Echoes – Stormhaven Writers Guild

This story is also published to YouTube as an audio story:

At dawn, the Council of Stormhaven convened in the Administrative Chamber of the Citadel of Governance.

The chamber was vast and solemn, a vaulted circular hall carved from white stone quarried from the Narshadow foothills. The stone bore the patient marks of Dwarakai masons; each block perfectly set, each joint fitted without mortar, testifying to craftsmanship that had endured for three centuries. Supporting the high ceiling were fluted columns crowned with dragon-headed capitals, the symbol of Stormhaven.

Light streamed through stained-glass windows crafted by the artisans of Moonwell, casting coloured patterns onto the marbled floor: a kaleidoscope of blues, golds, and purples depicting scenes from the city’s founding in 220 a.a. (after the accession of the first Adzar Emperor) and its rebirth as capital of the Arten Commonwealth in 512 a.a.

The tapestries that lined the chamber walls told the story of Ulf Pendragon: his march to Stormhaven, his alliance with the Princess Zaria den Zoriel, the Serf’s Revolt and the founding of the Commonwealth. At the chamber’s far end stood the Council dais, carved from a single block of white stone, with the Administrator’s seat at its centre beneath the great Window of Dawn that caught the first light of a rising sun.

Euen Mistborn stood before the gathered councillors. They all stood as the Administrator’s seat was the only one in the chamber. Mistborn wore the ceremonial black and silver robes of his office, though his face was taut with fatigue. Absent were Boz and Farjika Pendragon. In their places stood Nathalie Moonglow and Paladins Peredur Du Val and Galhadris d’Ancellus — Farjika’s young but capable deputies. Captain Julian Greatfield represented the guards, with his deputy, the Dwarakai woman Sergeant Ongrin Stormfist, standing beside Abbess Hildegard. Ongrin was not a council member, but no one questioned her presence.

Reports were given.

Captain Greatfield spoke first — of chaos, suicides, and rising murders, of citizens turning violent without reason.

Sister Hildegard confirmed the root was not political but spiritual. “Vices have always found dark places within us,” she said, her voice strong and calm, more commanding than the council had grown used to. “Social mores suppress them, but as rotting meat attracts flies, so do demonic forces gather where darkness festers in the human soul.”

She paused, then looked to Mistborn.

“With your permission, Administrator. I would like to open this council with Ulf’s Vows.”

“You need no permission for that, Sister Hildegard,” he replied.

And so she recited the Seven Vows of Ulf Pendragon.

The chamber stilled. The coloured light from the windows seemed to glow more warmly as the words rang out.

“I walk with heart humble, neither above nor below,
In thought and in action, may Humility show”

“By sword or by word, I will right every wrong,
With Justice my guide, not the strong, nor the throng.”

“I shall speak what is Truth, what is Honest and Right,
Without fear, without favour as day follows night.”

“To those in deep sorrow, my hand shall extend,
The weak and the weary, I vow to defend.”

“I shall meet every foe with courage and grace,
With fear left behind, every challenge I’ll face.”

“I will own not the world, nor let it own me,
With spirit unbound, I will always be free.”

“From toil and from duty, I shall never take rest,
For in constant endeavor, my soul shines its best.”

There was silence when she finished. Some swore the air felt cleaner, the weight of dread lighter.

Even Mistborn, not a man given to sentiment, was visibly moved. “The commitment to the virtues of Humility, Justice, Truth, Compassion, Courage, Detachment and Diligence,” he said.

“Let these vows be recited before all of our meetings,” continued the Administrator. “They may well be our best defence.”

He then called upon the district representatives — Dragon’s Harbour, North Harbour, The Lanes, Enchanter’s Square, Pilgrim’s Gate, the Citadel, and Skywind in the old city; Moonwell, Green Ring, Amberhill, and the Sprawl beyond the walls. Each gave terse reports on the rising tensions. The worst was, as always, in the Sprawl — the maze of overcrowded refugee camps and derelict buildings where poverty and desperation bred crime and violence.

It had been the Paladins and the Light Keepers who had insisted Stormhaven offer sanctuary to those fleeing the Empire’s wars. But it had fallen to Mistborn’s administration to keep them housed, fed, and safe. And it was sanitation — always sanitation — that revealed just how thinly the city’s resources were stretched. The Sprawl stank of crisis.

Nathalie Moonglow rose next. Her voice was clear, though uncertain.

“Boz says the portals are becoming unstable,” she said. “The Sleeping Dragon has become a refuge, but… he cannot leave it lest the portal there becomes a threat.”

She was reporting as Boz had asked her to, though she barely understood what it meant.

Guian Starshadow, however, understood. The Eight Portals were trans-dimensional gateways. “The Darkness does not come through them directly,” he said. “But their harmonics resonate. They make the city more permeable to intrusion.”

Chanto Delan, a respected enchantress, spoke next, her tone wry, but edged with fear. “Dark Forces. The Darkness,” she echoed grimacing. “Yes, but not only amorphous shadow, we’ve seen demons too. On the psychic planes. But not even Shanti could get them to speak.”

Shanti Celestine, a young woman with platinum blond hair and ice blue eyes, standing quietly at the Administrator’s side, smiled faintly. Power clung to her like the night black robes she wore.

