The Bristling Boar Inn, Heremac, Hallowe’en, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Eight. Vespers.
Coric, St. James, Mendelor, Mot, Sir Will Garnfellow, Friar Sidrach Landry, Vandoren.
“Please sir, give’s some fuel to burn the witches!” cry the three boys. Tom Golding offers them each a nip of ale and an armful of faggots, and sends them on their way.
“I should not like to have to tend the bonfires on this Hallowe’en,” says Garnfellow, with a sympathetic shudder. Outside, a cold, steady rain beats down, and a wild wind lashes against the walls of the Boar.
“Imagine the troops at the siege,” says Friar Sidrach. “Poor souls, may the Five shelter them.”
“I’m sure Gregory shall prevail,” says Coric. “I have thought often of the tale you told the other night, Sir Garnfellow. A wonderful, inspiring story! If you could tell such a story every night, you’d never have to buy another mug of ale ever again!
“Gregory is certainly a wonderful man and no one is more deserving of being risen again. However, if I could I would raise those poor souls from the militia who were massacred by those dreadful Flesh-ripper rucks. Especially Hamral’s brother. It’s a pity we weren’t able to rescue him…
“And those awful Rucks have their own power to raise the dead. I’ve—we’ve—seen it! But they do it in a much more dreadful way, by turning people into abominable, mindless monsters!”
Coric notices the pained expression on the Friar’s face, and lets the matter drop.
“Speaking of tales,” says Vandoren, turning to Garnfellow, “There is no more knowledgeable soul in all of Heremac of happenings throughout the land. Golding: An ale for this worthy knight! I was wondering, Sir Garnfellow, what you have heard of this Tuck.”
“May the Saints bless you, sirrah,” says Garnfellow, eagerly accepting his ale. “Ah, that hits the spot. This Tuck, he is a tricky, cunning rascal. Many men have thought they had Tuck bested, and yet somehow he always seems to slip their grasp.”
“I hear he likes the ladies,” says Vandoren. “Does he have any… unusual predilections? I almost wonder if there’s any connection with this dead girl?”
“Not that I know of,” says Garnfellow. “Tuck is well known to be crude, greedy, and treacherous, but I don’t know of him ever harming a woman. Tuck doesn’t fight unless he absolutely has to and he knows he can win. Luckily for him, it is… unseemly for a knight of my caliber to challenge one so lowly born—or else I swear by the Cup, I’d give that villain a sound pasting. Did I ever tell you about the highwaymen who attempted to waylay me south of Canglen…”
“Maggie never heard of Tuck doing anything weird with the girls, either,” says St. James, interrupting the fat knight. “And you’re forgetting, Vandoren—that girl had been dead and buried, before she was even cut up.”
“My sons,” whispers Friar Sidrach, “I have had my fill of this talk. I fear I am still rather shaky from… from… In any case, if you could excuse for a bit?”
“Well,” says Renton, suddenly, as the Gerardian hastily leaves the common room, “I have decided we can go get this Tuck guy anytime. He isn’t going too far, but we gotta look into this body thing. Is there a cemetery where the body was pulled from? What we need to do is figure out if this is an isolated case or if something is going on. Did this girl hold some kind of importance that we do not know about? Or is this the work of a bunch of deranged rucks? Staking out the cemetery for a few nights might be the way to catch the perpetrators if they will be doing more of this sort of thing.
“It seems to me that this mystery may bring us back some lost respect in the town. Many people are still suspicious of us since that episode with Tim’s men. Just yesterday I was coming back from the market with some bread and cheese and this man called me a murderer. He said I had no business in this town and that I and all those other bums I hang with should get out and live with the rucks. I was really tempted to knock some manners into him but I refrained and simply walked away.
“If we can solve this mystery then we can go get Tuck. He really doesn’t scare me the least bit—as long as Tim sends us with help. We need to find out who the girl is. We could visit her family and let them know we are sorry and that we will do our best to find the perpetrators. And we may learn something new there.”
Coric claps his hands and jumps to his feet.
“Gentlemen. If I may, at the start, I felt it was my duty to go and serve the good King Weremach, as you all know. I must say, however, that I’ve had a change of heart. It has become ever clearer to me that above Weremach—a fine king!—there are of course the Five. And who speaks for the Five more clearly than our own humble friend, the friar! Indeed, we can all serve Pentianity best by serving the man who has been chosen by the Five as their vessel; their tool, so to speak. I foolishly wanted to go serve the King when I had, by no accident, been guided here to the side of the man personally chosen by the Five to give us all guidance in these difficult times.
