SpearHead LRP

[Mathew Downward]

No SMOKES without FIRE


A Living Elegy to those Four Noble Knights who,
being without the Armies of OreHolm to lead into Battle,
were obliged to settle for the ad-hoc assistance
of a few Camp Followers in the
Reclamation by Force of,

A Cloak, One Hand & A Head,

On behalf of those redoubtable gentlemen,

Ronald & Reginald Blythe,

(Whose fine & upstanding reputations, let it be said, should be questioned by none that wishes to retain his apparel, his hold on his weapon or, indeed, the adornment of his shoulders,)

And in which it is proven beyond all reasonable doubt that,

VENGEANCE doth BURN.


The particular Names & Deeds whereof are Described here-under in each argument & division of this history, together with the grievous Tortures suffered by all who opposed that Proud Paladin of the Cleansing Flame call’d SMOKES (the largesse of whose Bounty be not nearly enough, methinks); and wherein is also Contained some Relation of the Laws, Religion & Government of that Fledgling Rei-Publick call’d Haven, some Detail & Description of the once-famous Golden Mosaic of GullCliff & sundry other Asides & Divertissements, including, A Discourse on the Nature of Spirits.

Inscribed at the Watcher’s Guild of Haven by the Bawd, Ryllard, & to be read aloud at the Market Square of that great metropolis by the author or by some other brave soul, possibly in disguise, & then copies of which distributed – again, perhaps, by stealth – to Tynford and Ettleheath & those other places close by & within purview of that most excellent Fifth Kingdom; Haven, 509.

Let it be so.


My friends, gather ye in, yes, come closer, and answer me this question: What is it that moves us all? Our Hope, our Anger, our Love? That most sacred engine termed our Essence? Or is it our Spirit, perhaps? If so, do we ‘make’ this Spirit? Or does it make us?

Come, think on this. In this, our visible world, nothing can be disposed except through invisible creatures. Are not Totems at work in every moment of creation? Their hands flex the tops and branches of the trees to raise the wind; their hands carry each single snowflake in the myriad storms and lay it softly down; their delicate fingers unfurl the scrolled leaves on the chestnut trees and silently open each blossom on the fruity boughs. They pour the springing torrent where it flows, they stir the sea and raise the breaking waves, they draw the curtain of nightfall across the sky and light the lamps of heaven, day and night.

The world needs these Spirits, who rule over beasts, preside over the birth of animals, and over the growth of bushes, plants and other things. It might seem that we rational souls hold the lowest place among these, and that our light is shadowy in comparison with that of the Spirits. But even in us a spiritual order can be found. We dream, do we not? We carry our nightmares within us. We contain our ideals, shaped, perhaps, by personal experience and by the awful compromises made to attain them. We remember our deeds both proud and shameful:

A mosaic shows a garden under a sky of pure gold. Emerald trees bearing flowers and fruit at once are under-spread by a meadow thick with flowers. White-clad virgins with flowing hair dance in a ring, hands linked, sandalled feet arched in delicate steps. A grave-faced Grell plays for them on a tambour. A little way off, a group of Savants sit talking on the grass. Their faces are animated, and birds with coloured feathers sit on the branches near them, their heads cocked to attention, listening. Another Grell, smiling, pours a bright stream of wine into a cup held by a bearded Savant, while a little girl-child with downy hair comes running with a dish of cakes. The whole scene is sparkling and glinting with light. The smallest movement of the onlooker’s head causes the highlights to move, causes the scene to shimmer, as though it has been done on a sheet of silk moving in the light.

Can there ever have been a scene brighter than this one? Or anything brighter than that perfect golden sky? But look closely now; stand near. Do you see that even to make such a scene of brightness as this, our master artificer (let ‘Demortus’, for now, suffice as his name) needed tesserae of dark glass as well as of bright glass? Look at the petal of this lovely lily, here where I point. See, the pieces below it are nearly black and rough in surface. An ugly fragment, you would think if I showed it to you on the palm of my hand. But without it, the lily could not be portrayed as clearly. Look now at the sparkling sky. See how it is made of fragments tipped this way and that, some of which receive the light, while others are averted from it; if every golden square alike is illuminated, the result will be flat, it will not scintillate with points of light. Thus dullness is in service of the light here; dark pieces are in service of the whole, just as the light pieces are.

Now, if we can see how Demortus needed dark tesserae, can we not see how we might need the blackness we find in the world, how it might serve a transcendent beauty even while we, thinking of a tiny fragment by itself, find it ugly, and childishly demand that it should not be part of the picture?

My friends, hear this – Haven is one such scene. Dark Spirits and Light move within it. A document I happened upon in the Library illustrates this clearly. It is entitled ‘To the people of the Union of the Free’ and begins in a wonderful manner, expounding upon the types of governance hitherto known in Eden, before proposing a new system, called ‘Demo-Cracy’. All who lived in such a system would cast a vote on important matters, whether by their own hand or through representatives on their behalf. But, alas! The document then reveals the ugliness needed to hold the whole together – the fealties observed, the oaths to be sworn, the punishments meted out to the unfaithful. No! I cried. No! You were so nearly there, so close to the realisation of the dream...

And then, as I pour myself another drink, I begin to think. If Haven is ruled by a pyramid of power, from the cowards and cut-purses and the stinky frequenters of the Edge of Town at the base, to the Guild Masters and Council and The Three at the peak, what might this mean? One might just as easily invert the pyramid – if, indeed, this idea of ‘Rei-Publick’ were to hold any water. The Three would find the weight of everyone’s expectations on their shoulders; the councillors would walk to their Chamber with brows furrowed, wondering how best to serve the interests of those they represented. First would be Last and Last would be First – in theory, at least.

