1. Jeorland
The sea stretched on endlessly, its murky indigo-black waters lapping softly on the sharp jutting rocks below, creating a quiet splish-splash noise, the only audible sound that could be heard in the dark. The rest of the night was deadly quiet and a cold chill hung in the air. A sharp gust of wind blew and Jeorland Blackbarrow pulled his heavy dark violet cloak tighter to his chest and shifted his weight between feet. Steam blew forth from his mouth as he let out a long tiresome sigh. He had been standing watch on the tower for close to three hours and he had another three to go before dawn came. He thought longingly of the tower library, its roaring hearth and ancient candles illuminating the vast room filled with infinite knowledge sealed between calf-skin leather covers. He couldn’t wait to return to his book he had been reading before his watch, a thick sheepskin parchment detailing the life of the western sea king from ages past. Jeorland loved to read of the history of the Realm. As a child he would listen to the songs his mother would sing to him as she tucked him safely into bed each night, songs of valour, courage, brave men and women and the love they shared. He always dreamt of being a hero in one of the songs, and often got lost in a dream where he was a gallant knight, clad in shining silver plate armour atop a white stallion riding off to fight for a noble cause, slay the evil tyrant and win the beautiful princess. Usually a sharp gust of wind would chill him to the bone and bring him crashing back to reality.
Jeorland stamped his feet to return some feeling to them, to wake his mind and keep it from wandering. He pulled his hood up over his head looked on to the dark sea ahead, trying to spy anything out of the ordinary, a strange shape, a mysterious fog, even a stray fishing boat but it was the same as it always was each night watch, empty and uneventful. He looked around at the pathway he stood on for sign of any other guards on watch but there were none. He sighed once more and lapsed almost unknowingly back into another dream. This time, he was back at Rockfall his childhood home. He walked aimlessly through the streets recalling as many details as he could of the broad streets and walkways that he used to tread so often. He passed the bakery and longingly remembered the smell of freshly baked bread and tarts and the warmth one felt as you passed by. He tried to remember the friendly face of the baker he had used to buy from on such a regular basis, but only a vague blur came to mind. He walked further down the street and passed Magory’s house. That was a face he would always remember. Her dark auburn hair, green eyes and poised cheekbones still made him feel light headed and he happily remembered the times they shared together before he had to leave. He did not want to recall his parents.
The torch nailed to the wall behind him fluttered and the flame snapped violently, drawing Jeorland back to the present. The flames sent shadows leaping around the walkway, bouncing off the wall it rested on and the one that stood between him and the sheer drop to the rocks below. He straightened his back and gripped his tall oak spear tighter, looking around. He felt strangely uneasy, despite the calmness of the night and looked all around him for any sign of unusual action. When finding none, he relaxed a little, but still held a sense of unease about him. He flexed the fingers on his hand that was clutching the spear. He did not realise how hard he had been squeezing the wood and they felt even more numbed than from the cold. He shifted his weight again and tried to keep his back straight. It always hurt after a watch, six hours of standing in one point was not the most comfortable thing one could do. He tried to use the spear to take some of his weight and it helped a little. He sighed once more and blew soft wisps of steam into the air before him. They curled and curled before dissipating into the dark, cloudless night.
A scream rang out, sharp and shrill, distant but not too far away. Had he really heard that? He snapped to attention and poised his spear in defence. The air hung silent for a few seconds and Jeorland was unsure as to whether his mind had conjured up the noise, or if it was real and he should run to investigate. He stood shaking for a few more seconds before he heard a loud crash and the scattering of feet on stone. He jumped back, frightened. Someone’s hurt, he thought. Summoning up his courage he ran down the narrow walkway, trying to muffle the sound of his heavy shoes on the ground as best as he could with his cloak flapping behind him as he ran. He stuck as close as he could to the tower wall before stopping at the steps leading down off the tower into the street below, with its darkened buildings and smaller towers. There was still no other sound to be heard, other than his heart thumping in his chest. He scanned the street before him, looking for signs of a fight. There were caskets flung everywhere and a single iron sword lay strewn across the ground, glinting in the light of the single torch hung on the nearest building. Jeorland raced down the steps to the scene and ran towards the sword. His feet flew out from under him and the ground came rushing up to greet him. He crashed down on the stones and his face landed in a wet, sticky substance. He spattered it off his lips and out of his mouth as he tried to rise. It tasted of iron and felt warm on his lips. He put his hands before him to push himself up and they became covered in the wet stuff too. He held them up to his face to see what it was only to find them, and himself, covered in thick, wet, warm blood.
