Excerpt

1

LILLENHOLD

Casemiro's palm grazed across a knife's twenty-year-old etching, a heart containing two 'C's joined by a plus, cut into the oak rail of the Fierce Siren. One letter for him, the other for the woman he lost five years ago, Chantal Sucre.

Casemiro stared into the dark waters of the secluded port of Lillenhold. "Why did I return here?"

The Fierce Siren bounced and skimmed across the small waves produced by the wake of other vessels. Casemiro's knees absorbed the boat's movement as the ship drifted towards an assigned dock. His body leaned against the rail and his hand clutched the wood, attempting to hold fast to anything from his marriage.

Quinto, the ship's captain and Casemiro's brother, stood alongside in tattered clothes in need of washing, or burning, before the next voyage. "Trying to recapture past glory, of course. Regardless, the Fierce Siren leaves port tomorrow at dawn. If you settle your issues here, you may pay the fare and board. Otherwise, the ship returns in a week for the next cargo load."

Quinto badgered his brother. "I'm still not sure why you persist in this, but the offer stands. Besides, the men enjoy having a wizard onboard."

Casemiro looked at his twin brother, whose black wavy hair, smooth skin, and handlebar mustache hid his true age. Casemiro's hair carried a little more gray near the temples, his skin a little more rough, and his stubble of a mustache and beard added ten years to the wizard's apparent age.

In truth, they were both older than anyone on the ship by at least a half-century. But both pretended to be roughly forty years of age to not intimidate the humans too much.

"I appreciate the offer. If my plans don't work out, I may show up. Good day, Captain." Casemiro mocked his brother by using the titular reference, aware his brother hated the formality.

Never one to allow his brother a victory, Quinto replied in the same spirit. "Consider buying a new belt in the village because that strap cannot keep your gown closed. The locals do not want a glimpse of a wizard's skivvies."

"Don't mock my cloak. Besides I wear undergarments. I am not a heathen." Casemiro cinched the frayed belt once again, refusing to acknowledge Quinto's correct observation. Embarrassment covered the man's face, knowing the underlying brown pants and a white short-sleeved shirt presented an unglamorous outfit for meeting a new employer, regardless of how remote the village.

The sailors found relief from a wizard being aboard their vessel and delighting in his presence for their perceived good fortune. Sailor's superstitions suggested spellcasters provided luck and a safe voyage. Casemiro entertained their fearful natures for a cheaper fare and free food, even if he knew their deference was foolish.

"Let's find out what fate awaits me here." Casemiro cinched up his gray woolen cloak once more and pulled the hood over his eyes to avoid any unwanted stares, even if it meant limiting his vision to what appeared in front of him.

Casemiro exited the ship via the gangway as a glimmer of the morning sun bounced off the rippling water below the wooden plank. He gripped his trusty gnarled wooden staff with an iron tip, and his free hand brushed some stray sawdust from the cloak. The casual rub caught the hidden pommel of the saber strapped to Casemiro's side beneath the garb in the event of a scuffle.

A rustle from a piece of paper grabbed Casemiro's attention, and he pulled out the reason for the voyage to Lillenhold from his breast pocket. The pocket also contained a pair of knitting needles carved from narwhal bone, a small amount of yarn, and a half-full coin purse. But those random trinkets did not concern the wizard now.

The paper read, "Wizard wanted. Wise, powerful, and fearless. Inquire with Forrest at The Pub." A lone sigil denoted the official nature of the paper. Casemiro perused the paper for any of the typical loopholes, or fine print barristers used to entrap unwitting fools and separate them from any hard-earned money.

Casemiro pondered the words as he walked. Fearless and powerful described young sorcerers, warlocks, and wizards lacking experience, or those having never met real magic. Wise applied to the fortunate, or those accomplished enough at avoiding conflict to now sport gray hair. Wanted: a term unfamiliar to Casemiro unless it involved an unpaid bar tab. Wizard suggested a title Casemiro hoped to reclaim. Though the words may not apply today, perhaps in the future; once he recaptured his past glory, to borrow his brother's phrase.

Casemiro ventured onto the pier of the seaside village of Lillenhold, one of a dozen identical ports along this coast of Southern Gaeleos, the realm overseen by the good King Skaranon. The wizard focused his thoughts and fixated on his mission to find the person who posted the advertisement, the individual named Forrest.

