Young Writers Society

A tattered old man in long coat and breeches made his way slowly through the streets of Daran City in the place known as Carney Wharf. His left leg dragged behind him, some old war wound from times gone by. His face was ashen gray, his hair turning white with every revolution of the sun. Beneath bushy gray eyebrows, his steel blue eyes glittered dangerously as he watched the passers by. All were anxious to be on their way. Night was coming, and with the fading of the sun came the appearance of the gangs and the guard. Nobody wanted to be caught out in a brawl between those two. Best case, they would haul them off as accomplices, and when you got hauled of by the guard you came back changed. If you came back at all. To the guard, there was no difference between the people who lived in Carney and the gangs themselves. In Carney, everyone was a criminal.

A hand shot out from the darkness as the old man limped past an alley between two buildings and grabbed him by the collar of his dirty shirt. He felt himself being dragged into the shadows, and grunted as his assailant slammed him against a wall and put a knife to his throat. It was dark so he couldn’t see anything, but he could feel a hungry gaze on him. The blade of the knife glinted in the dim light from the main thoroughfare and bit into the skin of his neck, drawing a thin line of blood across his throat. He gulped, nervous despite himself.

“Gimme yer purse, old gaffer, or I slit yer throat.”

By the sound of the voice, it was only a boy, and by the feel of his hand, a scrawny boy at that. The old man hesitated, now unsure of his purpose here. The boy shook his roughly.

“Didn’t ye hear what I told ye?” he growled. “Gimme yer purse, or I’ll gut ye, I swear. Don’t fink I won’t.”

The old man flicked his hand forward, and there was a metallic click as a knife blade appeared out of nowhere. He tapped the inside of the boy’s leg with the blade, and the boy looked down in dismay and gulped.

“If you want to have children one day, I suggest you let me go,” he told his assailant in a surprisingly deep and cultured tongue.

The boy dropped his knife and backed away, hands raised.

“I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, sir. Please, don’t kill me,” he pleaded.

The old man strode forward, every trace of his previous limp suddenly gone. The boy scrambled backwards until he tripped and fell to the ground. The old man bent and picked up the boy’s knife, hefting it in his hand before slipping it into his belt and zeroing in on his prey.

“The Witch Woman of Carney,” he said as he stood above the boy. “I want to see her.”

“I-I don’t know what yer talkin’ ‘bout,” the boy stammered.

But it was obvious from the way he clutched at the dark symbol that dangled from around his neck that the boy knew exactly what the man was talking about. The old man recognized the symbol and tsked in annoyance.

“That won’t help you boy. Not here. Not now. I know who you are, Thomas Briggs, and I know you know where she is. Rumor has it from the Black Dog that you run liquor to her. You know, when you’re not cutting throats and taking purses.”

“I ne’er took one ghost in all me life. I swear by it. I ne’er harmed no one!”

“That’s probably because they all did the smart thing and handed over their purses. But now you’re going to do the smart thing and take me to her.”

“I-I can’t,” the boy stammered, suddenly beginning to blubber. “She’ll kill me. She tol’ me never to tell. She tol’ me never to say nothin’. She’ll turn me into a frog and pin me on ‘er wall.”

The old man stared at the boy in consternation, weighing all of his options. Finally, he sighed and bent his head, lifting a hand to his temple. The eyebrows were the first to go. The pale wrinkles and pockmarks over his aged face peeled away almost like - no, exactly like - a second skin. The boy watched in horror as the old man discarded the skin and shook the ash from his hair and rubbed the paste from his hands. After what seemed like an eternity, the boy finally looked up into the dark, brooding face of the stranger before him.

“Who are you?” he asked in a small voice, and the stranger sighed again.

“I’m someone who wants to see the Witch Woman, and you’re going to take me there. And don’t worry. She’s expecting me.”

