It was dark and dank within the deep catacombs of Tur'Mor. The smell of decay and once burning incense clung to the stifling air. High columns of white marble held up the vaulted ceiling that told the tales of gods, known by the Ordiatians as the Ellitheor. In the back of the massive sanctuary, past marbled floors and painted ceilings, were the stone tombs of a time long gone. Inside an ancient casket lay a lone body, wrapped tightly in thin white linen. Long forgotten was this lair, as was the man who inhabited it. None visited; none remembered. Here, in a world that had forgotten him, awoke the mountain of a man.

With a furious motion, the bands that swaddled his body burst. A loud thud rang out as his hands crashed against the stone lid, scraping the skin off his knuckles. Heaving, the man pushed the stone cover off the dusty casket that encased him. Through deafening thumps of his beating heart, he sat upright, trying to gain his bearings as his head pounded in agony.

Weakened eyes could barely distinguish the wall from the floor, yet they could make out blurry forms of other stone caskets that cluttered the small room. Panic struck first, crashing over him like a wave battering the cliffside. Then came confusion.

Where am I? What happened? He tried breathing slowly to calm his jolted nerves, but the stifled air gave little reprieve. 

His calloused hands felt cold and feebler than he remembered. He questioned why he had struggled so greatly to remove the lid that enclosed him; such a task should have been effortless. With a shaking hand, he pulled a golden veil off his face in the hopes of making it easier for him to see. It did not.

After an ineffective attempt of decerning his surroundings, the man placed his hands on the edge of the coffin to support his body as he swung his legs over the thick, cold lip. The weight of his body collapsed under unsure legs. He fell, limp like a rag doll, to the floor, narrowly missing the edge of the casket which had previously encased him. He did, however, manage to catch himself on the lip of his tomb with his right hand before falling flat on his face. Pain surged through his cramping leg muscles, yet that slight discomfort was barely a tickle compared to the unnatural burning sensation that emanated from his bosom.

Fire!

A feeling, like that of molten iron being poured onto the center of his chest, burst forth. Wildly, he flung his head back in agony and let out a ferocious howl. Through the pain that seared his body, an even more powerful sensation overtook him, strangling his consciousness. Try as he might, he could not force-down the overwhelming feeling. All light faded from his eyes.

***

Snowfall surrounded him. Looking about, he realized he no longer stood in the tomb. Wind that chilled him to the bone blew wildly. Dark trees and stony mountain peaks began to take form, not around hi, but beneath. The man’s perception seemed to hover in space, as if he were seeing from the sky above.

A figure came into view, appearing from nothingness, and to his astonishment he could clearly see his own personage crouched over a bloody woman dressed in black. He could see that it was he who had plunged the dagger into her heart. His own hands were red with blood, and he remembered the burning hate that filled his eyes as he looked upon her. This was no dream, but some sort of vision from his memory. Somehow, he was not seeing it from his own point of view.

Something caught his eye. The woman, in her last breath, thrust her hand to his chest while muttering something indiscernible. His body fell lifeless to the earth as a white fire burned his consciousness.

***

The man jerked awake. He was lying vulnerable upon the cold floor, his eyes looking upward without seeing. Panic ensued. No coherent thought could form in his clouded mind. He felt like a fly caught in a spider’s web, helpless and unable to move. A surge of energy ran through his body, followed by a primeval urge to escape that utterly consumed his mind.  

A dim ray of light crept through the darkness of the crypt, seeping out from under the door ahead, capturing his attention. The man pulled himself awkwardly across the floor towards the light. Slowly, he struggled to his feet, hobbling on legs still trying to find their strength. His heightened sense of smell and hearing also began to return. Though there was nothing to be heard but the sounds of creeping things scuttling across the floor, the smell, on the other hand, was quite revolting. Musty rot and decay hung in the stale, dank, and dusty air.

The door from whence the light crept was plain and old, very old. With a solid push, it swung open violently and slammed into the white plaster walls of the main sanctuary. A mighty thud echoed throughout the catacombs as the door burst in twain, causing the man to freeze in alarm, the sound deafening to his ears.

