by Travis Smith
“N—n—now,” Skuttler repeated, “okay, boss. Okay. No—no—no need fer that. I got—I got, uh, I got info ya need, too!”
“What info does a bog worm like you got?” Resin growled.
Skuttler pointed toward the empty cell with the symbols on the wall, his fingers trembling.
“I’m gonna count to three an’ pull this trigger.”
He hadn’t the chance to say one before Skuttler spilled all. “There’s a camp,” he shrilled with manic pace, “not far from ’ere. At least five. One of ’em—a boy—he’s got a black stone wit’ ’at very crossin’ circle on it.”
Resin eased the gun away from Skuttler’s skull. “A boy?” he mused.
Skuttler nodded with vigor. “They got a—a whole plan,” he continued. “I ’eard it all.”
“When?” he demanded.
“Only jus’ las’ night,” Skuttler said. He stood to his feet now. “They’re plannin’ a raid. I sat ’n’ listened to the ’ole plan. I can stop ’em.”
Resin turned and picked up the machine gun that had been confiscated from Skuttler. He handed it back to the fidgety man to the audible dismay of the crowd. “Spill it.”
“Three of ’em are marchin’ down ’ere right this very moment. They got the boy posin’ as a bounty, ’n’ once they get in an’ find what they’re lookin’ for, they’re gon’ turn this place inside out.”
Resin shook his head.
“The others ’re laid up waitin’ to ambush, case we come chasin’ ’em back to the campsite.”
“Then I reckon ya better get to them first,” Resin said.
9
The Sisters hissed in unison. Their spell circle broke, and the purple-green hue emanating up from the well crackled into fiery red.
“Impossible!” one screeched, baring the stained, cracked nubs that lined her gums.
The man held up his thin hands in a gesture of benevolence.
The Hoxa Sisters had recoiled, but none fled. They were frozen in surprise at the man’s unexpected appearance. Frosty puffs of breath flowed from their slack mouths in the air that did not quite feel chilly.
“I’ve come with an appeal,” the man said.
“How came ye to this isle?” one of the Sisters hissed.
The man’s ashen face spread in a smile beneath his black hood. His eyes conveyed neither good nature nor ill will. Behind them, the Sisters could see nothing.
“How?” she spat again.
He turned and gestured toward the path down which he’d walked.
“How came ye through our woods?” she demanded.
The man turned back to face them. He moved slowly, as if in a dream. “Ahh … your tricks?” he mused. With that, he glanced up at the moon and moved one long-fingered hand toward it. The Sisters looked up and cawed again in dismay as the crescent sliver in the sky began to fill, as though the season were passing before their very eyes.
“Necromancer!” one of the other Sisters spat at him as she watched their enchantment falter.
“They are quaint,” he conceded, looking back at the Sisters. Their unusually frightened faces faded back into near complete darkness as the moon waned anew. “I ventured to your woods in search of something a bit beyond concealing illusions, however.”
“What do ye want?”
“The question is: what do you want, Sisters?” he riddled in reply. “Limitless power, beyond your strangest imaginations? Relics from worlds you couldn’t dream of? A glimpse beyond the veil that separates the living from the dead?”
“He’s no magi!” another witch spat. “He is hellspawn!”
The man offered a benign smile at this, too. Then he closed his eyes and tilted his head back with a sigh. This spell took more out of him each time he used it, but at times like these, it was necessary. A low whirring sound appeared from nowhere in the still air. The man’s third digit on his otherwise still hand began to twirl in meditated patterns.
“Stop!” the other witch barked. “What do you want?”
The man opened his eyes and looked at her, still smiling. The sound of rushing air stopped, and the night was silent again. “I am in search of an artifact,” he explained, “and my initial endeavors have thus far been thwarted.”
“We don’ leave these woods!”
He went on. “Conjure it for me.”
One of the Sisters scoffed, interrupting him. “We can’t just—”
“There is a realm between that of the present and that of the absent,” he continued, “a realm that separates life from death. If you can get it there, then I can retrieve it.”
The witch tried to speak again, “We can’t—”
“You will gather all your Sisters and combine all your efforts,” he explained, “or I will show you what true power is.”
“Conjure it yerself, ye bastard o’ the occult!” one barked.
But the other did not break her gaze from his own. “What artifact?” she asked.
“Sormød,” he said simply.
With that, he raised one long, slender finger and traced a circular symbol in the air. Tendrils of smoke appeared from his fingertip. The shape was blacker than the dark night air and stood out clearly against the lightless sky.
Chapter 12:
Suffer in Silence / The Storm
1
I
n the final few days before the storm of change descended upon Reprise and the rest of the world, the streets of Krake were not filled with the sounds of gunfire and chaos. The people did not roam the shadows in fear of attack, capture, or retribution to their families. The men and children were not enslaved and forced to work tirelessly to generate currency for The Baron’s thugs. There were no violent insurrections or public executions.
