Heremac, X Hetaire, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Eight. Sext.
Clement, Coric, St. James, Mot, Renton, Valerius, Friar Sidrach Landry.
The day had begun badly, with a fierce rain shower darkening the town. But shortly before the appointed time, the sky cleared—many burghers remarked that such providence was sure sign the fallen militiamen were favored of the Five.
Slowly, the procession makes its way through the narrow, twisted streets of Heremac. Each pine coffin is draped in a black pall, and rests on a bier carried by Bergenian monks. Behind the coffins follow clergy and black-clad mourners, including both younger and older Hamral, who march beside the widows and fatherless children.
There are eight coffins, each one paid for by the town. Eight bodies had been recovered, and more remain missing. The eight fallen had been taken to the Bergenian Abbey of the Holy Shrine of St. Marius, where monks washed the bodies, anointing them with balsam and ointment, and encased each corpse in a linen shroud. These were then sewn in deerskin and placed in the coffins.
Before the chancel gates of the Shrine, the procession halts, and Abbot Peter himself steps forward to pronounce the words of the Mourning Office.
The Abbot removes his chasuble, censes the bodies and sprinkles them with holy water, saying the familiar Five’s Prayer, in which all onlookers join.
“Mighty Five, who art on High, we beseech You.
Raise us up, who now art low,
And lend us strength, who now art weak.
Show us the way, that we may follow.
Your will be done, on this earth, as in the City.
For You are our Lords, supreme, without end.
Amen.”
Abbot Peter then pronounces the Absolutions.
There is a pause here, and then the cortege proceeds to the graveyard, led by Bergenians bearing pentifixes, sacred books, and thuribles; mourners follow with candles.
Over the gravesites, the Abbot makes the sign of the Five, sprinkles holy water, and offers a prayer. As he steps aside, the team of gravediggers moves forward, and vigorously commences the grim work, to the accompaniment of psalms sung by the monks.
The graves dug, the coffins are lowered, one by one into the ground.
The procession turns again, back toward the Shrine, where Abbot Peter is to offer a special prayer for the continuing siege.
“I hear that the poor souls at Grimall could sorely use our prayers,” says Friar Sidrach. “It doesn’t sound like these awful ruck-men have been giving much ground.”
“No,” answers Clement. “These monsters have proven formidable foes. Tougher, I suspect, than the Seekers had anticipated.”
St. James shakes his head.
“I don’t see why the hell the Seekers don’t just move all their strength against that blasted castle, and be done with it. You know what I’ve heard? The Seekers have patrols scouring the countryside, stopping all strangers, and asking all sorts of odd questions.”
“What sort of questions?” asks Coric.
“I dunno,” says St. James. “Stuff about where people were on this-and-that a date, and so on. What it has to do with taking the Keep, I can’t imagine.”
“Curious,” murmurs Valerius. “And Hello—what’s this?”
Up ahead, away from the cortege, there seems to be some sort of commotion in the street.
“Hey, I’ve had enough of this church stuff for one day,” says St. James, breaking off from the procession. Clement, Renton, Valerius, and Mot follow. “What about you two?” asks St. James, gesturing towards the friar and Coric.
“Go along, my sons,” says the Friar. “We’ll catch up later. Coric and I will make sure to say a special prayer for each of you.”
“Whatever,” mutters St. James, hurrying off.
Up ahead, townsmen are watching a large contingent of Seekers entering the town. The force is large and well equipped, and at the head ride several brother-knights of noble bearing, and arrayed in full panoply.
“Do you know who that is?” whispers Clement, pointing to a large, square faced man in his thirties. His white habit and neatly trimmed beard mark him as a brother-knight, and he rides a great destrier.
St. James shakes his head.
“That’s Gregory the Risen—He’s the first Seeker in memory to be brought back from the dead. The Five do not consent to resurrect just anyone, you know. They say that Gregory there will succeed old Edric as Grand Master someday.”
“Did he really die?” asks St. James.
“Aye,” says Clement. “Gregory fell, a few years back, during the great battle at Ordway.”
“So, why is this Gregory here in Heremac?” asks Valerius.
But Clement can only shake his head. “Gregory was commanding the Seekers at the Blackwell; I understood they were building some sort of fortress there. Perhaps he’s here to assist in the siege. Other Seekers have been recalled from all over Frilond to help.”
“Intriguing,” says Valerius, softly. “Gregory, eh?”
