The Fickle Winds of Autumn

Father Steadman rubbed his fingers into the polished wood of his chair; it creaked uneasily beneath him, as the other members of the Pleiad shuffled into his chambers and filled the room with their bustling chatter.

Waiting was always the most difficult time; thinking, attempting to predict the moves of an opponent, or the random twists of Fate; a nervous calm before the storm.

Trying to command without offending; to counter objections subtly, instead of giving direct orders.

Perhaps he had been wrong all those years ago when he answered the call of the Surrounder and entered a life in the Church?

But even in the militia, the most ingenious of battle-strategies often came unstuck against the fury of an enemy.

Talmadge - or did he call himself by another name these days? - must have something important to tell them - why else would he have asked them to assemble?

But what?

And how would Caldor find a way to disagree with it?

A formal hush pushed out to the edges of the room as the old magikant moved to the centre of the study and spoke.

“As you know, we have now entered a most perilous time - the world, as we know it, is in grave danger - and if we do nothing, it is certain to end - for I must confirm the findings of Brother Lanqvist.”

An anxious, buzzing ripple spread through the members of the Pleiad; the grey-hired Librarian, tucked away behind Rowe, shuffled and blanched.

Several sets of eyes turned to Lanqvist; he sat passively supporting his cane between his knees.

But those assembled already knew this terrible news - surely the old man had some new information to impart?

“Since my arrival here,” Talmadge continued, “I have worked tirelessly and poured over all the known scrolls in search of hope - some kind of solution - to avert this disaster. I can’t say I’m pleased with what I have discovered, but at least a clear plan of action has opened up before us, and that is what I must discuss with you now.”

Steadman’s thumbs gripped deeper into the smooth arms of his chair - finally, some sort of strategy to work with; a chance to do something, instead of sitting and waiting.

“Even with all my powers,” Talmadge said, “I fear I could not summon a spell deep enough to protect the entire world from the jeopardy it now faces. I would need to amplify my abilities greatly in order to perform such a profound casting.”

“I thought that was the purpose of the Sacred Grove?” said Steadman. “But from the pale gravity of your manner, I assume it will not be quite as simple as that?”

“No,” Talmadge replied, “it will not. Unfortunately, despite all my research, the only way I can find to enhance my powers sufficiently, would be through the use of the Quillon of Hekubate.”

An unsettled murmur vibrated through the room.

Steadman’s brows furrowed deeper.

The Quillon of Hekubate?

The jewelled dagger from the demon realms?

This was the stuff of drunken tavern tales!

A fable to scare naughty children!

And yet Talmadge seemed serious enough - his face and demeanour did not betray any sign of humour - he even raised his voice to hold back the swelling tide of dis-belief and assert his sincerity.

What was the old man up to now?

“And even then, it will not be a simple operation - I would need to wield the Quillon in the Sacred Grove during the shadow eclipse of the Long Moon in order to achieve its full power.”

“But even if this mythical relic really exists,” said Fencliffe, “that doesn’t give us much time.”

“A mere fifteen days, to be precise,” said Lanqvist.

“It will not be easy,” Talmadge continued, “I can not pretend otherwise - and I can offer no guarantee of its success - but it seems to be our only hope; I can see no other means of ending the shadow of peril, which now covers us all.”

“But this is pure folly!” Caldor interjected. “The degenerate ravings of a madman! We could never hope to achieve such a thing!”

“And wasn’t the Quillon supposed to be sacred to the Reevers?” Odal added. “They would never allow us to use it or take it from them.”

“Besides,” said Lanqvist, “entering their territory would violate the ancient truce between us - it would risk another war.”

“Yes, I remember my histories,” said Fencliffe. “Much blood was spilt -many brave priests and warriors met their deaths to save us from the Reevers’ rapacious thirst for our blood. Such sacrifice should be honoured and not forgotten - we should gather our wisdom from their doom.”Upstodatee from Novel(D)ra/m/a.O(r)g

“Yes, we must learn from our history,” Odal agreed. “We cannot risk such bloodshed for the sake of a relic - and a relic which we cannot even be certain will even do what we hope!”

“We could try asking for it?” Byram said. “If we explained the seriousness of the situation - the ferocity of the witch attacks - and soon the witches may threaten the Reever’s territory too.”

Rowe sipped his wine.

“Even your famous powers of diplomacy could not achieve such a prize,” he said.

“But they were once humans like us,” Byram continued. “Perhaps if we explain our need - the danger to the whole world - the Auguries of Father Martin - they might agree to help us.”

“Silence!” Caldor erupted. “What is this heresy? What have we become that we openly defy the purity of the Great Surrounder - here - in this most sacred of places? The Auguries! What rubbish! And now you dare to talk of negotiating with these revenants, these foul outcasts, who sought a short-cut to the forbidden, divine knowledge that no human should ever obtain?”

He pummelled a fist into his hand.

“Never!” he shouted. “We should have no dealings with these foul demons, these hollow, worthless corpses!”

