Demogorgon Rising
a Mushroom eBooks sampler
Copyright © 2002, Anthony J D Burns
Anthony J D Burns has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the Author of this work.
First published in United Kingdom in 2002 by Mushroom eBooks.
This Edition published in 2002 by Mushroom eBooks,
an imprint of Mushroom Publishing,
Bath, BA1 4EB, United Kingdom
www.mushroom-ebooks.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This is a sampler of Demogorgon Rising by Anthony J D Burns. If you enjoy reading these sample chapters and would like to read the rest, you can buy the complete Mushroom eBook edition from the usual bookshops online, or find more details at www.mushroom-ebooks.com.
The journals of Mr Rann Morgan (U.41–96)
Book One: September 26 to December 24, Union-year 67
I. The Message
II. The Vigil
III. Salvage
IV. Officers of the Law
VII. Dreams of Power
VIII. Justice of the Peace
IX. Enemies
X. Contraband
XI. Vigilant
The Log-Book of The Sanctuary As kept by Lieutenant Drako (ARN)
Book Two: December 21st, U.67 – ?
I. Deliverance
III. Upon the slopes of Mount Cirus
IV. The Mentor
V. Discord
VI. Impressed
VII. Drydock
VIII. Necronautilos
IX. The Unwilling
XI. Hero’s welcome
XII. The revolution
XIII. Beltane
XIV. Prejudice
The legend of the serpent god or demon has such a universal significance among the world’s races, that certain radicals and religious extremists heralded the first public release of Mr. Rann Morgan’s journal almost as the dawning of Apocalypse. Not a few at the time were glad to note that this soon quieted into inquiries such as whether the author was sane or a compulsive liar. Such questions were obviously anticipated by the late Mrs. C. Morgan’s two-year delay in publishing the documents, notwithstanding the terms of her husband’s will. That version nevertheless was subject to considerable emendations and omissions by Mrs. Morgan. With the passing of the century, the State Press has deemed it fit to bring the entire journal to public attention, including some background material on matters insufficiently dealt with by the author. Not that we would wish to make any estimate of the accuracy of these documents – their truth, or otherwise, is likely to remain undetermined – but they may at least dare to claim the status of uniqueness.
The editor, Mr. William Standish esq.
The journals of Mr Rann Morgan (U.41–96)
Editor’s note: The author held the position of gamekeeper to the Duke of Upper Blackbrook – Lord Henry Temple at the dates of these writings. He was born the second son of Jem Morgan; farrier to the Temple estate, and employed to the Duke’s service in U.58. His tragic death of a riding accident passed his rights and properties into the hands of Mrs Cecilia Morgan, his wife of nearly twenty-five years, with whose permission these documents are reproduced.
Book One: September 26 to December 24, Union-year 67
The Message
Mistress Phoebe has requested – indeed, commanded me – to keep a record of events, claiming that if testimony is required in the future it would come better in my words, and that she has crucial projects of her own to preoccupy her. I do not dare question: at present, I would probably follow her through both Hades and Limbo if she recommended that course for my safety. Not that she has asked me to go so far, as yet, or to my knowledge. Guessing at the outcome of my present state gives me great enough cause for anxiety, and God only knows what position that will leave me in.
Before I get ahead of myself any more, it were better that I recount the circumstances which have brought me to this. This year has proven remarkable to date, not to mention disturbing. Upper Blackbrook County is by rule little touched by such bounties of our modern times as industry, machine-smashing, riots, land disputes and so forth. Not since the overthrow of the Second Republic have the people in these parts been accustomed to such things as terrorism or vandalism. Even the militia hardly make the effort to train these days, which, in hindsight, may have been a mistake. Let me explain: my position keeps me largely in the estate woods and up on the moors, leaving me generally unaccustomed with affairs among the duke’s tenants and labourers. Had the matter been less grave than wilful crop-sabotage, I daresay it would never have reached my ears. In any case, news is rapidly spread through the estate at this time of year, taking on particular gravity with both the harvest and storage considerations for Yuletide. Just when the granaries should by rights be stocked to the eaves (as Mr Holman bewailed the following morning in the Pike’s Head) some anarchist bastard has to take it into their head to torch a good hundred bales’ worth of wheat in the field, as if Mr Holman had ever mistreated a labourer in his life. No one disputed that fact, and since he posted some men to watch the field by night the matter has been little spoken of. In truth, the greater part of the crop was left untouched and I have no fears that anyone will starve or be bankrupted as a result.
My work carries me across the full length of the estate. I reckon it two weeks later, on the ninth night of October, when I was drinking in the Trap and Badger at St. Oriele’s (fully fifteen miles from Holman’s farm) that I fell into conversation with a labourer of Lord Temple’s employ and received the news that first excited my suspicion. It transpired that one of the duke’s private wheat-fields had, some nights previously, been ravaged after the same fashion as Mr Holman’s. No culprit had been found, nor a motive for the clearly deliberate burning of many areas of the field. Lord Temple evidently suspected the draigwights, but his prejudice since the U.62 land treaty is well known and ill-founded. I cannot share my master’s belief, for reasons that will become clear.
When the labourer had related this tale, a domestic of Lord Temple’s household (a footman by his partial livery, though personally unknown to me) entered into our conversation with an account that arrested the attention of all present. It seemed that earlier that same evening the manor house had been visited by two horsemen from outside the county. Not gentlemen, in all likelihood, since they had been meanly accoutred in similar uniforms of black. He reckoned that they may have been clerical soldiers of some description, bearing in mind their cowls, cloaks and sabre-belts. At any rate, they had quite literally demanded access to the duke and had made no very favourable impression upon the household. In his opinion, their behaviour had been forward bordering on threatening, though this much could only be derived from their undisguised weapons, furtive manners and curt address. For they had spoken little, except maybe to the duke, in absolute privacy. None of the servants could work up the courage to eavesdrop and little was learnt from the duke, shaken as he apparently was and in such condition as the footman had last seen him, recovering over a tankard of malt. All he had revealed was contained in an injunction to his staff to avoid making casual mention of the crop sabotage, and also in his expressed intention not to bring the matter to the county sheriff. The footman, in his own words, would not have been speaking of it now, except for the fact that we were both already in the know. I fear the inadequacy of this excuse, amidst the developing group of interested late-night drinkers, but was too interested myself to counsel the loquacious domestic.
My interest stemmed not only from the vandalism upon my master’s lands, but also from the fact that I had seen those two horsemen myself during the ride from Temple Moor to St. Oriele’s. The pair of them had been riding west, break-neck along the main road towards Tardale County. Such strangers are far from being a common sight in Blackbrook County, though I had been able to dismiss the incident until now. I may say in all honesty that I was genuinely shocked to hear of such obscene liberties being taken not only with the Temple properties, but also with their very proprietor. There was no doubt in my mind that these mounted thugs were clearly the vandals themselves, and for such criminals to have the nerve to present themselves in person to their noble victim and issue threats of violence, as I presumed, was almost enough to make my blood run cold. The fact that they had somehow managed to put the fear of God into such a typically sober and rational man as Lord Temple was quite enough for this. Many of the listeners were of my turn of mind, and several were of the opinion that the militia should be sent into the next county to drag the strangers back, whereupon they should be tarred, feathered and either imprisoned or hung: an enthusiastic suggestion that considerably improved the morale of most present. I, on the other hand, was dubious that the miscreants would ever be caught.
The company broke up sometime near the approach of midnight and left the Trap and Badger in mixed spirits. I was among the last to leave, though among the most sober that evening. Either of these circumstances would explain why I was evidently the only one to notice the figure observing the tavern entrance from beside the stables, some distance along the road. Clear-sightedness was certainly necessary: the darkness of the night and the figure’s clothing rendered it little more than a vague silhouette against the stable wall, and I had to strain my vision to be sure. Yet when I was sure, I did not hesitate in making my approach, with speed, determination and anger. Any black-clad lurking stranger was hardly likely to win my immediate approval after that evening’s talk, and this one only managed to halt my hasty approach by covering me with a suddenly-drawn pistol.
“Hold it there,” hissed an angry voice from within the hooded robe. “Drunken fool! You have no quarrel with me.”
“Are you sure of that?” I replied accusingly, with forced calm. It pacified my confronter slightly, though the pistol remained levelled.
“I know what that crowd were incensed about, in case you wonder. And I am not responsible, but if you can’t lower your voice I suggest you do not use it. Whatever you may think, ten to one if you should attract that rabble back here they will not even stop to think. If I should be lynched on your account, you had better be prepared to contemplate innocent blood on your hands for a lifetime, and to show to your maker. How does that strike you?”
