The Citadel, Heremac. XXVI Storming, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. Nones.
Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Ruik, St. James, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius, Vandoren, Wyk.
“Please forgive my insisting that all of you come here, right now,” says Brother Alton, scratching his bald head. “I realize that you men have just arrived from Gelton and have not yet laid sight on even your own apartment. But we thought it best to debrief you as soon as possible. This shouldn’t take very long—we already know much of what happened at Caxbrill. Let me be the first to say that the Order of St. Markham holds the highest gratitude for your services there, and we commend the outstanding degree of… initiative you exhibited in this matter.”
“You shall find, Brother Alton, that we take care of business,” asserts Valerius, flatly.
“Yes,” says Brother Alton. “I suppose that is true. We did not understand exactly what the rucks were up to at Caxbrill—your discovery confirmed some of our worst fears, and raised several new concerns. But—Praise the Five—your actions there have caused the enemy no small degree of consternation. Our scouts report that you have set their little project back by several weeks, if not months, and effected an advantageous level of destabilization within their ranks. We captured many ruckish deserters north of Gelton, and they confirmed this analysis.
“And while, in accordance with the Archbishop’s request, we have abstained from launching a major offensive during Lent, we are now making ready to retake Vesay from the Black-blades. The disruption at Caxbrill has allowed us to move up the timing of our scheduled assault.
“And so,” says Brother Alton, gesturing to two stout serving brethren, “Here is the payment for service rendered. We are glad, Master Renton, that we did not need to pay out for any casualties.”
The brethren haul forth three large coffers of silver.
“Just what the hell were those things at Caxbrill?” asks Wyk, peering suspiciously at the chests. “Sorry, Friar.”
“Wyk!” scolds Ruik, but Brother Alton shakes his head and smiles.
“No, no, no—it’s not all that unreasonable a request. Based on the reports we’ve received, it would seem that the rucks have maintained a rather large brood of trolls beneath Caxbrill.”
“Trolls?” whispers Coric.
“Yes,” answers Brother Alton. “That would be the most common name for those monsters. Trolls are, Thank the Five, rarely seen in this day and age. As you doubtless now know, they are formidable opponents: virtually fearless, quick and terribly strong, with iron-hard talons and wicked teeth. And what’s worse, trolls possess a foul magic that lets them heal wounds almost instantaneously, making them extremely difficult to kill. They eat anything, and can devastate whole regions for many years. It’s been a long time since we’ve had to contend with trolls on the Frounter.
“Luckily, trolls are extremely chaotic and unruly. They hate everyone and everything, including rucks and other trolls. In turn, the rucks don’t like the trolls, either—which is one of the reasons why the Caxbrill operation was so remarkable.
“Where do these trolls come from?” asks Coric, but Brother Alton only shakes his head.
“They’re not native to Selcrany, that’s for sure.”
“True,” says Friar Sidrach, softly. “All too true. The trolls are not even native to this world: they are wormspawn, as clearly seen by their blasphemous magic, a parody of the Five’s miraculous healing. Trolls crept out of the bowels of the earth to do the Worms’ bidding. They dwell in dark, foul places that are marred by the Worms’ taint. Only after Tynar fell came the trolls to these lands, driving down from the distant north. They overran most of Harplan and wrecked great suffering on northern Selcrany.”
“Quite,” says Valerius, standing up fully and towering over Brother Alton. “Is there anything else you require of us, good Seeker?”
“No—no, this should suffice. Again, let me say that the Order of St. Markham is gratified by your heroism at Caxbrill. Brother Gregory the Risen himself is quite pleased with your actions. We shall contact you again, should we find another situation suited for your… talents. Now, please excuse me. The young brothers here will show you out, when you are ready.”
“Well,” says Vandoren, “After some rest, I shall be attending to Dame Catherine for a few weeks. There are many songs to learn.”
“Sounds like that nun’s got you trained all right, Wetpants,” says St. James. “Mags teaches me all the songs I ever wanted to sing. I’ll be at the House of the Red Door for the next few days.”
“And I want to drill with the militia for a while,” says Renton. “I might be able to teach those boys a thing or two about killing rucks. And I might even be able to pick up a few pointers myself.”
