The Bristling Boar Inn, Heremac. XXI Harfesting, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Eight. Sext.
St. James, Mendelor, Mot, Friar Sidrach Landry, Vandoren, Sir Will Garnfellow.
“What the hell is he doing?” cries St. James.
“Mot,” says Mendelor, sternly. “Get up from the floor. Get up. What do you have?”
Mot, grinning broadly, emerges before the table, a newfound penny in his hand. “Heh Heh, money,” says Mot.
“When the hell is Valerius going to be back?” says St. James. “I’m tired of having to nursemaid this one. I’ll be blasted if I can figure out how Valerius convinces him to bathe. By the Hammer! There are ruck-men who smell better.”
“Tomorrow,” says Mot, sniffing himself. “Valerius is coming tomorrow.”
“Actually,” says Vandoren, “I understand that Valerius won’t be available at least until well after All Saint’s Day—which is six weeks away.”
“Bloody hell,” grumbles St. James. “Mot’s been saying ‘Tomorrow’ every day for the last fortnight. Six weeks, you say? I don’t think I could wait that long. By some curious means, my purse appears to have been emptied: I could use some coin, and quickly. What about Renton and Coric?”
“Renton,” says Friar Sidrach, “Has been practicing up on his sword-work with Hamral. And Coric? I believe that he has been doing something with Roger. But I’m not sure—gracious, the lad’s been talking of offering his services to King Weremach. Weremach! I pray that this Roger fellow doesn’t lead our young friend astray.
“I expect that both Coric and Renton will be ready to rejoin us shortly. I say, speaking of empty purses, do you think that perhaps one of you lads would be kind enough to provide an ale for a parched friar?”
Mendelor signals for Golding to bring another ale to the table. The common room of the Boar is fairly quiet, and outside a cold autumn rain is falling steadily.
“Ah, bless you, my son,” says the Gerardian, upon receiving the ale.
“What the hell does Valerius do with that guy,” asks St. James. “What’s his name—The Vavasor?”
“Valerius is a scholar,” says Vandoren. “Doubtless he is engrossed in his studies.”
“Whatever,” says St. James, and Vandoren can only shrug.
“Valerius asked Friar Sidrach and I to do some research of our own, regarding the Flaming Sword of Orland. Perhaps it is connected with that vision you were all blessed with? I’m quite familiar with the Song of Orland, which was taught to me by my master, Gilbert de Lille, who in turn learned it in Everleign.
“Orland was a great knight, the best of Merovan’s Council of Stars, almost five centuries ago. Orland led Merovan’s armies against the ruck-men, and died protecting his lord. Orland’s sword was named Durnel, and was said to have been forged by the Fair Folk. On command, it would burst into flames. The Song says that before Orland fell, Durnel shattered against the sword of the ruck-man chief, and Orland was then struck down. One hundred and one blows it took, before the great knight would fall—and only after he slew the ruck-man chief with only his bare hands.”
“‘Tis a pity that fabulous blade was broken,” says Sir Will Garnfellow. “The lads could use such at the siege.”
“What is the newest word from the front?” asks Friar Sidrach, but the immense knight only holds up his hands in futility.
“Little word has come since last week, when the ruck-men tried to the break the siege. By the Cup! Gregory’s forces beat back the sortie. A great victory, for the ruck-men attacked at night, pouring out of the Keep, trying to break through Gregory’s lines. But the blessed among the besiegers were able to call upon the Five and cast a mighty light upon the battlefield, frightening the ruck-men. The abominations took heavy losses, and they must know that it’s only a matter of time, now, before their wretched Keep falls to Pentian troops. Saints’ Bones! Were I there, I would give those beasts a pasting.”
“There is still got much to do,” says Mendelor, scratching a ragged tuft of hair. “I hear from some of the Seekers’ scouts that the siege is a long way from over. Gregory’s having a hard time keeping his supply lines open—ruck-men irregulars are always harrying his rear guard. There was some real messy business last week, but I haven’t heard many details. Something about a patrol getting ambushed. Anyway, Gregory’s stretched thin, with most of his levy recalled to work on the harvest.”
“Well, this rainy weather is no better for fighting than it is for gathering corn,” says Friar Sidrach.
“I hear that Kirke is fairing little better,” says Garnfellow. “They say that his men are hard pressed to keep the ruck-men contained. The wretches have pillaged three villages, and they say that over five hundred acres of farmland have been destroyed in all the fighting—either burnt to the ground or trampled flat.”
“A terrible loss,” says Friar Sidrach. “Very terrible. The poor folk of Kirke shall rue this all sorely in the spring.”
“You just reminded me, Garnfellow,” says Mendelor. “I was talking with some scouts who had been up near Caxbrill. They said that all of the fields around the village are in terrible shape. It looks like no one has tended to them for months—they’re overripe, and what plants haven’t been eaten by animals are choked with weeds. Why would men work so hard for half the summer, and then just piss it all away? The scouts also say that in the village itself, several of the houses have been burnt to the ground.
