The Cat, the Fox and the Raven

The terrain was uncomfortable at best and cruel at worst.

Tiyan, however, hoped it would cause as much trouble to the pursuers as it did to him. As a hunter, he repeatedly faced adversities that were beyond the abilities of most people in his town. Even if his hands were bleeding from tearing through the sharp leaves that grew in the snow like blades as if mocking him, even if the day was gleaming with ice and the forest fauna would surely smell his scent soon – he would not give up. There’s always hope.

Stumbling over a stone, the boy grabbed the first thing that could cushion the fall. Leaf. Again. Razor sharp.

He couldn’t stop. Not now, not when Praetor’s emissary was leading the chase.

When he first saw the envoy, clad in black and silver, he knew when they find out who uses magic in the valley, it will be his last day without pain. The emissary looked kind and jovial for townsmen on the streets, but not for him, not for a person with magic, which was recognizing a familiar, dark soul. He knew that Praetor never used the service of people who didn’t like causing suffering.

A sharp roar rang in his ears, straight from the depths of the forest that surrounded him. Not even bothering to guess what it might be, Tiyan mustered all the strength at his disposal and, taking a slight right turn, resumed the arduous climb up the steep slope.

They almost found him in his house, where he was packing up. He put the most vital hunting equipment on, took food and water, in case the land lacked streams, and kissed frightened Lessa goodbye, even without explaining, he dashed from the building, aiming at the vast forest nearby.

He felt like a coward. But he knew that he endangered his whole family and the inquisitor came here for him and only for him. Better to be a coward than a reason for the death of Lessa and their father. And his grandmother. Maybe the townsmen will condemn him, but he will be alive, maybe even ready for revenge on the one that caused all this mess.

The fae who infested his dreams. It was he who alienated him in his own town, it was him who bit through his mind with visions, led him astray during the hunt, blinded him on reality. Why does he even care? Why did he latch to him like some parasite, drinking from his soul? Perhaps that was some kind of cruel game, a game Kilyans liked to play with humans. Like with toys on a string.

If yes, he will find a way to escape this influence, but for that, he needs to be alive.

Coward.

Traitor.

No. A young man, persecuted by flawed law. Law that was unlawfully going after him for something he never wanted to happen.

The animal that roared nearby was closer. Tiyan heard the rustling and stomping; it was something big, perhaps another boar or even a bear. He had no chance with a bear now. His limbs were numb and his heart raced into his chest, beating like a ritual drum.

He hoped that whatever this animal is, will leave him in peace and allow the laborious wade through the overgrowth.

He heard the chase, the horses snorted and hit the ground with their hooves, closer and closer. He was a fool, he chose the most difficult path, hoping that they wouldn’t dare go the same trail with horses. The horses though seemed unaffected by the sloping terrain.

Tiyan fell again, face in the snow. He spat the earth and white, furious, his hunting equipment suddenly becoming a nuisance. He took too many weapons, and they delayed him. How he suddenly became so stupid, so slow. His life depended on that and he slacked like a beginner. He was here many times, he knew this valley.

At the same moment he was spitting snow, the huge bear rose before him. Tiyan instinctively reached for a pistol, ready to defend. His hand shook already like in fever, but he aimed well. At the exact moment though, the bear kicked it with his enormous paw and the gun landed in the muddy snow.

Only now, Tiyan saw that the bear was not normal. The colony of fungi bit through the skin on his back and his left eye was red, like a hunter’s moon. The wild animal roared. It was not the roar of a bear, but a wild whizzing sound, produced not by an alive beast, but by the horns of the underworld.

“Curse it!” Tiyan wanted to reach for his pistol, then, realizing that it was too far, pulled the forbidden iron from the sheath behind his belt, but the bear jumped in the same moment. Tiyan was about to throw himself on the beast, in last resort, but the animal barked like a wounded dog and screamed deafeningly, and a dozen spikes pierced him through the back and pulled – hard and mercilessly.

Tiyan observed with horror how the shadow chains and spikes eat the bear, leaving blood and guts on the ground.

The sight was terrible, but nothing prepared him for what he saw later. The inquisitor was approaching, and his face was a pulp made of shadows, darkness, and ink. The spikes were floating around him, ready to attack again, making him look like some kind of nightmare-made monster.

Tiyan’s magic that rotted in his bones and veins, moved restlessly, wanting to swallow the power that was approaching, bathe in it and absorb it. The young hunter, panicked because of these feelings, managed to take hold of a dagger, though it seemed futile, facing this kind of nightmarish terror.

Black magic! his mind screamed. He is after you because you are cursed, but he uses an even worse abomination.

Tiyan pressed his teeth ready to defend, the inquisitor halted and the spike hit the boy in the chest, delving deep, deeper, almost brushing against the heart.

The hunter wanted to do something, anything, but another dozen of spikes surrounded him and bound him with ropes made of ink.

He had no chance against these black spells. So he lost.

“Where is the boy?”

The question hung in the midair and spread, reeking of repercussions.

