The Bristling Boar Inn, Heremac. XXX Caulding, Eve of Candlemas, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. Nones.
Coric, Hamral, Mot, Renton, Friar Sidrach, St. James, Valerius, Wyk.
The Boar is sullen. Men quietly nurse their ales and speak in hushed tones, the stillness occasionally broken by a cascade of coughing, beginning with a single hack that soon spreads from man to man, back and forth across the common room before fading again to silence.
Hamral takes a deep draft before speaking.
“As near as we can tell, the ruck-men aren’t going to attack Heremac any time soon. They’re already spread thin enough, and little has changed in last two weeks. The lines seem to have solidified right where they are. The rucks are busy fortifying Deal and the rest of their new holdings. We sent some probes north, and they sent some south, and all have been repelled. Neither the rucks nor the Pentians have enough resources to continue waging a protracted campaign in the middle of winter. If the Count of Kirke can hold on, it’ll be May before anything really changes.”
“The blasted rucks are making themselves at home,” says Renton. “King Tereus is setting himself up in Derwich castle, and he’s already distributed his new lands among his barons. He’s cut the Frounter in half, and the damned gonfalon of the Black-blade flies everywhere north of here to Kirke.”
St. James sneezes violently, and wipes his nose with the back of his sleeve. His eyes are red and puffy.
“It’s just as well,” he says, “I’m not up to attacking the Yron Citie just now.”
“Have we any recent word on Mendelor or Vandoren?” asks Valerius. “Coric, I understand that you and Wyk will also be occupied for the next couple of weeks.”
“Mendelor is out with Gerry Huff, scouting ruck-man positions north of here,” says Renton. “I saw him before he left, and it sounded like he was planning on being tied up for a month or more.”
“Vandoren spends much of his time working with Dame Catherine,” says Coric. “Though I would suspect that his studies are drawing to an end. I have been working with St. James’s friend Roger, and should be for a few more weeks. And Wyk…”
“Has been spending most of his time drilling with the frigging militia,” adds Wyk. “Harry Morton’s a fine fellow, don’t get me wrong, but all of this fancy militia stuff—well, let’s just say it isn’t exactly my way of fighting. I can handle myself just fine in a scrap, thank you very much.”
“Well, in any case,” says Valerius, “We shall not want to undertake any important initiative until all of our companions are available. We need all of the allies we can muster.”
Friar Sidrach shakes his head sadly.
“A pity that we could not have talked with Godwin, instead of slaying him—mayhap he would have proved a useful ally against King Tereus.”
Valerius scowls and leans forward to respond.
“Yes, yes, yes, Sidrach—It would have been convenient to converse with Godwin! But as far as his assisting or joining us, perhaps he should have spoken more—rather than assailing us with pathetic ‘worm’ illusions. You will find that most people who attack me end up meeting the Shaithim slightly ahead of schedule. Illusions—humph!—pathetic false magic anyway…
“Since we seem to have decided to stay in Heremac we may as well do something to protect this place. Standing on the wall with a sword seems to be covered, so why don’t we try to be more useful than that. One matter that particularly concerns me is the disappearances of the Seeker rear guard at Grimall.”
“The stories remind me very much of poor Caxbrill,” says Friar Sidrach, “Which I have urged us to investigate for many months!”
“Yes, good friar,” says Valerius, “I’m quite sure it is related to the Caxbrill incident, much like the parting of your lips is related to my hearing the blatantly obvious. May I continue? If the rear guard and the village of Caxbrill could disappear, then why not the guards at the gate or something equally disastrous. Keep in mind, these people seemed to have just disappeared. No signs of violence and no signs of flight, simply gone. To me, consortes, this reeks of…”
“Witchery!” injects Coric.
“Yes, Coric,” continues Valerius, “Witchery would be an uninformed, perhaps childish way of expressing it, but I was going to say magic.
