Guests’ Quarters, Antace Castle, xii Drieland, Pentian Year Nine Hundred And Thirteen. Sext.
Vandoren, Friar Sidrach Landry, Mendelor, Renton, St. James, Dirk.
“Our friend has lately received many revelations,” says Vandoren, “about his mother, his master, and the mysterious Lady of the Keep. I suspect he is mulling all of this over.”
“Well, he had better come to, and quickly,” says Renton, with a scowl. “For the storm is coming. And the rest of us will need his damned help soon enow.”
Suddenly, Vandoren looks past Renton and blanches. The others follow his gaze to the open doorway—where stands the tall, dark form of Valerius, quietly watching all.
“By the Hammer! How long has he been there?” whispers St. James, but Mendelor only shakes his head.
Silence descends upon the room. One after another, each man looks downward to avoid the searching eyes of the magician. His lean face is drawn, his dry lips twitching uncertainly, as if he were unaccustomed to speech. Finally and swiftly, he wheels about and retreats to the other room.
“What the hell has gotten to him?” asks St. James, his eyebrows arched high in alarm. But no one else moves for several heartbeats, until at last Mendelor’s chair screeches like a hawk.
In the next room the woodsman finds Valerius, standing before an open window and staring at Lorn Pond—and at that which lies beyond. As carefully as he might approach a hurt, wild, thing, Mendelor places a hand upon Valerius’s thin shoulder, and the magician shudders at the touch.
The magician in black swallows hard and turns to his friend.
“I am not disposed to waste time wishing for what could have been, but as of late, idle wishes seem to preoccupy my mind… I wish that we had gone to investigate Argus and had never stopped in Antace. I wish we had not crossed Lorn Pond and penetrated the foulness beneath the Abbey. I wish we had never spoken to that abomination that wears Bened’s flesh like a tattered cloak. Most of all, I wish to Heaven I did not realize that we must go back.
“You see, that which Dominius summoned all those years ago is still there, somewhere. He may have been able to contain it… but sending it back to the Pit was beyond his power. And for years it has waited there, using its infernal powers to slowly manipulate and dupe others into guarding it. Long time it has waited, waited for an opportunity when the evil influences in this world grew strong. That time is now. Chaos, suffering, war—these things serve to make it stronger. And when it is strong enough, it will break its bonds and then… I shudder at the image of that horror…”
No, no, no, no. Got to get out of here. Now. Mendelor’s down, he’s down, right where Hamral dropped. Damn it. He held them as long as he could but there’s too many. Too many. Got to get out of here. So tired, hard to move. Got to. Grab the torch, there. Yes. There, that’s better. Just go—don’t wait, no one’s coming back. Can’t help them. Don’t look. Too late: something’s dragging the friar’s body back into the darkness. And what the hell is that sound? Forget it. Just go, get out of here. Now. So tired. And my chest, burning. Hard to think. Fine, which way? Here. Go. So dark, so bloody dark. Left here. Or right? Left. Go left. Hurry, get out of here. Get out. Who’s that? Who’s there? Get out of my way. Got to get out. Get out of my way. Now. You? No, not you. You can’t be here. You can’t be. No, no, no, no.
St. James flails out and awakes in darkness, cold and sweating. He leaps up, shakes his head, and paces the room until his breathing slows. He rubs the hot, aching patch on his chest.
“Shite, it was just a dream,” he mutters. “A damned bloody stupid dream, that’s all. That’s it. Yeah, and what the hell was he doing down there? Damned owl-meat, he is. Just a stupid dream.”
The Lists outside Antace Castle, xix Drieland, Nones.
Sir Hamral, Pyers, Jacob.
“Saints alive,” moans Pyers. “Starving, I am. Nothing to eat since supper last night. What do you say, Jake, want to see if we could maybe lay our hands on a tasty morsel, quiet like? Jake?”
But the smaller Jacob ignores his beefy friend, and instead concentrates on the activities unfolding on the field. Sir Hamral, mounted on Fiasco, turns his destrier sharply and rides toward his servants. While Pyers looks on agog, Jacob fetches a bowl of water and runs it out to his lord. Sir Hamral takes the bowl with a grunt of appreciation and downs it quickly, wiping the sweat from his brow.
“Another lance,” orders Hamral. Jacob flashes an angry look at Pyers, who suddenly lurches into action, grabbing one of the thick, blunted lances used for practice. Hamral takes this with a nod and then spurs Fiasco back onto the field.
“I say Sir Hamral’s going to knock this bloke right silly,” says Pyers. “Just you watch this.”
