Among the many reasons I have come to like and love Aldmaar Wynnrowan is that when he arrives, he rarely fails to bring an Aldermane that I may ride. I am no great horseman, and these great beasts all appear the same to me, but I believe the one I rode today is the same as when last Aldmaar and I rode together. I have not asked Aldmaar out of embarrassment. He has no difficulty in distinguishing one horse from another. Nor one squirrel from another, I suspect.
Lady Sparrowhawk, of course, has her own mount, “Spears,” as she calls him. No Aldermane, but fine and fearless in his own right. As the three of us approached Greensward, astride these majestic beasts, riding side-by-side, I felt that we must have appeared like something out of myth arriving at the mud-and-stone walls of the small town.
Such foolishness is pride.
As we made our way through the gates, past the mean-faced guards in their wooden towers and through the slick alleys, the eyes that turned our way showed not awe but fear. And, perhaps, hate. We arrived at the village’s tavern. No one took our horses, though there were those reclining on the shoddy porch who might have. “I will stay with the horses,” Aldmaar offered. The Knight of Darkmoor and I entered the dark establishment.
Inside were half a dozen villagers, dirty, most drunk though it was not yet noon. The sneered at the mark of San Nicholas on my armor and leered at Lady Sparrowhawk. When I asked for rooms, I was told by the innkeeper, a corpulent woman who seemed to care little for her hygiene, that no rooms were available.
“You have other visitors in this shithole town?” The Knight asked.
“Not very kind there, lady,” the innkeeper responded.
“Just turn around and go back out the way you come,” one of the drunk men shouted to laughs and acclaim from his friends.
One, unfortunately, could not refrain from making a lewd suggestion to Lady Sparrowhawk. I imagine they could put his nose back into place, after she was through with him. But what about the scattered teeth? I might have helped him, coughing and vomiting in that broken chair. I did not.
When we returned to Aldmaar, it was to watch him firing arrow after arrow into the earth, inches behind the retreating heels of a young, shirtless man. The man, running for all he was worth skewed in the mud, and slid face-first. Aldmaar laughed with that whole-body mirth that so rarely makes an appearance.
“What did he do?” I asked.
“Thought I wouldn’t notice him slipping a hand in your saddlebag.”
“Goodness. What did he take?”
Aldmaar shrugged. I followed the line of fine-feathered missiles while the youth struggled to his feet. As he attempted to flee, I commanded that he stop. Weak of mind, he could not resist my order. I pulled the fingers of his right hand open while his eyes along moved to follow my actions. Clutched in his filthy hand, still rolled up in a stout leaf for freshness, was a golden apple I had purchased from a vendor at Anthracite.
I bade him keep it.
I prised one arrow after another from the earth on my return and handed them to the ranger. “No rooms,” I reported.
“Just as well,” he responded. “But let us have a look about town before we seek lodging elsewhere. The Sorcerer said there was some secret here, did he not Lady Sparrowhawk?”
She nodded. We continued. We walked the horse through the small community, past the cemetery on the hill, past the several mills powered by great machine that, with its promise of consistent work must have drawn many of these residents here. We made our way, almost to the shore itself, entering at last that great barn-like structure with steel tentacles snaking down into the water and a massive chute emerging from the front where torrents of water extracted from the depths fed the network of aqueducts known as the Seaspill.
The Engine itself is a mechanical wonder — awesome and terrible. It belches smoke and produces a noisome ooze like niter infused with lampblack. The racket of its many spinning wheels and clashing cogs is unbearable. Without a word — at least that I could make out, Aldmaar stopped in his approach. He would go no further. We entrusted our horses to him and the Lady and I continued.
We spoke to the Engine-master, a clever fellow from Anthracite name of Thoren Calthex. We shouted to each other, truth be told, over the clatter. Lady Sparrowhawk wasted no time with niceties. “We have spoken to [the Sorcerer’s name]. We are investigating cult activity in this region. What can you tell us of this village?”
The man’s eyes narrowed and he cast about him. I nearly laughed from the theatrics. “You mean the Temple,” he replied. There was no hint of a question.
“What have you seen?”
He gestured back into town, in the direction of the cemetery. “There’s a shack, yonder. Past the gravedigger’s. Looks like the others but has this symbol cut into one of the posts..”
I described the symbol. His eyes widened again. Nodded. “Down inside, they do their… rituals. Used to keep it secret, months ago. Now they don’t seem to care who sees. Their robes and their masks. Their chants.”
“Mela torum, vena sela…” I recounted.
He hissed at me, made a slashing motion with his hand. “Don’t want to hear that! Stop it, I say!”
Lady Sparrowhawk calmed him. “You’ve seen them? The cultists? Do you know which of the villagers might be participating.
He made a broad sweep with that self-same hand. He took in the entire town with that gesture.
The Knight of Darkmoor and I could only lock eyes.