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Silver Raven Chronicles Part Three: The Raven's Nest

A Hell's Rebels Retelling

By Neal LitherlandPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 36 min read
7

The Long Roads Coffee House had a peculiar stillness to it in the early morning hours. The smells of fresh bread and brew filled the space, and the morning sunlight slanted in through the windows just so. It turned the stained wood and polished brass into something out of a painting; the kind of space somebody conjured in their mind when they thought of a coffee house, rather than an actual place you could go to get a muffin and a mug to start your day off right.

The one thing that truly spoiled the image was Oddfellow Bodkins. With his hard-used coat, run-down boots, tousled hair, and stubble that hadn’t quite become a true beard yet, even the most sleep-deprived student would never have pictured the halfling sitting at one of the low tables in their favorite café nibbling at a scone and taking long sips from a frosty glass of milk. And even if they had somehow wound up with that image in their imagination, they certainly wouldn’t have pictured the fox curled up beneath his chair, snatching fallen crumbs before they could wind up on the clean swept floor.

He wasn’t usually up this early. Or, more precisely, he was usually stumbling off to bed before the sun managed to reach quite so high in the sky. But Laria, the lady who ran the joint, had reached out to him late last night, and on those few occasions she did that he always made her a priority.

Laria had let him in with the first gray dawn, and he’d found a table already set for him with his usual before she headed into the backroom to finish the day’s baking. He’d asked her what this was all about, and what he should be looking for, and all she’d given him was a cryptic, “You’ll know it when you see it.” He didn’t much care for that non-answer, especially since he’d shifted paying clients out of the way for this, but he’d kept his thoughts out of his mouth even if he was pretty sure a few of them had wound up on his face. If nothing else the pastry was a nice change of pace from what he usually put in his belly of a morning.

The first clue that something wasn’t right came in about half an hour after Bod had settled into his seat. She was tall and smooth, with an expensive wardrobe, and a blade at her hip. She was also purple, and had a tail along with a set of gently curving horns, but in Kintargo that wasn’t all that unusual even up in Villegre. It wasn’t until she started sipping from a cup of something hot enough it would have burned anybody without her unusual breeding that a flash went off in Bod’s head. She was that Farren girl, though her first name escaped him at that moment. She’d been sort of a low-key scandal her whole life, made even more so by the fact that she didn’t seem to care that other people thought so. There were always rumors going on around what she was or wasn’t doing in the mid-range of high society circles, and he’d come across her a couple of times while following errant husbands getting up to mischief. She’d never been involved, but he understood that when the higher-ups were looking for someone to blame they always cast their eyes at who’s underfoot rather than looking in the mirror.

Bod was getting that itch at the back of his head that told him to follow his curiosity, but he ignored it as best he could. One thing experience had taught him was it was better to wait and be sure, than to pounce too early and show his hand to the other players. So he took another bite of his breakfast, washed it down with his milk, and pretended to be interested in what was going on through the low-set window near his table. From the corner of his eye he saw Laria stick her head out, and gesture the tiefling into the back room once she made sure there was no one else around. She went, slipping away with barely a sound. That was impressive, given the footwear she had on. He waited a handful of heartbeats to see if anything dramatic was going to happen, and when it didn’t he settled back into the quiet. The fox, for her part, made a show of laying down and yawning.

The scone was just a memory, and he was down to the last dregs of his milk, when the door opened again. If Farren had been unusual, then what came through the door next almost made his eyebrow raise. She was all feathers and hair, accented by drapes of black fabric that walked that fine line between preserving modesty and not getting in the way of her wings and talons. She flapped them a few times, as if shaking off the morning chill as she bird-walked toward the bar. She leaped up onto a stool, perching right on the edge with a grace that was almost delicate. She made a low, hooting sound in her throat that was quiet, but carried in the silence. Laria pushed open the door with a broom in hand, but when she saw it was a customer and not a barn owl she let the handle slide a little lower; like she’d intentionally brought it out for sweeping, rather than shooing.

