The Crow Behind the Mirror_Book One of the Mirror Wars

by Sean M. Hogan

  The frightened twin hesitated. So his brother helped him, grabbing his hand and cutting it for him. He winced, giving a faint whimper.

  In their own blood, the cloaked figures drew individual circles on the floor below their feet. They stepped back into larger prepared ones. Then, in unison, the cloaked figures slammed their bloodstained hands into their drawn circles.

  The circle surrounding the caged slaves ignited in vibrant light. The blue light was overtaken by blinding red.

  Sharon shielded her eyes.

  Horrid inhuman screams bellowed out from the imprisoned slaves.

  She opened her eyes and—once again—she stared back at the huge dark tower.

  An earthquake erupted, shaking the foundations of the tower. The people below fled for their lives as huge stone segments tumbled down from the sky.

  “No one knows what happened the day the Tower of Babel fell,” said Sofiel. “Some say they challenged the very authority of God. All I know is that the seven worlds became divided after the fall and Ordin’s dream remains unfulfilled.”

  Flames engulfed the tower, flickering on up like a lit match turned upside down. Sharon waded through the flames, falling back into the shadows.

  ***

  Michelle and the Cloaked Man watched from the shadows as the Priest wed young Michelle and Solomon under a star-filled night at the stroke of midnight. Young Michelle wore an elegant gown made of pearls that overflowed on her small form. She received her first kiss from golden lips. Thus, Michelle took Solomon’s last name, Lionmane, and earned the title of Queen under the witness of God and a few drunken soldiers. The newlyweds spent most of the night sleeping next to each other, hands embraced, with Matthew in a crib at the foot of the bed. Even if Michelle was of the age to consummate the marriage, Solomon’s disease had left him impotent. His bloodline destined to die with him, as he had the rest of his relatives murdered years ago, victims of a tyrant’s paranoia.

  ***

  Marcus drunkenly staggered over to the ledge of the watchtower, torch in hand. It was time for a change of the guards and the drunken fools had left their posts, using the wedding celebration as an excuse to slack off.

  “Alright—you bums—time to...”

  Marcus’ torch illuminated the ground below.

  A stack of dead bodies lay scattered on the floor—his own men—riddled with arrows.

  “Bloody hell!”

  Whoosh. Thud.

  An arrow plowed into his chest, knocking him back against the wall. He stared at the arrow with disbelief in his eyes.

  Whoosh. Thud.

  Another arrow struck his chest. A healthy stream of blood dripped from his mouth. Marcus did the only thing he could think of. He grabbed one of the arrows and tried to pull it out.

  Whoosh. Thud.

  The third and final arrow brought him crashing to the ground.

  ***

  Solomon awoke with a horrid choking cough. He reached for a cup of water to quell his burning throat and found it empty. The pitcher contained just drops. The servant boy would be whipped for that and he would gladly watch.

  The candle wax had melted down but the night was still dark.

  He glanced over to Michelle.

  She was fast asleep.

  He brushed aside the bangs from her eyelashes and kissed her forehead before heading downstairs.

  ***

  The dining room was empty aside from the Priest who sat face down at the table—a wine bottle still in his grip—resting on a pool of red.

  Solomon retrieved the bottle and found it empty.

  “Figures,” Solomon grumbled. “Blasted fool would drink my kingdom dry if I let him.”

  Something caught his attention as he emptied the final drops on the floor. The liquid coming out was the wrong color—it was white wine. He lifted the Priest up by the hair from the red soaked table. His eyes widened. There was an arrow protruding from the Priest’s chest.

  Boom!

  An object hit the table—rolling with a skipping hop—plopping into a silver serving bowl. Marcus’ severed head stared up at Solomon with placid blank eyes.

  Click. Clang.

  The echoed sound of the dining room doors locking stole Solomon’s gaze.

  A man in a purple cloak stood in front of the doors and unsheathed his sword. The Marauder greeted Solomon with a perfectly white smile.

  “No, no, no, no!” Solomon reached for a chair, blocking the first sword strike without a moment to spare.

