Ravenfell Chronicles: Origins

by Brand J. Alexander

  It was the woman who saved him. Drena, he believed her name was. He would’ve never expected a woman to be so clever, but she gave him the foundation to build his next performance upon. He admired her quick wit, and as she stood up to preach his gospel before the huddled masses, for just a moment, he admired even more about the woman.

  “The end is here as prophesied. The death our lord has warned of has come at last.” She was rather ravishing, if worn and dirty. Her voice stirred the people, despite their utter fear of the ravens. “Only by giving our allegiance to our lord can we hope to survive. In Dorga the Great is salvation.”

  Dorga could tell by the terror in her eyes she understood none of this was of his doing. The ravens weren’t part of his plan. The danger was real. However, she was facing unthinkable forces her mind could never have conceived of. She had to believe in something now or go mad. If that something was the made-up tale, Dorga was trying to weave, so be it. Whether or not she knew him for the fraud he was, she saw the risk of the village turning against Dorga as a greater threat to her life. She was still an outsider. If Dorga was overthrown, her body would likely be used as kindling in the fire he was burnt upon. It was more an act of self-preservation than faith, but it was enough to bind her to Dorga completely.

  Her husband, Golak, appeared to realize the entrapping effect of her words. Perhaps, he saw a little of Dorga’s lustful glance at his wife as well. Whatever the reason, the husband, who accompanied Drena into the village, didn’t appear nearly as loyal, not nearly as convinced of Dorga’s greatness as he once was.

  She would be rewarded for this event personally, Dorga mused to himself. That is, if the ravens allowed them to live that long. But Golak would likely need to be dealt with. There was a hint of enmity in his eyes even now, despite the danger all of Dorga’s people were in if the village turned on them. Eliminating obvious threats was easy, though, and having someone so clearly identifiable, made it simpler still. If Drena’s ruse was going to work, they would eventually need someone to blame when his farce of protection showed signs of weakness. Claiming an unbeliever as the fault was always a charlatan’s best defense.

  Dorga allowed Drena the time to stir the village back to his side, permitting her to say the majority of what needed to be said. Perhaps his words would’ve held more authority, but fear of the ravens implanted the need to obey, without his personal narration. Besides, it was always better to let someone else spread the lies. That way, when the people grew angry and began killing liars, you had plenty of warning before they worked their way back to you.

  As night fell, the ravens quieted down. The only noise to alert their presence was the occasional rustle of feathers as they shifted in the unsettling darkness. Drena continued her work as an apparent hopeful priestess to Dorga the Great. She calmed the villagers, despite her foreign origins, gathering them around fires and soothing them with the same care a friend or neighbor would offer in such dire times. They were terrified, and this strange alien woman was the only one offering any measure of assurance, the promise of Dorga the Great. It was likely not what they would have preferred for salvation, but like Drena, the villagers were willing to grasp at anything they could right now. The whole time, Golak watched on, the heat of his stare burning like embers in the firelight.

  For Dorga, the performance never ended. The woman might offer him an advantage, but it was his actions alone that would decide whether a large enough majority was convinced when the first doubters began to speak out. It was the countdown clock all charlatans were required to watch if they hoped to survive long in this con game. Anyone could paint a convincing tale if they knew how to sell it. But driving people into faith required the illusion of miracles and divine intervention.

  The green flame was always a good option. It was simple to contrive and relatively cheap to maintain. Of course, Dorga hadn’t expected to have to use it in these quantities. So, even though he brought what seemed like plenty, he began to feel another clock start to countdown as he lit the ring of blazing green torches around the village. How long would his reserves hold out, he wondered. But that would be a new problem for a different day. He had enough for tonight, at least.

  If Drena preached that Dorga the Great protected them, he was certainly going to look like he was doing everything he could to do so. At least then, when it all fell apart, he would have another excuse to fall back on. It always helped your case if you appeared to fight a hard fight, even as the punches are feigned, and the enemy is an illusion. Unfortunately, not even Dorga knew how this would all play out, for the enemy was undeniably, and quite frighteningly, real. Everything he did meant nothing in the end, for it all rested on the will of a peculiar raven.