“All right then,” I answered, unconvinced, except of the fact that we seemed to understand one another. “Then who are you?”
“A shaman – a cleric. Nobody important to you or your friends, except that I would beg a few minutes of your time. I wish to show you something, if you will permit.”
A holy man of any description was to be spoken to with some respect, I decided, and from hereon made an effort to tone down the degree of scepticism in my speech. Nevertheless, I remained on my guard and did not lose sight of the matter at hand.
“Anything to do with those bastards who threatened the duke?”
“Perhaps. Quite probably. At any rate, it must keep. Can you meet me at daybreak tomorrow, on the highest point of the escarpment overlooking the Temple farmlands?”
I answered that I could, then enquired, “What do you know of those strangers?”
“Nothing for certain,” was the disappointing reply, and much to my suspicion. “I may speculate, though I would rather not voice anything. My guesses would all be potentially libellous, I fear.”
“Are they also the ones who burnt up the wheat in Holman’s field?”
“Almost certainly not. Are any of those horses in there yours? If so, I would thank you to take me as far as the river bridge. There we may part until tomorrow.”
It was out of my way entirely, though I acceded without complaint. Aside from anything else, I was now certain that this cleric was no holy man but a lady of uncertain age to judge from the hissing, cautious tone I had been attending. I called a boy from the tavern to open the stables and bring a light, by which I now clearly saw her face, and much to my surprise: for she was a draigwight; bald-headed, yellow-skinned, fang-toothed, sharp-tongued, red-cat-eyed, thin as a reed and with a face that I would have tentatively guessed at forty years of age (I later learned six hundred and seventy-two, in fact). Her clerical robe was drawn tightly about her, in a style almost indecent for such a substantial garment. But by my guess, she wore little or nothing beneath it. I may vouch that her neck and shoulders were bare, finding it impossible not to notice such detail having borne her before me on my horse for some three miles’ distance to the bridge. We parted with a kiss, which she surprised me with in an amazingly formal and impassive manner. I assume this is a standard gesture of courtesy among her people, which seems almost savagely medieval in Upper Blackbrook. In fact, I could recommend no draigwight to bring either their traditions or their person within ten miles of Lord Temple, and admired this woman’s audacity, since she seemed above mere ignorance.
* * *
We met as agreed, somewhat less than five hours later. I found the lack of sleep of no particular inconvenience, being accustomed to survive on very little during most seasons. My friend the cleric appeared no worse off: merely impatient when I encountered her on the edge of Temple Moor. I refrained from asking questions about her activities of last night after we had separated, and in spite of my wide curiosity kept my talk upon the present and what we had already discussed.
“We’re up here to catch those two criminals, are we?” was my admittedly blunt greeting. To be honest, I was far from having exempted this strange woman from my suspicions.
“And a very fine morning to you as well,” she answered. “And just to spare you future disappointment, you may as well know that those horsemen will be more than halfway to Tardale by now, unless they changed their route drastically. I could only check their tracks so far, of course, and still be here on time this morning. I can only trust that you will appreciate my effort on your behalf. Now, if you will join me upon this rise and look out over the fields as the sun rises, what you see may cause you to believe this journey not wholly wasted. Always assuming, that is, you have any interest in looking into such matters as may affect your master the duke.”
The recommendation was enough to persuade me, though I was quite unable to conceal my disappointment and frustration in my manner. With ill temper I rode to join her on the highest point of the ridge. Looking out over the Temple farmlands, I could at first see nothing to arrest the attention. A few indistinguishable souls moved about on the edges of the fields, in one of which could be barely seen a mass of dark patches where the wheat had been destroyed. The road was clear as far as I could see either way, much to my chagrin. With my thoughts firmly upon the horsemen, I required some guidance.
“Keep your eyes on that field – watch as the sun rises,” she commanded, turning my head back towards the ruined field with no resistance on my part. As the light grew, I eventually discerned what I had been led here to see and with no small surprise: although they were not entirely clear in the dawn light and from my angle of view on the escarpment, the burnt patches in the Temple field formed a remarkably intricate pattern of symbols, both circular and linear. I could not believe it to be the work of random destruction, though why crop saboteurs should wish to carve such a pattern in Lord Temple’s wheat was quite beyond my imagination. I turned to my companion for enlightenment, but judging from her words her mind was already elsewhere.
“You know a man called Holman, do you not?” she asked. I nodded. “I was making some enquiries down that end of the county a couple of nights ago. I came across that friend of yours in an establishment – the Pike’s Head, or some such name. There were people trying to console him, although in the end I fear they did no more than poison his body and cloud his brain. Apparently, some crops of his had been destroyed, and he had suffered a very recent shock – that was plain enough. They had trouble getting him to speak at first, but he grew more articulate quickly enough. It turns out that he had suffered a visit from two strangers who as good as threatened his property and his family if he ever dared breathe a word about the crop damage. Hardly the height of diplomacy, even from federal authority. And before you ask, I cannot vouch for their credentials. Apparently they waved some description of official warrant in the face of our friend Holman, but his account was as inadequate as one may well expect from a man neither sober, intelligent nor equable. We may excuse him the last, of course. I would not be inclined to trust these supposed officers, whatever their part in this. Enough of them. Tell me: do those glyphs in the field mean anything to you?”
“Are they some form of writing?” I tentatively asked, and earned myself some secret pride at her approving reply.
“Very good. I believe so. The construction appears not dissimilar to glyphic text two, the most ancient of the Faery scripts. Of course, I cannot translate with any precision. My best guess would be that this is a map reference of some description. I think I can read ‘north forty-two’, but kindly do not quote me on that. It is a simple message, whatever the details.”
This was no easy concept for me to grasp. Story-book tales of elves and dragons had been as much a part of my childhood as any boy’s, and although I was vaguely aware that there were some doctors and clerics who considered the traditional legends as worthy material for serious contemplation, I should have held this statement to be merely ridiculous, had I anything more likely to suggest. However, I could not keep a trace of incredulity from my reply, to the annoyance of my companion.
“Are you suggesting, then, that some elf has burnt directions into Lord Temple’s field for the benefit of his friends? And did they use them to find their way through into Tardale County, just stopping by here long enough to present forged papers and terrorise a landowner and his tenant?”
With an impatient sigh, she answered my scepticism: “Try to keep some sense of proportion. For one thing, Tardale is in the west; not the north. For another, burning an enormous set of bearings in a field would be a most laborious and inefficient way of communicating with two horsemen. As for this elf of yours, who can tell? Tradition repeatedly states that the fair-elves were celestial beings, descending from one of the lower spheres of heaven – frequently referred to as Arcady. We associate them with air and fire. Perhaps it is then appropriate that such a sky-born entity would burn geographical information into a field to be seen by other sky-born entities.”
Her serious, speculative tone amazed me more than the extraordinary words it was misemployed in speaking: a fact that she must have read in my expression, since I could fashion no polite way of letting her know my true opinion.
“Please do not take me so much for granted,” she continued with ever-strained patience. “For though I am unlikely to joke about terrorism, I confess to be no expert on incidents such as this,” at which she gestured out towards the mutilated field.
“Then you’ve seen this done before?” I asked, at which the confidence drained from her manner.
Her voice in reply was rather sheepish: “Not seen. I have read of such happenings over the last few decades. This would be the second since U.60, I suppose. The Lyceum apparently has the privilege of conducting secret studies of crop patterns, though it is either obliged or merely inclined to keep the findings to itself. As it is, private students such as myself needs must make do, and be sure our investigations remain private.”
I commented that these scholars had apparently not been very successful in keeping these events a guarded secret, but she dismissed this offhand.
“Look at it,” she scoffed, indicating the field. “How does one keep a strategically-burnt patch of farmland from the public attention? The best they ever managed was to put about fatuous tales of political agitators causing the damage, and that goes little enough way to explaining why an enraged radical would painstakingly trace an unknown archaic script of no relevance. Why, if the people of these nations were not so disinterested in all but their petty, personal and present concerns, maybe they would have thought to question the distinguished professors? I assure you that if such a thing were to happen in the highlands, on the farms of my people, there would be little rest until a satisfactory explanation was found. But whatever the Lyceum knows it is pleased to conceal, and human plebeians are obviously content to accept their excuses. At least, I trust that I shall soon be satisfied.”
