Roscoe and company arrived at Grimsgard late that night. Drawing close to his towerhouse, he was surprised to see helmeted heads moving atop the battlements.
“Holla! Holla in the tower! It’s me, Roscoe! I’m back! Open the bloody door, by God’s holy backside!”
Bodo peered down between two merlons, torch in hand.
“Roscoe! Is that really you? And Thurmond and Torgul and Sarah? Oh, this is wondrous indeed! If ever we needed….”
Roscoe grew impatient.
“God’s twelve toes, Bodo, leave off with all the jabber and get that door open. I’m tired to the very bone, so I am, and sufferin’ from a mighty appetite. Get crackin’, boyo!”
Bodo disappeared from the parapet, and soon the heavy door of the towerhouse swung wide. But so great was the rush of happy villagers from inside that Roscoe and the others could only stand and wait for the way to clear before they could enter.
Roscoe had hoped to enjoy a long and leisurely dinner in the comfortable surroundings of his own great hall. Florio, he was certain, would be delighted to prepare a lavish banquet for his newly returned master. After so many days of salt meat, dried peas, and hard bread, he really needed a good meal.
These hopes were dashed the moment he stepped in the door. The towerhouse was crammed to the rafters with supplies stockpiled for the expected siege, the ground floor storeroom with barrels of beer, baskets of dried fish, and bags of oats.
Ascending the stairs, he was dismayed to discover his great hall had become a stockyard filled with goats, sheep, pigs, and cows. Geese, ducks, and chickens roosted in the chandeliers and overhead beams. The floor was spotted with their droppings.
Every available space, it seemed, was crowded with something—bedding, clothing, tools, sheaves of arrows, firewood. The tower was intended to house a force of perhaps a dozen, but more than three score now huddled within its walls. The place reeked of human and animal waste.
Amidst all the turmoil—excited voices, crying children, squawking poultry, and lowing, bleating, grunting livestock—Florio tried to explain.
There would be no fine feast. The toothsome delights of peace had given way to simple fare of war. Florio sent a serving girl for what remained of the evening meal—salt meat, dried peas, and hard bread. He could offer them beer, of course, but someone had surreptitiously consumed the entire store of Torgul’s mead.
Even their private chambers had been taken over by the village’s displaced tenants. Torgul’s room now housed an extended family of Gock the cowherd. This included his grandparents, parents, siblings, children, aunts, uncles, cousins, and nephews.
Roscoe booted a pair of amorous newlyweds from his quarters and invited the dwarf to share it with him. Thurmond was horrified to discover his room filled to capacity with assorted villagers. Fat Annie stood in the doorway with crossed arms, as if daring him to try to evict her.
Sarah’s quarters remained thankfully untouched. Nothing could induce the villagers to approach the witch’s workroom or sleeping chamber. They were firmly convinced, perhaps inspired by Florio’s occasional remarks, that a ferocious demon resided therein and would rend anyone foolish enough to enter.
Sarah hooked Thurmond by the arm.
“Come on, you can bunk in my room.”
He was not reluctant to agree to this suggestion.
Roscoe needed sleep almost as much as he needed a grand feeding, but he must first listen to Florio’s account of that morning’s unfortunate incident, how he had mistaken royal soldiers for Keltin raiders. The elf began to weep as he apologized for his stupidity, and he did his desperate best to assure Roscoe that he would personally suffer whatever dire consequences came their way.
Roscoe was moved by his reeve’s sincerity, but he was too worn out to offer much in the way of reassurance. All he could do, in the end, was pat the elf’s arm and give him a wink.
“Don’t be frettin’ about it, Florio. I ain’t gonna let nothin’ bad happen to you.”
Early the next morning, a small contingent of armed riders bearing a black banner came galloping across Grimsgard’s village common and drew rein before the towerhouse. A gust of wind spread the banner wide, revealing the heraldic arms of Lord Drakar de la Pole—in silver, a viper swallowing an infant.
Peering down through an arrow-slit window, Florio suppressed an urge to vomit. There could be no mistake, he was looking at his own death. The men he had slain must have belonged to Drakar, a notoriously vindictive and vengeful lord. He could only pray that his demise would not be slow and agonizing.
