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BOOK I: REST-BRINGER
CHAPTER 1: STRANGER AT THE GATE
“A Homunculus is an artificial body of flesh and blood constructed by arcane means. They are, by definition, inert husks, lacking intelligence, will, and a soul. However, there has been one exception to that general rule: The infamous Homunculus Knight.” —Excerpt from the text “Alchemical Abominations,” authored by Aureolus Bombastus, Master Alchemist of the Salted Citadel
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It was a wet and dreary night when a lone stranger came to Glockmire. Thunder rolled through the mountains and cold rain pelted the town’s rooftops. Glockmire was nestled between ancient mountains, deep in the wilds of Zaubervold, sixth of the thirteen Blood Duchies. Here in this remote part of the world, the town was not used to lone strangers, as few dared the surrounding wilderness without proper escort. So the sight of the single traveler on foot, arriving close to midnight, was an event of note.
The stranger walked across drenched stone, following the old road to the town walls. Like the road, the walls of the town were in poor shape, leftovers from a better era, barely maintained but still usable. Glockmire sat in the middle of a mountain pass, guarding safe passage through this part of the Dragon-Tail Mountains. A squat gatehouse sat where walls and road met. The worn building was better suited to collecting tolls than defending from invaders. Approaching the stone structure, the stranger knocked on the sturdy oaken gate. It was closed for the night, keeping trouble out and keeping the citizenry within.
The gate guard was asleep, something not unusual for the place and time. A balding man with a ruddy complexion and protruding belly, he’d lost the prior night's game of cards, landing him with the last watch. This change had done nothing to stop his usual nightcap of cheap drink.
By the guard’s reckoning, his inebriation mattered little. Walls of old stone, touched by older magic, protected the town. Few of the things that lurked in the dark woods could pass through the gate uninvited. Those that could either feared the local lord or served him. In truth, the guard’s presence was more of a formality, collecting tolls and alerting other, more capable guardians in case of a true threat.
So it came as a slight annoyance when a steady rhythm of knocks roused the guard from his stupor. Pulling himself up from the rickety chair that barely supported his weight, he shuffled to the small window and peered down on the gatehouse's exterior. Through fogged glass, the guard caught sight of who had just interrupted his sleep.
Clad in a black traveling cloak, hood drawn against the driving rain, stood a stranger. The poor conditions meant the guard couldn’t get a good look at the hooded figure. All he could tell was that the stranger was tall, broad, and carried a large pack, which meant little in these troubled times. They could be anything from a huntsman returning from a poorly planned expedition to a mercenary looking for bloody work. Shrugging to himself the Guard made his decision. If the stranger could pay the toll and pass the test, they’d be welcome in Glockmire.
Loudly, to be heard over the rain and through the thick glass, the guard yelled, “The toll is two silver coins. Let me see the coins touch your skin.”
Without complaint, the stranger pulled off one of his gloves and dropped two shiny coins into his palm.
The guard nodded in relief, most anything that go bump in the night can’t touch silver. After observing that precaution, the guard left the gatehouse and went to open the wicket gate. It took nearly a minute of fumbling with his keys, but the guard finally opened the smaller door built into the larger gate. As the wicket gate’s hinges groaned open, the stranger entered Glockmire and the guard took a hasty step back. This close and without a pane of glass to separate them, he saw exactly how big the stranger was, easily two meters by the looks of it. A moment of worry crossed the inebriated guard's mind but quickly faded as two silver coins fell into his hand. The toll was actually only one silver, but he felt he deserved the extra compensation for answering the gate at this late hour.
Shutting the wicket gate and locking it, the guard called after the already-walking stranger, “The Silly Goat is just up the road and to the left. Decent food and bed for a price.” Then he added with slurred snark, “Welcome to Glockmire, don’t cause any trouble or the Lord will get ya.”
Nodding in confirmation, the stranger set out for the town's sole tavern and inn. What passed for a main street stretched out into the distance before him, lit only by scattered lanterns and a few candles tucked behind unshuttered windows. Suddenly lightning cracked illuminating the worn town then a peal of thunder echoed through the narrow streets. As the noise echoed through the night a cloud spilled its guts in a great downpour of rain, spurring the stranger forward toward the tavern.
The stranger found his destination quickly, following the guard’s slurred instructions until he saw a painted sign hanging over the entrance of a well-kept wood-and-timber building. An artfully drawn goat decorated the sign, its wide horns and prancing legs visible thanks to flickering light coming through the inn’s windows. Light originated from a large fireplace, a welcome sight to any weary traveler. After shaking off the rain the stranger pushed the front door open. No bell or other alarm marked his entrance, just the groan of wood and a soft click of the latch.
Glancing around the tavern, the stranger drank it in. The Silly Goat was well furnished, with tables and benches scattered around the main room. In the dim light, it was hard to see, but much of the furniture was artfully crafted, carrying small artistic carvings. An uncharacteristic level of decoration and homespun beauty marked the Silly Goat, different from the gaunt and often crumbling structures that made up most of Glockmire.
