In the Magician’s Magnificent Mansion, date and time unknown.
Sir Hamral, Vandoren, Purer Grundy, Dominic, Valerius.
“Poor Renton,” sighs Purer Grundy, looking wistfully at the small sack of dust on the table before him. “In all my years I have never seen—or even heard—of anything the like. A plague utterly beyond my ken, so deadly that turns its victim to dust in but mere moments?”
“No physic, no matter how experienced, could have cured that murrain without powerful magick,” says Vandoren. “‘Twas no natural disease, but instead a terrible curse, the Aeptetean tomb-blight, not seen in the north since long before Tynar fell. I should like to know how Hecatesseus ever arranged to have that horror brought here.”
“Indeed,” says Valerius, looking up from his solitary thoughts. “Though we may never know. I suspect that our adversary is much too occupied at the moment to answer our queries. Likely he also is seeking the means to get close enough to the dragon to allow him to waken the monster.
“After we dispatch the Popinjay, perhaps we can finish what he started—utilize his research to get close to the dragon and take some of its treasure, but without wakening old Hraust. Though in any case, we must first kill this annoyance once and for all time.”
“I have been granted a vision of Saint Iseltis,” says Purer, “And she told me that the prayer of forbiddance that I spake around the dragon’s lair still holds, and that Hecatesseus has not yet tried to breach its confines.”
Valerius is about to speak when the door to the mansion opens and bright daylight streams in. Standing in the threshold are three dark figures.
“Look at what we found,” says Mendelor, stepping into the mansion, Owen following closely behind. The third figure hesitates a moment in the doorway, then stands straight and marches right in. The tall, rough-looking man looks around in wonder at the interior of the magician’s house, shaking his head doubtfully.
“We found him spying on us,” says Owen.
“Not spying, exactly,” grunts the man. “Just watching. Thought you might be some new friends to the rucks, which would make you enemies to me. Lucky for you, it looks like you’re all right, though. Name’s Draak—I’m a hard case, ya know. Been kill’n rucks in the Sheldings since I was just knee-high. This is a damn queer place, isn’t it? But I heard all about stuff like this.”
“Draak, is it?” says Vandoren. “How did you get up around here?”
“Born up here, I was,” says Draak, taking a seat at one of the tables. “Say, you all got anything to drink?”
Valerius gestures, and a flagon of wine floats through the air toward the stranger’s waiting hand.
“Well, if that ain’t the damnedest thing I ever saw,” exclaims the man, who takes a drink and then nods approvingly. “Tastes well enough, but maybe a little too sweet for my tongue. I’m more used to getting by on plain water, maybe with a bit of mead or ruck-nog mixed in.”
“So were you a slave once?” asks Dominic.
“Damn straight, along with my father, and at least his father before him. Don’t know about before that. I was born on one of the big estates owned by Lord Scopas, who is a high and mighty general to King Tereus.”
“Were there any other men like you on Scopas’s estate?” asks Valerius.
“Sure was,” says Draak, “Maybe a few hundred, at least. But when I was seven or so, a bunch of free-folk raided the estate one night, sacked the fortress, and a lot of us slaves escaped. We joined up with those free folk, and I’ve been with them ever since, roaming up and down the Sheldings.”
“Free folk?” asks Purer. “Are there many of you?”
“Sure thing,” says Draak. “All kinds of us. Thousands maybe, all told, but that’s hard to say, as we’re scattered all over the place in small bands. Ya see, if you get too many men in one place for too long, the rucks will find out and send troops out to bust your ass, kill your friends, and haul your women back to their lands. So we stay on the move a lot, moving from camp to camp. We hang to the edges of the ruckish lands, the deep woods and marshes, the deserts, the high hills or mountains. In the winter we have to hunker down during the heaviest snows, put up some huts or sometimes hide out in some deep caves or ruckish ruins.”
“Must be a hard life,” says Purer, shaking his head sadly.
“It’s not so bad,” says Draak, with a shrug. “Beats the hell out of breaking your back all your life for a ruckish master. We can find a decent living up here, just by hunting, fishing, trapping, and raiding the ruck-men—and sometimes by trading with those ruck-men greedy enough and sharp enough to cut a deal with outlaws.”
“I was under the impression that these ruckish lands were heavily patrolled,” says Mendelor.
“They are,” says Draak. “A man’s got to be careful and avoid the roads, to say nothing of their towns or watch-towers. Those places are crawling with ruck soldiers. But there’s lots of wild land in between. The ruck-man’s idea of farming is to first clear cut a great patch of forest, leaving nothing but scrub and stumps. And then they burn that mess to the ground, plowing under the soil and planting the same patch of ground with their bitter ruck-corn year after year after year until nothing will grow there anymore, not even with that rotten unnatural slop that the rucks spread their fields with to increase their yields. When they’ve completely used up their fields the rucks just move on to another patch of ground, leaving behind desert, the ground dead and dry as dust. That gives us plenty of places to hide.
