Chapter 1
The quaint little place had been a bastard to find, and her heavy cloak, together with everything she wore under it, was sopping wet from the ceaseless downpour.
For the last hour it had seemed that every step had got colder. Trudging one foot after the other, a shiver had started somewhere deep in Cerce's limbs.
Using her halberd as a walking aid, she continued off up the steep incline, her boots crunching over thick green undergrowth.
Using her halberd as a walking aid, she continued off up the steep incline, her boots crunching over thick green undergrowth.
Once lush, the green was going brittle in the cold, the touch of glimmering ice hanging to branches as the two travelers passed.
She glanced over her shoulder and gave a smile to Adam, who followed a few paces back. He gripped his grey cloak around him tightly, and just the glimpse of his stormy blue eyes peering out from beneath his wide brimmed hat made Cerce laugh.
"You look like a cat that got left out in the rain, mate," Cerce said, giggling at her friend.
"I'm well aware. We don't do well in the wet," Adam grumbled.
"Then you live in the wrong part of the country then don't you? Come on, not far now."
The town of Ancreed was practically invisible, hidden as it was in the rainy mountainside, and as Cerce and Adam trod their squelchy boots onto the first of the cracked cobbled streets, it didn't look like the outside world was missing much.
A lone piglet scampered across the deserted street, and Cerce found herself peering up at the buildings that tilted over her, expecting ghosts at every dark window. Fountains of rainwater fell from the corners of every building to splatter noisily to the street below, and a small flood surged past in the gutters of the road, trailing off on it's merry way down the mountain.
The buildings were threaded through with creepers and vines, and the entire town seemed to tilt a little, like it was about to fall asleep and tumble off the mountain any moment. The door to the local inn was wide and heavy, and Cerce had to put her weight against it before the thing shifted in and opened into the dim room beyond.
The rush of warm air from the inn's hearth was instantly welcoming, and Adam began shaking off his cloak the moment they entered the building. His wide travelling hat placed on a nearby hook, his ashen hair fell carelessly about his face.
"Soaked to the skin I am. Typical. You see the state of this place? If I find pigshit on my boots..." Adam cursed.
The thief tossed his cloak from his shoulders and onto the nearby hooks, and turned to his companion.
It was deathly silent in the little inn, and every face within the room was turned up and towards the new arrivals. Adam gave a low cough of embarrassment.
"Nice...nice sort of spot isn't it? Cozy like," he said. Cerce gave him a wink.
"Cozy enough, yeah. You got the, ah...?"
Adam fished into the pocket of his tight grey trousers, and handed Cerce the little folded paper.
The Stormbringer placed her halberd down with a heavy thunk, the gleaming silver head resting against the wall. Cerce strode to the bar, unfolding the letter in her gloved hands. Adam slumped into the closest chair and kicked his sharp heeled boots up. He felt eyes on him, but that was to be expected.
The unique culture found within the drinking holes of the Isles was a subject in which Adam Serra could confidently say his opinion was expert. The faces within this locale, however, were haunting. Each face belonged to a man of prematurely advanced age, weathered hands grasping wooden cups.
The old men showed none of the standard animosity for the noisy stranger in his outlandish clothes. Neither were there the commonplace hateful or suspicious looks darkening the air towards Cerce, rare race that she was, as she stood leaning at the bar.
Her heavy forest green cloak now hanging from the wall, Cerce was in a blood red leather jerkin and white shirt. Her long legs were draped in a black skirt that clung to her damply, and she gave a shake of her muddy riding boots as Adam watched her exchange a few words with the bartender. Her thick white hair was partially tied up with twine, the rest hanging down her back in a simple plait.
Adam tried to smile when the bartender looked over his way, and the old man gave a curt nod instead.
A lanky teenager appeared from behind the bar, and with a few signals from the bartender, was sent sprinting off out the front door, hands over his head to shield from the rain.
Adam watched the rain pour down out the door for a moment, and looked up when Cerce returned to seat herself at the table with a pint in each hand.
"He'll be along soon, sit tight." She said.
Cerce placed one cup down in front of Adam and slumped into the chair opposite. Adam immediately reached for it and placed it to his lips. After he'd taken a deep gulp from it he replaced the tart cider on the table and exhaled loudly.
