The Great House at Upchurch, IX Wynding, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Sixteen. Sext.
Sir Hamral, Vandoren, Old Hamral, Mendelor, Renton, Owen.
Mournfully, over and over peals the lone bell in the chapel of St. Lamar. The great hall of Upchurch lies ruined, its walls and floors scorched black, its roof rent open to the cold grey morning skies above. Sir Hamral treads among the sodden ashes, here and there prodding the fallen rafter beams with his foot. Beside him follows his father, limping and sullen.
“I would give Oswald some time,” says Old Hamral, shaking his head. “The poor fellow is taking Leofric’s death quite hard, like any father would. I’ve buried two of my own boys to the rucks, and it were the hardest things I have ever done in my life.”
Sir Hamral nods at his father’s words.
“I know this must all seem a terrible loss, son,” continues the Bailiff’s father. “But you should be some proud of your men, some proud. It was Pyers and Jacob, up in the watchtower, who first spotted the damned rucks coming up the road. And they sounded the alarm, and that gave us all a chance to ready ourselves as best we could.
“But there were so many of them, at least a score of those Cataphracts, and another score of Black-Blades. Your lady, Isabelle, she kept her head through it all: really showed her breeding, she did, a real daughter of Derwich. She it was who organized the evacuation of women and children while Sir Garnfellow, he directed our defenses.
“That Garnfellow, in but a lick had cooked up a clever ruse that probably saved our skins. He and Oswald and Leofric came after the rucks head-on, they did, on horse, while the rest of us we circled back around through the Countspark, so as to come up on the rucks from behind. While the rucks were gawking at Garnfellow we were able to steal up and pitch a few volleys of arrows into their backs, something they didn’t like one bit. Shook the hell out of them, and gave us time to close ranks.
“But once those miserable rucks picked themselves up off the ground, they weren’t long in getting the upper hand on us. See, the thing is there were just so many of them. And your men… well, they were as brave as could be, and that’s the honest truth. But these rucks, they were veterans. And then that damned wissard appeared.”
“They couldn’t have marched all the way from Derwich, could they?” asks Owen.
“No,” says Mendelor. “In this weather that would have taken them four days or so. My guess is that they came from Heremac. Once Hecatesseus knew we were poking around his lair, he probably went straight to his king, crying for revenge. We should have known he would do something like this while we were up in the mountains. We should have known.”
The woodsman shakes his head sadly and Renton spits.
“If true,” says Old Hamral, “Then that wissard must have been some mad, for he came with enough troops to wipe Upchurch clear off the map. We tried to give them a fight of it, though. I got knocked about pretty good myself, and I’ve taken some licks in my day. I know Oswald was giving it to them, with his Leofric fighting right beside him. We tried to hold our ground, but the rucks kept pushing us back toward the big house. Garnfellow had his old horse killed right out from under him, and when he fell I thought for sure he had broken his neck. But he came right back up hollering and swinging. He probably gave the rucks their due more than any two of the rest of us. I saw him run at least three of those Cataphracts through, and I’ve heard others say that he must have killed at least nine of them, all told. And I saw Garnfellow take a couple of blows that would have probably sent me right to the Shining Citie.”
“Mayhap Sir Girth was not all talk, after all,” says Vandoren. His psaltery, propped up against a blackened table, begins playing a slow, sad, air—though no visible hand plucks its strings.
“Indeed,” says Old Hamral. “He really did fight like a lion. But the rucks kept coming. And soon Garnfellow’s man, Nym, the one with only one arm, he went down, took a ruckblade in his gut. And young Bardolph, well, that wissard changed him into a hedgehog. I never saw anything the like. First there was Bardolph, and then there was this hedgehog. We still don’t know where the hell that poor boy is—I’m worried one of the dogs ate him in all the hurly-burly. And then both Jacob and Pyers fell next: they were hurt pretty bad, but our friend Purer says they’ll both live.
“The rucks had pushed us right up to the doorsteps of the manor house by the time you returned, and not a moment too soon—praise be the Five. The rucks threw their torches up on the roof, but old Garnfellow, he fought right to the very last, wouldn’t let any of those rucks step one foot in Upchurch house. But then one of the rucks caught Garnfellow’s sword just so, and broke the blade clean off, and then those animals cut him down where he stood.”
“Would that we had come but a little sooner,” says Mendelor.
“In any case,” says Old Hamral, “after you drove off the wissard and took care of his rucks, we were able to take stock of the damage this morning. Those bastards burnt down three farm houses, and you can see here what they did to the great house. The rucks killed four farmers, and poor Father Anselm was knocked stone cold, but Purer says he’ll be fine, as well. We still haven’t reckoned how many livestock are lost: what the rucks didn’t kill they drove off into the woods, and it might be weeks before we’ve rounded up the last pig and sheep. One of your granaries was burnt and almost all the stores kept there were lost. We probably would have lost the whole of the great hall, if Valerius hadn’t sent that walking wall of water in to douse the flames.”
Hamral kneels and from the ashes picks up a charred section of cloth emblazoned with a sooty raven.
