The Bristling Boar Inn, Heremac, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Seven.
Clement, Coric, Hamral, St. James, Mendelor, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius, Sir Will Garnfellow.
It is a cold, late Harfesting morning. An early, light frost has gilded the grass. And on the trees, wisps of yellow and red curl in and out of the branches. The streets of Heremac have been quiet for weeks now as many folk are consumed with the rigors of harvest on the Frounter. In the rye fields on the edge of the Corin river, the gleaners struggle to bring in the crop before the serious cold arrives. And inside the warm, smoky interior of the Bristling Boar, the familiar sound of Sir Will Garnfellow roars forth.
“By the Cup!” cries Garnfellow, raising the wooden bowl to his lips and slurping loudly. “That is the finest cabbage pottage I’ve ever eaten. If a knight cannot eat meat, this is as fine an answer. Well done, Saint James! Well done!” Garnfellow’s yellow beard glistens with cabbage broth, and his eyes glisten as he tears off a large, brown hunk of bread and mashes it into his bowl, sopping up every last bit before stuffing the entire mass into his mouth.
“All that Sir Will requires now is some ale. Golding, do you hear me! More ale! More ale! Zounds, I swear the man is going deaf!”
“Before we left for Lownell,” says Hamral, “I notified the Heremac guard that the Corbiestone may be active again.”
“Really?” says Valerius.
“Yes. But no one has had much chance to do anything. The guard and the Seekers are stretched too thin watching over the harvest. There’s no one to spare. About a week ago, the guard sent out a reconnaissance patrol.”
“And what happened?” asks St. James.
“The patrol ran into an ambush. Just a few miles from Corbiestone. Got hit hard, too. At night. The boys standing watch started to see strange lights in the woods. And then a fog rolled in. And then the ruck-men started dropping arrows down on them.”
“Sounds familiar,” says St. James. Hamral nods.
“Gracious!” says Friar Sidrach. “What happened to those men?”
“They called a retreat. Stumbled their way back through the dark. Lost five men, altogether.”
“So,” says St. James, “Does anyone plan to do anything?”
Hamral nods. “The Seekers intend to march on the Corbiestone. They hope there’ll be enough time between the end of the harvest and first snow to mount a quick campaign.”
“Interesting,” says Valerius. “That should be a nice present for Godwin’s master.”
“Speaking of snow,” says Clement. “Are the rest of you still intent on venturing to the Blackwell? It will soon be difficult to travel far—All Hallow’s Eve is only a few weeks away, and first snow is likely to fall soon after.
“As you may know, friends,” continues Clement, “that should you decide to make for the Blackwell, I cannot accompany you. Heremac is my home, now, and I have—other concerns to keep me here.
“But I have heard some interesting things regarding the Blackwell. I recently met a young man named Anders. He is a serving brethren of the Seekers. Evidently the Blackwell is very much on the minds of his Order these days. Anders says that the Seekers are building some sort of permanent fortifice near the Blackwell, to support their forays into that dread place. Anders confirms that the Blackwell is full of many terrible dangers.
“He told me that somewhere, deep beneath the earth, is a great stone idol in the midst of a maze. The idol is terrible to behold, as it is fashioned in the form of a gross demon. It is said that the idol can speak, and even grant wishes.
“However, the idol often speaks false, and it is also able to trick those foolish enough to speak with it into forfeiting their souls, which are then devoured utterly by the idol. Anders said that when the idol speaks, it speaks in the voice of someone whose soul it has eaten.
“But Anders also tells me that there are fabulous treasures in the depths of the Blackwell. He told me of a powerful magical item that the Seekers recovered this past summer, more powerful than anything known to the Royans. It is a great bronze helm, strange and fluted in form, encrusted with many gems. Each gem has its own magical power. One gem even causes the wearer’s sword to burn with flame, much like Orland’s sword of legend.”
“Well,” says St. James, “I think we should go get those ogre-things I’ve heard you guys talking about.”
“Ogre-things?” asks Coric.
“A long story,” says Hamral.
“Yes, indeed,” says Valerius.
