The Siren & the Sacred Lie, Chapter 1

THE SIREN & THE SACRED LIE

                             

                                                                       



         Men had long abandoned the treacherous northern sea beyond the Gray Barrens of Crescent Wood. The restless tides had sunk countless ill-fated seafarers, where even ghosts feared to haunt the ocean depths. Gushing skies, rolling thunder, but still the lonesome crew had come to challenge the Godstorm. Five there were, yet these men were no sea captains, nor fishermen or pirates. They were magi, scholars of an emerging cult of haze craft... and they were a long way from home.           

         Together, the magi called themselves the 'Arcaven'. Their ship, they christened the same. For three sunless days, they had sailed into this ever raging storm. The vessel had proven herself durable thus far, steady and true, but as they jostled into the turbulent seas which guarded the island, her limits would be tested. Creaking and moaning and fracturing were the Arcaven's bones.

         The wind raced madly, and violent waves rocked the hull from side to side. Pouring rain soaked their hoods and powerful gusts spit the ocean water into their faces. Unlike so many before them, willingly, these loyal men had come. It was not pride or madness that compelled them. It was something else. Something big. But in the clutches of the angry sea, their grand scheme had shriveled to an afterthought. Their ship was sinking, and these men were fighting for their lives. Frantically, they dumped pail after pail of water from the decks of the Arcaven.

         The sails were tattered and the rudder unhinged. Control of the ship was lost, and even magic could not bring it back. Thunder rumbled ceaselessly and one after another, waves slammed into the ship's splintering planks. A terrible strike of lightning then pierced the air, but its flash revealed the greater threat. High above the waves soared majestic cliff faces of jagged rock, massive towers of ashen stone which rose like centuries old redwoods reaching from the surface of the ocean.

         “No!” The hopeless groan of their leader dashed what little courage the others had left.

         Before long, the cliff faces were bearing down on them. If they crashed against the rocks, the Arcaven would surely be destroyed, and they'd all go down with her. The ship plummeted to the base of a wave before another smacked them sideways. Still, the rocky cliffs lingered before them. 

         When lightning struck again, this time, the flash revealed a surprising gleam of hope. Ahead of their swaying path, there rose a narrow gap between the cliff faces, a cleft etched into the stone by centuries of wind and rain. But it might take a miracle to knife through that slender opening. As they braced for impact, all they could do was shout prayers at the wind...

         

         Though it was no miracle, the Arcaven slithered wondrously through the narrow channel. One last gust of wind or swell of the ocean would have finished them. The length of a mage's staff was all that separated the ship's bow from the great towers of stone. It all might have ended there on that fateful day... but some things were simply meant to be.

         What follows is a tale of magic, warlocks, and witches. Monsters, heroes, and kings.

CHAPTER 1:  THE ARCAVEN AND THE WARLOCK

Part 1 of 2

         The Arcaven drifted clumsily through the channel before the cliffs opened out to a small, natural harbor. There, the vessel came to rest on a muddy slip of land. The anxious magi could finally catch their breath to exhale a cheer. As their cries echoed into the rain and haunted wind, their relief was the purest they had ever known. The men congratulated one another, but it was their good luck that deserved the praise. Another hundred chances might have left their ship splattered against the guardian rock walls, their corpses in the belly of the sea. Luckily or otherwise, somehow they had survived the storm, and anyone in the Kingdoms of Gwynneth could tell you this was no ordinary feat. It was believed that none had journeyed to these lands in the past 20 years.

         Among the last to survive the Godstorm was an enigmatic castaway of strange, ethereal power. A ghostly legend of the Island Kingdoms few wished to remember. A warlock is what they called him-- a villain of exile. He was the reason the men of the Arcaven had come. They had sailed all this way hoping to find him, and hoping he remained the great and cunning haze master of so many years before.

         The men gathered their wits while thunder continued to rumble overhead. Below, they could see the skeletons of less fortunate vessels washed up along the brackish, muddy shoreline. An imposing landscape now awaited them. The storming sky, the lifeless soil and murky bog-- all sights were of a sickly kind. But the view did not discourage them.

         “Yes. This is the place,” assured their leader. Hidelwine was his name.

         The men disembarked, eyeing the only direction that would accept them. Elsewhere, it was too steep, or the thickets too horned and brambly. They knew this trek would be grueling. The boggy marsh and cold wind were stifling enough, but for added discomfort, their heavy cloaks were drenched to the skin. Even so, none of Hidelwine's men vented a single complaint.

