Sir Gerard d'Montfort - In his own words (a tale of Anka Seth)- Updated Nov 11th

[Haraash Saan]

By sunrise it became evident that Moxadder was not well. He was pale and his eyes revealed desperation. Every now and again one of his hands would twitch as if in spasm and his right eye had developed a tic. I had seen this many time before in others, but the signs were the same. His drug horde had dwindled to nothing and he was now paying the price

The road we were travelling improved somewhat from an indeterminately grass covered path to a discernable cart track. Not much difference mind you, but as Baastian said, “We are getting closer to town.” And as our road crested a rise we were greeted with a wondrous sight. A picturesque bay was the reward for our early start. The sun had risen some way into the sky and its light caused the ocean to sparkle like white gems. I had never seen the ocean before, and it was a sight that I would never forget, so peaceful and so very, very beautiful. In Thessingcourt I had met many artists, several of whom were true masters, yet none of their works came close to achieving this natural wonder.

The bay itself was well formed with a narrow entrance to the north and even from this distance we could make out a lighthouse atop the north eastern bluff. Away on the eastern side of the bay was a large squat building, Leathes Abbey, so Baastian said. I had heard of the Abbey before. It was considered a very holy site of Laster, but more importantly to me, it also housed a great number of documents and manuscripts, perhaps the best collection in all of Guerney. I have a great interest in history and myth. I love stories you see.

Mortec was also rather excited by the prospect of visiting the Abbey. In fact I believe he was more excited than me. Something to do with his calling or religion or some such. My short companion sought knowledge of any kind.. What he intended to do with it I could not guess and he had not said.

On the southern shore was the town of Ravenswood. Several small houses littered either side of the road that passed through the town. Boats were moored to jetties, near which were situated three great long sheds. It was idyllic, except for one thing, there was no apparent sign of life. Just like Thornwood there were no children squealing and no mothers chastising them. No fishermen returning with a bountiful catch. Nothing. Just eerie stillness and silence.

There had been no forest fire the previous evening. Whilst most buildings in the town were unscathed, several were still smouldering, wisps of smoke curling from their remnants. Charred timber was all that remained. The boats, small fishing vessels, were low in the water, “Scuttled” Baastian said. “Looks like brigands struck. Let’s hope there are none still here.”

We walked down from our vantage point and slowly, cautiously, made our way to town. Our cart track turned quickly to an earthen road, muddy from the storms that had hit us not two days ago. Still we saw no life. No people anywhere, but no bodies either. Perhaps they had run away? Perhaps they had been carried off? At that stage we knew not the answer. Morgan looked into the first house we came to; ransacked. It was the same for all the houses we saw. Doors splintered where they had been forced open, furniture upturned, floor coverings lifted and thrown about, utensils, those not stolen, had been strewn about as if an almighty wind had formed within each house. And still no bodies, and certainly no live villagers. I thought it, curious that there were also no dogs loitering. Stock animals, chickens, pigs and the like I could understand that they may have been taken, although even to have none remaining I thought odd, but it was the lack of dogs that really struck me. At home, my birth home in Mowbray, my father kept many hounds on the Manor. I had grown up with dogs and tended not to notice them when they were underfoot, but their absence here certainly peaked my curiosity.

One house we visited, the largest and therefore I supposed, the mayors’ residence, had an open back door that led to a private garden that in turn led to the forest. Argonne dropped to a crouch and looked intently at the ground for some time, “Lookin’ for tracks.” He muttered through his mesh mask. But in the end he found nothing unusual.

Frustrated at the lack of response to our visit, I took it upon myself to announce us. I stood in the middle of the road and called out in my most official voice, “We are Baron Yorath’s representatives and seek to aid you. If you need our help or protection, please show yourselves.”

Moxadder looked at me in horror, his tic taking on a new rhythm, as if announcing ourselves to the world had caused some sort of catastrophe. It did not, nor did it get any reply. We started to separate, Argonne off to a small beach to relieve himself. Baastian and Moxadder, whom I noticed had very much become Baastians’ shadow, moved to investigate the long sheds near the jetties. Mortec, Morgan and I went to see the boats. Stravarious skulked after Baastian.

I walked out onto the first jetty, choosing to avoid the sheds due to the unpleasant fishy aroma emanating from them, and stood at its end, looking about trying to gauge what had happened. The boats themselves held little interest for me, I had come to the jetty to try to gain a different perspective. I looked closely across the bay to the Abbey. I could see it perched upon a small hillock overlooking the town. Something about it did not sit right with me. It took me some minutes to realise what it was, there was no smoke coming from its chimneys. That was not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.

A sudden splash erupted to my left. I spun quickly. What I saw was very much unexpected. Morgan was now in the water hanging onto the semi-submerged rail of a fishing boat. Comical is the best way to describe it. I knew that he, like I, and everyone barring Baastian and Moxadder had not seen the ocean before, the docks at Halfast hardly count, but surely leaping in to it was a little much? He explained quickly that he had been trying to leap onto a boat and had missed. Silly fool. However, he did manage to complete his desired task, searching the vessel. His sodden investigation revealed nothing, although once out of the water he did actually change into another set of clothes.

Baastian and Moxadder, who was by this stage starting to look vacant, emerged from the sheds curious at the noise, other than fish they too had found nothing. The long buildings were just simple storage sheds. Moxadder was muttering something about pirates although we paid our drug savouring friend no heed. He was no use to us in his current state and I doubted he ever would be. The Baron would no doubt see the folly in Baastian’s selection and turn him away.

As we swapped our tales of fruitless examinations, we all heard Argonne cry out. “Look! Up there on the cliffs!”

 

[Haraash Saan]

Gazing up from his pointing finger we saw a small cottage perched high up on the cliffs to the west. Another exclamation from Argonne led our eyes to a beach at the base of the western cliffs, and what looked to be two caves set back where sand met vertical rock face. We decided that despite Mortec’s protests, he wanted to investigate the Abbey, that we would head back west along the cliff tops to the little house upon the bluff.

