Before Antace Castle. XIX Wynding, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Fifteen. After Nones.
Lorn Pond glitters in the late afternoon sun, as black figures teem across its frozen surface. The tattoo of drums, blasts of horns, howls of rage, and cries of pain echo and resound from shore to shore as two armies meet, embrace, and push away.
Sir Milon of Nerwode, a tall, blonde veteran, spurs his tired horse on to reach his commander’s side.
“Good my lord,” pants Milon, “it all goes ill for us. Our horse cannot charge in these deep snow drifts, and the damned rucks are a-foot. Our line will not hold—we lost many men to their javelins, and your forces are wearied from this fighting. We must fall back to the castle, while the rucks have given us a moment!”
“Didst thou see Prince Busirane?” asks Sir Charles of the Axe, Castellan of Antace.
“Aye,” says Milon. “He was at the forefront, thrashing and yelling, though I could not clear a path to engage him myself. It seemed that wherever he swung his cursed sword, our men fell by the twos and threes. But my lord—shall I give the order to retreat to the gates?”
Sir Charles touches his bright red beard, about to respond to his knight, when the Castellan’s gaze shifts suddenly to the ruckish host in the distance.
“That’s why they pulled back,” whispers Sir Charles. “And so it comes.”
Looming over even the highest banner and tallest pole-arm in the ruckish host, a gleaming figure strides forward. Made all of brass, in the form of a mighty bull-headed man, the unliving monstrosity marches out to the front of Busirane’s army, and the now-hushed rucks reform their battle-lines well behind this new champion. The figure begins to march, relentlessly, toward Sir Charles.
Milon wheels his horse to face the champion, and draws his sword. “I shall lead a charge, my lord, while you make for the gates,” says the knight, his eyes grimly set on the advancing figure.
“Nay,” says Charles, and for a moment, he allows his broad, bearlike frame to slump in the saddle. But only for a moment. “Thy charge would avail us nothing—our weapons cannot harm this horror. Thou must lead the men off the pond, and make at thy best speed for Eredy and the Seekers there.”
“But my lord,” stammers Milon, “What of the castle?”
Sir Charles rubs the top of his flushed, bald head. “For thirteen years, this castle has been my charge, assigned to me by King Weremach himself. I swore an oath that I would never live to see it fall to the ruck-men. But the castle cannot hope to stand against this army, against that infernal engine. Fortunately, we had been warned that this wretched day was coming—which is why I ordered the women, children, and elderly evacuated days ago.”
“But what shall you do?” asks Milon.
“You need some time,” says Sir Charles.
“My lord, I cannot obey you in this,” pleads Milon. “No, let me lead the charge. I beg of you…”
Sir Charles, despite himself, laughs. “In all my days, I have never met a better knight than thee, my friend. But I must refuse thee this one, small thing. But worry not for old Charles here. I have served the crown for many a long year, and I have faced Busirane before. And I have drunk from the Chalice of Amalthea and am not afraid. So why shouldst thou be? I need but one man to carry my banner.”
And with this, Sir Charles turns his horse to face his tired and bloody men. “Is there a man here who will go with me, of his own free will?”
Immediately, one man steps forward in response: a homely, misshapen man.
“I will go,” he says.
Sir Charles frowns for a moment, then his face bursts into a smile. “I know thee—the priest’s man, Tom. So, thou wilst carry my banner, Tom Tuck?”
In answer, the homely figure at once grasps the tall stave that flies the banner of a black axe on a red field.
“Excellent!” roars Sir Charles, with a laugh. “Now Milon, it is time for thee to leave. Fare thee well, my friend! Tom, do thou see that piece of shoreline over there? We are making for that. And if I remember aright… ”
Milon, crestfallen, follows his lord’s command, and the battered forces of Antace turn and rush back to the shore, scrambling up the banks of the pond and toward the long road to Antace. Meanwhile, Sir Charles and Tom Tuck move south, parallel to the shoreline. The great brass figure never falters, but turns its slow, deliberate progress in the direction of the Castellan and his banner. The ruckish host pauses for a moment, and then begins to follow.
