The Bristling Boar, Heremac, Midsummer’s Night Eve, IV Hetaire, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Seven. After Compline.
Clement, Hamral, Mendelor, St. James, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius, Sir Will Garnfellow.
Sir Will Garnfellow rubs his head; his fat face is flushed.
“I don’t know, lads. I just don’t know what is wrong. This is all so strange.”
Hamral throws back the rest of his ale and slams the empty mug on the table. “Put that on my tab,” he says. “It’s not your fault, Sir Will,” he continues. “That Robin character doped us all with his bag of rocks.”
“Nifloogiginnn—perhaps it’s a word of making,” offers Friar Sidrach.
“Nif… Log… Nif, foolish friar,” says Valerius. “And if it’s a word of making, I would prob.… Let’s just say it’s not a word of making.”
“Enough with this Diddley Dee fellow, there’s still a matter of a bill,” says St. James.
Hamral reaches into his purse and throws some coins on the table. “I’ve eaten more than my share tonight.”
“You know,” Hamral continues, “Those rucks were only two hours west of here. We could set out in the morning, search them out, and be back in Heremac by nightfall.”
“It is my conviction,” says Valerius, leaning forward, “that our most astute choice would be to investigate the Worm of Deal—immediately.” Friar Sidrach frowns at this, but Valerius quickly adds, “And remember, dear Friar, that it was religious items that went missing. After all.”
The Gerardian nods, slowly, before replying.
“Indeed, Indeed. And yet, if there were religious artifacts on that wagon, they’re long gone by now,” says Friar Sidrach. “I would prefer looking into this matter of the laughing jackanape in Groveton. Now Groveton’s not that far off from Deal. On our way back, we could stop in and investigate the Worm. And as for ruck-men, I’m sure we won’t have to look for them if they’re out there.”
Valerius curls his lip slightly.
“If Groveton is ‘not that far off from Deal,’ as you say, then we could easily investigate in Deal first, and then move on to Groveton. What say you?”
“Well,” says Friar Sidrach, “The people in Groveton are in dire need now. Their lord is gone missing, and is probably in danger. Remember the last time we delayed in assisting someone in need? Perhaps that poor soul in Hillsfar could have been saved if we had not tarried. Perhaps. The Five would surely prefer that we helped Pentians, would they not?”
“That makes sense to me,” says Mendelor.
“Yeah,” says St. James.
“But I would like to spend tomorrow scouting for signs of ruck-men,” says Mendelor, and Hamral nods at this.
“I’ll go too,” says Clement.
“I have pressing engagements tomorrow,” says Valerius. “Apparently, I must prepare for a journey to Groveton.”
Valerius raps a long, lean finger upon the table.
“St. James, perhaps you can make an inquiry to your friend Roger. I am curious to find if anyone has been trying to sell any religious items lately. And if so, who.”
St. James nods. “That sounds good. I needed to see Roger tomorrow anyway.”
Suddenly, Friar Sidrach jumps up. “An apple!” he cries.
“What the hell,” says St. James. “I think all that blackbelly’s gone to your head!”
“An apple!” repeats the friar. “A red faced man with a stone in his throat.”
“No stones in an apple,” says Hamral. “Stones in a cherry, though.”
“Yes, yes!” says Friar Sidrach. “A cherry! Why didn’t I see that myself? You’re brilliant, Hamral, brilliant.”
“I guess,” says Valerius quietly, “If one were intrigued by such diversions.”
“Perhaps, then, you may be amused by this riddle,” says Friar Sidrach.
“Motherless I was born,
Toothless I gasped,
Skinless I grew,
My first breath was my last.”
Clement laughs, presses his mouth into the palm of his hand, and makes a rather rude noise. Everyone at the table roars with laughter—except Valerius, who rolls his eyes wearily. Clement drains his ale and stands up.
“And now, one more song before I lay my throbbing head to pillow. It’s of my own make.
Sing, cuckoo, now. Sing, cuckoo.
Sing, cuckoo. Sing, cuckoo now.Summer is y-coming in
Loud sing, cuckoo!
Seed grows and meadow blows
And springs the wood now.
