[From the Histories of the Northern Emperors]
15. As you approach the northernmost reach of the Empire, the land becomes increasingly infertile, inhospitable, and cold. To the north, across the rushing Tyrn, lie unconquered lands that are still held by the savage Brynn tribes to this very day, and past those lands are said to stand impassable mountains where winter never leaves. To the east, beyond Demerian’s great wall, are wild and hilly lands, home to the multitudinous Ruchaen tribes. Past their tumultuous kingdoms rise the Shelding Mountains, where it is said dwell giants, mighty serpents, and a race of men who sleep six months out of the year—though I have not yet met any traveler who claims to actually have seen such sights with his own eyes, and thus I am not inclined to afford these accounts much weight.
16. In those years the protection of the frontier was entrusted to the general Sertorius, the son of the hero Varrus the Younger who was in turn the conqueror of Gameni and heir to an ancient Tynan lineage of fine repute. One winter, a powerful queen arose in the wild hills beyond the Wall: one Dodona, said to be the daughter of a famed Ruchaen king. She was a shrewd and merciless matriarch who had successfully united several of the normally fractious tribes of Ruchaens, and she had also allied herself with several like-minded Brynn chieftains, turning them all against the Empire. And so it was that this queen had grown so bold that she refused to give tribute unto the seal of the Empire, thus forcing Sertorius to march forth with several legions against her to put down this uprising. But the Queen proved an able strategist, even for a woman, which is not unusual amongst the barbaric peoples, and so she led Sertorius into a cunning trap, and his Tynan legions were utterly shattered at Hellaen Bridge and Sertorius was forced to withdraw, humiliated. News of the rout soon spread throughout the frontier, and in the following days the Queen’s confederacy swelled greatly until it numbered over four thousand strong. Emboldened, Dodona pressed her armies into the Tynan lands and sacked the outpost at Heremacum. And so the general Sertorius found himself and his few remaining legions beset on three sides by the enemy, with the river Corin to their backs. And the general spoke to his men: “Hold fast now. Do not give one bit more of ground to the enemy!”
17. Just as Dodona was about to order her final assault on the Tynan position, there came in the distance a sound as of thunder, and the Queen and her armies exulted at the noise, just as the Tynan troops despaired, for both sides believed that the terrible sound surely heralded the coming of a new Ruchaen host to the field, for the Ruchaens were wont to have their approach announced by a cacophony of drums, horn-blasts, and shouts. But as the sound grew louder the Tynans took heart, for they could see, on the other side of the river, the tall trees of the forest giving way as a monstrous shape came forth, and with each step the ground shook as if from an earthquake.
18. And presently, forth came into view a Colossus, over forty-four cubits tall, its bronze figure cast in the image of Marnes, the lord of battle and patron of Tynan soldiers. A product of the mighty Adepts, its breastplate was marked with the emblem VIIII, to signify its rank as the last made of its kind. With only six steps the Colossus crossed the mighty Corin, swollen with spring rains, and then it strode directly into the midst of the Ruchaen host. To their credit, among the Ruchaens were numerous veterans of the many bitter campaigns against Tynar, and these warriors had previously faced many terrible conjurations and other magical sendings called forth by the Imperial Adepts. And so the Ruchaens did not at first give ground before the fearsome giant.
19. But the Colossus burned with a terrible fire, as of a dozen roaring forges, such that its mighty form shimmered in the sun, and all that came within a bowshot were burnt badly. The Colossus waded through the Ruchaen lines, stooping to sweep its arm across their ranks, as a man might pass his hand across blades of tall grass. With each blow more than a hundred, and half again that many, were slain outright. Wherever the Colossus moved, the Ruchaen host withered and fell away. In the space of an hour, one third of Dodona’s power lay dead or dying, until finally the entire confederation broke and fled before the undisputed might of Tynar. Until that day, the Ruchaens had feared no thing more than the wrath of their cruel queen. By day’s end the Colossus had given them some new thing to fear.
Within the Wizard’s Magnificent Mansion, Location and Time Unknown.
Sir Hamral, Vandoren, Friar Sidrach, Mendelor, Owen, Renton, St. James, and Valerius.
“Gah, my head hurts,” groans Owen, rubbing his temples. “So hard to keep my thoughts straight.”
