The Village of Eredy, XXVII Drieland, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Fifteen. After Matins.
St James.
Groaning softly, St. James rolls off his bedroll, one hand clutching at his chest. He blinks in the blankness, his teeth clenched tightly, and listens intently. Around him, the darkened camps of the Seeker garrison are still. The late summer night is cool, almost cold, and despite himself St. James shivers.
There is a soft rasp as he draws his two short swords. Hunching down, St. James steals toward a light in the distance, a dim campfire, where a clutch of serving-brethren sit huddled together, waiting out the last lonely hours of their watch. Without a sound, St. James slips past the guards, hanging to the shadows.
As soon as he is clear of the camps, the young man breaks into a trot, ranging swiftly and surely through unfamiliar and dark woods.
“Am I dreaming this?” he mutters, then draws up sharply and crouches down. His head cocks to the side, where he heard a noise. A voice? Slowly now, St. James creeps to his side, his swords at the ready.
In a clearing, barely illumined by the starlight above, stands the tall, gangling figure of Valerius. And hunched before the tall magician is the stooped, ruined figure of the Vavasor. At this sight, St. James grimly presses ahead, then halts, his advance arrested by the sound, by the stern and measured tone, of Valerius’s voice as he addresses the capering Vavasor.
“Hello, I have delayed this long enough. Would you speak plainly with me? I understand that I am to collect a debt owed by the Grand Magus. Is that correct?”
“Or at least assist in the collection of the debt,” comes the answer. “A rather old debt, long in being paid, and I am afraid that at this point the lender is ever so anxious to recoup his investment.”
Valerius nods. “I think I know the answer to some of these questions, but for the sake of clarity I will ask them. What exactly is it that he owes? What portion of it am I to collect? And how would I collect it?”
“Why, the Grand Magus owes a debt that no other man can pay for him,” says the Vavasor. “The debt can only be paid in full, for the account is either balanced or it is in arrears. You must collect it in full. But first, the debtor must be found. He has proven most evasive, but this lender is most patient.”
“Is the debt,” asks Valerius, “owed to the one who is known as the Iron Duke?”
The Vavasor gasps and recoils, then steels himself. “This debt is due to the old Hircus himself, the Enormitie…”
Valerius frowns. “Why me? Why is it believed that I can find what the Old Goat can not? Is he located where creatures such as yourself cannot go?”
“That may be so,” says the Vavasor. “And because you are the flower of a seed planted by the Grand Magus, many years ago.”
“Are you saying that I am his descendent?” asks Valerius
The Vavasor laughs, a mirthless, broken laugh. “Only in the same way that you might be called my adopted son.”
“Hmmmmmm… uh… yes, I suppose that analogy could be made,” says Valerius. “Was Dominius doing the bidding of the Grand Magus? What about Bened, what about you?”
“You might say Dominius and Bened, while acting on their own volition, were only traveling along roads that the Grand Magus had laid down long before them. As for me, I have chosen a different road from either of them.”
“Interesting,” says Valerius. “So I am the creation of the Grand Magus and not your dark masters. It would follow that the Grand Magus must have some purpose for me. That purpose must be at cross purposes to your own, Yes? I don’t suppose you could tell me what the Magus had in mind?”
The Vavasor shuffles from one foot to another. “I suspect that you are but an accident, the mere product of unforeseen consequences. The Magus did not make you, at least not directly and certainly not with intention—for your very purpose is to be his undoing.
“You are the ironic result of his folly. His default on the terms of his contract led his creditors to develop an instrument of collection.
“I suppose it does not give one a very nice feeling, does it, to know that their destiny, the very course of their entire existence, has been carefully engineered, all to result in the collection of a bad loan?
“Think of it… how insignificant you are, but a humble clark in a cosmic counting house. All you have learnt, all you have suffered, all you have gained, has been but a contrivance to balance one of Hell’s many books!”
Valerius stands, coldly staring at the Vavasor in the darkness. Several heartbeats pass.