“Very well,” says Valerius. “Mot is also going to be occupied in the coming days. And I expect to be detained for at least the next two weeks. And perhaps a bit longer. Should you need me, I will likely be found at the Vavasor’s residence. But—and mark carefully my words—do not entertain any thoughts of interrupting me for piffling matters. I realize this may be hard for some of you to understand, but I shall be engaged in very important work, which could be ruined by distraction. Am I clear?”
Outside the Bristling Boar Inn, Heremac. XXVII Storming, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. Sext.
Mendelor, Ruik, St. James, Friar Sidrach Landry,Valerius, Wyk.
“What the hell is this?” demands St. James, pushing futilely against the door to the Boar. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for a half-decent ale?”
“You need some help with that door?” asks Mendelor.
“Alackaday, lads,” says Sir Will Garnfellow, emerging from the crowded street.
“Is there some sort of problem here?” asks Mendelor.
The fat knight heaves a great sigh and wipes a tear from his cheek.
“Good Ostler Golding, lads—he dwells in the City, now, forever and ever.”
“No!” exclaims Ruik. “Sir Will, how could this be?”
Garnfellow shakes his head ruefully.
“A few days ago, whilst you were in Gelton, Old Tom took sick. He burned with the ague; he fought hard for a couple of days, and every morn and even I prayed at St. Welman’s for him, but he only got worse and worse… He was shriven on Tuesday, and we buried him on Wednesday.
“He was a fine man, and my friend. No more of his ale. No more games of draughts. No more capon stew…”
The great knights sniffles, and wipes his nose with the back of his sleeve.
“Be comforted, good knight,” says Friar Sidrach. “Golding is surely in a better place, now. May he rest in peace.”
“Damn,” says St. James. “Now we’ve got to go to the Thistle and Briar.”
The Thistle and Briar Inn, Heremac. XXIX Storming, Eve of Holy Sunday, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. Sext.
Mendelor, Ruik, St. James, Friar Sidrach Landry, Wyk.
“So I hear that the Seekers are moving lots of men and brother-knights north to Gelton,” says Mendelor. “The scouts are watching Vesay pretty closely. Tomorrow’s Holy Sunday, and next week is Easter. So I guess it’s all going to go down after that. It’s about time—damn little has changed since Caulding-month.”
Between a great gulp of ale, Wyk sneers. “So what were them rucks afraid of anyway, stopping their invasion so sudden? I say bring ‘em on! I think they’re afraid is what I think! That Tereus is in over his fat head an’ he knows it. We’ll wup some ass!
“This training is mostly all right, but a bit too uptight sometimes—just my opinion! I mean I say sometimes you just say the hell with it an’ charge in. Some o’ this parryin’ an tactics shit, well, I say you just wade on in an’ kick ass, know what I mean?
“I’m kinda sick of all this waitin’ around shit, ya know? Those dirty rucks came an’ took away my home and so I’m looking forward to a little payback. Ya see, I wouldn’t wanna be the ruck that I get my hands on cause he’ll be hurtin’ he will! Bastards!
“At least my mamma an’ poppa is okay an’ my sister. That’s really all I cares about. I can go to the Five a happy man knowing I took good care o’ them. A man cares for his family can rest well he can. I don’t know a lot like some folks do an I don’t read books, but I do know that.”
“Well said, Wyk,” says Ruik, quietly. “But to tell the truth, I haven’t rested well in the last few days. I keep thinking of Caxbrill and… and… what we saw there. I can’t help but feel that… that there’s more to be done there.”
That’s right,” says Wyk, somewhat sobered. “What the hell’d Valerius say… ‘We take care o’ business.’ Damn straight. And I think we got some business left in Caxbrill!”
“What do you think, Friar?” asks Ruik. But before the Gerardian can speak, Mendelor speaks up.
“I’m all for heading back to Caxbrill, but we don’t want to do anything until the rest of the fellows can come with us. We should wait until everyone can have a say.”
A stooped old man with a long, crooked nose shuffles to the table with five full ales.
“Ah, thank you, good Barry,” says Friar Sidrach. “May the Five bless you! But whose generosity provided for this bounty?”
Barry jerks his head towards a small, gaunt man smirking in a corner of the common room. He waves and rises to walk towards the table.