“They would never agree to help us,” said Odal. “The fiendish beast which dwells within them would never allow it to occur,”

“They do not feel compassion or brotherhood any more,” Fencliffe added. “They are no longer human - and what do their demon masters care for our world?”

“For all we know, the Reevers are in league with the witches, and are plotting to kill us all at this very moment!” Odal cried.

“And the Quillon is the artefact which creates their link to the demon soul which inhabits them - they know it could also be used to destroy that connection - no, they would never agree to such a request,” Lanqvist concluded.

“And if we did ask,” said Rowe, “the Reevers would be alerted to our need for the Quillon - they would certainly double or triple their guard on it - which would make an already exceptionally difficult task, absolutely impossible.”

Steadman’s chair became increasingly uncomfortable as he absorbed the discussion around him.

Finally, Talmadge was holding out a chance - a slim one perhaps - but the only opportunity for real action since the Harmonist had offered to help.

And yet, the whole thing seemed so frustratingly distant, so impossible - it was almost worse than having no hope at all.

The other members of the Pleiad were clearly losing patience; he had felt such tense divisions before - on the eve of a decisive battle - their fear was almost palpable - and understandable at that - but they would tear the Church apart if this continued - just when they needed to be at their strongest and most united.

His fingers pressed deeper into the distressed wood, but the sweat of his palms could not squeeze out the answers he needed - there seemed to be no way forward.

“And if not by diplomacy,” he said, “an all-out attack is also out of the question - it would be far too costly. We have no real idea of the Reevers’ exact numbers; and if the old stories are to be believed, they moved with such rapidity that even our most skilful warriors struggled to combat them.”

His impatient legs shifted their weight on the chair.

He was meant to be helping.

He was meant to be taking action and uniting.

But his thoughts only encountered more obstacles.

“And on top of that,” he said, “we only have fifteen days to get there and back - there would simply not be enough time to assemble an army - our soldiers are scattered across our lands defending the towns and villages against the witches.”

“And if all our soldiers journey into Reever territory to fight,” Odal added, “who will remain here to protect us from the witches? We would be left completely defenceless.”

“We would simply be surrendering ourselves to a fate even worse than that predicted in the Auguries,” said Fencliffe.

“This is nothing but a fool’s errand!” Caldor shouted at Talmadge. “Your so-called ‘plan’ is a nonsense of impossible daydreams. Have you dragged us all here to force us to listen to such gibberish? I, for one, will hear no more.”

His chair scraped loudly on the floor as he stood and marched across the room towards the door.

“Brother Caldor!” said Steadman. “Must I remind you who is Patrex here?”

Father Steadman rose to his feet. His fingers twitched for the comforting memory of his sword, as he bristled to his full height.

Caldor’s dark robes stopped and wilted under the intense glare of the muted assembly.

“I decide when a meeting of the Pleiad has concluded, and when we may all be dismissed. Please return to your seat.”

Caldor’s dark eyes flashed back; his face glowered a deep crimson beneath the jet of his hair.

He returned to his position and the heavy silence of the room pushed him back down into his chair.

An invigorating adrenaline flowed through Steadman’s grateful limbs and washed away his years and doubts.

It was surprisingly satisfying to put Caldor in his place - to assert his authority clearly and directly once again.

No doubt Caldor would try to make him pay for it later- although it was difficult to envisage how the Second-in-Command could make himself any more disagreeable than he already was.

“Must I remind you all of the work of Brother Lanqvist?” Steadman continued. “Of the Auguries of Father Martin? If Talmadge tells us that we require the Quillon, then we have no choice but to try - for without it we will all certainly perish.”

The cushioned seat accepted his weight more comfortably as he relaxed back down into it.

Talmadge had stood quietly, almost passively, in the centre of the room, throughout this episode. He had not seemed surprised by these developments and such a show of emotions.

Did he know something else?

It certainly had not been like him to arrive without a sound and feasible plan - but perhaps old age had softened him?

“It would appear from our discussions,” said the old magikant, “that we are left with only one option - we must steal the Quillon from under the Reevers’ noses - use it, and then return it before they even realise it has gone. And we must do all this before the first edges of the shadow eclipse touch the Sacred Grove in fifteen nights’ time.”

And there it was - the Talmadge of old - calm and certain of his words.

No doubt the scheming old magikant had known all along that the Pleiad would reach this conclusion.

He had even planned this outcome and deliberately led us along its path.

Steadman tapped his casual palms lightly on the arms of his chair.

“What! Go there without an army!” Caldor scoffed. “Who would be so stupid? So reckless? Who would be so careless of their own life?”

Talmadge stood perfectly still in the centre of the room.

“I will go,” he said in a placid tone. “I am the only one who has studied the Quillon - and, if the legends are correct, I may be the only one who can resist and harness its dark powers.”

The old man was brave - if a little foolhardy - there was no doubting that.

And he clearly believed in his own plan - even to the extent of risking his own life for it.

“Aren’t you getting a little old-in-the-tooth for that type of excitement?” Steadman asked.