“Congratulations, my old master,” says Valerius, at last. “For a moment you managed to rattle me. You always were gifted with a tongue far sharper than my own. Perhaps that is why I was chosen as an instrument of revenge and you as a messenger boy. Do not preach to me of insignificance!
“What do your masters want me to do, and why should I do it?”
The Vavasor chokes back a little giggle, a silver rope of drool hanging from his chin. “My… associates… bear no ill will to you personally, not in the least. Nor do they particularly care if this matter of a debt is resolved expediently. After all, it is not their debt, and thus no direct concern of theirs. The length that this delinquency has gone unsatisfied is rather remarkable, even to those whose memory reaches back to when this base world of flesh was first formed, and my associates are content, being amused by the situation as it stands.
“No, my associates have long watched you, Valerius, and dearly sympathize with your condition. For they also dislike being manipulated, bullied, ordered about by the unfit, the unworthy. My associates see you being pulled this way and that, by ancient machinations, by petty mortal princes, and now by other magicians.
“Wouldn’t you like to taste freedom, Valerius, just once? I know this is desirous to you, I know how you abhor losing control. ‘The Magus must presume complete and perfect mastery over every situation.’ My associates can give you that gift.”
“A valuable gift indeed,” says Valerius. “One of many that I have been offered of late. I suppose that would answer why I should help you. And yet, you still have not told me what I must do in return for these wonderful gifts. Is it simply to find the Grand Magus?”
“I fear I must answer your question with more questions,” says the Vavasor, “for there is no mortal limit as to what service we might provide unto you. You must needs look to your own heart, and ask, what pretty thing do you most desire? To advance your already formidable knowledge of secret lore? To catch a falling star, tell where all the past years are, to speak with one of the Adepts of old?
“Or would you like to receive a solution to one of your more immediate, material problems? We could help you find this missing debtor, yes, or tell you how to destroy or revive the Colossus, as you wish, or how to defeat this self-styled King of the Rucks.
“As for the price, I think you already know what my associates require. It is really just a small thing, and your forfeit at this time is only but a formality, the acknowledgment of a wise man to an utterly inevitable conclusion anyway…
“You are a Magus, after all: you seek power that would rival those insufferable tyrants who—unrightfully—claim rule over all existence without end. My associates could tell you first hand that these cruel and unyielding despots cannot abide any dissension from any source within Their dominion, not from my associates and so certainly not from you.”
“Thank you, my old master,” says Valerius. “You should be rewarded, as you have been both persuasive and eloquent.”
Valerius starts to turn away, then pauses. “One last thing—if my damnation is so inevitable, my destiny already written in stone, then why are the lords of the pit so eager to please? I think that, no… I believe that besides the devils and the wizards, there are other players involved in this game. Yes, yes—I have faith in that.”
The Village of Eredy, XXVIII Drieland. Prime.
Vandoren, Purer Grundy, Owen.
A heavy morning fog hangs upon the fields of Eredy and over the stirring Seeker camps. The grey-haired man with the boyish face, Purer Grundy, adjusts his cloak and calls for his dog, a small shaggy puppy sniffing around a nearby tent.
“You shall have to watch out,” says Vandoren, idly strumming Plucksome. “Soon that little pup will be as big as my Achrach, and hopefully more mindful.”
Purer laughs, then stops and respectfully nods his head toward a series of Seeker brother-knights filing out of their morning chapel.
Owen Grey, stringing his bow, also watches the silent procession. “I have long meant to ask you this, Purer,” says Owen, “as I am unfamiliar with such things. Just what holy military order do you belong to, or perhaps I should say belonged to? You bear the arms and armor of a fighting serjeant, but you do not seem to be either a Seeker or a Warder.”
Purer shakes his head. “I have not taken up with any holy order, at least not yet.”
Owen frowns. “I have seen, first hand, the miracles you have worked on the battlefield. And yet you have not taken vows?”
Purer shrugs. “I am but a simple man, myself, of humble birth. I was taught to wield my mace as part of my village’s levy, and later on found employment there as a man-at-arms, on the watch for rucks and masterless men. I have always felt a wondrous closeness to the Five, even as a little boy, but no, I have never taken formal vows. As for these miracles we are all witness to, I am afraid I do not understand how I effect such things, or to what end.”
