The Wyrd of Willowmere

Prologue

The room in which the three men sat was dimly lit, its sole source of illumination a fire burning low on a large stone hearth. Severed heads of antelopes and great cats stared from the walls, and with them were mounted many spears and bows, swords and battle axes, muskets and rifles: weapons of war and of the hunt. The fitful fire-glow danced along steel blades and barrels, glittered in the animals' artificial eyes, and reflected from the glass-fronted cabinets set against the walls where stuffed birds and small animals were housed. In all the room nothing moved, save for a mouse that crept surreptitiously through the shadows underneath one of the cabinets, its eyes turned warily towards the human occupants.

One of the three men—tall, lean, and young, with straight dark hair that reached his collar at the back—was seated in a wing chair next to the fireplace. The second, middle-aged with thinning brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses, sat hunched forward on an upholstered hassock, looking uncomfortable.  The third was an older man in a wheelchair who sat at an awkward angle, slumped to one side. His face also had an odd, lopsided look; one eye was half-shut and the corner of his mouth drooped. His hands lay limp on the rug that covered his lap. On the back of the wheelchair perched a live crow, its beady eyes intent on the young man who shifted restlessly in his chair.

"Uncle, you know it makes no sense," he said, addressing the crippled man in a calm and even voice. "You can't run the business in your present state. Thorpe agrees—" glancing at the man with the glasses—"and so do all the rest of the board members. Let me take over your duties, at least for the present, while you focus on rehabilitation. I've hired you a full-time nurse, and we can control everything she sees with illusions, so she won't blab. I've consulted our experts in the company lab, and they say your stroke was probably going to happen anyway. The shock to your system from the enemy attack just... hastened it a bit. They're looking into some possible medical options for you. If you should recover completely, then you can have your old position back. What do you say?"

The old man's eyes rolled in his head and he uttered a moaning sound. The crow fluttered down onto the arm of the chair and opened its beak. "Too young," it said in a harsh, croaking voice.

Mr. Thorpe started and turned slightly pale. The young man's lips curved, though the smile did not show in his dark brown eyes. "Takes a little getting used to, doesn't it, Thorpe?" he said.

The eyes behind the wire-framed glasses blinked as they stared at the bird. "I've no trouble believing what you told me. Given the great size of our universe, it seems only reasonable that our planet is being watched, monitored somehow, by—"

"By little green men in flying saucers?" the young man mocked. "No, no, Thorpe, nothing so mundane. Reality's stranger than fiction, as the cliche has it. Though you'll find hints of the truth in fiction, in all those myths and fairy tales. Witches, shamans, sorcerers, and the spirits they communicate with—"

"Demons." Mr. Thorpe almost whispered the word.

The other laughed. "You're thinking of fantasy fiction, Thorpe: scaly monsters with horns and tails and fiery eyes. We're talking about 'familiars,' the spirits that accompany witches and shamans." He fell silent for a moment, looking up at the exotic ornaments on the walls. In the play of shadow and firelight, empty-eyed African masks and the heads of gazelles and kudus and snarling leopards seemed to return his gaze with their own inscrutable regard. "These beings exist, and they have taught a select few, like my uncle and me, how to command living things. That's why we refer to ourselves as shamans, or warlocks. We are the modern-day equivalent of those who wielded that power in ancient times."

"Amazing," rasped Mr. Thorpe. He took off his glasses and mopped his brow.

"My uncle's controlling that crow with his mind. Since he's been physically incapacitated, he transmits his thoughts to the bird and makes it convert them into verbal speech. Crows, you see, are able to reproduce the sound of the human voice, just like parrots and mynah birds." Another pause followed while Thorpe pondered this information and the other two sat watching him.