In which case, Haven’s truest emblem would be found among the very least of its number. Who might this emblem be? Come on, Great Spirit, sing me a Song of the Bottle, grant me this wish and answer me this: where is he? The best of the worst, most murderous and perfidious of all hereabouts; yea, nastiest of all ne’er-do-wells, an Eater of Shit, a Spreader of Death, a shameless chaser of the basest coin, the most morally dubious denizen of this over-ripe dunghill of fugitives and refugees. Come on! Who is most worthless and ugly in Spirit of all the piece-meal occupants of Haven? Where is its darkest tesseract? Tell me his name!


Chapter, The First: An Open Door

“Smokes!” The cry comes from the door of Rogue’s Retreat, the only source of light in the shadowy town of Haven as I arrive by the dawn’s dark tide. “Outside, now!”
I pause, already somewhat confused by the commotion at The Adventurer’s Guild and by finding none of the Watchers in residence there. I’m weighed down by the equipment I’ve brought back from the mainland and grateful for a moment’s rest. Might I, perhaps, make time for an early morning snifter? I deserve it, dear reader, I really do.
The door of the tavern swings open once more. Sets of hobnail boots sound on wood, then come sloshing through the mud.
“Now, before we do 'ave this little chat,” comes the first voice again, “I 'spect that we might not 'ave made it clear to these people what they're dealing with.”
Ah! The flickering torchlight has alighted upon an approaching face, just recognisable in the distance. It is Pan, complete with his voluminous bag, and there is another Minrall in attendance. They appear to have come from the shoreline behind me. Hang on. Is that the low-lying silhouette of our fabled Guild House? Tomias and Silver seem to have made rather a fast job of it.
Attentions divided, I miss the next sequence of conversation from close by but garbled snatches snake their way to me through the gloom: “... Condemned cellars... The air stank of blood and piss... Strung husbands up with their wives entrails...”
Well, doesn’t this seem a colourful fellow? Another voice, more difficult to discern, mentions a certain ‘Captain Kask’. The voices talk all over each other for several moments and then the one called ‘Smokes’ speaks more loudly:
“The thing is, Crick, this here town is full of black-hearted killers just like us. There ain't a hand here that ain't stained with the blood of 'expediency'; the only difference between them and us, lads, is we know what we are and we are damned professional about it.”
Reader mine – can you imagine it? My mind is racing. My thoughts of the past days and weeks, all abstract and willowy, answered here in concrete form! I see that Pan grows closer, in company with the rat of the reddish tinge, and I’m thinking, ‘I must, I must find an entry!’
“Are you saying that this lot ponied up the copper and the Blythes knocked it back?” says Crick. “Sounds like they wants something more'n your blood, Smokes.”
“All this bloody trouble coz I saved the day by taking on a debt to get that damned bone-dust that locked up the Harbinger,” says Smokes. “Mark my words lads, there ain't but grief in doing good deeds. Keeping your head down just like we have these past months is the way to go.”
Oh, and here comes a voice I recall from a previous mission. Fenn would vouch for me, would he not? Perhaps. Perhaps not. I’m not entirely sure I’d vouch for myself. But Pan needs a bodyguard if he’s accompanying this sorry lot to the mainland. Last thing I heard, his potions were the only thing keeping the Watchers afloat.
“Let’s pack our gear, get our weapons sharp, and deal with this once and for all,” Fenn is saying. “I do not want these buggers hanging over us each time we go over there. So we keep a clean head, find out what they want of us. If it’s reasonable then we do it. If they ask the impossible then we finish it there and then.”
Grrriiiinnnd... Crash! The stretching apparatus I have leaned against the outside wall of the Rogue’s Retreat has slipped and fallen over, scattering the samples of bark all over the dirty floor. I curse. Four sets of eyes set into four grim faces turn to regard me. And my, oh my, are they ugly. Maleovich might have made these boys to scare away Death itself.
“Gentlemen,” I begin, acting as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be standing but a few yards away, listening to their conversation. “I am a prospective member of your party, lately arrived back in town. Will you allow me a few moments to dispose of my things before I join you aboard ship?”
Then, without waiting for any response whatsoever, I gather up my things and dash off in the direction of Pan and the other Minrall. They seem surprised to see me passing at such speed. In truth, I am a little flustered, not knowing quite where I should go, and ‘tis only by the simple expedient of following the direction of Demortus’ snores through the pervading dark that I am able to locate he and Luba at all. She, too, is sleeping peaceably, in standing position, her forehead pressed against one of the huge foundation stones of the new Guild House. I do hope it’s the building holding her up rather than the other way round.
Leaving the paper-making apparatus at Demortus’ feet, I gather up only my weapons, a few potions from his ‘secret stash’ and a notebook with which to record my thoughts. Sunlight begins to brighten the far horizon. Gulls’ cries echo across the bay. And already I’m thinking to myself, over and over: ‘Is this really wise?’


Chapter, The Second: Ship of Fools

A ship, an inn, a town: each is, in its own way, an enchanted island, is it not? A temple of the sea, a playhouse of passions, a collective slop-bucket of busted flushes, where nothing appears in reality as what it is, nor as what it should be. Roll up, roll up! Come ye now to Haven! Undertake missions on its behalf! ‘Tis frequented by persons of all degrees and qualities whatsoever, that have a great deal of idle time lying upon their hands and can’t tell how to employ it worse. Come hither! Learn the amorous smirk, the alamode grin, the antic bow, the new-fashioned cringe, adjust your phiz to make yourselves as ridiculous by art as you are by nature.