  The peace, under Dorga’s protection, didn’t even last through the night. He only just finished creating the pretend ward when voices rose up from the campfires calling Dorga the Great for help. His patience was running thin. He was never a compassionate, caring person, to begin with. In fact, he could care less if most of these people were pecked to death by the ravens, as long as enough of them remained to serve and worship him when it was over. However, he was trapped in this as surely as his father trapped him the other day. He had to, at the very least, appear to serve them as his father had before he could grind them beneath his heel as they deserved.

  The wounds of the recent arrivals were much greater than originally believed. The one-eyed man was unconscious, most likely from the pain or shock of his injury. There was a greater injury visible still, to those who knew what to look for. While it was true, Dorga was never able to master the secrets of death. There were things he paid close attention to when his father spoke. And the sight of the indistinct blackened edges along the torn flesh awoke such a lesson. Those weren’t mortal wounds.

  A spirit-blessed creature carries death with them forever after their blessing. It becomes part of them. But it is a part they can share. Although, this gift isn’t one you would seek. For a mortal to receive such a gift, there is no escape. For, it is a venom like no other. It’s the essence of pure death, and from the moment it entered the veins of these victims, their souls began to untether from their bodies. Only a true shaman could command the essence of death to dissipate. Dorga wasn’t such a person. There was nothing among his bag of tricks that could save them. Most would be lucky even to survive the night. It was a truth that could either bind the people to him stronger or shatter the façade of his control. It had to be played carefully.

  The worst loss would be the single child among the third group to arrive. The two girls who accompanied him were young and mildly appealing. They were meant to tempt the younger, more headstrong men among the village to be accepting and compliant. The young brown-haired boy, whose pale skin now appeared blue as the raven’s fel magic overtook him, was key to Dorga’s plot. He was a blessing among all of the failures the false shaman gathered over the years. For he had the look of someone very special. And that resemblance was how Dorga hoped to bind the village leaders to him.

  It was the woman who now held the unconscious boy, whose voice summoned Dorga in desperation. He’d hoped the feel of this boy in her arms would bind her and her family to him and his cause. Instead, it was just one more failure to add to the list. The chieftain’s wife lost a child who carried a striking resemblance to the boy she held now. She was never able to conceive another. It was a scandal whispered about for years. This child, so like the one lost to death, was to mend that hole in her heart and bind the chieftain’s family to Dorga in gratitude.

  Dorga couldn’t hide the truth from his eyes as he beheld the horrid wealth of blackened lacerations across the small boy’s bare upper body. It was only a small miracle death’s essence hadn’t taken him yet. Not even his father could’ve drawn the spirit’s venom out. There was nothing he could do to save him. But his failure was reflected in the eyes of chieftain and wife. The image of Dorga the Great was broken to them. For Dorga didn’t wield the power to save the child returned to them from
death.

  It was a sad irony that this particular plot was his exclusively. He was quite proud of it, in fact. And yet, his arrogance cost him the greatest support he could have achieved. They were already beginning to believe in Dorga the Great before the third group arrived. They would’ve come around in time. But Dorga was impatient and ruined the entire plan. All he’d accomplished was forcing them to relive the death of their son. He couldn’t give them the miracle they required to win their faith. It was doubtful he could regain it now, without a true act of divine.

  No one returned to their tents with the fall of night, too frightened to turn their eyes from the surrounding forests, should the ravens choose then to attack. They gathered in an uncomfortable tense huddle around a few central fires in the village, their murmured fears amplified by terrified whimpers and the groans of the wounded and dying. The grief-filled cry of the chieftain’s wife was what finally broke the silence of fear that settled over the village.

  She wailed when the boy died. It was the loss of her beloved son for a second time, though she never even knew this boy’s name. Others joined in her tears. The loss of a child was tragic for certain. However, beyond the instinctual protectiveness of children, humanity had another truth, self-preservation. They were horrified a child had died. Even more, they were terrified because they knew this was only the first. A wing flap in the distance set a few more villagers to sobbing. But not everybody responds the same in such dire times, and the first death was more than certain people could accept quietly.

