The Seeker’s Citadel, Heremac, XX Whitland, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Eight. Nones.
Coric, Hamral, Friar Sidrach Landry, Wyk.
“Let me see if I understand this,” mutters the thin old man, pacing back and forth, rubbing his tremulous hands together. “You come upon the corpse of the dead curate, Nollis. The corpse has been possessed by a horrible demon, called up from Hell itself. Some of you have the sense to run. You run to Saint Lamar parish. And there you find Father Tranchus, engaged in some… some act of terrible heresy. So you subdue Tranchus, and somehow—this is where I think I start to lose you—somehow you drive off this demon. Now, do I have all of this right? Good. I want to make sure I understand all of this.
“And then there’s that strange book you mentioned… the book that was found only after the demon was vanquished? Now, Friar Sidrach, just how did you know that that particular book had been Father Tranchus’s downfall?”
The old man turns, his dark eyes narrowing toward the table where Friar Sidrach and his friends sit. The young scribe who had accompanied the Archdeacon from Canglen pauses from his transcription to glance up, awaiting the friar’s answer. The handful of onlookers, including several Seekers and a few clerics from Canglen, also seem to lean forward in anticipation. Brother Alton in particular seems eager to hear the Gerardian.
“Ah, Reverend Father,” says Friar Sidrach. “We had been in the rectory prior to that terrible night—and never saw any such book. And yet, when we arrived that night, that one book was set out, and Father Tranchus was consulting it in preparing his unsavory ritual.”
“So you are familiar with the contents of this book?” asks the Archdeacon.
“I know that the book was a work of the Shaithim,” answers the Friar.
“Really? I thought that you could not read, Friar Sidrach.”
“That is true, Father Hubert—but a blind man does not need to see, in order to know that it is raining,” says the unflappable Friar. “I am but a humble Gerardian, and I know little about book-reading or dead pagans. Father Tranchus was a learned man, and knew far more about such matters than me—far more than I would ever want to know. You have heard where all of his learning led him.”
“I… see,” answers Archdeacon Hubert, heavily. “Well, I believe that we can finally conclude these proceedings. I have no further use for you or your friends, Friar Sidrach. Although your account of the night in question at Vesay leaves much to be desired, it will suffice; I can complete my inquiry for Bishop Martin. I shall make sure that you and your companions are commended in my report for your strength in the face of such heresy. I appreciate your cooperation in this inquiry.
“And,” continues the Archdeacon, turning to Brother Alton. “My report shall find that, although the Brotherhood of Saint Markham has absolutely no authority over an ordained priest of the Canglen Diocese, the summary execution of Father Tranchus and the subsequent destruction of the blasphemous work in question… were acts not entirely without justification or precedence. Vesay is under Seeker protection and, despite the appalling lack of tangible evidence to support Brother Alton’s charge of heresy, the testimony of Friar Sidrach and his companions seems credible enough—especially when heard in light of Tranchus’s past… discrepancies. It is certain that Tranchus engaged in heresy—at best. The pyre is a traditional and eminently suitable punishment for such a dangerous and wicked heretic.
“However, as a representative of the Canglen See, I can assure you that His Grace will be most displeased at this flagrant disregard of protocol. We would have preferred to have interrogated the wayward priest ourselves, before… But I shan’t cavil about that now: I only hope that the poor wretch took no other innocents with him into the Shaithim’s embrace. Requiescat in pace.”
The young scribe puts away his tools, and rolls up his sheets of parchment. All rise to let the Archdeacon and his assistants pass. Among the mission from Canglen is Pennington, who does not acknowledge ever having met Friar Sidrach prior to this inquiry.
The Apartment, Heremac, XXV Whitland, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Eight. Tierce.
Coric, Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Friar Sidrach Landry, St. James, Valerius, Wyk.
“Friends,” says Coric in a hushed tone, “As one who has seen more than I would like to of the dark underbelly of our beloved Selcrany, I believe it is all too evident that our Father Tranchus—may The Five have mercy on his misguided soul!—was not alone in his mischief. Somehow he was supplied, whether with the cursed book that we found, or with the ideas needed to start writing it.