"Cheers girl. I needed that. I thought we'd wander that bloody forest forever." Adam sighed. He leaned in a little, straightening the frilled white cuffs of his shirt, and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
"Not a well trodden path was it? Good job he was sharp with the directions, this guy." Cerce said between sips. She was looking down at the little piece of paper she had shown the bartender, her eyes squinting. She waved the letter to Adam, and he took it.
"'Willam Black'," Adam read, "Good old fashioned name isn't it?"
"He didn't say much else right?" Cerce asked, tapping the page. Adam shook his head, he'd read the thing a dozen times over on the way here.
"'They need help' is the general gist of it, not a whole lot more forthcoming."
Cerce tapped her nails on her cup and chewed on her lower lip.
"Why they always come to me, Adam?" Cerce asked. Adam spread his hands wide.
"Don't knock it, love, there's a lot of ways to make money in the world, not many of them involve helping people. You should be happy for that, y'should."
Cerce stopped the drumming of her fingertips to look Adam straight in the eyes. Her eyes were brighter and bluer than his, attention grabbing in any situation. She pointed a long black nail at him.
"When I first arrived in the Foul Mouth, you know what you were doing?" Cerce asked.
Adam took up his drink again and mumbled something into it in response.
"You were ripping off new arrivals to the port for everything they had."
"It wasn't my idea, it was an established racket, I was simply..." Adam fought for words.
"Simply ripping off people for everything they had."
"Well yes. But what I'm getting at is, that's one way to do things. I heard stories of a certain Nadyr highwaywoman knocking over carriages on the western roads outside of Truronia not long before we met. And you know Carnaby got his start in the mercenary business because he'd show up to camps pretending to be a commissions officer and then scarper with everything not nailed down in the middle of the night?"
"Ha!"
"Yeah, we've all done some dirty shit to get by, my lovely. But now you're a hero, and people will send you letters asking for your blessing, or your very divine presence, and occasionally genuinely asking for help..."
Adam smiled, and Cerce rolled her eyes.
"I know. I shouldn't knock it. Still... I didn't ask for that."
Adam nodded to the huge head of Cerce's halberd, leaning against the wall nearby.
"You knew something was up when you chose to pick up that big bastard for the first time. You made your bloody bed, now do some heroics in it."
The teenager returned shortly, his floppy brown hair soaked, and trailing in behind him in a heavy winter coat was a large elderly man who Adam thought bore more than a passing resemblance to a giant boiled egg.
Willam Black raised a hand in greeting to the bartender, but strode straight to Cerce and Adam's table.
His expression as he greeted the two travelers was almost pained, a strained smile crossing his wide features. Cerce stood to receive him.
"Judge Black?" Cerce asked, the man extended a meaty hand and took Cerce's.
"Yes, Willam, if it please you, Madam. I can't tell you how thankful I am you've come. May I?" he gestured to the table.
"Of course, and just Cerce, please."
Adam took his boots down as quietly as he could, but by the time he was about the rise the other two had seated. He instead gave a straightening pull of his shirt and gestured to the bartender for another round.
"This is my friend, Adam," Cerce said, nodding towards the thief. Adam extended a hand, and Willam looked at it for a moment before taking it.
"Adam Serra, we've met before," Willam said, his deep set eyes scanning the cut of Adam's clothes up and down. Adam regarded him, curious, for a moment, before shaking his head in acknowledgement.
"Now, I thought that name seemed familiar," Adam tilted his head to Cerce, but kept eyes on the judge.
"Judge Black here used to dispense law out of Truronia, if I'm not mistaken."
"And Mr Serra here is well known to anyone who dispenses justice, isn't that right?"
There was a moment where the two stared at each other.
Cerce extended a green fleshed hand and placed it over one of Willam's pale, calloused ones. The man looked down at it; surprised.
"Adam has been my closest friend for years now, Mr Black. Willam. Without him I'd not be the woman I am today."
She lifted her hand, as the bartender arrived with a round. As the drinks were placed down on the table, Cerce kept eyes on the Judge, and smiled.
"Adam was just telling me to appreciate the things we have at the moment, and I'm very thankful for him."
Adam was genuinely blushing, and looked down at himself.
Willam dropped his gaze too, and laughed. He pointed a chubby finger at Adam and waved it.
