The Bristling Boar Inn, Heremac. All Hallow’s Eve, XXX Storing, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Seven. After Nones.
Coric, St. James, Hamral, Mendelor, Friar Sidrach Landry, Sir Will Garnfellow, Valerius.
It is the last day of Storing month—Hallowe’en, which by tradition marks the start of winter. Outside the Boar it is a chilly, blustery afternoon. Even in the crowded common room the wind without can be heard whenever the conversation lulls. The party has spent almost six weeks in Heremac, including the entire month of Storing: St. James working with his friend Roger and Valerius consumed with “personal business.” The harvest is over, the crop is in—though everyone remarks on what a bad year *907 has been for wheat. The leaves have mostly fallen, and only a few sere stragglers now cling tenaciously against winter.
“At last,” says Friar Sidrach, drinking deeply of the Blackbelly, “We all have a chance to meet here again. I’ve so missed this.”
“By the Cup!” cries Garnfellow, “It has been much too long. Drink deep, comrades! Tomorrow is All Saint’s Day, and then we shall feast!”
As the fat knight speaks, Tom Golding shoos a couple of young boys scarce younger than Coric out of the Boar.
“But please, sir!” cries one of the boys forlornly. “Give’s some fuel to burn the witches!”
Golding shakes his head and mumbles something, but then hands each boy a piece of kindling that he had been hiding behind his back. The boys’ faces brighten as they seize the wood and scamper out of the Boar.
“Aye, to be a lad again!” cries Garnfellow. “Tending the Hallowe’en bonfires! ‘Burning the witches!’ Such fun. There’ll be many a merry bonfire tonight, up and down the Frounter.”
“Imbecility,” says Valerius, acidly.
“Oh, I don’t know,” says Garnfellow, “They say that on Hallowe’en witches sweep through the air on besoms, or gallop along roads on tabby-cats which they transform into coal-black steeds. The fairies, too, are all let loose, and hobgoblins of every sort roam freely about.”
“I have also heard such things, friend Garnfellow,” says Coric. “And have also heard that dead souls return to walk the earth this night. May the Saints protect us!”
“Yes,” says Valerius, “Certainly. Now, we must decide our next course of action; there are many possibilities to consider. Have the Seekers marched on the Corbiestone yet?”
Hamral shakes his head. “They won’t try anything for another three weeks—and then only if the snow has held off.”
“It occurs to me,” says Valerius, “That perhaps our zealous crusaders might have some use for individuals possessing an intimate knowledge of the Corbiestone?”
Hamral nods. “Possibly. The Seekers might want some scouts. And I know a back way in to that place.”
“Intriguing,” says Valerius, folding his long fingers together. “And while I would find it amusing simply to see Godwin’s master entertain a company of Seekers, I must admit that I balk at the notion of Seekers taking all of the treasure from the Corbiestone—which doubtless includes much stolen loot, the enchanted shield and… perhaps additional items of interest.
“Hamral, I proffer the following course of action: you and Friar Sidrach could make some inquiries. We have been to the Corbiestone—some of us twice—and we have had several disputations with this bandit lord. We could offer to accompany the Seekers and provide assistance and intelligence in this nasty matter. All we would ask is first choice and a share of the treasure.”
“I could ask around,” offers Hamral.
“Excellent,” says Valerius.
“And I could also ask around,” says Friar Sidrach, “Although I myself am most interested in the ruined abbey at Lorn Pond. It sounds as though the good men of Antace could use some help!”
“Yes,” says Valerius, “That tale also piqued my interest. I suspect that the ruins of the abbey may hold more secrets than would at first appear. Perhaps Antace should be our next destination?”
“Hey,” says St. James. “What about those ogres? I still say we should go settle that score.”
“In truth,” says Valerius. “I first found this idea ridiculous: perhaps because the proposal came from you, Saint James. But now, no matter—revisiting the ogres has a certain appeal. Yet I am interested in such a venture only if there is a clear profit to be had. I have requested that Clement bring Cynthia Carder around today; she knows more about the ogres’ lair than anyone else. If she believes that there is still treasure to be had there, and possibly magic, the idea would have some merit. And besides, that would shorten up my list a bit.”
Valerius abruptly stops; a slight smile lingers on his face and a faraway look clouds his eyes. But he quickly starts from this reverie.
“List? What list?” presses St. James.
“What? Nothing. Nothing at all,” says Valerius.
