Raven's Bane Read online

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  Irulen moved his fingers through their supplies with increasing agitation. Now he knew how Quinn felt when he couldn’t find his happy cure. Quinn was always so petty and pitiful when he lost his remedies. Irulen had always looked down on that side of his friend, but he had only now walked a mile in his shoes. Happiness in a pill, or a potion, as dust. Irulen laughed at the bitter irony. He just couldn’t find what he was looking for.

  He was never an optimist, but just a short while ago he still had his simple pleasures: Max, women, the great wilderness, fresh air. Nothing seemed to work for him now—so he borrowed from Quinn’s remedies what he lacked.

  Quinn’s things, of course, had been left behind at the time of his abduction—sacks and bags of a legacy left unfilled. Irulen and Farah undertook the unpleasant task of deciding which of Quinn’s things to take with them and which to leave behind. Farah had diligently collected what she and Merek could carry and pressed Irulen to do his part. And he did, eventually, in between bouts of self-loathing and self-pity. The important things, such as Quinn’s axe and Quinn’s portable shitter, Irulen decided to take. He also found and saved a packet of Quinn’s songs scribbled onto shards of parchment. Haphazard and trivial items, such as most of his clothes and his tent, they sold off or discarded. Quinn was sure to be angry they sold his pots and pans, and he’d be even more furious they sold his fiddle.

  Perhaps most noteworthy, in Irulen’s mind, was that he had the fortune to come across the bag of remedies Merlane sold Quinn along the road south of Northforge. The bag itself filled with what looked like little minerals, as if a rock had been obliterated. Irulen recalled the look in his brutish friend’s eyes as Merlane brought his sales cart close—the way his fingers fidgeted. And once he bought the stuff, Irulen never witnessed such relief.

  “You won’t find it there—you fool.”

  That snarky little…

  Farah stood near, rogue tassels of her wavy red hair snaking out from beneath her head scarf. Max perched on her shoulder, his head tilted in a curious fashion.

  “Oh, so you are in on this too, Max? You ungrateful little skyrat!”

  Max fluffed his feathers.

  “Don’t blame him for your faults.” Farah scratched under the raven’s wing.

  “He showed you, didn’t he? He showed you the pouch.” Irulen thrust his finger in Max’s direction.

  “He may have drawn my attention to it, yes. Even a bird brain knows whatever that stuff may be is bad.”

  “Not bad if Merlane gave it to us.”

  “Merlane—you mean the traveling merchant who procured it from who knows where? He sells things. He made a lot of coin selling those minerals to Quinn. He’s not a healer. He isn’t even your friend—he’s an opportunist, plain and simple. With a creepy hat.”

  “Like you know anything!” Irulen’s ears pounded with anger.

  “I know we can’t go on like this. And I know these people want us gone from this town. Here.” She handed him a piece of parchment.

  “What is—”

  “A bounty. Next town along the way.”

  “Along the way to where?”

  “To get Quinn back, of course.”

  “Quinn’s dead.” He swung his arms as if revealing a spoiler to a play.

  “I don’t believe that.” Farah captured and held him with her gaze.

  “Believe what you will,” Irulen said, hoping she’d let it pass.

  She pressed him. “And I believe he’s still alive, and we need to find him. This bounty… Maybe we’ll even find Kay. If we have her, she can help us.”

  “Why would we need her?”

  “I need someone to help look after you, you sad sack. And so you can apologize for being a proper jerk. Then we can find Quinn. That’s the point—find Quinn!”

  Irulen folded his arms and grunted his frustration. He felt the edge of his buzz wearing off. He wanted to punch her for caring so much.

  “Read it,” she said, arms crossed, fingers tapping on her arms.

  Sour breath escaped his mouth as he raised the parchment up to have a look. He sucked at his teeth and ran his eyes along the drawing of the culprit. The face looked thin but not gaunt, clean-cut and smooth, save for a mustache and matching patch of dark hair below on his chin. The eyes were sharp and deciphering, hair kept short and neat. Some details were written in below the drawing:

  Leofrick Wiles,

  Tallish but not tall. Brown eyes. Brown-red hair.

  Wanted for the sexual offense of a young lady.