He stifled a shriek and rose quickly to his feet shocked. He stood in a puddle of red glistening blood with his hands held out before him in disbelief. There were small, patches of blood running off in one direction and Jeorland came to the conclusion that whatever had happened, he would find the answer that way. Without thinking, he snatched up his spear he dropped and raced off, following the small bloody footprints. They ran around the outer wall, through alleyways and behind buildings before ending in a bloody red puddle at the foot of a tower, with a splattered trail leading up twenty feet to the window. He stood still, his breath steaming in the cold clutching his spear tight. He was shaking. He knew he should enter the tower, it was his duty, yet something was holding him back. A memory from the past.
Before he could think any further there were shouts from behind him, and two younger men approached, clad in the same outfit as he, although brandishing iron swords in place of a spear.
“Did you follow the trail, sir?” one of the lads inquired, breathless. His hair was matted and greasy, his face dirty and spotted, he had not bathed for weeks by the look of him. The other was less unkempt, and his sword looked as though it had been taken great care of. One thing was common between them , the look of utter fear in their eyes.
“You lad, raise the alarm,” Jeorland commanded the greasy one. “There is foul work here tonight and everyone needs to be alert. Ring the bells, call the commander, I don’t care what you do just do it.” Without question, the young man sped down the road, the sound of his boots on the stone reverberating off every wall. Jeorland looked to the other. “We have a duty to do.”
They stood in front of the small wooden door before them, each bracing themselves for whatever lay behind it. Jeorland whispered a count of three before they both kicked it in and leapt into the tower. There was a single candle illuminating the room and the scene was not pretty. There lay two guards spread out on the floor drenched in their own blood, unmoving. Their throats had been torn out and their swords lay idle and unused beside them. The other man held his hand before his mouth in disgust but Jeorland tried his best to seem indifferent towards it in front of the lower ranking man.
“What is your name, lad?” he asked him, in a hushed tone.
“J-J-Jerad,” the other stammered. Jeorland’s mouth clenched. That was his father’s name.
“Jerad,” Jeorland continued, beckoning to the stairs that led up to the next level of the tower. “Whatever’s up there we have to find it and I need you to be stronger and not balk. Do you understand?” Jerad nodded his head stiffly and bit his lip. Jeorland nodded too. “Let’s go.”
They both crept up the winding stair, Jeorland first, making as little sound as possible. The steps seemed to go on forever, winding and ascending for hours. Jeorland’s heart was in his mouth but he tried not to show his fear and kept his breathing as steady as he could. Eventually they came to the end of the stair. Jeorland looked around to Jerad to see if he was ready. The younger man nodded. Another count to three and they ran up the rest of the steps, spear and sword waving. There was a shrill screech and a sickening wet crunch. Before them stood a tall, skinny wraith like being drenched in the light from the torch the hung on the wall, hunched over a bloody corpse of a man. It was holding his shoulders in its hands, and in its mouth was the corpses’ severed head.
Jeorland was terrified. The creature was hunched over but even so it must have been the height and a half of him. It was bloodied and skeletal, with small empty eyes boring into his skull. In its gaping maw, it held the dead man’s head dangling, dripping blood onto the marble floor. For a second everyone stood still as water on a calm lake. Then as though a stone was cast in it, the calm was shattered and the creature pounced, discarding its trophy and flying towards them. Jeorland ducked out of the way and gave it a thump with the butt end of his spear before it crashed into Jerad. The two of them crashed into the wall and sank to the floor. Jerad was soaked in dead men’s blood that dripped off the creature and his hands were slippery, trying to hold its mouth with its jagged teeth from sinking into the soft flesh of his neck. The beast’s breath stank of death and was hot and sticky on Jerad’s face. He tried to look away and keep the beast from his neck with all his might before looking over to Jeorland and seeing him raise his spear and drive it through the creature’s skull. It exploded in a rain of blood and bone, drenching the young man. With a shriek he tossed the lifeless body off of him and jumped to his feet. He was still terrified and was shrieking still, wiping the blood frantically from his person.
“Are you alright?” asked Jeorland, panting. He was shaking too.
“I’m fine,” the younger man replied shakily. “What… was that?”
Jeorland only chuckled softly. “Welcome to Spirepeak.”