Laria was pouring hot water and steeping tea for the strangely-colored strix when the door opened a third time. The man who walked in was, in many ways, the most unremarkable of the people Bod had seen so far. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, he had the shoulders and swagger of a bruiser, but his boots alone were worth more than your average street soldier would earn in a year of shake downs and leg breaking. He carried a heavy walking stick with a flanged head on it that looked like a parade mace, and there were enough scars on it to show it was something of a multi-purpose fashion accessory. Bod didn’t need to see the sigil on his surcoat to recognize Morvius Henderthane. In Bod’s line of work you learned who the big names in the city were, and the circles they moved in. If his name made him famous as a member one of the country’s most influential families, then his reputation for drunken brawls and rubbing elbows with commoners had made him infamous. Most folk still minded their Ps and Qs around him, though; he had a nasty habit of taking his grudges to the dueling circle, which was not a venue most were keen to meet him in.

This is just getting messier by the minute.

Bod took long, slow breaths and watched the new arrivals out of the corner of his eye. His brain was spinning as he started re-figuring angles, trying to get a bead on what was going down. He’d done a bit of work for a few members of the city’s upper crust, but even then he’d never really met them directly. He’d always communicated through servants, representatives, and other mouth pieces, and though he’d heard his share of rumors about both of these two (most of which he was pretty sure were half true at best), he couldn’t think of anything they could be involved in that would need his help. The halfling got so caught up in his convoluted calculations that he didn’t notice what was going on until his fox was tugging at his coat sleeve. He blinked, and looked down at her. When he glanced up he realized he was alone in the room, and Laria was standing at the kitchen door. She jerked her head, then stepped back inside. Bod stood, straightened his coat, and calmly walked toward the back with his vulpine partner dogging his heels.

They were arranged in a tableau when he entered. The Farren woman had her cup in both hands, her tail wrapped around one leg while she leaned against the wall. The strix was crouched on a box, bent forward over her tea like a rainbow vulture. Henderthane had a small glass of something that smelled just this side of caustic that he was taking small sips from. Laria, for her part, was busy kneading dough. There was a fourth person Bod hadn’t seen come in. He was thin, and handsome in that well-groomed, aristocratic way. Even if he hadn’t been sure of the face, which he was, the sword cane would have marked Rexus Victocora out to anyone whose job it was to keep track of the movers and shakers in Kintargo. Being a trained investigator, Bod deduced Victocora had been there even before he’d arrived himself.

“This is your friend?” the tiefling asked, setting her cup aside.

“Oddfellow and Fox,” Bod said, gesturing at his companion. She sat straight, her ears perked and her jaws open. Her tongue lolled slightly. He’d told her it looked unprofessional, but she just wouldn’t listen to him. “I’m Oddfellow, in case there was some confusion. This is Piper. Most folks just call me Bod.”

There was a moment of silence while they chewed over that. Bod hadn’t expected a big reaction, but a polite chuckle would have been nice. Without taking his eyes off Bod, Henderthane spoke to Laria.

“Can he be trusted?” the big man asked.

“Can you?” Laria asked. Her voice was chipper as ever, but Bod noted that she slapped her dough a little harder than was strictly necessary against the flour-dusted cutting board. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but from all the way down here there isn’t a big difference between you and the bully boys out in the street when it comes to your colors.”

Bod hooked a thumb into his coat pocket, close to one of his hold outs. He didn’t know the score, or what had everybody on edge, but he knew from experience speaking truth to power was a dicey move at best. When the power you were speaking the truth to was infamous for denting helms and cracking teeth, it was a roll with loaded dice. To Bod’s surprise, the nobleman just pursed his lips and nodded. He inclined his head toward Bod in a manner that wasn’t quite a bow, and wasn’t quite an apology, but was sort of like both of them.

“Pleased to have you and your friend joining us in this endeavor, Bod,” Henderthane said, tipping his cup back and draining the rest of his brew. “I have a feeling we are going to need all the help we can get.”

Bod let a breath he hadn’t quite been aware he was holding, tucking both his hands into his pockets with a shrug to cover it up. He sniffed, glancing from one face to the next. He found his gaze resting on Laria’s back. Before he could say anything she grabbed a rolling pin, and started talking.

