Chương 17: 1.15 Wisdom of the Old Fowl

The place Old Crow would be staying at was a regular apartment building in the mediocre part of the city. Irwyn was pretty sure he remembered the address right. Places that had addresses instead of vague directions were much easier to find, if you could remember what the address was that is. Irwyn vaguely recognized the area so he had probably worked there at some point but that was about all he knew about it. They entered the building and didn't seem to raise any eyebrows.

Irwyn thought he looked very ragged for the area but considering that the people were mostly whispering about the undead appearing all around the city in the last few hours. And it has only been hours, Irwyn had found out. Of course, pointing out exactly when would be difficult but he had the obvious suspicion that it coincided with Alira getting essentially smitten. They approached the right apartment and knocked the password. One long knock, three quick ones and another long.

The password would be the same for all the emergency hideouts as it would be essentially impossible to remember one for every place or change it daily.

"And who might you be?" the familiar and reassuring voice sounded from beyond.

"Just kids looking for the old man," Irwyn did not try to hide the relief in his voice. If there was anyone who would know what he should do, it would be the old Fowl.

"Well I will be dammed, Irwyn," the door opened.

"Come on in. I cannot wait to hear how you pulled that escape off. Will the two of you have tea?"

"Sure," the girl Irwyn has escorted here nodded while Irwyn shook his head. Soon she sat in the background while Irwyn and Old Crow spoke, the latter enjoying tea, which was a bit weird because it was Irwyn's first time seeing him drink the beverage.

"Is a drink enough to confuse you?" the old man mused.

"Just seems strange, seeing you do something new," Irwyn admitted.

"It is exactly the opposite," Old Crow pointed at his cup.

"I am reviving an old habit. I remember how I would always drink this particular brew when I was excited a long time ago. I tend to keep some on me out of habit."

"You and excited?" Irwyn smiled, finding such association with the stoic elder inaccurate to say the least. But the Old Crow's eyes flickered.

"I don't think you quite understand your own achievement," he mused.

"But tell me everything, from the start of the heist." And Irwyn did. The beginning was without comment as it was nothing unexpected. When it came to the vision Old Crow had straight up asked for a moment to process. He asked some questions, such as if he remembered any names, Names or a few very specific details, which Irwyn did not. He would have to re-read through the Book of the Name, which Old Crow had thankfully brought with him, when he had a moment as Irwyn was almost certain it would give him some answers.

When it came to their escape the old man first asked to confirm that Irwyn has indeed become able to harness Starfire. Then Irwyn told him of his plan to burn into the sewers with a spell to escape, how he had, for a moment, lost his senses, and how he was utterly overwhelmed despite the power he had wielded at the moment.

"Do you think you could use that spell again?" Old Crow asked.

"I do not know," Irwyn admitted.

"I tried to just copy what I remembered because it was right in my head. I will definitely try to figure things out eventually but I am unsure whether I could do it again right now since those memories are not that fresh." Then Irwyn spoke of his capture. Old Crow did not comment on what had happened to Alira, though he seemed to be in deep thought. Sparingly Irwyn touched on what he had witnessed in the prison when leaving. And then he finally got around to the undead.

"Did they try to use any weapons?" Old Crow asked.

"Maybe try to speak to you, pretending to be someone asking for help?"

"No, no they did not," Irwyn shook his head.

"Actually there was someone calling for help but I do not know if they were still alive. The undead on the street were the same, just using their limbs or jaws. Is that strange?"

"Not particularly. Undead can arise or be made to in many different forms. Obviously, those are classified in some way," Old Crow explained.

"What you encountered were most definitely ghouls. People risen in their own bodies not long after death. That being said, ghouls have massive variations and different classifications. Type 0 ghouls are slow and shambling, similar to zombies or other most minor undead that can appear.

"What you met were the so-called type 1. They are much more intelligent, I have heard comparisons to wolves or cats. They use simple tactics, traps, and know to retreat from a lost battle. They can also communicate over very short distances.

"Type 2 are cunning, capable of both speech and deception, they know how to use weapons they would have been able to before death. Type 3 retains their full intelligence and whatever skills they held in life, sometimes even enhancing those abilities. Generally, only people with 'strong enough personality' or 'potent traits' can become this kind of undead. There have been cases during lich wars of such creatures acting as infiltrators among the living.

The Betrayer's magic that binds them also allows them to rot far slower, sometimes even hiding the smell for months.

"After that, it gets trickier. Some call the next type 4, some call it type 3b, I think the Duchy of Black officially prefers 4. Basically, type 4 ghouls are what happens when someone extremely dangerous becomes a type 3 ghoul. Intrinsically, 3 and 4 share the same traits but while 3 are considered lesser undead, 4 are considered greater undead on individual bases."

"Is that a big difference? Between lesser and greater," Irwyn asked. This was not something he had ever stumbled upon in a book. Or in a conversation really. The attitude most people had about the undead was to try and not to think about it while there was no crisis connected to them happening at the time.

