The Apartment in Heremac, XXII Storing, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Eight. Compline.
Coric, St. James, Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Friar Sidrach Landry, Vandoren.
An autumn wind blusters into the apartment, carrying dry leaves and the chill of a frosty night. The doorway is open, and dark, and empty.
“What the hell?” cries Mendelor, but whatever else the woodsman says is lost as Mot rushes forth with an unintelligible stream of excited babble. Mot stoops at the doorway and swoops up something. After closing the door, Mot does an odd little jig.
“Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. Valerius is coming tomorrow,” he says.
“Come here, you dolt,” says St. James, but Mot instead shambles directly to Vandoren, and presents a small sheet of rolled-up parchment.
“Good man,” says Vandoren, unraveling the scroll. “It’s a letter from Valerius. Let’s see: Dear consortes…”
“By the Hammer!” cries St. James. “What’s he saying?”
“Consortes: it’s Tynan for cohorts,” says Vandoren.
“Consortes,” repeats Coric.
“Whatever,” says St. James. “Get on with it.”
Vandoren nods and continues reading.
“I fear I will be thoroughly occupied with pressing business until All Saints Day at the earliest, and possibly longer. As I must return to my work presently, I shall get straight to the crux of the matter. It is acceptable for Mot to assist in the job for Tim, which conveniently also happens to be your most logical next course of action. Mendelor, Vandoren: make sure that you carefully examine everything that this Tuck possesses—leave no stone unturned, as that tired expression maintains. Wherever Tuck is staying, do not fail to scour the premises for hidden compartments. I encourage you to wait for me before attempting to rescue the Seekers or solve the mystery of the missing village. In the meantime, please try not to get any of yourselves killed. Especially Mot.—V. And then there’s this strange mark…”
“Let me see,” says St. James. “What the hell is that?” he asks, pointing to the parchment.
“I’ve seen such sigils… elsewhere,” says Vandoren. “Perhaps it’s Valerius’s personal sign.”
St. James shakes his head.
“Well, unlike Valerius,” says Mendelor, “I for one am not convinced about what to do next. What about those captured Seekers?”
“I don’t know if that is such a good idea right now,” says Renton. “I recall our last rescue mission—and we had Valerius with us that last time. I’m quite fond of my limbs and heartbeat, so I won’t go unless everyone else goes and we bring men from the militia. But that seems doubtful.”
Coric steps forward. “If I may, gentlemen? In these strange and difficult times,” he begins, “Our group has a responsibility that cannot be shirked, and can be best fulfilled by serving good King Weremach. What do you say?”
There is immediate and uncomfortable silence; everyone looks at each other warily.
“Ah—thanks,” says St. James, seizing the initiative. “We’ll—ah—think about it. Personally, I would like to check out this guy Tim is after. I don’t necessarily plan to make a move on him, but I’d like to know all the details on him and, if possible, scout him out. Although I’d never admit it to the son-of-a-bitch’s face, I can recall a few times when the strange acts of Valerius saved many a hide.”
Renton nods. “I also think we are better off to look into this Tuck thing for Tim. It would be just to help a man who’s gold was stolen. Besides, we could get some coin for helping Tim. But I don’t want to do anything stupid. With Valerius gone we can’t get in over our heads. Basically, I am up for anything that will get me easy coin.”
“Here, here,” says Vandoren. “It might not hurt to poke around a bit, first. We could try to learn more of this Tuck before we decide either way. We don’t have to commit to anything immediately, do we?”
“If none of you want to offer your services to the King,” says Coric, “I could go and spy on Tuck for the party.”
Friar Sidrach shakes his head, gravely.
“I don’t want anything to do with Tim, my sons. He’s bad news. Very bad news, indeed. Let’s let Tim do his own dirty work. I’d rather investigate the unharvested crops. I’m worried about the poor souls at Caxbrill.”
“I hate to say it, Friar, but I’m pretty sure that it’s too late for them,” says Mendelor. “It’s been months since those people were first reported missing.”
“What about this, Friar?” asks St. James. “I would like to have you look into this body found in the Corin. Maybe you could learn the identity of the person or gain some other relevant information.”
Renton nods.
“I find corpses washing up to be very strange: this could use some looking into. I could go and do some investigating in town. Probably talk to some of my old buddies in the militia.”
“I will investigate this corpse,” says the Friar. “But I do not want to help Tim.”
“But Friar,” says Renton, “it isn’t right to steal from another, like Tuck did, and also, we owe Tim a great deal for getting us out of some deep trouble.”
“You’re forgetting, my son, who got us into trouble in the first place,” says the friar, a bit testily.
“Well,” says Renton, “I could go see Tim: maybe he can send a couple honest, well-trained men with us to help since we don’t have Valerius.”
“Right,” says St. James, smirking. “And don’t forget to ask if Tim could give each of us two—no, make that three—war horses.”
