By way of gathering information, or perhaps, with the help of more cleverly laid out crumbs of bread, courtesy of our sinister puppeteer, we were put on a new trail of evidence. The Ratmen I had dispatched had kept in their belongings traces of a conspiracy to subdue and abduct me and my companions. According to the fragments we uncovered, the vermin wanted to have us dragged to the pier and shipped off to some uncharted island a few days off the coast of Dementlieu. Despite my continuing frustration at being ceaselessly manipulated (or at least the overwhelming sensation of it), I welcomed this information for one simple reason; it made some kind of bloody sense. For the past weeks, we had been at the mercy of some interminable goose chase. Dark catacombs, perverse cultists, the Brass House affair, illusions and reality intertwining in maddening ways. To see our paths so clear for the first time in months, came as something of a bizarre comfort to all of us.
The clues we had gathered so far did not enjoy the same consistency as this abduction business, but they nevertheless provided a kind of context to our concerns. Chiefly among these puzzle pieces were names, important-sounding ones. Renier, D’Honnaire, Brass; names unmistakably laced with significance and power. Noble houses that had some stake in all of this insanity, or perhaps the ones deliberately responsible for our torment. We remained, to my everlasting rage, uncertain of everything. I could see in Petru’s eyes the same desperation that I felt burning in my breast; we were like starved jackals in a cage, preparing to turn on one another if no prey could be had. Symeon just sat quietly in his corner, as he often does, whispering to himself (or to Him?), and tearing methodically at the tattered edges of his robe like a penitent monk. Finally we made plans. If these devils wanted us on this mysterious isle so desperately, we would oblige them and more, but on our terms.
We spoke to a local sailor, who despite his fear and consternation told us more than we expected to hear. This island was supposedly a prison, or it housed an particularly nefarious one. This secret jail, he said, was a dumping ground for Dementlieu’s political undesirables, the kind of individuals that threatened the domain’s security. This sounded familiar to me, as in my own homeland of Paridon, the Ministry of the Interior often remanded “troublesome types” to the able hands of Lancaster Reigns, Warden-Director of the Blackhouse. The Blackhouse collected enemies of the state, and meddlesome members of the Cabinet’s family. I had no doubt that this prison had the same function, as Dementlieu so adamantly aspires to be modern in its own charming provincial manner.
We chartered a naval vessel to take us within proximity of the island,but it was no easy task. Our captain was of the buccaneer variety, the damn-your-eyes sort that’s too daft to be afraid of anything, including the likes of me. The little worm took us for no less than two-hundred gold coins, enough to bribe his way into the bloody Naval Forces, but we had little choice in the matter. Being polite does have its drawbacks; there was a time I would have simply rang the scoundrel by the neck in some deserted alley, and convinced him to see things my way. Alas, I believe that those past months in Ephraim’s company might have infected me with a terribly inconvenient illness that some call civility. Be that as it may, we were now booked for our voyage, and a step closer to meeting our goals.
The arrangement was for the charter to take us within range of the isle (the cowards refused to properly disembark us!), and lend us a small boat, with which we could land properly. Three days from that date, the charter would pass by once again with hopes of picking us up again. I could discern in the captain’s shifty little eyes, that he did not expect to have to fulfill his latter obligation, but would come back just the same to protect his precious reputation with his fellow seafaring vermin. As our little boat cast off from the merchant ship, bound for the island, I looked back at our charter and waved insolently at the onlooking crew. Their faces were priceless; a contest between fear and disgust. Strangely, I felt a profound wish to see their wretched faces again in three day’s time.
The approach to the isle was everything our nightmares had foreseen; viciously jagged rock formations guarding the coast like mythical hell hounds, thick mist everywhere obfuscating every attempt to survey the landscape ahead. The chill hung in the night air like a moist blanket of ice, cutting though our wool shirts and overcoats. Again I was stunned at Symeon’s casual behaviour during all of this. He sat there in his loosely knit pauper’s robes, oblivious to the cold, going even so far as to clean his face in the frigid waters. Symeon’s similarly preternatural antics were beginning to pile up in my mind, and soon I would have to seriously question the origin of his mystical abilities.
