< Return to Cry of the Glasya Part 6

For those that are avoiding reading the shorts until they’re all finished so you aren’t left in rapt suspense, I can confirm that this one will complete on Monday. Then I’ll see if I can’t get some non D&D articles up in case people are getting tired of them.

Also, I’m nearing the end of the draft I’m currently working on so I’ll have more focus and attention to write my thoughts and musing. Plus, I hope to see Pacific Rim this weekend so maybe I’ll have a glowing review to share!

(But it’s unlikely.)

A Medieval artist’s rendition of some good, old fashioned dark magic. Cry of the Glasya does it better, in my opinion. At the very least, it does it with more style.

Keirn rested a metal gauntlet on the handle. Hoping he wasn’t about to burst into a room of suspicious looking men, he pushed.

The first chamber he’d tried was filled with damp robes and the unmistakeable smell of the wrong place. And while he wasn’t expecting to find a second garderobe he wasn’t even sure he was on the right level of the keep. Who really knew where Dukes or Earls liked to roost. Probably as far from the smelly peasantry as possible was Keirn’s thinking.

However, he immediately knew this wasn’t exactly the place he wanted the moment he crossed the threshold.

He stood in a simple stone domicile. Wrought iron torch holders were clamped against the cold walls. The far wall was reinforced with a tickling familiar iron frame and held a row of opened windows. A chill breeze whistled past, invading the empty space like an unwanted assistant in Keirn’s searches.

He was about to turn and leave when something caught his eye. A large fireplace set across the room seemed to shimmer with the faintest of flickering embers. Releasing the door handle, his metal suit clattered as he drew across the naked floor. A simple iron poker hung upon its side and Keirn lifted the tool before scratching at the remnants in the ash pit.

Charcoal popped and snapped, releasing trapped flickers of flame to float like gentle wisps in the culling wind. Keirn sifted through the ash, the tip of the poker striking something hard and buried beneath the fire’s powdered body. Prodding along its side, it felt like something large and he worked the hook of the poker until he dragged a long piece of polished mahogany onto the floor.

Curiously, the fragment seemed untouched by the scorching ghost of the demised blaze. The piece was excellently carved with flowering wreathes of intricate vines and leaves running its length. It seemed like the post of a rather elegant bed and Keirn was reminded immediately of the guard’s story. He looked about the room, but no furniture offered a reasonable explanation for this piece’s existence.

Keirn was just about to roll it back into the embers when he discovered something surprising on its opposite side. He slowly removed his gauntlet, bending down to run a finger slowly over an unexpected seal.

Embossed on the underside of the post was the inexplicable coat of arms for the High Academy of the Queen Enthroned.

Keirn recoiled from the quartered symbol and the opened book centred at the crosspoint of the quadrants. The runes on its tiny pages seemed to pulse and glow as Keirn watched. Along its ruby border twisted the thorny vines of a blood red rose that slowly began to blossom. The petals uncurled like the pages of a book slowly revealing themselves to an inquisitive mind. In the span of a few seconds the plant seemed to bloom and wilt, its petals dripping down the wood like thick drops of blood that pattered thunderously against the floor.

Keirn dropped the poker and recoiled, turning quickly for the door. He leaped upon the handle, wrenching his way to promised freedom as a swirl of unwanted memories began to unravel behind him.

But it was not the familiar corridor of the keep that greeted him. Instead, the door opened upon an expansive hall with shelves rising from the ground like great monuments to Vör’s unending inquisitiveness. Almost every surface was covered with mounds of books and sheaves of rolled paper. Great writing pedestals sprung from the heaped tomes like large, solitary mushrooms. The high backs of those chairs appeared to hunch over their massive curved writing tables sprouting beneath as if to protect those seated from the light overhead.

The scratching echoes of a thousand phantom quills clawed amongst the sheets of paper like a great footed beast stalking this gloomy space. Keirn felt all too familiar with this space but as he turned to retreat back to the empty room in the Duke’s keep he discovered only more of the library stretching behind with not but the handle of the door still clutched in his hand.

Frightened, he dropped his gauntlet.

This was impossible. This was a dreadful dream. This was not the Keep of Gelph. This was a far more dangerous place and Keirn had to escape.

He turned, fleeing down the first row of books he found. His boots cracked the aged spines of the tomes he stumbled across. But they were piled so high that his retreat was soon impeded by the the leather backs slapping hard against his calves as he stomped. He paused to catch his breath, looking worriedly around for an exit.

Something warm and wet slipped through the gap between his breastplate and skirt. He could feel a glob of something slowly ooze down his lower back before hardening in an unsettling chunk. He reached back, his fingers scratching at the metal in an attempt to find the hole in his armour. Failing that, he just lifted the shirt from his body. But as he pulled it overhead, he heard the impact of another glob landing upon the metal.

Holding it to his face he found a thick piece of wax slowly cooling against its surface. Keirn looked up.

High overhead hung the great chandeliers, their twelve arms forming the spokes of a great wheel. This place adored its symbolism, using the great candle holders to reinforce their dogmatic views above the students even as they tried to work.

Keirn couldn’t stay. But he knew of an escape. Turning, he pushed a mound of books out of his way, clawing through waist deep tomes as the scratching of the scribes increased to a deafening roar about him.

He pulled himself from the stacks, freeing himself from the weight of the chain skirt before stumbling before the great curved stairs that led up to the private collections. Students weren’t allowed access up there. A great iron gate barred the way and all along its sides glowed the insignia of the keepers in warning for those that would dare attempt to breach the wards an intrude upon Vör’s sacred ground.

But it wasn’t the private collections that Keirn sought.

He hurried along the edge of the stairs. Statuettes grew as the side of the stairs ascended, creating an ever growing parade of hooded women and bearded men whose names had long been ignored and forgotten. Most students paid no attention to the exquisite detailing of the grand staircase. But Keirn wasn’t like most students.

Amongst the detailed figures and near the curve when the stairs made contact with the raised half floor above stood a cracked and broken form. Unlike his compatriots, this figure seemed cleaved and shattered with little but a pair of stumpy calves to mark his spot. His neighbours seemed to look unsympathetically away, as if even the statues dared not look upon that blasted spot.

And from that little hole, Keirn felt something. He couldn’t describe what it was but it felt like a calling that tumbled in the back of his skull. Just looking upon that space made his heart began to pound.

“No,” Keirn muttered. “No… this is not real.”

Suddenly, fingers seemed to wrap about him. Cold flesh squeezed his exposed skin and Keirn felt a dizzying strike of lightning flash across his vision. Instinctively, his muscles tensed and a force before him seemed to pull harder against his resistance.

A flash of white seared his vision before Keirn blinked and found himself looking up at the familiar soft features of the damnable bard.

“Found anything yet?” Derrek asked, holding the clinking bone chime in his hands.

A scraping pain peeled across Keirn’s brain as he rubbed his eyes and looked around. His friend was still standing in his linen braies in the guard quarters. He looked expectantly at Keirn.

“Wha- where?”

“Have you figured it out yet?”

“By the Seven Sisters what are you nattering about?”

Derrek’s simple answer was to thrust the chime back into Keirn’s hands. With a whip of force and pop of air Keirn felt himself blinking back at the library.

He raised his hands to his head, crying out at the pound of pain smashing against his skull.

“Is that what you’ve done?!” Keirn cried. “Is this some kind of game to you?”

Silence answered back. Not even the phantasmal scratches whispered amongst those walls.

Of course this was Derrek’s doing. It had to be his all along.

“I won’t do it!” Keirn cried. “Fling one of your other friends into their own head!”

Keirn brushed a few scattered books away then hunkered down rebelliously upon the floor. But the moments ticked by with nary a hint of change. Keirn knew Derrek couldn’t keep him here forever. Eventually his concentration would waver and end. If the sorcerer had to wager on his friend’s persistence against his own stubbornness, it was a bet he was certain to win. And he’d much rather that than face the empty alcove.

