Carlofans rise up, he’s back for the third week in a row! But don’t fret, Carlohaters (who don’t exist), there’s plenty more savage sword magics and eerie drowned graveyards within to sate your fantastic wanderlust into these glimpses of far off worlds.

Next week you’ll be treated to a fresh chapter of The Path of Poison—we’ve made it to Farhaven, Sepp’s already lost something, and a new friend has appeared. No better time to hop on than now!

And if you missed last week’s wizardly musings + a horrible labyrinth, you can check that bad boy out right here

And as ever, friends, please leave a like or a comment—let the stories know you enjoyed them!

This week, we witness a test of the Sorcery of Steel, the red wizard travels across the sea to renew a bond in a Flame Tower, and we descend, lantern in hand, into the Depths of the Graveyard…

Sorcery of Steel

The Hall of Flame rose into the hazy darkness above. From the darkness depended sconces of red fire on long black chains. To each side, twisting pillars shot into the smoke-laden shadows above, and between them were figures of bulging muscle and thew shaped in swoops and arches, holding in their hands wide bowls belching the same red fire. Their features were stern, strong, demanding, they had piercing eyes gazing from under furrowed brow that surmounted aquiline noses with flaring nostrils, and lips curled in stoic frowns. The ground shimmered like boiling blood in the crimson radiance.

And almost all of it was made of steel. The pillars were twisted shafts of it, the statues were, each and every one, titan bulks of steel hammered into immaculate form, and the ground, though it was of ancient, cracked flagstone, bore its veins of steel. Merely standing in this space flooded the hierophant’s aching limbs with renewed vigor. Before him stood seven figures much, he thought, like the statues: towering in proportion and presence, their arms and legs great twists of cord. The Forgemasters. Men and women who knew steel, and who would this day test his Mettle.

The hierophant’s mind raced back, back to the very beginning: the frost-laden chamber where newborn steel’s fury was tempered. In the biting chill where rime winds raced, the hierophant held steel for the first time. He was still then a reedy youth, and he could recall that first feeling. There was no sudden rush of power, in fact, the bar set before him was intolerably heavy. But as he strained, his body cried out for more—the pain grew and grew, but it was less as if it was being inflicted upon him, and more as if he was in combat—and he must win. He was laid low for three full days after that initial encounter. It was what got him accepted into the ranks of the novitiates. Not that he survived, but because he desired to do battle.

From his side he drew then his blade—it was all one single length of steel, dark and rich and with the wavering patterns of oil in sunlight. The blade was not terribly long, tapering swiftly from a broad base to a fearsome point. The crossguard was short and consisted of two straight spikes, slightly flattened, and the pommel was similar, but smaller. He held it only with one hand—his preferred style, choosing instead to use his free hand to balance and strike the right stances. And yet, it would take five full grown people to lift this thing, who would all the while be assailed by its sheer potency. This was his steel, drawn from the earth, blasted with flame, and hammered under the guidance of the Supreme Archmasters.

That mankind could make steel meant it was worthy. This was the guiding principle of their civilization. While barbarians and savages and weaklings scrambled for burnished bronze that bent, dull iron that crumbled and rotted, and gold that congealed in the pockets of those who lusted after its maddening sheen, his people found steel. There was naught else in all the world that could match its might. Steel demanded that those who would wield it be like steel themselves, not just strong, but ponderous, brooding, and decisive in might, for there was nothing steel could not dominate. The world bent to its resolute will.

Before the hierophant sat a large chunk of black stone upon a steel altar. It was glassy, the red firelight played across its formless, flowing surface, streaking the wicked edges in phantom blood. Such stone was what the world once considered beyond reproach. In truth, it still held respectable power, but it was rare, and it was as capable of destruction as it was itself capable of being destroyed. A mere few swings from a blackstone sword would leave it chipped and useless. Yet, brittle as it was, the edge was keen—so much so that blackstone swordsmen did not defend and deflect the blows of their enemies with the flat of the blade, but cut through their opponents weapons. Warriors of that age waded into battle covered in blades of a dozen kinds. An impressive sight to be sure, but cumbersome. Without hesitation, the hierophant raised his steel, held up and out, for a swift downward strike. As the sword fell, and met the blackstone edge, there was a sound of scraping, and a shower of white sparks—the hierophant did not stop, there was perhaps the merest fraction of a second as he registered the impact and felt not resistance from the stone, but attack. A subtle shift with his free arm lent him the angle necessary to better deliver the heft of his own body with the sword’s thicker middle section. He must be as steel himself, he remembered. Not just a slab of brute force, but an instrument of the highest grade. The blackstone suddenly split and cascaded to the sides as the sword met the altar with the clang of a drowned bell.

