The Corbiestone, XX Harfesting, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine.
Hamral, Mendelor, Renton, Ruik, St. James, Valerius.
But moments before, there had been a Cave… great, dark, and profound, fecund with mystery and ancient power. And somehow, also familiar, like a queer half-remembered dream. And in the cave: a gigantic, frightening Crone, who stood larger than an ogre. With sharp, monstrous teeth, she bore a spear and tended a great cauldron…
It is all gone now, wiped clean from the world: the spear, the cauldron, the Crone, the Cave. All. Gone.
Instead, there is only the blasted hilltop of the Corbiestone. Cool rain pours down.
“By the Cup!” gasps Mendelor.
“What is it?” asks St. James.
“What, are you blind, man?” asks the woodsman. “Look around you!”
“What?” asks St. James, sneezing. “So, it was nice out when we went into the cave, and now it’s raining.”
From high on the Corbiestone, the Westwoode stretches out in all directions. Through the haze of rain, the leaves in the valleys are turning bright orange and yellow.
“When we went entered the cave,” says Mendelor, “It was late summer. Look at it now. Hell’s Bells, it’s the middle of autumn. We’ve lost a whole month!”
“That’s impossible!” cries Ruik. “We were only in there an hour, at most.”
“Well, look around you,” says Mendelor. “The woods don’t lie. And feel that air! If it’s not Harfesting month, I’m a ruck!”
“A whole month gone?” mutters Renton, disgusted.
“At least,” says Valerius, quietly. “At least. Who is to say that only one moon has waxed and waned since we entered the Cave? Perhaps a dozen and one? Or more?”
The black bird perching on Valerius’s shoulder ruffles its wings and utters a loud croak.
“There, there,” murmurs Valerius, stroking the bird’s neck with a long finger.
“I can always count on you, Valerius,” says St. James, rolling his eyes and shivering in the rain, “To make me feel better, no matter how bollixed our situation.”
* * * * *
Outside the apartment, Heremac, XXIII Harfesting, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. After Vespers.
Hamral, Mendelor, Renton, Ruik, St. James, Valerius.
“You’re going to bring that blasted crow in here?” asks St. James.
Valerius, uncharacteristically, appears taken aback at such a question, and lets loose a hoarse croak. He quickly regains his composure.
“First, St. James, this is no crow, but a raven.”
“What the hell’s the difference?” asks St. James.
“You can tell by their tail-feathers,” offers Mendelor.
“What is the difference between you and a ruck?” asks Valerius, “Other than the obvious fact that a ruck does not ask foolish questions!
“And second,” continues Valerius. “Wherever I go, Noxumbra goes also. She is at least as clean and well-mannered as any man here. And she is actually better behaved than a few, whom I shall not single out.
“Third, and finally, you need not trouble yourself overmuch. I shall be spending very little time here in the coming weeks. I have important business with the Vavasor that shall occupy my coming days.”
Noxumbra ruffles her feathers and hops from one leg to another.
“Whatever…” mutters St. James.
The door to the apartment suddenly flies open, and standing in the doorway is Friar Sidrach, his mouth agape.
“Praise the saints!” he exclaims. “Yes, praise them. I had feared you all lost forever. Come in, my sons! Come in! This is a gladsome day, indeed. Mot! Mot!”
“Are you gonna let us in?” asks St. James. “It’s freezing out here!”
“Why, of course, of course,” says Friar Sidrach, at once stepping aside. “I fear I lost my head there, my sons. Come in, come in, and tell us all about your adventure!”
The wayfarers, weary from travel, gladly enter the apartment. Mot hobbles into the common room, and his face brightens as soon as he sees Valerius. But then Mot spies the raven perched on his master’s shoulder. Mot’s eyebrows knit as he studies the bird, long and hard. But soon, his homely face breaks into a wide grin.
“Valerius has a birdie, a birdie, a birdie,” Mot sings, softly, creeping closer to examine this new marvel. Noxumbra croaks and Mot jumps back a bit, but continues to grin.
“It is good to see you, Mot,” says Valerius. “How has he done, Friar Sidrach?”
“He shall be fine,” says Friar Sidrach. “Fine. He is a strong man, and beloved of the Five. Though he was many days getting back on his feet, and there are lingering wounds. Not any ail of bone or flesh, mind you. Poor Mot startles easily, now—afraid of his own shadow. May the Five’s vengeance be wrought on the wicked men who did such a deed to a simple man!”
“Oh Friar,” says Valerius. “There will be no need to call on Their aid in this matter, I assure you.”