The Bristling Boar Inn, Heremac, XVI Hetaire. Nones.
Coric, St. James, Mot, Renton, Valerius, Friar Sidrach Landry.
“By the Cup!” roars Sir Will Garnfellow. “Lads, Lads, come here—I want you to meet a couple of fine knights.
“This is Brother Omric,” says Garnfellow, gesturing toward a lean, bald, red-bearded man; “And this is Brother Bern,” he says, turning to a young man with curly blond hair and a thin, patchy beard. “These men are Seekers, brother-knights, and fresh from the Blackwell. They’ve served under Gregory the Risen. Old Omric, here, was even at Ordway—left for dead by the rucks. He just got done telling that thirsty tale. Golding! Golding! Sir Garnfellow needs an ale here.”
Tom Golding soon arrives, sweating.
“That’s it, old boy,” says Garnfellow. “How are thee, today?”
“I’d be a sight better, if my common room were full. These bloody ruck-men are killing me. Look around—these tables should be packed with pilgrims, come to see the Shrine. You’d think that it were winter outside. I hope that this ruck-business is over with soon. If you beg my pardon, sirs,” adds Golding, speaking to the Seekers.
“That’s the problem,” mutters Brother Omric, as Golding leaves. “One can’t leave the defenses of a Frounter town in the hands of innkeepers and merchants. Burghers have no taste for war: It’s not in the humor. No wonder the militia suffers such routs.”
“I heard the Seekers aren’t doing much better, sirs,” says St. James.
“Eh?” says Brother Omric, but Garnfellow quickly interrupts.
“These lads have fought against the ruck-men,” says Garnfellow. “They led the rescue party last week.”
“These lads?” growls Omric. “Wonder that the funeral today wasn’t larger. Lads, you were lucky to have escaped with your lives. Fleshripper rucks are dangerously foes. The Five knows that enough Seekers have fallen to them.”
“Good Sir,” says Coric. “The rucks we fought wore mail, like any knight. Where would they have gotten such armor?”
“Ah,” says Brother Bern. “The rucks made it. Yes, pick your chin up off the table. The Fleshrippers are devilishly good at forging weapons and harness. It’s a damned curse from the Shaithim, you may be sure. Even their rank-and-file are often outfitted with mail, iron caps, and wooden shields.
“Their demon-smiths, though, can fashion little else. They would be hard pressed to work even a single horseshoe, and a thing of beauty—well, it would be completely beyond them. And their stuff is crudely made—blades do not hold their edge long, armor is crushingly heavy.
“All rucks excel at murder and rapine—and the Fleshrippers are better than the rest. They’re strong, and well organized. They’re even disciplined enough to fight in ordered ranks. And they’ll stand their ground against mounted charge—most other rucks will break and run once they see a brace of horse bearing down on them. But not Fleshrippers: Most wield pole-arms, and the bastards will cut the horse right out from under a knight.”
“They also employ poison,” says Valerius.
“You have fought Fleshrippers,” says Brother Bern. “Yes, poison, and ruckish fire, as well. And a man would be better off to die than to be captured alive by them—the Fleshrippers are masters of torture. Where do you think their name came from?”
Many at the table nod at this.
“Good brothers,” says Coric. “I have heard many things about this Blackwell. Is it really as they say?”
Brother Omric leans in.
“I don’t know what the hell they say, boy, but I can tell you this: the Blackwell is everything you’ve ever heard, and worse. Much worse. Imagine taking this entire town, and packing it full of every damned abomination in the Ruckish Hills. And then burying the whole thing under a mountain. And that’s only to start. I’ve tramped through miles of black corridor, deeper than any mineshaft. And I’ve fought things there that were never meant to set foot in this world.
“Mind you, I’ve traveled all of Frilond. I’ve been to Rheme on pilgrimage. I’ve seen the Tynan ruins, and I’ve seen the Cathedral of Saint Auratien. And none it, boy, none of it compares to the ruins at the Blackwell. There’s a tower there, still standing, two hundred feet high if it’s a foot tall—there’s nothing like it.”
“Where did it all come from?” asks Coric.
