Near Maggie’s House, Heremac. XIV Hetaire, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Eleven. After Matins.
St. James, Valerius, Mot.
The narrow streets of Heremac are dark and still. Above, heavy, roiling clouds appear to loom just over the rooftops. In the shadows Valerius stoops and curses as the bells of St. Arleans ring out.
“Damn his eyes, where is he?” hisses Valerius. “Fool that I am, to have ever let him persuade me to partake in such a grievous display of idiocy.”
As if in agreement, Noxumbra flutters in the darkness beside her master. Then Mot grunts and points down the street. Valerius squints hard against the blackness. A strange rattling and clattering precedes St. James, who is hurrying quickly up the lane. When the young thief reaches his friends he is badly winded, and collapses against the alley wall. He drops a tall ladder on to the street.
“Wherever did you find that?” demands Valerius, but St. James only gasps and shakes his head.
With a heavy sigh, the young man picks himself back up. “Mot, be a good man and help me with this.”
Mot turns to his master questioningly, and with a grimace Valerius nods his approval.
Staying close to the sides of the alley, Mot and St. James pick up the ladder and rush toward Maggie’s house.
“Here,” whispers St. James. Hastily and with some fumbling, the thief and Mot together raise the ladder against the wall at the designated spot, just below an open second-story window. St. James immediately begins ascending the rungs. Valerius gestures for Mot to keep watch for any intruders, and then turns his attention to monitoring the young man’s progress up the ladder. At the top, St. James stops.
“Devil take him! What is he doing now?” snarls Valerius.
St. James peers into the blank window, clears his throat, and begins reciting at the top of his lungs:
Your whispers hold the promise of the tender crop of love,
Your smile was like the sunrise warming up me from above,
Your touch was like a raindrop falling gently on my lips.
My hands were so adventurous as they rested on your hips,
My love was like a monster again awakened from the deep,
Take me to thy ample bosom and lay me now to sleep.
“Blast it all!” cries Valerius, watching nervously as lights steadily begin appearing in the windows of houses all along the street. A woman begins shouting angrily into the darkness, and Valerius can hear St. James’s voice, much lower, pleading a rejoinder. The young thief soon abandons the attempt, and rushes to get down the ladder before it is pushed roughly away from the sill. Almost halfway down, St. James jumps safely to the cobbles below just before the ladder crashes down with a bang and a rattle.
Now men’s voices sound in the night, and several figures suddenly appear in the dark next to Mot. Mot howls and flails against the interlopers with his club, bashing the first one upon the head. The men begin to shout and the woman continues to screech out a bitter invective. A number of odd items are hurled down in succession from the open window, beginning with a full piss-pot. As Valerius watches, Mot and St. James come tearing up the street, a group of armed men following close behind.
Valerius shakes his head in disgust, takes a deep breath, and proceeds to utter an incantation. Strange, alien syllables tumble from his lips as the air around him begins to shimmer. Between the pursuers and the pursued, a faintly glowing curtain appears, stretching from one side of the street to the other. The glowing peaks and then rapidly diminishes, and in its wake, a great mat of dark filaments blocks the road. The first two pursuers run smack into the web, and are caught fast in its sticky tangles. They struggle and shake, making the entire wall dance. Their slower friends pull up short in amazement.
Meanwhile, the woman’s voice continues its mad rant against the night. “James, ye worthless, thieving, rotten bastard… I’ll hack off yer cobblers me self…”
“Do you think she’s starting to come around?” asks St. James earnestly, as he and his fellows flee into the night.
The Guest House in Upchurch, X Drieland. None.
Sir Hamral, Friar Sidrach Landry, Vandoren, Mendelor, Renton, St. James, Ruik, Valerius, Dirk, Mot.
St. James sits glumly in a corner, sighing into his cup of ale, from which he has hardly taken a sip.
Ruik nods his head gravely. “St. James, your woes with Maggie have moved me: Know that I will gladly assist you in any way. Perhaps, if I could sneak into Heremac…”
“Oh, do not indulge him any more than is absolutely necessary,” groans Valerius.
“Well then,” says Ruik, “The annoying Brother Hugh also intrigues me. I could attempt to gather additional information on this nosy monk, if necessary.”
“I am also concerned about Brother Hugh,” says Mendelor. “I always felt that we would be repaid for our dealings with the Seeker election. I just hope that being hung as a heretic isn’t how…”
“While I agree that we can no longer simply ignore this most persistent Bergenian investigator, more immediate priorities are before us,” says Valerius. “Such as the cave at Wimm Copse.”
