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    The Curse of the Raven
    The Curse of the Raven
    The Curse of the Raven
    Ebook113 pages1 hourRaven Son

    The Curse of the Raven

    By Nicholas Kotar

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    In a world ruled by a demon, one man's choice can break the world... or save it.



    Llun the smith is an artist at heart, content to make the most beautiful swords, nails, and horseshoes in his city. But when his smithy is visited by the grand inquisitor of the secret police, his peaceful life is at an end.


    He is offered a perfect job–to be the exclusive smith of the new order. Endless luxury, good food, and the freedom to create–it’s everything he ever wanted. But it comes with a price. He has to make a metal flask as a gift to the new ruler of his city. Seized by a strange inspiration, he instead creates an object of great power that can heal thousands… or lead to a war that would never end.


    The Curse of the Raven is a epic fantasy novella sequel to The Song of the Sirin. Early readers have called it "The Lord of the Rings meets 1984." If you enjoy creative twists on mythology and classic fantasy, you'll love this edge-of-your seat adventure.


    Buy The Curse of the Raven to continue the journey today.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWaystone Press
    Release dateDec 14, 2018
    ISBN9780998847931
    The Curse of the Raven
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      Book preview

      The Curse of the Raven - Nicholas Kotar

      The Curse of the Raven

      Raven Son: Book Two

      Nicholas Kotar

      Contents

      1. Llun the Smith

      2. The Consistory

      3. Mirodara

      4. The Sons of the Swan

      5. A Deal with the Dog-man

      6. The Darina of Vasyllia

      7. The Choice

      8. The Creation

      9. The Escape

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      Chapter 10

      Also by Nicholas Kotar

      About the Author

      THE CURSE OF THE RAVEN

      (Raven Son: Book Two)

      Copyright © Nicholas Kotar 2017

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without prior permission of the publisher.

      This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

      Cover Design by Books Covered Ltd.

      Published by Waystone Press 2017

      ISBN: 9780998847931 

      LCCN: 2017913721

      Created with Vellum

      To Adrian and Emilia

      In the year of the Covenant 1066, the great city of Vasyllia, the very heart of the known world, was betrayed to an invading army of nomad Gumiren by its own people. What many did not know, but suspected, was that the invading southerners were no more than a tool in the hand of Vasyllia’s ancient enemy. He has many names, that demon. The Raven. The Great Changer. The Bringer of Darkness. But as often happens, in the moment of the Raven’s ascendance was the seed of his demise planted. All that remained was for at least a few Vasylli to remain true to the Old Ways until the time of reclamation. But when the Healer returns, will he find any true Vasylli left?

      From A New History of the Covenant by Dar-in-Exile Mirnían II

      Chapter 1

      Llun the Smith

      Llun the Smith gazed into the fire. The bellows blew, and the sparks exploded before him like a shower of fireflies. He breathed in. The smell—soot, sweat, dross melting from pure metal. It was as near paradise as anyone could get in Vasyllia. Especially after Vasyllia fell.

      Smith Llun! How much longer?

      It was the fifth time Garmun had asked the same question in the last half hour. The old fool. Llun was continually amazed that the fat man was the most sought-after master builder in Vasyllia. All he ever seemed to do was sit in Llun’s smithy, covering most of it with his belly.

      It’s coming, it’s coming, growled Llun. He didn’t mind Garmun sitting around while he worked. But no one…no one was allowed to break the hallowed moments when the fire and the metal fused to become something new, something sacred.

      By the Great Father, Llun, I only asked for nails, not works of art.

      Llun twitched at the name. Great Father, my muscular left bicep. Why is the Raven renaming himself now, of all times? Does he imagine we’ve forgotten how he took everything from us?

      What is it about you master builders? What ails you? Too many children?

      Garmun turned purple, opened his mouth to speak, then choked on himself. He had no wife, but his illegitimate progeny filled half of Vasyllia’s first reach. Crude people snickered that being so fat was normal after so many pregnancies.

