R. Salvatore - The Ancient

Dawson grinned and nodded and dared to hope that he could fill his hold with able bodies in short order.

Aw, but he come through with a parade and all,” exclaimed the excited middle-aged woman who looked much older than that. “Was as grand a spectacle as Oi’ve e’er seen, do you not think?”

Cadayle nodded politely and let her continue, and she did, for more than an hour, recounting the celebration on the day that Brother Bran Dynard passed through this unremarkable hamlet of Winterstorm.

Bransen and Callen leaned against the front wall of the single-room cottage. Despite his reservations, Bransen continued to listen, but Callen had long ago obviously dismissed the woman’s rambling as a desperate attempt to garner some reward-even if it was just the satisfaction of having an audience for her chatter and gossip.

“Was the last we seen o’ him, that brother, do you not think?” the old woman said, offering a dramatic upturn in her inflection that startled even the daydreaming Callen. “And so he went, and so goes the world.”

“To Chapel Abelle?” Cadayle asked.

The woman shrugged, and when that resulted in a disappointed responding expression, the woman brightened suddenly and nodded too eagerly.

“You’ll be staying to break the bread?” she asked. “I’ve a bit o’ porridge, too, and stew from a lamb killed only a week ago and not yet holed by the worms.”

Cadayle turned to her companions, who offered postures and expressions perfectly indifferent.

“Yes, a meal would do us well as we continue on our way,” she said to the woman, who beamed a toothless smile back at her, then hustled out of the house to gather ingredients and utensils.

“She had no idea that such a man as Bran Dynard ever existed,” Callen said when she had gone.

“Do not underestimate the memories of villagers,” Bransen cautioned.

“The imagination, you mean,” Callen replied. “Their life is tedium, year to year to year. We’ve brought them something they sorely need: excitement.”

“A war rages within a few days’ march,” Bransen reminded.

“Diversion, then,” said Callen.

Bransen looked to Cadayle for some support here, but all she could offer was a shrug. He accepted that as he had to accept the simple truth of it all. They had covered many miles from Palmaristown, walking a road strewn with hamlets very much the same as Winterstorm, a cluster of farmhouses and perhaps a tradesman’s shop or two encircling a common hall. Now with more than half the distance between Palmaristown and Chapel Abelle behind them, Bransen had hoped that the answers to questions about lost Bran Dynard would become more relevant and with answers beginning to flow more openly, but alas, the song remained the same. While some, like this woman, would weave elaborate tales, the quantity of words did little to enhance the quality. Hope had turned to dust in the first few minutes of an hour-long, creative recollection that was at least ten parts poetic license to one part memory. In truth, for all of their inquiries, the trio had garnered nothing at all about Bran Dynard’s journey to Chapel Abelle those twenty years ago.

But Bransen wouldn’t let his hopes die, for when he considered the truth of his quest he recognized that he should have expected nothing more than that which he had found. Indeed, the hospitality the trio had been granted along this road had made the journey not so unpleasant. His answers, if they were to be found, would almost certainly come from Chapel Abelle itself.

“Chapel Abelle,” he said to Callen. She smiled and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Soon.”

Three,” a disgruntled Dawson told Pinower. “They are slaves here, and yet they view what I have to offer as less than even that!”

“I might have expected a few more,” the brother replied. “But truly, they have seen the battlefield-many have felt the bite of cold iron. We work them hard, but here they know they will outlive the war. You offer them more war.”

“I offer them freedom!”

Brother Pinower chuckled at that. “Vanguard is at war. Everyone here knows that truth.”

“The path I offer leads to freedom with land and standing.”

“Or to the belly of a goblin. They have been known to eat their captives and enemy dead.”

Dawson gave a sigh of surrender.

“Three?” Brother Pinower asked, his tone becoming suddenly hopeful. “Three more than when you arrived. And you can rest easy that Father Artolivan will not allow you to return with only that.”

“He will send monks?”

“No, no, of course not, for we have none to spare,” Brother Pinower answered. “Not in these times. But there are gemstones that might serve the brothers of Chapel Pellinor…”

“Chapel Pellinor has fallen,” said Dawson.

“A temporary situation, we are confident. Already the newest rumors from the northland speak of cleanup and rebuilding, with renewed vigor and determination. And many of the brothers of Pellinor remain alive. We will bolster their ranks-your ranks-with gemstones and other supplies. I have already spoken to Father Artolivan about this, and he has given me all assurances.”

Dawson nodded. “Dame Gwydre will appreciate such support. But I’ve a hold to fill with able men, and only three have thus far agreed-and agreed for more coin than I intended to offer. I need fifty, Brother, to make my journey here worth the time and expense of Dame Gwydre, even with your generous offer of gemstones and other supplies. We are in short supply of bodies only.”

“Patience, then,” said Brother Pinower. “The battles across Honce rage, and more workers come in every week. Perhaps I can speak to Brother Shinnigord, who directs the workers, to more freely use the whip, that your offer sounds a bit more enticing.”

“That would be appreciated,” Dawson said, and gave a bow.

Brother Pinower shrugged as if it was nothing. “We have too many workers at present,” he said. “And more arriving, an endless stream. Perhaps Father Artolivan can be persuaded to address your concerns to Lairds Ethelbert and Delaval, to enact an agreement that would allow us to sail any excess direct to Dame Gwydre.”

“Now that, Brother, would serve Vanguard well, indeed,” Dawson replied, and nearly choked, so fast did he try to get the words out of his mouth.

It was an offer he dearly wanted to pursue, but some commotion to the side turned the both of them toward the door to the chapel proper, where a young brother came forth along with a pair of the more senior monks of Chapel Abelle.

“Brother Fatuus of Palmaristown,” Brother Pinower explained to Dawson. “He rode in hard this day with urgent news for Father Artolivan.”

“News that would interest me and my cause?”

Brother Pinower shrugged and promised to return presently, and Dawson went back to the work groups to continue his offers. “Three,” he muttered as he walked across the open courtyard, and he shuddered to think of the tongue-lashing Dame Gwydre would give him if he returned with such meager reinforcements as that!

Gaoler’s Price

Row harder!” Giavno prompted the two monks in the small boat-one of only a handful remaining in Chapel Isle’s “fleet.”

“Are we chasing ghosts?” one of the men dared ask.

“I saw it, I tell you!” Giavno insisted. “In the mist, drifting.”

“Drifting? Or laying in wait?” asked the oarsman.

“Her mast was down,” Giavno insisted. “Is down!” he cried, pointing ahead through the filmy gray steam. They all saw the boat, then, bobbing, mainsail torn down and with the craft apparently abandoned. “A prize for us to take back to Chapel Isle.”

He looked back at the other two, grinning from ear to ear and certain that Father De Guilbe and the rest of his brethren would be quite pleased with today’s catch, particularly since the monks had been forced to take men from their work on the chapel that they could construct more boats. When he turned forward again, though, his smile disappeared, for as they neared, the angle allowed him to see over the side of the craft, and it was anything but abandoned.