The Guest House in Upchurch. XIV Storming, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Fifteen. After Matins.
Valerius.
The figure in black sits alone at his table in the dark room, the only light cast from a single, dripping candle. The bell of the little chapel has signaled that the witching hour has come and gone. Above him, nestled in the roof beams, the raven dreams.
Valerius sits, his head in his hands, and looks upon a small, square book bound in brown leather, which lies shut upon the table.
Antace: across the pond. Brilliant? No. Clever? No. Obvious. Obvius. Lying in the path. Popinjay. Ruck-men hate him. Master Wizard? A disgrace. A construct. Construe, to deduce. Brass, brazen. Powerful? Less powerful than conjuration? A proof, then. To construct, vis-à-vis summoning entity of equal power. (The sum of time and expense, multiplied by magickal expenditure.) Yes, an inferior process, quod erat demonstrandum. Antace. Lorn Pond. Lorn Abbey. “It was meant for you.” Disturbing dreams. The sum of Bened and Dominius and Vavasor: Valerius? Sum—Sun—Son. Grand Magus correlation? Unknown. Secrets—Vavasor—Unfinished business—Secrets—Mother. Dominius is fortunate to be beyond my reach. (Beyond my reach for now.) Secrets. A book I cannot read? Code that I cannot decipher? Inuariablie the Magvs mvst needs presvme compleat & perfect masterie ouer euerie sitvation.
Valerius inhales deeply, and reaches for the book. As if in response, its pages fall open, unbidden.
The Great Hall in Upchurch. XVII Storming. After Vespers.
Sir Hamral, Bailiff of Upchurch, Sir Will Garnfellow, Father Anselm, Vandoren, Oswald, Old Hamral, Lady Alice Rowland.
At one end of the table, Sir Garnfellow sits with Old Hamral and Oswald, laughing and playing at dice. At the other end, Sir Hamral listens to Vandoren and Father Anselm, while Lady Alice looks on.
“The news from the south is dire,” says Vandoren. “The ruck-men have seized all the Pentian lands between Eredy and Bellenore, including Dowdling, Houghton, Wedran, and Abberlane, and have enslaved the poor inhabitants there.”
“Indeed,” adds Father Anselm, shaking his sadly. “It has been all but impossible in the last few weeks to get any word out of the Canglen Diocese. Couriers have to pass secretly through the occupied lands, ever fearful of being captured, for King Tereus has forbidden the worship of the Five within his dominion. A great many peasants have fled their homes, depopulating entire farms. These poor refugees, they say, are crowding into Heremac and Canglen, pressing for charity, and greatly straining the resources of the Church. These wretches bear tidings of great calamity, as the rucks despoil their lands, wantonly murdering or else forcing the remaining peasants to toil cruelly in the fields.”
“I have heard the rucks likened to a swarm of locusts,” says Vandoren. “This time of year, the cellars and granaries of even the richest villager are already beginning to dwindle toward emptiness. Once the rucks have taken their share, next to nothing is left to eat. I fear we will hear of desparate starvation before the first threshing. Why, there are plenty of Frounter villages that had only just begun to recover from the last invasion, and some that are still empty.”
“By the Cup!” roars Garnfellow, from the other end of the table. “Old Tereus took a great gamble in attacking Antace in the darkest depths of winter! I have heard that his army had to march fast and hard through the snows, with very little to rely on for a supply train. Would that the rucks had been delayed, even for a short time. Without provender, those rotten bastards would have swiftly been set to eating each other in the cold. And for all of Busirane’s dreadful howls, that army would have melted away in the course of a few days, as surely as the snow on one of these warm spring mornings. No wonder, then, that the Black-Blades have been forced to plunder from the peasants’ meager stores. Why, I suspect that even Busirane and his officers will know hunger before the first crops are brought in.”
“I heard that the Bishop is going to call a crusade,” says Oswald.
“I have also heard that,” says Father Anselm. “If the rumors can be trusted, an embassy has been dispatched to Tierce to plead our case before the Pope. If granted, this would be the first crusade in nearly fifty years.”
“And a most welcome turn of event that would be!” cries Sir Garnfellow, rolling the dice. “Blast and damn!” he swears, on seeing the results of his toss. “But I have heard some more news out of Antace, a story that I thought might amuse you all.
“It would appear that Prince Busirane’s wicked nigromancer, distraught over the loss of his infernal machine, commanded the rucks to build a great timber structure on the ice, in order to winch his lost engine up and out of the frozen lake. Three times the rucks built up this contraption, and three times the structure broke down through the ice. I cannot say how many fool rucks were drowned in these attempts before Prince Busirane called a halt to such folly. It would seem that his enraged warlock will have to wait for the ice to melt off the pond.”
“A pity that Hectasseus had not gone through the ice himself,” says Vandoren.
“Indeed,” says Sir Hamral.
“My lord,” says Oswald, “Is there any news from Utterbol?”
