Shadows & Sorcery #161

All signs point towards this being SHADOWS & SORCERY

Funny how the solution to being stuck on a story is to just stop and write a whole other one, isn’t it? That’s what happened this week. That’s why you’re all getting a two-parter after the haunted knight’s finale, while I figure what the hell’s going on in the other one. The replacement is pretty good though.

Now, this week would normally be the next chapter of The Path of Poison, but Sepp and Co. are taking a little break right now while I do some serious planning for them. Rest assured, they’ll be back soon, and finally get to Farhaven! In the meantime, why not get up to speed, or if you never even read it, well, now’s the best time to start!

Also, since the first story this week is the third part of an adventure, I would recommend checking out the first two entries, as well as the other tales in those editions, because they are good.

And please, tap the like button if you enjoyed this week’s edition!

This week, the haunted knight finds her quarry in the City of the Graveyard, the town watchman Veney learns about the Tower Mountain, and then contends with the Cursed Sigil…

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City of the Graveyard

Long ago, it was the isolated burial ground of the people of a hinterland settlement who adhered to an old religion. It was a sacred space, set apart from the world, a kind of threshold, as burial grounds often are. But the graveyard grew, and it grew especially quick as the village became a town, and the hinterlands became the outskirts, and eventually transformed, in fits of faithful zeal, into the central ward of the city. But in the long years as it grew, the graveyard began to need people to maintain its grounds, its facades, to plan new plots, dig the earth, and expand the walls.

And then it needed people to guard it during outbreaks of heresy and schism, the kind of which would come to plague the region for centuries to come, for religion, ritual, and the sacred are not always as static as mankind believes them to be. Groundskeepers soon became guardians, which even themselves were not free of intrigue and treachery, splitting and subsuming many dozens of times over. Throughout the establishment of the caretakers, and then throughout the rise of the mortuary sentinels, as the city grew around the growing necropolis, people flocked to provide aid, services, supplies, devotion, and thus became permanent residents in the holy focus of the spreading city.

The city entwined itself throughout the tomb rows and vast spread of silent mausoleums, the streets, the markets, the homes now the trenches and battlements of a terrible war, the incense and chants replaced by the crack of pistol, whistle of bolt and arrow, and the call of commander and mortal enemy. Alas, the rumours of Braslam had proved all too true, and it was only by induction into a regional militia did she, the cavalier, and the sorcerer find their way into the inner ward of the graveyard city to bury the ghost once and for all.

The sky was a leaden grey, paled only in part by a frost-dimmed sun. Flecks of snow fell from the rumpled bank of cloud, adding little to the cold slush of mud and bodies. The advance had been broken—as she had suspected it might. These city state warriors playing at being generals, she knew old hands back home who could have set this miserable, fractious landscape to rights all by their lonesome. Their unit fled in every direction, the morale having been more a drink-fuelled rage than a commander's loyalty. A tide of pistoliers let fly wicked shot through the air, but the trio had ducked into a steep stairway leading down among rows of tombs. The vicious clash was somewhat dulled down here. But the space was still too narrow for her liking.

"Don't worry, mon alainn," the cavalier flashed a smile back from ahead, "we are getting close now!" I should damn well hope so, she thought, she had put her trust in the mercenary's memory. The sorcerer was quiet. He'd been quiet for a while now. He was seeing the ghost just as much as she was. Its face peered from every crevice, from around every corner, mad desperation peering from within those sunken sockets, lining each fold and wrinkle of the drawn, sickly, almost grey flesh. Not once in these three months had she come to find it familiar, or had she become accustomed to it in any way. Always it stared, pushing her on, always it loomed in the distance, drawing her on. Always showing the right path. It was precisely that which convinced the sorcerer to stay and see out his end of the bargain. The sack of coin he'd been passed had been spent on drink long ago.

In a wide plaza did they find themselves—though not alone. The finely worked, rime-encrusted ground was composed of grave slabs in low relief, and bore five soldiers with spears and falchions. Rebels? Invaders? Well, they weren't mortuary sentinels, or grave guard. Frankly she didn't know who it was they were actually fighting, and to her, it didn't matter. Didn't matter much to the cavalier either, who laughed, and drew her rapier. The swordstress drew her basket-hilt broadsword, and engaged the enemy. First in was she, with a deft dodge of a spear thrust, cutting it from the hand. The cavalier followed suit, knocking from aside a broad, heavy falchion, and landing her parrying dagger in the spearman's chest. It was a fine display of bladework—fit form swordstry, meeting strikes with deft parries of basket hilt rather than making them, falling back after every strike and kill, alongside flashy swordplay which delighted in flurries of attacks, feints, and dodges, toying with the opponent.

