Hunter wasn’t very keen on logging out and leaving Fawkes and Fyodor alone in the mouth of the tomb, but she insisted–and it was a good thing that she did, too. His physical body back in the Happy Motel was in a dire need of food, a good stretch, a shave and a bath, and eight hours of sleep.
By the time he popped back in the game the next morning the storm had abated. Fawkes was sitting more or less where he’d left her, scratching a napping Fyodor behind the ears.
“We’ve got company,” she told him. “Two of them, a man and a woman, armed with bows and spears. They’ve been watching us since yesterday. Now they’re holed up somewhere near the foot of that mound over there, probably in the entrance of another tomb. One less occupied than the one we picked, from the looks of it.”
“…and you got all that just from sitting there and staring out of the entrance?”
“When you get as old as I am, lad,” she said with a vicious half-smile, “you pick up a few tricks along the way.”
She’d gotten her mean streak back, Hunter noticed. That was good.
“Want me to send the ravens to take a look?”
“It wouldn’t hurt,” she shrugged. “They already know we’re here, and we already know they’re there. We might as well invite them over for tea and breakfast.”
So Hunter summoned his familiars and sent them out scouting. The morning mist was still thick as pea soup outside, but that didn’t seem to hinder the two ravens at all. They came back a short while later, more or less confirming what Fawkes had already said.
“Any idea who they are or what they want?” asked Hunter.
“If they wanted to attack, they had plenty of opportunities to do so already. No, I think they’re just curious. As to who they are… Ghost Nation, I would wager.”
“I thought you said the Ghost Nation had vanished.”
“Maybe they didn’t,” Fawkes shrugged. “Telling history and tradition apart from campfire stories and legends isn’t always easy with the Brennai.”
Even in Elderpyre, Hunter supposed, people had a penchant for tall tales and exaggeration. “Real life is boring,” Aries, the Pyromancer from his raiding group, used to say. “Why not pepper it with something more exciting?” She always had the craziest stories, Aries. The fact that they were mostly bull didn’t change that fact. Maybe he should ask Carpenter whether he was allowed to call her, Hunter thought, and Packman, too. They’d love Elderpyre. They’d go totally bonkers if they knew.
Well, maybe he’d one day tell them. Non-disclosure agreement or not, some things were simply too big not to share.
Fawkes decided it would serve them to wait for the sun to rise higher in the sky and the mist to dissipate. Then they’d go say hello to their tomb-neighbors. Even if things went south, she said, it would be better for them to deal with the situation out in the open and on their own terms, rather than with their backs to the wall. Hunter had exactly zero objections to that. Getting cornered in a dirty old tomb that had been until very recently occupied by a gigantic arachnid didn’t sound like an appealing scenario.
“How’s the shoulder?” Fawkes asked as he helped her pack up.
It was surprisingly fine, Hunter realized. It was still sore, but it was healing up faster than he could ever have expected. Part of it was thanks to Fawkes’s mysterious salve, for sure. Well, most of it. Even so, Hunter had a suspicion that his spectacular recovery speed had something to do with him being a transient. He asked Fawkes about it, and she confirmed that suspicion.
“You damned people have magic running through your veins," she said. “They say you can bounce back from death’s door–what’s an old little shoulder wound compared to that?”
When she put it like that, it did make some sense.
They packed up, waited until the mist that seeped from the ground was just ankle-deep, and walked straight up to the tomb Biggs and Wedge led them to. Fawkes took point, Hunter followed, and Fyodor brought up the flank, occasionally straying to sniff or piss on something.
When they got closer to the mound near which Fawkes had spotted the man and woman earlier, she produced the crimson scarf Hallara had given her and waved it into the air like a flag. It billowed out in the still-misty air like gossamer, like a drop of blood in water.
“When you approach strangers, how you posture and carry yourself matters a great deal,” Fawkes told Hunter. Her blade appeared in her other hand as if by some magic trick, this time still in its sheath. “You want to show them you’re armed and confident, but still appear relaxed and non-threatening.”
That was good advice, he thought. He’d have to hold on to it for his next job interview–minus the armed part, obviously.
As it turned out, their tomb-neighbors were privy to that wisdom too; they emerged from the tomb entrance with a slow, self-assured gait and with spears at their sides.
One of them was a hulking man with what looked like a buffalo-skull headdress covering his head and face. The other was a woman, slender, lithe, and of medium height. Her headdress bore the likeness of a falcon, with a huge curved beak hanging over her forehead and concealing most of her face in half-shadows. Both of them wore rough clothing made of animal hides and furs, and had intricate shapes, runes, and designs tattooed on almost every inch of their exposed skin.
