Shadows & Sorcery #65
What’s that, Skip? The sixty-fifth edition of Shadows & Sorcery is in everyone’s inboxes?
Alright folks, this week you’re getting three absolute chonkers of tales, and you’ll like it! Because it’s very nice, I promise. You even get a whole one completely free, but there’s all sorts of stuff under the cut you should totally take a look at…
The next chapter of The Path of Poison is coming next week, so prepare by getting up to speed with the story thus far HERE
Also, sincere apologies about this, but the ongoing 60% off Subscriber Special discount I run that that lets anyone sub for $2, for some reason it hadn’t been set at the beginning of this month, so if you’re a free reader who wanted to sub and found it coming to $5 and were deterred, it’s all good to go now. Remember, it nets you every single story in the archives (over 300 tales at this point) and you can try it free for a whole week first, it’s worth a look!
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This week, we join the Tomb Duke of a cold northern land as he muses upon one of the hardest decision one can ever make, we take a walk through the buzzing and vivacious Cathedral City, and we hear a curious tale or two that they tell about the mysterious phenomenon of the Mountain Knight…
Tomb Duke
Across the span of the rushing sea, beyond the misty vales and grim highlands of Macha, within the frost-laden vastlands, somber and serene, there sat the dark expanse of the Dunmarrow Clanhold, where walked amidst the fog a nameless death god who promised a calm, dreamless sleep in return for a life well-spent.
The failing evening light deepened the shadows between the rows of high lamps and low braziers that lit the weathered stone streets of Marleath, eastern-most enclave of the clanhold. Snow fell from the sky lazily, laying upon the spires, sheer walls, and high arches that made up the city as a silver coat. Figures in thick black cloaks shovelled ice from around the countless gravestones which lined the streets. Others emerged or descended with torches into otherwise lightless tunnels below. Within their homes and amidst the many corner public houses, folks gathered about central hearths and fires with warm wine and mead, and told tales of the dead. Beyond, on the great wharves, black barges came and went every hour of every day between the north and southbanks, delivering much needed supplies to the great tomb cities in which dwelt the dead of many generations of grey barbarians, and from which their descendents departed for a life of mercenary battle. All for the honour and survival of the Clanhold.
One great tiered structure of thin black tiles, crowned by a brimmed conical roof, rose above the rest of the city. Through its thin-arched windows could be seen a flame, and a face: the pallid countenance and grey hair of Marleath's tomb duke, Brogar Dimmenag, clan elder, and elder of elders in the city. Looking out over the dark slate roofs of the city, he knew that down there somewhere, a family, either distant kin of himself, or ancient allies of his kin, grieved and made sinister oaths, all because of the braggart who had sat before the tribunal, and had been interrogated until the veil which clouded him from due shame had cracked. Brogar idly ran a thumb over the small stone rectangle which hung from this neck—the mark of the clanhold's death god. He asked the benighted city if the decision in his head was the right one to make.
The son and scion of a highly respected traditional gravekeeping family, Heming Kinthyrving, had went out to perform his duty as a tireless soldier of the tomb cities, as a member of a mercenary band to fight and guard for southern knights, counts, venerates, and other nobles and officials, helping to strengthen relations between an intricate web of trade allies through coin and service. His particular band had found themselves fighting for a west Voerlund knight whose old, generational border dispute with a neighbour had come to blows. It was something Voerlunders seemed preoccupied with. The details didn't matter, there was a heap of goldleaf notes paid upfront, with a generous share going back to Heming's clan.
And then he learned that Klement Kinmarrog was part of the force opposing them.
This was already a tricky situation. As a rule, Dunmarrow mercenaries are open to just about any line of work, but will avoid conflict with each other. Despite their savagery in battle, the clansfolk are a deeply close-knit people. And southerners know that, which, Brogar suspected, was why the pay was so good. But they have their rivalries, like all peoples, and the families of Kinthyrving and Kinmarrog had bitterness reaching back centuries. Enmity between Dunmarrow is colder than the grave itself.