But Jacob is already watching as Hamral takes up his position at the opposite end of the field. At the sidelines stands a page with a banner, and at his signal Hamral rides hard, his lance lowered. From the other end of the field rides another knight, bearing a green shield. At mid-field the two knights meet, and Hamral’s lance strikes the green shield full on, sending the other knight tumbling out of his saddle and onto the muddy ground.
Sir Hamral turns Fiasco about and salutes the fallen knight. But the stricken man rises and pulls off his helm. His face is purple with fury. He curses Hamral, and hurls his helmet at Hamral, who does not back away. Soon several serjeants are racing on to the field, and the beaten knight is pulled away, kicking and hollering for Hamral’s blood.
Pyers shakes his head. “See, I told you, Jacob. What the hell got into him, thinking he could take our lord Hamral, and then not having the sense to know when he’s beaten fair enough. Damn fool. I swear, half these knights are going barmy. What do you think, Jake?”
But Jacob only shrugs.
“Yeah, me too,” continues Pyers. “Why, did you hear about that knight who went stark raving wood last night? Thought he was a wolf, he did. Running through the camp howling, all his clothes gone. Naked as a babe! Stabbed his own squire and a couple other servants. They couldn’t talk sense to him, so they killed him. Shot him dead with crossbows. I saw with my own two eyes. Imagine, a wolf. Bleeding barmy, I tell you.
“And just look at all these soldiers! Drunken, useless good-for-nothings, if you ask me. I heard master Renton say that the troops were a lot of cowards and fools. Rather fight each other than the rucks, and all the beatings in the world wouldn’t get these dogs into shape. Deserters running away in the middle of the night. You suppose that’s what one-handed Sir Charles did, ran away in the night?”
But Jacob only scowls at Pyers in answer.
“Right, right. But what happened to him, then? No one knows. How does the Castellan of Antace just up and disappear into thin air? Queer doings, if you ask me. And have you been down by the pond to see all those dead fish washed up on shore? What a stinking mess that was. A lot of the old carles from Antace says that something’s wrong with the pond. A bad sign, if you ask me. A bad sign indeed, right?”
Jacob shrugs his shoulders.
“Exactly,” says Pyers. “But I don’t worry. Sir Hamral will see us through this mess, mark me words. Don’t worry, Jacob. I know I don’t. Let Orestes try to raid Antace again, Sir Hamral will drive him and all his stinking rucks back to the Yron Citie. I say…”
But Pyers falls silent as Sir Hamral rides back. The knight throws his lance and shield down on the ground, and Jacob helps his lord dismount Fiasco.
“Well ridden, my lord,” calls a strange voice. Sir Hamral turns to see a blue-eyed man leading a large gray destrier. The young man carries himself as soldier, but the shield slung on his horse is pure white, with no emblem. The man wears a simple white tunic, a pentifix hung around his neck, and his hair is cut in the tonsure of a monk.
Hamral nods in response to the man’s words, and the stranger speaks again. “Are you Sir Hamral?” he asks, and again Hamral nods. The man continues. “They say you killed the Ruckish Prince Briareus, son of Tereus.”
“I saw him die,” says Hamral.
“And you have fought Busirane?”
“I have seen him burnt twice,” says Hamral. “I think the third time will be the last.”
The man laughs. “I am honored to meet you, good knight. I am… Marcus Atwater, late of Canglen. I came here to Antace, because I heard the King’s plight was dire. To my sorrow, I see that I was not misled.”
Hamral nods grimly.
“Sir Hamral, I am a soldier with no master. I was once a brother-knight of the Order of Saint Markham. But I have left the Seeker’s ranks, and I seek adventure. Even in Canglen, the deeds of you and your friends have not gone unnoticed. I heard how you traveled the Wood Wondrous to find the holy babe Agnes. Sir knight, since I have left the Order, I have sought long for men worthy of my service, and I think I have found such men in your company. I humbly request to join you and your men. You will find me brave and true.”
Hamral regards Marcus long and coolly, and then nods his approval.
Lownell Manor, xxii Drieland, Nones.
Sir John sits quietly in the great hall, his seneschal Claudius and a small, hooded figure seated next to him. The bastard son of Lownell does not reach for the full cup of wine before him, his attention drawn to the words of the mysterious man.
“Sir John, is it true,” begins the hooded figure, “as the Black-blades are saying more and more of late, that the mark of the Five is upon them and their doom—or salvation, whichever they may choose—is nigh?”
