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Prologue: Ever North

  PROLOGUE — EVER NORTH

  1.

  The savage mysteries of the barbarian north howled to Pytheas. It’s wild song danced upon the salt-laden winds that whipped across the rocky shore of Pretannia. The Tin Isles, the wild folk called it. Pytheas gripped the prow of his ship, feeling the Atlantic’s chill bite into his weathered face, the mist sharp and briny as it sprayed over the rocky shoreline.

  He was a curious son of Massalia, where sun-baked streets and fragrant gardens swayed under the knowing gaze of dearest Artemis. Massalia was a world of learning, a place for philosophers and seekers—not like this wild, windswept frontier where the known world thinned into mist. And yet, there was a persistent flicker of curiosity in his chest, however reluctant. These so-called barbaroi, the wild men of the north, held a strange fascination for him. They were crude, uncivilized, yes—noble savages, he mused. But they had something, something the city dwellers back home could never offer: an untamed spirit. And perhaps, within that savagery, lay some lost wisdom. Not that they’ll ever know what to do with it, he smiled to himself. Ah, how much farther there was to go, he groaned as he scanned the shifting coastline, his mind already reaching past it, straining beyond Pretannia’s cliffs toward mysteries yet uncharted. This brief stop was just a taste, a prelude to something larger—an adventure leading him beyond what any map could promise, beyond even the reach of rumor.

  The Lesser Frisi had been a disappointment, little more than mute bumpkins who deferred everything of importance to their elusive Greater kin. Pytheas grunted as he remembered their aloofness. It was as if they lived in the shadow of some greater force the rest of the more civilized world was somehow unaware of. Unwilling or perhaps too frightened to answer his inquiries. Bah, to think I wasted weeks with them, hoping for some progress.

  "Land ahead!" a crewman shouted, breaking him from his thoughts. Pytheas nodded, his fingers tapping the railing of the ship. Finally.

  Once ashore, the fleet anchored in the rocky bay, and Pytheas was met with the dreadful sight of Lugomar Crixus, the Veneti chieftain, standing on the shore like a sentinel. Bare chested, of course, wearing brightly colored trousers, and a head adornment that couldn’t decide if it was a crown or a battle helmet. He stood a full head taller than Pytheas, with ornamented braids of auburn flowing down his broad shoulders, Lugomar stood with his hands clasped behind his back, surveying the newcomers with a cold, calculating green-eyed gaze. His wiry frame hinted at endurance and strength—like a man accustomed to navigating treacherous waters, both literal and figurative.

  “Welcome, Pytheas to Pretannia. I present to you Lugomar Crixus Rix Venetion.” Lugomar greeted him in rough Gaulish, with a nod of approval. His thick handle-bar mustache vibrating as the words punched from his lips. Though the words came through the mouth of Senodagos, the elderly druid at his side who served them as interpreter. Senodagos’ voice was shaky, like ill-fitting old deck boards, and Pytheas immediately grew irritated at how poorly he spoke Greek. He could tell immediately that Rix Lugomar felt similarly about communicating through a third party. Especially one of such advanced age. What a chore this will be. Pytheas thought. But, this is what paid for the considerable expenses of his ambitious expedition. A necessary evil for science and learning. Or, more accurately, his fame among the scholars of the Mediterranean.

  Still, Lugomar had proven a more formidable mind than Pytheas had expected. Not just a simple brutish thug, this chieftain. Behind those dark green eyes lay ambition—a hunger for power that Pytheas could respect, even if it came from such a ghastly creature.

  “You’ve come a long way, Greek,” Lugomar said, his eyes gleaming, the druid fumbling for the correct translation. “But, I am sure your efforts will be richly rewarded”

  “What?” Senodago’s eyes squinted up at his chieftain. But, before Lugomar could repeat himself, the old druid addressed Pytheas with the translation. This exchange amused Pytheas greatly. However, he did his best to hide his grin as to not appear mocking.

  The men made their formal greetings, and after a hot meal of roasted lamb and barley stew, they were off to tour the famous Veneti mines.

  Lugomar showed his Massalian guest the modern wooden troughs for sluicing. Not the simple stream panning that Pytheas had expected. He then took him to the mines themselves where his slaves skillfully syphoned veins of ore from the hard granite. The miners would light fires against rock faces to crack and weaken them. After the rock was heated, they would douse it with cold water, causing it to fracture, making it easier to break apart with tools. They would then use tools like iron picks and hammers to free the ore from the earth.