“Well, well,” says Tim, “If it isn’t the storied heroes of Caxbrill. Hail and well met! Saved any peasants yet? Not to worry, day isn’t over yet, is it? So good to see all of you here: Wyk, Coric, Father Sid, Mendelor, and of course, St. James. But where is that jester? And the ugly one. No, the really ugly one! And where’s the town idiot and his master, the witch… oops. I meant to say, Valerius!”
“I swear I smell a ruck!” exclaims St. James. “Mendelor, back me up here. Does it or does it not suddenly smell like a ruckish shit-hole?”
“Worse, maybe,” says Mendelor.
“Manners, manners, St. James,” says Tim. “I just wanted to congratulate you on such a fine, fine job in Caxbrill. And to serve you a little notice: our old friend Tuck is on the move. He’s not in town of course, but he’s not all that far off, either. You might keep your eyes open…”
Tim walks away, out into the back room.
“Some day that bastard is going to get his,” says St. James, gesturing for the rest of the table to lean forward. St. James continues in a hushed voice. “Tim’s up to something sneaky, you can be sure of it. I hear he suddenly has a lot of loose coin, and he’s spending it pretty freely. And you know what he’s buying? Crossbows from Genotia. Shields from Abbermark. Spearheads by the barrelful, and bushels of arrows. Hell, I heard he’s even ordered a piece of siege equipment from Riems. Riems! It’s hard to keep something like that quiet.”
“Speculating on weapons during such a crisis!” mutters Ruik, softly. “For shame. I fear for that poor man’s soul!”
“No doubt there’ll be need for weapons soon enough,” says Mendelor. “Spring is in the air, and in a couple of weeks the farmers will all be in the fields. And once the crops are in the ground, there will be enough fighting this summer to give the most blood-thirsty knight his fill, and more. It’ll be a long time to harvest, in more ways than one…”
There is a tremendous clatter. Old Barry stands over a jumble of crockery piled on the floor. But his eyes are trained on the window; the old man quakes in his shoes. Gasps rise up throughout the room.
“What the hell?” cries Mendelor, springing to his feet and rushing out the door, followed closely by his friends. Outside, astonished burghers stumble into the streets, shielding their eyes to gaze up to the bright, spring sky.
Ruik and Wyk fall to their knees, weeping, joined by dozens more.
“By the Five,” whispers Friar Sidrach, slowly kneeling. “Their will be done…”
High above the city of Heremac, where the sun should be: A great shining pentifix, as bright as full noon.
The Apartment, Heremac. XIX Firstblome, Eve of St. Jared’s Feast, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. Vespers.
Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Ruik, St. James, Friarsidrach Landry, Wyk, Valerius.
“Damn this miserable place,” mutters St. James, moving the bowl to another spot under the dripping ceiling. Outside, the rain pours steadily down on Heremac.
“With this weather,” says Friar Sidrach, “I daresay that no house is without a leak or two. My, but it seems to have rained every day for the last fortnight!”
“The farmers haven’t had much chance to work the land,” says Mendelor. “They’ll be late getting the grain in. And with last year’s stores so scarce, a decent meal is hard enough to come by right now—think of what this town will be like in a month: there won’t be a rat, cat, or sparrow within ten leagues that hasn’t ended up in somebody’s stewpot.”
“Do not give up hope, my sons,” says Friar Sidrach. “Recall the great blazing pentifix in the sky! And what’s more, of late I have heard tell of a wondrous miracle that happed this last Eastertide. It would seem that the good folk of Bellenore awoke on Easter Sunday and, as we all did, prepared for Mass. Well, as the people began making their ways to the parish church they found, in the town square, a wonder.
“Standing in the center of town was a gigantic stone pentifix as large as a house, made out of white granite. The stone was all in one piece—the men of Bellenore could find no join or seam in it, and the stone was completely smooth, with no sign of flaw or chisel mark! A team of ten oxen could not have hauled this stone into the square.
“Well, as good pious men would do, the folk of Bellenore rejoiced at such a clear sign of favor from the Five, and on the holiest of days, no less! So the town made merry, and the people prayed and sang praises to the Five. Several other miracles were noted that day. A blind woman had her sight restored; a beggar’s bent legs were made straight.
