THE INQUISITOR

The Barony of Ravenia welcomed us with a miserable, relentless drizzle. It had caught us up at the cold pass, and now, as the track sloped into the lowlands, the chill grew greedy—soaking through grease-stained wool, pooling in our boots, and turning the horses’ coats into a sodden, steaming mess.

“A perfect start,” Arnold muttered, scraping a layer of cold slush from his cheek with a wet glove. “We’ve barely crossed the boundary line, and we’re already wading through a bog.”

“This isn’t a bog,” Leon said, his eyes locked on the gray rib of the road ahead. “It’s just water from the sky. The real muck waits for us deeper in.”

Arnold spat into a brown puddle. Walter rode in absolute silence, only occasionally cutting his eyes toward me to check my pace. Hilda kept her distance, her mare picking its way along the muddy edge of the ditch. Cornelius, wrapped so tightly in his heavy woolens that he looked like a sack of grain hoisted onto a saddle, just shivered.

I stared ahead through the gray veil. My internal compass—the shard of old iron embedded in my mind—remained perfectly still; its target lay far away, past the Wild Lands and across the northern sea. Yet something raw and human stirred in my chest. Soon I would see Krage. I wondered what the crown’s leash felt like on him now. A baron. A dog with a bigger yard, nothing more.

The road veered around a sharp hill, and Ravenia opened before us. The town was orderly. It wasn’t wealthy—Krage lacked the coin to pave streets with stone and erect cathedrals—but it was tidy. The houses stood level, the timber fences didn’t lean, and the roofs looked solid. Smoke curled from the chimneys over the salt warehouses by the river; the drying houses operated even in the rain. At the wooden piers, men were loading barrels onto flatboats.

“Not bad,” Walter said, looking around. “For a hole like this—not bad at all.”

“They say the master here came from the outlaws,” Arnold chimed in.

“He did,” I confirmed.

Arnold grunted, though without judgment. Soldiers rarely ask extra questions about another man’s past.

Three guardsmen in brand-new jerkins bearing a raven perched upon a broken sword stood beneath a lean-to canopy over the town gates. The eldest, a fellow with corporal’s stripes, stepped forward and raised his hand. Scanning our inquisitorial cloaks, he asked timidly:

“Masters, are you bound for us?”

I checked my horse. Walter pushed slightly forward to cover my right flank, while Leon covered the left. Arnold remained in the rear, but I heard the familiar metallic ring as he gripped his battle-axe more securely.

I threw back my hood.

“Melcher. Familiar of the Holy Inquisition. To Baron Christoph von Halvegen on personal business.”

The corporal blinked, his gaze shifting from me to the brown cloak bearing the Burning Eye. He swallowed hard.

“I shall escort you, masters,” he said, turning to his men with a swift wave.

The guardsmen parted.

“Pass through, Sir Knight.”

“Lead on,” I said.

The corporal vaulted onto his horse and rode beside us.

“The baron is at the town hall,” he talked on the move. “He’s been sorting through papers since morning. An inspector from the capital arrived today, so he’s been preoccupied. Grumbling constantly. But otherwise, he’s a good baron. Just. We have order under him...”

He talked and talked, while I scanned the streets. Damn it, Krage, well done. Out of nothing, out of a bandit pack, out of a fugitive baron’s cub without a copper to his soul, he had built a homestead. Tiny, but alive.

The town hall stood in the center—a two-story stone building with a porch and a soaked, drooping flag.

The corporal leaped from his horse, ran up the steps, and flung the heavy door open.

“Your Grace! Familiar Melcher of the Inquisition has arrived!”

A crash carried from the depths of the house, as if someone had overturned a chair. Then came a thud of boots, and Krage flew out onto the porch.

I dismounted. We stood facing each other in the rain.

“Alive,” Krage said.

“Alive,” I answered.

He caught me in a bear hug, slapping my back with force. He smelled of ink, leather, and fresh bread.