  “What evils have you brought upon us, Dorga? What powers has your sacrilege offended?” It was the chieftain. His wife was broken now, sobbing in heaving gasps over the child’s body.

  “He’s a fraud. He has no clue what’s going on. Likely it’s the spirits of death come to name him for what he is,” Golak, Drena’s husband, stepped forward with his accusation.

  It was clear now, the allegiance of the husband and wife were completely split. Drena sought Dorga’s protection, hoping his manipulations could lead her to safety, while Golak saw the charlatan as the only possible cause of their current predicament. Dorga couldn’t blame him that much. It’s the key rule of a charlatan when things go bad, find a fall guy. It was a shame he would have to make an example of this man, especially considering the talent he showed with learning the con game. Yet as talented as he was, he forgot another key rule of the highest cons. Always eliminate the first to speak out. Make an example. He left Dorga no choice. He just hoped it wouldn’t affect Drena’s eagerness to serve him later this evening.

  Quite to Dorga’s surprise, Drena stepped in. “Have you been tainted by the demons, husband? What madness is this?” There was tender concern in her voice but a calculated cold threat in her eyes. She wouldn’t hesitate to abandon him and choose Dorga. She saw it as their only option. It was apparent with her demonstration of callousness, whatever love they may have shared in the past, her affection for him was fleeting and as short-lived as his usefulness.

  “Drena, would you abandon me for this imposter?” Golak seemed incredulous his wife could turn on him so easily. Apparently, Dorga wasn’t the only one who was talented at playing parts. “His charade is over. Let us be done with him and maybe save ourselves.”

  Dorga couldn’t help but smile at the prescience of the man’s words. There was certainly a charade over, the part Drena had played, while it was convenient. That was over now. She was done with Golak and had new plans to save herself. Dorga couldn’t help but admire her cunning cruelty.

  “You ask me to choose between the light of salvation, Dorga the Great, and you. Who would do such a thing, knowing what awaits us, out there?” The last two words slipped from her tongue with dire inflection as she gestured to the dark barrier of the forest beyond the firelight. It was more than apparent Drena had listened closely to Dorga’s lessons on crowd manipulation. She was almost as good as he was. “Unless you are an agent of those foul spirits.”

  The chieftain stepped back from Golak, who until now seemed allied with their cause. The man was a stranger. They had no way of knowing whether he carried the taint with him or not. His anger, for the moment, seemed to falter, unsure where to lay blame. At the same time, there was a sudden murmur among those gathered. They were an uncertain mob, frightened by the recent horrible death of a child before them. But, if given a villain of natural substance to rage against, they could be turned to certainty, quickly enough. It appeared that was the woman’s intention.

  “You were struck by a raven’s beak when we were attacked. I saw it, husband. But you don’t seem ill like the others? Why does death not affect you as it does them?” By now, the black lesions on the wounded were more than visible to everyone with eyes. There was no mistaking what it was she spoke of.

  “Drena. Why?” He stepped back, painful clarity coming at last. “I didn’t. They didn’t,” he stammered. Golak had been a companion of too many conmen not to be able to read the room and see where this was going. “I wasn’t bitten. We weren’t even attacked. It was all a lie.” Gasps broke the tense mood of the audience.

  “I saw you struck on the right shoulder.” It was a statement of condemnation. And Dorga felt the finality in Drena’s words. She knew her husband well, and she intended to use that knowledge to destroy him. Golak could do nothing to stop it. He couldn’t defend himself unless he knew how far she was willing to go. And the panicked look in Golak’s eyes hinted he was more shocked with every second at just how low the woman he loved was willing to sink.

  “I wasn’t bitten.”

  “Prove it. Show us your right shoulder.”

  “Drena! Why?” There were tears in his eyes. He realized where this was going but had no idea how to turn it around.

