The Cursed Tower
Vesian VI
"I told you we were lost."
Vesian sighed with exasperation. "We are not lost. We just cannot see where we're going right now."
All around them, the darkened wood closed in. Thick-trunked trees loomed overhead, and the waning daylight hardly reached the forest floor. Two men and three horses wound their way along a narrow, rocky path in the forested mountains. The man in the lead was Sir Vesian de Surrac, knight-errant of the Order of the Griffon. Astride his courser Zephyr, he sat tall in the saddle and brushed his fair hair back from his green eyes. He was tall, muscular, and his face retained a youthful cheer despite its obvious experience and worldly wisdom.
Beneath his blue surcoat emblazoned with a golden griffon, Sir Vesian wore a coat of worn but polished mail, and his oaken shield hung from a strap over his shoulder. Alongside the shield hung a simple lance of ash, protruding over his shoulder and sometimes clipping the low-hanging branches that encroached on them from above. From the embroidered leather belt around his waist hung a masterwork sword and jeweled dagger, along with a nearly empty coin purse. Sir Vesian was in good cheer despite the disagreement and rode casually holding the reins with one hand scratching his chin with the other in thought.
Behind him rode his sour squire, Thibault d'Agny. The other man was shorter and stockier than his master, with blue eyes that showed cunning and resolve in the waning light of day. Leading the pair's packhorse, Thibault was mounted upon Rascal, a feisty rouncey that answered only to the squire and sometimes not even then. With one hand on Rascal's reins and the other holding the packhorse's lead, Thibault looked to either side of the path as they rode. A frown was set upon his face, and he continued his grumbling.
"We cannot see where we're going because we are lost," Thibault replied with growing annoyance.
"We often cannot see our destination," Vesian countered easily, "but that does not mean we do not know where it is."
"I am not speaking of our destination, but of the path!" Thibault complained rather testily. "These paths are unknown to me, and to you, if you will be honest for a moment. We should have traveled with the merchants. Trust a merchant to know the roads..."
"This way is faster," Vesian said with a dismissive shrug.
"Not if we get lost," Thibault grumbled.
Vesian barely heard him but smiled with amusement all the same. However, he was not in as good of spirits as he seemed. Thibault was right, he did not know these paths. The trail through the forest was one he had known of for many years but never traveled before this day, and the reality had not matched the lore of the land. It had proven steeper, longer, and darker than expected, and he began to despair of being out of the woods before nightfall.
Somewhere not so distant, a wolf howled, and his concern deepened. Vesian's hand dropped to his sword, and he cast suspicious looks into the forest. Behind him, Thibault continued his grumbling unabated.
The trail switched back and began ascending again, leaving Vesian even more worried. They had intended to travel over the mountain to the river valley on the far side, but with their ascent still in progress, there was now no possibility of making it to the valley floor before dark.
The day died unexpectedly quick behind the mountain, and they were left alone in the gloom. The night's chill set in at once, and Vesian could feel it biting through his mail. A wolf howled again to the north; its cry taken up by another to the south.
"We should stop for the night," Thibault suggested. "And build a tall fire. Hopefully it will keep the wolves away..."
Vesian looked around, but everywhere the ground was steep and choked with roots and vines.
"We need to find a good spot," he countered, before muttering to himself, "and do it before what's left of the light is gone."
"How about there?" Thibault suggested. Vesian turned and followed his squire's outstretched hand. To his surprise, a side path broke away from the winding trail and ran off into the forest on mostly flat ground, though still crowded with trees and brush. Vesian had the strange feeling that it had not been there a moment ago.
Still, Thibault turned off the mountain path onto the flat ground, leading their packhorse, Gotila, behind him and Vesian, too concerned about the impending darkness, decided to follow. The path wound through the trees as much as the other had around the mountainside, and Vesian wondered if they were being led in a circle. His mind went to tales of enchanted forests and the sorcerers who dwelt within. They were far from the borders of the Dalamari Forest, greatest and most perilous of those woods, but who was to say they had not stumbled into the bounds of another?
Suddenly, they were before a wall. It rose up before them tall and black, looking as if it were built from charcoal, not stone. Forty feet above them, stars shone through the machicolations, and Vesian could make out the merlons silhouetted against the night sky. The path terminated not thirty feet in front of them at a portcullis of black iron, similar in color to the stone in the walls. The portcullis was raised, its iron teeth hanging above the open portal like the teeth of some great monster.
"What is this place?" Thibault muttered, looking in all directions. No torches burned on the castle's walls and no sounds could be heard from within. However, behind them howled a wolf once again, drawing audibly nearer even mid-howl.
"An old castle," Vesian replied, spurring his courser forward toward the gate. "Long abandoned, no doubt due to its remote location. Well positioned to guard this backwoods track, but too expensive for the task."
"And the stone?" Thibault inquired, falling in behind Vesian after a moment of hesitation.
"Black granite. Not uncommon in these parts. Perhaps further blacked with soot. We should find shelter in here. Just watch that an old roof doesn't come crashing down on us in our sleep, for the place is surely in ruins."
Yet when they passed into the castle's courtyard, it was clearly not in ruins. The roofs had no holes in them and did not sag with age. The timbers had not rotted and the thatch over the manger was fresh. Even the ground looked recently swept. Vesian narrowed his eyes in suspicion at the sight. Some strange power prevailed here. He sniffed the air, searching for the smell of sorcery, but found nothing. That did nothing to quell his suspicions, but only inflamed them further.
He turned to Thibault and opened his mouth to speak, but as he did, the torches in the courtyard flared to life, casting a warm glow all around. Vesian started, Zephyr reared, and Thibault cursed in surprise.
"Damnable sorcerers!" Thibault growled, his hand fumbling for his sword in the sudden light. "We're in a trap!"
Vesian's eyes went to the portcullis, expecting to see it crashing down to complete the trap. But it did not move. Instead, he heard a woman's voice from above.
"Greetings, Sir knight, my good squire. I bid you welcome to my castle."
Vesian, his eyes adjusting in the firelight, turned his gaze to the upper battlements and at last spied a woman staring down at them from the keep's balcony. She was a lovely woman of middle age. Even in the dark, lit only by torches far below her, Vesian could see her round face, green eyes, and long copper-gold hair hanging over her shoulder in a braid. With a warm smile, she spread her arms in welcome.
"I am Lady Mathilde. Please, come in. You are most welcome."