“Got a friend of mine that’s been staying in my basement,” Laria said. “You’ve never met him, Bod, though I have a feeling you’d get on marvelous if you ever did. He’s one of those independent captains you hear about from time to time.”

Bod nodded, even though Laria wasn’t looking at him. While most of the big folk in the city only knew her as the chipper mistress of their morning brew, Bod had heard stories from his aunts and uncles about some other things she’d done. And if the rumors he occasionally picked up on were true about the things she still did for small folk who’d left their chains behind and needed to get out from under the devil’s shadow, it made sense somebody like her would know her share of smugglers… somebody had to get halflings and assorted runaways out of Cheliax and off to friendlier places that didn’t ask where they’d come from.

“Odd place for a captain to be,” Bod said.

“He’s an odd captain,” Laria replied, forming the dough into the shape she wanted. “But there’s a cove down there. Impossible to find if you don’t know what you’re looking for. I figured it might be of use for folks looking to keep some doings out of sight.”

Bod felt a tumbler fall into place at that, and he glanced back at the assembled crew. One nobleman whose estate had been burned as part of the Thrune purge, and who seemed to be laying low so nobody knew he was still alive. A shady lady who’d graduated from the right school, but who’d spent time out of the city in one of those free-thinking places. And to round them out, the son of the nation’s biggest ironmongers who tended to use his sword arm instead of his brain. He wasn’t sure about the bird girl, but the rest of it was starting to give off a very particular aroma. He’d smelled trouble before, but this brew was gonna be hot, even for his palate.

“He expecting company?” Bod asked.

“No,” Laria said, slapping the cutter into the dough in rapid succession. “I haven’t heard from Nan in a few days. The food I leave for him’s gone, but there’s something about it that doesn’t feel right.”

Bod nodded. There were still a couple of smudges on the glass, but with that name he was getting the picture clear enough. He looked down at the fox, who tilted her head slightly. After a second, she nodded too, rolling her tongue back up into her mouth.

“All right,” he said. “When are we getting this thing started?”

“As soon as Lord Henderthane gets up off that box,” Laria said, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. Henderthane frowned, levering himself up to his feet with his walking stick. Laria put her hands against the box, and pushed, revealing the vague outline of a trap door beneath it. She tugged up on a partly hidden catch, and a section of the floor swung up. “Just head down that way. Cast your eyes to the north corner, and I’m sure you’ll find the way.”

Bod had one foot poised over the first stair, before he frowned. Pausing, he glanced over at Laria. “Ain’t any booby traps on this thing, are there?”

“Shouldn’t be,” Laria said with a shrug. “Never hurt to give something a second look, though.”

“Comforting,” Bod said. He reached under his coat, and slid out a sunrod. Cracking it against the upright trap door, the gold tip sputtered, and began to glow. Jerking his head at his fox, he descended.

The smell of spices and preserves enveloped him, along with that damp scent that every basement in Kintargo seemed to have. Flashing his light around the room, Bod saw the shapes of crates and sacks lined up in neat rows and piled in wooden frames. A few onions and cloves of garlic hung from hooks screwed into the roof rafters. Some light peeked through the floorboards, but not much. Almost everything had a label on it, lettered in a neat, no-nonsense hand. The stairs creaked as the others came down to join him. Bod was halfway across the room when his light fell on something that wasn’t supposed to be there; an empty plate sitting atop one of the larger crates.

There wasn’t anything wrong with the plate in and of itself. It was the same batch-fired glaze as all the rest of the flatware Laria used upstairs. Coming closer, Bod noticed crumbs around the inner groove, along with a thin patch of jelly along one side. He touched the pad of his thumb to the jelly, and noted how dry it was. He touched the digit to his tongue, nodding. Piper was up on her hind legs, front paws on top of the crate, snuffling around the lid. She made a low, whining sound in her throat. Bod nodded.

“Was it something?” The tiefling asked, her hand casually resting on the hilt of her weapon as she descended to the basement floor.

