***
He wasn’t sure if he was awake or dreaming when he saw Velteris himself before him, but the raw power emanating from the shadowy, vulture-headed silhouette was overwhelming. Terredor’s attention was solely on the debilitatingly powerful creature in front of him while the relentless wind and chorus of crickets faded.
“Thy master is my dedicated servant, dear Terredor. He doth struggle against himself, and against his heart of good, which told him to save you at his own personal risk, for let no man tell you otherwise, my followers are always in danger from those who would do unto them the greatest of harms.
“Thy sweet Mortiss Waimbrill doth wish he were the hero thou so fervently thoughtest he was until very recently. But what he doesn’t yet know, and what thou servest me by teaching him, is that he is already that hero, in his fortitude and grace in my service, and in his bravery against the beasts that devour men’s souls. Evil approacheth, and that right soon, and he is key in its destruction. His heart is strong and solid, and will inspire thee, even in thy solitudes and silence. Mortiss Waimbrill has a purpose, but only thou canst harness it to fight against the deep and vile darkness that is ascending into Crikland.”
From his perch on the mountain cliff, Terredor saw ripples in the lake before him, concentric rings of waves radiating outward and lapping against the shores. He saw the water rocking and pushing against Crikburg’s wharf and the raised stilts of Delverton, and then he heard a loud roar and saw the monster emerge from the lake. Its head came first, only there was no real head, just a cylindrical body ending in a jawless mouth with a double-ring of teeth, dripping with foulness, body undulating and rotating as the monster flew into the air. It let out a loud bellow, a high-pitched screech that shook Terredor’s bones and caused small rocks to fall off the mountain beneath his feet. The creature extended as high as Terredor and Velteris, and still its body was coming out of the lake, showing no signs of finity.
The monster shuddered, twisted and gagged, its scaly skin bulging. Dark shapes tumbled from its mouth, and Terredor squinted to see what they were, little blobby corpses, some splashing into the lake, others landing on hard ground. There, they stood, flesh barely hanging on to shattered bones that poked through their skin like jumbled sticks. They shambled forward through forest and farm towards Crikburg.
There were thousands of them, human, dwarf, rainid and more, and they swarmed into Crikburg, and into Delverton, and Terredor saw them approaching the village at the base of Mt. Rekkerkem, and encroaching on the resort at Creklynn Falls, the gnomish and dwarven caves, the bofro encampments and more, extending outward in a wave of creeping death. He looked to Velteris, whose lonesome eyes were bearing straight down to the center of the lake, whence the monster had come.
Terredor awoke on a high rock ledge as the earliest rays of sunlight poured over the horizon and the mountainside below him. He was refreshed and energetic, despite the horrid scene in his vision. He climbed down the ledge and walked home, hopeful and proud.
Waimbrill was scrubbing his clothes in a large pail of water. He stood when he saw Terredor approach, and his excitement and elation evaporated in the penetrating stare of Waimbrill’s dark eyes.
The eloquent words of his mind vanished before they hit his tongue. Amid stuttering and false starts, Terredor stumbled through what had happened and what he had seen. Repeating it robbed the vision of its power, and the undead horde sounded like a fantastic tale told to frighten children on dark nights. Waimbrill’s credulous impression indicated he didn’t believe Modroben would appear to someone who was not Mortiss.
“He said I was a hero?” Waimbrill asked, “Sometimes, the words of the gods don’t mean what they seem to mean. I’ll be a hero in glorious - but quiet, neutral - service to him. And the monster ascending upon Crikland... that was probably symbolic-“
“No!” Terredor shouted, “I know what he meant. I could tell what he was saying, Waimbrill, I... I mean, Mortiss Waimbrill.”
Terredor blushed, looking at his feet while Waimbrill was agape at the boy’s suddenly confrontational tone.
“We... We Soulclaine have a curious place in society, Terredor. We don’t do heroism. We are but tenders of the dead, not slayers of evil.” Waimbrill said, “And Petromyza is neither the first nor the last monster. Evil is not a thing that can be vanquished in battle, Terredor, but only with compassion. Our compassion for the deceased is how-”
“But your lord told you to do this. He said you were a hero. He said you deny it, but you are a hero, and you... we need to destroy the monster, find out where it’s coming from and kill it,” Terredor said, “Petromyza must have a reason to disallow the cleaving of her victims. There was a time when you couldn’t bear to see something terrible happen to me. But there are countless others who are going to suffer a terrible fate, and your own lord said that we could stop it.”
After a long pause, spent deep in concentration, Waimbrill looked into Terredor’s eyes. The young Delver wasn’t sure what he saw, wanted to avert his glance, afraid Waimbrill would see something there he objected to, a reason to abandon him and the church, perhaps, or a reason to flee to Lommia for his mother’s soothing caress, something Terredor longed for as well. But instead Waimbrill smiled, closed his eyes and said, “I thought I was going to be a Soulclaine like any other, assigned near my home, living out my life in quiet service. But it seems neither I nor my lord can let well enough alone. He assigned me to a distant land, and now he assigns me to monster-slaying. He wants me to be a warrior in his name, though I am no warrior in any name. Then I shall go be killed by this monster. I shall be a hero in my martyrdom, and at least then, Modroben can torture me no longer.”
