The Apartment in Heremac, V Storming, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Ten. Tierce.
Dale, Ruik, St. James, Valerius, Wyk.
“Perhaps one of you fellows could enlighten me,” begins St. James. “What the hell is the matter with Mendelor? By the Hammer, I was just examining his new sword the other night. I meant no harm, and surely he should have known that. But the rage he flew into! I have never seen him get so a-wroth about anything. Why, I thought he might actually strike me. Imagine! I think that he has spent altogether too much time tramping about in the woods alone: he probably just needs the tender comforts of a woman. I shall have to speak to Maggie about this. But really—have any of you ever seen him act so loutish?”
“Never,” answers Valerius, coolly. “And I would recommend that you be very wary of disturbing him in the coming days, Saint James. Refrain from your usual, impudent tricks.”
“I am sure I do not know what you mean,” responds St. James.
Valerius shakes his head. “I can assure you that Mendelor’s sword is permeated with considerable power, of unknown agency. Doubtless the sword has divers properties, which may manifest themselves unexpectedly in the coming days. Perhaps Mendelor’s intemperate response is one such consequence. Or perhaps Mendelor is just weary of you rummaging through his belongings.”
Noxumbra, standing on Valerius’s arm, caws loudly, as if in agreement.
“Mayhap,” says Dale. “But then again, I went with Mendelor when he had the scabbard made for his sword. You should have seen him! He paced about the place like a nervous cat, waiting for the man to finish. You could see Mendelor actually seethe inside, as he watched a stranger handle that sword. He is normally of such a mild humor, but he never relaxed until he had that sword back in his hands.”
“I still think the wood-cutter could use a woman,” says St. James.
“Couldn’t we all!” cries Wyk.
“I have never seen a sword quite like that,” say Dale. “It is an odd design. You can tell the sword is very old: the blade is shorter and broader than a long-sword, and two-edged. Not enough of a point there on the end for stabbing, so it would be used just for chopping. And the iron—patterned, unless I miss my guess. An ancient sign of quality, and that is what gives the metal that marbling pattern. And then there is the design work, on the blade and hilt: imagine trying to fashion all those little branches into the metal with a hammer and tongs! A real master wrought that sword. And the gold-work on the hilt is something, too: I haven’t seen work that fine, outside of a Cathedral.”
“Just how old do you think the sword is?” asks Ruik.
“I have no idea,” answers Dale. “The rucks use nothing like it, and I have never seen a Pentian knight bear such a weapon—and keep in mind, many swords are handed down through families for generation after generation.”
“Curious,” says Ruik. “There are letters written on the blade, but I cannot decipher them.”
“Quite right, my young friend,” says Valerius. “The letters spell a word: a name, I should think: INUICTVS.”
“What the hell does that mean?” asks St. James.
“Perhaps we shall discover the meaning, in time,” answers Valerius.
Noxumbra suddenly takes wing, fluttering in a circle around the common room.
Within the Seeker’s Citadel, VII Storming, Sext.
Dale, Ruik, St. James, Valerius, Wyk.
Young Anders, Brother-Serjeant of the Seekers, narrows his dark eyes. The tall lad turns to a pale boy who has been frantically scratching at a wax tablet, recording Hamral’s report.
“Did you get all that down?” Anders asks the young scribe. The boy, wide-eyed, nods.
“Good,” says Anders. “Brother Coston will be most interested in this intelligence. We had not known that Tereus has withdrawn from the Frounter to the Yron Citie. Do you have any idea why?”
“We also were surprised by this news,” answers Valerius.
“Perhaps there is turmoil within the ruckish kingdom,” muses Anders. “The abominations are unruly and mutinous by nature. Order and discipline do not come easily to the spawn of Canem. Mayhap one of Tereus’s commanders has rebelled? Though that is probably too much to hope for. I wonder if one of the ruck-king’s damned sons has taken up residence in Derwich castle?”
“What about that road?” asks Renton. “The rucks are planning something, that’s for sure!”
“Yes, it does not bode well,” says Anders. “Now that the weather is turning warmer, the rucks will be up to mischief soon enough. Though just what, I wot not. Rest assured, my Order will not let Nestor’s construction continue unchecked.”
“Good Serjeant,” says Vandoren. “You just spoke of Tereus’s sons. Before we met Nestor, I had not realized that Tereus had any progeny. I am rather curious: how many are there?”
“I doubt that even Tereus could say for certain,” says Anders, with a shrug. “Everyone knows that the rucks are sinful lechers and breed like rabbits. Tereus might have begotten dozens of bastard whelps. But I have heard some Seekers say that seven sons of the ruck-king command armies on the Frounter. All of these sons are cruel and mighty captains of war.