Steel came to man only recently, but it had existed in the mind for far longer. It was a dream for strength, first, which had remained at the forefront ever since. The legend of steel was the legend of a nameless heretic alchemist, a secret sage, who toiled in exile, leading a band of righteous thieves from a sparse mountain lair to take from merchant caravans and palace treasuries choice materials to transmogrify the detritus of a pitiful world into that which finally stood down the champions of the tyrannical gods and laid low the gluttonous temples. The lore of steel was one of empowerment at every turn, steel demanded much but rewarded even more, it placed in mankind’s grasp dominion of the whole world.

“There comes now a true test,” said the forgemasters. “Steel does not bend. Steel makes all else bend in its stead. Including thine own flesh.”

Steel went wherever it may, and so the hierophant bid it do so: with a single stroke of the sword, a streak of the air itself suddenly was blotted out, rent apart, and in the flash it took to revert itself, the hierophant had leapt a dozen yards without taking so much as a single step. A score of successive swings showed that he could make the steel leap into the air, to make it hang for a second before shooting back in the blink of an eye. A forgemaster, eyes blazing, raised a hand laden in steel rings and bracer, and with a mere motion pulled away something in the ceiling, and a shaft of golden light fell into the Hall of Flame. Wasting nary a second, the hierophant strode forth and raked the edge of his sword through the shaft of sunlight, sparks roaring as he did so, and with a finish flourishing held the blade high, enwreathed in swirling flame—and brought it down a moment later as a bolt of white lightning fell and danced upon the tip, and was thrust into the ground where several flagstones instantly shattered.

In a reverse grip, the hierophant flung and held the sword, plunging it into the exposed black clay as he fell to one knee, and then rose, drawing forth from the earth a shimmering thread in the air. Raising the sword up, a wraith in flowing tatters, bearing ash-black hammer and shield, followed. One of the forgemasters leapt forth—there was a flash, and the wraith fell into the earth, the thread above it cut by the master’s axe. The master’s eyes shone like polished steel.

The hierophant didn’t leave the Hall of Flame, but a newly upraised scion did.

Flame Tower

Voerlunders rarely travelled to Macha across the sea. The two lands, even in the latter days, had, at best, a rocky relationship. For long spans of its past, young Macha nobles seeking to prove their strength, and old Macha chiefs seeking to keep their lot, raided the long coast of the kingdom beyond the sea. Attacks were swift, bloody, and profitable. Voerlund never invaded in return, but instead sought to protect its waters with a powerful navy whose vestiges remain today in the wide-ranging fleets of Farhaven. Their ships, not fast, but highly manoeuvrable, acted as a bulwark that sunk scores of raider vessels. And they did not take prisoners. Instead, coastal bastions bore veritable forests of hanged, impaled, and caged Macha corpses as a warning to any pirate ship which desired to plunder the supposed soft sandward shores. As such, even these days when trade across the sea for goods and luxuries was relatively quite open (though oft mediated by Dunmarrow and Baletor), each land still held reservations, and each secretly considered the other, down the ages, as little more than savages to be pillaged or culled.

The red wizard Carloman, however, was one rare Voerlunder who not only travelled across the sea, but was welcomed. It must be understood that every interaction in Macha was a show of strength, but that didn’t mean their preoccupation with it was savage or primitive. If a challenge was issued, the challenger was showing strength, and eyes were upon them, and if that challenge was met, then that, too, was strength, and everyone was on the same page. Excessive force was frowned upon as uncouth, even rude, or cruel. Carloman was not a fighter, but for the Macha, strength came in many forms. A sweep of his hand across the sky casting thunderbolts and winds, or the clack of his stuff calling up a burst of raging flame, or if he was lucky, a show of the woad armour once granted to him in that land, was enough to convince reasonable Macha he was no petty conjureman, and more than enough to convince the dryador sorcerer-priests who held considerable sway.

It has been said that were it not for the comforts of the hearth and brewery, the Macha would have been content to range across their deep, verdant woods for all time under the gaze of their titan wandering gods, whose passage makes the rains, herds the prey, and shows the path. What dwelt within the primeval nature of Macha were elementals, not ancient spirits incarnated, but living parts of the world itself that emerged from the mists of creation fully formed, and have continued in this way for time beyond measure. Called variously the Triune, Nuad, Nadarra, or Nador Helaeth, they were not so much guardians of the Macha, as the World Serpent was to the Voerlunders, but guardians of the land, of which the Macha formed one part. As such, they worked a little different. The Macha gods did not demand offerings, but neither did they refuse, for they were in truth closer to great beasts than reasoning intellects as humankind understood them.

And so Carloman took trips to, as their parlance goes, the “north” to renew and strengthen bonds with the Nuad, to ensure they came when called, and that he did not overstep his bounds, by providing what he assumed was, in some form, nourishment. Elementals were difficult to parse, even ones as ancient as these, upon whom one might guess vast volumes of lore were written. But the dryadorer kept only oral records, and were reticent to share it outside their circles, let alone with a Voerlunder, even though he be a friend.

Only, upon his approach to the landward, or as they say, right hand chiefdom along the coast, the sky had begun to grow heavy with black clouds—low and streaked with with slate and smoke—heavy, turbulent banks that swirled in a growing tempest. The small merchant vessel of which he had come as a passenger had nearly run aground, dropping two anchors to hook and gouge into the sea-bed so agitated did the seas seem. Gods of the realm they may have been, but that realm was made of three separate parts, and they were their own beasts. The earthen streets of the chiefdom, a lesser holding but an old one, bustled with the movements of a handful of dryadorer and their novices who, as far as the wizard understood and could recall, acted as living scrolls and grimoires for the head dryador to peruse and converse with as needs be. They were all filing towards something at the head of the town—a great, singular tower at the top of which sputtered and spat a great flame: an altar to Gaoth, god of sky and what-might-be.

Before the tower did they gather, and between the eight dryadorer and the wizard, neither of whom spoke each other’s languages, they managed to cobble together a dialogue through smatterings of fairly clear local words and a Dunmarrow-Voerlund Merchant’s Tongue. It was deduced the sky god quarrelled, and that the wizard had chosen an extraordinarily bad time to arrive to renew his bond. Gaoth would see no sense right now. Or, as Carloman put it, to the best of his ability, the other gods saw trouble and nudged him here. Either way, the loremasters then spoke, their piercing, water-god marked grey eyes fixed upon him, thus was the challenge: quell the god’s fury and claim the bond. Carloman accepted with gusto, and believed he spied a flash of half a smirk upon the mouths of the sorcerer-priests, the gravest bunch of a brooding lot.

Through the triangle mouth, up the steep, worn steps, and the tower’s apex was gained rather suddenly—the tempestuous sky hid it in the gloom from far down, but there was no masking the roaring flame’s heat or brilliant light. The view from the altar was normally a striking one: a sweeping vista of deepest, richest green from which emerged lazy pillars of smoke from villages and ringforts, distant hillocks like the humps of beasts in a viridian sea, and even further off spans of highlands rising into the mist. Beyond, just within sight’s reach, the form of a vast, frost-tinged mountain range that may as well have swept from end to end of the known world. Now, all was shrouded in banks of slate sky that growled. It was here the red wizard began to test the god’s fury.

Three landwight’s scented bundles. A fistful of Silverden incense sticks. A dozen raw goldleaf rolls. Things from foreign lands, exotic imports the kind of which were enjoyed by the Macha. The sky merely rumbled. Right then. You want potent things, Gaoth? How about a twist of a most potent thrice-dried and desiccated lotus petal, a transcendental meditation aid, pungent beyond imagining and just as strong—a bolt of lightning coursed across the sky as he cast it into the fire, not in a flash, but one long snaking, roaring streak. Carloman retreated into his shoulders for a second. Not the reaction he was expecting.

No, no, Carloman, he thought with a sudden imagined slap to the forehead. What are you doing? Propitiating some surly landwight? Some Khurcham ghost throwing a fit? Strength, you old fool, strength. Strength it was, then. He removed his gem of flame from inside his robe. He wasn’t entirely letting the thought he had take shape, he was just doing it. You want potency, Gaoth, god of sky. He breathed a word of fire on the gem, and tongues of flame burst forth from the smoothed sides and edges. He tossed it in. Their fires mingled: the vigorous, lapping flames of the altar’s fresh blaze, and the primordial radiance of the gem fished from within the earth’s deep. That’s not all, Gaoth. Did you see me coming across the sea, god of what-might-be? I suppose I’ve called on you enough to meet you in kind. The wizard took his staff—engraved with signs and symbols of the gods and guardians of the known world, including Gaoth itself—and stamped it at either side of himself, then drew it between the points he’d made in the form of a barrier. He brought out a fist of the amulets around his neck and felt around for his old World Serpent one, removed it, and placed it around his wrist. Fingers entwined in binding, he bid the Serpent set a coil upon him as he was now. The wizard was sometimes a rash individual, but with cause. And he wasn’t stupid.

Carloman thrust forth his hand into the altar flame, and let the god of sky taste of the potency of a magician whose spirit stood tall. And he held his hand there, the heat enveloping it, and the magics he had set forth holding back from the fire’s wrath. There were few who could do what he did with a word and a gesture, and not a fortnight’s ritual. If there was a greater show of strength, Carloman would have trouble thinking of it. His hand remained within the altar’s flame until the sky began to lighten, the black and slate dissipating with the passing of a vast winged shadow behind them, and the deep blue of an early evening in the Macha Clanhold resumed its rightful place over the jubilant shouts and horn calls from those whose mirth was nigh unmatched from frosted peak to coldest sand.

Depths of the Graveyard

It’s hard to say just how the graveyard came to be as it is. The city of Rósajha in which it dwells is certainly a curious one, rising higher than it does spread out, and it must be known that the graveyard is like the city—this place was, despite all appearances, built atop itself, over a very, very long period of time.

The initial point of egress lies amidst a sprawl of small, crumbling ruins. Rósajha is a warm city, but the graveyard never loses its chill. The stone remains damp year round, shaded in its curious hollow, along with an omnipresent ground of rotting leaves, mud, and some several dozen varieties of fern, grass, and small, slender tree which infest this outermost visage. Gravemarkers and the shells of the gable ends of temples poke through the wild foliage, their sides ragged with age, weather, and creeping vines. Some portions of collapsed stone peer from the soil with skins of dripping moss, showing only slightly carvings of old, but of what, can no longer be seen. There is one small open area in which the relics of older strata have been set, things people have seen fit to rescue from the depths: a basin or font, two carvings in low relief of a crouching, fish-like being and what can only be described a man-faced dog in full sprint—hunting or being preyed upon, none can tell, and lastly the graven, handsome coat of arms of a long-forgotten clan. Each is slowly being subsumed into the seeping loam.

Within the shadow of one of the gable-end ruins, in an area where the smell of damp stone is the strongest, and where the light fails the most, is a set of steep steps leading down to the next level. These, at least, are known to be later additions, and there are even sagging supporting walls across the earthen banks throughout the entire tier. What lies below is proper graveyard: tomb stelae, graveslabs, cones, and obelisks jut from the humped earth, awaiting the time when they may finally fall, their oath of remembrance to their rotten charges complete. Pathways between the old graves wind and wander in and out of each other, the wet tracks trampled by rare human passage. But some tracks seem to see more use than others, and so virulent is the greenery here that the less walked ones simply cannot be followed unless the leaves and grass are hacked away. The light down here comes from a great rent in the earth on one side, throwing light paled through a layer of thin mist across the grey and brown stone, bearing their antiquated lettering and sigils. There is light, too, from shafts in the earth above—revealing the existence of perilous traps for the unwary. Though a hollow in the earth it may see, it must be understood this was once open to the air and sky. This layer sees some rare visits from antiquarians, scholars, and distant descendents. The next sees none but the foolhardy.

The only way through here now is past sundered ground. The graveyard has, to put it lightly, poor natural drainage. The stench of decaying loam and the must of mould-ridden stone is palpable in the third layer, almost wholly flooded. It is wider than the last two, receding further back into the earth and infested with wide pools, uneven in the extreme, sloshing with frigid muck and gathered slime. No walls exist here like they do above, though a smattering of thick earthen pillars do appear. Many of the pools dwell back in the darkness, as this part of the cemetery slopes down on a shelf, and this back section must be avoided. A few mossy paths run between the visible pools at least, which are equally as treacherous, prone to give way with the wrong shifting of weight. One must travel light in the lower graveyard layers.

What begins to also appear here are the insects. Of what species, even the naturalists in Rósajha find it hard to tell. They’re light things, all of long sprouting limbs, feelers, probosci, which seem to have little strength as they flounder and paw in the gentle clutch of researchers. They resemble a few kinds of marsh insects outside the city, but not completely. Just different enough to not be related, to be something else. They are accompanied by hordes of extremely tough, fleshy things resembling silver teardrops that squirm through the mud in large, loose groups as they devour the legged ones. The black pincered ones, the size of a human fist, can deliver painful bites to the unwary, latching into the skin, and must be killed if they attack. The acrid smell they release makes the eyes sting. The pale brown moths, the length of a human forearm, a rare sight, seem to be the apex predator of this squalid ecosystem—which it must be made aware runs three entire levels deep, never improving. There are only ever a few seen at a time, others slumbering or slain as the winners compete for prey. The moths are harmless to humans. But they do seem persistent.

