Chapter 1 – Kann

  There are two kinds of monster in this world – the kind who would gladly eat an Underscholar for brunch, and the kind currently standing between Kann and his front door. All grin, no smile, and clasping a very nasty-looking City Tax letter in his outstretched hand.

  He was a stout man, pallid in the light of the sun, his well-fitted black suit gifting him an air of superiority which matched his arched and expectant eyebrows. He had the uncanny ability to peer down on people despite being several feet shorter than the average child. He coughed, the letter waggling ever closer towards Kann’s nose.

  “’Ere,” he said gruffly, giving it another shake, “you know what it is.”

  Taxes were of particular importance to this man. He made sure everyone paid up, even the Keepers, each month and every month. You never missed a month – unless you wanted him turning up unannounced at your front door.

  Kann... may have misplaced the last few reminder letters. He grinned sheepishly as he pretended to be confused. The man's eyes narrowed, foot tip-tapping on the slick cobbles underfoot.

  The man grumbled quietly as Kann reached out and took the letter, slipping it into his back pocket as he did his best to politely squeeze by the doorstop of a man and escape into his house. Nerves overcame muscle memory as he fumbled with his latch, precious seconds spent with the man’s eyes boring two perfectly accusatory holes in the back of his head, before the door swung open into the cool embrace of his home.

  With a solid clunk, the door swung closed, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He was greeted by his living room; a circular affair with several large couches mashed into one faintly ogre-ish shape (if the ogre was on its side and comprised primarily of goose-down). The scent of woodsmoke hung pleasingly in the air, hinting at a warm stove and a bowl of steaming broth. It bubbled quietly away in the corner, steam rising tantalisingly up into the rafters.

  Throws and rugs covered every square inch of the floor, with cushions scattered haphazardly around the room like a soft obstacle course. The massive sheepskin rug which sat commandingly in the centre of the floor looked terribly inviting to Kann, but he shook the thought from his head, ignoring the urge to throw himself into its woolly, scratchy warmth.

  Kann kicked off his shoes, walking over the carpeted floor to the spiral stairs twisting their merry way into the rough cobble ceiling. The metal grilles felt cold against his bare feet, the side rail ringing gently as he scurried upwards. The twists became gradually tighter as he ascended, passing by rooms filled with clutter and junk, odd trinkets and ends until, at last, he reached the top. He squinted, his eyes adjusting to the harsh white glare reflecting off the crashing waves far below. The ocean stretched out before him, its broiling complexion throwing shards of light in this way and that, the setting sun illuminating each peak of the wind-swept water like a flame to a wick.

  He took a deep breath as he leaned against the barrier, the salty air whipping his cheeks to a flushed red, stinging his nose with its sharpness. The grandiose view was nothing new to him; he was met with it every morn which he woke and every eve which he slept. It kept him company while he ate his supper and comforted him while he dozed in the summer. He felt at home staring out over the glistening horizon, watching the gulls wheeling in their warm updrafts as children played in the rocky sands far beneath. This was his place in the universe, where he was meant to be.

  Everything in Kann’s life was perfect, and he’d never want to leave.

  Except for that itch.

  That itch which bugged him while he dreamt, that invaded his thoughts while he supped, that crawled its way into his brain from the day he was born and had never quite left him alone. It was a quiet itch, a comfortable itch, one he had grown to ignore - for the most part - but nonetheless it crept and slithered and wormed its way around the depths of his consciousness day in and day out, tickling and whispering and snaking its way into his life uninvited.

  It wasn’t malicious nor evil, per se, it was simply... there.

  The itch at present was goading Kann into taking up base-jumping but, judging by the distance to the ground and his lack of, well, stopping, he wouldn’t be taking part anytime soon. He brushed the thought aside and returned to the warmth of his tower. He rapped his knuckles on the giant glass dish as he passed it – more habit than anything else – before making his careful way back down the spiralling staircase towards his waiting stew.

