The Doom of Fallowhearth

by Robbie MacNiven

  “How many bodies were in the crypt?” Durik asked Volbert. The tomb-keeper was a sturdy young man, wrapped in the black robes of his profession, his blond hair cropped short. His family had apparently been the tomb-keepers at the Shrine of Nordros for five generations. Normally his duties involved digging and tending to the graves, taking donations from visitors and chasing off potential thieves. He had never, he claimed, come across a case like this.

  “There were five bodies,” Volbert said outside the Fulchard tomb. “The grandparents, their son and his wife, and their daughter. The pestilence took the younger half of the family three winters ago. They still have a brother living in the town.”

  “Does he know his relatives have disappeared?” Durik asked.

  “Yes, sir. He refuses to come and visit. Says there’s a curse.”

  “And is there?” Durik asked matter-of-factly.

  “I don’t know, sir,” Volbert answered nervously. Durik had caught him casting furtive glances at him from the moment they had met. When he had caught the man’s eye Volbert had apologized profusely. He had, he explained, never met an orc before, much less conversed with one. He was clearly a dutiful man though. Durik’s word that he served the baroness seemed to be enough to ensure his cooperation.

  “Were the caskets opened, or broken?” Durik asked him, standing at the rear of the crypt, where the footprints became impossible to read.

  “They were opened,” Volbert said. “And the lock on the gate was broken. Shattered.”

  “Show me.”

  Volbert led Durik back round the front and into the Fulchard family crypt. It was a low, lichen-covered stone structure, its wrought iron gate cast in the likeness of the bones of Nordros. The space within was cold and damp, lit only by the evening’s gloomy light shafting in through a circular hole in the ceiling. It illuminated five stone slabs, their tops cast aside onto the ground. The insides were exposed and empty.

  Volbert held up the remains of the gate’s lock. It was made of heavy metal, and it had been split clean in half.

  “Whoever broke this had great strength,” Durik said, taking the lock in his hands and turning it over. “And even greater technique. You have tools for your work, I suppose? Shovels, mallets? Were any stolen?”

  “None,” Volbert said, his breath frosting in the crypt’s icy air. “I have accounted for them all, sir.”

  Durik grunted and inspected each stone casket in turn. A few held trinkets or memento mori – a twist of old cloth, a small hemp horse stuffed with wool, a few pieces of jewelry. There were no grave shrouds, though. Durik motioned for Volbert to step back outside and followed him out, slipping the lock into his satchel as he went.

  “Tell me what you saw that night,” he asked.

  “I cannot be certain, sir,” the young tomb-keeper said. “It was a very dark night. The clouds were low, and there was neither moon nor stars. It was raining…” He trailed off.

  “You can speak freely with me, Volbert,” Durik said. “Every piece of information you have is valuable, no matter how unimportant it may seem. I am not here to judge you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Volbert said. “I was woken by what I thought was someone passing through the lich-gate. I live adjacent to the yard. Sometimes, especially during this season, we have trouble with thieves. Opportunist graverobbers usually, passing through on their way to Frostgate.”

  “Clansmen?”

  “Sometimes, yes. It is my duty to protect the graves as well as to tend to them. I headed out into the yard to see if there was anyone there. Usually they flee as soon as they are discovered.”

  “You were alone?”

  “Yes. My wife was not awake.”

  “Go on.”

  “There was something strange in the air that night,” he said, his voice earnest yet uncertain. “I am not sure I can explain it, but I have never felt anything like it before.”

  “A strange air,” Durik prompted. Volbert frowned, speaking carefully.

  “You must understand, sir, I have been performing these duties for as long as I can remember. I aided my father as a boy, and now that he has passed on into the Cold Embrace, I performed the tasks as he did, as my family have done for almost two centuries. I have heard that the work of the worshipers of Nordros is frowned upon in some other baronies, but not so here. There are many worshipers in Upper Forthyn who come seeking to thank Nordros, or have the bodies of their loved ones interred in the sight of his servants.”

