The camp of Kirke, near the Harplan border. XII Firstblome, Pentian Year Nine Hundred And Fourteen. Sext.
Sir Hamral, Vandoren, Marcus, Friar Sidrach Landry, Mendelor, Renton, Valerius, St. James, Owen Grey.
Valerius, the gaunt magician in black, stands before the assembled group. In his hands he holds the unsheathed sword that had been brought out of Bleary Knowe.
“Our inquiries in Heremac did not fail to render up some useful intelligence,” he announces, carefully turning the weapon over. “Vandoren and I were able to confirm that this is indeed the fabled sword Legrand, once borne by King Conall in the distant past. See here—” And at this the magician gestures along the yard-long length of the sword’s blade. “I believe this is known as a pattern-wield. Note the three bands, woven together upon the face. And here one may discern where the name ‘Legrand’ was etched. The pommel and grips display extraordinarily fine silverwork. And as for the scabbard…” Valerius slides the sword into its sheath. “It appears to be made of dragon hide. We passed it through the flames of a hearth fire, and it emerged unscathed. Unless I miss my guess, the hide came from the very worm in whose hoard Conall discovered this sword.”
“And as for magick?” says Vandoren, “Legrand bears a powerful enchantment, for its edge never needs sharpening, even if struck full hard against stone. And we discovered one other, unexpected property: should the man who wields Legrand be met with an opponent who employs poison, the sword will glow bright red, like a roaring forge.
“The one question left answered, then, is who shall wield this sword. Does any man object to giving Legrand to Sir Hamral?”
The consortes look from one to another, but no man gainsays the minstrel.
“Then Sir Hamral shall carry Legrand,” says Vandoren, handing over the weapon to the knight, who nods in appreciation.
“Sir Pilfer, there,” says Vandoren, gesturing to St. James, “has already laid his claim to the two daggers that we found in the pool at the Knowe. This seems fair if he is willing to give up the magicked dagger he already bears.”
“It all depends on what those new daggers can do,” says St. James.
“One of the daggers,” says Vandoren, “did not survive our testing. When placed in sunlight, the knife melted into dew before our very eyes. But this one…” Vandoren carefully unsheathes a dagger and holds it out, laying upon his open palm.
“Stand back, all,” says Vandoren, and his friends pause momentarily before clearing back with some haste. Vandoren waits until they all are at least a rod away before he nods and calls out one word: “Flitten!”
The dagger springs up from his hand and hangs in the air before beginning to bounce and spin, as if hung on an unseen, jerking line. At this sight St. James laughs and steps forward, and as if in response to this motion the dagger leaps and tumbles to place itself directly between Vandoren and St. James.
“I wouldn’t step any closer,” says Vandoren, but St. James laughs again. The dagger then lowers its point until it aims directly at St. James, and then gently rocks back and forth in the air. The thief stops, looking quizzically at the magicked blade. Then he grins, draws his short sword, and steps forward.
Immediately the dagger leaps ahead to meet him. St. James slashes out with his sword, knocking the dagger away—but the knife spins and jumps back up, and again St. James has to bat it away with his sword. The dagger whirls back and up, then plunges down, straight for St. James’s throat, forcing him to take several steps back. The dagger loops around and swoops up, ripping through St. James’s cloak before suddenly dropping to the ground, lifeless.
“Well, well, well, now,” says St. James, bending down to pick up the dagger. “Wouldn’t this be fun to show to old Tim. Who wants my old dagger, which I hereforth so graciously offer to the good of the company. Vandoren, old friend—you perhaps?”
“I am not adverse to the dagger,” says Vandoren, “And in exchange, I would be willing, from time to time, to work on you, St. James, a Charm of the Cat’s Grace. Though I would also like some of the water from the Knowe. We gathered enough for two draughts, and strangely enough we have found these to have different properties, though drawn from the same well. A drink of one will quicken your wits, while the other will sharpen your eyes.”
“Whether you take one of the waters or no,” says Valerius, “you ought to take the dagger. We should try to distribute these enchanted weapons evenly amongst our numbers.”
“In that case, perhaps someone else should take my spear,” Hamral says.
“That spear,” intones Valerius, “was brought out of the Temple of the Medusae. I understand that it was one of a hundred spears fashioned by order of a Tynan Emperor.”
“Well, since I wasn’t at Bleary Knowe,” say Owen, “I would say that Marcus should get the spear, and besides, Renton has his helmet and now it sounds like Vandoren is getting a dagger.”
“That division seems as sensible as we are likely to reach,” says Valerius. “And for the time being, my considered opinion is that we should stay put here in Kirke’s camp. I understand that King Wenric is due to arrive here in the next few weeks, and following that the campaigns against the rucks can begin again in earnest. And I am most curious to learn what sort of rewards our new, dear friend and sovereign may have in store for us—we who have served him so ably in the last year.”
The camp of Kirke, near the Harplan border. XXIII Firstblome, Pentian Year Nine Hundred And Fourteen. Sext.
King Wenric of Selcrany, Count Durell of Kirke, Sir Hamral, Sir Will Garnfellow, Vandoren, Marcus, Friar Sidrach Landry, Mendelor, Renton, Valerius, St. James, Owen Grey, [various other lords and attendants].
