The Raven's Chronicles. Rage of the Wraith

Chapter 12. The Moaning Hills

They rode a cart road that weaved between fields and farms scattered around like islands on a green sea. The sky, yesterday heavy with clouds, today spread over them, blue and clear.

"Look there," Ravin pointed at a grove that grew far away behind a field of millet. A narrow path led in its direction, and between old spruces, Jules saw a roof made of wooden tiles. "It's where I lived with Prichard when we worked for Lord Harald."

Jules stood in the stirrups of his saddle, straining his eyes to better see the house. Ravin rarely talked about his past; Jules regretted he didn't know Master Prichard, Ravin and Raimont's old teacher.

It was an unwritten law that a former apprentice took care of the current one if their master died. Thus, seventeen years old Raimont had ended up in Ravin's care after Prichard had passed away. They rarely mentioned their mentor, and Jules wondered if the man hadn't been close to them or if mentioning him was still too painful.

"I talked to Rosalie before we left," Jules squeezed his eyes when the rays of rising sun hit fell onto his face. "She claims that Melissa is not haunting the castle anymore. Strange, isn't it?"

"I don't think we convinced her to leave," the hunter shielded his face. The sun, red and swollen, was rising from behind the hills right before them. "Anyway, do you get on well with Rosalie?"

"What do you mean?" Jules' face became red in the sun's glow. "I talked to her only two times!

"I just wanted to know, if you're up to the task of helping her leave this world," the hunter gave his apprentice a long, examining look. "No need to make such a funny face."

"I'm not making a funny face!" the boy turned away, pretending to be occupied with re-adjusting his stirrup. He took a deep breath before he straightened in the saddle. "I'll help Rosalie to find peace. You can leave it to me, Ravin."

A river cut the road before them, A stony bridge held the two banks together. In the middle of it, a lonely rider on a white horse stood still, waiting.

"It's Kedmon," the hunter nudged Opal's sides. The stallion speeded up. Jules tried to hasten Grumbler, but the moody horse only turned his head to nip at his calf.

"You made it at last," the Lord shook Ravin's hand. He wore simple riding clothes; a long sword hung by his belt, and, by his saddle, there was a quiver and a longbow.

"It was you who told me not to follow you too closely," the hunter reminded.

On the other side of the river, the fields turned into wild meadows and behind them, a wall of the forest stood high up to the sky.

Ravin and Lord Kedmon quickened their horses to canter between meadows. Jules nudged Grumbler lightly with his heels and the steed followed the other two steeds reluctantly, whinnying in complaint. The boy watched enviously, admiring the graceful moves of Opal and the Lord's white mare. Grumbler lumbered, and Jules felt like a bag of potatoes jumping up and down in the saddle.

When they reached the forest, tree crown's closed over them, and they rode in green shadows between old spruces, firs, and beeches. They forged ahead deeper and deeper into the wood, up and down the hills. The path, once wide enough for the hunter and the Lord to ride side by side, now narrowed. The trees grew densely, extending towards them their wooden arms. The riders wound through twigs, raising their hands to shield their faces.

White, bare rocks projected above the ground. Their tall, heavy blocks were scattered between trees or formed stony walls; some of them narrowed under their tops and looked like huge, irregular mushrooms.