  All the while, Lugomar would talk about how the power of the Veneti is crucial to the success of the new trade alliance between the Southern Sea, and the North. Pytheas wore his business face and nodded along, smiling pleasantly when appropriate. Lugomar’s voice would rise and the words flew faster as he boasted that the bickering tribes of the Gauls will have no choice but to unify under his royal governance, “Once your merchant masters in Massalia make this trade alliance final.” He would confidently state. Pytheas hoped it was the language barrier that made the Rix sound so condescending, but he doubted it. Pytheas also silently noted how Senodagos seemed a bit worried about Lugomar’s ambitious claims. Talking about becoming High-King of all the Gauls causing friction? The merchant guilds of Massalia might need to know about that. However, he is smart enough to not outwardly contradict his liege. Something to keep an eye on in the future though.

  They walked through the village that sprawled around the mines. Pytheas marveled at the tin mines themselves, though his awe was tempered by what he saw in the village: slaves. Hundreds of them, maybe more. This was surprising, considering the chastising that he had received a week earlier on the mainland, by the so-called Lesser Frisi. They had all but chased him out of their village, calling him a “slave merchant of the Southern Sea”, even though he had never even brought up the proposition of dealing in slaves.

  But, the slaves here on Pretannia were not what he expected. They looked surprisingly healthy for captives, some even smiling as they toiled away.

  Lugomar caught his glance. "They work better when they’re treated well." Senodagos barely had time to translate before Lugomar added, almost dismissively, "We receive them from the north often. The Theod sends them down here, banished for various reasons."

  Pytheas blinked at that, wondering what crimes earned them such a fate. The Theod,…so strange, he thought with a groan. Even the Druids were cautious of that region of wild, untamable people. Pytheas had learned from his limited exposure to the Lesser Frisi that they were stubborn, and wary of outsiders. Unfortunately, much of the success of this new trade alliance hinges on their participation. Even more unfortunately, it was the official mission of his voyage (handed down by his merchant financiers) to coax them into this trade agreement. The South wanted their tin, and amber. Lugomar was a snap, so eager. He didn’t need any convincing at all. Those Theodish folk, on the other hand, are going to be a tough nut to crack.

  "And what of their Folk-Mother?" Pytheas asked, curiosity piqued. "I hear she's as ruthless as any warlord."

  Lugomar's lips twitched. "You won’t meet her. That old goat keeps to her own counsel." His eyes briefly flashing at Senodagos, as to also imply him as an old goat who keeps his own counsel.

  As they passed by a run-down shack on the edge of the village, Pytheas noticed two old women seated outside. Their twisted bodies and faces were strange like the fur cloak the wrapped themselves in, made from some unrecognizable creature, and their eyes clouded, as if blind. Yet, they turned their heads sharply in his direction as he walked by, their milky eyes locking onto his.

  "Greek!" one of them croaked flawlessly in his own native tongue, shocking him. “A fortune for the handsome sailor?” the other one gargled, also in perfect Greek.

  Pytheas felt himself drawn in. Greek? Here, at the ends of the Earth?

  Lugomar stiffened, ready to move forward and shoo them away, but Pytheas raised a hand.

  "Let them speak," Pytheas said, intrigued. “Please.”

  “We can see the future much better than your southern oracles, handsome sailor,” whispered the first old woman.

  “Those girls need pharmakeia to see” the next old crone continued. “We are pharmakeia” The other one concluded.

  “You claim superiority to the Oracle of Delphi, herself?” Pytheas was shocked at such a bold claim, which urged his curiosity even further. This, I have got to see!

  "Leave them be," Lugomar growled, "Prisoners from the Theod. These creatures do not deserve your attention”.

  Prisoners? “What sort of crimes could these elderly women possibly have committed that would be so terrible?” Pytheas pleaded.

  “Liars and swindlers, Greek.” Lugomar grunted. But, he could see that Pytheas was going to be insistent. “Oh, well. Get your fortune told. Just do not give these thieves your money. The Theod disowned them for a reason.”

  Pytheas waved off his concerns, curiosity overtaking him. "Who are you?" he asked.

  "We are Fenja and Menja," the second woman rasped, their voices eerily in sync. "Daughters of the wolves of the fenn." They spoke as one, their sentences entwined as though sharing a single mind. "We’ve been waiting for you."