         For several hours, they marched. Though the rain let up, the ground was soggy, and insects seemed to flutter out of the very mud beneath their feet. Rocky cliffs converged on the pass, and the walls were beginning to narrow from the wider harbor where they started. The men remained vigilant and spoke very little, yet they were not frightened by the nameless evil for which the island was known. In fact, Hidelwine took a curious liking to the barren landscape. The haze is everywhere, he delighted. Hidelwine peered around the isle like a traveler on holiday.

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         It had been a half-day's hike when the mud finally gave way to dry, solid ground. Towering cliff faces continued to funnel them forward. The men realized the channel where the Arcaven nearly wrecked was the only way inside. The island was a fortress. 

         They had arrived at a long, craggy cove when Hidelwine eyed a path between the rocks. “There,” he said pointing. Where it would lead, he could only guess. Their cloaks had finally dried from the storm, so feeling lighter, the magi hastened toward the narrow passage. Might it lead them to him? 

         For an hour, they paced steadily up the winding trail until they reached a sharp bend. There, the men encountered something strange, an unnatural barrier of some kind.

         “A bulwark, is it?" one of them uttered. The pile was stacked with petrified sticks and branches, dried leaves, crumbled rock, and hardened mud. It was a careless mishmash, really. If not for its towering height, it would have posed a mere inconvenience. But tall as it stood, the barrier was an impassable wall. 

         "What now, archmage?"

         So there they stalled, puzzling for a way past the mighty bulwark. Finally, patience escaped the weary men. They wondered what kinds of trees could possibly grow in such a place. “We haven't seen a single tree since we arrived. From where could these branches have come?”

         “From the other side of the bulwark, Lavernon.” Right or wrong, Hidelwine always purged up an answer. “But who did this, I wonder?” He'd hinted at the muddled voices far in the distance. Until then, the other men hadn't noticed the sound. Now, they could hear it as plain as the thunder. 

         After a long silence, Hidelwine sighed, as though he'd finally accepted the bad idea tugging at his shoulder. "Stand away from the bulwark," he warned. His cherished runic staff had been lost to the storm, so he aimed to summon fire, using only himself as a channel. No one had seen him try this before. The island haze is so thick, so heavy... It might serve. Hidelwine then closed his eyes.With clasped hands and a serene confidence, he whispered, “Aleek Neegaste.” His eyes remained shut, his head still. He repeated the words over and over, siphoning all his energy into the roaring fire in his mind. He looked foolish, really-- standing idly whispering at the wall. But in the empty space beyond his outstretched arms, there wafted a narrow stream of smoke. The others gasped. Their archmage had channeled the haze on his own, with no staff or crystal to call and collect it. The smoke then drifted into an area thick with twigs and dead leaves. At last, the heat kindled a flame. Hidelwine blew and puffed and waved, spreading the fire desperately across the barrier. Only moments later, the fire was cackling, collapsing the dead branches and packed soil. Tree limbs, sticks, and crumbled rock fell to the ground, cinders sparkling across the darkness. Utterly drained, Hidelwine staggered almost to a fall. Lavernon and Ogarthorne rushed to his side, but he composed himself before they reached him.

         "Archmage! Let me help you,” Lavernon pleaded.

         But Hidelwine ignored him. Instead, he nodded to Ogarthorne, as though he'd given some unspoken instruction. Ogarthorne returned the nod and drew his eye to the flaming remnants. He then raised his staff to call upon is own special magic. He shut his eyes for a long moment before peeking them open again. Finally, as if soothing a crying child, he chanted, “Aleek Hishanna.”

         From the crystal rune which crowned Ogarthorne's staff, there flowed a bitterly cold draft. Seconds later, the draft froze to a biting, icy mist. The spell quickly expired, but the chill was enough to choke away the flames. Hidelwine motioned to Ogarthorne again, this time to express his approval. When the smoke vanished, the men found a passable opening across the ash and fallen branches. The path had been cleared. At last, they could venture beyond the barrier.

         A powerful headwind now gusted into their faces, but Hidelwine's attention returned to the faint voices in the distance. The sound was a melting of groans, grunts, and squawking speech. It sounded like a gathering of hundreds.

         “Who are they?” Ogarthorne asked. 