  The Marauder put more muscle behind his sword and the chair split in two.

  Pieces of shattered wood crashed onto the floor.

  The force knocked Solomon down. He rolled under the dining table to avoid a quick stab to the throat.

  He crawled out the other end and scrambled for a long metal candle stand.

  The Marauder leaped off the table and descended upon him.

  Solomon grabbed hold of the candle stand in time to narrowly block another blow. He kicked the Marauder off him, sending him crashing over the table.

  Dishes and silverware rained down in thunderous clangs.

  Solomon rose to his feet. “You’re the Marauder.” He took a defensive stance; the candle stand now a weapon in his hands. “Assassin—scourge of the seven worlds.”

  The Marauder didn’t hesitate a beat, charging Solomon, hacking away at his candle stand.

  They locked weapons.

  The scraping of the Marauder’s blade was like nails over glass as he sawed through the metal stand.

  “So, I take it you’ve come to kill me?”

  The Marauder gave no response.

  “That much is obvious. But one question still remains... Who hired you? Was it Simon?”

  The Marauder’s silence was maddening.

  “Speak, damn you!” Solomon summed the last of his strength and shoved the Marauder off, staggering him. He saw an opening and struck the assassin across the face.

  The Marauder fell to one knee.

  Solomon raised the candle stand for a final blow and sent it hurling down.

  The Marauder dodged, reached into his boot, and slid out a knife. He threw the blade, striking Solomon’s right thigh.

  Solomon dropped the candle stand and grasped his leg, reeling in agony.

  The assassin now saw his opening and kicked the dying tyrant in the gut, sending him crashing against a pillar.

  Solomon moaned in pain as the Marauder’s blade pierced his shoulder, pinning him to the pillar.

  The Marauder kicked the candle stand away and squatted down to eye level with his prey. “Pathetic,” he said, finally breaking his silence. “I expected more from the Leper King.”

  Solomon could just make out his perfect white teeth underneath the shroud of his hood. “Sorry to disappoint the expectations of a slave-king’s lapdog.”

  He pressed the blade deeper into Solomon.

  Solomon cried out.

  “Get away from him!” commanded a voice behind.

  The Marauder turned to greet the voice.

  Michelle stood before him, holding a sword in her hands. The blade’s point inches from the Marauder’s throat.

  He rose to his feet.

  She backed up a step.

  “Shouldn’t you be in bed, little queen?” he asked, towering over her.

  “Don’t force me,” she said, trying her best to mask her fear but the rattling of her blade forecasted that terror like Morse Code.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Solomon yelled. “Get the hell out of—Ahhh!”

  The Marauder yanked his sword from Solomon’s flesh. “I should warn you—little queen—anyone who dares to point a sword my direction forfeits their civilian status.” He took a step forward as she retreated a step back. “I’m not really permitted to kill anyone apart from my designated targets.” He took another few steps and so did she. “You know, messing with the whole timeline and everything. But since you’re here I might as well educate you.” He raised his sword to meet hers. />
  “Since when has the great Marauder been the slayer of little girls?” asked Solomon, before choking on his own blood.

  “You’re one to talk.” He swiped Michelle’s sword out of her hands in one effortless swing. “Lesson one, how to hold a sword properly.”

  Michelle stumbled backward, landing with a thud on her backside. She gazed up at the Marauder—frozen—as he stood over her and raised his sword over his head.

  “Now for lesson two… No one likes a damsel in distress.”

  “Don’t do it!” Solomon scrambled to his feet and lunged for the Marauder.

  In a single slash, the Marauder brought him crashing down.

  Blood sprayed, coating Michelle’s face. A golden mask rolled to a gentle rest between her legs. Her gaze rose from the empty golden eyelids to Solomon’s deformed face.

  A grotesque sight. Solomon’s face was coated by countless sores, his nose and lips had long since fallen off, and his skin had bubbled to a contorted Halloween mask.

  Her pale gray eyes rose to meet the Marauder’s.