There was a very narrow, well worn track etched into the scrub that wound its way up to the cliff tops. Now and again as we walked, I paused to soak in the wonderful view, blocking out the recent tragedy, well apparent tragedy, from my mind. After quarter of an hour we arrived at the cabin. It certainly looked homely enough. A nice vegetable and herb garden protected from the north easterly winds was on the side of small dwelling. There was also a small apple orchard nearby, trees heavy with fruit. Mortec knocked on the door, “Hello?” he queried softly. His poor attempt at attracting attention was never going to raise a reply, so once again I announced our arrival. Once again I received a silent response.

Mortec opened the door, calling out again, and revealed a well ordered and recently utilised home. Everything looked to be in its place. There was none of the disarray that we had seen in the village itself. The small cottage that overlooked the bay had not met the wrath of the brigands.

Morgan, Mortec and I decided to look for a way down to the caves. We shortly found a trail leading down from the cliffs. Whilst we took as much care as possible, the scramble down the track rewarded each of us with several grazes and bruises. However, it was worth it, Mortec had heard the shrill laughter of a child.

In time honoured fashion he held his finger to his lips and attempted to creep off. I do not understand that Gnome sometimes. Why sneak about like some roguish cur in the night, when all that was needed was a simple hail.

So once more, much to the annoyance of my small bearded associate, I sung out, “We are Baron Yorath’s representatives and seek to aid you. If you need our help or protection, please show yourselves.” Finally I got the response I had been hoping for.

“Saviours! Someone to save us from the brigands!” cried an old woman that came shambling from the cave across the small beach. Following closely were two young children, a boy, perhaps seven years old and a girl who was only in her fourth summer, clutching the old lady’s skirts. Last in the procession came an old man, gnarled and bent with age.

“Have you come to any harm madam?” I asked.

She brushed her skirt down, removing some of the sand that had stuck to it and straightened her back. “No, no my dear.” She replied, “We saw from our home that the brigands had come and they had started to burn the homes of our friends. So we doused our own fires and ran here to the caves. Is our home alright?”

“Yes indeed madam, it is as you left it.” I said

The old lady introduced herself as Alice Copthorpe and her husband as Perry Copthorpe. We readily accepted an invitation to come back with them to the cottage for a warm cup of tea. The thought of a fresh cup and perhaps even fresh food was, to me at least, a god send. I had been struggling with the stale bread and dried, salted meats we had been enduring throughout our journey.

A massive fish leapt through the water near the shore as we walked across the golden sand to the trail. “Dolphin.” Said Perry, speaking for the first time and answering our unasked question. None of us had seen a dolphin before, it must have showed. “Mr. Maron Devlis must be near. That’s one is one of his friends.”

Maron Devlis was indeed close at hand. He met us at the cliff top, after a long climb up the cliff face track. The elderly couple and the children had slowed us somewhat.

More introductions were made. His full name was Tasmar Maron Devlis, a solid, tall man who in his day had seen too much sun and physical work. He must have been well past his fortieth year, but his sleeveless tunic showed tanned arms with thick rope-like muscles. The weathered man lived on the eastern side of the bay at a bluff, but travelled, often for days at a time, all over the nearby lands. When Morgan remarked on Perry’s comment about the dolphin, Maron Devlis concurred that it was a friend. He did not elaborate any further. I supposed the loneliness of the wilderness drives some people to make peculiar friends. With our new companion in tow we continued onto the hut.

Argonne and Moxadder were waiting back at the hut for us. Moxadder looked as though he had recovered from his recent illness, he had a familiar wary look in his eye. He or perhaps they, I had seen them colluding on our journey, must have come by some of Moxadders’ particular requirements.

When introduced the duo I noticed Alice study Moxadder and cluck something to herself that I could not quite hear. At her invitation we all moved inside and settled wherever we could find a spot to sit or lean. The cottage certainly was not built to accommodate the eight new arrivals, although it did look cosy for the four that made up the family.

Perry, Morgan and Argonne gathered some wood from the pile behind the house, and built a nice roaring fire. Alice put the kettle on and soon after was dishing out piping hot tea.

“Here you go Mr. Moxadder. This should pick you up a bit.” said Alice.

The tea was excellent, “brewed special” said Alice with a wink when Mortec asked. The only food on offer was fresh apples. I had never tasted finer!

With the couple now settled and warming by the fire we asked them and Maron Devlis, about the brigands. Unfortunately we received only scant information.

There had been an attack during the night. They had heard the fighting (well fighting is a stretch, from what we could tell there was no resistance) and saw the flames and then ran to hide in the caves. Maron Devlis had found several heavier hobnailed tracks coming from the woods, but had not followed them. None of them knew where the villagers had gone, although Maron Devlis was sure that if any had survived the raid they would have sought the shelter of the woods. They had no other knowledge on the subject, so we thanked the Copthorpes for the tea and took our leave. Alice kindly offered us a roof and a meal for the night, and with that welcoming thought in our minds we marched back to town. Perhaps the Abbey would provide us with some more information about the brigand attack. At least the motives seemed simple, plunder and pillage.

 

[Haraash Saan]

We wandered hurriedly through town. There were still no villagers. Perhaps they had been all taken to be sold on the slave blocks in some distant port?

After another hour, it was now past midday, we arrived at the Abbey. There was immediate and gruesome evidence that the brigands had called here too. The doors hung loosely on their hinges, smashed and splintered. The first signs of true violence were revealed, three corpses lay in the courtyard within the compound. The monks of Laster did not seem to have given any fight, yet they were slaughtered mercilessly. The earth was soaked with their blood, a deep, dark stain.

The Abbey was a simple complex, with gates, now broken, that allowed access to an outer wall, and then the main building itself, again with shattered doors.

I swallowed deeply, trying to avoid looking upon the grisly sight, and once again, as was becoming habit, called out “We are Baron Yorath’s representatives and seek to aid you. If you need our help or protection, please show yourselves.”

For the second time my call was rewarded, this time by a nervous young monk who was preceded by the sound of his shuffling sandals. He appeared from within the Abbey and stood by the doorway, fear etched upon his face.

“It is alright my fine holy friend.” I began, “We are in the service of Baron Yorath and are here to help.”

