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Back to the previous chapter: Preludes
Second Draft
The morning fog had already burned away from the endless sea of rooftops that was Londoun. The smoky haze of thousands of morning cookfires and forges and fireplaces added a bluish-gray pallor to parts of the city, but the region near Falagos Square was not tainted by such smokes. Many of the shingles in the Falagos District were brightly colored, creating a mosaic of abstract design for the pigeons flying overhead. Here and there men climbed on the steep slopes of the roofs, scrubbing away soot and the streaks left by the thousands of pigeons and other birds of the city.
Like the bright, soot-free roofs above, the roads in the region were well-kept. Large wagons, pulled by teams of oxen, slowly traveled the main streets in the pre-dawn hours, carrying tremendous barrels of water and intricate sprayers to hose the previous day's dust and detritus from the main avenues. Some of the streets through the better-moneyed parts of the District -- and there were no poorly-moneyed streets -- were cleaned regularly by sweepers, pushing large brooms along the road to clean piles of dirt and the like from the avenues.
One such well-moneyed street, a short distance from Falagos Square itself, was packed with white-faced apartments, stone and brick buildings packed against one another, with elaborate wrought-iron fences lining the sides of the road, protecting small gardens of green and the reds and blues and violets of cheerful flowers from the occasional careless passer-by. Almost in the middle of the street, about a hundred paces from either of the nearest cross roads, one of the taller apartments, a four-story building, was the scene of Bilbus's efforts to get one of his companions leaving. The occasional passer-by, invariably a well-dressed merchant or minor noble, would glance towards the open windows of the apartment on the uppermost floor of the building as some undignified shouts echoed into the street.
Within that flat, Bilbus stood outside the ornate, dark oaken door to Adria's bedroom. He beat the door with a curled fist once again, ignoring the dull pain that was starting to form in protest of the repeated abuse. He looked around at the white walls of the living room of the apartment, trying to ignore the little voice in the back of his head adding up values of the elaborate gilded wall-lanterns, the finely-worked writing table and matching chair, the pair of heavily-padded lounging chairs, the exotic rug covering most of the richly-stained hardwood flooring...
Shaking his head again, Bilbus slapped the door with an open palm. "Come on, Adria! We're supposed to be meeting Kasey and Sturm and Eric at Falagos Square right now!"
Rishala, sitting comfortably on the chair by the writing desk, looked from the closed door to Bilbus once again, a smile on his face as he watched Bilbus once again rattle the locked door handle. He shook his head slightly and leaned back into the chair, idly scratching his chin. "So, who are these people we're meeting?"
"I met them last night, at the Triknot Inn."
"Yes. That's why you never showed up at the Tapped Keg."
Bilbus turned to face Rishala. "I got delayed! They helped me get my coinpurse back when that thief took off with it."
"You got robbed?!? Someone stole from Bilbus the Great?!?"
The wince flashed across Bilbus's face. Rishala laughed quietly as he watched Bilbus pause, then lean forward. Rishala leaned forward, hoping his enthusiastic expression conveyed his disbelief. Bilbus scowled briefly. "No! This crowd of thugs came through the door," Bilbus staggered backwards in gross exaggeration, as if several men had bumped into him. "I was paying the barmaid -- she would warm the coldest heart, Rishala -- but I dropped my purse while drawing my rapier," he feigned letting go of something with his right hand as it crossed to the grip of his rapier, a dull, silvery cage of lightweight bars surrounding the wire-wrapped grip, "to defend the good patrons of that fine inn."
"Someone stole from Bilbus the Great?!?"
"Look, Rishala. It was like this. These thirty guys came charging into this inn, and I thought I had better help my friends protect the place. I had my purse out to pay the barmaid, and I had to let it fall to the ground so I could draw my rapier. This weasily little guy grabbed my purse during the confusion, and we had to go chase him down after we took out the forty gigantic armored Javik Raiders -- may they all rot in the Nine Hells, especially the Fourth! -- who made the foolish mistake of attacking me and my three new friends. That's what actually happened."
Rishala leaned back again into the chair. He picked up a writing quill on the desk and twirled it idly. "Uh, huh. I can't believe someone stole from you, the Mighty Bilbus the Great."
"You weren't there! How would you know?"
Rishala shook his head and put the quill back on its cradle. From behind the heavy door to Adria's bedroom, Rishala could hear Adria's mocking laugh.
Bilbus glared at the door. "Oh, shut up! Adria, hurry up, or we'll leave for Armagh without you!"
A couple of blocks away, Falagos Square was alive with hundreds of pedestrians and riders. Shops of every description surrounded the large square, two hundreds paces to a side. Several of the shops overflowed with goods, and their owners set up tables and shelves around the edge of the square, clear of the heavy traffic. Near the north end of Falagos Square, close to the shops of bakers and butchers and some cozy, expensive taverns, a stage had been erected.
The stage was a wooden affair, sturdily assembled from several sections that would be taken down at the end of the day to return the square to the traffic and merchants that used it daily. The stage was only fifteen paces to a side, with white canvas covering the struts supporting it four feet above the level of the cobblestone square. A table stretched along part of one side of the stage, metallic glints reflecting from various practice weapons scattered between the wooden wasters and some heavy leather jackets and steel helmets.
To one side of the stage, a tall, muscular man stood, watching a pair of combatants circling near the center of the platform. His arms crossed, the man had a half smile on his face. He casually ran a hand through his hair, dark with silvering highlights above the ears, and sat slowly on the corner of the table. His left hand trailed down to the thick, black jacket on the table next to him momentarily before he folded his arms again across the sweat-stained white shirt he wore. His dark eyes remained fixed upon the younger of the combatants the entire time, continuously evaluating the man's parries and ripostes much like another man would evaluate the gait of a horse running in a corral.
Like the Grand Master sitting on the table, the two men circling in the center of the stage wore white trousers. Both wore thick, padded vests: white on the younger, a deep red like that of dried blood on the older. The older combatant moved with the grace of a cat, no extraneous movements as he moved his blunted rapier to return a thrust against the younger man's exposed left side. With the grace of a dancer, he slapped the dagger in his left hand against the rapier in his opponent's right and turned and stepped away quickly, circling towards his opponent's left.
The younger man showed little of the grace of the older. His shoulders slumped from several hours of trials against half a dozen different, rested, opponents. The tip of his rapier dipped towards the stage on occasion, and his side steps looked more like those of a drunkard then those of a trained street fighter.
Nearly three hundred people surrounded the stage, some cheering and calling out to the fighters on stage, others simply watching in interest, or in boredom. Around that crowd of spectators milled those who stopped briefly to watch the fight before continuing on about their daily business. Beyond the eddying of those people, the current of humanity continued, ignoring the clashes of steel, the grunts of the fighters, and the cheers of the crowd.
The Grand Master, Rodrigo de Saviolo, watched the fight for several more minutes, ignoring the crowds jeering the younger fighter. The younger man was on the verge of collapse, but still he tried to keep fighting. De Saviolo stepped forward, walking between the two men as they stared at one another from behind crossed round-tipped practice rapiers. De Saviolo put one hand on the blades, pushing down slightly, as he spoke.
"Halt! Provost Smith, thank you for being the final examiner today."
