Caeden squinted into the early sunset and hoped Raeburn’s men would join them soon. Never mind the fact that every moment they wasted waiting out here gave the smugglers and traffickers inside ample time to prepare or escape, exploring these ruins in the dark seemed foolhardy.

Ser Morley’s ‘persuasive’ measures had convinced Ivan Gueterath that giving up his buyers was his only option, and the disgraced nobleman had pointed his remaining fingers at the head of the Trade Council, the vainglorious Master Bartus and two other members. Caeden would have happily passed this mission off to a Knight-Captain to oversee once they gleaned a location of the Marketplace from the blubbering fool, but the mention of The Haunted Keep set his hairs on end and made his skin crawl.

They were a remnant from Ancient Times, one of the thousands of ruins buried across Archaicron. Every civilization was built over the structures the Ancients abandoned when they ascended to godhood, and the Casimir Empire was no different.

Situated deep within Thorn Wood in the Everard Kingdom and snuggled close to the borders of Landon Province and the Ashen Fields, it was a great location for a smuggling operation if the smugglers themselves were entirely insane. With everything going on between Ava and the Spirits, the flimsy connection to the Ancients was a coincidence he could not ignore.

Caeden assumed that much of the keep was buried underground, the tip of a crumbling tower and parts of the remaining battlements were exposed to the light of day. There was still evidence of an excavation site erected by the Mage’s Guild but abandoned soon after once numerous reports of inexplicable incidents occurred, and more and more mages succumbed to the madness. People had steered clear of the Haunted Keep ever since. Its entrances were boarded up and magical barriers were placed over them. This place was forbidden. Yet, the Marketplace thrives here. How and why? He fingered the gold satchel at his hip and could not shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

It was in the way Master Bartus blubbered and trembled with his two cohorts. How he was willing to lose four fingers first before giving up the location. How they refused to look at the ruins behind him. Whatever these men were involved in it was fear that motivated them into action or inaction. Enough fear to betray their nation and people. He tried to stifle a shiver. Are we truly dealing with ancient threats? Or is the truth of it simpler, that a rogue sorcerer is behind it all? Could there be one in existence capable of such great feats?

A procession of horsemen broke his thought process. Both men and horse were adorned in the deep purple of the Everard Kingdom. At the center of the procession rode ‘The Winemaker’ King Raeburn himself. It was clear the man was made for the battlefield and not for pomp and ceremony, as the brawny man looked uncomfortable keeping his kingly stance atop his horse and promptly abandoned it once he reached Caeden’s side.

Master Bartus’ cohort whimpered. The reaction was unsurprising since the man was Everard’s representative and its King was known to have very little patience when it came to treachery and disloyalty.

“Prince Caeden, Everard is honoured to have you. Though I had hoped it would be under more festive circumstances,” King Raeburn boomed and bowed, his dark brown eyes glimmered with unbridled mirth. He was once again struck by the stark difference between King Raeburn and his daughter.

“The honour is mine, King Raeburn,” Caeden responded, recognising the king’s bow but ignoring the man’s attempt to gauge his current mood toward his future marriage prospects. “When I requested aid from Everard, I did not think it would come from the King himself.”

“I could not sit well on my fat arse while a trafficking syndicate is operating on my front door and one of my subjects is involved. Is this him?” he asked, pointing a large finger at Everard’s quivering Trade Council representative.

“Yes, but…”

The man was already incoherent on the floor at his feet by the time Caeden realized that Raeburn had swung his heavy maul into the representative’s head. The resulting crack still echoed in the tense air. Raeburn continued to smash at the man’s face, each swing sending bits of blood, dirt and gore flying onto Master Bartus’s silk robes and Caeden’s sabatons and greaves. He stopped when there was nothing left of the man’s head but paste. The Winemaker, indeed.

Once the Marketplace was taken care of, Raeburn would string this body up along with the rest they find inside as a brutal message to future transgressors. The spectacle at the very least would give Master Bartus pause from getting any ideas once inside.

Caeden ordered his men to put the body in a cart for Raeburn and commanded Ser Morley to get the rest into position. Raeburn fell in beside him.

“How well-versed in the ancient magic are your sorcerers?” Caeden asked as two females in purple robes took position behind them. They were identical in appearance with violet eyes and long dark hair adorned with amethyst circlets.

“Well enough to protect us from the worst of its effects, but I would advise against dallying overlong with whatever we find within, everyone succumbs to the madness eventually. Swift and decisive is our way forward,” Raeburn replied.

Caeden indicated Ser Morley forward and the Knight-Commander pushed Master Bartus into motion by the collar. The tradesman was not willing but stood no chance against Ser Morley's grip and strength. Like it or not, he would be the first to enter.

The sorcerers swished their arms in tandem and summoned a reinforced protective barrier around them. The men broke passed the bordered door, and Caeden instantly felt a forbidding emanating from the darkness inside.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“The protective seal was broken and replaced by an imitation,” one of the sorcerers declared after inspecting the entrance.

“Then we are dealing with a rogue sorcerer,” Caeden whispered. “Be on your guard and brace for spell fire!”

The contingent moved slowly down the tower stairs until they entered a hallway. The place was eerily quiet, its walls foreign and lost in a time long past. A familiar malice seemed to radiate from its walls and Caeden’s hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He felt the stifling presence of the wraith from Spectermere here.

“Tread carefully and touch nothing,” the sorcerer whispered. “There is magic woven into the structure, and we are most unwelcome.”

“I will lead,” the other said. “I feel the tug of the profane coming from further below.”

The sorcerer led them through a maze of rooms and passages. As they moved further into the ruined keep it became more evident that people had been there recently. Burnt-down candles and footprints littered the place. Dried blood smears ran along the floor toward what Caeden assumed was the dungeon. Nondescript flesh piles and body parts littered the floor, along with large piles of dust. There were signs that a fight had broken out here. One involving humans, possibly the traffickers, and something else he could not determine.

