Patchwall 4, CY 593
65: It’s easier to make the bastards pay when you can find them.
Morning comes and goes, and Prisantha is able to discern location on Heydricus’ portable hole. It is within a demi-plane called the “Hyperborean Obverse”, in the dungeons beneath the central tower, on the third level below ground, behind the secret door in the eastern corner of the southernmost chamber, in the rear quarter of the third alcove from the left.
“That’s a good spell,” Dabus comments.
She scries Thrommel again, but still receives a grey field. Prisantha recalls the cadaverous Anton’s threat against her family and scrys her grandparents. She is relieved to see her grandmother standing at her kitchen table, crowing delightedly over several crystal decanters that she is pulling from a straw-lined box. Two priests of Tritherion stand protectively nearby, and watch her as she removes a matching set of goblets, a radiant smile on her face.
Heydricus frowns. “Since when do farm couples buy crystal?” he asks. “Someone has been giving your grandmother expensive gifts, Pris.”
Prisantha sniffs at the suggestion. “Or they are simply enjoying the newfound prosperity of the second farm I bought them.”
“Perhaps they found a stash of halfing loot,” Jespo suggests. “You know how those people love to hide their treasure.”
Fräs hisses.
Regda nudges Jespo, frowning.
“Well, they do,” he whispers. “Worse than dwarves.”
Heydricus suggests that if Thrommel can’t be found, Pris might scry the men who were dispatched along with Thrommel, and the Enchantress is able to locate Urin. He is seen to be standing on the open plain with six other men. As they watch, Urin is arguing with one of them about the route they should be taking. Urin wishes to remain in the lowlands, while the other man intends to strike west for the Sumker river. They seem to be concerned with bandit activity, and the band looks disheveled and somewhat wild-eyed.
Heydricus and Prisantha teleport to their side, and after fending off the grateful pawing and back-slapping of the men, they learn that Thrommel went missing after taking a meeting with Heydricus himself! Heydricus’ habit of appearing mysteriously, giving commands and disappearing just as quickly was so accepted that no one thought it amiss when Thrommel ordered the band to, “wait here until my return.” Two weeks and several mass-desertions later, these six are the only remaining loyal men of Thrommel’s original hundred.
Heydricus places fly spells on all of his men, and they fly as a group back to Nevond Nevnend while Pris teleports. None of the men have ever flown before, and the otherworldly treat, coming as it does on the heels of such crushing despair is a truly joyful occasion. The flight takes two hours, and the men are laughing and exclaiming to one another the entire time. Even Heydricus gets caught up in the spirit of the moment, and by the time they land back at Nevond Nevnend, he is beaming from ear to ear.
Lucius, on the other hand does not smile. “I’ve been out looking for you,” he says. “We expected you earlier.”
“We took the long way back, Lucius,” Heydricus says, smoothing back his wind-rumpled hair. “What do you care?”
Lucius grabs Heydricus’ sleeve as the burly sorcerer attempts to push past him. “Have I ever wasted your time?” he demands.
“What are you about?” Heydricus replies.
“There’s a messenger here, and I think you should see him. He’s from Butrain.”
-----
“In the name of his highness Xanthan Butrain, rightful King of Furyondy and Regent of the Ten Towns, I greet the most radiant servant of Tritherion and Holy Liberator, Heydricus called the Tritherionson, King of Tenh,” the messenger begins in a voice like a flute.
“They got my f-cking title wrong,” Heydricus complains behind his hand to Jespo.
“Yes, they seem to be having trouble with all the titles today,” Jespo replies haughtily.
“The message begins. ‘To wit;’” the messenger bows, unraveling a scroll. “’My Lord Heydricus,’” he pipes, at which point Heydricus interrupts him.
“Just give me the scroll, lad,” he says. “I can read.”
The boy complies. The scroll is in Butrain’s own handwriting. He writes:
“These sons of bitches are set to kill you, Heydricus. I trust that you have had a rider about the happenings here in Furyondy and the spurious accusations that have been cast at your door. The Council have placed a boy on the throne—and a baseborn wretch at that. Come back to Furyondy, and lend me your arm—at the least speak for my cause. Not every Northerner is a lying, backstabbing daffodils, and your word still means a lot in certain influential circles.
“I mean to win this war, Heydricus, and I know I can count on you.
