It was from these inner chambers that the voyagers first heard the rising thunder of Hell. The bards sing of a pale and fanged army rising from the caverns and Maelish steel overcoming tooth and claw. A castle of iron was built to seal the caves from which the horde emerged and atop these cursed and beautiful cliffs Vyntane was built. Her high, ferrous walls rose up from the rocky, scoriac bluffs. The citadel of steel and stone sprawled out over the emerald hills.
The dark below Vyntane was absolute. It was the space between the stars, or a night without them. A place where what is thrown into the darkness will prosper in darkness; it will hate and feed and grow. The white horde has waited a thousand years, long enough for the truth to become legend, long enough for vengeance to invoke the Gods.
I
“Time to rise!” the captain barked from the foredeck to the men in the berth below. Sunlight was leaking through the cracks in the deck above and the planks creaked under the weight of the heavy commander, known only as Wolfhair to the Arginese men aboard his charter ship, Seasplitter. “Man the oars, we’re approaching the cliffs of Vyntane!”
Raenon lifted his pounding head, rubbed the crust from his eyes. He emptied the rest of his nearly depleted wineskin and splashed water on his face from a nearby wash bowl. “Now, you drunken dogs!” Wolfhair was only a charter captain now, but he carried with him a reputation as a ruthless warrior and former commander of a fleet of raider ships from the north in Haiklan. Raenon would oblige him but only to avoid the annoyance of the captain’s chiding so early in the day.
As he ascended the stairs and stood on the forecastle, Raenon could see the dark cliffs of Isahin through the morning mist, like a huge black blade fallen from the hand of a god, landing sideways into the ocean.
Rising steeply, the cliffs held a perfect shape and singular altitude for miles, save for the port of Vyntane, which clove the only break in the sea wall and held only one accessible harbor.
As he took up his oar and started to row with the others, Raenon reflected on the events of the last two weeks. He left his home in Maelhin, sold his horse in Runfare, and bought his way on Wolfhair’s ship to Isahin.
It was summer now. His father had been slain that winter by Navordian jackals who ambushed him and his riders while they were crossing the river Bruna returning back into Aelbrond. Raenon wished vengeance for his family and had considered bringing his sword, Pitkeeper, newly reforged with the spirit and strength of his father, to Navordi and find the band of robbers responsible for his kin’s death. Alas, by himself, and with no way of finding his father’s slayer in the murderous capital of Kynara, Raenon resolved to sail to Isahin. He wished to finally see the city his ancestors built, to learn the art of the metal-folding swordsmiths of Vyntane, and chiefly, to be alone with his grief.
Seasplitter made port and the five other men, Haiklaners like Wolfhair, disembarked the vessel. They were sailing south to the small isle of Larion on a modest craft docked at the opposite end of the pier.
Raenon looked back at Wolfhair who was still standing on the gangplank, rubbing his long grey beard and looking disdainfully on the populace of the harbor. Raenon called, “If I wish to return to Aelbrond, can I find you at this harbor for a trip back?”
“No, young cur, I will never make port here again and I cast off at dawn. I have heard rumors of The Starless Night and a boiling evil beneath this city. The wise move would be to return to the mainland with me now, for a fee, of course,” the grizzled captain replied.
“All right, then. Farewell,” Raenon offered. Wolfhair only grumbled a curse and made a noise in his throat, then disappeared into his quarters.
The Starless Night. The name troubled Raenon. It seemed familiar to him from the stories of his childhood but he could not recall from what legend it came. Wolfhair had made a few ominous insinuations about Vyntane and her “lurking evil” during the long trip from Runfare, but Raenon had dealt with evil before, and he remained ardent. It was good to be on solid ground after sailing for ten days. He felt the cool sea breeze on his face. He took in the briny air and gazed up at the towering black cliffs rising sharply above him. The spires on the walls of The Iron Castle peaked over the edge, like the claws of a hawk perched on a ledge about to take flight.
Raenon walked along the wharf leading to the main road which wound up the steep crack in the cliff and up to Vyntane. Two merchant ships from Arginor were docked and unloading goods to trade for iron mined on Isahin. The ore pulled from the western coast of the isle was more easily accessed than the iron mines in Aelbrond, in the mountains near Shunned Albrunn, and that fact attracted many traders.
