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

by Seth Skorkowsky

  The bedraggled artist whirled around, revealing a purple and swollen cheek. “I told you—”

  “Shh!” Ahren hissed, closing the door after Perun had slipped through.

  “What do you want?” Laurente groaned. Dried blood ringed his nostrils and caked his moustache. “Go away.”

  “We’ve come to rescue you,” Ahren replied.

  The old man shook his head. “You’ve done enough. Get out before I call Yaskrim to kill you both.”

  “Ah.” Ahren removed a small vial from his pouch. “Calling Yaskrim is part of the plan.”

  His bushy brows rose.

  “Yaskrim refuses to release you until you are dead. Which means we have to kill you.”

  Laurente staggered back, reaching for a chisel on the table behind him. “No.”

  Ahren held up the vial. “This potion will make you appear, in all respects, dead. If Yaskrim believed you have taken your own life, he will likely remove such a valuable necklace from you.”

  Laurente’s white-knuckled hand loosened on the chisel handle.

  Ahren removed the cork and poured a few milky drops into a clay goblet. “You must drink this then call out for Yaskrim. Loudly. When he arrives, he will think you’ve poisoned yourself.” He returned the vial to his pouch then poured wine from a nearby decanter into the cup. “We will wait and watch.”

  His eyes still narrow with suspicion, Laurente took the goblet. Perun hid beneath a cream tablecloth while Ahren tucked himself inside a half-empty wardrobe. Pushing aside a fur-lined cloak, Ahren left a small crack in the door to view the room.

  Laurente drew a deep breath then downed the goblet. “Yaskrim,” he shouted, opening the bedroom door. “Yaskrim, you son of a whore, you can’t keep me! You think you have, but you won’t.” He picked up a green vase from the windowsill and smashed it into the floor with a crash. “I go to meet my maker, Yaskrim.”

  The young serving girl Ahren had seen downstairs rushed to the door. Laurente snatched the half-empty wine decanter and hurled it at the servant’s feet. Shattered glass and purple wine exploded everywhere as the frightened maid leapt away.

  “I go to meet Arieth, and when I do, I’ll tell him… I’ll tell him what a bastard you are!” The old man staggered back. He leaned against the short, round table under which Perun had hidden. “You hear me?” he called, his voice weaker. “Yaskrim.” Laurente stumbled and collapsed hard onto the floor. The empty goblet fell from his fingers and rolled across the room, dribbling a trail of purple droplets.

  The auburn-haired servant peeked inside. Her frightened eyes froze as she spied the old man’s body. Her chest heaving like a scared rabbit’s, she crawled over to him and tapped his shoulder.

  Laurente didn’t move.

  Running footsteps charged up the hall, and the scraggly-haired guard Ahren had seen with Yaskrim earlier rushed into the room, his hand clutching the sheathed sword at his side. His grip relaxed as he looked around. He dropped to his knees and rolled the old artist’s limp body over. Urine soaked the front of Laurente’s breeches.

  “Grehlt,” Yaskrim demanded, stepping through the door, “what’s going on?”

  Grehlt slapped Laurente’s paling cheeks. “He’s dead.”

  Yaskrim’s eyes widened. “What?” He stepped cautiously in the room, watching the artist’s body in disbelief. “How?”

  The bodyguard inspected the body then scanned the room. His gaze followed the trail of wine to the goblet several feet away. He picked up the cup and ran his finger inside and touched it to the tip of his tongue. He dabbed his tongue along the roof of his mouth then spat. “Poison.”

  The plump man ran his hand over his mouth and down his white-bearded chin. “Poison?” A long sigh escaped his lips. “Everyone out.”

  Grehlt and the red-haired maid hurried out of the room and shut the door behind them. Rubbing his thumb and forefinger in the corners of his eyes, Yaskrim lowered his head as if about to weep, but a soft chuckle emanated from his lips.

  “You stupid ass,” he said, lowering himself beside the artist’s body. He removed the cursed pendant from under Laurente’s shirt and ran his finger along the central yellow gem. “I gave you everything. But still, you wanted more. Was it worth it?” Reaching beneath his own shirt, Yaskrim pulled out a slender, gold chain. A disk-shaped pendant hung from the end.

  Ahren’s eyes narrowed, watching Yaskrim fiddle with the magical key.

