by Monte Cook
“We seek something that lies within his tomb,” Melann said. “It will help us remove an ancient curse.” She added with a whisper, “We hope.”
Again Orrag paused, deep in thought. Eventually he pushed himself away from the wall and regained a bit of his former, gruff composure. He circled around the siblings again. As before, Whitlock turned slowly to continue to face the bestial man, hand ready to draw his sword. Orrag stopped at the doorway from which he’d emerged.
“I can tell you where to find the crypt that you seek. How about that? Is that helpful?” Orrag told them, an unknowable smile coming to his gap-filled mouth. The only teeth that remained were slightly pointed.
“This … man doesn’t know anything,” Whitlock told Melann, pointing an accusing finger at Orrag’s wide chest. “We should leave. The rain would be better than this.” Thunder rumbled outside.
“Oh, I know how to find it. I know a fair bit about those peaks and the valleys in between. I know some of the goblins and orcs that live there.”
“No more proof do we need that this man’s a liar. Goblins and orcs—vermin!”
“Whitlock,” Melann said softly, “I felt that Chauntea brought us here, and now we’re seeing her plans for us come to fruition. This man can tell us how to get to the object of our quest. This is it, can’t you feel it?” She clapped her hands together and took a step closer to Orrag, her blue eyes peering into his misshapen face.
“ ’Course, it’ll cost you.” Orrag said quietly, seeming to hide a smile behind those cruel lips.
“What?” Whitlock turned back to the man who now leaned in the door frame. The light beyond revealed a simple bed made of hay illuminated by a lantern. Miscellaneous equipment, books, and what appeared to be maps lay scattered around the floor.
“The information will cost you,” Orrag stated.
“How much?” Whitlock asked suspiciously. Still convinced the man was a thief, the warrior planted his feet squarely on the dirt floor, as if a battle-ready stance might grant him greater resolve or awareness. He could use either.
“Well, let’s see,” Orrag said slowly, overdramatically, mocking a ponderous, thoughtful look. “This is obviously important knowledge, you understand. Hard to come by. I’d wager you couldn’t find it anywhere else.”
Orrag fanned the flames of Whitlock’s fears masterfully.
“I would say about a hundred gold pieces ought to cover it,” he stated finally.
Melann looked to Whitlock. He carried their money and knew that was approximately all that they had, but if Orrag actually knew the location of the crypt, could any price be too great? Melann seemed to have no doubt that Orrag spoke the truth.
“Whitlock?” Her eyes were wide and moist. “It seems so clear that Chauntea has brought us here. A grain house, no less! That’s got to be a sure sign of Chauntea’s involvement.”
Of course, Whitlock thought, Melann would always optimistically believe anything that sounded like what she wanted to hear. But, he had to admit, this could be their only chance. She seemed to have been right about the elven ghost. He looked into his sister’s eyes and saw only confidence. Perhaps her goddess had brought them here. Who knew?
“All right,” Whitlock told Orrag through clenched teeth. “We’ll pay your price.”
“Good. Let’s see it,” Orrag rubbed his cheek and opened his eyes wide.
“No,” Melann said suddenly. “You talk, then we pay.”
She knew they would be better to provide a united front, and so backed up her brother’s tendency for suspicion. Whitlock turned back to her and nodded with a slight smile.
Orrag didn’t flinch. “All right, fine,” he said. “You seem like trustworthy folks.” He cleared his throat. “Ride east away from town for a full day until you come to a small lake, then head south into the Thunder Peaks. You’ll pass through wooded hills, but it’s the easiest way through that portion of the mountains. After another three days’ ride, you’ll come on a narrow vale that’ll lead you to a high cliff face. You’ll find what you’re looking for there.” During his explanation, Melann produced a piece of parchment and took some notes so they wouldn’t forget.
“The entrance to the Crypt of Chare’en,” Orrag told them, “was built into the side of that tall, smooth cliff, but it was covered in a landslide long ago. If you have to get in,” Orrag grinned, “you’ll have to dig.”
