The pipers wake, p.1
The Piper’s Wake, page 1
The Piper’s Wake
SIERRA STORM
PEN AND GLORY PRESS, LLC
Copyright © 2026 by Sierra Storm
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover design purchased from 100 Covers.
None of Sierra Storm’s books are written or generated by AI.
Formatted with Vellum
For Bast and the other stray cats.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter One
Dr. Sorin Catsman was a small man, balding, draped in a heavy black coat and wearing a pair of thick spectacles he claimed he could not see without. Despite his size he commanded enough authority to be heard in a crowd and enough stamina to cover the Batrivan circuit, a feat which by now had become his biggest boast over his peers.
This had been a solo journey for most of his medical career. People from the civilized world avoided Batriva when possible. It was a vortex of mystery on the European continent, an untamed land where science and knowledge meant little, where villages remained ignorant of the state of national and international affairs and where heavy curtains of rain and snow washed out the roads on such a regular basis that transportation was slow and unreliable most months of the year.
Dr. Catsman had been a regular at the Traveler’s Rest Inn and Tavern ever since he had started his work. The stop was a world between worlds, so to speak, accustomed to near-perpetual rainfall in the warmer months and blizzards in the cold. This time, the doctor watched his step with more than the usual care as he took a seat at the end of an oak trestle table and shook the rain from his coat. He had a companion with him on this circuit, a younger man in clerical garb who followed him anxiously two steps behind. The newcomer wore a solemn expression reserved for recent seminary graduates about to embark on their work in the field, narrowed eyes and ash-colored cheeks.
Irving Black, a newly ordained minister who was learning the route for the first time, shook his head in wonder at their surroundings. “My mother would have a fit if she saw this. An absolute fit.”
“Not a fan of taverns, I take it?” asked Dr. Catsman, leaning forward with an amused smirk and enjoying his companion’s reaction to their evening retreat.
“Not this type,” said Black. “Gambling. Loose women. I imagine some of the couples renting rooms here aren’t, well...”
“The drinks are good, and there are few choices this close to Boneswell,” said Dr. Catsman. “It’s hard to run an inn in a place where there is so much rain, snow and superstition. The roof leaks, the food molds, and the wrong price could be anyone’s unlucky number.”
Irving Black had to hold a hand to his ear to catch the doctor’s words. There was too much to take in all at once. The colors had grown brighter as they got closer to Batriva, the sky bluer and the grass brighter green. The rain seemed to fall not from the clouds but from a higher order entirely. The women in the tavern had painted cheeks and shining jewelry, and they displayed their assets as if modesty was a thing unheard of.
“Are you looking at something?” a hefty brunette with an oversized bosom asked the younger man as she waltzed by. She wore a long black skirt and a golden shawl with painted wooden beads hanging around her neck. “Don’t feel bad about it, honey, though I imagine I’m quite out of your budget. How goes the evening, Doctor? And who is this lovely charmer you brought along for the ride?”
Dr. Catsman assured her the travel had gone well. “This is my traveling companion for the circuit, Minister Black.”
“A minister?” Her cherry red lips spread in a smile of shock and scandal. “I’ve never seen a man of God under fifty. How impressive.”
“I’m sorry,” said Black, tugging at his collar in awkwardness.
“Not at all,” said the woman. “My name’s Millicent, by the way. Millicent Milliner, though people call me Black Molly for short. Black for the black arts. It appears that you and I have something in common in a name. Can I read you a fortune, Minister Black?”
“I’ll pass,” said Black, color rising to his cheeks at the suggestion.
“My, aren’t you a timid one,” said Black Molly. She pressed her hand on his shoulder and squeezed it affectionately. “And you, Doctor?”
“You know I don’t fall for any of your superstitions,” said Dr. Catsman, lifting his chin and suggesting that the conversation was over.
“I’ll win you over one of these days, Doctor. You’re a smart man, and besides that—well, I can see your future.” Black Molly bent over and kissed Dr. Catsman on the top of his head, leaving a smear of lipstick over his bare scalp. Then she turned, and with a laugh trotted back to a table at a far corner of the tavern.
Irving Black watched her until she was safely out of sight. He’d heard of such people—spiritualists, mediums, occultists who claimed authority over the powers of the night. What he hadn’t expected was how robust such a population could be, how open about their practices with little shame or a seeming knowledge of the danger of their actions. If he, a minister, had requested a fortune read to him, Black Molly wouldn’t have found an ounce of irony in the scenario.
“I suppose I should get us some stew,” said Dr. Catsman, rubbing the lipstick from his head and taking a breath. “Beer as well. It will help you keep up your stamina and sleep better for the night.”
