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

[Haraash Saan]

Over the last few months, perhaps since we originally had left Halfast, Argonne had been feeling that he was somehow in tune with the world. He said that it was as if he felt all the living things around him and he knew when things were not as they should be. As the weeks passed the feelings were more intense. He did not understand why he was feeling what he did or how it was that he felt it. It just was.

When we questioned him, rather directly I might add, about his miraculous transformation into the eagle he was no more confident of his answer.

“It was the right thing to do.” He shrugged. “I was inside that plant. I could feel it trying to swallow and then Zhontell managed to pry its mouth open and haul me out. And then I was different.”

“I felt different. The sky was my haven and I reached out to it. I flew to it. It was wonderful.” He said, eyes glossing over in reflection. “I knew I was an eagle and I knew that I should be an eagle. And then I spied the cat in some long grass by the side of the glade and realised that I needed to be me again, so I was.”

“I don’t know or understand what happened. But it did.” He continued. “I don’t know if it will happen again, but I most certainly hope it does.”

I was mesmerised by his tale. I could feel the freedom he felt and it hurt that I could not truly experience it.

There was a lot more to the young woodsman than perhaps even he had known.

Mortec’s shrill voice interrupted our conversation. “Come here! Look what I have done! I am brilliant indeed!” chirped the Gnome excitedly.

Although there was some moonlight it was still hard to make out what it was that he pointed to at his feet. The little fellow was so excited by whatever it was that he was dancing a little jig of joy around it.

I uttered some words of magic to conjure light and slowly but surely a tiny ball of faint light grew in my palm until it was the size of an orange. I directed the light the object.

It was a strange metal gauntlet with its fingers clenched into a fist. “Isn’t it beautiful?” cried out the exuberant Gnome.

We looked at each other skeptically wondering what it was that was so interesting about a stylised gauntlet.

Suddenly a massive crack of thunder sounded directly above us, and from the sky came a bolt of lightening! We dove for cover as it struck the gauntlet. I thanked Srcan for her blessing for I, and my companions were all unharmed by the lightening strike. The gauntlet seemed, other than a small wisp of grey smoke that curled up from it, also undamaged. I meticulously brushed myself off from the dirt and leaves that now clung to me as I stood.

Then suddenly the fingers of the metal glove creaked ominously open and I noticed a small forearm growing from out of the glove. As soon as the fingers of the gauntlet had completely uncurled the limb levitated into the air and floated toward a gleeful Mortec.

He thrust out his own stump so that it faced the flying limb. The forearm, as if sensing its target and intention, put on a burst of speed and slammed into the Gnome’s stump with slap of flesh, a crunch of bone and an accompanying scream from Mortec.

Such was the force of the blow that it knocked him down. But as he pulled himself up we saw, with amazement, that he pushed himself up he used the very hand and forearm that were now fused to his body.

Mortec had his arm back!

He explained, after our excitement died down, that ever since he lost his arm in the Games, he had been working on creating himself a replacement, and with the blessing of Todesmagie he had finally achieved his goal. He was once again a whole Gnome.

Wonders will never cease. A Gnome that makes himself replacement limbs, a mad black elf, a drug addict (Moxadder looked the most normal of the group!), a warrior of Thuus that is enslaved by a magical mask of Gerech, a strange and predominantly silent unarmed elf, a simple woodsman that turns into a bird and a dog that turns into ‘the greatest anything of his race’. How is it that I managed to mix with these very, very strange people?

That night I had drifted off into a deep and refreshing sleep. It was like none that I had ever experienced before, but when I woke to the pleasant calls of birds, I felt better than I had since I had left my comfortable apartment in Thessingcourt to journey to Halfast with Absquith.

The next day the strangeness continued. The birds I had heard on waking were not all that were about. Hundreds, nay, thousands of the forests natural denizens sat on the fringes of the clearing; bears, dear, rabbits, badgers, foxes and many more. All sat or lay around the edge of the clearing of the menhir and the great orange and black cat that lay near its base. They must have gathered during the night, although none of us had woken at their arrival. There was an unusual expectant air about them. Not a one of them paid us any heed, they all stared as one at the menhir. We broke our fast in silence. Truth be told we were frightened that we would attract the attention of the animals that surrounded us. As I ate I looked at the menhir trying to think of a stratagem that would break its bonds and release its secrets.

Mortec was the first to rise from our morning meal. He walked to his things that lay nearby. As he went past me I saw a steely look in his eye that complemented the grim look of determination that was set on his face. He stooped, not very far mind you, and retrieved his hammer, the very one that I used to break down the door when we were trapped in the pirate ship. The cat looked up curiously. The Gnome, now oblivious to the gathered horde, strode to the menhir and without breaking stride swung the hammer, with both hands, new and old. It struck one of the bands! The blow caused a loud ringing to be sounded, almost like a bell, but then the band broke and slid off the menhir!

I had known there was something unusual about the hammer when I myself had wielded it, but I had no idea that it was that strong!

With arrogant disdain (I actually believe he realised that he could not reach the top most bands to strike them), Mortec dropped the hammer at the base of the menhir and went back to finish his breakfast.

Argonne eagerly took up where Mortec had left off. And when it came to the last remaining band the sense of expectation in and around the clearing was at bursting point. The strange cat looked up in anticipation, the hammer fell, the final band shattered, its pieces falling to the ground.

Even as those last shards of metal fell to their resting place, a deafening cacophony of noise erupted from the assembled animals. It was if they were cheering. Bears growled, wolves howled and birds squawked and chirped.

The clearings’ orange and black striped guardian let out a massive roar that drowned out all of the other beasts and birds. They all stopped. All was quiet.

And then before our eyes the cat began to change. It shrank as it underwent its metamorphosis. Paws slowly formed hands and feet, fur turned to clothing (of a sort) and the beasts’ tail receded into its body. Before us was now hunched a man!

 

[Haraash Saan]

He lifted his ancient head and regarded us carefully with his deep brown eyes.

His crusty lips opened and he tried to speak, although it sounded more like his throat was clearing. “Thank you for freeing me.” He rasped.

Argonne was immediately by his side and providing a supporting hand to help him to his feet. The weathered old man stood maybe five and a half feet tall, although his prodigious stoop indicated that in his youth he had been much taller. Long thinning grey hair sprouted unevenly from his pate, cheeks and chin. It barely hid his earth coloured skin.

“I sense you’ll be no trouble.” He muttered to himself. And with a casual wave of his hand, the vines that bound Stravarious released him. He was not happy, looking like a hunter that had been robbed of his prey.

“You.” He pointed with a knobbly and gnarled finger to Argonne. “We have much to speak about.”

I was still in a state of shock. Just as Argonne had transformed into an eagle and back again, this ancient had done the same from a large cat! How?