  “You do not need to explain your life’s work to me, Volbert,” Durik said, attempting to sound reassuring. “I have traveled far and seen enough to know that not every worshiper of Nordros is a corpse-disturber.”

  “No indeed, sir,” Volbert said. “The role of tomb-keeper at this shrine comes with a plot of ground by the lich-gate. I will lie there beside my father when my time comes and, Nordros willing, my son will go on tending to these graves. This place is my family’s home, sir. There is nothing morbid about it for me, it is simply the duty great Nordros has allotted to me. I have never once felt afraid amongst these headstones, either during day or night. Except…”

  “Except on that night,” Durik said. “There was something strange at play, and you could sense it. You are wise not to disregard your instincts.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the tomb-keeper said.

  “So, you thought at first it was grave robbers. What did you find instead?”

  “A woman,” Volbert said. “At least, that is what I believe I saw. As I said, it was dark, I had only a torch. But I do believe I saw a woman there, between the headstones.”

  He pointed to the row nearest to the crypt, a crumbling, jumbled mass of particularly weathered-looking headstones, most of them bearing the grim iconography associated with the god of death and cold – skulls, bones, hourglasses; brittle, frozen leaves and branches.

  “She wore a heavy cloak. I saw her only for a second, and I caught nothing of her face before she fled. I will confess sir, for a moment my courage failed me. I thought I had seen a specter.”

  Durik nodded, letting the man speak. He respected his honesty. He’d shown nothing so far that made Durik doubt anything he had to say. He certainly wasn’t the simpleton Abelard, doubtless in his arrogance, had made out.

  “It took me a while to find my resolve,” he continued, and Durik noted how his eyes lingered on the graves he had indicated. “When I finally approached, I could find no sign of her. But I did notice that the gate to the Fulchard crypt had been opened. And that’s when I discovered the empty tomb.”

  “And the footprints?” Durik asked.

  “Yes. I am no tracker like you, sir, but there were definitely a number of people around the tomb that night. Not just one.”

  As Durik considered his words, Volbert spoke again.

  “May I ask you something, sir?”

  “Of course,” Durik nodded, already guessing what it would be about.

  “You must understand how this looks. The stories that have been going around the town for a month now. My wife hasn’t had a proper night’s sleep since this all began. Do you think…”

  “Do I think dark magic has been practiced here?” Durik finished. “Perhaps necromancy? The truth is, I do not know. There is much about what I have seen and heard here today that I cannot yet explain. But I could not yet say with certainty that a necromancer has been here.”

  “The seneschal has been considering closing the shrine for a while,” Volbert said, looking worried. “If he does, I’m sure he will ban the worship of Nordros soon after. Our religion will be driven to the dark places. Already I know of devout worshipers forced to flee to Blind Muir by the bigotry of some in this town. All it takes is a single rumor about necromancy, and every one of Nordros’s faithful becomes a suspect. There have been purges before.”

  “When I speak to the seneschal I will make it clear th
at we have no hard evidence of necromancy at work here,” Durik said. “But it will be difficult to explain either the disappearance of the bodies, or these prints. The investigations will continue. They have to, until Lady Kathryn is found.”

  “Even if the shrine remains open, we may be forced to begin cutting the heads from the dead before interring them,” Volbert said. “Or even bringing back the heathen practice of cremation. It would make us no better than the northern clans. I pray it does not come to that.”

  “I will ask the seneschal to do nothing until we know more,” Durik repeated, supposing that a return to the old ways of decapitation and cremation would be bad for a tomb-keeper’s business. “Until then, if you remember anything more, or discover anything new or unusual, go immediately to the castle and ask for me. I will be there.”

  “Of course, sir,” Volbert said, offering a bow. “Allow me to walk you to the threshold.”

  Durik nodded and let Volbert accompany him to the yard’s lich-gate, a stone arch heavy with moss and tangled creepers.