“Here, Tom!” says Sir Charles, after a time. The Castellan dismounts, and hefts his axe. “Right about here…”
And Charles suddenly brings his axe down on the ice’s exposed surface, sending streams of little white serpents slithering out from the blow.
“Yes!” says Charles, triumphantly. “There’s a little spring somewhere around here, and the ice is thin. Tom, if thou get a chance, I want thee to run for it. Make for the shore, and head for Dowdling.”
“I will not forsake you,” says Tom Tuck.
Sir Charles shrugs, and turns his attention to the metal monster rapidly bearing down on him, now only a hundred yards away or more. And behind it, the host of Black-Blades, spurred on by the furious cries of Prince Busirane.
The Castellan takes a deep breath and hefts his axe. The creature, as if in reply, raises its own axe. With less than thirty yards between the two, the ruck-men begin to slow. Sir Charles rushes forward, but the lifeless metal figure makes no sound. Over twice as tall as a man, the unliving giant dwarfs the Castellan. Sir Charles darts in and hacks at the thing’s left leg. The axe strikes home, but clangs off the figure with little visible effect. Without sound, the creature brings its own axe down, and Charles barely rolls out of the way, then brings down another blow hard on the thing’s arm, but again the blow seems to have no effect. The metal figure swings again, this time getting closer to the Castellan, the blow smashing into the creaking and popping ice.
Murmurs rise up from the ruckish host, and despite the roared commands of Busirane, the Black-Blade troopers begin to draw back from the battle. Sir Charles slips behind the thing and launches two quick but toothless hacks into the small of its back. The creature wheels, much more quickly than Charles anticipated and answers with a mighty swing. Sir Charles braces his own axe against the blow, but his axe is shattered, the shards flying into the snow as Charles is thrown to the ice on his back, a great bloody gash in the breast. The thing does not pause but brings its own axe up high for the killing blow.
Just then, a terrible cry of anguish resounds across the entire pond. Tom Tuck, still holding Sir Charles’s banner, rushes toward the towering monster’s back. He pulls up short, then lifts the banner up high and plunges the stave’s foot down upon the ice. And as he does so, the rucks gasp as Tom Tuck is bathed in a blinding, white fire. The stave strikes the ice, and a burst of white light flashes out. And as the rucks watch in terror, the surface breaks in an explosion of ice and water, and down into the black waters plunge Tom Tuck, the brass giant, and Sir Charles of the Axe, last Castellan of Antace.
The Great Hall in Upchurch. XXV Wynding, Sext.
Sir Hamral, Sir Garnfellow, Vandoren, Oswald.
“By the Cup!” exclaims Sir Will Garnfellow, who winces at the sudden exertion. The fat knight rubs his broken arm, still bound in a sling, and continues. “I cannot remember a week more filled with wonders. Antace Castle lost, the very same day that Utterbol Castle is regained? Would that my poor wing here were mended, that I might lend my sword to the King’s cause!”
“I fear there will be ample opportunity,” says Vandoren, “in the coming days.”
“Indeed, indeed,” says Garnfellow. “There’s time enough for great deeds yet, I vow.”
“Sir Garnfellow,” asks Vandoren, “have you heard any more news of Busirane’s capture of Antace? Did Sir Charles survive?”
Garnfellow shakes his head sadly, and pours himself another cup of Lady Alice’s good strong ale. “I have heard many accounts, none agreeing much with one another, save on one single point: we shall not hope to see the Axe again in this life, may the Five keep his soul. I would like to think he fell, as befits a great knight, in fierce battle with Prince Busirane himself.
“It seems that while Busirane was approaching Antace, his brother Typhon’s armies were stealing up on unsuspecting Dowdling, and took the Pentian forces there by complete surprise. Many good men were sent to the Shining Citie in that battle, I fear, and the survivors left to flee to Canglen.
