”

  “Is there? Take a good look, Father.” She gestured to the window. “This world has a heart of ice. Good men and bad men. Fathers and mothers. Sons and daughters. Thieves and murders. Lovers and dreamers. The ice takes them all.”

  “But if everyone dies then opposing the inevitable—surviving—is meaningless. If time is all we have...” He brushed aside a lock of Ashley’s hair from her face. “Then I will spend it loving to my heart’s content.”

  “Not all. There is a boy.”

  “There was a boy.”

  “Who ruled a world for over a thousand years.”

  “He rules no more. They say his own people saw to that.”

  “Can you imagine living that long?” asked Charlotte with warmth in her voice.

  The old king sighed. “It’s enough time to drive a man crazy.”

  The stagecoach came to an abrupt, jerking stop.

  Ashley woke with a sudden panic. “Daddy?”

  “Shhh… it’s all right, honey, go back to sleep. Everything’s fine.” The old king poked his head out the window. “Driver, what’s the—”

  Ahead, in the middle of the road, a stagecoach lay on its side. A man in a purple cloak stood before it, unsheathing his sword.

  ***

  “The universe is like a watch,” said Mr. Glasses as he gazed down at his golden watch, grinning beneath his beak, his plague doctor’s mask. “Ticking away in perfect synchronization with the heartbeat of the Source. Perfect order out of repulsive chaos. Click, click, click. We all dance along to the clicking hands of fate.” He observed the big and little hands of the clock march along. “But everything that moves will stop. Everything that has a beginning will end. The hands of fate will slow. The ticking will cease. All one can do is delay the inevitable.” He frowned at his reflection in the small circular glass of the watch. “I spit on inevitability. They say acceptance is the beginning of the healing process. I say it’s the end of the struggle. And that’s all there is really. The struggle.” He closed the watch with a flip of the lid. “I plan on struggling for a very long time. That’s why you and I work so well as a team. We share the same passion for running.”

  Mr. Glasses turned to Eric.

  “I told you before.” Eric walked up the hill and gazed over the edge. Down in the road below guards swarmed a man in a purple cloak. “I’m no longer a runner.”

  “So you said.” Mr. Glasses spotted an odd ornament, made of woven sinew that was weaved in a spider’s web spiral, attached to Eric’s belt “A dream catcher? What exactly are you planning to do with that?”

  “Why catch a bad dream, of course, Mr. Glasses.” Eric fastened the skull mask over his face. “A nightmare to be more specific. The nightmare all men share. Death.”

  “So, you plan on ensnaring death himself? As if such a thing were even possible.”

  The guards fell one by one as the purple-cloaked man sliced through them like butter.

  “True, no man is the master of death. But I am no longer a man.”

  “Ego, much?”

  Eric tossed Mr. Glasses a pistol. “Go on—prove me wrong.”

  “Why bother? We both know the outcome. Well, at least I do anyways. So, what will you do when you have finally tamed death?”

  “What else?” Eric pulled out another pistol and cocked it. “Live, my good friend, I will live...” He leaped off the edge of the hill and Mr. Glasses followed his lead.

  ***

  “Demon of the North,” the purple-cloaked man shouted. “I’ve come to collect your head.”

  “Stay inside,” said the old king, ushering Charlotte and Ashley back inside the stagecoach. He slid out his blue crystal and marched past the bodies of his fallen guards. He stopped a few feet from his attacker. “You’re the Marauder, I presume?”

  “Did my purple cloak give me away?” The Marauder smiled, his mouth full of perfectly bleach-white teeth. “Or was it just my good looks?”

  “Everyone knows who the Marauder is. No matter what world you come from.”

  “Well, this makes things much simpler then. As you know, I only pay visits to those who deserve it, King Asura Gray—aka Demon of the North. So, draw your sword and try to die with a little dignity.”

  “I know my list of sins would take all day to read,” said Asura. “And the list of my enemies—even longer. I will not beg or plead.”

  “Good to hear.” The Marauder charged.

  Asura snapped his fingers and the air around him ignited into flames.

  The Marauder jumped back and wrapped himself in his cloak as the flames fell upon him.

  “You made a mistake—assassin.” Asura walked up to his fallen, burning foe. “I’m not like the other Mirror Guardians. I will do what is necessary to protect my family and my world. Even kill if I must.”

  Asura’s eyes widened as a blade slid out from under the burning cloak. He was too slow to react as—

  Clang! Zap! Eric blocked the blade with a shield—a magic shield composed of red and blue energy rings, each ring stacked on top of another to form a solid circle. He shoved the Marauder back.

  The assassin stood up unburnt, his purple cloak was without so much a trace of singe.

  “That’s a nifty cloak you’ve got there,” said Eric, raising his pistol the Marauder’s way. “It’s even fireproof. But I wonder...” Eric pulled the trigger and fired.

  A thunderous flash of light and smoke shot out as the gunpowder ignited.

  The iron ball zipped past the Marauder and hit a thin tree behind him, splintering it in half.

  “Is it bulletproof?” asked Eric.

