The Battle of Gorgonholm

Copyright © 2020 Robert John MacKenzie

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Design and Distribution by Bublish, Inc.

ISBN: 978-1-64704-224-0 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-64704-225-7 (eBook)

To the Mad River Boys

Contents

Part 1 Crossed Stars

Chapter 1 The Call of the Black Stone

Chapter 2 Something Amiss

Chapter 3 More Trouble at Home

Chapter 4 Folk Moot

Chapter 5 Enter Asmodeus

Chapter 6 Blood and Fire

Chapter 7 Return of the Sorcerer

Chapter 8 Into the Catacombs

Chapter 9 The Stench of Troll

Chapter 10 Smugglers

Chapter 11 The Raving of the Prophet

Chapter 12 Doomful Tidings

Chapter 13 So Much Fuss and Bother

Part 2 Of Barbarians and Mercenaries

Chapter 14 Gustavus Says Hello

Chapter 15 Incident at Three Fat Friars

Chapter 16 Across the Psiss Marshes

Chapter 17 With The Blue Horse People

Chapter 18 Vanarian Hospitality

Chapter 19 The Rites of Blooding

Chapter 20 In Grinder’s Embrace

Chapter 21 Lord Ubo Visits the Gray Friars

Part 3 Malachai

Chapter 22 In The Manse of the Magician Part One

Chapter 23 In The Manse of the Magician Part Two

Chapter 24 Sarah’s Frightful Discovery

Chapter 25 A Gang of Rampaging Giants

Chapter 26 In The Ogres’ Lair

Chapter 27 A Leap in the Dark

Chapter 28 Change of Plan

Chapter 29 Beyond the Iron Door

Chapter 30 The Guardian

Part 4 Narrow Escapes

Chapter 31 Dangers, Delays, and A Slice of Fruit

Chapter 32 A Long, Hard Ride

Chapter 33 Sarah Whistles A Lively Tune

Chapter 34 Various Conversations

Chapter 35 Incident at the Blind Pig

Chapter 36 Betrayed In Deepest Consequence

Chapter 37 Florio’s Grave Mistake

Part 5 The Battle of Gorgonholm

Chapter 38 The Gathering Storm

Chapter 39 The Master Returns

Chapter 40 The Rising of the Moon

Chapter 41 The Hour of the Howling Basilisk

Chapter 42 Battles Above and Below

Chapter 43 The Armies Advance

Chapter 44 The Work of Spear And Sword

Chapter 45 Twistings and Turnings

Chapter 46 Back at the Baggage Camp

Chapter 47 The Fight at the Barricade

Chapter 48 The Glory of War

Part 6 Home Again

Chapter 49 Roscoe Leads A Charge

Chapter 50 The Wrath of Chanticleer

Chapter 51 Picking Up the Pieces

Chapter 52 The Division of the Spoils

Chapter 53 The Field of Spears

Chapter 54 Standing Before Earl Ralf

Chapter 55 Finding Roscoe

Chapter 56 Roscoe’s Grand Design

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Coming Soon!

Glossary of Characters

Asmodeus: wizard of phenomenal ability

Sir Bartholomew Staynes: mercenary leader and Sarah’s half-brother

Bodo: one-legged carpenter

Count Borgo: archfiend specializing in all things military

Sir Brandon Phugg: sheriff of Avincraik

Brodar Eaglebeak: warchief of the Blue Horse People

Cob: Roscoe’s man-at-arms

Drax: mercenary in the company of Sir Bartholomew Staynes

Dreego: burner of charcoal and taverns

Fergis mac Brude: Ard Righ of the Keltins

Florio: Roscoe’s reeve

Kak: treacherous peasant

Grinder: Blue Horse warrior

Gustavus: Lord Ubo’s sergeant-at-arms

Brother Jerome: cellarer of Gray Friar’s monastery

Brother Julian: choir master of Gray Friar’s monastery

Sir Lorenzo di Prativentosi: adventurous young knight

Malachai: magician of fearsome power

Oengus mac Brude: brother of Fergis

Pons: treacherous Road Guard

Pozi: Bodo’s adopted daughter

Earl Ralf Mortimer: Earl of Avincraik

Roscoe Franklin: Thurmond’s mentor and Adventurer in good standing

Sarah: Thurmond’s closest friend and fledgling Adventurer

Slow Pate: Lord Ubo’s serf

Sir Seymour Guff: knight in the service of Earl Ralf

Thurmond: fledgling Adventurer and our hero

Lord Torgul Bonelip XXIII: doughty dwarf and Adventurer in good standing

Tuck: Roscoe’s man-at-arms

Lord Ubo Futz: Lord of Skut

Uncle: headman of Skut

Wat: Roscoe’s man-at-arms

Wynkyn Whoorm: Earl Ralf’s chamberlain

Zeb the Prophet: fanatical blowhard

CHAPTER 1

The Call of the Black Stone

The stars twinkled merrily overhead, entirely unconcerned with the comings and goings of men, and yet inevitably intertwined with their destinies. Their influence was undeniable.