Here, in the twinkling of an eye, you shall see men transformed into demi-Totems, and Spirits made as true flesh and blood as our common women, here fools, by sleight of hand, are converted into wits, honest-women into arrant whores, and, which is most miraculous, cowards into valiant heroes, and rank coquets and jilts into as chaste and virtuous mistresses as a man would desire to put his knife into. Come, delay no more – let me introduce them:

Cast of Characters

SMOKES, Proud Paladin of the Cleansing Flame – our hero, no less; short and squat and fierce, and fond of firing himself and pointed helmet alike into the enemy, much as a fat arrow.

FENN, Fearless Fighter and Smiter of all who stand in Smokes’ way – we’ve met him before, dear reader, and I wouldn’t like to say which of the duo is the straight man.

CRICK, Hero of OreHolm, faithful campaigner from back in the day, grizzled and gnarly, doubtless made palatable to Smokes by dint of his fondness for the noxious weed.

CLOBBER, Chevalier of the Pantaloons, a tailor by profession, and useful lest his billowing hosiery be needed to replace the sail of our ship in a storm.

ISAAC, Baby of Maleovich – yes, Nana’s Little Boy is back and I rather fear he’s fallen in with the wrong crowd.

MERRICK, Black-Eyed Babysitter of The Adventurer’s Guild – surely Nana might have recruited a more reputable class of Culean to look after her bambino?

JACOB, Magus of the Twisted Wand – a Fearsome Expeller of the Spoken Word, with more scrolls secreted about his person than a kindly tax-collector has IOUs.

TIREL, Bendy-Horned Bush-Grell of the Black Guard, climber of trees, tracer of tracks – and somewhat lonely of late; there’s always Jharn and Jurel, I suppose.

PAN, Brewer of Cauldron and Vat – ah, yes, the first of my fellow Watchers, brave, dear Pan; he has, once again, neglected to bring a weapon: is he taking the proverbial, I wonder?

GORMALEESH, Poisoner of the East – another rat has appeared in our midst, as skilled and useful as he is virtuous, but – what’s that? – I can’t really understand a word he’s saying.

RYLLARD, The Bawd – yes, yours truly; I’m just scribbling away in the corner for now, keeping very quiet – I mean, can you blame me?


Chapter, The Third: Burnt Offerings

If loyal duty be not counted presumption, then let these words serve as remembrance of those we have lost. Pan tells me how many have fallen during my absence. Garnet the Golden is gone, Silver, who lifted many stones. There is, as yet, no word of Brian the Bronze but if the natural descent of precious metal be observed he cannot be long for this world.

As it is, the weather is kind, the voyage without incident, and Smokes wastes no time in apprising us of the simplicity of our mission as we disembark. We are to meet representatives of the Blythe Brothers and undertake a job on their behalf. Smokes claims it is Haven’s debt (900 copper, no less!) we come here to repay rather than his own. Mmm, can you smell that? Fish? Bullshit? No, be not cynical, ‘tis something more akin to swine’s flesh a-roasting upon a hot fire. Tirel wastes no time in tearing up the hillside to investigate.

Meanwhile, here come Tebas and Meves, the Blythe Brothers’ representatives, and a shifty-looking pair they are too. Smokes and Fenn step forward to converse with them. It’s like seeing two sides of the same reflection. Confusion ensues when Tirel calls down he has not only located foragers from nearby Ettle but the dead body of one of their former compatriots, a tracker named ‘Evin’. We troop dutifully up the hillside path to meet these three, one dead and two alive – why, it’s just like a night out in ScrubCliff – and I recognise the tanner, Fareth, whose companion, Hyle, in turn recognises our party as Havenites.

But what has done this to Evin? Half his face has been burned away, his hair is gone and the right side of his body is blackened and sooty. There are no tracks leading to or from the body – indeed, Evin, as is his wont, has erected a tripwire close by, so that none might have easily approached him. Much conjecture occurs among our number as to what might have caused such injuries while leaving no trace of its passage. Ferals? No. Jordar? Not likely. A Mage? Perhaps. The most popular opinion rests around some form of magic or creature unknown.

It emerges that this is the fifth such death in the area during the past few months. Hyle makes bold to mention rumour of one called ‘Smokes’, a foul canard known to have murdered a local tavern-owner’s wife by arson. Oops. The Four Noble Knights of Haven with voices a-raised and weapons a-jangling make to disabuse him of such a notion and Hyle – wisely – does not seek to stand by his assertion. With the atmosphere of complicit and cautious conviviality somewhat curtailed, it is not long before we Eleven of Haven are trooping off down the path toward a meeting with Starak of the Blythe Brothers, which appointment has been arranged in the interim.


Chapter, The Fourth: The Eating of Ashes

Smokes announces that he is to be called ‘Rife’ for the duration of the mission, since he is so, how shall we say, well-renowned in these parts and it is as I pause for a moment to impart these details into my notebook that our Proud Paladin reaches out to tear the page from my grasp and stuff it into his mouth.

