From: hutch@ibeam.intel.com (Steve Hutchison)
Subject: [P8] Pieces of Eight, part 5: Cleric
Organization: Intel Corp., Hillsboro, Oregon
Date: Tue, 15 Dec 1992 00:36:49 GMT


[ADMIN]  The character of Kachin the Brigand appears by permission
of Thomas Ketterning.

======

The chaise was not particularly comfortable.  Comfort was a luxury, and
the privation of forgoing that luxury was a spiritual discipline that
Sister El'n considered worthwhile.  Her acolyte was less sure of this.
She considered the degree to which her superior indulged her taste for
austerity, to be just short of a vice in itself.  However, she did not
say so, as the Sister was still reciting the strictures of the fourth
book, and did not appreciate being interrupted.

Instead, she took a perverse pleasure in seeking out the occasional bump
in the road, especially when the Sister reached the "begats".

After a few hours, darkness approaching, they came on an inn at a clearing
in the road, just this side of a river ford.  The innkeeper waved from the
door, helping Sister El'n to disembark from the chaise.  He was a young man,
of some healthy peasantish stock, with an engaging grin.  The acolyte saw
to the horse, as the Sister arranged their lodgings.

Inside, Sister El'n sat stiffly on the bench, pointedly ignoring the
frivolous flowers that bedecked the table.  The innkeeper explained,
patiently, that there was no chapel at this inn, that it was simply a
place for travellers to stay, that he did not give a discount to clergy,
but his rates were reasonable, that there was nobody else there, that he
was indeed running the inn all by himself.  Satisfied, she handed him
the fee for the night - a large gold piece, to cover the two of them,
their room and meals, and the feed for the horse.  He muttered under his
breath and returned her change of several silver wheels.

The acolyte pounded in, out of breath.  There were people outside, a
group of five, injured, the sole survivors of their caravan, escaped
from bandits.  The innkeeper began quickly clearing away room on the
trestle table to treat the injured, setting a big pot of water down
onto the fire to boil for bandages.  In moments, the survivors were
brought inside - an old man, two younger women, a guard with one leg
maimed, and a boy, barely in his teens.  They all were injured, arrows
or cuts or broken, poorly set bones.  The brigands had attacked, their
guards all killed but one, the old man had managed to use the fire wand
that one of the guards had carried, to drive away the bandits, but they
would surely be following.

The Sister took charge, getting the guard and the old man into seats,
directing the acolyte to tend their animals.  She tore strips off her
white habit, the outer surplice, and directed the innkeeper to boil them.
He complied, and then assisted her in cleansing their wounds.  After
they were finished with most, she began the Prayers of Healing, and the
lesser injuries closed on themselves, fresh clean skin forming over them.
Having shown the power of the gods, and chastising the boy when he asked
which gods they were - one does not presume to ask Their names - she
began the nasty task of cleaning the mostly-severed leg, bandaging it
with special poultices.  Five drops of sacred water from a flask worn on
a chain around her neck, another, more impassioned, Prayer of Healing,
and the leg, under its bandages, was purged of poison and healed.  It
would with time recover fully.  Finally, a similar treatment for the
arrow wound, the arrow drawn from the old man's chest only after the
healing rites were begun, lest he drown in his own blood before it
was completed.

The acolyte returned again, another disaster - the bandits had returned.
Sister El'n sighed, gestured to the acolyte.  They knelt, joined after 
a moment by the refugees, and prayed for protection and sanctuary grace.
After a few moments watching out the door, the innkeeper began preparing
a meal.  The acolyte, or Sister El'n, remained in prayer, for the next
four hours.  After a time, the brigand leader entered, hat in hand, humbly.
He spoke, begging forgiveness for intruding, asking for healing for his
men.  They had planned to attack, but when they reached the Inn, something
came over them, and they no longer wished to fight.  Sister El'n directed
him to bring the injured, and the innkeeper once more prepared bandages
and tea poultices for their burns.  This time the acolyte was directed
to pray for the healing, which was accomplished with only slightly less
celerity than had been achieved for the refugees.

The brigands asked what they could do, and Sister El'n quested them to
take those things they had stolen, return them to their rightful owners,
and when they had done so for all they could find, to take what remained
to the temple of the unnamed gods, in the nearest city, and confess their
sins at that place.  The brigands, humbled, departed.  The refugees were
fed, and given beds to sleep in.

The next morning, when they came downstairs, a note awaited.  The innkeeper
was gone, and the two nuns.  The inn was deeded to them, in the loose,
open scrawl of the innkeeper, as he was joining the two holy women on their
pilgrimage.  A second passage, in the precise, careful hand of the acolyte,
was dictation from Sister El'n: the prayer of safety and protection for
travellers.  Annotations indicated that they must pray that prayer each
morning and evening, and the inn and its grounds would remain a place where
violence could never enter.

-------------

Interlude:  the Cave.

[thanks to Thomas Ketterning for the use of Kachin the brigand, and
 for permission to use his text in this story.]

