The Bristling Boar, Heremac, IV Hetaire, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Seven. Before Compline.
Clement, Hamral, Mendelor, St. James, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius, Sir Will Garnfellow.
It is Midsummer’s Night Eve, the longest day of the year. Although it is nearing Compline, sunlight continues to filter through the windows of the Boar, which have been opened wide to embrace the pleasantly warm air. The entire band has gathered with Sir Will Garnfellow and a new companion—a slender, merry fellow dressed in a green cloak and boots.
“Lads! Lads!” shouts Garnfellow. “Gather round, and allow me to introduce my dear friend Robin! He has been my friend for many a long year—is that not so, good Robin?”
Robin winks and grins at everyone.
“Aye, it is true enough, my bonny Will,” says Robin.
“Aye,” says Garnfellow, with a hardy laugh. “Many adventures have we had, worthy of many a tale and song. Ah, the perils! The daring escapes! The lovely maidens!”
Robin chuckles. “Good Will, you favor me with kindly words.”
“And why not? Are you not my best friend! And now, let us drink, and eat our fill!” cries Garnfellow, “By the Cup! Garnfellow thirsts! Golding! My friend’s plate is empty! I shall pay for anything he wants!”
Robin leans forward. “I hear that you have come from Hillsfar town?”
St. James recounts to Robin the recent adventure with the spiders. Robin smiles and nods throughout the story. St. James, pleased by the attention, then offers the story of Sir Reginald and explains how the party was given a choice of rewards from the Bergenian abbot, and how the majority choose to pick the two potions.
“After all,” says St. James, “Were it that we had such a potion back along we might still be safely in Shakerly’s shadow rather than solving mysteries with a leeching friar; at least the big guy paid of his own purse. Anyhow, that’s my assessment of the circumstance.”
Friar Sidrach puckers slightly at this, but Robin pats the Gerardian on the head and laughs.
“You told that silly tale with skill, my lad,” says Robin. “And now I think a little song is due.” Robin begins to sing a strange, haunting tune, in a melodic voice.
“ There were two birds sat on a stone,
Fa, la, la, la, lal, de;
One flew away and then there was one,
Fa, la, la, la, lal, de;
The other bird flew after,
And then there was none,
Fa, la, la, la, lal, de;
And so the stone
Was left alone,
Fa, la, la, la, lal, de.”
Clement scratches his head. “I never heard such a song,” he says. But Robin only smiles and shrugs, lightly.
“Ah,” says Friar Sidrach. “I have heard some most troubling news. Most troubling. It appears that a fellow associate of yours is no longer with us. May the Five keep his soul.”
“Who?” asks St. James.
“His name was Carter,” says the friar. “I believe he worked for Grand Master Edric.”
“Oh,” says St. James. “I thought you were talking about someone I cared about.”
“How did poor old Carter die?” asks Valerius.
“It is quite strange, quite—I assure you,” says Friar Sidrach. “This Carter, it seems, was dispatched to the west on an important mission for his order. Something about a great ruined keep, on an island. Evidently the Seekers had established a presence on this island, but suffered a serious setback last fall. Nearly wiped out to a man, and Carter had been sent to investigate.
“It is said that these ruins are filled with all manner of foul things, all Wormspawn, and that Carter was slain by some of these abominations while exploring the endless tunnels that wend and wind beneath the keep. An awful end, I must say. Just awful. Evidently his corpse was so terribly damaged that there was no hope of bringing him back. May the Five keep him.”
“Yes,” says Valerius, absently.
Robin says, “That tale reminds me of a riddle, thus:
“As round as an apple, as deep as a cup
And all the king’s men can’t fill it up.”
“Huh?” says St. James.
“I don’t know that one,” says Clement. “We used to play at such games at bishop’s school. It passed the time between reading dreadfully tedious classics. All the king’s men, eh?”
But Robin only smiles, flips a coin in the air, and catches it without looking.
“Well,” says Mendelor, “I have heard that the ruck-men are on the move. They ambushed a patrol just a couple of hours ride east of Heremac.”
Hamral nods, and Mendelor continues.
“There were about a dozen footmen, just raw recruits, and a couple of mounted serjeants. The spotted some smoke and moved to investigate. The came upon a clearing and found what looked to be an abandoned ruck-man camp, probably from the night before. There was a fire, still smoldering.
“So the serjeants call for their men to look sharp, and just then they get pinned down by some archery. Evidently the ruck-men had a squadron of archers hidden in the woods. The serjeants called a retreat, and beat feet to the nearest outpost. They got lucky and only lost a couple of men. Those ruck-men can’t shoot well in the daylight.”
