The Camps of Kirke, near the Harplan border. X Midsommer, Pentian Year Nine Hundred And Fourteen. Nones.
Sir Hamral, Sir Will Garnfellow, Vandoren, Marcus, Friar Sidrach Landry, Mendelor, Owen Grey.
“I suppose it was bound to happen,” says Sir Will Garnfellow, shaking his head ruefully. “Every dog has his day, and certainly we have had plenty of ours of late.”
“It is true, then,” says Friar Sidrach. “The stories we heard this morning?”
“True enough, I fear,” says Garnfellow. “Kirke’s armies were closing in on Argus, had him hedged round at Liscarroll, a day’s ride east of here. The order had just been given to begin the assault, when all of a sudden, a thunderstorm came over the vale.”
“Thunderstorm?” asks the Gerardian. “But it was perfectly clear yesterday in all directions. I had no inkling of any foul weather anywhere near here.”
“Some of Kirke’s commanders are saying it was no normal storm, but the work of witchery. For within less than an hour, the storm had turned the day as dark as night, with hail and rain a-beating down on the men, and the howling winds making all the Harpish archers nigh useless.
“Then Argus and his riders struck, catching Kirke’s left flank by surprise. And just like that—a day that had promised to see the Prince’s undoing instead gave us the Count’s rout. Many good knights fell yesterday, including Sir Kimsey, a man I knew from my days with Bellenore. A good lad, he was—terrible cheat at dice, I can avow—but with a kind heart.
“The riders drove Kirke back several miles, and it wasn’t until late in the afternoon that Kirke was able to rally his men and cease giving up ground.”
“Did anyone see those damned witches?” asks Mendelor.
“Indeed,” says Garnfellow. “Naome and Renah were both there, working their foul grammaries. Sir Brockbank, one of Kirke’s bodyguard, fell under some powerful enchantment and in the midst of battle tried to murder Kirke—nearly plunged his dagger into Kirke’s throat. It took four serjeants to restrain the bewitched knight. And if that were not enough, they say that the wives of Argus were protected by some new ruckish guard, fearsome troops not seen before by Kirke’s men.”
“Cataphracts,” says Sir Hamral.
“I though so at first,” says Garnfellow, “but on hearing more accounts, I am not so sure. These troops did not wear the green surcoats or display the banner of the three spires. And Cataphracts are large rucks, heavily armed and armored: in the field, they are like a terrible avalanche on one of the eastern mountain slopes: most difficult to set in motion, but once done they are all but unstoppable in their fury. From what I gather, the troops that Kirke’s men encountered yesterday were much faster and lighter on their feet than Cataphracts, displaying impressive sword-work and great discipline.”
“I would have just as soon gone the rest of my life without discovering new sorts of rucks,” says Mendelor. “I wonder if these troops are responsible for other recent losses. I hear that in the last few weeks Kirke has lost several patrols that were probing Wolfgare—the men gone without a trace.”
The Camps of Kirke. XV Midsommer, Tierce.
Vandoren, Valerius.
Vandoren and Valerius sit in the morning sun on the outskirts of camp, while Kirke’s soldiery drills in the adjacent field. The thin magician in black watches as Noxumbra hops and scratches around the roots of a withered ash tree.
“Upon further reflection,” says Valerius, “I have decided that the bracers should be given to the Friar, assuming he demonstrates enough sense to accept them. He alone stands to benefit from their aegis. As for the scroll, I think I shall retain it for now, in hopes of trading it for something more useful with that ruckish hedge-magician, Nod.”
“That seems sensible enough,” says Vandoren, “Though I did not come here intending to speak of those items. Have you heard the latest news?”
“I do not think so,” says Valerius. “What has transpired?”
“Word has come from the village of Kenton—one of the holdings captured by Kirke in the last few weeks. Kirke had posted a modest garrison there for safe keeping: a score or more of soldiers, a half-dozen serjeants, and a few knights. But yesterday, when some fresh troops arrived there, they found Kenton a ruins.”
“How large was the town?” asks Valerius.
“Small, very small,” answers Vandoren. “A hamlet without a parish of its own—perhaps a dozen families all told. But yesterday, Kirke’s men found nothing in Kenton but awful devastation worthy of Buisrane himself. Each and every building razed to the ground—every house and barn. The crops and trees all trampled flat, hacked down, or burnt. And no bodies to be found anywhere—of man, woman, child, or animal.”
“Curious,” says Valerius. “Such wanton destruction seems unlike Argus, whatever his other deplorable vices.”
“And there’s more,” says Vandoren. “The horses that Kirke’s men brought with them would not enter the ruins—they took fright and would not budge forward, for all the lashings meted out. And the dogs would not enter, either—these were good Werdric shepherds, too. Just sat at the parameters and howled forlornly, or pissed themselves.
“And within the ruins, Kirke’s scout found tracks. Monstrous tracks, like a bird’s in form, they say. But in size… each one of these tracks was as large as a kite shield.”
The Camps of Kirke. XXI Midsommer, Sext.
Sir Hamral, Sir Will Garnfellow, Vandoren, Marcus, Friar Sidrach Landry, Mendelor, Valerius, Owen Grey.
“Witchery,” hisses Mendelor. “The foulest, blackest witchery.”
“And you consider these men to be credible?” asks Valerius.
“Without question,” says the woodsman. “They were scared out of their wits. There’s no mistake of that.”
“Then, my son, why don’t you begin from the beginning?” asks Friar Sidrach.
Mendelor takes a deep breath and begins. “Kirke had sent more troops to occupy Kenton. Two score men-at arms now, with a dozen veteran serjeants and a half dozen knights, including Sir Richard Harbutt, one of Kirke’s best men. They set to work building a camp and digging in.
“Then, a couple of days ago, just before dawn, their dogs started barking—woke everyone up. So Harbutt ordered everyone on alert. They grabbed their weapons and waited. And after a little while, they heard something moving in the trees, something big.
“At this, a few of the soldiers lost their heads and ran, but most held their ground and waited. And then, they saw it—a monstrous Worm, one of the Shaithim’s own, they say, came roaring from the woods. Over eight rods long, breathing fire, the Worm fell on them and Harbutt’s men could not stop it. Their swords and spears were useless, and the Worm tore through their lines. In probably as much time as it has taken me to tell you about it, half of Harbutt’s men were dead or dying, torn apart by the Worm’s claws or blasted by its fiery breath. Most of the survivors turned tail and fled, while Harbutt and his remaining serjeants tried to hold off the beast long enough for his men to escape.
“Of the nearly three-score men sent to Kenton, only eight made it back to Kirke’s camp. The rest—including Harbutt—are lost, all lost.”