Guests’ Quarters, Antace Castle. St. Thirsten’s Day, XXVII Whitland, Pentian Year Nine Hundred And Ten. Nones.
Sir Will Garnfellow, Sir Hamral, Renton, Mendelor, Valerius, St. James, Dirk, Mot.
“So there I was—Sir Reginald beside me, my brave lands behind me, and before us loomed a veritable sea of ruckish soldiery,” exclaims Sir Will Garnfellow, his face red with excitement. The fat knight stalks around the common room, kicking up the dried rushes on the floor as he reenacts the scene. “And as I scanned their teeming ranks…”
“Here it comes again,” groans St. James.
“As I scanned their teeming ranks,” continues Garnfellow, “Who should I spy? Why, none other than…”
“Dread Prince Busirane, himself!” finishes St. James.
“That’s right, lad,” cries Garnfellow. “Dread Prince Busirane, himself—and less than a score of paces away! Perdie, without a moment’s thought for my own personal safety, I cried havoc and spurred Justicar on into the bloody fray. I tell you, friends, I swore to my men that I wouldst make the Prince to rue the day that Tereus ever swived his ruck-cow of a mother.
“As thick as gnats those rucks were, but my steed bore me through their myriads. And with every step, I laid mightily to my right and to my left, and every blow brought doom to one of those miserable rucks. My sword Welsung was drenched with the blood of those fiends. By the Cup, I avow I must have looked like a butcher!
“But ere I could play at sharps with the Prince, that dastard turned tail and fled the field, rather than face the awful wrath of Garnfellow! Sir Reginald and I then fought side by side like wild pards, throwing terror into those rucks, driving them before us like Jonam or Myreus of old.”
“So, Fatty,” says St. James. “Just when did you kill two of Busirane’s bodyguards with one blow? I thought all that happened before you charged their lines?”
“Ah, quite right, my young friend,” says Garnfellow, faltering. “Quite right. The fog of war and all, and with the excitement of battle boiling in my veins—perhaps I have muddled my account somewhat. Everything was over in a trice, as thou know. By the Cup, such niceties matter little, lad. The crux of the matter—the truth, if thou will, is plain to all.”
“That, at least, we can agree on,” answers St. James, dryly.
Just then a knock sounds at the chamber door. In steps Father Theodore, chaplain and advisor to Lord Charles. “Good Yule to you all,” begins the priest, who is accompanied by a serving-man lugging two large chests. As the servant enters the room, both Renton and Mendelor suddenly spring to their feet, ready for trouble. The man is Tom Tuck.
Father Theodore, after a brief start, gathers his wits and motions for the two men to be at ease.
“Everything is quite all right, my sons. Good Tom here has served me well and faithfully for almost two years now, and has not once given me a moment’s concern. I assure you the rascal Tuck has been banished thoroughly.”
“Begging your pardon, my lords,” says Tom, quietly. The man steps forward and bows his head contritely. “Father Theodore has told me about this man Tuck. These deeds… the thought that I could have anything to do with them makes me sick… and fills me with great shame. I am sorry, terribly sorry for any harm this man Tuck has done. And if there is any way I may make amends… I am your humble servant.”
At this, Mot grunts and shuffles forward to gently pat Tom Tuck on the head.
“I am ever so glad that is settled,” mutters St. James, rolling his eyes.
“Well then,” says Garnfellow, clapping his hands together. “Holy Father, how fares Lord Charles?”
Father Theodore’s face darkens somewhat. “His body is on the mend, but his heart… My sons, I have never seen my lord in such as state. He is utterly despondent. He seemed to take scant joy in news of Sir Reginald’s victory over Busirane.”
“Ahem,” coughs St. James.
“Oh course,” continues Father Theodore, “Despite his own condition, Lord Charles is most appreciative of your assistance. Sir Reginald avows that you men proved invaluable in defeating Busirane. For this service I have been authorized to present you with tokens of my liege’s thanks. May the Five bless you all.”
Father Theodore nods to Tom Tuck, who in turn opens the first chest. Tom brings forth an ornately carved wooden case, which he opens to reveal several small, shiny figurines.
“This silver chess set,” explains Father Theodore, “was given to the Castellan by none other than King Weremach himself, on St. Thirsten’s Day seven years ago. It was specially commissioned.”