         "What are they?" Lavernon replied. The voices were beastly. Unnerving. After all, the bulwark they just toppled had been raised to keep intruders away; not blasted afire.

         As they crept closer, Hidelwine recognized the strange voices. “Yes... They are his servants.” In that instance, his mind escaped to a distant memory, during the time of the great battle that changed his life so many years before. 

          Hidelwine was 16 the day the Emperor's City met with a powerful new enemy. Veiled behind a wooden mask and dark violet robes, the warlock of Godstorm Island led another conjurer of magic and a horde of vicious, satyrine warriors. Together, they hoped to reach the dungeons below the emperor's palace. For in these dingy, ironclad cells the warlock believed a valuable prisoner had been caged-- a man whose promise to him had not yet been kept. The prisoner had been called many things. An abomination, a horror, an omen of evil. The nature of his condition was odd beyond mystery.

          The warlock and his horde battled fiercely, but they were overwhelmed by the Imperial legion, a more tactical and finer outfitted army. There was no choice but to retreat. The Imperial soldiers and scouts tracked their attackers, but they fled at an unmatchable pace. Two days on the run, they escaped to the northern shores of the Great Continent, where their longboats had been anchored. From there, the legion scouts watched them sail across the horizon, toward the black cloud of Godstorm Island. Neither the warlock, nor his minions were heard from again.

         It was because of this battle that Hidelwine committed to his passion for the arcane. Despite the warlock's defeat, the siege upon the capital inspired him. And for reasons he would soon tell, it absorbed and possessed him... and never let go. Just days after the failed attack, Hidelwine left the Emperor's City for the secluded village of Higherwere, where he spent the next 20 years studying magic and ancient lore. In that time he created the Arcaven, both as a tribute to the warlock and as a continuation of his work. 

         The memories of all these years now raced through Hidelwine's mind. He was certain the clamoring voices were of a reemerging horde of satyrine half breeds, descendants of the surviving minions who retreated with his idol to the long forsaken land-- Godstorm Island, the isle of the banished.           

         A crash of thunder then returned Hidelwine's attention to the path before him.

         Invigorated, the archmage led his men to the end of the path, where they arrived at the mouth of a huge clearing. When their view finally opened out from the narrow pass, they saw a massive encampment spread about a wide expanse of flat, slate-colored bedrock. There were satyrine beast men everywhere. 

         The brutes were brown and gray, some olive-skinned, some pale as ash. Their heads likened to goats and bison, and steers brandished with horns. Some far more than others. All were burly and hairy, yet they also favored the characteristics of men-- upright in stature and movement; as if man, woman and beast were dismembered by the hundreds, stirred in a vat and wildly sewn back together.

         Beastly though they were, their masters named them the men of the shide-- a moniker given from their ancestral word meaning 'sanctuary of flatland.' Satyrines, half breeds, shide men-- many names for a kind few had ever witnessed.

         Across their chests, they wore frayed wool cottes or rotting leather strappings. Some donned leather braces and collars to cover their arms. Around their waists, many wore shabby wool breeches, while others wore only a wrap and belt with studded leather strips that fell to the knee. All their vestments looked unkempt, as though they had been worn without care for decades.

         Hidelwine looked to the sky for any semblance of the sun or moon, but he could not find it. Day or night, no one could tell. Though it must not have been time for sleeping because the shide men were up and away from the shallow caves and holes where they slumbered. Some were sharpening crude weaponry and armors. Others were sparring, and some hacked at the lifeless trees which speckled the wide field. Yet most of them were sitting by small fires, stirring pots, drinking, or otherwise dawdling idly.

         Hidelwine spoke his question aloud, though he expected no answer. “Is this a reemerging army or a colony of scarecrows?”

         “What are these beastly people?” Lavernon replied, anxious as always.

         “Well... man or beast, it's hard to say. Both, certainly. Here lived exiles of the old country once. Murderers and undesirables banished from the kingdom for unspeakable crimes. Old sins. The kind that would turn your belly, Lavernon. But the beasts of their ancestry had arrived centuries before, from a kingdom far across the ocean. When they encountered the banished, well... they slaughtered every man among them. They kept only the women, you see-- witches, poisoners and manslayers. In time, their offspring took a new form; and the tainted nature of this place took its toll. Here, after so many years, they remain enraptured by the Black Chasm. Under its spell, they never left for greener lands.” 

         Lavernon gulped audibly, his voice stuck in his throat.