“I can tell you, we’re not putting up with any bull from the Lyceum, or the county prefect, or whoever,” I replied somewhat indignantly. “Weren’t you listening to the crowd at the Trap and Badger last night? Whoever those horsemen were, they’ll be caught and dealt with, by me if no-one else. And maybe they were from the Lyceum, if they’re so determined to keep this sort of thing quiet.”
“Maybe,” she answered with no conviction. “However, they are beyond either your reach or jurisdiction, and I would have you know that I put little faith in the drunken ramblings of a mob. On the other hand, if you would prove yourself above common apathy, I am inviting you to join me tonight in my watch over this field. The burning took place two nights ago. An apprentice of mine kept vigil last night and had nothing to report, but doubtless if anyone is intended to discover this message, the time will be soon. It will not be left for the burnt areas to overgrow, or beyond the harvesting, you may be sure. It would be a great discovery for us, would it not? Is that to your interest?”
I agreed to this suggestion willingly, though for no other reason than the hope of either catching the mysterious crop saboteur or someone who could inform upon him. With a second indifferent kiss we separated; she walked away north through the nesting grounds and I made my way back down to the Temple farmlands. That morning I solicited the service of an apprentice of my own: Lance Medlar, a lad of some fifteen years with little education to show for it, but certainly apt to be trusted never to speak out of turn, nor to drink himself into extreme candour. I informed him only that the purpose of our vigil was to arrest a suspected crop saboteur and (recalling how Lord Temple had made no secret of his suspicions) that we were to be joined by two draigwights, whom he was to consider as allies. Though surprised, he consented most obediently, whereupon I furnished him with a loaded firelock and instructed him to meet me at the gate of the field at sunset. I performed my usual rounds and duties upon the estate for the remainder of the day, though continually distracted by thoughts of the sinister horsemen for whose benefit I could not help from casting repeated glances up the road towards the county border. Aside from spying a couple of post-boys and a cartload of lime, it proved a fruitless exercise.
The Vigil
It was necessary for me to ride a considerable distance that evening, and as a result the sun had set by the time I was able to meet young Lance at the field. The cleric and her apprentice were already there, and my own poor assistant appeared more than a little confused and uncomfortable in their company. To my surprise, the cleric had brought along with her a young boy; not a draigwight, and no more than twelve or thirteen years old by my reckoning. His hair was lank and dark, his skin pasty and his face rather drawn and suspicious. His clothing was ridiculous: a set of black doublet and hose straight out of some old storybook romance, completely inadequate to the weather. He also wore a rough mantle of fur, unlikely to serve against the rain for long. Lance had thankfully provided oilskins for two. I offered one to the cleric, who refused with polite words and a thoroughly impatient voice. Preoccupied with gazing across the horizon in all directions for heaven knows what, she obviously had no time to worry about chills or damp. I tried the same with her apprentice, but received only sullen looks for my pains.
“Johan does not speak the Brêvish tongue, I am afraid,” declared the cleric, though never sparing us a glance. “His birth was in a much colder clime, in the far northern peninsula beyond the mountains and to the east of the island nation of Albin. A rough land, on the whole. I do not think you need worry about his tolerance to your dismal, but mediocre, autumn weather. He has lived with blizzards and winds that would kill your pheasants stone dead if they whistled over that moor for half a minute. And violent sea-storms, mark you. His parents’ fishing vessel washed ashore upon the northern strands of this continent. A salvage team found the pilot and his wife dead and cold, but they had poor Johan well protected below decks. That was almost two years ago. His health is quite recovered since, and I have taught him competency in the traditional language of my people. Not yours, as yet. I suppose I must eventually, now we are allegedly allied powers.”
“You mean to bring him up yourself, as a draigwight?” I asked, concealing my involuntary distaste at the notion.
She answered dispassionately: “Not as a common legionary, I am resolved. Probably when he comes of age, and I have trained him well, and the magister will accept him as a novice shaman. Incidentally, my friend, the term ‘low-elf’ would have been more courteous, if less strictly accurate, than the Maordic corruption ‘draig-wight’. Then again, in Johan’s case,” and she actually turned to look at him, with almost wistful admiration. “See that hair, and those eyes! He has fay blood in him for sure – perhaps a ‘dark-elf’, as your romantic folk-tale butchers would have phrased it. I feel an obligation, in fact. Either it is merely apocryphal that elves were immortal, or it is some cruel paradox that those with Arcadian heritage have a tendency to die in their youth and typically extraordinary beauty. Such is nature. An infusion of dragon’s blood may mar his beauty somewhat, but what I preserve will be health, youth and pleasure to last at least beyond a century. Surely no prejudice could condemn that.”
Seeing as how she expressed such concern for his health, I again suggested the oilskin. She gave me a flash of impatience, before interpreting my offer to Johan in some very strange language. He answered me directly with what might have been curt politeness, again in speech that I could not comprehend. His gestures were enough to inform me of his refusal, whereupon I let the matter drop and donned the thing myself, over clothes almost drenched already. A light hailstorm eventually mixed with the rain and I was most thankful for Johan’s endurance. Little passed in the succeeding hours worth relating, save that the cleric and I exchanged names. To be precise, she was already informed of mine. I learnt that her name was Phoebe and to address her by this alone: she seemed to take somewhat ill at the title of “Mistress,” which I accordingly avoided (though I have chosen to use it in these writings). We kept a constant watch, ate what little food we had brought, sent Lance almost five miles back to the Trap and Badger for more, but saw nothing and nobody for a good eight hours at least. I cannot be very accurate on that point, for though it is far from easy or advisable to fall asleep beneath a dripping tree, in damp clothes, in a hailstorm, I somehow succeeded for a couple of hours, at any rate.
I awoke in poor enough condition and worse humour, stimulated to consciousness by the shaking of Phoebe. As soon as my vision had cleared enough to discern her excited countenance, I realised that our vigil had not proved as much of a hopeless exercise as I had feared. I saw it was near daybreak, from a narrow band of sickly sunlight on the eastern horizon. Lance and Johan were both staring upon the escarpment, and following their gazes I eventually discovered their preoccupation: though at first it was hard to distinguish from the fading stars, a moving point of light soon revealed itself to be no work of nature at all. All thoughts of a comet were dismissed when it relinquished its roughly western course across the horizon and seemed to approach the field. The light of the rising sun was soon sufficient to make plain how close it actually was: surely less than a mile from where I lay and goodness knows how high. It also became apparent that the object gave out no light itself, but possessed a metal surface that simply reflected the weak sunlight, which it could well do at those shadowless heights.
It must have passed over the escarpment before I was able to distinguish a shape: a silver disc with a raised surface, emitting a quiet but most unpleasant whine as it drew near. I cautioned the two boys to keep low among the wheat, reasoning that Phoebe would have enough sagacity to make her own choices with regard to due caution. This weird missile eventually slowed to a halt in the air, perhaps some hundred feet or more above the field, where it held stationary. At that distance I could make out some detail on its underbelly. It was indented and patterned with a circular cluster of small black domes. The disc itself seemed to me no bigger than a small storehouse or cottage, though the whole view was far from clear. Quite apart from the rain and the dim light, the disc itself was most obscure to behold, shimmering and wavering as though seen through a shallow layer of rippling water. Considering this, I first thought it to be some description of mirage, yet it held steady as a rock above the mutilated wheat for long enough to persuade me of its nature as substance. Otherwise, it was an entirely disconcerting vision.
I suspect that much pain and exertion would have been avoided had our small party kept to my advice to remain as low, sheltered and inconspicuous as the field and trees permitted. I can only conjecture that I either underestimated the force of a woman’s curiosity, or assumed a capacity for mistrust and vigilance where none was to be found. In any case, I was truly shocked when I realised that Phoebe had risen from the shadows of the boundary-trees and walked out into the open ground at the edge of the field, where she took a new and thoroughly exposed station. “It is magnificent!” she exclaimed in idiot admiration, whilst gazing constantly upon the abominable apparition. “A veritable angel’s chariot!” and suchlike rhetoric, which impressed me but little. I confess to being a simple and unphilosophical agnostic, but the notion of angels being sent down to earth with map references provided in advance hardly seemed consistent with any miracle tales I had ever been read.
