Shadows & Sorcery #87

Aaaaaaaand it’s the eighty-seventh edition of *checks watch* Shadows & Sorcery!

It’s three stories past newsletter o’clock and by that I mean I have three chunkers of tales for you this week, set entirely in the Demiurge world! Can’t stop writing about that recently, and I won’t stop because the next Path of Poison chapter is currently baking in my brain.

In fact, it should be out very soon, as there won’t be a Shadows & Sorcery next week, but there will be, all going well, the new chapter. And maybe something about a cool project that might happen. Might. Maybe. Ssshh…

Of course, my friends, as always, if you enjoyed what you read here, tell the stories you like them by giving that little heart icon a quick tap!

This week, the red wizard Carloman confronts a Grave of Murk in a small Voerlund village, a Dunmarrow warrior must battle the undead in her family tomb with a dreaded Crypt Lance, and a righteous Silverden sellsword makes legend with his curious Shield of Ritual…

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Grave of Murk

The public house was one of those long but low types, with bare wooden panelling and thick beams, smoke stained and maybe slightly bent in places. Countless axes of varying size and decrepitude adorned the walls, as befitting a Voerlund public house, and between each one were various souvenirs from far lands and older eras, all of it no doubt having at one time been held or bequeathed by a person of grand historical import, either noble or scandalous, or both. There was all around a lively chatter in thick country accents, the scent of drink and simple food wafted on winds creeping in from outside, and the pleasant clinking and clacking of mugs could be heard.

It was a true public house, too, that is, the bottom floor of a prominent house (or rather, the prominent house, for this was a small settlement) opened up to general public gathering. And that meant it was old, which very much pleased the red wizard, Carloman, who sat sipping a local brew and exchanging incredible stories, little of them embellished, for refills.

During a lull in conversation, which the wizard used to fortify himself for another round yarn-spinning by partaking in some fried cheese, the door to the public house was opened stealthily, and a figure in a dark brown cloak and high boots entered. The wizard's gaze drifted lazily to this new person. Carloman had developed a kind of skill for focusing and filtering his attentions, which came in very handy in dangerous situations. He was, also, a self-admittedly nosy individual.

This new figure, a fellow with dirty gold hair and watery yellow eyes, drifted over to a small, round table around which three people were sitting, bent close to each other in talk. The cloaked man took a stool and sat as if he didn't mean to stay long. He turned to a rugged, older, silvery-haired man who sat sipping quietly, but looked attentive. Having to raise his voice a little, the cloaked man slightly grimaced as he said:
"Another of them's opened up, sir."

The older man let out a short, sharp sigh and set down his cup. He looked as if a sudden and rather terrible weight had come upon him. Carloman perked up. The two men exchanged hushed words. The silvery fellow then nodded to his companions, a younger Voerlunder man, and what Carloman was mildly surprised to see was a woman with the clay-dark skin and hair of the east. They got up quite slowly but shared uneasy glances. The older man set some thin gold coins under his mug, and they departed, taking their own cloaks from near the door. Carloman only saw them for a flash before the door was closed, but immediately upon exiting, the true nature of their hurry showed itself.

Perhaps it was his curious nature asserting itself, but Carloman decided it was something a wizard ought to look into. He too set some thin gold coins under his mug, and left with a quick apology, but he must take in some air.

He would try not to interfere, of course, but frankly he'd seen to many odd things in small villages not to investigate. He made a point of spending long periods in the countryside. He loved the cities and towns, but they were safer, and had their own sages and priests to attend to their spiritual matters. Rural settlements can be awfully isolated, with maybe one venerate or cunning man against the immensity of the night. This place was little more than a single large house surrounded by huts half-buried in the earth because they had no better material to keep warm with. Perhaps this had once been the outskirts of a larger settlement now long dead.

He trailed the four of them in the dark, straying not too far but not wishing to draw attention to himself. This could be any number of perfectly innocent things, Carloman thought. Could also be something terrible. The first man departed not too long after, turning up a dirt track back to a low little house after the silver-haired man, who seemed to be some authority, clapped him on the shoulder and pointed away from them. They passed another house near what amounted to a main road and took a shovel that lay against a low wall. A ways past this, the land dipped down beside the path that was leading out of the hamlet. The grass there was longer, wilder. Carloman stood back as he watched them carefully descend. They seemed to be taking extreme caution on what was a rather gentle decline.

