The Castle

The blooms of the pruinose vine gave a wintry air to the fort—and I felt it as a chilled wind moved over me. The crumbling old thing had been overtaken by the running, white vines, which broke away fragments of the stone fortress. It had been a long journey in—through the bleak mists of the Elder Moors, and I decided to rest before going farther.

I had never been summoned for service in Gorgon City—or anywhere south of the Veld, but traveling the waste of the moors was perhaps more unpleasant returning than first going. In that seemingly endless fog, I stumbled for days on end, not wanting to rest for fear of the less-tempered kind who find themselves in the more southern regions. In the haze, I wandered, lost, past the Narrow Pass which would lead me back to the Veld, though in my error, I happened upon the fort.

I set down the equipment that had burdened my back across the gloom of the moors and found my old map. Even in its worn creases, I saw no sign of the fortress, deducing my location by the surrounding geography. A defensible location as well—protected by the mountains and forest along with the desolation of the moors. It was no wonder that Time was the enemy to claim it. Even in its destruction, the vines that ran the walls, concealing the entry and leading stair held an odd and ghastly charm fitting of the region, yet wholly its own in its place. However, as the sun was swallowed and devoured beyond the mountain’s teeth, the chill deepend, and a low mist migrated in from the east.

The fortress’ dress of flora seemed less inviting at dusk. I had imagined that the invitation would seem lesser still in the squinted light of the moon. So, I heaved my equipment once again and made for the shelter. There was no certainty of safety from the wraiths and revenants that governed the southern dominion—even in my business—and I thought it best to conceal myself from them in their hour. As great as my desire was to return to the Sanctuary, I did also wish to return undisturbed.

After navigating the vines that had overrun the stairs, I managed to find an uncovered clearing where the stone floor shone through. I unshouldered my equipment once more and fought with the Connection for a taste of Magic to part a curtain of vines that concealed the fort’s entry. On its refusal, I drew my knife from my waistcoat pocket, determined to make an entry through the mass of plants. When I raised the blade, I caught the yellowing eyes of a stranger’s reflection, though I was the only one likely for miles. I hadn’t seen my own face for some time. There was a tired look under the mottled green discolorations of my visage. As one might imagine, it was not an image I had wished to conjure, and so I swung the knife into the vines, shaking the crystalline particles that gave them their snow-kissed look in a flurry to the ground. Much to my surprise, the remaining tendrils—all but the one I had cut—moved of their own accord, parting a way, and in the glow of a rising, misted moon, I gathered up my temperamental equipment and hurried into the fortress.

Once inside, I saw the collection of books and scrolls, even then in the dim entry where the light could not stretch. I could make out the shelves lining both walls, overflowing with literature, littering the ground—as upon closer examination, I could see an ash upon the ground, and char marring the book in my hand. What an awful weight to wonder what may have been. My curiosity got the better of me, as it often does, and I removed another selection and tried to read what I could by the moonlight on the stairs.

I held the spine up to the light, “Malleus Maleficarum,” it read. “I know this one,” I thought, though I could not place why the name struck a familiar chord within me. An old master’s fascination that permeated time even still, perhaps–however fleeting, as I then caught a glint in my eye. Dropping the book, I leaned forward in my glare at the object shining from the grass, recognizing its shape and running to where it lay.

As far as I knew, anyone who had the knowledge to construct them had long passed, but there it was, glinting like a hiltless, helpless sword in the tall grass at my feet. This was no blade—though as deadly in its time in El Dorado. I had handled a firearm long ago, though I had never had use enough to keep one. Even now it seemed a sort of Dark Magic. I knelt to pick it up, spun the cylinder to ensure its load was gone, and then fired to the sky with no report before examining it lain out in my palms.

It was a fine specimen, with its wooden grip fashioned with an ornate floral design, darkened with a patina of wear by unknowable years. After all that had passed of my own, it seemed rude to deny the forces at hand my acceptance of such a rare find. “It’s possible I could convince a smith to smelt some ammunition.” I thought. If nothing else, I imagined the Blues might enjoy its addition to their Athenaeum for a nice price. So, I tucked the barrel into the waistband of my slacks, feeling the cool metal against my back, and returned to the stair, swiping up my discarded literature again as I climbed back to the fortress.

Reshelving the book on the ashen shelf, I decided to venture further into the fortress, thinking that I might find a torch-bearing sconce that I could try to ignite, but in light’s absence, as my eyes adjusted deeper down through the entryway, I came to a great wooden door. I heaved it open toward me with its metal pull ring and saw a great den which was structured to let in small beams of moonlight through deliberate omissions in its architecture. I heard the gentle crackle of a tended fire and saw to my right a large hearth warming its mantle, which was adorned with stockings. An interesting ward, for certain, and one I knew well–even such that it was conjured from my home, epochs ago.

In my familiarity with the charm, I set my intent to ransack the stockings for anything of use, but their flatness betrayed any promise of utility. In the fashion of my time, the ward would be accompanied by some display of confections as well, but I saw the mage that set it had been lax. Likely allowing my own entrance with their careless practice, I imagined.

