May the light of Altnor pray on you.
Yours
Grandmaster Albrich, Champion of Altnor
Jatar. That word rung a bell. Some of the elders called it a demon. But there was no fear, only excitement. It was a spirit from what Talmoc knew, though he had little knowledge of the finer details. This Order of Altnor was another story.
Talmoc paused, frowning. Some invisible force was holding onto him, something powerful. It was more than just an interest, it was a hunger. A desire. He had to find out more. Then it hit him. He knew then what to do.
Standing above the fallen monk, Talmoc opened his left palm, his eyes closed. Ibrim, that was his name. He didn’t die nameless at least. That was a man’s worst fear. One who died without a reputation in this world was no man at all. He knew how to find out more knowledge. His memory sorcery could be just the thing. Remembering the struggle of learning the old, powerful art under the Syndicate, Talmoc smiled, and spoke a word.
“Soulsternis.” The old Valian words cracked from his tongue in shattered ice, forcing the corpse’s mouth open. Tears split his lips spilling blood, then wider and wider, splitting his cheeks wide open. A light, silvery substance oozed out of the wounds of Ibrim, molding together into a bubble, wider and wider until they smothered his corpse.
“Let me find what I’m looking for,” Talmoc muttered. Already he could feel the strain in his eyes. Flashes of speech and images fired in the bubble before him, indistinguishable at first. Come on, come on. It was getting harder and harder to hold onto the thoughts. Then he caught a glimpse of two men talking in grey, flowing robes which fell to their feet; something he could use? Then snatches of speech. Talmoc listened hard.
“The Order….we must ride with “
“Alberich of Brotherhood, he knows about the Jatar. Go to him at once, in Kaimist.”
“No Unuch!. I must obey my Lazil’s words first.”
Then it was done, the bubble distorting out of shape and evaporating. Talmoc sat down hard on the sweet-smelling grass, the coppery smell of Ibrim’s blood on his fingers. Maybe that was undeserved. A sully, for one of your Order to have your bodies befouled by such trickery. A tingle of remorse mingled with his curiosity now. But there it was again, that force, tugging at his adventure. Talmoc couldn’t put a finger on it.
He knew one thing for certain. Whatever path lay ahead, Kaimist was the best place to begin.
“What you having?”
Talmoc’s eyes itched. He fucking hated places like this. The fumes from the tavern’s billowing fireplace was hot and smoky, making his eyes sting.
“Finest of your spiced wine. Whatever you have, I don’t care.” He hurled a handful of coins on the table. Just don’t bite the coins, dear woman. Talmoc made a mental note to toast the great men who paid for his board.
She accepted the coins. Nobody questioned cheap money. “Everything seems to be in order.”
What did you expect? It was as though everyone thought Talmoc to be some rampaging murderer with a magical sword.
Warm, friendly smells of woodsmoke and roasting meat was a welcome bereave from the rain. Many small tables made of polished oak were cramped in the room, many seating patrons nursing bronze-colored tankards, or gambling with dice and playing with those stupid black cards called Kis. What a dumb name. He’d never played it. Gambling with cards was for lesser men. He gambled with his very life every day.
“Boy! Bottle of the Harcour wine for this gentleman. NOW!” The innkeeper snapped to someone out of sight, the force in her voice made a couple of surly patrons wince. Talmoc only smiled. Hurried footsteps scrambled upstairs. “I swear, that boy’s too slow sometimes. Needs to be beaten to learn his way,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Anything else, sir?”
Sir? Talmoc kept his face neutral. “A room, if it’s possible.” He already had food at his table. A wooden platter bearing a feast of heavy rye bread, salted cheese, black pudding and smoked mutton. Poor fare for a poor people. He found the inn in the village of Stemar, six days ride from Kaimist. It was a shithole. Regardless, it was filling, which was all Talmoc wanted. He was a wanderer and a cutthroat, not a pampered prince.
The innkeep flushed pink. “Not sure if we have any more rooms, sir. There’s been some trouble with the baron’s men, and-”
“Would this help?” Talmoc threw another coin purse on the table, bulging with coppers. She took it with trembling fingers. “You may as well take it. I need a place to stay tonight and rest my bones. I’d take any room. Any.”
