He had walked south for days, placidly accepting whatever the road and nature might provide him: berries, apples, roots. A family in a small hut on the side of the road near some hot springs offered him a bath and the chance to wash his clothes in exchange for his blessing. They gave him a loaf of crusty bread to carry with him after a good breakfast, as well as a little salt for him to keep in one of the pouches on his torn, fraying belt. He asked God to protect these good people, even though the woman obviously made money on the side telling fortunes. Their home sat near a crossroads that branched off in three directions. The west road would take him further along the coast. The east fork would take him through yet more forests and bring him near the edge of the Dead Lands, whose quiet evil lay like a corruption at the heart of the world. The last fork went south, which would take him out of Sturmwatch altogether, into the lands of The Hold and its nomadic, barbarous people. He picked up a nearby stick that had been left to him for just this purpose, tossed it into the air, and waited for God to tell him where to go.
It bounced off of the drying mud of the road, rattling as it settled. Its point directed him south, to The Hold.
“Thank you,” said Nicholas the Tattered. He kissed his star stone, and began to walk.
Sturmwatch was full of hills, mountains and seemingly inexhaustible forests. Where its exact border lay with The Hold was vague, and a matter of total indifference to the ragged traveller that strolled the withered road. As the days passed by the land changed. The hills grew less frequent. The forests began to fade. The mountains would still appear, though infrequently, and of shapes far different than those of Sturmwatch. These rose sudden and tall out of the land, their sides sharply vertical, their tops almost always flat, islands of stone sitting amid endless oceans of grass. During the era of the Elves, many of their hellish kind found rest and relaxation here in palaces and stately homes built upon those mountains...until the Last Day With its passing passed the Elves, and all their works in these grassy seas. Now grass was all that one thought of whenever one had reason to think of The Hold. It was everywhere, going on for what seemed to be forever. No one could really say that they had been in The Hold, unless they stood on the road at noon, looked all about them, and struggled to see anything other than flat lands filled with vibrant green and rippled like water in the wind.
Nicholas knew that he was in The Hold after a week of tranquil walking. God gave him mushrooms and berries to live off of, the lingering hunger necessary to keep him sharp no doubt. He would dip his thumb in the small satchel of salt he carried, and gleaned sustenance enough when nothing else was to hand. He drank the rain when it came in fierce, unending fury, catching its blessed water in his hands and his flask to drink. Nicholas encountered a caravan after four days. The merchants gave him two loaves of bread and even some dried meats and fruit. He blessed them all, and the heard the sins of any who needed confession. The merchants were a varied bunch of harmless, decent men. Some were even from Sturmwatch. They asked the news, and Nicholas told them what he could. The caravan guards were far less friendly, all being natives of The Hold with their thick moustaches and long black hair. They did not dare give him trouble, though. Given his wretched clothes and thick, unkempt beard, they fancied him a wandering prophet, or some kind of madman.
“You’re neither of those, are you?” the plump, lively merchant from Gozer asked him as they shared a cup of fragrant coffee together.
“I do God’s work,” was all Nicholas would say on the matter. They sipped their coffees, and the friendly fellow offered him another cup. It had been months since Nicholas had tasted coffee. His body missed it badly, but he politely declined. God had sent him south, and now had given him the means to know why. “What’s new around here, friend? Are all things well in The Hold?”
The man did not respond immediately. First, he glanced around to make sure they were alone in his caravan. “No,” he replied after he was satisfied they weren’t likely to be overheard.. Nicholas watched him placidly, a slight smile threatening to break out along his scarred lips. It was not up to them if others should hear.
“The natives are restless,” explained the merchant, drawing close and speaking low. “I would normally have stayed until midsummer before returning home, but there are too many riders giving outlanders strange looks. There’s talk of a gathering of the clans. I sold what stock I could, and decided to leave early with some fellow travellers, before we might not be permitted to leave at all.”
He became noticeably paler despite the relatively dim light of the one lamp they had burning between them. “In three weeks’ time.”
“Why the worry? Midsummer is three weeks hence, more or less. Is this not simply a festival?” the ragged wanderer asked.