  How curious. Pytheas arched an eyebrow. "And what is it you want from me?"

  Fenja chuckled, a hollow sound. "Not what we want... what you want. You wish to see what lies beyond, in the North." She leaned closer, her breath like fungus growing on a rotten log. "We can show you the way…”

  “Ultima Thule” Menja finished her sister’s sentence with a whisper that drew Pytheas desperately in.

  At the mention of Ultima Thule, Pytheas’ heart raced. "Go on," he urged.

  Menja produced a piece of sheep’s hide from within her greasy black fur cloak. A map. She rolled it out on the moist ground before him. The markings, strange yet familiar, pointed to a place far beyond anything he had ever seen before.

  "Sail north," Fenja whispered, her voice thick with promise. "Always north”. “Ever north, and you will find your treasure." Menja continued, she let her lips curl into a grin. "But do not relent. Only the worthy reach this distant land full of riches and fame."

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  When the strange, twisted sisters saw in Pytheas’ eyes that he was hooked, they told him to take the map. “It belongs to you.” Fenja said. “It has been waiting here for you this whole time.” Menja continued in an urging tone.

  Pytheas rolled it up and stuffed it into his satchel, careful not to let Lugomar or his druid see. As Pytheas thanked them, and got up to walk away, the old crones grabbed his wrist and stopped him.

  From their cloak, they produced a sickle. It was clearly old, but exquisite. A wooden handle, with a blade inlayed with gold. On it was writing in a style that Pytheas had never seen before. Certainly not Greek.

  “You will need this.”

  “Take it. This belongs to you”

  “Only to you. Use it in your journey north”

  “Ever north”

  “Always north”

  Fenja and Menja spoke in hushed, conspiratorial tones. As always, speaking as one, back and forth. With that, Pytheas slid the sickle into his satchel without his companions noticing. He thanked the twisted old women for the fortune told, and placed two coins on the ground in front of them.

  Lugomar patted him on the back as they left the village, jestingly asking “Those old thieves fill your head up with goat shit, Greek?”

  After Senodagos translated for him, Pytheas laughed along with him “You were right, my Veneti friend. Swindlers and thieves. Nothing more.”

  But, there was something about what Fenja and Menja had said that Pytheas couldn’t resist, something gnawed at him, pulling him into restless contemplation,…ever north. He couldn’t sleep until he set sail away from Pretannia. Ultima Thule... what wonders await me there? The allure of fame, of immortality in the annals of history, was too great to ignore.

  2.

  As his three ship fleet left Pretannia behind, a nagging voice in his mind whispered, urging him, beckoning him. North,…always north. He stroked the golden surface of the sickle in his satchel. He and his crew were supposed to skirt the coast of Pretannia, and head east toward the northern coast of inner Theodish lands. But, much to the dismay of his crew, he set a new course. Setting sail toward the farthest reaches of the north, and destiny.

  Days turned into weeks as Pytheas’ fleet sailed ever farther, leaving the familiar shores of the known world behind. The further they ventured, the more the crew grew restless. Whispers of mutiny circulated. Particularly the Phoinikes, sailors on loan from Carthage, seasoned as they were, questioned his orders. Yet, Pytheas was unrelenting. Voices—at first, only whispers—called to him from the cold expanse, chanting, urging him forward. North... ever north...always north. Before long, he could hear little else.

  The seas grew hostile, freezing winds and icy waters battering their ships. Icebergs floated like ghostly islands, towering and treacherous. The crew huddled for warmth, their breath thick visible smoke in the air. Pytheas, however, felt none of it. His mind grew consumed by the chanting voices beating upon his frayed sanity. They were louder now, more commanding.

  One night, had it been weeks? Months? The sky was illuminated by strange, shimmering lights—greens, reds, and yellows dancing across the heavens like spectral fire. The crew stopped speaking altogether, not even their usual grumble. The silence was unnerving. Even the sea stopped moving, and they pulled along with windless sails,…ever north. Pytheas stood at the bow, staring into the void, mesmerized by the ethereal lights of the north,…always north. He felt the line between reality and something far more divine blur. Surely, no mortal has ever seen this. It was a sight meant only for gods. The lights bridged the sky, and the sea. A wall of shimmering holiness. As the ship passed though the twinkling expanse of every conceivable color and hue, they were consumed. Swallowed by the lights, as if passing through some gateway to another inhuman realm. Pytheas’ voice was barely a whisper as he and his crew marveled at the spectacle from the ship’s deck.