“I’m sorry, what was that?” said Black, shaking himself from his thoughts. He had an uncomfortable vision of joining Black Molly at her table, of her laying a set of cards in between them and telling him that none who entered this cursed land would ever be able to leave.
Dr. Catsman stood. “I’ll be right back, Irving. Make yourself at home and relax.”
A gust blew in through the window, and several candles went dark to a chorus of groans. Dr. Catsman stretched and started weaving through the lines to reach the front counter while Irving Black sat in place. Black opened his traveling bag. He picked out his Bible from it, a large black tome with gold lettering, and placed it in his lap. A set of ribbons marked the most recent pages read, including a couple personal passages he had thought to review if he had any spare time here.
“What’s that you got there?” asked a curious voice next to him, a voice belonging to a young woman with pale yellow hair and blue eyes.
Until now, Irving hadn’t considered the fact that he was so close to another. Privacy was not a thing to be had in a tavern like this, and given Irving’s newness to this type of setting, he had tried to block out everything that wasn’t essential to following the chain of events.
“Hello,” he said to the woman, forgetting the question.
She said something. He couldn’t hear the words over the crowd and asked her to repeat them. “Abigail,” she said, raising her voice. “That’s my name. I’m passing through on a trip with my father.”
“I’m Irving Black,” said the minister. “I’m a traveling preacher. My first circuit.”
Abigail reached forward and traced the heavy Gothic letters on the front of the Bible. “Back in my home, no one reads. They say it’s silly, a way for idle rich people to pass the time.”
“Reading?” Irving asked, torn between scoff and wonder. “I think it’s very important. Critical.”
“I do too,” Abigail said, and a layer of pink rose to her cheeks. “I have a book of fairy tales. It’s in the trunk with my father’s things. I’ve read it over five times already. It never gets old.”
“I prefer history myself,” said Irving, relaxing in the fact that he had found someone to relate to. “Real things that happened to people. Dark truths of reality.”
Abigail laughed silently and pressed a hand over her mouth to hide the mirth. Her eyes had a specific squint when she smiled like the joy wanted to burst from every seam in her body. “You think fairy tales aren’t dark?” she teased.
Irving blinked. Now he blushed as well, and when he looked at the bar, he could see that Dr. Catsman now headed the line for the beer. He looked back at Abigail. “It’s all Cinderella and all that, isn’t it?”
Abigail’s eyebrows rose into a pair of fine twin arches. “Cinderella made her stepmother walk on hot coals in the end of that story,” she said. “Until she died. Cinderella couldn’t settle for reven ge. She was a sadist, pure and simple. People just don’t like to face up to it because, I don’t know, they feel sorry for her. She had a rough start in life.”
Irving’s collar choked him as he swallowed. “You know, I’ll go check on Dr. Catsman,” he said, pushing himself away from Abigail and stuffing the Bible back into his bag. “He’s the one I came with. Went to get us both drinks, you know...”
While he spoke, the door to the tavern opened. At this point in the evening, every guest sitting near the door had learned to dodge the oncoming rain and wind that came in whenever it opened. The room quieted briefly as the stranger entered, but this time it didn’t resume its earlier chatter.
The stranger wore a tattered brown cloak and thick galoshes. He held a bag in one hand, out of which the tip of a pointed white cap poked out by several inches. But it was his face that people looked at. At first, Irving thought the man simply pale. He had a gauntness to him, long limbs and bony arms. But then the stranger turned his head, and the truth became clear: his face was painted, with black lines crossing the eyes, red painted lips, and a black painted teardrop spilling down the left side of his face.
“A clown?” asked Abigail, equally shocked as Irving. She followed him across the floor to the newcomer, a man about Irving’s age who stood slightly smaller.
The clown dodged their gazes. He furtively held his bag in both hands now, pushing his way to the bar in the front of the room. Irving caught a sight of the clown’s costume, bold shades of red, yellow, and green striped lengthwise down his sleeves as if he were already prepared for a show. “One room for the night, and I’ll be gone by morning,” said the clown.
“Bless my eyes; it’s a sad clown,” said a freckled boy nearby. “I’ve never heard of something so daft. Where do you come from, clown?”
Ignoring the boy, the clown pulled a pouch of money from his bag and counted a few coins for the innkeeper.
Kurt Mannish, the ogreish man who ran the Traveler’s Rest, snatched a pair of pince-nez spectacles from the desk and slid them over his nose. He didn’t take the money at first but continued spying on his newest guest with nothing short of fascination. “Is the circus in town?” he asked unironically.
The clown glanced away. “No. I’m on a trip to visit an uncle. He lives a day or two south of here. No one’s traveling with me.”
