[Excerpt from The Selcran Chronicles].
AND thus it passed that Kynge Tereus & his armie of Ruck-Men forced themselues so rudely vpon the Frounter, and draue off the Count of Kirke & alle his Knyghtes. And one of the Kynges Sonnes, who was hight Prynce Briareus, layd claime to the abandoned Castell, and made his Courte there, and yclept the place Vtterbol, after a ruined Strongholde of the Rucks who liued in days past. And Prynce Briareus proued as couetous as he was wicked, and he sent his soldiers across the landes to plunder the churches and to exhort burdensome tribute from those pore wretches whose misfortune it felle to dwelle in that vnhappy land. And these soldiers were like a packe of starueling Wolues, and whereuer they passed left behind ne thing of worth. And thus the greedy Prynces coffers grew euer greater, and the people sore suffered vnder his rule.
And then one day, a lone Knyght came to Vtterbol and was brought before Prynce Briareus. And this Knyght declared himself to be the vassal of Kirke, and issued a Challenge, asking that the Prynce meet him in the trial of combat. And the Prynce grew wrathful at this indignitie, and would haue had the Knyght slain on the spot had not the cleuer Knyght thus spake.
Should you best me in the trial of battel, said the Knyght, then alle my lands & alle my wealth are yours for the taking. But should I best you, then this Castell & alle the misbegotten treasure within these walls are myne.
Now the greedy Prynce burned to win the Knyghtes lands, and agreed to the challenge. And so the two fought, before the gates of Vtterbol, while alle the Prynces men looked on. Back and forth they went, laying vpon each other with many a deadly stroke. And thus they fought all the long day, and neuer stinted, vntil their armes and harness were a-run with blode. At last that doughty Knyght with one blow smote the Prynce his shield in twain, and Briareus was hurled to the ground. And at this his soldiers cried out in terror and fled the field, and the Knyght demanded that the Prynce yield to his better. But so loathe was the Prynce to giue vp his beloued treasure that he fought on, despite his grieuous wounds, vntil at last the Knyght layd fulle on a terrible stroke that chopt the Prynces head clean from his neck. And therewith Prynce Briareus dashed down stark dead to the earth.
The Great Hall at Upchurch, XXVIII Midsommer, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Twelve. Tierce.
Sir Aleck Rowland, Sir Galen, Sir Will Garnfellow, Sir Hamral, Father Anselm, Friar Sidrach Landry, Vandoren, Oswald, Renton, Mendelor, St. James, Ruik, Valerius, Dirk, Old Cerdic, Mot, Nym, Bardolph, Lady Alice Rowland, Maid Martha, [Various Others].
Sir Will Garnfellow, his fat face red with excitement, throws his shoulder against the massive oak door, which flies open to reveal Sir Aleck Rowland and his retainers sitting down to breakfast in the great hall. Behind Garnfellow stand the weary and dirty consortes.
“Good my Lord!” bellows Garnfellow, glancing behind. “Witness what rabble I have found upon the east road this very morning!”
Maid Martha, who was about to pour her father a cup of ale, starts suddenly and spills ale into Sir Galen’s lap. Sir Aleck stands, a surprised smile on his lips.
“Well met, all!” says the knight. “Well met, each and every one.” Aleck pulls forth a chair beside him for Sir Hamral, and motions for the rest of the consortes to take their place at an empty table.
“My lord,” says Hamral, “I have brought a gift.”
At this Mendelor steps forward and bows humbly before the knights. The woodsman reaches into a heavy brown sack and draws forth a dark, matted object that he holds above his head.
The assembled men and women of Upchurch gasp, as one.
Aleck, his face pale, his lips trembling, approaches Mendelor hesitantly. “Is it… is it really…”
“Behold!” announces Friar Sidrach, his deep voice resounding throughout the hall. “The head of wicked Prince Briareus!”
Aleck gazes at the head in wonder. “Thanks be the Five and all the Saints,” he murmurs.