“What I’m saying,” says Renton, “Is that if we can get Tuck and bring him to Tim without risking our lives I will be all up for it. But if we find that Tuck is seven feet tall and shoots balls of fire out his ass—well, I don’t know about the rest of you, but at that point I will have to bolt.”
The Bristling Boar Inn, Heremac, XXVII Storing, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Eight. Compline.
Coric, Mendelor, Mot, St. James, Friar Sidrach Landry, Renton, Vandoren, Sir Will Garnfellow.
“Golding!” cries Coric, “Set us up with your finest ale! Don’t allow any cup to run dry! Ha! Garnfellow! If you were to tell us a fine tale I would be much obliged! Rucks, dragons, villains, knights! I find myself thirsting for adventure and am told you are the one to tell of it, if you would be so kind!”
Vandoren, quite drunk, has just finished a short song in honor of his friend, Clement. Even too much ale could not mar the quality of the minstrel’s voice. The crowd in the Boar is in a very merry mood tonight: the crops are mostly in, and even though the siege continues, many have forgotten the distant conflict—at least for a few hours. Vandoren raises his flagon to Coric, and shouts:
“To our generous benefactor. May the Saints grant you more wealth, and such friends to squander it on!”
“By the Cup!” cries Garnfellow, slapping Coric on the back so hard as to nearly send the boy flying across the room. “I’ve no idea where thou got the coin to sponsor such revels, but for tonight, Sir Will Garnfellow is thine to command. What do thou want to hear?”
“All this talk of Gregory the Risen,” says Coric, his voice thick with Golding’s fine ale. “I would like to hear what happened to him—pray tell.”
The room suddenly hushes at this request, but Garnfellow raises up a hand.
“No, no—the lad has asked. And a story there is to tell, too.
“It was eight years ago, and about the same time of year as now—well I remember. Baron Eric of Ordway was one of Weremach’s favorite lords. A great noble, Ordway—vassal to Warwick, and for many years his barony was an important bulwark against the ruck-men. I met him once, in Bellenore, and he seemed a good man and an excellent knight.
“But something terrible happened to the Baron. He had an advisor, Archimedes—a lily-livered monk and a wicked, wicked man, who had given over his very soul to the Shaithim.”
Several listeners gasp at this, but Garnfellow, uncharacteristically sober, only nods.
“Aye, it’s true: Archimedes was a black magician, and may he rot in the Pits for his deeds. This diabolist somehow corrupted the good Baron: soon ruck-men were moving freely throughout the barony. The Baron expelled his chaplain and moved his entire court to a small fortress on the borderland, Pendermore Keep. And if any of Ordway’s knights protested this sudden madness, they were put to the sword.
“Now, Brother Gregory even then was a rising star in the Seeker order, renown for his zeal in crusading against abominations. By chance, Gregory discovered the corruption in Ordway, and he soon rallied a large force around the Baron’s dispossessed younger brother Kay; they were supported by both Master Edric and Bellenore. Gregory served as advisor to Kay as he invaded his own brother’s barony.
“Based on the size and experience of his force, Gregory expected an easy victory. But such was the perfidy of Archimedes that he had forged an alliance with the Rotting Eye rucks, who dwelt in a great foul cavern east of Ordway.
“When Kay’s army met the Baron’s on the field of battle at Pendermore, the Seeker cavalry immediately charged. This assault was supposed to devastate the Baron’s forces with one great, decisive blow. But the Seekers rode into a terrible ambush, and were massacred by scores of hidden ruck-men archers. Gregory’s horse was killed in the first wave of the charge, and Gregory fought on foot before being felled by dozens of black-fletched arrows.
“After the Seekers fell, Kay’s force drove hard into the Baron’s lines. The battle was quick and brutal—most had to dismount and fight on foot. A bloodier bit of fighting hasn’t been seen on the Frounter. There was no quarter given by either side. All of the knights except Kay and the Baron were either killed or grievously wounded. And in the end, Kay and his brother met and fought, man-to-man, killing each other with their last breath, leaving the ruck-man and the carrion crow to claim victory.”
The common room of the Boar, for a moment, is completely still. And then Vandoren begins to softly sing an old and familiar ballad, popular in the north country near Harplan:
There were three corbies sat on a tree,
They were as black as they might be,
With a down, derry, derry, derry, down, downThe one of them said to his mate,
‘Where shall we our breakfast take?’‘Down in yonder green field
There lies a knight slain under his shield…’
Garnfellow gestures to Golding.
“My throat, good man, is dry. Very dry.” Garnfellow gratefully accepts a full flagon and takes a long haul off of it. “Word spread quickly of the disaster. In Bellenore, my lord quickly gathered his knights and we rode as fast as we could for Pendermore Keep. By the time we arrived, the Seekers had already driven off the ruck-men looters, and the Rotting Eye tribe has never fully recovered the check it was dealt. Although people still maintain that something awful slinks about in those caves in the Hills.