The eastern woman had struck a torch, and the wizard saw now that they were searching for something in the grass. He could somewhat see over them from his position and they hadn't noticed him. Carloman could make himself hard to see if he so wished, but he wasn't trying so here. They were clearly preoccupied with something. The woman was testing the earth with the shovel, lightly. After several tries in a small area, she suddenly jumped back, as did the younger man. The older man simply stared down. Carloman's heart sank. He knew it when he saw it. The earth had fallen in, and in its place, a great black spot that looked like a chunk had been torn from vision.

He observed the trio for a moment. The older man removed something from a pocket. A small, but long bottle. He uncorked it about halfway, and began to put drops of whatever was inside in a perimeter around the dark spot. Carloman descended.

"Hold!" he said. Their eyes shot up. He spoke before they could say anything. "You would do well to step away from that."
"Who're you?" the older man grunted with shock in his eyes.
"Hey, aren't you that storyteller from the house?" asked the woman.
"Yes," said Carloman as he started down the slope, "I am also a magician. Now please, step away from that hole."
"This is none of your business, sir," the older man's voice hostile, but scared. Carloman ceased his advance.
"Please, I can help you." At once, he took the head of his staff and blew gently upon it. The orange gem set into the top suddenly flared to life, sending a warm glow about him. That was usually enough to get people's attention, and it at least let them see him. The trio looked at each other.

"What was that you were pouring on the grass a moment ago?" he addressed the older man, who sighed and answered.
"An apothecary's brew, only helps a little."
"How long has this been going on? What's it been doing?"
"About a dozen now over...I'm not even sure. Months, but it's been getting worse. Been giving the hamlet bad dreams. Bad enough no one can sleep here. We put drops around the holes and throw earth over them, but another just opens up."
"Serpent's Breath," the wizard cursed as he took careful steps towards the pit, eyeing it intently. "Have you not had your venerate look at this?"
"We don't have one, sir," the younger man answered. "We have to go to the next village over for that, and for festivals and such."
"And for the landwight shrine," added the woman.

Carloman pondered for a second. Something, he knew, was trying to come up from under the earth. What it was, he'd rather not know, and these folk ought to never find out.
"It looks like water or something..." The younger said, half-under his breath, gazing down.
"You know what this is, wizard?" asked the woman.
"I have a bad feeling I might. But I think I know how to kill it, too." He hadn't taken his eyes off it once. "We must set that torch and my light into this...dark. Do it very slowly though, you understand?" He looked up. The woman nodded in assent. Carloman glanced upwards, to the healthy sky of stars above. He raised his free hand and crossed his first and middle fingers, then brought them down and tapped his staff. He took it then like a spear and slowly edged it towards the rim of the pit as the woman crouched and held out the torch.
"Slowly, now..."
The flame hissed and smoked, as if it were burning something away. Carloman's light seemed to steady it. Naked flame was powerful and potent, but it had its weaknesses. It was going deeper than any of them had expected, and the woman was bending down fairly far now. The two men had come closer and were peering over the pit's edge. All of a sudden, Carloman gave a shout and thrust his staff down, and the heavy shadow suddenly dissipated.

At the bottom of the hole was a twisted, monstrous skeleton, connected by strands of black flesh, whose worst aspect was not its defiled humanity, but rather the pose that seemed to imply it had not been laying in the earth, but rather had been crawling upwards through it.

"S'eth," swore the older man, stepping back. The younger man had stumbled aside, and the woman had her hand over her mouth as she quickly rose.
"Pour that brew on it, now." Carloman's voice rumbled like thunder. The older man hesitated only a second before he dumped the bottle's content on the bones. Somewhere in his mind, he expected it to move. "Throw the torch down on it for good measure, too." The woman did so quite gladly, cracking its skull.
"What in the world is that?" she asked.
"Something that shouldn't exist. I don't know what would have happened had it risen when you had none of that brew left. I don't think I would have trusted your torch or my light alone against that. And if it had been you lot, and the flame failed, and it came out...but it's best not to dwell on such things. It will never come to fruition now. You are good people to keep up this vigilance."
"But what was it?" asked the older man. Carloman had to provide something.
"This was probably once an old graveyard, and someone buried in it, some unsavoury character from long ago, finally, ah...well, went bad in the lightless, unconsecrated ground. I cannot begin to tell you how much this happens across Voerlund alone."
"Aye, Baletor's rotten with them," said the woman.
"Looks like we'll be fetching the venerate, then," said the younger man.
"Indeed you should," said the wizard. "I'll help all I can, too. I would appreciate your assistance. But now it's over, you should tell your people. In the meantime, let me treat you all to a drink and, most likely, a story."

