Curse of Darkness VII - Britania

[Greenfield]

***
Marcus went to tend to Seeburn's wounds. Between the battle madness and his immense size, he had been careless of danger, and so was bleeding from a dozen places.

"Be sure to leave some of those.", Penn advised. "He may want a few battle scars, and his father will need to see them, to know that Seeburn really is a warrior."

Seeburn looked up and nodded his agreement, then collapsed again to let the weariness pass.

In the mean time the others assessed the condition of the fallen. One was still breathing. A minor amount of healing magic was applied, to ensure that he'd live to see the next dawn, then his hands and feet were securely bound.

"Let's move him inside there.", Sylus suggested, indicating the small cottage that Seeburn had damaged in the battle. "That way he won't freeze to death." Then, seeing the questioning looks of the others, he elaborated. "Two escaped, and might still set the town ablaze. We need to either catch them, or be sure that they've gone. And then we have another battle running."

The prisoner and his fallen comrades were searched, in particular for hidden blades and incendiaries, and a few bits of jewelry were claimed, then the party set off.

"This gate doesn't get used much.", Sylus remarked, once they were outside. "No tracks in the snow except theirs coming in, and two more coming out." He set off after them, but within a few hundred yards he pulled up. "They're running straight home.", he said, pointing to the length of their stride, and the trailing marks their heels made in the snow. "And they can make tracks faster than I can follow them."

"Then let's get back to the city. The battle will be under way by now."
***
The companions ran along the wall, to see if there were more of the bandits, but all was quiet. It wasn't the shortest path, but it was a prudent one. Sylus, in fact, decided to stay and patrol the area, in case they had missed something. He didn't so much stand guard as go hunting.

"It's a frame of mind.", he had once explained. "Standing watch, you're waiting for the enemy to come to you. You give them the choice, and the initiative. Instead, presume that the enemy is out there, then go and hunt him. As a rabbit or fox will seek a burrow, so an enemy scout will seek a vantage point. Look in those vantage points. You hunt him, instead of letting him hunt you."

Tonight, he was hunting them.
***
The chill, heavy sea air seemed to stream off of them as they ran, as if they should see eddies and curls of it in their wake. Indeed there was a bit of mist building as they approached the waterfront. Across the way they could see three ships under siege, slogged to a halt by the thick seaweed of the shallows, enhanced by Druidic magics. Flame arrows lit the sky, and fiery tar balls arced away from the harbor defenses as the forces on the shore laid in with everything they had.

"I thought I heard there were four ships sighted.", Marcus recalled as he stared across the bay at the spectacle.

"The scouts may have miscounted.", Seeburn offered in explanation.

"No, look!", the Cleric cried, pointing off towards the headlands. There, far from the main battle, a fourth ship could be seen, a dark outline against the filtered moonlight.

The companions redoubled their efforts, sprinting up the shore line towards the enemy.

"You can't land a ship there.", Seeburn snorted in disgust. "The rocks will rip her belly out, for sure."

"Not so sure.", Nedel countered. "See, ahead of her? She has a pilot boat, sounding the way, trying to find a deeper channel."

The range to even the pilot boat would have been a challenge for Sylus himself, and the Humans in the party had to take it on faith that there was a boat at all, for both the ship and the pilot craft were running dark.

Still, the party unlimbered their bows and let fly with quarrel and bolt. They were rewarded with naught but the splashing sounds of arrows striking the sea, but somewhere within that cascade of sound, there was the solid thunk of arrow striking wood.

Cassius stood in frustration, for he carried neither bow nor sling. Penn tossed his own set to the man, and took a different course. A short song and a quick transformation and he was winged and aloft once more.

Perhaps it was the darkness or the sea breeze, the chop of the waves or the chill of the night, but this time it seemed as if he was flying through molasses. The exhilaration of first flight was gone, and now the hard reality set in: The enemy was a long way out, and he came to know the truth of the old adage: “There is no cover in the sky.”

Nedel conjured a spark of light, which he cupped in his hand lest it give the enemy a clear target, and wove it carefully into the fletchings of his bolt. Then, taking careful aim towards the creak of oars in the darkness, he let fly.

"Thunk!", went the arrow, and suddenly the scene was lit. The pilot boat held seven, six on the oars and one with a fathoming pole to probe the bottom as they crept in. Surprisingly, all were Halflings, an odd choice for boatmen.

The next volley of arrows struck true, and with a cry the man on the bow fell into the water. He struggled for a moment against the chill waters only to be forced under by the boat as it rode right over him.

The poor boatmen were in a terrible spot, for if they tried to return fire then they would make no headway, and the range was as long for them as it was for the shore defenses. They elected to keep rowing, though they no longer knew if the course they set was one the ship could follow.

Then, oddly, the wind shifted. It had been coming off the sea to the west, but now curled around and was headed directly south, into the teeth of the ship. Companions looked around and spied First with a few of the Centaur deemed too young for the main battle. He held a scroll in one hand, and his other angled as if to guide the wind that slid along his exposed palms. He smiled at them, but held his pose and his concentration.

Penn found the sudden shift disconcerting, and he almost tumbled when the new breeze took the bite off the edge of his wings, but he quickly recovered and rode the wind outward, faster than before.

There was a splatter as of rain as flights of arrows fell into the surf, the headwind now resisting Halfling short bows from the dark vessel as solidly as it folded their sails back.

The exchange continued for what seemed like an eternity, as the Companions slowly managed to score against the oarsmen, and the archers on the trailing ship tried to reach the shore with their own return fire.

One oarsman finally dropped his oar completely and took up his shield for cover.

Then Penn was over head, looking down onto the bobbing longboat. A small vial dropped from his hand, to strike amidships. It blossomed orange and yellow upon impact, and soon the small craft was awash in flames as the ancient Greek formulation did what it was intended to do.

Whether the craft made it to shore now or not was irrelevant. Her mission as done, her purpose thwarted. The flames were simply putting that mission out of its misery.
[FONT=&quot]***
The men in the small craft were now fully occupied in fighting the flames, and several either jumped or fell overboard during the turmoil.

Suddenly there was a bright detonation as something in the craft succumbed to the flames, and the remaining oarsmen were forced to abandon the craft. They had been carrying incendiaries of their own.

"Hold fire!", called Seeburn, as he shucked off his heavy hauberk. He could see the Halflings struggling in the bay, trying to shed armor while keeping afloat, and succeeding at neither.

Seeing that they were too far to throw a line to, he gritted his teeth and plunged into the icy water.

It was a solid shock to his system, and for a moment he had a hard time taking a breath. Then he began to stroke, and moved towards the nearest swimmer. The little fellow may have been an enemy a few moments ago, but now he was a sailor in distress, and no one raised by the sea side could abandon such a man.

The closer one was struggling, but making headway, and the companions on shore began to shout encouragement.

Though it was a short swim, it had been a long night, and the cold water was quickly turning Seeburn's limbs to lead, yet he pressed on.

Cassius stood on the shore in indecision. He hadn't been raised by the sea, and wasn't as good a swimmer as Seeburn. He knew in his head that he would do little good in the water, but his heart thought different.

Imagina saw his pain and offered a solution. "Gentle Warmth", she intoned, granting the dark warrior some protection against the chill of the waters. "Go get him.", she said.

Marcus offered him a line to carry, and the decision was made. Casting off whatever heavy gear he could, he leaped into the surf, swimming strongly towards the injured boatman.

[/FONT]

 

[Greenfield]

***
Penn heard the explosion behind him, heard the battle cries turn to offers of aid and encouragement, but he had bigger problems. With the strong wind blowing out from shore he wouldn't be able to turn and give aid, even if he should try. And there was still a ship out there with hundreds of men waiting to kill him and his companions.

He beat at the night air heavily, striving to gain altitude. If he couldn't rise enough to clear the yard arms then he'd run afoul of the sails or tangle himself in the halliards. Or, more likely, he'd be filled so full of arrows that it wouldn't matter. He considered turning away, to pass abeam of the dark vessel, but that would leave him open to more archery fire. The safest way past was right over the top, stem to stern.

He was close enough to hear the creak of her timbers when he passed, and saw the mad scramble in the rigging as sailors strove to reef her sails. Then the ship shook slightly, and there was a grinding sound as her heavy keel struck the first of the rocks.

He continued to rise, looking down onto the crowded deck as he went, and saw a sight that chilled him even more than the cold night air. Stacked amid ships were landing boats, coracles by the look of them. Enough to set a small army ashore.

"Of course", he thought to himself, cursing for not seeing it sooner. No matter how good a pilot boat they had, there was no way for this craft to actually make shore. At least, not here. All she could do was get close. From there she'd have to drop anchor and lower her boats.

Coracles were ideal. A set of wooden ribs, covered in oiled hide, they were lightweight, and they could be stacked one on another during transit.

He altered course, and prepared his second flask of the Greek Fire. He had two left, and a pair of the red flasks they had taken from the raiders earlier in the evening. He hoped they were fire, but hadn't had time to check.

He watched the small flask drop away in a steep arc, an arc that grew steeper once in the wind shadow of the sails. He missed the stack of boats he'd been aiming for, but caught another, and suddenly the ships deck was illuminated in dancing red.

The last of his own followed the first and struck a second set of boats, sending splatters of flame onto a third.

Arrows were flying his way, but those shooting from the deck were firing almost straight up, and risked having their own spent quarrels rain back down on them.

He left a bank of archers behind as he passed each mast, only to encounter a new set waiting and ready. He saw no more landing craft, so he didn't feel the need to risk using the enemy's weapons against them. He was wounded and bleeding when he passed the ship's stern castle, but managed to stay aloft.

Now he wheeled about, shifting out of that enchanted tailwind, and slowly made his way back towards shore. For better or for worse, he'd done all he could.
***
Seeburn reached the small struggling form and held out a hand. His had closed only on water, but the stout sailor struck out with a final effort and grabbed the Barbarian's hand instead. He looked outward, striving to see the other survivor, and sadly, he could.

The second Halfling was struggling, floundering and thrashing in the waves but making no headway. Seeburn knew that he might reach him in time, but doubted that he'd be able to drag both back to shore. With leaden limbs and a pain in his heart, he turned back towards shore. "A bird in the hand.", he muttered to himself.