But that tickling in the back of his mind struck a familiar cord deep within him. There was something there, something far too alien for his friend to know but far too comfortable for Keirn to ignore. And if this world was of his friend’s creation, how could he know? Unless…

Keirn looked around, feeling a sudden shiver take his whole body and cause every hair to stand on end. It was night here. He knew that. This light was nothing but a phantasm. He came with a cloak of twilight on his own. But if his friend’s illusion had led him here, had he been truly alone when he donned that disguise?

Keirn peered down the stacks again, searching for some hidden, prying eyes. Some secrets were never meant to be uncovered.

Keirn slowly pushed himself to his feet then he approached the broken statuette. He extended a hesitant hand slowly into the crevice.

A great gush of chilling wind wrapped about him and an unearthly groan filled his ears. Keirn closed his eyes as dust and dirt sought his vision and he raised his naked arms in futile defence against the assault. He felt the ground shift beneath his feet and the air grew frigid. His head pounded through the force of his will as the entire library seemed to rebel against his desires. But darkness eventually snatched him as the master of the world began to change hands.

There were some things Derrek couldn’t know and Keirn was certain to keep those things hidden.

It mattered not for when the wind died and Keirn lowered his arms, he was in an all too familiar chamber. Candles flickered in the gloom, casting sinister shadows over rough hewed walls that had been abandoned long before the hammers could finish matching the ornamentation of the grand library far overhead. Here was a place meant to be forgotten and buried had persistent eyes not seen beyond what others overlooked.

Keirn looked down at his hands and the red candle flickering between his fingers. Thirty-six candles were needed but Keirn used only thirty six points in the seal at his feet. The thick blotches of spilled wax dotted the perimeter and he slowly stepped into the circle as he raised his face.

Between the cracked columns rested the statue. A young chin drew back the shadows, smooth and unblemished unlike the hole that it occupied. He was a hunter and warrior that was plain to see. But this faceless being was cast in darkness now, his name long lost to places where none could know. Some terrible tragedy had beset him, the slain hounds at his feet suggested just as much. But it was the broken bow and spear that painted clear the defeat and the talons of a great eagle had torn its price from those muscular arms.

The candles sputtered and Keirn could feel his heart begin to pound.

“This is why the words were familiar to you,” Keirn whispered. “You had heard them before.”

He turned in the circle, holding the candle high overhead to pierce the darkness. But only emptiness greeted him, the shadows too reticent to betray their keeper. Keirn tried to pull back the veil but the pain tore at his mind. He shook the stubborn pride from his thoughts. It would have to be one battle he’d concede.

“I thought I’d come alone. I thought no one else knew. The door had remained hidden for so long that I didn’t even think to close it fully that night. Who would look there anyway without knowing the key? But you’ve always seemed to know things that you shouldn’t. As if someone or something else guided you through the dark.”

The candles sputtered again and in that shifting darkness behind him Keirn could hear the soft whispers.

“I’d only hoped for that same power, you know. For the same guidance you seemed to hold. How could I know how wrong I was?”

The whispers grew but before they could become audible a great howl enveloped Keirn. The sound of ghostly hounds braying in the night filled the tight space, pressing out all other sounds. Yet Keirn refused to turn back to that statue.

“I confess, I’ve made some mistakes. But how could I know what I was about to commit? Sometimes there are no obvious answers and when you look beyond the registered teachings you can’t know for certain what you’ll find.”

A heat began to grow but it rose not from the candles. The braying grew louder as the shadows danced madly about him. Keirn closed his eyes, trying to shut the visions and sounds from his mind. But even in the darkness shone those infernal candles. And though he stood blinded and unmoving in that seal, he could feel a form moving about him – a younger form and certainly one more foolish.

He wanted to call out. He wanted to warn him of the danger. But he knew it was futile. Some mistakes were impossible prevent.

Slowly, he opened one eye followed by the other. He watched as a ghostly figment moved through him. It was little more than a wisp of a memory, but the young man barely more than a boy, moved with awkward uncertainty. He was tentative with each placement of the ritual’s components and in the transparent face reflecting in the candlelight, Keirn could see the doubt in his eyes.

Once the last of the preparations had been completed, the youth stood before the statue. The last vestiges of his hesitation seemed to slowly drain from him. He set his jaw defiantly, stepped to the centre of the seal and began to chant.

How he had practised those words every night, forcing their archaic sounds to spill effortlessly from his lips. In the shadows of the quietest chambers he’d rehearsed, as far from prying eyes and listening ears as he could be certain. When paranoia took hold, he’d taken to stealing off the grounds in the evenings, finding secluded grottoes where the tumble of the water would drown out the echo of his own words.

As the last utterance passed his tongue, Keirn turned to the statue, his heart dreading what would come next. But as his eyes swept across those dark walls, his vision seemed to blur and meld together. He felt dizzy, the world seeming to rush rapidly past.

Then came a familiar glare of light.

Derrek wrenched the bone chime from Keirn’s fingers.

“Have you-”

“Yes, yes!” Keirn cried, standing to his feet. He wavered for a moment as the room began to spin about him. But he grabbed hold of the closest bunk to steady himself. He waited for his mind to finally clear before looking around the quarters.

“We’re going to have to move some things before we can proceed.”

Keirn turned to Derrek.

“And I’m not doing all the heavy lifting.”

Continue to Cry of the Glasya Part 8 >

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< Return to Cry of the Glasya Part 5

It’s hot and unpleasant. Summer is not my favourite season of the year. I’m more of a middling spring/fall kind of guy. On the plus side, it’s the perfect excuse to get a use out of basements which mostly stay ignored and neglected all year.

Anyway, let’s continue on with our adventures with bad summons and we’ll see if we can’t finish them soon.

Cry of the Glasya art taken from the Ars Goetia. And you thought the others were weird.

It was the sound of familiar voices that ended Keirn’s tour across the keep’s walls. They were remarkably loud, drifting up from the courtyard like a rabble of angry crows. He peered over the edge, experiencing the peculiar sensation of viewing himself from different eyes.

The four of them stood before the knight captain, pulled from his duties to inspect the new hires. Jeremiah stood regally in his hastily polished suit. The plates of his mail gleamed in the sun overhead. But though he felt he gave off the appearance of some distinguished warrior, from Keirn’s spot it was all too easy to spot the dents in the metal and the worn straps. His boots were dirty from all their hiking and his sword could use a bit more care.

Derrek was far more presentable of the lot, with his brilliant flowing hair and eye catching features. It was unfortunate that he took too little interest in the interaction with their employer, especially when word of the entertainer of the evening was dropped. Keirn could see his shoulders droop at the mention of Licia’s name and the lute tapped limply at his side.

Kait was more taken with the apparent keep than the occupants or work that would be required inside. Amongst the sacks and bags strapped about her like some overburdened mule lay the thin, curved wood of a bow and hand fletched quiver of arrows. Her interests were varied but seemed more consumed by talk of hounds, stables and architecture than it did about rumoured assassins and paranoid dukes.

The only one of their group that paid any attention to the knight captain was the sorcerer himself. And Keirn couldn’t help but frown at his rather seemingly lanky frame draped in the clothes of a traveller with the start of an unkempt beard bristling his face. He appeared far more the vagabond than he thought and couldn’t help but think that his hair could really use a good cutting.

And even then, it was less the required guarding that drew his attention and more the promised feast.

“And when shall this meal be served?”

“The Duke wishes to celebrate at the crack of eve. The sun crests the tips of the distant mountains and makes for an excellent backdrop for the banquet hall.”

“Yes, yes and surely someone will be required to sample his food. You know, to insure that he won’t be poisoned.”

“He does employ a cup bearer.”