Inexpert as I may be, I am confident that the next action of the celestial disc was by no means angelic, by any stretch of the term. The shimmering that surrounded it had now settled, allowing a much clearer view of its pockmarked under-surface and armoured skin. I could only regard this briefly: for my gaze was forcibly turned by a violent flash of light as the air near the disc seemed to ignite furiously, and the prompt rush of heat came as our final warning. I leapt from the shadows and drove Phoebe before me into the wheat, calling out to Lance and Johan to run for new cover. I did not look back to see how they fared, though I had little enough opportunity, for it was mere seconds later that the fireball impacted against the trees where we had sought protection, and a cruel blast of oven-hot air threw both myself and my confused partner upon our faces among freshly-crushed stalks of wheat. The following moments were sheer confusion, in which I cannot hope to accurately recount the order of events. I recall looking back upon the trees and being thankful that the flames had failed to catch upon the dripping wood, though the leaves and thinner branches at least on the field aspect of the treetops had been reduced to fine grey ash. Many times I gazed up in a fearful search for the disc, once catching a glimpse of the appalling device as it skimmed flat across the fields, keeping a constant height.
I spent a brief period keeping low in the wheat, attending to the unlucky Phoebe. Barring dignity, she had not suffered from either her mistake or her fall, and upon her suggestion we crawled as rapidly as possible back to the edge of the field in search of the two youths. We soon discovered the wheat they had trampled in their rush, and shortly afterwards the area in which they had settled, relying as we had done upon the tall stalks to confuse the view of our heavenly bombardier. Lance was exhausted and no better for the brain-assaulting heatwave, but essentially uninjured. Johan, unfortunately, had fainted outright at the explosion, doubtless from being born in such a cold climate and therefore little accustomed to strong heat. Our brief efforts failed to revive him and soon our attention returned to our more pressing problem: judging from the interminable whine and infrequent glimpses over the stalks, the disc was still sweeping over the field and presumably looking to finish the job of our incineration. All I could suggest was that we might all run in separate directions and pray that we confused it long enough to make good our escape. Phoebe dismissed this with some contempt, pointing out that the disc would have little trouble pursuing any one of us if it so chose and we were not yet so desperate as to be making human sacrifices for the sake of the majority. She then asked whether I had been able to keep my powder and shot out of the rain. Thankfully, the oilskin had kept both perfectly dry.
“Then reload your musket,” she commanded, “and make it a strong charge. But tie something around the gunlock and block the barrel. You shall need it prepared for quick use, but you dare not risk the charge going damp again. Your lad and I can, with luck, hold the attention of that hunter if we run across the face of the escarpment, but I should hate for all our sakes to draw out such a plan for longer than the necessary bare minimum.”
“You think that a shot from this will be any use against that?” I asked without pessimism or sarcasm, but sheer hope of release. Not that I relished the idea of using poor Lance to draw the fire of our enemy, however briefly, but I thought it best to hear her out entirely.
“Understand this: that thing is protected by a powerful shield, impenetrable to any means of ours.”
“You mean that it’s armoured?”
“Probably, but I refer to something else: a sphere of psionic energy, or something of a similar nature. Supernatural protection.”
“Witchcraft?” I accept it was a naïve comment and the brief impatience in her face and reply was probably justified:
“I don’t know – call it what you will. We shamans, at all events, are sensitive to such impressions. Shot from a musket would simply disintegrate against something that potent. But maybe you noticed how the distortion around the disc vanished when it fired upon us?” I assured her that I had. “That suggests to me that it has limited power. It can either protect itself or attack us, but not simultaneously. Therefore, we must trick it into making an attack on us for our own strike to be effective, if my theory is correct.”
“And if it isn’t?” I protested, recoiling at a word so unpromising as “theory.”
“Then he and I,” she flatly answered, indicating Lance, “will be running in opposite directions along the escarpment, rather as you first suggested. Johan will be no worse off for being sheltered here if the disc is kept pursuing us, and you are welcome to bolt to wherever you please. Only I suggest we hurry, otherwise it may simply find and kill us here while we debate. We shall keep low as we approach the rise, and hopefully only be seen when we run along the open face. I imagine it will have to fly nearer the escarpment to get a fair shot at us, so you had better follow us to the other edge of the field. Perhaps you may catch it as it passes overhead. Remember, though: only when the distortion fades, which should be when it prepares to fire. Preferably before it actually fires, if you would. I suggest you aim for the black lumps on its underside. I sense some emanations from them; strong energy thrown mostly at the ground. I suspect they have something to do with its flight, and more to the point they do not appear to be armoured. I trust you are a fair shot yourself, friend gamekeeper. Let us proceed.”
Having spoken thus, she grabbed Lance by the arm and the two of them were trampling down the wheat before I even had a chance to clear out the wet charge from my firelock. As it befell, I had to do this as best I could while running in their wake and resisting the temptation to look about for the source of the perpetual whine, which certainly grew no quieter for all the distance we covered. I was fumbling for my powder horn, uncertain of whether or not there was any point in trying to reload and pursue my two companions at once, when a rush of heat to my right flank occasioned an instinctive change of plan: I veered to my left, and at the dull sound of the explosion threw myself upon my face, freshly plastering it in mud and wheat-grains. When the scorching wind had passed, I rose and belted for the edge of the field, hardly daring to look back for fear of delay. My one, brief look discovered several small fires in the area I had hastily abandoned. For the sake of both Lord Temple and the prostrate Johan, I hoped that the weather would subdue them before they spread.
In the minutes it took me to reach my appointed station I was fired upon once more, with no more harmful effect. Yet it was a source of considerable worry to me that the disc was evidently able to see our movement among the crops. To be frank, even crouching with our heads down, the wheat was by no means tall enough to conceal our forms from above. It did, however, hide from me the sight of Phoebe and Lance for some time, giving me no end of anxiety concerning what fortune they had suffered in these recent bombardments. I was only relieved when I eventually saw them upon the face of the escarpment, each making an oblique, rapid ascent – Phoebe to the east, Lance to the west. My relief was totally mitigated when a fireball the size of a two-horse gig exploded against the ground less than twenty feet behind Lance, who accordingly devoted even more effort to his – by no means leisurely – flight. I wasted no time in flinging myself to the ground at the edge of the cultivated area and finally refilling my firelock with powder, balls and a piece of thick cloth as wadding, trusting that this would keep the rain from the barrel for long enough. I refilled the gunlock with dry powder, rubbed the flint dry and protected it with my hand, while I turned to search the sky for my target.
The disc had come lower, not to mention closer. It was now holding a slow, steady course and was due to pass directly over me in a matter of a very few seconds, assuming that anything of me would be left by the time it made that pass. I could only imagine that I was the intended quarry: that it had either killed both my companions while I had reloaded, or had simply abandoned the attack on them as too awkward following their separation. In any case, it had clearly followed the tracks we had left and by such means had tracked down my present retreat. Almost petrified, I watched it draw closer in a silent and immobile panic, but kept enough astuteness in spite of my fear to pay attention to its every action. As Phoebe had predicted, the shimmering that surrounded it settled completely as it came over me. My reactions were never so quick as in that mortal moment: I raised and fired the musket in one split-second movement. Where precisely I hit, I cannot tell, but suffice to say that the dreadful missile buckled violently in the sky and I was on my feet in the next second and hurrying towards the escarpment, harbouring no wish to be crushed beneath the remains of my opponent.
I collapsed upon the slope and gazed back through eyes streaming with rain and tears. The disc rocked and jerked back and forth above the field like a crazy pendulum, with a most satisfying absence of its former poise and balance. It eventually seemed to regain some equilibrium, much to my dismay, and for a few seconds held a somewhat shaky position before it skewed roughly to the east and ploughed into the field, where it burst into an impressive cloud of flame. It settled, but the twisted wreckage continued to burn steadily, as did numerous patches of Lord Temple’s wheat. I am thankful that the rain and hail soon put paid to that.
Phoebe and Lance, both quite unharmed, recovered me from where I lay with words of encouragement and congratulation that I cannot ever expect to remember, considering the state of the brain that heard them. It was not long before the name of Johan was mentioned. I recall that most specifically, since none of us could recall exactly where we had left the unfortunate boy, and thus could not help casting glances and morbid reflections upon the numerous patches of fire and smouldering wheat. I eventually discerned our tracks and was able to reassure the cleric that none of the fires were even remotely dangerous to her young charge, though she would not be satisfied until we had retraced our steps to where he lay, drenched to the skin and dead to the world, but actually no worse off than before. Thus comforted, Phoebe allowed her attention to drift to the ruins of the disc.