The poor woman looked like she’d never seen money in her life. “Only the room below the boiler remains. And I can’t charge this much for it. You’ll sleep poorly.”
“No need,” Talmoc smiled. “But if it makes you feel better…how much is the boiler room?” It would surely be noisy and cramped, but better than outside. And should any danger come, better these people die before I do.
“Two Senns for the night, five for two, and an extra for each consecutive night you spend,” she replied. The dull way she spoke it was a drone, a rehearsed one. What kind of life would that be? A scrawny lad appeared from around the corner, holding out a dusty bottle with a faded label. The words Halmoc’s Refuge were barely readable in faint black ink.
“I’ll only need one night, then I’ll be on my way again.” Talmoc gently took the coin purse back from the woman, feeling the smooth mouse skin. Opening the drawstring, he emptied and counted seven little copper coins, handing it to the innkeep. “There you go.”
She bowed her head in acceptance and turned to address one of the other patrons, who was singing a loud, crude song about a rat. An honest innkeep, that’s new. Talmoc knew many who would have taken the full purse and told him to piss off. They tended to become the dead ones.
Talmoc weaved his way through the tables and found his own seat again. Comfortable, he raised the bottle of spiced wine to his lips and tore a chunk of black bread with his hands. The taste of ginger and nutmeg flooded his mouth; a warming treat. Now he could feel the strain of the day’s efforts in his body. His eyelids were drooping. He needed sleep, but first came idle listening. You never know what you might hear.
Someone had gone travelling into the Kilto ruins far to the east of Magenor and found ancient Mammoth bones, so large that he could ride his horse through the skeleton. He was laughed at by his peers. Mammoths. That must have been from the older times, when the Mammoth King still raged in the Magenor. He was asking for help to travel back to the ruins and bring the bones back to the city markets, but was shot down in a gale of laughter, and he stormed out of the inn in a rage. The Mammoth King was an old legend, even before the death of the Valian gods…
Talmoc slipped and nearly banged his head to a few muffled guffaws from onlookers. Time for bed. Taking the directions of the innkeeper, he headed down a flight of stairs and opened the first wooden door on his left, feeling the hardwood underneath his sandals. The panels creaked as he entered the cramped, dark space. The sound in the ceiling was loud and obnoxious, like pigs fucking.
Well, you get what you’re paid for. The bedding was clean, and the mattress was reasonably comfortable. Taking off his clothes leaving him only in his thin undergarments, Talmoc covered himself with his thick traveling cloak; the sheepskin would keep him warm. He disarmed himself of his main weapons; Nightmare emitted a strange chanting from deep in its blade. Talmoc regarded it curiously. What’s up with you? The whispering stopped.
He kept his trusted butcher’s knife close though. Just in case. His eyes drooped….
He awoke with a start. He couldn’t see a thing, his head on fire. Pain, blazing pain, laced every inch of his body. Then came a burst of blinding light, so potent his eyes burned to even look. He kept his eyes shut. Then he heard it, a great and mighty snarl in the air.
“Hear my call, mortal.” He stood upright, bolt awake.
“You are weak. Right now, your enemies surround you. But you have potential. Such…delicious potential.” There w
as a relish in that voice, so powerful, almost lustful. A heavy weight pressed over his eyes, forcing them shut.
“Who are you?” Talmoc shouted. Such power. He felt himself shaking. “Only a coward talks in thin air. Show yourself!”
“This little man has a fight in him!” The voice mocked. “I trust you haven’t forgotten your ways. You left all your home and worldly past for war. I have much use for people like you, Talmoc. A champion.”
A champion? “Who are you? Declare yourself!”
“Soon,” crooned the disembodied voice. “I need people like you.”
“I do not fear death,” Talmoc declared, even as he stood there powerless, weaponless. The malevolent voice laughed again.
“You challenge, me mortal, without hope of survival. I like it. I have seen into your soul, Talmoc. I see your potential, your divinity, your hatred. If you want to find me, there is a caravan outside your world right now, making its way to Kaimist. They want to destroy me, but you cannot destroy an idea, can you? Find them, and come to me. Now wake up! Stumble in the mist no longer, and become a champion of the Mora.”
