The people of Gorgonholm were up early the next morning, collecting the wounded and pilfering the dead. Wives, parents, and sweethearts swarmed to the battlefield in search of missing husbands, sons, or lovers.
The bodies of fallen nobles were naturally treated with the utmost respect. Wrapped in fine linen shrouds, they were transported by wagon to the tombs of their venerated ancestors. Lesser folk did the best they could, sometimes carrying their dead back to local churchyards, but more often settling for a battlefield burial. Unclaimed bodies were tossed into mass graves.
The slain Keltins were left to rot where they fell. The carrion beasts would feast well in the days ahead.
The streets of the city were jammed with citizens assessing the damage, checking on their neighbors, swapping rumors. Bishop Boniface, it was reported, had been struck by a Keltin spear and had instituted a new tithe to pay for the necessary treatments.
Some maintained the earl had been killed while leading a glorious charge around the Keltin flank. Others said nay—he had indeed led the charge but was only wounded. Still others claimed he had slain the Keltin king in single combat.
Sheriff Brandon was also lauded. His trained bands, it was told, had smashed straight through the Keltin center and driven their army into the river. He had slain, they said, seven enemy chieftains in the course of the day, then sat down to a lunch of seven eggs.
Another tale was more cautionary. In the battle’s aftermath, a group of vengeful townsmen had seized a number of abandoned currachs and pursued their beaten foe across the river. When they stumbled upon an empty Keltin war-camp, their lust for loot had overwhelmed their passion for revenge. When they stopped to pillage, they were surrounded and slain by a contingent of Chewbone warriors that had rallied in the forest just beyond the camp.
An entertaining encounter near Market Square drew a large group on onlookers. The skipper of a small riverboat was engaged in vociferous argument with the owner of a demolished pawnshop, the exasperated pawnbroker demanding compensation for his shop and stock, the skipper accusing him of stealing his boat and insisting that he return it at once to its rightful place on the dock.
Father Egrigius, abbot of the Black Friars, was quite calm when confronted with the ruins of his abbey. He knew that war was expensive and that in the coming weeks, many of the nobles would be forced to borrow large sums from his order. Their interest payments would be more than adequate to cover the cost of rebuilding.
But why merely rebuild? Why not commission an edifice worthy of his order? He envisioned sweeping buttresses, leering gargoyles, and a bell tower tall enough to block the view from Bishop Boniface’s private apartment. That would surely stick in that old fool’s craw.
Remarkably, the city streets were cleaner than anyone could remember, for the great flood had swept away the accumulated filth of generations, leaving a clean, crisp smell that many found annoying. For days thereafter, tiny sodden men, the surviving remnants of the Small Folk, were seen crawling from flooded basements or squeezing up through sewer drains. These were quickly hunted down and slain by vengeful citizens.
Far more Shamblers survived than might be expected. Like roaches, they were notoriously hard to kill. Those who managed to escape the knives of the Small Folk and then live through the horrendous deluge were amazingly philosophical about their experience, acknowledging that a good purging every five or ten years was useful of ridding their quarter of the bad blood. Besides, there would now be new opportunities, for the Brethren would be forced to open their books and admit new members.
In Grimsgard, the morning began like any other. The summer sun awoke eventually and spread its warmth over the countryside. Torgul’s bees buzzed and set out to fetch their daily quota of pollen. Chanticleer crowed mightily and strutted through the village, searching for new wives. Cocks are not sentimental creatures.
Roscoe’s tenants emerged from the sheltering woods and crept back to their village. Word had gone out that the master had returned and killed the bad lord who had attacked their homes. He had, it was said, also slain the Keltin king in single combat and sent his army running back across the river. There was nothing Lord Roscoe could not do.
It was a day for both grieving and rejoicing. Grieving because there were friends and neighbors to put in the grave. Grieving for wives and daughters violated by the soldiers of the bad lord. Grieving for their goods and livestock stolen or destroyed. Yet rejoicing for the fact that they lived still! The bad lord was gone, the Keltins were gone, and the villagers’ hearts continued to pump blood through their veins. That was indeed a thing to be happy about.
Grimsgard boasted no church or chapel, so there was no cleric to officiate at the burials. Various tenants had, from time to time, asked Roscoe to fetch one from the city, but the old Adventurer was adamant in his refusal. He would not allow the church to gain a foothold in his estate. Once established in the village, the holy fathers would waste no time asserting their authority over every aspect of their lives. Roscoe would never allow that.
