The Mad Puppeteer

It was a sticky summer morning that saw the Wolverines ride into Cheydenvale. The air in the valley was humid and sultry, and the riders were accompanied by a symphony of cicadas, the pulsing screeches of the insects forming the cacophonic drumbeat to which the four horses marched.

Xavier came first, his knit brow and hollow expression a product of long miles that had given him too much time to think. Gustave rode behind him, puffing on his pipe, a blond mountain of a man whose horse was laden with enough gear for an army. Next came Camel, shaggy-haired and slender, slouched in the saddle and chewing on a handful of seeds. Grimwall brought up the rear, riding shirtless, never one to pass up an opportunity to display his not-insignificant collection of muscles, even if it was just for the cicadas.

The riders followed an overgrown track that wound among towering trees. The road had once been paved with proud and sturdy stones, but the stones had long since crumbled, bracken had grown through the cracks, and now the road was paved only with memories.

Xavier stared around at the forest, mopping perspiration from his forehead. His thoughts, like the old road, were a reminder of what once was, and of what could never be again.

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The gold figurine was far heavier than its size suggested. Xavier turned it over and over in his hands, peering at it in the unsteady lamplight. Curious, he thought, that such a tiny thing could beget so much trouble.

When Xavier had snatched the little golden squirrel from a gang of art thieves in Drehana, he hadn’t known that it was one of the twenty-two lost pieces of the fabled treasure of Ahsakard, hadn’t known that by taking it he had become one of the wealthiest men in the Two Kingdoms, hadn’t known that simply possessing the artifact had put everyone he knew in danger.

Shortly after he had acquired the golden squirrel, the Fiendish Host attacked, ruffians hired to invade Xavier’s estate and steal the treasure away. The Host had been repelled, but at too high a price. Xavier had been a lord before that night, but because of those who had died under his watch, Xavier’s title, lands, and future were stripped away from him.

Floorboards creaked behind Xavier, and he hastily shoved the figurine into his satchel as Gustave’s hulking form stepped onto the balcony behind him.

“There you are,” Gustave muttered, clearly exhausted. “Nearly got the last of the tack packed up. We’ll be ready to ride at dawn.”

“I just stepped out to check the weather,” Xavier replied. “Should have clear skies tomorrow. We’ll make Hobard’s Folly by late afternoon.”

Gustave shifted the overlarge bastard sword resting on his shoulder and joined his friend at the balustrade, eyes glimmering in the flame from the lamp as he scanned the night sky.

“Good,” Gustave agreed. “With any luck, Camel and Grim will be waiting for us there, and we can all set out for Cheydenvale together.”

Though Xavier was sure Gustave had seen the golden squirrel, he didn’t say anything about it. Of course he didn’t; he was Xavier’s oldest and best friend, after all. The two had grown up together, attended university together, become lords together, and formed the Wolverines together. Perhaps all those years gave Gustave, more than anyone else, the right to say something, but the only thing out of his mouth was, “Better get some rest. Dawn’ll be here soon.”

Xavier took one last look at the sky, dark as the thoughts within his own heart.

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The actual settlement of Cheydenvale, nestled deep within the valley of the same name, was not so much a village as a collection of hovels. As the horses navigated the muddy streets, hens shuffled out of the way, flapping and clucking in annoyance. Villagers stopped what they were doing and watched the Wolverines pass. Xavier thought the people looked too thin, too stooped, too haggard. Many of them fell into line behind the riders, forming an eerie procession that moved silently toward the center of town.

By the time they reached the square—little more than a mucky clearing amongst the houses—the riders must have collected at least half the village. They stood there in the mud, some without shoes, threadbare garments hanging from bony shoulders. Xavier had seen the way they looked at him, had seen the way their eyes drank in his clothing, his equipment, his steed. Had seen in those eyes hope and fear in equal measure.

At the opposite side of the square stood the only building made from stone rather than wood. Its double doors were thrown open from within, and a squat woman strode out with a swiftness that belied her considerable age and girth. She had a head of thick, frizzy hair so buoyant that it seemed to move on its own, springing this way and that as if in defiance of the oppressive humidity.

“Good,” she said, “you’re here,” and turned on her heel, clearly expecting the men to follow her back into the hall. She had scarce taken a step before pivoting again, hair swirling in invisible eddies. “Apologies, good travelers. Steward Alstier at your service. Welcome, my lords, to Cheydenvale.”