******

Bram followed the boy through the emptying streets of Carney, never more than two steps behind. He had put away his knife before leaving the alley. A blade attracted attention which was the last thing he wanted right now. Besides, the boy was as demure as a lamb at the moment. He wouldn’t run. He obviously thought Bram was some sort of dark spirit who could trade skins. In actuality, it had been a sort of face mask, a mold that clung to the skin and could be shaped in whatever way the user desired. Actors used them not to obscure the face but rather to enhance it. A few acquaintances of his had gifted him some, and he had found it invaluable in the course of his investigations.

A year ago, Bram had been posted at Blackwater Gaol as Captain after having risen quickly through the ranks and through many different postings in the city. His rough and crafty ways of dealing with his assignments weren’t exactly well received elsewhere, but here in Carney they were necessary. The post at Carney had been deeply corrupted, so the first few months had seen Bram cleaning up that mess and training new men. Then he began establishing a reputation among the people. It wasn’t hard. Those who abided by the law had nothing to fear from him and those who didn’t steered clear. Crime went down in a matter of weeks, and for a while, he was able to relax in his new captaincy.

As Captain of Blackwater Gaol and overseer of the part of the Guard who managed the goings on in Carney Wharf, Bram was well-known on these streets. He tended to cause the most trouble for these people, and it stood to reason they would want a face to go along with the name. That was what had prompted him to find ways of disguising himself. No one who ever saw his face gave the exact same description, letting Bram walk the streets freely whenever he felt like it. Bram didn’t much mind it out here, either. At least, it was better to spend a night out on the streets than in some fancy mansion up on the hill, talking with men and women who would smile to your face while planning on how to stab you in the back later. It was all a game to them, a game without real consequences. But down here, the consequences were all too real, and meant the difference between life and death. He was never sure if he liked to spend time in the gutter because he felt that he was making an actual difference or because he liked the thrill.

Usually, Bram would patrol the streets with a unit of men dressed in civvies and keep an eye out and an ear to the ground for trouble. There was hardly ever a night where there wasn’t some sort of dispute going on or they didn’t have to face down a number of street kids who thought they were all that with their blackmarket firearms and Cassian-steeled blades. But tonight was different. Tonight, it was just Bram. He had left the unit in the capable hands of his lieutenant, Gregor, and set off on his own. Briefly, he reached into his pocket and brushed the folded parchment that lay in there. He didn’t take it out to read. He already knew exactly what it said:

You and I have much to discuss. I know who you are and where you come from. You cannot escape your past forever. Come and find me.

-The Witch Woman

Bram had, of course, heard of the Witch Woman before, but he had purposely avoided her for the past year, hoping that their paths would never cross. But it seemed that destiny had another plan in mind for him.

Rumor had it that the Witch Woman was a powerful sorceress. She had the ability to enter men’s minds and make them do whatever she wanted. Many people thought it was a lot of hocus. People like the higher ups who knew the inventor himself, Lord Kenston of Kenston Factories, were convinced in the power of science and had no room for faith. In Carney, they knew enough to stay away; but Bram never had to have that kind of confirmation. He knew that it was all real. Science notwithstanding its great potential, magic had always been a part of the land ever since the beginning. Before the three kingdoms, before the conquerors and the conquered, there was just the People, and the People knew that magic existed. There were stories passed down from generation to generation of the great sorcerers of old who could do marvelous things and of warriors of great skill and cunning gifted with great power. As a boy, Bram remembered dreaming of those warriors, of becoming a warrior himself one day. He still had them from time to time. The stories his father told had stuck with him even after all these years, or so he told himself. Lately, it seemed, they had become even more frequent.

He would get visions sometimes of people he had never seen before in lands he had never seen before. Grass and open fields stretched out before his bare feet. The air would be cool and clear, unlike the suffocating streets of Daran with all of the close knit buildings and the air filled with smoke from the factories near the sealine. It was wonderful and strange all at once. He hated it.