"Type 3 can often reach death counts in the hundreds, before they are removed. Their ability to hide the main reason for it. A type 4 can slaughter an entire city overnight. Or cause equivalent damage through other means. Imagine an alchemist, with all the knowledge and resources to poison the very air. A physician that can dedicate himself to spreading diseases instead of curing them. An important official that can patiently guide entire regions to starvation.

"And lastly is tier 5. That is reserved for when a powerful caster becomes a ghoul with all his wit and magic. Although obviously rare, those can be ruinous on their own if not discovered and eliminated quickly."

"I thought that undead casters were called liches?" Irwyn said.

"There are countless kinds of undead. In the end, we use classification to help us communicate but the undead do not need to adhere to our neat labels. What defines a ghoul is that their bodies remain mostly as they were in life while their souls, albeit deformed beyond recognition, remain firmly attached to that body and will disperse when the body is destroyed.

What we call liches are in short undead casters that have anchored their souls to a simulacrum, an external object to which they may return when their bodies are shattered. They are so notorious because they are by most metrics the most difficult to kill undead, only slayable if their simulacrum is destroyed or a significantly more powerful Soul mage takes the field to prevent them from returning.

Not to mention that almost all undead casters attempt to become liches themselves if they believe there is a chance of success. That leads to there being relatively a lot of liches in any war with the undead, which is also how they got a name like Lich wars."

"You know a lot about this, considering you never taught us," Irwyn sighed. It would have been very useful to know earlier in the day. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

"Well, I did survive 3 of those Lich wars," Old Crow chuckled.

"And after the first I would never spare any cost to be as prepared as possible."

"Are incursions like this… usual?" Irwyn had to ask.

"Usual? Absolutely not," he shook his head.

"Especially not this close to City Black. They can detect this sort of thing in advance unless there is someone actively raising the undead, which I don't think there is for many reasons. My guess is that someone was told to deal with it and ditched their responsibilities hard. Maybe hunting down a grudge over a promise rather than doing their duty."

"You think Alira was supposed to deal with it?" in a way it did make sense. Heiress of house Blackburg with all those other casters around her? If there was a way to prevent the dead from rising it was not a stretch that Alira's entourage could get it done without any more backup.

"Exactly. Either way, there will be a hell to pay for someone."

"Will there be another purge?" Irwyn could not help but ask.

"Irwyn, why do you think the Guild is allowed to keep existing?" Old Crow smiled strangely instead of answering.

"Because it would be too hard to root it out?"

"That might be a part of it. But no. The simple truth is that through the Guild every facet of crime is organised to some extent. There are basically no thieves, thugs, muggers or what-not without clear affiliation to one group or another. And that means that everyone has something to lose. In other words, everyone has something to fear.

Because if they destroy the guild, which house Blackburg frankly could with relatively little hassle, there would then be individual criminals again all across the duchy filling the vacuum. And from there it is a simple equation of effort: Either spent incredible resources on protecting all their assets against interest from desperate thieves or intimidate everyone at once with the occasional show of force; make sure that no criminal ever crosses their bottom line and if they do that it doesn't happen again.

On the scale of the whole duchy, even counting the lost taxes caused by crime of all kinds they actually save an incredible amount of resources. So no, there will not be another purge in Ebon Respite. Because if there is, the city's underworld will completely fall apart, ground thin by recent events."

"But to be sure, would that not require them to have many collaborators? People in very high places in the Guild or the gangs," Irwyn frowned.

"Obviously it does," Old Crow's smile did not slip as he sipped his tea.

"I could actually point them out to you in Ebon Respite. I think I know everyone who is on the take from house Blackburg, controlling the underworld to fit Blackburg interests in exchange for the occasional favour or gift."

"Do they not have any problem with all this cruelty? With their dead friends rotting in a cell."

"Think about what gangs were not hit particularly hard during the original purge," Old Crow shook his head.

"They might find it distasteful but in the end, when it comes down to us or them? I bet anyone would love to have house Blackburg behind them when their hounds are unchained. As for the murder spree caused by Alira, she was acting of her own discretion, completely unaware of the fine balance of things as they were. Or maybe just ignoring it."

"You think or are you certain?"

"The latter. Because I know how many important people under Blackburg's thumb she killed without even thinking about it twice. It will take years, and a lot of resources, for them to rebuild the damage she had caused. And that is before we take into account the casualties of the desperate gang attacks or the undead. I think what you saw in the prison is the same. I know the usual Blackburg doctrine for a situation like this and what you described certainly is not very much alike."

"I still do not like it," Irwyn admit. A lot of people were dead or maimed. People who had nothing to do with the cause of the purge in the first place. Even if no close acquaintance got hurt it was still firmly in the category of 'hurting people for no good reason is bad'.

"That's fine. It will be a few years before you get properly dragged into the Guild's politics. Just keep in mind what I said," Old Crow shrugged.

"Now let's talk about how you will escape the city."

