The Bristling Boar Inn, Heremac. XXVI Hetaire, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. Sext.
Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Friar Sidrach, Valerius, Vandoren, Wyk, Sir Will Garnfellow.
“Buttery-churn, buttery-churn, a buttery-churn,” sings Mot. “It was a butter-butter-churn!”
“Yes,” says Vandoren, wearily. “You’re really very clever.”
“Chummer-but, nuttery-fern. I guessed it was a buttery-churn!” sings Mot.
“That’s enough, Mot, thank you,” says Valerius, instantly quieting the bald fellow.
“Blast, but it’s hot!” cries Garnfellow, mopping his sweating brow with a cloth. “Ellen! Another ale!”
“Thank the Five for this delicious ale,” says Friar Sidrach, taking a drink.
“Yeah,” Wyk says, taking a sip from his flagon, “there was one time about a year before the rucks came when I was gathering wood for my pa. Was hot as hell—sorry Friar—and I was sweating a river so I decided to get me somethin’ to friggin’ drink. So I walk down by the stream and take me a drink, when this gal, the daughter of some merchant guy with a bit of land comes down by the stream and takes a drink, herself. You know, she’s the kinda girl never woulda looked at me if there were other folks aroun’. Anyway, she looks at me and acts all surprised, as if she didn’t know I was there or anything, though I knew she was faking. And then she falls into the stream. Part of the surprised act, you know. So what the hell, I think. I go and help her out and she thanks me and clings on to me like I had saved her life or something, even thought here wasn’t enough water there to drown a frog.”
Wyk grins to himself and takes a long swig. He looks at his mug.
“Ellen, I’m dry here, lovely! Thanks! And set up the others here as well.”
With a fresh mug in front of him, Wyk continues.
“So anyway, she’s clinging to me like a thistle to a pantleg and I’m getting a bit warm cause her tits are right pressed up against my crotch. She ain’t letting go either and I’m wondering what do I do next when I hear my pa calling ‘Wyk! Wyk!’ So I push away from her and by now I’m kinda bending over cause she got me a bit excited but I don’t want to show it and all and I apologize and run back out to the field. Course I’m running with my hat held over my… well, you know.
“So anyway, next week I’m cutting some brush down by the same creek when who shows up but this same gal. I called her ‘Goldenrod’ cause her hair was dirty-blond like the flower. But she was mighty pretty and I think every boy in the village woulda liked to have had ‘er given the chance—sorry Friar. Course she was better people than we were so we kept away from ‘er and all. Don’t know what she saw in me, hee hee!”
Wyk shakes his head and grins.
“So anyway, she comes up to me and says real coy, ‘My papa needs some help moving wood. Can you help?’
“Of course when good folk ask for your help, you don’t say no. So I go along with her and we walk past this tree that’s leaning at an angle and all of a sudden she’s got her arms around me and I’m looking around to see if anyone sees. But there’s no one, so I think to myself, ‘Oh what the hell!’ Then her hand starts to move down and down and—well boys—what would you do? I tried to push away to be polite, but she pulls me right back. So I pulled her dress up right there and flung it away and that was all she had on. All.
“So anyway, you can imagine the rest I bet, but there’s more. We’re making the beast with two backs here and she’s leaning against that tree, when who should come by but our Father, the village priest! I looked up and saw him and I don’t know whose eyes were more ready to pop! I didn’t know what to say, so all I said was, ‘Morning, Father.’”
Wyk slaps his knee and takes a long draw from his mug.
“And the father? He looks at me and he says, ‘Uh, morning Wyk.’” Then he just hurries along.
“So a little later when we’re done, Goldenrod goes to pick up her dress and gives a little shriek. I jump up and run over to help her and I hear this crashing in the trees. I look to see if it’s an animal, but it ain’t. It’s got two legs! The father had stayed to watch behind a tree! Ha! Ha! He never dared to talk to either of us again after that!”
“And Goldenrod? Hell, it got to the point where I couldn’t turn around without her father needing some wood stacked or brush cut. It got to the point where she would start to grab at me in public even. I was almost relieved when the rucks gave us an excuse to evacuate.”
Wyk looks down at his mug.
“Still, I hope they got out all right… That Goldenrod. I still look around for her. She was something else…”
“Holla!” cries Vandoren, suddenly standing and waving. A man in the doorway returns the wave and strides toward the table. He is dressed as a gentleman, with a fine surcoat and good riding-boots. He is middle-aged, his long face weathered but still handsome, his dark hair touched with grey.
“Well met, Vandoren,” says the man, with a smile.
“And well met, Bracy,” answers Vandoren, turning to the rest of the table. “Consortes, this is my friend Bracy, lately come from Langdale Hall. He is a minstrel and retainer to Baron Leoline. Bracy here has been teaching me some sword-play these last few weeks. I figured it was high time I should learn to wield something a little bigger than my daggers.”
Bracy smiles.
“And Vandoren has taken readily to the sword—I have the nicks and bruises to prove it. But I would have expected no less from a knight’s son.”
“Ah, Baron Leoline,” says Garnfellow. “A good man. I met him once, several years ago; my companions and I were watering our horses near Bellenore, if I recall. That was the summer the rucks attacked the Ford. Hot… Ye Saints! It was hot that summer. I thought I would be roasted alive in my own mail. Damned heat gave me the worst hives…”
“Can you stay, Bracy?” interjects Vandoren, “And share an ale?”
“I fear not,” answers Bracy. “I leave at first light for Langdale, and my road is long, hard, and fraught with ruck-men. My lord is awaiting my return. I am just now making my farewells.”
“Well then,” says Vandoren, rising. “Fivespeed you to Langdale!”
“My thanks, friend,” says Bracy, clapping his fellow minstrel on the back before leaving.
