Lownell Manor, Eve of Candlemas, XXX Caulding, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Ten.
Dale, Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Ruik, Friar Sidrach Landry, St. James, Valerius, Vandoren, Wyk, Sir Will Garnfellow.
The timber buildings of Lownell Manor quail and shiver before the winter cold: the wind hisses and whistles, its drafts biting through even the thickest of walls. Below the motte, the white pastures are blurred with the snow whipping across the dark land. Within, the halls are smoky and cold and quiet, as men and women spend most of the short days trying to keep warm. The guards who had been posted outside of the guest house by Lord John have long since moved inside, and they sit wrapped in heavy blankets just within the door, quiet and largely ignored by the consortes.
“By the Hammer!” cries St. James, shuddering from a particularly violent sneeze. “I thought that blasted apartment in Heremac was draughty!”
“Indeed,” says Sir Garnfellow, “This is not weather fit for man or beast.”
Yorick, the lean, craggy forester, pokes at the glowing hearth, trying to coax some more heat out of the fire.
“Come on,” says Mendelor. “You cannot tell me you like having those little rucks about!”
Yorick frowns, and scratches his nose.
“I never said I liked having them around,” he says, after a long pause. “But it could be worse.”
“The hell you say!” growls Renton, spitting into the fire.
Yorick looks at Renton carefully, and nods, almost sadly. The wood shifts and crackles in the fire, sending a swarm of red motes swirling into the room.
“Let me tell you a little story,” says Yorick, eventually. “When I was a young lad, there was a knight, who was one of our master’s household guards. Now, I have heard all of the fine, courtly stories, about chivalerie and honor and nobility. Well, I tell you that this knight was none of that: he was a wanton fellow, given to drinking himself into a stupor, and quarreling with any and all.
“Well, one evening, as this knight was returning from some revel at a distant house, he rode into our village and, besotted, tumbled off his own horse. Down he goes, right into the ditch. Now, I had a young cousin, a good lad, who saw what hap. So my cousin, being the ever the dutiful subject, rushed right forward to help the knight.
“Well, the knight had been knocked quite senseless, and when he came to my cousin was standing over him. The knight, he was a wroth. And with a cry he pulled a dagger from his belt, and fell on my cousin, and struck that poor lad dead where he stood.
“As you can imagine, the folk of the town were sore upset by such an act of villainy, and quite a hue and cry was sent up to our lord for justice. And what do you think our good master did, to punish this drunken knave?
“Nothing—no apology, no compensation, no justice. For no fault of his own, my cousin was struck down by one of our masters. And the knight—the murtherer—confessed his sins, and walked away untouched. The high ones may do as they list, but for us low ones…
“These rucks—I don’t trust them. But they’re better behaved than some “noble” men I have known. And when the rucks get out of line, Lord John is quick to put them in their place. One of them tried to… dishonor one of the simple girls here in the manor. Let me tell you, that ruck’s corpse hung from yon oak tree for three weeks. And that was the last bit of trouble we had from the rucks.”
“These rucks have given up the Rotting Eye, and now they wear the Lily. Sure, we have some problems, now and again. It took a while to teach them some manners. At first, the rucks thought every loose animal wandering in the manor was their lunch… chickens, pigs, cats, dogs. But we got that straightened out, right away. It could be worse.”
Renton scowls, but says nothing.
“There’s something that disturbs me greatly about all of this,” says Friar Sidrach. “The scriptures tell of how Canem and Larith were seduced by the Shaithim, and banished from their father’s kingdom, forced to wander the earth, begetting monsters, until the clarion sounds to signal Reckoning Day. The horrid progeny of Canem and Larith, we are told, are favored of the Shaithim and hated by the Five. And good Pentians, it is said, should not abide these abominations to live. And so we have had two crusades, ordered by the Mother Church.
“But when we were in Canglen, I saw something. Something that has greatly bothered me ever since.
“I was in the Cathedral of St. Daniel, and I saw some sculptures adorning a tympanum. These figures were cunningly wrought—just astonishing detail—and portrayed a great story that stretched across the world and spanned the ages. Beginning with the Martyrdom, the sculptures showed a great, unending procession of people, as the Word of the Five traveled steadily across the ancient world, from Tynar to Herachea and beyond, even unto distant Perthia. And the Word continued, to the pagan Brynns and Kargs—and beyond, to even more distant lands where the vague reports of travelers speak slightly, where men dressed in strange garb. And even in these foreign lands the men were prepared to receive the Word.
