Chapter 3: Scowly-Frowny-Faced, High and Mighty
I wake, as I usually do, to the dawn chorus. Thruckadddem. Thruckaddem. And good morning to you madam magpie. Trickadrickarickada, says a robin. ‘Who is is the sweet pin?’ asks a blackbird, adding a thoughtful, trutruturckuck. A high-pitched hermit thrush wants to know wholovesme, whomeloves?
Before even opening my eyes I check the notifications that came during the night.
Skill Success: Stealth
Skill increase! Your Stealth score is now 4.
‘Happy is the youth with a mission,’ says the Crow and I leap from my perch and run down the stairs.
In the kitchen, I stoke up the fire in the stove. Hand on the plate. Warm but not warm enough. Oats and milk in the pan. Stir, stir, as fast as I can. You won’t stick fast, you’re under Crow’s hands. Despite the rations and the high prices our kitchen has not been so well stocked since I was a child and while the porridge heats up (too slow for my eager mouth) I let my fingers roam over the high shelf, touching black carrots, turnips, and long beans. On the wider, low shelf is a sack of oats, a sack of barley, a sack of dried peas and a sack of rice. To my left, in the cool darkness of the pantry is a pail of fresh milk and on the table there is a fat loaf of black rye bread.
At last, the porridge is ready and with a drop of honey – the elixir of life – I take a bowl for Cathaldus. Seeing Mistress Withen on the way, I say: ‘Lady, lady, hurry on home; your porridge is burning, your children are gone. By which I mean, it’s cooked and ready.’
‘Good morning to you Crow and thanks to thee.’
Gord Maoning. Grod Ginmourn. Mirg Norming. I sing to myself as I blow on the porridge, not wanting Cathaldus to scald himself. In his room, I help him sit up, and he grabs for the spoon rather than let me feed him.
‘Very good Crow,’ he says at last, ‘if’s there’s any left in the pan take it to Mistress Opella’s house. She’s on her own with four children. Tell her it is a gift from Scrithax.’
When he puts the bowl down (not a smidgin pigeon of porridge left), Cathaldus pats my hand. ‘About yesterday. You can’t just turn up at the castle and hope to meet the Necromancer. There are guards and servants and butlers and astronomers and generals and treasurers and cupbearers and eunuchs and heralds and judges and scribes and exorcists and diviners and physicians and haruspices and nobles and ambassadors and stewards. And the whole lot of them, Crow, are worth less than your little finger. Nevertheless, they surround the Necromancer and demand his time. They will not let a street urchin speak to him. Today we must visit the high priest and ask him to make the introduction for you.’
My heart beats faster. I imagine the scene: the high priests bows before the Necromancer, then gestures to Crow, who also bows. The Necromancer is curious, he listens to Crow and he understands. He has kind eyes. He believes Crow.
I help Cathaldus dress in his black and red robes. The scent of incense tells me Mistress Withen has the shrine ready for morning prayer. Today we are not alone. For the first time in months there are others. Master Tailor has come with his two journeymen and so has Madam Bernice, an elderly widow who knows some medicine. Prayers said, they ask did lord Scrithax truly appear, here, did we fear? He did, he did, he did indeed.
‘And young master Crow was asked to solve the Epici Draconem Missio?’ asked Madam Bernice, with less disbelief than most.
‘He was,’ answers Cathaldus and gestures that I should stand.
I do. I bow. I am a fine fellow but although I want to answer the look on her face I cannot mention our secret, that I am the AFK Leveller and already my Stealth has risen to 4 from 2. ‘Our god will help me; help the whelp,’ is all I can say.
‘I pray you succeed,’ says Madam Bernice. ‘Call by my house before you leave the city.’
Her house. Crow the mouse. Watching her mix herbs and grind them in a small bowl. Bitter scents, inhaled from beneath her kitchen window where I was hiding from Joxer the boxer.
After prayer (no return of our god, of course, it would be too much to hope for, but hope we all did, I’m sure) Mistress Withen will not let Cathaldus attempt to walk to the high temple.
‘We still have plenty of coin. Crow, lad, run over to the stables and borrow a pony. Here’s a silver piece.’
At the stables, Master Robertus won’t take my coin. When at last he understands what I want, he says, ‘A pony for the old priest? Go ahead and take her. And don’t be in a hurry to return her neither.’
Short, low, mostly black haired, the pony is easy to lead. ‘Cody,’ I say her name and although she doesn’t bother to lift her head much, her moist, chestnut eyes do turn in my direction. She’s perfect. Placid and unhurried. Patient too, while Mistress Withen and I help Cathaldus into the saddle and fix him there. I lead the pony away, Mistress Withen, hands on hips, watching us for a long time.
It lifts my heart to see how pleased the people of Crumblin are that Cathaldus is riding past their homes. Windows open. Voices call greetings. Excited children, most of whom I have never seen in the temple, run to make a procession around the donkey. Licking his lips, and with a hungry expression on his face as though already a vampire, Cathaldus raises a hand and from time to time makes the sign of the serpent to bless them all. As we near the castle though, the greetings cease, the children stop their antics and watch from the safety of the alleys, and the looks we get from the stall-holders of Main Street are unwelcoming.
Just to the west of the castle walls is the high temple. Level Three. With a high priest, Level Two, and an acolyte, Level One. They have a grand nave that can hold two hundred citizens (weathly wealthy goodmen and goodwomen of Nekis), round-roofed like a navel. The navel nave. They have a silver-topped altar to Scrithax, who is manifest beyond it as a towering snake; they have a vestry for their robes, for their silver chalices, bronze candelabra and a pedestal on which lies the Book of Scrithax. Poor Mistress Withen has but a closet. They have a meditation chamber, domain of the high priest. They have an oratory where the church choir gathers for prayer and sing the praises of Lord Scrithax in sweet voices.