“As we’ve seen, his case is not an isolated one. What of Lorn Abbey? What of Caxbrill? There are conspiracies about! I volunteer to spend time in some of the seedier establishments around and will ask Wyk to do the same in hopes that we can gather information on more such conspiracies before they come to such fruition as they had the misfortune to in Vesay. Furthermore, we might do well to let the Seekers know of our good intentions in this direction. Their goodwill would, I believe, be assured and their help in such matters, I believe would not hurt, to put it rather obviously. So friends, what do you say?”
“Indeed, my son. Indeed,” begins the Friar. “Lorn Abbey, Caxbrill, Vesay: These are not isolated incidents. Not at all, I fear. But this is no conspiracy of mere men. Oh, no. The common thread that runs through each incident is nothing less than the taint of the Shaithim—May the Five curse them ever.
“The Frounter is still very much a wild and dark place; we toil to put down the roots of Pentianity here—but this land, so to speak, has been barren for a long time. The soil is parched and thin. Is it no wonder that the Worms should so readily manifest themselves here in heresies, monsters, and witchcraft?
“You see, my sons, just as a place can be strong with the Five, a place can be also be strong with the Shaithim’s rotting influence. Remember Lorn Abbey? That place was lousy with the Worms: you could feel it in your bones. Wild places, pagan places, dark places, sites of evil acts such as murder—these places bear the Worms’ taint. Men who pass through these areas are often filled with doubts, sinful thoughts, and disturbing dreams.
“In general, towns are strong with the Five. And larger towns, more so, as men’s faith is concentrated in greater and greater numbers. And within towns, consecrated grounds like churches or shrines are even stronger with the Five. And beyond that, places associated with saints are said to be stronger still with the Five. You can feel the difference between standing in a small parish on the Frounter and, say, standing in Abbermark Cathedral.
“At certain times of the year—holy days, such as the Yule, or during the daylight hours, the Worms are at their weakest. But at night, and on darker days such as Hallowe’en, the forces of Hell wax strong, and the Shaithim stretch forth their coils into places where they would otherwise never be allowed to enter.
“My own blessed gifts of miracles are affected by this ebb and flow of Empyrean and Perdition. But remember, my sons: there is no place in creation, no matter how foul or tainted, where the Five are completely absent. Even in the darkest moments at Lorn Abbey or Vesay, I was comforted by this simple little litany:
He who to the Five commits his ways,
In silence suffers, waits, and prays,
Preserves his faith and conscience pure,
He is of the Five’s protection sure.”
“An interesting discourse, good friar,” says Valerius, straightening up his tall, lanky figure. “Empyrean and Perdition are the two most obvious forces at work in our world, but I might suggest that perhaps there are other powers, as well. Consider the Temple of the Medusae, or the Green Tower: these places were permeated by forces not of this world, but the source was ultimately, neither the Five nor the Shaithim. Some scholars maintain that the Unseen Realms are actually beyond number, and the City and the Pit are only two possibilities, out of a multitude.”
“I am but a simple friar,” answers the Gerardian, tartly. “I know nothing of what scholars maintain. I only know of the Five, and what They say: that’s all I need to live by. Give a man enough rope, and he’ll hang himself every time, it’s said. I sometimes think too much book-learning only confuses matters that are plain enough to a simple man. Or have you forgotten poor Father Tranchus already?”
“Tranchus was a fool,” says Valerius, coldly. “A weak and deluded fool. Which reminds me—I approached the Bergenians with the books we seized from the rectory at Saint Lamar. Brother Edward, the fat librarian, was very interested in our goods, and entreated his abbot for permission to purchase the books. However, the Bergenians’ access to coin is limited: Abbot Peter can offer a maximum of fifty pounds of silver. But he has a few wondrous philters as well to offer us, in addition to the silver: two phials of the Blood of Saint Marius, which can heal wounds, and an Elixir of Saint Ulfan, ‘The Geaunt Saint.’ The Bergenians claim that a drink of this elixir can make a man grow as large as a house! I told Brother Edward I would have to consult with my associates before proceeding further. Fifty pounds of silver and three potions: I have no doubt that this is the best offer we will receive. Though we should perhaps wait until the rest of our companions can offer their say, before we decide one way or the other. Just when will our consortes become available?”
