5 – Gathering, Part 1 of 2
Wrensford, Darion’s March
Rain had been pouring down since the midmorning hours on the 28th Day of Low Arriving and by the time Lazzaro and Aramon arrived soaking wet. There, they saw that the locals of Wrensford had started to erect a rather haphazard fence around the town as a defense from the increasing number of orcs within the area. But the rain had driven the laborers indoors leaving the fence to sway in the winds of the storm.
Lazzaro shook his head and sighed. As a businessman he appreciated quality craftsmanship and found the pitiful barrier to be woefully inadequate. He pointed the ramshackle construction out to the priest who only responded with a nod of the head.
“They can’t keep a pig out of this place with that fence,” Lazzaro complained.
The cleric pointed at a group of militia who were huddling under the porch of a nearby house. “Let’s hope they can, then.”
The two of them rode over to the house to speak with the guards.
“Hail, friend. I am Lazzaro and this is my…companion, Aramon. Can you tell me of affairs?”
“I know you, Master Balsorano,” said a familiar looking guardsman. “The Marquis has granted permission to build a wall as the attacks still continue upon the road. A group of Quinterion church guards with a priestess have arrived and are making plans to drive the orcs out of the area.”
“I see. How long have the Quints been here?” Lazzaro asked.
“Only two days. We hope to have the Great Road opened soon so business can return to normal,” the guard replied, looking more at the shrouded priest than Lazzaro.
“Good, good. Have you noticed any mercenaries who may be in town seeking work?” Lazzaro continued.
“Can’t say that I have, really.”
“What about the highlanders?” one of the other men added.
“Oh? Oh yeah,” the guardsman said as he turned back to Lazzaro. “Two Eduni arrived in town. One of them is big and carries even bigger weapons. I’m sure a couple of dirty pagans like them would need some work. I imagine you’d find them drinking at the inn.”
Ignoring the guard’s obvious dislike for the Eduni, Lazzaro smiled at the prospect and waved farewell as he turned his horse back down the road.
Aramon turned to the guardsman, before following, and closed with, “May your impending journeys be well.”
The guardsman shivered as he watched the priest ride off, wondering what the death priest meant by that.
The Golden Tankard
Égun, true to form, was drunk and enjoying himself immensely. He kicked his feet up on the edge of the hearth, leaned back in his chair and let the fire warm his boots. Finishing off his tankard with a long pull, he waved at the serving wench and pointed to his cup before turning to his cousin.
“Tríona, you remember Lief?” he asked.
Tríona didn’t speak the Ainurian tongue, which prominent in the March, and had been sitting quietly all day watching Égun drink himself into a comfortable stupor. Hearing her native words, she chirped up. “Yes I remember him, why?”
“Well he should be back to the Holdings soon and I was thinking the two of you might be good for each other.”
“What?” she answered, shocked at the notion. “He is betrothed, Égun!”
“Oh, her? She died during the Freeze. ‘Tis sad, really. So, now that Lief is free once again, I’m thinking the two of you could get together,” he slurred.
“Égun, you’re being an ass and you’re drunk,” she said, scolding him.
Égun rocked dangerously, nearly falling over, before catching himself on the table. “I’m not as think as you drunk I am,” he said, laughing at her.
Tríona buried her face in her hands and sighed.
The Lord’s Manor
After weeks of travel, Trevier had finally arrived to the town where he promptly presented himself to the Reeve, Émile. He had been left to wait in a sitting room for half an hour, as the reeve was already preoccupied with another guest.
The sound of melodic laughter coming from the hall announced the reeve as he escorted a strikingly beautiful woman towards the door. It wasn’t her honey-blonde hair that caught Trevier’s attention, however; it was the symbol of five orbs hanging from her neck. She was a Quinterion* priestess.
Émile noticed the knight, who was now standing, and acknowledge him with a smile, “Welcome to Wrensford, Sur Trevier. May I have the pleasure of introducing the Reverend Jacinda of Krace?”
The priestess examined Trevier with a critical eye and smiled as an afterthought. “How very nice to meet you. It is warming to my heart to see the Æhüthian salvation finally arrive.”
Responding to the priestess with a curt nod, Trevier said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Jacinda.” Unaware of the entirety of her purpose in Wrensford, he was cautious in his greeting.
Jacinda turned back to the reeve and smiled. “I am afraid I must be going. My men need to be appraised of the situation here. We will start our search immediately.”
“Very well, Mother. I look forward to your progress and thank you for your help in resolving this matter,” Émile said as he showed her to the door. He then returned to the sitting room and Trevier.
“I’m terribly sorry about the wait. Had I been expecting you I would have been available upon your arrival,” the reeve said.
