DARK: And the Sender of the Crows

CHAPTER I: THE SENDER OF THE CROWS

THE SENDER OF THE CROWS lifted the old man over the parapet wall and watched him tumble toward the sea below, eyes and mouth wide open, arms and legs pinwheeling, before he was swallowed by the roiling waves as they crashed against the cliff.

‘Sard!’

Bheidh rarely used such language. Or resorted to violence. But the aged Crowmaster had been snooping. And it was one thing to break the sacred covenant of his profession by reading the private messages carried by his birds (if such a covenant even existed, although Bheidh assumed one must), but altogether another thing for the old man to have been caught reading this particular message.

The secretary never ventured onto the balcony where the Crowmaster retrieved and released his crows, or even to the old man’s quarters. He found the beady-eyed birds unnerving, their cages somewhat odorous, and his stomach churned at the mere thought of how high the loft’s balcony was above the sheer cliffs and angry ocean. It was a dead drop. Literally, as it turned out.

But Bheidh was anxious.

Bored with pacing about his room, he felt compelled to seek out the Crowmaster to ask if any messages had arrived. Ordinarily, he’d wait for the old man to dutifully bring the missives to him in the comfort of his own quarters several levels below, or at his desk in the plush salon where The Five gathered to discuss their work, but it had been several days since the last crow arrived with news, and impatience had grown on Bheidh like a weed.

Having trudged up the narrow stairs to the Crowmaster’s loft and braved the room where the tiny black eyes stared from behind the bars, he found the old man on the balcony, a crow on his shoulder and the little slip of paper in his hands, unrolled.

The man’s lips stammered some hurried and nonsensical words, to which Bheidh paid such little attention that he wasn’t sure if it was an excuse, an apology or some inane lie like, ‘I was just about to bring this to you.’ Regardless, Bheidh snatched the note, and as soon as he saw what it said, he was overcome by such alarm that these particular words, meant for his eyes only, had been seen by someone else that he flashed the Crowmaster a pitied smile, clapped his hands on the man’s hunched shoulders, and lifted.

Gravity did the rest.

As the crow that had been on the man’s shoulder finally fluttered back to the balcony, it startled Bheidh with an accusatory caw. He had suffered the Crowmaster’s intolerable prattling about how they were intelligent creatures that never forgot a human face, and even held grudges against those they disliked, warning other crows of anyone considered a threat. Apparently, crows would call wolves to a carcass to tear open the leather exterior and expose the soft flesh inside for the carrion feeders.

The Crowmaster loved his crows.

Bheidh did not.

‘Oh, shut up,’ he snapped back, before reading the words on the tiny slip of paper again.

It was the confirmation he’d been waiting for. The item had been located. A key that could set new wheels in motion.

Tucking the slip of paper into the right pocket of his coat, Bheidh shielded his eyes from the stares of the birds as he darted back through the room of cages, took the stairs two at a time, and slowed down as he entered the salon where The Five gathered. At this hour, only three of the masters of money were there. Gewinn, responsible for Profitability, reclined on the divan in her usual state, corpulent and unconscious. Lænen, swirling in a luxurious excess of dress by the fireplace, oversaw Lending. And Wes, the master of Investment, sipped from a crystal goblet as he pored over a long list of numbers.

Both Lænen and Wes looked up as Bheidh strolled in, calm and collected, save for a single drop of sweat forming on his brow. They failed to notice since they saw their secretary no differently than any other piece of furniture within the opulent tower. He was a beady-eyed man with tightly cropped hair that was neither brown nor blonde, and hands that seemed to fidget even when they were still.

Gewinn snorted in her sleep.

Wes returned to his figures, scribbling notes in the margin. He was double-checking Lænen’s calculations, perhaps triple-checking given the hour. With their cash reserves at their lowest in as long as any of them could recall, The Five had unanimously agreed to raise interest rates on all outstanding debts, and Wes was trying to estimate how much time this would buy them.