It had been his ill judgment that brought this catastrophe upon them. Therefore, he must surrender himself, confess his culpability, and endure whatever fate Lord Drakar decreed. He had just started down the spiral steps to the ground floor when a harsh voice came from outside.
“Roscoe Appleman! Freeholder of Grimsgard! Show yourself in the name of Ralf, Earl of Avincraik!”
The elf froze in mid-step, one pointy-toed shoe suspended in the air. In the earl’s name—what could that portend? Would it be better or worse for him?
He resumed his trek down the stairs, but before he reached the bottom, Roscoe, who was already in the tower’s ground-floor storeroom, opened the door and stepped out to face his visitors.
“I am Roscoe, the franklin of this holding. What would our most gracious earl be havin’ of me?”
The reply was curt and gruff.
“You are commanded to join the armed forces of Gorgonholm, appearing at the South Gate no later than sundown this very day. You will bring yourself and five others, all well-armed and mounted. In addition, you must supply six lightly armed spearmen or archers, on horse or afoot. Be not late!”
A thudding of hooves told that the riders had ridden away.
Florio placed his hand on the wall, dizzy with relief. It had been a summons to arms. There had been no mention of the man he had slain.
When he finally reached the door, Roscoe was standing with hands on hips, watching the riders canter away. He looked at the elf and grinned.
“You hear that? I figured them fellas was here for your hide, so I did. But they didn’t say one word about yesterday’s little misunderstandin’.”
Florio hung his head.
“I was going to give myself up to try to save everyone else.”
The old Adventurer exploded.
“Don’t talk rot! You’ll do no such thing! I need you to run this place. I’m no good at it. Nay, laddie, you’re goin’ nowhere. Especially now, what with me goin’ off to war.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“Well now, this ain’t gonna be easy. We’re plumb wore out after our long ride, plus we got a demon to destroy. But a summons is a summons, so I ain’t got no choice. You’ll be takin’ charge here. I hate to leave you in such desperate times, but you’ve got the tower as ready as it’s ever gonna be. And you got Bodo. He’s a good man, so he is.”
“Who goes with you?”
“Torgul and Thurmond and Sarah, of course. And those three Gascar archers. That makes seven, so I’ll have to take five villagers to round out the dozen. You know ‘em better than I do—who do I want? Are any of ‘em good with a bow?”
“Aye, they’ve had plenty of practice poaching your game.”
“Good! Pick out five of the best and fix ‘em up with some armor best you can. Also, we’ll be needin’ food and drink for a couple of days.”
The elf nodded.
“I’ll see to it at once. All will be ready by midday.”
“Oh, and one more thing, Florio, what’s for breakfast?”
“I have salt meat and lentils.”
“What? God’s liver and lights! Is that the best you can offer a starvin’ man?”
“I do but jest, milord. I’ve prepared a simple but tasty repast of creamed raven’s eggs spiced with bittersweet herbs. Next a savory stew of red and black squirrels. Lastly, a small compote of spicy yarbleberries in red wine. I pray it will be adequate.”
Before breakfast could be served, Asmodeus swooped down from the heavens on his demon steed. He hopped from its back and strode to the tower’s door, where the elf and the old Adventurer stood.
The wizard was as dapper as ever, bedecked in magenta riding breeches and matching doublet. A black leather skullcap was buckled beneath his chin. Black knee-high boots completed the ensemble.
He wasted no time on pleasantries. There would be no evil giggles today.
“You were very long in returning, Appleman. By my calculations you should have been back a week ago. I allowed ample time for you to complete your task and get back. You must have been dawdling along the way.”
Roscoe was too tired and hungry to fear the wizard’s displeasure. He just wanted his breakfast.
“By your calculations, mayhap. But did you figure on us bein’ captured by Vanir warriors or Thurmond havin’ his chest crushed? Then there was that necromancer Malachai, right pleasant fella he was with his heads in jars. Oh, I nearly forgot, there was also this gang of rampagin’ giants that needed killin’. Then still more Vanarians. And just when we was finally in the clear, we was attacked by the very mercenaries you sent to guard us. So I guess we got a tad behind schedule.”
