Before the Crow Read online

  Before the Crow

  by

  Aaron Bunce

  Autumn Arch Publishing

  Iowa

  www.AutumnArchPublishing.com

  Copyright © 2016 by Aaron Bunce

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or literary publication.

  Publisher’s note

  This is a work of fiction. All names, places, characters, and incidences are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual people, alive or dead, events or locations, is completely coincidental.

  A product of Autumn Arch Publishing

  Cover art: Suzanne Helmigh

  Cover design: Michele Maakstead

  Interior design: Aaron Bunce

  Map Design: Alex Vialette

  Edited by: Barbara Malmberg

  Hardcover ISBN: 978-0-9904504-4-3

  Trade paperback ISBN: 978-0-9904504-6-7

  E-Book ISBN: 978-0-9904504-5-0

  1st Edition - 2016

  For Izzy.

  The finest furry companion I could ask for.

  Part One

  Hunting

  Prologue

  …Valley of Bleak Falls – White Back Mountains

  Wraithman knew the beast was close. He caught its scent on the air, just for a moment, before the starchy breeze carried it away again. It was a slightly sweet musk. One that smelled faintly reminiscent of warm mead.

  He smiled, his muscles quaking slightly. The beast was out there, watching and tracking him. The mountain’s purest predator, grown to maturity. Despite being a strong, fit man, Wraithman felt small. Like a mouse crouching in the snow. He understood what it felt like to be hunted.

  “You and me, we’ve been trapping together for a long time. You know my snares are on the level. It won’t break out of this one. This time, it’s mine,” he whispered to his surly counterpart, Sigmere.

  “I ain’t stickin’ around if it breaks out again. I ain’t getting my ass eaten!” Sigmere grumbled, shifting and struggling to get comfortable.

  “That snare was bad, idiot. If you’d checked it like I told you, we’d already be on our way home. I checked this one myself…this one will hold. It ain’t getting away this time. As long as it thinks we have its nest and its pups we have the upper hand,” Wraithman said confidently, rubbing his hands together to ward off the bitter wind.

  Sigmere didn’t respond. Instead, he stared glumly into the dark trees and scratched his nose.

  Hunting was difficult enough, but when you mixed in the brutal, unyielding terrain of the White Backs, it became downright perilous. Wraithman and Sigmere weren’t like usual hunters. They didn’t spend their time tracking elk herds, or trapping hedge-rats like so many others. No, they were hunting prized, gold winning game. They were hunting drakin.

  “Cheer up. Just imagine how much mead this gold will buy you. And all that time you will be able to spend rubbing up against Briga! We catch this beast, and the pit is as good as ours,” Wraithman added.

  Sigmere screwed up his face, struggling for a moment to stifle his goofy smile. Wraithman guffawed, and then gesticulated lewdly with his hips. Sigmere grunted, and finally broke into a quiet chuckle.

  The forest around them went quiet, save a mournful gust of wind rattling frozen tree branches. Sigmere’s laughter died away. The gust blew by, bitter mountain air stinging his exposed skin. It didn’t bother him, though. Wraithman was raised in the mountains.

  Mountain ore in my blood, he thought with pride.

  Wraithman cupped his hands around his mouth and exhaled, using the warmth of his breath to warm his fingers. He couldn’t tie a respectable knot while wearing his thick, elk hide gloves, so he tucked them into his belt. Wraithman needed this snare to be more than just respectable, he needed it to be exemplary, thus, cold fingers.

  He sensed movement in the trees, just far enough away that he couldn’t quite make it out. A gust of wind blew through the clearing, biting at his exposed skin. It wasn’t just the cold, but the beast’s scent. It used it to confuse prey, and damage their constitution.

  “Tricky beast!” Wraithman whispered, almost reverentially.

  With his snare tied and covered, Wraithman slowly backed away, pulling his gloves out and sliding them onto his hands. Without taking his eyes off of the forest, the trapper crawled sideways, until he came to the first opening in the thick brush. He eased the small bladder out of his coat and pulled the stopper free.