“But where do we start in this investigation? Surely Caxbrill is cold by now, as well as the rear guard position at Grimall. Perhaps the answer lies with this ruck, King Tereus.
“I believe that the powder that we received from our friend the human torch might grant the power of invisibility. But I am not sure; we would need the help of the Bergenians to establish this for certain. And I cannot afford to pay them. However, if we talked to them perhaps they would donate their services. At any rate, I think we could use the powder to sneak into the ruck camp and find out what is happening. And then do something about it.
“Another concern of mine is Tuck. If he is alive—and I have no doubt that he is—he will be in Heremac. We should search the town: perhaps St. James could inquire among his disreputable fellows; perhaps they have seen something.
“And my last concern is with our good friend Tim. He has been known to traffic with ruck-men—who knows? Perhaps he has done business with these rucks of the Black-blade. Tim should be watched, if for no other reason than that I assume that Tuck will try to kill him—which would not cause me any much emotional turmoil—but of course, we will probably be next on Tuck’s list. Or perhaps first…”
“Some of what you say makes good sense, my son,” says Friar Sidrach. “Sneaking into the ruck-man camp, while dangerous, seems like it could do great help to our cause. I have been thinking about how much good a small band of brave Pentians could do against these abominations. Consider the example of Sir Reginald! Perhaps he would join us in such an endeavor.
“And perhaps we could persuade Lord Charles of the Axe to lend his strength to Heremac’s defenses. As a vassal of the King, there is no great love between the Castellan and Master Edric. Perhaps we could reconcile the two men. With this in mind, my sons, I have taken one of Coric’s suggestions to heart, and have tried to arrange a meeting with Gregory the Risen. I have been invited to the Citadel tomorrow, after the processions, and I shall offer our services. I should like Coric, Wyk, and Renton to accompany me.”
“Yes!” cries Coric. “This is just the thing I have been clamoring for!”
“I agree,” says Renton. “I fear that many strategies for defending Heremac are being overlooked. Perhaps we need to arm every person in town. Heremac belongs to all of us, and I think that every living soul in the town should be ready to fight. Hamral, Friar, you ought to spread the word: all men should stay and not flee. And even more so, they should all be ready to defend their town.
“And what’s more, the trap idea that Coric had is good. What if a group of men could make a trap so big it could take out 500 ruck-men in one swift moment? The rucks come marching shoulder to shoulder, right? What if we found a way to walk them into a trap?
“Also, prisoners are being taken to the Yron Citie, right? Prisoners are usually unarmed and not guarded well. Think about it: when the rucks take prisoners, for every fifty men there’s what, maybe a small handful of rucks. They don’t need many rucks to guard unarmed men. How many prisoners are there in all? Probably hundreds, with all the fighting the rucks have been doing. I propose that we go in and free these men and bring them back to Heremac to fight. Is it possible we could arm all these men with clubs or spears and other simple weapons? It would require a small group of us and we would need to be very sneaky. It wouldn’t involve much combat. We could scout out where these prisoners are being held very carefully, and once we free a group it isn’t like they will just stand there. We will create an uprising amongst the prisoner and it will happen so fast that the rucks won’t know what hit them.
“Hell, if we could free a thousand men, well, that would be something. We could lead them into battle and bring an end to this hellish nightmare. We would have to be very careful to avoid the ruckish armies but I am certain we could pull it off with some careful traveling.
St. James erupts in a paroxysm of coughing and wheezing, and it is difficult for him to regain composure.
“What—the—hell—are you talking about!” he forces out. “Anytime we’ve ever met these Black-blade rucks, we were lucky to make it our in one piece! What makes you think we could pull off something like that.”
Valerius screws his face up as he readies a response, but Coric, to the surprise of everyone, answers first.
“Good St. James,” he says, “You must have more faith! I have composed a humble poem, that you may find instructive.” The young lad then stands up, and shouts out, in a high, quavering voice, his poem, his voice gaining volume and strength with each line.
