Prologue

On a remote costal shore, high atop a limestone cliff, was a castle. Its first foundation stone had been placed over four hundred years ago and it had stood sturdily ever since. Its thick walls had been constructed well, built from fine-grained granite that had once sparkled in the sunlight but had weathered in the wind and the rain and was now dull and grey. Even so, the castle’s grandeur remained—its high, arched windows and towering spires were a lasting tribute to its architect, his name long forgotten. Intricate carvings wound up the towers and framed the windows, depicting glorious battles and epic journeys to far off lands. Hideous gargoyles crouched along the edges of the roofs, their faces pulled into frightful grimaces as they bared long and gruesome teeth.

The night when it all began was much the same as the many that had come before it. The cliffs stood solidly under the barrage of a howling wind. Nigh un scalable and forbidding in the starless night, they plunged down to meet the pounding water below. White capped waves crashed mercilessly against the limestone, spurred onward by the whip of the incessant wind and foaming angrily as a wild stallion foams at the bit.

Far above the waves, the wind was no less powerful and swept through the scrubby landscape of the castle’s barren grounds. A tall fence of black iron rods snaked along the contours of the land, marking the boundaries and warning off any unsuspecting travelers.

Between two of these bars slipped a figure cloaked in black. He stooped low to the ground to avoid detection by unseen forces and stole his way towards the castle. The very elements seemed against him. The wind grabbed fistfuls of his cloak and tried to pull him back the way he had come— he had to snake slowly back and forth across the land to make any headway at all. Thickets of brambles reached out to snag him with inch-long thorns that tore deep gashes in cloth and skin alike.

The trespasser had crept just over halfway to the castle when the wind abruptly stopped. An eerie silence filled the air and the figure paused, tension evident in his stance. No obvious threat made itself known and he moved on, his pace much quicker than before. In his haste, he overlooked a particularly nasty snarl of brambles. His cloak caught on the thorns, and he stumbled. Cursing vehemently under his breath, he shook himself free, all the while keeping close to the earth and glancing in every direction like a wild animal caught in a trap. Seeing his cloak in tatters, he cursed again and looked skyward.

“At least it isn’t raining,” he muttered darkly.

A low rumble to the east broke the quiet, growing louder to a booming roll before fading away. A string of foul oaths quickly followed.

Fortunately, the rain clouds did not arrive as soon as the thunder suggested, and the figure was still dry when he reached the castle walls. He located a small wooden door, once used by servants, and pulled on the iron latch.

It was locked.

Reluctantly, the intruder removed the black glove from his left hand and stuffed it in a pocket. His hand was riddled with scars and told of brushes with knife fights and fist brawls in shady taverns. He set it on the door, his palm against the ancient wood, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the door was glowing in many different colors. On closer inspection, it looked as if strands of colored light had been woven into a barrier, much like a piece of cloth is woven from strands of wool. The intruder hummed to himself in thought. Keeping his left hand on the wood, he pulled the glove off his other hand with his teeth. He then proceeded to tease the strands apart with careful fingers. As he freed them, they disintegrated, disappearing in a sparkling cloud. Once he had pulled more than half the threads out, the rest simply dissipated into the still air like the others. He tried the door, and it swung open easily.

On the rooftops, a stone gargoyle blinked lazily.

Inside the castle, the figure strode confidently through the dim servants’ quarters and expansive kitchen. He came to a set of stairs, and instead of choosing to head up towards the main body of the castle, he opted to go down into the dungeons. As he descended the roughly hewn steps, the air became dank and wet. The little light from above glistened on the walls, but the further he went the less light reached him, until soon there was none. Even when it became darker than the darkest of nights, darker than a shadow within a shadow, he treaded onward, the echoes of his steps never faltering, never losing their rhythm.

After a short while, a faint blue glow from below penetrated the darkness. It grew as the figure continued down the steps, becoming almost as bright as a summer’s day. Despite its intensity, the light held no warmth; instead, it felt cold on the skin and cast a pale blue tint on the figure’s hands.