“This is a truly wonderful event,” she declared, to my irreconcilable amazement. “I am sure nothing like this has ever been done before, and it is worth infinitely more to us down here that it was in the air, even destroyed. Rann Morgan and Lance, you must guard this field with your lives until that debris is safe for us to examine. Tell nobody else of this, no matter how trustworthy you may think them. We cannot risk the wrong people coming to hear of this. I shall return in a few hours, well equipped. Kindly keep a safe distance between yourselves and that wreck until then, for your own safety. Be patient and I promise you that we shall satisfy more than mere curiosity. And God be with you,” at which she kissed me most lasciviously, then did the same to Lance, as I presumed from the expression it left on his face. With the same air of shameless enthusiasm, she gathered up Johan and set off back to the moor, where I supposed she kept her encampment. On reflection, had I been performing my job to the letter, I should have apprehended her for even walking through the nesting grounds. Much as I disapproved of her in many ways, I knew that this was something I would never lower myself to. Not that I was aware of owing any particular debt to her: I had no doubts on that account as I stood guard over a smouldering, rain-drenched field, desiring sleep so greatly that I had little thought for my accustomed duties that day. But a man does not need to be a Lyceum doctor to recognise when his fate has had the fortune or misfortune to become linked to that of another.
Salvage
Though the hail eventually let up, it rained steadily for the whole morning. A few of the farm workers attempted to enter the field, curious at the column of smoke that rose from the wreck well beyond full sunrise, and leaving us no option but to turn them away. All I could tell them was that there had been a particularly unpleasant and thorough act of sabotage during the night and on no account was anyone to be admitted until the field was confirmed safe. I regret that they left clearly suspicious. It was not long before we were visited, presumably on their report, by one Mr. Lanyon, manager of the estate. Typically, myself and Mr. Lanyon are on polite terms, but on this occasion he dispensed with all restraint. He asked, in no uncertain terms, what the devil did I suppose I was playing at and whether or not I actually intended to earn my living for the day, or to stand sentinel over a field that was none of my concern and thus prevent others from earning theirs. He made no mention of the fires, which was a relief, as it seemed to suggest he did not suspect me for the recent “sabotage.” I therefore told him only that a fireball had struck the field during the night and it was clearly prudent that as few men as possible should be allowed in the area until safety had been absolutely confirmed. He took one look at the crumpled, blackened remnants of the missile, unidentifiable from both distance and damage, and grudgingly declared that he had best put the matter to Lord Temple, if the duke could possibly bear another mention of crop destruction.
“And since you seem determined to play guardsman rather than gamekeeper,” he went on in ill-tempered irony, “perhaps you might make yourself useful as either or both. I’ll swear to the Lord Justice himself that there’s someone up on the moor, and if they’re not poaching his lordship’s pheasants then maybe they’re just curious to get a peek at your fireball. At any rate, if you mean to change jobs for the day, I can only suggest that you mend your performance.” At which he rode away, having disturbed me considerably. My first glance at the escarpment discovered nothing, but it was mere moments before a mounted, silhouetted figure appeared over the ridge and held its ground, overlooking the wreck. Though greatly discomposed, I kept enough sense of prudence and duty to act without hesitation. Having instructed Lance to keep guard over the field, I took my musket and started my approach to the figure on the ridge, keeping a steady pace in the hope that I would neither alarm nor provoke it.
As I came near the edge of the field, the rider started down the face of the escarpment, causing me some anxiety. I was both relieved and somewhat irritated to discover that the source of all my apprehension had been none other than Phoebe, cloaked in her hooded clerical robe and riding an unsaddled horse that seemed both malnourished and deformed. Not only desperately scrawny, it also had red eyes, thin, coarse hair, misshapen teeth and long, tufted ears more like those of an ass in proportion. In spite of all this, it bore its rider easily as it traversed the slope, with consummate speed and skill. I asked with some distaste where she had come by the animal.
“I borrowed her. Some of my associates are encamped further north. Johan and myself are part of an expedition, of which you shall hear more, I daresay, if you intend to continue with us.”
I was more curious at present regarding the remains of the disc. Considering the events of that morning and my present uneasiness, it was an investigation that I would gladly have had over and done with as soon as possible. I asked Phoebe if she would rather that I approached the wreck first, to which she replied in a strangely dispassionate manner:
“Then I assume you have some protection? Preferably something along these lines. . .” at which she produced from beneath her robe a silver medallion, fashioned like a witches’ star. I admitted that, to my regret, I lacked any such accessory. “That being the case, it would probably be better if I were to go first. Unless, that is, you know without a shadow of doubt that your mind is invulnerable to spiritual possession, and you have literally no fear of the inevitable consequences. Perhaps you are not familiar with them?” I confessed to this and received an answer in the same proud, disturbingly calm tone: “When a poltergeist invades the human being, it invariably seeks to supplant the soul and gain for itself shape and identity, but it is in the nature of the entity to degenerate whatever it claims. I do not imagine that you relish the thought of being reduced to a skulking vampire and surviving for the next few centuries of steady decay on a diet of psionic energy and blood, drained from anything and anyone. Alternatively, if your soul were strong enough to reject the possession, in all likelihood the resultant conflict would cause every blood vessel in your body to haemorrhage. Spontaneous combustion is also not uncommon in such cases. Now, with all due respect to your chivalric conventions, perhaps this would be better handled my way.”
I could argue none of her points and thus consented to her plan. Her advance to the wreck, medallion held out before her and incessantly muttering some strange foreign prayer, as I suppose, was understandably slow and cautious. I watched her attentively, though nervously. I could not think that a poltergeist would be greatly, if at all, threatened by a shot from a musket, though I kept the wreck covered nonetheless. She eventually worked her way among the debris with little more appearance of confidence than I felt, then ducked out of sight as she made her search, to my frustration. Lance left his post by the gate and joined me with an infuriating air of curiosity, and I somewhat regret that I sent him back with very sharp words. It was a great relief to me when Phoebe finally stood and gave me a reassuring wave, followed by a signal and call to join her. I did so promptly.
Observed closely, the disc was still very nearly unrecognisable from the night before. It was entirely crushed on the side it had hit the ground, whilst the once-silver armour had warped and blackened like burnt crumpled paper. The thought that it had ever been a smooth, hollow and round object would hardly have crossed the mind of one who had not encountered it in its prime. I, however, could distinguish from this sad ruin features of the disc that had not been wholly clear to me before. As I had earlier conjectured, the upper surface of the disc was a raised, if shallow, dome. What I had not before seen was a turret that must once have protruded from the centre of the disc like a small roundhouse of metal, enclosed and windowless. I could perceive that it was sufficiently large for the comfortable accommodation of a single man not merely from the size of the wreck itself, but from the broken and burnt bones that I observed without pleasure in the central area of the debris. There was little else to excite the interest – for most of the remnants amounted to black dust and burnt fragments. Phoebe seemed content in an examination of the incinerated corpse, which gave me further incentive to confine my own curiosity to the least damaged side of the disc.
Trusting in my leather gloves to protect me against any remains that had yet to cool, I set to work pulling away some of the twisted sheets of cloth-thin armour and so discovered the twisted remains of the metal framework that had given the disc its former shape. The interior was a chaotic mess of charred and mangled artefacts, mostly defying all terms of description. It was beyond my imagination to guess at what their shapes or general structure might have been prior to the crash and fire, save that they were strange to all my former, if strictly limited notions of engineering, art or architecture. I recovered the one thing that bore any meaning for me: namely a small and fairly undamaged black witches’ star. It was made of a lustrous, smooth material, but from its warmth and lack of weight quite unlike any metal with which I am familiar. Though confident it was not Phoebe’s talisman, I offered it nonetheless if only for the sake of form. She took it with avid interest, examined it briefly, then pocketed it in her robe without further comment and directed my reluctant attention to the remains of the pilot.
Considering that distasteful moment, I was briefly grateful for the distraction that Lance suddenly afforded as he arrived at a frantic run, almost breathless from panic and exertion. I made no endeavour to calm him, reasoning that for the boy to get himself into such a state there was doubtless a perfectly valid reason for all three of us to panic. My hopes were not disappointed: for through his gulping breaths, Lance quickly communicated to me that three masked horsemen were riding up the road at a fair pace, each openly bearing a pistol and sabre. None of us, it would seem, needed more provocation than that to abandon our little operation forthwith.
