XVIII Caulding, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Twelve. Sext.

Vandoren, Mendelor, Renton, Ruik, Valerius, Dirk, Mot.

Quietly wheeling and wheeling high upon the still winter air, Noxumbra watches below her as the bright sun sparkles off the snowy fields and meadows that ring Upchurch Manor. Carefully she eyes the newest inviting addition to the compost pile that steams near the stables, noting the lanky wolf-cub that lingers too closely nearby. The four knights—Sir Aleck, Sir Galen, Sir Hamral, and Sir Garnfellow—walk their warhorses slowly around the icy paddocks, and the horses seem to enjoy the exercise. On the roof of the chapel, the serjeant Oswald stands up to inspect the damage done by last week’s storm, while Father Anselm watches on nervously from the ground below. Meanwhile, several bowshots away, Noxumbra’s master and some of his friends stroll along the empty road, glad to enjoy a bit of nice weather.

“Briareus has finished most of the building he had started last year,” says Mendelor. “Or at least, most of the above ground projects—he replaced almost all of the outer works. Gerry and I had captured some rucks, who told us that a lot of rucks are now slaving away on tunnel digging below Utterbol.”

Vandoren shakes his head ruefully. “It will be well nigh impossible to lure him that fortress, now that he’s had a chance to dig in. I sometimes wish we had tried my idea of setting Briareus against his brother, Nestor.”

Mendelor shrugs. “Perhaps. But then, maybe Utterbol is not really such a tough nut to crack. From what the rucks told us, Briareus cut corners at every turn—trying to save some silver, I wager. Already this winter, two of his towers collapsed under the snow and ice. Killed a few rucks, too. Also, it sounds like morale has been slipping steadily in the last year. His rucks have been too long without a real fight, and they’re starting to get soft. They spend all of their free time gambling, quarreling, and speculating on that infernal lottery—time they ought to use on drilling.”

“Damn rucks,” snarls Renton.

“But what of the Tower of the Scarlet Banner?” asks Ruik. “Did you learn anything there?”

“We did,” says Mendelor. “Gerry and I found a pretty good hideout not far away, and we had a chance to watch the place for a while. The Tower is crawling with those little Gory Moon rucks, and we even found a couple of hidden entrances that lead to the tunnels below the Tower. An awful lot of traffic coming and going, even in the dead of winter. It looked like there was steady travel between the Tower, Grimall Keep, and… Heremac.”

“Tim,” whispers Ruik, his eyes large.

Mendelor nods. “I think so. We even saw the Knights of the Scarlet Banner. It appears that one of them is almost always in the Tower, while the other is almost always on the road.”

“Interesting,” mutters Valerius. The tall, lanky man in black turns his gaze to the sky, and an uncharacteristic smile dances on his lips as he watches Noxumbra circling the fields of Upchurch. “It would seem we have not heard the last of Godwin’s Master. The Heremac connection is yet one more affirmation of my earlier suspicions. I myself am called to Heremac on pressing business, and I could use some assistance. Of course, we would enter the city in secrecy. I have most important matters to attend to whilst in town—matters that should occupy me for several weeks. In the meantime, I thought that some of you sneaks could undertake a errand that is most dear to my heart. I want to find out where Rud and Bartle live. There is an outstanding account there, that will be balanced.”

Mot bites his lips and lets out a soft, low, groan. Dirk pats his friend on the back and murmurs reassurances.

Valerius looks at his servant sternly, but says nothing for a few moments. “This has been a long winter on the Frounter,” begins the magician. “And once this winter is over and we are all together again, I submit that we should get away for awhile. As recent events have demonstrated, we have many powerful enemies who want nothing better to destroy us—too many such enemies, perhaps. Busirane, his Lordship, Brother Hugh, Tim, and that cow in Grimall who is helping him. This situation here is growing untenable.”

“But where would we go?” asks Ruik. “Canglen? We have friends there, but surely our enemies would be able to find us there. Abbermark? But Brother Hugh is from Abbermark. There’s the south—we could travel to Werdrice, and beyond to the lands of the troubadours. Or further still, to Riems and the papal court itself. But then there’s the north, and Harplan. We could beyond, to the farthest shores where it is winter all year long, and where no man lives. Or perhaps over the sea, to Karag!”

“Personally,” says Valerius, “I thought that perhaps now would be a good time to go to the Blackwell.”

“The Blackwell,” murmurs Ruik.

“If it is adventure you crave, my young friend,” says Valerius, “I have heard that many terrible and powerful works of magic are just waiting to be discovered, deep in the depths of the Blackwell. Imagine, Ruik, imagine: the Blackwell would be an ideal opportunity for us to obtain even more power. And then, when we return, not only will our enemies not be expecting us—but we will be ready to deal with them, in the manner they most deserve. What do the rest of you say?”

“I agree with much of what you say,” says Vandoren. “Things have become increasingly dangerous for us here on the Frounter. Consider the lengths that Prince Busirane took to revenge himself upon us. And now that he has been thwarted yet again, his anger must only increase. However, if we are to leave all of this behind, I ask only this: Tim must remain on your list of those who must be ‘removed’ from the realm of the living.”

“Of course,” says Valerius, “The only thing more difficult than getting on the list is getting off.”

Dirk suddenly looks up at his fellows. “I am always up for a little ruck-wrecking, but the more I hear about this Tim fellow the more I don’t like him. I think he would look good with my mace upside his head and Saint James’s dagger in his back.”

“What is this all this simpering talk of running?” says Mendelor, his face wrinkled in disgust. “Nay, my blood will be shed with only those willing to defend the Frounter. We have simply overstepped our bounds, consorts. It is time we had a meeting with the Master of the Order, Brother Alan of Belfort. We should explain everything we have seen throughout the last year, and ask the Seeker for an assignment. Certainly there are plenty of tasks that our little band could perform. Let us spend the next few months smoothing things out for ourselves in Heremac. It just seems to me that our recent history shows us just what our enemies will go through to get us, no matter where we run.”

“Well,” says Valerius, “There is no sense debating this matter further at this time, without the Friar or the rest of our company present. And in any case, there’s still a lot of time between now and the end of winter.”

Noxumbra suddenly flutters down from the sky and lands on Valerius’s shoulder.

“One more thing,” says the lanky man. “I am profoundly concerned about Saint James—this disturbing behavior regarding Maggie is beyond even his admittedly enormous capacity for foolishness. I am convinced that Saint James has been cursed… do you recall our encounter with that image of Cythenus? I would like to have the friar or perhaps one of our friends in the Church attempt to help him. Further, I feel we should proceed cautiously on this matter—so as to not alert Saint James. I fear that this curse will create unwanted… resistance… in Saint James should he become aware of our intentions.”