Again Orrag paused, deep in thought. Eventually he pushed himself away from the wall and regained a bit of his former, gruff composure. He circled around the siblings again. As before, Whitlock turned slowly to continue to face the bestial man, hand ready to draw his sword. Orrag stopped at the doorway from which he'd emerged.
"I can tell you where to find the crypt that you seek. How about that? Is that helpful?'' Orrag told them, and unknowable smile coming to his gap-filled mouth. The only teeth that remained were slightly pointed.
"This… man doesn't know anything," Whitlock told Melann, pointing an accusing finger at Orrag's wide chest. "We should leave. The rain would be better than this." Thunder rumbled outside.
"Oh, I know how to find it. I know a fair bit about those peaks and the valleys in between. I know some of the goblins and orcs that live there."
"No more proof do we need that this man's a liar. Goblins and orcs-vermin!"
"Whitlock," Melann said softly, "I felt that Chauntea brought us here, and now we're seeing her plans for us come to fruition. This man can tell us how to get to the object of our quest. This is it, can't you feel it?" She clapped her hands together and took a step closer to Orrag, her blue eyes peering into his misshapen face.
" 'Course, it'll cost you." Orrag said quietly, seeming to hide a smile behind those cruel lips.
"What?" Whitlock turned back to the man who now leaned in the door frame. The light beyond revealed a simple bed made of hay illuminated by a lantern. Miscellaneous equipment, books, and what appeared to be maps lay scattered around the floor. "The information will cost you," Orrag stated.
"How much?" Whitlock asked suspiciously. Still convinced the man was a thief, the warrior planted his feet squarely on the dirt floor, as if a battle-ready stance might grant him greater resolve or aware ness. He could use either.
“Well, let's see," Orrag said slowly, over-dramatically, mocking a ponderous, thoughtful look. "This is obviously important knowledge, you understand. Hard to come by. I'd wager you couldn't find it anywhere else."
Orrag fanned the flames of Whitlock's fears masterfully.
"I would say about a hundred gold pieces ought to cover it," he stated finally.
Melann looked to Whitlock. He carried their money and knew that was approximately all that they had, but if Orrag actually knew the location of the crypt, could any price be too great? Melann seemed to have no doubt that Orrag spoke the truth. "Whitlock?" Her eyes were wide and moist. "It seems so clear that Chauntea has brought us here. A grain house, no less! That's got to be a sure sign of Chauntea's involvement."
Of course, Whitlock thought, Melann would always optimistically believe anything that sounded like what she wanted to hear. But, he had to admit, this could be their only chance. She seemed to have been right about the elven ghost. He looked into his sister's eyes and saw only confidence. Perhaps her goddess had brought them here. Who knew?
"All right," Whitlock told Orrag through clenched teeth. "We'll pay your price."
"Good. Let's see it," Orrag rubbed his cheek and opened his eyes wide.
"No," Melann said suddenly. "You talk, then we pay."
She knew they would be better to provide a united front, and so backed up her brother's tendency for suspicion. Whitlock turned back to her and nodded with a slight smile.
Orrag didn't flinch. "All right, fine," he said. "You seem like trustworthy folks." He cleared his throat. "Ride east away from town for a full day until you come to a small lake, then head south into the Thunder Peaks. You’ll pass through wooded hills, but it's the easiest way through that portion of the mountains. After another three days' ride, you’ll come on a narrow vale that'll lead you to a high cliff face. You’ll find what you're looking for there." During his explanation, Melann produced a piece of parchment and took some notes so they wouldn't forget.
"The entrance to the Crypt of Chare'en," Orrag told them, "was built into the side of that tall, smooth cliff, but it was covered in a landslide long ago. If you have to get in," Orrag grinned, "you’ll have to dig."
Whitlock and Melann conferred for a moment, determining whether or not they had all the details they needed. Orrag claimed ignorance regarding anything but the actual location of the place. When Whitlock felt assured they could find the crypt on their own, he handed Orrag a leather bag with its strap pulled tight. "Here's your money, half-orc."
Orrag raised his eyebrow and looked at Whitlock. He took the bag and opening it, peering within to eye the coins.
Whitlock turned to the rough wood door leading outside. The wind still rattled the boards of the granary's roof, but he had no intention of spending the night in the same structure as a brigand with orc blood. The storm had been fierce but mercifully short. Opening the door, he looked at Melann. She came with him, but glanced back at Orrag.
"Thank you, sir," she told him, "and may Chauntea be with you." Orrag didn't speak as they left, but his face contorted as if the priest’s parting words were a curse and not a blessing.
Chapter Four
Ravens are liars. Though most people don't believe animals to be part of the struggle between good and evil, no one, including the Ravenwitch, ever asked the ravens. Of course, even if she did ask, she probably wouldn't get a truthful answer. The Ravenwitch knew her creatures enjoyed falsehood for its own sake and maliciously sought to trick and fool other creatures- and each other-whenever they could. They laughed at the misery and confusion of others and relished the infliction of pain and the letting of blood.
The Ravenwitch spoke to her feathered servants at length, in their own language, asking them the location of Yrrin. She quickly tired of their silly half truths and used her power over them-master to familiar. Yrrin had been gone for at least half the day and she needed him.
"Yrrin is gone," one raven said.
"Yes, my dear," the Ravenwitch replied, "I know that. I need to know where he has gone." "Away," another raven cawed.
Her hair, as smooth and dark as a moonless night reached to her waist and almost seemed like part of her long black dress. A cape covered in black feathers trailed behind her along the wooden floor of he tree home. All around her were dozens of ravens
The birds perched on every nook and ledge they could find, hopped across the floor, and flew about her head. She enjoyed, as always, their grace and beauty as they flew, but today she needed information, and she needed it quickly. The Ravenwitch didn't smile at her servants' antics this day. Dark eyes slowly began to smolder like kindling at the beginning of a dangerous fire. Her thin, graceful lips drew tight as she raised a graceful, milky white hand. A raven lit there and looked at her with eyes almost as black as her own.
"Where is Yrrin, my friend?" she asked the raven coolly.
"Flown away," the raven replied, "gone to join King Azoun for tea!"
Without warning, yellow, soundless flames surrounded the raven and the witch's hand. The bird's wings rose up in surprise and pain, but it couldn't leave her hand. The other ravens in the room took to the air, agitated and excited. Each black, round eye focused on its pain-wracked comrade. Raven thought held little room for compassion but a good deal for intimidation by example. Observe the misfortunes of others closely, lest they befall you-that was the way of the raven.
"I am sorry, friend, but I have no interest in your little games this day," she whispered to the raven.
"He went outside," the raven said with a quivering beak. "He never returned from fetching water from the river!"
The flame stopped. Neither the raven nor her hand showed any sign of burns. The raven flew off, its flight wobbly and erratic, but it was unharmed. The ravens echoed choruses of apologies and pleas of forgiveness from the Ravenwitch, but she dismissed them with a gesture.