The Flags of Castor Island is another
story set in the Modern Realms. This was based on a dream I had a
while ago so as a result it's pretty mind screwy. Hope you enjoy it.
Modern Realms
The Flags of Castor Island
A Gravis Grayslate Story
By Jack Harvey
“The flags,” Gravis
said, somewhat mystified, “they look as though they could have been
made yesterday.”
“And yet they were strung
up centuries ago,” came Thorof's guff voice to his right.
Gravis did not turn as he
responded. “I detect no magic.”
Thorof nodded, and returned
to help Blessed tie up the boat.
The crisp, triangular, blue
and white flags, held aloft on a long cord, flapped in the wind.
Gravis' eyes followed the line up, as it disappeared into the mists.
“Interesting isn't it?”
boomed a voice from behind him, and this time Gravis did turn. “They
say that the mountain was used for funeral processions. That the
Aether would march to the top of the mountain like a pilgrimage and
watch below as hundreds of burning ships would take their dead to the
heavens.
Gravis nodded, though he
knew most of the myths already.
Castor Island was a foggy
dreamscape on the northern coast of Avalon. It was not difficult to
get to, but the government had classified it off limits. The island
was predominantly a narrow mountain, hundreds of leagues tall, it's
summit theorised to once have been a ceremonial site for the long
dead Aether civilisation. Few had been able to decipher the island's
mysteries, even in these enlightened times.
Many had scaled the
mountain, and many had reached the top, but none had come back down
with anything save the vaguest of information. Most returned amnesic,
with little memory of that which had unfolded, while others would
return with their minds fractured, as though what they had witnessed
had driven them mad.
But still men came, for
legend had it that the peak lies on the borders between the realms
and the heavens, and if one can scale the foggy cliffs, the gods, or
whatever powers dwell there, would grant an answer to any question
they are posed.
Sometimes the lonely or the
desperate are willing to take the risks.
That is what brought these
three men here. First was Michael “Blessed” DeMonfort, a popular
dwarvern travel writer best known for scaling the mountains of both
The Everwinter and The Spine. The other two kept their reasons closer
to their chests. Thorof Teethsmasher, an unexpectedly intelligent Orc
from a family of nine siblings, and the only one not to follow them
into the mercenary business. Finally, Gravis Grayslate, a dark elf,
from a culture often ostracised for their hedonistic ways. Even with
their eccentric personalities, he would be seen as a strange
bedfellow.
Gravis had kept to himself
for the journey by boat however, and Blessed was willing to accept
help from anyone who'd scale the mountain with him. The elf pulled
out a revolver from his waistcoat and checked the loaded cylinder
casually.
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,
no, no, no, no!” Blessed came striding over, a fatherly tone to his
voice. “We shall not be taking weapons with us Mr Grayslate.”
“Are you that confident
for our safety Mr DeMonfrot?” Gravis looked down at the dwarf.
“Quite the contrary Sir.
Castor Island houses no native life that would be hostile to us, but
it is well known that the journey can put great strain on the psyche.
The last thing I want is someone pulling out a weapon in the heat of
an argument.” He nodded to the boat. “Tie it with the rest of the
gear. It will be quite safe.”
Gravis had no cause to cross
his comrades this early in their endeavour, so he did as he was
commanded. As a dark elf he was adept in the powers of death magic
anyway, but he had always been hesitant to wholly rely in it.
“And another thing,”
said Blessed, “Are you sure you wish to make the journey in that...
attire? It is an overnight trip sir.”
Blessed was referring to the
fact that while he and Thorof had dressed accordingly for a two day
hike, Gravis had still insisted on coming in his best waistcoat and
slacks. Mercifully he had brought the appropriate boots and coat, but
it was still far from ideal.
“He'll manage,” said
Thorof, “won't you Gravis?”
The orc was behaving oddly
familiar for a man who had barely said a few words since they had
met. Gravis nodded all the same, “I will.” He pulled a cigarette
from a silver case, and offered it to the others. Thorof partook,
Blessed didn't.
Before long they had secured
their packs, and began marching along the mossy flat ground towards
the mountain's incline, flags flapping in the wind.
***
Gravis' pants burned against
his legs as he strode uphill, and though he was over one hundred and
fifty years the dwarf's senior, he tried not to let pride affect him
when the stocky dwarf strode ahead once more. In an effort to slow
him down, Gravis had struck up a conversation, which he tried to
dictate whilst panting for air.
“You've scaled The Spine,”
he gasped, “A far greater hight than this. Wasn't that enough? Why
this? Why now?”
