Ice on the Turret Chapter 1
Fear was an emotion Sir Erwyn hardly understood, and yet as he faced the castle in front of him, black as obsidian, he caught a glimpse of what true fear may feel like.
He reached for his sword, clutching onto its gold handle carved with the head of his family dragon.
Guards would be plenty. He was outnumbered, but had lurked in the woods surrounding the castle outpost for two nights to study his best point of entry.
These mindless henchmen were large, but Erwyn was bright, and had found a small gap in the stone that he could make his approach through.
His footsteps cracked on the frozen brush as he walked down the slope leading up to the kingdom.
That was the last Sir Erwyn could remember, until he’d woken up, battered and cold.
The scrapes and bruises of youth would be welcomed in comparison to the deep gashes that were hardly scabbed over and the hairline fracture on the bone of his calf. An injury that would not be seen, but would be felt for months and years to come.
Shuffling as far as his iron chains would allow, Erwyn ran his fingers along the rivets of the door that kept him within.
Each day he begged one would become loose, and they never were.
He’d make an off remark to himself regarding the excellent craftsmanship of the blacksmiths of a place so terrible as Edgemore, a joke that only he would hear and only he would chuckle at.
Patterns became recognizable. Each morning, several hours after the sun rose, a turret of black smoke would rise from the onyx tower across from the narrow window in his cell.
If he stood on his tip toes he could barely see through the sliver in the stone.
The black smoke had been why he found himself in Edgemore in the first place.
The Duke of Rospice, Groslic, was a suspicious gentleman, something Erwyn knew acutely well from years in his service.
Groslic had a deeply held belief that the people of Edgemore, or more specifically, their leader, King Bespem, was hoarding a lost breed of dragons.
As they’d been domesticated over centuries, wild dragons, creatures that still could wield true flame, with claws sharper than swords, had grown far more rare.
Certain breeds, such as the Whistlen, were believed to exist only in single digits across the continent.
Groslic had felt as though some of them were being contained in a large turret, the very one that Erwyn had watched billow smoke each morning.
What was strange, at least Erwyn believed was strange, was that there was thick ice coated on the roof and upper portion of this turret.
If dragons were being held captive there, the heat from their flames alone would surely melt any ice.
Stranger still, was that there was little ice to be seen elsewhere on the extensive outposts of buildings that made up the castle grounds.
Erwyn was not a man of science, but even in his limited knowledge of dragons he’d never once heard of ones that didn’t produce any flame. Even the weakened domesticated ones that were bred for flight and not fire even still sparked small puffs of white smoke and balls of flame.
As he questioned such possibilities, he’d found himself visited by the second ghost. His General, Sturnigus, who Erwyn believed must have died in battle in the time he’d spent traveling to Edgemore.
He knew little of the spiritual world, but he had previously believed that one must be dead to appear as a ghost. It was a question he’d ask the Vicar of Rospice upon his return, if he would return that is.
Sturnigus would stand, stately as always, beside the door.
Erwyn found humor in this ghost deciding to protect him, but knew his dear mentor’s nature was always to treat Erwyn as his own kin.
Rather than his stately chainmail and tunic embossed with the crest of Rospice, Sturnigus’ ghost wore a linen shirt and loose pants, something more befitting of an evening drinking around a table with friends.
Erwyn wondered if one could select their clothes in the afterlife, or if they were bound to the wares they died in for eternity.
If Sturnigus had died in battle, one would assume that he’d be wearing the uniform of a man leading a militia.
The first day the specter had materialized, Erwyn called out to it.
“Gus, my brother!” He’d briefly believed that Sturnigus had in fact come into the cell.
The spirit didn’t call back to him. In fact, it didn’t seem to acknowledge that Erwyn was there at all. It remained at attention, beside the door, almost waiting for something else to enter.
It was the third, and final ghost, that Erwyn dreaded seeing the most. This ghost appeared to him as he was drifting towards slumber, its appearance would jolt him awake, only for him to nervously glance around a now empty cell.
Unlike his mother’s ghost, it didn’t bring about a warm comfort, and unlike Sturnigus, it didn’t inspire him to push through another day and search for an escape.
This spirit brought about complete and utter terror, a primitive fear that ran icy pinpricks along his spine.
This ghost was of Erwyn himself.
Though, notably, unlike Erwyn in his present state, the spirit’s head was dangling from its neck, held on by shreds of crimson flesh. The lifeless eyes occasionally blinked, the gray lips slowly opened and attempted to speak, or scream, Erwyn was unsure.
Erwyn knew he was not dead, if he was dead then the throbbing pain in his leg was imaginary, and the wounds that split open to reveal hot, red blood were a mirage.
Most importantly, if he was dead, in the same way that his ghost appeared to be, his head would not still be solidly attached to his neck.
He was sure of this fact, one typically knows whether or not their head is attached, but still, he checked each evening, just in case.