Page 4 of Crucible of Chaos

Gently, he loosened the younger man’s fingers. ‘I thank you, Sir Knight. You have delivered your message, fulfilling this part of your mission. No one could fault your courage or your loyalty to your liege.’ He slid his rapier into the sheath ingeniously designed into the leather panel on the left side of his greatcoat, wincing at the sudden sting that was surely his stitches coming apart.

Sir Daven gaped at him as he if were mad. ‘Look at yourself,’ he cried, his frantic voice bubbling over with scorn and unease. ‘You can barely stand– yes, I see you, attempting to hide whatever injury ails you. But even after what I’ve told you, still you insist on crossing the most perilous causeway in the country during a raging storm while the tide rises? I have told you that death and worse await you on the other side– do you presume the rest of us to be gullible dolts deluded by some petty parlour trick?’

‘I think nothing of the kind,’ Estevar replied, taking the reins and tugging his reluctant mule towards the narrow cobblestone road ahead. ‘You claim the monks of Isola Sombra commit unspeakable crimes, dabbling in forbidden occult rituals and desecrating the oldest holy site in the country. Surely that calls for the intervention of a King’s Magistrate, no?’

‘You’re a fool,’ Sir Daven spat, no longer pretending at admiration, or even sympathy. ‘A mad fool! What will be left of you once the monsters prowling that cursed abbey have peeled away the last layers of your arrogance from your flesh?’

Estevar placed a hand on the mule’s neck to steady himself as the two of them began their crossing. Shouting over the wind and rain he replied, ‘According to my sainted mother? Only more arrogance.’

CHAPTER 3

THE DRUNKEN PLAGUE

Estevar’s boots slid on the slick cobblestones, each step offering the pelting rains and rising currents another chance to sweep him off the causeway and into the sea. Even the sure-footed Imperious struggled to keep his hooves from slipping on the seaweed-coated path to Isola Sombra. Years ago, when last he had come this way, the tides had seemed lower and the road better maintained. Now, it felt as if nature itself was determined to keep them from the abbey. Though unsteady and feverish, Estevar walked alongside Imperious, unwilling to risk the poor beast stumbling and breaking a leg by riding him through the onslaught.

‘The last thing either of us desires,’ he told the mule, ‘is an injured, out-of-shape magistrate, soaked to the bone, carryingyouon his back.’

Imperious gave no reply, just narrowed big brown eyes against the chill wind, undaunted by the oncoming rain. Estevar felt ignoble by comparison.

A deafening boom of thunder filled his ears, and a second later, a crack of lightning split the grey sky above. The sea on either side of the causeway roiled as if with hideous glee, spraying water over man and mule alike. The tide was rising; the time to cross was running out.

‘No wonder Sir Daven and his beloved margrave have fallen to superstition and nightmarish conjectures, eh, Imperious?’ Estevar attempted a cheerful tone despite the raging waters increasingly flooding the path ahead.

He could have sworn the margrave’s note, now secreted inside one of the many interior pockets of his greatcoat, was pricking his ribs, much like the wound that ached so mercilessly. In this one regard, the storm was his ally, for it reminded him how easily nature’s cruel majesty could turn less rational minds to supernatural explanations.

‘The Dancing Plague,’ he shouted over the roar of the wind. ‘You weren’t with me on that case, Imperious, but it was not so dissimilar to this one.’

The mule gave a stuttering huff, which Estevar took as an inducement to continue.

‘A village called Saltare in the north of Domaris– not far from where you were likely bred, in fact.’ He poked the mule in the shoulder for good measure. Imperious promptly turned and tried to bite off his finger, which Estevar found oddly reassuring. ‘Don’t blame me if your home happens to be in one of the most gullible and blindly religious parts of the country. Now, as I was saying, I received word that a small but prosperous village was suffering from an epidemic of something the locals called “the Dancing Plague”. Without warning, men and women would drop their tools and baskets, remove all their clothes and run into the streets, where they pranced and jumped and twirled, apparently quite unable to stop themselves, until they dropped from exhaustion or their hearts gave out.’

A rising wave caught Estevar’s attention, leaving barely enough time for him to throw his arms around Imperious to shield the poor beast’s head from its impact. Once the wave had receded, the two unhappy companions were left twice as drenched as before.

Estevar returned to his story through chattering teeth. ‘This plague of febrile frolicking was at first believed to be a hoax– a scheme concocted by the villagers to justify abandoning their duties because the local viscount whose lands they farmed had refused to lower their taxes. The viscount in question, a cunning enough man in his own right, sent a veritable army of physicians, philosophers and tax collectors to the village. But can you surmise what transpired mere hours after their arrival in the village?’

The suffering mule was entirely too focused on placing one hoof safely in front of the other on the treacherous causeway to reply. Imperious was shivering badly now, and Estevar, whose expertise in animal husbandry was limited to knowing that one should feed their mount frequently and never kick them, feared the poor beast would collapse in terror before they reached the gates of the abbey.

