Ravenfell Chronicles: Origins

by Brand J. Alexander

  “I apologize if this may seem rude or untrusting,” Beaumont began. “I will allow you to inspect it, but I will not let this staff leave my hold. It is too special to me to risk.”

  Despite the roiling green flames in his eyes, she saw a sincere concern. It was not just the power in the staff that held importance. It was the soul given to keep that power intact. She carried seeds of similar import for her harvest, lives given in the battle with the cult. She understood his caution clearly.

  “I will not taint this Hildegard’s sacrifice,” she offered respectfully as she took hold of the branch. “I only wish to see if what she says is even possible.”

  It was marvelous. The faint life pulsing through the twisted midnight wood was truly unique, but the craft used to create it was incredibly familiar. Though the strength and artistry of the creation were magnitudes greater than anything she was ever taught, the principles and teachings were the same.

  “Strange circles,” she muttered as she analyzed the staff’s inner workings. “It appears that your ancestor Hildegard may be the goddess of my fallen order. Perhaps she knows more about me than I thought.”

  “Hah,” the raven croaked. “Leave it to old Hildey to have her own religion. Although she is hardly a god, my dear.”

  “Then you can do it?” the warlock asked, ignoring the raven’s humor.

  “I have never done anything so grand or intricate,” she admitted contemplatively. “Perhaps with time, I could figure it out. But the spiritual energy to create such a thing would be immense.”

  “The spiritual lineage of the Ravenfells?” he inquired.

  “Watch what you bargain away, warlock,” the bird chastised him. “Few will be willing to give up their existence for the Ravenfell Curse.”

  “If they want the curse broken, they will,” he countered, then he turned to her once more, awaiting her answer. Behind the green flames, there was a burning sincerity in his eyes.

  Katerina understood such determination and felt emboldened by it. Maybe this was the change she needed.

  “Perhaps, to get it started,” she replied. “I could stir new life in the limb and get it to root. But that would be the tree in its old form. I suspect this Ravenwood will need to do something more. And it will need to reach maximum potential quickly. There won’t be time for it to grow into its power. It would take a great deal of death to fuel such growth and transformation.”

  “I suspected as much,” Beaumont gave a groan. “Well, raven, it looks like I will need to become Dorga after all. To save the living, I must inflict a plague of death.” Part of him appeared resigned to a fate he wished to avoid, but the demon part of him burned with a hunger for the coming destruction.

  “When it comes to the Ravenfells, there is usually no other way,” the raven confessed.

  “Do we have a bargain, Lady of the Harvest? Will you help me regrow the Ravenwood if I swear to create a sanctuary for your magical creatures?” He paused for a moment to consider, then added in assurance, “It is not as onerous as it sounds. I already have quite a collection of beasts that I oversee. I am excited to meet your charges.”

  “I am too intrigued by the thought of regrowing this Ravenwood to refuse. But for the gift of such a sanctuary, I would face off with death itself.”

  “You’re dealing with Ravenfells, dark lady,” the raven spoke up candidly. “Facing off with death is pretty much a certainty.”

  Chapter 12:

  A Prelude to Death

  The rancid fruity flesh of Goliath’s Soul Gourd was quite literally the most revolting thing the raven had ever tasted. And he had a penchant for tasting some incredibly noxious things. Despite decorum, he had no choice but to hack the foul bites up in a rather unrefined manner. The rumbling laughter of the vine giant mocked his illness from the desecrated vines shriveling all around him.

  When the deal was struck between the dark lady and the warlock, the harvest withered at Katerina’s command so she might gather the seeds from her Soul Gourds for the coming battle. It seemed only right for the raven to capitalize on the opportunity. Although, he regretted such curiosity now as his stomach twisted.

  The raven had watched admiringly as the warlock made his bargain with the dark druidess. He suspected Hildegard would be proud. In fact, he couldn’t help but imagine that the old witch planned it to happen in just this manner. She had a talent for getting her way.