  ***

  150 years ago, there was a Tuesday. A pretty unassuming Tuesday by all counts, but it was somewhat notable for being the day the world ended.

  Some say it was with a bang: a flash of blinding light which wiped away all that was beyond the shores of the isle. Others say it was with an ear-splitting roar; two giant hands descending from the heavens and scooping out the foreign lands like the head from a mug of ale. One old mage stands by his grandfather's account of a swarm of sea-sprites devouring the lands offshore simply because they could, but this caused such an uproar at the last town hall meeting he hasn’t brought it up since.

  Much was lost about the Old World, most of it lost to time and rot. What was recorded is greatly disputed and deeply wrong, with most accounts either contradicting one another or contradicting themselves directly, but that seemed to matter very little to the people of Crawspaddow. In fact, many seemed to delight in the discrepancies, revelling in the historical inaccuracies like they were some kind of wonderful game only they could understand and play. Most of the remaining sane folk thought this was simply down to Mania, but who’s to say?

  The Old World was mainly chaptered by those known only as the Last Poets – survivors of the Fall who wrote all that they knew in sacred manuscripts kept secreted away. The historians who guarded these tomes kept them hidden in chapels all across the isle, and only the Devout Initiates would ever rise high enough to gaze upon their yellowed pages. Or so the old mage said.

  One concrete and unchanging fact about the Old World – which even the old mage agreed upon – was this:

  There were no Craven. Not even one.

  No Craven was mentioned in the old manuscripts, not even in the supposed mad scrawling of the Last Poets, not in any of the countless trinkets and trophies pulled from the depths of the ocean’s cold embrace, not in the odds and ends piled high in the old mage’s study. Nowhere.

  Nobody had ever actually seen them – nobody living, anyway – but they were there. Late at night, in the cold moments when the clouds covered the sky and the moon faded from view, you could feel them.

  Lurking.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  You never saw them and you never heard them; you’d never get the chance. Not before your body hit the floor with a wet thud – several important bits of you vanished. It was this fact that should have kept the islanders awake at night, worried sick, eyes glued to the bolted doors, ears straining against the silence. But it didn’t.

  Maybe it really was Mania.

  ***

  The light of the moon shone gently down on the isle, painting its mountains and valleys in pale white light. In the tower at the edge of the land, Kann slept peacefully. Stars glittered faintly through the open porthole above him, casting his face into shadow. He was lost to the dreams swirling through his brain, so it made sense that he didn’t notice the window opening slowly, swinging out into the night with creaking only century-old paint could produce.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  It made sense he didn’t hear the rustling of his curtains, the fluttering of wings through the still night air, the skittering of claws on the bare wood-boarded floor. It made sense he didn’t feel the slight shift of the sheets strewn haphazardly over top of him, the almost imperceptible weight added to his mattress. He did, however, take note of the beak being repeatedly jammed into his nose. It’s the sort of thing you’d tend to notice, really.

  “Oh, oh ow, oh fuck! Bugger off Maxis, it’s the middle of the damn night!” Kann moaned, arms flailing in weak protest.

  Two beady eyes greeted his tired gaze, jet-black feathers glinting in the moonlight. “Krrrrk?” insisted the creature, leaning in for another peck before it seemingly reconsidered, head cocking as it stared down at Kann. It snapped its beak a few times, hopping backwards on the bed and ruffling its feathers, its pebble eyes staying locked on Kann’s. “Krraak!” it insisted again, hopping from one clawed foot to another, beak snapping impatiently.

  “What could possibly be so damn important?” complained Kann, stretching his arms and legs out like a starfish and almost shoving Maxis onto the floor as he yawned. The raven bit his big toe in protest, squawking as it fluttered to regain its balance - almost losing it moments later as the scorned toe kicked back.

