by A W Tinney
“Who comes?” she thundered, breath misting in the air before her. She retrieved her Sceptre and ignited a portion of its power. More for effect than anything else.
“It is I, great Vigilant,” came a familiar voice.
“Hrothnar,” she greeted the hobgoblin as he sauntered into view. “What brings you? It is late.”
Hrothnar had brought Svet with him, the brute lumbering behind his master habitually. “I come with warning,” the hobgoblin said. “There has been breach in the city.”
The Vigilant started. “Of what nature? My Vigil has not revealed anything of note in recent days. The engine magic of a sky-ship, which is curious, but not at all concerning.”
“It is what the sky-ship brings,” Hrothnar explained. “I have it from good sources that they smuggled an item into the city. An item of terrible power.”
Octavia pulled the Sceptre towards Hrothnar’s face, examining him. She had made use of the crime lord in the past years, using his influence to create order within the swamp city. True his methods were often nefarious, but shroom sick complacency was better than allowing the greedy denizens of Calefort to pursue their darker desires for mischief. “Go on.”
Squinting, the hobgoblin told her all the bard had passed onto him.
“This…staff,” she pondered. “It is what killed my brother?” Though it was not unheard of for Vigilants to die, the death of one of their number was a weight that lay heavy on all the god-warrior’s shoulders.
“Possibly. Though all of this may simply be rumour. I merely thought to bring it to your attention.”
Octavia nodded, her helm rattling. The arrival of such an artefact was worth her attention. “You prove once again your usefulness, Hrothnar.”
He bowed. “What will you do now, Vigilant?”
Despite his petulance, Octavia permitted him that curiosity. “I will root out these curs myself and put an end to their quest.”
“I see…” he paused. “May I ask, why?”
“That is my task. Bringing such a weapon into the city can only mean one thing; the cowards seek to use it. It is my duty to put an end to all such foul magics.”
“True,” Hrothnar agreed, “very true, Vigilant.” He paused, stroking his chin with his only hand. “I wonder however…”
“Speak.”
“Is it wise for you to leave your station, come the mist?”
Octavia considered his words. “What do you mean?”
“You have seen as well as I the number of cults growing among the reed tribes. And the crannog Kings may use the mist to renew their feuds. With the absence of a Vigilant’s protection Calefort would be vulnerable.” He inclined his head. “It may not be…prudent for you to abandon your post and go chasing after a mere rumour.”
“A rumour that may kill us all,” Octavia explained.
“Indeed. Which is why I propose an alliance.”
“Alliance?”
“Yes. You cannot leave the city. I can.”
Octavia regarded him. “You?”
“Yes. It does none of us any good to have the city reduced to mud, either by the magic these foreigners bring, or the warring of the reed tribes. Let me bring them to justice, and your Vigil can continue undisturbed.” He made a bow, flourishing. “It is my duty, Vigilant.”
Octavia considered his words. There was truth in them; it would not be wise for her to abandon her post. Her task, her mission, her very existence was for the Vigil. Balar had given her strength to crush almost any mortal foe.
Yet he had also gifted her with her mind. Her wisdom. Hrothnar was hatching some plot and needed space from Octavia to enact it. He was a clever sort, but often too transparent.
She shook her armoured head, helmet scraping against her pauldrons. “No, I think not, hobgoblin. You will remain here, where I can find you again. I shall find these scoundrels and bring them in for judgement. That is final.”
The hobgoblin bowed again, the flicker of a smile crossing his lips. “As you say, great Vigilant.”
4
The buzz of furiously flittering swamp bugs was broken only by the incessant frustrated yelps of Selvar.
“Could you not have left that thing back in the city?”
Kasela cast the sky-gnome a dirty look. “No, he stays with me.”
“Then by all the gods, shut him up.”
The panthra slipped on the mire once more, a paw submerging in a green pool. He shirked again, a sharp hissing growl that rang across the shrouded mist wreathed path. Instinctively abhorred by water, the swamp was perhaps not the best environment for the feline to be. Yet Kasela was on a quest and no Knight ever quested without their steed. He whined lowly, silver tinged eyes gazing into her own.