Sing, cuckoo!Ewe bleats after lamb,
After calf lows the cow,
Bullock starts, buck farts
Merry sing, cuckoo!Cuckoo, cuckoo.
Well sings thou, cuckoo
Now cease thou never, no!”
With that, Clement turns abruptly and marches wobbily out of the Boar, while the rest of the patrons chuckle at such a display.
“And I must also turn in,” says Valerius.
“And I,” says Friar Sidrach.
“We should meet here tomorrow,” says Valerius, “After Vespers, to compare notes.”
“And the day after that,” says Friar Sidrach, “We make for Groveton and the laughing jackanape!”
The Bristling Boar, Heremac, V Hetaire. After Vespers.
St. James, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius, Sirwill Garnfellow.
“Ah, lads, I feel much better now, indeed I do. Nothing that a few tankards of Tom Golding’s finest couldn’t cure. Aye, that’s the trick.”
Garnfellow pats his immense stomach. Bits of greasy mutton cling to his bushy beard.
The door to the common room opens, and in step Hamral, Mendelor, and Clement. Hamral walks over and drops a battered, rusty longsword on the table. It falls with a clatter.
“I perceive that your expedition was not uneventful,” murmurs Valerius.
“Yes and no,” says Hamral.
“Then you have encountered the dreadful ruck-men?” says Friar Sidrach.
Mendelor and Hamral look at each other for a moment, then pull up chairs and sit down. Clement drifts to the bar.
“We found ruck-men, all right,” says Mendelor. “Almost two score.”
“Gracious!” exclaims the friar. “How did you escape?”
“Didn’t have to,” says Hamral.
“They were all too busy cleaning gutters,” says Mendelor. “Every last one. No fun left for us, I guess.”
“I have heard of no battle,” says Garnfellow. “And I talked with Sir Gerald the White just this morning. He would have told me of such a victory over the Five-damned monsters.”
“It wasn’t the guard that killed those little bastards,” says Mendelor.
“Then who did?” asks St. James, but Hamral only shrugs in return.
“I think that the ruck-men were killed by—more ruck-men,” says Mendelor. “Crying shame, too. I hate to think I might be out of a job.”
Clement wipes away a mock tear as he approaches the table with a frothy mug.
“I do not understand,” says Friar Sidrach.
“There are all sorts of different tribes of ruck-men,” says Mendelor. “Not all of ‘em get along.”
“Interesting,” says Valerius. “Were you able to deduce which tribes were involved in this altercation?”
Hamral shrugs.
“All of the dead ones looked to be from the same tribe,” says Mendelor. “So we don’t know who the winners were. Maybe they carried their dead with them. Or ate them.”
“Or maybe they didn’t take casualties,” says Hamral.
“I think the losers might have been from the Rotting Eye tribe,” says Mendelor. “Those were the bastards involved in that whole Ordway mess a few years back.”
“Yes,” says Valerius. “Dear, departed Shakerly spoke of such a tribe.”
“Yeah, anyway,” says Mendelor. “It looks like these ruck-men wandered into an ambush. Half of them are riddled with little black arrows, killed where they stood. And most of the rest looked like they were brought down trying to flee the scene. It looked like a real rout. Something scared those bastards but good.”
“They had sentries,” says Clement, “but all of these either had their throats slit or were stabbed in the back. Very efficient.”
“Most of those dead ruck-men were armed with these,” says Mendelor, gesturing to the battered sword on the table.
Valerius idly traces the blade with his fingertip.
“This is of ruckish make?” he asks.
“No,” says Hamral. “This was made by men.”
“Scavenged from battlefields?” asks Friar Sidrach.
“Unlikely,” says Mendelor. “All of the rest of their equipment was in bad shape; no two had the same armor. But these swords—it looks like they had been outfitted with these. I counted fourteen altogether.”
“Look at the rivets on the tang,” says Hamral. “These were forged on the Frounter, within the last few years.”
“Gracious!” says Friar Sidrach.
“Intriguing,” says Valerius. “What do you make of this?”
But Hamral and Mendelor can only shrug in response.
“I saw Roger today,” says St. James. “I asked him about any religious goods suddenly appearing on the market.”
“And?” asks Valerius.