“Such gifted men as Purer are rare,” interjects Vandoren, looking up from his psaltery, “but not at all unheard of. The Five work in mysterious ways, and none of us can know whom They may elect to bless with such abilities, nor why. Usually Mother Church identifies such blessed individuals early on, and swiftly brings them into her fold for a proper education and lifelong guidance. Friar Sidrach, for instance, was brought into the Gerardian Order while still a boy.
“But sometimes these gifts may go unnoticed, or do not manifest, until much later in life, and the Church has an uneasy relationship with such men and women. Though divinely inspired by the Five, the Church is still a mortal institution, composed of men who are in the end frail and fallible. Very few in the clergy are theurgists, and can actually work such great miracles themselves in any consistent fashion.
“To the Church, natural theurgists pose something of a dilemma. On one hand, sometimes these people do great works, and can be a mighty proselytizing force, carrying the word of the Five far and wide amongst the poor folk of the world. On the other hand, there is the abiding fear that without formal training these theurgists might sometimes spread unsound doctrine and leading the unsuspecting into the error of heresy.
“These theurgists often claim to have direct knowledge of the Five, a claim that is very difficult for the Church to either prove or disprove, as you might imagine. It is difficult to tell a living saint from a heretic, or even a sorcerer, and sometimes there seems to be little distinction between them. It is unsettling to think that, a true and honest saint might have once burnt for heresy, while a blasphemous scoundrel may have been venerated as a saint.”
“For this reason Holy Mother Bernegard warned me, as a younger man, to be careful,” says Purer. “She told me that some men might not understand my gifts.”
“This Bernegard, was she a nun?” asks Owen.
“An abbess,” answers Purer. “She oversaw the Abbey of St. Arleans at Clowes, a little nunnery south of here, between Canglen and Ordway, perhaps three days travel off. I was born in Brehon, which is a holding of the Bergenian Order, and overseen by the Abbess.”
“I do not think I’ve heard of either your village or that nunnery,” says Vandoren.
“The nunnery is famous for Saint Iseltis, the Little Saint of Clowes,” says Purer.
“Ah,” murmurs Vandoren. “Saint Iseltis… that rings a bell, now.”
“Indeed it should,” says Purer. “She isn’t much known beyond Canglen, but she is our own saint, and greatly loved by all of us who live in those parts. Her tomb is a popular place for pilgrims to visit, and the nuns sell special candles to the supplicants there. Me, I have always had a special affinity for her. It is her hand that protects me, and it is her wisdom that guides me on, as she has done throughout my entire life. Why, they even say I was born on her Saint’s Day.”
“A patron of widows, is she not?” asks Vandoren.
“Indeed she is!” cries Purer, beaming. “And a patron of healers.”
“And in her day, she was an abbess, also,” says Vandoren.
“She actually founded the nunnery herself,” says Purer. “About a hundred years ago, Iseltis was a young woman, beautiful and kind, and just married to a wealthy knight, who was newly appointed to oversee some holdings near Ordway. Dutifully she followed her husband to the Frounter, but after only a couple of years the knight died and she was left all alone. Soon after her husband’s death, Iseltis dreamt of an angel bearing a shining candle, alighting upon a certain hill which was nearby.
“When she awoke, she knew she had been tasked by the Five Themselves with placing an abbey on top of that hill. And so she sought out a Bergenian Abbot and petitioned him for permission to build the nunnery of her dream. She used what remained of her husband’s wealth to construct the Abbey, and by and by she gathered a large flock around her.
“Her skill as a healer, and her generosity to the poor folk around her, was legendary. And the nuns of St. Arleans continue her good work to this day. It is said that once, after a great battle nearby, a band of ruck-men brought their wounded prince to the nunnery, and demanded that the nuns help their fallen chieftain. And Iseltis agreed to heal even him. Once the ruck recovered from his grievous wounds, he pledged to leave the abbey in peace, and to this day no ruck-captain has ever broken that pledge.
