Kirke’s Castle at Utterbol. II Storming, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Sixteen. Prime.
Purer, Mendelor, Renton, Owen, St. James, Dominic.
As the consortes mull about their guest quarters, a door opens. Vandoren and Sir Hamral, Bailiff of Upchurch, enter the room.
“Well, well, there you two are,” says Mendelor, rising to his feet. “Have you seen the Count? Is there word from Derwich?”
“Aye,” says Hamral. “We have just spoken with my lord. Riders have just come from Lownell to make their report.”
“Kirke’s forces have utterly destroyed the excavation site,” says Vandoren, with a grin. “And sacked Derwich. The castle there was overrun and lies now in ruins. Kirke lacked the strength to hold that position for very long, and his forces have already pulled back to Lownell.
“The Count’s troops encountered little resistance at the excavation site—we saw to that, didn’t we, lads? And at Derwich, the Black-Blade garrison broke at the first sight of a Pentian army. Perhaps one third of the Black-Blades fled into the Ruckish Hills, while one third turned on their brothers and joined Prince Nestor and the rucks of the Ebon Quill, leaving but one third remaining to stand fast with the Cataphracts.”
“Ha!” says Mendelor. “More converts to swell the ranks of the Quill.”
“A goodly thing,” says Vandoren, “for many Pentian rucks were lost in the siege of Derwich. By all accounts they fought like devils, spurred on by Nestor. With the Blade-Blade garrison so depleted, the rucks of the Quill were able to quickly storm the gate and open the way for Kirke’s men.
“As would be expected, the Cataphracts stood their ground and fought to the death, taking many Pentians to their graves. Sir Walter, Baron of Tryermaine, fought the ruckish captain Glurach in personal combat and in the end, overthrew the Blade Blade’s champion.”
“Was that cursed Hecatesseus at Derwich, or any more of his damned creations?” asks Mendelor.
“No,” say Vandoren. “Hecatesseus, along with his bronze eagle, appears to have made straight for Heremac in order to alert Tereus of Kirke’s incursion. And as for his other works… let us just say we need not fret any more over the Colossus. Nestor’s troops tore the remains of the Colossus apart with their bare hands, and then took up the scraps and melted them down to make more weapons for the soldiers of the Quill.”
“A fitting end to all such witchery,” murmurs Mendelor.
“But such victories do not come without costs,” says Sir Hamral.
“Indeed,” says Vandoren. “It would seem a great storm is bearing down upon us. King Tereus, perhaps frustrated by his failure to break open Heremac, has ordered his sons Busirane and Typhon to go forth, take their troops, and march on Utterbol, to revenge their father’s humiliation at Derwich. The Count’s scouts report that, even as we speak, the princes’ vanguard draws nigh, and the main force should arrive within a few days.”
“Let them come,” says Renton, spitting.
“Dear,” says Dominic. “I feared such a thing might hap. I am concerned that Hecatesseus has been gazing on our actions from afar, and even now… why, even now he may be watching us. He must be furious at the indignities we have heaped upon him. And I am sure he knows just who it was who blasted apart his precious Colossus…”
“I suppose, then,” says Owen, stringing his bow, “That we ought to expect the Popinjay and more of his bronze monsters along with Busirane?”
“Nay,” says Sir Hamral, shaking his head.
“Here is some more news that we gleaned from our consult with Count Durrell,” says Vandoren. “Most strange and surprising news. After Derwich fell, King Tereus was sore wroth, so much so that he issued a fearful decree. For his many recent failures, at Derwich and beyond, Tereus commanded that the disgraced wizard should be taken up, thrown in irons, and put to slow, painful death. After being drawn and quartered his corpse is to be burnt and the ashes scattered to the four winds. Such is the dread word of the ruckish monarch. Somehow, I do not think we shall be seeing the Popinjay again.”