"I will be escaping the city?" Irwyn repeated, a bit surprised.

"Obviously. They might not be able to afford another purge here but you have still gravely wounded an heiress to house Blackburg, no matter how low in the line of succession. There is absolutely no way you can stay in Ebon Respite. In fact, you should not stay anywhere close to here."

"Do I even have a chance of escaping when they look for me? I saw what that shadow could…" Irwyn was saying when the Old Crow interrupted him with a hand gesture.

"Despite what it might seem like, house Blackburg is not exactly united. Without getting into specifics, branch families and the main line have rivalries and disagreements among each other. Now I don't think anyone would be brazen enough to openly shelter you but there is no doubt in my mind that whatever branch family Alira belongs to has enemies in equally high places. The kind that would be willing to obstruct your pursuers just to spite them when I make sure certain memos make it to their hands."

"But I will still have to run," Irwyn said again. He was, well, surprised. It was obviously, in hindsight, the only solution. But it had not even crossed his mind. For all his life Irwyn had lived in Ebon Respite, at least as far as he could remember. At most he had once or twice been to the outskirts but never any further. Not once.

"We don't know how much time you have left before they come looking. And you must be out of the city by then," Old Crow reached for a map that he had conveniently scrolled up within reach and spread it in front of Irwyn. It was a rough map of the whole of Ebon Respite.

"Here is what you will do: You will go to the South, along Road Street until you reach the end of the city. Along the way you will burn every undead that you so much as sniff and make sure that people see you do it. The more the better. Then, as soon as you are out of sight you will put up your hood and return here as sneakily as you can. In the meantime I will prepare you some supplies and money to set you up for your journey. Then you will instead head out of the city to the west.

There is no official road there but there is a dirt path. Or there used to be, I will get you an old map. On foot it will be about 3 days before you reach a small village. Don't let anyone see you there if you can. Out of the village leads a single road further Northwest to the town of Drathsol where the Guild has a presence. I will figure what areas of the duchy you need to avoid and send you a letter with more directions. If the worst comes to worst, you can try to head further West and reach the Duchy of Yellow.

They will absolutely not deny assylum to a talented light caster like you, however, only do this as a complete last resort because if you do that it would be a small humiliation to the whole of house Blackburg. That is when the Duke himself might hear about you and decide to not let you get away with it."

"Alright," Irwyn was breathing a bit hard but he understood the plan. Old Crow would know the best way, when it came down to it he always did.

"Can I say goodbye to the others?"

"Unfortunately, the people you really want to talk to are in the opposite directions of where you need to go. And there really might be no time to spare. I will retell your story when this mess blows over."

"Fine," Irwyn stood up, steeling himself. Old Crow was right. Time was of the essence, he could process what he was feeling later.

"Thank you," he nodded and turned towards the exit.

"One last thing," it was at that moment that Old Crow called out. Irwyn turned around just barely in time to catch a small trinket the Old Crow had hurled at him. Confused, Irwyn inspected it before his breath caught in his throat. It was just a small ornament: 3 claws forged in silver to form a proper foot. The craftsmanship on the level Irwyn would expect from the most high end shops in the whole of Ebon Respite, not something given to him.

And it was a heavy thing that he had been granted; not because it weighted much but because what it represented. A silver Fowl's foot.

"This… do you mean…" Irwyn was at a loss of words.

"Absolutely," Old Crow's smile grew wide, almost ear to ear.

"Or do you think there is anyone else in the Guild who had outspelled an heiress of house Blackburg? Oh, don't give me that look. Even if the truth is a bit different the main point remains: There is no one among the younger generation that is your equal in spellcraft among the guild. And now that there is no point in hiding that, I figured that I might as well make it official. From now on, if anyone questions who you are, reply, and say it proudly, with your title. For you are unequalled.

For you are the Young Mockingbird."

"Thank you…" Irwyn was at a loss for words for a moment. But then a thought crept into his mind.

"Why mockingbird though?"

"I felt like it fit someone who spat into the face of house Blackburg and then probably lived."

"I should make sure that is how it goes," Irwyn nodded.

"Thank you again. For everything. I cannot overstate how grateful I am for all you have done for me."

"You can figure out your speech on your way South," Old Crow nodded.

"And it will hardly be the last time we see each other. Go out and grow. Make allies, make enemies. Suffer and grow. So that one day you can come back here, look down at that brat of an heiress to house Blackburg and watch her kneel in submission." And so he went. Following the plan to the letter. When he returned for the supplies they did not speak again because if Irwyn were to say everything on his mind he might remain for a full day more.

When he was on the edge of a treeline, on the brink of a forest he had never seen despite being just an hour of jogging away from where he had spent his whole life, he looked around at Ebon Respite. A small, probably backwater, city. Rife with industry and suffering. Yet it were those streets that raised him and forged him into who he was. He swore to himself that he would make Old Crow's last words come true one day. Then he disappeared behind the trees.