         When Hidelwine mentioned the Black Chasm, the others instantly knew what it was. On the far side of the field, the cliffs which surrounded the island rose to a narrow peak. Beneath the summit, a massive chasm reached vertically from the ground. It looked something like a slender cave entrance fit for a giant. But it's certain that no giant, nor anything else could live in that dark abyss. It seemed all the wind in the world was gusting out from it. This was the source of the haze, the base element of all magic in the realm. The men could almost see it in the air. It felt tainted, spoiling over the barren field to the south and west across the entire island. Strangely, they could sense it urging unnatural feelings of anger and vengeance. A spell of ancient magic, they suspected... the kind only a warlock could summon.

         Hidelwine encouraged his men to remain calm. “Don't let the sorcery of this place take you. You must resist it.”

         “For how long, archmage? What is our plan?” Ethan was a scholar of wind and warding magics, but he'd never heard of a spell like this.

         “We wait here until the half breeds slumber. Only then shall we make our way along the edges of the camp. Let us hope that we may pass unseen, as mice scurrying in the night. On the far side of the field, there is a bridge leading to the castle above the chasm. He is there... I know it.”

         On the flat summit above the Black Chasm is where Hidelwine saw the castle. But to call it a castle was to insult every architect worth his salt in the Empire. It was an ill-constructed dwelling of some kind. That much was true. The misshapen stone was carved into various angular forms, devoid of symmetry, style, or any decorative character. The edges were spiked and cuspate-- like colossal daggers planted blade up from the ground. The look was unwelcoming. Though their foundation structures were connected, three separate towers stood high above the base. The center tower rose the tallest, and light glimmered from a window near the top. 

         “What if he tortures us with his magic, archmage? What if he murders us at first glance?”

         “Well, Lavernon, then just before you die, an act worth eulogizing will have finally occurred in your pathetic life. You should be so fortunate to ever witness his power, even if summoned to strike you dead.”

         Lavernon whimpered like a scolded hound. Even for Hidelwine, the fit of temper was unusual. He realized the malevolence of the tainted wind had persuaded him-- the strange, charged air he'd asked the others to resist. He calmed himself, yet offered his servant no apology. Instead, he asked Ethan to try a spell, to see if magic could quell the vengeful gusts from the Black Chasm.

         Right away, Ethan obeyed his leader's command. He stood tall and began waving his staff in a spiral above his head. He then shut his eyes and calmly recited the foreign words, “Auleek Fekluden.” Soon, a warm and soothing breeze started to swirl. After another few moments, a churning cloud of mystical energy engulfed the magi. The heaviness eased. The air freshened.

         Though the spell provided a brief respite, it was overcome by the dank, haunted wind. Restless and ill-tempered, the men waited in silence for the shide men to sleep. 

********************

         After some time, the sky darkened. No longer could any fleeting rays of light sneak past the gloomy clouds. Below, the shide men had put out their torches and campfires and retired to their burrows for the night. 

         “It is time, men.”

         The magi began by following Hidelwine carefully down the rocky hillside. With any misstep, they would fall onto jagged stone and wake the dozing half breeds nearby. But while they waited, the archmage had plotted a way down. Taking care with every stride, the men safely descended to the bedrock below. 

         They had decided to travel the long way around the field, tracing the edges of the surrounding cliff walls. The men knew this would be safer than crossing through the heart of the encampment, and eventually, it would guide them to the bridge on the far side, the one leading to the warlock's castle above the chasm.

         "Shall I begin the chant, archmage?"

         He accepted Shastine's bid with a nod. Hidelwine had chosen the men in his company with careful consideration. As such, the time had come for Shastine to make use of his special magic. The shape-mage's spell would cast an ethereal veil over them all. Though it was dark and the shide men were sleeping, the magi still thought it safer to walk under the veil of Shastine's shadow spell. They would not be completely invisible, but any advantage gave them more confidence in passing unnoticed.

         “Shauleek Vellesha.” He was careful not to speak loudly. After a few seconds, the spell took its form. The men began to fade into phantom representations of their usual selves. Their bodies then appeared as fluid apparitions, distorting the field of vision behind them. Naturally, Shastine had worked on this magic for many years, and it was not the first time the others had become the subjects of his spell. Since the veil would slowly lose strength, the men knew there was little time to waste. 

