Next week? New chapter of The Path of Poison. Oh yes. Sepp and Casimir are about to take a dip into the murky underworld of Farhaven in search of thieves and grimoires, so stay tuned and get up to date in the TPoP archives!

Miss out on last week’s moody three-parter? Check it out here!

This week, the red wizard Carloman gets an unlikely ally to help combat the Emperor of the Dark, madness drives us to ascend the Charnel Plateau, and a lone figure seeks desperate aid in the Temple of Knights…

If this edition gets clipped in your email due to length (it does happen), you can read the full version on the site!

Emperor of the Dark

The high sun was peering down directly overhead, as if to join all those gathered around the deep gash in the earth. But even then, it half-hid in shadow. It was a corpse, human, naked and withered, twisted in upon itself, arms curled and bent, legs locked and feet stretched, neck contorted so that the head, whose mouth was pulled right back in a hideous grimace, peered up and away. Something about all of this taken together suggested, to half the group, unimaginable agony, and to the other half, which shuddered more, ecstasy. It wasn’t alone, however. Within the shallow pit were piled numerous objects, none of which did anything to dispel the sense of disgust the image conjured. Bent iron nails, some in the flesh, lengths of black prayer beads bound the legs, the arms and hands had pinned to them strips of linen with writing, where the eyes ought to be had ingots of a black metal hammered into them, and the caved in chest had pooled within it a stinking, viscous substance.

There was not a single set of eyes there that did not bear an expression of horror, but only the red wizard Carloman’s bore horror mixed with a barely restrained rage. His hands clasped his staff so tight one might think his knuckles were about to tear through the skin. This was far from the first like this he’d found in the past few weeks, and one was enough to stop him sleeping comfortably at all. Little details were different every time--a personal flourish, he was sure. The first two, isolated incidents, almost certainly. Old evils, forgotten. Then he kept finding more, up the coastline of Voerlund, from Farhaven and halfway up to Lundermark. This would be the tenth he’d found now. Tenth. He almost swore out loud. Around the fifth, he had become utterly convinced this was an entire operation, and not something localized either, but a grand rite of darkness that had been going on right under his nose for heavens knew how long.

But, if there was a silver lining to any of this, it was that this one was...well, fresh. That meant whoever did this was nearby, or had departed not long ago. Good, thought the wizard. Because he had no doubt in his head there was ambition here beyond the regular wretched gnosticism, the little ritual acts of cruelty to show loyalty to the masters. It was like a bulwark, or more likely a cage in construction. He could envision half the known world encircled by shrines of malevolence, spirits bound to the spot and enslaved to a dark will, with followers bidding them to emanate further and further these rites of horror. Aye, you want power, thought the wizard, you want to become something, start something...

The wizard cleared his throat, pulling himself out of his dark revelrie. “Tell me, hetman,” Carloman asked as he turned to official in a purple mantle who held his hand over his mouth in uneasy contemplation, “who was it that found this thing?”
“It was me, sir,” came a young voice. Carloman looked around. By the look and sound of her, a Manatarian. Clay red hair and skin, but amber eyes, much like the wizard’s own. He hadn’t taken stock of the people amidst the confusion of the morning which had awoken him, otherwise he’d have seen and felt the presence of what was quite plainly a fledgling magician. How she’d come to so small a slice of Voerlund as this was a mystery, but all the same, good thing she was here.

“Aye,” said the hetman with a tinge of pride. He was, Carloman understood, standing in for the indisposed knight of the region, who had remained shut in chambers, denying even Carloman a visit for aid the night before. “It was our young scholar who found it.” A bit more than a scholar, thought Carloman. He asked her then:
“Tell me anything about this you can: how you found it, when you found it, what you saw. Anything.”
“Let me see...” she said in a natural Merchant’s Tongue as her eyes flashed to the corpse for a second and blinked, “I was out before dawn, observing the sun’s coming--I’m Manatarian, sir--and, ah, let’s see, I noticed there were two moons in the distance, landward, sun came from seaward today,” she was pointing out the directions as she spoke, head down in focus, “when the first rays, they spilled, I swear this, they spilled past the manor walls first and onto the ridge here, where I was climbing up, and it took a moment, like the light wasn’t...quite upon it, but as I got closer, I saw it then, gashed into the earth.”
“As if it revealed itself,” Carloman mused aloud.
“Yes,” said the young magician with an acute affirmation, “exactly.”
Carloman rumbled in his throat.
“So what does this,” the hetman asked, waving at the grave, “mean?”
“I don’t need to tell you it’s evil,” said the red wizard, never once looking away from the thing, “but I do need to tell you that the best thing you can do right now is go home, throw logs on your fires, and keep them lit until--” he paused for a second, and looked to the Manatarian girl, and concluded “until we give word all is okay.”

Upon a low stone did Carloman and the young magician Sunya sit, and talk. Carloman had set his staff, carved with the images of the known world’s gods, on the ground between them and the grave as a barrier. There had been a short, terse dialogue, with the wizard asking certain questions with extreme caution, probing for reactions and experiences. Now, he didn’t know what it was intended for, not exactly, but he knew to what power it was dedicated. But did she, this young woman Sunya who said she had only twenty or so summers under her belt, have even the faintest notion beyond what her soul told her? No, he had determined, but she felt more from it than he’d expected she might. The wizard was sensitive to potencies, to the amalgamated depth or complexity of a thing’s meaning, its power, and he felt a potency more than what might expected from someone so young. She’d learned a good deal, more than he had starting out, and seemed bent on the path of deep inquiry. This was a delicate time, then. He had been fortunate enough not to stumble over something like this in his youth, but he had also no one to instruct or guide or prohibit him. He wasn’t sure he wanted another Carloman in the world, for though he could do much, no two lives would ever follow the same course, and he could not ensure her safety or sanity with such knowledge of the Outer Dark in her head. And it was a lonely life at times, always apart from the world at large, bearing the tremendous weight of a responsibility that once taken could never be removed.

She had probed back with questions of her own, to which the wizard had evaded to the best of his ability. That it was a defilement, something wrought in anger and hatred, for callous purposes, he made abundantly clear. What powers did it draw, though? What spirit had been invoked for it? What meaning had this thing? What gave it power? She was a keen student, and that came from particular experiences. He knew that well enough himself. His admiration grew, however, alongside his unease. The gods gave him nudges now and again, and he was particularly glad of this one. Had she begun to investigate this herself...

None of the black truths which lurked behind his veiled words had he intimated whatsoever, but the feeling had become resolute in him to guard her from that malignant locus. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t help, or, S’eth, that she couldn’t be the one to fix this. A mighty boon to her that would be. And with the red wizard at her back? He proposed the idea. That thing was fresh--he made sure to make a point of that. And so, whoever had constructed it was close, a day’s travel at the absolute most, and they knew their plans were being disrupted, for no one of little power, knowledge, or connection was capable of something like this, and were as such not liable to flee. That it had been revealed was already a mark against its efficacy, for it was a secret thing, meant to be hidden away, in the dark, and it was she who had uncovered it. So, what say she?

A long day came and went, which the wizard was thankful for. The gnostic behind this wouldn’t dare attack in the light, not even in a waning summertide like this. So he took the time to instruct Sunya on how the thing ought to be destroyed. He felt comfortable enough watching over it himself, or going off to fetch something, or letting her do so. He watched her work and listened to her questions--she’d fully accepted his authority on the matter, or, he hoped instead, his wisdom, and perhaps felt a little more of the potency he emanated than others often did. It helped him begin to form an idea of just what she really was capable of, and was pleasantly surprised. She’d gone back to her home inside the manor walls twice to retrieve things, most of which seemed to be ash from a hearth, and had spent a good deal of time setting piles of thick ash out before her on lengths of linen, but now she was doing something.

Sunya first coated her hands in ash, and at that Carloman asked was she herself born in Mul Manatar. Yes, but her family--all twelve of the extended clan--travelled to Voerlund when she was quite small, and had been invited by Ser Gaslov’s estate after a few moves. They kept up a great many of the rites from the old homeland, though. She’d seen two grandmothers do this a lot. Ashes from sacred fires for blessing things, helping with guidance, that sort of thing, so it seemed right to use the creations of fire against this murky thing hidden away in the shadows. Carloman beamed beneath his beard. This was brilliant. The girl was a natural. Next, she threw hard clumps of ash upon the withered corpse--at the head and feet--and finally cast a handful in the air over it, and let it settle. Then, came something else. Budding magicians tended towards certain similar habits, unconsciously at first, just knowing, just feeling, and once they began to understand things, that was when the first leaps in power came. But she’d already taken that leap. She had on her person a bundle in a small cloth bag--a red bag, he noted, full of heat and life--containing what was her focus or source, a collection of small objects which meant something to her, and so, were. With this she would conjure her magics, directing the sympathies with actions, gestures, movements, and intent.
“May I add a little something?” asked the wizard in the Manatarian language.
“Please, yes,” she replied in kind, surprised.
“Repeat after me,” and with this, Carloman spoke three words of flame in an arcane tongue, devised long ago by a righteous magus of old to aid in the working of magics. “Now, hold out your focus.”
She did so, and repeated the words effortlessly, and both their hearts leapt as a ring of flame erupt around the gash in the earth.
“Mark those well in your memory, Sunya, they will aid you in years to come,” said Carloman with a tinge of pride.

Then, night came, creeping slowly in the wake of the wandering sun. Sunya had set a short time aside to bid it farewell in the Manatarian fashion, and Carloman had joined her. They had taken their post behind the small rock outcropping near the defiled grave, and waited while the wizard related that he’d been to Mul Manatar several times over the years. The nation had a unique charm, something very relaxed about it all, very passionate people, though. But behind the pleasantries, there had lurked the rumination in the wizard’s mind--this girl’s very soul would be in peril at any moment. But he believed his presence would be just the aid needed in gnostic’s defeat, and in her empowerment. Aye, there was much he could pass on here...and much that could be lost. Time and experience had proven his fears right too many times. If it came to it, he would step in.

The difference between deepest twilight and true night was the lack of definition. True night made things unreal. Things shifted and wavered in a certain way. And out of this came a shape. Ostentatious would be the word for it. An older man, clad in rich black finery, long sleeveless coat with golden trimming over puffed, sequined arms, piled dark velvet hat, a chest-high walking staff of wood and silver--the very image of Imperial Voerlund opulence, and all of it, Carloman could see, just a little beaten, a little worn. Likely plundered from the back of an ancient manor house’s cupboards and closets. Only fitting thing for something like this. He set a hand on Sunya’s shoulder to brace her, letting the gnostic begin to grub about in the defiled grave, muttering swears, his focus now utterly diverted. When they emerged, Carloman thumping his staff into the soil, the shape didn’t jump, but stopped, and slowly stood to attention, hand held to his breast in an attitude of assumed imperious elegance.
“No need to kill him,” said Carloman, “he may prove usefu-”
“Ser Gaslov?” Sunya blurted out, the horror clear and present in her tone.
Carloman’s head darted from her and back to the gnostic.
“Serpent’s Breath, I should’ve known,” he said to no one in particular.
“What,” she said, anger making her voice tremble as she stepped forward, “is this?” Her shaking hand shot out to the grave.

Many gnostics were, by necessity, powerful mystics in deep communion with a power which at every moment hooked a new claw into their souls to play like puppets, licking their lips in anticipation of a reward. Some were just poor fools who fell into something or had been targeted in a moment of weakness, hadn’t the sense to run and were just “following orders”, cowering under threat of reprisal. They knew the truth, but didn’t really understand, didn’t know much more than what was fed to them. Carloman had the notion that the wretched little man, whose nasally tone slithered through the air with the typical grand-standing of those who’ve really bought into every drop of deceit, was a mere snivelling brat eager to grovel for praise. He stood and waved his stick around, jeering, saying they stood now upon the keystone of a new empire, and that they looked upon its soon-to-be master. He wouldn’t be a problem, although, he almost was.

The wizard came up behind Sunya. He could almost feel the anger. Ths Gaslov was the regional knight, he was by all accounts a leader, benefactor, and guardian of a personal kind, who had taken in her and her family as people of the realm when, for whatever reason, they left their home. A knight was a bit more than a count--they may have shared a technical status as administrators of land, but a knight was as much a statesman as they were a disciplined warrior, trusted commander to the guard and soldiers under them, and a scholar of history. They were widely respected, admired, and were as a class devoted to the uplifting code of royal Lunderman honour. It was often so that foreigners to Voerlund saw and felt this most keenly, for it was a Voerlunder peculiarity held in esteem across most of the Known World. And this man had spat all over it.

Carloman had intended to tell Sunya not to hold back, but she was already gone, striding forth, curses on her lips. This was a delicate moment. Rage was a powerful tool--had he himself not used his deep reserve of anger to empower his spellwork when doing mortal battle nameless shadows from beyond? She hadn’t the tempering of age and wisdom, though. He realized the danger he put her in, and the potential which spread out before her. Carloman raised his god-carved staff high and brought it to the ground. He would be ready. The knight had brought out his short, hidden axe--a thin bladed specimen design to leave long, deep cuts in the flesh. He watched the knight lumber forward at her, disdain upon his scowling features, but not as wroth as she--not even half as much. In her fury, she thought of swears to the sun and oaths to flame, images of her faith flashed before her very eyes, and she spat curses as the axe rose against her, but she saw red, her vision focused entirely upon a man more traitor than she realized, but knew enough. Her hand gripping the magical focus flew out with an impassioned gesture, and a stream of thunderbolts lit the area for a league around for a full three seconds, falling upon the gnostic with the roar of a landslide, obliterating him in an instant.

Brother Thunder, Messenger of the Sky, had to come to the aid of its own. Carloman hadn’t even bid the Serpent shift its Coils, but guessed it saw what was happening.

Sunya stumbled back, gazing at the scorched black crater where once a human being had stood. The red wizard put a hand on her shoulder.
“It is done. The world, and, I think, Gaslov Manor--though I doubt it will carry that name now--thanks you, though you might not know it.”
She didn’t speak, just looked at the crater. Shock? Awe? Sorrow? All three probably.
“I understand how you feel, Sunya,” he said in Manatarian, “but there is much more to magic than you can imagine right now that is gentle, warm, cool, comforting, envigorating. To defend and foster and grow. What you willed, what you saw and felt, existed. You have placed this upon the world, and it shall always have happened here, and to you. Just as what he did is stain that will take a long time to scrub clean. Be mindful of what you make, my dear, but know also that more can always be made.”

She was quiet for a moment more, and then said in a small voice: “Who...what was he?” She didn’t look at the wizard.

“I pray there never comes a day you understand, but if it does come to pass,” she looked to him slowly, “I think you will be ready.”

Charnel Plateau

Amidst a parched expanse of lifeless, crag-laden, arid wasteland sprawling under a searing red sky, a vast tableland shot out of the earth. Restless, hissing winds flowed down from on high, carrying the choking stench of ancient death that haunted the desolation. Upon every side, beetling, jagged cliffs denied access to whatever bleak mystery lurked above.

All save for one lonely, shadowed inlet in the lethal desert dust-flows.

High, narrow steps, hacked aeons ago into the burnt umber stone, wound and slithered like a bent and twisted spine up the sheer rock face for a league or more, barely visible amidst the sharp rises and edges. Upon this perilous path, three shapes crept like beasts up the steep footholds and grips, at times more like a primitive ladder than a set of steps. As they traversed this curious way, it would every so often disappear in and out of the cliff, giving the impression less that it had been shaped by human or mostly human hands in some dim epoch, and more has having been bored by some mad and eyeless worm or serpent.

After a day’s nigh ceaseless travel, slowing to a crawl the higher they ascended, the nameless trio eventually found themselves in total darkness, as the steps, ever climbing upward, vanished within the outermost hinterlands of the plateau’s outer skin. Outcroppings and shelves of coppery rock, dense and flaking and treacherous to the touch, barred even the most remote hint of passage, and so whoever, or whatever, hacked the steps into existence had been forced to find an alternate means to attaining the plateau summit through a different species of stone. But it had been done.

Clambering sometimes on all fours, sometimes wriggling on their stomachs, and sometimes reaching out in the sightless darkness of the plateau’s innards they went, their limbs aching, their throats scratched with dust, their minds wracked with the secret horror of this lifeless, silent vastness. And then, as if waiting in ambush, the stench which they had been mercifully free from during their approach, which may as well have been a lifetime ago, began to permeate the cold inner air. It came like lapping waves, first only the scent, and then upon a clammy air, reminiscent, they thought--for they had ceased to speak long ago--like a thin water, soaking into them. When weak, trembling, pallid light began to bleed from somewhere far ahead, the first thing their stinging eyes saw was the stone which began to be stained in long streaks and rivulets of a dark, rotten brown.

Soon, the pale orange stone gave way to a richer shade of rot entirely, coating every surface with a viscous skin that smudged and stuck to the touch, and though the mere touch of it sent shivers of abhorrence through them, what almost sent them to flight were the thin tendrils of some mist, which they swore coiled about their limbs and pawed feebly at their faces. But they pressed onward, possessed of a desperation and doom, knowing their mad quest ended either in a lonely death, or an ultimate exultation.

The drive of their hands and feet, bloodied by their journey, rewarded them with a vision in the murk like a red scar above them to which the steps eagerly climbed. It was a rent in the rock showing, at last, the sky, and the world outside this giant’s throat.

They attained, all together upon the widening gullet, a single glimpse of the world above.

From one of end of the sky to the other, amidst a reeking, flowing, and omnipresent fog, an obscene ocean of rotting flesh and jutting bone as far as they could see. Livid, coruscating reds like angry and infected wounds were mixed with gangrenous rugose greens and squamous blacks, while old piles of meat, brown and ribbed and withered, lay in profusion elsewhere. At odd intervals, bones protruded, each and every one broken, fractured, warped, twisted, and malformed in a thousand different ways which suggested nothing but supreme suffering. All was slick and shining, and whole rivers of tainted juices ran with foul gurgles from gaping wounds. Not a single concrete or legible form could be spied in that charnel hell.

If those three wanderers ever returned, every bleak and terrible myth of the most ancient eras brought to seething life, they did not return home, and they did not return the people they were, or ever could be, again.

Temple of Knights

Nothing more than a shell of naked, damp-streaked stone and a maze of wild grass and mud, with only layers of dripping moss and mould holding together. It had, in ages past, been a palace, so the fireside myths say, where dwelt the master of all the land for a full score of leagues. Pointing towards the grim heavens was its toppling tower, whose great brass bell, now cracked and half buried in sacred repose, once tolled the call to battle. The ruins had long since become home to a disparate rabble of landlings who wouldn’t have dared step foot in its confines while knights still walked the earth.

He was a landling of good standing, well-esteemed in his labour, and especially his piety, and as such, had been chosen by the oldest and most respected member of their community to go and receive baptism. It was as much an honour as it was a necessity. Under his arm did he carry a bundle of tribute, and he made sure to mark its weight well as he made his way through this ruins. It meant the world to these people. It meant their survival. He watched them as he went, these people he’d known all his life, whose sires his sires had known all their lives, and so on into the murky depths of the centuries, clad in bundles rags and long, wound strips of linens, squatting around damp little fires with thick black smoke coiling in the air above them. A hard, honest, and compassionate people, who deserved not the bloody violence now inflicted upon them.

He understood desperation. There had been deep winters which left his own people with little choice. But to look upon the desolate scenes of fire-scarred stone and sad mounds where mass graves barely fit, to sack their meagre walls thrice over was an unjust cruelty. The attackers did not even abide by the code of combat as written in the old code. The landling felt a deep sorrow sometimes, for that same sacred code had proscribed the bearing of arms long ago, as per the old chivalry, and it meant they could not fight back, something the bandits took advantage of--though this may in fact have been in the people’s favour, for now did he go to receive baptism, and perform the ancient rites of petition and tribute to raise up a knight in defence of the people. A higher than high honour, he was made sure to know.

The many walls, and shards of walls, were open to the sky, open to the streaks of stars or the blanket of cold silver and pale sun, but where the landling came to now was under the stone, into the earth, down broad, chipped steps set into the base of a half-sunken edifice, upon which were hints of plaster and even painting. It led down past the soil, the mud, the dust, and into the oldest stone of all, where torches fed on the finest, most pungent fats lit the way the temple of knights.

Within a low, arched chamber, whose roof bore a cosmos of spider-web cracks, the ritual re-enactment of knighthood was begun. Seven curates in faded robes stood unblinking as the landling adorned himself in vestments made to resemble raiment of old: shoes with metal bands holding up strips to resemble boots, a long coat with metal fasteners and wide lapels and cuffs, a whole-cloth cloak, and about the neck, an a medallion of painted wood bearing the holy heraldry, a mystery icon which bore the lineage and history of a bloodline, now nameless from the weight of ages. The archcurate came forth, bearing the raising blade. The landling took to one knee, head bowed, and before the flames, steel hammered in an age of valor and legend lent its weight and authority to this place which was as far a cry from glorious myth as one could get.

It was upon him. He could almost feel it. A glimmer. A flash. A whisper of ancient grace. Past the bowing curates, past the rows of bone-filled niches and piles of dust with gilded name plates, through the serene darkness and immaculate silence, to the great stone sarcophagus and the scores of old offerings which were piled there, rotten and flaking. He could just see the image upon it, carved from a single block of stone, of a great armoured warrior.

Some wanderers who came to their walls spoke of knights with trembling voices. Visions of rust-clad berserkers enflamed with a battle-fire that had lain within their withered frames undimmed since they were cut down, eager to range across the lands again unchallenged. Those who said as such never stayed long. They were not welcome.

“The knight must rise...the code of chivalry says so...to slay the unrighteous and protect the weak...so was the war waged, so was the world burned, so were the fields watered with blood, to protect us...”

Thus went the supplicant’s invocation of contract and obligation. The tribute was laid with bowed head, and as his feet scuffed the ancient stone in his reverent retreat, there was a sudden, violent crack as the lid of the sarcophagus was shoved aside.

Next week you’ll be treated to a fresh chapter of The Path of Poison—we’ve made it to Farhaven, Sepp’s already lost something, and a new friend has appeared. No better time to hop on than now!

And if you missed last week’s wizardly musings + a horrible labyrinth, you can check that bad boy out right here

And as ever, friends, please leave a like or a comment—let the stories know you enjoyed them!

This week, we witness a test of the Sorcery of Steel, the red wizard travels across the sea to renew a bond in a Flame Tower, and we descend, lantern in hand, into the Depths of the Graveyard…

Sorcery of Steel

The Hall of Flame rose into the hazy darkness above. From the darkness depended sconces of red fire on long black chains. To each side, twisting pillars shot into the smoke-laden shadows above, and between them were figures of bulging muscle and thew shaped in swoops and arches, holding in their hands wide bowls belching the same red fire. Their features were stern, strong, demanding, they had piercing eyes gazing from under furrowed brow that surmounted aquiline noses with flaring nostrils, and lips curled in stoic frowns. The ground shimmered like boiling blood in the crimson radiance.

And almost all of it was made of steel. The pillars were twisted shafts of it, the statues were, each and every one, titan bulks of steel hammered into immaculate form, and the ground, though it was of ancient, cracked flagstone, bore its veins of steel. Merely standing in this space flooded the hierophant’s aching limbs with renewed vigor. Before him stood seven figures much, he thought, like the statues: towering in proportion and presence, their arms and legs great twists of cord. The Forgemasters. Men and women who knew steel, and who would this day test his Mettle.

The hierophant’s mind raced back, back to the very beginning: the frost-laden chamber where newborn steel’s fury was tempered. In the biting chill where rime winds raced, the hierophant held steel for the first time. He was still then a reedy youth, and he could recall that first feeling. There was no sudden rush of power, in fact, the bar set before him was intolerably heavy. But as he strained, his body cried out for more—the pain grew and grew, but it was less as if it was being inflicted upon him, and more as if he was in combat—and he must win. He was laid low for three full days after that initial encounter. It was what got him accepted into the ranks of the novitiates. Not that he survived, but because he desired to do battle.

From his side he drew then his blade—it was all one single length of steel, dark and rich and with the wavering patterns of oil in sunlight. The blade was not terribly long, tapering swiftly from a broad base to a fearsome point. The crossguard was short and consisted of two straight spikes, slightly flattened, and the pommel was similar, but smaller. He held it only with one hand—his preferred style, choosing instead to use his free hand to balance and strike the right stances. And yet, it would take five full grown people to lift this thing, who would all the while be assailed by its sheer potency. This was his steel, drawn from the earth, blasted with flame, and hammered under the guidance of the Supreme Archmasters.

That mankind could make steel meant it was worthy. This was the guiding principle of their civilization. While barbarians and savages and weaklings scrambled for burnished bronze that bent, dull iron that crumbled and rotted, and gold that congealed in the pockets of those who lusted after its maddening sheen, his people found steel. There was naught else in all the world that could match its might. Steel demanded that those who would wield it be like steel themselves, not just strong, but ponderous, brooding, and decisive in might, for there was nothing steel could not dominate. The world bent to its resolute will.

Before the hierophant sat a large chunk of black stone upon a steel altar. It was glassy, the red firelight played across its formless, flowing surface, streaking the wicked edges in phantom blood. Such stone was what the world once considered beyond reproach. In truth, it still held respectable power, but it was rare, and it was as capable of destruction as it was itself capable of being destroyed. A mere few swings from a blackstone sword would leave it chipped and useless. Yet, brittle as it was, the edge was keen—so much so that blackstone swordsmen did not defend and deflect the blows of their enemies with the flat of the blade, but cut through their opponents weapons. Warriors of that age waded into battle covered in blades of a dozen kinds. An impressive sight to be sure, but cumbersome. Without hesitation, the hierophant raised his steel, held up and out, for a swift downward strike. As the sword fell, and met the blackstone edge, there was a sound of scraping, and a shower of white sparks—the hierophant did not stop, there was perhaps the merest fraction of a second as he registered the impact and felt not resistance from the stone, but attack. A subtle shift with his free arm lent him the angle necessary to better deliver the heft of his own body with the sword’s thicker middle section. He must be as steel himself, he remembered. Not just a slab of brute force, but an instrument of the highest grade. The blackstone suddenly split and cascaded to the sides as the sword met the altar with the clang of a drowned bell.

Steel came to man only recently, but it had existed in the mind for far longer. It was a dream for strength, first, which had remained at the forefront ever since. The legend of steel was the legend of a nameless heretic alchemist, a secret sage, who toiled in exile, leading a band of righteous thieves from a sparse mountain lair to take from merchant caravans and palace treasuries choice materials to transmogrify the detritus of a pitiful world into that which finally stood down the champions of the tyrannical gods and laid low the gluttonous temples. The lore of steel was one of empowerment at every turn, steel demanded much but rewarded even more, it placed in mankind’s grasp dominion of the whole world.

“There comes now a true test,” said the forgemasters. “Steel does not bend. Steel makes all else bend in its stead. Including thine own flesh.”

Steel went wherever it may, and so the hierophant bid it do so: with a single stroke of the sword, a streak of the air itself suddenly was blotted out, rent apart, and in the flash it took to revert itself, the hierophant had leapt a dozen yards without taking so much as a single step. A score of successive swings showed that he could make the steel leap into the air, to make it hang for a second before shooting back in the blink of an eye. A forgemaster, eyes blazing, raised a hand laden in steel rings and bracer, and with a mere motion pulled away something in the ceiling, and a shaft of golden light fell into the Hall of Flame. Wasting nary a second, the hierophant strode forth and raked the edge of his sword through the shaft of sunlight, sparks roaring as he did so, and with a finish flourishing held the blade high, enwreathed in swirling flame—and brought it down a moment later as a bolt of white lightning fell and danced upon the tip, and was thrust into the ground where several flagstones instantly shattered.

In a reverse grip, the hierophant flung and held the sword, plunging it into the exposed black clay as he fell to one knee, and then rose, drawing forth from the earth a shimmering thread in the air. Raising the sword up, a wraith in flowing tatters, bearing ash-black hammer and shield, followed. One of the forgemasters leapt forth—there was a flash, and the wraith fell into the earth, the thread above it cut by the master’s axe. The master’s eyes shone like polished steel.

The hierophant didn’t leave the Hall of Flame, but a newly upraised scion did.

Flame Tower

Voerlunders rarely travelled to Macha across the sea. The two lands, even in the latter days, had, at best, a rocky relationship. For long spans of its past, young Macha nobles seeking to prove their strength, and old Macha chiefs seeking to keep their lot, raided the long coast of the kingdom beyond the sea. Attacks were swift, bloody, and profitable. Voerlund never invaded in return, but instead sought to protect its waters with a powerful navy whose vestiges remain today in the wide-ranging fleets of Farhaven. Their ships, not fast, but highly manoeuvrable, acted as a bulwark that sunk scores of raider vessels. And they did not take prisoners. Instead, coastal bastions bore veritable forests of hanged, impaled, and caged Macha corpses as a warning to any pirate ship which desired to plunder the supposed soft sandward shores. As such, even these days when trade across the sea for goods and luxuries was relatively quite open (though oft mediated by Dunmarrow and Baletor), each land still held reservations, and each secretly considered the other, down the ages, as little more than savages to be pillaged or culled.

The red wizard Carloman, however, was one rare Voerlunder who not only travelled across the sea, but was welcomed. It must be understood that every interaction in Macha was a show of strength, but that didn’t mean their preoccupation with it was savage or primitive. If a challenge was issued, the challenger was showing strength, and eyes were upon them, and if that challenge was met, then that, too, was strength, and everyone was on the same page. Excessive force was frowned upon as uncouth, even rude, or cruel. Carloman was not a fighter, but for the Macha, strength came in many forms. A sweep of his hand across the sky casting thunderbolts and winds, or the clack of his stuff calling up a burst of raging flame, or if he was lucky, a show of the woad armour once granted to him in that land, was enough to convince reasonable Macha he was no petty conjureman, and more than enough to convince the dryador sorcerer-priests who held considerable sway.

It has been said that were it not for the comforts of the hearth and brewery, the Macha would have been content to range across their deep, verdant woods for all time under the gaze of their titan wandering gods, whose passage makes the rains, herds the prey, and shows the path. What dwelt within the primeval nature of Macha were elementals, not ancient spirits incarnated, but living parts of the world itself that emerged from the mists of creation fully formed, and have continued in this way for time beyond measure. Called variously the Triune, Nuad, Nadarra, or Nador Helaeth, they were not so much guardians of the Macha, as the World Serpent was to the Voerlunders, but guardians of the land, of which the Macha formed one part. As such, they worked a little different. The Macha gods did not demand offerings, but neither did they refuse, for they were in truth closer to great beasts than reasoning intellects as humankind understood them.

And so Carloman took trips to, as their parlance goes, the “north” to renew and strengthen bonds with the Nuad, to ensure they came when called, and that he did not overstep his bounds, by providing what he assumed was, in some form, nourishment. Elementals were difficult to parse, even ones as ancient as these, upon whom one might guess vast volumes of lore were written. But the dryadorer kept only oral records, and were reticent to share it outside their circles, let alone with a Voerlunder, even though he be a friend.

Only, upon his approach to the landward, or as they say, right hand chiefdom along the coast, the sky had begun to grow heavy with black clouds—low and streaked with with slate and smoke—heavy, turbulent banks that swirled in a growing tempest. The small merchant vessel of which he had come as a passenger had nearly run aground, dropping two anchors to hook and gouge into the sea-bed so agitated did the seas seem. Gods of the realm they may have been, but that realm was made of three separate parts, and they were their own beasts. The earthen streets of the chiefdom, a lesser holding but an old one, bustled with the movements of a handful of dryadorer and their novices who, as far as the wizard understood and could recall, acted as living scrolls and grimoires for the head dryador to peruse and converse with as needs be. They were all filing towards something at the head of the town—a great, singular tower at the top of which sputtered and spat a great flame: an altar to Gaoth, god of sky and what-might-be.

Before the tower did they gather, and between the eight dryadorer and the wizard, neither of whom spoke each other’s languages, they managed to cobble together a dialogue through smatterings of fairly clear local words and a Dunmarrow-Voerlund Merchant’s Tongue. It was deduced the sky god quarrelled, and that the wizard had chosen an extraordinarily bad time to arrive to renew his bond. Gaoth would see no sense right now. Or, as Carloman put it, to the best of his ability, the other gods saw trouble and nudged him here. Either way, the loremasters then spoke, their piercing, water-god marked grey eyes fixed upon him, thus was the challenge: quell the god’s fury and claim the bond. Carloman accepted with gusto, and believed he spied a flash of half a smirk upon the mouths of the sorcerer-priests, the gravest bunch of a brooding lot.

Through the triangle mouth, up the steep, worn steps, and the tower’s apex was gained rather suddenly—the tempestuous sky hid it in the gloom from far down, but there was no masking the roaring flame’s heat or brilliant light. The view from the altar was normally a striking one: a sweeping vista of deepest, richest green from which emerged lazy pillars of smoke from villages and ringforts, distant hillocks like the humps of beasts in a viridian sea, and even further off spans of highlands rising into the mist. Beyond, just within sight’s reach, the form of a vast, frost-tinged mountain range that may as well have swept from end to end of the known world. Now, all was shrouded in banks of slate sky that growled. It was here the red wizard began to test the god’s fury.

Three landwight’s scented bundles. A fistful of Silverden incense sticks. A dozen raw goldleaf rolls. Things from foreign lands, exotic imports the kind of which were enjoyed by the Macha. The sky merely rumbled. Right then. You want potent things, Gaoth? How about a twist of a most potent thrice-dried and desiccated lotus petal, a transcendental meditation aid, pungent beyond imagining and just as strong—a bolt of lightning coursed across the sky as he cast it into the fire, not in a flash, but one long snaking, roaring streak. Carloman retreated into his shoulders for a second. Not the reaction he was expecting.

No, no, Carloman, he thought with a sudden imagined slap to the forehead. What are you doing? Propitiating some surly landwight? Some Khurcham ghost throwing a fit? Strength, you old fool, strength. Strength it was, then. He removed his gem of flame from inside his robe. He wasn’t entirely letting the thought he had take shape, he was just doing it. You want potency, Gaoth, god of sky. He breathed a word of fire on the gem, and tongues of flame burst forth from the smoothed sides and edges. He tossed it in. Their fires mingled: the vigorous, lapping flames of the altar’s fresh blaze, and the primordial radiance of the gem fished from within the earth’s deep. That’s not all, Gaoth. Did you see me coming across the sea, god of what-might-be? I suppose I’ve called on you enough to meet you in kind. The wizard took his staff—engraved with signs and symbols of the gods and guardians of the known world, including Gaoth itself—and stamped it at either side of himself, then drew it between the points he’d made in the form of a barrier. He brought out a fist of the amulets around his neck and felt around for his old World Serpent one, removed it, and placed it around his wrist. Fingers entwined in binding, he bid the Serpent set a coil upon him as he was now. The wizard was sometimes a rash individual, but with cause. And he wasn’t stupid.

Carloman thrust forth his hand into the altar flame, and let the god of sky taste of the potency of a magician whose spirit stood tall. And he held his hand there, the heat enveloping it, and the magics he had set forth holding back from the fire’s wrath. There were few who could do what he did with a word and a gesture, and not a fortnight’s ritual. If there was a greater show of strength, Carloman would have trouble thinking of it. His hand remained within the altar’s flame until the sky began to lighten, the black and slate dissipating with the passing of a vast winged shadow behind them, and the deep blue of an early evening in the Macha Clanhold resumed its rightful place over the jubilant shouts and horn calls from those whose mirth was nigh unmatched from frosted peak to coldest sand.

Depths of the Graveyard

It’s hard to say just how the graveyard came to be as it is. The city of Rósajha in which it dwells is certainly a curious one, rising higher than it does spread out, and it must be known that the graveyard is like the city—this place was, despite all appearances, built atop itself, over a very, very long period of time.

The initial point of egress lies amidst a sprawl of small, crumbling ruins. Rósajha is a warm city, but the graveyard never loses its chill. The stone remains damp year round, shaded in its curious hollow, along with an omnipresent ground of rotting leaves, mud, and some several dozen varieties of fern, grass, and small, slender tree which infest this outermost visage. Gravemarkers and the shells of the gable ends of temples poke through the wild foliage, their sides ragged with age, weather, and creeping vines. Some portions of collapsed stone peer from the soil with skins of dripping moss, showing only slightly carvings of old, but of what, can no longer be seen. There is one small open area in which the relics of older strata have been set, things people have seen fit to rescue from the depths: a basin or font, two carvings in low relief of a crouching, fish-like being and what can only be described a man-faced dog in full sprint—hunting or being preyed upon, none can tell, and lastly the graven, handsome coat of arms of a long-forgotten clan. Each is slowly being subsumed into the seeping loam.

Within the shadow of one of the gable-end ruins, in an area where the smell of damp stone is the strongest, and where the light fails the most, is a set of steep steps leading down to the next level. These, at least, are known to be later additions, and there are even sagging supporting walls across the earthen banks throughout the entire tier. What lies below is proper graveyard: tomb stelae, graveslabs, cones, and obelisks jut from the humped earth, awaiting the time when they may finally fall, their oath of remembrance to their rotten charges complete. Pathways between the old graves wind and wander in and out of each other, the wet tracks trampled by rare human passage. But some tracks seem to see more use than others, and so virulent is the greenery here that the less walked ones simply cannot be followed unless the leaves and grass are hacked away. The light down here comes from a great rent in the earth on one side, throwing light paled through a layer of thin mist across the grey and brown stone, bearing their antiquated lettering and sigils. There is light, too, from shafts in the earth above—revealing the existence of perilous traps for the unwary. Though a hollow in the earth it may see, it must be understood this was once open to the air and sky. This layer sees some rare visits from antiquarians, scholars, and distant descendents. The next sees none but the foolhardy.

The only way through here now is past sundered ground. The graveyard has, to put it lightly, poor natural drainage. The stench of decaying loam and the must of mould-ridden stone is palpable in the third layer, almost wholly flooded. It is wider than the last two, receding further back into the earth and infested with wide pools, uneven in the extreme, sloshing with frigid muck and gathered slime. No walls exist here like they do above, though a smattering of thick earthen pillars do appear. Many of the pools dwell back in the darkness, as this part of the cemetery slopes down on a shelf, and this back section must be avoided. A few mossy paths run between the visible pools at least, which are equally as treacherous, prone to give way with the wrong shifting of weight. One must travel light in the lower graveyard layers.

What begins to also appear here are the insects. Of what species, even the naturalists in Rósajha find it hard to tell. They’re light things, all of long sprouting limbs, feelers, probosci, which seem to have little strength as they flounder and paw in the gentle clutch of researchers. They resemble a few kinds of marsh insects outside the city, but not completely. Just different enough to not be related, to be something else. They are accompanied by hordes of extremely tough, fleshy things resembling silver teardrops that squirm through the mud in large, loose groups as they devour the legged ones. The black pincered ones, the size of a human fist, can deliver painful bites to the unwary, latching into the skin, and must be killed if they attack. The acrid smell they release makes the eyes sting. The pale brown moths, the length of a human forearm, a rare sight, seem to be the apex predator of this squalid ecosystem—which it must be made aware runs three entire levels deep, never improving. There are only ever a few seen at a time, others slumbering or slain as the winners compete for prey. The moths are harmless to humans. But they do seem persistent.

Three levels below, the light completely fails, and torches and lanterns must be availed of. Signs of graves are rare in the deep swamps, likely having been completely flooded over. Here, one might be forgiven for thinking they had passed into the underworld itself. It rests at the base of a tall, sluggish waterfall which bears the only remnants of human intervention and industry in the form of a series of smoothed, jutting stones that may have once formed steps, or perhaps a short ascending tower, long rotted away. The place seems to be in a cavern, though that can’t be true, for remember that the graveyard rose with the city. It’s hard to believe this expanse of utterly unbroken mire once bore the touch of sunlight and solemn human procession, for not a single thing of that time remains. The odd hard objects underfoot, likely the remains of ancient graveslabs, may be all that is left, the murky water showing naught beneath its surface.

In the lowest level of the swamps does real danger begin to present itself. The swamp at this base level is by far the widest, darkest, and most damp—the air itself is frigid and clammy, and unpleasant to breathe. It is conducive to the breeding of insects, though it must be understood that in these festering depths, they have found irregular nourishment. They can be found next to small patches of luminescent fungi, lurking just beneath the surface. Whatever else wanders down here by mistake almost certainly seeks out the wan, silvery lights, and pays the price for their desperate curiosity. Alas, any traveller who comes down here of their own volition will have brought light of their own, and the man-sized things, whether they are spiders, centipedes, or something else is unknown, are attracted to the warm reds of a torch or lantern. They cannot be heard approaching—an adaptation of their lethal environment—but they can be seen by the sheen of slime on their slender carapaces. It is wise to leave a torch or two behind to draw their attentions, their sluggish gait does not belie the intense ferocity with which they seize whatever comes close.

This is normally as far as one can hope to get. These lowest, dankest swamps were not meant for human tread, and repel most who dare broach them. But there is one more lower level, the nature and reality of which can only be pieced together by a handful of questionable rumours, contradictory whispers, and alleged encounters. It concerns one particular pool in lowest level of the veritable fenland which reaches far underground—truly underground. No one living has penetrated these depths, every one of the already sparse accounts cites second and even thirdhand sources. And yet, there are certain things they do agree upon. The following is a supposed account a dozen other chronicles reference and allude to.

“A full suit of sealed oilskin is absolutely required—it doesn’t matter how good the stitching is, it must be sealed, preferably with adhesive over wax. The suit must be adequately padded to retain warmth. The chill down below is lethal to even covered flesh. I have seen skin wrinkle and wither from a mere few second’s immersion. The face plate should be domed glass, not flat, treated with a thin wax solution. The water is filthy in the extreme, detritus accumulates quickly, and as movement occurs, a film will begin to develop that a translucent treatment over a dome can alleviate for a short time. A tube-fed lantern must accompany, but do not activate it until completely submerged. The insects above will be drawn to it, and they will follow into the water. In the other hand it is recommended to carry a bullwhale spear or modified polearm, sharpness and heft do the trick underwater.”

“I have been as far into the flooded tunnels as our cables could take me, and as far as I was willing to go. They are of stone, fashioned by human hands—of that I have no doubt. I believe they represent the most ancient substratum of this sprawling graveyard. Centuries old, if not more. I wouldn’t be surprised. It could be the shifting of the water doing its trick over so long, but the irregular smoothness, almost in the shape of waves or fingerprints, speaks to a great antiquity, the way the men of old crudely fashioned their palaces and temples. It must be that the rainfall of years have finally trickled down and accumulated in this murk, but...I cannot help but think, for reasons I’m not sure I can explain, that this grave complex was flooded from both ends. Like something burst, and the place was bid climb in haste to escape, but was followed. In any case, there were those left below in the ruined, lost tunnels. I do not know how else to say this, so I will describe my experience.”

“I turned a corner, my reddish lamp spilling over the stone, which looked to me more like it had melted rather than had been chipped and smoothed by the waters. The light bled out in a strange manner, it started red, then faded into silt-laden, trailing brown, and then became abruptly black. I think, now, the light would have reached further had it not been devoured like it was. By this point, the filth was beginning to cloud my visor, despite every precaution we had taken. Sight was beginning to become a problem. The tunnels were not always even, and so what I thought I saw ahead was either a collapsed section or some kind of wall emerging. It wasn’t. It came into the brownish murk first, and I saw only a bowed round lump. Then, with a step forward, I saw a long stalk coming into the red light. I stopped moving. The bowed, hairless scalp rose up to meet me. The stalk of warped bone reached out. The whalespear I carried to test surfaces is likely still down there. That’s as far as I got, and hope to ever go.”

