Sea of Quills (Tales of the Black Raven Book 2)

by Seth Skorkowsky

  “I didn’t see anyone,” came a husky voice from further down the wall. Ahren froze.

  “Maybe they saw us coming,” said the man at Ahren’s horse.

  “Maybe.” A dog yipped then barked.

  Ahren slunk further into the shadows.

  “Looks like a traveler. Might have planned to take a chicken or two on their way through.”

  Braving a peek, Ahren leaned out from behind the tree to see Othmar holding the leash of a large hound. A bow hung over his shoulder. “Let’s take this back to the house. Uncle will want to know.”

  “Damn it,” Ahren breathed, watching the two men untie and lead his horse away. Aside from his crossbow and a few coins, nothing in his bags was valuable. There’d be plenty more horses in the viscount’s stable. Setting his jaw, Ahren headed quickly back to the manor.

  Shouts rang as the house came into view. Lights burned in most of the manor’s windows, and men armed with swords and tools hurried about the property.

  “Check the barn!” one yelled. “He couldn’t have gone far.”

  “Where’s Othmar?” a bearded man called.

  “Out hunting with Heinz,” a woman replied.

  “Go find them; they need to know.”

  Ahren drew deeper into the safety of the orchard. They’d found the viscount’s body faster than he’d thought. A torch-bearing rider emerged from the stable and raced down the road.

  With just a dagger, it was too dangerous to get closer, and it would be a matter of time before they searched the groves, their dogs sniffing at his trail. Cursing under his breath, Ahren hurried away.

  Still following the tree lines, he cut back across the fields toward town. Distant torchlights raced toward the village and up the pass as riders hurried to block off any escape. A mountain stream cut alongside one of the farms. Ahren waded through the cold water, hoping to hide his scent. After several hours, the commotion seemed to calm. Warily, Ahren made his way to Henri’s barn. Wet and exhausted, he climbed up into the loft, crawled behind the straw mound, and fell asleep.

  #

  “There’s no one here.” The urgent voice roused Ahren from his sleep.

  “He’s somewhere,” a man answered.

  The rear door of the barn creaked open. Ahren squinted between the floor planks to see the young, dark-haired woman dart inside.

  “Black Raven,” she whispered.

  Ahren peered over the edge.

  “Come quickly.” She ran into one of the empty stalls and dug at the grimy hay in the back.

  “Check the barn,” yelled one of the men outside.

  Ahren swung over the loft edge and dropped to the packed dirt floor. He hurried into the stall as the woman pulled up a wooden door hidden beneath the straw and filth. She motioned to a coffin-sized niche into which Ahren crawled. Her face turned to his. Twin knife scars ran from the corners of her plump lips, forming a grotesque and crooked smile. Steel-gray eyes met his for only a second before the thick door lowered, engulfing him in darkness. He heard the frantic scrapes as she brushed the hay and horse shit back over the hidden cubby.

  Hinges groaned.

  “Hello, Graita,” a voice said.

  “Karl,” she said, tersely.

  “We’ve missed you at the manor.” His boot steps thudded closer.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Someone tried to kill the viscount last night.”

  “Saint Vishtin, is he all right?”

  “He’s fine. We found the culprit’s horse and think he might be hiding in the town. Have you seen anything?”

  “No.”

  “No matter. We’ll find him.”

  Ahren remained still as the viscount’s younger nephew ransacked the barn above. After several long minutes, the man left. Voices chattered angrily outside before several horses hurried away.

  Footstep hurried to the stall where Ahren hid.

  The lid pulled away, and Henri’s face stared down at him, his expression a mixture of relief and scorn. “You failed.”

  #

  Grumbling, Ahren paced back and forth, struggling to understand how he’d misjudged the viscount’s death. Two knocks came from the heavy door. He ducked into one of the stalls, gripping the dagger at his belt.

  The barn door groaned open, and Graita stepped inside, carrying a bowl and pitcher.

  Ahren relaxed and stood, sheathing his blade.

  Her gray eyes widened for a quick moment as they met him. Lowering her gaze, she stepped inside and closed the doors behind her.