Consider for a moment the unlikely alignment of three certain stars directly over Skut, a tiny hamlet nestled deep in a forest glen several leagues south of Gorgonholm and a few more to the east. What else could account for the strange events that occurred there?

Skut was so far removed from the other villages of the county of Avincraik that few non-natives were even aware of its existence. Over the generations, the lack of fresh blood had caused its inhabitants to develop certain unique physical characteristics—curiously narrow heads, fishy eyes too far apart, ridiculously long arms, hands with fat, stubby fingers, and a loose-kneed, shuffling gait. Their intelligence was abysmally low, the result of too many cousins marrying cousins.

One such specimen was a woodcutter by the name of Slow Pate. He had never exhibited any traits suggesting ambition, authority, or nimbleness of mind. Yet, when the combined light of those three stars beamed down upon his filthy hovel, he was a man transformed.

On that remarkable night, he awoke from the most compelling dream in which a deep and fearsome voice had commanded him to dig beneath an ancient oak, where he was to find a wonderful treasure. The woodcutter leapt from his bed with uncharacteristic zest. He was out the door in an eyeblink with a shovel in his hand. But his frantic delving revealed not a golden trove only a flat, black stone—square cut, some four feet wide, and three times as long. Immensely heavy. The stone was just the thing a man might set in place to thwart the removal of a buried hoard.

Poor Slow Pate. Lifting the huge stone would demand the strength of many men and require tools he did not possess. Great wealth was almost within reach, but he could think of no way to bring this wonderful treasure into his hand.

Thus, the luckless woodcutter did what he and his neighbors always did when faced with a problem—he sought out Uncle, the headman of Skut. This decision would be costly, for the headman was certain to take a large share of the treasure for himself. But only Uncle could muster the resources to pull the great stone from the earth.

Despite his congenial nickname, Uncle was no blood kin to Slow Pate, nor did he exhibit any of the warm, nurturing qualities one might expect from a close family member. Rather, he was greedy, self-serving, and cruel. His position as headman was secured neither by his sage advice nor mature discernment, but by his immense size and willingness to use fist, club, or knife to enforce his dictates. Uncle was a dangerous fellow.

Slow Pate approached Uncle’s cottage just as the sun was climbing above the treetops of the surrounding forest. This was perilous, as Uncle might be suffering the ill-effects of the previous night’s drinking. Or he could be taking his pleasure with one of the village women. In any case, he would not be pleased with a visit from a hapless dimwit like Slow Pate.

Before knocking, the frightened woodcutter paused and listened at the door. Loud snoring within confirmed that the headman had not yet risen. Slow Pate hesitated, afraid. Waking Uncle would most surely rouse his ire.

Slow Pate summoned what little courage he had and knocked. When the snores continued uninterrupted, he knocked harder and called out softly. When this failed to elicit a response, he pounded on the door and shouted.

The snoring ceased, and after a few moments, the cottage door swung open. Uncle stood there, naked, hairy, and huge. His scarred face twisted with disgust upon seeing Slow Pate standing at his threshold.

Whadda you want, you little string of snot? Why’d you wake me up? You better have a damn good reason, or you’ll get beat like you never been beat.

Slow Pate stated his purpose as best he could—verbal expression had never been his particular gift. Uncle listened with growing irritation until he at last grasped the meaning of the words. Then his response was explosive! He ran fully nude down the length of Skut’s single street, bellowing for the villagers to come forth.

And come they did. The magical word treasure filled the normally lethargic serfs with unprecedented enthusiasm. At Uncle’s command, they sprinted to fetch spades for digging, ropes for hauling, wooden timbers for bracing, oxen for pulling.

Slow Pate cursed silently, for he now saw that his share of the treasure—his treasure—would be woefully small. Uncle would not care that it had been his dream that brought such good fortune. Nay, he would claim all gold for himself and then dole out pitiful handfuls to his favorites. Slow Pate had never been one of those. He might receive nothing at all.

