Ravenfell Chronicles: Origins

by Brand J. Alexander

  “They harvest spirits? But for what purpose?” the raven muttered.

  “I imagine since there is a list that these are special spirits,” Hildey deduced.

  “They are siphoning energy from the spirits as they cross,” Beaumont declared with certainty. After his experience with the Mawgrithe spirit and his dark fragment, he had no doubt about the spirits’ intent. He turned to the witchdoctors. “That’s how your veil sustains itself, isn’t it? When spirits cross over, it takes a bit of their essence for itself.”

  “Every spirit that crosses loses a piece. It prevents them from crossing back. Well, every spirit but a Ravenfell,” the weaver answered.

  “Woven veil of spirits crossed.”

  “Could these fragments block passage through the veil in the opposite direction?” the raven questioned.

  “The veil was woven from the human spirit, attuned to its particular essence for its single purpose. To change that interaction would require unraveling it completely and starting over,” the weaver explained.

  “Unweave the thread that binds the dead.”

  “What if it wasn’t a human spirit?” Hildegard interjected. “What if the ravens made a deal with the spirit of a magical creature? How would your veil interact with that?”

  The witchdoctors turned and whispered between themselves in a frantic unnerving hiss. Beaumont could make out little beyond their clear concern.

  “Why do you ask, Hildey?” Beaumont inquired.

  “Because she sees what’s going on too,” Corvus answered. “It’s all connected. The Guardians’ takeover of the veil. The war against magic and the old ways. It’s what I have been trying to rectify with my experiments.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me, you old fool?” Hildegard scolded.

  “By the time I discovered the truth, I was dead, my lady. And you haven’t been incredibly welcoming of spirits.”

  “For good reason, clearly,” she grumbled.

  “The veil was not designed to compel that type of energy,” the Spirit Weaver unexpectedly exclaimed, as a snake entwined within his chest emerged from a hole in the flesh and hissed angrily. “Most would be immune to the effects. But if they made a bargain. Agreed to cross over and become part of the veil, there is no telling how such power could be directed.”

  “But why would they sacrifice themselves like that?” Beaumont mused. “Demons fight to the bloody end. I would expect a creature of magic to be no different.

  “Revenge for death. So dark. So sweet,” the drummer chanted.

  “These devils began a purge and are using the victim’s enraged spirits to steal control of the veil,” Hildey surmised.

  “The veil undone. Two worlds remerged. Return as gods. And life is purged.”

  “If only we knew how it was done. What purpose did they bend this new essence? Perhaps we could undo it.” Beaumont spoke as he worked the matter over.

  “I died for that answer, young warlock,” Corvus offered. “I did this to myself to gain passage across despite the curse.” He laughed uncomfortably. “They created their own veil within the veil, based on the very laws the original was woven with. This new veil is directed entirely on keeping the Raven King and the Ravenfells from crossing between worlds. The last part is what cost my life in the end.”

  “Which means if we break the curse, we break their hold on the veil,” Beaumont deduced aloud.

  “It would stand to reason,” Corvus replied.

  “The veil must be rewoven,” the Spirit Weaver chanted.”

  “Its weakness forged to strength,” the drummer added. The two corpses huddled once more and returned to a whispering hiss.

  Beaumont glanced questioningly to them, then turned to the raven. Something in the creature’s eyes suggested complete confidence. It was a strangely familiar look that he remembered from throughout his life. Of course, until recently, he perceived the peculiar raven as nothing more than a bird, so he never really understood the significance.

  Beaumont couldn’t help but wonder how many times such a look urged him on to new feats. Had the raven been encouraging him in different directions all along? He considered exploring the possibility further when something about their connection stirred the first hints of a plan.

  “I have an idea,” Beaumont offered a bit hesitantly. “But please don’t think I’m going mad.”

  “I would never think such a thing, Dark Heart,” Hildey argued.

  “I trust your mind, warlock,” the raven added.

  “I want to merge the worlds like Dorga,” he announced boldly.

  A long silence hovered awkwardly over the group at the pronouncement, only interrupted by the feverish chatter of the Mad Witchdoctors in the background.

  “Then the Ravenwood will need to grow once more,” Hildey replied in unquestioning support at last. “And I think I have an idea about that.” She gave a crooked ghostly smile.

  Chapter 11:

  The Dark Mistress

  Another town of magic purgers lay in ruins around her, feeding the vines of her harvest. For every magical creature the fanatics’ swords and fires took from the land, Katerina took ten from them. But the battle was growing tiresome with little hope of winning. She had the power, but the cult that drove the purges had the numbers.

  Honestly, she didn’t want to extinguish all these lives. She had a talent with the forces of death, but her magic was one of balance. Life must feed into death as death transforms into new life. All she really wanted was to find a safe place for her charges, a sanctuary beyond the reach of these obsessed cultists.

  Her hunger for vengeance had dwindled since the burning of her village, lost somewhere among the scorched ruins and scattered bones. Now she only raised a Harvest of Souls when necessary to protect the last remnants of magic in the land. Unfortunately, the harvests were still needed too frequently for her liking.

