The Skull and the Crow Chapter 5: The Flies on the Ceiling

The inn doors opened to the road and the hot-cold late afternoon sky. Heads turned to the pregnant woman and the tall man behind her. There were three other women in the common room—the innkeeper and two who appeared to be her daughters. Vanessa huffed air and looked up at the ceiling as the three faces melted into sweetness against her belly, swollen with possibilities.

She walked over to one of the tables, slower than she would have liked. The man, dressed in embroidered robes, followed close behind, wearing an expression of bovine respect. One of the girls hurried to pull out a chair for Vanessa, but she blatantly ignored her, choosing another table and pulling out her own chair. The man remained standing until she gestured for him to sit, which he did with the manner and affectation of a maiden. Vanessa took a breath and felt a sore part of her back.

"Congratulations, my lady," said the innkeeper, a fat, curly, sweaty woman with very crooked teeth and a broad smile.

"Congratulations for what?" Vanessa replied.

The woman barely missed a beat.

"Why, for your son."

"Are you going to congratulate me too after I use the outhouse out back?" Vanessa shot back. "Look, I just took a breath, and my heart beat several times. I'm waiting for congratulations."

The smile fell to one side.

"Madam, giving birth is something so special."

"It's a function of the body."

One of the girls had realized something and approached her mother uncertainly, eyebrows raised, teeth bared, as though she had something unpleasant to say.

"But it feels so wonderful!"

"All I know is that my breasts hurt."

"It's the miracle of life, my lady."

"It's the first battle of life. Do you remember when you gave birth to these two girls? Tell me if there was no pain, if there was no blood. Did you sing, or growl? Didn't you defecate? And the force that exerted it?"

Dumbfounded silence followed.

"I imagine they screamed and cried, instead of moaning with joy. They felt the cold of the world for the first time, and they were also bloody and exhausted from the battle. But they lived, right?"

The innkeeper's eyes clouded. The girl touched her shoulder, but the innkeeper ignored it. "It's Keenn's first donation."

Finally, the innkeeper looked at her daughter, then at what she was pointing at. Vanessa was a beautiful woman, impossible to ignore. Taller than most men, she boasted a mane of red hair, a wide and determined mouth, and green hammer-like eyes. Her skin was white, kissed by the sun, and her face bore the marks of a life filled with action rather than youthful perfection. 

A small scar marked her chin, alongside other marks that revealed a life of adventure. She wore a refined yet practical dress, good for traveling. Boots adorned her feet, leather gloves protected her hands, and her forearms and ankles were guarded by metal. She pulled a large war mace from her backpack and placed it on the table. The effect was immediate—the innkeeper ran away.

"I preferred it when they looked at my butt, rather than my stomach."

The man accompanying her chuckled behind his hand. 

He made an unlikely pair with Vanessa. He was tall but rounded, a thin layer of fat covering each part. His circular, bald head seemed to be hidden beneath a fluffy blanket. His ornate robes and aristocratic manner gave him a harmless air, akin to a prize sheep.

The man called one of the girls, speaking in a high-pitched voice full of flourishes. He ordered tea. 

"Wine for me," Vanessa declared, but was interrupted.

"You shouldn't drink wine," said one of the inn's customers—a man in a red coat and a somber dark hat.

"Are you my mother?"

"No," the man replied. "Doctor."

He insisted that Vanessa would also drink tea, paid for by himself.

"This inn is full of people who know everything," Vanessa remarked. "A toast to you, sir," the man raised a mug. "Your bad mood is adorable." 

Vanessa had to laugh and ended up raising her tea to the stranger.

He drank in silence for a while, misting his face in the fragrant vapor, rolling uncertain thoughts around in his head. He felt pain and expectation, and a longing to fight. 

"Shall we spend the night here, ma'am?" the man in the robes asked with a childish voice. "You don't have any more spells, do you? So we'll have to wait."

He nodded silently, taking polite sips of his tea. 

The stranger spied on the two of them from beneath his wide, floppy hat, diverting his mind from himself. He looked at Vanessa first but then focused on the man. The physical size, the mewing voice, and the fine, soft, rare hair on his face suggested that Vanessa's companion was a eunuch. The stranger now remembered something that matched the gelding's etiquette and attire: there was a small order of wizards in Wynlla, the Kingdom of Magic, who provided arcane transportation to wealthy ladies and families. They were all emasculated, polished, and gentle, like porcelain vases. He chuckled under his hat. Keenn's cleric was a lady, and rich, and needed to get somewhere quickly. Reading people was better than having to think about his own problems.

Vanessa drank the tea and devoured what was brought to her, while the eunuch cut small pieces of vegetables and carefully stuffed them into his mouth. Afterwards, they went upstairs to the private rooms they had rented for the night.