"You always were the very smoothest of talkers, Adam, and you're right. You never know what you might lose any moment. I'm not the man I once was either, Serra. I learned to enjoy life, believe it or not. Still," he paused, taking up his drink, "one day you will have to tell me how you escaped the Truronia gaol that time, I never could figure it out."
The Judge stared at the foam on top of his drink, but made no move to take it yet.
She glanced over her shoulder and gave a smile to Adam, who followed a few paces back. He gripped his grey cloak around him tightly, and just the glimpse of his stormy blue eyes peering out from beneath his wide brimmed hat made Cerce laugh.
"You look like a cat that got left out in the rain, mate," Cerce said, giggling at her friend.
"I'm well aware. We don't do well in the wet," Adam grumbled.
"Then you live in the wrong part of the country then don't you? Come on, not far now."
The town of Ancreed was practically invisible, hidden as it was in the rainy mountainside, and as Cerce and Adam trod their squelchy boots onto the first of the cracked cobbled streets, it didn't look like the outside world was missing much.
A lone piglet scampered across the deserted street, and Cerce found herself peering up at the buildings that tilted over her, expecting ghosts at every dark window. Fountains of rainwater fell from the corners of every building to splatter noisily to the street below, and a small flood surged past in the gutters of the road, trailing off on it's merry way down the mountain.
The buildings were threaded through with creepers and vines, and the entire town seemed to tilt a little, like it was about to fall asleep and tumble off the mountain any moment. The door to the local inn was wide and heavy, and Cerce had to put her weight against it before the thing shifted in and opened into the dim room beyond.
The rush of warm air from the inn's hearth was instantly welcoming, and Adam began shaking off his cloak the moment they entered the building. His wide travelling hat placed on a nearby hook, his ashen hair fell carelessly about his face.
"Soaked to the skin I am. Typical. You see the state of this place? If I find pigshit on my boots..." Adam cursed.
The thief tossed his cloak from his shoulders and onto the nearby hooks, and turned to his companion.
It was deathly silent in the little inn, and every face within the room was turned up and towards the new arrivals. Adam gave a low cough of embarrassment.
"Nice...nice sort of spot isn't it? Cozy like," he said. Cerce gave him a wink.
"Cozy enough, yeah. You got the, ah...?"
Adam fished into the pocket of his tight grey trousers, and handed Cerce the little folded paper.
The Stormbringer placed her halberd down with a heavy thunk, the gleaming silver head resting against the wall. Cerce strode to the bar, unfolding the letter in her gloved hands. Adam slumped into the closest chair and kicked his sharp heeled boots up. He felt eyes on him, but that was to be expected.
The unique culture found within the drinking holes of the Isles was a subject in which Adam Serra could confidently say his opinion was expert. The faces within this locale, however, were haunting. Each face belonged to a man of prematurely advanced age, weathered hands grasping wooden cups.
The old men showed none of the standard animosity for the noisy stranger in his outlandish clothes. Neither were there the commonplace hateful or suspicious looks darkening the air towards Cerce, rare race that she was, as she stood leaning at the bar.
Her heavy forest green cloak now hanging from the wall, Cerce was in a blood red leather jerkin and white shirt. Her long legs were draped in a black skirt that clung to her damply, and she gave a shake of her muddy riding boots as Adam watched her exchange a few words with the bartender. Her thick white hair was partially tied up with twine, the rest hanging down her back in a simple plait.
Adam tried to smile when the bartender looked over his way, and the old man gave a curt nod instead.
A lanky teenager appeared from behind the bar, and with a few signals from the bartender, was sent sprinting off out the front door, hands over his head to shield from the rain.
Adam watched the rain pour down out the door for a moment, and looked up when Cerce returned to seat herself at the table with a pint in each hand.
"He'll be along soon, sit tight." She said.
Cerce placed one cup down in front of Adam and slumped into the chair opposite. Adam immediately reached for it and placed it to his lips. After he'd taken a deep gulp from it he replaced the tart cider on the table and exhaled loudly.
"Cheers girl. I needed that. I thought we'd wander that bloody forest forever." Adam sighed. He leaned in a little, straightening the frilled white cuffs of his shirt, and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
"Not a well trodden path was it? Good job he was sharp with the directions, this guy." Cerce said between sips. She was looking down at the little piece of paper she had shown the bartender, her eyes squinting. She waved the letter to Adam, and he took it.
"'Willam Black'," Adam read, "Good old fashioned name isn't it?"