  “You think death will buy you freedom?” the fat man asked, leaning closer to Laurente’s ear. “You’re mine.” Yaskrim rose to his feet and set the golden key on a thick, iron plate atop Laurente’s workbench. “You’ll never be free.” He picked up a sharp chisel and mallet and held them above the key. “Never.” He raised the hammer, readying to strike it down.

  “Stop!” Ahren hissed, stepping from the armoire, his dagger held before him.

  Yaskrim whirled around, his hammer still poised for the strike.

  “Put it down,” Ahren growled.

  Clutching his dagger, Perun slipped out from his hiding spot and moved toward the door.

  “So,” Yaskrim said, his eyes darting between the men closing in. “The murderers have returned.” He moved as if about to lower the mallet but then hurled it across the room at Ahren.

  Ahren ducked. The heavy hammer slammed into the wardrobe behind him.

  “Grehlt!” Yaskrim screamed, ripping his rapier from its scabbard. He swiped the blade then lunged toward Ahren.

  Sidestepping the attack, Ahren parried the fat man’s sword away and thrust. Yaskrim whipped the blade around faster than Ahren expected and knocked the dagger from his hand.

  The door burst open, and Grehlt charged inside, sword in hand. Perun sprung from beside the door, tackling him, and the two men crashed through a table and rolled onto the floor.

  Raising his sword, Yaskrim closed in on Ahren.

  Ahren staggered back into a row of shelves. Reaching behind him to find something to defend himself with, his hand closed around a cold, metal statuette. The plump swordsman drew his arm back, readying for the strike. Ahren swung the statue out from behind him, clubbing the sword blade away with a hard clang. He arced the statue back, trying to hit the fat man, but Yaskrim managed to stumble back. Ahren knocked the rapier blade again. He jabbed the squarish base hard into Yaskrim’s chest then swung, smacking it into his ribs.

  Across the room, Perun and the scraggly-haired man rolled across the floor, kicking and punching as they fought over Perun’s dagger. Grehlt’s bronze-hilted rapier lay several feet away.

  Ducking Yaskrim’s swishing blade, Ahren sprung across the small room, rolled, and snatched the discarded sword. He brought it up just in time to parry Yaskrim’s next attack. Their rapiers clanged as they traded blows back and forth. The fat man stumbled over Laurente’s body, and Ahren drove his blade deep, between Yaskrim’s ribs. The fat man cried out then fell backward against the green-canopied bed. He started to rise, but faltered and slumped to the floor.

  Ahren turned to see Grehlt struggling beneath Perun, his hand pushing up under the curly-haired thief’s jaw. Fighting the bodyguard’s throes, Perun pressed his dagger blade slowly into the man’s chest. Grehlt whimpered and kicked weakly as the steel blade inched deeper. His arms slumped back, and Perun shoved and twisted the blade. Blood gushed up from the wound and spilled down Grehlt’s twitching body.

  “Are you okay?” Ahren asked.

  Perun nodded and jerked the blade out. He wiped it twice on the corpse’s shirt and sheathed it. “The servants will call the city guard. We need to leave.”

  Ahren removed a slender vial from his pouch and uncorked it. A long, glass rod extended down from the stopper, coated in clear, burnt red fluid. Kneeling beside Laurente’s body, he wiped the rod along the artist’s nostrils and pale lips.

  The old man awoke with a gasp and began coughing.

  “Take a deep breath,” Ahren said. His eyes watered at the pungent smell as he re-stoppered the bottle and put it aw
ay. “The effects will wear off in a few minutes.”

  Laurente blinked several times, as if not sure where he was. His clumsy hands furiously wiped his mouth and nose.

  Ahren stood and removed the golden key from the table. “Perun, help him up. Let’s get out of here.”

  #

  “I can’t thank you enough for this,” Laurente said as they stepped into his house.

  Perun scanned the empty streets one last time before closing the door.

  “No need to thank us until you’re on your ship,” Ahren said. He pulled the key from his pouch and inserted it into Laurente’s medallion. Instantly, the lemon-yellow gem darkened to a rich blue. The short chain grew longer, and the pendant snapped free.

  Laurente let out a deep sigh and rubbed his throat. “Thank you.”

