Out of Their Depth Read online

  OUT OF THEIR DEPTH

  M.R. Cook

  Also by M.R. Cook

  INTO THE MAELSTROM

  (coming soon)

  Copyright © 2019 M.R. Cook

  All rights reserved.

  Acknowledgements:

  Editing by J.K. Kelley

  Cover art by Dan Van Oss

  Maps by Jessica Khoury

  World concept by Randy Hayes

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1 - THE VICAR GENERAL

  CHAPTER 2 - THE BARD

  CHAPTER 3 - PEOPLE YOU CAN TRUST

  CHAPTER 4 - THE TOWNSHIP

  CHAPTER 5 - THE TEMPLE

  CHAPTER 6 - BLOOD AND DEATH

  CHAPTER 7 - WHAT DARKNESS CONCEALS

  CHAPTER 8 - A CHOICE OF PATHS

  CHAPTER 9 - REVELATIONS

  CHAPTER 10 - BETRAYALS

  CHAPTER 11 - WHAT DAYLIGHT REVEALS

  CHAPTER 12 - THE RECKONING

  EPILOGUE

  MAPS

  NOTES ON TIME AND DISTANCE

  IMPORTANT PERSONS

  DEDICATION

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  Am I going mad? Lewin wondered as he crept through the woods, his off hand acting as guide from tree to tree while the right held an axe. His heart was thudding away like someone pounding on a door. He forced himself to exhale into the night air, shivered, and felt rather than saw the mist form. When did it get so cold?

  Lewin was a tall, powerful, rustic young man in his twenties. A poet might have declared him hewn from the same trees he cut for a living: all cuts and angles. Young and strong, Lewin had never feared anything under sun or moon. He liked his odds against anybody who came within reach of his axe.

  But something about the firelit scene before him had icy fingers twisting his guts.

  Someone had lit a bonfire in a cove along the bank of the river, the narrow eddy’s inky smoothness here and there reflecting glints of orange and red. Trees ran down to the river, and the bare twisted arms of oaks and shaggy limbs of pines hovered dangerously above the flames. But if the fire had first caught his eye as he wandered from his small home trying to settle the turmoil of his thoughts so he could get some sleep, what drew his attention now were the dark shapes emerging from the water and plodding off into the woods. He held his breath again as one of those human forms returned and strode straight back into the water until submerged, arms swinging out of rhythm with the legs' gait. Lewin had never seen a living person walk in such a way.

  So bloody tired! Maybe I am not thinking or seeing straight?

  It had been a winter filled with painful loss, capped off by the final sickening gut-punch administered a few days ago. Unable to sleep now for days, Lewin could not recall exactly how many mornings had passed since Narbeth town had awakened to find the graveyard robbed. All that was left of his dear Emma and sweet little Alice, gone, and more; seven graves opened and all their contents missing: shrouds, bones, grave-gifts, the whole lot. The priests say seven is a holy number, but isn’t it also the number of hells of the dark god? And there were all those footprints down at the river edge…

  His guts twisted tighter still and Lewin stifled a moan, leaning against a large oak for support. He bit his knuckle, tasted blood, then pushed off from the tree and edged toward the fire.

  Fifty ells from the fire Lewin stopped again. Somewhere in the dark, a soft, melodious voice was chanting, though in no language he had ever heard. He had no real interest in that voice. Instead, Lewin maneuvered behind the bole of an old oak along the path the shambling shapes were taking deeper into the wood.

  I have to know.

  The shapes seemed to be carrying something. Lewin could just make out bony arms grasping bulky objects to their chests as the skeletal figures squelched their way up the bank and past the blaze.

  I am mad, or this is just another dream and I will wake thrashing again in my empty home.

  One figure was coming close now, crunching its heedless way through the underbrush. The backlighting of flames completely shadowed the face but glinted off a sodden tangle of yellow hair and the green of a long robe or dress. The realization hit him in the recesses of the heart: I buried Emma in her favorite green dress with her blond hair unbound except for a small bow of white.