“Something is a good word,” Bod said, directing his light at the floor. He frowned, crouching down. A moment later he held up a black feather. It was big enough to be a quill in his hand. It was ragged, and a little greasy “Laria didn’t mention her friend had a bird. But if this feather jives with the claw marks along the boards here, this thing had to be huge.”

The bird girl with the off-blue hair frowned, and stepped forward awkwardly. She peered down at the boards, her forehead furrowing. Bod tried to shine his light closer, but she flicked a hand at him and made a low, clicking sound that didn’t need any translation. She leaned in closer, her nose practically touching the marks, before she shook her head. Henderthane nodded, and took a firmer grip on his walking stick.

“I don’t know her all that well, but I got a feeling she’s thinking the same thing I’m thinking,” Bod said.

“Not a bird,” she said, bobbing her head. “Bird person. I’m Songbird.”

“Right,” Bod said. He hadn’t expected that, but he’d seen his share of weirdness. He glanced down at Piper. The fox wasn’t smiling anymore. And despite the crumbs clinging to her nose leather, she looked serious. “Guess we just got to be ready for whatever comes, huh?”

Bod followed Laria’s advice, and walked to the north corner. The others fanned out behind him, each taking up a position where they could see him, but where they weren’t in his way. He appreciated that. Last thing he wanted was the high and mighty getting wedged into his back pockets while he tried to do his job. He cocked his head, and knocked along the length and height of the wall. The bricks were solid under his knuckles, and nothing echoed. He hadn’t figured it would be quite that easy, but you have to start with the obvious and then work through to the less obvious sometimes.

When the knocking trick failed to get him any results, Bod took a closer look at the floor to see if there were any tracks worn by a hidden door. He didn’t see any. He fished a small pouch out of his shirt pocket, and took out a pinch of chalk dust. He weighed it between his fingers, and tossed it in the air. At first it trickled down, but as he watched an eddy formed in the middle of it. Most of the dust fell to the floor, but some of it was sucked toward the bricks. Bod smiled, and traced the spot where it had disappeared with his finger.

“What is it?” Rexus asked.

“Open… says… me,” Bod said as his finger pressed into a barely-seen gap.

He pressed a little harder, and felt a latch click. The wall stayed in place, but as Bod leaned his shoulder into it, a section pivoted away to reveal a black hole beyond. He tensed, ducking instinctively. When no tripwires tripped, and no swinging blade swiped out at him, Bod straightened and turned his glow rod toward the entryway. A narrow hallway led to a short staircase, and while he could see the end of it, he couldn’t see much beyond. He smelled brine, though, and heard the gentle lapping of water that said somewhere down there was a hidden cove. Exactly the kind a smuggler might use to get goods, or people, in and out of the city.

“After you, my lords,” Bod said, gesturing at the door.

Quite a ways after, if I had my choice.

He’d been joking, mostly, but Bod watched as Songbird reached up under her cowl, and took out a rod similar to his own. When she banged it against a crate, it only gave off a slight glow; moonsilver to his own rod’s golden tip. She flapped her wings, diving through the doorway. To his surprise, Henderthane went after her, gripping that stick as if he meant to do some real damage with the head. Farren wasn’t far behind, her steps nearly silent, and her thumb pressed against the guard of her sword. Bod knew all it would take was a press of her thumb to lift the steel, making it even faster to clear. Rexus stayed right where he was, leaning against the crate that had been used as somebody's dining table. When Bod raised an eyebrow at him, he shook his head.

“I know my limits,” Rexus said, offering Bod a small smile. “My companion made it clear that if I put myself at risk he would be most put out. I’ll ensure no one comes upon us in the rear, or gets past you.”

“Yeah,” Bod said, reaching into his inside pocket for a set of brass knuckles. They were old and worn, rubbed smooth from use and wrapped with twine for a better grip. They’d been a hand-me-down from his uncle, who hadn’t needed them after he retired. “You do that. Piper, keep him company. Just in case.”

The fox lowered her ears slightly, and gave Bod a slightly reproachful look. When Rexus took out the remains of a small sandwich and some biscuits, though, she perked up and walked back toward the nobleman, tail swaying. Bod snorted, stepped through the doorway, and took long strides down the stairs.

