The Opal Isle

(Word count: 6041)

With a great crash the waves would break upon the shore, each one desperately trying to climb higher than the last. With a hiss they would retreat back into the ocean, raking and shaking the pebble beach beneath them. These newly turned stones, wet with salt water, glistened and shimmered once revealed. Underneath the bright and crisp blue sky their colours were so rich that a person could be forgiven for mistaking this gravel for emeralds, rubies and other precious stones; perhaps that is why the ancient maps named this place the Opal Isle.

It was a small island; around a mile long and half that in width. Surrounded by the Cerulean Sea it stood but thirty miles from the mainland coast of the Westerlands. Sitting at the western most point of the Boann Empire and, indeed the most western point of the known world, the isle was dominated by one solitary structure which rose from its centre; the ancient watchtower of Ekmael.

Regardless, the tide continued to roll in. Every wave stole a little further inland and retreated with a little more of the undisturbed snowfall which blanketed the island. It was a fresh, brisk winter morning and the waves were not alone in their violence; atop the shingle two men danced to the clash of steel.

Militiaman Bryce Thalson wore a stern mask of concentration, he was on the back foot and he knew it. His opponent wouldn’t let up - the heavy blade ahead of him carved a violent arc through the air that needed to be answered. Bryce swung his sword to the left, narrowly deflecting his foe’s powerful blow; he let the momentum of his swing carry him through a full revolution, hoping to catch the other man unaware. It didn’t work, his adversary was too quick for such silly tricks - the buckler on their left arm had already intercepted Bryce’s weapon and the sword in their right hand was already moving for the kill.

Nimbly, Bryce leapt back, just dodging the wicked slash that had been aimed at his guts; quickly finding his feet he returned to a defensive stance. His rival pressed his advantage with a flurry of blows. Bryce focused on the blade that sought his flesh, studying its movements – high, low, high, right – each strike was met with his own steel. With rhythmic precision Thalson held his ground, but it was not enough.

For the third time that day Bryce did not know how the mailed fist had passed his guard, he knew only one thing for certain - this was going to hurt. The uppercut landed squarely on his jaw and made his world spin; clumsily he fell to the snow as the familiar tang of blood filled his mouth. Instinctually he took a deep breath of the icy air and nearly choked; a splutter of red fell across the white landscape.

“You’re a real bastard, Garrod.” Bryce grunted as his senses returned, he wore a good humoured smile that admitted defeat, “Do you have to hit me so hard every time?”

Guffawing, his opponent sheathed his blade and lifted off his helm to reveal a silver haired man, with dark, furrowed skin bearing the scars of countless battles. “Yes I do, Boy” he replied, with gruff laughter, “For starters it’s apparently the only way to get anything into that thick skull of yours. Plus it keeps an old man entertained, which is more than enough reason.”

This ‘old man’ grabbed Bryce by the arm and dragged him forcefully to his feet; he still felt woozy as he got up but he was too proud to let it show. Garrod was the longest serving veteran currently on the isle; he had been assigned here to serve as the Master-at-Arms, but before that he had served in the Parthian and Hesserian campaigns receiving high honours in both. Even with his advanced years there probably wasn’t a single man in the peaceful Westerlands that could best him.

“I counted only five times in that last bout where I could have easily killed you. You’re getting better” Garrod said, with more than a hint of sarcasm.

Bryce dusted the snow off his backside and turned to face his teacher. “Well, despite your admirable attempts at breaking into my skull, I still don’t understand where I’m going wrong” He retorted, somewhat mumblingly as he tried to massage his jaw back into place, “Maybe this time you’d care to explain it to me?”

“I have told you, and it is simple – you are too quick to lose sight of the whole.” Garrod gestured to the scars that marked his face, “These ornaments were not given to me by honest men, Bryce, when someday you face a foe who seeks your life you cannot expect him to fight fairly; intimidation, misdirection and diversion these are the tools that win battles, not these sticks of steel. You must learn to spot that which is disguised and to mask your own intentions.”