  With a quick shake, Wraithman sprinkled some of its caustic contents onto the snow and the base of the shrubs. The sour odor wafted past his face, and despite his best efforts, a foul, wretched taste formed in his mouth. Troll urine was a valued and precious commodity, and incredibly expensive. But he found that nothing else repelled hungry beasts better.

  Wraithman crept his way down the row, sprinkling the corrosive Troll urine on predetermined spots. When he was done, he capped off the bladder and stowed it in his coat. Then he crawled back down the row, to where Sigmere sat waiting.

  “That shit stinks, and it stains everything,” Sigmere groused as Wraithman slid up next to him.

  “You’ll get used to it…or maybe not,” Wraithman offered, as he settled back against the cave opening. A tree branch snapped off in the night, a barely audible indication that the two men weren’t alone in the small, sheltered valley.

  “You sure this is gonna work? What’s stopping it from charging through those bushes and eating us up?” Sigmere hissed, his trepidation temporarily besting his love for gold and Briga.

  “I already told you, now just sit back and shut up already, before you scare it off!” Wraithman whispered.

  Sigmere scowled, but fell silent, and pulled deeper into the shadows of the shallow cave. Wraithman slid next to him, until his back came to rest against the bars of the cage, well hidden within the shadows. Slowly, Wraithman reached back and grabbed a handful of the nesting material resting inside. Consisting of mostly animal fur, skin, leaves, and bark, it was more than pungent enough for Wraithman’s needs.

  He leaned out of the sheltered nook of the cave so that moonlight fell upon his head, and waited. Wraithman closed his eyes, and listened, until he finally heard the wind rolling through the valley, dancing across the tops of pine trees and kissing their dry needles. It hissed, and cried, rushing towards them from above. Just as he felt it rustle his hair, he threw the handful of bedding into the air.

  Forced down the sheer cliff of the valley above him, the wind kicked up from the ground and swirled, scattering the detritus out and into the trees before him. With only the slightest pause, Wraithman reached over and gathered up his leather satchel. He felt around inside until his fingers brushed against a familiar polished wood case.

  Wraithman set the sack down before gently easing the small box open and removing its contents. He pulled the spear down from where it leaned against the rock wall behind him, taking a measure of strength from the weight of its well-forged blade. Then, feeling a thrill course through him, he lifted the small object to his lips. He inhaled, filling his lungs with air, then blew into the mouthpiece in a series of short, successive notes.

  Looking like a thick, gnarled tree branch, the animal call chirped and buzzed, cutting through the silence of the valley. The noise sounded harsh and strangled, like the desperate cry of a scared, frightened, and injured creature. Its note punctuated the air again, and again. He made the call sing, having mastered its use over the winter thaws, before letting the last note fade off into the night.

  He lowered the call, branches shifting and breaking, a
low, menacing howl reverberating somewhere in the still air. Wraithman gently returned the call to its box and sat forward, rolling the smooth handle of the boar spear from the tips of his fingers into his palms. Despite his winter thaws of experience, and confidence, a sliver of doubt crept in.

  Another branch snapped somewhere in the darkness, followed by another low growl. Wraithman turned his head to track the noise. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sigmere, sliding back against the rock of the cave, his feet continuing to kick ineffectually at the snow.

  “Stop moving!” Wraithman hissed, and snapped his gaze back onto the snow covered trees. “Come on…come on,” he growled, barely suppressing a grin as he edged forward.

  His hand shifted towards the polished wood box and the call, but before it could move far, something large, and incredibly fast, streaked through the foliage. The shrubs shuddered violently, and a tree bent low, far closer than he anticipated. There were only a few paces between him and the edge of the bushes, and the movement was just beyond that.

  Wraithman slid beside Sigmere, and began to doubt his plan. The bushes…they aren’t thick enough. The snares…the snares, they aren’t strong enough, his thoughts raced, but a forced, deep breath quieted the storm.

