The Upchurch Watchtower. XXI May, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Fifteen. Before Nones.
Pyers, Jacob.
Pyers rubs his round, red face and yawns: “Seems like we been up here all day, eh, Jakes?”
The smaller boy, his dark little eyes narrowed on the road below, only shrugs.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” continues Pyers. “We froze our noses off just a few months ago, and now here we are, sweating like pigs up here in this roost. A man just can’t win. And these damned gnats have just about eaten me in half!
“Not that I’d complain, of course. And it wouldn’t do me no good, anyway, as everyone’s too busy these days. If they’re aren’t worried about the ruck-men, they’re worried about crows getting into the corn. And if they aren’t worried about the crops, they’re worried about the wedding.
“Me, I don’t see what’s the point in worrying on? Nothing I can do about ole King Tereus, is there? And not much I can do about the crops, neither. I can’t make it rain, can I? Well, maybe I can pray, along with everyone else…”
Pyers pulls out a small silver penny, bent in half. “I was so hungry last week I vowed this penny to the Lamarite, in hopes for getting a nice bit of porridge in my belly. But I since I’ve had to go without, I’ve decided to hang on to this a little bit longer. Maybe I said the vow wrong, or maybe Marcus was just too busy to hear me.
“Did you ever think we would ever live long enough to know a real, honest saint? Yeah, me neither. Hard to believe, certes. I sure wish I could see him, though, if just for a moment. That would be real grand. You know, I heard that Eve Currey saw him the other morning, as she was going over to Sir Hamral’s kitchens. Standing in the doorway to St. Lamar’s chapel, just as real as you or me are sitting right here now. And when she went to speak with him, he disappeared.
“The word’s really starting to spread, too. A couple fellows came over from Hyndburn last week and brought their wives and children to see the pasque flowers blooming on Marcus’s grave. I guess they had heard about Oswald’s little daughter Tate’s dream and came to see for themselves, all those little white flowers still blooming, a whole month later.
“I heard old Moreby talking about how we ought to build a proper tomb for Marcus, something nice for folks to see when they come here to Upchurch, pilgrims and such. Father Anselm didn’t seem too much for the idea, but I’m sure I don’t know why. Maybe if we had a nice tomb, someplace where I could put my pennies, maybe then I would be able to see Marcus, and he would be able to hear my vows.
“You know, they say that new fellow, Purer—Purer Grundy, he’s hight—that he’s able to see saints and suchlike. A real pious man, so Mendelor told me. I guess he’s down from around Canglen way. Mendelor says that when he and Valerius and Vandoren went to Heremac a few weeks ago, this Purer he helped fight off a bunch of flying magical dragons, sent by that wissard who works for Prince Busirane. Sounds like there must have been a dozen or more of those things, flying all around and breathing fire and such. Wish I could have been there, to see it all. But instead I was probably up here in this blasted tower. But what can a man do?
“Mendelor told me that Busirane’s wissard can make all kinds of nasty magical things, like men made out of metal and suchlike. I guess there’s one of those things down in Antace now, a giant made all out of bronze. During the winter it had broke down through the ice on Lorn Pond and was drowned, but I guessed that wissard was able to bring this monster back from the dead, and now it guards Antace.
“I wonder why Sir Hamral’s wissard doesn’t make us a man of bronze, either? Something that could sit up in this tower and watch out for ruck-men. I hear that Grundy fellow is good at making potions and such, and has been holed up in the guesthouse for the last week, brewing away. I tell you, if I could work magic, I’d wouldn’t waste my time on blasted potions or powders or suchlike, no indeed. Why, I’d magic me up a nice, tasty stew to fill my poor empty belly, I would. That’s the only magic I would be interested in. Potions? Who needs them?”
The Great Hall in Upchurch. XXIII May. After Vespers.
Sir Will Garnfellow, Oswald, Old Hamral.
“By the Cup!” roars Sir Will Garnfellow, after tallying the dice roll. “Not even a blasted pair!”
Oswald and Old Hamral laugh as Garnfellow shakes his head in disgust.
“You had best quit the table while you still have your shirt,” says Oswald.
Garnfellow laughs and takes a deep drink of ale. “Indeed, it appears that Dame Luck has forsaken me yet again, the capricious wench!”
