1.9

...and turned. Upon its release, the door began to float inward as if the ship were off-balance. A staircase descended into the dark. Markus grabbed a torch from the sailor beside him and peered into the doorway. The staircase appeared to go down about thirty feet. “This is impossible,” he mumbled.

“Be careful,” warned Sûlmain. “Be very careful. If the one who placed such an ancient rune on this door is down there, he is powerful indeed. Guard yourself well. And remember, I am the only one who can counter his magic. I will do my best to protect you and your men. But if I die, so surely shall you all.”

Markus glared at the sorcerer. He did not like this. Like everyone else on the Wavesplitter, he neither liked nor trusted this wizard. But Markus was loyal to his captain, and if his captain said dive, he would do so. Whatever deal the captain had struck with this walking mystery, it had better have been worth it. Markus returned his attention to the stairs. He began down, torch and sword in hand.

The staircase seemed sturdy enough. The air was dingy and damp. The smell of mold was in the air. The group’s descent was slow, wary of the dark. When they reached bottom, they found a stone floor. Again Markus muttered, “This is impossible!”

The floor on which they stood was carefully laid flagstone. As they held out the torches, they could not see any walls. They began to spread out, but only a little. Still no walls. “Now where?” asked Markus.

Sûlmain pulled forth his loadstone. It shone brightly and lurched directly away from the stairs. This time it did not dangle back into position, but hung in mid air. “This way.” Sûlmain looked down before proceeding. “Note the direction of the stones. If we go in a straight line, then we may be able to use their cracks as out guide back out. Pick a set of stone as your path, and do not go out of its boundaries.”

The group proceeded in a formation to surround Sûlmain, at his insistence of course. They walked for nearly five minutes. Sûlmain began to understand why he could not see inside the ship earlier. He knew that they were not actually inside the ship at all. It seemed to be a portal. To where, or what dimension, he did not know…and he did not care. What he did know was that he was very near to his destination. His year-long journey was nearly at an end.

1.8

“Prepare to board,” said the captain as the Wavesplitter pulled alongside the ghost ship. Men in chainmail shifted, making one last check on their weapons and armor. Everyone eyed the strange vessel nervously. Who’s ship was this? Was it a trap? Was it cursed? No one knew the answers to these questions.

Sûlmain checked his loadstone one last time. This is it, he thought as it burned brighter than ever and lurched forward.

The boarding planks hit with a sharp crack, the heavy nails driving deep into the other ship’s wood. The marines ran across the plank, weapons bared, and waited for something to happen. The leader, Markus, removed his visored helm to hear and see better. Nothing moved. The only sound coming from the ship was the creaking of wood beneath their feet. Obviously, this ship was old…very old. The design was sorely outdated. That it was still afloat was a miracle.

Markus began walking about. He took two men with him in one direction, sent three in the other, and left four by the plank. While he walked he noticed that the ship did not sway with the waters. It was as if treading on dry land. This played havoc with his sea-legs. More eerie still, he could not feel the winds. The air all around was dead.

The two groups walked slowly around the surface of the ship. They found masts without sails, barrels without contents, and empty chests. Nothing else. There were no signs of struggle. There were no signs of weather damage (though age had a minor effect on the structure). There were no signs at all that anyone had ever been up there. They all returned and gathered at the plank. Markus motioned to Sûlmain to come aboard.

Sûlmain crossed the plank. He immediately noticed the change in the wind and the stillness of the ship when he set foot on deck. He glanced around, but saw only what his scrying revealed: nothing.

“There is nothing on deck,” said Markus. “There is a door over there that will take us below deck.” As he spoke, there was an edge to his voice.

“Very well. Let us go.”

The group moved toward the door revealed in the sorcerer’s scrying. Upon its examination, Sûlmain noticed a single rune branded in its middle. It was not a rune of barring or protection. Rather it was a warning: the rune for painful death. Whatever was beyond this door, it would be deadly. He continued to examine the rest of the door and the nearby wall. There were no other runes or markings of any kind. He returned to stare at the door.

Markus whispered over his shoulder, “What does it say?”