Cassius was slowly making his way out as Marcus played out the line. When he reached the end of the first rope, Nedel was ready with a second one. He'd sent magical lights dancing out across the water, and was just able to set them above the far swimmer, but he had no actual aid he could lend.

Then First spoke up. "Help is on the way.", he said, intoning a conjuration.

"Shark!", screamed the far Halfling, as he saw a dorsal fin cut quickly through the foam, blood in the water drawing him like a lodestone to iron. He thrashed more desperately, but with no more effect.

Seeburn found new life in his lifeless limbs, and it seemed as if he nearly ran across the remaining distance to shore. There he collapsed on the rocks, his tiny burden wrapped in shivering arms.

Cassius cursed. He hated to abandon the small swimmer after having come so far, but ...

He redoubled his efforts, his powerful arms pulling him farther from shore with each passing moment. He didn't really think he could outswim a shark, but he was certainly going to try.
***
"Whooohaaaa!", whooped the King as he launched another cask of flaming tar at the enemy ship. Aboard he could see that the crew had given up trying to work the rigging, and were now fighting fires with everything they had. Yet her captain was stubborn, and had refused to signal the surrender. The other two had white pennants flapping in the breeze, but the commander of this last one was bound and determined to go down with his ship.

The King was more than willing to oblige, and all but danced with glee as he called for the catapult to be reloaded.
***
Nedel and Marcus were busy tending to two prisoners and a near-frozen Barbarian prince.

The Sorcerer's magic quickly helped shed the shivering trio of seawater, wringing the wetness from them head to toe. That, however, did nothing to warm the blood.

"There's an Inn nearby.", Nedel observed.

"It will be closed and shuttered.", Imagina countered as she shared her own woolen cloak with the blue-lipped swimmers.

"I can fix that.", laughed Cassius, taking up his sword again. "Bring them."

"I've never seen anything like that.", Marcus kept saying. "I've never seen a shark help a man to shore."

"Well, you have to ask him nicely.", smiled First. "I've set him and his friends to circle the ship, and keep the others in their place."
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"You say there was a fourth ship?", asked the King. "We only saw three."

"The fourth rode in dark, and tried to land troops at the headland.", Marcus informed him. "They were using a pilot boat to fathom a passage close enough to shore. First and a few of his Centaurs helped us, and together we managed to take out that pilot boat, and drive the main ship aground. We have prisoners from both battles."

"And I suppose you're going to credit my son for these victories?", asked the King, his voice heavy with scorn.

"He called on battle magics to help him in the first fight.", Marcus confirmed. "The second one was a team effort."

"I knew it!", swore the King. "Not just books and letters, but magic as well? Of all the useless...", he trailed off into a stream of obscenities, his face flushed with fury.

"Um, did you want to direct the capture of the last ship, Your Majesty?", asked Marcus, at a loss for anything else to say.
***
The King and his immediate entourage arrived at the north shore to take charge of things. Local fishing boats were called into service to ferry prisoners from burning or disabled vessels, and the King himself reviewed the damage.

"It looks like you folk did a good job here.", he admitted grudgingly, after looking things over.

"Who destroyed the wall on that hut?", he asked, already knowing the answer.

"The building was damaged during the battle.", Penn offered. "Your son simply didn't know his own strength."

"And he used magic to do this?", the King demanded.

"He was a giant on the battlefield.", Penn assured him. "He and Cassius blocked the two streets leading from the entry plaza. He was foaming at the mouth, and laid such a swath of destruction that his enemies dared not close with him. They hurled poisoned blades at him from the fringes, but with none who could stand up to him for more than a few moments, the 'fringe" became the front line far too quickly for their taste. Two fled the field with their tails between their legs. The last wasn't quick enough, and died where he stood. Seeburn seemed almost sorry when he ran out of people to kill."

The King turned a leary eye towards the Bard, unsure if he spoke the truth, or was just telling what he might wish to hear. Then he looked towards Seeburn, measuring him as one might look at a horse on the auction block.

"You seem to have forgotten how to defend yourself.", he observed, noting the myriad of scabbed over wounds on the Barbarian's body. "But at least you haven't abandoned the blade entirely. Go clean yourself up."

Men arrived to report the status of the port, and the King seemed pleased.
***
"People!", the King called to the roaring crowd. "You've done well tonight. While Stonehoof clearly won the Archery tournament, you, my people, have won the day. Let us have another day tomorrow, a day of feasting!"

He waited for the roar of the crowd to fade before continuing.

"The shipwrights tell me that one of these prize vessels can be made seaworthy again within two days. At that time my son, Seeburn, will lead a small war party against our enemies in Hibernia. And then the real celebration will commence!"

Penn buried his face in his hands. Unless the King had some other plan in mind, he had just announced to the enemy their exact time of departure, and exactly where they were going.
***
"It's not quite as you take it, friend Bard.", the King explained. "Your wit has proven its worth, and you've stood the test of battle. You don't fight the way I do, but then your people aren't mine either. But my son, he was raised to be a man, to face his opponents squarely. This magic thing...", he shook his head in near despair.

"The battle magics can make him a mightier warrior than ever before.", Penn argued.

"But a true warrior finds the fire within and draws his might from there. He needs no magic for that."

The Bard pursed his lips, thinking carefully before he replied. "He's as fierce a warrior as I've ever seen. I know how it must feel, to stare a foe in the eye and see the truth dawn there, that he isn't man enough to face you and he knows it. That he's going to die and there's nothing he can do about it. But you know the greater truth than that. You know that it takes more than a warrior's fury to be a King. Your son seeks to grow beyond the fury, to be more than just another warrior on the line."

"But he must still be a warrior of the line. He won't be a man that other men will follow if he gives up being a man at all."

"Your son will make you proud of him. He won't lay down his blade, not while he lives. Of that you can be certain."

"We'll see.", the King said, still troubled.
[/FONT] ***
Seeburn resisted the urge to pick at the stitches that traced their way over his body. He'd refused magical healing, and gone instead to the wise women of the castle, for it was the way of his people that the women would work the needle, and gut a man's wounds closed after the battle.

Magic had always been available, but there were always more in need than there were blessings to share, and a warrior's battle scars were the trophies he would carry forever.

He looked up when his father entered. The King hadn't knocked, but then Kings didn't have to, and manners weren't exactly emphasized in Mor Castle.

"We're having some games tomorrow, at the celebration.", the King announced. "You'll be fighting in the first round, so get your rest."
***
"I don't believe it.", Imagina declared when she saw Penn trundle down the stairs. "You've been here two days, and you're still waking up alone. Is that a new record?"

"Well, darlin', you're welcome to cure that condition any time.", the Bard laughed in reply, making his best imitation of the local tongue.. They were both getting comfortable enough with each other that they could joke about such things, for they knew that that particular match would never be made.

"He's probably smart to keep a lonely bed around here.", Seeburn said as he doctored his porridge. He was in the battle games today, and didn't want to weight himself down, so he ate light.

"The women around here are possessive, and the fathers are protective.", he continued. "And they've heard about you.", he added pointedly.

"Why so down my friend?", the Bard asked, straddling a chair at the table. "We won last night, and we did it with almost no casualties."

"My father has called a celebration today, a day of fun and games.", Seeburn replied, as if that explained everything.

"So again I'll ask, why so down?"

"You have no idea what my father considers 'fun'."
***
The lists were posted, and Seeburn fumed.

"Valmont? Sargent of the Guard?", he growled. "My father matched me against him?"

"Too challenging?", asked Penn, looking the matches over himself. "Ah, I drew someone named Feardig'."

"No, it's an insult. I should be matched against the Captain! And what do you mean, you drew Feardig'? Don't tell me you posted to the lists?"

"Of course. Spirit of the occasion and all that.", Penn laughed. "It's a game, how bad could it be?"

"Remember what I said about my father's idea of 'fun'? It's blood sport, live steel. You'll get yourself killed." Seeburn then watched as his friend realized what he had gotten himself into. "Why so down?", he finally asked in satisfaction.
***
The crowd had gathered on the slopes above the shoreline to cheer their favorites, and the rocks echoed back their cries. Below stood the first two contestants, Seeburn and Valmont.

The two were well matched, despite Seeburn's wanting to face a greater warrior. Seeburn was quicker, even on the damp sand, but Valmont's stamina was all but legendary.

Seeburn stepped forward smartly, bowed towards the King, then raised his blade in salute to his opponent.

"Wha' the devil is all tha'?", asked Valmont in confusion.

"Those who are about to die salute the King.", Seeburn explained.

"Ye've been in Rome too long, lad. This is sport, not to the death, and all this bowing an' waving your sword about all fancy, well, I guess what they say about you is true."

"My father would be just as happy if I died here.", Seeburn said grimly. "So yeah, it's more than just sport."

Valmont hefted his axe as if truly feeling the weight of it for the first time. It was the burden of life and death, a weight that couldn't be felt with the hands, but one that the heart felt all too well.

"If that's how it has to be, lad, then, well, good bye."

And they were at each other.

Steel rang on steel, and Seeburn drove forward, seeking to press his advantage early. Valmont yielded a single pace before the onslaught, then held.

They traded blows, Seeburn's speed matched by the sheer power of the other's great axe. Soon Valmont was bleeding from half a dozen cuts and slices. Seeburn's wounds were fewer, but deeper, and he began to realize that he might lose this fight.

So he let loose. He opened his heart and let the inner fire flood his body, the battle madness wash through him. He went berserk.

Now the fight became a matter of desperation for Valmont, for when he looked in his friend's eyes he could see that friend no longer. And he knew that Seeburn wouldn't stop until one of them was dead.

Sparks flew as Valmont slipped a parry, and he felt a streak of fire in his guts as his quicker opponent laid a low slash just above the belt line. A little deeper and that cut might have gutted him.

Seeburn saw his opponent flinch and recoil, saw the blood on the tip of his sword, and drove forward in pursuit of his rapidly backpedaling foe. He saw the other lower his axe for a moment, and with a roar he brought his sword up into a towering overhead blow.

And it was over. The victor stood panting, watching the surprise in the eyes of his foe, his friend, as he sank to his knees.