As Bram followed his guide through the rat warren, he couldn’t help but feel a little apprehension at meeting the old woman face to face. She knew about him, about his past. That much was obvious in the note she had given him. But she also was a force to be wary of. He had no idea what he was walking into. All of his stories of the People were from his childhood, memories he had suppressed when his father left. Ever since then, he had left well-enough alone. He had toyed with the fact of turning down the offer. But really, there was only one answer to begin with. You didn’t say no to a witch.

“ ‘S down there.”

Bram looked up to see the boy pointing down a dim path. They were near the docks as far as he could tell. He could smell brine and fish. The smell of it made his stomach feel queasy, but he forced it from his mind and turned to the boy.

“You’ll take me all the way.”

But to his surprise, the boy shook his head adamantly. “I won’t. Kill me if’n you want, but ye can’t make me go no further. I won’t go no further. She’ll turn me into somefin. I know she will.”

“And you think dying is a good alternative?”

“You don’t know her, sir. I won’t go no further. That’s me word on that,” the boy said, his eyes wide with fear.

Bram pursed his lips. “Fine, go then.”

The boy looked up at him in surprise. “You won’t kill me?”

“Not today,” Bram muttered, but he did so to empty air.

Without further prompting, the boy took off, leaving Bram standing at the opening of a very dark, very long street. It was lined with buildings that were, by the look of things, abandoned. Or, almost abandoned. Despite the broken windows and splintered window frames, the empty doorways and frightening shop window dummies that had been long forgotten, Bram had the sense that someone was watching him as he approached the Witch Woman’s domain. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and his skin tingles in apprehension and anticipation. He hated feeling vulnerable like this, but he had come this far. He could a little bit further. He took one step forward and then another, hand unconsciously gripping the handle of his switchblade. He realized about halfway through that he had no idea which one was the Witch Woman’s home, but he determined that he would probably know which one was hers. And indeed, when he saw the last building in the dead-end lane, he knew he had arrived at the right place. The top half of it had collapsed many years ago, leaving a hovel of a unit standing. It was overgrown with thick ivy. There was no door, only a thin, ragged cloth that might have been white once but was now a filthy brownish color. Bram decided he didn’t want to know where the Witch Woman had gotten it from. The air was thick with the scent of wax, of herbs, and strangely of jasmine.

Bram approached the hovel cautiously. As he did so, he could hear voices inside. One was deep and full. The other was thin and high-pitched and very soft, a woman’s unmistakably. Bram could barely make out what it was she was saying, but he could hear the Witch Woman’s voice as clear as day.

“You poor dear. Here, take this twice a day and all your aches and pains will simply go away. What is this? Want to forget? I can do this...for a price. You don’t care? Very well, then.”

There was a snap and a cry. Bram’s fingers clutched his blade handle harder, but his instincts told him not to move. Suddenly, the cloth was pushed aside and a dazed young woman staggered into the streets. Bram watched her with concern. She was so young, not even fifteen, but she looked like a grandmother. Her face was drawn, her skin pale, and her hands thin. Her fingers were wrapped around an object that Bram couldn’t see. He reached out a hand to touch her, but she simply shuffled past him, not even seeing him. He turned back to the hovel and swallowed hard before slipping inside.

There was a thin cackle and the shuffling of feet on a mat. Then the Witch Woman spoke again.

“I hear the rustle of wings, black wings. Raven is here. Raven has come.”

Bram found himself in a small room lit with the hollow glow of firelight that flickered on the walls of the collapsed building. It was not at all what Bram had been expecting. Odd trinkets lined the walls, ornaments and dolls and woven tapestries. There were jars of strange looking things, things that Bram didn’t want to know about. But as odd as the room purported to be, it was surprisingly clean and very spacious. A table was set up in the middle of the room and on the table was a steaming pot of tea and two cups very neatly arranged. At the fireplace stood a tall woman, her back turned to Bram. She was dressed all in black in a gown from times gone by. It framed her body, following the curves of her waist and hips before falling to the ground in a wave of silk. Bram swallowed again.

For a moment, she stared into the fire, dark eyes glittering as she watched the flames consume the wood. Then, she turned to Bram, a coy smile on her bronzed face.

