Category: Journal of Old Pieter

The morning was spent in slaughter. My vestments are red with blood and my heart is heavy. When we entered once again the gates of Greensward, the Sorcerer gave no warning. The guards, previously smirking now peered cautiously over their battlements. The Sorcerer with sweeps of each hand cooked them alive.

Almost immediately, the peoples were out on the streets, running at us as if a bell had signaled the arrival of dinner. Yet they found no feast. These Cultists possess some magical prowess, even the meanest of them. They have learned in their secret, underground rites witchcraft. We were beset by spells and as the fight continued, manifest elemental beings of air and earth and — yes — even the fire with which the battle had begun.

They continued to engage our horses until Aldmaar insisted we dismount and free the beasts so that they might survive. So we joined the fray afoot. The Knight of Darkmoor, as ever, waded in, her shining armor and great axe glinting in the meager morning light. Aldmaar sent volley after volley into this black host until, his quiver empty, he unsheathed his twin swords and joined the Knight, nearly back-to-back, in a knot of the Cultists.

They fought like cornered animals, these Elementalists. They asked for no quarter. They were willing, even eager, it seemed, to die. As they rushed out of homes and shops, each with curved dagger in hand, they did not hesitate, despite the growing pile of their allies in the filthy streets of Greensward.

I did what I could manage, to keep the mob at bay, disoriented, and, when necessary, I imparted healing magics to my allies. And to myself. I gave a good accounting in the rolls of the downed, though the Knight and Aldmaar stained the registers crimson.

And the Sorcerer… I have rarely seen him smile, but he was grinning like a carved harvest pumpkin throughout, hurling spells into knots of Cultists. Moving through the fray, never staying still long enough for the foe to reach him. He toyed, it seemed, with the great stone beast the Cultists had summoned, like a kitten with a ball. I could not spare the attention to track him, nor did I take any joy in observing the glee he took in his wholesale butchery.

The Cultist throng dwindled. Aldmaar and the Knight, exhausted, unrecognizable in their gore-spattered state, cast about for any new foes. I fell to my knees, hoping for a moment’s respite.

“Where is the Sorcerer?” I heard Aldmaar call. I could only shake my head, not glancing up. I heard a final, crunching blow from the Knight on the Cultist before her, who, just as I, was on his knees, unable to rise. My pulse was a roar in my ears. I feared that my breathing would never compensate for the deficit of air in my blood. My vision had collapsed into a narrow tunnel directly in front of my nose.

There was a rumble — distant but surely loud — and I found myself on my side. For a moment or more, I suppose, I lost consciousness. Then Seralayne was there, stirring me gently. She looked ghastly, but concerned. “Pieter?”

“Was there… an explosion?” I managed after a second, able to rise on one elbow, the world oddly canted as if I were perched on its very edge.

She nodded. “The Sorcerer. The Thalass Engine.”

I just stared, uncomprehending.

“He destroyed it,” Aldmaar said, just entering the limited scope of my vision. “I suspect that’s what this was all about. For him.”

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. They 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 alone 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 horses through the small community, past the cemetery on the hill, past the several mills powered by a 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 REDACTED. 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.

We camped near the water, between Anthracite and the swamps, the wind whipping at our meager fire. Lady Sparrowhawk had joined us, up from Anthracite. She shared with us a story she had gleaned from meeting with the master of that dark tower.

There was a plague, she recounted, even adopting a bit of the sorcerer’s creaking voice, with a glint of humor in her eye, in times past. Generations past, she waved her arms as he is like to do, that afflicted, first, the wheat and barley of the field.

This pestilence (she continued) caused whole crops to fail and a fear of famine swept Darkmoor. Worse, however, was that the bread made from the wheat and the ale from the barley caused those to consume it to be likewise afflicted. Those suffering from this blight could eat their fill, enough for two or three men, and remain starving. They grew gaunt, with their skin hanging from their bones regardless of how they fed. Their eyes seemed to grow huge in their narrow faces. And they hungered.

The only satisfaction they could achieve was in eating the flesh of their fellows; sipping on their blood, cracking their bones to feast on the marrow. And this frenzied feeding made the afflicted powerful and manic. The hair of their heads and bodies fell away and they eschewed clothing; indeed even boots on their feet as they chased after the only herd animal they valued: their neighbors.

“This story, Knight of Darkmoor,” I intervened, “is not the sort I prefer immediately before retiring for the evening. It does not prefigure a full night’s rest.”

They laughed, though I made no jest. Why was she telling us this tale?

“The sorcerer felt there was some lesson in this for us, Brother Pieter.”

“And how does this legend conclude, in the sorcerer’s telling?”