Lake Crikmere drained into a river that flowed south to the edge of the plateau, where it became a waterfall, at the bottom of which was a high-end resort, spa and market, Bryndoth, operated by the god Festyval, patron of relaxation and luxury. It was an open market day, and so Waimbrill and Terredor traveled there to find the lake’s fishermen, who were selling their catch.
A system of gears powered the lift that brought them to the resort at the bottom of the waterfall, near a market. Though large and bustling, it was too controlled to be chaotic like most markets. Festyval was a god of relaxation and luxury, but he was only an avatar for a much larger deity, Maraki, whose other spheres of patience and preparation were reflected in the busy but organized atmosphere of the resort’s market. Not just any goods were for sale. The wealthy and the elite from all over the Northern Kingdoms, and even beyond, came to Bryndoth, so only the freshest and most delightful of local fruit and fish were on sale there, and a few stalls carried high-priced goods from Monsoquec, Stoneroot Gorge and other exotic lands.
Terredor and Waimbrill stopped at a large fish stall with four wooden counters in a square, covered by a brilliantly colored tarp with yellow tassels hanging almost halfway to the ground. Fishermen, obviously uncomfortable in formal clothing, stood behind the counter, watching servants peruse the day’s catch. Shelves adorned with shells showcased fish with shimmering scales of gray and green, and shrimp, oysters and clams, alongside barrels of large lake frogs, a Crekkish specialty. Waimbrill approached a fisherman, standing behind a counter.
“Mortiss Waimbrill,” he said, “No one has need of your ministrations here.”
“I am thankful that my work does not call me here today, Egglebrod,” said Waimbrill, “I need information on the monster of the lake, Petromyza.”
Egglebrod’s eyes darted toward Terredor, and he turned around. “Maybe ye can meet me next week,” he said, “I really must be continuing with my work.”
Waimbrill whispered, “Go on,” gesturing towards the sumptuously appointed restaurant visible on the far end of the market square. “I know these men. They’ll talk to me. Go have a meal fit for a king. If I am to be a hero, let me do the work.”
He dropped a gold coin in Terredor’s pocket and disappeared into the crowd, arm in arm with Egglebrod. Terredor shrugged and ign
ored the passersby who peered suspiciously at his dusty, mended clothes.Inside the restaurant, flickering torches cast a dim light, and the polite murmuring of elegant patrons filled the air. Terredor walked to the bar, behind which stood a gray-bearded man with an easy grin and soft brown eyes, lined with wrinkles.
Terredor realized with a cold shock of humiliation that he had no idea what people drank in a restaurant such as this. He couldn’t even hazard a guess. He glanced at the tables around him, but saw nothing he recognized. He saw the bartender squint, scrutinizing Terredor.
“We don’t generally serve locals, young man,” the bartender said, eyeing the rough, faded fabric of Terredor’s clothes. “Our prices are higher than thou wouldst find in Crikburg. A lot higher.”
“I just... wanted to live it up today,” Terredor said, blushing as he pulled out the gold coin, “I can afford it.”
The bartender smiled. “Why don’t we start with a hellionberry cocktail?”
Beautiful young women in vibrantly colored, low-cut dresses strutted from table to table, whether they were waitresses or customers, Terredor didn’t know. One of the women caught his eye, her own eyes sparkling a deep, luscious brown that matched her chestnut-colored skin and a tan dress that formed a revealing diagonal across her bosom, hanging loosely from her shoulder. She sat next to Terredor at the bar.
“Good afternoon,” she said, the straight white teeth of her smile glowing, “My name is Shezanne.”
Terredor tried to speak, stuttering, awkwardly grasping for words. The bartender rescued him, saying, “Your hellionberry cocktail, sir.”
Deep violet drops floated in the cloudy white drink in a tall glass, the stem of which was wrapped in interwoven pink reeds.
The bartender smiled at him. “He’s a local, Shezanne. He’s out for a night of luxury.”
She sighed, and leaned toward Terredor. “I suppose that shouldn’t surprise me. I never get to meet the cute ones. ’Tis a pity. Ye seem nice, and I’d have enjoyed doing my job for one night at least,” she said, “Make sure ye have a glass of that parsnip cider.”
Shezanne turned to leave, and Terredor took a deep breath as his furiously pumping heart calmed.
The bartender, Milo, chuckled, and said, “The propensity of the tongue to inconveniently lay still correlates with the age of the man whose tongue would wag, and the beauty of the woman whose ears would hear. But drink your cocktail. I’ll make sure ye get your money’s worth this evening. She is here to loosen the purse-strings of princes from faraway lands. She can’t be spending time with the likes of you, no matter how much she might wish it.”
Terredor took a sip of the sweet drink, savoring its tangy notes punctuated by hellionberries bursting with briny bitterness, reminding him of the capers that were an omnipresent part of Delver cuisine.
Milo said, “Those hellionberries are the eggs of a fish. They come from the caves under Lake Crikmere, I believe.”
His watery eyes were blurry from the strong, biting aftertaste of the cocktail.
“But let me pour you some of that cider she suggested,” Milo said, “And I’ll tell the cook to begin a meal.”