“Your friend,
“Xanthan”
After Heydricus reads and re-reads the message, he passes it to Jespo (who has already read it over his shoulder), and Jespo passes it to Prisantha (who has already had the text from her familiar, who got it from Fräs, who was read to by Jespo), and then to Lucius, who does not read it. Finally, Dabus removes the text from Lucius’ hand.
The messenger boy says, “May I just point out, sir, what a great honor it is to deliver a message to your presence, sir. The name of Heydricus looms large in the hearts of the Southern men. We know and appreciate all you’ve done for the Baron, and for all us folk down South. Sir.”
Heydricus smiles at the lad, and invites him to share a drink. After the boy fills him in on Butrain’s war preparation, Heydricus is convinced that Xanthan has marched on extremely short notice. This is not a fight that he has been preparing for, but one he means to win. He has rushed the flower of his chivalry to Chendl, where he hopes to seize the capitol before the “baseborn wretch” sitting the Furyondian throne can order his forces.
Xanthan Butrain is angered that he hasn’t been given the throne, of course. But the confirmation of the new King is the insult applied to the injury, and salt in the Baron’s wounded pride. His diviners have confirmed that Belvor is truly dead, and Butrain feels that he is the most suitable candidate, as well as the candidate with the most direct claim.
“Well, he’s right about that,” Jespo whispers.
The Council of Lords, a parliamentary body established to advise the King in times of trouble is currently filling the role of regent, and they have denied Belvor’s claim, at the urging of the sole surviving Chamber of Four Wizard—the fire mage Piscean.
Fräs hisses.
Furyondy believes that Piscean was only able to escape his attackers by using the retributive strike from his staff of power, and has since spent arduous weeks journeying back to Greyhawk from the strange realities beyond the world. At his urging, the Council of Lords has appointed as heir the son of the Baroness Kalinstren—the base-born adventuring companion of King Belvor that the King placed in charge of Crockport after the great crusade. Kalinstren is, of course, Belvor’s close friend and ally, but no relative of his. Were Belvor a less honorable man, there might be whispers that the boy is his son, but not even Butrain and the South could believe that about the noble paladin.
After the messenger leaves, Prisantha visions “the King of Furyondy”, and receives this result: A good child, a bad child and a greedy child fight over the last sweet on the plate.
“But which one is Butrain?” Heydricus wonders.
“I told you we should have left him as a donkey,” Gwendolyn adds with a superior air.
“Well,” Prisantha says. “I have delivered a sending to High Priest Halrond, and demanded that he travel here by his swiftest means. I don’t think we’re likely to find much welcome in Furyondy right now, and I am curious about his opinion on all of this. No doubt, he will be glad to find that we are still alive.”
-----
The next morning, after absolutions, study and exercise, the Liberators gather in Nevond Nevnend’s palatial Royal Courtyard to take breakfast and make any last minute plans. After the tea is finished, Prisantha pours the water from a flower vase into the serving tray, and scrys Piscean. The gnarled old wizard is seen to be standing in front of a huge three-tiered amphitheater filled to the walls with knights, lords and other Important Personages of Note. The villain is addressing the Lord’s Council!
“Don’t you belong to the Lord’s Council, Heydricus?” Jespo asks, but is quickly shushed as Prisantha concentrates on the scrying. Piscean seems to be gesturing broadly, and punctuates his gestures with his new, white staff, matching the white of his beard and his robe.
“Oh for the love of . . .” Heydricus says.
“Yes, the ‘back from the dead wearing white’ thing has been so overdone,” Jespo agrees. “It really seems to be playing well for the Council, though. Look at them, they simply adore him!”
Piscean is stirring the assembly into a fever-pitch. “You have heeded the call of our times, good sirs, and for that you should be commended! We have raised the young Baron Kalinstren to the throne, and in so doing, we have sent a message to the Old One and his turncoat servitors, Heydricus and his band of traitors!”
The building erupts in a cacophony of genial harrumphing and scattered cheers. Piscean continues. “With this great act, we tell him in no uncertain terms that we know what he covets, and that we intend to keep it! Crockport! Crockport!” The assembly takes up the cry. “For Crockport and for our noble dead!”
“No, I’m not going to have it.” At some point when no one was looking, Heydricus has grown extremely angry. “We teleport in, right now,” he booms. “I am going to kill the sh-t out of that mage.”
