[Excerpt from the Selcran Chronicles]
And thus King Tereus, Dread Monarche of the Abominacions, didst call vpon a mighty band of his Champions, hight the Ennead, who were Nine of the greatest ruckish warriors to be founde in Alle the occupied landes. There was among them the Captains Heber & Dresvs, two terrible brothers whose father Porpheus had once fought for Tereus & soe had sacked Heremac in the Second Crusad. And there was fierce Hypsenor, who had routed the Seekers at Grimall Kepe, driuing them from the field. And there was cvnning Antiphus, who had once bene captain to Briareus & had conquered Vtterbol. And there was the towering Agenor of the bloody spere, who had taken Wolfgare, & with him came his constant companion Orus. There were Tellus & Baram, two commanders of the Cataphracts, who had both fought at the siege of Antace. And these eight were all led by the cruel Butades, vasal to Prynce Busirane, & the wicked villain who had slaughtered the Baron Derwich & all his family.
And this Ennead was dispatched against Sir Hamral, who led the crusader army against Heremac & King Tereus. And it was at a place vpon the Corin hight Rochefurth Ford that the two armees mette & helde forth a grete battel. The ruck-men were caught crossyng the riuer, & the crusaders fell vpon the defenseless rucks & there was muche blodey fighting & the rucks were driuen back. And then came the Ennead to the fore, & the crusaders were sore afraid, for these rucks were grete knyghts & skilled of arms & alle who stood against them were cutte down withouten mercie.
But Sir Hamral wauered not at the aduance of these champions of Tereus. The knight tooke with him his beste men, including Sir Mendelore of the Axe & Sir Vandorren & with these consortes rode they against the Ennead. And there was grete fighting there at Rochefurth Ford. Sir Mendelore slew Hypsenor with but a single blow from his axe Witcheswoe, so fierce didst he smote the ruck that the sound was as lovd as a Thvnderclappe. And Heber & Dresvs slew Sir Elad of Mattin, cut him down with their curved swords where he stoode. But one by one the knyghtes of the Ennead fell, vntil only Butades remained. And he & Sir Hamral fought in the Corin, trading one blowe for another vntil at laste Sir Hamral placed a great sword stroke vpon Butades his head & clove his helm in twain & thus slew the last of the Ennead. And the ruckish host didst tremble at this sight and fled backe acrost the riuer, but the crusaders fell vpon these abominacions and killed them euery onne. And so didst Sir Hamral lead the crusaders acrost the Corin.
The Crusader Camps, Outside Heremac
Sir Geoffrey, seigneur of Glanville; Sir Roger de Grandmesni; Sir Hugh Mortain
In the tent of Sir Roger de Grandmesni, three of the great nobles from Weredrice sit hunched around a folding table, drinking wine and glowering at each other.
“A parvenu,” spits Sir Roger, a broad, black-beaded man dressed in a blue tunic. “Who is this man who leads us against the Canemite King? Who is he, who was his father, what is his family? Who is he to command us—we whose estates alone are richer and vaster than the whole of this cold, wretched hinterland. Who, I ask of you, Who?”
Sir Hugh Mortain, an older man with long white beard and flowing white hair, nods in agreement. “This one, his father was not even a knight. And yet already his men are calling him the Baron of Derwich, though those lands are not yet freed from the rucks. Baron! These Selcrans would knight a dog for fetching a bone, or a cat for killing a mouse.”
Sir Roger shakes his head in disgust. “We shall speak with Wenric of this. Who is to say this Hamral is to have Derwich? I have brought twice the men to this campaign; we have traveled five times as far to fight this war for him. Were we not promised land? Were not we promised spoils? Where are the promised riches? All I have to show for this so-called crusade are some saddle sores and a toothache.”
“And yet, and yet,” murmurs Sir Geoffrey, a gaunt, bald man of indeterminate age. “We must tread carefully here, my friends. We are strangers in these lands, a guest of the Selcran king, our presence sanctioned by the Holy Church. Do not worry your greedy, grasping little head, Roger, at least not too much yet. There are many battles to come ere the Frounter is delivered, and who is to say what may befall between now and then, eh? Wars are dangerous affairs, and men may come to grievous harm in their pursuit.
“Perhaps this Hamral is low-born. But he wields the sword Legrand, said to be a sword of kings. Perhaps the watered-down blood of some far-gone Selcran king runs in his veins. This would explain how one of such low birth could be blessed with such luck. The saints alone know how many royal Selcran bastards have been scattered over the years across this wild countryside, left to dilute their line with common whores and ruck-wives? Why Hugh, just look at all the half-brothers your own father left behind for you to so kindly care for?
“And besides, you have seen this Hamral and his men, and I dare say any one of his companions is the worth of twelve of your knights, Hugh. Did you see them at the ford? They met nine champions of the rucks and killed them all.”
“Aye, I saw,” cries Hugh. “I saw just fine. I saw a motley band of bandits, brigands, and masterless men prevail against nine heathen Canemites. Bah! That is no deed for song.”
“Nine Canemites that could have torn through your cavalry like a scythe, Hugh,” says Geoffrey. “You must use your head, Hugh, your eyes. Whatever their station, these men are dangerous, and not to be trifled with.”
“They say that this Hamral counts as his advisors certain… sorcerers,” whispers Roger. “And how else could a Pentian man explain some of those sights we beheld at the ford? Unnatural, sinful. There are no other words for it. That one man… the one who dresses all in black, who even wears his hair like a Bergenian brother? I hear many ill things about that one.” Roger leans in and, whispering, continues. “I have heard that he possesses the secret of conjuring up the Shaithim’s own devils. That he has congress with elfs and other fey things in the dark wood. And that he speaks the secret language of birds. I agree with good friend Geoffrey here—we must be very careful of these men. We must be careful of what we say, even here in our tents, for I hear that this sorcerer has invisible spies everywhere.”
