Black Gate

 

“The Weird of Ironspell” by John R. Fultz

Illustrations by Alex Sheikman

  

5. The Son of Ironspell

The storm fell from the mountains like the wrath of an angry god. Thunder shook the earth and lightning split the sky, striking fires along the mountainsides. Rain fell in a driving flood, and the wind ripped trees from the earth’s bosom, smashing them to kindling. Servants pulled open the gates of Ironspell Keep, and two black steeds fitted for war galloped into the tempest.

Those left in the wake of the riders bolted the castle doors tight and prepared a funeral bier for the Lady of the Keep. Princess Tyarah of Neshma, Bride of the Avenger, lay pale and bloodless on the floor of the nursery chamber.

They wrapped her in a shroud of white silk, sprinkled her frail body with rose petals, and burned sacred candles at her vigil. They prayed to the God of the Underworld that her soul would find its way; they prayed to the Goddess of Vengeance that Lord Ironspell would find his son and the devil who had taken him.

It would be days before the tragic news reached the fortress city and Queen Zandara. Ironspell Keep guarded the chief pass through the Greyfold Mountains, some thirty leagues from Neshma proper, but a messenger would be dispatched as soon as the storm relented. Weeping, he would tell the queen how her daughter was murdered and her infant grandson stolen away in the night. He would tell how the Avenger rose from a spell of nightmares to find his son’s crib empty, his wife slain by sorcery. He would tell of the storm that rolled from the mountains as if Ironspell’s black wrath had conjured it. How Ironspell rode into the raging squall with Tumnal the Swift racing at his heels. And the messenger would show to the Queen of Neshma the only evidence left by the perpetrator of this terrible crime: a piece of black leather inscribed with the insignia of a golden skull.

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“The Weird of Ironspell” by John R. Fultz

Illustrations by Alex Sheikman

 

4. The Jewel and the Giant-King

 

Yom was a city of magicians.

Of all the kingdoms lying west of the Greyfold Mountains, only Yom boasted that its walls were defended by a legion of sorcerers, or that its wizard-king had slain a dozen ancient wyrms to free the Western Realms of the dragon plague. In the inky depths of night the city’s towers and ziggurats gleamed with all the brilliance of the wizardry that was its claim to fame.

Of all magical arts only the practice of necromancy was banned from the city’s environs, for the people of Yom did not want their dead disturbed. Yet every other manner of sorcery thrived here. Alchemists, adepts, enchanters, conjurors, soothsayers, theosophers, prestidigitators, thaumaturges, and mages wandered its marbled streets and hobnobbed among its hanging gardens. Yom was also home to vast wealth, and the penalty for thievery was death.

So it came to pass that Tumnal the Swift found himself locked in a damp cell, his limbs heavy with enspelled chains, deep in the catacombs below the wizard-king’s palace. Once known in seven realms as the Lord of Thieves, Tumnal was destined to be a footnote in the pages of an executioner’s journal. Although Yom’s penalty for thievery was precise, the bureaucracy of the place was staggering. Through no fault of his own (other than his libidinous nature) Tumnal had been caught and sentenced to death one month ago. But he might linger for years among the rats and roaches of the dungeon until the headsman came with his axe to carry out the sentence.

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