Not a single person in the crowd could give Giradin a straight answer to his simple question, "What is everyone fretting over?"

He pushed his way through the teeming masses of people, some of them trying just as hard as he was to get to where they could see what had everyone's attention, others walking away from the scene with horrified expressions and mouths hanging agape.

"Oh, God!"

"How does something like that happen?"

"It's a sign!"

Giradin gently pushed aside those blocking his way. Some moved without a fuss, others gave him dirty glares and threatening gestures.

When finally he reached the front of the crowd, his eyes beheld what had them all so confused and terrified. He'd expected to see a dead man, maybe one with his blood drained from a wound in his neck. Or, perhaps, a dead woman horribly mutilated. He'd witnessed the Devil's dark work before and had prepared himself for whatever gruesome sight awaited him.

But it was no man nor woman that lay dead. Black feathers were strewn about, and on the ground lay hundreds of ravens, half-plucked with their necks snapped. The broken birds lay in a pile of ashes. Some had their wings town off, others their eyes cut out.

"Sweet Mary..." Giradin gasped and stepped back at the sight.

Across the clearing where the dead crows lay, Giradin spied one of the plague doctors watching the scene. He wondered if this was Shlomo, Mu, or one of the others Fitz had assigned to them, but had no way of knowing until he heard them speak.

In the other faces of the crowd he saw confused and adults and morbidy fascinated boys.

Giradin stared down at the crows' lifeless eyes and their open beaks. His pupils roamed over the bones protruding through their black feathers. Their blood mixed with the muck in the streets, and bugs swarmed to the filthy feast.

A hand clamped down on Giradin's shoulder, causing him to jump and draw his seax. When he rounded, he saw a face covered in bandages. The stranger caught Giradin's wrist and twisted it, causing him to drop his weapon.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"It's me!" the man spoke in a gruff voice.

"Fulk?" Giradin said.

"Aye," Fulk gestured with his head for Giradin to follow him, released his wrist and shoulder, and turned to walk away from the raven graveyard.

Giradin obeyed, and once they had made their way through the crowd he said, "What could have done something like that? It looks like those crows were all killed at around the same time."

"Killing a flock of birds all at once isn't really as impressive a feat as you think," said Fulk, not yet turning back to face Giradin. "Whoever did this could have set traps for the birds, captured them, and when he had enough crows killed them all at once and dumped their bodies there."

Fulk led Giradin around the corner of one of the houses, into a back alleyway cast in shadows. "The real thing to worry about," said Fulk, "Is not how that's possible, but why someone would do that."

"Good point," said Giradin, scratching his chin. "Maybe this was the work of a witch? This could be part of a curse or something."

Fulk shook his head. "I don't think so. Frankly, I think it's rather obvious what that is. It's a threat."

"A threat?" Giradin repeated.

"Aye, a threat against the plague doctors," said Fulk. "Is that confusion on your brow? You really can't put the clues together? People call us the Crows, and now, after all that happened the other day, we find a pile of dead crows. Clearly, some bastard's threatening us."

Giradin glanced behind him, then turned to Fulk and spoke in a low voice, "You think you could avoid saying 'us' when talking about the plague doctors? I don't have my mask anymore, and if there's someone with a vendetta against the Crows..."

Fulk rolled his eyes. "Anyone who went through this much trouble already knows you're one of the plague doctors. Hell, you're even still wearing the coat!"

Giradin looked down at the long black coat he'd wrapped himself in. It was true, other than the mask he was still wearing the plague doctor uniform. It wouldn't be difficult for anyone to guess what he was.

"But... something doesn't add up about your theory..." Giradin said. "It couldn't be someone who has a vendetta against us for what happened the other day. Not with that many dead crows."

Fulk folded his arms. "What do you mean?"

"Well, think about it," said Giradin. "You said that whoever it was could have been setting traps for crows for a long time, caught however many he needed, and then killed all of them last night and dumped them there in the street. That looked like hundreds of crows there, hundreds! Wouldn't it take him... I don't know... a lot longer than just a few days to catch that many?"

"Aye, it would," said Fulk. "But that's easy enough to explain: the vendetta didn't start with what we did, it's far older than that." Fulk shrugged. "Maybe whoever this fellow is, he's hated the plague doctors for a long time. Maybe years. He could be someone who lost a loved one to us, a loved one who was sick and executed."

"So, what do we do about it?" Giradin asked.

"We talk to the sheriff," said Fulk. "Get him to tell us what his men have found out so far. Then we help with the investigation, find this lunatic, and kill him before he kills us."