      Peace, Brother Garmun, said Llun. They’re all but done. And I promise you they’ll be the hardiest, longest-lasting nails you’ll find in all Vasyllia.

      And the only ones with a raven etched on the nail’s head. May his memory be forever cursed, and may every hammer stroke hasten the time of his demise…

      "You mean the most exquisite nails in Vasyllia, no doubt, the fat man complained. I’ve never seen anyone so taken with his own talent. Don’t you know that your little frills and personal touches make no difference? Competence! Competence! That’s what the market wants."

      The market, with all its frippery and cheap wares, can burn in the fires of the land of the dead for all I care. It slipped out. Llun hoped the hammer would be distraction enough. But he had never been blessed by fortune.

      Your talk smacks of the Outer Lands, you fool. Be careful no one in the Great Father’s good graces overhears you.

      Overhears what? said a new voice from the doorway.

      The stranger who walked in was the antithesis of Garmun—short and wiry like a ratter. Everything about him suggested potential action—his smile, just on the verge of malice, his hands, holding his thick belt as though it were someone’s throat, the sharp line of his cheekbones, suggesting some nomad blood. His physicality was so overwhelming that it almost distracted from the dog’s scalp hanging from his belt.

      So this must be one of that new department that the Gumiren—those filthy nomad invaders from the South—had concocted for collaborators. What was it called? The Consistory, yes. The secret police of the Raven. Dog-men, the commons called them. A kind name for a traitor against his own people.

      I’m not open to new customers, said Llun, trying to keep his tone light.

      That’s a relief, the stranger said, with more gentleness than Llun expected. No one will bother us, then.

      He closed the door and dropped the black curtain over the door-window.

      What a pleasant smithy you have here, Brother Llun.

      Llun stiffened as the stranger began to look around the smithy. Like a bitch on the scent, the stranger’s pointed face bore down on the cluttered left counter of the smithy. He pulled out two interlacing shields of iron leaf-work tracery so fine they almost looked woven. Each held a heraldic icon of a raven in flight.

      Well, that’s… He didn’t finish, but to Llun’s surprise it sounded like he was about to say beautiful. What? A Raven’s man actually admiring beauty for its own sake?

      Llun’s stomach churned. It was all wrong: there was genuine admiration in the stranger’s eyes. He appreciated the shields as things of beauty, not as objects to buy or sell. That wasn’t supposed to happen. The Raven’s men followed a script. They were supposed to ask where Llun was going to sell these useless trinkets, and when he hemmed and hawed about beauty and artistry, they would threaten Llun with something horrible.

      Llun had seen enough of the Gumiren’s work to know that the threats of the collaborators were never idle—weavers with one eye burned out just so their depth perception would no longer be of any use, sword-wrights with their right hands chopped off at the wrist, potters with broken feet.

      Damn them all, he thought bitterly.

      But this one was admiring decorative shields that had no practical use whatsoever. Llun had made them merely for the sake of beauty.

      What possessed you to make such a thing?

      Llun’s hammer stopped in mid-air. It was the choice of words. Possessed. No, this was no mere inquisitor. This man understood the creative process. What it means to make something, and how it feels to be taken by the hand of the Maker.

      It made itself, said Llun, hesitating. I was just the instrument.

      The stranger gasped with pleasure, as though Llun’s words had given him a taste of something he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Maybe this was an impostor? A motley fool who put on the dog-scalp to ridicule the Consistory? But such people did not walk the streets for long before their bodies were used as decorations for lamp-posts.

      Llun, said the dog-man, and looked Llun directly in the eyes.

      The lack of the Brother before Llun’s name frightened him more than the direct gaze. This collaborator was something new. Yes, he was likely an artist. An artist of torture and death.

      Llun, you stand there, gawking like a fool, telling me you made something for the sheer pleasure of artistry?

      The stranger’s right index finger caressed the outline of

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