There is some confusion at our arrival and enough back-and-forwards, forwards-and-back that even Cody, that most sanguine of creatures, starts to become frustrated, snorting and peeing pungent urine on the stones of the yard. Only for Cathaldus raising his voice to levels I have not heard in months am I allowed to come with him rather than stay with the pony.
Alone, side-by-side on a bench in the meditation chamber, Cathaldus, wheezing, pats my knee. ‘Let me speak for us both.’
‘If speaking were sneaking, Crow a poet would be. But with my jumblemouth unable to espouse ‘tis the life of a rogue for me.’
Cathaldus chuckles before making me regret my high spirits when his laugh turns into a coughing fit.
‘What an honour, Cathaldus, how kind of you to visit.’ Enter the snake. Black robe with a scarlet-hooded embroidered serpent coiling around it. The high priest is tall and bald. As strong as Cathaldus is weak. Eyes recoiling from me with distaste. Immediately, I know our journey is a waste. ‘Let me serve you some fruit. In these difficult times we are fortunate that the people still bring us offerings.’
Cathaldus shakes his head. ‘Just some water please.’
At the door is the acolyte. A young woman not much older than me in age but a lifetime older in demeanour, profession and dress. A nod from her superior and she departs, in search of water, presumably. I am thirsty.
‘Are the rumours true?’ The high priest hitches up his robes and sits in the one, large, padded chair facing towards us. ‘Did Lord Scrithax appear in your temple?’
‘He did.’
Scowly-frowny-faced, his high and mighty shakes his fleshy head. ‘That makes no sense. We are Level Three here. Your temple is only Level One and you are only Level One. And we have good worshipers. Generous and faithful. Yours…’
He doesn’t continue but all of us know what he means. The people of Crumblin are dirty, poor, hungry and unworthy. I must not speak, must not argue, must bide here as patient as a patient patient. There is a path from here to the Necromancer and this self-important man can lead me down it.
‘Our god used his Divine Intervention.’
‘Did he though?’ says Hierarch Sceptic.
I can tell from his pause that Cathaldus knows that the high priest is a cold winter wind, blowing to strip us of our hope and excitement. The old man I love as a father continues as best he can. ‘And he granted Crow here a boon so that Crow can undertake the epic quest to the dragon and save the kingdom.’
There are different kinds of smiles. That on the face of the high priest has no empathy, warmth or humour. Scorn, mockery, and contempt more like.
‘Tell me, youth, what did Lord Scrithax say to you?’
Quickly, Cathaldus speaks, ‘He said the last hope of the kingdom was to create a champion. And he offered Crow a plus two dagger or a Ring of Invisibility.’
‘A Ring of Invisibility? Where is it?’
‘Crow didn’t take it.’
‘He took the dagger?’
‘No, something else.’
‘What?’
‘We swore to our god not to say.’
‘Can you show it to me?’
Cathaldus shook his head as did I.
‘Can you show anyone?’
‘We cannot.’
Thoughtful now, the high priest spreads his strong fingers wide on the table, as though taking a measurement.
‘Why you?’ he stares at me until I look away from his murderous brown eyes.
Again Cathaldus speaks, ‘Lord Scrithax believes Crow to be a fine fellow.’
‘Does the youth speak?’
‘Not well.’
That smile again. ‘Come along, Crow, tell me do you really believe you can complete the Epici Draconem Missio?’
A glance from Cathaldus. I must do my best, though anxious is as anxious does. Does badly.
‘I do. I do. I do.’
‘Why though? What … ability do you have? You are a rogue? Level One?’
‘I am the god-chosen; what divinity hast raised up let no man cast down. Death has looked into my eyes and though I flinched He did not find me wanting. I am the god-chosen. I will serve Lord Scrithax through ice and flame. The dragon army is my aim. The Kingdom of Lost Souls shall rise again.’
‘That’s all very well, but you didn’t answer my questions.’
Silence. A look from Cathaldus.
‘I am a Level One Rogue, Rapscallion. Child of the streets of Crumblin. Bumbling and mumbling doesn’t mean grumbling.’
The high priest stands up, leaning over us, knuckles on the table. ‘That’s enough. I don’t believe you Cathaldus: you are trying to undermine me and promote yourself and your temple, but it’s no use. The god of death never came to your filthy, cheap temple. And Lord Scrithax did not choose this fool of a lad as his champion. Now leave and stop your lies or I’ll have you both arrested.’
‘I spoke nothing but the truth,’ says Cathaldus, expression severe. ‘And you know me. Remember this day when you stand before Lord Scrithax and have to account for your deeds.’
‘Get out,’ the high priest sounds tired, rather than angry.
I help Cathaldus stand and once we have left the scented confines of the temple for open skies, I say, ‘I’m sorry. My bumble was the trouble.’
‘Not at all, Crow, you spoke well. I should have realized that our news would not be welcomed by a man so vain and so insecure.’
We walk slowly, toward the pony called Cody.
‘I don’t know what to do next,’ says Cathaldus.
‘Belle, Belle. She knows the guards well. She dances where the Necromancer dwells.’
‘Belle,’ Cathaldus looks at me thoughtfully, ‘that’s a good idea. Go to her with care, though, you know how Mistress Aria hates you.’