“Good my lord,” interrupts Claudius. “Surely these stories, like the rucks that spread them, are not to be trusted?”
But the hooded figure does not heed his lord’s minister. “Your Lordship,” continues the hooded figure, “whether or not the Five have in fact pronounced their divine sentence upon the nations of the rucks, I must assume that it is in your best interests to undermine Tereus’s dominion of the Frounter. If I’m mistaken, forgive me my foolishness. If not, allow me to elaborate.”
Claudius opens his mouth, but Sir John silences him with a dark glance. And then the bastard son sits back in his chair and grins.
“If Tereus could be made to split his forces for some reason,” offers the hooded figure, “and then thus divided, face Weremach’s armies, he would most likely be weakened to the point that he would have to at least partially withdraw from the Frounter for fear of losing more otherwise. He wouldn’t split his forces willingly, as it’s obviously the foolish thing to do—snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, so to speak. However, if he could be convinced that a large force of Pentians were moving northward into position to strike yourself or his flank, it would give him reason to at least seriously consider such a move.
“What will be required is a fast-moving force of fifty to a hundred of Weremach’s soldiers to make camp in a strategic spot near your lands or Tereus’s weakest flank. I say fast-moving because they must be able to vacate and return to Weremach’s side at a moment’s notice. Let them stay close to you or Tereus long enough to be noticed, though.
“The next thing that will be required is a ‘captured’ military correspondence, authorizing massive troop movements to the area in question. The king’s or an important general’s seal or signature gracing the letter will be necessary as authentication. I would willingly deliver the letter on your behalf to Tereus. He would take it as a token of your loyalty to him. As to Weremach’s signature, I’m sure he could be convinced to partake in the plan once he realizes it may help to relieve pressure on him.
“After Tereus receives the letter, let him observe a growing Pentian presence in the area. I’ll make sure to impress on him the importance of his not attacking or showing his hand prematurely there, merely observing. Let this go on for about a week, before he receives intelligence of what appears to be a massive movement of troops from Weremach’s current encampment—a ruse! At that point, he’ll be ready to charge. When he does, though, he’ll find nothing, as the fast-moving forces I mentioned earlier will be their way back to Weremach’s side. If we can get Tereus to split his forces so that part go after Weremach’s current encampment and half go after the ‘evaporating’ army, Tereus will find himself in hot water indeed… hopefully.”
“A rather tortuous plan, my young friend,” says Sir John, taking a sip of wine. “that depends upon many small particulars. Rather tortuous indeed. But how deliciously duplicitous.”
The young man bows his head to his lord. “In the event that this plan succeeds, your position will undoubtedly be strengthened. Weremach will be grateful to you, should you choose to return to him—he would most likely see fit to reward you in proportion with the favor you’ve done this kingdom. And should you choose to side with Tereus, he will without a doubt greatly require your help in his weakened position. You could name your terms.
“Of course, my Lordship, this is only my humble plan, inspired by your wisdom. Accept it and I shall gladly serve as your envoy to both Tereus and Weremach, should you require it.”
Ruik bows, leaving Sir John to consider his proposal.
Guests’ Quarters, Antace Castle, xxvii Drieland, Pentian Year Nine Hundred And Thirteen. Before Lauds.
Sir Hamral, Vandoren, Friar Sidrach Landry, Marcus Atwater, Renton, St. James, Valerius, Dirk, Mot.
Alarums resound throughout the darkness, along with the cries of metal ringing on metal, and the plaintiff wails of wounded men.
“Fiat Lux!” cries Friar Sidrach, and a brilliant light springs forth in the night, illuminating every corner of the cramped quarters.
“What the hell is it?” asks St. James, wiping his eyes.
“It’s that damned Orestes, again,” says Renton, buckling on his sword belt. “He broke through the front lines and almost made it all the way to the gates before Sir Fulk’s guard drove him back to Tereus’s camp. We lost almost forty men, and six knights.”
Valerius stands up, staff in hand. “Where in Perdition is Mendelor?” he demands.
“He has left,” says Friar Sidrach, quietly.
“What?” roars Valerius. “Where did that dolt go, and when? He said nothing to me!”
“Mendelor approached me shortly after vespers. He has gone off on his own to scout out the ruck encampments. But before he departed, he blessed us with his generosity. He has left his enchanted armor behind for Sir Hamral, and his wondrous shield for Renton. And Mendelor said he would be praying for us.”
But the magician does not appear to take any comfort in the Gerardian’s words. Valerius only raps his staff down hard upon the rush-strewn floor, his teeth clenched tightly in an angry grimace.