But neither did they savor their final moments of peace. They did not take deep breaths—free of rotting foods and gunpowder—and look to the bright blue sky and smile, relishing the ease of the day in light of what’s to come. They did not hug their loved ones who would soon be lost more closely than the days before. They did not lie awake at night mourning the impending loss of their entire ways of life. For the blissful ignorance of what’s to come is unblemished. That oblivion that precedes tragedy often escapes even hindsight. Many would spend the rest of their lives looking back on these days and yearning for a simpler time, a better way of life, but that euphoric blindness to a dark future would remain taken for granted until the end of days.
The Stranger, at this time not so much a stranger as he was a handsome young prince—and now a new father as well—bustled along the cobbled street, each step lighter than the last as his feet glided atop clouds of elation. He smiled and greeted passersby as he made his way to his oldest friend’s abode. Arthur Carraway lived in a modest cottage at the edge of town, not too far from the butcher’s market.
The Stranger rapped upon his door, eager to tell his friend that Laura’s labor had resolved uncomplicated. When the door opened, though, his smile faded at once. Arthur stood before him in the dim cottage, prematurely greying hair in disarray. Heavy bags hung beneath his eyes, which were cast downward, not meeting his old friend’s own.
“No,” The Stranger said.
Arthur nodded.
The Stranger reached up and caught his friend in embrace as he sank to his knees in the doorway. A few passersby hesitated to steal a glance before carrying on about their own affairs. He allowed Arthur’s head to fall onto his shoulder, the man’s tears flowing freely now.
“My sorrow weighs heavily in my chest,” he said, voice choking as he stopped fighting against his own tears.
“He fought for such a great time,” Arthur said.
The Stranger hugged his friend tightly and knelt with him on his stoop, allowing him to release as much grief as he needed. They stayed this way for quite a while until a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder from behind. He turned and saw Robert Vaga, looking concerned, his fishing gear slung over his shoulder as he returned home from the shore.
�
��Come now, son,” Robert said.
The Stranger’s tear-streaked cheeks glistened in the bright sunlight. “It’s his father …” he said.
Robert nodded but said nothing.
The Stranger groaned. “Ahh, and I came with such joyous tidings. What luckless timing!”
Arthur shook his head at the notion. “I am sorry to spoil your news.”
“No, no,” The Stranger began, but his father pulled at his shoulder again.
“Come. We have much to attend to at the castle.”
The Stranger shot his father a puzzled and condemning glance.
“It is all right,” Arthur said. “I thank you for your visit, brief though it was, and I will care for my own. Phyllis is with me.”
2
“What is so urgent that you should interrupt my mourning friend?” The Stranger demanded as he walked back home with his father.
“Such a public display,” Robert said, shaking his head, “is unbecoming.”
The Stranger scoffed. “Unbecoming? He lost his father! Surely you’d understand if it were me in his place?”
Robert shook his head. “You are a young man now,” he said, “and a father yourself at that. Whether you long for the title or not, you are a prince as well. These are your people, and they mustn’t see you in that position.”
“Our people fear vulnerability? Humanity?”
“You are to be their leader one day. Your role is to instill peace and comfort, to convey strength.”
“I should think the people would understand—” The Stranger began.
Robert interrupted. “We do not mourn the departed. Your anguish betrays William Carraway’s memory. He has lived a life full and endured his share of pain in the end. He is free from that now.”
The Stranger was speechless for a moment. He considered his normally good-natured father’s callousness before thinking of how to reply. “I do not mourn William,” he said, indignant. “I mourn for my friend.”
“’Tis the burden of the kingship,” his father replied. “We must suffer in silence.”
3
Several days later, The Stranger paced the quiet castle after laying Laura and his newborn son down for a nap. He had not gone back to visit Arthur since the conversation with his father. He peered out one of the large windows that overlooked the market center and gazed toward his friend’s house when an unshakable notion came over him.
He made his way down one of the long hallways and slowly pulled open a heavy door he hadn’t opened since he was much, much younger. He took a torch from the wall and lit it before descending down the dark staircase into the castle’s underground passageways. The door slammed closed behind him with a familiar ominous thud.
The expansive, windowless corridors branched in all directions beneath the castle. When he was a more mischievous and intrepid child, The Stranger had explored them at length. He knew each dead-end, every circle-back, and all the impassable doors that would not open to his mere touch. His father had admonished time and again for playing down here, but that never stopped him from coming back. He knew little about the history of the tunnels or the secrets they held, but a clear map of the passageways was still etched inside his mind, even after all this time.
A soft footstep echoed along the darkness, sound amplifying off the cavernous walls as it rolled through the corridor. The Stranger froze. “Hello?” he asked the dark silence.
A single click echoed back to his ears. The sound was so brief as to be nearly imperceptible. Anyone else may have convinced him or herself that it was merely an arbitrary creak or a trick of their mind, but The Stranger recognized the signal at once.
He continued along the corridor and turned the corner to spy his friend sitting against the stone wall, a wan smile upon his face.
“In total darkness?” he asked, raising his torch in front of himself.