Regretfully, the woodcutter led the entire population of Skut to the site of his discovery. They fell to work at once. By midmorning, the dirt had been removed from all four sides of the stone, revealing a slab about a foot thick. The village carpenter and his sons erected a stout wooden tripod at one end of the excavation. A heavy rope was then passed beneath the stone, run through a block and tackle atop the tripod, and attached to a yoke of oxen.

At Uncle’s signal, a plowman gave the beasts a smart blow with a switch, driving them forward. Ever so slowly, the black stone was drawn from the ground until it stood upright, twice the height of a tall man. The exultant villagers jumped in the hole, shovels flying, lusting for the riches that would soon be theirs.

Yet nary a single bronze farthing came to their avaricious fingers. They dug and dug, but nothing did they find. In his disappointment and frustration, Uncle turned on Slow Pate and beat him bloody.

Tired and resentful, the villagers unyoked their oxen, coiled their rope, shouldered their spades, and headed for home. None seemed aware that the great stone, no longer supported by rope and tripod, continued to stand, seemingly of its own volition.

Nor did they note the cold, leering visage in the stone’s rough texture—fashioned not by any human hand but formed naturally from the living rock.

That night, another strange thing occurred. Slow Pate’s dream voice returned. It was different this time, promising not treasure, but something even more desirable—revenge upon the odious Uncle. Without hesitation, Slow Pate took up his reaping sickle and slipped silently from the door of his hut.

The woodcutter was not the only one to hear voices that night. The diggers, the builders, the plowman—all of whom had lent a hand in the raising of the stone—were roused by a call to cast off the restraints that kept them in want and degradation, to know the bliss of limitless power.

Late that night, drawn by some uncanny instinct, they gathered around the stone. Some brought gifts for their new idol. Slow Pate laid Uncle’s severed head reverently at its base.

In his private chamber in Castle Skut, Lord Ubo Futz awoke with a start. Somebody was whispering in his ear, but when he looked about, no one was there. A woman’s voice, he was certain. But who would dare to disturb his sleep in such a manner?

Certainly not one of the sluttish servant girls he often pulled into his bed—they knew better. And not his wife, that sorry sack of bones—she was smart enough to keep her distance. Who then? No one in his household would be so foolish.

He shouted into the darkness.

Who’s there? Come forward! Show your face!

When no one appeared, Ubo began to have doubts. Perhaps it had been a dream. Or a ghost—the castle abounded with unquiet spirits, many of whom bore him an abiding grudge. Putting the matter from his mind, Lord Ubo turned over and closed his eyes.

The whispers returned at once. Alarmed, Ubo attempted to rise but found himself pinned, as if something heavy had oozed onto his chest. He tried to shout, to command the unseen presence to be gone, but no sound came from his throat.

Ubo, the dread lord of Futz, began to panic, afraid that this thing—whatever it was—was about to stop his breath. But when his lungs continued to draw air, he gradually regained his composure. The whispering thing, it seemed, did not intend to kill him, but it did to want to be heard. So, he listened, and as he did, he slowly comprehended.

The voice was soft, teasing, seductive—the voice of a beautiful woman. It revealed several stark truths Ubo had never before considered, urging him to rise and act upon this new knowledge without delay. To be the man he was born to be.

He resisted at first, but the whisperer continued to tempt, prompt, and prod until he could stand it no longer. At last, he flung himself from bed, donned his clothes, and strode to the stable. There, he kicked the sleeping groom and bade him saddle his favorite palfrey, a chestnut mare of great speed and agility. Then, he rode into the gloom of the night.

Ubo’s arrival at the stone filled the worshipers with trepidation, for he had never been a mild or understanding overlord. Indeed, they expected the most severe of punishments for their forbidden devotions. Idolatry was, after all, a crime against all decency or reason. Heretics were sometimes burned alive by the holy church.

They were surprised and confused, therefore, when Ubo did not drive them back to the village with a whip. Rather, he dismounted and, leading his mount by the reins, approached slowly and quietly until he stood directly beneath the great, looming slab. Then, to the utter astonishment of his tenants, Ubo drew his dagger and slashed the great veins in his mare’s neck, spraying blood upon the stone’s black surface.

As the beast collapsed, Lord Ubo Futz bent his knee and pledged his faith.

The assembly began a slow, tuneless chant. Hands clasped in supplication, eyes squeezed shut, they repeated it over and over, over and over. And the harder they prayed, the greater the stone’s power waxed.

Its call reached deep into the forest, beckoning uncouth, fur-clad woodsmen who emerged from the shadows to join the villagers. Next came a cluster of clannish, reclusive charcoal burners.