Asmodeus dismissed these words with a wave of his hand.
“Pishposh, we all have our difficulties to overcome. I never said your quest would be easy.”
Roscoe huffed.
“Well, Master Asmodeus, you have the right of that, so you have. Easy it wasn’t. But we’re back now, and we’ve brought the thing you sent us for. Just a moment, I’ll fetch it for you.”
Real fear filled Asmodeus’s eyes.
“Nay! Bring it not! I must not touch it nor even see it. I can’t be near it. I can feel its hellish power even as we speak.”
Roscoe cocked his head, uncertain.
“You can feel its hellish power? I’ve felt nothin’, and I’ve been ridin’ with that thing for days and days.”
“Of course not, for you are bound entirely to this plane. I, on the other hand, am…”
He paused.
“…otherwise.”
The old Adventurer was by now growing more and more fed up with the wizard’s haughty demeanor.
“God’s webby fingers! If you won’t take it, what am I to do with the damned thing? Answer me that.”
Asmodeus pressed his palms together as if praying.
“You are more correct than you know. Malachai’s instrument is precisely a damned thing. An infernal entity resides within it. You will release it from its bonds and set it against the Black Stone.”
“Nay! I will not be releasin’ no demons from bondage. I will not! You do it, you’re the magic man. It’s your rightful job, so it is!”
Two stories up, in a chamber overlooking the tower’s door, Thurmond and Sarah were awakened by the uproar below. Sarah opened a window so they could hear more readily the details of the dispute.
Asmodeus’s voice was now as loud and angry as Roscoe’s.
“You must, you fool! Either you or that little witch of yours. It’s the only way. I can’t, the instrument’s power would consume me in an instant. You’ll be safe enough. Your humanity will protect you.”
“And just what are you meanin’ by that?”
The wizard raised his eyes in exasperation.
“Both the Stone and the instrument exude infernal power. They touch everyone to a greater or lesser degree, depending on their natural disposition. You being the bumbling dolt you are, with your idiotic ideas about honesty and loyalty, you should be safe. At least for long enough to employ the instrument.”
Roscoe was intractable.
“I will not! I am an honorable man, just as you say, and I will not soil my soul by releasin’ no hell-spawn into the world. Neither will my people.”
“Then we must all perish as the Black Stone continues to feed.”
“Find someone else. Maybe one of your skeleton men. I already did my bit by bringin’ it here.”
“There is no time, you big buffoon. It must be done tonight at the hour of the Howling Basilisk. The Keltins will cross the river at any moment. The Stone is drawing them on, unifying them like they’ve never been before. Only by breaking its hold do we have any hope of defeating them.”
Sarah could stand the racket no longer. She hollered down from the window.
“Roscoe, I beg you, lower your voices. Such squabbling accomplishes nothing. So leave off.”
Roscoe, still irate, shouted in her direction.
“You don’t know what he’s askin’ of me, girl. He’s wantin’ me to…”
She cut him short.
“I’m aware. I heard all. It’s all right. I’ll release the thing in the box. Give me a minute and I’ll be right down.”
Sarah pulled a dress over her linen chemise, stuck her feet in slippers, and dashed down the stairs. Thurmond was close behind her, doing his best to make her change her mind.
“This is madness, Sarah! You saw what happened to Renata when her demon got loose. It tore her to pieces, and you said it was just a little one.”
But the young witch was not inclined to listen.
“Enough, Thurmond, please. Asmodeus knows what must be done. It’ll all work out, you’ll see.”
“I see nothing except that you’ll very likely be killed, maybe worse.”
She looked back over her shoulder as they spiraled down the stairs.
“I seem to recall facing death once or twice before. You didn’t make such a fuss those times.”
“Demons are different. They’re too powerful, you can’t fight ‘em.”
“Certainly you can. You just have to have the right weapons.”
They crossed the threshold into the open air. The wizard was calmer now, his voice normal.
“So, you will do this deed?”
Sarah nodded.
“I will.”
“Then I must instruct you in its proper employment.”
“Malachai told me much. I believe I’m ready to proceed.”
“Sit down and listen. There may still be a few things you need to know.”