“Hile, strangers," Fawkes called out to them as the two groups were getting closer. “May your days be many and your nights serene.”
“You speak in the way of the folken,” said the woman in a stern voice and an exotic accent, “You wave the crimson, too, but you’re clearly foreigners. These are the lands of the Cor, and our fathers, and their fathers. We are the Brethren, keepers of this vale, and we are not fond of trespassers.”
“How about visitors, then?” asked Fawkes, showing the open palms of her gloved hands in what Hunter took to be a gesture of good will, blade still in her hand notwithstanding. “Or, might I hope, guests?”
“That depends on the reason for their visit,” The woman studied them both for a moment, then nodded. “Let us palaver, then, lest you think us savages.”
They sat down cross-legged on the ground right where they stood, the four of them, facing each other and laying their weapons flat on their laps. Fyodor sat on his haunches, too, and the ravens took their now customary place on Hunter’s shoulders. If the newcomers were alarmed or impressed by the presence of that little menagerie, they didn’t show it. In fact, they didn’t show much of anything; they sat with their backs straight and stiff and their faces hidden under their peculiar headdresses.
“They call me Fawkes. This is Hunter. We both are quite a long way from home, indeed, but we come to the lands of the Cor as friends.”
“That remains to be seen,” answered the woman coolly. “The friends of the Cor are like the Cor themselves these days–few and far between. They call me Sister Peregrine. My companion is Brother Aurochs. Pardon his silence, for he is a man of few words.”
“If only that were the case for my own companion too," said Fawkes, but her attempt at levity fell flat. The Cor weren’t too keen on humor, it looked like.
“What business brings you to the Vale, pray tell?” Sister Peregrine asked. “The sooner it is concluded, the sooner you may be on your way back to your homes.”
“Your hospitality is touching," Hunter snarked, earning sharp glances from both Fawkes and the Cor woman.
“We’re looking for a compatriot of ours, a man who may have passed through your lands a fortnight or so ago. That is all.”
Sister Peregrine and Brother Aurochs exchanged glances under their headdresses. The woman whispered a few sentences in a language Hunter didn’t understand. The man gave her a stern look, but nodded.
“The golden-haired one,” she finally said. “We know the man you speak of,” the woman finally said. “He has passed through our land. We can take you to him, but first there is a matter of importance to attend to.”
Fawkes raised an eyebrow.
“Speak freely, Sister.”
Whatever the matter was, Sister Peregrine seemed reluctant to continue. She threw another glance at Brother Aurochs, but the man stayed silent and expressionless, inscrutable.
“These weapons that you carry," she finally said, “are you proficient with them? Are you versed in the drawing of the blade and the shedding of the blood?”
Fawkes let out a sigh and nodded. The recluse’s carcass lay only a couple hundred yards away. The Brethren knew the answer to their question already.
“Only when the occasion demands it,” she said, “and only with great responsibility.”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The answer seemed to satisfy Sister Peregrine as well as her hulking companion. He gave her another slow and deliberate nod.
“The Brethren are no strangers to tragedy and strife, yet this dark turn of fate requires the assistance of another” Sister Peregrine explained. “One of our number had her sanity taken, her mind twisted and broken. She trespasses in the Halls of the Ancestors now, desecrating them with acts most foul. If you would travel with us and put an end to her suffering, we would be happy to take you to the one you seek.”
To Hunter’s surprise, that triggered a notification:
“Why do you need the help of outsiders?” asked Fawkes. “Surely you can deal with such a mercy killing yourselves.”
“Alas, we cannot,” Sister Peregrine shook her head. “To shed the blood of another of the Brethren would be to spit in the face of the Ancestors. And it must be the providence of the Ancestors themselves who sent you to our land at this time of need, because visitors are a rare thing in the Vale.”
“Even so, we are no murderers for hire.”
“It shan’t be murder, friend. It is as you said, an act of grace and compassion, a mercy killing.”
Hunter watched Fawkes as she considered the Sister’s request and her face grew dark. The notification was clear–this task was directly related to the task Arjen had given them, if not the one and the same. She didn’t seem to object to it then–but then again, the bear godling’s words and phrasing had been vague, subject to conjecture. Should Hunter share that knowledge with Fawkes right away, with Sister Peregrine and Brother Aurochs watching and listening to their every word? Or was he to stick to his usual ‘see everything, hear everything, say nothing’?
“We shall do it, then” Fawkes said, sparing him the dilemma, “if only out of necessity. Where is this Hall of the Ancestors, then?”
