The Chapel, Antace Castle, XVI Harfesting, Pentian Year Nine Hundred And Thirteen. Sext.
Sir Hamral, Vandoren, Friar Sidrach Landry, Marcus Atwater, Renton, St. James, Mot.
A long, lonely wail fills the darkened room as Mot slumps to the floor, banging his head against the wall and gnawing at the back of his hands. Nearby, upon a simple bier, the body of Dirk lies in state. His mace is laid upon his chest, and his bow is set at his feet.
“I hadn’t realized the two of them were so damned close,” mutters St. James, to no one in particular.
“Ah, Dirk and Mot were good friends,” says Friar Sidrach. “Good friends, indeed. Young Dirk often went out of his way to be kind to poor Mot, buying him ale and such. Alas, such a loss. Look at Dirk lying there, with nary a scratch on him—he might as well be sleeping. He was a good lad, and doubtless walks in the Citie, now.”
Mot’s wailing is suddenly broken by a series of sobs.
“Dirk’s sacrifice was not in vain,” offers Vandoren, quietly. “This morning Valerius sent Noxumbra across the Pond to scout out the Abbey. She reports that the ruins are almost completely swallowed up by the waters, as if that fell place had never stood. And what is more, I hear that the men of Antace are no longer plagued by dark dreams.”
“Yes, yes,” says Friar Sidrach, smiling despite himself. “Father Theodore tells me that the transformation has been astonishing in its speed and breadth, praise the saints. Why, men who only last week were wallowing in despair are now invigorated with newfound resolve, despite the perils awaiting us beyond the castle gates. But faith, my sons—faith can move mountains!”
“Not a moment too soon for those carles to find their stones,” says Renton. “That lot will need all the pluck they can muster, for I hear that Prince Busirane has returned.”
“I did not know he had left,” exclaims Friar Sidrach. “Where did he go, and when?”
“No one knows for sure,” says Renton. “While we were slogging through those rotten tunnels under the Abbey, Busirane led a good portion of his father’s army into the east. No warning, just one morning—he was gone, along with all those troops.
“And almost two weeks later, he just returns as suddenly as he left. Madder than all hell, but with his troops intact, as if nothing had happened. Wherever he went, it was probably a lucky thing for all of us. If the rucks had attacked before we destroyed the abbey, Antace wouldn’t have held out for more than two hours. Sure, we’re still outnumbered, but at least now these men will go down with a proper fight.”
“Busirane probably set back the ruck’s assault by weeks,” says Hamral.
“Buying old King Weremach a lot of time,” says Renton.
“Is there any hope for reinforcements?” asks Friar Sidrach.
“Probably not,” says Renton. “Already the king’s own army is joined by Gower, Ordway, and Breystead. To the north, Kirke is trying to make some inroads against Argus, without much luck. The Seekers have made a few forays against Nestor, but no big push has yet come. I hear that Alan of Belfort is leery about leaving Heremac undefended, and I’d bet all my silver that Gregory is champing at the bit to be here where the fighting’s at.”
“Although their numbers are few,” interjects Marcus, “Sir Coston has brought a full company of Seekers with him to Antace, including many doughty brother-knights. Coston, after all, is cousin to the Baron Ordway, and his Seekers will not shirk from a battle. Just last night I rode with them against Orestes—I avow that ruck-captain grows bolder and bolder with every raid.
“But here is some more news, friends: it appears that the rucks are now aided by a mighty magic-user. A witch of terrible power, I have heard. Just three nights ago, during one of Orestes’ raids, Sir Ervin—one of Breystead’s knights—was transformed into an owl. An owl! The poor thing at once took flight and has not been seen again.
“And only last week, Gower’s best serjeant, Blount, was turned into a stone block, and remains so still. You can see him—or what’s left of him—standing in the castle courtyard. The queerest sight I have ever seen: just like a statue, he is.”
“Not very pretty, is it?” says St. James, with a smile.
“No… not at all,” says Marcus, a puzzled look on his face.
“I watched one raid from the battlements,” says Vandoren. “Clearly, many great warriors fight on both sides. As the rucks drove straight into the camps, Orestes alone cut down a famed knight, Sir Perrin, along with his loyal squire, Sawdon.
