With the arrival of the Tower of the The Great Witch Astrielle on Vilimar's soil, none could ignore the threat. Even Sir Garmra, last of the despised Knights of Ceredol.

The Tower of Astrielle
by Arcie Emm

Sir Garmra of Vilimar tried to pull his weapon from the corpse of the gargoyle, the last of many beasts he had slain that day; however, in its death it had returned to its stone form, trapping his sword forever. He sighed, even in defeat, the infernal guardians of the Tower of Astrielle continued to serve their Mistress by weakening the attackers, making every step taken difficult. First it had been William and Duese, neither old or skilled enough, lost to the wyrm at the front gate. In Garmra’s opinion, neither they, nor Stefan the Elder, who had died to the treants in the courtyard, belonged in the company, but it had not been up to him to choose. No that had been Kestrel, Golden Kestrel, The Champion of Vilimar, The Best.

Yes it had been Kestrel who had chosen to bring along his old tutor and the sons of his two closest friends, understanding that none of three would likely return from the Tower. It had also been Kestrel who had nodded in acceptance when Garmra had joined the troop just before they arrived upon Tower’s lands, this despite the looks of disgust from the others and the fact that it had been his accusations that brought down Garmra’s order.

But then Kestrel had not destroyed the Knights of Ceredol out of hatred or disgust, he had done it because he liked to win. Which also explained why he included the three, probably knowing they would die, but that their deaths may spare others who could continue on. And he had accepted Garmra, knowing of the man’s fighting prowess.

Garmra had almost been sad to see his hated enemy ripped apart by the death throws of the wyvern into which Kestrel had just thrust a spear. Almost.

After that, it seemed that much of the heart had gone out of the Knights of Kestrel. The party, once fifty strong, shrank smaller and smaller during every single fight. Until Garmra no longer noticed the dead, cataloguing instead the equipment he lost on their path to this door, this fight. His mace’s shaft broken like the spine of the ettin it had killed. The war hammer, from one of the fallen knights, sizzling away in the acidic blood of the leech after he has methodically hammered it to ruin. Spears left in various bodies of wolves and goblins and bears. A shield battered beyond repair by a steel golem. And now his sword.

It made him take notice of the last member of the company to survive this far, Mirren the Hedge Witch. Early on Garmra had noticed men giving their life to save hers, from this he had deduced her presence to be vital to the unknown plan of the assault. So without any orders, for none would speak to such as him, he became her protector. And due to this, she alone, of her glittering company, had arrived at these final doors, where her own impatience had killed her.

Looking down at the once beautiful woman, Garmra wished she had paid heed to his shout to wait. But no, seeing the doors, she rushed forward, ignoring the ugly stone creature crouch above who had come to life and snuffed out her’s with a single blow.

Silly woman, to come so far, for nothing. To be reduced to no role other than having borne a plain, unblooded, short sword all the way from Vilimar. Taking it from her corpse, he approached the oaken doors, as they swung open.

Apparently he was expected.

However, he did not rush forward, naivety having been beaten out of him long ago when he was just a squire. Slowly he approached, looking for the next trap, next beast, next thing ready to kill him. But there was nothing, just a door opening to show a well-lit stairwell of stone down which a a crystal voice echoed, beckoning him onwards. “Do come up to see me, Sir Garmra.”

The first voice to speak his name in over a year and it was an enemy, but then was not everyone? Uncomfortable with that question, he hesitantly took the first step and paused. Nothing seeming to happen, he took the next step, again nothing. Taking the third step he noticed the tingling in his fingers. Magic, but what else should one expect when one sought the life of a Greater Witch. Not that it would stop him.

