Bloody Mage
The eternal darkness of the Dead Moon extends its lunar embrace, swallowing the luminance of the Great Moon whole within its impenetrable black eye. A blanket of oppressive pitch-black descends, plunging every corner of Galt into a joyless void of utter black. The kingdom of Galt freezes in suspended time, snowflakes hanging motionless in the air. The intricate details of each snowflake sparkle with absolute clarity in a display of crystalline art, until a thin shard of silver light slices through the night.
released from a moment of flash frozen time. He clenches his fists and retrieves a razor-sharp crescent hunting dagger hidden in the wooden planks of the cot bed.
A frigid wind whips through the narrow window as Algwain peers down through the stone gap to the main courtyard below. Torches flicker held in place by brackets, casting an eerie glow on the dank yard where armed soldiers patrol the rampart. Their bows are nocked, poised, with arrows ready to fly.
Algwain squints and follows the archers’ line of sight. At the edge of his vision, beyond the castle walls, a black stallion stands, stomping the earth, shrouded in the sinister shadows of the abysmal night. The Black General, mounted upon the stallion, sits cloaked in shadowy darkness.
Algwain looks back to the main courtyard below, where busy soldiers scurry like roaches over shit. A pair of armed guards drag a youth from the kennels, gripping his long auburn hair and dragging him through the mud. The youth struggles forward, moving like a maimed dog on all fours. The guards laugh and jeer as they kick him toward the castle gate.
“Walk, dog,” one guard jeers. A heavy kick lands in the youth’s rib cage, followed by a boot to his arse, face-planting him into the mucky filth. The second guard grabs him by the hair, yanking him to his feet. In the dim light of the torches, the youth’s black and blue beaten face glares up at the guards with steely defiance. The guard’s clenched fist collides into the youth’s defiant face with a sickening crunch, blood spraying from his nose. Another devastating blow strikes the youth’s left eye, causing him to stagger and fall onto his back, landing with a splat in the filth.
“It can’t be —” a whisper escapes from Algwain’s lips. He gasps, his hand covering his mouth in shocked horror, frozen momentarily in time. “Elfred.” Algwain fights back disgust, his chest tightening, with a rumbling growl as he tucks his dagger into his belt.
A double horn blast echoes from the rampart just as he turns to leave.
“Open the gate,” Porker commands. The gate creaks open, protesting with age old groans. The guards drag Lord Aiseld’s son, Elfred, by his legs through the grime and dump his body outside the castle walls, leaving him in a pool of muddy mire.
Elfred crawls to his knees, his long hair matted with filth, obscuring his face. He kneels upright and gazes out into the depths of the pitch-black night.
The Black General gathers the reins and canters toward the gate, a thin sliver of emerging moonlight illuminates him with a ghostly light.
“Close the fecking gate,” Porker’s voice betrays his panic. The castle gate creaks shut, the brace falls, and the guards press their backs against the colossal wooden doors. Icy breath escapes their mouths as they whisper prayers to their gods. The archers’ arms tremble as they fight the urge to release their arrows.
The Black General rides toward Elfred, swaying in the saddle, his massive great helm fixed straight ahead, while his black pointed sabatons swing, studded at the front. He dismounts, and metal screeches as he unsheathes two yards of blackened steel from his back. The air whistles before it connects with Elfred’s neck in a wet thwack. The Black General remounts and trots back into the depths of the ominous night, gripping Elfred’s decapitated head by his blood-soaked hair within his gauntleted hand. His royal Galtish cape billows behind him in the freezing wind, flying the sigil of the rising dragon. In the distance, the guttural screeches of the Umbal fill the air with their putrid speech.
“Open the gate,” Porker’s voice is filled with urgency. The gate guards, reluctant, stare up the wall to Porker, their eyes wide with fear. “I said, open the bloody gate.” The gate groans as it swings open. “Burn the body.”
The guards drag Elfred’s headless corpse back through the open gate, leaving a trail of pumping blood.
Porker turns to face the courtyard, his gaze drifts up to the main tower. Through the depths of the night, amidst the fluttering torchlight, his sorrowful eyes meet Algwain’s horrified stare.
Algwain stands speechless as he swallows back the nausea which brews into sheer disgust, his face a mask of sheer, helpless horror. He looks down at the man he once knew, his fists clench tightly, nails digging into his palms, conflicted between anger, betrayal and grief.
