Part 5: The Frozen Palace

Court was tossed as gracelessly as a doll against the half-sunken, cracked marble steps of the palace, landing with a splat on the snow-lined lips. His heavy, wet cloak clung to his thin frame while he clawed his way up to safety from the current threatening to drag him back down. He winced in pain from the bruising of his ribs, and rolled away from a broken stair that crumbled back into the water. Once he reached the top of the steps, he made sure his pistol was still dry. Adan and Cael followed suit, grumbling at their bruised sides. They joined Court near the top, below the massive white pillars and archways that seemed capable of housing a God.

They lingered on the snow crusted steps for a moment, clutching at themselves in a uselessly attempt to block the wind. Some of the structure had been damaged by cannon fire, where some pillars were actually broken or lying toppled over on their sides. Some areas of the palace walls were shattered, as if by impact. Under the huge, decorated archway above them, near the shaded walls were life-sized statues of crumbling, forgotten Gods, ancient guardians of the carrion debris scattered over the steps and down various hallways, rolling and tossing about in the wind. Rusted, brittle pieces of Nocturne armor lay everywhere on the steps, the grayish stone forever stained dull red by rust and blood. Tattered flags, pale and ghostly, flew from heights of the palace above them. Behind the pillars, the doors of the palace were cracked open just enough to see the dark hallways beyond, open like gaping mouths.

“This was once tall and proud Ilium Palace. Home of Aries Black.” Court said, lost in thought, “This was the seat of his power.”

Cold and worn, Adan and Cael could only listen, their sunken eyes taking in the sheer grandeur of the place. Court closed his eyes, focusing his senses, forgetting his shivering body that begged for warmth. Then came the haggard sound of his two companions breathing, shivering. He could hear the sound of metal debris rolling in the wind, the screeching suck of wind through the cracks in the doors before them, the stirring dust within. He heard the crashing waves of the rift behind and around them. And then to his dread, Court heard a whisper, a stirring, somewhere deep inside the palace.

“Quickly now, inside before we freeze to death.” Court nodded towards the doors.

The doors were wooden, splintered and green from the weather but heavy, riveted with black steel strips and bolts much like the larger gate to the fortress. It took two of them to heave the door open on its rusted hinges, and they were already exhausted. It opened with a shrill wail. As they stepped inside they were startled to see Court examining the walls just down the length of the hall. He was running his hand down an engraving, thoughtfully. They looked back to where he had been moments before on the steps, seeing nothing but the expanse of the rift beyond. Adan could only shrug his massive wide tattooed shoulders and whispered,“Garai magic.”

The palace hallways were made of smooth stone, well fitted with hardly a flaw. It was dry and dusty, with no wind biting at their already soaked bodies. A dim light filled the place, as if it were dusk. Lining the walls were large fresco engravings of the old Dukes of Nocturne, displayed at the head of their armies. Reflecting, Court began to wonder if long ago before the war, the Nocturne Empire had been rich in art and lore. Another scene seemed to depict a great battle at sea. That must be the first war between us, in the Archipelago of the Storms. Who could have foreseen our armies would be one hundred years at war, he thought.

“What do we do now?” Adan asked.

He didn't respond right away, but rather walked further down and inspected each engraving carefully, respectfully. Court's soaked black cloak left a long trail of water, mopping the dust as he went. He looked back at Adan and Cael, who were still shivering. They had seemed stronger before; now they slouched and grumbled. Perhaps the rift has weakened them, as it has me.

“There is a focal point for this disturbance, somewhere in this palace and I must find it, and stop it.” He said

“But you don't know what it is exactly?” Cael asked, then regretted it.

“No.” Court said, turning back to the engravings, “But it is close now. I can hear the voices of the dead wailing; they call me by name.”

“Well if you don't mind me saying sir, we can look at all this later...shouldn't we be moving along?” Adan pressed him.

“You're right, of course. It's just that I've waited my entire life to see the inside of these walls. We were so close that night. Now I am here in their palace, virtually abandoned.” Court said, a nostalgic gleam in his eyes.

They moved forward, into the heart of the palace itself, toward the voices Court heard calling him to come, come closer, you belong here with us...

