Caitriona
Something Wicked
S T O R M W A R N I N G
by Daniel Kaden
Copyright, 2003 Daniel Kaden.
This material may not be reproduced or distributed in any form
without express written permission of the author.
***************************
Wake!
He stirs in a sleep like Death, so cold. A world of which he knows nothing howls around him; he hears its voice, and to him it is the voice of the Valkyrie. Great White Crow.
Carrion Angel.
Wake now!
He came to the world lying on his side in a patch of dead thorns, half-buried beneath a blanket of snow. His good eye shifted fitfully beneath the lid, then snapped open. Then he was on his feet, striking blind at the near-solid walls of snow the wind threw at him, aiming killing blows at enemies who were long gone. The wind stilled, and he realized dimly that he was screaming.
Suddenly -- perhaps from everywhere, perhaps from nowhere at all -- a double-voice like a dark tide whispered:
Be still, Father. We are with you.
He looked around him. "Show yourself, Demon." An icy grin burned on his face, and his next words carried the promise of Death with them; "Show me your face." His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.
Hold your ire, Father, the voice rode the wind back to him. We are of you. These words made ice of the old man's blood; the smile flickered and died on his face, and the winter chill of that alien world bit him to the bone.
"Enough!" he roared -- Death stalked him, and like a fool he stood here arguing with his own ghost! His eyes swept the horizon again, not for the dead this time but for the living, for the smoke that would lead him to desperately needed shelter.
The great sky-blue cloak that trailed from his broad shoulders snapped angrily in a wind it could but barely turn. His hair, long, wild and as white as the snow that dusted it, whipped about his battle-scarred face, a face from which one eye blazed as blue flame.
He reached up, readjusted the rough leather patch that covered the empty socket of his other eye, and stared into the white walls of the wind as though his gaze alone could burn through to show him what he sought.
Finally, the horizon did open up to him; the remains of a high stone wall shivered in the grip of the blizzard. He staggered, fell and rose up running.
That way lies Death, Father. the Voice whispered. Approach it not.
The old man uttered a short bark of mirthless laughter. "Death surrounds me, Demon," he replied, "and I fear it not; but I would be out of this damned wind!" As if on cue, the wind gusted, chilling him to the core and quickening his steps.
We can warn you, Father, the Voice was sorrowful now, but we cannot bend your will. See this golgotha, then -- but see it through our eyes, that you may see the Truth.
A shape emerged from the curtain of windborne snow, as black as the world was white. The old man stumbled, stopped, his breath caught in his throat by what he saw. A crow came gliding serenely toward him; the winds that threatened to send him off his feet and into the snow did not dare touch it.
We come, Father, it whispered in its dark double-voice. We come to show you the world behind this veil.
The old man shivered. "If this world is in disguise, Demon, I don't think I want to see the face beneath."
That is a choice best not left to you, the crow whispered, and then it was too late for argument; it was upon him. The old man staggered under the combined impact of the bird and the battering wind, fell to his knees in the powder snow. Then darkness stole his sight; he felt the cool smooth run of the obsidian beak as it caressed his ear, his throat, and he would have screamed, but his voice had fled.
Instead, the voice of the crow began to whisper through his head, to whisper a chant that set his heart hammering in his chest with dark emotion because, inexplicably, he knew the words:
We set our hearts to burning;
We set our Eyes aflame;
We set our Path on learning
Our enemy's true Name.
The Hour of our destruction
Draws near, quickens our pace.
Make plain the Source of Chaos,
Make plain our enemy's Face.
The world of wind and snow vanished in a stroke of lightning, left behind only the heavy tang of ozone. The wind, hot and acrid now, still carried the debris of the world through which it danced -- except that what stirred in the air here was not snow but finely ground ash.
He struggled to his feet, took in the sight before him, and felt his throat tighten with -- what? Rage? Anguish? Why these things? His face was a battlefield.
Within the stone wall that marked its outer perimeter, a city; or, rather, a city's remains. Rubble lay everywhere, the blackened bones of houses casting shattered shadows into the streets. And then the crow, still perched on his shoulder, leaned closer. Welcome home, Father.
If he heard this, the old man gave no sign.
The city was dead, but not abandoned. A few pitiful shacks squatted in the dust, huddling against the scouring wind. Some of the windows burned with a greasy, dawn-tinted light. There the old man would find out ....
(Welcome home, Father.)
...what had happened here. He started forward.
No! The crow's beak darted behind the old man's jaw, just beneath his ear, expertly pinched the soft flesh there; the old man cried out.
Before he could curse it, the crow overrode him: Look, Father! Look closer!