“Well said,” says Vandoren, stepping forward. “For several nights ago, your vassal Sir Hamral had a dream—a wondrous dream, doubtless sent to him by none other than the Five Themselves. A dream that commanded him to travel to Utterbol itself, to wipe away the insults that our beloved Count has suffered by this vulgar ruck-man.
“And so we ventured into the dungeons beneath dread Utterbol, and found a secret way into the Prince’s own quarters. There we beset Briareus and his bodyguard…”
“And then Sir Hamral slew the dastard in single combat—after a tremendous show of arms, I should imagine!” cries Sir Garnfellow.
“Well, actually it was the woodsman, Mendelor,” says Vandoren. Sir Aleck shoots a glance at Hamral, who nods to confirm the minstrel’s account.
“Well, all the same,” says Aleck. “This is a gladsome day: the tyrant of Utterbol is dead!”
“Indeed,” says Vandoren. “And with your permission, sir, several of us would like to seek out the encamped army of Kirke, and present the Prince’s head to the Count himself. On your behalf, of course.”
“On my behalf? I will hear nothing of it!” cries Aleck, and continues after a pause. “For it should be my privilege to accompany you on this happy journey.”
The Guest Quarters at Upchurch, Vespers.
Sir Hamral, Friar Sidrach Landry, Vandoren, Renton, Mendelor, St. James, Ruik, Valerius, Dirk, Mot.
Valerius stands before his lounging companions, Noxumbra perched on his shoulder.
“Thus far, it appears that everything proceeds in accord with our plan,” begins the magician. “I am confident that our contrived story about Hamral’s dream shall suffice to explain our presence in Utterbol to the Seekers. Frankly, with Prince Briareus dead I rather doubt that the Brothers of Saint Markham will inquire overmuch into the particulars.
“With that in hand, we can consider our first matter of interest: the spoils that we brought out from Utterbol. Simply put, everything is to go to Mendelor. He may then dispose of these goods however he feels fit.”
Valerius gestures to a pile of loot placed on the floor. Noxumbra bobs her head up and down, as if in approval.
“When the Magician of the Green Tower returned me and my friend Mendelor to flesh,” continues Valerius, his tone uncharacteristically respectful, “I suspect that he forgot to transmute Mendelor’s heart and instead left it stone… no frail heart of flesh and blood could be so brave. I might hope that the Magician made the same mistake with me, should I ever need to summon such courage.”
“The enchantments!” croaks Noxumbra, interrupting her master’s reverie. Valerius blinks and resumes.
“Yes. I have taken the opportunity to scrutinize the items we removed from the Prince’s apartment in our retreat. I have ascertained that several of these items are enchanted: both the shield and mail hauberk of Briareus bear protective magicks. In addition, we also found two potions—however, their exact properties are currently indeterminate.”
“So Mendelor, should you suddenly find yourself about to just hand these treasures away,” says St. James, “Why not consider gratifying one of your own dear friends, perhaps some old crony who has, time and again, saved your hide from countless, deadly traps. Rather than, say, some would-be saint who is never actually around when you need him—yet always seems to need rescuing.”
Renton laughs at this, but Valerius presses on regardless.
“The next matter to consider: we shall have to once more part ways for a time. I must attend to some urgent matters in Heremac, and I shall bring Mot along with me. I assume that Renton will need to travel with us as well. In addition, Saint James, we may have need of your services in Heremac. Now that we have broken that insufferable curse, your presence in town might actually prove valuable.”
St. James shrugs his shoulders in resignation.
“As for the rest of you—Mendelor, Hamral, Vandoren, Friar, Dirk, Ruik—you men will accompany Sir Aleck and Sir Galen north, to the deposed Count of Kirke. And there present him with the head of Briareus.”
Ruik squirms on hearing this, but it is Friar Sidrach who speaks up.
“Actually, my sons,” says the Gerardian, “if it were all the same, I would prefer to travel to Heremac myself.”
“Perhaps we should send word to the Rucks of the Ebon Quill,” suggests Vandoren. “I should suspect that Prince Busirane will not take the news of his brother’s death lightly. Mayhap it is time for the Pentian rucks to abandon Wimm Copse and move closer to Kirke.”