Part 4: The Rift

The rift looked something like an ocean, rolling into the distance, growing vast and deep as it reached across the bleak horizon, though at first its waves were more like the shimmer of heat off a hot tin roof. Court looked into the pearlescent distance to see the snowy horizon filled with it. He glanced down, noticing that he was standing in the tide of the rift, just the very beginnings of its waves slapping and gurgling around his heels. A few more steps and he would be willingly walking into the rift, would feel the first pulling of its rip tide, as powerful and deep as the waters of any real ocean. And this rift, this immense phenomena of psychic pain and twisted reality, was for the time being completely invisible to all save Court.

“Nightfall's coming.” It sounded like Adan.

With each step they took towards the palace, the world itself changed slightly. The closer they got to the palace, the more it sunk down into the rift, and the ruins of the homes sank with it. Soon they had the disorientating feeling as if they were marching down a slope, the invisible plasma rising up to the level of their chests, their feet sticking in mud. They could feel there must be a thousand broken swords and pistols beneath their feet as they walked the uneven ground. Surely a thousand brittle skeletons still clung to those weapons beneath the snow and the mud.

The weather grew ever heavier, thick cold dampness seeping rapidly through their clothing. It was difficult to walk, or to move at all. Their boots were now sinking down into the mud. It became more like swimming than walking, as the daylight grew dim. The rift had become a mist, rippling over everything, cold and damp.

And now the palace was closer, close enough to see it was a half sunken, broken place. Its pillars rose up from the frothing tide, like thin white arms coming out of the waves, to support cracked palatial domes and archways now frozen over with snow and ice. The fog slowly lifted, blown away by the snow-speckled winds, and with mild shock they all realized they were wading through real water. Only the cracked rooftops of the houses remained above water, and some of the gate wall surrounding the fortress. Beyond that in all directions, gray snowing skies and an endless dark ocean. It was impossible, and yet here they were, fighting to stay afloat.

Court struggled through the water, tucking his silver pistol into the folds of his hood, which hung dryly at the back of his neck. His black cloak sprawled out in the heaving tide, ten times heavier in the water. The others fared only mildly better, poor swimmers all.

“Get to that house over there!” Court motioned, already on his way.

They reached the crumbling stone walls of a house, dark and watery within. They floated, grasping the frozen stone ledges of the walls for protection from the breaking waves. Looking around at the dark unnatural water, it seemed as if the entire bottom had dropped from under them and was a thousand miles deep. The snow was ceaseless, melting as it touched the misty water.

“What in the name of Hell is this place?” Adan asked, catching his breath.

This is what I feared Court thought, hesitating before saying to them, “It’s a rift...we've crossed Worlds just now. Look back, you see that fog?”

Turning to look back, they could see only rolling fog where the borders of the rift had yet to swallow their living world. The fortress gate lay behind that shroud, in another time and place.

“That’s the gate where we came in.”

“Where did all this damn water come from?” Cael asked.

“I'm not sure. Listen,” Court said impatiently, “It’s like we're drifting in loathing and despair, the froth of war. This is why we're here, to stop it from growing any further. If left alone it will eventually wash over our entire world. You wouldn't want your loved ones drowning in this foulness would you? I think not. So, let's just keep moving.”

“I want to see my wife again, sir. Please.” Adan pleaded between heavy breaths as he clutched at the crumbling stone ledge of the house.

“We'll never get out of here alive.” said Cael through chattering teeth, shaking his head in horrified disbelief.


To be continued....

Part 3: The Fortress

Court's dirty, scratched hands found light, and grasped the final ledge of the crack as he pulled himself up from darkness. A black dusty tangle of cloak and limbs, he flopped down and rolled to his side to catch his breath. His eyes were squinted, as he peered at the dim halo of the sun burning behind the curtains of cloud overhead. By the Gods it's freezing, Court grimaced, and pulled his arms over his chest. He felt a cold, sharp tingle on his face, and opened his gray eyes to the gray sky. Here the wind whipped, and snowflakes danced hypnotically beneath the low, somber clouds. A fresh dusting of snow was falling like powder onto him and the entire upper shelves of the island.

