Eredy, VI Harfesting, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Eleven. Tierce.
Sir Hamral, Friar Sidrach Landry, Vandoren, Mendelor, Renton, St. James, Ruik, Valerius, Dirk, Mot.
Vandoren exhales, sharply, and struggles to roll over on his side. The minstrel’s handsome features are marred by the blotchy swells of purple and yellow that blot the right side of his face. Vandoren winces, and finds that he can barely open his right eye.
“There. Easy does it, my son,” says Friar Sidrach, examining the minstrel’s bandages. “No hurry. No hurry at all.”
Vandoren opens and closes his mouth, cautiously letting his tongue trace the line of his lips, as if to make sure that all of his teeth are still there. His voice is soft and raspy.
“I thought I was dead.”
Friar Sidrach looks up from his examination and smiles. “Aye, you were, my son. Or as close as a man would ever want to be without being shriven. Quite. Your poor head got knocked about, and you broke your collar-bone, and several ribs. And maybe that arm.”
“How… how long have I been laid up?” asks Vandoren.
“A little more than a week,” answers the Friar. “You should be strong enough to travel in a few days.”
“Not one single bone in my entire body does not ache,” says Vandoren. Then he gasps—Mot, Mendelor, and Sir Hamral lie on mats beside him, also bruised, battered, and bloodied.
“By the Cup!” Vandoren whispers. “Looks like our friends there fared little better.”
“Those Hagges nearly killed you all,” says Friar Sidrach. “But thanks to the Five, we were delivered from our plight.”
“What happened?” says Vandoren. “Are those wicked creatures still about?”
The Friar sighs, recounting the events. “After you went down, we fought those Hagges. Three of them there were, stronger than trolls, and much smarter. We managed to kill one, but in the course of the battle those men there beside you were each brought low. During a lull in the fighting we retreated back to Eredy. Running all the way, in pitch blackness. I can begin to understand what those Seekers felt, who served on Gregory’s March.
“But several nights later the two surviving Hagges tracked us down—right here to our own doorstep. They stormed the house in the middle of the night, but we stood our ground. The Five be praised, we were able to send those wicked creatures back to the fires of Hell.”
“And the cave?” asks Vandoren.
“We have been waiting for the rest of you to recover, before we initiate further exploration,” says Valerius, suddenly appearing before the injured minstrel. “Who knows what surprises those Hagges may have left behind.”
“Just what were those things?” asks Dirk. “I never saw anything like that.”
“Hagges,” mutters Mendelor, suddenly opening his eyes. “Some sort of damned witch.”
“Not quite,” says Valerius. “Though Hagges can cast formidable spells, they are not mortal women and thus not witches. In fact, they may have very well been alive since before the Martyrdom. Hagges are descended from an ancient line of powerful, magical creatures. And as you saw, they are both murderous and cunning.”
“Are they faerie folk?” asks Ruik.
“Perhaps,” says Vandoren. “The Brynns of ages past, I am told, knew of many creatures like Lean Peg. And such stories are still told in Harplan: monstrous, man-eating hags that prowl the faerie woods and consort with giants.”
“And there are stories from scripture,” says Friar Sidrach. “Recall, my sons, the temptress Larith, who was deceived by the Shaithim, and seduced her own brother into forsaking the Five. After the Shaithim were defeated by the Five’s Host, and banished from this world, Larith was cursed to wander the world until Reckoning Day, spawning abominations. Larith’s daughters and granddaughters are sometimes described as giant crones, skilled in witchcraft.”
“Such creatures were known to the ancients of Tynar and Herachea, as well,” says Vandoren. “Sometimes they were called the Strigae: evil spirits of the night that could assume the shape of old women.”
“Do you think one of those Hagges was Lean Peg?” asks Ruik.
“It is possible,” says Valerius. “Or perhaps all three, over the years, gave rise to the legend.”
“Then again,” says Friar Sidrach, “the Hagge that Vandoren and I spoke with—she mentioned a mother…”
The room falls quiet.
Eredy, XXIII Harfesting. Vespers.
Sir Hamral, Friar Sidrach Landry, Mendelor, Renton, St. James, Ruik, Dirk, Mot.
“That last trip was quite a haul,” says Renton. “I wasn’t sure if the old cart was going to make it all the way back to Eredy. To say nothing of Bear.”
“The poor animal was exhausted,” says Friar Sidrach. “Luckily, we shan’t have to make another trip anytime soon. I am not sure I could stomach another trip, myself. All of those bones—just ghastly, ghastly. The place was like a charnel pit. And even with those Hagges dead, the caves still stank of evil. Not a good place, my sons. Not indeed.”
“Not even those rucks liked the place,” adds Renton.
“A couple more days and those two bastards would have eaten each other,” says Mendelor. “We arrived just in time. Imagine—they were tricked by the Hagge’s glamour, just like we were. Only they thought they saw some lovely ruck-cow. Whatever lovely means to a ruck. Bleah.”
“Do you recall your mother looks like?” asks St. James, and Mendelor laughs.
“How much longer do you think Valerius and Vandoren will be?” asks Ruik.