  He was there the day the old witch created the Ravenwood. Now he would watch it reborn without her. Yet, he could still feel her touch on everything around him. She had a way of indirectly affecting things that could easily resound long after her death. This was likely one such time.

  That obstinate old woman had protected and planned for the boy’s future from the moment she sealed her bargain with the Raven King to look after him. Using an obscure religion to train the boy’s future partner didn’t seem altogether out of the realm of possibilities when it came to her application of maternal duties.

  The raven couldn’t argue with the results, though. There was clearly a spark between the Ravenfell and the Lady of the Harvest. Something about the darkness in each of them paired well. And the more they discussed their intentions, the deeper their determination grew. They would achieve their goal or die trying.

  When the lady’s work was finished, the warlock took her hand gingerly and spoke. “I will need to be in contact with you for us to leave here. We must go somewhere safe to make plans.”

  Even the raven could see that they both relished the contact. How long had they spent apart from others of their kind? It seemed like an eternity without his flock. Were humans any different about companionship, he wondered. Although, strangely, he hadn’t felt quite as alone recently.

  The raven was startled by a slight thrill when the warlock summoned him to his shoulder. He had been bonded to this family for ages, yet never so closely as he was now to Beaumont Ravenfell. Their alliance felt empowering in a way that he hadn’t experienced since he was cast down. Perched upon the warlock’s shoulder, the raven felt ready to challenge any danger.

  With a jolt and a momentary sensation of falling, the warlock transported them from the ruins. Although, the destination he chose felt even more foreboding.

  It was an empty hellscape, void of demons or life. An Overlord once commanded a legion of nightmares there, but when Beaumont struck him down to master his essence, the empire crumbled. Nothing remained of the Overlord or his horde, but this desolate smoldering plain lost between worlds.

  The witchdoctors and the spirit of Corvus awaited them, caught up in a heated debate on strategy. The introduction of the Lady Katerina stifled the raucous outbursts for a few minutes, but it quickly returned once the newcomers joined in.

  The raven couldn’t help but marvel at the familiar scene before him. Tasked once more with defending the veil from unimaginable forces, he had gathered the required magic as he did with the Ravenfell sisters so long ago. Despite the unspeakable horrors awaiting them, the raven’s small rabble was plotting the impending assault on the forces of death. The only thing missing was the old witch’s wretched tea.

  It was probably the only thing that could wash the foul taste of the Soul Gourd from his beak, he mused in a moment of uncharacteristic mourning. Hildegard’s wisdom would be gravely missed. Hopefully, enough of her manipulative influence still lingered to get them through.

  “So how are we getting me back into the Netherworld?” the raven croaked from his perch.

  “I am going to merge the worlds and cross you over,” Beaumont declared confidently.

  “They will detect the incursion and stop you,” Corvus countered. “What you plan is big magic. It will take time. But it will be a giant beacon for your pursuers. I tried to sneak through, and they nearly destroyed my soul. If you draw the two worlds together, the Guardians will be able to reach across the veil, and I fear they will do even worse to you.”

  “Death within death within death,” Death’s Drummer began chan
ting.

  “Your trick won’t work this time,” Corvus argued with the corpse. “Even if we hid within the deepest darkest pit of death this world has, the Guardians would sense the moment we interfere with the veil. That much death would be impossible to miss.”

  “What if death was everywhere, and the veil was at its thinnest?” Katerina offered with equal resolve.

  “Clever witch,” the Spirit Weaver complimented. “We use the cycle of seasons to hide the working.”

  “Death within death within death,” the drummer chanted even more intentionally.

  “What is this cycle of seasons?” Beaumont asked the lady with interest.

  Once more, the raven regretted allowing the old witch to keep him so naïve on such matters. Beaumont’s entire life began with death. There was little chance it wouldn’t interfere with his fate at some point. Yet, now they faced the might of the Guardians for the fate of the world, and the Ravenfell knew almost nothing about the forces they contended with. The warlock was a fast learner, but time was running out.