‘I have news,’ said Bheidh. ‘It seems your decision to raise rates is playing to your advantage.’

Glancing up from his calculations, Wes wondered how the secretary had arrived at such a result sooner than he. ‘How do you know?’

Bheidh pulled a slip of paper from the left pocket of his coat and handed it over. He could tell, by the furrow on Wes’s brow, that the man didn’t understand what was written. Sure, he knew what each of the three words meant, but as a message, one after the other, it made little sense to him.

Bheidh alleviated his confusion. ‘Your economic pressure upon the Igradorian people has forced them to desperately find alternate sources of income.’

‘Go on,’ Lænen urged.

‘Many have become Cleaners,’ said Bheidh.

In ordinary times, the term would have merely referred to launders, maids and servants, maybe also ship-swabs, but since The Five had orchestrated the reinstatement of the Hundred-Year Hunt, Cleaners were the well-armed hunting parties dedicated to a single prey: these so-called Nightlings of the Old World that were supposed to have been eradicated long ago, but had recently resurfaced to cause such trouble in Igrador.

Under the apparent leadership of a young boy capable of such things a young boy should not be capable, according to witness statements, the ancient monsters had overrun Castle Underock, slain King Baltus, destroyed the weapon factories of Green Gorge, put the ten baronies into a state of fear, and supposedly killed the formidable mercenary army of the Whites. In short, these wretched few creatures of darkness had put the entire realm into utter disarray. Along with the plans of The Five.

They needed to be exterminated, once and for all.

With the common people rallying into hunting parties, scouring every corner of the realm, things might finally fall into place for the Bank.

‘But if they manage to find these creatures,’ Wes worried aloud, ‘how will we honour the bounties? Our coffers are stretched as it is.’

Lænen quickly replied. ‘You’re missing the point. This is but a distraction for these thorns in our side. It will keep the monsters occupied and out of our way while the barons finally get closer to our prize.’

She approached the large map spread across a table and bearing the carved wooden markers that indicated the location of each asset. The houses of Endlúnd, Gillés and Buxton were on the north bank of the River Tiberon, reportedly mounting futile attacks on the Padogin across the impassable border. The Undermoors and Lakháusi both remained in their baronies, but there had been no news on the other houses.

‘What word on the barons?’ asked the mistress of Lending.

Bheidh plucked the wooden piece shaped like a twelve-armed octopus – the sigil of the baron of Wéarf – and repositioned it much further south on the map.

‘The Wéarfish are in Brace?’ Lænen gasped, drawing Wes to her side.

‘What are they doing there?’ the hawkish man asked.

Without a word, Bheidh also moved the markers of both Ripasea and Crow’s Peak alongside Wéarf’s. The two masters of money exchanged a worried glance. An Igradorian force assaulting a port town of the Culdiheen nation would further derail their plans.

‘The Peak Crows and Ripasee have raised their banners in support of Wéarf,’ the secretary explained. ‘Joined forces under the Wéarfish, Baron Holo Kai.’

‘But our goal is Padoga. Why are they attacking Culdiheen?’

‘They’re not,’ replied Bheidh. ‘They’re waiting.’

‘For what?’ asked a gravelly voice behind them.

In the doorway stood the tall, thin form of Wliek. Being the eldest of The Five, he exerted an unwritten authority over the others. Of late, he’d been sterner than usual because the Bank’s dwindling coffers were his primary concern as master of Liquidity.

‘They’re waiting for Kai,’ Bheidh continued.

‘And where is Kai?’ inquired Wliek as he joined the others at the map table.

The secretary walked two fingers south toward a nearby spot.

‘Forcastle?’ Wes asked. ‘Why is he going to the capital?’

‘To seek an audience with the Culdiheen for permission to march his army overland.’

All eyes followed Bheidh’s finger as it traced a line eastward from Brace to the border.

‘And then what?’ Lænen asked, but Bheidh simply shrugged.