“Hamral’s been working with Sir Gerald the White,” says St. James. “He should be available by the Yule. Vandoren—I’m not sure about him.”
“I understand he’s been spending much time at the Bergenian Abbey,” offers Coric.
“Half a moment, Honkeydonk,” says St. James, holding up his hand to Coric. “I’m speaking right now. Me. Is that all right? Good… now, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted… I think Vandoren will also be ready by the Yule. Now—what do you think there, Honkeydonk?”
“Hey,” says Wyk, “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”
“Don’t start with me, Dungdeedle,” says St. James, a wry grin breaking across his face.
“Easy, Wyk,” says Coric. “Easy. Saint James doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“Enough of this bickering,” snaps Valerius. “At once.”
“I’m sorry,” says Coric. “It’s the Shaithim’s influence, I’m sure. Letting us all get out of sorts.”
“Right, Honkeydonk,” mutters St. James, rolling his eyes.
“What?” says Wyk.
“Enough!” commands Valerius. “As soon as we are able, we shall make for the village of Deal and Tim’s former associate, Tuck. Do not be fooled—Tim’s errands are never quite what they seem. And so, we must be focused and composed. We cannot afford such distractions.”
The Bristling Boar Inn, Heremac, III Yule, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Eight. Vespers.
Coric, Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Friar Sidrach Landry, St. James, Valerius, Vandoren, Sir Will Garnfellow, Wyk.
“Wassail!” cries Garnfellow, hoisting his cup of wine above his head.
“Drink Hail!” comes the rejoinder from the rest of the table, as they each take a swig of the mulled Rhemish wine. The group has gotten into a rather festive spirit, and almost everyone has drunk deeply.
“Ah, lads—another year ending,” says Garnfellow. “Let us hope that the new year will see us victorious in the long siege.”
“Hear! Hear!” cries Coric, jumping to his feet. “I’ll drink to that, Sir Garnfellow!”
“Not so fast,” says St. James, pointing to the draughts board. “It’s your move, Honkeydonk. I’ve got a trip to Maggie’s riding on this game!”
Coric hastily moves his piece, and then salutes Garnfellow with a drink.
“Aye, that’s a good lad,” says Garnfellow, suddenly sniffing the air. “By the Cup! If those are not chestnuts I smell roasting, then I am a blasted ruck! Golding! Golding! Bring out those roasted beauties. There is a poor, valiant knight starving out here while you dawdle!”
Golding comes forth presently, with a great bowl of steaming hot, fragrant chestnuts.
“Ah, that’s just the thing to get a knight into the spirit of the Yule,” says Garnfellow, swiping up a large handful and plopping them into his mouth.
St. James picks up a couple of chestnuts and, tossing them up high in the air, catches them in his mouth.
“There was a lake near my village,” says St. James, chewing, “And we used to go down to the lake every fall. We’d build some rafts and go over and gather nuts on a weird little island—Owl Island, they called it. I don’t know why the hell they called it that—I never saw any owls there. Anyway, there were all sorts of great nut-trees out there, heavy with fruit: acorns, and hazelnuts, and chestnuts—those were the best. The old biddies in the village would make us kids go once a year, for the nuts. As much as we could gather in one day. The biddies said that the nuts from Owl Island were special—they’d bring good luck.
“My friends Dale and Gymmoc and I would have to go to the island. And we hated it, on account of Old Brown.”
“Old Brown?” asks Friar Sidrach. “Why, that sounds like one of Golding’s ales.”
“I don’t know who Old Brown was,” says St. James, “But we were scared as hell of him. The biddies used to tease us, saying that if we weren’t good, they’d give us to Old Brown for a handful of chestnuts. ‘Course, we got back at those old bats… got back at them good. But that’s another story.
“Anyway, Old Brown was supposed to live on the island: I don’t know anyone who ever saw him. But nevertheless, we always had to bring a present for Old Brown, which we left at the base of a big old scary oak tree, in the center of the island. It was usually stupid stuff, like a dead mouse, or a trout, or a pot of honey. Something must have liked them, though—the presents were never there whenever we went back. We were told to behave ourselves, for Old Brown would brook no foolishness on his island.