  He pulled himself upright slowly, head muggy with sleep as his body adjusted to the rude awakening. He opened his eyes wide, wincing slightly as he did, taking in the scene around him - clothes strewn haphazardly across the ground, blotted parchment covering the desk shoved against the far wall, random clutter arranged in artistic piles here and there. And a bird perched at the foot of his bed, distinctly wind-swept, and with an air of mischief that glinted at you from its twin black eyes.

  It snapped its beak anxiously once more, head tilting to the window.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Kann, staring out at the storm rapidly brewing on the horizon. He watched as a fork of lightning shot down into the water, throwing his room into sharp relief, his eyes squinting at the glare as the thunder raced to catch up. He leant forward and patted the raven’s head, before throwing off the covers and scrambling to find his sandals.

  Each step slammed underneath him as he raced ever upwards, deafeningly loud in the otherwise silence of the tower. He grabbed a candle on his way past one of the floors, pulling a drawer nearly out of its roller in his haste to find a match.

  Two floors later and he arrived, lit candle in hand, dripping wax onto the wood of the top floor. The room was walled by glass – great panes which sparkled in the candlelight – surrounding an object so intricate and delicate that Kann often thought a stray sneeze may shatter it into a million irreparable pieces. He placed the candle carefully down on a small table, straightening up with a sigh and staring out to sea.

  The storm was in its infancy albeit, but it already held staggering power. He could tell from the way the shearwaters were flitting past his window to the comfort of the dense forest further inland that this storm would have more than a little kick.

  He turned back to the table, picking up the tattered journal on which the candle had been placed and brushing off the wax, opening the door into the night and stepping out onto the walkway. He shivered, a gust of wind knocking him back a step, the door slamming shut with a clatter.

  Kann squinted, ignoring the raven wheeling in circles above him snapping its beak impatiently, and focussed on the storm. It rumbled menacingly as it swirled in the distance, arcs of lightning enforcing its point. He grabbed a long black tube, which until a moment ago had been strung to the guardrail, and raised it to his eye. He muttered, flicking open the journal and running his finger down old, tattered pages, flicking between them as he searched. Eventually he reached what he was looking for, poring over the scribblings intently.

  His eyes widened, flicking through a few more pages, before looking back out to sea.

  “Oh.” he whispered quietly, feeling very cold and alone for the first time in a long time.

  ***

  The storm was huge. And by huge, I mean massive. This storm had the air of a storm that had spent years practicing to be deemed ‘stormy’. It started out as a squall, stealing peoples hats with a breeze, before working its way up through rain, into sleet and snow, and then eventually into thunder. It had watched the really big storms, watched how they arced their lightning and threw their sleet. And it had waited ever so patiently for a gap in the weather. And one such gap had just presented itself, and it was damn sure it wasn’t going to waste it.

  In actual fact, it was quite a friendly storm. It enjoyed creature company, spending its free time giving travelling seabirds warm updrafts to ease their way – and accidentally shooting them cannonballs when it was distracted. It also appreciated the islanders – if someone couldn’t quite manage to reach something on their shelf, the storm would oblige and send down a little tendril of lightning to nudge it to the edge. Unfortunately, the storm had never really gotten the hang of self-control, even into its rainy adolescence, and had a history of blowing the roofs off houses by accident.

  It tried opening doors for people for a while, but after the three-day war, it reconsidered. It had then tried its hand at drama in the old world, adding a little bit of tension and quite a lot of rain to fight scenes and the like, but quickly gave up once it was rumbled. After that went a little sideways, it tried citizen’s policework, repeatedly striking bandits with lightning and the like while they tried to rob travelling merchants. As it turned out, the storm had a very strong moral compass, but still incredibly poor aim all those years later. Suffice it to say, the bandits got away scot-free, if a little frazzled. The merchants were less fortunate.

  ***

  Being awake would do no good, a proper study would take hours in the daylight.

  Suffice it to say, Kann did not sleep well that night.