Now, just in case you missed it, or you just got here (hello!), last week we took a trip into the deep woods, the last member of a dying race sought to pay a debt, and our boy Carloman pulled out all the stops. Want to check it out? Gotcha.

And as ever, friends, please leave a like or a comment—let the stories know you enjoyed them!

This week, the sorcerer Alzared muses upon the mark left by the Dragon’s Shadow, the wizard Carloman muses upon his recent encounter with horror and where might its like dwell in Ancient Crypts, and a shadowy figure with grim intent steals into the Labyrinth of Curses…

Dragon’s Shadow

Alzared, dragonmagick sorcerer, stood tall in the squalid throne room, filled with the acrid stench of smoke of the fires of the battle, lit by a great shaft of cold winter sun that came in through the shattered stone wall. Around him, bodies, some groaning as they failed to rise to their feet, some silent and unmoving. But before him, Alzared glared down upon the bloodied form of the warlord, who struggled to one elbow with the poor aid of a shattered sword, and let a thousand thoughts of rage flood his mind.

It had been so since the first humans crawled from the mud and slime amidst the titanic battles of the Great Grey Ones and the Dragons. It had been so under the long tyranny of scaled overlords, their spawn, and their kindred. And it was so even now: there always was and was going to be those who desired the power long-denied them, and would do anything to get it and keep it.

The oldest human warlords lived as barbarians under the wings and flames of Dragons, worshipping them, emulating them, gathering the spilled blood and sloughed off scales, taking on draconic traits as a sign of zeal and might. They consumed serpent venom to guide their mutation, and became the first serpent-men, all for a want of power. They gave themselves up as vessels and channels for Dragons to express their boundless power in baleful blessings, for a taste of what could never be theirs. Their children became more than them—they emerged from the womb with scales, wings, and hatred in their twisted hearts.

After that, upon their emancipation, humans spread across the overworld, within and beyond the ice belt, across the vastlands, into the woods, and into the mountains, but always was the shadow of the dragon over them. They founded their petty kingdoms and ruled with strength, they founded their chiefdoms and temple-complexes, and ruled by show of force and knowledge of mystery. Then came Castlegrand. Toppling, glorious, maze-like, mighty Castlegrand, the City of Mankind, raised from savagery to stand aside their greyfolk allies.

But Alzared did not like the way things turned in that city every so often. The greyfolk led long and steadfast, they did not rule, they had an understanding granted to them by their primordial progenitors. Not so mankind. And not so the would-be bastion of progress that was Castlegrand. Many different powers rose to prominence there, edicts were issued, mandates cast, the streets, the districts, the grand courts, the high thoroughfares, each one bearing the half-formed mark of some lord or magistrate or councillor’s hand, barrelling over each because each one thought they were right above all others. Not to mention the stirrings of unrest which seemed to ever make the towns and villages shudder with raids and old rivalries and, of course, the want for power rearing its ugly head.

Alzared was no stranger to violence, and accepted it was human to be so. Violence was the first thing to make its mark upon the first humans, witness to war and catastrophe from the moment of birth. He was also no stranger to the desire for power. For what, then, did he wear that sceptre of dragonblood, if not to grab power for himself? There was precious little else in the world which could match its sheer potency, and he bore it proudly, for it was his cunning and strength which won it. Aye, but there was a difference, he believed with the fire of his soul, between battle resulting from the clash of free wills testing the mettle and resolve of belief and ideology, on even ground, and the desperate and sadistic violence born from the iron grip of a would-be tyrant and those crushed under their heels for far too long. All too often, felt Alzared, knowing he must be wrong but unable to shake the doubt, it was the latter again and again.

Power was a curse that must forever be struggled against with itself.

So he glared down upon the bloodied form of the would-be conqueror, mail rent, cloak in tatters, blood pooling, loathsome grimace upon his hateful visage.

“No better than a dragon,” the sorcerer judged, a furious scowl on his face.

A torrent of searing flames erupted an arm’s length from the petty warlord, reducing the killer to a pile of black ash on the rough hewn flagstones.

Ancient Crypts

Carloman reclined against the wall of the tomb, shifting slightly on the cushion he’d snuck out of the manse above. He’d have rolled up his cloak and sat that on the stool provided to him, but it was a bit chilly down here, and he’d rather remain clad in his full crimson raiment. The shadows which had clung, spiteful and stubborn, had dissipated amidst the hazy, warm glow of the two score candles which, despite fresh ones arriving every so often, had failed to really heat the place up. The wizard had been careful to evalute whether that chill was the result of something which refused to be banished, or was the natural and inconspicuous cold of the grave.

There was nothing really to do except keep vigil and work the sympathies between himself, his gem of flame, his robes, and the candles. He’d whisper a word every so often to make the candles flare, as much for amusement as it was to keep things on the right track. Only a few swings of the pendulum ago had a vampire stood in this very chamber. There was little worse the Dark could have thrown at him than that. He wondered who it had once been. An inhabitant of this tomb? Probably, but not definitely. It could have woken up anywhere, somewhere less looked after. Lundermark was nothing but, when it wasn’t being grand and stately, lost corners, understreets, and hidden layers upon layers of old crypts and ruins. Might not have been the biggest city—that dubious honour belonged to the sprawl of Baletor out east-and it might not have been as positively riddled with catacombs as much as the cities up in Dunmarrow, but Lundermark was the oldest. And for that reason, Voerlunders had their own weird fondness for crypts and graves quite unlike anyone else. In graves were those who made history. Good and bad, great and small, yes, but history all the same. You learned from what people did and thought and felt before you, from the mark on the world they left behind. And no doubt, Voerlund had made many a mark on the world.

Built atop itself was the way to describe the capital city, and good bit of Voerlund itself. Lundermark was something of a tomb, of every past movement and action that tyrants and reformers left behind from whatever they buried or overthrew. So the vampire really could have come from anywhere, from some secret oubliette, sealed away and forgotten. Woke up in some collapsed chamber, damp with stagnant pools and mould, with black, creeping elemental insects tainted by the accumulated filth. Woke up, and crept out of its hole and around the city, which, even in the full light of a summer’s day, afforded long passages of darkness for those who wished to remain unseen, to dwell within and move as they wished. How many people had seen it? And had it seen them? Had some poor soul passed by it in the night, never knowing how close to the Dark they were in that moment? Or had been followed home?

The very idea made him shudder. He stopped himself and sat up.

The stain he’d reduced it to on the stone floor was gone. That was good. Not trace of corpse or shadow. Can’t even tell where it had been. But two of the poor fools it had under its sway had never returned after having fell into pools of darkness. He wasn’t sure what to do about that. Had they known? Really known, like he did? How much had the vampire told them? The ones who had made it were above, locked in separate rooms full of lanterns. The wizard wouldn’t know until he had a good chat with them, but by the way they looked, they didn’t know much. Seduced with promises but nothing of real weight, nothing that invited further thoughts...and nothing that came with those thoughts. Whispers during visits to the tomb, if it were from this tomb. Old families had that ancestor veneration—the perfect excuse for a vampire. Could be he got there just in time to save them. Not all of them, though. It was one thing to damn a true gnostic’s soul to the Outer Dark, but for innocents—dangerous greedy idiots, yes, but innocents—to get caught as they did, he knew that wouldn’t leave him for a long time. He could only hope they were dead, that it had been painless, and that the powers he had called into this place were able to do something before they were lost. But Carloman didn’t like relying on hope. There was nothing one could do about hope, it was out of your hands. Formless thoughts flitted across his mind about evoking sympathies with their souls in dark spaces, with places they lived, things they owned, family members, trying to get them back. But he knew that was madness, and the idea of it alone was dangerous. Hope was an easy thing to take control of, after all.

He didn’t think for a while then, just felt. Tombs. Crypts. Old graves and catacombs. Oh, s’eth he needed to get out of here. This was place was doing his head in. A bad event had left its mark here, for all he was doing his best to balance it out with good. Soon it would become a place of rest and return again. Come sunrise, a convocation of priests would, at Carloman’s request, commit rites of consecration and guardianship amidst the stone and earth. Just to be safe. They didn’t see the point of it, but he was quite insistent, and made a generous donation to the manse chapel for the sake of obtaining the oils and things required. He liked leaving those things to the clergy. Yes, he had the authority to do it himself—and much more besides—but it felt proper to have the Serpent’s own holyfolk, as well as members of the manse in which the thing happened, perform the rites.

He sat back again, feeling a bit better. The fallout of these things always left him battling strange moods. Maybe it was because he was getting older, but it just never seemed to end. The world stood on the brink every moment of every day. There was always a spot of darkness waiting to go bad, some little corner that had fingers being pressed in from outside. He felt like he could simply wander the streets of Lundermark forever and still never fix the place. But he had the whole of the known world before him. And whatever dwelt in the continental interior. What was it like out there, he often wondered. Empires of darkness with idols and images of Aeons glaring down upon enslaved humans? Cabals of gnostic theocrats and sorcerer-kings trafficking with demons? Mouldering ruins infested with shadow-laden crypts birthing nameless horrors? Or other Voerlunds and Mul Manatars and Dunmarrows? Maybe they knew better. Didn’t make the same mistakes. Came from better circumstances, hadn’t the same struggles, were further ahead. He wondered if there were others out there like him, who knew the Truth and found only anger in its wake. Anger at the malevolence that called him, and all life itself, an affront to the true cosmic order, and must be put in its place.

Coils, that’s what we were contending with, he thought. Himself, other wizards, priests, shamans, labourers, farmers, smiths, and every unbroken bloodline of beast and fleeting elemental, all with this staring down upon them, whether they knew it or not. There were too many places like this, in Lundermark and across the world. Too many corners to check, too many rites and banishings to make, and too many candles to burn. But you know what, Carloman, he said to himself, if the world truly teetered on the brink like you keep worrying yourself over, you wouldn’t have spent the last seven days going from ale house to beer house and back again. So an affront and blasphemy to the Godhead this world may be, but it wasn’t going to be rebuked so easily. It was good to revel in the simple pleasures of life. It left a mark on you, and things around you. You took that with you. That mattered. What, was he meant to tirelessly crusade across the world every waking moment, running himself ragged and into an early grave where he could do no good? No, no, can’t have that. The battle might never end, but neither would the world ever lose, not while this wizard in red wandered its stone and soil.

Labyrinth of Curses

The idea was two-fold, and it was, in theory, simple. That was the first reason Rysade decided upon this course of action.

It was a wonder of modern spiritual engineering, one of those handful of creations that had begun to really crack the shell of the dark ages that had held sway over the world for too long. In places where ignorance, terror, violence, and fear waned, humans found themselves with the breathing room to think of things other than war, and all that came from it. One of those thoughts was the Labyrinth, a place designed with the finest understanding of spiritual principles, to remove a curse from a human being. That was the second reason Rysade decided to slip through the bronze gates.

Now, there were two tricks to this: curses couldn’t be undone, just removed. And as one passed through the Labyrinth, so was it done, the curse left in the center, while the freshly arisen emerged on the other side of the mirrored passageway. The other trick was that the curses remained, fully potent, and festering together. The specifics became muddled into esoteric language and obscure metaphor, but she understood the general idea, and suffice it to say, had said the cursemonger’s manual, the particularities of a curse, that is, the kind of harm or oppression it seeks to inflict, grow gradually—and literally—more solid in presence and effect. Eventually they, as the terminology so went, de-abstracted, and could apparently be made to do so with a little effort. This resulted in a transfiguration into an actual physical object. This was the third and final reason the black magic assassin slung slender needles dipped in somnolent ichor through the throats of the mazekeepers, and and strode under the burnished silver moonlight into the depths of the Labyrinth of Curses.

A special kind of death called for a special manner of delivery. As of late, Rysade had begun to take more of an interest in the targets she was hired to kill. She by no means held any pretensions of being an “artist”, like some of the sicker minds she sometimes commingled with, but she did believe death, and murder, meant something. Death carried weight. At first, she just veered towards business that suited her tastes: particular individuals, gang members, and as she got better, she was able to choose her targets with deliberation. She even sought out certain contracts that made to change things substantially, for the better if possible, and if not, at least for the more interesting. Create situations out of which real change might arise. Of course she had to deal with the fact more people killed for evil than for good. That was a long term fight.

Her profession laid bare for her some of the more vile inner workings of her world. The things people did, and the utter lack of reason for why they did them. A few good people had died because she’d been lied to, and she made sure to balance the equation when things were done. So much of it numbed most people. She admitted to herself, and only to herself, things had gotten easier. There was always less of a rush each time. But, what was important came after, when she got to see results. It made things worth it. She slept somewhat more soundly for that, but not too much. Each day someone worse came along, and each time blood was the sacrifice to be offered up to the world for it to change again. The profundity of ending a human life had more impact than a treasury of aureate discs on a personal hundred acres tended to by your slaves. Ending a life made those discs forfeit, that land empty, those slaves free. Yeah, maybe she was just some cloud-dreaming fool with a bad attitude and worse ideals, but she’d rather be that than the cold-eyes who slaughtered like automatons, or the freaks who kidnapped people and did away them in lonely places.

The Labyrinth was where humanity cast away the worst of the worst. Some people took things into their owns hands a lot, and laid a curse. Paid money and flesh for access to ancient death hexes to hurt others—usually those who wronged them, but sometimes not. Either way, curses festered, and for many long ages tainted the land they were buried or lost in, creating eerie places where things didn’t seem right. The stories are endless, and a fixture in most cultures. Few were embellished. But then the Labyrinth came, and humankind began to using it to dump their greatest burdens. Each one made the swamp worse. But it also meant, to those with the know-how, power.

She understood there was a meditative quality to the Labyrinth. That was the point. Induce a state where the flesh was, as the cursemonger’s manual put it, loosened. This was achieved first in the mind, and had to be, she also understood, rigidly defended against. For one bearing a curse there was no danger, wading through the central chamber pulled the curse from the loosened self. Wading through it already empty had the effect that something could worm its way in. The peril was part of the message, though. She braved it gladly. She had come equipped with a few methods for keeping alert: a tight cord around her wrist she had to shift for a measure of relief, a slightly ill-fitting pair of boots, and a song she could only half remember.

All of it kept her distracted enough that she reached the central chamber far quicker than she thought she would. The walls of the Labyrinth were high and of pale blue stone, and they had a weird sheen to them under the far off silver moonlight. It stood in stark contrast to what she saw then. She wasn’t expecting an actual mire. Under the night sky she perceived streaks of every putrescent shade and hue—no surprise, considering what was dumped there. Angry reds the colour of enflamed wounds, dirty white hard growths and pus, pale pinks and watery greens, all of it covered in and emerging from a slick, black, dimming mass that her mind associated absurdly with wet shadows. It climbed up the walls of the circular chamber in spreading tendrils. The air was, she could only think, thick, and seemed always to shift. It was like moving through a thin water. The stench was sickly in a dozen different ways she found impossible to parse. What spiritual engineering kept it all in here, she couldn’t even begin to guess, but that didn’t matter.

A curse had a physical component. A definable presence. Always left a mark, or made a growth, or a withering. It was like a wound left behind. These were what were excised, or vomited back up, upon being freed from a curse. They were, in a way, a little organic. That was the manual’s way of saying they had something of life to them. In other words, curses wanted to fulfil themselves. But bodiless, they simply stewed. She stood on the step before the mire itself, and produced from under her robes something wrapped tight in wax paper. Tearing off the opaque sheet, revealed was a thin iron bar which was curled lengths of meat, kept warm by closeness to her own flesh. With only a second’s hesitation, she watched small fingers reach up from the wrinkling surface of the mire as she plunged the rack through it, breaking what looked to be a skin, a watery blackness seeping up alongside a cloying steam. Her hand went through it. It was viscous, granuled, rough, not particularly cold, and moist. Then, there was a pull—a sudden jerking as if the rack had been grabbed from beneath. She only waited a second before heaving herself upwards, and in that same motion, drawing forth a grotesque black spear. Its head was a long, tightly coiled spiral ending in a wicked spike. The entirety of the shaft had a series of short, jutting, blunt protuberances running its whole length, ending with a grooved sphere at the base. It was dripping with long strands of putrescence that hit the stone with wet smacks.

Yes, a special delivery for a special death. An ancient curse stewed in darkness for a hundred years. A fitting end for an age that should not be, and those that seek to birth it.

So last week was one I’m particularly pleased with, full of sardonic twists, eldritch, apocalyptic fantasies, and a problem that needed sorting. Go on and check it out if you just got here, missed it, or want to read it again!

And, as ever, please leave a like—let the stories know you enjoyed them!

This week, the last member of a dying race quests to pay a divine debt at an Eternal Altar, we take an atmospheric journey into the Northern Woods, and the red wizard Carloman pulls out all the stops to battle his fiercest foe yet in a Tomb of the Dark…

Eternal Altar

Through no land that have I passed has there been one that bears an aspect like my own. The features of my people I’ve studied well, first in my memories of the matron, then when those began to fade, in the waves of warm valley rivers, upon polished palace mirrors, twisted through ancient ice, and on the deathly still surfaces of deep mountain lakes. I believe I am the last, and the weight which perches upon my shoulders is all that remains, apart from my own weathered flesh, of a debt that must be repaid.

Not so long ago, as the world may measure it, there were more of us. First scattered, then decimated, then absorbed—that was how I was taught by my matron. The shifting of borders drew our communities into different and impassable lands, then those lands began to war, and those who remained, they hadn’t been the eldkin for a long time. Save for a few, on the fringes, in the dark. It was these stragglers to whom the offspring of new peoples remarked looked oddly like one’s grandsire, or portrait or sketch of a dead ancestor. And within that last vestige of the eldkin did the last scrap of a dying culture persist: a duty passed from child to child.

Only, with every death, and with every new birth, a bit of it was forgotten, and now it has come to me, and I know not even the name of the deity to whom the debt is to be repaid.

My grandsires spoke of the duty to my matron when she was young, and she told me their words as best she could recall them. They were of shame and regret in their weakness and forgetting. Rare is it for any race to survive too long in this raw, turbulent world, the tide of new peoples washes away the chaff, but we bare few survived, and perhaps took it for granted that if we had lasted this long, we would continue to do so, for just long enough, never grasping that these final times were the worst of all. We dwindled quickly, and scrabbled to keep as many of us who remained together. I think, though, the damage was done. A tireless pilgrimage from one end of the world to another demanded heavier prices than most of my ancestors were willing to pay. So it finally came to me.

I passed through a dozen lands, with only a direction to follow. I passed through searing hot realms of towers and dust where shrill horns sounded to ward off demons, and through half-sunken frigid wastelands infested with grotesque idols whose people seemed to live with one foot too eagerly in the grave. I traversed many long spans of cool woodland I would have found more tolerable had the tribes not been so suffused with gloom that I felt I had to flee, or face the consequences of their half-mad distrust and suspicion. I travelled across cold, arid, craggy deserts in which I believe even now I was watched at every step. I came, once, to a lush open steppeland, of gentle rises and sweeping plains under a blazing blue sky. A place of such profound repose I was tempted far more than once to stay, and dwell in the peaceful seclusion of a shallow leeward yurt, but was too aware I was an alien, and I knew the question of my coming and whence it was I travelled, though it would be asked with sympathy and wonder, would haunt my conscience until the day I died.

Once, in a city of layers, I met an old man who hoarded older books, and was so intrigued by me that he let me read a priceless artefact: a scroll penned by a name I knew from my matron to be my own grandfather of a distant line. I knew some of my blood had found purpose and direction in the duty, while a good deal had also found it onerous. This grandfather had been one of the latter. “But where has our eldgod gone? Have not the new gods, who have kept watch by rite and communion over the tribe for several thousand years, been good to us?” That was when I learned it was to a deity I was going. I only knew what an altar was for I partook in the temples of a score of other gods and pantheons in my wanderings. And indeed, they had been good to me. No dream or voice came to me from the eldgod of my people. But the god was of my people, and the debt we owed it, whatever that may be, was the reason we fought to survive, or so I guessed. What may have lain behind that was enough for me the continue.

As the last meagre hut vanished beyond sight, and I passed from the lands of mankind, I kept close to mind the conversations I shared with the theologists and archaists of the ancient provinces where I had been a prime subject of study. There was much discussion on the twists and turns a religion takes throughout its life, and they do live, they live as the humans that share them live, sometimes fading with immense age, sometimes cut short with one brutal stroke. But like their humans, religions sprang from a shared source. Trace the steps, I was told, and it all goes back, in one form of another, to the same idea. Under their thousand skins, the theologists told me, they had an idea of what my duty was, but were hesitant to say.

To the new gods I prayed one final time, made obeisance, gave thanks, for hereon out there were no humans, and therefore no gods. Save the one that waited. The one who, as I came through a deep canyon between the sheer rises of a dusty plateau, in a wilderness more hard and grave than any I had seen, had given the greatest share of creation, and paid the greatest price. What that was, priests could only give educated guesses, but if it was so, this god’s duty, this debt, held staggering implications on the age of my tribe, and of the weight that had been placed on my shoulders.

I took the temple to be mine, and my people’s. Hewn from hard stone in some time beyond what a human mind could grasp, by hands whose blood might be flowing in my veins, the odious chamber was lit by shafts of pale light given passage by aeons of assault upon the stone. The great inner crevice curved and wound slightly, running all the way to half-domed overhang, under which dwelt both the final object of the quest of a people as old as the world, and their end. Squat and unadorned, and yet, in every way imaginable, unmistakable as aught else.

I believe my ancestors knew what to do, but at some point in their agonies, lost or forgot, and believed it would be me, or someone like me, who would know, who would see, what to do. Having failed each and every one of them as I was met with the silence of this elder space, I slumped against the altar, and closed my eyes.

I asked if the debt was paid.

As the final breath of a race ebbed from my lungs, there was an answer, but only the wind will know what it said.

Northern Woods

The perfume of the pine needles from above and the musty scent of fallen bough and leaf from underfoot. The rustle and crunch of leaf in tree and on the earth. The drifting silver mist between the wrinkled skins of black bark. The shiftless chill which clings to the flesh that passes through it. The cold breath haw trailing up and out like the ghost of fire. The heavy solitary drops of gathered night dew which fall like footsteps. The impression of old, stained stone beneath the deep green blanket of moss. The whole of the north of the world is a mountain, climbing to higher and higher beetling peaks, brooding under eternal slate skies, which knew the tread of falling ice long before that of mankind.

It comes as no surprise that something happens to humans who move to the north.

They live in huddled sprawls which gather in silent reverence around the boles of titanic trees, huts of clay-packed stone and moss-roof that look as if risen from of the earth itself, as if they grew here and had no hand of man to shape them, merely inhabit them. It has long been joked, and more than joked, that northern humans must bear the lichen of the primordial stone upon their skins. True, their flesh bears the cold, mottled aspect of the damp stone, but some might go as far as to say that that northerners are born aged and grey. Others yet might not consider that too far beyond the realms of reason. But for all their leaden visage and weathered mien, it is also said, and with no measure of mirth, that to rouse the ire of a northerner is as difficult as heaving as uprooting a mountain, and just as calamitous.

Not everyone is made to live in the north. Scores of cultures have learned this over the ages, leaving as their only mark the meagre fossils of dead settlements. The foothills of the beetling northern land are covered in the pits and ridges of sunken foundations and crumbled walls. The ruin-strewn, leagues-long hinterlands, quietly being reclaimed after their brief attempts at rebellion against the mountain nature, are a pitiful and incongruous sight before the black immensity of the north, which envelopes half the horizon around those who stand amidst the frost-haunted remains of dead townships.

What smothers from existence each and every failed foothold is not the harshness which meets every step of the explorer and colonist. It takes a special breed to brave not the cold or rain, but the solitude. In the northern wilds, sound does not travel amongst the dense, crowded trees—speech, call, song, and weeping are constricted, made to know their place in this land where storm-shout and night wind whisper held reign before there were voices to intrude. Humankind adores and wants for sound and space, and the reaches of the north afford either too much or too little. There is no end to the icy black trunks of its twilight forests whose trunks reach so high as to uphold and pierce the firmament itself. There is no end to the sparse, rust-hued tundra, where shifting mist-banks reveal only more stark steppeland, broken alone by the emergence of singular, lonely monoliths, serving only to make they who see them feel small, alone, and in the open.

It is either flesh or resolve that fails first in those who go to the north, and in those who survive perhaps a month, even they, beaten back by inhuman desolation and indescribable sublimity, always come away, it is said, with something different about them. There’s a term for it in the hard tongue of the north, for foreigners who leave with a mark upon their spirits, which when translated may mean something like “enchanted”. But that would be far too gross an implication. If taken literally, the word they use to describe those who have seen the north for its own truth, and have come away with it in their souls, means “taken by the mountain”.

Tomb of the Dark

Carloman had seen the likes of this a hundred times over. Possibly more. Probably more. A grave, dug in innocent earth, and filled with something bad. Half-hearted rites of fire or benediction, a sky burial ceased in haste, a mere drop or two of anointment. Oh, he couldn’t blame them. Even the most obstinate and devout priests were still human. No one wanted certain things in their midst for longer than absolutely necessary. A bad memory out of sight is a bed memory out of mind, right? The act of burial, the act of returning to the earth, or leaving behind something of yourself for your kin, where it occurred, was a gamble hiding under a genuine gesture. He knew that.

So why was this one different?

Because it was in a city? No, he’d seen worse wandering city streets. Because what was lurking in this tomb was particularly abhorrent? No, he’d seen all kinds of things crawling out of catacombs—destroyed them, too. Because it had gathered around it this gaggle of dangerous fools? Well, that wasn’t new, but it was rare. Wasn’t usually something like this gathering people around it. Wasn’t like that the last time he’d found one. Hmm. That was it, wasn’t it? It was smart. Aye.

The dagger point at his back returned the wizard to reality. As did the glint of three slender spikes atop thin-bladed axes pointed at him from out of the hazy shadows, each held by a pallid Voerlund aristocrat-and not all of them young idiots, either. Only their hands and eyes emerged from the lurid, dirty ochre radiance spewed forth by three legged, high-lipped braziers. There was nothing of warmth in it. Whatever fuel was being consumed—not changed, as like healthy fire—was unclean, desecrated. The only kind of illumination that would do for this place, no longer a chamber of sleep before passage into rebirth, but a temple to darkness older than the wheel of return, and the world that spun on its axis.

There was a sound then in the deep beyond the damp stone arch they all stood within, where the wizard had been ambushed. The aristocrats only seemed further steeled by the dry padding that announced its coming, looks of callous mirth crossing their red-ringed eyes as the filthy, hot, ochre half-light crept over its form.

The only kind of light a vampire could withstand.

It was hunched as it moved just within range of the braziers, not as with weight, but like something that might pounce. From a skeletal form shrouded in tatters emerged splayed, taloned feet and arms with gnarled fingers. There was something swollen and perhaps slightly too long about the neck. Its nose and eyes were ragged pits surmounting a lipless mouth of thin, puckered flesh over grey gums and long teeth. The only hint of colour upon the thing’s entire form was the gore-drenched maw that drooled long strings of blood. It bore the mark of its feasting with pride, to show what the rude matter of the Demiurge’s blasphemy was good for.

The second he’d descended the steep flight of time-worn steps and entered this dark-choked chamber, a dense shadow had washed over him, their cold, clammy hands had grabbed him, and wrenched his staff from his hands—luckily unbroken. Not that they’d have an easy time with that. But it was gone from him, he held not the gods in his hand, nor did they support him. The axis which turned the world had been cast to the ground before the enemy, in a space that was more than half of the Outer Dark. There was scarcely more bleak an omen he could have received.

Carloman may not have been entirely defenseless, but the odds were so rarely stacked against him as they were now. It only took a second to turn the tide of a battle—or die.

The vampire did not come forth immediately. Could be this thing’s power was not in its force, could be it knew even in this state Carloman was a threat. Or it could be it just wanted its slaves to do the deed. It remained just within the unnatural light so that only the merest hints of its features were outlined in sickly orange. It had no eyes, but he knew it looked at him. The Voerlunders did, too. Just what lies had been spun to them as this thing fanned its hunger, savouring the horror the come? Nothing for it other than to kill this thing and make sure it stayed dead.

Then it spoke, and Carloman’s skin crawled. He almost stepped back into the dagger. Like deep snow crunching, like thick ice cracking, like dry wood snapping, muffled amidst the dulled storm that was the thing’s exhalations. Carloman recognized them as words, and was glad he did not fully understand them. But the moment its guttural clicking and retching ceased, the wizard felt the dagger at his back lift—pulled back, so that a full strike might sink as deep as could be into his back. And the moment he felt it connect and shudder off his flesh, Carloman wheeled about and drove his elbow into the novice gnostic’s jaw. The dagger clattered the dank stone earth, splashing in the thin pools that gathered between the old flagstones.

Carloman was not a fighter, but he had the bulk to deal one good hit, and he had the knowledge to impress a Macha chieftain with a display of sorcerous might that awarded him a body of woad armour—his absolute last line of defense, and one in which he trusted implicitly. There was, somewhere within him, a profound satisfaction as the blow connected. The fellow must have been fairly limp for the wizard felt him crumple, and heard him hit the ground.

The vampire didn’t move, but its slaves did.

He didn’t waste a second—one hand flew to his chest where hung the charms about his neck, under his robes, which they’d managed to neglect even looking for. He couldn’t touch them directly, but it didn’t matter in the moment—the red of his robes may even aid in his working. The other hand stretched out, fingers crossed and entwined, placed in his vision over his staff, and he bellowed three words of fire in an old occult cant, words distilled from symbol and language to evoke in its purest sense the rush and flash and blast of fire. The gem which sat inert in the serpent mouth of his staff flared to existence for a mere second, the words awakening the sympathies within the primordial, crystallized flame of the gem.

That made the vampire flinch, and it made its slaves cower, grasping at their eyes, their axes falling.

The undead itself didn’t hesitate—from its throat, through the gurgling of fresh human blood, came a thick, clicking, rasping language of darkness, and the three-legged braziers around the tomb chamber leapt to life, the sickly flames raising up their tongues, sucking in whatever ambient light remained in the room. It was like a cloud passed across Carloman’s eyes, and in response to such, hand still on his amulets, he invoked the name of Gaoth, Macha god of sky. The cloud shifted, but the darkness persisted. This place may not have been far underground, but it was far in influence from the world above. In truth, Carloman was himself one of the sole aspects of worldly presence in this deep. Those fools enslaved to the vampire’s will were on the brink, if not falling already, and for how long, only the Aeons which had set their sights on their souls knew.

The red wizard Carloman and the vampire then engaged in a magician’s battle. If the dragon was the bloody claw and gnashing fangs of the Dark, the vampire was its suffocating grip and leeching maw. Dragons commanded powers of darkness with force and cruelty, vampires compelled with malice and venom. They were the archsorcerers who whispered shadow magicks to gnostics in places of ruin and death, and for every spell and soul under its control, the lust and gluttony which had festered in their life, and bloomed in the grave, was enflamed anew, and they were granted the power to further feed it. Arcane words of light and fire and breath, fragments of Manatarian Sun mantras, Minosmirii hymns of glory, calls for the passage of the titan Macha Cannoc who is C’noch ar den Talav, the setting of the Serpent’s Coils—each one was met with wordless invocations of eternal darkness, of lightless caverns and their biting chill, of the sunken grave’s creeping miasma, of the dark beyond the stars which flays the shackles of the material world, the slither and grasp of the demon, and the crushing weight as of a great hand not upon the flesh, but upon the soul. Carloman’s eyes flared burnished gold and the vampire’s grew to points of absolute black.

Carloman’s crimson robes began to shimmer as he called forth the heat and fire and passion and blood their rich red held within them, an aura of fire to encircle him and to burn the jaws of what sought to close around him. The things tatters began to melt into the dark around it, giving it the impression and thus power of profound immensity. With every passing second, with every flash and flicker of light and dark, of fire and shadow, of gods and demons, powers waxed and waned, the balance shifted, marks and impressions were left upon the space with every look, feeling, and thought, competing for primacy to reassert the strong stone on ancient Voerlund soil, or to melt away once and for all this blemish upon the eyes of the Aeons. In the midst of their combat, two of the vampire’s gnostic slaves suddenly vanished in a blot of shadow. In any other soul, especially one as sensitive as the red wizard’s, the pang this aroused would have been one of horror and shock—a fatal mistake. But Carloman had seen too much of this hungering dark to be anything but angry, as he had been since he’d learned the Truth all those years ago.

He held out his hand and hand roared the name of the World Serpent in the most ancient tongue of Voerlund, from the time before the Serpent turned stepped back from the dire follies of the first empire, before the Order of the Coils descended below the eyes of man, a call to an primordial oath between Guardian and Ward, and his staff flew from the ground and into his hand. A surge of emotion rattled his very breath, and he let it flow upon the gem of fire, which burned then with all the rage of the ancient fire from which it was plucked. The clean and mighty flame began to melt away the sickly, sapping luminescence. In the words of the dryador sorcerer-priests of Macha, Carloman bid the wind of Gaoth to pass through the Serpent’s Coils and cast aside the noisome stench of mouldering shadow. He bid seven Heroes of Minosmir muster a charge, spears and lances at the ready. And as if answering his summons, a gale wind galloped through the tomb from outside, making the dark flicker. Night may have been falling, but Carloman called the Sun back from its wandering to the far lands for just a moment. He bid it warm the winds, and the Firstborn Flame to send its embers on them, too. And in response, a golden, red-gleaming force joined the gale and charge, streaming down the tomb steps, filling the air with rushing points of living red.

The vampire screamed—a howling shriek far more of fear and hatred than pain. This stain upon the world was seeking retribution—he could feel its tendrils reach out into the world, begging aid from whatever bits of lightlessness it could force into its service. It wouldn’t get very far.

Upon ground that was not of this world, Carloman strode forth, and took the gem from the mouth of his staff. The fires that raged in the deeps were the bulwarks against the shadows that had taken root when a secret guardian feared its transgressions, and was cast down, and this gem was part of that bulwark. Through his fingers, beams of bright orange light played. He gazed upon the parasite thing, a glutton whose hunger had found no satiation in its miserable life, and had been bade continue to gorge when it died. With one final growl, Carloman faced it, and it drove its talons into his neck and shoulder, its red-drenched maw stretching open, the skin tearing to reveal a snake’s fangs, the flowing tatters beginning to enfold them both like wings and tentacles. His eyes of gold met its pits of shadow, he spoke one sing word of fire, whose every utterance by the wizard had only made it grow in force, and with surging flames enveloping his very hand, Carloman shoved the gem into its misshapen chest. The vampire hadn’t even a second to curse him as it burst into white hot fire, reduced to a wet ash that fell to the damp stone of the tomb, dead.

Two gnostics lay shivering on the floor, eyes fixed upon the red wizard. What to do with you two fools, he thought. He’d dealt with people like this before. Made sure they’d never spread their cruelty to anyone ever again. But those kinds never looked upon Carloman with fear, like these two reedy, snivelling cowards. What to do, indeed. Leave them to wonder for the rest of their lives? No, as much as he’d rather clap them across the chops with his staff, he’d better give them the other side of the story the vampire had spun for them. And make them help with the fire that would need to burn here for many days.

Yes, this week everyone’s favourite red wizard is doing stuff, only this time he kinda sucks at it, and it all comes with some fresh Demiurge worldbuilding! There’s a lot of space between some of those lands that keep getting mentioned, and there are things out there. Like wind. And stuff in the wind. Read on and find out just what…

There are also some other stories, including a return to the world of quest-bound knights from Issue #170 and a classic S&S style glimpse into a new world.

If you just got here or don’t remember a thing, last week’s edition was a brooding four-part journey through a ruined world of shadow and fire, and you can read that right here.

As ever, friends, please leave a like—let the stories know you enjoyed them!

This week, the red wizard Carloman meets with a shaman to work the Winds of Sorcery, we join a cursed woman who seeks to fulfil a Demon’s Dream, and a castle wizard quests for one who has fallen to the Madness of Knights…

Winds of Sorcery

In the vastlands between Baletor, Mul Manatar, and far off Minosmir, there dwelt the Khurcham peoples: a collection of wild, wandering tribes whose true number was unguessed, and whose reaches were unknown. They were as varied as the settled peoples, and were utterly content to stay in their warm rolling warm plains of low grass, scrubland, savannah, and singular, cold plateaus, remaining as a people unbound to kings, princes, or archvenerates. Carloman admired them. They had their chiefs and such, yes, but these tribes were small, and so the chiefs were small, egos usually deserved. They had completely unique traditions, customs, and beliefs, and bore a body of magical lore the red wizard was far less familiar with than he’d like to be. Right now, this was the foothills of Baletor, an incomparably vast spread of mounds and rises that spread sand- and landward for leagues beyond the actual mountain. Baletor wasn’t even in sight here, yet by most reckonings they were still the foothills. But for these Khurcham, these were holy highlands, and amidst the rough wood poles and tall cairns erected by ancient ancestors, great lengths of cord spanned the open spaces bearing long strips of gold-stained cloth through which the wind flowed, carrying, so it was said, prayers and blessings upon the ghost-winds.

It was here Carloman had sought knowledge from afar inside the yurt of a ghost-shaman, but instead, found himself embroiled in a conflict he was woefully unprepared for.

The ghost-shaman was a wrinkled, shrivelled, ancient specimen of the landward native: clay-red skin somewhat splotchy with age, and reddish drooping eyes whose heavy lids hid the fierce energy within. Carloman noticed it in the shaman’s movements. He was firm and fluid, for all he was skin and bones. Aside from said skin and bones, he was clad in heavy animal skins, a wide linen belt, and three antlers woven into a crown. He also didn’t speak a word of any Merchant’s Tongue, and the hunter who had been their partial translator had left a short while ago. They were left staring at each other, until the shaman had taken out a length of rolled up parchment and began studying it in silence for some few minutes. He grumbled after a moment.

“You,” came a throaty rumble in heavily accented Voerlunder with a thrust out finger, “mighty, learn.”
Sure, that would do.
“Yes,” said the wizard, nodding and smiling, hoping that made sense.
“Ghost,” he was trailing his finger along the parchment, picking out choice words, “illness, harm, Khurcham,” with that word he waved his arm out, and then began to search the parchment again, grumbling as he did so. “You, shaman, aid...hmm...” he began waving his hand about, trying to find suitable words. After a minute, he made some kind of frustrated noise, got up, and began to rummage around in a small chest of belongings. He turned then with what looked to be a small, slightly concave disc of highly polished metal, about as large as a head. He then pointed up to what Carloman had assumed was an unlit lantern hanging from the yurt ceiling. “Ghost,” said the shaman, “kin, good, friend, no,” he pointed to the mirror, then tapped it and said “bad, harm, ghost, yes”. Carloman felt like he was beginning to get a grasp on this. Mirrors against bad ghosts. Now this was interesting. The shaman sat back down and ran his finger over the parchment again. “You become more learn. Aid!” With that he thrust the mirror into Carloman’s hands, got up, and made what the wizard assumed was a following motion.

The Khurcham camp was a fairly irregular spread of tents of several sizes, smaller ones gathered around large fires, larger, open ones in which smiths and artisans worked, large closed ones which may have been storehouses, and one sizeable yurt he understood to be the chief’s dwelling. It was itself mostly open, and he saw the chief within, consulting with numerous important members of the tribe over papers he could not make out. The shaman patted Carloman’s arm, tapped the mirror, and pointed at the ground. Carloman set it down, face up. “No, no no,” the shaman waved his hand. He bent down, took the mirror from the earth, and jammed it in the soil on its side. “I see,” Carloman said, mostly to himself, then looked at the shaman and said, louder, “Yes!” The shaman then pointed at the mirror, and spoke the word “kuzhgu”, making a gesture from his mouth that the wizard assumed meant how it is said, or to say it. Carloman repeated it as best he could. “Learn!” He seemed pleased. He pointed at several other yurts, said “kuzhgu” again, and immediately left. Get the other mirrors? Worth a shot.

The red wizard made his way around the other yurts nearby. He found it mildly easier after a few tries of knocking on the wooden supports, having an inquisitive face thrust out from the canvas, which then vanished when he said “kuzhgu”, and then reappeared with a mirror. Each yurt must have one, an apotropaic practice? It also helped that he saw the shaman peering into several yurts and coming out a moment later with a mirror he worked into the soil just outside like he did the first. But Carloman wasn’t nearly that comfortable intruding. He remained knocking on the supports until about a dozen mirrors had been set into the earth. He heard the shaman elsewhere bellowing phrases he was certain had the word for mirror in them. Probably getting other people to set out their mirrors. If that was the case, what in the world was he doing this for then? Did the shaman want him to be seen helping? He was mighty and learned, after all, could be so. Could be a test of some kind.

Carloman did what he could until it seemed everyone had their mirrors set, including the chief, who had quickly retired to the one section of his yurt that wasn’t open. The sounds of industry had begun to quieten down, and Carloman wondered just what was going to happen. A bad spirit was about, that much he could infer. A ghost? These people revered ghosts, but he had a feeling they were not “ghosts” as he knew them. Maybe this thing was such a one, though. Maybe that was the difference. Ghosts were spirits bound to things, people, places, and they were especially susceptible to changes in form. They took on aspects of things they were bound to, or were consistent with the manner of their deaths. Ghosts get stuck on things for a reason, and that reason usually wasn’t anything good.

One thing Carloman had noticed, before everyone had slowly begun to vanish, was a bit of their religious practice. These parts of the vastlands were famous for their prayer flags, and he was pleased to have seen some of their creation. Seemed to be a community effort, too, a great many folk had been inscribing, in intricate detail, symbols of black ink upon the famous gold-stained cloth. He also saw a great number of those things he thought were empty lanterns, things the shaman had pointed to and said “ghost, kin, friend”, but what he now saw were empty cages or containers. Homes or abodes for good spirits then?

Carloman turned to find the shaman emerging from between two yurts. He was looking jumpy—the only word the wizard could think of when he saw the furtive little man’s eyes darting about, his shoulders hunched. He was carrying in his hands, though, two long strips of gold cloth. He held one out, and Carloman took it gently between two fingers. Supple, but the cloth was thick. He would have given anything in that moment to study the fascinating glyphs upon that flag, the way they entwined in their peculiar arrangements, the beautiful calligraphy, but the shaman wanted his attention. He was blowing air and gesturing to the distance. Wind? Need wind, waiting for wind? The flags dispersed blessings in the wind, so he guessed that was so.

Ever so gently, a breeze began to creep up on them. The shaman held his prayer flag out. Carloman saw, as the wind picked up in breaths and jumps, how the flag began, he swore, to dance. He held his own out as the wind picked up. It was a cold wind, a dry wind, arid, from some dusty plateau which rose ancient and grim in the vastlands beyond. And it kept picking up. He actually had to set his staff into the earth as great big gallops of it rushed by. The frail little shaman had steeled himself also, and the flag shot from his hand—by the look on his face, this was meant to happen, but he didn’t like it. Aye, there was meaning in that that motion. Carloman did likewise as the shaman glanced at him and his flag, though he knew not yet what it was intended to do. The wizard wondered then if what he was feeling was wind anymore, or something else.

Suddenly, he let out a shout—a word of thunder, the Manatarian word for wrath, and banged his staff against the earth. The shaman fixed his gaze upon him, eyes bulging. Serpent’s Breath, it was like something—something huge—had fallen about his head and coiled itself around his entire person, every inch of it testing. “No! No no no!” the shaman hissed. He ran over and tried lowering Carloman’s staff. Is he using me as bait, the magician thought? The little fellow began babbling in his own language, fierce words, Carloman could tell at least that. He’d messed up. The shaman looked around, and his eyes turned downward. The firmness in his hands had left him, and he reached up, and removed from his head the antler crown with a groan. He held it out, and said “You.” Carloman hadn’t even touched it before the shaman shuddered, and the wizard had a pretty good idea what was going on. The peril of it couldn’t be overstated. The man’s arms were shaking and he let out whimpers as he took uneasy steps. A finger pointed past the camp to a series of four low mounds. The magician got the message, and led the way, holding onto the shaman’s crown.