“It’s only water, it won’t hurt you,” she tried to assure him, but the effect was lost on the beast.
“If he hasn’t gotten used to it by now, he never will,” Eresor grumbled, and trudged on, boots slopping through the mire. Fifteen of the Fire Dawn’s crew followed, their own ire towards the whining panthra and the tiresome terrain hidden behind clenched teeth and hissed curses. Only Nymida traversed the way effortlessly, gliding over sodden turf and sludge coated rock as if it were naught but smooth cobblestone.
“Easy for some,” Kasela grunted, and hauled the reigns, dragging Selvar forward as they pressed into the deepening wild.
Half a day’s travel saw Calefort fade on the horizon behind them, though that was due mostly to the encroaching fog. Three days on the swamp road saw all their surrounding disappear altogether. The sounds of swamp life filtered around, coupled with the barren caw of ravens that seemed to follow them. The stench too was horrific, deep stagnant ponds of rancid mire oozing odours that turned even the most iron of stomachs. The party were heading south, they believed, as per the bard’s instruction, traveling parallel to the shoreline twenty miles to their right. Within moments of trekking across the inhospitable ground, the mood within the party soured, as boots clung to soles with damp and breeches were soaked by splashes of muck. Lost and increasingly discomforted, the questing party soon lost all sense of urgency.
“Remind me again,” Kasela asked on their fourth damp day of travel, “why we could not take the ship?”
Nymida was the one to answer, as Eresor was not in the habit of repeating himself time and time again. “It is not wise to fly in the fog. One wrong turn could see us stranded over the sea, low on fuel.”
“It’s a ship? Surely it can float.”
“Steam engines don’t float, Knight,” the gnome responded.
“So much for the ingenuity of gnomes. A ship that cannot float.”
“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that, Knight,” Eresor growled.
They trudged on sourly, every individual mood waning with each increasingly ponderous step. On noon of the fourth day their path grew less decipherable as the fog seemed to seep from the very earth itself. Within the hour, the mist had engulfed all of existence around them, so much that Kasela struggled to see a mere foot in front of Selvar.
Eresor called a halt to their march. He found a rock and climbed it, trying his best to peer out into the gloom. Nymida aided him, but even her elven eyes could not discern a path ahead.
“We are lost,” the elf declared.
“Three days south,” the gnome grumbled. “I should have known the bard would lie.”
“You think we have been deceived?”
“It would seem so.”
“Maybe we have just lost our way. It is hard to say what direction we have been going. Perhaps we should wait until the mist clears.”
The sky-captain spat. “Trust me elf, we have been deceived. There’s no doubt we have been following south. You are looking at the best navigator of the skies after all.”
“Here you go again,” the elf lamented.
Eresor went on. “I have navigated the ice-storms of the north since I was a child, with nothing more than a thin line on the horizon and the stars above to guide me.”
“Should we turn back?” Kasela enquired, as Selvar jolted once more, his paw tripping on hidden roots.
“You want rid of the Staff or not?” The sky-gnome’s mood plummeted with each passing moment.
“Well I doubt it is wise to keep going. This mist is thick, and there is an ill feeling in the wind.”
“An ill feeling? Have you been sampling the local shrooms, Knight? Pah. Ill feeling indeed. I’ve been through worse,” the gnome said, proudly. “Spare me your eastern superstitions, Knight. There’s little can surprise Captain…”
His words were interrupted by a sudden scream. A gnome spun, shuddering, an arrow shaft protruding from his chest. He fell to the damp earth with a dull thud, and more arrows zipped through the gloom.
“Take cover,” cried Nymida, drawing her daggers and vaulting off the rock. Arrows, tipped with obsidian flint seared through the gloom, narrowly missing the lithe elf.
“Fight,” Eresor growled and discharged his pistol. There was a wail in the fog, his shot falling true. More grunts sounded, as crew of the Fire Dawn started to fall to the invading arrows.