It was unusual to hear the old warrior speak with such sincerity; Bryce smiled, and raised his sword feeling newly inspired “How about another bout then. This time I promise I’ll see through your sneaky tricks”

Garrod chuckled at his young friend’s eagerness, “Alas no, Boy. I still do not understand how you Westerland men cope with this damned cold; I’m afraid this old man needs to find a fire and a cup of ale before he freezes solid within his armour.”

Without so much as a farewell Garrod turned away and set off up the shallow hill back to the barracks. Rumour on the island had it that the old man had been born and raised at the very edge of the war torn east. That he had been levied as a teen and met with only success. With experience and skill he had found permanent employment as a soldier and led an astonishing military career. Supposedly the empire had offered him a retirement and heroes pension, but he had refused – not sure what to do with him they assigned him to this quiet backwater to play out the rest of his years.

As Garrod trod off, Bryce decided to stay and run through his sword patterns; simple practices designed to hone skill with a blade. Concentrating on each step he gracefully danced through the fourth and eighth pattern cycles and gazed out across the endless ocean.

There were other islands dotted along the Westerland’s coastline with other, long abandoned towers at their crest. It was the Opal Isle that held the last manned watchtower and kept the only westward lookout. In all the records of history that men had left to them, no threat had ever come from across the Cerulean Sea. Yet it was alleged the by the scholars of Rivean, greatest of the chronicle halls, that the towers were older even than the empire itself; that records existed showing them having been manned over a millennia ago.

Westerland folktales claimed that there was a land without sun populated by strange shadowmen beyond the horizon, but no returning expedition had ever reported finding such a land. Hence it was from a begrudging combination of superstition and respect for a long forgotten history that the Boanns kept a small garrison of the oldest or laziest infantrymen they could spare, along with a handful of local militiamen, at the largest of the towers – Ekmael.

Bryce hated it here – he was one of the militiamen, a simple conscript pressed into service like all men of his age, and therefore a second class citizen of the island in the eyes of most who served atop its shingle shores. He only had a year of service left before he would be returned to the mainland but he dreamed of becoming a soldier of employ and finding adventure and glory at the eastern front. Not of just returning home and becoming another grumpy fisherman like so many of his peers.

With all these tired and angry thoughts rattling around Bryce’s mind he had furiously danced through all thirty-four of the pattern cycles he knew and, despite the bracing cold, was now dripping with sweat. With a sigh that hung in the frosted air he sheathed his sword and followed in Garrod’s snow trodden footsteps back to the tower.

At this hour the tide reached its peak and began to retreat again; if anyone had remained on the beach to see what it had uncovered they might have noticed the few pitch black pebbles, so unlike their shimmering gem-like neighbours, that this particular tide had brought with it.

***

As the churned snow creaked underfoot, Bryce glanced up at Ekmael and, as always, his breath caught in his throat. He had been told the legends of the tower of a child of course; that it stood over five hundred spans high, was whiter than bleached bone and made from a material stronger than steel. Like most people he had thought these legends all lies, but when he had arrived at the Opal Isle he been staggered to find them true; furthermore not one of the legends had prepared him for its beauty. In the clear sunlight its whiteness even made the untouched snow seem somehow impure - with a finely tapering silhouette the tower twined around itself as a vine twines around a tree and at its summit it blossomed as a pale white rose, its cup raised toward the sky.

The inside of the tower was much less impressive, though Bryce had only been there a handful of times. There were no floors or rooms, only a nearly unending staircase that spiralled tirelessly to the ‘cup’ at its peak. In this sky cradle there stood a crystal that was supposedly the beacon the tower builders had originally intended the watchmen to use, but in the great eons between then and Bryce’s time its operation had been long forgotten. At some point in the intervening millennia a beacon of oil and wood had also been built in the cup, but even this had fallen into disrepair.