The vaulted ceiling’s slotted windows let in pale rays of silver moonlight, illuminating the grey and black checkered floors, though it felt as blinding as the sun to the disoriented man’s aching eyes. Pressing forward, he passed several rows of intricately crafted marble tombs, each bearing a carving of the likeness of those who rested beneath the heavy lids. His troubled mind did not allow him to stop and admire the workmanship. He continued forward towards a large flight of stairs at the far end of the room that led up to an ornate door.

A stone arch outlined the door of polished timber and golden embellishments. It touted a large brass handle, and a small stained-glass window was positioned in the center. The man reached out his hand and took hold of the knob, trying to turn it, but the door would not budge.

Blast! He huffed in frustration. He then lifted his leg and kicked the door, stumbling backwards upon connection with the heavy wooden aperture. It rattled violently but did not give an inch. In a craze of pure determination, he took a few steps back, lowered his right shoulder and ran forcefully towards the door. Followed by a jarring thud and the sound of snapping steel, the internal bolt holding the door shut gave way to his weight.

The freezing night air rushed over his face, feeling as if he had just jumped into a mountain lake in early spring. He stumbled out of the large marble catacomb and into an open cemetery. Drawing in deep breaths of fresh air, he looked about the quiet resting ground. The dead grass was dusted with a light snow, barely covering the endless rows of headstones that uniformly lined the vast graveyard. He was still.

Taking stock of himself, he looked down at his hands in the pale moonlight, examining every crack, scar, and callous as if to make sure they were really there. While doing so, the feeling of pain in his chest persisted even stronger. The man burst the strings that held the top of his faded tunic shut, tearing the fabric all the way down to the middle of his abdomen. A white scar seared into his broad chest in the form of a hand gleamed like the scales of a great dragon in the moonlight. Fear and confusion rushed over him as he struggled to catch his breath once more. What is this?

Turning swiftly, glaring into the stained-glass portion of the door, he studied every aspect of his body, as if to assure himself he was not dreaming again. The reflection that met his gaze was comforting and familiar, yet pained and weary. It was that of a younger man in his late twenties, in whose bright eyes honey-yellow irises glistened. He had a powerful jawline that bore a thick, black beard, and a nose that appeared to have been broken time and time again, touting a small scar on the left nostril. The face held a hollow look for one so young, one that had seen far too much evil and death for ten lifetimes, let alone twenty-something short years. Thick, straight, black hair was pulled tightly back behind his ears, every strand appearing to be brushed and oiled to perfection. A golden chain was wrapped about his beard, which bore an unnatural looking silver streak that ran from the base of his lip to the tip thereof.

With a pounding heart, he moved trembling fingers over the flesh of his face. He closed his eyes and took short breaths, attempting to calm himself. Other than the shimmering scar on his chest, everything else seemed normal. However, something was off on the inside – he could feel it. As he tried to unravel what that irregularity was, a chilling sensation began to crawl up his spine, like a spider closing in on its prey. A blackness began to well within his eyes, muddling his sense of reality. His reflection in the window seemed to fade, replaced with something grim.

In front of him stood a towering and muscular man, whose ghastly pale skin blended unnaturally with his snowy surroundings. The man’s body was tattooed in cruel tribal markings of blood red. He had an angular face that was covered with a helmet in the form of a skull, with two ram’s horns curving downward. He hefted a large stone hammer from the earth.

He knew this man.

Diabhail, the tattooed man, yelled out in an unknown language. He rushed forward across a bloodstained field, wildly swinging a stone hammer over his head, an evil fire burning in his dark eyes.

“Halt!” a voice called out from the dark, wrenching the dreamer back into reality.

Turning quickly and staring in the direction of the noise, he could barely make out the form of two men approaching from the far end of the cemetery. As they drew closer, he noticed that both men were wearing some kind of black body armor with a silver star on their chest. He also realized that they were rushing towards him with furious, intimidating determination.

“You there!” shouted the larger, more muscular one of the two. “Don’t move a muscle!”