  The Marauder glanced back at the newly minted tree stump before looking back to Eric and Mr. Glasses.

  Mr. Glasses tipped his hat before flashing a card. On the face of the card was the Ace of Spades.

  The Marauder exhaled a sigh and sheathed his sword.

  “That’s it?” Eric laughed. “I thought it would take more convincing somehow. Don’t you think ending it here would be rather anti-climactic?”

  The Marauder showed his perfectly white teeth. “I only kill who I have to. And there’s no point in killing a dead man.” He gave Eric an exaggerated bow before running off into the woods.

  Mr. Glasses opened the stagecoach, bowed, and offered his hand to Charlotte. “Princess.” He helped her out. “Lady Luck smiles upon you today.” He flashed her a card, the Ace of Hearts. The image of a red heart melted away to reveal the symbol of infinity.

  Charlotte returned his smile and curtsied. “It would seem the deck has been stacked in my favor today, my brave rescuer.”

  She hurried off to her father and plunged herself into his arms. “Are you all right? I was so scared.”

  “Yes,” said Asura. “Thanks to this man...”

  Eric removed his mask and took a bow. “Eric Ashcraft, your highness.” He smiled at Charlotte, gazing into her green and blue eyes, and winked. “N
ow aren’t you the rare gem.”

  She shyly averted her gaze.

  Asura glanced at Eric’s pistol. “What is that?”

  “It’s called a gun,” answered Eric, handing it over to him.

  Asura examined the gun curiously. “Can you get more?”

  “Even better,” said Eric, taking Charlotte’s hand and kissing it. “I can make more.”

  ***

  Eric and Mr. Glasses escorted the royal family back to the castle. Afterward, they attended a great feast in their honor and Eric got horribly drunk. He passed out at the dinner table before waking a few hours later in time to spot Mr. Glasses heading for the exit.

  “Leaving so soon?” Eric asked, raising a wineglass. “The celebration has just started.”

  Aside from them and few half-eaten dishes, there was no one else. The other guests and servants had resigned to their respective bedchambers for the night. Only the hounds remained in the great hall, huddled in front of the fireplace in a pile to keep warm.

  “I see you’ve taken a liking to the king’s daughter,” mused Mr. Glasses, his glasses reflecting the flames from the fireplace.

  Eric smirked. “I want her.”

  “I have no doubt you’ll get her. And all the status and power that comes with inheriting a kingdom. Perhaps, then, it’s time for us to part ways. Now that I’ve served my end of the bargain.”

  Eric took another sip of wine. “Bargain?”

  “I got you where you needed to be.” Mr. Glasses slid out his watch. “Just in the nick of time too, I might add. Speaking of which, it’s time for me to go.”

  “And just where are you going exactly?”

  “Not where,” Mr. Glasses teased, “when.”

  “Always riddles with you.” Eric finished off his glass.

  “Sorry. It’s a nasty habit of us time travelers. Don’t want to muck things up any more than we have to.”

  Eric laughed. “You really believe you’re a…”

  “Is it really that hard of a pill for an immortal to swallow?”

  Eric shrugged. “I’m not much on faith. I believe what I can see with my own two eyes.”

  “Well then.” Mr. Glasses grinned an impossibly wide grin. “Try not to blink.”

  But Eric did blink. And in that split second, between the time his eyelids had closed and reopened again, Mr. Glasses had vanished.

  CHAPTER 21

  The River of Crying

  THE CHIRPING OF INSECTS, the buzzing of wax paper wings and rubbing of hard-skinned legs, arose Sharon’s mind from the world of dreams. The scent of hot smoldering wood and the heat of crackling flames on her face enticed her eyelids open. The blurred colors split apart and slowly reformed back into solid shapes. She rubbed her eyes.

  A tree-sprite with a pale moss beard stared back at her. He donned a heavy necklace with shiny trinkets, small colored rocks, and tiny wooden carvings of animals.

  Sharon placed her hand on her forehead. “This better not be another dream.” She tried standing but fell as her wings snagged on a few pots and jugs. They knocked over spilling their contents of amber tree sap and an assortment of root vegetables. She landed on her backside in a puddle of sticky sap. “I really hate my life right now.” She sighed, failing to retract her wings.

  “Please… lay back down, human,” said the elder tree-sprite. “You need to rest. Here drink this.” He held up a small dish of liquid to her lips.

  She recoiled, remembering her bitter experience with Joy’s similar offering.

  “Don’t worry,” he reassured her. “It’s just water.”

  Her dry throat and saliva absent mouth got the better of her. She took a sip. The water tasted like water should and she downed it without a second thought.

  The elder tree-sprite smiled. “Good—I’ll be back with more.”

  He trudged off toward the edge of the large campfire, nearly the size of a bonfire pit.

  Sharon was left alone to entertain forty or so yellow blinking eyes in the darkness. A horde of curious tree-sprites surrounded her. And something more—tiny balls of glowing blue light. Her eyes widened as the breath left her lungs. The blue lights took shape and form, transforming into fairies before her eyes. Words failed her.

  Five fairies danced in the air around her, their curiosity overwhelming them as they tugged at her long black hair and clothes. She reached out and relaxed her fingers.