Hamral clears his throat.
“But just knowing they’re operating in daylight says something.”
Mendelor nods at this. “Anyway, when the patrol returned later with reinforcements, they spent the rest of the day combing the surrounding woods. They didn’t find any ruck-men, but it looked like there had been about a dozen or so.”
Robin hums, and begins to sing.
“Riddle me, Riddle me
Diddly-dee
Guess me my riddle
And I’ll give you a key.
A red-faced fellow
Fat and round,
Stave in his hand
And a stone in his throat.”
“What the hell,” says St. James. “Diddley dee?”
“Watch your tongue, lad,” snarls Garnfellow. “That’s my friend Robin.”
Robin only smiles. “No matter, Garnfellow. There’s no harm done.”
“Er, yes,” says Garnfellow. “Whatever you say. Horrible ruck-men. Unworthy opponents for a knight. Perhaps it is those devils that are plaguing Groveton.”
“What’s that?” says Mendelor.
“Groveton—have you not heard, lads?”
“Uh, no,” says St. James.
“By the Cup!” cries Garnfellow. “I heard a man tell, just the other day, about Groveton. This man was a traveler who had happened through that town, and brought the following tale of woe. Mark it well, lads. Obviously this traveler had heard that Sir Will Garnfellow was a knight of renown, for he must have sought me out.”
“Hurry, Sir Girth,” says Clement.
“Well—er—yes. In any case, this poor man told me that Groveton has been haunted by some sort of devil. Late at night, the villagers can hear wild howling and eerie, demoniacal laughter, coming from without their stockade walls. Now the master of Groveton, a knight whose name I forget, swore that he would find the cause of these Shaithim-damned cries. And so, one night, he and his most loyal retainers sallied forth from the stockade walls, to meet this devil in combat. And they never returned!
“Needless to say, the traveler swore that his tale was true. And apparently, the cries are getting worse each night. Were I not consigned to Heremac to fulfill pressing business, I should think that I would make for Groveton myself. By the Five, I would teach that laughing jackanape a thing or two! But this talk has dried my throat. Golding! Golding! Some ale to this thirsty knight! And some mutton—yes, I need mutton! And some for my friend Robin, as well!”
“Does that story remind you of a riddle?” asks St. James. Robin cocks his head for a moment, then answers,
“A house full, a hole full,
You cannot gather a bowl full.”
St. James furrows his brow for a moment. “Are you ever going to answer any of these stupid riddles?”
“I know the answer to that one,” says Clement. “It’s smoke. Or sometimes, mist. That’s an old one.”
Robin laughs, and with a flourish produces, out of nowhere, a fistful of dandelions, which he presents to Clement.
“Intriguing,” says Valerius. “And I also have some interesting news. I have ascertained more intelligence regarding the great Worm of Deal. It would appear that in the last year there have been several reports of such a beast; most of these stories originate from either Deal itself, or the surrounding environs. I have, with much consideration, winnowed out the spurious and impossible information, and have arrived at the one account that I consider reliable.”
“And that is?” asks St. James.
“Two months ago, a Harpish merchant was traveling through Kirke, on his way to Heremac. He was transporting a few very precious items of a religious nature. Without any warning, a strange fog came up, obscuring all sight. And out of this nebula slithered a gigantic grey worm, similar in appearance to the one described to us in Deal. At this sight, the merchant and his guards panicked and fled, leaving behind their wagons and their goods. When the men returned later, they found no mist, no sign of the worm, and none of their wagons or merchandise.”
Robin has pulled from his cloak a tiny silver knife, of delicate shape and cunningly intricate inlaid design. Robin absently spins the knife on the table, like a top.
“Well, that’s all well and good,” says Clement, “But I’ve heard a story that beats all that. I have thought about setting it to music, for it would make an excellent lay.”
St. James sniggers.
“This story reminds me of a similar one told by the Tynan poet Levius—but no matter. There was a farmer in a town south of here, almost to Canglen. A widower he was, and lonely. And he was fishing one day in stream, and he catches the largest, most beautiful trout he’s ever seen. Now, just as he hauls this fish onto the bank, the fish begins to speak, and it says to him, ‘Please, please, let me go, and I’ll give you that which your heart most desires.’ So the man, never seeing a talking fish, obliges.