The guards looked more annoyed than angry, most likely due to the hour and the temperature. They were both in their middle years, yet the larger had flecks of grey forming in his hair. Black gambesons with silver embroidery and buttonholes poked out from behind their breastplates, hanging down to their knees. Both held unusual looking instruments of metal and wood. Besides the weapons they were holding, long nightsticks hung from their belts, and one of them held an iron torch in his hand.

“Don’t move!”

Growling lowly, the young man’s eyes locked upon the guards who pressed ever closer. He stepped back, his back brushing the cold stone of the building. Trapped! The word formed in his mind, animalistic and raw.

The guards reached the bottom of the steps, eyes blazing with hate. The big one raised his mysterious weapon into the air and pulled the trigger.

BOOM!

The sound from the peculiar weapon split the sky as a burst of flame leapt from the metal rod. The blast echoed, and while the guards seemed unbothered by the loud noise, the stranger’s ears rang furiously. Instructing the man not to move, the taunting guards moved up the steps. Confusion struck the man, and in his panic, he fell to the earth. Using the soles of his feet, the man pushed his crumpled body against the walls of the catacomb.

The smaller guard reached him first and, while grasping at a pair of iron shackles, boasted, “Caught us another grave robber. Up then, thief! To your feet now!”

“By the gods,” the second snarled, curling his nose in disgust as he stared down at the scared man, huddled against himself on the stonework. “He smells like gutter rot!”

“And what is this you is wearing?” the first questioned, poking at the young man’s chest with the hot end of his strange metal tube.

“Things do seem to be getting worse around here,” the second replied. “I moved my family to Tur'Mor to get away from the crazies out there.”

“Come on, Rauel.” the first chided as he chained his prisoner’s hands behind his back. “Tur'Mor may not be perfect, but it is the best place in all the Republic to live.”

“True. . . and still, we gotta clean up trash like this. Can’t leave well enough alone and stay to his own place.” Rauel pushed the barrel of his gun into the face of the prisoner, lifting his chin. “Looks like a filthy Dane to me. Bunch of brutes. I’m surprised Mayor Adelmo ain’t totally outlawed his kind by now.”

“Ah! You know the Holy Council would never let that happen, Rauel.” The first laughed at the other. “I say, let ‘em serve their purpose in the coal mines. We need the work, and the gods know I don’t want to do it. Besides, he looks ter be big an’ strong; he should have no trouble swingin’ a pickaxe. A’right then. Let’s get ’em down to the station.”

“You, boy, get up now. Give us your name, then!” Rauel spat. “Ain’t got all night.”

Bewildered, no words escaped his mouth. He silently met the guard’s questions and taunts with only a blank stare. Anger, confusion, and panic boiled under his skin. Yet, weak and facing the unknown, he just bowed his head in submission.

“Got ourselves a mute then, aye?” Rauel rose to his full height. “Up you go then, swine!”

When Rauel attempted to lift the man by the shoulder, he was met by unexpected resistance. His prisoner dropped to the ground and retreated to the wall.

“Come along nice and there won’t be no beatings, you hear, thief? You don’t want to get clever with ole’ Brue here!” A nervous chuckle escaped Rauel’s breath. “He’s been known to take a man down a notch or two for misspeakin’ on the name of the uniform!” Rauel said as he tapped the silver star at his chest.

Thief? I took nothing…? questioned the bearded man in his head as he stared blankly at Brue and Rauel. His eyes narrowed. Fight, flee, break free... His head ached and his vision blurred as he tried to find a way to escape his captors, to flee over the far wall that ran around the cemetery. His legs burned with fatigue from just crossing the catacombs, and his lungs felt as if they could burst. And what of those things, those strange weapons? It is too risky... far too risky.

“You may be a big’n, but you don’t want a scrap tonight. I ain’t in no mood, thief,” Brue said as he tightened the grip on his short blunderbuss. His black leather gloves creaked under the tension as a large vein in his neck bulged. “Last chance before things get interesting.”