The victor pulled his axe free and stepped back. Yeomen rushed in with a litter, and healers pressed vinegar soaked cloths into the wound to staunch the flow of blood. The pain would be excruciating, but it would save his life, if there was any life in him to save.

And on the rocks above, the King smiled in satisfaction.
***
"You've seen what this is now.", Marcus warned Penn. "You can get killed out there. Don't be afraid to run away, if it comes down to it."

"I'll be okay.", Penn assured his friend. "And of course I'll run. I'm not stupid, you know."

"I don't know.", said Nedel. "You signed up for this, didn't you? That was pretty stupid."

"True. But I'll bet I'm giving the odds makers headaches."

"May you know the blessings of Jupiter, and may his glory carry you through this day.", Marcus prayed, feeling the twin blessings take hold.

Across the way, his opponent was receiving similar guidance and support from the local priest of Dagda.

Marcus and the other priest locked eyes for a moment, then each smiled.

"I'll wager a gold on the Bard.", Marcus offered.

"Make it platinum and you have a bet.", replied the other. The pair shook hands, and the deal was struck. Then, almost as an afterthought, the Dagdanite spoke a few dreaded words: "Dispel Magic".

Penn felt part of Marcus' blessing fade, and so he did what he always did when he was afraid. He sang.

"..welcome to your gory bed, or to victory.
Now's the day and now's the hour,
see the lines of battle lour,
see approach proud Breton's power,
chains and slavery.

Who would be a traitor knave,
who would fill a coward's grave,
let him turn and flee..."

Penn watched his opponent as he sang, a heavily built man, human, hefting a battle axe in one hand and sporting a small buckler shield on his forearm. The man was all but laughing at the slender rapier in the Bard's hand, barely a sliver compared to the arms he knew.

Then the baton dropped, and the battle was on.

Penn sprang forward, muttering a spell as he went. "web of steel" His hooves dug into the wet sand, and he fairly danced circles around the other. A quick slash slid in above the buckler, and the oak thick arm revealed there flowed red.

Then the magic took hold, and he flicked his light blade upward to ring the flat of it against the other man's helm.

Feardig' blinked and shook his head, trying to clear his vision from that light but ringing blow.

Then the merrily dancing Fey was upon him again, slashing at his other arm, and again rapping the side of his helm with that toy of a sword. That dancing, lightning quick, razor sharp toy of a sword.

Again he saw double from the surprise blow, and he staggered back a step, trying to buy time for his head to clear.

And Penn was on him again, pinking his left thigh this time with a low cut. But the whip-like back slash of the blade missed its mark this time, and Feardig’s vision remained clear.

"My turn!", he growled, gripping the axe in both hands. He stepped towards Penn, his axe a circle of shining steel that drove the Fey back, stopping his dance.

"Ohhh crap.", swore Penn, realizing that his game might be over.

And now the battle was on in earnest. No longer dazed or confused by the flashing sword technique, Feardig' was battling like a true berserker, pressing and driving, and leaving the Bard with no time to plan, no room to dance, barely a chance to breathe.

But that hard, furious attack was weak on defense and left Feardig' open to the Bard's blade, which scored again and again whenever the pair closed.

Then came the moment. Feardig' lunged, and Penn dropped to one knee, below the incoming blow. And then the foam on the man's lips turned pink with blood as he impaled himself on the extended blade. He staggered for a moment, looking lost, as if he didn't quite know what had happened, or how he had come to be on this beach.

But the battle madness was still in him, the madness that will drive a man to spend his dying breath striving to reach his enemy. He swung his axe with all that he had left in him, felt it bite deep, and saw the Half Satyr fall just as the darkness overtook him.

And it was over. A howl of disapproval rose from certain quarters of the crowd, for both men lay on the sand, and without a clear winner, no wagers could be paid off.

And on the rocks above, the King looked troubled.

 

[Greenfield]

***
Penn and Seeburn both recovered from their injuries, with help, and the festivities continued.

Many of the games were fun, most were warlike, but one in particular brought some to their feet.

"They can't do that!", Imagina declared in shock. A man was being brought out onto the field and tethered to a stake with a long chain. Archers were lining up to fire.

"Sit down!", Seeburn ordered sharply, his old fire coming to the fore once more.

"But that's barbaric!"

Seeburn glowered at her. "Look at where you are, and look at who lives here.", he said with emphasis. "These men were given a choice. If they can dodge the arrows long enough to free themselves, they're free. They understand exactly what they're getting into."

"But why?"

"It's simple. We're at war. The enemy has burned some of our fields, stolen or slaughtered some of our flocks. Its winter, and we just took over 700 prisoners last night. We can't feed them all. We won't intentionally starve them, but if I have to choose between feeding my family and feeding an enemy who came to kill my family..."

The Enchantress' mouth worked for several seconds without any resultant words coming forth. Her lands seldom suffered this level of privation, and winters like this were unheard of.

Marcus watched as harsh reality set in on his companion. Rome had crucified entire armies that had come against her, and slaves often fought for the entertainment of the crowds in the Colluseum. This kind of sport might not be to the lady's taste, but it was sport none the less, and no man was being forced to participate.

He did notice, though, that the Centaurs had, as a body, turned away from this spectacle.

A cheer went up as the first of the prisoners fell. More would follow.
***
The fires roared and the music played, the people danced and the minstrels sang far into the night.

The castle's capacity to throw feasts was running thin, but the King wouldn't let on such a weakness. To hide the sparseness of his larder, he covered with generosity.

"Here here!", cried the King, raising a heavy bow above his head. "Tomorrow we hunt!", he cried. "Form your parties and make your plans. The group that brings back the finest trophy will be awarded handsomely. My own great bow will be theirs!"

Cassius quietly groaned. "We're going, aren't we?", he asked.

"Is there really a question about that?"
***
The morning was gray, as all mornings had been for years, but this morning had the added benefit of light snow shifting to occasional slushy drizzle.

None the less, hunting parties were setting out well before dawn. Some rode out through the fields and into the hills beyond. Some hunted in the closer woods. Several parties had arranged for boats to take them up or down coast, to get away from the other groups, and beyond territories that were in danger of being over hunted.

Seeburn lead the companions to such a boat, a smile on his face and a hunting falcon on his arm. "I sent a few friends ahead, to scout and be ready to beat the bushes.", he said with a conspiratorial air.

"I guess it's good to be the King's son, eh?", Sylus smiled, nudging his friend in a friendly way. Then he looked at the kilted Scott a bit harder. "You know, for a man who got beaten half to death in front of his father yesterday, you're in remarkably good spirits."

"My father was happy for me. Not that I lost, but that I fought with a sword and gave it everything I had."

Marcus nodded, then paused, as if expecting something else. "Where's Penn?", he asked, when he realized that the Bard was absent.

"He said he wants to work on some potions.", Sylus informed him. "Besides, can you imagine trying to hunt with him around? He'd be singing and talking and scaring all the game away. I mean, I like him well enough, but he never shuts up."

Imagina raised an eyebrow in surprise. That was the longest speech she'd ever heard from the normally taciturn huntsman. "Cassius stayed behind too. I don't think he likes to hunt."

"Hunt? He doesn't even own a bow.", Sylus laughed. "Sometimes I don't understand that boy."

The cry of the gulls echoed off the rocky shore as they headed south, and the smell of saltwater filled their nostrils as the sail was set. The winter sea was choppy, and the wind cut like a knife, but the boatman knew the waters well, and guided them safely to their destination.

"We're well south of the Wall", he reminded them, "so be on the lookout for trouble. I'll land you there, at the inlet, and I'll be back with the evening tide. If you're not ready then, I'll check again in the morning. If you aren't back by then, I'll go get help."

"You mean, we're poaching on someone else's lands?", Sylus asked in surprise.

"Does that bother you? It's part of the game.", Seeburn laughed. "The Bretons poach our lands, we poach theirs. Come the spring, we'll be at war again, and these lands might change hands. "

"Doesn't bother me.", Sylus laughed. "I've never owned any land of my own, but I hunt all the time, and my pot never goes empty. I just wanted to be sure."

The boatman paddled hard to catch a small wave and ride it in, high onto the shore. They finally slid to a grinding stop on the gravel beach, bracing themselves for balance. "Be safe, be warm, be lucky, and be back by sunset.", the boatman advised as they clambered out of the small craft.

Something colorful fluttered in the breeze on the bluffs above, and Seeburn laughed. "My friends have been here all right.", he said, pointing upslope. He then lead the group up a narrow slot in the stone and clay, cut by a rivulet.

As they climbed, they spied what the Barbarian had been pointing to. A pair of bodies, dead less than a day, were laid out on the slope facing the sea, pinned in place by a pair of arrows each. Bright ribbons had been tied to the fletchings, to mark the location.

"Friends of yours?", Nedel asked, nodding towards the pair.

"No, just their handiwork. Sometime the Bretons post a shore watch. Now they get to watch the shore all they want. It's the fortunes of war, you know. My friends will have set up a hunter's camp inland, and we'll probably have a hot meal at midday, thanks to them."

The sorcerer nodded, but noted the uncomfortable looks on Marcus and Imagina's faces. Unlike he and Seeburn, they weren't accustomed to having servants about. Sylus, as usual, kept his feelings well masked.
***
Sylus and Seeburn took the lead positions, one to the left of the group and one to the right.

Sylus easily spotted the tracks left by the scouts, and decided to veer away from them a bit. Their tracks were so heavy and clear that they would likely have frightened much of the local game. He understood the value of a beater or a good dog when hunting small game birds, but they weren't going to win any prizes with grouse, rabbit or game hen. And despite Penn's pretty speech to the King, sometimes you did go hunting for specific quarry.

He held up his hand to get Seeburn's attention, then parted his fingers and pointed towards a heavy stand of trees off to the left. Seeburn understood the hunter's sign and altered his path accordingly. They'd approach from two sides to flush out whatever might be there.

Sylus hadn't seen anything in those woods, nor any real spore or trail sign, but Seeburn didn't know that, and so he lead the group out of the planned and prepared hunting area. They were on their own.
***
Hours passed before they came across any real track, but that's the way it is when you hunt. Patience is emphasized.

Seeburn saw Sylus' signal, and read the sign right. Two fingers to the forehead meant deer or elk, and three fingers pulled tightly together and pointing to the ground meant clear tracks.