“Fern’s Breath!” Raeburn exclaimed at the gory scene.

“This is odd for traffickers,” Caeden looked at Bartus, the man was a dribbling mess and kept his focus squarely on the floor before his feet.

Caeden kneeled before a pile of dust and tested the texture between his thumb and forefingers. It was off-white, harsh and gritty with a lingering sulphurous smell.

“Sand?” Raeburn asked.

“Ash”

“Here?” Raeburn asked, perplexed.

“You have heard the rumours of the wights at the Wyvern Jaw, have you not?”

“Gods, Caeden what are you saying? That they have somehow escaped through the quarantine?”

“Or someone has smuggled them out,” Caeden responded, ignoring Raeburn's failure to use his proper title and suppressing his irritation. Now was not the time to dwell on small matters.

“If magic held them together,” the one sorcerer interjected.

“There are no residual effects left remaining in the pile,” the other finished.

So, either we are dealing with an expert, or no magic was used here at all. Nevertheless, it was only a theory.

They moved to the dungeon and heard the cacophony before they saw what it emanated from. Many voices, choked and groaned as if in unending pain from below.

“What in Holden’s name is that?” Raeburn muttered.

“People afflicted with the Dark Plague. Dead ones from what I gather,” Caeden replied.

“We isolated the infected at the quarantine camps and burned the dead. What are they doing here?”

Caeden moved his torch along the cells, just out of reach of their grasping hands and attempted to count the bodies in the cells. His attention was drawn to moaning below the grate at his feet. A mass of bodies moved against each other and reached up. Too many, enough to spread unchecked. The wraith would cripple and conquer the Empire without needing to lift a sword against it.

Caeden straightened and rushed to Bartus, holding him just out of reach from the grasping infected.

“I will have the name of the magic wielder you are working with!” Caeden roared.

“I cannot! He will kill me!” Bartus sniveled.

Caeden pulled him away from the cells and locked eyes with him. “That is true. He probably will. I, on the other hand, will keep you very much alive and have you suffer through every moment of it. Do not test the limits of my patience Bartus. If you want a quick and painless death, you best choose your side wisely.”

“I – It’s…” Bartus mumbled his next word as his jaw cracked and dislocated. It hung from his face at an unnatural angle, then his arms and legs cracked, and he fell to the ground in a crumpled heap. It felt like an age before the cracking of bones stopped.

“Fern’s Breath!” Raeburn exclaimed.

“We are not dealing with a regular mage,” the one sorcerer spoke, paling as she stared at Master Bartus’ deformed flesh pile.

“He is well-versed in magic most profane,” the other interjected. If she was disturbed by what they witnessed, it did not show on her face. “He is a magic-wielder ranked Sorcerer or higher.”

Neither sorcerer showed any inclination to inspect Bartus' body. Either they were afraid to or knew there would be nothing there for them to find. Their confirmation was a good lead. But was this the work of the same sorcerer in Spectermere?

“What is the range on casting this spell?” Caeden asked them, looking over the mangled body.

“Depending on the mastery of the magic-wielder,” the one answered.

“It can be cast from anywhere,” the other interjected. The twins moved to opposite ends of the dungeon scanning the walls and ceilings.

“Sight of the target is needed, but a direct line of sight is unnecessary,” the first stated.

She squinted at the red obsidian gem embedded in the wall above the door. It had a swirling rune carved into its center. She threw three arcane missiles at it, and it cracked and shattered into tiny shards of glass.

“A scrying eye,” she said afterwards.

“Its partner eye will need to be housed within the borders of the Empire to be at an effective range,” the other interjected.

Interesting. If we were dealing with a skilled and powerful magic wielder, teleportation was an option, but it seemed unlikely. Best work with the theory that there was a second magic-wielder involved. That limited the potential wizard suspects down to one at the very least.

Raeburn grabbed his arm, stunning Caeden out of his train of thought once again. “What in Holden’s name is going on here, Caeden?”

“You forget yourself, King Raeburn,” Caeden admonished and pulled his arm from the man’s grip, irked once again by his familiarity. “As relayed in my message to you when I arrived, there is a wraith in Spectermere that seeks to overthrow the emperor and conquer the Casimir Empire, this is the beginning of its invasion. And it seems it is being aided by one or more magic wielders.

“Spread out as far as you can, find something, anything that can point us to who is responsible,” he ordered the men.

Before he could move to fan out, he was grabbed by another hand. This time by a tall, gaunt, grey-faced man. Amidst the writhing, grasping, dead-eyed bodies surrounding him, he seemed eerily calm, still, and present. A faint red glow glimmered in the depths of his eyes.

“Your attempts to rail against your destiny are futile,” the afflicted spoke over the baleful moans. “Yet, I cannot help but admire your force of will. We are very much alike, you and I.”

Caeden attempted to rip his arm away, but the creature’s grip was strong and steadfast. Raeburn heaved his maul high and let the full weight of his strength behind it fall on the elbow of the creature. He pulled his arm from the weakened grip of its broken arm. It did not flinch or shriek in pain, it only retracted its arm from between the cage bars.

“Herald the Shadow King’s return, Prince. Soon the world will quake before our feet,” it said.

A strange red light illuminated Raeburn’s horrified face as it disappeared behind the writhing bodies. Caeden looked down to see where it emanated from.

Between the grate, underneath the writhing bodies of the undead, a sigil glowed. Becoming brighter and brighter until the eerie light blinded him. The cages rattled and shook, sigils within each cell lit up. Red and angry. It reached a crescendo, and flames burst forth around him. The floor gave in, and Caeden fell into the raging inferno below.