It was several tense moments as they left the camp and approached the rugged hillocks. They were strewn with prayer flag poles and cairns atop their summits, but more importantly, Carloman saw now a cave mouth whose edges had been festooned with flag-strewn cords staked into the rock and earth. He rushed over and saw laying in the ground a mirror, only it was turned inwards, towards the cave. The shaman made a sound behind him, waving his hand. Move it, that he understood. He took the mirror out and set it face down, following the wizened little shaman with his eyes as he passed into the cave. At this point, Carloman didn’t care for any custom or protocol he might violate, and followed the shaman inside.

He couldn’t believe he’d never seen anything like this before. He was a traveller of the known world, he’d walked its breadth a dozen times over. Yes, there was always something new to see, some new village, ruin, city corner, glade, lake, but there was an entire tradition that had just been living out here he’d heard but bare whispers of. The walls were lined with tall, roughly beaten, and scuffed mirrors of a light-tinted thin metal, and the ceiling had countless golden prayer flags depending from it, each one dancing in the wind that came in from outside—and from within. The shaman made a sound of animal fright, and Carloman turned to him, ready to act. His hands were out, as if to ward something away. Mirrors. Did they drive these bad ghosts off? Turn them away? He bellowed out the word of thunder again. It seemed appropriately connected. The wind didn’t disappear, but it did...scatter? Was that it? Little breaths and tendrils rushed about within. Mirrors. S’eth, they were reflecting the wind about—not the wind, the ghosts. Carloman stopped for a second, the realization hitting him: this place was filled with ghosts. Well...nothing he could do right now. The shaman, however, was doing something—he was running. Carloman took one look into the cave. The light reached a far ways in, that was something. But at the end it was dark. He ran after the shaman, and thrust the crown into his hands and they stumbled out of the cave. The shaman sat his crown back on, dove down, and shoved the mirror back facing into the cave. He took several steps back, and let a moment pass. He tiled his head pass, and let out a shout of very definite relief, and he began to laugh. He all but leapt at Carloman, clapping him on the arm and just saying “Yes! Yes!” over and over. The nervous laughter of the utterly uncomprehending escaped the red wizard, who merely agreed as best he could, and found himself being tugged back towards the Khurcham camp.

A long day passed as the hunter returned and eased communication, where many of Carloman’s assumptions were proven correct. Mighty learned indeed. The wind had powers, brought blessings, brought ghosts, yes. Mirrors reflected, yes, but the more proper word would that they confused. The ghosts in the cave—of which there were many dotted around the Khurcham territory—were rotten souls who befouled the winds, and had to be sealed away. Carloman understood they did their best. The day was spent in trading wisdom, and testing out Khurcham dishes. The chief even took an interest from afar. Probably best to be seen keeping an eye on things. Carloman left them the next morning feeling a far richer person, and with one little bit of advice, if there was anything of real worth he could leave behind, for it was his way to empower others rather than just fix their problems, and he also had little desire to return to it so soon: light some fires in that cave, was what he told the little ghost-shaman.

Demon’s Dream

“Make your choice.”
“I want the power of a demon...”

When the first humans emerged from under the earth, demons were there, ready to meet them. Their shrouded forms were a constant companion throughout the long ages of human history—willing or not. Frightening, strange, alluring, and above all else, powerful, yet it was evident that demons seemed dependent upon human beings in some way, for they did little but listlessly wander the primal wilds, then the muddy streets of the first towns, then sunken stone of the oldest cities, lurking, dwelling, watching, waiting.

It shuffled with her down the path in the deep woods, unspeaking, unseeing, following her every move. First she had asked for knowledge. That had cost her a bauble from her sister. Then she had asked for a guardian. It asked for her mother’s sash around her waist. She now had but one thing left to give. Everything else had gone to the demon by her side. Demons offered bargains, made pacts, and demanded payment. Some were odd tokens, small or even worthless to human eyes. Others were more esoteric and dire. More people were willing to pay than one might think. Especially considering that no one knew what a demon could offer until one asked, and if it was found the demon could fulfil the request, the human was stuck, and a bargain must be struck.

The air was thick with clammy mist and stank of the rot to be found under every step taken in these woods. But she wheezed in as much as she could until her feet failed her, and she stumbled to the ground. Lungfuls of fetid air barely fought back the pull to silence her heart. The demon stood motionless beside her, its odd shape completely veiled beneath a black shroud that trailed along the half dry muck. She had, after all, asked for a guardian, and nothing more. Nestled in her robes, secure, precious beyond all else at this moment, was a little black glass bottle with a wax-sealed wooden stopper she now cracked open with shaking hands. The smell the emerged was an indescribable mixture of heat and age. She choked down the syrupy concoction, her eyes watering as the stench of the stinging, bitter medicine waited to begin its work.

And then, somewhere close, a dry, dead branch snapped.

Her head whipped around, eyes darting. The demon still stood unmoving. Just off the path, a shape ducked behind a tree. She spun about, still half on the ground. Several shadows ran from cover to cover. The small whimper didn’t make it out of her throat. Five shapes suddenly emerged from the bush—they didn’t lunge, they didn’t leap, they didn’t shout or call, but they slid out all at once, hard eyes in filth-caked faces fixed upon her, and the thing following her. They had daggers in their hands. One of them began to edge closer to her as the others spaced themselves out and surrounded her. They were in rags and tatters bound with cord. Tense desperation coloured their every step. She slid back along the ground, unable to yet to even stand. Her legs were lead, her arms hung with chains. The thug closest to her shot out a hand with curling fingers set to grab.

“Unwise.”

In the twilit deep woods road, where the sun struggled to light even the high canopy overhead, it was difficult to see just what emerged from under the shroud by her side, save that it was considerably larger than what she’d thought, if the great hand that speared the bandit and threw them aside and into a tree said anything. The medicine began to flood her with lethargy as she struggled to turn and follow the demon. There was a red flash, and a long, heavy scream that must have torn the throat of whoever sounded it, before another flash and the sound of sizzling made it stop. Breaths hissed through teeth from the other thugs were cut into pained gurgles and wet crunching. A moment or two later there came the heavy thudding tread of the demon as it flung the cast off shroud around its great dark form once more, and assumed a mostly familiar shape.

Kingdoms have risen and fallen, people have lived, loved, lost, were born, and died, all upon the pacts of demons. Some have thought there could be no mankind without them, that only they could truly actualize the wants of man, that man was a thing of demons. But some yearned for a pure history guided solely by the will of humanity, and not the temptation and seduction of power, security, and vengeance from the shrouded ones. In the end, humanity learned two things: firstly, a demon cannot be killed—humans have tried—and secondly, to live with them. And in some places, to find their existence an attractive one.

Especially those who’ve lived the life of loss and decay only a human can know, while the serene stature of the demon endures into eternity.

Upon a frost-tinted hillside in a long dead village did a dream come to fruition, and a choice was made, if there was even any question in the first place.

Madness of Knights

One day, a little over seven years into the wizard Venginus’ stay in Castle Ranneveaux, which was looking like it might become a permanent residency, someone slipped quietly into his chambers. The wizard was a thin, rickety specimen, not possessed of the full gift of vitality like those with whom he dwelt beside, but was far more spry for his age than many would guess. His chin and crown were shocks of crinkled white hair and his eyes, though sunken, were wide and studious. His sallow flesh was bronzed to a considerable degree from his time as a journeyman amidst the swordstry masters of the arid north and the temple glade questors of the heartlands, who loved to wander, and especially in comparison to the pallid and often ruddy with drink castellans of Ranneveaux.

But today, what colour made its way into the cheeks and nose of this castellan—none less than the very Scion-Apparent Nashta herself—was drained, and her dark eyes were cast to the side as she searched for the right words. Venginus braced himself for the worst, but instead received a stranger missive than he ever had in his twenty years as a wizard.

The youngest son of the neighbouring mountain castle, Karlov, had vanished. An enthusiastic student of legends far and wide, and the apple of his father’s eye, he had left, Nashta said, as if someone might overhear, on his castle’s quest despite not being a scion, and being woefully underprepared. It was against all tradition, decorum, and reason. It happened more often than one might think, and more often than not, ended badly. The father, who had passed on the title to his eldest daughter after his invalidity, was frankly beside himself with grief. Mercifully he had not yet been informed of what neither their castle’s chaplain nor wizard had seen in their scryings: darkness and madness.

Venginus reclined in his high-backed chair, cushioned for long periods of study, and thought. Castle Karlov. The quest of their bloodline was for the Seer’s Font, from which visions came to those who sought it and its aid. A mighty blessing. But so too were the rejuvenating powers of Ranneveaux. Most likely the very reason Ranneveaux and Karlov were friends and allies of three hundred years, and had intermarried some several dozen times. Their legends were deeply intertwined.

His ponderance was interrupted by a polite clearing of the Scion-Apparent’s throat. Venginus came to, and said “Of course, my lady.” She didn’t even need to ask the question.

A lonely span of sparse, mist-laden moorland, where the warm Ranneveaux woodlands met the windswept Karlovian highlands, was where Venginus and Nashta met the shrivelled little thing that called herself Hesther, faith keeper and prime seer of Castle Karlov. The first thing she said was that the son’s name was not to be known or spoken. Not an unusual request in such circumstances, it kept rumours from circulating. The second thing she asked was why the wizard was there. Nashta explained that Venginus was bid join the search for his abilities in actually finding the young man, as per his time with the seekers of the Temple Grove in Castle Cyrdane, his ability to help heal him, as per his part in the legend of Castle Ranneveaux, and, well, as for his time with the swordmasters of Castle Mitrevarre... Hesther understood, and accepted the wizards part in this.

The blessing of Cyrdane was, in some ways, not dissimilar from the blessing of the Seer’s Font. This was one particular reason the Scion-Apparent wished the wizard to be present, for powers of cognition and revelation had ceased to work for those who sought the Font, but may work for others. Hesther was the one who admitted that nothing of the favoured son could be seen in the mirror-pools of the castle save for confused and frenzied impressions, implying the worst had occurred. The other reason was that Castle Cyrdane was far away, and neither Ranneveaux nor Karlov had much dealings with them. Gaining their aid would have been costly and time consuming. This practicality was the true worth of wizards, beyond their knowledge and counsel.

Venginus wandered ahead, and shifted into the deep, reverent trance cultivated by scions and chaplains of the Cyrdane quest. He let himself wander, eyes glazed, breath slow, steps paced, while the others fell back, and waited. The path to the Temple Grove was paved not just with stone and earth...but with deeds...and the path to our deeds was paved with intent, coloured with honour...the restful shrine on the path was merit in deed and honour...to find this boy is a great deed...the scent of the Temple Grove’s somnolent perfume and the chime of its bellvines flows through righteous deed, and this deed be righteous...guide me, Venginus thought, with the scent and sound...with cool wind from over shining lakeshore...with visions of shimmering green, call me forth...

And he suddenly stumbled out of his reverie, half tripping over a loose stone. He stopped, and took stock of his surroundings. He was still in the moorland. The brownish grasses were a little more thin, a little more dry. The wind was cold and whipped about. The summits of the broad hills were all quite level—oh, heavens, how long had he been out? Had he climbed the entire hillside? He turned then, seeking his comrades, for the grove path had a habit of losing people, and instead found the object of his quest.

He was clad in full lordling’s regalia, bulky and impressive and not terribly practical. Designed more as a wall between favoured children and the combats and battles they were obliged to partake in, to serve not as armour ought to, with freedom of movement to take a few risks. The gilded, ornate broadsword at his waist was a symbol to ward off would be attackers with its sheer presence, and to tell, or more often beg, honourable opponents there was no honour or gain in slaying whosoever bore it. A far cry from the sharply tapering black steel shortsword Venginus wore. The tall teardrop shield that lay discarded near him said similar, its pearlescent face without a dent or scratch, but muddied from travel, and neglect. He was slumped over on his knees, gazing into a murky little pond, completely oblivious to the wizard that approached him. Venginus watched him for a few minutes. The boy didn’t move a muscle. Venginus then knelt down beside him, and studied his face. His eyes moved, albeit slow and lethargic, every so often widening, then half closing again. The wizard looked down at the pond. Shades of dirt and slime, with a skin of black scum, yet seemed to bear no verminous life. Just filth. Venginus sighed a long sigh, and felt some small measure of relief to see Nashta and Hesther cresting the summit.

And he almost cried out when Nashta’s crystal flask of libation wine, spilled into the murky little pool, made the young man groan, grip his head in his mailled hands, and fall back. Venginus was convinced he was seeing something in that pond where he should see naught. Could be some time spent before a mirror-pool would cleanse him, or enough draughts of Ranneveaux wine and water. Could be he would never be the same and never bear the title and worth he so naively coveted.

Scions were granted their station for a reason. The title was passed with no little ceremony, and though the clans had been content to languish upon the chosen path, rather than walk it, there came with inheritance a profound weight of responsibility, custom, and faith, that one was a link in a chain that must not be broken. Thankfully for them, the politics of marriage and alliance helped shift, or ignore that weight somewhat. But the title was granted with deep consideration. The quest had been passed to the unworthy and undeserving in the past, in many castles, and it had ended in disaster, and nearly total ruin, each and every time. To be a scion was to be initiated not only into deeper blessings, ancestral orders, obligations, and so on, but into the knowledge that quests were such monumental undertakings that their completion was not for the humanity of this day and age. And there were those who believed, privately, that quests simply couldn’t be completed, that they were not designed to be completed, that they were, at best, contrivances to keep mankind on the straight and narrow, and at worst, carrots on sticks. There was some merit in the continual re-compilation and research scions did in place of taking up the quest properly: to try and find leads, hints, clues of where to go and what to do next, and to pass them on to the more able. So they persisted, generation after generation, lip service paid, privilege and blessings maintained, and the faith and culture kept in stasis partly by a constructed necessity, partly due to genuine inability.

And then there were those so deeply passionate, full of zeal and fervour, brimming with such genuine, sincere naivety, that the full brunt of they and their bloodline’s shortcomings crushed them, and turned their blessing. As had happened, Venginus reckoned, with this poor favoured son.

Remember last week we had a that chill little Carloman story about how he prepares to battle the Outer Dark? Yeah that wasn’t meant to be a two-parter but now it is. That happens more often here than you think. It’s joined by two other tales: a look into a strange little church, and a journey across the dark mountains. Not necessarily in that order.

Last week was, of course, the first part of the two-parter which you should probably take a look at if you haven’t! It also had a rather gentle tale of magic, and a not so gentle tale of infestations of curses. Check that out HERE.

And, as ever, please leave a like—let the stories know you enjoyed them!

This week, we take a desperate trek across the Mountains of Dark, we seek the services of the Memory Fires, and we join the red wizard Carloman as he flees for the Cavern of the Flame…

Mountains of Dark

Lord Innsford was one of that rare breed of old nobility that has struggled down the long years, yet retained a serious sense of obligation and station. His line held onto its wealth, and had seen to it that things were taken care of, where most others of his kind had drawn only further and further inward. Innsford's reputation might have been built on his fancies and delusions, but people liked him, as far as he was known. The furthest extent of that, outside of his own domain, was the mouldering little town where Inquisitor Veney of the Watch lived.

When a council official shuffled into Veney's meagre, claustrophobic office one dreary afternoon and with some measure of hesitation announced that the city councillors hadn't heard anything from Lord Innsford for some time, Veney was struck with a sadness. The fellow had a reputation for good humour, and always sent good tidings to the Watch. The second the official mentioned that it was time someone checked up on him and his domain of Falmere, his sadness dried up and a profound dread settled in Veney's stomach. Communication between the mountains was sparse, rare, and the odd period of silence wasn't unusual. But it was always followed up, and Innsford was considered conscientious in his communications.

Veney couldn't sleep that night, so he spent the time preparing, re-preparing, and wondering how hard he should throw his authority around for aid. He knew he wasn't going to get out of this. Quite frankly, he was by far and large the most qualified around for this kind of task, what with all the dangers he'd braved and things he'd learned. He really resented more and more the fact he was the most qualified for everything nowadays. He reminded himself some two score times it was for a good cause in the end. But things so often began with good intentions.

No one travelled across the mountains alone. No one savoury, that was. It was an absolute necessity to have someone watch your back, and have someone watch theirs, and so on if needs be. The mountains were not healthy places. They were not the domain of human beings or the wholesome beasts which shared their lands. Something happened to the world when the mountains rose up from the inner earth in another age, an age just long enough ago for people to know things weren't always this way, but long enough for the grandsires of grandsires to remember old tales about them when they were children. Long enough for nearly every remnant of an old life to vanish, only its stains remaining. And the mountains were filled to the very brim, threatening to spill over, with every bad dream and notion any person could have.

Stories and sightings abounded from lone travelling bands of things like massive wolves made of smoke that filtered through the densely packed slender trunks of the jagged forests, or of the heavy, deliberate tread of devils that had the faces of men but the jaws of beasts, or the clouds of huge, predatory moths that descended with nary a sound but that of a breeze to smother with wings and dust. There were ruined structures whose original natures were entirely un-guessable, things either dashed to pieces when the mountains came, or, as Veney knew all too well, things thrown up with them, from some nameless inner darkness. Only madmen, heretics, outlaws, outcasts, and vampirists dwelt in those places. The vegetation was no better. Everything had some venom to it, thorns and needles and seeping stems, succulent fruits that were poison, vines that one could actually watch slither and grab and choke, and massive things that looked like great leaves that closed over animals, and devoured them. The mountains were not for any natural habitation and it wasn't just Veney's opinion that whatever lived in those alternately barren, alternately virulent reaches was not meant for man to know. The mountains were of a darkness, not just in aspect, but in the very light, too, for even standing upon some craggy, wind-shorn crest, the skies above them seemed to exist within a perpetual, ever-weakening twilight that never died, but continued to struggle.

Such were the only thoughts that went through the heads of Veney and the two watchmen he'd been able to bring along as they trekked into the cold murk of the highlands. He had refused his friend Vala because, although he didn't tell her, he considered her his second in command and next in line for the office of inquisitor, thus far too important to the town to be lost out in the wilds. And he would never be able to forgive himself, either. So, instead he brought two of his other best lads, who were made keenly aware of what it was they were getting into. Neither of them had been into the wilds before, but then again, neither had Veney. He never had reason to leave the town walls. Most who weren't saddled with the onerous duty of being merchants, peddlers, or communicators were blessed to never leave their relative safety. They had been as prepared as could be, swords and hatchets sharpened, a hefty supply of medicine more than provisions, for it was wiser to hunt than bring food, and thick oilskin cloaks for the damp and for bedding. They were told it would take a good three days of marching to arrive at Falmere, and indeed it had. But only two of them emerged into the town.

It had come the previous night. There was an ever-present background drone on the mountain path composed of unquiet winds high up, every so often lapping down to make the trees shudder, of clouds of buzzing wings of fat black flies with needle-like things protruding from the bulbous faces they had to ward off with hastily made torches, and the dirge-like calls of animals, voices that cried out from afar—always from afar—sounding like they were calling after someone who wouldn't come. And then came nightfall, creeping up so slowly and hit so suddenly, they barely even realized they'd been out on an open slope and not under some dense black canopy when it happened. And when it did, they found that the mountain had become alive with motion. Rushing, padding feet, flapping wings, skittering claws, long, low chitterings, and some of it wasn't even sound so much as it was just a sense of something moving to and fro constantly.

They knew the fire had been a bad idea, but the bite of the open highland winds cut through their cloaks, and the mists it drove in ceaseless wanderings clung to their faces with stinging cold. The fire barely lit even they who huddled right over it. The mountain was just different streaks of darkness. It never really changed. There were stars overhead, but they were so faint they looked like they might vanish any second. Veney told them the little bit he knew about the stars, and the magicians, scattered across the mountains and towns, who sought to escape to them, who said a beautiful, serene, tranquil oblivion awaited them up there, away from the rotten, broken world below, and how they could use starlight to calm and cleanse things down here a little bit. He'd seen it once. A funny little star mage had helped clean the town of a vampirist's sickness. It had stayed with him ever since. Every so often, he thought about it. The tranquility. That you could escape from it all. They each had, in turn, sat back from the fire and upon the earth as Veney had talked, and it was only when he looked up, his tale petering out, that he noticed one of his men had vanished.

The two of them sat back to back for the rest of the night beside the fire, swords in their hands, ears trained on every single sound until a feeble sun bled some definition back into the landscape, and they descended into the valley.

Falmere was a ruin. They couldn't even muster a laugh at the futility of it all. Veney had come expecting plagues or vampirism, something he could stick a sword into, something he could help. But there was nothing anyone could do, not about a vampirist's magick, but just a rotten, crumbling mountain's sloughed off skin. A simple landslide, he almost thought, but didn't. Simple doesn't wipe an entire town out of existence. Simple can be fixed, more often than not. Well, that was that. They'd probably been dead for weeks. Maybe longer. No one would ever know. One day the mountains, which had already taken so much, sighed, and took a little more. No point poking around the sad little stones that poked out of the mud, stagnant pools, and sodden shale. They'd have to serve as gravestones. At least anything that might have been in there, taking root, had been killed, too.

Veney didn't speak a single word on the three day trek back to his home town. But each and every step he took stamped a curse into the mountain.

Memory Fires

Once something came to be, it never ceased to be. An action cannot be undone. A thought can never be un-thought. Destruction was merely the ever-present transitional state of change and motion, for all things persisted, though the form be changed. The rubble of the collapsed structure returned to the earth as stone, perhaps to be harvested once again to become another building, and would forever be, in some form, every structure and field it was of and lay in. Every thought, the result of an impact, and which left an impact upon the thinker. These things happened, and existed. No matter what a person placed their faith into, that one simple yet profound truth remained, beyond all others, immutable. The lie and the illusion of impermanence was a poison to the logic of the eternal chain, the dominant philosophy and science of the modern era.

No, nothing could be destroyed, reversed, or made to cease. But the temple made a tidy sum pretending there was something that could be: memories. The most fleeting, ephemeral, mercurial part of a person, the mere impressions of impacts, even the strongest of which was dulled with time and age. These echoes, the temple said upon its emergence, could be dispersed, for they were illusions, and not long after their initial demonstrations, the vengeful faithful marched upon their steps and demanded the truth. But they already knew it, the temple said, and besides, they did not deny the truth of the eternal chain, merely that man was subject to illusions still, and that they could be broken. So they sat off to the side, less a cult and more a service, never free from scrutiny or controversy, yet never waylaid in their mission.

A person would enter into a deep, thin alcove of black stone, which could not be dignified with the name of corridor, and be asked to lay upon an flat, unadorned slab, also of black stone. They were one possessed of a memory they sought to forget, and the temple did not ask questions. Their head would rest on a thin grating at the end of the slab, while below a special fire would be built and stoked until it engulfed the head of the person. It was a curious kind of flame, unfeeling, numb, but, as so often described, weighty, as like a strong wind. It was a sort smoky black, tinged with streaks and tongues of yellow. The source and fuel were a secret. And such was the skill of temple attendants that only the specific memory was attacked, so that the person would remember their trip to the temple and the process, but not what they came to forget.

As they left, flooded with relief and a few extra coins lighter in thanks, underneath the temple, a few priests in short robes and soft slippers would gather in a great subterranean dome, illuminated solely by seven braziers. From the perforated apses above, streams of a thick granuled ash would fall with a light rustle into a colossal, curling-lipped dish in which dull gold embers smouldered with the rhythm of a heartbeat at rest. Half of these priests would take from the ground, and laid against the great dish, long thin lengths of black metal, hooked at one end. The other half would light paper lanterns and unfurl lengths of parchment. Then the first of their number stood upon slender walkways over the great dish, and cast the hooked end of the rods into the ash and through the embers, and in short flashes, bursts of fire would shoot up and dissipate. In them were images, shapes, and sometimes sounds that the scroll-bearing priests hastily scribbled down. After some several hours of this exercise, the priests quietly left to place the scrolls into an archive more vast than any college and cathedral could ever hope to boast, while above, a new day began, and new supplicants arrived above the dome.

No, nothing could be unmade, only changed. But they could be changed for the worse. And, the priesthood believed with profound sincerity, nothing, be it strange, terrible, or tender, that which makes the most profound impacts upon the soul, should ever be forgotten.

Cavern of the Flame

He had never seen anything go so bad so quickly before. Sure, he'd been in gods only knew how many close calls, rough scrapes, and hopeless battles, but righteousness and his own might has always powered through. Never before had something gone so wildly out of the control, never had he so badly misjudged a situation. He would have suspected it was a trap had Bozmann, the middling count of this decaying little manor in half-seaward Voerlund, not come out of the encounter nothing less than cursed.

Carloman had dragged the man from the house after setting fire to it, but didn't for a second believe that the den of gnostics within would perish. No, not with the vileness they'd been able to so easily conjure. First by carriage, and then by boat, landward, to Mul Manatar had the red wizard bid the count come. There was no time to try options across Voerlund and beyond—terrible as it was, the World Serpent's guardianship would only go so far in protecting the man's soul, it could not cleanse it, the wizard did not particularly fancy having to curry favour and bargain with however many obscure cults of Oros on the mountain Baletor, nor was there time to comb through the archives of the Paladins of Imaal. As it was, the curse hounding the poor fool was absolutely potent, born of a darkness scarcely translatable to words, that it was genuinely beyond Carloman's ability to undo without extensive experimentation. He could do little more than hold it back as they fled, day and night, through a weakening Summer, to the great Shrine of the Firstborn Flame just outside Mul Manatar.

Carloman had gotten the full story in bits and pieces along the way as the man's strength waxed and waned, as the curse which had been set upon came and went, sometimes in accord with its own malevolent directive to torment, sometimes when the wizard could muster enough power to drive it off for the time being. Count Bozmann had been seduced by the lies of a sect of gnostics. He was the last of his line, a line that had, until him, been content to wither away, safe in the knowledge that their time as guardians of the region had long ago come to an end because the people were, and would be, fine without them. But Bozmann was a Voerlunder, and as such, felt an intimate connection to the grand history of the old house, the ruins, the land, and his blood's deeds as detailed in family chronicles he spent long nights poring over and over. And they had found him, and told him the old glories might be his again, if only he listened. So he had, and they dwelt in the house with him, in its cellars and old tunnels, calling up stars knew what to twist his ancient abode that had once stood as a bulwark into a locus of darkness. Carloman had been under the impression it was some nameless, wretched shadow he could sear and blast with flame and light, not a cabal of wealthy, reclusive sorcerers who'd been operating in that region for Voerlund for decades. They could wait. They'd be ashes soon enough.

The ship had arrived in bad weather at a small port town far seaward of Mul Manatar, a sort of tendril of the great city itself, and that weather had followed them every step of the way. Despite proffering every wagon, carriage, and merchant caravan Carloman saw with a hefty purse of shining lustre, no one would take them, not even a short ways to some farming hamlet down the highway. They'd seen Bozmann each and every time, and though no one could possibly know what was actually wrong with him, Carloman knew something in their souls felt it. The over-eager wizard offering far too much coin didn't help either. So they fled for the shrine on foot, across the vast landward steppes.

They did not pass into the city proper of Mul Manatar, but skirted it, gazing from afar at the long trails of sacred smoke, the glow of countless holy flames, and the glittering lake Manatar itself—divine aid so close at hand, but untouchable. Going into the city wouldn't solve anything. The sky had, since before they had even set foot on the coastline that morning, remained in a state of pallid murk, the Sun struggling to break through the spreading fingers of the obscuring clouds and their perpetual cold drizzle. Serpent's Breath, what an omen the two of them made. What must the people in the city think? Carloman wondered at just what power had been bestowed on that roving, homing malevolence they'd barely even glimpsed. A curse was halfway between a living thing and a phenomenon, not quite an elemental and not quite flesh but an animate spell, a seething bundle of maledictions and imprecations given a form to wander. And they always came in the worst forms imaginable. He'd dealt with comparatively few, and they were not easy to break. This thing must have been the work of the darkest of adepts, gnostics who'd soaked their souls in lightless places that were more of the Outside than this world, and there had gained profound favour from their masters. Anyone could lay a curse, but such potency as this could only be bestowed. The red wizard shuddered more than once at the thought of such people walking the lands of his home.

Night fell swiftly, of course, and from its coming there descended three loathsome moons, bloated and rugged, tinged with a pale, sickly green upon their surfaces more like bloodless flesh than ancient rock. They were being watched. Followed. Hunted. Interest had been taken in a soul that had no doubt been offered, and in the open expanse of the steppes between the last Manatarian farmstead and the Shrine of the Firstborn Flame, a great mass of shadows flocked to them, spilling down from the false lunar radiance. Coils, stars, gods, this was bad. The worst Carloman had experienced in a long time. Bozmann had been silent on just what exactly he had partaken in, and Carloman hadn't pushed it, but the wizard had stopped amidst the growing darkness, and made sure they were on the same page. He was saddened to learn that Bozmann knew the Truth, the kind of which drives them to slavering madness, and the kind of which had sent Carloman on a lifelong crusade. As yet, Bozmann was on the brink which led to ruination, and what happened next would decide everything.

Something rushed by them. The magician had removed his gem of flame, a piece of primordial, crystallized fire from the inner earth, and had set it into the top of his god-carved staff, illuminating a broad circle of the rolling steppeland. The thing ran by, each time, just within the barest fraction of light. Enough for them to see its passing, but not to see what it was. Carloman had an idea the curse was closing in, this time for good. So far, they had not actually seen it. Such was the nature granted it: torment, drawn out, and savoured. But either it or its creators sensed opposition, the wizard guessed. They had not been idle nor had they been far, gnostics the likes their calibre were never far in either mind or space from their works. Potent though he may have been, he was an old man, and the mad rush of the past few days was going to take its toll. But first, thought Carloman, let them watch. Let them know. He'd killed their kind the past, he'd driven out demons, banished rotten souls back to the Dark—no one and no thing could gain the advantage on him for long, experience taught him that, and that constant refrain was his bulwark against every nagging doubt and fear.

They could see the great pillar gates of the Shrine ahead in the growing night. Flames lit them for a long ways, beacons of strength, guidance, and purity. Bozmann, who had grown terribly silent and haggard, let out a whimper like a child when he saw them. They were set into one of the rare few rises in the flat open span of steppe, painted with scenes of Manatarian mythology, of their most ancient ancestors and their arrival at the lake under the guidance of All the Sky. Though no Sun nor even Stars shone now, their images were as guides to the wizard and the count. And then the thing came closer—for just a second, just a flash—its bulk passed far too close into the staff's circle of light, and showed just what manner of thing it was. Bozmann screamed when he saw it. Carloman set himself firm onto the earth, but his heart began to flutter with panic. It was like a man, dripping with cold damp. Horribly thin, as if wasted away, starved, desiccated. The bones that stuck out from the greyish skin were not human, and neither were the bulging, staring eyes that peered in a way that made it seem like perhaps it was blind. But what struck them worst of all was that it was huge, magnitudes larger than a person, and it crept on its long hands and bony feet. There was something that Carloman would call feverish and desperate in its twitching movements, producing something more, at least for him, of profound disgust than fear.

It was also blocking them from one final rush to the Shrine gates.

Carloman decided right there and then it was now or never. They were close enough. The arena had been drawn all about them, and it closed in. Some while back, he had given Bozmann each of his twenty amulets, including the one retrieved in haste from the landwight shrine near the manor, and had stuffed the count's pockets and belt with paper talismans. At this point, they would merely prolong the inevitable as the curse closed in further and further. It was of the Dark, but it was not itself a demon nor the manifest power of one, nor of an Aeon. It was, in effect, a twisted loophole of the world's own laws. It might not like the light, but no harm would come to it from illumination alone. The wizard needed something far, far more substantial if he sought to overwhelm and drown the layers of hateful malignance of which it was composed.

He closed his eyes, and incanted, not with words, but with thoughts.

"Flame. Flame. Heat. Fire. Light. Flame. The flash of flame, the scorch and burst and destruction of flame. The element of change, that which grows, that which releases, that which undoes, that which helps create. Flame. Thoughts of flame, of the hearth, the bonfire, of the inner earth where fires rage against black caverns. Words of flame, in every tongue of man and every magician's secret cant. The first flame, the guiding flame, the purifying flame. Great god of Mul Manatar, god of seekers, Breath of the Serpent come now, out of your deep, out of your shrine, you who casts not shadows but softens the light and land about you, as did the Light of Old before the Dreamer. Remember, O Flame, that for which you were first struck, and come now."

The thing was smothering Count Bozmann as Carloman focused harder and harder. He turned, fire in his mind's eye, striking the curse with the blazing gem atop his staff. It reeled and recoiled with extreme and, the wizard felt, mocking exaggeration, because, he swore, it knew Carloman could do nothing more and not risk harming the count. Maybe he couldn't, no, but the many gods of this world could reach out in ways a person couldn't. Aye, the gods, in their many shapes and guises, were often subtle, invisible, present and immanent but loathe to be intrusive any more than they were invoked by the souls whom they had vowed to watch over since the beginning of the world. If people could see how the world really looked, how the red wizard saw it, the signs and symbols of divine motions in every little thing, could be no nest of gnostic madmen would even exist. But for right now, the colossal spiral of pure, searing fire that flew out of the Shrine of the Firstborn Flame and thundered into and through the stick-thin form of the wandering curse would do to show all those who saw it that the gods listened, and came forth eagerly.

Carloman saw it for only an instant before storm of heat, life, passion, and destruction overloaded the kernel of hate that was the curse, but the face of that thing turned to him, and those that had made it, he knew, saw him. He said in his mind it would most certainly not be the last time.

As the fire expunged itself and the natural richness of the slumbering world returned, the magician noticed, with a great mixture of what he could only call amusement and embarrassment, that the path to the shrine had in fact been fairly populated. So enshrouded in shadows from the moons had they been, which he saw, too, had shirked away, that he'd been unable to perceive anything but what his light fought to show. The wizard sat beside Count Bozmann inside the warm, calm shrine, where a single towering candle burned with a colossal rich, roaring, seven-hued flame, tending to the man's injured spirit and mind with esoteric reassurances as best he could manage between throngs of rather excited Manatarians.

Anyway I’m pretty sure each story this week actually counts as flash fiction, but I’m not gonna check, you’re just gonna have to trust the higher self on this one. Bit of an emotional rollercoaster, this week’s edition. I like keeping it mildly unpredictable.

Last week’s S&S had shaman-warriors slaying demons of hate and regret, the ramifications of celestial phenomena, and two young boys getting into life-altering trauma, if you just got here or missed out on that edition, check it out HERE!

Lastly, as ever, please leave a like—let the stories know you enjoyed them! Otherwise they assume you all open these week after week and just go “god this really is awful”. In any case, thanks for reading.🙏

This week, we brave a ruined city in the midst of a Storm of Curses, we venture into the deep woods in search of the fabled Night Glade, and we join a familiar friend making preparations for combat in the Deep of Winter…

Storm of Curses

In the final years of the catastrophic battle across the three planes, a rogue god spread amongst mankind the power to curse as the gods did, in the form of words. Why this was done, none can say. Revenge? A vindictive nature? A joke gone horribly awry? With curses so unleashed, the war to end all wars came to an abrupt end, causing the gods to slay the transgressor, and then flee, each by themselves taking a seat in the heavens, never to return. Curses, as it so happened, placed by human beings, did not last forever, as was feared. But the knowledge of them would. It spread like a wildfire, and now free to speak, curses flew through the air like bolts and arrows, embedded in stone, soaked into trees, flowing down streams, striking the wrong person, or animal, or building, and lingering.

It took three things to bring the world back from the brink. The Imperial Speech Laws and the propagation of the Minced Curse was one. The backbone of the grand council's justification for its swift and decisive unification wars, the idle, open, uncautious, or malicious speaking of curses was a crime punishable immediately if overheard, and warped versions of the curse words were propagated and encouraged as replacements for things that had become unfortunate parts of every day life. The second was mankind's only succour in a world newly abandoned, the single remaining link with what humanity once called their gods, scavenged from a handful of divine intrusions into their plane: the curselodes, hideous constructions designed to absorb and trap ambient curses. The final were the effigies, for when minced words and curselodes failed.

Four magistrates in foot-length black robes and cylindrical caps tapped their thick redwood staves, topped by curious devices, on the loose pavement, while every so often one or two of them fiddled with the twisted shapes born on chains around their necks. Only their eyes were visible, and these eyes searched all around the hideous silence. The gold-trimmings of swooping roofs, the jade ornamentation on wood, and intricate stone carvings of the local architecture had fared no better than the looming imperial structures of smooth grey and shallow reliefs. Everything was off-kilter, deeply cracked, faded in great patches, damp-stained as from torrential floods, or apertures vine-choked and vomiting forth slender black feelers. Overhead the sky was a swirling filthy grey, streaked and blotched with pallid oil-slick colours, and as the clouds moved, it seemed like something shifted just beyond them, pressing as if against a thin skin, trying to find a way through. Every so often, a new sound could be heard off in the distance, something cracking, or being burnt or melted away, and it was not always clear if it was some building, or something living. The stench which came in creeping waves was neither fresh nor old, but it was definitely one of rot.

In the midst of this, and in the midst of the four magistrates, was someone else. A young girl, in a thick, shapeless sort of robe, with a hood, from which her arms did not emerge. She couldn't possibly have seen more than eighteen summers. She sent her gaze around, too. Eyes wide, mouth held fast, and fixed on certain details until a magistrate moved to block her line of sight. For her own good, of course. The streets seemed to be sinking. Some of them were so bad that the buildings on either side had begun to fall forward, producing jagged tunnels. Some had even begun to split open. These she was shepherded away from quite swiftly.

There were bodies, and these they made sure she saw. Each and every one, transgressors against holy imperial law, speakers of curses who had reaped what they had sown. They were bloated, distended, burst and burnt, drowned in filthy puddles, not a single one bore any natural shade or texture of flesh, all of it squamous, warped, or rugose of aspect through which bones protruded, almost piercing through. Bent limbs and gnarled fingers curled and twisted inward. All that she saw was the price of sin, of an all too free speech.

During all of this, the four magistrates spoke not a single word, and neither did they look at the girl. They couldn't. They might have been the ones who had personally plucked her from her placid home three days ago, instructing her in her duty, but the moment they'd stepped into the ruined town, they couldn't do so much as look in her direction. Because she'd been so inquisitive. So talkative. So acquiescent. But they were, too, Agents of the Imperial Council, their very right hands in fact, elevated to a solemn and righteous station. They were doing what had to be done. Though, in truth, they had begun to understand why agents of their rank so often were granted an early retirement.

It resembled a kind of twisted human figure, if you squinted long and hard enough. Normally, it would be heavily shrouded, but the wet, tattered remnants of that were strewn about to reveal the thing underneath. The mere sight of it produced a profound sense of loneliness the girl could barely contain or really describe—a feeling cobbled together by everything the magistrates had taught her on the way to the city. The magistrates themselves were glad their robes hid so well their features, or else she may have suspected something in their terror. The air around the sundered curselode, though still translucent and formless, looked almost like an overflowing fountain, the way it all seemed to gather and fall and flow into the ground, and with thousands of long, thin tendrils, seep into the air.

Not even the finest researchers of the imperium's most esoteric and highest ranking offices could readily say why it was human beings were such perfect receptacles for curses. The leading hypothesis was that it was because humans were the only ones who could speak curses. No animal could mimic them. There was a bleak and mirthless irony that it was humans, but only the pure, the untouched, the blissfully ignorant among them, that could act as pits into which one could drop all one's horror. Perhaps the knowledge of curses was itself a curse, and left an indellible mark upon the soul, or the mind, or whatever else there may be within.

Whatever the case, they cast another layer of shawling over the figure which twisted in place, constrained by the four locked heads of their redwood staves, audibly bloating even as they hurried away, the stone already paling of its black marks, returning from its fading, the apertures losing their vines and shadows, the corpses withering, the sky beginning to clear. That she'd been born and raised for this eventuality struck a depth none of them wanted to acknowledge. If curselodes kept overfilling, soon everyone who lived council-sponsored lives would be raised for it. The only thing they talked about as they left the town was that the imperium really must crack down on cursing harder than ever. Maybe keep a few places like this as an example, they dared say. And, they thought, but did not speak, keep new effigies unshrouded. Make them all see.

Night Glade

The wind whispered incessantly through the trees, coming from a different angle at every second, through the green shimmering canopy, and through the gently swaying boughs, and through the sturdy, lichenous boles. It hushed through the tall grasses and the ferns which hid the ancient pathway that showed itself only the wind said it could. There were words on those winds—on some, but not all, and it was those that spoke and revealed the young wizard must follow.

That scroll had cost the sum of a full year's rent of that squalid little bedsit above the inn, scraped together from every source at the last second. At any rate, the great mass of dense parchment on its solid gold rollers would fetch most of the cost back, if needs be. But if it was legitimate, as it had been thus far, needs wouldn't be, never again. Most wizards get their cards handed down to them by their masters, but he had no master, and so it fell to him to construct a deck of his own design. It was the only course left to him. He knew the decks peddled by mountebanks in the black alleys of the city were each and every one them forgeries, cunning ones, yes, but hardly the stolen prizes of master thieves now for sale from the back of a rickety beetle-cart. In any case, it was said only another wizard could ever truly lay hands on another's tarot, and then only if it was given.

He had seven cards done. Seven of forty. And that had taken nearly a year. It would be worth it, in the end—it was a journey, and he understood that. He was eager, but the going was rough. From what he understood, eight cards was enough to begin, to shuffle, and cut, and draw. How to actually express those powers, though, and in all the different ways he'd heard and read about, that was beyond him. He'd been torn between waiting to have the deck completed before starting, and learning as he went. Tonight he'd have to make that decision.

This was going to be the Card of the Moon. Each deck had the same cards, illustrated different each time but still all of a set that had been passed down for time out of mind, sometimes diminished and half-forgotten, but he was of the opinion there were no more than forty. The scroll didn't say there were more, and it was old. It detailed the full set of forty: The Sun, The Moon, The Stars, The Flame, The Wheel, The Arcana, The Dagger, The Chalice, The Path, and so on for quite a while. Each one had to be completed in a certain place, and it was more a riddle to be solved than a guide to be followed. It gave hints, or at least indirect implications. Thus had the scroll led him to the Night Glade, a piece of popular legend, a hidden grove in an old wood where it was always night—the time and the place of magic, of the hidden, half-slumbering, half-dreaming, half-unreal. Here he would illustrate his Card of the Moon.

He let his mind wander as he passed through the darkening wood. Far above, through the minute breaks in the treetops, the pale sky had begun to turn into a rich cerulean. He wondered, from certain hints made in the tarot scroll, if it were not an ancient tarot that lay buried deep in the cool loam that kept the place in the Night. What greater expression of the tarot's art was there? As he dwelt upon the wonder of it, the shards of sky deepened, by subtle degrees, into a smooth navy. There was something special about this. That he was tracing the path of ancient wizards had been a thought he had continually kept in the forefront of his mind, as both guide and drive, for when the road became murky. But here, it was clearer than ever. Perhaps it was because this was the eighth card. Finally, above was a purest black in which distant pinpricks of silver shone, and just as he gazed upon it, his hand, which reached for the next treebole, felt empty air, and he stepped suddenly into the Night Glade.