  The bushes were woven with thick, braided line, smothered in troll urine, making them as impassible as a fisherman’s net. It was his design, and it always worked. Always!

  The bush straight ahead of him shook once again, and then the one next to that…and all down the row, as the creature stalked along, looking for a clear path through, just as he had planned it.

  Nothing moved for a long moment, the only sound a gently whispering breeze. Wraithman rocked back and forth slowly on the balls of his feet, ready to move forward into action, or backwards, away from danger. But when his back tapped against the stone of the valley wall he remembered that there would be no going back.

  Wraithman’s heart jumped up in his chest as something crashed in the trees. His fear quickly turned to excitement as he recognized the telltale snap of the woven snare. An angry howl cut into him like an Ishmandi assassin’s needle, and a heartbeat later a loud crack rebounded off of the valley wall. Wraithman paused, frozen mid-step as he had been moving towards the trap. Another snap resounded, followed by the wrenching, splitting, and tearing of distressed wood fibers.

  “Blast!” Wraithman muttered as the trees and bushes shuddered violently. He shook visibly as the drakin crashed forward, splitting branches and showering the ground with snow. Covering his face with his free arm, Wraithman stabbed his spear blindly toward the noise. When the spear struck only air, he looked up, and immediately felt the fool.

  The cool moonlight, filtering down through the thick canopy, fell upon the splintered and broken trunk of a young tree, still swaying and rocking. Wraithman looked from the broken sapling, to the small gap he cleared in the bushes before it.

  How did it…? There is no way! Wraithman tried to rationalize the failure of his snare. The sapling was as large around as his lower leg, and as flexible and strong as thick leather. He had seen the braided line of snares tear, even the knots fail, but he had never seen something break one of the trees, at least not one of the trees he picked.

  Wraithman’s excitement switched to fear, as he realized that he may have underestimated the creature. He prided himself and earned his reputation on his experience, and sticking to a tried-and-true method. His trapping rigs were the best, and his set-ups always solid.

  Wraithman lurched forward, fumbling the bladder of troll urine into his hand. He gasped for breath, his mouth and nose sinking into the thick snow as he wrenched on the wooden stopper. The stopper finally popped, sending the caustic fluid bubbling out over Wraithman’s fingers and hands. Ignoring the burn, he squeezed and flipped the soft bottle, spattering anything within reach, including himself, with the horrid substance.

  “Sig… bring me another spear,” Wraithman hissed, turning to where his hunting partner last sat, but the space was empty.

  Wraithman’s eyes snapped back to the dark gap in the bushes, his hands and the putrid troll urine as his only protection. He inched backwards, letting the leather bladder fall to the ground, and paused as something moved within the shadows before him.

  Where’d that fool go? How could he leave me like this? The trapper thought, his heart hammering loudly in his ears.

  The dim light, swaying and shifting from the moving branches, fell upon glistening, onyx scales, shifting and flexing as the drakin moved. Wraithman pushed backward, as thick eyelids slid open, the moonlight striking large, oblong pupils. The eyes shone orange, and shifted color as the creature moved.

  The massive creature stalked forward, its body tensing and bunching, the cool light exposing more of its sizable form. The drakin drew in a breath, considering the overpowering stench staining the ground and bushes, before exhaling forcefully.

  Wraithman flinched, as he envisioned the creature lurching out of the darkness, jaws snapping closed around his neck. With only the still air between them, Wraithman panicked. The spear stabbed straight ahead, its sharp, bladed tip disappearing into the inky dark.

  He felt the spear strike, but it was not the bite of a blade striking flesh, followed by the pop of skin giving way, then the savory sensation as it eased deeper. It felt like he had driven the spear into a wall of stone. The handle reverberated and pushed out wide. In his terror, Wraithman released his grip and let it fall to the snow.

  The beast snarled and shrunk away, its eyes now barely visible in the cold black. Wraithman’s eye stung and he blinked. Snow had clung to his face, melted, and ran down into his eyes, forcing him to break eye contact with the creature. A heartbeat later, when his vision cleared, he stared at the dark bushes and the space now empty between.

