You set sail from Vadera harbour on a bitterly cold, grey, late winter’s day. The masts of your host ship, the Lencian clipper Saxin, have been rigged with every available square inch of canvas to catch the prevailing winds that will, with luck, propel you quickly to Talestria—the first stage of your long journey home. The clipper is a sleek and impressive craft and its departure does not go unnoticed, yet of all the many Lencians who have turned out to watch and wave it farewell, only King Sarnac and his closest advisors know the true purpose of its voyage.
Once the Saxin is beyond the sheltering walls of Vadera harbour, its captain charts an easterly course along the Tentarias—the chain of seas and landlocked lakes which separate the two continents of Magnamund. You and your companion, Lord Ardan, settle into the ship’s easy routine and, with few on-board duties to perform, you endeavour to pass the long hours constructively. With the aid of a map which he gives to you, Ardan briefs you on the route you should travel if you are to reach Sommerlund as swiftly as possible. You spend your time discussing the details of the route and pondering the new Evil which now threatens your homeland and the Kai.
Every night, as you lie awake on your bunk staring at the tarred beams of your cabin, you wish away the miles that separate you from your beloved homeland. You want, most of all, to be with your young Kai acolytes in this dark hour, but fate has seen fit to place a great distance between you. Fearful of what you may find if you arrive home too late, every night you offer up prayers to the Gods Ishir and Kai to help speed your return to Sommerlund.
Ten days after leaving Vadera, the Saxin drops anchor in Varnos Harbour in Garthen—the crown capital of Talestria. The sleek and elegant lines of the Lencian craft contrast starkly with the drab, functional hulls of the merchant ships and dhows which crowd this city-port’s jetties and wharves. Lencian craft are a rare sight in Garthen, and the Saxin is the rarest of Lencian craft; it is no wonder that its arrival stirs a frenzy of interest and speculation among the citizens of this capital.
Word of your arrival travels quickly to the Royal Citadel and a troop of Queen Evaine’s Court Cavalry are dispatched to the harbour. They are led by a stern-faced man who wears the uniform and gold insignia of the Lord Constable, the highest military rank in the Talestrian army. He brings his column of regal horsemen to a halt at the quayside; then he dismounts and strides forward to welcome you in person as you disembark from the ship.
(Yes I’ve been in Torgar before)
The smooth dark hair and noble countenance of the Lord Constable are oddly familiar, reminding you of someone whose name momentarily you cannot recall.
‘Welcome, my Lord,’ he says, with a respectful salute. ‘I am Nathor, Lord Constable of the Royal Citadel. My troop would be honoured to escort you to an audience with Queen Evaine.’
‘Pray tell me, Lord Constable,’ you reply, ‘have we not met before?’
‘No, sire. I venture you must be thinking of my late brother—Adamas. He held the office of Lord Constable afore me. I understand that you and he once fought together in the war ’gainst the Darklords. He spoke most highly of your courage. Sadly, though, he is no longer with us. He died valiantly during the great siege of Torgar.’
you accept Lord Constable Nathor’s offer of an escort to Queen Evaine’s citadel and call to Lord Ardan, who has been watching from the deck of the Saxin, to come and join you. As Ardan disembarks, Nathor gives a signal to his men who are busy keeping an inquisitive crowd of citizens at bay. Hurriedly they clear a gap in the pressing wall of curious, wide-eyed Garthenians, and moments later the horse-drawn coach comes trundling through towards the quay.
Once you and Ardan are safely aboard, Lord Constable Nathor shouts a terse command to the driver and the coach speeds away from the harbour, escorted by the troop of Court Cavalry. A swervingly swift journey through Garthen’s steeply narrow streets ends when the coachman reins in his horses in the courtyard of the Royal Citadel.
Everywhere you look you see soldiers of the Royal Household in uniforms bedecked with glittering braid. A fanfare of trumpets announces your arrival and, with minimal delay, Nathor escorts you personally to the State Hall where Queen Evaine of Talestria, seated upon a throne and surrounded by a dozen of her court advisors, is waiting patiently for you to appear.
‘Welcome, Grand Master,’ she says, graciously. ‘We have been expecting you. King Sarnac sent word of your arrival by message-hawk and we have made arrangements to help speed your passage homewards.’
Respectfully you bow to the queen and voice your thanks for the cooperation she has seen fit to offer you.
‘Not at all, Grand Master, for Talestria is in your debt. Were it not for you, our land would be in the thrall of the Darklords.’
With this, Queen Evaine dismisses her advisors and motions for you, Ardan, and Lord Constable Nathor to approach to the foot of her throne.
‘I understand the urgency of your journey, Grand Master,’ she says, her voice hushed as if she fears being overheard, ‘but I must caution you to be on guard. The Dark God Naar’s agents are abroad with plans to thwart your homecoming. I have received word from my garrisons in the north that Zlanbeast and Kraan riders have been sighted in the night skies. They venture forth from the ruins of the Darklord cities of Nadgazad and Cragmantle, sent by the express command of Naar himself. They know now that you triumphed in Ixia and they are watching expectantly for your coming.’
‘I thank you for this information, your Majesty, but I am sure that I can avoid these night-riders,’ you reply confidently.
‘I have no doubt of this, Grand Master,’ she says, ‘but they are not the only agents in Naar’s employ. Word of your coming has spread like wildfire throughout the shadowy underworld of thieves and assassins. Great rewards of gold and dark magic have been offered for your death.’
‘With respect, your majesty,’ you reply, tactfully masking your scepticism, ‘how do you know this to be true?’
‘Grand Master, it is true. I have heard it from the very lips of an assassin who was plotting your murder, here, in the heart of my capital. He was captured while attempting to recruit others and he is being held prisoner in the dungeons of this citadel. Perhaps you would welcome the chance to question this man yourself?’
(Yes I would)
Queen Evaine commands the Lord Constable to take you to the citadel dungeons which are located several levels below the State Hall. Here, shackled to the dank stone wall of a rat-infested cell, is the man who was caught in a Garthen tavern plotting your murder. Limp and unconscious, he hangs by his wrists in chains, his emaciated body showing all too clearly the signs of recent tortures. A pot-bellied gaoler scoops a bucket of foul water from a trough by the cell door and revives the prisoner by pouring it unceremoniously over his head. Coughing and spluttering, the wretch stirs to consciousness. He raises his face and you sense that he recognizes immediately who you are; his eyes blaze with an undisguised hatred.
‘He’s a tough un,’ growls the gaoler. ‘I’ve used all o’ me skills on ’im but ’e won’t say who ’is paymaster be.’
The fat gaoler reaches for a pair of long-handled pincers which are protruding from a brazier of hot coals.
‘Perhaps you’ll be wanting to interrogate ’im yourself, sire?’ he says, offering you the pincers. Wisps of smoke curl from their sharpened tips which are red and glowing.
‘Aye, gaoler, there are questions I’d like this man to answer. But I’ll not be needing those,’ you reply, declining the use of the cruel pincers. ‘I prefer to rely on my own methods of interrogation.’
(I use Kai Alchemy)