The Castle, Shaman

It was dark. And it was raining.

Thunder clapped, mocking the guards on the door with its snide applause. The sky lit up blue briefly towards the east, but the lightning was still far enough away for safety. The two guards stood in the open doorway at the main entrance to the royal castle, watching the rain in companionable silence. There was nothing else to watch. The darkness was an almost unnatural shade of black, swallowing everything a metre further than the top step.

That’s why, when the figure lurched out of the darkness, its appearance was so sudden and eerie that the two men reacted in a way which they would quietly edit in the stories they told later. One yelled involuntarily, startled by the long, ghostly face which materialised before them, while the other drew his sword. The apparition stumbled forward and fell, its knee hitting the top step with a hard thump and its face passing within an inch of the sword’s tip. Now they could see it down on all fours, with its outstretched fingers only centimetres from the guards’ boots, it was clear what it was: a man. Just a man, drenched and muddied from the storm. The second guard sheepishly stowed his sword back in its holster while the first one bent down to help the man onto his feet.

“Thank you,” the stranger gasped. Up close, he didn’t look much like a ghost after all. His hair was black or dark brown and plastered to his skin, which was a medium brown in tone. He looked like he’d seen better days. His long, oversized coat had rips and slashes along the arms and shoulders and he didn’t seem able to put his weight fully onto one foot. The two guards stood on either side of him and moved to support him into the building but he lent backwards, shaking his head. “My friend is still out there,” he grunted. His voice sounded like gravel and his accent was unfamiliar. “I need help for my friend.”

“You’re not in a fit state to help anyone,” the first guard told him firmly. Over his weak protests, they steered him inside and lowered him onto a bench just inside. Lightning flashed again outside, briefly illuminating half of the man’s face. He had a long, fresh scar running across his cheek, almost to the top point of his ear. “What’s your name?”

The stranger studied the two of them warily, his eyes flicking between them. He reminded the second guard of a hunted fox.

“I can’t tell you that,” he said after a moment. “And, fellas, I’m not about to leave my pal out there either. I need to see the king. Mordred, right?”

“Tristan,” the first guard corrected him. The man raised an eyebrow.

“Good for him,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the second guard watched him, frowning. “You can’t just walk in and see the king. We need to present your name and case to him.”

The stranger exhaled, his shoulders shuddering – although whether from the cold or from something else, it was unclear.

“Tell him…” the man wavered for a moment. “Tell him the American is here. Me and my southern neighbour need his help.”



One of the guards had helped ‘The American’ over to the hospital wing by the time the other had fetched Tristan and brought him over.

The king was dressed for dinner in a neatly tailored coat and held a red apple in his right hand. He threw it into the air and caught it again as he passed through the doorway and threw the guard a look. Following the man’s gaze to the furthest bed on the ward, the corner of Tristan’s mouth twitched. Thanking the guards, he dismissed them and approached Charlton, the apple still in his hand. The king perched on the edge of the bed and lounged back against the foot of the bed.

“The originals do seem to love their dramatic entrances,” he commented, green eyes searching Charlton’s face. And then, a little softer, “are you alright, Seba'iqer?”

Charlton’s face shifted into a grave smile, twisting the scar on his cheek grotesquely. Tristan had only met Charlton on a few occasions, when he’d sat in on meetings with the whole of the Council of Originals, and Charlton had never made much of an impression. Like most of the other deities, he was handsome in his own way, but his way seemed to be much more… natural. He could certainly have walked through a Shaman market without attracting too much attention, and he lacked the gravitas and aura of power which some of the other deities possessed.

That aside – there was something there, when you looked closer. Charlton might have worn the face of a man in his thirties, but his eyes were much older. They had that sad glint of immortality, as though they belonged to a man who had lived too long and seen too much.

“Zed’s out there.” He said, cutting to the chase. Whenever Charlton had spoken before in meetings, it had always been in an eminently reasonable and polite manner; Tris had never heard him talk so bluntly before. “Couple miles west, in the forest. Follow the river along. He’s out cold and I couldn’t move him on my own.” His face contorted, losing its flicker of warmth. “Tristan – if the wrong people know we’re here – if he finds out – ”

“I don’t expect he’ll be too far behind you,” Tristan agreed, his mouth forming a thin line. “And therein it gets more complicated.” He chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, his gaze drifting towards the window. “I can’t organise a search for Zed,” he said at last, holding Charlton’s eye meaningfully, “but he will be found. And you’ll be moved somewhere more secure.”

Charlton sighed, some of the tension visibly leaving his shoulders. He sat back against the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed.

“Seba'iqer,” Tristan pressed, recalling Charlton’s attention, “If we’re going to do this, I’m going to need you to tell me everything.”

The American deity’s forehead creased perceptibly. “Gwythr’s taken control of Earth. He’s hunting the rest of us down.” He took his hand away from his face and studied the young king, his hazel eyes flicking over Tristan’s body. “Lord Almighty,” he muttered, apparently half to himself, “You’re just like your grandpa.”

“Not if you see me in the sunshine,” Tristan replied with a more characteristic smile and a shrug of his shoulders, “but I know all that. Tell me what happened to you and Zed to bring you here.” He tipped his head, his expression growing darker. “We really don’t have time to play the usual games, Seba'iqer.”

“You - know?” Charlton muttered a little wildly, running his hand through his hair. Streaks of dried blood were visible underneath when he pulled the top layer back. “About Lorraine too?”

The name alone was enough to harden the king’s expression, just for a moment. He shook his head. “We’ve had no word,” he said, “and I honestly wouldn’t have asked.”

Charlton inhaled, his breath shuddering somewhat. He gritted his teeth together and glared at a pot plant on the bedside table. The change in expression had an astonishing effect on his face. Between that and the scar, he looked like a completely different person.

“Okay.” He released the breath, resigned. “It started with Lorraine…”



To be continued.