The grey-bearded Doorkeeper of the House of Altarnum rose from his chair as the bells chimed seven o'clock. He walked to the door taking out his keys, sorting throughthem until he found the long, iron key for the first lock. He locked the door in the same order as ever, turning the locks, sliding the wooden bars into place, and slotting the iron bolts into their housing. Upstairs, the Window Warden would be checking each of the shutters, the Firekeeeper would be lighting blazes in each of the hearths.
The House of Altarnum was a fortress. It lay in the hills to the South of Mireless and Lachlan Marshes. Sheltered by the hills it was built for anything short of an organized siege. The walls were six foot thick and granite; there were no windows on the ground floor and only arrow slits on the second, every higher window was guarded by thick-iron bars; the roof was surrounded by a rampart, and guards patrolled the corridors in pairs. Even getting to the door after dark would be impossible once the drawbridge was raised: a wide river flowed through a deep culvert before the door.
Yet as the Doorkeeper turned away from the door there was a slow rat-tat-tat. He paused and shuffled back to the door. he slid back the iron covering the peephole in the door. The wooden planks of the drawbridge were inches from his nose. He backed away from the door as the knock came agan. He pulled the great horn from his waist and blew it once to warn the guards that something was outside; twice would mean that something was trying to get in; three times would mean it was inside.
He had been warned about this sort of thing by his predecessor when he had started: 'There will be times when things come calling at night. Ignore them. Sound the warning and never speak to them'. There had been a handful of such occasions over the years of his service when he had to sound the alarm once; he had only blown the horn twice on one occasion.
He turned to walk back to his room when he heard the first of the bolts slide back. He watched transfixed as the bolts dragged themselves back the door. He raised his hand to move the bolts, but they refused to move no matter how much force he put upon them. The locks clicked one at a time. He forced the great key in the last lock and held on, but the key snapped under the pressure as the lock clicked open.
The third blast of the horn thundered though the House of Altarnum. The guards, veterans to a man, unsheathed swords, drew axes, unslung bows as they took up positions at chokepoints throughout the building. At the center of the house, two guards hurried the master of the house into a room with only one, iron door. A hired sorcerer, an elderly man with a thick grey beard and a robe of night blue and white stars, nodded to the master of the house as they guards hurried him past.
The clamour of fighting filtered through the house. Thunder shook the walls. Screams and cries echoed up the stairwells and cut off. Horns blew, bells tolled. Weapons clanged on the stones. Doors shattered with echoing cracks. Metal shrieked somewhere in the house. Gradually, the sound died away. Silence fell.
The Keeper, master of the hoise, sat shivering, waiting. He looked down at the roll of parchment he held in his left hand for a moment before glancing at the candle in his right. For a moment, there was a flash of white light from beneath the door and a chill crept through the room. He waited, his fingers shaking, his eyes glued to the door. Nothing happened. Then the flame flickered and went out. He reached for the matches he kept in a pouch at his belt, and fingers shaking, lit the candle. The candle flared up, and a pale face, too pale, was illuminated for a second before the flame died to nothing.
"Good evening," said a voice and then a soft, white radiance filled the room, revealing a tall young man, dressed in strange clothing with an orb of that same soft white light in the palm of his cupped hand. "You will refer to me as 'my Prince'. You are the Keeper?"
"Yes," the Keeper said, swallowing. His hands were empty.
A single finger pointed to the floor. Pain wracked the Keeper's body. It felt as a white hot knife had been plunged into his belly, if needles slid into eyes, as if his throat and lungs were on fire. "You will refer to me as 'my Prince', reminded the man coldly.
"Yes, my Prince," the Keeper gasped. He slumped, panting, in his chair. There was the iron taste of blood in his mouth from where he had bitten his tongue.
"Now, Keeper..." the man lifted the Keeper's chin with one hand and looked into his eyes, "This isn't going to hurt a bit. Well, it isn't going to hurt me a bit. You had exquisite defenses. I have no wish to break you mind, so we will start with the old methods. What do you think? Will you talk?"
The Keeper shook his head. The man sighed and made a short motion with his hand. The chair on which the Keeper sat came to life. The wood twisted and bent, binding him before floating into the air.
"You cannot resist me," the man whispered. "Would you like to guess how many came with me to storm this stronghold. There were no others. I came alone. Your men died for nothing. You will die for nothing, unless you tell me this: where are the children of the Gaill hiding? Do not think to lie, for that is our contract."
"You want to know that?" the Keeper asked, surprised. "You aren't one of them?"
"Do I look Rómáinis or Rómhánach?" the man asked with a sudden blaze of irritation in his eyes. The arms of the chair tightened around the Keeper painfully. "Rest assured, that once I have my answer, I will leave this place." He watched the Keeper's face intently.
"If I tell you, will you let me live?"
"If you tell me, I swear upon the place I call Home that I will treat you as I would my own Father," the man promised.
The Keeper hesitated for a moment before his mind flinched back at the pain the man could inflict before gesturing the man over. The man leaned in close, listening to the soft whispers of the answers his sought. After a few minutes, the man pulled back.
"Who else knows this?" the man asked.
"I can't tell you. I don't know... my Prince," the Keeper said, he could feel cold sweat soaking his shirt. The man's eyes were cold and emotionless as he waited for the Keeper to answer. "We don't ask for names. They paid the price we asked."
"Your business is knowledge. Who was he?"
"She, all I know is that it was a she. She wants to kill them," the Keeper gabbled. He could feel the chair pressing into his wrists and ankles, slowly cutting off his blood supply.
"How much have you told her?"
"Everything we knew. We were to meet again soon."
"When?" the man said, grasping the Keeper by the throat in his eagerness.
"I don't know, she was to arrange it."
The man surveyed him for a second and stood back, looking at him. "You are a coward. I despise cowards." He stepped back and raised his hand.
"Please, you promised..." the Keeper begged. He recognized the expression of his captor's face, he had seen it too many times before.
"I swore upon the place I call Home; of which I have none left. I swore to treat you as I would my Father: I killed him. Be thankful I gave him a merciful death."
There was a sharp crack as the Keeper's body slumped in the chair. Rowan, prince of Albion's night, paid it no heed as left the room and hallway and made his way to the nearest window, already feeling his arms change into a cloak of feathers and he threw open the shutters. As an owl soared into the dark night, only one name was on his mind.
Camp Half-Blood
