The Bristling Boar Inn, Heremac, IV Hetaire, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Eight. Vespers.
Coric, St. James, Hamral, Mendelor, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius.
With a explosive grunt, Sir Will Garnfellow dashes his flagon onto the table and wipes his lips with the back of his sleeve.
“Fah,” bellows the fat man, “’Tis good to have you lads back in Heremac. With all this trouble about, it’s good to drink deep with old comrades. All of Heremac has been on edge for weeks. The constant drilling, the deployments, the alarms —I daresay no one has had a moment’s peace.
“Now harken, lads—Have I an adventure for you. Do you recall the village of Groveton, which you delivered from those laughing devils last year? Well, just this week past there was a fellow in here, a tinsmith from Oxwell, who had passed through Groveton. It would seem that the village is being plagued by a horrid monster, called by the tinsmith a basilisk, which I take to be some sort of vile serpent, whose very breath can turn a living man to solid stone. The Seekers have no resources to offer succor, and the village knows not what to do.
“‘By the Cup!’ said I, ‘I know some brave lads who could rid Groveton of this menace.’ What say you, lads? Let us make for Groveton, to slay the foul worm-spawn!”
“No!” cry Mendelor and Valerius, in unison. The two men look at each other for a moment, as if startled, before Valerius regains some measure of composure.
“That is,” begins Valerius, “at this juncture a journey to Groveton is… unlikely. And a great knight like yourself surely has little need for assistance. We would probably only be in your way.”
“Oh,” say Garnfellow, obviously taken aback. “You are probably right. Probably… But you know, now that I think on it, that tinsmith was deep in his cups when he told me of the basilisk. Perhaps the whole story was just a besotted fantasy. Yes, that’s it. By the Cup, I’ll not waste my time on a drunkard’s folly—matters of more import await! Basilisk, indeed. Saints’ Bones, but I am thirsty! Golding, an ale for this parched knight!”
“A basilisk?” asks Friar Sidrach, shaking his head. “That is a bad sign, indeed. Indeed. And one of many, I fear in these dark days. Have you heard of the dragon that was spotted on the Harpish border?”
Everyone around the table nods, recounting how such tidings had terrified the town only a few days earlier.
“The Shaithim are abroad,” says the Friar. “Mark me, my sons—and may the Five have mercy on us all. And the ruck-men so terrible this summer. So many good Pentians delivered from this world of suffering in just the last month. Hamral, is there word from the front?”
“Well,” begins Hamral, “After the ruck-men attacked Eredy and sacked Bowlen, the Seekers have been coordinating a massive counterattack. They’ve been pulling in forces from all across Selcrany, including a detachment that’s coming all the way from the Blackwell.
“The Seekers retook Eredy within a week, and then drove deep into the Ruckish Hills. They’ve captured two ruckish watchtowers and burned a large settlement to the ground, and now they’re laying siege on Grimall Keep.”
“Grimall Keep?” asks Coric.
“It’s a ruckish fortress,” answers Hamral, “Set atop a high, barren hill. Very difficult to assault—though the Seekers are claiming that they’ll take the place before harvest. The brother-knights believe that some sort of holy relic, lost in the First Crusad, is buried somewhere in Grimall Keep. So they’re determined to take the place. The Count of Kirke has pledged support, but he can spare only so many men. The ruck-men are giving his own lands great trouble, as well.”
Mendelor nods. “The say the bastards are raiding all up and down the Frounter.”
“Well, why are the ruck-men so bad this year?” asks Coric.
“Several things,” says Hamral. “One tribe of ruck-men, the Fleshrippers, are expanding their territory. They’ve taken several castles and settlements that belonged to the Rotting Eye tribe. And they’ve been probing our own defenses. And of course, all of this has pushed the remaining Rotting Eyes into the Frounter.”
“Fleshrippers?” says Friar Sidrach, “Gracious, they sound awful.”
“They are,” says Mendelor. “Tough bastards, too. A lot tougher than the sneaks we’ve fought. And now they’re poised to attack the Frounter.”
“So, do you think the Seekers are really going to capture this Grimstone Castle?” asks St. James.
Hamral only shrugs. “The Seekers have sworn that they will capture the Yron Citie itself before Edric dies. And he’s getting on in years.”
“I’ll have to pray for the poor souls besieging that castle,” says Coric.
“Yes, an excellent suggestion, my son,” says Friar Sidrach. “And amid all this sadness, I have heard most wonderful news: Bishop Martin himself shall be visiting Heremac this summer, to pay a visit to the Shrine—and to meet with Master Edric.”
“I’ve heard there’s no love lost between those two,” says Clement.
“Perhaps,” says the Friar. “The Canglen Diocese occasionally finds itself at odds with the Order of St. Markham. Mayhap these two men will be able to reconcile themselves, like good Pentians, in the face of this threat from the ruck-men.”
“Speaking of threats,” says St. James, “Did you hear about our own Sir Reginald?”
“I have heard of no such thing,” says Valerius, suddenly very interested in the conversation.
“It would seem that Reginald the Penitent can also add Giant-Slayer to his list of titles.”
“Indeed?” say Valerius. “Tell on, St. James.”
