The Black River Chronicles Collection - Books 1-3

The Dark Gate - not yet spring-2

want “I thought Salamander was our greatest enemy. Isn’t that what you were saying not three weeks ago?” she said with exasperation. “And the Inquisition. And now, you expect us to drop all that and get involved in some kind of holy war when half of us don’t even worship a God.”

“I don’t expect you to do anything. That’s actually not what I was saying. I just said that there was something rising and that it looked as though it was going to be a divine war. I’m afraid I can’t help the timing. Unlike a Bards Guild epic, sometimes in life there are two evils, or in this case three and one has to choose one’s side carefully.”

“Oh very profound,” snapped Teign with a look of contempt growing on his handsome face.

“I’m not making it up,” continued Elor, needled and defensive as those surrounding him started to mutter.

“Gul has seen it also.”

At the mention of Gul’s name Teign grunted unkindly, Elor ignored him, “and there have been numerous rumours of unsettling activity from the East. There are reports of a terrible army massing on the Galivara Plains. It is said they are waiting for a holy war.”

Teign snorted again, “Why should we care about their heathen armies? Which God do they claim to represent?”

Elor fought to hold back his smirk as he looked Teign directly in the eye and in a perfectly controlled, scholarly tone said,

“They are, I believe, the Armies of Law.”

Scowling and burnt, Teign snatched up his sword and stomped away to the other side of the guildhouse, cursing the wizard under his breath. Erin turned to admonish Elor for upsetting Teign but found she was not able to, as Elor had neither done nor said anything that was actually objectionable.

Jason De Vere leaned in uncomfortably close to Elor. He was a tall, sinewy, mean-looking scout who stunk of tanning fluid and sweat. Speaking for the first time in this discussion, his distinctive voice cut through the general hubbub.

“Tell me this Elor, if this is a war among Gods, if this truly is their fight, why should I care? If this is a divine war or whatever you want to call it, why is it any business of ours?” Elor listened politely to the question, then carefully shuffled back in his seat. Looking up at the face glaring down upon him, he lowered his voice to little more than a whisper and said,

“Only a fool would need that explaining to them, and as you are not a fool Jason, I am not going to explain.” Jason was just too gob-smacked to respond, he just continued to stare at the wizard, who said calmly,

“If you would all excuse me, I really must go now.” Then, with great poise, Elor stood up, picked up his staff and walked sedately towards the door.

Just as he reached out his hand to the door, it slammed open with an impressive crunch and Pringle barged in, barely missing him. The impatient cleric did not stop to apologise to the wizard and Elor, who was already forcefully refusing to lose his temper, chose to ignore the ill-manners and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Dakarn Pringle strode into the centre of the room and stopped dead. Most people would have paused by the door to consider who was around, instead of making himself conspicuous in the middle of the hall but that was not his style. He looked around the room, interested in who was there. In one corner, a group of shamans were having the kind of self-satisfied, self-righteous conversation that made him want to scream. A group of Paravelian types were having a chat in which he would not be welcome because he was not wearing a frilly shirt or his own body weight in magical jewellery and couldn’t remember who his father’s father was. To one side, a crowd of older guild members was slowly dispersing, mumbling derisively under their breath. He was seriously considering sitting with the greenskin contingent, who were passing around a flagon and taking bets on some toads they were racing up the middle of a very long table, when his eyes fell on a soft silvery face that was glowering back at him.

“Evening sunshine,” he said with an exuberant wink and made a bee-line for the solemn-looking woman. She did not dignify his mocking with a smile or comment, she just nodded in acknowledgement of his greeting which was the least her manners would allow. “How’s tricks?” he asked, carrying on in spite of his obviously cool reception.

“Fine, thank you,” she said with icy politeness. “Yourself?”

Pringle wallowed in formal exchanges of pleasantry with this sharp woman who he knew only as Mori. She had two appealing qualities to him. First of all, she was stunning - a dark elf of just above average height and beautifully proportioned, with silvery skin had a strange iridescent quality that made her sparkle in moonlight, her eyes and hair were both as dark as the mouth of a cave and just as inviting and on the one occasion he had seen her smile, her whole countenance had transformed. If that wasn’t enough, there was the other very important thing: she didn’t find him funny in the slightest. In fact, if he had had to guess, he would have said that she found his presence to be somewhere between inexplicably itchy feet and unsneezable sneeze but she never ever let on. Her manners were impeccable. He was smitten, there was nothing he could do.

Half an hour later, when the door creaked open again, Mori looked up hopefully to see who it was. She had been hoping for one of the other Death followers or a priest of any stripe, someone she could excuse herself to talk to. New to the guild, she had made only a handful of acquaintances apart from the odious Trickster cleric who felt the need to entertain her every time he appeared. As it was, she could hardly walk away from him to sit on her own somewhere.

