Chateau Cascade

by Dusty Ridgeman

  “This will do,” spoke the bandaged figure.

  The summoner drew a ceremonial, ruby-hilted onyx dagger from within his robes. The runes along the blade glowed with a dim red inner light as he carved a series of runic sigils directly into the writhing creature's chest. Stinking, viscous green sludge bled forth from the deep cuts as the summoner chanted. His raspy voice grew in volume and took on an otherworldly, echoing quality. The creature expired, its wretched wails bouncing off the mountains. For the rest of their ascent, the air that they breathed was clean and fresh. Even when the smog grew so thick that they could barely see, the ritual's magic persisted.

  From that point forward, the mutant creatures kept a wary distance from the two travelers. They could make out the creatures’ distinctive green glow in the night, hiding behind rocks and bushes, never more than a few dozen yards away. Derik was certain that they were waiting for their time to strike and devour his flesh, but he was confident in his ability to defeat any number of them. Even if he weren’t, there was always the option of unleashing Aksazyx.

  They reached a zenith – one of the highest points in the Peril mountains – two and a half weeks into their ascent. Before them was a temple in the shape of a half-circle, resting against the side of the peak. Columns jutted out like teeth from around the edge of the circle, holding up an unbroken roof. Two massive diagonal stone causeways ran down from twin entrances. By all appearances, the structure seemed to be in surprisingly good shape, despite its obviously ancient construction. Derik surmised that it must have been built many ages ago, long before the Imperium's factory-cities had begun belching their accursed winds into this place. He knew that no one lived in these mountains who was capable of building such a structure.

  Whatever color the stone had once been, it was now a smoky, splotchy, blackish-grey. It was the color of that smog which now hung so thick that the Easterners felt like they might be swimming through it. Still, the protective enchantment held – though Derik swore he could feel it slowly weakening. He found himself coughing occasionally, unsure whether it was his mind playing tricks on him or if tendrils of that virulent black fog were indeed finding their way into his lungs.

  Both causeways were awash with a sea of shifting, green-glowing figures, hazily visible in the polluted air. “It is time now,” the summoner said, reaching into a pocket sewn into the inner lining of his dark robes. His white-wrapped hand drew out an ornate platinum pocket watch with gold inlays and silver hands. The craftsmanship of the thing was incredible and meticulous, with minuscule runes carefully engraved into each hand. Even as a mundane object, it could have been sold for enough gold to buy a small keep and its surrounding hectare of farmland. This was no mundane object, however. This was a goëtic relic.

  While the historical details had been lost in the mists of time, the legends said that there was once an era of high magic in Genesis – a time long before the Imperium, the Affiliation, and Cascadia. It was in this bygone, forgotten era that the goëtic relics were first forged.

  Like all such relics, a spirit had been trapped within long ago. This goëtic summoning and binding was only made possible through great efforts exerted by ancient wizards. It had required the skill of master metalsmiths who had been sought out and set to work specifically for this purpose. A powerful spirit could not be lured into just any simple treasure; such a thing would have to be one-of-a-kind.

  Were it not magical, the pocket watch still would have been valuable. With the spirit enslaved to the perpetual motion of its silver hands, the pocket watch was priceless. Wars had been waged over such supernatural treasures. They were almost always owned by a Tower Lord and, if one were to acquire such a thing, they were likely to find themselves followed by the unceasing wrath of its former owner. New relics were almost never made; few knew the secrets of their creation, and even fewer were willing to pay the dark price that their construction demanded. For the most part, the recondite craft of producing such magical artifice simply no longer existed. This one was ancient, with a storied history. The Kyanite Tower Lord herself had discovered it and awakened its sleeping spirit. Derik did not dare ask how the summoner or their own Lord had gotten a hold of it.