“And the Word continued, unto even stranger lands, lands full of bizarre creatures: centaurs and fauns and mermaids; cyclopes and hairy men who walked on all fours, and tiny men small as a cat; lands of strange, monstrous women, twice as tall as a man and part cow; lands with men with three heads, and many more such wonders such that I cannot speak on them properly. And the Word reached even these monstrosities.
“And yet… And yet… these strange scenes of the edge of the world were not threatening. They were not images of the Pit. These creatures were not of the Shaithim. Rather, these sculptures showed how the Word had reached the known world entire, and was extending to the unknown. All of these strange creatures, like the rest of Creation, were united in the Word; the centaur and the mermaid alike sang praises to the Five.
“I am troubled, my sons. Think on some of the loathsome creatures of the wood: the spider, say, or the blind-worm. However unseemly these creatures are to our eyes, are they not the handiwork of the Five? Are these lowly creatures not, in their own way, a testament to the Five? All of these questions and more have bothered me greatly. Can a ruck, the wicked fruit on the Canemite tree, really receive the Word? A year ago, I would have told you such a thing was impossible. But now…
“One thing, however, is clear to me: certainly Bishop Martin has reached his own conclusion on this matter.”
Lownell Chapel, Candlemas, I Winding, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Ten.
Dale, Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Ruik, Friar Sidrach Landry, St. James, Valerius, Vandoren, Wyk, Sir Will Garnfellow.
In the small parish, the good Pentians of Lownell have gathered to hear the Candlemas service. And in the crowd, near the back, stand several small, dark figures, figures who glance furtively about and awkwardly ape the actions of the other parishioners: kneeling and standing and praying at the proper times. Young Father Alan, looking somewhat uncomfortable before the congregation and dressed in purple vestments, blesses the candles that are then handed out to each of the parishioners. The priest then leads a procession toward the small, snow-covered graveyard. The consortes mill about at the back of the line.
“I could not help but notice,” says Friar Sidrach, “That there was no prayer for the deliverance of the Frounter from King Tereus. It’s hard to believe that it has been more than a year since the invasion, and the occupied lands are still under his yoke.”
The Guest House at Lownell, Candlemas, I Winding, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Ten.
Dale, Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Ruik, Friar Sidrach Landry, St. James, Valerius, Vandoren, Wyk, Sir Will Garnfellow.
Lord John’s two guards are slumped against the wall by the door, quiet save for an infrequent exchange of crudities. The consortes are scattered across the rest of the guest house. Mendelor, Hamral, Renton, and Dale crouch by the fire, quietly talking of old campaigns. Wyk and Mot lie side by side on the floor, sleeping—Mot snoring quite loudly. Friar Sidrach and Garnfellow sit and chatter happily, playing a game of draughts, while Vandoren looks on. Valerius sits apart from the rest, his large, leather book open on his lap, his long index finger tracing line after line of strange, cramped writing. St. James paces the floor, a great woolen blanket pulled over his shoulders and head. He stops in front of Ruik, who sits alone, furiously scribbling away on a wax tablet.
“What the hell are you doing, honkeydonk?” challenges St. James.
“Making a list of words,” answers Ruik. “Have you ever noticed how differently two men may speak the same language? The distinct sounds, and the unfamiliar words? In Covin on the coast, from whence I hail, the men talked quite differently from you fellows here on the Frounter. I have heard some words and expressions in these parts that are only used by the older people back in Covin. And I have listened to wayfarers from Harplan or Saxdal who spoke so strangely that it was often very hard to understand what they were saying.”
“So?” asks St. James.
“It just strikes me as interesting,” replies Ruik. “And I try to mark down some of the new words I find, and where I heard them: I’m making a catalogue. Take ‘ruck-rigger,’ a phrase which I have heard you use on many occasions. I never knew that term until I left Covin. Or ‘honkey-donk,’ for that matter.”
“You fancy yourself quite the clerk, ever since Valerius taught you your letters,” says St. James, rolling his eyes. “Sounds like a damned waste of time.”
“Ruik would actually prove an apt student at a Cathedral school,” interjects Vandoren. “Perhaps you should look at one of the books of etymologies, which trace the meanings of various words.”
“Mayhap you should ask these damned ruck-lovers to teach you some ruck-speak,” says St. James, gesturing rudely at the two guards, who do not respond to the taunt. St. James suddenly hunches down and shambles across the floor, imitating the loping gait of the rucks.
“Bargle bargle!” he cries, in a throaty voice. “Bargle bargle glom glom!”
Vandoren laughs heartily, but Ruik looks nervously at the guards.
“Leave those men be,” says Ruik. “They have done us no harm.”
St. James straightens up and scowls.
