There were few places in Maeraland as inhospitable as Wademount.

At the southernmost tip of the realm, Wademount was comprised of a series of treacherous, severe mountains ranging east and west that did not appear as much majestic as they did threatening.

The ridge of mountains formed a natural barrier that made a nautical approach from the south inadvisable, if not impossible.

Worse, if one managed to survive landfall their difficulties would only grow. Once past the mountains, to proceed in any direction would require you to pass through harsh, unyielding desert. For days on end, travelers would only see craggy, dry rocks and sparse, needle-like vegetation.

Water could only be found by the most knowledgeable and enterprising. It was there to be had, but the effort required to retrieve it was more than most could manage.

And yet, thought Baron Garrick Varsus, someone decided to build a castle here.

Baron Varsus stood at the forefront of his four hundred strong troops, waiting for… well, waiting for something. When he and his men had arrived at this Gods-forsaken end of the world he had not been told much more than to hold this position and prevent anyone from going north.

And so he did.

Looking upward, he could just make out the white rocks and the forbidding shape of the castle somehow carved into the cliffs of the very mountains.

They had always referred to it as Wademount Castle. The name was lazy and uninspired, but there was little reason to devote thought to anything better.

Varsus looked upward. He knew it must be misleadingly high and far away, but he focused, and yes he could just make it out. The dull sliver of moonlight available this night was not much, but Varsus thought it was a testament to the sheer size of the monstrous castle that it could be seen at all from down here.

Usually among the tallest of men he accompanied, Varsus felt dwarfed by the thing. It held an air of menace, the architecture of the awful place such that it appeared to have a face gazing down on them.

It was not known who had built the castle. History told it had been here, already long-abandoned, when the first men came to Maeraland.

Early in the founding days of Maeraland, the House of Wademont, supposedly a noble house from the old lands, attempted to rule from this terrible place. They found it already built and strove to make it the seat of their new empire.

That had been a tactical mistake. The inhospitable terrain cut the castle off from natural resources. The House of Maera had led the struggle against them, and eventually won.

Perhaps things had once been different, but with the lands as they were now, it would be nearly impossible to simply live in the castle, much less rule from there.

He supposed that was why no one objected to naming this place after the hated Wademounts.

Still, when Varsus thought of the titanic effort and resources necessary to construct such a thing, he thought such men must have been formidable, indeed.

So what happened to those men long ago? Varsus asked himself, knowing even as he formed the thought that now was not the time for such questions.

A harsh wind blew around him then, a fitting response to his line of thought. Varsus wouldn't have been surprised if the wind came from the castle itself.

He was suddenly glad he had not been called upon to enter the castle with the Prince and his men. He would have done it without hesitation, for that was his duty, but still… he felt he was better off down here.

With that thought, he turned to face his men. He smiled at how disciplined they were. They wore the red and gray livery of the Barony of Varsus, the home that bore his family name.

Most of the men were older than he. At twenty-five summers, he knew many of them had considered him a boy, and not ready to rule the Barony when his father had passed over five years ago.

Varsus frowned, thinking of his father. Garrick Varsus II had been a giant of a man, but the wasting sickness had reduced him to skin and bones within a year.

Before his death, he had commanded respect, even from his superiors. Every time there was a crisis, his father had known what to do. It had been instinctive in the man.

Varsus feared he lacked the same ability.

Even so, he had worked hard to earn the respect of his men and his subjects. Despite his relatively young age, he felt he had done that. Though his forces were small compared to some, the near constant string of skirmishing on the northern coast kept his men sharp and alert.

Not so with others. Varsus, his knots of curly, dark red-brown hair whipping around his face, turned to survey the rest of the scene.

He saw banners flapping in the wind. They bore sigils of the many regions that made up the Kingdom of Maeraland. Most he recognized, but a few he had never seen. He thought they must be from smaller principalities within the larger regions.

When the King calls his Banners, the Bannermen must ever ride.

Varsus smiled his lopsided grin as he recited the unofficial oath of those noble men who upheld the King’s rule.

His smile faded somewhat as he viewed the relative chaos of other forces compared to his own. Men were restless, even shouting out to their superiors, asking when they would fight.