  The summoner held it in his hand and stretched out his arm. He paused a moment, staring at the priceless artifact as though he were studying an insect trapped in a jar. The watch hung from a simple leather thong which clashed with its otherwise ornate appearance. He chanted in an incoherent tongue and, as if in response, the two arms of the watch began to spin in opposite directions – slowly at first – then faster and faster until they were moving too quickly for the eye to follow. A brilliant cyan light flashed from the glass face of the pocket watch, cutting its way through the smog. Every single one of the glowing figures began to shuffle toward him all at once, moaning their desire. Even Derik found it difficult to look away; he wondered how powerful he could become with such an object in his possession. He quickly shook his head free of such thoughts, reminding himself that crossing the Tower Lords meant certain death or worse. The bright light had quickly softened into a warm glow, but Derik still felt its influence on his mind.

  The Easterners made their way up the causeway and into a massive entrance chamber. The mesmerized glowing figures followed them at a shambling pace. Slipping into an opening, they traveled down labyrinthine hallways for some time. These hallways offered no respite from the smoke; if anything, it was actually thicker here, hanging like great black curtains in the darkness. Derik felt grateful for the enchantment protecting them and guessed that a man would die in seconds if they were to take an unprotected breath in this place. They made their way cautiously, creeping forward by the grace of the cyan light of the pocket watch and the green glow of the creatures. A horde of shuffling, glowing figures had now gathered behind the Easterners as they made their way through the ancient structure. The ones further back panted and moaned even louder than the rest; their sound was a low keening filled with desire and hopelessness. Eventually the procession reached a chamber whose entrance way resembled a gigantic keyhole. The door blocking that massive keyhole was a slab of steel. Were it shut, it would have been set flush against the smoky dark stone; luckily for the Easterners, it stood slightly ajar. The men slipped into the vault beyond.

  The summoner nodded toward Derik, and he responded by closing the vault door behind them, pushing it into place with his incredible strength. It made a dreadful, echoing racket as its metal scraped against the stone. None of the shuffling multitude had made it in, but their muffled moans could still be heard even through the thickness of the steel.

  The cyan light of the pocket watch winked out in an instant as the summoner snapped its platinum clamshell casing shut and stowed it away. The room they had entered was now pitch black, but Derik's eyes had been augmented magically. In response to the sudden darkness, they began to change; the once-white sclerae turned a freakish emerald green, and his black irises grew slit-shaped and catlike. In this deep darkness, those irises expanded even further and a weak green light emanated from them; to him, the room was now as bright as day. Hearing footsteps, Derik glanced over and saw that the summoner was not having any difficulty either; the white-wrapped mage was swiftly making his way to the center of the room.

  The vault was circular, maybe thirty feet in diameter, and the walls were made of the same smoke-stained stone as the rest of the temple. In the center there was a large, half-moon ring archway set vertically into a raised platform.

  The platform was raised several feet off the ground, and stone steps allowed access on one side. It abruptly ended on the other side of the half-circle archway, with no steps behind; if one were to walk straight forward from the vault door and up the stairs through the archway, he would drop to the ground and likely fall on his face. Runic symbols were meticulously carved at regular intervals, all the way from the left side to the right, into the face of the archway. The summoner had stepped up onto the platform and was running his hands along the ru
nes while chanting in a low, deep tone. His voice had taken on an otherworldly, demonic timbre. Derik narrowed his eyes, remaining alert; he had been told that he was to protect and obey the summoner, but he had no idea what their purpose was in this place. As the ritual continued, he felt certain that he could distinguish more than one voice echoing forth from beneath the cowl. The voices grew louder and reverberated strongly in the stony chamber. Derik could hear desperate moans and scratching sounds coming from the other side of the strong vault door.

  As the cacophony reached a crescendo, the ground began to shake. A torrent of wind blew out of the archway, and an earsplitting, unearthly howl followed it. A bloody-looking red membrane began to form in the archway, flowing out from its center and meeting the stone ring's edge at all points. It seemed to be both solid and liquid simultaneously. Supernatural terror began to wash over Derik. He stared at the portal aghast, screaming and covering his ears. Veins and fire could be seen in its roiling surface. It could have easily been mistaken for a pot of blood brought to a rolling boil.