  “Remain on your guard, tomb-keeper,” he said, before stepping out into the street. “And pray to Nordros for his help in this matter.”

  Chapter Seven

  It was getting late. Logan glanced left and right, trying to shake the feeling that he was being watched. He had left Ishbel in the castle stables, partly to stretch his legs during the walk back through town, and partly because he didn’t trust the locals not to steal her the moment he left her hitched.

  Twilight had settled over Fallowhearth, a gray gloom that left deep shadows festering between the squalid buildings. Angry black clouds were brewing in the east, clambering down from the Dunwarrs to herald the coming night.

  Logan felt miserable. He blamed himself. He’d grown senile and foolish. Imagine letting old sentiments drag him out to this far corner of Terrinoth? Now he was up to his neck in it. He should never have come. The rogue grumbled under his breath as he hunted through the streets for the sign of the Black Crow, cloak hitched up so its hem didn’t trail in the mud.

  People cast strange looks at him, but he ignored them. He was too tired and too stiff from three weeks of near-constant travel to care about fitting in with some northern peasants. He found the tavern, its signpost creaking over a crooked door that opened ahead of him just long enough to spill firelight, a burst of laughter and a half-drunk shepherd in a wool smock out into the dirt. Logan stepped over the groaning man without breaking stride, wondering whether Ulma was inside.

  Past the tavern was a tenant’s cottage, as squat and nondescript as any of the buildings that lined the street. Its shutters were closed, and there was no sign of movement from within. In fact, besides the faint sounds of the neighboring tavern’s patrons, it seemed as though the whole street was deserted. For some reason that made Logan feel even more uncomfortable.

  He glanced over his shoulder one more time and tried the latch on the front door. Why didn’t he knock first? He wasn’t entirely sure, but he didn’t question his actions either – he had learned a long time ago to trust his instincts, and his instincts said that he didn’t want to alert whatever was inside.

  Whoever, he corrected himself. There was nothing more sinister to this than a cook with a bad case of the runs. It might not be as pleasant a task as trawling the local ale houses, but at least it was preferable to checking the cemetery, especially with darkness falling.

  The door was locked. Logan hissed through his front teeth and carefully tried one of the shutters. Also locked. He peered around the corner into the narrow, dirty lane between the cottage and the tavern. It was impenetrably dark. Logan swallowed.

  Rules, rules, rules. He’d promised never to draw his sword again. His hand was on its expensive pommel now, though. He straightened up, cleared his throat. Come on, Logan. Surely you aren’t afraid of the dark? Ulma would laugh herself silly if she could see him right now.

  That settled it. Head up and shoulders back, he marched into the beckoning shadows of the alleyway.

  He almost tripped on a broken wheel set against the tavern wall. Edging round it, he emerged into the yard at the rear of the cottage. A back door stood ahead of him. The windows were dark.

  He walked to the door, pausing to listen. A few streets across, a dog had started to bark. Laughter and voices swelled inside the tavern. The wind gusted, snatching at his cloak and making the sign on the main street creak.

  Logan tried the latch. This time it gave. The door swung slowly, quietly, inwards.

  The rules said nothing about daggers. Logan drew his from the inside of his boot, savoring the familiar grip for a second before entering the cottage. Darkness ruled the interior, and he paused for a few seconds on the threshold, letting his eyesight adjust.

  He was standing in a back porch, a larder. The place stank, even more than he had expected. Something was turning rancid. There was a closed door to his right and another directly ahead. The darkness was cloying, reeking. He abruptly thought of Dezra – she’d be amused, no doubt, by the thought of him stealing into some foul peasant’s back room. He certainly wished he had her scrying abilities right then.

  He listened. He could hear something, a low chirring noise. Buzzing, coming from the right. He eased the door open. That was when the stink really hit him. He gagged, stumbling back and instinctively slamming the door shut as a cloud of flies rose up to greet him.