St. James shrugs. “They have quite a lot of loot to tally. I just want to make sure I get my fair share, especially after saving the bacon of all these mighty fighters. In fact, I probably deserve a double share for my heroism.”
“Well, I bet that Vandoren will want to keep that wolf-cub we found,” says Mendelor. “The little bastard seems to have taken a liking to him. I wonder what those Hagges were going to do with a wolf?”
“Probably use his gallbladder or liver in some foul spell,” mutters Friar Sidrach, with a shrug. “The Hagges’ larder was filled with all manner of nasty things that were probably used to brew their potions and cast their spells. Dead snakes, dried toads, eyeballs and gizzards and many other things that happily, I could not identify. And the herbs that they kept—thorn apple, mandrake, monkshood, henbane, cowslip, hemlock, deadly nightshade—all deadly poison, in the wrong hands.”
“The whole place was queer, if you ask me,” says Mendelor. “We never would have gotten past that iron door without Valerius and his witchery.”
Just then, Valerius and Vandoren enter the room.
“Our preliminary tally is complete,” announces Valerius. “And I believe that our proceeds will more than amply justify our sacrifices. As you know, we retrieved a wide variety of mundane items from the Hagge’s lair, items that can be resold. There were also several precious stones and a cache of old Tynan coins. Altogether, I estimate that our yield may approach four hundred pounds. A considerable sum—even after being divided amongst you all. Each share should equal the annual income of a prosperous knight. Even as prodigious a spendthrift as St. James would be hard-pressed to run through such a fortune in a week.”
“Maybe… maybe I could use my share to convince Maggie to forget Tim forever,” muses St. James.
Valerius shakes his head, sadly. “Fortunately, we recovered more than mere lucre from the cave. The Hagges were well-endowed, and we have determined that several of their items are magical in nature.”
“Really?” says St. James, his eyes agleam.
Valerius nods to Vandoren, who then opens a large sack and removes the contents.
“First,” says Valerius, picking up a small purse of deerskin, drawn closed with a string. “This pouch contains a curious, sparkling powder. While I cannot determine for certain the powder’s specific properties, I am able to discern at least the general nature of its magic, which in turn may suggest its function. This powder exhibits properties consistent with Glamour magic.”
Valerius then picks up a small piece of earthenware crockery and removes the lid, revealing a bitter-smelling substance with the consistency and sheen of butter. Vandoren unstops a small jar containing sweet, dark wine.
“Both the unguent and the wine radiate Mutabilitie magic,” says Valerius. The lanky magician puts down the unguent and picks up a short, black candle. “This, in contrast, demonstrates magic of an Invocatorie nature.”
Vandoren holds up a strange, small arrow—slender in form, with a shaft of reed and a delicate, needle-like head made from stone. “Some sort of Charme magic permeates this arrow.”
Mendelor looks over, quizzically. “It looks like an elfin arrow. I have seen a few like it before, but usually a lot smaller.”
“I once saw a man who was elf-shot,” says Friar Sidrach. “It happed as he was walking home one moonlit night, when the faeries were abroad. Poor fellow—shot in his left side, he was. By the next morning, that whole side of his body had turned as heavy and lifeless as a stone. He could barely walk or talk, and there was nothing I could do for him. He lingered for a couple of months, then died.”
“The old carles in my village used to say that I was elf-marked,” says Renton, touching his blemished cheek as he looks at the arrow.
Valerius draws forth a small, ornately designed lead case. “This box contains magical incense of a Protective nature.”
Putting down the case, Valerius turns to his companions. “All of these items so far displayed—the powder, the unguent, the wine, the candle, the incense, and the arrow—probably have a limited number of applications. Most can be used but once. But these next items appear to be of a more permanent nature.”
Valerius nods to Vandoren, and the minstrel picks up a pair of small leather boots. “The boots also radiate Mutabilitie magic,” says Valerius.
“And finally, there is this…” The magician picks up a large, curled horn with mouthpiece. “I believe that the horn exhibits Coniuratorie magic.”
“All that’s left then, is to divide these magical treasures,” says St. James, eagerly.
“Before we undertake that discussion, perhaps we should sleep on it, first,” says Vandoren. “It has been a long day and tonight, I have prepared something of a reward to you, my friends. A humble thanks for not leaving me behind in the Hagge’s clutches.”
Vandoren places his psaltery upon his chest and begins to sing:
“To the wood near Gwynnon travel did we
In search of the cave from adventures before.
What scares Bear and Fiasco we cannot see
Though clearly, terror and evil are in store.A quaint little cottage on the hillside,
A beautiful young lady works in the sun.
An ugly horrific Hagge appeared inside
Oh, the blasted stone—what have I done?We lie in bloody heaps all over the place
Whilst our dear friends slay the three wenches.
Now their cottage is gone, gone without trace
Nothing remains but our wounds and their stenches.Thank you to our protector, Sidrach the Friar,
And to Dirk whose arrows flew fast and true.
To Valerius, his creatures and bolts of fire;
Renton McAllister for the Hagge that he slew.
Dear Ruik rescued us with a dogged drag,
While St. James, so valiant, beat on the rest
Aimed surely at the head of each evil Hagge.
Pray to the Five that no more are left.”