Beneath Bryce’s feet the snow began to thin and give way to well trampled earth; he had reached the base of the tower and the few huddled buildings of the garrison camp lay ahead. There was a storehouse containing their winter provisions, a small barracks with cots for the men, a blackhouse which served as the mess hall and meeting room, a small aviary for the homing pigeons which brought messages to and from the mainland, the solitary commanders hut which stood a little way out from the clustered buildings and a watchtower that was dwarfed in the shadow of Ekmael. In the warmer months they also had a small garden and paddock to keep livestock, but the sows had already been slaughtered and the garden long since harvested; in these long winter months they lived off the sacks of oats, salted meats and wheat bread in the store as well as any fish they could catch or that was gifted to them by the fishing boats that would occasionally stop at their jetty.

“Oi, Bryce!” A voice yelled down from the squat wooden watchtower overhead, with a derisive laugh it continued “Down on the shore playing soldiers again were you?”

Bryce stopped in his tracks and gazed up at the ugly face leering down at him over the parapet, “What do you want, Jaxon?” he said, irritated by the other’s slight.

Each of the men took watches in this short wooden tower – maintaining the unbroken vigil that had existed on the Opal Isle for over a thousand years. Technically, they were still supposed to maintain their lookout from atop the white pinnacle of Ekmael, in practice with the vast number of stairs this ritual had proved impossible to keep up amongst such an undisciplined force. Apparently, very rarely, an eagle eyed watchmen might spot a smuggler’s ship headed for the Northern Pass in the dead of night, but in Bryce’s time on the isle not a single occurrence out of the ordinary had been seen.

“Och, now I’m hurt! No need to be like that is there? Can’t a bored watchman simply seek the company of his fellow man?” his smirk belied his mocking intent, “There’s no need to answer, though, I could see your ‘skills’ from up here; looked like Garrod slapped you silly again, do you need it kissed better?”

“I’m a damn sight better than you” Bryce snapped, Jaxon was a militiaman of the same age who by all accounts was a loafer and prankster, “Besides, at least I bother to practice”

“Ha! What’s the point?” Jaxon scoffed , “A few more months and we’ll be off this rock. The most action you’re every likely to see is wrestling a randy heifer back home.”

Bryce had had enough of Jaxon’s ridicule and turned to leave.

“Hey! I did have something to tell you” yelled Jaxon, that annoying smirk affixed to his face again, “Old John Dory wants to see you, apparently he has some tasks for you”

Bryce sighed as Jaxon’s jeering laughter broke forth and set off trudging to the storehouse.

John Dory was the nickname given to Sergeant Flarid, it didn’t take a genius to see where it had come from – with his thin downturned lips, drooping jowls and oddly bulbous eyes he had more than a passing resemblance to the fish. Flarid was the purser and quartermaster on the isle; technically his role only covered accounting for the garrison’s limited budget, taking inventory, divvying supplies and ordering new stocks from the mainland. However, with the commander being a senile old man, Flarid was the effective leader of the sorry lot.

Bryce passed through the muddy ‘courtyard’ that all of the buildings fronted onto to the sound of the pigeons’ incessant cooing and the occasional crack of wood; next to the blackhouse another of the conscripts, a mute that everyone simply called Bear due to his immense size and strength, stood splitting logs. Pausing to wipe his brow he nodded in simple acknowledgement of Bryce, who returned the gestured before knocking at the storehouse door.

“The door is open, let yourself in” came a muffled voice from within.

Sliding through the heavy latched doorway, Bryce’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim torchlight which illuminated the room. The storehouse was actually on two levels; Bryce was stood on the ground floor mezzanine which held assorted weaponry, pieces of armour and anonymous crates and barrels of various sizes around its edge. The majority of the storehouse was actually below-ground, and it was down there in the murky light that he could make out John Dory peering into a hempen sack and entering neat marks in a leather bound ledger.

“Sir,” Bryce said, as deferentially as he could, unlike Garrod the sergeant was not fond of informality, “I was told to report to you to receive my duties”

“Ah, yes – Militiaman Thalson, good, you are here” the thin lips moved without a hint of emotion, “One of the local fishing vessels the, ah, Knotty Lady made a delivery from the mainland this morning. Mostly the usual, ah, firewood, charcoal and sundries, but I also purchased some, ah, crates of fish from their catch.” He said, using his quill to point to a pair of reeking, open top cases in the corner, “I want you to smoke them, Thalson. Same as, ah, last time.”