  He should have known it would be like this. He swallowed again, hard, but a clattering noise from deeper inside the cottage banished thoughts of being sick. Without hesitating he lunged through the other door directly ahead and found himself in a low, narrow hallway. Directly in front of him was the front door to the cottage, the one he had initially tried to get in through. A figure, hunched and indistinct in the near-total darkness of the cottage’s interior, was fumbling with the door’s bolt and latch.

  Logan charged it. He still wasn’t thinking – he was acting on decades of experience, and his body followed. The thing by the door heard him coming and let out a ghastly shriek.

  He tackled it. The door banged open under the impact and they both half spilled out into the street, mud spattering Logan’s face. He snarled, trying to bring his knife up, wrestling in the thing’s grip. He was damned if it was all going to end here, in the clutches of some Uthuk Y’llan demon-worshiper on the threshold of a peasant abattoir.

  Given the twilight’s gloom and his own frenzied state of mind, he’d almost hauled the dagger up and plunged it into the thing’s face before he realized just what the “thing” really was. A sickly face, white as a death-shroud, stared up at him, eyes wide with terror.

  “Hello,” Logan said, knife poised inches from the man’s throat – for man he was, quivering and weak, with breath that stank of sick, but most definitely a man. Nothing more.

  “Stay still,” Logan told him.

  “P- Please,” the man stammered. “Please tell her I can’t! Not any more!”

  “Tell who?” Logan demanded, deciding against trying to bluff his way through this.

  “Mildred! Didn’t she send you?”

  Logan began to laugh uncontrollably, the adrenaline flushing from his system in a bout of hysteria that then quickly gave way to pain. He flinched and hissed, rolling off the man and clutching his sore back. It seemed the body was no longer willing, no matter how sharp the mind still was.

  “Fortuna’s glittering gold,” he cursed, teeth gritted as the exertions caught up with him. The man, doubtless assuming he’d just been assaulted by a lunatic, wisely decided to stay down.

  Logan stood up, very slowly and very tentatively, and stretched each limb in turn. “You’re Tobin,” he grunted as he did so, letting out a whistle as his back crunched. The man just nodded.

  “You’re a cook in the castle kitchens,” Logan continued, still trying to recover his breath. “You’ve been missing for weeks.”

 
“I’m sorry! Tell her I’m sorry!”

  “You think the matron of your miserable cookhouse hired the most famous rogue alive to force you to go back to work?” Logan asked incredulously. “Come on man, I know I startled you, and you look unwell, but stop and think for a moment!” Tobin just stared up at him.

  “If Mildred didn’t send you, then why are you here?”

  “Uh-uh,” Logan said, brandishing his dagger and glancing left and right to ensure the street was still deserted. “I’m the one holding the knife, so I’m the one doing the questioning. Does that sound fair?”

  Tobin nodded hastily.

  “Why did you run?” Logan asked.

  “I thought you were Mildred,” the pathetic wretch managed. “Or one of the other cooks.”

  “You thought I was the matron, come to force you back to work despite the fact that you are gravely ill? If that’s the case, why wouldn’t Mildred tell us? A sick cook would have saved me a journey to this… delightful part of town. And why did she go so red-faced when the seneschal mentioned you? Also, what in Fortuna’s lucky dice is festering next door to your pantry?”

  Tobin just whimpered again. Logan motioned to him with the knife. “Get up. And don’t think about running. If you do I’ll come back here with my bloodhounds, and once they have your scent they’ll chase you to Carthridge and beyond. I keep them hungry, much like your matron. Understood?”

  The cook managed to nod and pull himself up out of the mud. Logan prodded him back into the cottage with the knife and, after a final glance along the street, closed the front door.

  “What’s that gods-awful smell in the back room?” Logan repeated.

  “It’s my last meal. I fell sick about a week ago. I haven’t dared leave the house in almost a month.”

  “It smells like it,” Logan said. “I thought you were keeping a rotten body in there.”