“No apology is necessary. I am Sur Trevier of the Cyrdion Order. The Most Reverend Clément Rousseau, Bishop of Ermione has sent me as a representative of Æhüthian Mother Church. I am to aid your noble lord, the Marquis Jeannot Beauvais of Arlies, by investigating the nature of the attacks that plague the Great Road and seeking a resolution to the situation,” Trevier replied, in a formal manner that displayed all the forms of propriety and decorum.
The Reeve smiled at the knight. “On behalf of Lord Jeannot, I welcome you to his manor and offer you what comforts I can,” he said with a bow.
“Thank you, Émile. I would like to discuss the latest news of the attacks and ascertain the best way to proceed in my investigation,” Trevier started.
“It just so happens that Jacinda has arrived to Wrensford along with a group of her church’s guard. They intend to scour the scir and seek out any orc encampments in order to remove them from our land. Once she has completed this, they will move down the Great Road to the next county and perform a similar function. Have you brought any men with you, Sur Trevier?”
The knight shook his head as he spoke, “I am afraid not.”
“I see. Well, perhaps you may conduct your investigation starting here in town and see if there is something you can do to ease their worries,” Émile suggested. “I suggest you start with Ewart Jardine, one of our more influential and informed merchants.”
“An excellent idea, Émile,” Trevier said. “I will start upon the morrow.”
***
Back at the Inn
Lazzaro and Aramon entered the warm inn, shook the rain from their cloaks and hung them amongst the others along the front wall of the common room. Lazzaro looked about and quickly found the clansmen the guard had mentioned.
As he was considering what would be the best manner to approach them, a group of eight soldiers entered the inn and slid past the two with an ‘excuse me, sir’ on their way to a large table near the back of the room. A few locals sitting there were asked to make way for the larger group and were happily rewarded with a few coins for their troubles.
Aramon studied them before turning to Lazzaro. “Quinterion church guards.”
“At least they were kind enough to pay for the table,” Lazzaro replied, thinking it was a decent gesture on their part.
Merla, the wench who was working in the common room, called Lazzaro and Aramon over to have a seat at a side table. “Welcome back, Lazzaro. How were things in Aranarth?” she asked.
“As well as can be expect, I suppose,” he answered, before turning to Aramon. “I suppose you’d like some food and drink.”
“That would be fine, thank you,” the cleric answered.
“I also suppose you’d like me to pay for it,” Lazzaro stated dryly.
“I expect it, to be honest,” came Aramon’s answer.
“Don’t you have any money?”
The cleric nodded in affirmation. “But not much,” he explained. “When you asked for the aid of the Mother Church in this endeavor it was presumed that you would provide some amount of financial support.”
“Fine, room and board,” Lazzaro agreed, though he was unhappy about accruing further expenses. He turned his attention back to Merla and continued, “Please bring a meal and drink to the good father here and I’d like a glass of your finest red.”
“The wine will be more than usual, Laz. With the road closure, our stock has become very low,” she explained. Lazzaro sighed and let her know that would be fine.
Upon receiving his glass, for which he paid an exuberant sum, Lazzaro made his way over to the highlanders and introduced himself. He explained that he was interested in hiring them to help remove the orcs that had brought open trade on the Great Road to a standstill.
Égun took a long draw off his ale before replying. “This is my cousin, Tríona, and she’s spoken for. Don’t bother talking at her; she doesn’t know your words. Our wage is ten silvers and looting rights.”
Lazzaro turned to Tríona and switched into her native Eduni. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Tríona,” he said smoothly. Though her stark, white hair and violet eyes made her appear almost alien, he found her quite attractive.
Hearing her language brought a beaming smile to Tríona. “I’m pleased to meet you, sir.”
Égun shifted uneasily in his chair, suspiciously eyeing the charming southerner. “Do we have a deal?” he asked, once again in Ainurian.
Lazzaro shrewdly pondered the wages before answering. “What talents does Tríona bring? She doesn’t seem to be of warrior stock.”
Égun replied, “She can do…things. Also she can cook ‘n stuff. She’s very talented.”
Lazzaro was less than enthusiastic about hiring a maid. But Égun, on the other hand, looked strong and his trappings suggested he was with the Rithmílidh or had at least served with them at one time. “So you say, but this will be a bloody business. I will tell you what, five silver a week, room and board when in town, an equal cut of looting rights for each of you, and extra drink when I can provide it,” he suggested, as he looked at the four empty tankards on the table.
Tríona’s smile faded as she was once again left out in the dark. She looked at Égun and asked, “What is he saying? What is going on here? Why are you speaking Ainurian?”
Égun only smiled at her and continued to speak with Lazzaro. “How many of us are there?”
“So far, four. The two of you, me, and the cleric over there,” he answered, pointing at Aramon who was quietly sitting alone.