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Crypt Lance

Brynula Kinfane sat before the two elders in a tall, shadow-laden chamber of grey stone and fine wooden furnishing. It was a hearing room for serious and formal matters of the clans, but right now, seeing as it was only the three of them, they sat just off to the side. Grim was the elders' countenances, and rightly so. The dispatch had come just that afternoon, while Brynula had been clearing up some minor guild affairs. A Macha dryador, a wizard-priest from the vast forest land to the south-east, had been dragged into the streets by two guards for the unforgivable sin of necromancy. And he had been found at it in her family tomb.

The Kinfane clan are among some of the more noteworthy families of Dunmarrow. In a nation brimming with world-weary mercenaries and wanderers, theirs were famed for their particularly lengthy tours of service, and it seemed that one of their ancestors, who passed into rest some centuries ago, was of interest to someone. This ancestor had been, so the clan chronicles so claimed, into the depths of the far southern desert, and had plunged many miles into the eastern continental interior. Such things were naturally of interest to sorcerers, especially the strange and savage ones living amidst the primal forests of Macha.

The dead had been awakened within the tomb. Evidently, the dryador wizard-priest hadn't known which corpse was his mark, and had used his dark arts to awaken several of the sleepers within. Brynula had visibly recoiled hearing this, and the elders hadn't minced words. It had to be set to rights immediately. She was, however, not alone. Considering the extent of this heinous blasphemy, and the fact that her brother was still abroad on his duty, the elders had gotten in contact with an old gravekeeping clan and had arranged for special aid. She was to see them at once.

Brynula Kinfane strode out into the narrow, toppling streets of Dunmarrow. She was like the rest of her race: skin bereft of colour or warmth, with shock white hair held together with three light, silver clasps, and eyes grey like a storm about to break open. She was, however, not as gaunt as many Dunmarrow are, owing to a vigorous enjoyment of life at home and abroad. Dunmarrow tend to resemble the corpses they keep so obsessively, but not her. She might even have been considered beautiful in other lands, were it not for the spectral northern appearance that set so many foreigners on edge.

Dunmarrow had no need for priests, unlike the rest of the known world. All clanfolk were considered heralds of the death god, and bore the oath their ancestors had once made. But the gravekeepers came close enough to the idea. All Dunmarrow habitually visit their dead, and congregate in open tombs, but the gravekeepers spent their lives down amongst the entombed, making sure things were as they ought to be. It was gravekeepers who chased the Macha out initially. They were guardians and consummate professionals, not to mention having intimate ties to the guilds.

But above all, the gravekeeper clans had old knowledge. Many went to great lengths to learn of the dead they would care for, and trusted keepers were given access to ancient records and chronicles gone unread by living family members in centuries. The effects the dead were buried with were part of the knowledge of the gravekeepers, as some items might become the target of the desperate or uncouth. As such, they knew where to find things, and knew the lines of descent in the cities, and what was theirs by right. This day that knowledge had been called upon and a dire relic had been uncovered for her benefit: a crypt lance. Many gravekeepers prided themselves on never having even seen one so grim was the reputation around them.

The gravekeeper hall was a solemn, calm, quiet place, and Brynula was glad to have taken in its fortifying atmosphere before she set to the task ahead. She remembered well the path to tread to her family tomb, and was prepared to stride there in broad daylight, but the keepers had insisted she use their backpaths, the old courts and alleys that rarely see traffic, so that she at least wouldn't be seen with the crypt lance. Didn't want anyone talking or spreading rumour, after all. The tool, or rather weapon, was a long spear of darkish metal, like all Dunmarrow arms and armour, with a head that slightly flared and sharply tapered to a wicked point. She was holding a thousand year's worth of history in her hands. Supposedly, these crypt lances, of which at least a dozen existed, had been touched by the death god itself for the swift and merciful deliverance of one's kin.

Brynula emerged from a half-hidden side-street and stood before an iron gate that led into a small garden, the family tomb's antechamber. Two guards stood either side of the gate, they'd been informed and were sworn to secrecy. They gave the crypt lance an odd look, paid respects to Brynula as scion of a high clan, and bid her entrance. The grass here was long, and had that somnolent dark, dark green that seemed almost black at times in the nearly eternal steely grey of Dunmarrow's skies. Tipped with frost, they were as a carpet of tiny blades.

The tomb was long, and ran deep, consisting mostly of snaking side passages of various family branches. What she sought lay along the wide main path. The first thing she noticed was the dampness of everything. Dunmarrow is a cold land, and the torches that kept graves warm and lit battled it constantly, but there were long trails and whole pools of moisture all about. There hadn't been a storm or a bad frost. Had it something to do with the Macha sorcerer? She didn't know enough about them to say, but she did wonder. Water gods and all that.