  Desperate, Wraithman flopped up onto his rear and slid backward, until he felt cold, iron bars pressing into his ribs. He looked to his left, where boot tracks led out of the small cave and disappeared into the shadowy trees.

  “The bastard ran off!” Wraithman hissed in anger, lurching forward as the bushes roiled. He leveled the spear tip before him. The forged tip danced a frenzied jig in the air, matching the thundering of his heart.

  The second snare snapped, and Wraithman almost pissed his pants. The silence broke as trees thrashed from side to side, their branches splitting and snapping loudly. A deep, reverberating growl boomed directly before him, and quickly changed pitch, until it was an almost deafening cry of anger, pain, and frustration.

  Wraithman turned and fumbled with the cage’s heavy, iron latch, his hands now trembling horribly. His only desire was to be anywhere but out in the open, even if it meant locking himself in the very cage he meant to hold the beast.

  The latch, pitted and rusty, felt cumbersome between his fingers. In a fit of desperation, Wraithman slammed his fist into the reluctant lock. He felt the metal tearing and gashing his hand, breaking the skin in a dozen places, until finally, the bar slid free. The cage door cracked, and then swung towards him, the hinges crying out in a high-pitched squeal. Wraithman tugged the door wide, no longer concerned with stealth. He heard the bushes explode behind him, melding feral animal sounds and splintering wood. Jaws snapped together with a loud click of mashing teeth, but his body was just out of reach.

  With a grunt, Wraithman pulled himself fully into the cage, moved to pull the door shut, and froze. Standing a dozen paces from him, and bathed fully in the moon’s light, was the beast. Larger than any he had ever seen, the drakin was twice his length and perhaps four times his weight. Its shiny black scales shimmered in the cool light, only partially obstructed by a coat of strange, iridescent, black and white feathers. The beast looked majestic in its winter plumage.

  The drakin reared up and lurched forward, but then halted its movement. In that moment Wraithman noticed both braided snares bound around the creature, one on its right foreleg and the other, its neck. The reinforced rope, stretched tight, extended back into the bushes,
and with every forceful tug, the bushes shook. The ropes were likely still tied to the small trees, either broken or pulled clean from the ground.

  Wraithman shook himself from his frozen state and started to pull the cage closed, when the drakin reared up again. Only this time, the bushes gave way. The creature leapt to the cage, claws flashing against the iron bars, raking across his hands.

  Wraithman fell back, cursing the white-hot pain. Then the screaming began. It was a high-pitched sound that unsettled his soul. He even pulled a bloody hand up to his mouth, unsure if the noise was coming from him. But then he realized the noise wasn’t screaming at all, but the corroded hinges squealing as the cage door pulled open.

  The drakin, not just content to claw and bite at the iron bars, hooked a paw around the door and started wrenching it open. Wraithman watched in horror as the heavy cage door swung outward.

  He leaned forward, frantically pulling against the cage door. Another claw raked through the bars, forcing him to slide his hands down and find new purchase. The hinges groaned again, and this time, Wraithman slid forward, his boots dragged through the straw beneath him. The drakin hissed, and its jaws parted in a horrific display of forked-tongue and glistening teeth. It came forward, locking its teeth around the bars of the cage door and pulled.

  Wraithman fell back, the bedding erupting in a plume all around him. The hinges squawked and pulled open. The drakin clawed at the stubborn metal bars, snapping its jaws, trying to force its head inside. He threw himself against the far side of the cage, his heart pounding a cadence of unbridled terror.

  The drakin’s head slipped through, its saliva falling over him as it snapped at his feet. Bile rose up in his throat as he jammed his hand back out of the bars. He fumbled with numb hands, cursing both the corroded metal and the bitter cold. His finger brushed against the latch.

  A desperate moan broke from Wraithman’s clenched jaws as he fumbled around, pulling at every awkward angle, trying to wrench the stubborn catch free. The sound of the drakin behind him, mixed with the cage door creaking open, drove Wraithman to the brink.