"He didn't say much else right?" Cerce asked, tapping the page. Adam shook his head, he'd read the thing a dozen times over on the way here.
"'They need help' is the general gist of it, not a whole lot more forthcoming."
Cerce tapped her nails on her cup and chewed on her lower lip.
"Why they always come to me, Adam?" Cerce asked. Adam spread his hands wide.
"Don't knock it, love, there's a lot of ways to make money in the world, not many of them involve helping people. You should be happy for that, y'should."
Cerce stopped the drumming of her fingertips to look Adam straight in the eyes. Her eyes were brighter and bluer than his, attention grabbing in any situation. She pointed a long black nail at him.
"When I first arrived in the Foul Mouth, you know what you were doing?" Cerce asked.
Adam took up his drink again and mumbled something into it in response.
"You were ripping off new arrivals to the port for everything they had."
"It wasn't my idea, it was an established racket, I was simply..." Adam fought for words.
"Simply ripping off people for everything they had."
"Well yes. But what I'm getting at is, that's one way to do things. I heard stories of a certain Nadyr highwaywoman knocking over carriages on the western roads outside of Truronia not long before we met. And you know Carnaby got his start in the mercenary business because he'd show up to camps pretending to be a commissions officer and then scarper with everything not nailed down in the middle of the night?"
"Ha!"
"Yeah, we've all done some dirty shit to get by, my lovely. But now you're a hero, and people will send you letters asking for your blessing, or your very divine presence, and occasionally genuinely asking for help..."
Adam smiled, and Cerce rolled her eyes.
"I know. I shouldn't knock it. Still... I didn't ask for that."
Adam nodded to the huge head of Cerce's halberd, leaning against the wall nearby.
"You knew something was up when you chose to pick up that big bastard for the first time. You made your bloody bed, now do some heroics in it."
The teenager returned shortly, his floppy brown hair soaked, and trailing in behind him in a heavy winter coat was a large elderly man who Adam thought bore more than a passing resemblance to a giant boiled egg.
Willam Black raised a hand in greeting to the bartender, but strode straight to Cerce and Adam's table.
His expression as he greeted the two travelers was almost pained, a strained smile crossing his wide features. Cerce stood to receive him.
"Judge Black?" Cerce asked, the man extended a meaty hand and took Cerce's.
"Yes, Willam, if it please you, Madam. I can't tell you how thankful I am you've come. May I?" he gestured to the table.
"Of course, and just Cerce, please."
Adam took his boots down as quietly as he could, but by the time he was about the rise the other two had seated. He instead gave a straightening pull of his shirt and gestured to the bartender for another round.
"This is my friend, Adam," Cerce said, nodding towards the thief. Adam extended a hand, and Willam looked at it for a moment before taking it.
"Adam Serra, we've met before," Willam said, his deep set eyes scanning the cut of Adam's clothes up and down. Adam regarded him, curious, for a moment, before shaking his head in acknowledgement.
"Now, I thought that name seemed familiar," Adam tilted his head to Cerce, but kept eyes on the judge.
"Judge Black here used to dispense law out of Truronia, if I'm not mistaken."
"And Mr Serra here is well known to anyone who dispenses justice, isn't that right?"
There was a moment where the two stared at each other.
Cerce extended a green fleshed hand and placed it over one of Willam's pale, calloused ones. The man looked down at it; surprised.
"Adam has been my closest friend for years now, Mr Black. Willam. Without him I'd not be the woman I am today."
She lifted her hand, as the bartender arrived with a round. As the drinks were placed down on the table, Cerce kept eyes on the Judge, and smiled.
"Adam was just telling me to appreciate the things we have at the moment, and I'm very thankful for him."
Adam was genuinely blushing, and looked down at himself.
Willam dropped his gaze too, and laughed. He pointed a chubby finger at Adam and waved it.
"You always were the very smoothest of talkers, Adam, and you're right. You never know what you might lose any moment. I'm not the man I once was either, Serra. I learned to enjoy life, believe it or not. Still," he paused, taking up his drink, "one day you will have to tell me how you escaped the Truronia gaol that time, I never could figure it out."
The Judge stared at the foam on top of his drink, but made no move to take it yet.
Cerce shifted, rubbing hands up her shoulders.
"Is it always so bloody cold up here? I saw ice on the trees not far out from town."