Some were breaking ranks. Not to leave, but to mill about in disorganized fashion. Some were even roughhousing. Varsus could hear the harsh laughter and even harsher language.

Varsus did not approve of that, but he could not very well tell another commander how to lead their own men.

The wind picked up then, fierce and howling. His cloak whipped around him, snapping in the powerful gust.

“My Lord, we caught a few trying to slip by us to the north!”

Varsus spun on his heels to face the speaker. The wind was such that he had not heard the man approach.

He berated himself for the lapse. He thought this was an ill-omened night, and it would be best for him to be on his guard.

However, the man who approached was no enemy. It was his own Master of Arms, Lord Abel Multon.

“Say again, Multon!” Varsus shouted. The wind seemed to grow in intensity as if to spite him, drowning out the words of his subordinate.

But Multon did not speak again. Both men paused, looking around in dismay as horses shied and balked at the wind. Supplies blew away, and men broke ranks to chase them down.

Ill-omened, indeed, Varsus thought.

The wind calmed a bit then and Multon repeated himself. Shouting perhaps louder than necessary.

“I say, we caught three of the foul mercenaries trying to cut around our forces and make a break across the desert!”

Multon shouted the word with contempt in his voice. His disgust at the desperate gamble was readily apparent.

The terrain here went almost directly from craggy mountain rock ahead of them to the south, and flat, featureless desert behind them to the north.

Even with just the bit of small moon out tonight, anyone trying to run for it across the desert was lit up like the King’s own birthday festival.

Varsus smiled as he spoke. “Good man, Multon! I would speak with them.”

Then Varsus followed behind Multon as the Master of Arms led the way. They walked through the company of his own men. Many called out greetings or gave nods of respect as they passed.

As he walked, Varsus considered Multon. The man was thirty seasons his senior, and the years were showing their effect.

Though still tall, Multon was beginning to stoop a little, and his hair, already mostly white, was thinning markedly on the top. His pale skin seemed even more white than usual.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

He had been the Master of Arms at the Barony when Varsus’ departed father had ruled. The two had been firm friends, and Multon was almost a second father to Varsus.

One day Varsus knew he would have to bury Multon, just as he had his own father.

By the Gods, I am maudlin this night! Varsus thought. He endeavored to keep his thoughts positive.

It was this place. He knew it. This place was dark and foul, and he and his men had been left out here by the Royal Family to wait and wait and wait.

No wonder his nerves were becoming frayed.

Finally, they came to a rigid grouping of six of his men. Varsus could see that they had formed a ring around three darkly clad mercenaries. They had skirmished with this lot earlier when they had arrived at Wademount.

The men, not needing to be told, parted when Varsus arrived, allowing access to the hapless captives.

Varsus strode forward and stopped directly before the man closest to him.

“You,” he commanded, “what goes on in the castle? What was your intention here tonight?”

The man on the ground was middle-aged, stocky, and handsome. His reddish blond hair and the light-colored dusting of beard on his face contrasted with the dark coloring of his clothing and leather armor.

The captive man looked up at Varsus and smiled. The smile was harsh. Varsus could tell it was the smile of a cynical, jaded man who believed in nothing.

“Well, my Lord,” began the man, “you grant me and mine safe passage out of here and I’ll tell you every—”

The man did not finish. Varsus kicked him in the face, laying the man out on his back.

In an instant, the man scrambled to his feet, appearing as if he would rush Varsus, but the men surrounding him grabbed him. Not gently. They forced him back down onto his knees.

“You’ll not bargain with me,” Varsus said, his voice calm. “Now, I asked you some questions which you have not answered. I am becoming agitated.”

Varsus was not lying. He had little patience and even less respect for mercenaries and brigands.

“WELL?” Multon demanded, about ready to kick the man in the face again.

“Fine!” shouted the brigand. “Fine, I’ll tell you.”

Both Varsus and Multon leaned in expectantly.

“It’s the Princess. She’s a witch!” the last came out in a hiss that somehow transformed into laughter.

“Can you believe it? The Princess! Wait until word of this gets out to— !”