“My good sir,” plain clothed Keirn sighed, “we aren’t just talking about the cups. You see, we are adventurers that have travelled far and wide and know our fair share of honourable lords that have fallen to more nefarious means. No, the more sinister poison is mixed in as oils for breads, stews for vegetables or even glazes on hams. There are hams, yes?”

“A… boar is being roasted upon a spit as we speak.”

“Spit-roasted! Heavens, the most foulest of ways to go. I suggest we begin our duties in the kitchens immediately. Best ensure that the foods are cooked to a proper degree that’ll prevent any would-be assassin from murdering the innards.”

“That really isn’t necessary. Mostly you’ll be required to stand guard over the grand ha-”

“Speak no more, fair captain, for you have hired the merry band of Keirn Faden. Amongst our numbers are Kait, the seasoned baker who saved a kingdom through her savory muffins.”

“I did no such-”

“And Jeremiah the Bold! A chef so desired that he was summoned to the wind blasted steppes to show a glorious warlord the perfect wine for decoction. Then there’s Derrek who… who…”

“I’m pretty good at roasting turnips.”

“Who’s pretty damned good at roasting turnips.”

“Look, just report to the quartermaster for some… proper supplies and we’ll get you posted…”

“Your coin is well earned!” called Keirn beckoning for his friends to follow. “We’ll be dressed proper for the feast, you can count on us!”

“And a bloody good feast it was,” guard Keirn muttered, feeling his stomach grumble at the memory. “Only because Jeremiah saved the roast from those incompetent chefs.”

Keirn was tempted to follow his past self and see if he couldn’t once again obtain a sample of the foods before they were served. However, he feared the ramifications of perhaps alerting his past self to his future self’s existence. He was unfamiliar with magicks of time and space but felt such an unnatural occurence would no doubt lead to some greater travesty. No, it was better to identify this assassin and prevent the entire massacre and the kitchens were not the location of the crime.

Even if the boar was delicious.

Keirn hurried along the ramparts, making a strict beeline for the audience chamber. With the knight-captain distracted with his past self, he should be able to hide himself amongst the galleries and discover the identity of the mysterious saboteur.

Accessing the hall from the ramparts proved a far more trying task than Keirn anticipated. It was made further difficult by the noise of his clunking armour and his desire to avoid any confrontation with the steadily increasing amount of bodies in the buildings.

It was remarkable that someone had managed to prepare the summoning with all this attention. How did no one spot something suspicious with all these eyes peeled for anything suspicious?

Keirn emerged into the galleries to find Licia’s performing troupe already taking up their spots. Directions were shouted as the entertainers arranged their equipment. Raucous strings were strummed, horns were touted and the entire symphony seemed intent on blaring as much cacophony as they could while they were not under the pressure of an audience.

They paid Keirn little attention, the regalia on his suit giving him enough explanation for his presence. But, once again, it seemed impossible for anyone to organize the likely rigorous preparations required to summon the demon. This was getting Keirn nowhere.

“How goes the investigation?”

Keirn spun, finding Licia looking at him expectantly. Her fingers tapped her arms impatiently and he could tell she was re-evaluating her previous decision to give him free roam.

“It… uh… goes. Making lots of progress.”

“Is that so?”

Keirn nodded.

“Just checking up on things here. You wouldn’t happen to know anyone that knows magic?”

“I’ve already told you that bards have a tendency for picking up the odd ritual here and there.”

“Rituals, precisely!” Keirn said. “See, there was this seal but it was like hidden so no one would see it.”

“An invisible seal?”

Keirn could tell she wasn’t buying it.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t know if anyone is versed in summoning, would you?”

“Back to blaming me for this supposed murder?”

“No, no. Not you. See, the Duke’s only been here for three years and the Earl…”

Keirn paused as a thought struck him with the full force of a knight’s charge.

“I… need to check something…”

“Indeed. This wouldn’t happen to be the kitchens, would it?”

Keirn cocked his head.

“I saw you, out of your disguise I might add, heading there with some of your confederates. I must say that you managed to get changed rather quickly.”

“Then you know I speak the truth when I say I know Derrek!”

“Derrek! Yes…”

Licia looked over the rails at the entertainers working. Keirn then recalled that his friend had disappeared for a time before the feast.

“You know, I don’t think we ever established how you know him.”

“It’s really not important!” Licia said quickly. “Well, carry on with your search then!”

And she turned, her long braid whipping like a frightened snake as she hurried from the hall.

“I don’t have time for this,” Keirn muttered with a shake of his head. He hurried towards the corridor. He had to find the old Earl’s rooms.

If the guard was to be believed, it would be located near the top floors of the keep. And, presumably, it would still be abandoned if their superstitions still stood. He found the curving staircase ascending to the higher floors, his boots taking the steps as quickly as they could. The clatter of the metal made it sound like a legion of soldiers hurried in his wake.

Continue to Cry of the Glasya Part 7 >

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< Return to Cry of the Glasya Part 4

There is a confession I should make. I don’t understand feudal peerage. Every time I start writing one of these things I’m constantly spending time on Wikipedia and the web in general checking and cross-referencing the damn caste system established so long ago. I keep meaning to do a deeper study of it so I don’t have wonder whether a Duke is higher or lower than a Viscount and what the hell a Baronet is.

Of course, I still haven’t gotten around to it so I mostly do the standard trope of tossing some fancy titles out there to make it sound extravagant. The devil, as they say, is in the details. And typically the details are worked out in the editing process that these shorts generally miss.

So to all those big Medieval history buffs out there, I apologize. For the rest of us, who cares if an Earl is greater than a Duke. None of us would ever have any of these silly titles anyway. On to the next part!

I don’t even know what this is trying to be. Art for the Cry of the Glasya story, I suppose.

The sun shone brightly above as Keirn clanked up the steps. He clutched the haft of the halberd with unsure hands, frowning as the ridges of his gauntlets pressed uncomfortably into his skin. He was certain he was going to have ring imprints all over him for the rest of his life.

He scanned the length of the ramparts, pausing briefly to marvel at the majesty of the fluttering banners held in their posts. Like a sea of crisp standards, the exterior of the keep had been lavished with just as much attention as the inside. Whatever special occasion the Duke was celebrating, he was sparing no expense.

Keirn clanked along, keeping a bored eye out on the town as he passed. He didn’t know what he was expected to watch for. It wasn’t like an army was going to march up to the gates. The threat was far more subtle and wholly impossible to detect from this location. Perhaps after he made a quick round he could sneak back to the throne room. Maybe take up perch in the galleries where it would be harder for a random passer-by to find him.

He paused, feeling the heat of the sun and weight of the armour pressing down. He leaned against the stone rampart, enjoying the moment as he caught his breath.

All too late he heard the more sure footsteps of another. As he fumbled quickly for his halberd, his armoured fingers knocked the weapon to the ground with a clatter.

An arm bent and retrieved his weapon, holding it out to him.

“You must be new here.”

“What gave it away?” Keirn asked, taking the halberd back. Quickly, he added, “was hired just today actually.”

“Not much surprise,” the guard said, joining Keirn against the wall. “The Duke’s been throwing money at mercenaries and the like for the last fortnight. Seems he’s willing to give pay to anyone that can hold a weapon… or wear a suit.”

“And even to those who can’t do either.”

Keirn caught a forgiving smile.

“Have you been here long?”

“Most my life,” the guard responded. He stretched a long arm over the rampart. “That there is my humble home. Had aspirations of becoming a squire and perhaps one day a night. But… well… funny thing about aspirations.”

“So the Duke hasn’t always been this paranoid?”

“Ha, the man hasn’t always run this keep. I can say things were far better before he took up the throne.”

“He hasn’t always ruled?”

“Three years to the day. And with each passing night he seems to grow more and more anxious. At first we didn’t think much of it. New lord would surely be worried over his security especially given the circumstances of his arrival.”

Keirn looked at the man curiously.

“What do you mean?”

“Not from around here, eh?”