He saw a Mareship from Haiklan, with its carven prow resembling a long-maned horse, docked and unloading lumber. The other vessel was a large galley from Tarsul, bringing in fabrics and a brightly colored harvest. Raenon overheard from his fellow passengers on Seasplitter that the desert dwelling mystics of Kynara sailed their sleek vessels to Vyntane, bringing wine and women. On occasion, a tattered ship from the barren and disdained southern continent of Nitaar would enter Vyntane’s harbor, having not much to offer but relics and antiquities that only a few scholars and collectors on Isahin would be interested in.
Ropes and pulleys led down from the city high above the harbor and baskets were filled with goods from the ships. The loaded baskets were led up and fed back down with the iron ore that many of the merchants were trading for. Large carriages filled with people were being pulled up to the city as well. In the chance a Vyntanite didn’t fancy climbing the steep and long road up the chasm and back into the city, they could pay a fee (which not many could afford) to ride up.
He paced along the quayside and peered down the alleys looking for a suitable place to quench his thirst but there was nothing in sight. Turning down the last alley at the very end of the harbor he spotted The Cormorant, a dingy tavern with one window and a tattered wooden sign that hung unevenly from a rusted chain.
As he approached, Raenon saw a figure walking towards him from beyond the tavern. At first, he saw only a faint red shape emerging from the darkness of the alley. He slowed his pace as the figure gave him a feeling of unease. The young barbarian gripped the hilt of his sword and noticed that the dark robed, crimson turbaned figure walked with both arms outstretched, holding out what appeared to be a small body or dead animal, wrapped in tan cloth and bound in silver thread.
They passed one another silently. Without the dark robed man looking at him directly, Raenon could swear that the ghoulish man had a ruby tint to his pupils and an unhealthy smile on his dark lips. Before reaching the mouth of the alley and the beginning of the wooden pier that lead back to the ships, the man holding the wrapped mystery bent down and began descending a stairway that Raenon was embarrassed to admit he didn’t notice before. Those steps must lead down below the ocean, he thought to himself, for the sea was crashing into the rocky cliffs not thirty feet from where he stood in the alley at the very end of the harbor.
He walked farther down the alley which was carved out of the black cliff, past The Cormorant, to find out from whence this shadowed figure appeared from. There was nothing past the tavern, no other doors, no rooms. The alley terminated into a steep slate rock wall that rose and became the cyclopean black cliff below Vyntane.
His gut turned. Something told him that he needed to keep his wits about him in this new place, and then he remembered the legends passed down by his people, tales of the first men from Maelhin to sail to this isle and what they encountered here.
The barkeep eyed Raenon closely as he walked through the doors of The Cormorant. He stood out as a barbarian from Aelbrond. The heavy longsword at his side with a bear’s head pommel gave him away as a Maehlin warrior. He was over six and a half feet tall and the corded muscle of his scarred and bulky frame belied his fair temper and quiet manner. His umber hair fell below his broad shoulders and his leather breeks and bear fur coat were unique amongst the more colorfully dressed patrons of The Cormorant.
; Though it was barely midday the tavern was already full with traders from Haiklan, a few whores lounging with merchants on the benches towards the back, and a small group of dark-featured Kynarans drinking their wine in a solitary corner.
Raenon gave the Kynarans a baleful look as he called the barmaid for a brew. She smiled at him, which didn’t go unnoticed by her father, the barkeep and owner. She brought him a large cask of ale and he inquired if there were any rooms available for the night. He learned that the only rooms for rent were above the harbor in Vyntane and any visitor must report to the city guard before being led through the gates and into the city.
He turned and sat at a table by the window facing the alley where he passed the robed figure. He sat there and brooded. His cold northern disposition kept him from starting conversation with strangers and his quiet nature prevented him from making companions. Instead, he stared at the black walls of the tavern that were carved into the sable cliffs and then back through the filthy pane, into the dark alley. He wondered if it was a mistake to travel so far only to be met with such unwelcome portents.