Gustave, always the gentleman, dismounted his warhorse and replied, “It is we who are at your service, good steward. We have not come to you as lords, but as laborers.”

Xavier thought he saw Alstier’s mouth twitch upward for a hairsbreadth of a moment before she said, “Kipp will tend to your horses. Kipp!”

A new individual emerged from the stone hall, youthful, exuberant, and more robust than anyone Xavier had yet seen in the village. After taking Christian’s reins from Xavier, she ran a gentle hand down the horse’s neck. Turning to Xavier, she grinned.

“King’s scouts ride horses like this,” she said.

Xavier was impressed. Christian was indeed of a rare variety that was used by a branch of the royal cavalry. But even among stablemasters, few were able to recognize the breed. “That’s right. Have scouts passed through here?”

Kipp grinned again. “Once. Few years back. Camped in the valley for a night. Wouldn’ let me near the horses though.” She deflated slightly, but then turned back to Christian, eyes alight with wonder.

After turning over their mounts to the enthusiastic Kipp, the Wolverines followed Steward Alstier into the hall. It was shadowed, pleasantly cool, and smelled of woodsmoke and age. Slit-like windows set high in the walls allowed narrow beams of morning sun to catch dust motes swimming lazily through the air. A massive fireplace stood along one side of the room, its cavernous mouth empty.

“Tell me,” Alstier said as she walked toward a table standing against the far wall, her voice echoing in the empty space, “what is the difference between a mercenary and a monarch, hmm?”

Gustave and Xavier exchanged a glance.

“The king claims this valley for his own,” Alstier went on, “but we can’t afford his tax, so we don’t get a garrison.”

Xavier decided not to point out that the contingents of royal soldiers that acted as guards for most communities needed to be funded somehow.

“We have learned not to depend on others,” the steward continued. “We have learned to take what we need from the earth and from each other, giving what is needed in turn, relying only on ourselves. But in our hour of need, when our villagers are being slaughtered, the king to whom we swear allegiance cannot be troubled to rise from his gilded throne.”

Grim, who had finally put his shirt back on, elbowed Camel and said, “Someone’s bitter,” in what was meant to be an undertone.

Unfortunately, the acoustics of the open room carried his voice. Xavier saw Alstier’s shoulders slump, and knew that the old woman had heard. In a tired and defeated voice she muttered, “You’re damn right I’m bitter.”

Grim immediately turned sheepish as Xavier shot him an acerbic look. Gustave opened his mouth to entreat the steward’s pardon, but before he could say anything, Alstier shook her head. “Cheydenvale used to be a jewel, you know. The jewel of the west, they used to call it.”

There was a silence in which the mercenaries waited for the old woman to continue, and Xavier found his eyes straying about the hall. Above the mantel of the fireplace, an ancient, dusty shield hung over a crossed pair of halberds. Xavier could make out faded colors and a coat of arms on the shield, but not much else. He thought he saw Alstier’s eyes flit up to it for a second before she drew breath again.

“The old stone road that brought you here,” the steward said, “runs all the way to the Black Mountains. It was the single route uniting Calldor and the Old Kingdom, and it ran right through here—right through this shady vale of ours. Stories of those days have been passed down through the generations.” Alstier was smiling now, lost in archaic dreams. “Stories of logging trains that stretched for miles, merchants with outlandish wares, brave hunters with tales of adventure. Every night the inns were packed to their eaves, full of travelers.” She sighed. “But when the earthshake brought down the mountain pass, the trade dried up and Cheydenvale faded into obscurity, much like the Old Kingdom itself.

“And so I ask again, what is the difference between sellswords”—Alstier gestured at the Wolverines—“and a government that only deigns to offer aid when the proper price has been met?”

Xavier shifted from foot to foot and looked again at Gustave. The big man’s expression was unreadable behind his beard. Camel and Grim stood stock-still, as if moving would draw the steward’s ire.

Alstier made a harumph noise in her throat and spun on her heel, causing her frizzy hair to swirl behind her like a miniature cape. “Come. Sit,” she said, gesturing at the table. “You must be hungry, and you are here, which is more than can be said of anyone else.”

Camel had spirited himself into a chair and was halfway through an oat roll almost before Alstier had finished speaking. A mousy table maid tottered through a side door, precariously balancing a massive tray laden with five bowls of wine. Grim immediately straightened his back, rearranged his features, and did his best to nonchalantly flex his archer’s arms. The young woman, who seemed either very excited or very nervous at the prospect of having mercenaries in her village, placed a bowl before each of the five members of the table before disappearing rather quickly through her door.

