Seer: A Foreworld SideQuest (The Foreworld Saga)

by Mark Teppo

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2012 Foreworld, LLC.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47 North

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  eISBN: 9781611092806

  CONTENTS

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  FOREWORLD SAGA

  I

  Their morning training was interrupted by the unexpected arrival of a plainly dressed man. Lugo, the youngest initiate at the chapter house, noticed him first and nearly received a blow to the head as a result of his inattention. Shouting at the rest of the men to stop their drill, Andreas glared at the man who was standing inside the chapter house gate. “How might we assist you?” he called across the yard, more than a little annoyed at the interruption.

  “I have a proposition for your quartermaster,” the man said.

  The half dozen Shield-Brethren in the yard looked back and forth at Andreas, their training master, and Saluador, the most senior of the men at the chapter house; in many of their sweat-streaked faces, Andreas could read an eagerness to be done with training. With a sigh, he rested his longsword against his shoulder and waved a hand, dismissing the group to fetch the quartermaster.

  “Bring wine,” Saluador called after them.

  “What sort of proposition?” Andreas inquired.

  A fringe of yellow hair ran along the man’s jaw, and he stared, unblinking, at Andreas and Saluador as he thought. Andreas was reminded of the owls he had seen in the northern forests, silent watchers that would sit on branches and do nothing but stare as the dark veil of night was lowered over the trees.

  “I’ll speak of it with your quartermaster,” the stranger said finally.

  Andreas chewed on the inside of his cheek and glanced at Saluador, who shrugged. They were dressed in simple shirts and pants, damp with sweat and dirt from their training. It was easy to mistake them for mere soldiers; they were not offended by such assumptions.

  They were spared further insightful conversation by Lugo, who returned with a bottle of wine and two cups. Saluador led the man over to a small table in the shade along the southern wall, and he poured wine into the cups as the man settled stiffly on a nearby stool.

  Domingo emerged from the main house, trailed by Harald and Guillén. While Domingo was as simply attired as the rest, he had thrown a blue cloak over his shoulders to give the nominal impression that he was in charge. He was a burly man, with a worn face that had been hardened over the years like a sunbaked brick. He was missing his left arm; it had been lost while crusading in the Holy Land, during an assault on a watchtower outside the Egyptian city of Damietta. Cut off in a single stroke by a Muslim saber and then claimed by the Nile. The end of the stump had taken a long time to heal, and it was a tangled mess of scar tissue.

  “Domingo Ramon de Sargantas,” the Shield-Brethren quartermaster said, offering his hand. “I am in charge of this chapter house.”

  The man had been staring at the scarred knob of Domingo’s left arm. “Jacobi de Reyns,” he said suddenly when he realized what he was doing. He clasped Domingo’s offered hand.

  Reyns was a city north of Paris, and Andreas wondered what the man was doing in Catalonia. He had come alone to the chapter house, and his clothes were not very ostentatious. Jacobi looked to be a dozen or more years older than Andreas, well past the age when sons broke away from their families and went off to strange lands to find their fortunes. What fortune had he lost? Andreas wondered. Or did it elude him still?

  Of course, he was far from home as well. Farther, in fact, as Lund was a week’s travel beyond Reyns. But he hadn’t looked on the cold and gray water of the Baltic Sea for many years. For him, it was a matter of wanderlust. That is why I never stay long, he would tell those who asked, I want to see the world. He had been to the northernmost and southernmost shores of Christendom; as far east as Petraathen, the ancient citadel of the Shield-Brethren; and as far west as a dingy tavern not a mile from this chapter house, just beyond the ruins of the Roman walls that marked the center of Barcelona.

  “I am told you have a proposition for us,” Domingo said, picking up one of the two cups as he sat down opposite the merchant.

  “Yes,” Jacobi said, blinking several times. “I have several wagons of goods that need to arrive safely at their destination, and I seek to hire a small company of your men to accompany them.”

  Domingo regarded the man for a moment before answering. “The Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae do not hire themselves out as caravan guards,” he said finally. “There are several hundred men-at-arms in Barcelona who would satisfy your needs.”

  “I know none of them,” Jacobi replied. “Nor their reputations.”

  Domingo made a noise in his chest and idly reached over to scratch the end of his shortened arm. Andreas had only been at the Shield-Brethren chapter house for a few months, but he had been there long enough to notice a connection between the quartermaster’s mood and the presence of a nagging itch in the scarred knob of Domingo’s arm.

  The trader’s comment was a bit clumsy in its inference, but not surprising. The Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae—the Shield-Brethren, as they were more commonly known—were famed throughout Christendom for their martial prowess. The few victories the West could claim in the crusades, for instance, came about because of the presence of the Shield-Brethren in the Holy Land. What merchant wouldn’t want men of this caliber guarding his caravan?

  “You don’t know us, either,” Domingo pointed out.

  “You have a reputation for trustworthiness,” the trader said finally, reaching for his cup. “It is a simple proposition. I do not understand your reticence.” He took a small sip, staring over the rim at Domingo with his wide eyes. “Do you think I cannot afford you?”