“People are starting to say that the place is haunted. The scouts are giving Caxbrill wide berth, especially after nightfall. And the trouble seems to be spreading. Some of the nearby villages are starting to report people missing from the outlying farms. They disappear in the night, without a trace. Damned queer, if you ask me.”
“Perhaps the pox has struck these villages,” says Vandoren. “I have heard from several people in town that the pox has been ravaging Kirke—to add more to the people’s woes there.”
“I don’t understand why all the priests in Kirke don’t just cure the pox,” says St. James. “That never made much sense to me. We’re always hearing about how holy so-and-so was able to heal afflicted so-and-so.”
“Ah, my son,” says Friar Sidrach, “Not every parish priest is a theurgist—a man or woman who acts as a vessel for the divine.”
“So it’s only the priests who are really good and faithful, who can perform miracles,” says St. James.
“Well, not exactly, my son,” answers the Gerardian. “A wicked man could not hope to be a theurgist, but there are many very devout Pentians who have given over their lives to the glory of the Five, and who have never been chosen—for whatever reason—to work miracles.”
“So it’s only the higher-up types, then,” says St. James, “who can perform miracles.”
“Gracious, no,” says Friar Sidrach. “There have been numerous bishops and even popes who, while exceeding good and pious, were not theurgists. Look at me: I am just a humble friar, unable to perform even the basic sacraments. And yet, I have healed wounded men with but a touch. And further, there are examples of unordained eremites who have performed the most profound of miracles, up to and including restoring dead men to life. Have you ever heard of the Anchoress of Abberlane? And for that matter, recall our friend Reginald the Penitent.
“You have struck on one of the great mysteries of the Church, Saint James. You see, my son, the Five work in unknowable ways. We cannot say why They choose the vessels that They choose; each of us must try to fulfill Their will as best suits them. I could not tell you why I have been so blessed: I have met many men who were wiser than I, humbler than I, more learned than I, more pious than I—and yet, try as they might, they could not call forth a light to shine in the darkness, something I have experienced several times.
“Why me? I am no saint—I am weak, and I sin, just as any man. Perhaps this is exactly why I have been called to be a theurgist: because I am so weak. It is important to remember that the wonderful things I can do come not from me, but from the Five—I am but an intermediary, one of their many agencies in the world. Miracles cannot be explained away—it is their very nature to deny reason.
“Consider the wonderful vision we shared, of Saint Gerard. My superior, Friar Brut, is a stronger theurgist than I am, and yet even he has never had such a vision. He assures me that the Gerardian Order is very excited about this unexpected event. Most excited. They do not understand what our vision portends, but rest assured, the Five’s will shall be made known in the fullness of time.
“This reminds me—I have heard a strange tale,” says Friar Sidrach. “Most strange. I was speaking with Father Trent the other morning, and he said that the Canglen Diocese is rather concerned about their parish priest in Houghton—a little village south of here, on the edge of the Westwoode.
“I say, my poor throat is a bit dry. Perhaps one of you…
“Ah, thank you, Mendelor,” says the friar, scooping up a full flagon. “Now where was I? Of course, of course—Houghton. It would appear that the village priest has been afflicted with some sort of horrible curse. Father Trent could not elaborate, but suffice to say that the curse is clearly infernal handiwork.
“Houghton has long been the source of many strange events. There is a great, ancient oak coppice nearby, said to have been venerated by the heathen Brynns. The men of Houghton greatly fear the place, for they say that the trees in that place can walk, by night.”
“Elm do grieve, Oak do hate, Willow do walk, if you travels late,” whispers Vandoren, reciting a familiar folk saying.
Friar Sidrach nods.
“Father Trent also passed a very interesting bit of news. Very interesting. Bishop Martin of Canglen recently presented Archbishop Nicolas with a fabulous gift: a magical helm, reputed to be of utmost power.
“Really?” says St. James. “I knew we should have kept that damned thing ourselves.”
“I thought you wanted to give it to Reginald the Penitent,” says Mendelor, but St. James only waves him off.
“Anyway, what is it with the Bishop and presents? Didn’t he give a bunch of stuff to Abbot Peter when he visited last month?”
“Yes,” says Friar Sidrach. “He presented the Bergenian Abbey with some rare books, as well as some precious icons.”
“Valerius likes books,” says Mot, grinning. “Valerius is coming tomorrow.”
“Six weeks?” mutters St. James. “Damn Valerius! And me without enough coin to get drunk.”
The Apartment, Heremac. XXVI Harfesting. Vespers.
Coric, St. James, Mendelor, Mot, Friar Sidrach Landry, Renton, Vandoren.
“So, I notice you’re not walking with much of a limp. Am I to assume that Roger’s through riding you for every last penny?” asks St. James.
The boy nods sheepishly, and blushes.
“I have heard some interesting things, of late,” says Coric. “I have been speaking with Brother Bern, of the Order of Saint Markham. Brother Omric, whom we met last month, has been assigned to the siege, and is out of town. Well, in the last few weeks, the supply trains to the front have been plagued by ruck-men raiders. And a couple of weeks ago, a heavily armed guard carrying the Seeker’s payroll was ambushed, and their treasure stolen.