“I’ve enjoyed rowing with the rucks for the last few months,” adds Dirk, “But I am sick and tired of going from day to day without a roof over my head. Let’s go get the cave.”
Sir Hamral nods in agreement. “We should just take the cave—and tell no one.”
“An excellent point,” adds Valerius. “Not a word to anyone about this undertaking. Not even Sir Garnfellow. Especially not Garnfellow.”
“It would be nice to have such a place to fall back on, in case we ever get into any serious trouble,” says Mendelor, “And once we establish ourselves at Wimm Copse, we should not allow any rucks to pass our borders. Then we can play games with the rucks’ treasure, and hopefully get them to kill each other off.”
Valerius nods. “In due course, yes. I am also most curious about Tim’s mysterious new partner. Personally, I suspect good old Godwin’s master is behind this recent change in fortune. Perhaps Roger is being spied upon in some magical manner… and it would be just like Tim to swap his allegiances the moment difficulties arise for his Lordship.
“A few weeks ago, I dispatched Noxumbra to see if she could locate Roger’s missing men. She returned with a most intriguing revelation.”
“Dead!” croaks Noxumbra. “All dead. By magic!”
“Yes,” says Valerius. “Rather curious. It seems dear Noxumbra here chanced upon a lone carrion-crow, who had of late feasted on the corpses of two men who match the description given to us by Roger. These unfortunates were found hidden just off the highway, several miles south of Heremac. One of these men, according to the crow, had been roasted alive, as if in a great fire… while the other was frozen solid.”
“Witchery,” mutters Mendelor, and Friar Sidrach shudders, violently.
After a long, awkward pause, Ruik speaks up. “Once we’ve captured the cave, perhaps we could help liberate some of the poor prisoners who are gaoled up in the Yron Citie. If I were to sneak in there, I just know I would be able to use my charm on King Tereus. Why, I know that old Wyk would have been all for such an adventure…”
St. James suddenly sighs, painfully, and stares into his cup, oblivious to all else.
Eredy, XX Drieland. Vespers.
Sir Hamral, Friar Sidrach Landry, Vandoren, Mendelor, Renton, St. James, Ruik, Valerius, Dirk, Mot.
Godan takes a deep drink from the ale that Friar Sidrach has just bought him. Godan, who had been a village elder in the village of Gwynnon, is barely recognizable—the hale, hardy blacksmith who had last met the consortes four years ago has since dwindled to a tired, spindly man.
“You’re going back to the ogre cave, aren’t you?” asks Godan.
Hamral nods.
“Master Godan,” begins Friar Sidrach. “If I may be so bold: what happened to fair Gwynnon village? Did the ogres return?”
The old smith looks sadly at the friar and shakes his head. “It was the rucks. We had a couple companies of Black-blades burn us all out. More than once, too. The first time it happened, we all laid low for a couple of weeks, and when the rucks left, we moved back in. We had lost a few good men, but Gwynnon was our home, and had been for many years. Well, the second time the rucks came, maybe half the village decided that it wasn’t worth it to return. Gwynnon was too far away from anything, and we were too small for any of the local lords to defend us.
“The third time the rucks came… we weren’t as lucky as we had been. My wife and I barely made it alive to Eredy, and one of our daughters… Most everyone lost someone close to them, that day.
“That was it. I decided then and there I had lost enough. I don’t care if I ever see Gwynnon again. The rucks can keep it. Most everyone is of the same mind, too. And even if the rucks weren’t there, everyone is so scared of Lean Peg they’d never return.”
“Lean Peg?” asks Valerius.
“She’s a legend, mostly,” says Godan, with a shrug. “When I was a child, my mother would often frighten me into behaving with stories of Lean Peg. Said that I had an older brother who had been naughty. And Lean Peg, she upped and snatched him away one night while I was just a baby. When I was a bit older, not yet a man, I think I saw Peg, one evening, as it was just starting to get dark. Late fall, it was. I was bringing in the pigs when I saw her… I think it was her… striding along the hillside. Tall as an ogre she was, and thin as a reed. Scared me half to death.
“It was bad luck to see her, I think. I had a younger cousin who died, just a couple of weeks later. The pox, they said. But I always thought it was because of Peg. Lots of folks have said to have seen her, lately. They say that Lean Peg is abroad these days. And the Five knows there’s certainly been enough bad luck…”