  The spotted cat seemed to appear from nowhere, mewing as is came toward her, its nose sniffing the air. Graita set the clay bowl and pitcher on the table.

  “Thank you.” Ahren stepped toward her.

  She swallowed, her lips barely visible beneath the jet hair over her downcast face.

  “I mean for saving my life,” he added, stepping closer. “That took courage coming in here while the viscount’s men were right outside.”

  Graita turned, but Ahren caught her fingers lightly. Their pale skin was rougher than they appeared.

  “You have nothing to fear of me,” he assured. “I owe you and swear to make the viscount pay for what he did.”

  Her gaze rose to meet his. The beauty of her face was still apparent even through the vicious scars.

  “You have my word.”

  She smiled, withdrew her hand, and left.

  #

  Chirping frog and cricket songs seemed to come from every direction as Ahren followed the shallow, tree-lined stream behind a field and into one of the viscount’s orchards. Failure in his business was a luxury no one could afford, and telling an impoverished carpenter that the great Black Raven had failed to kill a country noble had been both humbling and humiliating. Tonight, he’d complete the contract.

  A sentry strolled beside the perimeter wall, his form barely visible through the trees. Ahren kept low and slowly continued his way down the straight trunk rows. Crouching in the shadows, behind a walnut tree, he watched the grounds. The house was dark. But given the guard patrolling outside the grounds, Ahren felt sure at least two more wandered the sleeping manor’s halls. Even then, after the previous night’s failed assassination, the viscount’s security was still far below what Ahren had overcome on other jobs. Smoldering remains of a bonfire rested behind the rear courtyard. Beyond it, the viscount’s stables appeared dark and unguarded.

  After several quiet minutes, Ahren crept from his hiding place and hurried across the open lawn.

  Forgoing the scaffolding, he circled around and knelt before a side door. He withdrew a doeskin roll from his satchel and spread it out to reveal an assortment of delicate tools. After a quick inspection of the keyhole, he selected a pair of picks and worked the lock open.

  The scent of fresh flowers smothered the odor of dust and candle smoke permeating the dark house. Music flowed down from the second story. The viscount played his harpsichord seemingly carefree, apparently comforted in the safety of his men circling the property.

  Ahren found himself enjoying his quarry’s playing as he inched closer to the music room, dodging the patrols and servants along the way. He imagined the blissful feeling of security the noble must have felt. Crouched inside an empty bedroom, Ahren listened to the beautiful song.

  Once it ended, a door in the passage outside squeaked. Watching through a tiny keyhole, Ahren saw his prey saunter past on the way to his room. Still humming the viscount’s tune in his head, Ahren glided from the empty chamber, clamped his hand over the noble’s mouth, and sliced the man’s throat from ear to ear. Blood sprayed across the mirrored hall, specking the countless reflections with crimson dots. Gurgling, the nobleman’s horrified eyes found Ahren’s reflection and seemed to smile. Life faded from the old man’s gaze. Ahren led the man’s body quietly to the floor where a red pool spread out across the violet silk clothes and expensive rug. Once satisfied, Ahren blew out the table lamp, plunging the hall in darkness, and quietly left.
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  He padded down the servants’ stairs and through the kitchen before any of the wandering guards had come near. As a cloud passed over the moon, Ahren slipped outside and hurried across the open grounds to the safety of the trees.

  A voice screamed behind him. “He’s in the house!”

  Ahren wheeled around.

  The viscount burst from a doorway in the rear courtyard, clutching a broadsword. “Othmar, he’s here!”

  Stunned, Ahren stared at the gray-haired noble clad in red and white. How is this possible?

  Leaves crunched behind him.

  A dark silhouette moved in the orchard shadows and raised a bow. Ahren leapt behind an apple tree just as an arrow streaked past.

  “He’s here!” The archer shouted.

  Not giving the shooter time to re-nock his bow, Ahren bolted from behind the thick trunk and plunged into the orchard. Another arrow thunked beside him as he wove between the trees. Footsteps charged, and dogs barked in the distance, closing in.

  Ahren ducked behind a tree and pressed his back against it. Leaves crackled as his hunter move closer. Quietly, Ahren circled around, keeping the trunk between him and the archer. The rustling footsteps drew near then stopped.

