The concourses were packed with bodies—at least several hundred deep, filling the whole area and beyond.

  Along every roadway, sidewalk, and alley, the Blanched Knights stood at attention.

  Waiting. For something.

  There were, of course, sycophants everywhere among them. Other personal retainers. Slaves. Residents alike.

  The demented and the damned.

  Their mewling and hysterical wails echoed between the buildings and across rooftops.

  A symphony of sorrows. An ode to a tainted god.

  When daylight hit the unusual contours and myopic spires of the Shimmering City, it made the whole settlement radiate and sparkle like a star come to ground.

  A result of the peculiar properties this place possessed.

  All attention was firmly focused on the First Temple of the Weeping Wyrm.

  It was the holiest building in their city. The center from which all activity here sprang.

  Priests’ quarters. Cathedrals for baptismal worship. Sleeping spaces—more often squalid flop houses.

  Conversion pagodas where people were brought to prepare them before introduction to their God’s tainted tears.

  When the Priests emerged, a hush came over the throngs.

  As if breath had been stolen from them.

  What had been a cacophony of misery became a solemn moment of historical importance.

  Those sycophants who could not silence themselves were silenced by the Knights in attendance.

  Most permanently.

  A lesson cascaded outwards among the others.

  Sensing potential death, they bit their tongues if necessary.

  Kept from further sounds.

  For all their unusual characteristics, the Blanched shared roots among humanity.

  Mankind seemed most drawn into the miasmic web of the Weeper’s tears.

  There were few if any Fay amongst them.

  Nor any other creature identifiable.

  For once transformed, they were twisted to a point where whomever they may have been in the past was no longer recognizable.

  As far as any knew, they were exclusively derived from human beings.

  Or so it had become presumed over the centuries.

  No one knew the reasons for this or if it was true.

  But some speculated that there was a particular quality to the depths men could sink to.

  That resonated with the Wyrm.

  Resulting in conditions that expedited the genesis of the Blanched.

  All heads turned to the entrance of the First Temple.

  Brother Keigael, the Arch Minister of Sufferance, appeared.

  Flanked on either side by Brother Dynoinstein, the Chief Astronomagus of the Twelve Empyrean Observatories, and Brother Balcarmos, the High Adjudicator of Excruciations.

  Shuffling forth blindly without their sycophantic attendants to guide them.

  It was an unprecedented sight among the pious.

  A murmur rippled throughout the throngs of onlookers.

  Their surprise palpable.

  That outpouring of unnerving consternation came not from the trio presented.

  Nor from the absence of their usual servants.

  It arose instead from the resplendent figure walking behind them.

  Near angelic in his countenance, Athur Tarmour projected a singularly remarkable aura.

  His presence mysteriously terrifying in equal measure to the beauty possessed within the inexplicable perfection of his facial structure.

  He could barely understand the transformation he had endured, as he floated across the smooth stone slab floor to hover stationary between the three.

  All of whom now dropped to their knees. Prostrating themselves in his presence. Tear stains soaking their hoods, behind where their eyeless eyes would be. The ducts still functional despite the organs’ absence (or removal).

  Keigael, Dynoinstein, and Balcarmos had all been properly inculcated with the new paradigm the hierarchy of the Blanched was being shaped into.

  Delivered to them no less than by the Weeping Wyrm itself, who through their dreaming minds, shared its vision of this world’s pitiful future. And their place within that tapestry.

  Theirs was a dismal existence, as their chosen deity viewed all things as wretched, most unworthy of living in the outlook of the depthless madness driving it.

  And so too did those who served it share in its beliefs.

  The Wyrm loathed all things. Including (and especially) itself. But it was timeless. Undying.

  None had been able to put it out of its sad insatiable misery.

  It had existed here for millennia. Wallowing in its own self-pity. Bereft of all hope.

  That was how it came to see the world around it. Hopeless.

  From the hole it had dug itself into—where it lay awaiting a final ending that never came—the Wyrm projected its own despair outwards.

  When it was discovered by the first men who came to explore the island it rested on, they were corrupted and transformed by the unnatural influence of the foul creature within hours.

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  Its sorrowful aura had a metaphysical effect upon their minds, bodies, and hearts.

  They threw themselves into its tears after madness gripped them.