“If the Friar wishes to come to Heremac, I have no objection,” says Valerius. “As always, we shall attempt to enter the city discretely.”
“You mean there is any other way?” asks St. James, rolling his eyes. Noxumbra hisses, and her master continues.
“There remains but one final matter for us to consider tonight. I submit that we should begin listening carefully for any word from Lownell. Mayhap an old enemy there could prove to be a new ally in the coming months.”
St. James leaps to his feet. “I should think that the Green Magician somehow forgot to transform everything inside that head of yours, for there surely must be some rocks left in there somewhere! Why in Hell would you want us to have anything to do with that rotten, treacherous bit of scum? Why not just send for Tim? Or King Tereus while we are at it?”
“Sir John the Bastard,” begins Valerius, assuming a measured tone, “Is nothing if not opportunistic. I rather doubt that he bears any abiding love for his current master, Prince Nestor. Surely anyone as… shrewd as Sir John will have noticed that the tide of this war has begun to shift against the ruck-men. And right now the Bastard has more in common with us than his ruckish masters.”
The Great Hall at Upchurch, Lauds.
Ruik, Valerius, Mot
The great hall is dark save for a single candle, the yellow light quivering and quaking upon Sir Aleck’s table. Ruik looks anxiously at the lanky magician seated across from him. In turn, Valerius rubs his bleary eyes with his left hand, and cradles a sleeping Noxumbra in the crook of his right arm. Mot stands close by, yawning and shuffling back and forth from one foot to the other.
“What in Perdition is this?” asks Valerius. “And why could it not wait until cockcrow?”
Ruik looks about furtively, then leans in and whispers an answer:
“Valerius, my mentor and friend, the hills call! I am off to the places where no sane man dares tread! I know not when I shall return, but when I do, mark my words, Tereus’s fell reign shall be close to its end. I shall leave before sunrise on the morrow and only the Five themselves know when I shall return. I leave with you a meager something for poor Wyk’s family. My depthless appreciation for your tutoring this unworthy pupil. My best to you and the rest of the consortes!”
And with that, the young man leaps up from the table and sinks back into the night, leaving only a small coinpurse on the table. Valerius sits and blinks. Noxumbra stirs for a moment, then settles back to sleep.
The Camp of Durell, Count of Kirke. XVIII Hetaire. Nones.
The Count Of Kirke, Sir Aleck Rowland, Sir Galen, Sir Will Garnfellow, Sir Hamral, Vandoren, Mendelor, Dirk, [Various Knights, Squires, Serjeants, And Servants].
The sun shines high and bright in the blue sky over the massed army of Kirke. A mighty roaring, like a great surf pounding against the shore, reverberates across the fields dotted with tents. The Count’s soldiers shout exultantly as they watch the head of Briareus hoisted on a pikestaff for all to see.
The Count, standing on a dais, raises his hand, and slowly the roaring falls back, little by little, until the only sounds left are the banners of Kirke, rustling in the breeze.
Kirke is a burly man of medium height, dressed in fine livery. Though still young by any reckoning, the long exile has worn heavily upon him. No longer the brazen upstart who once strove to live up to his father’s name, Kirke’s face has grown more serious, and grey streaks now run through his dark black hair and beard. He paces the dais and surveys his host in satisfaction.
“Sir Aleck Rowland and Sir Hamral,” commands Kirke, his voice strong enough to be heard even in the rearmost ranks.
Hamral looks to Aleck for guidance, and the older man nods reassuringly. The two knights step upon the dais and kneel before Kirke. All around them the crowd roars. After several moments, the din dies down and the Count continues.
“Sir Hamral, arise.” Hamral stands, and looms large over the Count. “Sir Knight, thou and thy men hast rendered to me—to all of Pentiandom—a great deed: the slaying of Prince Briareus!”
And at this, the army roars its approval.
