The Bristling Boar, Heremac, XXIV Hetaire, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Seven. After Prime.
Clement, St. James, Hamral, Mendelor, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius, Sir Will Garnfellow.
“And then the abomination was utterly consumed by the creeping vermin. Do you not recall the five plagues that were visited upon the Aeptetean pharaoh by the Five? Praised Be Their Name!” says Friar Sidrach, raising his mug to the ceiling. Several of the patrons of the Boar nod in satisfaction, and turn back to their own affairs.
“By the Cup!” roars Garnfellow. “That’s quite a tale, lads. Would that I had been there with you! Those laughing rascals would have wished their bitch-mothers had never met their cur-fathers! But hearing such mighty deeds fills me with a mighty thirst! Would you share an ale with me, friar?”
“That would be most enjoyable. It truly would. But alas, I seem to have forgotten my purse in all the excitement of returning to Heremac. Such a pity. Perhaps, good knight, you might provide charity to a humble friar?”
“Well, ah, I suppose… I, uh, might be a little short myself,” says Garnfellow. “Ah ha! Why look, here are a couple of coins here in my purse. I must have forgotten all about them. Here, Golding! An ale for Garnfellow! And another for my good friend the friar!”
“May the Five bless you, good knight,” says Friar Sidrach, bowing slightly.
“So, what about those hernia-thingies?” asks St. James.
“Hyenanthropes,” corrects Clement. “It’s a Tynan word for Hyena-men.”
“Actually, it is ultimately derived from the Herachean,” says Valerius. “Anthropos is the Herachean root for ‘man.’ Such loan words have a unique declension.”
“Well, yes,” says Clement. “I guess I remember something like that.”
“Who cares,” says St. James, “whatever the hell you call them. What were they?”
Clement takes a deep drink of his ale before speaking.
“Wicked hyena-men are mentioned in several passages from scripture. They are undoubtedly the foul progeny of Canem and Larith. In the early days, long before Tynar, these abominations dwelt in the desolate land known as Assyron. Many Pentians were forced into slavery in that place, made to sweat and toil for the hyenanthrope’s wicked king, Harrabbanar. These beasts were said to be idle and cruel, and worshiped the foul copper idol of some spawn of the Shaithim. Then the great warrior Jonam led the Pentians out of bondage. Jonam alone would not bow down before the copper idol, and won the freedom of his fellow Pentians by slaying the Assyronian commander, Aliath, with his bare hands.
“Many, many year later, after Tynar grew to be the tyrant of the south, the Tynan legions crushed the Assyron armies, and brought that wicked land unto the empire. Soon the Tynan emperors discovered that they could use the hyenanthropes in their armies, for these abominations were large, strong, and most cruel. Further, they were adaptable and bred like rats: they could go anywhere and be easily replaced. And then—well, those beasts were sent all over the Tynan world, posted at every outpost of the empire. Many were sent to Frilond to fight Brynns and ruck-men. There were large garrisons of hyenanthropes on the Frounter, including right here in Heremac, stationed on Demerian’s wall. It is said that St. Marius was captured by hyenanthropes, and tortured by these evil things before he was martyred by the command of the governor.
“Gaius of Abbermark writes that the hyenanthropes were also lazy and cowardly, and that desertion was a common problem. Like weeds, wherever the beasts were stationed, entire hyenanthrope towns soon sprung up. However, the Kargs feared nothing, including hyena-men. As the Kargs pushed into Tynan lands, they drove the hyenanthropes before them. Now the beast-men live mostly in the Ruckish Hills.”
“Well, the little bastards can stay right there,” says Mendelor.
Valerius leans forward. “Hamral, I have considered this very carefully. It is my belief that you should possess this philter.” Valerius places a small lead vial on the table; it is the one found in the hyenanthrope treasure. “I expect that this potion will make you, like that monster, immune to weapons.”
“Thanks,” says Hamral, sweeping up the vial with his hand. Valerius places four small pouches on the table.
“I have sold those gems, and I have been able to exchange those strange coins for good Selcran silver: 247 shillings each. Those unusual coins were actually of Tynan origin, and rather valuable.” Valerius gestures to the pouches. “And here is your apportionment. I trust that there is no issue with any of this?”
“None here,” says St. James, grabbing a pouch for his own.
Garnfellow looks at Friar Sidrach and coughs, quietly. The Gerardian only smiles in return.
“Ah, why look at this, good knight: your kindness is already repaid in full! Praised be the Five, for such is Their Generosity! And now, dear Golding, a pint of fine Blackbelly for me and my friend!”
“That reminds me,” says Valerius, turning to St. James, “Those five arrows we recovered—I believe them to be enchanted; as you are the only one here for which these commodities are useful, you should perhaps bear them. But I must caution you: they are most precious, and should be carefully conserved.”
St. James rolls his eyes. “Yes, Valerius: I’ll make sure I don’t use them against, say, anyone who couldn’t read. After all, how tough could they be?”
Mendelor stands up and throws some coins on the table. “Easy come, easy go,” he says. “I’ve got a lot to do in the next few weeks.”
