Chapter 4: Mistresses of Nathum

The conversation with the matriarch was not particularly exhilarating. Aronya did not like it when her brother behaved improperly for the likes of his rank. And because she held Arajon personally responsible for the events in the Draq’enar, he got to hear some awful lot from her. He was lucky that she was his cousin, which is why he escaped major punishment procedures. In addition, there were much more important topics to discuss, which is why she refrained from consequences. Nevertheless, he was not in a good mood. Because Aronya had verbally chastised him for certain. It wasn’t only due to the escapades of the previous night, but also because she had questioned his sense of duty regarding the events in Nathum.

As commander of the Blood Blades, Arajon was responsible for securing the provinces of Rayan, especially those at the borders. Rayan’s matriarch maintained a good friendship with her counterpart in the South, and she did not want to jeopardize it because of lousy misconduct by her military staff. She had spat poison and bile, thrown every shabby insult at his head that came to her mind in her anger over the ritual murder of Nathum. She had threatened to impeach him if he did not resolve this matter immediately. And she was not wrong. It was the most gruesome massacre Rayan had witnessed since the time of the old blood feuds. A disgrace to regiment and a serious threat to diplomatic relations with Nemesava. He had not forgotten the uprising that the Nemesian elders had rehearsed a few days ago in the council building. His brother-in-law was one of them. The grumpy guardian of morals had never liked Arajon very much, and this time he had every reason to expose him in front of the assembled council members. The perpetrator had acted bestially and brutally beyond all measure, with a clear declaration of war against the neighbouring queendom. The fact that he was still at large would soon be blamed on the lord-commander.

The hot vapours rising from the thermal pool of the Boiling Grottoes concealed the sweat that appeared on his forehead at the thought of the bloody deed becoming public. As always, the water was a bit too hot. If Aronya was so keen to make personnel changes, she should start with the spa’s warden. The commander’s head dangled sullenly on his shoulders. And not even in the seclusion of the bathhouse was he safe from the rioter, who only made things worse last night.

Aaron shuffled towards the pools with a mighty hangover. When he saw his cousin bobbing morosely at the edge of the water, his question as to why he woke up in the palace this morning was quickly answered.

“Ah, my blood angel!”

Arajon did his best not to lose his composure. But his cousin has never made it particularly easy for him. With far too much momentum, he jumped into the water next to the commander and moaned unmistakably as the warm water washed around his naked body. A few of Aronya’s handmaidens giggled furtively at the other end of the thermal pool. That was exactly the kind of attention that Arajon didn’t need right now.

“Do you have to be such an eccentric big jerk all the time,” he grumbled unnerved.

“What’s wrong with you again?”

Aaron had no sympathy for his cousin’s whims. After all, it was him and not Arajon, who yesterday had caught a good cut from this half-strong juvenile in the arena. This insolent rascal. Hopefully, his jaw would still lay in pieces tomorrow.

“What’s wrong with me? With ME...” Arajon pulled the general, momentarily paddling in the pleasant water, back to the edge of the pool.

“We have a problem. A shit-fucking big problem,” he drummed into Aaron. “The border forest is raging while you are fighting some puppies in a sandbox banter at night.”

Aaron didn’t understand a word but his blood brother definitely was in a bad mood again. Why Aza once preferred this grouch to him, he still didn’t understand.

“Now, get yourself together again, Raj. You’re in an even worse mood than I am at Blood Moon.”

The general knew how to deal with his hot-headed commander. In the end, they were like brothers. Aaron was only too happy to overlook the fact that he sometimes forgot who his superior was in private. After all, the general’s office should have belonged to Arajon. It was him, who had once founded the Raji’Draq to form a presentable army out of Rayan’s poorly organized and little cultivated mercenary gangs. The fact that the highest office fell to Aaron was solely due to the fact that he was the matriarch’s twin brother.  For this reason, he usually let himself be dutifully instructed by the Blood Blade master. But not without teasing every now and then.

“Let me guess. She didn’t let you have a go again, eh?”

That was the final straw. Arajon grabbed Aaron by the neck and violently forced him underwater. He left him there for a while before letting him resurface, gasping for air.

