Page 7 of Deadly Maiden

Those injuries never healed any more than my gut wound.

I know how stupid and insane this is, sitting here hoarding stuff when I made that vow. It was a good, righteous vow, but resisting the hoard urge has proved difficult.

It is time for me to change. After twenty years, I have to accept that I am never shifting again. Or not properly. Not fully. How does an immortal live a life of tedium?

I’ll buy a wagonload of good beer and contemplate the sunset.

I’ll quit the enforcers and think.

I vowed on my wings and my flame to watch for the necromancer’s baby to turn and become something horrifyingand in need of destruction. I possess neither, and she seems to be a dead end, and that’s not even a pun, sadly.

I, Rorsyd, am a dragonshifter with no wings and no flame. And no purpose.

My hoard is not enough.

I might be done.

Done with watching. Maybe done with everything. I’m not sure how an immortal kills himself, but I am good at research.

Only one thing keeps me here. Her. Of course it is her. I dedicated myself to this one being.

I admit I am deathly curious about where she is going with her life and what she truly is. How could I have been so wrong?

I’ll go and see her one last time when the twenty years are due to expire.

A Raven Rises

Three miles high in the Scarrok Mountains, near the beginning of a pale, winding trail that leads upward for another mile to the gates of the decaying Fortress of Slaedorth, a patch of dirt stirs. Pebbles roll aside.

The last rays of sunlight flicker and fade, leaving the edge of this path unseen, except for perhaps a grasshopper or two. Something lances from the dirt, flinging dots of it hither and thither.

A beak emerges then a head with a single eye visible. This eye glows red. The other eye is missing. The damage is obvious and merely a concavity filled with a crisscross of white scars. Feathers shake then flutter as the raven drags the whole of itself into the cool air.

It takes a breath, or seems to, and opens its beak wide. No air is drawn inward, however, for this raven is fully dead.

Dead twenty years.

Dead and awaiting the call of time and the maturity of one small but not insignificant maiden.

It fluffs its wings, losing a few feathers, shakes its head again, scratches the last of the dirt from one ear, then launches itself into the night sky.

It circles a few times, cawing loud enough to make animals in the vicinity dash for cover beneath the trees. It judges which direction is correct by an inner raven clock. No moon is showing. No stars are visible through the dense clouds. Its wing-flaps are weak but purposeful. Its course is north-eastward to a small, moving, golem-master town that bases its economy on trading with the places it passes through.

Though driven by relentless crawling golems, by stone leg and paw, by stone arm and paw, the town could never outrun the raven. This bird may be dead, but it has a goal that was scripted in its mind by its masters. The girl must know of her inheritance.

A legacy is due.

Once the raven is out of sight, there is movement at a lookout post constructed years before to allow observation of the fortress and the land it presides over. Bright lights blink from the top of a tower, signaling a message. Three men astride dark-colored mounts trot from the gateway beneath and onto the trail then gallop in the direction the undead bird has taken.

An hour later, after the departure of the raven and the riders, a second undead servant pushes himself from his shallow resting place, brushes the earth from his tattered clothes and dirty-white hair then plods down the trail, on a north-east heading.

Chapter 2

Wyntre

The jostling is harsh as Landos and I descend the pedestrian ramp. Tens of townsfolk from their town of Bellamy are going up while we are going down.

“Did you see what’s arrived on the trade ramp?” Landos says.

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