The stairs then came to an end, and the figure stopped inside a stone doorway. From there the stairwell opened up into a large circular room that was quite different from the dungeons one would expect. Carved into the walls, ceiling, and floor were strange symbols. They had harsh lines and an otherworldly look, and they glowed blue, giving off the light that filled the room. There was nothing else, save a marble pedestal in the center on which stood a tiny wooden box. It was so small that it would have fit in the palm of the figure’s hand with room to spare.

Still standing just outside the boundary of the room, the figure spread his arms apart and placed his palms against the walls either side of him. He closed his eyes, and the next moment a white light flashed through the room. When it disappeared, many of the floor’s blocks of stone glowed faintly red. Those that didn’t made a winding path of stepping stones that led to the pedestal in the middle. The figure opened his eyes and hopped to the first one, beginning to make his way across.

Far above, the gargoyle shook its head and stretched fluidly like a cat. It then sat down on its haunches, stone claws clicking on the slate roof, and growled through its teeth. One by one, the other gargoyles began to awake, blinking slowly after a four-hundred year nap.

Once at the pedestal, the figure checked for spells. To his dismay, six chains were revealed by his magic, each crisscrossing over the box many times. They were much more substantial than the threads that had been woven to make the barrier on the outer door; each link was as thick as his thumb and resonated with the low hum and bright glow of strong magic.

The figure’s frustration mounted as he struggled with the chains, punctuated by swearing that cursed not only the spell caster who had devised this magic but also the man who had hired him for this job and himself for being foolish enough to take it. After tugging and pulling at the chains to no avail, he turned his attention to the many pockets inside his cloak. From them he produced an amulet. Set in the center was a white stone, surrounded by intricate knot work fashioned from gold. He placed it on the pedestal next to the box. The stone began to grey, almost imperceptivity at first and then faster, until it changed to a deep black. As it did so, the chains holding the box in place simply melted away, leaving it unprotected. The figure snatched it up and hit it away in his cloak.

The gargoyles were more active now; the rooftop was alive with stone monsters stretching on their plinths, flapping their wings, and gnashing their teeth. The first one to awake had taken the role of the leader; it flew from one area to another to snap at those who still looked groggy and growl approvingly at those who were sharpening their claws. When all seemed ready, it returned to its post. The others, sensing the time was near, quieted. It began to rain.

A few minutes later, their wait was rewarded with the sight of the intruder creeping across the grounds and making his way towards the iron fence. The leader let out a piercing shriek that the others joined.

The figure crouched down among the brambles and looked back towards the source of the reverberating cries. He was just in time to see the leader launch itself of the roof, followed closely by at least a dozen others. Seeing the gargoyles gliding through the sheets of rain, the figure slipped a dagger out of his boot and without a word set off at a fast clip. This was neither the time for curses or caution.

As the gargoyles cried out behind him, he calmly brought the knife to his lips and whispered softly to the blade. He then threw it over his shoulder, not once breaking his stride.

The dagger sliced through the air, gathering rainwater behind it as it flew. It sank up to its hilt in the breast of one of the gargoyles. The water following it flowed onto the thrashing monster, seeking cracks and crevices, and froze. Seconds later, the gargoyle fell to the ground as ice-encrusted rubble.

Undaunted, the other guardians pursued their prey.

Meanwhile, the figure was working more magic. Passing thickets of vines, he reached out his right hand and twisted it upwards. The plants shot straight up, growing ten feet in a matter of seconds. He did the same on his left and kept running as those vines grew as well. He didn’t need to watch his handiwork; the bestial screams of two gargoyles—pulled to the ground by the entwining vines—were enough for him.

Since it had proved so successful, the figure once again gestured at the plants. But something went wrong. The vines grew a few new leaves, but there was nothing more.

Hearing only the gargoyle’s beating wings and the torrential rain, the figure cursed. His breathing was finally becoming ragged and his steps more and more unsteady. He veered to the left, towards the cliff and into the driving rain.

Nearing the edge, his pursuers were seconds behind. He took one more look back and leapt over the edge, just missing the outstretched claws of the leader before he plummeted down to the angry sea far below.

The gargoyles circled several times above where the figure had fallen, watching the water as the foam from his impact slowly disappeared in the waves. No head appeared above the crests, and the gargoyles winged back to the castle.

It had begun.