The man awkwardly fumbled with the buttons on his jacket.
"It's... unseasonably cold for the time, it certainly is," Willam mumbled, before finally placing his hands flat upon the table in front of him.
"Miss Cerce we need you," he said, shaking his head slowly, "I'm so glad you came. We don't know who else to turn to."
"Your letter was...brief, Willam. I don't know why I'm here," Cerce said.
"I'm sorry for all the mystery, yes. I didn't know if it would even reach you. I mean, a waterfront tavern in the Foul Mouth?"
Cerce shrugged,
"You wouldn't believe the places I've met people. Your letter said you needed help?"
Adam became aware the faces in the tavern were watching them. Men, peering towards the quiet conversation happening with sullen eyes.
"We do indeed, miss Cerce," Willam started. He ran a hand over his bald head and knotted his fingers together before him, "It's... the monastery in the hills."
Adam arched a gray eyebrow immediately. Willam quickly raised a hand to him.
"No, no it's not like you think. They're good people up there. Well, they used to be. I don't know."
"Start at the beginning, Willam," Cerce said, she folded her arms and nodded encouragement.
The Judge sighed, and slowly began.
"The monastery has been there a long time. Since before the Shattering, even. It was a place for travelers could stop on their way to the east, or Truronia. It was here when Ancreed was built. Monks were said to have come down and helped with the cornerstones of the town. They were good people."
"Where did they come from? The Monks?" Adam asked.
"Oh, all over the place. It was seen as a calling, a safe place to go, respected even. We had a town guardsmen join their number, decade or so ago now. His family would go up and see him come the solstice, sometimes. They couldn't go in, but they'd be able to see him outside, said it was nice up there. Animals, goats and the like, you know."
Cerce and Adam gave a glance at each other simultaneously.
"I think I know what's coming. When did they start getting weird?" Adam asked. Willam chewed on his tongue a moment.
"I suppose it was about...four years ago they started to get on the reclusive side. We'd hear from them less, hear from them even less than that. Far as we know, no supplies went up to them anymore, so they must have everything they need up there. Time went past and we'd not see them anymore at all. The first time we saw them in months was when they first come down asking for the criminals."
"Oof. Yeah, I see where this is going," said Adam. Willam nodded slowly.
"Didn't even really consider it at the time, you know. Good people, holy people. They'd taken in the misguided before, thieves, what have you. People who might be on the road to worse. They were meant to be a place to learn to be good. Wasn't till months later, after we'd sent six men up the mountain, that one of the town kids went up there and saw...well, what they saw."
Willam met Cerce's gaze, his little eyes were wet.
"We didn't believe her at the time, the girl. She came home with horror stories of what the monks were doing up there, dark stuff. Dark. We chalked it all up to the usual fears of the forest, and the dreams people had been having. You know how it is, one man talks about horrible nightmares you'll all start having them. But a few days later, in the night. The monks, they came for her."
Willam looked across the room, at the faces staring back at him.
"Young men in the town put a group together, six men went up there to get her back."
Willam hung his head.
"The next time there was motion up on the mountain, we thought the men were returning. But it wasn't. The monks came back. They took them all. Gods forgive me, they took all the children."
"Shit," whispered Adam. Cerce was staring into her drink.
"How many of them?" she asked.
"The children? Twelve, twelve of them gone," Willam muttered.
"The monks, how many are there?" Cerce clarified, her voice stern.
"We have no idea. No one has been inside the place in decades. Can't be many surely, but..."
Adam sat up,
"What's the monastery for? Who do they worship?"
Before Willam could answer, an old man spoke up across the room.
"Horrible things, up there. Horrible Gods, they worship. Monsters," the old man said. His voice was breaking with anger, and he pointed a gnarled finger at Willam, "and you should've listened to her, that girl, when she told you what they was doing up there. It's your fault, Judge!"
The man turned his head away with a great grunt, gripping his cup tightly.
Willam, flustered, stammered over his words.
"I'm not the man I once was, I'm old, I'm fat. I can't look after this town. I don't know if ours are still alive up there, I don't know what horrors have taken that place, but we need your help, we need the Stormbringer."
Cerce was leaning back in her chair. Her hands draped around her cup.