“No, you said something about a ‘list,’” insists St. James.
“I said no such thing,” says Valerius. “Clearly you must have misunderstood. Yes, that must be it.”
St. James begins to respond, but stops before any further words spill forth. He sighs, shrugs, and murmurs, “Whatever.”
“In any case,” says Valerius, “we should be able to deal with those ogres and return in time to accompany the Seekers to Corbiestone.”
“There is also the matter of Mendelor’s tale,” says Valerius. “There were certain aspects of that narrative that intrigued me. I took the initiative and dispatched a brief letter to the parish priest at Tymgram, requesting additional information. He responded, and I received his missive yestermorn.”
Valerius draws from his cloak a small wax tablet and begins to read.
“Dear Master Valerius. I apologize for my bad grammar and handwriting — rather!— I am not a great one at letters, but shall try my best. May the Five keep my hand steady and my words aright. I greatly appreciate your offer for assistance; it arrived the same day that I received word from Canglen: Bishop Martin could not spare anyone to investigate this strange incident. I fear that perhaps the Shaithim themselves are at the bottom of this cursed affair.
“The best place to begin, as they say, is at the beginning. In my parish were two lads—Bert and Hamm. Good, simple woodsmen were they. One day a month or so ago, they went out hunting, and were gone for a few days.
“One morning, almost around Tierce, there was a great commotion in the village. I soon discovered that Hamm had returned from the woods, but without his friend. Poor Hamm was so weakened that he swooned, and could not be revived After a day or so Hamm awoke, and asked to be shriven. I came to hear his confession, and he told an amazing tale.
“Hamm claimed that he and Bert were somehow separated one morning, deep in the wilderness beyond Hoarden Hill. When Hamm finally found Bert that afternoon, his friend was lying dead on the ground, with two curious wounds on his neck. Even as Hamm watched, he could see the flesh around the wounds wither and blacken, and this blackness soon spread, just as rot corrupts an apple. Just then, Hamm was startled by a voice. He looked up and beheld a lovely figure dressed all in white, several yards distant. The figure was hooded so that Hamm could not see the person’s face, though he swore that the figure spoke with a woman’s voice.
“Now, may the Five forgive my pride! I am ashamed to admit that I did not believe Hamm’s words. A beautiful maiden, in the middle of the Westwoode? Such a wonder seemed impossible. So I pressed Hamm to tell again his story, and again. Each time the details were exactly the same. Eventually I asked him if he could remember what the woman said. Even though poor Hamm did not understand what she said, he could recall the exact words. I do not mind telling you, as the Five as my witness, that I was quite surprised when Hamm told me that the white figure kept repeating, over and over again, ‘Please stay’ in Tynan! She seemed to be quite vexed when Hamm did not heed her command. Instead, the poor boy was so terrified he fled, and ran back the rest of the day and throughout most of the night, until he reached the village of Tymgram and my villagers discovered him.
“May St. Arleans bear that what I have said is true, and may I be struck dumb before I speak false on this matter. The villagers are sore afraid. Some of the older women in Tymgram can recall old tales, perhaps first told by the foul ruck-men, of a Pale Lady who dwells in a tower deep in the wood, and whose kiss brings death. May the Five speed you here, Master Valerius! Yours in humility, Father Antoninus of St. Hubert parish, Tymgram village.”
Just then Clement enters the Boar, beside him a lovely young girl in her mid-teens. She has dark hair cut a bit shorter than is fashionable and a fair complexion. She scrutinizes the bar, her gaze finally settling on the party’s table. Clement leads her ahead.
“Huloo!” cries Garnfellow. “The more the merrier!”
“Dearest,” Clement says to the girl, “You already know Hamral and Valerius and Sir Garnfellow; this is Mendelor, and this is Saint James, of whom I’ve often spoken—and this is young Coric, our newest addition.”
“I have seen you in Mass at St. Wellman’s, lady,” says Coric, standing and giving a curt bow. Cynthia offers a slight smile and takes a seat.
“Can I get you anything, dearest?” asks Clement, but Cynthia waves him off.
Valerius leans forward.
“Greetings, Mistress Carder. I beg your indulgence—we have a few questions about your experience with the ogres of Wimm Copse.”
Cynthia smiles slightly. “Now I haven’t thought about that for a while. Why, in the Five’s name, would you want to know about that awful time?”
“Well,” says Mendelor, “We’re thinking about a little payback.”
