Visitor’s Quarters, Antace Castle, IX Frostaire, Pentian Year Nine Hundred And Thirteen. Sext.
Sir Hamral, Vandoren, Marcus Atwater, Mendelor, Renton, Valerius, St. James, Ruik, Owen Grey.
The consortes gather around the cold common room in silence, each man occupied with his own thoughts. In the center of the room lies the stony form of Friar Sidrach, arrested in mid-flight.
“I have decided to give up the magicked hauberk,” says Mendelor, running the grindstone once more along the blade of this axe. “It served me well, but I felt like a turtle with all that iron on my back. I prefer being able to move quickly and quietly. I think that Sir Hamral by rights should wear the armor of Prince Briareus.”
Hamral nods approvingly at this proposition, but St. James purses his lips.
“An obvious choice, to be sure, Mendelor. And of course, I doubt that the ruckish mail would fit me any better than upon Sir Hamral’s mighty frame. And yet, I have been thinking about my increased role in melees of late. When I was untrained in the warrior’s ways, I was content to hang back and offer what services I might from the rear. For such a role, a man needs only modest protection. And yet now, again and again I find myself at the forefront of our battles. Do you not recall the terrible wounds I suffered, staving off Orestes’ raid? A few moments more, and I would now be in the Shining City with poor Mot.
“And there’s another thing that troubles me. What if the Prince’s hauberk were cursed, forged as it was by dark ruckish magick? Would we really want our greatest warrior laboring under such constraints?”
“If the mail be cursed,” says Mendelor, “I never noticed.”
“And what’s more, Saint Pilfer,” says Vandoren, looking up from tuning his psaltery. “If the mail had been cursed, we surely would have known it by now. Whatever sorcery is employed by the rucks to create their items, I would suspect it is of a crudely effective and unsubtle nature—like all their manufacturing processes. Their swords and armor are stamped out a hundred at a time… they are cheap, heavy, and ugly. Why should ruckish magic be any different?”
“I have heard that their magicked ruckblades are tempered in vats of men’s blood,” says Marcus Atwater. “King Tereus makes gifts of these implements to his trusted commanders. How many are in circulation, I could not guess. They say that Orestes now wields the ruckblade Narthanc, which had once been in the possession of Prince Briareus himself.”
Valerius and Renton turn darkly to St. James, who throws up his hands in disbelief.
“Hey, why are you two looking at me?” he exclaims. “Did you see any magicked swords in Utterbol? Me either. And it was not like we had a lot of time to search the place, what with the armies of Busirane storming the gates.”
“It is also told that Busirane wields the fearsome ruckblade Golgath,” says Marcus. “A present from his father: the sword had once been wielded by a wicked prince of ancient days”
“What else does the Prince have?” asks St. James.
“They say he wears a string of teeth,” says Marcus. “One tooth for every Pentian slain. And that loathsome garland is enchanted to protect the Prince from swords and spears.”
“I saw those teeth at Lownell,” says Hamral, quietly. “There must be hundreds…”
“Aye,” says Marcus. “And Busirane probably has more surprises than that. Most ruckish commanders carry foul potions to increase their strength or to heal wounds.”
“What about King Tereus?” asks St. James. “He must have some potent loot.”
“The King wields Scarander,” says Marcus, “the legendary sword of ruckish kings. Scarander was forged by the same ruckish king who founded the Yron Citie, in ages past.”
“So, is Hecatesseus making all of these newer things for the ruck-men?” asks St. James.
“That wretched Popinjay is but a gamboling fool and unlikely capable of such works,” snaps Valerius, tartly.
The rooms falls silent for a moment before St. James speaks up. “Well, he was capable of turning you into a frog, and the Friar there into stone.”
Valerius snatches up his staff and rises to his feet, his face grim. “Yes. He. Did. But he will not catch me unawares ever again. Not ever. And… And the next time we cross paths, I avow the outcome will be far, far different. The Popinjay will know fear, terrible fear before this business is finished. I need to obtain but a few texts and then, yes… yes… that would be fine indeed.”
“Of course,” says St. James, quietly.
“Of course,” echoes Valerius, with a start. The magician in black catches himself and sits down. “For the moment, though, I think we should avoid contact with either Busirane or… the Popinjay.”
“For once you speak sense!” cries St. James. “By the Hammer, I say we pack it all in and leave the Frounter for now. Let us try at the Blackwell. What say you all?”