Now the money was accepted in hand. “No judgment. Only curiosity,” said Kurt.
“What do you do?” Irving Black asked the clown, recently freed from his own shock.
“Do you juggle?” Abigail pressed from her seat. She stood and marched forward. “Do you sing? I’ve always wanted to hear a real singer, like they have in the courts.”
Now the clown’s shoulders relaxed. He put his money bag back into his traveling sack and then rummaged until he pulled out something new: a polished wooden flute. He handled the object delicately, with pride, and under the makeup, Irving saw his lips curve into an aristocratic smile. “Music is my specialty, though no one asks me to sing once they’ve heard this.”
“A piper,” said someone.
“Play for us,” Abigail urged. “Just one song, won’t you?”
Even Kurt Mannish nodded and edged the young man on, and hesitantly, the clown raised his flute to his lips and began a melody. At first, Irving noticed nothing unusual about the music. The clown demonstrated a dizzying amount of skill. Clearly he had practiced the instrument, learned the basics and studied under a master from Vienna or Paris. However, the tune he had chosen was a common one, a drinking song with an overly repetitive chorus. It was ordinary music despite the technique, uninspired. Sleepy.
The air in the tavern grew still while everyone listened. Perhaps the rain outside had lessened, and that was why the air felt warmer than it had moments ago. No one was speaking, even in hushed voices. From her corner, Black Molly had set down her cards mid-shuffle and slurped from her flagon of ale in resignation.
Abigail lifted a hand to her head. She didn’t say anything. She blinked a few times, yawned, and shook her head in an effort to stay awake. Irving felt unexpectedly tired himself, and considered telling Dr. Catsman that he was ready to retreat to their room. But his feet felt too heavy to cross the floor.
Heads bobbed. Drinks spilled. Abigail didn’t collapse as much as she simply curled up, deciding that a nap near the bar was somehow appropriate in the given circumstance. Despite himself, Irving found himself agreeing and fought to stay awake as he crouched beside her, noticing for the first time the perfect color and texture of her golden hair. He had always imagined that angels came down at times, disguising themselves as humans, observing and interacting with those below them. How oblivious had he been not to notice that Abigail was one such creature? And was it righteousness or evil that the very sight of her now inflamed him with lust, with a vein of desire he had never engaged before?
Without thinking, he extended a hand and placed it over her breast, finding it softer than he expected over the thin folds of her dress. It wasn’t evil. It couldn’t be evil. What he felt for Abigail defined love in the purest sense. It was love, goodness, mercy that compelled him, the most biblical virtues of all. His eyes flew to the sleeping girl’s skirt, and despite a similar drowsiness overcoming him, he tried to reach under and up.
“What—what is this?” stammered the innkeeper, baffled at the effect.
The clown stopped his music and lowered his flute.
From behind the bar, the innkeeper continued. “That was sorcery, was it not? The music? I’ve never heard anything like it.”
Through fading vision, Irving looked up from Abigail and saw the clown take a step back. He looked sad, or perhaps that was only the effect of the cleverly drawn teardrop under his eye.
“They wanted me to play for them,” said the clown. “They weren’t going to leave me alone. It’s harmless. I only put them to sleep for a very short while so I could pay for my room without further interruption.”
The innkeeper wasn’t swayed by the argument. “I allow all types into my inn. I have respectable sorts, but also the unrespectable sorts in the same room. Princes and prostitutes, merchants and madmen on the run. I even allow one or two trusted practitioners of the black arts to stay. They’re a part of the attraction. But you’re something else.”
A silence. Irving’s head nodded. He fumbled for a touch of bare skin on his arm and pinched it. Anything to stay awake. Anything not to fall prey to a darkness he didn’t know.
“I mean no harm,” said the piper, voice rising in desperation. “I need only a room for the night. I’m off to see an uncle. I believe he can get me some work.”
“You can travel, if you must,” said the innkeeper. “But this is a safe place for my patrons. I can’t give you a room after a reckless stunt like that. I must ask you to take the barn if you take anything at all. Spend the night with the rats. I’m sure they’ll keep you busy.”
“Please, sir, I...”
“Don’t ‘please sir’ me. I’ve had it with your trickery. If you protest, argue, whine or wheedle any further, then even the barn will be off limits. Understand?”
The scene grew blurry, dark. Irving heard further words but struggled to make sense of them.
“I’m sorry,” said the piper.
“And take the money,” said Kurt Mannish. “I’m sure you’ve got other uses for it. Bone potions, spellbooks. I’ve seen it already.”
The floor creaked. The clown tied his bag shut and then straightened, turning and walking back out of the inn without a single word.
Chapter Two