“I DON’T WANT TO SEE THAT NAME WRITTEN DOWN, YOU HEAR!?” he shouts into my face. “I DON’T WANT TO SEE IT AGAIN, YOU HEAR ME?” Smokes is chewing upon the paper as he releases this missive, which at least serves to soak up some of the spittle coming in my direction. Now, now, Ryllard, I’m saying to myself as this occurs. Make like Hyle, smile pleasantly, and say it’s all a mistake. Or better still, say nothing. A man such as this would not know to wipe his arse with the page since his is a face not even a mother could love enough to tutor in such arts.

‘Tis as we pass by a bottle-neck of trees that the Jordar appear. There are those half-eaten and rotten that shamble, those that move more quickly armed with knives, and one of those that stalks the living as prey. Their numbers and speed surprise us and I find myself pressed up against a tree with Pan and Gormaleesh, seeking to use the length of my weapon to reach over our first rank. We tarry about dispatching them due to our tactical disadvantage and Pan afterwards requires assistance to raise Crick up so that he can be stitched and bandaged and made whole once more.

We hurry thereafter to reach the appointment with Starak and he, a man well-dressed as he is well-spoken, as ever those are who trade on the apparent stupidity of their inferiors, awaits us with a bodyguard four-strong, two of which seem mere villains recently co-opted to the service of the Blythe Brothers, while the pair either side of him appear sufficiently veteran and well-armoured to be, as it were, a permanent fixture.

One of these last takes it upon himself to laugh most heartily at one of his master’s little asides – a jest at Smokes’ expense, needless to say, and before anyone can react, Fenn is reaching for his weapon and loudly demanding to know what the big lummox finds so bloody funny. And me? I wasn’t laughing, dear reader, oh no. Well, alright, maybe a bit. Starak moves to sooth the situation but everyone is on edge again, an enduring feature, let it be said, of sallying forth with the delightful Smokes and Fenn.

Having chosen to move off into the trees to negotiate with Starak in private, those Four Noble Knights of Haven soon are discernable only by the gaudy flutter of Clobber’s astounding trousers through the low-lying boughs. Tirel asks about his brothers in the Black Guard. Merrick and I are forced to tell him that nearly all are dead and gone: Jurel was last seen in the North and Jharn, it is said, has taken to skulking around the Tor’s dark cave all day long.

Shit. Here comes Smokes. “You, sir,” he says, “We need use of your notebook for a moment.” And then, seeing the look on my face as I hand it over, he adds: “I’ll bring it back.” Thereafter, it is not too long before the Four have returned, speaking of a sequence of tasks set for us by the Brothers Blythe. Smokes seems somewhat confused about which punishments are to be meted out to whom among the transgressors of the Ancient Code of the Blythes, so I reach out to reclaim my notebook and to read what is written therein:

1. HadSuN. TaKe cloveS
2. CarTaN, breK legS.
3. LibraToreS. TaKe hand
4. ViNyeK

Oh, dear reader, ice creeps over me as I read these words – no, no, it’s not the spelling, nor the grammar – and I swallow hard as I stand there, frozen to the spot. What shall I do? Leave the party now, by stealth? Run ahead? Take out my sword and set about Smokes and his trio of trusty wife-botherers? Or should I formulate a plan as craven in inception as it is dangerous to deploy, here, among Havenites, comrades-in-arms, friends and brothers and sisters, dangerous not only to me but to each and every Watcher who has suffered every conceivable privation to make it all the way here, to this, their new home? No. Finally, with an intake of breath, I turn to look Smokes in the eye.


Chapter, The Fifth: Codes of Conduct

“Friend of yours, is he, this Cartan?” Yes, I say again, and not only to me but also to Haven. He has given us much useful information in the past, not least that leading to the return of the various documents lost by Fletch just a few weeks ago. I just thought I should be upfront, I say. I will not assist in harming him and I will not leave him to die in the forest.

“Very honest of you!” Smokes says cheerfully, and, in truth, he does not seem at all angry at the information I have just imparted to him. “Very commendable!” I find myself unsure as to whether Our Noble Hero really means what he says. Why is he fingering the pommel of his weapon? Probably just a reflex – one often finds the same thing with young children. His Companions of the Cleansing Flame gather round and we embark on a discussion about what is to be done.

They ‘as a job to do, you see. And no, they will not allow me to approach Cartan ahead of the party and explain the situation or to in any way lessen the impact of the lesson. They ‘as a job to do. I ask if anyone will object to my taking pains to heal Cartan after the deed is done and thereafter setting him safely on his way. No, that’s okay, but I’d better not interrupt their attempts to break his legs. They ‘as a job to – you get the message.

Clobber falls in beside me as we move off and with much banter and badinage engages me in conversation about Cartan and any possible repercussions to their actions. It is clear that he is examining my feelings on the matter and whether or not he has anything to fear about my reaction to it. And who can blame him? If I could put a stop to it I would. Merrick suggests she mention to Cartan that she is a friend of mine, so that the party might approach Cartan without his running off. No, I reply, there are, uh, codes the Watchers use in such matters, and failure to use them will alert him. She doesn’t look convinced. Well, I’m not too convinced either. What a pickle to be in.

Lucky for me, Pan and Gormaleesh are in attendance and are prepared to assist me. They have potions a-piece and Pan in particular has been researching the Arts of Healing. Brave, dear Pan. He may pong a bit – best stay away from he and his cauldron on a hot and humid day, I can tell you – but he’s been with Demortus and I since the beginning and has never once let us down. This Gormaleesh is a curious sort, however. Full of arcane terminology about this paste or that, always on about his venoms. I imagine Kalf Scurvy found him down some hole or other.