  The thing was only a few paces away now. A damp, rotten smell assailed Lewin’s senses.

  He took a clumsy step forward, snapping a fallen branch underfoot.

  The thing stopped and turned to look at him, a limp white bow swinging from a dank lock of hair as the head swiveled. The orange firelight caught bright bone of cheek, teeth, and jaw, while the pool of one dark orbit seemed to stare back at Lewin. He stood frozen as the thing dropped its burden with a heavy thud and held its arms open as if for an embrace. Beside it, a childlike shape emerged, no taller than a girl of maybe five.

  Lewin jammed a fist into his mouth to stifle a scream.

  He ran.

  CHAPTER 1

  THE VICAR GENERAL

  Church bells rang to signal midmorning in Tuyton, the capital of the Kingdom of Anivere. The city streets bustled with activity, the mood matching the fine spring day that was shaping. A large crowd had gathered outside the Kingsgate, but not to enter the Old City. They were present to watch a spectacle. Any moment now, the leadership of the kingdom’s dominant religious sect would pass this direction on their way to visit the north counties.

  The mass of people pressed on the thin line of guards as the clatter of many shod hooves on stone echoed from the great arched tunnel exit. Three riders appeared, carrying banners that snapped in the salty ocean breezes. As the winds held the fabric stiff, all could make out the yellow sun on a blue field: the device of the King of Gods, Arathan Lightbringer. Drums beat. A single rider emerged with the same standard, yellow sun on blue, yet differing in one particular. This banner bore a gauntleted fist stitched in red upon the sun; a new device added to recognize those who had struck a blow for the Lightbringer during and since King Alten I's crusade. The crowd roared its approval.

  Next rode the church's senior leadership: seven men and women draped in the saffron outer robes of priests of Arathan, wearing soft blue caps adorned with the red cockade of their office. In the midst of these prelates rode the High Priest himself.

  This worthy was an elderly, jowly man with pale skin and watery gray eyes. As he waved and smiled toward the masses, the ancient tradition of horses misbehaving in ceremony at precisely the wrong time asserted itself. His mount broke into a bouncing trot, and for a moment he seemed at a loss what to do with the headstrong beast. Things might have taken a bad turn, but a priestess reached out to grab the reins with the deft practice of a skilled equestrienne. A woman of middle age and height, she sat her mount with a whip-straight back and poised head framed by curtains of black hair bobbed at chin-length. Her maneuver did not even jostle her cockade. The High Priest waved thanks to the priestess, said something with a laugh, and got down off his horse. The other priests and priestesses followed suit as grooms appeared to take their mounts. Soon they were among the crowd, giving blessings; all except the priestess with the black hair, for she was the Dowager Duchess of Camber, Lady Chalmers, Vicar General of the Church of Arathan. She forged a path through the crowd on her mount for the others to follow while her head turned this way and that, dark eyes hidden under slight epicanthic folds, scanning for signs of danger.

  After a mile, the crowds ebbed away as the city's sprawl gave way to cultivated land. Lady Chalmers tossed a thankful glance to the sun riding overhead as a platoon of church soldiers established a courteous but firm cordon around the High Priest and other prelates. She guided her mount into the cordon
and to the side of the High Priest as he walked. “Your Worship, might I impose upon you to remount?” she asked. “We shall not make Lord Sandhurst’s manor before dark if we do not now make good progress.”

  The older man beamed up at her. “Of course, Lady Chalmers. I am yours to command in heart and mind.”

  “If that were true, you all would be riding in carriages as we did before the crusade. Alten II does not have his father’s martial bent, and I think would not look amiss at a septuagenarian who rode in a carriage—unlike his father, bless his soul to the light.” She signed herself: a raised palm to the sun, then the palm over the sun-shaped amulet upon her chest.