“One time we went out—it was the last time, too—we forgot to bring a present for Old Brown. Dale and Gymmoc and I were scared worse than Honkeydonk here,” St. James nods towards Coric, “We were sure that at any minute Old Brown would jump out of the trees and gobble us all up like those dead mice we left. I think we grabbed a handful of nuts each and beat it back for the shore.”
“Well, speaking of roasts,” says Coric, grabbing a couple of chestnuts, “I have prepared one myself, for the Yule.” The young boy, without warning, suddenly leaps upon the table. Patrons in the Boar, sensing some fun, roar their encouragement to the boy. Coric begins to kick up his heels a bit, and sings in a high, cracked voice:
Garnfellow! Garnfellow!
His beard golden yellow!
Wonderful tales weaves he!
He calls for his pottage
And he calls for his mug
The terror o’ rucks is ‘e!Sidrach Landry
The barefoot friar
A humble man, but gay!
Makes miracles
And speaks with The Five
Yet for his ale
He can barely pay!Valerius, the serious
Somber and mysterious
A man of learning and lore
He comes and he goes
Where? Nobody knows
And his mustache is no more!Mot, Mot
He loves his snot!
And his snot it also loves he!
He makes up rhymes to pass the times
Fiddledy dum fie diddledy-dum dee!James, Saint James
So Maggie claims
Is the saint of Heremac
But if ye haves silver
Or if ye haves gold
Ye’s better watch yer back!Vandoren, Vandoren
Is never borin’
There’s always a song to sing!
He strums on his harp
And makes such music
Like an angel without the wings!Renton Hess
I must confess
Is a man I don’t know well
Though he walks upright
And he keeps his word
All o’ which I’m happy to tell!Mendelor! Mendelor!
A woodsman wise!
A mix o’ brawn and brain!
He’s quick with an ax
And he knows his facts
And he don’t mind to sleep in the rain!Wyk, Wyk!
Lightning quick!
A new face in the Boar!
He likes his ale best by the pail
Quick! Golding! He says!
Bring more!
Coric raises his arms high, bows, and leaps gracefully back to the floor. The crowd, which had been captivated by the song, suddenly explodes with laughter. Several drunken men push their way forward to clap Coric on the back and offer him an ale. Soon the boy has several full tankards before him at the table.
“A wonderful song,” says St. James. “Let me buy you an ale, too. And,” he adds, turning to Vandoren, “Just where the hell have you been, Wetpants, these last few weeks?”
Vandoren looks a bit puzzled, but then shrugs and answers. “I have been applying myself to my studies. You know the Bergenian Abbey? Well, there are a handful of women there who have given themselves over to the Five. I happened to hear about one of them, Catherine of Aurebine, and I went to meet her: she has lived a truly amazing life.
“Catherine is still a handsome woman, in her middle years. She was born in Weredrice to a well-to-do, landed family—and she lived quite well there for many years. She had an unusual aptitude for learning and music, and taught herself how to play the lute, and sing, and write songs—and she knows the Song of Orland perhaps even better than my old master Gilbert. She’s willful, too, and even convinced her parish chaplain to teach her to read!
“Young Catherine had a string of suitors, but either misfortune or her own fiery disposition seemed to thwart her father’s plans to marry her off. She finally ended up wedding an older knight, Robert Devay, and together they had a couple of children. Robert was a kind man, and indulged his wife in her unusual pursuits. After several years of marriage, their children grown, her husband made a pilgrimage to Heremac and brought Catherine with him—this happened only three years ago. However, just north of Bellenore their train was set upon by bandits, and Robert was killed and Catherine, captured. She was soon able to escape and made her way alone all the way to Heremac, where she decided to stay. She joined the nuns at the Shrine of Saint Marius, where she is now a postulant.
“Catherine agreed to teach me, if I would give what coin I had to the sisters. But to tell the truth, I think she was really just glad to have a chance to sing again. She has a remarkable voice. So that’s where I have been.”
“That’s great, Wetpants,” says St. James. “Care for a game of draughts?”
“I’m afraid I have no coin left to wager,” says Vandoren, pointing to the stacks of coin next to Coric, Wyk, and Renton.
