The Adventurers were more cautious after the ambush. They rode with helmets on their heads and shields on their arms. Roscoe’s crossbow was kept in easy reach on the back of his saddle. Thurmond kept his eyes skinned for any indication of a lurking enemy and often rode ahead of the others to scout out suspicious sections of trail.
One day oozed into the next. They rode without incident though a long stretch of evergreen forest. Game was abundant, and the keen-eyed Gascars kept the party well supplied with fresh meat. From time to time, they stopped at the tiny villages for bread, cheese, and ale.
Sarah rode with her arm in a sling, sipping regularly from the flask of uisge. Roscoe’s ministrations and a liberal application of Florio’s healing balm kept the wound from festering, but she would not be casting any spells for a while. All her energy was required for the healing process.
They were all pleased that Cob seemed to be calming down. The further north they traveled, the less morose he became. Though he continued to remain aloof from the Adventurers, he now conversed with his two comrades in a normal manner, and his sleep was no longer troubled by abominable dreams and fits of screaming.
After days and days of riding—the journey had taken longer than they anticipated—the party crested a small rise, and Visby finally hove into view. It was unimpressive compared to Gorgonholm, with few buildings reaching above one or two stories. Most were built of heavy, square-cut logs cut from the surrounding forests. The better structures were half-timbered, but only one, an imposing castle set on a high motte, was constructed of stone.
The city was girdled by a formidable ditch and bank surmounted by a stout wooden palisade. This was reinforced by wooden towers at regular intervals along its length. A massive wooden gatehouse guarded the only entrance.
Visby was the northernmost city of the kingdom of Poitiers. The blue eyes and blond hair of its inhabitants proclaimed their predominately Vanarian ancestry. Their speech bore a heavy, throaty accent that the Adventurers found hard to understand.
They did manage to ascertain that Three Fat Friars was not actually inside the city, but located in a hamlet a few miles north. It was not an inviting structure. Built of heavy logs with a projecting upper story, it resembled a blockhouse more than an inn. The thick planks of the door were braced with iron bands, as if an attack were imminent.
The proprietor, at least, looked like a proper innkeeper—bald, round, and red-faced. There were, he explained, no private chambers at Three Fat Friars. Half of the upper floor served as a communal sleeping loft, but heavy cloth partitions offered guests a modicum of privacy. He shared the other half with his daughters, who were his cooks and barmaids.
Asmodeus’s mercenaries had not yet arrived. Roscoe was frustrated by the delay and considered pushing on without them. In the end, however, caution prevailed, and the party settled down to wait.
Three Fat Friars turned out to be more hospitable than expected. The ground floor was an immense common room with a gigantic fireplace in which slabs of meat were kept turning. The food was undeniably good—thick venison steaks served with beets and onions, roasted haunch of boar, swan stuffed with turnips, smoked trout in a pungent sauce. Not, perhaps, as exotic as Florio’s culinary masterworks, but mighty toothsome, natheless.
The innkeeper’s daughters were buxom and flirty, but Thurmond knew better than to pay them too much attention, at least in front of Sarah. Because of the cool northern climate, the bedding was less bug-ridden than in the inns down south. The ale, Roscoe declared, was some of the best he had ever tasted.
On the third morning, their breakfast was disturbed by a great stamping of hooves and the rattle of armor. Thurmond peered from one of the common room’s tiny windows. A dozen men clad in mail and leather and carrying every imaginable weapon were dismounting in the inn yard. The mercenaries had finally arrived.
Roscoe was just rising from his stool but stopped when a man came through the door. He was of middle height, but stocky and looked strong. His thick blond hair was caught back in a tail that ran halfway down his back. A long scar ran down his left cheek. He wore the white belt of a knight.
Seeing the Adventurers, he stopped short.
“You!”
Sarah was equally stunned.
“You!”
The man remained silent, his eyes filled with distrust.
It was Sarah who finally spoke.
“Roscoe, I’d like you to meet my half-brother, Bart.”
Though they had never met him, the other Adventurers all knew about Bartholomew Staynes. He had led a rival party of treasure hunters during their first adventure—a quest to seize a trove of goblin gold.
