The Castle
By David J. Leonard
“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there,
wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream
before.”
― The Raven
― The Raven
 |
| Shrieks echoed, mingling from near and far. |
Move, damn it, he thought. But his
body betrayed him. Coward! You bloody coward! Some Knight Protector, you turned
out to be!
But Marquis Clement never said
it would be like this, did he? He spoke of honour and chivalry and protecting
the weak, of orcs and gnolls and bandits, and even of Ur-Flan wizards, but he
never once said anything about walls that flowed and bled like they were torn
by …. By what? Darkness? Colour? That nauseating, undulating blend of colour
that defied any description short of the emotions that mirrored it: sickness,
hatred, horror? It smelled as much, too: if sick and iron and rot. And what of
the noisome cacophony that flowed with it? It rends the soul to hear such a
thing.
Beads of sweat rolled from his
brow. They stung his eyes. He closed them. Wiped them. And opened them again to
the rippling ink and colour that threatened to unhinge him.
Okay, he thought, said,
whispered, and made to move his foot. He actually heard it scrape the floor.
“Shhh!”
He stopped, having hardly
shifted.
Philbin squinted and a shape
resolved in the darkness. A figure with the hint of a finger to its lips. “Shhh,”
it repeated, quieter than Philbin would have imagined possible.
The darkness and colour faded,
leaving only the seemingly pale light from those sconces that remained lit.
Only then did the figure move, becoming a man. Philbin saw what must be tusks
rising from its lower lip. Not a man! A half-orc!
Philbin lifted his sword, but
before it rose more than a few inches, an iron hand gripped his. He all but screamed.
But the blade that pressed against his throat cut short any breath that might
have rushed from it. Its pressure pulled him in, taut.
“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” was whispered
in his ear, its breath as hot as his was quavering.
The half-orc stepped out of the
shadows. “Just cut his throat and be done with it,” it hissed. It held a blade
in hand. A dim thing that didn’t reflect what little light the smoky sconces
threw.
“No,” the whisper behind him
said. “I think not. You know how it loves the smell of blood; one drop and it
comes running. So, we mustn’t tempt fate. Besides, he’s okay now,” it breathed,
“aren’t you?”
Philbin nodded, and the blade
left his throat, and the hand his sword.
“Good,” the voice said, so
lightly Philbin had to strain to catch its words.
“You don’t know that for sure,”
the half-orc whispered. It was tall. Thin for its kind. What its kin might call
a whelp and cull at birth.
Philbin, shifted to defend
against the beast and its companion, and saw the shadow of a silhouette behind
him shrug.
“Damn it,” the half-orc said,
exasperated. “Look at him! He’ll just give us away. You should’a just cut his
throat.”
Philbin tightened his grip on
his sword.
“What’s your name, boy,” the voice
asked.
Philbin swallowed, surprised he
could muster up enough spit to moisten his tongue, let alone his throat. He
whispered “Philbin” once he was able.
“Aloysius, meet Philbin. Killing
him now would just be impolite.” The voice stepped into the feeble light. Not a
half-orc. Human. About the same height as Philbin, if sprightlier.
Even in this low light Philbin could
see that he was somewhat tan of skin. His hair appeared black, his face sported
a tended moustache and pointed beard. There was something familiar about him.
But Philbin couldn’t quite place him. “You’re one of the delegates?” he asked, his
whisper rough as sandpaper. There were so many of them about lately, from
Rauxes, from the Herzog, some from as far away as Nyrond and Ratik. Too many to
remember them all. And of course, the Knights Protector. All there to discuss
what was to be done about the orcs and gnolls that were flowing out of the
Rakers like a malevolent tide. They might have saved their breath, Philbin
thought, for they agreed on little. And all their guarded words divided them
further.
“Yeah,” the man said, “I suppose
you could say that,” inexplicably. “I’m Malachi,” he said, gesturing towards
himself. “You’ve already met Aloysius.”
Aloysius? Odd name for a
half-orc. Odd attire, too. High collar. Tailored coat. A shoulder sash that
bended into the background. The same sort of attire Malachi wore.
“Can you find your way back,”
Malachi asked Aloysius.
The half-orc nodded. “We may
have to take some detours, but it shouldn’t take too much longer. We’ll be out
of here and back on the lake in no time.”
The lake? What lake? They were
in a mountain pass!
“Good,” Malachi breathed, “I’ve
been among these gadje too long.”
Gadje?
Malachi paused, as though
considering. “Would you like to get out of here?” he asked Philbin.