There was a sound up ahead. Brynula fell into a low stance, and slunk forward. The great reinforced oaken door that led into the oldest chamber of the crypt was ajar. She guessed the Macha must have known at least to seek out his target here. From within there issued sounds like a battle, but between the clashes of steel were throaty rasps, rattles, and wheezes that filled her with an intense disquiet. Every fibre of her being didn't want to look upon this, but she crept forth through the doorway and into a low, vaulted space of worn, dripping stone and sunken floor that sloshed with murky water. In the midst of this, on a slight mount of stone, a figure stood, swinging a long, single-handed blade against the rotting shield of another. Around this, withered, nigh fleshless corpses knelt in the water, nursing damaged limbs or attempting to stand. Others looked on and gave low, shuddering wails as they lurched forth with uncertainty.

Though a nauseous mixture of fear and disgust cascaded about her gut, Brynula's primary feeling was now of consuming anger. Visions of tearing off the Macha's head filled her mind as she bounded forth and met her ancestor in combat. The second the undead's head spun to her she stopped, recoiling. No Dunmarrow should have to face this. She quickly blocked a sidewards slash with the lance. The undead limbs were thin and naught but parchment skin over bone, and yet for all its jerkiness of movement, the hand of a skilled warrior could be discerned in its execution. She expected no less.

She crouched low and swung with the back end of the lance, as if it were a staff, and slammed the pommel into the undead's sword hand, but it didn't quite give up its grip. She doubted these things felt pain, so all she had was her speed and the living strength to stagger them. She didn't hesitate, and drove the pommel into the chest to further push back her opponent. Only in the tail end of her vision did she see the blade of the other undead suddenly descend, and she dove out of the way through the filthy tomb water. Having missed its strike, she watched the first undead suddenly plunge its blade through the stomach of the second, and send it flying backwards.

She had regained her posture, and flung herself forth once more, wiping the moisture from her eyes, lance point aiming for the chest of her ancestor. One strike is all it should take. It spun towards her, long teeth in shrivelled gums bared. She hadn't expected it, but stayed her course, and rammed the lance point into the face of the undead, running through the back of the skull. Like a flame extinguished, it instantly dropped, motionless. With a wince, she removed the weapon, and began the work all over again with each of the walking corpses in the chamber, who didn't put up much of a fight. It was almost like they knew.

She wondered about the water that gathered in great pools here. For good measure, she thrust the crypt lance into into of them, hoping that if they had any kind of magic to them, it too would be killed. She then took her rectangular slate gravemark, the idol of Dunmarrow's death god, and passed it over the room, as she would over any corpse, in reverence.

There was no sense of honour or blessing at having faced her ancestors. These people had long ago gone to their reward. Instead, she felt almost a measure of shame that it was their own blood they should be looking upon in this unnatural state. At least it was in service of setting things right, and that it would be the last thing they saw. At the very least, she would be looked upon kindly for it by those who knew. But she had enough of this to last a lifetime now, the gravekeepers could take care of the rest.

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Shield of Ritual

The sellsword band had been rather hastily assembled from a pool of miscreants and oddities from around the surrounding villages and from as far as the town to the west. Noylen's hired swords had fled after the first skirmish, intimidated by the brutes that Knight Voslein called his men-at-arms. The Knight was enacting his final march on ancestral land that the minor Counts Noylen had resisted for generations. Promising his vandals the right to loot, the wild dogs had descended in the dawn and caught the Count's forces unawares, and after the slaughter and desperate repulsion, they had broken their contract, refusing to let themselves be torn apart for a pittance.

And so now this meagre force took up residence in the ruins surrounding Noylen's manor. Many of the ruins were of old fortifications from when the manor was a power in the region, but others were sadly much more recent. Among the rabble of hired ex-soldiers and ex-guards armed with bare equipment was a Minosmirii woman who prostrated herself before a small ivory idol, the image of the Hero her family had taken to the worship of, then there were two Dunmarrow clansmen in characteristic black armour--a fearsome addition to this force, and finally, there was a much stranger figure.

A Silverden fellow of olive skin and dark gold hair, with deep amber eyes looking softly upon a shield which lay face up on the ground before him. This fellow was, quite clearly, performing some sort of sorcery.

It was a short, wide teardrop shaped shield of god craftsmanship, a thin layer of metal with a padded core on the inside for it to be comfortably worn. Its rim was slightly misshapen in places from extensive repairs, the face of it was lightly dented. But upon that face was what it made special: a design evidently of the warrior's own make and design. A crudely but vividly illustrated white circle inside the thick band of which was a panoply of other shapes and figures. On the bottom half was a wavering green form, a serpent. At the head and tail-tip were two great beasts both in brown, one with four legs, the other with tendrils and fins. The top half was dominated by a dotting of blue and grey stars, as well as a bright yellow sun. Amidst was a winged, feathered brown creature. Immediately inside the circle were seven humanoid figures, four orange ones on top, three blue ones on the bottom.

