The Camps of Kirke, near the Harplan border. XX Sowing, Pentian Year Nine Hundred And Fourteen. Sext.
Sir Hamral, Sir Will Garnfellow, Vandoren, Marcus, Friar Sidrach Landry, Mendelor, Valerius, St. James, Owen Grey.
“Well, my merry rogues, you have done it yet again,” says Sir Will Garnfellow, slurping down the last bit of stew. The fat knight takes a long, hard drink of wine and laughs. “‘Twould seem that wherever you travel, the Maids Mischief and Disorder follow close behind. A right true riot you left there in Wolfgare. Ha! Hadst I but been there to see the sport, but alack for this damned ague of mine.”
“So tell us, Sir Girth,” says Vandoren, impishly, “just what is the word from Argus? And pray tell, how did you learn of all this?”
“Each day, it seems,” answers Garnfellow, “brings yon King Wenric here closer and closer to the perfumed halls and mirrored parlors of Argus. The villages of Kenton, Stratton, and Kenworth have all fallen to our armies within the last sennight, and the Prince’s cavalry relinquishes more ground with each new battle. And with each victory comes more lowly prisoners, pleading their wretched cases to King Wenric, and all telling the same old stories of the Ruck-Prince’s wrath.
“Not long after you delivered Argus his queen, and ransomed her for a dozen knights, then did some horrid monster—the unholy spawn of those damned witches, I wager—appear in the midst of the Prince’s castle, and there wrecked great havoc. The reports we have received vary wildly in the details, and no one is sure just what sort of deviltry befell, but it seems certain that many ruck-men died driving the thing back to hell.
“And if this effrontery were not enough, it seems that the much vexed Argus then turned his wrath against his newly returned wife, Devorah, and threw her into his deepest dungeons. Mayhap he was wroth that she had been captured in the first place, or mayhap he feared she had been spoiled by her contact with Pentian men. But in any case, he pronounced his doom upon the witch, with the full support of his other wives. I have heard that Argus ordered her put to death, and I have heard that she was to be banished from his lands. But no matter, for before this terrible sentence could be carried out, the Handmaid was freed.”
“Indeed?” asks Valerius, intently. “And just how did this hap?”
“She was aided, it is said, by the Captain of Wolfgare himself, a plucky ruck-man hight Phoebus. This ruck—if one can believe so fanciful a tale—actually bore aspirations of chivalry, and perhaps no small amount of affection for Devorah. And so, in the midst of a dark night, the Captain stole into the dungeons, freed the disgraced Handmaid, and the two fled into the wilderness, with the Riders of Argus hounding them every step of the way.”
“Gracious!” exclaims Friar Sidrach. “Have they yet been caught?”
“Nay, not yet,” answers Garnfellow, “And this injury and betrayal has driven Argus well nigh wood. I think Kenworth fell largely because the rucks had pulled most of their garrison out of the town to help in the search. Argus has vowed a slow, torturous death for both of them, once found.”
“Ha!” says St. James, before launching into a children’s rhyme, popular on the Frounter:
Four little witches casting spells at me
Burned one up and then there were three.Three little witches, hearts black as pitch
Cut off one’s head and buried it in a ditch.Two little witches angry and sore
Put one under water till she wriggled no more.One little witch sits sad and alone
Fed her to the dog, both meat and bones.
“How endearing,” mutters Valerius, offering a scrap of bread to Noxumbra.
The Camps of Kirke. XXV Sowing. Sext.
Sir Hamral, Sir Will Garnfellow, Marcus, St. James, Owen Grey, Pyers, Jacob.
Sir Hamral spurs on Fiasco, and the war-horse tears ahead with redoubled fury. The knight’s lance lowers, wavers a bit, and then aims straight and true. As the lance strikes home the target whips backward, shivering the shaft. Hamral wheels Fiasco about and draws Legrand, but there is nothing left to strike.
“A solid hit!” cries Sir Will Garnfellow, from atop his own horse Justicar. “Perhaps a bit more pepper than was necessary, but a decent enough hit, nevertheless.”
Beside the fat knight, Marcus and Owen, aided by Pyers and Jacob, struggle to saddle a stocky, obstinate horse with a shaggy red coat. St. James watches all with great amusement.
“By the Hammer, Marcus,” calls St. James, “why on earth would a Seeker choose one of those damned ruck-nags for his horse? Look at that beast kick!”
At this, young Jacob is thrown on his back with a gasp. Owen smashes both of his elbows into the ribs of the horse, which ceases its struggle long enough for the saddle to be secured.
Marcus pats the mangy animal warily. “There, there, Myreus,” he says, before swinging up and into the saddle. Marcus casts about, as if expecting the horse to buck, but the ruck-nag seems to ignore the rider. Satisfied, Marcus turns his attention to St. James.
“First of all,” says Marcus, “I am no longer a Seeker. And second, I chose Myreus here, because he’s a good strong horse, if ugly and mean-spirited. And what is more, I thought it would be a fine insult to Argus to come after him on one of his own horses.”
“Are you sure that things is a horse?” asks Owen, skeptically.
“The Seekers used to say,” answers Marcus, “that the rucks bred these things by crossing a horse with a wild bull for strength, an onanger for disposition, and a devil for ferocity. And from what I have seen, those tales may not be far off.”
“Well, I think one of those ruck-nags has been stabled too close to that horse of mine—that one you picked out,” says St. James. “The damned brute bit me twice this morning. If she bites me once more today, Fatty here will be eating her in a stew tomorrow.”
“I picked you out an excellent lively horse,” says Marcus with a smile. “Perhaps it is just the rider.”
As if on cue, Myreus bucks once, hard, and Marcus is tossed off, tumbling once completely around in the air before unceremoniously landing on the soggy paddock.
The Camps of Kirke. XXVII Sowing, Vespers.
Vandoren, Valerius.
“So, you feel you feel sufficiently competent to employ that wand?” asks Valerius.
“Indeed,” says the minstrel, picking up the slender shaft of yew. “You need only hold the wand in hand, set your sight upon an enemy, and utter the word of command—Narthalk—to launch a bolt of magick. Nothing to it at all.”
“Intriguing. I, of course, would not deign to use such a trifle, but perhaps you will make some modest use of it. I understand that its power is limited—is there any way to restore that power, once expended?”
“None that I know of,” says Vandoren, “So I shall take care to make good use of this device.”
“And as for these bracers,” says Valerius, “they appear to offer only modest protection, and I have other means that are far more ef·ficacious. Still, these may prove useful. I have not made up my mind about the carminae found on Devorah’s scroll. The formula for Coniure the Armour of the Magus has been known to me for many years, while the other formula is another matter altogether. Numa His Phastasm of the Magickal Aura is rather rare—Numa, of course, was a great sorcerer-king of ancient Eturia. This little charm is his greatest surviving claim to fame, although I am uncertain whether it is worth the bother.
“I find myself far more preoccupied with those precious items borne by Prince Argus. His shield and armor could be a benison to one of our warriors, but I am fascinated by that wand Devorah told us about, which gives the Prince the ability to persuade men. And what of that strange golden helmet that he wore, even in his own throne-room: the one fashioned like a man’s grinning face? The Handmaid did not offer us any details, but I am certain it must be enchanted.”
“Do you think the helmet is anything like Liam’s Helm, worn by King Wenric?” asks Vandoren.
“I do not think so,” says Valerius. “The power of Liam’s Helm is great indeed—far greater than I ever supposed whilst it was in our possession. Noxumbra tells me that the King used the Helm at Stratton, and that there it helped turn the tide of battle. And if I am not mistaken, the Helm shall know frequent use ere Wolgare falls and Argus is toppled.”