Whisper, 17 Leafbloom, 1723 CE

Whisper stood at the bow of the Sharkfin as it moved silently across the waves. It had been a long voyage already, nearly two weeks at sea, avoiding the main trade routes and waters known to be favored by pirates. At the start of the ships’ voyage, the Maelstrom Coast had lived up to its name. For nearly five days, the ship had been struck by massive waves, rolling thunder, sheet rain, and winds strong enough to pull down a forest. The stillness of the sea was unsettling in contrast.

She knew they were nearing port, with only a dozen miles or so left in the journey. A thick fog had rolled in about a day prior; a common occurrence this close to Hammerhenge. Everywhere she looked was covered in an impenetrable wall of white mist that hung mere inches from the surface of the stony looking water. Behind her, the crews were silently readying the ship for port, spending careful effort to avoid unnecessary clatter so that the pilot could hear the sounds of the waves.

Hammerhenge was beautiful, in its own right. However, the precarious voyage through the pillared rock outcropping leading into the crescent-shaped island’s inner bay was an intimidating voyage for all but the most skilled sailors. Despite the danger, many sea captains had ventured into the labyrinth of stone columns for the trade goods coming from the island. For those crews who were careful, the navigation wasn’t so difficult. But Whisper was sure that a fair share of overeager captains and their ships lay resting on the ocean floor below.

There was a different smell to the water now, which Whisper noted through closed eyes. She detected the faint aroma of roasted meat, and the muck surrounding a port. It wouldn’t be long now before the ship docked. She still couldn’t hear the clang and clamor of the docks themselves, alive with workers, but she knew it would only be a matter of time. She breathed in deeply, taking in the crisp wet air of the sea, and turned back towards the cargo hold.

There wasn’t much room to maneuver on the Sharkfin. The ship was a small two-masted trade vessel that had seen better days. The creaking of the hull, and the worn coloring along the edges showed the ship’s history better than any log. It had seen some things; and so had its crew. The sailors bustled around the deck, securing lines, and preparing the ship for port. The hushed calls from man to man seemed vacant as the mist swallowed up the reverberations, like padding had been placed around the men’s voices.

Whisper wasn’t a large woman, but the presence she carried was quite large. Even through the narrow corridors of the ship’s belly the sailors would give her a wide berth. She was currently dressed in a loose leather jerkin with a deep purple cloak that became nearly black in the dim light. Her raven-black hair was loose, with messy braids running throughout, and a deep blue eye shadow made her eyes appear ominously sharp. The expression she wore was a mixture of resolve and responsibility. While there wasn’t much of her, no one doubted her ability to tangle with the best fighters aboard.

She crossed the deck to the hold’s entrance, looking up at the aging man standing behind the wheel. Paused for a moment and hollered up to him.

“Do we know how long to port, Captain?”

The man didn’t take his eyes off the sea when he responded. Whisper took no offense, as she didn’t know that she would have done differently.

“About an hour, ma'am. Should have you and yours unpacked by 6 o’clock.”

“Good. Thank you, captain. Steady on.”

He nodded his thanks, and Whisper descended the ladder into the main cargo hold. While she was not interested in the ship's general manifest, she and her companion had gone over it repeatedly and verified the contents of the large crates and barrels for magical auras and living beings multiple times before setting off from Venzor. She knew that a trip to Hammerhenge was a lucrative run for any ship's captain willing to make the journey, and for the merchants who carried their goods to the island. A full hold was also a good way to avoid unwanted attention. Her own cargo was of greater value and importance than any other item on the ship. But it wouldn’t do for any but the crew to know that, and even they were too scared of her and her companion to ask what exactly it was they were carrying. The mark of the Brotherhood inspired a sense of awe and dread for most people.

