023 – Refuge

***

My project at Power Station Thirteen was meant to last six or seven weeks, but due to unforeseen delays, I ended up staying there for a little over twenty three thousand years. I was done with that place. I never wanted to see it again.

Malisent and the witches had gone to the station on a scouting mission, but I never stopped to question what their ultimate purpose was. It turned out they were out looking for a new home. The evil cult packed up all their belongings and sailed from the frozen reaches of the far north, all the way around the continent, to the somewhat chilly reaches of the southern coast. Now the Void Phantoms wanted to move into the old station—and take me with them.

The crew of the Obelisk wasted no time. They worked through the night, hauling aboard casks of fresh water and necessary supplies. At sunrise, they turned the capstan and raised anchor. The Obelisk arrived and departed in a single night like a passing dream, and few in Dovestone took notice of her. I watched the port city disappear on the horizon as we sailed away.

“I don’t want to go back to that awful place,” I moaned.

“Too bad, disciple,” Malisent said. “But don’t worry. Once the flotilla catches up, the workmen will fix the place up for us.”

“More ships? How big is this cult anyway?”

“Big enough. But many of the people with us are refugees from the Isle of Forgotten Skulls. The paladins burned the fields and razed the villages near our stronghold to purge those with heretical beliefs. Now they need a new home to settle.”

“Maybe they should stop moving to neighborhoods with such gruesome names.”

“Come on. I’m handing you over to Putrizio, the cult’s fightmaster. He’ll handle your training from here on. I don’t have time to play nursemaid for a clueless apprentice.”

The Obelisk carried a host of passengers in her hold. Many of them cycled up on to the top decks throughout the day for fresh air. They made a nuisance of themselves by getting in the way of the able bodied seamen who actually operated the ship. Besides the human cargo in the hold, the cult’s officers traveled in cramped cabins at the stern of the ship. I imagine that Malisent and Veylien did not appreciate being roommates for this voyage.

The cult’s fightmaster resided in a small cabin shared with the disciples. There wasn’t enough room inside for all of them, so they took turns sleeping in the bunks. He spent most of the day on the quarterdeck with his high-level students.

“Fightmaster Putrizio. I present to you your newest disciple. Strythe will be joining the class of young hell raisers.”

Putrizio was a withered old man with a sour expression. Malisent had told me that, in addition to being healthier, magi aged more slowly than normal people. Once a person enkindled their fire, they aged at about one third the usual rate. Putrizio looked to be in his sixties, which would have made him well over a hundred in actual age. His hair was thin and graying. He carried a sheathed sword in hand instead of hanging it from a belt or baldric. He often gestured and pointed at things with it like a baton.

“Strythe? Of all the sparks to make it back alive.”

“It wasn’t easy for him. He’s had an accident and injured his brain. Luckily it also helped him enkindle his flame.”

“Stressful situations do sometimes push people to making breakthroughs. It must have been quite the accident.”

“It destroyed a portion of his memory. You may need to refresh him in some areas.”

“How much of his memory?”

“The other day, I had to explain to him what a dog was.”

“Gods.”

“He has no memories of his personal history, including his time as a novice in the Faceless, but retains most of his physical skills. From his perspective, this is your first meeting.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I said. They both stared at me silently. “Uh. Am I supposed to do one of those kneeling things?”

“From now on, disciple, you will address me by my title of fightmaster.”

“I… I understand, fightmaster.”

“You will address your fellow students as either senior or junior disciples. Since you are the newest addition, all the others are your seniors. The lower ranked novices no longer concern you,” Putrizio stated. “From here on, you will be under my direct tutelage. The ship’s master has forbidden us from practicing martial arts on the Obelisk after a sword blade got stuck in the mizzenmast. For the duration of this trip, you will do meditation exercises to improve your fire. Once we reach our destination, real lessons will resume. To hone your skills, we will also send you disciples on some simpler missions leading small groups of the Faceless.