It was a circle, a perfect circle he'd bet, of tall, dark hazel, straight-as-an-arrow trunks with emerald-tinged black canopies in the midst of which was a vision of the night sky like a deep pool, the stars twinkling, and the moon peering from over the treetops. There were stones of various sizes strewn about the glade, some were flat and looked as if they might serve as fine surfaces for the illustration, but they were too close to the treeline. He wanted to be as close to the center as he could be, right in the very middle of it. That just felt right. A rugged, slanted stone sat fairly close, and so he chose it. Perhaps its warps and striations would reflect in the picture. The kit in his rucksack would have to be set up next: inkstone, brushes, charcoal—he did not work in colour. As he took a seat upon the springy grass, he had hoped there'd be light enough to work by, that the moon would shine full upon the glade. As it was, the moon seemed only to peek over. Could be it would change. To light tapers and candles, a few of which he had, just wouldn't seem right. He sat back on his hands. Or maybe it would, to work at night by a candle's radiance.

The scroll did not name it, and he doubted anyone but the eldest wizards could, but it was hinted within that scroll, and two other tracts he had been blessed to peruse, that the cards drew from some nameless central source. Some said it was beyond, just beyond perception or grasp, or that it was a totality no one person could see in its fullness. It was the world, or it was all about the world. The cards were, it could be understood, a channel for something ancient beyond reckoning, or it was what they worked through. This was what the scroll said. Or perhaps, the other sources implied and pondered, they were aspects of it, emanations. He had been wondering, too, if it was that he needed a certain amount of these channels before powers could be effected, or that with more aspects the more of the whole he had, and thus powers. Maybe he really would need the full set after all. Or rather, could be that working from an as yet feeble set was instead the best course of action, less prone to accident and danger. He did know—he knew exceedingly well, in fact—that the cards were not just employed for the gentle, mystical arts of divination and enchantment, but that they could express force as modes of warding and protection, and, he was secretly excited to experience, attack in magical combat. Wizards have in the past waded onto battlefields, and duelled for honour and the right to wisdom. The hurling of spheres like suns from fingertips, the casting of howling storms on shouts, battles of mental domination in illusory realms, dooms of fate upon the turning of the morn, the sundering of castle walls and the raising of mountains—legends abounded, and he knew them all to be absolute truths.

Of ancient forces, of hidden powers, of the earth itself, and secret nature of man did he think, the pangs of excitement rushing too and fro about his head, ideas scrabbling for place at the forefront of his thoughts, until a cramp in his hand bade him stop for a second, and see that his Card of the Moon was all but finished. He laughed to himself. That was the very magic itself. He gazed over his illustration, light glistening—the light! His eyes shot up to find the moon looming vast and serene in the middle of the glade view, so totally and completely full he was sure that with the passing of a few minutes it might just fill the glade itself. He had a mind to let it. Anything could happen. And when it did, and when the card was done, he had a decision to make.

Deep of Winter

It was an old manor the likes of which existed across all of Voerlund. A fortified house, not quite a keep, surrounded by the remains of lesser fortifications, in this case, all bare patchworks of stones in the surrounding fields. Enclosing all this, a high wall, once bearing fine conical turrets, itself now slowly returning to the earth. And like many old manors across Voerlund, attached to an unhappy history, it had something wrong with it. The red wizard Carloman hadn't taken long to figure out just what. Couldn't be anything else, not this deep in winter. So he had went off to prepare.

That morning, the wizard had gone out early, before the rising bell sounded the call to the day's labours, to bid farewell to the stars and meet the coming sun in its brief sojourn to these skies. The country around this house, inwards from but sitting betwixt the meeting point between coastward and seaward, was rugged in the extreme, and extraordinarily bare. Tall, hardy grasses, with a few non-descript growths of gorse and heather, made up the majority of the cold moorland which rolled alternately in low ridges, broad slopes, and shallow dips, all of it tinged with that chalky twilight of early morning. Only clumps of huddling copses or massive solitary trees, and a few spans of long, jutting rock, were there to break up the almost hypnotic monotony of the landscape. Some might call such country empty, others might call it rough, but Carloman thought it, even in winter, it had about it at least some of that stoic beauty of the best Voerlund countryside. It had about it the aspect of profound age, as it should, having been the first land settled in the great migrations so long ago.

As the winter sun began to stray overhead, Carloman saw on a gentle decline a short ways from the old wall upon which he sat, in a half-fugue state, a landwight shrine that he understood had been traditionally attached to the manor. It was an obscure kind, too, a short stone plinth, with little cracks, chips, and smoothed edges, rising from a mound covered in depressions into which old offerings had been set. He saw to it that the hoary, strange spirit was well fed with all the offerings had on his person, as well as a few taken from the house's own store. Among them were bundles of scented twigs wrapped in twine—a landwight favourite—as well as some exceedingly rare roots chewed for concentration, and a particular one of his very own World Serpent amulets, carried on his person for the past several decades. He left that there with a word to the spirit, placed around the plinth itself, that he was putting the little stamped medal in its care, and would return for it.

That afternoon was spent in the quaint village close by. Once it had been the ward of the manor, and in times of peril the people would have fled into the enclosing walls. But that was long ago, and walls and house had fallen into something that might in the not too distant future approach ruination. But it was guardian once, and this night it might be so again, only in a different way than before. He kept that at the forefront of his mind. What he also kept there was awareness of small, niggling anxieties and fears that were perfectly natural for not only the dangerous task at hand, but also his advancing age. But, as he put it, that age spoke his potency, cultivated to the utmost, strong like a fine vintage, and it had not failed him yet. He had neither room nor time for "but what if?" and especially not in such a charming and well-preserved little place as this, with its patches of cobblestones, weathered wide-flagged pavements, broad houses with stone grounds floors high wooden second storey overhangs, and relaxed chatter. Its streets were wide and filled with stalls and carts of painted wood, mostly of books—this village sat not too far from a town which was itself sort of annexed to celebrated college of historians. Such a village might have been home to rare treasures forgotten by time, if not likely plundered by scholars on the regular. He spent a lot of time soaking that in, just enjoying his casual perusal, buying and trading for little things here and there—nothing he really needed, but it felt good, and kept himself mindful of that. It was important.

That evening, as the sun began to wander away after a pleasingly long stay, Carloman sat down to a fine meal with his host, not a feast but a small, special something cooked up at the wizard's insistence. Partly because he could, and partly because it helped the atmosphere. It was to be an evening of drinking and stories, with his own confidence kept at the forefront of his mind, with everything else. An absolute necessity, for if he could shift the mood for just a moment, that was another boon in their favour. The old wizard did not fear so much for himself, but for others. That fear could be a source of strength, that care and compassion, and drive to aid and protect. It could also be a weakness. But it hadn't been so yet. As darkness settled, drink stopped flowing, stories became hazy, and the stars lent their colour to the sleepy winter countryside. The wizard's host retired to a room festooned in paper talismans, and the red wizard stood alone at a second floor window, soaked in the gentle astral luminance. He watched as the slumbering country became more and more frosted with their light. Now there was a good sight. Nothing wandered out there. "I have it," he thought, "right where I want it."

In his guest room, Carloman, clad in his rich red robes, sat in a circle of tall candles, the small brazier in the ceiling sent out its soft radiance, the air was warm and only faintly smoky, and the wind that had picked up was held back by thick-paned windows. The wizard laid out his god-carved staff and his now just under twenty amulets across his lap, examining the signs of the gods of the known world. Their aid and their power was his to invoke, and they listened eagerly, these guides and guardians of this realm. He sometimes wondered if whatever mighty spirits and elementals dwelt out beyond in the continental interior heard him, too, and lent their aid if they could. He was heartened that a world of righteous and gentle spirits and elementals must dwell out there. It was necessary for the wizard to perform these ritual motions every so often. Re-commit, re-prepare, throw another layer upon the thousands he'd already built up by his actions. One could never be too careful. And he relished in it.

In a soft rumble he spoke then, reverent and yet as to old friends.

"World Serpent, loosen thy coils and permit your kin entrance to this land, and set thy custodians about this house. Sun, send thy warmth to me, Stars shine thy rays upon these walls, Fire be in my raiment, Thunder cow the eternal nemesis. Oros Baletor, send to me from thine mountain an aspect of wrath. Heroes of the Far Hills, march now through these halls for the glory of light. Locod, come from thine deep with secret knowledge, Cannoc, shake this earth with your passing, Gaoth, cast off the shadows on thine roaring winds. And Dunmarrow, cold Dunmarrow, who keeps at the threshold of the sleeper, see that Death passes by this house tonight."

With these solemn and heartfelt invocations, the wizard clad himself in the signs and power of the gods, replacing each amulet with a wordless thanks and prayer, gripped his staff in his hand, running his thumb over the Serpent which ran up its entire length, and set forth into the collapsed cellar of the old manor to send the thing which had wormed its way into the world—into his world—back screaming to its masters.

This edition had one of those stories I struggled with for a week, so I cast it aside and wrote another one in two days like it was nothing. I swear, the stories know sometimes.

Anyway, friends, if you just got here or are itching to re-read last week’s edition of death cults, flesh-seeking skeletons, and saints of magic, you can do so right here

Lastly, please leave a like when you’re done—let the stories (and me) know you enjoyed them!

This week, we venture deep into the Divine Sepulchre, we join an Abandoned Sacrifice with nothing to lose, and a holy killer stalks through the streets during the Night of the Sword…

Divine Sepulchre

The celestial spheres are not, of course, as still and silent as we would like them to sometimes be! So much detritus has come down to us—and still does—from those outer reaches, and much has been made of the cosmic vermin infesting every far and lonely place after a set of full moons, or the stray nebula arms which sweep down and over spans of countryside, or the, shall we say, visitants from on high? Still, we are blessed, or otherwise, by regular celestial happenings. But one stands out from all the others.

Djuen Io writes in his Account of the Bronze Proclamations that "...there were then across the next seventh silunth (for the Modern Reader: approximately three leagues) a great light which grew into a shadow which then itself formed from the [no direct translation: meaning air that sunk down, storm caused by celestial event] and fell slowly as though it passed through water. It landed in the reaches of Sherro Nyl where the dominar's keep was said to have stood terrible and black in the Ages of No Name. It landed with no sound or motion or feeling but everyone saw it and knew. A thousand priests (MR: a number not recorded and invented to save face) could not bear its presence for so deep was their sorrow and they fled to outer lands. Morkhan Dainu III (MR: the reigning equivalent to a federal tribal chieftain, see Semoat's The Lives of Lords) made the first Bronze Proclamation in the Decree of the Shrine and bade the [no direct translation: of the outer sphere, benevolent visitor until otherwise known] corpse to have built for it a kurgan tomb and given the proper rites for eternity."

As time went on, Djuen Io writes at length, which can be summed up thusly, that the Morkhan solidified his place in history as the first high priest of the visitor's remains, and set into motion a chain of events that would mark the beginning of a change so vast not even this enterprising chieftain could see its closest reaches. To this day the corpse, as it has done so for some two thousand years, does not so much actually decompose as it does...change form, into a different state of decay. It is no meagre visitor, but something else, and long has been embraced as the corpse of a god.

It looms now over the shimmering sea of golden rooftops, peering out of the haze of steam and smoke which wafts over the city day and night. A great beast in repose, it grows with the aeons, each new phase of culture, each new wave of settlers, each new lord, council, hierophant, and numenarch adding to the toppling grave. In the latter ages, much of it was evened out by a succession of dynastic masters eager to leave their bloodline's mark into an imposing bulwark between teeming humanity and the silent sanctum of the divine dead. It is not, however, without its cracks and breaches—indeed, there are some several dozen points of egress through the full mile and into the earthen chamber in which the corpse dwells.

The tunnels are a historian's dream come true, the sepulchre a living document to this first and greatest faith, each layer speaking to the expressions of belief, architectural styles and aesthetics, materials and resources, and the stories of they who, too, clamoured about this visitor from the highest spheres. Bits of inscriptions are chipped away from deep within and ferried out in secret for sale to collectors and devotees, although the practice is highly illegal, and has been so for every culture upon this place. The stone fetches a high price, but its retrieval is not without its dangers, which come from worse than the enforcers and hunters eager to stop the practice.

The corpse decays, and just like terrestrial bodies, produces, manifests, emanates, or perhaps draws its own larvae. It is seen as a clear and undeniable link between mankind and the god, which has cast many through the ages into dismay rather than celebration. The larva present an overt and formidable threat. The larva as we know it arises from decay, some ball of rotten flesh affected by an as yet unknown influence, and like terrestrial flesh, burrows into its emanator, or host, nourishing itself on the rich juices and pulpy matter. Here they diverge: some grubs remain so, and emerge from the dead as full grown maggots, who further devour and fatten upon the flesh from which they gain knowledge, and then flee into cold, dark places where surreptitious students gather to learn abominable secrets in exchange for further ghoulish sustenance. The less said about these callers down of malformed shadows from the stars, the better. But Lau-ur Yin's Mysteries of Decay provides an invaluable and horrific insight into maggot cult history. The other shape a grub may take on is the full-formed pest, a flying demon bearing mannish visage and grasping claws whose harsh buzzing drives even the stoutest hearts into hysterics. They are bestial and voracious, and infest some of the lonelier, longer chambers, sometimes emerging into the city.

But not all is lost for those who brave the sepulchre depths, for good or for ill, for the holy corpse seems to have a peculiar effect on the worms which arise from the black soil to feed. Long, fleshy, blood-red worms glut themselves, much like maggots, upon divine flesh—but these worms are terrestrial beings, naturally of this world (it is highly debated whether or not grubs are the result of stellar debris infesting the world, worms however are fully accepted as native life), and as they partake of the decay, it would seem that they assume certain traits. They grow and emerge almost entirely changed to inhabit the long, dark corridors and grand halls of the sepulchre as strange, sometimes frightful, but nevertheless entirely benign guides and even guardians. The worms are fully considered by every religious body to be messengers, agents, and even saintly scions to the dead god's grace and divinity. In contrast to the maggot cults who seek black wisdom, the worm cults learn from curious, gentle mentors the dead god's secrets, guarded with insurmountable zeal.

Should seekers and thieves find a worm, more often than not they are led, wordlessly, into the innermost chamber, where blood and skin are harvested in reverent rites—for the worms always watch—and removed with the greatest veneration back to the outside world where it is sown into the vast fields and furrows that feed the city. Once more, like the decay of terrestrial life which feeds the growing earth in an eternal cycle, the corpse decomposes into the soil, and nourishes it in ways unseen elsewhere in the sparse corners of the world. Long rows of red and green fleshy growths, black and brown bony protuberances, deep veined weeds, and staring yellow flowers are found in profusion across the whole of the city, cultivated and even revered for their nutritious, narcotic, and medicinal properties. The streets of the city itself are, each and every one, bare, naked earth, rich and seeping with every step so the god's growth may spread at will. The growth feeds itself, as dying matter adds to the rich soil below.

Naturally, this is far from the only things that happen to blood, skin, and bone collected from the god. Those that legally harvest do so in conservative quantities, for it is known that although its decomposition has done little, if anything, to reduce its overall mass, the takings of mankind has, and noticeably so. A veritable army of prestigious scholars specialize in the minute recording of the corpse's proportions at regular intervals, and thievery of divine flesh is an unpardonable sin, and its consuming, a grievous blasphemy. It's the most common reason for theft. But humans are neither worms, nor are they maggots, though often they act like the latter. Now, not even the most hardline magistrate will begrudge the odd farmer a rare sampling in solemn sympathy and devotion, but this is done in public, in full view of others. Those who steal and hoard in secret in their homes are heretics and apostates, and the grotesque stories of their communion orgies are little more than puerile fodder for the penny dreadfuls. Anuis Anuid has much to say on the purported "powers" and "wisdom" obtained in such heinous manners in her Theophagia.

Abandoned Sacrifice and Stars of Oblivion

A cracked vessel. That's what they called you. Sad, sickly little thing, withered and leaking light. Not long to live, they said. The stars unable to flood you with enough power to mend those twisted bones and stringy muscles, to make that heart pulse. But you fought, clinging to that ring the kindly old merchant palmed for you with a look you'd never seen before. With it you stood, not as high as others, but higher than you ever had before. A crooked channel was what they called you next. Too much light, or too little. First two bracers to steady it, and then a mantle to hold it back—crutches, and you knew it.

Now, overhead the stars are burning, and you're crawling through a ditch, stripped of your crutches, clinging to that little old ring and its swirling disc of starlight because your life really might depend upon it.

You know what they do to people like you who can't be fixed. You still had a use. Just not alive. The hierarch had said...it was a sacrifice. Ground up and harvested for things like the bracers and mantle you had depended on for so many years. And that thin little ring around your finger. You knew this, and decided not to throw it away in disgust and shame, but to do right by whoever it was that had been killed so long ago for your sake, and survive at all costs.

One of the core lessons of her philosophy tutelage in the academy was on revenge. It was the shadow of a bad star, said the mentor. Throughout her years in the monastery, she'd gone over that one, again and again. Revenge wouldn't fix her. It wouldn't stop the laughter behind her back. She always forced down the next thought, letting not even its voiceless impression well up. But in the stinging cold of the half-flooded ditch, under a thousand leering stars...she couldn't let them away with what they'd done. They couldn't even be bothered to kill her right.

Part of her nature was that she was constantly, passively, on an uneven scale and distribution, channelling starlight. She could do so actively, but it was a gamble as to what it might affect. Too much to her heart and it'd seize up. Too much to her head, she'd black out and drown in the mud. Just enough to her legs, and she might stand. Even walk. But she never could control the flow, not without the gear she'd lived with until a day ago. The ring though... She had to laugh. They'd set out to kill her, but she still thought like a chaneller.

As a child, she'd been told the ring's light was a celestial ancestor's energy helping her along. As a young woman, she'd been told, by many people, the after-realms were being merciful in their gift. As a channeller she'd been instructed in the mechanics of the divine source, and the ring had ceased its autonomous function with a little alteration to gather and work as she desired. Whatever the truth, the light of the stars converged to make the world. And their light could be sifted through, or scattered, for the right beams. So many of the stances taught to channellers were for the benefit of efficient scattering, and she knew more than most. She had to. She struggled to her knees, and moved her arms in the prescribed slow motions, feeling things out inwardly as she felt the creep of starlight from the ring. Other channellers used reservoirs like this, it was a dirty, open secret, yet jealously guarded. She could almost see, behind her eyes, the scattering of light. And then, she hit upon the right one, and felt feeling return to her legs, and stood from out of the drain of mud and filth she had crawled and tumbled from. She could keep the ring continuing to accumulate starlight. Now she could walk, and keep walking with its aid. Get into a rhythm of step, draw, step, draw. They who'd left her to die wouldn't be far.

She knew more than most, but she also knew a little more than even her mentors would have deigned to let her or any other students uncover. So much of the monastery's academy was devoted to passing down its judgement upon which stars were of worth, and she had found it intensely distasteful to hear several of her mentors speak with such disdain and disgust for certain sectors of the sky. Mankind's knowledge of the stars and their power was not always so clear and structured, back when witches and sorcerers dwelt in lonely places honing the first channeller craft, and calling upon monstrous forces either slumbering or unborn in the world. The stars were the source of all things, even terrible things, they were told over and over, and they could be filtered out from the convergence at one's own peril. Or, as she had come privately to believe, with courage, just as those who had come before had done.

Late one night, as the academy slumbered, she stole from her sequestered chamber and into the librarium underhall, and there, in the pale, wan light of a dying candle, learned of the abhorred Stars of Oblivion, as spurned and forsaken as she, forever after keeping them closest to her heart of all. She had longed for years to channel them, daring to dream beyond the dire warnings given by each and every tract on obscure celestial forms. The hints and implications of devastation and horror may have been more, a power feared by those in control. Mankind did well enough to conjure profound destruction without even the stars for aid. No better time than now to experience what had become for her a secret symbol of resistance.

In the shock of the aftermath, she noticed her fingers had been stained, or burned black, utterly black, the skin cracked, her hands shaking. It hadn't been a flash of light, but it had, somehow, the qualities of one. A momentary blindness that had made her look away. It had neither hissed, nor roared, nor sighed, but it had made some impression that was, to her, analogous to sound. Like the drumming of thunder through a far off window. More a feeling inside her head than anything else. She hadn't called their attention, she had simply stood there, between the trees, just enough to be seen when it was too late. And they had seen her, indeed when it was too late. She watched them draw themselves into channelling motions, and then it had happened. Whatever they had brought forth had been consumed, too. Consumed, unravelled, scattered—she didn't know the right words, but it had affected them, the earth, and the trees around for a wide space around. When she dared to stagger out and look, there was nothing there, save the cleanly severed lower half of two pairs of legs, some tree stumps, and a bare sunken sphere of wet soil.

She stood for only a moment, unthinking, and then, without a second look, simply began to walk out of the woods, the mud drying on the white robe of what had once been a sacrifice. She drew from the ring once more.

"Survive at all costs."

Night of the Sword

The mountain city of Baletor was home to just about every god in the known world. Every local flavour of the western World Serpent from Voerlund and Silverden was represented in dedication and meditation temples, Mul Manatar's celestial panoply had their open-air temples and they were all made to share, a few shrines to some of Minosmir's more high profile Hero-Gods could be found spread across the old city below, and even a section of the seaward facing mountainside was home to a small Macha Fire Tower of Gaoth. Baletor was the cultural and economic crossroads of the coast and landward nations—hence its popular epithet, the Crossroads Kingdom—and although it sought to provide all the necessary amenities for its visitors and migrants, those visitors and migrants knew their continued existence was allowed solely by the grace of the god of the mountain: Oros.

The relationship between the people of the mountain and the god of the mountain was unique among those in the known world. Oros was lord, overseer, prime mover, progenitor, the being to whose will the mountain was bound—for in truth, there was little difference between Oros and Baletor. The people worshipped Oros, and foreign gods and their priests honoured it. But there was none, or at least very little, of the master about Oros, the authority to be propitiated and pleased. Oros merely had its fancies, its way of doing things, its order, and every one of its children and visitors abided by this, as expounded upon by a frankly numberless profusion of cults to the various aspects, perceptions, and conceptions of the mountain. Its nature, landscape, agriculture, hunting, mining, the faces of the mountain, the guilds, even individual courts and streets—Oros was present in a unique form for each one. Some of these popular faiths gathered in deep places, in the many caves and gorges that dot and scar the mountainsides, to get closer to the inner spaces, some dwelt upon the cold higher slopes, most found their homes in countless different temples, and even a few considered the city itself an aspect and temple of Oros, for it is all of Oros in the end.

That some of the smaller, more obscure cults could get a little strange was known even to outsiders who hadn't set foot on the slopes in their lives. Those who knew a bit more, knew these more niche faiths to have little to do with the more experiential aspects of the mountain, and took the form of perceived abstracts of Oros. A number of them were quite fanatical in their beliefs about other powers and forces, gods and people and rites, impinging upon the mountain and upon Oros. A few proclaimed themselves zealous enemies of other gods, their priests, and their wizards.

Baletor never really slept, and no corner of either the old city below nor the new city above was ever truly silent. Songs flowed from taverns long into the night, as did thin trails of incense that snaked into the heavens, and behind closed doors, small, thick windows glowed with eerie light as cult vigils took place, while outside in shadowy alcoves secret things were passed between nameless hands, then deep within guildsman's manors steel flashed in candlelight, and in the murky streets, shadows rushed past corners into half-forgotten sections of the old city sprawl below.

The will of the god of the mountain was, for the next cycle, divined and laid out—and tonight in that cycle was the night of the sword, and so blood must be shed to ensure the sanctity of the mountain. The assassin knelt at the end of the short cave before the fearsome masked idol of Oros-naureh, wrathful deity and warden, then stood, set his hand onto the pommel of the thin shortsword, mouthed a final prayer, and set to his task. The bookshelf was slid back into place, and the assassin glided from the gilded doorway and into the night-hushed streets of Baletor.

The assassin was now one of the silent denizens of the city in repose, as he had been a many times before. From a distance, the knee length silver-girdled black robe and breeches blended into the chalky darkness of the streets, and from any other distance would pass for a guildsman. No one would get close enough to make out the truth. A mark had been judiciously chosen from the many minor cult agents' observations among the royal guard: a foreigner, a pale gold Voerlunder from the west who wore garish garb and curious armament, who had been seen poking through the mouldering corners and distasteful shrines of the city. Currying favour and sticking their nose where it didn't belong. It would please Oros-naureh to see this incongruous element removed in the name of upholding sanctity.

A single moon hung high over the upper city where the foreigner dwelt. A bad yet clear omen of the baleful influences these strangers brought with them. Over pale grey stone railings, past small courts bordered by tall, tiered guildsmen residences, and down quiet, empty thoroughfares in which only a few lonely lamps shone out did the black-garbed assassin go, nary a pad of feet from his boots, face set behind a black half veil from the nose down, dusky skin and golden eyes peering into every alcove and deep porch. Shrines to more gentle, tutelary aspects of Oros sat at the intersections of streets and before certain buildings. A World Serpent dome peeked over some lower structures, but this was not its business, even if the mark were a Voerlunder.

It was a well-to-do but small establishment, a square three storey hotel within its own enclosure and garden. The kind of place frequented by merchants from afar and guildsmen seeking privacy. The walls would provide access to the intricate, deep-set ornamentation that ran in rims and layers between the storeys. He bid then, by rite and authority, the city to grant him passage, and let him find purchase to do the deed. He knew where the foreigner dwelt. Most of the shutters were closed and dark, and lights only escaped a few. But some were open. The foreigner's was open. Oros provided. The mysterious death of a lone stranger to the city wasn't cause for fanfare, and the royal guard had far more pressing matters to attend to. No one would really notice. No one ever really did.

On the small balcony that jut from the side of the building, with its thick square railing and short flaring pillars, the assassin squatted, and looked upon his mark. It was an old man, with only a tumble of longish silver hair below a bare crown, and what seemed a great big unkempt beard, though he sat with his back to the window, clad in garish red. He was absorbed in something—something unwholesome no doubt. Whispers had been passed about this one. Slowly, the assassin began to unsheathe his holy blade, and stepped lightly onto the carpet-

Suddenly, there was a loud crack, and the assassin's limbs went rigid in shock. He looked down. The floor was covered in small mats, a common sight—something beneath it. Glass. Or pottery. Placed, right in the doorway. The old man looked around slowly, his amber eyes thin with the smile on his lips.
"You know," he said in perfect Baletorian, "I've had a bad feeling ever since I arrived here. I'd bet good gold I've been watched this whole time! I can feel that, you know. Your people probably didn't."
The assassin drew forth his sword with a snarl and sign to his chest to begin the rite.
"The night of the sword has-"
"What do you think you're going to do with that?"
The assassin pursed his lips and muttered.
"You're in my snare, you amateur, look!" The old man thrust forth his hand, his first two fingers crossed, and all of a sudden, the assassin dropped his sword, his limbs locked, not from the surprise, but from the foreigner's sorcery. "Look, go on," said he, and the assassin turned his head with immense strain to the walls around the window—covered in rope and cord done up like webbing, with all kinds of little charms and things hanging from the strands. His head snapped back just in time to see the sorcerer bear up his staff, speak a word the killer dimly knew to be some Minosmirii barbarism, and receive the butt of that staff to the side of the head.

Well now he was going to have to get a guardsman for this, Carloman thought with no small measure of irritation. Baletor was a gorgeous city, but sometimes it really was a bother. He had nothing against Oros, but it really did inspired a lot of weird ideas and weirder behaviour. The wizard sighed and grumbled. Get a guardsman, then speak to one of the Prince's officials about this tomorrow. Around midday. Or later. After a late breakfast.

But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t check out last week’s edition, even if you already read it, because it was a fun little exercise, methinks.

And please, tap the like button to let the stories know you enjoyed them! They are aware, you know.

This week, we take in the cold serenity of the Cathedral of Ice, we join the red wizard Carloman on a hunt using the Thunder of the East, and we join the one-armed swordsman Kastaine as he and a mysterious greyfolk paladin do battle against a band of orcish warriors with Shrine Steel…

Cathedral of Ice

The floor of the cathedral was composed of some forty-eight massive flags of a black, slick stone, fit so neatly, and so well maintained, that nary a crack nor space nor shift was at all visible. The texture of that stone was not smooth, but neither was it uneven and craggy, it was flat and had upon it many low, long, wavering wrinkles, or perhaps they would better be described as ripples. On certain days, when the light played across the floor, it was almost as if one were looking upon a deep, still lake, utterly fathomless, utterly black, frozen in time as a gentle wind played across its surface. This stone composed not only the great broad open cathedral interior, but it rose, in places, to form certain walls and supports.

There was something about its serenity, its solidity, and perpetual slight cool dampness which Hadin found immensely comforting. When he could afford it, he walked barefoot across the flags when the cathedral was quiet, and would stop a moment in appreciation of it. The scent of wet stone was a balm to his soul. Especially now, when he could afford precious few moments of indulgence.

The paladin let his eyes wander upwards from the black stone flooring. It only reached eye level in a few places, and the rest of the cathedral, the entire rest of its towering form was composed in absolutely every part by ice, in no less monolithic blocks than the stone ground. Great square pillars and tall buttresses rose to one vast dome of a single cyclopean block of primordial ice. These were smooth, perfectly smooth, broad and thick, vast but crafted with masterful precision--cut, shaved, melted, and refrozen at great expense of time and labour. But every second and every coin had been worth it, for the world bore fewer bulwarks of such prodigious might.

A light mist played about the upper air at all times, a chillness which flooded the lungs with cool enervation. It was a pale silver, while the rest of the ice was in numberless and limitless shades, tones, and textures of pearlescent whites and translucent blues. They all flowed together, into each other, and from each other. Light shone from behind, above, and through them at a thousand different angles, creating an omnipresent soft radiance which sometimes shimmered like water. Droplets fell with the sound of light bells, and each one sparkled like a diamond.

It was cold, it was pure, it was serenity and stillness made manifest, a balm to not only Hadin's soul, but to every soul and the land whom the cold which radiated from this place touched. Hadin had learned to let the ice temper his soul, to calm his limbs, and numb his mind. When first he had been submerged, he had lost aches and pains he didn't know he even had. Hadin had abided in this ever since, all through his taking the ice, his martial training, his oaths and purifications, everything went back to that first moment. As he knelt upon that rippled black stone, great silver hammer in hand, letting the rime settle upon his blue steel plate, upon the storm grey chainmail, and within the white linen vest and hosen beneath, everything went back to that moment again. Everything was going to end up there, too, as his final reward in the ice, if he anything to say in the matter.

And he had much to say to the warping, twisting wrack and ruin of the Infernal powers which whirled and churned in nightmare spirals across the sky that he now strode out towards, to meet his fellow paladins in one last stand.

Thunder of the East

Whereas some souls might be inclined to use the word "nosy", perhaps in extreme cases even "rude", Carloman preferred to think of himself as inquisitive and enthusiastic. More often than not it paid off, and people gave thanks to the World Serpent, or their Hero-God, or which ever aspect of Oros they paid particular reverence to, that this funny old man decided to, out of nowhere, involve himself in their business. Carloman often gave the same thanks for being nudged in the right direction. This was one such case.

It is highly regular to see plumes and trails and tendrils of smoke in Mul Manatar, a city which by ancient tradition offers profuse veneration to Fire itself, so when one of them sticks out, even a first time visitor to the city on the lake can tell something's not right. Carloman didn't need a deity to nudge him for this coiling pillar of oily black smoke, he left his room at the inn and made an immediate beeline to it, stopping only to overpay for a small breakfast at a street vendor.

As he had approached the source of the dense, hazy column, studying it over the flat white plaster roofs and squat towers of the north shore city sprawl, the usual thoughts flitted through his mind. But no, he thought, he usually at least got some odd feeling off stuff of that calibre. This might not have been that darkest of business, but it was odd. He clacked his way, staff in hand, past concerned onlookers and found himself staring at the immolated shell of a small dwelling. There was no fire, at least not anymore, but angry red embers smouldered within, accounting for the pillar of smoke which mostly seemed to just gather above. In what manner, the wizard wasn't exactly sure of yet.

Carloman was known in Mul Manatar by at least a few of the officials, and numerous taverns and restaurants, and it was one of the north shore governor's magistrates who had come to inspect the damage--of which there mercifully seemed to be little--that noticed him. Carloman then noticed that he had been noticed, and wasted precious little time in stepping forward past some unsure guardsmen who looked on as the embers seemed to flare slightly at the red-robed wizard's approach. Thus had he come to be standing on the crumbling ruins of a small house of decently old date, much of the interior gone and the pale stone charred and stained.

After learning what the guards had learned, and seeing what was left to see, the picture became all too clear: the sad, fragmented remains of some novice magician, half-buried amidst ashes, who, if the little which remained said anything--and to Carloman it said a lot--had been attempting to manifest an elemental, evidently a being of fire, as some familiar or source of power, and had been clever enough to know what he could do, but not clever enough to actually pull it off. It seemed as if he hadn't invoked the right protections, or probably any protections, no Serpent's Coils, no Sun's or Fire's guidance, and had paid the ultimate price. Why he wanted to do so in a city which worships Fire and knows deeply its power was beyond Carloman's understanding, and unless they called up the young fellow's spirit, which he would not do, no one would ever know. Probably he thought it would be easy to do in the city. But, he should have known, that while, yes, Fire offered guidance, that it lit the path, Fire was ultimately the force of motion, transformation...and destruction. He'd been looking for one, and got the other. Fire burned differently in Mul Manatar, no doubt about that, but it was still Fire.

All of this meant there was still an elemental on the loose. There was something walking around embodying the fury and power of the fire which had raised it. Carloman made as much noise as he could trying to find out when all this happened, and went very still when several guards cobbled together a story that placed this whole event at just around dawn. Of course, the wizard thought, no better time for something like this than sunrise. A mere turn, maybe two of the hourglass had passed since--but where would this thing be? Where, he dreaded to think, but think it he must, where would it strike next? And how to follow it?

He must do all in his power to mitigate panic. This didn't need to be a situation. But where would this thing go? Unfortunately, it was impossible to guess. Elementals were born of a confluence of circumstances, and these circumstances were what imparted their longevity, their power, and their intelligence. Some existed for mere moments, in a shaft of light in a gentle woodland, some wandered the far places of the world for centuries. The great Macha Nuad were, he knew, elemental beings from some dim and distant epoch, as were the celestial deities of Mul Manatar itself. If it was intelligent, it could be spoken to. Maybe. If not, more extreme measures may need to be instigated. There was a chance that, intellect aside, it might look for a fire temple. Plenty of those around. But he couldn't just wait for something to happen. What Carloman needed was guidance.

And it was as he stood in the middle of the ruined house, deep in thought, that the wizard found himself approached by someone new, and unexpected.

He was a Manatarian, a short, stocky little fellow with dusky skin, cropped hair, rather round and beady gold eyes, leathery skin, but sprightly. He was also a thunder priest, as evidenced by his staff which bore white-painted wooden thunderbolts.
"Some sorcerer got himself lit up, is it? Thought so." The little man spoke in a kind of hoarse, barking voice as he shuffled around. "Don't know why whoever it was didn't go to a fire temple. Figures. What about you?" He turned to the wizard.
"I am Carloman, I'm helping with this investigation."
"Think I heard of you once before. You a sorcerer?" he asked before shuffling around again, poking at the ground and ashes with his staff.
"I'm many things, but-"
"And one of them's a sorcerer?"
Carloman had no idea whether to find the little man's brusque attitude offensive or hilarious.
"Yes, it is," he said with a half smile under his bush of beard.
"Right. So it's an elemental or some such, is it?" The wizard hid his surprise. "Suppose it's gone and wandered off. We get all types in this city-" he shot a look to the wizard, "always some mischief. Now someone's dead. Suppose someone had better go find the damned thing. And I suppose you want help?"
"I would appreciate your skills, if you don't m-"
"No, no, not at all," said the priest as he began to leave, "sure, you'd be wandering these streets til dusk and half the city'd be in ruins. Anyway I'm Kotvushan, most folks just call me Kotan. Let's go, come on."

Carloman apprised the bizarre little man of the situation as they went, in between bouts of his ranting. Turns out he was something of an unofficial religious authority in the north shore. He was old, knew many of the rites of Sun, Fire, and Stars by heart, but it was Thunder that had always drawn him. According to him, at length, Thunder always got overshadowed by the others, but it was Thunder, damn it, that showed the ancestors where to go, where to settle. Sun and Fire really just let you see, but Thunderstrikes and Thunderbooms, they talk, they really show you. He at least seemed glad that not too much time had passed.

When they arrived at Kotan's thunder temple, Carloman realized that, of all the times he'd passed through Mul Manatar, he had never, as far as he could remember, ever actually set foot in one. Now there was a shame, he thought. Better not let the little man know that. He seemed to know a good bit of stuff already. It was a simple structure, an enclosed, open air circle of plastered stone with a great raised dais in the middle the priest now clambered up to.
"This is where you come in, sorcerer," said he, "you whip up the storm clouds--if you can--and I'll call the thunder. We'll find this thing quick if you hurry up."
Carloman had half a mind to show the little creature just exactly what he could do, but decided there was no true victory against a nature this combative.

"Serpent," intoned the wizard under his breath, standing his staff upright upon the pale stone ground, "set a coil upon this place, and make of it a circle, and cradle all that I now lay in thy grasp. Let now the water below meet the water above. Rainfall, rainfall..." he repeated, one hand feeling around his collection of amulets, letting them clink together, his other hand raised up, fingers entwined in binding. He found an amulet of Locod, Macha god of all waters, the past, and magic. Just behind it, an amulet of Gaoth, god of the sky and the future. He even found a small stamped medal with a thunderbolt on it. "Water gods and sky gods, cast your gazes to this place, to this temple circle, and all the sky over it." Though his eyes had closed in focus, the upper air had begun to grow hazy, and as he continued to speak, dim with cloud. When the first drop of rain hit him, he opened his eyes. He'd been doing this for decades. For pretty much his whole life. The wonder of it never really faded, to make the world turn.
"Yep, that's right, keep going, don't give up yet," said the priest from his dais.

Carloman was becoming slightly fed up with the little man's tone, but most of that dissipated as he watched what he was doing. This was thundercalling. Kotan was raising his tall staff up, waving it from side to side, clacking the wooden bolts together. After about five of these, he set it aside, and took up a silver bell on a long handle and rang it--clear peals of it seemed to cascade around them, but he didn't stop there, he set that down, and then began banging a deep booming drum in a swift rhythm. After a moment, he set that down, and began to ring the bell again. From what Carloman could see--he didn't dare bother the little man--he was speaking as he did all this. Some invocation? Beseechment? Communion?

It didn't matter--a few minutes of this later, a bolt of white thunder flashed in a pillar above a section of the city. The priest turned back to Carloman with a furrowed brow.
"Well, that was quick. Too far, though, we need to escalate," he barked.
"Then I suggest you hand me that bell or something you have up there so we can whip this up into a real storm!"
"Yeah...not a bad idea--but hey! Hey!" He rushed down to stop Carloman climbing the steps. "You thank the thunder first before you put your sorcerer's feet on this altar!"
No, he was right, thought the wizard, who gazed up and gave one clear and genuine thanks to the storm clouds overhead. The priest then waved him up.

Elementals manifested from circumstances, and it was by opposing circumstances could they be undone. In this case, by force, through a torrential rainfall. In the mild and breezy eastern high summer, not an easy feat. The nearness and prominence of Lake Manatar was a plus, though. And they were already halfway there.

"The bell's for rain, you take that," mumbled the little priest as he took up his drum again in a swift, droning rhythm. Carloman didn't hold back--he rang the bell in quick succession, and began speaking old arcane words of stormcalling, words that spat lighting, that rumbled thunder, and that hissed rain. Cold words of deep chill and biting winds. Harsh words he did not often use but kept close. The priest's drum beat began to speed up. Carloman replied in kind with his invocations, he rang the bell in threes, spoke, rang, spoke, rang. There was an almighty crack of thunder overhead, a blast so loud he felt it in the very stone beneath his feet. A pillar of light flashed over the city. It was still roaming about--and it was moving, in a panic, perhaps. Carloman had only ever conjured elementals for the sake of desperate defense before, and had seen to it they were released or gently undone. A part of him felt a pang of guilt about this, but it had to be done, and he hadn't the time to try to draw it to him. The city certainly didn't, not if it was even half as wrathful as he suspected it was. The charred corpse of the young sorcerer flashed in his mind, and he remained resolute.

In the depths of spellcasting and ritual, of trance and focus, time passed in strange waves, and with them came impressions: pillars of thunder whose light bore great import. Harder and harder sheets of rain upon the city. The fact the old priest's arms hadn't given out. More thunderbolts. Sounds from beyond, of voices and rushing feet. But finally there came one glimpse which stopped the wizard completely. He realized there had been no more thunderbolts. Carloman gazed around. There were a number of people in the temple, including guardsman, and it seemed, from what he could see over the walls, a greater number were gathered outside. The priest fell forward then, completely out of breath, but a great big grin across his face.

"HaaaaHAHAHA!!!" he bellowed, banging his hand on his drum. "Never let it be forgotten that Mul Manatar's the City of Thunder!" He took a second to compose himself, noticing what the wizard had noticed, and turned to him. "You did well, son, but now it's time to tell these people why we've drenched them. Come on."

Carloman had a feeling there wouldn't be a problem in the end.

Shrine Steel

Everything about the young greyfolk which stood before Kastaine was a rare and curious confluence. The pale silver skin betrayed them as a denizen of the vast woodland which lay just a short ways behind them, the darkish boughs lined with shining grooves even at this distance, but the armour was of steelfolk make, no doubt about it: large round pauldrons, long swooping vambraces, cuirass formed of two overlapping plates, maille skirt, and greaves. And yet the decoration was of that flowing, organic silverfolk design. They wore no helmet, and the mane of brilliant white hair flowed in the wind.

Greyfolk looked only a little like humans, or rather humans only looked a little like greyfolk. Tall heads, curving back slightly, with sharply pronounced peaked hairlines, long curving ears, heavy browless ridges, round eyes, and faces which usually tapered to pointed chins. They had no noses, only ridges or depressions leading to lipless mouths almost exclusively for emitting speech, though they did partake of their own peculiar rejuvenating sustenance. Humans with whom they enjoyed great friendships always found it sad they could not enjoy grand feasts. This fellow had a fairly straight features, in any other greyfolk they would be severe, but the youthful vigour in the stance, fire in the white eyes, and head held high with an assured smirk gave them an aspect of strength.

It almost made Kastaine, in his dull leather lamellar and bound linens, grimy from two days' tracking the band of orcs, feel a little ridiculous. He felt a little better as he summoned his spectral arm of King's Armour, a fine replacement for his own lost limb, and reward for his duty to Castlegrand, as they set off to the smoke over the hills upon two stonefolk stags of the great vastlands. Fractious mankind may have been, and distant in those affairs the greyfolk remained, but when it came to dragons and their spawn, everything was set aside, and even the aloof stonefolk could be roused from their battle-revelries for aid. The weathered, lined, and pitted face of the sentinel of Castlegrand and the youthful, shining visage of the silverfolk exorcist-warrior seen through the curling horns of the thundering stags would have been a sight to stir even the hardest of hearts, and drive fear into the most draconic.

As they rode under a low, overcast sky, Kastaine couldn't help but notice his compatriot's weapon. His own was a steelfolk broadsword, a brooding blade of matte grey metal emerging from a v-shaped guard which would never chip, never shatter, granted for the immediacy and severity of the threat at hand. But this young paladin's sword was as curious a construction as they were. Slung naked in a leather hoop, its slender shining blade tapered across a broad, gentle curve to a needle sharp point upon which light perpetually danced. From the pommel of the sword's grip there blossomed a handguard like a dozen overlapped lotus petals. The silverfolk did not produce weapons, and when they did they weren't close to anything resembling this, and yet it was silver, and of that folk's decoration. Steel treated with silver he'd seen, but this was new. And he liked it very much.

