Part the Second: The Spider’s Web

Matters proceeded apace for what span of time I cannot now say;  allies came and went, and to this vast, ebullient army, all of whom had thrown off their quotidian shackles to seek adventure, I paid little heed but for the stream of dispatches that daily came my way, in brief, startling bursts. Of their lives I knew nothing, and they less of mine, for the Good Lord has shaped my soul like the ouroborous, needing no audience. To my private papers I retreated, to those amusements that are the provenance of One, until one idle night, roused by a queer clicking sound, I lifted my head and shook from it the inner mists, only to see that we had reached the first pass at the base of Mount Slayer, and I could see very little besides. For the mountain’s great foot was sheathed in fog; only the skeletal looming of wooden structures in the distance broke through the choking haze. With the clicking increasing to a frenzy, as of crickets in the garden or rats’ claws scrabbling in a locked cellar, these structures reared slowly, creaked forward, and unleashed hot and bloody Hades overhead.

How the internal mists part now as I scratch out this poor dispatch! I seek not to trick the phantom reader with calumny; indeed, the truth is, I had grown weary of the journey. The isolation to which I am best suited had become an oppression, and boredom–that bane of the lengthy pilgrimage–scratched at the outer doors of my consciousness. Was it change for which I longed, or true blood-humming tumult, or simple release? No matter, Baron D__, the spiderous fiend, pulled on a silken skein from inside his web fortress. The little band of intimates had fallen away and, while my head was in a book and a pen in my hand, become a roiling motley caravan of fools, wastrels, strangers and fearsomely powerful mercenaries. Dance, bade the Baron, and dance we did, with light step. Dance together, he entreated, and a fissure cracked our world in two.

It is a gift and a burden of human agency that we will jerk our limbs with every confidence that the patterns we sketch are our own, that no spider pulls the string and no tune is to be heard. So we set about forming alliances, opening the tent flaps at each stop to any manner of villain. Even as the chorus of clicks thickened in the air, producing great crashings of the trebuchet and catapults, new forays sprung up in the cratered earth: the Dark Legion rose, the D____ Rune spilled foes in the thousands from its maw. Our tent councils grew in size and proficiency, and from this chaos was born structure. Some rose to positions of power; most of us were mere soldiers and journeymen, but all of us clicked and clicked for our brethren, clicked and clicked …

*         *         *

I can say no more tonight. My writing hand is strong but a black cloud of shame billows to halt the words that would come next. It is cold in Castle A__ this night, and nigh empty. Dispatches tumble by like wind-prodded leaves; snatches of music can be heard, cries of anguish, petty triumphs, kind words, and the meaningless mumbles of the mad. Soon the moon will rise and the wine will flow, the cacophony of frenzied cheer will echo in Heaven’s ears. We will march out to meet it, to add our voices to the chorus, I and the stunted imps that my sick soul birthed along the path: Ambrosia; Angelica; my darling Lailah; the Muse; Gabe; and Daisy, the kitchenmaid. There are seven of us now, God help me. And only hours until we wake, grinning like ourang-outangs, clicking.

Part the First: A Dreadful Summons

I see by the fraying of my cuffs and the wildness in my eyes that it has been some few years since I set out for Castle A__ upon the urgings of a Marquis whose name is lost in mists as thick as those that hector the lower flanks of this mountain. Many things I have unclasped into the vortex of memory and there they spun and disappeared; many I have merely lost sight of. But life at Castle A__ harrows the brain, so it is with grim will that I endeavour to document my journey, not to thrill the hearts of those who revel in the disgrace of others or who, seated in their armchairs by the fireplace of a night — as I am now, although vast oceans of realities separates us, reader — long for adventures such as mine, no. This is a warning, and if the events detailed herein in any way give pleasure, then I will have failed, and the souls of the foolish who follow me down this path of ruination will howl across the centuries.

O, this pen is all the sanity I have. Heed it.

The night was fine but brisk as we set out, faithful companions and allies, the stars set in their shapes to watch us with hard, pale eyes. For some weeks we travelled speedily, questing among strange cities and easily vanquishing the foes encountered, Orcs and Trolls among them, great Tree Gods and misshapen beasts whose claws and teeth were as nothing to our swords. Our advancement rapid, we attracted followers in the hundreds, as merry and contentious as any band can be that sets forth with a brave banner snapping gaily at the vanguard. Many a jeweled oddment or helpful posset did we find among the cinders of our battles, and these we did exchange among ourselves, and grow strong for it.

At each step fresh revealments shimmered as golden chimeras, and it was perhaps two moons’ turn before we rode into the Puissant Valley of Peers to hear a great clashing and smell the reek of blood. Companions all, yes, but here merry jousting had turned vicious, and we realized that many new to our band had ridden this road from further villages, from other warm fireplaces, and grown sinewy. Their strength intrigued and made us not a little afraid, so we turned our attention to the simplest of feats, for such were the piquancies hinted in the original communication from Baron D__, upon whose summons we had equipped the horses and carriages. Foes fiercely fanged and winged, whose attentions we beckoned of our own free will, but some who seemed to rise in beastly splendour behind the cliffs of the Emerald Lake and Frost Falls. Desperate for weapons, wherewithal and strength, we lost these latter skirmishes, and the creatures fled.

For my part, my spirits remained high. My veritable vault of treasures with its trinkets and spells ennobled me daily, but many of those with whom I had taken the first step bitterly took their last. Their carriages retreated, some by dark of night, to brave the stony road. Would that I had turned my horses as well, but that same bitterness only stoked an inner fire that burned with more ferocity than the no-longer-yearned-for blaze of my library. In his high retreat, the Baron D__ awaited my arrival, and accompanied or not, he would receive me.

Missing: Imp

Until such time as I can get Imp of the Perverse back up and running, I’m resuming the blog here, with a shift in tone. It was to be my New Orleans ‘n’ life blog, but since I am currently running on half the number of cylinders to power two sites (three, if you count amoretnola.com), I shall have to debut the, um, thing I’m debuting here. I’d rather not jumble it all up in one place, and may take these down and shift them to Impy when I figure stuff out, but for now …

Of little interest to anyone but me, still, it was high time I did something with years of accumulated knowledge. Ladies and Orcs, my Castle Age blog: