“Let down the gate!” came a shout from the ramparts.

The drawbridge was let down slowly. A hundred yards away came a lord and his guard trotting full steam ahead upon horseback. Charging from the front was a horse that was white with one large black spot covering its eye. The others were brown and dull of note.

Frost covered the grass, spraying up onto the rider’s boots as the horse treaded across the terrain. Lord Aymon could see his own breath as he made his way towards the main gate. Boiled leather covered his chainmail, giving him the appearance of a warrior despite being far from it. He had wanted to appear fierce some should his host happen to encounter trouble along the road, but none had given them anything of the sort. His men had complained of being cold the entirety of the ride from Creppenhal to Castle Hildreth. Lord Aymon had made it a point to ride well ahead of his guard, whose complaints were of no interest to him.

The drawbridge dropped just in time for the host to continue their pace without as much as a second’s hesitation. The moat below them had frozen over, but Lord Aymon had taken no notice, riding straight through the citadel and up toward Herald’s Keep where his small council was sure to be waiting. He had sent a raven ahead of his trip back to inform his council that he would be returning at once, and to have the council ready for meeting upon his imminent arrival.

Lord Aymon unsaddled, handing the reins to a poor stable boy who looked white as a sheet and thin as paper. His squire had been awaiting his arrival from the entrance of the Lord’s brothel just outside Herald’s Keep, scurrying towards his lord in an attempt to remain inconspicuous before his master noted his whereabouts. Fortunately for him, his lord took no notice.

“Qavrin, gather my things, unbridle my horse, and make sure my chambers are warm with a roaring fire and a hot bath by the time this meeting is done. If it is not done in time, I’ll have you sleeping in the stables again with Big Hoag,” Lord Aymon had not given his squire Qavrin as much as a glance as he said the words, already making way for the steps leading up to the Great Hall of Herald’s Keep.

The guards standing by the great oak doors of the Great Hall nodded, unbarring the doors. They gave a quick “milord” before bowing awkwardly as Lord Aymon entered his Great Hall, taking no note of the guard’s presence. His guards scurried after him like ducklings. The last man of the guard dropped his half helm on the steps, the sound of clangoring metal ringing loudly as it bounced down the steps. By the time he had retrieved his half helm, the guards standing by had already closed the doors and barred them.

Lord Aymon walked briskly to his seat at the end of the Great Hall. All talking had died off, leaving only whispers and quiet “milords” to fill the high-ceilinged hall. Qavrin shrugged his way past a few whispering knights to stand his place at his lord’s side.

The court held their breath as Lord Aymon took his time breaking the silence. He broke it like a hammer on ice, “I care not that it is only morning. Let us break our fast on some ale and some warm bread. We’re going to need all the ale we can stomach for this council.”

Discussion resumed all around the room, jests and bets were made amongst thegns and common folk. A few stragglers entered through a back door suggesting they had just been in the courtyard. Lord Aymon sat in his seat, removing his bear skin from shoulders. The man beside him leaned in.

“You stride in here as though there is not a moment to waste and then order your serving wenches to bring out ale? Must be dreadful news.”

Lord Aymon did not acknowledge the man. Instead, he went about buckling his sword belt to the back of his chair. Purple jewels littered the top of his polished stone seat.

The man on his right received his ale second only to Lord Aymon. He dipped his fingers in the ale, using the moisture to sweep his crude, black hair to one side. Lord Aymon gave a side glance, sipping his ale as he did so.

“Brackos Troisten. One of the oddest men I have ever known. I shan’t have ever known another like you,” said Lord Aymon.

“Ah, milord, I am honored by such a statement. Makes me proud to be your bannermen. Alaric Aymon, third of his name, Lord of Hildreth, Lord of Gwayn. Such a nice ring to it, don’t you think milord?”

Lord Aymon simply pursed his lips, staring at the walls above the barred doors. The sigils of his sworn bannermen hung there in a fine display.

“Why a crownfish, Troisten? Of all the fish in the Draining Sea…”

“Well the crownfish is quite the exemplary fish, milord. It’s got a crown upon its head, and yet it does not prey on other fish. They eat only sea grasses and Preacher Crabs.”

“A crab is still a fish, isn’t it?” questioned Lord Aymon.

“Yes, but a Preacher Crab never stops praying. Perhaps its prayers are never answered until it is eaten by a crownfish,” Troisten was doing well not to laugh, as he often did.

“You make no sense, Troisten. But maybe a bit more ale and you’ll start to make sense.”

As Lord Aymon went to lift the cup of ale to his mouth a hand grasped his arm. Lord Aymon lowered his cup, glowering. He turned to see his sister, Sarin.

“Well haven’t we become bold. You aren’t even old enough to stomach the stuff and yet you dare stop me.”

Sarin was scowling, hands resting on her hips. Lord Aymon tried lifting his flagon, but only sloshed ale upon the table when Sarin stopped him again.

“We did not wait three long hours for you for drink ale and serve bread.”

“I did not ride for three days without rest to hear your voice. In fact, it is probably the reason I did not arrive sooner, sister.” Lord Aymon pushed through her arm this time, successfully bringing the ale to his mouth. Sarin gave an exasperated huff of air and left his side.

“She can be a bit of a bother at times,” said Lord Aymon.

“She is the only family you’ve got, lord. Perhaps she seeks your attention,” said Brackos Troisten. Lord Aymon took another large swig of ale.

“I’ve got more family. They’re just gone for a while. Don’t you forget that, Troisten.”

After an hour of drinking Lord Aymon noticed he was the only one with a flagon still in hand besides his Potions Master, Jaryn Ilswich, who happened to be drunk more often than not. Lord Aymon’s eyes found Jaryn, who gave him a wink and a nod.

All eyes had fallen upon Lord Aymon. He knew he had no other choice than to begin. They had waited long hours to hear what news he brought. He cleared his throat.

“I have met with many a high lords and priests at Creppenhal this past week. There have been some troubling discoveries made upon Splitter’s River. I do not mean to make presumptions, but to the best of my knowledge the worst of our fears have begun to flow in from the Draining Sea—which can only mean one thing,” Lord Aymon’s eyes scanned the Great Hall as he paused.

“The agreement of the ancient days has expired. It seems the Dread Land has begun its wicked ways again.” Inevitably, busy side discussion ensured all around the Great Hall. Lord Aymon nodded to his squire, who gave two awkward blasts on the trumpet.

Lord Aymon began again, “I have summoned Ser Gerran Hairgrin of Fort Rewn to my council to give an account of the happenings upon Splitter’s River. He has promised me his word to give a true man’s account of what he saw.”

Ser Gerran arose from his seat amongst the common men and women from the crowded benches, standing with one leg upon his seat. His skin was like old leather and his hair was stringy and long. His voice came gruffly.

“I bring my greetings as Castellan of Fort Rewn. ‘Tis an honor to serve at the foot of House Aymon. Anywho, my ‘n my men were just coastin’ along the bank of Splitter’s River cause we heard word that there may have been some pirates along that bank slaughterin’ the fishermen. Come to find out word was likely true, but the pirates were long gone as they often are,” Ser Gerran had Gajra thatch in his mouth and he spit it into his flagon mid-talk.

“I had a host of about fifty men ‘cause you never know what you is truly gon’ to get with them pirates. It was after a conversation with one of the fishermen who claimed to have seen the pirates who came to Fort Rewn very next day with word that the pirate’s skiff that had robbed them was found in scraps floatin’ along that very same spot the next day,” continued Gerran. The women allowed sharp gasps and the men just hmphed and gave looks of dismay. All except Troisten Brackos, whose hand was over his mouth covering a yawn.

“He took us to the spot, and we couldn’t find who done it, but we did see that the water had turned to a black substance, almost overnight. All the fish in the river were floating along the surface, dead. The black goo covered the top of the water like some algae or ‘sum.”

Ser Gerran went to spit more Gajra thatch from his mouth when a man with a heavy beer gut and a slimy beard spoke up.

“Let us be reminded what happens when we listen to this drunken castellan. The last time Ser Gerran has come to us in the past, he made the claim that the fabled wights of Corpsia were coming on ship by the thousands to eats us all.” Agreements and chuckles of amusement accompanied the comment. “I went on to steal all the furs and cloaks I could from my own lord at the time, Jerros Posh. I think it turned out to be the warmest winter I ever known!” laughter shook the Great Hall. The man with the large gut appeared quite content with his remark.

“Aye, quiet!” Lord Aymon yelled out and his squire let go another blast on his trumpet.

“Ser Gerran does not speak nonsense; I heard the same tale from the lord King himself.”

The laughter was replaced by whispers.

“I also know that Splitter’s River does indeed run black. It has not been this way for thousands of years, and I think we all know the stories of what happened last time the river ran black.” Lord Aymon’s remark diminished all traces of a smile from faces now.

“I called a council here today because we are neighbors to Eysgadra, and Fort Rewn is their first line of defense should whatever dwells in those waters emerge. Ser Gerran is scoffed at, yet it would be he who faces this darkness first, if at all,” Lord Aymon spoke confidently now. The ale had done its work.

Troisten Brackos had risen from his seat now to stand beside his lord. “I stand with my lord, as a sworn bannermen to House Aymon. House Brackos swears their fealty to his cause and will stand behind whatever the decision may be.”

Others rose from their seats as well to swear fealty. Lord Aymon noted a couple of his sworn bannermen were yet to stand. On and on I must continue, until every bannermen is standing inside this hall.

“The conversation I had in Creppenhal was a private one in which the lord King of our realm, King Eyowen, reminded me of the place that this darkness stems from. I mean to send an army to Gobblesfeld to deal with this threat before it arrives at our doorstep.”

“Lord Aymon, do you mean to make a fool of yourself? To take an entire army to Gobblesfeld is to send men to their certain death, that is, even assuming they make it across the Draining Sea. Only a pirate will make that trip—and only to prod in those gloomy affairs that pirates do. The waters are daunting even for the most experienced seamen,” it was Herald Keep’s high priest who spoke out from the other end of the council’s high table.

“I mean to take men there myself. I will bring my own men, hand selected and willing should they choose to come,” said Lord Aymon.

The high priest scoffed and the man with the gut and grimy hair bellowed at his words.

“Do even know how these men become corpses? What has black ooze got to do with anything? Someone’s quill ink has just spilled from some cargo, most likely.”

“Do not spit out careless jibe from that tongue, priest. In regard to these walking dead corpses, I do not know how it is they are risen from their graves. All I know is that the trail of black ooze leads towards Gobblesfeld, it is believed. And so that is where I shall go, I should think.”

The doors to the Great Hall flung open, bringing a cold gust of wind with it. Guards in fine ornate armor walked with feathers protruding from their hair and quivers slung across their back. The guard was twelve men deep, and the sigil of a burning snake was imprinted upon their breast plates. The guards positioned themselves in an orderly fashion around their lord, who took his place before his guard facing Lord Aymon at the other end of the hall. All eyes were upon the new guest, distrust and tension filling the air.

Lord Aymon appeared untroubled, hands folded. The two exchanged stares accompanied by an odd silence. Troisten Brackos cleared his throat, his blue eyes darting back and forth between the two men.

The lord who was accompanied by his guards took a large breath through his nose. His eyes studied the hall busily, enjoying the angst that filled the hall at his arrival.

“You arrive more than an hour late, lord Caidhan,” said Lord Aymon.

“A dead man arrives on his own time.”

“A dead man you are, no longer,” replied Lord Aymon, “unless I am mistaken and the dead walk now,” he finished sarcastically.

The high priest spoke again, “What is an outlaw doing in our hall, unchained? This is treason and disrespectful to our God, I tell you!”

Lord Aymon paid the high priest no mind. Lord Caidhan did not pay him even a glance.

“When I relinquished this Castle, I had never expected you to take to it so naturally, you had many brothers who were better suitors. None had the mild-mannered way of the Aymons such as you, Alaric.”

“You served my father well until his final day. None doubt that, lord Caidhan. This discussion can be held at a later time. This is a meeting held by the council, and the council alone.”

“What is your priest doing on the high council then? Did you do away with your captain of the guard?” asked Lord Caidhan. His sucked his teeth disapprovingly.

The captain of the guard said nothing, but his hand had tightened on his sword hilt. The lord’s guard had been ordered to spread themselves around the Great Hall, but no one moved now.

“You are accursed by our God. Be gone from this Keep or you’ll pray you had done,” said the priest.

“I am my own god. Shall I pray to myself then? I hope I get an answer soon,” said Lord Caidhan.

“I will not stand for mockery against our God!’ came the priest’s reply. Lord Aymon’s captain of the guard unsheathed his longsword and his guard followed suit. In an instant, the Lord Caidhan’s guards had their bows strung and arrows aimed. Men who were seated amongst the trestles began to reach for their own swords, only to realize they had turned them in on the way in.

“I will not have bloodshed in this keep. Crenjor, have your guard sheath their weapons.”

Crenjor, the captain of the guards, sheathed his steel slowly and his men followed his lead reluctantly.

“There is a reason you were unfit to lead this land, Caidhan. You were sick then and you are sick now, and I see you have gotten no better,” said Lord Aymon. Caidhan’s men still had their arrows strung but they held their bows to the ground.

Caidhan curled his lip.

“I was not merely sick. You sent me away to die in the infirmaries of Dras Kloot. I did not lose my memory, Alaric.”

“Well get on with it then, Caidhan, why do you come all this way? You are no longer castellan of Castle Hildreth. I do not have time to give you—”

“—A dead man needs no quarters for sleeping. I’ll make those arrangements myself.”

“Very well then,” said Lord Aymon, hesitating as he spoke, “we’ll talk on the ‘morrow then.”

“I don’t think so,” said Caidhan, “I trust King Eyowen made you aware of the corpses who wash up along the banks of Splitter’s River. What I do not trust, is that you have made your council aware of such talk.”

“We were due to discuss those details in due time, dear friend. Please, take a seat. We’ve still warm bread in the ovens.”

“It is known where I come from that these corpses of bone speak twisted tales, words spewing from that set of bare teeth like poison spilling from a flagon.” Caidhan had glossed over Lord Aymon’s offer as if he had not heard him. “These things they say…it is is believed it is word from the lord Hades himself—king of the underworld.” Caidhan’s eyes sat firmly on Lord Aymon, challenging him with a fierce glare.

“Well what of it then? I do not mean to visit these corpse men if I mustn’t have to,” said Lord Aymon. His face gave away that he didn’t believe Caidhan’s words.

“It is known that the Skadjans will soon take back what is long due. The Throne of Thorns, Alaric Aymon, will not be ruled by Osknians. The latest of these ramblings has word that Lord Alaric Aymon of Khudril conspires against his own kind. The Osknians have no one to fear more than the lord of Khudril—that much is known in the north.” Caidhan was nearly hissing by the time his last words spilled from him.

“Where do these falsehoods arise from? I ought to send men to deal with these treasonous folks. I am an Osknian by blood and an Osknian by heart,” said Lord Aymon, his face growing red with anger.

“It is said you will rule with a sword black as death that can send men straight to their grave with a cut the size of a needle,” said Caidhan.

“Who has said these things? I will know now,” said Lord Aymon.

“I say these things, Lord Alaric Aymon,” said Caidhan. No sooner had the words left his mouth his skin ran off his face, melting onto the floor in a pile of black ooze. His bare bones were left underneath some chainmail and a sword belt. His guards released the arrows from there, sending Lord Aymon’s guard to the ground, crumbling all around him.

Caidhan’s corpse began, “I, too, wondered about the corpses of Splitter’s River. As it turns out, they’re right before your eyes.” His bones clattered noisily as he ran down the aisle, leaving a trail of black ooze in his wake. “I am the corpse of Caidhan and as castellan of this castle I shall have you severed before you ever wield a black sword!”

His stench filled the hall. Arrows whizzed like angry hornets into those men who were slow to draw their weapons. A bloodbath ensued.

Lord Aymon withdrew his sword. Brackos Troisten was beside him, sword held before him. His face flickered with uncertainty.

“You ever kill a dead man before, Lord Aymon?”

Lord Aymon’s mouth was twisted in response, but his eyes were fixed on the sword-bearing corpse that charged towards him. Suddenly, the heavy oak doors at the end of the hall were flung open with a great crash.

A dozen armed men entered all at once, piling inside the great hall with swords drawn and hooves clacking. A spear came flying from the hands of a knight upon horseback, shattering the back of Caidhan’s skull and sending him reeling forward into a pile of bones at Lord Aymon’s feet. Black blood spilled from him like a punctured wineskin.

Lord Aymon glanced at Brackos now, considering his question now.

“No, you?”