“Furthermore, I think that the Friar makes a good point about Tim. His morality is questionable. And short term concerns over our own purses should not take precedence over larger matters such as the disappearances in Caxbrill. If there is any chance of saving those poor peasants, isn’t it worth looking into? And maybe the Five speak through our friend to tell us, ’Stop this evil before it grows—like a pox—large enough to threaten all of us!’ For then maybe no amount of gold will save us. These are dire times! They call for dire action, selfless action! I think Valerius and Sir Garnfellow would agree!”
“I know that I do,” says a familiar voice. “Though I would probably not have resorted to such exalting rhetoric.” Standing over the table is Valerius.
“How the hell did you get in here?” asks St. James, but the tall man can offer no explanation before a burbling Mot bounds upon him.
“Out to enjoy the Hallowe’en festivities?” says Vandoren, offering the harried Valerius an empty seat.
“Actually,” says Valerius tartly, “I take no joy in ritual idiocy. But I believe you were saying something, Coric?”
The young man nods and continues.
“My own opinion dictates that we take the selfless course so wisely indicated by our good friar and look into the situation in Caxbrill or into the matter of that poor girl—bless her soul!—Who was found in the river. Such evil must not be left to go unchecked!”
“Yes, Mot, it is nice to see you, too,” says Valerius, pushing away the excited, ape-like figure hovering over him.
“I have a song,” says Mot. “It’s funny. I can sing it, too: Mot, Mot, he’s got snot. Quite a lot. Yeah, snot. Snot…”
“Lovely,” says Valerius, unable to suppress a wince at the cacophony and straining mightily to focus on something important. “Renton, about this girl. You have seen the corpse, correct? And she had suffered from the pox? Was it the pox that killed her?”
Renton nods, “We think so. She was only… messed up… after she had been buried.”
“Indeed,” says Valerius. “And you believe she had been given a Pentian burial?”
Renton nods. The entire table has grown rather quiet, and even Mot is still.
“Now Renton,” says Valerius. “This is important: what had been done to the body?”
“It was… she was… messed up.”
“I fear you shall have to be much more precise, Renton,” says Valerius sternly and quietly. “Much more. You have seen the body. What had they done to her? Was there violence? Had any of her limbs been removed? Had she been decapitated?”
“By the Hammer!” utters St. James, softly. “Do we have to do this here? And now?”
But the tall man only waves St. James off, and does not turn his attention from Renton for a moment.
“She had been cut open,” says Renton, coldly, returning Valerius’s stare. “Neatly, like you or I would slit a fish. And stuff had been taken out.”
“What ‘stuff’?” demands Valerius, but Renton only shakes his head.
“I see,” murmurs Valerius.
“Do you think you might know what’s going on here?” asks Vandoren.
“Not exactly,” answers Valerius, “But these are ill tidings, indeed.”
“Particularly on All Hallow’s Eve,” says Coric. “When the dead are supposed to walk the earth.”
“Speaking of dead men walking,” says Valerius, “I heard that the captured Seekers managed to get ransomed. I should like to know how that was accomplished. And I should like to interview one of these Seekers—find out where they were held, and who their captors were. I wonder if it was anyone on my lis…”
“On your list?” asks St. James.
“Never mind, lad,” says Valerius.
“Well,” says Mendelor. “I know that the Seekers aren’t giving out many details about how that ransom got paid. They seem to be pretending that the whole thing never happened.”
“Hey!” cries Renton, pointing to a man entering the Boar. “I know that fellow. Wyk, over here…”
A young man approaches. He is noticeably on the short side, with blond hair and a short, scruffy beard and mustache. His nose is slightly twisted and very scarred. He grins, recognizing Renton—and reveals that he is missing his top middle-left tooth and a bottom left tooth, third from the middle.
“This, friends, is Wyk,” says Renton. “He was from Bowlen.”
“Yeah,” says Wyk, “Before the damned ruck-men burned our farm and left us with nothing. But, it could be worse, though… You know, Renton. Anyway, we came to Heremac to see if we could make a go of it here. I can’t say we’ve had much luck, though.”
“Well, have an ale on me, good man,” says Coric. “You say you are looking for employment?”
“Heremac is full of poor folk these days,” says Garnfellow, “Driven off their lands by these abominations. By the Cup! But I should like to give those monsters their due. And they say that the orphanage ran out of room a month ago, and that many of the children are sleeping in the Seekers’ stables.”