But as more bodies came from a path ahead, the biting cold began to exact a greater and greater toll. Crossbowmen, fighters with wickedly pointed arming swords, and halberdiers rushed into the fray—only to be redoubted seconds later by something else, for hands began to emerge from the stone ground, dead, withered hands with knots of desiccated muscle and curling fingers, and sunken faces peering with pain and horror from the slush and ice, grasping and clawing with frigid clammy hands at the attacking force. She spun around, seeing the sorcerer's fingers twitching like a puppeteer working strings. Or a spider's legs. He was taking a little too much joy in that, she saw, didn't need him getting ideas like he'd been doing. But sure, any lingering doubts as to his ability had been thoroughly quelled the second the attackers yelled and fled.

The cavalier took point again, urging the others forward with nods and gestures. She only stopped two or three times, to make sure, she whispered, some of these streets looked the same after a while. But finally it was gained. At the end of what amounted to an alleyway off a small square court of empty houses on a side street. The grave. She could tell. It was standing over the stone slab, its gaze drilling into hers. However many decades ago now, in some conflict long forgotten, her father stood here in the snow, and called up this ghost for a reason she didn't even know. It was an odd feeling she had, one she could neither place nor describe. The sounds of the battle seemed suppressed down here, pinched, distant. Like they had just stepped out it. There was no time to lose, however.

With her father's grimoire, the sorcerer came up, and went over with her one more time what words to speak, how to speak them, as he called it, "in cadence with the season".
"All I have to do is say these words?" she asked, less out of disbelief of their power, and more out of the fact this was about to actually end.
"These words were gained," the sorcerer spoke low, "with no meagre effort or price."
There was a flash of a thought in her head: what if he's deceiving me? Maybe he wants this book. But what could she really do? So, she spoke them, the ghost standing with strained hands over its grave.

There was no blast of light, no sound, no sensation in the air, the ground, or herself. But all the same, as soon as she shut the grimoire, she looked up, and while the ghost did not look any different, he was somehow, in some way, not so terrible to look upon. In the second or two before his form bowed, and then hunched low, sinking into the stone, he spoke the first words since he had bid her return him to his grave those many months ago.

"Thank you, ser knight."

And that, she thought to herself, was all the proof she would damn well ever need.

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Tower Mountain

Veney had finally relented and sought a blessing from the curates. He did not deny that their crimson theurgies alleviated some of the discomfort, but he was still chewing on roots throughout the day all the same. Not everyone had even that, and the cathedral had been packed for nearly a week now with around the clock ceremonies, people camped out in and around the place—the only reason he'd gotten in and back to his desk within the same day was because he wore the leather mantle of an inquisitor, a station created all for him.

It was vampirism, he was sure of it. Partly because he had to be seen to be doing something, mostly because he really thought so. Spread too quick, it did. Was too nasty. First it was one borough, close to the mountain walls, and within three days over half the city was sputtering and weak with fevers. Made people look weak and helpless. Vampirism was all about that. Veney knew all too well, thanks also to that somewhat rough but handsomely decorated leather mantle. In truth though, he hadn't a clue where to really begin. Any logical mind would start in the borough first afflicted, and that might have been the first case, but not its source, not where its originator would be hiding, watching, waiting.

And then a new report got tossed onto his desk, being one of the few able bodies in command, by a wheezing watchman: a strange man had been seen lurking about town, specifically, near the town hall. Best place to start as any, thought Veney, strapping his sword to his waist.

The streets of the mouldering town, a place once dignified with the name of city, were all but empty. Where once was a midday bustle of chatter, the pad of feet, calling voices, rolling carts, and clinking metal, there now was naught but a few shapes in dark cloaks rushing into doorways, a shutter clattering somewhere, or the the odd spluttering cough or groan that came muffled from within a house or tenement. The sun seemed itself tired somehow, the light drained of colour, ashy and bleared, making the venerable old stone—never particularly beautiful—seem like it was, Veney thought absurdly, rotting. The malaise of feebleness was working on his spirit, the crimson blessing of the strength of ancient blood fading with every step, but he came then, hand on the hilt of his blade for support, to the town hall, a structure serving several purposes, one of which was an archive of old and odd things.