Two of his rowers slithered up out of the crack and came next to him, sweaty and pungent like the ocean. They gave a wary, bewildered glance to the snow falling all around them, and then turned towards Court. One of them, a muscular tattooed man with a large dagger on his belt sat down beside Court. He was still wheezing from the climb. The tattooed man gave Court a worried look, seeing the snowflakes catching in his hair and eyebrows while he stared meditatively above.

“The rest of the men are frightened, Capt'n...they say they won't come up here. Not for all the gold in Anselm. There's something...wrong, about this place, isn't there? Just like you mentioned earlier...only, it gets stronger as we go.” He said, as his eyes darted around nervously.

Even as Court scanned the area around them, they could all sense the presence of moving things. Gazing into the ethereal, Court alone saw what disturbed their souls. He winced, surprised by the many lurching shapes in the snowfall.

There were ghost soldiers watching them, even now, atop the gate walls and on the other side of the fissure they had climbed out of. Most of them were blurred, gray shadows. Their white haunted eyes peered at the three of them from beneath their shadowy helms. Some of these were cloaked, and seemed to wander about aimlessly. But these wraiths weren't what Court feared, for shadows cannot harm a living man. No, his fear was of the possible living remnants of the Nocturne army.

“What are your names?” Court said plainly, still staring at the ghosts wandering through the snowstorm.

“Adan, m' lord. And this is Cael.” The tattooed man said, pointing.

Court glanced at both of them in turn and then back to the sky. He seemed to be weighing something tremendous. A smuggler pirate, tattooed with superstitious symbols during his years in jail, and a lanky limbed thief with a cruel overbite, who smells of booze, so pale and sallow he probably hasn't left the tavern in five years. Alas, they'll have to do. Court released a weary sigh and gestured at something over his shoulder.

“Behind me is the gate to the Nocturne fortress.” Court murmured, “If you follow me you'll have a chance to redeem your pasts, and earn the fortune I've paid you. I came here, and brought all of you...to finish what began ten years ago—to end the war.”

Court saw their eyes focus over his shoulders at the gate. The tall wooden doors, cracked open, now crusted with snow, overlooked the three men like a giant slit eyeball. Little better than ruins, it was a broken, ravished wall of massive stones hauled up from the shore and the ocean. It was pitted and scarred by the ancient cannon fire of the Garai fleet, no doubt rebuilt countless times over. At its highest point, it had once stood thirty feet tall.

From the dark folds of the fissure beside them, some heads of his other hired crew emerged, their eyes squinting. Court observed them, giving them the disapproving glare they had expected. Five of them were stout little men with a family resemblance, each with a thin wool cap their wives must have knitted. All the others were the usual assorted sea dogs, with faded prison tattoos of large breasted women on thick, hairy tanned hides. The looks on their grubby faces were of agreed mutiny, all scowled or stiff lipped. None of them spoke.

“So be it.” Court said angrily, standing on his feet again, “Stay in the crevice and wait for our return. And remember the deal: we all leave here together.”

The three men approached the crooked, towering gates. They saw Court's shoulders straighten from their previous slouch. He was suddenly taller, somewhat frightening in his raven dark cloak, as he seemed to gather some extra unseen power about him. As he withdrew his ornate silver pistol in his left hand, it flashed brightly for a moment and then went dark, as though awakening to it's furious past self. In his right hand Court unsheathed his cutlass with a swish, though this fine weapon did not shine, for the curved blade and hilt were all black.

The gates seemed to groan nervously at Court's approach as they steadily swayed in the freezing gale like quivering lips. The snow flurries in the wind continued to dust Court and his men, and were rising into piles where the wind swept it into the nooks of the wall. The entire island was quiet now, as if bracing for a blow. Above them, the ghosts glared anxiously and whispered curses. Court glanced up at them and gave them a wink with his left eye.

Court led them through the narrow opening in the gates. The snow was falling heavier, and the wind had slowed. The fortress was a freezing, haunted hell. Everything looked like the pale dead of winter, as the snow had piled on a fresh, crisp white blanket over the walls and down across the ground. The loneliness of the fortress was oppressive. It might as well have been never inhabited, for the silence was a deep and final silence, much as if they were intruding into a long forgotten tomb.

