The bishop lifted the leather-bound book off the table and, opening it, riffled slowly through the pages. He closed it and placed it to one side. He said to Gib, "My brother in Christ, you say he passed in peace?"
"He knew that he was dying," Gib said. "He had no fear. He was feeble, for he was very old…»
"Yes, old," said the bishop. "I remember him from the time I was a boy. He was grown then. Thirty, perhaps, although I don't remember, if I ever knew. Perhaps I never knew. Even then he walked in the footsteps of the Lord. I, myself, at his age was a man of war, the captain of the garrison that stood on this very spot and watched against the Wasteland hordes. It was not until I was much older and the garrison had been withdrawn, there having been many years of peace, that I became a man of God. You say my old friend lived in the love of the people?"
"There was no one who knew him who did not love him," said Gib. "He was a friend to all. To the People of the Marsh, the People of the Hills, the gnomes…"
"And none of you," said the bishop, "of his faith. Perhaps of no faith at all."
"That, your worship, is right. Mostly of no faith at all. If I understand rightly what you mean by faith."
The bishop shook his head. "That would be so like him. So entirely like him. He never asked a man what his faith might be. I distrust that he ever really cared. He may have erred in this way, but, if so, it was erring beautifully. And I am impressed. Such a crowd of you to bring me what he sent. Not that you aren't welcome. Visitors to this lonely place are always welcome. Here we have no commerce with the world."
"Your grace," said Cornwall, "Gib of the Marshes is the only one of us who is here concerned with bringing you the items from the hermit. Hal of the Hollow Tree agreed to guide us here."
"And milady?" asked the bishop.
Cornwall said stiffly, "She is under our protection."
"You, most carefully, it seems to me, say nothing of yourself."
"Myself and the goblin," Cornwall told him, "are on a mission to the Wasteland. And if you wonder about Coon, he is a friend of Hal's."
"I had not wondered about the coon," said the bishop, rather testily, "although I have no objection to him. He seems a cunning creature. A most seemly pet."
"He is no pet, your grace," said Hal. "He is a friend."
The bishop chose to disregard the correction, but spoke to Cornwall, "The Wasteland, did you say? Not many men go these days into the Wasteland. Take my word for it, it is not entirely safe. Your motivation must be strong."
"He is a scholar," said Oliver. "He seeks truth. He goes to make a study."
"That is good," the bishop said. "No chasing after worldly treasure. To seek knowledge is better for the soul, although I fear it holds no charm against the dangers you will meet."
"Your grace," said Cornwall, "you have looked at the book…"
"Yes," the bishop said. "A goodly book. And most valuable. A lifetime's work. Hundreds of recipes for medicines that can cure the ills of mankind. Many of them, I have no doubt, known to no one but the hermit. But now that you have brought me the book, in time known to everyone."
"There is another item," Cornwall reminded him, "that the hermit sent you."
The bishop looked flustered. "Yes, yes," he said. "I quite forgot. These days I find it easy to forget. Age does nothing for one's memory."
He reached out and took up the ax, wrapped in cloth. Carefully he unwrapped it, stared at it transfixed once he had revealed it. He said nothing but turned it over and over, examining it, then laid it gently in front of him.
He raised his head and stared at them, one by one, then fixed his gaze on Gib. "Do you know what you have here?" he asked. "Did the hermit tell you?"
"He told me it was a fist ax."
"Do you know what a fist ax is?"
"No, your grace, I don't."
"And you?" the bishop asked of Cornwall.
"Yes, your grace. It is an ancient tool. There are those who say…"
"Yes, yes, I know. There are always those who say. There are always those who question. I wonder why the hermit had it, why he kept it so carefully and passed it on at death. It is not the sort of thing that a holy man would prize. It belongs to the Old Ones."
"The Old Ones?" Cornwall asked.
"Yes, the Old Ones. You have never heard of them?"
"But I have," said Cornwall. "They are the ones I seek. They are why I am going to the Wasteland. Can you tell if they do exist, or are they only myth?"
"They exist," the bishop said, "and this ax should be returned to them. At sometime someone must have stolen it…»
"I can take it/ Cornwall said. "I'll undertake to see that it is returned to them."
"No," said Gib. "The hermit entrusted it to me. If it should be returned, I am the one—"
"But it's not necessary for you to go," said Cornwall.
"Yes, it is," said Gib. "You will let me travel with you?"
"If Gib is going, so am I," said Hal. "We have been friends too long to let him go into danger without my being at his side."
"You are all set, it seems," the bishop said, "to go marching stoutly to your deaths. With the exception of milady…"
"I am going, too," she said.
"And so am I," said a voice from the doorway.
At the sound of it Gib swung around. "Sniveley," he yelled, "what are you doing here?"
16
The bishop, when he was alone, ate frugally—a bowl of cornmeal mush, or perhaps a bit of bacon. By feeding his body poorly, he felt that he fed his soul and at the same time set an example for his tiny flock. But, a trencherman by nature, he was glad of guests, who at once gave him an opportunity to gorge himself and uphold the good name of the Church for its hospitality.
There had been a suckling pig, resting on a platter with an apple in its mouth, a haunch of venison, a ham, a saddle of mutton, a brace of geese, and a peacock pie. There had been sweet cakes and pies, hot breads, a huge dish of fruit and nuts, a plum pudding laced with brandy, and four wines.
Now the bishop pushed back from the table and wiped his mouth with a napkin of fine linen.
"Are you sure," he asked his guests, "that there is nothing else you might require? I am certain that the cooks…"
"Your grace," said Sniveley, "you have all but foundered us. There is none of us accustomed to such rich food, nor in such quantities. In all my life I have never sat at so great a feast."
"Ah, well," the bishop said, "we have few visitors. It behooves us, when they do appear, to treat them as royally as our poor resources can afford."
He settled back in his chair and patted his belly. "Someday," he said, "this great and unseemly appetite of mine will be the end of me. I have never been able to settle quite comfortably into the role of churchman, although I do my best. I mortify the flesh and discipline the spirit, but the hungers rage within me. Age does not seem to quench them. Much as I may frown upon the folly of what you intend to do, I find within myself the ache to go along with you. I suppose it may be this place, a place of warriors and brave deeds. Peaceful as it may seem now, for centuries it was the outpost of the empire against the peoples of the Wasteland. The tower now is half tumbled down, but once it was a great watch tower and before it ran a wall, close to the river, that has almost disappeared, its stones being carted off by the country people to construct ignoble fences, henhouses and stables. Once men manned the tower and wall, standing as a human wall of flesh against the encroachments and the depredations of that unholy horde which dwells within the Wasteland."