It seemed to the barkeep he downed a barrel of ale, but Raenon sat stoically, undaunted by the strong Isahinian brew. He sat for hours drinking until most of the other patrons had spilled out of the tavern, all except for a few of the merchants and whores in the back, and a lone woman sitting separate from them at a booth, talking to the barmaid. Multiple times the woman in the booth noticed Raenon looking at her, and after a few awkward glances she stood up and sauntered towards him with a plate of half-eaten fish in one hand and a cask of ale in the other.
She was light of hair but dark of eye, tall and shapely, with fair skin and deep scarlet lips. She wore a long olive-colored tunic, methodically unbuttoned, and barely reaching below her thighs. She bore little else save for her leather sandals and her belt, worn high on her waist a few inches below her large breasts. On her side she holstered a dagger with a golden handle, embellished with rubies and strange blue gems, its craftsmanship unlike anything he had seen in Aelbrond. “I cannot afford you,” Raenon uttered. “Besides, it is time I head up the road to Vyntane and find a place to sleep.”
Her smile turned. “If I were a whore, do you think I would bother with an obviously destitute barbarian like yourself?”
He grabbed the cask and plate from her. “Fair enough. That food is welcome, as is your company, girl.” Raenon slurred, the strong Isahinian ale finally impeding his better judgement.
“My name is Aren, mainlander, and you’re welcome.” She eyed him carefully. “Are you from Aelbrond? Why have you come so far to Isahin?”
“I’ve come to work, and learn the ancient skill of my forebearers. My name is Raenon. Am I so transparent that I’ve come from Aelbrond?”
She smiled again, her initial impulses to walk away leaving her. “You could’ve found work somewhere in Aelbrond, I’m sure. And if you wish to learn a trade you could have went to a more hospitable land to do it. They won’t be kind to a stranger up at the gates. Travelers are usually turned away to find passage back to the mainland on their own. Not many ships coming and going anymore.”
Raenon scowled. “That bastard Wolfhair said nothing of the guard turning men away.”
“Wolfhair? Is that who brought you here!” She laughed. “That old dog has brought his last ship of fools it seems. There is a chance you can convince the guard to grant you entrance to Vyntane if you tell them you wish to toil in the mines, otherwise I doubt they will let you in.”
“I’m not worried about getting into the city, and if the guardsmen want to keep their guts, they will be kind to a weary traveler.” He took a drink from his cask and hailed the barmaid to bring him another. “I have little reason to return to Aelbrond, and even less to return to Maehlin. My father was slaughtered by Navordian scum before he could return home and finish my training. I wish to finish that training here, in the city my people built a thousand years ago.” He waited for her reply, feeling foolish for being so open. He resolved to leave the tavern before he gave anything more away.
She clasped her hands together and nervously wove her fingers. “I am from Kynara. I escaped Navordi as a child after my family was also killed. I walked for days into the Kynarian Desert until I was discovered, nearing my death, by a traveling caravan of entertainers. They were singers, actors, seers. I was trained as an actress and court dancer. I sailed here two years ago from Tarsul to serve in the court of King Tavrik, Vyntane’s loutish ruler. I’ve heard Navordi has since become a corner of rotting hell. No doubt there are thousands of men there who would kill any riders from Aelbrond they passed.”
Raenon regarded her angrily. Though she too was a victim of the Navordians, he was in no mood to consort with anyone from Kynara.
Aren continued, “I’m also afraid to tell you that this place has become just as dangerous. The Starless Night are now leaving the castle and roaming the streets. Fewer beggars are seen littering the alleys and even some of my friends have gone missing in the last few weeks. Their disappearances have been ruled as suicides, but I knew the girls in my troupe, and though Vyntane is gloomy, they would not hop into the cold ocean like some forlorn lover. No, I fear an even worse fate has befallen them. I came down to the harbor this morning to make sure my friend over there is safe.” Aren pointed to the barmaid that had been bringing Raenon his drinks, and she smiled back at her.