Philbin nodded, a little too
eagerly, he realized. He felt shame rise to his throat. It tasted of bile. He shallowed
it. He had no call for shame, he reasoned. It’s not like he’d been fighting
orcs or gnolls! Just darkness and colour and lightning fast tentacles of ebon
smoke that couldn’t be pierced or cut. His companions had tried. Their oath,
their dedication to courage and honour, demanded such. But they were all dead
now, weren’t they? So much for courage and honour.
The past hours had been a blur. There were tremors at
first, sounds of conflict, distant screams, the call to arms. Have the hordes
come to the walls? Have we been breached? I don’t know, was the best answer given.
We must have been, because there was fighting reported in the foundations. But
how was that possible? The walls were too tall, too thick, too strong, raised
to withstand the Fruztii for a thousand years. But they hadn’t been fighting
Fruztii; they’d been fighting orcs and gnolls in the pass, and they were too
stupid and savage to break or scale the castle walls, perched as they were on
such high cliffs.
They didn’t have to: The doors
had been thrown open to them by those clambering to get out. Heedless of
danger, those who fled took no heed of the spears waiting for them. Such was
their terror. And with the gates open, the humanoids had rushed in, and laid
waste to all who stood against them.
But those who fled had been
blessed with a clean death. Unlike the humanoids’ who’d carried the day. Philbin
shuddered at the memory of their howls and screams. Their insane laughter. From
down corridors. Echoing off walls.
 |
| Skin as black as darkest night |
They thought they’d be safe.
They weren’t. Their ears filled with a buzz and clamour. It rose to a din. Then
the walls flowed. They undulated. Breathed! Patches disappeared. And reformed
where they’d not been moments before. One materialized right on top of the poor
soul beside him. Philbin saw the terror in his eyes just before they disappeared
within the curtain of stone and mortar. His outstretched arms grasped and
shuddered, suddenly limp.
If not for what happened next,
Philbin surely would have retched.
He saw, and heard … the colour. It
burst forth, flaring with angry, throbbing, brilliance. An ebon pitch that he
could only imagine was the colour’s maw twisted within it. The din threatened
to unhinge him. He clawed at his ears and his eyes, and pressed himself into
that newly resolved wall that likely saved him. He drew his sword. It seemed a
pitiful thing to pit against such malevolence. It hung limp from his lifeless
hand.
Ethereal tentacles snapped out
of the blinding blackness, and the first of his companions were impaled, and plucked
into it before they could even draw breath, before they could screech or cry.
Philbin cried, Heironeous forgive
him, he cried as he never had before. But silently. Frozen. And one by one,
those smoky, gossamer tentacles snapped in and out of the colour with
unimaginable speed, snatching away those who’d stood and fought what couldn’t
be fought. Their steel rang out against those ghostly tentacles. Then rang out
again as they fell to the flagstones in singular clatters. Phibin cried. He
pled for his life to whomever might listen, to Heironeous, to Hextor, to Nerull,
he cared not who.
The last of his companions
disappeared into the blackness behind the brilliance, and just as abruptly as the
melee began, all sounds of combat ceased. The buzzing, throbbing clamour
paused, waited, listened, as though inhaling.
A drop of sweat rolled from
Philbin’s brow. Into his eye. It stung. He let it sting.
He feared to breathe. He too waited.
For how could one fight colour?!
The buzzing cacophony faded. The
brilliance faded to the pale imitation of light that remained. The sconces
sputtered, oblivious to the carnage around them.
The carnage that surrounded them
still.
“Okay, then,” Malachi said.
“Let’s go.” And Aloysius led the way. As silent as can be. Malachi shouldered
his pack and followed, as nimble as a cat. Then, shouldering his shield, Philbin
too followed.
His heart lurched as the
half-orc began to sing. Shut up, his soul cried! You’ll bring it down on us! But
as the melody washed over him, his soul soothed. He became calmer, more
confident, quieter, if that were possible. Malachi accompanied him, their
voices blending as beautifully as the colour’s cacophony had not, and Philbin
believed just then that they were going to be alright, that they were all but
invisible to any who might seek them. He began to believe that they just might
make it out of that hellish place alive.
It was then that he remembered
where he’d seen Malachi. He was the musician! That vagabond dandy who’d arrived
just as the delegates had, and played such soothing tunes on his lyre and sharm
that the gathered had requested he play at each and all of their negotiations.
Who’d invited him, they wondered, but upon hearing his most mesmerising tones,
any thought of asking who’d vetted him had slipped their minds.