“And for this service, I give thee my pledge: when the rucks hath been driven from all my holdings, and Utterbol is again in my possession, then thou shalt be bestowed with an ancient and respected office, for the rest of thy life—the care of Upchurch Manor.”
The crowd, somewhat hesitantly, applauds this announcement. Kirke nods, as if in understanding, and proceeds.
“Sir Aleck, arise—and be not overmuch concerned about the loss of Upchurch. Long and well hast thou served me, and for many years before that thou dist loyally serve my father, who loved thee well. Thy vassal, Sir Hamral, is a great credit to thee—just as, the Five Wot, thou art a great credit to me. And thus, in return for thy years of faithful service, then, I shall award thee my northernmost barony, Sir Aleck—or perhaps I should say, Baron Aleck.”
And the loudest shouts yet go up from the crowd.
The Seeker’s Citadel, Heremac. XX Hetaire. Compline.
Brother Gregory The Risen, Friar Sidrach Landry.
Gregory scowls and pores over the scrawled markings on the parchment before him. Friar Sidrach stands behind him and looks over his shoulder.
“As I was saying, good brother, this shows the secret way into Utterbol. You can see that we have clearly marked where the traps all lay.”
The Seeker nods without looking up, wholly engrossed in the map.
“And here?” demands Gregory, pointing to spot on the map.
Friar Sidrach nods. “That is where we encountered the monstrous demon that guarded the treasure of Prince Briareus. I was wondering if you might possibly possess any information about this creature. Just in case I should ever run into its like again.”
“Demons,” mutters Gregory, and then looks up at the Gerardian. “I may be able to help you, Friar Sidrach.”
“Excellent,” says the Friar. “Just excellent. And you said that you have already heard about the ruckish wizard?”
“Indeed,” snarls Gregory. “And there is plenty more where that one came from. That damned witch at Grimall has built up a formidable coven of spell-binders who serve as her own spies and murtherers.”
“Gracious,” says the Friar. “To think that there may be more of them!”
Gregory shrugs and almost—almost—smiles. “You and your friends have served me well at Utterbol. This map alone may prove useful. The Brotherhood of Saint Markham remembers its friends. Now what might I do for you, in return for such service?”
“Do for me? I am just doing my duty to the Five, Gregory.”
Outside the Vavasor’s House. XXIII Hetaire. Before Prime.
Valerius, Mot.
Mot lets out a long, low, nervous wail. Valerius looks severely at his servant, but says nothing as the heavy front door opens inward, slowly. Noxumbra cries and takes wing, and both Valerius and Mot recoil at the overwhelming stench that lurks in the darkened house beyond: the stench of rot, decay, and ruin.
“Welcome, friends, welcome all,” invites a soft, tremulous voice from within the house.
Mot renews his whining. Valerius squints and then steps inside, leaving Mot outside. Even with the front door open, even with the morning sun peering in warily, the entrance room is dim and foreboding. Every window in the house has been bricked shut.
“Master?” asks Valerius. A rasping and a shuffling sound somewhere in the gloom.
“So nice to have visitors, so very pleasant, yes,” answers the voice.
Valerius grasps his staff tighter and stands a bit straighter.
“Master, how can you see anything in this stygian murk?”
The shuffling draws closer.
“Oh, I see fine. Wonderfully fine,” answers the Vavasor, shuffling into the light.
Valerius, despite himself, gasps and steps backward.
The Vavasor’s ravaged form is stooped and twisted. He stands, half-naked and pale, covered with sores. But Valerius has seen as much before. No, it is the newly vacant right eye-socket, still limned with flecks of dried gore, which fills Valerius with such revulsion.
“Oh, I see just fine,” whispers the Vavasor, with a giggle.
Roger’s Safehouse, XXIII Hetaire. Compline.
Roger, St. James.
“So, Roger,” says St. James, leaning back in his chair. “How are things with our old friend Tim? Has he had any problems since we took out Briareus?”