“Once Oswald gets back on his feet,” says Old Hamral, “he and Hamlin Sayer can start getting this roof patched back up. Probably be several weeks before you could move back into the great house. In the meantime you can stay in the chapel, though it will likely be a snug fit. That little church is already crammed pretty tight what with all the refugees, and your barns too for that matter. But we’ll make due, we’ll make due.”
“And where is Isabelle now?” asks Hamral.
“She was leading the women to Kirke,” says Old Hamral. “I was worried about them last night, but not so much this morning. Those two girls… you know, the ones Valerius takes care of? Hecatesseus sent some of his rucks off after the women, followed them into the woods with some terrible mischief in mind, I’m sure.
“But those two girls fell back and let the rest of the womenfolk go on ahead. A dozen rucks went into those woods, hot on the trail of Isabelle. But pretty soon, every one of those rucks found themselves as lost as could be. We came upon a few stragglers this morning, and they each told us a strange tale. It seems that, out there in the wood the rucks kept seeing queer little lights, lights that led them in circles and into boggy ground, and all the time the rucks kept hearing strange noises in the wood, horns and hoots and suchlike. A couple of times they swore they saw a lone rider on a grey horse, galloping headlong through the darkness.
“By morning those rucks were scattered and lost and scared out of their wits. The wretches we found this morning were as shaky as a wet cat. And a little further in the wood, we found three more. Each of them were tangled up in thorny brambles, wrapped tight like a package, their throats all slit. Damnedest thing.”
Mendelor looks at Vandoren, and scowls.
“Which reminds me,” says Old Hamral. “What should we do with the bodies of all these rucks?”
“Burn ‘em,” says Renton, spitting again.
“Yes,” says Sir Hamral. “Heap them up and burn them all.”
Just then, a great commotion sounds in the yard outside. Sir Hamral steps to the doorway to see dozens of armed men riding into Upchurch, each man wearing the livery of Count Durell. One rider on a brown horse breaks off from the rest, wheels toward the manor house, and dismounts.
“My lord,” says Lady Isabelle. “We rode as hard as we could from Kirke. I did not expect to find you and your friends here, though it is a most welcome sight. Well you can see what tragedy has befallen us.”
“Aye,” says Sir Hamral. “Though I am told it all would have been much worse but for thy quick action.”
Isabelle bows her head. “Would that I could have done more. I see that there is much to be done now to restore Upchurch. And there is much for me to tell you. But that, at least, can wait.”
Within the Magician’s Magnificent Mansion. Date and Time Unknown.
Vandoren, Mendelor, Renton, Owen, Dominic Gadling, Valerius.
Plucksome, the wondrous psaltery, sits on the small table, its strings sounding out the notes of a song while Vandoren pats Achrach and softly sings,
Garnfellow! Garnfellow!
His beard golden yellow!
Wonderful tales weaves he!
He calls for his pottage
And he calls for his mug
The terror o’ rucks is ‘e!
“Has anyone else thought of a bunch of other things we could have wished for with that ring?” asks Owen, fletching an arrow.
“Yes,” says Vandoren. “Many times in the last few days. Why did we not just wish for Hecatesseus to drop dead?”
“As if it really were all as simple as you two suppose,” snaps Valerius. Noxumbra, sitting beside him, ruffles her feathers and caws, angrily. “You are speaking of the most puissant of magick known to mortals. One can not just rush headlong into such ventures. There are costs—there are always costs, just as there as always risks, whenever one works such power.”
It is quiet in the magician’s house.
“All right,” says Owen, after a long time. “So I guess we could not have just wished the Popinjay to die—fine, fine. You’re the expert. But the Colossus, that’s not a living thing, at least not yet. It’s just a lump of metal right? So couldn’t we have just wished it to the bottom of the ocean, or wished it destroyed altogether?”
Valerius looks darkly at the archer, but before he can speak Mendelor stands.
“Enough of this talk,” says the forester. “Let us go to our lord Kirke, gather an army, call upon Nestor and the Quill, and go kill this blasted spell-weaver for his trespass. It seems to me that this bronze giant is more important than breaking the siege at Heremac. So let us destroy it before it is activated.
“Certes, the Popinjay will come flying out against us. And probably he will turn a few of us into rabbits or something else unnatural-like. But such are the perils the Five hath laid before us. It was folly to put our trust in some worm tool! Given a thousand wishes we could have done no better than returning to Upchurch when we did. We killed a goodly number of his troops and taught him a little respect. He will not underestimate our powers again. So I say let us go now and bring our revenge back to him.”
Once more silence falls in the echoing halls of the mansion.
“Hey,” says Owen, after a long while. “What are the chances of getting one of Valerius’s things to just haul that big Colossus way away from Derwich while we have the Popinjay otherwise engaged? I’m just saying.”
“An interesting idea,” says Vandoren, “And I think we may have other means at our disposal to harry the Popinjay, as well.”
The minstrel gestures to a small, bloody scrap of cloth on the table before him.