“Too bad,” says St. James. With a flourish, he suddenly pulls out a rag and wraps it over his head. “I see I’ll have to use force!”
St. James then begins to prance around an astonished Vandoren, shadow fencing.
“Ha Ha!” shouts St. James. “Look at me! I’m a blood-thirsty brigand! Give over your money, Wetpants!”
The crowd in the Boar erupts in laughter. St. James continues his antics, until he slips and falls onto the table, nearly crushing Wyk.
“Hey!” shouts Wyk. “This guy is drunker than a damn turd.”
“Accuse me of drunkery!” says St. James, mock-offended. “Have at thee, varlet!” St. James begins shadow-fencing with Wyk.
“I’ll have at you!” says Wyk, annoyed. “Right in the teeth.” But St. James continues to prance about, seemingly oblivious to any danger.
“Wyk—he’s only having fun. No need to cause trouble,” says Coric.
“Well, he better not fall on me again. If he knows what’s good for him.”
“So sorry, my good man,” says St. James, still prancing. “So very, very, very sorry!”
“It’s time for another drink,” says Garnfellow, standing up. “Wassail!” he cries
“Drink Hail!”
Outside the Boar, the town of Heremac is hushed by the steady fall of heavy, wet snow—the second storm to hit the Frounter in three days. Already a foot or more of snow lies piled on the ground, and this storm threatens to add at least another half foot.
On the Outskirts of Deal, V Caulding, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. Sext.
Coric, Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Friar Sidrach Landry, St. James, Valerius, Vandoren, Wyk.
“The last time we were here,” says Mendelor, pointing to a large, snow-covered hill, “We saved these merchants. They had gotten ambushed in this weird fog cloud. Over that hill there’s a little birch wood and a stream. Downstream a little ways there’s a ravine, and these ruck-men had built a little hide-out down there. We had the damnedest time flushing out those little bastards, too—until we hit upon the idea of building some mantlets. I used to have a magic shield, too, but I lost it here.”
“The village looks the same,” says Friar Sidrach.
“Consortes,” Coric announces with a flourish, “I have just had an idea. I believe that it would be in our interest to build a false wall into the apartment where we could hide things if necessary—and perhaps even hide ourselves, in the event that unforeseen danger should arise and seek us out at our lodgings here!
“My plan is as follows, though I’m sure some of you could improve upon it. We build a wall that exactly resembles the preexisting one at about a foot and a half in from the latter. This would, in my opinion, best be done with the wall shared by Valerius, the good friar, Wyk, and my own humble self because it has no windows and is furthest from the observation of any visitors in the common room. The problem, of course, is that we would have to do this as discreetly as possible. That is where my end of the plan breaks down and where your suggestions will be of great benefit. Remember, consortes, friends, this could save our lives!”
“That’s a great idea, there, Honkeydonk,” says St. James. “Why don’t we worry about it when we’re back in town.”
“Do not start!” hisses Valerius.
“I’m sorry,” says Coric. “I find it sometimes difficult to restrain my impulses. I shall endeavor to…”
A glance from Valerius silences the boy. The recent snows have made travel slow and difficult, and Deal is a welcome sight.
“It sure looks peaceful enough,” says Coric.
Walking into town, the party immediately comes across a man who recognizes them.
“Hello, friend,” says Friar Sidrach, stepping forward. “Perhaps you remember us, though it has been a couple of years. We helped rid your fair town of the awful worm…”
The man, a pale, bald man in a heavy winter cloak, looks very frightened at the sight of the party—he licks his lips nervously, and glances around. He seems to want to speak, but someone—or something—prevents him.
“We seek a man,” begins Valerius “He…”
Just then, there is a gasp from behind. Where Renton had been standing at the back of the party is a stranger: a large, stocky man. His complexion is dark; his face is scarred and ugly. He has a dark, unkempt beard, and his black hair is matted and greasy. Before him kneels Renton, his eyes wide with fear; the stranger holds a knife to Renton’s throat. A thin, bright line of blood trickles down Renton’s neck. The stranger croaks out a command:
“Hey, you stinking bastard whoresons—one move and I put the Five-damned knife to him!”