“The dungeon of thyself, they soul…
In real darkness of the body dwell.”
-Smason Agonistes, Milton
A Writ from The Holy See was being unfolded at dinner’s end by Peter Grim, having been got in Cod Gee’s post from Admiral Gustavus. The Master of Grim Hall read this aloud to his men as Young Peter gathered a kettle of stew for Thirteen, assured the man must eat in vast amounts:
“From the Holy See,
“To my fellow Christians of the Eastern and Latin Church; English, Russian or Spanish, who so over holds that Alaskan Coast called Far Dastardy by my Knights Trace, Sepulcher and of Saint George. Receive my adopted son, formerly a King Muslim and under my frock, a stalwart crusader, keen alchemist and scholar. He is to tutor the son of the most daring man of hand among you, and to deliver the domestic furnace for said Lord’s Lady against Leviathan’s Hoary breath. As well, to bear the Bier of Roland, build that Saint’s tomb, and, find whatever door Hell has opened in your wild country—and slam it shut.
“With the Love of a Father, Pope Boniface, Saracen-Slayer, Sword-of-God, Shield of the Church, in the Year of Our Lord 2031”
“Well, men, that was pleasant enough. That African Knight, if he survives his sentry walk this night, will be my right hand to command. You all know something wicked out of whiteness assails us, and by God, if we survive this I shall free every one of you and buy myself some fresh white negras when first we sight Dutch Sail this summer—if that shy wench does show her pretty face this year.”
The men cheered heartily, raised their cedar mugs, and drained them, to seek their beds.
‘Father, who makes me proud, please never lose that spark of mirth and cheer. How much more dour these sunless parts would be if you were not here.’
With that pseudo-prayer, not properly addressed, Young Peter hauled the stew pot, thought of a spoon, then thought, ‘That ladle is but a teaspoon to Thirteen’s wide maw,’ left that maple ladle within, and followed the burly mob out into the whiteness, lit by a bright moon of such a brightness as he had never seen. The men split into two crews, half drunk, as the sculler went to the woodshed and the housewife pulled the doors shut.
‘My, two feet of snow has fallen in as many hours and the sky is clear, Thank God.’
He spied the tall figure walking along, dragging some manner of sack that dripped, pouring savage libations out along the wall trace along the north trace, nearly behind the woodshed.
Young Peter trudged through the knee deep snow to the towering, dark knight, who was so clearly lit under the moonlight, “Thirteen, I have stew—”
Peter’s voice caught in his throat at the sight of the gruesome thing Thirteen was pouring blood from. This “sack” was the head, chest and shoulders of a mighty beast, part goat, part boar, part wolf, with the eyes of a man and the shoulders and chest of an ape. There was no doubt that it was the thing that Trenton had describing as having taken Brandon, before leaving on its trace, never to return but for his head left before the doors to Grim Hall. The sulfur smell of the blood nearly made him retch, so that he held out the kettle not to foul it and held his mouth with his left hand.
“Foul fiend of hell, Young Master, his blood, guts and brains quickened to liquid under the blaze of Royal Flamberge. He and his thought to break upon the dinner at Grim Hall—woe to their snowy tide!”
“You slew it, Thirteen?”
The man continued to pour the black blood on the snow, which evaporated in steam, the ground beneath bubbling like hot mud, the moss and grass between peeling away with an elvish squeal, as if grass blades and moss were wee maids.
“The creature’s boil blood, noxious to nature as it is, has saved us three days, in the least, of exhausted ditching and posting—a boon, Satan serving God’s Design.”
Now, done pouring out the blood, Thirteen marched over to the place where Father had marked off the corner post gate under the southwest swivel gun turret. Here he had thrust his terrible, brazen-hilted sword forged in the shape of flames, into the hard frozen ground. The sword itself stood five feet above the snow, making it at least seven feet, to match the man he supposed.
The giant spread his arms, pulling out the empty white-haired skin of the apish limbs, marking his own span of arm as the same as that mighty beast. He spoke some arcane words in a guttural language unknown to Peter, held the hide stiff, and so the arms stayed, out-splayed. Peter saw ahead under the light of the moon, the hideous haunches and guts of the thing, what had burned away a ten-foot circle of snow and muddied the ground beneath.
The head was then mounted on the hilt—and the sword took fire like a lightning torch of purest light, animating the head to clack it’s terrible jaws with those black canines and white boar tusks. Their back was to the stable, where the horses whinnied piteously within.
“Wake and Ready, make steady!” soothed the giant in a deep organ timbre.
The horses, neither named as they had been called, but being Sammy and Kerlak, then quieted.
Now Peter quivered, and felt too young to be here of a sure, for the sword turned the agonized hide of the monster, which seemed possessed of some evil, reluctant spirit. That sword and its scare-wendigo form turned to gaze up at the saddle, that connected Cedar and Tiger Mountains. Then it yawned and gurgled, eyes bugging out as if a brain were in that empty skull, the light of the flame sword animating it. Two beams of white light shot from its eyes and widened, to cover the saddle of the mountain, one mile distant. There, in the distance, a dozen pair of red eyes affrighted the fresh night sky. From afar there was a hideous howling to the moon, and the manner of monster or beast they were began barking, their forms moving off over the mountain out of the gaze of their felled fellow.
“Wendigo, in packs? My brothers saw but one. The Indians speak of them as singular, and seducers and stalkers, not packs of ravening type, but skulkers.”
Thirteen looked down to him and nodded, “So it was, sure, though This One has no inkling of the beasts and boogies of this far shore. Young Master, there is a quickening in the world, a rising of evil, a second rebellion against God by those cast down from Heaven before men walked this earth. Stay strong and do Pray Christ to grant sleep this night.”
‘Be strong—and dutiful.’
“Here is stew, Thirteen. Come in and share, please. Meet my Dame Mother.”
“Indeed, Young Master I will. The Cherub of Steel shall keep sentry this night. As well, must be installed the Dame’s Iron Hearth in Grim Hall—Holy Father Boniface bade This One so upon first night, sore wounded or nay.”
“Thirteen?”
“Young Master?”
“You make me brave against the night.”
“Master Peter, ‘tis not This One, but The Light.”
Peter felt like new life grown in his heart while he noted that the giant took tiny steps to make certain they walked with the Young Master, one normal stride ahead of his Man, for he could not call him slave, even in his mind.