“Who are you?” I whispered, aghast at what I had witnessed.

“Hmm? Who am I?” he turned to face me, his voice sounding like gravel crushed under foot. “I am Lorcan of the great Circle of Eight! And you, “he waved his arm to include us all, “have just freed me from over one hundred years in the form of a panther.”

Lorcan claimed that he was one of the eight druids that, over a century ago, had stood at the gates of Godsheim and had demanded that the Gerechian’s, then its rulers, cease their control over life and death.

History and stories say that their request was refused and those druids, in all their combined glory caused the very earth to rebel against the Convocation.

The earth quaked and broke, swallowing sections of the cities whole. Lightning blazed across the sky and fire spewed from the great cracks in the ground. And the Gerechian’s trembled at the might of the druids and their God Foeld.

Unfortunately for all those gathered, and even now for the peoples of today, what the druids did not anticipate was that their cataclysm would breach some of the death barrows that the Gerechians had assembled and filled with those they condemned to be trapped and undying for eternity. From within them came the horrors that were to become the Northern Horde, the Dominion.

The druids fled, the Gerechians in Godsheim were slaughtered by those they condemned. Lorcan managed to escape to the menhir, his most powerful conduit to Foeld. However the Gerechians further south chased him to the spot and, upon seeing the menhir and knowing its purpose bound it with via the power of Gerech.

As soon as it was bound with the symbol of Gerech it trapped Lorcan in the form that he was in, that of a panther. And so it was that he prowled the forest for the next hundred years, until this now.

After his story was complete, he and Argonne spoke quietly amongst themselves. I know not what they said even though I used all the skills Timandra had taught me in Yorath to eavesdrop but I did not understand the language that they spoke.

Any interruptions were waved away and persistence was met with an angry glare from Lorcan.

For hours they talked before finally their conversation had finished. The look upon Argonne’s face was one of enlightenment, as though he finally understood why it was he was here. Why he was alive. He was a man with purpose.

Whilst we pried he would give us no hint as to what it was that he had learned other than to say things like, “I am of the world and I am for the world.”

It was decided that we would rest ourselves for the remainder of that day so that we could begin our assault on the bandits lair, which lay no more than two hours from the menhir, late that night.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Chapter 12 – Skunks, Intrigues, Invasions and a Flurry of Feathers



It was after midnight and the thick layer of cloud aided our cautious approach to the hidden entrance of the brigands lair. We stood assembled before the cave, and after several reassuring glances between us, moved in.

Once safe from the prying eyes of the sentinels who were camped at the mouth of the cave, whom we managed to stealthily evade, I conjured a ball of light the illuminated the rough hewn corridor.

Moxadder took the lead, due to his upbringing in the sewers of Iruudish City he needed only faint light to see almost perfectly clearly and also he was without doubt the stealthiest of the Hydra. He crept maybe twenty feet ahead of the main group.

As anticipated we encountered no guards on our short journey to a store room. Here we armed ourselves as was our want and made ready to carry through with the first violence of the plan. Mortec blessed us in Todesmagie’s name and also used the gods will to bless a small pebble. The effect of which was that anyone near the stone would be completely silent. No noise left the area it affected and none passed into or through it.

Thus prepared we once again set off, Moxadder again in the lead although much closer now. Before us we could see a flickering light dancing in the shadows of the craggy walls. I pinched my conjured light to dismiss it. It seemed as though we would no longer need it.

Moxadder moved cautiously forward and stuck his head around the corner. His own shadow was now cast on the corridor wall behind him.

Suddenly he stepped into the opening in which he had peered and let loose with two daggers. They flashed in the light before disappearing from my sight.

I charged, rapier drawn. As I rounded the corner I saw a large room with six sleeping men laying in crude cots against the caverns’ walls. In the middle of the room was a small square table at which four men, one with a knife protruding from his thigh, were scrambling for weapons that lay near by. A candle sat in a pool of wax in the centre of the table, scattered at its base were playing cards.

Leaping into the room I thrust my blade into the belly of the nearest man, he slid off it with a soundless scream and then I jumped onto and then over the table top to get to another.

The combat lasted less than a minute, the four men than had been awake had been quickly dispatched by the Hydra and Moxadder had slit the throats of four before they even could even wake.

You may think that we are heartless and evil men, but you could not be further than the truth. These were bandits, murderers and law breakers. They were only going to get strung up in any case. This way they died peacefully. It was too good for them, in my opinion.

The remaining two, obviously sensing something unusual in their sleep woke in silence and surrendered immediately upon seeing the carnage that surrounded them.

Mortec placed the silent stone at the entrance of the room, “To give allow us to question them, without their screams waking anyone.” he explained once away from its influence, his tone betraying no emotion.

“So what have you got to say?” I asked our captives, a pleasant smile accompanying my cold eyes.

They were both stunned mute by the scene before them.

“Well let me start you off. How many bandits are on this level and on the level below.” I continued. Hermaeon had explained that the top level only had this sleeping chamber for the guards, and the level below housed the leaders of the bandits and the majority of their men.

Still there was no response. It was then that Argonne decided to accelerate the interrogation. Quick as a flash his axe swung down upon the neck of one of our prisoners. With a bone grinding crunch it passed through, a severed his head from his shoulders. The head flew passed me and hit the ground with a sickening slap before rolling to a stop at the feet of Zhontell. The headless body sat still for a moment before slumping forward and dropping to the floor, blood spurting from the massive wound.

I gagged I was so sickened by what I had witnessed, but it had the desired effect, eventually.

It was several minutes before our remaining prisoner (and the others of our party) had recovered from the shock of seeing his comrade so brutally murdered enough to finally give us some details of the scenario below us.

He, and his butchered friend were Foeldians. They had only been working with the brigands as their families were being because they had discovered forcibly held by Korb and his wicked henchmen.

Remorse momentarily flooded across Argonne’s previously stern and blood thirsty gaze and he knelt beside the headless corpse of the man he had killed. He placed his palm on the dead man’s chest and began what looked like some sort of prayer. Perhaps he was begging for forgiveness?

I turned my attention back to our prisoner. Some thirty or so bandits acted as a guard down on the lower level in the main chamber. The caverns below also housed the core of the outlaws’ leaders, including Korb and two mages that assisted him in his evil endeavors.

Argonne, his prayer now finished, became distracted. As the prisoner continued with his information, the woodsman began looking at the ceiling, and then the floor. He shifted the dead with his boots and looked underneath them. He was looking for something and getting more anxious as whatever it was could not be found.

As I watched him, a skunk rounded the corner from the passage we had come from. I was too perplexed to realize the danger I was in.

It waddled up to Argonne, who upon seeing it, let out a relieved sigh.

I interrupted our captive with a raised hand, looked incredulously at Argonne and posed him a question, “What is that?”