Multon backhanded the man. The weight of his armored glove knocking one of the mercenary’s teeth out.

The man collapsed to the ground and lay still.

“Filthy hireling! How dare he speak of the Princess like that!” Multon snapped. Then he turned to the other two captive mercenaries. These two were watching wide-eyed.

Multon looked as if he might advance on them next, so Varsus stepped between them.

“Is there anything you would care to add?” he asked the captives, trying to keep his voice steady. The slander of his Princess also angered him.

The wind picked up again, rendering speech impossible. Men braced themselves, wrapping their cloaks tight around themselves to ride it out.

As it died down, Varsus looked again at the captives.

Each shook their head violently in the negative. They had nothing to say.

Varsus was sure Multon and the guard could get them to say something, but he wasn’t sure it would be the truth.

Damnation, he thought. Was the Princess of the realm actually here at this bleak end of the world? He could not imagine what purpose would call for such a thing.

He frowned. They had been left out here with little information while the Gods only knew what had happened in the castle.

Earlier that week, just as they had arrived there had been bright, sharp explosions of light and sound coming from the castle, and the wind was such that it sounded like horrible, inhuman moans.

In fact, Varsus could swear he had heard a voice on the wind, cursing “foul humans” in a guttural, malevolent voice.

But that must have been some trick of the wind.

He cursed his luck. His province was the northernmost province in the entire realm, and as such he had the furthest to ride when the banners had been called.

They had ridden like demons for the better part of a month to cross the kingdom, letting nothing delay them. They left behind men and horses that could not keep up, and they cut through all but the most dense terrain to maintain their speed.

Varsus felt it had all been for naught. It was clear that whatever happened here, it had been over and done with days ago. Other, more southern houses were given the glory, and he was left to look the fool and clean up after everyone else.

As usual.

The wind whipped up into a brief frenzy, nearly knocking him over, and then just as quickly subsided.

Ill-omened, he thought. He was being unmanned by this dark place. In fact, even with his own men surrounding him, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.

***

Avalaine watched Varsus intently from a short distance away.

With a little help from her mother, she had managed to slip away from her father’s watchful eye as he tended to more important business.

Avalaine smiled at the thought of her poor father, The Earl of Teyscha, badgered by his determined and relentless wife into taking not only her, but his own daughter clear across the Kingdom into only the Gods knew what.

No one had much information. Certainly not her father. He had demanded to know why they should march to this place, but his demand was denied. The riders had come, and the orders had been clear.

ROUSE THE BANNERS! BRING ALL AVAILABLE FORCES TO WADEMOUNT CASTLE! ROUSE THE BANNERS!

The orders had not just any seal, they came with the seal of the King, himself. There would be no arguing.

Whatever this is, it must be of the utmost urgency, thought Avalaine.

She was hiding in the shadows cast by the torchlight and low moonlight. No one had seen her position next to a hastily-erected tent of the Varsus men.

Avalaine examined Garrick Varsus from her hiding place. To her, he was Garrick, but most everyone else referred to him simply as ‘Varsus’. She suspected even Garrick thought of himself that way.

Her gaze lingered on him, taking everything in. She liked to look at him, and she felt a charge of something rush through her as she looked. He was so close. She hadn’t seen him in over a year.

Her father had known full well why she, a Lady with no business in a fighting company, had wanted to cross the entire continent with his forces. He had most certainly disapproved.

Again, Avalaine smiled. Her mother had known too and had made it happen.

However, even though she had put so much effort into getting there to see him, she couldn't bring herself to step forward and speak to Garrick, even though he was less than twenty paces away.

Her stomach was tied up in knots, and she was afraid she would say something stupid. She usually did around him.

“My lady, what in the name of the Gods are you doing here?”

The voice, coming from directly behind her, made Avalaine jump and blurt out a quick yelp of alarm.

She spun to see a young soldier of the Varsus Barony. He was not threatening, but his face showed utter confusion at her presence.

He looked her up and down in disbelief.

Avalaine knew how it must appear. She was slight, tall for a woman, but not so tall as the average man. Even more, she was quite young still, so her youthful appearance made her even more out of place.

