Karl Edward Wagner - Ravens Eyrie

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eBook Version: 2.1

Raven's Eyrie

Karl Edward Wagner

Prologue

The child awoke at the sound of her own scream. A thin

scream, imbued with the fever that parched her throat. And still a

scream tight with the terror of her dream. Its echo hung on the

bare-timbered walls of her narrow room as she bolted from her

damp pillow.

Her fever-bright eyes stared wide with fear as they darted

about the room's shadowy corners. But the phantoms of her

nightmare, if nightmare it was, had receded. Klesst brushed the

clinging tendrils of red hair from her moist forehead and sat up.

Through the greenish bull's-eye glass of her lattice window she

could see the declining sun, impaled upon the reddened fangs of

the mountains. The late autumn night would close quickly, and

the darkness of her nightmare would surround her. And this was

the night when the Demonlord walked the earth...

Shivering despite her heightened temperature, Klesst dropped

back against the straw mattress. "Mother!" she called plaintively,

wondering why her outcry had not brought someone to her side.

"Mother!" she called again. She longed to call Greshha's name,

but remembered that the stout serving woman had been sent

away from the inn for the night. Greshha had not wanted to leave

her. Not when she was sick, not on the night of her birthday. Not

on this night. It was cruel of her mother to send her away,

Greshha whom she looked upon as her nurse. Smiling Greshha,

Greshha of warm hands and soft bosom. Not hard and cold like

Mother.

Greshha would have answered her cry. It was cruel of Mother

to ignore her like this.

"What is it, Klesst?" Mother's frown regarded her warily from

the doorway. She had heard no footsteps on the thick boards of

the long hallway. Mother moved so silently always.

"I'm thirsty, Mother. My throat feels so hot. Please bring me

some water."

How pretty Mother was... Her long black hair brushed down

the sides of her face, clasped at her nape, and let fall over her

shoulder and down her left breast. Under her shawl, her straight

shoulders rose bare from her wide-necked blouse of bleached

muslin, full-sleeved and gathered at her wrists. Her narrow waist

was cinched by a wide belt of dark leather, crisscrossed with

scarlet cord. Her skirt of brown wool fell in wide pleats to low on

her calves, and her small feet were shad in buskins of soft leather.

Klesst wore gold circlets pierced through each earlobe—just like

Mother—but Greshha had helped her sew bits of embroidery on

her garments, while Mother's were unadorned.

Her mother crossed the tiny room with her quick stride. She

caught up the crockery pitcher from the stand beside Klesst's bed,

then frowned as it sloshed. "There's water here, Klesst. Why can't

you get your own drink?"

Klesst hoped she had not triggered her mother's cold anger.

Not when loneliness shadowed her room, and the night was

closing over the inn. "The pitcher is so heavy, and my arms feel

so weak and shaky. Please, Mother. Give me some water."

Silently her mother poured water into Klesst's cup and placed

the blue glazed mug in her hands. Greshha would have held it to

her lips, supported her head with her strong arm...

Klesst drank thirstily, gripping the cup with both her

hands—surprisingly long-fingered for a child's hands. Her great

blue eyes watched her mother over the brim, searching her face

for anger, impatience. Mother's face was impassive.

The child's febrile lips sucked noisily at the last swallow of

water, and her mother took the empty cup from her fingers. She

returned it to its place beside the pitcher, then turned to go.

"Please, Mother!" Klesst spoke quickly. "My head—it burns

so. Could you place something cool on my head?"

Her mother laid her thin hand over the girl's brow. Yes, that

was so cold...

"I had the bad dreams again, Mother," whispered Klesst,

hoping her mother would not leave.

"You have a fever still. Fever brings bad dreams."

"It was that same nightmare."

Mother's eyes were wary. "What nightmare, Klesst?"

Would she get angry? Might she stay beside her if she knew

her fear? Klesst dreaded the thought of being alone in the

darkness.

"It was the dog again, Mother. The great black hound."

Her mother drew back and folded her long arms under her high

breasts. "A great black hound?" she said. "Do you mean a wolf?"

"A giant hound, Mother. Bigger than the bear hounds, bigger

than a wolf. I think he's even bigger than a bear. And he's black,

all black, even his chops and his tongue. Just his fangs are white.

And his eyes—they burn like fire. He wants me, Mother. In my

dream I see him hunting along the ridges in the mist, sniffing the

night winds for my scent, And I can't run, but he keeps hunting

closer—until he's snuffling up to the inn. Then he sees me, and

his eyes glow red and freeze me so I can't scream, and his jaws

yawn open and I see smoke cutting from his fangs..."

"Hush! It's only a bad dream!" Her mother's voice was

strained.