Blessed smiled, and sat on a
rock to let the elf catch his breath. “It had to be done,” he
shrugged. “My readers want to know. They want to know, at the very
least, what is at the top of Castor Island.” He beat his chest,
producing a hard sound indicating the journal he kept in his jacket.
“Whatever happens, even if this journey drives me mad, I shall at
least have something written down.”
He pulled open a skin of
water and took a sip, then offered it to Gravis. He was grateful for
it, even though elves had a slower metabolism than dwarves. Thorof
looked off into the fog, ignoring Blessed's chatter, as if he'd heard
it all before.
“And what about the
authorities?” Gravis asked. “Us being here isn't strictly legal
you know?”
“Pish posh!” Blessed
waved a stubby arm. “A trespassing charge at best. A man of my
calibre, they'll just slap me with a fine. They'd probably even waver
it, after all, if this gets published it'll deter the curious from
coming over here themselves.”
Gravis nodded again, feeling
oddly the student in this relationship.
Blessed slapped his knee.
“Now come on, we've only just begun. Rest too long now and your
legs will seize up, and the journey will be all the harder.”
With that the two men rose
to their feet, blood rushing to their heads, and carried on.
***
The ground was grassy and
wet because of the fog. Visibility was low as the group traversed the
cliffs on the east side. Gulls circled overhead, the island's only
form of native life. Gravis felt his gut wrench as he looked down and
saw the fog obscured waves crash against the rocks. They were high
enough now that one wrong slip could be fatal.
Still, Blessed tried to keep
their spirits up. “So, Mr Teethsmasher, or may I call you Thorof?”
“First name will prove
fine Blessed.”
“Ah yes, the surname
doesn't seem to suit you in all honestly. Take that as a compliment.”
“I shall.”
Gravis smiled.
“Tell me. How does an Orc
from a family of mercenaries come to have such a refined manner as
yourself?”
Thorof was quiet for a few
moments. At first Gravis assumed that Thorof wanted to remain
secretive about his past. Gravis, after all, was the same. Though
when he saw the Orc's large jaw hang low, it was more in frustration.
Thorof looked tired. “Not yet,” He said finally. “Now is not
yet the time.”
“Suit yourself,” shot
Blessed, a little insulted.
“Well how about you Mr
DeMonfort?” Gravis said, to diffuse the tension. “That's hardly a
traditional dwarvern surname now is it?”
“No,” Blessed laughed
jovially, scaling a series of rocks. “No it is not. Would you
believe that I have a little human blood in me.”
“It wouldn't surprise me.”
“Yes indeed. My great
grandfather was a member of the Lyon nobility. Met my mother during
the Industrial Revolution. She worked as an engineer you know? Was
bringing the steam train to the mainland.”
“I see.”
“Of course, you, more than
anyone else here should know what happened next Mr Grayslate. I do
believe you would have lived through it”
A sly look ran across the
elf's face. “I was but a boy back then, and we dark ones had our
own problems.”
“Oh indeed,” Blessed
laughed again, “But you need not worry Mr Grayslate. I harbour no
such prejudices against your people, and neither I expect, does
Thorof.”
“None,” the orc said
simply.
“Were most of the realms
so open minded.” said Gravis grimly. “In answer to your original
question,
yes, I recall the collapse of the continent's monarchies.”
“My great grandfather was
left with a choice, return to Lyon and remain forever exiled from his
wife, or stay with her, forfeiting the chance to return to his lands
and titles. In the end, he chose love over duty, and now nothing
remains of him but the family name.” He turned and sat on another
rock. “And that is why, each generation, my more traditionally
named dwarvern peers name us 'Blessed'”.
Gravis smiled again. It was
a good story, and he more than anyone else loved a good story, but
once again he caught Thorof staring off into the mists carelessly.
They didn't say anything for
a few moments.
“And you, Mr Grayslate,”
Blessed said. “What answers do you seek on Castor island?”
Gravis turned and looked at
the dwarf.
“I have my reasons
Blessed. That is all you are permitted to know.”
Blessed sighed. “Enigmatic.
Very well, let us continue.”
***
The three men made small
talk as they scaled the west side of the island. It was a smooth
incline, but it was not easy. The grassy patches soon started to
clear away until they were on nothing but a rocky path. The fog was
getting denser and soon they could only see a few feet in front or
behind them. The view of the sea was now long obscured.