“A skunk.” He said matter-of-factly.

“I can see that.” I replied, my patience with him easing. “Where did it come from?”

“Hmm? Come from? He has been here all along. Well he was gone for a few minutes, but everything is OK now. He is back.” Argonne rambled in reply.

Seeing that each one of us had absolutely no idea as to what he was saying, he gave an explanation that was just as ridiculous as his last comment.

“Him.” He pointed to the decapitated corpse, “This,” now pointing to the skunk, “is him as Foeld intended him to be. He says his name is Zwingly.”

If it were physically possible I am sure my jaw would have shattered as it hit the ground. Once and for all Argonne had lost his mind entirely. There was no doubt that the appearance of the skunk had given him a bizarre avenue to ease the guilt he felt of what he had done.

Mortec was more understanding than I. “So you brought him back? The skunk has the soul of that man?” he queried.

I could not believe the Gnome was entertaining Argonne’s delusions, but he was a priest of the god of knowledge, perhaps he knew something that I did not.

“Yes. That’s right.” Nodded Argonne rapidly, relieved that at last someone understood him.

At that moment, the skunk, in Argonne’s hands, turned to face us, lifted its tail and with a small hiss from its rear did the one thing that I had forgotten to fear.

So repulsive was the stench that had drenched Argonne, that not a one of us did not cover our mouths with something to try and avoid it. I even ignored common sense and fled the room to stand back in the corridor trying to suck in sweet cave air.

As I ran, I heard Strav remark, “Well he obviously isn’t pleased that you killed him is he?”

 

[Haraash Saan]

It took several minutes for the general stink to dissipate, but no one went near Argonne. His only salvation would be a long bath.

Argonne coughed and spluttered as his eyes watered, “Perhaps I’ll put him in my pack.”

So he unshouldered it and gently placed the Zwingly inside. “There you go laddie, make yourself comfy.”

There was another hiss, this time from within Argonne’s pack. The skunk had been quick to claim it as his own.

We had previously decided that our biggest threat were the wizards. We could not even fathom what they were capable of, ignorance breeds fear. They were to be our preliminary target. If at all possible we were to remove them from calculations as quickly and quietly as possible.

The route down was via a ramp that continued down from the corridor that we had entered this room from, and it was always guarded by sentries. And if they were alert, then we would not stand a chance against alerted bandits and their magicians. Another plan was needed.

The rough map that Hermaeon had sketched in the dirt had indicated that the room that we were now in was almost above the wizards personally chambers. Why not dig down, I thought out loudly.

The others laughed at my idea. How would we dig through rock? We did not even know how deep it was. I could appreciate their impertinence and felt myself flush at the stupidity of the idea. None of us carried tools, shovels and the like, and it would take days to make a hole big enough for a man to squeeze through.

However Argonne, the madman, did not laugh. He looked at me with a puzzled expression and then started clawing at the floor, pushing and prodding it with his fingers, testing it.

I watched him, hoping to distract the others from my silly suggestion and focus their attention elsewhere. He seemed to find the spot he had been trying to locate, and placed both palms against the earth. His eyes rolled back into his head, so that only their whites could be seem, and his lips began to recite some soundless chant.

His arms started to tense as he began to push with all his might against the rock floor, and then, the rock moved. He was pushing the very rock downward! At first it was only a small impression the size of his hands, but gradually it became deeper and more rounded and with a few minutes there was an obvious hole.

As it got deeper his hands seemed to push, rub and smooth. The hole got wider as his hands worked against the sides of the stone basin he had formed. Minutes turned into an hour, and all the while we gathered around him silently and watched as he formed a larger and deeper hole.

The only thing he said the entire time he moved the rock, and that was in a harsh whisper that reeked of strain, was, “Rope. Ankles. Take my weight.”

We quickly satisfied his request and tied a rope firmly around both of his legs and Morgan, Strav and Zhontell ensured that they kept the rope taut to take his weight.

They did well! When he finally broke through, his legs were all that were visible and they stuck straight out from the hole. He broke through some four and a half feet down. He slipped about but the trio managed to hold and then pull him slowly back and out of the hole.

His face was dripped with sweat, such had been his exertion. Hunched against a wall he rasped, “Corridor.” in between deep breaths.

I was too bewildered to say anything more than, “How?”

His weary face turned to my question and smiled, not something one should ever see the repulsively ugly Argonne actually do, “Foeld will always show the way.”

His discussion with Lorcan had obviously revealed some new path for our woodsman. He was definitely a strange one. Just maybe the skunk was the incarnation of the beheaded Foeldian.

Moxadder in a rare turn of coherence suggested that he “Nip down and take a look-see.”

Better him than me I thought, as he scampered into the hole using his long limbs to prop himself against its walls and climb down the shaft.

“Wait ‘ere.” He said as he disappeared from sight.

It was not long before we heard the Fastendian’s soft whisper from the beneath us.

“The hole drops into the corridor that leads to one of the wizards rooms. It should be safe enough to drop down as the mage is now dead. But throw down the silent stone first. You lot make so too much noise.” He said.

Mortec dropped the stone down the hole. And then one by one we followed.

We stood in another tunnel that had been widened in places to allow a person to travel easily to the room at one end of it. The other end had a thick curtain blocking it. Moxadder stood by the curtain. He seemed to be listening for any activity.

Strav, Mortec, Argonne and I went to search the deceased wizards room. He lay, quite motionless, on his bed. A small oil lamp flickered on a shelf giving the room adding to the rooms already eerie atmosphere.

The wizard, Saeff (Hermaeon had told us that there was only one male spell weaver), was drenched in his own blood. He had been reading when Moxadder had caught him unawares. The book, Laster’s Ribald Bedtime Tales, was splattered with blood from the artery that Moxadder had cut.

A quick rummage in Saeff’s room revealed several books, of which Mortec and I would investigate later, some papers that I sensed were infused with magic and several vials and bottles with curious labels such as, Fleetness of Foot and Balm of Lilly.

Behind the curtain was a common room of sorts. Tapestries hung from the wall depicting varying scenes, from a battle to a maid by a stream. The central feature of the room was a large table with four chairs placed around it. On it were various writing implements, and a crude wooden plate on which lay the scraps of a forgotten meal.

There were three other curtains covering exits from the room. The one immediately to our right was made from a blue cloth with a large bat embroided on it. By our reckoning this was the Sorceress Polema’s room. She had come here with Korb and had seduced Hermaeon.

Raedemass’s cave, the woman Polema replaced as Korb’s partner, was opposite Saeff’s quarters. The entrance to her room was covered with a green silk that featured fey creatures of myth and legend.

The final curtain led to the corridor beyond the wizards dwellings and it was there that Morgan and Argonne tip toed to so that they could stand guard to the chamber.