The older fighter lowered his rapier and tucked his dagger into his belt. With his freed left hand, he loosened the straps of his protective helmet. He removed the helmet, cradling it with his left arm, and unconsciously wiped at his sweat-soaked brow. He bowed stiffly, moving only from the waist up, towards de Saviolo, before he crossed the stage to the table. He placed the training rapier on the table near the center, and set the helmet next to it. He drew the dagger from his belt and set it next to two nearly-identical blunted daggers. Finally, he unfastened the heavy, padded jacket. With a sigh of relief, he placed the jacket on the table, uncovering his soaked once white shirt.
Provost Smith jumped from the table into the now-thinning crowd, walking quickly north towards a nearby tavern.
While Provost Smith walked away, the younger fighter straightened, his arms hanging from his sides. De Saviolo regarded the man for a few moments before speaking.
"Congratulations, Free Scholar Willem Pandros."
The young swordsman nodded, then walked slowly to the weapons table. He placed both the blunt rapier and its matching dagger on the table, then gratefully removed the heavy steel helmet. He picked up a towel and mopped his face and head before unbuckling the heavy white jacket. Looking at it one last time -- as a Free Scholar, Willem would wear blue, not white -- he dropped it on the table. The cooling breeze was refreshing as Willem Pandros walked back to the center of the stage to clasp forearms with Grand Master de Saviolo. De Saviolo smiled warmly and slapped Willem's shoulder with his free hand.
A crowd of men, and a few women, started whistling and shouting from the front of the True Point Tavern. Willem turned and waved to his schoolmates, then trotted across the stage and jumped to the cobblestone. They formed a circle around him as he approached the tavern's welcoming open doors. Provost Smith approached Willem and congratulated him. Willem nodded, smiling, and called out, "A round of drinks!" Custom demanded that Willem buy a round of drinks for his fellow Free Scholars and the senior instructors now that he had passed the examinations.
Still on stage, Grand Master de Saviolo turned to the dwindling crowd. "This concludes the Playing of the Prize for my school, the Saviolo School of Defence. Our salon is located but three short blocks from this grand square, and I am ready to accept new scholars!" He walked towards the table. "I now have published a book describing some of my techniques. You can read the basics of my school of fight, and know me as a true teacher of the many dances of swordplay." He picked up one of the pamphlets to show the crowd. "I ask a pittance of two copper Commons for this book."
A couple of men stepped forward to look at the pamphlet de Saviolo held. One reached into a pouch on his belt to produce a pair of copper coins. De Saviolo bowed graciously as he accepted the coins and handed the booklet to the customer. The customer's companion asked de Saviolo some questions, nodding vigorously before turning to follow his comrade into the crowd.
As de Saviolo turned from the men, someone shouted out from the crowd, "This school of yours does nothing to prepare someone for a real fight! I could take any of your little students in an alley! I could take you right here!"
De Saviolo turned to spot the man in the crowd. A rough looking man, barely twenty, pushed through the crowds. He wore a dark brown leather jacket, fastened at the sides. His light brown hair flowed onto his back, while the stubble of his beard gave him the appearance of a man with more years behind him. As he reached the stage, de Saviolo spotted the rapier hanging from the man's hip, with foot-and-a-half wide round buckler hanging by its grip from the hilt of the rapier.
The swashbuckler jumped onto the stage, sneering at de Saviolo. De Saviolo smiled pleasantly as the ruffian circled. "Truly? Shall we see then, Master..."
"My name is not your concern, old man." The swashbuckler loosened his sword belt, letting the rapier in its scabbard and the buckler fall to the ground. He swaggered to the weapon table and grabbed one of the practice rapiers and a helmet.
De Saviolo walked next to the man and picked up the other helmet. As the swashbuckler walked back to his own rapier and buckler, de Saviolo strapped the helmet securely and picked up his padded jacket. He started strapping the heavy black padded vest over his shirt.
"What's the matter, old man? Trying to avoid the embarrassment? You know as well as I do that I'll have three touches on you before you can even get out of one of your fancy wards."
De Saviolo finally grabbed the remaining rapier blunt and a heavy leather glove with maille sewn to the palm. He turned to face the arrogant young man. The swashbuckler held his buckler in his left hand, a small, domed shield held at arm's length. The Grand Master watched the younger man circle menacingly, then looked out to the crowd. Nearly a hundred had stopped to watch, curious to see if the dance-like movements of the salon-trained fighters had any bearing against a street fighter.
De Saviolo turned to face the swashbuckler, flexing his knees and pointing his rapier towards the chest of his opponent. The swashbuckler continued to circle, a sneer visible behind the steel wire mesh covering the face of the helmet. He quickly stepped towards de Saviolo's right, smashing his buckler against de Saviolo's blade and thrusting his sword towards de Saviolo's exposed ribs. As de Saviolo quickly stepped to his left, dropping his right arm to bring his blade against his opponents, his brash opponent suddenly pulled his sword arm back, twisted, drove the blade into de Saviolo's stomach. The thud of the blunt connecting with the thick padding was loud, and the young man's triumphant step back, arms partially raised, caused a murmur to erupt in the crowd.
The Grand Master stepped back, straightened, and placed his heels together, feet pointing at right angles from one another, the right foot facing his opponent. The swashbuckler turned to face de Saviolo and laughed.
"You haven't learned yet, old man?"
He closed on the Grand Master, his buckler still held at arms length. His rapier was out of line, pointing somewhere to de Saviolo's right. De Saviolo held position, knees only slightly bent, his sword arm extended, the tip of the blade pointed directly at his young opponent. Faster than lightning, de Saviolo pulled his sword arm back and sprang forward. The swashbuckler tried to step back and parry, but de Saviolo closed too quickly and ran his right arm against his opponents blade, forcing it farther out of line as his own sword connected solidly with the man's stomach. The swashbuckler staggered back a step, angry, and charged.
De Saviolo leaped to his right, watching as the swashbuckler turned and continued to charge, his rapier out, his buckler close to his body. De Saviolo stepped quickly to the left and closed with the swashbuckler. He slapped the younger man's blade with his gloved left hand, palm outward against the blade, and lunged his rapier towards his opponent's face. As the swashbuckler raised his small shield to protect his face, de Saviolo turned his own blade downwards, driving it hard into the chest of his opponent. The young man stepped back, his open mouth visible within the helmet.
De Saviolo switched tactics, lowering his body into a street-fighting posture, and started circling. His teeth were just visible in the rictus of a smile he wore. His opponent started stepping back, eyes widening. De Saviolo lunged several times, feints that succeeded in backing his opponent towards the edge of the stage. The crowd backed away, not wanting to get too close to the fighters.
The Grand Master made one last lunge, accompanied by a feral roar. The swashbuckler jumped back again, but his feet found no purchase. With a yell of surprise, he fell from the stage, landing on the cobblestone paving of the square. His helmet rang sonorously as he hit the stone, and he dropped the buckler when his elbow slammed into the stone.
De Saviolo jumped down to the cobblestone, landing next to the swashbuckler's hip. With his left foot, he pinned his opponent's sword wrist. Meeting his opponents wild eyes, de Saviolo thrust his rapier solidly into the fighter's ribs.
"That is three," de Saviolo said as he released the pressure from the younger man's wrist.
"You cheating cur! The touch doesn't count! We're off the stage." The swashbuckler sat up, glaring, and hasted to regain his feet.