“What?” asks Renton, frowning.
“Chess, the game of kings!” exclaims Garnfellow. “Similar to draughts.”
“You know how to play this game?” asks Dirk.
“Indeed, indeed,” says Garnfellow. “It is a gentleman’s game of great stratagem. My Lord Bellenore and I spent many a fine evening engrossed in such games.”
Father Theodore nods to Tom, who then returns to the chest to bring forth two swords. The pommels and scabbards of both swords are inlaid with silver wire and gemstones.
“Lord Charles’ own master smith forged these blades,” says Father Theodore. “These swords are not just pleasing to the eye, but sharp and strong, and can bite even through the heaviest ruckish armors without breaking. There is an inscription on the scabbards that commemorates your victory over the rucks.”
Tom then brings forth three daggers, their sheaths inlaid with gold and gems.
“The smith also oversaw the forging of these daggers. Like the swords, they are of the highest quality steel.”
Father Theodore nods again, and Tom brings out a magnificent tapestry, holding it forth for all to see. Embroidered on the cloth are scenes of battle: armies of knights clashing with hordes of rucks. Flying above the battle and woven into the borders of the tapestry are dozens and dozens of ravens. Noxumbra, perched on Valerius’s shoulder, suddenly caws, as if in approval.
Father Theodore whispers to Tom, who now opens the second chest, bringing forth a cloth-wrapped bundle.
“Here are a score of arrows,” explains the priest, “made for the last Crusad by Bergenians in distant Weredrice. The monks provided these arrows with special and potent prayers. I am told that these arrows are magicked to fly straight and true.”
Father Theodore nods, and Tom then brings forth a small, round shield of strange design, embossed with gold and limned with images of lions.
“This targe is said to have been forged centuries ago in ancient Tynar, where it must have once been borne by a great knight. It has been passed down through Lord Charles’s family for countless generations, and stories hold that a grateful Pope gave this shield to the family, many years ago. As with the arrows, this targe is charmed, and will help keep its owner safe whilst in battle.”
Father Theodore nods again, and Tom brings forth another bundle, which he unwraps to reveal three small brown apples, their skins withered and dry.
“Finally, these apples were plucked from a tree in Reims. This tree is said to have been planted on the very ground where the blessed St. Rosemund was buried. These apples will heal the wounds of those that eat from them.”
“Indeed,” cries Garnfellow, “The largess of Lord Charles is incomparable.”
“Yes, we thank you for these gifts,” says Mendelor. “Your lord is most generous. But tell me, Father—Is there any word from Lorn Abbey? Did any of those rucks we led into the ruins ever come out?”
“As far as I know,” answers the priest, “not one of those rucks ever emerged.”
St. James shivers. “This damned castle is drafty.”
“There are stories,” adds Father Theodore, after a moment. “Mere stories, mind you. But many men have claimed that, for the last few weeks, at night, all sorts of distressing noises can be heard from the ruins.”
“What manner of noises?” asks Valerius, suddenly quite intent on the priest’s words.
“Shouting, cries of help, horns sounding, the clashing of metal upon metal. I am told it all sounds much like the din of battle,” answers Father Theodore.
“What happened to those bastards?” asks Renton. “What could wipe out three companies of Black-blades?”
“I suspect the answer to your question is rather… involved,” says Valerius. “I doubt you would understand.
“The most succinct answer is that the rucks were killed by—themselves. Once they were within the ruins, the rucks fell to quarreling amongst themselves. As the night deepened and the influence of abbey increased, these quarrels grew and grew. Soon this bickering led to blows. And you may imagine what followed: fisticuffs gave way to knives, which gave way to swords, and in the course of the night, the rucks slaughtered each other. Maybe once their numbers were sufficiently reduced, the survivors fell prey to the abbey’s… denizens. Or perhaps the last survivors fell on their own swords in a pique of despair. The specific details hardly matter, do they? I am certain that it was a gruesome end, however it came.”
“What would be the long answer, then?” asks Dirk.