“Do you have any questions, Disciple Strythe?”

“Er. Uh, yes… Fightmaster. I wondered if there were magi who had—less focus on the sword part. Maybe even those who didn’t use them at all.”

“Yes. There are some unorthodox sects in the north who have forsaken the wisdom of the blade.”

“Really? What are they?” My hopes flared up.

“Strange men with queer ideas. They reject the sword and instead use bizarre styles. Some use spears, others axes, chains, or archery. There are even some that fight with no weapons at all, using just their feet and fists. It’s all quite perverse. You haven’t been lured into such deviancy, have you?” he asked with an expression of disgust.

“No. No, I was thinking of something else. Perhaps, are there other paths for training? Specializations?”

“Such as?”

“I’m interested in becoming an exorcist.”

Putrizio shook his head in disbelief. Malisent recoiled at the word and said, “What a thing for you to say, Disciple. The ingratitude. Why in the world would you consider such an awful choice?”

“The knights we met hired an exorcist to take care of their werewolf problem. I assumed them to be specialists in daemons, a subject I’m recently interested in.”

Putrizio said, “Exorcists are followers of the Holy Saints. They destroy ghosts and daemons. They hunt down and kill witches. And they’re none too friendly with heretical cults either. Perhaps necromancy would be a better option for a member Void Phantoms.”

“And what’s that?”

Malisent said, “Black magic dealing with the ghosts of the dead. And we happen to have the world’s greatest living necromancer as our leader, Dark Lord Hrolzek the Vortex of Oblivion. Maybe he could give you some pointers.”

“Ahem,” Putrizio interrupted. “You have no need, disciple, to worry about advanced topics at this point in your studies. And it’s beyond presumptuous to ask the dark lord for ‘pointers.’ First we must instruct you on the basics and determine where your talents lie. Necromancy is not suitable for anyone with a weak will or dull intellect. And it requires expert control of one’s inner fire.”

I knew that meant more meditation and mana exercises. For the next few days, as the Obelisk rounded the coast of Brimwater Bay, I’d be sitting cross legged and focusing on my breathing.

***

The Obelisk cast her anchor in the middle of the sheltered harbor. She let down a tender boat with a landing party of thirteen masked men. Eight novices strained against the oars. The boat crossed the waters of the harbor and ran ashore on the gravely beach. Fightmaster Putrizio stepped out first, followed by his four disciples, myself included. The eight novices rushed to pull the boat onto dry land and unload its heavy cargo.

Putrizio, like all swordsmen, dressed like a stage performer. He wore robes with spiraling patterns of mauve, taupe, ecru, chartreuse, and periwinkle. Red sequins sewn randomly onto his biege cloak made him look similar to a giant skin rash. The man had doused himself with a unbearably fishy cologne. He watched as the novices worked.

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The men and women in skull masks carried heavy bundles up the beach to a spot near the front gate of the settlement. They drove stakes into the ground and set up wooden poles. Within a few minutes, they had erected a large pavilion with a conical top.

“Fightmaster? Are these the sorts of missions we go on? Setting up picnics for the officers?”

“The novices do whatever is asked of them. That includes labor when need be. You four are here for protection, should monsters attack.”

“So this is the life of a faceless minion. I’m glad I don’t remember it.”

Strythe no longer lived at the bottom of the cult hierarchy, but I was still lower than my three fellow disciples. There names were—in order of seniority—Zambulon, Yurk, and Hwilla. We spent our short time together in meditation exercises. I had yet to see their faces and could only tell the two men apart when they spoke, and Yurk rarely spoke.

“Junior Disciple Yurk. Go along the treeline and check for any monsters prowling the underbrush,” Zambulon said. “Junior Disciple Strythe. Go round the edge of the walls to check for any breaches or escaped gaunts.”

“There is only one gap in the outer wall, senior disciple, near the lighthouse. The gaunts are incapable of leaving the settlement. I camped at this site for over a week.”