Over the crest of the rise they came to a scene of ruin and devastation. Spread across the gentle decline were piles of crumbled stone, clouds and pools of flaking ash, and splintered wood. A damp, smoky fog had begun to rise and obscured the remains of the small town further in. It was also curiously devoid of bodies, though the trampled earth all about bore the tell tale signs of desperate battle and fierce struggle. They dismounted their stags, but the greyfolk turned to Kastaine, placing a hand on his arm, and spoke in a voice that was light, airy, somewhat husky, and delicate.
"Thank you for your aid, Ser Kastaine, we could not have found the orcs without you, but they have entrusted this task to me. Let this be the start of a grand union!" With that, the young paladin drew his slender sword and strode forth into the ruination.

The misty veil of the growing fog parted every so often in odd places with odd winds to reveal new vistas of bitter ends and dark victories. The jagged scorch marks of orcish curseflame were everywhere. Doom, destruction, and horror abounded. The humans of this place had put up a valiant, if the many stains of orc blood said anything, but ultimately fruitless defense. Crouching low to gauge what lay before them, the paladin peered upon a scene only a short distance off, where the land dipped lowest on this gentle slope. They counted seven orcs, six in their monstrous suits of black plate, one in a mass of black tatters, standing over a pit they had dug in the earth. The paladin knew exactly what was in there, and could not help averting their eyes. A brewing pit. They'd been prepared with this knowledge, but it was another matter altogether seeing it. A steaming slurry of corpses, human and orc, the way they replenished their numbers after battles. But with the sorcerer present, this meant the slaughter had purpose beyond killing and loot.

The orcs were fighting and losing fight, trying, with the aid of forbidden Arts, to try and remove the curse which had changed them from mighty draconians to their debased selves so long ago. There were notions among humans, and even among some of the more gentle-hearted greyfolk, of pity towards a race spurned by all the world. But the paladin had none such feelings. The orcs were hated, and they hated back with even more ferocity, a committed foe to both over and underworld alike. The dragons had betrayed them, the greyfolk were their ancient nemeses, and mankind was as yet below them. That pit, the greyfolk thought, must be destroyed.

Kastaine thought the same thing as he peered down from the ruined wall he perched upon, just out of sight. He wasn't about to see such a union of steel and silver go to waste. It didn't matter the training they'd had, a band of orcs was a formidable opponent different to even the greatest dragonspawn. His blade was already drawn, a mere shadow in the growing gloom, and with his King's Armour already conjured, he might leap to his compatriot's aid in a second. But he hoped he wouldn't have to.

The orcs saw the paladin first, as they rose and gripped their blade tight. The sorcerer barked some command from its short snout, a warrior raising its flat-topped cleaver and breathing a gout of curseflame upon its wicked edge. The sword was brutish and fearsome, every decoration in truth merely a different way to inflict fear and pain--a reflection of the uncompromising and overwhelming strength of the orcs. The blade's keen edge shone with a line of blazing green, and trailed in the air as it was brought back, and then shot out as the orc lunged, but the paladin was faster. Their blade seemed almost weightless, yet it met and bit into the orcish sword--there was a screech as silver met curse, and sparks spat as the cleaver was cast aside and the saber thrust half-deep through the spiked black armour and through the orc's heart. Wrenched out with a single motion, the greyfolk fell back a defensive stance as another orc, bearing a wedge-headed battle axe with frightful top and backspikes fell in, raining blows upon the meagre flat of the silver saber--it held, but just barely. The paladin ducked to the side, one vicious swing missing them and landing in the earth, and before the orc could remove its weapon, the needle-point of the sword found its mark through the skull.

Kastaine wasn't watching the paladin, nor the attackers, he was watching the sorcerer, who had left the brewing pit side and had lumbered forward, fanged and tusked maw working maledictions, and the agent watched as within that maw, curseflame flashed, and yet upon its raised hands did tongues of flame begin to flicker and lick, and with one roar it thrust its hands forth and a wave of curseflame screamed towards the paladin--Kastaine started in his hiding place, but stopped himself, as the greyfolk leapt back and brought their sword down before them, cleaving the wave in twain, forcing it to divert away harmlessly, the ground sizzling and sparking in its wake.

As fantastic a display as it was, and as shaken as the sorcerer was, the greyfolk was defenseless. Kastaine threw himself forward, blade ready, and upon the charging orc which sought to bring its cruel morningstar down on the young paladin, who saw a grim blade suddenly shoot forth from the chest of the stunned orc, and the face of the agent appear as its corpse was cast aside. There was only a moment for recognition before the last three warriors were upon them in a storm of clashing steel, silver, and black iron. Kastaine, taking only a second to calculate the right angle, and right spot on his sword, shattered into pieces the hefty scimitar which threatened to cleave his skull apart--but it cost him a spiked club to the ribs, which sent him reeling back. He caught the club in his spectral arm, and wrenched it from the orc's grip, slaying with two swift strikes his foe. But the other orc was on him then, and it was only by driving his Armour's elbow into his enemy's face did he miss being stuck with the wicked misericorde which sought the spaces between his lamellar plates. The paladin had slashed to ribbons his enemy, and made quick work of the remaining orc.

They almost didn't see the sorcerer's arms erupting into blazing, monstrous, spiralling coils of serpentine curseflame making right for them both. The air itself was suffused with a hellish, gangrenous radiance--but the paladin bounded forth in a low dash, slashing through the air, dissipating each searing blast as light cascaded across the entire length of their blade. Kastaine had ducked low, and had stopped, getting an eyeful of what Greyfolk Art was truly capable of.

The paladin met the sorcerer in combat--each strike with their blade was stopped on a flash of flame, and each blast from the orcish sorcerer's palms and fingertips was deflected, as though with physical weight, off the silver sword. It was only with a masterful twist of the arm and the wrist did the paladin pass through a blast of fire, and thrust the point of the blade through the orc's belly, and up into its heart. A belch of flame escaped its tusks and fangs, but so too was it afforded the mere second needed to grip with its twisted talons the greyfolk's sword arm, burning a whole length of it utterly black with a final summoned burst of curseflame, before slumping to the ground, dead.

Wincing, retrieving their sword, mouth pursed tight, breathing through gritted teeth, the paladin staggered forth to the brewing pit, and with a flourish that sent flakes of burnt flesh from their arm, a star seemed to dance along the edge of the silver saber, before, as it sat upon the very needle-point, with a thrust and esoteric gesture of their free hand, an arc of light leapt from the sword and into the pit, which flashed with a single brilliant coruscation, and was reduced, as the oily smoke which billowed from it cleared, to naught but ashes.

The greyfolk finally fell back, landing on one knee, gasping for breath. Kastaine had an idea then what this fellow symbolized. Best see to them first, though. That arm could be healed, but it would never be the same again. That might have been just what was needed.

Would be a terrible, terrible punishment were it not so good, eh? We’re having fun this week, as we do every week (except for that one week, remember that one?), and that’s because there’s wizards in each story. In what form, I shan’t say. Go read.

Real quick: next week is the next chapter in The Path of Poison, and we left off last time with someone getting jumped by a wolf (which you can read HERE). You might want to check and see what happens next!

Meanwhile, the last edition of S&S, which had grumbly old mages, urban horror, and everyone’s favourite red wizard investigating strange goings on back home, can be read HERE.

And lastly, I’m still toying with some ideas for real physical meatspace copies of Shadows & Sorcery. Made to print editions of your choosing, or perhaps collected stories of particular worlds or characters? Please tell me your thoughts or I’ll be very sad.

Actually lastly, of course don’t forget to tell the stories you enjoyed them with a quick like!

This week we peer over a dire account of a Ritual of Dark, we venture into the perilous depths of the Temple Woods, and we bear witness to the strange power of a Conjuror’s Sword…

Ritual of Dark

This account is a warning.

I am Rannamir Vodman of Saumark. If you know that name, then you'll know full well how seriously to take what is written here. If you do not know that name, then understand I am counted among the oldest families of this venerable region, and I am considered one of the foremost sages on the occult and the sorcerous among certain circles of the aristocracy in all Voerlund. I am no mere theoretician or dabbler, and the arcane depths of my library, a reference point for magisters as far east as Baletor, speak to my prodigious knowledge.

Allow me now the space to adequately give context and elucidation. But I say unto you again, this account is a warning. Let my words enlighten and clarify so that you know what it is you must avoid in your own workings, if magister or scholar or fool you be.

It is common across the known world, down through history, in every culture's oldest myths, for darkness to be regarded with everything from some measure of unease to outright terror. The night is another world, a dim space in which horrors lurk, its moons are unhealthy, and everything down to the shadow in the cellar invites impressions few can put into words. Darkness is understood to be not a lack of light, or natural state of things bereft of an illuminating source, but rather the opposite of light. Darkness is unclear, it is unseen, murky, anything may dwell within it. Such is the source of much horror surrounding it. And such is the source of old theories regarding the powers it might provide. For darkness is indeed unclear, for nothing is defined in darkness, and could be anything. In a word, darkness represents potential. Potential for what? Exactly my point, and the point of those daring thinkers and madmen before me.

One passage in an early second imperial era tract was what struck me. Transcribed from the antiquated language of that age, it might read as "darkness is no one place". A loose translation to be sure, but it lit a flame in my head. If darkness truly be formless, waiting to be actualized, then it might really be no one place, until it is made into a place. In a rush I set to designing the instruments of my theory. In my working notes and journals, which have been burned twice over under the gaze and invocations of an archvenerate, I called them my "shadowgates". They were, quite simply, two free standing cabinets, hollowed out, of a thick and impermeable wood, for some grains permit the passage of air and these by necessity had to be utterly sealed from light--the element by which things are held in some form (not given, but held). Furthermore, I erected a ring of wooden blocks around them behind which I lit large candles, so that they may cast more shadows upon the shadowgates themselves. Veiled and smothered in darkness.

I had constructed one shadowgate in one room of my manor, and another shadowgate in a chamber on the other side of the house. It was my goal to step through one shadowgate and appear in the other. To physically transport myself from one space to another instantly in only a few steps.

I say to you yet again: this account is a warning.

At night I performed the ritual, when all the land was in that same formlessness. Candles were lit, shadows were cast. I had something with me from the room I desired to step out into, as a sympathetic anchor and guide to my destination. Were I simply to step through with no heading, who knows where I might end up. I do not like to think on it. The procedure was simple. With some force I opened the first shadowgate portal, which was tight in its frame, again, for the sake of darkness. I will readily admit that standing in that circle of harsh shadows, and looking into a sightless abyss, that intrinsic fear trembled somewhere deep within me. Mere nerves, was all I said to myself, not daring to say aught more.

I stepped into the shadowgate. There was a most curious sensation of pressing past a solid wall I knew should be right within arm's reach, yet it wasn't there, and I met not with resistance, but rather something akin to passing one's hand through, how should I say, a strong gust of wind, or through water, yet there was no motion, there was no temperature. Just a sort of half-physicality. A semi-being. And then, I was somewhere else. Perhaps nowhere. Again, a half-state of being. There was a ground, or, perhaps I think even now, a surface my presence created through some expectation. Whatever, or wherever I was, all I can describe of it is the impression--though I was utterly and completely sightless--of an immense, nigh-indescribable vastness. Comparisons to standing amidst the open plains of the east with naught but softly fading horizons uncounted leagues away at the ends of clear skies do not compare to the sense impact I received as I walked through that something. I have never in my life felt so small. So utterly and completely small, and like I might lose my way if I faltered for even a single step. And end up where? I do not know. Nor do I wish to ever know. There was, however, another sense in there. Or out there. Or wherever. It was a coldness, not immediate, but one which seemed to come from afar, always from afar, always with only the merest tendrils nipping at the edges of my flesh, threatening with every second to sudden'ly flood in and envelope me, like a deep winter's gale leaking through a rickety door.

Each touch of that cold began to feel like being stung with needles, and each second more I spent walking, the longer those needles stayed in my flesh, and each sting went deeper and deeper. It began to feel less like draughts or flows of cold wind...and more like fingers pressing into me. I will swear upon this to my dying day, that if my searching hand had not suddenly felt the solid wood frame and panelling against it, something would have happened to me. I don't know what. But I get the feeling I wouldn't be here writing this.

I could see the room beyond the shadow-casting panels I had erected--it was the other room. It had worked. But although I stood outside the gate, I didn't feel like I was back in my own house until I had left the chamber altogether, and I don't think I slept for a full day afterwards. Several days have passed now. I have been gathering myself for this account. I have not been into either chamber to see either shadowgate. I don't think I can bring myself to do so. The truth is, I keep feeling it. Those little needles. There hasn't been a moment in which some impression of thin cold does not stick me and retreat. In certain moments, I don't think I am alone.

Please, do not replicate what I have done. Whatever unease or dread or suspicion you feel towards darkness, feel it.

Keep it close.

This account is a warning.

Temple Woods

The scent of the deep woods flooded Alzared's lungs with their earthen fragrance, at once both invigorating and intoxicating. Leaves rustled in breaths and sighs of wind, which made the curious blue light shimmer upon the titanic trunks and vast, outstretched boughs like sunlight upon water. Shafts of that same azure broke through the leagues of forest canopy, illuminating the paths and glades through which the wizard now trod. The spell of the Silver Woods' primal mysticism was upon him, in this place where the blood of the Great Grey Ones returned to dwell in fathomless subterranean wells.

And yet, Alzared's hand never left his dragonblood sceptre. For all that the forest and its air was a heady mix of profound and serene vivacity, like a great beast in repose, this sanctuary had its guardians.

The battle had been one to remember, that was for sure, and Alzared felt he had made a mighty ally in the mysterious one-armed swordsman that day, but the wyrm had been a fierce opponent all the same. He had been a hair's breadth from disaster or worse when its jaws of jagged fangs had clamped down upon his sceptre, before the warrior could behead it, leaping from the rooftop, with a single singing arc from the blade held in his ghostly arm of magical king's armour. But alas, his sceptre had been sundered, and the sorcerer had found himself, for the first time in many years, vulnerable. And so he had travelled leagues on foot and cart to the edges of the Silver Woods where the greyfolk monks might repair his instrument of vengeance. Indeed, though mountain steel formed the core of it, the flows of silver were the only thing aside from the magician's own will which controlled the dragonmagick. In this state, the globe of blood was mercifully kept still, but he dared not risk unleashing it against even the sentinels of the deep woods. Traditionally, a show of force and technique from a human was enough for a guardian to grant entrance. The sorcerer had planned instead to slip by them and into the safety of a shrine of silver.

It was not the first time Alzared had tread upon these sacred grounds. What seemed to him now a lifetime ago, he had come here bedecked in rings, bracers, amulets, and jewelled robes of the blood of dragonspawn, seeking to prove himself to the mystics, for as rash a youth as he was, fresh from the wild expanses of the Stone Vastland interiors, he knew better than most the mortal peril posed by pure dragonblood. And so he had emerged, trinkets trod under his heel, his sceptre in his hand, with which he would go to lay low human villains, numberless dragonspawn, insidious serpent-men cults, and even face down and triumph over the ancient terrors themselves.

And now, as he entered upon the borderlands of these temple woods, which encircled a shrine of silver, he was keenly aware that very instrument sat bent and twisted, all but useless by his side, while something large crashed about just out of sight. Alzared had little reason to venture into the forests, passing through only its outermost layers to soak in their regenerative atmosphere, never delving deeper. The tell tale shunk-shunk, shunk-shunk, shunk-shunk of great legs squelching and pressing through the loam that he heard now was what kept him away. The great spiders of the woods were merciless in a particular way not even the most enraged dragonspawn could be.

But from the chaotic sounds, Alzared could tell the spider guardian wasn't alone.

Within a wide cerulean glade, two shapes circled each other and clashed before darting away, to repeat their dance of death. One was a great sentinel, long, arched abdomen supported by eight splayed legs, ending in sharp spikes, its shining black carapace bearing flowing silver channels which shimmered in the wood-light. The other was, to Alzared's horror, a manworm. Out of all the spawn a dragon's blood could manifest, the manworms inherited the greatest share of their sire's monstrous cunning and inhuman intelligence. They were the creators of serpents, and demigods and high priests to serpent-men cults. That it had made its way this far in caused the sorcerer much disquiet.

The manworm slithered and slunk low, hunched, sometimes creeping about on its sinewy arms, ending in wicked talons. It bared its jagged fangs, the opalescent eyes searching for the weak-spots in the spider's shell--the thinner plates and unprotected joints. The spider stamped about with that shunk-shunk, shunk-shunk rhythm, throwing itself forth, sending four of its steel-spike legs into the earth, the manworm, coiling around each one and grasping the guardian's limbs. Alzared weighed his options as he looked out from behind a growth of ferns. He knew he had little chance against either a manworm or a spider guardian as he was. This might be what he needed to be granted passage, but what he could do may cost him dearly. Above all else, though, his one overriding thought was that he could not let the manworm win.

Alzared stalked forth from the undergrowth as the manworm reared up, arms grasping the spider guardian, fangs ready to find purchase as the sentinel's free limbs failed to find a mark, unable to shake off the dragonspawn. The wizard drew forth then his cracked and sundered sceptre, holding tight the loose casing. The sceptre's power was not inert, and that was the danger. He could all but feel the dragonblood pulse with its desire to unleash itself, freer from its bonds than it had been in so long. He idly thought it surprising the manworm hadn't noticed him. Then, though, there was a sudden crunch and squelch which snapped Alzared to attention and immediate decision. The sentinel's legs buckled. The wizard didn't waste a second.

With a shout, he set his mind upon the orb of dragonblood, his hand straining as he flung forth his sceptre and bade the blood lay low its lesser kin--shards of silver flew from the sceptre in all directions as an undulating wave of searing force screamed across the forest air, peeling scales from the manworm's flesh and sending the spider staggering backwards as the enemy was cast from it. Writhing upon the earth with guttural hissing, the manworm made to rear itself up again, but was met halfway up by the spider sentinel's shining silver spikes, which silenced it within seconds. It was only with a supreme burst of concentration did Alzared silence the blood, grasping the shattered length of his sceptre with both hands.

Magician and guardian locked eyes for only a second.

The wizard went forth then through the serene temple woods, under the shadow of the spider sentinel, and was delivered the gates of the shrine of silver.

Conjuror's Sword

The dreary ashen landscape and its pallid, overcast sky were broken up only by the multitude of ancient, wind-shorn pillars of ridged, rugose sandstone which jut from the earth. Upon one of the smaller specimens stood a figure in billowing white and silver robes and flowing beard and eyebrows of similar hue. In his hand, a great sword as tall as himself, with a grip that might admit at least four different hands to hold it. It had a strange blade that was little more than a long, rectangular slab, the entire length of which ran an intricate fuller that ran like intestines.

He was looking at the figure which approached from below. This one was clad in a neat, trim, long black robe, and wore a mane of deep oaken hair and beard. This one too bore a curious blade, only this one wavered like a snake, and at the apex of each deep curve was a long, curving flange, giving the sword the appearance of a strange steel flame.

They took only a moment to regard each other, the war-calling conjuror champions wasting no time in initiating their combat.

Atop the spire of rock, the conjuror now took his colossal blade and with a huge, half-circle swing over his head, there was thrown up a wide sort of distortion of space, like the world in a long span above was sundered, melted, undone. There hung in the air itself a smear, a window, a vision--a portal from which a thousand black, wicked arrows screeched. Below, however, the black mage had spun about in a dance-like motion which seemed to gather the air all around the sword, before being swung in one vast arc, and two great arms and a leering, bestial head shot forth bearing a tower shield covered in spikes from which hung long strings of old fabric, and was caked in gore--so much so that little of the shield beneath could be seen, but each arrow that hit it pinged harmlessly away.

As soon as they had been seen, they vanished, and the flash portals of the conjurors closed upon the plane of eternal war. Around each neck, touching the skin, were shards of bone: relics of the demons who wage and revel in endless bloody conflict in an astral realm for a purpose long forgotten, but who utterly and completely detest mankind for the interruptions in their primordial battles. Those bones allowed the conjurors to feel and seek out places in the leagues-long battlefields, to which their eldritch blades bridged the cosmic gulfs for a split second, making two spaces into one.

A series of swift slashes from the black mage opened and closed in blinks of an eye several portals from which huge lances and spears howled into the rock spire--the white mage leapt from the top of it and lunged downwards, a wide slash unleashing a demon warrior's axe the black mage threw himself clear of at the last second. The white mage was on the offensive again, though, a great gore-drenched maul suddenly flying down from a rent in the air. The black mage drew his sword horizontal with a quick motion, and a section of battered, dusty stone wall met and held fast against the hammer before they fell back into their own world.

The fates of hundreds of thousands of souls were behind each swing. Nations had long ago abandoned warfare in favour of this sorcerous combat. Today, borders would shift and a whole land would become the mere vassal, its people ground under the heels of another in bitter, vengeful victory.

The black mage struck out with a thrust, sending a piece of falling debris hurtling towards the white mage who narrowly escaped with a conjured demon warrior to take the blow. Reeling back, the white mage suddenly darted forth, sword held low, leaving a trail of warped space which grew and grew with each bounding step, and then brought the blade up in one hefty swing, and from the mass of distortion there barrelled forth with a roar a cracked, iron-bound battering ram. The black mage had less than a second to bring his sword down from on high, the ram disappearing into the open portal.

There was no time to lose. The black mage, from a low stance, swung up, and the white mage, having closed in, swung down, and each conjuror's demon warrior met the other with axe and mace upon their shattering shields. It was the black mage who closed his portal first, but looked to see not his opponent as the air cleared, but the demon warrior standing there in full black armour, head darting about, snout snorting steam and baring fangs, and finally eyes locking with the black mage. A flash of a glance behind the demon showed the white mage staggering and falling backwards, a long shard of metal protruding from his right eye. Only a conjuror could close a portal, and the black mage made to run for his opponent's corpse.

But the demon met him first.

Real quick before we begin this phantasmagoria of magical mayhem: I’m toying with an idea or two. Would anyone be interested in real physical pieces of Shadows & Sorcery to hold in your very own hands of flesh and blood? If so, lemme know what kind of things tickle ya fancy. I’d like to gauge desires.

Okay nothing weird this week, we’re doing some classic flash fiction tales, the foundation upon which this circus is built. Can’t go wrong with them, eh? Please don’t check the word counts by the way, I haven’t done that myself. No one will ever know whether or not these even count as flash fiction.

But you know what? Weird is good. Which is why, if you haven’t read last week’s edition well I just think you should do so RIGHT HERE

And lastly, as ever, please leave a quick like to let the stories know you enjoyed them!

This week, we join two old wizards to grumble about the Magic of Old, we gather for a grim warning about the Blighted Spires, and the red wizard faces down a threat in the capital city in Cathedral of the Serpents…

Magic of Old

Two wizards in a smoking room were talking of their College of Arcana days.
"In our day," grumbled one fellow in shimmering purple and gold robes and hood, "we were three to five pupils exactly, and sequestered in wings of the old keep."
"Aye, aye, tight groups, we were, Camleth, like kindred," similarly grumbled the other fellow in green and silver, taking a long puff of his long, sweeping pipe.
"Made for greater rivalries, too!"
"Ah, the rush to find and discover, they've the place well mapped now, I reckon."
"Oh they do indeed," said Camleth, sharply exhaling a gout of pipe smoke from his nose. "We used to keep the under-wings for practice. All sorts of things down there, all sorts of secrets, and hidden laboratories that cabals of students would make—you really could take the learning into your own hands."
"Aye, aye, ye could. They've it all filled in now, all emptied out. Terrible shame, terrible. You know they make constructs now instead?"
"Preposterous," Camleth spat. "Won't teach them a blasted thing. You know, Aswyr, I've still got the fang of my first hobgoblin around here somewhere. Spent three days lost in the middens, the stink drew goblins to it, and among them was this brute, sinewy thing it was, terribly sorcerous, oh but I set them to flight! That thing's magics became my own, for a short while, until greater forces called me. Can any of those poor fools today claim such?"
"Nay, I dare say not. They've twenty pupils per class in the old halls now, and more patrons, and public funding, can't let folks be wandering off for days at a time. You know. Learning!"
"No initiative, that's what I say. Can't blame the wretches, though, can I, Aswyr? Not with—oh, forgive me for uttering the very name!—Dormar's Arcane Revolution muddying the waters."
"Aye, terrible shame. But I do have to say," said Aswyr looking down to his pipe with a sly little smile, "I do enjoy my transmitter in the evenings."
"Bah," Camleth grumbled, "child's play, we could have made that—you and I, and don't think we couldn't have! And with more than just the one Spell, to boot!"
"Ah, maybe you yerself, I'm still away with the fairies most days."

Camleth chuckled to himself, and sighed. He took a long puff of his pipe and held the smoke, before letting tendrils of it slowly escape.
"What happened to magic, Aswyr?"
"We discovered the Seventh Spell," answered his friend, packing a new thumbful of desiccated leaf into his pipe.
"No, I mean...magic. Not metamechanics or energy conduition or whatever godless term they have for it these days. I mean magic. Sorcery. Enchantment. Wizardry!" Camleth threw up his hands and let them fall back down with a thud on his armchair.
"T'was bound to change with knowledge, I fear. But Camleth, old friend, what be magic?"
"A vocation, Aswyr. A calling."
"Aye, aye, but think like a commoner tilling a field in the bitter cold: what be magic?"
Camleth only gave a sigh as he sunk back, thinking.
"Mystery. Vastness. Sanctity," said Aswyr. "Aye, magic does not exist anymore. No mystery left. The secrets have been plumbed."
"But that's the damned thing, Aswyr, for us there may not be mystery, but there is wonder, no? Reverence? A profound depth?"
Aswyr could only nod. His friend was right.
"They teach them in the school-rooms of these...mechanistic principles so far removed from deeper truths. By my stars, I see them in the streets, when I have occasion to go out into the city—and I thank my stars such times are rare!—I see them with little machines on their doorsteps, invoking—the machines, of course, not them—bits and pieces of the Third Spell for such crass mundanities. I see devices chanting every hour of every day, just...out there, passed by multitudes who can't even fathom the meaning, or the weight. There is no mystery for them, and yet neither is there understanding."

Camleth got up and wandered over to a high arched window of stained glass bearing an illustrated sacred geometry.
"Mankind stands now where once did the gods of old. We cast them down and showed the divine metaphysics in their fullness for all to know. Mankind can work the universe as it sees fit. But all it did was drive them further into ignorance."
"The Revolution revealed much contented ignorance in the world."
"Give a man a miracle, Aswyr, and what happens?" said Camleth, turning around.
"He worships it with blind faith."
"Or crushes it under his heel as superstition and devilry, and will hear no more of it. Were none of the other Spells of consquence to the world?" said an exasperated Camleth.
"When the subtle body was taken care of, I suppose not for most. Perfect health for life, Camleth, and years and years more than just about anyone ever expected. Nothing to turn yer nose up at if ye be a commoner."
"And what to do with those years? Burn out your brain on disposable invocations? Oh stars, Aswyr, even saying that does something to me." Camleth put his hand to his forehead. "Our orders spent centuries uncovering two spells only for the results to be cast away like filth. Does that not stir you?"
"Ah, it does, old friend. It does. To think, in our lifetimes, to see the people embrace the secrets of the universe..."
"...And to take them for granted as they do everything else."

"And reduce it to pale numbers and measurements, bereft of soul."

Both men were quiet for a moment, neither looking at each other, until Aswyr spoke.
"Were we to turn all the world into wizards, Camleth?"
Camleth let out a derisive laugh.
"I see no other choice. What, three thousand years of ascendant knowledge from across the world, all for the sake of cheap machines, blissful idiocy, and the absolute destruction of all that is sacred? Call me a madman, but I don't think our sires and foremages would think it was worth it."
"Hmm," Aswyr mused aloud, "a magician's movement, perhaps."
"Ha! If there's one thing the peasantry will flock to, it's a bandwagon upon which to jump! I'm sure there's a handful of deluded romantics in the College still who'll eat it up."
"Or a new dark age," Aswyr said, his voice low and light and smiling.
Camleth chuckled grimly. "Now there's a thought," he said with an odd croak to his tone.
"Where mage-kings lead the people through darkness."
"Where they know the sanctity and profundity of true magic."
"And by degrees are initiated and uplifted to the dizzying heights of wizardom."
"A mage can dream, Aswyr, my friend, a mage can dream."

Blighted Spires

Marrick was city watch. Not proud city watch, being in the guard was a dirty job most times, but it had to be done, and he never had much of a temperament for aught else. He'd been with them over thirty years now, and was at least glad to see bits of the city get better, and bits of the watch get better with it. Schools, foster homes, labour aid, really starting to watch out for folks. If it kept up like this, he might start to feel a bit proud. But if he wasn't proud of the watch or his duty, he was certainly proud of the three young watchers who sat before him in a corner stall of the Redboot Tavern.

Marrick had been nursing a mug of whatever swill they were offering to dull the senses today, finding the courage to defy orders. He could see, from out of the corner of his vision, Daya cocking her head in that particular way. She was cunning, but it was tempered by a big heart. She wanted to help, and had the smarts to do it, so she was in the watch, but not the guard. She'd be okay, he knew it. Garrin, though, as he croaked up "What's going on, boss?", he was guard through and through. Reminded Marrick too much of himself at times. Poor lad. Vey had stayed quiet, but his brow was troubled. Marrick had believed at one time Vey was putting on an act, but no, he was a true idealist. Should have been in a better city than this. He'd be running the watch anywhere else.

They'd been working together for a little over seven years now. Marrick never had children, but these three came pretty close. They'd surprised him time and again. Real faces of the future. But Marrick didn't think this city had a future. Damn it, he had to tell them.

"Look," Marrick grumbled, "me even bein' here right now is against orders, so I s'pose nuthin' I say really matters, but—but," he said, raising a finger and shooting a glance to each of them in turn, "what I say don't leave this table, you hear?"
They nodded silently. Marrick leaned in, mouth working to from the right words.
"Just...get out of the city as soon as yous can. Go home, pack up, leave. Today. Don't hand in a notice, don't talk to anyone else. Just go."
"Something's going on," Daya exclaimed, "I knew I felt something."
"Rebellion?" asked Vey.
"Gangs, is it, boss?" Garrin seemed sure.
Marrick rubbed his eyes and his hands, and sighed. He had to force the words out.
"The spire was found cracked open t'day."

Vey's hand shot to his mouth as his eyes stared and wandered, and Daya's lips clamped shut as her hand went out to stop Garrin before he could make a sound. Marrick put his hands up to stop any immanent questioning. That they even knew about this was well beyond their station, he'd been there fifteen years before his superiors had even hinted of them. Took another decade to get briefed on the rest. And he'd told them just enough to paint a vivid picture. It was a funny way of showing he cared, but there it was.

"Now look," Marrick said firmly, "nuthin's happened yet, but the watch officers are runnin' about like blue-arsed flies, and threats and promises are flying around from the higher ups to keep quiet, so don't say a thing to anyone, you hear? Do not make a panic. Just pack up and get out before they shut the city down. I don't expect the gates to open again after t'night."

Garrin didn't live far from guard headquarters. He liked to keep near. Also meant someone might see him. He knew the alleys, though. He kept to them, slipping past open streets only when boots had passed on. Things kept coming back into his head, of what Marrick had said about the spires. Ages ago, a plague came from the stars, and old kings had sealed it away. Now, centuries later, the watch kept them under surveillance across the continent. The city came later, once people had forgotten. Garrin's spartan quarters were tucked away. It was always a defensible position, he'd thought. Once, from gangs and rebels, now...he didn't want to think of what might come out of that spire. He was glad his life more or less fit into one decent pack.

Vey had developed a good way of looking busy that kept most people away from him. The right stride, the right look on the brow, the right distance to take out some parchment and look it over, when and how to cock the head in expectation of something. It got him past no less than four different guard patrols who probably thought he was on the same business as them. He let himself hope they were just doing what he was doing, and they were on the way out, too. But it had to take him close to the spire, to his apartment in the historic Voczian Burroughs. Historic because they had been built around the spire, and thus were the oldest parts of this city. Up until a mere few hours ago, he felt like he'd been maintaining vigil on it. Now it was a threat ready to make good on itself. Vey stopped once he was in his rooms, confident no one had pursued him. Now, he thought, straightening himself up, what did he have in his collection that might best preserve the memory of this city?

Daya had to compose herself in the hallway of the academy. There were eight children in the room just beyond, playing. They'd all lost their parents in a tenement fire three months ago. She'd been turning over options in her head the whole way there, and now each one was screaming at her. She couldn't just have the children taken out of the home, not without notifying the watch first. Ah, she was part of the watch, though...but she had superiors. But she couldn't just stand there, someone would come along and ask questions. She moved up into her chambers, locked the door, and sat down. It could be happening right now, she thought, a chill running up her back. Things Marrick had said welled up suddenly, of people stuffed and sealed in the spires—didn't matter who or what you were. The things they must have done to try and escape...then to survive...what they called to, and what might have answered...what they became...there was no way the old accounts Marrick talked about could have been real, not with the things they described. But Marrick wasn't a liar, and there was too much evidence to the contrary she had seen herself over the years, in archive back rooms and private studies. A few minutes later, Daya left the academy with a small pack under her arm containing a change of clothes and nothing else. She prayed in her mind someone would find the note she had left soon.

They found each other a short ways beyond the gates, though it was only after an hour beyond the city outskirts did they finally come together, and talk, and hope the old man hadn't paid a price to get them to safety.

Cathedral of the Serpents

Three figures stood inside a low, cramped room, lit in pale orange by only a few paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Lining the walls were shelves packed with disordered stacks of books, no one the same size or shape as the others. In the middle of the floor, separated by two free standing shelves, were cots. Upon one was a person, curled up on their side, eyes vacant and drooping. It was around this person whom the other figures were standing. One was clearly a physician, in the short, black robe of her station, one was in the mannered, wide-sleeved rich brown doublet and blue hosen of a Lundermark court official, and the last was clad in the crimson robe and cloak of nothing less than a magician. They were all Voerlunders, as was the figure on the bed, though only the red-robed figure bore the silvery sheen of advancing age.

"So, tell me again," asked the wizard, "you say you found this poor wretch wandering the streets?"
"Yes..." sighed the physician uneasily, "yes, and he's not the first. We've seen and sent away least thirty others. But one of my attendants, it was, brought the poor chap in herself," said the physician, walking around to the other side of the cot, "found him completely unresponsive, worse than the others—but, not silent. Listen for yourself, sir."
The wizard took his time going around the bedside, watching the man. He was relatively young, very thin, his clothing was worn, and his hair was an unkempt mop. The wizard knelt down, closed his eyes and strained his hearing.
"Down. Deeper. Underground."
The wizard knelt there for a minute or two.
"Down. Deeper. Underground."
The young man was repeating it, over and over, under his breath, mouth barely moving.

The red wizard Carloman stood back up and moved to the doorway, and began to think. He took stock of things, and gave a huff. He hadn't been in the city more than a day when something came up. Yes, it frustrated him sometimes, and yes he knew the immanent and ever-present peril the world dwelt within, but S'eth, the gods really did outdo themselves every so often. He chuckled to himself, and realized how quiet it was, and cleared his throat. He'd been approached, near the capital keep, by a court factotum—not his liaison here, but another in the direct service of the ruling and beloved Lunderman family. Now, Carloman was beholden to no lord or master, he stood side by side with gods and held within himself the dark secret of the universe. He came and went freely wherever he desired. But he was a Voerlunder, and as such, even he got a little flustered learning that Anasya Lunderman had personally requested his presence for an urgent matter.

She had been tall, lithe, with a pure golden mane of hair and eyes you could pick out from across a room, so sharp were they. Yet all of her angular features were offset by a wide, warm smile and unmistakable sincerity to her words. It seemed that something of a reputation preceded the wizard, word having reached the court by certain avenues that "a Son of Voerlund and learned sage had come home". Well, he'd rarely been called something more flattering—it had worked on him, and he had let it. The Lunderman family were held by all the land to be a fine bloodline, of course, but a little distant in their bearing. Some would day stately. Carloman was glad to see at least one branch broke the mould.

Some few days ago, the kingbeasts, the elemental lifeforms that emanated from the ancient keep, had begun to act uncommonly strange, was what Anasya Lunderman had told him in the lavish boudoir. They were sensitive to internal squabbles and issues—often, Carloman knew, they reflected as yet unknown arising problems affecting the keep, the royal family, or even the land itself, but now they didn't seem unsettled or restless so much as they seemed...afraid. He'd been up briefly to the tangle of battlements and bridges that composed the upper ward of the keep proper. Castle archivists had been poring through records older than the kingdom for potential causes, but no one was really sure of anything. All Anasya knew was that it wasn't right in a way she couldn't put into words, and, she confided, it had the court on edge, and made herself uneasy. But Carloman understood. An official aide was assigned to him to help move the investigation into their upset along, a Manatarian woman named Beru, with whom Anasya seemed quite close.

Then there was that collapsed house. It was like one single violent jolt had struck a small section of the city. Destroyed a three hundred year old house. Lovely middle kingdom architecture, Carloman had thought as he passed by the ruins, making small benedictions, of that flamboyant style the people made in celebration of a recovering Voerlund. As far as he knew, no one had died, but he hadn't made enquiries and his aide Beru didn't know either. He was hoping not. That jolt had dislodged a number of foundations and walls, shook about a thousand years of dust into the streets, frightened a great number of pet reptiles and children. No one knew what to make of it.

And then a bunch of strange folk, wandering like they were in waking dreams, muttering over and over "Down. Deeper. Underground". According to Beru, nothing really out of the ordinary, or at least nothing particularly noteworthy, had come to official attention. What had happened first? The house first, then the kingbeasts, then, according to the physician, finding those wanderers. Yes, he could paint the picture in his head, alright. It didn't seem terribly far-fetched to connect them, Beru had agreed. But what was it the kingbeasts warned of, then?
"My guess," said Carloman as he gathered his aide and the physician together, "is it dwells down, deeper underground."
"Lundermark's riddled with ancient voids and lost sections..." said Beru.
"Perfect place for...something to hide, or happen. Could you show us," Carloman looked to the physician, "where your attendant found this poor man?"
"Of course," she said, looking back at the man on the cot, "I'll send her out with you at once."

Carloman rumbled in thought and went to grab his staff from the wall it rested against. He stopped, though, and instead began to rummage around for a loose sheet of parchment, only asking once he'd begun if it was okay. The physician assented. Carloman took a leaf and a piece of charcoal, then removed a few amulets from around his neck, placed them under the sheet, and made rubbings of them.
"Leave these with our friend here," he said to the physician, "I'd leave my own, but, well, I'd rather not be without them since I don't know what's going on. These rubbings of them, however, will certainly do the trick. Don't move them, please. I suspect he won't give you any trouble, it's more for his sake. And...keep the lanterns lit."

Carloman and Beru stood before a thin opening between two tall structures of stained greenish stone. They were on the side street of a side street, standing on sunken cobblestones in the shadow of the elevated city above. Lundermark was composed of great circular walls and boundaries, as are most Voerlund things, but within those circles were haphazard layers and steps of streets and courts and bridges and grand thoroughfares, all of them intersected by even more passages. Some were low but open and sunny, some were high, windy, and obscured. Some were entirely lost and hidden just under your feet, untrodden for two thousand years. Lundermark had not been built. It had grown.

Into that narrow space now did the two go, through cool, damp, shadowy understreets and along jagged, uneven steps, all of it as silent as the grave, lit only by snaking shafts of pale light from above, and Carloman's staff. Lundermark's criminals found the understreets a haven, and black markets moved about unseen through the ancient inner hollows. Although these half-forgotten sub-sections were numerous, they often weren't terribly large, they didn't go more than three storeys down, and neither were they connected—an idea which has haunted more than one city guard's dreams, no doubt. But it wasn't thieves Carloman was worried about running into.

At last, along a meandering, chasm-like path they had spent some time carefully treading in the dimness, they came upon a structure which seemed to stand out among the rest. The street of shuttered and empty buildings all ended in a somewhat larger building set against a colossal stone foundation. Beru stopped to reorient herself and said with some measure of mild bewilderment:
"If I am not mistaken, sir...that's part of a base of the keep proper, and, again if I am not mistaken, a short way up and over there...is Krosny Street."
"Where the house collapsed," Carloman affirmed, the picture becoming a little clearer in his head. "What is that place, do you think?"
"I can't rightly say, though that round aperture...looks to me like an old temple, or, oh what were they called..."
"Hall of Saints," croaked Carloman as they got closer."

Upon its face were doors of metal it took some effort for them to push in, and at no point did either of them believe the skinny, half-dreaming wanderers were opening these portals alone. Carloman at least found it curious he had accepted that so fast. But when they swung them inwards, he understood, believing his flesh had somehow caught the horror before his eyes did. Within the shell of the building, with its sagging walls, there was little to call a floor. A great black rent gaped open like a formless black smear. But what made Beru fall back with a gasp, Carloman reeling back with her and stifling a swear, were the four massive statues of black serpents which coiled and curled and leered with shining pits, their jaws, the wizard swore to himself, almost slavering.

There wasn't a Voerlunder alive that could say why it was that certain things of serpentine shape that dredged up in them such terror despite their serpent god, save for Carloman, and he dragged Beru out of there at once, spitting arcane words of flame and esoteric invocations to the sun. Only when they stood before the thin opening did he stop and hold Beru by the shoulders.
"I need you to go to the Lady Anasya and tell her I will of course do everything I can to help, but please tell my lady I will need her full support and resources immediately."
"Do I dare ask," said the Manatarian, "what it was we found?"
Carloman shut his eyes and forced out some words.
"Something...has been calling people down into this forgotten place, into that lightless rent, and it will not stop."
"Something? Carloman, sir, I cannot go to my lady without any clear notion of the danger, if danger it be."
Carloman knew people had a perception of him as a sorcerer, especially those that didn't know him well, and he used it to his advantage when it was necessary. This was such a time. He knew the right timbre and flash of eyes to affect people.
"Something I dare not speak of aloud."

For that entire day, until the sun finally left for the horizon, Carloman went with each group of workers in and out again, lighting their way with this staff and lining the entire length of the walk with candles. He even dragged a couple wheelbarrows of timber himself. He didn't care go down into that great jagged wound in the city. There were some things he couldn't face without the right preparation, and whatever was down there was already ahead of him. He was content with pouring two dozen barrels of oil and pitch down and setting it all ablaze. Hay and wood had been thrown around the rest of the interior, especially piled about those serpent shapes. The labourers wouldn't set a foot through the metal doors and he didn't blame them. But they got there in the end, and for a full day, that understreet was bathed in a warm, radiant bonfire's glow, carried by the candles into the side street above.

Later that night, after having made sure the dreamer had woken from his fugue, that he was okay, and that he kept those amulet rubbings on his person, the red wizard attended a late private audience with Anasya Lunderman.
"The kingbeasts seem to have calmed down a great deal, or so my father reports, I haven't been to see them. I must ask, though...Beru mentioned some rather frightful things, of serpent statues in an ruined temple?"
"It's all scorched ashes now, my lady, nothing to worry about."
"Must have been some great magic to reduce stone to ash!"
Carloman looked down and away for a second.
"They were not hewn by human hands, nor were they quite statues by the time I got there," was what he wanted to say. Instead he smiled and said "Oh, it was some odd elemental manifestation—you know how this city is, my lady. Old shadows and older history. I dare say strange little things skitter about now and again down in the understreets. Ah, but I believe the fire and warmth and such has worked to balance the factors down there, so to speak."
"Well, I can say the court is pleased to have such a fine magician in the city. Will you be staying on a while?"
"My lady, I wouldn't miss this city's ale and cheese for the world."