“Get to my horse!” commanded Phoebe, leaping from the wreck like an athlete. “It is strong enough for the three of us, and will climb the escarpment faster than theirs, should they attempt it.” Whereupon, she ran towards the beast. Lance did not hesitate to follow. I, consequently, brought up the rear. As I moved away from the wreck, I took a single glance at the road and was not surprised, though appalled, to see our adversaries at the gate. One had dismounted to admit the other two, who were already treading down the wheat with impunity and were staring back at us, as far as I could tell. For beneath their cowls each of the cavaliers wore a black helmet, with a perforated yet concealing visor. I was not at leisure to examine them more closely, though I might add that their horses were tall, powerful and impressive creatures, certainly more to look upon than the cadaverous steed in which I was now to trust my life, or indeed any horse that the county might produce.
At all events, it was no encouraging sight, and I ran all the harder for it. I shortly heard the crack of a pistol and promptly ducked low. Heaven only knows who the shot was intended for, but when I had straightened it was to the reassuring sight of Phoebe and Lance, evidently unhurt, climbing upon her repulsive horse. Lance went before her and she assisted me to mount behind, whereupon the animal at once broke into a steady trot up the escarpment. I have to admit that the speed and strength of the creature was truly remarkable and although its path was not actually a vertical ascent of the slope, I have to wonder if this was not merely a convenience to avoid throwing off three unfortunate riders who were already clinging on for dear life. I, at least, was so absorbed in that single act that I did not even dare to look back at the field or our erstwhile pursuers. Not until I felt the searing impact of the next shot in my lower left side did I suddenly find cause to relinquish my grip, and I have Phoebe to thank that I did not fall all the way to the foot of the escarpment. With one hand she steadied me for the rest of the climb and probably for some distance over the moor. I cannot be certain, since for the next few hours my mind was a clouded orgy of pain. I recall that at some point we stopped on the moor and she gave me a rough piece of folded cloth to press against the wound. At least I proved capable of this much.
I next began to take notice when we stopped for a second time, in an area of patchy woodland to the north of Temple Moor. We had come to a clearing that was liberally scattered with cinder-heaps, scraps of paper and remnants of food. The ground had been thoroughly trodden down recently and the single small tent that remained confirmed to me that this had been the encampment of Phoebe’s expedition. Only one member greeted us, however, and that was Johan, seemingly quite recovered from his fainting shock. Otherwise, the cleric’s following appeared to have completely deserted the camp. Judging from a frantic conversation she immediately entered into with her young disciple, this was a development she had expected no more than I had. In spite of this obvious surprise, her next action was to help me to my feet and into the tent, where she laid me down upon a somewhat damp cloth of jute. The shelter was certainly lacking in simple comfort – a matter that had not been improved by the previous night’s ground-soaking weather. I then suspected this to be the reason for the mass abandoning of the camp, but was given no time to reflect upon this assumption. Phoebe passed her hands across my body with the result that my head became even more clouded than before, though not with pain. The sensation was cloying but almost pleasurable, except that it left me conscious but entirely impotent. Perhaps that is how the blessed feel when they die, before they are raised, though my circumstances were by no means so terminal.
“The ball did not penetrate deeply, but I must extract it nevertheless and purge the wound,” she calmly explained whilst I numbly attended. “It was more than skin-deep. You need not be alarmed, for I am a consummate healer: it is a mandatory discipline among our order. In any case, you shall feel nothing until I have closed the wound. Johan shall boil my knife, and then I will proceed. I hope to take no more than a few minutes. You shall be perfectly comfortable.”
I was in no position to argue, either physically or from the point of view of common sense. In fact, I barely noticed as the surgery took place. She was kind enough not to show me the knife and it was only by her words that I could tell anything of what was happening. I also now learnt from her the fate of the expedition, which I found eminently more distressing than the operation.
“Perhaps you are wondering what became of my companions. To that, I only wish I could give you a satisfactory answer. They have left at speed for the north; that is certain. They were considerate enough to spare one more horse, though apparently they could not spare enough time to explain themselves fully to Johan; beyond the simple recommendation, that is, that he and I immediately close our affairs here and move on, preferably in their wake if we value our health and safety. In case you are wondering, there was some mention of pursuers. Maybe it were best that I explain. . . (Ah! there it is. I have the ball. A simple infusion should suffice for the purgative. I shall stitch this up at once). Now, where were we? Of course, our party split when we came as far as Tardale County. Five of us continued south and then west, to the city-state of the Church of the Six Travellers. A long journey indeed, but they were most keen to examine the so-called Travellers’ Tombs in the necropolis. I dread to think how they fared with the ruling clerics of Malice City, mind you. We dragonpeople are detested and reviled as some manner of demon by most of your modern creeds and theologians, but we have no quarrel that I am aware of with the relatively ancient Church of the Six Travellers. (Damn this needle!) Notwithstanding that, they found their way here in considerable panic, or so I hear, after some two months separation. I had a couple of novices attending me here, but I perceive it did not take a great deal of persuasion for them to join in the flight. No scruples, I see, about leaving poor Johan ill equipped to fend for himself. Disdainful upstarts. And, indeed, abandoning their superior without so much as a by-your-leave, and leaving the vaguest of reasons. At all events, it now seems most likely that this wretched little retreat of mine will soon be invaded, if not by our faceless friends back in the wheat-field, then by whoever it was that put the fear of God into my so-called students. We dare not linger here. (Thank heavens! That is done.)”
I know not whether it was either necessary or even traditional, but she drew away my paralysis with a lingering kiss. I cannot say that I enjoyed it, since it served to gradually sap my warm asylum of lethargy and return to me the aching weakness and coldness of blood loss, not to mention the greatly reduced yet still present sensation of piercing in my side. She then presented me with a small phial and instructed that I drink down its contents, to which I willingly consented, having no wish to die in the agonies of disease after the effort of all my recent escapes. It had an unpleasantly rusty taste, but spread a soothing warmth throughout my body that went some way to alleviating my pain. She laid me back on the damp sheet and urged me to remain there while she and the others prepared.
“Prepared for what?” I enquired.
“Do you not see that we must leave as soon as possible?” she answered with some surprise. “It is essential that we put as much distance as we can between ourselves and all pursuers. So, we shall head directly for the north. We may rejoin my followers if we travel with speed. At the very least we can hope to regain the mountains and drop out of sight of our enemies, then we shall travel to absolute safety in Fort Rowan. That is where I wish to compare and investigate our discoveries.”
I considered that an unduly grand term for brief eyewitness reports and one slightly burnt piece of debris, but allowed that to pass. Nevertheless, I had other objections on which I could not hold my peace.
“Then you mean to follow your fleeing friends?” I began, ill-advisedly, but all I managed by that comment was to incense her.
“If you would rather stay here and be cornered and killed, then by all means indulge yourself!” she more or less hissed between her fangs. Nevertheless, it naturally led to my more important subject:
“You’d best know, Phoebe, that I don’t plan either to stay here or travel north. I’m not some adventuring highwayman, drifting monk, or criminal on the run, in case you hadn’t noticed. I have duties of my own, which is why I am here at all. Remember? You got me in on this with the hope that I might get those masked buggers who shot me arrested, and you needn’t think I’ve changed my mind on that score. Next time we meet I’ll have a party of sheriff’s men or militia with me, and when it comes to the assizes those rogues can each pay for this wound with interest, on the end of a rope.”
“Stupid peasant! Or else you must truly have a death wish! With villains such as those lying between you and your precious Lord’s estate, how do you propose to even return there alive?”
“Lend me a horse, and I can easily avoid them. There were only three as I remember. I’ll have no trouble passing them if I ride along the moor. And should I accidentally meet whoever’s chasing your friends, I can’t see that they’ll have any quarrel with me.”
“Mark my words, Rann Morgan: you will be chased and hunted to your death like an animal. Those horsemen, just to remind you, were deadly serious. Considering what we have heard and seen of them for ourselves, I cannot imagine that they will tolerate any of our lives after what we have been involved in. In any case, you have no idea what reinforcements, authorities or powers those three might be able to call upon. Remember the writ they supposedly showed Holman? This has the hallmarks of a carefully-laid strategy to protect the knowledge of that Arcadian vessel, and one against which it is hardly prudent for a single man to pit himself. Courage is fine and laudable, but pointless suicide is arguably sinful. Only with my followers and myself will you be reliably protected.”