“To be honest, my friends and I were just passing through. We didn’t think much of the place but jumped at the opportunity for coin. Was a little surprised to find such a keep in a place like…” Keirn stopped himself before he said anything truly stupid about the other man’s home.

But the guard only laughed.

“Don’t worry, I’ve heard worse. Many travellers like to comment how Etreria has some decrepit fort while backwater Gelph has this resounding keep. What they don’t know is that this used to be the centre for a powerful kingdom.”

“Sounds like there’s a tale in there.”

The guard shrugged.

“Perhaps but I ain’t a bard.”

“Probably for the best. I’ve had my share of them for the day.”

“Aye but have you seen the one the Duke brought in? That man certainly spares no expense.”

Keirn watched the banners for a moment as he puzzled the guard’s words.

“So what happened to the old Duke?”

“Earl,” the guard corrected. He stood, looking up and down the rampart as if he suspected the knight captain to be standing over his shoulder. He then leaned in close to Keirn. “Rightly no one truly knows. Word amongst the quarters was some dodgy visitors came up to the keep one night demanding to see the Earl’s wife. Obviously, the Earl wouldn’t take such a flagrant show of disrespect. Had them locked up for the night to teach them some manners. But when they went to release them in the morning, they had apparently vanished.”

“Did the Earl have a change of heart?”

“You didn’t know the Earl.” The guard shook his head. “He was right jumping that day. I missed the whole event but he had us turn the entire keep over searching for them. Threatened to lock all those involved with handling the guests in the stocks. I think he was convinced they were looking for some improper dealings with his wife and the guards were conspiring with those folk.

“I remember him saying we were to arrested any of them on sight if they showed up in town again. Would have been quite the feat since no one seemed to have any good idea of what they looked like. Kind of strange, how the entire staff and even the Earl couldn’t quite get a good description of their faces.”

“That does sound odd. What happened next.”

“Lots of stuff. Can’t hardly even remember what order it was in either.”

The guard looked at the edge of his halberd, turning the weapon in his hands to slowly reflect to glare of the sun.

“The Earl and Countess had quite a few fights the following nights. Most of us tried to keep our heads down and avoid what we could. I couldn’t even tell you what they even fought over.

“More peculiar were the complaints from the scullery. Had us running all over the damn grounds searching for missing hounds or raided larders. Truthfully, I was thankful for the distraction and excuse from the throne room. But…”

The guard paused once more.

It was clear he was about to say something and thought better of it.

“But what?”

Keirn straightened, regarding the man’s features. He seemed momentarily reminiscent, letting some fleeting recollections pass quietly by. But the guard merely shook his head.

“Nothing. I should complete my rounds.”

“But you haven’t yet explained what happened to the Earl!”

The guard hesitated one last time before letting the spirit of gossip finally win over.

“Well, it’s like this. The Earl got really withdrawn. Like, he refused to see audiences, refused to see the Countess started demanding the servants stay out of his rooms. He wouldn’t eat. He wouldn’t even leave for his garderobe. The servants would have to collect a bucket deposited outside his door.”

“You think he suspected something of the servants?”

The guard shrugged.

“No one knew what to make of it. By the time the bucket stopped appearing the knight captain decided to investigate. The door to the Earl’s chambers were barred from the inside and after hollering for some time at it, he ordered it bashed down. By the time we broke through, we found nothing.”

“What do you mean nothing?”

“Just… nothing.”

“The Earl was gone? Perhaps he just left in the middle of the night.”

The guard shook his head.

“You don’t understand. It wasn’t just the Earl that was missing. His entire private chambers had been cleared. No desks. No chests. No bedposts. Nothing.”

“What?”

“Precisely!” The guard accentuated his point with a raised finger. “We poked around. There was the burnt fragments of something in the fire pit. Caulder thought it looked like the remainder of his bed. His windows were opened so we thought perhaps he’d fashioned some makeshift ladder and scrambled out. Instead we found the ruins of some furniture that had obviously been pitched but nothing to suggest he’d escaped that way. And the keep is quite large, I couldn’t imagine the Earl trying to scramble down its side with his… stature.”

“What of the Countess?”

“She hadn’t been allowed inside for some time either. She was quite shaken by the discovery. The knight captain suspected some sort of foul mischief and had a retinue posted about her. I was told that she simply couldn’t deal with the Earl’s sudden disappearance and had a few trunks packed before mounting her carriage and leaving quickly into the night. She was gone before the knight captain was even woken from his sleep.”

“That must have created quite the chaos for the knight captain.”

“That’s just the thing. Two days later the Duke rolls up in some fancy carriage with a proclamation of his right. There was no way the messenger would have arrived by then and yet he was here making the transition seamless. And aside from having his room moved, he made no comment on the Earl.”

“And now he’s fearful of an assassination on the three year anniversary of the Earl’s disappearance.”

“Well,” the guard paused, “when you put it that way it sounds downright sinister. You think there’s actually something going to happen?”

Keirn clasped the guard’s shoulder.

“I’d probably try and find a post that’s not in the audience chamber today.”

Continue to Cry of the Glasya Part 6 >

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< Return to Cry of the Glasya Part 3

A small note about these D&D shorts. They are, by their definition, short which means I don’t put nearly the amount of work or effort into them as I would for either a full length novel or even something I planned to submit to a competition. These stories are basically the filler and practice I do between other ‘jobs.’ They are essentially my doodles if I were in art and not writing.

As such, there are some portions of it that I would rework. I would be a little more exacting in the smaller details and I would certainly spend more than one or two quick ‘once overs’ to get the structure exactly right if I had any intention of these seeing some sort of official publication. Since I do not, they exist in the state that they do. They’re like a caged specimen stolen from the Cambrian – untried little organisms locked in stasis and saved from the exacting extinctions and pressures that would force them into the common organisms we see today.

Which is to say I’m not particularly fond of my next section.

Characters:

Licia (Lychee) Songsinger – beautiful singer and terrible summoner responsible for the death of Duke Arren Hasselbach

Jeremiah Pits – valiant paladin and moral bulwark for his friends

Derrek Gungric – insightful bard with a curious intuition and questionable music skills

Keirn Faden – self proclaimed leader of the adventuring band and stylized sorcerer

Kait Faden – sister and hoarder with a love of nature and archery so probably a ranger if she’d ever get around to ranging

More Ars Goetia art for Cry of the Glasya. Not my creation but found through Google searches. Also, it’s a cute bird with a sword. How adorable, he thinks he’s a real person!

Keirn sat on an upturned barrel, warming his chilled fingers over a cooking fire. A scratchy wool blanket was draped over his shoulders while the minstrel stood, pouring two dented cups with the boiled tea. She held one out for the sorcerer before pulling a chair and sitting opposite him.

“So, I apparently conjured some great demon creature from only the gods know where in order to eviscerate the Duke at the height of my performance?”

“And his entire court. And his guards. And presumably my kin and kind.”

“And why would I do this?”

Keirn opened his mouth but immediately shut it. He thought back to his conversation with Derrek. The bard seemed rather insistent that she was the one who did it but now her motives did seem suspect.

“I… guess you were hired to.”

“Me? A hired assassin?”

“Considering the Duke’s personal retinue, having a renown minstrel bring about his death would certainly slip past his security.”

“And, being this renowned minstrel you claim me to be, why would I throw away my reputation on some rather brutish ploy?”

“You’re paid well?”

Licia crossed her legs, giving Keirn the most condescending look he’d ever seen.

“I would think, given your professed time spent with that rather dubious troubadour you claim kinship with, you’d know just how valuable reputation is amongst the performing scholars. It is something worth far more than the gold and silver these upstart royals throw our way. We do not devote ourselves to this path over a misguided dream of riches and leisure.”

She paused and thought to herself.

“Well most of us don’t.”

“Then why would you perform?”

“For immortality.”

Licia leaned back in her chair, sipping slowly from her drink. She looked down at the cup, analyzing the contents briefly before holding it aloft for Keirn.