BUT!!! Before we rev up, a quick shout out to fellow fantasy writer Josh Walker and his cool initiative to help spread the word of indie writers (including yours truly). Here’s what you can expect from his books in his own words…

You can check out a whole host of links to Josh’s books (including signed copies!), a free novella, and his social media RIGHT HERE

Hey folks, if you missed last week’s (technically) edition where we explored a brand new dark, high magic setting, well good golly, would you ever go check that out OVER HERE? It’s good stuff, we swear!

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This week, we find ourselves standing within the Sacrificial Glade, the red wizard Carloman battles to save the soul of an innocent using the Sorcery of the Storm, and two monks seek the Demons of the Sword…

Sacrificial Glade

After having passed through leagues of brambles and thickets, through the depths of murky forests, and through dank, fetid gulches, a traveller attains the crest of the cold, lonely hills and see revealed, as if in a vision, the golden vista of the shallow valley below. The somnolent scent of heather fills the lungs here, interspersed with white and green wildflowers with broad, dropping petals. The grass along the earthen track is lush and wavers in a light breeze that plays from no direction in particular.

Soon, the first habitations are gained. They are stone huts with aged wattled roofing and garlands of yellow flowers hung upon doorways. No smoke rises from their chimneys, and all is presumed quiet within. Along this path are golden fields of wheat, shimmering like liquid metal, around which sprightly insects buzz and cavort. Avian symphonies play in every distance, the long, arching boughs and branches of singular trees housing the choirs.

Into a small village does the traveller now pass, the labours of the day set aside, and all in well-earned repose. Peaked roofs of antiquated date and little flaking plastered stone houses are festooned with long strings of thrown flower chains, and bouquets hang from over doorways. Loose petals litter the bare, dry earth, well stamped with the rush of feet. In the middle of this quaint hamlet, a great spiralling pole of painted wood in festive greens and yellows atop which is perched, rather than sitting, a Green King bearing a crown of antlers, and a long beard of leaves that speaks to his great age and wisdom. In his hand, a knobbed sceptre from the head of which sprouts leaves and berries, symbolizing his long harmonious rule and deep connection to the rich, verdant land with which he and his people form a profound continuity. It is all a far cry from the stone and marble temples of the mountaintops and city depths, where incense carries the mystery incantations of symbolic gods who never walked the world. Here, tilled fields are their shrines, harvest and husbandry their prayer.

And this procession is lit by a sun which seems unwilling to set, lingering over this vision of pastoral beauty for a few moments longer than anywhere else in the world.

Past the village, from which not a single sound escapes, lies the cool twilight path deeper into the valley. Night falls first here. Star-winds blow with a pleasing chill as the sidereal tapestry slowly emerges in a spread of ancient constellations. The woods are thick and tall, and their fragrance floods the lungs like the hillside heather, demanding to be drunk, only now it is deeper, earthier. Older. Gnarled and twisted woody sentinels admit the traveller under their inquisitive boughs, and all at once is the spell of the forest cast. It is almost as if the trees part in the night wind to reveal the path forward. And within the gentle embrace of the cool, shadow-laden forest is an open glade, and the incongruous glow of a bonfire.

The traveller sees a great throng of people silhouetted by the great leaping light, piled higher than some of the homes in the village, and over its roar and crackle are voices. They are not, however, the voices of people. Stripped to the waists and clad merely in torn rags, the people lope about with arched backs on all fours, yipping and snarling and hissing like maddened animals. Tongues of dancing flame flash across the faces of the congregation, showing for only a moment the sight of bulging eyes and bared teeth, as if something below the flesh strains to escape, for there is nothing human in those features anymore.

And before this horde of baying hounds that once were men, something peers from beyond the fire.

In its features is all the savagery of nature. The rot, the filth, the fur matted with blood, the claws encrusted with gore. The wordless thundering of the heart that is the chant of the hunter, of the prey, of survival. The orgy of feeding and mating. Bristling, tangled vines for a beard about a gaping snout, and splayed antlers for a crown. A staff of thorns held like a huntsman's spear. They are no better than beasts, say its three-eyed gaze—no, that isn't right. In its eyes, they are beasts, to the full, to the end. It is a transcendent ecstasy to be turned into beasts of such calibre. The writhing body they tear asunder is evidently a catalyst—the animal scream of the slaughtered, the hot stench of blood, no drug is more potent. But it isn't a sacrifice for the god of field and furrow, no. The real offering is the blood they will tear from each other as the searing silver moon stares down upon this place forgotten by all the universe.

Sorcery of the Storm

With every step, the rage grew within Carloman's chest. The wind beat against his face with cold, sharp needles of rain. The image of that poor child in the house below continued to invade his mind. The sky thundered in time with his muttered swears and curses. The rotten bastard was a heap of charred flesh and still the wizard wished he'd done more before the end. Send him back screaming to his masters. Lightning flashed to break him from his dark reverie, and he chastized himself each time a new pang of hatred flared. Not here. Not now. Can't let that taint what he must do.

Carloman was a fellow keenly aware of limits. There was only so much one person could do, only so much even a handful of gods could do. So he had resorted to extreme measures immediately. And yet, had he been a few hours earlier here, he would have been too late somewhere else. It was a bitter balm, but it kept him going, as did the satisfaction. But he'd pay for all this tomorrow, that much he knew. Age had been creeping upon him for some time now. A breathless moment here, a stutter there. But this was the prime of his power, he always reminded himself. A lifetime of sorcery was at his back. A lifetime of sorcery was what called up the storm he now tread through, the raw primal force of which was soaking into his bones. He had very little time to do what he must.

"We've seen things, wizard," the mother had said back in the village, "things we can't explain."
"We want answers," the father had entreated, kneeling down by his little girl.
Serpent's Breath, he swore out loud, they'd seen more than they could comprehend. More than they could ever know—should ever know, and he knew he had to oblige in some form, lest the dread gnaw away at them...and finally make its way in somewhere else, somewhere worse.
"Why..." the mother had asked, the tremble in her voice betraying, more than anything else, fear. "Why such cruelty? What did we do?"
"You didn't do anything," Carloman had replied, kneeling down beside the girl, not really asleep, but not really there either. "Men like him," he nodded sharply to the outside, "they cleave to a vile philosophy. Don't mistake it for madness, or illness. Things that men like him do show not just their absolute denial of the world and all within it, but their contempt for it. You understand?" he asked, looking up. "They really, truly believe this world is a prison, and that every second spent here is an affront..." he trailed off, aching to not have to even hint towards it, "to our 'true masters'. Some pitiable souls do it out of fear. But others, like him, do it for greed. For scraps from their masters' tables." He rose, feeling himself get angry.
Who? What? came the cavalcade of confused enquiries. It was a lot to take in so suddenly.
Carloman strode towards the doorway and stopped, not looking back. He paused for a moment before he spoke. "There is a darkness beyond the ken of mankind. The thought of it is not good to have in your head. Please be content with this answer, for I will speak no more of it. I am going into the storm now. Stay with your daughter. She cannot hear you, but your words and your touch matter more than you know. Bring her out when you hear me call." He reached for the door and opened it.
"How will we know?" asked the mother.
"You will know," he said, glancing back only once, his amber eyes flaring.

As the storm roared, the land was bathed in a silver fullness of day, and in the midst of the lashing rain was a searing ember of red flame. The end of his staff was planted firmly in the loose mud, the long serpent which coiled from its base rising with gaping maw to the sky, catching rain in the hollow where the wizard often set a piece of crystallized fire. He ran his hand along the length of the staff, over the carved disk of Gaoth, sky god of Macha, over the Sun and Stars of Mul Manatar, and over the sigil of a favoured Hero-God of Minosmiir. Embedded near the Macha elemental trinity was a shard of a Dunmarrow grave-slate—he made sure to touch that, too. No, there was only so much one person could do, and only so much a handful of gods could do. But what they could do, they could do well. That little girl was dead, he was certain of it. But the Dark would not have the last word this day. Not if the red wizard Carloman had any say in it.

Of all the sources of light in creation, only one thing in the world—and he believed that, the whole world—was more potent than astral radiance or fiery luminescence. If it couldn't wake her up, if there was nothing to wake up, it would at least cleanse her of the darkness and terror that were her last moments.

Within that small house, two parents silently cradled the cold, still body of their child who hadn't seen more than six summers. An incomprehensible mixture of anger, misery, confusion, and helplessness burned in the pit of their stomachs, and it was fragile like a thin glass, ready to split and shatter into something worse at the slightest touch. She was just a little girl, was what they said over and over in their heads like an entreaty, like it would make the world see sense and reverse what had happened. And then, three booms shook the walls—and they were not the roars of thunder. They shot looks to each other. That had to be it, right?

The mother threw the door open and the father ran out cradling his daughter, throwing his head back to call his wife to his side. The wind was deafening, the ground about village was a torrent of mud, the rain pelted them as if cast from slings, but forward they trudged to the beacon of flame which now turned to them, his beard flowing like a silver stormcloud, his eyes shining like golden stars, mist trailing from his feet.

"Lay her down," was all he said, his three singular words accompanied by a resounding rumble of thunder from the heavens.

They did as he bid them, setting her down gently upon the rain-soaked soil. Suddenly, the wizard drew his staff out of the muck and thrust it into the air, the gathered water sloshing and flying up, the clouds sending a great web of thunderbolts across their surface as if in response, one of them hurtling downwards—the parents flinched back, hesitant hands reaching for their child. But in that second the great arcing spear flew to the wizard's raised staff and bathed its whole length in iridescent silver lightning—it was as if Carloman grasped a thunderbolt in his very fist, and holding it for a mere second, himself like a vision from primordial legend, plunged it downwards upon the child's chest.

With a burst of searing light, the parents fell back, but in that second, something in the air seemed to break, and though it continued to fall, the rain felt more gentle, and the wind no longer roared. And before them on the soggy earth, their little girl sat up, shaking, and the red wizard sat down with a thud and a weak laugh that came through a smile he couldn't have hid if he tried.

Demons of the Sword

Each new gust of bitter sleet further eroded their hope that the knight was merely waylaid in his return. The fringes and cuffs of their heavy canvas robes were soaked, the oilskin cloaks designed to cover only so much. The sleet stung their faces, yet they were glad for it. At one point, one of the two figures stopped and tugged at the shoulder of the other. A great length of beads was wrapped around the man's arms, and a square-shaped piece had been reached as the length was passed through the fingers. From pouches about their waists they each removed long glass vials, and took a swig before replacing the stoppers. A second later they winced and bent forward with the pain, but the purge was doing its work, and for that, too, they were glad.

As much purity as they could muster would be an absolute necessity for retrieving the sword.

The world was rotten and filthy with impurity. Life itself was the source of it. Eating food required killing which created impurity, eating created waste which created impurity. To raise animals and crops to slaughter and harvest brought impurity. One could not breathe without building new stores of it in themselves with waste vapours. Death created impurity, as evidenced by the decay of corpses. To even bury or cremate the dead brought one into contact with impurity. Not knowing what to do, the world merely persisted. It was a harsh teaching that slowly became a kind of strange comfort. It simply was.

When the pain had ended, they then dashed several drops onto their hands as an ablution, which were wrapped in strips inscribed with holy scripture—simple instructions for purification rituals. An unorthodox practice with no proven efficacy. But they had decided they'd take any help they could get.

Mankind learned over long ages how to purify itself and the world around them, though it were by small degrees. Through fire and water could flesh and soil be purified. The raging flame reduced to cinders and ash anything it touched, and the rushing stream and roaring ocean diluted and cast about all else. And, too, through scouring and purging could humans be purified—suffering was proven a woefully effective method of driving impurity from the body. Such was the dogma of the whole of the world, born of a desperate need for salvation, and had been the lifelong faith of these two monks.

The sword was part of an elaborate measure of a prospective ritemaster's purity. The sword housed an immeasurable impurity, and spent its existence frozen within a block of blessed water, only to be melted out with ritual flames when a prospective had undergone a lengthy purification ritual: burning the fingertips, immersion in the nine waterfalls, gaining the marks of the silver scourge, and a steady diet of purges. Purity exists only once in one's life, at birth, and the long rite intends to scour from the self the stains of life. Only once this had been attained could that sword be held.

Purification did not undo impurity, but exorcized it into some spiritual underlayer of the world. In truth, most folk, including the college of ritemasters who performed, refined, and invented new purification rituals, to whom the two monks looked for guidance, could hardly come to an agreement on the nature of it all, but the fact of it was clear. Impurity grew, and it festered. It bred disease of body of mind, gnawing at the vitals, and if left untouched, settled into a bed of corruption from which emerged demons who sought out the call of impurity.

Such was the sword of their quest. Home to an unfathomable impurity which could destroy with a touch. It was a rather plain blade into which a pious blacksmith once hammered seven demons with a white hot mallet—a miraculous act which proved two things: the ritual strength of flame, and the potential for living purity, for the blacksmith's hands remained undecayed even in death. What hammering them into a sword meant had been lost time, almost certainly it was a metaphor, but nonetheless, they were of a number of relics scattered across the world that sinners hastily bathed in the presence of, seeking some measure of the purity therein. The monks had themselves spent some time in the presence of their shrine's own relic. It was a spinal cord whose story they only half knew.

Holding the sword aloft, the knight had proclaimed he would go into the wilds, and there some demon slay. The congregation had applauded him, but had not cheered. The old warrior houses bore debts of blood, and practiced their own ruinous rites of purification through feats of strength. Death in battle, fighting for some cause, saving some life, these were their purifications. The bare handful of undecayed dead in their clan vaults proved this to them, rather than being exceptions to the rule, for not a single knight in some six hundred years had ever been returned home whole and pure, no matter their feats and deeds.

Alas, the two monks hadn't long to ponder his fate as a break in the wintry rainfall on the hillside revealed the exact scene they'd expected, but hoped not, to find. Highwaymen prowled these ranges still. The weather had been a cover for the monks, not even desperate brigands would brave this. Only they had met more than their match, and paid for it with death in impurity. They lay in crumpled, bloodied heaps close to each other in the kicked up and ruined earth, hacked to pieces, and in the middle of them was the knight, armour half torn from him, streaks and rivulets of blood still oozing from every rent in the steel. It seemed that once again the sword had gotten the better of a prospective, and had been given free reign before it killed the hands that drove it.

And then, just as they crept forward to retrieve it from the mangled hands, from amidst the sludge of muck and gore something pushed its way out.

In the few seconds they gazed at it, they perceived it mostly as some kind of massive maggot, with bloody, toothy orifices at either end of its squirming body. From one extremity, three somethings emerged: long segmented appendages which themselves ended in wicked little mouths. From these, things unmistakable as aught else than hands flexed their way out. Between the two arms a head emerged—or rather, an eyeless maw, raw and red and slavering. From the other end of the thing, stunted legs on curved talons had slid out, as had a long twitching tail which whipped about furiously. The thing tried standing on its shaking limbs, as yet unsure of its new flesh. The monks dove in, their hands wet with bottled purge, and fled with the sword, tripping and lurching across the treacherous mud of the hillside as the baying and throaty chuckling of the demon slid through the air behind them. No, this wasn't the time to measure their purity. The ritemasters would determine that, at home, before the great warm hearth of the shrine.

I hope no one minds, but I may have gone overboard in multiple places this week and only one story actually counts as flash fiction. Also I royally screwed up, because in my (completely understandable) mad dash to write about wizards, I completely and irrevocably RUINED the schedule—this week was meant to be a new Path of Poison chapter! Please forgive me, for I won’t forgive myself.

Anyway, new logo, AND now a new email header! We’re all up to date, looking good aren’t we?

A triple threat this week with all the weird cults, dark gods, and sorcerous shenanigans you’ve come to tolerate here at S&S. Last week had some of that, too, and if you just got here or missed it, check that bad boy out HERE

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This week, we delve into the under-city in search of the Church of the Dream, we seek a dire cure in a savage world for Fire Madness, and we join an old friend to banish a frightful Wind of Dark…

Church of the Dream

The under-city was a tangle of sloping alleys, of long tunnels formed from the undersides of great bridges, of networks of habitations cobbled together between the foundations of larger structures above, it was lost streets, obscured courts, and forgotten buildings. The sound of a deep, distant bell served as his guide, carried and somehow enhanced by the cool dampness that persisted in the under-city after strong rains above. Its echoes sounded throughout the maze like exhalations, and the mist which clung to far off side-streets only strengthened the impression. The bell was a call, but not for him. It called for the Dream. Still, it had been useful in the early days, though he more than knew his way to the church now.

Down a short flight of thick, sagging wooden steps, into a deep alcove, and there was the double oak gate of the Church of the Dream. One of several, or so he understood. After all these years of deliveries, of all the faces he'd seen from the city above, of all the inner chambers he'd been granted access to, of all he'd learned of the Dream itself, he still couldn't quite make up his mind as to whether this was a legitimate cult, the just fancies of aristocrats, or the under-city forgotten looking to leave the world behind for a little while. But he was fond of them all the same, and he made sure they got good stock.

He knocked a "triple trinity" of three times three knocks and waited a moment. Apparently the rhythm was good for not bothering Dreamers within, and he'd made sure to remember that. The left-side door opened a crack, and immediately the sweet pungency of the den trailed out. From within the dim interior a face peered, a rather short, red-haired girl. Oh, she was new, he thought. But she had the eyes, the ones that aren't really looking at you when they're looking at you. She must have had the Dream. She knew who he was though, or had been told, and with a big smile wordlessly showed him in.

The crimson stone walls were deeper in hue than usual—new paint?—and the wide wooden beams across the gently arched ceiling had a few new gold disks hanging from them that tinkled pleasantly as the girl trailed her fingers through them. The long, low bell sounded deeper in here. Divans and cushions were piled into rounded recesses that lined short off-shoot corridors, wherein figures reclined. They, however, merely slept. Waiting to Dream. The ground was soft and padded for the sake of them. Down the central passage and through a gilded door they silently slipped, and into a domed library lit by tall braziers where his old acquaintance sat.

She was all of pure mahogany—her waving locks, her dark eyes, her dusky skin, as well as the air of the occult about her. He was sure she was quite beautiful, but her manner, though perfectly friendly, was distant in a way he never could fully grasp, and it did something to his perception of her. He always got the idea she had seen something. Whether it was some past trauma that affected her—and perhaps drove her to this den—or whether she'd really seen so much of the Dream as she'd hinted, it was another thing he couldn't fit into place. He showed her the merchandise as always, and studied her in the moments they were not in discussion.

The flowers were rare, expensive, and gorgeous to behold. Low, wide things that grew on cold pools, composed of a thousand shades of purple, and bearing a thick, sweet scent that demanded to be drunk deep. He couldn't really help himself, and he shared this with her, and to an extent, the Church. The potency wasn't just in their bulbs, it was in the petals, it coursed through the stems, and gathered in the roots. One of these flowers supplied enough of the drug for a full month. A lungful of it was enough to make the head swim for a second. Burnt and inhaled, or soaked and imbibed, they sent you into slumbers that were all but death itself—just enough so that you may still Dream.

And according to his acquaintance, Dream they did. For years on end. Saints and prophets of the Dreaming Church, coming messiahs of an age where knowledge from beyond the wall of sleep would enlighten the whole of the world. He had seen those Dreamers once, and it was the closest he had ever come to believing.

With a finely carved little box of thick coins under his arm, he and his old acquaintance exchanged a polite kiss on the cheek as befitting those of such stations and familiarity, and he was led out by the glaze-eyed girl. He enjoyed his visits to the Church. He had been to one other, but it wasn't the same. He thought, as he always did as he left, that either he had the best customers for life, or he had inroads with the truth. Either way, it was a win for him.

Fire Madness

"How long have you gazed into the fire? Look for only a second, and it just flickers, or jumps. But if you let your eyes stray slower over it, you can see deeper into the fire. Where it swirls and churns like so many crystals. The lights dance in your eyes, blotting out everything until you see the lashing tongues, begging with cavernous hunger."

That was the last thing Kenou said before the madness took him some time in the night. His brothers had went to bed full well knowing what was about to happen. Just a few hours before dawn, charred, sightless eyes peered into cupped hands that cradled nothing but air as a cloak was draped over him, and his brothers quietly ushered him past the heavy curtain and out of their domicile in the cliff-side village.

He had always been a sensitive fellow. The two brothers glanced to the glaze-eyed madman who now held his arms around himself in the cold pre-dawn air, and frowned. Things had always affected him in ways they never did anyone else. He talked of things to his brothers, and to their kith in the village, things he had seen in his dreams, or in storm clouds, or under icy waters, when others would have liked to forget them. While his brothers had mourned long their parents, Kenou had gotten over his sorrow swiftly, accepting this grand change, but the wound their hound sustained in a slight accident stuck with him for weeks, long after the beast was back to its old self. The way it huffed and whined as it lay by their fire, unable to do anything about the pain, affected him horribly.

Medou, his immediate eldest brother, often reckoned a mighty intellect in the village, now wondered if that was where the fire madness began. The worshipper would probably know. By earth and bones, what they were doing now was risky. But Jetou, the eldest of the three, was fond of his littlest brother's funny ways, he had always been a welcome diversion in the fields or at the mill, even if Jetou didn't quite understand. Medou wasn't going to argue, but he did wonder what the worshipper of the gods could really do outside the stories folk told.

In the sunlight, the gold on green was invigorating. A well-trod trail passed through a section of lightly forested country alongside a wide, stepped gorge with short waterfalls and black rocks which jutted from the foamy waters. On the opposite side, huge trees with curved trunks and hanging moss trailed into the sky. In the distance great broad craggy hills rose with mist at their peaks. But in the dark, the trail was dim, the river was a slick black roaring streak, and the trees were like great strange giants that peered from the shadows. The hills and their pearlescent mists melted into the night sky that swirled with cold stars. But it wasn't quiet—far from it. The night was never quiet. Hoots and calls shot from the distance and overhead, and the pad of feet and scrabbling of talons was ever present. The night was alive with vicious hunters who sought the advantage of darkness against each other, though all were born to it.

The worst part of all this was they couldn't even bring a torch. Not with Kenou being the way he was. Not with thoughts of hungry flames in his head.

Jetou came to a halt, and held his mad brother by the shoulders. Medou stopped, too, and crouched low. Feet ran in one direction, others leapt into a tree elsewhere. The brothers were broad-men, and stood always on their two feet, their still great strong arms good for industry. But this country, especially at night, was the realm of skitter-men, the shaggy, snout-faced folk who ran and killed from hands and feet. In the day they lazed in the sun on their treetops, filling themselves on the night's kills. Jetou was the eldest, and the strongest. He had his copper tipped axe with him, but feared his near blindness in the night. The stars merely gave things a dim outline, definition was lost in the murk, in which a dozen skitter-men might be crouching right now. One or two strikes with the copper tip would send a skitter-man off, but they were kings of these woods. If only the worshipper of the gods lay towards the savannah, thought Jetou, where wholesome grey-furred boulder-men lived. Jetou liked them, they were the strongest and none challenged them, and their villages were kith. A fine ally to have now, but even those mighty folk would balk at a worshipper of the gods.

Jetou took out his axe and tried to shine the copper tip in the starlight as they shuffled along their brother. Low, breathy sounds passed from one unseen foe to the other. Skitter-men didn't have so many words, many less than broad-men, mostly they talked like beasts did. Medou knew some of their sounds from hunting, and he was surprised when he heard them speaking "unsure", "afraid", "nervous". Why? Was it Kenou? He didn't know, but for now, he told Jetou, though it didn't make him put his axe away. The skitter-men stayed back some distance, although they followed almost the whole trail until the trees thinned out, and the dark dusky plains began, their long grasses shifting like deep waters, through which the brothers now passed.

An arc of paleness tinged the far horizon. It had taken longer to get here than the brothers thought it would. But the temple stood before them, set against a steeper rise on the low hill they had come to. A fire burned before four tall, flat, painted stones. Kenou raised his face as they came near, as if from a daze, but neither of his brothers thought he really saw anything but the fire with those eyes. The monoliths were old, the painted images and the stone around them chipped, faded, and stained.

They could not tell who or what was behind the mask of the figure that now crept forth from the deep shadows the flames threw forth, covered in a long robe of furs and straw, draped in many dozens of small things which hung from knots all over. The visage was a great disk with naught but two large painted eyes, and from it emerged the words of broad-men, but not how broad-men would speak them. It had seen the fire madness before. It knew it well.

"Fire, oldest power, older than tongues..." its head turned to Jetou, "older than weapons." It came forward and from its ragged shroud emerged an arm caked in crumbling black ashes. It lightly tipped Kenou's head upward, and seemed to peer into his eyes. "Men were not meant to have it. Gods forgot it on the field of battle. Like tongues and weapons. So only gods have power over it."

The worshipper made signs in the air with its hand, and then turned from them, shuffling back to the monoliths. It crouched before them, and to a small metal chest that sat there. It beckoned them to it without moving. A sudden weight fell upon Medou's feet as the fire flared and threw living light upon the painted idols which seemed to leer and dance and leap. Even Jetou tensed before them, wondering if, at any moment, some terrible being might emerge. The worshipper stood and held something up then. It was on a long length of black knotted thread, a collection of what looked like desiccated flowers or herbs, themselves black, wrapped in rough leather.
"Pray," said the worshipper.
"To what?" asked Medou.
The worshipper pointed an ash-painted arm up into the inky blackness.
"The Night God."

Jetou did not hesitate, and uttered a simple supplication as he looked up, to what he barely even knew. The worshipper handed over the bundle, saying it was holy to the night, but its head was turned towards Medou, who looked away. He had wondered, since his brother and he had decided on this course of action, what good bringing the attentions of gods on them all would really bring. Fearsome tales abounded of the gods descending from their wars in the stars with wrath, or to steal men from the earth. A hundred stories flooded into his mind, but the resolute eyes of his brother steeled him. He would utter one prayer, and then only in his mind, for the gods to take back their fire, and pass their eyes over he and his kin.

Wind of Dark

Lysella was a healer. That's what she'd always been told, and it's what she'd always believed. She had the temperament for it, apparently. Or so everyone told her. She was good at it. Much of it came naturally. Not all of it, but enough for the village, most of the time. But this, with twenty years of experience, from a young age, this had her stumped. She couldn't say so, though. The way everyone kept looking to her, apologetic, desperate faces wondering, begging to take one more in. She'd met every one of their perceptions about her thus far. And in the face of this sickness, how could she say no?

At least that stranger in the public house wasn't sick. He seemed fine, kept to himself. He nodded when people passed him, gave smiles from under that great bush of beard. Kindly eyes, warm eyes, for all he was dressed like a sorcerer. She'd had a mind to enquire after him, but the way he hunched over his book, or leaned on his arm, told her not to. Not that he seemed dangerous, just...she didn't know. No doubt he was impatient to set sail to the Macha Clanhold, but still, why choose a little port village like this?

A sudden knock at the door. Serpent's Breath, another one? In the moments it took to set down her mortar and pestle, the thought once again welled up in her mind: when will I get sick? She banished it as she undid the latch and opened the door. She could feel the cold, and night was settling in already. Great. She pulled the door in to admit her patient, only it wasn't a patient. It was the stranger. Lysella stood still for a moment, a little surprised. He was looking past her, scanning the interior of the apothecary's house. His eyes darted back to her.
"I understand there is a sickness in the village?"
Fear burst open in her chest.
"Ah, yes, but please, if you stay back, return to the inn, there's very little, um, very little chance of-" she stammered out, but the old fellow stopped her.
"Oh, no no, I'm sorry, I bear no complaints," he said as if he felt he'd genuinely offended her. "I only mean to ask because I believe I may be of assistance."
"How...how so, sir?" she replied, hesitation and exhaustion mixing in her voice.
"My name is Carloman," he smiled. "I am a wizard."

She waved him in, and watched the stranger—the wizard as he glided in, his red cloak flowing behind him. He had a great big walking stick with him. Or a staff. Wizards had those. Some canons had them, too. This one was carved with all kinds of shapes she'd never seen before, foreign gods or magic symbols maybe. She recognized the long serpent shape which coiled around its whole length, though. He was walking among the meagre beds that packed the house, most lining the walls, some out on the floor. They were quiet. Horribly quiet. No moans of pain, ragged exhalations, nothing. Just laying there, breaths shallow and shaking, eyes seeing nothing. She could barely get them talk.

The wizard turned to her and walked slowly back, his brows furrowed over his worried amber eyes.
"I've never seen anything like this..." he said.
"Neither have I," she choked out, trying to be quiet but relieved to have finally been able to say it, before the fear crept back in. "None of my herbs, roots, nothing I can mulch up, none of my old medicine bottles," she whispered sharply, "I'm trying everything that is green and growing and rich, but nothing I feed them or get them to drink, nothing on the throat or chest," she was beginning to get louder, and the wizard put a hand on her shoulder.
"Tell me, how did this start? Did it come from a ship or aught else?"
"Came on bad weather."
"Weather?"
"Aye. About..." she clamped her eyes to focus, "seven days ago now, we had this, well, this weird storm. Been winter for two score days now, then sevenfold ago this dry wind, very unseasonable—we were all talking about it, not because we thought, great, summer is back already, but because it felt bad."
"Felt bad how, exactly?" Unease laced the wizard's tone, and his eyes wandered in thought.
"Dry. Warm. But like...it scratched the back of your throat, and made the air, I know I said it was dry, but it made it so warm at night."
"It came at night?" His eyes flashed to hers.
"Yeah, it comes with the night, stays until a little after the morning."
"It's been coming back?" he said sharply.
"We've had two nights—three now, hopefully this one without it."
"You are positive it came with those winds?"
"I am. I don't know, maybe it's some kind of imbalance in their bodies with this unusual weather-"
"From which direction does it come, do you know?"
"It comes from seaward, which is also weird."
The wizard did not reply, but his face said "of course it does" as his eyes hardened.
"Does...that matter?" she asked, wondering if she should have.
"I'm sorry, what's your name, dear?" asked the wizard.
"Lysella."
"Lysella, I want you to light some candles in here, and get that fire in your hearth healthy."
"I'm afraid that won't warm the place up much, sir, it's a draughty old house."
"Just keep this place as bright as you can."
"I'm sorry, but what's all this for?" She couldn't hide the tremor in her voice. Challenging a sorcerer, she felt stupid.
The wizard's hard eyes softened.
"The most vital thing you can do right now, as a healer and as their kin, is provide your people with light and flame. Oh, and, ah," he set his staff against a wall and began patting around his pouches and pockets for something, before pulling out a small orange gem. He then held his hand in a curious way, crossing all his fingers, placing the gem on the palm and breathing it, which, to Lysella's shock as she actually jumped back, it flared to life. "Don't worry, dear, it's quite cool. Hold the stone to your candles, it will light them, however many you have, and then pop it in your fireplace and it'll do the work. Just keep feeding it wood." She took the gem he held out between her finger and thumb, holding it at some length. The wizard retrieved his staff and made for the door.
"And where are you going, sir?"
"To banish this foul wind," said the red wizard with a rumble like thunder.

Beyond the healer's house, the twilight was still, but Carloman could sense a disquiet in the upper air, like a thousand spirits whirled and rushed about. Fleeing, perhaps. The dark winter air held a deep chill, but here beside the sea, it was brisk and quickening. That was good. Now, thought the wizard, where would be the best place to do this? Somewhere high, preferably. But alas, no cliffs. Not even a temple roof. And he couldn't quite scramble up one of the huts. The village was spread thin across a stretch of rather nice coastline with rocky beaches. He could see up and down the coast a short ways, and then it hit him—the pier. Perfect.

Night fell true as he made it to the pier. The difference between the deepest moment of twilight and night proper was the lack of definition on things. It made the world formless, unreal. There was the potential in that to do a lot of very useful things, but it also confused things, and as such, it was something Carloman never made much use of if he could help it. The stars were dim overhead with the weather—long wisps of high cloud obscured many of them. The ocean sighed. And then, by slight degrees that suddenly shot into a dozen snaking currents, a musty warmth flowed across the pier, the water, and forward onto the beach and village. S'eth, he didn't think it would arrive at the actual moment of nightfall. And sure enough, it stuck in the throat, making the wizard cough loudly. He banged his staff on the wooden pier three times and barked an arcane word of flame, but felt that scratchiness creeping back. He hoped Lysella had the candles and hearth going by now. She, and her patients, would need it.

Carloman continued uttering fiery words. He suspected it would do something to his speech if he didn't. At the end of the pier he stood. It wasn't terribly long, but it was closer to Macha than anywhere else in sight. The dark wind would dull and confuse the already tenuous sympathies he intended to invoke. He searched about his neck for the right amulet, and from the twenty or so thin stamped metal and hand carved wood medals he wore, he pulled one from his neck, and set it on the end of the pier. It was a repurposed lustre coin with a crudely hammered mark of Gaoth, the Macha god of sky and things that may come. He removed from a pouch, then, something else. It was a tied bundle of dry, brown sprigs. It was actually what he was on his way to replace. Cuttings from the depth of a primeval forest. Not much to work with.

"Serpent of Voerlund," Carloman spoke just above a whisper, two fingers crossed, "please loosen thy coils." He set his thumb on the spiralling snake that ran the length of his staff, and uncrossed his fingers. "Gaoth," intoned the red wizard with the proper Macha sounds, "come bearing storm from your cold northward skies." He banged his staff against the pier, and ran his thumb over the carved disk and waves of the sky god upon its shaft. "Come bearing hoarfrost from the mountain peaks." He hanged his staff again. "Flash thunderbolts and crack the heavens," again he set his staff against the pier, "and see in times beyond only the fresh breeze and bright air." Carloman thrust his staff into the air with a word of fire, and then a prayer-call he had once heard a Macha warrior under his brief tutelage use: “Gaoth, Vald na Awyr...Amach ur talún!”

Under all of his visualization, his focus, his words, was the desperate hope that this meagre working would do the trick. As that strange wind continued to come in waves, he thought that perhaps that was exactly why it didn't. Hope left room for failure, and doubt practically guaranteed it. He shouted another word of fire. So be it. He tore from his neck four more amulets and set them on the end of the pier. Though the sympathies did not exactly line up, he had an intent in his mind. He was the crucible in which they would change, this he knew and thought. A polished tin disk with stamped stars, a red stained droplet-shaped fire charm, a gold-plated sunburst, and his own World Serpent circle he had worn since his days as a court wizard in Zagrest, lay before him with Gaoth's mark, and the sprigs of primeval woodland. A potent little bundle.

"Bear them through, Serpent of Voerlund, through the Dark, hold them in thy coils, while from across the deeps come ye, Gaoth, clad in frost and mist and thunder, come, and I will feed your fire-towers many magical things."

With a great clang of his staff into the pier's wood and a final word of flame, Carloman stopped, and looked. The wind ceased to blow, but held still. Streaks of navy flew through the smattering of slate wisps of cloud above, and with every minute, grew brighter. There resounded across the coast deep booms. As the lightning broke through the corrupted air with the sound of trees being uprooted, a roaring wind carrying sheets of rain began to pelt the beach and village, the whole coastline was lit by fantastic bursts of radiance, and Carloman saw a vast form in the sky he knew was no cloud. In mere minutes, the clinging heat dissipated, and stars shone through breaks in the storm cloud. Carloman remained, drinking the northern storm into his lungs and bones, soaking in its power, until it died away into a drizzle, and the sun began to pale the sky.

Far into the morning, a sopping wet wizard sat quite pleased with himself by the hearth in the healer's house—now free of its patients. A chair or two had been sacrificed for the sake of the fire, but apparently it had been worth it. Lysella said, with wide eyes, that the fire had kept going low, but how she herself leapt as the fire leapt to life with the thunder cracks, and how that heavy rain seemed to have washed something away. Carloman told her it had. He waited until he was mostly dry to retrieve his gem, ask Lysella if there was aught else he could help with, and then where he might seek lodging, because quite frankly there was no way a ship was going to make that voyage if this weather kept up. Which it would, for a few days at least. He'd see what he could do about that in the meantime.

That’s mad isn’t it? What else is mad is this week’s edition, which actually a pretty regular triple bill of dark fantasy—mostly. Mostly? How so? You’re gonna have to read it to find out, bucko.

Small announcement by the way! Shadows & Sorcery turns THREE YEARS OLD this Wednesday! The first Edition Zero was released September 4th 2021, go take a look at that one for funsies. Happy birthday to us! And sincerely, thank you everyone who came onboard and stuck around. I love doing this, and it’s partly for me, partly for you. Thank you for letting me share all this stuff with you.

Now, for the new folks (and sure, the old folks too) last week was the 25th chapter of The Path of Poison, and the gang have found themselves in a new town with new challenges… Check that bad boy out over HERE

Also, while you’re clicking links, why not check out the last Shadows & Sorcery, too? It was pretty good honestly.

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This week, we bear witness to a grim rite within the Temple of Sorcerers, we watch an old god awaken in Ruined Altar, and the red wizard Carloman deals with the fallout of a terrible crime in Forest of Ritual…

Temple of Sorcerers

Long wisps of incense rose from tall braziers and collected in the arches of the high vaulted dark ceiling, through which there filtered three great beams of dark gold sunlight. Bells tinkled in curious harmonies alongside deep drums that sounded like inhuman heartbeats, issuing forth from shadowy culverts between twisting pillars, and out into the slate veined marble hall. Through this long passage a procession of seven figures passed, their mien sombre, their slow advance expressing a well-practiced reverence. They were clad in golden robes that shimmered in honeycomb patterns in the sunlight, they had small, slender, delicate features on long faces with long sloping foreheads, their skin was slate like the walls, and their eyes were each a long, curving slit which gave each of them a melancholy yet somehow proud bearing.

They were Alfar, this was their temple, and they were sorcerers.

Before them was a half dome apse, lavished with gold and cerulean filigree and mosaic, an idealized reflection of the heavens inside which lay the object their reverent gazes. Their eyes fell across it slowly, with such doting and devotion that it was as if they were meeting with a venerable ancestor. It was almost certain that each of them had personally known the owner of the raiment, but that was well over a thousand years ago, and memories and reflections, they knew all too well, became subtly twisted with age. But the rite to draw forth its power never changed, and never left. They let themselves bask in the nostalgia for a moment, and the beauty of the raiment. A golden robe after which their own was modelled, a high conical helm, also gold, bulging slightly, bedecked with white jewels, a set of long gloves of the highest, most delicate quality chattel-leather fitted with silver plates, and segmented ornamental greaves with gold leaf and cured chattel-leather.

Each piece was blessed by a god so that the ancient archmagister of old who once wore it might walk as a living instrument of divine power. And walk they did, until an Ogre's determined fingers plucked the sorcerer from the inedible relics and scattered them for centuries. But here they were again, now long safe in the temple's care, an object of arcane communion, a genuine point where the gods touched the world and left their mark. The secrets, and fruits of those secrets, belonged to them alone.

The squirming human barbarian—gagged, mercifully—was brought onto the low, grooved altar before the raiment. A frothing Vargeld beast. It was secured by veiled, lotus-drugged labourers, who scuttled away at the command of the Alfar master sorcerer who led this procession. Three sticks of incense were lit with a small, flame-bearing relic, and prayers were whispered into their scented smoke by the master. They were placed in a receptacle just beyond the writhing human. One of the lesser sorcerers produced then a long, thin, curving dagger, the blade badly stained, and with a nod from the master, slid it under the ribs of the human who screamed into its chest for only three seconds before the blade sundered the heart.

The six lesser sorcerers stood back and looked on with a burning anticipation that shattered their melancholy calm. The master bent down and took upon two fingers fresh, hot blood, and in a single deft motion, ran them across each one of the relics while speaking a three-word invocation otherwise reserved for attempts at direct communion. But this was close enough, and what was awakened was the blessing inside the raiment. The power of it rushed into the master who stood back, ramrod straight, and then spoke the names of each of the six others, and which relic they might activate.

In turn, each one approached the sacrifice, their gold robes hushing over the sacred ground, their two fingers and three words touching their designated relic, the raiment of a legendary companion of old. The blessing would last perhaps seven days, but in that time, the power and its privileges were theirs, to walk like heroes of the elder time, when favour flowed from the gods like wine in the Month of Songs.

Ruined Altar

Each thunderbolt bathed the streets in a cold, midday glare, the image of rushing figures, bared blades, and flying arrows seemed as if caught in a moment of frozen time before it all descended back into a rain-slick, fire-lit dark. Harsh tongues roared panicked arguments and commands as steel-tipped shafts glanced harmlessly from the stone flesh of the idol.

Kill them. I don't care how...I beg you...kill them.

The town square. Somewhere in its mind, it recongized that something about it was wrong. There should be an altar there. What stood there was no altar. How long had it been since it was here last? A screaming figure flung itself at the idol. Suddenly, the drive—the fervent, seething faith welled up in the idol's heart and with one swift arc, the stone hammer in its hand sundered the rushing shape's head to red mulch. Hot red gore was illumined in a flash from above. The idol put a hand to its own chest, and there felt the still-wet crimson streak that had started all of this.

I don't know who's listening...but if you can hear me...kill them.

A great soul, far above, further above than the thunder and the slate sky, above the sundered heavens where stars eternally drift out of alignment, where shattered moons edge closer to the world below, above it all, like a pre-birth memory, an impression, a great soul stirred in the finally silent cosmos by a voice, and a feeling. It had been the one to sleep lightest, in a dreamless state where the hope of one last prayer was its focus.

Be the vessel of my wrath...my life for vengeance.

It had all but clung to its idol-shrine, its altar, a weather-scarred thing half sunk in the mire, effaced of holy symbols, and yet one hand always was reaching down to it from in high. The god's own faith had, it seemed, been rewarded. The haze of long sleep, no matter how thin, was beginning to fade. Several dozen corpses, smashed, pounded, and grounded lay in a wake behind the god. Its ancient robes, now no more than heaps of stained and tattered drapery across its chiselled frame, lapped about it like tongues of flame as its eyes blazed with fire true. No wonder mankind had hammered all their altars to dust.

But, so spoke the desperate prayer of destruction, not all of them. Not yet.

Be the last...the last in all the world...

Forest of Ritual

Carloman stepped into the cellar. It was bare, dusty, bereft of warmth, even this far south in Silverden, save for something wet and red under the wooden plank flooring, which supported naked plaster walls rising to a low, curved ceiling. Two large-paned small windows near the ceiling admitted weak beams of pallid sunlight. The room was also full of temple guards. They were restraining the madman who had thus far murdered three people. In the middle of the floor was someone else, a woman—alive, thank the gods. She was covered in naught but sapping wet rags, she was shaking, her golden eyes bloodshot. The wizard strode past the guards who stood near her, trying to talk to her. Carloman set his staff, engraved with the images of the gods, on the floor with a word so that it stood perfectly upright, flung off his crimson cloak, and lay it about the girl. He spoke openly seven words of flame, and set the tips of his fingers, entwined, on the fabric. She seemed to soften in a fashion as the warmth flooded her. She looked up with a shaking breath, and Carloman bent down to her. He didn't need to speak. She broke out in a fresh sob and he helped her up.

As he led her out of the room, his arm around her shoulder, he locked eyes with the killer. In that moment, it took every ounce of restraint to stop the red wizard from doing something rash.

The rest of that day and long night was spent lighting candles outside a windowless dungeon cell as foul eyes watched from within, and then repeating words of flame at the bedside of the woman who'd narrowly escaped a wretched demise. Mareas was her name. He learned that from someone else. She hadn't spoken since she'd been rescued, and had remained wrapped in the wizard's cloak. He intended to let her keep it as long as she needed. There had been a stink to the whole thing. Not enough to be something truly Dark...but it had been getting close. Carloman had left his staff in the room just in case. No one was going to touch it, and he didn't mind leaving some presence of the gods there to cleanse that horrid place.