Her persuasions unnerved me, but could not change my purpose. I was determined at the very least to settle all my affairs with Mr. Lanyon before I retreated into hiding. Considering the wound I had taken along with the fear Lord Temple and his entire household already had of the terrorists, it could hardly be difficult for me to convince my employer or his estate manager of the very real danger I was in. But this was a mere contingency, assuming I failed to settle the matter as I formerly intended: with the aid of militiamen, the county magistrate and the gallows. As far as I was concerned, it would be unforgivable of me to flee until the effort had been made to cleanse Upper Blackbrook of its recent, pernicious invaders. After much heated debate, Phoebe grudgingly consented to my intention and allowed me the use of one of the horses. I allowed Lance to choose for himself whether or not to accompany me on this admittedly dangerous errand, to which he consented most loyally. It was all much to the chagrin of the draigwight cleric, who nevertheless parted from me with instructions that should matters get out of hand as she feared, I could travel to Fort Rowan by way of Tardale. “Assuming, that is,” she reassuringly quipped, “that there is anything left capable of travel.”
Officers of the Law
I struck a south-western course across the moor, hoping thus to avoid riding into the bloodthirsty cavaliers. I was greatly encouraged that we were accosted by no-one throughout the journey, and encountered no sign of our former attackers or any other ill-meaning strangers, either upon the moor or from the foot of the escarpment to the grounds of the manor house. It was here that we encountered Mr. Lanyon, who approached us in a state of suppressed though unmistakable consternation. That did little enough for my former optimism, which was promptly decimated by his first words:
“Thank the Lord! But where the hell have you been, Morgan? They couldn’t say whether or not you’d been done for.”
Rather than answer, I urgently enquired what he meant by that last distressing comment. It transpired that in the time since I had ridden away wounded from the invaders in the field, some more farm workers had approached that area. The sight of two armed horsemen patrolling about the strange, burnt heap was enough to dissuade them from this course. They had hurried to Mr. Lanyon and reported this affair, which at once alarmed the estate manager who could only presume that I had failed dismally, or fatally, in my role as sentinel. He had armed a group of men and taken them to the field, only to discover it suddenly uninhabited. There were many signs of its recent visitors: divers tracks through the wheat, of men, horses and, unexpectedly, of carts. These led from the road-gate to the main burnt area – upon last inspection, the severely crushed but empty burnt area. The debris had been entirely removed in what must have been a lightning operation. Some riders had been sent out east to trace the wagons, having reasoned that they could have gone in no other direction except across country to avoid interception. They were placing their hopes on the belief that the terrorists could hardly have gained much of a start ahead of them, though even then my pessimism was steadily growing.
I more or less fully explained the circumstances of my escape to Mr. Lanyon, deciding that now we had settled upon a common enemy, there was no further reason to conceal the alliance I had briefly formed with Phoebe. He at first appeared to take the news with some distaste and suspicion, but this had alleviated considerably by the time I was relating how she had acted to preserve my life on the moor. Indeed, he responded to this part of my tale with some concern.
“I hope she knew what she was about, Rann. You look to me as sickly as any man I’ve ever seen, and I’ll include the time when my brother-in-law had the consumption. You’re bloodshot, man. How long has it been since you last had any sleep?”
A valid point, I conceded. A night out in a storm, exhausting pursuits, incessant anxiety and a pistol-ball in the side, had certainly taken their toll, and even with the urgent business of justice yet to be completed the thought of a few hours rest was considerable temptation. Mr. Lanyon did not begrudge me this. Considering recent events, he had evidently given up all attempts at trying to preserve the routine of the estate. In any case, my wound and my condition spoke for themselves.
To best serve my duties over the full area of the estate I held two cottages, though found little occasion to make regular use of them both during the colder seasons. I preferred to dwell in the one situated closer to the manor and the dwellings of the farm workers, considering that the other was essentially built to serve the duke’s woodland and the nesting grounds, and was in fact little better than a draughty hermitage upon the moor. To the former I now repaired, having first seen young Lance safely to his parents’ dwelling with my caution not to tell them any more than seemed prudent, if only for the sake of their ease. Nothing else hindered me in settling down for the afternoon with the fond hope that Lord Temple’s servants, now on their guard, would at the very least prove a sufficient deterrent to further acts of terrorism, even if they were unsuccessful in bringing the known perpetrators to justice. In that event, which was all I expected, I would ensure that among my duties the following day would be included either a message or personal visit to the county courthouse in Blackbrook Town and possibly a similar communication with the commandant of Camp Hazeldine. With such favourable thoughts as these I whiled away my last few hours of comparative ease, soon drifting into a sleep that I presently regard as the true boundary between a perceived hope and order and a very real despair and chaos.
* * *
It was some time later, perhaps two hours before daybreak, that I awoke. I had little occasion to note the time: for I awoke from shallow rest and an obscure nightmare, chiefly concerning brimstone and drowning, to a scene of little improvement. At first I could make out nothing around me, and as my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness my vision remained unaccountably dim. The shapes of furniture seemed like phantoms in a mist. The acrid stench of my dream remained in my nostrils, and as I breathed in this contamination it produced a rasping pain in my throat and a fit of choking. The weakness I had upon rising refused to lift – quite the contrary – and despite the panic of my mind, my body remained entirely apathetic. Mercifully, the progress of my terror was promptly terminated by my complete loss of sensibility. I have the vaguest recollection of being carried bodily through my own window, but I only truly recovered upon the grass some distance from my unfortunate cottage. How much later this was I cannot say, except to state that it was dark and my dwelling had since been more or less reduced to a blazing ruin, the stone walls acting as a primitive sort of furnace, concentrating the incineration of the contents, including the collapsed remnants of my thatch roof. The glass had melted from all the casements, save that of my chamber which had been deliberately smashed in by my rescuers.
I noted that the fire had drawn a fair crowd from among the neighbouring servants and labourers, many of whom were rather pointlessly engaged in attempting with various containers of water to save the irreparable shell of my cottage. None were presently attending to me, presumably having already satisfied themselves that I was alive, breathing, and would recover. As I dragged myself painfully from the damp ground and to my feet I attracted the attention of a few men, among them Mr. Lanyon, who was supervising the chaos from horseback. He left the mob to their own devices and rode up to me with a look of anxiety I could well understand.
“Rann, are you alright to be moving? You look terrible. Positively haggard. We’d best get you a bed down at the Pike’s Head right away.”
I thanked him for his consideration, then enquired whether anyone was aware of how the fire had started. Not that I was lacking in suspicions: merely in confirmation and evidence.
“Would it be too much to hope that you might have somehow started it accidentally?” he asked, with little hope. I could answer that easily enough: I had used neither my fireplace nor my stove for the whole of that last miserable day. A depressed look of resignation crossed his face. “In that case, one of these men did report seeing a horseman with a torch take the turning for this road down by the Pike’s Head. I think that makes it plain that you don’t dare use your other cottage, for the present at any rate. I’m taking this matter straight to the sheriff tomorrow, and this time I shan’t even wait to see whether Lord Temple objects or not. Burning the wheat-field was one thing, but to keep silent over attempted murder would be as good as treasonous, if not a downright mortal sin, for all their threats.”
“Only the one of them?” I exclaimed, grasping at a very slight hope. “And how long ago would that have been?”
“Too long to hope of catching the bastard, if that’s what you mean. In any case, I’m afraid there’s another lurking about the district somewhere. Our friend saw two of them, but the other just kept on down the main road.”
“Did he also have a torch?”
“I don’t know. I . . . I didn’t think about it.”
Lance had been seen with me in the field, without a doubt, when we had fled up the escarpment. In fact, he had seen the cavaliers before I had. The Medlar’s homestead and smallholding was situated some four or five miles to the west of the manor house and only distantly visible from the main road. Unlike my cottage, they were far from being within easy access, or even within notice of neighbours. Some of these thoughts had occurred to Mr. Lanyon as well as to myself, and with recommendations that I should wait upon his return without exertion, he set off towards the road at break-neck speed. In spite of his precautions I was quick enough to follow on a horse borrowed from the Pike’s Head stables. I had tethered the draigwight beast to a post outside my cottage, but found the rope broken and loose. Considering its strength, it might just as easily have freed itself as been taken by the terrorist, though I learnt no more of this. In my thoughtless desperation I would probably have risked proceeding on foot, except that the inn presented itself most conveniently to me at the road-junction.
I could not catch up with Mr. Lanyon on the road and next met him riding back along the narrow path from the Medlar’s home. He expressed no surprise at my approach and it did not prove difficult for me to search his face for the information I dreaded to find. Traces of sickness, embarrassment, indignation and confusion were manifest signs of what had become of Lance and his parents, as were the awkward words he pronounced:
“There’s nothing to be found. It’s hopeless.”