Now gather round and listen friends to a tale I have to tell,
About our city Heremac and how it went through hell.
Proud city! Who wouldst do thee harm, I this cannot conceive!
But then who can divine the hearts of diabolical thieves?
O wicked night! That th’ Ruckish horde spilt on the Frounter plain
Overran the villages; the women, the children slain.
New Hull, Vesay, Derwich Keep; and dozens places more.
How many families on that evil day apart were tore?And on that day the tears that flowed made bitter the harvest reapt
While Tereus with gore-drenched steel, the conqueror, skulls heapt!
In that black hour, our fate was nigh, cold doom’d take its due turn:
They’d break the gates, they’d hack our limbs and then our bones they’d burn!
With dread we watched th’ approaching host of distant dancing lights
And cowardly did we consider: was it too late for flight?But more was there to see than ever did we then divine:
Heaven fire with deaf’ning roar fell down on crag and pine;
The Corin cold and black her waters did an hour still,
Before they rushed again afresh to twist ‘twixt dale and hill.
These wonders did our faithless hearts meet not with joy, but fear
That they were witchery Tereus-sent, we thought it to be clear.
But then as dawn won over night, though yet the light was dim,
And winter’s icy grip yet clung to th’ darkened horizon’s rim,
And closer drew the grim lights of the slaughtering horde, our foe
Every tired heart that watched, weighted with coming death’s woe.The city gate then opened wide, the terrible wait was finisht
To welcome Markham’s host! The Seekers! Sadly, much diminished!
By foul Ruckish treachery and venom-sorcery
For wickedness is all rucks know and love only perfidy.
Still in their midst rode noble Gregory, the goodly risen!
Whose bravery and wisdom rallied men to heroism
They sacrificèd comfort, limbs and lives at Grimall bitter.
More than a thousand lie unburied ‘cross the Corin, so remember!
They marched three days and nights, through Shaithim-cursèd wilderness,
The demon host not far behind, gnashed their fangs and hissed
But the Five were watching there that day and showed their mighty hand
With fiery pillar heaven sent, split water and split land.The harried knights then saw their op’ning, through the ranks they fought.
They crossed the river on dry land, and they weren’t caught.
For the monster hordes, blood gluttons they were, couldn’t help but follow
Got halfway cross before the Five-held waters did them swallow.
So finally did these brave men back t’ Heremac now get.
Their garments rags, faces bloodied, standing tall tho’ spent
Still dark and grim a dawn it was the morn of their return
Darker grew the sky as the Rucks our corpses burned.And when yer sitting by the fire, flagon full to spilling
While the rain falls on outside don’t ye be unwilling
To think a thought and say a prayer for the poor souls to the east
In wilderness and dark and cold they fell to th’ Ruckish beast.
And I’d like to dedicate this song to those that I’ve just sung,
And many a year from now perhaps their praises will be rung
From tower top on high to thank the Five for all we’ve got
We won’t forget ye thousand plus souls, that we’ll truly not.
And many a year from now, perhaps strong men will weep
For those who now walk with the Five, lost at dread Grimall Keep!
The crowd, which had been so quiet, suddenly roars with enthusiasm, shaking the very rafter beams of the Bristling Boar. Renton springs up, and begin to shout, loudly, his Harpish brogue flavoring his speech:
“This is a time when leaders rise and fall! Do we have what it takes to help lead people to freedom, or will we sit back and let the rucks destroy our home? The easy way for evil to conquer is for good men to do nothing! Now we can sit around the Bristling Boar and bitch and moan or we can spend every last moment we have preparing for the summer’s fighting. My father and mother never left their home for fear of rucks, and they may have died, but I tell you what: They died fighting! They died Pentians! We can die as good Pentians, defending our home, or we can flee and turn our backs on the people of Heremac—and any man who can do that is no better than the ruck-men coming to Heremac! We need to work to make spears and any weapons we can for the unarmed. Make the traps, make a thousand if you can. If we don’t start the defense right here in Heremac, how can we be of help outside the walls? Any man who isn’t in the militia we must convince to fight, and we must arm everybody. Let’s get those RUCKS! Rucks can take my life, but they can never take the FIVE!”