“See this? It is a special blend of herbs I’ve concocted in order to preserve my voice. I’ve devoted far more than a few hours of rehearsal to perfecting my craft. My food, my sleep and even where I’ll perform are all dictated by what will nurture and maintain my song. This isn’t a devotion you throw away for something as meaningless as coin. This is something more sacred. Something… divine.”

“Then why summon the demon?”

“I’ve done no such thing.”

She set her cup down, leaning in to appraise Keirn’s features more closely.

“I can see your conviction, however. What you’ve seen, you truly believe whether it be real or not. So let me ask you, why does a wizard study the arcane?”

“For… knowledge?”

“But not riches?”

“I’m sure they’re paid well for their services.”

“Truly? How many rule kingdoms or vast trading fleets? How many live in palaces and feast on the finest foods?”

“Look, this isn’t about wizards.”

“And yet they devote their entire lives to studying their tomes. Those with even greater thirst search abroad to further their knowledge, risking life and limb in an attempt to understand something far greater than you or I or even this Duke. Minstrelsy is much the same, though we search not through ancient lore but through ourselves and others.”

“Bards are wizards now?”

“Of a sort. Or wizards and bards are priests of another kind. The classification is meaningless.”

Keirn shook his head.

“This nonsense sounds like something Derrek would lecture me on.”

“Indeed.”

Keirn lowered his tea and carefully placed it away from him.

“So you and Derrek…”

“Are old… friends.”

“Odd, he never mentioned you to me.”

“Nor you to I. Yet here we are.”

It seemed impossible. Keirn had known the other man for most of his life. They had grown up in neighbouring villages of all places. It seemed unlikely, no unthinkable, that he would never have heard of this woman before.

And yet, they did grow up in different villages. And how well did the sorcerer know the bard before their time at the Academy. There was quite a few years unaccounted for in their past. And it dawned on the sorcerer that he knew little of what the bard did during that time. He’d assumed he’d just lived a quiet life at home.

But after travelling with him for so long, a quiet life was perhaps anathema to the other man.
“Fine, let’s pretend that you didn’t summon a demon and kill the Duke and everyone I care about…”
“Easy enough,” Licia smiled.

“… then by the hells where are they?”

“Well, I can’t account for your friends or the bard,” Licia said, “but unless I have been purposefully misled, the Duke is out on one of his extravagant hunts. It was meant to give me ample time to prepare for my performance. Time, I might add, I’ve decided to spend entertaining you instead.”

“But if you haven’t performed yet…”

“Then how could I have summoned a demon? Hm? Now do you understand my position?”

Keirn shook his head.

“This is impossible. You’re telling me that somehow I’ve travelled back before the ritual? No one is capable of such sorceries.”

“I know. So, really, the mystery seems to be surrounding you and not I. And given all that you’ve told me, it seems clear the course of action we must take.”

Once more there was a rustle of cloth before her dagger appeared again.

Keirn raised his hands.

“Look, I know this sounds unbelievable but give me some time to figure this out.”

“How do I know you’re not the alleged assassin and this is part of your plan?”

“Do I look like an assassin?”

Licia regarded the blanket wrapped man. She lowered her dagger with a smile.

“Very well, you have until after the feast but first some precautions.”

Licia stood, walking over to her bags. She searched through them until she produced a thin wand, some powder and three dried daffodils. She held the flowers out for Keirn.

“They’re really not my colour.”

“Eat.”

He knew he couldn’t argue and he slowly raised each dry plant to his mouth will the minstrel sprinkled powder about his stool then poking them into small piles with the wand.

“I’m certain this isn’t necessary. Whatever it is.”

“I can’t afford to keep an eye on you forever,” Licia said, smacking the vestiges of the dust from her hands. “So we’ll just make sure you can’t leave the keep.”

“You’re a wizard then?”

“More of a learner. All bards are keen students of life and that happens to include magic. It’s remarkable how much of the craft can be picked up by non-practitioners.”

She clapped her hands, closing her eyes as she began her chant. That crystal voice echoed about the stone walls, enchanting Keirn even with the dry words of wizardry. He couldn’t help but sit in mute appreciation as she lowered her hands to his head. He felt the soft tingle of arcane energies swirl about her fingers and course through his hair.

Odd that Derrek never seemed able to do any of this.

A few chortled syllables later, she removed her hands and looked at Keirn appraising.

“Weird.”

“Finished?”

She crinkled her forehead for a moment then shrugged.

“I suppose. It seems… nevermind. Go about your business, stranger. I’d recommend you be quick about it.”

She then claimed her blanket and kicked him from her room with little more than a pat on the bum.
Keirn stood shivering in the empty hall, rubbing his bare extremities. He never could understand why keeps had to always be so cold.

His first inclination was to find some clothes. He made his way back towards the guard room but, if his suspicions were correct, then his belongings wouldn’t be there. Sure enough, the quarters were in pristine order with nary a sign that Keirn and his company had been through.

Was it really possible that he had somehow reversed time? There were rumours of powerful archmages that could halt the passage of time but to completely reverse its course was as likely as forcing a river to run upstream.

Keirn picked about the room, searching through what trunks he could open, until he had enough clothing to drape himself in some makeshift armour. It wasn’t the most comfortable suit – these clothes always were best when fitted for the wearer – but it was better than running about in a loincloth. He plopped a half helm on his head to complete the assemble before clanking out into the hallway. He had no idea how people put these ludicrous suits on everyday. The chain mail was heavy and his arms felt like he’d been lifting Kait’s sacks all day.

He paused, considering his options. He didn’t know where to begin unravelling this mystery and decided the scene of the horror was the best start as any.

The audience chamber gave off an even grander presence when emptied of people. Keirn didn’t have much time to appreciate the majesty of the keep when they had been hired. The job opportunity had been a very last minute deal and they had been shoved into the rank and file of the guards in uncharacteristic haste.
Now that he had time to appreciate the Duke’s keep he couldn’t help but feel that this place was far more lavish than what belied the man’s position. Not that Keirn had much opportunity to judge the wealth of nobles but the few throne rooms he’d entered were just as lavish. How the Duke could afford such rich tapestries, exotic ornaments and a throne that would make any King jealous was beyond the sorcerer’s keen.

Keirn approached the centre of the chamber. Kneeling to the ground, he ran his hand over the floor. He couldn’t feel any markings or sediments to outline the seal Derrek mentioned. He removed his helm, leaning close to the floor to try and see if there had been any indication of mischief. It seemed clean, which led Keirn to believe the best approach to capturing his culprit would be to camp the audience chamber until the villain arrived to arrange his mischief.

He turned, finding a chair and easing his heavy armour into it.

Straps and loose rings of metal were starting to poke into his skin. He scratched absently at them, still trying to comprehend why people wore these cumbersome suits.

Keirn then wondered why anyone would want to kill the Duke. Certainly his brief interaction with the man hadn’t been pleasant but from Keirn’s experience most nobles were rather irritating to deal with. However, the man clearly knew of the plot against his life. Keirn was informed of that when the guards approached them in the market. Plus, they were promised quite a bit of coin for protecting him.

And as Keirn examined the polished arms hanging upon the wall, he began to question the Duke’s unfathomable wealth.

Was there a relative that was hoping to come into their inheritance early? A rather common plot and one Keirn was well acquainted with. The Duke appeared unwed so a child was out of the question. Disgruntled sibling, perhaps? Keirn wondered what it would be like to have a brother or sister willing to kill you for your gold. He certainly couldn’t imagine Kait being that bloodthirsty. Though she had threatened to end his life on numerous occasions it was never over money they never had.

And as he peered at those arching pillars, Keirn couldn’t help but feel a sense of loneliness. He had his friends and sibling to rely upon. He knew he could trust them with his life. But here was a man that threw money at even the slightest armoured stranger to seek that comfort from a shadowy threat. He looked towards the elegant throne, noting it sat alone on its raised dais.

