Chapter 1

The Raven’s Wing stank of watered down whiskey and the people who drank it. Muriel Stormborn nursed her bourbon as she watched the rundown inn across the street. Tonight, there was no dancing or happy bar songs on the balcony. A haze of smoke drifted in front of Muriel’s eyes. A man at the window looked at her for the fifth time. Another man lurched along the road. Muriel couldn’t be sure, but it seemed she could smell him from here. He had a slight limp and walked as if he was in the stage between drunk and staggeringly drunk.
The inn was dark in the night, but people were in there. Just how many was the problem. She set some coins on the table. Waiting until the man at window was ordering another round, she slipped over the rail and let herself down. The drunk meandered down the street as she crossed the road. Melting into the shadows, she took stock. The drunk stank worse than she could have imagined. Whatever he had gotten himself into, it was not going to come out this week. She listened as he shuffled down the road. The uneven footsteps stopped, then she heard him slide down a wall, landing with a pathetic thud.
The inn was silent. She moved to a window and found it nailed shut. She looked up to the second story. The windows were dark. She silently moved to the rear of the building. These windows were also nailed shut. Even in the relative coolness of the night, the heat pulled on her skin. Inside it must be stifling. Silence surrounded her.
Drakyr take them, she thought. They must be professionals.
She looked at the roof, still not liking what she saw. An overhang jutted out over three feet from the wall. Climbing to the roof would be difficult. Doing it silently would be nigh impossible. She looked at the next building over. The walls were little more than piled timber, but that overhang was just over a foot. The distance between the two was over thirty feet. Doable, but how to be quiet about it?
A light moved in the slit of the boarded up window across from her. She stole under the sill as the window creaked open.
“By the gods, the stench!” a man’s voice said.
“It’s cooler than this oven,” a woman answered.
“You’re telling me we get to die of the heat or the stench, is that it?”
“Stop your drinkin’ and we could go summer’s else.”
“Woman, you’re the one drives me to it.”
They started laughing. Muriel shook her head. The houses on either side were occupied, but also only one story. The Raven’s Wing was two stories, but also very busy. It would be better if they had some sort of rowdy fight, music, something, but the weight of misery hung over the place like a wake. The building across the street looked empty, climbable, and quiet. She listened to the old couple banter about the relative merits of odor or heat when she had an idea. It might put her behind a little, but it improved her chances.
She slid from house to house until she was sure no one from the inn could see her cross the road. She circled back to the house across from the inn. The outer walls were rotted and easily gave way as she clambered onto the roof. Crawling like a beetle, she moved to where she could see the inn. No lights. She prayed they didn’t see her there. She brought out a small, dry plant and started chanting. After a few minutes, a breeze broke through the absolute stillness. Muriel infused her voice with her will, feeling her magical energy drain with the force of the spell. The wind slowly picked up. She resisted the urge to call the wind all at once. She needed it to slowly build. Imperceptibly build. She chanted for another hour, almost draining her energy. By the time she was done, there was enough wind that she could smell the sea a mile to the north. She whispered another prayer that she was careful enough nobody noticed the change in the wind, then cast Vernath’s Whirlwind with the last of her energy.
Immediately, hurricane force winds gathered directly under her, pushing her up. She felt the familiar surge of freedom as she rose into the air. Directing the force with her hands, she gained elevation until she was at least 80 feet above the roof of the inn. She flew across the street, then commanded the winds to set her down. She landed as quietly as she could, the wind from the first spell covering the sound of the whirlwind above the building. The whirlwind ended, but the larger spell lingered. It would last another half hour or so, then probably die back to nothing. No one could predict it, though. She’d heard of others who tried to conjure up a breeze like that only to have it get out of control and turn into a sandstorm that lasted days.
She crept along the roof until she found a hatch. Wood shingled roofs like this usually had one so people could replace the shingles. No one wanted a leaky roof during the rainy season, and the periodic storms would usually rip some free. Luckily, the hatch was not locked. She opened it and slipped in like death itself.
