Silver Raven Chronicles Part Four: Circles in Salt

The Humbert House was a wreck that had only been made worse by the passage of time, and the company that had come through its doors. Tables and desks were splintered to kindling, stacked in piles that had begun to rot over the years. Mildew climbed the walls, and somewhere water dripped from one of the holes in the roof. The floor seemed sturdy enough, but there were places where it buckled if you put a foot wrong. Names had been scratched into the walls, and a dozen different gangs had tagged the place at one time or another, each crossing out the other’s street heraldry before making their own marks bigger and louder to declare the place theirs. Gnawed bones were scattered in heaps, and someone (or something) had been using one of the back rooms to do their business instead of going out to the jakes.

Despite all of that abuse and neglect, though, the Eye of Aroden still looked down from where it had been given a place of prominence on the wall of the main room, back from the House’s founding as a shrine to the Last of the Azlanti. Though dulled by dust and neglect, even the lowest of the low had enough respect not to touch that mark... especially this close to the border with Old Kintargo.

“Look, I’m just saying,” Bod said from where he sat on a desk that was just sturdy enough to support the halfling’s weight. “It’s suspicious is all. He goes through all these big, grand gestures, and then when it’s time for actual dangerous work he makes some excuse about why he can’t come.”

“He wasn’t shy about putting the arm on the Red Jills a few days ago,” Alesia pointed out from where she was keeping an eye on the street. She’d changed out of her usual garb, leaving her signet ring and other trappings at home. Instead she had wrapped herself in layers of indigo that made it hard to tell much about her at a glance, other than that she had a pair of horns on her head. The scarf she’d been using to hide her face hung around her neck. “Or in walking right into the Devil’s Nursery and swinging on those faeries who were terrorizing the neighborhood. Or-”

“I didn’t say he was a coward,” Bod said, putting up a finger like a professor correcting a student’s work. “I’m saying it’s suspicious him not coming with us tonight. Especially after he made a big show about helping plan this thing out.”

“Morvius is not as stupid as he likes people to think he is,” Rexus said, turning his head to speak over his shoulder. The scholar was running his fingers over the aged artwork, examining it by candlelight. He murmured a cantrip under his breath to carefully clear away some of the dust and grime, pursing his lips as he ran his eyes along the smooth, clean lines of what had once been a symbol of the entire nation’s faith. Something which was now nothing but a reminder of better times. “Even if he covered his face and wore a different tunic, there’s too much of a chance the brute minding the salt works would recognize him. He got us necessary information, which will always be more valuable than a sword arm.”

Bod snorted, but didn’t want to have that argument. Not when they were supposed to be keeping their heads down and waiting for a signal. He folded his arms, sticking his hands under his armpits. They were running a jail break from the salt works tonight; a crew of five men had been yanked off the street and put to work in chains to keep the salt works going so the city could keep raking in its profits even while the port was under blockade. Morvius had gone into the place earlier, all swagger and entitlement, asking about buying bond slaves. Just a day in the life for a Chelish noble. The dwarf in charge of the whole operation was little more than a sellsword, and a greedy one at that, but even he’d been too afraid of reprisals to outright let the Morvius buy the kidnapped prison labor they were using to pack and ship the salt. After he'd been given a tour of the salt works Morvius met up with Alesia, Bod, Songbird, and Rexus in the secret basement beneath Laria’s coffee shop, and spelled it all out for them. Number of guards, armaments, locations, locks… the works, pun intended. Bod had been impressed at the nobleman's eye for the practical. Grudgingly impressed, but impressed all the same.

Then, once he'd finished helping with the planning, Morvius had said he couldn't be there to help with the heavy lifting. They'd seen his face, or so he claimed, and if he was identified it would be a risk to all of them. It made good sense, on the surface, but like a silver bowl with too much tin in the mix, it just didn't ring right to Bod's ears.

A chill wind blew down the empty street, dragging dead leaves and gutter trash along in its wake. Bod shivered. He tried to focus, to keep his mind on the job at hand. Songbird was off in the darkness scouting out the salt works, getting an accurate count of what they were up against before they pulled the job. Despite the gravity of what he was doing, though, the tumblers in Bod’s head kept turning, pulling his attention back to the recent past.