He did... and saw that the buildings were alive, alive with half-hidden taloned things that scurried and screeched and bred and died in bestial madness among the trash, things whose eyes left searing tracers in the pre-dawn darkness. Their laughter exploded like glittering black glass against the silence; it stretched, became distorted, until the world howled with it.
The old man shuddered. "What are--"
Be still, the crow shifted on his shoulder, ruffled its wings. You'll see.
As he watched, the crow's words came true. A pack of the creatures raced, chittering, up the side of a pitted stone wall to the foot of a colossal statue, a statue whose face the old man recognized with a shock--
He enters their bedchamber in the Great Hall, hangs his cloak on a sturdy peg inset upon the wall. She pretends to sew, the flying needle shining as silver flame between her fingers... but he senses her anger like black smoke, acrid and bitter.
"How goes it, Vena?" he asks.
"What is it to you?" she snaps, her fingers flying the needle still.
He sighs, knowing she has still not forgiven him after all these long years. This rift between them is old and faded, a blanket of unspoken bitterness that has brought no comfort. It is time, he decides, to throw that blanket away.
"I have known for some time," he begins, "that you disapprove of my decision to send them away. You must trust me, my wife -- it is for the best."
Her fingers snap to a halt; she stands abruptly, hands at her sides, her face a mask of defiance and rage. "Best for whom?" she demands. "Them? Sent away from their family to be raised by bumbling dust-monkeys, and for what? To protect them from some ludicrous calamity that only you have foreseen!"
He tries to explain. "Vena --"
"No!" She won't hear it. Her fury is building; every item on every shelf in the room is buzzing angrily in sympathy. "Your way is not the right way! Not this time! Damn your arrogance! Damn your Sight! Damn you!"
She screams -- and at the sound, every inanimate object in the room explodes. Shards of wood, glass, metal, stone and porcelain become a whirlwind of destruction.
He takes his sobbing wife in his arms; at his outstretched hand, the destruction freezes in midair. At his thought, the debris returns to its assigned forms and places.
He looked on that beloved face etched in white stone, those... things racing toward it, and he roared -- the crow's words ...
(Welcome home.)
... had finally struck their mark.
"You! Fucking bastard rats! Get off--"
Be still!
"No! I--!"
SILENCE! the crow's voice thundered in his head; his hands flew to his ears. If those things swarm you now, none of this matters! It ruffled its wings, sullen. Just be still. And watch.
(To be continued)
by Daniel Kaden
Copyright, 2003 Daniel Kaden.
This material may not be reproduced or distributed in any form
without express written permission of the author.
***************************
Wake!
He stirs in a sleep like Death, so cold. A world of which he knows nothing howls around him; he hears its voice, and to him it is the voice of the Valkyrie. Great White Crow.
Carrion Angel.
Wake now!
He came to the world lying on his side in a patch of dead thorns, half-buried beneath a blanket of snow. His good eye shifted fitfully beneath the lid, then snapped open. Then he was on his feet, striking blind at the near-solid walls of snow the wind threw at him, aiming killing blows at enemies who were long gone. The wind stilled, and he realized dimly that he was screaming.
Suddenly -- perhaps from everywhere, perhaps from nowhere at all -- a double-voice like a dark tide whispered:
Be still, Father. We are with you.
He looked around him. "Show yourself, Demon." An icy grin burned on his face, and his next words carried the promise of Death with them; "Show me your face." His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.
Hold your ire, Father, the voice rode the wind back to him. We are of you. These words made ice of the old man's blood; the smile flickered and died on his face, and the winter chill of that alien world bit him to the bone.
"Enough!" he roared -- Death stalked him, and like a fool he stood here arguing with his own ghost! His eyes swept the horizon again, not for the dead this time but for the living, for the smoke that would lead him to desperately needed shelter.
The great sky-blue cloak that trailed from his broad shoulders snapped angrily in a wind it could but barely turn. His hair, long, wild and as white as the snow that dusted it, whipped about his battle-scarred face, a face from which one eye blazed as blue flame.
He reached up, readjusted the rough leather patch that covered the empty socket of his other eye, and stared into the white walls of the wind as though his gaze alone could burn through to show him what he sought.
Finally, the horizon did open up to him; the remains of a high stone wall shivered in the grip of the blizzard. He staggered, fell and rose up running.
That way lies Death, Father. the Voice whispered. Approach it not.
The old man uttered a short bark of mirthless laughter. "Death surrounds me, Demon," he replied, "and I fear it not; but I would be out of this damned wind!" As if on cue, the wind gusted, chilling him to the core and quickening his steps.
We can warn you, Father, the Voice was sorrowful now, but we cannot bend your will. See this golgotha, then -- but see it through our eyes, that you may see the Truth.