Whitlock and Melann conferred for a moment, determining whether or not they had all the details they needed. Orrag claimed ignorance regarding anything but the actual location of the place. When Whitlock felt assured they could find the crypt on their own, he handed Orrag a leather bag with its strap pulled tight. “Here’s your money, half-orc.”
Orrag raised his eyebrow and looked at Whitlock. He took the bag and opening it, peering within to eye the coins.
Whitlock turned to the rough wood door leading outside. The wind still rattled the boards of the granary’s roof, but he had no intention of spending the night in the same structure as a brigand with orc blood. The storm had been fierce but mercifully short. Opening the door, he looked at Melann. She came with him, but glanced back at Orrag.
“Thank you, sir,” she told him, “and may Chauntea be with you.” Orrag didn’t speak as they left, but his face contorted as if the priest’s parting words were a curse and not a blessing.
Chapter Four
Ravens are liars. Though most people don’t believe animals to be part of the struggle between good and evil, no one, including the Ravenwitch, ever asked the ravens. Of course, even if she did ask, she probably wouldn’t get a truthful answer. The Ravenwitch knew her creatures enjoyed falsehood for its own sake and maliciously sought to trick and fool other creatures—and each other—whenever they could. They laughed at the misery and confusion of others and relished the infliction of pain and the letting of blood.
The Ravenwitch spoke to her feathered servants at length, in their own language, asking them the location of Yrrin. She quickly tired of their silly half-truths and used her power over them—master to familiar. Yrrin had been gone for at least half the day, and she needed him.
“Yrrin is gone,” one raven said.
“Yes, my dear,” the Ravenwitch replied, “I know that. I need to know where he has gone.”
“Away,” another raven cawed.
Her hair, as smooth and dark as a moonless night, reached to her waist and almost seemed like part of her long black dress. A cape covered in black feathers trailed behind her along the wooden floor of her tree home. All around her were dozens of ravens. The birds perched on every nook and ledge they could find, hopped across the floor, and flew about her head. She enjoyed, as always, their grace and beauty as they flew, but today she needed information, and she needed it quickly. The Ravenwitch didn’t smile at her servants’ antics this day. Dark eyes slowly began to smolder like kindling at the beginning of a dangerous fire. Her thin, graceful lips drew tight as she raised a graceful, milky white hand. A raven lit there and looked at her with eyes almost as black as her own.
“Where is Yrrin, my friend?” she asked the raven coolly.
“Flown away,” the raven replied, “gone to join King Azoun for tea!”
Without warning, yellow, soundless flames surrounded the raven and the witch’s hand. The bird’s wings rose up in surprise and pain, but it couldn’t leave her hand. The other ravens in the room took to the air, agitated and excited. Each black, round eye focused on its pain-wracked comrade. Raven thought held little room for compassion but a good deal for intimidation by example. Observe the misfortunes of others closely, lest they befall you—that was the way of the raven.
“I am sorry, friend, but I have no interest in your little games this day,” she whispered to the raven.
“He went outside,” the raven said with a quivering beak. “He never returned from fetching water from the river!”
The flame stopped. Neither the raven nor her hand showed any sign of burns. The raven flew off, its flight
wobbly and erratic, but it was unharmed. The ravens echoed choruses of apologies and pleas of forgiveness from the Ravenwitch, but she dismissed them with a gesture.
“I know you cannot help your natures, my friends,” she said, crossing to the staircase. “It is a terrible thing for a creature to deny its true nature.”
The Ravenwitch lived in a tree. This particular tree, however, stretched its branches much higher than those around it—more than almost any natural tree. The massive trunk stood like a tower in the middle of the forest, yet as big as it was, the hollow space within, where the witch lived with her familiars, was even larger than one might expect. Despite the room inside, the tree lived and in fact flourished with the presence and care of the witch and her familiars. The Ravenwitch flowed down wooden stairs that had never known a nail, saw, or even a chisel, her long hair and dress trailing behind her like a wake. The ancient grandfather of trees had formed the stairs, the various levels, and all the other portions of the interior structure, coaxed and encouraged by the arcane spells of its mistress. The tree was as much a familiar as the hundreds of ravens that called its inner chambers and high branches home.