“Welcome,” she said warmly. “Will you join me for tea?”

She sat down at the table, carefully arranging her long, black hair so it fell over one shoulder and between her breasts. Bram steadfastly kept his gaze above her neck, although he admittedly found it difficult to maintain his determination. She was doing this on purpose, he knew. She wanted him to react to her, but he couldn’t let himself. He saw obligingly in the proffered seat but kept his hand near the knife in his pocket.

“You are a very rare kind of man, Bram Estis,” the Witch Woman smiled. “Not many men can resist my charms. I applaud you.”

Bram frowned.

“What did you do to that woman?” he asked.

It was the first thing that came to mind. The Witch Woman laughed softly.

“Nothing she did not consent to. She had a child.”

“Had?”

The Witch Woman only smiled. “Please, you didn’t come all this way to ask me about women with whom you have no connection. Leave her. She will forget soon enough. They all want to in the end, and I am more than willing to help them.”

Bram felt a twinge of disgust and was relieved to find that he could still think properly. Beautiful woman. Beautiful witch. He had to be careful.

“Why am I here?” he asked.

“Getting right to the point. I like that about you,” the Witch Woman said. “I know who you are.”

“So you said. In your note.” He pulled it out and waved it in her face before he threw it on the table. “You were very eager to meet me. I want to know why.”

“All in due course. But, please have some tea first,” she said, indicating the pot. “If you would be so kind.”

Realizing that he was going to get nowhere with her, he sighed and reached for the pot. As the steam rose from the cup in front of the Witch Woman, he settled back and poured himself some tea, but he didn't touch it until after she placed the cup to her lips and drank deeply.

“Ah, perfect.” She looked up at him. “You know, the best cup of tea in the world isn’t made with this blend or that. Ingredients mean little when the man has no idea what he is doing.”

She nodded to him, looking expectantly at his cup. Hesitantly, he raised the rim of the glass to his lips and sipped at the tea. It was very good, even better than Dawson’s tea. He swallowed it and set the teacup back on the table, then looked up at the Witch Woman, who never once stopped smiling.

“That’s better. Now we can talk. I know who you are, Bram Allard Estis. I know where you come from. You and I have a lot in common, I think.”

“We have nothing in common,” Bram said crossly.

“Oh, but I believe that you’ll find we do. You know what I am?”

Bram nodded reluctantly. “You’re Nemen.”

“I am of the People, yes,” she said. “And so are you.”

“No.”

She cocked her head to one side, considering him for a moment before she continued. “Why are so reluctant to claim your birthright?”

“If you know so much, why don’t you tell me?” Bram asked coldly.

The Witch Woman laughed. “Shall I then? But my you are insistant. Very well. I shall tell you.” She stood and paced the room, coming to stand at the fire yet again. “Your father was of the People, your mother a fancy woman he bedded one night in a brothel. There was never any love between the two, but when you were born, your father took you and raised you himself. He told you grand stories, adventures of a world you still see sometimes in your dreams. How am I doing so far?”

Bram blinked. “How did you know that? About my dreams.”

“The same way I know that your father left you cold and destitute on the streets of a city that taught you to be even colder,” she replied eagerly, whirling around to face him. “How you blame him for all that’s happened to you. How even now a hatred burns in you for your father and everything he stood for. I can feel it there. I can see the fire of it in your eyes, in everything you do. You’re angry at a man you barely knew, and at a people you’ve never known.”

“A people who never claimed me,” Bram said bitterly, disliking the way that the emotions were suddenly boiling up inside of him. “My father’s people.”

“Do not condemn a people for the actions of one man. We are not all the same,” the Witch Woman said sharply, all pretense of charm and flattery gone. In its place was a cold look that spoke of centuries. “You can deny your blood all you like, your dreams and your feelings, but it won’t help you. Your anger will condemn this city to ruin and decay. All of Themisa will tremble, and the world as you know it will fall. This is the prophecy I have seen!”

