The bedraggled man staggered through the rain away from the ruined city. He had lost everything in that storm. His ship, his crew, even his brother, held so long as a hostage against Bara the sorceress of the sea. He didn’t know whether his brother was alive or dead but either way he no longer had any leverage against the might and rage of the sea. He was no longer, the Storm Wolf.

He could have stayed with his crew, he could have tried to find them in the wreckage and get them all back together. He could have tried to salvage what little he could out of the disaster that had befallen him. But he hadn’t. Instead he was running. Because somewhere in that city, or at least close by, was a sorceress who hated him more than anyone else in the world. A sorceress who he’d manipulated and tortured for years by chaining up her love, his brother, on his ship and exploiting her with his life.

Without his brother there was nothing to stop her from hunting him down and killing him. He was slightly surprised she hadn’t already done so. He had no defense. He had only the clothes on his back, a sword strapped to his side, and layers of caked mud and ash from the ruins of the city. None of that would do anything against an enraged sorceress and he knew how well she could find his ship in a storm. He figured it couldn’t be that hard for her to find him out here.

On weary legs, he crested a hill and looked out across the land. The Hallowed Realm they called it. He couldn’t imagine why, it had just had one city beset by invasion, plague and falling stars and another blown up by a storm. That didn’t seem very Hallowed to him.

But it was a realm, that was certain. A great and vast land, and as a pirate, he wasn’t very at home on land.

He was almost relieved when, several days later, he was attacked by bandits. At that point he hadn’t eaten in days and had been walking so long the world was starting to blur together around him. Perhaps if he’d been healthy he would have seen them before they emerged from the trees. But then again, perhaps not, this wasn’t the sea, this wasn’t his home.

“You’re a right sorry bastard aren’t ya?” the first bandit said in a grating voice that dragged the bedraggled man out of his haze.

“That’s a nice sword though,” the second bandit said and moved forward, holding his own sword at the bedraggled man’s throat.

The bedraggled man fixed his eyes on the sword that was pointing at him. Slowly everything came back into focus and he began to realise what was going on, where he was, who he was. His legs were weary from walking but his arms were still strong.

Mangon Tull, the Scourge of the Northern Seas, Conqueror of the Storm Sorceress drew his sword and batted away the bandit’s one. Before any of them could move he grabbed the bandit and held him in a chokehold, the sword at his neck.

He grinned at the other bandits who were looking at him in shock. He didn’t blame them, he couldn’t imagine how pathetic and weak he must have looked moments ago.

It was difficult to choke out words through his mouth that hadn’t eaten or spoken in days but he managed it. “I am Mangon Tull, you may have heard of me.”

The looks on their faces made it clear that they hadn’t. Typical.

“As you can see I have fallen on hard times but with food and water I can be a capable warrior. Likely better than any man here. I ask little from you, merely a place at your campsite and food to eat, in exchange I can-”

A voice interrupted him from behind, a much calmer voice than those of the other bandits. A voice in command of the situation. “Mangon Tull eh? I think I have heard of you, not by that name though. What is it? The Storm Wombat?”

“The Storm Wolf,” Mangon growled, tightening his grip on the bandit and turning to face the speaker.

“Oh yes, my apologies. Where we’re from neither Storm Wolves nor Wombats are common so we get you mixed up.” The speaker was a tall man atop a strange grey horse, just as rough and rugged as the other bandits but he had an authoritative sneer, a sneer that Mangon had had up until a few days ago.

“I am Sered of the Eastlands. This little band I lead is what’s left of an army.”

“The world has not been kind to armies,” Mangon said sympathetically, he couldn’t afford to be arrogant and bold here. He needed to dredge up his old skills as a subservient follower, that would take some getting used to.

“The world has not been kind to anyone. You can come with us, we will give you the food and lodging you require and in exchange you will tell us everything you know about what has happened in Nargathrum.”

Mangon nodded and slowly released the man he held, keeping as alert and dangerous as possible despite being tired, starved and outnumbered. Sered beckoned for him to follow and they all walked off through the countryside. It only took them cresting one hill to fill Mangon’s heart with terror. Of course they were going back toward the sea.