“Hell,” he murmured into my shoulder. “Hell, Mel. You have no idea how glad I am to see you. These papers, these reports, this damned salt mine... I’ve already forgotten when I last spoke to a living man rather than a crown clerk.”

He pulled back, scanning me head to toe. Catching sight of the cloak with the Burning Eye, he smirked—that exact same rogue’s smirk.

“From the mercenaries straight into a commander over the zealots,” he shook his head. “Watch yourself, Mel. See that you don’t find yourself on a pyre when they learn whom you used to drink beer with.”

“They won’t learn,” I said. “I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“Good man.”

His gaze shifted to my companions, who stood slightly apart.

“And these, then, are your warriors?” Krage stepped toward them, extending a hand to Walter. “Krage. Christoph von Halvegen, Baron of Ravenia. To friends—just Krage. And you, then, are those same heroes who drifted through Tront with Mel? The rumors reached our backcountry yesterday.”

Walter shook his hand with a firm grip.

“Walter, corporal. Former.”

“Former is good,” Krage approved. “We’re all built from scrap in Ravenia. Former bandits, former soldiers, former smugglers... We survive.”

He scanned the rest.

“Arnold,” Arnold introduced himself, squeezing Krage’s hand so hard the baron’s eyes nearly popped. “And this is Leon and Hilda, she’s a marksman from the north.”

Krage looked at Hilda.

“The north, then,” he noted. “We have few people from the north here. Come inside if you need anything—to warm up, to eat. Mel, why are you keeping your people in the rain?”

I smirked.

“You haven’t invited us yet.”

“Ah, hell,” Krage waved his hand. “Come in, everyone. Horses to the stable, yourselves into the house. They’ll lay the table shortly with whatever we have. My cook is a fugitive from the capital—he’ll do his best for us today...”

We entered.

Inside, the town hall proved warm and dry. A large room on the ground floor served as a reception, a dining room, and an office. A long table cluttered with papers stood in the center, a cabinet for reports lined the wall, and logs crackled merrily in a corner hearth.

“Take your seats,” Krage commanded. “Martha! Bring the food! We have guests!”

A woman peeked from the kitchen doors—with a face that had seen much and was surprised by little. The very same Martha who had sheltered us in Alming. She gave me a nod—she recognized me—but instantly vanished back inside.

“Sit down, sit down,” Krage bustled about the room, sweeping the papers from the table into a single heap and shoving them into a drawer. “There. Otherwise, this constant mess... The local clerk can’t even count sacks without freezing. I have to handle everything myself.”

He turned to Cornelius, who was just shedding his wet cloak to reveal the black robes of a redeemer.

“And this is your scribe?” Krage narrowed his eyes. “You, lad, aren’t one of those who keep dossiers on people, by chance?”

Cornelius straightened, adjusting his fogged glasses.

“I am Brother Cornelius, a redeemer of the Holy Inquisition. I do not keep dossiers. I record observations. For science.”

Krage grunted.

“For science, then. Well, well. Watch it, scribe—if you write something amiss about me, I’ll hand you over to the alchemists myself. They do all sorts of things to people there...”

“Don’t threaten him,” I said. “He’s a capable lad.”

“Capable,” Krage agreed. “Fine, take a seat. Will you eat?”

“I will,” Cornelius replied.

Martha brought the food—roasted meat, stewed vegetables, fresh bread, pickles, and a carafe of cloudy, bootleg liquor.

We ate. Krage set upon it immediately, as if he hadn’t eaten for a week.

“Go on, tell the tale,” he said, propping his cheek after chewing the first chunk. “What the hell unfolded in Tront? I heard you dispersed an entire army of phantoms out there.”

“Not an army,” I corrected him. “Seventy-four souls.”

Krage whistled through his teeth.

“Hell. And how?”

“A long story,” I said.

“Well, the night is long ahead,” he took a swig from his mug. “Come on, don’t keep me waiting.”

I told the tale. Briefly, without extra details. Of the beast, of the pit beneath the chapel, of how the Countess requested forgiveness, and of how the souls ascended into the heavens.