“Now we’re talking about taking Tim down!” exclaims St. James. “Something I’ve been saying for months.”
“Your enthusiasm is—premature,” says Valerius. “For all things, their proper season. And for the moment, I have important business with the Vavasor. I do not expect to be available until after All Saints’ Day, and perhaps not even until the feast of St. Markham.”
“Hey, I’m due to be training with the militia,” adds Renton, “For a few weeks also.”
“Birdie, birdie, birdie,” sings Mot, his head cocked in imitation of the raven.
* * * * *
The Bristling Boar Inn, Heremac, X Storing, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. Nones.
Hamral, Mendelor, Renton, Ruik, St. James, Vandoren,Wyk.
“I don’t know about all this,” says St. James. “What the hell is going on with Valerius? What was the point of travelling all over… I don’t know where the hell we even were! How can we go out for two nights and lose an entire month? And what about that weird bird? I don’t like the way that damn thing looks at me. And always sitting on Valerius’s shoulder. He’s so damned tall and thin, he looks like a Five-damned scarecrow!”
“I think he’s turning into a bird!” says Renton. “I’ve heard stories about magicians who could do stuff like that.”
“Quiet!” says St. James. “The Five know what he can hear…”
“Well,” says Vandoren, “I cannot speak to what is happening to Valerius, but I know a little something about the ars magica. It sounds like you probably journeyed through a region of powerful magic.”
“Hey, I’ve been to the Corbiestone before,” says St. James. “And we didn’t have any of that weird stuff happen. Damned moths, and four-headed monsters, and giant old grandmothers with fangs and broadswords.”
“Perhaps something happened when you passed through those old standing stones,” says Vandoren. “In any case, it’s hard to tell with magic. You see, there is our world: the mundane realm. You, the table, this town—we’re all square in the mundane realm. But this world, the world we see, isn’t the only one. There’s Empyrean, where the Shining City waits. And then there’s Hell, where the Shaithim are bound.
“You can’t just walk to these places by heading north, or east, or wherever. But there are places where the invisible worlds overlap with our own mundane world. And in this overlap, strange, incredible things can happen.”
“Yes, yes.” Says Mendelor. “Friar Sidrach was telling us about this, back when we were at Lorn Abbey. It was like that place was tainted with the Shaithim.”
“Quite right,” says Vandoren. “And do you remember the Wood Wondrous? That place was not really part of our world, either. I think it was somehow closer to the Five.”
“Yeah, I thought I noticed something similar when we were out with Scarecrow,” says St. James. “But it was different from the Wood, too. Funnier, somehow.”
“Well,” says Vandoren. “Perhaps there are other realms, beyond the two mentioned.”
“This is stupid!” says Renton. “I don’t understand a damned word of it.”
“I am not altogether sure that I do, either,” says Vandoren. “And it gets even more confusing. This overlap can be stronger some days, and weaker the others. And time and distance are often jumbled up. It’s hard to fathom, I know. I’m only relating what I was told at Canglen Cathedral. These are just ideas that some scholars have offered, trying to explain the… well, the unexplainable.”
“Well, I say to hell with the unexplainable,” says St. James. “I’m going to stick with what I know. And I know that Maggie isn’t going to give me any of her favors if I cannot score some coin, and soon!”
* * * * *
The Bristling Boar Inn, Heremac, Hallowe’en, XXX Storing, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. Compline.
Hamral, Mendelor, Ruik, Friar Sidrach Landry,St. James, Vandoren, Sir Will Garnfellow, Wyk.
“Where are all the boys, to burn the witches?” asks Garnfellow. “By the Cup! When I was a lad, how I looked forward to All Hallow’s Eve!”
“I fear you will find,” says Friar Sidrach, “That many of the young boys who tended the bonfires last year are now with the Five. The pox took many children, last spring. And many of those the pox didn’t take, the rucks did. Several young boys had joined the militia at the start of summer, but few lived to see the fall.”
“Damn the rucks,” says Garnfellow. “And damn their cursed king.”
“Save your curses, Sir Will,” says Vandoren. “For those more deserving. The rucks at least act according to their wretched nature—unlike some men in this very town.”
St. James nods in agreement.
“Now you’re talking. So what are we going to do about Tim?”
“I think that bastard should get what he deserves,” says Vandoren, icily. “Which would be far worse than what he did with Mot. Sorry, Friar. I can only hold in so much anger and spite for such a wicked little man. The Five willing, Valerius will be able to cross Tim’s name of his list with Tim’s own blood.”
Wyk, his face already flushed with ale, takes a large swig from his cup. His eyes are burning.