  All at once, the tumult ended. Derik felt his usual calm return to him as the summoner dropped his arms to his sides, no longer touching the runes. Each and every rune on the stone archway now shone with a bright crimson, and the whole room was lit by the portal's ruddy, shifting red light. The portal churned silently; looking at it gave Derik a queasy feeling. The summoner inclined his head toward his servant. His face wasn't visible, but Derik was certain that the man was smirking at him. The thought filled him with a sudden intense hatred, but he did not let it show on his face.

  Beckoning for Derik to follow, the summoner shuffled forward and, just like that, he had stepped right into the bloody orifice. He was gone. Derik sighed, shuddered, and obeyed. He emerged, miles and miles away, striding into a dark chamber within a nearly identical temple at the foot of the western side of the Peril mountains.

  Ourolo Travels

  Karzt and his new companions had much to talk about on their week-long journey back to Saltflat. The plan was to hire on with a Sandy Travels Shipping Company caravan and track any attacks back to their source. Unfortunately, very few caravans were set to depart – trade had slowed considerably due to the continued disappearances. Nevertheless, Hohaym assured them that he would be able to set something up. Only the largest caravans – those whose profits would justify the expense of hiring many extra fighting men to defend them – continued to schlep loads of cargo across the desert.

  The hangman had become increasingly aware of just how much he disliked the top-hatted Cascadian. While passing through the Imperial Way, Karzt had asked point-blank if he was a magician, and Quentin had replied that he was, in fact, an all-powerful wizard and added that the Westerner ought to fear him.

  Lunarm interrupted by poking his head out of Jak’s satchel and squeak-shouting, “Quentin's lying! Quentin has the special gift. He's a mover! Everyone says so, so it has to be true.”

  At this, Quentin brought his index finger to his lips and shushed him. Karzt made a face; he couldn’t begin to fathom what the creature had meant and simply assumed that some sort of degenerate witchcraft was afoot.

  They had plenty of time, while on the road, to get to know each other. Whenever Karzt traveled with companions, he liked to get a good gauge of them. He was especially interested in and flummoxed by the fact that a trainee had been sent along. “Suffice ta say yer a Cascadian Knight,” he shot in Quentin's direction, “but you. You said you was born on a farm. What brings you out here? Why would you want to spend time with the likes of this wizard?” His intonation made the final word derogatory, like the worst sort of slur.

  Jak spoke plainly and with the innocence of youth. “I... I want to be a hero.” He hoped that their new traveling companion wouldn't hate him too much once he found out that Jak was, in fact, the only practitioner of magic among them.

  At this, Quentin snorted.

  Close to the start of their journey, Karzt had explained the situation to his new companions. When he described what he had witnessed on that rainy night in the Ourolo,

  Quentin was incredulous. “Peril mutants?” he scoffed. “Those sound like Peril mutants. You didn't see Peril mutants. They don't ever come off their mountain. If you had seen Peril mutants, they would've torn you limb from limb and used your finger bones to pick their teeth.”

  Karzt just looked at him blankly and emptied out his backpack on the ground. He had meant for the head to roll out and shut the him up just as it had silenced the bureaucrat before him. Instead, a disgusting sludge of liquefied greenish-grey flesh and bone-dust poured out onto the carriage floor. Jagged teeth floated in the foul-smelling, gelatinous stew.

  Jak, startled, scrambled backwards and put a hand on his sword before steadying himself. Quentin stood up, bumping his head on the carriage roof, then sat back down. “Fuck,” he cursed. “You've just been carrying that in your pack the whole time?”

  “Yes,” Karzt answered plainly, frowning at the unexpected mess on the ground. He opened the carriage door, using his boot to kick the sludge out into the night. Their conveyance rolled on and left the mess behind them.

  Quentin stared at the Westerner for a moment before continuing. “Listen, I've seen these things before when I was in the mountains. If you see one there's usually a thousand or more behind it.”

  They heard Hohaym muttering on the other side of the carriage in the driver's seat, then loudly declaring that he had already told them the problem was “mutants from up Peril way.” Jak could barely understand the man's thick desert accent.