Then Peredur stepped forward, offering a sealed letter. “From Farjika Pendragon,” he said.

Mistborn broke the seal. He read silently. Then aloud:

“Ten Paladins have left Stormhaven to join the resistance in Narshadow.”

A hush fell.

Mistborn exhaled slowly. “That’s half the contingent of Paladins based in the city.” he said. “Still, she follows her conscience. As Paladins always do.”

The Paladins were technically independent, obligated to justice anywhere before law in the Commonwealth — but none in Stormhaven doubted their centrality. ‘The Dialogues Between Law and Justice’ by Ulf Pendragon was one of the foundational documents of the Commonwealth. Perhaps Farjika had thought that by leaving without asking him, she was giving him the plausible deniability he needed. It would mean nothing to the Empire, but in the Commonwealth the Administration held the balance between the District Councils, the Guild Houses, the Light Keepers and the Noble Houses. Doubtless Farjika the Pendragon was expecting Mistborn to shift responsibility to her in order to placate the Noble Houses who still looked to the Empire as a cultural parent even after a century of independence.

“The war has begun, whether we chose it or not.” He said, simply.

Before any further words could be spoken, the chamber doors burst open.

Two guards stumbled in, bloodied, wild-eyed.

“My Lords! The Sprawl — it’s burning!”

Gasps.

“Riots! Fires everywhere. Refugees and citizens at each other’s throats. It’s spreading — fast.”

“Who leads them?” Mistborn asked.

The reply came like the drawing of a blade.

“Strike, my lord. The vigilante. He’s with them.”

The chamber held its breath.

Even the light from the stained glass faltered.

Stormhaven — the jewel on the T’Ever, guardian of Ulf’s Dream — was now a city at war with itself.

Euen Mistborn drew himself tall.

“Then the game is on,” he said. “This Council is adjourned. Remain within the Citadel grounds.”

He turned to the Paladins.

“Peredur. Galhadris. You know what to do.”

The Song of Galhadris

Galhadris knew what she needed to do and that was first to return to her quarters and get her bagpipes.

The Sprawl is the name for the city outside the walls of the Old City, Stormhaven proper. Over the past two decades it has grown from a shanty town for refugees to a city beyond the city with neighbourhoods for the relatively well to do rising like islands from the slums surrounding them. The juxtaposition of comfort with stark poverty has always made the Sprawl far less safe than the Old City but the efforts of Euen Mistborn’s administration, the increased presence of Guards and Paladins and the recent reduction in gang violence brought about by the new gang boss, Strike the Merciless, swiftly killing his rivals, had stopped large scale community violence.

But this morning as mist still clung low over the Sprawl, heavy with the acrid tang of smoke and ash, several buildings crackled with fire and mobs roamed the streets looting shops and looking for victims from other communities. The cries of the frightened and the furious echoed down crooked alleys and broken lanes. Stormhaven pulsed with unrest as the poorer inhabitants of the Southside Sprawl pulsed across Cobbler’s Bridge to confront the Amberhill residents who had taken up arms to defend their homes. The first waves of Southsiders had been driven back to the bridge but more were now coming over. Both sides were armed with swords, axes, spears and rocks. On both sides women and men raved as though possessed either by demons or by the violent intent of their crowd.

And then — rising above it all — a sound not of rage, but of resolve.

A single bagpipe, solemn and slow, cut through the din like a blade through fog.

Galhadris emerged from the gate at Pilgrims Gate between the Old City and the Sprawl, her tall figure straight-backed and calm. She was clad not in mail or leather, but in a plain white tunic and slate-grey tights, her arms bare, her feet steady. The bagpipes at her chest, large against her lithe, athletic, frame, were played without hesitation, each note sure, unwavering.

Black hair, cropped short and now damp with morning dew, framed a face that was young, yet intent with purpose. Olive skin glowed faintly in the half-light, and though she was unarmed, there was something about her, a stillness, that made even the air around her seem to hold its breath.

Behind her walked a dozen monks and nuns in humble robes, voices rising in harmony to meet the melody. They sang the words of a song she had written — ‘Ulf Pendragon has gone away’… not as a lament, but as a vow.

Their song, wreathed in bagpipe wail and smoke, curled into the air like incense. It did not immediately silence the crowd, but it gave them pause. The shouting faltered. Rocks held in clenched fists dropped to the ground. People turned. Faces bruised by fury now softened in confusion, in wonder.

A short distance behind the sacred procession marched city guards in formation — helms polished, swords sheathed. At their head strode Morien, a Durdessian Paladin, dark skinned like Farjika Pendragon, in full plate and chain armour. His blade remained at his side. He walked not in command, but in faith, his dark eyes fixed not on the crowd but on Galhadris.

He did not like this plan. He had said as much. But he respected her — more than most — and so he had obeyed when she told him to hold his hand. For now.

Two years before Galhadris had put aside her sword after Paladins quelled an insurrection against the Commonwealth in the east. While understanding the need for the military action, the killing revolted her. She had given her resignation and would have walked away from the Paladin order but Farjika reminded her that Ulf’s vow was to right every wrong ‘by sword or by word’ and handed her a lute. Galhadris felt its weight and shape in her hands and smiled quietly, resolving that this would be her weapon of peace and that she would wield it as well as she had the sword.