Kasela reared Selvar as he shied from the zipping arrows. A few buried themselves in his pelt, but even the panthra’s of the south were blessed by the forge god. His metallic flesh shrugged off the marshlander arrows, and Selvar growled ferociously, pouncing into the mist. The Knight saw a shadow move and gave her steed his head, waiting for him to rend the attackers to shreds.
Except when Selvar reached the shadow it was gone, and they were met by more gloom. The mist swirled around her, as more of the crew wailed with pain somewhere to their left.
An arrow clanged off her shoulder plate. She snarled and turned, sword swiping air. “Come and face me,” the Knight bellowed.
More arrows answered her, slicing into Selvar’s flank. The panthra surged, leaping forward without warning, almost throwing Kasela from the saddle. Again, he landed on an empty space, swiping claws wantonly in anticipation of snagging an unfortunate foe.
The next arrow caught Kasela’s thigh. She screamed as it punctured her plate, barbed tip slamming into her flesh. The wound burned instantly, flaring pain.
“Fight me,” she called and swung her sword once more.
The calls of Eresor and Nymida came from the gloom, each cry sounding further and further away. They were in danger, as lost as she was in the swirling mists. Kasela called back in earnest, seeking to regroup with the party. She pulled on Selvar’s reigns, but the beast did not move. Instead it nestled down in the mire, arrows jutting from a dozen wounds.
“Come now,” she said, slapping his flanks. “It’s only a few arrows. You’ve suffered worse. Get up and fight.”
The panthra moaned in response, a soft, distant sound. Kasela spoke encouragement, but the words fell into an echoing void that crept closer about her. Her sight dimmed, and the wound in her leg burned. Kasela slouched in the saddle, unable to control her body any further.
The last thing she saw before slipping into oblivion was the slinking forms of marshlanders closing in around her.
5
The mist transformed Calefort into a cloud of abyssal gloom. Shadows fell and formed in every corner as ethereal wisps of grey invaded. Homes were shut, businesses closed, and the gates to the city barred. Figures darted in the shade, flitting in and out of existence. Nothing was certain in the dense fog.
Anything could change and at any moment.
“Hurry up,” Hrothnar barked at the oarsman. “I want to get there before this fog clears, if possible.”
“Forgiveness, sir, but this is as fast as I dare go,” the newtish oarsman mewed. “If I could light a lantern then perhaps…”
“No lantern,” the hobgoblin snapped. “We are not to be seen.”
“Then this is as fast as I dare go, sir.”
Svet grunted something sinister and Hrothnar checked him with a gesture. “Svet is offering to use your head as an oar, so it would advise you speed things along.”
The marshlander said nothing, but swiftly began pulling the raft further down the waterway. Hrothnar possessed no fear in traversing the city under mistfall. As unspoken master of the marshland capitol, commander of all the criminal organisations within, he was unlikely to come into any real danger, especially with Svet in tow.
Yet the character he to meet that night frightened him. Even with the ogre by his side.
The city under mist was curiously beautiful, in a gothic way. Arches of buildings jutted out from the silver gloom, piercing reality as they shimmered with residue. Birds swooped down at various intervals, breaking the spell of grey confinement with flashes of feathers and gentle ripples of wind trailing in their wake. Even the creatures of the marsh shied away, with only the occasional eel peeping above the waterline, seeking to determine what new disturbance dispelled their submerged peace.
Hrothnar’s raft floated through the central waterway, a vein of gloopy green that bisected the western district of the city and flowed north. His raft was navigated by the reluctant and terrified oarsman. A few coins had seen him convinced to undertake the journey. There was little the marshlanders would not do for a coin.
There were guards stationed in various watchtowers along the way, their firefly lanterns pulsing with orange light. The brutish toad-guards would be extra vigilant during the fog, taking the opportunity to vex and mug any who were foolish enough to journey the gloom coated city. Hrothnar had no fear of the irksome bloated watchmen. He did, however, desire anonymity on this particular trip, and so had ordered no lanterns of his own to be lit. They passed the shimmering orbs without notice and slipped under a half closed watergate, free of the city.
The fog grew thicker in the wilderness beyond Calefort. The oarsman grumbled as his raft bashed against the banking, scraping a fresh dent in already rotted wood. “How much further, sir?” he asked, unable to hide the irritation.