“The Count is settling into the castle,” says Hamral, “and meanwhile has dispatched much of his power to Lownell, in order to shore up the defenses there against a foray from Derwich.”
“Sir Galen’s daughter Martha,” says Lady Alice, “Arrived just yesterday from Utterbol with the latest news. She will be staying here with us for a while, to lend me a hand around the house. Which reminds me—I must have a word or two with Sir Hamral, in private.”
The other men at the table rise at once, and bid their lord good night. Once the room is cleared, Alice turns to Hamral.
“My lord,” says Alice, “I have at last heard from my cousin Isabelle. She had sent a letter that arrived just this morning. With all the tumult surrounding the fall of Antace, it has been more difficult than is customary to get messages in and out of Heremac. Isabelle, as you might imagine, was rather surprised by the recent turn of events, but after some consideration, I have been able to persuade her of the advantages of your offer of marriage, and she is now agreeable to this union. She has spent many lonely years in the nunnery there, and she well remembers the kindly service you and your friends rendered to her at Derwich—even though she has, to this very day, been spared the knowledge of many horrific details.
“But my maid Martha has also brought news out of Utterbol, news of great import that should be known to you. Sir Walter, Baron of Tryermaine, and one of Kirke’s most powerful vassals, has long held that he would one day be wed to Isabelle. Whether or not the Count had actually made any promises to Sir Walter, I wot not. But even if so, circumstances change. And though Tryermaine has been a loyal knight, fighting under Kirke through these years of bitter exile, I understand that the Count has been dissatisfied with Sir Walter’s performance. You, with but a handful of men, have been able to accomplish what Tryermaine could not with an entire army: return Utterbol into Kirke’s own hands.
“Sir Walter is embittered over his loss, and evidently takes this change of fortune as a personal insult. After all, he was born to a great and noble line, and I fear he considers you but a parvenu. My lord, you should fear Tryermaine as an enemy. Though he is neither a bad man nor a schemer by nature, he is a knight of great influence, with many powerful friends. And these friends would share Sir Walter’s resentment against some new, overly-bold upstart. Accordingly, you should be married as soon as possible, certainly before this year is out.
“And further, we should consider having you take a squire. Any knight of your position should, by rights, have a young knight under him. But not just any squire—no, sirrah, this is a choice every bit as important as finding a wife. You see, the better born your squire, the more esteem for you and your name. And the more esteem you can garner, the less reason Tryermaine has for complaint.
“The right squire for you would be a lad of good birth, a squire that will help forge an important alliance between you and another great house that swears fealty to Kirke; such an alliance will also help to establish your position as a knight of importance. With your permission, I should like to speak with the Count once more on your behalf. Kirke has good incentive to arrange for you to take an appropriate squire, for doubtless he has heard enough complaints from Tryermaine and his allies. The sooner Kirke can put an end to this controversy, the better for all involved.”
The Upchurch Watchtower. XX Storming. Before Prime.
Pyers, Jacob.
To the east, dawn has only barely broken over the red, eastern sky. Pyers, the larger boy, stretches and yawns, his breath steaming in the cold morning air. Pyers shivers and wraps the blanket around himself, and begins fiddling with the large hunting horn on his lap. Jacob ignores his friend, his gaze never leaving the road to Upchurch.
“It’s too damn early for this,” moans Pyers. “Why don’t we count out to see who will go first, and who can get a bit a sleep. What say you? Hinx-minx?”
Jacob does not turn, only shrugs his shoulders softly. Pyers grins widely. “Wonderful, then. Let’s see…” And then larger boys launches into a familiar rhyme, with each beat pointing alternatively to himself and then to Jacob.
“Hinx, minx,
The old witch winks,
The fat begins to fry.Nobody’s home but
Jumping Joan,
Father, mother,
and I.Stick, stock,
Stone dead,
Blind man can’t see;Every knave
Will have a slave,
You or I must
Be HE.”
Pyers ends the rhyme pointing to himself. “Blast and Damn! Well, I suppose there’s nothing for it. I’ll take the first watch, mate. You just lie down there, friend, and catch a bit of the shuteye. I’ll be the first.”
Jacob looks skeptically at his companion, but then sighs, gathers up his blankets, and lies back on the floor of timber watchtower.
“Yes,” says Pyers, leaning against the watchtower wall. “If any blasted ruck comes down this road, we’ll see him miles off, won’t we? Pretty cold morning, today, isn’t it? I sure could go for a bit of breakfast right about now, couldn’t you? Some nice hot porridge would be just the thing. But it could be worse, I suppose. If we weren’t up here, watching the road, I guess we would be down with Mendelor right now, thinning out the Countspark. Now that’s some nasty work, isn’t it? Mind you, it’s not that I think it’s too hard, it’s just I’d rather be up here, doing important work for Sir Hamral. No, ever since Mendelor was made forester of Upchurch, he’s been mad to get that Countspark back in shape. Cutting brush, mending fences, hauling logs…”
Jacob groans, rolls over, and pulls the blanket over his head.