“The Seekers at Eredy, however, fared much better. It seems that Prince Serapis was supposed to attack the encampment there just as Dowdling and Antace were engaged. But Serapis was late in reaching the field, and the Seekers were ready when his troops finally marched in. A hard fight, nonetheless, but the Seekers held the day, and the Black-Blades were forced to retreat to Antace.”
“And what of Derwich?” asks Hamral.
“I know what you wonder,” says Garnfellow, shaking his head. “They say that King Tereus himself, his cataphracts, and many other ruck-men now hold court in Derwich. And Prince Busirane has begun settling in to Antace, as if he means to stay there. The Seekers have already begun reinforcing Eredy. I hear that they are emptying the garrison at Hillsfar—and now that Sarpedon is dead, there’s little need for them there. How soon can we expect the Count to return to Utterbol?”
“By the week’s end,” says Vandoren. “Truth be told, I suspect he was quite surprised on hearing that Sir Hamral was handing his old castle back to him. And until he returns, Nestor’s troops are making sure that Utterbol is safe and secure.”
Garnfellow takes a deep drink of ale, his fat face flushed red. “I never imagined that I would live so long as to see ruck-men take communion.”
“Nor I,” says Oswald. “Or for that matter, seeing half the sights I have seen in these last few years. To think, real magicians living right here in Upchurch…”
“I would be careful, friend,” says Vandoren, “about speaking too much on such things. Magicians have… ways of learning things.”
Oswald blanches, and makes the sign of the Five. “I surely meant nothing by the remark, nothing at all. And it’s all common enough knowledge, nowadays. What man within two leagues of St. Lamar’s parish has not heard of my lord and his companions?”
At this, the psaltery sits on the table in front of Vandoren suddenly lets out a loud plink, as if of its own accord.
Vandoren smiles. “Think nothing of it, good Oswald. And what you say is true enow.”
“Where is that Valerius?” asks Garnfellow. “I have barely seen him since you returned to Upchurch!”
“He and Dominic have been occupied examining several items of interest that we recovered at Utterbol,” says Vandoren, rising to his feet. In the doorway stands Lady Alice Rowland.
Hamral, Garnfellow, and Oswald also stand up. Lady Alice nods demurely and enters the room
“Leave us now,” says Hamral, turning to his men. Vandoren, Garnfellow, and Oswald offer their farewells and obey their lord’s command.
“Sir Hamral,” says Lady Alice sweetly, one the room has cleared, “Have you had opportunity to consider my proposition to you? Would this meet with your approval? By your leave, I would like to intercede with Kirke on your behalf. I am sure he will give my rede on this matter great weight.”
“Such a union, good Dame,” says Hamral, “would be both an honour and a blessing.”
Outside Upchurch, XXVI Wynding, Tierce.
Valerius, Dominic, Helena, Hermia.
“Yes, yes,” says the gangling magician in black, gesturing with unusual animation. “Enchantment magics are all very useful in their own way. And the path of the Evocator, although crude, no doubt offers its own rewards. Conjuration, however, is an art. This is why you labor with even the most facile of my formulae. It is not that you lack intelligence—rather, a lack of focus and determination prevents you from attaining my command of the art. Know this, Dominic: the path of the conjurer is a dark one. On all sides there are dangers, dangers and temptations. The code of the conjurer is this: the Magus must presume complete and perfect mastery over every situation. By this code I live every hour of my life.”
The woods outside Upchurch are snowy, but the morning sun is bright and warm, and melting water drops from the overhanging pine boughs. Noxumbra hops along the base of a tree truck, poking her bill here and there amongst the roots.
“Fascinating, master!” exclaims Dominic. “And to think that I wasted so many of my youthful years listening to that fat fool prattle on about the mystic qualities of hoopoe birds and bat guano. He and his friends thought they were so clever, what with their secret meetings and their ‘dark’ rituals.”
“Yes, well, the number of charlatans out there is legion,” says Valerius, a bit absently. “Misguided fools, playing at forces that they simply cannot comprehend, nor would they wish to, if they had glimpsed but one fleeting glance of the sights I have seen. But tell me, how was it that you learned the true ars magica? Surely not from those buffoons?”