At dawn, the call was heard upon the Royal Highway, causing wayfarers to turn from their journeys to seek the source of the summons.

The Gray Friars in their monastery heard it too, and some few forsook their holy vows to answer the stone’s more pressing call.

In the village of Grimsgard and in the streets of Gorgonholm, in country lanes and in the mansions of the wealthy, an ancient summons was boring into people’s brains.

CHAPTER 2

Something Amiss

Thurmond was perplexed. Everything was going weird. His every encounter that day had twisted into an unwanted, unpleasant confrontation. His huge black campaign hat signaled his membership in the Brotherhood of Underworld Adventurers. This usually afforded him a certain degree of courtesy as he strode the gritty streets of the city of Gorgonholm. But alas, such was not the case today. Instead, the wide-brimmed chapeau seemed to invoke sullen glowering and surly, half-heard mutterings. Street urchins hooted rudely behind his back. He was bumped and elbowed as he made his way through the narrow, crowded lanes and byways. And now this!

The ragged figure standing before him was short and lean, runtish even. His black hair hung long and stringy, and a large, purple birthmark embellished his cheek. The knife in his left hand was held low, aimed at Thurmond’s vitals. Lunacy shone brightly in the small, round eyes.

This was just too much.

Who are you? What do you want from me?

No response.

I don’t even know you. By God’s great belly, why are you doing this?

This question provoked a twisted grin as the ragged man crouched low and began to sidle toward him, knife foremost. Thurmond kept his eyes riveted on that weapon—curved, narrow, and single-edged. It looked sharp and evil.

Knives made Thurmond nervous. He was well-skilled with the sword, spear, and bow, but he had never mastered close-in knife work. His mentor Roscoe had always stressed the necessity of keeping one’s opponents at a distance. In a knife fight, he always maintained, everybody bleeds.

The young man glanced about, seeking a way out, some avenue of escape, but he had foolishly allowed himself to be wedged into an alcove formed by a projection in the city wall. The normally bustling city streets were strangely deserted. He was on his own.

Thurmond drew his own dagger, cursing himself for neglecting to strap on his sword before coming to town.

All right, you raggedy-arsed bastard, come on! Let’s see what you’ve got.

This was, in sooth, almost entirely bluster. He had no desire to fight this character and was not at all confident that he could best him.

Thurmond was taller and more heavily muscled, but the tattered man was quick as a snake. His knife was a grey blur as it darted at Thurmond’s belly and then slashed at his eyes. Deceived by the feint, the young Adventurer could offer no proper counterstrike, could only jerk his head away from the lethal edge that severed a lock of his shoulder-length hair.

Instinctively, he kicked at the smaller man’s groin. He missed, but the blow caught him square in his stomach and knocked him off his feet. Yet, the fellow was unfazed by the blow. He seemed to actually bounce from the ground, regaining his feet and instantly resuming his attack.

The small man jinked, ducked low, then closed and seized Thurmond’s right wrist, immobilizing his weapon. His hands were small, delicate even, but the fingers possessed an uncanny strength. He grinned again and jerked hard, sending Thurmond into a pirouette that left his back and side fully exposed.

The young man gasped through clenched teeth, fully anticipating the blade sliding into his liver. But instead of pain, there came a soft, musical thunk—perhaps the sound of a hollow log struck by a stout stick. Then a familiar voice.

Well, boyo, if I’d knowed you was plannin’ to take dancin’ lessons, I would have hired a minstrel to play a jaunty tune.

The young Adventurer found himself face to face with Roscoe, the man who had trained him as a fighter. He was a formidable individual—very tall, large of bone, and heavily muscled. Well advanced into middle age, his chestnut hair and beard were streaked with gray. He held a length of tree branch in one beefy fist.

The tattered man lay insensible at his feet. He looked even smaller now, rather like a child fallen into a deep sleep. Roscoe grinned and prodded him with a toe.

This laddie seemed right vexed with you, so he did. How did you manage to offend him so grievously?

Thurmond could only shake his head.

I don’t know—I truly don’t. I never saw him before—never spoke to him. He has to be crazed. His eyes were all moony.

Roscoe stooped to retrieve the man’s curved knife. He offered it to Thurmond, who declined. Thrusting the weapon into his own belt, he gave his young friend a concerned look.

Then I hope I didna hit him too hard. They say it’s terrible ill fortune to kill a madman.

The younger man shook his head in bewilderment.

Who could he be?

The man’s identity was readily apparent to Roscoe. Black dust permeated his torn garb and swarthy skin.