Like cats, they snuck up down one
corridor after another, keeping to shadows that Philbin both yearned for and
cringed from, remembering how those black elves had been one with them, and
could command them. His heart pounded. So loudly he marveled that the others
didn’t spin about to remonstrate him. Or worse, leave him and his tell-tale
heart to their fate, to betray his presence to the colour, or to those
impossible elves, or just to wandering orcs. His throat closed. His breath
shuddered and rasped. Silently, apparently.
“Who are you,” Philbin asked
after they were far enough away from the carnage and when what passed for
courage could be roused.
Malachi gave him a sidelong
glance. “Why do you care, so long as we get you out of here?”
“Because I do. Because you saved
my life.”
“Did we? No matter. Either way,
we may need your sword.” Malachai gave him a hard look, then. “You are a
knight, aren’t you?”
Philbin chose his next words
carefully. “Almost … I’m a supplicant.”
“A what?”
“I’ve pledged my life, but I
haven’t been chosen yet.”
Malachi chuckled, shaking his
head. “Just my luck.”
“So,” Philbin asked, “who are
you?”
“Riverfolk.”
“Riverfolk? Rhennee? There are no Rhennee
around here.” Philbin paused, pondering. “Why are you here?”
“You’re a curious one, aren’t
you,” Malachi said. “Okay, I’ll tell you; I was sent to find out what you were
planning to do about the orcs.”
“Why do you care what happens
here? We’re nowhere near the Nyr Dyv.” The meaning of Malahi’s words revealed
themselves to him, then. “You’re a spy!”
“Keep your voice down,” Malachi
hissed. “Spy is such an ugly word. I’m on a fact-finding mission. It’s not like
you invited us to the table, did you? We need to know what you plan to do so we
can prepare.”
“Prepare? Prepare for what?”
“For betrayal.”
Aloysius stopped, and threw up a
warning hand. Ahead, the clash of steel and the howl of gnolls sounded against
the roar of what could only be orcs. It waxed, it waned, the combat rushing
down other halls. And faded. Silence swelled to fill their ears, broken only by
the sound of water dripping, the scuffle of rats. Only then did they creep
forward again.
After untold twists and turns,
and downward spiraling stairs, Aloysius paused again, calling Malachi up. He
gestured forward. Unbidden, Philbin crept forward too, and he too saw the dazed
gnoll that slumped against the wall at the bend ahead. Its head remained fixed,
its chest rising and falling with each tortured gasp. It laughed its tittering
laugh between each.
Malachi unsheathed his rapier
and dirk and inched forward, slipping into the darkness between what meager
light pooled from the guttering sconces. And only slipped back out of it when
close enough to shave the chin of that hapless beast.
Malachi waved them forward.
“Nothing to worry about,” he
said, his rapier waving a finger’s breadth from its glazed and milky eyes. It
took no heed of its obvious danger, fixated blankly into a distance it could
not see.
“Why,” asked Philbin. He had
half a mind to end the thing, but he stayed his hand, remembering what Malachi
had said, how the least drop of blood called the colour down on any injured
soul.
They stepped over the pathetic
beast.
It reached up and grabbed
Philbin’s leg.
He hollered. Gods, help him, he
hollered. It hollered, too.
“Fuck,” Aloysius snapped,
darting forward, all pretence of stealth laid aside.
Malachi almost sprang after him,
but after a moment’s hesitation, he turned and crushed the gnoll’s head in with
the pommel of his dirk.
“Leave him!” Aloysius yelled.
The gnoll slumped, and Philbin
was free.
They waited but a moment,
listening. And watched as blood rolled from the gnoll’s skull.
The faintest of buzzing
irritated Philbin’s ears. Tears welled up with it. No, he cried, silently.
“Run,” Malachi said. He bolted as
if his life demanded it.
And Philbin too ran. For he knew
that it did. But in his heart, he knew there was no hope of escape.
Footfalls echoed everywhere, his,
Malachi’s, Aloysius’, but others too. Many others, and they sounded swift, far swifter
than theirs. And beneath them all, a buzzing that irritated his ears. The
distant cacophony of horrors swelled. It pressed down on his heart. His breath
became forced and ragged. He knew they’d never be able to outrun them. It! The
pursuit and the horror were almost upon them.
