Somewhere in the occupied lands, the Feast of St. Daniel the Convert, XXVII Midsommer, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Ten. After Prime.
Dale, Sir Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Ruik, Friar Sidrach Landry, St. James, Valerius, Vandoren, Sir Aleck Rowland, Sir Galen, Maid Martha, [Various Other Stragglers].
Intense morning light streams down through the towering pine boughs, and already the cool air is thick with gnats. A rag-tag band, led by Mendelor, slowly threads its way across the needle-covered forest floor, its progress accompanied by odd strains of music that hang heavily in the air as Vandoren struggles to recall a song, now almost entirely lost.
“Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild,
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping
than you can understand.”
“Praise the Five for our deliverance,” exclaims Sir Galen, as he helps his daughter, Maid Martha, scramble over a rotting deadfall. Sir Galen is a short, burly man with a dark, curly beard and a bald head. Martha is fairer and lighter of limb than her father, but her dark hair, streaming with curls, betrays her kinship to the stout knight.
“Indeed,” says Martha. “Often I nearly fell into a great despair over my wretched fate, wondering if any good Pentians might ever arrive to assist us in our plight.”
And here Martha steals a furtive glance at Ruik, but the young lad walks slowly, apart from the rest of the group, his eyes downcast. He does not seem to hear the girl’s words.
“You lads were most clever to defeat the Geaunt,” says Sir Aleck, a slim, older man with thin grey hair and sad eyes. “That monster was protected by some powerful enchantments that made him nigh invincible in battle. I am ashamed to admit before the Five and all of this company that I stood no chance against him on the battlefield.”
“That admission carries no shame here, good knight,” exclaims Sir Reginald. “The Geaunt wielded formidable magick. I had managed to drive him back to the shadow of his Tower, whenas he drew forth a pouch—large as a flour sack. From this he scattered a shower of rose petals, working a most sovereign charme. I was cast into a slumber that lasted until I was awakened by the sounding of the horn.”
Here Reginald turns to Vandoren, who nods.
“My old master, Gilbert, once told me a tale out of Weredrice. The tale held that old King Merovan and all his knights lie under a faery mound, bound in an enchanted slumber for the ages. A magic horn lies at their feet, and they will only be awakened as Reckoning Day and the end of this world draws near, when that horn is finally blown. Then they will arise and lead the Pentian armies in the Last Battle against the Shaithim.”
“I have heard such stories myself,” says Galen, “In the court of Count Durrell.”
Vandoren nods. “So Sir Galen, you and Sir Aleck must know each other?”
“Indeed, indeed,” answers Galen. “We are both men of Kirke, and together we fought to put down the rebellious Bellenore. That seems like ages ago, now. The deeds of Sir Aleck Rowland are well known to all men loyal to my liege. In fact, Sir Aleck served well Count Durrell’s father for many years.”
“You praise me too highly,” says Aleck. “The old Count was a fine man and a valorous knight—as is his son, I am proud to say.”
“Good knights, do you have any idea where this fearsome Geaunt came from?” asks Vandoren. “Or even what his name was?”
“His name,” answers Galen, “I never knew. Shortly after Tereus invaded, we began receiving reports of a horrid Geaunt to the south of my lord’s lands. At first, Count Durrell assumed that this Geaunt was in league with Tereus, but that was probably not the case. As to where he came from—who is to say? There have always been stories, older than the hills, about a Geaunt living in these woods. But these accounts were always taken to be mere legend, passed from generation to generation amongst the poor folk of these lands. No one had seen such a sight within memory.”
“It seems that the invasion loosed more than simply rucks upon the lands of the Frounter,” adds Friar Sidrach.
For a time, the company travels on in silence, until Valerius speaks.
“Mendelor, do you have any idea where we are—and perhaps more importantly, what day it is?”
“Well, I would guess that we’re a little west of Kirke’s old lands,” answers the woodsman. “Not far from where we skirted that company of rucks. We’ve probably been gone for several days—look how dry the grass is here.”
“And when we left,” injects Friar Sidrach, “the moon was almost completely dark, but last night it was well past full. Assuming we haven’t been gone more than a year, it has been at least a fortnight since we crossed that little brook. I think it must be near St. Daniel’s Feast, the longest day of the year.”