“The guards reported being surrounded by many large, writhing serpents, which spooked their horses, right before the ruck-men attacked. A few men-at-arms escaped, but most of the guard was captured—including several Seeker brother knights. One of whom was Brother Coston, the Seeker you met on the road to Bellenore.
“The Seekers assumed that their men were as good as dead. But then, yesterday, a man came into Heremac, tired, dirty, beaten—he was part of the missing guard, and came bearing a message: the rest of his fellows are alive, for now. The ruck-men are demanding a hefty ransom for the safe return of the brother-knights.
“Brother Bern tells me that the Seekers are in a serious quandary. Many brother-knights are arguing that no ransom should be given, ever, to any ruck-man. Edric is sympathetic to this reasoning—but on the other hand, Brother Coston is cousin to Baron Alban of Ordway, and several of the other captive Seekers are also noblemen. Ransoming them might oblige some powerful nobles to the Order of Saint Markham. But on the other hand, giving in to ruck-men would make the Seekers look weak.”
“I see where there might be a problem, there,” says Mendelor.
“That’s all well and good,” says St. James, “but you’ll never guess who approached Mendelor and me for help: Tim, that little bastard! He had one of his men lead us to the Briar, where we were ushered out back, given actually good beer, and offered a little proposal.
“Tim had a man, Tuck, he was called, who did a lot of dirty work for him in town, if you know what I mean. Well, somehow Tim and Tuck had a little falling out, and—I love this part—Tuck decided that before he left Tim’s service, he would… liberate some funds from Tim’s personal account. Compensation, don’t you know. I love it!
“Needless to say, our friend Tim was not pleased. He’s sent some of his men out to find Tuck, but they’ve all come back in boxes. This Tuck is no one to mess around with: he’s supposedly really tough and very, very slippery. Anyway, Tuck is hiding out in a little village on the Frounter. Tim wants us to bring Tuck back—alive. Tim was very insistent on this point. He said that we could keep any of Tuck’s treasure that we find.
“What makes us think we could trust this man Tim?” asks Vandoren.
“Probably, we can’t,” says Mendelor.
“But then again,” says St. James, “The little bastard stuck to his word about making those murder charges disappear: his boys all changed their story, and swore before the Five and the guard that the two sods we offed that night had killed each other in a drunken fight.”
“As Valerius might say, ‘we have a decision to make,’” says Friar Sidrach. “What to do next? Renton, how much longer do you have to spend training with Hamral?”
“He says we’re done,” says Renton.
“Do you know if he’ll be able to come with us anytime soon?” asks the Friar, but Renton only shakes his head.
“I heard that Hamral was living with Gwynn,” says St. James. “And then I heard he had moved back in with his family. I saw him in the street a couple of days ago, and tried to extract some sort of response from him. You know what he did? He just shrugged—so I don’t know. I don’t understand him.”
“Renton,” says Friar Sidrach, quickly changing the subject, “What was all the commotion last night? I heard the alarm sounded.”
“Last night, the guard at Edric’s Bridge found something,” says Renton. “A little after midnight, one of the watchmen thought he spotted something in the water. So he goes down for a closer look. And washed up on the bank was a corpse. A human corpse.”
“Ruckish work?” asks Mendelor.
“Maybe,” says Renton. “That was why they sounded the alarm. But when the Seekers examined the body, it looked to have been dead before it was put in the river. In fact, they said it looked like it had been buried, dug up, and then put in the water. Why would someone rob a grave, and then dump the corpse in the Corin? Damned strange, if you ask me.”
The Apartment, Heremac. XXX Harfesting. Tierce.
Clement, Coric, St. James, Mendelor, Mot, Friar Sidrach Landry, Renton, Vandoren.
“Tell me it’s not true, Clement,” says St. James. “Tell me this is just a joke.”
“I fear not,” says Clement, gravely. “Cynthia and I are already packed, and will be leaving presently.”
“But why?” says St. James. “Carder’s here. His money’s here. By the Hammer, man—why are you leaving?”
“It’s actually Carder’s idea. He’s by no means happy with this… arrangement, but he has reconciled himself to it, nevertheless. ‘Try to recoup my losses,’ as he says. Anyway, he’s sending me back to the cathedral school in Canglen, to finish my studies in medicine. I’ll return to Heremac as a true physic, able to earn my own keep. Or so Carder thinks. He’s paying my way, and giving us enough of a stipend to live comfortably.”
“Well, hell,” says Mendelor, “Good luck to you.”
“Yes,” says Vandoren. “And we’ve only been reunited for a few short weeks.”
Clement nods, and turning to the rest of the group, claps his hand on Vandoren’s shoulder. “Take care of this one,” he says. “He’s a better singer and teller-of-tales than me—though his Tynan grammar is still atrocious.”
“May the Five speed you back to us,” says the Friar.
“Well, thank you all, friends. Give my regards to Valerius, whenever he emerges from the Vavasor’s clutches.”
Clement turns and walks away, softly whistling “The Barefooted Friar.”