Dominic shrugs. “Well, while some of my masters were more foolish than the others, there was one true magus in the bunch, and he could manage a few simple cantrips and charms. Although at the time, I must admit, I was just as fascinated as the other acolytes. Luckily, we were not present when the Seekers arrived and ‘cleansed’ the meeting house.”
“Ah, I see,” says Valerius. “Best not to dwell on some things.”
“True, but they were fools, and the world should not mourn them,” says Dominic. “I see that the twins have returned.”
“Hello, children,” says Valerius. “What have you found?”
Helena and Hermia glance at each other and laugh—their round faces ruddy with mirth.
“We have some dried bulbs of the bluebell, Pater,” says Hermia.
“The wild hyacinth,” says Helena. “The wearer of the bluebell is compelled to tell the truth in all things. We were going to give some to Uncle Dominic, to see if he’d tell us his real name.”
“What?” says Dominic, “I don’t know what you’re…”
“Girls,” says Valerius sternly. “Remember your manners. Dominic is our friend. His secrets are his own, to reveal or conceal as he sees fit.”
“Yes, Pater!” answer Helena and Hermia together, with a giggle.
Dominic clears his throat and straightens his tunic. Valerius turns to him and almost manages a smile. “Do not worry about them, Dominic. You are a friend, are you not?”
Dominic nods.
“Good,” continues Valerius, watching as the girls trace strange figures in the snow with sticks. “Good. It is good that we are friends. I would not be like other masters unto you, or to them… . I believe that we few philosophers should be banded together in our common pursuit of the secret arts. I shall reward those mages that work with me, and those that will not… well, Narl was offered a hand of friendship. He was unwise to have spurned it.”
Just then Helena and Hermia both look toward the manor house, and there, slogging through the wet, heavy snows comes Vandoren, his panting dog Achrach padding along behind.
“I thought I would find you here,” says Vandoren, wiping the sweat from his flushed face. “Taking a break from your endless studies, eh?”
“Indeed,” says Dominic. “We have nearly completely our examination of the items from Utterbol.”
“We were planning to provide our findings to the rest of our company tomorrow,” says Valerius.
“That sounds fine,” says Vandoren. “While I have you two here, away from the others, I wanted to show you something.”
The minstrel draws forth the cunningly-crafted psaltery that was given him by the Kindly Ones of the Ormsnine.
“I thought there was much more to this instrument than met the eye, and I am only now beginning to understand how true that suspicion was. Its name is… Plucksome.”
And with this, the psaltery begins to play by itself, a jaunty little tune, sweet and strange and yet oddly familiar.
“You see,” says Vandoren, “I am not quite sure how to explain this. Plucksome is… aware.”
And with this, the psaltery changes its song, to something slower, more serious.
“Fascinating,” says Valerius, cocking his head.
At the sound of the magician’s voice, Plucksome resumes its jaunty song. But now there also come the sounds of invisible hands clapping time.
Helena and Hermia have crept close to the minstrel, their large dark eyes wide with delight. And they begin to sing, in a strange, beautiful tongue foreign to the three men who cannot help but stand and watch in surprise.
And then the music stops, and the clapping halts, and the singing ends.
“I would ask you to take an oath for me,” says Vandoren, looking hard at Valerius and Dominic. “That should anything happen to me, that you will immediately deliver Plucksome to Clement. No trading it for powders or rings, no letting St. Pilfer make off with it, but get it directly to Clement.”
And with this, Plucksome begins playing a sad, mournful dirge.
The Guest House in Upchurch. XXVIII Wynding, Sext.
Vandoren, Mendelor, Owen, Valerius, Dominic.
“My friends,” says Vandoren, as Plucksome plays softly upon the table. “Once more we find ourselves at a crossroads, with terrible forces vying to push us one way or another. However, for many a year we have endured a constant thorn in our side… a thorn that also wounds our friends in the Church and our allies with the Crown. Because of this thorn, we are no longer welcome where once we called home. Because of this thorn, our friends squabble amongst themselves and our enemies wax stronger. You all know well of whom I speak.