“Sounds fine to me,” says Renton.
“And to me,” says Marcus. “I had hoped to travel there when I was a Seeker.”
“I am up for anything,” says Owen.
“I understand your impulse,” says Valerius. “We are indeed in an exceedingly… vexing situation. But I have a few things to complete before we contemplate leaving. I would first like to reverse the enchantment on Friar Sidrach. To that end I am pursuing a couple of promising possibilities. The primary disadvantage to this career is the amount of time it may take. Perhaps, in the interim I could pay a quick visit to Heremac and… no… I—that is, we—must help the Friar first.
“Second, I want to locate Nod, that skulking ruckish henchmen to the Lady of the Keep. We may have several interesting things to share, he and I.
“Finally, I would also like to search for enemies of the Popinjay. Anyone that nettlesome must have several, and we have already learned that he chafes upon the ruckish officers. In this way, who knows what mischief we may work? Oh, by the time my vengeance is visited upon him, Hecatesseus shall rue ever crossing me. A carp, indeed!”
Antace Castle, XV Frostaire, Pentian Year Nine Hundred And Thirteen. Sext.
Lord Charles of the Axe, Sir Reginald the Penitent, Sir Hamral, Vandoren.
The Castellan of Antace turns. The bearlike knight wears a red tabard with the emblem of a black axe. He grins upon seeing his visitors, revealing wide yellow teeth amidst a bright red beard.
“Sir Hamral, Slayer of Briareus. Well met! Well met, indeed!” roars Lord Charles.
Hamral bows to the Castellan, who laughs and turns to Vandoren, clapping the minstrel roughly on the back.
“And here be my good friend Dunstan’s son, and just as scrawny as ever. How art thou, lad?”
“I am well, My Lord,” says Vandoren, bowing. “And clearly, so are you—far better than when last I found you.”
A fleeting sadness crosses Charles’s face, and is gone.
“Aye, those were some sorely wretched days. Would that Busirane had killed me, rather than chopped off my hand and left me to live in such misery. The stump healed, but I was left fatally poisoned within, my spirit broken like a beaten nag. And now I begin to think that it was the influence of those damned ruins across the Pond. But just when I thought that all was lost, came salvation.”
The Castellan gestures toward Sir Reginald, who bows humbly.
“I have heard of this great deed,” says Vandoren. “How did you accomplish it?”
“I sought a powerful relic of Pentiandom,” says Sir Reginald, “thought to be lost forever. For many months I quested in search of the Chalice of Amalthea, the very cup that bore the water used to lave the corpse of Saint Lamar, who was martyred by the pagan Tynans for his faith. And for his faith he was brought back from the dead to do the Five’s own work. For many months I sought the relic, over many leagues and past many perils, to the edge of the world. And there I found it, at last. The Chalice has great power to heal, and to grant other miracles.”
At this Reginald looks over to the stone figure of Friar Sidrach, lying in the middle of the floor.
“Yes, yes,” says Charles. “That is why we have brought your stone friend here, in the hope that the Chalice will be able to restore him to flesh. You and your men have performed many great deeds on behalf of Antace, and we are ever in your debt. Time and again you have thwarted Busirane’s plans. And the harrowing of Lorn Abbey… some day I would like to hear more of that dark story. I understand that you lost two men in those accursed ruins.”
“That is true, My Lord,” says Vandoren. “Two good men from Derwich: Dirk and Brandon.”
“A great loss,” says Charles. “In this last year, far too many good men have fallen within sight of my castle. Conerad, one of Ordway’s best serjeants, fell during the battle on Hallowe’en—cut down by the Black-blades shortly before they withdrew.”
“My Lord, how fares the campaign?” asks Vandoren. “Although the men’s spirits seem good, we have heard rumors…”
“Ill, lad,” answers Charles. “It fares ill. We are surrounded and outnumbered, and do not have the stores to last our armies through the winter. It grieves me to say it, but Antace Castle should have been abandoned months ago. Our one hope now is to try and break through the ruckish lines before snow sets in, and make for Heremac. Even as we speak, Fulk, Gower, and Ordway are considering stratagems. On Hallowe’en we held back Busirane’s advance, and this has given him pause. No son of Tereus wishes to displease his father by failing. But our latest reports suggest that Busirane is working himself into a frenzy, in preparation for an assault on the castle.”