At the Gate to the Forgotten Realms, Luthor's party fought with a dragon,
while nearby, the thief Kachin hid in the trees.  His partner Mat had joined
Luthor's party, hoping to kill Brycur the merchant for the price on his
head.  Kachin, left alone, saw them use magic to take control of the dragon,
and fly it through the Gateway.  Then his greed took over: he knew where
the dragon's lair was!


+  The entrance to the cave was far from the road system, on a hill, hidden in
+the rocks.  Traenu and his gang had found it by pure luck.  Kachin was now the
+only one who knew the place.  Or was he?  The others were dead, killed by the
+dragon, killed by Brycur and his friends [..]
+  Kachin stood at the entrance, torch in hand, his heart beating out of joy,
+his hands trembling out of greed.  He entered the cave, and he saw bones - the
+remains of Orkel Seibud, Slor Uselulf and Ponk Wouse.  It had to be them, the
+bones weren't there last time.  Kachin stepped forward.
+  There it was.
+  Gold, silver, jewels, rings, weapons.
+  The dragon's hoard.
+  No!  Kachin's hoard!  Hahahahahaha!
+  He ran forward, and he would have dived into the heap of gold and jewels
+had there been no trap door in front of it.  So he dived into the trap door
+instead.

Time passed.

+  Kachin the bandit sat on the floor thinking.  He was in a five-yard deep pit
+with smooth walls, in a cave hidden in the rocks, and he had no rope, no hook,
+nothing useful.  But in case a merchant happened to come by, Kachin was
+perfectly equipped to rob him.
+
+  He would probably stay here until he died of thirst, or until the dragon
+returned and ate him.  He stood up and examined the walls a fifth time, even
+more closely.  No secret door.  Clearly the pit was intended for storing
+adventurers.  A pantry.
+
+  He looked through his items.  Money.  Sword.  Clothing.  Backpack.  Brandy
+bottle.  Nognik root (for chewing).  Dagger.  Pocket lint.  Flute.
+Hmm... he could play the flute as loud as possible.  Perhaps people heard him.
+Well, it was his only hope...

Time passed.

+  In a cave hidden in the rocks, a bandit named Kachin lay in a five-yard deep
+pit and cried.  It was so senseless, so stupid!  Such a simple trap!  Had it
+been a sophisticated mechanism that killed him, he would have said nothing
+(he thought.  Of course he would have complained in that case too, if he
+could).  But a plain pit, without spikes or burning coals or snakes!
+
+  He had played on his flute for days now.  His supplies were gone, and he was
+on the verge of death.  He had licked up the saliva that had come out of his
+flute, he had used up every bit of fluid he could get hold of, including his
+own urine and the blood of a rat that had made the mistake of looking over the
+edge of the pit - he had thrown his dagger and surprisingly hit it - but now he
+knew he was lost.  Nobody had heard him, his flute had become more and more
+faint,  and now he was only able to lie around, cry, and lick up his own tears.
+
+  His only hope was the return of the dragon.  Mat, send me that dragon!  I am
+so thirsty!  I need a dragon!  I need a great blue dragon with lots of blood
+in it!  Mat, pleeeaase, give back my dr
+
+  The dead body of a bandit lay at the bottom of a pit in a cave in the rocks.

Time passed.

-------------

Father Howard had chosen this life.  It had gotten harder, near impossible,
for him to worship, to study, to learn the ways of the gods, in the noise
and confusion of cities.  He had chosen the life of a hermit, but he knew
he was regretting that choice.  Holy solitude is a wonderful thing, but
one craves the voice of another person.  So he walked, following the road,
and where the ruts grew deeper and more numerous, he turned to follow them.

He stopped, mid-day.  There was an enormous iron gate hanging in midair.
He looked at it, around it, under it.  Nothing special, just a big hole
in the air with two huge solid iron doors plugging it up.  He considered
the implications, then decided NOT to follow the ruts that led up to the
gate.  Besides, magic had to be involved in any such enterprise.

He looked around - night had been coming early in this place.  He saw a
ridge of mountains, low hills, actually, to the west and north, about a
two hour walk.  He started towards them, figuring to scrounge for some
berries and roots, to serve as the foundation for his meal.

Water and berries were present.  He filled his waterskin, and sat down near
the foot of a cliff.  A prayer to the gods, and his berries multiplied and
became a feast of all the kinds of fruit that were good to eat.  So he ate,
and what was left he gave to the forest animals.  A few more minutes of
relaxation, and he could ... there, that was a flute.  There it is again.

He followed the sound, and came to a cave in the base of the cliff, cleverly
hidden by a large rockfall.  There was a faint musky stench of lizard, a
dragon perhaps, but too faint for it to still be here.  He looked inside.
The flute music echoed from within.  He entered.  There, before him, a
huge mass of treasure, gleaming in the light - and on the floor around
him, the bones of several dead men.  The dragon had feasted, but it looked
to have been some time ago.  The flute music continued.