“Then Orestes badly wounded Payne Gatler, one of Baron Ordway’s retainers, and a veteran of the terrible battle at Ordway, where Gregory the Risen fell—before being brought back from the Citie. Just as Orestes was about to finish off Payne, in rode Sir Milon of Nerwode. Three time Sir Milon charged, and three times the knight pushed the raiders back, but in that third charge he was unhorsed. Despite this Sir Milon fought on, so fiercely on foot that even Orestes took flight.”
“That’s nothing. I was in one battle a few nights ago,” says Renton. “I was standing next to this fellow, Cuthred of Stowcross—a good man with a sword, I avow. I saw him cut down one of Orestes’ own brothers, Enceladus, with a blow that clove that damned ruck-captain nearly in half.”
“I heard about that,” says Marcus. “The next morning, Sir Alfred Naesmith, one of the King’s household knights, led a sortie against Orestes, and drove the rucks all the way back to the mouth of the outlet, where they were met by a company of cataphracts, commanded by Brygus. At this, Sir Alfred wisely chose not to press the battle further.”
“Catawhat?” asks St. James.
“The cataphracts,” answers Marcus, “Are members of King Tereus’s elite guard. They are infamous for their fearlessness, cruelty, and their fighting prowess. Even Gregory the Risen would give pause before engaging the cataphracts, and other Black-blades are simply terrified of them. I have heard that at banquets they are served before all else save Tereus himself—even the Ruckish princes must wait their turn. You can spot the cataphracts from afar, for they wear green surcoats, and their banner depicts a three-spired castle.”
“That’s good to know,” says St. James. “When the big battle comes, I for one want to be as far away from those fellows as possible. I don’t want to end up like…”
But at this, Mot begins to sob, quietly. Friar Sidrach kneels down to comfort the wretched man.
Guest Quarters, Antace Castle, XXI Harfesting, Vespers.
Vandoren, Valerius.
“The scroll, of course, was the easiest to identify,” says Valerius, gesturing to the pale roll of parchment. “I assumed a great many precautions before examining its contents, fearing that Bened had placed some sort of curse upon the scroll. Happily, he did not appear to have done so. No, the scroll contains only the carmina for a spell of great destructive power: the algor conus.”
“Interesting,” says Vandoren. “How does it work?”
“Crudely and effectively,” answers Valerius. “When cast, this spell evokes a devastating blast of cold—enough to freeze fast-running water, or slay a living man. Had Bened been able to use this scroll against us, I suspect that Dirk would not be the only member of our company lying in the chapel.”
Vandoren nods in agreement, and then points to the pair of bronze bracers sitting on the table, their entire surfaces etched with faint writing and strange diagrams. “I have seen such devices before,” says the minstrel. “In Canglen Cathedral, though these are in much better condition. They are Tynan, unless I miss my guess, and have power to shield the wearer, turning aside spear-thrusts or sword-blows.”
“Excellent,” says Valerius. “I suspected as much. Now only the cloak remains: Can you offer any theories as to its properties?”
Vandoren looks at the purple cloak spread across the table. Gold letters, spelling out strange charms, line the edges and hems.
“I would venture this to be Tynan, as well. And also of a protective nature.” Vandoren looks to the magician, who nods approvingly. “And these magic words sewn into the fabric… are arranged to give luck to the wearer. To be fleet of foot, calm, and resilient when faced with danger.”
“Well done, again,” says Valerius. “You second my own speculations.”
Vandoren glances gingerly over the scroll, tracing a line with his finger. “Valerius, I wonder what the Lady of the Keep and her gryffons are feeling, now that we have defeated Bened. Although my heart beats fast at the thought of what we have accomplished, I cannot quell the vision… of the darkness we spied across the chasm.
“I wonder what the Lady might be able to tell us of what we saw… the great hall and defamed statue… the horse-demon… and the great evil beyond. Has our work helped her cause? Does she still wish to see the kingdoms of men fall before the rucks?”
Valerius is quiet for a moment. “Indeed, we should remain in Antace only long enough to determine who shall emerge victorious from the upcoming battle. After that, there is much to learn and many questions to ask. Perhaps She shall have some answers.”
“What’s this—preparing to leave, and so soon after I arrive?” calls a new voice.
Valerius leaps to his feet and wheels about, his face grim and his staff clenched tightly in both hands. Slouched against the doorway, grinning, is Ruik. The young man laughs and steps into the room.
“Dear Valerius,” says Ruik. “I did not mean to startle you. It’s just that, I have traveled far, and have much to tell you. The armies of Tereus are about to march…”