“Well sir,” says Coric, “I would like to hear about these ogres that is, if it would not be too much trouble.”
“Ah,” says Valerius. “I once had a companion named Shakerly. A great, burly man was he. Formidable in a fight, but alas—he had difficulty in avoiding trouble.”
“He wasn’t the only one,” says St. James wryly.
Valerius doesn’t to notice this comment. “This Shakerly and I were captured by a nasty band of ogres. We, of course, were able to escape—ogres may be large, but they are also exceedingly dim. And in the course of escaping, we were able to free Cynthia Carder, the merchant’s daughter with whom our friend Clement here is smitten.”
“Gracious!” exclaims Friar Sidrach. “That was a fortunate turn of events!”
“Yes,” says Clement, “Perhaps the luckiest day of my life.”
“Luck?” asks Valerius, with a smirk. “I suppose there are some who might attribute such a series of events to ‘luck’ rather than say, to ingenuity. In any case, we saved the girl’s life, and in exchange, the merchant Carder granted us one year’s free lease of our apartment at Sleping Street.”
“Didn’t you find a magical potion in that ogre lair?” asks St. James.
“Yes,” answers Valerius. “There was.”
“Well,” says St. James. “Perhaps there’s more loot there for the taking. I say we try and take these ogres—after all, how tough can they be? I bet they can’t even read!”
Valerius frowns. “Ogres, my impetuous young friend, are considerably more dangerous than ruck-men. And yet—and yet—perhaps more magical items lie somewhere in the ogres’ den. Intriguing…”
“And I was thinking,” says St. James, “Our lease is up in a couple of months. Maybe we could ‘kidnap’ Cynthia and pretend to rescue her again. Her father might give us two years worth of free rent!”
“What?” says Clement. “What are you talking about?”
“Hey,” says St. James, “It can’t be any where as complicated as that brilliant scheme of Valerius’s, to kidnap the Baronet.”
“Wait,” says Coric, “you mentioned someone named Shakerly. Perhaps he could help us with these ogres?”
“He could have helped indeed,” says Valerius. “But unfortunately, Shakerly is dead.”
“May the Five keep his soul,” says Friar Sidrach.
“Amen,” answers Coric. The friar suddenly sits up and shakes his finger.
“Ah, and that reminds me of a story I have heard lately. Most strange it is, most strange. Have you heard of Antace?”
“Yes,” said Hamral. “It’s a few days march south of here. Beyond Eredy.”
“By the Cup!” cries Garnfellow. “I’ve been to Antace. The king has a castle there, on the edge of a pond. Splendid castle, all stone.”
“Yes,” says Friar Sidrach. “Lorn Pond, I believe, is the name of the pond. On the other side of the lake is an abbey. Or, more properly, what is left of an abbey. Several years ago the Bergenian Order built an abbey there, but it was overrun by ruck-men a dozen years ago or more, and now lies a ruin. Terrible business, that. Just terrible.
“Now the men of Antace, they fear the place greatly. It said that the ruck-men killed every single monk there, and that the very stones of the place sometimes weep blood.
“Since last spring, the men of Antace have reported many a queer thing about the abbey. Sometimes, they say they can see lights across the pond, where the abbey lies. Sometimes, they swear they can hear moaning across the water, late at night. Fishermen say they can see figures moving among the ruins.”
“Ruck-men?” asks Hamral.
“Perhaps,” says Friar Sidrach, “Perhaps. Though the men of Antace swear that the ruck-men fear the ruins, as well.”
Mendelor shakes his head, “Why doesn’t Antace send out a patrol?” he asks. “Why don’t they just raze the ruins?”
“A good question, my son,” says Friar Sidrach. “A good question indeed. I suspect that the men of Antace are perhaps more fearful of the place than they are curious. But also, the ruined abbey has until recently been only an oddity.”
“Until recently?” asks Valerius.
“Last month a foolish woodsman declared that he had no fear of the abbey, and that he wanted to have a look at the place. He left Antace one morning, vowing to be back the next day. But he never returned…”
“Bah,” says Mendelor. “Anything could have happened. He could have run into a bear. Or ruck-men. Hell, a damned tree could have fallen on him.”