Mind far too cloudy, memory blurred, the man did not argue, nor did he attempt to scoot away as he had before. Bowing his head in submission, not willing to try anything, he surrendered. He could not escape, not yet. The odds were not in his favor.

Brue lifted his prisoner to his feet without any resistance. Seemingly satisfied with the apparent acceptance of the situation, Brue motioned for his companion to lead on. Rauel gave a final glare, and then marched forward. Brue walked close behind the mute, occasionally ramming the buttstock of the gun into his back if he slowed or stepped out of line.

The three followed a long trail that led to the other side of the cemetery. As they headed down the sloping terrain, the prisoner looked back past the tomb to the top of a domed hill. At the top sat a large temple, with towering spires that reached up into the heavens. The temple was majestic and beautiful, with decorative carvings etched into the marble arches and walls. No ordinary man could make out those details from this distance, especially not in the darkness of night, but he could, perfectly. Turning his attention southward, past the iron gate that separated the two sides of the stone wall, a small village known as Templetown lay drawn-out and half-mooned about the bottom of the hill. Further in the distance, the sounds of the ocean beating on the cliffs of the western border of the land became apparent, signs that his hearing was returning to him. A colossal lighthouse had been erected upon a jagged rock, protruding out of the black, foaming water of the Great Sea. On the mainland, directly across from the lighthouse and the drawbridge that connected them, rose a great city with high stone walls.

The group walked towards those rising walls of white. The spectacle was breathtaking. Battlements and massive, black guns lined the top of the granite wall composed of huge stones that gleamed in the moonlight. Yet all this was nothing compared to the city. Even in the dark of night, the city looked as if ten thousand stars lit it from within. Several grand buildings climbed into the air, yet one stood out among all the rest.

An ancient tower rose in the middle of Tur'Mor, both beautiful and ornate. Even from a distance, the likeness of three carved personages could clearly be seen at the top of the tower. A single orb of polished stone sat upon the backs of the three beings. One of the men had a large brass shield and helmet upon his head, his eyes looking down at the city. Another had a large beard, and a tartan was wrapped around his waist and draped over his left shoulder. In his right hand, he held a war hammer, pointing it northward. The last figure was a beautiful woman in a flowing dress. She had long, wind-wisped hair that seemed to be blowing westward. A bronze crown rested on her head and jewelry adorned her body. A bronze seagull was perched on her westward-pointing hand and with the other hand, she too held the stone upon her shoulder.

The two guards rambled back and forth as they led their prisoner through the place they called Templetown. As Rauel and Brue talked, they would often refer to their prisoner as Skunk, due to the silvery stripe in his beard and the dank odor coming from his body. A repugnant scent the man himself could not deny as he tilted his haggard face to one of his pits, and unwisely sniffed.

The walk from Templetown was long and winding, leading them down a vast hillside. At the base of the town sat a small wall with an iron-barred carriage, which Brue forced the man into. Once inside, they rode for hours until they reached the gates of Tur'Mor. During the ride, the once weakened prisoner began to feel strength return to his legs, arms, and eyes.

Despite the return of some of his forgotten strength, the animalistic urges were still ever-present. The compulsion to strike, to attack, were hard to subdue. And making matters worse were the feelings of utter confusion as to where he was, how he had gotten there, and most terrifyingly, who he was. Somehow, he could understand the words of Brue and Rauel, but they were unnatural to his ears.

Who am I? The terrifying thought crashed in his mind like waves on the white cliffs that edged the city to which he was being hauled. Images of blood and death assaulted his memories, though it was little more than blurs and fragmented pieces of an unknown puzzle.

Who am I?

At the North Gatehouse of the massive city, there was a gathering of black-clad guards standing around a small flame. A stack of halberds leaned together behind them in a circle. The men, who had been jesting with one another around the firelight, rose to their feet as Brue and Rauel approached, having left their carriage behind.

“What do you got tonight, then? Another drunk in the street?” One of the guards laughed.

“No, got us an oddy here. Broke into the Royal Crypt trying to get himself some loot.” Rauel laughed. “Couldn’t smell no drink on him, but something else sure reeks.”