When she came to the small partition wall and accompanying metal banded door separating the main hold from the secured room at the end, she found Lawbrin sitting on a wooden barrel, leaning back into a short wall that separated the main cargo hold from a private room. His head was tilted down at what seemed like should be an incredibly uncomfortable angle, with arms crossed and eyes closed. Lawbrin was a tall, lanky man. He rose easily above six feet and had arms that stretched out some distance before him. He was quite muscular, Whisper knew, but most would guess that he was lean and unintimidating, were it not for the scuffed breastplate, leather pauldrons, and finely cared-for longsword, all of which he wore nearly all the time. His umber hair had become a mop of uncontained curls over the last few months of traveling, and his ragged beard had grown out to some length.

“Sleeping on the job again?” she prompted, stopping about a foot from her companion, and staring at him intently. The man didn’t shift an inch.

“I’m not asleep. I’m just resting my eyes.”

She grunted a half-hearted “Uh-huh,” and pulled out a rough-hewn key from the inside of her jerkin. She placed the key into the thick cold iron lock that dangled from the latch of the door to the small trove. It slid into place with a bit of pressure and took a fair bit of wrenching to turn it to the correct position. Eventually, it gave way, and Whisper moved inside the room.

Unlike the hold, the interior of the private trove was bare, save a single wooden crate with cold iron banding around the circumference. The wood planks were as airtight as a keg, and the banding was etched with thick runes that hummed if one placed their ear close enough. Whisper checked the banding, and inspected the wooden box, looking for holes, seams, or indications of breakage. There was nothing, just as there had been over the last few weeks. She knew that the likelihood of anything happening to activate the artifact was minimal, but it was a chance she was unwilling to take, and she had religiously verified the cargo at least three times each day of the voyage.

“Still in one piece?” Lawbrin asked from around the corner, not deigning to move an inch from his perch.

“Yes. There’s no change.”

She knew that Lawbrin found her obsession amusing to some extent. He wasn’t reckless, and she knew that he also understood the significance of the artifact, and the danger it posed. But, he was not one to worry about things until he needed to. He did his job, methodically, and skillfully, but he knew when to take a step back. That was a luxury Whisper rarely allowed herself. That was, in part, what made them an effective team. She kept to the details, he helped her see the bigger picture.

She moved from the small room back out into the hold, locking up the door behind her. She looked at Lawbrin, still resting with his back against the wall, and moved towards the hold’s entrance again. Before ascending the steps back to the deck, she hollered to her compatriot over her shoulder, not turning around or breaking stride as she did so.

“One hour until landfall.”

***

Landfall was almost exactly when the captain had estimated. Whisper had to give credit to the old man for knowing his craft. She stood on the docks, watching the large pulleys and cargo lifts pull barrels and crates from below. Her cargo would be the last to be unloaded, and Lawbrin had remained below to keep an eye on it. She chuckled at the thought of him still resting against the side of the wall, feigning sleep, as the crew worked to unload crate after crate of materials, provisions and miscellaneous trade goods.

Whisper looked around at the docks of Hammerhenge island, still shrouded in a fine layer of mist, that thickened into the dense fog over the sea, just beyond the harbor. Large warehouses had been erected around the docks, with easy access from the ships to the warehouse floor. She admired the efficiency with which the harbor and storage centers had been planned for and built. There was no wasted space or transit time here. Part of that was due to the nature of the cargo likely to be shipped in and out from here. Each warehouse likely had the value of a small kingdom housed within it. Less transit time meant less chance for things to go missing. Efficiency prevented loss.

Beside the docks, she discovered the source of the roasting meat smell. It was a large inn frequented by sailors from the incoming ships. She knew it from the time she’d previously spent on the island, but was always surprised at its presence within the shuffle. The inn was three stories tall, made of aging white-washed wood beams and thatched roofing. The sign out front was nearly illegible on one face and was worn down by the sea air on the other. But one could still make out the blocky image of a mermaid on a deep green background, with the words Siren’s Eye written in red block letters at the bottom. It wasn’t exactly the place one visited for a decent dining experience, but it certainly did well to serve the lonely drunken masses of sailors, sick of moving from port-to-port for months on end. She shuddered at what must be going on behind closed doors, and was thankful she and Lawbrin were offered alternative accommodations by the Brotherhood.