Finally, she had been told all her life that her blonde hair and clear blue eyes granted her great beauty. And her bright lavender dress peeked out from under her cloak, revealing someone who most definitely did not belong there.

She supposed finding such a person here in the camp of soldiers would be surprising.

“Ah, er—,” she began, not knowing what excuse she was going to give.

Then a voice she recognized well spoke, again from behind her.

“Lady Avalaine?” the voice was commanding, but she could hear the confusion in the question.

Her cheeks burned, but she had no choice now. She closed her eyes, rueing her terrible luck. Then she opened them, turned and affected an air of nonchalance.

“Garrick, by the Gods I did not even see you!” as she spoke, she dropped into a deep curtsy..

Avalaine was gratified at the surprised expression on his face. She had now put Garrick on his back foot.

“My lady, you show me too much deference!” He took a step back from Avalaine and glanced around nervously. Some of his men had gathered around their Lord and seemed amused.

Avalaine held the curtsy much longer than necessary. She knew he would find this behavior improper, at best.

Despite the fact that she held no formal title in her own right, and he technically outranked her, as the daughter of an Earl, she did not owe Garrick any deference. 

He surged forward, and with a smooth series of motions, bent down, took Avalaine’s hand, then gently pulled her back to her feet.

“My lady, this dark region is truly no place for you… or any Lady! What in the name of the Gods brings you here?”

Avalaine smiled at the confusion in his voice and on his face. Despite his great intelligence, the man simply could not or would not see what was right in front of his face.

She hadn’t let go of his hand yet. He had attempted to drop his hand once they stood, but she had held onto it.

Garrick realized this and yanked his hand back, offering his apologies.

“I will walk you back to the Earl’s camp, my lady. You should not be here. This place is foul and dangerous.”

Master Multon approached the two and cleared his throat. Avalaine saw that he had been standing behind Garrick, observing the encounter.

“My Lord, surely one of the men here can escort the Lady Avalaine back to her father’s camp.” Multon said. His voice was flat, and his eyes locked onto Avalaine’s.

She did not look away. The two of them had a strained relationship. A year earlier, Multon had as much as told her, in so many words, that her semi-public interest in the Baron was scaring off more suitable matches.

Before anyone could answer, the wind picked up, then seemed to double in strength.

Then it doubled again.

Avalaine was thrown into the Garrick’s arms, but she wasn’t able to enjoy it. The howling wind buffeted them so harshly that some soldiers fell to the ground.

Anything not securely fastened flew away into the night, never to be seen again. Multon only remained upright with the help of a young soldier, and Avalaine held onto Varsus for dear life.

The sound of the wind seemed to Avalaine like angry, horrible moaning.

All at once, a chill ran through her. Being in contact with Varsus, she felt it run through him, and she knew everyone else felt it, too.

Varsus felt as though his thoughts had been scrambled and then put back in the wrong order. He steeled himself against the odd feeling.

Then the wind subsided, and all was relatively still, leaving everyone to wonder if that had really just happened. Then people began moving about their duties again.

Varsus, painfully aware of the young girl in his arms, gently disentangled her and stepped back.

Avalaine didn’t want him to do that, but she could not very well say it, especially with old Multon burning into her with his disapproving eyes.

“I think that was the worst one yet,” said Avalaine, looking up at Garrick. It amused her that his face was red with embarrassment.

“Indeed, my lady,” he responded, pointedly not looking at her. Then he seemed thoughtful.

“Earlier tonight, I could have sworn that I was being watched,” he said, turning to look up at the awful castle up in the mountains as he spoke.

Now Avalaine blushed.

That was probably me, she thought, but did not say.

Or maybe it is just this awful place.

With that thought, she stepped in closer to Garrick. He did not back away, as his attention was on the old castle.

But she peered into the shadows that formed just past the torchlight all around them, just in case there was something out there.

***

Something was out there. Something looked back at Avalaine, something that felt disgust and minor amusement as it watched these human meatbags carry on with their pitiful lives.

It would destroy them all one day. Maybe even one day soon.

Unfortunately, that day was not today.

It waited for now, outside of the limited range of human senses.

Waited, and plotted.