Voice of the Crow

"For there is none that is Good..."

Is this a portent? wondered L'Atonte. Am I seeing death? The crow on his windowsill cocked its head, staring at him, shifting back and forth.

L'Atonte had been plagued by rêve de la mort—the Dream of Death. But his vizier advised him the stars hinted at no signs of death. "Sire," he soothed, "the people are content, productive. This is a time of bounty; every seed sown delivers sevenfold."

Still, the dream persisted. There were wings that made no sound, a Shape with no face. It carried bones stamped with the royal seal; at its feet, broken crown. When L'Atonte bent to see the crown better, he heard the whistling of a blade, saw a brilliant white light, heard a hurricane of wings—and awoke, sweating in the heavy blankets, gasping the stale air of fear.

He sat up. "Are you here for me?" The crow stopped shifting, spread its wings, eyes gleaming. "Why?" L'Atonte whispered. "I'm a good man; do you not see?"

The answer whispered back from everywhere: "Good men do not worship falseness in their hearts..." With that, the bird flew away.

@-----@-----@

The old wizard had ill omens that day as he read the leaves. "There is a Voice that grows, my Lord."

"What voice? What do you mean?"

"A Voice in the wilderness which has been heard before."

L'Atonte was afraid. He had hidden the castle's old pagan idols...but he hadn't destroyed them and prayed to them in his heart.

"Plague, sire. Famine." The wizard's voice cracked. "Blood."

When he looked up at L'Atonte, the vizier wore the face of a crow, and his wool cloak was covered in black feathers. "Your gods have betrayed you, L'Atonte," the vision before him croaked. "'Tis the Voix de la Mort!"

This time, it was not a dream.



(Word Count: 300)