The potent, acrid stench of urine threatened to overwhelm the small, enclosed stone cell in the castle's underbelly. Three levels deep in the permafrost beneath Belmhor Castle, the air was stale and oppressive, barely stirring through the damp confines of the dungeon. Fear had a peculiar way of revealing the true nature of men. In moments like these, when certain death loomed large, some cowered, pissing or shitting themselves in desperation. This one had done both, a testament to the terror that gripped him—a shivering heap of flesh, stripped of dignity, and left to wither in the shadows.
“You were a hard man to find, Kreig.” Greyson, son of the Iron Spire, began, “Luckily for me and my friends, you don’t seem to have a great many friends up here. Not surprising, really—few look kindly upon the burning of Sanctuaries. You’ve taken many lives, Kreig. A great many.”
Greyson perched on a rough wooden stool, his posture relaxed yet poised for violence, facing the man gagged and bound to two iron poles embedded deep in the frozen floor of the cell. The bastard blade resting across Galoric’s lap was a fine weapon - the sort that men killed to possess.
At first glance, it appeared unremarkable, an ordinary hand-and-a-half sword any soldier might carry. But the maker’s mark embossed into the steel just above the twisted crossguards whispered of its true worth. Any warrior in the realm with an ounce of sense would recognize that mark on sight.
The son of the Iron Spire almost felt pity for the man who cowered before him. Almost. But Krieg was not a man worthy of anyone’s pity. He wasn’t even worth the filth that trickled down his leg.
Beyond the open cell door, the feeble flicker of a dying brazier cast an uncertain glow into the otherwise dark chamber, just enough for Greyson to glimpse the dread lurking in the bound man’s eyes. They were the eyes of a condemned soul, hollow and vacant.
“Do you know why I’ve come to the north, Krieg?” Greyson asked, his voice low and cold as the winds howling outside.
For an Illumascan, Grey was a towering figure; his bulk, coupled with the bastard blade in his grasp, cast a shadow that loomed over the trembling man before him. Kreig shrieked, the sound garbled and desperate through the filthy rag that served as his gag, as the knight’s massive, bull-like frame filled the small, dark chamber, nearly extinguishing what little light flickered from the dying brazier.
Dimly backlit by the fire’s light, Grey took his time crossing the small, rancid-smelling cell. The small, thin man named Kreig renewed his struggle against his bonds, his pathetic whimpers muffled by the dirty rag that gagged him. The rag had been something Grey had found in the recesses of the dungeon when he had tired of Kreig’s bullshit and wailing. Admittedly, Greyson hadn’t exactly been gentle when he had shoved into the bound man’s mouth roughly enough to split his lips and crack a few teeth. A fine trail of blood trickled down Kreig’s weak, nearly imperceptible chin as it shook with his muffled screams and pitiful whimpers. It was the least he deserved.
“No sense struggling there, my Voltanese friend. Let me explain, as you clearly do not understand what is at play here. Those are constrictor knots.” Grey informed the man.
Raising his bastard blade, Grey indicate to the braided leather thongs that bound the man’s wrists and ankles to the metal posts on either side. “The more you struggle, the tighter they get. I think you’ll appreciate the irony that it was a Healer who taught me this. A daughter of the Tempest she was, lived her life on great Stormlords ships tending to the crew as they sailed the seas and oceans.”
As promised, the leather thongs had tightened until they were now embedded in the flesh of the man’s wrists. Blood seeped out from around the man’s bondages and dripped slowly to the cell’s dirt floor.
“Supposed to use it as a ligature, she told me. It stops blood flow pretty well. The more you struggle, the tighter they get. See, your hands are turning a lovely shade of purple and soon enough they’ll turn black when the flesh dies.” Grey rested his blade on the man’s wrist. He could feel the man trembling as it reverberated up the length of his ancient sword. “And then we’ll just have to cut them off. Can you still be a Hand of the Ascended without your hands? I think that may raise a couple of problems, don’t you?”
Kreig shrieked through his ragged gag, the sound a wretched echo in the damp confines of the dungeon. Greyson paid no heed to the man’s desperate cries; in truth, he welcomed them. There were more than a few souls in nearby cells who Grey would love to hear Kreig's screams, to savor a foretaste of the reckoning that awaited them all.
But Greyson had grown weary of Kreig's pitiful pleas for mercy. Men like him were not worthy of such compassion; they were deserving of judgment, and this one would not escape his penance. The knight’s resolve hardened, a grim satisfaction settling over him as he contemplated the fate that awaited the coward before him.
“So, back to my question: do you know why I came to Nhors?” Greyson asked again, his voice a low rumble in the stillness.
Kreig whimpered softly, a feeble sound.
“Is that a no, then?” Greyson continued, a wry smile creeping onto his lips. “Allow me to satisfy your curiosity. I came to Nhors for many reasons. I enjoy the biting cold, I have a weakness for their tall, golden-haired women, and their beer is the stuff of legends.” He leaned closer, towering over the bound man, who let out another cry and renewed his futile struggle against the ropes that held him fast. “But most of all, I came here for you, my friend.”