Gravis regretted his choice
of attire, but reminded himself that he hadn't gone through a day in
his life without looking appropriately dashing, and he wasn't about
to start now. He ran a hand through his wavy hair and felt sweat on
his brow. Thorof and Blessed were out in front now, half obscured by
the mist. If he slowed down there was a real possibility that they
could disappear and he might never find his way back to them.
He strode on, pulling a hip
flask out of his inside pocket and took a swig of brandy. A fools
errand to be sure, but it made him feel better. A dark elf was never
content unless he could enjoy himself at least once per day.
Over the last couple of
hours Blessed's optimism had begun to wane. Thorof had remained as
tight lipped and professional as always, but Blessed, having begun to
complain about his joints, threw a few barbs at himself about getting
old. Each laugh became more forced than the last.
After spending about an hour
scaling the base of the mountain proper, Blessed decided it was time
to rest up and prepare for dinner. Blessed pulled out a host of
sandwiches made of thick bread, and a series of pork pies. He shared
the provisions out amongst the other two. Gravis pulled a flask of
smooth dark coffee from his pack. Just the smell of the beans as he
opened it was enough to bring him to his senses.
“Amazonian,” Thorof
said, without looking over.
“That's right,” Gravis
nodded. He always bought the specific blend from a specialised seller
when he could. “How could you tell?”
Thorof smiled, his massive
under-bite surprisingly sly. “Call it a hunch.”
Gravis took a sip of the
dark liquid. There was something about Thorof. Something he was
unsure of.
***
They had scaled most of the
mountain in silence. It was dark now. Cold. The three men huddled
round a fire as they camped out in a small cubby hole in the rocks.
Blessed had roasted rabbit for them, but despite the rest and the
food, all three felt drained and demoralised. They made small talk as
Blessed passed around the brandy.
“Forgive me if this is a
personal question Gravis,” he said as he poured out a cup. “How
difficult do you find it being a dark elf.”
Gravis didn't say anything
at first.
“You ask that as though it
could be summarised though one man's experiences.”
“I wasn't implying that
everyone of your race was the same,” Blessed said defensively,
waving his hands in the air. “I merely wanted to know what trials
your day to day life entails.”
Gravis took a swig of brandy
and felt the warm liquid tear its way down his throat. He'd rather
not discuss his people's plights with outsiders, they had done little
to earn his trust. But here and now, miles from civilisation, they
might as well have been the only people in the realms left alive.
“It's not difficult,
mostly. It's easy to hide who you are.” He looked down. “You're a
dwarf Blessed, I imagine you worship your ancestors regularly.”
“I do,” he nodded. “Even
the human ones.”
“And you have that...”
he snapped his fingers, “Festival every year. Right?”
“The tribune, yes.”
Thorof's eyes flicked
quickly between the two men.
“Well imagine all that
culture, all your traditions, both grand and trivial. Imagine you
couldn't partake in any of it, because the society around you deemed
it unseemly.”
Blessed took a swig of the
brandy and winced. “Well, I see what you mean, but the dwarven
festivals don't tent to involve fooling around with anybody and
everybody.”
Gravis rose to his feet.
Blessed said, on the
defensive again. “I wasn't implying... It just slipped out!”
“For the record, I haven't
bedded man nor woman for decades.” Gravis' voice was calm, but it
was building. “But the fact that you tell me you hold no such
prejudices and then trivialise my people's culture to be about
rutting like common animals is an insult I will not permit.”
Blessed smiled, tried to
show that he wasn't intending to be cruel. It didn't work. Thorof
remained seated.
“Our people's art goes
further than you could possibly imagine dwarf. We understand beauty
in ways other cultures only brush aside. We rebelled against an
empire for what we believed in. We face persecution on a good day,
and execution on a bad.”
“Gravis, I meant no
offence. Please, sit.”
But Gravis didn't sit. His
voice deepened, and his eyes glazed over. Blessed couldn't say for
sure, but the fog itself could have grown darker.
“I have lived through
centuries of unreconciled crimes against my people dwarf.”
“Gravis calm down.”
“Calm is a privilege I
give far too readily,” Gravis shouted. “I could kill you with a
word!”
“But you won't,” said
Thorof, setting an equilibrium to the camp as though Gravis and
Blessed's disagreement hadn't even happened. “You won't.”
Gravis wasn't calmed though.
“What do you know of what I will and won't do Orc?”
Thorof took a swig of tea
from his cup. “Because you haven't before, and won't now.”
“What do you know of me
Orc? We've been together but a day.”
Thorof put down the cup. “I
know you better than you think Gravis. Sit down. It's time.”