  He held his breath; his fingers tightened around the dagger handle at his belt. The barks grew louder. Lights moved in the distance through the trees.

  The archer moved away and headed down one of the tree rows. Ahren waited several long seconds then carefully moved the other direction, trying not to crunch the dry leaves as he escaped.

  The shouts and barks were closer now. Their lights moved through the trees both behind and to his left. He ran.

  Ahren reached the crumbling wall. About to hop over to the field beyond, he spotted a torch-bearing horseman closing in. He crouched. Sword in hand, the rider followed the wall, scanning the orchard from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. As he neared, Ahren rose and hurled his dagger. The blade whipped through the air and buried in the man’s stomach. Dropping his torch, he yelled out.

  Ahren ran, leapt onto the wall, sprung onto the horse’s back, and wrenched the rider from his saddle.

  “There!” someone shouted.

  Grabbing the reins, Ahren spurred the mount and rode away into the night.

  #

  Cold wind swept down the rocky slopes, sending leaves tumbling through the empty streets. Parchment whipped against a well house post where it hung. Ahren’s sketched face stared back at him under the word “WANTED.” He tore the poster free of its square nail and let the wind whisk it away.

  Broken furniture lay scattered outside several of the shanty homes, telling that the search for the viscount’s would-be killer had been fierce. Keeping watch for anyone up at the late hour, Ahren hugged the shadows as he crossed the outskirt of town. Bits of broken wood and pottery littered the carpenter’s lawn. The barn was dark. Either Henri had found it too risky to leave even a hooded lantern burning or didn’t think Ahren would return. Blindly, Ahren felt his way to a tipped stool and set it upright. He unshouldered the bow and quiver he’d kept from the horse then pulled the boots from his tired feet.

  The barn door hinges creaked.

  Ahren dove into the shadows and pressed himself against the wall.

  A figure slipped inside. Ahren slid his hand toward his knife only to realize it was still in his discarded boot beside the stool. He felt for the pitchfork he remembered hanging on the wall beside him.

  “Black Raven,” a feminine voice whispered.

  Ahren remained motionless.

  “It’s only me.” Graita stepped deeper into the barn, her outline barely visibly in the faint light through the cracked door. “I saw you come in.” She chuckled. “Uncle said you wouldn’t come back, but I knew you would.”

  “I said I won’t leave until it’s over.”

  The young woman turned. Her white chemise appeared almost blue in the dim light. “Where have you been the past two days?”

  “Hiding in the mountains.”

  “Then let me get you something to eat.”

  #

  “You aren’t the first to try.” Graita petted the spotted barn cat rubbing against her leg. The curve of her smooth breast hung temptingly in the gown’s neckline as she leaned over.

  Ahren chewed the bland, stew-soaked bread.

  “Several years back, a farmer used an axe on him, but he survived. Later, some of the villagers pooled their money and paid a servant to do it. He stabbed the viscount ten times, but he still lived.” She sighed. “That was five years ago.”

  A knot of anger twisted in his gut. The old carpenter had failed to mention any of this when Ahren took the job. He sopped up the rest of the stew before setting the bowl on the table. “I know I killed him. When you’ve seen death as I have, you recognize it. He died. Twice.”

  “Then he is a demon that cannot die.”

  “No.” Ahren took her hand in his. “Kings, prophets, even demons, they all die.” He ran his thumb across her fingers and squeezed her hand gently. “I spent the past two days recounting what happened. There was a door in the rear courtyard he came out of after I’d killed him. Where does it lead?”

  She shrugged. “The wine cellar.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I suppose. He doesn’t allow anyone down there. He has the only key.”

  “Then it’s time to see what other secrets he might have down there.” Pulling her close, Ahren leaned in and kissed her.

  #

  Black birds flew across the sky above as if leading the charge to the manor house. Clouds hid the sun near the jagged mountaintops. In two hours, it would be dark.

  Ahren scanned the trees for any of the nobleman’s guards but saw nothing. Clutching his bow, he hurried across an open stretch until reaching the relative safety of a plum grove. Cautiously, he moved row to row, making his way toward the viscount’s home.