  “Ah, now those are some eyes you got there, little queen.” He sheathed his sword after wiping it clean of blood with a tablecloth. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a pair like those. Too long. Much has been taken from you, hasn’t it? And now I’ve taken a bit more. What a cruel world it is, isn’t it?” He slid a golden pocket watch out and flipped the lid to check the time. “A little bit of advice. If you want your revenge so badly then you’ll just have to get stronger. Cling to your pathetic existence. Struggle, struggle, struggle, and struggle some more.” He bared his perfect smile. “Grow cold and heartless. For only living as a monster will you be able to slay one.” His body vibrated and pulsed, fading in and out of focus. “Happy hunting, little sister.”

  Michelle blinked and he was gone.

  Nineteen-year-old Michelle stepped forward from the Cloaked Man’s side. “I have done as you said. I’ve grown stronger—much stronger.” She grabbed hold of the hilt of her sword. “And I am still hunting.”

  “But who do you hunt?” asked the Cloaked Man, stepping forward and gently stroking young Michelle’s head. “Who is your target?” He picked up Solomon’s golden mask and raised it over his own.

  “A wolf,” replied Michelle, watching her former self dissolve like receding mist.

  “No,” he said, setting the golden mask ablaze.

  Michelle spun to meet his red gaze, flames mirrored in her gray eyes.

  The gold mask melted to a monstrous dripping face. “A god.”

  ***

  Sharon opened her eyes. She was back in the cave. Her gaze immediately fell to Sofiel, sitting across from her. “Look, I appreciate the history lesson and all—really—but when do we get to the part where I get rid of these?” She extended her wings and gave them a little flap.

  Sofiel sighed, opened her eyes, and focused on Sharon. “The reason I’m showing you all these memories, Sharon, is so you’ll learn from the mistakes of the past. The power you will unlock today comes with a great responsibility. For great power will only beget misery and suffering without the wisdom to wield it with compassion.”

  “I understand.” She let out a heap of breath. “I’m ready.” She put on her serious face.

  “The only way to master your new form, your spiritual body, and your soul is to find that one reason above all others.”

  “A reason for what?”

  “For living,” said Sofiel. “You must ask yourself: Why do I go on?”

  “Why? I don’t know...” She averted her gaze to the rippling pond, to her distorted reflection. “I have no reason, I guess.” Her gaze shot back up to Sofiel. “Why does that matter? All I want is to go back home to my normal life.”

  “Our lives are like arrows being propelled through existence by fate. We each have our own destination. But the raging storms of life can cloud our true purpose and blow us off course. That is why it is imperative we find our true path before we are swept away in the false perceptions of reality that loom all around us.”

  “Perceptions?” Sharon squinted.

  “Yes,” said Sofiel. “Ordin realized that it was our perceptions that were the root of our suffering. The false perceptions we impose onto the universe, those around us, and ourselves. We see the world as we want it to be not as it truly is.”

  “Right... perceptions,” Sharon grumbled. “I’m fine with that just as long as the right perception gets me home.”

  “Now close your eyes, Sharon.”

  Sharon did as she was told.

  “Clear your mind of all emotions, let go of your hatred and fear, all selfish desires and doubt. You must concentrate and focus on who you are, your core spiritual essence. For true peace and enlightenment can only be found within.”

  Sharon tried her best to meditate but after about half an hour of sitting across a motionless Sofiel, her impatience got the better of her. “This is stupid,” she finally said with a moan, breaking the unbearable silence. Really, your core spiritual essence? What new age hippie bull-crap.

  “Why?” Sofiel asked, with unwavering patience.

  “It just is, okay!” Sharon leaped to her feet in a furious spout. “People aren’t arrows. We don’t have predetermined targets. People just exist. People just do whatever they want, no matter who gets hurt, making up the reasons along the way.” And given the chance, they’d leave you high and dry just like my father. What were his reasons—no excuses—he told himself as he walked out that door for the final time? What lies did he tell himself to justify the unjustifiable? This Ordin dude is full of it. It isn’t false perceptions that cause suffering. No, the word false implies there is truth. But peel back the layers of lies and delusions and what do you get? Life is like an onion, keep peeling and all you get is more onion, until finally... nothing. Nothing but tears. “That’s how the world works.”

