Sword of Stone - Prologue

Water dripped from chain to stone, sending loud taps into the yawning, tomblike prison. Long had hope been quenched by hunger, yet even now he longed to hear his brothers' heartbeats, or catch a whiff of their scents. His senses had waned with his powers. To think he was once feared by man and monster alike! Now even the blind, creeping things in that dungeon pitied him.

Perhaps he deserved to be so revulsed. The terror he and his brothers had once wielded over the land had ultimately led to the burning of their home, hadn't it? Were they not to blame? Was not their strength the very thing that brought the hand of the mages down on their home?

He tried to picture the cool, ivy-hung stones of Castle Mysig.

These days he could only remember it in flames. His nose stung with the smell of smoke as if the fortress burned before him still. His ears twisted the howl of the wind into the phantom screams of the little ones who had begged to be saved. His hands ached from the memory of pawing through scalding rubble, from burying friends, teachers, children who would never partake in their Tea Ceremony. Salings and Vēnors alike had gone down into the earth that night. 

The Scourge of the Wolf Clan had spurred the three to action. The Mages had made their town a wasteland, and as the last of the wolf Vēnors, his brothers vowed to bring about their suffering. 

There had always been rumors among the people that the Vēnors were the most powerful in the land, and he and his brothers carried out such a thorough hunt of the Mages that the people's awe turned to fear. Mages were easy to hunt, for they did not ally with others of their caliber, and so they were gradually thinned out by the rage of the wolves. 

But of course, the hubris of the hunters three blinded them to the possibility of failure, and one winter night, their prey banded together, and trapped them. The Mages' multiplied numbers magnified their cruelty as well, and they found a way to enslave Vēnors, to turn their fearful abilities into a useful tool for themselves. And so, the War Wolves were born. Under the command of their new masters, they carried out such atrocities which had never been described in speech or conceived in mortal minds.

Nothing in any world could relieve the agony of those days. The three brothers had been used, abused, beaten, and broken, until their masters decided they had outlived their usefulness and entertainment value. Perhaps the Mages sealed them away in the hopes that the prisons would rot their bodies, but the rot of the mind seemed far more likely as it became harder to sense each other in the cimmerian tomb. Though insanity crept closer by the day, he could occasionally hear his brothers' hearts puttering away, but his powers were fading with every crawling moment. Had they grown as weak as he?

The curse that held them bound their senses together and kept them alive for some inexplicable and cruel reason. But he had not felt truly alive for months without number. Time meant so little to Vēnors, but the perpetual cold-dark had begun to wear on him. He wondered what the sky looked like now, were there still clouds anymore? Were the ruins of his home still standing, or had new homes been built on the bones of Mysig? How had the Evermore changed? Had the grove grown into a beautiful forest like the elders had promised?

Truly, he did want to know how much time had passed. What had changed? He longed to run free, to laugh with his brothers, to sleep under the stars, to rest without fear beneath the oaks once more. But there would be no rescue, and there would be no one to save him. 

His thoughts paused as a faint rumble reached his ears. He knew that sound well: another part of the tomb had finally collapsed. How much longer until it was his turn to be buried under rubble and stone? When would he finally be given leave to die?

The rumbling faded, and the oppressive silence consumed him once more. With a wavering sigh, he sank back into his usual ritual to stave off insanity - remember, remember, remember. He had long given up hope of a life after this prison, but as long as he could recall a life before, then at least he could see kind faces and hear gentle words before he died. Perhaps the downfall of himself and his brothers had been deserved, but Vēnors were never meant to be alone.

Amber eyes snapped open. A sharp breath filled his lungs with fresh air. Blood rushed to his ears. As if he had been given life anew, he could hear and smell his brothers, and they him. He strained steadily against his chain, his weakened body creaking with disuse. His mind surged into focus as a singular thought overtook him.

Someone had found the sword.