Bryce grimaced at the task, a painful reminder of the nature of his position as an errand boy in all but name of a glorified retirement home, regardless he nodded his head in assent – “Yes, Sir”

***

Smoking the fish was a necessary task to keep them preserved, but it was not a pleasant one. After cleaning himself up, the majority of Bryce’s afternoon was given over to de-scaling and gutting the mackerel and cod that would feed the garrison in the months to come. His hands soon reeked of fish viscera, a smell had only recently managed to forget from the last time he had been given this demeaning job. Once the fish was filleted each one had to be brined, racked, dried and then smoked. The camp had no smokehouse, instead the fish was hung from the rafters of the blackhouse; the large fire of this hall was kept almost permanently aflame and, without a chimney, the smoke was held under the roof for a long time before seeping through the thatch.

Long after the sun had set beyond the Cerulean Sea and with his eyes stinging from the thick wood smoke that hovered in the warm air, Bryce finally hung the last rack of fillets. Unlike the much quicker and hotter smokehouses on the mainland, these fish would need at least a week before they’d be ready. He descended the ladder carefully into the warm glow and mirth of the mess room that he had toiled above tirelessly for the past couple of hours. Stepping off the final rung he was greeted by a jovial Garrod carrying two mugs of ale.

“Here you go, Boy” he said, extending one of the mugs towards his young student, “T’is a fine job you’ve done – nothing like hard work to keep a man fit and proper”

Bryce nodded in only half sincere agreement and took a well earn draught of the nutty, brown ale. Seven or eight men currently occupied the hall, most of them talking amongst themselves in a couple of small groups sat around the makeshift tables. Above the quiet hubbub the strains of old sea shanties were being played by Bear; although he was mute the young militiaman was the best musician on the island and played haunting melodies on a bone flute he had brought from the mainland. Every so often one of the men would recognise a tune and lead the hall in a rough chorus.

Bryce went to the back of the mess hall and picked up a bowl of the oat porridge with some salt beef to fill his empty stomach. He found a seat with Garrod near the fire and listened to the old veteran’s war tales as he ate. When Bryce was done he said aside his cup and bowl and told his friend quite plainly that he wanted to also fight in the great wars of the eastern front; hearing this, the veteran’s features turned stern.

“Do you not hear the words I say?” Garrod retorted, “When you hear my words of loss and tragedy, all you hear are words of glory and adventure! War is not to be sought out, boy; it is a terror and blight. Your homeland is in no peril, why would you seek to die for that to which you have no connection?”

“Were there really no Westerland men at the front?” Bryce interrupted, he had heard this speech before and did not care for it - Garrod raised an eyebrow at his young friend’s impetuousness.

“There were always a few ignorant young lordlings, headstrong and arrogant much like yourself, who would arrive at the east having come from any number of untouched lands to prove themselves in the name of honour. They would marshal their men with fine words and promises of greatness and march them untold miles to the east. When they arrived, tired and exhausted they would fight and die.” Garrod rose to his feet and gulped down the last of his ale, “Despite what you may think it is not honour and the promise of glory that sustains a man in conflict; it desperation, necessity and fear of what might happen should they fail. But, if you still seek to die, maybe you should find one of these foolish nobles and march east with him.”

With these final words Garrod strode off leaving Bryce amongst his thoughts. Bryce stayed long enough to listen to the end of a ballad Bear had been playing; it was an eerie and sorrowful piece - he recalled from his childhood that it was a lament sung by a mother to her drowned son but he couldn’t remember the details.

After it was finished he cleared away the utensils he had taken, walked to the barracks and climbed into his cot.

***

The young militiaman’s dreams had been strange that night – giant underwater cities and wars between shadows plagued his sleep, and there had been an unusual clanging sound he couldn’t quite place, a ringing, unceasing... Bryce Thalson’s eyes snapped open to the darkness of midnight, with the ringing of panicked bells sweeping across The Opal Isle. Although he had never heard it before, he knew what the sound was; the alarm bell nested in the camp’s wooden watchtower – the island’s tocsin.