The small council of Vennklan Valley was not less surprised than if the Praetor’s emissary took the mayor’s cat and told them he was the ruler of the town now. But, of course, everyone knew about what boy he was talking about. It was not a mystery that Tiyan Markon was cursed. But none of them wanted to be the one who put the young man into shackles on the way to the capital. Maybe he was touched by evil, but he wasn’t evil himself. They disliked his curse but didn’t want his death. And even the most prejudiced council member didn’t want to see him burning and screaming. They were not cruel. Maybe scared and haunted by changes, but definitely, they weren’t murderers.

“Whoever brought you here, had the wrong information,” the mayor said through clenched teeth. “No one in Vennklan Valley uses magic, forbidden or not.”

A soldier who so far stood behind the emissary hissed and stepped forth, only to be halted by his lord.

“Nothing happened, the mayor only isn’t aware of what position and name I possess” he smiled kindly and leaned forth with a predatory gaze fixed on the town’s nobles. “You will speak to me ‘your grace’ next time. And nothing bad will happen to anyone in this room.”

One of the council members scoffed and shook his head. The soldier again wanted to deal with it, but the iniquisitor only put his gloved hand on his arm and shook his head. Then, he turned to the man who didn’t agree with calling him with the royal title. The tattoos on his face seemed to dance as he grinned.

“I think I heard an opinion, but I am not sure what it was supposed to mean” his voice like oil, his eyes like daggers.

“That meant that only the king can be called ‘your grace’” said the older noble, withstanding the darting gaze of the emissary. “You are too prideful, too full of yourself.”

The grin of the inquisitor became wider, but his lips twitched. Possibly not many people dared to oppose him, more even refused his will. One could see easily that anger boils in him like in the closed kettle. But the man who spoke before continued.

“You are not “grace” and you are not our lord. The king never approved of the methods of the Praetor and you… you won’t put your hand on any townsmen here until I live.”

“Ah,” that was the only thing that escaped the emissary’s mouth. The silence was prolonged, two sides looked at each other in tension so thick that could be sliced with a knife. The kind smile that was present on Praetor’s lord’s face while he was entering the town on horseback, returned, to pull the sun from behind the battered curtains.

“How unfortunate,” he said, gesturing with his hand. “The boy is dangerous. His magic was given to him by lower forces, by the enemies of humankind. Maybe the king never gave us official orders, but we all must work in the name of… greater good.”

“Greater good in other words can mean lesser evil” The mayor narrowed his thin brows. “And I won’t take any evil deed on my back.”

“You are not afraid of his curse? Of the abominations he attracts? Tell me kindly, how many times have you seen him wandering off the valley?”

“He is a hunter. He is the one who helps to feed the families that lost their fathers and husbands in the war. He needs to go outside.”

“Ah yes, and how many times he goes back without prey, with hazy eyes and absent expression?” drilled the inquisitor.

A whisper came through the group of men. The mayor stood firmly and didn’t join them.

“I don’t think the lack of prey in this valley speaks against the boy. These lands are infertile, the animals go into the terrains that lack the fog coming off the mountains. You want his demise in the name of the “greater good”. And that is not even lesser evil. It’s just wrong. Do you really believe in it? YOU-” he turned to the council behind. “- you believe HIM?”

“No,” said the man who spoke before. “Tiyan Markon is ours. The son of Gravir Markon. As I said, you will take him over my dead body.”

“That can be arranged, if you continue to stop my hand from doing justice. But we all know that you want him away. You want freedom from the fear and from the demons he attracts” The inquisitor was in his element. He had to do such speeches many times before receptive crowds and the mayor was aware of that. He was too old to buy it. “Think of your families, your women, your sons and daughters.”

Again a scoff. Laughter in the back. Some nods and some heads shake in disagreement.

“Listen, ‘your grace’” the mayor said with a heavy sigh. “You have soldiers and your sword and we have hundreds of people and our tools of trade. Sometimes very sharp, sometimes very heavy. And until you bring an order from the king himself, the boy stays with us. Think about it, when you return to the capital, to give a report to your lord. He may rethink his actions too.”

While he was speaking, the tattoos on the face of the emissary started to move. At first slightly, as lazily. As awaiting orders. They swirled and danced, a slow caress over his skin, a touch of questioning pressure.

And then, they spread, the ink leaving the skin on the emissary, reaching with sharp talons to the mayor. It looked like a mass of black spikes left the skin and biting through the town’s leader’s flesh, pierced him, pinning him to the wall.

The small council watched in horror, how slurping blackness slowly drilled through the limbs of the screaming and tossing mayor, swallowing him and soon leaving the bare, bloodied bones.

The spikes returned on inquisitor’s skin, again looking like tattoos. The emissary grinned, a bubble of blood slipping from his mouth and falling on his vest with big droplets. He licked his lips like he didn’t want to lose even a small portion of his victim.

“Any more questions?”

They came the other day. On pale white horses, with loaded pistols and with facial features showing pure unadulterated scorn.