“Naturally,” says Geoffrey. “That is exactly why I have sent several letters to my brother, fully apprising him of this most curious situation. I am rather confident that the Archdiocese of Giselle will take a great interest in these most strange events.”
“Since the Archbishop is your brother,” says Hugh, “I assume your confidence is justified.”
“One would hope,” says Geoffrey, with an immodest smile. “In the meantime, dear friends, I suggest we bide our time and follow this parvenu wherever he might lead.”
The Black Pavilion of Sir Hamral, outside Heremac.
Sir Hamral, Bailiff of Upchurch and Baron of Derwich; Vandoren; Mendelor.
“My lord,” says Mendelor, “We have secured the perimeter around the camp. The last of the ruckish forces have withdrawn behind the city gates. Tereus appears to be preparing for a long siege. He and his sprat Serapis are holed up in the old Seeker temple, while his general Brygus commands the garrison.”
“We do not think he will venture forth anytime soon, my lord,” says Vandoren. “His army is much depleted since the battle at Rochefurth, and he has sent much of his power to Utterbol with his general Scopas.”
Sir Hamral nods, his cold gaze fixed upon a map of the Frounter. “And what is the word from my liege?”
“The latest word is that Kirke and Scopas have fought a series of hard battles,” says Mendelor. “Our scouts from the Derwich raiders report that Kirke is holding his own, but Scopas outnumbers him and has been steadily pushing the Count back, closing in on Utterbol. But for now, your lord Durrell—and your wife and babe—are all safe and sound.”
“And meanwhile, our allies in the Ebon Quill have been wrecking great havoc in the ruckish kingdom,” says Vandoren. “We hear that the rucks have been pulling back troops from all across the Frounter to combat the growing insurrection in their homeland. The great ruck-lord Trajan, who holds Antace, has had to relinquish several companies of Black-Blades to the effort, and Antace is now said to be ripe from the plucking.”
“These damned rucks are weak and growing weaker with each passing day,” says Mendelor, gleefully. “The Five willing, we shall soon drive them back to their forsaken hills.”
“But we are badly overextended ourselves,” says Hamral, pointing to the map. “Canglen is our nearest strong point, but it is far away and our supply trains vulnerable. Our provisions are already running low, and these damned foreign cowards are already fretting over the coming winter. We cannot sustain a prolonged siege.”
“What do you propose, my lord?” asks Vandoren. “Heremac is no longer the mighty fortress that it once was, but even with the Redoubt in ruins all approaches are well protected and unpromising to assail.”
Hamral is about to speak when a courier enters the tent, bowing deeply.
“My lord,” says the courier, “I beg you please forgive this intrusion, but I bear an urgent missive for your man Vandoren.”
The courier waves a folded piece of parchment, which Vandoren steps forward to claim.
“Leave us, now,” commands Hamral. “Outside, ask for my bursar, Dominic. He will give thee some coin for thy service, which is much appreciated.”
The courier nods and rushes out. Vandoren scowls, then breaks the wax seal and opens the letter.
“It bears the mark of the Canglen Diocese,” says Vandoren. “It must be a letter from my father.”
And the minstrel reads.
My Dear Son,
I pray to the merciful Five above that this letter finds you safe and in good spirits. We receive so little news from the war, and what meager news we do hear tends to be so muddled and out-of-date it proves almost impossible to winnow out the chaff of rumors from the corn of truth. We have heard of your lord’s triumph at Rochefurth Ford, which was cause for a great many prayers of thanksgiving here at the cathedral.
It is with heavy heart that I read your last letter, and I wish that I could better advise you in your plight. I am unfamiliar with the specifics of such matters, but sadly I know that many are the snares of wretched sin in this fallen world. But I also know that you are a good lad. You must pray on these troubling questions and put your faith in the Five.
I originally set out to write to you so that I might relay some curious news that the Bishop has of late received from Abbermark. This is extremely sensitive information that, at present, is currently known only to select members of the Church, certain chancellors to the crown, and to King Wenric himself.
It would seem that, after many months of durance vile, the captive prince Argus has finally begun to talk. He has many strange tales to tell of his father, a figure whom he claims he has never, in all his years, seen unmasked. The prince had many such odd revelations and very little useful intelligence, save for one single, outrageous claim: Argus said that his father bears a terrible divine curse, one that utterly protects him from any harm that might be done by hands of mortal men. Naturally, such a claim would be taken to be little more than a fanciful lie.
But soon after, several holy brothers in the Bergenian monastery of St. Rosemund at Abbermark reported terrible dreams, all the same: dreams of a terrible, bloody figure, his face occulted by an iron mask in the shape of a hawk, his body pierced through with swords and spears and arrows but not dying. Immediately the Church began investigating such an unnatural occurrence. Scripture was consulted, and many prayers were sent to the heavens for guidance. In short, our research would make it appear that much of what Argus claims is true: King Tereus is protected from harm by some powerful force; of what origin, nature, or purpose we cannot divine. But as such, he is to be considered even more dangerous than you had doubtless already believed.
But as I was composing this news, a great calamity has struck us here in Canglen, a sorrow so great that my heart is breaking just to write about it. Last evening, shortly after midnight, a terrible, blasphemous deed was committed right here in the sacred halls of the Cathedral! Three of the bishop’s best men were found murdered, hacked to pieces—good, trusted men who had been assigned to guard the babe Agnes, who even now is still missing. What blackguard could have done this foul act, we do not know, any more than we know where poor Agnes might be right now, or in what condition. All that we have left is our prayers, and even those are cold and bitter comfort on such a black morning.