A slight movement from the far side of the bar caught the stranger’s attention. Only then did he notice another’s presence.
At the bar sat a young woman in her early twenties, with long black hair held tight in a braid. She was beautiful, the last bits of adolescence fading into womanhood, with high cheekbones and a heart-shaped face, and amber-brown eyes the color of honey. Her focus was firmly on the piece of wood in her hand as she made tiny, intricate cuts in the wood with a well-worn carving knife. She was working on an unfinished figurine of some sort, maybe an animal.
An annoyed yowl from the nearby floor caught both the stranger’s and the artist's attention. The cat, who had been lying peacefully on the floor, modeling for its owner, suddenly sprang up and stared at the stranger.
Finally noticing that someone had entered the tavern, the carver gave a startled yelp and nearly dropped her unfinished piece. She had been so focused on carving a model of that damned cat, she hadn’t even noticed the new guest…which was honestly an accomplishment, since he filled the doorway with his bulk and large pack. Slipping into the well-practiced role of host, bartender, and anything else her father needed her to do, Natalie Striga set down her figurine and addressed the stranger.
“Hello and welcome to the Silly Goat. I’m Natalie, can I get you a room for the night?”
Despite her polite tone, Natalie did not put down the small carving knife. In Glockmire—Hells, all of Zaubervold—paranoia is a virtue. If this big bastard tried anything he’d find out how sharp the blade was. Instead of validating her fears, the stranger pulled down his hood and took off his remaining glove. A startled gasp escaped Natalie as she saw the stranger’s face.
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He should have been handsome, with the blue eyes, aristocratic features, and type of pale skin some people would kill for. But the mess of scars covering him made sure he wouldn’t be turning heads in anything other than fear or morbid fascination. It was like a child playing with a dagger had been let loose on the carved bust of a lord. Crisscrossing marks made by blade or claw fought for space with the mottled skin of healed burns. One particularly deep scar led from the left corner of his mouth up to his cheek and nearly to his ear. Natalie imagined if he opened his mouth too wide or laughed too hard his face would split open. Not that he looked like a man who laughed much.
Natalie suppressed a shudder, the things that could do that to a person were myriad, but the people who could survive it were few. Had he been tortured? Survived some calamitous accident, or maybe he was a warrior of some kind. The odd axe buckled to his belt indicated the last option, if all three weren’t true. Taking one of his hands, which Nat noticed was equally covered in scars and callus, the stranger ran it through his hair. It was short, so blond it was practically white, with patches of scalp visible thanks to his many wounds. Speaking at last, in a deep but strangely melodic voice the stranger responded.
“Yes, that will do nicely. Maybe some food if you have any available. But please don’t trouble yourself if nothing is made.”
A warm smile crossed the stranger's face, or at least something resembling one. Natalie had expected him to be gruff and standoffish. Not polite and well-spoken. She did not recognize his accent, but its clipped articulate tones spoke of some aristocratic polish, which could mean countless things, further adding to the mystery. Natalie’s wary interest and healthy apprehension quickly hid behind long learned routines. She had been helping in the Inn since she could walk and it came second nature to her.
Leaving her place at the bar she started to bustle about as she said “Oh, we always have good food and tidy rooms here at the Silly Goat. It will be one silver coin for the room and five Bronze for a meal. We have some leftover mutton stew. If it’s not warm enough let me know. “
Coin changed hands and Natalie headed for the kitchen. There she grabbed a clean bowl from a stack in the back, and ladled some of the thick broth from last night’s dinner into it . Its thick meaty aroma reached Natalie’s nose and made her mouth water. While she wasn’t hungry, the smell was still enticing. Mutton stew was a staple in town and one Natalie enjoyed. Shepherds tended large flocks of both goat and sheep around Glockmire ensuring meat and cheese was never in short supply.
Returning to the bar, Natalie found her new guest in a staring contest with her cat. Neither blinking or turning away, just man and feline staring at each other. Her footsteps pulled both of their attention back to her and she spoke. “Sorry if Stockings gets underfoot. She’s a good cat, but can be mercurial like all those furballs.”
Again the stranger attempted to form the rictus that passed for a smile and responded. “Not a problem, I like cats, they have interesting souls.”
Handing the bowl and a spoon to the stranger, Natalie went back to the bar, discreetly dropping the payment into a hidden lockbox and picking up her knife and carving. As she did, Natalie realized the Stranger hadn’t introduced himself.
“So what am I to call you?”
The stranger looked momentarily put out, like he was not used to the question. After a second of reflection, he spoke: “You can call me Cole. My apologies, been on the road for so long, I’ve forgotten the most basic of manners.”
Cocking an eyebrow at that, Natalie rolled the name around in her mouth. “Cole, so what brings you to Glockmire in the middle of this stormy autumn night?”
In between mouthfuls of soup, Cole answered “Oh this is good! Your cooking?”
