The Skull and the Crow Chapter 2: The Stable

A sword was heavy, wide, and well-made. It had a thin, precise edge that cut like a razor and an opaque, implied shine, typical of a tool that had fulfilled its role many times. Despite years of use, the sword bore no dents or imperfections. Yet it had no name. It had already killed countless enemies—some wicked, others merely strays, none with honor. It was an honorable sword, a sword of heroism, but now it was being used to cut a horse's throat.

The groom held the handle of the blade and let out a short sigh before running the edge through the animal's hide. The dying horse shuddered, yielding almost gratefully. The groom cleaned the blade with a handful of straw, not hiding the displeasure etched on his weathered face. His age was evident in the lines of his face and the gray in his hair and beard, but he carried out his duties in the stable without complaint.

"He was beyond salvation, Orion," came a rough voice from the stable door. "It was an act of mercy, and you know it."

The groom straightened. "Killing a horse is killing a horse. Few men accompany you in a charge, but a horse is always faithful."

"He didn't even have a name."

"Nothing of mine has a name, Ingram," the stable boy replied with a sad smile.

Ingram stepped into the stable, lifting his legs high to avoid the piles of manure and straw that clung to his boots. Despite his short stature, he looked the other in the eye. "Let's go inside," he urged. "It's going to start raining soon."

As if in response, a wet thunderstorm rolled in.

"I'm a groom, my friend," Orion said, turning to the other stalls, where the remaining horses were terrified. "I'll stay in the stable."

Ingram kicked him in the ankle. "You stubborn, idiotic human! Why do you continue this charade?"

The stable was illuminated only by a lamp, which flickered a yellow light that smelled of fish oil. The square shadows of the stalls grew larger until they swallowed the back of the wooden building. The shadows moved, and the horses shifted nervously, sensing death. Horses weren't killed inside the stable; the stable boy knew that very well. The condemned animal was taken behind the sheds, where death could be clean and quick, away from the noses and ears of others. Horses were not used to death, unlike himself.

But for some reason, the lord of that stable, the lord of that castle—and for the time being the lord of the stable boy—had decreed that the blood of the sick animal should not stain the courtyard. He wanted everything kept within the stable for some inexplicable reason, likely the whim of drunken authority. Now, the nameless horse's blood soaked into the straw, mingling with fish oil and manure to create a pungent, varied stench.

Ingram and the groom were interrupted by a third figure—a young man adorned in the colors and chevrons of an officer, but with the voice and demeanor of a courtier.

"Servant!" he called, summoning their attention.

They turned to face him.

"Captain Ulam orders you to report."

The groom bowed stiffly. The young officer grimaced at the unpleasant odor and quickly left.

"I have duties, Ingram. I'll introduce myself."

"Nothing you do makes sense. I don't understand why you've tolerated this scoundrel captain for two weeks."

"Because until I finish what I started, I am not worthy of my position. Captain Ulam sheltered me as a favor. Being a stable boy is very good for those who don't even have a roof over their heads."

"That's nonsense. It's the biggest load of bullshit I've ever heard."

The groom wrapped his sword in layers of oiled cloth and walked away.

Ingram followed his friend out of the stable. The height difference between them made them an unlikely but somehow worthy pair. Ingram was a dwarf, a member of the proud and reclusive race that lived in the depths of the world of Arton. Dwarves were masters of mountains, buildings, axes, and beer, and few chose to travel in the outside world, much less among humans. But this was Ingram Brassbones, different from others of his people with his meticulously groomed blond mustache instead of a full beard, and a restless mind that made his feet restless.

The stable was flanked by two large sheds at the back of the castle. Ahead, the castle itself loomed, imposing and shrouded in darkness—its true details obscured. In the light, it appeared comical.

Ridiculous and sad, a nobleman transformed into a clown. It was Fort Arantar. Too large for just a few soldiers, it gave the impression of taking itself too seriously. The tall towers and thick walls were useless, covered in slime or simply dirt. Very few servants occupied the castle, and those who did had a comfortable familiarity that defied military discipline. Many windows and doors were boarded or bricked up, enclosing wings that had not seen use in decades. The stable boy thought that, under different circumstances, such wards would at least have interesting stories, rumors of hauntings. But in that place, imagination was scarce, will was diminished, and pretension reigned.

He felt the castle should have been allowed to die with dignity long ago.

"Were you able to find out anything?" the groom asked.

"Nothing. These soldiers care for nothing other than their own bellies. I tried the officers first, then the sergeants, and lastly the soldiers. The officers are little girls, the sergeants obsequious, and the soldiers fools. This is the scrap from Trebuck's army, Orion."

"But they have a habit of interrogating everyone who comes near them."

"It's their only hobby, I think, besides scratching their butts and picking their noses. But they saw no one; he didn't come this way."

The groom shrugged. "I didn't get anything from the servants either," he said.