"Oh? I thought you said I wouldn't last in a street fight. Do street fights now have bounds where attacks are not permitted?" De Saviolo climbed back onto the stage, looking down at the swashbuckler. "Shall we continue, then?"
Looking at the crowd around him, the swashbuckler snarled. "I've wasted enough time with you, old man. Just hope you never meet me in an alleyway."
Several people near the younger man laughed. The swashbuckler unstrapped his helmet and threw it onto the stage, then threw the rapier blunt down on the edge of the stage. De Saviolo tossed the man's swordbelt to him, then turned towards the weapon table, unstrapping his helmet.
A tall, blond man watching the fight called out. "Well fought, Grand Master!"
After de Saviolo dropped his helmet on the table, he turned to face the man. He recognized the smiling visage of Sir Kasey Bittrand. "Young Sulster? Would you care to cross blades today? It's been a while."
The Church Knight smiled and jumped onto the stage. "It has at that, Grand Master. Shall we play at hand-and-a-half swords today?"
"A lad after my own heart." De Saviolo grabbed one of the four-foot long wooden practice swords from the table and tossed it towards the knight. He started putting his helmet back on. "One hand, or two?"
De Saviolo picked up the other hand-and-a-half waster and turned back towards Kasey. The waster was on the ground between Kasey's feet as he secured the straps of the other helmet. Kasey picked his sword back up and swung it experimentally with his right hand. Nodding to himself, he smiled as he wrapped his left hand around the round wooden pommel at the base of the sword's grip.
De Saviolo nodded. "Both hands it is, Sir Knight."
Both Kasey and Saviolo assumed middle ward positions, the four-foot-long swords pointing towards one another's chest, with over a pace of empty space between the tips of the blades. The two swordsmen closed distance, and the swords became blurs of motion. Loud cracks of wood on wood echoed through the square, easily heard over the ongoing murmur of people and the creaks of several carts entering the square. The crowd surrounding the stage grew once again as people stopped to watch a furious match between two experts.
Across the square from the stage, Bilbus quickly passed the carts laden with barrels. "Come on, you two!"
Adria grumbled to herself as she trotted to keep up with the thief. Rishala followed behind her, apologizing to other pedestrians that the two bumped into in their rush. He looked ahead and saw that Bilbus had slowed, impatience written across his face as he looked back to the blonde noble trying to catch up.
Rishala stopped next to Bilbus and Adria to watch the fight across the square with interest. "Bilbus, what did you say your friends look like?"
Bilbus looked at Rishala. "Eric has slanted eyes. He's Azirian, or at least, part Azirian. Sturm is big and unfriendly. Dark hair, mustache, beard. Kasey is big and looks like a Javik Raider, except he always seems to smile and he's too cheerful to be a savage barbarian."
"Big and Javik? Like that man?" Rishala pointed towards the stage.
Bilbus turned and looked, noticing the mock combat for the first time. "That's him." He cupped his hands and shouted towards the stage, "Go Kasey!"
Bilbus set off through the crowd, weaving between people easily as he worked his way towards the stage. Adria looked back towards Rishala and sighed loudly, then started following at a far more casual pace. Rishala shrugged his shoulders, then noticed a barrel of fresh apples outside one of the stores. He stood looking at the barrel for a few seconds, then grabbed one of the deep red fruits. As the merchant approached, Rishala tossed the man a bronze Shilling. Rishala scanned the crowd for a moment before spotting Bilbus, halfway across the square. Tossing the apple into the air and catching it, Rishala whistled to himself. He started weaving through the crowd, running between two of the lumbering carts as he tried to catch his comrades.
When Rishala caught his friends, Bilbus and Adria stood on the edge of the thin crowd around the stage, watching the combat. Adria smiled as the two well-muscled men swung their large wooden swords furiously, circling and shouting. Bilbus started looking at the rest of the crowd, his eyes searching for anyone inattentive.
Spotting just such a mark, Bilbus smiled. That one will do. He looked at his friends, both now watching the practice fight, then walked away from them. His eyes scanned the crowd, lingering slightly longer on his target, in case someone else noticed him.
Less than two minutes later, Bilbus stood behind a well-fed merchant. At two paces Bilbus could already smell some expensive colognes on the man. Bilbus smiled to himself, glancing past the bulk of the merchant at the fight onstage. Even the merchant's bodyguard, standing three paces to the merchant's left, was raptly watching the fight. Bilbus took a couple of slow steps forward, sliding a razor-thin blade between his index and middle fingers. Several people around him had started crowding forward, the ballet of two armed men entrancing them.
A minute later, Bilbus took a few slow steps back, a weighty coinpurse in his hand. He dropped the purse into the large pouch hanging from his belt just in time to see Kasey deflect a powerful swing from de Saviolo. The force of the block wrenched the wooden sword from Kasey's strong hands, sending it flying into the crowd. Several people scrambled to avoid the fast-moving waster. De Saviolo lowered his sword and motioned towards where the waster had fallen to the cobblestones. A child in the crowd had picked the wooden sword from the ground and held it towards the stage, grip first.
Kasey tilted his head towards de Saviolo and walked to the edge of the stage. Seeing the boy offering the sword to him, Kasey smiled at the child. "Thank you, kind Master," Kasey said to the boy, who giggled as Kasey took the sword.
Still near the merchant, Bilbus almost giggled to himself. He slapped the merchant's shoulder. "Did you see that?!?" He turned back to the stage as the merchant looked at him, jowls shaking as he nodded. "C'mon, Kasey! I thought you Church Knights were good!"
Kasey waved towards Bilbus before he returned to a fighting stance. Soon, the clacks of the wooden swords filled the square.
Bilbus edged away from the merchant and walked back to Rishala and Adria. Rishala held an apple core in one hand as he looked around for somewhere to dispose of it. Adria continued to watch the fight, clearly enjoying the men on stage. Or, she's enjoying the fighting talent on stage, more likely. Bilbus stopped next to the beautiful noblewoman. She glanced towards him briefly before turning back to the fight.
"That's Kasey." Bilbus stood on his toes and looked around the crowd. Spotting the tall, imposing form of the Sun Knight he had met the previous night, Bilbus pointed towards one corner of the stage. "There's Sturm. I think I saw Eric standing there as well. Let's go over, so I can introduce you." Once again, Bilbus started weaving through the crowd.
When he reached the corner of the stage, the fight was over. Kasey was climbing down from the stage, stretching his hands slowly and rolling his neck.
Bilbus slapped Kasey's shoulder. "Well fought, Kasey!"
"Thank you, Bilbus. I didn't know you were familiar with military swordplay."
Bilbus smiled and turned towards de Saviolo, who had removed his helmet again and was unbuckling his jacket. "Good Master!"
De Saviolo turned as Kasey leaned towards Bilbus and whispered. "That's Grand Master de Saviolo, Bilbus."
Bilbus looked towards Kasey. "Oh, right." He turned back towards de Saviolo, who was now crossing the stage towards him. "Grand Master de Saviolo, that was an excellent display of swordsmanship. May I make a contribution towards your school?"
The Grand Master stopped at the edge of the stage. Bilbus withdrew the merchant's coin purse from his pouch. He tossed the purse to de Saviolo, who caught it with one hand.
Adria had just arrived at the corner of the stage. She looked from de Saviolo to Bilbus, confusion plain on her face.