Gravis wasn't sure of where
Thorof was going with this, but there was a gravity to his words that
made Gravis forget his anger. He sat.
“This isn't the first time
I've scaled Castor Island.” Thorof said.
“You've done this before?”
Blessed said, ecstatically. “Why didn't you tell me?”
Thorof looked up. “This
isn't the first time I've scaled Castor Island with you either.”
The two men were silent,
trying to decipher what it was Thorof was trying to say. Finally
Blessed broke it. “I don't understand.”
“You wonder how an Orc can
be as educated and gentlemanly as I? Truth be told I wasn't always
this way. I was just like my brothers, a hired thug. One day a man
came to hire me. You, Blessed. You needed two men to join you on your
trip to Castor Island and you could only find one, so you hired an
Orc that was too stupid to know what he was getting into.”
“You approached me.”
Blessed said, practically a whisper.
“Because I grew tired of
waiting,” he took another swig of tea. “Let me finish.”
The two men didn't interrupt
again.
“So, one morning, looking
for work, I was hired by Blessed DeMonfort to help him scale Castor
Island with him and Gravis Grayslate. We did. We got to the top, to
the ruins of the Aether's alter or whatever in the hells it is, and
then, I'm gone.” He tapped his hard skull for emphasis. “I'm back
in my bed at home. It's the following morning, like nothing ever
happened.”
Blessed was about to
interrupt, but then thought better of it.
“So I'm thinking it was
all a dream, or I'd hit the drink and the drugs too much over the
weekend. Weeks go by. A month maybe. Then Blessed DeMonfort comes to
me again. Same deal, no memory of what went down. So I scale Castor
Island with him and Gravis Grayslate. Again. It plays out
identically. We get to the top, and I wake up in bed again, the day
after the last I remember. A few more months go by, and It happens
again. And again. Sometimes only days separate it, sometimes years.
But time and time again I keep waking up on the day we go to Castor
Island.”
It took a while for it to
sink in. The realms were home to many fantastical things, of gods and
monsters, but what Thorof was explaining was unreal.
“So what are you saying
Thorof?” Gravis asked. “You're from the future and you keep
getting taken back. Or are me and Blessed losing our minds?”
“I don't know,” he said
quickly. Clearly Gravis had asked this of him before. “Every time
I've asked, you seem to be up to current affairs. It's almost as if
this day is sliding through history with me.”
“So why do you come?”
Blessed said, a fear in his voice. “Why don't you just stay away?”
“Because I need answers.
Because I know, deep down, If I can only remember what I see at the
summit, I'll know why I keep getting brought back here.”
“How do I know this is
true?” Gravis shot at him, accusingly. “How do I know you're not
just making this up?”
“How would I know about
Lileth otherwise Gravis?”
The elf's face dropped. It
was as though he had been hit over the head with a rock. His eyes
glazed over at first. Blessed wasn't sure of the significance of the
name, but he could tell that it clearly meant a lot to Gravis.
“What do you know of
Lileth?”
“I know you love her, but
you are not in love with her. I know she is like family to you, yet
you are not related. I know you'd give your life for her, though you
hope it would never come to that. I know you're closer than lovers
but you'd never be intimate with her, nor she you. I've been up this
summit with you more times than I can remember Gravis. We've talked
about your hopes and dreams, your fears, your follys, but the one
thing I've never gotten out of you is what it is you hope to find at
the summit of this mountain. I'm willing to bet it's got something to
do with her.”
Gravis didn't say anything.
He nodded, clearly Thorof knew everything he needed to to show Gravis
solidarity. There must have been something between them for him to
have opened up in this hypothetical past.
“Extraordinary,” said
Blessed. “Absolutely extraordinary. This must have something to do
with the unique qualities of the island. I must write this down and
record it for my book.”
Gravis didn't say anything,
just looked Thorof in the eyes and listened the sound of flags
flapping in the wind.
***
The three men had risen
early. Gravis and Blessed were a little unsure of what to make of
Thorof's revelation, and, query it though they did, it became
abundantly clear that Thorof had an answer for every one, but could
shed little light on the mystery.
Having expended their
curiosity, the men completed the last leg of their journey in
complete silence, and before long the difficult rocks soon began to
level out, as a clearly designed path began to present itself.
The all encompassing fog
began to dissipate, as grey and silver walls came into view. They
were at the summit at last, with what appeared to be a large roofless
theatre or alter waiting for them.