Once more, Kreig whimpered, a pitiful sound that echoed in the dark, a harbinger of the reckoning to come.
“You see, Kreig,” Greyson said, his voice dripping with disdain, “setting fire to a Sanctuary in the dead of night while the Healers slept inside might have earned you some twisted admiration back home. But here, my friend, it’s a different tale.” He leaned in closer, his eyes narrowing. “Beyond the Frozen Straits, we hold a far darker view of that so-called faith the Ascended and his minions cling to like drowning men grasping at straws. To us, it’s a rot, a festering blight that eats away at the soul. And to save ourselves, we must excise it, root and stem.”
Kreig gulped loudly through his gag. Fear reverberated through the entire man’s body.
Grey opened his mouth to speak once more when a soft, feminine throat gently cleared itself in the hall behind, reminding the big man that he only had a little time. Not that Grey minded; he was a man who preferred to kill his opponents in a fair fight. But the likes of Kreig, someone who locked sleeping Healers in their own home before igniting the flames of destruction, hardly warranted such honour.
It was not the first Sanctuary Kreig had reduced to ashes, but it was the first time he had stayed long enough for the villagers to witness his wild-eyed look of ecstasy as he had bathed in the glow of the fires. Evidently, Kreig wasn’t a smart man, fanatically loyal to his faith, but not the sharpest sword in the ranks. The people of Niradhos, the small town a few days south of Belmhor, had been all too happy to provide Grey and his companions with the details.
Thanks to their accounts, Grey and his companions, who had been relentless in their pursuit, were able to track down Kreig before he could unleash his madness upon another innocent Sanctuary.
“If only you hadn’t played so hard to get,” Grey said, a sardonic smile ghosting his lips. “We could have lingered in this moment, savoured it like a fine vintage, taking our time as you truly deserve.”
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He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a caustic whisper, “But now, alas, it seems fate has other plans for us. Time is a cruel mistress, and I fear our dance will be a hasty one.”
Once more, Liandris—the Harbinger who lurked in the shadows of the cell—cleared her throat, the sound a reminder of her presence. Grey felt a scowl tugging at the corners of his mouth, a silent curse forming in his mind for having delayed this moment too long.
It would have been far more fitting to draw this out, to revel in the dread that coiled around Kreig like a serpent. But here they were, with time slipping away like sand through his fingers. He cursed softly; this man deserved more than a swift reckoning. He deserved to feel every moment of his impending death.
“Well Kreig, my man, seems it’s your lucky day, and as I don’t have the time to really mess around here,” Grey informed the man whose struggles had torn the flesh at his wrists and ankles open. Blood now almost rushed onto the floor. “Not to worry, though. The lady who awaits you in the hall beyond is also a Harbinger. Are you ready to face the Gates of Judgement? No? Too bad.”
Fire light flickered down the length of the bastard blade as it arched across the cell and the bound and gagged man screamed into the filthy rag that served as his gag. Whether it was the blade, the big man wielding it or the prospect of the Harbinger that made the man scream, Grey couldn’t tell for sure, all he knew was that he couldn’t care less, and no one else down here did either.
***************
There is no honour in killing a helpless foe, the words of his uncle echoed in Grey’s head, but in Krieg’s case it felt justified. Kreig was not merely a man; he was a monster. And those who burned down Sanctuaries and killed innocents as they slept deserved no less than to be hunt down, bound and gagged and slaughtered like the rabid beasts they were.
As far as Grey was concerned, Kreig had not only taken the lives of the Healers, but of all those that they may have someday saved. All in the name of some new god.
Long ago, Grey had shed any illusions regarding the divine and their so-called designs. He had witnessed too much in this harsh world—too much betrayal, too much suffering—to cling to the notion that gods, whether ancient or newly forged, cared for the plight of mortals. If they existed at all, they were indifferent, blind to the agony unfolding beneath them, offering no solace, no justice. In Grey's eyes, they were all the same: distant, selfish bastards, content to watch the world burn while they remained aloof in their heavens.
Stepping into the dimly lit hall beyond the cell, Grey wiped the blood from his blade, using the very rag that had once muffled Kreig’s cries and screams of terror. He slid the sword into its black leather scabbard with a practised ease, the familiar motion grounding him. Pulling his worn gloves back on, the big Illumascan set off toward the dungeon’s exit, the haunting melody of Liandris, the Harbinger, echoing through the stone corridors behind him.
“Did he shit himself? I wager he did, didn’t he?” Vonn Iceilar asked, falling seamlessly into step beside Grey as he emerged from the shadows of the dungeons into the blinding light of the castle’s inner courtyard.
The sun’s rays poured down like molten gold, and Grey squinted against the glare, the brightness threatening to overwhelm him. A fresh blanket of snow had fallen overnight, shimmering under the sunlight. It was a stark contrast to the dark deeds they had just left behind, a reminder that the world outside could still hold a veneer of beauty, even as darkness lurked just beneath the surface.