  Domingo waved the question away. “I am not as concerned about the cost as I am the reason why you seek to incur it.”

  “My cargo is valuable,” Jacobi said. “Why would I not pay to keep it safe?”

  “From whom?”

  “I am traveling into the Pyrenees,” Jacobi said. “There is much unrest on the other side of those mountains. The Inquisition is still in Toulouse. Who knows what manner of ruffian and fugitive is fleeing the Church, heading south into the mountains.” He tilted his head to one side. “Heading this way.”

  “They’ll be unorganized, scattered,” Domingo countered. “Easily put off by an organized host of armed men.”

  “Exactly my point,” Jacobi countered. “Why wouldn’t I want the most organized—the most effective—host guarding my goods? Why wouldn’t I want the order that was worthy enough for Eleanor of Aquitaine?”

  “That was a long time ago,” Domingo said quietly.

  “It wasn’t,” the trader argued with a slight wave of his hand. “I was a child when King Richard was ransomed. I remember the songs.” He leaned forward, his eyes wide. “I expect you do too.”

  “Regardless, I do not have any men I can spare,” Domingo said.

  Jacobi de Reyns turned his head and looked at the loitering Shield-Brethren. “Yes,” he said slowly, blinking twice, “they look very busy.”

  D
omingo scowled at the indolent Shield-Brethren. Andreas stared back at the quartermaster and the merchant, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t about to be cowed by the owlish trader. How any of them spent their time was none of the man’s business.

  Domingo shook his head very slightly as he reached for his cup of wine. “I’ll give your proposal some thought,” he said.

  “Excellent,” Jacobi said, taking a tiny sip from his cup. “I am staying at the Inn of the Ram’s Head. Do you know it?” When Domingo nodded, the trader stood, smoothing the front of his robe. “I hope to leave before midday the day after the next,” he said.

  “You’ll know my decision well before then,” Domingo said.

  “Very good,” Jacobi said. He offered the quartermaster a curt nod before he departed.

  Domingo waited until the trader had passed through the narrow gate of the chapter house before he banged his fist on the table. Lugo, who had been toying with his sword, started, and Andreas saw him wince and raise his thumb to his mouth. Saluador scratched his chin and appeared to find an interesting pattern in the white clouds scattered across the sky.

  Andreas ambled over to the table, and without being asked, refilled Domingo’s cup. He tossed out the remnants of the wine in the trader’s cup, and refilled it as well. He sat down in the empty chair and drank heavily from the warm and sweet liquid.

  “Weren’t there some drills you should be doing?” Domingo asked.

  “We did them,” Andreas said.

  “No man can ever drill too much,” Domingo said.

  “Perhaps, but it is important to take a break every now and then,” Andreas said. “Otherwise accidents can happen.”

  Domingo glanced over at Lugo, who snatched his thumb away from his mouth. “I can see that,” Domingo noted drily.

  “They could use some real exercise,” Andreas said, “and a change of scenery.”

  “Are you volunteering to lead them?” Domingo inquired.

  “Me?” Andreas shook his head as he drank more of the wine. “I don’t have the right temperament for command,” he said.

  “Then why do you make such a suggestion?” Domingo asked. He wiggled his stump at Andreas. “Do you expect me to take this commission and lead them?”

  Andreas eyed the scarred knob. “It isn’t as simple as it seems,” he said.

  Domingo grunted, and his face shifted into a more thoughtful expression. “Of course it isn’t. He wants more than our reputation.”

  “It should cost him more,” Andreas said. When Domingo glared at him, he shrugged. “Coin is coin. It puts food in our bellies more readily than reputation.”

  “Aye, that it does.” Domingo sighed. “Visit him at the inn after sundown. Ask for double his price. If he agrees, take the commission.”

  Andreas said nothing as he stared across the narrow yard. It had been a year since he had appeared at any Shield-Brethren chapter house, and he knew such negligence on his part was unbecoming of the vows he had sworn. But the spirit of those vows could only be fulfilled by actively aiding the less fortunate in Christendom. Too many of his Brothers never left the confines of the Shield-Brethren chapter houses, inculcated by old habits passed down from the Electi in Petraathen. He was not so blind as to be unaware of the influence his training at Týrshammar had on his attitude, nor had he ever found himself regretting that education. It made him difficult, he knew; his upbringing made him rebellious and untrustworthy among his own Brothers—the only family he had.

  So he had wandered far—north, south, east, and now west. Perhaps it was time to put aside the childish notion that it was a desire to see Christendom that drove him, and acknowledge that what drove him was some other emotion entirely. He thought of Raphael, the Shield-Brethren knight he had met a few years ago, not far from Marzburg, in Germany. Raphael had trusted Andreas with his life—even though they had met but a day prior—and Andreas had not forgotten what that trust felt like. That sense of belonging.

  “I’ll lead them,” he said. For a fleeting moment, he felt an inordinate panic threaten to overwhelm him, but he held on to the responsibility being offered. A tiny part of him squirmed, that endless restlessness that had plagued him for so many years fighting against being so constrained, and then it was still. It wasn’t gone—just held in abeyance by something stronger.