The stranger tried to occupy himself with something else. He pulled a crumpled book from his backpack but soon gave up on the moldy pages. He drank more, ate very little, and noticed when a villager, with a rough, hairy face, whispered something to the innkeeper. He had the eyes of a cornered rabbit, and then he fled out the door, casting a glance at the stairs.

The stranger didn't believe in destiny, just in millions of small choices that, in the end, built a path for each individual. Here was a beautiful choice, a beautiful temporary road—a beautiful escape, if he was honest with himself.

He was no hero, and a cleric of Keenn was no damsel in distress. But he didn't believe in gods, so a war cleric was just like any other woman. And he was a gentleman.

***

Vanessa was massaging her feet, regretting that none of this had ever started.

The room, dimly lit by a weak lamp, showcased dark corners, an almost clean bed, a bag with her clothes and weapons, and two flies on the ceiling. She knew it was foolish to travel in her state of pregnancy. Being the child of who she was, what she carried in her belly would live on. But she was supposed to be preparing for the battle of childbirth, and in any case, Vanessa had long since stopped being adventurous. 

She massaged her other foot and pulled the war mace closer. It was bad enough not wearing armor; being unarmed was unbearable.

Before going to sleep, she practiced exercises to prevent the softness of motherhood from draining into her muscles. She remembered her battles and the people she had killed, determined to keep her soul from becoming maternal. She lay down on the bed, and inside her head, she told her son stories of death and glory, strength and conflict.

"I can't wait for you to go to war," she said aloud.

There was satisfaction in the legacy she felt. Because it took so long, it was all the more precious. Vanessa laughed at herself, but she could already imagine training her child in swordsmanship and unarmed combat, healing a broken arm, and watching children's fights. She was already proud of the boys who, one day, would be defeated by her son.

She fell asleep.

She woke up motionless.

Vanessa instinctively shot her hand toward the apple that rested at her side. Her arm locked without movement, and she couldn't even turn her neck. Her chest felt like a brick wall, making it difficult to breathe. She felt wrapped in an invisible cocoon, but she managed to roll her eyes to follow the shadows moving in the room. She tried to invoke a spell from Keenn, but her movements were too restricted for prayer, and she could not touch the sacred symbol.

"Only cowards resort to ambushes," she said with difficulty, the cocoon pressing her jaw together.

The scent of lavender and incense filled the air, along with something clean. She heard the soft click of delicate shoes.

"You can call me a coward; I don't care," said a woman's voice. "It's better to sneak into a room than spill even more blood."

Vanessa expelled a laugh forcefully.

"Clerics of Lena! I should have known."

Lena, the Goddess of Life, was an eternal rival of Keenn. While one preached death and the glory of combat, the other taught life and peace at any cost. It was uncommon for there to be direct conflict between their followers. Lena's clerics—all women—didn't believe in confrontation. Clerics of Keenn sought more valiant adversaries.

But Vanessa had found exceptions.

A round face, framed by brown curls, appeared above her. The cleric had very red lips, very blue eyes, and ruddy cheeks, resembling delicious potatoes. She wore green and gold robes, a white cape over her outfit, and an unbearable smile. Behind her, there were more footsteps, more breathing—five in all, Vanessa judged.

"You will find the justice you deserve," said Lena's servant.

Vanessa knew paralysis magic, and she knew that attempting to move her body was futile. She closed her eyes and focused her mind, reducing her thoughts to a bright point that focused on breaking the spell. Lena's clerics loved this kind of trick. 

"What did I do to you?" Vanessa grunted. "Did I step on any flowers? Or is this just gratuitous aggression?"

It was easy to deal with monsters, soldiers, or vengeful warriors—one could always expect a sword in the dark, and it was enough to break a head or two. It wasn't difficult to deal with wizards—they tried to kill you from afar, but a well-aimed arrow or a good kick rendered many of them useless. It was difficult, but possible, to deal with rival clerics: servants of Megalokk or Ragnar or even Tauron or Khalmyr were powerful, but by studying, you could learn what to expect from them. 

One never knew what to expect from Lena's clerics.

They could not harm a living being, could not wield any violence, and preferred death, slavery, or humiliation over destabilizing the cosmic nonsense that, according to them, depended on their docility. So when Lena's clerics attacked, it was better to think quickly, as they would be unpredictable.

"You could be punished for a lifetime of crimes, murderer," it was, this time, a man's voice.

"A paladin of Lena?" Vanessa laughed. "You're used to following orders from women. Follow mine and get me out of here, lamb."

The man became visible—a green cloak over golden armor and a heavy staff in his hands. Paladins of Lena could fight, but they never killed—they broke an arm and cried with guilt, often limiting themselves to a few bruises.

"Are the herbs ready, Ludmilla?" said the first woman.

"Almost," came the reply from the back of the room.