“No one knows,” say Brother Omric. “But mark my word, the whole place has the taint of the Shaithim. The very stones are lousy with magic. There’s a room down there, with a pool. And as you stand in the room, serpents begin to emerge from the pool. Real, live serpents! First, just one, and then two, and then more and more, until there’s more than a man can kill, or several men could kill, and pretty soon the whole room is swarming with hissing, wriggling, black serpents, the bite of any one deadly to a man. Some men say there’s a gate to the Pit down there in the Blackwell, and demons pass through that gate. And you know something, boy? I believe it. I believe it all. ‘Cause I’ve seen enough down there to know it’s probably true.”
“What about loot?” asks St. James. “I heard there were all sort of enchanted treasures for the taking.”
“Why,” says Brother Bern, “The tales of mountains of gold and magic are rather exaggerated, but there are some wondrous things down there. Why, just last summer our Order recovered this…”
But a stern look from Brother Omric silences the younger Seeker.
“Well,” says Garnfellow, “I shall give you, Sir Omric, a great privilege: you may buy me a drink. This is an honor reserved only for my friends!”
“And you have no enemies…” adds Brother Bern.
“Exactly!” cries Garnfellow. “Where is that damned Golding. If business is so bad, he should be right here. Golding! Golding! Sir Will is thirsty!”
“And hungry, too, I’ll wager,” adds Brother Bern.
“Well, now that you mention it, I guess I could eat,” says Garnfellow. Bern laughs.
“Well, Sir Garnfellow, perhaps you should join the Order of Saint Markham. We can always use another stout knight to bolster our ranks. You already have the beard—why not?”
“Ahem,” says Garnfellow, “that would be lovely, but I fear that…”
“Oh, come on,” says the Seeker, grinning. “It’s a good life: we eat well, we get to fight, we’re assured a place in the City.”
“I’ll… I’ll have to think about it,” says Garnfellow, and Brother Bern roars at this.
A burst of laughter explodes from another table as a Harpish mercenary, too drunk to stand, slumps to the floor. His companions howl and dump some more ale on his head, but this does not revive him.
“I feel so much safer, now that they’re here,” says St. James.
“I have heard that several companies of Genotian crossbowmen are due any day,” says Coric.
“Aye,” says Brother Bern. “The best in all of Frilond. Their bolts can punch a hole clean through that ruckish mail. May the Five speed them here. We need all the men we can—with the harvest on, we’re losing more and more of our levy every day.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to take the Keep before winter?” asks Coric.
“The Five willing,” says Brother Bern. “The Five willing. . .”
The Apartment in Heremac XXIV Hetaire. Before Vespers.
Clement, Coric, St. James, Friar Sidrach Landry, Mot, Renton, Valerius.
“I have received word from our friend the woodsman,” says Friar Sidrach.
“How is old Hedric?” asks St. James. “Haven’t seen him since the Green Tower deal.”
“No, no, my son—I speak of Mendelor.”
“Oh, that woodsman. Is he ready to come home yet?” asks St. James.
“He sent word to me, through a fellow Gerardian that he met on the road. It would seem that good Mendelor has been traveling with his friend, Gerry Huff. And he expects to be back in Heremac sometime next week.”
“Begging your pardon, Friar,” says Coric. “But has anyone seen Hamral lately? I haven’t talked to him since the funeral.”
“Hamral has been working with the town militia,” says Friar Sidrach. “I took it upon myself to pay our friend and his family a visit only just yesterday. Hamral has been helping the militia drill, trying to put to use what we have learned about these beastly ruck-men. He is pushing himself quite hard, but otherwise, he seems to be doing all right. But you know how our friend can be—it’s very hard to get Hamral to say much.”
“I think I know how he feels,” says Clement. “My own brother died fighting ruck-men.”
“I didn’t know that,” says Coric, and Clement nods sadly.
“Our father was a poor, landless knight in the service of Baron Collin. The old man always had this foolish dream that his sons would grow up to win their own lands, maybe become great barons. I don’t know. But I never shared that dream: I had to fight him, tooth and nail, to give me leave to study at the cathedral school in Canglen. Father was bitterly disappointed, but I had no interest in taking up arms.
“But my older brother, Simon—I guess he bought into the dream. He became a knight; eventually he swore fealty to Collin, as well. And then, four years ago, he was cut down in the Ruckish Hills. A waste—a damn stupid waste, for a damn foolish dream.”
“It must be awful, to have a brother killed by ruck-men,” say Coric. “Poor Hamral.”
“I’ve got to go,” mumbles Renton suddenly, and walks out.