They followed for perhaps a hundred yards when the Ranger pulled up, looking troubled. He waved the group together, since he knew that the others wouldn't understand the silent language of the stalker.

"A small herd of deer came through here.", he explained, tracing the track with his fingers. "Wolves followed. See how their tracks are on top of the deer? The deer are walking, but the wolves aren't. See the length of the stride?"

"So what does it mean? What do we do?"

"We hurry. The wolves might have gotten their kill already, and scattered the herd. But I haven't heard any howls or yips, so I don't think so. At least not yet."

Seeburn nodded, agreeing with both what the trail sign meant, and with what they should do.

"Blackie, up!", he instructed, casting his bird into the late morning breeze.

The sharp beat of his wings faded as he gained altitude. Then he circled one time and headed inland. He knew what his master sought.

The winter branches rattled in the cold wind, skeleton bare, just dense enough to confuse the eye when one tried to follow a bird in flight, but Seeburn needed no eyes at all to know that his avian friend had found what they sought. The bird circled far ahead, then stooped, hard, off and to the left.

Soon it could be seen flying back, the limp form of a dead rabbit dangling from his talons.

"Does your bird know that rabbits don't have antlers?", laughed Marcus.

"Oh he knows. But he found the deer before finding his own feast.", Seeburn assured them. "A thousand yards or so ahead. He circled the area, that's his signal."

And they set off at a quick trot, with Sylus pausing only occasionally to make sure they were still on the trail.

He slowed the group to a walk as they approached the area, and again Seeburn took a flank position.

Listening carefully, he still detected no sounds of a wolf pack signaling a hunt or kill, yet he knew that they hadn't passed the pack either. His eyes scanned the area, looking for some sign of movement.

And something caught his eye. Not low, where deer or wolves would be, but higher up, atop a low rock outcropping. A tiny manlike figure crouched there, one with skin the color of dark red clay, tiny batlike wings, a sharply barbed tail and a grin that could only be described as "devilish".

"Be careful!", the tiny figure warned in a low whisper. "You're not alone!"

***
Sylus simply stared for a few heartbeats, then his bow snapped into firing position, but by then the Imp was gone.

"Did you see that?", he asked, keeping his voice low.

"See what?"

"An Imp. He was over there.", he said, pointing towards the rock.

Seeburn's bow was also in position now, and he scanned the area for any disturbance. A flicker of movement caught his eye, a slight swirl in the snow where none should be, and he fired almost before he realized what he was doing. The arrow struck something unseen and fell to the ground.

"Now that's not very nice.", came a giggling voice.

" Rootbind", Sylus said, sliding his hand beneath the snow to find the earth. And even in the dead of winter, the power of the magic awakened the plants. Starting at the Ranger's hand and spreading forward, a ripple flowed across the woods, and the thick brush began to twist and reach, looking for something to take hold of.

"Well done.", laughed the childish voice. "I don't see how that can fail."

Sylus' mouth twisted in a silent snarl of frustration. He began to circle to his right, avoiding the area affected by his spell. Seeburn and Imagina began to move to the left.

"Shhhh.", a small voice urged the Enchantress as she passed a small rock. "You're going the wrong way. They're on the other side."

She looked down, following the sound of laughter, and spied the Imp in his hiding place.

The imp, in turn, sat on his haunches and rocked back and forth in glee when the Human simply hardened her face and pressed on in the same direction. She was giving her "friends" neither warning nor aid, but instead saving herself while they stood in harm's way. He heartily approved.

He didn't even bother trying to warn the other Human, the one who had shot him, when he went past. Instead he simply handed back the arrow the Human had fired at him earlier. The fact that Seeburn accepted it and moved on in silence confirmed that this one too was thinking of himself first. Or perhaps he had designs on the woman. Perhaps? That might prove interesting, he decided, so once more he wrapped himself in shadows and took to the air.

Nedel and Marcus moved to the right, more quickly and with less caution than Sylus. The Ranger signaled them to get down, but the pair were impervious to reason. Or perhaps they didn't see or understand the silent language of the hunter.

Nedel saw Sylus' furtive gestures, and froze in place. He peered into the brush and waited, fingers halfway twisted into the magical gesture of the arcane bolt. Anything that moved was going to bleed.

Then, from behind a broad juniper, there came the low, slinking form of a wolf, his thick fur flowing with shades of gray that would easily blend into the shadows. The beast bared its teeth, preparing to spring.

But before it could, arcane energies leaped out first, scoring three ragged tears in the beast's heavy winter coat. And with a yelp and a whine, the wolf spun in place and fled, tail between his legs.

But in those scant few seconds when it was visible, Sylus saw something important. That wolf had been wearing a collar.
***
Someplace in the brush, a hunter cursed silently at the grasses that had wrapped themselves around his legs. He was busy with his hunting knife, trying to cut away the sod that they rooted in, but winter had hardened the ground to near-stone, and he was making no progress.
***
Seeburn was so angry he almost couldn't see, but he couldn't afford to lose control right now. He wanted to kill that Imp, but he knew that there were other problems at the moment. He'd heard the whine and yelp of the injured wolf, so the fiendish creature had been telling the truth about the danger, and evil though it was, it hadn't itself done them any harm.

Imagina was ten paces to his rear, and advancing as slowly as he was now. He sought tracks the way he'd been taught, keeping his gaze up and using the lower edge of his vision. And he'd seen them. Several sets of boot prints, areas where the thin dusting of snow had been scattered or pressed flat, small branches that had been broken in passing.

The trail ended in sadness. Two bodies, his friends from the castle, lay beneath some low cover, their throats slit. This wasn't the work of wolves, that was for certain.
***
Sylus rolled forward from his hunter's crouch, moving on all fours now, toes and fingertips the only parts of his body in contact with the earth. His bow was held crosswise to his body, an arrow in his teeth. "Call of Nature", he intoned softly as he went, listening to the quiet whispers of the woods.

Ahead he heard silence, and he headed for it, for in nature only the predator is silent. The world around the predator is silent. And being a predator himself, he was silent.

There, lurking behind some of the low juniper, was a second wolf. And a third lay in wait off to his right. He'd known they'd be there, for there is no such thing as only one wolf hunting.

He growled softly, his body adding meaning to the sounds as his magics directed. " Me. These others. My pack.", he declared firmly.

" These. Me. My pack.", came the reply. And both waited.

After a long moment, Sylus "spoke" again. " Who is alpha? Where?"

" Master? He guards the kill.", came the reply, including a sense of direction: Out into the twisting grasses.

" Good hunting. We won't steal your kill. Peace.", Sylus offered.

" Peace." the wolf agreed, though neither side truly relaxed their stance.
***
The hunter looked up and saw his lupine companion limping along the edge of the entangled area, saw the blood, and grew frantic. Abandoning his efforts to cut his way free, he stood and tore one foot out of the grasses by sheer might. Then the other. One step at a time he dragged himself towards his bleeding friend, ripping each foot free again and again as he went. Someone had hurt his dog, and they were going to pay!

Behind him a deer, mate of the one the hunter had killed, leaped from cover, only to be tripped and brought down by the grasping grasses. Its eyes were wild with fear as it dragged itself to its feet. There was blood smell, wolves and men all around and it had to run. It had to run! Everything it knew, every fiber of its being urged flight, but it couldn't. Somehow it couldn't move its feet.
***
Seeburn saw movement in the clearing, a man with a bloody knife in his hand ripping and tearing his way across the open area.

Slashed throats. A bloody knife. His bow came up unbidden, and he let fly with deadly accuracy.

The man in the field cried out and arched his back in pain as the quarrel struck home. But he didn't fall. Instead he pressed onward, more determined than ever to get free.

Seeburn tried to line up a second shot, but found his line of fire blocked by a thrashing deer. He fired anyway.

The deer bucked and thrashed in pain, twisting and ripping at the grasses with such vigor that it nearly broke its own leg in the struggle. But neither bone nor grass parted. It was a nightmare come real, the worst of all terrors., and it would not end.
***
The song of the bowstring and the man's cry of pain galvanized the wolves.

Dashing through the brush, leaping over the pair that Sylus had been talking to, came another wolf. It barreled into Sylus, taking him to the ground.

And the other two ended their stasis as well. One sprang forward towards Nedel and Marcus, razor sharp teeth set in jaws that could crush bone. But those teeth closed on thin air only, blocked aside by the Sorcerer's staff.

The second wolf saw Sylus on the ground, being savaged by its hunting partner, and it couldn't resist. It sprang into the struggle.

Sylus, with deep regret, was forced to defend himself. He feinted with the arrow he'd been holding, while at the same time drawing his sword with the other hand. He had no footing, and laying on his back he couldn't truly put any weight behind the blow, but steel bit deep and a wolf fell.

And off in the distance, a hunter brought his own bow into play, sending an arrow back at Seeburn.

" Be my right hand!", intoned Marcus as he stepped away from the snarling wolf. A flash of lightning and a crack of thunder, and a spear appeared on the scene, the chosen weapon of Jupiter, king of the gods. It drew itself up from where it had struck, moving of its own accord, and stabbed at the wolf in an attempt to drive it away.

Nedel also shifted away from the conflict, sending another flurry of arcane bolts into the attacking wolf.

Seeburn fired again, and once more was gratified to see the far archer recoil in pain. Instead of returning fire, the man gave a loud whistle and began to run, dodging into the trees, heading south, injured wolves behind him.

Seeburn went after him, for the wild madness that lay in his heart let him run like the wind. But while the other man had a direct path, Seeburn had to finish skirting the glade of twisting grasses, and so the Barbarian fell behind.

The wolf harrying Sylus looked up at the whistle. It was a tribute to the discipline the man had instilled that the creature could tear itself out of that fight, but it did. It turned and ran.

Off behind him somewhere, another wolf was snapping at a spear and dying when it caught it. The battle was over.

With an effort of will, Sylus ended his spell, returning the undergrowth to its winter sleep.

Seeburn saw movement within the clearing now. A wounded deer struggled to its feet. His blade was out in an instant, and the deer fell dead.

And rising from the grass came four more wolves, held prisoner by the spell until this moment.

They looked at Seeburn, who had hurt their master. They smelled the blood, heard the death throes of the fallen deer. And then they heard once more their master's whistle, and turned to leave.