"I've seen zealots before," Cerce said, "I've seen what happens when religious men get turned about. It's the scariest thing in the world. There's a point somewhere, some step, and once they've gone off that step nothing you can say will get them to climb back up it again. You can't reason with them, you can't talk to them, and you can't make sense of it. If it's not in their book or their hymns or their holy symbols, then it just doesn't matter as far as they're concerned."
She exhaled and drained the rest of her cup.
"But you'll help?" Willam asked quietly.
Cerce looked up at him, shocked.
"'Course I will."
She smiled, Willam breathed.
"Thank you, Cerce, I..."
"How far is it to the monastery?" Cerce asked.
"About two hours hike, up through the forest."
"Can you get us something to eat? We'll warm up, and leave as soon as the sun's down."
Willam rose to his feet, his energy renewed.
"Of course, of course! Barnaby, food!" the Judge shouted to the bartender, "thank-you, Madam Stormbringer, all of Ancreed thanks you; really."
Cerce inclined her head, and Willam reached to enthusiastically grip her hand in his great grip.
"Please let me know if there's anything you need," the judge said.
"Just good directions, that's all." Cerce responded.
"Immediately, I shall return!" Nodding so that the fat of his neck wobbled, Willam rushed to claim his cloak.
The inn was left in sudden silence after the man left, but the mood had altered. There were nods of friendliness from the patrons, raises of cups. The bartender had left to busy himself with food.
Adam watched Cerce from across the table.
"Not one word of payment, you notice that?" he asked. Cerce shrugged.
"Heroics, right?" She said.
"Yeah. Looks like we're getting dinner out of it at least."
"That you saying you're coming along then?" Cerce asked. Adam stared back at her levelly.
"Of course I will. Come on love, it's kids. I may be a complete bastard but...you know. Besides, I'm not letting you go up a hill to get sacrificed by monks alone, Cerce. Even you need rescuing once in a while."
"What is it with the sacrifices? It's every time isn't it? Always a naked girl," Cerce said, finishing off her second drink. Adam agreed enthusiastically.
"Two ways to get a woman naked easy," he counted down two fingers, "artist, religious cult."
"You told me you were a painter the first time we met."
"Well, don't have the look of a cult leader do I?" Adam pouted.
Cerce gave an exasperated laugh and shoved Adam's shoulder.
"Glad to have you with me, you dirty bastard."
"The pleasure is always mine, Cerce."
"Miss Cerce we need you," he said, shaking his head slowly, "I'm so glad you came. We don't know who else to turn to."
"Your letter was...brief, Willam. I don't know why I'm here," Cerce said.
"I'm sorry for all the mystery, yes. I didn't know if it would even reach you. I mean, a waterfront tavern in the Foul Mouth?"
Cerce shrugged,
"You wouldn't believe the places I've met people. Your letter said you needed help?"
Adam became aware the faces in the tavern were watching them. Men, peering towards the quiet conversation happening with sullen eyes.
"We do indeed, miss Cerce," Willam started. He ran a hand over his bald head and knotted his fingers together before him, "It's... the monastery in the hills."
Adam arched a gray eyebrow immediately. Willam quickly raised a hand to him.
"No, no it's not like you think. They're good people up there. Well, they used to be. I don't know."
"Start at the beginning, Willam," Cerce said, she folded her arms and nodded encouragement.
The Judge sighed, and slowly began.
"The monastery has been there a long time. Since before the Shattering, even. It was a place for travelers could stop on their way to the east, or Truronia. It was here when Ancreed was built. Monks were said to have come down and helped with the cornerstones of the town. They were good people."
"Where did they come from? The Monks?" Adam asked.
"Oh, all over the place. It was seen as a calling, a safe place to go, respected even. We had a town guardsmen join their number, decade or so ago now. His family would go up and see him come the solstice, sometimes. They couldn't go in, but they'd be able to see him outside, said it was nice up there. Animals, goats and the like, you know."
Cerce and Adam gave a glance at each other simultaneously.
"I think I know what's coming. When did they start getting weird?" Adam asked. Willam chewed on his tongue a moment.
"I suppose it was about...four years ago they started to get on the reclusive side. We'd hear from them less, hear from them even less than that. Far as we know, no supplies went up to them anymore, so they must have everything they need up there. Time went past and we'd not see them anymore at all. The first time we saw them in months was when they first come down asking for the criminals."
"Oof. Yeah, I see where this is going," said Adam. Willam nodded slowly.