  "Apollo, bringer of light,

  Guide my way through northern night.

  Artemis, with your keen eye,

  Protect me where wild winds fly.

  Leto, mother of radiant birth,

  Bless this journey through your sacred earth."

  There is no god here but HIM,…the ever-present voices hissed, and the pain of sharp needles stabbed behind Pytheas’ eyes. His knees buckled underneath him as he stumbled to the deck floor. “Who said that?” he demanded. But, he was only met with confused, dumb faces.

  After that, the frigid climate and the ice that had been their constant companions along their journey disappeared. The weather was temperate, warm even. And deathly still. So very still. His thoughts turned dark as time lost all its meaning. It occurred to him suddenly that he and his crew had not eaten nor drank anything in,…weeks? Months? Longer? Yet hunger nor thirst had taken hold of them. None of it mattered. Only the voices mattered. Had they been at sea for years? His mind like unspooled thread, yet firmly tethered only to the chanting voices urging him north. Always north…ever north.

  Then, they saw it. An island, emerging from the mist. Ultima Thule!

  3.

  Pytheas stood, transfixed as the vapour-shrouded island loomed ahead. Its jagged cliffs rose from the sea like the bones of some ancient leviathan, twisted and gnarled by time. The sight stirred something deep within him—fear, awe, and a strange sense of purpose. At long last. he thought, though there was no joy in the realization. Now, only a gnawing dread. But, his dread was a mere whisper compared to the screaming voices within his own skull, commanding him forward. Louder, and more aggressive now than it had been on the ocean.

  “Land ahead!” came the cry, but it was half-hearted, as though the crew shared his unease. The mist seemed alive, crawling over the surface of the water, tendrils reaching out to claim them. Pytheas gripped the rail, his knuckles white. His heart sinking with the anticipation of what they might find on land. But, utterly powerless to turn away.

  Beside him, Hanno the Phoinike stood silent, his usual air of professional confidence stilled by the island's ominous presence. The rest of the crew, hardened men from Gaul and Carthage alike, glanced nervously at the black sands of the shore, and the volcanic specter that was the rest of the island. Their usual grumbling replaced by uneasy silence.

  Pytheas, feeling the cold grip of fear creeping into his heart, couldn’t help but glance toward the south again, where the sky still shimmered with those otherworldly lights. He considered for a moment to make a run back to safety. To return back from where they came. Return to the warm Mediterranean, where things made sense. No! Onward! the voices would not be disobeyed.

  The boats hit the shore with a soft crunch of black volcanic pebbles, and the crew, though reluctant, disembarked. The wet air thickened around them, clinging to their skin like a damp shroud. Pytheas could barely see more than a few feet in front of him as they made their way inland, the island’s rocky landscape pressing in on them from all sides.

  “This place… it feels wrong,” one of the Phoinikes muttered, his voice shaky. Pytheas did not disagree, but he was determined not to let the men see his own growing anxiety. There is no turning back now, and the voices would not allow it.

  Hanno’s hand rested on his dagger as they marched forward, his usual calm replaced by nervous determination. “This place is cursed,” he said quietly to Pytheas. “We should leave.”

  But Pytheas shook his head, his resolve hardening. “We came for the unknown, and here it is.” His voice sounded hollow even to his own ears.

  The path led them to the center of the island, where a decrepit volcano hung oppressively over them, its hollow peak dripped with swirling mist. Pytheas’ heart pounded in his chest. The rhythmic voices in his mind screamed now, insistent, urging him toward the mountain's shadow.

  At its base, hidden within a narrow crevice, they found the entrance to a cave. The opening was little more than a jagged hole in the rock, but the air that spilled out was unnaturally warm, tinged with the faint scent of rotted flesh, and sulfur. Pytheas swallowed hard, pushing down the rising bile in his throat. “This is it,” he whispered.

  Inside the cave, the air was stifling. The walls, slick with acrid moisture, seemed to close in around them as they ventured deeper. The crew’s torches flickered, casting long, distorted shadows that danced along the stone. The voices in Pytheas’ mind had grown quieter now, a low hum at the edges of his consciousness, guiding his steps.