  “Right there,” said a throaty voice off to the right.

  Ducking quickly behind a tree, Ahren drew an arrow from his quiver and listened.

  “Good. Now, cover it up.”

  Ahren recognized the viscount’s voice. Keeping his back to the hard trunk, he leaned around in the direction the voices had come. Not seeing anyone, he hurried across the row to the opposite tree, peeked again, then to the next. He continued moving, trying not to rustle any of the fallen leaves. Eventually, a hint of blue showed in the gap ahead. Staying low, he crept closer.

  Viscount Prussek stood with his hands on his hips while his nephew Karl and a slender man with receding hair fidgeted with something on the ground.

  Karl swept the brown leaves before him. “Wait till that bastard finds this.”

  They stood. The slender man pulled a clanking canvas sack over his shoulder. Ahren hugged close to the tree until they passed then followed the men deeper into the grove.

  “There.” The viscount pointed to a spot in the middle of the lane.

  The balding man swung the bag to the ground and removed a blackened iron trap. Setting it down, he took a link of chain attached to its side and hammered it to the ground with a long stake. Heavy dread sank in Ahren’s gut. Scanning the orchard floor, he wondered how many of the traps he’d unknowingly passed. He’d easily kept clear of clumps of leaves, but at night, when he wouldn’t see as well, it would be a different matter.

  Once the hammering was done, Karl set his crossbow down and pulled the trap’s toothy jaws open while the man set the trigger. Seizing the opportunity, Ahren drew his bow, stepped out, and fired. The arrow pierced the viscount’s azure doublet and into his chest with a hard thwack.

  Karl flinched in surprise, releasing the iron jaws. The henchman screamed as they snapped shut, biting and breaking his wrists.

  Viscount Prussek staggered and fell to his knees. Ahren fired again, hitting the nobleman below the jaw. Blood burst from the man’s mouth as he fell back, gurgling.

  “No!” Karl screamed, snatching the crossbow from beside him.

  A
hren leapt behind cover before the man could aim. Leaves crunched as Karl raced toward him. Without time to draw another arrow, Ahren fled deeper into the grove.

  He slipped behind a tree and nocked a fresh arrow. Slowly, he leaned out, searching for his quarry. Karl stalked the neighboring lane, his crossbow up and ready.

  “There he is!” the wounded henchman screamed, his hands still caught in the trap.

  Karl spun and fired. Ahren dove to the side, the bolt barely missing him. He drew his bow, but Karl was already gone. Cautiously, Ahren stepped forward but saw nothing. Still wary of the iron traps lying in wait, he sidestepped and wove through the trees.

  Minutes dragged as Ahren and the viscount’s nephew silently stalked each other thought the straight rows of trunks. Several times, he glimpsed Karl, but the young man had vanished as soon as Ahren readied a shot. The rustle of wind and birds in the trees above only added to his growing trepidation.

  Something moved in the corner of his vision. Ahren turned just in time to avoid another bolt. Karl had already moved to reload by the time Ahren turned back.

  Distant shouts of commotion echoed through the woods from the manor. Soon, reinforcements would come. Continuing down the path, Ahren reached the stone wall. He looked back one more time before quickly hopping over and dropping the other side.

  He waited.

  Through the gap between two of the flat stones, Ahren spotted the burnt yellow of Karl’s vest. Slowly, he raised his head. The mustached man silently crept thorough the grove with the grace of an expert hunter. Suddenly, he whirled around, bringing the weapon toward Ahren. Without a moment to aim, Ahren drew his bow up and fired.

  The shaft streaked through the air. Karl’s eye exploded, the arrow plunging into his skull. He jerked. The crossbow twanged, sending the bolt harmlessly into the trees, and Karl fell twitching to the ground.

  Shouts echoed ahead. Ahren hopped back over the wall and raced back into the groves but away from the oncoming sounds. Finding a leafy plum tree, Ahren climbed up and hid in the branches. After several minutes, the shrill screams from the trapped man ended. Faint voices, their words unintelligible, moved through the orchard.