His heart pounded as he leapt from the cot, snatched up his sword belt and desperately began trying to stamp his feet into his boots. Smugglers he thought, giddy with the rush of adrenaline, surely it had to be smugglers. Around him the five or six men that had also been asleep began to rouse. He tried to recall whose watch it had been – depending upon the hour it had to be Richtor’s or Brenyr’s, whichever one it was must have been ringing the bell furiously for a good few minutes by now.

It was then that Bryce heard the first scream – bloodcurdling, shrill and violently abrupt – he began to doubt that it could be smugglers. He quickly ran to the door, with Howards and Jarda right behind him, what he opened it onto was a scene of confusion. Men were streaming out of the blackhouse in disorganised panic with torches and swords bared. He could hear fighting in the distance and the soldiers were shouting at one another.

Jaxon ran past; he seemed less confused than the others and more far more terrified. He was also splattered with blood. Suspecting that Jaxon knew more about what was going on than the others, Bryce ran out and grabbed him firmly by the arm.

“What’s going on?” he demanded – Jaxon seemed near hysterical and Bryce had to shake him to get his attention.

“They came from the sea, Bryce! I saw them...” he said, “They were Shadowmen...”

“That’s not possible” Bryce retorted, certain that this was another of Jaxon’s incessant pranks, “Shadowmen are fairytales, meant to scare little kids. Besides if they came to the Isle from the sea how is it that are they here already? Why didn’t we spot their boat?”

“You don’t understand, they didn’t come on a boat – I saw them” Jaxon said with great agitation, “They walked out of the sea. Dripping wet they walked out of black waves and onto the shore, scores of them. They snapped Brenyr like he was a twig”

Whilst the young militiamen hurriedly talked, John Dory had climbed onto the chopping stump next to the blackhouse in an attempt to bring order to the chaos, “Men, ah, MEN!” he shouted, struggling to be heard above the commotion. A dozen pairs of eyes turned to face him and a hush fell on the camp.

“Good, ah, now...” before he could finish his sentence it happened. From the darkness beyond the blackhouse leapt a creature of such staggering ebony it made Bryce’s eyes spin. It grabbed John Dory’s head and twisted, turning it to such a horrifying angle Bryce almost threw up. As the corpse collapsed onto the block he could see that where it had grabbed the man an inky black residue clung.

The creature didn’t pause, it ran towards the closest man with overwhelming speed, but this time its victim was prepared. With startling grace the soldier skewered the creature on his blade and it hissed in a violent rage. But even this did not stop it, with great force it swiped at its assailant launching him several feet into the air.

As it stood there in the torchlight, prying the sword from its chest, Bryce caught a full view of the being – it was humanoid in form and stood only a shade smaller than an average man. Every part of it was so black that it was almost impossible to discern its features; the only parts that were not black were the two beady red eyes which were iridescent in the murky glow that surrounded them. The shadowman’s hide seemed to be almost hairy, only the strands that he could make out at the edge of its silhouette didn’t move like fur. It moved too slowly for that, the thin tendrils the swayed in the cool midnight breeze moved more like hair moves underwater. Jaxon was right though; it was dripping wet – it had only been stood still for a matter of moments and already an inky pool lay at its feet.

As he examined this fairytale monster, more of the shadow creatures began to overrun the muddy courtyard, appearing from every shady corner. Jaxon grabbed Bryce, “We have to get out of here! We have to get to the jetty and take the boat” he yelled.

Bryce wasn’t sure what to do, shocked and only half aware he followed Jaxon past the barrack walls. It was a short lived escape; they had taken no more than five steps when a shadowman leapt into them, raking his black fingers across Jaxon’s belly.

Unthinkingly, Bryce charged - he was not sure when he had drawn his sword but the blade was bare and in his hands. His strike was high and swept down at the creature’s skull, but long before it reached its target it was batted away by a black claw. With the force of the blow, Bryce struggled to cling to his sword’s hilt and had to duck nimbly as the being’s talon sought his flesh. Weaving below the shadowman’s arm he found his feet and leapt to higher ground.