Figuring Raedemass was a potential ally, being a Foeldian not an usurping bandit, we sent Moxadder to investigate Polema’s cave. It was empty. There were only simple furnishings that included a cot that had been unslept in.

Moxadder found Raedemass snoring in her bed, blissfully unaware of the fate that was about to befall her. She woke with a start, but she was sensibly silent.

Our sneak stood over her, one hand clasping her mouth shut, the other holding a dagger across her throat.

I pushed the green silk aside as I strode into the room. “Raedemass. We are friends here to free you from the bandits.” I spoke quickly and urgently. “We have Hermaeon with us”

Her eyes widened in disbelief at that news. “Yes its true. Korb and the others left him as a gift for the Forest Troll that lived in the cave above the waterfall not two days away to the west. We killed the troll and freed him.”

“I will not hurt you, but my friend,” I gestured to Moxadder, “could afford no sudden noises as the other bandits may be alerted. Will you help us?”

Her eyes immediately reflected a steely resolve at my request.

“Good. Moxadder, release her.” I ordered.

 

[Haraash Saan]

In short time we filled Raedemass in on our activities within the bandits encampment. She, unfortunately, had no news on the exact whereabouts of Polema and Korb, however she did confirm that Felt, Saeff’s bodyguard (obviously she had not done a particularly good job) should be in her room across the corridor. She also verified that the Foeldian women and children were in the main chamber of the lower level and were guarded by the remaining bandits that were not out raiding.

As it happened the room the Felt was using also had an exit to that main chamber. So it was there that was out next destination.

We all snuck out into the corridor and through another curtain into a short passage that led to Felt’s quarters.

Moxadder stepped from the passage way into the opening to her room.

His reaction betrayed the circumstance in which he saw Felt. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened in surprise as his free hand fumbled for a dagger. Instantaneously I was on the move. My blade appeared in my hand as if by magic and I sprinted around the corner.

Felt stood, her own rapier already unsheathed, in a classic defensive parry. Her light tunic was bathed in sweat generated from her practice sword play.

Unfortunately for her she did not expect such an assault. The thin steel I carried pierced her once, as I leapt into a thrust and again as I twisted away from her unprepared attack.

My companions were swift to aid me and Moxadder landed the telling blow. She slipped, surprise still registered on her face, from his dagger and crumpled. Her long blonde hair laying in the blood that pooled from her wounds.

It was not a deserving end to someone as talented as Felt. I had heard of her. She was a master duellist from Thessingcourt and was a prized body guard for the rich, of which there were many in Mendus’s capital.

However any remorse I felt at her murder, for that is what it was, and my part in it were gone quickly. After all she was no more than a bandit, she got what was coming to her and at least she did not have to wait for hangman’s noose she would have got in Montfort.

We gathered in the corner of Felt’s room and began organising our next plan of attack. As we spoke of bursting into the main chamber (a simple plan is often the best), a quizzical expression passed over Morgan’s face and he asked “Where’s Strav?”

Strav was not with us! Somehow he had been separated from us. An ear splitting wail broke through our hushed whispers. Strav had been found.

Mortec was first to react. He ran from the room incanting some prayer to Todesmagie. Morgan followed him, knocking an arrow to his bow. Bloodied rapier still in hand I charged off in pursuit of my comrades.

Down the continuation of the passage that went through Felt’s room I ran. Morgan stood by the curtain covering the opening to the main cavern readying to loose a shaft.

With a swift slash I sliced the cloth the impeded my view. Mortec was in the centre of the room, arms stretched above him and chanting loudly, “Todesmagie aid me!” A dark mist seemed to form around his hands even as the bandits closed in on him and covered his tiny frame from my view.

A twang beside me told me that Morgan had found a target. Then it was my turn once more to face a foe.

********************

I breathed heavily as another brigand dropped to his knees in front of me before falling on his lifeless face.

After repelling the assault on the passage we had been approached from behind by four more bandits. It was then that Morgan showed a side of him that I had not seen before, cowardice. Shame radiated from his face as he left me to face the four scowling men alone.

“Coward.” I muttered as I prepared myself once more to taste their blades. At that stage I already had received a couple of minor cuts, outnumbered four to one, I figured I would receive a few more.

I was right, but it I also managed to slay two of the four before the others, wisely noting that they were out matched threw down their weapons and begged for mercy.

Meanwhile Mortec was calling forth Todesmagie’s divine magics to allow him to withstand his own foes. Morgan, the valiant, had managed to down another from a safer distance with his arrows and Argonne held the southern exit to the cavern. Instead of charging forward with Mortec, Morgan and I, he had run down the corridor to hold the exit and encourage the women and children to flee to him.

Moxadder, who had been skulking in the shadows waiting for his opportunity had finally taken it when Korb and Polema entered the battle.

Moxadder sensing that the fight would turn in our favour if the leaders were dispatched materialised in front of Polema to offer her a taste of his daggers. But she was too quick! She carried an enchanted flail that she used then to great effect. Instead of metal balls on chains, her flail had the heads of serpents! With a flick of her wrist they spat their venom at the surprised Fastendian. He cried out in pain as the acid of their poison struck his chest Dropping his dagger he clawed at his chest, tearing off his shirt.

But, as if sensing his own peril, just as Polema drew wrist back for another strike, Moxadder recovered his wits. His hand went to draw forth another dagger, this one coated with a vile poison of his own.

Polema’s wrist snapped forward again. Moxadder dove forward, ducking the globules of venom that struck the wall behind him and thrust upward into Polema’s abdomen. It was her turn now to shriek in pain! But it was more of a gasp as her body went rigid, the poison taking effect, and she toppled to the ground.

Korb, seeing his lieutenant fall down beside him and noting that the battle ran in our favour turned on his heel and ran! The brigands, their confidence already shaken threw down their weapons and knelt grovelling before Argonne, Mortec and Morgan’s knocked bow.

Whilst I had heard the appeals of surrender I was unaware of Korb’s flight, so I forced my own two captives into the main chamber and began ordering them to tie each other up. Some of the Foeldian women came to help. They knew not who we were, but they did know we had claimed victory over their persecutors.

As I did this, I heard Moxadder rasping voice echo through the cave system, “Argonne! Korb is coming your way!”

Before I had a chance to command Morgan and Mortec to watch the prisoners they had disappeared! Morgan ran passed me into Felt’s room and Mortec ran passed Polema’s prone form.

A minute or two passed before they returned, although they were without Korb. As it happened Korb and run into the entrance chamber of the lower level that held an underground lake. Argonne had managed to strike him hard in the back with a sling stone, but he dove into the lake. Fearing he would escape with a quick swim to the other side of the lake and then up the ramp to the upper level Argonne took drastic action.