As he left the shelter of the doorway he began to introduced himself as Brother Jessop, but then saw the grim sight of his brothers. The young man ran to them, hoisting his robes up his legs, slid on his knees to halt by one of the bodies and clutched it to his chest. Tears streamed down his face. He sobbed uncontrollably for a time, repeating “Not you too Carmichael.”

I left him in the company of the others and headed into the Abbey. I had no interest in the dead and doubted that Jessop would have had anything useful to say for sometime. I lit a lantern that was hanging on a hook inside the door and moved down the corridor.

“Wait for me!” Mortec cried out. I had no doubt that he was keen to delve into the store house of knowledge that was the Abbey.

The first library we found had been violated. Books and scrolls lay strewn and ruined all over the floor. Bookcases themselves had been up-ended. The scene did not improve as we went into the lower levels of the Abbey. Every floor held another library and they were all in the same state. As a lover of stories, tales and history I was seething at the crudity of the brigands. Mortec was worse. He was openly furious, cursing in his Gnomish tongue. The little fellow had been teaching me his language as we travelled and I was rapidly learning it. He may have come from a well off family, but he had certainly seemed to have mastered how to cuss and swear. A good student always knows how to listen and learn from example.

We both thought that it was odd that the library had been ransacked, concluding that there was something very unusual about bandits, common thieves and murderers, scouring a library. By the look of it, they had been searching for something specific.

We started lifting bookcases and replacing the manuscripts on the shelves in hope that we could find some pattern. Soon after we commenced, Morgan brought in a consoled Jessop who retold us his tale, having already explained it to the others.

Jessop had been deep in the bowels of the Abbey, on the very floor that Mortec and I were tidying, when he heard calls for help from his fellow librarians. Fearful, he crept upstairs to the fourth level and there he heard his fellow monks, Brother Goethra and Brother Tom, being interrogated. From his vantage point he overheard vicious threats accompanied by hard slapping noises and thuds of impact. The questions that were intermingled with the violence and threats all related to the Brothers’ works. The pair were forthcoming with answers, and those answers lead the Brigands to the fifth level. As soon as Jessop heard them coming, he ran downstairs, to the bottom level where, as luck would have it, the monks had been reorganising, and hid himself within a pile of scrolls that had not yet been sorted.

The Brigands came down to the lower level shortly afterwards and sacked the place, searching for what they were after. Precious tomes of knowledge were thrown about in complete disregard of their value. Scrolls were torn, bookcases overturned, and from his concealment Jessop saw it all and prayed to Laster that they found what they wanted and did not search through the pile in which he hid. Every now and again one of the thugs would take a book or manuscript and shove it in a sack before continuing his search. After about twenty minutes they seemed satisfied and left. Jessop was alone and he stayed that way for several hours.

Morgan joined us with the news that Argonne and Moxadder had gone to get the woodsman, Maron Devlis to see if he could help find tracks. He, Stravarious and Jessop stayed and helped us with straightening up the overhauled library.

It took many hours but eventually our efforts were rewarded when Mortec noticed a pattern. He discovered that there were no volumes regarding recent history of the region and none on unusual or mythical creatures, yet a catalogue he had browsed indicated that there should have been. He questioned Jessop about it. The monk was surprised but then suddenly exclaimed, “That’s why they took Brother Goethra and Brother Tom!” we never had found the bodies of those two and neither had Jessop when he had searched the Abbey prior to our arrival, “Their works were predominately about both unnatural creatures and recent history.”

None of us could understand why Brigands would want such things, but all agreed that it had obviously been a targeted attack. They were most likely in someone’s pay, rather than as we had previously thought, the perpetrators of a random attack.

Once finished, Mortec and I chose to wait for the others by studying in the fifth level library. The Gnome and I certainly had a mutual affinity for knowledge. His was more for the sake of having it, and mine was more to gather and tales and stories, but I think it was at that stage that we realised some strange sort of kinship. It was one that I had not expected to acquire, although I must admit it gladdened me. I was not as alone as I had thought.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Eventually Argonne and Moxadder returned to the Abbey with Maron Devlis. They told us that the villagers had returned and only five of their number were missing. Those villagers kidnapped were, the old crone Wilma, Olvan the Boatwright and three girls, Kareena, Lessha and Nadine. Those with the two monks that we assumed were also taken added up to seven missing. Very unusual. The three girls’ use was obvious. Pleasure and then potentially sale on the slavers block, but the two older folk were of no use, and in fact more of a burden than anything else. And the scholars? Well they were very much the target of this strike. But why take the others? Perhaps it was part of some ruse to lead a search in the wrong direction?

They also told us that they had found a dozen tracks made by hobnailed boots, most likely the brigands, intermingled with a few that were recognised by Maron Devlis as those belong to locals. Our missing villagers no doubt. The tracks led south east into the forest where a massive bonfire had been lit. More oddity though, it was not a camp. There was no evidence such as food scraps, flattened grass caused by sleeping men or of bodily waste and the tracks continued into the forest.

Upon hearing their report I decided that the forest was the place to continue our own investigations. My curiosity had certainly been peaked. So we left the Abbey in Jessop’s good hands and then went to pick up the trail the others had found.

We searched the burnt out area comprehensively and found nothing, though Mortec did notice that Strav’s sword was glowing. “Magic?” he queried of Stravarious. The tall hooded man did not answer. After several days travelling together we still knew very little of our mostly silent comrade. Mortec’s question had grabbed my interest and it certainly added to the mystery of Stravarious. Enchanted weapons were rarer than those that wove the spells to create them.

Mortec started examining the area outside of the charred earth and the rest of us watched him curiously. The little bearded fellow was snuffling around on all fours. Suddenly he cried out with joy, “Ah ha! Come look at this!” he beckoned excitedly, “See there are no tracks between the fire and here,” he pointed to place perhaps ten feet from the edge of the blackened earth “yet from this point on there are tracks!”

Maron Devlis shook his head in disbelief, but confirmed the little Gnome’s observation and added that they were different tracks to the ones that led on into the forest. These tracks were made by softer and less pronounced sailor’s boots.