"Didn't even really consider it at the time, you know. Good people, holy people. They'd taken in the misguided before, thieves, what have you. People who might be on the road to worse. They were meant to be a place to learn to be good. Wasn't till months later, after we'd sent six men up the mountain, that one of the town kids went up there and saw...well, what they saw."
Willam met Cerce's gaze, his little eyes were wet.
"We didn't believe her at the time, the girl. She came home with horror stories of what the monks were doing up there, dark stuff. Dark. We chalked it all up to the usual fears of the forest, and the dreams people had been having. You know how it is, one man talks about horrible nightmares you'll all start having them. But a few days later, in the night. The monks, they came for her."
Willam looked across the room, at the faces staring back at him.
"Young men in the town put a group together, six men went up there to get her back."
Willam hung his head.
"The next time there was motion up on the mountain, we thought the men were returning. But it wasn't. The monks came back. They took them all. Gods forgive me, they took all the children."
"Shit," whispered Adam. Cerce was staring into her drink.
"How many of them?" she asked.
"The children? Twelve, twelve of them gone," Willam muttered.
"The monks, how many are there?" Cerce clarified, her voice stern.
"We have no idea. No one has been inside the place in decades. Can't be many surely, but..."
Adam sat up,
"What's the monastery for? Who do they worship?"
Before Willam could answer, an old man spoke up across the room.
"Horrible things, up there. Horrible Gods, they worship. Monsters," the old man said. His voice was breaking with anger, and he pointed a gnarled finger at Willam, "and you should've listened to her, that girl, when she told you what they was doing up there. It's your fault, Judge!"
The man turned his head away with a great grunt, gripping his cup tightly.
Willam, flustered, stammered over his words.
"I'm not the man I once was, I'm old, I'm fat. I can't look after this town. I don't know if ours are still alive up there, I don't know what horrors have taken that place, but we need your help, we need the Stormbringer."
Cerce was leaning back in her chair. Her hands draped around her cup.
"I've seen zealots before," Cerce said, "I've seen what happens when religious men get turned about. It's the scariest thing in the world. There's a point somewhere, some step, and once they've gone off that step nothing you can say will get them to climb back up it again. You can't reason with them, you can't talk to them, and you can't make sense of it. If it's not in their book or their hymns or their holy symbols, then it just doesn't matter as far as they're concerned."
She exhaled and drained the rest of her cup.
"But you'll help?" Willam asked quietly.
Cerce looked up at him, shocked.
"'Course I will."
She smiled, Willam breathed.
"Thank you, Cerce, I..."
"How far is it to the monastery?" Cerce asked.
"About two hours hike, up through the forest."
"Can you get us something to eat? We'll warm up, and leave as soon as the sun's down."
Willam rose to his feet, his energy renewed.
"Of course, of course! Barnaby, food!" the Judge shouted to the bartender, "thank-you, Madam Stormbringer, all of Ancreed thanks you; really."
Cerce inclined her head, and Willam reached to enthusiastically grip her hand in his great grip.
"Please let me know if there's anything you need," the judge said.
"Just good directions, that's all." Cerce responded.
"Immediately, I shall return!" Nodding so that the fat of his neck wobbled, Willam rushed to claim his cloak.
The inn was left in sudden silence after the man left, but the mood had altered. There were nods of friendliness from the patrons, raises of cups. The bartender had left to busy himself with food.
Adam watched Cerce from across the table.
"Not one word of payment, you notice that?" he asked. Cerce shrugged.
"Heroics, right?" She said.
"Yeah. Looks like we're getting dinner out of it at least."
"That you saying you're coming along then?" Cerce asked. Adam stared back at her levelly.
"Of course I will. Come on love, it's kids. I may be a complete bastard but...you know. Besides, I'm not letting you go up a hill to get sacrificed by monks alone, Cerce. Even you need rescuing once in a while."
"What is it with the sacrifices? It's every time isn't it? Always a naked girl," Cerce said, finishing off her second drink. Adam agreed enthusiastically.
"Two ways to get a woman naked easy," he counted down two fingers, "artist, religious cult."
"You told me you were a painter the first time we met."
"Well, don't have the look of a cult leader do I?" Adam pouted.
Cerce gave an exasperated laugh and shoved Adam's shoulder.
"Glad to have you with me, you dirty bastard."
"The pleasure is always mine, Cerce."
-