“Yeah, that’s the idea, mate,” says Pyers. “Damn cold up here, isn’t it? I’ll do the same thing myself, once I finish my turn here on the watch.
“Hey, did you know you can see the village from up here? There goes that Valerius, with his two girls, and that damned crow. I wonder where the hell they’re going, so early in the morning? Out in the woods, it looks like. Pretty queer bunch, if you ask me. I’m sure Sir Hamral knows what he’s doing, keeping that lot around, but if it were me, I wouldn’t want to have them around my manor. Not saying that I know anything about our Lord’s business, no sir. But it’s just—I don’t know, they just don’t seem to be up to much good, and those girls… like no girls I’ve ever seen. Spooky, I say, the way those two will look at you, and just start laughing, for no good reason. And that Valerius has been even gloomier than ever, lately. I heard even Mendelor say so, just the other day.
“But I suppose there’s lots of folk on edge, lately. Take that nasty provost, Jordan Moreby. He’s been driving the poor farmers to drink, he has. Ever since Noah Beane took his two sons, their wives and children, and left in the middle of the night. Nobody knows for sure why they left, or where they went, but I’ve got a good idea. It’s that damned curse, it’s got everyone on edge. Ever since Alda Sayer died, there’s been a lot of talk of folks leaving the Frounter. Let the damned rucks have, they say. And I tell you, if I had a wife, there’s no way I’d stay around here, and have a baby like… well, you know what mean. Yes, I’ve heard that lots of folk are thinking about leaving Upchurch, and now with Antace gone, it’s just getting worse and worse.
“And it’s Jordan’s job to make sure that the farmers all take their turn working Sir Hamral’s fields. And if there’s none left to mind the fields, well, what then? I suppose that’s why Jordan’s been such a bear, but still, it’s not like it’s any of our fault, now is it? We have no more say in the doings of curses or rucks than we do in the weather, now do we? And just look at that sky. Red sky at morning, they say. Will be a nasty one, for sure…”
Jacob leaps up and throws off his blankets, pushing Pyers away from the wall.
“My turn already?” says Pyers. “My, how quickly that watch went. Well, all’s well, that’s for certain. Enjoy it, mate!”
And with that, the large boy settles down, pulls his own blankets over his head, and soon begins snoring loudly. Pyers looks at his companion, spits, and turns his gaze back on the road.
The Thistle and Briar Inn, Heremac. XXII Storming. After Complines.
Old Barry swallows hard and forces a smile on his twisted lips.
“Haven’t seen Tim for a while, mum. Ate his supper out here, did some business with the lads, and then went out back.”
“Shut up,” says Maggie, her thin lips drawn tight and her dark eyes narrowed. She nods to the man beside her. In response, the great, hairy brute takes two steps forward, claps his two massive hands together, and cracks his knuckles, which sound like saplings snapping. Behind him, several patrons begin stealing out of the common room and into the night.
“Of course, mum, of course,” says Barry. “I can see that you’re in a bit of a hurry, I understand. Now that I think of it, why don’ts I just go, go out back and fetch Tim for you. Would that be all right?”
Maggie’s man looks at his mistress questioningly, but she shakes her head. “I’ve had me fill of Tim,” says Maggie. “He was supposed to meet us hours ago. Obviously, he’s forgotten who just works for who in this town. I think, Cob, that he needs a wee bit of a reminder. What do ye think?”
Cob laughs, his broad grin marred by yellowed and missing teeth. But one scowl from Maggie and the big man bites his lip, and then suddenly steps up, seizes Barry around the throat, and throws the stooped old man to the floor. Several more patrons make a break for the door.
“Get the hell out of here, the lot of ye!” shrieks Maggie at the emptying room. The few remaining patrons rise at once to their feet and rush for the door.
“Well, don’t just stand there, ye dolt,” hisses Maggie, shooing Cob toward the back room. Cob reaches a closed door and begins banging away.
“Tim Sharpe!” hollers Maggie. “Get out here this instant. I wants a word with ye!”
Cob pulls back and suddenly rushes the door, which buckles before his blow. Cob swears and takes another run at it, and the door bursts open.
The room beyond is dark and emits a sour, metallic stink. Cob mutters, reaches for a lit candle in the hallway and holds it forth into the dimness of the room. Instantly the big man recoils from what he sees.
Maggie herself steps forward into the room and gasps.
The floor, cramped with a small table and a few chairs, is slick and sticky. The walls are splattered with something dark and dripping.
Sitting in the chair, facing Maggie and Cob, is Tim Sharpe. Or at least, what had once been Tim. His face, limned with gore, stares back, frozen in a look of surprise, two iron ruck coins pressed against his dead eyes.
“Not quite sharp enough, were you, little Tim?” whispers Maggie, making the sign of the Five.