It seemed to be coming from the floor.  Father Howard moved towards the
source of the sound.  "Hullo?  Anyone there?"

No answer.  The music stopped.  He looked around.  There was a huge pile
of gold, jewels, stolen things.  He stepped forward.  He fell.

At the bottom of the pit, he felt something watching him.  "Oh gods, let
there be light" - the pit filled with a gentle pale radiance.  There was
someone with him - a pale, wild-eyed man with a flute, who looked at him
as though seeing someone completely else.  The man appeared too weak to
move.  He must have been here for days.

"I'm so thirsty.  Give me a drink, Mat, please?"

Father Howard reached into his knapsack.  The water bag was outside, with
the rest of his gear.  There was some sanctified wine, and some holy water,
each in a small flask.  He poured them into a silvered chalice.

"Here you go, my son," he said, holding out the cup.  The man reached out,
his hand passing through the cup.  The man looked down, confused.

"Mat, I'm thirsty, please don't play tricks with me."

The priest stared in sympathetic horror as the hand again passed through
the cup.  He placed it on the floor between them.

"Can you hear me?"  The man didn't respond, just stared at the cup, and
scrabbled his hands through it.

"Mat, don't be mean, please?"

Father Howard looked around.  There, almost hidden in the corner, was
a dessicated skeleton, the remains of a man in leather armor.

"Oh gods, grant me the power to speak with the dead."
The priest reached over to the ghost.  It jumped at his touch.

"My son, can you hear me now?"

"You're not Mat.  Who are you?  What's with the trick cup?"

"You can call me Father Howard, son.  What's your name?"

"Kachin.  So you fell in here, huh?  Think we can get out if I
stand on your shoulders?"

"Kachin, that won't work."

"Yeah, I guess not, it's too high.  Hey, you got any water, other
than this stupid trick cup?  I'm real thirsty."

"Kachin.  Look at me.  Look me in the eye.  You died, son.  You're
dead from thirst.  You're a ghost."

"Oh."  The man seemed to consider this for a moment.  "Well, this isn't
any good.  Dead.  What a waste.  I suppose you're gonna die down here,
too, then?"

"No, I can get out, with the help of the gods."

"Gods.  Hunh.  Didn't try that."

"Perhaps you should have.  They will lift me up to freedom."

"So, you leave, and I'm stuck here, dead from thirst, playing flute,
maybe luring in some other lost idiot to die here, so I'll have some
company."

"Well, you could come with me."

"I can't get out.  I'm dead, remember.  I have to stay here and haunt
this place until my body goes to dust.  And it's not going all that fast."

"Why not appeal to the gods for release?"

"What?  I don't know how to do that.  If I knew how to get gods to help
me I would have gotten out, remember?"

"Well, then.  Would you like me to teach you?"

"Why not?  Sure, what else have I got to do?"

"You agree to do anything I tell you?"

"Sure.  What have I got to lose?"

"Fine.  In the name of the gods I invest you, Kachin, as my acolyte.
And there is no way I'm going to have a dead acolyte."

Father Howard picked up the chalice and crossed the short distance to
where Kachin's dried bones lay.  "By the power of the gods, return to
your body."

Kachin staggered back, falling, shadowy, into the dusty corpse.  The
dry sockets began to glow with a faint light.

"Let the power of the gods fill this chalice, transforming the holy water
and sanctified wine within, to the water of life."  He held the chalice
to the dessicated lips, which gradually began to drink.  The chalice did
not empty.  Gradually, Kachin's face and body filled in again, as he
sucked greedily at the waters.

After a while, he stopped, sated.

"Feeling better?" Father Howard asked.

"Uh.  Yes.  Thank you."

"Shall we get out of here?"

"I'd like that."

"Hold on...  I call on the gods of freedom and salvation, to lift us
up from this pit which has snared us."

They floated, gently, to the top.  The brigand stepped towards the
enormous heap of dragon treasure.

"Kachin.  You won't be able to take all that with you."

"But, I died for this treasure."

"Yes.  Well.  Take only what you can carry easily, and if you still
want it, a few years from now, you can come back."

Kachin hesitantly stepped towards the hoard.

"Are there any other traps?"

"First lesson."  Father Howard walked over to him.  "By the power of
the gods, let all traps and snares be revealed before us."

Several other trapdoors, a tripstone, and a few of the boxes, began
to glow with a faint red light.

"I'll just take enough coin for us to survive with."  Kachin began to
fill several pouches with gold and silver, then stuffed them into his
pack.  He reached for a sword.

"No, Kachin.  We are men of peace now, we don't use such weapons."

Kachin stared, disbelieving, then shrugged and put down the sword.

"Second lesson."  Father Howard led him to where the bones of the
dragon's earlier meals lay.  "Help me put these in order, and we'll
pray for their eternal rest."

The two men quickly cleared the scattered remains of the dragon's
past meals, and Father Howard taught Kachin the prayer for burial.

"So now, Kachin.  We rest here tonight.  In the morning, we go off
to a city.  You know where there's a city nearby?"
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