Moxadder smugly surmised the thought of the group. “Told ya! It’s pirates!” The shambling mound had been right all along. It certainly looked to be pirates and not brigands that we were chasing. Perhaps they had changed their clothing from brigands’ attire to that of pirates, and then burnt the disguises? An elaborate ruse for a raid on some old men and their books.

We decided that this new trail was more promising than the other one which we concluded was a false one to mislead would be trackers. So we followed the new tracks. They led north east and out of the woods once more. We crossed through gently rolling hills that were east of the Abbey and headed straight for the ocean. The tracks led us to a place called Shallow Cove, a small inlet ending in a narrow beach. We had to scramble down into it from the cliff. Our efforts were rewarded. There were drag marks, long ones, in the sand. “Long boats.“ muttered Maron Devlis.

“I told you so, I told you so!” Moxadder sung as he danced a little jig in the sand and clapped his hands in joy. I am one that believes in credit where credit is due, but right at the moment I just wanted skewer and silence the annoying scum.

I watched the others scamper around, ferreting about for anything that might tell us more. Not really my sort of work, rooting around, looking under rocks, pawing over trodden sand, but it does yield results. Argonne cried out and waved a red cloth that he had found. Maron Devlis knew what it was immediately, sail cloth, most likely from the boats that had been stashed here on the beach. But much more interestingly he also proclaimed it to belong to the ships of the Bloodsails. Cutthroats and pirates they are, pillagers throughout Sorcerers Bay that usually spared no one. Although it did look as if they were for hire, or very interested in something that they should not be.

No other information could be garnered from the sandy cove so we left to investigate the lighthouse. Well, Mortec was very keen to investigate it, I wanted to follow things methodically and convinced Argonne, to go with me back to the forest and the suspected false tracks. I also asked Maron Devlis to accompany us, but he declined pointing out that it was late afternoon now and he had to get back to his own home which was an hour’s walk to the east. We thanked him for his company and his help and parted ways. Moxadder and Baastian, well Baastian and the ever lingering Moxadder, headed off to the Copsthorpe’s hut to spend the night. Morgan and Stravarious followed Mortec to the lighthouse. One last look over the rolling sea and I left it behind me as I strode off with Argonne.

My masked comrade and I arrived back at the forest and went about finding the trail again. We both found it soon enough, I had stooped to helping Argonne by peering at the ground as he seemed to need a second pair of eyes. It was more to reassure him, as the things that he pointed out completely eluded me. After perhaps a mile the prints disappeared. Whether it was because Argonne had lost the tracks or more elaborate I could not be sure, but it did serve to convince me that the trail went nowhere. Perhaps the onset of sunset helped my decision.

On returning I went to the Abbey where I opted to spend the night reading and studying in hope that I would come across some interesting tales. Argonne decided that a more comfortable stay with the Copsthorpes’ was in order. We agreed to meet in the morning at the Abbey as it was not far from the road to Yorathton.

I arrived at the Abbey a little before dark and noted that the corpses of the monks had been moved. Thank Laster for that! It would have been rather uncomfortable walking past their lifeless forms. I lit a candle, and after singing out loudly for Jessop, ventured in. There was no-one about so I found myself the comfiest chair that I could, pulled out some interesting volumes and started to digest their contents.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Maybe an hour or so after settling myself I heard Mortec calling out. I answered in kind and soon he was telling me a remarkable tale. The three, as mentioned before, struck out along the cliffs to the lighthouse. As they wandered forward Morgan noticed that the light was already shining, even though it was daylight. This struck the trio as unusual as they could see no sense in wasting the considerable fuel that the light required, during the daylight hours. Morgan also noticed that the light did not seem to be spinning properly, or perhaps it was partially obscured by something as it did not seem to be as full as it should have been.

My intrepid friends arrived at the lighthouse, and after the usual formalities, borrowed from myself, entered the tower. There was nothing particularly notable about the lighthouse. It was a tall circular building that narrowed as it crept higher until it ended in the great light. It was whitewashed outside and in. The bottom floor held nothing of interest, it was more of a living area, with a cooking fire, crude table and chairs. There was a game of cards for one laid out on the table, unfinished. A store of staples was in a corner near a long bench which held cooking implements. None of it looked disturbed.

They clamoured up a ladder on the side of one curved wall to the next floor where they found modest sleeping quarters for one. Again the belongings were all untouched. Another ladder. This one led to a storeroom that held several large sealed ceramic jugs. Their labels proclaimed them to be oil.

The next ladder proved a tad more disconcerting. At its base was a pool of blood, slowly expanding with each drip that slipped from the ladder’s rungs. Its source was as yet unknown. Every rung of the ladder had been soiled by the crimson fluid. A drip of blood slowly swelled on the underside of the top rung, before falling and bursting on the rung below with a thud. It took a moment for them to realise that the sound had come from the room above. Suddenly they were aware of the monotonous rhythmic thudding coming from next level of the lighthouse.

After minor debate Morgan took the fore and headed up. He was greeted by his second horrid sight for the day. The light keeper, or so he assumed from the simple garb, lay sprawled with a massive head wound. It was his blood that had caused the pool at the base of the ladder. The whitewashed walls had not been spared either, in fact it looked as if they had actually been his demise, a long smear ran down the one that his head now rested against.

Tearing his eyes from the repulsive scene Morgan fought to control his stomach, although he did not manage it. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, called the others up. They surveyed the grim corpse and the reason that the light had been hampered in its journey. It looked as if a person had been thrown onto the light by the light keeper who simultaneously had been knocked or had slipped backward and dashed his head with significant force on the wall. His assailant had fared no better and when Morgan pulled him free it was revealed that the unidentifiable front half of the man had been char grilled upon the searing heat of the huge metal dish that served to light the perilous rocks below the lighthouse. Finally the thudding stopped and the light spun freely.

Mortec searched the assailant, who for all appearances was no more than a simple brigand. He wore a leather breastplate that went low enough to cover his essentials, Both the essentials and armour were now useless. The rest of his attire was simple and hardy,. His sword lay in the dish, too hot for my friends to retrieve. More curious though was that his hand was clenched into a rigid fist. Mortec wrenched the corpses fingers loose and saw a red tinged gold coin in the bandit’s palm. A Gnome never shies from a profitable venture, so he casually removed it, upon which, before their very eyes the brigand transformed! His garments blurred for a moment then it was as if he never had been a brigand. No longer was he garbed in leathers, but in the loose fitting clothing of a sailor.