  As shared in the recital of their unholy psalms, that was the first baptism of the Blanched.

  They became the precursors to the pitiful beings of the present. Mirrors of their abhorrent master.

  They laid the foundations for the First Temple. Recruited other converts into their cause.

  Those who didn’t qualify became food for their God. Consumed even while it slept.

  Shoveled into its maw by devout sycophants it found itself inexplicably surrounded with.

  Those events unfolded long before the man who would become Sir Tarmour had found the Shimmering City.

  Or rather was dragged into it against his will by a group of Knights scavenging the countryside.

  Collecting their levy for the awful being they worshipped.

  That happened to him five hundred years past.

  Though the mind of the Blanched—once transformed by the tears of the Wyrm—did not work as they once did.

  Their sense of time became lost. Along with so much else that made them human.

  He had been, and a part of him still was, Athur Tarmour.

  A pitiful man (and fool) who had suffered excruciatingly when he lived a mortal life.

  And all because of his own craven heart.

  Now he had become the Anointed One of the Weeping Wyrm, whose cries thundered out of the First Temple behind him, heralding his ascension to the devout masses assembled. Bringing them to their knees. Prostrated themselves before their new Blanched King.

  Tied to their God through its tears and supernatural conversion, there was only uniform subordination for them.

  While they did have thoughts of their own, they were in the end mere reflections of that malignant being’s desires.

  They knew without speaking what their beloved Wyrm wanted. And so now looked upon the Anointed One with fealty nearly equal in measure to the divine power itself. For he was now to become its avatar on Earth. Tasked with spreading its lamentations across the globe.

  All would face the Baptism and become newly devoted—or feed the Weeper, failing that.

  Tarmour’s mind reached forth across those gathered, delivering divine directives from the Wyrm itself. Shaping the order for the Crusade that was about to be unleashed.

  A first envoy would be sent south beyond the Valence. Led by the Chief Astronomagus. It was he who was tasked to make a treaty with the Children of the Moon on distant Thuodrime.

  A second envoy would be sent east to the remote Pearl islands. There, the High Adjudicator and a delegation, were to make an alliance with the Sunken Marms by petitioning the malevolent creature known as Ossuran, the Spined Sovereign of the Sunken Sea.

  But the greatest duty went to the Arch Minister of Sufferance. It was he who was tasked to bring forth the Umbral Glooms, using arcane rites only one instructed by the Father of Night could possibly perform.

  The Weeper had bestowed this knowledge upon him once his personal ambitions had crumbled. In that moment, he had become the first to acknowledge the Anointed One’s true station in the hierarchy. Placing him above the other holy men and making Keigael his right hand. For he knew then his own place in the scheme of things.

  Sacrifices would be required to bring forth the great harbingers. Many sycophants offered themselves willingly (and many unwillingly).

  Where there was not enough, the Knights ruthlessly dragged forth what was needed. Many kicking and screaming before their doom.

  Arising above the Shimmering City, coming from out of the glittering mirage of its radiance, great winged things appeared.

  Circling overhead.

  Massive creatures that soared to the clouds and back down again. Fading from sight at times as they became blacker than night. Then transitioning back as they became things of the brightest light.

  Blinding as a star coming down from the heavens.

  The cries of the Umbral Glooms echoed far. Nearly reaching the closest shorelines more than a hundred kilometers away.

  Their monstrous demonic silhouettes raced across the cityscape below, before they came to ground, ready to ferry the Weeping Wyrm’s terrible Crusade out into the rest of the world at long last.

  Despite its despicable nature, the Wyrm had made its own alliances. Dark forces across the globe would soon be on the move.

  ? ? ?

  “The Admiralship will have questions once we arrive. You’re a very unusual man to say the least. Too unusual. We will have to be careful.”

  Captain Jenker was saying as he took a seat at his writing desk.

  He gave Mereque a meaningful look, as he opened a new bottle of spirits for them.

  Filling two clean cups he’d retrieved from a drawer, he held one out to him.

  “Because they may think I am not human.”

  Jenker nodded.

  Mereque took the cup offered and found a place for himself on the large couch he had used before.

  “That’s right. My people are particular about the subject. Too many creatures in this world can nearly pass as us. We have suffered on occasion because of that. Lost friends. Loved ones.”