“That’s the second time someone has warned me against The Starless Night,” Raenon uttered. “Why would I fear a small cult of dwarfish men? I think I passed one in the alley outside before coming in this place. Do they wear dark robes and red turbans?”
“Gods, they are coming down to the harbor in the light of day?” Aren said in a shaking voice. “Where was it going?”
Raenon gave a curious look. “It? Well, it was going down a stairway, carved down into the cliffs by the pier. He was holding what appeared to be a body, wrapped so completely in cloth I couldn’t discern what kind of body it was.”
Aren drank down her entire cup, set it down, her hands trembling. “They might be taking children down now, and all the entrances to the caves below Vyntane have been left unguarded by our foolish leader King Tavrik. I swear he is in league with those demons and I have seen them for what they are, creatures from the Pit. The ones you see in The Iron Castle can pass for men, their hellish features and small curled horns hidden beneath their shrouded skulls. They are the caretakers of the world below Vyntane.”
This Aren was being very honest considering they had just met, Raenon thought. She seemed scared enough to be telling the truth, but he couldn’t trust her so quickly. She was Kynaran, after all. “And how would you know this?” Raenon asked suspiciously.
She took a long breath and continued nervously, “There are tunnels descending down below the castle that lead to the carved-out halls that the first men who came here built, your ancestors, it seems. Below those halls and crypts of men lie the caverns which lead down and spread out in every direction all over Isahin. That’s where the true Starless Night resides…”
“I recall the legend,” Raenon interrupted. Aren glared at him and continued.
“One night, less than a month ago, after I entertained the King and his nobles, and they lay about drunk on the floor, I slipped away, down to the kitchens to gather some bread and dried meat to bring back to my camp. Foolishly, I kept going down, past the food stores and weapon keeps, beyond the Crypt of Kings, into a great hall with a colossal iron statue of your god, Farik. In a far corner of that hall I noticed a hole, blasted through the stone floor by some unholy force. I looked into that pit and saw nothing—the unlit blackness of nothing. No steps could be seen, the sheer sides of the hole were only discernible for a few feet until disappearing, but what I could see looked like the walls of a cave. That must be the end of man’s domain and the beginning of the sulfurous bowels of Isahin.”
Raenon looked unsatisfied. “So you saw nothing in the pit? I have seen caves before, girl, and
they are usually dark.”
She stared at him crossly. “You will remember my name or I will leave you here, with no further warning of what you’ve foolishly landed on.” Aren’s voice shook. “It wasn’t what I saw in the hole, but what I saw behind me when I turned to leave. A pale thing, hiding behind the giant god statue. Its skin was white as the moon and completely hairless. It stood upright, bobbed its head and looked at me with lidless crimson eyes. It bared its yellow fangs like a rabid hound and then came rushing at me. From behind the statue its head looked like a man’s, but as it neared I realized it was but a gruesome mockery of man, apish, with small ram’s horns on the side of its skull. I could hear its hooves clacking louder on the floor, like the legs of a giant crab on the stone flags. Somehow I fought the urge to faint and grabbed the dagger from my belt. It was almost upon me when it leapt high above my head and went straight down into the pit. I didn’t hear a sound, no thud or splash of water, just the awful shrieking it made as it jumped and fell into the abyss.”
“And you think this creature you saw and the man I passed in the alley outside are one and the same?” Raenon remained skeptical. “I’ve heard the tales of the warriors from Maehlin who built Vyntane and what they fought back into the earth. Remember my people are the guardians of The Summoner’s Pit, my line are the keepers of The Waste of En-Faln. I have heard tales like this for twenty years. I am not afraid.”
“Hearing tales and seeing them in the flesh is very different, swordsman. I think The Starless Night that we see in the city are more man than demon in appearance, but make no mistake, they are not men. I have met a lord from The Red Jewel, his name is Sanhar, who told me that the acolytes of The Starless Night have been breeding with King Tavrik’s degenerated line for hundreds of years. That is why a small fraction of these demons resemble men. That is also why Tavrik allows them to worship in their caverned temples under the city, offering sacrifices to their insane god, and to be hidden in plain sight as caretakers of Vyntane’s historic underworld.”
Swords of Steel Omnibus Page 5
