by Cale Madison
The Baron stopped in his tracks, staring at me in bewilderment as I repeated my question. At this point, I knew that if he left the room, I would never meet him again and my task of convincing him to accompany me to the famed tower had failed.
“The fuck did you just say to me?”
“Who did you lose? The family you spoke of?”
“I will have your tongue for this, boy,” he snapped, “the disrespect of bringing such inquisitions into my home like this.”
“Does it have anything to do with the Crescent Moon? I bested your knights in the arena. This is all I ask.” I responded. He sighed, the anger seeping from his face, and dropped into a chair opposite of where I stood, running his ringed fingers rigorously over his pale knuckles as he contemplated. I could see pain behind his one eye visible beneath the black helmet. We shared a moment of silence as he prepared his words, eventually lifting his gaze to mine.
“She was so beautiful, Mercian. The most beautiful thing in this godforsaken, piss-ravaged world,” he explained, anxiously toying with a bright ruby ring on his pinky finger, “we used to talk in the orchards for hours on end. Had her mother’s eyes and my fat, red nose.”
He laughed to himself as he talked, pausing briefly to catch his thoughts. I could tell that he hadn’t spoke of these memories in a long time. Wind coursed through the chamber, sending chills across my body as I listened to the Baron’s story.
“What was her name?” I asked.
“Abbi- well, Abigail.”
I nodded, acknowledging the pain masked in each sentence.
“These were the days when the Northern Realms were at each other’s throats. It seemed that every day, we learned of different news from their war and they always seemed to fight closer and closer to our home. Fighting over territory in someone else’s land. That’s not humanity, Mercian. Remember that.”
I understood what he meant. Each kingdom in the Realm tends to wage war over what was never theirs to begin with. Skalige continued, saying, “But one night, the fighting came a little too close to home. Armies marched upon our walls, throwing up ladders and torches, looking to claim our land. I took Abbi and her mother into the courtyard but Ataman soldiers were already climbing the easterly walls, so we fled the castle.”
His words painted a vivid story in my head as I listened further.
“In a few hours’ time, we found the Crescent Moon. I told her, ‘It’s tall enough and concealed within miles of forest. We’ll be safe until morning.’ Have you ever had to tell someone you loved that they’d be safe? Lied when you didn’t know what would come of it?”
I related to this but remained silent.
“We found a plateau on the highest point of the tower - one that overlooked hundreds of miles across the countryside. Burning villages drowned out by the screams of our people. We couldn’t sleep a wink that night, only hold each other and pray we’d make it to see the day. But before we knew what was happening, soldiers took the tower by storm, searching for me,” the Baron said, clearing his throat, “well, they found me, they did. Took Luna and Abbi from my hands, then beat me bloody when I tried to stop them. The last time I saw my daughter’s face was when they threw her head off the tower, into the darkness. My wife, she suffered the same.”
Skalige rubbed his eyes, wiping the breaking tears as he stood, attempting to retrieve the tough-man persona once again. He removed his helmet and revealed to me a scarred, disfigured half of his face. He continued, “They burned me and left me for dead on that tower. I’ve been dead ever since.”
“How did you come back into power here?” I inquired.
The Baron wiped his eyes and regained his strength again, replying, “Gathered what men I could find, spanning about..eh, a few months to regroup and plan. We stormed my home and killed every last son of a bitch inside. Ataman’s had a stick up their arse about us ever since.”
It dawned on me in that one moment. I knew what had to be done.
“What if I told you, I could bring back your wife and daughter?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Two years ago, I studied in the arts of necromancy,” I lied, “I can show you their live apparitions on the Crescent Moon. If their souls are waiting on the White Shores, in between death and beyond, I can call them back for just a few moments.”
“Necromancy? You’re telling me that, through you, I could see them again?” the Baron asked, advancing towards me again.
“Yes, I could but-” I started to say but was interrupted by Skalige grabbing me by the throat and hoisting me into the air. Each breath escaped my lungs frantically.
