Murder in a Circle of Crows
Micro Conto — NQ 11
I am certain. They march on the stones at Shadoweald, straight from Vladovar at a speed which seems unnatural. I could not discover what aids them.” The young warder bowed deeply with respect, and his hooded frame trembling from exhaustion.
Krueger the Stormwrath scowled, and the night sky above seemed to quiver and darken with his mood. “Khadoran warjacks? Absurd. There is no way their army knows the location of those stones.” He brooded as he listened to the younger druid’s description. He then turned to address a shadowed figure almost invisible against the trees. “This must be a mistake.”
The cowled druid spoke in deep voice, thick with the accent of the northern lands. “No. An old foe stirs. We cannot lose that site.”
Krueger crossed his arms, “There are other sites at risk. The trollkin kriels have assaulted several regions of my domain. I am needed there, not here.”
Omnipotent Dahlekov, one of only three who could make demands of the Stormwrath , shook his head. “The only others of sufficient power are occupied in the east, near Scarleforth. You will handle this directly.”
Krueger seethed with resentment. “I have no forces here for this. Send a wayfarer to distract them.”
“No. This battle is yours. Take this warder and his wilders. Rosvon will join you. I will open the way.” Dahlekov turned his back to vanish into the trees like a ghost.
The hulking form of a fierce and powerful guardian stepped from the shadows of the moonlit sacred glade. This singular warpwolf of snow-white fur, garbed in armor marked with the sigils of Orboros, had an unusual glint of awareness and keen intelligence in its red eyes. It offered a respectful nod in the way of its kind to Krueger. Behind it followed a warpwolf of more typical appearance with its ears back and its posture demonstrating subservience to the first. The one in armor spoke in a growling rumble which made the words difficult to discern, “Rosvon.” This was its name, an introduction, as it held its clawed fist to its chest. “Our strength to you.”
The Stormwrath ignored these pleasantries. Nothing about this pleased him, and he barked orders, trying to organize this motley force. Still scowling, he led them toward the great shifting stones, knowing he must make haste to arrive in time for the battle ahead.
The crone waited for them, staff in hand, in their place of power.
The ground was wet with fresh blood, and shrieking cries filled the air as crows gathered in increasing numbers. The rumbling of steam engines surrounded her from her ancient, cobbled together warjack and two more modern machines well crafted by the sons of the Motherland. An old Juggernaut, well seasoned by many battles, stood beside a pristine Kodiak, its armor gleaming imperial red in the colors denoting the new empire, fresh from the factories of Korsk. Its presence amid this company would have puzzled any Khadoran kommander, although they would know better than to ask. The crone gazed upon these machines fondly, as if they were living things she had personally bred for war.
The defenders advanced in haste through the forest. She could smell and hear them. It amused her to listen to them rushing fervent and alarmed across ground they thought their own. She bent down to one of the nearest corpses and her clawed hands separated its head at the neck. She idly peeled off the skin of its face as another might prepare an apple. It went into a bag at her waist.
They were quiet and graceful, moving through underbrush that parted for them. Some small part of her felt a glimmer of admiration for them, but eclipsed quickly by amusement and disdain. She could feel them gathering power and stirring a breeze that ruffled the fallen autumn leaves.
One walked behind them, arrogant with the vitality of their kind. He was slender and bald, holding a spear of power in his hands. This druid stopped short at the sight of her and her machine escort. “You!” he said with venom. She was amused to be recognized, although she was certain she had never spoken to this one before. He did not walk often across the roots of her land. “Begone, hag!” Behind him towered muscled creatures of sinew and flesh that walked like men yet bore the fangs and claws of wolves. She sensed great power in one of them. Lesser mortals stood behind them, druids barely awake to their power and men with forked spears. They barely rated notice. Her own lesser children circled unseen behind them, Kossites as comfortable in the forest as any tree walker.
She sucked her teeth and shook her head, wiping bloody claws on her
ragged apron to leave red trails behind. “You are too late. Vee have zis place
now. Vee let you borrow it for a little while. That time is past.”
Above them the clouds had begun to swirl in a gradually accelerating spiral, turned dark and thick with rain. The storm vortex overhead centered over the black-robed man who faced her, but she showed no reaction to such displays. What was air but a path for the crows? Her power came from this soil, wherever the sons of the north were born and bled.
“Our fight is not with you, crone. Our enemy is the same. Maggots of the dragon pick apart your northern villages while you waste time here.” For all his bold defiance the witch found a pleasing uncertainty in his eyes.
The bird screams increased in volume, sensing a great feast to come. Her voice carried over them. “No bloodshed is vasted time, young crow. Come into the center vith me. Your suffering vill not be long.” Her smile was ghastly.
These words just left her lips when the imperial-red Kodiak’s boiler screamed with pressurized steam and it leapt forward without warning. The Juggernaut was just a moment behind, its movements more ponderous but its weight imposing to behold. Just as quickly the warpwolves sprang toward them with howls of rage, their bodies twisting as muscles and sinew shifted and bonelike spikes and spurs burst forth. The warjacks and warbeasts collided with a resounding crash and an unholy sound of metal meeting flesh.