Bilbus smiled. "I like supporting the arts. Dance is one of my favorites."
Shaking her head slowly, Adria looked at Kasey.
Kasey smiled and bowed stiffly, his rendition of a courtly greeting.
Bilbus stepped in front of Kasey and smiled at Adria. "Adria, Rishala, these are Kasey," he pointed at the blond church knight, "Sturm," the Sun Knight nodded towards Adria, "and Eric."
The Azirian bowed slightly. "M'Lady."
Adria smiled at Eric as Bilbus turned towards the knights and Eric.
"Kasey, Sturm, Eric, This is the Lady Adria del Quintin and Rishala of Orkney, my P. R. man."
Kasey looked at Bilbus, then scratched his head. "Your what man?"
"P. R. -- public relations?"
"What's that mean? He's your brother?"
"Nooo, he's like a personal storyteller or bard. He tells people what I've done."
"Ohhh. That doesn't make sense, Bilbus. Why can't you tell people what you've done yourself?"
"Forget it, Kasey."
Sturm shook his head, then slapped Kasey's shoulder. "You didn't do too bad, Church Knight."
"I managed over a minute with him this time. He must be tired. Hey, Sturm! Why don't you give him a try? He loves fighting heavy swords."
Sturm looked at Kasey for a moment, then looked up at de Saviolo. "Oh, fine." Sturm grabbed de Saviolo's offered hand as he climbed onto the stage.
Bilbus watched the fight with interest. The Grand Master and the Sun Knight fought with the hand-and-a-half swords, but each used only one hand. The fight was every bit as intense as the battle between Kasey and de Saviolo, but it was much briefer. It took only slightly longer than a minute for de Saviolo to hit Sturm a third time, even though it cost him two solid hits from the well-muscled knight.
After Sturm jumped from the stage, Kasey clapped his shoulder. "Well done, Sturm. You hit Grand Master de Saviolo more readily than I did."
Sturm nodded and wiped the sweat from his brow. On stage, de Saviolo surveyed the quickly dispersing crowd. "Is there anyone else who wishes to spar with me? If not, I'm ready for an ale!" His students yelled enthusiastically from the front of the True Point Tavern.
"Bilbus, why don't you go up there?" Rishala asked.
"Well, you know... I would hate to embarrass a Grand Master, Rishala."
Both Kasey and Sturm looked at Bilbus. Sturm asked, "You'd hate to embarrass him with your level of expertise?"
"Something like that." Bilbus looked at Adria, who was barely containing her laughter. "All right, I'll show you."
Adria finally laughed aloud, a brief bark of mirth. "This should be funny."
Bilbus jumped onto the stage and walked towards de Saviolo. The Grand Master clenched forearms with Bilbus. "Want to test your investment, good man?"
Bilbus smiled and nodded, a slight flush on his face. He then noticed the fat-jowled merchant on the far side of the stage, looking around in alarm while patting at his generous belt.
Bilbus cringed as he heard Rishala's booming voice call behind him. "Bilbus the Great will now challenge Grand Master Saviolo of the Saviolo School of Defence! Come one and all to see the mighty fight between a Grand Master and the Great Bilbus of Brallian!"
De Saviolo put an arm around Bilbus's shoulders and steered him towards the weapon table. "So. Bilbus the Great? What dance shall we do today, kind benefactor?"
Bilbus looked at the array of wooden swords, ranging from the two foot long shortswords popular with many of the civilians of Londoun to the four foot long hand-and-a-half swords, to the greatswords, over five feet long. In the middle of the arrangement of swords, the pair of rapiers still waited. Bilbus picked one up and experimentally cut the air with it, trying its balance.
De Saviolo nodded to himself. "Rapier, then. Are you satisfied with that one?"
Bilbus looked at him and nodded, then unbuckled his sword belt. He walked back across the stage to hand the belt, with its scabbarded rapier and parrying dagger, to Rishala. "Watch these for me."
Rishala took the offered belt. Adria leaned over and whispered something to him, but Bilbus wasn't able to hear it over the din of traffic. He shook his head, then walked back to de Saviolo, who waited patiently at the table.
After a minute of strapping and adjusting, Bilbus wore the protective helmet. He flexed his arms and walked to the middle of the stage. He glanced down at his friends just as Rishala turned to the crowd, arms spread wide.
"Lords and Ladies! Bilbus the Great!"
Bilbus swept his rapier through an elaborate flourish directed towards the crowds. Several of them murmured appreciatively as Bilbus completed the flourish with a salute towards de Saviolo. De Saviolo tilted his head towards Bilbus in acknowledgement, and snapped his blade straight up. He lowered it towards Bilbus and spread his legs, bending the knees as he assumed a guard position. Bilbus quickly mirrored the ward as he started breathing faster.
De Saviolo quickly demonstrated the difference between flashing a sword and fighting with it. He closed with Bilbus, his rapier a blur as it thrust repeatedly towards Bilbus, feint upon feint upon feint. It took de Saviolo only a handful of seconds to stab Bilbus twice in the abdomen. The Grand Master stepped back and waited while Bilbus caught his breath. Bilbus stared at the Grand Master for a few moments, then again assumed his guard position.
The Grand Master closed again. Hoping to surprise the swordsman with something extremely unusual, Bilbus tried to backflip away from the older man. The painful poke of the rounded tip of a rapier blunt against his rear told him that acrobatics didn't work.
Bilbus found himself lying on his back, looking up at the amused smile of the Grand Master. "An interesting technique you use, Bilbus the Great." De Saviolo reached towards Bilbus, offering a hand to the sprawling thief.
Bilbus accepted the hand and pulled himself to his feet. He removed the helmet and placed it neatly by the rapier blunt on the weapon table. As he crossed the stage again, he stopped next to de Saviolo. "Thank you, Grand Master, for an enlightening lesson."
The Grand Master tilted his head towards Bilbus in acknowledgement, then walked towards the weapon table. Two of his students had climbed onto the stage, gathering the practice weapons and putting them in a barrel one of them had just carried from the nearby tavern.
Bilbus jumped off the stage, landing next to Adria. Rubbing the bruises he felt forming under his heavy leather jerkin, he looked towards the knights. "I hit him at least once, right?"
Sturm looked like he was about to smile. "Sure, Bilbus. I think you might have hit him once. And you definitely got the rapier within two feet of him a couple of times. What were you doing at the end, though? Were you trying to backflip away from de Saviolo? If you were, it didn't work. That hit on your bum looked painful."
Bilbus winced, still rubbing his abdomen. "Can we go now?"
"Yes. I need to gather my horse and some things from Londoun Hold. Do you want to meet me there?"
Bilbus gulped. "Okay. We can do that." As long as you don't ask me to actually enter a Sun Knight compound! he didn't add.
Kasey chimed in. "I need to get Farran from the stables. You know where Cathedral Treasa is?"
Bilbus nodded his head. Cathedral Treasa, the King's own church, was near the center of Londoun. It was the second largest cathedral on the continent, rivaled by none other than the Home Cathedral in Kells. No one who lived in Londoun could not know where Cathedral Treasa was.
"Great!" Kasey continued. "I'll meet you in the square in front of the cathedral."
Kasey started trotting away, humming to himself.