  Perun glanced at the artist’s bags still lying on the trunk beside the door. “We should be quick. The guards might come by here.”

  “We still have time before we should be worried,” Ahren said. “I think I’m ready for that drink now.” He removed three goblets from one of the dusty shelves and uncorked Laurente’s bottle of wine.

  Laughing, the old artist slapped Perun on the shoulder. “Agreed. You both deserve a toast!”

  “Why not toast to your freedom?” Ahren asked from the corner as he poured the drinks. He set the empty bottle aside and carried back three brimming cups of dark wine. “Surely, that deserves one.” He handed a goblet to the two men.

  “That it does,” Laurente chuckled, raising his cup. “To both of you, for setting me free.”

  Perun lifted his goblet and drank. The fruity wine was a welcome reprieve from the night’s excitement.

  “So where do we take this?” Ahren asked, turning toward the old man’s things stacked by the door.

  Laurente finished his cup and wiped his lips. “My ship is on pier seven, Black Raven.”

  Perun’s heart momentarily faltered. His eyes wide, he turned to Ahren in surprise. I knew it! He swallowed and then set his empty cup down on the table. Excitement pulsed through his veins as his hand slid toward the dagger at his waist.

  “I saw a cart outside,” Ahren said. “We’ll stack everything in it and take you down there.”

  “Don’t move, Black Raven,” Perun said, drawing his dagger.

  “What is this?” Laurente yelped.

  Ahren turned. His gaze fixated on the bounty hunter’s blade. “Perun?”

  “You have no weapon.” Perun stepped closer. “I don’t want to kill you.” He smiled. “You’re worth more alive.”

  Ahren back away slowly until meeting the closed door. “You have me.”

  Perun smiled. “That’s what I…” His vision slid in and out of focus. “Thought.” Licking his lips, he closed in. “I’ve waited—” His knees wobbled, and Perun staggered. Struggling to keep the dagger pointed at the Black Raven, his legs faltered, and he fell. The blade tumbled from his numb fingers, and darkness closed in around him.

  #

  An overwhelming acrid stench yanked Perun back to consciousness. His nostrils and lips burned, and tears instantly welled in his eyes as they sprung open. He choked and coughed against a cloth wad shoved into his mouth. Course ropes bound his wrists and ankles, holding him down with his arms above his head. Disoriented, he blinked as he looked around, finding himself tied to the bed in his room at the Laughing Gull. The Black Raven sat in a chair beside him, stoppering a slender vial before placing it in his bag. Panic coursed through Perun’s veins, and he struggled against the bonds.

  “Stop fighting,” Ahren said flatly.

  Perun stopped. He chewed against the rag crammed into his dry mouth. The burning itch from his lips and nose screamed to be wiped.

  Ahren thumbed through the stack of curled posters, stopping at Perun’s sketch. “Good likeness. Had life gone differently, you would have made a fantastic artist.” He dropped them to the side. “Your gift of observation is astounding, but your skills at burgling are average at best. Tell me, did you really steal Countess Gsanrovich’s necklace, or did the count loan it to you?”

  A muffled no escaped Perun’s gag, and Ahren gave an understanding nod.

  “Unfortunate for him since he won’t be getting it back.” He scratched his cheek idly. “You almost fooled me, Perun. But do you know what your mistake was?”

  Perun shook his head. Slowly, he worked the ropes at his wrists. He just needed one hand free to reach the dagger on the bedside trunk.

  “On the rooftop, you mentioned Whemile.” His eyes narrowed. “Stop struggling.”

  He stopped.

  “The baron in Whemile wouldn’t have announced the theft because he himself had stolen it from the margrave. So the only person who could have known about it, other than my superiors and the baron, would be the bounty hunter he hired to get it back.”

  Perun closed his eyes and sighed, realizing his mistake.

  “I’m not going to kill you, Perun.” Ahren said idly. “Viston, however, will. As will Count Gsanrovich once he learns his wife’s necklace is lost. But with your skills at bounty hunting, I’m sure you will manage to evade them both for some time. I left your bonds loose enough for you to get out once I’ve left. So you will have a head start on them. But not before I’m far from Frobinsky.” He lifted the slender chain holding Yaskrim’s magical key and set it on the table beside him.