Vanessa now smelled another scent—pungent and green, coming from the medicine. She couldn't see what Ludmilla was preparing, her head fixed and her eyes on the ceiling, where the flies were moving.

"Do you think that if they poison me, Lena will forgive them?" Vanessa asked.

"It's not poison," said the first woman.

"Because Lena is pious," the man growled.

"So what is Lena's punishment? A purgative? What is my crime?" Vanessa forced herself to sound relaxed, but a cold strand ran down her spine.

"Three people died because of you last week," Lena's paladin spat. "As if you killed them yourself. You run away, murderer, but you won't run away now." 

It was true, even though she wasn't running away and didn't even know she was being chased. Vanessa had passed, during one of the inevitable stops that her eunuch wizard needed between magical leaps, through a pathetic village—a gathering made up of four farms and a widow's house turned inn. There had been an old feud between two of the families, two of the farms. No one remembered how or when it started, but the fact was that, for generations, descendants hated descendants, fighting without ever resolving it. 

When Vanessa had arrived, there had been much drinking and grumbling, as two boys from one family had arrested and tied up a son from the other, leaving him on the doorstep of their house, dressed as a girl and covered in makeup. 

A joke or a serious offense—the elders tried to decide. Vanessa overheard a drunken conversation and advised the men: if it was an offense, it should be avenged, and the fight should end, which would only happen with a little blood. She had given them a short sword and, to be fair, a similar gift for the other family. That night, she went to sleep satisfied, for Keenn taught that fighting was the path to strength and that the only victory lay in combat. In the morning, there had been three dead bodies, and one of the families had emerged victorious.

She hadn't thought about it since.

"The feud has been resolved," Vanessa declared. "I was right." 

"People died!" roared the man.

"They die all the time and without ever resolving anything."

"It's ready, Brenna," said Ludmilla.

Brenna, the first woman, nodded with slumped shoulders.

Everyone now appeared in Vanessa's peripheral vision. They busied themselves setting something up, and a girl left the room, returning soon after with a steaming kettle. The innkeeper was helping them.

Vanessa concentrated, but she couldn't break the spell. Calm drained from her with sweat, and she began to struggle, without feeling it. Brenna lifted her dress to her waist. Others positioned her on the bed, forcing her to lift her knees and spread her legs. Vanessa felt her throat close.

"Maybe some would say you deserve worse, ma'am," said Brenna, who seemed to be the leader. "But Lena teaches mercy. We will not harm you, but we cannot allow death to continue."

"Then they will steal my son."

"We will take care of him or her, and they will live in a temple of Lena. Far from you, far from death."

Ludmilla appeared, burdened with years and fragility, all bones and cloaks. She held a bowl full of strong-smelling green paste and attempted to put a spoonful of the mixture in Vanessa's mouth.

"Eat. This will trigger birth."

Vanessa struggled to turn her head and felt her neck crack. Her tongue forced the spoon out, and she still controlled her lips to spit the paste in her own face.

"Don't resist; it will be better this way. We have clerics ready to guarantee the child's health. Lena's magic will ensure it is strong, even a month or two too soon."

A strand of saliva and green paste ran down Vanessa's throat. She choked and coughed, and her nerves screamed as she ended up swallowing some of it. She gathered strength from her entire body for a strong spit, sending a green jet over herself. Her arms and legs softened with the effort.

"Nathanael, please," said Brenna, the leader.

The paladin appeared again, his nurse's face hardened, and grabbed Vanessa's face with one huge hand. He forced his fingers between her teeth and, with his other hand, pried her jaw open. 

Under the spell and the paladin's grip, Vanessa thought her skull might crack, her mouth opening wider and wider. She closed her eyes and prayed to Keenn.

"Death is not enough for my enemies. Life is not enough for me. I desire the fight and the blood, and may I never live in peace. The murderous blade before death in bed, the fire of battle before the oblivion of time."

Her thought exploded red, and she let out an animalistic roar, distorted by the paladin's hand. She clenched her jaw tightly, biting down on two of the man's fingers, who screamed and withdrew his hand. Vanessa spat out the severed pieces like an animal. Her eyes were bloodshot, streaked with red, and she drooled a mix of blood and green paste.

One of the clerics moved to tend to the injured hand, but the paladin pushed her away and approached Vanessa again, this time with a short iron bar. He wedged the object between her teeth and pried her mouth open again. Vanessa, drenched in sweat, dirt, and drool, attempted to bite down on the iron, but only succeeded in breaking a tooth. 

The paladin shook with effort, using another hand to hold her tongue, while Ludmilla poured a large spoonful of the green paste into her open mouth. He massaged her throat, and Vanessa couldn't help but swallow. 

"It will be better this way," he insisted, forcing another spoonful into her. "You'll see, it will be better this way."

Her neck was immobilized, her eyes fixed on the flies on the ceiling, which stood still, observing everything with curiosity.