Bod found himself standing in a cavern. The walls were banded stone rising up to a high ceiling that boasted more than a few stalactites. There weren’t any bats that he could see, but more than a few of the stone teeth dripped, the water hitting the floor with a flat, wet slap. Off to his left was the source of the shushing sound and the smell of the sea. A dock stretched out into the black waters of a tidal pool, the shadows swallowed his light as he shone it out that way. While it was impossible to tell how far out it went from standing on the shore, the movement of the water and the utter lack of light told him it connected with the river somewhere.

There were other details his eye noted in passing, as well. He took note of how flat the stone was underfoot, and the patches of oddly-patterned rock where stalagmites had clearly been hacked away. He noted several beds against a far wall through an arch of stone. He also smelled something that didn’t quite belong; lamp oil, and a hint of thick smoke. The sort you got when you didn’t trim your wick properly, and had to snuff it all at once. Burglar’s perfume, he’d heard some of the old hands call it.

“Did you hear that?” Henderthane whispered. Bod jumped. Despite his size, he hadn’t heard the big man come up on him. And though he was staring out at the water, Bod had a feeling Henderthane wasn’t talking about something out on the docks.

“Hear what?” Bod asked, not turning his head.

“Behind me,” Henderthane said softly. He leaned forward, peering, as if he were trying to see down the dock rather than straining his ears to listen. “I heard something. A scrabbling noise, like talons on rock.”

The bird girl frowned up at him, and shifted her weight. Bod could tell she was listening. Henderthane choked up on his walking stick, taking a two-handed grip more akin to a longsword than a cudgel. He drew a quick breath, then let it out slowly. He only said one word, but it was the match that touched everything off.

“Now.”

Songbird burst into action, flinging herself off the ground and twisting in mid-air as she shot back toward a short hallway in the stone. Henderthane was right behind her, head down behind his leading arm, his stick cocked back. Bod was half-turned to follow, already taking a tighter grip on his fist weight, when a brilliant flash left him seeing stars. He grunted, but kept his head low and blinked away the residual sparklers as he stumbled forward ready for action.

When he drew up to the other two, though, he saw it was already over.

When the fireworks go off, it's all over.

Songbird was crouched on the ground, her knees bent and her eyes focused. Henderthane was nearby, his cane still poised, but no longer on an easy trigger. At their feet was a creature Bod had never seen before. It had the body of a woman, but it was covered in feathers. Its head was thick and ugly, its beak covered in scars. It didn’t have any wings, and its hands were tipped in wicked claws. When Bod shone his light into its face, it didn’t react… just stared blankly into the middle distance.

“It won’t be out forever,” Henderthane said. “Bod, do you have any rope?”

“Do I have any rope, he asks,” Bod said, stowing his knuckle duster away and taking out a coil of tightly-wound silk rope from another pocket. He’d found over the years that you always needed it when you least expected it. Henderthane took the rope, and started winding it round the creature, starting with the ankles and then moving to the wrists. Farren joined them just as he was cinching the knots.

“What the hell is that?” the tiefling asked. “Some kind of tengu?”

“Corby,” Songbird said, her teeth clicking in annoyance. A moment later she added, “Big corby.”

“Well, we’re about to find out,” Henderthane said, adding a loop of cord around the creature’s beak to ensure it couldn’t lash out and bite them. He gave the rope a test tug, then stepped back, and leaned on his cane. “She’ll recover from the effect shortly. Be ready.”

It happened all at once. One second the corby was sitting against the wall, utterly motionless. The next she was thrashing and straining. Muffled squawks of protest hissed past the binding round her beak, and her eyes were filled with blazing hate. Farren’s hand lingered on her hilt, but neither Songbird or Henderthane seemed worried in the slightest. They might have been watching a toddler throw a tantrum about not wanting to take a nap, and waiting for her to tucker herself out. After a little less than a minute the corby stopped struggling. She was panting, with air whistling in and out of her nostrils. Henderthane crouched, holding its eyes.