  They rounded a corner, and there, in the deepest recess of the cave, among stalagmites and stalactites that dripped and gleamed with toxic malice, they found him. The constant chatter of insistent voices that had consumed Pytheas’ mind for what seemed like an eternity suddenly fell silent, as if they were never there to begin with.

  At first, Pytheas wasn’t sure if it was a man at all. The figure was skeletal, gaunt to the point of grotesque, his skin stretched like parchment over jutting bones. He stood chained to a massive stalagmite, his limbs twisted at unnatural angles, his head slumped, hanging low. His black hair was thin and stringy, hanging in greasy tendrils over his sunken face. The revenant of a man slowly rolled his head to look up, and Pytheas’s breath caught—those eyes. They glowed in the dim light, a fiery red, like embers smoldering in the depths of a dying fire. His, no it’s mouth was sewn shut with thick, crude thread, the skin around it ragged and torn where the bindings dug tightly into his lips.

  “Gods…” Hanno whispered, taking a step back, nearly dropping his torch.

  The figure stirred, a dry rasp escaping his throat as he raised his head. His movements were slow, deliberate, as though he hadn’t moved in centuries. When his eyes fixed on Pytheas, they burned brighter.

  What have I done, bringing us here? Pytheas thought, frozen in place as the figure’s gaze seemed to pierce straight into him. He wanted to turn and run. They all did. But, found themselves helplessly paralyzed, feet stuck to the cave floor.

  A blank numbness washed over Pytheas’ body as he realized he was moving against his own will, as if he were some marionette on a string, and the ghoul chained to the rock was the puppet master. His hand, like some foreign entity moved to his satchel, fingers grasping the hilt of the sickle that those old fortune tellers had given him. He could only watch with terror. He was merely a spectator of his own body’s actions.

  “No,” Pytheas whispered aloud, his voice trembling. But his body did not obey. His arm moved, guided by him, pulling the sickle free. The golden blade gleamed in the torchlight, catching the mad eyes of the chained creature, who smiled—a twisted, crisscrossed sewn up grin. His thin, rotted flesh pulled and contorted his already gruesome face.

  Pytheas’ heart raced as he unwillingly stepped forward, the sickle raised in his hand. The ghoul did not flinch as Pytheas brought the blade down, slicing through the threads binding his mouth. The cords parted with a snap, and his awful grin stretched wide, exposing rows of jagged yellow teeth. The sound that followed was both a low rumble and a hiss at the same time. Pytheas wept as his body again moved against his will, sliding the sickle down to the chains that bound the foul creature. Snap! The metal clanged to the ground, the sound echoing in the cave like a death knell.

  The unholy figure slumped forward, his body crumpling to the floor. For a moment, all was still.

  Then, with a sudden, unnatural speed, the creature lunged. Poor Hanno, the brave Phoinike, never stood a chance. He was paralyzed by the same unnatural force that manipulated Pytheas’ movements. Boney hands wrapped around Hanno’s throat, and before anyone could react, the gaunt figure sank his teeth into the man’s neck. The sickening squish of erupting blood vessels and tearing flesh filled the cave as Hanno screamed—a scream that was cut short as his lifeblood was drained in an instant. A brief splash of arterial blood hit the moist rock. But, the emaciated ghoul didn’t let another drop go to waist. He gorged himself on the Phoinike’s blood, and with a thud, let his lifeless body flop to the ground. “Kannanaz…” he gargled, his voice inhuman, a guttural snarl that echoed off the cave walls. Each syllable laced with hatred and hunger.

  “Run!” someone whispered, barely louder than a breath, although he attempted to scream with all his might. But no one moved. There would be no escape. They remained helpless and paralyzed, and at the creature’s mercy, of which they were certain there would be none.

  The figure straightened, his once withered form now visibly stronger, his skin flush with the color of stolen life. He stepped over Hanno’s lifeless body like a newborn foal, as if unused to walking on his own two legs. He turned toward the others. His eyes glowed brighter, burning like two hot coals in the darkness.

  Pytheas’ mind raced, panic rising in his throat. What have I done? What have I unleashed upon the world? He wanted to scream. But, instead, he wet himself. The figure's eyes locked onto him, a cruel smile of jagged teeth twisting his blood-soaked lips.

  Gods forgive me.

  But the gods, it seemed, had long since abandoned him.

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