  Although it wasn’t completely unpleasant. The feel of death’s magic was empowering, and even now, she relished a few moments of vengeance for what was lost amidst the slaughter. Katerina took pride in her work, which is why she sat upon a throne of twisted vine and bone as she watched the fruits of her harvest overtake her most recent conquest.

  The cult of death was at the root of the problem. But its roots were like a forest ivy. You could rip it out, but if even one root fragment remained, it grew back. And this variety grew back more ruthless and destructive each time. Thankfully, everyone that she vanquished fed her harvest and helped it grow, but she was ready for the cycle to end.

  “Mistress,” a voice rose from beside her.

  Morty was a sprite once before he was reborn in the harvest. Of her original three creations, his Soul Gourd was always rather small, with a slim twisted vine body. As a fruit of the Harvest of Souls, he was anything but frightening. In fact, Kat would almost call him cute. But what the little vine creature lacked in fierceness, he made up for in loyalty.

  “Yes, Morty?” she replied.

  “Goliath reports an intruder among the harvest,” the small gourd announced.

  “Why haven’t they been dispatched?”

  “He is… different,” Morty answered curiously.

  “Different, how?” she inquired with piqued interest.

  “He has a talking raven with him, and he asked to speak with you.”

  “Shall I sever him from the vine, my lady,” Thrasher, another of the first three, requested anxiously.

  Thrasher’s Soul Gourd was always larger than Morty’s through each new cycle. He was slightly larger than a man this time, with vine arms grown into blade-like scythes. With every rebirth, he adapted his form to become deadlier. His personality mirrored the transformation.

  A man with a raven? Little surprised Katerina these days. Her life had become a monotonous cycle of hunting and destroying each emergence of the cult. She was always ready for their next new trick. But this felt different, and that intrigued her.

  “He can speak to me through you, great one,” Katerin
a answered, knowing that Goliath would hear through the vines of the harvest. He was the greatest of the first three and Lord of the Harvest of Souls.

  “Mistress,” Morty replied uncomfortably. “The raven man refuses to speak with anyone but you. Goliath also says that the bird is incredibly rude. He requests permission to strangle it.”

  She laughed. Goliath was a behemoth of rage and power, but he was also an ancient being, which meant he was almost unshakeable. For a creature to annoy him that much, this talking raven must be interesting indeed.

  “He smells of demon, mistress,” a thunderous voice emanated from the vines all around her as Goliath chose to speak directly. “He has a face like death and emerging demon horns. His eyes hold a fury of green flames. Yet the bird is even more peculiar. I trust him the least.”

  “The harvest is strong tonight, great one,” Katerina reassured the harvest lord. “Should this intruder pose a threat, I am confident you can deal with him. But I must know what news he brings.”

  “What if it is a trick of the cultists?” Morty stammered.

  “Then we will slay more cultists,” Thrasher hissed.

  “The cult purges magic,” she replied. “I doubt they would work with someone tainted by demons.”

  “And you would work with demons?” Goliath’s voice inquired.

  “Some would insist that is what you are, great one. I work with what I must to end these purges. Demon or bird, I will know if they are a threat before I sentence them to death. Bring them to me. If they displease me, then you may do with them as you wish.”

  Thrasher gave a long excited growl.

  “Very well, mistress. But I warned you,” Goliath’s voice rumbled.

  ◆◆◆

  The visitor was more human than demon, though the corruption undoubtedly flowed through his veins. The grotesque mask he wore was certainly off-putting, but it was merely a harmless guise. Goliath had overstated the threat as usual. He was very protective of his little witch. He couldn’t have been more accurate about the bird, however. The raven was quite discernibly peculiar.

  “How do you taste, big thing?” the raven was asking as the group was led to the base of her throne.

  “What do you mean?” Goliath replied with an annoyed tone that hinted at an ongoing barrage of questions preceding this one.

  “Well, if all your vines wither away once the harvest is over, then that means that gourd thing gets leftover too,” the bird suggested thoughtfully.

  “You mean my head?” the massive Lord of the Harvest rumbled with a mix of irritation and utter confusion.

  “Exactly, my gnarled friend. How does your head taste when you’re done with it?” The raven appeared quite satisfied that they now understood each other.

  “May I pluck him now, mistress?” Goliath asked. He towered above the man and bird as he led them to her. Goliath was a giant of twisted vine, topped with a massive Soul Gourd unrivaled by any grown from the harvest. The face within his fleshy Soul Gourd fruit held more demonic qualities than the robed figure could dare rival.

  Yet, this man did not seem intimidated by her harvest minions. He looked intrigued. He seemed to absorb everything from his surroundings, assessing and listening. He was studying her skills, she realized. But did that mean he wished to test them?

  “I apologize for my companion,” the man announced in a strong but gruff voice. “He has a certain curiosity about him that rankles some.”

  “Mostly everyone,” the raven added with a mockingly diplomatic air.

  “Your presence alone rankles me, trespasser. Who are you? Why have you come before the Lady of the Harvest demanding to speak? Do you not know that an audience with me is death?”

  Goliath’s vines lashed around the intruders menacingly, just waiting for the order to crush these puny nuisances.