  Fitful would describe it best; tossing and turning, sheets twisting as he struggled to crawl back into his dreams. What little sleep the night afforded him was riddled with nightmares: images of raging storms, crashing waves, splintering timber and cracking stone raced through his mind as he writhed. Nightmares weren’t his usual; he was normally the one doing the comforting – his sister when she was little suffering acutely from them. Now she was grown, and he was the one flinching in his bed.

  Maxis did his best, burrowing into Kann’s crossed arms and cawing softly. If it helped, it didn't show.

  By the time the sun had risen behind those midnight clouds, Kann was already awake, breakfast sizzling quietly on the grill. He stared out of the open window overlooking the ashen sea, watching the storm gathering itself. The air felt muggy as it breezed into his home, almost heavy with anticipation. It set his teeth on edge. Maxis hopped ever closer to the pan; head tilted expectantly. Before Kann could shoo him away, the door knocker slammed against the solid oak. He winced, the sound cutting through his thoughts. He shook his head clear, dousing the flame beneath the pan as he cut across the room to his front door.

  It opened to the face of a rather angry looking woman, long navy-blue overcoat billowing in the stuff breeze, finger already wagging.

  “Why is it I wake up this morning with no report on my desk?!” she scorned, hand waving out to sea in the direction of the brewing storm. “It's only your bloody job!”

  Kann opened his mouth to speak but, before he could, the finger took up its wagging once more, this time a lot closer and – for lack of a better word – waggier.

  “Don’t you even dare boy,” she huffed, leaning to the side slightly and staring at the bird neck-deep in the pan by the stove, “have what’s left of your breakfast and finish that damned report: my desk, two hours.”

  The finger wagged once more, brushing his nose ever so slightly. She stormed off, muddied boots leaving behind the only evidence she’d been there at all. He sighed, turning as the door swung shut of its own accord, yelling when he saw the state Maxis had left his breakfast in. The bird flapped away, hiding amongst the wooden rafters, cawing proudly as he went.

  ***

  Kann wasn’t worried.

  He was very worried.

  Not quite so worried that it warranted missing breakfast, but worried enough that the hour-long report process took him all of twenty minutes. He could feel the muggy air crawling its way down his neck, sticking to him like a damp flannel as his pen scribbled furiously on the parchment, ink blotting hither and thither without notice. He glanced feverishly out the window each line or so, as if the storm could all of a sudden sneak up on him without so much as a gust of wind or a friendly hello.

  He leant back with a sigh, face scrunching as he ran slick palms through ruffled hair, his body stretching to release any tension it could. The bird perched upon the windowsill dozed lazily in the sun, unbothered as always. It always amazed him that Maxis could be so calm, no matter what the occasion Maxis would invariably nap at one point or other. Kann shook his head, the hint of a smile creeping to his lips, before being whisked away by a distant clap of thunder.

  Time was not on his side with this one – winter’s rapid approach had seen to that well enough. The summer days had slowly faded, replaced with the ambers and golds of Autumn, but that too would soon fade, and with it the rest of his precious daylight. He checked the clock hanging from his wall, its weathered hands still reliable these centuries later. His brow furrowed as he thought, mapping out the route he needed to take in his head. He could swing by the merchants on his way down to the docks, hand in his report, grab lunch, and still have time for the hour-long trek back to study the storm. He nodded, pleased that the season had been kind to him, the daylight just enough to get everything done and still have time to sit out and watch the sunset with his dinner.

  Maxis startled awake as Kann pushed his chair back, rising with an almighty yawn. He grabbed the parchment on his desk, folding it neatly and slipping it inside one of the crimson envelopes stacked neatly beside his inkpot. He pulled out a drawer from the desk, grabbing one of the many wax sticks from its dark recesses, and held it to the flame of a nearby candle. He grabbed a metal seal from the same drawer, moving the wax so it hovered above the crimson letter, stamping the sole drop of pale wax that landed with the seal. Away went the stap, along with the still warm wax, and down went Kann, flying past each floor like his life depended on it. Which it might. Ergo the haste.

  Only time would tell.