Come morning, the the town became quite picturesque, how it mingled with the broad open forest at its south end, reclining in the calm golden shade of the ancient forest canopy. Silverden didn't build temples, not counting the vast temple complex capital, of course. No point, they believed, seeing as the Serpent's coils pervaded all things at all points. But some places felt a little more special than others, they admitted to that, and were right about it. One of those special places lay just outside the town bounds. The house where it had all happened conveniently sat near those bounds, too. Easy escape must have been the idea. Serpent's Breath, that it had been going on just below their feet—bah! No more of that, Carloman, he thought to himself.

In the forest proper, the ground became a mat of soft, springy loam and short thick grass, small birds sang as they flew from branch to branch, and above, the sun cast golden rays upon the rich green canopy. The gentle breeze made the light shimmer almost like water. Carloman sat a little ways opposite Mareas, who seemed to have calmed down considerably, but exhaustion had flooded her dark gold eyes.

"Why are we out here?" she asked, looking down. That same exhaustion coloured her tone.
"I have brought you here to help you. You've been through something...that will leave a mark. It almost left worse. But you can return from it, I promise."
"I hope so..." The meekness of her words filled him with an anger he was well used to hiding. Gods of the world, this stuff really did get to him.
"You can. But only if you make it so."
"Why did this happen to me?" She looked up. "What order is there in this, that those other folk had to die?"
"This was man's doing. No god willed this, no custodian dead let it happen. Do not mistake subtlety for negligence."
"I spent a three days in that cellar with the stink of corpses and filth. Could the custodians really not help me?"
"Well, I think they had a hand in saving you, actually."
"Why not the others then?" A tinge of anger.
"It was I who got here late—but not too late."
"Who are you, Salaman? You're not a venerate."
She spoke his name in a distinctly southern style.
"I'm a magician from Voerlund. Though I like to think I'm from a little bit of everywhere," he added with a smile.
She have him an odd look in return—to be expected.

He gave her some moments to muster up whatever she had to say. He let her hear the gentle forest sounds, and let her feel the coolness of the breeze carrying woodland scents between the boles. They were fighting something of a battle here, though she didn't know it.
"How are you to help me, Salaman?"
"You are sitting, right now, in a sanctuary. Safe and secure from all the world. From rough hands and prying temple guards."
"I don't think I'm going to feel safe for a long time. Sorry." Her eyes fell closed almost involuntarily.
"Red is blood. Fire. Rage." Her eyes peeled open and fixed on him and his sudden forceful tone. "But," he continued, softer, "red is also warmth, passion, life, and vitality. Red is what you want it to be." Her eyes left his as she took in whatever that meant in. "Green is life and vitality, too. And growth, and replenishment."
"And sickness. Green is sickly," she croaked.
"Sometimes. Only if it has to be. Same with yellow. But yellow is also sunlight, and it is a most energetic colour."
"Why...did you bring me here?"
"I brought you here because it is a sanctuary, and you are in need of aid more than you know."
"Are you going to cast a spell on me?" An actual tremble of fear of ran through her words.
"Not at all, dear, no. You're going to cast a spell. On yourself."
She stumbled through sounds, but didn't speak.
"It's all magic, but you don't need to call it that. Many people in fact don't call it that, because to them, it isn't magic."
"What isn't?" The mild confusion was doing exactly what he'd wanted and shook her of the malaise.
"The warm red cloak around you, the regenerative green about you, the energizing yellow above you. Feel these things. They are as real as the grass, and the air, and the scent upon it. If there is one place in this town you can feel safe, that can be yours and no one else's, make it this place."
"With colours?"
"With colours. Words. Thoughts. Feelings. Intentions. Wizards call these things 'ritual motions', even if they be only in your head. They're no less real."
"But are you not a sorcerer?"
"I am. But it would mean much more if you did it yourself."
"I don't know where to begin, Salaman."
"Begin wherever you want. Perhaps with a desire. Hmm, tell you what, that cloak. It's been all over the world. Been through a lot of things. A lot of magic. That, and these robes, have saved my life a few times. That kind of thing makes a mark, too. Use it, until you don't need it. I will be here the whole time."
"I don't want talk about magic springing up around me-"
"Why would it? You're in a shrine of the World Serpent, meditating on order, and meaning. If anything your venerates will be pleased to see it."
"Will...something happen?"
"You may not notice it immediately, but yes, something will happen. Before you know it, something will change."
"How?"
"Here. And in you. I won't lie, Mareas," he made sure to pronounce her southern sounds, "you will have to work at this. But that's the point."

Carloman stood up, to let the girl think. He'd better get his staff, and check on things. Mareas seemed as yet very small. She'd been through more than most people ever should be. But she had everything in her favour, even if she didn't really know it, at least not right now. Suddenly, though, she darted a look up to him.
"Please," she said, "don't leave just yet."
The old wizard knelt down.
"If the venerates are right about one thing, which they are, and many more things besides, Mareas, you're not alone. The Serpent is in this place, and in this place, its coils tighten for you."

This week is a traditional triple feature of dark fantasy weirdness, just like the good old days. This doesn’t mean, of course, that new readers (or those who missed it) shouldn’t check out last week’s Carloman Trilogy RIGHT HERE

Much like movies, you always get something out of a second reading. That’s not even a joke for views or anything, I really mean that. Always read and watch and listen to stuff twice, in different settings.

Also, next week is the new chapter of The Path of Poison, so watch out!

And lastly, my friends, please take a second to tap that little heart button and let the stories know you liked them!

This week we ascend into the grim heights above the Domain of Sacrifices, we peer into the depths of the Desert of Communion, and we join a Macha sorcerer-priest in the battle against something from the Slumbering Deep…

Domain of Sacrifices

Blade in hand and tears in eyes, the Sacrifice ascended the vast stone steps, once hewn from the mountainside itself in an age undreamed of, worn and cracked by the footfall of his predecessors. Each one was unto itself a wide shelf, pitted and chipped, and even here there were bodies, old and withered. From each one was a scrap of cloth torn with tender care, and fit into some gap in his armour. He was replete with them now, and they trailed from his limbs in layers like a lord's tattered raiment.

The City felt far away in even his memories. The scramble for survival amidst the piled towers, tangled streets, and shadowy underhangs, which were old when his elder's elders were young, may as well have been another life. The hardship was a trial unto itself. But it was like another world up here. Suffused with a serene sense of purpose and surety. Every path in this ascent through timeless ruins, dense greenery, and echoing caverns, be they solemn processions or perilous battles, led forward without fail. The current of destiny itself almost flowed perceptibly through these carven channels. It had come to disgust him utterly.

Every nook and cranny held a corpse, most little more than bones, snapped, yellowed, split, or hacked to bits. They had too been Sacrifices, ones who failed in their mission to the God. He had cobbled together his chimeric assortment of armour from the remains of a dozen ancient hopefuls, the sorrow in their hearts he knew they died with only fanning the flames in his own.

They had been lied to.

He had been lied to.

The steps looked like much of the City. Much of this higher span did. That same sandy, weathered masonry and braided and knotted stonework as below. The journal tucked into his belt probably spoke on that. They were the furious scratchings of one like himself. He had read them over and over again, each time the impact of their truth eroding the trembling doubt in his mind, a chronicle penned for him—for one who could not just see all this for what it really was, but survive the trials, and do something about it. He felt a kinship with the writer, though the fellow had been dead for centuries. And all that time before and after, this had been going on, and no soul had ever known.

The Sacrifice gripped his sword so hard it hurt. Red hot blood thundered across his vision. Just above was an archway whose inner curve was decorated with an intricate web of knotted carvings, over which shafts of sunlight played gently, carrying lazily drifting particles in their hazy light. A comforting balm for a weary soul, looking for nothing more after the ordeal than to give up their life to the God. He could feel the force of his rising anger lifting his feet.

Nothing else in the City, and nothing else in the ascent looked like this. His world was one of cracked, faded stone, stagnant puddles, and tired shadows. This mountainside reeked of decaying age, of a sense of glory long ago faded which could only be imagined out of the scraps of damp engravings. Like a whole land had been stripped clean and repurposed, then abandoned. But through that arch was a great chamber, a hall that hadn't seen a second of the passage of time. It almost took the breath from him. No streaks of old damp stained its walls, no storm or violence had dulled or damaged the rich, deep knotwork and braiding in its lush decoration, and luxuriant vines and ferns crawled and hung with vivacious emeralds and crimsons. It was antique splendour manifest, and all of it was in service to the withered old God which sat upon a great sandstone throne far too large for its meagre frame.

It floated down, arms outstretched, looking like a figure as seen through blurred vision, its extremities fading into featureless stalks, until it came closer, and he knew that was exactly how it looked. About it flowed in some ethereal wind the remains of robes, now formless tatters, dulled from what once may have been a brilliant yellow. He looked at its limbs—it didn't touch the ground, either. Its face was nearly as smooth as where its hands and feet used to be. Not blinded by the radiance of the sun, by exhaustion, or by divine reverence, he looked upon the withered husk with disgust.

It went to speak, it seemed, but stopped as he pulled out the journal from his belt, and cast it upon the ground. It looked down, and back to him, turning its head as if in questioning.

"Yeah," he though, "I bet you know exactly what that is, and exactly who wrote it." His eyes spoke for him enough.

He lunged forward, ready to duck or fling himself to the side, only the God flinched, and as his hands grasped its thin neck, it crumpled, and suddenly its stalk-like legs began to kick at the stone floor. The motions made him sick. Just before the giant throne was a slab—an altar. He threw the God upon it, and instantly, as if a veil had been torn from it, the pale stone took on its true appearance, congealed in a thousand years of blood.

"You need me," it said without a voice. "The tyrants needed a god."

"You are the only tyrant now," he said, setting one knee upon its squirming form, "and no matter what for you tell it, a lie will remain a lie."

He plunged with the blade without a second's thought through the God's chest and wrenched it back out, sending a jet of thick blood slopping to the ground. The veil dropped from the rest of the chamber, showing its sad age. It must have been keeping the enchantment up ever since it came here a high king hopeful. No wonder its limbs were in such a state.

The would-be Sacrifice and new high king took a few steps forward in the cold, free new world he had made, breathed deep, and began his descent back into the City.

Desert of Communion

Life found purchase everywhere. Even within the sandy, scorched badlands, small shoots and hardy weeds found footholds in the cracks and shade, skittering insects thrived inside extensive subterranean networks, shadow-black birds glided from their perches in the hollows of mesas. But if one went far enough in, all of that slowly vanished, until even the sand ceased to drift upon the earth. Few words could hope to ever adequately describe the innermost desert depths, wherein it had been believed for close to a thousand years, the spirits spoke their wordless tongue in divine communion.

Ascetics had been venturing past the threshold for centuries, if they ever found it in the first place. Many died and dwelt as martyrs to the cause of enlightenment in austere badlands shrines that monks after them formed a route of pilgrimage around. One simply had to trace their steps, and any step taken past that was one closer. A simple and obvious fact that became a great comfort to those haggard shapes unable to take anymore. Few monks ever returned with more than visions or feelings. But these were enough to sustain the meagre handful of true yet distant experiences the entire faith was built upon.

And then one day, a form draped in shapeless piled rags staggered into the cliff-hewn village, whose presence made the guards falter, and the people part, who was met by the palace commander and palace champion who received the first blessings of might, a shape who met the princes that became kings and too gave them and their blood blessings, and who dwelt in a gilded tower for seven years after which it became a holy sepulchre whose warmth radiated even on the deepest winter nights.

The tower-tomb has been sealed in black iron for nearly a century, and the cliff-hewn village is naught but dust. The bloodlines of the old kings, which crawled their way across the half world, are still rotten. The champion who blessed his foes-turned-friends in a decade after have only ever been glimpsed as shambling spectres in distant, lonely places. The commander was the only soul with the foresight to hide her corpse at the bottom of a lightless chasm.

For one hundred leagues around the place of communion, black iron spires stand etched with ominous warnings and dire histories in a sacral tongue—the only thing guaranteed to survive the ages now. Where the martyr shrines once stood black iron cubes detail the horrific fates of the remains within. Something did speak within that innermost space, and continues to do so, but power was never the sound it uttered, and it was not power that the pilgrim brought back from that fateful expedition.

A chronicle has it that the man lay writhing on a bed somewhere in the old palace in "divine agonies", his flesh twisted into "fantastic shapes", and gibbering of how the land became more "pure" as he plunged further and further inwards. The fanciful language of that age had it that it was place of communion, but enough naturalists lost their lives to find out what spoke there screamed, and that the bodies who heard it came away with the deleterious shudders emanating from their very flesh.

Slumbering Deep

The biting wind which had blown from beyond the mountains, from Dunmarrow, had finally settled over the east Macha coast as a chill air. The fighting had been particularly bitter. Bad blood between clans that they had decided was better spilt than bottled up. Dozens of bodies resigned to Lochod, in the deeps. Or so everyone who limped away had comforted themselves with. The dryador Draomand, who stood now on the shore, knew better than anyone else that wasn't the case.

For the past three days, something had been coming out of the water with the heavy fogs. It had driven the fishermen a league upstream, it scared them so. Slick, black, unhealthy things had come in its wake and had been the only things in their nets since the battle. It was Draomand's responsibility as sorcerer-priest to see to this, whatever it was. So, he'd gathered four people willing, under some duress, or with the promise of reward, to aid him in a matter of the gods.

The raft was of a good, solid make, crafted with smooth, buoyant driftwood—inland wood might have proven less effective in this circumstance. The small islands which dotted the Macha coastlines were considered something of a liminal bridge between Cannoc's land and Lochod's water, as were the trees which lived and died on them. Draomand's helpers were thus: two sisters, and the two woodsmen who helped lash the raft together. The sisters had oars ready to push off, but the dryador gestured for them to wait. At his feet was a small, wide brazier with an open flame, into which he dropped a pinch of something from a pouch he quickly returned to his grey robes. It hit the flame and began to fizz and spark, sending up a black trail, and lighting up a patch of the fog-laden shoreline. Draomand looked up for a second, his eyes pierced the dense, shapeless mist, his mind reached to the clear blue heavens above, and he bade Gaoth of the Sky to throw its gaze their way.

It was too big to be the sloshing of the oars, and it was too irregular to be the churn of the tide. Every time it sounded, the woodsmen whipped around, hands falling to their shortswords, and the sisters tensed, eyes darting to each other. Draomand just told them to continue. The only other occupant of the raft was a cask of rich brown ale from the chief's own private store. He'd let it go with very little argument, much to the dryador's surprise. Were it not for the comforts of hearth and drink, the Macha would be wildmen. It was determined a fine offering, and Lochod had come to mugs of it before, apparently. A whole cask ought to keep its attention long enough to send whatever was around here back to its depths.

The fishermen didn't know what to think of it. Certainly no one on the raft had an idea of what it was—except Draomand. Strange things live in deep places. Strange and terrible things that don't see the light, and the lower oceans are as dark as what's behind the stars. No doubt the fighting and the corpses caught its interest. It was probably looking for more, especially since it started coming onto the land, with the fogs. It couldn't leave the water true. Not yet. The dryador had, of course, not said anything of this to even the chieftain, save that the bitter combat had left the place "unquiet". Macha are suspicious by nature, and especially so out east. This was known, and made use of.

Draomand told them to stop, and steady the raft. The sloshing had followed them out here, and no wave or current made the furtive slinking they now heard cut through the thick silence out on the water. Everything was cold—the errant spray stung, and the air hurt their lungs. It took a lot to scare a Macha—might and its displays were the foundations of every day life, so when something got to them, it did so with a might of its own. These four were scared. The dryador nearly was, too. But a strong purpose had overcome him, and in these perilous moments, he felt closer to the gods than at any other time. He took the stopper from the cask then, a small barrel in which was a more welcome sloshing.
"Share a drink with Lochod," said Draomand as he passed the cask around. Each took nervous swigs from it, and Draomand took the last, and largest. He poured the rest into the water, along with the barrel, as he half-sung a traditional invocation that, in these circumstances, it was okay for them to hear. After a short moment, he ordered them to return home.
"That's it?" asked one of the sisters, relief waiting to break through.
"You'd better hope that's it," said the dryador.

They made it back to shore, and back to their hearths with little more than frayed nerves. Questioned were passed around drinking halls that night, of what they saw out on the water. Very little was every answer, but one. The woodsman said he, and, he swears, the dryador, saw something when the fog shifted for a second, as it does. Through that mist, he said, Lochod curse it, he saw something very big, and, he swore fives times over, each time with more of a tremble in his voice, something that looked like a great big pale human with a bent back turn away from him, and slide under the waves.

Carlofans™ rejoice! A triple bill of everyone’s favourite funny old wizard awaits below—Menace! Peril! Theological debate! What the hell are you doing???? Go read!

I would be remiss, of course, if I didn’t say that new readers or those who missed it should read last week’s three-part gothic fantasy adventure to a celestial fortress, which can be espied right over HERE

Also, a week or two back I wrote up a lengthy, rambling documentary article detailing the development of a magic system for the barbarian setting debuted here at S&S. If you want a look into how the sorcerous sausage is made, you can read it over at my writer’s blog from which this publication gets its name HERE

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This week, the red wizard Carloman contributes to a weighty debate over the City of the Flame, he encounters a frightful example of Profaned Magic, and he descends deep into Minosmiir’s Palace Catacombs…

City of the Flame

Carloman, being a Voerlunder, was considered an impartial judge, and as a wizard, considered wise counsel for this matter of grand import. The intricate politics of the whole thing was somewhat beyond his understanding, but it had been described to him, at length, and finally summarized by the Prince herself, that over the course of some centuries, tensions had been brewing between the two major factions of Mul Manatar's celestial cult: those who held the Sun in primacy, and those who held Fire in primacy. Mul Manatar had been known as, and identified itself as the City of the Sun, among a dozen other names pertaining to the stars, thunder, the great lake, and so on. But the cult of the Firstborn Flame was of such influence and size that serious considerations were had amongst the governing bodies to declare the entire southern shore of Mul Manatar as the City of the Flame.

"The Sun," said the Chief Diviner of Fire, "leaves us for whole spans at a time, but the Flame remains."
"The Sun is called to give guidance across the world, this is known," replied the Chief Sungazer with great conviction.
True enough, thought Carloman.
"The Flame," continued the Sungazer, "cannot light the land as the Sun does, it but barely lights a chamber, and it is as likely to be blown out as burn down a village."
"What you would call danger," came a barely concealed sneer, "we call power. Fire demands careful and measured use lest we burn ourselves—and burning is learning. Indeed, the Fire is our only ally when the Sun inevitably leaves."
"Fire is of the Sun," said the Sungazer, clearly reaching for something new, "how can you give our gentle guide, which returns to grant wisdom even when called across the world, such little regard?"
He's not actually right about that, the wizard silently frowned.
"The Flame, quite simply, is always there to grant us guidance."
He has him there, thought Carloman, nodding.
"And the Sun always returns! It trusts us enough to go where it is needed, and returns as it can even on far journeys!"
A fine rebuttal, the wizard mused.
"Besides, no Fire has ever came close to the majesty of the Sun."
Another reach, but the Sungazer was correct, Carloman thought, and a more important point than either probably could guess.

Mul Manatar's faith was concerned, since ancient days, with immediacy, with closeness. In terms of veneration, the Sun and the Firstborn Flame had always received the bulk, literally being the closest, with Thunder and the Stars a ways behind. There was no closer one could get than a Fire in one's hearth or camp. But there was no more powerful a guide than the Sun which illumined the landscape itself. And no greater a guide in dark places than the Flame, which goes where the Sun cannot.

This was such a fruitless exercise, Carloman all but said aloud when asked for input. He feared his expression gave him away. He was only here because he'd been promised room and board, and he thought it might have been an interesting discussion. They'd been at this for a week before he arrived in the city, apparently. This was a fine chamber, he mused as he cooked up something to say. Great blue dome, cream pillars—sunwashed, they'd say—then that almost completely solid veined marble floor. Mul Manatar and Voerlund shared a love of domes. These folk were half Voerlunder anyway. Maybe something could be done with that.

"Well," the wizard sighed, "I don't know. Both of you gentlemen do have good points. But it's not as if the cosmos exists in a state of division as your cults have so artificially imposed. Consider that though the Sun, and Stars—the ultimate source of the Sun—are composed of Flame, neither are 'of' each other. Had no Sun come down to us I do not doubt Flame would still exist. Yet, further consider that it isn't Flame, but Light, which the objects of this fine city give their veneration to. A common ground exists all around and about you—indeed, does not the Thunder cast its light over the land when it roars? Are not the individuals flames of candle and hearth analogous on a microcosmic scale to the great tapestry of Stars above?"

Carloman knew he was slightly losing them. He didn't care.

"But I digress. An example if I may: try to understand your Celestial Bodies, as the less zealous of your people readily do, as parts of a whole. Have you any regard for the World Serpent, gentlemen?"

The Diviner and Sungazer shared a quick, confused look and stuttered a general "not really".

"Well, I've always been quite fond of the Manatarian view of of the Sun as Serpent's Eye, the Stars its Scales, and the Fire its Breath. And the Thunder its Call, I should not leave that out. Aspects of a whole, with each part having its own role and place, none above or beyond the other. Each one a tool, as sorcerers like myself would put it, for different situations. There are times when only a personal Flame may suit, and times when the glory of the Sun must be consulted. Indeed, there are times when one may look for answers in the distant Stars, or receive affirmation from a Thunderblast. I dare they'd grasp this concept quickly in any Silverden monastery. In any case, gentlemen, if you want my input on this whole affair, if you want to name the southshore after the Flame, be prepared to set aside districts for the Thunder and Stars, too. I am not a politician, but it would seem, I fear, rather negligent of the fine and ancient culture of this city if Mul Manatar continued its tradition of lopsided reverence! Travellers neither of you may be, so as one who has spent countless nights on the road, the gentle illumination of the Stars has been an ever-present and welcome companion. Did you know it has been surmised that it was a crash of Thunder that gave humans the first Flame? But I digress once more. You have my suggestion, and much to ponder, I hope. I shall be interested to see the fruits of this council," Carloman spoke as loud and rolling as he could without shouting as he rose to leave, "in a year or two's time," he finished under his breath.

That ought to put them off me for a while, was the wizard's thought as he bowed goodbye and left in search of a quiet tavern.

Profaned Magic

The red wizard Carloman leaned on the bar of the public house, sipping on a mug of cider, humming in agreement and recognition of the small talk that sometimes passed his way as a courtesy, until the topic of conversation finally came, as it always did, to the wizard himself.
"A traveller, are ye?" asked a gruff farmer who eyed warily the wizard's god-carven staff.
"Been one most of my life, I consider it a privilege."
"How'd ye make coin, never settling?" asked a lanky, younger fellow.
"Oh, I'm always ready to lend a hand, wherever I may be."
"Been far?" asked the farmer.
"Very!" said Carloman, setting down another three thin gold coins. "As far as Minosmir in the east, as far as the cold desert in the south, I have even had occasion to visit the Macha forests across the sea."
"Must be some life, eh?" said the barmaid, sliding another cider to the wizard.
"See odd things out there?" the young man leaned in with an inquiring brow.
"I wouldn't even know where to begin," Carloman grinned from behind his mug. "Still, for all that, I don't believe I've ever been in this part of Voerlund before. At least I don't recall it, and I ought to considering that odd tree of yours out there."

It was an image that had immediately struck itself into the wizard's brain the second he saw it. A lone tree in a wide, flat field, with five great big boughs, three reaching up, two were lower. When viewed from the road leading into the village, it gave the stark impression of a great hand reaching out of the earth. By the excited murmurs which erupted from the cold, distant trio, he could tell it was a source of a local pride. But truth be told, Carloman had found it to be somewhat eerie. It looked to be a focus of somewhat unorthodox veneration, he thought. It had been festooned with little offerings—wishes and charms, he guessed—hung upon its branches, many quite old and faded, and in some places almost wholly plastering the boughs. But then again, landwight shrines took all kinds of forms, so he had reserved judgement, despite his feelings.

"Aye, 'tis our hangin' tree, it is!" the farmer piped up. "A dozen Macha pirates were hanged on those branches over a thousand years ago. Started the tradition, see."
"Criminals and such used to be strung up and left on it, they did," said the younger man, "and they deserved no less."
"These days," said the barmaid, "that's all gone. Maybe we're gettin' soft, eh?" she ended with a chuckle.

Carloman watched them as they spoke—not to him, but to each other. He was very still as he listened, until the younger man turned to him.
"Say, you've seen around our tree, haven't you?"
It was like he'd forgotten why they were even talking about it.
"Indeed, an interesting sight, to be sure."
"We leave offerings still," said the barmaid, "last of the fowl and sometimes the aurox goes to it, giving back and all that."
Giving back?
"Which reminds me," said the farmer clapping his hand on the warped wooden bar, "I'd better go talk to old Annys."
"Have you no landwight shrine hereabouts?" Carloman enquired.
"We have the tree," said the barmaid plainly.
'The' tree, not 'our' tree.
"Canons haven't been out this way in years, besides," the farmer called back as he left with a nod to the barmaid. "I'd wager the generations under it would say, could they see us now, that we're doing just fine."

Well, that does it, thought the wizard, I don't like this.

Carloman was singularly aware that he'd better not leave immediately. The younger fellow and barmaid got to talking about local affairs. He nursed the cider in the mug, and hoped the fruit hadn't come from the tree. No amount of trite little charms covers up the magical stain of centuries of bloody execution and offering. Wasn't a right thing to offer lives, not even the strangest cults to Oros Baletor spill living blood on the altar. The wizard hunched over the bar in thought. Like a great big hand, reaching up, grasping. Warding? Pushing away? S'eth, maybe that's why he'd never been here before. Cut off, keeping to their tree, isolated. Yeah, that made sense. That felt a little too plausible. And its grip had been around them for generations.

After a few minutes, Carloman stood back up, downed the dregs of his mug, and slid it back with a gold piece beneath it. The barmaid gave a curt nod as he picked up his staff. The younger man didn't look at all.

Outside, the sun was far enough away that the light took on a sickly pallor, and a chill had crept into the blustery air. The village was spread thin and wide, the public house—the communal gathering place of the locals when not at home—being the only notable eminence. Little else to see or do in this flat expanse. Not even a decent look at the sea, too far inland. A short ways off was the tree. Carloman wandered to it slowly and indirectly, not wishing to attract the attentions of furtive shadows which stepped into house thresholds or behind buildings as he passed.

The wind tumbled about, restless, with a measure of strength in it. Carloman arrived at the tree. Its general colour was an ashy, lifeless brown. It bore no leaves, but instead many hard, dark little buds. The branches shook in the breeze. The larger ones creaked as they were moved. It sounded like laughter. He looked it up and down. Brown shapes poked out from the soil for a ways around it. Graves. Offerings. He shuddered. That was when someone cleared their throat behind him.

He turned not too quickly. He didn't want to betray anything, or give them the wrong idea.
"Got business here, do ye?" It was the farmer. Three others were with him, two labourers, and a third: a sneering, craggy-faced old man. A bitter visage that eyed him with intense suspicion.
"I, ah, thought I might leave a token here. Out of good faith. Maybe I shall pass through here again. It will help me remember."
"Maybe," said the farmer.
"Hang it," said the old man in an inscrutable accent.

No need to worry about me forgetting this place, the wizard thought. I'll be back, believe me. Not too quick though. From around his neck, Carloman chose one of his World Serpent charms. He hadn't time to study the rest of the stuff up here, but had a pretty strong feeling there'd be no other deity's charms on this thing. Better place it on a limb and leave. He sensed daggers at his back, at least from the eyes of that elder. Into the loop of something else did he hang his Serpent's charm, quickly touching it with crossed fingers before he stepped back from the creaking laughter of the bending boughs. Wouldn't come out easy at least.

"I will leave you gentlemen to your work, sorry if I caused any bother." And having been met with silence, Carloman turned and left, seeking a healthy woodland to pass the night in, and thinking he'd avoid this spot for the next while, but maybe go have a word with someone in the Highmarch Venerate's College to see about a canon coming down here.

Palace Catacomb

Carloman sat up on the long, plush divan, gnawing on a hunk of aurox meat marinated in a sweet, creamy sauce, and laughed to himself as the Vassalarch Aresto clapped for more drink to be brought. The wizard hadn't a clue what the lords, governors, and the like of the known world saw in him who was as much a wild man as he was a member of civilization. He'd been the guest of Manatarian governors, and the Prince, a few times. He'd met the current Lunderman monarch once, and was counted as a friend by a dozen Voerlund counts. He'd had three short conversations with two Archvenerates of Silverden. He'd been to a Guildhead dinner in Baletor twice. Maybe it was his potency. Maybe he just had that friendly aura some folk are burdened with. Whatever it was, it still made him uncomfortable, more so when he was the only other person on this raised jewelled dais surrounded by a wide circle of warriors, dancers, and musicians, all facing him.

The vassalarch, or as Carloman was inclined to say, baron, for that was the term in Voerlund, was fascinated by wizardry. When word spread in his city there was a foreign magician in town, whom some high ranking warriors recalled well, an invite found its way to Carloman's inn bedroom rather quickly. And here he was. The baron had been pestering him with questions all evening, and regaled him with stories of his family's Hero-God, who had been a magician herself in life, or so it was believed. This piqued Carloman's interest enough for him to not engineer a way out of the palace hall. The food didn't hurt either.

The baron lazed upon his divan, a goblet of strong wine in one hand, the other tapping away to the music. He was pure steppe folk through and through. His colours were of the earth, rich and dark, he was lean with sharp, curving features, he wore a stylish long beard only on the chin, but wore a shaved head, poorly maintained, a sign of a military past. He was adorned in numerous earrings of gold which complimented his wide-sleeved deep purple robe, silver-buckled leather girdle, and loose navy jacket. Carloman understood the rich fabrics and jewels to be an expression of glory. Glory to one's Hero-God pseudo-ancestor in all things, from conduct to fashion. Stately Voerlunders like Carloman reared on stoic honour couldn't feel more out of place. Opulence was a way of life in Minosmiir.

As the wizard reached over to a gilded table for a drink, the baron leaned over and spoke in a low and clear merchant's tongue.
"I trust our, how shall I say, offerings are to your tastes, Carloman?"
"I hope I have done nothing to make you think otherwise, my baron—ah, vassalarch," he corrected himself before lifting a tall gold plated cup to his lips. The Minosmiiri laughed.
"Baron is a fine term, I always believed it sounded strong." Carloman nodded in assent. "I am glad you say this, Carloman, for truly no expense was spared...but alas, I fear something is still not right."
"Oh?" inquired the wizard, looking from under his brow and over his cup.
"I am, of course, much interested in the ways of sorcerers, but as you know, I have no experience of this myself, so I was hoping your presence and pleasure might...well, I hate to say this for it may make all this become insincere, but my men have signalled to me-"
"There is a problem, baron?"
"Yes," the baron said with some hesitancy, coming a little closer, his well-practiced joviality falling away. "The palace catacombs...they have gone silent. Our Hero does not come forth. Something else lingers within." Carloman perked up immediately. Serpent's Breath am I glad I'm here for a reason, he thought, setting his cup down. "The city has not been well, things are not right, they are, how shall I say, not in balance. I had hoped a sorcerer's presence would drive away what does this, but..."
"Well," said Carloman standing up and downing his cup, "we won't get aught done sitting here, baron."

Preparations were made immediately for Vassalarch Aresto and the red wizard Carloman to descend into the ancient catacombs beneath the palace. Looks of nervous relief spread amongst the people as word got out. They had hidden it pretty well, the wizard thought, he'd taken this whole thing to be some gaudy Minosmiir fancy. Though it did seem that Aresto was genuinely interested in the magical arts at least. Carloman had been waiting by the stone gates to the crypts, studying the old, worn inscriptions when the baron reappeared. He was clad in full Heroic replica regalia: a crown of hammered tin feathers painted red and gold, a burnished bronze mantle about his shoulders surmounted a sleeveless robe of small metal scales, also red, which clacked like a kitchen as he walked forth in high-strapped sandals and traditional loose-sleeved burgundy tunic. Carloman believed this was part of the calling ceremony, donning the features and clothing of the Hero to be summoned. It was certainly a look, he thought.

Two red robes descended into the dry, cool air of the palace catacombs, and Carloman clacked his staff on the stone so that it wasn't just the baron making a racket. But that was the point, after all. Announce their coming to the Hero—and whatever else it was down here. For all it was a subterranean passage, lit by well-spaced smouldering braziers, there was something uneasy about the air. Drafts from beyond was the most likely culprit, but Carloman knew it wasn't that. It never was. No clean flow of air lingered so persistently like this feeble breeze did. Like trailing fingers across their robes and skin, grasping at something. He wasn't sure if he felt pity or disgust at it. The baron was frightened, that was for sure. He didn't jump, but he tensed and hissed as his eyes darted about at nothing.

The catacombs held an aspect of immense antiquity. The remains of grave slabs were set on the floor under the actual grave-galleries in the walls themselves, from which bones poked through the clay. Many were bare, but some bore hints of rotten fabrics, armour, even weapons. They were all of them past barons of this hill, Aresto said, though he said precious little else as the duo crept through the halls. They weren't unlike Voerlund tombs, the wizard thought. Good thing to share. These, however, were much more vertical nature, and this particular city's quirk was that the reigning family's Hero grave lay in its uttermost depths, while almost all the rest had prominent, public locations.

What could be down here? Carloman went over this in his head as the air perceptibly thickened and those trailing fingers began finding purchase before sliding away. Well, he thought, as he drew out a small, rough orange gem, Minosmiir had a colourful history. Almost as colourful as his own Voerlund—another commonality—and he would have bet a lot of coin that the pursuit of glory had made it so some unwholesome baron's spirit decided to finally make its move. He breathed upon the gem and set it into his staff's head, shaped like an open serpent's mouth. Why now? A change in families or fortunes, who knew. He tried asking Aresto about any potential candidates for the darkness lurking here, and about eight potential names in Carloman got the point. He swung his staff out and the warm radiance flooded the passage before them, and for a moment, dispelled the tremulous air.

They stood then at the final set of wide, worn steps that led down into to the cthonic temple of the Hero-God. The wizard surveyed his surroundings. Four torches set into the walls burned low—whether it was due to neglect or something else, he couldn't be sure. The wooden portal with its decorative bronze bracing was ajar. For some reason it made Carloman think something had snuck in. From the look on his face, Aresto thought so too. But they must go forth, was what the stern look the wizard gave to the baron said.

Each Minosmiiri Hero-God had a unique tradition of veneration associated with it, and this one was of the rarer, magical breed. Her temple was deep, hidden, intimate. Small altars littered it, each one bearing old offerings of incense and gold. The walls were bare clay, held with three wide square pillars on either side of the long chamber, carven with fantastical images of flying humanoids. The floor was a chipped cerulean mosaic, and the ceiling was braced with a series of stone arches that almost made it seem organic. Countless candles upon the ground and on the pillars lit all of this in a hazy amber radiance that threw thick shadows. At the very end was the tomb itself, set into a slope of bare earth. It was clearly older than anything around it, the stone was loose and stained with age, soil, and moisture, and the statue at its head was worn almost to a smooth obelisk.

Something that looked too much like a person to be moving the way it did squatted atop this, worrying at the stone with curling talons. The light seemed to have trouble catching it, but the general outline of the thing showed that it was bedecked in the remains of some great flowing fabric, now a mass of trailing tatters. That it bore clothing made the way it moved all the worse.

The wizard strode forth and scratched a circle in the loose, dry soil that littered the floor. With the fingers of his free hand crossed, he spoke a divine name to each cardinal direction, and stamped his god-carved staff into the ground. He turned, expecting to have to pull back the baron, but found instead a face overcome with rage. Perfect.

"Cast it out, Baron Aresto! Call forth your-"
The baron thundered forth of his own volition, roused into wonderful action at the sight, spewing a string of intricate Minosmiiri swears between bellowed calls to the Hero-God of his bloodline. The thing on the tomb skittered forth with maledictions of its own, but Carloman, fingers entwined, joined in and used what little he knew of Minosmiir's colourful language to fight the advance of the dark thing. This land had perhaps some of the most imaginative invective in the known world, and worked pretty well as petty curses and sorcerous attacks in the right circumstances. Didn't stop him mixing in a few others he knew, too. While this might have been the Hero-God's land, hopes and demands of divine retribution from the Serpent's Coils and even the tread of mighty Cannoc in Macha flew from his mouth—he kept it as clean as he could, of course.

The wizard directed his staff at the thing which reared up to the furious Aresto with the face of boundless decay, and he laughed as a flash of searing light sent it staggering back.
"Dark-souled baron of old, or vermin of the Outer Dark, your bones to-"
"I do this!" was what the baron yelled back at Carloman in a rough merchant's tongue. The wizard stopped, and felt that in this moment, the baron might very well be up to the task. The thing seemed to feel so too as it fell back before Aresto's full-named invocation of the Hero-God.

The ground trembled and dust fell from the ceiling as a scintillating ray flew with the crack of thunder from the back of the temple and cowed the mouldering shape. Amid the dancing spears of light, Carloman watched Vassalarch Aresto throw out a hand in greeting to a shape he could but barely discern in the light, which in one fell swoop sent down a shaft of light into the bent back of the dead thing, crushing it against the earth. The thought flitted across Carloman's mind wordlessly that it resembled a wizard's staff. With it came a burst of cool air, and the ground, along with Carloman's circle, was wiped clean, and all that lay there when the light receded was a pile of wet, yellow bones under a pile of thin, stringy black rags.

After a hearty hail to the sorceress Hero-God from them both, Carloman braced himself for the coming feast. This one, though, he felt was deserved.

If you’re like me, and I know I am, you enjoy stories, and this week, we have stories—by GOD do we have stories. In fact we’ve been having stories, good ones, too. I’ve been very proud of the past couple editions, you know.

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This week, learn of evil and betrayal in Serpents of the Dead, bear witness to the great and terrible Sorcery of the Sword, and join a couple rat-catchers as they grumble about their work in the Conjuror’s City…

Serpents of the Dead

Rarely did Carloman play the part of a judge's counsel—he wasn't a terribly impartial person, he admitted to himself, but he was glad to have been there, wretched though the whole thing had been. Another rare thing these days was the penalty of death in Voerlund. The Lunderman monarchs had done away with most of that as legal ruling centuries ago, so badly had their predecessors abused it. But here? For all that it left a bad taste in the wizard's mouth and ache in his chest three days later, a person like that was...dangerous, in a way no one there was ready to know.

Carloman practiced, as a rule, his law of second chances everywhere he could. Force was the final language he ever spoke to another living thing if he could manage it. He understood most awful people were simply stupid, ignorant, arrogant, lying to themselves, and so on. Normal human evils with base, petty motives. Things anyone can understand, given time. As much as he wanted to beat such fools over the head, which was perfectly reasonable, he ensured that such evils were not met likewise. It was worthy to leave good things in one's wake. People were precious to the wizard. Every last one of the beautiful, ridiculous, incredible things. Which made examples like the bastard that had been hanged at dawn three days ago hurt even more.

He was careful, also, to never default to evil even when confronted with the unthinkable. There was almost always a mundane, though horrid purpose or motive. Sickness, anger, sorrow, greed. These things he did not and never would consider evil. Awful, but not evil. Not a conscious, entirely aware malevolence, objective and intelligent. Not a thing that could never be reasoned with, that was driven not by instinct or nature, but by constant and active choice. A thing sourced from the deepest parts of the soul. The part that remembers what came before, and where it came from. An evil that was not human.

It was rare in the extreme, thank the stars. But he knew it when he saw it. He'd seen enough of it before. And he saw it in that courtroom, chained and gagged and leering at him because on some level, it also knew. And it didn't care. That was the crux of it for him. It knew perfectly well what it had done, it had no delusions or lies or justifications—it just didn't care. Insidious, because behind it was something that did care. And this did not exonerate those who did these things—because at the end of the day, they made a choice. And everyone always has a choice. It let these things happen in full and perfect knowledge of what they were.

The rain hammered the clay tiles of the flat topped conical lychgate, running down its old, weathered facade in rivulets, spilling onto the bare earthen ground. Just beyond was the round stone structure that led into the town crypt. But beneath the wide roof of the lychgate were two figures. One was a corpse, bade sit here overnight. Lychgates were not just the entrance to a graveyard, but acted as a kind of transitory space. Right now, it was a holding cell, a sort of price of admittance to the crypt, dealt to unsavoury characters. Intentional isolation from just about everyone and everything but the World Serpent who'd decide what to do with you. The other figure was Carloman.

It was an ill wind that night, and it seemed, to the wizard, particularly interested in passing by the lychgate as often as it could. He had performed a number of motions to ensure the candles stayed lit, but he did not trust this wind, and set to piling on little bindings and symbols and whispered words of flame every short while, all the time never taking his eyes off the corpse. Voerlunders weren't altogether against the notion of cremation, which he would have preferred with such a specimen, but the sometimes complex relationship rural places had with their landwight earth spirits and natural burials made it unwise for a stranger—and magician no less—to argue about.

He knew that thing wanted to continue its work. He had been staring at that corpse in its white winding sheet for a solid hour, maybe two. He knew that it knew. It was waiting to slip out of the body. Or maybe it was waiting for a chance to burst out, attack him. Were there voices on that wind? Come down from the dark between the stars? Calling to an ally? A servant? There were a lot of things that could happen to that corpse. No flesh or spirit that commits the acts this one did comes away unscathed in death. Maybe it was already changing under that winding sheet, like a cocoon.

Over the course of three hours, the night had deepened and settled in. Carloman had sat back, and eased his disquieted mind from dangerous thoughts, looking at or thinking about nothing in particular. Rain continued to chill the air and drum on the lychgate roof. His mind wandered in an aimless haze, a fugue state of almost absolute stillness, his eyes half closed, their amber smouldering low. Heavy drops collected and fell with the sound of rushing feet. A faint rustling was hidden by the long hiss of the night wind. The sky was starless but a moon's pale blue light seeped across the heavy slate clouds. The candles had gone low over the long hours and were flickering. A black spot spread over the sheet without a sound, and the fabric fell inwards.

Something coiled out from the corpse with a furtive motion.

The wizard's hand flew up and he snapped his fingers, the guttering candles flashing to life.

The thing piled out of the corpse like falling intestines, writhing and emitting wet, detestable sounds. Carloman grabbed it, slamming what amounted to a head back against the corpse. The lychgate was bathed in a blearing radiance. It had a face. A gaping, gasping, almost human face. Thin, incredibly thin and skeletally gaunt, with deep, gaping sockets, and small sharp teeth in the thin, nearly fleshless jaws. The rest of its mass was black, rugose, and eventually fading into an inky, featureless length.

This wasn't the first time, and it likely wouldn't be the last time Carloman held in his hands a human soul. The weight of it was never lost on him.

"I don't know how you ended up like this," he spoke to it slowly and sadly. It just writhed in his grip like a struggling fish. "I'll never understand why or how, and gods know I've encountered enough of you lot to understand. But I don't. Maybe you just like it, and those beyond said they'd give you as much of it as you wanted. I'm sure they told you all kinds of things." It was looking up as best it could, not at Carloman, but at the night sky. "There is a part of me that wants consume those shadows with fire and set you free into the air, despite all the tears I've seen the past week I've been here. Despite all the tears I've seen dealing with your kind. To give you, a fellow human being, a second chance."

It stopped twisting about in his hands. Carloman bent close to it.

"But you threw that chance to the side when you betrayed every spirit that has called you kin since the beginning of time. They will never know the meaning of what you've done. I'm the one who will make sure of that. Go back to your Godhead."

