Shadows & Sorcery #120
NOW THAT’S WHAT I CALL THE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTIETH EDITION OF SHADOWS & SORCERY
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 leers over ice-laden winds that race 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.