         From where they descended the overlook, the men followed the cliff walls east along the outermost edges. In the field to their left, there were only a few shide men standing watch far in the distance. The encampment spread across all the dry plain, so as they marched quietly near the edge, shide half breeds slept just a stone's throw away from them. 

********************

         After another hour's hike, the cliff faces started to bend north toward the chasm. The men still thought themselves veiled by Shastine's spell, but there seemed a stirring among the half breeds. The few who were up had made rounds to wake some of the others. This was troubling. It was too risky for the magi to speak, so they held their breath, hoping no one would grow clumsy under the mounting pressure.

         Quietly as they could, they continued to move... but Lavernon was cracking. He began to shiver so frantically that the others could hear wheezing gasps and the chattering of his teeth. The shide men would surely hear him, they worried. It was both frightening and infuriating. The foul wind was still bearing its unnatural vengeance and with every step closer to the chasm, it felt harder to resist. Hidelwine had already lost his temper with Lavernon once, but this time was worse. If given the chance, he might have set Lavernon on fire and shoved him off a cliff. 

         The archmage resisted the impulse until he couldn't bear it any longer. He turned to glare at Lavernon like a father to his shameful son, but in that moment, the two realized how clearly they could see one another. Oh no. Shastine's veil spell had succumbed to wind.

         In the pitch of night, their gray cloaks would be difficult to spot apart the dark, slate-colored backdrop. At least, that's all the magi could hope. "Gingerly now, men... Silent be your every step."

         Many of the shide men were now awake and muttering, but in the darkness, the men couldn't tell what they were up to. For that matter, they were not as concerned with shide man affairs as they were to hide their own. They kept their heads down, focusing on each quiet step forward. Lavernon was still gasping for every breath. Yet this went on for a while, and the magi were making progress toward the land-bridge at the northern tip of the field.

         The castle was in their sights when they noticed that half breeds had gathered by the scores. In the distance, they began to growl and grumble and groan. Surely, something was wrong. Though there was nowhere to hide, Hidelwine considered stopping for a moment. He thought if they crouched low and remained perfectly still, the half breeds may not catch sight of them. But then he realized the beastly figures were not using their eyes to scour the field. They were using their noses. Unlike the long prow of a goblin, their snouts were blunt and wide, like an ogre's. How long had it been since they smelled flesh of an ordinary man of the west? The men wondered if it would make them angry... or hungry. Either way, they were certain it was their scent that had given them away. Huddling motionless no longer seemed wise.

         It was then that Ogarthorne whispered bold words to Hidelwine. “Master, should we streak for the bridge?" There were no shide men standing between them and the land-bridge leading to the castle above.

         Hidelwine knew there was little time to decide. Ogarthorne, Shastine, Ethan and Lavernon all looked anxiously to their archmage for his decision. He looked down for the briefest of moments, but to the others, it felt like an age. When he turned his shoulder, he saw the horde inching their way closer. Be bold. Be decisive. His father's guidance rang like a bell in his mind. Hidelwine drew up his courage, extended his arm, and pointed to the bridge ahead. Under his breath, he hissed “Ruuun..!”

         The magi broke into full stride, moving as fast as their muddied leather boots and heavy cloaks would allow. The strangest growls and roars soon followed them. The sounds were shrill and jarring like nothing they'd ever heard. Of course, this meant the shide men could see them. 

         With every leap forward, dried mud scattered from their boots, leaving a dusty trail for the half breeds to follow. Sprinting, their pursuers barked hysterically as swords and maces clanked against their studded belts. The quiet night had turned into a whirling ruckus.

         Finally, the magi heard one of them shout a word they could understand. “Archers!” he called... It was not a word they were excited to hear. They were losing ground to the shide men on foot. How could they possibly outrun speeding arrows? There was no magic for that. The creaking of wooden bows and stretching sinew signaled that arrows were ready to fly. As they ran, the men hunched and cringed as if it would make them smaller. Pointed bone arrowheads then whistled into the wind. One snipped Ogarthorne's cloak, and another nicked Shastine on the shoulder. It was only a shallow cut, but Shastine now had another reason to wish his veil spell had lasted. He winced for a moment and pivoted to look behind. There was no time to bleed.

         One after another, arrows soared through the air. Though they had almost reached the bridge, the men were losing their nerve. Fear began to take them. Lavernon dropped to the ground, overcome by his terror. Ethan then stopped, gasping for air. Even Hidelwine's pace slowed, and his arms rose to signal he had given up the chase. One last arrow whizzed by before the stampede caught up to them. The magi were done for...