Sûlmain stood pensive for a moment. “It is an ancient rune. One of protection. Do not touch anything. I will take care of it.” The lie caused all of the men to take at least one step back. The sorcerer began to chant. The chant was nonsense, as was his “disarming” of this rune. However, he believed it to be in his interest to make them believe that he was more powerful than this “ancient magic.” It was important that they feel a dependence on his Craft. If the deception worked, morale would improve and loyalty to him would strengthen.

The chanting stopped sharply. The marines jumped. Sûlmain took a deep breath as if his work was taxing. “The door should open now.” And he stepped back.

Markus looked at him unsure of what to say. He certainly didn’t want to open the door. He motioned one of his troops to do so. The marine’s eyes grew wide with disbelief. “Well, go on.” Markus commanded, and the man stepped slowly forward, his knuckles turning white on his broadsword. He cautiously grasped the handle of the door…

1.7

The table had been cleared and now it supported a large silver bowl with runes adorning its wide lip. One lit candle stood at either side, each nestled in weighted holders. Sûlmain lifted a pitcher, held it high and began chanting. As he continued his incantation, he held it above one candle, then the other, and then returned it to the center. After repeating this ritual several times, he began to slowly pour the water into the basin. Steam began to rise as if the cold water were landing on a hot iron rather than a silver bowl. He set the pitcher aside and ceased his incantation.

As the vapors arose, Sûlmain inhaled deeply. Immediately, his head began to spin. He placed his hands on the table’s edge to steady himself. Scrying was a dangerous thing, and he didn’t want any room for error. He had already told a sailor to prevent any entrance and bolted his door for ensured privacy.

As he inhaled the fumes more deeply, he felt his heart begin to slow. He knew that there was a point of no return which he must not pass. To do so would mean death. But this was not his first time, and he was determined that it would not be his last.

He inhaled deeply one last time. Then, opening his eyes, he peered deep within the waters. From the moment that his lids parted, he could not see the waters. In their place he saw only a foggy hole, a window into another dimension. On the other side he could see movement. Incomprehensible shapes, some darker and some lighter flowed. Then came the voices.

“Why do you intrude?” they hissed.

“I wish to see with eyes not mine,” Sûlmain replied.

“Begone! We do not serve you. We do not know you.”

“I am Arche-Sûlmain,” he replied using his full title. He knew they would reply to his title of Arche—the greatest title a sorcerer could attain—before they responded to his name.

“You are no arche. You are feeble” they hissed.

“I am ARCHE-Sûlmain,” he repeated. “Do not anger me. You will freely allow me to see, or you will be my slaves for eternity.”

Moaning and grumblings came from the portal. They rose in intensity, and then subsided. It was as if the spirits were in conferring before returning en masse.

“We will respect the wishes of an arche. But we do not yet know that you are one. How shall we know? Tell us more.”

“I studied under Master Dalin, sorcerous master of the runic way. I have read the Tome of Muzdenbar, and it is in my mind. I have come to this portal before, several times. Your kind knows me as Arche-Sûlmain. I have much more to speak of, but I will say no more.”

Again, the hissing and moaning. This time a bit longer. “Tell us more. Prove to us your identity.”

Sûlmain could feel his heart slowing even further. He realized that the spirits were stalling. If he were to spend too much time in the trance, he would die. Then, he would belong to them. If they wanted to know who he was, then know they would.

The arche raised his right hand and began to inscribe a sigil—his own identifying sigil—in the opening of the portal. Then he opened his mouth and a hollow, ominous, nearly non-human sound erupted from his throat. The word of power burst into the very fabric of the spirits’ dimension. A curdling shriek erupted from the bowl. The Spirits swirled anxiously. The voices returned. “What do you wish of your faithful servants, Arche-Sûlmain?”

The sorcerer knew that his time was greatly limited. “I wish to see the ghost ship in my path.” The background of the dimension blurred and the ship came into view. Slowly, the vision moved toward the craft, until Sûlmain could make out the details of the deck. There was no sign of life. And more disturbing, there was no sign of death. The ship seemed sturdy and in tact. A single door led below deck.

“I wish to see beyond that door.”

Hissing resounded. Moaning began. “We cannot do as you ask, Arche-Sûlmain.”

“Why not,” he asked sternly.

“It is a forbidden area to us. Powers greater than us guard that door and bar our entry.”

“Try harder,” Sûlmain demanded.

