The Morgle Unmasked: Prologue, Part 1

31 August 2026

This week we begin to serialize Book 3 from The Redemption series, The Morgle Unmasked, the longest book in the series, and the one whose draft took me the least amount of time to write, only 6 months. We begin with the prologue, giving our readers some knowledge of events that take place outside the frame of this book, and yet are necessary to understand the events of this long and complex tale. We see the Wesento, the senior kortexi and leader of this order of knights, awaiting the arrival of the heads of the other orders for their annual spring meeting, and someone unexpected shows up. . . . (7 December 2015) The full ebook version of this book is available for purchase from all ebook sellers. We remind all that the first book in this series, Chosen of the One, and the second book, Staff of Shigmar, are both free from Smashwords! Glossary links: Book 3, Book 2, Book 1

Prologue, Part 1

Atno 3524, The Great Year, Early Spring

The Wesento tossed the sheaf of parchment onto his desk and rubbed his temples; he was tired of looking at reports that told him the same thing as every other report he had ever read since becoming the senior kortexi and taking up the mantle of Wesento. He looked hopefully toward the door and the immanent news of the arrival of the heads of the other orders for the Spring Council. He waited for several slow moments, staring at the door, before finally getting wearily to his feet to begin pacing the floor in front of his desk. Although ancient in years, by kortexi standards, the Wesento still stood straight, and still wore his shirt of golden rings, falling past his knees to the top of his shining white boots. He paced with a limp, his left hip stiff and sore from an old injury, but his tread was still firm and sure. Each time he turned, he paused and looked at the door, expecting the knock of his messenger at any moment, pushing his long, gray hair back from his hawk-like face. When after several turns about the office it did not come, he went to the window and looked out, thinking that perhaps his sense of time was off, that his boyish sense of anticipation was making the minutes drag. He held his hands clasped behind his back, fingers twitching as he looked out of the window, reminiscing on the many times he waited on his father’s farm for his grandparents’ immanent arrival, and how the waiting had driven him crazy, and he in turn had driven his mother crazy with his constant inquiries into where they were, and why they hadn’t arrived, to which his mother always gave the same answer: she didn’t know. He sighed and tried to calm himself; time dragged by, each second longer than the last.

Finally, the door to his office banged open, and the senior apprentice assigned as his messenger stumbled and fell into the room, his face flushed. The Wesento smiled to himself and shook his head before turning to his messenger, thinking he was not the only one upset by waiting.

“You forgot to knock,” the Wesento noted dryly, keeping his expression stern.

“M-master!” the messenger stuttered, trying to catch his breath, unable to speak his message.

“You’ve come to tell me that our guests have finally arrived?” the Wesento asked in his calmest voice.

“N-no, m-master,” the apprentice replied, “s-someone else–a k-kortexi none of the m-masters recognize!”

The Wesento frowned. “Did he arrive on the telepad?”

“N-no m-master,” he replied, “h-he just appeared in the c-courtyard.”

“Kortexem do not simply appear in the courtyard . . . ,” the Wesento began and stopped when he saw the gatekeeper, Sir Wolsonto, leading the newcomer toward his open office door; the newcomer had immaculate golden armor and carried a white-plumed helmet under one arm; his hair was golden, shoulder length and wavy, and he was shorter and of lighter build than the bulkier gatekeeper. The newcomer looked too small and too young to be one of their order.

Sir Wolsonto inclined his head. “Master,” he began, “this is Sir Opnimon; he has satisfied me and requests a private audience with our Wesento.”

The Wesento drew a sharp breath when he heard the name; it was the very last thing he expected to hear–the last thing his predecessor had told him right before he died: he told him the name and to defer to him as if he were Sir Karble reborn. The Wesento managed to control the quaver in his voice. “Welcome, Sir Opnimon,” he said, jerking his head as a signal to his gatekeeper, who grabbed the messenger by the arm and dragged him out of the office, closing the door as they left.

“You recognize me,” Sir Opnimon said without preamble, “good, that will make things easier, and I have little time.”

The Wesento turned from the door to regard the newcomer and looked directly into his laughing blue eyes; he wore a friendly, reassuring smile, making it easy for the Wesento to speak.

“I only know the name,” the Wesento replied. “I was told to treat you as if you were our founder reborn.”

Sir Opnimon nodded once. “That will do,” he noted, then hurried on. “I am here concerning one of your apprentices, named Blakstar.”

“Yes, one of our more promising,” the Wesento replied.

“When is he scheduled to go to the Mountain?”

“This coming fall. . . .”

Sir Opnimon began shaking his head before the Wesento could finish his sentence, causing him to break off. “Events are rushing forward,” Sir Opnimon said. “He must go now, or all will be lost.”

“Now, my lord?” the Wesento replied. “There is instruction that he must receive before leaving. . . .”

“How much time?” Sir Opnimon interrupted.

“Two weeks, at least.”

“We don’t have that much time–you have five days to get him ready,” Sir Opnimon replied with a tone of finality that brooked no argument, and one the Wesento understood.

“Yes, my lord,” he replied, inclining his head.

“Go and make the arrangements,” Sir Opnimon added, “then return with the Fereghen, but only the Fereghen–no others, not even his advisor. There are other plans that must be set in motion, other contingencies that we must make while there is still time.”

The Wesento bowed stiffly and turned to go; Sir Opnimon stopped him.

“One more thing,” he added, “do not tell anyone else that I am here; tell Wothgart only my name: he, like you, will understand what that means.”

“As you wish, my lord,” the Wesento replied, then left the room. . . .

On Wednesday we will look at another event that occurs outside the normal course of this narrative, introducing Tevvy’s future wife in the moment when he realizes how much he cares for her; we will see this moment interrupted by Gar, as he and Motodu damage these two future heroes. Until then, we remind all that the first two books of this series, Chosen of the One and Staff of Shigmar, are free from Smashwords. Get this book, The Morgle Unmasked, from the links provided. Good reading!