“Soldier, what are you doing there!”

Keirn jumped at the voice. He turned to see an armoured knight stroll boldly into the chamber. It took Keirn a second to realize he was being addressed, looking down at his mismatched disguise.
The knight regarded his ill fitting suit for a second before pointing roughly towards the exit.

“You should be on the ramparts! You’re not being paid for idling around while the Duke’s life is being threatened!”

Horse-dung, what was Keirn to do?

“It’s alright, I’m… securing this room.”

“Are you questioning a direct command?!”

The knight placed his gauntlet dramatically on his sword hilt. Keirn slowly slid onto his metal boots. There was no way he could keep watch on the chamber if he was walking the walls.

“And where is your weapon? Gods, what a disgrace if you were seen in this state!”

Keirn tried to conjure some explanation but merely dropped his head in deference.

“My apologies, sir.”

“Report to the armoury immediately! I want to see you on those walls before the Duke returns!”

Under the knights watchful gaze, Keirn cast one last desperate look over the hall before stepping out into the corridors.

Continue to Cry of the Glasya Part 5 >

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< Return to Cry of the Glasya Part 2

Well, I should be making my way back to sweet, wonderful Ontario now. My stomach should be filled with lobster. My camera should be near its memory limit. And I’m most certainly going to be out of money. So, here’s part 3 of The Cry of Glasya, a new fantasy short story!

Alright, I’m running out of Ars Goetia stuff to post. Here’s some funny critter with a long nose.

Characters:

Licia (Lychee) Songsinger – beautiful singer and terrible summoner responsible for the death of Duke Arren Hasselbach

Jeremiah Pits – valiant paladin and moral bulwark for his friends

Derrek Gungric – insightful bard with a curious intuition and questionable music skills

Keirn Faden – self proclaimed leader of the adventuring band and stylized sorcerer

Kait Faden – sister and hoarder with a love of nature and archery so probably a ranger if she’d ever get around to ranging

< Return to Cry of the Glasya Part 2

“I feel ridiculous.”

Keirn crouched beside Derrek in the galley above the audience chamber. He had finally acquiesced to Derrek’s defensive measures and now knelt in little more than a thin loincloth while searching blindly along the rail with his hands. A thick piece of cloth was bound tightly about his head to cover his eyes and dampen sounds to his ears. He held his sword uselessly in his hand. Should a moment to strike arise, Keirn doubted his adversary would allow him the time to first feel out his target before swinging the weapon.

But it was a gentle comfort to have something pointy in his hands even if he was more likely to poke Derrek with it than a murderous courtesan.

The pair had waited out their pursuers in the guard quarters. Evidently, after tiring themselves on the door, the frenzied men and women had wandered off down the halls presumably in search of some less entrenched targets. Discarding most of their belongings, Derrek and Keirn slowly made their way into the hall.

They moved tentatively through the corridors. Derrek led, swearing he knew the layout of the keep well enough to manoeuvre them into position without requiring such petty tools like sight. He carried Kait’s bone chime in his hands, a remarkable little construction project she’d undertaken unbeknownst to Keirn. He had no idea she was collecting the skeletal remains of who knew what or why she fashioned them into this morbid instrument for a purpose only she could possibly reveal.

The fact that Derrek knew about it would have been surprising if it had been anyone but Derrek. The hollow clatter of its femurs and tibias led Keirn on, accompanied with the few awkward moments when the two almost naked men collided into each other.

Keirn wasn’t sure how long they snaked through the twisting corridors. It felt like he was being led in a random direction but even he felt the few brief flashes of a distant heat during their skulking. Each time, Derrek proceeded immediately in the opposite direction. Thusly, they managed to avoid most obstacles save for the twisted clumps that they stumbled over on the ground. Keirn didn’t remove his blindfold to confirm what those objects were.

At last they reached a set of stairs and began to ascend. Slowly, Keirn could feel that distant heat grow, like a gentle hearthfire that beckoned them onward. But this time Derrek didn’t led them away.

Even through his protections, Keirn could still hear the chaotic din of a great commotion beneath them. It was hard to imagine that not long ago the whole hall had been filled with such beautiful music. And now there was nothing but the heavy smell of death and the sound of despair.

Derrek grabbed Keirn’s arm, tapping on his skin with cold fingers. It took a minute for Keirn to realize he was attempting to communicate with him through those beats. By Helja’s frozen domain, Keirn couldn’t tell what he was on about and lifted his hand to the cloth around his ears.

But before he could remove the obstruction to speak with the bard, Derrek swatted the cloth from his fingers. He returned to his futile tapping.

This was hopeless, Keirn realized. Without the ability to see or hear there was no possible way they could co-ordinate with one another.

Frustated, Keirn snatched back his arm.

“Sure, whatever!”

He didn’t know what the plan was but at this point it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be able to do anything anyway. Hopefully, Derrek knew what he was doing.

That thought ran fleeting from him the moment Derrek shoved the bone contraption into Keirn’s hands then hurried along the galley.

“Wait!” Keirn called, reaching out uselessly. But his fingers only brushed empty air and he crouched there completely alone.

He slumped against the rail, feeling the wood against his back and the pulsing heat from below. He had no idea what he was suppose to do nor what the bard had wandered off to accomplish. All he had was the fading memory of the young man’s furtive tapping, an inscrutable puzzle which only the minstrel himself could likely decipher. But then fear began to encroach into his thoughts as he felt the heat from below grow warmer and warmer.

Had Derrek decided to just up and leave? Did he know some secret passage he was going to use to run from this infernal keep and it’s unimaginable bloodbath below?

Gods, a demon. These things were meant to be only rumour and legend. How Derrek recognized it was beyond Keirn. How the minstrel was able to summon it seemed equally baffling. It all seemed like a terrible nightmare or horrible illusion. Perhaps this was all just a mad visioning. Perhaps he’d consumed too much mushroom stew at the feast. That meal certainly felt off. And Kait had warned him that eating too much may give him terrible nightmares.

Yes, this was most certainly a dream. A stew inspired dream that he simply needed to awake from…

Suddenly, the bones in his hands jangled together before raising out of his hands. Keirn cried out, waving his arms wildly in front of him for the magical chime that had evacuated his grasp. All he found were a collection of fingers that wrapped about his headwear and quickly pulled the cloth from his eyes and ears.

“What are you doing?”

Keirn blinked up at the hooked nose and questioning eyes of the gorgeous Licia Songsinger.

“Ah…” Keirn muttered.

The lady minstrel looked even more resplendent upclose than she did when performing. Her dress was majestically cut despite its simplicity. A gentle weave of silk and linen that gave an abstract sense of a gentle rosy waterfall cinched tastefully about her waist. Her hair had a glossy sheen and a small dusting of complimentary powder was dashed about her eyes.

She turned the rather grime object in her hands before looking back at Keirn.

“What is this?”

“A chime.”

“It’s… it’s…”

“I can explain,” Keirn muttered though he knew he couldn’t.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Really?!”

Licia held it out by the tiny finger bone, letting the thin ropes unwound as he bones clattered against each other. Fully extended, the chime actually looked rather remarkable given it’s materials. Each piece dangled, clattering against its neighbour but releasing a rather pleasant echo. Course, it wasn’t really something Keirn would want to hang on his front door but it wasn’t nearly as macabre as he first thought.

“The construction is quite expert. The bones haven’t been damaged when attached and still produce clear notes. It’s very remarkable.”

“Can I have it back?”

“What did you make this for?”

Keirn frowned.

“I don’t think this is really the best time for this.”

“Oh? How come?”

Keirn gaped at the young woman. He turned looked up and down the gallery to make his point.

