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CHAPTER 1

THE CALL OF THE BLACK STONE

The stars twinkled merrily overhead as they do, entirely unconcerned with the comings and goings of men, and yet inevitably intertwined with their destinies. Their influence was undeniable.

Consider for a moment the unlikely alignment of three certain stars directly over Skut, a tiny hamlet nestled deep in a forest glen several leagues south of Gorgonholm and a few more to the east. What else could account for the strange events that occurred there?

Skut was so far removed from the other villages of the county of Avincraik that few nonnatives were even aware of its existence. Over the generations, the lack of fresh blood had caused its inhabitants to develop certain unique physical characteristics—curiously narrow heads, fishy eyes too far apart, ridiculously long arms, hands with fat, stubby fingers, and a loose-kneed, shuffling gait. Their intelligence was abysmally low, the result of too many cousins marrying cousins.

One such specimen was a woodcutter by the name of Slow Pate. He had never in his life exhibited any traits suggesting ambition, authority, or nimbleness of mind. Yet when the combined light of those three stars beamed down upon his filthy hovel, he was a man transformed.

On that remarkable night, he awoke from the most compelling dream in which a deep and fearsome voice had commanded him to dig beneath an ancient oak, where he was to find a wonderful treasure. With uncharacteristic zest, the woodcutter was, in an eye-blink, out of bed, on his feet, and through the door with a shovel in his hand. But his frantic delving revealed not a golden trove but only a flat, black stone—square cut, some four feet wide, and three times as long. Immensely heavy, it was just the thing a man might set in place to thwart the removal of a buried hoard.

Poor Slow Pate! Lifting the huge stone would demand the strength of many men and require tools he did not possess. Great wealth was almost within reach, but he could think of no way to bring it into his hand.

Thus, the luckless woodcutter did what he and his neighbors always did when faced with a problem—he sought out Uncle, the headman of the village of Skut. This decision would be costly, for the headman was certain to take a large share of the treasure for himself. But only Uncle could muster the resources to pull the great stone from the earth.

Despite his congenial nickname, Uncle was no blood kin to Slow Pate, nor did he exhibit any of the warm, nurturing qualities one might expect from a close family member. Rather, he was greedy, self-serving, and cruel. His position as headman was secured neither by his sage advice nor mature discernment, but by his immense size and ready willingness to use fist, club, or knife to enforce his dictates. Uncle was a dangerous fellow.

Slow Pate approached Uncle’s cottage just as the sun was climbing above the treetops of the surrounding forest. This was perilous, as Uncle might be suffering the ill effects of the previous night’s drinking. Or he could be taking his pleasure with one of the village women. In any case, he would not be pleased with a visit from a hapless dimwit like Slow Pate.

Before knocking, the frightened woodcutter paused and listened at the door. Loud snoring within confirmed that the headman had not yet risen. Slow Pate hesitated, afraid—waking Uncle would most surely rouse his ire.

Slow Pate summoned what little courage he had and knocked. When the snores continued uninterrupted, he knocked harder and called out softly. When this failed to elicit a response, he pounded on the door and shouted.

The snoring ceased, and after a few moments, the cottage door swung open. Uncle stood there, naked, hairy, and huge. His scarred, bearded face twisted with disgust upon seeing Slow Pate standing at his threshold.

“Whadda you want, you little piece of snot? Why’d you wake me up? You better have a damn good reason, or you’ll get beat like you never been beat.”

Slow Pate stated his purpose as best he could—verbal expression had never been his particular gift. Uncle listened with growing irritation until he at last grasped the meaning of the words. Then his response was explosive! He ran fully nude down the length of Skut’s single street, bellowing for the villagers to come forth.

And come they did. The magical word treasure filled the normally lethargic serfs with unprecedented enthusiasm. At Uncle’s command, they sprinted to fetch spades for digging, ropes for hauling, wooden timbers for bracing, oxen for pulling.

Slow Pate cursed silently, for he now saw that his share of the treasure—his treasure—would be woefully small. Uncle would not care that it had been his dream that brought such good fortune. Nay, he would claim all gold for himself and then dole out pitiful handfuls to his favorites. Slow Pate had never been one of those. He might receive nothing at all.

Regretfully, the woodcutter led the entire population of Skut to the site of his discovery. They fell to work at once. By midmorning the dirt had been removed from all four sides of the stone, revealing a slab about a foot thick. The village carpenter and his sons erected a stout wooden tripod at one end of the excavation. A heavy rope was then passed beneath the stone, run through a block and tackle atop the tripod, and attached to a yoke of oxen.