Bart’s face darkened with anger.
“You stole my map.”
Sarah’s reply was remarkably placid.
“Nay, brother, I did not.”
“Don’t lie to me, you little…”
Thurmond pushed back his stool and stood up, hatred burning in his eyes. He knew about the vile threats that Bart had made to Sarah, the promises of the unnatural things he would do to her as soon as their father died. His voice was low, menacing.
“Sarah does not lie. I stole your map.”
This was indeed true. Thurmond had been hired to burglarize the Staynes’s mansion—he had taken the map along with a number of other items. As Bart’s hand began to inch toward the hilt of his sword, Thurmond gave him a slight smile. He had wanted this moment for a long time.
The young Adventurer sized up his opponent. Bart was taller and more heavily muscled, but Thurmond was fast and agile. Bart’s sword was on his hip. His own was on the table in its scabbard. Could he beat the bigger man in the draw?
Thurmond wore only his tunic and breeks while Bart was clad in mail. This was a telling advantage. Luckily, the knight was not wearing a helmet. His head was covered only by a soft leather cap.
Hate boiled in all four of their eyes. The room stank of death.
Then Roscoe stepped between the two adversaries, extending his hand to Bart. He employed his most respectful tone.
“Milord, we had no idea it would be you we were meetin’ here. I bid you welcome. Now, I understand there’s some bitter history between you and Thurmond, but we’ve got an important job of work to do, so we have. Let’s not allow past squabbles to keep us from it.”
Bart ignored the proffered hand, his eyes shifting between Thurmond and Sarah as if trying to choose the first to die. When he spoke, his voice came through clenched teeth.
“Hardly a squabble, old man. I was almost killed by goblins. My men were butchered. I was left alone in that wilderness with nobody, with bloody nothing. It was a miracle I survived.”
Roscoe tried to sound reassuring.
“We was all mighty lucky to live through that one, milord. That adventure was a close-run thing, so it was.”
“Perhaps so, but you came away with great wealth, so I’ve been told, while I starved alone in a desolate forest. My only luck was when I found the river and was rescued by some passing boatmen.”
Roscoe nodded in sympathy.
“You were fortunate indeed, milord, fortunate indeed. But that was not your only luck.”
He indicated the white belt of knighthood encircling Bart’s hips.
“May I congratulate you on your newly attained rank? That is no small achievement.”
Bart’s angry response was as unexpected as it was unnecessary.
“I earned my belt fairly. You have no right to question it, commoner.”
Roscoe stumbled all over himself, struggling to make his apology seem genuine.
“Nay, I beg your pardon. I meant no offense, sir knight. My congratulations were sincere, so they were.”
While Roscoe distracted Bart, Torgul grasped the back of Thurmond’s belt and gave it a hard tug that pulled him back into his seat. Roscoe now turned to his young companion.
“Thurmond, I’d ask you to go to the sleepin’ loft and see to our gear. We’ll be leavin’ shortly. This gentleman and I have business to discuss.”
The young man muttered a low curse, rose, and mounted the stairs to the upper floor. Sarah waited but a moment before joining him.
The old Adventurer once more turned to Bart.
“The lad’s a bit hot-tempered, so he is. You are older, wiser—I’d ask you to forgive his little outburst.”
Roscoe went on.
“Please, sit down and join me in a pitcher of this most excellent beer. These norther folk are fine brewers indeed. It’s a heady brew—proper for a fightin’ man like yourself. Prithee, have a seat with me and the dwarf. We have much to talk about.”
Thurmond was already wiggling into his mail hauberk when Sarah arrived upstairs.
“What are you doing?”
“What do you think? I’m going to kill your brother.”
“Nay—you most certainly are not!”
“I am! I will! I must! For the things he said to you—he must die.”
“Please, keep your voice down. He’ll hear you.”
“Good! I want him to hear me.”
Quite unexpectedly, Sarah slapped his face.
“Whaaa…?”
She slapped it again.
“Why are you slapping me?”
“To get your attention. Because you’re being an imbecile and won’t listen to me.”