  Irulen spoke to himself as much as to Farah. “Certainly looks like a creepy demon, doesn’t he?”

  “A touch handsome.” Farah cleared her throat. “But fully dangerous to be sure. A lot like someone I know.”

  Irulen laughed as he loathed himself. “At least I’m not creepy. Or am I?”

  “Plus,” Farah continued, “he makes for a great opportunity to earn some coin, at the least.”

  “Nothing fixes things like coin… sounds so easy.”

  “As it well can be, if the humans involved choose to not be so difficult.”

  “Sheesh… I’m going to have to sober up if I’m to keep up with this wit of yours.”

  Farah walked over to the well. “Good. As you wish—the sobering starts now.” She grabbed Quinn’s magic pouch out from under her skirts and emptied its contents into the well.

  Irulen screamed but found his voice broken by the finality of the act. He cursed and laughed at his own state, but then admitted she had done the right thing. “You know… Farah… These people are about to have an interesting experience when they drink from that well. Because of you.”

  Red locks of her hair shook as she looked from him to the well and back to him. Her thin-lipped mouth opened with inaudible regret.

  He continued, “Yes. Seems it is time to go. And with haste.”

  Chapter 3 Trapped Rat

  Quinn closed his eyes as tight as he could. He opened them again, and there was still nothing before him. Nothing. He had tried readjusting his eyes countless times, hoping that his pupils would focus, that he would be able to make something of his surroundings. He was in a vacuum, a place devoid of time and space, of sight and hearing.

  Except for the rats. He heard them just fine, though he hadn’t yet mastered the art of catching the rotten little things. They toyed with him. Often, he’d be sleeping, or in a daze, only to be awoken by the brushing of their furry bodies, or the gnashing of their teeth. He had been bitten awake more times than he could count. Little demon rats, specially purposed to drive me nuts.

  He decided, just then, that he’d declare war on the craven critters. His sanity required the stimulation. He’d eradicate the place of the vermin. Perhaps Ithial would be happy with an exterminated dungeon. Maybe Quinn would even get some fresh water out of it.

  An inner voice, similar to his own, whispered in his brain. At the very least, you stand the chance of gaining fresh blood. Salty and delicious. Straight from a pumping heart.

  Quinn spat into the darkness. The splatter of his expulsion echoed in his ears. The voice receded. He felt like himself again. A precious drop of sweat escaped his brow and trickled down his face. Hot. It was so damn hot.

  He creaked his neck to the left and the right, hearing cracking come from inside. He thought about twisting his neck so hard, so fast, that it would break. He smiled at the thought of Ithial coming to visit his pet, only to find a dead or drooling pile of meat, worthless to him, then. Quinn’s pride urged him to do it. His will refused. It was a debate that had carried on for days, or months, or for however long. His will, to this point, had always won.

  He remained aware that it only took one final decision to take his own life. It would not be a decision he took lightly. His pride remained stronger than his despair. At face value, the only way to seize control from Ithial was to hurt himself. It was the only leverage afforded him. Quinn rebelled against this thought, insisting that he was at fate’s m
ercy. Fate, not Ithial, controlled him. Something enveloped him outside of his understanding. In the darkness of the dungeon, at the end of all hope, Quinn took heart that Ithial was not his master.

  Irulen’s face smiled at him from the darkness. And Kay’s. Quinn shook away thoughts of those two. If he were to defeat his enemy, the rats, he needed a clear head. The rat didn’t have emotion. The rat didn’t know what it meant to make things personal. No, the rat was all business. The rat saw clearly: its food, plan, and escape route. Those were the things the rat knew, things Quinn would have to learn.

  He spent days, or what he perceived as days, preparing. He kept time through listening. Somewhere outside his cell, in the distance, there was a constant drip. Whether it was condensation or blood from torture, the rhythm was persistent. He counted the splashes and orientated himself to the darkness. Eventually, the drips were in his head. His sense of time had righted. He didn’t know how long he had been in the dark initially, and he still lost track when he slept, but he felt much more grounded none-the-less. He was in the real world again and not just some vague vacuum of shadows. For the first time in a long time, he felt normal.