After another few hours, Lawbrin began walking off the main deck towards Whisper. He looked mildly annoyed, but just casually strolled beside her and leaned back against a stack of crates containing dock supplies.

“You would think, with as much berth as they gave us, they’d be a bit more careful loading up the crate.” He was speaking to Whisper, but his orientation and gaze were lost to the distance.

“You would think.” She replied. “But, I suppose you can’t blame them for ignorance. They don’t know what in the seven hells they’re carrying.”

“Fair point.” He crossed his arms tightly, watching the crewman pull the rope for the cargo lift.

Whisper and Lawbrin looked on as a singular piece of heavy cargo was lifted up from the belly of the ship. The metal banding was a dull mate that seemed even more dull and faded in the thin mist. The crew hoisted the lift into a resting position and tied down the pulley ropes to the rope anchors positioned at the front and back of the hold’s access door. Two dwarves who had served as general deckhands throughout the voyage, heaved the cargo up and walked it down the gangplank to a cart that had been rented by Whisper a few hours before.

“Thank you, boys. Just leave it in the back. We’ll take it from here,” said Whisper in a preoccupied tone.

As she walked past the two dwarves, appearing as if they were unseen to her, Lawbrin followed, flicking a small silver coin to each of them with a teasing wink. The two dwarves hurriedly stuffed the extra coin into their breech pockets and moved away from the cart, protectively checking the faces of their fellow crewmen as they passed to see if they’d witnessed the small exchange.

Lawbrin turned back to the front of the small wagon. It was pulled by a single donkey, who was playing with a tuft of wet grass. Whisper took the driver’s seat and waited for him to climb aboard before whipping the reins to set the cart in motion. The cart sidled up the main avenue towards the mountain.

Hammerhenge Town—an inspired name—despite being smaller than most port cities, had the feel and bustle of a larger port town. The island made its living off of trade with the outside world. Namely, Hammerhenge had attracted some of the most skilled magical artisans and practitioners and produced unhallowed sums of magical goods. As a result, there was always something to do to prepare the net shipment, to court potential clients or to spend the money made off of another spectacular trade deal. The town was financially well-off for the most part, so it always struck Whisper as odd that the houses and structures of the main town had not been more polished. The buildings themselves often looked like windswept fishermen’s cottages and buildings like you’d see in old wharf towns. Not at all the caliber of construction aesthetic she would have expected. However, the conclusion she always came to was that the buildings fit the atmosphere of the island; harsh, remote, and melancholy. It was just that kind of place.

Lawbrin rode in the back of the cart silently, with his back against the carriage’s seat. She knew this was instinctual for him. Cover the rear. Protect the cargo. It was something she’d come to appreciate about her traveling companion. For all his easy-going nature, he was skilled and dedicated to finishing the job he’d started. He was dependable, which Whisper valued more than loquaciousness.

As they moved into the north side of town, the buildings began to give way to cottages and small houses. The heights of the buildings lowered, and Whisper had an unimpeded view of Mount Arrakki. The mountain had never been invisible. On the island that would have been impossible, as it dominated the central mass of the island to the Northwest, like a head, sloping on either side of the island’s crescent shape, into smaller ridgelines like broad sweeping shoulders. It provided the island with protection from the weather of the high seas, and encircled three of the edges of the island like a defensive wall. As a result, the only way on or off of the island was through the main ports, which were guarded by four large stone keeps armed with an array of weapons to defend the island.

It wasn’t the mountain she was looking at though. Just to the north of the town, was a large keep, built into the rock of the mountain itself. The fortress itself was robust, but looked quite delicate in its architecture. The design was obviously a combination of dwarvish and elvish. Three concentric walls were stationed away from the main courtyard, each resting a few levels below the previous one, and they cascaded down the mountainside like a waterfall. It was beautiful. It was nearly impenetrable. And Whisper also knew that what one could see was only a fraction of the size of the citadel’s interior.