Lost in deep thought, Wliek silently paced the room. Kai did not have much with which to bargain, especially when the ask was so great. The Culdiheen surely would not allow the unified foreign armies of Wéarf, Crow’s Peak and Ripasea to simply march unopposed into their realm. And if they did, Kai’s army would then need to cross the protected forests of Varhaus to reach Padoga. It was a fool’s errand.

Which only meant one thing: Kai had a plan.

‘After all these years of Igrador failing to cross the river border, could Kai have found a way in?’ he mused aloud. ‘The long way in?’

Bheidh gestured to the map again as he said, ‘Not so long, considering this route crosses the narrower ends of both Culdiheen and Varhaus. And the forest will provide them cover all the way to the Padogin border, emerging at the point closest to Troha itself.’

‘Kai could be our man,’ breathed Wes.

Before they could get ahead of themselves, giddy at the prospect of finally reaching the abandoned city with its famed streets of gold, Bheidh offered a counter. ‘If he is our man.’

While the others exchanged glances, expecting further commentary from their secretary, Bheidh went to his desk and busied himself among the paperwork. He shuffled some documents, flicked page after page, studied a note.

‘If you have something to say, make it said!’ Wliek commanded.

Bheidh looked up, taken aback. ‘What? Oh, nothing. Just that it might not be wise to assume Kai will remain loyal to our offer.’

‘If he’s the first to set foot in Troha, he’ll be crowned king,’ said Lænen. ‘That was our offer.’

‘Too good to be refused,’ added Wes.

‘True. True,’ the secretary nodded. ‘But it strikes me that any such baron who could unify these houses, and perhaps others yet to be revealed, then negotiate his way across Culdiheen and Varhaus, to defeat the Padogin bear riders and make it to Troha…’

He didn’t need to finish the sentence.

‘What do you mean “perhaps others”?’ Lænen asked.

The secretary returned to the map and gathered a few of the carved markers.

‘The whereabouts of these three is unknown,’ he said, holding open his hand to show the dead tree of Whitmarsh, the axe of Rohil, and the windmill of Endlúnd.

Wliek went silent again.

‘We need a man on the ground,’ said a new voice. Gewinn rolled off the divan, letting the crumbs of whatever she had last eaten fall from her voluminous chest onto the floor. Rising unsteadily to her feet, half from the wine, half from her total lack of vertical experience, she plodded to the map table. When her excess girth bumped the edge, half the wooden markers wobbled and toppled over. ‘Because if we’ve correctly assumed Kai’s plan, and he succeeds, the Bank’s profitability must be ensured.’

‘We need someone to join Kai in Forcastle,’ Wliek agreed.

‘Who can we trust?’ asked Lænen.

At the mere utterance of the words, the secretary busied himself at his desk again, dutifully filing papers in leather bindings, checking the ink level in the glass pot.

‘Bheidh,’ said Wliek, but the man appeared not to hear. ‘Bheidh!’

‘Yes, sir?’ His voice was hollow, distant.

‘You will go to Forcastle.’

Papers slipped from his hands as he waved in protest. ‘No, no, no. I can best serve here.’

‘You can best serve where we say,’ Wliek shot back.

The man stammered, for the first time the others had ever seen, as he quickly scooped up the dropped pages. ‘I am merely your secretary. I do the paperwork.’

‘And now you will do this,’ Wliek insisted. ‘Join Kai. If he marches, march with him. If he crosses into Padoga, cross with him. And if he is the first to set foot in Troha, be the second.’

‘But I am the sender of the crows,’ he blurted, flourishing a quill in one hand and a few tiny slips of paper in the other. He was more than the note-taker. More than the scribe of secret missives. The Five needed him to ensure the dispatches were passed to the Crowmaster with explicit instructions on the destination. This was how it had always been. Through Bheidh, and only Bheidh, they had managed to orchestrate, manipulate, and subjugate the realms. He knew everything.

‘All the more reason it be you,’ Wes chimed in. ‘Send us crows to report on your progress.’

‘We’ll be waiting,’ Lænen piped cheerfully.