“I would like to see them try something,” he says, loudly enough for the guards to hear. The two men glance darkly at each other, but do not answer.
“Well, I am not so sure that we may not have misjudged the Lord Lownell,” says Ruik. “After all, we have not been treated badly since we arrived. If anything, he has been hospitable and gracious to us.”
“Yet,” said St. James. “I would be very careful about eating anything or drinking anything offered you around here. These men of the lily are known poisoners.”
“St. James speaks from bitter personal experience,” says Valerius, closing his book. “And I would second his call for caution. We should also be wary of being caught alone while within the manor.”
Garnfellow shrugs his shoulders.
“Lads! By the Cup, but you worry so. I have freely enjoyed of Lord John’s board, and I dare say that there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with the food here, expect maybe that there is never enough of it!”
“If belt size is any indication, Sir Girth,” says St. James, “I suppose it might take several months for even the strongest poison to affect you.”
Just then there is a knock at the door. The guards, startled, thrash about to make themselves presentable. After a struggle, they open the door, revealing Claudius, the old seneschal, who stands shivering in the cold. He is swiftly admitted into the house.
“Good day!” says Claudius, pulling back his hood and rubbing his hands together.
“Speaking of poisoners,” mutters St. James. Claudius cocks an eyebrow, but does not answer—instead, the old man moves closer to the warmth of the fire.
“I trust you have found your accommodations here at Lownell… satisfactory? My Lord John is very concerned about the comfort of his guests.”
When no one ventures to speak, the old man continues.
“Most excellent: I shall take your silence as proof that you have no complaints. My Lord, in his inestimable munificence, has sent me here to speak to you of a certain missing shield. Does this sound right? Good, good: Well then, know that there is a stronghold, four days march to the north and east of Lownell. Not particularly imposing, no—just a small, timber watch-tower, really. But beneath the tower, the earth is worried with small tunnels and burrows, the home of those most repulsive of rucks, who are hight the Gory Moon. I believe you will remember them from Willoghby Copse—among other places. Correct?
“Good, good: Now, these ruck are under the command of a couple of wicked knaves, who are mighty captains of war. They are two brothers, and they are known hereabouts as the Knights of the Scarlet Banner. I can assure you that one of these brothers bears the enchanted shield that you lost at Willoghby.
“The tower is well defended, and there is a strong and vigilant garrison. These wicked little rucks, if anything, see keenly at night, and even as mighty a warrior as fabled Myreus of old would be hard-pressed to assail the tower directly. However, there are many secret entrances into the ruck tunnels beneath the tower. A small, strong band might be able to approach the tower by that route. And I understand that you fellows have some experience in slithering about through nasty tunnels…”
“That is all very good,” says Valerius. “Now, if you will excuse us—my companions and I have much to discuss. And we would prefer that your men wait outside while we talk.”
“As you will,” says Claudius, nodding sagely. He gestures to the guards, who scowl but follow him out into the cold.
“Well,” says St. James, “The bastard and his advisor are utterly mad if they think we will go through with this!”
“On the contrary,” says Valerius “Actually, I think we should seek out these Knights of the Scarlet Banner. Surely they are connected to Godwin’s master. I want to do what the bastard wants—but not for his Lordship’s reasons. I deduce that if we seek out the shield, there are three possible outcomes, and all somewhat appealing.
“The first possibility? Once we leave Lownell, John will dispatch men and rucks after us; once we have dealt with these knights, John’s men will set upon us—thinking us weakened and unable to defend whatever treasure we may have won from these brothers.”
“You mean purposefully walk into an ambuscade?” asks Friar Sidrach. Valerius nods, matter-of-factly.
“Personally, I hope this comes to pass: John’s men will not find us easy pickings, and they will be utterly unable to catch us unawares. Noxumbra will maintain a vigil and alert us should we be followed. We, in turn, could thieve from the thieves, as it were, and bloody John’s men in the process.
“The second possibility is that we could make it to the tower, meet with the knights or even Godwin’s Master, and offer diplomatic overtures. It may not be an easy task to establish amicable relations, for certainly, the mysterious Master will be hostile toward us, at least initially. After all, we did kill his lackey Godwin. But if these men will heed reason, we could offer an alliance, with purpose to finish the bastard John. In the great scheme of things, after all, John is very high on my list, whereas Godwin’s Master is very low—or maybe even not on the list.
“The final possibility? We could go, find that these knights or Godwin’s Master will not be reconciled, and perhaps give battle. In that case, should they prove so stubborn and foolish, we should have our way with them—if only for old time’s sake!”
“Valerius,” says St. James, shaking his head. “I think that the first thing I have ever heard you say that made any sense!”