The Apartment in Heremac, II Wynding, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Eight. Tierce.
Coric, Hamral, St. James, Mendelor, Friar Sidrach Landry.
The door to the apartment swings open, and an assault of winter morning air rushes into the room. Mot, bundled in several layers of dirty, tattered rags, plows into the room. Behind comes Valerius, hood drawn over his lean face. With a curse he strides quickly to the hearth and warms his hands.
“Cold!” cries Mot, hopping up and down.
“It’s not fit without for man or beast, good Valerius,” says the Friar.
Valerius nods, out of breath, and presses closer to the fire.
“Ah yes, Friar: It is wretched weather outside. But I have been successful in my pursuit.”
“Tell on, sir,” says Coric. “If I may—what did the Bergenians say?”
“You may indeed,” says Valerius, drawing from the folds of his robe four small vials. “You may indeed. It would appear that we possess some rather interesting philters.
“This one,” says Valerius, pointing a small, strangely fashioned glass container, “Was brought from the ogres. It is quite special: one drink can make a man fly like a bird.”
“By the Hammer!” cries St. James. “That could come in handy!”
“Yes,” says Valerius, turning his attention to a plain lead vial. “Quite ‘handy.’ This next one was taken from the hynenanthropes of Groveton. As we suspected, this potion protects the imbiber from harm—although only Mot, Mendelor, or Hamral will find this benefit effective. But should any of you three drink of this, no sword, no arrow, no lance wielded by man may harm you.”
“By man,” says Mendelor, “But what about monsters? I’ve heard stories about such ‘protection.’ There’s usually some catch, somewhere.”
“Ah, very perceptive, woodsman,” says Valerius. “This potion will protect against many monsters, but not all. And note that the protection only extends to mundane means of harm. It will avail you nothing against sorcery or enchanted weapons.”
“I figured as much,” says Mendelor.
“And this draught,” says Valerius, pointing to a battered lead phial, impressed with a pentifix, “contains a powdered bezoar. Very rare and remarkable.”
“Now Valerius,” says St. James, “You know what I’m going to ask. Why the hell can’t you speak plain, man? Just once!”
“Ah, puzzled by bezoar,” says Valerius, almost wistfully. “My apologies—sometimes I forget to whom I speak. A bezoar, my young friend, is a precious stone found in the intestines of certain animals, such as goats or sheep. Bezoars are prized as highly effective counter-poisons.”
“A rock from a sheep’s guts?” cries St. James. “Why did I even ask!”
“And this last vial,” says Valerius, gesturing to the second vial found beneath Lorn abbey, “contains water from the Shrine of Saint Albric at Coole, located at the spring where that fabled saint was first baptized. I have been assured that these waters have very potent healing properties.
“Altogether, a useful variety,” concludes Valerius.
“So,” says St. James, “now that that is settled, what are we going to do next? Has anyone heard anything interesting?”
“Heremac has been quite quiet since the Yule,” says Coric.
“Aye,” adds the Friar. “I’ve seen few new faces in the Boar. Very few.”
Valerius returns the vials to his robe. “Perhaps we should consider again the mysterious lady of Tymgram. I’m sure the offer from the village priest still stands.”
“What will the traveling be like?” says Hamral.
“Well,” says Friar Sidrach, “The weather has been quite mild this last week, quite, and I don’t expect that to change for a few days. The roads are probably as good as we could hope for in Wynding. I should think that we should reach Tymgram in a couple of days. Yes, a couple of days or so should do it.”
“Then let us make ourselves ready,” says Valerius, “And unless anyone objects, we shall set forth tomorrow morn.”
St. Hubert’s Parish, V Wynding. Nones.
Coric, Hamral, St. James, Mendelor, Mot, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius.
Brother Antonius, a small frail man, rubs his hands together.
“I pray that you men will find these humble accommodations satisfactory,” he says, gesturing to a floor strewn with straw. “Fivethanks that you have finally arrived.”
“Father,” says Valerius, “Before we settle in, I have a few questions. I would very much like to speak with Hamm, the woodsman who saw the pale lady.”
Brother Antonius’s face blanches. “I’m afraid that is not possible. Hamm… he disappeared three weeks ago.”
“Disappeared?” asks St. James.
“Yes,” says the priest, “In the middle of the night, it would seem. In the middle of a fierce squall. We found tracks from his home, but we could only follow them for a few hundred yards into the woods before the snow erased all trace.”
“Why the hell would he head for the woods in the middle of the night, and in the middle of a snow storm?” asks Mendelor.
But the priest can only shrug.
“This is an unexpected contingency,” says Valerius, with a scowl. “Are there any new rumors about?”
“Yes,” says Father Antonius, “As a matter of fact, there is some news. It just reached my ears yesterday. It would seem that a patrol of Seekers recently happened upon a rag-tag band of ruck-men, not very far from here. The Seekers, of course, made quick work of the abominations, and were able to capture one of them alive.
“This ruck-man claimed that his band was all that was left of a mighty raiding party that was roaming the Frounter, bent for rapine. They were traveling west of Hoarden Hill when they came upon a mighty castle in the middle of the woods, he said, made of white stone—and here the story gets rather muddled.
“The monster’s commander was delighted to find such an unexpected prize, and immediately ordered his ruck-men forward. I don’t quite understand this next part—but somehow, something in that castle utterly destroyed the ruck-men band. Only the rear-guard survived—and only because they never actually entered the castle. Instead, like cowardly beasts, they fled upon hearing the screams of their fellows.
“The ruck-man who was captured by the Seekers was evidently quite distraught; what I have told you was the only information that the brother-knights were able to extract before they impaled the wretched monster on a stout oak stake.”
“Very good,” says Valerius, gesturing to the door. “I think, kind father, that we would like to have some time to rest and pray, after our long journey.”
“Of course, of course,” says Brother Antonius with a bow. The small man quickly withdraws from the room, and Valerius turns to the party.
“It sounds as if great peril lies before us. Mendelor, are you confident that you can guide us beyond Hoarden Hill?”
The woodsman nods. “Yeah, it shouldn’t be too hard.”
“The fair weather should hold,” interjects Friar Sidrach. “We should be able to depart at first light.”
“Pardon me, Friar,” says Coric, “But I’m not longer certain that’s such a good thing.”