Once a tall and proud capitol, this fabled fortress had been a thriving war machine even the powerful Garai had feared. It lay now like the ruins of an ancient people. It made Court pause, and stare in wonder at what strangeness the rift had wrought on this fortress. Knowing that the Nocturne Empire had been a modern power made it all the more bizarre as they looked at the cracked walls, heard the audible crumbling of the barracks, all around the yawning, empty courtyard in which they stood. Court had expected plants to overrun the battlements and towers along the walls, but nothing lived here – not even mold or rats.

The unnerving snap of a crushed skull beneath Adan's feet startled him. In any other place the two would have laughed or told a joke, but here they couldn't shake the dread that gnawed at their own bones. Any thought they may have had at plundering treasure out of the Nocturne vaults was gone, and replaced by a sole wish just to escape with their lives.

“How could two entire armies just vanish? How did they really die?” Cael asked cautiously with his overbite.

“Shut it, you ugly lump,” Adan snapped, glaring back at him, “I don't want to know, and I don't think the Capt'n here wants to say.”

“Maybe it's just like the stories...maybe it's all real. Hell opened up and swallowed them all!” Cael grimaced.

“Something like that, yes.” Court said, surprising them with the calm presence in his voice. He still carried the painful memory of the consuming dark waves of the rift that crashed down upon him and his Brethren that night.

He was staring across the courtyard. Court's weapons were now stashed away, and his back was turned towards them. Through the white, blurry snowfall there were the tall, massive pillars of a palace, where Duke Aries Black had once sat at the throne of power over his vast island nations. A small, dense city with houses of wood and stone where families and aristocrats had once lived surrounded the palace. It was now a city of the dead. And the rift was there too, shaking Court's mind and soul. Come to me Court, you belong here with everyone else, it seemed to whisper to him. Outside the fortress, it was quiet, save for the groaning of the wind.


To be continued....

Part 2: The Crevice


They trudged on, following their dark, haggard leader one by one into the large crack in the cliff wall, which was large and cavernous once inside. The last of the men hesitated, looking over his shoulder one last time at the sea. The entire sky was now hidden by cloud. Then he, too, slipped into the shadowy crack. Inside it was pitch black, so they carefully followed the sound of Court's voice and the scraping of his boot soles on the cave floor.

Court could almost hear their thoughts, what is this place...where in the name of hell are we? All these twelve men knew was that this was a place long feared by sailors and adventurers alike. They had heard that the rift had swallowed most of the Garai and the Nocturnals, bringing both armies to their knees. The few things they did know about this place were evil tales—that ghosts lingered here, that the rift was growing, and that to this day, no man had ever left the Island alive. Except Court. And what he knew, or had seen that last night of the war, none of them dared ask.

“We focused our cannons on the cliff wall. We thought to make a pass at weakening the foundations of the enemy fortress,” Court said to them, his voice echoing up into an unseen chasm above them. Court had halted to allow his eyes to adjust, holstered his silver pistol, and then continued, “but something was wrong...something has always been wrong with this place. Ten of our mightiest galleons could not splinter this stone by cannon-fire.”

The smell of damp earth was in the chasm's air, like a mixture of dour mold and ancient death seeping from the jagged walls. There began to be steps of a sort on the cavern floor, which all the men tripped over. To their annoyance, Court’s voice began echoing down on them, as he strode up and up.

“So we resorted to...other means. The will of my Masters was powerful enough to split the cliff, creating this very crack. The invasion wasn't easy...some opposing wizardry or war machine would come rising up against us. In the end, too few of us were left to continue the campaign, our ships lay scattered and burning.”

Court felt very alone, as if he had been cast naked into the darkness. He reached out to touch the cavern walls to steady himself, and felt cold damp stone. To his surprise the rock still softly hummed with the echo of the mind power that had carved this chasm. Court leaned against the rock while his men caught up. He allowed the vibrations of the War to seep into his spine. He saw flashes of the enemy: the army of Nocturne and their Duke—Aries Black. The enemy was formidable. The Garai fleet was burning, flagships were sinking off the coast in all directions of the horizon. The Garai Masters walked over the very waves, battling Nocturne war machines in a last desperate burst of their powers.

“Is it a crime to unleash the darkness in your soul," Court whispered in vague remembrance, “...to achieve a victory we had bled a hundred years for?”