“What you have told me today about Nestor matches with other things I have heard. Nestor is a capricious sot, given to violence: you were lucky to have left his camp unscathed. His own gluttonous love of drinking helps to keep him in check. If he ever gave up liquor, he might become a serious threat to Heremac.
“But enough of Nestor: I must report to Brother Coston immediately. You have done the Brotherhood of Saint Markham and your fellow Pentians a great service this day. I am sure that Master Edric will not forget your deeds.”
Outside the Thistle and Briar, XVI Storming, After Matins.
Dale, Ruik, St. James, Vandoren, Wyk.
Wyk is doubled over, leaning against the wall. He retches several times, and a torrent of steaming vomit gushes over his own boots. St. James hoots with mirth, but the old veteran, Nym, clucks his tongue at the sight.
“Damned good-for-nothing youth,” mutters Nym. “When I was a lad, we knew how to drink without puking our guts out in the street.”
Wyk groans softly, and spits.
“How about a nice big bowl of mutton stew?” asks St. James, giggling. Wyk begins to gag.
“Never mind him, Wyk,” says Ruik, his voice slurred. The young lad weaves unsteadily.
Dale wanders in circles in the street, his head bowed, mumbling to himself.
“The lover, spurned!” shouts St. James, pointing to Dale. “And that grandam he was making eyes at: they say that slattern taught old Edric the ways of the world, when he was just a sprite!”
Dale glowers at St. James, and mumbles something.
“And then Bardolph took her home!” cries St. James, laughing.
“When I was a lad, we drank good, honest ale,” says Nym, shaking his head. “Or maybe some cider. There was none of this damned ‘ruck-nog.’ No, sirrahs. Serves you fools right, to come over here to this nasty place.”
“Never mind him, Wyk,” says Ruik, thumping his friend very hard on the back. Wyk only heaves and hacks in response.
Vandoren shakes his head sadly.
“I had enough of that foul stuff when I drank with Nestor to last me the rest of my life. Just the sight of that ruck-nog made me green. The stuff burns your mouth and throat—like swallowing fire. Who knows what unclean herbs the rucks infuse into their nog? Why, a scant pint is stronger than two gallons of ale!”
“Bah!” says Nym. “Just one whiff of that syrup, and a sensible man would know enough to stay away.”
“Never mind him, Wyk,” says Ruik, nearly slipping in the wet mess underneath him. “Hey, look at Saint James!”
St. James is sprawled across the steps to the Briar, unconscious.
“I sense that this will be a long night,” groans Vandoren.
The Bristling Boar Inn, XX Storming, Nones.
Dale, Renton, Ruik, St. James, Valerius, Vandoren, Sir Will Garnfellow, Wyk.
“You were most charitable, Sir Girth,” says St. James, “To so bravely guard all of our belongings while we were off, deep in the wilderness, fighting Prince Nestor and his entire ruckish army. Too bad you couldn’t have been with us—why, we might have been able to drive those abominations right to the Sheldings!”
“Ha Ho!” cries Garnfellow, beating on the table with a meaty fist. “I would not rule anything out, lad. ‘Tis a pity that Waleran and I were imprisoned: I should think that Nestor would have found a surprise or two, had we been able to lend our swords to your adventure!”
“Oh, for certain!” exclaims St. James, rolling his eyes. “Why, some people here in town swear that you claimed to have fought the Ruck Prince alone!”
“Ha,” says Garnfellow. “You know, my friend, that Rumour is a monster with a thousand mouths, and prone to garble the truth over many retellings.”
“If Rumour had a thousand mouths, I avow it would neither eat nor talk as much as you, Sir Will,” says St. James.
“By the Cup!” cries Garnfellow, slapping St. James on the back. “How I hath missed thee, thou rascal!”
“Quite,” says Valerius. “Consortes, it is time to consider our disposition for the next couple of months. My own retainer, Mot, is presently traveling with Friar Dirk, and shall not be available until the next new moon. I understand that Mendelor and Friar Sidrach are also occupied until May. And while I have certain obligations later in the summer, I have no immediate commitments. I am open to suggestions.”
“We could give the militia a hand with the rucks,” says Renton. “The fighting has started already, and not a seed has been sown in the ground yet. They say that King Weremach has a goodly army to the north, led by his son, Wenric. I hear they have launched several raids on Kirke, trying to retake the castle, but so far the rucks cannot be dislodged. They say that that Prince Briareus, another one of Tereus’s sprat, commands the Black-blades at Kirke. The rucks feel so confident about keeping Kirke that they have even renamed that place Utterbol.”
“Utterbol,” repeats Ruik. “I wonder what that means?”