  “The rebirth of spring is born from the death of autumn,” Katerina answered as if by rote.

  At least the Lady of the Harvest had a clear understanding, the raven reasoned. And the warlock was undoubtedly interested in her enough to absorb every word.

  “As the leaves fall, the insects shrivel, and rot consumes the harvests, the essence of death envelopes the land,” she continued. “With death in dominance, the veil thins, and spirits can linger. It is the balance between worlds.”

  “So, during this time, they would not be able to detect us?” Beaumont inquired.

  “Two nights from now, your chance will be greatest,” she offered. “The veil will be at its thinnest point. Death will be in dominance.”

  “It would not be enough,” the raven interjected at last. If anyone should teach the Ravenfell, it probably should be the Guardian of the veil, after all. He knew more than most about the veil and the world on the other side.

  “There are seasonal cycles, but nothing natural will cloak the breach we’re attempting,” the raven explained. “I was there when Dorga merged the worlds. It was rather hard to ignore, and believe me, I tried.”

  “Dorga exploited a weakness,” the Spirit Weave declared. “The veil was woven to provide a sense of safety from death for the living, but still hold the two worlds in balance.

  “Safe from the things that go bump in the night,” the drummer chanted.

  “The more humans believe in their protection, the stronger the veil holds. It is how we countered the changes in cycles and seasons. Even when death is strongest, something remains to hold it back.”

  “Believe it is so, and the dead things will go.” The drummer cackled as he said it.

  “It was once the duty of shamans to maintain that belief even when the veil was thinnest. Dorga slew most of them in his rampage. Then he killed so many others that there wasn’t enough belief to keep death at bay.”

  “But now civilization makes the bad things flee,” the raven added with irritation. “They repelled the shadows with their fires and light. They have barred the hungering beasts with their walls. Their perceived safety holds the boundaries more solidly than ever before.”

  “We have detected the change,” the weaver replied. “As magic is purged, the humans bring order to their world. That order has strengthened the veil. It will take something significant to counter it.”

  “Fear can bring it tumbling down. Tumbling down. Tumbling down,” the drummer broke into song as he spun in circles to the rhythm.

  “What if I bind and unleash Terror?” the warlock interjected with cold deductive resolve. “If mass murder on the scale of Dorga is not enough, then let us destroy civilization’s precious sense of order. I will remind them that even with their walls and fires, they are not safe from what lurks in the darkness. I will cast open the gateways to the hellscapes beyond and repay them in kind for the suffering they have inflicted on the creatures of magic.”

  “You are a powerful warlock, Ravenfell,” the raven confessed cautiously. “But even you have never dared to challenge the demon known as Terror.” Once more, he was surprised by a surfacing emotion. He was genuinely concerned for this human, and it wasn’t just because he needed him to succeed.

  “I have never faced off against Mad Witchdoctors or challenged a hive of demon spiders until now, either. Or death, for that matter. I am feeling resourceful, my feathered friend. It is time to make those who hunt magic tremble in fear.” He met Katerina’s eyes with a look of offering. “There are things they must pay for.”

  “I will only condone enough death for our goal,” Katerina warned to the raven’s surprise. “Life is still necessary for balance. If we inflicted everything they deserved, we would extinguish them all, and magic could reign again. Offer them the mercy they denied us.” The raven watched her pause cautiously as she considered the look on the warlock’s withered face.

  “But not too merciful,” she added just as Beaumont parted his lips to reply. “They should know the cost of their actions. The trauma of this night should resound through generations.”

  The demon flames in Beaumont’s eyes were an inferno as he silenced the comment on his lips and grinned back agreeably.

  “Two nights from now is a full moon,” Beaumont growled. “I shall unleash Fenris as well. The howl of the werewolf lord can scar a mortal’s soul.”