Thunder rolled behind them as the pair walked through the castle courtyard, a bad omen in the kingdom of Trebuck. It was a sullen night; the stars were shy, and the moon was cowed. The sentries on the battlements tried to hide their fear, whispering quick prayers whenever thunder rumbled, for this was Trebuck, the Storm Kingdom.

A few years ago, Trebuck had been attacked by the Tempest, the Crimson Storm—the infernal, aberrant scourge that threatened to engulf the world of Arton. The Storm began with red clouds, followed by lightning, and finally a rain of acidic blood. And the demons. The Storm demons, insectoid creatures that killed without distinction, emerged from nowhere and resisted the most powerful magic, terrorizing every soldier in Trebuck. The mere sight of a Storm demon could drive one mad—what could anyone do against an enemy that hurt simply by existing?

Once attacked by the Storm, a place was lost. The Storm never left; it melted everything with its acid rain, destroyed it with its lightning, and transformed whatever remained. Buildings, landscapes, entire cities became grotesque parodies of their former selves—constructions of black iron and strange red material, full of splinters, teeth, and grotesque images. Streets paved with skulls, gates resembling monsters' mouths. An area of Torment was like reality seen through the eyes of the most sadistic of madmen. And an area of Torment was forever.

The first area of Torment had formed on the island of Tamu-ra over ten years ago. After scattered and unpredictable attacks, another had formed within the kingdom of Trebuck itself, swallowing the gigantic and proud Fort Amarid.

Those soldiers told themselves that the Torment area was far away, that Fort Arantar would never be engulfed by the red clouds. Yet the fear lingered that the fort would be destroyed or corrupted, as Amarid had been.

Because the Storm was not far away. And it never went away.

"They're getting screwed," Ingram Brassbones said.

"Sentinels at the gates of hell," Orion replied, distracted.

"Sentinels already half defeated."

Ingram and the stable boy entered the castle just before the first drops fell. Inside, the lighting was nearly as poor as in the stable, and the smell wasn't much better. The wide corridors, deserted by servants or guards, displayed worn pennants emblazoned with the coats of arms of Trebuck, the regent Shivara Sharpblade, and various noble families. Their footsteps echoed, waking a soldier who had dozed off on guard duty. The stable boy thought that, where he came from, the penalty for sleeping while on duty was very serious. But there he was, just a stable boy.

In the main hall, a handful of officers and sergeants gathered. The officers, generally nobles, turned up their noses but reluctantly accepted the company. The sergeants, typically old and overweight, endured the occasional insult in exchange for the opportunity to play dice with the naive officers, who always lost and always had gold. This was Fort Arantar, where the worst of Trebuck's army gathered to pretend they were of some use.

"Orion and Ingram!" a booming voice called, reminiscent of its owner. The main hall contained a few tables, a chair resembling a lord's throne, and various decorations—candelabras, decorative armor, banners. All had been pushed aside to accommodate one of the guests: Trebane, the centaur. With the body of a horse and the torso of a human, centaurs were rare but not entirely unknown in the kingdom. Most remained in reclusive tribes, but castle officials were discovering how outgoing and adventurous centaurs like Trebane could be.

Trebane's hooves dug deep into the carpet, tearing it as he approached his two friends, hugging them as if he hadn't seen them for half an hour. He was immensely strong, threatening to crush their bones against his muscular chest, and he reeked of sweat and drunkenness.

"The animal was beyond salvation, Orion," Trebane said. "If I couldn't do anything, it's because it was his time to die."

"Have you been drinking?"

"Just a little, in the name of a beautiful horse that is now with the gods!"

Trebane made a sweeping gesture that nearly knocked over a girl pouring more wine. He seemed to occupy the entire room, talking to everyone, eating and drinking everything. The soldiers eyed him warily, but they didn't dare speak—there was little daring in Fort Arantar.

The meeting was interrupted by the fort commander, who cleared his throat and spat on the ground, silencing the room.

"Groom," he began, clearing his throat again, "my men say the horses are nervous today." Captain Ulam was a rough man, with years, hair, and layers of excess fat weighing him down. Spots on the skin of his face framed his two slanted pig-like eyes, and his nose was swollen and red from drinking. Although tall and broad, he appeared sprawling, and his hands were small and incongruous, his fingers resembling pieces of sausage drowned in lard.

The stable boy's face betrayed nothing but respect. Ingram wondered if it was possible for his friend to genuinely respect the man.

"You didn't let me take my horse behind the stables, Captain. You forced me to kill him in front of the others."

Ulam's mouth twisted into inaudible words. "Even before that, they were restless," he grunted. "My horses. You must take care of them."

"Maybe they sensed the illness of the other. They felt death."

"Or maybe there is something really wrong!" Trebane's voice rose, liquid as a tidal wave. "Animals sense things we don't see, and that Allihanna only reveals to them." He burped. "More wine!"

The officers exchanged glances, and a clap of thunder served as an omen to the centaur's words. There were murmurs of prayers for Khalmyr, and even some for Allihanna. "Superstitions," Ulam yawned. Trebane pawed the ground and shook his brown hair. "I can't offer you anything more, Captain," the groom said.