“Are you lying to me now?” he asked, intently, “you saw what happened to the last man who lied to me.”
“No, no! I could bring them back for a short period of time. I know the summoning spell and the order to speak them!” I cried out, fighting to reach the floor so far below. The Baron paused for a moment to think and then released me.
“Tomorrow, after dusk, I’ll take you there. There are matters here we must tend to first,” he said to me, “first, you will accompany us on a mission of grave importance. Do this and I’ll join you on the Moon to see my family again. Every member of my Elite must complete an assigned mission after conquest at the Eye.”
I replied, startled, “I’m not the most qualified man for a knight’s errand.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Caine,” Skalige declared, pointing at my wounded shoulder, “you’re actually very qualified for this.”
* * * * * *
Hours passed after my audience with the Baron and I began to feel restless. My cramped bedchamber felt hollow and empty without my wife to share it with, so I decided to wander. The empty fortress around me creaked and groaned from the many years of aging, echoing sounds of exhaustion throughout its many corridors with their stone walls. Red banners hung from rafters, bearing the familiar Insignia of the Isles and silver suits of armor rested on mounts beneath them. I walked down each hall, admiring the hollow burgonets and the intricate details of the gambeson cloths. Ahead of me awaited an open door with a candlelight shining from within, which seemed to beckon for me to investigate.
Once inside the room, I noticed hundreds of books and manuscripts that lined every shelf and corner, covering the chamber with papers and novels. A middle-aged man rested in a soft chair beneath the candle, reading some parchments.
“How can I be of service to you, lad?” he asked without lifting his gaze from the paper as he read. His greasy hair shone brightly with his whiskered face concentrating on every word in his hands.
“I’m looking for information on a certain creature,” I answered him, peering through the titles of books on the many shelves, “a creature of the Old Realm.”
The whiskered man set his novel down and rose to his feet, replying, “Many relicts have spawned from the Old Realm. What are we talking about here? Vampires? Banshees or Wendigos?”
“A Djinn.”
He nodded, grimacing as he rummaged through many assortments of dusty books, varying in size and color of their bindings. After searching for a few minutes, he finally uncovered a red tome covered in black soot, of which he quickly brushed away with chagrin.
“Here you are. Tavetschian Relicts: Wish Granters.” he announced and handed the book to me. I eagerly opened the filthy pages but sighed when I realized that they were written in some unintelligible language.
“What? You don’t speak the Old Language?” he asked with a snicker. I shook my head and he extended his open hand, offering to translate the writings for me. The bookkeeper grabbed the tome from me and began closely reading the text.
“Hmm..not genies or psammedes...ah, here we are - Djinns, named by the common folk who claimed to have encountered men in forests who granted wishes. Manifestations, created by fire without smoke, they dwell in places not inhabited by humans...caves, ruins and such. Conjurers of dark magic and master manipulators to serve their own needs, inevitably inflicting harm upon those that
they employ,” the whiskered man read aloud while thumbing through the crinkling pages, “some species of the Djinn possess human bodies, drink blood and are cannibalistic in nature. Others rely on the courage of those attempting to repay their debts. They cannot interfere with the magic of other beings, only delve into enchantments already placed by themselves. Those in the employment of the Djinn are required to complete three tasks in a specific span of time, each more difficult than the last.”
I rested against the bookshelf as I listened intently, trying to learn something that I had not already known from before. The man continued to read to me, “Some believe that Djinns are beautiful angels, some consider them vile devils. There’s some form of their language here, it’s difficult to interpret.”
“Try.” I demanded, already considering how I could use the words to my advantage.
“Mistrz życzenia, ja ciebie wyzwaniem. It says that this is a declaration of challenge. Those who fail to complete their assigned tasks are allowed a trial for retribution.”
I thanked the man.
“Why do you care to know all of this? The Djinns died out after the continent shifted. They are all extinct now.”