“‘Tis just as well, for I wanted to hear the news from Antace,” says Oswald.
“Back in Heremac,” says Garnfellow, “the talk was of little else. The Seekers have been reinforcing Eredy all spring in preparation for a hard campaign this summer. Already Busirane has sent a few expeditions against Gregory to test the mettle of his defenses. Should Eredy fall, Heremac would be the next prize that Busirane would seek.
“And you should see how the streets of Heremac are crowded with poor, miserable wretches who have fled from Busirane’s cruelty. Zounds, it is a sight to fill even the sternest of hearts with sorrow.
“And these refugees bear with them ominous tidings from the occupied lands. I have heard that Busirane’s brass giant has been recovered from Lorn Pond, and even now stands sentinel outside the gates of Antace. And I have heard even stranger stories, as well: that Busirane has brought with him to Antace a new troop of shambling monsters, terrible wild things that go about half-mad and naked, things so dangerous that he keeps them all under lock and key in the dungeons of Antace. These monsters, they say, will be unleashed against Eredy all-too-soon.”
“Is there any word on a crusade being declared?” asks Oswald.
“Aye,” says Garnfellow. “Pope Augustine is expected to issue a bull any day now, calling on all of Pentiandom to drive the ruck-men out of the Frounter.”
“My father Terence fought in the last crusade,” says Old Hamral, “before I was even born. It was what brought him here to the Frounter in the first place. He was living in Saxdal when Darius, the ruckish king, captured Heremac, when his armies overran the Pentian lands and pushed so far west that they actually sacked Abbermark itself and burnt the cathedral there to the ground. When the Pope sounded the call to arms, my father was one of the first to take up his sword. He was there when the rucks lost Canglen, and then Heremac, and then when they were driven all the way back to Demerian’s Wall. Once Darius fell, the rucks lost their will to fight, and the whole lot of them fled back into the Hills. The deeds that must have been seen in those days! Alack, that we no longer have any men that resemble those great heroes of the crusades.
“After the rucks were beaten off, my father settled down in Heremac and married. I was probably one of the first Pentian children born in the town after its deliverance. But of course, that peace was short-lived. For before long, the ruck-men had found themselves a new king. And soon after came the Siege of Heremac.
“I was but a boy then, not much older than your Tate. That was a terrible winter, the worst I have ever known. We had heard that the rucks had been united under a cruel new king: Tereus. He gathered his power and marched on us before the first frost, and demanded that the Seekers hand over the city. When Edric the Iron Hearted refused to give up Heremac, Tereus encircled us, cut off all supply lines, and tried to starve us out.
“When we ran out of grain, we ate our chickens, and then we caught rats. And when we couldn’t catch rats, we boiled sawdust, old leather, and tried to eat that. I even ate dirt once, I was so hungry, may the Five forgive me. And there were dark stories from those days that some wretched folks ate even worse than that…
“It wasn’t until a week after Candlemas that King Weremach and his armies were able to break through the ruckish lines and drive Tereus back into the Ruckish Hills. The Five alone know how many died during that long siege. I saw with my own eyes my mother and two sisters pass on to the Citie. Those of us who lived through that winter swore we would never again allow the rucks a second chance. And yet, I fear that once again a winter may come and find Tereus camped without Heremac’s gates.”
The Guest House at Upchurch. XXIV May. Sext.
Vandoren, Valerius, Dominic.
The magician in black idly strokes the bill of the raven perched in the window.
“At long last, I have finally heard from my associate Nod,” says Valerius, absently. “He has proposed an interesting trade for the armor and weapon that we took from Narl. Nod offers us an oil of sovereign power. This oil may be applied to armor, a shield, or even clothing, and will help ward the wearer from harm.”
“An oil?” says Vandoren. “That doesn’t sound like much to me.”
“Actually, such potions are rarely seen,” says Dominic. “And quite valuable. Considering that both Nod’s armor and weapon were nigh useless to us, I think the exchange would be reasonably fair.”