The canopy darkens here, even at the apex of the afternoon, and, sure enough, something is ahead of us in the trees. Yes, I can see a circle of figures. What’s that? A mask of flesh, turning, flickering quickly through the undergrowth. One, two, three of them. No: there are more! Where Red-Face goes, Those That Lurk follow. “Jordar!” I cry. “They’re moving fast!” Yes, there is One That Steals, eyes burning bright, sheltering first behind this trunk and then behind the next. Fenn is forging ahead. “Move forward!” he cries.

We would if we could but they are all around us, the bulk of our troop dividing itself already. I’m striking this way and that and the blows are causing the creatures to back off, but these are not your cumbersome sort of Jordar, easy to outwit and out-manoeuvre, they seem to have updated their tactics to engage groups such as our own more successfully. I’m striking at them hard, slaying first one and then another, and as I turn I realise there is no-one beside me on the path. Is that Fenn over yonder through the trees, rooted to the spot? Yes, and here is Clobber, slumped upon the ground by the bodies of two more of the creatures. Pan is rushing to his side, reaching out to assist him, but another ashen-faced monster of the night is emerging from cover, moving closer and – no, Pan! Watch your back! It rends him, severely, and Pan, brave Pan, Brewer of Cauldron and Vat, falls forward over the body of Clobber.

I leap, hitting the Stalker about the arm, then the leg, forcing him back from the prone bodies of my comrades. Then another appears and I step back, bringing both within the wide arc of my sword. But my heal meets the shaft of Clobber’s abandoned spear and I stumble. The first creature darts under my guard in a flash and has smothered me in a fatal embrace before I can even react, its claws are raking my back, and I’m falling, falling, down and deeper into the dark...

When I awake, Pan is weaving skin, just as he has woven my own back together, and Jacob is wielding the Flux, mending armour, fixing the Four that they may fight some more. He has no spare Power for me, for armour rendered more or less useless by now, but no matter. I need no armour to fight and to die. I sometimes think it would be a relief to do so. A clean death, that’s all anyone can ask: a blessed, unending silence from which no dark magus can awaken you.

We rush to exit that section of the woods made dank and dingy by the dark depredations of the Jordar and soon find ourselves on one of the main thoroughfares to Ettleheath. Tirel has sighted what he believes to be the debtor Hadsun Tyler ahead and Fenn bids the main part of our number hang back while he takes four of our party to approach, posing as mere innocents upon the road.

Poor old Hadsun. They say he’s spent the major part of the 2,000 copper the Blythes lent him to start a market stall on clothing and sartorial excess, but fine as the cloak, the hose and tunic that Fenn rips from him are, to judge by the amount of blubber on display he’s done most of the money on pies. “No, no,” he whimpers, “I can explain, I’m going to pay...” Oh dear, his undergarments are filling up. Tirel draws back in distaste. On balance, it’s considered better that Hadsun keep his briefs. “Here, take it, take it all,” he says, tears rolling down his podgy, crestfallen features. He casts a purse in Fenn’s direction. Not much change from 2,000 copper, it must be said.

Three women approach. They wield staves and angry expressions. As they grow near, I feel a prickle of recognition: prominent cheeks, creased brows and, it must be said, an uncommonly unfortunate cast about the deep-set eyes. Now, I’m not familiar with the father of the Immortal Eck – about whom, dear reader, we have had cause to write before – but it appears he has been very busy hereabouts. There are only about six different faces in the area around Ettleheath and a large part of the local populace seems cast from this particular mould.

Some of our party try to inhibit their approach but Hadsun’s mum is on the rampage and her daughters are with her every step of the way. First, Tirel’s spear shatters. Then the Grell scout turns and sprints past us, wild-eyed and all a-feared. Make no mistake – this hatchet-faced old hag is a witch and things are getting out of hand. “Get yer ‘ands off my boy,” she cries out, growing closer still, those nearest to her unsure as to what to do to impede a woman so advanced in years. ‘Tis then that Merrick steps forward from the side of the path and implacably slices open the rear of the old woman’s calf with a languid swipe of her axe.

I say. That’s a bit off, isn’t it? Merrick doesn’t seem too bothered. I could swear she had a smirk on her face as she did it. Amid all the hullabaloo, Tirel makes his return, much perturbed by the loss of his newly-made spear. We cannot exact money for a new one from Hadsun and the Family Crone and so a new shaft is found among the boughs of the trees and a rudimentary weapon fashioned for the Black Guard scout with knives and twine. I think better of pointing out that it has a bit of a droop at one end. Just then, we sight a body of armed men upon the road, enough of them to entirely cover its width. They have a worryingly purposeful look about them.


Chapter, The Sixth: A Truth That Wounds

Are they Fentin? No, they seem a mite too disparate and bedraggled for that. Here they come nonetheless, and their leader, surprised as he seems to be somewhat outnumbered, does not break step as he draws near nor waste any time about stating his business.

He is Caistan, Sergeant of the Ettle Watch, and he has come for Smokes. And despite much discouragement – his rag-tag band seem less keen than he to force the issue – he wants to take Our Proud Paladin to Ettleheath for ‘formal questioning’. There are wanted posters about his person for all manner of brigandage pertaining to Smokes, not least among which concerns one Gethin Cooper, former proprietor of ‘The Warm Hearth’. ‘Twas warmer still, after Smokes had left.