“Well go and make sure anyway. That’s an order.”

“Yes, senior disciple.”

“What about me, senior disciple?” Hwilla said.

“You can stay here with me, Hwilla, to help keep an eye on these novices…”

I was stuck with these three until someone graduated or died. Their years getting kicked around as novices had not instilled them with any sort of empathy for those with lower ranks. Instead, now that it was their turn to do the kicking, they seemed to relish the power over their former peers, Zambulon especially.

I obeyed my orders. Taking a walk away from the others suited me fine after days on a crowded ship. Stands of trees had grown up next to the old brick walls, creating a sparsely forested area. Wasps the size of my thumb had built a huge paper nest on the side of the wall. They had bright cyan carapaces and stingers dripping with fluid. A fat tree dropped ripe gourds which burst open and released fumes. When the wasps flew into the fumes, they lost control of their wings and did wild loops in the air until they fell twitching to the ground. I avoided that area and any other suspicious plants or animals. The continent’s plethora of weird organisms created an inhospitable environment for human colonists.

A dead tree leaned against the outer wall and made a step ladder to the parapets. From that high spot, I could look out over the ruins. A few gaunts wandered the streets. The undead had kept plants from completely overgrowing the settlement. The small trees that grew within looked sick and withered. Even the moss was brown. Maybe the presence of specters stunted the growth of living things.

The settlers had built their homes in the continental style, with a ground floor fortified with thick brick walls. The timbers of the upper stories and rooftops had fallen, but the foundations remained strong. The new refugees coming to this place would have a much easier time rebuilding the town. The clay pit and brick kilns could be repaired as well. Of course, to do that, the cult had to clear out the undead first.

I took my time checking the walls’ outer perimeter. No need to rush and step on a spike plant.

“I have returned from the patrol, Senior Disciple. The wall is whole. The undead are snug within.”

“What took you so long, Strythe?”

“I was very thorough. I stopped to examine every crack and pinhole, just to make sure nothing slipped by me.”

He got rid of me on a pointless errand and then complained when I was gone too long. During my patrol, the cult officers had come over on the tender boat. The three witches gathered at the pavilion next to Dark Lord Hrolzek. They looked over to the open gate of the abandoned settlement.

“We can clear this place out in a day or two. The gaunts are less dangerous than the specters. Once they are immobilized, we can burn the corpses to destroy them,” Gritha said. “But the nature of the curse and how this began is beyond my knowledge.”

“My lord,” Malisent said. “I believe these undead are not quite as they seem.”

“How so?” he asked.

“The specters are not tethered to their bodies. They flit from corpse to corpse like butterflies from flower to flower. Also, they never leave the confines of the walls. This suggests that some object at the heart of the town keeps them bound to this world.”

“Very observant of you, Malisent. I agree with your opinion. Cutting down and burning the bodies will not banish the specters. Some other magic is at play. But that gives us a chance to seize the town with a single stroke.”

“Shall we prepare to make an assault?” Gritha asked.

“No need. For this task, I will go alone.”

“But your injuries, my lord!”

“They are mostly healed. And they were never so severe that I could not swat away such weak creatures as these. When the moon eclipses the sun, the Lunar Gods close their eyes to all that transpires on earth. The undead grow to their strongest—but so, too, do the arts of necromancy. I shall seal these doomed souls at the coming gloam.”

The Faceless murmured at this announcement, and the witches also acted surprised. Witnessing the dark lord do his magic was a rare event. The cultists waited in suspense. Zambulon shoved in between Hwilla and I to get a better view of the action.

When the sun disappeared behind the rim of the moon and the sky went dark, Dark Lord Hrolzek threw off his heavy cloak. His skin was incredibly pale. Large scars with stitches encircled his arms, the lingering injuries from his battle with the Paladins. He marched alone up to the gate of the town.