“Well, obviously,” responds Valerius, “All of this begs the question, who or what could have caused the rucks to destroy themselves? You have stood in the ruins, and you know how that place plays upon each man’s weaknesses, tempting and provoking. Even the strongest of will may be affected—even I could feel the influence of the abbey. Imagine then, the effect of that place on the rucks—who are by nature vulgar, insolent, and brutish. Only fear of punishment from their superiors ever keeps them in check. It would not take all that much, really, to reduce a band of rucks to mindless fratricide.”
“The place is sick with the Shaithim’s taint,” mutters Father Theodore.
“Quite possibly,” says Valerius. “Quite possibly. The infernal certainly appears to be at work there.”
“I thought we had cleaned that place out, the last time we were there,” says Mendelor.
“Evidently,” says Valerius, “we did not. If anything, Lorn Abbey seems even worse now.”
“Agreed,” says Mendelor. “Mayhap it was because Friar Sidrach was with us then. I wot not. Fortunately for the men of Antace, whatever lurks in Lorn Abbey appears unwilling or unable to cross the water.”
“Indeed,” says Father Theodore. “Better that horror remains on the other side of the pond, with the rucks.”
Just then, another knock sounds at the door. Tom Tuck turns and opens the door, to reveal Sir Reginald.
“Glad tidings, friends,” says Reginald, stepping into the room. “I have come because I heard you plan to return to Upchurch after the Yule.”
“Is this true?” asks Father Theodore. “You men are most welcome here at Antace for as long as you list.”
“My thanks,” says Sir Hamral, “But it is high time for me to return to Upchurch.”
“I understand, my son,” says Father Theodore. “We all have our obligations.”
“Indeed,” says Sir Reginald. “And that is why I have come here: I will not be accompanying you back to Upchurch.”
“What of the Derwich rebels?” asks Mendelor.
“The good men of Derwich fared well ere I came to them,” answers Sir Reginald. “And I am sure those men shall continue to thrive without me. For the nonce, my path leads elsewhere.”
“By the Cup, man,” says Garnfellow, “Where are you bound for?”
“I am resolved to find some way to restore Lord Charles—his hand, or more importantly, his spirit. Once, my own faith was also broken, and I withdrew into a prison of my own make. It took some good friends to lead me back to the light. And so I hope to help the Castellan.”
“Well, whatever the hell you do,” says St. James. “Be careful. One of these days we might not be around to save your oh-so-noble bacon.”
The Great Hall in Upchurch Manor, XIX Caulding, Pentian Year Nine Hundred And Eleven. After Sext.
Sir Aleck Rowland, Sir Galen, Sir Will Garnfellow, Sir Hamral, Vandoren, Friar Sidrach Landry, St. James, Mendelor, Ruik, Renton, Dirk, Oswald, Mot, Nym, Bardolph, Lady Alice Rowland, Maid Martha.
Freezing rains hiss upon the roof of the great hall; biting winds rasp against the walls. But within the manor house a roaring fire burns brightly in the hearth, and the inhabitants of Upchurch talk merrily despite the storm without.
Sir Aleck Rowland leans back from his chair and scrutinizes Sir Garnfellow, seated on the other side of the table. Between the two knights lays the chess set brought from Antace. Garnfellow, meanwhile, scratches his yellow beard and clucks his tongue as he regards the game.
“We had heard tidings of the battle with Busirane,” begins Aleck. “But we never realized that you men had played such an important role.”
“Verily,” says Garnfellow, his eyes never leaving the game. “Without us, Antace would have certainly fallen to the rucks.”
“Astonishing,” adds Sir Galen, also watching the game closely. “I never would have dreamt that the rucks could have ever threatened Antace Castle.”
“It will be a long time before they do so again,” says Hamral.
“Ah ha!” cries Garnfellow, finally moving one of his pieces with a triumphant flourish. Aleck leans forward, tersely moves one of his knights, and removes Garnfellow’s castle. In response the fat knight moans and slumps back in his chair.
“I had hoped to rejoin my lord Kirke this past fall,” says Galen. “But the way north is far too dangerous—all the armies of Briareus lie between here and my liege. Not to mention most of the armies of Argus.”
“Argus?” asks Hamral.
“Another wretched son of Tereus,” answers Galen. “I am surprised you have not heard of him, for Prince Argus loves to have his name bruited far and wide. They say that when he takes the field, he wears armor made all of gold, polished to gleam like a mirror. But for all of that, he is a fierce and cunning general. It is Argus who has been harrying Kirke’s forces these last two years.