Talmoc hit his head on the wooden beam, hanging low above him to the sound of the boiler’s rumbling; a beast without its meal. Fuck. He was drenched with sweat, but he remembered the spirit’s words. A caravan.
So be it. It could be just what he needed. Packing up his things, he walked out of the room and into the main bar. The innkeeper was behind the counter, her glossy black hair matted and forlorn. There were still patrons inside the inn. Did I even sleep? But he no longer felt tired. A power was sustaining him. Opening the wooden door out into the town square, he stepped out into the cobblestones. It was dark out, the sky painted inky blue.
Far into the heavens, he could see the constellation of Carbturbis. The Sword of the Octane. The village of Stemar was a small one, a trading post under the control of Lord Jaqtir. Talmoc knew the old bastard well, had even served him for a while. A few tired guards patrolled the streets but fortunately ignored him.
He found what he was looking for: a group of people on horseback talking to a guard.
“We need more men for the task ahead; we have reports of demon worshippers.” The speaker was a particularly tall bald man, his head covered by a straw-colored hood. “Can you spare any men? You will be richly rewarded.” He had a cold, blunt way of speaking. Yenick. He’s from Yenick. Talmoc inched closer.
“None here.” The guard tried shooing them away with a dismissive wave of his spear. “We’ve had attacks on the outpost by bandits. You’ll find no help here, I’m afraid.”
“This is important.” The second speaker was a woman, fingers curled around the reins of her steed.
“I cannot help you,” the guard repeated. “I am sorry.”
Talmoc decided to intervene. “I’m available if you need assistance.” Everybody turned to look at him.
There was a tight-lipped sneer in the sentry’s face. “There’s your help I see. Now be gone.”
The bald man scrutinized Talmoc with suspicious eyes. “Can you fight?”
Talmoc gestured at his clothing. “I’m still alive if that’s your concern.”
“He looks strong enough,” said the woman. “We are heading towards the outpost of Kaimist, to purge a demon’s crypt.”
“Tira, we know nothing about this man!”
“He looks experienced enough, brother. And we’ll need the steel,” Tira shot back, not once turning her gaze from Talmoc. Finally, their leader spoke.
“He’ll need a horse. Can you ride?”
“Well enough.” Talmoc shrugged casually. The guard cut in then.
“Go to the stables outside the gate, Lancem can see to it. Tell them I sent you. Name’s Pengnor. Now leave. It’s past curfew.” The guard stalked away, leaving Talmoc with the monks.
“You’ll do then. Come, we have no time to waste, It is five days ride to Kaimist, Do you have a name?”
“Talmoc.”
“Good.” The bald man gestured casually to his brothers. “I am Brother Aram. These are Tira, our shield-maiden, and my fellow brothers, Unuch and Samuel. You do your duty, and you will be richly rewarded.”
A shiver ran down Talmoc’s spine, and he heard a whisper again, cold and brutal. Oh you shall be, mortal. Lead them to me. My game has begun. He struggled to keep his face calm and normal. “Very well then.”
“Good. Then we ride.”
“There. You see the ancient markings?”
Talmoc craned his neck to see where the monk was pointing. The five wanderers trotted their horses up the dirt path slowly into the hamlet of Kaimist, so not to wear out their steeds. The cliffs here were worn brown teeth, a light rain falling on their faces. If he squinted, he could make out the stone slab carved into the rock.
“Aye I see them. What is that tablet?”
“An old relic. Kimist is an ancient place, built during the age of Altnor.” Aram shifted in his saddle. “Our ancestor was a great king, dedicated to pursuing the meditation of the Octane and defending its people from the curse of the world. That tablet bares our ten tenets, the eternal laws we follow until the day we join him in the Mora.”
You’re tied to your god, like all faiths.
“So tell me, wanderer. Where you come from? How did you come across us?” Brother Unuch sat brooding on his horse, his hard-little eyes boring into Talmoc with ill-repressed suspicion. The others had been wary of him, but shared their food and warmth with Talmoc amiably enough. Unuch was a huge, scathing brute, covered with coarse, stinking hair and didn’t talk much. When he did, it was a scowl. Not once did he offer to share his provisions with Talmoc.