“Midsummer’s Eve,” murmurs Valerius.
“My good men,” begins Galen, “I must thank you for your efforts on our behalf, and the sooner we can make it to Kirke’s castle, the better. Count Durrell will reward you generously, and I am sorely anxious to return to his service. When I left him we were sorely beset by Tereus’s army. I had hoped to bring young Martha here through to the nunnery in Heremac, where she would be safe from the tumult, but it appears she will have to stay with me a bit longer, despite the dangers.”
Hamral and Valerius exchange a furtive glance.
“Good Sir Galen,” says Valerius. “I am certain this may seem rather confusing to you—but when you and your daughter became lost… what was the date?”
“What?” exclaims Sir Galen, confused. “Why, we left Kirke’s castle but a few weeks after Candlemas.”
“But what year?” prompts Valerius. Galen scowls.
“It was the Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine, of course,” answers Galen. “Not long after the invasion.”
“Good knight,” says Friar Sidrach, “This may come as a rather rude shock, but that was over a year ago.”
“Impossible!” snorts Galen. “We were in the clutches of the Geaunt for only a few months, at most!”
“Saints preserve us,” whispers Sir Aleck. “I was captured by the Geaunt in the fall of Nine Hundred and Nine. I had thought I was captive for but mere weeks.”
“Much has happened in the last year,” says Friar Sidrach. “Much indeed. Sir Galen, I am sorry to tell you that all of Kirke’s castles have fallen; your lord was forced to abandon his lands, and even now he is in exile to the north, where he fights with the King’s forces.”
Galen’s face blanches and he shakes his head. “Gramercy! This is awful news.”
“All too true, I fear,” says Vandoren. “You should also know that Master Edric of the Seekers died this past spring.”
“Succeeded by Gregory the Risen, no doubt,” says Reginald.
“Alas, no,” answers Vandoren. “The election was contested, and in the end the brother-knights chose Alan of Belfort as their new leader.”
Galen shakes his head again.
“I have heard stories… of a man who spent a day among faeries, only to return to his home to find that years and years had passed. But I thought that was but fable…”
“Many things are very different on the Other Side,” says Mendelor. “It’s hard to get your bearings in the strange realms. Things there are never quite what they seem to be here…”
The woodsman’s voice trails off. The travelers, having just come around a bend in the trail, now stand before an ominous, barren hill, overgrown with dry, thorny bracken. Gigantic slabs of rock lie heaped up on top of each other like shards of broken crockery.
“Witchery,” whispers Mendelor.
“Damn if that’s not the strangest hill I’ve ever seen,” says St. James.
“Gracious,” says Friar Sidrach. “If you look at that hill just right, doesn’t it seem to look much like… like…”
“Yes, yes, good friar,” says Vandoren, excitedly. “Close your eyes. Does not the whole place—does not it feel so familiar? I swear, if you squint, you can almost imagine you are looking at the Geaunt’s Tower.”
“And look at that ledge outcropping over there,” says Dale, pointing. “Doesn’t that look like a huge hand?”
“Indeed, indeed,” says the Friar, shaking his head. “This is a great mystery.”
“Intriguing,” mutters Valerius, stroking his beard thoughtfully. Noxumbra flaps her wings nervously, and Mot shudders.
“Hey, Ruik, where are you going?” calls St. James.
Ruik has turned from the hill and is walking quickly away.
Mendelor nods. “He has the right idea. Let us hie away from here as soon as we can.”
Outside Hillsfar, The Festival of the Martyrs, XXX Midsommer. Sext.
Dale, Sir Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Ruik, Friar Sidrach Landry, St. James, Valerius, Vandoren, Sir Reginald The Penitent, Sir Aleck Rowland, Sir Galen, Maid Martha, [Various Other Stragglers].
“Ah, if I am not mistaken, before us here is the fair village of Hillsfar,” exclaims Friar Sidrach, beaming as he emerges from the shadows of the forest. “Praised be the Five! Remember, dear friends, how we battled those horrid spiders in yonder wood, and by the Five’s Grace, prevailed?”
“Looks like Hillsfar has changed quite a bit since we were last here,” says Mendelor, pointing.