“I am going to take the rope off your beak,” he said. “And then we are going to have a little talk about who you are, why you’re down here, and what is happening. Do not do anything you will come to regret.”

The corby made a noise deep in her chest, but held still as Henderthane tugged off the rope. No sooner was her beak free than she started snarling and growling, making noises that put Bod in mind of a chorus of nails dragging down slate, accompanied by a pit of vipers all trying to be heard above the shrieking. The sounds were organized enough to be a language, but it wasn’t one he’d ever heard before.

“I get the distinct impression conversation is gonna be difficult,” Bod said, wincing.

“It’s Abyssal,” Songbird said. The corby glared at her, but Songbird didn’t seem to have any reaction to it.

“Do you just know what it sounds like?” Bod asked. “Or can you actually translate it?”

“I can translate,” Songbird said, nodding. She never took her eyes off the corby. She didn’t blink, either, which was starting to unsettle Bod just a tad.

“Okay, guess we’ll give this a try, then,” Bod said, sticking his hand back in his pocket while keeping his light trained on the corby. He fixed the creature with the sternest look he could manage since they were currently at eye-level with each other. When he was sure he had the corby’s attention he said, “There was a guy down here named Nan Comerivos. He had a boat. Where is he now?”

Songbird repeated what Bod said, or at least he assumed she was repeating what he said. Her screeching snarl didn’t have the pitch and volume of the corby’s, but it seemed she got her point across. The corby glared at her, but Bod waited. He watched as the bird woman’s black eyes moved from one of them to the other, and saw her flex her muscles against the ropes one more time to see if they had any give. After calculating the odds, she snapped her head out toward the water, and made a noise that might have been a word.

“She says he’s out there,” Songbird said.

“Then we will go see him,” Henderthane replied. He grabbed the corby by the arm, hauling her to her feet. She squawked in outrage, trying to snap at him with her beak. Bod didn’t see what the nobleman did, not clearly, but he jerked something in the rope, and her outrage turned to sounds of pain. “We will have none of that. Now behave yourself, or I put the gag back on.”

To Bod’s surprise, the corby did what he asked. If looks could kill Henderthane would be dead three times over, but she shut her beak. Keeping his grip on the the rope, he dog walked her toward the water. The corby shuffled awkwardly, hissing and snarling, but unable to get any leverage with her arms jutting out behind her back. Songbird followed, her claws scrabbling along the stone. Bod looked up at Farren. She shrugged, and gestured for him to join the others. Bod wandered after them. Something was bugging him, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Before his brain could follow the thread back to its source, the corby started making her demon squawks again.

“She says he’s under the dock,” Songbird told the others. “That he fell, and hit his head.”

Bod raised an eyebrow. He’d heard that likely story a dozen times and more. In his experience it seemed like going anywhere near a set of stairs was the most dangerous thing you could do if you were having an argument with somebody. He looked up at Henderthane. The nobleman’s face was blank.

“Bod, would you kindly shine your light beneath the dock?” he asked. The corby struggled, but he yanked harder on her arm, and she went still. “Perhaps from over here, where it’s safe?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Bod said. He made a wide half circle around the captive corby, getting right up to the lip of stone where it dropped off down to the water. He crouched down, shining his sunrod at the dock. Sure enough there was a lumpy shape rammed up underneath the dock, trapped against one of the pylons. Bod couldn’t be sure from where he was, but it looked mostly person-shaped. Time in the water hadn’t helped. There was a tension in the back of his head he couldn’t ignore, though. A feeling that told him he was missing something. Something dangerous.

“Do you see anything, Bod?” Henderthane asked.

“Yeah, I see something,” Bod said. He frowned, peering into the shadows. The dark water rippled, and something gleamed from the darkness beneath the dock. That was when Bod realized what he was looking at, and he took an involuntary step back. “Devil’s bells, what the hell is that!?”

The corby thought she saw her chance, and wrenched at the ropes again. She’d sorely miscalculated, though. Rather than just a tug, this time Henderthane yanked hard enough that the corby screamed, the pain bringing her up onto her toes. Farren’s hand went to her hilt, but Songbird barely even turned a feather. Instead she was peering at the dock, tilting her head as something moved beneath it. Something big.

