The creatures are magical. They must have some vulnerability to magic's effects. You try to remember every enchantment you've ever studied that brings light and banishes darkness. This would be the time to use them.
You begin to chant. The circle of the crowd around you widens, as people decide that it's no safer to be near whatever it is you're doing than it is to be near the creatures of shadow.
The words come slowly, the chill numbing your lips and making your tongue feel thick. But all at once, the words on your tongue explode into a burst of light, like biting down on something warm and honeyed. The warmth spreads out from you in a widening circle, and the shadowy creatures look suddenly less substantial, as if they might be tricks of the light.
The Raven steps forward, spreading his arms despite the stones. He keeps his eyes deliberately on the crowd, as if dark shapes were not snapping at the chariot itself.
"There is nothing to fear," he says. His voice sounds leaden as a sentence of death. For a moment, you can see neither the conquering hero he used to be nor the aging tyrant he is now, but simply an old man, frowning like an actor uncertain of his lines.
The murmur of the crowd is rising to a roar. A stone smashes against the Raven's shoulder, and he staggers back.
Liathar pushes forward, shielding the Raven with his body. "Listen to me!" he shouts. "You must trust in the royal family. You must trust in the Raven."
"I am your ruler," Cenone shouts. "I alone can save you!"
Liathar steps unwillingly to the side to let Cenone speak. "Listen to the Raven!"
"Cursed!" someone cries. The call is taken up, a ragged shout, then a chant. "Cursed! Cursed!"
"I rule here," Cenone says, speaking to the crowd, or to someone only he can see. "Liathar, tell them."
"My father will protect us!" Liathar calls. Liathar raises his sword like a banner for the crowd to rally around. "The Raven! The Raven! The Raven!"
From the outskirts of the crowd, you hear the high baying of hounds. Or something like hounds. One of the guards speaks urgently to men in Cenone's livery, and they harness a terrified horse to the chariot and begin pulling it out of the square.
The crowd roils, restless and frightened. Someone screams. Someone else throws a stone. They are a frustrated mob with no one to lead them or stop them. It seems like a very good time to run.
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