They encouraged the mule on, rolling their way up the winding path towards the main gate just outside of town. They stopped outside the first of the stone walls to the Keep, and were met by two very large guards half-plate armor. Whisper stopped the carriage and waited for them to approach. The smaller of the two men came to Whisper’s side, the other working his way around the side of the cart in range of Lawbrin.

“Good evening, m’lady. What’s your business at the Keep?”

“I am Inquisitor Whisper dai Aviss, and my traveling companion, Inquisitor Lawbrin of Malmir. We are expected by the council.” Lawbrin curtly exposed the white scarred eye broach hanging from the lapel of his jacket.

The officer nodded curtly. “Right. Go on up.”

The officer gestured an order to the other guard, who lingered for a moment at the back of the cart, eyeing the wooden crate beside Lawbrin.

Lawbrin caught the man’s eye before the guard turned away and returned to his post. As the cart pulled forward, beginning the ascent to the Keep, Lawbrin hollered to the subordinate, whose eyes were questionings fixed on the crate.

“Mind your eyes, kid. They might get stuck. Nothing here but dishes and tablecloths.” He nodded to the senior officer who returned it in a curt fashion, an understanding between them. Before too long, the guards could be heard bickering. Probably the young one getting an earful, thought Whisper.

The Keep was massive up close. As they passed through the gate on the final wall, a serene courtyard appeared before them. Manicured grass and rows of flowerbeds stretched out in intricate lattices. Statues carved of the unusual opalescent metal that was mined only here on Hammerhenge Island stood proudly throughout, each occupying a place of importance. These statues memorialized the seven original founders of the Brotherhood; the brave men who ended the Hallowing War so many centuries ago. The metal itself appeared untouched by age, as if they had been carved the previous day.

Whisper followed the cobblestone path from the wall to the main building. Smaller stone buildings had been erected around the courtyard, but were insignificant compared to the scale of the entrance to the castle. The front façade rose ten times Whisper’s height above the ground, with ornate reliefs carved into the gray stone. These reliefs depicted long-ago battles and moments pulled straight from the history of the island. The massive iron-studded door was intimidatingly wide and was nearly as thick as Whisper’s entire frame. A set of stone steps led up from the cobblestone towards the doors, and as Whisper neared them, a host of servants rushed to meet Lawbrin and her.

They dismounted and a voice familiar to Whisper boomed out its bass notes from the top of the steps, “I’m happy to see that you both have arrived safely.”

Whisper looked the old man up and down. Brother Karim Rafi’qe was a stocky man, not fat, but beginning to show his age. His umber skin was almost matte against the faint sunlight like he was absorbing the sun’s rays rather than allow them to bounce off of him. His hair and beard were black as tar, with a thick dusting of silver beginning to climb up the back of his scalp. His eyes were open, but appeared as milky as the opalescent statues in the courtyard. His robes were crimson and orange, a striking combination with his complexion, but one that suited both his position and his presence.

“Brother Rafi’qe,” Lawbrin bowed his head slightly in casual respect.

“We’re glad to have arrived safely. There were moments that I wasn’t so confident that would happen.”

The pair climbed the steps towards the old monk, stopping just short of the landing. Without seeing, Brother Rafi’qe looked on as a pair of fighters dressed in purple-half plate with silver banding—the colors of the Inquisitors—picked up the crate with little effort and began walking it inside. There was nothing spoken between the groups, as there wasn’t any need. Now that the crate was in the fortress, it would no longer pose a substantive threat.

Whisper felt herself relax for the first time in nearly two months. It had been a long road getting here and securing the artifact, but it was now over. Karim smirked at her visible shift in body language, and Lawbrin let out a sigh of relief himself. It always amazed Whisper that the blind old man she had grown to look up to as a father figure always seemed to see the world as clearly as she did. If not better.

Karim let out an inviting breath, and motioned them both inside.

“Come. You must be exhausted from your travels. Your rooms have been prepared for you.”

He led them inside with a sweep of one arm, and followed deftly behind them. In all her years knowing the old monk, she’d never known him to misstep or get lost in his surroundings. It was uncanny, his ability to just know where the world around him was.