“If you were listening, Brother Unuch, you would have known all about him,” Tira scolded. She nodded to the soldier guarding the set of wooden gates leading into the village, who granted them access. She had her long red hair tied back in a ponytail this morning, her freckled face dirty and unkempt.
Entering the village, Talmoc was unimpressed by what he saw. It was small and badly kept, with small stone buildings on either side of a single dirt street. Far above them was the foreboding rock face; the mountain of Chillbrak, Great words had been carved into the rock in a language which Talmoc didn’t understand.
Samuel saw him looking. “It’s ancient Valian, back when the old Dynasty held power across all of Uldur.” They dismounted, Talmoc feeling the squelchy mud under his boots. Three young boys in white robes hurried to take the bridles, leading the horses away.
“So, where is he?” Unuch grunted. “I desire me some infidel bones.”
“Patience,” Brother Aram growled. “There he is.” A heavy footed male dressed in a flowing black cloak walked towards them, leaning heavily on a walking stick. Only when he got closer did Talmoc notice the aura radiating from it. A sorcerer then. Interesting.
“You are late, soldiers.” His heavy, jutted jaw stuck out under a disjointed, bulbous nose, cheeks covered with gruesome, deep scars. He too was bald.
“Father Alberich.” Aram bowed.
Alberich’s eyes turned to Talmoc. “And who is this one?” He grunted. “A volunteer?”
“I found Ibrim during my travels, sir. I’m sorry to say but he’s dead. I…found your letter.” Talmoc shoved the parchment in the elder brother’s face. The leader’s eyes narrowed, snatching it out of Talmoc’s hand. Why did I say that. He heard a snigger, and wheeled round. Nobody was laughing. The monks were giving him cold, hostile looks.
“You had this information and didn’t tell us? Why?” Tira’s sword was in her hand, but Samuel held her back.
“He may have had his reasons, Tira.”
Alberich held up a calloused hand for silence, still reading the letter. “How did he die? How did you get this?” Clearly, he was used to being obeyed without question. Talmoc tried not to smile.
“I was traveling from Nightenmarch, when I came across two bandits harassing him. I killed both bandits, but he died from his wounds. I checked his letter and trave
led up north to Stemar. That’s when I came across your comrades.” The lie came easy.
“May our vigilant Altnor watch over his soul,” Tira whispered, looking down at her feet. Alberich squinted curiously at his writing, then back at Talmoc. “Seems like you’ll do. You have my thanks. Your name?”
“Talmoc.”
“You wear two swords.”
“I like having both hands free to kill.”
One of Alberich’s henchmen snickered, the head monk giving him a cold look.
“I see.” Alberich hunched closer, those watery eyes scrutinizing and scraping. “We’re here because we have a possessed man in the crypts. Well, you read my letter to my agent,” He went on, waving a hand airily.
“I need more to go on then that.”
Alberich shrugged. “Not much to tell. The place was abandoned, none of us go near it. That’s when we heard of the madman. We need to go in. You shall go with Brothers Samuel and Unuch.” He paused, pursing his chapped lips together. “Should you do your duty, you will be paid well. How does three hundred Senns sound?”
That was a handsome price. “Seems good to me. I need more information.”
“You’re hired muscle, not one of ours,” Alberich snapped. “It’s all you need to know.” Talmoc glared right back at him. “Still, I appreciate you for coming here, when it isn’t your fight. When you find out more, leave the house immediately and find me. Do not attempt to talk to the entity, whatever it may be.” The other two bowed low and hurried off, leaving Talmoc in the company of Samuel and Unuch. Alberich stalked away.
“Let’s go,” barked Unuch.
The three walked along the street, Unuch breathing down Talmoc’s neck. Do they expect me to run after all this way? On his back, he felt Nightmare shiver with anticipation. He had no idea what to expect when he entered that house. Again, that irresistible force was driving him on, and like a sheep following its shepherd, Talmoc followed. It will all make sense I’m sure.
They walked down the hill with stone dwellings flanking the dirty path, some with white-robed men and women kneeling on the ground at the doorways praying, some working in a large open space on the left, weaving.
Blackest Spells Page 32