“Hamral’s alright,” says St. James, oblivious to Renton’s abrupt exit. “Mags tells me he’s been seeing one of her girls. Gwynn, I think they call her. Anyway, she’s young. Very young: but I guess Hamral’s quite taken by her, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m sure I don’t,” says Friar Sidrach. “Not at all.”
“Now, gentlemen,” says Valerius. “I so hate to interrupt such reasoned discourse, but I believe that it is high time for us to consider our next endeavor. In particular, I am wondering if anyone has ascertained more with regards to that abandoned village—Caxbrill, was it?”
“I think that’s right,” says Coric. “I know that I haven’t heard anything. Perhaps Mendelor will have heard something, out on the trail.”
“Possibly,” says Valerius. “Saint James, I believe that this leaves Roger’s little venture. What more have you learned about this?”
“I’ll tell you,” says St. James, “Roger’s been a hard one to get a hold of these days: I don’t know where the hell he disappears to, but I have to wait until he finds me. And the few times I have seen him in the last couple of weeks, he’s been real edgy.
“Anyway, his ‘shipment’ needs to go out next week. He’s got someone waiting in Bellenore.”
“I recall that you felt his proposed compensation was… negotiable,” says Valerius.
St. James nods. “Roger put up a good fight, but in the end, I got him to admit that we could stand to gain more than the original ten pounds of silver—which, let it not be forgotten, is a hell of a lot of coin.”
“Agreed,” says Valerius.
“As far as I can figure,” says St. James, “Roger is really just a middle-man here. I’ve got no idea with whom he’s dealing, but like I said—I’ve never seen Roger so nervous. Anyway, Roger hinted that his client might not be able to provide additional coin—but perhaps could offer other compensation.”
“What’s this ‘other’?” asks Coric.
“I took it to mean magical stuff,” says St. James.
“Yurk!” blurts out Mot, bobbing his head with sudden excitement.
“Fascinating,” says Valerius, largely ignoring his henchmen. “Now Saint James, do you have any inkling just what it is we are expected to convey to Bellenore? If we could deduce that much, we could at least devise some precautionary measures.”
“I’ve got no idea,” says St. James. “But I’ll tell you this: something big is going down. Really big. Mags told me herself. And I don’t just mean the whole siege. I tell you, there’s something else—something strange here. The Seekers have been asking a lot of questions in town. And they aren’t the only ones, either. Some lackeys who work for a certain smarmy little bastard have been trying to worm information out of Maggie’s girls.”
“I am to assume that this ‘smarmy little bastard’ to whom you refer is none other than our old acquaintance, Tim?” says Valerius.
“Damn straight” says St. James. “We should have put the knife to that prick when we had the chance.”
“I’m not altogether certain that the opportunity ever actually arose,” says Valerius, dryly. “But in any case: what sort of questions are being asked?”
“Oh, ’Has anyone been trying to sell anything unusual lately?’ or ‘Has anyone been acting strangely,’ or ‘Has anyone been asking odd questions?’ Neither the Seekers nor Tim’s men have been threatening or anything like that, but they have been very, very persistent.”
Renton returns, without a word, and resumes his place as if nothing has happened.
“If you ask me,” says Coric, “There’s something queer about the whole Frounter. Why, I’ve been here less than a year, and I’ve seen stranger things in these last few months than I had in my entire life. Why is that?”
“Maybe it’s the end of the world,” says Renton. “That Reckoning Day the priests are always talking about is nigh. ”
“That’s only part of it, my sons,” says Friar Sidrach. “Consider the Frounter: Really, it’s just a thin strip of settled lands, in the middle of darkness and damnation. On one side, there’s the Westwoode, wild and untamed. The forest still remembers the ignorant paganism of the Brynns. And on the other side? The Ruckish Hills, where the spawn of Canem stalk the lands, answering only to the Worms.
“And in between these seas of darkness, we try to kindle the light of the Five—the light of order. Each year, the light grows brighter with each town we build, with each church we raise. Each year the Shaithim’s power is pushed further back, as forests are cleared and the ruck-men driven away. But though the light is getting brighter, it is still weak, and flickers in a strong wind. It could go out. It could go out.
“Remember, my sons, that the Frounter was Pentian once before, when Tynar still ruled these lands. This town, Heremac, our marvelous shrine—all of these were once strong with the Five. And then Tynar fell, and pagan and abomination alike put out that light for over six centuries, until we recaptured the Frounter. But we have not been back for very long, and the old shadows linger; and in this darkness and disorder the Shaithim manifest in wickedness, in magic, and in monsters.”