Mortec looked oddly at the coin in his hand, sure that it had caused the transformation. It was no longer reddish in colour but looked to be a normal gold gromit. Its stamp showing that it had been minted in the Port of the Warlock on Sorcerers Isle, which in itself offered a satisfactory explanation. Baastian later revealed that it was called a Sorcerer’s Coin. These coins usually only had one simple transformation charm that could be invoked by the bearer.

That coin was the last information of significance that we learned, for there was nothing else we could do here in Ravenswood to provide a detailed report to the Baron when we arrived in Yorathton.

The night passed uneventfully for Mortec and I. Strav and Morgan had also gone to the Copthorpes for what was sure to be a crowded affair. We both studied quietly long into the night and were woken by our comrades early the next day. Their night had been enjoyable too, with plenty of apple pie for dinner. When passing through town they managed to ascertain that the mayor had not returned from the woods, and it was felt that perhaps, being a man of some importance in the region, he may also have been taken by the pirates, “Or done a runner” as Moxadder put it.

Whilst making final preparations to depart, Jessop returned to Leathe’s Abbey and was full of gratitude for Mortec and myself for assisting him the previous day. Not one to miss an opportunity, I asked whether I could borrow some volumes for further reading but was politely denied, although Jessop assured me that I was welcome back at any time.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Chapter 3 – The birth of the Hydra

The sun was throwing our long shadows before us when we arrived at Yorathton. After ten days tramping along empty and boring roads, sleeping on the ground, or at best in a chair in Leathes Abbey with a tome as a blanket, we had finally returned to civilisation.

Whilst passing through tilled fields and approached the first buildings of the town I joyfully remarked to Mortec, “It will be a most pleasant night tonight. No more shall my cloak act as a headrest. Tonight my head will rest on a goose feather pillow.”

“I don’t know Gerard,” he replied wistfully “we Gnomes love to be close to the earth when we sleep.”

I shuddered. “Oh no, I cannot image anything more horrid than sleeping another night outside on the hard and uncomfortable ground. I will accept any refinements the Baron will offer me.”

My small companion chuckled to himself and shook his head. I could not fathom why. “Why do you laugh? Have I said something to amuse?” I huffed.

He laughed out loud this time, “Gerard life is not always about the finer things. You’ll learn, quite soon I think, that it is hard work. And not always getting your own way.”

I hmphed and strode away from the disrespectful little man. He was in no position to tell me what life was all about. He obviously had little understanding of how mine had been.

From cradle through adolescence it had been hard. Being a second son is not easy. Absquith was always singled out by Father. He was the firstborn. He was the strongest one. He was the champion of the games. I, however, received little acknowledgement from Father as he always saw me as the weaker son. I was never seen as being able to follow in Sir Reginald d’Mowbray’s footsteps.

Perhaps I am being too hard on Father. He did try to teach me how to joust and wield a sword or morning star, but I could never satisfy him. My physique was simply not built for such activities. I sorely wished that he could see beyond my physical bounds and judge me on my own merits, not his own. I feel that in many ways I disappointed him because I was not like Absquith. Although to be fair no-one had disappointed him as much as my youngest brother Sebastian.

Poor little Seb. He had grown into a man with the same lack of control that he had displayed as a child. I remember the tantrums he threw when he was told to do something he did not want to, screaming and carrying on and such. He always tried to push Father and Mother. It started with his drinking. He is a big boy is Seb and oh how he enjoys a mug of ale. He would spend an evening in the Duck by Water and challenge all to out drink him. Sebastian always won the first few contests, but it always ended the same way, Mowbray’s finest carrying him back to the manor. Blatant whoring joined the queue of the activities that Father disapproved of, but it was the brawling that snapped him. Sebastian was thrown out into the street and to this day Father does not refer to, or recognise, his third son. I felt both sorry for Seb and angry at him. Sorry because I could see no way that he could reconcile with Father, and angry because he caused embarrassment to the family, and that is something that was difficult for me to forgive.

Even little Regina, my half sister from an unwise dalliance of Father’s, has a higher place in the family than Sebastian. At least she is tolerated by Father and Mother and is allowed to live with them at Mowbray.

If Absquith is Father’s favourite, my twin sister Isabella is Mother’s. My beautiful and wonderful sister. I adore her. She is, without doubt, my best friend and confidant. I value her words and advice more than any others. She lives off in Traville, lands that were destined for Sebastian before he was stripped of them by Father for his unacceptable behaviour and given to her. They lie adjacent to Montfort, the lands that I will come to when my liege, Baron Mendus knights me. It will be a happy day when I see her again.

Isabella and Mother spent a lot of time locked away together. For a long time I did not know what they did until finally Izy could not hold the secret from me. Mother was teaching her magics and sorceries! None knew, but Mother was quite an accomplished sorceress. She saw in Izy the same talent that my grandmother had seen in her. Izy showed me all sorts of tricks that she learnt as we were growing up. She created flames that would dance from finger tip to finger tip. Or make trinkets and the like disappear. She and Mother decided it best, very much against Father’s wishes as he was seeking a suitor for her, that she take up residence in Traville and refine her talent away from prying eyes.

Yet I hold no ill will to Absquith or Izy due to my parent’s preferences. I could never remain angry with Izy and Absquith was always looking out for me and tried so hard to help me with the skills that he mastered quickly.

So I was caught in the middle. I could not vie for either my Father’s or Mother’s affections. I simply could not compete with Absquith or Isabella. In reflection I think that that is why I set out from Thessingcourt; to strike out on my own and prove myself, especially to Father. The Halfast Games, would show him that whilst I am not brawn and muscle, I could still honour the family name, and Baron Yorath provided me with just that opportunity.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Sitting perched atop a bluff, its’ blue stone walls rising dramatically from the earth, was the Castle of Baron Yorath. Beneath it sprawled the large town of Yorathton.