“Sounds like another stalemate,” says Vandoren. “And I hear that the news to our south is little better: A Black-blade army harries Antace. Why, just last week Lord Charles, who is a clever marshal, was caught and trapped. He only narrowly escaped ruin.
“By the Cup!” cries Garnfellow. “I shudder to think what ruck could be better at stratagem than Charles?”
Vandoren nods.
“The way I heard it, the Castellan’s army attacked a Black-Blade company, which promptly turned tail and retreated. Charles, thinking he had the rucks on the run, pursued them into the Hills, only to find his forces beset to the rear by a second, stronger army of Black-blades! Charles used every trick he could play to escape that trap alive, but he lost many soldiers in that expedition.
“One of those men killed by the rucks was Sir Gallard, a fine knight who had married Charles’s own daughter. Gallard was like a son to the Castellan: they say that Gallard died holding off the rucks so that Charles could escape.
“His army shattered, the Castellan limped back to Antace with the survivors. And then he had to give up a dear ransom to get his captured men back from the rucks.”
“Those are ill tidings,” says Dale. “In a scant couple of weeks, our Pentian armies will wither and wilt as the levies return to work the land. Then it will be months before we can mount an effective campaign against Tereus. I had hoped to hear of a decisive Seeker victory over Nestor before planting started.
“Nestor’s army rampages over the land, turning this way and that like a great rutting bullock, mad for a cow. There seems to be little sense to Nestor’s attacks—he thrashes about, seemingly without any care whether he wins or loses. He will take a town, and then leave such a small garrison that the Seekers easily retake it the next day. Nestor will throw away good companies of rucks on well-defended positions that have no value to him. I have heard one old veteran call Nestor the Seeker’s most reliable ally.”
“That is a fine jest, and may the Five bless Nestor!” cries Garnfellow. “Ellen! Where the blazes is that woman? My cup runneth empty! Ellen! Ellen!”
“Quiet, you fat and windy rogue,” says Ellen, slamming a full cup before Garnfellow. “Hello, Vandoren,” she adds, sweetly, before leaving.
“That wench will be the death of me yet,” says Garnfellow, drinking deeply. “But she brews a wonderfully fine ale. Ah! But lads, gather round: Old Sir Will has lately learned some urgent news. Do you lads recall our dear friend, Sir Reginald the Penitent? Well, I have heard that Sir Reginald is missing, and has not been seen for many weeks.”
“What’s this?” asks Valerius, straightening up. “Come to the point, Garnfellow.”
“It would seem,” begins Garnfellow, “that several weeks ago Sir Reginald departed from Heremac: they say that he was bound for Bourton Abbas, deep in the occupied lands. The Bergenians had an important priory there, before Tereus arrived. What happened to good Reginald is unknown. Certes, if Sir Reginald had been captured alive, the rucks would have tried to ransom him, and probably Abbot Peter would have paid their price.”
“I doubt that Reginald the Penitent would ever be taken alive,” says Ruik.
“True, probably true,” notes Garnfellow sadly. “And yet, if Reginald had been slain, surely the rucks would have crowed loudly about a victory over a champion of Pentiandom. But no one has heard of any such thing. Strange, is it not?”
The Bristling Boar Inn, Lady Day, XXV Storming. Vespers.
Ruik, Valerius, Vandoren, Wyk.
Outside the Boar, the sun is setting on a warm, spring afternoon. The Boar is unusually quiet for this time of the day. Vandoren rises to meet Bracy, the minstrel from Langdale Hall, who has just entered the common room.
“How fares it, old friend?” asks Vandoren.
“Very well,” answers Bracy, clasping his friend’s hand in greeting. “I had a most pleasant journey. It is a good sign to have such fair weather on Lady Day, when the spring’s planting begins—or so reckon the folk in our parish. The days are now evenly divided between darkness and light; the snows are mostly melted, and the streams are running fast. We were blessed with a good lambing season in Langdale, and may our crops follow this example. Although our lands are mostly poor and rocky, we already have few fields soft enough to allow the carles to hitch up the oxen and begin working up some land, in preparation for next month’s sowing.”
“No trouble from the rucks, yet?” asks Vandoren.
“Not yet,” says Bracy. “Langdale Hall is far from the grasp of Tereus, and we are only a petty manor, so we have had little to fear from the rucks. And it is just as well, for my liege, Baron Leoline, is an old widower, with little taste for battle left in his mouth.
“And though we have not seen any rucks, in the last few months I have heard, many times, that a horrible Geaunt dwells in the occupied lands north of here. This Geaunt is so tall that he could look down on a church spire, and can carry off a whole ox under one arm. He lives, it is said, in a ruined tower. And woe to any man who approaches within half-a-league of his lair!”
“Another ally of Tereus?” asks Valerius.