“Me too,” says Hamral, standing up.
“I guess I should go see Roger,” says St. James, finishing his ale. “But first to Maggie’s: It’s my birthday tomorrow, and I haven’t seen her for ages. I’ll bet that the old girl’s missed me!”
“Or your purse,” says Clement.
The Road to Deal, XX Drieland. Tierce.
Clement, Hamral, St. James, Mendelor, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius.
“Well, I shan’t think that the good Pentians of Groveton will have much cause to worry about hyenanthropes for a while,” says Friar Sidrach. The Gerardian is attempting to spur his donkey forward, but the animal has decided to stall in the middle of the road. St. James strains on the donkey’s tether, while Hamral and Mendelor try to push the stubborn animal from behind.
“How in Perdition did we get stuck with this end?” growls Mendelor, between heaves. The donkey stands impassively, seemingly oblivious to any of the men’s efforts. Valerius throws back a weary sigh, and turns to the donkey. The tall, gaunt man peers into the animal’s eyes, and suddenly snaps his fingers: the animal immediately bolts forward, pitching Mendelor and Hamral to the ground and nearly trampling St. James.
“What the hell!” he cries, tumbling to one side. “How’d you do that?”
But Valerius and Clement are already many yards away, racing to keep up with the galloping donkey.
“Oh my!” cries Friar Sidrach, trying to hold on to his great, wide-brimmed hat.
“What… did… you… mean… about… Groveton?” pants Valerius.
“Ah, Groveton,” says the friar, finally reigning the donkey in to a slow trot. He pats the animal on the side. “That’s a good beast.”
“Are you ever going to give that stupid thing a name?” asks St. James, jogging up. The friar wrinkles his nose.
“Perhaps, perhaps. Now where was I. . .”
“Groveton,” says Valerius.
“Ah yes, yes, thank you, my son. Groveton… Well, I paid a visit to the Citadel, and Brother Alton. He was very interested in our adventure in Groveton. Very. I understand that the Seekers dispatched a sizable force to that area soon after.”
“With orders to find and destroy that hyenanthrope village,” says Hamral. “And kill every last one.”
“You never quite got over your desire to slay all of the women and children there, did you?” asks St. James. Hamral shrugs and perhaps, even smiles slyly.
“Interesting,” says Valerius.
“I also went to the archdeacon of Heremac,” says Friar Sidrach, “To report the death of the village priest in Groveton. As it turns out, the Church had already been informed, and a new priest was already on his way. While I was there, I asked about the treasure that had been lost in Deal.”
“And?” asks St. James.
“Well,” says the friar, “None of the really valuable things have been recovered. But here’s something most strange. Most strange. Evidently, a fortnight ago some pilgrims were beset by a queer fog south of Deal. Now this fog came out of nowhere, in the middle of the day! And out of this fog came some ruck-men. Luckily, these pilgrims were stout men with staves, and they were able to drive the ruck-men off. The Merciful Five protected them that day! Soon after, the mysterious mist disappeared. In the battle, one of the pilgrims smote one of the ruck-men across the forehead, killing him. On the body they found a small tin pentifix, much like the ones that had disappeared from the merchant train in Deal. Is that not most strange?”
“Curious,” murmurs Valerius.
The Village of Deal, XXI Drieland. After None.
“I swears by all the Saints, the Worm was twenty yards long if ‘e was a stinking el!”
“Yes, yes,” says Valerius, with a weary wave of his hand. “Of course. And you said the poison stinger was where?”
Valerius is addressing a squinting, toothless old man, who has claimed to see the Worm twenty-seven times. As Clement and St. James battle to stay awake, the old man recounts his twenty-first encounter.
“Stinger? Why they was in the tail. Yes, the tail.” The old man notices Valerius’s scowl, and sits up. “Uh, no, wait. Now that I thinks on it, the stingers were in the worm’s eyeballs. Yes, that’s it. Of course. What’s the matter with me? The Worm could shoot these poison stings, just by looking at you.”
“Really?” asks Valerius, no longer attempting to hide his contempt. Just then a scream rips through the village. Mendelor and Hamral jump to their feet, as do several villagers. Friar Sidrach shakes Clement and St. James to wake them.
Mendelor dashes out of the inn and into the town square. Hamral shrugs and follows him; Friar Sidrach offers a quick, mumbled prayer, and also follows. Valerius looks at the remaining party members before exclaiming, “Well, what are you waiting for?” and shooing St. James and Clement out the door.
In the square, a young but very fat man lies on the ground, his chest heaving. His face is red and flushed and slick with sweat. A group of villagers has already surrounded him.
“My brother… Giles…” cries the fat man in a strained, wheezing voice. “Help my brother… Fog… And then… the breath… the breath of the serpent…”
The man tries to turn his head. Several villagers are pointing towards where the fat man is looking, towards a hilltop several bowshots distant from the town. And although the day is cool, breezy, and mostly clear, a strange, billowing mist envelops the crest of the hill, obscuring any sign of the path that wends over the hill.
Mendelor scowls, and spits.
“Witchery!”