The look on the other’s man face was telling. “No, father. I’ve associated with the riders of The Hold long enough to be able to tell you when they have their blasphemous holidays. They sing sad songs together, and mourn the loss of their masters, even after all this time. It’s unseemly, and it is not a wise idea to be a foreigner out and about with them on days like that. I can tell you now, father, that none of them occur three weeks from now.”
“Then why do they gather? My son, I am a stranger in these lands, and a thoroughly ignorant man. Explain to me what is going on, as if it were a child that asks.”
The merchant gave him an odd, pensive look, as if he thought the priest were testing him in some manner, but he did as he were bid.
“The men of The Hold like their routines, father. They’re a strange people, set in their ways, trying to convince themselves they were a race of Kings back when their thrice great-grandfathers were alive and served those that we in civilised societies are wont to damn if we speak of them at all. I thought I was used to all this. Now, in normal times, you could mark the way these people live as regular as the tide, or the passage of the sun across the sky.”
“But things have not been normal here lately, have they?” Nicholas asked, smiling then. Not at the unease of the merchant, no, but at the knowledge that revelation was forthcoming. He had been sent here by his divine master, and now sensed that he might soon discover the reason.
The merchant shook his head, his plump, pleasant face taking on a distinctly sour aspect. “There have been more of their priests about than usual. The last couple of months have been strange days here, father. The towns I’d frequent throughout the spring and summer were a sight less tolerable this year. The people weren’t violent, but even people I’d gotten to know doing my routes here over the last fifteen odd years changed. Acquaintances grew distant, and strangers hostile. They didn’t speak much before, but now they would barely look at me as I was laying my wares out for them. It was the same in every town I went to. I don’t usually travel with other traders, but after a few weeks and some chilly receptions, we started travelling together. We’re still business rivals, but we’re all outsiders here and our customers have never made us feel this unwelcome before.”
“Would none of the friends you had made tell you anything of what was the cause of such behaviour?” Nicholas enquired. His eyes were drawn to the single burning flame that illuminated the comfortable little space he shared with his host. The man’s tale was strange, indeed.
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The merchant shrugged. “Once or twice. I had to bribe some of the youngsters away from the old men with a bottle of schnapps to learn anything.”
“What did you learn?”
The merchant gave an exasperated shrug. “Not much, father. One of the fellows I was travelling with, by the name of Grieg, had more luck. He got a hetman drunk one night. They’re like officers among these people, since all the men from twelve upwards are meant to be ready for war to defend The Hold when their leaders get together.”
“Is that why they are gathering now?” asked the ragged man. His bright eyes burned like the fire they were still watching placidly in the lamp.
“I don’t know,” said the merchant. It was the first lie he had told. Nicholas said nothing about it. He would simply have to seek the answer to that question elsewhere.
“Is Grieg among your caravan?”
“No, father, he stayed back there. He says he wants to see one of their ‘councils’, or whatever word they use for them is. He insisted I go, though. Told all the lads up here with me now to make ourselves scarce. Some of them protested, but Grieg somehow got them all around. He’s been trading with the men of The Hold for nearly as long as I’ve been alive, Father.” The merchant sighed. “It’s hard to argue with someone like that, even if the money I make here is important. I do this for my wife and mother and the children, but if I’m dead, nobody else is going look after them, are they?”
Nicholas nodded. The wheels in his head were turning as he listened to the merchant’s tale. He reached out and poured himself more coffee from the simmering samovar between them. He hoped he could be forgiven this small indulgence, but his mind needed the extra stimulation just then.
“You said you sold all the stock you could, my son. Who bought it?”
“Oh, it was Greig, Father.”
“Did you sell it at a loss?” Nicholas asked. He sipped the black, bitter brew, relishing the taste.
“No, Father. If anything, I’d say he overpaid me.”
“Did he do this with the others here?”
“Aye, Father. We thought it was a bit strange, but we figured once we were on the road that maybe he was hoping to sell all the extra goods to the new groups of horsemen coming in for this gathering.”
A lot of money to spend all of a sudden, Nicholas mused, sipping his coffee. Especially when it might be very dangerous to be a foreigner here when this meeting happens. “Tell me, my son, where is Grieg from?”
“Sturmwatch, Father.”
“Just as you are,” Nicholas said, taking another sip of the hot beverage. He stared into the light that blazed so valiantly against the darkness. It was so small compared the cavernous shadow it fought, and yet it held alone against the dark, and all that it was hiding. “Are there any others in your group from Sturmwatch?”