The moaning turned to wailing. Wailing turned to shrieking. “We cannot go farther. Does Arche-Sûlmain wish to see elsewhere.”

Again, they tried to keep him here. But there was no longer a need to stay. His life flow now was nearing a dangerous pace. “No. You are free…for now. Be on your way.”

Sûlmain closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. With two puffs, he extinguished the candles. He rested in the darkness, relishing the increasing speed of his heartbeat

1.6

Heavy knocking jarred Sûlmain from his introspective trance.

“Did you hear me? The captain demands your presence.” The pounding continued.

“I am coming!” yelled the sorcerer. Sûlmain strode toward the door and opened it forcibly. Before him stood a sailor sporting a braided beard and clad in a heavy tunic. He pushed his way past the sailor and up the stairs. The bitter wind cut through his robes as he emerged. He reached the captain at the ships bow.

“See there.” The burly captain pointed into the fog. The silhouette of a ship could be discerned in the distance. Sûlmain raised his loadstone. It shone brighter than ever and lurched toward the strange ship.

“That is our destination,” said the sorcerer.

“We do not know that ship. It could be dangerous.”

“Captain,” said Sûlmain, “we are in the middle of an unknown sea covered in wind and a fog that does not disperse despite it. Does an unknown ship really bother you?”

The captain let a sly grin cross his face. “No, not really. You are very perceptive. But just in case, we will spend some time shadowing the craft. You might as well go prepare yourself for whatever you do. I will have a boarding party do the same.”

“Very well, captain.” Sûlmain offered a slight bow of his head and went below deck.

1.5

Sûlmain sat in the high-backed chair by his bed with his head in his hands. The sun came up earlier than he would have liked. Time passed too quickly for him to get ample sleep. As he sat, his head throbbed and his whole body ached. Time passed too slowly. Perhaps sitting and feeling sorry for himself would make tomorrow come sooner.

The door to his chamber opened. Sûlmain looked up. Master Dalen stood tall with his arms folded in his red robes. Intricate runes adored his attire in varied patterns. Whether they were decoration or magical, Sûlmain did not know.

“Where have you been?” the sorcerer demanded in a low voice.

Sûlmain’s eyes dropped closed as he sighed. “I was in town…doing what everyone does once a year.” He opened his eyes to look at his Master. He immediately wished he hadn’t.

The sorcerer strode into the room to five feet away. As he moved forward, he seemed to grow. Sûlmain felt increasingly small.

“How dare you defy me, child?” Master Dalin growled. “Did you think I would overlook such insolence?”

“No. I did not. And I expected that I would have to submit to your wrath.” Sûlmain braced himself. “But there is something that happened last night that might be of interest to you.” He reached over and grabbed a pouch from the table. From it he produced the thonged gem. “I was given this.”

His master’s demeanor became inquisitive as he held it close to his eyes. “What is it?” he asked as he held it up to the light.

“I do not yet know.”

“Who gave this to you?”

“There was a witch outside…”

“WHAT?” Master Dalin had broken into a shout. “You will NOT associate with witches!” He hurled the gem across the room. As his voice raised, it was as if the room shook, as if the very manor itself feared him. For a moment, Sûlmain thought his heart had stopped. He felt his strength of will leaving him, and it took every ounce of courage he had to keep from throwing himself on the floor before his master to beg forgiveness.

His master continued his rant. “They are despicable creatures! Peasants all! Do you not realize that you already have the degree of power that even the greatest of them cannot attain? Stay away from her! This I command! Remember that she has no interest in you other than the Gift imbedded deep in your soul! And it is NOT unknown for them to strip the life from sorcerers for the sake of increasing power.”

Master Dalin stormed out of the room. The door slammed behind him, knocking trinkets from the wall and dislodging a shelf that fell with a crash.

Sûlmain lowered his head into his hands. His stomach wretched. He grabbed a vase and emptied its contents onto the floor for his immediate use.

The thonged crystal, a fused mix of diamonds and glass, rested on the floor, glinting in the sunlight. Its unnatural beauty was something that could have enlivened a vomitorium. Assuming, of course, that anyone cared to notice.