He called out to Foeld once more, but this time he did not part the stone has he had before. No, this time he called forth own of Foeld’s creatures, a shark.

Needless to say that Korb never did reach the other side of the lake. With a prayer of thanks to Foeld, Argonne then dismissed the shark and sent it back to the ocean from whence it had come.

The bandits were bound and questioned, and remarkably Polema was too. It so happened that the poison Moxadder had used on her only caused her body to be rigid for a few minutes. When that time elapsed she was free to move once more. Or would have been had Moxadder not returned and bound her, after poking away her flail that was attempting to slither on the ground nearby.

Polema, sensing her current employer was not longer able to pay for her services, was more than happy to cooperate.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Korb had recruited her in Halfast some ten months before and from there they had gone to Thessingcourt and met with Saeff, who had been an old acquaintance of Korb’s, and Felt. Together they recruited the brigands.

Their objective had been simple. Infiltrate the Foeldians and use them as a resource to further their quest for loot and plunder. And it worked. Polema had seduced Hermeaon and then Korb and Saeff had captured him and given him to the forest troll.

From that point it was simple enough for Korb to gain absolute power of the Foeldians. However he did not count on their resistance. Thrand, who had been Hermeon’s second and snuck away with more that two thirds of the Foeldian’s. That action prompted the scenario that we had just resolved, the remaining women and children being held captive whilst the remaining Foeldian men were forced to do the bandits bidding.

However during the last few months at the Foeldian camp Polema had overheard Saeff and Korb discussing such things as “destabilisation” and a man called Decistratus. From what she had caught in snippets of conversations, Decistratus was the leader of a group called Orsa Terminus.

Obviously that was astounding news to us! Whilst Moxadder had found the many horned demonic head symbol of Orsa Terminus on a brigand that he had found dead in the forest we had found no such markings on any of the captive or slain bandits. Not even what was left of Korb’s body or Saeff’s for that matter bore any mark of the group.

Korb visited Guerney City perhaps once a month and Polema suspected that those regular visits were tied to Decistratus.

Searching through the brigands possessions uncovered several interesting things, including a room full of merchants goods that had been taken. The most interesting two objects had belonged to Korb. There was a map to the Rolling Lady Inn in Guerney City, an obvious tie in to Decistratus, and a marble statue to Geduld.

The statue was the only evidence that we found that Korb had been in league with Geduld and therefore the Dominion. There was a lot more to these bandits and their activities than we first thought.

Piecing together the information we had it seemed quite simply that the banditry had been a means to an end. The end was to cause chaos in this region of the Barony of Mendus. They deliberately had disrupted previously safe trade routes and begun to sow the seeds of discontent amongst the local populace.

We found many other trinkets and valuables, but the one I think I will value the most was a necklace. It, along with its five companions, was a simple stone with a hole in the middle of it. It does not sound particularly important, but that is because I have not shared Raedemass’s information yet.

The barbarians and giants had only recently moved into the forest, and with them there seemed to be many, many more of the Faery folk. Usually the forest housed a very small population of the mischievous sprites (and I had thought them a tall tale!), but of late they had appeared in epidemic proportions. And as Moxadder could attest, their tricks were both cruel and lethal.

The river stones on the necklaces had been naturally worn through by the water passing over the rocks. It was said that stones formed like this served as a protection against the Faeries. That is why I treasured my necklace.

We stayed within the caves for another day to rest and recuperate. In this time we discussed topics such as loot and its equal division between the Hydra and the Foeldians, transport of booty back to Montfort and more importantly to me, the prisoners and the relationship between the Foeldians and Montfort.

It was agreed that the Foeldians would establish a private trade route with Montfort so that the town and the people of Foeld could provide each other with goods and information. There was nothing I wanted more from them than friendly relations and information sharing. I saw no benefit in trying to control them, as it was they fell well outside the nominal bounds of Montfort. Their cave dwellings were subject to Mendus if anyone.

To begin this relationship on the right track I negotiated with them to accept three of the thirteen bandits we had captured, including Polema, and they were to deal with the others as their own laws so fit.

Hermeaon and Raedemass also raised concerns for their safety, especially from the barbarian hordes that had so recently moved into the forest from the north, so it was agreed that the entire Foeldian peoples, including those that Thrand had taken to a place called the Riven camp, would come to Montfort in hope that the barbarians would move on, driven out by the pestering Faeries.

It did not quite turn out how we planned.

From the moment we left the caves and journeyed to the Riven Camp we were in strife. Even though Raedemass managed to hold the fey people away from causing us much trouble, barbarian scout parties held skirmishes with us almost all the way to Montfort.

We managed to capture one of these hideous and deformed looking creatures and interrogate him in his own guttural tongue before Moxadder slit his throat.

They, and the Giants, had been driven south, far from their mountains homes, by strange well armed and armoured creatures. They had either been small, wiry goblins who were plague like in numbers or their stronger and more intelligent cousins, hobgoblins.

Even the common folk knew what those two types of creature symbolised, the Dominion. They were the primary foot soldiers of the Northern Horde, the very evil that the Gerechians had unwittingly created and that the Druids, Lorcan the master of the menhir being one, had accidentally unleashed on the world. The very group that had been “destabilising” this region via Korb and his cronies.

However its most interesting information was easily the most pressing. It had belonged to a tribe, one of many in the forest, and they were now being driven west by the constant and lethal threat of the Fey folk and their wicked games.

Close to three thousand barbarians, including more than fifteen hundred warriors, were headed for Monfort! Their scouts had already seen the end to the forest and the river that acted as a natural barrier between town and tree.

The first of the tribes would reach the river in two days and soon after the entire barbarian horde would be on Montfort’s doorstep! There was only one shallow ford that made the river crossable, and that led straight into Montfort. It was not even half a mile from the first homes of the town.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Preparations began in earnest. I had managed to rally most of the population to stay and defend their homes and livelihoods, but a few hundred men, women and children packed what they could and decided to head west to the grassy plains of Gwaren. Our new friends, the Foeldians, ably led by Hermaeon, chose to stay and fight.

Everyone was immediately put to work. Hallkel, the mayor organised work groups to be directed by Ingolf, my trusted sergeant-at-arms. They began earth works to surround the town with a trench and build up and earthen wall.

Scouts, led by Moxadder, were sent out to harass and slow the barbarians as well as to feed me with vital information on their movements. Argonne summoned Lorcan from the forest to aid the defence. He came quickly, very quickly. There was no doubt the strange Druid had used the power granted him by Foeld to travel so speedily. With him he brought five large wolves that he gave to Argonne. The hunched ancient stayed only a day but his effect was monumental.

When told of our plight he gave only a moments thought before ambling off, the Hydra and several important townsfolk following discreetly, to the ford. He stamped up and down a bit, mumbling something to himself as he went, on the bank of the river before he seemed satisfied.