Krage listened in silence, his face turning serious, even hard—the Krage I knew from the roads and battles.

“So, forgiveness,” he said when I finished. “That’s how it is. Not with a sword, but with a word.”

“With a sword too,” Arnold interjected. “We had a solid brawl out there.”

“Well, you can’t go anywhere without a sword either,” Krage agreed. “But the core isn’t the sword. The core is the skull. Knowing what to do when a sword is useless.”

He looked at me.

“You were always like that, Mel. Even back when we were breaking out of the lockup. You didn’t just run—you thought. I clocked that right away.”

I shrugged.

“I wanted to live.”

“Well, everyone wants to live. But not everyone knows how to catch onto life so tightly that they pull others out with them.”

He leaned back against his chair and sighed.

“Fine. Now for my affairs. They’re dull, to be honest.”

He waved a hand at the cabinet of reports.

“The salt mine yields a revenue, that’s true. Salt is in demand now. The prince exempted me from the royal tax for five winters, but the road toll, the church tithe, the mining tax, the trade tax, the export tax, the import tax... Pure shit. And a mountain of papers. They’re choking me, Mel. Ruthlessly. I’ve been baron for barely any time, and my hair is already graying.”

He lowered his voice.

“The locals don’t accept me. To them, I’m an upstart, a bandit who got lucky. My lads—the ones from the guard—they’re fine, they’re ours. But the villagers, the ones who have lived here for centuries... They maintain silence, of course, but I feel it. They’re waiting for me to slip.”

“Slip less frequently,” Walter advised.

“I try,” Krage smirked. “But the papers keep coming from the capital. Endless. Sign this, certify that, submit a report. I thought being an outlaw was hard—this is ten times worse. Out there, if you want, you fight; if you want, you run. Here, you sit and scrawl letters to the royal chancery. I’m bursting for the road, Mel. With you. To the Wild Lands, to the devil’s doorstep, anywhere. To feel the wind in my face, to feel danger... to feel alive. Instead of this.” He jabbing a finger at the heap of papers in his drawer.

“Then let’s go,” I said.

Krage shook his head.

“I can’t. Duty, Mel. This damned duty I saddled myself with. The people look at me. They wait. If I run now, everything I built will fall to pieces. So you go on, Mel. Do some wandering and fighting for me too. And I’ll manage things here.”

He changed the subject.

“Regarding your estate, by the way. By the Silverling. Remember?”

“I remember,” I said.

“Well, I’ve established order out there.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Meaning you established order?”

“Literally,” Krage grinned. “You told me yourself that the land out there was wretched, wanted by no one. But I looked—the location is good. By the river, near the border with the Wild Lands. And the road runs straight through it. The only road if a man wants to venture into those parts. I placed an outpost there. A small one, about ten men. From my reliable lads. To hold the road, to ensure no contraband passes without my knowledge... And to ensure my own contraband passes through if necessary.”

“Contraband?” Walter asked.

“What can a man do? You have to manage.”

He retrieved a crumpled sheet from his jerkin and unfolded it on the table.

“Look here. I’ve set up a small business. I hired two alchemists. Capable ones, by the way. They were booted from the university for freethinking—we snuffed each other out back in the capital. And two artifice-smiths. Old-timers, true, but their hands remember the work. They mass-produce elixirs and amulets. Cheap, but working. Healing salves, wards against the evil eye, hangover cures... Every little thing for which they charge a fortune in the capital, but here—it can be made for coppers.”

“And where do you fence it?” I asked.

“To Krabs,” Krage smirked. “The pirate port on the island just past the Wild Lands. They have their own laws out there, their own authority. They care nothing where the goods come from, as long as they work.”

“The wild-folk buy it too?”

“By the wagon-load,” Krage leaned back against his chair. “We’ve been trading with them for a month now. Sent the third caravan. Salt, elixirs, amulets, some metalware. They give us pelts, rare herbs for those same elixirs, and gold. The coin is good, Mel. Good enough to pay for the guardsmen we bury every Tuesday. My people know the trail. The main thing is not to venture where you shouldn’t. Many wild tribes inhabit the Wild Lands. We only trade with the nearest ones. Further past the Silverling, live the Migizi and the Nez-Perce. The Migizi stay closer to the river, bartering pelts for salt and iron. The Nez-Perce are trickier, but if you respect their customs, they won’t touch you.”