Casemiro hid everything from view except his fingers gripping the gnarled wooden staff. The steady stanchion of the pier allowed him to escape three-day's worth of persistent nausea from the boat ride. After a cleansing breath to calm his nerves, Casemiro strode down the pier, his boots and staff providing a consistent rhythm across the weathered wooden planks.

The old man paid little attention to the usual activities and trappings of a seafaring town of this ilk. Men retracting nets and hooks piercing the skin of enormous sea creatures gained a fraction of his attention, but Casemiro catalogued everything.

Rotten fish and salty brine saturated every waft of air the wizard sucked in as he ambled along the pier. He choked back a cough from the foul stench and scanned the pier for any indication on how to reach his destination, the local establishment called The Pub.

A breeze picked up from the water and caused a loud ripple from pennants atop numerous poles in the area. Blue rectangles with yellow stripes in the form of flags waved atop every other pole and stretched from the pier into the village. The flags alternated with banners depicting the unfortunate village crest.

Is that a turkey bent over a stump with an axe suspended above the animal's exposed neck?

The wizard absorbed the view and noticed the pier rose into the village, which extended further up the hill to the noted fixture of Veritas Keep in the distance. Beyond the village, the highest summit of the southern portion of Gaeleos, Mount Siven, rose above the pine and cypress forests with a snow-packed peak.

The village relied on the snow melt for water each spring, no matter if it overflowed the nearby stream and swelled the Bay of Scars. Squinting towards the mountain for a better view, Casemiro believed he imagined a ruddy gray mass scuttling through the white of the snow. He pushed away the ominous thought that entered his mind, convinced of its improbability.

Casemiro continued walking, hoping his business concluded before any unfortunate incidents unfolded and required his saber, or a feeble attempt at magic. The wizard summarized his impressions of the village. "Looks exactly the same as twenty years ago." A sudden break in the clouds released a stray beam of sunlight and the wizard recited a silent affirmation. But Casemiro still lacked any sign of how to reach The Pub.

On his left flank, the wizard noted a whaling vessel and a young, dark-skinned boy carrying a small leaky barrel marked as whale oil. The child placed the container beneath a blazing torch, a light for the nighttime operations of the port. Aware of the potential disaster, the boy snuffed out the flame and turned, bumping into Casemiro.

"Sorry, I didn't notice you there, sir. No need for the torch right now."

The dark-skinned boy struck the wizard as unmemorable in every way, except one. A half-circle scar on his left cheek grabbed the wizard's attention. The boy's gray shirt, loose pants, and no shoes screamed of poverty, the norm for seaside villages such as Lillenhold.

A pang of guilt punched Casemiro, knowing what his departed wife might say. The man rolled his eyes and grabbed the boy's shoulder. "Hold up." Casemiro extended a piece of silver to the young boy. "Show me to The Pub and you receive this coin upon arrival."

"Fair enough. You must have a good reason to enter that cesspool. Follow me." The boy smiled and dashed ahead of the cloaked old man. The child stopped once and implored Casemiro to keep pace by waving his arms. Though impatient, the boy minded his speed to not lose his client.

Casemiro stalked the child but maintained an adequate distance behind. He created a prideful display to inform the onlookers they were in the company of a wizard. Such a display often resulted in opportunities for a free meal, and perhaps gold from menial work.

The ten-minute walk through the crowd and curious onlookers paid off. Casemiro reached the eager boy, who awaited his payment at his destination. A birch sign with "The Pub" scratched in scarlet paint hung from a rusted hook draped over a cross beam extending from the roof of the dilapidated shack. Upon inspection of the building, if one could call it such a thing, Casemiro surmised the four fieldstone walls stood by leaning against each other for the needed support as much as any solid construction.

Casemiro smiled at the boy and gave away the promised coin to the urchin. "Thank you for guiding me."

"It doesn't pay to lose the man offering the coin."

After paying the boy, Casemiro counted five silver pieces in his coin purse. He tucked the small satchel into his hidden breast pocket to keep it safe from sticky fingers. His hand rubbed the knitting needles, and a flash of memories raced through his mind. The wizard recalled the face of his dead wife, Chantal, and the cloying citrus scent of her favorite Bergamot tea. A second image of him emerging from the depths of the sea entered his mind. Casemiro cursed the unwanted images away from his thoughts.