Natalie mused on how he dodged the question and answered. “Oh not mine, my Father is the cook, I can manage some cooking but not my favorite chore. So are you heading somewhere else or have business here?”
As Cole took his spoon and bowl to a nearby table, he said, “I don’t entirely know, truth be told. I think my purpose is here, but I'm not certain. And I’m here on a matter of faith, not business.”
That got both of Natalie’s eyebrows raised. Was he on a pilgrimage? That’s not what she would have guessed. What in the Gods’ name would a man of faith be seeking in Glockmire? They had a Temple, with proper shrines to Father Sky and Mother Earth, but nothing to attract pilgrims.
“Oh what God do you serve? I didn’t take you as a Priest? I’m not the most ardent believer but I favor Uncle Maker, for fairly obvious reasons.” Natalie gestured with her knife and went back to carving her figurine.
As he ate Cole absentmindedly touched the pendant dangling from his neck before speaking. “I am no priest, just a man with a God.”
He pulled the pendant up to show her. It was a beautiful amulet shaped like an hourglass. “Master Time is my chosen God, or more accurately he chose me.”
A heavy silence filled the tavern, only the faint rumble of thunder and the fireplace’s crackle interrupted it. Master Time, the most powerful God humanity reveres, but the least worshiped. God of Time and more importantly, death. His priests tend the dead, care for the dying and fight what is neither. The most devout among them were gifted with terrible power over life and death, Ghost-Whisperers, Life-Cutters, Grave-Keepers, Rest-Bringers: a myriad of grim nicknames for Master Time’s priests. But that was not why Natalie fell silent and shivered.
Master Time is not an evil god, his followers are typically kind, if dour. Even so, his worship was almost taboo in Zaubervold or any other of the neighboring Blood Duchies. The Aristocracy did not look favorably on Master Time or his servants. The rulers of the Blood Duchies afterall defied this God’s will by their very existence.
Natalie spoke quietly but tensely as if she feared the shadows might be listening, which they might be. “You do know who rules Glockmire right? Who Lord Glockmire is? I have no problem with your chosen God, but I would not tell many others. It could be dangerous.”
This time Cole’s smile was sad. “I know what Lord Glockmire is and your concern is appreciated.”
Cole tucked the pendant away, then looked up at Natalie, “If you don’t mind me asking what are you doing up at this late hour? Surely you cannot get guests often at this time of night.?”
Natalie accepted the change in conversation and let the corner of her mouth twitch in the flicker of a smile. “Well not to be rude but I take this shift exactly because nobody usually arrives. My Dad takes the early morning, I take the late evenings. He deals with ornery shepherds and tradesmen looking for food and drink. I get a few hours by myself to carve and not be bothered. Normally I get the better part of the bargain I think.”
Cole chuckled at her gentle humor and set down his finished stew. “I apologize for intruding on your solitude. The artistry in here is lovely, your work?”
The smile on Nat’s face turned fragile for a moment. “Maybe half of it, the older pieces are my Mother’s.”
Cole just nodded at that and stood up, shouldering his pack. “I’m sorry for your loss. Art is a wonderful way to honor her memory.”
Natalie was momentarily taken aback, she had not mentioned her mother’s death. It had been three years since then, but the loss still hurt terribly. Natalie felt momentarily exposed until it fell into place like a Concoridan puzzle-painting. Cole was a devotee of the God of Death, he could probably read the signs of grief like a book.
“It’s getting late. Your room is on the second floor, right hallway, third door. The washroom is at the end of the hall. Would you like me to knock on your door tomorrow? To make sure you are awake?”
Natalie Found herself falling into the laconic curtness she adopted when in pain. It was rude, and Cole had been well-meaning, but he’d still poked a fresh wound. Cole seemed to register this, nodding softly as he placed his bowl and spoon on the bartop. He passed close by Natalie as he did, moving with a grace not expected for such a large man. Moving to the staircase, Cole turned back and said “Thank you, Natalie, I will not require you to wake me. You have been a wonderful host, sleep well when you do.”
With that he went up the staircase, one scarred hand gripping the banister Natalie and her mother had carved together. When the creaking of his steps on the stairs stopped, Natalie felt herself relax. Untensing muscles she had not realized had been taught since her guests' arrival. Sighing to herself, Natalie went to put away the dishes and her carving. Her artistic mood was spoiled by the interruption. Hells it was time to sleep anyway.
As she did her final chores, something occurred to Nat. Cole had not been the first weary traveler to pull himself into the Silly Goat late at night, it was rare but it did happen. These travelers had all been haggard, stinking, and unkempt. Anyone who had been on the road for a few days and traveled even as night fell would be. Except for Cole, strangely he did not smell at all. Years of working in an inn had given Natalie a good nose for the various odors of life. None of which lingered in Cole’s wake, or even clung to him. Nothing except the faint scent of damp leather and the stew he ate. Strange, but definitely not the strangest thing about this guest.