The dead were laid to rest in the patch of ground that served as the village cemetery. It was, by force of habit, referred to as the churchyard, although the closest building was a cowshed. Ubo and his henchmen were dragged into a field and burned on a pyre of logs.
With the dead attended to, Roscoe turned his attention to the restoration of his fief. Several tenants were sent to remove the blood and filth from the towerhouse. Having held the fief’s livestock during the anticipated siege, it needed a thorough cleaning. Roscoe had assumed that Sarah would take over Florio’s kitchen duties while the elf recovered, but she only gave him a disappointed look and went out to the village to tend the injured tenants.
Left to his own devices, the old Adventurer wandered into the kitchen, looking for some breakfast.
“God’s great naked pate! Thurmond! Torgul! Come and help me! This is a terrible thing to behold!”
Thurmond was only too glad to abandon his current task. He and the dwarf had been shifting heavy furniture so the cleaners could proceed with their work. They found their friend with his arms hanging limply at his sides, his eyes filled with dismay.
“Alack! Our kitchen has been ravished. Have you ever seen such wanton disregard for basic decency? There’s not a thing left that’s fit to eat.”
His words were sadly true. Ubo’s boys had run riot though Florio’s marvelous kitchen. The flagstones were cluttered with pots, pans, and utensils knocked from their hooks. Jars of sauces and preserved fruit had been opened, tasted, and smashed. Large crocks had been tipped sideways, spilling a medley of pickled meats, marinated vegetables, and stewed herbs. Dried onions rolled underfoot. And over everything was spread a thick coating of finely ground flour.
Roscoe was beside himself.
“This is just plain wrong, so it is! It’s bad enough that those poxy buggers broke into my home and abused my people, but this is too much! It’s utterly heartless, keepin’ a man from his breakfast!”
Thurmond saw things a bit differently.
“We’ve got to get this place cleaned up. If Florio sees it like this, in his weakened state, the shock could bring on a brain fever. It could kill him.”
Before the old Adventurer could reply, a dismal cry came from behind them.
“God in a great bronze bowl! Why? Why?”
The elf stood in the doorway, clutching the frame with one hand, his lips quivering, a fat tear rolling down his bruised cheek.
By late afternoon, things in the tower had been more or less set to right. The animal dung had been scraped up and hauled away, the broken crockery had been removed from the kitchen, and the blood had been mopped from the floors. Florio did not come down with a lethal brain fever. In fact, he steadfastly refused to return to his bed until he had seen the kitchen floor swept and the counters wiped clean.
Fortunately, Ubo’s men had been less than thorough in their rapine. A bit of searching revealed sufficient foodstuffs for a morning repast—a pot of snails boiled in dark ale, a number of day-old loaves with a small tub of rendered mutton fat for a topping, and a jar of what was thought to be some sort of dried fruit.
Breakfast was served on a long table beneath the ancient linden tree on the common. It was simple fare compared to Florio’s usual exotic cookery, but Roscoe insisted that the elf return to his bed and recover before assuming his station at the stove. By the time they sat down, the old Adventurer was so famished that he could, he proclaimed, eat a live baby goblin.
Things were just returning to normal when their meal was interrupted by a large, dark shadow that suddenly fell across the table. Looking up, they recognized Asmodeus on his demon-steed circling overhead. He spiraled toward the ground and landed a dozen yards away. Sliding from the saddle, he fed his mount with something from his saddlebag. There was a pitiful squeal as the hell-creature closed its jaws.
Asmodeus was decked out in full military finery. His thigh-high boots and boiled leather cuirass were dyed a rich plum. Gorget, bracers, and open-faced casque were enameled a dark burgundy. Over all was thrown a thick cloak of maroon wool. His helmet sported a tall lavender plume.
The wizard strode to their table, sat down, poured himself a mug of ale from the pitcher on the table. He offered the Adventurers a self-satisfied grin.
“I just wanted to look in on my minions. You’re all still alive, I see—or at least you appear to be.”
Roscoe was growing increasingly weary of the wizard’s condescension.
“I am no man’s minion. I am master of this freehold by the grace of….”
Asmodeus waved away his objections with a smirk.