“Perhaps,” says Valerius, stroking his thin beard, “Perhaps…”
“Speaking of missing woodsmen, I’ve just heard the damnedest story myself,” says Mendelor.
“Really?” says Valerius. “Do tell.”
“Well, due west of Heremac, on the other side of the Corin, is Hoarden Hill. And on the other side of that hill is the Westwoode. Well, a couple of woodsmen out of Tymgram decide that they might try to hunt around the other side of the hill, to see what kind of game they can scare up. Right?
“Well, alright, so these woodsmen spend a couple days hunting, and they have real good luck, so they keep pushing further and further west. Only, on the other side of Hoarden Hill, the woods get awfully thick. Damned easy to get turned around in a patch of ground like that.
“So anyway, one of the men wounds a hart, and they go crashing through the woods trying to find it. Well, while these fellows are running around, they manage to get separated. So one of the woodsmen, he says to himself, ‘To hell with the deer—where’s my friend?’ So he hunts and he calls and he hunts some more. But no friend. And it’s starting to get on in the day. But still no friend.
“So this fellow is starting to get real nervous, when all of a sudden he sees something in a clearing up ahead. Something bright, like his friend’s red shirt. And sure enough, by the time he gets to the clearing he can see that it is his friend’s shirt. And there’s his friend. Lying on the ground.
“Right away the fellow knows that something is wrong. He tends to his friend, but soon find that he is as cold as clay, and still. But this is the queer thing—there’s not a single mark on his friend. Well, maybe not quite. Right on this dead friend’s neck are a couple of wounds, like pinpricks. And a little bit of blood.
“Just then, the fellow hears a noise. He turns around, and there is this woman, robed all in white. Or at least he thinks it’s a woman, because her face is completely hooded. She gestures for him to come closer, and says some strange words that this guy’s never heard in his entire life. And when he still doesn’t come, the robed woman seems to get angrier and angrier, repeating these words over and over.
“At this point, the woodsman is terrified. He runs off into the woods and makes for Tymgram as fast as he can. He doesn’t stop to eat or sleep or clean out his pants. He just runs. And when he reaches Tymgram he collapses from exhaustion, and it takes him a couple of days to get enough strength back to even wake up. He asks the parish priest to hear his confession, and he tells this story.
“Now the priests listens to all this, and he’s a little amazed, but he’s a bit skeptical, too. But then the forester gets to the part when he sees the robed woman, and she speaks to him.
“And when the woodsman tells this part of the story, the priest nearly falls out of the confessional. ‘Where did you hear that?’ asks the priest, over and over, and over again. But still the woodsman doesn’t change his story.”
“So what the hell got the priest so rattled?” asks St. James.
“Those words the woman spoke, that the woodsman couldn’t understand? She was speaking Tynish, the same stuff that the priests jabber on in during Mass. Strange, no?”
“That indeed is a strange story, Mendelor,” says Coric. “And while I have nothing so weird to offer, I have heard a few things myself in the last few week. Perhaps you may find them interesting?”
“Tell on, Coric,” says Valerius.
“Thank you, Sir. I have heard that several of the merchants in town are very concerned about transporting their wares in the winter. I understand that there are many dangers, which is to say nothing of the terrible weather. I myself have not yet spent a winter on the Frounter. But I have heard many stories.
“The merchants, I hear, are at a loss. The Heremac guard has a limited range, and can only offer protection within a few miles of the town wall. And the merchants do not want to pay the high costs commanded by the Seekers or Warders for escorts…”
“Intriguing,” says Valerius.
“Ha ho, lads!” cries Garnfellow. “Adventure abounds! Many are the choices we face!”
“What do you mean, ‘we,’ Sir Girth?” asks St. James.
“Sir Girth? Ha!” cries Garnfellow, smashing a beefy fist into St. James’s back, making the young man suddenly wheeze. “A good one, Saint James. For that fine jest, I need an ale. And perhaps another bowl of that marvelous cabbage stew. King Weremach himself eats little better. Golding! Golding! By the Cup, where is that ingrate?”