“Sweetmeats! A tasty treat for the weary traveller”, cried a hawker as he winked at me. It was more than enough to convince me. I bought one, carefully taking the wooden stick that skewered the meat. The first bite sent me to the heavens. There is no way to compare it to the dull and tasteless rations I had been consuming on our journey. I was sure that I would enjoy my time at Yorath.

The earthen road that we walked wound its way through the white-washed buildings of town to the drawbridge that lay across the castle’s deep moat. As we crossed it we were lazily challenged by a guard wearing the green and white of Yorath who was lounging against the open portcullis.

Baastian introduced himself curtly. “Baastian Levillie.” His right foot repeatedly tapping the dust in annoyance at the guard’s derelict behaviour.

“Ah, er, sorry sir.” bumbled the doorman as he snapped upright and brushed his bedraggled uniform down, “I did not recognise you with, um, all of these fine gentlemen.”

Almost apologetically he continued, “May I ask for their names and business?”

Baastian sighed, calming himself. He then introduced and vouched for us. The guard, seeing that his duty was satisfied gave us entrance to the castle.

Baastian stopped a passing page boy and asked him to inform the Baron that we had arrived. He then guided us to our quarters and told us that this evening there would be a banquet that we were expected to attend.

Moxadder’s eyes lit up at this news. Undoubtedly he had never been to a banquet before. I predicted that the ‘morrow would present us with a sick and bloated Fastendian.

Prior to the feast our time was our own and our guide left us to attend to some urgent business. I guessed presumed it had to do with our discoveries at Ravenswood.

I excused myself from my companions and went to the cabin that Baastian had allocated to me. It was spartan in comparison with what I was accustomed to, however it was so much more than what I had had recently. My first task was to clean myself up, which after summoning a boy to provide me with hot water, I did to my greatest satisfaction. Secondly, I collapsed onto the bed to rest. It was soft and lumpy. Laster himself may have known what lived within it, but at that point I cared not. It was so much more than I had recently experienced, even if the pillow was not stuffed with goose feathers.

A light rap upon my door woke me. I shook my head, clearing it of a lovely dream involving my Veiled seductress from the Convent of the Doves, and opened the door. And how glad I was that I did! A very attractive woman stood in my doorway. The flesh is so much more appealing than a dream. Her dark hair hung in a single plait over her right shoulder, resting a-top of a beautiful shimmering blue dress that reminded me of the bay at Ravenswood in the morning light.

She looked at me with an appraising eye. Curling her wide mouth into a pleasant smile she queried, “Gerard d’Mowbray?”

“Indeed my lady.” I bowed with a flourish, my eyes never leaving hers, “And you are?”

“Timandra.” She replied, “I am the Baron’s aide. I am here to request the pleasure of you,, and your comrades,” she added mischievously, “company at the banquet this evening.”

“I would be honoured, Timandra.” I answered.

“Excellent.” She beamed “I will return within the hour to escort you to the great hall. I trust you have appropriate attire for the evening?”

I laughed and nodded in affirmation, “But of course Timandra. I look forward to seeing you again shortly.”

She smiled, excused herself and turned away. Once again I appreciated her dress, as it clung to her enticing hips as they swayed hypnotically with each step.

I closed the door. Here was a challenge that I could pursue! At that moment I decided to woo the beautiful Timandra. I was sure she would make a splendid conquest.

Although I had already removed the travel dust from my person and clothes, I once again took time to meticulously wash my hands and face before dressing in the finery appropriate for the court.

They say that the clothes make the man, but in my case I managed to make the clothes look so much better. It felt glorious to have shed my mundane travelling attire that had been like a second skin for the past two weeks.

A delicate knock upon my door signalled the return of Timandra. Unfortunately she had also gathered my companions, spoiling any immediate opportunity to be alone with her. They all looked vaguely presentable, if not comfortable, in clothing that had obviously been supplied by Timandra. Though none were more awkward though than Moxadder. The shambling mound had been transformed into a well dressed peasant. He wore clothes that he did not appreciate and it was clear that they did not appreciate him.

Timandra noticed the look of disdain across my face and whispered “When one has a filthy canvas to work with, one can only produce dirty art.”

We stood in the entrance to the Baron’s great hall. It was resplendent in pennants and flags bearing Yorath’s green and white. Long wooden tables ran its length. Each was well attended and laden with all manner of scrumptious delights. Roasted boar, complete with apples in mouths, legs of lamb, fruits, cheeses and of course ale were all plentiful. The Baron sat in the middle of a table at the far end of the hall. He was reading as he ate, barely noting the excitement around him. He wore a purple coat complete with white ruffles. The man certainly had taste!

Timandra led us to our left, between several tables that seated various vassals, including Baastian, retainers and courtiers. Timandra took us to the lone empty table that was tucked away in the far corner of the hall. I am sure that she purposefully placed us there. At first glance my friends looked respectable, but the reality was that they were peasants. I looked at her pleadingly and whispered, “Perhaps another table for myself, Timandra?” But all I received as a reply was an apologetic smile as she walked off leaving us to enjoy the meal and each others company.

Several belches around me signified that my companions, at least the majority of them, thought that the meal was excellent. Even Moxadder looked as if he had eaten his fill.

After days of dried meats and stale, crusty bread I certainly appreciated the fine banquet that the Baron had provided. With our dining complete Timandra returned, with Baastian, and informed us that the Baron commanded our audience.

We were led into the bowels of the castle until eventually we came to a large steel reinforced door. Timandra rapped lightly upon it and announced our arrival. A deep gruff voice called for us to enter. She opened the door and ushered us in.

 

[Haraash Saan]

The room we found ourselves in was a library. Books rose from the floor to the ceiling. They sat in shelves that ran the along every wall of the room. I glanced at Mortec and saw he was practically jumping out of his rather small boots. That fellow really needed to learn some control.

The Baron sat behind a large ornate timber desk. His tall frame was again hunched over a book. We waited patiently for a moment before he looked up to inspect his new recruits.

Yorath had deep, dark, thoughtful eyes, that stared intently at us from under neat black brows. His hair hung loosely to his shoulders. Whilst it had once been black, now it was flecked with grey. Large strong hands came away from the page he had been analysing and clasped together, fingers interlocking, as he leaned back comfortably in his chair.