“No,” answers Bracy. “In fact, it is said that this Geaunt has no special love for Tereus or his servants, and that he is just as happy to raid the rucks for treasure and food. Accordingly, the rucks all give him and his accursed tower wide berth.”
Ruik springs up from the table.
“This must be what the good Friar was talking about!” cries Ruik. “The Five have forsaken the occupied lands, and in their absence the power of the Shaithim rises up from hell, like an evil tide, spilling over those lands, and in the tainted wake leaving such abominations as this Geaunt Consortes, we must act!”
“Your enthusiasm is… well noted,” says Valerius. “But I do not think we should pursue such a hazardous enterprise without our entire contingent present.”
Ruik considers this for a moment, then sits down sheepishly.
“As I came into Heremac today,” says Bracy, “I spied the Lady Isabelle of Derwich: she was leaving St. Welman’s parish. She is an exceedingly lovely lass—such a shame about her parents and brothers. Was she not promised to the Baron Tryermaine? Do you know what became of him? The last I had heard, Tryermaine was fighting under Wenric. But that was several months ago. Surely, Isabelle is heir to large holding, and must have many suitors?”
“Not really,” says Vandoren, shaking his head. “My friend, Dame Catherine, tells me that Isabelle has refused all visitors, save a handful—mostly nuns. However, Catherine says that Reginald the Penitent has been seen with Isabelle.”
“Intriguing,” murmurs Valerius.
Bracy suddenly stands up, and pats Vandoren on the head.
“Well lad, it has been a long day on the road, and I am ready to retire. In case I do not see you before I leave, remember that it is lonely on the edge of the Westwoode: we receive few visitors at Langdale Hall. I would be glad to have you visit, Vandoren. We could go hunting; the woods thereabouts are deep and full of game. Leoline keeps a few fine hawks and an old mastiff bitch, and my hounds run as fast as ever.”
“That sounds tempting,” says Vandoren. “I have lately considered getting a fine goshawk for myself. But I do not think that choice would be… so convenient, right now. But mayhap I could find a good hunting dog? It has been many years since I had one of my own.”
Within the Seeker’s Citadel, Hock Monday, VII Firstblome, Sext.
Hamral, Renton, Valerius, Vandoren.
Anders closes the door to the small room.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” says Anders. “Let me get straight to the point. Now that Easter and the Lenten season are behind us, Brother Gregory is leading a raid on Nestor’s camp tomorrow—the same camp that you observed. Gregory desires that you accompany him on this raid. Since you know already know the lay of that place, you would probably be very useful.”
“Finally!” exclaims Renton. “We show those ruck bastards!”
“We are gratified by Brother Gregory’s confidence,” says Valerius, glancing sharply at Renton. “Though I fear that not all of our company will be available tomorrow. In particular, our woodsman Mendelor is already serving Heremac as a tracker. Under such circumstances, I am not certain how helpful we would prove to your cause.”
“No matter,” says Anders. “We must act now, while we still have a full levy, and before Nestor continues any further. What men you can spare, Brother Gregory will gladly bring. You will be privileged enough to witness the Five’s army trample a son of Tereus! Before cockcrow, tomorrow, we will leave. Meet us at the north gate.”
The Apartment, Hock Tuesday, VIII Firstblome, Before Prime.
Dale, Hamral, Renton, Ruik, St. James, Valerius, Vandoren, Wyk.
The apartment is dark except for the pale red glow of the hearth.
“What? By the Hammer!” moans St. James, rubbing his eyes. “What, are the damned Seekers trying to alert the entire Ruckish Hills that they are ready to march forth? What’s with all the church-bells?”
“Arise, you incarnation of Sloth!” says Valerius. “The rest of us are ready to depart.”
St. James sputters, but quickly collects his gear in the dark. Outside in the streets, tapers bob as several burghers wander about, anxious to see what is the matter. Brother Anders rushes through the street, making directly for the consortes.
“Brother Anders—our deepest apologies,” says Valerius loudly, upon spying the Seeker. “We realize that we had agreed to meet you at the North Gate. Unfortunately, some of my companions are unlike Seekers, and not inured to the rigors of duty. Their delicate humors are unaccustomed to this time of day.”
“No, no,” says Anders, his face ashen. “It’s not that. Would that it were! It’s not that at all. I fear that we shall not set forth today; Nestor is given a respite.”
“Lovely!” cries St. James, turning on his heels. “I am going back to sleep!”
“What is the matter?” asks Ruik. “Why give Nestor any more time?”
Serjeant Anders looks down, crestfallen.
“Our highest commanders, including Brother Gregory, have all been recalled to Heremac on most urgent business. Our Master—Grand Master Edric—has died this night past. May the Five keep the soul of such a devoted soldier!”