***

It had been too long since she’d been able to get the tangles from her hair, or the scent of mildew and horse from her pores. As she luxuriated in the hot water of a bath, her gear had been taken by a pair of young servants to be tended to. A set of replacement clothes had been provided, and she was left to wash up. It was simple, yet obviously well-crafted, and fit Whisper perfectly. The outfit consisted of a plain white cotton shirt and a thickly woven teal skirt. Hanging from a hook above the bench was a jacket-like piece of woolen clothing that helped insulate against the chill of the castle. As she slid her arms into the jacket, she felt the heat that still emanated off her skin from the bath being trapped by the woolen material. She slid her feet into the teal slippers and left the room. Nearly an hour-and-a-half later, she stepped out from the massive private baths, into the main halls of the Keep. Food was being prepared in the halls below, and there was nothing left in her charge. She would report to the Brotherhood in the morning conference about their travels. Tonight, the Sealing Ceremony would occur and their cargo stored within the magically protected vault of the Keep. 

The Keep was massive inside the walls. Miles of corridors were intricately etched into the depths of the mountainside over the last few centuries, lending to a plethora of rooms and antechambers. The residential wing of the Keep was built into the Southeastern face of the mountainside, allowing for windows to be carved out in each room. It helped to fight the sense of claustrophobia that some felt when traveling through the interior of the castle.

Whisper made her way down a set of winding stairs and down a long corridor towards the dining hall. Her skirt was lifted ever so slightly from the ground so as to avoid trailing along the stones. The little room that existed was almost imperceptible from afar, and the balance of her gait made her appear as if she was floating down the passage ways.

The door to the dining hall was open, and she found a seat nearest the end of the long banquet table. The room was massive, accommodating seating for nearly four dozen people. It felt almost lonely in the quiet emptiness, now. The room itself was rather plain. At least, Whisper saw it as plain compared to the banquet halls that adorned most castles and abode of the ruling classes. The adornments here were more historical, and somber in tone. The paintings of past battles, portraits of unknown historical figures, and landscapes of what were most certainly now abandoned ruins, long forgotten to time. These pieces, she knew, were from before the great Hallowing War; from before history had been forgotten. Many of the figures and symbols in the paintings had lost their meaning or faded away into the mysteries of time, only to be recognized by an unknowing shrug.

A young woman dressed in a simple green dress, with an apron as yellow as dandelions came from the kitchen door with a small serving tray in hand. She laid out the plate before Whisper, and began pouring what Whisper knew to be an exceptionally delicious wine from a bottle with a faded label. Say what she may about some elements of the Brotherhood, they had always treated her well upon returning from a mission such as this.

She ate her meal in silence for some time, with only the scratching of silverware on the porcelain plate to break it. When she was finishing her second course, she heard Lawbrin’s unmistakable footsteps coming down the hallway. In her head, she counted down the seconds until he entered the room, and almost to the second, he rounded the corner into the space. He was dressed extremely informally, with his trousers wrinkled, shirt open some way at the top, and his black leather jacket open at the front. On his hip was a large dagger, protruding out from his belt. She could tell he had pulled the dagger from the outermost face of his sword scabbard where it usually resided. He sat down in an unhurried slump across from Whisper, and moments later a plate of still-hot food was placed in front of him. He began picking at it absentmindedly with his fork.

“You are aware that the food goes into your mouth, like this,” Whisper asked teasingly, making an exaggerated show to pull a bite of food towards her mouth and holding it there. One eyebrow was raised mockingly.

Lawbrin looked at her, a semi-amused expression lingering on his face between them. “Yes, thank you for that.”

Whisper took the bite from the fork, and chewed, savoring the exquisitely cooked cut of venison. Lawbrin followed suit, taking a bit of meat off the fork, but obviously not tasting it.

“You seem distracted.”

He looked up. She could tell he wanted to make a smart remark, but refrained. “Yeah. I am. I can’t get that village out of my mind.”