She did not recognise the dwarven woman in the doorway. Wrapped tightly in a woollen cloak that was clearly soaked through, she was shivering and pale. On her back was a pack that appeared almost heavy enough to cause her to over-balance. She had stopped on the doormat and was now gazing around the room with a wide- eyed timorous expression, desperately hoping someone would come over to her before she was forced to attract anyone’s attention. Mori was just about to get up and greet the trembling dwarf when one of the greenskins spotted her and bellowed,

“Hey, boss, dere’s a wet dwarf in da doorway,” attracting the Guildmistress’ attention. Deflated, Mori turned her attention back to the prayer book she had been reading in order to try to discourage Pringle from continuing to talk. It wasn’t working but it was better than nothing. She was not really interested in the exchange that was now taking place between the newly arrived dwarf and the Guildmistress, so when a moment later Erin called her over, she was quite shocked.“Mori, this is Daisy.” said Erin, her jolting formality, putting all three on edge. “She’s a new guild member, could you take her out to the pantry and get her some dry clothes and introduce her Madame Du Mare so she can have a room allocated.”

Obediently, the dark elf nodded and held out her hand to the quivering dwarf who nervously shook it.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, her face still neutral, “Do come this way.” Without speaking the dwarf followed her through the hall to a door at the far end.

As they trotted down a dark stone corridor, towards the inviting smell of onions and fresh bread, Daisy became aware how hungry she was. Suddenly they were in a long, narrow and well-lit room. It was clearly utilitarian, not a single item on show that was not entirely functional. A large table with more than a dozen and a half chairs running down each side, taking up most of the space. A sprawling fire place filled the best part of the back wall. Around this table, against each of the other three walls were benches, cupboards and shelves and on which Daisy could see storage containers, cooking pots and piles of woefully mismatched crockery. In the corner closest to the door was a water pump over a stone sluice built into the floor tiles. No doubt the waste water travelled down some short pipe and poured straight out into an unfortunate flower bed in the guild grounds. Beside that were three wooden buckets each with a scraggly mop poking up out of it, two rusty shovels and an almost bald yard broom. An urgent looking note on the wall read, ‘hall floor only!!!’ and was underlined three times. This was the first thing Daisy had found shocking, as the rest of the room had resembled the chapter- house refectory. She stared at it for a moment before she realised that her guide was looking at her with an expression of polite curiosity.

“Sorry,” she said, turning her attention back to the elf.

“This is the pantry,” explained Mori, deciding against mentioning the buckets. “Adventurers are allowed in here, and may eat anything that is left unmarked. She pointed to a row of jars, cloches and cloth covered baskets. “There’s usually bread, cheese, apples, salt fish, dripping and a few other bits and pieces. Sometimes cooked meat, and stew or gruel,” she pointed to a large cast iron pan hanging over a smouldering fire in the enormous hearth. “It depends what they’ve got left over. Guild members can have four hot meals a week here, but the staff cook most days.” Daisy nodded furiously to show that she was paying attention. “The kitchen is through there,” Mori pointed at a door in the far wall, “Adventurers aren’t allowed in there, Madame Du Mare is very particular about that. If you really must, you may knock on the door.”

“Madame Du Mare?” asked Daisy, trying to pretend she was not completely overwhelmed by all of this.

“The housekeeper. She runs the kitchen, allocates the rooms, organises the orderlies and things like that,” continued Mori, regurgitating almost to the word the information she had been given when she had first arrived two months previously. “Apparently she gets pretty cross if guild members interfere with ‘arrangements’.” That sounded familiar to Daisy who having been raised in the chapter-house had fallen foul of Sr. Agnatha, the order’s truculent cook, more than once. “Let’s sort out your cloak before we bother her.”

Soaking wet, Daisy had naturally migrated towards the glowing embers in the fire place and had already swung her pack on to the floor. “So what’s the food like?” she asked as she started to unbutton her cloak.

“I don’t know,” replied Mori, taking a seat at the table, “I usually eat in the shrine.”

“Shrine?”

“I’m a priestess of Ankhere,” Mori explained,

“A Death Follower?” clarified Daisy as she took of her cloak, her back still to the other woman.

“Yes,” confirmed Mori, “of sorts.”

“Oh,” said Daisy morosely, as she turned around to display the golden chalice on her chest, “That’s a shame.” Mori looked at her with confusion.

“Why is that a shame?” she asked artlessly, at least given the appearance that she was somehow bemused. “What’s wrong with my being a priestess of Ankhere?”“Oh,” said Daisy somewhat taken aback by this response. “I just assumed that you wouldn’t want to speak to a follower of The Goddess of Life.”

“Why not?” asked Mori with an almost believable innocence, a twinkle in her dark eyes that the nervous dwarf completely missed.

“Erm, well, er, I just didn’t think it was done,” she stuttered.

“Well, you’re not a devout are you?” continued Mori and Daisy shook her head. She most definitely was not a ‘devout’; a devoted Sister of the Chalice of Mercy to give them their full title. “Because you weren’t introduced as Sister and you’re wearing a tabard not a habit and scapular, so I don’t think I need worry.”

“Oh, okay,” mumbled the now shamefaced Daisy, who had totally failed to understand the subtle humour of her companion. She just stood, bedraggled and sullen, in front of the fire, softly steaming and wishing she had never spoken.