Roger throws up his hands in uncertainty. “Tim and Maggie seem to be doing all right for themselves. If anything, removing Briareus may have made things a bit easier for those two. Briareus was nearly impossible to do business with—I can tell you that for certain. The Prince drove a hard bargain and was as slippery as eel. For every penny you might dig out of the old miser, he would figure out a way to charge you three pennies back.
“Nestor, on the other hand, is considerably easier to do business with. He is not one for details. And now that he has settled into Utterbol…”
“Leaving who in charge of Lownell?” asks St. James.
“I hear that Sir John has wormed his way back into Nestor’s good graces,” answers Roger. “Besides, even when Nestor was in Lownell, Sir John was the real power.”
“Pity,” sighs St. James.
The Camp of Durell, Count of Kirke. XVIII Hetaire. Nones.
Sir Will Garnfellow, Sir Hamral, Vandoren, Dirk.
“Attend to me, lads,” says Sir Will Garnfellow, gesturing for his friends to move closer. “I have been able to learn a little more about the truce.”
Garnfellow rubs his fat hands together.
“I spoke with a knight, Sir Artus, who was with King Weremach at Antace. It would seem that while the Seekers were besieging Utterbol Castle, the King and his armies were contending with Prince Busirane and his troops. Back and forth went the battle, but neither side prevailed. Busirane, it would seem, has developed a formidable ruckish cavalry.”
“What?” asks Vandoren.
“I could hardly believe it myself, lad,” says Garnfellow. “But Sir Artus swore this to be true. The rucks have evidently bred some monstrous red war-horses, built like oxen: slow and stupid, but also large and strong.”
“Leave it to the rucks,” says Vandoren, shaking his head.
“In any cases, the two forces were almost evenly matched, with the rucks enjoying a slight advantage in strength. Prince Busirane himself led a terrible charge early in the morning that nearly broke the King’s line. The rucks pulled back, and at noon launched another charge, driving even further into the Pentian ranks. And shortly before dark, the rucks began to mass for a final charge—one that would have surely broken through.
“The King’s army prayed to the Five and waited. But the charge never came…”
“Busirane had heard,” whispers Dirk.
“Aye, lad,” says Garnfellow. “News of his brother’s death had finally reached the battlefield. They say that Prince Busirane was almost undone by grief and rage. The rucks abruptly withdrew from the field, leaving a puzzled King to wonder what had happened.
“Only later did the ruckish heralds begin arriving on the frontiers, to announce that King Tereus himself had declared a cessation of fighting, to honor the fallen Prince.”
“So it is not some sort of ruse?” asks Vandoren.
“Evidently not,” answers Garnfellow. “The peace is set to last until the equinox—at least two months hence. ‘Tis a most welcome surprise, for Tereus and Busirane have been fearsome foes this summer. Doubtless the Seekers and the King alike were glad for the respite.”
The Bergenian Abbey of the Holy Shrine of St. Marius. XVIII Hetaire, Sext.
Abbot Peter, Friar Sidrach, [A Bergenian Scribe].
Thin, pale Abbot Peter looks up suspiciously from the piles of parchment on his desk.
“This is quite a surprise, dear Friar Sidrach. It has indeed been a while—what errand brings you to the Abbey today? The last time I saw you, we were trying to rid that young friend of yours from his awful curse. His name eludes me at the moment—he has not suffered a relapse, has he?”
“No, no, good Abbot—Saint James is quite fine, I assure you,” says Friar Sidrach.
“Oh, thank goodness,” says the Abbot, appearing quite relieved. “In that case, how might I help my mendicant brother?”
“Father Abbot,” says the Friar, “I have a few questions about Lorn Abbey, where my friends have twice ventured in the last few years.”
Abbot Peter rises suddenly, and glances darkly at the young scribe standing quietly nearby.
“Flavius, leave us now,” orders the Abbot. The scribe nods and hurriedly departs.
“Now then,” continues the Abbot, maintaining a forced smile. “Just what were you saying, good friar?”
“I have a few questions about Lorn Abbey,” repeats Friar Sidrach. “Since it has lain in ruins for so many years, I was wondering if the Order of Saint Bergen still laid claim to those lands. How might one go about securing the rights to the property?”