For he suddenly felt the edge of the rift nearing, and it writhed and howled with the psychic torment the war had caused. Court's hands shook. It was growing colder...or was it another effect of the rift? He led the men further up and up, each step flogging at his soul. The men just below, staggering up the darkness after him could hear the heavy sound of Court's breathing.

In Court's mind, the psychic war flashes continued, until he found himself suddenly back on the night of the war's last battle, ten years ago. The stars reeled brightly overhead, and the bow of the mighty Garai ship Fortitude rose and sank while it prowled the waters off the Nocturne Island. The dark cloaked Garai soldiers stood at the ready, while cannon fire popped and burst like fireworks across the dark sea. The wind was steady, and Court’s long hair streamed with the breeze.

The Island was a towering black, jagged rock in the midst of a great rolling ocean. The lights of the enemy fortress twinkled with dozens of firelights, illuminating spiny gates and towers. It was virtually impregnable.

“He’s there,” Gage said, coming to stand beside his younger Brother, “planning his next move.”

“What about our next move?” Court asked impatiently, studying the older Brother’s graying face, noting that his expression was relaxed.

“Court, we have been at war for over a hundred years. We can afford to choose our next move as carefully as we please, now that we have them surrounded like caged dogs.” Gage grinned.

“So we’ll just sit here and wait them out?”

“No, no. At moon rise we will take our time hammering that damn cliff, until it and the fortress falls into the sea.”

“I doubt that the fabled Aries Black will fall so easily.” Court said glumly, looking out at the dark towers of the island.

“I hope not, I’ve been waiting for this a long time, Brother.” Gage smiled.

How those misgivings had proved tragically prophetic. And here he was, the last of his lineage and order, on the tenth anniversary of the wars ending. He struggled up the chipped, rocky darkness of the crack looking like a wraith of his former self, grasping desperately for a handhold to climb up to. Some of the more limber of his men had caught up now, as their eyes adjusted to the dark. Court glanced down, silently hoping the money was not all that was motivating the men. Still, he wondered if they had an inkling of the hell waiting for them just above. Worse yet was the evil fact that no one knew, not even Court, what had happened to the enemy forces, or even Aries Black himself after the rift had opened up.



To Be continued.....

The Revenant

     They say there’s a man
    at the end of the Earth…
    who knows why the world was made,
    and why it’s been broken.

                                   - The Anselm Verses

Part One: Ruminations

Even though crossing the Jade Sea was forbidden, oars, long and sturdy, plunged deep into its ash gray waters, pulling the small ship Messenger through the flotsam and jetsam ruin that drifted around her. One dark figure prowled the swaying deck as pale waves broke against the weathered hull. The hired crew, twelve men in all, glanced up from their constant rowing, as the dark looming captain paced back and forth. He sensed their growing desperation, and curiosity, and chose to ignore their uneasy stares. High above—high enough to make a man dizzy as he rowed, the clear blue sky was being swept away by curtains of dark cloud spanning a vast horizon.

All around them was the floating ruin of similar ships, even much larger and stronger ones than the Messenger. Like dead bodies on a carrion field of slaughter, their hulls, broken and worn from years of decay, lay like white bones on the sea. Broken masts reached out from the water, resembling skeletal fingers, while their tattered sails began to flutter on a rising wind. The man in black tensed, sniffed the salty air, and detected the faint scent of death on an easterly breeze.

With a rushing swirl of black cloak, the dark figure strode to the prow of the ship and stood there like a ghost himself. The breaking waves sprayed him with their miserable chill, as he grabbed hold of the ship and absorbed the thickening air, and the mist rising over the gray rolling sea. He sensed the presence of things unseen, things better left unspoken for the present moment. He didn't need panic, not here in this forsaken place. The cloaked man nodded to the hesitant crew, and with a few more powerful strokes, the ship vanished into thick, green sea mist.

“What do you sense Capt'n? Are we close?” One of the rowers asked from below, no longer able to contain his fear.
"Keep rowing." The dark captain replied.

The island lay ahead. Somewhere close, so close he could feel it in his bones. After all these years...there was nothing that was going to stop him from returning now. Not the skeletal ghosts haunting the chill breeze, and certainly not the fear of the Island itself. Draped in his thick, black cloak and tall, buckled leather boots, Court stood at the Messenger's prow, defying the elements like a man closing in on his destiny. He gathered his wits and glared into the deepening fog, ignoring the soft groans of ghost ships brushing past the Messenger's sides.