As in previous visits, flocks of sheep graze placidly in an adjacent meadow. Several of the sheep have been recently shorn, and the hay has been recently cut. But now a rough palisade of sharpened stakes encircles the tiny village proper. A timber watchtower has been erected, and several guardsmen stand on its rickety platform. And at the edge of the village there are dozens and dozens of tents, and a large paddock has been set aside for several war-horses. Many armed men can be seen moving among the cluster of tents, and many of these men wear surcoats bearing the five-armed symbol of the Seeker order.
“True enough, woodsman,” says Sir Aleck, wistfully. “Since Tereus invaded, this little hamlet—once so small and sleepy—has become an important staging area for the Brother-Knights. Ever since Count Durrell’s main castle fell to the rucks, Hillsfar is now the last bastion between the Pentian lands to the south and the armies of Prince Briareus.”
“What do you know of this Briareus?” asks Vandoren. “My friends and I have had unfortunate occasion to know two of his brothers, Busirane and Nestor.”
“Briareus is neither as cruel as Busirane, nor as volatile as Nestor. In fact, Briareus is all-too-predictable: he cares not for drink or battle, but only for gold and silver. It is said that his armies are like the locusts of scripture: when they descend upon a hapless village, they loot mercilessly, leaving behind nothing of worth. Even churches are picked clean of all valuables. Prince Briareus holds court in Kirke’s old castle, which is now called Utterbol by the rucks. I have heard it told that somewhere in the depths of Utterbol, Briareus keeps a secret chamber that is piled to the rafters with gold and silver, all treasures plundered from good Pentians.”
“Has he tried to attack Hillsfar yet?” asks Hamral.
“Once or twice,” answers Aleck. “But the Seekers have driven him back each time, and I hear that the ruckish prince has no appetite for another try. Hillsfar is small and impoverished, and does not offer enough plunder to attract Briareus.”
“Who commands this army of Seekers?” asks Valerius.
“Brother Marcus,” answers Aleck. “A formidable marshal, I believe. It is said he led the expedition against the Corbiestone a few years ago.”
“Indeed, we have made his acquaintance, also,” says Valerius, glancing darkly at his companions.
The Village of Hillsfar. Compline.
Dale, Sir Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Ruik, Friar Sidrach Landry, St. James, Valerius, Vandoren.
In the darkness, sounds of merriment drift down to the huddled consortes, as the villagers of Hillsfar and even many of the Seekers’ servants dance and sing, celebrating not only the unexpected return of Sir Aleck, but also the Festival of the Martyrs. Three great roaring fires burn on a nearby hillside.
“That fire there,” says Friar Sidrach, pointing to the smallest and faintest light, “Is the bonfire, kindled out of bones. The carles say that the smell of burning bones will ward off dragons.”
St. James snorts at this.
“Who is to say nay to this custom?” asks the friar, with a smile. “After all, do you see any dragons about? And that second fire, there—that is the wakefire, and is made of wood. And that third fire is made of wood and bones together. They call that one St. Daniel’s Fire.”
“Truly wonderful,” says Valerius. “Mendelor, how far are we from Sir Aleck’s manor-house—what is the name—Upchurch?”
“A good two days or so,” answers the woodsman.
“As I suspected. Several members of our happy band have pressing business back in Heremac, and I see no need for all of us to continue on to Upchurch. Myself and Mot, along with St. James and Hamral, can leave for Heremac tomorrow.”
“Actually,” says Hamral, “I will be travelling on with my Lord Aleck. He will teach me some horsemanship. And other things.”
“Fine,” says Valerius. “Meanwhile, perhaps the rest of you could accompany Reginald—find the Derwich rangers, and then try to get them organized.”
“Mayhap we should all wait in Upchurch until the rest of you are back from Heremac, before we venture into the occupied lands,” suggests Friar Sidrach.
“That sounds good to me,” says Mendelor. “There are a few things I would like to do before heading to Derwich.”
“As you wish,” says Valerius.
“Do you think it wise to return to Heremac now?” asks Friar Sidrach. “After your letter to Brother Gregory, Tim will certainly be looking to revenge himself.”
“Mot and I will take great pains to enter the city unnoticed, and once there I shall make contact only with the Vavasor. St. James, I strongly urge you to do likewise—approach no one else besides Roger. Do you understand? No one else, and especially not your harlot.”