“It’s an alligator,” the strix said once Henderthane had wrestled the loop back over the corby’s beak and muffled her shouting. “Big one. Looks like it’s been saving what’s left of the body.”

Bod licked his lips. He could see the big animal now, the white, saurian head peering out with its red eyes from beneath the dock. He couldn’t make out much of its body, but judging from what was sticking up above the water it could probably swallow him without the need to bite down. It didn’t appear all that interested in moving from its artificial cavern, but it kept a wary eye on the intruders to its lair. When he was sure they weren’t in immediate danger, he wheeled on the corby.

“She’s playing games, now,” Bod snapped.

“Maybe we should take her topside,” Henderthane said. His voice was cold, utterly devoid of the languid good humor he’d had upstairs. “Hand her over to the dottari as a murderer. See what they think of that.”

It was a good threat. Even Bod couldn’t tell if he meant it, and he took it as a note of professional pride that he could smell a bluff. He had his mouth open to say something when he heard another sound. It was an odd, out-of-place sound. It made him think of pigeons nervously fluttering their wings. He frowned, and caught Henderthane’s eye over the corby’s shoulder. Without saying anything, Bod gestured with his head toward a darkened archway. He was pretty sure the sound had come from in there. The nobleman nodded, and whistled softly. It started low, and raised in tone. Songbird perked up, her eyes narrowing as she looked into the darkness. Without a word Henderthane shifted his grip on the corby, and half walked, half carried her toward the archway.

“I know you’re in there,” he said into the darkness. “It’s all right. Just come out so we can talk, face to face.”

Bod blinked. A second ago Henderthane had sounded like the business end of a war sword. Now his voice was soft, almost gentle. Like he was trying to coax out a scared kitten, or a frightened child. Songbird held out her hand, and frowned at it. An orb of soft, golden light appeared over her palm. The ball floated out into the room, revealing what looked like a bunk house. There were beds, crates, a few stalagmites that had been sawed off to be used as tables, and a couple of chairs. One of the impromptu stone tables had a lantern sitting on it, and several hands of cards. The cards looked like they’d been dropped in a hurry, rather than neatly laid down.

The request hung in the air for a long moment. Then the shadows shifted, and Bod saw nervous heads peeking out from behind crates. Each one of them was covered in black feathers, but even he could tell they were sleek and smooth, instead of the greasy, ragged look the corby had. Genuine tengu, they came out of their hiding places slowly. Henderthane smiled at them, and carefully took one hand off the corby’s arm, holding it up. He didn’t let go of her entirely, but he made the gesture.

“My name is Morvius,” he said, before gesturing at the others. “These are my companions. We were told by the mistress of this place that her friend had gone missing. We found this one lying in wait, and with a story about how the man beneath the dock fell and hit his head. We mean no one any harm, we are merely trying to get to the truth of what is happening here.”

The black bird women all looked at one another. They clicked their beaks and shuffled their wings, but none of them actually said anything… not in a way that Bod could understand, anyway. All he could tell was they were nervous, which was understandable given the situation. So he put on his best friendly face, and kept his hands visible. It couldn’t hurt.

“I am Korva Fushi,” one of the tengu said. Her accent was tough to get through, but she spoke slowly enough they could understand her. “These are my sisters. The man, Nan, brought us here on his boat.”

The words were barely out of her beak before Bod started putting the puzzle pieces together. He knew enough about Nan’s operations to know he would have been careful, but when you operate in Kintargo you’ve usually got your eyes on the dottari. A flock of scared sisters just trying to get out of the country wouldn’t have been a threat to him… until they were. He looked at the corby, then back at Korva. Bod gestured with his head at the corby.

“Who’s she?” he asked.

“She is… also our sister,” Korva said.

“Her egg was snuck into the nest,” one of the others added. Korva glared at the other tengu, who was smaller, and slighter. She lowered her head slightly, and shrugged her shoulders.