“Why doesn’t he come over and say hello?” Égun wondered.
“Nobody likes to talk to his kind,” Lazzaro explained.
“What kind is that?”
“He is a cleric of the grave.”
At that, Aramon made his way towards the Quinterion guards. As he approached one of the guards feigned an ongoing conversation, “…isn’t it a shame that a priest in service to the glorious Merlutat would be shown such disrespect?” His comment brought nods and murmurs of agreement from the other men gathered there.
Pretending to just now notice Aramon, the soldier welcomed him. “Ah, hail, good father. Come, join us, and have a drink.”
Aramon slid onto a bench at the table as he answered, “One does not serve His will seeking the respect of other men, instead one serves giving his respect…to Æhü.”
As the presence of Æhü was the fundamental dispute between the Æhüthian and Quinterion faiths, Aramon’s comment was especially poignant amongst those at the table. An uncomfortable silence followed.
“I’m Father Aramon Botan,” he said, introducing himself to the group.
The Quinterions each introduced themselves, their spokesman calling himself Grigor.
“So tell me, Goodman Grigor, what brings you fine men into the March?” Aramon inquired innocently.
“We’ve come from Krace to clear out the orcs and open the road for Wrensford,” Grigor proclaimed, loud enough for others sitting nearby to hear.
Aramon nodded and smiled at Grigor as he spoke the words. “I too have come for such a reason. It would seem that Wrensford is most fortuitous to have so many caring people as friends.”
“Did you bring any men with you?” the soldier asked.
“No, I’ve come alone. Well, I came with Lazzaro over there,” the cleric answered with a look at his companion.
“Just the two of you?” Grigor laughed.
Aramon looked about the table, “Just the eight of you?”
“We are led by the Reverend Jacinda, a priestess of our church,” Grigor added. “Besides, they’re only orcs.”
Seeing the man’s hubris, Aramon only nodded. “Well, I’ve brought my shovel.”
***
The Wrensford Bridge
The sun had set some time ago and, with the stormy weather, the bridge was cloaked in shadow as the guard peered from around large, wooden gates at the lone rider. A nervous mood had already settled in on Wrensford due to the increased orc activity. Men riding out of the wilderness in the dark hours of night were not met with open arms.
The stranger patiently waited for entrance upon his unnaturally still horse. After what seemed to be more than enough time, he called out to the gate a second time, “Hoy!”
“The gate is closed!” called the guardsman. “The road is overrun with orcs!”
The rider made a point of looking back over both shoulders looking for orcs that were nowhere to be seen. Satisfied he was indeed alone, he shrugged and turned back to the bridge. “I have coin!” he called back.
The guardsmen of the gate conferred on the manner and agreed it was in their best interest to take the traveler’s money and let him through. They pushed open one of the gates wide enough for the man to ride through before stopping him.
“There is a tax for shipping freight over the bridge.”
Again, the newcomer looked about, this time looking for any sign of cargo.
“What are you importing into fair Wrensford?” asked the guard.
The traveler shrugged and answered, “I have no import.”
A cagey look came to the guardsman as he eyed the odd horse. “Livestock!” he said greedily. Livestock was one of the more expensive products to move through Wrensford.
As that, the stranger climbed down from his horse, waved his hand in an odd pattern and the horse disintegrated into the fog of the night. “What livestock?”
Common folk hold few things more fearsome than magicians and the visitor’s display of power shook the guardsman who stammered, “Welcome to Wrensford, Master.”
Álfarr brushed past the men and made his way towards what appeared to be a sizeable inn.
*The Quinterion heterodoxy formed from of a schism in the Æhüthian Mother Church. They preach that Æhü, while great, had retreated from Tæün and left it in the care of the five angels of the Exustius Optivus whom they worship in His place. Their symbol, the Five Orbs, represents the five moons where the Seraphim dwell. This belief system stems from a failed ‘commune’ to Æhü by His Holiness The Canon Ciro III nearly three hundred years earlier.
Originally seen as a harmless group of radicals, the Quinterion faith gained momentum in the remote frontier of Darion’s March where the Mother Church had long been absent from the small townships and burgs. This oversight by the Æhüthian orthodoxy is considered of critical importance by the current Papacy that, unofficially, pushes for Reunification. The inclusion of women within the priesthood remains a prominent difference between the two churches.
Krace is a city in the Ainurian Kingdom of Tol’Cathul where Queen Saranna, who is appreciative of a priesthood that includes women as equals and a faithful Quinterion herself, rules. Her law recognizes the Quinterion Faith as the official religion of the state and subsequent tithing has filled the young church’s coffers.
Pronunciation Guide
Æhü (EYE-who)
Émile (ay-MEEL)