The sea stretched on endlessly, its murky indigo-black waters lapping softly on the sharp jutting rocks below, creating a quiet splish-splash noise, the only audible sound that could be heard in the dark. The rest of the night was deadly quiet and a cold chill hung in the air. A sharp gust of wind blew and Jeorland Blackbarrow pulled his heavy dark violet cloak tighter to his chest and shifted his weight between feet. Steam blew forth from his mouth as he let out a long tiresome sigh. He had been standing watch on the tower for close to three hours and he had another three to go before dawn came. He thought longingly of the tower library, its roaring hearth and ancient candles illuminating the vast room filled with infinite knowledge sealed between calf-skin leather covers. He couldn’t wait to return to his book he had been reading before his watch, a thick sheepskin parchment detailing the life of the western sea king from ages past. Jeorland loved to read of the history of the Realm. As a child he would listen to the songs his mother would sing to him as she tucked him safely into bed each night, songs of valour, courage, brave men and women and the love they shared. He always dreamt of being a hero in one of the songs, and often got lost in a dream where he was a gallant knight, clad in shining silver plate armour atop a white stallion riding off to fight for a noble cause, slay the evil tyrant and win the beautiful princess. Usually a sharp gust of wind would chill him to the bone and bring him crashing back to reality.
Jeorland stamped his feet to return some feeling to them, to wake his mind and keep it from wandering. He pulled his hood up over his head looked on to the dark sea ahead, trying to spy anything out of the ordinary, a strange shape, a mysterious fog, even a stray fishing boat but it was the same as it always was each night watch, empty and uneventful. He looked around at the pathway he stood on for sign of any other guards on watch but there were none. He sighed once more and lapsed almost unknowingly back into another dream. This time, he was back at Rockfall his childhood home. He walked aimlessly through the streets recalling as many details as he could of the broad streets and walkways that he used to tread so often. He passed the bakery and longingly remembered the smell of freshly baked bread and tarts and the warmth one felt as you passed by. He tried to remember the friendly face of the baker he had used to buy from on such a regular basis, but only a vague blur came to mind. He walked further down the street and passed Magory’s house. That was a face he would always remember. Her dark auburn hair, green eyes and poised cheekbones still made him feel light headed and he happily remembered the times they shared together before he had to leave. He did not want to recall his parents.
The torch nailed to the wall behind him fluttered and the flame snapped violently, drawing Jeorland back to the present. The flames sent shadows leaping around the walkway, bouncing off the wall it rested on and the one that stood between him and the sheer drop to the rocks below. He straightened his back and gripped his tall oak spear tighter, looking around. He felt strangely uneasy, despite the calmness of the night and looked all around him for any sign of unusual action. When finding none, he relaxed a little, but still held a sense of unease about him. He flexed the fingers on his hand that was clutching the spear. He did not realise how hard he had been squeezing the wood and they felt even more numbed than from the cold. He shifted his weight again and tried to keep his back straight. It always hurt after a watch, six hours of standing in one point was not the most comfortable thing one could do. He tried to use the spear to take some of his weight and it helped a little. He sighed once more and blew soft wisps of steam into the air before him. They curled and curled before dissipating into the dark, cloudless night.
A scream rang out, sharp and shrill, distant but not too far away. Had he really heard that? He snapped to attention and poised his spear in defence. The air hung silent for a few seconds and Jeorland was unsure as to whether his mind had conjured up the noise, or if it was real and he should run to investigate. He stood shaking for a few more seconds before he heard a loud crash and the scattering of feet on stone. He jumped back, frightened. Someone’s hurt, he thought. Summoning up his courage he ran down the narrow walkway, trying to muffle the sound of his heavy shoes on the ground as best as he could with his cloak flapping behind him as he ran. He stuck as close as he could to the tower wall before stopping at the steps leading down off the tower into the street below, with its darkened buildings and smaller towers. There was still no other sound to be heard, other than his heart thumping in his chest. He scanned the street before him, looking for signs of a fight. There were caskets flung everywhere and a single iron sword lay strewn across the ground, glinting in the light of the single torch hung on the nearest building. Jeorland raced down the steps to the scene and ran towards the sword. His feet flew out from under him and the ground came rushing up to greet him. He crashed down on the stones and his face landed in a wet, sticky substance. He spattered it off his lips and out of his mouth as he tried to rise. It tasted of iron and felt warm on his lips. He put his hands before him to push himself up and they became covered in the wet stuff too. He held them up to his face to see what it was only to find them, and himself, covered in thick, wet, warm blood.