“Me too,” says Mendelor, his voice thick and slurred. “Is like being drunk on ruck-nog, but not as fun.”
“Sounds awful,” says Vandoren. “You both have my condolences.”
“Damn stupid witch-bugs,” says Mendelor.
“I have a feeling it’s not just going to be a nice walk out of the mountains,” says Owen.
“I should expect not,” says St. James. “That would be far too easy, now, wouldn’t it? That was quite the lovely little entrance we made up there, eh, lads? I would hate to miss the follow-up.”
“I am not sure, my sons,” says Friar Sidrach, “about St. James and I leaving you to face the dangers of this mountain alone. Perhaps we should stay?”
“If Dominic and Purer are able to find us here,” says Vandoren, “I think we will be fine.”
“Yeah, and I don’t think either of them will try to call down holy fire on top of me,” says Mendelor.
Owen shakes his head, and winces. “Oh, here is another thought, what if where we are is not anywhere near where Hecatesseus’s hideout is? I mean, it seems to me that we had a two room cave with a few traps. If I were a master wizard this might be a great place for people to think I’m hanging out. Where or how did we find out that his place was up here in the mountains? He could be anywhere up here.”
“But fortunately, you are not a master wizard, now are you?” snaps Valerius. “I thought not. If this were a ruse, it was one dearly bought. No, I think we are in the correct location but we must have missed a secreted door.”
“Whatever,” says Owen, “but in any case right now we have a swarm of mind-eating copper dragonflies that are pretty hard to hit with a sword. Oh, and on top of that our spells just keep bouncing back to us. I would say we need send some of Valerius’s creatures into the cave to snoop around while we hang out in the mansion but there is the problem that Hecatesseus now knows we are here. So now what do we do?”
“We unleash hell,” says Valerius, standing up.
“That really worked out great last time,” says St. James. “And he wasn’t even there and he didn’t know we were coming. So now he knows we are here so I’m sure we won’t have any problems at all?”
“Hey, I say we send in some of Valerius’s creatures,” exclaims Mendelor, hopefully. “Just send the monsters in!”
“You men do understand,” says Valerius, “that there are certain aspects of our foray that could have executed with considerably more perspicacity. With but a little more preparation I shall have the means to dispatch those trifling gnats, particularly if Dominic is with us.
“Because of our missteps, we never had the opportunity to unleash hell on our enemy. I do not expect Hecatesseus to be so fortunate twice in a row.”
The Great House at Upchurch, III Wynding, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Sixteen. Sext.
Sir Will Garnfellow, Oswald, Old Hamral, Nym, Bardolph, Leofric, Elmer, Jacob, Pyers.
In the great hall, Sir Will Garnfellow groans and slumps back in his tall chair at the end of the large oaken table.
“What is it that ails you, Garnfellow?” asks Oswald. “You thrash and moan like a newly cut steer.”
“Alack,” says Garnfellow, glumly. “I fear your keen eyes have pierced even my bold front. ‘Tis an old wound of mine, suffered in one of my long-past campaigns. And the cold makes it sing. And then there is this damned gout in my right foot, so grievous that I can barely stand, much less swing a sword. And then there is this toothache, which has kept me awake for three nights running.”
“Good knight, you are falling to pieces,” says Nym, the one-armed veteran.
“Aye,” says Garnfellow. “‘Tis but a few of the many plagues of old age. Do not let yourselves grow old, lads!”
“What other choice is there?” says Pyers.
“Indeed,” says Garnfellow. “That’s true enow, but enough talk of my sufferings, however piteous. On to our patron’s business. How stands the defenses of Upchurch?”
“We continue to hear of ruckish bands, raiding further and further afield of Heremac,” says Oswald.
“I feared as much,” says Garnfellow. “With each winter month that passes, the rucks grow hungrier and bolder, and their soldiers range closer and closer to Upchurch. We must be ready, lads, for these wolves shall soon be on our doorsteps.”
“Is there any more word from Heremac?” asks Old Hamral.
“Father Anselm has heard a few things, but nothing encouraging,” says Garnfellow. “Tereus and his sons continue to keep the town in a stranglehold. They have not yet breached the walls, but the Seekers are growing increasingly concerned. The rucks have veritable devils for engineers, and are slaving night and day tunneling away beneath the Redoubt, working to undermine the fortress.