Seeburn's bow was out once more, and he fired at the lead wolf as it turned to leave.

The small pack turned on him as one, and suddenly he knew how the deer felt.

In the middle of this madness a small form appeared. Red, winged, dancing and taunting. "Ha ha, can't catch meeeeee!", the Imp cried, darting south.

The wolves ignored the distraction and charged Seeburn.
***
Nedel swore when he saw the hunter making his escape. If that man got away, he'd return with more. Many more. His feet were moving before his brain had fully formed the thought, and he found himself sprinting through brush in hot pursuit. A lone Sorcerer from a city far away, chasing a hunter and his pack of wolves through a wilderness that the hunter knew well.

But the man continued to flee, his wolves having either run ahead or dispersing into the brush. Nedel found himself hoping the wolves were very quick indeed.

He broke out of a small stand of trees and scrambled down a gravel slope. For a bare instant he had a clear view of the man, but before he could raise his hand or summon the power, the man had realized his danger and darted to cover. Nedel tried to parallel him, but found that he couldn't re-mount that slope as quickly as the southland man had.

He stopped and panted for a few moments. He had run some distance from his friends, and realized that none had followed him. Pressing the pursuit now could get him killed. And to the north he heard the roar of a giant, and the sounds of a wolf pack on the attack.
***
The pack came in quickly, it's leaders attempting a swift, slashing attack while the others circled. Their teeth met leather and armor, but Seeburn was in trouble and he knew it. So he did two things.

" Verbeig!", he announced, feeling the magic take hold and elevating him to the towering height of a small Giant. Next, he let go. The anger he'd felt towards his father, the loss of his friends, the sight of their murderer escaping, all of it roared through him like a river. It rose from the pit of his stomach, through his heart and came out his throat in an animalistic cry of rage. His vision ran red, and Seeburn was gone. All that was left was the fury.

Across the field, Sylus heard that roar, heard the cried of the wolves, and knew he had to hurry.

" Vitai", he murmured softly, laying his hands on the injured wolf. You didn't kill another man's hunting dogs. That was just wrong.

Imagina's bow sang, and an arrow struck the haunch of one of the circling wolves.

Seeburn roared and swung his huge blade, oblivious to the aid his friends tried to give, oblivious to the pain in his legs as a pair of wolves tore at his heels in an attempt to hamstring him. Oblivious to everything except the need to kill. And kill he did. His sword swept completely through one wolf, cleaving through a small sapling on the follow through.

And Sylus came bounding in, bent nearly double, snarling and howling like a man possessed, bashing at wolves with his longbow as he came.

The remaining wolves tried to flee, but Seeburn's reach was long, and another wolf fell in mid spring, parting with a spray of blood and landing in two places.

And it was over. Seeburn's head snapped from one side to the other, madness in his eyes, looking for something to kill, but there was nothing left. His friends knew that look all too well, and backed away, letting the battle rage fade. Until it did, it wasn't safe to approach him.
***
"All in all, a good hunt.", Sylus said, trying to raise Seeburn's spirits. "Two deer, and a small stack of wolf hides." He wasn't happy about those last, but he knew that the others didn't really understand the hunter's code.

"They were my friends.", Seeburn said simply, as he prepared the bodies of his fallen comrades for the long, cold trip home.

"It's war. And everyone who dies is someone's friend.", Nedel said.

"I'm sure the men staked out by the shore were friends of the hunter who escaped.", Imagina added.

The look in Seeburn's eye silenced her. It was plain that he simply couldn't equate the death of two strangers to the way his own friends had died. War or not, death is seldom a welcome companion.

[FONT=&quot]***
The trip home was a long one, made longer by head winds and heavy hearts. They'd won the field but there was no sense of victory.

That evening Seeburn sponsored a memorial for his fallen friends, an odd mixture of sadness and celebration as people spoke of their virtues in life and drank to their health as if they were still present.

Added to this was a turbulent undercurrent, for they'd held festival, battle, more festival, contest and then this sad remembrance, all in the span of three short days.

Some blamed Seeburn for the strange days, for all had been quiet before he and his friends had arrived. Others blamed the Bretons of Carlisle, the neighboring city to the south with whom they traded goods and occasional curses, and from which the lone hunter had probably come.

Sylus, ever cautious when angry moods and alcohol mixed, kept his ears open. He was surprised at what was said.

"The evils of Carlisle have finally been met.", one man said. "The city stands deserted, cursed for the wicked ways of the Bretons there."

"You lie!", swore another man. "Why would anyone flee into the snow in a winter such as this?"

"Nay, 'tis sooth I say, for I heard it from me cousin, who knows the brother's wife of the stable tender for the south guard. And she says...", the conversation trailed away, lost in the revelry of the room.

"Demons inhabit that place, I've always said.", came another voice.

"I thought you always swore it was the dead man's curse that dwelt there.", came the challenge.

"Demons or the undying, same thing. The point is that even the Bret's know when things are getting too bad. The point is...", came another snippet.

The huntsman kept moving, for as an outsider he knew that his presence was viewed with suspicion, at best.

He spied Seeburn, standing near to Marcus, who had passed out from too much drink. It was unclear if he was planning some mischief, or preventing it, but he was still upright and that was the important thing.

"I'm hearing rumors. Some of the hunting parties, some of the patrols, some of the border watchers, all saying the same thing. People fleeing Carlisle, the city empty or emptying. They'll be looking for a refuge, and some will look this way."

Seeburn nodded, his pain and anger clear on his face. "They killed my friends, let them die the winter death."

Sylus nodded, then spied Penn. "Here, let's get Marcus to his cot, while we can still walk ourselves." He'd had little to drink, but wanted a way to leave gracefully before a brawl broke out. And while the whip-thin Bard would be of little help carrying the drunken Cleric, he too looked as if he wanted an excuse to leave.

Their escape was foiled, however, by the entrance of one of the King's messengers, summoning them to a private audience.
***

[/FONT]

 

[Greenfield]

"I've heard tell that our good friends in Carlisle have been driven from their homes. This presents a great opportunity for us. Seeburn, I need someone to go there and learn the truth of the tale. If it's true, we may indeed have land for our new friends, the Centaurs."

Seeburn groaned inwardly, for when his father said "someone" in such a tone, he usually meant his son.

Penn leaned over and exchanged a few hurried words with Seeburn and the others, then nodded.

"Your Majesty.", the Bard began, "this indeed an marvelous opportunity, and we're all more than happy to help our good friend secure his Principality."

The King stood slack jawed for a moment, taking in what had just been said. The Bard pressed on.

"I admire your insight into the matter, for to gain this additional territory will not only grant you a buffer between yourself and the Bretons, it will also give your people confidence in your family line. This boon to your son shows your confidence in him, and helps secure your own position, as your enemies will now have two cities to try and remove you from. It will also quell those ugly rumors that Seeburn might have royal ambitions of his own."

"Well, of course...", trailed off the King, still trying to figure out how they had gotten to where they were.

After working out a few details, the companions left the King's chambers in good spirits.

"He was going to pay us what?", laughed Cassius.

Seeburn hefted the small purse. "200 Dinar.", he chuckled. "He still thinks of us as mercenaries, I'm afraid."

"Well, I propose that the King's generosity be added to the Weregilt for your fallen friends.", Penn suggested. "It will make a clear statement that we aren't for hire that way. Besides, I can think of a couple of widows who can use the help."

It was quickly agreed that they'd leave that very night. Of course, most had been drinking, and after returning to the "wake", they drank some more, so no one was going anywhere that night.
***
"Wait, we agreed to do what?", Marcus asked, as he took a sip of Bacchus Blessing to clear his aching head.

"Investigate a deserted city, and claim it for the King.", Penn explained carefully.

"I thought we were sailing for Hibernia. What happened to that plan?"

"The ship will be ready by tomorrow, but getting a crew willing to make that voyage during the storm season? That may take longer."

"It's no big thing.", Sylus said from the corner. "We spend a few days on the road, we hunt down the problems, take what we can of value, and head back. What could go wrong?"
***
"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I can't go with you this time.", Nedel said. "I have an obligation to my family, and an opportunity has come up to deal with a long term problem."

"Do you need help with this problem?", asked Imagina. "You know we're here for you."

"It's not the sort of problem you can help with. I've been thinking about this ever since I lost my commission with the 5th Legion. I'm taking on too many responsibilities and I can't keep neglecting them. I'm going to wrap up my business here in Mor, take the King's gift back to Rome, and then..."

"Then? Then what?"

"Then I'm done. I'll have settled my affairs with the Empire, and I'll be free to handle the family emergency. I may or may not be here when you come back, I really don't know. I'll miss you all."

"Well, be safe and stay out of trouble.", Imagina ordered him with mock sternness.

The look on the Sorcerer's face was unreadable.
***
The group spent the day making preparations, then set out the next morning.

The day broke gray and cold, with a chill wind blowing from the sea. The road was obscured by snow, and the wind stung like icy knives on any exposed skin. The horses were draped in extra blankets beneath their saddles, and their breath formed tiny clouds before them.

The teamster they had hired for the trip sat down in the bed of the wagon, threading the reins through the slats of the bench seat, in the vain hope that the wagon sides would offer him some shelter from the razor sharp cold.

"Welcome to Pictland in the winter.", Seeburn laughed from beneath his heavy woolen wrap. "Keep moving and you won't freeze. Much."

"Marcus, if anything freezes and breaks off, you can fix it, right?", asked Penn, trying to keep up his usual good humor.

"We'll just put it back on and let it freeze in place.", the Cleric replied.

But good humor ran out quickly, and snow began to fall.

The camp that night was a tight one. They secured their tents one to the other, both as a barrier against the wind, but also because it was almost impossible to drive stakes into the frozen ground.

Caleb, their driver, set up a lean-to with some canvas as a shelter for the horses, and to contain the light from their fire. They were still within the lands of Dumfries, technically, but between the weather and the war, there were few people to be seen, and no farm houses had been sighted for the last several hours of the day.

Still, just because they hadn't seen a friendly face, that didn't mean that there were no unfriendly faces out there, looking for them. They kept their fire low that night, and stood careful watch.
***
The next morning was white. All white. It had snowed over night, and everything was covered in a soft, silent blanket. They could tell where the road was because of the stone markers, but otherwise could have been or gone anywhere.