“So as soon as the trout plashes into the water, then who should appear before him, but a beautiful faery maid, more lovely than any mortal woman. And she tells the farmer, ‘I shall be your wife, and you may see me any time you come to my stream. But you must promise to never tell another man of any of this.’ And the farmer agrees.
“So this faery maid become his wife, and he visits her almost every chance he gets. But the farmer has a brother, see, and the brother wonders where the farmer goes all the time. So he asks, but the farmer only says, ‘To the stream.’
“‘Now the brother, he’s suspicious. As the scripture says, who shall know a man’s heart, if not his brother? So the brother decides to secretly follow the farmer to the stream one day. So he hides in a tree, as the farmer walks down to the stream. And the brother watches as this lovely maid comes out of the water to greet the farmer. Now the brother is so surprised by this sight that he falls out of the tree. The faery maid sees this, and screams. ‘I told you never to tell another man!’ she cries, and jumps back into the stream before the farmer could explain. And the farmer calls out for her to come back, but she doesn’t.
“Now the farmer, he’s broken-hearted, and every day he goes down to the stream, and calls for his faery maid, and weeps. But she never comes.”
Robin laughs a little a this. He stands up, a draws his cloak tight. “Goodnight, my friends. I’ve liked these evening tales.”
“Hey, not so fast,” says St. James. “There are enough freeloaders among us as it already stands.”
“Excuse me?” says Robin.
“The bill,” says St. James. “There’s a certain matter of a bill. Garnfellow couldn’t pay for all of your expenses”
“Oh, yes,” says Robin, laughing merrily. “My humblest apologies, Sirrah. This wonderful ale must have gone to my head. Well, as you have been such entertaining companions this long night, please let me pay you your due.” Robin draws from his cloak a plump money pouch, and tosses it onto the table. It lands with a heavy clanking sound.
“I believe,” says Robin, “That this should more than adequately cover my expenses. Now, my good men, I must bid you adieu—I have tarried long enough as it is.”
He bows deeply and dramatically. As Robin trips out the door, St. James gasps with delight.
“By the Hammer, look at this,” he says, emptying the purse out in front of everyone. Several pounds worth of silver pour out, and intermixed are some other coins that glitter as gold.
“This shall cover all of our drinks, for tonight and the rest of the month!” exclaims St. James, shoveling the coins back into the purse. “Garnfellow, any time you want to introduce us to friends like that, please do!”
“Yes,” says Valerius, his lips tight. “But where did you meet him, Garnfellow? Where does he live?”
“What?” says Garnfellow. “Why, I don’t know that fellow. I… I only just met him this very night, here in the Boar. He, uh, introduced himself to me. By the Cup, but I suddenly feel quite queer.”
“You said you were good friends with him,” says St. James. “The perils! The lovely escapes! The daring maidens!”
Garnfellow rubs his eyes, and shakes his head, as if trying to awake. “I… I did. I did say all that, didn’t I? I don’t know why I said that. I really don’t.”
“Garnfellow, you’re an addled old fool!” says St. James.
“Or a liar,” mutters Hamral.
“No, lads, I swear it. On my mother’s soul, may the Five keep her, I swear I don’t know that man, and I don’t know why I said such nonsense. Egad, but I feel woozy!”
Valerius frowns. “St. James,” he says, “Show us those coins again. Now!”
St. James dumps the purse open, but all that falls out are bits of bark, a few small stones, a nail, a snail shell, and a couple of beetles, which slowly begin to crawl away.
“Damn!” says Valerius.
“Witchery!” says Mendelor.
Clement looks at St. James, but St. James will take no ribbing. “There’s no way he could have switched bags on me. No way!” St. James moves over to where Robin was sitting; he looks under the table and under the chair. “There’s just no way!”
“A most curious turn of events,” says Friar Sidrach. “Most curious. I have only heard of such weird things happening in fa. . .”
“Hey, there’s something written here!” exclaims St. James.
“What?” asks Mendelor.
“Here, carved into the table,” says St. James, pointing.
“What’s it say?” asks Mendelor.
“To one side,” says Valerius, impatiently. “I must see.” He slips in beside Mendelor, and as he traces his hand across the marks, Valerius murmurs.
“So what’s it say?” asks Mendelor.
“I’m not sure,” says Valerius.
“What?” says St. James. Valerius grimaces.
“It appears to be just one word. A name, perhaps,” he says.
“And?” asks St. James.
“These letters,” says Valerius, “Spell out NIFLOGNIF.”
“Huh?” says St. James.
But Valerius can only shrug in return.