  He was able to alter his sleep schedule. Soon he was awake when before he would have been sleeping. At these waking times, he took care to emulate sleep. His breaths were heavy and long, and the rats went about their work without suspecting anything. He’d leave his hand out on the floor, and it was something the rats became used to. The fluttering of fur brushed against his fingers, the tickle of inquisitive whiskers investigating flesh. Not now, it was ready to run. Not yet. Quinn listened intently. The pitter patter moved away and faded to his right—the little bastard’s escape.

  The rat approached him again a day later, and again Quinn allowed it to leave.

  The day after that someone dropped off food. Quinn never saw his captors and often wondered how they moved so well through the dark. The metallic door squeaked open, and footsteps came through. Old bread and a reused cup of murky water were placed at the limits of his chains. The door creaked shut.

  Quinn drank and ate but saved some of his bread. He placed morsels near his hand. The rat approached him, making off with the treats. More morsels. More approaches. The rat became more complacent with every trip, to the point where Quinn heard the stationary grinding of its little teeth. The rat finally stayed where it was, chomping on its meal.

  At that moment, Quinn grabbed the rat with his prone hand. Jaws snapped and tore at his skin. He set his teeth against the sensations of ripping and tearing. He threw the rat into the dirty cup and covered it with his bleeding hand. He knew rats often carried the dark disease, but he didn’t care. The animal fell still, as if somehow the cup was darker than the cell itself.

  Trapped, like me.

  Quinn was about to flip the cup over, to save the rat for an unknown purpose, when a strange sensation filled his hand. The rat was licking at his wounded palm. Its tongue flicked at the torn skin, but Quinn felt the gesture resound deep in his soul. Involuntary tears flowed from Quinn’s eyes. He reached in and pulled the rat out of the cup. He thought he saw the sparkle of the thing’s eye. It didn’t bite him anymore. He placed it down gently and listened as it scurried off.

  I’ll earn your trust yet, my furry friend.

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  Farah almost walked into Irulen. He stopped dead in his tracks. His body straightened slightly as though he had just become aware of an unwelcome presence. He put up a finger and titled his head as if listening to something.

  “What is it?” she asked, looking around.

  He didn’t answer.

  “What is it?” she asked again. She reached out and touched his arm. He spun quickly on her, but his gaze passed her by. She followed his gaze over Merek, who, having become bored, sat on the ground. If only I could be so carefree. She allowed herself a split second of aloofness and then snapped to where Irulen stared.

  Back from where they came stood a grinning creature, bandaging wrapped around its head. It stood no taller than a child, but with the firmness of an adult.

  The seconds were split by a breeze of cool air followed by the falling of autumn leaves.

  Irulen’s voice erupted in Farah’s ear. “Grackle? Is that you?”

  The creature’s gnarled-tooth smile turned downward. “The name is Gronkle!”

  Irulen’s voice softened playfully. “Imps, like all pets, are called all sorts of names.”

  Gronkle’s forehead wrinkles bent in anger. “Who are you calling a pet? Last time I checked, it was you who has to listen to me!”

  “You are right, perhaps, that I am a pet as well.” Irulen moved in front of Farah. “But you are mistaken if you consider yourself my master. No, you, like me, are one of Ithial’s puppets. Though I suspect you’re lesser in worth to him than I.”

  Gronkle snorted. “I hear the impotent barks of a chained puppy.”

  Irulen walked toward the imp with slow purpose. “A puppy? Did you not already feel my bite? The soiled wrapping on your head indicates otherwise.”

  “A mere flesh wound. We were practically out of the tavern by the time you put on your little display. You might have managed to draw my blood, but you should have seen Ithial the Impervious. He stood there smiling as the fire and debris passed him by.” The imp laughed. “Your rage, your power... He sat right through it all with a great grin on his face.”

  Irulen sucked through his teeth and stepped closer. “And for what reason, pray tell, has this great man sent you?”

  “You are moving too slow. I, Gronkle, have been tasked to expedite and accompany you to where you need to be. Quinn’s well-being depends on it.”

