The Apartment, Heremac. XIII Firstblome, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Ten. Before Compline.
Dale, Renton, Ruik, St. James, Valerius, Vandoren, Wyk.
“Utterbol,” murmurs Ruik. “I wonder what this new name means?”
“I have also wondered,” adds Vandoren. “And after a few inquiries, I learnt that Utterbol was once a ruckish stronghold, located somewhere on the Frounter—the exact spot was forgotten long ago. It is said that a powerful ruckish king ruled from Utterbol, before the arrival of the Tynans.
“This king lorded over a great ruckish nation, and opposed the Tynans at every turn. After a long and difficult campaign the Tynans prevailed and destroyed Utterbol in a decisive battle, driving the rucks into the shadow of the Sheldings. It is said that the Tynan armies completely razed the ruckish stronghold from turrets to dungeons, and used the stones to build Demerian’s Wall. For the rucks, Utterbol is still remembered as a humiliating defeat. No doubt renaming Kirke after their long-lost stronghold has great symbolic import to the rucks.”
“I see!” says Ruik, his eyes wide. “Utterbol…”
“All very fascinating, Vandoren,” says Valerius. “However, my primary concern at the moment is to discover what has befallen Sir Reginald. After all, he is an extremely valuable resource.”
“Does it strike anyone else as odd,” interjects St. James, “That although Sir Reginald is considered to be such a marvelous Pentian warrior, we always seem to be bailing his marvelous arse out of trouble? Just wondering.”
Vandoren smiles. “Regardless, I would also like to investigate his disappearance.”
“Strangely enough,” says St. James. “I actually agree with both you and Scarecrow. But I want to know what our next move will be. We cannot just blunder off into the ruck-infested lands, hoping that we will miraculously trip over Reginald out in the woods. Do we have any idea what happened to him? If someone or something is tough enough to trounce Reginald, we ought to be on our toes.”
“I don’t know this Reginald fellow,” says Wyk, “But what about Nestor? My pa always used to say that a man who tries to catch two rabbits at once, usually brings home nothin.”
“I assure you, Wyk, I have not forgotten Nestor,” says Valerius. “And I am quite certain our friends in the Brotherhood of Saint Markham have not forgotten, either. But at the moment, the raid seems to have been postponed indefinitely, while the Seekers mourn their Master and debate his successor. This seems to free us for the moment to pursue Reginald—and I assert that we must act expeditiously on this matter.”
“I jus’ don’t want to miss out on Nestor’s comeuppance, is all,” says Wyk.
“I also savor the prospect,” answers Valerius. “We just need to be patient.”
“Perhaps we should consult with Brother Anders or even Gregory himself,” says Vandoren. “So that our knowledge can be put to best use by the warrior-monks. Especially since some members of our troupe are missing.”
“The idea has merit,” agrees Valerius. “Though Mot is due to return tomorrow.”
“I have been thinking,” says Vandoren. “Once Mendelor, Mot, and the Friar return—perhaps we should consider looking into this Geaunt to the north.”
“Of course!” cries St. James. “Utterly brilliant, Wetpants. After all, no dragons or evil sorcerers around at the moment for us to vanquish—Why not take on some fifty-foot tall monster? Sounds good to me, when do we leave?”
“I do not mean to charge straight into this Geaunt’s lair with our swords drawn,” says Vandoren. “I am thinking of something much more subtle. Consider this: what if we were able to communicate with this monster? A bit of persuasion might be much more effective than all of our brawn. If we can get the Geaunt to lend his ear long enough, we might be able to… suggest that he raid particular ruck holds. The Geaunt might prove a useful tool against the rucks.”
“Intriguing,” says Valerius. “Extremely dangerous, but intriguing.”
“Extremely mad, if you ask me,” says St. James. “It sounds like that Geaunt is already interfering with the rucks just fine. Instead of trying to make friends with this monster, maybe we could snag some of the loot he has no doubt amassed. We could sneak up to his tower, and then Valerius could conjure up some of his magic beasties to fight the Geaunt. While the Geaunt is distracted, we steal in and make off with as much booty as we can carry away. Now that, Wetpants, is a plan!”
“I advise you,” says Valerius, very slowly and icily, “To refrain from speaking on matters that are… beyond your comprehension!”
“Perhaps,” says Ruik, softly “We should all get a good night’s sleep before making any decisions.”