“Right at the heart of the Vale” Sister answered, satisfied. “No more than a few hours’ walk, even at a brisk pace. It’s best to depart at once, however, and be done within the day. Letting nightfall and the mist it brings catch up with as you leave the Vale would be foolish. Dangerous even.”
“Would the Brethren not offer us hospitality for a single night, then?” asked Fawkes, carefully but obviously prodding the Sister, testing her reaction. “Even after we take care of your… mercy killing?”
Prodding or no prodding, it was a valid question. Even Sister Peregrine seemed to think so, because she showed no sign of taking offense.
“It would be wiser if we would not,” she said in a tone that was almost apologetic, but still had the weight of finality. “Both for our sake and yours, we shouldn’t.”
***
“This is the right thing to do,” Hunter whispered to Fawkes once they had a smidgen of privacy away from the eyes and ears of the Brethren. “It is that thing Arjen asked us to do, silence the whispers or whatnot.”
She gave him a sharp glance, surprised.
“And how do you know that, lad?”
Metagaming, that’s how, but that wasn’t a concept he’d find easy to explain to the woman. He sometimes had trouble understanding its finer points himself.
“Transient’s intuition," he said instead, shrugging.
“Of course it is," Fawkes sighed. “I wonder why I even bother to ask.”
“So, what do you make of these two?”
Fawkes glanced at Sister Peregrine and Brother Aurochs, making no attempt at subtlety. They were a couple dozen feet away, themselves pretty blatantly studying their new guests and whispering to one another. Savoir-faire and good manners were relative things in Elderpyre, it seemed–just as they were anywhere else.
“They are in distress” said Fawkes after sizing up the odd pair for a few breaths. “They don’t seem to wish us harm, but they’re definitely hiding something. I wouldn’t trust them any farther than I could throw them, and neither should you.”
“No, I mean… are they Ghost Nation?”
“I guess so. They are Cor, the Brethren of the Vale,” Fawkes shrugged, “whatever that may be. I’m not well versed in the traditional nomenclature of the Brennai. Let us play along anyway, for now.”
Hunter considered using his Mystic’s Eye ability to learn more about these Cor, or even the Ghost Nation. He’d gained another point of Insight since the last time he’d attempted to use it, and he was itching to see whether that increase would have any effect.
He started gathering his essence, but Fawkes grabbed his arm and squeezed.
“Not here,” she said, eyeing the two Brethren, “whatever it is you’re about to do.”
Hunter let the gathered essence dissipate.
“How did you know?”
“Lodge magics.”
“Fair enough.”
He scratched Fyodor behind his large ears and eyed the Brethren himself, wondering whether they could be trusted. Fyodor sniffed the air and licked his hand, providing him with a measure of reassurance. He had expected the Brethren to have some kind of reaction to the direwolf’s presence. They hadn’t, which made him wonder.
“Arjen aside, why do we have to go through all this song and dance?” Hunter asked, changing the subject. “I mean, can’t they simply tell us where to find Reiner?
“Predictably, they can’t,” Fawkes said. “Not before they have their own troubles solved. That’s how people are, lad. Always the same old, tired story. No matter. I just hope they aren’t stringing us along.”
Yes, Hunter supposed. This rigid tit-for-tat, quid-pro-quo kind of thing reminded him a bit too much of a quest line in an RPG. Well, maybe it was exactly that. Elderpyre, despite all of its verisimilitude, was nothing but another game after all. It shouldn’t surprise him if it followed the same trappings.
But wasn’t the real world more or less like that, too?
The sun climbed higher in the sky, evaporating most of that peculiar Vale mist that clung to the ground. Sister Peregrine and Brother Aurochs were leading the way. They were taking Fawkes, Hunter, and Fyodor down ancient, half-buried paths that twisted and turned around the many mounds that littered the Vale. No words were exchanged–only wary, sideways glances.
Since they first sat down to palaver, Hunter had many chances to take a closer look at the two Brethren. They were interesting-looking folk, he had to give them that. In fact, they reminded him of a couple of supporting characters in some RPG–the fleshed-out, memorable kind, the kind that stuck to his memory long after he’d finished the game and moved on to the next one.
First, there was Brother Aurochs. Almost seven feet tall and built like a brick house, broad-chested and musclebound. He carried himself with a slow, ponderous way that reminded Hunter of big animals. It was the way an elephant would carry itself knowing he’s the absolutely biggest thing in a ten-mile radius.
The man would give the toughest of the gym freaks that worked as muscle for the clubs back in Alex’s old neighborhood a run for their money any day of the week. One look at the carved and decorated buffalo skull he hid most of his face behind would be intimidating enough to reconsider their chosen profession.