  Irulen shook his head. “Ithial has already done with Quinn whatever he wanted to do. Your master overestimates my thirst for vengeance. I just finished chasing a shadow. I’m not about to go seek out another one. Daylight has to prevail at some point. I’m finished.”

  Farah wondered at Irulen’s sincerity. If he was bluffing, though, he did so convincingly.

  “You are wrong,” the imp said. “Quinn is alive and well. Ithial has not even turned the man into an imp, yet. Your cooperation is imperative in this matter, however, as you have been told before—” Max flew from Irulen’s shoulder to a branch overlooking Gronkle. Farah thought the raven looked particularly excited. A sharp look. A predatory look. Gronkle spat in the raven’s direction. The bird flew up a foot and landed where he first perched. “Pah!” exclaimed the halfing-imp.

  Irulen spoke low and menacing. “You are quite the clever one, aren’t you?” Though his back was to her, Farah imagined a hue of darkness casting across Irulen’s face.

  Gronkle beamed. “I s’pose I’m sharp enough.”

  The imp changed his tone, then. He sounded more humble, if not slightly familiar. Did he think Irulen would just make nice?

  The imp’s eyes darted from Irulen, to Max, and back to Irulen. His flabby face wore a smile, but his forehead twitched with unease. His body betrays him. “What’s this filthy creature doing?” He thrust a stubby finger at Max.

  “He’s amused, I reckon. Looks like he’s laughing to himself.”

  The imp laughed.

  Irulen responded with a chuckle of his own.

  Silence again filled the air.

  “Why did you just laugh?” asked Irulen. His voice sounded foreign. Measured and calculating. Farah shivered.

  Gronkle stepped back a little bit, but continued to smile. “At what you said, of course. A raven, laughing! They don’t laugh. I’ve certainly never witnessed such a preposterous occurrence!” Max flapped his wings above. The imp flinched.

  The raven let loose a disturbing sound, something between a child’s giggle and the hacking of a morning’s phlegm.

  The imp’s eyes widened. “What bird is this?”

  “One that laughs at the wicked. Particularly the misfortune of the wicked.” The wizard stepped closer.

  Gronkle yelled and stumbled. He lost his balance, and h
is feet left the ground. He was suspended in the air, struggling like a bug in water.

  The fear in his face tickled Farah’s spine. Once, as a child, she had stood by powerless as a boy was taken by a flooded river. A similar feeling found her now, but she pressed it back. What did she care if Irulen harmed this thing? This creature served the one responsible for so much misery.

  Another memory crossed her mind, then. Irulen had told her once he could not continue to use his magic to kill. Such usage made a wizard go dark. And if everything Irulen told her was true, his magic was finite and not to be wasted.

  “Wait,” she called, though not nearly loud enough.

  Irulen did not hear her plea. “You overplayed your card, Gronkle.”

  “Release me! At once!” The imp whined like a pig to the slaughter.

  “Tssk, tssk, such a clever one you were, such a pity.”

  “Ithial won’t forgive this,” Gronkle screamed in agony. “He’ll have that shitty bird of yours, that dimwit, and that red-haired whore! He’ll have their skins!”

  “Not before I take yours.”

  Farah froze with terror, helpless to look away.

  Gronkle’s face erupted with blood. His skin tore as he spoke. “And from you, wizard of the crows—” The imp shrieked in pain. The skin of his face peeled down like a banana. His skeletal grin clattered with his final words. “Ithial will take so ‘uch ‘ore!” His lipless teeth lost his words. His eyes exploded forth from his skull, and the rest of his brain matter followed. The gore splashed onto the ground.

  Irulen stood as a statue.

  The imp fell onto the mess.

  Farah turned from the unreal scene to Merek, who sat still, his eyes taking in the dark sight. Snapping to, he exclaimed in excitement, and pulled out his graphite and parchment. To Merek, these instruments served as additional limbs. His body wasn’t complete without them. The youth began drawing with long, quick strokes. Farah was appalled by his lack of disgust. Impervious. He’s impervious.

  She turned back to Irulen. He stood in place, while Max silently rejoined his shoulder. Swallowing her fear, she approached him. His face swung into view as she walked around him. It was set in stone, his eyes drawn taught with determination. His stare extended past the mess he had made.