The party gathered again in the square in front of Cathedral Treasa shortly before midday. The square was busy, with large stone slabs, several paces to a side, fit in a geometric pattern. The Cathedral towered to the north, its elaborately shaped pillars and carved walls ornate symbols from the Kelltic mythos.
Kasey arrived astride his warhorse, smiling widely at his traveling companions.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
Bilbus nodded as Eric answered, "Yes."
Kasey kicked his horse's sides, taking off across the square at a trot. "Let's go!"
After a day of travel, the bustle of the busy city had long since given way to the gentle rolling hills of the Llwelyn River valley. The road the party used followed the River Llwelyn, winding gently, but never farther than three hundred paces from the wide river. The ancient stone road led the party south. The roadway from Londoun through Armagh was one of the Via Avillonia, one of the routes created during King Uther Paendroeg's Golden Era over two millennia ago. As part of his efforts to improve his Kingdom of the Five Crowns, King Paendroeg ordered the construction of paved roadways between the major cities of the kingdom. Using construction techniques and, some believed, magicks lost with the Fall of Camelough, the Via Avillonia had admirably withstood the ages. Some of the heavily-used Via near Londoun had to have stones replaced after centuries of feet and hooves and wagonwheels, but others, notably those less-used routes east of Armagh, were still in excellent condition.
There was a smattering of traffic on the Via. Most travelers on the wide roadway were local traffic going between nearby groups of farms. Many of these local travelers were on foot, or driving a modest cart. Less common were the long-distance travelers going from Londoun to Armagh, or even points farther south. Few such travelers were on foot -- most rode on horseback or in wagons. Over the course of the morning, the party saw only one noble's carriage, an ornate wooden wagons on a hammered iron frame. It was heading north towards Londoun at a leisurely pace with drawn curtains, affording the noble within complete privacy.
The majority of the longer-distance travelers were merchants, traveling in lengthy, well-armed caravans to dissuade the less-honest members of society from harassing them. These caravans often consisted of up to a dozen horse- or oxen-drawn wagons with a dozen or more armed men riding horses along the column. Men armed with bows or crossbows rode on each wagon with the driver, providing a thorough defense to the merchants and their valuable goods.
Shortly after a midday stop, the party passed another such caravan slowly winding north towards Londoun.
One of the outriders near the end of the caravan raised his gauntleted hand in greeting as he reined his black horse to a stop. The breastplate over his maille armor had an elaborate etching across its surface, swirls and zig-zags crossing and intertwining. A sword hung from his heavy leather belt.
"Sunblade, ho! How goes it? Are you escorting people now?"
Sturm stopped next to the guard. "Millar! I'm doing well. I went back to the Order, you know. I'm not working caravans any more."
The rest of the party stopped as Sturm talked to Millar.
Sturm continued. "I had some leave, so we're heading to Armagh for the Beltane Festival."
Millar nodded. "That's one of the better Beltane Festivals I've been to. Too bad I won't be in town to see it this year. Perhaps next."
Sturm glanced towards the last wagon of the caravan, now fifty paces down the Via. "Perhaps so."
Millar glanced towards the wagon as well. "Well, Sunblade, good seeing you again. If you ever want back in the escort service, look me up. I'll be glad to ride with you any day."
Sturm nodded. "I will."
Millar kicked his horse's flanks. It sprung to a fast trot, quickly catching up with the merchant caravan. Sturm made a clicking sound, and his horse started walking south again.
Eric rode aside Sturm. "You were a merchant escort?"
Sturm nodded, still looking forward. "I spent a few years away from the Order. I needed to make a living somehow. Some merchants pay handsomely to avoid getting robbed. Business is harder along the river route, down to Armagh at least."
"Why is that?"
Sturm nodded towards the river, a couple hundred paces from the Via. "The river is deep enough to allow large boats and barges clear to Armagh during the dry season. During the spring, you can travel even farther south by river. It's faster, and there aren't river pirates around here."
"So why are there any merchant caravans?"
"It's not worthwhile for most merchants. Many of them travel from Londoun to Arabel Cinlu in the Middle Range, or maybe even through the Middle Range into Eiresud. They would have to keep wagons somewhere, or carry them on the river boats, and transfer from boat to wagon. They only save about a day or day and a half using the boat to Armagh. Then they have to offload everything onto wagons."
Eric nodded to himself as he thought the problems through. "Makes sense."
The River Llwelyn was no longer visible from the Via later in the afternoon. A set of squat, steep hills near the banks of the river had made that route difficult for the men laying the roadbed millennia ago.
The party crested another low hill, looking into the shallow bowl-shaped valley ahead with the edge of a small forest on the western side, opposite the road from where the river was. Immediately, they all realized something was amiss.
Seventy paces away, in the bottom of the valley, there were two enormous wagons stopped in the middle of the road. Each wagon looked like a modest hut with gigantic wheels, painted in muted colors. A dozen placid oxen were hitched to each wagon standing idly.
On the eastern side of the road near the wagons over half of a dozen men, each with a drawn weapon -- most had swords, but two held self bows. One of the swordsmen stood over a diminutive figure in white robes, his blackened sword held at the robed person's neck.
Eric stopped his horse short of the ridgeline to survey the scene. The rest of the party stopped alongside him, looking at what was obviously an ambush against a small merchant caravan -- probably a single merchant with assistants.
"You know," Bilbus began, "if we wait a couple more minutes, we can ride down there, take out the brigands, and keep the wagons. The merchant isn't going to care much longer."
As if he heard Bilbus's suggestion, the man with the black sword raised the blade up, preparing to strike.
"Oh, for crying out..." Kasey said as he spurred Farran to action. "For the Honor of Sulster!" he shouted to the highwaymen in the valley below. Sturm's charger leapt almost immediately after Farran as the Sun Knight charged behind and to one side of the Church Knight.
Eric almost jumped from his horse. As soon as he touched the paving stones, Eric was pulling his seven foot long bow from its oilcloth scabbard. He quickly bent the wooden bow, hooking the bowstring onto the upper end of the weapon. He untied the quiver hanging behind his saddle, buckling its belt and slinging it over his shoulder as he trotted several paces forward to give himself a clear field of fire.
Eric glanced to his right and realized that Adria had also dismounted. She had a long bow similar to his, and she was already nocking an arrow as the knights thundered down the slope.
"I've got the swordsman," Eric called out as he dismounted and readied his Dales long bow.
"I have the archer on the left," Adria called out, her long bow already pointing into the sky.
To Eric's left, Rishala called, "That leaves me the other archer." Rishala loosed an arrow from his smaller self bow. The bow was almost a pace shorter than the enormous Dalesian long bows, but it was dangerous against the lightly armored bandits nonetheless.
The arrow found its mark. One of the two archers in the bowl below the party staggered a few paces back as the arrow hit his side. The archer's comrades turned towards the hillside, finally noticing the two knights charging them. Adria's arrow hit the second archer, driving through his leg. Eric's arrow hit the swordsman's arm, breaking the bone easily. The black sword fell to the ground as the three archers atop the hill loosed follow-on shots.
The person in the white robes quickly rolled underneath the nearest wagon, curling into as small as space as possible while watching the ensuing carnage.
