Outside Heremac, XXII Whitland, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Fifteen. Prime.
High, high in the darkened skies, the shape banks hard and rises, until the first rays of dawn over the distant Sheldings catch on its bronze wings and gleam forth. The eagle does not feel the freezing bite of the winds that bear it up, and its unliving eyes are cast downward on the gloomy scene below.
Westward, across the river, the City of Heremac sits on the bluffs above the Corin, encircled about with tall stone walls and guarded by Pentian soldiers. And ringed about those walls sits another city, built of wood and canvas, where fires burn and an enemy army waits.
The eagle catches sight of something now and banks again, dropping back down into darkness. It streaks across the river choked with ice, above the tangle of ropes stung over the Corin and the ruckish barges that slowly creep along those lines.
Set off from the city stands a tall, round fortress made all of stone: the Seeker Redoubt. Near the base of this structure, the eagle spies movement, small figures converging on a central point. Without a sound, without hesitation, the eagle adjusts the course of its flight and then plummets into a dive.
On the ground, ruckish horns sound the alarm. Veteran serjeants roar orders and crack whips as bleary-eyed rucks swear and fall into line. And above the tumult, one voice is heard, screaming furiously in the darkness.
“Blood! His blood for my father!” roars the voice of Prince Busirane, his face contorted in rage. The prince snatches up the helmet of his dead assistant, then howls and throws it futilely away, while the remainder of his bodyguard keeps a wary distance away from their master’s wrath.
Ahead, well beyond the Prince’s reach, swirls a great press of Black-Blades, their swords drawn, encircling one man who makes a slow, determined push toward the walls of the Redoubt, leaving in his progress a wake of ruckish corpses.
The man’s clothes, once plain and simple, are now splattered with blood, though little of it his own. His shield, adorned only with a simple blue pentifix, is battered but intact. In his other hand he holds a short sword of antique design. All around the man, ruckblades rise and fall against him, but miraculously, most of the blows are turned aside. Meanwhile, the man answers as he can, slashing this way and that with his sword, dropping one Black-Blade after another. At times, the man seems to hardly notice the confusion of screaming ruck-men all around him, his piercing blue eyes focused only on the Redoubt before him, as he moves, inch by slow, bloody inch, toward his goal.
Down into this dark mass of bodies swoops the eagle, its razor-sharp talons opened to seize the man. The ruck-men around him cry out in fear and fall to the ground, and at the last moment the man brings up his shield, which the eagle grasps and violently tears away before flying off into darkness. Given a lull, the man sprints forward, the Redoubt now only twenty yards distant. The stunned rucks recover and take up the chase. Just then, a fusillade of crossbow bolts is launched from the Redoubt, and a score of ruck-men are dropped in their tracks. Two hidden doors in the base of the fortress now swing open, and ten Seeker-knights emerge, their swords striking out against the surprised ruck-men. The Seekers open up a path to the man, who stumbles toward them. And before the ruck-men realize what has happened, the Seekers and the man have disappeared within the safety of Redoubt.
Inside, a terrible, high-pitched howling can be heard from the ruckish army outside. At the sound, even the most seasoned knights look at each with apprehension. Meanwhile, a grim-looking, broad-shouldered Seeker advances on the man.
“Reginald,” says Gregory, offering the exhausted knight a drink of water, “What word do you bring from Canglen?”
“Bishop Martin sends his prayers unto you and your Order,” says Reginald, taking a long deep drink, then wiping the sweat from his bloody brow. “And bade me bring this news: the Pope has declared a Crusade. Even as we speak, brave warriors from all of Pentiandom are taking up their swords and vowing to deliver Heremac from the abominations. The Holy Church promises that the Shrine shall not fall into the hands of Tereus.”
Gregory nods, approvingly. “How soon could we expect this relief?”
“His Excellency believes that the first crusaders should begin arriving on the Frounter by summer’s end.”
“Summer’s end? ” says Gregory, “I fear that may not be nearly soon enough.”
The Great Hall in Upchurch, XXIV Whitland. Nones.
Vandoren, Mendelor.
The minstrel and the woodsman sit on a bench near the great hearth. Mendelor sharpens his axe Witcheswoe and Vandoren strums on his psaltery Plucksome.
“It seems as though going to Heremac,” says Vandoren, “would be signing our own death warrants given that Tereus, Busirane, and probably the Popinjay are there in force—that is, unless the magician is still playing with his Colossus.
“If Tereus and his Cataphracts could be lured away by the promise of recovering Narthanc, could the Seekers destroy the remaining armies and Busirane? Perhaps we could commission Nestor to gather a band of his Ebon Quill, take the ruckblade far, far, away and send a message that he’s got it and if the King or Prince want it back, they’ll have to pry it from his dead hand.”
Mendelor looks thoughtfully for a moment. “I agree that Narthanc should go to Nestor. Perhaps this is the shepherd’s staff that Purer dreamed of? In any case, it is time for the Ebon Quill to march, for the Seekers and others to recognize that the Pentian rucks are needed if this siege is to be broken and their asses saved. Kirke should be informed that the same army that liberated his home desires to fight alongside him and the great army of the north should move south.
“As for us, I think the liberation of Derwich would be a good goal. Let us keep Tereus in the field like the worm he is. Without a safe place to the north to retreat to, he will be forced south to Antace. And between Kirke and the Seekers and the King’s army in the south, the noose will surely tighten quickly. They have rolled their dice. Now it is our turn.”