Antace Village, XXVI Whitland, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Seven.
Coric, St. James, Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius.
Inside the infirmary of Father Theodore’s parish, St. James lies stricken on a bed of straw. Two villagers lie nearby, felled by the pox. Around St. James clusters his companions; the young man’s face is pale and sickly, and his breathing shallow. Outside, the wind howls as a terrible snow storm continues to bury Antace.
“And how is young Saint James coming along, Friar?” asks Valerius, turning to Friar Sidrach.
“Ah, he’s better, much better—but has far to go. The lad is really quite fragile, you know, and he was very near to death.” The Friar draws back the poultice on St. James’ chest, and reveals a black patch in the shape of an outstretched hand, seared into the flesh.
“Good St. James will bear this mark all his days, he will. But other than that, and a few bad dreams, the lad should be as right as rain—the Five willing.”
Valerius frowns. “Has he regained consciousness?”
“Nay; the lad sometimes tosses and turns in nightmare and cries out. At other times he calls for his Maggie.”
Coric touches the black patch, and recoils.
“It’s cold, isn’t it,” says the Gerardian.
“Friar, what were those things we fought?” asks the boy.
Friar Sidrach’s features tighten in an uncharacteristic grimace.
“Those? Those? Ah, those were the unclean, the despised, tormentors of the living. Souls that have no place in this world, and exist only in blasphemous mockery of the Five. They are of the Pit, and the Shaithim.”
The Friar replaces the poultice on St. James and murmurs a quick prayer before returning his attention to Coric.
“You see, my son, when a Pentian man dies, his soul speeds to Purgatory— unless he is a saint, without any blemish of sin—in which case the gates of the City stand wide open for his soul. Now, if the man were a great sinner in life, and dies unshriven, his soul unerringly plummets to Perdition, and everlasting torment there.
“But for most of our souls, it’s Purgatory—where we must account for each and every one of our sins committed in this wretched world. Once our souls have been cleansed of these impurities, then—and only then—may we be admitted into the Shining City.
“Now these unholy things we encountered at Lorn Abbey—they cheat the fate decreed to them by the Five. They had died, and their souls should rest far beyond this world. It is a foul joke of the Shaithim that these monstrosities should walk the earth again. They are the restless dead, consigned to wander the earth until either they are destroyed or until Reckoning Day.”
Coric shudders.
Mendelor nods, taking all of this in. “You were able to drive those damned things back, sometimes.”
“Aye, they are the Shaithim’s minions, and are despised before the Five. Men of faith can drive them back. They shrink before the pure light of the Five; the touch of holy water or a pentifix burns them like fire burns the living.”
“What were those other things,” asks Coric, “the ones with dog-like jaws and fangs? They couldn’t have been men—were they demons?”
But it is Valerius who answers this question, to the surprise of everyone. The lanky man’s face seems to betray a hint of amusement.
“Demons? Those? Those, my inquisitive friend, were no demons. Indeed, men they once were. They are what the ancient Heracheans would term necrophages: eaters of the dead. Souls brought back from the outer darkness and made to feast on the flesh of men, both living and dead. Necrophages are transformed into their bestial form, and though their intellect is shattered in the process, they retain a certain cunning.”
“What about that necker-thing that was dressed like the prior and spoke?” asks Coric.
Valerius can only shrug. “Perhaps he really did see the Shaithim…”
Now both Friar Sidrach and Coric shudder.
“So Valerius,” says Mendelor, “Have you been able to learn anything about the loot we brought out of the abbey?”
“I have been able to deduce a few things,” says the tall, lanky man. He brings forth a tattered scroll of parchment, and unfolds it. “This document contains a special prayer, which should have the power to cure blindness or deafness. I have no use for this myself, but perhaps the good Friar may…”
He hands the scroll to Friar Sidrach, who responds with “Praise the Five!” Valerius continues, bringing forth the two lead vials that were found beneath the Abbey. On seeing these, Mot grows suddenly agitated.
“These make me feel good!” he cries, his broad, homely face beaming.
“Yes,” says Valerius slowly, before returning his attention to the flasks. “As for these two, I can discern only that the contents of both flasks are of a… special… nature, but beyond that.… Regardless, we now possess four such special waters, without any indication what their properties might be. Now gentleman, doubtless experimentation will prove an ineffective method of testing such precious materials. Perhaps we should seek the counsel of experts.”
“If I may, sir,” says Coric, “What experts?”
“The Bergenians of Heremac have considerable experience in formulating such potions. Perhaps they might be able to identify the contents of our flasks.”