St. Welman’s Parish, Heremac. I Winding, Candlemas, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine.Vespers.
Coric, Renton, Friar Sidrach, Wyk.
As the chorus sings lovely canticles to Empyrean, Father Trent, dressed in purple raiment, recites a Tynan blessing and passes his hands over dozens of beeswax candles, prepared specially for this day. These candles are then given to each clergyman and each parishioner in St. Welman’s parish. And as the chorus continues to sing, Father Trent leads a solemn procession out of the church and into the graveyard, dark except for the flickering candles. The procession then threads its way back to the church. All across Heremac, similar processions are taking place at every church and chapel. And as the mass ends, parishioners disperse back to their homes.
“These blessed candles should greatly help with all the sickness that has been ravaging Heremac,” says Coric. “Candlemas couldn’t have come at a better time!”
“We need all the blessings we can get,” says Friar Sidrach, gravely. “The pox has gotten worse and worse, despite all of the efforts of my order. The shroud of St. Lamar has been completely consumed, and there are several theurgists in Heremac who have worked many miracles. We toil day and night, but there are so many stricken. Perhaps a hundred have died in the last two weeks, and many more are sick.”
“Will St. James be all right?” asks Coric. “I have prayed for him, today.”
“The Five willing,” answers Friar Sidrach. “St. James is very ill, but I do not believe that he has yet contracted the pox. But we must be careful: he is not a strong boy, and any sickness sorely taxes him. Should he develop a fiery ague, or should his skin begin breaking out in boils, you must find me and bring me to him without delay.”
“This plague is the last damned thing we need,” mutters Wyk. “Uh, sorry, Friar.”
“Take heart, my sons,” says the Gerardian. “For I have just heard this day of a wondrous miracle, in the village of Abberlane. It seems that a vicious raiding party of Black-blade rucks had slipped across the frontier, intent on sacking Abberlane. The rucks were met by the lord of that village, Sir Corwyn, and his henchmen. These Pentians fought bravely, but alas! were overwhelmed by the rucks and cut down, leaving poor Abberlane defenseless.
“Now perhaps you have heard of the Anchoress of Abberlane, my sons? She is a very holy woman, who, as a young maid, gave her life over to the Five, and was sealed within a stone house without door or window, with but an opening just large enough to put food through. And there she has lived, for many years, shut off from this corrupted world, to contemplate the Five. The Anchoress has worked many miracles—I have heard that she once healed a friend of Hamral’s, who had been grievously wounded.
“Well, the rucks rushed down upon Abberlane, as wolves before a fold of helpless lambs, when suddenly, a great, shining wall of swirling swords sprang up, blocking their path. Any ruck-man who tried to pass through was cut to ribbons. Eventually, this miraculous wall cost the rucks so dearly that they were forced to turn back from Abberlane. The rucks were later caught by a patrol out of Antace and sent back to the Shaithim. You see, my sons, even in these dark days, the Five send forth their tidings. Praised be the Five, and the blessed dame of Abberlane!
The Citadel, Heremac. I Winding, Candlemas, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. Compline.
Coric, Renton, Friar Sidrach, Wyk.
“Brother Gregory sends his best regards,” says Brother Alton, gesturing for the friar and his fellows to sit. “Gregory is far too busy these days to grant a personal audience.” The short, balding brother-knight sits down, rubbing his neatly-trimmed, dark beard.
“I should say first,” says Brother Alton, “That the deeds of you and your companions, Friar Sidrach, have not gone unnoticed. Gregory himself has taken a keen interest in your exploits. Lorn Abbey, Wimm Copse, Groveton, Corbiestone, Vesay—you have done the Five’s work, good Friar, in each of these dreadful places, and perhaps in other places that we have not yet heard about.