  “Many a follower of Arathan will never have a chance to ride a horse in their lifetime, so I don’t complain,” replied the High Priest with a broad smile, signing himself as well. “That said, I think I will walk a little further before facing that great four-legged brute again.”

  “We can find a different mount for you, if you wish.”

  “No, no, he is a fine beast—too fine for me, but he carried the old king with honor and thus was an exceedingly gracious gift.” He paused. “Alten I was a great king, and he brought the crown and our church together to both our lasting glory. As you surely would agree, being at once the administrator of my church, whilst sitting beside the new King on the Privy Council as effective first counselor?”

  “That has much to do with the son, and little to do with the father. A payment for an unjust death and maybe other reasons; young men, even kings, are often simple in their motivations, as you know, Your Worship.”

  “You may be right,” said the High Priest with a wave of acknowledgement. “But the King trusts your judgment. All do. And back to my point: can you deny that Alten I brought the church and crown together as never before?”

  Lady Chalmers shook her head. “No, I cannot deny that, and he in turn left his mark upon us.” She gestured to the banner with a red gauntlet sewn into the golden sun.

  The high priest stared for a moment at the flag, and then looked away. The other prelates kept silent. “He did indeed. The choice of the symbol was...unfortunate.” He signed himself, slowly, deliberately, and the others did the same. “I know you to be a stern soul, Lady Chalmers, but I remind you to continue to be vigilant in watching for signs that some within the Church might become...too rigorous, perhaps, in hardening their flocks against this imperfect world of ours.”

  She bowed gracefully in the saddle. “I serve you and the other prelates at your will, Your Worship, and always seek to accomplish your ends. I have a few persons in mind for you to speak with specifically about this matter as we progress through the village sees.” The High Priest smiled up and gave her his hand, but before he could reply, a commotion began within the vanguard of church soldiers. A muddy rider on a tired horse had caught up with the entourage, and was having a heated discussion with the guard captain.

  Lady Chalmers leaned low in her saddle to bring her lips to the High Priest’s hand, then righted herself and nudged her mount toward the debate. The alert young officer held up a gauntleted hand to hush the new arrival. “Milady," he said, "this man says he has urgent dispatches for you and you alone. Do you wish me to go find your secretary?”

  The rider was a road-stained, tired man of middle age with a post-pouch slung under one arm. A professional dispatch rider, she judged, but with a bright, feverish look in his eyes. "Thank you, no. I will see to it myself." She nodded once to the rider. “Explain yourself, Goodman.”

  The rider bowed and responded, “Your Ladyship, I have two letters, both addressed to the Vicar General, from the town of Narbeth in the County Anglesea.” He gestured back toward the north. “I was directed to get these to you as quickly as possible after delivering a separate letter to the County Sheriff. I was told to tell you that bit about the sheriff and that I might find you on the road.”

  “Who gave you these instructions?” asked the Vicar General, eyes narrowing.

  “It was him, the mayor, or maybe the priest. They was together. And both scared stiff if I be any judge. Black magic is what I heard.”

  “Black magic, is it?” she said with a laugh, but the look in her eyes did not change. “Well, we shall have to have a look at these messages. Captain, would you inspect the missives, than hand them to me?” The young officer pulled off one heavy gauntlet and reached out his bare hand. “Um, Captain—gloves, please. Clean gloves if you would.” The captain’s face colored as he twisted to dig in his saddlebags until he found a pair of doeskin gloves. Lady Chalmers nodded her approval and the rider handed over two small rolls of parchment. The captain inspected the seals closely, one yellow and the other black, and then started to hand them over. An upward tilt of the head and her dark-eyed glare were enough to freeze him in mid-motion. “Captain, your assessment first, please,” the Vicar General said.