I put my concerns away for the time being, focusing on the tasks ahead, whatever they may be. We finally found a way through the rocks, a winding pathway that led to the mouth of a gaping hole in the island’s coastline. We navigated into the cavern and lit torches to clear the way. After some time we reached a man-made pier, albeit in sordid shape. Other small vessels were anchored there, but they must have been left there ages ago. We landed and began our journey through the caverns without delay. I could sense the anticipation in my colleagues, and I shared their impatience. We could not abide ignorance for much longer. After a short time we came into a stone tunnel that reminded me of Paridon’s sewers, or at least the drawings I had seen of it. This passage had been built here with a clear purpose. We came to a dead end, and quickly discovered a mechanical apparatus that would allow us to emerge from the earth. It was a cleverly built elevation-system akin to the one in the Parsley Observatory in Paridon. It lifted us up through a stone shaft, that lead out of a well, of all things.
We had surfaced onto a suitable vantage point, from where we could determine some of our surroundings. Nearest to our position lay a small cottage, built neatly on the edge of the rock cliff. Whomever resided within must have observed our clumsy approach through the water, and watched us disappear in the cave entrance below. Before I could ponder this more fully, the door opened gently and gave way to a thin elderly man. He waved at us and waited to see our reaction, but Symeon and Petru were already on intercept course. He greeted them right away and invited them into his home, which set off immediate alarms in my mind. It was all a little convenient and bizarre, the two elements I could no longer endure after so many weeks of games and manipulation.
I decided to join my companions inside the cottage, I found comfortably seated by a warm hearth, being served, of all things, a nice cup of tea! A cup of tea, eh? You duplicitous conniving louts! You shameless interfering bastards! Do you take me for a complete imbecile? A hot cup of tea and nice read from the library too, no doubt! Hah! Before I could express my sincere aggravation at this pathetic attempt to ensnare me once again, the elderly man suddenly got up from his seat and walked to the outside. Symeon went after him, not realizing our situation. Petru looked up at me somewhat puzzled and inquired about the livid color in my eyes.
“Don’t you see man, we’ve been had again! There is no fire or tea here, this place is abandoned! Another blasted illusion!” I roared.
With my left hand I swung at the nearest table, shattering the rotten thing into nothing. At once the illusion was unmade, and just like before, the teacup became a cracked wooden bowl filled with swill. The house returned to its tumble-down state, prompting me and Petru to rise and make our exit. The fury coursing through me was boundless; I smashed through the remains of the cottage door and looked after Symeon. I found him on his back near the well, pale as the ghost of my father. He seemed depleted from some foul supernatural attack; the supposed elderly man (now an ethereal presence sinking into the mist), had sapped my companion of his very life essence. The inhabitants of the island had just delivered to us their greetings.
We regrouped, as we often do when under duress, and forged on. We journeyed through a beat path along the coast, into a small grove at the center of the island. We discovered there what could only be described as a cairn, or ancient place of power. Druids, my father’s books had called them; reclusive flora-obsessed mystics that followed pagan traditions long gone. They may have initially erected the tear-shaped stones that formed the “holy” circle, and very likely were the ones that marked them with runes, but that was the limit of their involvement. The place, we remarked quite thoroughly, had been desecrated beyond human understanding. We didn’t even have to voice our common and immediate repulsion to the place, but simply exchanged glances, and journeyed further.
We emerged from a small wooden patch to a tremendous sight. Barely two hundred feet away from our position stood a gargantuan fortress. Near its gates, a church, dedicated to a deity we did not recognize. The top of the fortress was veiled in mist, and every now-and-then we spotted dark humanoid shapes circling its twin towers. Our decision was to seek refuge in the church nearby (a choice Ephraim would have no doubt celebrated), and await the morning before venturing further. This initiative would proved to be a disastrous one, and nearly cost all of our lives.
to be continued…