The Druid then sat cross legged and began rubbing his palms on the earth. To accompany this action was a low almost animal like chant. We watched him for maybe half an hour before leaving the crazy old man to his bizarre devices.

When I questioned Argonne he tried to reassure me that Lorcan was working great earthen magics and calling upon Foeld to aid him. At dusk that evening I went back to see what, if anything, had happened at the ford. Lorcan was gone, but he had left us a mighty gift from Foeld, a stone wall!

Across the entire length of the ford now stood a smooth stone wall. Witnesses later described to me what had happened. Lorcan continued his massage of the earth until, after some hours, the place that he had rubbed began to slowly rise. As it rose he crawled along, all the while rubbing the ground. As he went the wall began to spring from the very ground that housed the stone from which it was made. The end result was a magnificent wall, perfect for our defence of the ford.

Meanwhile, any Foeldian or townsmen with any skill in fletching or weapon smithing worked at increasing our arrow and spear stocks. Montfort was not a well defended town. There was no wall, although the earthen one was beginning to take shape, and the town was open on all sides. Montfort was in the very middle of Guerney, and not since the Convocation had there been any war or conflict that had come its way.

Before the Convocation it had been a reasonably sized river trading port, and an important point near the junction of three rivers and the most direct north-south road to Thessingcourt. Then the Gerechians came. They reduced the fort that sat atop the rock monolith from which the town had got its name, to rubble, and Montfort had never recovered its economic power.

Geographically it was almost as though it was in a giant clearing. The forest went for hundreds of miles to the north and east. It traveled almost to Thessingcourt, three days south, and for fifty miles to the west. There was only one gap in the south west that led to the plains beyond that had long ago been cleared by farmers.

The land itself was rich and flat, making it excellent for all manner of agriculture. In fact the only thing remarkable about the geography of Montfort was the massive rock that stood on the river.

It rose sharply some two hundred feet from the waters on its eastern side. Both its north and south sides were just as steep. Only its western side made it accessible, for it sloped down gently east to west. It was a natural sentinel n the river and for an age the keep that sat upon it kept order in the region.

Morgan, who was the only one of us that had been involved in a siege before, and I formed all the able bodied men, and those women that chose to fight, into several squads. Those with the least experience we stationed on the southern earthen rampart and the north rampart. The rest we stationed at the ford, for Moxadder and his scouts had told us that the barbarians searched the river for a suitable crossing.

During the next few days several barbarians were seen across the river. We loosed a few shafts even managing to kill a few, but the damage was done. They had found the ford.

On the third day since arriving back at Montfort word came from a scout to the north of town that a massive tribe, some five hundred strong, was building rafts to cross the river.

I was ready to send a squad of one hundred men to try and delay them. I knew that they would be lost, but my hope was that they would cause many barbarian casualties before succumbing and therefore giving the town a better chance of survival. But Argonne interjected.

He smiled at me, and there was a strange glint in his eye. “Gerard, save your men. You will need them here. I will take care of the barbarians to the north.”

Before I could even protest the smile slowly transformed into a slavering grin. His ears became pointed. His hands and feet turned into paws and his body became covered in hair. Argonne had become a great silver maned wolf!

In an instant he was gone, loping off through town, his pack of five following him eagerly.

I shook my head in bewilderment, unsure whether he had ever truly been just a man.

In any case, he had claimed that he would defend the north, and for some incomprehensible reason I believed him.

Zhontell also went north, “To watch for him. Lest he do something stupid.” The elf said. He knew Argonne well.

News from the south was that a smaller band only one or two hundred was also trying to raft across the river. Raedemass and Leo, Montfort’s aging if spritely wizard, led a squad south to meet them and effectively protect our flank.

Within the hour of Argonne and the southern contingent leaving the horde was upon us!

The first wave burst through the trees. A great mass of black bodies stormed across the ford. They screamed their foreign battle cries and waved their crude swords above their heads as they charged.

Their sheer numbers decimated my first squad, who had only been farmers days before, but not without taking heavy losses themselves. My three squads of archers stopped them advancing further than Lorcan’s wall, but even as their remaining number fled, another larger group flooded the ford.

There must have been seven hundred at least, and they charged ferociously at the five hundred I had on and around the wall. They were simply going to overrun us with numbers. It was no good directing the battle anymore, it had become a massive bloody brawl.

I leapt from my vantage point, whipped out my rapier and charged into the fray! I fought long and hard, chanting battle cries seeking to inspire the men as I slew barbarian after foul faced barbarian.

I could feel myself giving ground. The Montfortian defenders were wavering.

Far to the north I could see a summer storm brewing. Thunder boomed and forks of lightening lanced out from the sky.

All of the sudden there was deafening bellow that caused one and all to glance at its source. What I saw was remarkable! A glowing white figure astride a white horse, screamed his god’s name, ‘Thuus! Thuus! Thuus!” over and over again, each cry being reinforced with a thrust of his long spear into the air. It was Morgan! Of all people I did not expect him to be the saviour of Montfort.

Then he charged!

 

[Haraash Saan]

Emotion swept through the tiring defenders! They pushed forward. Inspired by the white warrior I landed three quick thrusts and managed to reach the wall, which some time ago had been taken. I hauled myself up on it, lifted my rapier in the air and added my own simple cry of defiance. “Montfort! To me!” and leapt down onto the muddy bank into the massed barbarians.

How we actually turned them I do not know. How I survived I do not know. But sure enough before long Montfort had reclaimed the wall and driven the assault back. The barbarians, routed, fled back across the ford to cower in the trees.

We began to regroup and remove our wounded from the field so that the women could try and save them.

I rested, sitting casually on the wall, my feet idly swinging back and forth when into view flying at great speed, low across the water was an eagle. One that looked remarkably familiar. Even at this distance and its speed, it was an ugly, ugly bird. Argonne!

Pursuing him flew, for there is no better way to describe it, a mighty chariot pulled by a dozen huge reindeer. They galloped through the air, hooves magically propelling the great vehicle forward. The charioteer was just as peculiar as her carriage. A beautiful giant of a woman, taller than two men, who was completely naked, held the reins of the chariot in her right hand and a giant spear in her left. Her expression was not one of happiness. In fact, she seemed to have singe marks on her back.

Trailing her were a dozen mounted elves. Each rode a magnificent white charger.

The elves also carried spears and they too did not look pleased. What had Argonne done?

The eagle banked sharply and flew straight through the trees and into the encampment of barbarians. Its hunters followed. So intent on Argonne had they become that they ignored the cowering barbarians beneath them.

I could hear many crashes in the trees, before suddenly the eagle burst through them and sped with all its might straight at the monolith of Montfort. It flew so fast and so direct that I doubted Argonne would have time to avoid the massive rock.