He didn’t run though, this was likely his only chance to find food and shelter and if he ran they’d probably kill him for his weapons. So he stayed with them and prayed to all the gods and angels and demons he knew that the sorceress couldn’t find him on land. In his travels he’d learned of quite a few but he doubted any of them could help him. He trudged slowly toward that yawning blue expanse, once a welcoming home, now a terrifying place. The sorceress had always been able to find him in storms, could she find him here?

They reached the bandit’s camp within the hour and fortunately it wasn’t too close to the sea. By that time it was getting dark and Mangon’s head was beginning to swim as the gnawing hunger grew. The bandits laughed at him as he stumbled weakly forward but they gave him some jerky and stale bread which he quickly tore into. Sered could see that he was in no state to recount any tales and so let him sleep in a tent. He briefly noted that he shared the tent with others but he remembered no other details as he passed out immediately, letting sleep fully take him for the first time since Nargathrum.

When he woke they were setting out again and to his horror they were not only heading toward the sea but toward Nargathrum. He considered running at that point. He could cut his losses and try to get out before any of them could stop him but he realised that in his hunger and drowsiness they’d taken his weapons, he wouldn’t get far without those. So he prayed some more and he kept walking.

Stolen novel; please report.

Sered rode alongside him on a strange grey horse with flowers in its mane but before Mangon could get a good look he was being interrogated about the city.

“So, Storm Wolf, the great port of Nargathrum, given into looters and violence, suddenly explodes before us. Not only that but there is a storm, something you are famed for surviving, yet you barely survive. Tell me all you can.”

“Well I...” Mangon struggled to think, his brain still clouded by drowsiness and hunger. He decided that explaining his deal with the sorceress and the resultant catastrophe was a bad idea. “I don’t know, I suppose my luck finally ran out,” he grinned up at Sered, putting on his least aggravating smile. He was quite proud of that smile, he hadn’t known if he still had it.

“L...L...Liessss...sss...” hissed a voice and Mangon jumped, the inhuman whisper rattling his tired brain.

Sered just laughed as he searched for who had said that. “My horse seems to think you do know something about what happened.”

Mangon’s eyes grew wide in fear and surprise and he looked more closely at the horse. It wasn’t just grey, it was rotted and mutilated, it was clearly dead. Yet on it strode anyway with Sered astride it. It glanced at him with dead, glassy eyes and then turned back to look at the road. Mangon’s heart filled with horror, not more magic.

“How-?”

“I told you we were the remnants of an army, I didn’t say which army,” Sered answered. “You likely wouldn’t have heard of us anyway but we were an army serving under Kulrod, the Sorcerer of the Eastlands.”

Mangon’s heart sank, another sorcerer. Was he here? In this group? Had he fled one sorcerer just to end up in the clutches of another?

“He abandoned us on the eve of our victory and our forces were decimated. Those of us who escaped have been living off the land even before all the other fallen armies started doing it. I was his right hand man, I had great plans and dreams for conquering Karasar but they all came to nothing when he left. He took most of his magic with him but he forgot this horse that he gave to me and commanded to follow my orders. He’s been a very useful horse, if a bit rotted and probably not long for this world, hence the flowers to stop the smell.” He gestured to the flowers woven through the horse’s mane. They were all over the saddle and flanks as well, some of them stuck through the rotting flesh itself. Mangon looked away, he thought he might be sick.

“Anyway, the relevant part is that Geren here can tell when you’re lying. He’s just magic like that. So I ask again, what do you know about what happened at Nargathrum?”

Mangon stared ahead for a moment, letting his tired thoughts catch up to the situation. The man had a magic horse that would be able to tell if he was lying. Well he supposed that made about as much sense as what happened in Nargathrum.

He didn’t try to be sly or subtle, he didn’t have the energy to conjure up clever vagaries and half truths. So instead he just told Sered and his magic horse everything he knew. He told him about his brother and Bara, his sorceress lover from the sea. He told him about his plan and how well it had worked for so long. Then he told him about how it had all completely fallen apart. He didn’t know why the city had exploded and he didn’t know why he was still alive but he was fairly confident Bara had caused the storms so he told Sered that. It felt relieving to finally be able to say it all, with no lies or secrets. Like a weight had lifted from his chest. Despite all the magic and fear he at least felt a little bit happier to be sharing that secret at last.