  “Death has been my companion quite a lot lately, my lady,” the man confessed with a laugh. The dead, twisted flesh of his mask curled in a smile. “I apologize for my intrusion, but my cause is urgent. I am Beaumont Ravenfell, and my companion is better known as the Raven King.”

  “I have heard of your family and the bird. But what business of yours could interest me? Your lineage and your monarch have fallen far. Are you not cursed?”

  “That is a matter we intend to rectify shortly, dark mistress,” the bird replied.

  “And you seek my help to restore what you’ve lost?” she scoffed. “I have my own battles to fight, Ravenfell. I don’t wish to take up anyone else’s.”

  “It is everyone’s fight if they wish to keep living,” Beaumont answered a bit more fiercely than he intended. She saw the green flames rise in his eyes, but he fought them down commandingly, suppressing the demon rage inside. “Death is coming for the world of the living. If we fail, the boundary between worlds will be unraveled,” he warned in a slightly more controlled tone.

  “Death is a part of life,” she answered flippantly. Although, she sensed the direness in his warning. “There must always be a balance.”

  “What sort of balance would allow powerful spirits to merge our worlds and rule the living as gods?” Beaumont questioned. “I am a warlock of advanced skill. I have seen hellscapes ruled by their demon Overlords. I can’t imagine the reign of death will be any better.”

  “There are many on this side of the veil who deserve such a fate,” she dismissed as her eyes scanned the swathe of destruction that she’d lain that night. “If these gods of death could put an end to the assault on my charges, I would welcome them as salvation.”

  “You mean the purging of magical creatures?” Beaumont asked interestedly.

  “The genocide of beauty,” she growled.

  “If that is your fight, dark lady, then our battle may yet be the same.”

  “The spirits started the war on magic. They use the sacrifices of your precious magical creatures to unmake the veil,” the raven added.

  “You are naïve,” Katerina countered. “I will grant that these spirits may be using the purgers as tools, but they did not create this hatred. This battle has been going on for centuries. My order spent generations tending the souls of those lost to this hatred. I am the last. I no longer tend. I fight to make this world safe for my charges. I do not have time to take on spirits too.”

  “Perhaps it is time to take the advice of a raven and make a bargain,” the bird suggested to the warlock. The dark-haired figure nodded in response.

  “What if I could offer you a place of safety? For you and your charges,” Beaumont offered.

  “That would take far more power than even I have, Ravenfell.”

  “That’s why I need your help. I don’t have the power to do this alone. But perhaps together.” He held up a remarkable staff of dark enchanted wood. Though it had no root or leaf, she could sense life within it.

  “This is the last living piece of a tree known as the Ravenwood,” he announced. “It repelled the world of death once before. I will need it in this fight. The Ravenwood must grow again. My ancestor Hildegard created it, but she gave her spirit to this staff to keep it alive. Before she did, she told me to seek out Katerina, the dark Lady of the Harvest, because you are the only one who can restore it to something better.”

  “Why would she say such a thing? I do not know this woman,” Katerina argued, but a part of her suddenly knew. The similarities seemed too blatant to be a coincidence.

  Long before she embraced death, Katerina was raised by her order to tend the dead and rebirth the spirits of magical creatures into new life through the plants of the forest. They were the Order of Hildea. They worshipped a goddess said to have turned the spirits of a dying world into a tree of the blackest night to repel a great catastrophe and return the world to new life.

  In honor of their goddess, they learned to infuse spirits into new life through plants. It began as a superstitious way to hold back future catastrophes. But as the world of magic came under more assault, it evolved into a religion of sustainment. Katerina was the last on
e who could weave a spirit in such a way, the last one who could make this Ravenwood, this tree of blackest night, sprout once more.

  “I could not guess how she knew of you or why she chose you,” the warlock admitted. “Though your work with these creatures is truly remarkable and speaks for itself.” He gave a brief shriveled undead smile to mark the compliment, then quickly grew serious once more. “But Hildey has never led me astray. If she says you are the only one who can help, then I believe her. By the look in your eyes, you believe her too.”

  His insight caught Katerina off guard. Few saw through her hardened exterior. And even fewer interpreted what they saw there accurately. Or had she let her guard down? It had been so long since she had interacted with anyone beyond her harvest minions without bringing forth their death that she really couldn’t be sure. That uncertainty left her feeling awkward despite her great powers.

  “May I see this staff?” Katerina asked, focusing on the matter at hand. Perhaps, this warlock was correct. Perhaps, she couldn’t do this alone. She had already admitted to herself, at least, that her crusade against the cult was an impossible feat.

  By the time she realized there was an uprising, magical creatures already lay dead. The magical lives lost were tragic, but if she reached the spirits in time, they could be salvaged and regrown in the harvest. Unfortunately, fewer spirits were recovered with every uprising. And soon, only those among her harvest would remain at all.

  Katerina’s only hope was to create a place of safety, a sanctuary hidden away from the pitchforks and torches. Was this her chance?

  Beaumont approached cautiously. He examined her minions with great curiosity, though he respected the twisted vine creations for the killers they were. He smiled a bit too eagerly when Thrasher snarled as he passed. Katerina half expected him to lean down and pet the beast. The scene required her to repress a smile as she faced him.