Porker stares back at the boy he once considered good as his own, acknowledging Algwain with a shallow, resigned nod.
Algwain stumbles back from the window and settles on his bed. A soft rap echoes on his door.
“Come, Algwain,” a voice hisses from behind the door.
Algwain paces to the door and rests his ear against the gnarled wood surface.
“There’s no time, Algwain,” the peddler hisses through the narrow crack. “You must trust me; time is against us.” The door creaks open with a click.
Algwain peeks around the opening door and into the stone-walled corridor. Shrouded in veiled darkness, a faint blue glow emanates from the tip of the old peddler’s walking staff. Algwain gasps, the bodies of three guards lie sprawled in a grotesque heap, forming a human tangle of limbs, leather, and metal. The walls of the corridor are covered in gore, the guards’ remains, splattered in dripping fragments of meat and bone. “Feck me,” Algwain eyes wide with shock, as he looks at the old peddler.
“A regrettable deed for which I’ll be judged,” the peddler lowers his head, blood and shame dripping from him.
“Eindred and Eifear?” Algwain whispers into the silent darkness of the corridor.
“Here, general,” a pair of voices whisper back, their words carrying a sense of urgency.
The peddler turns, and the gentle blue glow of his staff illuminates the horrified faces of Algwain’s men. Their eyes convey a tale that Algwain neither wants nor needs to hear.
“I made a mistake,” the old peddler grumbles at himself, his voice laced with regret. “I thought we had more time,” his frustration echoes in the empty corridor.
“More time for what?” Algwain’s growing anger simmers beneath his surface. “This place has gone mad. They killed Elfred, Lord Aiseld’s heir. The black knight from the standing stones took his head.” Algwain’s fierce glare meets Eindred’s and Eifear’s, their eyes reflecting his rage. “He flies the royal banner.”
“We must proceed as planned,” the old peddler mutters to himself.
“We? There is no ‘we’. Whatever you have planned, it has nowt to do with us.”
“Wrong, Algwain,” Nirtesh retorts, surprising Algwain with his fury. His cataract eye shimmers with electric blue, and his staff glows brighter, casting an ethereal light. “This has everything to do with you. I haven’t waited for an entire age to be dismissed. Countless lifetimes have passed for this very moment.” The old man’s resolute words carry a weight of determination. “Trust me, and you may yet survive the night. They will not let us live, general.”
“Who are you?” Algwain can’t hide the contempt in his voice, his skepticism clear.
“Who and what I am will become clear in due time. Eindred, guard my chambers, no harm must befall the girl. She is more important than you know.”
Eindred looks to Algwain, who nods in halfhearted approval.
“Aye, general.” Eindred gives Algwain a quick nod before disappearing back into the deep darkness of the corridor, his echoing steps fade into silence.
“Algwain, I will need your blade.” The old man nods toward him, his request clear.
“Eifear, we must find you a bow.” Eifear gazes at the hunched old man with a perplexed and curious expression, unsure of what lies ahead. “These are dark times, and I do not hold all within these walls accountable. They have witnessed the fate that befalls those who resist the night. We must reclaim Merefen before this night is over.”
“Take Merefen? Are you mad?” Algwain shakes his head in disbelief, his voice filled with incredulity.
“You must provide me with safe passage to the outer keep, and I will take care of the rest. I am not the man I once was, but I still wield enough power to alter the course of events.”
“He’s one crazy bastard,” Eifear’s voice carries a mixture of skepticism and intrigue.
“I am many things, but I am not crazy, Eifear. I am one of The Elim, one of the three remaining mages, tasked with protecting this realm.”
Algwain and Eifear look down at the hunched old man with a mixture of disbelief and yet an unspoken resignation, their expressions reflecting their struggle to comprehend the unfolding events.
“The unseen powers that govern this world are shifting. The balance is changing. Merefen must stand and fight. The atrocities committed here are unforgivable, and those responsible will face the ultimate punishment.”
Eifear lets out a long breath through his lips, “I saw what happened to the lad, and I don’t intend to die like that. If it’s alright with the general, you have my eyes if you can find me a bow.”