Even the trees were white, leafless Birch trees, white bark against white snow, black branches like skeletal fingers reaching for the gray winter sky, they rattled like bones to mark the wind's passage.

Breakfast was porridge and hot tea, then they worked to strike the camp as quickly as they could.

The road wove through the hills, keeping to the easiest route if not the straightest. The farmlands of the valley lay behind them now, their stone fences no longer present to guide the traveler.

Sylus rode the point, and Seeburn's white hawk, ironically named Blackie, traced lazy circles over head to warn them of unexpected dangers.

They skirted the camps of several large groups, avoiding contact. Whether they were soldiers or scouts, hunters or refugees, they were likely Bretons out of Carlisle, and thus enemies.

Suddenly a look of pain crossed Seeburn's face, and his eyes darted skywards. "Blackie's in trouble!", he said.

And a moment later the enemy was upon them.

A huge, howling man-beast landed in Caleb's cart and smashed him with a powerful paw. The man, caught by surprise, fairly flew from his seat and landed in the brush by the road. The draft horse screamed in terror and would have bolted, but the reins were still tightly wound around the teamster's hand.

Two more of the creatures sprang from cover and attacked. The first one slashed at Imagina, his claws tearing at her heavy wrap but drawing no blood. The other nearly unhorsed Penn with the fury of his attack, and tore a long bloody gash down the Bard's arm.

From the sky came Blackie, with four smaller attack birds in tight pursuit. Without hesitation he dove into Seeburn's magical pack, seeking his master's protection in that place.

And the battle was joined. Marcus leaped from his saddle to stand over the fallen drover, his spear in his hands. "Jupiter, give us your strength this day!", he prayed, sharing the blessings of his god with all.

" Fiero!", spoke Imagina, targeting a lance of flame into her attacker's chest, sending him staggering back in shock and pain.

" Weave of Steel", Penn incanted as he drew his blade. Without hesitation he slashed at his foe. The beast proved surprisingly nimble for its size, and the Bard's blade cut only thin air. The creature struck back, to be met with a lightning quick rippost that left it dazed for a moment.

" Verbieg!", called Seeburn as he leaped from his horse, landing beside the beast that assailed Imagina.

But the titan sized Barbarian was quickly surrounded by a quartet of blood red birds, darting in and out, pecking and clawing at him in a mad frenzy to get at Blackie, who still hid inside the magic bag. And their claws scored deep.

Seeing that the enemy was already within the group, Sylus drew his blade and closed for combat. Seeing that Seeburn had one attacker engaged, he moved to the other, blade held low for a rapid, slashing strike.

Behind them Marcus called for his father's aid again, this time in the form of a spear that fought and struck on its own. His foe, however, ignored the distraction and tore at Marcus with tooth and nail, battering and bloodying the Cleric with every strike.

Seeburn and his foe were trading blows, and the monster was getting far the better of the exchange. Again and again the Barbarian seemed to step directly into the monster's path, while the hairy mockery of a man managed to step away from Seeburn's blade as if he knew in advance where the blow was aimed. And the birds continued to swoop and strike, a cloud of blood and pain about his head and shoulders.

Penn leaped from his own saddle and slapped his horse on the rump to clear it from the field, then drew out the magic wand of healing to try and help Seeburn.

But as fast as he could heal the titanic warrior, the birds and the beast continued to strike, bite and slash.

Imagina loosed several bolts of magical energy at the birds to try and drive them off, but they remained fixated on Seeburn and his pack.

In the rear, Marcus and the summoned spear were double teaming the leader of the pack, but even so they were having little effect. He saw that his friends needed his help, but he was fighting for his life and had none to give.

Finally inspiration came to him. " Vaporous", he called, summoning a cloud of fog to obscure the field, then escaped under the cover it provided.

Seeburn was fighting a losing battle, and his foe was howling with triumph. Penn darted back and forth between the pair of monsters, trying to heal Seeburn and aid Sylus at the same time, and not doing too well at either one. He'd caught a few blows in the process, and wasn't looking much better than the embattled Barbarian.

The monsters weren't standing unbloodied either, but showed no signs of falling back. The hungers of winter dictated the scene, for if they fell back now, injured and with no meal to show for it, they would soon die. They had to press on.

From within the fog bank came roars of rage as the enchanted spear struck at the pack leader again and again, and the monster bellowed and slashed at the thick cloud, rage driving him to find and kill an attacker that wasn't there.

Blackie, realizing that his friend and master was near death, took a daring move and bolted from his safe cover, trying to draw the flying foes off in pursuit. The tactic worked, and they darted across the winter sky in a mad chase. None knew if they would ever see the bird again, for it was clear that he was sacrificing himself to save his master.

But the sacrifice came too little and too late. The monster struck while Seeburn's attention was drawn to that furious flight, and Seeburn fell to the ground, blood spurting from his thigh.

Now the pack leader finally found his way back into the fight, and he closed quickly on the sound of Seeburn falling.

A quick slash of his claws and a howl of triumph, and Penn lay on the ground beside his friend, his ribs laid bare and his heart's blood splattered across the ground.

"Sylus, your bow!", cried Imagina, as she loosed a bolt of her own into Sylus' foe. The monster toppled, freeing the Ranger to take up his preferred weapon.

His arrow took the second monster high, under and upraised arm, and laid him low.

Which left them, bloody and bruised, to face the pack leader, who was all but unharmed.

[FONT=&quot]***
The pack leader howled his triumph, then hunched forward and advanced on the spear wielding Cleric.

"Vaporous Maximus", cried Marcus, immediately burying the entire area in an impenetrable cloud of fog.

Then he ran. He crashed through brush, shattering frozen branches as he went, fleeing as fast as he could. And behind him he heard the enemy in hot pursuit.

He reached the edge of a snow covered hill that descended to a creek bed below. Spying a rotted stump, he threw his shoulder into it, dislodging it from its frozen roots.

The stump tumbled down the slope, bouncing noisily off of everything in its path. And while it went down, Marcus went sideways, hurling himself into a nearby snowbank where he lay still and quiet.

The hairy man beast came bounding into sight, furious that his prey wasn't standing and dying the way he wanted, following the sound of Marcus flight and his tracks in the snow.

He never hesitated when he reached the edge of that slope, but went down, following the trail the stump left behind. And at the water's edge, he stopped. No trail lead from this place, which to him meant that his prey had fled either upstream or down. He sniffed the air and turned upstream, chasing the wind that would have carried the scent of man away.

Above, Marcus heaved a silent sigh of relief. He waited in the snow until his fingers and toes were so frozen he thought he might not be able to rise. Then, bucking the feathery heaps of powder off his back, he slowly, carefully made his way back to the scene of the battle.

[/FONT]

 

[Greenfield]

***
Penn looked around, finding his surroundings both familiar and strange. He was on a road, leading down, with many other people around him. The pain of his wounds was gone, and the cold no longer bothered him.

And he knew he was dead. All at once it became clear. This was the path to the underworld, the road he had walked once before in the flesh. But it was somehow different. Instead of being part of the stream of spirits flowing down, he found the other spirits milling around, looking lost.

"Why aren't we moving?", Penn asked the nearest one, a balding man in a toga.

"I don't know.", the man said. "I was hoping to see my wife in Elysium, but I can't seem to get there."

"The line hasn't moved for days that I've been here.", added a woman who was listening.

"Weeks, or so I've heard.", put in a third man. "The gates of the Underworld are closed. No one knows why."

Penn felt a shiver run down his spine. Weeks? It was just about that long ago that he and the others had destroyed the Betrayer's Blade, fetched from this very path.

He began to ask soul after soul how long they had been there, and while many were uncertain about the passage of time in the sunless realm, the time the gates had closed seemed to be painfully close to the destruction of that weapon.

Then a thought came to him. If the paths of death wouldn’t take him…
***
"He's alive, though I don't see how.", Marcus declared, examining the torn remains of the Bard. His ribs were shattered, his flesh torn so deeply that his beating heart was exposed. It had pumped his body dry of blood, and now convulsed spasmodically, as if trying to lie down and give up, but was somehow denied that rest.

Seeburn was leaning against a tree, exhausted but conscious. His body tingled from head to toe with the aftereffects of the battle rage, his mind in that oddly numb state that follows when the madness has spent itself. And in this state it seemed perfectly natural that a man nearly torn in half could live, if you could just put those halves back together again.

And that was what Marcus was busily doing, pouring healing magic into the ragged, broken form just as quickly as he could.

Sylus was using the second healing wand to tend to his own wounds, as well as Imagina's and Seeburns.

"This wand's virtue is nearly spent.", he warned the Cleric. "We've drawn on the god's blessings perhaps more than we should."

"This wand isn't any better.", agreed Marcus. "But somehow, it's enough."

And Penn opened his eyes. For long moments he was seeing both worlds, the bitter, bloodstained snowscape of wintery northern Britania, and the sunless road to Hades' shadowed realm. Of the two, Britania was the less inviting.

"Why?", he asked hollowly. "Not what, just why."

"What do you mean?"

"Why am I alive? Why is Death's Door closed?"

"Okay, you need to explain that question.", Marcus said firmly. "But not here. The smell of death is too strong here. Wolves will come, and we're in no shape to fight them. Let's move."
***
It took some time to gather the scattered horses. Caleb was back in the cart nursing sore ribs and a lump on his head, but declined the offer of ice to take away the swelling. Somehow it just didn't seem funny under the circumstances.

"So you think that the sword was tied to this somehow?", Imagina asked gravely.

"Aye, either our removing it from the dark road, or plunging into the sun's fire. I couldn't pin the date down any closer than that, but that's about when the way seems to have been barred. I couldn't reach the front of the line to be sure."

Then, turning to Seeburn, he smiled. "I may have some good news for you, by the way. I ran into a couple of friends of yours on the road. They're going to try and return the same way I did. Since we just finished their wake the other day, if the pyres haven't been lit yet they may be waiting for you when you get home."

"We mourn for three days.", Seeburn warned. "They may or may not have been sent to the charnel house by now. I honestly don't know."