The near perfect blackness was not quite as oppressive as the heat in the absolute stillness. She dared not risk a light, so she felt along until she found a wall. She listened, but heard nothing. They had to be here. It was the only way anything made sense. Where in the names of the Divines were they?
She slid into what felt like a hallway. She listened for breathing, but only heard her own. They must be downstairs. She had to be sure. As much as she didn’t want to get cornered up here, she sure didn’t want to backtrack. If she were found, the Hells would erupt and take her and her quarry with her. She could not let that happen.
Creeping down the hall, she worked her way to a door. It was closed, but when she tried the knob, it wasn’t locked. She felt a keyhole, then moved on. Nothing this important would be left unlocked, even with guards. Locks were great defensive devices for guards. They created a barrier and an alarm for them. Even someone magically silenced would make noise as they picked the lock. Those who couldn’t pick locks would have to break down the door. Sometimes, it took more than one try. When that happened, pain followed. Even the simplest locks could turn the tide of a fight against the intruder. Muriel had a deep respect for locks.
She tried each door along the single hallway. The inn was small, relatively speaking. There were three doors on the left side of the building, two on the right. Only the last door on the right was locked. It was a bolt lock from how it reacted to her push. Not terribly difficult to pick, but the mechanism could scrape as the bolt retracted from the jamb.
As good as an alarm, Muriel thought.
Unless the guards were sleeping, they’d be alerted to her presence by the noise. She slowly lowered herself to the floor and got on her belly. She lay there, listening at the crack near the floor. The breeze outside whistled in the window boards. It was loud enough she couldn’t hear anything else in the room.
Muriel waited. Energy was flowing back into her after her flight over. She was less than half of her full magical strength. She drew her dagger with her right hand and mistletoe with the other. The door splintered as lightning blasted through it. Tinder dry, the fire started immediately. Leather boots pounded up the stairs. They ran into the room with the broken door as Muriel stepped out from the middle doorway. Confused cries came from the room and she saw their silhouettes as they came back out. Summoning the force of a gale, she blasted them down the hallway. The wall gave and they disappeared into the darkness beyond. They’d survive, but hopefully she could reach her objective before they came back. Her quarry couldn’t be in the locked room if the guards were downstairs. She ran down, trying to figure out where they came from. Fire flickered from the ceiling. Only one door was open. She sprinted in. Flames were already licking the ceiling. Shadows danced around the room like demons. Brant Therion lay tied on the bed.
Blood soaked the sheets. From the smell, they had not let him up even for bodily functions. When she touched him, he was burning hot. The bile, feces, and urine had bred infection. He wasn’t going to be any help in this rescue. She ran to the front door where she was met by the stinking drunk.
“He’s here,” she practically shouted. “Follow me.”
Muriel’s eyes teared from the heat and smoke as she led Leon Trant into the burning building. The upper floor was already engulfed in flames. She and Leon picked the limp body off the bed as the ceiling crashed down behind them.
“No way out!” Leon shouted.
“You carry, I’ll lead.” Muriel shouted back.
Leon nodded, then threw Brant over his shoulder.
Summoning the last remnants of energy, Muriel pulled toadstools from her pocket with her right hand while forming a complex series of gestures with her left. Responding to her summons, the land beneath the inn shifted below the wall in front of them. She could feel the earth moving, but the energy ran out before it was large enough to do anything to save them. Heat baked her back.
Next time, try subtle, she thought. This was going to hurt, but not as much as burning her apprentice and her charge to death. She reached past her dry energy reserves and continued working the digging spell. She was wracked by pain as the earth beneath the wall moved. She tasted blood as her body was consumed by the magic. The wall lurched and fell, releasing the cool night air into the room. She staggered out with Leon to her left. As they were leaving the building, Leon turned to her. He looked up, then into her eyes. She saw stars as he twisted Brant’s feet into her face. Her body burned from magic and flame, Muriel went down with a gasp. Pain shot through her back as she hit the ground. More pain raked her head when Leon kicked it like a ball. He kicked her again, this time in the arm. The next hit her thigh, which immediately went numb. She didn’t even have the strength to ask why. Then he was gone. The world went blacker than the night sky, but all she felt was the fire getting nearer.