Algwain nods, accepting Eifear’s offer, his gaze fixed on the old mage as he runs his hands through his hair, shaking his head in skepticism.
“Algwain, I give you my word. I will explain everything later.” The old enigmatic mage places a gentle hand on Algwain’s arm, his touch filled with a strange reassurance. “Doubt is man’s greatest weakness. Trust me.”
Algwain barks an incredulous laugh, but the old mage stares him down, his staff crackling with plasma power his cataract eye glowing like starlight. Algwain sighs as his resolve hardens, his jaw set into grimace, his eyes focused. “I suppose we have some killing to do,” he pulls his dagger from his belt and steps over a puddle of a guard’s exploded head.
“We must be as silent as the sunrise and swift as starlight.” The old mage nods to Algwain, pointing with his staff to the winding stairwell.
Algwain embraces the darkness, descending the stairs, his steps calculated and soundless; behind him, the faint flicker of electric blue light fades into pitch blackness.
A pair of guards argue at the base of the stairs, their voices hushed but filled with tension.
“This isn’t right.”
“Not right?”
“Aye. Killing our own. That’s Elfred, the last of his line.”
“The miserable old cunt should’ve kneeled.”
“We’ll face the king’s justice when he returns.”
Algwain’s curved dagger reaches around the guard’s neck; with a single, deep backhanded slice, blood gushes from his gaping slit throat. Algwain cups the guard’s choking cry, his hand firm, as the guard drowns in a puddle of his own blood.
Eifear cups the other guard’s mouth, his grip tight and threatening. “Quiet now. I take you for a good man and a loyal man of Merefen.” He hisses into the guard’s ear with a chilling warning. “Make a sound, and you’ll join your friend.” The guard nods, his eyes wide with fear. “Where are the other guards?”
“Another pair on the main door, then another pair guard the outer keep.” The guard’s voice whispers in tearful chokes of spit and snot, his words tinged with desperation.
Algwain nods to Eifear, their movements silent as they drift through the concealing darkness, hugging the shadowed wall of the long main hall. Nirtesh shuffles behind them, his tall staff taps the stone floor with each step.
Another pair of guards stand at the open archway between the main hall and the inner keep.
“We live like fecking rats,” a guard mutters.
“The rats get better food,” the other guard sneers.
“Aye, King Madon will see Galt restored to—.”
The guard exchanges a wide-eyed look of terror with his companion. A spurting torrent of warm, red blood showers down on the first guard’s confused face. His companion falls forward, clutching his sliced open neck.
The second guard turns to face Algwain, who swings his dagger upwards, tearing through leather and into soft, meaty flesh. Algwain’s blade buries deep into the guard’s spilling guts with an upward thrust. The guard reaches for a last scream, but Eifear cups his mouth, strangling the last wail of life from him. Algwain pulls his blade free from the gushing stomach with a long, drawn squelch. The guard’s remaining lifeblood pumps onto the grim stone floor, his bow clattering down beside him.
Eifear retrieves the bow in silence and hangs the quiver over his shoulder.
“Keen eyes, Eifear,” Algwain says, patting him on the back.
Eifear stalks ahead, out of the main hall with confident, calculated movements as he enters the flickering shadows of the inner keep. At the end of the keep, another pair of guards stand in the stone archway, facing the outer keep. Eifear ducks behind an empty wooden cart, nocks an arrow, his shoulders loosen, and gives Algwain a nod.
Algwain steps back into the shadows of the main hall archway and lets out a low, calling whistle.
The guards at the outer keep gate turn to face the gloomy night of the inner courtyard.
“Go have a look,” the first guard says.
“They just want more ale,” the other complains.
“Go tell them to shut the feck up.”
The first guard turns, then strolls into the inner keep, resting both thumbs over his belt as he whistles a tune to himself. “You pair should have your own grog, you scrounging —".
An arrow whistles, then thumps into the guard’s skull, burying into his eye socket. He falls flat on his face into a sloppy pile of muck.
“Get up, you damn fool,” hisses the remaining guard as he strolls forward, picking meat from his teeth with filthy fingers. “Stop rolling about, you daft— “.
A second arrow flies and buries deep into the second guard’s temple, exploding through the other temple. He hits the ground, face-first, drinking from a puddle of his own blood.