Bram felt a cold wind blow through the room. He shivered as the fire light flickered and then died, throwing the room into darkness. The only source of light came from the moon that filtered in through the tattered cloth that served as the door. Bram quickly jumped up from his chair and backed towards the light. The Witch Woman had disappeared, but now as he backed away, he felt a hand creep over his shoulder. He glanced to the side and saw to his horror a hideous old hag standing two steps away from him. He cried out and stumbled backwards, only to bump into the table. There was a sound of something breaking, and he glanced down to find black sludge oozing over his hand and pieces of a broken teacup, his teacup, all over the table. He gasped in recognition and turned back to the old hag, who cackled and waved her finger in the air. Suddenly, the fire sprung back to life and with it, the room returned to normal. The beautiful woman reached out, offering Bram a handkerchief. Hesitantly, he took it and wiped the tea from his hand.

“Moonlight reveals many things,” she said after a moment. “I know of no better truth than the light. I have seen many days and have lived many centuries. I am not as young as I might seem. I live as my people live. I am as my people are. A creature so long hidden in darkness cannot return to the light so easily. It becomes misshapen, ugly, and vile, and the light begins to burn.”

“What do you want from me?” Bram asked in a shaky voice.

The Witch Woman actually looked sad. “What I want is of no concern. What this city needs is another matter entirely, and this city needs you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Then I pity you,” she said. “I know what you hear when people think you aren’t listening. They speak about you in whispers. Unnatural. Mongrel. Animal. You are not one of them, Bram. No matter how much you pretend to be one of them, you will never be one of them. Your status is nothing but a title. Your position is nothing but a sham.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Bram asked, fists clenched. “I don’t understand.”

“I am telling you this because you must come to accept the truth in this before anything else. You must learn to see yourself, to accept both of yourselves.”

“Both of myselves?”

“You are not one of them, but you are not one of us either. You are both and you are neither. You are the bridgeway between our worlds, and the only one who can save this city.”

Bram was taken aback. This meeting had already become more than he wished it to be. He had expected his father, the talk about his past. He had never expected this.

“You’re wrong.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

Bram hesitated.

“You can feel it, can’t you? You know I’m telling you the truth. I’ve had dreams, too, Bram. I know what will happen. It has already begun. At the tolling of the bell, you will find her, and then you will know that all I am telling you is true.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Bram asked, nearly growling in frustration. “When did the People become so interested in saving the city? I thought Nemens hated Themisans.”

“The world is for all of humanity, not just the privileged few. Only a fool thinks he can save a city with one hand tied behind his back. You’re not a fool now, are you?” the Witch Woman cocked her head to the side and offered him a mischievous smile.

“Don’t play with me, woman,” Bram growled.

“Who is playing?” the Witch Woman asked, growing serious. “You ask me why I wish to save this city? The People are dying. What you saw in the moonlight was but a glimpse of our future, but only a glimpse. The future is unsettled. You are special, Bram Allard Estis. You can save us, but only if you stop playing games with yourself and realize your true potential.”

“Speaking plainly. I hate riddles.”

But the Witch Woman only smiled. “Raven with his feathers black, will you create or destroy? I wonder. But there’s another side of this coin. Will you see the truth for what it is? I have already given you everything you will need. You will find the path on your own. Be wary, Raven. Time is short.”

And just as before, the fire went out. Bram froze in his seat, but after a long moment, he realized he was alone. He glanced around the hovel, and then quickly made his way out onto the street once more, not looking back once as he hurried away. It wasn’t until he got to the main streets and familiar ground that he finally was able to think. And when he did, he realized that he wanted a drink.

Ed Dawson was about the only man in Daran that knew about Bram’s past. They had both come from the same place and both been raised in lives that would otherwise have set them on two very different paths. He liked Dawson. He wouldn’t exactly call the old man a friend, however, as his loyalties were questionable. The Highwayman, the most feared and mythicised figure in criminal history, had Dawson in his back pocket or so the rumors went. But despite his misgivings, Bram had found him useful in the past and didn’t wish to cut ties with such an important informant. Plus, Dawson knew Carney as well as any local, and he knew the Witch Woman, too. He also owned the Black Dog Tavern, the only place in Carney where Bram knew he could go to get a decent drink.