Four more steps and the tingling had spread throughout his entire hand, though not painful, curiosity made him remove a gauntlet to see what was wrong. Somehow he was not surprised by what he saw. Retreating down to the bottom, he watched the change to his hand disappear. Returning to the seventh step he finally understood the reason that the Knights of Kestrel had included Mirren in their party, the prudish bastards. None of their, well except maybe for Kestrel’s, inflated egos would be able to handle such a change. Blunt, thick fingers becoming long and graceful, tipped in crystal like nails sparkling like so many tiny shards. Calloused palms and scarred back of hand becoming pristine and delicate, while the skin changed from darkened tan to alabaster.

Each step, the tingling reached further and further up his arms, until he reached the next landing and knew his arms were now those of a woman. Yet, he did not consider stopping, his entire life he had also taken that next step, plodding as often as striding with confidence. Moving up the next flight, he learned that the magic affected not only him, but also his equipment, as his bulky gauntlets transformed into silver bracelets, with delicate chains running down to fantastical rings on each finger and thumb. Tarnished rings bearing beasts, such as; a wyrm, a treant, a wyvern, a golem, an so on.

Garmra realized that his climb up the stairs was not turning into just any woman, instead he slowly became she who waited at the top. The woman he continued upwards to see.

From there, the progression of the flights followed in the same fashion. One to change his body, one to clothe it properly. Muscled legs becoming graceful pedestals, no longer covered in metal boots and greaves, but in satin slippers and silken hose. Solid torso taking on the luscious curves of a courtesan, wilting under the weight of a chain coat until it changed into a long, figure hugging dress of a midnight blue velvet, cinched at the waist by a filigreed belt of silver.

Relief from the weight of the coat was offset by the tightness and length of the gown. The belt being unable to hold his short sword, and he being unwilling to let it go, Garmra struggled up the next, short flight of stairs, using his left hand to provide some lift to his skirts. Fortunately Astrielle, recognizing his struggles, used that flight to change the sword into a folded fan. Opening it for a moment to study the mountain scene, Garmra smiled, not at the lovely work, but at what it hid, before folding it up once more and hanging it from a loop on the delicate belt. Free to use both hands to manage his skirts, he found climbing easier. Though no longer with the purposeful stalk of a hunter, instead he climbed as if he was a lady-in-waiting off to see her queen.

Able to see the top of the stairs, the next long flight brought the tingling to his face and head. Able to only see the lustrous, black hair hanging to his knees, he reached up to feel the changes. Rough skin and features had been changed to skin so very soft and a face that was as fine and delicate as the hand that gently caressed.

His helm, taken from one of the dead knights, after he had lost his down a crevice opening almost at his feet to disgorge a salamander, was the last and least of him to be left. And soon it to was gone, transforming into a delicate crown as he climbed the final flight to enter into the chamber at the top of the tower. For a room made of stone, it was as lovely as any could be made, but Garmra saw none of the graceful, polished furniture, nor silken curtains. His attention was focussed upon she who could serve as his mirror.

She was beautiful.

“Sir Garmra, what a pleasure to see you. And may I say, you are looking particularly lovely today.”

“Lady.” He greeted, speaking in her voice with a quick bow his head.

“So very formal. But I suppose it is appropriate when one seeks to kill someone such as I.”

“Someone who is a threat to my city.”

“The city the loathes and despises you?”

“Even so.”

“What of the magic that transformed you? Are you willing to chance that my death will leave you looking like me?”

“It is a chance I am willing to take.”

“There are few places where I have not left my mark. You would be even more hated.”

“I am used to hate.”

“Or is there something else? Do we learn the reason why you retained the markings of the Knights of Buggery?”

Long since impervious to the insulting, though truthful charge that had caused his brethren to take their own lives, even those who who had not been a lover of Ceredol, he answered, “Nay, Ceredol did not take me to his bed. He and those closest to him could not find it in themselves to offer love to one such as I.”

“Ooooh, do tell. What naughty secret do you have, that is worse than theirs?”

“I like to kill.”

Then in a three twirling steps, belying the tightness of his velvet gown, Sir Garmra, last of the Knights of Ceredol spun across the room, snatching the war fan from his belt, snapping it open and slashing it across the graceful, alabaster neck, so very like his own.