“Not nearly as you’d think,” I replied, then remembered another point that I needed to learn, “what can you tell me about the Crescent Moon?”
“Aye, won’t need a book to tell you that sad tale,” the bookkeeper said, returning the tome to its resting place on the shelf, “the Crescent Moon has been in the Isles for centuries. Built before the Year of the Falling Stars.”
“Who built it?”
“Nobody knows. I haven’t come across anyone in my time that has any knowledge of its construction. The most that I’ve learned is that the tower became home to a sorcerer named Martok the Wise, who shared it with an unknown apprentice. They dabbled in dark magic, which was seen as divine power to people of that time. After he excommunicated his apprentice, Martok became an essential God to the old civilizations of the Isles,” the bookkeeper explained, “the people loved him until their crops ceased to yield or foreign armies invaded their lands. After a year of famine, they turned on Martok, chasing him to the highest point of his tower with the intent of burning him. He leapt from the top and fell to his death.”
“The tower is the Baron’s property now?”
“It’s owned by noone - a relic of the Old Realm. Any more questions?” the man asked, wiping his eyes. I shook my head and bid him farewell, then returned to my bedchamber.
CHAPTER NINE
A FEAST FOR SHADOWS
The following morning, we departed on a long journey south of the Baron’s stronghold into unknown territory. The twelve Elite, mounting Skalige’s stallions, led me across barren hills and valleys on our path to our mysterious destination. Desolate land spread for unfathomable miles in each direction and little information was given to me in preparation for this endeavor.
The Southern Isles were magnificently remarkable - flowing rivers that ran between titanous mountains, strange trees that I had never heard of, beautiful stags and wild horses that ran freely across bare fields with no hands to work them. We crossed paths with men and children, all inspecting trout nets and lines that lay in the creek beds. I was curious about the economy in such a country, where fishermen seemed to rely heavily on clean streams and rivers, rather than the beast-infested sea.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” one of the accompanying men suddenly asked.
“What is?” another replied.
“The vampire, idiot,” the man continued, “ironic how he’s held up in the lighthouse. Get it?”
“What?” a different knight responded.
“A lighthouse? House of light?”
“Fuck off, Winslet.”
“Vampire?” I asked, making sure I had overheard correctly.
“What, are you daff? Taking on water dragons and you’ve never heard of a bloody vampire? I swear, northerners and their ilk.” the knight jested, harshly.
The bickering between the knights continued as we traveled through the morning, until the sun reached its highest point and silence dawned upon us.
“This monster - wretched and ill-tempered,” the Baron told us from the forefront of our faction, “such a beast will ravage for centuries if not detained.”
“Why not leave it be? If it’s so far from civilization, there’s no need in disturbing it or making matters worse.” I said.
“That would be the case, Master Caine, but small children and women have begun disappearing from our city. It began with our farmhands finding cows gutted and goats drained for their blood - now the monster has acquired a newer taste.”
“I’m no monster hunter.”
“Neither am I a fuckin’ trail-guide, yet here we are.”
“How do you expect to kill it, anyhow? No prior knowledge or experience and we expect to knock on its door with swords and torches in hand?” I asked.
“Scouts tell me that it’s been spotted in the outskirts of Kebelton. Must have made its lair in this abandoned lighthouse on the cove, I suppose. They’ve seen it with their own eyes,” said Skalige, “wingspan with the reach of three arms and claws as sharp as razor blades.”
“Can’t wait.” I replied, sarcastically.
“My father tussled with a vampire once,” a knight announced helpfully from behind me, “fought off three mountain trolls and a vampire when he was hunting in the Grey Mountains.”
“Bullshit,” another knight called out, “last time you said it was five trolls.”
“Who gives a blimey fuck how many trolls there were. My pa was a legend.”
“Hope you learned a thing or two from your pa, Winslet - there’s plenty of legend to go around in this bunch.” another knight yelled.