This happiness was quickly quenched when Sered responded to his tale. “Well in that case we’ll probably have to get rid of you.”

“Wait, what-?”

“You said it yourself. This sorceress likely wants to kill you and if her method to do that is to sweep you away with a big storm we don’t want to be near you when that happens.”

“Yes but-”

“I say we throw you in the ocean, what do you think Geren?”

The horse snorted.

“I like that idea,” a voice from behind them said, a voice that Mangon recognised as the man he’d held a sword to yesterday. He tried to stutter out a response but there were too many cheers of approval and words of support from the other bandits. It turned out they’d all slowly come to listen to his story as he’d been talking and now they all wanted to see its grisly end. His arguments died in his throat and he did nothing as they bound him and changed direction, now heading not to the sea and Nargathrum, but straight for the sea. He struggled to think of what to do, what to say. All his plans, all his cunning and guile was leading here. This couldn’t be happening, could it? To make things worse as they kept dragging him it started to rain.

By the time they reached the ocean the rain had become a downpour complete with dark clouds and howling winds. A storm, just like the ones he’d so long exploited.

“Looks like your sorceress is here to claim you now!” Sered shouted over the rain at him. Mangon ignored him and looked down at the sea. Of course they couldn’t have picked a nice beach, no, they were atop a great cliff and the sea was churning and raging down below. He’d spent the last hour of their journey praying and he was running out of gods to pray to. Once he’d visited an island far away in the Scarlet Seas, trading for rare spices as well as ingredients for his poisons. The inhabitants had had a great hall lined with topaz and in it a sacred fire that was never allowed to go out. He had sat with them and feasted on the food cooked by their fire. He wasn’t sure how helpful a god of fire could be in his situation but he prayed anyway. The last words he uttered as he was hurled into the storm-tossed ocean were a prayer to Raqos.

Argive of the Cliffs sat in his hut on the edge of the world and snickered at the storm as it swept away. It was a big one, no doubt about that, had some magic lurking about in it too. But it hadn’t hurt him, his hut was too strong for that. He snickered some more. His hut had survived a lot more than that.

He walked down to the brine flats with his dredger sack and slipped on his walking shoes out of habit. He got halfway to the beach before he snickered again, realising he didn’t need them anymore. Still, good to be careful about these things. He picked through some old shipwrecks but he’d already taken everything interesting from them and the time had passed when he needed to take uninteresting things. So he moved on and walked the miles and miles of brine flats to get to the shore. There was a new ship that looked mostly intact, that would definitely have some interesting things to dredge up. He strode on eagerly but then he saw a black shape sticking out of the brine flats. It was small so he decided to investigate that first. It was likely just a bit of driftwood or a dead shark or something but as he drew closer he became more curious. Not driftwood, even closer, not a shark. It was a man, and a living one too. That was very interesting.

Mangon awoke in darkness. But it was a soft warm darkness for there was a damp cloth resting on his face. This was fortunate as the last thing he remembered was his face burning away. In fact there were still echoes of that, not only on his face but his hands and neck as well. But it wasn’t the burning of the fire and lightning he’d escaped in Nargathrum. It was another type of burning, like acid.

He moved his aching hand to lift the warm cloth from his aching face and peer at his surroundings. There was an old one-armed man with a long beard carving something on the other side of a small room. The old man raised a bushy eyebrow and peered down at him.

“Rest up my friend, you’ve been in the brine a long time. You’re lucky you got here when you did. Even a few weeks ago that long in the brine likely would have killed you. But the brine flats are healing. Soon they won’t be brine flats at all.” The old man snickered to himself and carried on carving.

“I... what-?” Mangon asked, utterly confused by the situation.

“I’ll explain it all in the morning,” the old man continued, still carving. “It’s a long story, a good story, but a long story. For now rest up.”

“What’s in this story?” Mangon asked, slightly worried. “There had better not be any storms or magic shadows or sorcerers.”

The old man snickered some more. “Oh no, out here we don’t have such simple problems as those. No, this story is about elementals.”