“We value your interest in assisting the Order of St. Markham. We are soldiers of the Five, primarily, and there are many undertakings that would not… suit our abilities. But such deeds might well be accomplished by other zealous lovers of the Five—men not unlike yourselves.
“We have in mind several possible assignments that might be right for you. But there is one in particular that is especially pressing. Are you certain about your interest, and what’s more, the interest of your associates?”
“I feel that I can speak for the entire group,” says Coric, “When I say that we are ready to undertake anything for the good of Heremac!”
Brother Alton smiles, nervously.
“Good, good. You have heard of the strange business in the village of Caxbrill last summer? Well, we would like to suggest that there is something very wrong in Caxbrill. Brother Gregory is certain that Caxbrill is somehow connected with the bitter… setback we faced at Grimall. However, our attention now is focused on dislodging the canker of the Black-blade, growing to the north. This does not mean that we consider Caxbrill insignificant—quite the contrary. But we must conserve our resources. Which bring us to you…”
“What do you know about Caxbrill?” asks Renton. “We need something to go on.”
“Yes, of course. Of course,” mumbles Brother Alton. “Although the ruck-men control Caxbrill, they do not exactly occupy it. Our scouts report that the rucks are building three watch towers around Caxbrill, one to the north, another to southwest, and another to the southeast. The towers are well garrisoned, and the environs about are regularly patrolled. Further, the ruck-men have shipped several trains of prisoners and war-spoils to Caxbrill in the last few weeks. But despite all of the activity, Caxbrill remains empty. This is strange, and we have no explanation for any of it. Even the captured ruck-men we have… interrogated seem ignorant of what is going on in Caxbrill.
“Caxbrill sounds dangerous as all hell,” says Wyk. “Sorry, Friar. What are we looking to get for risking our necks?”
“Wyk!” cries Coric.
Brother Alton’s face clouds momentarily, but he takes a deep breath, and continues.
“No, no—forgive me. I am a military man, and gentle-born. Dithering with burghers is… unaccustomed. I am used to selfless obedience. But no matter. Price, you say? We are willing to completely provision your company for the trip, and provide a reasonable stipend—let us say, 400 shillings, each? And a further 400 shillings for any man killed, to be paid to his next of kin. Further, any treasure seized is yours to keep. What do you say?”
“We shall have to confer with our associates,” answers Friar Sidrach. “We will need a few weeks before we can answer.”
The Apartment, Heremac. VIII Storming, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. After Vespers.
Coric, Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Friar Sidrach, St. James, Valerius, Vandoren, Wyk.
“Please forgive me if I seem distracted,” says Friar Sidrach. “The destruction wreaked by the pox on our good town weights heavily upon me.”
“It’s not a bad time to be a gravedigger, is it,” says St. James. Friar Sidrach shakes his head, sadly.
“The parish priests have resigned themselves to the ghastly mass burials. People are dying far too quickly. Nearly five hundred dead, since the beginning of the year. Think of all the people you see, walking through town, bearing the scars and blotches of the pox: they are the ones who have lived. It seems that for every Pentian the Five grants a miraculous cure, three more die.”
“If the Five have to power to cure some of the people, why don’t They just cure everyone?” asks St. James.
“Enough of such talk!” snaps the friar. “It is not for us to question Them. This plague is doubtless the work of the Shaithim. It is meant to trick us into despair and doubt! Do not succumb to the temptation, my sons. Do not.”
“If I remember my schooling,” says Vandoren, “Lycander asserted that disease was an imbalance of the humors: blood, phlegm, yellow bile and black bile.”
“Pshaw!” spurts the friar. “What would some dead pagan know of the Shaithim? You may be a learned man, Vandoren, but you must learn to trust your heart more and your books less!”