In any case, the wind had been barreling down the hallway and into the den, so I closed the heavy door again. Upon hearing its latch, I took to the hearth to warm my back against the fire, and while I knew I should have retrieved my equipment from outside, the heat mingling with the aroma of the burning timber insisted that I remain. After all, to most, the instrument outside just appeared like a mess of technology. Anyone wandering upon it would dismiss it as something from the Old World.

I resisted the urge to remove my boots as the knowledge I wished to ignore–that the fortress was indeed occupied–finally took hold. I stood, knowing I should not yet rest, and began to pace before the fire, not wishing to leave its warmth. After some internal debate, I decided to further inspect the castle, and take my chances with its occupants rather than the ghasts that would be out in the night.

There was another, smaller door opposite my entrance and the wall where I paced at the fire. I crept to it, placing my ear against it with a newfound air of stealth and when I heard nothing after a moment of listening, I pulled its ring, and peered through it as it came ajar.

This next room appeared to be some sort of makeshift barracks, lined with three rows of bunks that made an aisle on each side. My heart leapt–settling when I then saw how few were fitted with bedding. There were no entries for light in this room, though by the fire I could see only five or six beds that had blankets and sheets in a state of use. However, another was complete and made to what looked like some sort of militaristic standard. None were in present use, but I could see at the far end of the room, yet another door led into a corridor, and I crept through the empty room over belt and tunic on the floor, over sack and satchel unbundled and overturned, and over knives, bones, and trinkets. For these last few, I remained.

I took up a talisman falling out of an overturned rucksack–a small glass hex–and returned to the fire of the den for better light for examination. By the fire’s glow, the hex threw a dim kaleidoscope around the room, and I saw in its centre, it held a rune of Jupiter. Typical for a brigand to hoard, in their attempt to accumulate wealth, but I knew the rune’s other influences which I thought may be of use to me, and I pocketed the glass that contained it.

Suddenly, I heard voices from behind me, coming up from the fortress’s entrance—the inhabitants returning back to base, I assumed, and so I ran back to the barracks as I heard the heavy door of the den heave open, and shut as a din of the raucous crowd reverberated off the stone walls. It had been clear they were in some sort of celebration by their laughter and song, though in my haste of escape, I did not make out any lyrics to pin an author to their words of joy. Before they could find their way back into their chamber, I fled through the smaller door and out into a corridor which opened on its interior to a courtyard which once may have had splendor, but now was overgrown with neglect.

The night air felt cool on my face again as I looked up toward the moon. It would have been a lovely night at the Sanctuary, but here I was, hiding in the thicket of an abandoned fortress, waiting to catch a glimpse of those who I hoped I could prevent from becoming my future captors.

The sky drew clouds over the moon, and the courtyard darkened, and in the dark, I began to hear a different timbre to the din inside as something else permeated the laughter and song. With concentration, I then heard cries of pain which were followed by an eruption of cheers from the residents. The sounds drew me back as I was not keen on their pattern, and I peered back through the the courtyard door into the barracks, slipping as closely as I could until I heard again panicked shrieks of refusal before a haughty crescendo of merriment from the group followed by more agonized yawps.

Against my better judgement, I sneaked back to the entry to the den.

“You’ve lost a few already, and I don’t believe you would like to lose another,” a gravelly voice said, followed by another rise from the gallery. “I haven’t holed up in this cursed land this long for nothing. Tell us what you know, or you’ll find yourself with more than a few missing nails.”

After a few echoes of threats from his compatriots, there was quiet, only broken by the heavy breathing of their victim, which I could scarcely make out over the moldering fire’s pop and hiss. “Listen, I’ve told you. I haven’t got your talisman, and I haven’t got any idea where it is. Why don’t you ask your trusted band what’s become of it?” Denies of fault came in a disjointed chorus before the leader silenced them again. “I think I may have had my fill of you, so I’ll tell you this. I’m going into that room, and I’m going to search every square inch. If I find the talisman in one of my mens’ possessions, I’ll let you gut him yourself,” he chuckled hoarsely, and the sound of heavy approaching footsteps sent me into quick hiding.

Crouching as low as I could, I scurried back toward the door to the courtyard. The man entered before I could reach my destination, and I fell prone—wishing for my equipment outside. Resigned to the situation, I crawled beneath the bed where I lay and saw the man—hulking in the room as he began his investigation. Through the door, his underlings stood—huddled in whisper, knowing he would eventually find his treasure in their stash—only he would not, for it was in my pocket.

The man pulled a knife from his belt and began ripping into the first bag he came to, rifling through its contents. He removed dirty clothes, a bottle of whiskey–from which he drank and kept– and a corked tube of topaz slime. “Don’t know what you were going to do with that,” he said in the direction of his goons, and a goblin retorted: “It was for–” The man took another swing from his pirated whiskey. “I don’t care, you filthy gob,” he said, and he began tearing into the next bag. His back was turned to me, and I crawled from under the bed, moving toward the courtyard with the sounds of their jeers for the owner of this bag’s contents. The laughter died when someone asked, “Hey boss, who’s that?”