“Please pardon me, Your Majesty, I had quite forgotten your elevated position. Now if Your Exaltedness will kindly allow me to finish, I’d like to inform you that the Black Stone has been completely overthrown. Its powers sent…elsewhere. I have arranged for it to be dumped into the river. Some fish will certainly die, but with any luck the thing will not rise for another thousand years.”
This caught Sarah’s attention.
“We were successful then? We used Malachai’s instrument correctly? It worked as it was supposed to?”
The wizard allowed her a bland smile.
“Eminently so.”
“And that contributed to our winning the battle?”
“Indeed, it did. Breaking the power of the Stone was more important than all the swords and spears combined. It brought immediate disunity to the Keltin host, so that it crumbled more and more as the day progressed.”
He stared intensely into the young witch’s eyes.
“You are woefully untrained, but your natural abilities are great. Be very careful—you might easily summon entities beyond your control. The result would be worse than death.”
None of the Adventurers knew how to respond to these words, so they sat in an awkward silence until Thurmond remembered an item he had stashed in a leather bag at his feet. He extracted it and placed it before Asmodeus.
“I stole this book from Malachai’s workshop. Is it valuable?”
The wizard’s eyes narrowed slightly. He extended his hands as if to pick it up, paused, then pulled them back as if afraid to touch it. He considered a moment, then finally reached out, opened the volume, and began to thumb through the pages.
“This might be of some small interest to the right person, but it is of no considerable value.”
Thurmond raised a doubtful eyebrow.
“It gives detailed instructions for imbuing dead flesh with artificial life. I would think it to be of great interest.”
Asmodeus tossed it down contemptuously.
“As I said, it is an item of slight worth.”
Thurmond returned it to the leather bag.
“Very well—I offered it to you as a courtesy, but perhaps Master Jarvis will prove more eager.”
The wizard puffed out his chubby cheeks.
“Jarvis! That common merchant! What would he do with such a book? He’d sell it to some bumbler who would send a legion of undead to plague our city. Nay, we can’t have that. Give it to me. I’ll give you a thousand golden sovereigns for it.”
This was certainly a princely sum, but Thurmond had recognized the covetous gleam in Asmodeus eyes when first presented with the volume. And he knew a thousand sovereigns was a paltry amount to the wealthy wizard.
“Not nearly enough! Besides, I want something beyond gold.”
Asmodeus grew cautious.
“Beyond gold? What do you have in mind?”
“I want your sworn oath that you will shield us from Malachai. He may mean us harm. You must do whatever is necessary to protect us.”
This was a serious demand. For all his childish whimsy, Asmodeus adhered to a strict code of honor. Such a pledge might embroil him in a deadly feud with an opponent of awesome power. But Thurmond was not yet finished.
“And I would need no less than five thousand sovereigns to even consider the transaction.”
This was less of an issue. The wizard possessed almost limitless wealth. Still, he did not like being dictated to by this upstart whelp.
And that whelp was still not done.
“And lastly, I want that.”
Thurmond pointed to the curved dagger hanging on Asmodeus’s girdle.
“You want my dagger? It’s an ensorcelled blade, my boy. You would have no use for it.”
“Makes no difference. You have heard my terms. They are not negotiable.”
Asmodeus considered having his demon eat the accursed boy, perhaps eat them all. Then he could just take the book. But was the price really that high? The book possessed great power. He could feel the energy bursting from it.
Personal items absorbed the psychic signatures of their owners, and this one was brimming with Malachai’s essence. As such, it could be used against him, much as hair and nail cuttings could be used to empower a curse. Formidable though he was, Malachai would not be eager to offend anyone possessing the item.
Meeting the boy’s demand for protection would not be difficult. The gold was inconsequential. He could always send spirits to fetch more from a distant land where that mineral was as common as iron. The dagger rankled, but why should he allow such a small point to complicate an otherwise satisfactory arrangement?
“I agree to your terms. I solemnly swear that I will protect you and yours from any attack by Malachai, even at the cost of my life. I will send my steed to fetch your gold, he will return with it shortly. Here is your dagger.”
He unhooked the weapon from his belt and pushed it across the table. Then he refilled his mug with ale.
The demon returned with the gold much quicker than any mortal creature could have done. Asmodeus dumped it on the table for the Adventurers’ inspection. Fearing an illusion, Thurmond disbelieved with all his might, but the sovereigns remained solid and real. Then he handed over the book.
Their business concluded, the wizard mounted his fiend and flew off.