The tree provided a narrow crack in its outer surface as an exit. The Ravenwitch passed through the curtain of black roses that entwined the tree’s bark and branches, avoiding each of the prickling thorns with a smooth fluidity. The dark rose vines gave the entire tree a somber, sinister look as it rose up far too high, blotting out the sun. One might have even thought it dead and blackened from far off. The grass around the base of the tree stood tall and thick, but the witch’s passing betrayed no presence. Ravens in the branches of the monstrous tree flitted and called, but she paid them little attention. She passed a number of normal trees in the forest descending a gentle slope. The Thunder Peaks rose around her in all directions, circling her hidden valley.
The Ravenwitch’s attention focused on finding her servant, Yrrin. For years he’d served her faithfully, and now she suddenly felt something amiss. The winds greeted her with scents she couldn’t immediately identify, but that somehow struck her as wrong. When Yrrin had come to her he was nothing more than a man. She rewarded him with power and ability. Her gift: Yrrin could transform himself into a raven the size of a bear, and he need not fear simple blades—only magic and silver could harm him. The Ravenwitch remade Yrrin into a creature of magic, blessed with the ability to change his shape. In return he performed chores, carried messages, and gathered information for her, though her ravens and divinations also provided her important knowledge and secrets.
But where was Yrrin now?
The edge of the river waited at the bottom of the valley’s slope. Tall grass grew even into the water. Beyond the river the land sloped upward toward yet another hill and eventually another peak. Insects buzzed at the river’s bank, and tiny animals and birds cavorted around her. The slow-moving stream smelled of loam and decaying plants as the summer sun beat down on it. What drew the Ravenwitch’s interest, however, were the trampled areas of grass she saw in the distance. She followed the river to where the grass lay matted to the ground. It appeared that a number of creatures had passed through this area. The odors she did not care for grew stronger.
The Ravenwitch heard the sounds. Grunting, cackling, and even howling rose in the distance, accompanying the sounds of movement. She moved closer, slipping down into the tall grass and deftly, softly passing through it, allowing it to cover her approach. A number of creatures with canine features—shaggy, dirty, grayish-red hair covering their bodies, long snouts, and tall, pointed ears—milled about across the river. Yellowish-green manes ran down their backs, with tufts of long hair the same color spotting their muscular, massive bodies. The creatures were taller than a man, some reaching almost eight feet in height. Their faces resembled jackals or perhaps hyenas, and they wore scraps of armor and brandished large, mannish weapons.
Gnolls.
Usually such stupid, magic-poor creatures hardly presented enough reason to cause her worry. None of them appeared to see her, and her magic could ensure they wouldn’t. A chill ran down her spine with clammy, ghostly fingers. Her eyes darted back and forth across the group of gnolls. Why was she so disturbed by them? And where was Yrrin?
The answers to both questions came to her after she moved just a few steps more along the bank. A body lay among the grass and reeds on the river’s opposite side. Bloody and tattered, the body of Yrrin remained utterly still, just a few steps away from the laughing, snorting beast-men. The Ravenwitch stared at her fallen companion for a while, realizing her magic could do nothing to bring him back. He was gone.
Without another thought, the Ravenwitch stood. A few of the creatures on the opposite bank turned toward her with wide eyes and growls of surprise, but she ignored them. Uttering just a few magic syllables, she raised both hands high above her head. By this time, all the gnolls were looking at her, a few grabbing spears or other weapons. They were just in time to watch black lightning arc from her open palms. The spell screamed like a soul afire, and the air around the bolt of power sizzled and roiled as if it abhorred its presence. Black fingers stretched out across the river in less than an instant, striking the first gnoll in the chest. The creature exploded, spraying tiny bits of flesh and blood in a small radius of pain around it. The bolt continued, lancing into a nearby gnoll. Its life ended in grisly death as did the first’s. The third gnoll, directly behind the second, seemed to actually evaporate when caught in the spell’s grasp, and the bolt likewise rendered the creature struck next into a reddish-brown vapor. Again and again the black lightning arced from target to target, until fully a dozen gnolls lay virtually disintegrated in a horrible display of sorcery.
