The Village of Deal, XXI Drieland. Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Seven. After None.
Clement, Hamral, St. James, Mendelor, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius.
“Well now, what do we have here?” murmurs Valerius, softly.
“It’s more of that damned hell-brume,” exclaims one villager. “And may the Saints preserve us.”
“Brume?” asks St. James.
“Fog, or mist,” interjects Clement.
Friar Sidrach has already approached the fat man on the ground. “Do not worry, my son,” says the Gerardian, kneeling over him. “You are safe now.”
“My brother…” gasps the man. “Giles…”
“St. James,” calls Friar Sidrach, “Some water for this poor soul—and quickly, I beg of you!”
St. James rolls his eyes, but is soon back with a dripping ladle of cool water. The fat man sips eagerly.
“Thank you, thank you,” he cries.
“Now,” says Friar Sidrach, “Tell us what happened.”
Mendelor, Valerius, and Hamral stand among a dozen or so villagers, watching the strange, swirling cloud.
“Have any of you ever seen anything like this?” asks Valerius. Several men nod, including the toothless old storyteller.
“Aye, I have seens it many a time. Never lasts long, but ‘tis a bad sign. Why, there was this time when I was…”
Valerius turns his attention to the fat man.
“Giles and I,” says the fat man, “We were traveling to Heremac… with some iron. For the Seekers. When… this mist… this mist suddenly appeared in the road. Our manservant Godwin jumped off the cart and ran away and… Oh, damn that cowardly Godwin… and we rode right into the fog. And… and suddenly, this awful snake appeared! It was gigantic… awful, oh just awful. I screamed and ran, and ran, and… I ended up here. But Giles… I don’t know what happened. I don’t know! I don’t know!” The fat man begins to weep. Friar Sidrach stands up.
“The fog is still there?” he asks.
Mendelor nods. “Hasn’t moved very far.” The forester looks at Hamral. “What say you? I never killed a giant worm before.”
“I’m not about to go charging into the unknown,” says St. James.
“Anything could be in there and we wouldn’t know until it was too late,” adds Clement.
St. James nods. “If you think Clement and I are going into that fog alone, you are a pickled herring short of a half-barrel!”
“I fear this Worm,” says Friar Sidrach. “It must be some spawn of the Shaithim. May the Five Curse their foul name!”
“There is no worm,” exclaims Valerius, stroking his strange, mustache-less beard.
“Huh?” says St. James.
“There is no worm,” repeats the tall, thin man. “It’s all so clear to me now.”
“And the mist?”
“Our good friend Mendelor is correct. This mist is—witchery, and nothing more. A mere glamour—a parlor trick, if you will. Yes, I am certain of it!”
“And how would you know?”
But Valerius only sneers at this question. “Another time, perhaps.”
Mendelor tosses his hand axe from one hand to the other. “Well, enough of this. I’m going to see what’s going on.” And with that, he begins marching up the road, towards the hill and the mist. Hamral smiles slightly and follows. The rest of the party pauses and then hurries after.
“I’ll bet pounds to pennies that there are ruck-men afoot,” says Hamral.
“Hoo-ya!” says Mendelor.
“What the hell?” says St. James.
“Ruck-men: a reasonable conclusion,” says Valerius, “And one that I have arrived at myself.”
The hill is steep, rising a good eighty feet above the village. It takes a few minutes for the party to get halfway up the hill; the brume is still a good two hundred yards off, but some more details can be discerned from this point, and the party pauses for a moment. The cloud appears to be about forty feet wide and twenty feet high. It appears to be centered on the path. Twenty feet to the right of the cloud begins a small birch copse that covers the entire right flank of the hill.
“Can you use the orb?” asks Clement, but Valerius shakes his head.
“The cloud is too far away. I must be much closer.”
“Keep on your toes,” says Hamral. “We’re almost within range of bows.”
“Maybe we should wait,” says St. James, “until that fog clears. Let’s see what more that fat guy on the ground can tell us.”
Father Sidrach takes a deep breath. “May Saint Arleans watch over us,” he intones. “I fear what is ahead—yet we can not leave poor Giles.”
“Did you see that?” cries Mendelor. “I think I just saw someone run out of that mist and into the wood. Let’s go!” he cries, pressing on. Hamral and the rest follow.
“The next big haul,” says Hamral. “I’m going out and hiring some good, stout men-at-arms. This is getting too old for me.”
Mendelor smiles. “What, you never want to see the City?”
After about a hundred more yards, some shouting can be heard up ahead.