“Hey, hey. Don’t be so tempestuous, my blood angel,” the general sneered, still a little out of breath. “Why don’t you invite me to dinner first!”

Aaron had a lot of fun luring his commander out of his reserve. But his fooling around was not to last long. A dark-skinned wardrobe of a man found his way into the bathhouse. He headed straight for the two Rayonaigh and pushed the brawlers apart with his muscle-bound shoulders as he climbed into the pool. Next to Zakane, the two somehow always felt a bit smaller. Which was probably because he was about one and a half feet taller than them and at least twice as broad. Arajon’s first officer looked even more sinister than the commander himself, and that couldn’t bode well, as Aaron quickly realized.

“Did you both sleep on a nail board, or what?”

Arajon crossed his arms.

“Go tell him.”

Zakane wetted his face with the sulphurous thermal water. Then he snorted vigorously and reported to the general on the events at Nathum. He told him about the women’s corpses he had found there in a hilltop house and about the bestial calculation with which they had been executed. Aaron suddenly lost all his humour.

“I think I’m going to vomit.”

All the talk of intestines and formally dissected women’s corpses hit his stomach, which wasn’t quite sober yet. He was already musing for the exit at the edge of the pool, but a strong dark man’s hand laid down on his shoulder.

“There’s more,” Zakane’s bass-heavy voice informed him. The officer propped up his stocky body with his upper arms at the edge of the pool. Aaron and Arajon did the same. Obviously, he didn’t want a word of what he had to say to reach the ears of the rest of people in the pool, even if they were sitting far enough away to pick up something.

The secrecy should prove to be useful. According to Zakane, his sensitive olfactory bulb had detected a smell on the way to the bathhouse. An extremely special smell. Fear. The blood drinker was famous for his resourceful nose. He was able to determine the composition of every alcoholic drink at the regulars’ table in the Golden Pheasant down to the percentage. The same was true for meals, body odours, and all the other scents that wafted around his nose. One of the reasons why he did not like to be in the capital. The penetrating perfume clouds of the noble ladies strained his olfactory capacities. But not in this case.

The smell of fear came from a slender lad who had obviously followed Zakane and was skilfully hiding behind Aronya’s naked maidens at that very moment. Surrounded by busty female bodies, he would have been successfully overlooked in all the heated haze if the ebony-skinned Raji’Draq hadn’t spotted him. The spy still thought he was safe. And that should not change for the time being.

“She wants you to leave immediately.”

Zakane’s insistent words indicated that his mistress Aronya had other plans for him. Consequently, Aaron and Arajon set off for Nathum without him to question the locals there.

The small province was located on the southeastern border in the immediate vicinity of the active volcano Nath. Although the seething giant only threw a significant amount of lava around once every few centuries, earthquakes and ash rains occurred from time to time, according to the village elders. This was why the earth vaults of the hill houses around Nathum reached so infinitely deep. They acted as a buffer in the event of ground tremors and also offered refuge in deeper areas, where earthquakes were usually somewhat weaker. In addition, Nathum possessed a crystal shield envied throughout Gardyan. The shield’s resonating rhodolite consoles were the arcane masterpiece of local mages, responding to any little rock tremor. Their energy fields automatically set in motion when an eruption was looming. The geolithic protective wall had kept many a lava flow away from the province over the centuries. Again and again, the magma whipped up against the arcane shield, cooled, weathered in parts and then splintered in another volcanic quake, allowing razor-sharp fragments of a basalt dome to form around the shield. Because of them, the border town was an imposing eye-catcher for every traveller from afar, even if the shield had weakened considerably by now.

Aaron was amazed when they reached the valley breach of the Natharangan Rift at morningrise. Sure, the general has often had the district in front of him on maps. But he mostly considered the drawings to be exaggerated fantasies of artistic freedom from the hands of cartographers. Tightening the reins, he slowly restrained his dragon Aragosh from descent to landing before setting the majestic animal down on a hillock.

In all those years, he had never made it to Rayan’s Eastern border. Most of the time, he was quite busy on the Dragon Peaks and when he needed a break every now and then, he usually ended up in the capital or a little further down South.