“You have to be a hard case, like me, to make it up here. I’m a man of adventure, get a little excitable ya know! Can’t stay still, no sir not me, gotta be wandering. I scaled some of the biggest mountains up there, some of the really tall ones, that have snow up there all year round. And I been hunting fierce dragons, wrestling giants, and so forth. But what I really love is raiding these ruck-men. They like to hit, but too bad for them, ‘cause I really like getting hit, it makes me so mad I just gotta hit the bastards harder. I’m not a bad guy, just those damn rucks ain’t natural ya know!”
“What do you do for worship?” asks Purer. “Surely the Church does not know of your plight.”
“Church, huh?” says Draak, with a grin. “Oh, most of us have heard a little bit about the Five—why, I’ll say a prayer to Them myself know and again. But it’s hard for a man to know much, as Tereus has forbidden all worship up here. Sometimes we get a wandering friar or two up here, but if the rucks catch ‘em… Good night!
“Some of us free-folk still follow a bit of the pagan gods. They might have a little shrine or something, though if you ask them they’ll usually admit that they don’t understand what they’re doing and sometimes don’t even know the name of whatever it is they pray too. A few free-folk even know a couple of charms to the heathen gods of the rucks, though Tereus has forbidden their worship, too, even amongst his own rucks.”
“Why don’t more of you try to flee to the Pentian lands?” asks Vandoren.
“Well, like I said, it’s not too bad a life out here,” says Draak. “And for a lot of us, this is the only life we know. And then again, often enough we’ll get news here from your lands, and it doesn’t sound like you all have it very easy there, do you, what with King Tereus and his armies camped right on top of you. In the last few years there have been a lot of new faces brought into the ruckish kingdom—fresh slaves just captured on the borderlands, and hauled east to work the fields.
“But even way back here we heard all about your Mendelor here—clearly he’s a hard case, too. We heard all about him slayin Busirane. Me, I’m gonna be a big hero myself someday, slay that damn Tereus, if he ever comes out of his goddamn tent! Got his name carved right here on my trusty war hammer! Don’t want your name carved on my war hammer, nosirre, got no chance then! Poor bastard.”
Draak shakes his head and drinks from his flagon.
“Indeed,” says Valerius, perhaps with a smile.
The Seeker Redoubt, Heremac, II Drieland, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Sixteen. Nones.
From high on the gray stone battlements, Brother-Knight Gregory the Risen watches the tumult below, his dark eyes narrowed on the scene. A bright wedge of color marks the Seeker vanguard, its heavy cavalry pressing deep into the swirling ruckish ranks.
“My brother,” says the anxious aide beside him. “The first stages of the battle go in accord with the Grand Master’s plan. Lo, the ruckish infantry is breaking before the might of our horse. They are giving ground before us.”
“But mark this—” snarls Gregory, pointing to the fray. “Alan and his guard are moving too far ahead of the rest. Already, the forward ruckish captains are moving in on his flanks.”
“Fear not, brother,” says the aide. “The Grand Master has foreseen our victory. Surely are the Five with us!”
“That fool,” says Gregory, finally turning his gaze from the battle to acknowledge the aide, “he thinks that, just because the Five deign to part the waters of the Corin that they favor this folly. They may favor the brave, but never the foolhardy.”
Just then, trumpets below sound another Seeker charge. Gregory shifts his attention back to the battle.
“Those horns announce the end of our order,” says the broad-shouldered man, softly.
“Another lance!” cries Alan of Belfort, “Quickly, another lance for me!”
The Grand Master reigns in his panting warhorse and tosses a splintered shaft to the ground. One of the serving brethren immediately rides up to him with a new lance, which Alan accepts with a brief blessing.
All around him the Seekers press forward and the ruckish troops fall back. The sound of fierce cries and metal ringing on metal is utterly deafening here. Alan takes in a deep breath and wipes his brow, sopping with blood and sweat.
“One more charge from our cavalry,” says he, to no one in particular, “and these abominations will drop their swords and flee back into the Worm-cursed wilderness that spawned them.”
Then Alan looks up, for a hush seems to fall at once upon the battlefield. And now Alan beholds a figure approaching him, a figure that moves swifter than any kite, its form fiercer than any lion, its panoply gleaming brightly beneath the piteous sun above. In its hands the figure carries an enormous, curved sword, dripping gore; lapping the edge of the blade is a terrible red flame. Upon its head the figure wears a mask or helm of copper, fashioned into the visage of a screaming hawk. With each step forward, one Seeker after another dies beneath its blazing sword.
Alan removes his helmet and gasps as the scales, at long last, fall from his eyes. And it is now that Brother-Knight Alan of Belfort, Grand Master of the Holy Order of St. Markham, finally perceives, rushing full down upon him, his doom.