“And King Weremach?” asks Vandoren.
“Our sovereign has not spoken or stirred for several weeks,” says Charles, “though he appears at peace. In his prime, he was as strong as an ox, ferocious as a lion, and clever as a fox. As hardy a man as I should ever hope to meet. It does not surprise me that he has held on for so long. Do you still have that silver chess set I gave you, long ago? Did you know that I had been given that set by the King himself?”
“Indeed, My Lord,” answers Vandoren. “It is one of our most treasured possessions.”
“Good, good,” says Charles. “Perhaps you could bring it around some time. Such a diversion may be just the thing for me in these dark days. But enough of this jawing about. Reginald?”
At this, Reginald nods and brings forth a small wooden case, sheathed in leather. He unfastens a clasp and opens the lid to reveal a broad-mouthed copper cup. Suddenly, the room feels warmer and there is a faint, sweet, floral smell.
“The Chalice of Amalthea,” whispers Vandoren. Lord Charles drops to his knees in silent prayer, and Vandoren and Hamral follow suit.
Reginald murmurs a prayer, and carefully takes the Chalice out of the case, setting it on a small table. He then takes up a small jar of water, pouring it into the Chalice. He then holds the Chalice high, and light seems to shimmer and play along its edges. The room grows even warmer, and from somewhere tiny chimes begin to sound.
“By the eternal power of the Five in Heaven, and by Saint Lamar, and by Saint Arleans,” says Reginald, approaching the petrified figure of Friar Sidrach, “We humbly beseech You, restore this meek and faithful servant to flesh, so that he may continue to do Your good work in this world of wretched darkness.”
Reginald begins to pour the water from the Chalice over the stone form. The water sparkles brightly in the air, and when it splashes against the stone each drop silently blooms into a burst of light, warm golden light that engulfs the stone, light that grows so bright that soon no one but Reginald can look.
And then the light is gone. There is a thump, followed by a moan.
“Gracious me,” cries a familiar voice. “Where am I? I was… Reginald? Have I passed into the next life?”
“Nay,” says Reginald. “Good friar, you are in Antace Castle, and among friends.”
Friar Sidrach looks wonderingly about the room.
Visitor’s Quarters, Antace Castle, XX Frostaire, Pentian Year Nine Hundred And Thirteen. Vespers.
Vandoren, Friar Sidrach Landry, Marcus Atwater, Mendelor, St. James.
“The last thing I can remember,” says Friar Sidrach, “Was using that last bit of the Unguent of the Sparrow and then flying up into the air. A most marvelous sensation, I assure you. Most marvelous, indeed. Then I saw that horrible Hecatesseus, pointing at me and muttering something I could not understand. And then there was a strange light… and I awoke in Antace Castle.”
“Witchery,” mutters Mendelor. “’Tis a good thing you are back, Friar—if only to keep that damned Valerius in check. It would have curled your toes to hear some of the awful things that wissard planned to do to Hecatesseus.”
“Indeed, indeed” says Friar Sidrach. “I am glad to be back for whatever reason. And it would seem just in the nick of time, as it were. My healing skills have been put to much use in the last few days, with all the fighting.”
“Nasty business,” says Vandoren. “If Busirane’s line around Antace has any weaknesses, Sir Fulk and Lord Charles are trying to find where they might be.”
“Just this afternoon,” adds Marcus, “Gower led a sortie and was almost slain in the battle that followed. Busirane, you see, has built a small but fearsome cavalry, mounted on these monstrous red war-horses. And the Prince himself rode out to meet Gower.
“The Baron unhorsed the ruckish prince on his first pass, which only sent Busirane into a terrible wrath. With his bare hands he hauled Gower out of the saddle and onto the ground, and there nearly killed him. Fortunately, at the last moment Sir Artus, one of King Weremach’s knights, rode in and distracted Busirane long enough for Blount to retrieve the fallen Baron.
“The only good news from the field today was that Sir Alfred Naesmith had struck the ruckish captain Carus a terrible blow, perhaps even killing him.”
Vandoren begins to add to Marcus’s tale, but stops. Standing in the doorway is Tom Tuck, the reformed servant to Father Theodore.
“Begging my pardon, lords,” says the homely man, bowing humbly and wiping a tear from his eye. “But the Father was thinking you might want to be hearing the news, soon and all. King Weremach is dead.”