“You’re getting around quite a bit,” Aaron whispered to his Arajon as he also landed close to his position with Rasheku.

“So would you if you inspected the outskirts more often.”

The commander relaxed in his flight saddle. The nightly route across the Rakatan Steppes was on his neck. With slight cracking noises, he stretched and took a sip from his leather drinking bottle.

“Into the border bushes, you mean?”

His cousin couldn’t just leave it. Meaningfully, he bent over his saddle horn in Arajon’s direction and, as always, was way too nosy.

“Now tell me. Did you fuck her again before all the shit here or not?”

Arajon held back, even if it was difficult for him. He was stressed enough and with best will in the world had no sense for Aaron’s childish provocations.

“You don’t fuck a Nemesian woman. You make love to her,” he said gravely and put his drinking bottle back into the saddlebag. He knew himself that his description was not always true, but he wanted this talkative idiot next to him to finally shut up.

“Ah, I see.”

His general was far from done with his inappropriate comments.

“Well, then I hope that your lovemaking will soon provide me a daughter-in-law.”

As she was promised to him in return for voluntarily withdrawing from courting the favour of Arajon’s lady of heart, now wife, like a man of honour.

“Have you already supplied the son-in-law for this? Your puppy obviously whines more like a girl.”

Disparagingly, a look fell at the new father to tell him the good news. His puzzled look was all the satisfaction the commander needed.

“The little lad supposedly comes after you,” Arajon let him know, peppered with a smug grin. “Screams around like a madman if he doesn’t get a nipple. Truly have to think about whether I want to put my future daughter through that.”

Aaron has rarely been seen so perplexed and taciturn. He had not yet heard of the birth of his son. How should he with all that trouble.

“It’s a boy?!”

In all of Rayan, there were hardly news of this magnitude that did not reach Arajon first. The guard of honour’s dragon riders had stuck it in his pocket that evening on the Draq’enar. They regularly stopped at the Dragon Peaks during their routine flights to supply their flying lizards. And on this fateful blood moon night, the deafening screams of a newly born fox blood with extremely strong lungs were to reach their ears from the lady of the castle’s chamber.

“As you can hear...”

Tightening his leather gloves and gently patting the throat of his scaly mount, the commander began to slide down into the valley on Rasheku. He left his completely aghast general on the hill without further ado.

“Hey, wait a minute! I have just become a father, and you have nothing better to do than to carry me off to the other end of the realm?! Arajon!”

Indignant, Aaron gave his war dragon a slap on the flank and followed his cousin into the valley for a rapid chase.

The sun was already flaring from behind the treetops when they arrived in Nathum. They left their dragons behind to rest on the extensive meadows in front of the hilltop castle. The castle’s road led along a quiet trickle of viscous magma. It was the natural outlet of the great forge of Nath, which rested behind the walls of the provincial town. The temperatures of the boiling embers had the moor ponds in immediate vicinity firmly under control. A sultry mist rose incessantly from the swampy ponds. Nevertheless, the glistening stream acted as a natural illumination for the mountain climbs that, in the shadow of the volcanic vent, led to the most daring of all settlement buildings on Rayan soil.

In clear contrast, the reception was chilly. The ritual murders had terrified the entire province. Although the tall pinnacle towers of the old border town were well protected by sturdy stone walls, who knew what vile creatures gained entry into the city in the dark of night? For safety, Nathum had sealed itself off from the outside world for a good week. Neither word nor wares penetrated from the outside to the inside or vice versa, which gradually consumed the stocks of the hill fortress. The fact that it took days for the commander-in-chief of the armed forces to show up here was an affront to many. After all, they had dragons and could have been here within a few hours if they wanted to. Much more arduous and also more dangerous was the way on foot or horseback for any messenger who would have set out for Rubinburgh in the course of the events. The number of those who would have volunteered for this undertaking was manageable anyway.