“The Seekers have launched several sorties from the city, hoping to disrupt these efforts, but each time Prince Busirane has been waiting. All of these expeditions have been slain to a man, their corpses strung up on scaffolds and displayed before the walls of Heremac.
“These are dark days, lads. We have not heard from Sir Hamral since before the Yule, and we have no way of knowing when—or even if!—he and his men may return from their dangerous quest. So we must be ready to defend Upchurch with what strength we have here, against whatever force should be sent against us.”
Upchurch, VI Wynding, Tierce.
Dame Alice Rowland, Lady Isabelle, Maid Martha.
The morning sun hangs high, bright, shining off the snowy fields and yards of Upchurch. Lady Isabelle shivers in the cold air and draws her cloak tighter. Although she is in her late twenties, and thus quite old for a newly married woman, and although she is a little taller and thinner than is the normal preference, she is considered by most to be quite pretty: fair-skinned, with long red-gold hair and dark, searching eyes.
Tiny Lady Alice does not seem to heed to cold, her attendant Martha at her heels.
“That building over there,” says Alice, pointing, “is the summer kitchen. When it is too hot to use the ovens in the great house, we move out here. Eve Curry, the cook, rules the roost, although you will be expected to keep an eye on this, as well, as part of your duties as lady of the house. Since all of the villagers use our ovens to bake their bread, it can sometimes get quite hectic, and you may be called upon to settle a squabble or two. Eve, while a fine cook, has little patience or interest in diplomacy.”
“Let us hope there will enough grain left to bake bread this summer,” says Isabelle.
“Quite right,” says Alice. “Which reminds me, we should see Father Anselm later today. As almoner, he is charged with dispensing charity for the parish. But with our numbers swollen by all those poor refugees fleeing the rucks, his resources are stretched thin. We must see what we can do on behalf of your husband to help these wretches, though all the coins in the realm cannot buy food where there is none to be bought.”
“I have counted out the stores in the great house nine times,” says Isabelle, “and each time it looks like there will be little corn left before the first threshing.”
“In times of hunger, even the lords and ladies go without,” says Alice. “I shudder to think of those poor souls crowded in Heremac. But what say we continue on, and get you inside before you catch your death of cold? You look miserable, poor girl.”
“I am fine,” says Isabelle.
“Good, good,” says Alice. “Over here is the spinning house. Come Midsommer, the shearing will begin, late in the month. We have some fine sheep here in Upchurch, and best fleeces came from our wethers. As lady of the house, you will be expected to oversee the spinners as they spin wool from Sir Hamral’s sheep, weave it into cloth, dye it, and sew it into clothes.”
“I fear I have never had much knack for any of that,” says Isabelle.
“In which case, might I suggest that this might be a good responsibility for your husband’s mother, Elsbeth? I am given to understand that she is a talented weaver herself, and this will give her something to do around here.”
“I think that might prove a fine arrangement,” says Isabelle. “I always feel as if I have so precious little to say to her, perhaps this will give us something to talk about.”
“I would not take offense at Elsbeth’s silences,” says Alice. “She is, of course, common born, and you are the daughter of Derwich. There is little precedent for this situation, but you must nonetheless afford her every honor due the mother of your husband, regardless of the station she was born to.”
“Indeed,” says Isabelle, her eyes suddenly darting to the stone well beside the summer kitchen, and the two little girls now standing over the well where no one had been just moments before. The two girls, identical in features and dress, look up with their round, red faces.
“All hail, ladies,” cry the girls in unison.
“What are you two girls doing by that well?” asks Alice. “You must be careful not to fall in.”
“We were just looking, Lady,” says Helena sweetly, batting her green eyes.
“Have you received any word of late from your master?” asks Isabelle.
“We have not heard from him,” says Hermia, patting her curly hair, “though we have seen him in the waters of the well.”
“What is this you say?” demands Isabelle, a little sharply. “What do you mean?”
The girls look at each other and giggle before responding together:
For though he fights in distant lands,
Thy husband, Hamral, still withstands.
But he must pass through dangers more
Before he spies Upchurch’s door.
And should he not return, attend:
His son shall come ere summer’s end.