Taken together, it seemed to be a collection of the various images of several gods, from the obvious World Serpent of the Silverden man's homeland, but also deities as far afield as the Nadarra triune of the Macha clanhold, the Hero spirits of Minosmir, the celestial cult of Mul Manatar, and even Immortals from the Khurcham nomads of the steppe lands.

With great reverence, the warrior sat cross-legged on the ground before the shield, and set his axe upon the face of it, of a practical type with both top and backspike. He closed his eyes and began to slowly mouth words, he then gently picked up his axe and tapped the edge of the blade against the seven figures on the inside of the shield--the Heroes and Immortals. He set that aside then, and took out a small flat idol on a length of cord, it was in the general outline of a person bearing an axe and shield. He then crossed the first and middle fingers of his free hand, and slowly passed the image over each god three times, before placing the image around his neck. He gave a deep, enthusiastic bow, and went to rise but stopped when he was approached.

"I couldn't help but notice, on your shield, those figures? I saw them earlier. May I?" It was the Minosmirii woman, who had herself finished her prayers. She had the characteristic gold eyes of a descendant of the Exiles, and spoke a clear Merchant's Tongue. She held a hand out, looking for permission.
"Ah, yes, yes!" the fellow answered, motioning her to sit next to him and inspect. She held the shield up carefully and looked it over, and gave a chuckle.
"Very curious thing to see a foreigner venerating Heroes."
"Oh, I've never met a god I haven't liked, and I dare say I've room for some more in future. You know any good ones?" She laughed.
"There's a Hero for everyone down in Minosmir, but you did your research. Good warrior spirits. Never seen them used like this, though, next to all these others. What's the story behind it?"
"Made this myself, years back now. Was very important to make it myself, you see. Or, that's what the wizard told me."
"I thought this had the look of magic..." she gazed with a renewed fascination at the sigil.

"See, back when I did a lot more wandering, I crossed paths with an old wizard in a tavern. It was the night before I was to set off to join some campaign, I was very anxious, and he spent a good deal of time being very kind and filling my head with all kinds of magical talk. He told me I could do this thing, scratch or draw this circle to make a World Serpent and then kind of pass this little image of myself over it, and then wear that protected image to...protect myself."
"Not sure I follow that..."
"Honestly not sure myself. I kind of get it, but it's hard to really describe. I know he used the word 'sympathy' a lot, never learned what that meant. But the important thing is it works. I painted this on years ago, and as I travelled, I decided, sure, why not add all these other gods to it?"
"Something like that must be hard to maintain, but I admire your diligence, warrior."
"Oh, the shield gets banged up pretty bad, but I can usually fix it."
"I meant that fine illustration! How many times you've have repaint it-"
"I haven't had to. Not once. It's protected."
"If I carried a shield, I might be copying this down," she said with some slight measure of awe in her voice.
"Well, lets do the next best thing, eh?" the Silverdenner looked around and grabbed a small, flat piece of old masonry. He handed it to the Minosmirii. "Scratch a little image on that. Of yourself, or your name." She obliged with an amused smile, using a dagger. "Alright, now, pass it over the icons, however you like." She started with the Hero spirits, and went around the others slowly.
"I saw you bow to it, do I?"
"Sure sure, why not?" She did so. "Now keep that stone on you! It's you, or an extension of you, I think is the idea. And it's all...I don't know how you'd say it, soaked up with godly power or some such. It was a long time ago I heard this."
"Well, let's hope so, my friend, I can see the Count moving around up there, I think something's happening..."

Sellswords across Voerlund and likely beyond would be talking about it for a long time to come. The rather extraordinary account of the defence at Noylen Manor, in which a Silverden warrior met Knight Voslein in single combat, who had came into the fray personally, and had effortlessly bested him. "Nay," he had said, "this is not about blades, you pit your power against mine--and it shall be found wanting!"

From the rain of arrows to the crushing blows of the Knight's hammer, a Minosmirii swordswoman would swear upon her life and Hero that the ritual shield sustained nary a scratch, and that even the most deft parries and dodges were chased by the warrior's axe. And she says so, heaving a shield with a similar design onto her back.

Count Noylen kept the sellsword on as a man-at-arms as part of a profound thanks for routing the rabble that would see him and his house dead. The warrior is still there to this day.

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