Yet, now with his blindfold removed, he didn’t see the bodies he’d expected. There were no archers clawing at each other or howling at whatever pain had driven them mad. No disgraced courtesans huddled in corners searching furtively for some relief from unimaginable fear and terror. In fact, the gallery was completely empty. The rows of high back wooden chairs lined in uninterrupted rows. Keirn scrambled to his feet and peered over the rail.

Where he’d expected to see visceral and blood was a rather tidy and kept audience chamber. The large tapestries hung unchanged upon the walls and the great rugs lay pristine across the stone. In fact, the room was too in order. There appeared to be no guards at the doors and the throne lay pristine and untouched despite the grisly scene that had unfolded on it not long ago.

Keirn turned to the minstrel.

“What trickery is this?”

“I beg your pardon?” she asked.

“The audience chamber… the guards… the Duke! Where is everyone?”

The minstrel merely blinked at him.

“I’m… afraid I don’t understand your question.”

“Duke Hasselbach!” Keirn cried, grabbing the woman’s petite shoulders. “Where is he? Where is his body?!”

Songsinger pulled away from him.

“I think a more prudent question would be where are your clothes?”

Keirn looked down, suddenly frightfully aware of his nakedness. He crossed his arms uselessly over his chest in a noble attempt to casually cover as much skin as possible. He narrowed his eyes as he appraised the minstrel.

“You’re the demon, aren’t you?”

The bard returned an equally puzzled look.

“Perhaps this came at a bad time,” she replied, holding the chime back out to Keirn. “I should really go prepare.”

“Prepare? Prepare for what? For some sort of grisly sacrifice with all the bodies?”

“Look, I just came up here to inspect the acoustic quality of this hall. I don’t need some half-naked barbarian stammering some mad nonsense at me. I should go prepare.”

She seemed too sincere. But then again, Keirn was all to familiar with the performance skills of bards.

“I can’t have you leave here,” Keirn replied, reaching to his hip. His fingers clutched air and he turned, searching for his sword.

Inexplicably, the weapon had seemingly vanished along with all the other evidence of the bloodbath.

The minstrel raised a brow and began to slowly retreat from the man.

“I really think it’s time that I went and got ready.”

Keirn looked back at her. What sort of duplicity was this? No blood, no death and all his belongings gone save for the cadaverous keepsake from his sister. Something clearly wasn’t right.

“What have you got me into, Derrek?” Keirn growled.

For a moment, confusion coloured the other minstrel’s suspicious features.

“Say that again?”

“I said, what is going on here?!”

“No, that name. Who did you speak to?”

“Well… no one. Myself I guess.”

“The name, you fool! Who’s name did you say!”

“What, Derrek?”

“Derrek Gungric?”

Keirn looked at the other minstrel warily.

“How do you know Derrek?”

“I could ask you the same.”

And then, in a great sweep of her dress, the minstrel produced a wicked curved dagger from her clothes though Keirn knew not where it could have been hidden before. She pointed it menacingly towards Keirn. The sorcerer merely looked back, hand clutching his chest and the chime.

It looked weird.

“Well, he’s my best friend. I’ve been travelling with him for quite some time now. The four of us, my sister and my other best friend, were hired on by the Duke to protect his life. A life which you rather viciously stole away.”

She stepped forward, the blade pressing dangerously against Keirn’s throat. Keirn instinctively retreated from the cold touch, his lower back pressing against the polished wood rail.

“What reason do I have not to slit you right where you stand?”

Keirn thought for a second.

“Well none, you bloodletting witch. Go ahead, might as well finish what you started!”

Keirn held his arms aloft, leaving himself completely exposed to her assault. But instead of plunging the weapon into his soft flesh, Licia merely retracted the blade though she did not return it to its sheath.

“Perhaps you best start from the beginning. And I do hope it contains some reasonable explanation for why you’re not dressed.”

Continue to Cry of the Glasya Part 4 >

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Continuing on from the demonology of the plemora universe, here’s a new fantasy short story, continuing my brand of D&D inspired adventures. As it’s a highly fictionalized idealization of some of the people I know existing in Fantasyland, changes in their personal lives necessitate changes to their adventuring counterparts. Thus, I present to you Part 1 of The Cry of the Glasya.

Glasya Labolas seal from Ars Goetia.

The court thundered. The stone walls shook. Beneath a tempest of violins and drums, the commanding keys of the piano wove masterfully through the piece. But even the clarion of the trumpets and the gentle weep of the harp sounded little more than background chatter. For there was but one sound that broke through the minstrel band like the stampede of an unstoppable cavalry charge.

And it was produced by the smallest, least intimidating creature Keirn had ever seen.

She stood between the thick stone pillars of the throne hall. Dwarfed on all sides by the yawning arches of the audience chamber for the ancient keep. Even the thick tapestries and heralds hanging from the walls couldn’t dampen the pelting voice pouring from those thin vocal chords. A single, unassuming woman stood statuesque upon a tiny wooden block.

But while her feet appeared rooted, her arms twisted with each haunting symbol that erupted forth with a greater force than a storm whipped tide. It seemed inhuman the sounds that she twisted from deep within her breast. Had Keirn not been standing there to experience it himself, he would never have believed it to be true.

And neither could the assembled court.

Every onlooker watched in stunned muteness as the foreign words of this incredible singer drowned out all other sounds and thoughts from their minds. There was no doubt in Keirn’s mind. This was the most beautiful and elegant aria he had ever heard. Granted, he’d never heard one before, but even the Duke Hasselbach sat riveted upon the edge of his stolen throne in rapt entrancement.

And just when Keirn thought it couldn’t grow more impressive, a sudden string of notes he’d never imagined singable came bursting from her, directed right down the hall at the raised lord and his gathered attendants by two thin waving arms.

There was but one soul in the entire chamber that seemed unmoved by the piece.

Derrek Gungric, Keirn’s closest companion and minstrel-in-training had his back turned upon the performance and busied himself with a nearby candle stand. Through sheer apparent boredom, he passed the soft flame from one wick to the next, letting the wax drip in thick rivers down the sides until it pooled in the small holders.

“How can you not like this?” Keirn whispered. “I hate your music the most and even think this is damn good.”

“Heard it before.”

“Not like this,” Keirn said. There was no way in this life or the next anyone had heard something like this.

There was a collective gasp as the young singer stepped from her perch. She turned, addressing the courtiers to the sides and the guards standing before the massive barred doors. It was impossible to know what she sang but the delivery gave the briefest impression that it was directed at you alone before she broke the spell and turned to the next face.

It was impossible to turn away. Until Keirn heard a strange rustling and quickly scanned around for the source.

Having exhausted his attention with the candles, it seemed that Derrek was now busying himself with darkening a pair of thick glasses using a large piece of charcoal.

“What are you doing now?!” Keirn hissed, slipping as unobtrusively to his side.

“I can’t watch this any longer,” Derrek said.

“So you’re going to blind yourself!”

“That’s the plan.”

Keirn stood momentarily mute.

“We’re suppose to be guarding the Duke!”

“So?”

“How are you going to do that if you can’t see?”

“Shhhh!”

Keirn turned to the intruding voice only to be greeted with Jeremiah’s stern face. The larger man motioned towards the singer with a look of impatience. Keirn cast a glance back at the Duke who appeared to be completely oblivious to the disruption. He motioned to Derrek as explanation for his actions but Jeremiah merely waved his hand dismissively.

Keirn turned back to the stubborn minstrel. He’d already completely blackened one eye. Keirn sighed, turning from his friend back to the performance. Keirn would just have to settle with being extra attentive to make up for the lack of eyes from the bard.

Not that there wasn’t an already impressive show of force in the court today. Trained archers lined the galleys and four guards stood watch over every entrance. But even this show of force seemed entranced by the entertainer. Weapons dropped limply at their sides as uneducated men were lost within the elegance and grace of the woman. She didn’t even appear that magnificent. Her dress was simple though colourful. But it was her slender features and enrapturing voice that made her stand apart from her troupe like the burning sun brightly shining out all other stars in the sky.