“Nan didn’t fall and hit his head, did he?” Bod asked. He kept his voice as even as he could, but the sisters still winced. The corby glared at them, breath whistling in and out of her nostrils. Korva held the creature’s gaze, refusing to look away from her.

“No,” Korva said after a long moment. “She killed him.”

“Why?” Bod asked.

“She’s killed lots of people,” one of the others chimed in.

“It’s what she does,” another said, speaking quickly, as if afraid she was going to be silenced. “It’s why we always have to leave! Because she can’t stop!”

The conversation devolved from there, and Bod had trouble following what they were saying. Henderthane put up his hand, and they quieted. The Fushi sisters seemed, if anything, even more nervous now that they’d spoken.

“Do you want her back?” Henderthane asked.

Again there was that silent exchange of glances and fluttering of wings. Then Korva shook her head. “No. If you loose her, she will kill us. Maybe not now, but sooner rather than later.”

“Can’t let her loose,” Songbird said, shaking her head.

“And we can’t hand her over to the city,” Farren said. “She knows about this place. Nobody holds out under Thrune’s interrogators.”

“Well what are we gonna do, then?” Bod asked.

Henderthane glanced at Songbird. Neither of them said anything, but Bod saw her face change. Her expression, which had been curious in the short time he’d known her, went still. Her lips practically vanished into a thin line, and her whole body stopped moving. The worst was her eyes. They went dead, as if something had shut off a light inside of her. Without a word, Henderthane hauled the corby around, and walked her back into the darkened room. Songbird followed, her steps perfectly matched to his. Bod went to follow, and Farren put her hand on his shoulder.

“Best not,” she said softly.

For a moment, Bod thought about going anyway. He watched the bobbing light go out into the darkness as the shadows walked along the dock. The wood creaked beneath their feet. The light went out. Bod strained his ears, but all he heard was the deafening sound of silence. Then he heard a loud splash. His breath caught in his throat, but his heart was beating too loudly for him to hear anything else. Finally, two pairs of footsteps approached. Henderthane walked in front, Songbird a few paces behind him. The nobleman handed Bod the coil of rope.

“Thank you,” he said. Turning to the Fushi sisters he said, “I will fetch you all something to eat. My apologies for your loss.”

He clicked his heels, and inclined his head slightly. It was oddly formal, and for some reason sent a shiver up Bod’s spine. Songbird didn’t react, but the tengu all dipped their beaks toward her. Henderthane turned, and walked back toward the stairs. Songbird followed a moment later, her globe of light flickering to life once more. It was silver now; harsh, and glaring in the dark.

“Something ain’t right about those two,” Bod said, more to himself than anyone else.

“Do you want to tell Laria what happened to her friend?” Farren asked.

He made himself take his mental hands off the puzzle, and put it away in one of the three dozen storage bins in the back of his brain. He ran a hand back through his hair, licked his lips, and blew out a long, slow breath.

“No,” he said, walking toward the steps. “But I’d better do it anyway. Lunch rush will be here soon, and she’s probably gonna want somebody to cover for her.”

Tune In Next Time on Table Talk!

As I said in my last Table Talk installment, 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 Four: Circles in Salt

So if you want to see more, make sure you share these stories on your social media feeds so I can keep the campaign going! And if you're looking for some additional reading in the mean time don't forget to check out my full Vocal archive, as well as some of my other stories linked below!

- 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.

- Marked Territory and Painted Cats: Join Leo as he gets roped into other people's problems on the mean streets of NYC. A Maine coon with a bad habit of getting curious, explore the world of street beasts in these nasty little noir mysteries!

To stay on top of all my latest releases, follow me on Facebook, Twitter, as well as on Pinterest where I'm building all sorts of boards dedicated to my books, RPG supplements, and greatest hits. Lastly, to help support me and my work, consider Buying Me A Ko-Fi, or heading over to The Literary Mercenary's Patreon page to become a regular, monthly patron! Even a little donation can have a big impact.

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Short Story
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About the Creator

Neal Litherland

Neal Litherland is an author, freelance blogger, and RPG designer. A regular on the Chicago convention circuit, he works in a variety of genres.

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Blog: Improved Initiative and The Literary Mercenary

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