“They say that Reginald slew a giant, taller than Heremac’s highest tower, just last week—a little south of Bellenore.
“I guess the thing had wandered in from the Ruckish Hill, and carried off some cattle and a couple of villagers before Reginald arrived. I guess the giant got a couple of licks in before Reginald killed him.”
“Giant?” says Mendelor. “Hell’s Bells, that’s all we need. It’s been a dozen years since anyone’s seen a giant on the Frounter.”
“Another bad sign,” says the Friar.
“And not the last,” says Mendelor. “I just heard from a woodsman about some damned bad business. There’s this little village, up around Hillsfar, see. And the men there are all sworn to Edric. So a couple of weeks ago, the Seekers send a messenger to this village—Caxbrill, I think it is, to round up some recruits for the big push. Well, the messenger never returns. So the Seekers, well, they suspect that maybe Caxbrill’s filled with a bunch of shirkers, so they send a second messenger, only this one backed up with some mounted troopers.
“Well, they get to Caxbrill, and there’s no sign of the messenger. And there’s no sign of any villager, either. We’re talking three, maybe four score men, women, and children—all of them, completely gone.”
“Ruck-men,” says Hamral, matter-of-factly.
“No,” says Mendelor, “although that would have been my guess, too. But it just didn’t look like ruckish work—not messy enough. Nothing was burned, nothing was broken, no blood, no corpses, just… nothing.”
“I bet I know what happened,” says St. James. ‘Probably the whole village is hiding in the woods, hoping to avoid getting drafted.”
“Well, maybe,” says Mendelor. “That thought has occurred to the Seekers. But the troopers spent the night in a Caxbrill, and saw no sign of any villagers. That’s a lot of people to hide. And what happened to the first messenger?
“And what’s more,” says Mendelor, leaning in and lowering his voice, “The troopers found some odd things. Some weird tracks, of large, clawed feet. And on the outside of the doors of some of the houses, deep scratches in the wood. Damned strange, the whole thing.”
“Doubtless the Seekers are unable to investigate this mystery further?” says Valerius.
Mendelor nods. “They’ve pretty much crossed Caxbrill off, for now. Although after they take Grimall Keep, you can bet your last penny that they’ll be turning their attention back to that little village.”
Garnfellow stands up, a bit wobbly, and bows to the table.
“If you will excuse me, lads,” he says, “I must be off—I fear I’m late for an important meeting. Good night!”
As the fat man weaves off, St. James presses closer to the table, his voice hushed.
“I didn’t want to say anything in front of Sir Girth,” say St. James, “But my old friend Roger has a little proposal for us.”
“And we are believe that any proposal of his offers equitable compensation?” asks Valerius, doubtfully.
“By the Hammer, no,” says St. James. “Of course he’s going to try to cheat us. But if we play our cards right, I think we can make a handsome profit, after all.
“Roger’s got something—I don’t know what yet—that he needs delivered to Bellenore. He needs it sent soon, and quietly, and he needs someone reliable. I don’t know what he’s up to, but he’s pretty nervous about it. And I’ve never seen Roger nervous.
“Anyway, he’s offering us ten pounds of silver to do the job. Mind you, that’s what he’s offering. But he’s so nervous, I think we can bargain for a lot more. What do say? I don’t know about the rest of you, but I could use the coin. I just can’t seem to keep money in my pockets—it seems a queer combination of my lust for spending and the eagerness of others to relieve the burden of its weight from my person.”
Valerius is about to respond when suddenly, the pealing bells of St. Wellman’s can be heard, and in the distance—the bells of St. Arlene’s, and the bells of the other parishes of Heremac.
“What the hell’s that about?” asks Mendelor, jumping to his feet. The rest of the group follows, out onto the darkening street, filling with curious, but eerily quiet townsman. It is a beautiful midsummer night, warm and clear.
And coming down from the north gate, a grim procession: row upon row of men-at-arms from the town guard, begrimed, sweaty, walking slowly and heavily. And behind them, the litters carrying the moaning wounded and the silent dead.
“Damn,” whispers Mendelor.
Hamral grabs one of the men marching by, and pulls him aside.
“We got caught,” says the man, his voice thick and hoarse. “We were out patrolling the other side of Raim, when we got caught… A bunch of damned Fleshrippers came tearing over this rise, overran our left flank. Before we knew what had happened, they were on top of us. They were all around us. We fought our way out of it, and made for town. They harried us all the way to the bridge, they did. We lost some good men. Lots of good men.”
“Errol?” asks Hamral.
“Aye,” says the man, “Errol was with us. You and your father should be proud. When the bastards were on top of us, in the worst of it, the boy kept his head—I saw him bring down two ruck-men himself.”
“Where is he?” asks Hamral, his voice flat, and his face pale.
“I… I dunno,” says the man, looking away. “I lost track of him in the retreat. Maybe someone else…”
But Hamral is already gone, pushing down the line of men, asking here and there after his brother. The dazed guardsmen shrug or ignore him, until a great bear of a man, Harry Morton, a serjeant in the guard, recognizes Hamral. And knowing the unspoken question, Morton only shakes his head, sadly.
Hamral turns, without a word: his whole body seems weighted down with heavy chains.