Bheidh opened his mouth to utter a final plea, but Wliek raised a hand to silence him. ‘It has been decided.’

The secretary’s shoulders fell as he packed the slips of paper and writing set into a wooden box, then headed forlornly to the door with it tucked under his arm. Before he left the room, he turned to say, ‘By the way, you’ll need a new Crowmaster.’

The Five barely knew the one they had. He was just another servant in the tower, forbidden from setting foot in the salon or their personal chambers. They knew of his existence, and that was enough.

‘What happened to the one we had?’ Wes asked.

‘He had a bit of a fall,’ Bheidh replied.

With a last glance at his employers, and a respectful nod to Wliek, the secretary closed the door behind him.

As soon as the latch clicked into place, his hand slipped into the right pocket of his coat, his fingers feeling the tiny slip of paper he’d taken from the former Crowmaster. He imagined he could feel the ink of the words written on one side.

Three. Little. Words.

His lips pressed into a tight grin.

The Five had taken his bait perfectly.

CHAPTER II: THOSE WHO KEEP THE NIGHT

AS THE HORSE’S HOOVES PUSHED DREARILY through the long grass, the man riding its unsaddled back glanced nervously around the dark horizon. On his left flank, a woman walked barefoot, the hood of her tattered robe pulled low over her brow.

Since the sun had set hours ago, they were surprised to see lanterns glowing in the distant darkness. Worryingly, the points of light appeared to be nearing, and the travellers quickened their pace in the hope of getting ahead of whoever it was.

The tall grass abruptly ended, and they found themselves standing on the very road the unknown party were following, illuminated in the open by the spilling lantern light.

‘Ho there!’ came a holler amid the squeak and rattle of wheels.

The horse stopped in the middle of the road, turning its black head toward the approaching wagons.

When the caravan finally arrived, the horse squinted and turned away from the blinding lanterns. Its rider reassuringly patted its withers, as the robed woman stepped forward to greet the lead driver.

‘Who goes there?’ she challenged, shielding her own eyes from the light.

No answer was returned, but the rattle of armour signalled the approach of several people from farther back. Silhouettes stepped into the circle of light, four in all, armed and ready.

‘Identify yourselves,’ demanded one.

As her eyes adjusted, she was able to discern their mismatched armour, their hands gripping the hilts of various weapons. The lead wagon bore a long banner hanging limp from a pole in the breezeless night, but she could make out the symbol of a silver dagger piercing an orange loaf among the folds. Gillees.

‘Just travellers from the east,’ she replied.

‘Who travels at night?’ asked one man.

‘You do,’ the woman shot back. It did not help the situation.

‘But why aren’t you following the road, you blowsabella?’ the man growled.

She let the gendered insult slide. ‘Heading for Whitmarsh from Rohil, as the crow flies.’

The men stood in silence as they each calculated their bearings and whether a path from the lumber town of Rohil to the Whitmarshan swamp would in fact cross this point. None seemed possessed of a navigational quality but decided it sounded plausible anyway.

‘Waterbearer!’ the man hollered back toward the wagons.

There was a clatter and a sloshing sound before a woman waddled from the darkness under the weight of a half-barrel strapped to her back. Her left arm rested on a wooden lever from one side, and she held the brass nozzle of a hose in her right hand.

One of the men waved her forward, flicking his outstretched finger at the female stranger first.

‘What is this?’ the robed woman asked, but no explanation was forthcoming.

Instead, the barrel-laden woman pumped the lever up and down, and a quick squirt of water shot from the nozzle into the stranger’s face. It was cold and bore the smell of a murky pond.

‘Hey!’ the stranger sputtered, wiping her eyes dry with a tattered sleeve. ‘What the sard are you doing?’

Without warning, the hose let loose another blast at the nervous man astride the horse. As he too wiped his face, the lead soldier stepped forward to better inspect the two travellers. He grasped the hooded woman’s chin, turning her face this way and that, then waved the man from his horse for a closer look.