He did not. With an eruption of feathers Argonne the eagle slammed into the rock face of the monolith. I cringed at the ferocity of the impact. Surely my companion was dead.

But there was little time for mourning. Almost the instant that Argonne had dashed himself against the rock the barbarians chose to flee the forest and the great huntress within it and fling themselves once more at Lorcan’s wall.

Injured and poorly armed most were cut down by the last of our arrows. Those that were not were quickly killed.

The barbarian threat, at least for the moment, had passed. The Battle of the Ford was over.

One hundred and thirty nine Montfortians and one hundred and four Foeldians lost their lives on that fateful day, more than one third of the men available to me. Hundreds more were severely injured, it would take many weeks to recover.

We had managed to kill over sixteen hundred barbarians, including those injured that we found and ceased their suffering, almost eight times the number of our own losses.

It was a terrible and bloody day and one that I would ensure that the people of Montfort and Guerney would not forget.

**********************************************

That evening, whilst we celebrated our victory and mourned the valiant who had fallen, we were treated to one last surprise. The Hydra were sitting quietly together, reflecting upon Argonne and his insanities when finally I stood and raised a mug of Astrid’s Marvellous Mead, as my companions also pushed themselves up from their seats, “To Argonne. Brave to a fault and somewhat disturbed, but he was our very own and will be always remembered as our comrade and friend.”

“I should think so!” came an unexpected reply.

We turned and to our great bewilderment there was Argonne, striding through the masses, a big, lopsided, and deformed grin etched on his face.

Assailed by hugs, joyous laughter and a torrent of questions, eventually we calmed to listen to his tale.

Argonne had gone north as he said, but his intention was never to take on the horde with only himself and his wolves, oh no he was much more ambitious! He had somehow summoned the Goddess Srcan the huntress and her entourage! He commanded them to hunt the barbarians, which they did, but when their bloody work was done they turned on their summoner, Argonne, who in the battle had accidentally burnt the Goddess (which explained the singe mark on her back).

It was then that he saw the flaw in his plan, commanding Gods is not something one should trifle with. So he transformed into an eagle and took flight.

We saw what happened next, although even he was at a loss as to why Srcan did not follow him from the forest in the moment before he smashed into the rock face. Perhaps, because like us, she thought him dead, and with her quarry gone there was no need to continue the pursuit.

As we now knew he did not die, no, instead he had merged his body into the very rock. But he had become disoriented after being wolf, eagle and finally rock that he had been trapped for several hours before regaining his wits and, in his words, “swimming” through the rock and once again out to become a man once more.

If anyone else had told this tale we would have laughed uncontrollably at his foolishness, but this was Argonne, and after what we had seen over the past few days it seemed perfectly normal. And it was good to have him back.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Chapter 13



The next two days were a blur. I ran myself ragged trying to consolidate the population of Montfort and prepare for any other barbarian attacks; scouting expeditions so that we could be forewarned of any other barbarian incursions into the Montfort region and a small consolidated force was ever vigilant should Montfort be assaulted again. Thankfully the barbarian threat troubled us no more.

Those brave unfortunates that had fallen to the cruel blades and vicious arrows of our foes were prayed for and dedicated to Laster. He would see to it that they enjoyed their afterlives in Pandemonium. I said a very personal prayer for Valgerd, the captain of my guard, Kerik, my astute tax collector and Hroald, an old family retainer that had worked for my father and had come to Montfort to manage my residence there. All had died in defence of the town that they called home.

I sent riders to Thessingcourt to inform the Baron Mendus of our victory and the situation that had unfolded. Mayor Halkell I dispatched to attempt to convince those Montfortians that had taken their families west before the battle to return to their homes. Whilst I myself set about convincing as many Foeldians to stay here at Montfort and create new lives for themselves. In this endeavour I was marginally successful. Perhaps a hundred and twenty of the forest folk chose to stay and build their homes in the town.

The defences of Montfort were also worked upon. A small tower now stood upon the hill. Once again a fort looked over the town and the surrounding lands.

Somehow in those two days I also managed to establish a small group of townsfolk to act as mercenaries in my employ to assist in the protection of Montfort. They were to be trained, although they had come to my notice through their efforts on the battlefield. There were nine members in all including holy men, magical adepts and of course skilled warriors and trackers. To lead this band I chose a woman.

She drew herself to my attention during the second assault of the barbarians when, she threw herself into the fray. Her spear stuck one of attackers, felling him, but it was her next action that was remarkable. A comrade of the foe she had slain launched himself at her in a rage and attempted to avenge his friend with one fatal blow. Ingrid crouched to duck the blow, as she did she thrust her left palm into the fellows stomach. On contact there was a terrible flash of flame and her would be killer was catapulted ten feet into the air before crashing, quite dead, on another pair of barbarians. Quite calmly she wrenched her spear out its resting place and suddenly she erupted in a bold cry, “Montfort!”. Those around her were so inspired by her actions they managed to push their line forward into the oncoming horde. My attention was drawn elsewhere after this and I saw her not until just before the barbarians launched their final assault.

I had been preparing the defences and encouraging the troops, a great leader will always personally inspire the men, they draw courage from the sight of their general amongst them, when I saw the same woman from the battle standing atop a small pile of barbarian corpses. She was urging all around her to be prepared for the inevitable charge of the men from the mountain steppes. She spoke passionately of Montfort and its people. There was pride and power in her voice, she commanded people to listen, and even as they did I could sense that they were responding to her impassioned speech.

She finished her urgings, to a rousing cheer from those assembled, I approached her, keen to learn more about her.

“That was a wonderful speech.” I said softly.

She turned, flicking her bloodied long wavy hair across her shoulder, to see who it was that addressed her.

She recognised me, as she should, in an instant. “Thank you milord.” She responded, eyes never wavering their gaze from my own.

There was a steely resolve about her. Her head was held high, she was no mere peasant. She wore tight leather travelling pants and a hard leather vest laced somewhat revealingly across it’s front. Her clothes were stained with her own blood that had seeped from half a dozen small gashes and those of her foes.

In fading light of dusk she looked like some sort of warrior queen, proud and beautiful.

“What is your name?” I queried.

“Ingrid milord.”

“Well Ingrid, when this fight is done with, come and see me. I believe that we could have much to discuss.” I said.

“Indeed milord?” she responded with a cocked brow.

“Indeed.” I replied with a smile as I left her to continue my work.

Ingrid did as I asked. She told me of her love of Montfort and how she wished it to be a true power in Guerney. She envisioned it being a hub for trade along the river, allowing better access to Thessingcourt for all manner of goods, as well as being a gateway to river traffic to Guerney City in the east. Her passion was a breath of fresh air to me, reigniting my own thoughts of restabilising Montfort into so much more than a small hamlet in the middle of a forest.