“Damn you!” the Ravenwitch spat at their smoldering remains.
More gnolls were here earlier, she could tell by the amount of traffic that had passed through, but why? How had they slain her wereraven servant? They must have possessed some sort of magic. That disturbed her. The Ravenwitch would never have given the creatures such credit, but the truth of it lay obvious on the opposite bank.
The Ravenwitch cursed again and turned back toward her tree home. Yrrin would remain where he fell, for such was the way of the raven, and thus her way as well. The living always required more tending to than the dead, and this day two things burned within her: fear of the unknown and a need for vengeance.
* * * * *
Back inside the tree, the Ravenwitch sat swallowed in a large, padded, well-worn chair. Before her, a circular basin held clear water as unmoving as the iris of a huge eye. She wiped her brow and attempted to calm herself, preparing to cast her divinations. Ravens of various sizes flitted about the room, cawing softly—almost cooing. Dark eyes focused on the glassy water that reflected her round, smooth cheeks and ever-so-slightly pointed chin.
Finally ready, she held a tightly clenched fist aloft over the basin as she had many times in the past. The Ravenwitch slowly unclenched her hand, and black rose petals drifted down onto the water’s surface where they bobbed and floated. More and more of the petals fell, until the basin was black with swirling, floating cusps of velvet. As she stared, the petals formed patterns on the water’s surface. Patterns only she could perceive, revealing secrets only she could interpret, showed themselves as the divination that magic tore from the ether.
The Ravenwitch saw in the pattern a large form, domineering and powerful, rising from a place where it had long been imprisoned: a tanar’ri noble. Power such as it held was just the sort of power the Ravenwitch could understand, respect, and rightfully fear. This tanar’ri, she saw, would quickly gather power around it as it amassed strength. The being would threaten the entire area—the Thunder Peaks, the Dalelands, and perhaps even beyond, if given the chance. Already, she saw with vision beyond vision, the gnolls gathered instinctively to serve the tanar’ri.
A tanar’ri named Chare’en.
She recognized him from old tales she’d read in the ancient tomes that filled the high
shelves of her own library. The Ravenwitch felt that cold chill return to run down her spine once again. She shivered and tried to ignore it. The pool fluttered to life yet again.
She watched the swirling patterns and peculiar symbols of the magic waters reveal the actions of others. The Ravenwitch’s inner vision conjured forth a number of different forces currently coming together. Each of these forces, she saw, possessed different motives. Each was bent on helping to free the creature—some inadvertently, but some after years and years of careful, meticulous planning.
Chapter Five
It was good to have a purpose. Vheod’s footsteps no longer fell gingerly on the ground with the tentativeness of an explorer, but instead his stride betrayed the resolute determination of a man with a mission.
The village he’d observed earlier lay on the outskirts of the forest. Two days previous, Vheod watched laborers work to clear more of the land. As the sun rose into the morning sky this day, those same workers returned to their tasks. Sounds of axes against wood and falling trees filled the rapidly warming air.
Vheod hoped that someone here could direct him in which way to go. He needed to find the two people shown to him who would free Chare’en. Were they servants of the balor? Somehow he doubted that. More likely, he thought, they would inadvertently loose the tanar’ri lord through some other action. Stopping them, then, would be as simple as finding them in time and warning them.
He had no idea where this place, Tilverton, might lie. He was unsure even of its nature, though he assumed it must be a city or a fortress of some kind, since people obviously lived there.
In his previous visit, Vheod had slipped into the village after the descent of night. In the Abyss, he learned to approach others with either subtlety and guile or domineering aggression. The stealthy approach had served its purpose so far—now it was time for a change of pace.