At Uncle’s signal, a plowman gave the beasts a smart blow with a switch, driving them forward. Ever so slowly, the black stone was drawn from the ground until it stood upright, twice the height of a tall man. The exultant villagers jumped in the hole, shovels flying, lusting for the riches that would soon be theirs.

Yet nary a single bronze farthing came to their avaricious fingers. They dug and dug, but nothing did they find. In his disappointment and frustration, Uncle turned on Slow Pate and beat him bloody.

Tired and resentful, the villagers unyoked their oxen, coiled their rope, shouldered their spades, and headed for home. None seemed aware that the great stone, no longer supported by rope and tripod, continued to stand, seemingly of its own volition.

Nor did they note the cold, leering visage in the stone’s rough texture—fashioned not by any human hand but formed naturally from the living rock.

That night, another strange thing occurred. Slow Pate’s dream voice returned. It was different this time, promising not treasure but something even more desirable—revenge upon the odious Uncle. Without hesitation Slow Pate took up his reaping sickle and slipped silently from the door of his hut.

The woodcutter was not the only one to hear voices that night. The diggers, the builders, the plowman—all who had lent a hand in the raising of the stone—were roused by a call to cast off the restraints that kept them in want and degradation, to know the bliss of limitless power.

Late that night, in the darkest of the dark, drawn by some uncanny instinct, they gathered around the stone. Some brought gifts for their new idol. Slow Pate laid Uncle’s severed head reverently at its base.

***

In his private chamber in Castle Skut, Lord Ubo Futz awoke with a start. Somebody was whispering in his ear, but when he looked about, no one was there. A woman’s voice, he was certain. But who would dare to disturb his sleep in such a manner?

Certainly not one of the sluttish servant girls he often pulled into his bed—they knew better. And not his wife, that sorry sack of bones—she was smart enough to keep her distance. Who then? No one in his household would be so foolish.

He shouted into the darkness.

“Who’s there? Come forward! Show your face!”

When no one appeared, Ubo began to have doubts. Perhaps it had been a dream. Or a ghost—the castle abounded with unquiet spirits, many of whom bore him an abiding grudge. Putting the matter from his mind, Lord Ubo turned over and closed his eyes.

The whispers returned at once. Alarmed, Ubo attempted to rise but found himself pinned, as if something heavy had oozed onto his chest. He tried to shout, to command the unseen presence to be gone, but no sound came from his throat.

Ubo, the dread lord of Futz, began to panic, afraid that this thing—whatever it was—was about to stop his breath. But when his lungs continued to draw air, he gradually regained his composure. The whispering thing, it seemed, did not intend to kill him, but it did to want to be heard. So he listened, and as he did, he slowly comprehended.

The voice was soft, teasing, seductive—the voice of a beautiful woman. It revealed several stark truths Ubo had never before considered, urging him to rise and act upon this new knowledge without delay. To be the man he was born to be.

He resisted at first, but the whisperer continued to tempt, prompt, and prod until he could stand it no longer. At last, he flung himself from bed, donned his clothes, and strode to the stable. There he kicked the sleeping groom and bade him saddle his favorite palfrey, a chestnut mare of great speed and agility. Then he rode into the gloom of the night.

Ubo’s arrival at the stone filled the worshipers with trepidation, for he had never been a mild or understanding overlord. Indeed, they expected the most severe of punishments for their forbidden devotions. Idolatry was, after all, a crime against all decency or reason. Heretics were sometimes burned alive by the holy church.

They were surprised and confused, therefore, when Ubo did not drive them back to the village with a whip. Rather, he dismounted and, leading his mount by the reins, approached slowly and quietly until he stood directly beneath the great, looming slab. Then, to the utter astonishment of his tenants, Ubo drew his dagger and slashed the great veins in his mare’s neck, causing its blood to gush upon the stone’s black surface.

As the beast collapsed, Lord Ubo Futz bent his knee and pledged his faith.

The assembly began a slow, tuneless chant. Hands clasped in supplication, eyes squeezed shut, they repeated it over and over, over and over. And the harder they prayed, the greater the stone’s power waxed.

Its call reached deep into the forest, so that uncouth, skin-clad woodsmen emerged from the shadows to join the villagers. Next came a cluster of clannish, reclusive charcoal burners.

At dawn, the call was heard upon the Royal Highway, causing wayfarers to turn from their journeys to seek the source of the summons.

The Gray Friars in their monastery heard it too, and some few forsook their holy vows to answer the stone’s more pressing call.

In the village of Grimsgard and in the streets of Gorgonholm, in country lanes and in the mansions of the wealthy, an ancient summons was boring into people’s brains.