Aaron could feel the inhabitants’ suspicious looks like stabs in his back as he walked through the alleys towards the council building with Arajon. Once there, an angry crowd of women awaited them. An unusually colourful mixture of Rayan and Nemesian provincial godwits practically snorted them into the hall and gave them hell before they even could take a seat at the council table, which had been prepared for the hearing. Arajon would not comment on the accusations levelling at them. The dear general might gladly defuse them himself. Who slid further and further back at the table’s edge, as the furies jumped into his face. The screeching choir only came to an end when the high doors to the council building jumped open loudly once again. Those present listened attentively. Behind them, a fiery storm was brewing.

“Sit down.”

A dazzling personality from Nathum’s upper class ordered her chickens to the benches. The two Raji’Draq felt commanded all the same and sat down simultaneously. Wearily, Arajon lounged in his chair, unpacking his writing utensils. He knew that explosive ringleader and was glad, she managed to reign in her spiteful mob. But peace did not return for a long time. With a dozen other women in her wake, the local force of nature rushed straight towards the two outsiders. Her jawline was a bit strong and her voice a bit low for a common lady, but her knack for the latest fashion extravagancies made it clear that she was a glorious diva in every sense of the word. A pelted stola around her shoulders and an intricately twisted turban on her head, her oversized earrings flapped at her slender neck with every step her high heels took toward the inspector duo in the making. Arriving in front of the council table, she slammed an oversized tome on the table and first fixed Arajon with her menacingly flickering, amber-coloured eye lights.

“Is that him?”

Arajon nodded obediently, as was expected of him and swung an arm behind the back of the chair. His quill then proceeded to monotonously dot a random spot on the empty parchment in front of him, while he prepared himself for the parties to soon switch roles in this interrogation. The bold woman was Lady Dakeda, governess of Nathum and a wealthy trade expert. She did not dwell long on courtesies.

“Listen to me, Mr. Saaron or whatever your name is,” she growled in Aaron’s direction, stretching out her long neck like a viper right at him. “I don’t care, whose general you are, but you will now sharpen your pale eavesdroppers and listen to me carefully.”

“Aha!”

The entourage in her tow, consisting of female landowners and merchants, fired her up.

“Two years. We’ve been waiting here for two years for the rhodolite shipment from Rubinburgh, and not once did your would-be company find it necessary to provide the escort for this precious cargo to finally arrive.”

“Aha!”

Aaron tried to appease her with charming words:

“How could a man ever decline a request from such an elegant lady like y...”

“I’m not done yet,” she interrupted him snippily. “I don’t know what dissolute business your tin soldiers are doing up there in the North, but they certainly aren’t doing their duty.”

She opened the huge book and shoved it under Aaron’s nose. It noted all burglaries and crimes of the last decade. Arajon glanced at the last entries, while Lady Dakeda continued to put his blood brother to the test.

“Don’t you think we’re not aware that you from the North treat our province like your unpleasant backyard.” Her words sounded threatening. “You may have forced your city guards on us, but if this theatre continues, we will reintroduce the Qebele and then there will be an end to your dictations.”

A snap of her hands hissed close at Aaron’s face, accompanied by the snapping of the rest of ladies around him. Had the women rehearsed that?

“Well, nobody would want that, right,” Arajon tried to defuse the situation. In fact, no one in the North would’ve wanted that. The Qebele were the old district administrators of Nathum. They were known for their hostility towards strangers and had caused Rayan’s throne by far the greatest problems in the successful conclusion of the peace negotiations during the reign of Aaron’s mother. Their heart was beating Nemesian, but their mentality was clearly of Rayan descent. They made short work of prisoners and sacrificed their blood to the great forge in the Cavern of Blades within the volcanic keep. Arajon’s weapons were once crafted in it. Rajakhan was a noble broadsword, Radakhan a mighty battle dagger. The coves of both blades were permeated by burgundy veins of cinnabarite steel—a metal mined only at the Nath in all of Gardyan. A masterpiece of Nathum’s blacksmithing, whose hammer action with every blow proclaimed the war-tested nature of this border people.

“Lady Dakeda, when exactly did these arms deliveries go missing?”

Arajon competently steered the conversation back to the essentials.