“Why Tim and his lousy bastards! Mot didn’t ask for none o’ that. They just better hope they don’t meet me on the street is what I have to say! Better yet, I’m ready to go out right now and settle up! Who’s with me?”
Wyk stumbles slightly as he gets up to leave.
“Gently, now, friend,” says Garnfellow.
“Yes,” says Ruik. “Sit down, Wyk. Sit down.”
Wyk scowls, looks around, and sits down.
“Remember what Valerius said,” says Vandoren. “For every thing its season. There are still many questions to be answered. Do we know how Tim is linked to the Seekers—if in fact he is? I think that the Brothers of St. Markham would be quite intrigued by this supply train, not to mention Tim’s ties with Oeta, a man who murdered one of their own.”
“This trouble with Tim—is it over now?” asks Dale. “Or will Tim be after our hides… I wonder if he knows who I am? Maybe I should watch my skin.”
“All is well,” says St. James, with a little wave. “For the moment, at least. You should keep an eye open, though. Who knows? You just might stumble into a chance to identify some of Tim’s lackeys.”
Ruik nods. “I know that Valerius asked several of us to look into the Seekers, and find out to whom Brother Alton reported. Valerius also wanted to know about those Seekers who were ransomed: who they were, and their leader’s name.
“I’ve been doing a little research of my own,” says St. James. “Trying to figure out if any of Tim’s men are seen associating with the Seekers. Tim’s men move freely throughout the entire town, so it’s hard to say for certain. Mags has been able to tell me a lot, and I’ve seen some interesting stuff myself.
“There is one fellow, Varick, he’s called—one of Tim’s lieutenants. Spends a lot of time in the Citadel. An awful lot of time. Apparently, it’s not unusual for him to be seen leaving the Citadel at all hours of the night. I’m not sure just who he’s meeting with, though.
“Oh, that reminds me…” St. James digs into his wallet, and brings forth a ring. Ruik’s eyes widen with recognition when he see it, and St. James hands it over. “I guess I had your ring these last few weeks, Coric. I’m really very sorry—I borrowed it a while back, and it must have just slipped my mind. Oh well, no harm done, right?”
“Ah—right,” says Ruik, examining his ring for a moment before putting it away. The young man sighs. “Consortes! I’m afraid my conscience has been bothering me of late. My heart goes out to those who we might have saved and who are now still in the dread clutches of the Black-blades. I must do something to atone for this. I know that much of what we do is for the greater good, and yet… And yet… Good Friar! You must have some thoughts on this.”
“Oh, I agree quite heartily, my son,” says Friar Sidrach. “All of this dark talk of magic and thieves and revenge. And on Hallowe’en! It does not bode well, my sons. Not well at all. Since the Whitsunday miracle, what have we done to help the poor folk of the Frounter? The humble carles suffer just as much as the highest lords under the cruel yoke of Tereus. Perhaps we should take a moment to think on these matters, on such a dark night of the year.”
* * * * *
The Bristling Boar Inn, Heremac, The Feast of St. Markham, XII Frostaire, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. Sext.
Dale, Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Ruik, Friar Sidrach Landry, St. James, Valerius, Vandoren, Sir Will Garnfellow, Wyk.
“Garnfellow, my good man!” cries Ruik “My ears thirst for song! Allow me to quench your thirst that comes of the throat, that in turn you might be so kind as to quench my particular thirst as well. Dame Ellen! Your finest, all round! Let us make merry, good friends! The foul ruck may come in time, but he’ll not keep us down in the meantime!”
“Thou art a fine lad, young Coric!” cries Garnfellow, reaching for his viol. “Let me play thee a reel!”
And with that, the fat knight sets bow to string and begins to play “Fox in the Hedges,” a lively folk tune. Conversation stops abruptly; the patrons of the Boar begin nodding their heads, and then beating on the table in time to the music as it dips and soars, soars and dips. Bardolph, a wild-haired young lad close to Ruik in age, leaps up and begins to dance, to the delight of the patrons.
“That’s a lad!” cries Nym, the old veteran, who also leaps up to dance. The patrons cry out wildly in approval.
The music swells, crests, and then ends. Nym and Bardolph bow to the appreciative crowd, as does Garnfellow, sweating and breathing heavily as Ellen Golding brings him an ale.
“Ah, good Ellen,” says Garnfellow, panting. “Look on what just the sight of thy beauty does to me: the very blood boils in my veins!”
“Tut, tut,” says Ellen, with a sly smile. “I have seen you in more of a froth over a roast capon, old knight!”