  Captain Jenker took a long drink.

  “They often have unnatural abilities we don’t have. Can beguile the unwary. Lead us astray. Or worse, lure us to our deaths.”

  “Well, I met one that was genuinely helpful—a Fay, a girl. She was kind, saved me from that dragon. I fear what may have happened to her. But I have no doubt some could be dangerous when I think about it.”

  Grace. She was no girl; he reminded himself she claimed to be two centuries old.

  He thought of that strange world she had led him through. The scent of eternal spring, her laughter like bells—yet danger in every shadow. It had been like a dream. Getting lost in that place would have been too easy.

  “You mentioned her before. A rare kindness—or clever trap”, Jenker remarked.

  Mereque met his gaze.

  “Kindness. I’d stake my life on it.”

  Jenker smiled faintly.

  “Then we’ll stake mine too. For now.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. I still need to deal with the brass. That won’t be easy. There’ll be a tsunami of questions. Suspicions. Fears. I can’t promise it’ll be safe for you.”

  “Nothing on this planet is safe. I’ll take my chances with your people.”

  He meant it. Every word.

  Captain Jenker leaned back, swirling the spirits in his cup.

  “Long ago, after passing through the turbulent seas, my people tried living among the land-dwellers. Thought we could return to living with dirt under our feet. But shapeshifters and other things walked into their camps at night. Took the faces of our kin. Led patrols into ambushes. The Fay charmed us. Monsters ate us. People were lost. Whole families vanished.”

  His voice lowered.

  “We learned the hard way. Trust costs blood.”

  Mereque sipped his drink, the burn steadying him.

  “I understand.”

  Jenker got up to take off his coat.

  Draped it over the back of his chair.

  Stepped ahead to look down at the large map covering the table in the center of the room.

  The Urchin Gull was traveling due northwest of their last position. Its long sleek body smoothly cruising just beneath the waves.

  The world-spanning tentacle of Old Father was behind them to the east. It had not moved back in their direction since they broke the surface to clean out the Sheddings. Instead coming to rest about where they had left it behind.

  With no further activity on its part, they were able to gain a great deal of distance moving at nominal speed.

  This was a fast water-based vessel.

  Mereque couldn’t help but appreciate the engineering required to accomplish both design and function.

  While not as advanced as anything from his world, they were not so far behind—in a fashion.

  Captain Jenker had left Commander Esark in charge of the bridge after a lengthy debrief he held with the crew. Explaining his harrowing imprisonment and fortuitous escape. Thanks to the timely arrival of the large man who had facilitated his rescue.

  They were all grateful for the captain’s safe return.

  Though they had questions about the stranger who brought him back, they tempered their curiosity, because of that gratitude and deference to their superior.

  Most of the crew seemed to accept Mereque for who he claimed he was. An oversized man from a far-off land, whose people used medical science to make themselves stronger. As the Captain, there were responsibilities one had to one’s crew. But as someone who had been a prisoner rescued, there was a debt he owed to the one who saved him.

  With some discomfort, Jenker looked somberly over the maps on his table as he explained.

  “I don’t want to alarm you, but here is the reality. my people—we Havenites—there was a period when we had a very hard time finding our place in the world. Not just that time when we tried to plant a flag on some land. Our old books support some of your claims. The earth was once exclusively man’s domain. But something happened along the way that upended all of that.”

  He paused.

  “We live, surrounded by creatures we didn’t—and still don’t—understand, we were beset wherever we went. Many hands were lost from our decks during those bleak days. Too many. From our earliest memories, we have always been a seagoing people. Our figurehead—the one we named ourselves after—led us through that far-off tumultuous time until his death. He was our shepherd and spiritual leader. Our founder. Fleet Admiral Havenlocke.”

  Gesturing with a nod to the wall near the cabin’s entrance, the spaceman spotted a rectangular framed portrait hanging there.

  Within it the image of an aged-looking naval officer of high rank.

  This was obviously the historical person in question.

  Clean-shaven without hair on face or head.

  Robust and broad features despite advancing years.

  Sagging wrinkled skin and swollen bulbous nose did nothing to hide or detract from his most remarkable feature.

  Eyes like tempered steel. Seeming to stare through the photo itself. Into one’s very soul.