Clobber cheerfully computes the totals on the wanted notices – it takes a while – and announces that his dear companion might fetch more than 1,800 copper pieces if given over. Fenn and Crick, however, take a practical approach to the matter in hand and by first ascertaining and then asserting by forceful words that Smokes was nowhere in the vicinity when many of these deaths by fire occurred, they eventually convince Caistan that it would be ill-considered to cart Smokes off to gaol just now.

Our party tarries a while at the next crossroads. Catching my regard of his troubled countenance – in truth, dear reader, I was merely imagining Our Noble Hero’s inimitable cast of feature as perfect model for one of the scarifying gargoyles above the entrance of our new Guild House – Smokes erupts once more, and, barging Clobber out of the way, steps up to accuse me of wanting to cash in all the prizes on his head: “I KNOW WHAT YER THINKING. CASH IT IN! AREN’T YER? ALL THAT BLOODY COPPER. COME ON, ADMIT IT! AREN’T YER?”

Why no, my dearest Smokes. How could you think such a thing? I was, in fact, considering you for Holy Orders – yes, He Who Cleans Toilets would take you in an instant. You are short enough, you smell to the heavens, and, when upturned, the bristles about your face would be admirably suited for removing even the most stubborn items of shit and detritus. You sir, are a talking brush, a torch that lights itself, a burning, raping, looting scooper of shit, spraying all about it the useless things it has imbibed, fit only to spread fertiliser on the fields. That’s what I say. Only, I say it all in my head rather than out loud, because I’m not even half as stupid as you.

I hang back a little from the main group as we move off – I’m not sulking, dear reader, just considering my position, you understand – but even I catch the familiar odour of burning flesh in the air as we turn away from Ettle. Does Our Proud Paladin summon forth these deaths with his anger, I wonder? Sure enough, here is a body half-singed, seemingly knocked from its feet, with nary a clear track to be found anywhere near it. Worse still, it has the markings of the deathly and secretive Society of Zarin about its person, and is giving off a strange heat.

First it shakes, its limbs gyrate, smoke comes billowing from mouth and ears and nose, candle-light flickers from every orifice, then – Poof! – up it goes and we’re backing off, dear reader, this can’t be good, can it? Here it comes, a Muse of Flame, a Creature of Fire, Element Uncontained, the form of a person in a Piece of the Flux. Ouch! A piece of it has flown through the air to strike Tirel in the face. I slash at its flaming silhouette but cannot tell if I do any harm. A Sword That Burns takes shape in its form and once, twice, misses me, then hits, draining me of Essence, and I hit it again and again, less and less certain about the advisability of engaging this unknown elemental in combat. Soon, we have most of us backed away from it. Then off the Spirit flies into the trees; smouldering branches are in its wake, smoke fills the afternoon sky.

I’m still trooping disconsolately behind the main body of our troop when news comes back from Tirel that Cartan has been sighted. I move off the path and into the bushes. I do not want to see this. I wait for a while there, hearing shouts in the distance, grimacing with the pain of my own betrayal. We have exchanged beers, Cartan and I, swapped stories short and long, whispered secrets across the tavern table. Finally I can bear it no more, rising up to walk to the edge of the path. I will hide no more from what they are doing to my friend.

Our Noble Knights have him face-down in the dirt. Fenn is shouting in his ear as Clobber takes hold of one of his legs from behind. Having gained the correct leverage, the Chevalier of the Pantaloons stamps his hobnailed boot once, twice, onto the back of Cartan’s left leg. Cartan screams. They’re gathered round, these Knights of Haven, they’re all holding him down as they repeat the process with his other leg. Eyes ablaze with pain and rage, Cartan squirms in their grasp to look down the path, and he sees me there, cowering like some cock-less half-bullock in the bushes.

“Ryllard, you bastard!” he screeches, his broken-down tones a blade in my heart. “You coward! Help me, damn you! Will you not help me? You absolute bastard!” He’s sobbing now, his tears mingling with the dirt. “How many times have I given you aid? Don’t think I’ll ever help you again, you cowardly, stinking bastard...” Well. He’s not wrong is he? And just as I’m thinking of running to his rescue, too late, much too late now, Merrick is running back to me, standing there and saying, “We’ll just stay here, shall we, until this is all over?”

Now, I like Merrick. But that doesn’t prevent me from fantasising about loping off her head and booting it merrily down the path all the way to Ettleheath. As it is, they’re moving off, those Four Brave Paladins, they’re leaving Cartan to writhe ineffectually in the blood and dirt. And Cartan, Friend of Haven, Saver of its Secrets, Carrier for Crow and Watcher alike, curses me still more as I turn him over and try, finally, to help him.

Pan is there, thank the Spirits, brave, dear Pan, and we are able first to set Cartan’s legs and then to tie splints about them and pour first one, then another, Potion of Greater Healing down his throat. His savage imprecations fade finally to grumbles and then to grudging acceptance. I offer to leave the company of the party and escort him home, or better still to ScrubCliff, to my agents there, or to take him with me to Haven. I warn him that the Blythes will be after his blood again sooner or later, that they are no better than Mantine in their undying desire to control all that lies around them. He will have none of it. But before he hobbles off alone into the Valley of Ettle, he makes to corroborate certain information I have received from other contacts in these past weeks: the Tharan are gathering weaponry in ScrubCliff and the surrounds, and the death of the High Mage Rothor has prompted an increase in numbers among the Jordar of the town.