Whisper set down the glass of wine, and swallowed the gulp she had taken. She liked the slight tingle that came before drunkenness. It was easier to swim in her thoughts, as iflike the alcohol made everything lighter, even her memories.

“It’s the same for me. Ever since the boat, I can’t stop seeing the bodies. Especially the children.”

Lawbrin gave up, setting his fork back down on the table with a clank against the plate. He sat back in the chair, his relaxed, nonchalant demeanor disappeared and replaced by a palpable discomfort.

“We’ve seen a lot in our travels. That felt like an escalation.” He took a long pause, and let out an exasperated breath, “Something’s coming. I can feel it, like a worm crawling beneath my skin. I can feel it.”

Whisper took another big gulp of wine, polishing off the glass. She nodded resignedly toward him. “You might be right. And when it does, we’ll be right there to meet it.”

***

There was always something both bracing and exhilarating about the early morning air. That was particularly true of mornings on Hammerhenge Island. In early spring, the mists and fog that blanketed the island at dawn were thick enough to make sight impossible beyond the length of one’s arm. However, for about an hour each morning, as the sun was beginning its skyward ascension, the fog was illuminated with soft hues of pink, yellow, and orange that gave everything around an almost ethereal presence. It was one of Whisper’s fondest memories. Every visit back to the Island, she made sure to wake before the sun to experience it from its initiation.

The best spot, in her opinion, to view the experience, was in the main gardens of the Keep. The rows of trellised flowers, and manicured hedges seemed take on an impenetrable hardness while remaining light in the breeze. The opalescent statues of the original council members of the Brotherhood seemed to glow in the soft light, creating a sort of lighthouse effect through the fog, and further illuminating the gardens. The air was as thick as it was pungent, holding in the scents of new rain, salty ocean air, and newly dewed foliage. It was her favorite place in all the world.

Whisper stood in the center of the garden, barefoot in the grass, just taking in the sensory presence of the morning. Closing her eyes for only a moment, she breathed in deeply. As the last bit of breath was exhaled, she began her swift dance. It was a routine she had performed thousands of time over the years. The kata started small, a series of fast rhythmic blocks, meant to unbalance an attacker armed with a polearm or long-reaching weapon, and draw her in closer to her target. She swept the air with a flurry of seamless, well-rehearsed fluid movements. Her arms and hands changing positions effortlessly as she ducked and spun in controlled patterns of movement. At the moment she would have been draw close to her enemy, the movements sharpened, becoming offensive rather than defensive motions, meant to stun, break, twist or kill if necessary.

When she finished that sequence, the rhythm changed again, without a pause. She moved into her second kata. With as beautiful movements as the first, she cut through the morning fog towards her invisible targets, defending and attacking in swift, clean movements. This pattern continued for nearly an hour without pause.

The sun was beginning to break away the fog as she concluded her practice and sat down on her knees, facing the eastern shores of the island. The new day sun warmed her face, and she leaned in to absorb it. Her eyes were closed, and she began to meditate. Curated visions of moving streams, rustling leaves in high treetop canopies, and the slow movement of snow drifts across icy mountain peaks were playing out in her mind. It was the way she started nearly every morning since she was a small child in Salk’Ir.

She tried to stay with the images, but it was difficult. Mixed in with the calming fluidity of the wind and water were images pulled from more recent memory. The water turned red, and flashed images of burning buildings raced through her consciousness. Dead bodies. Dismembered limbs. Horrors that were difficult even to describe kept clawing their way into this peaceful moment. It had been the same for nearly a month. They had first started after their most recent assignment had concluded. But, if she was being honest with herself, the nightmares had plagued her for far longer than the beginning of their most recent assignment. It was the nature of her and Lawbrin’s tasks. As effective as they were, the horror of what they often witnessed outshined any amount of calm they tried to muster. Even now, trying to bring forth the peace she had practiced since childhood, her body was reliving the shaking anxiety and goosebump-riddled fear of the last year. It was something she prayed to the Creator for often; peace from her own mind. Peace from the memories.