Charcoal burner.

They were an itinerant people who lived in their own closed and secretive society. Inhabiting the deep woods, they generally shunned contact with sedentary townsmen, who they disparagingly referred to as squanch. It was unusual to find a burner alone in the city.

Another question suddenly occurred to Thurmond.

Say, Roscoe, how did you come to be here? I didn’t know you were behind me.

Well, it’s like this, see—I was strollin’ down the street, havin’, for all the world, nothin’ but joyous thoughts, when I sees you up ahead. But then, this here devil ...

The old Adventurer gave the recumbent form another poke with his boot.

… this devil starts slinkin’ up behind you, obviously intent on some mischief. Well, says I, I’d just better follow along and see what that poxy dog is up to. So I picked up this tree branch and that’s what I did.

I’m mighty glad you came along—many thanks, old friend.

Happy to be of service—you’d do no less for me.

The tattered man groaned and began to raise himself on elbows and knees. Almost gently, Roscoe gave him another crack to the side of the head that sent him back to the ground, silent and insentient.

Thurmond took a deep breath as if inhaling the weirdness in the air.

The day is definitely out of joint. Nobody’s acting right.

You noticed that, did you? Aye, things have gone a mite cockeyed, so they have. Did you hear ‘bout the riot on the docks this morning?

Nay, tell me.

Well now, seems that a bunch of apprentice tanners got into it with some of the offal haulers. Nothin’ unusual, just feet and fists. Happens all the time. But then some of the blacksmiths’ lads started helpin’ the tanners, and before you could spit, a pack of hog bleeders come runnin’ up and threw in with the haulers.

Now Thurmond was confused.

But the blacksmiths despise the tanners. Why would they want to help them?

Roscoe continued.

And the hog bleeders ain’t exactly friends with the offal haulers, neither. All them groups is bitter enemies. Strange indeed, but then things got even stranger, ‘cause the dockers come chargin’ in too, and the boatmen, not wantin’ to miss the fun, all started comin’ ashore. Even the merchants come outta their shops and stalls, and soon everybody was fightin’ everybody.

The merchants joined in? They hate street brawls. Their stalls always get wrecked.

Maybe so, laddie, but they were right eager to join in this one. It grew into a full-on battle with hammers and knives and gaff hooks and swords—and people killed.

What were they fighting about?

Roscoe raised his hands in a gesture of resignation.

About nothin’—nothin’ at all—just seems like the whole dockside was spoilin’ for a scrap.

Maybe the stars are crossed—I’ve always heard that crossed stars will sour your humors.

Aye—could be. Or maybe a miasma from the stinkin’ mud along the river was turnin’ their brains. Whatever it was, we best get home—this burner’s likely to have some friends somewhere about.

I guess you’re right. Maybe you should hang onto that tree branch.

Things were indeed going awry in and around the city of Gorgonholm. Odd tales began to circulate throughout the countryside. Green fruit, it was said, rotted on the bough and fell to the ground, milk curdled in the udders of goats and cows, sows ate their farrow. The craws of butchered poultry were filled with disgusting black worms. A woman gave birth to a baby with the head of a dog.

In city and country, fires sprang up with no apparent cause. Horses kicked and bolted, dogs snapped at their masters. Citizens of the mildest temperament grew quarrelsome, while more aggressive spirits unsheathed their weapons and sought the blood of their neighbors. Wives poisoned their husbands.

If Roscoe expected to find all things normal in Grimsgard, the freehold he held in fee from the local earl, he was to be disappointed. That very morning, the village well was clogged with the drowned carcasses of cats, rabbits, and puppies.

Next, the rotting remains of an unknown water creature were found floating in an eddy of nearby Snake Creek. Huge and hideous, it was immediately identified as a bringer of bad luck. Almost at once, a cow bloated and died, and then a young child had a traumatic experience while alone in the privy.

The villagers, frightened witless by any unusual occurrence, immediately abandoned their daily chores and ran to their lord’s towerhouse, screaming for protection. Their cries, however, went unheard. Roscoe and Thurmond were off in the city, and their companions in the tower had problems of their own.

Sarah lay writhing on her bed, her stomach knotted in sharp, excruciating cramps. Her spell of invocation had successfully summoned a tiny non-corporeal entity known as a fay. But unfortunately, the necessary binding spell had failed completely, and the fay, in its panic to escape, had inadvertently flown straight down her throat and into her belly—fays have never been renowned for their intelligence. Now that normally inoffensive entity, resentful at its imprisonment in the young witch’s bowels, was demonstrating its displeasure.