“Take cover!” cries Hamral, and the entire party scrambles to get some shelter, jumping behind stumps and large rocks. A volley of arrows clatters down; none come close to hitting anyone.
“Where’d those come from?” asks Hamral.
“From that birch-wood,” says Mendelor, pointing. A second volley falls, but again none come close to hitting anyone. St. James lunges from behind a sheltering log to grab one of the errant missiles. He hands it to Hamral.
“Is it ruck-man?” asks St. James. Hamral glances at the arrow and nods. The party waits for several minutes, but no more arrows are fired. Mendelor stares intently at the cloud, now barely eighty yards away.
“I’m going for it!” he says, finally, sprinting towards the cloud.
“Let’s move,” says Hamral and then follows the forester. St. James nocks an arrow to his string and also advances.
Mendelor gets within ten yards of the strange mist, when the entire cloud suddenly vanishes! In its wake are left an overturned cart, a gutted mule, and a man lying prostrate on the ground.
“Dammit!” cries Mendelor. While St. James and Clement watch the wood, Friar Sidrach and Hamral examine the scene.
“Giles is alive!” cries Friar Sidrach. “Though he’s badly hurt!”
Hamral pokes through the cart. “It looks like they took anything of value,” he says.
“I don’t see any ruck-men,” says Mendelor.
Valerius smiles. “And no worm,” he says.
“So, what made you convinced that there was no worm?” asks St. James.
“It was but a trifling application of logic. Worm of Deal? I had never heard of such a thing: if the ‘Worm’ had truly been native to the area, something so unusual would have been remarked on years earlier. And if the ‘Worm’ had recently arrived—well, suffice to say that greater men than a few hayseed farmers would have taken notice of such an occurrence. And finally, what worm would have use for treasure; any self-respecting hellspawn would have better things to do than commit roadside larceny!”
“Dragons hoard treasure,” says Friar Sidrach. “And They Cast the evil draconians down, and Said unto them, Goeth thee from Our Sight. No more shalt thou gaze upon the shining towers of the City. Thou shalt creep only in dark places and churn beneath dark waters and flutter in the earthly airs. No more shalt thy scales glitter, but shalt henceforth be dull; and thou shalt hunger without respite for the gold and the silver thou hath lost.”
“I knew it was no dragon,” says Valerius.
Friar Sidrach shrugs.
Valerius now brings forth the strange orb, and cries “In Praenomen Perius!” The globe hums, slightly, and casts a faint light.
“I sense a hostile presence,” says Valerius. “In the woods, almost twenty yards away. Moving out of range.”
Mendelor looks to the rest of the party. At the bottom of the hill, several villagers have begun to ascend.
“Before we go any farther,” says Valerius, “Perhaps we should divide our company into two. I shall go with Clement and Hamral; the friar, St. James, and Mendelor shall make up the second group.”
“Well, why can’t I go with Clement?” asks St. James.
“I have considered this most carefully,” says Valerius. “Each group should have a warrior, an archer or slinger, and someone who could—deal with strange phenomena like this mist. The two groups should keep about twenty feet apart, so that we may not all get caught in some more mist.”
Mendelor looks and Hamral and shrugs. “Sounds good,” he says. “Let’s get moving.”
“Mendelor,” says Valerius, “Can you make out any tracks?”
“Half a moment,” says the forester. “The little bastards didn’t waste much time getting out of here. Ho, what’s this! Here, I’ve got a fresh trail.”
Mendelor begins moving, at first cautiously, then more quickly, into the woods.
“Get ready to give him some covering fire,” says Hamral to St. James, who had lowered his bow.
“Can you make out any details, Mendelor?” asks Valerius.
“It looks like there were six ruck-men—little guys. But there’s another set of prints here, larger and deeper, which comes a little after the others: either a human, or their big brother. They’re all making straight for that stream bed up ahead.”
“Watch out for an ambush,” cautions Hamral. Clement and St. James look at each other for a moment, and each murmurs something indecipherable.
After about twenty minutes, the tracks snake down from the hill and into a ravine thirty feet deep and forty feet wide. A small stream, hardly more than a trickle, burbles along the ravine bottom. In the mud can clearly be seen several sets of footprints. They lead upstream about six hundred yards, and then end abruptly. Here the walls of the ravine rise steeply on both sides: cool, bare, rock, colored dark grey and covered with thick moss. And against one of the ravine walls is set a queer door, hardly five and a half feet high. Its outer side is fashioned to look just like the ravine wall. And the little door is partially ajar.
“Well now, what do we have here?” asks Valerius.