“Odd? That’s one way to put it,” scoffed Brue. “Skunk here looks like a damn deranged street dog! Won’t say a word, but’ll stare at you like the last piece of meat on a bone.”

The men around the fire laughed at Brue’s remark until one stepped forward. He was clearly the leader, for he had a golden star on his chest and his helm had a yellow plume. The men referred to this one only as “Captain.” He was an imposing man with a thick neck and a thicker beard, which was curly and well-trimmed in a square. His coat, for he did not wear a gambeson like the rest of his company, had a high-collar with stiff shoulders, that were adorned with seemingly endless knots of golden cords, and the split tails fell to the top of his polished boots. And his trousers, unlike the matching black of the City Guard, were white with two black stripes running up the sides of either leg.

“Looking to take him to the precinct ‘til mornin’,” Rauel said. “Maybe a few days in the hole will get him to say something useful.”

“All right boys, I’ll have ’em lower the gate,” the captain said as he walked over a wide drawbridge, which spanned a dry moat and led to the gate.

Captain rang a large copper bell that hung by the towering wall doors. Thrice in sequences of two he pounded the bell with a mallet that hung by a chain. After the noise from the dull bell faded away, the low sound of doors moving open on the inside of the wall began to slowly grow louder. Next, the sound of a gate raising rumbled as chains clanked together over a great spindle. Lastly, the outer doors that faced the drawbridge groaned open slowly as two guards manually pushed them open.

“She don’t get called the safest city on Ethrea for noth’n, do they?” Rauel chuckled wickedly as he pushed his prisoner forward. “Unfortunately for you. But I didn’t force ya to be break’n into royal property.”

A sharp pain shot up the prisoner’s back as Brue drove the stock of his weapon forward, shouting, “Move, Skunk!” to urge him across the drawbridge.

After crossing the drawbridge and entering Tur'Mor, the outer doors were pulled shut and the iron gate was lowered. Fascination and wonder captivated the mind of the prisoner as he beheld the sheer size of the city. The multitude of buildings, markets and roads seemed to be little more than a blur to him as they marched forward hastily. Fountains and statues graced the courtyards and streets, lending a feeling of architectural grace to the city. The streets were straight and true, with the buildings in clean and orderly rows. Though the city was relatively quiet, everything was illuminated by iron lamp posts that lined the streets.

With his mind racing and wonder blossoming, the realization that shackles were around his wrists escaped the prisoner’s mind. He began to walk toward a large fountain in the middle of a massive entry courtyard when a rough hand grabbed his shoulder, pulling him backwards. Brue stared at him with a smirk and said, “Ain’t no time for sightsee’n. It’ll be to the dungeon with you.” Brue then led the group away from the courtyard towards a long, dark road.

This backstreet was dark and cold. It did not house the same wonder as the beautiful courtyards did. No, it held a looming sense of dread. The cobblestone backroad led to what looked like a mineshaft with an iron barred gate that protruded from the side of the wall. Brue unlocked the iron door and pushed the prisoner forward into the dark tunnel. The place they now tread lay below the ornate city of Tur'Mor. Here in the underground was where those who broke the law, rioted, or due to some form of civil unrest, were locked away.

The dank smell of still water and old earth filled the dungeon. The walls were created of stacked stones and were lined with iron bracers. Chains and shackles hung from crude hooks, and there was a stockpile of weapons locked behind an iron gate near the front of the dungeon. At the far end of the large corridor was a stone building which protruded out of the wall. Upon drawing closer, a man could be seen sitting behind a small window, a large book resting in front of him. A small fire burned brightly in a blackened stove. The Bookkeeper was a burly, fat man with a long beard braided tightly under his heavy chin and smelled of beef and sweat. He wore a leather vest with the same silver star on the chest, but no shirt on his body. The hot flame behind him caused his body to perspire heavily.

“Desecration of graves, breaking and entering, thieving and resisting arrest!” said Rauel to the Bookkeeper. Then, looking over the man, he continued, “And public indecency. Wearing not but a pair of worn trousers that look to be one step away from tearing.”