Over the course of that day, we crossed rivers and streams as bright and blue as the sky above us. The shimmering water reminded me of the creeks back home; ones Aketa and I would occasionally cast our fishnets in and skip pebbles across. The wonderful beauties of nature turned sour as we soon reached war-ravaged lands, scorned from months of bloody massacres and skirmishes between armies.
“Such a pity,” Skalige said as we passed by, “Ramses believes everything under the sun is his property. A downright shame they can’t come to terms. At least the corpse-eaters haven’t sniffed this area out, yet.”
I noticed torn banners, still clutched in the fingers of slaughtered men and dismembered soldiers. Infantries lay wasted in heaps, smoldering in smoke from the townsmen burning their remains. Daughters, sons and widows mourned their losses as they scrambled through carcasses to find what was left of their loved ones. Priests and soothsayers stepped between them, whispering soft prayers to guide their young souls onto the White Shores.
“Who fought here?” I asked, not recognizing the banner insignias.
“Factions from Era’Kal and the dark elves of Tavetsche,” a knight answered, “fighting for centuries over the mistreatment of elvish kind. Hire a human for service and call him a paid worker, sure, but hire an elf and he becomes a slave - that’s the evil of mankind, that is.”
Racism and oppression has gripped the elvish people for decades, ever since they first encountered humans in the early ages. They welcomed the newcomers into their homes in the trees and were slaughtered over pelts and rare commodities only found in the depths of their forests. Now, they are accused of witchcraft and burned at stakes out of fear. The very idea of subordination made me sick.
“Terrible.” I noted. The knights muttered in agreement.
“Hey, Dragon Slayer,” one of the men called out to me as we rode past the bodies, “is this how the world is where you come from?”
“No,” I answered, “we’re more concerned with which crops yield in the summers rather than killing over land. This barbaric nature is nothing we know.”
“Wait until you see this vampire.” Winslet interrupted.
“Daff son of a bitch think he’s seen the beast,” a knight cackled, “sure it wasn’t
your wife running about naked in the night? She’s white pale as bird shit, herself.”
“Tis true, I’ve seen him with my own eyes. Walking home drunk one night and I saw him, leaping across rooftops in downtown Alpsburrow - quiet as a mouse in the dark and fast as a running shadow, he was.”
“I’ve heard it can mimic its prey, make you think your beloved or family is calling from the woods to steer you away,” said a knight, almost sounding poetic, “doesn’t kill ya...just leaves blood for later.”
“I’ll take a swing at the next whorseon that speaks of this creature!” a knight blurted out from the group. I recognized signs of intense hostility in his tone. The campaign of Elites following the Baron instantly silenced themselves for a while as we trotted through the soldiers’ graveyard.
“Croix is right,” said Winslet, “hang your discourse about it all. Can’t you see the man is still in grieving?”
“What does he mean?” I asked Skalige after riding in silence for a few moments, speaking solely to him.
“Croix’s fiance disappeared over a week ago. Same time as most others began vanishing from our village.” he answered, readjusting his horse’s reins.
“Maybe she grew cold feet and took off?” I suggested, making sure Croix couldn’t hear us from several horses behind.
“Can’t be for certain. Not sure what I believe anymore but I’m sure we’ll find out, soon enough,” he replied, “I have to show my people that we don’t cower from monsters and spooks in the night.”
“Walking right into a deathtrap, like the poor souls on that field - like seeing into our future!” one of the knights exclaimed.
“Shut yer trap, Tameron,” Skalige cut in, “you all show some respect to our fallen brothers at war here. May their souls rest in peace - the fire of a hundred suns with each and every one of ‘em.”
A moment of perpetual silence fell over us as we rode past the fields of carnage. I looked into the faces of the recognizable, untouched by the putrefying decomposers lurking beneath the dirt. I saw sons and brothers, not fallen soldiers - no facial hair or aged scars on any of their faces. These young men had been called from their homes and sent to their deaths, no questions asked.