Ahead of the dark lord, the gaunts fell to the ground. The specters rose up from limp corpses and floated above the streets. In the darkness of the gloam, only their faint luminescence lit the streets. They let out an unearthly chorus of moans.

Hrolzek drew his sword from its scabbard. The blade ended at a jagged edge just above the ricasso, shattered and broken. He approached the gate with this crippled sword held aloft.

“Undying Vendetta. Negative Blade!” he called out.

A sparkling light danced around the sword. A black shadow outlined with crackling sparks extended from the guard and took the shape of the missing blade. Hrolzek used a projection technique so strong that he no longer needed the physical blade. The energy of the dark lord’s fire swept across us. It had a strangely cold feeling to it, more akin to the specters than the fires of a living swordsman.

“Magnificent,” declared the witches.

“Superb,” whispered the fightmaster, almost in tears.

“Unbelievable,” gasped the disciples.

“Yeah. That’s pretty cool,” I added. Zambulon gave me an angry look. “What? It’s cool, right?”

Dark Lord Hrolzek entered the gates. He swung his blade effortlessly through the vaporous specters. The undead dissipated into a formless haze. Hrolzek disappeared down the lane, headed toward the town square.

Whatever magics Hrolzek used next, we did not get to see from the pavilion. We waited through the gloam, confident he was in no danger. Ghosts were his specialty. When the sun came forth from behind the moon, its light fell upon the old settlement strewn with old corpses. This time, they did not rise as gaunts.

Gritha rose from her seat. “The Dark Lord has defeated the enemy and secured the town. Let us go meet him at the center of our new holding.” She may have been slightly concerned with Hrolzek’s injuries but would never openly doubt him.

We entered the town. Malisent pulled me to the rear of the group where the others couldn’t overhear us. We strolled on the same street we had raced down before, but under much different circumstances.

“What do you think about necromancy now, disciple?”

“It’s definitely impressive. I can see why this guy gets to be the boss.”

“And yet… It is interesting that the world’s best necromancer didn’t see through your guise. When I presented you to him on the Obelisk, he failed to detect your ghostly nature.”

“Maybe he just didn’t say anything. Or maybe I’m a regular person now, so there’s nothing to detect. Or mayb– b– b– Bwait a second! Were you testing your lord’s powers?”

“Of course not. I’d never dream of it. Although it’s true that everyone has limits, even dark lords. And not all wounds can be healed; some leave permanent weaknesses.”

The human corpses littered the sides of the streets. They looked more like old leather than rotting flesh and gave off no odor of corruption.

“Please don’t involve me in anything scheme-y. Blades made from steel frighten me, so I certainly don’t want to deal with those that look like a hole in reality.”

“You shouldn’t worry about thing like that for now, Strythe. I mean, ‘Ariman.’ Study well. Train hard. I expect great things from you in the future.”

The group of cultists arrived at a larger building in the center of the town. It had one large open hall and may have been some kind of community meeting place. We entered the roofless building where Hrolzek stood at the base of a large statue of a robed woman with her arms folded across her chest. A layer of white enamel chipped away from the statue, revealing the black stone beneath, which looked shiny as glass.

“One of the Saints?” Malisent asked.

“No. The settlers set her up as their idol. A mysterious object which brought about their downfall,” the dark lord said. He gazed admiringly on the statue and brushed his fingertips over her lips. “For now, the specters present no threat and the settlement is safe for the refugees. We can remove this idol to the citadel at a later date.”

Gritha handed Hrolzek his cloak. His broken sword had returned to its scabbard. I would have much preferred watching him seal the specters in this statue than wave around some spooky sword. I might have learned something valuable.

As much as I did not want to involve myself with this murderous group of weirdos, they were the best people to learn magic from. The science of aetherics and daemonics had taken a fantastical new direction over the past millennia, and I had a lot of catching up to do. It looked as if my stay in Power station Thirteen would continue for the foreseeable future.

What was a little longer after it had been my home for millennia?