With this crew it had been one thing after another, like a game of Bounder when the dice were particularly hot. After the incident with the corby and the murdered smuggler beneath the Longroads coffee house they’d tracked down rumors of a tiefling gang called the Red Jills looking for retribution against the city’s well-to-do. They took down the leader, and the others had scattered. Not two days later Bod had followed Songbird and the two nobles down to Red Roof where a bunch of murders had gone unremarked by the dottari, and they’d found a gang of tooth-stealing faeries along with a grisly rite that had summoned the damn things. Then they’d heard about a group of men getting rousted by the dottari, clapped in irons, and put to work packing salt. It seemed like any rumor of something going wrong, the so-called Silver Ravens wanted to make it right.

There was more going on just under the skin, though, Bod was sure of it. Things weren’t adding up. The Red Jills were a big enough gang with enough of a war chest that somebody should have stepped up to fill the power vacuum once the strix running the crew went down. Hell, the gang should have marked Alesia out as a traitor since she was a tiefling who’d come after her own, and they probably should have made an example out of Morvius for crossing them, high born or no. But that didn’t happen. The Chelish Citizen’s Group should have been using the murders in Red Roof as an excuse to put on a show of force and bully the tiefling-heavy population in a part of the city where they knew the dottari wouldn’t show up no matter how many people called for help. But they hadn’t.

It didn’t make any sense, unless you listened to the whispers in the corners, and sought out the folks most people ignored. Bod knew plenty of those, and he’d been making the rounds. Everybody had a story to tell these days, it seemed.

Jerina Redmane was a night walker, and while she was out on the prowl she’d heard something down an alley. Before she could look, a tiefling came sprinting out, tearing off their red coat and running like Asmodeus was coming to collect on a contract. Half a dozen members of the Red Jills were still in the alley, beaten and bloody, horns cracked, ribs busted, and teeth splintered. Jerina said she’d seen something down at the far end of the alley; something like a ragged shadow that had disappeared without a sound. Another guy Bod knew, a fat drunk named Doner Jabs who slept in a corner booth in whatever grubby bar would let him nap for the price of a glass, had seen something similar in Old Kintargo not long after the riot in the park. Instead of thieves and cutthroats, though, it was half a dozen of the so-called militia strung up by their heels from the top of a fence, hanging like sides of beef and shivering in the cold. Bod had even reached out to the few contacts he had among the dottari. Most didn’t want to talk about what they’d heard. Those who did made it clear you didn’t go into Old Kintargo after sundown. Something was waiting on those streets, and it didn’t care whether or not you had a badge.

When Bod had first heard the rumors about a vengeful ghost stalking the streets of Kintargo, he’d laughed it off. Far as he was concerned, it was just one of the dozens of tavern stories people liked to tell about the night outside; like how there were alligators in the sewers that would eat you up if they found you. But when enough people told you they’d seen something, you had to wonder what it was they’d seen. And since he’d found a huge, albino beast that he’d dubbed Albert in the smuggler’s cave beneath the city, Bod had to admit that sometimes there was a bit of truth to these tales. Even the unbelievable ones.

It was the sound of flapping wings that pulled his mind back to the here and now. Alesia’s hand snaked to her hilt, and she tugged the loose scarf back over her face with her tail. Rexus cupped the flame of his candle, and hunkered down, his eyes glimmering in the dimness. Bod was just about to reach for one of his hold outs when Songbird flapped in out of the darkness. The strix alighted on the edge of a heavy desk, flapped her wings twice to settle her weight, and then all but preened.

“Took you long enough,” Bod said, hopping down from where he’d been sitting. He blew a breath into his hands, and rubbed them together. “So, what are we looking at?”

“Night crew,” Songbird said, bobbing her head as if agreeing with her own statement. “Six guards. Five humans, and the dwarf. He was asleep when I got there, but now he’s awake.”

“Did you wake him up?” Alesia asked, stepping away from the door.

Songbird bobbed another nod, her smile growing wide enough to show her teeth. “Spooked ‘em. Got them hearing voices. Seeing spirits. They were plenty scared.”

“I don’t suppose I need to explain how that complicates things?” Rexus asked with a sigh. Even so, he couldn’t fight a small smile.

Bod had his mouth open to say something when he heard footsteps outside. Sharp and hard, they came at a steady march that echoed along the empty street. Alesia swiveled her head, her hand dropping back to her weapon. Bod edged back behind an overturned table, keeping an eye on the door. Rexus raised a hand, and power slowly crackled from his fingers as he gathered breath for a spell. Only Songbird seemed unperturbed, shuffling her feet so she could better face the door.

