The Great Hall In Upchurch Manor. VI Midsommer, Pentian Year Nine Hundred And Twelve. After Complines.
Sir Hamral, Vandoren, Friar Sidrach Landry, Mendelor, Renton, Ruik, St. James, Valerius, Dirk, Mot.
In the darkened hall, the consortes huddle about the pale, flickering glow of the embers in the hearth, and speak in hushed tones. Lady Alice Rowland approaches the group, shaking her head sadly.
“You lads should all be in bed,” she says, resting her hand on Vandoren’s shoulder. “What manner of foolishness are you plotting tonight?”
“Good evening, My Lady,” answers Vandoren with a smile. “My friends and I were just debating how we might best aid the ongoing campaign against Briareus.”
Alice laughs. “Well, you better hurry—the latest word is that King Weremach’s army has finally reached Canglen. And with Utterbol surrounded by Seekers, there may soon be little you can offer to the cause. In any case, I bid you all good night.”
As Lady Rowland disappears into the darkness of the house, Valerius turns to his fellows. “Did you hear that—the king is coming! I am certain that now is the time for us to act. Between the wondrous items that we now possess and the confusion of Briareus’s troops, we could actually break into Utterbol!”
“What the hell are you talking about?” says St. James.
“Imagine the immense treasure held at Utterbol,” whispers Valerius. “And I suspect that Utterbol holds items even more marvelous than mere silver. That much treasure could mean considerable power. Perhaps we could even break the stalemate in Utterbol and hand over the keys of the castle to King Weremach himself! The king owing you a favor—now that is power!”
“Indeed,” murmurs Vandoren. Achaela looks up quizzically at her master, then lies back down on the floor. “I would not mind going at Briareus while he is weak, but I cannot see our little band—even with all the Rucks of the Ebon Quill—taking on a whole encampment of rucks.”
Valerius sighs, peevishly. “I have no intention of launching a direct assault on Utterbol—we can leave such sport for the Seekers. No, I am speaking of a more subtle approach.”
“Are you thinking we could sneak over the walls under the cover of darkness, and murder the Prince in his sleep?” asks Vandoren.
“Or perhaps there is a hidden entrance into the castle,” suggests Ruik.
“For once, you are using your head,” says Valerius.
“But I have heard that Briareus keeps all manner of awful monsters in those dungeons, to protect his treasure!” says Ruik. “They say that the Prince feeds disobedient peasants to those beasts!”
“I suspect we have little to fear from the Prince’s menagerie,” says Valerius.
“Considering how stingy Briareus is with his coin,” says St. James, “those ‘monsters’ probably amount to little more that a couple of hungry tom-cats.”
Mendelor laughs. “The Prince may soon need all the help he can get. The Seekers have quite a force camped out on his doorstep: I hear there are over a hundred brother-knights, two hundred serjeants, and maybe six hundred infantry.”
“So Lady Alice was correct,” says Friar Sidrach, “Utterbol is about to fall to the Seekers.”
Mendelor shakes his head. “Grand Master Alan may be a good and pious man, but he is a lousy commander—he has assumed charge of the Seeker’s attack on Utterbol, and Brother Marcus is serving as his marshal. Meanwhile Gregory is stuck back in Heremac, biding his time.
“I heard that Alan’s advisors had suggested feigning an assault on Deal, so as to distract Briareus and allow Utterbol to be taken by surprise. But Alan held that his faith would triumph and trumpeted his intentions to all. This warning allowed Briareus to prepare his troops and now the Seekers are looking at a long, difficult siege against a well-fortified position.”
Hamral shakes his head. “It’s damned hard to take a well stocked castle on the best of days. The Seekers will have to starve Briareus out.”
“The problem,” says Mendelor, “is that Nestor is supposedly gathering reinforcements. The question is, will he arrive in Utterbol before the King?”
“A shame,” mutters Hamral. “A complete shame.”
Mendelor nods in agreement. “I doubt that the Seekers have failed to realize the military failings of their Grand Master. Every time he leads the brother-knights into battle, the first thing he does is order his heavy cavalry to charge straight into the rucks’ line. Now, most marshals would hesitate to order a cavalry charge against even peasant levies—horses and knights are expensive, and if the peasants should hold the line, the losses can be staggering.
“But the rucks are heavily armored and well trained—those bastards will stand against almost any charge. The way to handle the rucks is to dismount and fight them on foot.”
“For all that,” says St. James, “I hear that Briareus still hates to fight the Seekers. That greedy bastard would rather capture a knight alive, take his horse, weapons, and armor, and then ransom him back to his family. But the Seekers will not play along. Alan refuses to pay ransom for captured brother-knights—so Briareus has to kill the hostages. Utterly daft, if you ask me.”
Outside Upchurch. XVII Midsommer. Sext.
Sir Aleck Rowland, Sir Galen, Sir Will Garnfellow, Sir Hamral, Vandoren, Friar Sidrach Landry, Mendelor, Renton, Ruik, St. James, Valerius, Dirk, Mot.
The ruck-man roars in fury and charges, his heavy curved sword clutched high above his head.
Hamral holds his ground.
In a few heartbeats the ruck closes the distance—but before he can strike, Hamral lashes out with a sideward slice that crashes against the creature’s left flank. The sword rebounds upon the heavy mail coat, but the blow throws the ruck off balance. The ruck growls and hacks downward, but Hamral pivots away and the Black-blade rings futilely against the ground. Hamral draws back and then lunges forward with a stabbing motion that drives the tip of his sword into the ruck-man’s throat. The creature drops his weapon and staggers back, burbling and clutching at the wound, before stumbling and falling to the ground. At this, Renton steps in and finishes the ruck’s struggle, spitting in the creature’s face.
“Damn ruck,” mutters Renton.
The band of tired and bloody men looks around: the corpses of nearly a dozen ruck-men litter the field, while two wounded ruck-men cower beneath an ash tree, with Dirk and Mot guarding them.
“Deserters,” says Mendelor, picking over the bodies. “Probably thought they could steal something to eat from the manor-house.”
Sir Aleck Rowland scowls. “These wretched vagabonds have become a plague.”
“Hullo!” cries St. James, squatting over a large sack on the group. “By the Hammer, look at this!” The young man rifles through a heavy sack and pulls out a silver goblet. He stands up and dumps the contents of the sack on the ground.
“Gracious!” exclaims Friar Sidrach. On the ground is a pile of sparkling, bejeweled treasure: ornate little coffers, glittering brooches and bracelets, gold bowls and pentifixes.
Ruik scoots down and picks up an odd-looking piece of leather, covered with a crabbed charcoal scrawl. “Why, this looks like a map!”
“And that’s not all,” says Mendelor, kicking over one of the dead ruck-men. “Do you see that brand—the three circles? These clowns weren’t just a bunch of ruckish conscripts. Hell’s Bells—they were members of Briareus’s own guard!”