“I know that orphanage too well,” says St. James. “My friend Shakerly lived at Edric’s House for a time, after the Seekers found him. It’s a miserable place, full of sick and crippled children, some of them half-wits and some of them half-rucks.”
Just then, Friar Sidrach returns, bearing a small jack-o-lantern made out of a hollowed-out turnip. He places the turnip on the table.
“One of the boys on the street gave this to me,” says the Friar. “It doesn’t look like the dreadful rain shall stop anytime soon. Do you know the story of Jack-O-Lantern, my sons?
“Once, years ago, there was a poor farmer named Jack. Now, this Jack was both very lazy and very clever, and one day, the Shaithim sent one of their countless minions to Jack to tempt him. That night a devil came to Jack, looking for all the world like a tall nobleman. But Jack knew better, and tricked the devil into climbing a tree. The devil could not climb down, and asked Jack for help. “On one condition,” Jack replied. “That you not allow me into hell.” The devil could not very well refuse, and so—with great reluctance—it agreed and Jack helped it down.
“Well, Jack lived a few more years, and then he died. He went straight to hell, but the devil kept its word, and would not let him in. So Jack traveled to the City, but he had been so bad during his life, they would not let him in the gates, either. So Jack hollowed out one of his turnips and made a lantern out of it. Even now he wanders the lands, trying to find somewhere he can stay…”
“Charming,” says Valerius. “Now, I will be detained a couple more weeks. It sounds as if this Tuck matter can be put aside for the moment—although it probably wouldn’t hurt to gather additional intelligence, before we move against him. I should like to know how Tuck has killed his challengers.
“I think we should go to Caxbrill—but after we address the enigma of this girl’s corpse. Renton’s idea about staking out the graveyard has at least a modicum of merit. But there remains the question of which graveyard? I advise all of you in the next two weeks to canvass the town for any accounts of graveyard disturbances. And I would further recommend you concentrate on villages upstream of Heremac. Is any of this hard to grasp? Excellent.”
Valerius’s smug expression stiffens as a couple more boys enter the Boar.
“Please sir, give’s some fuel to burn the witches!” They cry.
The Thistle and Briar, Heremac. V Frostaire, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Eight. Sext.
Coric, Vandoren, Wyk.
The Thistle is mostly empty: A couple of old men sit at a table, playing draughts. A skinny woman tends the great hearth, which seems to fill the common room with more smoke than warmth. After spotting the newcomers, she shuffles towards the back room and hollers. Soon a tall, burly lad comes out from the back.
“What the hell do you two want?” he demands.
“We have come to confer with your master, Tim,” announces Coric, with a flourish.
The lad seems puzzled; he picks at his blemished face, before murmuring “Wait here.” He heads out back, and after a few minutes returns with a small, gaunt man.
“Well now, what do we have here,” says Tim. “Let’s see: Coric? And—Vandoren, isn’t it? You’re associates of St. James, and that strange one—Valerius. Why have they sent their lackeys to negotiate? Still smarting from that business on Rede Street?”
“And you,” says Tim, addressing Wyk. “You’re new, aren’t you. Well, I think it is only right and proper that I should warn you about these men. You see, they’re quite dangerous. To whom I’m not sure, but many people in town say they’re murderers.”
“Tim,” says Vandoren, “You must realize that we did not come here to talk about us. If I may speak plainly, we understand that you have a certain—account in Deal that is past due. We are interested in helping make your ledger balance. But there are certain questions. We don’t want to blunder into something foolish.”
“Perhaps St. James and Valerius didn’t send you after all,” says Tim.
“Well sir,” begins Coric, “First, we must know what your plans are for Tuck. You must be totally honest as the success of the plan hinges on this.”
“What are my plans?” says Tim, a bit taken aback. “Let’s just say that Tuck was one of my men, and I—need to set an example, for the sake of my other employees, you understand.”
“Well then,” says Vandoren, “The next thing we need to know is, how many thugs does Tuck have hanging in the shadows?”
“Tuck is a loner,” says Tim. “I’d be surprised if you found anyone stupid or mad enough to work with Tuck for very long. Next question.”
“Do we really get to keep any extras above and beyond what you have lost to Tuck?”
“You can keep any loot you find him with. I don’t care about any coin Tuck stole from me—at this point it’s him I want. And alive. Do you understand me? Not dead. Still living. Make sure you get this through to your little masters. They have a bad habit of getting carried away. And, for the Five’s Sake, don’t listen to anything that damned Tuck says. If you can knock him senseless, that would probably best for everyone.”