  “Is that what you believe?” asked Sofiel.

  She folded her arms and turned away. “I don’t believe in anything.”

  Sofiel smiled.

  “What?”

  “It’s just that you remind me of my last student, Simon. You both have the same willful spirit, so young and so sure of yourselves.” Sofiel rose to her feet, turned from Sharon, and headed toward the mouth of the cave.

  “So, what was his reason?” asked Sharon.

  “You must choose your own path, Sharon. No one else can choose for you,” she said, leaving the cave.

  Sharon stood alone in the cave, staring at her reflection and watching herself come into focus as the ripples died. She clenched her fists and headed after Sofiel.

  ***

  The moon bled red. Lightning struck and set the night sky ablaze with furious light. The roar of thunder shook the wooden huts, drowning out the screams of those inside. Two small gray eyes mirrored back the faces of hungry flames. A wolf’s howl turned young Michelle’s stomach sour with dread. Through the cracks of the wood planks, she saw their feet scurry past. She saw the bodies fall and the shadow descend upon them until they were still. Their horror, her horror.

  A candle ignited in the darkness of the crawlspace, illuminating her father’s face. He knelt down, cradling Matthew in one arm and wrapping the other around her.

  “Now honey, I want you to stay here with your baby brother. Daddy’s going to find Mommy and bring her back.” He handed her Matthew and, after some reluctance, she took him. “I want you to be brave for me, understand?”

  Michelle nodded, wiping the tears away with her sleeve.

  “Stay here and don’t make a sound. Daddy will be back soon.”

  He hugged her, kissed her forehead, and opened the trapdoor.

  Michelle never saw her father again.

  She rocked Matthew back and forth to keep him quiet while she waited and listened and prayed for her father’s voice in the darkness. It wasn’t long before she got her wish—in the form of his gut-wrenching scream.

  Michelle screamed too.

 
And the monster heard and came, sniffing above in her house, ripping through furniture and walls.

  Then she heard the digging. Dirt sprinkled on her head. Spears of light pierced shadows. The hot odor of a predator’s breath moistened the air with a foul scent of blood. It was digging for her.

  Michelle dug as well, frantically, irrationally scooping up clumps of black soil with one hand and clinging to Matthew with the other. Her breathing grew erratic, escalating into a full-fledged panic attack.

  In seconds the wolf was upon her, snagging its claws on her shirt and yanking her into the air like a rag doll.

  Then, oddly, time seemed to slow to a crawl.

  She locked eyes with the beast. And the beast stared right back. It shriveled back the fur on its snout and parted its fangs. She could feel its hot stench on her skin and taste the rancid exhale of death.

  Then Matthew cried and the wolf froze. As if the wolf was struck by lightning from the gods above and it... he awoke from his trance. His eyes became that of a man’s. Gabriel’s expression changed from one of rage to one of horror.

  Gabriel dropped Michelle and gazed down at his hands, his claws coated in fresh crimson. He backed away—locking eyes with Michelle once more—taking in her terror-ridden face. He tried to reach out to her, to comfort her, but she recoiled, curling up in a ball over Matthew.

  “No,” he roared. He clawed at his own head, howled a painful cry, and darted out of the crawlspace and off into the night.

  “Stop,” commanded the Cloaked Man.

  Everything froze like a paused movie.

  “Reverse.”

  The events rewound.

  “Pause.”

  The scene stopped once more. Gabriel, the wolf, stood over Michelle and Matthew—ready for the kill.

  Michelle stepped to her younger self and the wolf of her nightmares.

  “Behold, I give you your parents’ murderer,” said the Cloaked Man, pointing. “Gabriel, the god of heaven.”

  Michelle peered into Gabriel’s eyes—the world standing still for her.

  “It would seem your hatred for the gods of Tuat and your mysterious wolf are one in the same. Convenient, no?”