“So for now,” continues Galen, “I will remain here in Upchurch, with thanks to Sir Aleck for his generous hospitality. I had originally hoped to bring my daughter, Martha, to the Bergenian nunnery in Heremac. But she seems content enough here—for now.”
“Is there any new word from Lownell?” asks Mendelor. Beside him, Renton, Dirk, Nym, and Bardolph play knucklebones while Oswald, Sir Aleck’s stout serjeant, looks on.
“We have not heard anything for several weeks,” answers Oswald. “Before the Yule, a man from Lownell came this way—Silas, his name was. A farmer, and he was looking for a brother who had fled from Lownell when the rucks invaded. This Silas was actually hoping to encourage his brother to return home.”
“Was the bastard crazy?” asks Renton.
“Not that I could tell,” says Oswald. “Silas said that, thanks to Sir John, Prince Nestor was treating all of the peasants pretty well. In fact, Silas claimed that Sir John is the real power in Lownell now—Nestor spends most of his days in a drunken stupor, leaving John to mind the manor. All of the Rotting Eye rucks have converted to Pentianity, and they still wear the Lily of Sir John. As for the Black-blades, Nestor’s captain Sarpedon keeps them in line. In the end, this leaves the poor carles of Lownell in pretty good shape.”
“Bah,” spits old Nym. “What Lownell needs is a good cleansing. Rucks wearing lilies, men serving rucks—I tell you, not in my day, never. We would never brook such nonsense.”
“Just roll the bones,” says Renton. “I have coin riding on this toss.”
“Boy, you would be better off throwing your silver at that damned ruck lottery,” says Nym, rolling the dice. “Fortune is with me today… Damn it!”
Dirk smiles and picks up the dice.
“What is all this about a lottery?”
“Some wicked scheme that Briareus has come up with,” says Oswald. “Each week, every ruck under Briareus is given a chance to buy lots. I hear that most rucks blow their whole payroll on these damned things. At the end of the week, Briareus draws a single lot… and the winning ruck is then given his weight in silver. Can you believe that? They say his whole army is utterly obsessed with the lottery.”
“We have heard that Briareus has enormous wealth,” say Mendelor, “But how can he afford to give away so much silver every week?”
“Briareus is crafty,” says Oswald. “He has figured out exactly how much money he is taking in from the sale of lots—and this tally is always far less than what he gives away in silver. Not only does this lottery help keep his troops in line, but it provides a steady stream of income, to boot. Probably more than what they could gain by raiding us.”
“A lottery,” mutters Renton, shaking his head. “Leave it to the rucks.”
Vandoren gently strums his psaltery as he works out an old folk tune. Ruik looks on and tries without much success to suppress a giggle as Maid Martha whispers in his ear.
“Most excellent bread, Lady Alice,” exclaims Friar Sidrach, wiping his lips with the back of his sleeve. “Most excellent, indeed. And this ale is also delightful.”
Next to the Gerardian, St. James sits and picks at his bread. Mot, meanwhile, chomps happily away, his mouth stuffed.
“St. James, you have barely eaten anything,” scolds Lady Alice Rowland. “What is wrong with you, so gloomy? Is there something wrong with the bread? Or is there a girl back in Antace who has broken your heart? Is that it?”
“No—no. Everything is fine,” answers St. James. But Alice looks at him skeptically.
“You miss your friend, Dale,” she suggests.
“No,” answers St. James. “Well, maybe—no. I am fine.”
Alice shakes her head disapprovingly.
“Look at that one,” she says, nodding toward Ruik. “After you came back from the Geaunt’s Tower, he moped and sighed and carried on for months. Barely ate a thing. Worried me sick, he did. But he came around, and so will you. Of course, it helped that Martha there has taken a fancy to him. Between Martha’s charms and my cooking, he came around. Why, lately he has been itching for an adventure or two. He fretted for most of the time you were in Antace. But worry not, St. James—you will be right as rain by spring. But first, we need to get some food into you—no wonder you are always so cold and sickly!”
St. James rolls his eyes, but picks up his bread and dutifully takes a bite.