“You will keep going until I say otherwise,” Hrothnar commanded.
They continued, passing through a maze of wispy bulrushes that brushed the trio irritably, leaving a residue of fine powder clinging to their noses. That made Svet sneeze, a powerful blast that rocked the entire vessel.
After a time, they passed another raft. Svet lumbered forward, huge fists clenching, ready for trouble. None came, as the occupants were hidden away under a thick canvas tent, sheltering for the duration of the mist fall. None crept upon its deck to look upon Hrothnar, and he deemed it unworthy of sinking just at that moment.
Finally, he saw the signal in the distance, billowing in the gloom. A beam of azure light, flickering ever so faintly.
“There,” he said, pointing a finger. “That is the place.”
“May I ask what it is, sir?”
“You may. If you do, you will lose your tongue. The choice is yours.”
The marshlander said nothing, deciding it better not to provoke the ire of the hobgoblin.
Hrothnar was quiet too, even when Svet grunted several murmurs of disapproval. They were heading towards the unknown, and Hrothnar had not gotten to where he was by flirting with uncertainty.
Yet he had seen their power. In the shadows, they had revealed it to him.
“Helwyn save us,” the oarsman gasped.
The source of the light appeared. It was a brazier of deep onyx, filled with fell flames that flickered and burned deep sapphire. The fire burned at the edge of a recently built dock, big enough for only one raft. The structure shone with an obsidian gleam, like twisted tree bark charred hard. No heat came from the immense flaming urn as Hrothnar’s raft was pulled alongside it. Svet gurgled aggressively, and Hrothnar was forced to silence him with a glare. It would do no good having his ogre bodyguard irritate his newfound…
Newfound what he did not truly know.
“What in hell?” the oarsman whimpered. This latest profanity was prompted by the arrival of clipping footfalls on the black wood dock, and th
e shadow emerging from the gloom. Horns and a canine maw, dripping with drool. A pair of shimmering crimson eyes, and a bladed stave held in a clawed hand.
“My master awaits you,” the ar’kan said, beckoning to the shadows behind it. Hrothnar stepped off his raft and onto the dock. Svet made to follow, but the ar’kan stopped the ogre with a gesture. “You come alone. This is the masters wish.”
“I go nowhere without Svet,” Hrothnar declared, and to his disgust found that for once in his life, his voice wavered. The Void beast frightened him, more than he cared to admit.
A wry grin broke out across the ar’kan’s face. “All things change, as you will soon learn. You come alone.” With that it turned and stomped back into the mist, goat feet clapping against the dock with a hollow echo.
“This is wrong,” the oarsman snivelled. “Wrong.”
“Maybe,” Hrothnar said quietly. “But it’s either this or die.”
He stepped into the gloom and followed the vague outline of the ar’kan.
The ar’kan led him across the long dock, to a small dwelling of the same dark wood erected along the riverbank. The rancid stench of the swamp was gone, replaced by the absence of any smell at all. Where there had been the lapping of the river water and the low droning of swamp life, now there was a vacuum of noise, hollow and endlessly echoing. Even the clipping goats’ feet faded. It was unnerving, entering that empty place. More terrifying than anything Hrothnar had ever beheld and he had beheld some terrifying sights indeed. Most of which he had been instigator of.
I must do this, he told himself. I didn’t get this far only to die in a god’s game.
The door to the dark hut was open and the ar’kan beckoned for him to enter with a gesture. Hrothnar complied and found himself in a confined space. Mist wreathed every corner, and shadows danced by the light of an azure fire set at the centre. Behind that fire, cross-legged and still was the ar’kan Hrothnar undoubtedly knew he had come to meet.
He stood in silence for a moment, waiting for the Void thing to speak. It did not, and simply glared at him with half-shrouded eyes. The creature’s fur was black and rigid akin to charred wood, as if roasted by an inferno. One hand was wrapped around a stave of onyx metal, an artefact that shimmered with arcane purpose. It unnerved Hrothnar; magic was never a thing he was fond of meddling with. He left that to the god-warriors and the fools.