“Two moons ago, just like the keys to your nefarious crime scene.” The domestic cave where the bloody deed had occurred belonged to one of the landladies in Dakeda’s escort. An emergency bunker in case of a volcanic eruption, which otherwise stood empty most of the time. Only occasionally did the homeowner rent out her property to travellers. And there were not many of them due to Nathum’s remote location.

“Where exactly did the thieves strike,” the Raji’Draq continued to investigate, much to the relief of his general, who was hopelessly overwhelmed by the angry entourage of ladies.

“At Amberfall.” Dakeda restrained her anger, if only for a moment. “There, you can also look around for the burned-down hunting lodge of Forest’s Chant, after you have finally closed down this disgusting harlot’s den of the old Woodleg.”

A last sharp look in Aaron’s direction gave a receipt for her words before further protest was announced at the gate of the council hall.

“My harlots den makes more sales with your men than you do.”

A rough, smoky woman’s voice openly challenged Dakeda. She turned around and would inevitably see her declared archenemy behind the rows of seats.

“I see you’ve already got your raven daughters ready for take-off.”

Mama Woodleg had not come alone either. After the latest events, she did not let her girls out of sight. Nevertheless, giving up the Red Raven was far from her.

“Nothing like that.”

In orderly rows she directed her maids of pleasure to the empty benches near the gate, among them a young girl blindfolded. Arajon’s gaze had quickly spotted her in the crowd. She looked sickly and deeply distraught. Dakeda hardly took any notice of it or at least neatly overplayed it.

“Your shebeen has caused us nothing but trouble,” she overtly reproached old Woodleg. “Murderers, thieves, good-for-nothings – you gather them all around the laps of your whores.”

“Lady Dakeda, I beg you.”

Finally, Aaron fought his way back to one of his infamous speeches.

“A woman’s business is her own affairs, no matter what kind of trade.”

He stood up and nodded Mama Woodleg with a benevolent look to her young courtesans in the rows of seats.

“We will now start the hearing and of course Mayoress Dakeda deserves the first word. Ladies.”

Dakeda’s clique was now also meekly relegated to the front row. “First of all, let me express my sincere condolences for the tragic events that have shaken your noble city. House Arayona will pay for all damages incurred and will of course take care of the matter with due priority. Nothing shall ever shake the honourable trade relations between Nathum and Rubinburgh. I vouch for it as your most humble servant. “

Arajon almost rolled his eyes at his cousin’s words, dripping with lard. At least his dramaturgically mature demeanour was successful. Sending a deep curtsy into the round, the general succeeded in appeasing the mistresses of Nathum merciful enough to let the hearing take its course without further escalation.

“With the esteemed Lady Dakeda being your chairwoman, it is incumbent upon her to speak first.”

Lady Dakeda sat down in the witness chair and folded her arms. Anticipating the questioning, she stated that the majority of those present could be removed from the hall anyway. Most of them had seen nothing but heard all the more. A young nobleman from the capital and his henchman were said to have been driven around with their weapon case by a corpse cart in the forests of Nathum in recent weeks. Sometimes in front of the border, sometimes behind it. More was not known. Many thought it was a coroner or one of those eccentric anatomists who assaulted freshly deceased corpses to study their physical peculiarities.

The information made Aaron and Arajon exchange some secret glances. There were only a handful of families in Rubinburgh engaged in this type of medical research. Only three of them were so close to the blood cult that their profile would have matched the heinous details of the murders.

The descriptions of the weapon case, which some of those summoned to the hearing submitted, also matched the lost torture weapons that the perpetrator had used in the desecration of the Nyeda sisters. It was too small for a sword, but big enough for a blade saw with which the monster had forcibly dissected one of the sisters.

Of greatest importance instead, were the testimonies of Mama Woodleg and her tormented crown witness. The council hall had visibly cleared over the course of the hours, so that only the women of the Red Raven and Lady Dakeda remained. The latter refused to leave the hall until she had heard every single detail from the mouth of the survivor with her own ears. Her blood should run cold in her veins at the frightening remarks.

The third of the Nyeda sisters was no longer in her right mind. With a physical and mental trauma of this magnitude, probably no one would be. Her ears were highly sensitive towards men’s voices and touch. She only let the old Woodleg get close to her, who held her hands reassuringly during the entire interrogation.

