Twenty-fourth of August, 1257
My name is Phillip Cameron. I am the son of a merchant sailor of León, having taken after him these past three years, since I was seventeen. I was given this journal by my Uncle Nihra who died two nights ago. He left it in my possession after owning it for eleven months, but never told me where he uncovered it. I am only interested since a few of the final pages were previously written in. The parchment is more brittle with every turn of a leaf, and my ink will not even blemish the very last pages, as though the journal had been sodden for some time. I have settled on writing of our present journey, which I expect is my uncle’s wish. I suppose I should tell you how he died, since it has disquieted my mind.
On the twenty-second, we perceived the flag of Castile, the neighboring kingdom of León, on a trader’s vessel tailing our course to Goltas Island on the east of Banu Ghaniya. When once they came alongside our caravel, they requested that we sojourn. We heaved the sails and a small company of them came aboard. They were mysterious and outfitted with arms, like mercenaries I have frequently seen in their kingdom. From the upper deck I watched the captain, Grimhast the first mate, and my uncle converse with the traders, and it took all of me to hold back my skepticism and my tongue. I was unable to discern a word of them, but after a time two more came aboard carrying a crate of a colorless gin, for which the captain paid them a purse of coins. The traders left genially, and once their ship was distanced I observed below the flag of Castile a lesser pennant, claret with a symbol like a falcon and a rose clutched in its talons. Because that drew my attention the more, I thought little of the bottles. My uncle and Grimhast brought the crate below deck and were there for a time while I scrubbed the floorboards. At the end of an hour, I heard from below another crewmate (Camille I assume it was) scream the captain’s name, who was manning the helm. Fearing for my uncle, I was the first to scurry down the steps, the captain following. We found my uncle and Grimhast lying on the floor, breathless, with open bottles in their hands. I grabbed my uncle and drew him upright. He was still alive, but only just. With his back propped against a storage barrel, he presented me with this journal. He also advised the captain not to continue our course to Goltas Island but to seek a friend of his at an island north of Pisa called Wehsair. When the captain inquired of the friend’s name, my uncle only said we would know him. Then he passed, and I mourned the entire night. Uncle Nihra was the only family I had after the loss of my father. Although the captain was as bemused at my uncle’s request as I, we steered our heading to the north and have since been at sail for two days. I am still perplexed of the situation.
The words in the back of this journal are as confounding to the state of affairs as the rest. They were written with a practiced hand, that much is plain. I will recur them in order that they remain clear in my head, but some of the words I could not decipher.
———————————
Seceded from the Mortuus as of yestermorn, I cope with insubordination among those who were my subjects. I grieve fair and f–…for what over the last fortnight has transpired. I called myself their captain, but no longer carry nor desire such a title. We were once united under one cause, to fight the … of tyranny in Castile on foreign ground, but the mind of the men has assumed a dire turn to their own shame. What I have witnessed is treason against their kindred and the foundation on which they gave form. With this I could not abide, and they were less than cordial to my a–…, naming me obstinate and craven. I pled all the more, and in my rage I struck one of them down, a folly that I regret to this day. For this, and because I refused their request that I … to their beliefs, resenting to lead them further, they swore to take my life as well as my legacy. I only managed to take flight after slaying another, and presently I am in hiding. Now I fear my family is in the gravest peril.
GK
———————————
I can only imagine that the writer was the leader of these the Mortuus, whoever they may be. There is no way of discerning the slightest about the Mortuus from these words, or whether they still exist. It would interest me to know who had written by the letters GK, but all the more to know how my uncle had come across his journal.
August 26, 1257
Pondering the words in this journal in a day, I’ve come to a plain understanding that they could have been written by none other than a crusader. The Mortuus would have had the repute of a religious faction, established by Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II. That would place this journal in the year 1229, eight before my birth.
Another discovery made today concerns my uncle. I was informed by a pair of the crew that they first saw Nihra with the journal after they had encountered a ship wrecked at sea. He explained to them that he had found it atop a drifting raft resting as in waiting. He felt as though the book wanted to be found by him. At any rate those were the words of my crewmates, who are the more untrustworthy at times.
The captain says a storm is brewing in the south. It pursues us even now, and I must tend to my station.