Klesst shuddered as the memory of her fear crept back again,

and she wished Greshha were here to hold her. "And I can see

something else walking the ridges. There's a man, all in black with

a great black cloak that flaps behind him. A man who hunts with

the black hound. I can't see him clear because the night hides

him—but I know I mustn't look at his face!"

"Stop it!"

The child gasped and looked wonderingly at her mother.

"Talking about it will only make you have the bad dream

again," her mother explained tensely.

Klesst decided not to mention the other strange man who

walked through her nightmare. "Why are they hunting for me?"

she asked in a frightened whisper. Dared she ask Mother to stay

with her? She again glanced to see if she were angry,

Her mother's face was shadowed, her lips tight and pale. She

spoke in a whisper, as if thinking aloud. "Sometimes when your

soul is so torn with pain and hatred... it can burn you out inside,

so your spirit can never feel anything else... and you can think

thoughts that are different, turn to paths that you wouldn't...

before. And later maybe your soul is burned out and cold... But

the fire of your hatred smoulders and waits... And you know

there's a bad moon rising—but there's no way to hold it back."

A gust of wind rattled dry leaves against the panes. Outside the

lattice window, night was striding over the autumnal ridges.

Ridges of Autumn

"How is he?"

Braddeyas shrugged. "Alive, I think, but that's about all. He'll

be dead by morning if we don't stop soon."

Weed spat sourly and nudged his horse alongside the wounded

man's mount. The man slumped over his horse's neck was huge,

but his thick muscled frame was now nerveless, and only the

ropes which held him to his saddle kept him from toppling to the

mountain trail.

Knotting his fingers in the thick red hair, Weed lifted his head.

"Kane! Can you hear me?"

The blood-smeared face was slack and pale, the eyes hidden

under half-closed lids. His lips moved silently, but Weed could

not tell whether there was recognition.

"Then again, he may not last the night even if we do stop

somewhere," Braddeyas commented. "Fever's getting worse, I'd

say."

"Kane!"

No response.

"He's been out of it since the fever set in," Braddeyas went on.

"And he's lost a lot of blood—still losing some." Absently he

scratched the dirty bandages that bound his own hairy forearm.

Signs of recent and desperate combat marked each man of their

small band.

"I don't like to stop," frowned Weed, assuming Kane's

leadership. "They're too close on us to risk it."

Braddeyas drew his cloak tighter about his narrow shoulders.

"Kane won't last till morning unless we rest."

"Pleddis won't push on through these mountains tonight,"

offered Darros, who had ridden back to join them. "Why won't

be?" Weed demanded. "He must know we're only hours ahead of

him. The bastard's probably counting his bounty money right

now!"

The dark-bearded crossbowman shook his head decisively.

"Then he'll be counting it beside a roaring fire. You won't find

nobody riding these trails tonight. Not with this moon. A man will

risk his life for gold maybe, but not his soul."

Weed glanced toward the rising moon in sudden awareness.

The long-limbed bandit was from the island Pellin, and not a

native of Lartroxia. Nonetheless, years of raiding along the

continent's hinterlands had made him familiar with the tales and

legends of the Myceum Mountains. He looked at the red moon of

autumn and remembered.

"The Demonlord's Moon," he whispered.

"Pleddis will have to make camp," Darros asserted. "His men

won't ride past nightfall. He'll have to wait for dawn before he

takes up our trail again."

"We can risk a halt, then," Weed surmised.

"We've no choice," commented Darros, his jaw set.

The two remaining members of their band, tall Frassos and

crop-eared Seth, proclaimed agreement by their grimfaced

silence.

"By the red moon of autumn, the Demonlord hunts;

His black hound beside him, lie seeks along the ridges,

Hunting blood for demonhound, souls for Demonlord..."

"Shut up, Braddeyas!" growled Weed, his ragged nerves

overstrung by the creeping sense of fear.

"We ain't going to make camp along the trail, are we?"

mumbled Seth uneasily. "Kane's just dead weight, and that's only

five of us to wait through the night."

"Any other ideas?" demanded Weed. "Night's coming on fast."

Kane's head did not lift from where he slumped against his

horse's neck, but his voice slurred thickly: "Raven's Eyrie."

"What'd he say?" Weed asked.

"Raven's Eyrie," answered Braddeyas, bending close to Kane.

He held water to their leader's cracked lips, then shook his head.

"Still unconscious. Like he's saving up what strength he has. I've

seen him do this before."

"Any idea what be meant?"

"Raven's Eyrie is an inn not far, maybe two miles from here,"

explained Darros, who knew the region well. "It overlooks the

River Cotras and the road that runs along the river gorge. Used to

be a major caravanserai, before Kane raided it years back. They

never rebuilt the place, and my guess is it's all in ruins now."

