Somewhere in the Occupied Lands North of Upchurch, XIX Frostaire, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Twelve. After Compline.
Friar Sidrach Landry, Vandoren, Renton, Dirk, Mot.
The night is dark, still, and bitterly cold. The soldiers of the Ebon Quill stir about the camp uneasily, unwilling to rest and unable to act. The ruck-men huddle sullenly about in clusters near the small fires, not taking their wonted delights in games, brawls, or jests. A few bow their heads in silent prayer. The guards at the perimeters shuffle nervously back and forth, their boots crunching on the frozen ground, peering into the night for any signs of the coming host.
Friar Sidrach stands somewhat apart, looking up into the dark sky.
“Do you make out something, Friar?” asks Vandoren. Mot and Dirk gawk upwards as well.
The Friar shakes his head and is quiet for a moment. “There is a storm coming, and a large one I suspect. A large one, my sons. The first real snow of winter.”
“I feel it also,” says Renton.
“Tomorrow is Saint Constance’s Day,” whispers the Friar, as if he might wake a nearby sleeper. “They say she was betrothed to an angel and martyred by Tynan unbelievers. May she grant us strength on the morrow.”
St. James, Pyers, Jacob.
“I fear not this Argus,” declares Pyers, resting on his pitchfork. “Why, nothing but a sheep’s bladder, he is. Lord Hamral would make quick work of him.”
And with this the large, burly boy begins jabbing at the smaller Jacob with his pitchfork. Jacob scowls and tries to continue working, but Pyers presses on, yipping and yowling like a wild beast. Nearby Fiasco snorts and stomps, as if ready for a fight.
“Enough of that!” commands St. James, and Pyers immediately desists. “I can hardly concentrate with all that racket!” St. James turns back to his companions, two hulking ruck-men, armed with staves. St. James holds two short swords and stands between them, while Hamral looks on. At the knight’s signal, the ruck-men begin swinging at St. James, while the young thief begins counting aloud. “ONE,” and the first ruck swings at St. James’s head. The sword in his left hand flashes up to deflect the blow aside. “TWO,” and the second ruck swings down, and St. James knocks the second attack away with his other sword. “THREE,” and the first ruck swings again, and is answered again by St. James. “FOUR,” cries the thief, beginning to catch the rhythm of the drill, and the second ruck jabs, but St. James ducks beneath the blow. “FIVE,” and the first ruck also jabs, but St. James gleefully dances to the side. “SIX,” and the second rucks jabs again, lower, catching the thief’s left leg and dumping him on to the ground.
“You idiot!” howls St. James. “You were supposed to swing on six!” The ruck looks sheepish, and Hamral tries not to smile.
“Good, but you should never take your eyes off the man,” offers Hamral.
“But the fool was supposed to swing on six!” exclaims St. James. Just then, there is a loud cry as Jacob, finally fed up with either the incessant bullying or chatter, punches Pyers in the face. Blood spurts out of the larger boy’s nose, and Pyers drops to his knees, clutching his face and fighting back tears.
“Why did you do that?” he blubbers, while the rucks laugh uproariously.
In the nearby shadows, a crabbed figure watches all this with his one good eye, and smiles.
Valerius.
Alone in the tent, save for the sleeping raven cradled in his lap, Valerius sits under faint candlelight and pores over his strange books of lore. He scowls as he works through a certain small volume, its sooty pages blackened and tattered almost beyond use. Carefully and slowly, the magician uses a knife to lift each page one by one, straining to make out the contents, and wincing as some of the pages fall apart into ash, despite all of his precautions. Valerius turns a page, and then stops. Suddenly.
The book is opened to a single page, completely charred over. And yet there, on the blackened parchment, a series of pale white letters mysteriously peers out from against the darkness. This strange negative image could not have been visible before the book was scorched. A square of letters—five across, and five down. Like the ancient foundation stones from a long-drowned city, emerging only after the sea has receded.
After a long, silent pause, Valerius breathes again—and just in time, catches himself trying to read the writing aloud.
As if not to wake Noxumbra, Valerius slowly reaches for a nearby wax pad and stylus, and begins to copy the inscription down.
Sir Hamral, Vandoren, Friar Sidrach Landry, Mendelor, Renton, St. James, Dirk, Mot, Pyers, Jacob.
St. James shivers in the cold and clutches his cloak tighter.
“Quickly, Pyers, Jacob,” hisses the thief. “Another blanket before I freeze to death.”
The young lads rush to comply with the request, as snowflakes drop slowly down from the pitch-dark sky.
“Freezing might be a pleasant way to pass on, given the alternatives at hand,” offers Vandoren. “Any sign of Argus’s host?”
Hamral shakes his head. Just then Valerius emerges from the pavilion, staff in hand.
“I hope the rest of you have prepared yourselves for the coming strife,” begins the magician. “There are a few tasks that we should complete before the battle is joined. Primus, we should attempt to determine if this approaching force will give chase to us, should we attempt to flee. Secondus, as soon as possible Mendelor and Noxumbra should scout ahead for a suitable place for us to make a stand, assuming we cannot escape our pursuers. Tertius, we should dispatch Vandoren with his wondrous boots to carry word to the Seekers. They should know what has befallen Kirke, and both Sir Aleck and the King should have some warning as well.”
“What the hell will you be doing while everyone else is scurrying about the countryside, doing your bidding?” demands St. James.
Valerius turns and rests his unblinking gaze on the younger man. “While the rest of you lead the Ebon Quill to safety, I alone shall stand against this host sent by Prince Argus. If I cannot turn them back, I shall harry and hinder and harm them with all my might.”
“And what if your spells are not enough to slow an entire army?” asks St. James.
“I will still have… other… recourse,” answers the magician, darkly.
The camp abruptly stirs into life. Alarums go up, serjeants begin barking orders, and guards rush back and forth. Companies of Ebon Quill soldiers begin to don armor and strap on swords.
“What is it?” asks Sir Hamral, interrogating a passing soldier. The ruck-man stops and stands at attention.
“My lord,” blurts the soldier. “The forward scouts have reported an approaching force, less than half a mile away.”
“So soon?” asks Mendelor. “This does not bode well.”
Hamral dismisses the soldier. The camp is quickly broken down, as the soldiers begin taking up their prearranged positions. The consortes move to the head of the army, but can see nothing in the gloom. Mark and Luke survey their bustling little army with grim satisfaction.
In the dark ahead come shouts and forlorn cries.
“They have met the enemy,” murmurs Mark, with a smile. Across the armed ranks of the Ebon Quill, soldiers look at each other anxiously. After many long minutes, a runner emerges from the storm.
“How many has Argus sent against us?” asks Luke, grabbing the runner by the shoulders.
The runner’s face turns pale. “My Captain, I… I do not know.”
Luke buffets the runner across the face with the back of his hand. “What do you mean?” snarls the ruckish leader.
The runner swallows hard before answering. “My Captain, it is not the host of Argus before us. It is the remains of Kirke’s army.”