“Roger had no knowledge of anything like that. He said he was keeping an ear out, too. Heremac is really the only market for such trade, unless you go to Canglen.”
“I was talking with some fellows today,” says Friar Sidrach, “and I learned more about the items that disappeared.”
“Yes?” says Valerius.
“I say,” says the friar. “I seem to a bit short on funds right now. Gracious. Do you think one of you kind souls could relieve a parched friar?”
St. James pushes a full mug to the Gerardian.
“Ah, bless you my son,” says the friar, reaching for the ale. “Now where was I—oh yes, the items. The merchant evidently had many small trinkets, cheap little lead pentifixes and such. But also in this shipment were three very precious items. There was a gold inlaid monstrance, a silver statue of St. Arlean, and a jeweled book of scripture, composed as a special birthday present to his Grace, the Bishop Martin of Canglen. This last was a present from the Archbishop of Harplan himself! Each of these items are very valuable. Very, indeed.”
“Fascinating,” says Valerius.
“Well,” says Mendelor, “If there’s nothing further, let’s call it a night. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover tomorrow.”
The Road to Groveton, VI Hetaire. Before Sext.
Clement, Hamral, Mendelor, St. James, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius.
It is a hot, humid day, making for uncomfortable travel. Friar Sidrach’s donkey seems to be in a foul mood, twice nipping Clement when the young scholar wasn’t looking.
“You know,” says Valerius to no one in particular, “This Worm of Deal is fascinating, just fascinating. Think on it: what if this thing is from one of the unseen kingdoms that are beyond numbering? Imagine. Can you not imagine such? No, you cannot, you just cannot. Such a thought baffles even me. The ramifications would be colossal. Why, what if the Worm was some aspect of the Shaithim themselves?
“I don’t, I really don’t want to hear it…” says Friar Sidrach, his voice rising slightly higher than usual.
“Ah,” says Valerius, barely noticing the Gerardian’s discomfort. “It is terrible to suppose. And yet—could there actually be a such an unspeakable force loosed on the Frounter? The possible power…”
Valerius suddenly seems to notice the startled look on his companions’ faces.
“But of course I’m sure that it’s really something else… Really… Trust me…”
Groveton Village VII Hetaire. After None.
Clement, Hamral, Mendelor, St. James, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius.
The journey has been long and weary. The air is thick with wet heat and stinging flies.
“At last,” says St. James, upon seeing the stockade walls of Groveton. “I’ll be glad to get off that Five-forsaken road.”
“And into a nice tavern,” says Clement, “With plenty of fine ale.”
Outside the stockade walls are several acres of fields, with many men and women toiling in the sticky heat. They pull weeds and lug rocks, all the while being overseen by anxious-looking guardsmen in padded armor and bearing spears.
As the party approaches the stockade walls, a shriek cuts through the heat. Peasants are looking around, frightened, and suddenly people start running towards a far end of one of the fields. Before anyone else can react, Mendelor immediately tears off at a sprint himself. Hamral looks at the rest of the party.
“Let’s move!” he says, and dashes after the forester, running through the knee-high wheat. Everyone is converging on a single point, where a woman is screaming hysterically. Mendelor has already passed most of the villagers and is at the head of the pack.
The rest of the party soon catches up with Mendelor, who is now surrounded by a dozen or so shouting villagers. And yet, the ruckus quickly becomes an eerie stillness. The woman who was screaming is quiet now, and wanders slowly in circles, clutching herself and mumbling incoherently.
“What’s going on?” says St James.
“I can’t see,” says Clement. “They’ve found something.”
Soon Mendelor emerges from the crowd, his face pale and his jaw tight.
“Hey, what is it?” asks St. James. “I want to see.”
Mendelor takes a deep breath. “No. No, you don’t.” Then he bends over and vomits, violently. He spits and straightens up.
“I guess they’ve found one of those knights that were missing,” he says quietly. “Stripped naked.” Some of the villagers have turned away from the sight; they appear vacant and shaken, as if looking to the party for help.
“Dead, I am to assume?” says Valerius.
“Oh, not just dead,” says Mendelor, softly. “Not just dead. No. It looks like.… It looks something has been eating him.”