This did not long deter my progress up the path, drawn by sheer morbid compulsion. There was, in truth, little more than nothing to be found. A stranger might have mistaken a destroyed house for a mere pile of rubbish. The whole had the appearance of a disused and decaying brick kiln half full of smouldering charcoal and clinker. I was far from being inclined to investigate those remains any more closely, but like a fool I rode out into the country along some tracks I espied in the soot-clad earth. Caught between guilty remorse (for who but me had involved the boy in these wretched proceedings?) and hatred of my suspected quarry, I did not even consider that I was far more a hunted object than the stranger I pursued, let alone spared a thought for Mr. Lanyon, who would have wished to aid me, if only to dissuade me from such recklessness.
The tracks led south across the field and into wooded country and I pursued them assiduously, along paths almost too narrow to even allow easy passage to wanderers on foot, and between trees where no paths existed, until they eventually led me to the bank of a stream. Upon the opposite bank stood a tall horse, accoutred in a light armoured coat and metal blinkers, its halter tied to a tree. I scrutinised the bank for the impressions of the rider’s boots, but saw only a few at the very edge of the stream that ran up as far as the horse. Quite evidently he had dismounted, tethered the horse, and then walked back and waded the stream. I had no way of telling at what point he had returned to the bank, or even upon which bank he had climbed out. In short, he had thrown me off his track completely. All I knew was that he was probably near and waiting for me to expose myself to his pistol-sights. I dared not attempt riding across the stream, thus relinquishing what cover the trees might have afforded me. Shaken to my senses, I realised that my only sensible course of action from this ludicrous point would be to attempt retracing my steps as silently as possible.
I had only just begun to manoeuvre my horse about when the expected shot rang out. It was something of a misfire, catching my unlucky horse in its flank. Before the animal bolted into the woods, never to be seen by me again, it shook me violently from the saddle and I came down upon the bank, almost rolling into the stream. I did not hesitate in wading it, knowing from the direction of the shot that my enemy had attempted to take me from behind – from the very direction I had been preparing to follow. My only resource now was the murderer’s horse, assuming that I could release and mount it before he found time to reload. In this much I succeeded, only to realise that it would give me no advantage of speed over a man on foot in these dense woods. Cursing my own stupidity, I looked back to see the cloaked and masked cavalier on the bank of the stream I had recently deserted, wielding a sabre. I found that of some small comfort, but only for as long as he kept his present distance.
He did not: he began to wade the stream, steadily but relentlessly, sword already poised for deadly action. In a desperate act I spurred the horse forward to an immediate gallop, directly across the stream and over my assailant. He tried to turn at the last minute, but to no avail, and was trampled down with a nauseating scream. Following this brief but turbulent ride I drew up on the bank, dismounted, secured the horse and turned back to the stream. Though I felt nothing but loathing and a vague satisfaction in regard to the dark and twisted shape that lay almost completely submerged, yet I endeavoured to haul it upon the bank and examine it for what signs of life I may find. It was a wasted effort: though his heavy, shot-proof cuirass had saved his ribs from crushing, his neck had been twisted fatally. His head slumped at a hideous angle and declared this beyond a doubt, yet I gingerly removed his helmet for absolute confirmation. His twisted expression of pain had set on a face that already appeared ashen and milky-eyed. Needless to state, he did not breathe.
I felt it best to search him for what effects, if any, he carried, so that I might be provided with some lead concerning his fellows. I proceeded to this with considerable distaste, however, and at first with very little success. I found no pockets in his cloak, and once obliged to remove his armour, I found nothing in the pockets of his coarse, dark clothing. Not until I thought to remove his boots did my fortunes change: purely by luck did my hand encounter a small metal object concealed behind the inner flap of leather in the first I drew off, which I examined as soon as I had possession of it. It proved to be fashioned in the shape of a star, with a moulded outline that particularly suggested a witches’ star, and a central engraved pattern that I could not distinguish. Threads fastened it to the leather flap, but I had soon torn it free and held it up to the weak dawn light for scrutiny.
The pattern was made up of a device and two fragments of writing. A sword was crossed with a single branch against the background of a fortified tower. The larger part of the writing was a classical motto, known to me ever since the schooldays of my later childhood: Pro Patriae Paci (For the peace of our land). That phrase was taken up by the People’s Militia during the Great Revolution, and has since passed into the use of the new order, for which they paved the way with the ruins of its predecessor. Above the device was engraved the letters L, C and G.
At the time, I had hardly ever found occasion to travel beyond the county boundary, saving intermittent excursions to Tardale. I had never visited the cities of the south, had no dealings with them, and understood little of life as it was led within them. Only a few scraps of knowledge had I learnt by repute or notoriety, among which was the nature of the insignia I had taken from the corpse: the man I had trampled was evidently an officer of the Lexigrad Civilian Guard. Personal bodyguard of the delator of Lexigrad: sheriff of the largest and richest borough within not only the state of Brêven but the entire Union, if not the very world. Arguably the most powerful man beneath the primate himself, not excluding the elected prefects or the council members. Indisputably the federal head of criminal justice, with command over all the lesser sheriffs and considerable influence in the county militias, according to hearsay. A hero statesman since he secured peace with the draigwights, but no less feared for it. Even the farmers of Upper Blackbrook could relate the popular tales of his well-established uncompromising cruelty to even minor offenders. There was a particular and oft-repeated story of how his armed guards, on direct orders, had fired upon a group of agitators with calamitous result, except insofar as the riot was ended at a dubious cost. Lexigrad was often said to be the safest city in the Union, save for anyone unfortunate enough to fall within the suspicion of delator Taplowe.
His civic guards, hated and reviled by all who were not wholly innocent and candid, were nonetheless generally considered as the elite within their field. Except in their function as bodyguard to the delator it was unknown, or certainly unaccustomed for them to operate outside the metropolis. And now I had killed one of these universally dreaded and extremely well-connected deputies. Aside from having survived this far against the odds, the circumstances could hardly have appeared more bleak. What outcome dared I expect if I reported this discovery? These men were answerable only to the delator himself and presumably under his orders even as they had put the torch to the Medlar’s home and my own. With the support of such a man, albeit clandestine, the power and authority of our local sheriff was apt to prove thoroughly ineffective against them. Even assuming that the secrecy of their operations would remove any danger of myself actually being arrested or lynched as a murderer and traitor – which by no means did I intend to take for granted – the likelihood remained that they would still hunt me down as before and finish the work of tonight. However the matter was examined I was as good as a fugitive, absent of all hope that Mr. Lanyon or anyone else could bring my adversaries to justice. A foolish construction, considering as how they were the active embodiment of what passed for federal justice. Phoebe had attempted to persuade me that flight was my only means of survival and for the first time I began to question my wisdom in disputing and ignoring that counsel. The fruits of my decision after a single day had been the loss of four lives, the destruction of my home and two narrow escapes from joining the death list.
Not that I was confident even of my present survival. For I chanced to catch a glance of my face in the stream and even from that unsteady image could see what Mr. Lanyon had meant about my haggard looks: my face had become morbidly thin and drawn in the space of a single day, whilst my hair seemed equally neglected and diseased. I reached to my scalp and attempted to comb back the dishevelled clumps with my fingers. My hand returned with a collection of dry, lustreless strands. A second stroke brought the same result. I then noticed my fingers: the skin around the nails was dry and flaking and the nails themselves were loose enough that I might have dragged each of them out with barely a twinge of pain. Even on my hands, veins and bones were notably more prominent than usual. Yet in spite of all this the only debility I felt was hunger. I found that most curious, then disturbing and infuriating. Events on the moor came back to mind and I looked once more upon my reflection for confirmation. It took neither time nor effort to find. For my eyes were not merely bloodshot: the once-brown tissue had quite simply turned a dark red and grown outwards to reduce the whites to narrow outlines. For the first time I began to notice the heat within my mouth, which I had formerly been content to overlook for the simple reason that it was by no means uncomfortable. None of these effects were, yet they were as unwelcome as they were painless and filled me with an unconsidered and probably unjust wrath towards the healer who had inflicted it upon me. Not only was I a hunted man beyond the help of friends, but as if to complete my estrangement I had even failed to preserve my own nature: the physic Phoebe had given me was changing me into a draigwight. No wonder, then, at her determination that I should accompany her back to her own lands. For the sake of survival, I should now have to make that journey alone.
I am given to understand that draigwights are more prone to strong feelings than all other peoples of the world. I can certainly state that it was with more ill grace than I had ever before felt that I made my preparations.
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