         But suddenly, in that most hopeless of moments, all their fears were displaced. 

         Once more, a harsh cackle of thunder burst violently into the air. This time, however, the sound did not come from the clouds. Outside the castle, they spotted a shadowy figure striding calmly along the rocky bridge. His arms and legs swung leisurely, but the long distance he covered was baffling... magical. A strange call then rung again from his mouth, yet it seemed to come from somewhere else entirely. It was as if the goddess herself rained down a charge from the sky. As he moved, a violet glow emanated around him and sparks of violet and indigo darted into the air. The shide men were stunned, now standing frozen in place. They seemed even more terrified than the magi. As the figure descended the bridge, the violet glow began to fade into the background of the castle behind him.          

         The man wore a dark, flowing robe pinched at the waist by a broad, ornate leather belt with metal markings and symbols. It fastened a long, crystal imbued magic staff to his side. On his head, an almost comically large hood shrouded his eyes. His skin seemed washed of color, though only his jaw and lips were exposed to the night. His arms were crossed just below his chest, suggesting a curious, unsettled temperament. The man stood motionless before them all, when at last, he spoke in a familiar tongue.

         “Return to your burrows, you impudent beasts. Lest you've forgotten the usual courtesy of the human kind within you.”

         The shide men quieted, lowered their weapons and softened their posture. They slowly began to sneak away to their burrows, as if they wished to disappear altogether. 

         Tense as stone, the magi gazed upon the shadowy man who saved them. It was Ethan who first thought to bow at his mercy. When Ethan's knee touched the hard ground, the other men followed in kind. Hidelwine knew to speak for them, but even he was nervous. For twenty years, he'd idolized the man now standing before him.

         “My lord--” He was interrupted by a wayward gust of howling wind. The draft came so quickly that it swayed the kneeling men from their balance. The figure from the castle stood tall and sturdy. 

         “I beg your pardon, traveler. But you have entered into my domain... What has brought you so far from your home? Over the treacherous northern seas and past lightning, wind and rain. Through walls and down cliffs you have labored, yet you come raising no sword, nor staff. I should bid you welcome, were I to feel content in your reasons.”

         “My lord--”  but again, Hidelwine was interrupted.

         “Do not call me lord, for I care not for lords and their lording. My mother gave me a Bassylian name, as I suppose you were given as well. Now stand and speak to your purpose, traveler.”

         Angst-ridden, the archmage forgot to rise from his knees. “I am Hidelwine Gaul, son of Hauvester of the Emperor's City. I was there, my lo-... I was there when you came... I was there for your war. It was you, the one who came to free the innocent from their cells. To purge the Assembly of its corruption and dethrone the emperor.” 

         Behind the shadow of his hood, the other men could feel the warlock glaring at Hidelwine. “It was no war, son of Hauvester. Just one day's rebellion... and as you might know, we were run out of the city. That was a long time ago, and I'm curious why you have come all this way to dredge up such memories. Speak quickly.”

         “Because I can help you succeed this time. I have continued the work of the Sacrament, gracious... er.. master of the Godstorm.” Hidelwine could not think what to call him. “I have continued your work under the sigil of the Arcaven. We are now many hundreds strong. And the legion is but a shadow of its former glory. Their numbers have dwindled, their interests scattered... I saw your magic. I know your power. This time, together, they haven't the will to defeat us.”

         This time? Hidelwine delivered his lines unconvincingly, and the warlock was stunned by his gall. "By what flimsy pretense would you make such a judgment? That I ever aspired to the throne?" As the archmage stammered and stuttered, the warlock gave voice to an impeding thought. “My reasons for assailing the capital were my own. What would you know of them? And what do you know of the innocent, as you call them?” Each question sounded more suspicious than the last. “Why would you bid that I return to the capital?.. Perhaps you are a deceiver. One who has finally come to lure me into their trap... to end me once and for all.” 

         “No! I only--"

         For the third time, he was interrupted. “What of my interests? My will?.. These twenty years have likely decayed me far more than the legion. That never occurred to you before drudging all this way? For all your skill in surviving the Godstorm, you have little with words. And none for outrunning my servants. I'm beginning to wonder why I spared you from them.”