Three levels below, the light completely fails, and torches and lanterns must be availed of. Signs of graves are rare in the deep swamps, likely having been completely flooded over. Here, one might be forgiven for thinking they had passed into the underworld itself. It rests at the base of a tall, sluggish waterfall which bears the only remnants of human intervention and industry in the form of a series of smoothed, jutting stones that may have once formed steps, or perhaps a short ascending tower, long rotted away. The place seems to be in a cavern, though that can’t be true, for remember that the graveyard rose with the city. It’s hard to believe this expanse of utterly unbroken mire once bore the touch of sunlight and solemn human procession, for not a single thing of that time remains. The odd hard objects underfoot, likely the remains of ancient graveslabs, may be all that is left, the murky water showing naught beneath its surface.

In the lowest level of the swamps does real danger begin to present itself. The swamp at this base level is by far the widest, darkest, and most damp—the air itself is frigid and clammy, and unpleasant to breathe. It is conducive to the breeding of insects, though it must be understood that in these festering depths, they have found irregular nourishment. They can be found next to small patches of luminescent fungi, lurking just beneath the surface. Whatever else wanders down here by mistake almost certainly seeks out the wan, silvery lights, and pays the price for their desperate curiosity. Alas, any traveller who comes down here of their own volition will have brought light of their own, and the man-sized things, whether they are spiders, centipedes, or something else is unknown, are attracted to the warm reds of a torch or lantern. They cannot be heard approaching—an adaptation of their lethal environment—but they can be seen by the sheen of slime on their slender carapaces. It is wise to leave a torch or two behind to draw their attentions, their sluggish gait does not belie the intense ferocity with which they seize whatever comes close.

This is normally as far as one can hope to get. These lowest, dankest swamps were not meant for human tread, and repel most who dare broach them. But there is one more lower level, the nature and reality of which can only be pieced together by a handful of questionable rumours, contradictory whispers, and alleged encounters. It concerns one particular pool in lowest level of the veritable fenland which reaches far underground—truly underground. No one living has penetrated these depths, every one of the already sparse accounts cites second and even thirdhand sources. And yet, there are certain things they do agree upon. The following is a supposed account a dozen other chronicles reference and allude to.

“A full suit of sealed oilskin is absolutely required—it doesn’t matter how good the stitching is, it must be sealed, preferably with adhesive over wax. The suit must be adequately padded to retain warmth. The chill down below is lethal to even covered flesh. I have seen skin wrinkle and wither from a mere few second’s immersion. The face plate should be domed glass, not flat, treated with a thin wax solution. The water is filthy in the extreme, detritus accumulates quickly, and as movement occurs, a film will begin to develop that a translucent treatment over a dome can alleviate for a short time. A tube-fed lantern must accompany, but do not activate it until completely submerged. The insects above will be drawn to it, and they will follow into the water. In the other hand it is recommended to carry a bullwhale spear or modified polearm, sharpness and heft do the trick underwater.”

“I have been as far into the flooded tunnels as our cables could take me, and as far as I was willing to go. They are of stone, fashioned by human hands—of that I have no doubt. I believe they represent the most ancient substratum of this sprawling graveyard. Centuries old, if not more. I wouldn’t be surprised. It could be the shifting of the water doing its trick over so long, but the irregular smoothness, almost in the shape of waves or fingerprints, speaks to a great antiquity, the way the men of old crudely fashioned their palaces and temples. It must be that the rainfall of years have finally trickled down and accumulated in this murk, but...I cannot help but think, for reasons I’m not sure I can explain, that this grave complex was flooded from both ends. Like something burst, and the place was bid climb in haste to escape, but was followed. In any case, there were those left below in the ruined, lost tunnels. I do not know how else to say this, so I will describe my experience.”

“I turned a corner, my reddish lamp spilling over the stone, which looked to me more like it had melted rather than had been chipped and smoothed by the waters. The light bled out in a strange manner, it started red, then faded into silt-laden, trailing brown, and then became abruptly black. I think, now, the light would have reached further had it not been devoured like it was. By this point, the filth was beginning to cloud my visor, despite every precaution we had taken. Sight was beginning to become a problem. The tunnels were not always even, and so what I thought I saw ahead was either a collapsed section or some kind of wall emerging. It wasn’t. It came into the brownish murk first, and I saw only a bowed round lump. Then, with a step forward, I saw a long stalk coming into the red light. I stopped moving. The bowed, hairless scalp rose up to meet me. The stalk of warped bone reached out. The whalespear I carried to test surfaces is likely still down there. That’s as far as I got, and hope to ever go.”