  The young man had been quiet for most of the trip, trying to absorb as much information as possible. At this, he broke his silence.

  “You've been up to the mountains?” he asked, disbelief heavy in his tone. He had never heard of anyone going up there and living to tell the tale. Even his father had spoken of the Peril mountains with the sort of hushed tones that one takes when they're telling their child about the realities of plague and death.

  Quentin ignored him and continued speaking in Karzt's direction. “Exactly how many did you say you fought out there?”

  “Hard to say,” Karzt began, then fell silent. His face scrunched up, the determined machinery of his mind plodding through that dark night's events. An ordinary man might have feared even the memory of such an experience, might have twitched or grimaced at the carnage he had survived. Stolid Karzt, however, simply continued speaking once he had finished his accounting. “Over the night, I probably killed a couple dozen myself.” He rubbed his stubbled chin, a look of consternation crossing his weathered face. “All in all? There must have been hundreds, at least.”

  At this, the men sat in silence for a while, contemplating what lay ahead.

  They were a few miles outside of Saltflat when they felt the carriage give a violent jolt, then lean to one side. They heard Hohaym's voice yell out, “Wheel ees broke, must feex,” and the party clambered out of the carriage to see that the wheel had indeed fallen off the conveyance due to a small sinkhole in the sands. The men stood around for a few minutes as the Ouroloan set to work. Mere moments had passed when all of the sudden Hohaym dropped his tools and stood up, staring into the distance.

  Immediately, Karzt felt an instinctual uneasiness wash over him – something was very wrong here. Jak and Quentin were chatting idly; Karzt held up a hand and hissed, “Listen.” A hush fell over them and the men stood there quietly, ready to draw their arms. Jak could just barely make out a low rumbling sound somewhere beneath his feet.

  It was getting louder.

  “Draw steel and spread out!” Karzt bellowed. Hohaym had already drawn his khopesh as Karzt was speaking. Jak drew his runed black-iron scimitar, wielding it with both hands. Quentin simply raised an eyebrow as a look of mild annoyance materialized on his face. He crossed his arms haughtily, shifting his weight to his back leg, as the other men retreated and separated, forming a square about fifteen feet across with each man standing at a corner. A moment
passed and all they could hear was a slight rumbling beneath the earth and the soft whisper of the desert wind coming in from the east.

  “What's happening?” Jak asked, casting a nervous glance all around. As soon as the words left his mouth, the ground beneath his feet abruptly collapsed into a sinkhole. Screaming, he fell until he was waist-deep in sand. Intense pain shot up his leg as something beneath him began to pinch and pierce his flesh. As Jak fell, Lunarm had gone flying out of the open satchel, trilling a jubilant little “wheee” of excitement and surprise, and landed headfirst in the sand a few feet away. Jak's many months of training took over; he realized that if he didn't fight through this panic, he might die right here and now.

  He quickly uttered the command word for flame, and his blade responded by coming alight with magical fire. He frantically thrust it downward into the sand around him, taking wild stabs at whatever was biting his leg. The sand instantly vitrified into little chunks of glass which went flying all over the place with every thrust of Jak's blade. Within seconds, his body began to seize up. Soon, he could no longer move his arms – a potent paralytic venom was strongly flowing through his entire body.

  “Open your mind to me now, Jak!” yelled Quentin.

  It was the first time he had heard Quentin sound serious. At first, he had no idea what Quentin meant, but then he felt a curious sensation. His body was tingling, and a strange warmth began to permeate his entire being. He felt an instinct to resist this but willed himself to calm down and accept whatever was happening to him. He blinked and found himself lying on the sand a few feet away. He felt disoriented and nauseous, and through teary eyes he saw the blurred form of a gargantuan sandy-brown arachnid crawling out of the sinkhole. The pain in his leg was now spreading throughout his body at lightning speed. The last thing he saw before passing out was his own femur, which had broken through the skin of his thigh. Blood was rapidly spilling from the wound, soaking a sanguine pool into the desert floor. Thirsty as ever, the sands drank.