No sallow youth, the King of Selcrany. Within his splendid tent, the monarch sits in a great inlaid chair of dark oak, a wide table spread before him, covered with maps, letters, ledgers, and other writings. Around the table sit his ministers and generals, while servants rush back and forth. Posted against the walls of the tent stand soldiers, dressed in chain byrnies and holding long spears.
King Wenric listens carefully while his vassals debate stratagems. Clearly the King has already seen more than forty winters; his broad, tanned face is serious, perhaps even tired. To his right stands Kirke, who is pointing to a spot on the map and explaining some detail of the terrain. Then Kirke looks up, notices the consortes standing patiently, and gestures to the King. The tent falls quiet. The King of Selcrany rises, and at this motion the consortes fall to their knees.
“Arise, arise,” commands Wenric, returning to his seat. “These, then, are the men?” he asks Kirke.
“Indeed, my Dread Lord. These are the men who brought your father’s body unto Heremac from the besieged Antace. It was they who hath so vexed the Princes Busirane and Argus, and it was one of their number who slew the wicked Prince Briareus.”
“Kirke here hath told us of your exploits, and we are sore amazed. Though most of you are of low birth, you hath served Kirke well in dark hours, and by doing so you hath served us well; by bringing honor to him you hath honored us. And thus we would reward those vassals for such service to the Throne of Selcrany.”
The King nods to one of his clerks, who darts from the tent only to return in a few moments accompanied by four men carrying strongboxes. The men place the boxes on the ground before the consortes, and the clerk moves deftly from one box to another, lifting the lid to reveal pile after pile of silver coins, mounded high.
“There is plenty coin enough there,” says King Wenric, “A goodly fortune, to be sure, but that is not all. We understand that Kirke has promised certain lands to one of you—Sir Hamral, is it?”
Hamral bows his head, and the King nods in response.
“In addition to the estate of Upchurch, we will convey to you certain other parcels of land from our holdings on the Frounter, with good fertile fields and orchards. And the title of these lands shall be granted to your heirs and successors upon your death, so that the sons and the sons of the sons of Hamral shall stand guard over the Frounter, just as their father did, and thus serve the crown for years to come. And with this land, we shall give livestock: good fat sheep, cattle, and pigs. And each one of you may choose a horse from our own stables.
“These gifts art but a small token of our appreciation. Know then, that this war with King Tereus shall not last forever, and that the ruck-men shall soon be thrown down, and their armies conquered, and the Pentians shall hold sway over these wild lands. And then, we shall need such brave and loyal men as you, to tame this wilderness, and enforce our law.”
The camp of Kirke, near the Harplan border. XXVIII Firstblome, Pentian Year Nine Hundred And Fourteen. Sext.
Sir Hamral, Sir Will Garnfellow, Vandoren, Marcus, Friar Sidrach Landry, Mendelor, Renton, Valerius, St. James, Owen Grey.
“And thus it begins,” says the fat knight, Sir Will Garnfellow, taking a deep drink of beer, and wiping his yellow beard. “From what I hear, lads, old Gregory is tearing through the ruckish armies to the south like a blazing fire through a dry wood. The Seekers have already captured Eredy and Gwynnon, and sacked two command posts. Poor Busirane has been on the retreat for weeks, thrashing this way and that, like a fish caught fast in the fisherman’s net. The Black-Blade bodies are being piled high, and the Risen continues to press east, aided by Sir Charles of the Axe. Meanwhile, the Brother-Knight Coston has joined with forces from Lownell to encircle Utterbol. They say that most of Nestor’s troops have deserted him, and that the Prince is holed up in the castle, unable to escape.”
“No doubt he shall stay put until he has drunk the entire contents of the cellars there,” says Vandoren, with a little shudder.
“I should think that King Tereus will meet the news of such setbacks with his accustomed grace and humor,” adds Marcus.
“Would that we had such luck here,” says Renton. “I’d like to see those witches of Argus shown some setbacks.”
“These raids are becoming as tiresome as they are frequent,” says Valerius.
“Did any of you see what befell last night?” asks Mendelor. “I was out stretching my legs when all of a sudden, there comes a thunderclap and then these lights are flashing all through the camps. I grab my axe and rush in, and there are a dozen of Argus’s riders, galloping through the middle of King Wenric’s sleeping army, with one of those damned queens working witchery this way and that.”
“Which one?” asks Valerius. “That is, which queen.”
“I think it was Devorah—the smaller one. She almost fried me up like a rasher of bacon with a bolt of witch-fire before they all disappeared into the night. We lost about twelve men, all told: nine killed and three missing, and maybe four horses killed as well.”
“Aye,” says Garnfellow. “The fourth raid in a week. Would that I had not drank so deeply of Kirke’s good ale last night, else I should have stood beside you last evening, friend Mendelor, with my Welsung in hand. Together we might have rebuked these enchanted raiders.”
“I’m sure you would have had something in hand, Fatty,” says St. James, “Although I don’t know to what use it might have served.”
At this, all laugh, Garnfellow loudest of all.