“What kind of animals are you breeding up there in the North?”

The owner of the Red Raven had already seen a lot in her life. Abusive punters were the most ordinary among it. Before its time as a brothel, her establishment was known as a gloomy jewel among the forest taverns. It was an inn, bar and office complex at the same time and considered a base for bounty hunters. Many a well-kept secret changed ownership there for cash. Even today, among all the suitors, you could find various sinister figures who disappeared into the guest rooms of the establishment when daytime air became too thin for them. In the last few days, however, it had become quiet in the forest villa, which had been bequeathed to Mama Woodleg by a distant relative. Whether it was because rumours of two high-ranking Raji’Draq were doing the rounds who intended to solve a murder in the area around Nathum, or because she had severely limited access to her girls after the incident, was open to speculation.

“We are here to eradicate such animals, madame.”

Arajon’s gaze fell on the maltreated girl.

“Is she fit for interrogation?”

Mama Woodleg snarled.

“As capable as one can be for interrogation when you had to witness the massacre of your own sisters.”

Manically, she stroked the back of Nesya’s hand.

“I took them in when they were kids, you know?”

Woodleg’s words betrayed a hint of guilt.

“The Red Raven is no place for little girls. But I never forced them to do anything and didn’t leave them to a man until they insisted on it themselves.”

Her reputation was worse than her character. The girls did what they wanted, not what they were told. They had all run away from home or were expelled for some reason and found refuge in the Red Raven. They had built up their business all by themselves, with Mama Woodleg as their business-savvy landlady. The old woman already belonged to the circle of merchant countesses when Dakeda was still hanging on her mother’s skirt. She would not let the presumptuous governess take this status away from her.

“If this person over there had a better grip on her guards, it wouldn’t have come to this at all,” she accused the district chairwoman.

There were plenty of clues. The stolen key, the robbery of the weapons transport to Soulwater, the body snatcher and his assistant. Dakeda simply proved her incompetence in the run-up.

“I’m not responsible for checking your suitors,” the chief merchant countess teased from the background. “No one could have guessed that the attack at Amberfall was connected to the girls.”

“What do you mean by that, Lady Dakeda?”

Arajon pricked up his ears.

“The stabbed transport guards were missing their eyes...” Now Dakeda’s gaze finally fell on the distraught girl. “But the robbery happened nights before the murder. There was no indication of a connection.”

A suspicion arose in the commander. It had matured in the last few nights. In the face of the rebelliousness of a novice, who clearly lacked respect for his general. In the face of a newborn within the regent family, who would undoubtedly inherit his father’s high position at some point. And in the face of a provocative series of murders, which deliberately tried to destabilize diplomatic relations in the border region.

“I think we are dealing with a fanatical resistance from the underground here,” he finally shared his suspicions with the remaining attendees. “Maybe also with an animalistic blood cult...”

He deliberately left the term “Blood Drinker” unmentioned. If Arajon was right, and this murderous beast came from the ranks of his own blood brotherhood, clever calculation would be necessary to unmask the mastermind of this plot without jeopardizing the reputation of the Rayan military. But one smelled the fuse before it was lit. Aaron had buried his head behind his folded hands during the verbal spikes that Dakeda and Mama Woodleg were dishing out to each other. But now his gaze wandered slowly to his commander, incredulous and yawning. He did not believe his ears when he heard his cousin’s theories. But Arajon continued.

“Lady Nesya,” he gently addressed the only surviving victim.

“I am aware that a Rayonaigh like me is the last person you want to talk to right now. But I need your help.”

Nesya turned her head away. Her wounds began to hurt a little more than they already did. Her face was intact except for the ominous blindfold that hid her empty orbits. She had hidden the gross wounds on her arms well under a grey cape. They would hardly have attracted the attention of a less attentive observer than Arajon was.

“Tell me, what did the bastard look like who did that to you?”

No sob was ever heard so quietly yet heartbreakingly at the same time. Encouraged by Mamma Woodleg’s hands diligently rubbing against her, trying to warm her at least a little in her suddenly so dark world of cruelty, she said:

“First... he was a man. Then he was a fox. And... and then a dragon.”