Then there was Sister Peregrine, and Hunter couldn’t help but gawk. Underneath all the furs and utilitarian hide clothes, the young woman had the lithe and toned body of a gymnast–the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue cover kind of gymnast. He tried to take a peek at her face, too, but couldn’t see much. Most of it was hidden under the shadows her falcon head headdress cast, which added an air of quiet mystery around her.
Despite all her feminine wiles, however–and despite his own decidedly scopophilic male gaze perspective–he suspected Sister Peregrine could probably kick his ass six ways to Sunday. She moved like a predator on the prowl, like a slender but deadly hunting cat.
“Don’t stare, you slobbering fool” hissed Fawkes, clouting him up the head.
“Ouch! I wasn’t–”
“Llerwyn’s breeches, you weren’t. If you offend them and ruin this, I will have your man parts broiled.”
Hunter shut up and rubbed his head. That would probably leave a bump. What had gotten into Fawkes? He’d never seen her let her smooth operator façade slip before–not even in combat. They were getting closer to finding her friend and that made her restless. Figures.
They spent the rest of the way to the center of the Vale more or less in sullen, introspective silence. If there were other Cor around, Hunter saw neither them or any signs of their presence. The Vale might have been home to the Ghost Nation once, but now nature had all but reclaimed it. Even under the light of day, even with the mists evaporated, it had that eerie, ghostly atmosphere Hunter had always associated with unknown, untamed lands far away from the rebar-and-concrete cities of civilization.
The mound at the center of the Vale was big enough to conceal the Cor equivalent of a full-sized cathedral. Judging from the ancient building that jutted from its side, it probably did. Weather-beaten stairs of gray marble led up to giant double doors the blue-green color of oxidized copper, framed by huge carved stone totems depicting animalistic and shamanic designs. The centuries’ worth of dust, dirt, and verdigris that covered its every surface did nothing to diminish the majesty of the monument. If anything, they made it more imposing.
“These are the Halls of the Ancestors,” Sister Peregrine announced, and there was more than just a hint of reverence in her voice. “The once and future beating heart of the Cor, and all life in the Vale. Recognize the honor of laying eyes on these doors for what it is, foreigners, for few are allowed to do so anymore.”
Even if she hadn’t spoken, Hunter would feel it; the air itself was ripe with the humming of spirits and the thrumming of magic–the telltale signs of a Place of Power, only greater, much greater. Overtaken by it, Hunter split from the rest of the group and got closer to the grand doors. Sister Peregrine opened her mouth to say something–probably a harsh warning–but Brother Aurochs stopped her with a light touch to her shoulder.
Hunter laid a hand on the towering doors and felt their patina come alive under his fingertips, flooding him with wave after wave after wave of… something. A presence. An intelligence, almost, thousands of minds and souls melded into one. He let his fingers trace the etchings carved there, the words and marks and ideograms in dead languages he’d never even seen before, much less learned to decipher. Their meaning became almost clear to him–almost.
“Yes," he willed, and he felt the door’s eldritch presence tug at his core with so much intensity, he almost thought it would tear it from his chest.
He pulled his hand from the door, gasping for air. This was no Place of Power. This was a Place of POWER, written in all caps and with a goddamn cherry on top. Never mind the massive boost in Aether and Inspiration he’d just received; he’d salivate over those later. Whatever the Halls of the Ancestors hid behind its weather-beaten entrance… it was truly the beating heart of all life in the Vale, and more.
Brother Aurochs walked over to Hunter and put a huge hand on his shoulder and another on his chest–a gesture of acceptance and respect. Stunned as Hunter was, he didn’t even think to react. Sister Peregrine studied them both, suddenly interested.
“He is gifted in the ways of the spirit, your friend,” she told Fawkes. “Unusually so.”
“He is mai” Fawkes replied, shaking her head. “Maybe those gifts of his may one day bloom, if they don’t first spell his demise.”
Sister Peregrine’s lips, barely visible under her falcon mask’s beak, split in a slight smile.
“That is the way of the mai indeed, Ancestors watch over them.”
That speckle of mirth didn’t last long, however. Not a dozen heartbeats later, Sister Peregrine’s face was again darkened by her perpetual half-frown.
“There is something you must understand before venturing forth. What’s beyond these doors was never meant for the eyes of strangers and outsiders,” she said. “It was never meant for the eyes of anyone, for that matter. You have to swear by what you hold dear and holy you’ll never breathe a word of what you see and hear in the Halls.”
“By Grimnir’s insight, I swear,” said Fawkes.
“I swear,” mumbled Hunter, still a bit numb from coming in contact with the Place of Power.
“Your oaths have been witnessed, and taken well. Come. There’s much to be said, much to be done.”