“He states that, in the end, an accord was reached between the living of Darkmoor and these cannibals. There was insufficient food, given the blight, to feed the entirety of the realm. And there were these ravening Glass-eyes, as they were called, who cared not for wheat and barley.”

We stared at each other across the fire.

“I can guess the rest,” Aldmaar was the first to break the silence. “These Glass-eyes, well-fed and satisfied became the noble classes of Darkmoor.”

I joined them in laughter. We took up our thoughts, in silence and the waning light until Lady Sparrowhawk spoke up again. In her own voice.

“The Sorcerer says, rather, that they founded their own church. And the children of this church have kept its nature secret for generation after generation. That they built a Temple, under the guise of the church of Zuggtmoy, and until that Temple is discovered and finally brought down, the Glass-eyes will always return.”

To my shame, I was summoned once again to Wolf Hall. His Lordship asked for an update on the matter of the caretaker. I could only honestly reply that I had not, as yet, taken up the matter.

He was very cross with me. I could not argue.

“I am told that you… picnicked on the green?” I admitted that it was true.

“I will summon my Inspector and ask him to look into this mystery at the cemetery, since the Royal Confessor has no time for such matters.”

It stung, hearing these words. I promised that I would delve further into the murder of the caretaker forthwith.

“Do no disappoint me again, Pieter.”

I am not sure how I have allowed things to come to this state. I must make amends.

I met with the Castillian upon my arrival. He was quite surprised at my rapid return. When I stated my business, he insisted that we retire to his apartment that we might have more privacy.

“Pieter, what is the meaning of this?”

“Sir, I have receive reports that you hold an innocent man here in your gaol. I hope to convince you to free him that I might return him safely to his family.”

“The man that you speak of, Thomas Slate is in no ways innocent. He is a member of a band of thieves and bandits who have raided the shoreline for months. He was caught, amongst his companions, red-handed, their little slip heavy with stolen items.”

“They are a criminal crew, to be certain. The young lad I name, however, he was impressed into their service. Kidnapped from his family and required to serve them. He committed no crime other than what, at the point of a blade, he must to survive. Any of us, in similar circumstances and at that age, would have done similar.”

I was able to convince the Castillian to release the lad into my care.

Thomas Slate was drawn and hollow-eyed, in his little cell. When I told him that he was being released, he could scarce believe it. He embraced me and promised he would do better.

In the morning, we shall depart for Elder Pool, where he can see his family, his parents and his young sister again. It feels me with gratitude that amongst the grand projects, there are these small acts that we can take that can have such a meaningful impact at the level of the individual.

The lodging at the Ragged Moon, at least, is an improvement over that of Lord Valle.

I attended services at the shrine this morning. Deacon Willmat attempted to goad me into leading the reading, but I demurred. The attendance was outstanding. The enthusiasm of the youth is intoxicating. Afterwards, a small number of those present met briefly for tea and discussion. I departed, carrying with me their prayers and wishes.

I met briefly with his Lordship. He was dealing with a number of pressing matters, of course, but made time at my request. We met in Wolf Hall. I reported on what I had discovered at the cemetery.

After a moment of silence, he added, “And is that all you have uncovered, Brother Pieter?” I could not take this as anything but a rebuke. I assured him that I would attend to the investigation forthwith.

I did not sleep well, last night, on the cot in the main construction tent. I dreamt of spiky swamp weeds grasping, pulling me deeper into the mud of the fen.

I watched the sun rise over the walls of Elder Pool. To the south, the sun glinted off the great tower of the Sorceror.

I met this morning with Royal Engineer, Lord Valle. He detailed a number of items on which he wanted my input, foremost among them a concern regarding the ground under which the main entrance and grand facade are to be constructed. He presented a pair of alternate concepts which would be far lighter. I rejected these.

“You are a man who knows what he wants, Father,” Lord Valle said from underneath his heavy brows. He is at least twenty years my senior. When others call me “Father,” I correct them. Lord Valle may use whatever title for me he pleases.

I considered visiting Anthracite before I return to the shrine. However, one is not exactly given a warm reception, arriving without having been summoned. Unless one carries a shopping list in one hand and the reins of a horse in the other, its saddle bags heavy with gold and platinum Wolfs.

I spent some time in the recently excavated sub-basements. They are unfinished, but perfectly square, as one would expect from a project overseen by the Royal Engineer. That space will serve as sepulcher for church leaders of the future. I may ask that my own remains be interred there.

We are a faith who privileges the sun, the snow and a spirit of optimism. Down, in that hole, I ruminated on the fact that, ultimately, we all will lie in darkness.