A figure entered the Humbert House. It was tall, broad, and vaguely in the shape of a man, but that was all Bod could really say about it. Darkness flickered around the edges, making it impossible to see any real details. He saw the shield on its arm clear enough, though, and the white rose it bore. And, just for a moment, something silvery on its chest; an unblinking eye. Almost instinctively Bod flicked his gaze over his shoulder, looking at the symbol of Aroden on the wall.

“Who are you?” Alesia demanded, showing a few inches of steel.

The figure didn’t speak. For a moment it didn’t even move. Then it raised a gauntleted hand, and held something up; a figurine of a small silver raven. Songbird leaped into the air, beating her wings and snatching the token back up. She alighted on the shadow’s shoulder, and tucked the tiny statue back into her pouch.

“Friend,” Songbird chirped. If she’d been pleased with herself before, she was positively beaming now. “I called him.”

“Hellfire and sulfur,” Rexus said, his mouth dropping open as he stared. “I thought he was just a story.”

“Come,” the shadow said, its voice as cold as the wind outside. “There is much to do.”

As quickly as he’d arrived, the ghost vanished back into the night. Songbird fluttered her wings, and then she was gone as well. Though his footsteps had announced his approach, now there was nothing but silence from the night beyond. Bod strained his ears to hear, and Alesia frowned. The tiefling tilted her head at the door, silently asking Bod’s thoughts.

“He’s an actor,” Bod stated flatly, folding his arms. “Lot of those out of work these days, what with the opera house closed down.”

“Awful quiet for an actor,” Alesia said, settling her blade back into its scabbard. “And there’s no light out there. How can he see?”

“Never said he was a human actor,” Bod said, shrugging his shoulders. His hair was trying to stand up on the back of his neck, but he frowned, refusing to let it.

“Just go,” Rexus hissed as he picked up his walking stick. “Argue about it later.”

For a second Bod looked like he was going to do just the opposite of what Rexus suggested, but he closed his mouth with an audible click, stuck his hands into his pockets, and stepped out into the night. Alesia followed soon after, her head turning and eyes scanning to make sure no one was following them.

Guttering lanterns burned atop several poles in Old Kintargo, leaving patches of wan, sickly light along the sidewalks. Most of the lanterns were dead behind their soot-stained glass, turning the district into something out of a nightmare. The cracked sidewalks looked like crooked smiles, and the shadowy bulk of buildings loomed up against the sky, their edges discernible only by where they blotted out the stars. The streets were all but abandoned, and those who were out on them kept their heads down as they tried to reach their destinations as quickly as they could. Songbird gave them soft, chirping cries of warning as they moved, allowing them to duck down side alleys or slip into the deeper shadows whenever danger approached. They were at the broken gate that led to the river, and the salt works just beyond it, in less than half an hour. As they came within a stone’s throw of the gloomy warehouse, with the bars on its windows and its heavy, iron-banded front door, there wasn’t a soul to be seen except for Songbird as she alighted on the building's overhang just above the ground-floor window.

“Where the hell is he?” Bod asked, glancing around, trying to peer into the shadows.

“Behind you,” Alesia said.

“Yeah, sure,” Bod replied, snorting.

A moment later he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. He stiffened, glancing down. A blackened steel gauntlet sat there, slipping between folds of billowing shadows. Bod's hand closed on the fist weight in his pocket, but the shadow soldier slipped past him, heading for the door. Bod instinctively worked his shoulder, trying to shake off the gooseflesh there. For a ghost, the guy felt real enough.

“The hell does he think he’s doing?” Bod hissed through his teeth.

“I think it’s called the direct approach,” Alesia said, slipping her rapier into her hand. “Come on.”

The ghost knocked loudly three times, his fist falling on the door hard enough to rattle it in its frame. A surprised cry came from inside, followed by a growl, and the stomping of heavy boots as someone approached the door. A bar was shoved aside, a latch lifted, and a thin beam of light spilled out. That was when the ghost rammed his shoulder against the door, smashing it into whoever was on the other side and bulling his way through.

“You can’t be serious?” Bod grunted under his breath as he pumped his arms, running for the door.