The structure had the
characteristic design of all Aether ruins, of a metallic sheen
embellished with sly ridges of glowing red rock. The flags that had
led them all the way to the top were tied round a series of poles. It
was eerily silent, save for the flags.
“Incredible,” said
Blessed, who almost immediately pulled out his journal and began
sketching things down. Seconds later he ran over to what appeared to
be some kind of balcony or viewpoint. “Ah yes. The theories could
be correct. You can see straight down to the shoreline from here.
Perfect if you wanted to watch a burial at sea.”
Gravis wasn't here for a
history lesson however, and he turned to see Thorof running his hand
along the wall, trying to determine if it was metal or stone.
“Ringing any bells?”
Gravis asked him.
“Nothing,” said Thorof.
Blessed was talking to
himself still, rambling about the possible purposes of the structure.
Gravis looked up, his eyes following the string of flags. They raised
higher and higher, until Gravis was
looking immediately up. The flags
spiralled off into the mists above.
“What are the flags tied
on to?” Gravis asked to nobody in particular.
The wind picked up, drowning
out his voice.
Blessed didn't seem to hear
him, still thinking out loud and writing notes into his journal.
Though there was a rabid intensity to it, not like Blessed at all.
Thorof by contrast was still
tracing the wall with his hand. He turned. He had to shout over the
sound of the wind. “What?”
“The flags.” Gravis
shouted “What are they attached to? They just seem to get higher
and higher. But there's no support beams or poles or... well
anything.”
Thorof shouted something
back, but Gravis couldn't hear him over the wind. No, it wasn't the
wind. It was something else. A low moaning drone, at first,
accompanied by what sounded like singing, or screaming, it was hard
to say. Gravis' eyes were locked into the foggy sky now, trying to
stay on the spiral of flags.
He could hear Blessed, still
talking, but it was more like babbling now. Thorof had fallen to the
ground, though when and why, Gravis couldn't exactly be sure. All he
cared about now was the sky, the flags, where were they going?
The sky seemed to get
lighter. The sounds grew louder, clearer.
“What are the flags tied
on to?!” he shouted like a mantra. He couldn't even hear the sound
of his own voice.
The fog began to part, and
something, something beautiful and terrifying came towards him framed
by the flags.
***
“Ahhgh!” Gravis screamed
as he came to.
He was back on the sand, by
the boat. He wasn't sure how long he'd been out for. He craned his
head back, trying to take things in. He could hear the gulls circling
overhead. It was probably midday, but it was hard to tell with the
ever prevalent fog.
As he got to his feet,
Blessed came marching over, that warm fatherly smile back on his
face.
“Ah,” he said, clasping
a hand around Gravis' waist. “You're back.”
“What happened?” Gravis
rubbed his eyes instinctively, though he felt no fatigue.
“Your guess is as good as
mine,” he laughed, “What do you remember?”
“I remember...” Gravis
closed his eyes and thought, trying to piece the last few days
together as tough they were a fleeting dream, “I remember getting
to the alter, or whatever it was. I remember you talking about how
you could see down to the sea. Little all else after that.”
Blessed smiled and tapped
his journal as he had done many times before. “Got a lot of stuff
down, a good sketch too, but it quickly descends into meaningless
gibberish. Still enough for the readers that's for sure.”
Gravis looked around in
confusion. “What time is it? How did we get down here?”
Blessed shrugged. “Couple
of hours. There are few answers to be had on Castor Island it seems.”
Suddenly Gravis realised
that the Orc wasn't with them. “And Thorof?”
Blessed didn't say anything
at first, just nodded towards the boat. Gravis followed him, and he
could see the once proud Orc tied down, a vacant look in his eyes.
“I just hope he got
whatever answers he sought.”
Gravis put a hand over his
mouth. “What will you do with him.”
“Take him back to his
family,” Blessed said with a tone of regret in his voice. “If
they won't have him then It'll be to the nearest institution I
imagine.”
The two men took stock for a
moment. So much lost and so little achieved it would seem.
“Time to go then I
suspect.” Blessed said, and started to board their transport.
Gravis nodded and made
ready to embark, when suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his side.
Something had found it's way
to his inside waistcoat pocket.
He turned away from Blessed,
and out came an intricately decorated cube. It was brassy in colour,
and segmented as though it were some kind of puzzle.
“Are you alright there
Gravis?”
He quickly spirited the cube
away and turned. “I'm fine. Shall we?”
Blessed nodded, and though
the two made way to end their adventure, Gravis got the feeling that
his journey was only just getting started.
Copyright Jack Harvey 2015
