Outside Upchurch Manor, XVI May, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Thirteen. After Sext.
Mendelor, Dirk, Brandon, Valerius, Mot.
A fine day for a walk with friends: the hills and woods of Upchurch have passed out of pale yellows, reds, and purples into full, vibrant greens. And against this green, the planted fields stand out starkly as great swathes darkened with harrowed soil. Across the landscape, small teams of peasants work on repairing fences, while the cows in full milk low happily in the paddocks.
“I agreed to go with Valerius,” says the woodsman Mendelor, “Only if the shrine to Mark and Luke were built.”
“And it shall all come to pass—just as I promised you,” answers the thin magician, a bit abruptly. “Do not concern yourself further on this matter. Friar Sidrach should keep himself out of trouble nicely—at least for the coming weeks, while he oversees the work.”
“To tell the truth, I could really care less about Luke and Mark,” adds Dirk. “But I yearn to swing my mace again. If Hamral or… anyone else needs any assistance in their undertakings, I am more than willing to help out in any way possible.”
“A fine gesture,” says Mendelor, “Though I hope that Hamral has set aside any notions of challenging Prince Argus—for the time being, at least. Our little band has been scattered too far afield these last months to afford him the support he would surely need.”
“Astonishingly enough, you offer some semblance of wisdom,” says Valerius. “I counseled Hamral to begin with more modest aspirations—perhaps by challenging Sarpedon first. One must needs first mount the foothills before daring the mountain’s summit.”
“Well, what if Dirk and I went with you and Mendelor to this Corbiestone?” asks Brandon. “I’m also spoiling for a fight. Ever since Mendelor and I visited Kirke’s army, my blood has been up. Would that the fighting commence sooner.”
“I fear your wish shall come to pass,” says Valerius. “But as to you accompanying me to the Corbiestone, I am afraid it is quite out of the question. You see, the Lady and I have agreed to certain… inviolable terms. And the number of our companions was one of these terms. Vandoren and Mendelor alone shall make the journey.”
“By the Hammer!” exclaims St. James. “What are you up to now, Scarecrow? I am going mad, stuck here in this stinking, boring backwater. I am sick of nursemaiding whelps who still have their milk teeth. I long for travel to someplace interesting, with pubs, women, gambling or adventure… I will support any venture that gets me out into some kind of action.”
Valerius almost—almost—chuckles at the young man’s plaint. “I rather doubt that the Corbiestone would prove to be any more to your liking. But I have meant to consult you on a certain curiosity.” Valerius produces and then opens a small leather case. He pulls out a copper band, and shows it to St. James. “The Lady herself sent me this trifle, as a token of her protection. I have determined that this ring bears a niggling enchantment, but I have the queerest suspicion that I have seen this design somewhere before… Perhaps on something borne by one of the servants who I know serve the Lady—or perhaps, worn by someone I didn’t know worked for her.”
Mendelor peers closer, and then looks at the magician in amazement. “Valerius, I think that fiery blast of witchery that almost killed you in Canglen must have also addled your head. That symbol there… of a tower… why, it is just like the symbol on the silver ring we found hidden in the cellar of that wizard’s house!”
Lownell Manor, XXVII May, Vespers.
A small, hooded figure stands patiently in the doorway. After a moment Sir John looks up and gestures with a smile. The figure nods and enters, taking a seat at the table across from His Lordship. Sir John pours himself a tall cup of wine, and then a second, pushing the cup over to the visitor.
“It is so, so very nice to see thee, my clever little friend,” coos Sir John. “And to find thee back so soon. I was terribly concerned when we did not hear from thee for so long.”
The visitor takes up the cup and drinks deeply before speaking. “My Lord,” he begins, tentatively, “I have, as you commanded, travelled to Wolfgare—the seat of Prince Argus.”
“Wonderful, yes,” says Sir John. “Well, go on, go on—what didst thou learn there? Tell me everything.”
“My Lord, you will find Wolfgare much changed from whence last you saw it. The Prince has built steadily since he came to occupy the castle. Wolfgare is now a sprawling complex. The mouth of the place is a heavily fortified keep, which is deemed nigh impregnable. The keep is garrisoned by several companies of cavalry. Argus, it seems, is an avid horseman, and his riders are considered exceptionally fierce in battle.
“And within the outer works, Argus has several other structures. Far and away, the largest and most notable buildings comprise the Prince’s palace, which is fully as sumptuous as rumor would have it. The walls of his own tower are covered with gold foil, and shine brightly in the sun. The palace is said to be filled with treasures and mirrors and great statues of Argus, usually astride his favorite horse. I did not venture within the palace proper, though I did walk among his gardens, which are planted with all manner of flowering tree and herb.
“However, the Prince has encountered many problems in constructing this edifice—though pleasing to the eye, much of the palace has been built upon a weak foundation. The ground there, I am told, is quite sandy. Just a weeks ago, the ground shifted underneath one of the Prince’s halls—collapsing the roof.”
“Oh, how terribly unfortunate,” sniggers John. “A great sadness, that Argus was not underneath the roof at the time.”
“Yes, My Lord. There are some other, curious buildings within the complex that I was not able to explore. There is a great, stone tower—perhaps a prison of some sort, for it is ringed with walls and heavily protected by some of the Prince’s own bodyguard. I know that the tower could not contain his treasury, for this is housed within the palace. One day I was able to get rather close… and spied, upon the top battlements of the tower, several people. Though they were a good bowshot away, I could clearly see that they were women… beautiful ones, unless I miss my guess.”
Sir John wrinkles his nose in distaste, but the visitor does not seem to notice.
“I suspect that these women may be poor girls, captured in the invasion—and enslaved by the Prince.”
“I am unconcerned about the Prince’s… dalliances,” says Sir John, with a dismissive wave. “Didst thou discern anything there that we might be able to take advantage of?”
“Indeed, My Lord. The pace of public executions has slowed somewhat—but not because there are any less converts to the Five among the Prince’s army. In fact, there are still frequent tales of soldiers claiming to see visions of Luke and Mark. I overheard several times that Argus has—for now—decided to assume a blind eye toward the conversions. At the rate he was going through officers, he would have wiped out his entire army by next winter.
“But there is more, My Lord. I noticed that the troops of Argus now bear a new banner, and wear a new insignia upon their armor: a red horse on a gold field, and not the Black-blade.”
Sir John purses his lips at this news. “Really? I should wonder how dear father Tereus will take this development. I should wonder indeed.”
“I thought the same. And I even heard a rumor that Argus has declared himself sovereign over his own kingdom.”
“Crowned himself a king, did he?” whispers Sir John. “How lovely… how so very, very lovely…”