Alesia didn’t bother answering him this time, just bolted through the opening, her blade slicing along one of the guards’ arms as he raised his mace. He cried out, but didn’t drop the weapon, turning to face the new threat. Bod joined the fray, barreling into the man’s shin and knocking him off-guard for a moment. The mace came down and cracked Bod on the side of the head, but even as Bod stumbled away Alesia had seized her opening, her blade slipping through the man’s shoulder, wringing a cry of pain out of him. It was short-lived, though, since a blow from her hand guard sent him to the ground.

The captain stood toe-to-toe with the ghost, his morning star rising and falling as he bellowed for the others to stand up and fight. The dwarf’s armor was black, accented in red, and the enameled steel of his shield bore the sigil of Asmoedus on it. His teeth were gritted, and blood ran down his face from where the door had broken his nose. The ghost turned aside one blow, then a second. Before a third could fall, he struck the dwarf full in the face, his gauntlet crunching into the bridge of the warrior’s nose. For a moment the dwarf just stood there, swaying on his feet. The ghost grabbed him by his gorget, and pulled him closer.

“Where is your god now?” the shadow snarled, cold malice filling the room with a heavy chill. The dwarf tried to raise his morning star to continue the fight, but before he could swing the ghost backhanded the captain hard enough that the blow jerked him off his feet. The dwarf fell to the floor hard enough to shake the boards, his weapon clattering away.

For a moment the room was still. Alesia stood, blade raised, a single drop of blood falling from the point of her sword. Bod had a hand to his head, trying to make his eyes focus. Half a dozen guards in the corner stared at them like tourists at a zoo suddenly realizing the door to the tiger cage was open. For a second Bod thought they were going to do the smart thing, and just put their hands up. Then one of them raised a crossbow, and squeezed the trigger. The bolt slammed into the ghost’s shield, quivering where it was embedded in the rose like an indignant thorn. The shadowy figure nodded, the shroud billowing wider as if it were caught in an unseen wind.

The guards gathered their courage, but they’d gone no more than two steps when the floorboards erupted all around them. Tendrils of wood, many in the shape of grasping fingers reached up and snatched at them, twisting round their arms, their legs, and even encircling their torsos. Some managed to break the hold once, but were quickly ensnared again. As they struggled against their bonds, a figure entered the room. It came on glowing wings, glimmering like silver in the moonlight. It bore an amulet with the Eye of Aroden on its chest, and a crested helmet that did nothing to hide the piercing, dark eyes that stared out at those who had become prisoners.

The guards stood there, dumbfounded by what they saw. Even though several of them had loaded crossbows, it was as if they’d forgotten about the weapons as they stared at the bizarre creature who had joined the fray. Their eyes cut from the gleaming avian figure, to the ghost, to the masked swordswoman. Uncertainty drifted into fear, which verged on panic. Before they could scream, the silver creature opened her mouth, and a tide of brilliant, blinding light escaped from her maw. Once it passed, the silver figure was gone, leaving Songbird standing there in its place. The guards, though, slumped in the hold of the grasping floor, their blind eyes staring at nothing.

“The hell was that about?” Bod asked, wincing as he touched the goose egg forming on his head.

“Silver Raven,” Songbird said, nodding as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “People need a face to go with the name. So I made one people will talk about.”

Bod didn’t have anything to say to that. Alesia closed the door, taking a moment to peer out into the night. She shook her head, making a gesture with her hand that said no one was paying them any mind. The ghost looked at the guards.

“We must prepare them,” he said.

The tendrils of wood withdrew into the floor, releasing their grasp on the limp bodies of the guards. The shadowy figure bent over them, stripping them of armor and weapons in a quick, efficient manner. Using their own weapon belts to bind them, their heads vanished into sacks with strings drawn under their jaws to act as blindfolds. Songbird fluttered down to help, her clever fingers cinching and pulling. Just as she was finishing up with the captain, Songbird stood and jangled some keys.

“For the prisoners,” she said.

“In a moment,” the ghost said as it grasped one of the guards by the binding between his wrists, lifting him from the ground. “Finish one task before beginning another.”

“What does he mean by that?” Alesia asked. Her voice was calm, but her tail flicked sharply as her eyes tried to pierce the veil that hung around their unusual ally.

“Hang ‘em up,” Songbird chirped. She reached beneath her cloak, and took out a coil of rope. She followed the ghost into the hallway, flapping up into the rafters and lowering nooses for him. The shadowy figure slipped the guard’s ankles through, cinching them before Songbird tugged on the rope and secured it round a support column. Once the first guard was swaying gently above the ground, the ghost came back for the others.