The magician threw out a hand to a candle, his fingers entwined in a gesture of binding, and then sunk them into the viscous mass of the shadow-laden spirit, and before it could utter a sound to the nameless ancient dark that waited in the winds, it erupted into flames. The wizard left it smouldering on the wet, bare earth of Voerlund, where every landwight could exult in its expulsion, and the World Serpent shift to receive the corrupted clay so that it may be renewed for a more noble purpose in a day yet to dawn.

Sorcery of the Sword

The universe and all things of which it was composed were One and Undivided. This was Truth. If something could be thought of, it could exist. This One Law Above All enabled the necessary contradictions for the existence of something to excise, like rotten flesh and bad thoughts, the universe's most lamentable aspects: those rogue Deceivers and Tyrants called Demiurges. Thus, the Sunderswords came to be, and then the Laws That Bind constricted thought forever more.

Such was the titanic weight of history and duty that hung at the side of the Convict, sheathed in its rune-laden scabbard until it was to be used—and that would be soon. A dozen shardblade sorcerers had fallen already—the Convict abhorred the scarring art, yet sorcery was the only thing that could match sorcery. A strict set of carefully described mnemonic battle chants channelled thought as their warped shardblade had cut through the fabric of ordered reality, and let slip the Laws That Bind so that anything that could be thought of, could exist for just a moment. Corpses burned, warped, or worse, lay in the Convict's wake, no name or face for the dying sorcerers to put to their slayer.

There was no one under that hood. As far as the Convict, or anyone else was concerned, what walked out of that dungeon was a pure instrument of the Totality and naught less. They didn't need a shardblade to make that real. It had been so ever since the true faith was passed to them in the damp stone, thick dark, and flickering torchlight so long ago. To the thieves, the beggars, the convicts, to them, forsaken by the race of rotten, gangrenous demiurges, did the Secret Will reveal itself. And so a purge baptized in the blood of the universe had begun, and to the Convict did a Sundersword emerge to lay waste to every rogue logos they could find.

Demiurges withered in the mere presence of a Sundersword, and the Convict could feel the oppressive force of this one waning already. False god cowards that lurked in scarred spaces where the world ceased to work right, wallowing in half-realities of their own twisting. But it also made sorceries easier, as the ragged flesh of the cosmos parted easier to the long, uneven dagger the Convict brought out, facing the tyrant demiurge. The skin of space crawled before its movements, and the eyes of the demiurge, piercing lights under the unreal dome of the palace and its offensive blearing radiance, shot forth smiting thunderbolts with a mocking laugh.

Three bellowed words and the Convict traced a design with the blade tip, the thunderbolts fizzling into harmless sparks against a shining bulwark. A double stab into the air now, and each one shot cascading rays of crimson doom towards the demiurge. A pillar from the palace wall was pulled effortlessly out to block them, and was reduced to dust. But from behind the cloud of debris, the demiurge's claws cut a swathe through the air, sending forth a multitude of darts of shining darkness that the Convict met with a wide slash that sent out a screaming jet of blue fire, engulfing them.

The Convict never stopped advancing, while the demiurge, a figure of exaggerated proportions and grotesque details, floated serene above a seven-stepped dais around which were heaped countless offerings from its cowed subjects. The Convict gave a shout and five diagonal swipes, molten steely lances shooting out from the disturbed slit in space—but the demiurge was already responding as a great prismatic halo flew out and suddenly constricted about each of the lances, and they fell inert to the floor—all but one, which flew into the demiurge's stomach with a sickening splatter.

The languid figure fell suddenly to its feet and staggered, gasping. It pulled at the air around it, the light warping and twisting in its hand. But this moment's diversion was all the Convict needed. Four short slashes to the air, and chains of white hot astral fire shot out and bound the demiurge's limbs. It screamed in an all too human voice. The Convict did not wait. From the rune-laden scabbard, they began to unsheathe the Sundersword, its very edges scraping through the air with a strange singing. The tool of Absolute Excommunication.

In a flash, the demiurge was cloven in twain, and a curious paleness overcame its withering corpse as true death and ultimate severance overtook it. The universe was no less whole for the cessation of this thing's existence. To a lesser soul, this sight would inspire horror. To the Convict, it brought a moment's satisfaction before they left in silence to find their next mark.

Conjuror's City

Two conjuror's manses overlooked the tangle of dank alleyways—funny thing to call what had once been the venerable streets of the old city, the rat-catchers each thought to themselves. A certain bitterness tended to creep into folk in their thankless profession. How could it not? Tirelessly observing from the shadows and hunting down a city's worth of summoner's mistakes, dregs, and run-off, while those above basked in self-made glory, the burgraves, governors, and even the princes cowed and meek in their endless praise.

Rat-catchers. From a time when rats and the odd skink-hound were the worst of the city's verminous troubles. Now the rats found themselves a new niche as prey for whatever skittered and lurked in the darkness. Their torch flames sent lurid light dancing over the cracked and pitted stone, and at every turn, the sharp pang of anxiety in their chests expected to be met with more than rats. They came across evidence of things having been here: small bones, leavings, curious warps and marks in the stone, but this was directly under two manses, and hard to tell if any of it was fresh or not.

Of the four of them, old Wiloc was the veteran and their unofficial leader. The two younger catchers had taken a shine to him, and went out on patrols with him as often as they could, to learn the ropes from a master. The third member was often replaced, could be anybody. The younger folk had nowhere else to turn, but being a rat-catcher was sometimes easy money if one could stomach it, which most couldn't. Most shouldn't, was Wiloc's opinion. Wretched business, and a sad necessity. There'll always be a place for rat-catchers.

Another boon of working with old Wiloc was stories. He was full of wild and terrible accounts of life down in these warrens and labyrinths. Most were entertaining, and few were ever not grim. But today the old man seemed in a foul mood, and began to recount, of his own accord, an experience he felt the youngsters should finally hear.

"We was down somewhere in south central, got told somethin' nasty had been prowlin' all about in the old open sewers. Now that's old city, older'n this here, and the captain, he never says naught like that—saying somethin's bad, I mean—lest it really were."
"And were it, sir?" asked one of the youths.
"Aye." He went quiet for a minute, checking around himself in an exaggerated manner, as if making he'd rather be doing anything but talk. "Found somethin' alright. In the shadows, it looked human."
The youths exchanged a glance with furrowed brows.
"It weren't, o'course, but...it looked like one."
"What...did you do, then?" asked the other youth.
"It didn't attack us, didn't flee, just...looked. Some o' the boys wanted to call out—could be a beggar or somethin', you know? But nah, wasn't human. Was somethin' they-" he jerked his head upwards "-conjured up. Somethin' that escaped, or they forgot about, or that they let loose."

The two youths looked to each other again as Wiloc led them down an incline into what might have once been a small residential district. They silently admitted they didn't like the tone creeping into Wiloc's voice.
"It was—damn it, it wasn't exactly cowerin' from us," he continued on, his voice sort of spilling forth, "but it kind o' shirked as we put our torches out, to see it." He shivered. "We weren't used that. No. It's never anythin' good—never—we see down here, you lot know that well enough."

The second's silence let him know to continue. "What else were we supposed to do?" He sounded angry now. "Was our livelihoods on the line, but when we had to drag that thing back into the hall, the captain had a right go at the conjuror's liaison. Nothin' came o' that, o'course, typical isn't it?" Bitter venom laced every sound. "But I get to remember stabbing that thing to death every night of my shuntin' life. Hacking it up so peddlers can sell it off, gods above I hate them nearly as much as the godless wizards, and they're in cahoots with the thief cabals and rogue conjurors, don't you know!"
"Better off hunting down every conjuror we can, that's my conviction," said their third member, who had for a week been usually reticent.
"And you're right to say it. Gods and blood if I ever found one o' them down here alone..."
"But don't...fund half the city? Because of all the stuff they need?" asked a youth, knowing full well the reply that was coming.
"Oh yeah, sure, they keep the city running, isn't that it? Princes were doing just fine before these conjurors came in. And you know what? When they call up something bad enough they can't fix, we'll be there. And the princes will do just as fine as before. If there is one thing we can be proud of in our miserable shuntin' lives, lads, it's that we've never taken a blessed copper off a conjuror, an' never will."
"Not like the shunting governors," said the third one.
"Don't get me started on them," grumbled Wiloc as he unsheathed a long dagger, "better take it out on whatever's up ahead—here, you two," he called up the youths, "see that trail on the ground? Listen to me closely..."

Someone must deal with this, and I can think of none better than you, reader. Gear up and head forth, there’s a helping of dark lore and a two-part chronicle of a forlorn world below…

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This week, we get a heavy dose of lore on the Sorcery of the Dark, we glimpse the creation of the Storm Rune, and witness the birth of its grim descendant, the Rune of Madness…

Sorcery of the Dark

Gnostic sorcery wasn't hard to figure out. It was blunt. It required none of the subtlety, emotion, sentimentality, or even really intent of the magical arts practiced throughout the known world. It spat in the face of the intricate and esoteric workings of the world's symbolic metaphysics. But Serpent's Breath was it detailed. That's what made it work, really, the detail. The sheer descriptive potency of every little blasphemy that could possibly be crammed into whatever spell, curse, or conjuration the gnostic intended.

And what's worse, it wasn't sourced in any act of will, not like that of the material world, it was sourced in beseechment, bargaining, and sacrifice. Begging for scraps was how Carloman so often put it, trying to please whatever nameless thing they had the ear of. That's what kept resounding through his head as he pored over the reports and chronicles the burgomaster had handed him. Some months worth of hideous doings and findings. The bastards had been well and truly scattered, but still, best to keep up to date on wherever these people might crop up.

This world was unnatural, and that was a fact. The stone beneath the wizard's feet, and the dirt and rock it sat on, was itself a spit in the face of a cosmos whose reason for existence was enslavement, oppression, and domination. And that made them angry.

Them.

The numberless swirling clouds of demons which infested the Outer Dark.

The vast Aeons which peered from afar upon the guttering ember that was the material world.

The Godhead which sought to actualize itself by total self control.

It was the kind of thing that had driven countless poor fools to madness and despair. But S'eth, could anyone really blame them? Carloman himself had personally experienced this truth. Yet for him, in place of horror, there was rage. How dare you, he had thought. My creator, the thing of which I am incontrovertibly of, and a part of forever, made me to suffer. I exist to be beaten down and subsumed. How dare you? That's what he thought then, and what he thought now.

Gnostic sorcery was the very power of the creator itself. Such was the attraction, he supposed. Every expression was bent towards suppression, pain, weakness, and breaking. In a word, control. It did not seduce, it dominated. The wizard had himself felt those powers against him, the sensation of vast crushing weights and unseen grasping limbs, the creeping agony, numbness, cold or weakness in a limb or in the brain, the flood of invasive thoughts when a curse wanders by—curses, gods above and beyond, perhaps there was no greater joke played on the world than those wandering malignancies.

And so many aspects of the universe—demons and roving spirits desired these things in whatever measure they could attain, and as such, come quite readily when called. For even just a taste of power they would promise anything, as would the madmen who called them from beyond. Pathetic, wretched, vile, but dangerous beyond compare. Powerful. Gnostic powers thrived on the expression of defilement and desecration. It showed that which lay beyond where their loyalties really lay, hoping for favour, or at least to be spared punishment.

The wizard sat back, and stared at the dripping wax and long tongues of flame on the candelabra beside him, and sighed.

It wasn't good to think on all this too much, Carloman reminded himself. It made the mind wander. It made things notice you. It called them by sympathy. Even your thoughts could make a little darkness by which something might peer in. Or get in. That's how this stuff got in in the first place. The dreamer in the dark, in the far wastes of the north.

But these were his thoughts and he had them of his own free will. He swore again under his breath and got up.

Storm Rune

They rode from on high, their hammers raised, and the first rune they struck was the storm to carry their feet into the unfashioned realm below. With every singing arc there rose mountains, and seas rushed to fill leagues-deep voids. Winds were thrown out with the swings of their hammers and it raced across a dark landscape lit only cascading thunderbolts. The howl of the storm, the crack of thunder, and the crash of the hammer were all that could be heard. Parts of the world stirred then, and the first humans took tentative steps from the caverns left in the wakes of hammer blows. They saw, as they met light for the first time, the storm rune's brilliance above, and would remember it thenceforth for all the time.

Other things also arose in the wake of they who came from beyond. Such were the towering giants, who stalked with lumbering gait and horrifying hunger from the great canyon crevices they squeezed their crooked forms into, like mile-high spiders. Such, too, were the wyrms that crawled from the darkness, their frightful writhing forms entangled like masses of hair. Things upon mountain summits peered with pin-prick eyes and let out limbs to fish for and beckon errant men on lonely roads.

The slaughter of these horrors and more, like the finger-headed hydras, or Great Mimic and its False Humans, became the basis of epic legends sung and chanted by the men that crowded about the feet of the great ones.

And then, one day, as the newly struck sun rose high, cradled by the storm rune which as yet still shone, and setting the seven chromatic moons to rest, the first kings of men came from their gilded keep with tears in their eyes. They came to the wisest and most powerful leaders of all humankind and entrusted to them and their councils the runes, so that they may be the stewards of the whole of the world and its working. To every High Lord was given, with utmost reverence, a hammer, fashioned by the old kings themselves, and the art of striking runes.

And then they left, riding high into the pearlescent heavens, back to their ancient homes.

But bereft of the guiding hands of their kings, of their power and majesty, the runes turned from a source of divine experience to a means for power. With the right knowledge, a rune could be struck, and stone be raised, rain made fall, thunder crash, and fire blaze. As stewards of the world, the lords of men began to see themselves as like the old kings, until they learned that like their flesh, their runes were mortal, and would fade and die. They must be struck again and again into the earth and the air and the water, and no subtlety of art could prolong a rune.

The greatest inspiration for all runesmiths was the storm rune, which hung even into the latter days in the sky, visible where most others were hidden amongst mountain roots, ocean depths, and within flesh. The storm rune, the first rune, dwelt in the collective memory of mankind, but its reproduction was impossible. Upon the highest peak in the world did lords of all breeds gather to strike again and again new storm runes, sending forth rain, wind, and devastation, until the whole of the mountainside was inscribed in dead runes, calls to power consumed and silenced.

Rune of Madness

In that age, long lines of grimoires filled the shelves of priest and lord, were the prized possessions of hermit mystics and sorcerers, and were even kept in locked chests in the houses of certain peasantry. The knowledge of runes had come to dictate all dynamics of power. Their form and the tools for their striking were jealously guarded and hoarded by the priests whose cult had formed around primal images of the gods and the mighty arts they had graced mankind with, and the many lordly houses, who deemed their kind the rightful heirs of the world and the runes which wrought it.

The world had at last settled into a cycle of turbulent centuries as the commonfolk trembled under the vast shadows of their masters and their threats of wrath and vengeance. Amidst long wars, the desperate flights of lords and high priests, and assassinations, the knowledge of runecraft leaked into the world, and peasants pored over the yellowed parchment pages under guttering candle flames on storm-laden nights, when it was certain no stranger might call to their door. And so, one could not turn their head in even a small village without seeing the silent remains of dead runes plastered upon every available surface. Even on lonely roads did the trees and the stones and the earth bear old, faded rune marks. The very air and rivers shimmered with them at times.

Several of the First Runes had been uncovered for veneration and study over the ages. The storm rune still sent forth its power, and the lands which dwelt under its gaze were mighty and blessed, and wracked with eternal invasions from pilgrim armies and hostile nations seeking to usurp their seat of power. But the runes of man were small things, often twisted. They were pale imitations of godly art. If one, however, could be said to approach an ancient rune in any measure, the opinion among high wizards and elder lords was that it would be, though they shuddered to speak it, the the rune of madness.

It was a curse that had originally seeped from the howling palace halls wherein it was first made, palaces whose stark dead gaze overlooked burnt lands now forbidden to walk. The rune of madness crept across the world and into the hands of the poor, the wretched, the desperate, and those who had been born with hearts of an uttermost blackness. Those seeking to spread chaos in war or rebellion would use stolen and faulty arts to strike runes of madness in places where it could be seen by as many as possible, themselves driven to gibbering insanity by its mere creation. It didn't matter at that point who saw it, be it lord, priest, neighbour, friend, lover, or kindred.

The runes began to spread like a plague. One could never guess where they might appear next, their destruction was an immense undertaking, and more often than not, invading or defending forces would use their appearance in their favour, no matter the losses they suffered. During these years, the priests of the innermost sects across the world cast aside their theological squabbles and held convocation. A new rune would be formed and struck in the old mountain where the first runes of men were struck. This rune would call the gods back to the world for salvation, or, they admitted with tearful shame, likely destruction for their transgressions. None spoke it, but more than a few welcomed that prospect in their hearts.

Twelve priests set out under the cover of both night and assassin's runes, on beasts invigorated by brands. To a far place did they ride, losing five of their number along the way to passing mercenary bands looking for sport, deserters driven to madness, and the degenerate descendants of old horrors the gods had forgotten to slay so long ago. With a hammer nearly three thousand years old, dating back to the first members of primal priestly lineages, they elected one among their number to strike the rune of calling into the mountain, and so it was done.

They came not from the heavens on rays of gold, nor on azure thunderbolts, nor on roaring winds, but as a procession of shadows from the deep of the night. They appeared, in general outline, like human beings, but their proportions were greater, and perhaps stranger than most, and their faces were hidden within voluminous, flowing shawls, from under which they seemed to be keenly, and with haste, studying their surroundings. Well, the priests knew then that man walked at least in some pale likeness to the gods, as had been debated for five centuries now.

One of them—one of the gods approached the seven priests, and made a kind of sign over its face—the shape, it almost seemed to be, of a rune. It spoke then, and asked, in a tongue like that of a human: "Was it thou who struck the rune of calling?" And by the—the gods, there was some measure of fear in its voice. The others behind it were whispering to each other, pointing and gesturing to the bare landscape. They were, the priests answered, the very ones who did so. And they beseeched their gods for aid or judgement, telling what had become of their world and their holy art in their absence, or distance, they were quick to append.

And then there was a wailing unlike any sound of despair the priests had ever thought possible in that moment. The gods fell to their knees, they stamped the earth, they clutched each others arms, and lamented the oppressive thirst for power, and the runic abominations that had been wrought. Another realm doomed, becoming thin with rune striking, its power uncontrollable. They saw in this meagre dimension a bleak reminiscence of their own shattered world. They had failed again—was nowhere home to a race who could surpass them? Who could truly control the runes?

With mournful voices, the gods tore the hammer out of the hands of the priests, and said:
"If you must do this under the edict of your gods, then so be it—we command it. But whatever may come, we beg of you: cast each and every one of these things into the deepest abyss this realm provides. Rend and sunder every tablet, burn every tome and scroll, and slay without mercy those who hide the knowledge of this alien art. Start with us. No more worlds must know the mark of the rune."

Hello!

We’re back! We were never gone, though. We’ve been in the walls actually, writing weird stories, by which I mean I have since it’s just me. So put on some Darkthrone, or go find out what that is if you don’t know, then turn the volume up, and get ready!

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This week, we witness the rise of the Fullmoon of Winter, we wander through the Desert of the Sacrifices, and the red wizard Carloman confronts the Serpent of the Shadow…

Fullmoon of Winter

When the Redsun of the South rises high, the walking corpses, mutant horrors, and witch-men of the steaming jungles and blood-clogged swamps of the Mireland come to befoul the world beyond. Pulsing flesh, creeping slime, dripping ichor, bones, tendrils, muscle—things of this and more drag the dead back to their charnel hellscapes to feed the endless rites of defilement the dark gods of that realm demand. During these times do the vast misty plains, deep emerald vales, and stoic city-keeps of Palladium know the shadow of fear.

Ever had the shining silver heroes, wise magicians, and ancient dragons of Palladium stood fast and kept it at bay, until it was then that a new enemy presented itself. It came from far away in the north on howling winds, from an unthinkable desolation, and so there was raised in the south, with much sacrifice, the desert bulwark where wandered the silent adherents of the Doom Drum and their powers of oblivion—a desperate defense while forces were mustered for the new enemy.

To the far north Palladium looked, and they saw not a mass of writhing, roaring horror descend upon their noble lands, but instead a darkness illimitable—pallid, bloodless, sinewy barbarians screaming obscene litanies of malevolence and blasphemy, swarming with jagged blades and cruel hammers upon all that lay below, carried by frigid winds, slaves to a darkness loathe to lose the instruments of its wrath.

The first wave crashed with brutal force, and carried with it a kind of dark power hitherto unseen in the virile realm of Palladium: winter. With the barbarians came sunless skies, a paleness of all light, and weakness even in the eternal fires of the temples. Ice fell from the heavens and coated the earth, until, all of a sudden, the nameless barbarians receded back into their unknown grimness.

The decision came from the highest authorities of Palladium: a new bulwark must be raised, like for like, suffused with the vitality of their homeland's glory. The mightiest magicians spoke twelve words, and the extreme ends of Palladium's boreal expanse knew then the touch of bracing cold, but with clear blue heavens and bright suns. Mountains shot into the sky, and the men who went to this land were wild and free, clad in honour and with battle-song ever on their lips.

For one hundred years, the northmen clashed in righteous battle, clan against clan, against giant, against wyrm, steeling themselves for what was to come, and come it did, for the second wave was a profound and frightful deluge, a numberless torrent of barbarians that would leak into Palladium time and time again. Battered and bloody, the warriors of the northern bulwark stood fast alongside their desert and valley brethren. But at long last, a scout of the north stole into the far expanse to bring the battle to the enemy.

And then man saw for the first time then just what kind of enemy they were dealing with.

A barren land of bitter, endless frost. Towering black trees whose leaves are as talons claw at an eternal night sky verminous with insane constellations that leer over rime-laden winds racing madly across black ice fields. A lifeless wasteland of an eternal darkness, where, above all, there rises in the frost-fog air, the featureless black Fullmoon of Winter, wherefrom the horde gathers its malefic might, and wherefrom they are commanded to invade and consume all the world beyond them.

When the Redsun climbed into the sky, the Fullmoon lurked in its shadows. The bulwarks were awash with blood and frost. The Doom Drum beat incessantly, and the war-chants carried across mountain summits. Ancestor gods could only do so much against the might of cosmic malevolence. The venerable towers of Palladium looked with weary eyes on their horizons, and steeled themselves for fresh assaults.

But one morning, the people of the lands of Palladium awoke to a new sight, and a missing ally.

Blazing like trailing firelights, a great scattering of comets were as a web across the heavens. The stargazers all ran to peer upwards and divine the nature of this phenomenon, and knew then with sorrow and pride where the ancient dragons had gone. A third and final bulwark stood above to match the malignancies of the Redsun and Fullmoon, and forever afterwards would comet-blessed warriors ride upon stag and wyrm under the Drakefall, and clash against corpsewalker, mutant, and barbarian.

Desert of the Sacrifices

"From whence doth thee come?"

"The road."

"Where doth thee call home?"

"Mine saddle and camp."

Such are the words to be exchanged by the common folk and these strangers wherever they appear. They come, stern of mien, and bearing a heavy onus whose truth known to them alone, but one which is guessed at in wild rumour the lands over. It is by virtue of their all-consuming devotion to duty are they awarded rarely with distrust. More likely is some measure of distant respect to come their way, for never have deceit nor thievery nor grift been counted as among their aspects. Their labour is hard and honest, their wares durable and simple, their songs fierce and yearning.

And yet, they are a cold, closed people, forever are their minds bent on the weight of whatever it is that drives their race. Indeed, it seems to be both yoke and destiny, upon them and before them for ages beyond count. That they are an old people is well reckoned, for they have kept stock, through poem and rite, of ancient accounts wherein the forebears of heartlanders struck out into southern realms yet unfashioned. They alone have seen the rise of the modern powers, and have flocked to their shadows from out of the shadows of even older empires they too no doubt watched scramble out of the sand and depths.

They permit few outsiders among their number. Some of them settle, burnt out from a lifetime of vigilance—for or against what, they will not say even to the lovers for whom they leave their people. Indeed, it sometimes seems to be a relief to move away from it.

But come away from the towns and cities. Come away from the bustling trade routes. Follow the tribe south, in scattered number, riding no more than two or three abreast, leaving whole days of travel between their little clusters, communicating via hidden signs, trails of smoke, and animal calls. Never can anyone know who it is that rides south into the parched badlands, leagues from even the most scant signs of civilization. Never can anyone know who it is that gathers where dust comes from a far austral realm. Never can anyone know who it is that holds convocation in lonely, arid places to survey the great ward set up by their ancestors in an age before the first heartlanders crawled from the mud.

Dunes rise like flowing mountain peaks, and sand shifts like water. For all that it is a dead land with a burning blue sky that never dims, everything seems animate—each grain of sand is a fang in a maw. From the age-beaten landscape there rises in countless places a tattered standard jutting from bleached bones. In most places these are more than half buried, but some look newer, their remains relatively more fresh. Into the sands do new living ones go, having received the rite of sacrification—their blessed flesh is another brick in a holy vanguard, and they are left to wander until their life gives out and their blood and skin flakes into the air itself, and their bones can add one more hand to push back that which the tribe fled so long ago.

Walk the pilgrim's path of ancient sacrifices and thank your ancestors for their selfless acts. Emulate them and perhaps the rich green world beyond may yet see another day. But ever be on the move, let no space go without the bones of your kind, and let your people be ready to find new lands beyond if they fail, for grain by grain it is unearthing itself from its aeon-weighted tomb. Listen in your dreams as each particle falls.

Serpent of the Shadow

Carloman peered around, his amber eyes staring back into the ashen-shadowed passage of the monastery. The lamps had been extinguished for the night, and all they had was the orange gem set in the wizard's staff for illumination. Pity this had happened so deep in the monastery, but of course, that had been intentional. The venerate yelled for the men to work harder, axes hacking away the aged wooden pannelling to uncover the hidden chamber within. A damn shame all that old work being destroyed, the wizard thought. But it must be done. For the sake of every soul in Vaharlo Monastery.

Suddenly, with a final axe blow, a billow of smoke was vomited forth alongside a stench that made the group gathered in the thin corridor sputter and fall back. A minute later, sleeves across their mouths, they ventured closer and tore down the final remainders that lay in their path. A wooden panel bearing a seven-circle design was cast the floor. Carloman bent down and gently took it up. This symbol represented the intricacy of the Order the World Serpent embodied in Silverden. That it had to be hacked to pieces was portentous. He handed it to the venerate and told her to keep it safe as he stepped forward, shining his staff's light into the cramped cell they had revealed, and parting the thick smoke.

Within was a sight the likes of which Carloman had been dreading. Before him was a wide, deep brazier. In it was a low pool of flame from which a pillar of oily smoke rose, flooding the room, though his gem was beginning to thin it. Within the flame, however, were the charred remnants of human limbs, burned down to the blackened bone. This flame fell upon an object immediately in front of it: a high-backed wooden armchair, to which was lashed a naked corpse, and from this grisly scene was cast a shadow that fell upon the bare stone floor, and half way up the wall at the end of the cell.

The red wizard stepped cautiously to the side of the shadow. It looked like smear of black paint upon the ground. It did not fade at its edges, but bled. A dead man's shadow thrown by a corpse-fed flame in a forgotten cell within an ancient Silverden monastery, hidden behind a sacred panel no monk would dare ever touch. The wizard swore out loud. He didn't care why the room had been sealed off, there were a dozen innocuous reasons. But a gnostic had transposed themselves into this chamber's untouched darkness and called something from beyond.

"Venerate," said Carloman, voice low and rumbling, "get your men to fetch to as many candles as they can carry, and bring them back here."
"Shall we not put out that...fire?" she asked, disgust clear in her voice.
"No. Not yet." Carloman was staring into that shadow as he said this. Despite his better judgement, he was feeling vindictive. "Let it know who is sealing it back into the dark."

Tawny candles with healthy yellow flames were as a border about the brazier, the chair, the corpse, and the shadow. Two taller ones on stands had been used to hedge in the shadow that rose up the back wall. Sticks of incense were set between each candle, the heady scent battling the smoke which lingered in the air. Carloman breathed it deep. Silverden monks and venerates of every kind would use the stuff to enter into meditative fugue states to facilitate the divination of order. It closed a certain gap between the individual and the whole. Exactly what he wanted right now.

Despite the ring of light about it, the shadow hadn't faded at all. In fact, to the wizard, it seemed to have deepened in protest. Let it. The thing dwelt just within, coiled in its nest, a warren that led directly outside of this material realm. To be so close to that beyond didn't bear thinking about. A thousand different things were working their fingers and feelers into the cracks even now. Carloman shivered and swore under his breath. They'd driven the snake out of two monks already, and one of them might never fully recover from whatever malediction remained. Illness, weakness—the wizard didn't know exactly, but he guessed why it had went about, seeking to seed disease. More likely than not, a miracle cure from the dark would appear to bind those who took it into its servitude.

Outside the room, monks whispered meditative mantras from a ways down the corridor, invoking the ancient dead of Silverden as custodians of order, and the coils of the World Serpent. But within stood Carloman and the venerate. She fidgeted in place while the wizard paced about the shadow. The venerate had been more than a little aware of what was really at stake, but Carloman had still tread lightly about it. That there was some malevolence from some far place she knew, but to where that distance reached, he didn't want to push it. This was a delicate time.

Come out, he thought, I know you want to.

And at that very thought, it appeared, almost as if bidden.

From the pool of ink at their feet, there slowly peered an unnaturally thin face. It was bony, blunt and round, with a dropping mouth, fleshless, skeletal nose, and great black eyes that bulged. In shape, they saw as it slowly slunk from the dark, it was serpentine, or worm-like, with long, twitching arms so slender they might snap in the slightest breeze. It looked up at Carloman, hunched and with its hands feebly clasped together.

"Thought you could fool me, hmm?" The venerate tore her eyes away from the thing and to the wizard. "Want me to think you a poor, lost little soul?" Carloman sneered. Wretched and hateful in the extreme, he was repulsed to his core that it dared even vaguely resemble a human being to try and beggar pity and make him drop his guard. He knew no Archon had granted this thing passage. No, this demon had heeded a dark call and wormed its way into the world—his world, to beg for scraps from its master's table.

Carloman bent down and whispered a hair's breadth away from the thing's face. "You will have no flesh here, you vermin bastard." It was shaking with rage, and he knew it wouldn't cross the candles. This agent of the Outer Dark, powerless. Carloman stood up, set his foot against the corpse and chair, and pushed it over with a crash. "Throw the plaque on it!" he barked. She did so as the thing seemed suddenly to plunge into the very earth itself, surrounded by an illimitable blackness—but the sundered wooden panel did nothing else but clack against the bare stone.

Triple dose of stuff this week. What kind of stuff? Honestly don’t know, genuinely couldn’t tell you. It’s up to you to find out, and report back…

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This week, we delve into the streets of the Ritual Outskirts, we bear witness to a Defiled Sanctum, and we encounter the frightful form of the Castle Shadow…

Ritual Outskirts

The suns rose high behind the veil of an overcast sky, yet their heat came through, and the air was restless, but never cool. Just the kind of dour day you didn't want when you had to drag a cart past the Eryx wall of the Ritual City.

The small but deep cart was carefully packed with common, basic ritual materials. A lot of short, thick candles, pungent incense sticks, uncut lengths of chalk and charcoal. But it was going to the long district just outside the first inner wall. Still several miles from the Great Chamber itself, considering there were twelve inner walls. But it was supposed to have some measure of prestige to it, being trusted enough to deliver this close to the city and not be a citizen. He took it as intended.

Along a bustling street of mercantile chatter, raucous laughter, and droning prayer, near the drop point—so close, and yet just far away enough—the courier pulled in to a small, open air winery. The dead heat of the day had taken its toll. Setting his talisman-plastered cart against a wall, defense against almost any thief, the courier approached the barman and ordered a carafe of wine. Enough for a nice sit down, not enough to make his client irate. He had practiced this well.
"Half coin if you offer prayer, friend," said the barman as the cooled decanter was uncorked and the precious water-of-life slowly poured.

The courier stopped and thought for a moment. Man must be a pious fellow. Well, he certainly didn't begrudge a few minutes of recitation for the sake of a cheap drink. Some people got very strange about it, though. He knew other couriers who believed speaking even a single word bound you to the cult of the city. But the courier had never met a god he didn't like, and part of him like the idea that it all bought him some share in the world to come, the one born from the finishing of the great ritual around which this entire city was built and populated.

"Will you be around next week?" asked the barman as the courier took a seat and began to drink. The place was empty, conversation was expected. "It will be eighty years! The one hundred year rite comes to fruition soon, big celebrations planned."
"Maybe, friend, maybe. Here's hoping the ritemasters need more candles, eh?" The barman laughed and spoke of the city while the courier drank. Things did seem underway, he said, lots of commotion, lots of nightly sounds, very exciting. The courier downed his last gulp and pointed to the eastern wall.
"That your altar, yeah?"
"Aye, go on, I shan't bother you."

The altar was a small, rectangular alcove set about chest high in the wall. In it were four statues—these were, he believed, the images of the eldest ritemasters, who it was said were still conducting the ritual itself in the center of the city. The walls of the alcove and around it were plastered in faded and frayed devotional posters of stylized ritemasters, flowing, flowery prayer script, and symbolic imagery common to the city—squares and circles, conjoined and concentric. Below all this, a silvery bowl of water. The courier placed a finger into the bowl, and spoke under his breath the three decently long prayers he knew. He then took his finger from the bowl, touched his forehead, bade the barman good day, and took his cart.

Back in the heat of the day, the restless winds carrying the heady scents of incense and spice from afar, the courier spared a thought for the city, as he always did when he came here. These outskirts were pretty ramshackle, lots of pious and devout wanderers set up homes around what became the twelve inner walls. Hard to think nearly eighty years ago this was nothing. Just bare badlands. The place had risen into the skies so fast, rivalled some of the much, much older cities to the east in scale. Maybe there was something to this ritual after all.

The city was a voracious consumer of countless materials, each one crafted to exact specifications. Some of the foreign cults felt uneasy about the ritual, but the merchants and princes certainly didn't. A lot purses and coffers had become and remained very fat thanks to it. That included the courier's—ritual courier was a good way to make a living in these regions, especially if you knew the spots where cast-offs and used materials wound up. Priests, sages, and sorcerers in other lands were intensely fascinated by the ritual, and believed the secret was in used materials, as if some mark would be left behind. The courier didn't know if this was the case, but he was paid either way.

A purple-robed magistrate strode from a low arched doorway, shielding her eyes from the diffused but strong light of the suns. The courier gave a customary bow and accepted quickly his pouch of thin gold coins, counting them idly as the candles and incense and things were unloaded. Maybe he'd grab another drink before he went to collect the cast-offs he'd promised the sorcerer in Zaragok.

Defiled Sanctum

A corpse was found in the sanctum this morning. A murder. A deliberate sacrilege. Already the gold had begun to fade, the pearl become dull, the crimson grow faint, the azure darken. For the sundering of a tenet of sanctity, for this most heinous of criminal blasphemies, for this and this alone is reserved the punishment of defilement.

Defilement exists only in opposition to purity and sanctity. There must exist at least a small core of purity in a defiled subject for them to be defiled. This is the true punishment, for the total effacing of all that one is, is simply death.

The culprit is tracked down and finally found in a cursed nest. Dragged screaming obscenities into a court of pale marble, the solemn and dire rite of defilement is prepared. The books are unbound from their weighty chains. The bells and hammers taken from their cells. The tall candles lit with fire from an eternal flame. The vast courtyard is silent as it begins. It must be remembered by all present that we are pure by virtue of the Seven Blessings.

Recite the legend. At the beginning of time, an angel blessed the first seven humans seven times. Those humans carried those blessings, and themselves blessed their kindred, and so on until all the world was peopled by a blessed race who begat a shining golden world, but who, for all its deep warmth and calming coolness, kept within its heart a fear that was the first defilement.

The blessings make us human, keep us human, and are the only bulwark in a universe of sorrow that every day is a battle to overcome. This is the eternal mantra of every human, the light in the darkness. The crushing judgement made upon blasphemers who lost that battle.

One by one are blessings stripped from the human form until only the first remains. Or, perhaps, as some dare only to whisper to themselves, the blessings are not removed, but defilement is set upon the transgressor. Whatever the case, that which was brought into the courtyard does not leave the same. The withered sanctum is sealed, and its grounds shunned. The defiled being is sent into the maw of a great black cavern leading to the inner earth, where the weight of its cursed nature will draw it ever downwards. The sanctum, like all defiled places, will, in time, sink into the very ground, seeping through the earth, where it will eventually reappear far below, in a lightless gulf.

There is no power in defilement. That is what they say, and what we say we know. But the underworld is a silent chaos of wretched beasts and blighted ruins whose incalculable defilement sometimes invades dreams, and sends dreamers fleeing for the gentle warmth of a sanctum. The dream speaks in a broken tongue. There must exist at least one small core of purity in a defiled subject for them to be defiled. But, too, there need be naught but a speck of defilement in a subject otherwise shining and golden for it to be defiled, and fear yet dwells within every human heart, of the rising tide far below.

Castle Shadow

Two figures sat within the shadow-laden study. The storm lashed fresh sheets of muffled rain against the old window. Wind howled outside, snaking and whistling through minute cracks in the antique stone, giving the house a dire chill. The dying fire in the cavernous, dull green fireplace did little to combat it. One of the figures, loose skin sagging upon a thin frame, hair of pure silver, eyes of lightest gold, clad in frayed, antiquated raiment, looked up at the crest and arms of his house. Old knights, his family, watchmen of the coast, guardians of the kingdom. The shield which their crest adorned was battered and dented from many battles. The cruel battle axe below it was no different, and had known gallons of Macha blood.

He spoke then to his guest.

"I have kept my family's oath to the Lundermen kings of old as best I could, though no duty has been expected of us in some centuries. I am not long for this world, you see, and I have no heirs, no kin of any kind. They have all long gone to the Serpent's protection. Save for one who remains here still, with me, as it has been since long before my great-grandsires. This ghost is one piece of sorrowful business I can at least tend to in a life of loose ends."

The keep was a relic of an age when raids along the coast were common. There was a time when a regiment of soldiers dwelt in a stone barracks and manned the tower's turret to keep close eyes on the ocean's span for the dark, fleet forms of Macha ships, and to rush to the village below in aid. But such ships hadn't come in many years, the village was long abandoned, and the barracks was little more than stones in a field. The last of the mercenaries remained until the dwindling pay gave out. The house staff could not bear the poverty. The keep, its stone weathered, stained, and sunken, didn't seem as if it would itself be around much long either.
"But alas, I fear the World Serpent has taken its protection from this place."
"I can assure you, Rudek," said the red wizard Carloman as he sat up from the dusty leather armchair, "my presence here means quite the opposite."

The scion rose silently and took in his hand a candelabra, whose four golden arms were dulled from decades of dripping wax. He turned to the shield and axe once more, and stared, and the wizard let him think.
"Tell me, Carloman... What could befall my ancestor that would leave their shade in such a state? Is there naught for it but this?" The wizard sat forward and held his great silver-gold beard while he tapped his chin with his thumb.
"The spirit is susceptible to influences. More so perhaps than aught else in the world. Things from its own life, and things around it. Some of these influences can cause a spirit remain. Not all of them are bad, mind you, countless spirits forgo release to relay a final message, or a goodbye, or to reveal a secret. But most remain because of bad deaths...terror and trauma in those final moments make a monstrous impression upon the spirit. Your family must have had an idea why this shadow remained, and in such a form."

Rudek turned to Carloman but looked down in thought.

"Did you know this tower was taken only once? Seven hundred years ago, before the Lunderman kings, the only stain upon our history. Sacked by a great Macha raid, badly burned by their flames. We told stories of that desperate fight for generations. I think it comes from that time. From that failure."
"And that shield, and axe..." Carloman gestured, "they continued to defend the tower, and the old village below afterwards, did they not?"
"They did. My sires bore them alongside the soldiers whenever Macha feet tread the beaches."
"Leave the candles, Rudek. I shall light the way." Carloman stood and set a small orange gem into the top of his staff, and breathed upon it, sending a gentle radiance into the study's corners. "Clad yourself now in the arms of your house, and let it be kin which makes the final impression on it."

Through sleeping stone corridors went the scion as the wizard followed, to the wide entrance hall whose high shadows were animate with slowly whirling dust. A wide central staircase led into the dark above, and beyond this they went until they reached the steps leading to the uppermost level of the old tower. They were slick with long sitting damp. There was a deep mustiness to the air, unhealthy, stagnant with settled darkness and slumbering bloody memories. The worst kind of place for anything to dwell, but especially a naked soul in desperate need of surcease. The wizard's light bled along the old sunken doors, the wet-stained walls, and ragged hangings, all the while the tempest outside had redoubled its fury, and trickles of cold, clammy air brushed past the two figures.

Rudek held the old axe near the head, and the shield, which still had its untreated, decaying leather fittings, hung heavy on his skinny arm. Their feet plodded flatly upon the bare stone as the wizard thrust his staff into the passage beyond them, where at any moment, he expected to see something lumber from the ashy shadows. Instead, in the gem's strangled circle of pale illumination, they came suddenly upon something large which stood with its back to them, hunched, shivering, draped in pure blackness.

Carloman heard Rudek's sharp, stifled gasp.

It was as a shadow cast by no object, with no flame to throw it upon the air where it freely stood, and yet it heaved as if from the wan light of a guttering candle. And then it turned, and showed what manner of thing it was. Carloman sent a hand to the scion's arm to stop any motion he might make. A huge, impossibly large and distended mouth gaped open, the kind of which a broken jaw might create. From that maw there lolled a massive swollen tongue over yellowed, jutting teeth, and surmounting this grotesque visage were two eyes pale with cataracts.

And through this sudden glimpse, the ghost made a sound like those of a human that was being strangled to death.

Carloman was not a person easily fazed. After all, he had looked into the face of limitless darkness and had come away with fury where most come away with madness and despair. But neither had he ever let his emotions become dulled, and in the middle of this lightless tower of rotting stone, this icon of suffering and rage made his skin crawl. And yet, was a this not a human soul wracked in age-weighted agony? Beyond his feelings of disgust and pity, there came to him the brief notion that this ancestor's death must have been unspeakable. The Macha raids of old were brutal, after all. The wizard brought forward the faltering scion.
"Address it, Rudek, your blood, your oath, your house—go! There is naught stronger in this house, in this moment, than you! I am by your side!"

From the pillar of the darkness which constituted this thing's form, there issued forth two hands, great sallow things with long straining fingers. Carloman braced for the defense, but did not move. He let Rudek Halman walk forward.

"Sire of old," came his tired, reedy voice, "you bore these arms in life, and I bare them in the last of mine, as last keeper of the tower at Halmarch..." The thing came forward, shuddering, hacking in its throat, and straining its hands, seeking, or it seemed to the wizard, some target upon which to vent its ancient anger. "The Macha have been driven off for an age now..." his voice was rising, swelling with emotion, "our duty is done, sire." Rudek stood firm, and held the shield to his chest, and the axe above his head. True to the old scion's words, there was nothing of fear or vengeance in his words or actions. Just sorrow. "Feel it, and know."

Rudek brought the axe down upon the dark form of the ghost, and in a mere flash, the shroud of black which had been its body was torn away, and for a instant, like a carnival mask, the gaping maw was too cast away, and before a trailing shape rose into the gentle shadowy air, there was the image of a noble, peaceful human form.

The warm, reddish sun rose in the south, sending a lively ruddiness across the western Voerlund landscape. The sky was clear and bright, and the air scented with the pleasant freshness that comes after a heavy rainfall. Carloman looked back only once at the tower of Halmarch, and thought, in the morning it light, it looked sturdier than the night before.