“No, Father, it’s just me. It was why I was so happy to see you! We fellows of the mountains and forests need to stick together out in places like this, right?”
“Indeed,” Nicholas agreed, as he took another sip of his coffee. It was all coming to light, his purpose here, and what was about. All he needed to know was one last thing. “Would you say that you and Greig are friends, my son?”
“Oh, absolutely, Father! I tried to get him to come with the rest of us, but he seemed determined to stay. He looked scared, father, and I told him so, but he wouldn’t be talked out of it no matter what I said. He told me he had to stay, and see one of these councils.”
“And after you failed to convince him to come along with you, did he ask any kind of favour?”
The pleasantness faltered, replaced by fright and suspicion. The merchant tried his best to hide it, but he was clearly surprised by the question, and now thoroughly alarmed.
“What if he did, father?”
Nicholas took another sip of his coffee before he spoke. The heat and the aroma were wonderful, and drew him back briefly to the life he had before the stone, and before the shredded cassock he now wore. “Did he ask you to deliver something for him?” Something small, perhaps? Something with a crack in it, or a surface that could be rubbed off to reveal a message under it?
The younger man hesitated a long while before responding. “He did, father,” he replied, the answer sounding as though it were meant to be the confession of some mortal sin.
“Will you do as your friend Greig asked, my son?” Nicholas drew his attention from the burning lantern and his now empty coffee cup to stare into the eyes of his increasingly skittish and reluctant host. “Will you deliver this item to where it must go?”
The soft, frightened man nodded. His pale hands clutched his own untouched cup, as if he were trying to drain whatever warmth remained in it.
“I am glad to hear it,” Nicholas said with a sudden, disarming smile. He poured himself another cup, and regarded the flame in the lamp once more. A single flame could do so much against the dark, but two together could accomplish so much more.
“Tell me, my son, where is Grieg now?”
“Why do you ask, father?”
“I intend to go to him,” Nicholas replied. He stood, and was just able to remember in time to stoop before he smashed his head through the plank roof of the caravan. He was a rather tall man. “I will offer him some guidance of the spiritual nature, and some aid if necessary. Now tell me, please: where can I find him, and what does he look like?”
The merchant frowned, confusion and suspicion warring briefly on his face for a few moments as the lantern light flickered over his features. Eventually, he decided to tell his guest what he wanted to know. “Well, he’s an old man, father. A little older than you, I’d say. Grey hair that he keeps neat and tied up in a tail behind his head. Shaves his face, though. He’s got a caravan like those of The Hold drive, but he drapes some fox furs along the sides. Says it keeps away rats, or something. This meeting’s meant to be happening in this valley between a group of those queer mountains around here. I sold my stock to Greig two days ago, at a town down the road in the direction you’re already heading. He was getting ready to head out, so if you can’t catch him there, just follow the rest of these savages as they start riding towards the mountains. They say the entire Hold is supposed to be there.”
“Thank you, my son.” Nicholas downed his third cup of coffee as if he were taking a shot of something far stronger. It burned its way beautifully down his throat. He handed the cup back to the surprised merchant and patted him on the shoulder. The wandering preacher offered a quick prayer of thanks for his fine hospitality. “I must take my leave of you now. I pray you have a fast and safe journey back home. Do not forget the favour you are to do for your friend, please. Goodbye.”
Nicholas was halfway out the door when the merchant called him back. He looked confused, and not a little afraid. It was not a bitter fear, or even one of death Nicholas saw in that soft face, but a fear of something greater: failure.
“Is it important, father?”
“I couldn’t say,” shrugged the ragged man that the guards thought mad or a prophet. “But we both have much ground to cover, and time is not our ally. God guard you, son.”
“And you, father.”
Nicholas closed the door and left the soft man he would never see again alone with his lone light and the fear he needed to keep going. There was still some light left in the day, and the sky looked cloudless. The stars out here on the steppe were breathtakingly beautiful, and one could easily keep on the road even when the moon was not out. It would not be the first time he had walked much of the night. The path before him was clear and the urgency great.
Nicholas left the small camp the traders and their furtive guards had made, and set out on the road once more.