Keirn then felt a tugging at his sleeve.

“What?!”

“Do you know where Kait left her bags?”

Keirn leaned in close to his friend as the singer hit another stretch of impossible notes.

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“She looks like she’s having fun.”

“And I’m not?”

“You’ve already missed the overture. Besides, I’m doing you a favour by missing this atrocious performance.”

Keirn sighed.

“What do you need now?”

“The leg bones from dinner.”

“Of course you- what?”

“From the swine. You know, you said yourself it was the finest you’d eaten in weeks.”

“I’m well aware of what I ate!”

“SHHHHHHHH!”

Keirn grabbed his friend’s dainty wrist and pulled him from the throne dais. Once he was sure he was out of earshot from the duke, he turned upon the impossibly delicate features of his friend.

“First, why in the blazes would you need those. Second, why are they in my sister’s bag?!”

“Probably to finish her chime.”

Keirn merely blinked at his incomprehensible friend.

“You’re impossible sometimes.”

“So do you know where she left them?”

“I believe she was requested to leave them in the guard quarters just outside the hall.”

Suddenly, there was a pause in the vocals as the instruments swelled in the break.

Derrek frowned.

“I’ll have to get them later.”

He then began removing his shirt.

Keirn grabbed his hands, wrestling to keep the stained wool in place.

“Would you stop!”

“The wax should be ready by now,” Derrek said, slipping his hands free and tossing his jerkin nimbly aside.

“Look, you may be jealous of another bard getting the lead performance for the Duke but that doesn’t give you the right to ruin this. Especially when we haven’t even received compensation yet!”

Derrek paused with his belt in his hand. The woman’s voice burst forth and he dropped his pants.

“Probably best to do it now,” he said, shaking his boots free. Keirn growled, snatching for the discarded trousers as the bard quickly hopped to the candle stand in nothing but his linen braies. There, the blonde man dipped his fingers into the cooling pools of wax and plugged them deep into his ears. As Keirn rounded on him with trousers held menacingly in one hand and belt in the other, the bard danced effortlessly about his wailing arms before slipping behind him. There he plunged his dripping fingers into Keirn’s ears and the young man could immediately feel the hardening wax plug his ear canals and mute out all but the faintest echoes of the lingering song.

Keirn rounded on his friend, feeling a familiar frenzy drawing in his chest. But just as he was about to wield his friend’s belt as a whip, he caught a sudden shift of motion on his periphery.

He turned, watching as the Duke’s rapt attention turned to that of confusion. Then, the crinkles of his eyes wearing deep into his skin drew apart. His eyes widened and his pupils contracted in sheer horror. The honour guard standing by his side merely gaped in fear, their gleaming halberds dropping from frozen fingers and pattering against the stone floor in the barest audible din. Keirn felt their motion instead in that dampening silence. All about him, a perceptible change had overtaken the crowd. The courtesans and guests seemed to draw back from the room, pressing against the walls before turning and fleeing towards barred doors.

But all entrances to the throne room had been sealed by request of the Duke. The mob merely pounded useless against the wood.

Keirn wasn’t entirely sure what it was that drew his attention back to the centre of the room. But as he turned he could feel a sudden burning wave of heat blast against his face. And what he saw caused his heart to stop.

There, standing upon the raised wooden step was a towering horror. Keirn wasn’t even sure what it was. The creature wore the body of a human, bare chested but with thick irons wrapped about its arms and dangling from large wrists. The chains pulled taut as great iron collars shackled monstrous canine creatures that snapped about the monster’s thighs. But both man and beasts were much larger than anything… human.

The creature raised its head, a burnt stag skull with faint brands scorched into the bone resting upon its sinewy shoulders. From the darkest pits of its sockets burned an undying red light like stoked embers. A dented and torn scale mail skirt hung limply about the creature’s waist, coated in dried blood and flecked with rotted pieces of fur and flesh that gave a nauseating scent of death.

Finally, a pair of great eagle wings sprouted from the creature’s back. But these weren’t majestic appendages of beautiful array plumes but a bloody and broken mass of torn skin and protruding bone. Great splotches of featherless skin stretched over the scarred heavenly remnants. Burnt pink sinew flexed beneath skin that cracked and bled with each shift of the cracked stumps.

Through the thick wax, Keirn could hear the hollowest echoes of screams.

The creature raised its arms and the four front hounds bound forward. The chains about its forearms unraveled as the beasts bore across the flagged floor faster than any worldly predator. Before anyone could react, they had descended upon the petrified Duke, curved claws longer than daggers tearing through cloth and flesh in mere seconds.

All the Duke’s guards merely watched in unmoving fear as their liege was torn to misting ribbons before them.

Keirn felt something strike the back of his head and he turned to see Derrek practically naked and staring uselessly at a pillar through his darkened glasses. The minstrel made a gnawing gesture then shrugged his shoulders.

“Now’s not the time!” Keirn shouted.

Then he realized Derrek couldn’t hear him. The blonde man merely smacked him again and repeated the gesture.

But the distraction had shaken Keirn from his inaction and he could feel the pressing need to do something and quickly. He grabbed his friend by the wrist and pulled him away from the throne towards the guard room. He didn’t know what the bard was planning but the quest seemed to unshackle his mind and give him clear purpose.

Course, Keirn had no idea how he was going to get through the frightened mob.

Yet, as Keirn hurried towards the side entrances, he noticed the gathered audience turning almost as if they were directed. They all peered back to the centre of the room where Keirn could hear only the faintest of whispers mingling with the ravaged slobbers of those great hounds as they persisted upon the feast laid before them across the throne.

Whatever distraction beheld the others, it made pushing past them with his blind, naked friend in tow easier. Keirn descended on the door, trying the handle and feeling it catch against it’s latch.

“It’s locked!” he cried. Uselessly.

This deafness thing was going to take some getting used to. Keirn turned to Derrek for more guidance but the bard merely repeated the bone-gnawing gesture.

The temperature in the room rose even more and Keirn could feel sweat beginning to bead upon his neck. He raised his hand to wipe it away and noticed a further change overtaking his entranced neighbours.

The attendants clutched at their ears, pressing back against the walls or collapsing against the floor with mouths agape as if their voices could drown out whatever sound plagued them. Some began to writhe in agony while others drew whatever item or weapon they had at hand. Thus, armed they struck out madly about them, hitting and stabbing whatever their weapons found purchase in.

And in this monstrous crowd, while dancing from wild swings and pulling his blind, naked friend to safety, Keirn remembered his sister. With stilling heart, Keirn realized she was probably still at the Duke’s side where those beastly hounds ate. The young man turned, ducking beneath the slice of a blood speckled halberd while pushing Derrek towards the back of a pillar recently made vacant by the cowering courtesan who was pulled to the ground by those that had been cut down but still clutching madly for reprieve.

But the bodies of the deranged proved too effective a barrier. He heard not their footfalls as they collided unaware into him. He raised arms against lashing nails and blades, each bit stinging and drinking the slightest droplets of blood from his flesh. He’d barely moved a few feet through the writhing mass before he felt his wrist grabbed. He turned to see Derrek still standing with one arm raised to gnaw and pulling anxiously towards the barred door.

At that moment, one of the standing guards blades caught against the thick wood bar, splintering the mass with more strength than seemed possible. With his steel hands, the guard pulled the pieces apart, ripping the door wide and fleeing into the hall as his frenzied compatriots shuffled, bit and clawed afterwards. It was as if a floodgate had been opened and Keirn felt himself being pulled along. The only anchor in the crush of bodies was the soft touch of his minstrel friend still miming the meal they’d enjoyed the night prior.

As they passed beneath the frame, one sound seemed to worm its way through the wax stoppering his hearing. But it wasn’t a piercing shriek or scream. It was a soft sob or remorse.

Continue to Cry of the Glasya Part 2 >

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