A shape emerged from the curtain of windborne snow, as black as the world was white. The old man stumbled, stopped, his breath caught in his throat by what he saw. A crow came gliding serenely toward him; the winds that threatened to send him off his feet and into the snow did not dare touch it.
We come, Father, it whispered in its dark double-voice. We come to show you the world behind this veil.
The old man shivered. "If this world is in disguise, Demon, I don't think I want to see the face beneath."
That is a choice best not left to you, the crow whispered, and then it was too late for argument; it was upon him. The old man staggered under the combined impact of the bird and the battering wind, fell to his knees in the powder snow. Then darkness stole his sight; he felt the cool smooth run of the obsidian beak as it caressed his ear, his throat, and he would have screamed, but his voice had fled.
Instead, the voice of the crow began to whisper through his head, to whisper a chant that set his heart hammering in his chest with dark emotion because, inexplicably, he knew the words:
We set our hearts to burning;
We set our Eyes aflame;
We set our Path on learning
Our enemy's true Name.
The Hour of our destruction
Draws near, quickens our pace.
Make plain the Source of Chaos,
Make plain our enemy's Face.
The world of wind and snow vanished in a stroke of lightning, left behind only the heavy tang of ozone. The wind, hot and acrid now, still carried the debris of the world through which it danced -- except that what stirred in the air here was not snow but finely ground ash.
He struggled to his feet, took in the sight before him, and felt his throat tighten with -- what? Rage? Anguish? Why these things? His face was a battlefield.
Within the stone wall that marked its outer perimeter, a city; or, rather, a city's remains. Rubble lay everywhere, the blackened bones of houses casting shattered shadows into the streets. And then the crow, still perched on his shoulder, leaned closer. Welcome home, Father.
If he heard this, the old man gave no sign.
The city was dead, but not abandoned. A few pitiful shacks squatted in the dust, huddling against the scouring wind. Some of the windows burned with a greasy, dawn-tinted light. There the old man would find out ....
(Welcome home, Father.)
...what had happened here. He started forward.
No! The crow's beak darted behind the old man's jaw, just beneath his ear, expertly pinched the soft flesh there; the old man cried out.
Before he could curse it, the crow overrode him: Look, Father! Look closer!
He did... and saw that the buildings were alive, alive with half-hidden taloned things that scurried and screeched and bred and died in bestial madness among the trash, things whose eyes left searing tracers in the pre-dawn darkness. Their laughter exploded like glittering black glass against the silence; it stretched, became distorted, until the world howled with it.
The old man shuddered. "What are--"
Be still, the crow shifted on his shoulder, ruffled its wings. You'll see.
As he watched, the crow's words came true. A pack of the creatures raced, chittering, up the side of a pitted stone wall to the foot of a colossal statue, a statue whose face the old man recognized with a shock--
He enters their bedchamber in the Great Hall, hangs his cloak on a sturdy peg inset upon the wall. She pretends to sew, the flying needle shining as silver flame between her fingers... but he senses her anger like black smoke, acrid and bitter.
"How goes it, Vena?" he asks.
"What is it to you?" she snaps, her fingers flying the needle still.
He sighs, knowing she has still not forgiven him after all these long years. This rift between them is old and faded, a blanket of unspoken bitterness that has brought no comfort. It is time, he decides, to throw that blanket away.
"I have known for some time," he begins, "that you disapprove of my decision to send them away. You must trust me, my wife -- it is for the best."
Her fingers snap to a halt; she stands abruptly, hands at her sides, her face a mask of defiance and rage. "Best for whom?" she demands. "Them? Sent away from their family to be raised by bumbling dust-monkeys, and for what? To protect them from some ludicrous calamity that only you have foreseen!"
He tries to explain. "Vena --"
"No!" She won't hear it. Her fury is building; every item on every shelf in the room is buzzing angrily in sympathy. "Your way is not the right way! Not this time! Damn your arrogance! Damn your Sight! Damn you!"
She screams -- and at the sound, every inanimate object in the room explodes. Shards of wood, glass, metal, stone and porcelain become a whirlwind of destruction.
He takes his sobbing wife in his arms; at his outstretched hand, the destruction freezes in midair. At his thought, the debris returns to its assigned forms and places.
He looked on that beloved face etched in white stone, those... things racing toward it, and he roared -- the crow's words ...
(Welcome home.)
... had finally struck their mark.
"You! Fucking bastard rats! Get off--"
Be still!
"No! I--!"
SILENCE! the crow's voice thundered in his head; his hands flew to his ears. If those things swarm you now, none of this matters! It ruffled its wings, sullen. Just be still. And watch.
(To be continued)