“Why, my brothers, must we continue to let shipments pass on to the enemy, shipments that are fueling the infernal sorceries of the ruck-men? Why should we not, once and for all, find some means to undo Tim Sharpe? Whatever protection he may bear, whatever friends he may have, we can overcome them. If we can capture castles, drive off devils, and slay hagges, dragons, and witches, why could we not rid ourselves of this one, wretched man? Or at the very least, cripple his enterprise…”
“Forget Tim,” says Mendelor, shaking his head. “When this war ends and Tim’s treachery comes to the light, then he shall pay in spades. I sleep well at night dreaming of him spending long torturous years in the dungeons beneath the Citadel. Nay, my friends—Tim is a small fish. We all saw how the foul Abbey affected the minds and hearts of good Pentian troops and how the tide turned when that evil was sent back to Hell. We must now throw down this Shellycoat, this curse of curses. Our role in this war has forever been in the shadows and there our path lies still. Come, friends, once more ‘til the light of the City calls us home.”
“Brave words, woodsman,” says Valerius. “Brave words indeed. Sir Hamral, I know, doubts that we can overcome this Shellycoat. But I am not so sure. If we have Sir Hamral, and the rest of you men assembled here, I should think we are more than a match. Or maybe it is the witches we need to destroy. But in any case, I think it is time to end the curse.”
Vandoren looks wistfully at his Plucksome, which now softly strums a martial song. “Pehaps Lady Geraldine knows something about Harplan,” says Vandoren. “I think she said she was from there. Maybe she would know something about Shellycoat…”
“Tim beat me within inches of my life,” says Owen, “and I still get chills and fevers when I hear anyone even say the word ‘witch,’ so a nice visit to Langdale Hall would be just the thing, as far as I’m concerned.”
“I am certain—quite certain—that Lady Geraldine does not wish us to bother her about such matters,” says Valerius, gritting his teeth and massaging his temples. “We. Do not. Wish. To wear out. Our welcome there.”
“There’s also King Tereus and his sons to consider now,” says Owen. “Personally, I would most like to go against Tim, but it doesn’t seem right without St. James around, so I guess my vote is to go after the witches and see if we can get rid of this curse.”
“Alas, newfound friends,” says Dominic, “much of what you have done still seems the stuff of legend to this poor, simple merchant. Yet fear not, for what aid I may offer, I offer freely. Please consider your enemies to be my enemies. But I have also heard you men talking of threats to Heremac. Now that Antace has fallen, is that where the ruck-men will attack next?”
“We have reasons to believe so,” says Valerius, quietly. “And reason to believe Heremac will not be able to hold back the tide.”
“Maybe someone should let Tim know,” says Owen, “that the same damned rucks he has been dealing with are coming after his town next. One more reason for us to go Heremac to kill Tim.”
“So what do you think we should do, Valerius?” asks Vandoren. “If Heremac is destined to fall, we cannot prevent it… can we?”
“Heremac will not fall,” says Mendelor, firmly. “It would take an army of thousands to breach the wall and then they would have to get into the Citadel. I think we did well in capturing Utterbol; now that Kirke need not worry about rucks in his lands he can march his army south. With the King’s power to the south, and Seekers and Kirke to the north, the rucks will be too busy holding their ground to worry about besieging a city as well fortified and protected as Heremac.”
“I agree,” says Vandoren, “That it would require a great army indeed to take Heremac by force of arms… but there are other means to capture a castle, are there not? Have you not seen sights with your own eyes that testify to the ability of the enemy’s spell-binders?”
“That is true,” says Dominic. “Though perhaps some of the treasures we brought out of Utterbol will assist us in whatever path we choose to take.”
And with this, Valerius gestures to a table laden with numerous pieces of equipment. “Behold, consortes,” says the figure in black. “I have pried many secrets from the items that we recovered in Utterbol. I can not help you with the poisons as the distasteful art of veneficium is something that I have chosen to remain uninformed in.”