“By the Cup!” cries Garnfellow. “I feel like one of today’s poor neat, led from pasture to slaughter!”
“Any more songs?” asks Ruik.
“I have composed one of my own make,” says Vandoren, drawing forth his psaltery. “It commemorates our adventures in the Wood Wondrous.
In the house of stone in Abberlane,
Without any window or door,
Was locked away the Anchoress,
For a dozen years or more.And then there came sweet Agnes,
A savior to us all.
For the coming of dear Agnes,
We broke down the stony wall.With only our faith in the Five
To guide us down the path,
Leading us on to save our savior
From the horrid ruckish wrath.And then there came sweet Agnes,
A miracle of birth.
For the coming of dear Agnes,
Cheers of hope and mirth.
Vandoren finishes his song, and the crowd, now somewhat quieter, claps gently. One by one, the patrons return to their own separate affairs and the consortes are drawn to their table, where Garnfellow and Valerius have been sitting.
“Sir Will has been relaying some very interesting information,” says Valerius. “Please, share this wisdom with the rest of our company.”
“Yes, quite,” says Garnfellow. “Valerius has asked me about the Order of St. Markham—how it is organized, and so on. Well, lads, the Seekers are divided into three. There are the fighters—the brother-knights and the brother-serjeants.
“Then there are the farmers, the serving-brethren who take care of the knights’ horse and toil on the large Seeker farms. And then there are the chaplains. There aren’t a lot of these fellows, but they’re ordained and can give sacraments.
“All of the Seekers, everywhere, report to grand master Edric, who in turn is beholden only to the Pope. And the Five, of course.
“The Order of St. Markham is small, compared to the Bergenians, but they’re quite influential and wealthy, By the Cup! And the fighting Seekers are by far the most powerful group within the Order.
“It’s no secret that Old Edric is not much longer for this world. Saints’ Bones, he was at the Siege of Heremac. What is secret—though not a very well kept one—is that there are several Brother-Knights contending for succession. There are four Seekers at the head of the pack—two whom you’ve met.
“Brother Gregory is probably the mostly likely successor: he commands the main Seeker army on the Frounter. He’s a mighty knight, able to work miracles. His deeds at Grimall are well known. He’s a lot like Edric: mean, ornery, and stern with his men. He’s not much for diplomacy, though, and doesn’t have very good relations with Bishop Martin, or Abbot Peter, for that matter.
“Brother Coston commands the garrison here at Heremac. He directs the patrols and manages most of the business within the Citadel. He’s younger than Gregory, but very ambitious and quite popular with his men. He is cousin to Baron Ordway, and said to be on good terms with most of the other nobles, including the Count of Kirke.
“Alan of Belfort commands the Seeker army in the north of Selcrany. He was originally in charge of the siege at Grimall, before Gregory arrived. Said to be a very pious man, strong with the Five, but a lousy commander, I am sad to say.
“Then there’s Brother Wich of Threck. He leads the Seekers at Canglen. He’s not very popular with many of his fellow Brother-Knights: he’s said to be better fighting with words, than weapons. But he has reached out to other branches of the Church: he’s said to be on good terms with Bishop Martin and Abbot Peter.”
“What about Brother Alton?” asks Valerius. “And the Seekers who were ransomed?”
“The Seekers who had been ransomed were all said to be loyal to Brother Gregory,” says Garnfellow. “And Brother Alton—he reported to Master Edric himself!”
“Interesting,” murmurs Valerius.
“So, Valerius,” says St. James. “When do we move against Tim? I say we take him down any way possible. I’ve wanted the bastard dead for some time… And when we kill him, I want to make sure I—that is, we—get all his possessions, as well.”
“Before we make too many plans, perhaps I should read this,” says Vandoren, placing a letter on the table. “It’s from my father, and contains… well, I’ll let you decide for yourselves.
Dear Son, I hope this letter finds you well. I have seen your old friend Clement and his little boy. Clement asked me things fared with you. He is very busy with his studies, and I have it on good authority that Clement is doing quite well, actually applying himself to his work. How much a few years and some responsibilities will change a young man! Well I remember the many times I had to intercede on his behalf, for one foolish misdeed or another. Ah, youth!
I am writing to extend to you and your friends an invitation. Bishop Martin desires an audience with you and your fellows, as soon as possible. He would like to discuss last summer’s doings in Abberlane—but also, he has a very unusual proposal to make. I hope you come. Although it has been a few years since I was last in Heremac, I understand that it is still as drab and gloomy as ever—whereas you shall find Canglen, as always, full of mirth and merriment. Especially during Yule Week!
Ever yours, Dunstan.