“Most assuredly understood,” says Vandoren. “Now, if we scout around and find we may need a few good men, will you provide some assistance?”
“If you go to Deal, you’re on your own,” says Tim. “And besides, I’m not sure I have any ‘good men.’”
“Coric, do you have any more questions?” asks Vandoren, but the boy shakes his head. “One more thing, Tim. I’m sure I don’t even have to mention this, but in the interest of complete disclosure, I should state that this mission to Deal is strictly a singular venture. In addition, our involvement is not to be made public knowledge unless we decide to make it so. We have our reasons.”
“Fine, fine,” says Tim. “Remember: I want Tuck alive. And don’t forget, he is the single greatest liar in all of Selcrany. Maybe all of Frilond. Don’t believe anything Tuck tells you, or anything he promises you. Anything. Is that clear? Now get out of here. I have some other business.”
The Road to Vesay, XVIII Frostaire, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Eight. After Tierce.
Coric, St. James, Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius, Wyk.
The woods are warm and still. The leaves have all fallen from the trees, the songbirds have all flown south, and the dry grasses have been bleached to drab. Leaves crunch underneath foot. The only thing disturbing this autumn scene is a sustained, unearthly wailing.
“Snot, Mot… and Mot… and…” Mot’s song trails off into a soft babble, occasionally broken by giggling.
“I wonder who might have taught poor Mot such foolishness—St. James?” says Valerius.
“Hey, I bet he made that up all by himself,” says St. James.
“So here is my plan,” says Coric, his eyes wide with excitement, his hands darting about like small birds. “I think I could outwit Tuck and—this is the best part—trick him into going to Tim. I could go directly to Deal, and tell Tuck exactly what Tim has said to us about making him an ‘example.’ Then I’ll tell Tuck that, in addition, one of Tim’s enemies in Heremac is offering ten pounds of silver to any man who can help him ‘get even’ with Tim, but that no one has been able to collect the reward yet; Tim is just too tough. If Tuck takes the bait, we could ambush him or warn Tim of his eminent arrival.”
“Playing two enemies against each other. There may actually be promise to you yet, boy,” says Valerius. “Your plan has some rough edges, but suggests… definite promise.”
“I could perhaps add some minstrel’s charm to your tale,” says Vandoren. “Between us, maybe we could trick this Tuck.”
“I look forward to our encounter,” says Coric, with relish. “Ah, it’s a fine day to set forth in adventure—is it not, good friar?”
Friar Sidrach continues to walk a bit before answering, carefully.
“The Five have indeed blessed us with fine weather, my son. Would that our mission were not so foul.”
The Friar pats the neck of his donkey and offers the animal an apple, which it happily snaps out of his hand.
“Well, we could be at the siege,” offers Coric. “That would be worse, would it not? I have heard it told that many of Gregory’s troops have succumbed to the pox.”
“They way I hear it,” says Mendelor, “If the Seekers keep losing men to the pox, they’ll never take the Keep before first snow.”
“Have you heard anything more of Caxbrill?” ask the Friar.
“Hell’s Bells,” says Mendelor. “The Seekers nailed a company of ruck-men a couple of days ago, headed for Caxbrill. The rucks were leading a bunch of stolen pigs that way, and some treasure. Maybe the rucks were thinking to settle in to Caxbrill, now that it’s empty. Well, the only farming those rucks will do is on the Shaithim’s lands—the Seekers put every last ruck to the knife.”
The party continues to walk in silence. They had spent the night before in the village of Gelton, a day’s march north of Heremac and sitting on the banks of the Corin. Gelton is a small, sleepy village that has seen much more activity in the last year than it is accustomed to see, with Seekers frequently moving through it on their way to the siege. No one in Gelton knew of any grave-robbing, though the villagers were outraged that such a thing could even happen. Further, Gelton has so far been spared from the pox. Though some villagers had heard that Vesay, another day’s march upriver, has had some trouble with the pox. “I don’t know anything about the damned rucks messing with any graves, though,” says one man. And this morning, the party set forth for Vesay.”
The Village of Vesay, XVIII Frostaire. Before Vespers.
Vesay is a tiny hamlet close by the Corin. The town is reached by a river trail which passes a few outlying cottages before running straight through the center of the village. Though small, Vesay is notable for its large, stone church, ringed by an iron fence. This is the parish church of St. Lamar. A few young girls spy the party and run away, and soon a couple of grim young men appear, pitchforks in hand. The larger lad steps forward.
“You strangers! What business do you have in the good town of Vesay? Speak!”