“My lord.” I bowed with an elegant flourish, “Gerard d’Mowbray at your service.” Nothing like breaking a silence in style.

“Ah yes. Young Mowbray.” He said thoughtfully and with the hint of a smile, “I was most impressed when I heard that Baastian was bringing you to compete in my trials. Welcome.”

The others introduced themselves in turn, and the Baron welcomed one and all, although he threw Baastian a dark look when Moxadder introduced himself grovelling on bended knee.

After the brief introductions the Baron informed us that the trials were to start on the morrow. There would be seven tasks that were designed to stimulate the mind and test our physical prowess. Any of us successful in his trials would be offered a position on his next gladiatorial team. However, his welcome and the notification of the next day’s activities were not all that were on his agenda.

He dismissed Timandra and barked for a guard. His summons was promptly responded to by a man who came from a side door that I had not noticed. The Baron whispered something to him and the guard swiftly exited through the same door. An uncomfortable silence descended upon the room. The Baron was clearly waiting for his man to return and did not prompt further conversation. Moxadder’s leg began to jiggle nervously and Strav started to hum an annoying tune. Thankfully, before my friends could embarrass me further the guard returned with a portly red faced gentleman and a tall, handsome and well dressed man. He and the little round man must have been waiting in an antechamber close by.

“Gentlemen, may I introduce you to Mayor Moberry of Ravenswood.” The Baron looked at us, with an expression that I can only describe as one of smug satisfaction, “Moberry, please share your tale with our friends here.” The lack of our introduction to the Mayor indicated to me that he was not expected to stay with us for very long.

“Um, er, yes milord. Of course.” The Mayor began nervously “Um, as I said milord I was in my home, um, counting the taxes we had collected, yes that’s right, when I heard a ruckus in the street that was accompanied by screams.” He paused and looked at us with a little suspicion.

“I grabbed my sword, it is always close at hand, and charged into the street yelling a fury. I saw several men, common bandits by their look, assaulting villagers and beginning to torch several buildings.” His confidence grew and his speech became quicker and louder.

“I ran one through as I dashed past him, not sparing a glance to see if he fell. The others took such a fright they scarpered quick smart.” I could almost see his chest puffing out with pride as he recounted his tale.

“Well I made sure that they had indeed run off and that the town was no longer threatened, jumped upon the nearest horse and rode with greatest speed to inform you milord.” And he bowed slightly, eyes downcast submissively. He grovelled so low in his bow that he almost toppled forward, but managed to catch himself with a steadying foot shuffle.

“Thank you Moberry. What a marvellous tale of heroism that is!” exclaimed the Baron, a mischievous look in his eye. “I now ask you to listen to what these gentlemen have to say.”

With a wave of his hand he indicated to us to tell our tale of Ravenswood. The Mayor went a tad pale as I began to recount my own version of events. I will not bore you with them once more as you no doubt have already read them with keen interest. However, it should be noted that as I spoke, with rather rude interjections from the others that, Moberry’s complexion paled further to be white.

At the conclusion of my account the Baron smiled broadly and asked the Mayor, “Perhaps we need a new Mayor?” and to the guard, “Please do escort him to some suitable accommodation.” That was the last we saw of the Mayor Moberry.

The other man that had been brought into the room with the mayor now introduced himself as Zmrat, bard of the Massive Hand. He complimented me on a fine tale and continued on to ask us several questions, fishing for specific details in regard my story. After a few minutes the Baron cleared his throat and proposed a toast to our success during the next day’s trials. Soon afterwards he dismissed all of us, including Zmrat, who offered to escort us back to our abode.

Zmrat and I spoke a little after arriving at my lodgings. He responded to my queries regarding the Baron’s trials, telling me that the tests were different every year. When I quizzed him further on his own experiences from when the Massive Hand was formed he told me with a laugh that he himself had been knocked unconscious in the very first test. This surprised me, mainly because he had been selected by the Baron. He explained cryptically saying “The Baron must have seen something in my brief seconds of action that he liked.” The twinkle in his eye told me that there was more to his story than he was telling me, but that I would get no more from him that night. He departed shortly afterwards, wishing me a good night and good luck in tomorrow’s endeavours.

 

[Haraash Saan]

The following day, the twelfth of Low Summer, I woke to find that the sun was up, as were many notables from the previous evenings feast, including Timandra, today wearing an enchanting emerald green dress, Zmrat and others of the Massive Hand. Morgan, Argonne and the rest had all risen earlier than I, and were standing to one side of the gathered courtiers, talking in earnest amongst themselves.

A canvas awning had been assembled within which were many chairs, presumably for the courtiers and the Baron himself. In front of the awning was a table upon which were six bags.

The Baron, dressed in a long overcoat and shielded from the rising sun by a cowl, arrived with Kuruul at his side, the two of them strolling like old friends across the grass. The dog, it seemed, did not have to prove himself to make the grade.

Yorath pushed back his cowl and seated himself in the centremost chair, Kuruul curled up on the grass beside him. The others bustled about and took their places. My party of six, including myself, still stood off to one side looking and feeling, I must admit, a little uncertain and awkward. Finally Timandra stood and called us forward.

“Mortec the Gnome, please come forward and stand by the table.” She called out in an official and authoritative tone.

“Argonne woodsman, please come forward and stand by the table.” And so on and so forth until I was called last of all.

“Gerard d’Mowbray,” My name sounded like a beautiful song when it left Timandra’s lips. “please come forth and stand by the table.”

How could I deny her? I moved to stand beside Morgan.

“Ladies’, “ the Baron began with a courteous glance to Timandra and the one other female present, “and gentlemen,” a good way to start for speeches I thought. “Welcome to my annual trials. Before you, you see five brave and courageous men, and one Gnome of similar ilk,” he said with kindly smile to Mortec. “Today they seek to pass my challenges. Their reward for success is a place in this year’s Halfast games and my patronage.” There was pleasant applause from all and sundry.

He continued, “Their failure, well, could be most dire for the individuals concerned. For all tests carry risk, some greater than others.”