The legends of the Praetor were reaching even Venklann Valley and even if they never expected to meet the high prosecutor of magic, they held him deep in their hearts, at the very bottom. He was no fairy-like elusive danger, which was as real and mythical. He was darkness set in stone, an iron hand of law, which was choking both the throats of the offenders and innocent ones. The king condemned his actions in silence. Praetor’s power was already too big and the fear before magic was already too strong in noblemen in the capital. They would follow him to the pit of death and back if that meant killing all signs of forbidden, fairy magic in the land of Avras.

Why the fae allowed that, was beyond all’s guessings.

But they did. No mage trapped the Praetor is a vial filled with his own tears. No fairy cursed him with eternal life as a tree. That’s why some suspected that Praetor’s actions are favored by the fae, as they push Avras even deeper into the dark, violent ages…

His name was Lucius. And it was not him, who rode on a white horse to the town.

Tiyan was on the hunt, like he planned last night, but when he returned, he saw the gathering all through the main road. Whispering people, some with fear in their eyes, some with hope. When he tried to look above their heads, to see who’s coming, the gazes they were sending him were maybe not hostile, but… knowing. A little suspicious, a little sad.

And when Tiyan pushed himself to the front, his insides turned like on a crank.

The men who were riding the main street couldn’t be called nobles, but surely they were from very important families or houses. Their robes were made from raw material, all navy blue, like a stormy cloud, thick and warm to protect them from the freezing cold. They held pistols on their belts, one on each side. Their cold look was tainted by something more… something Tiyan couldn’t place. But it all became clear when his gaze landed on their leader.

If something was about to melt the snow with a warm smile, with good intentions and with a lot of empathy, this man would be the catalyst. Tiyan’s unwanted magic felt radiation from him though, strange emotions, misplaced, dark and chaotic, hidden behind the facade of kindness, which opposed the night incarnate of his entourage.

This man was more dangerous than all the cold men behind him. Even if he was about to offer him freedom off the fae that inhabited his dreams, he would decline. If he had a choice to decline, of course.

All men had dark, swirl tattoos on their skin; on hands and face at least, as their robes were thick and unrevealing. A sign of Praetor’s warriors.

Tiyan realized this in a second, after his eyes transformed what he saw into a whole scene. He knew what Praetor does to magic users, willing and unwilling, it never mattered. The one thing that mattered was purifying fire on which they all were burning, screaming.

He backed off, bumped into a man, then a woman kicked him in the ribs, until he was far from the first row. His blood boiled in his veins, both from fear and because magic in him also sensed the danger. Tiyan was not a coward, but this was another form of threat, made in fire and blood to punish people in semi-majesty of the kingdom’s law. If they target him, how could he even escape?

And the vision of spending weeks in the prison cell, tortured and interrogated wasn’t his chosen plan for the next few days.

There was of course a chance that they are here for different reasons. But this was a very small percentage and Tiyan was almost sure that someone denounced him. Someone like…

“I see that Praetor’s inquisitor came after you, eventually” a sharp voice, destroyed by many nights spent regretting and drinking. “Very timely, really very timely, if you ask me.”

Tiyan didn’t have to even turn back to see who it was. This voice was as well known to him, as his own.

Prolat Sek, his old childhood friend, and now his most bitter enemy. When they were still small kids, they were inseparable. Like brothers, they spent all their time together, even when it was forbidden. Even if that included going alone to the thick woods and being attacked by famished wolves. When the war with the Kilyans started, they both were held at homes, until the war changed into desperate fighting for lives for the humans. Prolat was older by four years than Tiyan, and was sent earlier to fight. He returned without one leg, the other was cut by the night spear held by the shee. The wound was clean but it bled with strange darkness for a few days, until the remaining flesh started to look like a fallen autumnal leaf.

Prolat was a son of the engineer so he was able to build himself a prosthetic, which allowed him to walk. But his father was dead, he died on the same battlefield where Tiyan was saved by the dark raven-like creature. All in Venklann Valley knew that Tiyan was brought in a magical bubble under his own door, where his mother found him. And Prolat, who could not hate fae frenetically, because they were far, and unreachable, chose to hate on his old friend.

Because he was alive and complete. And Prolat was a cripple. Tiyan had a sudden thought, that he should be thankful that he is still alive, while so many people from the Valley died.

“Well, Markon? How do you feel when the torturer surely already prepares hot iron?”

Tiyan looked back at the smiling man on a horse. He already was further down the road, so he could only see the long cape and long hair of the inquisitor.

“How could you find time to denounce me and to lose your last brain cell altogether?” barked the hunter.

“Clever, Markon, clever. But no. I in no way could go to the capital city and denounce you. But that gives out another beautiful possibility. More people hate your magical ass and we all want to see you transported to prison.”

Tiyan heard the voices of people rise in volume and a strange tingling feeling in his chest, how it bubbles inside him. He many times felt the same sensation when the magic started to protest and evidently, inquisitor’s presence was a huge kick into said magic’s metaphorical guts.

The young hunter just passed his old friend. The farest, the better. Besides, he had a plan, he had an idea, crystallizing in his mind, an iron nail hit with a hammer in the dark wood.

The sharp laughter of Prolat chased him until he lost him in the now-deserted streets.

The snow was falling indifferently, filling Tiyan’s footprints on the road with blinding white.