Ingram Brassbones scratched his hands, clutching at the air, while Trebane struggled to concentrate on his drink. The stable boy knew the two only controlled themselves because of him.

The three had arrived together, traveling companions. They were a strange bunch—the ragged groom riding a splendid horse, carrying an enormous burden while asking for work. The other two paid for their stay, and although they were subjected to the usual long interrogation, they only proved to be inconvenient guests much later. The dwarf made observations about the positioning of the sentries and the training of the men while the centaur occasionally spoke of Allihanna, the Goddess of Nature. The groom worked quietly, but Ulam sensed there was more behind him. Strange sensations were best drowned in wine.

Ulam's yellow mouth opened to release a new order or a new spit just as the loudest thunder crashed overhead, and the storm broke over the fort. With it came a soldier bearing news.

"Sir, there is a stranger at the castle gates."

Ulam hated new arrivals, and the last thing he needed was another guest.

Ashlen Ironsmith had once been an adventurer, a traveling thief with an elusive manner and a sharp tongue, but that was more than ten years ago. That day, no one who saw him limping through the mud and blood-drenched woods would have imagined he had once lived gallantly. Ashlen was being hunted.

He spotted Fort Arantar and choked back a laugh of relief. He ran as much as his crippled leg would allow, refusing to look back. The storm was closing in, and so was his pursuer.

Ashlen collapsed in front of the gate guards. The opaque night had somehow concealed him until the last moment, and the soldiers hesitated before pointing their spears at him.

Lying on the ground, panting and coughing, Ashlen seemed no threat. His thin body struggled to rise, but instinct prompted one of the guards to help him. They examined him—a man of thirty or so, bruised and battered, with fine dark hair drenched in sweat, pouring into his eyes. Soon, they noticed that one of his legs ended in a metal replica, sculpted like a foot but heavy and clumsy. It was remarkable how he managed to run with it.

With sudden, feverish energy, Ashlen grabbed the nearest soldier's robes and said through gritted teeth, "Let me in. Close the castle gates."

No one entered Fort Arantar that way. Built centuries ago as a defense against the neighboring kingdom of Samburdia, Arantar had long since lost its function. Trebuck and Samburdia had become allies, and the castle had been relegated to storage for the army's expendables. However, it remained the tradition of Arantar officers to meticulously interrogate anyone they saw.

"Your name," the guard began, but in an instant, Ashlen was gone. Somehow, that exhausted man became light and swift again; the metal foot weighed him down not at all as he slipped between them and vanished into the shadows. As the guards stood in bewilderment, Ashlen slipped inside the gates, pursuing the man sent to report his arrival to the captain.

When the breathless guard burst into the room announcing the presence of a stranger, Ashlen was close behind, pushing him aside as he said, "I need shelter. I'm being hunted, you're going to be attacked, and we're all going to die."

And then he collapsed onto the carpet.

Before the soldiers could react, Trebane was over the fallen man, examining his wounds, shouting for herbs, bandages, and paraphernalia. His condition appeared dire, but there was little blood. Every muscle trembled; his neck couldn't support his head, but the cuts were trivial.

"How long have you been running?" Trebane asked.

"Three days," Ashlen managed to rasp from his lungs. The main hall of Fort Arantar turned all heads toward him. The few soldiers were curious; the sergeants predicted unwelcome work, and the officers turned up their noses, deeming him poor and dirty. They glanced at his metal foot, while only Trebane took action. Captain Ulam opened and closed his mouth, searching for orders or a reprimand, fishing for something to command or prohibit.

Crouching on his front hooves, Trebane lifted Ashlen's feeble body with ease, pressing a firm hand against the man's forehead.

"You're just tired, you lazy ass. Allihanna, help him. Humans are all soft like that."

Ashlen felt a warmth spreading through his every pore, a sense of relief and excitement he hadn't felt in a long time. The magical healing invigorated his body and spirit, a divine spark entering through his mouth, ears, and nose. He stood, swaying between his fake foot and his real one.

"Are you a cleric?"

"Druid," Trebane replied, lifting his chin.

"What's the difference?"

Looking down, the centaur saw a mockery on Ashlen's face. The man seemed to regain his strength.

"Enough with the idle talk, you godmothers!" Ingram stomped the floor toward them. "Who are you? Who are you running from?"

"My name is Ashlen Ironsmith. They are coming; we need to prepare." Captain Ulam tried repeatedly to interrupt with some demand for explanations, but each time he was ignored, his soft face contorted with indignation until he finally shouted,

"I give the orders here!"

Ingram and Trebane exchanged glances, receiving a slow shake of the head from the stable boy.

"Who is hunting you?" Ulam grunted.

"The greatest bounty hunter in the world—Black Skull."

The hall froze.

"And he has an army."

Inside the hall, a shift occurred.