“Well, if no one is interested in doing anything in the next few weeks,” muses Vandoren, “Perhaps I will visit Langdale Hall and my old friend Bracy.”
Market Square, Heremac. XVI Firstblome, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Ten. Sext.
Dale, Ruik, St. James, Vandoren, Sir Will Garnfellow, Wyk.
It is a bright spring day, born out of a cool, fog-covered morning. The main square is largely empty now: most of the burghers have withdrawn into their homes for lunch, or moved into the churches to attend noon mass. The few people who remain outside are, like the consortes, watching a spectacular procession of men and animals streaming into Heremac through the North Gate.
“They have all come to honor Master Edric?” asks Ruik.
“Word travels fast,” says St. James.
“I cannot believe all of the people who have already arrived!” says Ruik. “Why, the town is crowded full of wayfarers. Look at all of the tents around the town walls—it is like a small city out there. And the Citadel is so full of Seekers that the brother-knights are starting to billet troops in some of the churches. I think an entire army of soldiers slept at St. Welman’s last night.”
“Well, at least you can sleep well tonight,” says Vandoren with a smile, “Knowing that with all of the Seekers camped in and around town, Heremac is the now safest spot in all of Pentiandom!”
“‘Tis just the start, certes,” says Garnfellow.
“Indeed,” adds Vandoren. “Many more men are on the way. I expect my father to arrive in Heremac in the next few days, to represent the Canglen Diocese. And I hear that Lord Charles of Antace is coming, to represent King Weremach. I would not be surprised to see Weredrice send ambassadors.”
“I would not be surprised, either,” says Garnfellow. “Though few in number, the Seekers are an extremely influential and prosperous order. I am not surprised that so many great men should pay honor to Old Edric.”
“Does it strike anyone else as odd,” says St. James, “That someone with as ferocious a reputation as ‘Edric the Iron-Hearted’ should die of old age, in his bed?”
“Is there any word on who the next Master of the Seekers will be?” asks Dale.
“The brother-knights are waiting for a few more of their senior commanders. Both Alan of Belfort and Wich of Threk have not yet arrived,” says Garnfellow.
“Will the Bishop choose the new Master?” asks Dale.
“Nay, lad,” says Garnfellow, with a chuckle. “The Master of the Seekers reports directly to the Pope—which is partly why there was never much Pentian love between Edric and Bishop Martin. It has been many, many years since the Seekers have had to choose a new Master, but traditionally, the decision is made by the brother-knights: A group of them meet in private and elect the new Master. Though keep in mind, lads, that Seekers are very sensitive about the entire process. It is supposed to be quite secret. Of course, after all is said and done, I am quite certain that Gregory the Risen will be the next Master. In fact, I have even found a fool willing to wager a pretty sum against me!”
“I am sure the Risen will appreciate your confidence,” says St. James.
“By the Cup, lads, look lively!” cries Garnfellow suddenly, his eyes bright. “This is no ordinary band of pilgrims or merchants passing through yon gate. Look at these men: their good horses, their fine dress. I am a radish if this train does not belong to the Legate Ubertino, who has traveled all the way from Reims by order of Pope Augustine!”
“Legate?” asks Vandoren. “Pope Augustine could not have learnt of Edric’s death in time to send someone so quickly. Not all the way from Reims.”
“Ah, quite right,” says Garnfellow. “But I understand that the Legate had been summoned several weeks ago. Although they gave no inkling to anyone outside of the order, the Seekers must have known some time ago that Edric was languishing. Evidently, several weeks ago the brother-knights dispatched couriers to Reims, but unfortunately the Pope’s representative still did not have enough time to see Edric while he was still alive. A great sadness, that.
“But mark you, lads—see that figure, the tall, dark one with the beard as black as pitch, and such serious mien? That’s right, the one riding the fine bay. Lads, I swear that must be Ubertino himself.”
“Look at all the friggin people he’s got with him,” says Wyk.
“I thought Bishop Martin’s entourage was impressive,” says Ruik, gesturing to the dozens of attendants, soldiers, and clergymen travelling with the Legate.
“But look who is riding with Ubertino!” says St. James, pointing to a lean, handsome man, with curly blond hair. The man is cheerily engaged in a spirited conversation with the Legate.
“By the Cup!” exclaims Garnfellow. “Wich of Threk!”