‘Quite correct, my friend,’ Estevar said jovially, patting the mule’s neck as if the animal had indeed ventured a guess. ‘That very night, having enjoyed the villagers’ hospitality, the viscount’s envoys proceeded to strip off all their clothes and join the afflicted in their whirling frenzy!’ Estevar began laughing heartily, as much to mask the tumult of thunder overhead and soothe the mule’s nerves than from genuine mirth. ‘Imagine that, Imperious, an assembly of high-priced physicians, battle-hardened soldiers and keen-eyed clerks, naked as the day they were born, dancing around the village like maniacs!’

He took on a serious air, for this was the part of the tale he most enjoyed recounting– even lacking an audience capable of comprehending his words. ‘This, my friend, is when Estevar Valejan Duerisi Borros, better known as the King’s Crucible– yes, indeed, it was I– was summoned. Matters of the supernaturalaremy area of expertise, as you know– though I’ve had precious few opportunities to employ them since that upstart girl Chalmers was named First Cantor and decided that all her Greatcoats must resume their judicial circuits to restore the rule of law to our troubled nation. I suppose I cannot fault her reasoning. . . But you have me digressing now, Imperious, for this case was years ago, before our new monarch took the throne. It was his father, King Paelis, who had commanded me to investigate this diabolically plagued village and determine what manner of witch or demon had taken possession of its citizens.’

Estevar paused a moment, looking up past the fog that not even the rains could dissipate to the glistening towers and mighty stone curtain wall looming high above the tiny island ahead. Two, perhaps three hundred yards to go, not a great distance, but the water was above their ankles now and rising very fast. He knew well how quickly the currents could render such a causeway impassable in a storm. To be trapped between island and shore at such a time in this tempest would mean both of them would drown for certain. He took hold of the mule’s reins and urged him to a faster pace. Imperious, already uncertain of his footing, resisted.

‘Come now, my friend, think of the feast awaiting us on the island! Succulent roast lamb drenched in juices, spiced with saffron and mint for me, delectable grains for you. In fact, it is grain which brings us back to the conundrum of the Dancing Plague.’

Whether from hunger, curiosity, or simply the desire not to suffer his master’s bragging any longer, the mule at last quickened his pace.

‘Yes, indeed, the grain,’ Estevar continued, so enthralled with the intricacies of the case that he could almost forget the pain in his side and the treacherous path he was treading towards a destination allegedly full of its own dire perils. ‘The barley grown in the farms around the village of Saltare had been bred for its ability to prosper in colder climes, which is how it got its name: “winter’s gift”. But this was summer, you understand, and an unusual hot spell had engulfed the duchy. With the warmer weather came a plague, indeed– but not one of dancing.’

Estevar’s boot heel slipped and his grip on Imperious’ saddle horn failed him. He came crashing down onto his buttocks and inadvertently swallowed a mouthful of salt water, which set off a fit of coughing. The mule brayed, head swivelling left and right as if searching for some dry place to flee, yet still not keen on the island ahead.

Estevar forced himself back to his feet, ignored a host of new aches and urged the shaking beast onwards. ‘No, my friend, the plague that afflicted Saltare was that of the penny locust. Most insects of that genus are foul things which devour crops, but this one is a smaller, less malignant insect. Copper-coloured, much like an actual penny– or at least, the ones in Domaris–the diminutive penny locust nibbles on the stalks rather than the barley itself, leaving the best parts for the farmers. A most miraculous creature, wouldn’t you agree? However, their feasting leaves behind traces of their saliva. Under normal conditions, it’s mostly harmless, which is why farmers don’t concern themselves with the penny locust. But when heated beneath an unseasonable sun, day after day. . . ah, then this peculiar insect’s saliva reacts with the chemicals within this particular barley, and when fermented into ale, this unexpected combination produces a potent narcotic. Those who ingest it are soon afflicted with a rather severe case of. . . disinhibition!’

Once again Estevar roared his laughter over the thunder, clapping a reassuring hand on the mule’s shoulder. Imperious was now too frightened by the raging storm and sea even to nip at him in retaliation. ‘That’s right, my friend, neither the villagers nor the viscount’s envoys were suffering from any demonic dancing plague– they were merely intoxicated out of their gourds!’ Estevar’s foot slipped a second time and he felt as if the water itself was trying to drag him down. Managing at last to right himself, he went on, ‘In fact, naming the affliction a “dancing” plague was a euphemism if ever there was one. Now, I’m not one for salacious talk, so let me simply say that by the time I uncovered the source of the bizarre behaviour, many an unexpected babe was already on its way in that village!’

Estevar felt a chill around his calves and looked down to see the water had risen above the tops of his boots and was sloshing inside, and they still hadn’t reached the island gate.

Time was running out even faster than he’d feared.

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