“No worry about that,” says St. James, with a sigh. “I fear that Maggie’s more dangerous to me now than Tim.”
“And St. James,” continues Valerius, “while in Heremac we should make a concerted effort to discern what has transpired with Gregory, Varick, and Tim. And before we leave we should try to get some word to Lady Isabelle that Reginald is alive and well.”
The Village of Hillsfar, III Hetaire. After Prime.
Mendelor, Sir Reginald The Penitent.
“Sir Reginald,” begins Mendelor. “Do you wonder why I requested this audience? I think it is important that I tell you all that I know concerning Lownell. You should realize that there is much bad blood between my friends and Sir John, the bastard son of Baron Richard.
“We have our reasons for hating Sir John and wishing him ill. Sir John has conspired against his own father and brothers in a bid to wrest Lownell for himself—his plot was foiled only after we intervened. What is more, we suspect that Sir John is the same villain known as ‘The Lordship,’ who commands bands of wicked highwaymen across the Frounter.
“Sir John is also a friend of the rucks, and I have seen these rucks in his service at Lownell. Sir John even allied himself with King Tereus, in exchange for control of Lownell’s lands. Sir John has worked with a scoundrel from Heremac named Tim, in order to acquire weapons that were then sold or given to his ruckish allies. Sir John is currently imprisoned only because we tricked his ruckish masters into suspecting that John was disloyal.
“Sir John has used his ill-gotten wealth to influence important members of the Church itself, including no less a figure than Bishop Martin. Sir John sold the Bishop on an ill-advised scheme to bring priests into the occupied lands. And many of these priests have since been slaughtered.
“Sir John has many other, powerful friends, including the Seeker, Brother Wich of Threk. Through Sir John’s manipulations the Seeker’s election was almost bought.
“I feel that you should know all of this. You should know that we are motivated as much by hatred of Sir John as we are by any love for the oppressed men of Lownell. You should know all this before joining our cause. Should you decide that you do not want to go along with our plan to liberate Lownell, then so be it. But I will not lie to you.”
“I would judge no man based on his ignoble birth.” answers Reginald. “And yet, if this Sir John is guilty of half the crimes you have described, he is a base and cowardly knave, unfit to be called a knight. You say that your quest to free Lownell is driven by hatred for the man, and Mother Church teaches us to love our enemies as our neighbors, and love our neighbors as ourselves.
“But all things, sayeth the scriptures, can be pressed to serve the Five’s work. And even if your reasons for undertaking this quest may be wrong-headed, the final outcome may suit Their aims.”
Mendelor nods, sadly, and then looks at Reginald.
“Sir, the Five have blessed me on several occasions. As a foolish boy I once sought the gaze of the Gorgon and my flesh was turned to stone. I will not recount here the terror of a trapped soul. The Five saw fit to allow me to walk these lands again, as if untouched. I have been cut down in battle and brought back to strength by the prayers of priests. I saw the face of the babe Agnes after toiling through the Wood Wondrous, and marveled at the hope she brought into this world. I have witnessed many miracles straight from Their Hands or through the hands of men like you.
“I often wander alone in this world, wondering what separates me from you, Sir. Why am I allowed to witness such events and not be filled with the Five like you?
“I have not the heart for it. I cannot learn to love everything, like you or Friar Sidrach. Anger seeps into my thoughts and pride drives away Their Love.
“Months ago my companions and I came upon an old building while traveling in the occupied territory. Inside was a huge fireplace, a table laden with fresh food and drink, and above the mantle this sword.”
Mendelor draws Invictus and lays it upon Reginald’s lap.
“Under this sword it was written that whosoever tended the fire all night should have the sword. Through luck I won the chance to tend the fire, but the vigil was long and difficult. When dawn broke I found the sword to be mine. But is it? I have found that when I wield it, no normal weapon can pierce my skin.
“But I am just a simple woodcutter. Mayhap in the hands of someone as righteous as you, this sword would prove itself a much more powerful tool. These are dark days and men need leaders, and some men just need the tools to lead. I believe that you, Sir, are the one man who can guide us out of these desperate times, and if this sword will aid your cause, then it is yours for the taking. I ask only to be a witness to the good that will follow.”
Mendelor turns suddenly and walks away, leaving Reginald alone with Invictus.