As Pan and I return to the party, we are told to hide ourselves within the undergrowth. Merrick, it seems, has gone ahead with two of our number to negotiate as ‘a trader’ with what has been taken to be an advanced guard of the Liberators. Gormaleesh is told to count to Five Hundred, so that we may time our reinforcement of Merrick. I catch a glimpse of blue livery in the distance. Aren’t those Fentin colours? I say nothing, however, bidden as I am to remain completely silent. The count starts up again; poor Gormaleesh – he’s probably the only one of us able to count that high.

Then Crick comes running along the path, looking this way and that for us all. They are not Liberators ahead, but a patrol of Fentin Grell. They are looking for outlaws – one among whom a certain Culean named ‘Luba’ – and have taken Merrick hostage. Off we charge, weapons a-waving, my relief at finally having a clear enemy to engage somewhat mitigating the impact of my advancing years.


Chapter, The Seventh: Liberty, Equality... Eternity

Clang! There goes Smokes, arse over tit in vague direction of the enemy – the poor lamb seems to have landed on the peak of his helmet. I cut one Grell across the arm, chop another to the floor, but my heart isn’t really in it, mine own comrades disgust me now, their actions have infected my own and I’m unable to show any joy or determination in what I do.

After the fight, the original plan is returned to: Merrick will go ahead with a bodyguard to the camp of the Liberators and attempt to ascertain the lay of the land by posing as a trader. The count starts up once more; first Pan counts to One Hundred, then Gormaleesh. Then we go through the process again. I feel like a child lulled to moral slumber by an Evil Parent.

It all goes awry, of course. Tirel is shuttling back and forth between the camp of the Liberators and our troop and it becomes clear finally that Merrick has been captured, magicks used upon her to ascertain the truth of her identity as a Havenite and defences erected once more to forestall our approach. I’m lagging so badly by this point that I do not hear the others uttering the password, ‘Coinage’, as they pass through the Ward on the Liberators’ camp. A jolt of pain, tooth-shatteringly sharp, passes through my body, and, dear me, over I go.

I’m laying there a while. Gormaleesh is calling to me through the trees. It seems to take forever to reach slowly down to the pouch on my belt, to pull forth the Potion of Imbue, and then, with such great, gradual pains, to remove its stopper and imbibe the contents. Sounds of a great battle are somewhere ahead and I follow the dark red hue of Gormaleesh’s hide first up, then down, then along to what remains of the camp of the Liberators.

Someone stands guard there over where the bandits have buried their treasure but, in truth, it’s all a bit confusing – still more echoes of weapons upon armour sound in the distance where others of our party make their way to where Evaline, one of the leaders of the Liberators, has made her escape. I kill two but take no pleasure or pride in it – ‘tis only loyalty to Haven that keeps me about this sickening business by now. By the time I’ve caught up with the vanguard, Fenn is already making his way back to where the Liberators have hidden their stash. He is carrying Evaline’s severed left hand.

What a victory! Havenites – can we not be proud of what we have achieved? One of the few groups in these parts to support the Havenite agenda, and look how we have rewarded them: with murder, with pillage, with dismemberment. Let’s give ourselves a pat on the back – with Evaline’s bloody appendage. It seems to me that we may as well have cut off one of our own.

Those Four Noble Knights of Haven make to retrieve the treasure of the Liberators; given that Crick has since announced that each person’s share of the mission amounted to a measly twenty copper, one can only assume they’ve kept all the proceeds for themselves. Sirs, I salute you!

Pan is prevailed upon to add Evaline’s hand to the stash in his bag and before long we are all moving off. Plans are made whereby Jacob the Magus is to take Fenn and Clobber ahead to meet Vinyek, the last item on the list, and use a Spell of Befriend to lull him into a false sense of security. No-one has made clear what is to happen to Vinyek but I believe I can guess.

Tirel goes ahead once more to investigate the burning smell in the trees – no coward, this Grell – and I follow twenty paces behind so that he does not pass out of sight. Already, though, we can hear a whimpering sound in the trees to our right. The sun is setting by now, lighting the trunks of the trees with a hottish tinge, seeming to foreshadow another encounter with Our Favourite Element. Sure enough, here is Fareth, or Hyle, in truth I’m none too sure which is which, but one is standing over the other, smoke is coming off the dead man and the one left alive is losing his mind, whimpering over and over about someone or something called ‘Jack O’ Lantern’.

I’m urging Tirel to come down from his vantage-point up a tree and to return to our side – it’s too dangerous out there – but we’re moving toward him now, toward the smell of burning, toward whatever is haunting these woods with its Curse of Cleansing Flame. It’s getting hotter. We’re moving faster. Here it comes: first the smell, then the clouds of black, finally – yes, there it is! – a lick of flame among the trees. Then a Muse of Fire is close to me, and another, fire shoots first into Clobber, then into mine eyes, oh my words, my hair is on fire, my face is melting...

Clobber is over me as I awake – he has poured a potion into me. What little hair remained on my head is gone. It is difficult to tell what is happening but the Spirits of Fire are all around. Then a voice rings out, as deep in timbre as it is desperate in its cry of undying torment:

“Smokes! Where are you, Smokes? I’ve been continuing your work! You burnt me and now I’ve come to repay the favour!”


Chapter, The Eighth: A Warmer Hearth

Face a-flame, sword an arc of fire, Gethin Cooper – for it can only be he – is coming up the path, raging, shouting, burning: “Smokes! Where is Smokes? I have something for you, Smokes...”