“But Sarah …”
“Be silent! Don’t talk! Just listen! I was the one Bart threatened, so I get to decide what to do about it—see?”
“I just…”
“I said, don’t talk. When I want your protection, I’ll ask you for it. Got it?”
“Aye, I got it, but…”
“Not another word! Roscoe is downstairs right now trying to calm down Bart. That probably won’t be too hard because he’s stupid.”
“And you’re up here doing the same with me?”
“That’s correct. Only it’s harder with you because you’re so much smarter. At least when you choose to be. So please, choose to be smart now.”
“Why is this so important to you?”
“Have you already forgotten why we came here? Or that Bart was sent to help us? If we fail in our quest, Gorgonholm might well be destroyed.”
Alas, Thurmond had, in his pique, overlooked that important detail.
Sarah was right about her brother—Roscoe’s good humor eventually cajoled him out of his dark mood. He listened to the old Adventurer’s tales of high adventure as he swilled the inn’s magnificent beer.
As Bart drank, he grew effusive, eager to impress the old Adventurer with exploits of his own. He and his men had spent the last several months in the service of Yorik, Earl of Sark, assisting his efforts to suppress the rebellion of some minor border lords.
The successful completion of this task had left them at loose ends until Asmodeus’s messenger, a semi-transparent specter in the form of a talking pig, had instructed them to unite with the Adventurers at Three Fat Friars. They had set out at once because, as Bart readily conceded, it would be sodding madness to disobey Asmodeus.
He had also vaguely alluded to the wizard having had a hand in his rapid elevation to knighthood, but when Roscoe asked for details, he clammed up and would say no more. It was agreed that the Adventurers and the mercenaries would join forces and head north the next morning. Roscoe would, as Asmodeus specified, be in command, with Bart serving as his lieutenant.
The Psiss Marshes, a wide belt of cold, northern wetland, served as a rather nebulous frontier between the kingdom of Poitiers and the homeland of the Vanarian tribes. The Psiss was a dim and doubtful region reputedly haunted by flesh-eating ghouls, blood-sucking vampyres, and faceless, soul-stealing wraiths. This would be the first leg of their journey. Once they entered the land of the Vanar, things would get really dangerous.
While Roscoe and Bart laid their plans, Torgul took the moment to step outside for a look at the other mercenaries. They were milling about in the innyard, watering the horses and exchanging coarse jests with the barmaids who brought them pots of beer.
As the dwarf stepped over the threshold, he stopped short—surprised by the sight of a short, stocky man with dark receding hair and eyes drawn into a permanent squint. Torgul immediately turned about and re-entered the inn. Roscoe was still deep in conversation with Bart. So instead of interrupting their conversation, he shot up the stairs to the loft.
Thurmond had calmed down, removed his mail, and was now packing their gear for departure. Sarah sat on a nearby pallet, talking to him as he worked. Her arm was still too sore for lifting or carrying.
Torgul was barely able to control his agitation as he spoke.
“Thurmond, I gotta tell you somethin’ that you ain’t gonna like. Here it is…”
Dwarves were decidedly straight-forward in speech.
“…them men down in the innyard, one of ‘em is Drax. He didn’t die of his wound.”
Drax was a mercenary soldier who had joined their party in the aftermath of their goblin adventure. He had initially befriended Thurmond, but had later tried to murder him for the pouch of gems he believed to be hanging around the young man’s neck. He had shot him in the chest with a crossbow and was about to finish him with his dagger when Roscoe and Torgul arrived in time to rescue their companion. Drax had caught a bolt from Roscoe’s crossbow and fled into the night on a stolen horse. All had hoped that his wound had festered and killed him.
Now he was back.
Thurmond threw down the bedroll in his hands and snatched up his helmet and shield. Reading his thoughts, Sarah took him by the arm with her good hand.
“Thurmond, don’t!”
He shook the restraining hand away.
“No choice this time! You were right about your brother. He made threats, but it was all just talk. He never really did anything to you. Plus, I guess we need him. But we can do without Drax. That poxy bastard tried to kill me.”
“What do you plan to do?”
“Challenge him to single combat. Then, no matter how it turns out, the quest can proceed.”
