The Raven's Chronicles. Rage of the Wraith

Chapter 6. The Hanged Man

Jules clung to Ravin's back as they galloped through the night, the houses of the Stone Town blurring in the rhythm of Opal's hoofbeat. The castle grew before them, a grey block of stone against the black sky, with torches burning on the wall like motionless fireflies.

The hunter reined in before the gate. He dismounted hastily and banged his fist against the iron door. The thump echoed in the silent night; only a raven sleeping on the canopy cawed with indignation.

"Open the gate!" the hunter roared. Something moved on the parapet walk; a shadow of a man leaned to look down at them, then straightened and trotted back toward the tower of the guardhouse.

The chains creaked, the portcullis lifted slowly, and the gate opened. Ravin detached the bag with the swamper's head from the saddle and cast his apprentice a short glance.

"Take care of Opal," he commanded before storming toward the castle door, dark blood seeping through the bag and tracing his way.

Jules looked up at the raven; the bird stood still, staring at him with a disturbing intensity. A shiver ran down the boy's spine. He readjusted himself in the saddle, took the reins and rode through the gate into the castle yard.

"Lead the way, buddy," he leaned to whisper to the stallion's ear. "I have no idea where the stable is."

Opal neighed quietly, then walked the far, dark end of the yard. He stopped right before the stable door, waiting for Jules to dismount. The door cracked in the hinges when the boy pulled it open. Ravens cracked and flew, circled the yard and landed on the roof above the door, tilting their heads and watching.

Jules patted the stallion's neck, then took the bridle to lead the horse inside. As they stepped into the darkness, he extended his hand and conjured the ball of magical light. It's glow reached the closest boxes, falling gently on the sleeping steeds.

"Let's find a place for you," the boy led the horse down the aisle between the boxes, keeping the magical light small and low as not to disturb the other animals. He muffled a yawn and rubbed his face, smearing the drying mud over his nose. "That's been a hard night, hasn't it?"

Just as Opal whinnied in response, Jules heard a rustle - a horse must have stirred in its sleep - but then a loud flop made the boy halt. A three-legged stool rolled into the circle of light provided by the bluish ball. In the darkness, just where the glow didn't reach, something moved in the air, groaning and cracking...

"Who's there?" Jules demanded.

The horses around woke up and neighed, alarmed. Only Opal stood still and silent, pricking his ears. Jules detached his reila from the saddle, then held it between himself and the darkness. Straining his Sixth Sense, he searched for a supernatural presence. A faint smell of wet soil and rottenness reached his nostrils, so weak he wasn't sure if it was real or he only imagined it. He stepped forward with the weapon in his hands.

The bluish light pulled out of the darkness a figure trashing in the air. A man, hanging down from a balk, with a loop of a thick rope clenched around his neck. The rope crackled under his weight; he threw his hands in the air, dangled them like a drowning man, trying to reach and loosen the loop... He rotated toward Jules; the glow reached his mad, bloodshot eyes.

Jules righted the stool, jumped on in and swung his reila at the rope. The man fell onto the ground with a thump.  He wriggled, tugging at the loop, choking and sputtering.

"Somebody help me!" the boy yelled at the top of his lungs. The horses neighed and his voice barely made it out of the uproar. He kneeled by the stranger. The loop was tight; the boy took his hunting knife and tried to cut it, but the blade was too thick and unwieldy. "HELP!"