“After Iseltis died, some fifty years ago now, a traveling deacon from the Canglen Diocese stayed at the Abbey over the Yule. The man was very sick and feverish, but that night he dreamt of Iseltis, swore he was visited by a vision of a beautiful abbess holding a candle. And the next morning, when the deacon woke, he was completely cured of his fever.”
“I recall that story now,” says Vandoren. “When I was at the cathedral school in Canglen, there were still a few old men who had known that very deacon and could tell that same tale.”
“Since her death,” continues Purer, “there have been many more such stories of miracles and wonder, and soon many folks recognized that a saint was in their midst. A young, blind nun regained her sight after visiting the tomb of Iseltis, and after that many pilgrims began making the trek to St. Arleans at Clowes.
“As for myself, I always knew I felt good whenever I visited the nunnery, though I did not understand why. Then a few years ago, a band of Rotting Eye ruck-men raided Brehon, and in all the fighting I was badly wounded, a poisoned knife driven into my heart. I should have died then, but some friends of mine carried my body to Clowes and the nunnery.
“There I lay for many days, between life and death. Holy Mother Bernegard, herself a skilled healer, helped me as she could. But in the end, I received a powerful vision of little Saint Iseltis and her candle. When I awoke, I was greatly weakened, and my hair was as white as it is now, but I lived, and I knew that I was charged with taking up the healing arts myself. And soon after, I discovered that I could work some of the miracles that you have already seen. Such is the power of Saint Iseltis!”
“Saint Iseltis,” says Owen, approvingly, “I shall say a prayer to her today, along with one to Marcus the Lamarite. Given our luck, we can use all the help we can get.”
Eredy, IV Harfesting, After Matins.
Sir Hamral.
The tent is utterly dark, the night air cool and damp. And from the dark: shouting, horn-blasts, the ringing of metal on metal.
Sir Hamral’s eyes open wide and he rises quickly, soon locating his sword and his small, round shield. Legrand, the sword of King Conall, rasps from its sheath as the Bailiff of Upchurch emerges from his tent.
Before him Friar Sidrach Landry comes hustling through the dark and tumult, his staff in one hand and a bright light shining from the pentifix held in his other hand.
“Gracious,” cries the Gerardian friar, “there you are, Sir Hamral.”
Just then Valerius, dressed in black robes, appears.
“What is this?” demands Valerius.
“Another night-raid,” gasps Sidrach, gesturing toward the darkness behind him.
“The third this week,” says Valerius, shaking his head.
“Prince Busirane is testing our defenses,” says Hamral, grimly stalking toward the unseen commotion. “In preparation for one last assault before the first frost.”
Valerius and Sidrach fall in line behind Hamral, just as Vandoren, Purer, and St. James converge on them, each newcomer hastily girding for battle. More cries sound in the darkness as Seekers rush back and forth, carrying equipment.
An enormous, roaring crash now sounds, as of a thunderclap, echoing through the camp and making every man halt in his tracks.
“Mendelor?” asks St. James, looking to Vandoren.
“That certainly sounded like Witcheswoe,” says the minstrel, his features drawn up tightly.
Ahead, more light: watchfires and torches. Bloodied Seekers, weapons drawn, circle around the perimeter. On the ground, several bodies lie where they fell.
“One… Two… Three…” says St. James, counting the dead ruck-men. “Four… Five…”
“And at least half a dozen poor Pentian souls,” says Sidrach, shaking his head.
Owen Grey steps into the light, his bow in hand, an arrow nocked to string. Mendelor stands behind him, his bloodied axe slung across this shoulder.
“Are they gone?” asks Hamral.
“Aye,” says Mendelor, gesturing toward the darkness. “Slipped away again into the night, like common thieves.”
“How many?” asks Hamral.
“A dozen, maybe,” says Owen. “And maybe half as many won’t be going home.”
“Orestes?” says Hamral.
“I do not think so,” says Mendelor. “I think it was his son, tonight. I didn’t have a chance to get a good look at him, though.”
“I suspect you will have another chance,” says Hamral, wearily.