Veney found his quarry around the side of the building.
"Good day, sir," Veney tried to sound as non-chalant and cool but in control as he could muster in his current condition.
A small, round, ruddy face with frowning mouth, protuberant cheeks, and drooping eyes surmounted by a thin fuzz of hair peered around, taking a second to focus on Veney.
"Oh, are you the keeper?" asked a reedy little voice.
"No. Inquisitor Veney, of the Watch, you a traveller, sir?"
"I have come," said the odd little man in his short black robe, "from over the mountains, Mr. Veney."
"Ah, right, well you should know there's a sickness in the town at the moment, you've come at a bad time. Northern boroughs are free of it for now, so I'd suggest you stay there rather than hang around here."
"You are sick, Mr. Veney sir?"
"I'm all right," he lied, "but the rest of the watch ‘aint."
"Please hold on just one second, Mr. Veney sir," said the small man, shuffling closer, digging around in a little pack by his side. Had this been a few years ago, Veney would have had his sword out already, but something about the way this curious little fellow moved and talked didn't strike him as suspicious. That should have sent alarm bells ringing, but it didn't. He took out then a metal flask and a small, slightly concave hand mirror. Blood of me kin, he thought, the fellow's a star mage. "Just...one moment, Mr. Veney sir..." said the mage, pouring from the flask a measure of water on the mirror surface. Veney started when he saw on that surface what he was sure he mistook to be a night sky. "Seen many stars, sir," said the mage, not looking up. He swished the water around a little before handing the mirror to Veney. "Drink, sir, please!". Yeah, there was a night sky reflected in that mirror, moving as it moved. He darted a look to the calm, drooping eyes of the fuzzy-headed little man who just proffered the dish with a little gesture. Veney drank the contents, profoundly aware of how much he was trusting his gut here.

There was a rush of coolness through his body that stunned him—a rush of deep, calming, stilling coolness, a balm gently pressed against every fibre of his being. The breath flooded his lungs in a way it hadn't in a week, and he coughed, feeling as if something had just shifted and cleared. He looked to the little mage, whose frown was now pursed into a smile.
"Water from a mountain lake soaked in stars, and my mirror has seen many, too, Mr Veney sir. I seek a mountain. You know of our mountain?"
"I, uh, can't say I do—thank you, by the way. Did you just heal me?"
"Oh no, sir, it was the stars. Cold and distant, so far away from the world, sir. We can make ourselves a little of that far away place, sir, that's what I am seeking. Knowledge of the mountain."
"Which mountain would that be?" asked Veney as he stretched his limbs and checked himself to see if everything still moved right.
"The tower mountain," the mage said with great reverence. "Long ago, sir, when we studied the stars, we gathered in a thousand towers upon an ancient mountain—not one of these terrible ones from below, but a true mountain, which reached further into the sky than anything else in the world. Once we sought to just live under them and their guidance and calm...now we seek to escape to them, sir."
"And you think the answer's in the town hall archives?" Veney asked with no small measure of confusion.
"Oh no, sir, you see, we lost the mountain when the world was broken up. We are scattered. But maybe you keep old, old records inside that say something, one small scrap even!"
Veney stopped for a moment, and considered his position. The little man let him, looking earnestly on.
"So, I said there was a sickness in the town."
"Yes, sir, you did."
"I'm almost certain it's a vampirist. I'm...kind of an expert on that around here. I've got to stop whoever it is, that's me duty. I can make you a deal, though."
"Oh? What is it, Mr. Veney sir?"
"You think you can help heal, or sure, even soothe this sickness while I stop it at its source?"
"Yes, absolutely! That is, sir, like you say, also my duty."
"If you can do that, I can get you into our archives, and you can read to your heart's content."

It was a deal, and what's more, it was quick work. They had a plan, and the little mage was eager to get set up. In the center of town was an old fountain, long dry, mostly a landmark, and sad reminder, but that night, it was filled with fresh water as of old, crystal and cool, and all under a fine, clear sky by people from the still healthy boroughs. The mage, under Veney's supervision, for it was best he was seen about during this, had spent a great deal of time letting the water people brought run over his mirror, which he kept up even as night had fallen. More stars was good, he had said.

Veney got the watchmen seen to first, who went out and spread the word, gathering the sick and helping people to the town square. A cup or bowl of water later, and the spirit of the place was in rare form. The little mage was delighted with the buzz of it all. The watch didn't stop people taking more drinks—indeed, it was encouraged. They didn't even stop people when they started hauling out barrels into the streets, either.

The inquisitor, however, was nowhere to be seen. He had something else to attend to.

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Cursed Sigil

It was an odd atmosphere, creeping around the benighted back streets of the town with the fires and roars of laughter in the distance, the shadows which surrounded it yet full of menace. Veney had taken his mate Vala with him. She was sharp, she was fast, and though he hadn't told her, hadn't even hinted, he was eyeing her to take on the inquisitor's mantle some day, if he got a chance to retire, or if killing vampirists ever got boring. This bastard would be her third, or at least he thought so, which regardless was more experience than he'd had before the town stuck a mantle and title on him.

Veney hadn't really done rounds anymore ever since his promotion, but he insisted on it every so often, to keep an eye on things, as he put it. Truth was, he kind of liked it. It was rough work most of the time, but there were moments, places, and people he treasured. Keeping an eye on neighbourhood folk, helping out, keeping things quiet and safe, making sure friends were okay, he couldn't do half as much of that from behind his desk. He knew it had been sickness dulling his senses, and that current circumstances had him keenly aware, and likely some vampiric spell hiding them, but he couldn't help but kick himself for not seeing the hideous shapes which had been smeared on the walls, on the door posts, under porches, under overhangs—they were literally everywhere. Long scrawls in some red or brown pigment, maybe blood itself. He wasn't sure if he recognized it exactly, but it was vampirism all the same. Some of them were quite small, and hidden. Some took up whole walls. Right in front of everyone this whole time. He would have seen these, he was sure, if he was still out here regularly.