Sarah saw Torgul raise a surreptitious eyebrow. She again attempted to calm him with reason.
“Come on, Thurmond, you know Torgul and Roscoe won’t stand by and let that dog turd Drax kill you. There will be no end to trouble.”
“Can’t help it, Sarah. I got no choice this time.”
The young witch saw how determined he was and had to admit that he was right. Drax was completely untrustworthy, a ruthless murderer. He had to go.
Thurmond headed downstairs, intent on his purpose. Then came to a full stop. Drax stood in the middle of the inn’s common room. He was bare-headed, wore no armor, and carried no weapon—at least none that Thurmond could see.
Roscoe, still seated with Bart, spoke gravely to his young friend.
“Drax has somethin’ he wants to say to you, boyo—somethin’ serious. I’d deem it a personal favor if you’d at least give him a chance to speak his peace.”
Thurmond was in no mood for words. There was nothing Drax could say that would signify, but he respected his mentor too much to refuse his request.
“All right, Drax, say what you have to say.”
Drax licked his lips and wiped his palms on his dirty breeks. Then he cleared his throat.
“It was a terrible wrong what I did to you, boy. I was plain evil back then, I truly was. Cared only for myself. Completely taken by greed and strong drink. It wasn’t nothin’ personal—I always liked you, I did.”
Thurmond was unmoved.
“You done? If you are, we have business, you and I.”
Drax’s eyes grew round with fear.
“You ain’t takin’ my meanin’. I’m tryin’ to say I’m sorry…”
Thurmond cut him off.
“I don’t give a fig for your apologies! Get your armor on!”
“I can’t fight you, boy. Look what Roscoe’s crossbow done to me.”
He pointed to his left arm hanging limp by his side.
“I can’t lift it no higher than this.”
He raised it to the height of his stomach.
“And it’s so weak, I can’t carry a shield or draw a bow. I’m useless as a fighter. I wouldn’t stand a chance against you. It’d be murder—no better than what I tried doin’ to you.”
Thurmond was not buying any of this.
“Bollocks! You’re a mercenary. You fight for a living.”
“Not no more. I’m just a scout. I don’t own no armor no more. Sir Bart keeps me on ‘cause I know the north lands from the old days.”
The young man only scowled.
“Fine—I won’t use my shield. We’ll fight sword to sword.”
Drax looked utterly terrified.
“Nay, nay! We don’t need to fight at all. I done wrong to you, I admit it. But I’m a whole different man these days. After I was shot, I was found by a bunch of friars. They was kind to me. First time in my life somebody was kind to me. They healed my arm best they could, but it ain’t ever gonna be right. More important, they learned me about right and wrong, about how good things come to them what does good.”
Thurmond’s patience was at an end.
“Save your excuses, wretch. It’s time to pay for the bad you did.”
Drax’s body seemed to sag, his hands hung limply at his side.
“If you’re really gonna kill me, I guess that’ll be the way of it. But I’m beggin’ you, let me finish my story.”
“Then talk and be done!”
“Think about how things turned out. I hurt you bad, and I’m sorry, but you healed. From what folks is sayin’, you got rich and live in your own castle. And you got that black hat you was wantin’.
“Me? I’m broke and crippled. That’s what my sin brought me. See how evil brings evil? Bart—he don’t pay me but half of what the others get ‘cause I can’t fight no more. I don’t even own a sword. So if you’re gonna kill me, come do it right now. I won’t try and stop you.”
Thurmond did not know what to do. His very soul lusted for Drax’s blood, yet he could not slay a defenseless man. He glanced at Roscoe, who gave his head a very slight shake—don’t do it. That settled it. He stepped so close to Drax that their noses almost touched. His voice was a low snarl.
“Stay away from me. Don’t talk to me, not ever. Give me any reason, and I will kill you with a smile on my face.”
Then he turned and stomped back to the loft.
When he was gone, Roscoe addressed Drax.
“He means what he said, boyo, so I hope you was listenin’. We need you, Drax, ‘cause you know the country, but I won’t lift a finger to save you.”
Then he turned back to Bart and resumed their conversation.