The first archer stumbled to his knees, an arrow in his right thigh adding to the injury of the abdomen shot. The second archer was quicker to react, turning and loosing an arrow at the nearest threat, Farran. Even so, Adria's second arrow found its mark shortly after the archer attacked. The archer collapsed noisily. Eric's second arrow plunged into the swordsman's chest, killing him quickly.
Even with an arrow jutting from his shoulder, Farran didn't slow. One of the brigand swordsmen had just started to draw his weapon when the large destrier jumped towards him, driving both steel-shod hooves into his abdomen. The brigand slammed into the ground, the wind forced from his lungs so he couldn't even scream. One of his companions fell just as quickly to Kasey's sword.
Sturm's warhorse trampled the kneeling archer as Sturm's sword dispatched a third brigand swordsman.
Atop the hill, Rishala nocked another arrow as he scanned for targets in the bowl. He felt an odd tingle, almost a buzzing in his head. Surprised, he took a half step forward and shook his head. He staggered in surprise as an arrow punched through his right shoulder. He dropped his bow and fell to his knees, shouting wordlessly.
Bilbus jumped from his horse and ran to Rishala's side.
Adria shouted, "Archers in the treeline, to the right!"
Eric turned and looked, an arrow already nocked and drawn. Several paces from the edge of the forest, hiding in the shadows of the trees' canopies, two men faced the hilltop. Even with the shadows of the trees, Eric could see one of them reaching for another arrow.
There was a loud twang from Adria's bowstring. The long-shafted arrow sailed upwards slightly, then dropped towards the trees. One of the archers fell to the ground as Eric released his arrow towards the other. That archer waited too long to avoid the arrow. He fell as quickly as the first, his return shot lost in the trees of the forest.
Bilbus broke the head from the arrow jutting through Rishala's shoulder. "Hold on, Rishala. This is going to hurt."
"It already does."
Bilbus pulled sharply on the arrow shaft, pulling it back out of the shoulder. Rishala yelped in pain. Bilbus tossed the arrow to one side. "You're lucky. Another pace back, and you would have taken this arrow in the heart."
Around clinched teeth, Rishala said, "I know. I stepped forward just before it hit me."
Bilbus pulled a small cloth pouch from his leather belt bag. He unfolded the cloth, inspected the dried herbs inside, and folded it again. "This will help. Here," he offered the bag to Rishala. "Press it against the wound and keep it there for a few minutes."
Rishala did as told, wincing as he pressed the pouch of herbs against the would on the front of his shoulder. As he did so, Bilbus started concentrating. He could feel the magickal Heka around him. Wrestling with the natural flows of the energy, he directed them into the herbs, accelerating their natural healing properties. Bilbus noticed that Rishala was looking at him skeptically. "Really, Rishala. It works."
"I believe you, Bilbus."
Bilbus stood up. "Adria! Come over here and help Rishala! I want to check on those archers in the trees."
He quickly jumped back onto his horse, Acquisition 2. It leapt to a full run at his urging, charging rapidly towards the treeline. Bilbus could see Kasey and Sturm, both now on foot, attacking the remaining swordsmen as Farran raced around the gigantic wagons to cover their flank. The thief suppressed a quiet shudder as he watched the horse almost gleefully dive between the wagons towards one of the highwaymen.
Arriving at the treeline, Bilbus stopped Acquisition 2 and drew his rapier. He carefully dropped to the ground, stepping lightly towards where the archers had fallen. He stepped quietly through the underbrush, picking his way to where the archers were. Several paces beyond the archers, Bilbus noticed nine horses tied to staked ropes. The moans of an archer drew his attention back to the immediate danger.
The two archers were lying on the ground, three paces away from one another. The closer one had an arrow sticking out of his forehead. His eyes stared unseeingly into the tree canopy overhead. The other one writhed slowly, an arrow through his chest.
Bilbus searched the body of the dead archer, trying to find coins or any other valuables, while he kept an eye on the survivor.
Finally, Bilbus walked over and kneeled next to the surviving archer. "Who hired you? How much were you paid? Where is the money?"
The archer struggled to sit up. He breathed heavily with a wheeze in his throat and a sucking noise around the shaft of the arrow. The archer was not long for the world.
The clash of steel and the screams of agony near the merchant wagons quickly faded as the fight there ended. Bilbus stood and placed the sharp tip of his rapier against the man's throat. "Answer quickly and you'll die mercifully."
A look of resignation crossed the archer's face, already pale from blood loss. The dying archer's voice was labored. "Cadell hired us," he stopped to gasp, "to help him take out some merchants and try to take prisoners. These guards fought too hard, so we had to kill them."
"How much did he pay you?"
"Twenty Crowns."
Bilbus inhaled sharply. Twenty Crowns was a lot of money -- five hundred Kingdom Commons. That was more than some peasants saw in a year of hard labor, and even most commoners would make much less than that in a week.
The archer coughed sharply once, spitting blood, and fell to the ground. Bilbus put his rapier back into its scabbard and drew a dagger. He cut the brigand's coin purse and dropped it into his own. Standing again, Bilbus walked back to the highwaymen's horses. He untied the reins of the horses, mumbling under his breath as he did, and gathered the horses.
With the fighting now over, Sturm looked around the battlefield. He noticed the merchant under the nearest wagon. Sturm walked over to it and leaned over to peer underneath it. "Merchant, the bandits are dead. You may come out now."
The small man in white robes crawled out from the large wagon. He stood up -- a foot and more shorter than Sturm. Sturm looked at the man's face. It was a ruddy color, as if he had seen too much sunlight. A large, bulbous nose protruded from the hood, which covered a face with more folds and wrinkles than Sturm could imagine on ten other people. Motley tufts of white hair jutted from the man's chins, giving the impression of a sparse attempt at a beard.
When he spoke, his voice was high-pitched and strangely accented.
"I thank thee, ajami. I was fearful that these bandits, may a thousand camels desecrate their graves, were going to slay me. The guards I hired in Londoun were not the valiant warriors they claimed," the man spat towards some of the dead guards scattered about to the side of the wagons. "I was merely traveling home after visiting the far norths of your land, trying to earn enough coin to keep my wife and wonderful children in our home, and these barbarians attacked me!"
Sturm looked around at the dead brigands. "These thieves will bother you no longer."
The diminutive man bobbed his head in agreement. "Yes, they will not."
The man snapped his head around at the sound of horses approaching. From the copse of trees, Bilbus rode Acquisition II, leading a string of nine other saddled horses. Adria rode her horse along the rode into the depression, with Eric leading Rishala's horse behind her. Rishala tried to sit straight on his horse, his face twisted in pain as he continued to hold the healing poultice against his shoulder.
When the riders -- other than Rishala -- dismounted and stood encircling him, the man bowed to them, his lower body held still as he bent at the waist. "Please, accept a gift from me, a humble merchant, that I may cancel the debt I now owe you. I apologize profusely for not having coin, but I foolishly spent it on these so-called caravan guards. I travel to Armagh to replenish my coffers. Are you traveling there also?"
Sturm answered for the party, "Yes. We travel to the Beltane Celebration."
"Perhaps we can travel together? I make the most exquisite foods that you will have ever tasted!"
The diminutive man started climbing the ladder on the front wagon. "My name is Quaeven." -- he pronounced it kwa-EEVEN -- "Who are you, that I may know the men -- and woman -- who saved me?"