“And do you know what, my sons? The very next day, when the men of Bellenore awoke, the stone was gone. Vanished, without even the slightest mark in the ground where the stone had stood. So you see, my sons, have heart. Have heart! For the Five are ever with us, even in these dark days.”
Just then there is a knock at the door. Everyone jumps at the sound, but St. James sighs and makes for the door.
“This must be him,” he mutters. The door opens, and standing there is Roger, shivering in the rain. Without waiting for an invitation, the tall man stoops down and steps into the apartment; St. James shuts the door.
“Well, it looks like almost everyone is here,” says Roger, ringing out his hat. “Good, good, I think you all will want to hear this. It’s about Tuck.”
“Tim warned several of us at the Thistle that Tuck was about,” says Ruik.
“Well, Tim didn’t lie to you about that,” says Roger. “I have it on good authority myself that Tuck is kicking around Antace these days. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I’ve heard a few things. Remember that mess last summer over that weird helmet of the Seekers? Well, listen close.
“The Seekers have been sending men off to Blackwell dungeon for the last couple of years. Supposedly, there’s lots of treasure to be won there: silver, gold, and even magical things. The only trick is not getting killed, which is harder than it sounds. The place is an enormous underground maze filled with traps and other horrible things.
“Anyway, the Seekers at Blackwell had a Brother Liam there, who was an experienced knight and a man said to be close to the Five; he had worked several miracles. Liam was also given to strange visions that often came true. Well, Brother Liam had a vision one day, of a miraculous helmet deep in the Blackwell, so he leads an expedition down there, and after lots and lots of trouble, they recover this helm. And sure enough, it turns out to be magical, and in fact, the helmet’s said to be about the most powerful thing ever taken out of Blackwell.
“So last summer, the Black-blades start causing trouble on the Frounter, and the Seekers make the big move against Grimall. Only thing is, the Seekers don’t have an easy or quick time of it. So Master Edric decides to take no chances: He sends word to Liam, telling him to bring the helmet right away to the Frounter, to help clinch the siege.
“Liam and a few trusty Seekers leave the Blackwell in secret, making for the Heremac. A day or so south of here, on the edge of the Westwoode, they’re ambushed by a band of rucks. The knights fight hard, but they’re all killed. At about this time, your old friends Larry and Tuck happen upon the scene of the battle. The Seekers had killed most of the ruck-men, and Larry and Tin are able to polish off the rest without working up a sweat. And then, while these two bastards are looting the corpses of the Seekers, they hear a moaning. It’s Brother Liam.
“Liam’s weak, half out of his mind—and dying. He mistakes Tuck and Larry for friends. So Liam gives these two bastards one of the most powerful enchanted things on the Frounter, entrusting them—Them!—to bring it safely to Old Edric, which, as you know, never happened.
“And then, Liam leans forward and whispers something in Tuck’s ear. And then Liam dies.”
“What did he say?” asks Ruik, but Roger only shakes his head.
“Only Tuck knows for sure,” says Roger. “He never told Larry or Tim exactly what Liam had whispered. But Tuck dropped enough hints so that Tim could piece together a few things.
“It seems that Liam told Tuck that he knew of a great treasure that was nearby, much more powerful—and valuable—than even the helmet.
“What is the treasure?” asks Ruik. “And where is it?”
But Roger only shakes his head.
“Tim doesn’t know. Tuck is the only one who could answer that.”
“How the hell did you learn all this?” asks St. James.
Roger sucks in his left cheek.
“One of Tim’s men—I was able to persuade him to wag his tongue a bit.”
“Where is this man?” asks Valerius. “I should very much like to interrogate him myself.”
“Well, that might be a little difficult,” says Roger. “It seems that Tim really dislikes loose lips. I understand that my informant’s corpse is resting somewhere at the bottom of the Corin River right now.”
“More to the point, then,” says Valerius. “Why are you presenting us with this information at this time? Surely, your motive can not be selfless altruism alone…”
Roger grins.
“That’s true enough, true enough. What I propose is this: I cannot take the time to search for this prize. But you lads are getting pretty good at this sort of thing. With your luck and my information, I’m sure you can locate the mysterious treasure of Brother Liam. All I ask is a modest cut from the haul, for setting you on the right track. Let’s say a one-twelfth share? A pittance, really…”