The Raven's Chronicles. Rage of the Wraith

Chapter 3. The Lord of Arvene

"So it's here where you grew up?" Jules spoke for the first time in hours, his voice a bit raspy. The town was a labyrinth of narrow, winding streets. Old brick houses crowded side by side, pushing against each other's walls, fighting for space. Buildings, made of white stones and dark wood, soared towards the darkening sky. "It looks so empty."

"Welcome to Stone Town, the capital of the Arvene Fief," John Rogre's voice echoed along the empty streets. "It's how it's been looking nowadays. People are scared. They don't go out after sunset."

"I'll bring the town back to normal," a faint note of nostalgia could be heard Ravin's voice. Sitting on the horse's back behind the hunter, Jules was unable to see his master's face but knew it was impassive, frozen in the usual strict, deadpan expression. "It's no wonder it turned out this bad if there was no hunter here since Pritchard was forced to leave."

Jules muffled a yawn. They had been riding for hours with little to no breaks. It had dawned long after they had left the inn, and now the sun was already setting. Opal, Ravin's black stallion, had kept looking around for the whole day, his eyes searching for the Raimont's horse and the dog who had always trotted by their side. But they were alone now, and even after day turned into a late evening and twilight spread over the sky, the steed didn't cease looking for his animal friends.

"Prichard was your master, wasn't he? Why was he forced to leave?" Jules couldn't stand Opal's anxious whinnies.

Without Sokal running around them, the fief felt strange and hostile. The dog trotting along with the horses was one of Jules' first good memories after his mother and sister had been murdered. The huge, hairy hound had taken to the orphaned boy immediately - barking at Raimont every time the older apprentice had tried to pet him, he would turn on his back and demand belly-rubs at the very sight of Jules approaching.

The question was ignored by the two adults, who only exchanged knowing looks again. Jules didn't insist on getting an answer; Ravin had been gloomier than usual since the previous night and after their hunt turning out to be a disaster, the boy didn't dare to upset his master. The whole day had passed with a heavy silence hanging between them. Even though the hunter had never brought up the night's events, Jules felt them weighing heavily on his shoulder, and with Raimont being away, there was no one to share the guilt with.

They reached the market in the centre of the town, having not met a single man on their way. The streets were quiet, the shutters closed tight, no light escaping from the windows fronting the street. Even the inn was closed; at his time of the evening, it should be crowded and noisy with clatter of beer mugs.

Jules perked his head to look at a doll made of red rags that hung from a baker's trade sign. Similar rag dolls were nailed to the doors and window frames of each house they passed by. Dozens of red cloths and ribbons waved in the wind, like little flags, frayed and tangled.

"Those dolls... Do they mean anything?" the boy reached out and took one in his hands. He grimaced when the wet cloth touched his skin. With the ropes tied over its neck, it reminded him of a hanged man. "They're creepy."

"One of the local traditions," Rogre explained while Ravin gestured at his apprentice to let go of the puppet. "They are to drive bad spirits away."

"Because the Arvers, who rule over Arvene Fief, aren't very fond of us, mages," Ravin dismounted, careful not to buck off the boy who was sitting behind him. He took Opal's bridle and led him across the empty market. "I told you Lord Harald banished Pritchard, my old master, a year after I took the Exam. I doubt there has been a hunter here since."

"There wasn't," Rogre gave a nod. "And only the goddess knows it has been a hard time."

Jules' eyes rested on a little building made of red brick - a strange addition to the white-stone houses. There, no ragdolls hung from the oval windows, but just above the door, in a niche, a woman of stone stood motionless, wrapped in cobwebs. The Goddess Ziva, the Mother of Life.