  The young officer colored further. “Ah, one church seal; the other I don’t recognize, Your Ladyship. Ah, good quality parchment for both; no sign of tampering or, ah, black magic.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” She turned to the rider. “And to you, good sir. Please consider your mission a success.” She dismissed them both with an elegant wave and started to put the letters into her riding pouch, then hesitated. Trouble in Narbeth just now; inconvenient. We will be there in a week. Lady Chalmers looked around, assessing the state of her charges. I can spare a few minutes for this, especially with that bit about that poisonous snake of a sheriff being involved. The mayor or the priest must know Lyonell Mowbray for the vituperous ass that he is! She broke the first seal.

  Year of the Lightbringer Five Thousand, Twenty-Six

  This twelfth day of March

  Temple of Arathan, Narbeth town, Anglesea

  To the Vicar General

  Your Ladyship, I write to inform you that there has been a graverobbing on temple lands. I discovered the desecration subsequent to the Ascension Service this morn. Seven graves opened and all contents removed. I suspect a group of miners we had in town a few days before, but the faithful are shaken. I have heard some speak of necromancy. I see no clear signs of this and have experience in this area from the crusade.

  I intend to let the secular law effort proceed and then attempt to exert church law primacy once charges have been preferred. Please advise if you desire a different course pursued.

  Yours under the light of our loving God.

  Father Martin

  Lady Chalmers searched her memory for impressions of this Father Martin. A handsome young man with great emotional and intellectual discipline. That was a decade ago; he would not be young now. She rolled up his letter, slipped it into her bag, and broke the black seal on the other.

  To the right worthy and worshipful Lady Chalmers, Dowager Duchess of Camber and Vicar General of his Majesty’s Church, I Donovan Bardo, by grace of the Lightbringer, Bailiff and Mayor of the ancient township of Narbeth, write you in haste.

  Two days past, on the twelfth day of March, the town graveyard was robbed during the night. It was a peculiar affair in that even the bones were taken. You may or may not be aware that your husband’s niece Margaret is staying at the nearby manor house of the Fitzhughs. After the events of last fall, some of the townsfolk have begun to talk of necromancy.

  I have sent a letter this same day to the County Sheriff, but the graveyard was on temple lands and I anticipate that you would want to be aware of the situation.

  On a less dark note, the whole township looks forward to the High Priests' visit.

  We shall all pray for your safe and speedy arrival.

  Donovan Bardo

  Lady Chalmers read the message again, then pulled her mount aside as the baggage train trudged past with its yellow-and-blue-liveried guards. It was difficult to scrawl a note on horseback using parchment, quill, and ink, but she managed. Drying the ink with her breath, she rolled up the parchment and urged her mount along the column until she reached the captain's position. “Give command over to your
sergeant and deliver this message to a man named Githwin in King's Wharf. He maintains a residence there among some of the other solicitors. At the moment, I think he goes by the appellation ‘Githwin the Bard.’” She handed him the small roll of parchment. “Find him and impress upon him that I personally expect that he will present himself to me this very evening at Lord Sandhurst’s manor in Ashford.”

  The Captain repeated the message back to her precisely, asked two questions about how to find this Githwin, then galloped off after a brief discussion with his sergeant.

  The Vicar General watched him disappear around a bend in the road.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE BARD

  It was a fine afternoon in King's Wharf. The cerulean sky was cloudless and the wind had turned, carrying the city's smells seaward, away from the grassy lawn nestled in the river bend where sat, stood, and lounged a goodly audience.

  Before them stood Githwin the Bard, a pleasant-looking fellow of perhaps thirty, medium height, average build, dressed in green leggings with a darker green linen shirt. A purple cloak fell from his shoulders in a loose drape. Githwin strummed a lute and sang the last, sad verses of Lost Child in a clear tenor that intertwined hope with the mournful lyrics. He finished the final note; silence, then the crowd began clapping and cheering. “More, more!”

  “What shall it be, my friends? Something glad or something sad?”

  A middle-aged man in a bright blue cape bellowed, “Gralen’s Folly is mine request.”

  “Your opinion is noted,” responded the musician with a grin that said it was not going to happen.

  “Something glad,” said a rosy-cheeked matron with hair the color of straw.