We spoke long into the night, before I allowed her to seduce me. I was so very glad that I did.

I said earlier that I had brought together a small group of Montfortians to act as mercenaries to aid the defence of Montfort, in actual fact it was Ingrid that organised everything, awaiting only on my approval of her selected men and one other woman.

On the third day after the battle I was feeling rather exhausted after yet another late evening with Ingrid and I had chosen to continue to slumber well into the morning. However I did not quite achieve my desired rest.

“Milord.” A voice called, stirring me. Then the knocking started, “Milord.” A little more urgently.

Then the pounding started. Too much of Astrid’s Marvelous Mead shared with Ingrid I suspect.

The voice spoke a third time, “Milord. I have news of your sister.”

 

[Haraash Saan]

I leaped from my snug surrounds, dragging a sheet with me to afford me some modesty, and yanked the door open. A guardsman, most startled and bemused at my state of undress, stood and spluttered. “The woman Grimhilda, has entered the town and requested an audience milord.”

“Very well, give me a moment and then send her to me!” I commanded, both embarrassed at my personal state and nervous at the news the Isabella’s friend would have for me.

The poor woman was in a terrible state. Her clothing was torn and bloodied and she herself wore cuts and grazes that were intermingled with dirt patches. I shuddered inwardly before asking her my most important question.

“Is Isabella alive?”

“Yes milord.” Was Grimhilda’s husky response.

I have no doubt that I have ever felt as much joy in that moment as I had ever had in my entire life. I slumped into a chair and urged her to tell me her tale.

She had been visiting Isabella when my sister’s simple cottage had suddenly had a portion of its roof torn off! Peering into the sitting room that the women had occupied was a huge, hideous leering face.

Before either of them could react two massive hands reached into the room and grabbed them, none so gently, so that each was held within the creatures grasp. They were lifted outside the house and there they saw the strangest of sights.

Five huge humanoid forms stood in the large clearing that surrounded Isabella’s cottage. They were creatures that had stepped straight from the tales told to children by their mothers to frighten them, giants!

I of course knew that they existed. I had seen large prints that their feet and boots had left. I had heard the tales from Moxadder if their encounters with them in the forest, and of course I had seen the massive skins that had been strung out in the forest by the barbarians that had fought and killed them.

The two captives, still held within their fingered prisons, were quickly taken away, north into the depths of the forest. After several miles, Grimhilda was not sure as her captors strides were so much larger than a normal mans, the party of giants stopped in a rocky clearing that they had made their home.

Perhaps another three dozen giants waited in the clearing. The largest rose from the boulder he used as a chair and asked in some sort of strange guttural bastardization of Guernian, “Rilak, what do you bring?”

The giant that carried the women answered, “More animals to feed us, but also these two.” As Rilak said this he thrust his hands forward to show the large giant his captives.

“Hmm.” Said the large giant contemplating the prize offered before him.

It was at this point that Isabella spoke, “Oh mighty mountain lord, please do not harm us. There is much that we could help you with.”

Grimhilda could not recall what else it was that Isabella had said, her voice had seemed distant, yet comforting and Grimhilda felt a great sense of peace come over her, before slipping into unconsciousness.

When she woke, she found herself laying on a thick bed of fresh leaves and saw that Isabella was free and sitting upon the largest giants knee and talking to him.

Later Isabella had told her that she had used her talent, to bend the thoughts of their captors to be more accommodating. Isabella had then instructed Grimhilda to come to Montfort and tell me what had happened, and that she could not contact me as her scarf, the matching one to the one I wore, had been torn from her in the journey north with the giants. Isabella had told Grimhilda to tell me that she was safe, and that there was no need for alarm, or concern that the giants may be a problem.

This fantastic tale brought me much relief and happiness, however I still wanted very much to see Isabella, my darling sister.

No sooner than I had sent Grimhilda to freshen herself, take some food and prepare for a journey back to the giants to lead me to my sister than I heard a trumpet from somewhere outside.

I wandered from my room and went to investigate. My Montfort residence was a modest house, perhaps a little larger and more kept than most, but modest nevertheless. It was centrally located on the town square and adjacent to the barracks.

In the centre of the town common sat astride a horse was a herald wearing the red and gold livery of the King of Guerney. A trumpet rested by the saddle held by a special loop made for the very purpose. In his hand he held a rolled scroll.

Seeing me, and I noticed his eyes flashed to my finger, no doubt checking for my signet ring, he dismounted and bowed low.

“Milord, Sir Gerard de Monfort?” he probed.

“Indeed.” I said, curious to know what information the Kings man had for me.

The herald unrolled the scroll he bore, cleared his throat and called out, “Sir Gerard de Montfort, his Majesty, King Thurlland the second, wishes you to attend him at the palace in Guerney City.”

With that short announcement he quickly rolled his scroll and tucked it under his arm. Then, from somewhere secreted upon himself, he retrieved a small wooden box, approached me and said somewhat more softly, “Sir Gerard, the King wishes you to have this gift. I believe that there is a message within the box, that perhaps you may wish to read privately.”

“Thank you good man,” I said as I accepted the box, “please fresh yourself and rest a day or too. No doubt you are weary from your ride.”

“Thank you Sir Gerard for you kind hospitality, but the King’s messages are never delivered quickly enough. With your leave, and perhaps a fresh horse, I will be off at once.” He responded politely but with a smarmy and arrogant undertone.

“Of course,” I replied shortly as I summoned my stable man to replace the herald’s horse. I then turned on my heel and once more took to my room to reveal the contents of the King’s gift.

With legs crossed and boots resting on my writing desk I rocked back on my chair and contemplated the small box. It was quite a simple square box with no royal designs or intricate carvings. I tumbled it between my fingers, it was no larger than my hand span.

Ceasing my fidgeting I regarded the clasp. What was it that the King could possibly want me to have? Whilst I freely admit I always leave a lasting impression, I was almost certain that he had forgotten my deeds in Halfast.

Curiosity overcame my wandering thoughts. I placed the box on my desk and sat up, crouching over my prize. I flipped the brass latch and with both hands delicately raised the lid.

A sharp hiss caused me to recoil immediately, knocking me from my chair! Within the box was a small coiled pale green serpent, its forked tongue darted out from its mouth tasting the fresh air.

Eldritch Light had somehow appeared in my hand as I scrambled to my feet and faced the snake, making sure that it was at least the length of my blade away from me.

Why would the King seek to kill me? Surly my quick reflexes had saved me! Was the herald the King’s man at all? Did he just wear the colours? Who conspired to have me poisoned?

My flashing thoughts were broken by a soft lisping hiss, “It iss good that your are caussious Ssir Gerard. But in thiss casse you have nothing to fear.”

I wheeled instantly to face the intruder, only to find that no one else was in the room. What magic was this?