“The Seekers found Archimedes at Pendermore and impaled him on a great oaken stake. But the Barony was a shambles. The Seekers soon located a young cousin of Baron Eric, and the rule of Ordway passed to young Alban—and his many Seeker advisors.
“Gregory’s lifeless body was soon identified and carried to Heremac with much pomp, and he lay in state in the chapel of the Shrine of Saint Marius, while a petition was sent to Bishop Martin, seeking the authority to raise Gregory from the dead. The Bishop agreed, since Gregory met all of the criteria: he was young, noble, pious—and had died wrongly while in the service of the Church. And the rest… Well, you’ve seen him yourself.
“In the last few years, I’ve heard many stories that claim Pendermore Keep is haunted. Many claim that, on nights of the new moon, they can see Kay and Baron Eric, locked in eternal battle, brother against brother.
“And that, young Coric, is how Brother Gregory became known as Gregory the Risen. But enough of these maudlin tales. Sir Will is hungry after such a story.”
“Then Sir Will shall eat!” cries Coric. “Golding! Quickly! This knight is starving. Vandoren—do you have anything more comical, to suit my guests?”
“Let’s see,” says Vandoren. “Perhaps I could offer a little extemporaneous piece. Something to amuse this crowd. Half a moment—half a moment—All right, how’s this:
“There once was a gimped man named Mot
Whose bloodline was certainly shot
With a twitch of his brow
Whilst gulping his chow…He rinsed with a mouthful of snot!”
The Boar explodes with laughter, and Mot laughs as hard as anyone else. Vandoren pats him on the head and offers him a fresh ale.
The apartment in Heremac, XXIX Storing, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Eight. Vespers.
Coric, Mendelor, Mot, St. James, Vandoren.
“No—no—no!” cries St. James.
“Valerius is coming tomorrow,” says Mot.
“Look, not tomorrow. Listen carefully. Tomorrow is All Hallow’s Eve, right? When we burn the witches? And the day after that is All Saints Day. Right? And Valerius is coming after that. Not tomorrow. Do you understand?”
“I’m hungry,” says Mot. “Supper?”
“Bloody Hell!” cries St. James.
Mendelor offers a piece of bread to Mot, who in turns stuffs it all in his mouth.
“They’re saying that the siege is almost over,” says the woodsman. “The Seekers expect to capture the Keep before first snow.”
“Is that so?” says St. James. Mendelor nods and continues.
“And I guess that the Seekers were able to ransom Coston and the others—I hear he’s already been dispatched to the front, to help with the final assault.”
“Where is that blasted friar?” asks St. James, but no one can answer. “And he’s got Renton with him. Well, there’s no sense waiting for them. I’ve looked into this Tuck. Mags says that he was a regular of her girls—they all hated to get stuck with him, on account he’s so big and ugly. And smelly, too. Mags said he was very greedy and foolish—but he is rather cagey. And what he lacks upstairs, he makes up for in steel. He’s a tough man in a fight, said to be good with daggers.
“And it turns out my old friend Roger knows Tuck, too. Real well—guess who gave Roger that magic helmet after stealing it from Tim?”
“Ah, it all begins to fall into place,” says Mendelor.
“I thought so,” says St. James.
“Well,” says Vandoren, “I am told that Tuck is staying in the village of Deal. You know the place?”
“Yeah, we had some fun there last year,” says St. James.
“I hear that Tuck is raising a lot of hell with the locals,” says Vandoren. “They’ve complained, but with all the ruck-men trouble, no one has had time to investigate. Once a week or so, one of Tim’s men will go to Deal, to try and bring him back—none of them have had much luck.”
“Really?” says Coric.
“Let’s just say that the corbies are eating well in Deal these days,” answers Vandoren.
Just then, the door to the apartment opens, and Friar Sidrach and Renton enter.
“Coric,” says the Gerardian, softly, “Could you please fetch me something to drink?”
The boy soon returns with a brimming cup of water. The friar’s hands tremble as he brings the cup to his lips, and before he can take a sip he slops some water on the table. He abruptly sets the cup down and folds his hands in his lap.
“So what did you find out about this dead guy they hauled out of the Corin?” asks St. James.
“It was no man,” says Friar Sidrach, in a whisper, his eyes large. “It was no woman, either. It was a girl, perhaps twelve years old, maybe more. A girl.
“It—that is, she, had brown hair, and her small body was covered with pock-marks. She had been given a Pentian burial, but she… she… forgive me, my sons. Forgive me…”
The Friar abruptly leaves the room. Renton leans in, his own face somber.
“It was a real mess, that’s for sure. Something had been… cutting her. I don’t mean animals, I mean something with a knife. A real sight, I’ll tell you. The Friar’s upset because this is really against the Church. Messing with dead bodies, that is. And something really messed with her. I’ve seen some bad stuff in my time: I know what rucks will do to a man. And I’ve never seen anything like what I saw today. It makes my skin crawl just talking about it.”