Michael Stackpole - Of Limited Loyalty

Over supper they got a chance to speak with Shepherd Faith about other settlements in the area. He had nothing bad to say about the people of Wisdom, but said he didn’t know much about any other settlements. “Trappers come through and talk. There are valleys in the mountains, so there may be smaller settlements from elsewhere.”

Makepeace leaned forward. “Going on four-five year ago, I heard tell of a man was leading a flock out here. Was going to establish the City of God. Said he’d had a revelation.”

Faith’s face closed down. “The Simonites. We don’t hold with the True Oriental Church of the Lord.”

Owen’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know of them? Do they call their settlement Postsylvania?”

“They are heretics. They claim that when Our Lord gave his apostle Peter the new name Simon, it was a clue to a mystery in the Good Book. They say he is one in the same with the sorcerer Simon Magus. They claim that magick is not the gift of God, but the gift of becoming God. They point to the Books of Acts and how the Apostles were able to perform the same miracles as Our Lord, and how many magicks are able to imitate the miracles. They claim that great magick and glory awaits them across the mountains. Whether or not they call their holdings Postsylvania, I do not know, but I will tell you this: the men and women that have come this way looking for them have been anything but virtuous.”

“You think they are out there?”

“Not think, Captain, know.” Shepherd Faith sighed. “We are simple people. We pray for the Lord’s Blessing every day. We also pray for His Justice, and for Him to smite His enemies. We can feel it, Captain, the blight upon the earth. It is out there. Beware if you seek it, and linger not long. Our Lord will rain down cleansing fire and you, most assuredly, do not wish to be consumed.”

The people of Plentiful spent the Sabbath in quiet contemplation of all things Godly and glorious. Owen and the others kept to themselves and spent much of the time sleeping. The journey inland had been tiring, and moving into the mountains would make the trip more difficult. Not wishing to upset their hosts by resuming their work on Sunday seemed a good excuse to recover.

On Monday morning they packed up their gear and prepared to leave. Nathaniel chopped more wood, Count von Metternin managed to repair a broken spinning wheel, and Hodge put a keen edge on every scythe in the loft. The residents prepared small packages of dried sausage, cheese, and bread to take with them. Rathfield bade them keep the deerskin and Owen gave Shepherd Faith’s wife a small packet of needles from Temperance-a gift which was very well received.

Its reception brought a smile to Owen’s face. Bethany Frost had suggested it and Owen availed himself of her wisdom. Bethany had nursed Owen back to health after his escape from Anvil Lake, and had done a splendid job of editing his book. Because of Catherine’s jealousy, Owen usually refrained from meeting with Bethany outside of group affairs, but she’d managed to get him alone in Temperance before the expedition departed.

He thanked her for the gift of the needles. “What can I do for you in return?”

The beautiful young woman had smiled warmly, then averted her eyes downward. “In return, you will return and let me read your journal of the expedition. Just like last time.”

He had agreed and faithfully recorded most details of the trip. He thought about including Nathaniel’s comment concerning Rathfield’s story, but held off. He was certain Nathaniel was right and knew Prince Vlad could confirm it, but perhaps Rathfield had been mistaken. Perhaps he added that detail for effect given where we were. Owen still couldn’t shake the impression of sincerity.

The land determined their course to the west. Because the Snake River came out of the mountains through a high gorge, they left it and followed a smaller tributary, angling to the southwest to reach the mountains through a series of forested hills. As they entered the foothills they saw no obvious pass to the west, so began the trip up toward the ridgeline a day out of Plentiful.

Kamiskwa, who was in the lead, called for them to stop on a promontory overlooking a small teardrop-shaped lake. Owen studied it, looking for any signs of dwarf mastodons living amid the underbrush and evergreens. Ahead, to the southwest, clouds still shrouded the highest peaks.

The Altashee crouched and pressed his left palm to the ground. “This is an evil place.”

Rathfield frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Can’t you feel it?”

Rathfield folded his arms across his chest, but Owen went to a knee and touched the ground. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. He wasn’t sure he’d ever paid attention to what the ground felt like, but there did seem to be something odd. His fingers tingled the way they did when thawing out after a long winter walk. “It is different, Colonel.”

“Are you having me on?”

Nathaniel tipped his floppy-brimmed hat back. “I don’t reckon they are. Been stories told of these mountains. Shedashee have ’em. There’s things what lurk where folks might not want them lurking.”

“So, because of some faery stories told to frighten children, we’re going to stop?”

“This ain’t the onliest way through here, Colonel.” Nathaniel pointed off south. “Backtrack a day, cross the Snake, head on in that way.”

“We already lost a day in Plentiful, Woods. I see no reason we shouldn’t just continue on through.”

Count von Metternin shrugged off his pack. “In the four years I’ve been here, Colonel, I have learned that time sacrificed in the name of safety is seldom wasted-unless there is some urgency to your mission of which I am not privy.”

“With all due respect, my lord, there are aspects of this journey which are known only to those who gave me the assignment.”

Then it began, a rumble which shook them much as thunder close by would-made all the more remarkable because only the barest wisp of clouds existed from horizon to horizon. The vibrations pounded through Owen’s chest and, as they continued, he realized they had nothing to do with thunder. The vibrations were coming up through the ground, causing the earth to shift and trees to sway as if caught in a gale.

His guts knotted and he got down on all fours. A ripple ran through the lake below, starting at the broad end and racing northeast toward the narrows. As the rising wave approached the promontory it picked up speed. Water withdrew from the near shore, curling into a fluid wall. The wave crested, splashing up over the narrow beach and into the wood. The water just kept going, picking up deadfall logs and bashing them against other trees. Taller trees, with their roots already shaken, succumbed to the flood and fell. A second and third wave hit the shore, neither going as far as the first, but when the water calmed itself again, what had once been beach lay beneath twenty feet of water, and what had been a teardrop now better resembled an egg.

Kamiskwa rose and offered a hand to help Rathfield up off the ground. “As I said, it is an evil place.” He pointed toward the tallest peaks, two of which, Owen was willing to swear, stood further apart than they had. “The evil is concentrated up there. A wise man would run.”

Rathfield dusted himself off. “I have my orders.”

Nathaniel shook his head. “Follow ’em and you’ll likely have more scars, too.”

The Norillian lifted his chin. “Are you brave enough a man to follow me, Woods?”

“Iffen you ever do see the far side of those mountains, it ain’t because I been following.” The scout shrugged. “I reckon I can stand a couple more scars. So long as I live to tell the tale, I ain’t got call to complain.”