Torgul and Florio, usually as cordial toward one another as a dwarf and an elf can be expected to be, were in a heated dispute. The former had awakened that morn to find his beard—the very pride of his existence—snarled in a plethora of tiny, inextricable tangles often referred to as elflocks. He had immediately placed the blame on the Florio—the fief’s only elf.

Florio was entirely innocent—he would not have dreamed of involving himself in the dwarf’s grooming. To be honest, he found the dwarf’s excessive facial hair unnerving. Still worse, food morsels invariably lodged there during meals.

The elf was having his own bad day and was in no mood to listen to Torgul’s irrational nonsense. He took great professional pride in his cookery, and it always upset him when meals did not proceed perfectly. This was one of those times.

Eight-year-old Rollo, the son of Bodo the village carpenter, had been sent by his mother to deliver a basket of duck eggs to the kitchen. Always an awkward child, he managed to drop his burden on the flagstones of the kitchen floor. Fearing Florio’s wrath—the elf was a veritable devil in the kitchen—the lad fled without wiping up the resulting mess.

This had taken place at the very moment when Florio came bustling through the kitchen with Roscoe’s breakfast held high on a silver platter. It was a magnificent repast—fat blood sausages enlivened with cinnamon, cloves, and spicy red peppers, goat testes poached in mare’s milk, and lightly sautéed blackadder mushrooms, which produced a delightful buzz. A grand way to start the day.

Unfortunately, these fine viands would never make it to his lordship’s table. Slipping in the slimy, eggy mess, Florio’s feet shot skyward. The platter went sailing from his hands, and as the back of his head smacked hard against the flagstones, a deluge of sausages, shrooms, and steaming nads rained down upon his face. Thus, he was somewhat less than sympathetic when a moment later Torgul stormed in to accuse him of desecrating his beard.

When the mob of distraught villagers arrived, their wailing was drowned by the vehement verbal exchange between elf and dwarf. Frightened and frustrated, the villagers began to punch, kick, and bite each other.

The most distressing event, in a day replete with distressing events, was still a carefully guarded secret. The cathedral’s most sacred relic, the hand of Saint Aphazia de Weez, was missing.

It was at first assumed that the artifact had been pilfered, for its glass display case was smashed into tiny bits. But closer examination suggested otherwise. Its hand-shaped reliquary had indisputably burst from the inside, sending long curling shards of bronze across the floor of the nave. There could be no doubtthat the blessed relic had broken free from its container and escaped.

To be honest, the hand in question had no actual association with the Saint Aphazia or any other holy figure. Two Yuletides past, a horrible hand had crawled out of the Mad River, gray and bloated. The flopping, twitching appendage—much too large to have belonged to a human—had terrorized the citizenry until driven into a cesspit and captured.

It was then carried to the cathedral and given over to the care of the Blue Friars who endeavored to determine its origins. Unsuccessful in their efforts, they proclaimed it to be an official Yuletide Miracle, had it encased in a heavy hand-shaped reliquary, and put it on display among the other holy artifacts—the mummified nose of Saint Inquisitus, the red petticoat of Saint Hortense the Unclothed, and a set of ivory dice once belonging to Saint Dissimulo, patron of gamblers and liars.

Even locked in its reliquary, the hand stubbornly refused to settle down. It continued to flutter and jerk, sometimes rattling the glass of its display case. This caused it to become the cathedral’s most popular—and therefore most profitable—relic. Eager pilgrims would pay goodly sums to clasp the reliquary between their own hands while seeking its counsel in their personal affairs. The subsequent vellications would then be interpreted by a priest especially gifted in such matters.

After several months, Bishop Boniface, the city’s spiritual leader, experienced what he termed a divine revelation—the hand was that of Saint Aphazia of Weez, an obscure and probably spurious martyr whose hand, according to legend, had been severed by some long-forgotten tyrant. This positive identification was well received, and the number of generous answer-seekers increased dramatically. No one seemed concerned that the appendage was the wrong size for a human female.

But now the hand, the Blue Friar’s foremost money-maker, was gone. It had broken loose and fled the cathedral’s sacred confines, apparently of its own volition. This was serious indeed, and an emergency conclave of ranking churchmen immediately convened to determine the optimum course of action.

CHAPTER 3

More Trouble at Home

D rat the luck! This ain’t no proper supper for a man—why there’s hardly enough here to fill a child’s belly!

Roscoe was accustomed to a long and leisurely evening meal with a number of elegant dishes served in several removes. Florio was a most excellent cook, and his enjoyment in preparing such feasts was almost as great as the old Adventurer’s delight in consuming them.