“I’m with you, Friar,” adds Wyk, “Keep it simple. Too much books an’ reading an yer a differen’ man. Keep it simple, boys. O’ course no offense to you, Valerius, now you’re a man who keeps the two straight, not like some!”
“Yes. Quite right,” says Valerius. “Now, to change the subject: I have met with our friends the Bergenians, and it was a most productive visit. I appealed to the brothers’ Pentian spirit, and they gladly offered their assistance.”
Valerius gestures to the bag of dust and the ring on the table.
“This dust,” he begins, “grants invisibility, exactly as I had originally surmised. It is an old Tynan preparation, long lost. There are ten applications, and its properties will last for an hour or so.”
“Or so?” asks St. James, and Valerius nods.
“Perhaps much less time, and perhaps much more. And this ring… most remarkable.” Valerius holds the ring up to the light. “After some time and experimentation, we have concluded that this annulet was not crafted by mortal hands. Though we cannot be certain, it seems likely to be the work of the Fair Folk.”
“What does it do?” asks Coric, his eyes wide.
“It seems that this ring allows the wearer night vision, enabling him to see things even on a cloudy, moonless night, as much as you or I could perceive at twilight. This property, needless to say, has many potential uses.
“The brothers at the Shrine also told me an interesting tale: it would seem that there was a large monastery at Bourton Abbas; when the ruck-men captured it, they took many prisoners, including one Prior Roberts, an influential Bergenian with many friends. The monks are very interested in having this particular brother rescued.”
“Well, have you heard of Wyndermere?” asks Renton. “It’s a village southwest of Deal, between there and Langdale Hall. The rucks captured Wyndermere in the invasion. The village was a large horse farm owned by the Seekers—it’s where they raised almost all of their war-horses. And they’ve never needed war-horses any more than right now. Did you know that the Seekers at Grimall lost over half their war-horses on Gregory’s March? Why, one of those damned horses costs fifty pounds, sterling. The Seekers have been scrambling to replace them—they’ve contacted merchants as far south as Genotia, but war-horses don’t grow on trees. Even the Seekers are hard pressed to cough up that much coin. I’ve heard they’ve already signed away a couple of their castles in Weredrice trying to fund this campaign. Imagine the fortune at Wyndermere! To the rucks, those horses are probably just another meal…”
“Intriguing,” murmurs Valerius. “Coric, is there any news of our old friends Tuck or Tim?”
“I have been working with Roger lately,” says Coric, “And he said that Tim’s men don’t seem to have much trouble passing through to the north. Tim must have some sort of connections with the ruck-men—but Roger didn’t know exactly what was going on.”
“Traveling north isn’t going to get any easier” says Mendelor, “I just heard this morning that Count Durrell has had to abandon his seat of power, Castle Kirke, and he and his army have retreated north, to regroup. It was hoped that he could hold on until summer, and his castle could be used as a staging area for a counter-attack. But all of that has gone to hell…”
“Consortes,” Coric says wearily, distractedly, “in this dark hour I will reassert my belief that we offer our good services wherever they might best be used. If we in some small way can have an positive impact upon Heremac’s fate…”
Coric draws a deep breath. His face is pale and anguished.
“And one more thing that perhaps you should know my good friends, if this be our last hour before we stand before the Five’s judgment… I… I… have deceived all of you! I beg your forgiveness now as I may not be able to do so later. I stand before you Ruik, son of Darvik. All that I have told you of my past is, alas, false!”
“I come from Covin on the coast and fear that my past is closing in… And now with the future closing in as well, it is the time for you to know this.”
Ruik then quietly leaves the room.
“What the hell was that about?” asks St. James, but Wyk only shrugs.
“Anyone else here care to unburden their souls?” asks Valerius. “Be quick about it!”
“What they hell are you all looking at me for,” says St. James, and then sneezes. “Get the hell out of my face. You’re all mad!”