“Hm,” was all he had said when Bram told him the story.

Bram raised one eyebrow in question. It was a skill that he was very proud of and utilized in many a situation where cynicism was in order.

“Is that all you have to say?”

“I’m just surprised is all,” Dawson said, waving his hand dismissively. “I wasn’t aware that the Witch Woman was in th’habit of invitin’ guests.”

Bram shrugged and took a long draft of his beer. Dawson eyed him with concern.

“That be’s a lot o’ drink yer downin’ there. I never see ye with more’n a glass at a time. Sure ye don’t want t’take it slow?”

“Charge it to the Gaol if your worried about coin,” Bram dismissed. “Besides, after tonight, I’m not sure I want anything less.”

Dawson nodded and then hesitated as he considered his next question. Bram noticed his unease.

“What is it, Dawson? You know you can ask me anything.”

Dawson nodded again. “Not sure if’n I should. ‘Tis confusin’ stuff fer an old barkeep like me, but do you think that Witch Woman had merit?”

“What do you mean?” Bram asked, looking up from his pint.

“Well, d’ye think she be tellin’ ye the truth and all, and if she be tellin’ the truth, what do ye think she meant by all o’ that stuff she said?”

Bram hesitated. “You know, I didn’t want to believe her. But she kept calling me something, something I’ve only ever been called in one place. Raven. She kept calling me Raven.”

“You think she was talkin’ ‘bout ye, then?”

“Can’t think of anything else.”

“Where d’ye hear it then?”

“What?”

“Raven,” Dawson said. “Where’d ye hear it said to ye that it would convince ye so much?”

Bram stared long at hard at the drink in his cup. Reluctantly, he handed it back to Dawson.

“My dreams,” he replied. “The only place I was ever called Raven was in my dreams.”

Both Dawson and Bram were quiet for a long time after that. Then, Dawson sighed.

“I don’t usually take to magic and the like, but that there bes pretty damning stuff.”

“I’m not equipped to save a city, Ed,” Bram sighed. “I’m just one man.”

“What’s that witch said to ye? Yer special and the like. Yer different, and there’s nothin wrong wi’that either, ye hear?”

“Dawson,” Bram said, shaking his head.

“Eh, what do I know, anyhow?” Dawson shook his head. “Don’t listen to the witch if’n ye don’t want to. A man must choose ‘is own path and not depend on others t’do it for him.”

“You sound like a damned proverb.”

Dawson chuckled. “So, when is this supposed to begin, all o’ this craziness?”

Before Bram could answer, the bell began to toll the midnight hour. He felt a chill as suddenly, the Witch Woman’s words came back to him. Then the door to the tavern opened and Bram recognized his lieutenant, Gregor. Though still out of uniform, Gregor easily recognized him at the bar and came quickly over, followed by one or two young guard members.

“Captain Estis, sir,” he said, snapping to attention.

“Gregor? What are you doing here?”

“Sir, I’m afraid I have a rather disturbing report. We...we found a body, sir. A young girl by the looks of it. She’s been dead a long time. And her face, sir. It’s all cut up.”

Bram looked up at Dawson, who glanced back at him with a knowing look.

“ ‘At the tolling of the bell’,” Bram muttered. “Damnit.”

“Sir?”

“Nothing, Gregor. Set up a perimeter. I want to see the scene for myself. Leave one of them and see to it right away.”

“Aye, sir!” Gregor said, saluting Bram once more before he took one of the young guardsman with him and left the tavern.

Bram sighed heavily and looked up at Dawson. “She was right. Damn, but this city is going to burn.”

“Not with you watchin’ out,” Dawson smirked.

“No, that’s exactly why were all in trouble,” Bram muttered. Then he stood. “Keep an eye out for me. Things are going to get strange.”

And with that, he left the tavern.