Quaeven disappeared into the wagon. Thumping and sliding echoed out of the door on the back of the hut-wagon. Every now and then, a quick stream of mutters rose above the noises of crates and chests opening, closing, and sliding.
Adria commented aloud, "What a strange man."
Rishala nodded. "Gnomes tend to be that way."
Adria looked at the story teller. "That's a gnome?"
"Well, yes. You didn't know?"
"We don't get many in the western Dales."
"Ah. There are not many living in Avillonia -- Brallian in Eiresud has a sizeable population. There seem to be a lot of them across the Brythomar in al-Rhayidh."
Bilbus interjected, "Oh! That explains why I saw so many wrinkled people in the Alien Quarter of Brallian."
Quaeven jumped off the rear deck of the wagon. We walked quickly towards Adria, his gait almost a waddle. "My Lady ... ?"
Adria smiled. "Lady Adria del Quintin."
"For the Lady Adria del Quintin." He kneeled, holding forward an exquisitely etched crystalline atomizer with a golden liquid in it.
Adria took the offered atomizer and sniffed experimentally at the perfume within. Her eyebrows raised. She had found perfumes of this quality in a couple of the most expensive shops in Londoun. Nothing remotely this fine was traded in a smaller city like her home town, Portsdale.
"Thank you, Quaeven."
The gnome stood and bowed towards her. He stopped in front of Sturm. "And you, Lord?"
"Sir Sturm Sunblade."
Quaeven kneeled again, holding forth a small wooden box. "Sir Sturm Sunblade, my apologies, Sir Knight."
Sturm grunted to himself. Quaeven noticed the nuance between "Lord" and "Sir". "Lord" was an honorific accorded to lower nobility in the Kelltic lands. "Sir" was reserved for members of a military order. Kelltic Knights were not automatically accorded noble titles, unlike in other societies, because the king did not choose members of the military orders.
Sturm picked up the small box and opened it. Inside was an exotic mixture of spices, some of which Sturm couldn't place.
Quaeven stopped in front of Eric. "My Lord, from the distant lands of Karasimi, judging from your eyes."
Eric blushed slightly. "Lord Eric Ithell."
"Ithell? Is that not the family reigning in Armagh?"
Eric nodded. "My father is lord of the town."
Quaeven repeated the gesture, kneeling and offering a small box of spices. Eric thanked the gnome and walked away as Quaeven continued his ritual of offering gifts.
Eric stopped over the body of the swordsman who had almost decapitated Quaeven. Eric pulled the arrow from the man's chest, then recovered his other arrow from where it had embedded in the nearby dirt after going through the swordsman's arm.
He returned to look at the bandit's sword. The entire pace-long blade was black, even along the razor-sharp edges. The crossguard and pommel were similarly black. There were few nicks or scratches, and even those were black. A matte black leather wrap covered the grip. Eric knelt beside the sword and hefted it. It was surprisingly light, far lighter than any sword of its size that Eric had ever handled.
Bilbus approached and looked at the sword. "That's quite a blade. Do you mind if I see it?"
Eric offered the blade to Bilbus. The thief took it and hefted it. He turned and swung it experimentally, surprised at how quickly it cut the air. "This isn't a steel blade, is it? It's far too light."
Eric nodded. "My father's blacksmith might be able to tell us what it is. He's a very good metallurgist."
Eric looked at the former owner of the sword. He wore a heavy shirt of maille, mostly blackened, over his padded shirt. The links of steel were blackened with pitch -- Eric could see where the pitch had discolored the padded gambeson underneath, and the smell was unmistakable. The highwayman also wore tuiles, a layer of metal and leather plates that looked like an armored skirt.
Eric kneeled next to the body. There was a leather thong around the man's neck that caught his eye. He untied the thong and pulled it free. Dangling from the end of it was a black medallion, three inches in diameter. On the face of it was an engraved face of a hideous, tentacular creature. Just looking at it, Eric felt ill at ease.
Bilbus leaned over Eric's shoulder. "That thing's attractive."
Eric nodded. "It's an odd piece of art. I wonder what it is."
Bilbus shrugged and drew his dagger. He cut the man's purse free and bounced it on his hand. The jingle of coins brought a smile to the thief's face.
Bilbus opened the purse and dumped the contents onto the ground. His eyes goggled as he looked at the two gold coins mixed in with the lesser-valued copper and bronze coin. Bilbus picked up one gold coin and flipped it over in his hand. Once side had the same hideous tentacular face as the medallion. The flip side had a spiked mace on it. Bilbus squinted at the oddly-curved spikes for a moment before he realized that the spikes were also tentacles. He pushed the other coins around. The other gold coin matched the one he held, but the others were common coin of the Kingdom of the Five Crowns.
He held one of the coins towards Eric. "Do you recognize this coin?"
Eric looked at it for a moment and shook his head. "Nope."
Bilbus dropped the coin back into the pile and opened the coin purse wide. He started to drop the coins back into the pouch, but stopped when he noticed a folded piece of paper still in the bag. He pulled it out and unfolded the page. The handwriting was rushed, a hastily-scribbled message.
Esgal Cadell,
You have been assigned to the Northern Area of Operations. We have provided you a total of 30 Klal to fund your activities. Remember, your first priority is to disrupt trade. As always, healthy slaves are needed to appease our overlords and the Elder Ones. You will be delivered to the safe house near Saltcliffs. Find effective hirelings to help your operations, and remember to bring them back to the House of Raigne so that we can dispose of them properly. You will be picked up at the night of the Summer Equinox to return to the Griffon's Beak.
Your Master,
Josacal the Younger,
Clomon of Griffon's Beak
Commander of Northern Area
Anlor Balsil Agralem
Bilbus read the note aloud to Eric. After he finished, he nodded towards the body. "Want to bet that this is Cadell?"
"That's probably a safe bet."
Bilbus focused next on the black sword. He directed a weave of Heka into the blade, feeling for a resonance from the flow of magick. A ringing sensation, almost audible, rose from the sword.
"Eric. The blade has a dweomer." He lowered his voice, realizing there were others around him who may not react well to magick. "It's not a strong enchantment, but I can feel it."
"What about the maille? Anything else on Cadell? This medallion?"
Bilbus focused the flows of Heka into Cadell and his armor. "Hmmm." He directed the flow through the medallion before directing it through the body. "There is something. It's not the medallion. I think it's the body itself."
"A potion, maybe?"
"It could be. I don't know. I can't feel the resonance strongly enough to identify it. I never learned how."
"We don't need the body. Gather what you want, and let's get going. We ought to try to get a few more miles in before it gets dark."
Bilbus glanced up at the sun. "You're right." He looked at the black sword. "I'd be happy to hold on to this for you. I've never seen workmanship like it, but it is very well made. The style of the crossguard is odd. I've never seen anything like it."
Eric gently took the sword from the thief. "That's all right, Bilbus. I'm going to hold onto it until we get to Armagh. I want Itami to look it over."
Bilbus and Eric rejoined the rest of the party. Quaeven was looking at his two wagons. "How ever will I get both of these wagons to Armagh? I can not possibly abandon one here."
Adria looked at the wagons. "I know how to handle a team."
Quaeven looked at her. "Would you please do me the favor of driving the second wagon?"
Adria nodded and started climbing the steep ladder to the high seat on the front of the second wagon.
As she settled onto the high bench, Bilbus walked up to the bottom of the ladder. "You know how to drive this thing?"