Eifear advances, clinging to the darkest shadows of the inner keep, slinking toward the archway gate of the outer keep. He peers around the stone archway with his back against the wall and investigates the outer courtyard.
Elfred’s headless corpse lies before the main gate, surrounded by a river of blood. A pair of guards stand above him, stripping him bare. On the main wall, Porker stands guard, gazing out at the moorlands. A dozen guards patrol the castle rampart. Eifear looks to Algwain and shakes his head.
“It’s alright,” whispers Nirtesh to Algwain. “I’ll take it from here.” He gives Algwain a solemn nod, then quick as a blink, the mage disappears in a flash of blue light, then pops back into time beside Eifear. “I’ll take the guards defiling Elfred. You take down the gate guards on either side of Porker, and no more. We have lost enough lives for this treachery.” The old mage points up to the bowmen on either side of Porker. Eifear nods and plucks two arrows from the quiver as the courtyard erupts in an explosion of shimmering blue light.
Nirtesh steps through archway and into the outer keep and the world erupts into timeless chaos.
The clouds above the courtyard roll back, exploding into bright ethereal moon light. Up above the outer courtyard, the nebula of The One, the great eye, shines down from the night sky. An explosion of shooting stars shoot through the heavens, illuminating the pitch-black moorlands below.
The old mage sends a lightning bolt cobalt power from his staff into the nearest guard removing Elfred’s boots. The guard explodes in a flash of blue, disintegrating in a slow-motion puff of gore. He vaporizes into a million tiny droplets of blood as his shards of shattered bone disintegrate into fine grains of flying dust.
Eifear takes aim up at the rampart and his first arrow flies through the exploding guard’s crimson cloud, parting the human vapor like a hot breath through winter’s chill. The arrow thumps into the rampart guard’s skull to the left of Porker. The guard falls forward over the castle wall and splats down onto the boggy moorland below.
Nirtesh sends a second bolt of lightning from his staff into the second guard, removing Elfred’s clothes. The guard bursts into a pluming fountain of thick crimson blood, his world becomes a rain of bloody drizzle, falling like liquid rubies in slow motion.
Eifear nocks his second arrow, takes aim up to the rampart to the guard to the right of Porker, and then releases his shot. The arrow parts through the human drizzle with a low whistle, straight into the guard’s opening mouth. He bites down on the arrow shaft as his lifeless body tumbles then smashes down to the inner keep floor.
In the half blink of an eye, the mage slips out of time, and in a pop of blue light, he stands in the center of the inner keep, surrounded by a dome of electric blue plasma. “Men of Galt. What wickedness have you sought?” His voice booms from his skeletal frame, wind gales from his shaggy gray hair. “What treachery have you inflicted on your own kin?” The courtyard shimmers with lightning-azure energy. “Lay down your arms.” The mage stands crackling with power as the courtyard shimmers with lightning blue energy. “Give up this fight!”
An arrow whistles down from the rampart toward the mage, but it bites the protective dome and clatters harmlessly onto the keep’s stone floor.
“Enough.” With an upward sweep of the mage’s staff, a bright blue beam of power sends the bowman flying from the rampart, soaring into the boundless night sky. The bowman’s body loops up to the heavens and far out into the moorland sky, like a shooting star. Over the distant moors, his body explodes in crimson and rains down onto the boggy earth.
Nirtesh lowers his magical ward and slumps onto his staff. His voice falls into an exhausted, soft whisper. “Enough. We have squandered too many lives.”
Eifear stands, poised, between the archway of the inner keep, staring down the arrow shaft, ready to end Porker’s life. His bow arm steady as stone, his gaze fixed on Porker’s head.
Porker winces and looks down at the bloody chaos. He then collapses to his knees, his eyes filled with remorse, and hangs his head in sobbing shame.
Swords and bows clatter to the stone floor as the guards lay down their arms.
Voices beckon and cry from the courtyard kennels, wailing for freedom.
Eifear and Algwain walk to the kennels and peer into the depths of the darkness. Half a dozen wild, white eyes of the loyal household guard stare back at them from battered metal cages.
The Black General raises his great helm with a dull metallic grate. He glances up with inky eyes to The Great Eye of The One, which illuminates the night sky above him. Elfred’s bloody head bounces off the stallion’s hind as he slams his helm shut and canters through the night toward Castle Galt.