The Last Ruler of Tamar
Arwyn limped across a blasted landscape lit by a dying moon. He had reached the land of Tamar, a far desert that lay empty under a sullen sun save for the bones of those wanderers foolish enough to enter. An amulet, purchased from an old witch with several silver coins, protected him from the unceasing winds, freezing nights, and the buzzards that flew above him in the pale sky in ever-tightening circles. His knapsack had fallen away and his boots became tatters, but he pushed himself forward to reach the ancient castle that glimmered in the distance.
For inside the castle was the only copy of Manfred the Mad’s infamous book, Visions of Tamar. Anyone who dared to read the spells within would either become the most powerful leader in the world, or perish on the spot, so charged were their powers.
Arwyn drew ever nearer, not caring about the danger. He had paid the witch many more silver coins to learn that Manfred was his ancestor on his father’s side. The book was rightfully his. With its powers, he would rule Tamar as an immortal and cast dark spells of enchantment across the land and the lands beyond.
“It is my destiny,” he muttered to himself through parched lips.
Weeks passed until he arrived at the castle’s door, an enormous, moldering slab of wood carved with the strange runes of a forgotten language. It opened in silence to reveal a tall man with a hooded black robe wrapped around his gaunt frame.
“Welcome, Arwyn,” he intoned. “You are indeed Manfred’s worthy successor. Follow me.”
Arwyn walked behind the figure through long, dank corridors lined with moldy flagstones and vast, chilly rooms with sunken floors. Pale wraiths peered at him with dark eyes from behind crumbling columns and beneath rotting furniture.
The guide drew back a faded tapestry hanging. “Here is the treasure you seek.”
Arwyn cried in triumph at the sight of the black leather-bound book resting on a stand. A weak light emanated from its gilded edges, a dark gold cloud in which faint shapes swirled. But as he turned the crumbling pages with shaking hands, he saw that the book was blank. No texts, no illustrations, only dull yellow parchment.
“Why?” he whimpered.
The guide pushed back his hood. Arwyn screamed as he beheld the terrible gaze of Moluthar, the trickster demon.
“This castle is Tamar,” said Moluthar. “Or rather, what is left of it. After Manfred created it, he went mad and used the spells for his debauched pleasures. Most of Tamar disappeared but the castle and the wastelands remained. But before he died he cast with my assistance one last spell for a descendent, equal in his lust for power, to come and succeed him.” The demon held up a small bell of tarnished silver. “So rule Tamar and its ghosts you shall, for all of eternity.”
As the hideous sound of the warped bell resounded in the room, Arwyn’s feet became rooted to the cold marble floor. His eyes darted around in his immobile face, searching for help. But the only thing he heard was the laughter of Moluthar, which no mortal can hear and remain sane.