But the dinner was sparse this day—nothing more than cold odds and ends that he and Thurmond had scavenged from the kitchen larder. A couple of lark and heron pies, a half dozen pasties stuffed with fish giblets, a chunk of stinky, blue-veined cheese, a crockery jar of pickled sheep tongues, some leftover pottage, a miscellany of dried fruits, and an assortment of sugared nuts.

He continued to grouse, his mouth stuffed with pie.

No sir, not satisfyin’—not at all. First my breakfast goes on the kitchen floor, and now this meager dinner.

Roscoe’s rancor was odd. Jovial by nature, he typically endured life’s little frustrations without protest. But tonight, everything was pissing him off.

He bit hugely into an oblong pastry that resembled an éclair, chewed three times, scowled in disapproval, and spat out a wad of slimy green goo.

Ghaaa—what villainy is this? This thing has brought a numbness to my lips and tongue.

The item in question was in fact an elvish delicacy that Florio had prepared for his personal consumption. Finishing his dinner, Roscoe blew his nose into one of the elf’s fine, linen napkins. The evil pastry had caused both eyes and nose to run a torrent.

Where is Florio? I thought you were going to fetch him.

Thurmond only shrugged—he, too, was feeling grouchy.

In his chamber—having a snit and refusing to come out. When he didn’t answer my knock, I stuck my head through the door. He threw a tankard at me.

Roscoe cleared his palate with a swig of ale and shook his head in disbelief.

Did he really? How did you reply?

Thurmond again shrugged.

I wanted to pull off his pointy ears, but instead I walked away. I’ve dined on enough madness and confusion for one day. I didn’t need an additional helping from a deranged elf.

Indeed, both of them had had their fill of bizarre behaviors. Their journey home from the city—a mere couple of leagues—had brought more misadventure. At one point, the Royal Highway had been blocked by an abandoned and overturned wagon, the oxen that had drawn it lying dead in their traces, the vegetables it had carried strewn up and down the roadbed.

Arriving at Grimsgard, they were greeted by additional mishaps. Roscoe’s sheep and cows had escaped their fold and were happily consuming his barley crop. Two of the village cottages were smoldering ruins, their thatch having been set alight. The usually docile villagers were not at work, but stood in a brooding, reproachful throng, their faces marked by scratches, bite-marks, and broken teeth. Luckily, no one had been seriously injured during their brawl.

But most puzzling of all was Florio’s uncharacteristic behavior. Roscoe took another draught of ale and pushed himself to his feet.

Mighty strange, so it is. He’s usually so mild-mannered. I think I’ll go have a chat with the little fella. I doubt he’d be so ill advised as to be flingin’ things in my direction.

The old Adventurer was indeed an imposing man. In addition to the sheer size of him and his great skill with weapons, he was the de facto lord of the manor. Although a commoner, he had been granted the freehold of Grimsgard by Ralf, the Earl of Avincraik. Landholders of common birth were known as franklins. Thus, he now styled himself Roscoe Franklin.

Florio was much more than a mere cook. His primary role was that of reeve, and as such he was essential. He managed all the estate’s affairs and oversaw its workers. His keen financial acumen had rescued the property after Roscoe’s ineptitude with handling money had brought it to the teetering edge of ruin. Florio only cooked because he wanted to.

Roscoe headed off to confront the elf, leaving Thurmond in a thoroughly foul mood. The world, it seemed, was conspiring to annoy him. His skin itched. His head ached. His clothes were uncomfortable. He bumped awkwardly into things as he made his way through the towerhouse.

Hoping Sarah might cheer him up, he entered her chamber without knocking. The young witch was still abed. Though the swallowed fay had by now passed completely through her intestinal tract, she yet suffered from the lingering discomforts of its earlier presence. Her chamber reeked of sickness. She was in no mood for company.

Get out! God’s bloody bones! Thurmond, let me die in peace! Go!

He closed her door without a word and went in search of the dwarf. He found him on the bank of Snake Creek, face and arms smeared with cool mud in an attempt to alleviate the pain of myriad bee stings. After his shouting match with the elf, he had sought solace with his bees. Torgul loved the industrious little creatures, from whose honey he brewed a most wonderful mead.

Yet those same bees, the darlings of his heart, had, for no discernable reason, ruthlessly turned on their doting keeper, stinging him again and again as he fled as quickly as his short legs would carry him. Not until he had plunged beneath the murky surface of Snake Creek did the attack cease. Now his nose, forehead, hands, and arms were red and swollen from dozens of stings. Fortunately, his thick beard had protected most of his face.