This time he recalled Garrod’s lesson about misdirection; once again he raised his sword high as though attempting another downwards strike. Quickly he kicked snow up towards the beast’s eyes; predictably the creature turned its face to avoid the ice and raised its arms to guard against a strike from on high. At the same moment Bryce had dropped his grip to his waist and now slashed across the shadowman’s undefended torso. As the sword pierced the blackness Bryce discovered that the creature has a consistency like dried tar; unable to force his sword across the width of his foe he swiftly withdrew his blade. Ink covered his weapon and spilled onto the snowy ground.

The creature clutched at its wound and hissed. Within a second it launched a counterattack, leaping high into the air it came at Bryce as a barrage of flailing limbs. Barely able to dodge, Bryce dove out of the shadowman’s path and rolled back to his feet. The creature was already on him again, launching blow after blow that Bryce tirelessly parried.

The being was relentless; although his guard remained strong, every one of its strikes forced Bryce back another step. Desperately he sought an opportunity to strike back, a weakpoint that he could exploit or a diversion that he could use, but the creature was too clever to fall for the same trick twice. He carefully took another step back and bumped into the cool, smooth face of Ekmael - with his back against the wall he could retreat no further. His concentration faltered.

For the fourth time that day Bryce did not know how the fist had passed his guard; he knew only one thing for certain - this was how he would die. But for the first time regarding these matters, he was wrong. It all happened in a flash; as the onyx paw reached for his throat and his eyes widened in horror, a silver streak slammed down between them digging deep into the shadowman’s arm and parrying it away from Bryce.

Behind the blade that had saved his life stood Garrod, whose assault did not pause; as the darkling creature attempted to restore its debilitated arm he thrust the flaming torch, which he had been carrying in his left hand, hard into its torso with a hiss. The creature’s glassy red eyes narrowed in what looked like rage. Furiously it launched a flurry of blows at the arm that carried the flaming brand, but it was too late – Garrod’s sword had already returned to a peak and now swung down with the weight of a mountain towards the shadowman’s neck. The blade cleaved head from body and both fell to the ground in a damp black pool. They could be killed.

The victory had come at a cost however; Garrod’s left arm, which had held the torch, was covered in both his own blood and the black tar like substance that came from the darklings - it lay limp at his side. Meanwhile Bryce’s thousand mile stare took in the carnage of the garrison camp ahead of him; the aviary was ablaze casting a dim light over a scene of misery, the pigeons squawked in unnatural terror. Jaxon’s disembowelled corpse laid sprawled against the wall of the barracks and further back a swarm of the creatures had brought Bear to his knees, everywhere Bryce looked the skirmishes between man and creature were being brought to the same conclusion.

Bryce’s eye’s flicked to John Dory’s corpse still sprawled over the chopping stump, only now it seemed to twitch with new life – the oily slick from the creatures had spread over the entirety of the body now. It’s twitching stopped suddenly – eerily it rose to its feet and turned to face Bryce with eyes of crimson: horror shot to his core, the birth of a new shadowman. Garrod slapped him firmly on the shoulder with the flat of his blade, snapping his attention back to the old veteran.

“There’s nothing to be done for them, boy. It’s too late for the Opal Isle, but maybe not for the mainland” Garrod grunted, “Pick up that torch and follow me - we must light the beacon”

Bryce paused to consider his words and the countless innocents that lived behind the Westerland’s coast, he nodded his agreement. Grabbing the torch from the ground, whose oil and pitch still held a small flame, he followed Garrod through Ekmael’s white archway and into the darkness that lay beyond.

“Shadowmen...” Bryce said, his mind already slipping back to the images of confusion and fear, “But, how? From where? ... Why?”

“You are asking questions I cannot answer, Bryce.” Garrod replied, “Save your energy and focus on the climb.” The young man’s pensiveness continued, but he did as he was told.

They began their ascent quickly, leaping up several steps in a go, but as they progressed this slowed. By the time they were a few hundred steps high Garrod’s breath was rasping and each step seemed an impossible struggle. Eventually the old man slumped forward onto the cool white stairs, his lungs just barely fighting for air; as Bryce brought the torch closer he could see why- the black tar had grown on the old man’s flesh, it now completely covered his left arm in a fine slick, reached up towards his neck and from, what could be seen around his vest, also extended across his chest.

