Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

Okay, yer prolly wondering why I'm not doing Forty Fathoms below anymore. I can sum it up in three words: LACK OF INSPIRATION. Yeah, I'm just not in a piratey mood anymore. So, I'm returning to Middengarne! Here's the first chapter:

Chapter 1: The Whisperer

The moon was just rising, and it’s mournful face gazed down on Noran-Mir, the Tower of Hands. No face looked over the battlements, and there were no sentries at the gate, for this was the celebration of Minarasin Eve, when no one need fear danger. Even the wind seemed to blow gentler than usual for autumn Within the walls of the Tower, the people feasted and danced.

A tall, thin person stood just outside of the surrounding woods, staring at the Tower with hatred in his eyes. Then he turned and strode into the wood.

The path he took was one that many people would have avoided; it was believed to be a haunt for wraiths and ghosts. But for this man, whose name was Imira, this path led to something that would change everything forever.

He was met by two Dokkalim, each with a sword in one hand and a torch in the other. The Dokkalim resembled Humans, except they were taller and much more stronger. The Dokkalim stopped Imira.

"Simiror," they said in unison.

"Simira," Imira gave the countersign. The Dokkalim let him pass.

Imira walked into the camp, and went straight to a tent that was set up in the center close by a great fire. He lifted the heavy canvas flaps and entered. Inside there was only a table with a plate of half-eaten food on it, and a cot in the corner. On this cot lay Mornan, the Annwyn prince of Linaar.

"Stand up, filth!" shouted Imira.

Mornan obeyed, but slowly. He stood still and smiled. "Lovely evening for a walk, eh Imira? Did you enjoy the sight of the great Tower of Hands lit by the autumn moon?" He tucked a strand of stray hair behind his ear as he noted the slight look of surprise on Imira’s ugly face.

"So you’ve been following me again have you?" questioned Imira after a while. "You must remember something, Mornan. You are a prisoner in my hands. It is time you acted like one."

"I guess, then, that you should set more than one guard outside the tent." retorted Mornan.

Imira frowned, but then he smiled scornfully. "I have some news for you," he said. Mornan braced himself for what was sure to come. "Our troops," continued Imira, "Have taken all the ships in Linan Nor. The Tower of Faces will fall, just as the Tower of Hands will. But there is a quandary," Imira paused, and then continued.

"Your brother, Naramir, has escaped, along with a very valuable weapon. With this weapon, he might, just might, be able to resist us. But luckily, we have something to bargain with." he pointed at Mornan. "Something very dear to him."

Mornan let this all sink in. Then he said defiantly, "My brother will never give you the Sarilan."

"Ah," Imira raised his eyebrows, "You know the sword. Then you will also remember that Sarilan has a brother, forged on the same day, in the same forge. Surely you know it’s name."

Mornan nodded. "Rimastan, the Whisperer."

Imira smiled. "Yes, the Whisperer," he said, throwing his cloak back, and drawing a sword from his belt. It was long and thin, almost delicate looking, but Mornan knew that it could hack through the thickest armor.

Mornan gazed at the ancient blade that was still gleaming as if it was new. For a moment he thought of all the battles that Rimastan had fought: the Battle at Mass Rin, at Noran Rimana, and the Scourge of the Frontier.

He thought of all the kings of old that wielded it. There was Mornsinil, and his son Sinana. Even Dorr, brother of Saor, used it against the Dokkalim at Mass Rin. And now it was in the hands of the enemy.

All of a sudden, time stopped. Mornan’s senses dulled a little. He was no longer standing in the tent. He was on a wide plain. It was raining, and there was no sunlight anywhere. He noticed two people were fighting before him. He looked closer.

One of them he recognized as Imira, and the other was a boy, no older than seventeen, with auburn hair and the fair skin of the Huwyn people. His armor was that of the Saorlings, and his shield bore the markings of the family of Dain. He was wielding the sword Sarilan. The boy and Imira fought hard, each bringing the other within inches of death.

Imira and the boy stood apart for a moment to catch their breath. The boy said something to Imira, but Mornan could not understand what he said. Imira gave an angry shout and leapt at the boy. Sarilan and Rimastan met in a flash, and the blade of Rimastan was shattered.

Mornan came out of the vision smiling. Imira watched his face with uncertainty mixed with fear. He knew that when Mornan’s eyes were half closed he was seeing a vision, which the Annwyn people are renown for. "You will fall," Mornan said slowly, as if savoring each syllable, "Oh yes, you will surely fall. The strength of Sinainon Lor is on our side."

Imira struck Mornan across the face with the back of his hand. "Don’t you say that Name again," he snarled. He then turned on his heel and stomped out of the tent.

"Hisarasin!" he called. A great Dokkalim came out from a group around the campfire and grunted a salute. "Hisarasin," said Imira, "is all ready for the attack?"

"All is ready," said Hisarasin, "The troops are assembled just outside the woods, as you ordered."

"Then," said Imira, "Remember your allegiance to Rastoran, the Maker of Shadows, the great Snake of Shades. Order the advance."

"Yes, master," said the Dokkalim. He drew his great scimitar and blew a great blast on his horn that he carried at his side.

A shout went up among the Dokkalim troops. The siege on Noran- Mir, the Tower of Hands, had begun.