“How much?” asks Hamral, but Valerius can only shrug.
“I shall make the appropriate inquiries when we are back in Heremac. And I shall also exchange our precious stones for something more easily divided amongst our numbers.”
“What the hell,” says Mendelor. “Easy come, easy go.”
“Hey,” warbles a thin voice, “Don’t be so quick to spend my share. Maggie will want some of that…”
The entire group turns to see St. James, his eyes half open.
“How do you feel, my son?” asks Friar Sidrach.
“I’ve had the worst dreams. I think I saw Shakerly…”
“Quiet, my son,” says the Friar. “No need to exert yourself.”
But the young man is already asleep.
“Will he be able to travel soon?” asks Hamral.
“Not in weather such as this,” says Friar Sidrach. “Though I suspect that this snow will end soon.”
“I hope so,” says Mendelor. “It’s been snowing for a week now. And it’s colder that a hag’s hoochie.”
“Well,” says the Friar, “We may be back in Heremac for the Yule.”
The Bristling Boar Inn, Heremac, II Yule.
Coric, St. James, Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius, Sir Will Garnfellow.
It is the second day of the Yule, a five-day celebration that is the most important winter feast on the Pentian calendar and marks the end of the year Nine Hundred and Seven. The streets of Heremac are swollen with pilgrims who have traveled here through snow and cold to see the Shrine of St. Marius, said to be built on the very spot where that famed martyr was visited by an angel. Throughout the town merchants hawk special goods to commemorate the event, and angels seem to adorn every window and door. Brad Searle the baker offers spiced Yule cakes shaped like trumpeting angels. Each day St. Wellman’s parish is thronged with good Pentians come to hear Yule Mass. And everywhere men tend the Yule fires, in which handfuls of dried oak leaves are burnt, symbolic of the cleansing of sin. Even the notoriously unsentimental Tom Golding offers a special mulled wine beside his standard ales, and the common room of the Boar resounds with cries of “Wassail!” and its rejoinder, “Drink Hail!”
“By the Cup!” cries Garnfellow, poking at St. James, “What is this drowsy lump!”
The young man barely stirs from his lassitude to wave the great man away.
“Leave off, Sir Girth,” he moans.
“Why, Saint James,” says Mendelor, “The last time I saw you looking so badly, you were at the Gates of the City. You can’t tell me that Mags is that rough.”
The table bursts into laughter.
“Piss off,” St. James murmurs, slumping forward. “I just need some rest.”
“Friar,” says Mendelor, “I think you need to tend to our friend. You think you could whip up a little healing miracle?”
“Gracious,” says Friar Sidrach, “I do not think that the Merciful Five would help with Saint James’s… particular… injuries. Though the Five could surely help prevent future mishaps.”
St. James mumbles something unintelligible.
“Well,” says Valerius, “I hope that Saint James has not yet expended all of his fortunes. We may wish to invest our gains into a group endeavor.”
Valerius nods to Mendelor, who reaches down, and with a heave, brings forth a small, plain wooden chest and places it on the table. It is obviously quite heavy.
“I have sold the gems we recovered from the ogres and the abbey, and I have exchanged the copper coins. Altogether, it is a handsome profit: one hundred pounds of silver, altogether, to be divided amongst us.”
“What about Mot?” asks St. James, somewhat more alert now.
“I fear that I do not follow you,” responds Valerius.
“What share of the loot is Mot going to get?”
“Well, he risked his life just as much as any other man here,” says Valerius.
“Yeah,” says St. James, “But he seems to be working for you. Maybe his pay should come out of your share.”
“We can discuss the specifics of this transaction some other time,” says Valerius with a wave of his hand. “Before we divide this silver, perhaps we should entertain a group investment. I understand that the good Bergenian monks will attempt to identify the contents of our flasks—for a price. The standard charge is five pounds, silver, for each flask.”
“That would be, what… Hell, that would be a lot of silver,” says St. James.
“We would still be left with eighty pounds,” says Valerius. “Which is still a great fortune. Let us not make any hasty decisions; let us table the discussion for now.”
“Agreed,” says Friar Sidrach. “Perhaps we should consider what shall we do after the Yule?”
“A very good question, friar,” says Valerius. “Indeed.”
“Bah,” says Garnfellow, “There are still three more days of feasting before any decision needs to be made. Now is the time to celebrate the Yule.” The fat man stands up, a bit unsteadily, and holds his cup of wine high over his head.
“Wassail!” he cries, and the rest of the group hold high their own cups, and shout forth the traditional response: “Drink Hail!” And everyone drinks to the coming new year.