“Further out are the Khasis and the Blackfeet,” the baron shook his head. “Those are deep inside, past the lands of the Nez-Perce and Migizi. The Blackfeet tribe controls every path leading to Krabs. Our caravans run precisely through the lands of the Migizi and the Blackfeet. So your land, Mel, isn’t just standing vacant. It’s a gateway. And I am covering that gateway.”

I stared at him. A thought was already turning in my head.

“Listen, Krage. You have an outpost on the road. You run contraband through the Wild Lands, and the wild-folk come to you to trade.”

“Well.”

“So perhaps I should build an inn on my land? Near the outpost, it will be quieter and safer. And I received enough coin from the Inquisition to cover it.”

Krage went still, comprehension slowly breaking across his face.

“An inn,” he repeated.

“A place where a traveler can spend the night, eat, and change horses,” I said. “And simultaneously—a meeting place for the wild-folk. So they don’t skulk through the woods, but arrive like proper folk. With their goods.”

Krage stared at me, his eyes igniting with that old fire.

“Mel...” he spoke slowly. “Mel, you’re a genius. This changes everything. It means control over the entire road. Who passes, who brings what, who leaves... Hell!”

He stopped and turned to me.

“Fine. We’ll discuss that later. For now—I have something for you. Your marksman is looking for her brother. Well, the commander of the outpost stationed on your land used to serve with the mercenaries. Those exact ones.”

Hilda raised her head, her eyes piercing Krage.

“The Steel Claws,” she said. Her voice carried flatly. “Did he know Einar?”

Krage looked at her.

“He knew him, of course, and he won’t hide the truth from me,” he said, before shifting his gaze back to me. “I’ll ride with you tomorrow. To the outpost. I’ll introduce the commander to the master of the lands it stands upon, and we’ll resolve the matter of your brother,” he nodded to Hilda.

He stood up, slapping his thighs.

“We move out tomorrow morning. For today—rest. Martha!”

Martha materialized in the doorway.

“Rooms for the guests. The best ones.”

“I obey,” Martha said.

Morning turned out clear. The rain had ended during the night, and now the sky above Ravenia shone with a clean, scrubbed blue. The sun was rising from behind the hills, and every puddle on the road blazed with gold.

“A good day,” Walter said, stepping onto the porch. “Perfect for a journey.”

Krage was already roaring at someone by the hitching post, the guardsmen bustling, saddling horses, and checking the packs. I sat down beside Walter, pulled on my boots, and drew my sword. The Earl’s gift was heavy and reliable—the kind of item that sits gathering dust in treasuries for centuries, awaiting its hour.

It was a heavy, ugly thing forge-born to split helmets and ruin families. No flash, no magic. The steel, dark and matte, looked denser than usual, as if it had been forged beneath the weight of a mountain. A dull, gray band of pattern-welded silver ran along the wide fuller, webbed with microscopic cracks. A massive crossguard of blued steel terminated in a heavy pommel shaped like a wolf’s head, its empty eye sockets staring with cold indifference. The hilt, wrapped in worn leather, fit the palm perfectly—honest old iron that wouldn’t snap when it hit plate armor.

“Good iron,” Walter grumbled, never turning around. “A blade a man wouldn’t mind dying with, and finds handy to kill with.”

Krage hopped over, seeing me on my feet.

“Mel! Finally. My lads are all waiting. The road is no short trek; it’s about a three-hour ride to your holding.”

“Good, we move out,” I said, rising.

“Is your scribe riding?” Krage asked.

“He is,” I said.

“Well, well,” Krage smirked. “See that he doesn’t lose his notebook. Otherwise, my guardsmen will be reading his scratches, using the pages to wipe their backsides at the halts.”