“They are both blade venoms,” says Owen. “One is the common Black-Blade poison, which saps the strength from a man afflicted by it. The other poison seems much more potent, though I know little more.”
Valerius nods, appreciatively. “After much thought and debate with each of you, here would be my suggestions as to how best to divide these items. The ruck-coins, of course, along with the two enchanted ruckblades, can go to Nestor to reward his troops and to attract more of them. Dominic has already taken Narl’s spellbook for his own use. Narl’s armor and weapon, of course, are too small for any of us to use, though I know of someone who will likely be very interested in such goods. I hope to arrange for some sort of exchange with him.
“To Sir Hamral, I think should go this greenish, hay-scented potion. It will confuse the eyes of an enemy and make the imbiber harder to strike. And also to Sir Hamral should be given this clear, sweet smelling syrup. One draught will sharpen the drinker’s wits and strength in battle.
“To Mendelor should go these electrum bracers with a falcon design, which should shield him from harm. Likewise, to Vandoren, this brass ring, charged with protective magicks.
“To Owen, our expert archer, should pass these leather gloves, which will make his fingers even more nimble. Finally, there is this amber, mint-smelling liquid: a healing draught, which should go to either Mendelor of Hamral, I care not which.”
The Great Keep of Utterbol. IV Storming, Vespers.
Sir Durell Count of Kike; Sir Hamral.
Sir Hamral and Kirke are alone in what had once been the personal chamber of Prince Briareus, the same room where the greedy ruck-man had been hacked down by Mendelor. A few chairs have been brought in, and a table set down, but otherwise the chamber is still empty. Kirke paces the room, scratching his dark beard flecked with grey.
“Once more thou hast rendered unto me a great service,” says Kirke, “And I find myself hard-pressed to express my gratitude. There were nights, dark night, when I never thought I would ever set foot again in this castle. Didst thee suspect, Hamral?”
“No, my lord,” says Hamral.
“The capture of Utterbol was the one bit of good news amidst too many days of much bad news. The loss of Antace is a great blow, and the presence of Tereus in Derwich bodes ill. And to the north, my peasants are abandoning their homes in droves and fleeing to the west, leaving fewer and fewer hands to till my fields and answer my calls to arm. Not that I blame these poor carles: they fear a terrible curse from which I cannot deliver them.
“I indebted to thee for returning Utterbol to my control. I have a great many vassals under me, Hamral, many good men, and many great knights, knights from noble lines that stretch back to Tynar’s glory. And yet, I sometimes think, that if I had but a score of men like thee, I could drive the ruck-men from the Frounter in a mere sennight’s campaign. What dost thou think?”
“I do not know, my lord,” says Hamral.
Durell stops his pacing and turns to Hamral, nodding. “I have deemed thee a man of few words, a simple and honest man. Thou art as out of place at court as a fish in the wood. Thou were wise to let Lady Alice speak on thy behalf. She is clever, most clever, and always knows just the right words to say. Clearly, she thinks highly of thee, and that is another credit to thy name.
“But I must tell thee, what she asks is not easy, nor is it a simple thing to grant. I have many considerations, many more than thou could probably imagine. And this thing… I have many men who have coveted this; important men, loyal men, men of power.
“But no—I see by thy face that thou wish to take back the request. That cannot be. I have slept on the matter, and I have reached my decision. Of all my father’s vassals, Derwich was perhaps the one he loved the most—a great house that long held our lands safe. The pitiless slaughter of the Baron and his household broke my heart. Little Frederick was to have squired for me, when he came of age.
“Lady Alice also felt this tragedy all too keenly, as the Baron was her uncle. And thus, she has taken an abiding interest in the welfare of her cousin, the sole survivor of the Baron’s family—the girl Isabelle, who has spent the last five years in the nunnery at Heremac.
“She is a quick and lovely girl, and many of my knights have pressed me for the right to marry her. But Lady Alice’s words have won me over. And so, if Isabelle is willing, you and she shall be wed. And if, Five grant, we are able to ever regain Derwich, I should like you to inherit the estate.”