  In a number of French territories, the Inn of the Ram’s Head would have been considered unfit conditions for a person of decent birth. Even riding a horse along the street where the inn sat would call into question a respectable person’s reputation, but as it was, Jacobi de Reyns was a long way from anywhere that mattered and well out of sight of anyone who might know him or his family. The inn was dark and squalid and anonymous. The beer was cold and the food—while heavy on the oil, and mostly fish—was hot. The serving staff was comely as well—not too old, not too young, and certainly willing to offer him a salacious wink when they refilled his tankard.

  It had been a while since he had enjoyed any female companionship, and he appreciated the suggestion—as aloof and impersonal as it was—that he might end his lengthy dry spell if he had the right amount of coin.

  Though, if he had the right amount of coin, he’d be in Paris, sleeping with French whores. Where he should be, instead of godforsaken Catalonia.

  Everything had been working fine two years ago; he and his partners had established a trade route between Carcassonne and Bourges, with stops in Toulouse, Albi, and Clermont. Goods were moving readily back and forth. They were doubling their cargo with every circuit.

  And then one of his partners had been detained by the Inquisition. Tomas had confessed, though Jacobi knew not quite what it was that Tomas had to confess. It didn’t matter, though; in an instant, all of their merchandise and wagons were seized. He had only managed to avoid capture by virtue of not being in his house in Albi when the soldiers of the Inquisition came. He had been several miles south, in a nameless inn, having a clandestine affair with a delightful girl named Giselle.

  Giselle’s uncle had interrupted his afternoon tryst, arriving quite unexpectedly. Jacobi had tried to flee through the room’s window, minus some of his clothing. He had dashed to the stable for his horse, where he had met the innkeeper, who was, it turned out, the one who had ratted him out to Giselle’s uncle. Jacobi would have given the man a good thrashing, but was rebuffed—quite readily—by the pitchfork the innkeeper was waving about.

  Bleeding from the thigh—and other nether regions—Jacobi had fled back to Albi, arriving in time to watch his house be put to the torch. The Inquisition’s men took what property he had worth seizing, including his very frightened and very angry wife, Secile.

  It had been her murderous expression, as she had caught sight of him skulking in the back of the crowd, that had convinced him it was time to leave France.

  He hadn’t gotten very far before his injuries became infected, starting with a certain portion of his anatomy. It is God’s justice, several doctors had said when he tried to find someone who would treat him. He didn’t have enough money to change their minds, and without any hope, he had wandered into the mountains along the southern border of France. Feverish and afraid that the diagnosis was coming true, he had stumbled into a tiny village high in the mountains, somewhere between Toulouse and Catalonia, where he had found a healer who was not as worried about God and His justice. She was part of a community of women—widows of crusaders, estranged daughters, and wild mystics who still believed the tenets of Catharism.

  God’s justice, indeed.

  When he had recovered from the festering illness of his wounds, he had pledged himself to the village. It was remote, and while the community was mostly self-sufficient, there was some need for trade. He had no other expertise to offer, and he felt there was a debt to be paid. It took him a little while to convince them they needed a trader—someone who could arrange for a tiny trickle of goods to flow through their village. There were other villages scattered throughout the mountains; in time, perha
ps he could build a new trade route. It wouldn’t be nearly as bountiful as what he had had in France, but it might be enough.

  That was, until the arrival of Captain Folquets de Vilapros, another displaced refugee from the crusade against the Cathars in Toulouse. Like him, the captain had lost his lands and his fortune during the Inquisition’s expurgation of Albi; unlike Jacobi, though, he had managed to hang on to some of his retainers—the loyal sort who did not quibble about the source of their master’s income…

  A bustle of voices near the inn’s door drew Jacobi out of his reverie, and he looked up to spy one of the Shield-Brethren moving through the crowded room with an enviable ease. The local toughs gave ground without even being aware of doing so, the merchants and traders nodded and spoke conversationally with the man as he passed, and one of the serving girls pressed herself and a tankard of beer against him with robust enthusiasm. He was the blond one who had been listening in on his conversation with the quartermaster. He looked more Frisian than Spanish, and he carried himself with a grace that teetered on the edge of swaggering arrogance but never quite spilled over. He caught sight of Jacobi and sat down opposite the trader, his back to the door.

  “A fine evening in a fine establishment, good sir,” the man said, a genuinely warm smile on his face.

  “The weather is too warm and this is a shithole,” Jacobi groused, put off by the man’s strong presence. Normally, he would have been more contrite—more polite—but his mood had darkened during the last few minutes as he had started to brood about Vilapros.

  The Shield-Brethren knight paused in the process of quaffing a large portion of his tankard and lowered it, foam dripping from his ruddy beard. “Aye,” he said agreeably. “Both of those things are most certainly true. I am glad to see you are a man who prefers to speak plainly.” He put his tankard down. “I am Andreas, knight initiate of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae. Our quartermaster asked me to inform you of his decision.”

  Jacobi was somewhat taken aback by Andreas’s frankness, and he stared at him for a moment, blinking slowly. “And what was his decision?” he asked finally when it was clear that Andreas wasn’t going to provide it without being prompted.