Aaron almost fell off his chair.

“Good, that’s it. I’ve heard enough.”

He didn’t really want to hear it. But Arajon did not let up.

“Was he also a raven?”

If Nesya spoke the truth, her attacker had mastered the first two stages of the animalis and thus bore the mark of the Blood Drinkers. The circle of suspects could only be further restricted if he had also mastered the third stage.

“The Raven...” Nesya raised her head. As if the blind woman was looking for a ghost in the vaulted ceiling of the council hall, she rose and began to wander around.

“The raven was in my eyes. He’s seen it all. And then he was in Phyron’s eyes.”

Her steps began to falter.

“Why didn’t he open the door? I was so very nice to him.”

Desperately, Nesya’s hands felt their way along a path she never wanted to walk again.

“Twenty steps. One hundred and twenty treads. Forty steps.”

In her mind, she walked the escape route and became more and more hysterical.

“Twenty steps! One hundred and twenty treads! Aaahhh”

Her screams reached the passers-by in front of the council building, who stopped in fright. Inside the building, limping Mama Woodleg struggled to catch the girl.

“Twenty steps with the raven! The Red Raven! SLIT, SLIT, SLIT! Aaahhh! Stab! Stab hard! Aaahhhhhhhh”

The other girls, who had been sitting very quietly in the back rows until now, hurried to Nysea and Mama Woodleg. Even Dakeda could no longer hold on to her vain pose and came to the aid of the old woman, who was now finally done with her nerves.

“Go,” the governess ordered the two Raji’Draq in bitter anger as she helped Mama and her wenches get the maddened blind girl out of the hall. “And let Aronya know that her throne still needs Nathum’s blades to hold it.”

Completely distraught and panting nervously, Aaron and Arajon were glued to their seats. Aaron was the first to leave, wordless, perplexed, and deeply worried. He was not used to dealing with such things. Quite different from his blood brother, who feverishly pondered upon possible explanations while he put his report folder back into the leather briefcase. The raven did not fit into the picture. Apart from the fact that he personally knew the few, who had mastered the raven shift by name, they were all loyal to the throne. The course of events also predominantly showed the actions of a Dragon Blood. Was there another person present? Traces that pointed to this were not found at the crime scene. Perhaps, at the ruins of Forest’s Chant, unexpected fragments would open up to solve the riddle.

It was about a mile and a half from Nathum to the hill houses of the forest settlements and another two miles to Amberfall. The Raji’Draq left their dragons in front of the provincial town. The terrain into which the last section of their reconnaissance journey was to take them was too impassable for the magnificent flying lizards, so they borrowed two stately black horses from Dakeda’s homestead for the ride. On their way, the scattered volcanic landscape of the Nath was transformed into a fabulous forest scenery. From the forest villages, a golden grove of trees made of ghost birches lined the course of the river to the falls of amber. The alluvial forest formed a natural border to the South, with Forest’s Chant as the last border post before Nemesava’s territory. At least it would have been a good border post if it hadn’t been abandoned years ago and recently reduced to rubble by someone. The old hunting lodge, like many hill houses, had not been used for decades. The area was very far off the beaten track and due to the great upswing of the provinces after the end of the war, more and more families from the rural area were drawn to the large conurbations.

The forest passage to the hunting estate seemed to Aaron and Arajon like a nostalgic ride through long-gone forest civilization. Orphaned country estates in the old Gardyan style, which were actually much too beautiful to leave to the ravages of time. Forest’s Chant was no exception. The foundation walls were still standing, which, judging by the damp interior walls, was due to a heavy rain shower, which must have started shortly after the pillage. It washed away most of the traces, but Arajon’s strange feeling that a larger company had gathered here before Forest’s Chant caught fire remained. His gaze fell over the magnificent forest slopes as he stood in the midst of the rubble. He would not have had far to go from here to Soulwater if he wanted to kidnap his sweetheart under cover of night.

“Are you falling in love with a pile of charcoal right now?”

His cousin hadn’t even gotten out of the saddle and was waiting impatiently on the gravel road,

“Maybe it can be rebuilt.”