  The warlock laughed exultantly, reveling in the destruction to come. The lady smiled hesitantly at first, but the same gleam of excitement shown in her eyes. Her smile grew more pronounced until she was caught up in the Ravenfell’s mood and joined in the laughter.

  A perfect pairing of darkness indeed, the raven considered as he watched their cunning designs drive yet unrealized passions to new corrupt heights. Hildegard must be laughing in her little wooden tomb.

  “In essence, you want the world of magic to declare war on civilization,” Katerina summed up deductively as she looked around at her new companions. They were a strange alliance, but she was just one more oddity among them.

  Katerina had no issue with harvesting the souls of her enemies. Since she unlocked her dark gifts, she had brought death with frequent and repeated brutality more times than she cared to count. Of course, those assaults were always upon havens of the cult, the enemy. But after so much bloodshed, even those distinctions meant little to her.

  This was an attack on all of civilization, however, not just a single stronghold filled with cultists. Every ramshackle hamlet and walled fort where humans found refuge would be a target, which meant every soldier available to their cause would be needed.

  Those were the lives she was concerned for. She had gone to great lengths to rescue and sustain the last vestiges of the magical world from the encroachment of civilization. Every mystical creature or legendary being she saved was a victory. And those wins were meager and infrequent lately.

  A chance for salvation was in sight, but the lives she worked so hard to save must be put at risk to have any hope of succeeding. And her Harvest of Souls would not be there to protect them.

  “For but a single night,” the warlock offered consolingly. He seemed to sense her hesitance. “By dawn, if we succeed, the survivors may retreat to a sanctuary beyond civilization’s touch.” He spoke so sincerely about the promised sanctuary that she couldn’t help but believe him. Though there was a cruelty to the Ravenfell, he kept it directed at those who displeased her.

  “And if we fail? What will happen to my charges then?” Katerina asked.

  “If we fail, there won’t be any place safe for anyone,” the raven answered, drawing a sharp glare from the Ravenfell.

  “The witchdoctors claim these spirits were like gods before the veil banished them from their subjects. They long to regain that power,” the warlock interjected.

  Beaumont was clearly trying to soften the bird’s blatant certainty with careful reasoning. She appreciated the effort, though she had already d
educed the same outcome.

  “I know hunger for power, my lady,” he continued. “It is addictive. If they have managed all of this with the essence of magical beings, they will not stop hunting them simply because they achieved their goal. This is the only way to ensure your charges are safe.”

  “I chose this dark path to protect them,” she proclaimed. “I embraced the essence of death to grow a world where they could be safe. I would be naïve not to think that wouldn’t require losses. There must be sacrifice to create this new home. It is the cycle of nature. I do what I must.”

  “If you know where the last of these beings hide, we must go to them and gain their agreement. We do not have much time to prepare,” the warlock suggested, his soothing tone submitting to the haste of the moment. He stepped forward with outheld hand as if ready to whisk her away once more.

  “That won’t be required,” she answered with a polite smile, stepping back. “All my rescues have sworn themselves to my cause, and the spirits of those lost await my command. I need only send word.”

  The Ravenfell enjoyed demonstrating his skills with magic, but it was time for a little display of her own. With a gentle touch, she brought her gown of woven ivy awake. Tendrils of thorny grey vines writhed like balled worms across the garment. A profusion of blackened flowers opened tentatively along her shoulders, releasing a swarm of tiny glimmering lights. They rose from the flowers like pollen captured in the wind and alighted within her hand to dance in delighted little circles.

  “Woodland sprites,” she offered. “Spirits of them at least. They refused to be reborn in the harvest, choosing instead to infest my gown. Although they have their uses.”

  “Clever,” the warlock complimented with a nod. He seemed clearly intrigued, though she wasn’t certain if his gaze was more curiosity or demonic hunger.

  The spirits were perfect little messengers when granted adequate forms. Unfortunately, it required the essence of death to create new life, and the only thing even close was the faint essence emanating from the undead witchdoctors along with their stench. She doubted they would appreciate her stealing either.