Aloysius gestured to them from
an alcove ahead. “Hurry,” he called, looking behind them, panic clear in his
eyes! “Faster!” The alcove led to a
stair, and down they went, the mortared stonework giving way to rough-hewn
walls. Darkness engulfed them, and Philbin’s knees almost buckled. Malachi sang
a desperate refrain, and light flared overhead, shredding it. They reached the
base, a wide span of drainage, and Aloysius gasped, “Almost there.” He looked
spent. Malachi, too. He, himself, could barely keep up, let alone keep on. But
still they did, making for a dimmest hint of light, and of hope, at the
tunnel’s end. Their feet splashed too loudly, but they did not care. Freedom
lay within sight. But Philbin realized their footfall’s resonance did little to
drown out the pursuit, the horror.
He risked a backward glance. He
imagined movement in the darkness. Did he? Was there? He slowed and then
stopped, sure now that it was hopeless to continue. His wind had left him and he
could run no more. His shame returned. Coward, he thought. He drew his sword.
He’d be a coward no more.
Malachi slowed, he turned. “C’mon!”
he yelled.
Philbin knew then that he couldn’t
run. His shame stayed him. He’d already forsaken his oath, he’d cowered in the
face of Evil, and as the full force of that admission weighted upon his
conscience, he recalled Lord Clement’s words: “We are the Vanguard against the
coming of Night, and it is our solemn Duty to stand firm against it lest the Darkness
rise up and overwhelm us, for if we do not stem the tide Evil, who will?” He
must be dead now, Philbin realized. He choked back tears.
“C’mon” Malachi yelled, “we’re
almost clear!”
Philbin waved him on. “Go!” he
yelled, “We’ll never make it,” for indeed, the clamour of the colour was almost
upon them. “I’ll hold them off!” And he turned to do just that.
 |
| Boiling out of the distant darkness |
Philbin calmed, and felt his
resolve stiffen. He crouched and set his shield as a torrent of bolts rained
down on him. They clattered and snapped. He gripped his sword tighter; and
rising, he rushed them. More bolts struck his shield. One plunged into his leg.
He almost staggered, but this time his legs held true.
He swung, he slashed, he held
the space between the Evil and freedom.
Then the colour burst out of the
stairwell. The sound! It raked his mind. His war cry thrust his fear aside. The
colour washed over him. And still he slashed!
Malachi patted Aloysius on the
shoulder. “Thank you, brother,” he said, leaving Aloysius to man the tiller as
he moved forward to ready the sail. He inhaled Liliana as he reached the mast.
There were better scents than those of the river.
 |
| Spinecastle |
“You don’t want to know,” he said, peering
past Liliana’s glorious silhouette as the spires of mighty Spinecastle slowly
disappeared behind the bend. It was supposed to last a thousand years. It
didn’t last half that.
She gave him a stern look, one
not to be denied.
“Nothing,” he said. “No, not
nothing….”
Damn fool, he thought, picturing
that brave bloody fool as he threw himself into those monstrous half spiders,
half elves. Damn stupid bloody fool.
“We may be alive now because of
a gadjo,” he said, shaking his head. “He was just a boy, but he
sacrificed himself so we might escape.”
“Really?” she said, tossing her
head as she too looked upon their final glimpse of the spires as they slipped
out of view. “A gadjo? I’m surprised
he should do such a thing. I suppose one in a thousand may not be all that bad,
then, after all. What was his name?”
“No matter…” he said. “…
Philbin,” he said.
He gave the moon-bathed hills one
last long hateful stare before turning away, wishing he’d never come to that
castle’s once hallowed and now haunted halls.
Thank you, Philbin, he prayed, gods’
speed.
Special thanks to Kristoph Nolen of Greyhawk Online and the Oerth Journal, who reached out to me to submit something to the Journal. If he had not, this piece might not/would not have been written.
It originally saw the light of day in Oerth Journal #31, and can still be found there, forevermore. I encourage you to download the issue, and many more, as the articles within are written by fans of the Greyhawk setting for fans to use as they see fit.
The Art:
Copyright:
This is a work of fiction, penned by myself, set in the world of Greyhawk.
It is not to be copied or reprinted without the author’s permission.
Sources:
1015 World of Greyhawk Boxed Set, 1983
2010 Players Handbook, 1st Ed., 1978
Players Handbook, 5th Ed., 2014
2011A Dungeon Masters Guide, 1st Ed., 1979
2012 Fiend Folio, 1981
9018 G3 Hall of the Fire Giant King, 1978
9025 World of Greyhawk Folio, 1980
11743 Living Greyhawk Gazeteer, 2000
Dragon Magazine 293, Places of Mystery, by Gary Holian, 2002
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