The dark-haired Arterian stood just at Grey’s shoulder, but his quick strides kept pace effortlessly with the towering Hill-born Illumascan as they crossed the courtyard toward their waiting mounts, vapours rising in soft clouds from the horses’ flared nostrils.
“Mhmm, twice,” Grey nodded, recalling the stench that had clung to the cell like a curse. “That blasted place reeked like a week-old snow ox in the midst of rutting season. What are they feeding the damned prisoners here?”
“Whatever they can scrounge, I suspect.” Vonn shrugged, his tone casual despite the gravity of their surroundings. “I’ve known Keddel, the chef of Bhalmor, for years. He’s not a man renowned for his culinary finesse, but he’ll make sure you don’t starve.”
“Yes, of that I am unfortunately aware. I just didn’t think we were eating the same food as the prisoners.” Grey sighed heavily, running a hand through his short, dark hair, “I suppose that explains a few things about these past few days here.”
With a resigned shake of his head, he mounted his steed.
Vonn chuckled softly as he veered toward his mount, a stout chestnut mare adorned with a long flaxen mane and tail, her face marked by a bold white blaze that ran down the centre of her nose. The mare snorted gently, steam curling from her flared nostrils and dissipating into the crisp winter air.
Though spring had made its tentative arrival in the Midlands—those fertile lands nestled below the frozen straits that separated the middle continent from the north—winter clung to this place with stubborn tenacity. The folk of Nhores would have to endure another month of chill before they would finally see the first thaw of the year.
As Vonn settled into the saddle, the mare shifted beneath him, her breath mingling with the frost, a reminder that the harshness of the season was far from over.
Grey’s own mount had journeyed with him from the Iron Hills, high above Illumasca. A dark grey stallion, dappled with flecks of white, and a mane and tail as black as coal. When Grey first ventured north to the lands of Everwinter, the Bastard of the Iron Spire had harboured a flicker of concern for his four-legged companion. After all, Selorac had been foaled in the rugged hills, where winters could stretch long and bitter but would always yield to the sweet relief of thaw. There, the land embraced the summer sun, transforming its slopes into a lush tapestry of green.
But in the realms of eternal frost, little ever thawed. The snow lay thick, never truly melting, just as the ground beneath them remained locked in a perpetual freeze—a little like the hearts of its people. Yet, it was this very harshness that had drawn Grey to the north, for amidst the cold, he found a beauty that was raw and unyielding, and it ignited a fierce longing within him.
Just then, across the courtyard, the heavy hardwood door to Bhalmor’s dungeon swung open on its heavy iron hinges, and Liandris, the Singer of the Dead, stepped out into the light of the courtyard.
In all his years beyond the frozen straits, most of the Arterians Grey had encountered embodied the unique beauty of the stark landscape they called home. Each had a complexion as pale as freshly fallen snow, their hair mirroring that pristine whiteness. They were smaller in stature, both in weight and height, yet their true strength lay hidden beneath their delicate appearances.
However, what truly caught the Illumascan off guard were their large, doll-like eyes, framed by lashes that resembled frost-kissed branches. Their pale blue irises, nearly white, possessed an unsettling quality, nearly vanishing against the stark whiteness of their sclerae, save for a thick dark band that outlined them.
Yet, when Grey met Liandris and Vonn, he was struck by their striking difference from their kin. Though they shared the same diminutive size and pale complexion, an uncommon trait marked them as distinct: their hair and eyes were as dark as the deepest night.
As Liandris traversed the cobbled courtyard, her figure was diminutive, her hips and breasts so flat that for a fleeting moment, Greyson was reminded of a child. Yet beneath her slight frame lay a lifetime of shadows; at over a century old, the Harbinger was anything but childlike. Just as Vonn had done before her, Liandris drew the hood of her long, white fur cloak over her head, concealing the darkness of her tightly woven braids.
With each step, the cloak billowed around her, parting just enough to unveil her dark grey riding habit beneath; worn leather pants that clung like a second skin, sturdy boots meant for the rigors of the north, and a heavy woollen tunic. Greyson couldn't fathom how these northern folk braved such frigid climes dressed so lightly. Just looking at them sometimes made him uncomfortably cold.
“Let us continue, shall we.” There was a tightness to her face that was unusual for even her, as Liandris swung up lightly onto her horse, a mare with a coat as black as her rider’s hair and a mane and tail white as snow, which let the men know they had been told rather than asked.
“Of course,” Vonn said almost too cheerfully, “Tensada is about a day’s ride. We can get a room at the inn, get a good meal, and sleep in before we head home.”
Tensada, also known as the Last Post, was the final human city before the three-day trek into the lands of the Everwinter. It was usually a good place to stop and try to gauge the pending weather before venturing forward. Both the Arterians in his company could, more or less, survive whatever harsh winter elements came their way, but as a human, as much as he hated to admit it, Grey was a touch more fragile in that regard.
Remaining silent, Liandris dug her heels into her mare’s sides hard enough to make the poor creature grunt a little before they launched off toward the castle’s open gates. Briefly, the men exchanged sideways glances and Vonn lifted his shoulders in a shrug before they both urged their own mounts to follow suit.