At such a juncture, bands usually disperse for a short time while individual soldiers decide what they want to do in that situation. Most will move on with the band, while some, perhaps in need of further pay will remain, an understandable but unfortunate circumstance their fellows may help alleviate instead. Heming, though, he rather enthusiastically stayed. Not for pay, but for blood. The battle itself was, apparently, relatively swift and deathless. No one wanted to die for such a petty feud, but they did beat the stuffing out of each other. They routed the opposition fiercely, and after a cursory chase to make sure they didn't redouble their efforts, Heming slipped away and caught Klement unawares. Sore pride and the knowledge of lost pay had led him to wander away from the fleeing force through a forest edge path to their camp. Heming murdered the battered warrior, but in his zeal, did so as loud as possible. Several soldiers on Klement's side heard both the violence and the unmistakable sound of harsh Dunmarrow speech. They found Heming butchering Klement's corpse, and about to dump his remains into a ditch. Exerted and outnumbered, he ran.
The soldiers told their Dunmarrow comrades what they'd seen, and soon realized they're borne witness to something bad. Word spread amidst northern mercenaries of the region, and not too soon after, Heming was taken back, by force, aboard a black barge. The evidence was damning. But more than that, accusations of this kind carried a terrible weight. Dunmarrow wished bad deaths upon their enemies in battle, true, but it was different between clanhold kin, related via blood or old oath. There was nothing more loathsome in all creation to clansfolk than a bad death, a lonely death, far away from home, never to return in any form. Many graves in the tomb cities are empty save for a slate idol within, owned by the deceased, an anchor for their souls. But this would have made sure he vanished into the wilds with nothing to bury, and no rest. So, the calling of a kinslayer is the gravest accusation and sin imaginable.
Dunmarrow survives on reputation. Its imports and trade survive on that reputation. The reputation of each and ever clansfolk out in the world, the collective image of a savage, but honourable, or at least loyal people. These grey barbarians straddle the line between warrior and beast in many southern minds, and their battle-fury precedes them. Some people even consider them grim omens and refuse to fight with them. And so it is imperative that its mercenaries conduct themselves with some decorum, and leave clanhold business in the clanhold. The history between these two families was all the more reason for Heming to hold back until he returned and the elders could see to it. What a vile homecoming for him, bound in chains, forcing it to be the first thing his family has seen of him in years. And then his sister taking up the duty and leaving in his wake, with the shadow of having a murderer in her family hanging over her. Sibling to a killer, a butcher, they'll say. Is that how all Dunmarrow nobles act?
But, Brogar had to admit to himself, it's not like the Kinmarrog clan were exactly an innocent party. It's not like they hadn't earned their rivalry. Truth be told, they had few friends and were tolerated merely as people of the clanhold. They were haughty, and thought of themselves far too highly for their standing, with precious little to show for such bloated pride. And their gravekeeping was perfunctory. That the Kinthyrving even touched their crypts was a show of honour they barely deserved. Someone was going to take issue with them sooner or later, but god help him, Heming was too eager to please. Look, he'd say, look father, look mother, I've shown them their errors, they will be humble now. No doubt he had actually believed this, and didn't think it would just make the situation worse.
The body of Klement Kinmarrog had been recovered and had, he understood, been quickly entombed. Not that there was much to celebrate of that life, but still, it didn't exactly win the family sympathy. The matter was pretty simple, if unpleasant in every way imaginable, thought Elder Brogar. Heming had confessed to it quickly and all. This was a sin, not just a crime but a sin—a spiritual wrongdoing. There were ancient oaths passed down from the first families, from when Kaldur Dunmarrow had wandered into the frost-fogs after the Wrecking of the Ships and met with the death god, holy words that had bound these people together as one, and this young pup had sundered them. Regardless of the Kinmarrog reputation, something like this simply couldn't be forgotten, and likely, it wouldn't be forgiven. A young warrior, his whole life ahead of him, which ought to have ended either in glory for his clanhold or in old age around a Dunmarrow hearth, had been, for all intents and purposes, prematurely ended. He'd be hated at home and known as an exile abroad. An unwelcome ghost in every land. And, Brogar mused with dread, the life that been ended, what of that? What might have he done, or not done?
But such sorrowful sentiments were unbecoming of any but storytellers, and Brogar referred to the law of the tomb cities, to be enacted by no one less than himself, the tomb duke, the elder of elders, in this matter. It was his decision alone, and conference with other elders and even the Kinthyrving family helped little. Brogar Dimmenag stood at his tower window and looked out over the dark roofs and pools of light that made up the city. He asked it all again if the decision in his head was the right one. It was then that a fierce wind rushed past the window, whispering sharply in the thin spaces of the frame, and in that wind were carried streaks of dark frost.
Well, then. Better one bad death than two, he thought.
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