This was where the World had been broken ten years ago this very day. The Great War between the Garai and the Nocturne Empire had raged for a hundred years across these seas, locked in an unending battle. It didn’t bother Court that he was sailing through the war’s graveyard of ships on the very anniversary of its final battle. The trouble was that he felt the rift ahead. Any attuned Garai soldier could have sensed the power of the rift growing, a disturbance that sent shivers through his very soul. That was the real tragedy of the war, its lingering fingerprint.
And the rift was what made this place forbidden.

“Prepare for landfall.” Court said, glancing over his shoulder at the men.

They looked down and chanted low spoken, mournful prayers. A few tried in vain to glimpse something resembling the haunted Island through the fog. But it was all to no avail, as the fog had deepened and the air was growing colder, tearing their eyes. Some minds turned to their children. Others thought of their women whom they'd likely never see again. They had all known, despite being blinded by Court's gold, that this voyage could be their end. But he would protect them; after all he was one of the Garai, if not the last, and the rowers knew what that meant. Court was a very special kind of soldier, weapons master of this world and the next.

What Court's connection was to this island, no one knew. Strange it was, thought his crew, how he now hunted this place like a man possessed. Back home in fair Anselm it was rumored he'd gone mad in the war. A broken man, alone with his dark memories, Court was the sole surviving veteran of the last battle, and the rift created during it. Court’s black cloak fluttered in the gale, and the rowers could imagine him fighting out here years and years ago: younger, brash and powerful. Ever since the war had ended, stories and songs had echoed in taverns and gathering halls about those epic battles. From all accounts, the destruction had been terrible and vast, and some believed, as did Court, that psychic hatred had opened the rift—a strange gash in time that grew ever larger as time progressed.

Without any warning they saw the dark towering cliffs of the Island rising high above them. It was sorcerous how it had appeared from nowhere. All about the ship were jagged rocks stabbing up from the water like chipped, rotten teeth. This was the Island Court sought, the ancient stronghold of their enemy. The rowers imagined the fortress in its prime, teeming with militant activity. But now it was just another ruin of the war. Soon the dark sands of the beach rushed forward, and the sounds of swirling sand and rock came beating up from beneath the Messenger’s creaking hull. By the time the rowers could stand up to moor the ship, Court was already waiting for them upon the beach.

“How’d he do that?” One of the men whispered.

“It’s Garai magic.” Another shrugged,

“I wager we’ll see more than that before this day’s ending.”

Court held his eyes closed, listening to the whispers of the men. He heard the murmur of the tide behind him and the creaking timbers of his ship as the rowers anchored her on the beach. Behind his senses the rift was wailing with the voices of the dead. Court fought the urge to withdraw his silver flintlock pistol that hung off his belt, or tear his cutlass free and slash it against the looming cliffs above. He opened his eyes and breathed in slowly, smelling the dredge of seaweed and refuse lapping against the shore.

Court turned to face his men. They had been watching him nervously, thinking that they had followed a madman to hell. Court held a strange look in his ashen gray eyes. He did look slightly mad, unshaven, with his scars and wild locks of hair falling out of his fur-lined hood. Even so, there was some comfort in knowing that he had been here before, and had survived all the island's fabled horrors.

"Stay near me." Court said sternly, drawing out a silver pistol from the dark of his cloak.
"But where are we headed, Capt'n?" One of his men squealed anxiously.
"Toward the voices." Court grimaced, looking above.

They followed his gaze like marionettes to the dizzying heights above, shrouded in cloud and gloom. It looked as if rain might fall, or lightning might suddenly explode over them. It looks just as it did when I last fled these ruins, Court noted. Then he began walking the beach, heading towards a tremendous dark crack in the cliffs. The beach itself was scattered with debris, and relics from a hundred years of war at sea. There were bottles and bones half buried in the wet, dark sands. There were pieces of ships tangled in seaweed, and rusted bits of their cannons and rigging. One of the men caught sight of a tattered black cloak like the one Court was wearing, a pale white skeleton arm dangling from its shredded folds.

“The Garai.” One of the rowers nodded with a whisper at the corpse.

To be continued next week...