  Dorga gave only a nod. But it was enough. Two loyalists stepped forward from the crowd as if given orders and approached the sputtering accused. “Show us your shoulder,” the larger of the two demanded. Golak turned to run, then. But he’d allowed it to go on too long. There was no longer a chance to escape. His fate was in the hands of his wife, Drena. And it only now seemed to be dawning on him what that meant. With each word and act, he was discovering the truth of the woman he’d been married to all along.

  The two men grabbed Golak and stripped the shirt from his back, revealing what Dorga knew they would find the moment Drena started down this route. It was a long fierce-looking jagged scar. Drena gave it to him, herself, in a knife fight, about a year ago. It wasn’t given maliciously, but the knowledge of the mark was now being used to seal Golak’s fate.

  There was a unified gasp from the onlookers. The woman, before them, claimed the man was bitten. Yet, even though he denied it, there was a mark on him in that exact spot. True, it appeared to have healed into an angry-looking scar long ago, and there was no sign of the black lesions spreading from it. However, the accusation was made, and there was proof given, though paltry. The villagers’ minds were already primed with superstitious paranoia and fear of the unknown. It didn’t take long for many of their thoughts to catch up to the picture Drena was painting for them.

  “Drena, you know about this. You gave it to me.”

  “Lies,” she denounced her husband without even looking in his direction. His feelings and attention no longer mattered. She had a more important audience now. “More likely, the taint of the raven’s fel magic isn’t visible on the outside because it does its work within you, instead. Tearing us apart and luring us away from the protective light of Dorga the Great. That’s why you suddenly changed your story. You’ve been corrupted.”

  “Drena, please. Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I want to live.” There was a tone in her voice trembling with pained resolution. Then, she turned to Dorga. “My lord, I wish to seek your counsel, to make certain no darkness lingers in my heart. But I’m exhausted and cannot face my traitor husband any longer. Could I rest in your home, please?”

  “Go, my child. I will see to your needs later,” Dorga an
swered suggestively. He was surprised to find lust in her eyes at the mention of her needs. She certainly didn’t waste time, he mused. He would have to watch out for her, though. He could use her. That was a certainty. But, she was a liability, too clever to be completely trusted, no matter how eagerly she goes to a bed. “I’ll handle the traitor.”

  As much as events had spiraled out of control, Dorga’s power grab was going surprisingly faster than anticipated. The plethora of supernatural occurrences seemed to have made the minds of his people more pliable, more accepting of his commands. Before Dorga even turned to place judgment upon Drena’s husband, the two men from earlier had taken him prisoner between them. Golak fought, but there was little he could do. He was outwitted and overpowered.

  “Go ahead. Kill me, you fraud. You’re incapable of sending my spirit across. I’ll just stay here and haunt you.”

  That was, unfortunately, something Dorga hadn’t considered. There was always someone to send the spirits across, for as long as he could remember. The thought that the people he eliminated might remain as spirits to haunt him and endanger his plans never occurred to him. He was the one who was supposed to send the spirits across after all, but he was incapable. And he couldn’t ask if someone else could. It would ruin the entire basis for his power grab. Murdering dissenters wasn’t the easy solution it would normally be, he surmised. Fortunately for Dorga, his father trained his mind well.

  “I won’t kill you, though you threaten us all,” Dorga began. He circled the prisoner, sizing him up while he gave his proclamation. “It’s what you want after all? It’s why you ask for death?” He stopped to stare into Golak’s eyes. “You want us to feed the force of death. It makes your masters stronger.” The idea was coming to him as fast as his tongue was slickening reality with vile lies. Minds as primitive as these weren’t deft enough to take hold of truth if you coated it in enough slippery falsehoods. Dorga was proving to be quite a master of such things. “I won’t serve you, death. I defy you,” he called the last part out into the night. It drove a chill down his spine as he dared challenge their avian tormentors. But, he trusted in the darkness to keep the birds at roost. Of course, he was ready to flee at a moment’s notice. He wasn’t that trusting of logic in the face of supernatural forces.