Arthur smiled more broadly now. “I’d need neither map nor torch to find this spot, old friend.”
“Even after all this time?” The Stranger said. “I thought for a moment I’d get lost myself.”
“We must have met here … a hundred times in our youths?” he asked. “A thousand?”
“I could venture not an estimate,” The Stranger replied, “but something told me I would find you here today as I looked out toward your cottage.”
“We’ve stronger connections than the physical world could allow, you and I,” Arthur said.
The Stranger sat and placed an arm around his friend. “Please forgive my father,” he said. “He understands not how you ache.”
Arthur nodded. “He is a good man. I know this much.” The two sat in a prolonged silence before he spoke again. “It is difficult … to focus on all the positive narratives we’ve conjured to surround death.”
“I imagine it feels different, being your own kin.”
Arthur nodded again before lapsing into silence.
“Laura and I had not yet settled on a name for the baby,” The Stranger said at last.
“Is that so?”
“Aye,” he replied, “but she seems very content with William.”
Arthur smiled. “I long to meet him.”
“Soon, my friend.”
4
The sun had set on Krake by the time The Stranger returned up the stairs to the ground floor of the castle, making the return of natural light less startling on his eyes.
“Crawling ’round the dungeons again, brother?” a voice asked as he closed the door behind him.
The Stranger started. “Bernard! What are you doing skulking around here after dark?”
“Well, I still call this my home,” he replied, “unless you object, Your Highness?”
The Stranger rolled his eyes. “You know I’d not object, but the sight of you here has put an unpleasant taste on my tongue of late, brother.”
“I humbly seek your pardon if I am over-done,” Bernard said sardonically, “but a meal is only as palatable as the chefs can allow.”
“I won’t accept your piteous shifting of blame any longer, Bernard,” The Stranger jibed. “We are of the same chefs, you and I.”
“Ah, yes, our mother would agree, but why don’t we go ask—”
“Bernard!” another voice interrupted. The pair turned to find Laura. She stood in a nightgown, holding William, the pair illuminated by moonlight. “What a surprise. I wasn’t expecting guests at this time.”
“Well, this is still my home!” Bernard repeated.
Laura scoffed, not unfriendly. “You know as well as I that you don’t consider it as such. What brings you by?”
Bernard glanced nervously at his brother and cleared his throat. “Well, I came to see you, of course,” he said, as jovially as could be. “And the baby,” he added.
“Well, I look a mess …” she began, brushing at her unkempt hair with one free hand.
“Nay,” Bernard said, approaching. “You look as beautiful as the day you took this miscreant as your husband.” He tossed his head backward, indicating his brother, and touched Laura on the cheek briefly.
She stifled a visible shudder.
“Have you settled on a name?” he asked, looking at the baby now.
“William,” she replied.
“Ah,” Bernard nodded in obviously feigned interest, “a noble name. He looks to be healthy.”
The Stranger approached and clapped his brother on the back. “Well, I think Laura and I will away to bed now, Bernard. Unless there’s anything else?”
“Of course not,” he replied. “Just paying my respects. I meant not to burden you both.” He bowed and winked at Laura before turning and heading to the castle’s entryway.
5
Bernard made his way through the city center by moonlight. He took his oft-travelled side-path and ventured through the outskirts of Krake in the darkness. The trail wound away from the more populated areas and into the outlying woodlands. He approached a familiar hut with a strange symbol on the outside and rapped upon the door.
The door creaked open, though no one was standing inside.
“The baby is well,” Bernard said, entering the hut and closing the door behind him.
The man in the large, high-backed chair facing away from him did not reply, but Bernard could sense a pleased nod of acknowledgement. He stood in uncomfortable silence before the man finally spoke.
“You have second thoughts?” he rasped.
“No,” Bernard replied plainly.
“Tomorrow at midday,” the voice said. “Have your men ready.”
“They’re ready,” Bernard promised. After a pause, “So that will do, then?”
“That will do,” the man agreed. “Get the boy, and all the treasures and power the White Kingdom holds will be at your fingertips.”
“And you?” he asked.
“Do not profess to misunderstand our dealings,” the voice hissed. “When the boy opens the Throne Room’s doors, the throne is yours.”
“And you get the … the, uh … ?”
“Sormød.”
“Sormød?”
“The Death Stone.”
Bernard nodded. “Suppose I don’t need to ask what that does.”
“I will see you at noon, Baron,” the man said.
“Yes.” Bernard turned toward the door.
“Yes?” he asked expectantly.
“Yes … sir?” Bernard said, puzzled.
“Say my name,” the voice crooned. His tone was that of an enamored lover who begged for satisfaction.
Bernard swallowed hard and fought against a sneer that threatened to curl his lip. “Morak,” he said at last.
A satisfied silence hung in the air as Bernard waited, his hand upon the door’s handle. At last, the man raised a long-fingered hand from the arm of the chair into view and waved the fingers dismissively.
6
Late the next morning, The Stranger and Laura were standing on the castle’s western balcony when two guards hurried out of their quarters and approached.