“Guy’s dedicated to his role, I’ll give him that,” Bod muttered to himself. Alesia steadied him, placing her hand over the wound on his head. She murmured an invocation, and the split scalp knitted itself together. Bod sucked a hard breath over his teeth, and blinked twice. “Thanks.”

Songbird handed the keys to the ghost, then gestured at Bod and Alesia to hide. Stepping into the storage chamber, they closed the door so that only a crack remained. Songbird closed her eyes, and the glowing figure of the Silver Raven slid over her once again. She followed the ghost into the hallway.

“You really gonna trust this guy?” Bod whispered up to Alesia. “Just like that?”

“Songbird vouches for him,” Alesia whispered back. “I have no reason to question her judgment.”

“She works for Henderthane,” Bod said. Alesia shrugged one shoulder.

“Maybe one reason to question it, then,” she said with a small smile.

A heavy door creaked open, and Bod strained his ears to listen. For a moment there was silence, and the sound of slow, hesitant footsteps. A man asked a question, but Bod couldn’t make out the words. The reply came clear as the stars in a night sky, though.

“You are free,” the ghost said. “Go. Tell the people what you saw.”

A handful of seconds passed, and a motley collection of ragged humanity shuffled into the main room. Five men in salt-stained pants and crusty shirts, their hair unkempt and their stubble growing into beards, looked around warily. They didn’t run for the door, fighting and shoving to see who would be first into the night. A man with dark hair glanced out one of the windows, keeping himself mostly hidden behind the curtain. He stayed there nearly a full minute, watching. The biggest of the five, a blonde-haired lout whose blue eyes glimmered in his sockets, kept an eye on the door they’d come from in case their rescuers weren’t what they appeared to be. The silence dragged on. Finally, one by one, they fled into the darkness.

“Those weren’t run-of-the-mill prisoners,” Bod said.

“Mercenaries,” Alesia remarked. “Did you see the tattoo on the big one’s shoulder?”

Bod had noticed it; a blue band with serpent heads. He didn’t know the company it was tied to, but he’d seen it around. He glanced up at Alesia. After a moment of silence, she looked back down at him.

“What?” she asked.

“Never a dull moment with this crowd,” Bod said, shaking his head. Heavy footsteps on the boards announced the return of the ghost, and he walked straight for where Bod and Alesia waited. Bod opened the door, folding his arms and looking up into the shadows of the cowl. He had to admit, it was eerie how no light penetrated the darkness of the hood. He couldn’t even see the telltale gleam of light on the eyes beneath. “We done here?”

“One more thing,” the ghost said, pointing past Bod’s shoulder. The halfling glanced back, and that was when he realized they’d stepped into the warehouse portion of the salt works. Large boxes of salt, ready for transport, were stacked up neatly. Each one represented hours of stolen sweat and time, and hundreds of crowns of revenue. The dark soldier lowered his hand, and Bod’s scowl turned into a grin.

“I don’t know what production they cut you from, pal, but I like your sense of theatrics,” Bod said, hefting a large prybar from where it leaned against the wall. “Now somebody help me shove these into the river, sooner or later the dottari are gonna come knocking, and we don’t wanna be here when they do!”

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As I said in my previous Table Talk installments, I'm trying something a little different with my group's run through the Hell's Rebels adventure path. Rather than going through a roll-by-roll break down of each session, I'll be putting together snacky, pulpy stories that bring readers on the adventure with me. The current archive of stories is:

- Part One: Devil's Night

- Part Two: From The Ashes

- Part Three: The Raven's Nest

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- The Irregulars: My official contribution to the Pathfinder Tales, The Irregulars follows an Andoran unit as they throw a wrench into the gears of Molthune's war machine.

- Waking Dogs- A World Eaters Tale: For my fans of Warhammer 40K, this is a story I felt compelled to tell about one of the infamous World Eaters remembering who he once was. It was also dramatized by the channel A Vox in The Void, for those who enjoy audio renditions.

- Crier's Knife: My sword and sorcery novel, we follow Dirk Crier as he sets out to collect his wayward cousin from parts unknown. Dark tidings lie ahead, but those who stand in his way will learn why the mountain folk say only a dead man crosses a Crier.

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