Abbot Peter sits back down and frowns for a moment before answering. “The rucks sacked the Abbey a dozen years ago, and I understand that they were very thorough. There must be nothing of value left there. Nothing at all. And even if there were, Prince Busirane’s forces command all the lands about Lorn Abbey. It would be sheer folly to even travel to the ruins, especially since nothing of value could be left there.”
“The ruck-men, I am told,” responds Friar Sidrach, “Greatly fear the place and normally keep their distance. And besides, who is to say how long the ruck-men will control the surrounding territories?”
“Perhaps,” mutters the Abbot. “But I fear, good Gerardian, that I still do not see your point. Why retake a miserable parcel of land that has no value to anyone?”
“Your Order evidently thought that parcel was important, once,” answers Friar Sidrach. “Those grounds were formally consecrated to the Five, though they now lie desecrated and unclean. Something wicked stirs beneath the monastery grounds. I had thought we cleansed that place several years back, but it would seem that the corruption has returned, and if anything grown stronger.”
“So you say,” answers the Abbot, curtly. “We occasionally receive some curious reports from that place, but it is difficult to say for certain just what is the matter there. For, after all, there are plenty of folks who perceive demons lurking in every shadow, and faeries flitting behind every tree.”
“I have seen the horrors of Lorn Abbey with my own two eyes!” cries Friar Sdrach.
“So you say,” answers the Abbot. “Now understand, good Friar, it is not that I disbelieve you. It would not be hard to imagine the ruck-men raising up some sort of foul spirit to haunt the ruins. I am only saying that my Order has of yet been unable to verify most of these reports.”
“Father Abbot,” begins Friar Sidrach, assuming a new tack, “Let us say for a moment that the ruck-men have been driven from the north shore of Lorn Pond, and the ruined Abbey lies empty. Would the Bergenian Order have any objections if someone attempted to resettle those lands?”
Abbot Peter sighs heavily and rubs his temples. “Good Friar, I fear I am rather fatigued and can no longer continue this most pleasant conversation. Know that my Order certainly appreciates all the invaluable assistance rendered by you and your friends over the years. But even if all of the ruck armies were driven from the Frounter, we would surely like to keep those lands in the family, so to speak. Of course, this is all entirely conjecture anyway, is it not? Mere suppositions concerning a remote and ultimately worthless parcel of land?”
The Friar rubs his chin thoughtfully and at last he nods in resignation. “I am sorry to have bothered you, Father Abbot. Good day.”
The Guest Quarters at Upchurch, XVII Drieland, Vespers.
Sir Hamral, Friar Sidrach Landry, Vandoren, Renton, Mendelor, St. James, Valerius, Dirk, Mot.
Valerius lowers grimly and throws down the carefully folded sheet of parchment. Vandoren kneels and picks it up, as Achaela wags her tail nearby.
“What the hell does it say?” asks St. James. The minstrel unfolds the parchment and quickly scans the contents. His eyes grow wide.
“Out with it, man!” demands St. James. Vandoren shakes his head in wonder, and begins to read:
Moste Deerest of Friends,
Wyth grete gladness and dve hvmilitie doth I, Sir John the Appoynted Regent of Lownell, annovnce a Tornement that I will host to honovr the Exalted Prynce Briareus, fallen sonne of Kynge Tereus. The Tornement is to be held at myne owne demesne, Lownell Manor, on the Feast of St. Marius. Our Souerign Himself has sanctioned this Tornement, and further grantes the free passage of alle Pentians whoso wish to trauell to Lownell. The Tornement shall prove a true test of knyghtly mettle, with fabulous prizes for those knyghtes who distinguish themselues as the best, the brauest, and the strongest participants.
I would be most sorry should I learn that you are not able to attend this Tornement. Rest assured, for euen though it is said Sir Hamral himself slew Prynce Briareus, you shall enioy the fulle protection of my hospitalitie. It has been farre too long since I haue entertained you here in my humble manor, and we have euer so much to talk about!