"Well, hope for the best.", Penn said, wondering what would happen if the burnt ashes rose again. He also wondered if they would be welcomed back as easily as his friends accepted him. But though he walked in the open air, he had the feeling that when the way to the next life was open again, he'd be called back there.
***
Sylus spied the thin curl of blue smoke before he smelled it, for the winter chill had numbed some of his senses.

Overhead Blackie soared, wary now of the sky above as well as the world below. He had returned alone, bloodied but intact. What had happened to his pursuers none knew, and he himself wasn't talking.

But Blackie showed no fear of whatever the source of that smoke was, and Sylus knew that it was the trace of a single fire, which meant a small camp rather than a large group of refugees.

He spurred his horse forward, steering him carefully between the low drifts and the bare trees. Jostling the trees might cause a snow cascade, which would give his position away, and he didn't want to be seen before he himself saw the camp.

Peering through the winter wood, he saw a welcome sight. It was a Gypsy caravan, dug in against the snow.

Better still, he saw at least one man he knew, chopping wood for the fire.

"Theobold!", he called. "Well met, friend."

The burly Traveler looked up in surprise and laid down his axe. "Sylus? What brings you to Britania?"

"We're headed south right now. Why are you here? What happened to the rest of the troupe?"

"After Florence, it seemed best that some of us known to be moon marked be, well, hard to find.", he explained. "The families often trade workers amongst themselves, so it was no problem. Bela will be glad to see you. I think he was sweet on Apellenea."

"Ah, well, she's not with us any more. She had to take a different road.", Sylus said sadly. "But let me tell the others who I've found. We can share tales around a warm fire."
[FONT=&quot]***
The road into Carlisle was silent. The cold of winter had quieted the few birds that remained, and the presence of riders drove all other living things into hiding. The riders all wore thick scarves of wool across their faces, and even the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves were muffled by snow on the road, leaving only the creak of leather saddles and the soft huffing of the horses themselves.

The Gypsies had told them many tales of the horrors of Carlisle, some of which might actually be true. They’d also sold them a few things they’d “salvaged” from the city, and though it had seemed as if the companions had bargained well, somehow their purses were feeling very light indeed.

“Grikka said that there was a giant in the city, one who was eating the flesh off people’s bones while they were still alive.”, Marcus said, ticking off the tales they’d heard.

“I doubt it.”, replied Sylus. “Most people would die after the first bite. Besides, Giants like their food cooked.”

“Bella said that there was plague, a horrible festering death for all who lived there.”, continued Marcus.

“Then who would have lived to tell the tale, and who would have gotten close enough to hear of it?”, questioned Penn.

“Theo said there were undead patrolling the streets day and night, servants of a great necromancer.”, Imagina said.

No one had a counter for that one, and the silence hung in the air for an uncomfortable length of time.

“Tobias spoke of cultists who tried to summon a fiend, and failed. The monster rampaged through, killing those he could and driving the rest away.”, Cassius said, trying to get the discussion rolling again.

“Possible. I suppose it depends on the type of fiend they were calling.”, Marcus said after a moment of thought.

As they approached the city itself they saw small camps scattered about, and decided to risk direct conversation. Penn went in with Cassius and Imagina, while the others decided to scout about.

“Hallo the camp!’, called Penn, as they approached one.

“Hallo, strangers.”, came the reply. The man who had spoken appeared at first to be fairly fat, until you saw his face, which was thin and bony. Then it became apparent that he was wearing layer upon layer of clothing to try and stave off the cold. He eyed the party, well dressed, well fed and well armed, and stepped aside with an air of resignation, inviting them into the small circle of shelters.

“We’ve nothing worth stealing, so if you’ve come to rob us you’re wasting your time.”, he said bitterly, indicating the ragged oval of makeshift tents, perhaps a dozen in number.

“We’re not bandits, friend.”, Penn assured him. “We’re just travelers hoping to share your fire, and perhaps a bit of news.”

As the Half Satyr unwrapped his heavy scarf, the man’s face blanched, and he began to shake with fear. “Take what you will, but leave us in peace.”, the man all but begged.

“What’s wrong friend?”, Penn asked, his voice heavy with concern. “I told you, we aren’t bandits, and we mean you no harm.” But he realized that his words were falling on deaf ears. The man was all but petrified. Then he saw others in the camp openly staring at him, while many were moving to the far end of the small compound.

“You have the city, what more do you want?”, a woman called, drawing a small child under her snow sodden wrap.

“I think you may have me confused with someone else.”, Penn said, making an elaborate show of empty hands. “I’ve not visited your city before, much less taken it. I’m just a wandering minstrel seeking a warm bed, a cold drink, and to share news of the road.” He opened his outer wrap to show his colorful performer’s garb, and brought out his seashell adorned lyre.

“It sounds as if you have news worth sharing.”, he continued, once he had dismounted.

“What pit spawned you, foul one.”, spat an old man, brandishing the silver kettle of the Dagda, one of the local deities.

Penn carefully leaned forward and kissed the holy item. “I hail from Greece, actually, and it isn’t at all foul.”, he joked, trying not to laugh at the look of wonder on the holy man’s face.

“B-but… you should be burned.”, the man stammered in confusion.

“If I were indeed a fiend of the pit, I would be. Of course, if I were such a fiend I wouldn’t be freezing my cloven toes off out here in the cold and wet, now would I?”, the Bard continued, still trying to lighten the mood. “Now, if you want foul pits, I know a few. I just left Dumphries, to the north, for example.”

That drew a small, involuntary chuckle from some of the children, who had doubtless been raised on tales of their “evil” neighbors up the coast.

“No, I’m no fiend at all, just a wandering Fey striving to keep body and soul together in hard times. But it sounds as if you have better tales to tell than I, so I’ll tell you what. I’ll share what I have of bread, cheese and a bit of wine, if you’ll share your fire with me, and we’ll both tell our stories.”

And so the evening began. Once the people there understood that, despite his horns and narrow boney face, he wasn’t some Devil come to steal their souls, things lightened up considerably.
***
Sylus worked his way along the trail, following the tracks in silence. The heavy snow made these so plain that he could have tracked them at a full run, but he didn’t want to run into his quarry before he was ready.

He counted at least six sets of tracks, and there may have been more. Their faltering and irregular pace showed in their footprints, and spoke of exhaustion and possibly illness. He followed, keeping both his eyes and ears open.

In the distance he saw an elk spring away. It was far from the magnificent forest prince one might normally think of, for his frame was drawn and gaunt, and his coat ragged with heavy winter fur pulling off in tufts. He fled, burning precious reserves to escape a desperate hunter. Sylus continued on the trail at hand.

He came upon them, huddled in a pack, standing around one of their own who had fallen in the hunt. They were as ragged and gaunt as the Elk he’d seen, and had that tinge of madness in their eyes, the haunted hollow look that an only empty belly can give. They turned as one when he revealed himself, unsure if they should charge or strive for an escape.

“Well, I wondered who was trying to run down an Elk on foot. Now I know.”, he said quietly as he slung his bow.

“Can you help us?”, one of the men asked, indicating their fallen companion. “We haven’t eaten in days.”

Without a word, the master archer reached for his pack and pulled out carefully wrapped parcels of salted beef and hard biscuit. He held them up so they could see what he had, then tossed them towards the group.

The refugees almost fell over themselves to reach the provisions, and began to tear into them with almost rabid abandon. “Bless you, traveler.”, one of them called between bites.

Only one man tried to help the fallen woman, sharing his own portion with her. Sylus smiled, and knew who he was going to be talking to.

As the people ate, he began to build a fire.

[/FONT]

 

[Greenfield]

***
The night passed quietly, and in the morning the two groups got together to share what they had learned.

“They say that there’s a Demon in town, taller than a church tower, and that he’s killed everyone he sees.”, Penn began.

“That’s what I heard as well.”, Sylus agreed. “Some had gone back into town to try and get some food, but they didn’t come out again.”

“Some took refuge in the church, hoping that the holy ground would protect them. They may still be there.”, Marcus added.

“So, are we ready to kick that thing back to Tartarus?”, asked Cassius happily. Seeburn nodded, checking the edge on his sword.
***
The streets echoed with the sounds of hooves on cobbled stone. Some streets were almost intact, while others were charred with black soot and the stink of brimstone. The companions didn’t know the city, and so found themselves backtracking out of closed off alleyways again and again. They were avoiding the major thoroughfares as much as possible, because broad, straight roads would allow them to be easily seen from a distance.

Every now and then they caught sight of the fiend, towering over some of the smaller buildings. He didn’t seem to be doing anything, and they didn’t want to give him any reason to change that.

“I’ve found that church yard.”, Sylus reported, as he returned from a scouting foray. “You won’t like it.”

They followed the scout through a twisting maze of narrow avenues, their horses growing more and more agitated with each turn. Finally they had to stop and tie the beasts to a rail, lest they begin to neigh in panic, or bolt and run. It was actually easier to stay hidden on foot, and that seemed like a good idea.

The building he lead them to was of old stone, and the ground around it was yellow-gray with sulfurous residue, but the hellfire taint stopped at the edge of the property in a hard, sharp line.

Within they found the remains of the people. They had taken refuge in the chambers below ground, behind thick stone walls and heavy oaken doors. The doors stood loose on the hinges, burned to charcoal and ash.

“They burned from the inside, out.”, Sylus pointed out before leading the others down the narrow stair.

Within lay the refugees, staring sightlessly from gaping eyeless sockets in charred skulls. Some had been trying to flee, while others had apparently been struggling to keep them within.

Marcus was clearly shaken by what he was seeing. “These people burned to death.”, he said, stating the obvious. “They started the fires themselves.”

“Why would they do that?”, Imagina asked in shock.

“Look for yourself.”, the Jovian replied, indicating a group of corpses piled together.

“They look deformed.”, Imagina said as she began her examination. Then the cruel reality dawned on her as she saw more. “They were growing horns and fangs.”, she said in wonder. “The demons couldn’t enter holy ground directly, so they rode in inside some of the people, possessed them.”, she said.

“Probably caught them when they went out for food.”, Marcus agreed. “The people brought their own destruction with them. And when the leaders here saw what was happening, they…”

“Sacrificed themselves to stop the evil from spreading”, Seeburn finished for them. “I guess there really are some brave Bretons after all.”