Cynthia laughs lightly. “And what, pray tell, makes you think that the lot of you could seriously threaten these three ogres?”
“We are rather more—seasoned—than we were just a year ago,” says Valerius. “I am wholly confident in our capabilities.”
“Humph,” snorts Cynthia. “We’ll see. But if you think I’m letting Clement go with you to Wimm copse, you’re all insane.”
“But dearest…” begins Clement, but a sharp look from Cynthia silences him.
“In any case,” says Valerius. “We are still interested in hearing all that you know about the ogres.”
“Well, I still think you’re fools to tangle with Gnorrin, Glorrin, and Glogg. I know for a fact that at least four knights have been killed by the ogres—but since you seem determined to kill yourselves, I shan’t interfere. I was kidnapped by the ogres last fall, while I was riding with father and my brother. The ogres kept me through much of the winter as their cook and scullery maid, and more wretched days I have never seen. And then I helped you and what-was-his name—Shakerly—escape.”
“Very good,” says Valerius. “But perhaps you could tell us more about the ogres’ habits. Do they have any routines they observe?”
“Well, they are mostly stay-at-homes. They only venture out when they run low on something, or to visit their ‘Auntie.’ And then they might be gone for a week or two. They go out to raid some poor farmer’s home. The ogres steal all of their grain and meat. They love men’s fare—barley bread, dark beer, beef. They also take great delight in horseflesh. Terrible stuff to cook, I can tell you that. When they aren’t out stealing their next meal, they stay at home. They quarrel often, usually over wrestling matches or knucklebones. Glorrin is the smartest, and usually directs the other two. Gnorrin, his brother, is the largest, and these two fight often over leadership. Glogg is their cousin, and is dim even for an ogre. Several times they wanted to eat me, but I able to talk them out of it. They liked to hear me tell stories; I would make them up on the fly.”
“So,” says St. James, “What’s their house like?”
“House?” repeats Cynthia, “House? They live in a damp, stinking, smoky cave that they’ve dug out of a hill. The caves have a great oak door at the entrance, which they usually keep barred. Just inside the door is their entrance room. I had the hardest time convincing them to leave their boots and wet cloaks in there, rather than tramping all through the place.”
“You were able to teach ogres manners?” asks Friar Sidrach. “Gracious!”
Cynthia smiles. “I had to put my mind to it. Anyway, beyond the entrance room is a large chamber that they use for their common room. There’s a great hearth built there, and usually a roaring fire is made up. They sometimes have furniture, but they break their chairs and tables almost as soon as they bring them in. To the left is a long corridor that leads to a dark, cold cave with a great pit. There they keep prisoners—that’s where you were kept, Valerius.
“To the left of the common room is a corridor that leads to the kitchen and pantry; that’s where I spent most of my time.
“Straight ahead is a corridor that leads to Glorrin, Gnorrin, and Glogg’s rooms. There is also a midden pit back there, and their treasure-room, too. The treasure room is usually secured behind a closed and locked door, but I was able to pick the lock. The ogres only let me in there to clean the place, but I could sneak in at other times.”
“So what did they have there for loot?” asks St. James, with relish.
“Several chests and sacks of coins. Silver pennies, mostly—but also some Tynan gold coins. And there were a few gems. And all the weapons and armor of all the knights the ogres had slain—suits of mail, shields, and a few swords.”
“You found a healing philter in that trove,” says Valerius. “Were there any more objects of… such an unusual nature?”
“There were a couple more flasks. Gnorrin once told me that one such drink could make him fly; he claimed they stole the flasks from ‘a couple o’ fairies’ that they pounded to paste. Glorrin also had some sort of charm that he wore on his wrist like a bracelet. He claimed that it protected him from ‘bad magic.’ Would that I had had such a charm to protect me from vile smells.”
“Intriguing,” says Valerius. “Most intriguing. Now, just how far is it to Antace?”
“Oh, it must be several days distant,” says Friar Sidrach. “Many days indeed.”
“Yes, I thought as much,” says Valerius. “We probably don’t have time to go to Antace and return in time to accompany the Seekers to Corbiestone. We could, however, make for Wimm copse and return in time to join the campaign against Godwin’s master.”
Three young boys slink into the common room and approach Golding.
“Please, sir, give’s some fuel to burn the witches!” they cry in unison.
Valerius curls his lip slightly and looks away. Outside the Boar, it is getting dark, and quickly.