August 27, 1257
This day has been both thrilling and horrifying – I cannot say I have had any like it. I will abridge a long day in few words. The storm was mightier than we anticipated and lasted until the late morning hours. Fierce and foul tempests beset our caravel until our wits were at their very last. The crow’s nest tore off its post, but to our fortune landed in the ship. We rolled it carefully down below. We came to Wehsair sooner than expected, the wind of the storm having thrust us like an aerial vulture. Twelve men and I rowed to shore only to find its appearance deserted but for its coarse sand, verdant trees and remote mountains. We spent an hour exploring, anticipating to locate signs of dwelling. I recall thinking days would pass in our search across the entire island for one man. But while we rested in a grove near the shore, we were ambushed by a band of savages. They were of much semblance to the merchants who poisoned my uncle five days ago, bearing crests of that same falcon and rose. Their identity I discovered later as the Mortuus themselves! In the heat of battle, a stranger emerged into our midst and joined our side to defeat the mercenaries (as I take the liberty to call them). Raulin, one of the crew, fell at their hands, and I grieve him even now, for he was a close comrade.
The stranger assured us that he was a friend, as long as we had come for aid. We introduced ourselves to him, but I was not about to tell him more than my first name, since I withheld my trust of him. He invited us to his home nearby, and we wrapped Raulin’s body in cloth so as to carry him back to the ship eventually and give him a proper seaman’s funeral, to tender his carcass to the waters. As we made our way inland, the man, who called himself Petre, specified for us our attackers and informed us that they have been seeking him on this island. However, he refused to offer any information to satisfy the questions that have been exasperating me these past few days. I assume he required to gain our trust, the same that we were to gain his. At dusk, we arrived at his house, a small cottage within a clearing of trees at the base of a mountain. He gave us food and water and bade us rest for the night, assuring us that our questions would be answered on the morrow. The men were more accommodating than I. I want to hear more from Petre, to know what he has been keeping from us. I know now that this man is the friend my uncle bid us find, and I intend to tell him everything.
August 29, 1257
I now know who wrote the words in my journal. My emotions can no better be put into words than if the clouds could speak. It was none other than the great Gildon Khamarón! There isn’t a man in León who does not know his name. He was a true hero, a victor of many battles, who stood against the oppression of the Imperialist Almohad dynasty. Petre told us everything about him. He was once married and had three heirs. Petre knew the eldest best, having shared their adolescence, but when the war was greatest the family was split, Gildon’s wife was killed, and his sons went their separate ways. Gildon called for a union to be formed, a gathering of soldiers to resist the Almohad. They were a company deprived of freedom, thus privately calling themselves the Mortuus and setting out to regain it. Gildon’s name became as that of a god. After years of conflict, eleven years before this day, as Petre said, the majority of the Mortuus began to believe that their labors were futile, and that a reform was to be made. They assembled and decided upon renouncing the efforts put forth by Gildon and ridding those who stood for him. Gildon, needless to say, would not tolerate such in his decency and so, distraught, left the group he had formed. That was when he wrote in this journal. The Mortuus believed Gildon was betraying them, thus they vowed to kill off the family of Khamarón by any means. Fearful of his kin, Gildon sent out three letters addressed to his sons in warning. He then adopted a new name, and this is what haunts me now, he changed his name to Giles Cameron – my grandfather’s name.
My father and uncle ought to have received their letters and changed their names as well. My uncle must have known. He must have known everything. He said father was taken by a storm at sea when I was fifteen. I doubt now the truth of it. All of this is completely dreadful! I cannot believe that neither my father nor uncle ever revealed this to me! Their reasons were shrewd, undoubtedly.
I will not sleep tonight. It is two in the morning now, and the others have gone to sleep. We talked for hours with Petre, mostly about my safety. Petre seems to be a trustworthy friend, and I will never forget what he has told me. Of all that he said, one thing distressed me more than the rest. One rent my heart of its strength and still festers there – “You, my boy, are the last of your family” – a statement I had known since my uncle’s death, but which now has new meaning for me. It is an unbearable weight.
September first, 1257
I have no other means to write this down, as I am sitting now beside Petre and tending to his wound. We were attacked today, by the Mortuus. Petre had been hiding from the savages ever since he left them. Yes, Petre was one of them. He was a true follower of Gildon to the end and escaped the Mortuus at the same instance. The Mortuus have been hunting him, and were able to trace our trail to his house. We succeeded in warding them off, but Petre was severely injured. He will most likely heal, but he cannot linger here any longer. We will be obliged to take him back to our ship.
However, before we leave, there is one further deed to be done on this island. I must wipe out the Mortuus who still here gather. They have brought about enough anguish to fill my heart with darkness. Therefore I write it here and hold to it evermore:
I, Phillip Cameron, son of Halbert Cameron the son of Gildon, hereby vow by what powers sustain me to seek out the last members of the Mortuus and give their lives to the torment that covets their souls. This I avow for the sake of my grandfather, a hero in these darkest of times, that my family shall be avenged.
PC