“Gentlemen, now you must make your first choice. You see before you a bag.” He was all for pomp and ceremony wasn’t he. “In each bag are ten Silver Sickles.” Only Moxadder drew in a short quick breath. Whether it was excitement or some drug induced respiratory problem I was unsure.

The Baron continued “If you wish you can leave these trials before they commence and take those ten Sickles. They should see you comfortably back to Halfast. Or, you can leave the coins and participate in the trials and perhaps win much, much greater glory. Now choose!” he boomed, adding to the dramatism of his speech. His steely gaze transfixed us.

I stepped away from the table almost instantly, followed quickly by all except Moxadder. He grabbed the bag, fumbled with it, such was his eagerness, and opened it. He peered into the bag, nodding his head as though counting to himself. He stared for time at the contents of the bag, then let it slip from his fingers to clank with finality on the table. He turned with a sigh and joined the rest of us. I do believe that I actually felt camaraderie for my companions for the very first time in that moment when Moxadder stood with us.

A long and wearying day followed. The Baron’s tests were rigorous and challenging. Archery, sword play, horsemanship and jousting allowed us to demonstrate our martial skills. Riddles and an oratory performance tested our mental capabilities. Finally the last trial saw us bond, in our own unique way, as a team. There were simply too many strong and competing personalities for us to operate cohesively, yet we still managed to achieve the desired result and satisfy Baron Yorath. Whilst individually not one of us passed all the tests, we did all succeed in being offered a cherished place within the Baron’s third gladiatorial company.

I had succeeded in what I had set out to do; receive the patronage of the Baron for the Halfast games and commence on my road to fame and fortune. I really must write to Father and Absquith, I am sure they would be pleased.

The next fourteen days passed quickly. We were given little time to do anything but train. My primary teacher was Zmrat. He, with a little help from the lovely Timandra, refined my knowledge of the courts and how to use my natural charm to best advantage. They also taught me how to listen and watch for mannerisms that may indicate mistruth or distraction.

Zmrat took me under his wing somewhat, we got along well, and also taught me the art of performance. How could I grab the interest of a crowd? How could I manipulate it, inspire it or captivate it? All these things and many more Zmrat and I spent hours discussing. Usually we sat and talked, or listened mainly for my part, in the ancient amphitheatre on the cliff top that overlooked the waters of the ocean to the east. However, my teaching was not all just the finer points and niceties. It also involved rigorous rapier practice. Zmrat and I would fence as a break from other studies. He was an excellent teacher.

Another thing that Zmrat did was to open my mind and empower my words with such feeling as to create distractions and minor magics, just as Isabella had shown me. It was as if he unlocked some sort of latent power that I knew not I possessed. Unfortunately I am not particularly gifted, and many of things he demonstrated were well beyond my capabilities. I only managed to learn small tricks of light and sound, but it was enough to captivate me. My twin had shown me some of her magics and now I understood the joy of harnessing the energy of the arcane.

A whole new world had been opened to me! My natural thirst for knowledge now had a new topic to pursue. Zmrat knew only the conjurations that he himself had been taught years before. So I thought to ask the mages of the Five Kinds of Death for their wisdom of magic. I had only glimpsed individuals from the group from time to time for they were secretive and secluded themselves in their own rooms.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Even though I was keen to learn more, the mystique and dreadful aura of the unknown caused some hesitation on my part in actually speaking to one of the magicians. I made several aborted attempts to knock upon the door of their apartments, but was too daunted to actually lay knuckle to timber. Eventually I decided to approach one of them alone. So it was that I found Kassquok, one of the Five Kinds of Death, standing silent and still on the cliff edge late one afternoon. He faced the ocean, arms hanging loosely by his side. Suddenly his left arm rose and his hand darted out of the long loose sleeve that had concealed it. Fingers twitched and gesticulated and his deep voice rumbled, “Destrat e mora”.

His fingertips glowed instantaneously with a bright crimson fire that grew so quickly in size that it became a ball about the size of a man’s head. A twist of his wrist saw the flickering ball sit in his palm. He seemed to consider it a moment before snapping his arm back and hurling the flame out over the sea.

Such a throw I had never seen before! It sailed out perhaps half a mile and was just a faint spec dancing away over the deep blue water before, with an enormous audible crack, it exploded. Such was the force of the explosion that I could see, even at the distance, steam rising from the surface of the sea.

Kassquok grunted with satisfaction as he turned and noticed me for the first time. His steely blue eyes seemed to pierce my soul.

“Mowbray isn’t it, hmm?” he said.

“Um,er yes indeed.” I replied displaying uncharacteristic nerves, “That was quite a display Kassquok.” I continued, recovering from my initial discomfort, “Most impressive.”

“Hmm? It was naught but a trifle. However even trifles must be practiced, else they would once again be difficult. Now what is it that I can do for you hmm?” he said.

“Ah yes, the reason for my coming to see you. I was speaking to Zmrat some days ago and he taught me to mentally create some minor magics. He released magic within me that I did not even realise I had the talent to conjure. However, I could not master more than the simplest things that he demonstrated.” I breathed deeply easing the frustration I felt. ”What he did do was awaken my thirst for magical knowledge! I want to learn whatever I can about how magic works and how I can best utilise it. Will you teach me?” I blurted excitedly.

Perhaps Zmrat and Timandra had taught me something in the art of speech afterall, or perhaps Kassquok was just very accommodating, but he did seem quite pleased to impart some magical knowledge to me.

As it so happens, magic is just that, magic. No one understands every occurrence of it or how to harness and use it. Some people, like the Five Kinds of Death, are learned men who have unlocked the power of knowledge and use it to their best advantage. They have found or written spells on paper and gather libraries of them. They study their books relentlessly always questing for another way to gain more power.

Some people, like Zmrat and Isabella, have an inherent gift. They do not need to study or learn magic as such. They literally create it. The more talented those individuals are the more that practice will allow them to unlock those talents.

It is even said that Elves and Gnomes are magical beings, although I have not really perceived Mortec to be a peculiar in any way.

That leads to the most interesting titbit I acquired was Kassquok’s closing remark on the topic. “Magic is perception. That is all. Anyone that does not understand how something works, or how it came to be, thinks that the cause is magic. That is all. Hmmm?”