  Forcing a swallow, Perun looked down at his chest. The blue-stoned pendant hung around his neck. Terror seized him as Ahren set a chisel against the golden key and lifted a mallet.

  Screaming through the tight gag, Perun fought against the ropes holding him to the bed. Heart pounding in his chest, he yanked and kicked against his bonds, shaking the bed frame.

  With a hard thwack, Ahren struck the chisel. White sparks sputtered from the disk, releasing a puff of gray smoke. Ahren struck it again, slicing the key in half.

  Perun lay frozen, his gaze locked in hatred as Ahren stood and dropped a black feather onto the table. A hopeless dismay settled in his stomach.

  Ahren picked up the roll of posters and scooped up the broken key halves. “Good luck, Perun.” He stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind him.

  The Raven’s Cage

  “I’VE COME FOR THE BOUNTY on this criminal.” The bounty hunter tapped Ahren’s chest with the rolled parchment and handed it to the bearded man behind the desk.

  A forceful hand pushed Ahren down into a hard, wooden chair. He twisted against the tight ropes binding his wrists.

  “The Black Raven,” the warden said, reading the crinkled reward poster. “What a handsome surprise. Tell me, how did you find him?”

  The bounty hunter snorted. “I’ve been tracking him for months over half of Rhomanny and even Mordakland. I heard a rumor he’d returned to Ralkosty. It wasn’t hard to track him down to a cheap tavern. This is the closest prison, so I brought him here.”

  Studying Ahren from across the desk, the warden’s thin lips drew into a tight smile. Behind him, shelves littered with books lined the walls of the small office. “It’s been several years since you terrorized our city, Black Raven. Any regrets?”

  Ahren said nothing. Outside, through a narrow window, the city churned with noise. Church bells tolled the hour. Ten o’ clock.

  “You won’t have much time for self-pity here.” The warden scowled. “I give it a week before your execution.”

  “About my reward, Warden Grista,” the bounty hunter reminded.

  “The poster says three thousand bishkas,” Grista said, dropping it on his desk and leaning back. “Obviously, I haven’t that much gold here. It will take me at least two days to gather it.”

  “I want four thousand.”

  The warden’s brow rose. “Four?”

  “He’s worth three in Ralkosty but more in other cities. He’ll ransom for at least seven as long as you’re patient.”

  A slender grin slid over Grista’s lips, the greed welling in his eyes. “I see. Four it is but onl
y after he’s been bought.”

  The bald bounty hunter stood silent for several breaths. “Done.”

  Grista’s attention returned to Ahren, still held in the chair by his captor’s firm grip. “It seems you will have plenty of time to find your regrets.” He opened a thick book on the corner of his desk and ran his fingers down a long list.

  Ahren strained to read the upside down names listed beside their numbers. The scrawled writing was too hard to decipher. Even if the name was on the page, he couldn’t read it at his angle.

  The warden’s finger stopped at an empty number. A black line crossed out the name that had once accompanied it. “Seventy-three.” He dipped his white quill in a glass jar but stopped. With a smile, he opened the drawer beside him and removed a long raven quill. “More fitting, wouldn’t you think?” With a flourish, he wrote the name beside cell seventy-three. “Search him.”

  A sword rasped from its sheath as the two guards in the back of the office moved in. One grabbed Ahren’s long hair, wrenching him to his feet. Hands patted him down, removing his belt and taking his silver ring. The gate sentry had already pilfered his gold one.

  An old guard yanked off Ahren’s boots. “My son thanks you.”

  Another guard hooked his dirty finger hard inside Ahren’s cheeks and peered into his mouth. Finding nothing, he slapped Ahren hard across the face. “He’s clean.”

  Grista gave a sadistic smile and poured an amber drink into a pair of glasses. “We’ll take care of our investment, Volker. Please, have a seat.”

  The hulking man took the now empty chair and raised his glass to Ahren as a brown sack was pulled over Ahren’s head. “Here’s to you.”

  The office door creaked open.

  “Go,” one of the guards barked, grabbing Ahren by the shoulder and pushing him outside.

  Straining to see through the bag’s thick weave, Ahren could barely make out the narrow corridor the men led him down. Oil lamps flickered in their sconces. Under their orange light, he managed to see heavy, iron-bound doors and barred windows.