In his experience, which he considered himself to have way too much of, he had an idea of how vampiric magick worked. It was through channels and symbols of authority. Power was their thing, dominance and control, raw force. It was like the area had been marked as if they owned it, and through that, worked this vile influence. Must have been terribly busy—if there was one other thing he knew, vampirists usually worked alone. They might trade and broker secrets, but they didn't gather. They were competitive. Now, this area was marked, these boroughs had been sick for weeks now...would the vampirist be here? No, they decided, no, the impromptu party had 'em scared and confused, and so was either going back to their lair, as Veney worried, or, as Vala wondered aloud, the vampirist was being foolish, which was very likely, and seeing as how they were off the high of expressing such power, the they were going to fight back and mark another few streets.

They took the gamble and made for the north section of town.

They passed through the square only quickly, rejecting offers of drink, and giving a nod to the little mage, before plunging back into the darkness. Most people were either asleep or gathered in and around the square. They had the place to themselves. Every door locked tight, every window shuttered. Nowhere for you to hide yourself, Veney thought. And indeed, it wasn't long until some tell tale marks began to present themselves on the woodwork and old stone. Fresh and glistening. Veney was quick to calm himself. This would be a good night.

Veney crouched low. He held still. His breathing was rhythmic and shallow. His eyes were wide. So much of the city was built with close, claustrophobic, meandering streets flanked by tall, old houses, but this was one of the rare few fairly open, low, and breezy ones, short, but nice. At at the end of it was the vampirist. The watch's training consisted mostly of weapons handling, a great deal of street memorization, and a handful of laws and rights education. It hadn't at all prepared him for what he saw now: a young man, no more than eighteen years old, smearing vampiric sigils on the face of a house with some vile concoction inside a large chalice.

Veney swore under his breath repeatedly. Something had gone out of Vala's eyes. They were both thinking it. But he had to be stopped. Don't forget, they thought, what he had already done, and what he was making to do. He seemed fairly occupied, so Veney tapped his mate on the arm and they took one side of the street each, and approached the young vampirist swiftly and silently.

"DROP IT," Veney bellowed, sword out, one good lunge away from the boy, who spun, his back against the face of the house, seeing Veney, and then Vala approaching. "You know who I am, so drop it while I've a mind not to cut you down where you stand!" He going to bolt, Veney could sense it. The tension in the limbs, he was seconds from sprinting off. Vala would tackle him, knock the legs out from under him easy. Fast, that one. Small, but all taut wire. "Don't do it, lad," Veney growled as he inched closer. Unfortunately, he did something else. The boy said some words—two or three, some spell, some dark enchantment, in his light, nasally little tone, and flung the contents of the chalice at Vala—bet he thought that was a smart move—which held in the air, suddenly spreading into dozens of grasping tendrils which made her hiss through her teeth as she fell back, cutting through them. Veney didn't think, he struck out, and hit something, hard—the boy screamed in shock, a shock which was unused to pain, unused to defiance. The chalice fell to the ground with a dull clang. Veney leapt in and tackled the boy to the ground, not having seen the curved dagger in his hand. It went into his lower back twice before he took his sword and drove the edge into the boy's neck. A squeal and a gurgle later, it was over. Veney only looked at his face once before falling back with a groan. Vala staggered over, drenched in blood, and holding her own throat. He'd find out what happened later. Right now Veney needed to not think.

With the dawn came rest for the town. Things were sluggish, but they were better. They'd be back up and running in a day or two. Veney had the watch help clean the infected boroughs of their cursed sigils. He had two pretty bad stab wounds to attend to, and his friend, the star mage, helped with liberal applications of star-stained water. Though it did little to soothe his troubled mind.
"So that's all there is to it?" he asked from his physician's cot. "Just water under starlight?"
"Oh, no, sir, not at all. It's...well, you understand, it's very difficult to explain, really," said the little fellow in that reedy voice of his, "you must be like a star yourself, away from and above this rotten, broken old world. One day, sir, we will all leave for the sky, away from the shadows, and the dark mountains, but for now, the stars can help clean away some of the filth."
"And you need the tower mountain for that?"
"Yes, sir, we believe this is so. The tower mountain, where all my kind lived and learned close to the stars."
"I'll be honest..." said Veney, looking down, the boy's face flashing into his mind for a second, "part of me likes the sound of that. But..." he said, looking back up, "I have vampirists to kill first."

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