Weed nodded. "Yeah, I remember Kane talking about that

raid. Must have been about eight years back, because it happened

just before I joined Kane."

"I was there," stated Braddeyas with crusty pride. He had

raided these mountains even before Kane had come to them ten

years before. His hair was grey-streaked and thinning now, which

said something about the man, for the mountain outlaws seldom

died in bed.

All too true for the others of Kane's once powerful band—men

cut to pieces by mercenary swords when Pleddis encircled their

camp. This handful had slashed their way through his trap, but

three days of desperate flight still found the free-captain close on

their heels. Nor was he likely to quit their trail. The Combine

cities of Lartroxia's coastal plain had set a high bounty on Kane,

and Pleddis meant to claim it.

"If its walls are standing, the inn will give us shelter until

dawn," Frassos pointed out. He coughed thinly, wincing as pain

shot through cracked ribs.

"You know the way, Darros, then lead us there," Weed

decided. "Daylight's just about gone."

"It is that," someone muttered.

Night was closing over the mountains on great raven's wings.

Shadow lay deep beneath the blue-grey pines and frost-fired

hardwoods which shouldered over the narrow trail. Darkness

hungrily swallowed the valleys and hollows that spread out below

them—pools of gloom from which waves of mist rose to storm

the wooded slopes and poor over the limestone ridges.

A battered, gut-weary handful of hunted men—ruthless,

half-wild outlaws hounded by killers as remorseless as

themselves. Shivering in their dirt and blood-caked bandages,

they rode on in grim determination, thoughts numb to pain and

fear—although both phantoms rode beside them—intent on

nothing more than the deadly necessity of flight. Flight from the

hired bounty killers who followed almost on the sound of their

hoofbeats.

They were well mounted; their gear was chosen from the

plunder of uncounted raids. But now their horses stumbled with

fatigue, their gear was worn and travel-stained, their weapons

notched and dulled from hard fighting. They were the last. The

last on this side of Hell of those who had ridden behind Kane, as

feared and daring an outlaw pack as had ever roamed the

Myceum Mountains.

No more would they set upon travellers along the lonely

mountain passes, pillage merchants' camps, terrorize isolated

settlements. Never again would they sweep down from the

dark-pined slopes and lay waste to villages of the coastal plains,

then dart back into the secret fastness of the mountains where the

Combine's cavalry dared not venture. Their comrades were dead,

fed ravens in a forgotten valley countless twisted miles behind

their bent shoulders. Their leader, whose infamous cunning and

deadly sword at last had failed them, was dying in his saddle.

They were all dead men.

And night was upon them.

"Thoem! It's dark as the inside of a tomb!" cursed Weed,

trying to follow the shadow-hidden trail. He glanced uneasily at

the blood-hued disk rising above the ridges of autumn. The moon

cast no light this night.

"We're almost there," Darros promised him from the darkness

ahead.

Moments later the trail rose over a gap, and he called back,

"There it is! And there's lights! The inn hasn't been deserted, after

all."

Not quite, Weed observed. Even in the thick gloom, he could

see that Raven's Eyrie lay half in ruins. The grey stone and black

timber structure crouched on the edge of the deep valley below

them, rising from a bluff overlooking the River Cotras. By the

dim-eyed rows of windows, Weed noted that the main building of

the sprawling caravanserai stood at least three storeys. The

outlying wings of the inn appeared no more than fire-gutted

walls. River mist hung over the blackened walls of Raven's Eyrie,

and in the darkness below the limestone bluff, the Cotras

thundered its unseen rush to the western coast.

Cautiously they urged their exhausted mounts down the

twisting path that descended the ridge from the gap. The last grey

ghost of twilight died away as they emerged from the pine-buried

slope and reached the river road. Though wider than the path

they had been following, the river road showed signs of neglect.

New saplings speared through its hoof-beaten surface, and older

trees reached out from the looming forest on either side. Men and

horses had ridden by, and smaller hoofprints marked the passage

of an occasional drover, but wagon ruts were few, and these old

and eroded. Weed reflected that the depredations of Kane and

his men probably explained the near abandonment of this once

heavily travelled trace.

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eBookVersion:2.1Raven'sEyrieKarlEdwardWagnerPrologueThechildawokeatthesoundofherownscream.Athinscream,imbuedwiththefeverthatparchedherthroat.Andstillascreamtightwiththeterrorofherdream.Itsechohungonthebare-timberedwallsofhernarrowroomassheboltedfromherdamppillow.Herfever-brighteyesstaredwidewithfear...

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Karl Edward Wagner - Ravens Eyrie

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