All stood in silent awe of the courage evidenced in that room. Then they quietly withdrew. They made no effort to bury the dead, said no words of blessing over the fallen, for they had by their sacrifice hallowed that ground far beyond any power of prayer or deity.
***
”Did you find what you were looking for?” , came the voice in their heads, both soft and thunderous at the same time.

Marcus started at the intrusive presence, then looked up. The fiend was peering at them over the rooftops.

“What did you do here?”, Marcus demanded, clutching at his holy symbol.

”I did nothing. That was the others, and they’re gone now.” , came the voice again. ”Come and see.”.

Slowly the companions walked around the intervening building and approached the town square.

A huge circle had been drawn on the ground, traced in ashes and powdered iron. Symbols adorned the perimeter, and on the far side of the square seven charred piles of bones stood. The circle was conspicuously broken at that point.

”These called me here to serve them.” , the fiend explained. ”They left the tail off of the third eye-rune, and omitted an entire passage from their ritual. Such sloppy spellwork deserves a response, don’t you agree?”

Marcus nodded dumbly, afraid to speak. The fiend did indeed tower over the buildings, and he was sitting down. Standing he would dwarf the city walls, and could place an eye at the windows in the highest tower in the palace itself.

“Others, tried to summon enemies to fight me, to drive me away. Those were the ones who tore the people’s souls apart. They’re gone now.”

“So why are you here?”, Penn asked, finding a spark of courage someplace.

”I was summoned to this place, and can’t leave until I finish my task.” , came the simple reply. ”I don’t like it here. It’s cold.”, he added.

“So what was your task?”

”I don’t know. I lashed out too quickly, and killed all of my summoners. I have no way home now. Can you send me home?”

“Where is your home? Are you Infernal or Abyssal?”, Penn asked, drawing desperately on what little he knew of the lower realms.

”I am Infernal, from the outskirts of Dis.” , the being replied, identifying himself as a Devil. ”The enemies called upon Abyssal forces to kill me, and those they called for help turned on them. Can you send me home?”, he repeated, almost forlornly.

Penn thought furiously. “I know of a way, but you wouldn’t like it. This may have to wait until we can find a better solution.”

“ What way do you know?”, asked the Devil hopefully.

“You’d need to cooperate, and it would hurt.”, Penn began evasively, then simply gave up. “You were summoned here, and are still linked to your home. If you die here, you go back where you came from.”

”I don’t think I’d like that. Find a better way.”

“We will, I promise. We’ll find a way to help you.”

”And what would you want for this help?” , came the next question, revealing that the immense Devil was truly neither slow nor stupid.

“What could we ask for, safely?”, Penn replied with a smile. The Devil smiled back, knowing he’d been caught in his trick. “No, all we ask is that you stay here, where we can find you, so when we find the way to send you home we can use it. Is it a deal?”

The Devil nodded.

Almost as an afterthought, Penn asked, “Do you have a favorite beverage? Perhaps we can find you something to help pass the time.”

The immense creature smiled, revealing an incredible number of pointed, razor sharp teeth, arrayed in rows like a shark.

”My favorite is Fey blood.” , came the simple reply, as he leaned over towards the Half Satyr.
[FONT=&quot]***
"I can't believe that worked.", Imagina said as the companions rode out.

"I can't believe he didn't kill us.", Cassius said, shaking his head.

"I can't believe you were willing to give him barrels of Fey blood.", Sylus said.

"Well, I can't believe we had a source of virgin's blood to sweeten the deal.", Penn laughed.

"We will not speak of it!", muttered Marcus, his ears flushing red at the very thought of the matter.

"Oh don't worry about it, my friend. It's a curable condition.", the Bard replied. "Besides, I think I know why he was so apathetic. You caught where he comes from, didn't you?"

"He said it was the 4th circle of Hell.", Seeburn said. "What difference does that make?"

"He's from the city of Dis, specifically. The heart of Despair, in fact. It's the natural state of the place, in fact, and our Infernal ally suffers from it as a normal condition. He simply gave up."

"So why do you call him an ally? It's not like he's actually going to help us."

"Of course he is. He agreed, as part of a bargain, to simply sit there and wait. That means that he has to, until we return to send him home. Nobody is moving back into that city, so your father's forces can annex farm and field as he will. There is no city to claim or defend them, after all. We won."

[/FONT]

 

[Greenfield]

***
"You won?", the king asked, incredulous at the news. "The fiend that emptied an entire city, that drove out their entire army, you bested him?"

"Not with blade or bow, but at the bargaining table, and he may not even realize it just yet. He'll hold the city until we're ready to claim it, and until then there is no organized force to oppose you to the south. You can expand your holdings right up to, and possibly past, the city walls. Just don't go inside."

"And what did you give this fiend for all of this?", the king asked, suspicious to the last.

"I provided him with a few barrels of refreshment, and a promise to find a way to send him home.", Penn laughed. "It took a bit to get him to understand what we were getting out of the deal, but once he did it all worked out."

"So what was he doing there anyway?"

"We're not sure. The people who summoned him are all dead. I believe they were going to send him after you, to be honest. I wouldn't put it past them. In any case, someone else tried to call in Demons to try and get rid of him, and some of them may still be running around. But he's going to sit there in the town square until we return."

"So, I can simply take what I want?", the King asked, still not believing his good fortune.

"You can take not only the lands, but the people who work it. You offer them your protection from the 'horror' the Bretons called forth, patrol the areas and you collect your taxes on the quarter day."

The King rose from his desk and moved across the room to lean his weight on the great map table. And he began to laugh. His hand swept out, removing the markers for the enemy forces around Carlisle, and he laughed.

"You're a strange man.", he finally said, looking at the Fey. "You find spies by asking them to report themselves, and you win wars without fighting them. I'm not sure I like what my son is learning in your company, but I can't find fault in the end results."

"Well, you should.", Penn replied. "In fact, you should be furious. In particular, you should be furious at dinner."
***
The following evening was an oddly solemn occasion. Refugees had started to arrive from Carlisle, and the King's resources were being stretched to, and past the breaking point.

"'twill be a hungry spring, my liege.", Lord Cornesh declared. "Better to turn them away."

"You have already started to empty your own grainary to feed the prisoners you have.", added Burnlough, the clan chief from the northern marches. "You won't be able to withstand a siege when it comes."

"Who will lay siege to us, if we hold Carlisle?", the King answered. "Our enemies to the north now serve as our thralls, so there's no threat from that direction either. So you say we have too many people? Too much land? May I have this kind of problem every season."

He rose and marched around the table, his voice ringing across the hall as he spoke.

"In the course of a few short weeks, our enemy's have made mistake after mistake, and our positions have become more secure than ever. But if we allow our enemies to recover and regroup, we'll be the poorer for it. Yes, it's a gamble. But the prize is well worth it. So clear the woods in the southern pass, and let these folk build steadings there for the winter. We'll feed them what we can, and we'll extend our patrols to include their northern farms."

"So your son has earned his lands?", came the question from somewhere in the halls.

"My son? I've heard the tale of his exploits, and his part in this was to fall in battle against the forest beasts. This was given to us by our enemies, not taken by our courage."

Seeburn was on his feet, rigid with fury. "I've fought for you, and I've won prizes you didn't dream were in your grasp. I've earned my inheritance thrice over!"

"You've earned nothing!", thundered the King, his face distorted with fury. "You were born with my name, and I’m sorry to allow you even that. Now sit like the hound you are! Sit and be silent, for this is a time when men speak."

Furniture crashed to the floor as the Prince stormed out of the room. None blocked his path, but none met his gaze.

"Then begone!", shouted the King after him. "Begone from my home, my holdings and my sight, and return not for a full year! Banished you are, by your own arrogance and pride."
***
The ride out of the city was cold and lonely. No words of greeting or farewell met or followed the companions, for none dared risk the King's wrath. Word of the banishment had spread quickly, and the order had been given that neither Seeburn nor his companions receive any aid at all.

They crossed into the southern woods, and there stopped to rest.

A group of riders came from the winter wood to meet them, their expressions dour.

"So, it is done.", said the lead rider.

"Yes, you are to continue south for two days, then turn to the east. Return to the city in a week's time, and tell no one of this meeting.", Seeburn instructed. "Do you need our cloaks, to carry off the ruse?"

"Nay, we have garb to match yours.", the leader replied. "Whence get you now?"

"We meet the ship on the south point, and from there, well, its best you not know."

The other rider nodded gravely, then turned away south.
***
It was after sundown when they first spied the ship. The captain lowered a barge to handle the animals, while the companions rode along to keep them calm.

"Grikka!", called Seeburn with joy when he saw the old Gypsy woman on the deck.

The old woman laughed and embraced the Barbarian Prince. "Tis an odd day indeed when we are given an honorable send off, and the King's son is the one who skulks under cover of darkness."

"Not to worry.", Seeburn laughed, patting his inner pouch under the heavy wraps. "I already have his pardon, in writing, and you are always welcome in Dumphreys."

"At least until we're not.", joked Theobold as he joined the reunion. "But tell me, why the whole dance?"

"We have a job to do in Hibernia, and our enemies have spies in the palace. So we make them think that the King has abandoned his plots against the Red Masque, and sent us away. You get the passage in our place, so those spies won't ask why the ship was sent."

"I love it.", Theo laughed. "Are you sure you don't have some Gypsy blood in you?"

 

[Greenfield]

Interlude:

This isn't exactly an epilogue, in that the tale isn't finished, but this is as much of it as I recorded at the time.

I may try to recreate what's left from memory, but it's been a year or so.

Now if this story seems long and filled with diversions, that's only because it was.

We had several weeks when the DM was absent ans someone else had to fill in, but to do so in such a way that we returned the realm to it's original upright position.

The tale was begun, and finished, by Mr. A, who played Euphemia.

The hunting trip was managed by Tinker, and then by me.

The side trip to Carlisle was run by the Blind Bard, and remains an open issue in our game. We should be addressing it soon.

At about this time the player/DM I've called The Viking had to leave our group (hence Nedel's abrupt departure), and has suffered extremely poor health since then. If you have a prayer to spare for a stranger, he could use a few.

I'll see what I can recreate of the tail end of this story, and what's happened since then. If I can, I'll post more.