Now that they had stopped running, worse news echoed from below. From the darkness behind them they could hear the slap-slap-slap of wet feet hitting steps and it was getting closer.

Garrod laughed with wheeze and propped himself against the wall, “Seems like I won’t be joining you at the peak. Shame really, I was looking forward to the view.” He chuckled at his own jest causing him to cough, “Boy, I told you a half truth earlier today – I don’t know if you recall what I said – Listen, misdirection is a fine tool, just like a showed you, but there is a more powerful force on the battlefield – Sacrifice”

“No!” Bryce interrupted, “You have to reach the top, they’ll tear you to shreds. I’ll carry you if I have to!” He tried to grab the old man, but before he had a chance the old veteran batted away his hand with icy resolve.

“Don’t be ridiculous, kid. You’ve got one shot at this. If you’re lucky just maybe I can hold them back for a minute or two.” Garrod’s eyes met Bryce’s with fire, “Go! Now!”

Bryce stood torn in a moment of indecision, but as he glanced down at the old veteran he saw the conviction that underlay the man’s intent. Fighting back tears he could manage only one word, “Okay”, he said with palpable resignation.

Bryce turned to continue upwards but found he was unwilling to move. Stealing a glance back at Garrod, Bryce tore off his vest and set it alight in the flame of his torch.

“I may have to leave you ... But I don’t have to leave you in darkness” Bryce said.

Bryce jammed this makeshift lantern behind the railing running around the tower. With a final bow of his head to his mentor, he began to leap up the stairs and into the darkness that lay ahead of him. After what felt like an eternity the cold breeze picked up and moonlight fell on the steps above him.

As he finally stepped out into the nest his heart sank. Clearly no one had come up here in months – crisp white snow blanketed the wooden beacon. Desperately Bryce began trying to clear the drift and flurry from the rotten and waterlogged lumber – his bare fingers stinging with the icy cold. In the wind the torch spluttered and flickered, Bryce tried to shield it with his body as he worked with limited success. Finally the timber frame was exposed, but try as he might, Bryce could find no part of the timber that would take a flame from his torch.

Eventually, as he worked, a sound echoed up from the dark stairs behind him that made him feel sick; Garrod’s screaming a mortal death knell. Bryce panicked and in bleak fear he turned to the mainland, waving his torch high above his head in the vain hope that just maybe someone would see him, but no sooner had he started than the torch was blown out by the high winds. His eyes widened in madness.

Bryce drew his sword, still dripping with the black tar from the shadowman, “Damn you!” he screamed as he hacked at the wooden beacon, “Damn you, damn you, damn you!” Quickly the pile of rotten wood was reduced to debris. Then his attention turned to the ancient crystal that stood next to him, “And damn you too!” he shouted, but his powerful swing didn’t even leave a dent. As the blade bounced off the glassy surface he went for a stabbing blow, but this time something even stranger happened – the sword entered the crystal as though it were stabbing into water and by some invisible force it was pulled deeper in, snatching the hilt from Bryce’s hands.

With a grinding hum the ancient tower of Ekmael awoke; it had been countless eons since it had been fed darkling blood, but it remembered the taste well and more pressingly it remembered what it had to do. Quickly a brightening glow grew inside of the crystal and with an almighty clap a lightning bolt shot up into the dark night sky and was held; a static beam between the tower and the heavens.

Bryce clutched his ears near deafened by the clap, a bolt of this brightness would illuminate the landscape for hundreds of miles and as he gazed out towards the horizon other bolts appeared – the long abandoned towers waking with their brother.

The young militiaman leaned out over the petal parapet to survey what lay below, what he saw almost made his blood freeze – the bolts illuminated the Cerulean Sea almost to the horizon, but the way it moved was so odd it made his eyes blur; every square foot in those countless miles writhed with shadowy beings.

Bryce collapsed against the wall exhausted, what faced the world now was a threat beyond imagining but maybe, just maybe, he’d warned them it was coming.