1.4

Sûlmain sat on the steps of the Dragonhorse Inn, waiting on Tabindur to return. He stared into his mug and saw it was nearly empty. Lifting it, he downed the last dregs. With a flick he sent the remaining drops to land in bushes at the corner of the porch. Hurry up will you. Tabindur left about an hour ago to get the wenches that he had paid for in advance. If nobles were useful for little else, at least they had the ability to supply quality services. Sûlmain considered wandering in after another ale while he gazed at the moon. It hung high in the sky, and its fullness cast a bright light upon the town.

“Sûlmain.”

The apprentice yanked his head around to see the source of the voice. At the end of the porch stood a woman wrapped in a dark brown cloak. The hood over her head hid her features.

“Are you my present?” he asked.

She slowly walked toward him. As she removed her cowl, he could tell that she was older than he, perhaps the age of his mother. A long scar ran down her cheek. Beautiful she was not.

“If it is gifts you seek this night, young apprentice, then it is me that you seek.”
“Phhtt! Surely you jest. If you are my gift, I’m going to have to purchase a bag to put over your head.” Sûlmain stood and turned toward the inn’s entrance.

The strange woman’s eyes grew slim at the insult, and something deep within them flickered. This flicker startled Sûlmain. It was…unnatural. He stopped in his tracks. “Who are you, woman?”

“I bear a gift,” she replied coldly.

“I do not care whether you bear twins. What I asked was ‘who are you?’ Give me your name, crone.”

“Crone,” she said, “will suffice for now.” From her cloak she withdrew a crystal on a thong. As she held it aloft, it sparkled in the moonlight. As she fondled the gem, it seemed to leap at her touch. “I have been charged with presenting this to you on your twenty-first anniversary.” Since Sûlmain’s eyes were drawn to the gem, he failed to notice her glaring intensely at him. “Twenty one years ago, a man came to my cave. He cast a curse on me that forced my allegiance. After I give this to you, I will be free of my charge.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Your eyes tell me that you have no choice.” She reached out the thong and Sûlmain took it from her hand. As he held it high, he could see an unnatural flame dancing in its depths.

In the back of his mind, Sûlmain realized that the reference to the cave meant that she was obviously a witch. Furthermore, she had that air about her. He tucked the gem in his pouch and gazed deep into her eyes. “Your duty is done. The curse is broken. Go your way, and bother me no more.”

Sûlmain turned and walked up the steps toward the doors of the inn. A raven fluttered overhead, causing him to duck. Gazing over his shoulder, he saw the witch was gone.

1.3

It was many years ago. As the sun descended behind the mountains, the rocks glowed a pleasant red. Fireflies had already come out of hiding and began their evening dance. Sûlmain watched the lightshow against the backdrop of darkened woods with a sense of inner peace.

He thought to himself, I could ask no more on my 21^st anniversary. The sun in the heavens, the rocks of the earth, the insects of the field…they all honor the day of my birth.

As Sûlmain continued to absorb the experience, he heard a pair of unmistakable feet pattering up the hill behind him. “Tabindur.”

Panting, the other young lad arrived at his side. “Sûlmain, what are ye doin’ out here on ye anniversary? Ye should be readying yuirself for our…uh, ‘excursion’ this eve.” The two of them had planned to go into town to celebrate Sûlmain’s 21^st. Although Tabindur was not an apprentice, he was a friend. And more importantly, he was going to help Sûlmain slip out from under the eye of a Master who disapproved of drunken whoring.

“I know,” replied Sûlmain dryly. “But I wanted some quiet before the festivities began.”

“Well, if ye wanna go, then ye better be preparin’ back at the manor. The Master’s gonna want ye to do stuff before he really lets ye outta his sight.”

“I’m already out of his sight. Perhaps it’s best I don’t go back until afterward.”
Tabindur looked at Sûlmain suspiciously. “Are ye sure that it’s the best course?”

Sûlmain sighed. Simpleton. “Tabindur, you know I highly prize your advice. I would be a fool not to listen to one raised in the wisdom of nobility. However, I think I know best in this instance.”

“Hrumph!” Tabindur looked condescendingly at Sûlmain. “Ye’ve always been a damn poor liar, wizard’s apprentice. Ye listen to none but yuirself. If yuir gonna survive at court, then ye better get better at that…lyin’ that is, not listenin’ only to yuirself. Shall we go then?”


“Fair enough. Lead the way.” Simpleton, indeed!