I was in the threshold of the courtyard door, so close to what I imagined as safety that I thought I might run there. Then, I was in the courtyard with his words trailing behind me. “Was that a Wizard? Kill him!” A clattering from the room of my exit followed by the overlapping gallop produced by their feet beating after mine. Surely, there was another entrance to their hideout than the one where I had stopped for the night. I only needed to find it. “Get back here, you snake breeder!” I rushed toward the nearest passage from the courtyard, which took me down a hall and into a kitchen area where I grabbed at a knife block as I passed, but fumbled in my haste. Now it might only be a small obstacle for my enemy. I heard them rattling cookware as I left their view once more. “Tails!” I heard one cry. Blasted formalities–I was still in my practicing garb from the Service, and though I likely escaped sight, the red of the ritual tailcoat was still in view. I ran as hard as I could pelt down another corridor. “Come on, give us a spell!” An arrow flew past my nose as I made the mistake of looking behind me. The archer was nocking another as I turned into the next available room. It was barren, and its disuse was disheartening for the sake of my stealth, but there was an open window formed in the stone wall displaying the moonlight on the fogs of the Elder Moors. While there may have been some small advantage through the thin doorway had I a weapon, there was hope of escape through the window, and out it I dove.

Now, this was not something I had much experience with, for all my years, and upon my uncertain landing, my shoulder was displaced from its socket. I stifled a yelp, rose, and made for a bend in the architecture where I might hide from the view of the window. Even from this temporary shelter, I was exposed to the expanse of the moors. I could hear muffled voices of the goons while I slid off my coat to the ground, stepping on it and pulling to rip the fabric with my good arm to fashion a temporary sling. I couldn’t help but think of the fire in the den, wishing I could be warm as the stockings that hanged there, but I was hot with adrenaline and perspiring for fear of my capture.

There was the thud of a landing body around the corner, and I painfully shifted my arm into my makeshift sling as I continued following the perimeter of the old fort. It was logical that I would eventually come to the stairs where I had first entered. I could find my equipment. At least in my search for another shelter, I might have that as my protection. Without it, I may as well have been naked on that perimeter wall.

Soon enough, I came to the stairs, and overjoyed, I tripped up them–vines underfoot–and passed through the curtain that concealed the fort. “Thought you’d get away, did you? After sneaking around in my castle?” All of my joy dissipated at the sound of the man’s voice, and he emerged from a shadow–his massive form somehow shrunk in the cavernous foyer. “Thought you’d warm yourself by my fires, and leave without so much as a thanks?” the man bellowed, and before I could tell him that was exactly my intent, he had my throat, pinning me against the wall with his calloused grip. I eyed the dials and switches on my equipment–so close that I could hear the Magic humming within it, but the brute was feeling the sides of my legs with his free hand. He withdrew the glass talisman from my pocket. “And a thief, too,” he tsked. “I knew my men would never have the nerve. So, what do you have to say for yourself, little Wizard?” he squeezed harder around my throat, and I was fully asphyxiated. Clawing at the wall behind me with my good arm, my hand swiped against something cold in my waistband. I had nearly forgotten all about the firearm, and yet now remembered, I grasped the barrel, and whipped the handle against the man’s temple. He recoiled, releasing his grip, and I fell, gasping in air. Still, I gathered myself up while the man was recovering from the daze of the blow and lunged toward my equipment. Even before making contact, the power was coursing through me. I felt my shoulder snap back into its proper place as I was brimming with the essence of the world, and I grew hot with intention, like reuniting with a lost love. Yet, this feeling was different from the Magic that ran through me while performing the Service. The man was recovered and stalking toward me as I manipulated the instrument now in my own daze–my being replaced by a new magnificent interior–possessed and fading into darkness. Then, the man was towering over me. I was fumbling over the controls. My grip loosened—my vision: suddenly gone.

𝚫

When I roused, I was on the floor of the stone foyer– my little monolith beside me, intact in its case. I pressed my hand against it with a sigh. The Magic was gone. So, I lifted myself up from the floor and as I did, I had a painful aching for The Sanctuary, though it would be long before I returned. There were more works to be performed. I brushed myself off, and blinking around the room as my sight continued to form again, I saw what was left of him.

In that gruesome observation, my eye wandered in search of the talisman, but I saw none. I assumed his inept followers finally found me, though even in my state, they could not have harmed me. Not in the presence of the instrument, and had they tried, there would have likely been even more to the scene. I would think the wayward band had taken the little glass hex–fleeing–killing each other in the coming weeks over its possession.

Even so, I gathered up what I had brought, retrieved the antique firearm that still remained, and left, restless, to take my chances again in the Moors.

Entered by: 0x3f80…DE2E