Fighting the Fire Sprites is one thing, they fall if you hit them enough, but Gethin Cooper is another matter entirely. How do you face that much rage and torment? I can barely stand to look at him. And, in truth, he does not seem much interested in us. There is but one target of his ire. And what do you know? There is no sign of Smokes anywhere.

Cooper is passing back and forth, calling out for his nemesis, a trail of flame lights the forest floor where he goes, Vengeance is he, and soon he is herding us around like sheep, looking among us for Smokes, not finding him, looking again, here and there, moving back and forth, deep voice crackling as he asks: “Where is Smokes?”

He is gone, Gethin Cooper. And there you go, moving off into the trees, searching and burning in hatred and pain. What possesses me to follow, I do not know, but even I will leave not Smokes alone to face that thing. He is bound in blood and skin like me and I will not see him burn, whatever he has done. I follow the trail of smoke, but there is no sign of Cooper when I arrive at the edge of the trees and nor, indeed, of Our Proud Paladin.

Clobber has caught up with me, and thereafter Pan and Gormaleesh, but we find no trail we can easily follow. Then a voice calls out, back in the direction we have come from, but further on down the path from where the Fire Demon of Vengeance appeared.

“Hello?” calls Smokes. “Hello? I’ve, er, run into a merchant with some potions to sell... Hello?” Clobber turns to me and says: “That’s not Smokes. It doesn’t sound like him. Something’s wrong.” And, it’s true, it doesn’t really sound like Smokes: the voice has a querulous quality, it’s a little unsure of itself – it’s the voice of a boy in the body of a man.

Clobber runs off in Smoke’s direction. Others follow. I linger a little, trying to encourage Pan and Gormaleesh to hurry up. Best not to tarry here, methinks. I’m still twenty yards back down the path when they murder Vinyek. All I can see is Fenn finishing him off as I arrive, one of his bodyguards escaping into the undergrowth: yet another witness to spread the news about Haven’s good conduct this past day. Vinyek, too, had the markings of the Zarin about his person but I’m too upset to care by now.

It’s dark. Starak and his guard seem but silhouettes in the window of night by the time we rendezvous with them once more. Hadsun’s clothes, Evaline’s hand and the head of Vinyek are cast before the Blythes’ fat factor of death and retribution. He gives the Four Noble Knights a letter. It mentions one ‘Captain Kask’ but they share no more of its contents with the rest of party. We all just want to go home. A warm hearth awaits some of us there.

As we make our way to the shore, Smokes turns to me, his face all bewildered, and says: “I’m not going to be able to stay around here anymore, am I? People are gonna die if I do...” Not quite knowing how to respond, I make a weak jest: “No Smokes without fire, eh?” He turns away from me, disgusted. Yeah, well, you’re not half as disgusted with me as I am with myself, Smokes. It’s the same for you as it is for the rest of us: the Fire that was once your friend has burned your fingers to the bone.


Chapter, The Last: Embers

I’m home now. Back in Haven, ruminating on what has happened and what it might mean. I need to fill the last piece of parchment and so I may as well think aloud, with words, here on the page. They are all I know, after all. Instead of answers, all I get is more questions. For instance: Once something is broken can it ever be properly mended? Well, to some extent, that depends on what it is. If a piece of glassware gets dropped, there will usually be a visible line where the bits have been put back together. With a Spirit, however, a perfect healing process should be possible. All this needs is time, plus a willingness to forgive and move on. Regardless of where emotional damage has been done, there is usually a way to put it right.

All very fine in theory. But where in the physical world is the potential to set things straight? I’m thinking of Demortus here. He who each year on the anniversary of the Great Betrayal breaks one of his fingers in remembrance of what the Hiymin Grell did to his hands and his Spirit – they broke his fingers one by one, the bastards, and laughed while they did it, made him watch while they took hammers to every glorious inch of The Golden Mosaic, that which he had wrought with those very hands, made him listen while they tortured his followers, murdered his children, took turns to ruin his wife. How does a Spirit ever recover from that?

With Vengeance, is it not so? That’s what kept us going all these years. One day, one day we will have our revenge, that’s what we’ve always said. And so it goes on, the game of master and slave, of betrayer and betrayed, of victor and victim: Vremaine beget Mantine, Mantine make Farrant, Farrant vanquish Vitreides, on and on, an endless cycle of mastery and revenge. How do I go to him and say, no, Demortus, I want no more of it, I can stand it no longer, they took your family and mine, and now, as we near our goal, I’ve lost the heart to see it through. How do I say that to my oldest friend?

Just now I went into the Hall of the Watchers, half-completed and cold, a chill breeze seemed to blow through the place, and they were all there: Demortus at the head of the table, Pan and Luba planning the garden, Gormaleesh in his lab. I had not the heart to say anything. I pretended all was well, took up this parchment and came here to the Library. I could not say it. I could not say that I no longer want to be a dark tesseract and leave others to give off the light that is golden: those in the Infirmary, Armitage handing out soup from his kitchen, Ebban Ishin Tayhir with his high and mighty ideals – he who I have mocked and berated so many times and who had even the courage to contravene his most sacred beliefs, and who met nothing but condemnation for his actions.

Look out to sea. See the way the light plays there on the water. Feel the breeze. A Great Spirit moves there. I do not know its Name. Perhaps it is Abia-Maysa. Perhaps it has many Names, or none. I will walk there now, take up my sword and cast it into the breaking waves. It is of no more use to me.
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"The simulacrum is never that which conceals the truth--it is the truth which conceals that there is none. The simulacrum is true..."