Adria scowled down at the thief. "Not every woman is helpless, Bilbus. I thought you may have figured that out already."
Bilbus ignored her retort and looked instead at her legs, visible beneath her skirt from his vantage. "It's a nice view..."
Adria gasped and gathered her skirt tightly around her lower legs, wrapping them to hide them from view.
The rest of the party remounted their horses. Bilbus tied the captured horses to the back of Adria's wagon, along with her own horse. The column of horses and the two enormous wagons slowly started traveling south, leaving the bodies to one side away from the road.
That evening, shortly before sunset, the travelers had made camp to one side of the road. The distant burble of a small stream feeding into the River Llwelyn created a calming background sound. Adria and Bilbus started assembling some tents as Quaeven dug through his wagons to find some rolls and spiced wine. Eric and Sturm disappeared into a nearby copse of trees to set some snares. Kasey walked across the Via to the River Llwelyn, only fifty paces beyond the road, and started laying some fishing lines in the water. Rishala leaned against one of the ten-foot-tall wagon wheels, still pale and stiff from the wound.
Quaeven built a campfire, carefully tending the smoldering tinder in a firepit as the flames flickered in the evening breeze. After ten minutes, it was a small bonfire. About that time, Sturm and Eric both returned to the camp, each carrying a pair of rabbits by the ears.
Quaeven expertly cleaned the rabbits, preparing the meat in strips heavily seasoned with his mixture of spices. As the last remnants of the day faded in the darkness outside the warm circle of light, Rishala settled against a wagon wheel, carefully avoiding putting pressure against his wounded shoulder, and started telling a tale.
"Two thousand and more Ans ago," Rishala began, using the older "Ans" instead of "years", "the wise and benevolent King Uther Paendroeg ruled the lands of Central Avillonia. Through negotiation, he had unified the five nations of Kellts: Albion, Caledonia, Cymru, Eiresud, and Hibernia. This alliance of powerful nations is what we now call the Five Crowns Alliance.
"It is said that King Uther took turns wearing the five crowns, one on each of the workdays. On the enddays, he would wear the Alliance Crown on Restday and he would wear no crown on Holyday. This way, he showed no preference for any of his five nations.
"During his reign, that time we call the Golden Era of Avillonia, King Uther did much to ensure that his people benefited. It was he who ordered the best engineers of the lands, with the help of the talented dwarves of Clemendeev, to create the Via Avillonia. These Via connected all of the largest cities, and they were created to survive the tests of time. The road we have ridden along is one of these Via.
"There were spans across the mighty River Llwelyn, even in Armagh, where the river is over four furlongs wide. Imagine a half mile long bridge, spanning a river such that riverboats could still pass underneath!"
Rishala paused for a moment. His companions were all relaxed, leaning against some logs that they had pulled closer to the fire or against their travel packs and saddle bags. Quaeven sat forward, chewing on some sort of wooden stick absently. Rishala noticed that Bilbus was puffing contentedly on some burning taback, wrapped in a thin paper. One of the horses neighed in the near-darkness beyond the fire's light.
"King Uther also did much to make the lands safe. He sent the King's Own First Knights to roust the lands of dangerous beasts and men. For many years, there were no wolves in the Great Forest, now the lands of the Dales. The Middle Ranges had no thieves or brigands. My homelands of Caledonia no longer had to fear the cruel kelpie." One of the horses snorted, sounding almost like a guttural laugh. "A young virgin maiden could travel from one extent of the Kingdom to the other, carrying a bag of gold, and fear no one and no thing."
Quaeven furrowed his forehead, making his many deep folds of skin even deeper. "Ajami, I prithee, what is this ... 'kelpie'?"
"Ah. In Caledonia, there used to be a creature of the sea we called a kelpie. It looks like a large, fine horse, such as one would use for a draft horse or a war horse. These foul creatures would sometimes come ashore to graze in the coastal hills. They would let foolish men try to ride them. When a man would climb onto the kelpie's back, the kelpie would bind the man magickally, so the man could not get off of the kelpie. The kelpie would then gallop into the sea to drown the poor man."
"Why does this creature do such?"
"A kelpie may look like a horse, but it is not a horse. It eats flesh. Usually, it hunts fish in the sea, but it occasionally likes other flesh as well. Humans are foolish enough to try to ride the kelpie, so it eats them."
A low sawing noise rumbled from nearby. Rishala glanced over at Kasey and saw that the Church Knight was asleep, snoring quietly.
Quaeven's sat back. "This sounds to be a terrible beast."
Rishala nodded. "For the unwary and foolish, yes. But, the kelpie can make a fine mount, if it can be trusted. Imagine a horse that you never fall from." Rishala paused. "Some say that the King's men were not completely successful eradicating the kelpie. Some of the finest war horses of Avillonia come from horse ranches along the Vasmar coast in Caledonia."
Quaeven smiled. "I would venture one of my land's steeds could be quite the match for these war horses."
Rishala grinned. "I have heard of the horses of al-Rhayidh. They are excellent horses for your lands, small and nimble. They can handle the heat of your deserts, and the shifting sands as well. I have never seen one."
"You have heard well, Rishala of Orkney."
"I enjoy stories."
"How does your tale of the King Uther end?"
"It ends with death, as do all true stories of lives.
"After fifteen years of the Golden Era, word arrived that men and worse had invaded Eiresud. They had crossed the Brythomar from the lands south, beyond your land's Vulcan's Furnaces mountains. An evil man, the Dark One, had sent his minions to destroy the Five Crowns Alliance. He hated Uther Paendroeg, the Sun King, and he wanted nothing more than to destroy the prosperous lands of Avillonia.
"In this endeavor, he nearly succeeded. The armies of the Dark One had many thousands of men, but there were also other minions. Orcs by the tens of thousands crossed the lands, destroying everything in sight. Shadow Kindred directed the armies, horrid things that look like an incomplete man that are faster than any beast should be. Some dragons even flew the skies, devouring man and animal alike, burning cities.
"The brave warriors of Uther's armies fought battle after battle, losing ground after each, until they formed a desperate ring around the kingdom's capitol, Camelough. Uther himself led the fight, killing dozens of orcs single-handedly before he was overcome. The city of Camelough fell as did its king.
"It is said that the heavens themselves wept with Uther as he watched his beloved Silver Towers burn."
There was a long silence. Quaeven finally cleared his throat to speak again. "Our people have a different name for your Dark One. We call him the Morning Star, for he stands out in the darkness. His deeds were singular in their cruelty. I remember the tales of the imprisoning of the Morning Star within his castle. His evil was so strong that the very lands of his kingdom died, so touched were they by him. What are now the Wasted Lands were once the richest soil of the world. Anything could grow in those lands. Now, nothing but the smallest and most twisted of plants can survive even the winters of the lands.
"I thank thee for the fine story. It gives us much to think of as we slumber this night."
As the flicker of the campfire was replaced by glowing embers, the party settled into their comfortable tents to sleep the night. A distant owl's low, mournful call sounded over the camp as quiet settled amongst the travelers.
Back to the previous chapter: Preludes
Continue to the next chapter: Diversions
Back to the Book I Index.
Back to the Dark Mysteries Campaign Chapter Index.
Second Draft 04 May 2001
Original Draft 30 August 2000
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