         Hidelwine's counsel had fallen flat upon a firmly barred gate. All the years, all the planning-- desperately, he puzzled for a way to pry the gate open, even if just a crack. Be bold. Be decisive, he remembered. I am the leader of the Arcaven. Hidelwine suddenly discovered a new courage. He hadn't come this far to lose his nerve now. His courage then spilled over, and so emboldened, he stood to face the warlock as he would a peer.

         “Your prisoner is not buried away in the palace vaults, great master of the Godstorm. They hid him somewhere else-- somewhere secret. I understand he possesses a divine gift... and I wish to find him for you. That we may ordain him to free the innocent and overthrow the Imperium.”

         This time, there was no quick retort or accusation. The warlock stood perfectly still and uttered not a word. He then turned his shoulder toward a statue made of slate, polished stone. It stood ten paces high and rested on the castle side of the land bridge, facing the middle tower. When the wind chased away the mist, Hidelwine could see it-- the sculpture of a young woman donned in flowing gown, set atop a masterfully carved, circular platform. Her gaze peered high into the window near the top of the tower. The warlock's eyes were still sheathed, but his attention seemed fixated upon the statue. He stared longingly, until the silence grew uneasy. There were no hints at what he might say. Finally, the warlock turned back to Hidelwine.

         “...You believe you can find this secret place?”

         “Yes... I believe I can.” This time, the archmage spoke with a gripping sincerity.

         “And what will you expect for all your trouble, Hidelwine?  What do you stand to gain from all this?”

         “I stand to avenge the lives of my mother and father, to free them from their cells... alive or dead. And I expect to watch joyfully as the hypocrites who imprisoned them suffer."

         “Ah... now I see. I too have hungered for such atonement in my life, Hidelwine... yet I suspect that is not all you wish to come from this grand undertaking.”

         “No. It's not all... Haze magic was the eternal gift of the first god. And what man has the right to deny another his natural being? The shadows are the refuge of beasts, and I've grown tired of living among them.”

         The warlock then pulled back his hood, revealing the darkest of eyes and coarse, brown hair. His skin was as pale as a living man's could be. For decades, the island clouds had masked his face from the daylight.

         “Come with me, travelers. Let us speak inside, where the wind does not hinder our senses.”

         At last, Hidelwine's followers rose from their aching knees. Meagerly, they traced the man's steps across the bridge. On their way, the warlock again paused to pay his respects to the statue of the beautiful, gazing woman. Who is she? Hidelwine wondered. But he dared not ask. After all, he had not even received his host's name. He suspected the statue had been of some service to him, though... in a way he did not yet understand. He thanked her silently for that.

         When they arrived at the castle gate, the warlock reached into the collar of his robe. Up came a large, crystalline key, adorned with a wing-shaped bow. With the chain still linked around his neck, he placed it into the lavish, crystal encasing. The single door was nine paces high and five wide. When opened, the magi saw it was an arm's length in depth, thick as they had ever seen. It had been forged of a dense iron ore, blacker than a raven. On its right side, the door was anchored on over-sized hinges made of the same crystal as the bolt casing.

         Before entering the key, the warlock mentioned the design. “This is mantine crystal. More resilient than iron, steel, gold and silver... even ruby or sapphire. The hardest known gemstone in the kingdom, in fact... Well, next only to one. It would take a blade forged of diamond to cut down this door. And it might take a giant to wield it. Of course, no such blade ever existed.” With both hands, the warlock pivoted the key until it spit out a hefty clank. Smirking, he then added, “Seems a bit of an excess now, since you are the first intruders to breach my domain... and here, I invite you in willingly.”

         When the warlock heaved open the door, inside was revealed a grand chamber fit to receive hundreds. But the room was lonely, save for the beautifully crafted stained glass which hung like banners from the vaulted ceiling. The artworks were displayed in ornately carved, floral-patterned frames and depicted dozens of colorful spectacles, landscapes and seascapes. Above them hung a bronze chandelier flecked with hundreds of burning candles. It was enormous. The size of a chariot, guessed Ogarthorne. A thousand more candles rested on mantles and shelves, flickering light back and forth through the glass. Decorative lanterns were bracketed uniformly to the walls on opposite sides of the hall, giving light to the lower spaces. The men gazed around the chamber in awe. The crude outer appearance of the castle could not have greater contrasted its marvelous interior. It was like a gleaming jewel hatched from a moldy clam shell.

         “Come this way,” said the warlock. “Let us sit and speak for a while.”

         

Chapter 1 continued in Part 2:

         

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