He stifled a shriek and rose quickly to his feet shocked. He stood in a puddle of red glistening blood with his hands held out before him in disbelief. There were small, patches of blood running off in one direction and Jeorland came to the conclusion that whatever had happened, he would find the answer that way. Without thinking, he snatched up his spear he dropped and raced off, following the small bloody footprints. They ran around the outer wall, through alleyways and behind buildings before ending in a bloody red puddle at the foot of a tower, with a splattered trail leading up twenty feet to the window. He stood still, his breath steaming in the cold clutching his spear tight. He was shaking. He knew he should enter the tower, it was his duty, yet something was holding him back. A memory from the past.
Before he could think any further there were shouts from behind him, and two younger men approached, clad in the same outfit as he, although brandishing iron swords in place of a spear.
“Did you follow the trail, sir?” one of the lads inquired, breathless. His hair was matted and greasy, his face dirty and spotted, he had not bathed for weeks by the look of him. The other was less unkempt, and his sword looked as though it had been taken great care of. One thing was common between them , the look of utter fear in their eyes.
“You lad, raise the alarm,” Jeorland commanded the greasy one. “There is foul work here tonight and everyone needs to be alert. Ring the bells, call the commander, I don’t care what you do just do it.” Without question, the young man sped down the road, the sound of his boots on the stone reverberating off every wall. Jeorland looked to the other. “We have a duty to do.”
They stood in front of the small wooden door before them, each bracing themselves for whatever lay behind it. Jeorland whispered a count of three before they both kicked it in and leapt into the tower. There was a single candle illuminating the room and the scene was not pretty. There lay two guards spread out on the floor drenched in their own blood, unmoving. Their throats had been torn out and their swords lay idle and unused beside them. The other man held his hand before his mouth in disgust but Jeorland tried his best to seem indifferent towards it in front of the lower ranking man.
“What is your name, lad?” he asked him, in a hushed tone.
“J-J-Jerad,” the other stammered. Jeorland’s mouth clenched. That was his father’s name.
“Jerad,” Jeorland continued, beckoning to the stairs that led up to the next level of the tower. “Whatever’s up there we have to find it and I need you to be stronger and not balk. Do you understand?” Jerad nodded his head stiffly and bit his lip. Jeorland nodded too. “Let’s go.”
They both crept up the winding stair, Jeorland first, making as little sound as possible. The steps seemed to go on forever, winding and ascending for hours. Jeorland’s heart was in his mouth but he tried not to show his fear and kept his breathing as steady as he could. Eventually they came to the end of the stair. Jeorland looked around to Jerad to see if he was ready. The younger man nodded. Another count to three and they ran up the rest of the steps, spear and sword waving. There was a shrill screech and a sickening wet crunch. Before them stood a tall, skinny wraith like being drenched in the light from the torch the hung on the wall, hunched over a bloody corpse of a man. It was holding his shoulders in its hands, and in its mouth was the corpses’ severed head.
Jeorland was terrified. The creature was hunched over but even so it must have been the height and a half of him. It was bloodied and skeletal, with small empty eyes boring into his skull. In its gaping maw, it held the dead man’s head dangling, dripping blood onto the marble floor. For a second everyone stood still as water on a calm lake. Then as though a stone was cast in it, the calm was shattered and the creature pounced, discarding its trophy and flying towards them. Jeorland ducked out of the way and gave it a thump with the butt end of his spear before it crashed into Jerad. The two of them crashed into the wall and sank to the floor. Jerad was soaked in dead men’s blood that dripped off the creature and his hands were slippery, trying to hold its mouth with its jagged teeth from sinking into the soft flesh of his neck. The beast’s breath stank of death and was hot and sticky on Jerad’s face. He tried to look away and keep the beast from his neck with all his might before looking over to Jeorland and seeing him raise his spear and drive it through the creature’s skull. It exploded in a rain of blood and bone, drenching the young man. With a shriek he tossed the lifeless body off of him and jumped to his feet. He was still terrified and was shrieking still, wiping the blood frantically from his person.
“Are you alright?” asked Jeorland, panting. He was shaking too.
“I’m fine,” the younger man replied shakily. “What… was that?”
Jeorland only chuckled softly. “Welcome to Spirepeak.”