  One fairy floated into her palm and bowed a curtsy for her, greeting Sharon with all the grace of a foreign princess from a faraway land.

  A childhood memory came flooding back to her, the fog that set in during her walkabout in the Dreamtime shattered completely. That day so long ago when Sharon spent the morning at the park with her father. The day she caught a butterfly and discovered it was so much more. The day she learned magic was true and all things were possible.

  “So, my father wasn’t lying,” said Sharon. “You’re real.”

  Another fairy prodded and tugged her right wing, examining it with much interest. She moved it after a little bit of concentrated effort. So, they aren’t useless. They have feeling and muscle strength too. I might be able to use them if I exercise them a little and bring them back from atrophy.

  “My mom’s gonna freak out when she sees these.” She smiled at her new wings, finally warming up to their possibilities. Now there was no denying she was special... magical even. I can’t help but stand out and demand attention with these feathered accessories. She would be popular no doubt. Maybe even worshiped. Hell, my mom might even take it as a sign of the divine. After all, I am an angel now.

  The tree-sprites still kept their distance at the edge of the light of the fire, spying on her from the safety of flickering shadows. Their attention shifted elsewhere to the elder tree-sprite. He faced someone just outside the light and whispered with a hint of panic in his weathered voice.

  “Right now, she is neither human nor animal,” said the elder tree-sprite. “Someone has forced her into the Dreamtime without proper training or guidance. Going so far as to disturb her spiritual journey and quicken her transformation. And the question still remains… Why?”

  A graveled voice spoke through the darkness. “That boy must have done this. His scent was all over her...”

  Jeff, Sharon guessed as she eavesdropped. No, they’re talking about Joy. There’s nothing left of Jeff inside that monster now.

  “You mean the boy—the Emo-sha—who was snooping around in our Sacred Forest? But to what end?”

  “I don’t know... And there was another scent—different from the boy’s or Baba’s. Someone has come through the mirror, someone powerful. The air reeks of conspiracy.”

  The figure stood up and stepped into the light. Sharon could just make out his face, the face of a wolf.

  ***

  The flames tore at the night sky, gnashing at the heavenly stars with jagged glowing teeth of crimson. Burning huts of the village spiraled outward, forming the face of a raging demon. The pig-runs gathered the butchered remains of human corpses and tossed them into the bonfire at the center of the village. The children they tossed in whole. The pig-runs danced and cheered at the spectacle, relishing in their revenge, their squeals heard for miles around. Only Dew-paw was silent.

  “I never thought a mere boy’s whisper could shake your resolve so much,” said Dew-paw, stepping to Khaba’s side.

  Khaba remained silent, observing the massacre with a stone-cold expression.

  “This is no longer about finding that girl—is it?” Dew-paw asked, the spark fading in his eyes. “They’re enjoying it. You’re enjoying it.” He stared at the bonfire and the ritualistic dance of the pig-runs, rubbing his eyes from the smoke. His vision blurred. The figures of pig-runs changing, becoming more manlike in their silhouettes. “When did we lose hope?”

  Khaba spat. “Hope is something the weak hold onto.” He tossed a child’s doll into the fire. The straw doll flared up, curling like a dying rose. “A security blanket meant to cons
ole children and ward off imaginary monsters in the dark. Strength is the only thing that has meaning in this world. The only thing worth honoring. I’m just ashamed that it took a boy to remind me of the truth. The Slave-king exploited my weakness back then... And my people paid the price. So, I will kill my weakness, my heart, cut it out and burn it to ashes. Then I will burn his.”

  Khaba turned from the fire, signaling his warriors with a quick hand gesture to move out. He got three steps before he saw the shadow creep toward his feet.

  “Greetings, god of rock and sand,” boomed a dark distorted voice.

  Khaba’s gaze rose to meet the astral projection of the Cloaked Man blocking his path. He bared his teeth. “Move aside—human—you’re in my way.”

  “What makes you think I am human?” The Cloaked Man’s eyes flashed red through the shadows of his hood, illuminating his skull mask with hellish light.

  Khaba inched back. “Witch...”

  “I am far more than any witch,” said the Cloaked Man.

  The pig-runs stepped forward, readying their axes.

  “Then who or what are you?” Dew-paw interjected, peeking out from behind Khaba, keeping his distance.

  “I am merely a traveler, a pilgrim on a journey to seek out the one true path. The one true answer,” replied the Cloaked Man.

  “The answer to what?” asked Khaba.

  “To the riddle of peace,” he answered.

  Khaba’s face softened and he lowered his ax.

  “But enough about me—it’s her you desire.” He extended his hand. A small hologram image of Sharon formed in his palm, leaking up like the smoke from a freshly snuffed out candle.

  Khaba lunged for him. “Where is she? Tell me, damn you!” But he slipped right through the Cloaked Man like he was grasping at a phantom in the night.

  “Now I think it’s time we had a private chat together, Khaba,” said the Cloaked Man.

  The air around the two of them swirled and changed color. A living rainbow engulfed them in the eye of a raging twister.