“Aye,” said the Bookkeeper. “Let me see the hand.”

Rauel unchained the prisoner, grasping his right hand. When he pulled it to the light, a strange metal ring with a rough etching hewn into it could clearly be seen. It had the image of a bear’s paw surrounded by a winding form of runes. After forcing the man’s hand toward the Bookkeeper, Rauel went to remove the ring, during which time the Bookkeeper began speaking. “Prisoner 3257, that will be your name here,” then turned to the small fire behind him, pulling out a hot iron in the shape of a circle with a line through it. “You’ve earned your mark, and you shall wear it with shame for your crimes.”

The Bookkeeper’s face, for only a moment, appeared to change.

His skin went pale as a ghost, and a helmet of bone materialized upon his head. Dark blood markings were painted around black eyes of death. The fire in the stove was gone and the chill of winter flooded over the prisoner. A stone hammer lay broken on the snow and a knife of black obsidian was in the bloodied hands of the ghoulish giant man. A fierce spark of rage lit within the warrior’s heart as he stared into the face of the tattooed man.

The prisoner moved with such speed and force that no one in the room had time to react. He threw Rauel with his left hand into the wall of the Bookkeeper’s office, rendering him limper than wet socks. With a powerful swoop of his massive paws, he latched onto the beard of the Bookkeeper, pulling his head straight down into the countertop. Blood spewed in an outward arc like a fountain. This was followed by a hollow thud as the fat man fell silently to the floor.

“I am not your prisoner,” the man said shakily. The words were filled with both shock and fortitude. He might not know his own name, but he knew, deep down, he would be no man’s slave. Not now, not ever.

 Something blunt crashed against his skull with a sickening thud. The blow brought him back into the reality of the moment with brutal force. Brue, with all his might, had driven the buttstock of his gun into the back of his head. Yet, much to Brue’s dismay, this action had little effect upon the prisoner. He turned around and faced Brue, looking him dead in the eye, unwavering and cold.

Brue lifted the gun again, but not quick enough. Like a bolt of lightning and with hands like iron, the prisoner grabbed the weapon and tore it from Brue’s hands. Enraged, he grasped an iron chain from the wall and then wrestled Brue to the floor. He wrapped the chain around the guard’s struggling arms and torso, binding him tight. He then lifted Brue off the floor like a rag doll and hung him from one of the hooks on the wall, leaving him dangling helplessly. He could smell the dangling man’s fear, his perspiration, his anxiety. He shook his head – his senses were coming back, and like a feral hound, he had the urge to tear into the hanging man’s flesh.

Wide eyed, the man suddenly stepped back, as if alarmed by his own actions. The rage in his eyes dissipated as quickly as it had overcome him. It was replaced with what could only be described as guilt, guilt for his actions. A sensation of shame overtook him, and his shoulders fell. He knew these men were only doing their duty, regardless of their own flaws. He shook his head, as if he could fling the anger that boiled in his veins from his body.

Flee! The urge redoubled in his mind.

With heart pounding and eyes focusing, he scanned the room. Half a dozen other guards had witnessed the brief struggle and were now making their way swiftly towards him. And though part of him sought to go and check on the Bookkeeper, he knew that there was no time for that. The prisoner took the set of keys from Brue’s belt, breaking the loop from which they hung. He let out a sigh of regret, looking over the mess he had caused. He forced back the urge to help the men he had just beaten. He had to flee, now!

With no time to think, instinct kicked in. Years of training found themselves in his sinew and muscles. He saw the room, he smelled the oncoming men, he heard their footfalls. Everything seemed to slow. Like an angel in grace and a demon in speed, he rushed towards the iron gate at the far end of the room. With shaking hands, he fumbled to grab the correct key, the tarnished skull key Brue had used earlier. After heaving the door open and slipping through, he slammed the iron door shut, breaking the key off in the lock. Out of the tunnel he fled as the yells of the guards slowly faded from earshot. 

He had escaped his prison. But what to do now, he did not know.