The streets of Heremac, XXX Hetaire. Before Sext.
Clement, Coric, St. James, Friar Sidrach Landry, Mot, Renton, Valerius.
The narrow streets are more crowded than on even the busiest market day, as men, women, and children from all of the neighboring villages and farms have flocked to Heremac. Though it is one of the hottest days of the years, peasant and townsmen alike press close, sweating, hooting, and crying, all hoping to catch a glimpse of Bishop Martin of Canglen. And they are not disappointed, as the embassage arrives in grand style.
It begins with a dozen musicians, dressed in bright red clothes, blowing horns and beating drums. And after them come sixty male servitors, on foot. Behind march one hundred men-at-arms, mostly spearmen, with two dozen mounted serjeants.
The men-at-arms are followed by four carts, each drawn by five horses, with a driver leading a dog. Behind these come six pack animals, each with a rider, and following this are twenty knights, leading their mighty destriers, as they ride along on palfreys. The knights are followed by dozens of squires, many with hawks on their wrists.
The many officers of the chancellery come next, followed by more clergy, riding two by two. Finally, Bishop Martin, looking formidable with his bejeweled crosier and miter, comes walking into the town on foot, accompanied by his personal staff.
Beaming, the town councilors greet the Bishop—and other wealthy burghers also get a chance to meet His Excellency. The Bishop waves to the thronging crowd, and they roar with delight. After the burghers stand Abbot Peter and his senior monks, clearly no less elated than the laity at the privilege of meeting the Bishop of Canglen.
The Canglen procession continues on, to be faced with Grand Master Edric and the Seeker delegation. In contrast to everyone else, the Seekers present a rather cool and formal reception to the visitors. Old Edric is almost completely emotionless as he greets the Bishop.
“There’s no love lost between those two, that’s for sure,” says St. James.
“There rarely is, between any great landowners,” says Clement. “Whether the two men have given over their lives to the Five, or no.”
“Hush now, my sons,” says Friar Sidrach. “One of the great hopes of this embassage is that the Order of Saint Markham will reach a reconciliation with the Canglen Diocese. We should be praying for their success.”
Once the formalities have been dispensed with, the Canglen delegation retires to the Citadel, where the Grand Master will host them during their stay in Heremac.
“Quite a show, eh?” says Mendelor, appearing out of the crowd. “I’ve been following them for the last half-league or so. They make quite a racket.”
“By the Hammer!” cries St. James. “I wondered when you were going to show up.”
The Apartment in Heremac, XXX Hetaire. After Nones.
Coric, St. James, Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius.
“Saint James,” says Valerius. “I understand that we have received additional instructions from your friend Roger?”
“Tomorrow,” says St. James, “Just before dawn, in the market square before the North Gate. There we are to meet a man named Jon; he will have a cart prepared, loaded with Roger’s goods. We are to take the cart to Haldale—a hard day’s travel. There we are to meet another man, who will give us further instructions. Haldale is halfway to Bellenore; we are to deliver the shipment by dawn on the third day of Drieland. Roger was very particular on this point: the shipment is to be in Bellenore on the third day of Drieland; any delays will forfeit the deal.
“Sounds too easy,” says Mendelor.
“Indeed,” says Valerius. “Indeed.”
The Streets of Heremac, I Drieland. Before Prime.
Coric, St. James, Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius.
“Well, at least the weather is fine. The Five be praised,” says Friar Sidrach. Far over the Sheldings, the dawn is just starting to break, and long shadows hang over the cool market square. A cart and team of two draft horses stand at the ready; otherwise, the square is empty. As the party approaches, a couple of dark figures suddenly dash away from the cart, and are gone before anyone can react. Mendelor races after them, but halts at the edge of the square. A figure on the cart suddenly crumples and falls, very hard, to the ground. The body shudders; Friar Sidrach and St. James rush forward to investigate.
The friar turns over an old man who weeps softly as a pool of thick, dark blood creeps out from beneath him.
“Jon?” asks St. James. The old man opens and closes his mouth a few times, and nods. His shaking hand clutches at a dagger hilt, protruding from below his breastbone.
“It’s still here,” he wheezes. “Still…”
Old Jon doesn’t move any more.