A shame to destroy such a pearl of architectural magnificence. The back of the building had been spared the worst, including the house tree, whose roots grew over the roof as powerful as ever. The entrance area and the large foyer though, were completely destroyed.

“You would have to renew the support beams...”

The ricochets and traces of gunpowder indicated an explosion. Arajon’s fingers glided analytically over the charred wood. A pungent smell escaped it. Saltpetre and sulphur perhaps? There were not many in Gardyan, who knew about such explosives.

The commander wrinkled his nose. There was another smell in the air, that of burnt flesh. It could only be noticed very lightly. Most likely the remains of venison. Someone had treated themself to a last feast before everything went up in flames. But a whole game for one alone?

“Raj, I’d like to be back home for my son’s graduation,” Aaron croaked from the side of the road. “Do you think that could be set up apart from your shack romance?”

Ignoring the not-so-quiet protest, Arajon collected some samples. Meticulously, he filled smaller heaps of ash from each expansion point of the explosion into the sample vials which he had safely stored in the inside pocket of his jacket for further examination. The alchemists in Rubinburgh would know what to do with it. After careful contemplation of the source for the fire, he was to turn back to the unstable staircase when something flashed through the piles of ashes on the marauded doorstep. It was small and yet elaborately hewn. Arajon picked it up in amazement.

“By Arayona’s teats...”

Gradually, it became too draughty for Aaron on his black horse. His heavy chain boots sank a little into the rain-washed ground when he dismounted.

“Will you finally give in?”

This whole hearing had exhausted his patience. Determined to shoo his cousin back onto his horse, he climbed two of the stairs at a time.

“How can you be so dogged?”

His buoyant step was to be stopped by a round, metallic object Arajon slammed forcefully in front of his chest.

“Dogged? The only one who should be dogged here is you!”

Confused, the general looked at the emblem that had just fallen into his hands. His eyes widened. In front of him shimmered the pierced emblem of the Sionnaigh. His emblem. The Sion represented the clan of his wife, whose Blade Supreme he had become through marriage.

“Stop pretending to be blind. Your neck’s deeper in the matter than you want to admit.”

Arajon seemed to know or suspect far more than he let on.

“Why do you think Zakane is on the way...”

Too much said. Arajon bit his lip.

“On the way where?”

Slowly it dawned on Aaron that he had disregarded some crucial facts. Annoyed by his own lack of foresight, he grabbed Arajon by the collar.

“On the way where?!”

An exchange of glances as hard as steel told the general everything he needed to know. He roared at his companion before he let go of him in rage and trudged back to his horse. The commander trudged after him. But he couldn’t get hold of him anymore. Spurring his steed, Aaron was already chasing back to Nathum.

“Damn shit,” Arajon cursed.

The fox blood would ruin the whole plan. Actually, he wanted to report to his mistress in Soulwater immediately after all this. Now he could forget that part of the journey. But he had to tell her something, somehow. So, he decided to seek out the Red Raven instead of chasing his cousin.

“Is the Raven Messenger still active,” he inquired as he hunted along the all too familiar corridors of the former rogue bastion under great time pressure. His quill hesitated for a moment until he found the right words.

“The fastest,” he then ordered one of those red ravens at the bar that gave the historic villa its name and pushed his freshly written letter with four pieces of silver over the counter.

The property had lost none of its rustic beauty. Rather, the ladies who were executing their love services here had done everything they could to make their establishment even more magnificent. It had become homely, the multi-storey building, with extravagant bathhouses, study rooms, and even an in-house training ground. They were defensive, these harlots. But that wouldn’t change the fact that another page was added to the numerous dark chapters of the Red Raven these days.

The spear palisades menacingly throned on the roofs of the villa as the black bird flew towards dusk. Hopefully, he would arrive in time. Arajon wouldn’t. When he had returned back to Nathum, the moon stood in the sky already and Aaron’s dragon was gone. It would be an icy, fast-paced flight if he still wanted to catch up with him. Now it would become clear whether Rasheku was still able to reach his old top shape and whether his rider still knew the art of urban warfare.