“My bones may be old,” Talmadge replied, “but I still wield the magik more powerfully than most. I will be needed. Besides, I came through worse than the Reevers just to get here.”

“Worse than a ferocious army of demon-inspired warriors?” said Steadman. “I am curious to hear about it.”

The old man steadied himself.

“I was forced to confront a cave of swarming haemagiles.”

“Haemagiles?” said Steadman. “Nasty! Very nasty! I hear they are especially drawn to the blood of those who wield the magik - they must have been teeming all over one as powerful as you.”

Talmadge paused and cleared his throat.

“I cannot pretend it was an easy experience - you saw my dishevelled appearance when I first arrived - and yet I survived, and I am ready for further ‘excitement’ - as you call it - for the scrolls have confirmed my suspicions, that the time of the Auguries has descended upon our world, and if there is anything I can do to prevent such a disaster, I will.”

“Then I will go with you,” said Steadman. The ground seemed buoyant and certain beneath him as he stood again.

“My military background might help us tactically - and I am still young enough to use a sword in a tight spot.”

“No Patrex, you must not leave!” said Byram. “We need your calming guidance here amongst us at this most unsettled and precarious of times.”

“And if you were lost,” said Rowe, “the morale of the common people would plummet.”

“Agreed,” Lanqvist added. “We need your leadership and stability here, where you can be most effective.”

There was much wisdom in their words - and also a degree of fear.

But was it the witches, or Brother Caldor, that they were truly afraid of?

The blood coursed through his body and urged him to go.

His fingers itched for the warm hilt of a sword.

But he was no longer a free man - he had duties and responsibilities - others relied on him - his flock, his priests - he felt the pull of their ties and sat back down.

“Then let me at least offer some of my most trusted and worthy bodyguards. They are seasoned men, skilled in their jobs - they will not fail if called upon.”

“Yes,” said Talmadge, “I would prefer not to go alone - a small party would be best.”

“But tell me,” said Steadman, “how do you intend to locate the Quillon? I remember from my histories that the Reevers’ home is a veritable warren of tunnels - inside an old volcano, I believe. You can’t just knock on their front door and ask for directions.”

Talmadge shifted his weight and turned to face him fully.

“The volcano itself will be easy enough to find, because it is surrounded by flat, filthy swamp-lands, so it will be clearly visible. As you know, the Reevers themselves will not emerge during the day because it would be fatal to the demons who are bound to their souls, so I will take care to travel during daylight. At night, if I remain still and focus properly, I should be able to hide our group beneath a protective spell - like a smaller, temporary version of the Vallum which surrounds this Cathedral - so they will not be able to detect our presence.”

“Yes, but once you get near their nest?” Steadman persisted. “How will you get in and locate the chamber which houses the Quillon?”

“Hmmm…” Talmadge paused. “I’m not sure about that just yet - I had hoped it might be possible to sense its power, once I was close enough.”

The Librarian shuffled forward.

“My gracious Lords, if I may be permitted to speak?”

She had sat quietly until now, but her alert eyes and ears had obviously been taking everything in.

She would have made a useful Captain and did not normally speak unless she had something sensible to offer.

Steadman nodded his approval to her.

“I have studied a little of the Reevers and their habits - and once came across an ancient map in the Library which may be of some service.”

“Any help you can offer would be welcome,” said Talmadge.

“I cannot vouch for its accuracy,” the Librarian added. “It was drawn up centuries ago - during the last war - it seems our ancestors may also have planned such an audacious raid - but as far as we know, they never went through with it.”

“They had more sense!” Caldor barked.

“I seem to recall it shows a possible way into the heart of their lair,” the Librarian continued, “where it is said the Quillon of Hekubate is housed - through a honeycomb of extinct volcanic tunnels - it might be worth a try?”

“Thank you Librarian,” said Steadman, “as diligent as ever. Well, unless you have uncovered some other route, Talmadge, it’s all we have to go on - we must trust that our ancestors knew what they were doing.”

Caldor shook his head vigorously.

“This is folly! It is suicide!” he exclaimed. “You will achieve nothing - but stir up a nest of angry hornets who will retaliate and kill us all!”

“Perhaps that may be so,” said Steadman, “but at least this way, we will have some say in how we die - we may reach the arms of the Surrounder with some hope of honour and dignity, instead of simply waiting to be crushed like helpless vermin - for if we do nothing, we will surely all perish - the Auguries have foretold it.”

Only the sharp crackle of the fire dared disturb the ponderous silence.

Rowe sipped at his wine; Lanqvist rolled his cane in time to his own thoughts.

Talmadge cleared his throat and broke the distressed tension.

“Well, given that our plan relies on taking the Quillon by stealth, I would ask all present not to mention our discussion to anyone outside this room.”

“Gentlemen,” said Steadman, “I trust that the vow of secrecy amongst the Pleiad members will not be broken - I hold you all to it - and all others who are trusted enough to be here.”

His sharp eyes scanned each face, searching for their acknowledgement and obedience.

It seemed that they all agreed to comply.

“Very well then,” said Talmadge, “I must return to my chambers to prepare.”