It had certainly been a strange day, and everyone went to bed that night hoping to find things returned to normalcy upon the morrow. Their hopes, however, were to be dashed. The strangeness had found the accommodations to its liking, settled in, made itself comfortable. It would stay a while.

After dark, the human population, having slaked its thirst for violence—at least for the time being—seemed to settle down. Husbands and wives still bickered, siblings exchanged the usual threats, but the peace was not disturbed by actual tumult. The mysterious volatility, instead, descended on the village livestock. Throughout the night, bulls bellowed and gored, rams bleated and butted, the geese stretched their necks and attacked the ducks. Roscoe’s great black stallion kicked his stall in frustrated rage.

The next morning was bright and clear. Meadowlarks sang as they always did. The farm animals were finally quiet after their restive night. Torgul and Florio reconciled, the elf offering the dwarf a jar of soothing balm that greatly reduced the swellings on his head and arms. Sarah was pale and drawn but finally on her feet. She apologized to Thurmond for her rudeness the previous evening, and he begged her pardon for forgetting to knock. Florio looked positively mortified as he did the same for the thrown tankard.

All was going well, and it was looking like the troublesome influence had passed, but then the two adolescent scullery girls, in the midst of setting the board for breakfast, suddenly fell into a furious bout of hair-pulling.

The shrieks brought the companions running from the tower’s various chambers. They assumed, from the sound of things, that they were under assault by a troop of hysterical fiends. Florio emerged from the kitchen with a large iron toasting fork—his weapon of choice. When the girls were pulled apart and calmed with small glasses of Florio’s addleberry wine, neither could recall the cause of their dispute. They were soon best friends again.

The girls may have resolved their issues, but Roscoe was far from appeased. Something weird was going on, and he wanted to get to the bottom of it.

All of you—sit yourselves down. We’re goin’ to talk about whatever it is that’s causin’ such bad blood. You too, Florio—I see you tryin’ to sneak back to the kitchen. Sit your elvish butt down in that chair. I want to hear what you have to say.

None of the others—and certainly not the elf—was enthusiastic about a discussion that might well lead to hard feelings, but all obeyed Roscoe’s command.

The old Adventurer cleared his throat as he always did when addressing a formal meeting, yet there was something different in his voice today. His friendly, jocular tone had a decidedly hard edge.

I’ve been thinkin’ all along of the foul, stinkin’ mud that lies along the riverbank where the knackers drop the blood and offal and the tanners dump their foul scrapin’s. That stuff smells worse than a troll’s arse, so it does. I’m thinkin’ maybe that stench has caused a sickliness in people’s brains, just like a miasma oozin’ from a fetid swamp. I’m thinkin’ people are bein’ poisoned ‘cause them buggers won’t take proper care of the mess they make and that we oughta go put a stop to it.

Torgul, who was usually more bellicose than Roscoe, was quick to intervene.

Hold on, brother Roscoe. You’re right about all the blood and shit stinkin’ up the riverbank, but let’s not go pickin’ no fight unless we’re sure. I don’t know what’s the matter here, but I ain’t ready to put blame on anybody in particular.

Roscoe shot the dwarf an inquisitive look, prompting him to continue.

Seems to me that you humans are just bein’ yourselves. Us dwarves bicker all the time—you put two of us together and we’ll start arguin’ about who has the most illustrious ancestors, but neither one will be lookin’ to kill the other.

Humans are different. When you ain’t got no reason to kill each other, you’ll just make somethin’ up and let on like it matters. I think people are just bein’ true to their natures. Ain’t nothin’ to be done about it. You humans—you’re just bein’ yourselves.

Roscoe scowled, obviously displeased by his friend’s assessment.

Come now, brother Torgul—us people ain’t really so bad as all that, are we?

The dwarf only grunted. He was of contrary opinion but declined to dispute the point. His failure to take up the challenge caused the old Adventurer to wheel on Florio.

What say you, Master Elf? Are humans really as despicable as the dwarf would have us believe?

Florio shifted uneasily in his chair—he did not want to answer the question, but Roscoe would not let it go. When he spoke, his tone was sharp.

Come on, Florio—speak up. Tell us your mind and be quick about it.

The elf heaved a great sigh—the lord of the manor had commanded him, and he must do as bidden. He drew himself up and, assuming a serious expression, chose his words carefully.

There is a blight on this land—on your people, your crops, and your livestock. You will never prosper as long as it continues.