I’m writing it, people are reading it, so here is some more of the Song of the Storm King. The first part can be found here. The other parts can be found here and here. A poem featuring Garrett the Fox can be found here. The chronology of the Song of the Storm King is ambiguous and confusing on purpose but this part takes place before Lightning.
The town of Starkhold was nestled in the hinterlands of the Alcove of Steel, a burgeoning mining town that shipped iron ore down the river to the capital city of Brighthall. Garrett looked upon his hometown, sword on his hip, from the hilltop and entered from the north. Everything was just as he remembered; Owen Hughes trading bread for grain in the continuous baker’s cycle, Gwyn Powell patrolling the streets with his guardsmen, and Lady Tegan Blood handing out flowers to all the children. Garrett’s heart swelled and ached in his chest, feeling at home and homesick all at once, a feeling that mingled with the scent of charcoal and hot metal. Narrow buildings crowded the streets, freshly whitewashed, and lead to the center of Starkhold.
In the town square stood a gaunt man dressed in a black leather long coat, a wide brimmed hat concealing his face. He had his back to Garrett, but the sight of his weapon resting on his shoulder sent a thick shiver down the sellsword’s spine. It was a curved great sword, gleaming in the sunlight, it’s wicked edge cutting deep into Garrett’s retinas. Then there was fire, fire and screaming, the corpses of the townsfolk piled high in mass graves and set aflame. Owen Hughes was cut down by a sword with a milk white blade and Garrett reached for his own, still strapped to his hip. Lady Tegan Blood was thrown onto a burning mound of charred corpses, still squirming and screaming at the top of her lungs. The man in black, with a single swipe from his great sword, cleaved Gwyn Powell in two, keen edge glowing blue against the flames.
A far away bell rang out an alarum, harsh and brazen.
Garrett drew his sword and gripped it in both hands, but it felt heavy and awkward in his grasp. Corpses, oozing red and yellow pus, clawed their way from the ground and latched onto Garrett’s legs, pulling him down and holding him back. Exposed bones wrapped around his limbs, pulling tightly down and away as if they were trying to tear him to pieces. They clawed at his flesh, gnarly teeth tore at his skin and whispered into his ear, but he couldn’t understand. Rather, he didn’t want to understand.
A far away bell rang out an alarum, harsh and brazen, sounding louder and closer as if it were falling from the sky.
The man in black turned to face Garrett, pinned to the ground and skin burning. He had no face, only a red skull grinning at him as milky eyes looked straight ahead. He shambled closer, sword dragging against the ground, leaving behind a trail of red and yellow pus. The scent was horrendous, a sickly sweet and decaying smell that wafted as a thick cloud and burned Garrett’s nose and throat. The corpses continued ripping him apart, rending him down to the bone. The man in black leaned closer to Garrett, red skull mere inches away from his face, and breathed out a thick, strangling miasma.
A bell tolled close by, groaning with a rusty throat, before crashing through the burning buildings and rolling out of the flames.
The man in black with the face of the Red Death drew in a deep, ragged breath, teeth clicking together.
“REY – NARD. STORM – CROWN.”
Garrett awoke with a start, bumping his head against the bed above him.
“Shit!” he seethed, trying to be quiet as to not awake the others. The room was dark, filled with snoring and bunk beds, the scent of stale beer and old vomit faint in the air. Garrett stretched and peered out the window, the sky cloudy and dim with the earliest light of dawn. The sellsword threw on shirt and put on his boots before leaving the room, closing the door with a soft click. The floor creaked beneath his steps as he made his way to the common room, a homely little section of the inn furnished with comfortable chairs and mounted deer skulls. The hearth smoldered with white ash and faint, red coals just begging to be stoked and fed. Garrett, shivering in the morning chill, happily took the invitation and welcomed the much needed distraction. As the fire came back to life, Tom Jon padded into the room and sat in a chair, humming and mumbling to himself.
“aoi, To Jo. Good to see you up this early.” Garrett said in a low voice, eyes still on the fire. Tom Jon continued his mumbling, finger nails picking at the armrests with idle fascination.
Garrett broke away from the fire to look at him. “Have you gone deaf boy or are you sleep walking again?” Tom Jon wasn’t looking at him, his eyes glazed over as his head lolled back and forth. Garrett approached him and strained to hear his low mumbling. Tom Jon’s eyes widened as he suddenly shot upright, grasping Garrett’s arm in a tight grip and pulling him closer.
“The Storm King disappeared that day.” Tom Jon said clearly. “And so his vas-sal car-ries his sword. Al-ways they are with his sword. But the Storm King’s never coming back.”
“What the hell did you just say to me?” Garrett stared into Tom Jon’s glazed over eyes. He blinked a few times, focusing on the man before him, jolting with surprise and releasing Garrett’s arm. His arm throbbed with a dull pain.
“Oh!” Tom Jon sputtered, “Oh – uh, g-good morning. Good m-morning, sir.” Tom Jon looked around curiously. “How did I get here?”
Garrett pinched his brow and sighed. “Sleep walking.” Garrett straightened himself and approached the front door.
“Where are you going?” Tom Jon asked, leaving his chair.
“I’m going to take a walk, Tom.”
“Can I come along?”
“No.”
Garrett stepped out into the crisp morning air, the clouds just now beginning to part from the sun. The road running through this little town was unpaved and muddy, yet compacted by the heavy traffic that cuts through every day. The buildings were squat and were decorated with a multitude of murals, paintings that told the local history. Garrett padded through the deserted streets, making his way to the job board in the center of town. The town bailiff, bright and early, was just finishing nailing a few more bounties to the board when he noticed Garrett closing in.
“Hail, Fox.” he said with a slight wave. “You’re up awfully early.”
“aoi, bailiff. Anything interesting your lord has you setting up?” Garrett looked at the bounties, a couple of local bumpkins behind on their rent who had decided skipping town was the best course of action.
“As a matter of fact, Lord Taylor has asked me to hand deliver this to you personally.” The bailiff unfurled a wanted poster depicting the haggard face of a man on the run. “Poor sod’s responsible for the abduction and murder of Lord Taylor’s daughters.” Garrett recognized the face as the one belonging to John the Artist, a wretched man he had let the Red Death consume some time ago.
“He’s already dead.” Garrett remembered the day clearly, a sunny day stained with blood and riddled with cracked bones. He had used his own blood to draw the Red Death to John, an action he is not proud of. A shudder ran through the sellsword’s body.
“Ah, well.” The bailiff shuffled around awkwardly. “Good morning.” He left Garrett to contemplate the job board alone, tearing up the wanted poster and leaving behind a trail. The ragged breathing of the Red Death snaked through the air, scraping it’s way up through the earth as a red skull broke through the dirt. Garrett stared at the skull, turned on his heels, and walked as calmly as he could back to the inn.
illuminatus.blog 