“Perhaps,” says Vandoren. “A pity that we brought nothing more than our lives out of those infernal caverns near Dundren. Although I suspect we were lucky to return with all of our company breathing. That terrible creature at the very end of the caverns—half woman, half dragon. It recalls a story I once read, long ago, an ancient tale out of pagan Herachea, of a woman cursed by the gods into a form most loathsome, and destined to bring forth into this world scores of monsters. Her name was Echidna, and she was much feared…”
“Intriguing,” says Valerius. “Do you posit that we encountered this creature out of legend?”
“I wot not,” says Vandoren, with a shrug. “Perhaps it was one of her descendants. Or perhaps the whole thing is but a story.”
“Though many stories have their root in truth,” interjects Dominic.
“Indeed,” murmurs Valerius, turning to the raven. After a moment, he turns back to his companions, a strange look upon his face. “Tell me… about… That is, I am unfamiliar with these mundane customs. Tell me… about… this marriage business.”
Vandoren and Dominic look at each other, startled.
“What exactly do you mean, Valerius?” asks Vandoren.
The magician’s face darkens, and he waves his hand dismissively. “This… procedure… that Hamral is about to enact. How does it work? Is this something the priest Anselm will perform?”
“Well, no, not really,” begins Vandoren, slowly. “The first step is the troth-plighting. Strictly speaking, there’s no need for anyone to actually be there, other than the groom and his bride. And all they need to do is join hands and pledge their devotion to each other, and they’re married in the eyes of the Five.”
“Is that all?” asks Valerius, raising an eyebrow.
“That’s all that is required,” says Vandoren, “Although many people, particularly those who are well born, will prefer a little more elaboration. Are you sure this is what you were asking?”
“Yes,” says Valerius, quickly, “your explanation is perfectly adequate. Now continue, please.”
“Well, many people prefer to have the troth-plighting in front of their friends and family. Often they will exchange rings. And then the couple retires to consummate the marriage.”
“Ah,” mumbles Valerius.
“A few months later,” says Vandoren, “The couple will attend church together, where they will be greeted at the doorsteps of the chapel by the priest, who will ask if anyone present objects to the union. Assuming no one speaks up, once the couple have entered within the church, the marriage is considered complete. A feast usually follows after the mass.”
“A most curious custom,” says Valerius.
“I suppose,” answers Vandoren.
“It reminds me of certain alchemical processes,” says Valerius. “Two elements, separate, and then through a single operation, compounded into one.”
The Woods Outside Upchurch. XXVIII May. After Tierce.
Mendelor, Valerius, Helena, Hermia.
The two girls laugh as they scamper about the limbs of a twisted old apple tree. Helena and Hermia hang, upside down, and call for the raven Noxumbra to join them. The woodsman looks skeptically at the magician in black.
“Are you certain we can speak privately?” asks Mendelor.
“Helena and Hermia assure me that no one else is here in these woods with us,” says Valerius. “You of all people should know the value of their word in such matters.”
“I understand,” says Mendelor. “As you realize, I have just come from Heremac. And I have some interesting things to report. Do you remember the two lackeys of Tim’s, Merl and Bron, that we captured last fall, back when we first encountered that brass giant?”
“Yes,” says Valerius. “I clearly recall those two incompetents.”
“Well, I tried to look them up in Heremac—to see if maybe we could call in a favor or two. But they haven’t been seen by anyone since we left them tied up in the woods.”
“Why should that surprise you?” asks Valerius. “The dear, departed Tim rarely took any failure, no matter how minuscule, particularly well. I am confident that Bron and Merl paid the price for losing their employer’s valued shipment.”
“But this is the strange part,” says Mendelor. “After our encounter with the giant, Tim was on the lookout for his lackeys. Had his thugs searching high and low. I heard he was pretty desperate to find them.”
“That is strange,” says Valerius, nodding. “Why would Tim look for two men he had murdered? Unless his whole search was but a ruse to deflect suspicion.”
“That is possible,” says Mendelor. “But here’s another bit of news from Heremac. It seems one of your old friends has been seen back in town.”
Valerius turns to the woodsman, his eyes blazing. “The Vavasor?”
“No—not him, though I would not be surprised to have that skulking wretch turn up soon, the way our luck runs. No, I mean Brother Hugh, the nosy Bergenian from Abbermark. I guess he was in town a couple of weeks ago, asking lots of questions about us and our business. And about Tim’s death…”