“I wonder,” Alstier asked, after allowing the four men to sip their wine in silence for a few moments, “how much experience do you have with monsters?”

Xavier was appreciating the fact that the wine had been chilled, Camel was tearing through at least his third roll, and Grim kept craning his neck to look at the door through which the maid had disappeared. Gustave dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin and answered delicately, “It is our experience, good steward, that there are no such things as monsters.”

Alstier nodded. She had scarcely touched her own bowl of wine. “I thought as much. But there’s something out there in the forest.” She squinted at the high windows, as if she could see through the stone walls and into the trees beyond. “Something…wicked.”

“Wickedness,” Xavier said softly. “Now there’s something we do have experience with.”

Cold eyes behind a visor of steel. Bloodstains on the snow. Three graves in the meadow by the wheat field.

Xavier shook his head.

“Whatever it is, it has taken lives,” Alstier was saying, “and therefore, it is dangerous.” The steward looked appraisingly at each Wolverine in turn. “I hope you are dangerous too.”

Grim cleared his throat, leaned forward, and said the first productive thing Xavier had heard from him the entire trip. “This monster of yours may have sharp teeth, but it’s nothing more than a mangy, flea-ridden rat. Now we,”—he slurped the last of his wine and set the empty bowl down with a thud—“we, good steward, are fucking wolverines. And when we show our teeth, every rat shakes with fear.”

Xavier again caught that fleeting ghost of a smile playing on Alstier’s upper lip. “Good,” she said. “Now, you’ll need a guide.”

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The day faded as the Wolverines neared the cave; the great orb of the sun hung suspended in the sky like overripe fruit. The din of the cicadas was louder than ever. As the Wolverines rode, in between questions about the four men’s horses, Kipp had explained to them how hunters from Cheydenvale had begun to go missing, had simply stalked off into the forest and never come back. Searchers were sent out, and they too had disappeared. Finally, the missing people had been found, and Alstier had immediately put out the cry for aid.

Though Kipp spoke clearly and appeared nonchalant, Xavier could tell that the woman was shaken. Kipp had described a narrow, rocky fissure in the side of the valley where Cheydenvale’s monster had its lair. As they drew near to the spot, a sticky, rotting smell assailed the men. When the trees at last cleared, Xavier’s stomach turned over.

“Sweetest mother,” Gustave said. Everyone else just stared.

The villagers lay in various states of decomposition and dismemberment, perhaps six or seven of them in all. One man had been disemboweled, his insides pulled out and stretched clear across the cave’s entrance. Another’s head had been wrenched off and lay several feet from the rest of his body. Limbs had been severed, skin and clothing torn. The sky above was filled with crows circling on glistening wings.

After a minute, Xavier shook his head to pull himself together and slid off Christian. As he approached the scene of carnage, he tugged up his gambeson to shield his nose from the stench soaking the forest. As he and his companions began to do a cursory examination of the bodies, keeping half their attention on anything that might move inside the cave, Xavier quickly realized that something was not right.

Grim, who seemed to be least bothered by the spectacle, was crouched over the strung-out guts of the eviscerated man. He pointed out the cuts that, though jagged, were clean-edged. He drew their attention to the fact that even though body parts were strewn about, nothing was actually missing—nothing had been eaten.

At last, with his smooth baby face crinkled up in concern, Grim voiced what they were all thinking. “Monsters didn’t do this. People did.”

“What’s the difference?” Camel queried.

“Precious little, it would seem,” Xavier said.

“Precious little indeed,” Gustave replied quietly. “But…why?”

All four men looked up at the dark slit in the rocks that seemed to leer at them, taunting, waiting.

Xavier unclipped Godric from his belt and swung the mace through the air, a familiar routine that brought on a degree of calm. Gustave hefted his wooden shield, still bearing the splintered scars of their escape from Bleeding Basin. Camel cinched down the belts of his leather combat harness and Grim strung his bow.

Kipp, who had stayed at the treeline clutching the reigns of the horses, nodded once and said, “Godspeed, my lords.”

“Look sharp, Wolverines.” Xavier’s face was grim. “We’ve a monster to kill.”

Cover image by Joe from Pixabay

Chronicles of the Wolverines
The Mighty Wolverines
Scars of Drehana
Lost to the Night
Fallen Sky
Escape from Bleeding Basin
A Beautiful Jest part 1
A Beautiful Jest part 2
A Beautiful Jest part 3
A Beautiful Jest part 4