“Langdale,” says Mendelor, after Bracy is gone. “That could be dangerous. There are plenty of rucks between here and there.”
“I know the Seekers had hoped to have the north free by summer’s end,” says Friar Sidrach. “I fear that their hope shall not come to pass. No, indeed.”
Renton shakes his head sadly.
“They’re doing something wrong, that’s for sure. They’ve had, what, six, seven good battles this summer. And what do we have to show for it? Vesay? Everything else has ended up a draw.”
“Bah!” says an old man, overhearing Renton. It is Nym, a grizzled old veteran at least sixty years old; he is very thin, and is missing his right arm. The story of how he lost his arm to a ruck-man is well known to any patron of the Boar.
“The problem,” begins Nym, in a shaky voice, “Is that the Five-damned knights nowadays spend most of their time laying about, listening to friggin music and a-praying in chapel. They aren’t worth shit in a fight! It’s a wonder Tereus hasn’t captured all of Selcrany! In my day, knights were for fighting! They’re all soft, nowadays. Bah! And this ale? Watery stuff! We used to drink ale that would knock a big man on his ass!”
“Says you,” retorts Renton. Nym shakes his head angrily and turns back to his game of draughts.
“You know,” says Renton, a bit more quietly, “The Seekers sent a force to Wyndermere, last week.”
“I hadn’t heard this!” cries Garnfellow.
“Shhhhhhh,” says Renton. “They’re not exactly making it well know. While Gregory was leading the main assault at Straffex, Brother Coston and a smaller band of Seekers moved on Wyndermere, hoping to recapture some war-horses and return back to Heremac before the rucks realized that Straffex was a diversion.
“But it didn’t pan out. The damned rucks had killed every one of those horses. Do you know the fortune that was lost in horseflesh?”
“A terrible shame,” says Garnfellow.
“Yeah, and every day that goes by the rucks are digging in deeper and deeper, and are going to be harder to drive out,” says Renton.
“Where the blazes are Coric and Dale?” asks Valerius. “I had anticipated them back by now.”
“I am also worried, my son,” says Friar Sidrach. “Tim is a dangerous man. I pray that our friends are safe.
The Bristling Boar Inn, Heremac. XXVIII Hetaire, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. Nones.
Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Friar Sidrach, Valerius, Vandoren, Wyk, Sir Will Garnfellow.
“By the Cup!” cries Garnfellow. “This heat is enough to make a man loggy!”
“Ah, Sir Will,” says Friar Sidrach. “All too soon we will be complaining about the cold. Summer stays but briefly on the Frounter!”
“Perhaps, perhaps,” says Garnfellow. “Ellen! I fain would have an ale!”
The great lady of the house stride over to Garnfellow, and takes his cup away—but does not offer to replace it.
“And I fain would be paid for all of the ale you drank up yesterday, Sir Girth,” says Ellen Golding.
“Ellen,” says Garnfellow, “Sweet Ellen—please forgive me. The heat addles my wits. See how I need an ale? Why, I’ve been nearly reduced to a puddle!”
“Puddle?” snorts Ellen. “The name for it is a blooming pond! And without some coin you can go over to the Briar. They aren’t so charitable over there as I am here.”
“Sweet Ellen,” says Garnfellow. “I happen to have misplaced my purse this morn. But perhaps one of my generous compatriots here could… Lads?”
Mendelor shakes his head, but dutifully pulls forth a handful of pennies. Ellen smiles and pinches the woodsman’s cheek. After she leaves, Mendelor leans forward.
“I’ve heard tell of some strange news,” he says. “There was a bunch of Seekers that had been on patrol near Vesay. This would have been about four or five weeks ago. Well, they got themselves into a real bit of trouble—walked right into a Black-blade ambush. Almost the whole patrol got captured, and only a few of their sergeants who were pulling up the rear were able to get out in one piece.
“Well, I talked to a scout who had been posted up at Vesay, Ned his name is. Good woodsman. Anyway, Ned had figured those Seekers for dead. But then one day he wakes up, and all of those Seekers are back in camp. No explanation, nothing. Just like they never left. Ned figured they must have escaped, but none of them would talk about what happened. I was…”
Mendelor stops talking and looks up. Standing in the doorway are Dale and Ruik, who quickly move to the table.
“Greetings, consortes,” says Ruik.
“You are alive,” says Valerius. “May I presume you were successful?”
“We were indeed, Master Valerius,” answers Ruik. “Dale and I have observed some very interesting things.”
“I’ll say,” adds Dale.
“It would appear,” continues Ruik, “That Tim sends a shipment out about once a week, bound for Vesay.”
“What sort of goods?” asks Valerius.
“All sorts of stuff,” answers Dale. “Lots of weapons: daggers, spearheads, arrowheads. Raw leather.”
“Supposedly, all of this is bound for the Pentian forces at Vesay,” says Ruik.
“But the catch is,” says Dale. “Not everything gets there.”
“Some of the materiel arrives in Vesay,” says Ruik. “Enough to quiet most suspicions. But somewhere between here and Vesay, almost half of the shipment disappears.”
“Right into ruckish hands,” adds Mendelor.
“That’s what we think,” says Dale. “There’s definitely something shady going on.”
“Intriguing,” says Valerius. “I would very much like to follow Tim’s men to see if they are in fact delivering anything to rucks. But—and please, play attention here—I do not wish to attack Tim’s men or even let them know that they were being followed. I think we should wait and watch the transaction. Until Tim’s men leave; and then we could attack the rucks.
“And if Tim’s men are delivering these goods to other men, I want to follow the people and see with whom they are dealing.”
Mendelor nods. “Sounds good to me!”
“Now,” says Valerius, “The only question is, when does the next shipment leave?”
Ruik swallows hard. “A week from today.”